#but I was getting a little too into the satisfaction of it. And if you let yourself gloat in being nasty

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ satoru hates the idea of cock-warming. he thinks it's pointless, getting the opportunity to be in you, and not even bothering to make the most of it.

his idea of making the most, well, it would consist only of fucking you so hard, you won't be able to move the next day. that's what good boyfriends do, right?

"good boyfriends do whatever their girlfriend asks them to do," you counter.

satoru whines in response, looking up at you. all pretty, you're seated in his lap, as he lays on the bed. strands of white hair fall into his eyes, and you brush them away.

he pouts, "i am a good boyfriend." satoru's getting impatient, wanting to just feel your snug cunt around him. his throbbing cock sits hard on his stomach, red-tipped and leaky.

"then, please?" drawing out the syllables, you give him the best you can: puppy eyes. he caves. instantly.

grumbling, "fine. i guess you can put her in you. willingly choose not to move, too, or whatever."

you clap your hands, emerging victorious. you're not willing to test your luck, though, not commenting on the fact that you've told him multiple times not to refer to his penis with she/her pronouns.

he groans as you sink onto him, his thick length pushing past your spongey walls. there's a filthy squelching that fills the room, paired with your quiet whimpers.

satoru's hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the flesh. "shit, pretty girl, tight 'n' wet f'me. taking me s'good." his words slur into one another, lost in the depths of arousal.

there's always a certain amount of self-control it takes, to not immediately cum the second he's all the way in. "'toru," you murmur, accidentally clenching around him.

"fuck," he mutters, "you can't do that, squeeze your little pussy like that, if you aren't gonna do anything about it."

"sorry," you say, sheepish. his eyes flutter shut, a hum dismissing the apology.

"now, what? just... stay like that?" satoru tilts his head at you, questioningly. sassy, if you may add. he just really can't believe you'd rather be doing this.

shifting above him, you lean down, resting your head on his bare chest. "yeah. isn't it nice?"

his arms wrap come up, to wrap around your waist. there's a beat of silence from him. begrudgingly, your rigid boyfriend shrugs, "maybe."

you're too content to roll your eyes. he wouldn't admit it, but satoru was filled with love, in this moment. his shoulders relax, and his entire body seems to ease, a breath of satisfaction leaving him. he feels at peace. he's always at peace, when he's with you, but this is different.

more real. more raw.

it's incredibly intimate. he feels like he's a part of you, like there's nothing keeping you separated. satoru inhales your scent, holding you just a little tighter.

"baby, i love you," he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

you smile against him, "i love you, too, 'toru."

to say the least, cock-warming is his new favorite thing. there is no sitting beside him on the couch anymore, not when you're alone. no laying next to each other on bed, either.

if he was clingy before, he's a monster now. if you're near, he wants to be inside you. not to have sex, but just to rest. it's not like you're complaining, anyways. at the end of the day, you're down bad for him, just as much as he is for you.

[reignpage]

You've Ghost To Be Kidding

Synopsis: in which you move into a haunted house and are seduced by ghost!sukuna Warning: 18+, porn with little plot, cursing, dubcon?, kinda horror but not scary at all, lots of cunnilingus, fingering, groping and molesting, nipple play, tentacles, full nelson, improper use of a broom, exhibitionism, voyeurism, foot play, blowjob, masturbation, a little somnophilia, monster-fúcking, kinda threesome? ig, classic dumb girl in horror movie with no survival instincts, not proofread Word Count: 2.7k

There’s a ghost in your home. 

You’ve just moved in last week and already you can tell there’s someone else here with you. Things move on their own even though you don’t see them move. You place a book down on a table and you’ll come back to it on the floor. Lights turn on and off on their own. Sometimes they even flicker incessantly for an hour or two, or until you get fed up and leave the room. At night, you hear scratching against the door, things literally going bump and thump, followed by heavy footsteps.

They’re all petty stuff, which is why you can stomach the irritation considering the rent is dirt-cheap. At most, you'll simply roll your eyes whenever the ghost acts up which apparently pisses it off more.

What’s been bothering you most, however, is the fact that the ghost is apparently very fucking horny. 

He — and yes, you know it’s a he because only a man could be so annoying and pathetic — gropes you randomly during the day. You’ll be washing up some dishes, minding your own business as one does, when suddenly, you’ll feel big, cold hands on your hips groping the flesh there. Worse, you can even feel a nose skim the length of your neck, inhaling your scent, and the ghost’ll blow air at your skin as if he’d exhaled in deep satisfaction.

Even when you're just watching TV, sat on the sofa, you'll feel a ghoulish grasp on your ankles, pulling your legs until your feet are held in the air. Something cold, long and hard presses itself against the pads of your feet, rubbing along. Popping popcorn in your mouth, you yawn as the sofa creaks, cold liquid beginning to coat your toes. You don't know for sure what he's doing but you have an idea.

Showering is also another story. Bare and wet, you massage shampoo into your scalp, humming to a song on your phone when it begins to glitch, making record scratching sounds. Your Lizzo song is replaced with heavy breathing and mumblings that oddly resemble the word, 'mine,' on repeat. Big, foreboding hands creep into the tresses of your hair, covering your own. They push and pull, applying pressure around your scalp, really working in your shampoo. With a sigh, you let him do the work for you.

After all, your arms were getting tired. So it seems like a fair exchange for him to grind that, by now, familiar length in between the globes of your ass, nudging you against the wall, threatening to drown you under the barrage of water.

Truthfully, you once considered hiring an exorcist or a priest or something. But once he stopped being so hostile against you and you found a freakish routine with him, the idea flew out the window. Who else would know to open a cabinet with all the bowls for you right after you've picked up the milk from the fridge, so you can eat cereal?

This ghost has been pretty helpful in finding your lost items too. Whether they be your phone, keys, socks, the remote etc. Though, you suspect sometimes he hides those things on purpose so that you'll acknowledge his presence with a, 'Hey dead guy, know where my shit is?'

Sure, your pool of panties is depleting with his clear hatred of them, ripping them up and tossing them in the trash for you to find later, and you can't really invite anyone home since they wouldn't understand. But you can put up with his wandering hands and constant hard-ons if it means you have a nice, pretty house to live in.

Even if everything you do seems to turn him on. Whether that's singing along to a song (a body will press itself behind you, swaying you to the beat and grinding something hard against your back), brushing the floor (the broomstick will find it's way between your legs, the length slotting itself right in between your pussy lips as it shuffles back and forth, eliciting moans after moans from you, covering the wood with slick), or cooking a meal (the sauce you're heating up will wind up on your chest, cool and trickling down the valley your breasts, just about to disappear beneath your low v-neck shirt before something wet and slithering wipes it away, leaving goosebumps in its wake).

And God, apparently dental hygiene turns the damn thing on too. Brushing your teeth, in the morning or night, always involves your breasts being groped. Seriously. Breasts. Groped. 

You feel those same cold hands first cup your tits over the shirt, just feeling the heaviness, weighing them in his palms before you feel fingers flicking your nipples. The friction is repulsive. Really. It makes you roll your eyes. In annoyance, of course. 

“F-fuck off!”

Then, when you’re clutching the sink, he slides his hands under your shirt, nails scratching your skin before you feel its chilling grip on your breasts. That’s when he really gets to work — he doesn’t go gently, no, he’s tugging at your nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingertips as if to torture you. So outraged, you’re left gasping for air, unable to string along words to express how disgusting his touch felt. 

“Don’t even ask me h-how I know you’re smirking. Dick.”

In response, all the bottles on the bathtub fall to a clatter on the porcelain.  

You can’t even masturbate in peace because though the door's closed you know he knows what you’re doing. That door will open, slowly creaking, and a gust of wind will blow over you, announcing his presence. There, under the covers, your fingers are working overtime, rubbing furiously at your clit as you stare at that open door. 

“Seriously? You won’t even let me have this?”

Pussy tingling, you writhe on the bed, spurned on by the knowledge that eyes are watching your face. Deadly quiet, the sloshing sound between your legs echo in the room, mocking and scathing.

When your hand cramps up, you reach over to your bedside table for your vibrator. Pressing the cold silicone to your steamy pussy, you get a moment of reprieve before the battery somehow runs out. 

“Oh my God, you did not. Ugh, you are such a dick. You died and now you gotta make me miserable?” You throw the damn thing to the corner of the room in frustration. 

Just as you’re about to give up, the cover is pulled away and you’re bared to the world. Your legs are spread by an invisible force before something warm touches your lips, tasting your abundant juices before it laps all of you up eagerly. “Oh fuck! A-are you eating me out?”

He’s annoyingly skilled at this. The tip of his tongue rubs tight circles around your throbbing clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your toes curl. Squelches resound in the room, getting louder when you feel, what can only be, fingers thrust into you with no warning. 

“Oh, God! Yes, right there, yesss.” He’s found your G-spot and he’s going to town on it, angling his fingers just right. 

Another hand pushes down on your lower stomach at the exact same time his lips wrap around your clit and suuuuuuuuuuuuck. You’re thrashing on the bed, pinned down by that invisible force like all your limbs suddenly weigh a ton. The noises he’s making and pulling out of you are obscene and anyone who hears would think another ghost is being added to the house. 

“Since your tongue’s going -ngh!- inside me, s-shouldn’t you tell me your name?”

The light flicks on and on the mirror across the room, your lipstick is writing the letters S U K U N A on it. 

“Sukuna, huh? Well, Sukuna. Since the afterlife is clearly lacking any kind of fun, make yourself useful and give me an orgasm.”

And so he does. 

He does every time after that actually. 

Sitting in your armchair, reading a book, legs spread and panties dangling from an ankle, he eats you out for hours. Good thing about ghosts is that they have nothing else to do, so you bet your cheap ass that he won’t be getting tired any time soon. 

In fact, he loves to eat you out. When you’re washing the dishes, he’ll be eating you out from behind, suckling on your wetness like it could bring him back to life. Hanging up the laundry in the garden will leave a man-sized lump under your dress as you desperately muffle your moans with a bedsheet, embarrassed that a neighbour might see. He wakes you up by eating you out, he sees you off to your job with a fingering and then a cleaning up of the mess with his tongue, and he welcomes you back home with an orgasm, body slumped against the front door, held up like a puppet as he tongues your insides, nipples teased by tendrils of something beyond the reach of your humanly sight.

That becomes your new routine. It seems this Sukuna has grown bolder, fearless and uncaring of what's convenient for you.

One night, however, as you’re spreading your legs naturally, you don’t feel the usual pressure there. Instead, you feel something wet, hard and salty at your lips. Devious bastard. 

Opening your mouth, you let him inch his length into your throat with surprising care. Full and stretched to your limits, you gag around his invisible cock, forced to accept the entirety of the thing entering and retreating over and over again. His balls smack against your chin as he increases his pace, growing more ruthless with the way he’s shoving his fat cock inside your mouth. 

You’re being used like a glory hole and he doesn’t seem like a minute man. Despite never having been the kind of girl who enjoyed giving blowjobs, you find this one surprisingly stimulating — it presses against a sensitive spot at the back of your throat, a sweet scent of death filling your nostrils as you gag around something firm and unyielding.

Over your shirt, you feel nails scratch against your nipples, flicking them the way that leaves your thighs squeezed shut, searching for friction where you're most sensitive.

Then, your vibrator miraculously comes back to life, buzzing with vigour right against your pussy. Squelches are joining the sounds of your gagging and you didn’t even know you were so wet already. It’s on the highest setting, driving you to overstimulation immediately and with cement for bones, you can’t move away from the onslaught of vibrations against your dripping cunt. 

Gagging even more, tears well up when you cum, squirting all over your bed just as he squirts cold, salty cum down your throat. 

You fall asleep thoroughly drenched. 

The next day, all the cabinets and doors are banging open and shut repeatedly. He’s throwing a tantrum. Great. He heard your phone call in the morning.

“Get over it, freak! I can’t keep relying on you for orgasms. So don’t get in the way of me and this guy,” you scream in your bedroom. You’re aware you look crazy but you don’t care. Enough is enough. 

The mirror shatters in front of you. 

“Yes, I will let him in. You can’t do anything about it. Just go to the light or something.”

A stuffed toy hits you on the head. 

“Oh my God! You did not. Ugh, whatever, watch me get fucked then, I don’t care. But keep your hands to yourself.”

Your guest doesn’t make it three minutes before he’s being scared shitless by the banging of cabinets, the opening and closing of drawers, the shaking of tables and shattering of glass cups. He’s running to the door before you grab him by his hand desperately. You almost convince him to move your two-person party to his house when a knife flies through the air and lands right in between you two, embedding itself into the wall. 

That’s the last straw. 

Just as he wanted, you’re left alone with the happy malevolent spirit. How do you know he’s happy?

Well, because suddenly the house is righting itself — cabinets and drawers are now closed, there’s no more shaking, glass shards are picking themselves back up, repairing all your broken cups. “Pretty pleased with yourself now, aren’t you? You are such a child, I can’t stand you.”

Not to mention, your dress is being lifted up and your panties ripped apart. 

He shoves his face in between your legs once more, tonguing your clit and massaging your pussy walls with his long fingers. This is his way of apologising, you guess, and whatever, you just have to accept your fate. Long tendrils wrap around your arms, lifting them up so you can grip something. Those very same vine-like phantoms tease at your nipples too, squeezing and pulling like his fingers would. Then you feel them seem to open up like little mouths before they suck on your nipples. Hard. There, standing in the crime scene, you cum. Heaving and lightened, you think it’d end there. 

It seems seeing that other man really pushed him because then you’re being spun around and shoved to the hardwood floor, dress folded over your back and drooling pussy exposed to the air. Something hard rubs against your most intimate area, coating itself in your wetness before it shoves itself, in one go, inside your pussy. 

“Fuck! G-go slow! Oh. My. God. Su. Ku. Na!”

His rhythm is monstrous. You’re practically screaming as he pummels your pussy with no consideration for the fact that your knees are being bruised and that your face is smushed against the dirty floor. 

Your gooey walls are being forced to stretch, lips all swollen and weeping. He’s planted so deep you can feel him in your throat, and then an arm is wrapping around your neck — he’s got you in a headlock, wrangling you back into a painful arch. From this angle, he goes in deeper. 

Another long, hard thing pushes inside your mouth and you don't know how any of this works but you swallow it down, allowing him to plug you up from both ends. They work in tandem, stretching your holes with a brutal pace.

The cock in your mouth cums first and you know, somehow, it's because he just wanted to coat your face in his ghoulish cum. Drenched, you can do nothing but take his intense pummelling with gratitude.

"Full! I feel so — yesss, right there — full."

There’s a noticeable bump on your lower stomach, years of pent up energy as a ghost being rammed into your poor cunt. Glop glop glop he goes through your juices which overflow, soaking your thighs. “Fuck, yessss.”

Watery slurps are emanating from your pussy where you’re gaping around nothing to the human eye. Sukuna gyrates his hips, heavy balls teasing your clit from the delicious angle, cock throbbing inside. 

“I’m c-close! More. I want more. Fuck me faster!”

And does he ever. 

Garbling out gibberish, you’re practically choking on your own saliva as he suffocates you with his arm.

When you cum, your vision blacks out and you fall limp, thoroughly exhausted and almost dead. But even then, he still continues to fuck you, using your body as a fleshlight, basking in your living warmth. As if your soul has separated from your body, you're aware of the thorough fucking your poor body is receiving, splashes of cum flooding the floor. Even unconscious, orgasms are being snatched from you.

Later, when you wake up, you’re in bed, tucked in with a ghostly tongue lapping up your mixed cum.

Pushing the cover off, you’re shocked to find a face and a body, firm and warm to the touch. He’s got pink hair, a muscular body and tattoos. There's nothing ghostly about the man between your legs. You can feel the blood coursing through his veins, can see the sharpness of his teeth as he flashes his pearly whites in threat, and the fingers that dig into the plush of your thighs are bruising.

Regretting not getting a priest involved after all, you gasp when you hear his voice, clear and loud, deep and powerful.

He says,

“You sleep like the dead.” 

[somuchanxietysolittletime]

I know I already reblogged this. I know I am now reblogging this from a mutual who is JUST as fed up with the Democratic party as I am. And I know I am SO TIRED of their inaction too, but at the same time... like... it must be so demoralizing and frustrating to be a Democrat in office right now because MAGA LOVES it when they pitch a rightful fit.

Make no mistake, behind their whataboutisms and whinging about decorum, MAGA is run by a bunch of fucking trolls. They cater to fucking trolls. Their base is full of fucking trolls. These are some of the most immature, bratty, evil-hearted individuals on the planet and they want nothing more than to see Liberals and Leftists lose their shit over abuses of power and abject cruelty. It's why they are doing it.

If you ever see a moment where fascism is out in full light and wonder, 'How do they get away with this???' it's because they know it pisses you off, and they love it. It's a power game. They get control, and they get emotional satisfaction from watching the other side scream bloody murder.

This is one big performance piece.

Normally, if this was an online forum (Speaking from experience as a former professional moderator), this is where the adults in the room step in. We'd remind people to not feed the trolls, ban those involved, remind users of community guidelines, and tighten up our sweeps to make sure to catch stragglers.

But the Republicans have spent the past ten-ish years getting rid of the adults in the room. There are no moderators anymore. And any time someone tries to step into that role, like judges trying to reign in Trump's power, they are threatened by the very institutions they are trying to protect.

And Republicans would love nothing more than to be able to say Democrats have become a party of dissidents who must be expelled from Congress and lose what little power they still have in the government. It would make them SO happy to have even the smallest excuse to do so.

Make no mistake, I am in no way excusing their inaction. We can't fight fashion by color-coordinating it out of existence. Pink suits doesn't stop the fact that we're two steps from pink triangles again.

I also would like to point to the excellent video by Innuendo Studios called The Alt-Right Playbook: You Go High, We Go Low. In it he touches on a big failure of liberals: Their reliance on invisible rules that Republicans don't play by or even believe in. Essentially, liberals never play dirty. They govern like they sincerely believe that if they follow the playbook, eventually a referee will come in and call they game for them.

There is no referee. They were all shot by Trump in the middle of mainstreet and no one who matters, cares.

The problem is, Liberals should have been playing dirty ten years ago. Now they will have to work twice as smart and three times as hard, while trying to avoid giving fascist trolls an excuse to seize more power.

Can anybody give these old-ass Democrats protest lessons? They're acting like they're still living in pre-2015 politics when the GOP gave a shit and wasn't deranged.

A member gets up and starts shouting: All get up and shout with him.

Don't walk out: MAKE them carry you all out, not shutting up the entire time. I'm serious, go limp, be dead weight.

Putin's Puppet says a provable lie: Everyone chant "LIE" in unison for a solid minute instead of holding pitiful little signs in front of a man who can't read above a 3rd grade level.

Have someone who knows ASL sitting with you, interpreting everything in full view.

If you're gonna hold signs, make them BIG like you're actually trying to do something. Have them in multiple languages.

Make other signs that say clever or cutting things that will make him rage for days. "DOESN'T OLD TRUMP LOOK TIRED?" or "PUPPET PRESIDENT" or "EVERYONE IS FACT-CHECKING THIS SPEECH TRUMP DIDN'T WRITE" or "THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHES" or his current tanking approval rating next to a laughing emoji.

Make a stink every day in congress, throw as many bills as you can on the floor even if they go nowhere, look like you're trying.

Have someone, idk maybe someone you actually want to boost for President in 3 gd years, be your voice of opposition in the media, loudly complaining and telling the facts, every single day. Let the people know you're there!

How hard is this? There's probably better suggestions than mine if they actually hired seasoned protestors or behaviorists/psychologists or even the biggest teenage troll they can find on a messageboard.

The Emperor Has No Clothes. So fucking act like it.

[skiesuconn]

all the ways i stay

paige bueckers & azzi fudd യ notes: it took me a while to find satisfaction with this, but i’ve finally settled on it. i figured i’d jot something down quickly while i work on chapter 3 of the argent. fic. it’s still in the making, but trust me, it’ll be worth the wait. in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this quick blurb i had in mind. also, i highly recommend playing the song mentioned later on—it really brings the moment to life. happy reading, lovelies.

paige never thought she’d be sitting through a rom-com marathon with azzi, yet here they were, limbs tangled on the couch, a half-empty popcorn bowl wedged between them. the air smelled like butter and whatever candle azzi had burning—something warm, vanilla, a little too cozy for a night where paige had fully intended to roast every movie choice.

but azzi was taking this seriously. too seriously.

the notebook had been playing for all of five minutes, and already, azzi was watching like it was a high-stakes thriller, arms crossed, one perfectly manicured hand occasionally reaching up to twist a curl between her fingers. paige, meanwhile, was sprawled out, one socked foot nudging azzi’s thigh, head tipped back against the armrest like she was suffering.

“this is the dumbest shit i’ve ever seen,” paige muttered, watching ryan gosling pull off some grand romantic gesture. “like, imagine a guy hanging off a ferris wheel, threatening to let go unless you agree to a date. that’s not romance, that’s blackmail.”

“he’s being dramatic. it’s supposed to be sweet,” azzi countered, eyes still locked on the screen.

paige huffed a laugh, shifting so her shoulder knocked against azzi’s. “oh, so if i dangle off a balcony and demand you take me to chipotle, that’s sweet? good to know.”

“you wouldn’t last five seconds. your upper body strength is—” azzi let her gaze flick down to paige’s arms, the definition obvious even under her hoodie. she cleared her throat. “never mind.”

paige smirked. “oh no, finish that thought, princess.”

“no.”

paige, who lived for this kind of thing, propped herself up on one elbow, getting close enough that azzi’s perfume curled around her senses. she smelled expensive, like warm florals and a hint of something soft, maybe honey. she should be paying attention to the movie, but instead, she was studying the way azzi’s lashes brushed her cheek when she blinked, the exact shade of brown in her eyes. totally normal. not a problem at all.

“admit it,” paige drawled. “you just got distracted by the guns.”

“i hate you.”

“no you don’t.”

“i do. i hate you so much.” but azzi’s mouth twitched, and her hand, traitorous thing that it was, had found its way to paige’s wrist, fingers pressing absentmindedly into the skin there.

paige noticed, but didn’t comment. instead, she shifted again, nestling further into azzi’s space like she had every right to be there. “okay, but you have to admit this movie is trash. a seven-year breakup over a letter she never got? and then she gets engaged to some other dude just for funsies?”

“it’s about fate.”

“it’s about bad communication.”

“well, not everyone’s an oversharer like you.”

paige grinned. “first of all, rude. second of all, if you ever fell in love with me and wrote me letters for a year, i’d totally read them.”

“good to know,” azzi said dryly, but her fingers curled slightly around paige’s wrist, like she was holding on without thinking about it.

paige caught it this time. dragged her thumb over the inside of azzi’s wrist, slow, lazy. “you’re holding my hand, princess.”

“no, i’m not.”

paige laced their fingers together, making it undeniable. “yeah, you are.”

azzi let out a long, suffering sigh, but didn’t pull away. instead, she rested her head against paige’s shoulder, like it was easier than fighting whatever this was.

“shut up and watch the movie.”

paige smirked. “yes, ma’am.”

azzi groaned. “don’t call me that.”

“whatever you say, sweetheart.” paige turned her head slightly, pressing a lingering kiss to azzi’s temple. it was casual, effortless, like second nature. azzi’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. didn’t push paige away.

paige still thought the movie was ridiculous, but if it meant getting to sit like this, wrapped up in azzi’s space, maybe rom-coms weren’t so bad after all.

paige stretches out on the couch, head sinking into azzi’s lap like she owns the place. which, technically, she does. well—half of it, at least.

"story: five out of ten," paige announces, dragging a lazy hand through the air. "sure, it's the usual love story. boy meets girl, they fight, they make up, they cry… whatever."

azzi snorts, idly combing her fingers through paige's hair. "so poetic."

paige tilts her head up, grinning. "what can i say? i have a way with words."

"yeah," azzi deadpans. "like a drunk guy at karaoke."

paige gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. "wow. that was personal."

azzi hums, twisting a strand of blonde between her fingers before flicking it back into place. "well, i’d give it an eight."

paige jerks up like azzi just said something blasphemous. "eight? for that?"

"it's a classic." azzi shrugs, like that explains everything.

paige squints. "so is canned tuna, but you don't see me crying over it."

"maybe because you have the emotional depth of a teaspoon," azzi muses, lips twitching.

"okay, rude." paige flops back down, arms crossed. "also, i think we’re ignoring the real issue here. you, azzi fudd, are a rom-com crybaby."

"i am not."

paige smirks. "oh, really? then explain why you sobbed over that one scene in 10 Things I Hate About You last week?"

"because heath ledger was singing in the bleachers, and that’s a valid reason!"

paige hums, tapping her chin. "mm. i dunno. seems a little wimpy to me."

"i'm emotionally intelligent," azzi corrects, flicking paige’s forehead.

"mm. tomato, tomahto." paige closes her eyes, perfectly at peace, until—

"you know," azzi starts, voice all sweet and innocent, which immediately puts paige on edge, "when we're old, you’ll be the one looking for your eye contacts only to realize you’ve had glasses on this whole time."

paige's eyes snap open. "excuse me?"

"just saying." azzi grins, all dimples and mischief. "you give off that energy."

paige sits up, pretending to be offended. "i do not give off ‘losing my own glasses while they're on my face’ energy."

"you so do," azzi counters, biting back a laugh.

"i'm literally the most capable person you know."

azzi raises an eyebrow. "paige, last week you spent ten minutes looking for your phone while you were on a call."

paige squints. "…that proves nothing."

"and two days ago, you left your car keys in the fridge."

paige huffs. "that was one time."

"mm-hmm." azzi pats her cheek, eyes sparkling. "sure, babe."

paige flops back down, grumbling, but as azzi goes back to running her fingers through her hair, she lets the thought settle.

growing old with azzi.

being with her through all the ridiculous, mundane, beautiful little moments life throws their way.

paige isn't sentimental. not really. but the idea sticks, burrows into her chest in a way she can’t shake.

she smacks azzi’s thigh, lightly. "you're annoying."

azzi just laughs, warm and soft, and yeah—paige thinks—maybe she wouldn't mind losing her glasses if it means azzi’s the one to find them for her.

the room still smells like buttered popcorn and the faintest hint of azzi’s vanilla-scented lotion. the air’s a little stuffy from them being curled up on the couch for hours, so paige cracks a window while azzi smooths out the blankets, fluffing the pillows back into place.

"teamwork makes the dream work," paige announces, dramatically tossing a handful of snack bags into the trash like she’s steph curry sinking a three.

except—

clunk. one of them bounces off the rim and lands just outside the bin.

"except when you miss." azzi deadpans.

paige squints. "i meant to do that."

"mm-hmm." azzi picks up the stray bag, dropping it in as paige gathers up the cups. she takes a final glance around, making sure everything's set for the next movie marathon.

when she's satisfied, she turns to paige, a little smirk playing at her lips. "good job, partner."

paige barely has time to process before azzi leans in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to her lips. it’s barely a second, but it’s enough to make paige's brain short-circuit.

"oh." paige blinks, a slow grin creeping onto her face. "so i get kisses for cleaning? noted."

"don't push it." azzi nudges her toward the kitchen, but there’s no real bite to it.

paige busies herself grabbing the cupcake cups while azzi starts setting out ingredients. she fills a few with nuts—strictly for herself, since azzi's allergic and she’d rather not spend the night in the er. then she loads up the rest with fruit, especially kiwi, because azzi swears it tastes like happiness. she adds pineapple and strawberries too, then tosses in some dark chocolate and a generous amount of gummy bears.

azzi watches, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. "so… you’re just making a personal charcuterie board of sweets?"

paige shrugs. "some of us like variety."

azzi snorts. "some of us just like sugar."

"pot, meet kettle." paige gestures at the chocolate chips azzi’s been sneakily snacking on.

azzi flicks a marshmallow at her, and paige, never one to back down from a challenge, pops it into her mouth midair with a smug look.

"show-off," azzi mutters, but her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

they settle into a rhythm, prepping ingredients for the ultimate snack session. paige, of course, insists on making s’mores, because what’s a cozy night without them?

azzi leans against the counter, watching paige work, arms brushing every so often. the night is easy, familiar, filled with little moments like this—bickering over snacks, stolen kisses, the kind of comfortable chaos that only comes with knowing someone like the back of your hand.

and honestly? paige wouldn’t trade it for anything.

azzi pads over to the kitchen, where stewie is curled up in his usual spot, breathing slow and steady. he looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single thought in that fluffy little head of his.

she crouches down, rubbing his ears, voice soft. "he’s literally perfect."

"mhmm." paige barely glances up, focused on skewering a marshmallow.

"paige, look at him," azzi insists.

paige, still hunched over the stove, murmurs, "kinda busy making s’moresess right now."

azzi squints. "s’moresess?"

"shhh." paige waves a hand, half-heartedly. "it’s a process."

azzi shakes her head, muttering something about her girlfriend being a lost cause, and moves behind paige, arms slipping around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

paige stiffens slightly but doesn’t stop what she’s doing—at least, not until azzi exhales slow and warm against the shell of her ear.

paige’s brain? fried.

her grip on the skewer slips, and the marshmallow nearly meets a fiery demise.

"azzi." her voice comes out a little strangled.

"what?" azzi hums, feigning innocence as she straightens up, leaving paige standing there like a malfunctioning robot.

"you—" paige exhales sharply through her nose. "you almost made me burn the s’more."

"tragedy," azzi deadpans, already moving toward the kettle.

paige glares, but it’s weak at best. instead, she focuses on plating everything while azzi makes herself a cup of tea and grabs some coconut water.

the dorm is spotless, the only sound the occasional clink of dishes and the low hum of the kettle. the candles caroline gifted azzi flicker gently, their scents—vanilla and lavender—mixing in the air, making the whole space feel warm, intimate.

it’s just them. no distractions.

azzi leans against the counter, stirring her tea, watching paige with something unreadable in her eyes.

paige, finally done, turns to face her, a cocky little grin playing at her lips. "so, did you come over here just to sabotage my s’mores, or…?"

azzi takes a slow sip of her tea, gaze steady. "maybe."

paige squints. "that’s evil."

"you love it."

paige sighs, defeated, but she can’t hide the way her smile softens just a little.

azzi kneels beside stewie, fingers ghosting over his soft fur, careful not to wake him. his little chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, curled up on his uconn-themed dog bed—matching blanket and all. of course azzi had to go all out. paige swears this dog has more school spirit than half the team.

paige finishes up in the kitchen, setting the last plate down before making her way over, dropping onto the floor beside azzi. but while azzi’s watching stewie, paige is watching her.

azzi looks peaceful, more than she has in weeks. this semester drained the hell out of her—paige saw it firsthand, the late nights, the stress, the way azzi pushed herself through it all. and yet, right now, in this tiny little moment, she’s soft, calm, just existing.

paige leans back on her palms, studying her, a quiet sort of pride settling in her chest. that’s her girl. the girl she had all her firsts with.

and tonight? well, she’s about to have another first with her.

azzi really should stop making paige feel like her heart's a metronome—this can't be normal.

paige’s thoughts swirl for a second as she watches azzi, completely unaware of the storm brewing in paige’s head. “if Azzi asked me to climb a mountain right now, i'd probably do it just to see her smile. how much do I need to pay for her to stop being this cute?”

“this is why I’m not allowed near dogs,” paige thinks, watching stewie snooze. "one pet and suddenly I'm invested in a team of athletes who can't even talk."

azzi shifts, catching paige’s gaze. there’s that smile again—the kind that makes paige feel like the world stops for just a second. “Not that I mind,” she thinks, "but damn, this girl has me wrapped around her finger."

and honestly? paige is okay with it.

they’re talking about nothing and everything all at once, voices low, lazy, like the world outside doesn’t exist. sitting cross-legged on the floor, the snacks long forgotten, azzi’s hand moves in slow circles over stewie’s ear, careful not to wake him.

paige, propped up on one elbow, watches her with that look—soft, amused, completely gone. azzi catches it, and for a second, wonders if she needs to take notes because damn, paige's stare is next level.

azzi meets her gaze, smiles, something quiet passing between them.

paige leans in first, and azzi follows, her free hand slipping to paige’s side, fingers pressing just enough to ground them both. she smiles into the kiss before it deepens, slow and sure, like every time they kiss, it means something more. because it does. because it always does.

when they pull back, paige, still close enough that azzi can feel her breath, grins.

“hey az,” she murmurs, voice teasing. “remember that night a few years back when we slow danced on the porch and i stepped on your feet like… fifteen times?”

"of course i do, paige," azzi says, voice soft but sure. "that memory’s engraved in my brain."

she remembers everything—the exact date, the thick warmth of summer, the way the night unfolded like a scene straight out of one of her movies. “And honestly? The embarrassing foot stomping was just part of the charm,” she thinks. the way it led them here, to something that feels eerily similar to what’s about to unravel.

paige raises a brow. "woah, was i really that bad?"

azzi grins, playing with paige’s fingers absentmindedly. "kind of."

paige groans, leaning her head back dramatically. "well, i was nervous, okay? i was dancing with the girl of my dreams."

azzi snorts. "oh yeah?"

"yeah," paige says, eyes locked on hers now. "you were wearing your mom’s pearls that day. that dress i thought was pretty on you, though—let’s be real—all of them were. swear, you could wear a trash bag and i’d still go crazy." she shrugs, lips twitching. "doesn’t even matter what you wear. you are your outfit. if that makes sense."

azzi flushes, her smile growing. she tugs paige closer by her hoodie, pressing their lips together. paige grins into it, hands finding azzi’s waist as the kiss deepens.

when they break apart, azzi hums, eyes playful. "i think the romance movies really got to you, huh?"

paige scoffs. "hey, i’m not the one who wants to watch them."

"that’s true."

"but i wasn’t finished with my little speech, actually," paige adds, tilting her head.

azzi rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. "oh? go on, then."

paige squeezes her fingers, something shifting in her expression—something softer, something certain. "wanna dance?"

azzi’s face lights up instantly. "right here? right now?"

paige nods. "right here. right now."

“Oh god, we’re doing this,” azzi thinks, trying not to grin like an absolute fool.

without hesitation, azzi takes her hand. paige, playing the gentleman, offers it with a dramatic flair, one hand behind her back like she’s in some old-timey movie. “Oh yeah, I’m totally swooning now,” azzi thinks, trying to keep her cool. azzi laughs, but she takes it.

they step into the open space in the kitchen, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge. the soft glow of candlelight flickers against the walls, filling the room with something unspoken. something warm. something that feels like them.

as they settle in, azzi tilts her head. "are we doing a silent slow dance, paige?"

paige blinks. "my bad." she pulls out her phone, scrolling for a second before pressing play. the soft, melancholic notes of my love mine all mine by mitski fill the air.

azzi raises a brow. "since when do you know this song?"

paige smirks. "since sarah put me on."

azzi laughs, shaking her head. as the first seconds of the song settle over them, paige—who’s just a little taller—takes azzi’s hands. azzi sighs, already knowing how this is going to go. "please don’t step on my feet."

paige grins. "can’t promise that."

azzi smiles, and they fall into place like they always do. her head finds paige’s shoulder, her hands finding her waist, and paige isn't forcing a thing. they just fit. like they were made to be here, in this moment, like this.

the song is calm, and so are they, just swaying together. the stillness, the trust, the years of knowing each other—it all settles between them like a quiet understanding. azzi closes her eyes, memorizing every movement, the way their breaths sync, the way their heartbeats seem to fall into rhythm.

paige looks down at her, eyes soft, full of something deeper than words. she presses a gentle kiss to azzi’s head and whispers, "i love you more than you’ll ever know."

azzi lifts her gaze, the candlelight flickering in her eyes. "i love you more than i ever thought i could love anybody."

paige swallows. their bodies are so close, and as the second verse starts, azzi wraps her arms around paige’s neck, resting her chin on her shoulder. her curls brush against paige’s face, tickling her cheek.

"you can put your feet on mine," paige murmurs. "i’ll lift you with ease."

azzi snorts. "you’re ridiculous."

"and yet, here you are, playing into it," paige teases.

but azzi does it, stepping onto paige’s feet, letting her take the lead. it’s ridiculous, yeah, but it’s them.

paige smiles, eyes slipping shut, and this time, azzi’s the one watching her. with nothing but love.

she presses a soft kiss to paige’s cheek, and paige’s lips curl into that cocky smile—the one that always makes azzi feel something she can't quite name.

the way paige’s whole face lights up just from being near her… that’s the kind of love scientists should be writing articles about.

as the song fades out, azzi’s fingers trace lazy circles on paige’s back. they haven’t moved, still molded into each other, warm from the dance, from the love they just shared. they were always meant for this moment.

"can we just stay like this forever?" azzi murmurs.

paige chuckles, looking down at her, at the soft smile on azzi’s face. "and who’s gonna break ankles if we do?"

"kamorea can handle that," azzi says, completely serious.

paige laughs, shaking her head. as azzi pulls her hands back, she really looks at paige. paige is holding her hands now, thumb brushing over her skin, absentmindedly tracing small circles—no, actually tracing azzi’s name on the back of her hand.

azzi bites her lip. "gotta say, you improved. you didn’t step on my foot once."

paige nods, all cocky. what azzi doesn’t know is that paige spent her free time watching dance tutorials. even asked tim—azzi’s father—for tips.

"thank you," paige smirks. "i’m a natural."

azzi scoffs. "sure."

"should we go back to the movies?" azzi asks.

paige stretches. "yeah, just gimme a sec. gotta use the bathroom."

"okay." azzi leans in, pressing a quick kiss to paige’s cheek before heading back to the room.

but paige doesn’t go to the bathroom. instead, she crouches by stewie’s bed, quietly filling his bowl with water, making sure he’s set for the night. she grabs a few dog treats and places them beside him, scratching behind his ear as she whispers—(keep in mind, it’s a dog):

"i’m gonna marry that pretty girl someday. i know you’re her #1, but i’m never gonna stop loving her."

stewie snores in response. paige grins, giving him one last pat before heading back.

when she walks in, azzi’s already curled up, waiting for her with a look of love and safety. paige jumps into bed, and azzi immediately rests her head on paige’s chest.

"let’s do frozen again," azzi mumbles.

paige laughs, pressing a kiss to azzi’s head. "i’m covering your eyes when olaf loses his head."

azzi gasps and smacks paige’s leg. "rude."

as the movie starts playing, the soft glow of the screen flickering against their faces, azzi reaches for a s’more, breaking off a piece for paige. she turns to her, eyes warm, lips curled into a soft smile.

“open,” she says, holding it up.

paige laughs, tilting her head back slightly, and obliges. azzi stuffs the piece in her mouth, giggling as paige tries to chew through the marshmallow, cracker, and chocolate all at once.

“i love you,” azzi murmurs, almost absentmindedly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. because it is.

paige, still chewing, looks at her with the kind of softness that makes azzi’s heart ache in the best way. she swallows, then leans in, brushing her nose against azzi’s.

“i’m right here,” paige whispers, voice thick with certainty, “not going anywhere. always gonna take care of you.”

azzi blinks, the words settling deep in her chest, something warm and overwhelming blooming inside her. she presses closer, burying herself into paige’s arms, where everything feels right.

paige holds her like she’s never letting go.

[syluxs]

shower for two

pairing: sylus/reader

summary: showering together for the first time, you expected something intense--overflowing tension, something unmistakably heated. but instead, it was easy, playful. sylus has proved once again that he wasn’t like other men, washing your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world

notes: pure fluff i wanna combust

honestly, you had expected this to be….. intense. awkward. full of charged tension. after all, seeing each other naked during that time was different--there was an urgency, a purpose. there was an unspoken heat that left no room for hesitation.

but showering together?

you were both level-headed, fully aware, with nothing to hide behind. that made it feel almost too different. also, it was a me time thing for you back then. a moment of solitude. a time to think, to let your mind wander, to just be in the calm. it wasn’t supposed to be shared--at least, not with anyone else before you started dating sylus. this was yours, something personal, something just for you.

yet here you were.

sylus was completely unfazed. with an ease that only he could pull off, he took off his towel and neatly hung it up--because of course he would. he wasn’t some unhygienic guy who would just let it drop onto the floor.

your eyes widened at his action, mouth parted slightly in shock at him being so casual abt this.

he noticed, of course, and let out a deep chuckle, clearly amused by your reaction.

"really?" he teased, tilting his head at you. "it's nothing you haven't seen before."

you frowned at him, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. slowly, deliberately, you removed your own towel--though far less smoothly than he had--and awkwardly hung it up, mirroring his movements like some kind of hesitant, poor attempt at composure.

you stood there for a moment, shifting uncomfortably, as if staying still would somehow make you invisible. your posture was stiff, like you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

finally, after a deep breath, you hesitantly stepped toward the shower, trying to make yourself seem as small as possible.

sylus immediately noticed your unusual sheepishness. instead of teasing, he simply let out a soft chuckle and, like it was the most natural thing to say, he said, "why are you hiding, kitten? you're beautiful, you know that."

your entire body tensed. it was such a casual compliment, but it hit you like a tidal wave. you could feel ur stomach making all sorts of movements, heat rising to your face as you struggled to keep your composure.

maybe this was just the honeymoon phase, since you had only recently started dating. but still, it had always been like this with sylus, even before you were together. the feelings were always intense, ready to swallow you whole.

he reached out and turned on the shower, letting the water heat up before stepping under the stream. you watched as he tilted his head back, running a hand through his wet white hair, his red eyes momentarily closing as he let out a deep, satisfied sigh. the sight made your heart do an embarrassing little skip. his toned muscles stood out under the bathroom light, water running over the sharp lines of his broad shoulders, down the contours of his chest. with his hair pushed back, his sharp, handsome features were on full display--something you tried so hard not to openly admire.

instead of making a snarky comment or throwing a teasing smirk on at how shy you were acting, like you expected from the dynamics where you two started out, even before dating, he just… hummed. content. relaxed.

"water’s nice," he murmured. "you getting in or just gonna stand there and stare?"

you scoffed, stepping in. "not staring. just mentally preparing myself."

"for what?" his lips twitched. "afraid you’ll get overwhelmed by my beauty?"

"more like bracing myself for the ego explosion."

sylus chuckled, stepping aside to let you under the stream. the warm water cascaded over you, washing away any lingering awkwardness. for a moment, you stood there, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation.

then--

"hey, move," you grumbled, nudging his side when he took up way too much space. "you’re hogging the water."

"i am the taller one here," he pointed out. "makes sense i take up more space."

"that’s not how this works," you huffed, shoving at his arm. "equal shower rights. scoot."

he let out a dramatic sigh but shifted over, giving you a bit more room. but just as you started shampooing your hair, you felt a hand on your head.

you blinked up at him. "what are you doing?"

"saving time." he said as he lathered the shampoo into your hair.

you narrowed your eyes. "this is suspiciously nice of you. are you planning something?"

"do i need a reason to do this?” he smirked. "besides, your height makes it easier for me to reach."

"maybe you're enjoying this a bit too much."

"maybe," he admitted, fingers massaging your scalp in slow, deliberate movements.

you almost melted on the spot. okay, maybe sharing a shower wasn’t that bad. in fact, it was actually kind of….. nice. relaxing.

but, of course, sylus couldn’t resist being sylus.

"you look like a wet cat right now."

"oh my gosh, get out." you playfully pushed at him, but he barely budged, his laughter only growing.

sylus was completely unbothered as he grabbed some soap and turned you around. "stay still," he muttered, running his hands over your back with gentle efficiency. his touch was firm but careful, working in slow, methodical circles as he scrubbed away the suds.

honestly, with how most men were, you expected this to have some kind of tension, maybe even turn into something intense, something undeniably charged with anticipation. but it wasn’t. not even close. and you felt so good about that, because once again, sylus had proven he wasn’t like other men. damn.

you huffed but let him, feeling oddly pampered.

when he finished, you grabbed the soap and grinned up at him. "your turn."

sylus raised a brow but turned around, giving you access to his broad back. you dragged the soap along his toned muscles, biting back a laugh at the contrast of how nonchalant he had been about touching you versus how stiff he got when you did the same.

then, unable to resist, you playfully smacked his ass.

he jolted, nearly slipping. "what was that for?"

"couldn’t help myself," you grinned. "prime, golden opportunity."

his ears turned red, and for the first time since you stepped in, he looked flustered. “you're unbelievable.”

"aww, don’t be shy, kitten," you teased, mimicking his earlier words.

sylus groaned, covering his face with one hand. "i regret everything."

he may have said that, but he didn’t mean it. not even a little. the way his lips twitched, the way his red eyes softened when he looked at you--it was obvious. no matter how much you exasperated him, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[purplereina11]

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines.

What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

I've really enjoyed writing and sharing this, thank you for all the love on this! ❤️

Hope you enjoy the chaotic last chapter!

The next morning, sunlight filters through your blinds, casting golden stripes across rumpled sheets. Your body aches pleasantly—a physical reminder of last night that makes heat rise to your face even in solitude. You reach for your phone, half-expecting a message from her, but there's nothing.

Just hundreds of notifications from social media.

"Shit," you mutter, sitting up too quickly.

You scroll through them with mounting dread. Photos of you and Alexia at Red are everywhere—nothing explicit, thank god, but the way you're looking at each other leaves little to the imagination. One shot captures you following her back from the Private VIP balcony, her hand brushing yours, both of you wearing expressions that scream post-hookup satisfaction.

Your team group chat has exploded:

Claudia: OMG HAVE YOU SEEN THESE

Claudia: You went out with Alexia?

Maya: I KNEW IT 

Liv: Coach is gonna have an aneurysm

Marta: You better have details ready at practice or I'm throwing a ball at your face

You groan, burying your face in your pillow. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Whatever this was.

The training facility looms ahead, and you take a deep breath before pushing through the doors. You're early—deliberately so, hoping to slip into the locker room before the full squad arrives. But as you round the corner, you realize your plan has failed spectacularly.

They're all there. Every single one of your teammates, arranged in a semicircle like they've been waiting for you. Which, judging by their expressions, they absolutely have been.

"Well, well, well," Taylor drawls, leaning against her locker with exaggerated casualness. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

"I'm early," you point out, dropping your bag on the bench. "Practice doesn't start for twenty minutes."

"Oh, we're not talking about practice," Mia says, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "We're talking about your night with Barcelona's golden girl."

Heat creeps up your neck despite your best efforts to appear unfazed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

This is met with a chorus of disbelieving snorts and eye rolls.

"Save it," Jasmine says, tossing her phone your way. "You two are literally everywhere online. That club wasn't as discreet as you thought. Neither is that love bite on your neck”

You catch the phone, stomach dropping as you see the photo on screen. It's you and Alexia on the dance floor, your back pressed against her front, her lips dangerously close to your neck. The lighting is dim, but there's no mistaking either of you.

"Fuck," you mutter, handing the phone back.

The locker room erupts in laughter, a mix of cheers and mock scandalised gasps echoing off the walls. You groan, running a hand down your face. There’s no getting out of this.

"Oh, come on," Claudia says, flopping down beside you with an eager grin. "You have to give us details. Was she as intense as she is on the pitch?"

Maya leans forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "Or worse?"

You shake your head, grabbing your boots and focusing very intently on tying the laces. "You lot are unbelievable."

"Oh, we know," Marta says smugly. "But you love us. Now, tell us—who made the first move? We saw the photos of her all over you, but was that before or after you two snuck off to that private room?"

You freeze for half a second—just enough time for them to notice. The room erupts again. “YOU DID!" Liv practically yells, pointing an accusatory finger. 

Maya claps her hands together, cackling. "Oh my god, please tell me you at least checked for cameras."

"There were no cameras," you mutter, shaking your head. "Thank god."

"So you did do something up there," Marta says, triumphant.

Your silence is damning.

"You are so done for," Claudia grins, nudging your shoulder. "You have to tell us—was it just a heated make-out, or should we be buying wedding gifts already?"

You groan again, tipping your head back in exasperation. "You lot are the worst."

Liv wiggles her eyebrows. "Not an answer."

You exhale, dragging a hand through your hair. They’re relentless, and you’re never getting out of this unless you give them something. "It was… intense," you admit, voice low. "Really fucking intense."

The room falls into stunned silence for all of three seconds before they collectively lose their minds again.

"Oh shit," Maya whispers dramatically. "She got you hooked."

"That bad, huh?" Marta teases, smirking.

You roll your eyes. "Shut up."

"Absolutely not," Liv laughs. "So what now? Are you two, like, a thing? Or are you just basking in the afterglow of the best night of your life?"

Your stomach twists at the question because, honestly? You don’t know. "Don’t look at me like that," you mutter. "I haven’t figured it out yet."

That earns you a chorus of oooohs, because of course it does.

"Sounds like someone’s smitten," Claudia teases, sing-song.

"Sounds like someone’s in trouble," Maya counters. And for the first time all morning, you don’t have a snappy comeback.

The laughter dies down for barely a second before Liv narrows her eyes, a devilish smirk creeping across her face. "Hold on. Let's back up. You say it was intense—but, like, how intense are we talking?"

Marta leans forward, intrigued. "Yeah, was it just, like, the heat of the moment kind of intense? Or the holy shit, I can't breathe, what the hell are we doing kind?"

Claudia wiggles her eyebrows. "Or was it the I need five to ten business days to recover kind?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Why are you like this?"

"Because this is the best gossip we’ve had in ages," Maya says gleefully. 

"Now spill—who started it?"

"I—" you start, but Liv cuts you off.

"Actually, dumb question. Of course it was her. No way you were bold enough to start that."

"Excuse me?" you scoff. "I can be bold."

"Uh-huh." Marta grins. "And yet, based on all the photos, she was all over you."

You try to fight the flush rising to your face, but it's useless. "It wasn’t exactly one-sided."

"Ohhhh," Claudia hums, exchanging looks with the others. "So you were all over her too?"

You run a hand over your face. "Maybe."

Liv gasps, clapping her hands. "Oh my god, you were!"

Maya fans herself dramatically. "Did you pin her against the wall? Tell me you pinned her against the wall."

"No," you say quickly, but they see right through you.

"That was too fast," Marta says smugly.

"You totally did," Claudia grins.

"Or she pinned you," Liv suggests, eyes lighting up.

You freeze again. And once again, they notice. The locker room explodes into chaos.

"NO WAY!" Maya shrieks.

"SHE PINNED YOU?" Liv nearly drops her phone.

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, hiding your face as they erupt into cheers and laughter.

"That explains why you look wrecked today," Marta smirks.

"Okay, that’s enough," you say, trying to maintain some dignity. "We’re done with this conversation."

"Oh, we are so not done," Claudia says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "We haven’t even gotten to the best part."

"And what would that be?" you ask warily.

Liv grins. "Did you stay the night?"

You hesitate.

Big mistake.

The locker room erupts all over again.

"We didn't need to go back to either of our places" you hinted that it was more than just a heated kiss and they lost it, the questioning coming at you like a machine gun now

Liv screeches, slapping Marta’s arm so hard it echoes through the locker room. "OH MY GOD!"

Claudia nearly falls off the bench. "WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. Where then? If you didn’t go back to her place or yours, where the hell did this happen?"

Maya's jaw drops, eyes going wide. "Oh my god. It was in the club, wasn’t it?”

Your silence is damning.

Marta gasps, pointing at you. "No. No way. Tell me you didn’t make out in the bathroom."

"No," you groan, rubbing your temples.

Claudia's eyes narrow as the pieces start falling into place. "Not at home, not the bathroom... but somewhere in the club…" She suddenly claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh my fucking god. The VIP balcony? Thats the door you were going through with her”

The locker room erupts.

"NO. NO WAY."

“IN VIEW?!”

"You mean to tell me," Liv pants between laughter, "you and Alexia were out there in plain sight?"

"Not plain sight—" you start, but Maya cuts you off.

"Oh my god, that’s why there are so many pictures of you two disappearing up there together!" She grabs her phone, scrolling frantically. "Everyone saw you following her. They just didn’t know what happened after."

Your face is burning. "I hate all of you." The locker room descends into absolute chaos. Marta is cackling, Maya has fully collapsed onto the bench, and Claudia is staring at you like you’ve just revealed you’re actually royalty.

"You animal," Liv wheezes.

Marta is in shambles, clutching her stomach. "Did people walk past?"

"I don’t know!" you groan. "It wasn’t like we were— I mean—it was just—"

"You can’t even finish a sentence!" Claudia howls. "Putellas actually broke you."

"Okay, but was it like… hands-on-the-wall kind of thing?" Liv teases. "Or was there a couch?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Why are you like this?"

"Because this is the best thing that has ever happened to us," Maya grins.

Marta fans herself. "The balcony, though. That is a power move."

Liv smirks, tossing her phone onto the bench. "I mean, damn. I knew Alexia had game, but I didn’t think she had public-balcony-at-an-exclusive-club game."

Maya howls. "Holy shit, no wonder you look like you barely survived a hurricane!"

Claudia snickers. "And here I thought you were all responsible and professional."

You shoot her a look. "I am responsible!"

"You made out with Spain’s captain on a private balcony where anyone could have seen if they got the right angle,” Liv reminds you. "Babe, that ship has sailed."

Your face betrays you before you can even think about stopping it. A flicker of something—guilt, panic, something—must cross your expression, because suddenly, the whole room goes silent.

"Wait."

Maya's eyes go wide. "Wait, wait, wait."

Claudia actually gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth like she just uncovered the world's greatest scandal.

Marta points at you, her jaw dropping. "No way."

Liv is the first to recover, leaning in with a wicked grin. "You didn't just make out, did you?"

You open your mouth to argue—deny, deflect, anything—but you hesitate for half a second too long.

Chaos.

"OH. MY. GOD!"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WASN’T JUST A MAKE-OUT?"

"You absolute menace!"

Claudia clutches her chest like she’s having a heart attack. "ON THE BALCONY?!"

Marta is howling, actually having to sit down. 

Claudia nearly slides off the bench. "Do you have any shame?!"

Marta is howling, banging her fist against the locker. "No, no, no. This is legendary behaviour."

Liv, barely able to contain herself, grips your arm. "You’re telling me— you two went up there, where anyone could have walked past, and got handsy?”

You groan, rubbing your hands down your face. "I am never telling you guys anything again."

Maya gasps dramatically. "Oh my god, did she—"

"STOP!" you interrupt, grabbing your training top and shoving it over your head. "I’m leaving. I don’t need this."

"You absolutely do," Liv calls after you. "Because the second this session is over, we’re gonna want to talk about it all over again."

Marta smirks. "And, we’re getting details.

Training is supposed to be your escape. A place where you can drown out the noise, focus on the game, and forget the absolute circus your teammates turned the morning into.

But apparently, the universe has other plans.

You’re midway through warm-ups when you hear it— "What the hell is that on your neck?"

You freeze. The ball you were absentmindedly passing back and forth with Maya clatters away as your head snaps toward the voice. Coach is standing there, hands on their hips, staring directly at you with narrowed eyes.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath.

There’s a moment of silence. Then, from somewhere behind you, Liv wheezes. Claudia physically turns away so her laugh is muffled in her sleeve. Marta isn’t even trying to hide it, hands on her knees as she cackles.

Your jaw clenches. "It’s nothing," you say quickly. "Just—uh, caught an elbow in a challenge yesterday."

Coach squints, stepping closer. "Really?"

You resist the urge to back away. "Yup. Happened so fast, didn’t even see who did it."

"Huh." They fold their arms, eyes flicking from your face to the mark on your neck. "Because it kinda looks like a—"

"IT WAS AN ELBOW," you blurt out, voice slightly too high.

Maya snorts.

Coach stares at you for a moment longer. Then, with a long sigh, she pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don’t even wanna know. Just don’t let it be a distraction."

You nod so fast your neck almost cracks. "Absolutely. 100%. No distractions here."

Coach walks away, muttering something under her breath. The second she’s out of earshot, your teammates lose it.

Liv practically collapses against you. "An elbow?" she howls. "That’s the best you could come up with?"

Marta wipes tears from her eyes. "Who knew Alexia Putellas had such sharp elbows, huh?"

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I hate all of you."

Maya grins. "No you don’t. But what we do hate is you keeping secrets. So, after training—"

"No."

"—you’re giving us details."

"Absolutely not."

Liv slings an arm around your shoulders. "Oh, babe," she says sweetly, "I wasn’t asking."

Training is brutal—not because the drills are particularly hard, but because your teammates won’t let up. Every time you so much as breathe near one of them, there’s a smirk, a whispered comment, or an exaggerated glance at your neck.

Marta jogs past you during a passing drill and mutters, "Hope Alexia stretched properly before last night. Wouldn’t want Spain’s captain pulling something."

Claudia bumps your shoulder in a small-sided game. "You sure you’re not sore? Sounds like a lot of touching on that balcony."

Even Maya, usually the least chaotic, raises an eyebrow as you line up for sprints. "Didn’t know you had a thing for exhibitionism," she muses. "Good to know."

By the time the session ends, you’re exhausted—and not just from the running. You make a beeline for the showers, hoping to escape before anyone can ambush you with more questions. You fail. Spectacularly. The second you step into the locker room, the door shuts behind you with a click, and suddenly, you’re cornered.

Marta flops onto the bench, stretching out like she owns the place. "Alright, princesa," she grins, "spill."

You groan. "I already told you—"

"You told us nothing," Liv interrupts. "Except that it wasn’t a back room. And your face said it was more than making out."

A chorus of ooohs follows. Your face burns. "I meant—"

"No, no," Claudia cuts in, wagging a finger. "You can’t backtrack now. You dropped that little bombshell, and we will be getting details."

Maya leans forward. "So, the VIP balcony, huh?" Her eyes gleam. "You know people could see you, right?"

You rub your hands over your face. "We were near the back of it, you couldn’t see.”

"No?" Marta smirks. "Because from what we’ve seen, you two weren’t exactly keeping things low-key any other time.”

You glare at her. "We weren’t thinking about that.”

"Mmm," Liv hums, "so what were you thinking about?"

You open your mouth—then shut it immediately when you realise there’s no safe way to answer that.

Marta howls. "Look at her! She’s thinking about it right now!"

You groan, head dropping back against the lockers. "I hate you all so much."

"No you don’t," Liv grins. "Now, be a good teammate and tell us everything.

"Was it against the wall?" Claudia demands.

"Or was there, like, a couch or—"

"Jesus Christ," you groan, throwing your head back. “We’re circling, Can you all chill?!”

"Absolutely not," Liv grins. "You know we have no other drama or gossip around here!”

Marta leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So…?"

The room goes silent, everyone hanging on your answer.

You exhale, dragging a hand down your face, but eventually… you can’t help the small smirk tugging at your lips. "It was…" You hesitate, then shake your head, biting back a very incriminating smile.

Another explosion of noise.

"OH MY GOD, IT WAS THAT GOOD?!"

"YOU’RE ACTUALLY BLUSHING."

"PUTELLAS BROKE HER, GUYS."

Maya pretends to wipe a tear. "They grow up so fast."

You exhale sharply, dragging your hands down your face before finally looking at them. "Fine. You want details? You got them."

They practically vibrate with anticipation, leaning in like a pack of gossip-starved wolves.

"The kissing," you start, your voice steady even as your stomach flips at the memory. "God, the kissing. She—" You shake your head, biting your lip. "She kisses like she plays. Intense. In control. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly what she wants."

Liv groans, clutching her chest dramatically. "I knew she’d be like that. Knew it."

Marta fans herself. "Continue."

You huff a laugh, running a hand through your hair. "It started slow. Teasing. She likes to make you wait for it, make you want it. But when she gives in? Fuck. She doesn’t hold back. One second, it was just this slow, heated build-up, and the next, it was—" You cut yourself off, shaking your head. "Messy. Breathless. The kind that makes your knees weak."

"And the touching?" Claudia presses, eyes wide. "You said there was touching."

You swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck, but there's no backing out now. "It was—" You search for the right words, but they all feel inadequate. "She’s got strong hands. You feel it when she touches you. When she grabs your waist, pulls you against her—"

Maya exhales sharply. "Shit."

"—And then her hands are everywhere, right?" Liv urges. "Like, everywhere?"

Your silence says enough.

Marta slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with delight. "No."

"Yes, her hands just moved that way and I didn’t stop her” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "She—fuck, she knows what she’s doing. She knows how to pull you apart with just her hands. And we weren’t thinking about where we were, or who could see, or anything except—" You stop yourself, shaking your head, chest tight. "It was just—intense."

For a moment, there’s nothing but stunned silence.

"You got fingered on a VIP balcony," Liv finally breathes. "I am never letting you live this down."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "We didn’t—"

"No, no," Marta waves you off. "That was implied."

Claudia shakes her head, grinning. "Jesus. I thought you were just sneaking around. I did not expect you to be feral."

"It wasn’t like—" You stop, realising you have absolutely no defence. "Okay, maybe a little."

Liv snickers. "You are so down bad, babe."

You don’t even argue. Because, honestly?

Yeah. You might be.

Your phone buzzes with a text. Not the group chat. Not social media.

Liv lifts her chin, “Who dat?”

You smiled raising your eyes, “Alexia”

“What does she want?” Liv asked, “She found another public place to finger you in”

“Ok” You groan, “Too much”

Alexia: Morning. We should talk. Coffee?

Your heart does a complicated somersault. Three simple sentences that somehow manage to sound both casual and ominous.

You: When and where?

Her response comes immediately.

Alexia: The place on Carrer de València. 30 minutes?

You glance at the clock. That doesn't give you much time.

You: I'll be there.

You're dressed and out the door in record time, grateful for the sunglasses hiding your eyes as you navigate streets already buzzing with speculation. Two teenagers recognise you, whispering and giggling as you pass. A street vendor selling newspapers gives you a knowing wink.

The café is tucked away on a quiet corner, the kind of place locals frequent and tourists rarely find. When you step inside, you spot her immediately—corner table, back to the wall, baseball cap pulled low over her face. Classic celebrity incognito. It wouldn't work for long, but it might buy you a few minutes of privacy.

She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable behind large sunglasses. When you sit across from her, she pushes a coffee toward you.

"I remembered how you take it," she says quietly.

You take a sip—perfect. The small gesture shouldn't make your chest tighten, but it does.

"So," you begin, because someone has to, "we're trending."

A faint smile touches her lips. "Not the first time. Won't be the last."

"Is that all you have to say about it?"

She removes her sunglasses, folding them carefully beside her cup. The morning light catches in her eyes, turning them the colour of whiskey. Without the barrier of tinted glass between you, her gaze is direct, unflinching.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks quietly. "That I regret it? Because I don't."

The directness of her response makes your stomach flip. You take another sip of coffee to buy yourself time, to steady your nerves. "I don't regret it either," you admit, watching her shoulders relax slightly at your words. “I can’t stop thinking about it actually… that’s not like me at all, I don’t do that”

"Neither do I," Alexia says, her voice low enough that only you can hear. She traces the rim of her coffee cup with one finger, a gesture so casually intimate it makes your throat go dry. "But here we are."

The cafe bustles around you—baristas calling out orders, the hiss of steam wands, the murmur of morning conversations—but in your corner, time seems suspended. You study her face, noting the shadows beneath her eyes that suggest she slept as poorly as you did.

"Our teams are going to have a field day with this," you say, trying to inject some lightness into the conversation.

She laughs softly, shaking her head. "Mine already is. Aitana sent me seventeen texts before I even got out of bed."

"Only seventeen? My group chat has over two hundred messages." You pull out your phone to show her, and your fingers brush as she takes it, sending that same electric current through you that you felt last night. Remembering where they'd been.

Her eyes scan the messages, a small smile playing at her lips. "Your teammates seem... supportive."

"They're nosey is what they are," you counter, but there's no heat in it. "What about yours?"

Alexia hands your phone back, her expression turning thoughtful. "They're protective. They've seen how the media can be when it comes to my personal life."

The reminder of who she is—of who you both are—settles between you like a physical presence. This isn't just about two people attracted to each other. It's about two public figures, two competitors, two women navigating a world that will dissect every interaction.

"So what now?" you ask, echoing her words from last night, but this time in the harsh light of day, with real consequences looming.

Alexia leans forward, her elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours. "That depends. Was last night just... letting off steam? Getting it out of our systems?" Her voice remains steady, but you catch the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her cup.

The question hangs between you, loaded with implications. The smart answer would be yes—a one-time thing, exciting and memorable but ultimately contained. No complications, no distractions from the season ahead. But looking at her now, remembering the way she'd whispered your name, the vulnerability in her eyes afterward... you know it would be a lie. “You like the chase remember? You tell me, you got what you wanted”

Alexia exhales sharply, a quiet laugh escaping as she shakes her head. "That’s not fair," she murmurs, her fingers still curled around her coffee cup. "You make it sound like this was just a game to me."

"Wasn't it?" you challenge, arching a brow. You don't mean it as an accusation, not really, but you’re still trying to figure out where the line between competition and something more actually is with her. "You spent weeks taunting me, pushing my buttons, daring me to push back. You got what you wanted, didn't you?" 

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you for a long moment, as if deciding how honest she wants to be. "Maybe I did," she admits finally, voice quieter now, more measured. "But that doesn’t mean I’m done."

The words send a slow ripple of heat through you, and you don’t even bother pretending they don’t. "Yeah?" you murmur, tilting your head slightly. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means…" She trails off, exhaling as she leans back in her chair. "It means I haven’t figured that part out yet." She gives you a rueful look. "Not used to this, either."

That admission surprises you, but it also sends a pulse of satisfaction through you. You’re not the only one thrown off balance. "Alright," you say after a beat. "Then let’s figure it out."

Alexia watches you carefully. "And how do we do that?"

You consider for a second before responding. "For starters, we stop pretending we don’t actually want each other. We agree we’re not wanting more than a bit of …fun." 

She nods slowly, as if turning the idea over in her head. "And what about everything else? The press, our teams, the season?"

"One orgasm at a time," you say, offering her the faintest smirk. "Unless you’re afraid of a little fun, capitana."

That makes her huff a quiet laugh, shaking her head at you. "You really never back down, do you?"

"Not when something’s worth it."

Alexia’s expression flickers, something shifting behind her eyes, but before you can dissect it, she reaches for her sunglasses again. The moment passes, but the weight of it lingers.

"Okay," she says, voice steady. "One orgasm at a time. Eleven.”

Possible Sequel

[tiramissyoucake]

I love your work sooo much especially when you write about sinister mark😋😋 I was wondering if you can write like more about sinister mark but like he’s more intense and crude.. 🤧 like hurt no comfort

oooohhh i get it. i get it. i hope this fits what u want !! apologies this is nsfw MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI cw: forced blowjob, mouthfucking, fem reader, use of 'slut', 'bitch', mark likes it when you cry

"Stop fucking resisting," Mark huffed as he pushed your head down to further take more of his cock into your throat, your hands on his thighs trying to slow him down. "shit, who taught you to suck dick? fuckin' amateur." being Mark's 'girlfriend' did not come with perks, he'd borderline stalk you when you're out and come into your home whenever he had a boner and expected you to be on your knees waiting for him to take you however he wanted, he saw you more like his special little toy and he hates sharing. "just- mmh! relax your throat." He gritted through his teeth, taking too much satisfaction in your gagging as you shut your eyes tightly. "Let me fuck your mouth, it's not that hard." a pleased raspy laugh escaping him as he spotted tears in your eyes, this would've made him hornier if he wasn't already so hard. "Yeah, just like that- cry for me, bitch."

your jaw hurts, your knees burn, your throat feels even worse as you tried desperately to breathe and see through the heavy blur of tears. looking up at him all you can see is his chest rising and falling and his head either leaning back to hiss and growl loudly or grin down at your pained expression. "You look perfect like this, mouth full of my dick- you were made for this." His hands tugged your head down further, your nose hitting the skin of his abdomen as he laughed at your dismay, your drool trailing down his cock to his balls or dribbling down to the floor. "Sloppy bitch, yeah, cry some more..." he licked his lips, enjoying the tears as you struggled to keep up, the noise resounding from your drool and his cock fucking into your mouth making an embarrassing repetitive slurp. "Gonna cum in your throat," it was a warning, not a question. "keep it in your mouth, or I'll fuckin' kill you." Mark readjusted his hips, his hands gripped your skull tightly and thrusted into your mouth in a devastating pace, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly as he groaned and grunted. "Yeah- fuck, take it, don't waste a single drop, 'm gonna cum, gonna flood your throat.. mmf!!" Mark held your head painfully close as he filled your mouth, you thanked god that he didn't do it down your throat because you were sure to cough out his cum the moment his dick would slip out past your lips. he kept still as his frantic breathing finally slowed, waiting until his balls emptied in your mouth, he slowly pulled your head away. biting his lip and grinning as he saw his cock now shiny in your spit, the same spit on your lips. "Don't swallow." he demanded as he gripped your jaw, you let out a muffled grunt as you tried not to, you weren't in a position to disobey. "Show me." embarrassed, you parted your lips, a pool of white mixing with your spit, his black goggles staring down at how much he came in your mouth, he chuckled. "That's a good little slut, swallow." he held your jaw, ensuring you'd ingest every bit of him, it took you two audible gulps to finally empty your mouth, he let go after he found no remains. "Good." He patted your cheek twice before tugging his suit back on, sitting up and shoving you off his hips. "get the fuck off me, I got shit to do now." you stared up at him, glaring when his back was turned to you you wiped your mouth, frustrated that you were so helpless. "I'm coming back later tonight, I don't want you to wear shit when I get home or I'll rip your clothes off." as ridiculous as his threat sounded, you knew he'd follow through, those were the only promises he actually fulfilled.

[noyasmashing]

Cracking the Code Pt 2 ⭑.ᐟ

╰┈➤ with Rinarou Suna

Part 1 here

rating: NSFW

wc: 2600

Summary: After leaving Suna desperate and wrecked at a party, you run into him at the gym, only to tease and deny him again bc your evil

₊⊹ CW: sub!suna, suna being a mess, good boy used a lot, edging, kinda public, and y/n is a baddie

₊⊹ Do Not Interact if: <18!

₊⊹ A/N: definitely cooking up a part three… I wanna put him in some lingerie hehe

You weren’t even thinking about Suna when you walked into the gym that afternoon. Honestly, you’d almost forgotten about the way you’d left him hanging at that party—well, not forgotten. The memory of his wrecked expression, the way his body had trembled under your touch, was still seared into your mind. But you’d moved on.

Suna, on the other hand…

You spotted him immediately. He was leaning against the squat rack, water bottle in hand, wearing a loose tank top and shorts that did absolutely nothing to hide the way his body was strung tight with tension.

And he was staring right at you.

You felt it the moment his eyes locked on you—like a physical pull, drawing you in. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Not yet.

Instead, you ignored him, walking past without so much as a glance, heading straight toward the treadmill.

But you could feel him watching you.

The weight of his gaze followed you as you stretched, adjusted your ponytail, and climbed onto the machine. You kept your pace slow, giving yourself time to settle in, but your mind was already miles ahead.

How long can he last this time?

Five minutes.

That’s all it took.

You heard the shuffle of footsteps behind you, followed by the distinct sound of a water bottle being set down a little too hard on the machine next to you.

“Y/n.”

His voice was low, controlled—too controlled.

You didn’t look over, but you felt the corner of your mouth twitch. Oh, he’s still trying? Cute.

“Rintarou.” Your tone was cool, casual, like you hadn’t worked him up and abandoned him last weekend.

“Been avoiding me?”

That made you glance over—just for a second.

Suna was leaning against the handlebars of the treadmill, arms flexed just enough to make it clear how tense he was. His jaw was clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes…

His eyes were pleading.

“Why would I do that?” You arched a brow, your tone light, playful. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to be keeping tabs on you.”

“Y/n…” His voice was quieter this time, strained.

Ah.

There it was.

You slowed the treadmill, stepping off and grabbing your water bottle before turning to face him fully.

“Something wrong, Rintarou?” You kept your tone innocent, but the way you crossed your arms, tilting your head just enough to make him feel small—that wasn’t innocent at all.

Suna’s jaw worked as he tried to find the words, his eyes flickering down to the floor for a split second before meeting yours again.

“I…” He swallowed hard, and fuck—his throat was dry.

You stepped closer, just enough to invade his space, your body brushing lightly against his.

“Use your words, baby.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to make his breath hitch.

“I can’t…” His voice cracked, and his head dipped down, his forehead almost brushing against yours.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t stop thinking about it.” His confession was so quiet, so raw, that it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Thinking about what, Rintarou?” You knew exactly what he meant, but you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

Suna’s eyes lifted, and the desperation in them was impossible to miss now.

“You,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “That night. The way you…” His breath caught, and his jaw clenched again, but this time, he didn’t look away. “I can’t get it out of my head.”

A wicked smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in just enough for your breath to ghost over his lips.

“Aw.” Your voice was soft, but the satisfaction dripping from it was impossible to miss. “Poor baby.”

Suna’s hands flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to grab you—like he was begging for permission to touch you.

“Please.”

The word was barely a whisper, but it was enough to make your pulse spike.

“Please what, Rintarou?” Your lips brushed against his, so close but not giving him anything. “Tell me what you want.”

Suna’s eyes fluttered shut, his breathing uneven, and when he spoke again…

“Please,” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “Let me be good for you.”

Fuck.

You had him. Again.

And this time, you weren’t going to let him off so easy.

You tilted your head, letting his words hang in the air for a moment, savoring the way his body was practically vibrating with anticipation. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, and his hands were fisted at his sides, like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for you.

“Hmm.” You dragged a single finger down his chest, tracing the defined lines through his tank top, and felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch. “You want to be good for me, huh?”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse, strained, like he was barely holding it together. “Please.”

“Please what?” Your nails scratched lightly over his abs, just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you’re asking for, baby.”

Suna’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, his lips parted as he fought to steady his breathing. When he opened them again, there was nothing left of that cocky, unaffected façade he always wore.

Just raw, unfiltered need.

“I can’t…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep it together. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About what?” Your lips brushed against his jaw, and the shiver that ran through his body made your core ache.

“About…” His breath caught as you dragged your nails down his stomach, lower, until they teased just above the waistband of his shorts. “About the way you…”

“Made you fall apart?” you murmured, lips grazing his ear, and the soft, broken noise that slipped past his lips sent a thrill down your spine.

“Yeah.” His voice was barely a whisper now, and his hips pressed forward, chasing your touch. “Please.”

“Aw.” You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your smile wicked as you watched him crumble for you. “Look at you.” You dragged your fingers up his chest again, watching the way his body shuddered under your touch. “You’re already falling apart, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

Suna’s breath hitched, and his eyes fluttered shut again—like he was trying to ground himself. But it wasn’t working.

“Rintarou,” you murmured, your lips brushing over his, so close but not giving him anything. “What happened to all that control you’re so proud of?”

“I…” His voice was barely there now, and his body was trembling, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“Gone already?” You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up so he had no choice but to meet your gaze. “Poor thing.”

“Y/n…” His eyes were glassy, lips slightly swollen from how hard he’d been biting them, and his breathing was ragged—completely at your mercy.

“Shh.” You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watching as his mouth parted for you instinctively. “I’m not done playing with you yet.”

Suna’s body practically sagged against you, his forehead almost brushing against yours as he exhaled a shaky breath.

“Please.” The word was barely a whisper, but the way he said it—like he was ready to drop to his knees for you right there in the gym—sent a pulse of heat straight to your core.

“Alright, baby.” You dragged your nails lightly down his chest again, feeling the way his body shuddered under your touch. “But not here.”

His eyes snapped open, and you saw the flicker of confusion mixed with frustration—like he was barely holding on.

“W-Where?” His voice was breathless, shaky.

“Come with me.” Your smile was sweet, but the glint in your eyes was anything but. “And be a good boy.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and led him out of the gym without a word.

Suna followed without hesitation, his body tense, practically vibrating with anticipation.

You didn’t go far.

The locker room was empty—mid-afternoon on a weekday meant most people were either in class or already gone.

Perfect.

You pushed open the door and pulled him inside, backing him up against the nearest row of lockers before he could even process what was happening.

“Y/n—”

“Shh.” You placed a finger over his lips, silencing him.

Suna’s breath was ragged, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at you, waiting—begging—for whatever you were about to do to him.

“You’ve been such a mess since that night, haven’t you?” Your voice was a whisper, but it echoed in the empty space, filling the air between you.

Suna swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure—but you could see how badly he was losing that battle.

“Can’t sleep,” you murmured, dragging your nails down his chest again. “Can’t focus.”

His breath hitched.

“Been thinking about me every time you touch yourself, haven’t you?”

Suna’s body jerked at that, his head falling back against the lockers with a soft thud as a strangled noise slipped past his lips.

“Fuck.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as your fingers dipped just below the waistband of his shorts, teasing but not giving him what he wanted.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Your voice was pure sin, dripping with satisfaction. “Thought you could handle me.”

“I can’t…” His voice was barely there now, strained and shaky, and his hips pressed forward, chasing your touch. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Touch me.” His head tilted forward again, his forehead almost brushing against yours. “I—” His breath was ragged, desperate. “I need you.”

You smiled, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach again, just barely grazing over where he was already painfully hard.

“Hmm.” You tilted your head, pretending to think about it. “I don’t know, Rintarou.” You met his gaze, your lips curling into a wicked smile. “Do you deserve it?”

“Please.” His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat—complete surrender.

“Good boy.”

And just like that, you had him.

The moment the words left your lips, Suna’s body melted into your touch, his head dipping forward until his forehead was almost brushing against yours. His breathing was ragged, uneven, and you could feel the way his body trembled under your hands—completely at your mercy.

But you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

Not yet.

“Hmm.” You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed with anticipation. “I guess I could give you a little something…”

“Please.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and the way his hands twitched at his sides—like he was dying to touch you but knew better—made your core ache.

“Such good manners.” Your lips brushed over his jaw, your breath ghosting over his skin as you trailed soft kisses down his neck. “Maybe you do deserve a reward…”

Suna’s breath hitched when your hand finally slipped beneath the waistband of his shorts, fingers wrapping around him with just enough pressure to make his knees buckle.

“F-Fuck.” His head fell back against the lockers with a soft thud, and his lips parted as a strangled moan slipped past them.

“Aw, look at you,” you murmured, your voice dripping with satisfaction as you stroked him slowly, deliberately, just enough to make him ache. “So desperate already.”

“Y/n…” His voice was barely there now, and the way his hips bucked into your hand made it painfully obvious just how close he was to losing control.

“Shh.” You tilted your head, pressing your lips against the shell of his ear. “I’m in charge, remember?”

Suna’s whole body shuddered, and the broken moan that escaped his lips sent a pulse of heat straight to your core.

“Y-Yes.” His voice was strained, and you felt his hips jerk again, chasing your touch even as he tried so hard to hold back.

“Good boy.” You tightened your grip just a little, dragging your thumb over the head of his cock, and the whimper that spilled from his lips was downright sinful.

“F-Fuck,” he breathed, his head tilting forward again, his forehead almost brushing against yours as he struggled to keep himself together.

“You’ve been thinking about this all week, haven’t you?” You kept your strokes slow, teasing, just enough to make him ache.

“Y-Yeah.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and his breathing was so uneven now, you could feel how close he was.

“Been touching yourself to the memory of me?” Your tone was sweet, but the wicked smile tugging at your lips said otherwise.

“Y-Yeah.” His head dipped lower, and the soft, broken noise that slipped past his lips made you ache for him.

“Poor thing.” You dragged your lips down his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin just enough to make him shiver. “Bet it wasn’t enough, was it?”

“N-No.”

“Bet you still felt empty afterward.”

Suna’s whole body trembled, and the whimper that spilled from his lips was so soft, so wrecked, that it made your core throb with need.

“Y/n…” His voice was broken now, barely above a whisper.

You tightened your grip again, your strokes picking up just enough to have him teetering on the edge.

“You close, baby?”

“Y-Yeah.” His hips bucked into your hand, and his breathing was so uneven now, you knew he was seconds away from falling apart.

“Gonna be a good boy and come for me?”

“Please.” His voice cracked, and his eyes fluttered shut as his body tensed, his muscles coiling as he chased that release.

“Hmm.” You pressed your lips against his jaw, your hand still working him expertly.

And then—

You let go.

Just like that.

You stepped back, pulling your hand away completely, and the choked noise that tore from Suna’s throat was downright devastating.

“W-What—” His eyes snapped open, wide and glassy with desperation as he stared at you, his body still trembling, so fucking close he could taste it.

“Aw.” You pouted, tilting your head as you watched him fall apart in front of you. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“Y/n…” His voice was a wrecked, broken whisper, and his hips jerked forward instinctively, chasing a touch that was no longer there.

“Did you think I was gonna let you finish?” Your smile was downright wicked now, and the way Suna’s eyes pleaded with you made your core ache.

“P-Please…” His body was shaking, his muscles tense as he fought the urge to touch himself—because he knew better.

“You didn’t think I’d make it that easy, did you?” You leaned in, brushing your lips over his ear again, and the shiver that ran through his body was impossible to miss.

“Y/n…” His voice cracked, and you could feel how close he still was, teetering on the edge but unable to fall.

“Not yet, baby.” You pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth, your tone soft but firm. “Be patient.”

And then—

You stepped back.

Suna’s eyes flew open, wide with disbelief, his lips parted as he struggled to catch his breath.

“W-Where…” His voice was barely there, broken and desperate. “Where are you going?”

You smiled sweetly, grabbing your water bottle and slinging your bag over your shoulder like nothing had happened.

“Class.” You winked, turning toward the door, but not before throwing one last look over your shoulder. “Be good for me, Rintarou.”

And then you left.

Leaving him there—desperate, wrecked, and aching for you.

thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated <3

⭑.ᐟ masterlist

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part three)

warnings ; masturbation (f recieving), you lowkey being a jealous bitch, jk being annoying

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; see, the thing about writing a character that reminds you of yourself is you need to do some deep introspection to conjure up this chapter 💀 this one is a shit show ngl yall we got jealous!oc and she’s losing her marbles over him and jk is such a little shit and i hate him. last night i was up alllllll nite writing part 7 of this and its giving you’re all getting a part 9. clearly i have not learned how to pace my writing. oh well! enjoy!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Dinner should have ended an hour ago.

Everyone is full, warm, and just tipsy enough from multiple rounds of soju to start thinking they’re invincible. At some point, probably around the fourth bottle, Daniel had leaned back in his seat, exhaled loudly, and declared, “We’re not done.”

He wasn’t alone in the endeavor. Jungkook’s team, your team, everyone had agreed in unison, fueled by the kind of reckless confidence that only comes after a good meal and too much alcohol.

Unfortunately, that’s how you all ended up at the hotel bar.

Someone, anyone, needs to get you out of here. Like now. You were this close to having a peaceful night, hotel bar dimly lit and stupidly aesthetic, all warm amber tones and overpriced cocktails, the kind of place that whispers “sip slowly and pretend you’re not emotionally unhinged.” You had a glass of Sauvignon blanc in one hand, your crossed legs, your carefully composed expression. Everything was fine. Everything was dandy.

But, of course, no rest for the wicked because Jeon Jungkook is testing you. Again.

Somehow this time, it’s worse.

Because now there’s no boardroom, no work talk, no distractions.

The conversation around the barstools flows, but you barely process it. Not when Jungkook’s arm is draped over the back of your stool, the curve of his wrist just inches from your shoulder. Not when he shifts slightly, slow, deliberate, enough that his knee presses against yours again.

You ignore it. Or, at least, you try to.

Because unfortunately for you and your dignity, he leans in. Just enough so that when he speaks, his voice is low, warm, meant just for you. “You’re not as unaffected as you want everyone to think.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Don’t you?”

His voice is calm, casual, never wavering an octave. You take a slow sip of your drink, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t (the little shit that he is.) Instead, he moves again. A shift of his leg, a brush of fabric against fabric, a subtle press of warmth where his knee collides with yours beneath the bar top.

Your pulse ticks higher.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.

You don’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

Your lips press into a thin line.

Jungkook watches you a second too long.

You feel it, not just the weight of his gaze, but the smug satisfaction practically radiating off him like heat from a flame. And then, predictably, it happens. His mouth curves into that maddening half-smirk, the one that always looks like he knows something you don’t.

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass. It’s subtle— just a minor flex at the knuckles — but it’s the only tell you allow yourself. You inhale slowly like you’ve trained for this moment in a monastery somewhere. Like you didn’t just get goosebumps from the sound of his voice.

His words, his stupid little observations, his entire existence, it all hangs between you like a lit match waiting for a breeze.

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You certainly don’t look at him.

Instead, you pivot. You turn your attention back to Daniel, who’s halfway through a sentence about tomorrow’s logistics and blissfully unaware that you are seconds away from launching a fork across the bar.

“We should confirm final call times with production before we leave in the morning,” you say smoothly, voice as calm and cool as the ice melting in your drink.

Daniel nods, already unlocking his phone. “I’ll check in with them tonight. We need to make sure—”

A low chuckle cuts through the conversation.

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

He shifts beside you, slow and easy, like someone stretching out in the sun. Like someone who’s already won. Then comes the voice. That infuriating, honey-laced drawl. “I bet you’re thinking about emails right now too, huh?”

Honestly, you might kill him.

You gulp down some saliva, hopefully not dramatically at all. Just enough to prove to no one but yourself that yes, you are still tethered to reality and no, you are not about to respond to whatever stupid thing just came out of his mouth.

Daniel doesn’t even look up. “She probably is.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. Grinning, he taps one lazy finger against the side of his glass like this is all a game and you’re the most entertaining piece on the board.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sitting here, sure. But mentally? You’re already drafting a five-paragraph email about… what? Scheduling conflicts? Budget approvals? A strongly worded message to legal about font usage?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You don’t even blink. That’s the only way you survive this, by pretending he’s white noise. Annoying, persistent, occasionally rhythmic, but ultimately ignorable.

Except Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you with that infuriating mix of patience and heat, like he’s got all night to wait for the crack.

He leans in. Not much. Just enough to enter your atmosphere, enough to make the hair at the back of your neck stand up like he physically touched you.

His voice drops lower, slipping beneath your skin, curling at the base of your spine. “What would it take,” he says softly, “to get a real reaction out of you?”

Your pulse jumps. Just once. You think you’ve spared anyone noticing, but Jungkook notices. Of course he fucking does.

His gaze flickers down, quick and precise, catching the way your breath hitches, how your throat tightens just slightly before you mask it with a sip of your drink.

You scoff. A perfect, practiced sound. Tilting your head, you fix him with a look so flat it might as well be a screen saver. “You’d have to be interesting first.”

That earns a low chuckle from him, the kind that vibrates in his chest before spilling past his lips. His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back something worse. Something better.

However, the worst part? The part that makes your skin itch beneath your outfit and your pride scream into a pillow?

He’s right.

You are thinking about emails. About schedules. About anything that isn’t the slow, creeping awareness building in your chest every time he looks at you like that, like he sees through you. You’ve mastered restraint. But with him, you’re starting to wonder if you ever really had it.

By the time you settle the bill on the corporate card — after three more hours, four rounds of wine, and one very questionable attempt at a poker game — the team is absolutely gone.

Not in a scandalous, HR-nightmare kind of way. Just the warm, giggly, soft-around-the-edges kind of gone, where every sentence is funnier than it should be, and people keep bumping into furniture like the floor’s decided to quietly rotate.

Daniel is the worst offender. Laughing at something Jungkook’s manager said ten full minutes ago, still holding onto a half-empty water bottle like it’s a holy relic capable of sobering him up through sheer willpower.

“I need sleep,” One of your assistants mumbles, rubbing their temples with the weary gravitas of a soldier in a war film.

Daniel sighs dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I need a raise.”

“You’re literally the VP,” You deadpan, pressing the elevator button with the exact energy of someone who wants to be horizontal in thirty seconds or less.

Daniel waves you off like you’re boring him. “Yeah, yeah, but emotional labor is expensive.”

The elevator dings and you move forward automatically, ready to herd the group in like tipsy sheep, but the moment the doors slide open, it’s clear: it’s a clown car situation. Overpacked. Your team is squished in like sardines, not a single centimeter of space left. And unfortunately, neither you nor Jungkook are among the chosen ones.

He’s already near you, of course, standing off to the side with his hands tucked into the pockets of his gray Calvin Klein sweats — God, even those manage to look insane on him — leaning casually against the mirrored wall like this was always part of the plan. Like he manifested this moment with sheer arrogance.

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for your brain to scream no, no, absolutely not.

Daniel, blissfully unaware of the silent hellscape unfolding beside him, reaches out from the crowded elevator and claps you on the shoulder. “Get to your room safe,” he mutters like it’s a personal attack, before the doors close with the rest of your saving grace inside there.

You’re alone… you and Jungkook. In the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the hotel lobby, with absolutely no witnesses and nowhere to run.

Another elevator dings almost immediately, like the universe is trying to be merciful for once. You step in without hesitation, hitting your floor number.

You pray — actually pray — that Jungkook will take the hint. That he’ll wait for the next one. That he’ll remember this morning, or last night, or literally any of the moments where you made it painfully clear that proximity to him was not something you enjoyed.

But, to your dismay, of course he follows.

The doors slide shut behind you two, and instantly, the atmosphere shifts. Not heavy. Not claustrophobic. Just… electrically still, like the silence right before a storm hits.

You take a step back farther than necessary, like putting a little distance between you will somehow neutralize the static humming between your ribs.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just stands there calmly and silently like this isn’t a small metal box and you aren’t slowly suffocating on tension.

His reflection flickers in the mirrored panels. The lights overhead cast soft shadows across his face, catching on the faint curve of his jaw, the delicate slope of his nose, the glint of his silver chain resting just above the collar of his hoodie.

And that’s when you do it. You look at him. It’s stupid how unfair it is; how someone can look like that with zero effort with a hoodie and sweatpants on. Post-drinks hair slightly tousled. Like he rolled out of a Vogue spread and into your elevator just to ruin your night.

Your eyes drag up slowly, his mouth, still curved like he’s just barely holding back a grin. His hands still tucked in his pockets like he’s relaxed, as if this isn’t killing him even a little.

You shift your gaze back to the elevator doors, jaw clenched.

You won’t be the first to speak. You refuse to be the first to speak. In fact, you’d rather not speak at all.

You exhale slowly, a practiced breath, long, quiet, like it cost you nothing to let it go. Your eyes fix straight ahead. You’ve mastered this look, worn it like armor.

Jungkook sees the twitch in your jaw, the way your fingers curl slightly at your sides like they’re bracing for impact. He sees the second you hold your breath, just long enough to mean something.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than it has any right to be. Smooth. Almost casual. “You sure you don’t like me?”

The words don’t land gently. They settle, then sink right into the center of your chest, where all your irritation and confusion lives in a tangled knot. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, you realize you don’t have an answer.

You should roll your eyes. Say nothing. Laugh it off like you always do.

Despite what your brain knows, the Sauvignon blanc speaks for you. You finally let yourself turn to him. And for the first time tonight, you allow yourself to enjoy it.

The way his gaze is fixed on you now, intense, unreadable, dark in that infuriating way that makes you feel stripped down without ever being touched. The way his jaw ticks, like he’s already bracing for your next sharp remark. The way he’s not leaning in, not crowding you, but somehow still manages to take up every inch of air in the elevator.

So you tilt your head, let your lips curl, slow and deliberate, into something just short of a smirk.

“That’s funny,” you whisper, tone smooth, like you’re discussing quarterly projections. “Because from where I’m standing…”

Your gaze drops unapologetically. You let it travel down the stretch of his chest, over the chain glinting against his collarbone, down the trail of ink barely visible beneath the edge of his sleeve. You linger just long enough to be rude. Then you look back up, straight into his eyes. “…it looks like you’re the one begging for my attention.”

You see it in him almost instantly; the crack. Jungkook’s lips part slightly, brows lifting a fraction, not enough to call it surprise, not enough to be obvious. But enough to confirm it: he wasn’t expecting that.

But then, like clockwork, he recovers. The shift is seamless. An uptick of his mouth. A flicker of amusement. That practiced, pretty smirk he wears like a shield.

“Is that right?” he says, voice far too smooth, like silk dragged across skin.

You shrug effortlessly, sounding borderline bored. “I mean, I get it. Happens to the best of them.”

That earns a laugh, quiet, but little breathy. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light as he exhales like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

Ding. The elevator reaches your floor.

You step forward, pressing your palm against the door to hold it open. But you don’t step out immediately.

You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his eye. “Sweet dreams, Jungkook.”

You walk out like you didn’t just set the room on fire with your mouth. Like your pulse isn’t thudding against your ribcage. Like this wasn’t the most dangerous ten floors of your entire career.

The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click, and you can still feel him on your skin.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Los Angeles is a blur.

Not the dreamy kind, the kind with sunsets over palm trees and smoothies named after zodiac signs. No, this is the real kind. The kind that grinds your bones into paste and calls it glamour. The kind that starts at 5AM with your phone vibrating off a marble nightstand and ends — if it even ends — with you asleep in front of your laptop, mascara smudged and calendar still open like a horror novel.

The campaign is moving like a bullet train with no brakes. Shoot schedules locked. Press engagements triple confirmed. Creative edits approved so fast it’s suspicious. You don’t breathe so much as manage air intake. Your inbox is a warzone all flags, forwards, follow-ups, and your calendar is a meticulously color-coded march toward the inevitable collapse of your sanity.

Every day begins before the sun even considers rising. You’re on conference calls with the international team while the city’s still asleep, firing off approvals, putting out fires you didn’t start. Fires that, frankly, should never have existed in the first place; why the Tokyo team decided to schedule a last-minute denim edit on a national holiday is beyond you.

Your days are spent in transit. You’re a ghost in a power suit, haunting fitting rooms, lurking behind monitors, whispering death threats to the printer in the production trailer when it jams mid-deadline. There is not a single frame, not a single outfit, not a single loose thread that escapes your notice.

You are everywhere. And… you are exhausted.

So when your team finally earns a night off, where do you end up?

A charity gala.

Because rest is a myth and Calvin Klein has a reputation to maintain.

You hope, pray, that tonight will be uneventful. A blur of small talk and handshakes. A chance to wear heels and pretend you’re not one bad cocktail away from sobbing into the nearest light fixture.

But the universe has jokes and all of them are wearing CK-logo embroidery.

Jungkook, for example, has apparently decided that shirts are optional now. Which would be fine, if he wasn’t your problem. If he didn’t strut onto set like every denim jacket ever made was stitched just to showcase the dip of his collarbone. If every stylist on earth didn’t keep insisting that “this shoot would really work if we just lost the shirt.”

It’s criminal. It’s maddening.

The worst part of it all is you’re not immune.

You’re supposed to be above this. You’re supposed to be focused. You’re supposed to be untouchable. Instead, you’re flustered, trapped between campaign deadlines and the unbearable fact that Jungkook exists with a jawline like that and tattoos that wink at you every time he stretches.

You hate it here.

The Calvin Klein charity gala is everything you expected and everything you dreaded. From the moment you arrive, it’s clear: this is not just a party.

The floral arrangements alone are taller than most of your assistants. The lighting is soft, golden, flattering to skin tones and egos alike. Everyone here looks like money, even the ones pretending they don’t care.

You know the script. You’ve been to more of these than you can count. You know how to nod just right, how to fake-laugh without showing teeth.

You keep your head high, your heels steady, your face unreadable. You’re tired, but keeping it together best you can.

And then, of course, there are the faces. The ones whose names print headlines without trying. Whose cheekbones alone could fund a campaign. Models, actors, musicians; the walking endorsements who keep Calvin Klein perched high in the cultural stratosphere, where one perfectly timed Instagram post can move product faster than a quarterly media buy.

You know them all. You’ve worked with most of them. Negotiated their contracts, managed their meltdowns, rewritten their press releases at 2AM when their publicists mysteriously “lost signal.” You spot them all within minutes.

You spot a familiar swish of black hair a few feet away — Jennie Kim. She’s stationed effortlessly near the center of the room, composed in a sleek black dress that whispers Calvin Klein with just enough subtlety to be expensive. Nothing about her is trying too hard. Nothing ever is. To the public, she’s still a K-pop idol.

But to you? She’s a brand asset. A clean campaign file in your Dropbox. A woman who understands strategy and ROI better than most middle-aged execs with a Wharton degree.

You worked with her last year; she was a dream partnership. Professional. Polished. Sharp as hell. She showed up on time, approved edits without ego, understood how to sell a lifestyle without looking like she was trying to sell anything.

You don’t mind her, which is a rare compliment, considering half the people in this room make you want to walk directly into traffic.

A server floats by, all crisp collar and too-bright smile. You take a flute of champagne with a quiet nod, murmuring a “thank you” before redirecting your gaze toward the entrance.

Still no sign of Jungkook. Good.

The longer you go without seeing him tonight, the better. Because while this event may technically be about Calvin Klein — the brand, the philanthropy, the public-facing purity of fashion-for-good — you know the second he walks in, that narrative is going to collapse under the weight of your impending demise.

You hover near the edge of the room, your team circling close by, half-listening as they rattle off the rest of the night’s agenda. Silent auctions. Keynote speeches. A press check-in before the dinner service begins.

It’s all noise. You’ve heard it a hundred times before. So you nod along, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your champagne glass, your expression politely engaged while your brain drifts.

What’s throwing you off isn’t the gala. It’s the creeping awareness at the back of your spine. The kind that makes you glance toward the doors without realizing it. The kind that tightens the air in the room without anyone needing to speak, like you’re looking for someone.

You should really get a primetime spot of Ashton Kutcher’s Punkd for thinking of that as soon he as enters.

The shift is immediate, unmistakable. The atmosphere bends slightly around him, conversation fluttering for half a second before regaining composure. Heads turn. Bodies angle. A ripple moves through the room like the collective instinct to look good suddenly got dialed up to eleven. The crowd practically parts for him like the Red Sea.

And of course Jungkook acts like he doesn’t notice, like he hasn’t timed this entrance perfectly. He’s draped in Calvin Klein, naturally.

The black button-down is simple, classic, and tailored to perfection. The white shirt underneath is open at the collar, just enough to flirt with impropriety. His silver chain glints under the chandelier lights.

He looks good.

Another massive problem. This night is supposed to be about control, about keeping the spotlight fixed exactly where you want it. Now he’s here and nothing is going to stay on script.

His eyes sweep the room, not searching, not scanning, just…passing through. As if he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

You don’t look. You absolutely do not look. Instead, you swirl the champagne in your glass like it’s interesting, like Daniel murmuring something about the CEO’s arrival is the most riveting thing you’ve heard all night.

You keep your focus forward. You keep your expression locked.

He moves about, nothing showy. Just a calm shift, a casual step deeper into the crowd, his pace unhurried as he slips past people with a nod here, a handshake there.

Somehow, you feel it. The creeping closeness, the magnetic pull of him inching nearer. Your fingertips nearly break the glass stem.

And because admitting anything else would be dangerous, you tell yourself it’s the dress. The one you almost didn’t wear. The one that makes you feel too aware of your own body. The one that skims too close, holds too tight, and is not helping your composure right now.

You tell yourself he hasn’t noticed. You lie to yourself for sport. You know how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, or when you pretend not to be.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction. You keep your eyes on the far wall like it’s about to announce the cure for burnout.

Luckily, Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Instead, he does what he’s supposed to do, what every hour of media training and brand grooming prepared him for. He slides into conversations with executives like he’s known them for years, shakes hands with museum donors like he’s interested in tax-deductible causes. He smiles brightly, poses when needed. A perfect product in perfect packaging.

He’s such a damn good return on investment that you almost feel proud.

Because if you were the kind of person who let herself admit things, you’d admit he’s doing everything right, that he’s holding the brand on his shoulders and making it look light. That he’s annoyingly nailing it.

And — oh god. Goddamnit.

He’s looking at you.

Daniel notices before you do. You’re busy pretending not to care, running your thumb along the base of your glass, when he leans a little closer and mutters under his breath “Christ. He’s not even pretending to hide it.”

You don’t look up. “Hide what?”

Daniel gestures loosely across the room with his chin. “The fact that he’s mentally stripping you while shaking hands with the chairman of the board.”

You pause, then tilt your glass slightly, watching the bubbles trail upward. “You’re being dramatic.”

Daniel snorts. “Am I?”

You take a sip, calm and practiced, expression smooth as ever.

The truth — the part that lives somewhere tight in your chest and buzzes beneath your skin — is that you feel it. You feel him. The burn of his gaze every time it finds you, dragging over the fabric of your dress like he’s trying to memorize the way it hugs your waist. The way it dips at your back. The way you’re very much not wearing a blazer to cover it up.

You don’t need to look to know what expression he’s wearing.

However, if you acknowledge it… that would mean giving him what he wants.

So instead, you turn to Daniel. One brow lifted, lips barely curved. “If he’s looking,” you murmur, voice smooth as ever and twice as dismissive, “that sounds like a him problem.”

Daniel huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Right. And you don’t care. Not even a little.”

You take another sip, “Nope.”

Daniel, your observant little coworker… yeah, he doesn’t buy that for a single second.

You inhale once, then glance over at him flat-eyed. “Zip it.”

He rolls his eyes but grins into his champagne. “Sure, boss.”

To your luck, the conversation shifts. The room continues its expensive dance around you. Conversations ebb and flow, the gentle hum of a jazz quartet pulsing through the air. You do your best to work the room; a strategic presence, handshake here, a check-in with PR there. A nod to the editor-in-chief of a magazine you ghosted twice last year. You move through the event like you belong in every corner of it.

But… your eyes keep drifting back. (Not intentionally. Not at first.)

Just one glance… okay, then another, and another.

Jungkook moves through the space, unlike the the cocky brat you’ve been tolerating behind the scenes, but the golden boy the brand paid for. No smirk, no teasing, just that lethal kind of charm that makes executives lean in and reporters jot down adjectives like “magnetic” and “boyish, but timeless.”

You catch flashes of him; the subtle nods, the confident handshake, the curated smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks disgustingly good.

And maybe it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for this: there’s a sharp, stupid feeling tightening low in your stomach. This quiet awareness that you’ve been trying to kill all night. The way it coils, slow and unwelcome, every time he runs a hand through his hair like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know exactly where your eyes are.

It’s been years since anything like this has touched you, since a man has taken up any space in your mind or your body, im the heat that simmers behind your ribs before you shut it down. You’ve buried yourself in work and the relentless climb toward a version of success that left no time for softness.

Yet here you are, white-knuckling a champagne flute like it insulted your family. Fighting off the burn creeping up your spine. Pretending you don’t see him, don’t feel him, don’t care.

You straighten your posture, swallow the ache in your throat, and refocus. The night moves forward. Press is being escorted in. Introductions are underway. The gala is running like clockwork, exactly as you planned it. Your team is finalizing the press list. Your assistant is confirming cues. Daniel is muttering under his breath about black-tie events being the eighth circle of hell.

Everything is in its rightful place.

Until it isn’t.

Because when you glance up, a temporary flick of the eyes, a reflex, your stomach drops.

What the fuck?

Jungkook is talking to Jennie. And not just talking… they’re close. Too comfortable

Your brain immediately leaps into rationalization mode. They obviously know each other. It’s the industry. The Korean music scene is a small world. They’ve probably worked together. Filmed something. Shared stylists.

It’s nothing.

Or.. well, it doesn’t look like nothing.

He shifts slightly, his posture loose and shoulders dipped. His focus dialed in like whatever she’s saying is the only thing worth hearing tonight.

Jennie tilts her head, eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier. Her mouth curls into the kind of smile you know isn’t just polite. She laughs lowly, the kind of laugh people lean in to hear.

Your jaw clenches. What the hell is he doing?

You’ve seen him charm a dozen people tonight. You’ve watched him play the room like a pro. This is different. This is intentional. This is just enough to start rumors, to spark headlines. It’s a flicker of chemistry, a well-timed glance, a private moment, dressed up for public consumption.

Jungkook has to know exactly what he’s doing.

Your fingers curl tightly around the stem of your glass, pulse ticking higher, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Your mind starts moving fast, quicker than it should.

You’re already thinking about damage control, angle management, what gets picked up by press. What kind of fire this could start if it circulates. If Dispatch catches wind. If fans start spinning theories.

This is how it starts — not the campaign, not the narrative you’ve so carefully constructed over the past month.

No. This is how the other thing starts.

The thing that spirals out of your reach before you’ve even finished your champagne. The kind of chaos that turns into a PR nightmare before dessert hits the table. The kind of moment that ends with your team spending three days scrubbing TikTok edits off the internet while Twitter builds a conspiracy theory with color-coded timelines and three million likes.

This is exactly the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

You haven’t even tasted the crab cake yet. Damnit.

Your eyes track across the room, locked on Jungkook and Jennie. And yeah, you’re watching. So what? You’re not hovering, you’re not jealous, you’re not spiraling, you’re monitoring. For the brand. For optics. For reasons.

He laughs again. That stupid, low laugh he does when he’s being charming on purpose. Jennie smirks and a strand of hair behind her ear like she was born for red carpet flirtation.

Something inside you, small and sharp and completely unwelcome, tightens. You don’t let it show. Your expression doesn’t shift.

He has to feel it. The silent pull between your body language and the knife-edge restraint in your jaw. The way you haven’t touched your drink in three whole minutes. The way your spine is a little too straight.

There’s a part of you that curls inward at the sight. A part that doesn’t give a single fuck about brand strategy or headlines or the possibility of Dispatch camping outside your hotel. A part that just hates that it’s him.

Because if it were anyone else — some other Calvin Klein face, some other industry darling — you could write it off.

This is Jungkook. And now, you can see it happening in real time. He leans in even more, enough to make it look natural and make people wonder.

His hand brushes Jennie’s waist. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of touch, probably for the camera. Probably for the campaign. Probably a thousand justifiable things.

And Jennie, ever the pro, plays her part flawlessly. She leans in too, smiles, gives the moment enough weight to catch the light.

You watch every second of it. And then you realize you’re about to get caught in a really compromising position, so you keep your focus trained forward on the executive beside you talking about Q4 metrics, on your assistant adjusting a speech note, on the champagne in your hand that you haven’t touched in twelve minutes.

Anything but him.

However, you do feel it before you see it. That electric awareness buzzing just under your skin. You glance over and catch him already looking. When your eyes meet, he tosses you a smirk that anyone could miss easily, like he won.

Like this is a game and you just played your hand without meaning to.

Something ugly twists in your chest. It’s sharp and immediate and furious. He should know better. He does know better. He’s not some clueless rookie who doesn’t understand how this works. He’s Jeon fucking Jungkook.

He knows how Korea works, how netizens twist everything. How one look becomes a dating rumor, how one hand on a waist becomes “Calvin Klein’s It Couple?”

But he’s dragging this out for some reason you can’t put your finger on. Your heart kicks once, hard. You just keep telling yourself you’re fine (even though you’re not. Not even close.)

It’s really so reckless. Borderline suicidal, if we’re talking about headlines and stockholder morale. The part that makes your pulse spike and your jaw clench is that he knows.

You can see it in the way he leans just a little too casually into Jennie, posture loose, like he didn’t just detonate a PR landmine in the middle of your gala. He’s playing some game called “see how close he can get to the edge.” How hot he can let the fire burn before everything goes up with it.

It pisses you off mostly because you don’t have time for this, not with investors watching and press circling like sharks. Not with your reputation balancing on the razor-thin edge of flawless execution.

You don’t have room for his recklessness, for his smug little power plays, for whatever masochistic need he has to push and poke and test the limits of your patience especially when there are stakes involved. Real stakes.

So when his gaze flicks back to you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll crack, you don’t blink.

And if Jeon Jungkook thinks he can play you?

He’s about to learn what happens when you push someone who’s spent their entire life building something from nothing.

You excuse yourself mid-sentence to literally nobody, deposit your untouched champagne on the nearest tray like it personally offended you, and walk gracefully out of the space and into the restroom.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the noise fades. It becomes background like the night is happening in some other timeline you no longer belong to.

You plant your palms against the marble sink. It’s cool, anchoring you. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You’re not here to unravel. You’re not here to throw a fit over a boy who thinks teasing you in public is some twisted mating ritual. The solution is simple. You’re going to yell at his publicist.

That has to be the answer. That has to be the valve you release so the pressure doesn’t implode somewhere messier — or worse, somewhere emotional or personal. This thing he’s doing: it’s not cute. It’s not clever. It’s a liability.

You knew working with Jungkook would be complicated the second you saw the contract terms his team sent yours. You anticipated creative clashes. Maybe the occasional passive-aggressive email about photo approval rights. But not this, not the glances that land like weapons, not the way he’s looking at you like he wants something from you.

Your hands curl into fists against the sink. Everything he’s doing has nothing to do with Calvin Klein. It’s about you. It’s about the way he keeps watching you, waiting.

And if it’s a reaction he wants? Fine. He’ll get one, just not the kind he’s expecting.

You straighten and smooth the fabric of your dress with a practiced hand. You open the door, slipping out of the room with ease as not to be seen. And then you turn the corner —

Body slammed right into an unsuspecting soul. It’s a hard chest, kinda warm.

The apology is already half-formed on your lips until your brain catches up. You smell the cologne; it’s suble but familiar.

The gaze that meets yours when you look up is smug, so recognizable it’s almost laughable.

You stumble back a step, instinctive, like he’s toxic to the touch. He stands there like he has all the time in the world. Jungkook looks quite pleased with himself, as if he hasn’t completely derailed your night.

And you, still holding onto that last sliver of restraint, realize one very important thing: you are absolutely going to lose it.

Just like that, the spark hits gasoline.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is controlled, a velvet-wrapped blade drawn without ceremony.

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s just been asked his coffee order. “Existing?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. “Don’t.”

You take a step back, not because it helps, not because distance makes anything better, but because your body needs something to do that isn’t launching him into the nearest wall. It’s useless, of course. His presence is still all over you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He tilts his head slightly with faux confusion. “Do I?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms like anchors. “Don’t play dumb,” you snap, voice tight. “You’re being irresponsible.”

That makes his eyebrows lift like you’ve said something adorable. “Oh?”

“Yes,” you bite out. “You can’t just stand there in the middle of a gala, flirting with Jennie like you’re not a walking headline. You know how this works. You’ve been doing this longer than I’ve been in this job.”

He exhales through his nostrils, soft and dismissive, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “And what exactly did I do, hmm?”

That voice… it’s low and infuriating and far too calm for someone who’s about ten seconds away from having a garbage can thrown at his head.

“You leaned in,” you narrow your eyes. “You lingered. You gave them just enough to write a story, and don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what that story will be.”

He’s still, tense, not so much defensive. He almost looks like he’s enjoying this. The realization hits low in your stomach, nauseating and warm. He likes this. Your anger, your control slipping.

That lights another fuse.

“You know how netizens are,” you say, biting off every word like it costs you. “You know how fast things spiral. One fucking look, Jungkook. One picture. That’s all it takes.”

Nothing. No panic. No apology. Just the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth like he’s listening to you rant about shipping delays, not a potential scandal that could blow up an entire marketing strategy.

Your breathing turns shallow. Rage simmering beneath your skin, humming through your bones like a second pulse.

“You seem upset,” he murmurs. “Why is that?”

Your blood feels like it’s about to vibrate through your skin. You don’t have an answer to that question, or not one you’re willing to say out loud.

You snap, not loudly or dramatically, but more precisely like the crack of something finally breaking after being held too tightly for too long.

“Because you’re a fucking irresponsible idol,” you seethe, your voice like steel honed to a axe. “You’re all the same.”

Jungkook’s brows lift, intrigued. Clearly, he’s watching something unfold that he’s been waiting for.

You’re not done, not even close. “You act like nothing sticks to you. Like you’re untouchable. Like the rules don’t apply because you’re Jeon Jungkook, global superstar, golden boy of Korea, the one everyone bows down to no matter what you do.”

Your voice is building, rising with the fire you’ve tried for weeks to keep buried under professionalism and politeness. “You fuck around, you flirt, you play, and people let you. Because they want to. Because they love you. Because they think you can do no wrong. And when you do, when you make a mess? Someone’s always there to clean it up.”

He doesn’t interrupt or defend himself. But that infuriating smirk you’ve come to hate more than anything flickers. He’s less certain.

Still, you press forward. Once the dam breaks, there’s no holding it back.

“You think what you did tonight means nothing?” you demand, your words like fire. “You think you can just cozy up to Jennie in front of photographers, in front of executives, in front of me, and it won’t get turned into something it was never supposed to be?”

Your chest is tight, pulse slamming beneath your skin. You’re starting to think he’s getting some kind of sick pleasure from watching you unravel.

He probably is, the bastard.

You draw a breath and try to center yourself. Try to remember that you’re not in your apartment or on a closed set. You’re in a dark hallway of a charity gala, one wrong word away from scandal.

Thank god you’re alone.

The last thing you need is a journalist stumbling across this, catching you flushed, furious, so far off-script you wouldn’t even recognize the version of yourself they’d quote.

You say a silent prayer that no one’s out looking for you. Because if they saw this, they might start asking questions.

He just lets your words hang there densely.

“Are you done?” His voice is not playful or light or amused anymore.

You tilt your head, lips curving into something sharp. “I don’t know. Am I?”

The words land like a slap. You watch it, how his jaw tenses, how his body shifts, how he takes a breath like it costs him.

Suddenly the hallway doesn’t feel quiet anymore. He moves, one singular step. He’s closer now. Closer than he’s been all night.

Now, he’s angry too with the kind that builds. You see it in the way his gaze sharpens. In how his expression hardens, dark eyes locked onto yours like he’s warning you.

You should back off, turn around, and walk away. Do the responsible thing.

Yet you can’t because your hands are still trembling from holding back and chest is still burning from everything you’ve wanted to say but couldn’t and your pride is still aching from being dragged through the night like a puppet on his string.

You hold your ground and meet his stare.

Neither of you speaks, or moves, or dares to look away.

“You act like I committed a felony,” Jungkook mutters, exhaling through his nose like he’s already exhausted by this conversation. “Like I grabbed a mic and told the press Jennie and I secretly eloped in Jeju.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, each word clipped but quiet, the kind of sharp that draws blood without raising volume. “The point is you know exactly how this industry operates. You know how quickly stories spread, how easily narratives twist, and you still fed into it.”

His expression flickers but you catch it; the slight tension around his eyes.

“You think I’m feeding into it?” he asks, tone just dry enough to test you.

You scoff. “You’re playing with it. And for what? To stir up buzz? To make yourself feel powerful? Or is this just another way to get under my skin?”

A short laugh escapes him, more disbelief than humor. He shakes his head, mouth twitching like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”

You bristle, shoulders stiffening before you can stop them. “Excuse me?”

“You think this is about you?” he says, voice louder now, sharper. “Not everything revolves around you, [Y/N].”

“Oh, right,” you fire back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Because you were out there acting like that for brand optics, not for my benefit.”

His gaze hardens. And when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. “You’re pissed because you think I was trying to start a scandal,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing the weight of the words as they leave his mouth.

His eyes scan your face, zeroing in, his tone quieting even further. “But that’s not why you’re mad.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that it does.

“If it was just about the cameras,” he tilts his head slightly, “you wouldn’t be this upset.”

You exhale hard, rolling your shoulders back like it’ll shake off the pressure building in your chest. “Oh, fuck off.”

His lips twitch. “Hit a nerve?”

“No,” you swallow, your jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You’re just delusional.”

Jungkook hums, unconvinced. His body leans forward just slightly, enough to make the space feel tighter.

“So tell me,” he says, “what pissed you off more?”

You roll your eyes, force out a scoff, push the moment back where it belongs.

“You,” you say, tone steady but laced with venom, “are the cockiest person I’ve ever met.”

He exhales a laugh, low and infuriating, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to grin. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say he secretly likes the way you’re seething, likes the way he gets under your skin, likes the fact that he’s the one pulling this version of you out into the open, entirely unlike the woman you spend so much effort trying to be.

Jungkook’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head like you are the ridiculous one in this conversation.

“You are so tightly wound,” he says, sounding more that it’s an observation, not an insult.

Your jaw tightens instantly. “Come again?”

His tone doesn’t shift. If anything, it softens.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, watching you closely, “maybe you need to get off or something.”

The words land like a match to gasoline.

There’s a pause so brief it might’ve gone unnoticed. He sees the momentary flicker behind your eyes, the way your throat closes before you force yourself to exhale through your nose, to reset your features back into bored indifference. You school your expression with a precision you’ve mastered.

But it’s already too late. His lips twitch into a slow, knowing curve.

“That shut you up quick,” he says, quiet and far too satisfied with himself.

The last thread snaps, tension curling through you like electricity with nowhere to go. You step forward, not a warning or a threat, but close enough that your words hit the air between you like something physical. “Bet you wish it was you helping me do it, huh?”

It’s subtle. The smallest shift in the set of his shoulders, the faintest flicker behind his eyes, jaw flexes once. No retort. No easy comeback.

That’s a win.

Before he can recover, before he can pull another smug line from that bottomless well of cocky self-assurance, you push his shoulder.

Enough to make him take a single step back. Enough to prove a point. Enough to make it clear that you’re done. That whatever game he thought this was, it’s over.

Without waiting, without flinching, without looking back, you turn and walk away. He stays behind, backlit in the dim hallway light, still watching you.

You don’t stop moving. If you don’t leave now, you might not walk away at all and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

You don’t go back to the event. You don’t say goodbye to anyone. You don’t even wait for your team.

You call a car with shaking fingers and step inside without looking back, seething so hard you can barely speak when the driver asks where to. Your hotel, you manage to grit out.

The moment the door closes behind you, you’re already kicking off your heels, yanking the zipper of your gown down too hard. The silence of the room is almost mocking, like even the walls are waiting for you to admit what you won’t say out loud.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You pace. You throw your bag onto the desk. You curse his name under your breath like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it might finally lose meaning.

Maybe you just need to get off.

Your jaw clenches. “Fucking unbelievable,” you mutter aloud, storming into the bathroom to scrub off your makeup. “Says the man who was practically dry-humping Jennie for the press.”

Your face is flushed, possibly from anger or something worse. You splash water over your skin, cold enough to sting. But the thought still slips in, unwelcome and heavy.

What if he’s right?

You grip the counter, knuckles white, water dripping from your jaw. You hate how the echo of his voice lingers in your head and how you can still see the way his jaw flexed, the way his button-down clung to every inch of him under those lights.

God, he looked good. Too good. Like a fucking problem with a dick and an attitude.

You groan and press your palms to your face, willing yourself to forget how your body reacted even while your brain was screaming at him.

You hate him. You also hate… that you want him. He put the idea in your head and now it’s floating around in there, out in the open.

You march to the bed, flop onto it, and stare at the ceiling, the sheets cool against your bare legs. Your heart won’t slow. Your mind won’t stop. And worst of all, your body won’t listen.

Because no matter how angry you are, no matter how justified you feel, you can’t shake the image of his mouth when he smirked, the look in his eyes when he said that stupid sentence. Who does he think he is? Some character from a Wattpad fanfiction?

You toss and turn. You flip the pillow over like that’ll make a difference, like the cooler side of the fabric will somehow quiet the fever burning under your skin. The sheets are twisted around your thighs. The moonlight bleeding through the curtains feels too bright.

Even when you close your eyes, all you see is him. His lips. That stupid silver ring that glinted when he smirked. The look in his eyes when he leaned in too close, when he said the most obscene thing in the most casual voice.

You roll onto your stomach and scream into the pillow. A muffled, frustrated sound that doesn’t help at all. You feel like you’re crawling out of your own skin like every part of your body is tuned to him.

His voice. His mouth. His hands.

God, those hands.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter and will the thoughts away, but they crawl back in like ivy through cracks in the foundation.

Now you’re alone in your hotel room, aching, restless, and nothing — not anger, not pride, or even common sense — is helping.

You whisper, just to the empty room, “Goddamn you, Jungkook.”

And your hand starts to drift, almost without permission like gravity’s pulling it there. Like your body’s answering a question your brain refuses to ask.

You let out a shaky breath as your fingertips slide lower past your underwear, pushing it to the side with haste.

You’re too tired to fight it. You are wound too tight. You hate that he’s right.

You’re not even thinking about the way he touched Jennie. You’re thinking about how his hands might’ve felt on you if you’d let them.

You lie there, still as stone, for exactly three seconds before muttering, “I am out of my fucking mind.”

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. It’s slow at first against your clit. It’s a gentle rub, just to see if you’ll even have any reaction to it. Almost tentative, like you’re testing yourself, waiting to regain some semblance of dignity and snap out of it. But you don’t.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, slamming your eyes shut. The pads of your fingers speed up against your clit, breathy moans escaping you, echoing the room and taunting you.

It’s all because of the stupid hallway. The stupid smirk. The stupid way his voice dipped when he said maybe you just need to get off.

Your entire body curls at the memory. You clench your jaw and bite your bottom lip, but the image is too vivid now, too detailed. The fight. The heat of it.

Your fingers move quickly, experimentally, like you’re trying to prove some point to yourself. You’re not sure if it’s self-care or a nervous breakdown. All you know is that your pulse is racing and your brain has left the chat entirely.

You try to focus on anything else. That random hookup you had last year. Emails. Deadlines. Q3 marketing reports. The breakup sex you had with your ex. Nothing works.

All you can see is the tension in Jungkook’s arms. The way his chest rose and fell. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin your life and kiss you senseless in the same breath.

You groan softly, one hand gripping the sheets, the other sliding two fingers into you, hot and slick and aching.

It’s so unfair. He’s not even here, and he’s still winning, under your skin and in your fucking head.

You try to bite back the sounds slipping out of you, but they come anyway involuntarily. You can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if he touched you like this. Probably would’ve been rough, would definitely make you cum in under three minutes.

Of course he would. The cocky fucker.

He’d look you in the eyes the entire time, wouldn’t he? Mouth parted, lip ring cool against your lips, voice deep, asking still wound up, baby?

Your hips twitch and your fingers are soaking wet now with your arousal, messily pumping in and out desperately. Your ego shrivels up into a piece of lint and floats off into the distance. The sounds that are coming out of you are borderline obscene and you pray no one from your team walks this floor.

Finally — god willing — you come apart, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, body tensing and then softening all at once.

You lie there afterward, stunned and drenched in sweat, breathing like you just ran a marathon fueled entirely by spite and delusion.

For a long time, you don’t move. Eventually though,a soft, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “God, I am so pathetic.”

You stare at the ceiling completely mortified. But beneath the embarrassment, buried under the heat still humming through your skin, is one clear, undeniable thought: You’re in deep.

So much deeper than you ever meant to be.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights

[barleyo]

Raising the Bar.

Hiromi Higuruma X F! Reader X Toji Fushiguro

A/N: i've had this idea for a while so i hope it turned out well. not sure how i feel about it personally, especially since it's so ooc

Tags: infidelity, cheating, divorce, ooc, infidelity, pwp, cunnilingus, p in v, creampie, baby-trapping, hate sex, no threesome sadly

Wordcount: 2.7k

High school sweethearts never made it in the long run. Everybody had told you that what you and Toji had would burn out, but God, you didn't want to believe them. Maybe that's why you stuck by him, glued to his hip no matter what shit decisions he made or awful positions he had you in. Maybe that's why you found every excuse possible to defend him to your family. Hell, maybe that's why you had his kid. Just another thing to stick it to everyone who disapproved of your relationship.

Years passed, and every day you spent with him was spent like a game of cat and mouse. 

It started with the gambling. You knew about his high and fast lifestyle before you were stuck with him, but you never realized just how quickly a savings account could be drained. Filled, too, as there were good nights and bad nights, but that was not the point. You had never known a man who hated the flesh-scorching burning sensation of money in his pocket like Toji did. Shady casinos and the horse track were his safeholds. It wasn’t just gambling that he fell victim too, though. He was easily impressed with luxury, whether vehicle or clothing.

When you had first met, he took pride in showering you with expensive gifts and tokens, but the cost never really settled with you. It was nice, but the lingering question of where the money came from, and why it was being spent, stumped you. When he was just your boyfriend, it was well enough for you to keep your nose out of his finances.

You lived separately and had your own lives, to an extent. If he wanted to live up to his nostrils in debt and negative credit, that was far from you to speak against. You made the grave mistake of marrying him so many years ago, though. His debt was your debt. His mistakes were your mistakes. Your child, bless him, was just as much comprised of Fushiguro DNA as he was of your lineage. Despite sharing all of these responsibilities, you rarely had a say.

When Toji brought home his winnings, he was content and decent enough, as one would be. What worried you was when he lost. He was never angry at seeing your joint bank account drain, knowing he would eventually win again. He was insatiable, an unstoppable force that never found an immovable object to stall him. You begged him to cut it out, to work out his priorities, and he tried a few many times, but it was never quite up to your satisfaction.

The thing that had broken your trust in him, or what little of it you had left, was when you had tried to purchase graduation gifts for Megumi. Your card declining was something you were used to seeing while shopping. You had tried locking it, but somehow, that couldn’t stop Toji either. Normally, you would call your husband and squeeze an answer out of him, and the funds would be returned to the account after a few hours. That day, though, there was no answer when you dialed Toji’s number. A few seconds went by, accompanied by ringing, but his voicemail ultimately picked up.

It was a long time coming. You sped home and threw his clothes out onto the yard.

You felt crazy. No other wife had to do this, spare the ones on television, so why did you? Could you not have a stable marriage, with a man who, for the longest, you felt a semblance of love towards? Rather than that, could you not have a man who had it under control? One who could focus on more than one thing at a time? One who felt responsibility for something other than his own satisfaction? You wondered if you were justified in trying to get rid of him. You had been together so long, long enough to make restarting life seem pointless.

But then his car pulled into the driveway. His recently purchased car, looking nearly totaled. The car that was being financed through your shared account. The car that you had given up a year’s worth of nail and hair appointments for, so that he could afford it without dragging you both down into poverty.

You gave so much of yourself away for him. Your secrets, time, money, and career, all to stay home to raise his child that, thank God, turned out to be more like you than his father. You gave away your last name in place of his, robbing yourself of any identity, and for what? An irresponsible wretch of a man who knew only how to drink, gamble, and avoid sharing his feelings?

He was lazy, egotistical, and the biggest mistake of your life.

A friend had pointed you in the direction of a decent divorce lawyer. It killed you that it came to this point, but you refused to let yourself play the fool. You had seen how it tore your mother apart to stay with a man who she hadn't loved in a very long time. She stayed brave for you, because she realized her truth much too soon. Now was your chance, with an empty nest and few damns left to give. 

The firm was nice enough. Small, but clean. Well landscaped. Your friend broke a little more than even in her divorce, so obviously the attorneys were capable. Alimony wasn't what you were after, though. Just freedom.

You tried to look put together, if not for the sake of decency, then for the sake of your mental health. The process had not even begun, but you were already exhausted. You knew Toji was going to fight you on this, so preparing for the battle was crucial. You had to call in some backup. 

"Hiromi Higuruma, at your service. I hope you found the place without problem."

He seemed overworked, with light bags under his eyes and a stern disposition following him, but that hardly disguised the fact that he was undeniably attractive. It was simply the truth—the god honest truth—he was a good looking man. Not that you could dwell on that for long

You weren't single yet.

"Yes," you said, after an awakened moment of shifting on your heels, "easily. Thank you for consulting with me, I've heard good things about you."

"Glad to hear it. Follow me, if you would."

Your eyes scanned furiously to find something to focus on, but the ashen, beige walls leading to his office were bare. Not a hint of chaos followed him. There was a clean divide where the outside world started and ended, and outside of that was his territory. Everything in its place, everything with a place to stay. 

His desk was no different. The closest thing to disorganization was the cup of pens that sat on the tabletop, with the mess being in the pens not being color-coded. 

You took a seat across from him and held back the urge to wring out your hands. You instead gripped onto your slacks, pinching silk between your fingers. You wanted to be here, you wanted a chance, but all you could think of was failure. 

Failure to choose the right man, failure to shield your son from arguments and bitterness, failure to be the brave woman that your mother had to be. Failure to pursue happiness, when you knew you deserved it much earlier on.

Higuruma was polite enough to not point out your obvious nerves. Either that, or he had seen it dozens of times before. 

You suddenly felt very unsheltered at that thought. You weren't the first desperate, lost woman to seek his help. And with his looks, well—

"Would you tell me more about your situation?" he asked, voice firm but far from sharp. "Are you looking at a custody agreement with your husband, or splitting assets, perhaps?"

You shook your head, bringing yourself to the present reality. 

"No, our only son is long gone from home now, so custody isn't an issue. Honestly, neither are our assets. The house, the cars, they—" you picked at the skin around your nails, trying to physically peel the jitters out of your body, "—don't matter much to me. I'll take what I can get, but I just can't be with him anymore."

"And why not? Infidelity? Abuse?" He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped together and resting on his chest.

"Nothing like that," you said quickly, tongue rushing to force out defense. "Not at all. He's not the man I used to think he was, and I guess I just can't put up with him anymore. He's got a  spending problem. He's inconsistent. Irresponsible. I could go on."

He huffed in slight amusement, giving off his first impression of humanity and imperfection, with a nod. 

"Please do. I can only work with what you give me, Mrs. Fushiguro."

You cringed at the name, but held your tongue. Until legally free, Toji's last name was your burden to bear. 

"He's completely reckless. It's like I've never got a read on him, and when I do, he flies off my radar." You settled on staring at the window behind Higuruma's head to distract yourself. "He's never planned ahead a day in his life, he's just chancing it. It was fun, when we were young, but it got tiring. It used to excite me, but now it just..."

"Exhausts you."

"Right." You cleared your throat to continue. "I felt lucky, when I was young, to be with someone so free. Now, it's more like I've been trapped."

You had never had someone pay so much attention to you at one time. Given, it was the man's job, but it still felt nice. 

"At first, I thought I could handle it. Thought maybe he'd settle down once our son was born. But Toji doesn’t change. He never does. Every time I thought I had convinced him to get his act together, he’d do something stupid and drop the ball." You swallowed, trying to press down any emotion threatening to spill. "He’s not violent with me, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous in his own way."

"Financial instability," Higuruma murmured. "Debt?"

"Not always. I mean, not in a normal way, at least. He always finds a way to dig himself out, but only after making things worse for us first."

Higuruma finally reached for a pen, clicking it absentmindedly before jotting down a note. "Does he know about this meeting?"

"I'm sure he does, but not by my doing. He finds everything out, somehow." You let yourself crack a smile. "At this point, I'm not sure I would even tell him the color socks I'm wearing."

"Good. It's best to keep things to yourself at this point. Detach."

Your eyes darted up to meet Higuruma's dark, tired ones. You were surprised to see him grinning.

"So, dark grey, then?" His pen tapped the desk, motioning towards your shoes underneath it. 

Your feet shuffled a bit, since he was right. 

You were glad to find him. You had faith he would make this all work out. Complete faith.

"So y'leaving me for some prissy fuckin' suit?"

Toji couldn't let it go. He heard you call Higuruma one time. Once, and he latched onto it. He had been on it for days now, trying and failing to get you to change your mind. 

It wasn't the fact that you were leaving him that bothered him. Sure, he loved you. A good bit, actually, but if you were unhappy, he wouldn't stop you. However, the thought of another man taking you—what was his—was what bothered him. 

More than bothered. It enraged him. He accused you of cheating the whole time, but even he knew that wasn't true. He threatened to physically fight Higuruma, but you shut that down just as quickly as the cheating allegations. 

He was somewhat right, though. Of course, you hadn't been with Higuruma the entire time. That was factually impossible. You had gotten close to him, perhaps too close to be considered professional.

A few week of planning court dates and splitting assets had set 'Operation Dark Grey' into motion. Naturally, you both were spending more and more time together. It was inevitable.

One evening, late at his firm, you two happened to be going over documents together, and your hands met over the top of the desk. You tried to pull your hand away, but he wouldn't let you. He held it in his, tensely, as of you would evaporate in front of him if he let go. 

There was no magical confession of love, because that's not exactly what it was. You sought solace in him, in his body. You couldn't refuse him when he sank to his knees in front of you. You gave in when his head slotted between your thighs, when his tongue dipped into your folds. 

He made you feel so good, and more than that, he made you feel attractive. Like you would have a shot in the world after everything was said and done. Like you still had it.

You were weak, and you needed him. How could you turn him down when he had been so helpful and so, so sexy? 

Technically, on a small, fine-print detail, you had cheated on Toji, but he didn't need to know that. 

"No, Toji," you said sharply, pushing your hand against his chest, "I'm leaving you for my own sanity."

"Pfft, right. You think I'm not good enough for you anymore? Got a taste of some boring bastard and now you don't want me?"

God, he could be so childish. It used to be funny, how such a strong, solid man could get so fussy. Now, not so much.

"You haven't been good enough for me in a long time," you answered quickly, spitting out what hateful venom you could tolerate on your tongue, "and you know it."

You were lucky he wasn't one to get his feelings hurt, but that didn't mean he couldn't retaliate.

"Who's not enough, huh? I don't see you bitchin' at me now," Toji sneered, pulling one of your legs up. 

He held you in a pose so strong, so mean, that you barely had the strength to balance yourself. 

It had been months since you had last had sex with him. You forgot the feeling of being drunk on him. Too bad you always woke up feeling like shit after. 

"S—shut up," you spat back. You reached your hand backwards, blindly reaching for his shirt to hold onto. You wanted to say more, to rain hell on him, but he was punching all the air from your lungs. 

He pushed your hand off of his shirt collar, jeering at your flailing palm. He bucked forward and knocked you forward, face down into the couch cushions. He preferred this view, anyways, with your ass in the air and your protests muffled. If you stayed like this more often, he thought, your marriage would have lasted longer. 

Your legs kicked, saying what your mouth couldn't. You were cramping, being bent down so sharply, but the deepness of his strokes made it nearly worth it. 

Toji was a lot of things. 

A bastard, for one. Snarky. Untrustworthy. Irresponsible. 

But, God, he could fuck. Making love, meh. But fuck? Oh, he could do that and well. 

Your greedy cunt spasmed around Toji's cock, dripping onto the shag carpet beneath you. Your mind— a mess of frustration and need. 

You felt Toji slam his cock into you, rutting his head against your cervix's tip. He dug into you, burrowing himself deep enough to become uncomfortable, but necessary. 

"What are you—?"

"Quiet," he hissed, leaning down to your ear to place a nipping kiss. "Feel that? Feel—fuck—feel me throbbing for you?"

Your eyes widened in panic. No. He wouldn't do this to you. Not over something so stupid.

"Let's just try again, yeah? I'll make it work for us, baby, don't worry. I'll take care of you both," he said through clenched teeth, shooting every drop of cum he had saved up into you.

Another try. One more go around to get this right. You guessed you could stick around. 

Everyone deserves a second, or twelfth, chance, right?

[invoncible]

PADAME READER AND ANAKIN MARK??? YES WE WOULD LOVE. OMG YOU'RE BRAIN WOW WHAT A CONCEPT. No but this has literally floored me omg... Anakin!Mark....

YAYYY no because i was constructing the storyline in my head before bed as you do and it just makes sm sense ?? i hope to publish the full fic within the next week or so !! i'm already pretty deep in, so im hopeful <3

okay wait sneak peek (this may lack context but wtv):

(viltrumite!mark x f!reader)

Mark and his father had been making a name for themselves in the past few weeks. They were always available to help out, showing up at the perfect time to take down a heinous criminal or a rampant monster. Of course, being the very responsible representative you were, you celebrated their wins (well, Mark’s mostly, as Nolan still held you at a distance). You weren’t met with much enthusiasm, but as long as Mark didn’t push you away, you knew you were getting through to him.

“Here we are,” You set down a cake in front of him. His house, which usually smelt disgustingly clean, was now filled with the aromas of sweet baked treats and frosting. “Happy 50th victory!” 

Mark raised an unimpressed eyebrow at you, eyeing your creation with doubt. “What is this?”

“It’s a cake.”

“I meant what are you doing?”

You dropped into the chair beside him, dusting your hands off. “It was supposed to be for your 10th, but you just kept going and going. I had to update and catch you before you did anything else.”

“What is the purpose of this?” He sighed

“My job is to attend to you, to make you feel at home. We celebrate things like this here.” You smiled, offering him a fork. “It’s just for fun.”

Mark rolled his eyes at your explanation. “So, a waste of time.”

You huffed in offense, slamming your hands on the table. “It is not a waste of time! If you don’t wanna celebrate your big wins, fine. But this is good cake. Do you have cake on Viltrum?”

“No.”

“What about alcohol?”

“No.”

“Good day to try both then, what do you think?” You hummed, getting up from your seat and rifling through the shopping bags you brought. Pulling out a bottle and grabbing two glasses, there was a little voice that warned you; don’t get drunk alone with him. 

You poured two glasses, sitting down and handing one to him. Thankfully, he took it. You ate the cake out of the display plate in silence, occasionally sipping from your glass. Mark didn’t drink for a while, eyeing you like a predator would their prey. 

If there was something women everywhere were good at, it was ignoring the persisting gaze of others. Especially the eyes of a man who’s actively staring into their soul. 

You cleared your throat. “What’s your purpose here?”

He kept staring at you. 

You gave him a look, leaning back in your seat. “I’ve told you mine. S’only fair.”

Mark scoffed, a small smile on his lips. A jolt of satisfaction shot through you. 

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Not even good conversation?”

“This isn’t ‘good conversation.’” You were too tipsy to be frightened by the darkness in his features. “You’re trying to find a reason not to trust me.”

“Mm.” You swirled the liquor in your glass. “Is that what you call getting to know you?”

Mark’s nose scrunched up in a way that you weren’t scared to call adorable. “Getting to know me? For what reason?”

“For… the sake of getting to know you?”

Mark waved you off, taking an experimental swig of the alcohol. He caught your surprise before he slammed the glass down on the table. “What?”

“You’re not supposed to down it all in one go.” You scoot your chair closer to his, your shoulder bumping into his side. You refilled both your glasses to par. “I mean, you can, but… enjoy the moment. Little sips.”

Mark watched your lips surround the rim, stamping your lipstick onto the glass as you tilted it upwards; the curve of your throat as you swallowed; the little sigh after you set it down again. 

“See?”

“Yeah,” Mark took the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. “but… show me one more time?”

You gave him a knowing look, ignoring his request and tapping his hand. He huffed and raised the cup to his lips, following your demonstration. He went to slam the glass back to the countertop but you were fast enough to grab his wrist. 

“Be gentle.” You pleaded, a cute pout on your lips. “It could break.”

Mark wanted to retort, who gives a fuck if it broke? Instead a shiver zipped down his spine. He’s always felt some type of way when you touched him. After the moment, when clarity hit, annoyance brewed inside his chest. How was he, the viltrumite capable of tearing down cities, more affected by touch than some weak human? He’d set it down however he wanted–he’d throw it if he wanted. 

But Mark set the glass down gently because it was what you wanted.

[secretl1fe0fm3]

49 that leads into 15, pretty pleaseeee 🤭🤭🤭

ride - billie eilish x fem!reader

prompt #49: “do you seriously think it’s funny? sending me shit like that while i’m at work?!”

prompt #15: “go on, baby. ride my thigh.”

warnings: smut, dirty talk, dom!billie, sub!reader, thigh riding

an: i got multiple requests for 49 and 15 separately before getting this request for both. so i hope everyone enjoys!! <3 (this one is also a bit longer than the other blurbs, i got carried away lol)

18+ minors dni!!!

Billie had warned you about this before, not to tease her while she was working.

And yet, here you were.

You smirked to yourself as you leaned back against the pillows, phone still slightly shaking in your hand from the message you had just sent. It wasn’t anything too crazy, just enough to get under her skin. A picture. Your legs parted slightly, your hand resting between your thighs, just enough lacey fabric covering you to keep it kind of decent. Accompanied by a simple message: Wish you were here, baby.

You imagined the exact moment she saw it. Seated on the couch at the interview, surrounded by cameras, a polite yet distant smile on her face as the host spoke, asking questions. The second her phone vibrated in her lap, her fingers discreetly unlocking the screen, only to freeze momentarily, her jaw tightening, nostrils flaring.

The thought alone made you bite your lip.

Not even thirty minutes later, when the interview was supposed to be done, your phone buzzed with an incoming call.

You barely had time to say hello before Billie’s voice cut through the line, low but sharp with irritation.

“Do you seriously think it’s funny? Sending me shit like that while I’m at work?!”

You bit back a giggle, picturing her trying to keep her composure in the green room, post interview.

“What?” you hummed innocently. “I just thought you’d want a little motivation to get through the interview.”

You hear a sharp inhale on the other end. Then a pause, the silence deafening.

“You’re gonna pay for that when I get home,” she muttered, voice dark and cold. Before you could respond, the line went dead.

———

By the time Billie got home, it was late. You were waiting for her in one of her oversized t-shirts, curled up on the couch like nothing had happened.

She didn’t say a word as she walked in and tossed her phone onto the counter and shrugged off her jacket. You could feel the weight of her stare on you, heavy with intent.

Your lips curled up. “Hey, baby. How was-”

She was on you in seconds.

Her hand gripped your chin, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to meet her eyes. Her blue eyes dark, glinting with something unreadable.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” she murmured, voice dripping with amusement and authority.

Your breath hitched. “I-”

Before you could finish your response, she pulled you up, guiding you until your legs were straddling hers, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of her thigh.

“Go on, baby,” she whispered, her hands gripping your hips with purpose. Her lips ghosted against your ear, nibbling softly before speaking lowly.

“Ride my thigh.”

Your breath hitched at her words, the commanding request sending a jolt of heat straight through you. Billie’s grip on your hips tightened, pulling you down so that your core pressed flush against the muscle of her thigh. Even through the thin fabric of your underwear, you could feel the warmth of her skin beneath her baggy pants.

“You wanted my attention so bad,” she murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear, her breath hot against your skin. “So take it. Show me how much you missed me.”

A teasing roll of your hips had Billie humming in satisfaction, her hands guiding your movements, controlling the rhythm. The pressure and friction of her jeans against your cunt was intoxicating. Your fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt as you moved, heat blooming low in your belly with each slow grind of your hips.

“That’s it,” she murmured, watching you through hooded eyes, her expression firm. “Look at you, grinding on my thigh like a good girl.”

A soft whimper escaped your lips as she flexed her thigh beneath you, the added friction sending a shiver up your spine. She smirked, clearly enjoying just how easily she could make you come undone.

“Thought you were the one in control when you sent me that picture,” Billie teased, voice low. “But look at you now.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to bite back another moan, but Billie wasn’t having it. Her hand slipped beneath the oversized shirt you wore, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles over the sensitive skin surrounding your nipple.

“Don’t hold back now, baby,” she coaxed. “Let me hear you.”

The command sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, and this time, when you rocked against her, you let a breathy moan slip free. Billie groaned in response, her grip tightening, her own control beginning to slip away.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” she murmured, her lips finding your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before biting down, making you gasp. “Keep going.”

Your pace quickened, desperation creeping into your movements as the pressure built inside of you, your release quickly approaching. Billie let you use her, her hands never straying from your hips, rocking you harder on her thigh.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” she whispered, her voice laced with lust. “Come on… let me see how good you can be.”

With one final grind of your hips, your orgasm washed over you in waves as your loud moans filled the room. Billie guided you through it, whispering praises into your ear, her hands steadying you as your body trembled and convulsed against her.

You sagged forward, spent and breathless, a sheer layer of sweat glistened against your skin. Billie leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on your jaw.

“Next time,” she murmured, smirking against your skin, “don’t start something you can’t finish.”

prompt list

my masterlist

[straykidsnerd255]

Yandare jinwoo whose obsessed with reader that doesn't even know what his status is. Like it's nice to see someone not flocking onto him like a leech because of his popularity so he didn't tell her anythin :D

Title: My Beloved

Pairing: Yandere Sung Jin Woo x Female Reader

Song: Pick your own song

Genre: Fluff with a bit of angst

Rating:PG-13

Warning(s): swearing (like one or two times), mentions of murder/killing, Sung Jin Woo being a little unhinged, Reader being slightly oblivious to Jin Woo’s unhinged behavior, Jin Woo being obsessed with Reader, Jin Woo stocks reader but doesn’t ever do anything

Summary: You are his. He had to have you as his. You were the only person that didn’t know he was an S-Rank Hunter. He hated how everyone was obsessed with him. With the fact he was the new S-Rank Hunter. Jin Woo couldn’t even enjoy a simple day to himself when he wasn’t trying to raid dungeons and level up. So, when you and Jin Woo happen to meet, Jin Woo does everything to make sure you become his. Spoilers, you become his girlfriend, and no one can even look at or touch you but him.

Word Count: 2050

Thank you so much for requesting! I will let you know that I am not that very good at writing for yandere characters or yandere in general so pardon me if this is absolute shit. This is really bad. I really don’t like how this one-shot turned out, but I did my best. I hope that it was to your liking but I severely suck at writing these kind of things, but I hope that you enjoy this little one-shot nonetheless.

Jin Woo’s eyes watched your every move as you made your way around the kitchen in your already tiny apartment. He had placed multiple powerful shadows in your shadow to protect you as you had been the only person out of the entire city that did not know who he was. His heart pounded in his chest everytime you even so much as glanced at him. He always had eyes on you no matter what you were doing. When you went on dates, it annoyed him that the man you went out with wasn’t him. Jin Woo settled for scaring the shit out of those men you would go on dates with to the point they would either call and cancel or stand you up so he could swoop in and care for you. Your smiles towards him always made his heart flutter. Whenever he looked at you, he always had hearts in his eyes. When people hurt or belittled you, they would be dead on the news the next morning. Jin Woo was merciless when someone did something or anything to harm you. 

Murder was just second nature to him. He would watch with a sick satisfaction while the people he was killing begged and pleaded with him. Blood splattering across his face, a twisted smile appearing on his lips as he commanded his shadows to kill. You and Jin Woo had been hanging out one night when the news popped on telling people to stay indoors as a murderer was running around their city. You had been terrified when you heard this news but Jin Woo reassured you that he would protect you.

Now that someone was catching on to him, Jin Woo decided to lay low for the time being. He stuck to scaring those that tried to get too close to you. You however, were completely oblivious to Jin Woo’s behavior. When Jin Woo asked you out, you were over the moon to be his. Jin Woo pampered you every single day. He surprised you with flowers every morning making you giggle. He would bring jewelry back when he returned from a really long mission. He would plant kisses on your lips when you were out in public. You would always beg for kisses when they happened to be too short for your liking. You also love the warmth that fills your body when you kiss Jin Woo.

When you both were on a date, Jin Woo would be bombarded with fans or people trying to get with him. What really irked him was when he took you to a fancy restaurant and had to step out when the Hunter’s Association President called to ask if he would be willing to join a raid. When he returned, he was met with a sight that made his blood boil with anger. A group of female hunters all in the A-Rank area, were making fun of you. One had undone your hair that you had painstakingly done up. Another ripped the necklace Jin Woo had given you. Jin Woo was in front of the table in a moment. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” His voice held no room for excuses.

He would move over to your still shaking form and press his hands to your face, his thumb wiping away the tears that fell down your face. “Everything is ok now. They won’t hurt you anymore.” He whispered, leaning forward and pressing his lips to yours, effectively calming you down. You hated that you cried so easily at that, but it was just the fact that they were tearing you apart bit by bit and ruining everything that you had done. Jin Woo would drop his knees and gently wipe at the tears that fell down your face. He hated seeing your cry and would do anything to help you.

He glared at the hunters when they tried to explain their actions, but Jin Woo wasn’t having it. You were in tears and it pissed him off. His hand snapped out and grabbed the main hunter that started this by her throat. Her eyes widened in fear when he started to tighten his hold. His eyes turned purple as he pulled her close to his face. “Don’t you ever think you have the right to touch my girlfriend. If I see you around her ever again, I will rip you and you stupid little group apart and ruin your life. Understood?” Jin Woo snarled, his shadows even appearing to add extra scare. Jin Woo would watch as the hunters rushed away from the table, fear evident in their hurried steps. You turned around to see the girls rushing out of the restaurant. You both turned back to the meal that was placed in front of you. 

 After dinner, you begged Jin Woo to take you to a dress shop that you had seen on the way to the restaurant. The store was massive. He watched as you went to the discount dress section and with his ruler's hand, turned you around and pulled you back towards him. A smile on his lips as he leaned down and pecked your slips. “Pick whatever you want, love. I have plenty of money.” He said, watching the smile on your lips appear. Jin Woo went and sat on a bench as you browsed the store. As you were moving to a set of black dresses that had different shades of purples spanning around the end of the dress, a group of hunter females walked in.

 Their eyes immediately locked onto you and closer to where you were standing. They began to mock the dress that you had pulled out which was a black mermaid dress, with a bedazzled middle, a sweetheart neckline and sleeveless. This made you feel insecure about the way you looked and Jin Woo immediately picked up on it. He stood from the bench and walked towards you. The hunters thought he was walking towards them and walked towards him, but he shoved past them and moved to you, his hand falling to your lower back. “Will you try it on for my love?” Jin Woo asked, watching as the light came back to your eyes, and you nodded your head, a bright smile on your face. You quickly put on the dress before exiting the dressing room. You spun in front of Jin woo, showing him the dress you had been looking at. “What do you think?” You asked, Jin Woo looked at the dress and his heart began to race in his chest. “Gorgeous.” He whispered.

The next time it happened, you had been waiting for Jin Woo to exit the dungeon that had opened in the middle of the street. A group of girls walked to where you were standing and started talking. Loud enough that you could hear them but no one else could hear them. “Do you think Hunter Sung will notice me? Maybe he will dumb that dumb little girl he’s dating right now and start dating me.” Your heart stuttered but you ignored them and waited, bouncing on the heels of your feet. You could feel a smile appearing on your lips when one of the girls spoke again. Her words made the smile on your face drop and the sadness filling your chest. You knew she was wrong, but you just couldn’t help the pounding in your chest.

“Don’t worry, he will definitely take one look at you and fall in love. That girl he’s dating doesn’t stand a chance.” She said, all the girls laughing when they looked over at you and saw you looking down. You moved away from the barrier as you heard the girls' loud laughter continuing. You had almost pushed your way through the crowd when you felt a hand on your shoulder. Turning to face the person who had stopped you, you were pleasantly surprised when you saw Jin Woo looking down at you, a smile on his face. “I thought you were going to wait up front for me?” He said, watching as your eyes suddenly went downcast. You told him what had happened and in a moment, you were lifted into Jin Woo’s arms, a sly grin on his lips.

On days you decided you wanted to go shopping or just stroll around the shopping center, his arm would be wrapped around your waist possessively. When the two of you are either out on a date or walking around town, he is eyeing everyone down watching their every move. During your year anniversary with Jin Woo, an ex boyfriend appeared on your doorstep, demanding that you get back together with him. You were terrified and secretly dialed Jin Woo’s number. You knew that he was a hunter, but you never cared to ask what rank he was or even look it up. When you heard Jin Woo pick up the phone, you slipped your phone in your back pocket. “You have to get back together with me, Y/n. You don’t get a choice in that. We were so good together.” You ex said.

You glared at him. “You cheated on me with three other women and tried to tell me it wasn’t serious. You also stole my money to go gamble away when you didn’t want to be in the house anymore. You took everything from me. I left that life behind and moved here so I could start fresh. Leave me alone.” You snapped, hearing the sharp breath Jin Woo took before you could hear him running. What you didn’t expect was for your ex to grab your wrist and try pulling you from your house. You gripped the doorframe, your heart pounding like crazy in your chest. You and your ex ended things years ago because you found out he had cheated on you. You moved from that town and did your best to change your life around. It doesn’t help that he had found you, and was now trying to drag you back to him.

You were terrified. You begged for Jin Woo to hurry, tears filling your eyes as you fought with all your strength to not be taken by your ex. You could feel Jin Woo’s presence before you saw him. Opening your eyes, you noticed Jin Woo hovering over your ex, blood dripping from Jin Woo’s fist and your ex’s face unrecognizable. You could see the bloodlust in his eyes, the way he smiled as he looked at the blood that dripped from his knuckles. “You thought you could touch my girlfriend? I should break your neck. Keep you from trying to take her away from me.” Jin Woo squatted down near his face and smiled menacingly.

You knew Jin Woo was possessive, but this was all too new to you. You shivered as he turned to look at you, his eyes still a glowing purple. Blinking, the purple disappeared and his gray eyes blinked back at you, an innocent smile sitting on his lips as he left your ex on the ground, blood pouring from the busted lip and broken nose. Are you alright My Beloved?” He asked, his hands running down your arms before taking your hands in his. You shook slightly, but nodded your head. “I’m alright.” You said, leaning your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes and sighing. You didn’t notice the hearts that sat in his eyes or the way he would nearly kill someone that even looked in your direction with a hint of desire. 

You have been with Jin Woo for three years now, and you could never be happier. You curled into Jin Woo’s chest as he glared at the man shivering in fear. “I promise I wasn’t looking at your girlfriend!” The man sputtered, watching as Jin Woo raised his hand towards the man’s face and clenched his fist, watching as the man screamed in pain as his insides boiled alive. You lifted your head and pressed your face into Jin Woo’s neck, pressing your lips against his throat. Jin Woo’s eyes lidded as he watched his shadows drag the dead body away, his arms tightening around you.  He had finally won you over. You were his and he was yours.

[kpopsexstories]

NCT 127 Dating Ban #3: Doyoung Pt. 1

NCT 127 can’t date girls. As their gay friend you help them out with their sexual needs.

This is a 100% gay smut story. Check out this post for my straight smut and this post for more gay smut.

Pairing: NCT Doyoung x Jisung (Haechan & Johnny)

Story: When you return to the 127 dorm you accidentally walk in on Doyoung having sex – and you can't believe who he's doing it with!

Type of Sex: MEDIUM

Word Count: 3.5k

<- Start from the beginning: Story #1: Haechan

Want more stories like these? Also read the NCT Dream Dating Ban series which takes place before the 127 series.

You wake up with a slight hangover. Haechan is laying naked beside you, gently snoozing in broad daylight. How much did we drink last night? you wonder.

Too much. But not so much that you can't remember. You smile wide to yourself as you observe the adorable man, and recall what you did to each other behind closed doors. His dick has already been inside you multiple times and it's only your second day.

Your first night at the 127 dorm was fun, and you're glad your months of sexting with Haechan has led to this.

“Hey,” you say and smile when the man eventually opens his eyes.

“Hey,” Haechan says and yawns, and stretches his bare torso. The duvet slides down his body and you lay a hand on his tummy.

He rolls into your arm and you kiss. “I'm so glad you're finally here,” he whispers, and he genuinely means it. “I haven't had any pussy in so fucking long.”

He rolls his eyes and exaggerates the expression of someone who's been subjected of a horrible wrong.

“Can't help you with that,” you say and chuckle.

Haechan's face becomes serious as he suddenly stares at you. “Oh, yes you can,” he says and smirks.

You smile back at him and let your hand glide down his stomach and under the sheets. “Mm!” you exclaim and playfully raise your eyebrows, but it's really just for pretend. You're not surprised at all by the state of his dick when you feel it.

Haechan doesn't respond to your reaction. He just keeps presenting his dumb smirk. Then he closes his eyes and moans when you wrap your fingers around his morning wood and begin to jerk him off.

“Aren't we late to do your city thing though?” you ask, partly as a way to tease him.

“It can wait,” he says and you both giggle.

“Hey, get up!” Johnny suddenly orders, when he barges into the room with a big smile on his face. You attempt to cover your bare chest but he abruptly pulls the duvet off your body.

“Oh,” he says and the smile goes away, when he sees that you're both naked and that you have your hand around Haechan's hard shaft. “Sorry.”

As if he actually expected you to be clothed. Of course he didn't. And Haechan doesn't seem at all bothered.

But not amused either. “What do you want?” he asks without even a hint of a smile.

Johnny crosses his arms and glares at your naked body while he speaks, studying it with satisfaction written all over your face. “It's a beautiful day and you're still in bed. Get out, enjoy the city.”

As if he cares what you and Haechan do with your time. You figure he only came here to expose you like this, maybe a weird way to satisfy his own sexual needs. It must be the fact that he watched you have sex before, or maybe he's still a little drunk, that makes him think he can behave in this way toward Haechan and yourself, his guest.

If this was twenty-four hours ago it might have bothered you, or at the very least confused you. Now your only confusion is how the man can be so damn energetic.

Johnny sits down on the bed besides you. He keeps looking up and down your body and puts a hand on your thigh, moving it slowly up and down as if to assess the fabric of a nice jacket.

“What's it to you?” Haechan asks, while leaning on his elbows and spreading his legs. “You're not coming.”

“I know,” Johnny says and winks at you. Your hand is still gripping Haechan's hard dick. “I really just wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” Haechan asks.

Johnny winks at you again. “For being so loud last night.”

That's it, he definitely just came here to check you out. If he was actually complaining he wouldn't be so cheerful and flirty. He wants you to know that he heard your drunken sex, and the reason is because he enjoyed it. You feel very sure of it.

“Johnny…?” Haechan says when your eyes and Johnny's are locked for a little too long.

“Yeah…?”

Haechan laughs and kicks the man in the gut. “Get the fuck out!”

“Alright, alright,” Johnny says and takes his hand off your leg. He stands up and suddenly swirls around, then turns and winks at you one last time before he looks at Haechan. “I guess I'll go see Winwin then.”

Finally he leaves just as quickly as he came, and leaves the door wide open. You and Haechan look at each other and start to giggle. Your fingers tighten and Haechan moans, but the morning wood is gone and the moment has passed.

“He's right, we should go,” Haechan says and jumps down on the bed. His slack dick was starting to get hard again but it slips away from your hand and you let it go.

You can't stop smiling. Mmm, you think to yourself, having realized that you might actually have a shot at a third member.

*****

On this second day you return to the dorm in the afternoon. You've spent a couple of hours with Haechan, together just the two of you, seeing some sights and his favorite spots. But you're both tired and agreed to cut the tour of Seoul short.

It's the first time you've been on your own like this with Haechan, despite having known the man for years. It turns out you actually get along really well, a big relief considering you're with him for a whole week.

“Fuck, I forgot the condoms!” Haechan exclaims just as you press the button of the elevator.

“Do we need them?” you ask and smirk. You know you should, but it's not like you've been using any so far.

“They're not for us,” Haechan says and laughs. “Doyoung asked me to get some.”

“Why? He's got a girlfriend or something? Doesn’t the dating ban apply to him?”

“It does. You go ahead, I'll tell you about it later.”

“Okay,” you say when the elevator doors open and Haechan puts a set of keys in your hand. Then you go your separate ways.

On the ride up you wonder if anyone will be home, or if you'll be alone in the dorm for the first time. The 127 team are still working after all, while the Dream team are on a break.

You put a key in the lock and go inside. The apartment is quiet. You throw the backpack you've been carrying on the floor by the couch, then make your way toward one of the bathrooms.

The bag is holding a couple of souvenirs, and some photos of you and Haechan which you jokingly took in a booth. Your bladder is holding a lot of water and alcohol from last night. It's been a hot day and you haven't peed since you left home.

And your balls, they're holding a lot of cum. You've been thinking about sex all day, since Johnny so rudely but quite intriguingly interrupted your morning.

As fun as you've had on your excursion you've been wondering what kind of guy Haechan really is, and whether you could have asked him for a quickie somewhere in the street. And if you'll have sex again tonight, which is likely, what will you do to each other.

The unexpected and secretive adventure with Jungwoo last night has also lingered on your mind. When you think about it, it was kind of hot despite – or maybe because of – how rushed and secretive it was.

You wonder if either of the two men have told the other about you. And you've been thinking a lot about the others too. You already know that Yuta and Taeyong are gay, and Johnny certainly seems interested.

But do they really need your help? Do they even want it? Or is this just your own desires and starstruck mind acting out some weird, crazy fantasy? Obviously it must be latter.

It doesn’t matter, because your balls are about to burst and you need a release. But as you head for the bathroom you decide not to do anything about it just yet. If you really are home alone you should wait for Haechan. Hopefully you'll have time to finish what you started this morning before the others get back.

You suddenly stop in your tracks in the hallway. Your ears shoot up and your senses are put on high alert. What's that?

There's a sound, coming from further down the hall. You've yet to learn who lives where, but even if you did know you're not sure which room the sound is coming from.

“Thump, thump, thump.” The sound grows louder as you follow it, instinctively walking on light steps.

“Squeak, squeak, mmm, yeah.”

What the hell? you think. Is that…

A door at the end of the hall is partially open. You push on it to peek inside, too caught up by curiosity to think that you shouldn't.

“Thump, thump, squeak, squeak, mm, yeah Doyoung. Squeak, squeak, yes, yes, oh yeah, yeah, yeah!”

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Doyoung suddenly exclaims loudly. The intense thumping and rhythmic squeaking of his bouncing mattress abruptly stops.

You know you should apologize quickly and run away. You know you should have made your presence clear long before you got to the room, when it became fairly obvious what the sounds were. You know you shouldn’t have lingered to watch, and you know that this must be as embarrassing for Doyoung – a man you don't even know yet – as it is shocking to you.

But you can't tear yourself away. You can't stop staring, with wide eyes and your mouth open, at the sight you've just walked in on. Your suspicions when you heard the voice were correct, and that's what has surprised you so.

Doyoung is seated on the edge of the bed, butt naked and in the midst of a passionate fuck. In his lap he's holding a slim figure around the waist. The figure has his legs wrapped around Doyoung's sides while riding the man's cock.

The lovers are frozen in place. Jisung stares blankly and surprised back at you. “Hi,” you say, still in shock. You thought you knew the voice but it’s like your brain didn’t want to believe it.

“Hi,” Jisung says. He finally manages to smile once he realizes what’s going on and who he’s looking at. “Oh my God, hi! What the hell are you doing here?”

Doyoung looks more confused than anyone. He stares at Jisung's face, then at yours. “Wait…” he says. ”Do you guys know each other?”

“Yes!” Jisung exclaims with an enormous grin on his face. ”He's my best friend!”

“Holy shit!” Doyoung blurts out. He immediately turns to look at you. “Are you the friend?”

You're not quite sure what he means, but you have a strong idea. “Yeah, I guess,” you say and smile faintly.

“Oh my God! Why hasn't Haechan said anything?” He turns to look at Jisung, his eyes fiery. For a second you think he's angry, he certainly sounds like it. ”Why haven't you said anything?”

“I had no idea!” Jisung admits to defend himself. He repeats his previous question: “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Haechan invited me,” you say, still smiling in an effort to make the fact appear casual, like it's no big deal.

“When?” Jisung asks and begins to slowly rock his hips, for the first time since you interrupted the sex he's in the middle of.

“Ehm, I don't know,” you lie. ”Not that long ago.”

There aren't any secrets between you and Jisung. You're not even sure why you're lying in this moment. You've known each other forever, but you must admit you feel pretty bad about not having told him you would come.

Jisung, however, is suddenly giddy with excitement. His body starts jumping up and down in Doyoung's lap while he keeps bombarding you with questions.

“Why haven't you said anything?” he asks.

“I was going to surprise you.”

“When did you get here?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Jisung's body jolts and his face suddenly turns serious. “You've been here for a full day? And you still haven't come to say hi?”

You realize how bad this looks. “Okay look, I was going to, but Haechan planned a full day today.”

“You slept away half of it,” Doyoung points out. He doesn't look at all happy when he says it which gives you a bad vibe.

“I literally live a floor down!”

“I know,” you say and smirk. You've been there many times over the years, and last time was quite a memorable visit. “I swear, I had this whole thing planned out. I was going to surprise you and it would be this big moment.”

As if this isn't a big moment too. Exactly what the surprise you had in mind was is not something you're willing to reveal in front of Doyoung. But you had this idea that you'd lay naked on Jisung's bed when he got home.

Jisung's naked body jolts again. “I can't believe this!” He looks happy and jumps up and down, arms around Doyoung, when he turns to face his current lover and excitedly asks: “Can you believe it?”

Doyoung shakes his head but doesn't speak, a strained expression on his face. This must be such a surreal moment for him.

You finally begin to relax. You stand in the doorway and casually lean against the frame.

“I didn't know you had time off though,” you say and cross your arms. “Haechan told me yesterday and it made me super worried.”

“Yeah, I'm going to see my parents. Damn, now I kind of wish I wasn't.”

He stops moving for a moment and his expression changes, but then he becomes giddy and jumpy again. His heart is genuinely full of joy and excitement. “I'm just so happy you're here! And I'm glad I get to see you today. Don't worry, you'll have fun with Haechan too.”

“How are they anyway, your parents?” you ask, casually making smalltalk. ”I don't think I've seen them in, what, two-three years?”

Jisung instinctively rolls his hips, as if your presence is no reason to leave Doyoung hanging.

“They're good,” he says. ”But I don't want to talk about them. I can't belive you're here! You're the last person I'd expect to walk through that door. I'm so happy!”

You chuckle at his youthful joy, and the way his ass bounces on Doyoung's lap. It makes you feel really good to see him this happy. You've been so consumed with making new friends that you haven't considered that you should of course have just gone to see your best friend straight away.

Perhaps you've also been worried, about what he might think of the fact that you've come for Haechan and not him. It's not like there's anything more than friendship and sex between you and Jisung, and he hasn't been bothered by you having sex with his friends in the past.

But that was then, and he was always somewhere around. It was his bed you always returned to at night.

It suddenly dawns on you that you already have seven friends in the city, if you count the whole Dream team, and that you've neglected all of them. Haechan is just one of several. The fact that you haven't told them of your visit certainly isn't good.

But deep down you always knew, if you didn't get along with the 127 guys, salvation would be just one flight of stairs away. You kind of took that for granted.

“Where are you staying?” Jisung asks and rolls his hips again. “Will you come stay with me?”

“Actually, about that…”

“Uughmmph!” Doyoung suddenly calls out. You both turn to look at him curiously. His eyes are closed and his whole body shivers. “Ahh, fuuck!”

Jisung bursts out in a big smile, and quickly starts to roll his hips faster over his lover's crotch, like he was when you walked in.

But Doyoung has already come, and now he squeezes your friend’s waist hard to lift him off his dick which suddenly can't take anymore.

You realize that they haven't just been naked in each other's arms this whole time, and that it's totally weird that you're still in the room.

Jisung laughs out loud when he stands up to climb off his lover. “Did you just come?” he asks excitedly.

“Mm, yeah,” Doyoung moans. His hand glides down Jisung's bare thigh, and he reaches down to nurture his spent dick. He suddenly smiles wide while he removes the condom. “Yeah, I did. Fuck… you're incredible!”

You feel three things in this moment. Proud, because it's only six months ago that you took Jisung's same sex virginity. He was a very different lover back then, compared to the confident power bottom you just witnessed today.

Relieved, because neither Jisung nor Doyoung seem at all ashamed by any of this. Despite Doyoung's angry reaction earlier, when you first entered the room, he now appears happy and casual as he stands up, ties the condom together, and tosses it in a bin in the corner of the room.

And finally curious, about two things: the nature and depth of Jisung's relationship with Doyoung, and the novelty of seeing Doyoung's full body in the nude.

The man is kind of hot, you think. Well done Jisung.

As hot as Jisung looks when he stands naked and smiling in the middle of the room, Doyoung has something new and exciting to offer. It's only now that you realize that you're incredibly hard, and that you probably have been this whole time.

Jisung realizes it too, when he abruptly comes rushing toward you to give you a warm embrace. “Hi,” he says again, as you hold each other close and hug.

“Hi,” you say happily and hold your nude friend tight.

You want to apologize, but your reunion is interrupted when a voice calls from the living room. “I'm back,” it announces. Haechan has returned.

“I should go,” you say and let go of Jisung, suddenly feeling worried again. You figure Doyoung and Jisung won't want to get caught. “I'll divert him.”

“No, stay,” Jisung pleads and goes back to the bed, where he crawls on top of it and reaches down for his clothes on the floor on the other side.

You glance at his ass when he bends over. Doyoung can't stop staring at you while you check out his lover. When you notice his glaring eyes and serious expression, you quickly peek outside to look away, and see Haechan fast approaching.

“It's okay,” Doyoung says, as if he can tell that your mind is trying to work out what to do. He goes to sit beside Jisung and proudly puts an arm around the man. “He knows.”

Haechan catches up with you before you decide if you should divert him or invite him in.

“Hey,” he says cheerfully to Doyoung and Jisung on the bed. “Here you go.”

He tosses a box to Doyoung, who grabs it mid air and smiles. “Thanks,” he says and puts it on a bedside table, before he lies down on his back completely exposed.

You can't help but stare at his sexy body. You study his long torso and still half hard dick. Haechan, however, doesn't even stay.

“Sorry, I should have told you,” he says and smiles at you in passing, then goes back into the hallway.

Jisung is sitting on the bed when he puts his hoodie back on. “So,” he says slowly. “My plane is actually tonight.”

Your heart suddenly sinks. You've just gotten excited about him being here, about the idea of combining getting to know new friends with spending time with old ones.

“Oh,” you say, somewhat disappointed. “How long will you be gone for?”

He stands up to put on his pants. “I don't know. Maybe I'll cut my trip short now that you're here.” Then he turns to Doyoung. “Thanks,” he says and gives the man a quick peck on the lips.

“I didn't even make you come,” Doyoung points out. He seems a little surprised.

“It's okay,” Jisung says and winks at you. ”I've got him for that.”

Then he walks by you and takes your hand. You smile at Doyoung, before Jisung yanks your arm and you both disappear into the hallway.

Doyoung is left naked and alone on the bed. He may be empty and sexually satisfied, but in this moment his heart is hollow and broken.

The Dating Ban series now takes a break. Let me know what you think so far and your wishes and desires as I write the next few stories 🙂

[glossypolaroidkisses]

“do you have a condom”

bratty reader teasing him in public

w/c: 1.3k

so rushed & barely edited sorry aaaa

The club is packed, neon lights pulsing in time with the bass-heavy music. Your friends are lost in the crowd, dancing and laughing, but you’re moving toward the bar when you spot him.

Your boyfriend Luigi, leaning against the counter, drink in hand, talking to some guy you don’t know. He looks good, unfairly good. The kind of good that makes you feel reckless.

You could barely hold a conversation before you left for the club. His fresh cologne, those curls, one of your favourite outfits of his… it was a miracle you even made it out the door.

On impulse, you slow as you pass him, stepping just close enough to murmur in his ear, voice light and teasing.

“Do you have a condom?”

The words roll off your tongue effortlessly, barely audible over the music, but they hit him like a truck.

“What?” He turns his head so fast you almost feel the air shift. His expression is priceless—brows raised, mouth slightly parted, eyes wide with disbelief.

You just smile as he blinks, tilting your head like it was nothing. “Nothing,” you say, voice all sugary mischief, before slipping back into the crowd, leaving him standing there, drink forgotten in his hand.

You don’t have to look back to know he’s still staring after you, stunned, flustered, and—if you had to guess—just a little intrigued.

You disappear into the sea of bodies, grinning to yourself, but you don’t make it far before you feel a hand at your waist—firm, possessive, familiar.

Luigi.

He spins you around, and the way he’s looking at you sends a shiver down your spine. His glowing eyes sharp, searching, still a little dazed from what you just pulled. He leans in, close enough that his lips almost brush your ear.

“What was that?” His voice is low, rough with amusement but laced with something else—something darker, hungrier.

You bat your lashes up at him, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

His fingers flex at your waist. “You know what I mean.”

You just smirk, slipping your arms around his neck. “You seemed flustered.”

Luigi huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, no shit. Who just whispers that and walks away?”

“I do,” you tease, dragging your nails lightly against the nape of his neck.

His jaw tightens, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “You’re trouble.”

You lean up, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear now. “And you love it.”

Luigi exhales sharply through his nose, then suddenly, his grip tightens, and before you can react, he’s pulling you flush against him. His voice drops, rich with amusement and something heavier underneath.

“I do,” he admits. “But you know you’re not getting away with that, right?”

Your stomach flips, but you keep your composure, tilting your chin up in challenge. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

Luigi just smirks, slow and knowing. He leans in like he’s about to kiss you, but instead, he murmurs against your lips—

“You’ll see.”

And just like that, he lets you go, stepping back with an infuriating wink before disappearing into the crowd.

Now it’s your turn to be flustered, of course.

You exhale sharply, rolling your lips together, fighting the mix of frustration and amusement bubbling up inside you. Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it.

You don’t chase him. That would give him too much satisfaction. Instead, you turn back to your friends, pretending like nothing happened, like your pulse isn’t still thrumming from the way his hands felt on you.

But as the night goes on, you make sure to stay just within his line of sight.

When you’re at the bar, laughing at something your friend says, you let your hand drift to your collarbone, trailing down your neck like you’re oblivious to the way his eyes linger. When you dance, you sway just a little slower, tilting your head back, casually pulling the hem of your skirt.. just flashing glimpses of skin, his weaknesses, knowing damn well he’s watching.

You don’t look at him. You don’t have to.

Luigi’s patient. He’s good at playing the long game. But you know him. And you know exactly how to push him past that breaking point.

It happens when you’re near the exit, finishing the last sip of your drink, still chatting with your friends. You feel him before you see him—his presence like a shift in the air, something warm and inevitable pressing in at your back.

Then, suddenly.. A hand wraps around your wrist.

You barely have time to react before Luigi’s pulling you away from your friends, away from the music and the neon lights, leading you through the crowd with that same quiet confidence, like he owns this moment. And maybe he does.

You let him.

He doesn’t stop until you’re in the dimly lit hallway near the bathrooms, music slightly faded, away from prying eyes. Then, finally, he turns to face you, stepping in close, so close you’re pressed against the wall, caged in by the heat of him.

“You think you’re cute, huh?” His voice is low, measured, but you can hear the tension beneath it, the restraint.

You tilt your chin up, feigning innocence. “I know I am.”

Luigi huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head, but there’s no humour in his eyes—just something darker, something hungry.

“You’ve been teasing me all night.” His hands find your waist, firm and unyielding. “You enjoying yourself?”

You bite your lip, pretending to think. “A little.”

His grip tightens. Not enough to hurt—just enough to let you know he’s done playing.

“Yeah?” His voice dips, his lips brushing dangerously close to yours. “Well, let’s see if you’re still smiling when I’m done with you.”

You gently gasp.

And then, finally—after all that teasing, all that back and forth—Luigi caves. The moment his lips crash against yours, the game is over.

Luigi kisses like he does everything else—passionate, intense, deliberate, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. His hands tighten at your waist, pressing you firmly against the wall as he deepens the kiss, stealing the breath right from your lungs.

You melt into him, gripping at his shirt, your body responding before your mind can catch up. It’s a little unfair how easily he can unravel you after you spent all night trying to throw him off.

But you’re not giving in that easily.

You kiss him back just as intensely , nails dragging lightly against the back of his neck, pulling him closer, swallowing the quiet groan he lets out. He presses his hips against yours, letting you feel just how much your teasing got to him.

“Still having fun?” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough with amusement.

You smirk, just to be a brat about it. “Mmhm.”

Luigi exhales a sharp laugh, but you don’t miss the way his grip tightens, like he’s barely holding himself back. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

You bat your lashes up at him. “Yet, you’re my boyfriend.”

His jaw flexes, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “Unfortunately.”

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, his pretty hazel eyes dark with amusement and something deeper. His thumb brushes over your cheek, his other hand still firm at your waist.

“And for the record,” he mutters, voice low and rough, “of course I have a fucking condom.”

You blink up at him, breathless, before a slow, teasing smile curls at your lips.

“Good,” you whisper, tugging him back down. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Luigi exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe you; But the way he kisses you after that? You definitely won tonight.

And that condom will NOT go unused

tag list 🏷️ my loves ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ @cherrysolo @slavicdolls4mangione @iinfinitelimits @poohkie90 @luweegeeswifey @number1yearner @noname123sposts @straw8berry @lavenderbabyyy @littlestl4mb @amoungusbartholo (lmk if u wanna be added or removed xx)

[madam-herta]

Oooh~ how about Madam Herta with an S/O that her puppets absolutely adore? They treat the puppets so kindly and are polite to them and give them praise~

☾ Herta puppet love! Omg I love to see that since I love the puppets of Madam Herta as much as I love her (Herta has been on my team since basically day one and I don’t think she’s ever going to leave). That being said…

☾ First of all, I think being at the very least polite to Herta’s puppets is a MUST in a relationship with her. They might be puppets, but they are still sentient, and since they are basically an extension of Madam Herta herself, being rude or dismissive of them won’t get you very far in the relationship. However, going above and beyond? Let’s dive into that.

☾ When you and Madam Herta first got together, her puppets were a little skeptical about you. Someone was good enough for the great Madam Herta? They thought it was unlikely.

☾ But once her puppets take the time to get to know you, they slowly start to grow fond of you!

☾ You love Herta’s puppets, they’re basically mini versions of her and they are absolutely adorable! Anytime you see one of them in the Space Station, you always make the effort to talk to them, treating them as if they were Madam Herta’s little sisters instead of puppets. That plus your charm and kindness makes them start to see why their creator would fall for you.

☾ Since Madam Herta loves it when you praise her, you decided to do the same thing with her puppets.They’ll probably love it as much as the real one right? You always make sure to compliment them or tell them that they are doing a good job and oh boy you were so right because they can’t get enough of it! They always try to get your approval, because they know that you’ll give that precious satisfaction

☾ Next to The Herta, you are the puppet’s favorite person. They like being around you, which is obvious from the way that they seem to seek you out. It’s not an uncommon sight to see one (or more!) of The Herta’s puppets following you around on the Space Station. Plus, it’s always a fun time hanging out with them, so whenever one of her puppets need you for something or just want to simply spend time with you, you make sure to take some time to do so.

☾ The Herta herself finds they way you treat her puppets so sweet! She loves seeing you with her puppets, it brings her a sense of pride on just how amazing her lover is. However, she’ll try to direct your attention back to her if you seem to be spending a little too much time with them, you shouldn’t forget about the real one!