#but the next part more than makes up for it

[rindreamery]

out of breath, got me going like...

attractive things that the blue lock men do.

itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, michael kaiser, oliver aiku, yukimiya kenyu

itoshi rin sends you gym pics without you having to ask.

it initially took a lot of convincing, at first, to get rin to send you a picture. in his eyes, it was embarrassing— the idea of pulling his phone out mid-workout, taking a picture, sending it to you, and then going back to whatever he was doing. his mind would drift off to the weird stares he would probably get from others, and the fact that he also wasn’t exactly known for knowing how to pose to begin with. as much as he loved making you happy, there were just some things he was not willing to do.

it took a lot of begging, and for the first few months, the answer was always, “no.”

the first picture came unexpectedly. your phone was thrown off to the side of the bed, not really anticipating any texts from rin for the next hour or so, given the fact that he was at the gym. so you were surprised when you heard a familiar tune come from your phone— one specifically assigned to his contact. you had no idea why he would be texting you. 

you’re absolutely floored at what you see; jaw left hanging and eyes practically bulging out of their sockets, almost dropping the phone.

it's a gym picture. he's doing a normal pose, nothing too special. he’s standing in front of the mirror, one hand shoved into the pocket of his shorts, and the other holding onto his phone. his face was partly covered by his phone, but you could see the blush spread across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. but it wasn’t that that got your attention— no, it was something entirely different.

he was wearing a sleeveless compression shirt, giving you a full view of his arms. they were glistening in sweat and perfectly toned. the arm that was propping his phone up was slightly flexed, from the position it was in, adding to the bulk and definition in his biceps. and you could see the veins traveling up the arm of his hand, the one that was shoved into his pocket, crawling up from the back of his hand to his forearm. the bright overhead lighting, with a combination of the dim background lighting, served to emphasize every line and crevice of his exposed skin. 

“this what you wanted?” came a message right after, “i know you’re reading this right now, respond.” you felt weak. he definitely researched how to do this.

words couldn't describe how you felt. so, your immediate response was to send him a flurry of incoherent texts; a mixture of randomly pressed keys and crying emojis. but that’s what feeds his ego— your reactions are what makes smile smugly to himself, covering his lips with his hands as he reads your texts over. he starts to send you gym pictures more consistently after that, patiently waiting for your response after each one. at this point, it’s become a part of his gym routine.

itoshi sae drapes his arm over the back of your seat while reversing.

driving with sae was a true test of control— specifically, yours. it had become increasingly hard to focus whenever he was driving, with every little motion of his body seeming to pull your attention away from the road. he was just so distracting, to the point that you had started offering to drive instead. yet to no avail, because he always insisted on being the driver, furthering your silent suffering in the passenger's seat. but, there was nothing more testing than whenever he was reversing the car.

it’s an internal battle; it takes everything in you not to ogle him so openly. and somehow, you’re losing a battle to yourself.

it’s as if your eyes instantly become magnetized to sae— the way he moves when he rests his arm so casually, yet so securely, on the back of your headrest’s frame. and it doesn’t help that this position gives such a perfect view of him. the way the muscles in his arm ripple and flex ever so slightly, but visibly, under his loose dress shirt. the way his folded sleeves ride up every time, and the exposed part of his forearm constantly taunts you to take a peek. you hate that you suddenly become hyperaware of everything he does in that moment. especially his fingers, and the way they tickle the back of your neck, almost touching you but not quite there.

you have to hold back the subtle shudder that sweeps over your body.

it feels like he’s taking up so much space, demanding you to notice him. the way the scent of his cologne wafts over to you, the bergamot and sandalwood notes of it slowly overwhelming your senses. the faint shift in his posture, emphasizing the subtle stretch of his neck, giving you a view of his collarbones and necklace. and the way his lips curve ever so slightly when he speaks, his voice in a low tone, with his eyes flitting over to you momentarily before they’re back on the road.

it has to be intentional, he has to be aware of what he’s doing. “you’re doing this on purpose,” you mutter under your breath, willing yourself to turn away and look out the window.

“doing what on purpose?” he asks, but the mirth in his tone is evident— you can practically hear the tiny smirk that’s splayed on his lips. you’ve concluded that he’s sick in the head, that he’s playing with you right in your face. “i’m just making sure we don’t get into a crash, you baby.” and you willingly fall for it, every time.

nagi seishiro becomes clingy when it's just the two of you.

laying in your lap, while you’re absorbed in your own hobby, is one of nagi’s favorite pastimes. it keeps him close to you, but allows you both to do your own thing. sometimes, he’d take a nap while you work, one hand loosely holding onto yours in his sleep. other times, he’d play video games on his phone, making sure his volume is turned all the way down to not distract you. but most of the time, he likes to just lay there and admire you, with a barely noticeable smile on his lips.

but he becomes somewhat miffed whenever your hair falls in front of your face, blocking his (initially) flawless view of you. and it annoys him more whenever you don’t push it out of the way.

so, he decided to take it upon himself to move it for you, arm lazily stretched up to reach for you. you barely noticed it at first, so absorbed in the book that you were reading. the sensation of his fingers ghosting over your cheeks doesn’t register in your mind, and his touch is barely there. and then you feel it. his fingers are in your hair, gathering the strands on the back of his hand before he’s brushing it out of the way. it’s so gentle, the way he locks your hair behind your ear, and the way his hand lingers a little longer on your skin after. his fingers then travel from your ear to your jawline, finger lightly tracing the side of your jaw, and it makes you curl in on yourself at the feeling. (it tickles, but also oddly comforting.) and then, he’s pulling his arm back down to reach for your wrist instead, fingers wrapping around it.

your skin is tingling, and the surface of your skin feels warm— taken aback by the sudden act of affection. you glance down at him with a curious look, only to see that he’s already staring attentively at you, and you feel his hold on you tighten. “you know,” you begin, “you could’ve just asked me to do it for you.”

"you always get so lost in whatever you're doing," he mumbles slowly, his voice sounding almost whiney at the fact. his hand, the one firmly holding onto your wrist, is traveling up until it’s wiggling the book out of your hand. (you don’t miss the small furrow of his brows when you jokingly grip onto the book, before giving in and letting it fall to the side.) he takes this chance to intertwine your fingers, his larger hands completely enveloping yours. "i don't mind it, but i hate when i can’t see you."

michael kaiser holds intense eye contact with you when you're talking.

at times, you found it hard to talk to kaiser. he's constantly exuding such an intense confidence, one that's often present in his gaze, that you could never truly hold face-to-face conversations with him. you're always shying away from it, crumbling under the intensity, and he finds twisted pleasure in how flustered it makes you. the way the words always die on the tip of your tongue whenever your eyes meet, when you see that his focus is locked on you

it makes you look away, because it's the only thing you can do to escape it. but kaiser doesn't like it when you're looking away from him— he wants your attention. he wants to see you when you talk excitedly about your day.

he’ll get that attention however way he can. from where you're seated on the couch gives him quick access to you. you can feel his tattooed hand crawling up the skin of your thighs, sliding up slowly, leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes. he stops short of the hem of your shorts, planting his hand firmly on the spot. he gives it a firm squeeze, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs— trying to get you to cave into him. “why won’t you look at me when you talk?” he’s leaning into you, invading your personal space despite the spacious couch. you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear with each word, “mein liebling, i want to see you when you talk. look at me.”

“you can listen to me talk without needing me to look at you,” you swallow, and his grip tightens ever so slightly at your words.

you're shifting awkwardly, trying to ignore the way your heart beats a little faster at the proximity, at the fact that his voice has started to sound almost pleading. almost— because he would never admit to something as desperate as pleading. it’s hard to focus when he’s this close, when he’s right there. his fingers remain on your thigh, tracing deliberate lines over your skin, and despite the way you're trying to resist, you can feel your resolve crumbling.

it’s not every day that you see someone like kaiser be on the precipice of begging for your attention. 

“i promise, i’ll stop teasing you. look—” his other hand is hooking under your chin, coaxing you to look at him. and you do— his eyes, once intense and teasing, now holds a softer and almost guilty looking gaze. “keep talking, yeah?”

oliver aiku likes to loosen his necktie with one hand after a formal event.

neckties are the worst, an opinion oliver will stand by ‘til the end of time. he absolutely despises having to put one on for formal events, and he’ll do his best to charm his way out of having to wear one. it never works, so the second he puts it on, he’s already thinking of the moment he gets to pull it off of himself. he doesn’t think much of it when he does it— one finger looping in the space between his neck and necktie, and he’s pulling at it without care.

but recently, he’s started to notice how intently you’d been staring each time he did it.

oliver’s got a keen-eye; not even the smallest thing can get past him. he drinks in the sight of you when he does it, eyes fixed on you, and taking joy in the fact that you don’t even seem to notice. you’re too busy being fixated on his hand, and the way the vein on his hand becomes prominent when he flexes it to pull, or the way his fingers seem to play around with the fabric. your eyes are so sharp, but somehow so unfocused, all at the same time. he loves how it gets you worked up.

it’s entertaining, so he takes it up a notch.

he drags his fingers, slowly, down to the first button of his shirt. and then he’s unbuttoning it with one hand, putting in extra effort in exposing his collarbones. he can’t fight the grin that makes its way to his lips, at your reaction— your eyes are widening, and he can visibly see you gulp at the sight. and then your eyes are shooting up to meet his, and his grin becomes impossibly wider.

“like what you see?” the teasing and flirtatious lilt in his voice is unmistakable, and you can’t help but draw your eyes back down to where his hand is twirling the tie around his fingers. he makes you tick, but he’s also so attractive, and you hate that he can easily make you blush with his words.

“you wish.” you choose to look away with a scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “it’s gonna take more than that.” that makes him oddly excited, brows raising in mild surprise, and you honestly should’ve known better. it’s like you’re offering up a new challenge to him, and he gladly accepts.

oliver still hates neckties; that’s an opinion that will never change. he still looks forward to the second he gets to pull it off. except now, he gets to play a little game with you while he does it.

yukimiya kenyu keeps a hand on your back at all times, in public.

it’s a habit formed purely from the fact that the streets of shibuya have the tendency to become really crowded, and yukimiya hates it when you get separated from him in such a crowd. he likes it when you’re right by his side— he can keep a close eye on you at all times and protect you from getting pushed around. and originally, it started off with holding your hands. it was fine during the colder seasons, providing the two of you with extra warmth. but you had both quickly realized that it could become quite uncomfortable during summer, making your hands all sweaty and sticky.

so he experimented. he let his arm drop from your shoulders to the small of your back, his palm hovering over your skin, initially unsure of how you would react.

“is this okay?” he would lean down to whisper in your ear, and his voice was so gentle and so concerned about you. even when he was the one getting shoved around by the crowd, with people constantly running into the sides of his shoulders, he was still only thinking about you. you and your comfort. “tell me if this is uncomfortable, and i’ll figure something else out. okay?”

it made you shiver— you felt a heat crawl up your spine, and your stomach was immediately fluttering with butterflies.

you nod, “no, this is okay.” more than okay, actually, but you keep that to yourself. “thank you for asking.” he flashes you one of his pretty smiles, and he leans up to look straight ahead in the crowd again. but this time, his touch is more present— his palm is now firmly planted onto your skin, and he’s actively weaving you through the crowded streets.

whenever someone would get too close to you, or if he anticipates that someone is about to crash into you, his hand would travel to the side of your waist. and yukimiya grips on it, pulling your body flush against his side, effectively pulling you out of the way. “sorry,” he’ll whisper an apology, not having intended to hold you so tightly. his hands will go right back to where they initially were, not without trailing his fingers on the way back, leaving sparks tingling across your skin where he touched. “did i hurt you?”

“no, i’m fine,” you can keep your hand there, you almost tell him. it drives you insane that everything he does is unintentional— but maybe, one day, you'll be able to tell him exactly what you’re thinking.

note. yukki debut on my acc ??? do we fw the casual, less poetic writing cuz there was really no way to make this poetic 👩‍🦯 just astronomically down bad writing all around

© rindreamery, 2024

tags. @choccorin @mininji

[bloggerspam]

Prompt: Against Danny's wishes, Bruce attempts to gain custody of him. Danny responds by fleeing.

Found in the @haunting-heroes-creative-games discord server. Rabbit, I don't know your tumblr, but this one goes out to you.

EDIT: @rabpitpie HAS REVEALED THEMSELVES

===

"I am not homeless." Danny petulantly mutters. He's a runaway. There is a difference, even if Danny is smart enough not to voice that out loud.

Bruce Wayne, for some god forsaken reason, does not listen.

"Okay, I understand, but your parents—"

"Do not talk about my parents." Danny grits his teeth, struggles to keep his fangs in check.

Bruce puts his hands up in surrender, placating. "Amity Park authorities say that Vlad is your new guardian, because he was named your godfather."

Danny just about stops himself from growling. "Vlad is full of shit."

Bruce ignores him. "But the documents were shoddy at best, and as Jack's—your father's cousin and a registered foster parent, your teacher thought it was pertinent that I was at least informed."

At that, Danny stills. Mr. Lancer? He would be the only one…

"And I want to help you, Daniel."

"Danny." Danny unthinkingly corrects, before he scowls. He was too distracted by thoughts of Lancer to keep himself in check.

"Danny," Bruce smiles, "Will you come to Wayne Manor? The other kids would be happy to have you around. The more the merrier I say!"

Danny eyes the hand offered to him. One one hand, anyone is better than Vlad. On the other hand, billionaire to billionaire isn't exactly and upgrade. Plus, Sam has always said that there was something off about the Waynes.

The rich always had a facade, but Sam was never sure why they would hide the preferable (in her opinion) part. Being seen as a smart businessman would be good for Wayne Enterprises. It's fishy that he would act so dopey, it reeks of tricking people into letting their guards down.

As far as Tuck knew, it wasn't like they were making shadey deals, so why the subterfuge?

Speaking of his friends. His chest vibrates. It's unnoticeable to the outside, but to Danny it buzzes through him. His "chest of holding" as Tucker calls it, has the burner phone Sam had gotten him ages ago, when they couldn't deny it anymore and had to make plans for Danny to flee the city.

Getting CPS called on him was not in the plan.

But then again, it's better than Vlad or the GIW.

Danny forces himself to relax, minutely and slowly, it would be suspicious if he were suddenly amiable, and takes a deep breath. He feigns having to war with himself, to weigh his pride and safety.

He reaches over begrudgingly, to Bruce's soft smile and firm handshake.

He just needs a moment. A single, solitary moment. He lets himself be led out of the room, stiff as Bruce gently guides him with a hand on his back.

The man smells of leather and machine oil. Through Danny's senses, he gets ghosts of bats in a well, in a cave, of comradery in space, of kevlar and—

Flashes of Val, smiling bright enough to match her ever present yellow tanktop, growling through the blackened visor of a red suit, sitting next to him in borrowed clothes and showing him her hoverboard as a sign of truce.

Billionaires, Danny thinks, smell of cologne and money.

They do not, Danny thinks, have polite ghosts waiting for them in the hallway, following them like silent bodyguards, tugging on their expensive shirt sleeves and smiling as if they have saved them, even in death.

Bruce Wayne, Danny thinks, is not all that he claims to be.

But it's not Danny's business if Batman wants to take Danny into his home.

What Batman wants, what Bruce Wayne wants, is irrelevant.

Danny gets in the car and watches through his periphery as a white car silently follows them to the airport.

The seatbelt sign dims with a soft ding as the plane cruises at altitude. Danny wordlessly gets up to use the bathroom, pointing towards it when Bruce hums a questioning tune.

Danny disappears the second he gets the bathroom door closed.

[woso-dreamzzz]

If You Were My Little Girl II

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Things are looking up

Alexia watches from the stands.

They're mostly empty, like almost all Barcelona B matches.

Women's football has only really started picking up steam recently but only at the top flight. The lower level leagues are still having a bit of a popularity issue.

But Alexia, for once, finds that she doesn't mind.

Because it means she can sit practically alone in the stands as she watches the home match.

A notepad sits on her lap, a pen tapping against the pages thoughtfully as she watches.

Barcelona B are good and Alexia has never expected anything different. She's seen the system at work many times as La Masia churns out players like Aitana and Pina and Jana, and more recently Vicky and Martina.

There's a reason so many clubs wants La Masia products.

They're all good players but even now, Alexia can tell a great player when she sees one.

You rise up among the crowd in the box and slam the ball into the goal, the net rippling with the force of the shot.

The best part, Alexia thinks, is that you didn't even need a moment to control the ball, hitting it in on the volley and grinning as your teammates practically dogpile you.

A hattrick in ten minutes is impressive in any league and Alexia makes another note in her notebook, humming softly to herself.

She rises out of her seat at the end of the match, disappearing into the building and out the doors.

It takes another half an hour for you to appear again, hair damp and an old crew neck sweater that Alexia's pretty sure is Alba's being tugged over your head.

You slip into the passenger seat, throwing your bag into the backseat and Alexia pulls your head down to press a kiss against the side of it.

You smile shyly at her as she offers up the fries she'd bought for a job well done.

"You did good, kid," She says," Very impressive."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. But I think we're going to work on evading slide tackles next," Alexia says as she drives off," We're trying to keep those ankles of yours intact, alright? I'm going to need them this season."

You roll your eyes and Alexia clicks her tongue.

"Don't roll your eyes at me," She says," I've got a good feeling about that meeting later in the week. A great feeling, actually. You should have one too."

"I'm managing expectations."

Alexia looks at you fondly. "Well, we'll see which one of us is right in a few days."

She lets you choose the music in the car, like she always does when you've scored a goal and you pull up to the apartment a lot quicker than you want to seeing as you're in the middle of singing along to your favourite song but, still, you drag yourself out of the car and up the stairs.

"How was the match?" Olga asks as she greets Alexia with a kiss on the lips.

"She did very well," Alexia brags," A hattrick within the first ten minutes and another goal in injury time."

"Exciting," Olga says indulgently as Alexia grins, already giving her running commentary of everything that happened during the match.

You escape though, hurrying to raid the cupboards before Alexia finally comes to her senses and tries to stop you 'spoiling' your dinner.

You don't know if there's any way to thank Alexia for what she's done for you.

Just three months ago, you were convinced that you were going to quit. You had no passion for the game, no hope of what your future was going to be but now all of that had changed.

You had direction. You had a manager. You had new boots and a place to live that wasn't a group home and support and love and everything seemed to be coming together for you.

A toe pokes you in the leg.

"Move."

"Alexia says that if you're trying to nap on her sofa again then I don't have to move," You tell Alba, who huffs and pokes you with her toe again," She also says that you have your own apartment and should stop mooching of us."

"But Olga's a better cook than me," Alba complains and you roll your eyes.

"Aren't you an adult? Even I can cook."

"Yeah but it's not like you could mooch off your sist-"

Alba falls silent quickly and you pretend to not notice what she was going to say for both hers and your own sakes.

The topic of your sister is kind of off limits when you're in the room. It's not completely banned because Alexia's still Jenni's national teammate but she's not really spoken about if you're in the room.

Alba's face flashes with terror for a moment so you pretend you don't notice her slip up ever though it sends a bolt of lightning into your stomach, a deep pit forming there.

It works for the most part, everyone in the house pretending Jenni isn't who she is to you, pretending that she's just Alexia's teammate and not her friend and ex, pretending that Alexia fostering you isn't her walking on a tight rope because Jenni doesn't know.

All Jenni knows is that you didn't quit when she told you to.

Jenni doesn't know that you live with Alexia. Jenni doesn't know anything. You doubt she even thinks about you when she's got a life far away in Mexico.

She lives there, far away from you and your life here in Barcelona.

She lives there and her presence is hardly ever mentioned around you.

Life is good at Alexia and Olga's house. Life is even good at training, though you could do without the smug little smirk Alexia has on her face when she picks you up.

"You already knew!" You accuse her, waving a finger in her face.

"Knew?" She asks, lips curl up in what can only be described as pure smugness," Knew what?"

"Right, who told you? Go on. Who was it?"

Alexia grins. "You do realise I am the captain? Any time they're looking to bring someone in, they ask me my opinion."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah and I'm sure you gave it."

"You're a good player. A great player," Alexia says," All I did was tell them what they already know."

You look down at your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. You want to be mad at her, to yell at her for keeping this from you. Maybe even yell at her for promising to the staff something you're not but you know she hasn't done that.

If she thought you weren't ready, she would have told them that.

But Alexia didn't. She didn't tell them to let you have a bit more time with the B team. She didn't tell them that you don't quite have what it takes.

"Thanks."

Alexia smiles at you as she drives home, a comfortable silence enveloping you both until your hand is on the door handle.

You stop.

"When I open this door, there's going to be a party, isn't there?"

"I may have told Olga...who told Mami...who told Alba...who told the rest of the family..."

"Is that a yes?"

"Possibly..."

"And there's no getting out of this?"

Alexia ruffles your hair, a soft kiss being pressed to the side of your head. "They're here to celebrate you."

You suck in a breath, just ready to turn the handle when the sound of the lift doors opening chimes down the corridor.

Both you and Alexia turn your heads towards.

It's just a fleeting second.

Just a moment.

But your good mood plummets as the door opens.

Alexia's hand tightens on your shoulder, pushing you slightly behind her and putting herself between you and the elevator.

Between you and Jenni.

[yieldtotemptation]

ANACHRONISM ft. Mina

mina x male reader smut

part one of strange currencies

14k words

Go ahead, try and pretend like any of this happened by accident.

Like you totally didn’t mean to charm some poor, pretty little thing; dazzle her with the wealth, the fame, the you of it all.

Have her spreading her legs for you, bunching her dress up over her thighs, serving herself up like she’s one of those ludicrously expensive banquets you frequent, pleading—

"God, I need you inside me, like, right this fucking second."

Because here’s the truth of it all, what you’ve come to realise about this woman who has never once in her entire life been reduced to something as pithy as poor or pretty or little; let alone anything short of extraordinary. This wildly successful, elegant to the point of being untouchable, and just really, really fucking gorgeous idol:

Nothing about Myoui Mina is accidental.

Even all this—her idea: showing up at your suite uninvited, leaning against the doorframe, panties hanging off her fingertips. Showing off how ridiculously drenched she is for you and how badly she wants you to do something about it.

If only these walls could talk.

“Hurry up,” she’s gritting out. Deadlocking the door behind her. Still not used to waiting for anything, apparently. “Come on, I need your cum. Anywhere you like. Just inside me. Now.”

You should be more surprised. Instead, you’re laughing. “Patience, darling.”

A step forward, pants hitting the floor, cock in hand. Running the tip of it across her folds, making it shiny with her slick, forcing this sigh from her lips.

You pause, just to make her whine. To make her give you what you really want to hear.

Mina bites her lip.

Squeezes her eyes shut.

She knows the deal.

"Please."

That word, that crack in the composure, the control that Mina is so used to maintaining everywhere else but here. It’s the thrill of it all—the challenge in the attempt. Taking someone like Mina, all perfect posture, sparkling teeth, effortless grace; and bringing her to her knees.

Figuratively speaking, mostly.

Only, her phone lights up.

You look down and see it, left abandoned on the floor somewhere in Mina’s rush to get to you. But now its glow is stark against the dark parquet, beaming with messages by the dozen. All different variations on the same question: where the fuck is she?

Her eyes flicker to the screen, then back up to yours. There's a silent conversation happening there—desire fighting with duty, lust with loyalty.

You make it easy for her.

A push is all it takes, really. Cunt yielding to your will, cock sliding into that ridiculous tightness.

She freezes.

Braces herself.

Whimpers.

“Priorities, Mina,” you grunt through it, breaching in deeper; assaulted by the heat of her cunt around you, choking each inch. “Remember, you asked for this.”

The phone keeps buzzing, panicked vibrations at your feet. Urgent messages becoming calls, flashing faces across the screen. You can see them one-by-one, see Mina’s reaction as they pop up—sighing when she sees her managers name, eyes widening when a rather flirty photo of Chaeyoung comes next, and then her entire body tensing, tightening around you at the next picture:

Her and her boyfriend, arms thrown around each other, both looking all beautiful and famous and so very much in love. The perfect couple; so picturesque it might as well have come right off a billboard.

“God, fuck,” Mina groans out, panting, breathless. “You’d think they’d—ah—just leave me alone for one—single—night—”

“Should we snap some photos? Add them all to a group chat, send them through? Let them see the look on your face and figure it out from there.” 

Mischief flashes across her eyes, mouth open to answer back with something that is no doubt clever and suggestive and designed to get you both into far more trouble than you’re already in—but she doesn’t get a word of it out.

You’re slamming into her.

Mina nearly comes apart then and there; eyes snapping shut, neck arching, back banging against the hard, unforgiving wood of the door behind her. Her lips round into this perfect ‘O’ of surprise, and this sweet, sweet needy whine comes slipping out from her throat.

And just like that, she’s all yours again. 

It’s not like the phone goes silent—it just stops mattering.

“Asshole,” she’s saying—grinning now, doing that Mina thing where she says one thing but means another, expecting you to read the underneath. Which this time is—touch me, pull me close, pin me and keep me fucking trapped while you fuck the air right out of my lungs.

“Now there’s an idea.” You’re kissing her, tongue past her lips, tasting the rush of the forbidden, the lines she’s crossing just so she can have you filling up her cunt.

And there’s all this noise—the sound of your cock thrusting into her, skin against skin, shaft into wetness; the buzzing of the phone, her cries of your name dying in your mouth.

Oh, you know it’s going to be brutal if anyone was to overhear, if you’re caught and all this gets out. The narratives that will be crafted, the cliché of it all, the sizzling hot headlines that will undoubtedly paint her, as they are wont to do, in a million different unfair ways.

Seductress. Gold-digger. Slut.

But even as you’re fucking her deep, lips marking up her skin, digging your fingers into the meat of her ass and making Mina cum so hard that all she can say is— “please, please, please,”

—you know the facts, no matter who’s begging who under the shine of the outrageously garish chandelier hanging overhead:

You're the one that chased her first.

—

(It’s incredibly fitting that this whole thing started with a celebration.)

—

Taking a step back, to months earlier, at a gala:

Where it’s becoming apparent to you, and seemingly, just you, that Mina’s the only one here that doesn’t look entirely out of place.

Or at least, she’s the only one that seems to fit amongst the grandeur; the imposing pillars and archways, the ornate cornices, the glint of gold and jade beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns, and the shadow of the palace itself, cast over the sprawling garden like a looming guardian.

The anachronism of it all is the concept, or so you’ve been told. The new, the future—your company—against the backdrop of the old, the traditional. A fusion event, meant to celebrate and honour the past right before yanking it to the future; and yet it all somehow feels so…

Boring.

The same faces, the same games; sharks in a sea of corporate sabotage and political machinations. They’ll smile for you, sing your praises to the highest heavens, do everything they can to make you remember their name—right up until the moment you show your back.

All this to say, it’s going to be very hard to last four hours without wanting to punch someone in the face just to make things slightly more interesting.

(Oh come, one and all. Throw yourselves at the feet of Korea’s youngest self-made billionaire, and hope that by some stroke of luck or misplaced charm, you might just catch a crumb from his table.

That’s what this whole exhausting circus feels like to you.)

So, when you’re about done with what seems like the hundredth round of fake laughs and vacuous pleasantries with yet another politician who’s trying to sell you on the importance of family, and coincidentally, his very marriageable daughter, you make your escape.

Something about needing a drink.

Ease out of the circle, let the noise of the gala swallow you up like you were never there, and navigate across the garden to the bar.

Where you find her.

Mina, something of an anachronism herself; looking more at home amongst the pagodas and the cherry blossoms than in the company of suits and ties and plastic smiles. Like she’s been painted onto the scene; rendered in living colour—stark white, midnight black, blue silk. Or cobalt. Maybe azure.

You’ll have to reserve some time later to ask her about the colour of her dress.  

What’s important is that she’s alone, which seems like a crime in and of itself, on account of, well, how fucking breathtaking she is. Add that she’s here at all, and it all amounts to some kind of serendipitous miracle.

(An idol, a celebrity, willingly spending her free time in the company of the elitist dregs of society? The world's gone mad.)

You don’t really need an excuse to join her; you know her, technically. Not intimately, but in that same way that everyone in this high society tapestry is threaded together. An award show here, a charity function there—the kind of acquaintance that lets you say hello without raising eyebrows, but not much more.

All this to say it makes some sense to slide yourself onto the barstool to her right, ignoring that the rest are completely unoccupied.

The smile that Mina gives you as you approach is a little sharper than it needs to be, a little too knowing.

“You’re not going to ask if this seat’s taken?”

You return the smile, a mirror image of hers, and lean onto the bar. You don’t even need to look at the bartender; your drink is in your hand, cold and crisp, the second you set it down. “I thought I’d risk it.”

“Neat trick,” Mina says, posting her chin on one hand, watching the sleek liquid slide down your throat. She’s got a flute of champagne in front of her, untouched.

There’s a gravity to her, you’re realising only when you’re this close. Something in the way the moonlight's kissing her skin, a blend of porcelain and peaches, glowing. Maybe that’s why she’s been left alone; the other guests were smart enough not to get swallowed up in it all. Better to appreciate at a distance than to drown in it.

She regards you for a beat, runs a finger around the rim of her glass. "Shouldn't you be off being the centre of attention somewhere? Shaking hands, kissing babies, that whole bag?”

“Nah," you’re dismissive, looking back out to the crowd milling about, lost in their own conversations and power plays. "This whole thing's more for them than it is for me."

Mina scoffs. Raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. You follow her eyes—across the banners, the placards, the giant projection cast onto the palace itself.

A brushstroke circle—the logo you designed—swirling around, stamping itself on what was once a symbol of absolute power, now reduced to just another stage for the rich and the elite and all their insignificant little games.

You feel the need to clarify. “For the company.”

Mina ripostes. “That just so happens to be named after you.”

“Just one of those funny coincidences.”

“Apparently so.”

It does occur to you that it should be somewhat startling how instantly familiar you feel around Mina. Slipping into casual conversation—light jabs, coded compliments; all soaked in insinuation. Just enough edge and implication to keep you on your toes.

There's an ease to her, to how she smiles, how she laughs, how she just sits there, all drop-dead gorgeous and oh, this? Nothing special, just how I always am.

So it’s only natural that somewhere in all this easy banter, between your third drink and her second, her hand lands on your forearm, your knee brushes against hers and you both decide to stop being so subtle.

You pick your moment, as she’s thumbing through a menu of drinks she’s already deciding she doesn’t want, to try to solve the mystery of her. Past the red of her lips, the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. Along the neckline of her dress, where the silk clings like it’s afraid of letting go, and down to where it dips and angles out; the open shoulder, the collarbone, the swell underneath.

It’s the sum of it all, you’re realising. The dress, the look, the woman.

(Accentuate without revealing. Tease without giving away the prize. Show off that flawless ass and dare the world not to look. And yeah, they fucking look. They all do.

You’re just the only one that doesn’t look away when you're caught.)

But now, you could reach out and touch her; unlatch the straps of her heels, run your fingers from her ankle up, up over the smooth expanse of her calf, her knee, the bare skin of her thigh right where her dress decides to daringly split, and underneath, until your hand is filled with the heat of her and all she knows is you.

You could complete her. Or she, you, you think.

Only, there’s a slight misstep in an otherwise immaculate ensemble.

A necklace.

A ridiculous, ugly, tacky thing. Hanging off her like a misplaced jewel on a swan; more ‘costume party’ than ‘refined modern gala’. Fighting the simplicity of her gown, offensively jarring, especially against the serenity of the moonlit garden.

Mina notices you staring. “A gift.”

“Boyfriend,” you realise, doing the math in your head. A careless present, given by someone who doesn’t know (or doesn’t care to know) her. Hoping the flash, the dollars spent overshadows the unfamiliarity.

(It doesn’t.)

“Partner,” Mina confirms. There’s a slight dip at the corner of her mouth, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of something unpleasant. It disappears as soon as it comes, but you caught it. “A little too old to have a boyfriend.”

“Hm.” You click your tongue. Narrow your eyes. You’ve been told that it makes you appear disarming. “And where is this partner?”

Mina’s smile returns. She takes her first sip of champagne. “You tell me. Don’t you sign off on all the invites?”

“Just the important ones.”

“Even so, not like he would have come if he was invited.” Mina leaves you to fill in the gaps. “A tad too public. For the both of us, really.”

“I see.”

And you do. You’ve seen your fair share of these types of arrangements, participated in a few, even. At the beginning, the secret of it all, the cloak and dagger; it’s exhilarating. But that only lasts so long. Eventually, like all things, it fades. Leaving you with someone who you don’t really see, who you don’t even know, and the sinking realisation that maybe the thrill was the only thing that kept it interesting. 

“So,” you lean forward, drawing your conclusion. “You’re here. All alone. Stuck in a relationship with someone dumb enough to let you go out looking like that.”

“Careful.”

“It’s just,” you offer, your gaze lingering on her throat, “You don’t strike me as the type to settle for anything less than you deserve, Mina.”

That makes Mina pause. Almost flinch. Imperceptibly if you weren’t looking so closely at her lips. The sound of her name rolling off your tongue, like it's always been there, waiting to escape—it has her reeling.

And yet, somehow, she recovers.

“Because you know me so well.”

So, you switch up, throw a curveball. “Is it the sex?”

To her credit, Mina barely reacts to that provocation, as if she was expecting the follow up. Just takes another sip of her champagne with a grace that seems rehearsed. You’ll have to try harder.

She shrugs a bare shoulder.

"Sex is just sex. It’s not everything."

“So, no sex at all, then.”

Mina’s smile is like a knife’s edge. “Are you always this forward?”

“All I’m saying,” you keep going, somewhat emboldened by the game, by the warmth of the whiskey poisoning your kidneys. “If it was me—”

Mina’s hand slides up your forearm, ending somewhere around your triceps. You’re close. Close enough to inhale her perfume; cinnamon, smoke, darker than anticipated. You’d fill your lungs with it, if you could. “If it was you.”

You take another drink. She watches.

And it clicks into place. What this really is. What she’s really doing here.

The slight tilt of her shoulder, a slip of her dress—just a fraction. A shift in her seat and suddenly, the silk has risen, too high, and there’s a stretch of skin leading up to a flash of lace that’s more moonlit than the night itself.

The suspicion sets in. Was she waiting for you?

Mina laughs.

You ask, “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking,” Mina says, lowly. Grinning, like she’s reading your mind. “How even you’re the same.”

“How so?”

“All you men. How you see me, how you’re looking at me right now.” She reaches up to her neck, taps the clunky stone hovering over her throat. Once. Twice. “Making it about you. You think I need saving.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open once more to protest—

“That’s what you think.” Mina interrupts, smirks; and your eyes are on her lips, wondering if anyone would be able to pull you off them if you were so lucky enough to taste them. “What you want is to own me.”

“Mina,” you regard her, openly. Honestly. “I could never dream of owning you.”

She nods back towards your logo, emblazoned across the castle walls. “Because you’re clearly not the type of person that likes owning things.”

And there’s a realisation here, as she’s staring into your eyes—a real, actual, bone-deep revelation—that she's been doing the same thing as you this whole time. Reading you, until she's seeing through you.

The silence stretches, thick and sweet , and it’s obvious to see where this is heading. The idea that’s being sparked—lean in, kiss her right here, right now, with all these eyes on you. Kiss that smirk right off her face, steal whatever clever rebuttals she’s composing from her lips, the flirtations that she’s left hanging in the air. Replace them all with your name.

But it’s all hypothetical, for now.

“You’re not even thinking past right now, are you?” Mina asks, amused. "The rumours you've started just by sitting next to me."

"Rumours."

"The kind that ruins careers. That never leave. That would make him want to kill you if he found out."

Another sip, letting it burn down your throat. Think about it. Attack it from every angle—

(Doesn’t it just make sense; the billionaire, and his beautiful celebrity partner? Or even if there was a scandal, just a one-night fling; wouldn’t it be worth it?

You could both live off the thrill alone, it’d reignite whatever embers her boyfriend hasn’t stomped out yet.)

“Maybe I want the rumours.”

Mina’s eyes widen. It’s the first time she’s dropped her guard.

“If you were mine,” you start, and stop immediately, reining in that last word on the tip of your tongue. “If you were my girlfriend, partner, whatever label you want to put on it. I’d tell the whole damn world. Broadcast it on every channel. Make sure everyone knows exactly who I’m fucking every single morning, afternoon, night.”

You’re hitting the mark of something, you can tell, because Mina’s hand tightens around your arm, and she doesn't seem to mind when yours lands on her thigh. A flash; the thought of spreading them, of seeing her laid bare underneath you. Or flipped over in front of you, crumpling that dress around her waist, so you can take proper purchase of that ass that’s been hinted at all night long.

And all of a sudden, she doesn't seem to be as spoken for as she might have led you to believe.

She bites her lip. Keeps it there for a second, two, before letting it go.

“So, this is what you usually say to all the pretty girls you invite to these parties?”

The alcohol’s loosened your tongue enough to state truths you’re supposed to keep to yourself. “I usually don’t have to say anything at all.”

Mina challenges. “Must be nice, being this rich, cute, and charming.”

“The being rich part does a lot of the hard work.”

“So, the cuteness and the charm?”

“I’ll let you decide,” you finish, watching her smile spread, the corners of her eyes crinkle. It makes your chest tighten.

“I suppose, in your perfect world,” Mina surmises, and now she’s so close that your knee is splitting the difference between her thighs, and you’re already planning the logistics of it all—the where, the how— “this ends with you fucking my brains out behind one of these old houses.”

“I’ve got a few in mind.”

“I bet.” Mina takes one last pull of her drink, empties it, and sets it back down. “And afterwards? After you’ve made me forget my own name and made the entirety of my existence revolve around your cock—what’s your plan then? Who are we—who are you going to be?"

You finish off your own glass, setting it down with the same deliberate clink as hers. “You know, the funny thing about money is," you say, sliding your fingers up her thigh, higher, higher. "It can make you whoever you want to be. So, the real question is—who do you want me to be?"

You’re holding your breath as she answers: “Not some knight in shining armour. I don’t need a saviour. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Then what do you need?”

Mina inches, gets close, and now her breath’s a tickle on the shell of your ear. She bites. “Just someone to help me scratch an itch.”

There’s a moment, somewhere before Mina threads her fingers through yours, lets you lead her through the throngs of guests and into the shadows of the palace; where all of this—this want, this need, boils over. Where Mina kisses your cheek and warns:

“You don’t have the time for me.”

Now it’s your turn to grin; reaching up to her throat, slipping that necklace off her, leaving it to clatter onto the granite below never to be spoken of again.

“Maybe. But I can make every second count.”

—

This is how you end up:

Pinning Mina to some ancient wall; the moon’s spotlight spilling over the contours of her body, a hand tangled in her hair, the other pushing her dress higher up her thighs.

You weren’t lying, you did have a place in mind. Namely, by the west gate, where a house that used to be the servant’s quarters stood. It’s a part of the palace that’s been neglected in the reconstruction, and thus, ironically, the most authentic part of this whole sham.

A true hideaway for those not to be seen or heard; a building that’s seen centuries of service, of lives lived in the shadow of royalty, and now it’s going to bear witness to this, to you and Mina, undoing each other with every passing second.

Something a little sacred, a whole lot profane.

She’s smiling against your lips; a smirk, more likely. Because she’s new to this kind of thing—the almost romantic picture the two of you are painting—chaste kisses stolen in quiet corners of royal residences. The kind of thing that could fuel a dozen dramas.

But you both know better.

So, you let her start things off, let her set the pace for this evening's affairs. And Mina, to her credit, is gracious enough to tell you exactly what she wants.

(Kiss me harder, touch me here, please, please, don't let go.)

Twisting the lapels of your jacket in her hand, desperately pulling you closer, even though there's no more room left. Kissing you with longing. Making you believe that she's missed this—missed you—despite the fact that you've only just officially met. And sure, it's a lie, but it's a lie that feels so good, so right, that you’re willing to indulge her.

Indulge yourself.

Your lips veer off the corner of her mouth, ignoring the tongue and teeth that try to keep you there, the hand that kindly urges you to not stop kissing her.

Because you’ve got a ticking clock in the back of your mind, counting down the seconds before someone calls you or her away, or more problematically, catches you and her, a heap of limbs and lust and fucking in the dusty archives of history.

You break away, keep things moving, kiss your way along her neck, feel her heartbeat drum against your lips. Follow her neckline down, down; find this sweet little spot, a darkened freckle right on top of her collarbone that makes her sigh.

“Tell me something, honestly.” Mina finds her voice the same time your fingers meet the promised lace of her underwear, turning her words into these breathless moans. “How often do you do this?”

You tug the fabric pooling at her waist—once, firmly—and Mina’s dress slips from her shoulders, whispering down her arms and leaving her in nothing but flawless white and a strapless bra that matches the silk in hue. 

You smile, look up. “This?”

Mina clarifies, "Whisk some innocent girl away into a deserted corner and—"

She’s cut off by the click-clack of her bra releasing behind her back, your fingers slipping beneath the cotton, and you’re filling your hand with the swell of her breast; so soft, so perfect.

The sound when you touch her and she gasps; if only you could capture, keep it forever. You’ll just have to make sure she keeps making it—kneading gently, rolling the pebbled peak of her nipple between your thumb and forefinger, feeling it bead and tighten.

Your lips to her shoulder, you ask, “And what?”

Mina sighs, “fuck her completely, thoroughly senseless,” and you swear there’s something revelatory about how she says it—sinful ideas from saintly lips.

"Honestly?" You pause, your gaze lingering on the goosebumps rising across her skin. "You're the first."

Her laughter's a surprise; it's light, disbelieving. "First?"

"First tonight."

Mina's smile widens, her grip on your jacket tightens. "You're so full of shit," she says, but there's no malice in it. Just the thrill of the hunt. Or, being hunted.

You don’t bother to argue the point; let her think what she wants. Instead, you lean into it (into her), let your other hand snake around her thigh, over the elastic of her panties and lower, until you’re palming the curve of her ass.

Firm, taut, flawless—because of course it is; exactly like the rest of her. She’s so hot under your touch; the softness, the smoothness of it. And you know—without a doubt—you’re going to worship this ass.

A squeeze for good measure—balancing the fine line of respect and greed. Mina yelps—surprise, pleasure.

“God,” Mina shudders, does her best under the assault of your lips on her neck, fingers pinching, tugging, hand squeezing. "You're—oh, you're not so bad at this."

You press a kiss to her throat. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Miss Myoui.”

“Please, not with the government names,” Mina hisses, her cheeks flushing a soft pink that matches the glow of the lanterns outside.

“Apologies.” You chuckle, slipping your hand underneath the band of her panties, and around—down—pressing against her and sinking lower until you’ve got a proper hold of her. Soaking wet and dripping heat onto your fingertips.

A cry from her lips. A shiver. A buck of her hips.

Her hands shoot to your chest.

“Please, kiss me again.”

You oblige—how could you not, with the way she’s begging?

Her nails dig into your shirt, her breath hitches as you push your finger—your index—past her entrance and inside, and just before she can moan your name into the night air, you’re filling her mouth with your tongue, licking inside.

You kiss her like it’s your first kiss, like it’s your last. Like the only way to calm her down is with your mouth and your tongue and your teeth. She’s so wet and tight and pulsing around you, she’s trying to suck you in; and fuck, when you’re knuckle-deep she bites down on your lip so hard she nearly draws blood.

The moans that she's filling your mouth with; this symphony of want sends a jolt of pure, unfiltered desire straight to your cock. You're straining—against your trousers, against her thigh, straining against the urge to rip that dress off her and leave her bare, but you're not there yet.

It's about her, about needing her, making her beg for it. Making her so desperate that she'll do just about anything to get you inside her.

(Because there’s something about her, about Mina, that just makes you want to take your time. To learn the ins and outs of what makes her tick. The secret spots that make her moan into your mouth, the places to touch that make her shiver, the sighs and sounds that only you can coax out of her.

It’s etched into every line of her body; every curve and sharp edge—just pure heat from head to toe; And there’s a beauty so absolute in her perfection, the dash of makeup, the careful draping of her hair, it’s too good not to ruin. To not want to leave your mark on her in some way so that everyone knows she was once yours, if only for a night.)

“You’re just so needy, Mina.” You hum into her jaw, when your lips slip from hers and you struggle to resist the urge to leave these marks on her. Her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. Every part of her that she’s offered to you, every part you’re eager to claim. “Like it’s been ages since someone’s touched you like this.”

“I don’t—please—” is all Mina can manage, because the pad of your thumb is ghosting over her clit, pressing in and circling, and the way her pitch rises and she sighs your name gives you your answer:

It’s been a while.

“I don’t think—gah—” She tries agin, but you torture her with another finger, stretching inside her, sinking in and curling upwards. “I don’t think I’ve ever been touched like this.”

“Good,” you tell her, and she shivers when your voice rumbles through her, when you drop down and your lips go low again, and you take one of her stiff peaks between your teeth. “I don’t settle for second place.”

“Neither do—God—I—” Mina braces herself against the wall behind her, failing to find anything but cold brick to hold onto as you map out the rest of her with your hands and your fingers and your lips.

She’s so, so hot for you; you would’ve never predicted it, not in your wildest estimations. Never thought just how easy it would be to undo someone so poised and put-together like Mina, to render her into this puddle of need.

“So why don’t you show me then,” Mina breathes, voice trembling as much as she is. You suck deep, swirl your tongue, make her arch her back to push more of herself into you. “What all the—oh my—what all the fuss is about."

“As you wish, darling.”

And there’s part of you that’s recognising the awfulness of what you’re doing, taking something—someone—that’s not yours, and having her tell you all these things, finger fucking these words of oblivion from her lips, touch me, please I need it, kiss me harder, more, more, make me feel it, make me feel you.

But even that part of you is so, so small right now, buried deep down with everything that isn’t Mina, with everything that isn’t her pussy clenching around your hand, or the taste of tits on your tongue.

Ignore all thoughts of the after, of what happens when you’ve made her cum again and again, and you’ve wrecked yourself in the pursuit of it all. What happens when you return to the throngs of nobodies, all rumpled and flushed and red, and the whispers start flying, and the glances are no longer just knowing but shamelessly envious.

That’s a problem for future you.

Right now, you’ve nearly stripped her entirely, pressed up against a wall that’s seen more than its fair share of secrets, and your two—now three—fingers are ruining her in a way that has her dancing on that borderline.

“I’m close, so close,” Mina cries, but you already know.

Because you’re already giving it to her; everything she wants and then some. Touching her, fucking her with your fingers, pushing her higher, watching her unravel.

Making her whine against your skin, making her eyes squeeze shut like she’s afraid of what’s happening, afraid of how much she wants this.

“We’re only just getting started, Mina.”

You let her nipple pop out from your mouth, leaving it to bob in the cool night air, sensitive and dying to be back between your teeth. Hand shifts from her hip, sliding up to cradle her jaw, to tip her face back—force those deep, dark eyes to open so you can really look at her.

Panting, pupils blown wide, and the sight of her so undone sends another wave of heat straight to your cock.

“Look at me.” It comes out harsher, more of a firm command than intended. It does its job. “You're going to cum now.”

She nods, frantically, eyes locked on yours as your thumb traces over her bottom lip, feeling it plump and swollen from your kisses. Her tongue darts out, swipes over the pad, tasting herself and you; and you’re thinking about filling that mouth of hers, or maybe that cunt, or if she’s game, that tight, untouched little asshole.

But one thing at a time.

“I’m going to eat your pussy,” you’re saying everything you’ve dreamt of saying to her since you first saw her, first caught sight of that ass daring to wander past your line of sight; and suddenly, every raw, filthy thought you’ve had of her is coming to the surface. “Then I’m going to fuck you. Again and again. Your cunt, your mouth. That ass. I’m going to take it all. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you, darling?”

Mina breathes, nods, signing a verbal contract to let you do whatever the fuck you want with her, promising you all of her, every part of her you’ve so shamelessly craved.

“Good.”   

And so, you drop to your knees.

You glance up at her. She looks down at you.

Like she’s been burning for this; like she’ll combust if you make her wait a second longer.

Pushing her dress up until it's around her waist, keeping it up with your hands on her thighs, spreading her legs wider. And you’re seeing her pussy, the darkened, plump flesh—bare, wet, begging—and so, so pretty.

Fuck—what kind of guy could resist this?

(The kind that buys her jewellery without knowing the first thing about her. The kind that leaves her to sit alone at a gala like a trophy on a shelf. The kind that doesn’t get to taste her—doesn’t know how.

The kind that’s not you.

And maybe she was right—you do think you could save her.)

“What are you doing?” Mina huffs, impatient.

You smirk, unable to resist the urge to drag this out, to keep her on edge a little longer. "Just appreciating."

Mina's eyes narrow, but the smile never leaves her lips. "Well, appreciate faster."

You don’t need to be told twice.

Take her by the hips, spin her around, make her inhale—sharp. Force her to look away from you, to face the cold, indifferent wall, to brace herself.

“Wait, why—”

“Hold your dress up for me,” you mumble against her thighs.

Mina’s hands obey, holding the silk out of the way; and now she’s bent over, like a fucking present. Letting your eyes drink in her ass; unable to do anything but just stare.

How the moonlight kisses the curve, makes the shadows play against it. So perfect. So round and tight and full. Fruit so ripe you could pluck it from the tree with your teeth.

You’re leaning in, kissing the top of her thighs, right below where her cheeks spill over. Kissing up, a soft press of your lips to one cheek, the other, and fuck Mina’s trembling; barely holding it together, and you’re just getting started.

You drag your nose up, across the cotton of her panties and inhale her deep. Sweet and musky, a fine wine that’s been left to breathe, and she squirms.

Shivers under your breath.

And when Mina sighs something that sounds suspiciously like a warning—because she’s not the type to let you get away with anything like this so easily—you take the band of her underwear with your teeth, feeling the fabric stretch. Thin, delicate, begging to snap.

The panties fall away, down to her ankles. The sound of her heels tapping the ground as she lifts her legs to let it slide off, leaving her bare, vulnerable, and yours.

Mina goes still.

Hands spread her cheeks, and finally, you dive in, tongue first. Swipe along the crevice of her ass, taste the sweetness of her from bottom to top, forcing this gasp from her lips. You’re not shy about it—no room for anything close to it when your nose is pressed up against her asshole—and Mina’s thighs are trembling, muscles in her legs tightening like she’s trying to run away from what’s coming next.

But she won’t. You’ve got her pinned. You’ve got her right where she wants to be.

You flatten your tongue against her pussy, lick from cunt to asshole in one, long slow drag, make her sigh your name like it’s a prayer.

“I can’t believe—I never—no one’s ever—” She’s talking, trying to keep it together, trying to rationalise how something so filthy is making her fall apart in a million different, tremendous ways. But the words break off into moans, pure music to your ears.

“Like that?” You murmur against her skin, words disappearing into her.

“Oh my god, yes,” Mina cries out, a benediction. Her grip tightens on her dress, holding it up like a veil. A fucked-up kind of thing, marrying her cunt to your lips; arousal so potent you’re drowning it.

Because she’s a wreck, been a wreck since the moment you laid a hand on her. And now you just have to keep her there.

You let your tongue slide up and down her slit, teasing the folds, going lower, spreading her legs to lap up her clit until she’s begging for it—until she’s begging for you to push inside, to fuck her with it, to make her scream.

"Enjoy it, enjoy being so messy for me.”

"Oh—oh my God!" Mina cries out as you delve into her, and the sound echoes down empty corridors, bouncing off the walls, taking a grand tour of the palace. “I can’t believe—can’t fucking believe—"

You can't believe it either. That no one else has had the pleasure of tasting, of licking, of dining on this slice of Eden laid out before you. It's a crime against nature, really. A sin that you're more than happy to rectify.

"Fuck, you're so good," Mina voice is strained, her legs buckling under the weight of her own desire, she needs to post one hand onto the wall to not completely collapse into your mouth.

A dark chuckle escapes your lips. Feeling smug and utterly in control. "It's not rocket science, darling. Just a little bit of appreciation goes a long way."

But you're not just tonguing her ass because it’s there, because it’s what you’re into. You’re doing it because it’s driving her wild, because you know it’s a button that’s been left untouched, unexplored. And there’s something about being the first to do it that makes your cock throb, makes you want to worship not just her ass, but all of her.

Every part of her that's been neglected, overlooked, ignored.

"You have no idea," she breathes, her legs trembling harder now, "How good it feels."

You lean back, just a fraction, looking up at her, the tension coiling up her spine. "Oh, darling," you say, "I do. Believe me, I do."

A kiss into the small of her back, and you slide your finger back into her, once at first. So impossibly wet, stretching so easily for you, welcoming you right back in.

It’s all for you.

And you can’t get enough, so you add another, then another, stretching her even more, making her drench you and moan for you louder and louder.

You’ve figured it out. How to fuck her, lick her, press into her cunt just right. Finding the rhythm, that makes her breath skip and her body tense, that makes her pussy clamp down around your digits.

“Oh, God, oh, oh, oh—yes—right there—right there—” She’s panting, her hips jerking back, meeting every thrust of your fingers and your tongue.

You’re so close to making her cum—so close that you can almost taste it on the air—and she’s begging for it, so sweetly, so desperately.

“Please, please, don’t stop, I’m right there—” Mina’s hand reaches back, tangling in your hair, and she’s pulling you closer, grinding herself against your mouth.

Bury your face between her cheeks, fuck her fast with your fingers. It’s heaven down in the depths of hell; her thighs, her cheeks, her cunt, her ass. So soft, so wet, so very yours.

That whimper, that beautiful sigh that escapes Mina’s lips is her final invitation. You push your tongue inside her, opening it up, feeling the tightness, the warmth. The shock coursing through her as she surrenders to the unspeakable filth and bliss of your mouth on her asshole.

So tight, so clean, so delicious.

You lick and suck and kiss, fucking her with your fingers, pressing into her, exploring the depths of that tight little hole.

"This is, this is—” her voice strains, wonder, desperation, downright heat at what you’re doing to her. "No one’s ever done this to me. Keep eating my ass, please."

It’s her words that keeps you going, and it all becomes a blur of moans and shivers, of the way she tastes, smells, feels. But you don’t stop, you can’t, all you want to do is make that tight ring of muscle yours.

“Please let me cum. Now. Please. I need it—I need you—”

She needs you to never stop.

You take her, right there in the moonlit garden, hidden by the shadows and the foliage and the silk of her dress. You can almost feel the vibrations of her voice in your mouth, against your tongue, like it’s a part of her, like she’s speaking straight into your soul with every moan and gasp and plea.

The squelch of your fingers fucking her. Her cunt griping you, being devoured. Your tongue invading her ass. The way you’re ruining her for everyone else. Her cries.

She’s so loud.

It doesn’t matter.

The whispers of the gala seem so far away, so irrelevant. It’s all about Mina and her ass and your three fingers sawing in and out of her and she’s saying—

“God, fuck, how can you do this, how can you make me—fuck—"

The answer to her unfinished question: it’s because she’s worth it. It’s because of her, how she makes you want to prove yourself. Because of her hips and her thighs and her cunt and her ass and all of her, every single part.

And that’s your name on her breath, that’s your name when she’s close, that’s your name when she finally tips over, when her legs give way and she’s gasping it into the night.

“Oh my—”

Mina cums.

You swallow.

Drink your fill from her cunt, fill up your nose with her scent. Burn the memory of what it’s like to have your face buried in her ass and have her leaking down your chin. It’s a full body spasm that wracks through her, setting her soul on fire. She’s a star, a supernova, a fucking explosion on your tongue.

Her walls pulse around your fingers, squeezing, clenching, and you give it to her, keep fucking her through it, keep licking, because she’s still there, still hovering.

It overwhelms her—she lets it—you feel her body tighten, quiver, then release like a bowstring snapped.

“Fuck me, fuck me, please—yes, like that—right—right there—yes—yes—yes—”

A chant of yeses right before falling off a cliff and into an oh fuck, I’m cumming.

And you’re right there, knees in the dirt, smiling against her cheeks, holding onto her hips, making sure she doesn’t collapse entirely.

And fuck, she goes, and goes and goes.

Until the ground falls beneath her feet.

You’re there to catch her, to ease her down to the ground with you, hold her in your arms until her world stops spinning.

It takes a moment, two.

And she looks up at you, like she’s unsure of how she got there, in this tangle of sighs and limbs and you. But it doesn’t really matter because she pulls you closer, hand still buried in your hair, needing to kiss you just one more time.

Her taste lingers on your tongue—sweet and salty and so uniquely her. She kisses you again, a little less frantic this time. A little more like she means it.

It’s hard not to feel anything but pride.

Mina’s cheek is pressed to your chest, her eyes barely able to focus, her breaths coming in quiet, contented puffs.

And you’re coming to realise what kind of woman Mina is. Even now, when she should be an unrepairable mess—sprawled out on the cool floor with her dress in a puddle around her, her pussy still pulsing and leaking down her thighs—there’s this poise to her that’s downright intimidating.

She breathes, “You’re just a fantasy, aren’t you?” It feels like a warm hand sliding down your spine.

You lean down, kiss her forehead, tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.

And then your emergency line rings.

Mina inclines her head. A spell is broken. “Well, that’s timing for you.”

You instantly regret the next words that come out of your mouth, the rational words that have never sounded more irrational. “I need to go.”

Mina’s far too polite, far too graceful to say what she wants to say, what you’re pleading her in your mind to say. But she knows the game. You both do.

She just nods, rewards herself with a peek at the tent angrily poking underneath your slacks.

“It’s fine,” she says. (It’s not). She reaches up to your lips, running a thumb over the gloss she’s stained you with. “I think I can handle it from here.”

Her other hand slips down to your thigh, gives you a courtesy squeeze as a farewell, and it’s all you can do not to jump. But you can’t, because the phone’s still ringing, because at the end of the day you’re still a billionaire with responsibilities and a reputation to uphold.

She’s kind of enough to give you an out. “You’re supposed to be giving a speech, right?”

Said responsibility and reputation has you answering, “Yeah.”

You’re stupid for it, stupid for even entertaining the idea of letting her go, or leaving her behind. But you’re not completely blameless—it’s near impossible to even think straight when all the blood in your body has gone south for the evening.  

“Are you going to be okay with,” Mina blinks down at you. “Your situation?”

It’s painful to even say it. “I guess I’ll have to be.”

Mina sits up, pulls herself off you, untangling her legs with a grace that seems almost otherworldly.  Pulls her panties back up, tucks them into place with a little shiver. Smooths her dress down, twisting it back in place.

You’re already regretting letting her leave before she’s even gone.

But the messages have piled up on your phone, and Mina can see it all, the endless frantic texts, the missed calls.

You’re late.

You’re needed.

The world’s waiting.

Mina reads your face, and you can’t tell if she’s impressed or disappointed. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

You stand up, help her to her feet, because that’s what you do—you take care of your own messes. She’s still smiling at you, and you want to tell her how much you wish you could stay.

“It’s okay,” is all she says, as you tuck your shirt back in and slick your hair down.

She’s redoing her own hair, trying to fix it into something presentable. Something less ‘I’ve been fucked raw against a brick wall’ and more ‘gee, quite a strong wind tonight’.

“I knew from the jump you didn’t have the time.”

You’re blurting out, “I can make more.”

“Not even money can buy that.”

Your phone rings again.

Mina’s eyes follow the screen, the glow lighting up her face. Ethereal. Yeah, that's the word for how she looks. You've never been sure of the definition but you're certain it fits.

And when she stands on her toes to kiss your cheek, to bid you farewell, she holds onto your shoulder long enough to whisper her address in your ear. “I’ll be waiting. If you can get away.”

“Why don’t I just come with you now?”

She laughs—but it’s empty, almost a little sad. “Because, you have a job to do, and I have an appearance to keep up. And unlike you, I’m not quite sure I’m ready to broadcast to the whole world who I’m fucking. Or who I’m going to fuck. If he’s not late, that is.”

And with a quiet breath, she’s gone.

A ghost in the moonlight, slipping away like she’s been painted out of existence, leaving you with the memory of her on your mouth and the ache she’s leaving in your cock.

You turn back to the gala.

The air feels somewhat colder.

—

The rest of the evening goes far, far too slowly for your liking.

While your absence has been noted, the whispers and glances are more curious than concerned. They don't know where you've been, and one of your assistants is kind enough to fetch you a new shirt to replace the one that's smudged with lipstick and makeup and Mina, before any real juicy rumours can start.

You try, and fail, to get things moving as quickly as possible:

(A business rival pulls you aside to congratulate you on the recent product launch—You're just thinking about Mina's ass.

A board member sings your praises about last quarter’s earnings, how you're really sticking it to those idiots that forecasted a downturn—You're only thinking about sticking it between Mina's thighs.

A reporter that sneaked in wants to know if you're planning another acquisition so soon after the last one—Yes, you're going to acquire Mina; find somewhere far away from here with another wall to pin her against and make her scream and ache all over for you.)

Thankfully, your assistant is at the ready before you can really make a scene, dragging you over to the stage and pulling you out of this shit show.

‘Just stepped away for some air’ is what you had assured her when she took the shirt off your hands, but really, there's no point trying to hide it.

She's seen that look before, that glow that you can't quite wipe off.

But she's loyal, she doesn't ask questions. Just tells you that you’re on in five, and that in the meantime, she’ll make sure the driver is ready for a quick exit.

So, you force yourself to smile, address the faces that meld together into a wall of teeth.

Make a speech that’s just a rush of words that you've recited countless times before. Innovation and growth, the future of the company, the same spiel from the annual report wrapped up in a shiny new bow.

But none of it matters. You're not even hearing yourself speak. You're hearing the echoes of Mina's moans, feeling the tremble of her thighs as you devoured her, replaying her orgasm in your mind again and again.

You can't wait to get off this fucking stage.

The second the applause dies down, you're off like a shot. The podium forgotten; the spotlight cold on your back. You grab your phone and slip out of the garden, dodging the eager hands that reach out for just a second of your time.

You find your driver waiting, just as instructed; Mina's address already punched in the navigation.

Just go, drop me off. Don't stick around. I'll call you to pick me up in the morning.

—

“It was cerulean,” is Mina’s amused answer to your admittedly idiotic question.

Not your best moment, to be fair. You raced up to her apartment so quickly that you really didn’t have anything more intelligent to say than ‘what happened to your dress?’ and ‘I wanted to know what colour it was’.

But still, show you the person living or dead that could have said anything coherent when being greeted by Mina, opening the door to her apartment—so unashamedly smug, and so very naked.

So what if you just stood there and stared?

Stared at the curves and dips, the way her hair cascades over her shoulders in inky waves, damp from a shower; making it cling to her skin, drape over her collarbone, her breasts. The nipples peeking straight at you, dusky, pointed, waiting the return of your tongue. Her pussy winking between her thighs, a treasure hidden in a sea of smooth flesh.

You don’t know whether to apologise for your lack of eloquence or thank her for being so incredibly distracting.

You kind of want to request that she turn around.

Mina laughs at what is certainly a stupid expression colouring your face; folds her arms across her chest, crosses one leg over the other. "Waiting for me to offer you a drink?"

You blink. “Thought you already gave me one.”

She scrunches her nose, answers, “I was only being polite.”

“I think we’re well past that.”

There’s that gravity again; shifting around Mina, tilting the world towards her until she’s pulling you into her apartment and you’re kicking the door closed behind you.

“Then hurry up and take me upstairs.”

—

There’s a part of you that feels like you should warn Mina when she tells you:

“Look, you’ve kept me waiting too fucking long. I need your cock, your cum inside of me. Right now. Before it’s too late and I change my mind. So, just please, please, please—”

But those kind of thoughts are lost halfway up the staircase; when you both decide that you just can't wait anymore, and your hands are back on her hips and your tongue is pushing into her throat.

Her fault, really.

Stripping you down the hallway, leaving a trail of your clothes through her kitchen; taking you by the cock. Firm, confident pumps as she leads you through her penthouse, refusing to give you a moment to breathe.

Because she’s obsessed with it. Obsessed with how it fills her hand, how it jumps at her touch, how it throbs when she squeezes it, strokes it.

“So big for me," Mina's says—to you, to herself, to your cock. "So perfectly, impossibly, big for me."

You’re never going to make it to the top.

Pressing her up against the banister, kissing her, hard. Deep, bruising kisses, because now that you’re out of the garden you don’t give a fuck if you’re leaving marks.

You just want her to remember this night, to feel it in every pulse and every breath.

Make her think of you when she’s with him, if she can even go back to him after this. Because you’ll both know that she’s yours even when she’s not.

“You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

You look into Mina’s eyes. You can see it all, how the rest of the night will play out. You and Mina, tangled in her apartment. You and Mina, on top of the kitchen island. You and Mina, against the shower walls, on the living room floor, maybe even on the balcony.

You and Mina, until the sun rises.

You kiss her harder. “Is that a request?”

“Of course it is.”

Because now you actually have the time to appreciate her, to let your hands wander.

They glide over her body, mapping it out again, but slower this time. You've had your fill of the frantic touches, the greedy need. This is something else. This is savouring.

You start with your thumb at her navel, tracing the line down to her hips, then back up against to the base of her ribcage. It’s the feel of the muscles in her stomach tensing and relaxing as you touch her, the inhale and the exhale. How ridiculously tiny her waist feels in your hand, how your palm fits so perfectly into the curve of her side that you swear she’s been tailored for you.

Mina chokes on her breath as she tells you, “You’re going to have to stop, or we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”

You don’t even slow down. You just don’t care.

Your hand rises, higher, finds her breasts again; cupping it in your palm. A thumb rolls over her nipple.

You pinch. She gasps.

You smile into her neck. “So, so, sensitive.”

Mina’s so willing, so keen to give herself over to you, to your touch. You’ve proven yourself to her already, made her cum with just your fingers and tongue. Now it’s just a matter of doing it all over again—but slower, better, more thorough.

You palm her breasts, rolling and pinching them until they’ve been given the attention they deserve, until she’s panting through your teases and caresses. Kneading the soft flesh beneath your hand and making her arch into your touch.

“You’re really going to take your time, aren’t you?” Mina mewls, half-sigh, half-plead. Grinding herself into you, making a shimmering mess on your waist. “Going to torture me until I can’t breathe.”

“It is your fantasy.”

Pull her closer, take a handful of that perfect ass once again. It hasn’t really been that long since you last had it in your hands but it’s all you’ve had on your mind. What it looks like under proper lighting, what it feels like without the dress in the way. What kind of noises will she make when you grope, and she doesn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing.

Press and squeeze, dig your fingers into her flesh. Not rough, but firm. Leaving little spots of red that will be gone by the morning.

Slide your finger down, down between her cheeks, and deeper, pressing into the sweet heat of her ass.

And then you feel it.

Her asshole. Wet and slick. Prepared.

A wink. A laugh. "Not my fault you're predictable."

You can’t fucking wait anymore.

She’ll just have to settle for the staircase.

Grab her by the hips—her ass, and pull her down with you onto the steps, her legs straddling you as you sit down.

Take her in—all of her. The curve of her, the line of her spine, the fucking paradise that’s her cheeks. Unbelievable.

You kiss into her back, follow down that trail right to where it swells, feeling the heat of her skin against your lips. You’re going to ruin this ass; permanently plant your flag there, mark it as property of you and your cock until she can’t take a seat without cursing your name.

Mina's shoulders tense when you pause, and she looks back over to you. There's a flash of nerves in her eyes, a gasp of "Here?" that's so faint you almost don't catch it.

Another kiss into her skin, you murmur, “Here’s perfect, Mina,” and she sighs when your finger presses against that puckered ring, cold with lubricant, made as ready as she’s ever going to be.

It’s the preparation that gets you; the idea of her in anticipation for you, for this, making sure she’s nice and primed. Mina at the store, still wearing that dress, fresh from her orgasm, buying lube. Mina in her bathroom, stripping herself bare, toying with her asshole, making it perfect for you.

And Mina, now, eyes clenched shut, breaths heavy as your digit is pushing through, slipping into her, and she’s so fucking tight around it.

“Oh my god,” she hisses through her teeth, a quiver in her legs as you push deeper into her tight channel.

Your hands shoot to her thighs to steady her, a reassuring anchor to keep her from toppling over as your finger fills her completely, twisting and turning, slowly but surely easing her into the idea of being taken.

It’s the moans that get you, the sighs as you intrude inside her. She’s so responsive, her breaths skipping and her pussy already starting to gush, coating your finger, your thighs, the steps below.

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah—yes,” Mina stutters, her footing slips just so, but she catches herself on the banister. “It’s—it’s intense. So intense. But don’t stop, I can take it. I want—I want more. I need this. I need this now, before—before I take all of you inside of me."

“You want more?” You repeat her words, before giving her what she needs—adding a second finger, pressing them in deep, making sure she’s good and open. The lube helps, but it’s the eagerness that gets her most of the way there; it’s that trust that she has in you, her willingness to let you take her here, in this way.

“Yes, please,” Mina cries, doing everything she can to not collapse on top of you, to not come completely apart.

You’re merciless, adding a third finger, stretching her until she’s panting, until she’s crying out, making this noise, this hushed whimper that takes the shape of your name.

“Please, please, please,” Mina whispers to herself, pushing back against you, starting to rock back onto your hand, taking your fingers into her ass.

“Not yet, Mina, not yet,” you tell her, because even though she’s close, even though she’s begging, you want her to be absolutely fucking desperate for your cock when the moment comes. 

You reach around her with your other hand, finding that button, already swollen and begging for attention. Playing with it, gently at first, a soft pressure to help her let go, to allow herself to let her voice echo up the staircase and through the penthouse.

God, how is she this sensitive, reactive to every little touch, to every exploration of her cunt, her ass, her body.

It’s the ceremony of it all; this lurid, obscene ritual that you’re walking her through. Making her ass bounce on your hand in this hypnotic movement, making her stretch around your fingers, making her repeat your name over and over until she’s convinced herself that all of her belongs to you.

These perfect, near-silent sighs. This unbelievable tightness. Mina’s body, turning itself into a fucking playground for your touch; to do with it as you will. Even if it means ruining her.

And it’s when you have her creaming all over you; down her thighs, making a mess of herself with these pushes and pulls, these declarations of how ready she is for you, that her body shakes with one last, long shiver.

She cums.

Softly, soundlessly, another cry of your name dying on her lips. A hand to your wrist to stop you abruptly, panting.

Tiny, tiny shivers, twitches in her thighs, around your fingers, leaving her barely there, barely with you. Head hanging low, chest heaving, catching her breath, putting herself back together again.

Time stretches before she's cognisant again, and she turns back, looking over her shoulder and straight at you. Eyes half-lidded, hazy, dripping with lust, anticipation, burning with need.

Deep, heavy breaths. And then Mina says the most devastating thing:

“I’m ready. Fuck my ass. Now. Please.”

A gunshot in the quiet of her home, rumbling through your bones.

Your fingers leave her ass, her cunt with a wet pop, forcing a whine from her throat at the sudden emptiness. A look at her asshole, how it clenches and unclenches, beckoning for you to fill it, to claim it as your own.

“Good girl.”

Holding her by the hips, lining her ass with your cock, nudging her opening with your tip and making her shiver. You don’t go in immediately; you hover, giving her one last out, to really see if she’s absolutely certain.

Mina trembles. Nods. That’s all the invitation you need.

“God, I—”

You push in, slow and steady, eyes on her ass as she takes you. So fucking tight, so intense, you can feel every part of her squeezing, accommodating you, moulding itself around your girth and swallowing you whole.

“Take it slow, darling, take it slow,” you whisper into her skin, guiding her down, telling her how good she’s doing, how good she is for you, how much you love her tightness, her trust.

It seems impossible at first, the grip she has on you, like you’ll never get in. But inch by agonising inch, she takes you, and it’s nothing short of total heaven.

Mina, so fucking beautiful in this moment of raw vulnerability; all sharp inhales and strained quivers wrecking through her, voice shaky as she tells you, “I’ve never felt anything like this, I never thought—fuck—I never thought I could take anything like this.”

“You’re doing so good,” you kiss your words into her, wrapping your arms around her, holding her.

“I can—I can do better,” she gasps, and you believe her.

But you still go slow, so painfully slow, even though every fibre of your being is screaming at you to just dig into her hips and slam into that glorious fucking ass and never look back.

“I can take it,” Mina breathes, “Do it, I can take it. I want all of you. In my ass. I can handle it.”

Mina nods, clenches her ass, her cheeks firming up around your throbbing cock.

“I want it to hurt so good.”

No more convincing required. You push in deeper, make her back stiffen, her muscles contract, making her cry.

It’s a dance, a delicate ballet of bodies, of breath and touch, of your cock inside Mina’s ass. Lost in it, in the feel of skin on skin, the sound of wet, needy noises that she’s making, her shudders in your arms.

Until finally, with a strangled gasp, she’s fully seated. You’re buried in her tight, hot ass, basking in the warmth of her, leaving you both winded and struggling for air.

Stillness overrides the moment, because it’s too perfect, too overwhelming, and the feeling. You need to get used to the feeling.

You break the silence first. “Mina?”

“I know. I know.”

A kiss against her neck, scraping the soft skin there. A whisper in her ear, your breath hot and ragged.

“I’m going to fuck your ass now.”

You always keep your promises.

Mina answers by leaning back into you, her hand finding yours, her nails running along your fingers as if to say, “Yes, please, now.”

Moving, so slow it’s almost painful. The drag of her ass around your cock like nothing you’ve ever felt before—like you’re sliding through warm, velvet-covered steel.

“Fuck, yes, please,” with every inch you pull out, and “Too much, so good, too fucking much,” when you push back in, deeper and deeper still.

It builds and builds, this sweet agony, each pass in her ass faster, harder, turning Mina’s cries and wails into moans of pure bliss. It takes time and long, hard fucking for her body to relax into this rhythm, letting you take her, own her.

A vision above you, sweat glistening on her back, hair matted and sticking to her shoulders, and Mina’s ass, a snug ring around your cock. You watch as your cock slides out of her, the way her ass clenches around the head, holding on for just a second before pushing all the way back down.

You can’t help but groan, “Christ,” as she moves on top of you like that. So gracefully, so beautifully, so fucking obscenely on your cock.

“Thank you—God—thank you, thank you, thank you.” Mina’s moans are pure music to your ears, she’s babbling, talking through the pain, through the pleasure. “So, so good, filling me like—fuck—never been filled up like this.”

And as you push on, push further and further until your cock is melting inside her, burning her up in every way she's ever dared to dream, you can see the smile curling onto Mina’s face. It’s pride, you’re realising. Proud of herself, proud of how she can take you, how she can handle this kind of depraved ecstasy.

“It feels so deep.”

Tearing her open. Revealing the tender, delicate core beneath the glamour, the lights, the unreal beauty that is Mina. Leaving her sobbing, pleading, whining for more, more, more.

Bouncing on you now, each more assured than the last, cries of nothing but need. Opening up to accept you fully, completely, her ass a tight fucking sleeve for you, coming down and wrapping itself around you like a searing hot second skin.

You know the truth, but you still want to hear it.

“How many?”

Mina has her answer ready: “You’re the—you’re the first.”

You grin. A smug, triumphant baring of teeth that spreads from ear to ear. “I have no fucking idea how that’s possible. How nothing has ever been up this tight, perfect little asshole.”

“Oh, there's been toys,” Mina moans, strained and shaky as you pump into her, “But you’re just the first that's real.”

“Then your boyfriend is a fucking idiot,” you growl into her ear, your hand moving to her throat, gently clasping, making her gasp, making her eyes go wide with shock, with excitement. “He doesn’t know what he has.”

“Enough about my boyfriend,” Mina's quick to answer, snapping, her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. “Even though—even if—he wouldn’t, couldn’t dream of filling me like this. Filling me up so much that it hurts, so much that—fuck, it feels so right, so fucking right—”

“You love this, don’t you, Mina?” You ask, but all Mina can do is nod vigorously, too overrun by the fucking to form words. “Underneath it all, you’re just a dirty slut for it, aren’t you? Letting me use this pretty, tight ass like this.”

“I—” she stutters, right before confessing, “I love it.”

She slams her hips down on you, the stairs groaning with each thrust, not built to withstand this kind of punishment.

“I love that it’s you, love that you’re the first. I can’t believe it—just—I need it. I need your cock in me, so deep—I need you, I need you, I need you—so please don't stop.”

“I would never dream of stopping.”

Never.

Not when she’s begging like this, her voice hoarse and her body quaking. When she sighs and shivers every time you fuck a little faster, push a little harder, testing just how much she can take.

Tits jiggling with every thrust, cunt leaking all the way down your thighs, ass puckering and loosening.

Her whole body, yours.

Yours for the taking. Mina’s divine body, in all its sharp planes and ridged muscles, squeezing and coiling at every juncture, every penetration setting her alight.

You declare it, even though it doesn't need to be said. “Made for me.”

“Yes,” she’s nodding. Or rather, letting her head fall into one. “God yes.”

“Just been waiting for me for so long, haven’t you? Been waiting for the right cock to come along and split you in half.” You’re saying these things, these stinging words that you fuck into Mina, send shooting through her like sparks. She’s a live-wire, a fucking blackout waiting to happen.

Weeping down her thighs, choking out every whine, “Yes,” she whispers, “yes, yes, yes, been needing to be ruined. Needing it, needing you. So much, so much, so—fucking—right—”

“Fucking criminal that you had to wait,” you’re saying, loving this, so enraptured by all of it. “But I’m here now.”

Mina shivers, pussy clenches, and she just can’t stop saying, “Yours, yours, yours—”

Completely, totally yours, now.

You know it. She knows it.

It’s written in the way she takes your cock, in the way she loses herself to you, loses all semblance of composure and decorum, peels back all the carefully curated layers that make her Mina, until all there is to see and touch is the raw, unfiltered need that you’ve unleashed from underneath.

"Touch me, fuck me, take me, take my ass, I need more—"

Again, your fingers find her folds, sticky and swollen and waiting.

You touch her, press down on her clit. Circling it with the same rhythm as your hips. Striking a match in a dark room, lighting up her body in this blaze.

The noises that it all makes; the slosh of your fingers at her cunt, the squelch of your cock invading her ass, so fucking explicit, so fucking filthy. 

She’s erratic, breath catching, throat pulsing against your fingers, and she somehow, impossibly, clenches even more around you, suffocating your cock with just her tight, tight ass.

You keep that same tempo. That desperate, fucking unyielding beat that’s going to make her come, going to turn this idol, this mystery, this drop-dead fucking gorgeous woman who should belong to someone else but is now screaming proudly just how much she’s yours, into nothing but a trembling mess of whimpers and whines.

“More, fuck—oh my god, oh my fucking god—it’s so fucking good—so good—so fucking good—”

She’s reaching her peak—her voice, her body, her cunt, her ass—all of her reaching that perfect crescendo of pleasure that you’ve been orchestrating, that you’ve been waiting for.

“I’ve never—no one’s ever—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Sinking into her, making her feel like she’s being torn apart and remade with every stroke, making her feel nothing like she’s ever felt before, making her feel like nothing but your fucking whore.

So, so close, barrelling towards it now, all these tears running down her cheeks, these filthy words slipping from her lips. Coming apart in your arms, because she’s never been this filled, this complete.

“Going to—going to cum—fuck me, harder, harder—going to cum all over your cock—” Mina tells you, a warning, the last one you get before she screams, “Too good—filling me—so good—give it to me—God—I can never go back—”

She shatters. Monumentally.

Into a million tiny pieces of pleasure, each one more brilliant than the last.

Her body spasms, her ass squeezes so fucking tight around your cock that you can feel the orgasm ripping through her, up her spine, through her throat, until she’s crying out and it’s hitting your ears—

“Oh my God, I'm going to—just, say my name—please, say my name when I—”

“Mina,” you say, and she cums.

“Mina,” you repeat when her pussy floods over your hand, ass smothers your cock.

“Mina,” again when it ripples across her skin, leaves her in fits, uncontrollable quakes, consumed by pure, unfiltered joy.

You watch the whole thing—watch her scream your name, watch her shake and quiver and fall apart, right there on your cock; and you're fucking her through it all, fucking her well past it, chanting “Mina” over and over again.

You'll never forget this, never forget this sight—this woman, this star, built up and broken down just for you.

“Mine,” you bite into her ear, because now, it’s true.

Mina’s barely there, eyes glassy, hand cradling your face. But she’s able to say it, because it’s branded into every bone of her body: “Yours.”

It’s a complete disaster.

And now you're cumming.

Brand new sensations, devastation in full measure—your soul ripped from your chest, until all that’s left is this impulsive, overwhelming need to give her your all, your everything—to fill her entire existence with just you.

You drive your cock into her once more, impaling her deep, and let go.

It floods her, rushes inside her, spills and spills.

Mina can't do anything but feel it—every pulse, every spurt. She throws her head back, her mouth open in this silent plea, satisfaction painted across her face as your heat surges inside her. Her ass milks you, needy for every drop, so, so thirsty for it.

“It's—cumming inside my ass—so, so nice, keep cumming for me.”

You hold onto her, throb inside her, pump ropes into her, and there's a kiss—hot and clumsy—somewhere in the midst of it all, your mouths colliding and tongues wrapping around each other in a futile attempt to last just that little bit longer.

Getting all dizzy and spellbound, floating back down to the ground as the last waves of your climaxes start to subside, until one of you says, “Thank you,” and the other echoes it back.

You stay like that, swallowed up inside her, dripping out of her ass. Lowering one hand from her throat, rising the other from her pussy, pulling her into an embrace, keeping her as close as you can while you both try to put yourselves back together.

It’s sex that soaks the air, fills the penthouse—sweat, lube, the musk of all the evidence you're leaving behind. Intoxicating, breathing it in, setting your nerves alight, rousing your cock inside her all over again.

But Mina, she’s a stunning catastrophe, torn asunder in all the best ways. Perfection not marred, but made better. Completed. Looking up at you with wonder, with gratitude, with a smile.

You look down at her and admit it, “Perfect.”

Mina laughs out loud, “Disastrously perfect.”

“This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

You kiss her once more.

Mina kisses you back.

“Only if we make it one.” 

—

You think you can read her mind.

And she, yours.

It’s the only way any of this makes sense—how perfect you fit together, how well you read each other; fill each other’s needs without use of any words outside of curses and names and strangled pleas.

Printed onto your DNA, carved into your bones, these exact pathways you shape through her home and into her skin.

You do make it to the bedroom, somehow.

And then, exactly as predicted:

The shower, where Mina takes you into her mouth, gags herself around you, covers herself in your cum before letting the water wash it all away.

Then the kitchen, polishing off a bottle of wine, slurring promises into Mina’s cunt, having her rake the back of your scalp and scream the same promises back into your ears.

And finally, the living room, folding her over the couch, tumbling onto the floor with Mina, riding you so hard the neighbours below start banging on their ceiling in protest. 

It's only the balcony that goes untouched.

Maybe another time.

But that’s where it ends: sprawled across a lush rug, sticky with sweat and cum and wine, naked and bare. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the photos that line the walls and shelves—family, friends, her boyfriend. Just living in this bubble where the sun will never rise and the world outside ceases to exist.

Getting to know each other in ways few people ever do.

Tracing patterns into the small of her back, asking these questions. Is this what you always imagined you would be doing? How you thought your life would be? Does it ever actually feel enough?

Mina pokes and prods back, her nails lightly scraping against your chest, leaving half-moons in her wake. Do you think you could ever be happy? Do you ever wonder why it’s so hard for other people to keep up? Are you fucked up in all the same ways as me?

And it’s so easy to answer truthfully, to be honest, because you’re both still maintaining the façade of this just being a simple fling; a blip along the timeline of your lives.

The yours and mine of it all, all those promises you were spilling. Just callous words tossed in the throes of passion.

They didn’t mean anything real.

Because it’s not like you’re going to see each other again, not like there’s going to be a mess of emotions and consequences that will have to be dealt with in the morning after.

Eventually though, the light does slip through the curtains, the clothes come back on, and you’re kissing Mina against the doorway and thinking of a million reasons why you should stay.

"So, how long are we going to pretend that this is normal?" You broach, and it immediately feels like you’re breaking some unspoken rule. 

Mina’s keeping herself busy, hands at your shirt, buttoning it back into place, one by one. Hiding away evidence that her mouth, her lips, her teeth were ever on you.

She looks up at you. Smirks. “Fucking ‘til the break of dawn, giving each other orgasms that never quite end? Flooding each one of my holes with your cum?” 

You tilt your head. 

“I don’t know. This whole thing is… unique. Uncharted territory and all.”

“It goes without saying, but, yeah. Same for me.” You echo, “Unique.”

You reach for her, smoothing her hair back. The early morning light makes it shine like a crown of jewels. 

“Do you want it to stay that way?”

Mina considers. Leans into your hand. “You think we should make a habit out of this? I didn’t pin you for the type.”

“Neither did I, but it didn’t seem so bad when you were riding me on that couch,” you tease. “And in the shower, and on the staircase, and in the kitchen…”

She blushes, lips caught between her teeth, looking like she’s struggling to hold in a laugh. There’s this glint in her eye as her hand wanders up to your cheek, thumb hovering just shy of your mouth. For a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again.

But instead, she just looks at you.

Eyes you with something close to fascination, something that makes your heart stop. And you're reading each other’s minds again, knowing you're both going to lie, going to pretend like this was just a one-night thing. Something the two of you can easily wipe your hands with and walk away from like it never even happened.

Because this really is the first time—you’ve never done anything like this before. Sure you’ve dipped your toe in the pool of commitment, paddled around in the shallow end, but you’ve never fallen for someone proper.

Never worried about what someone's going to be doing when you’re not there, never thought about whether you’d be better off sticking around to find out. 

But you have a job. A company to run.

And Mina, a career. A boyfriend. A life.

So, you don’t make plans.

You don’t even ask for her number.

You don't need to.

Deep down inside you know you’ll find her again.

For now though, you spin your bullshit: “It’s probably for the best if we don’t, though.”

“Probably.” Mina agrees, but she can hear the same ticking clock as you.

The timer that’s already started, counting down to when she’ll inevitably be undoing the same buttons, redrawing the same patchwork of red and pink across your chest, and pulling you into her home and into her; fucking her pussy, her ass, her mouth, in all the ways she needs, until you’re spilling out of her all over again.

 “Definitely.” Mina unlocks the front door. “For the best.”

[kooyabooya]

INTERLUDE

m reader x haewon // 9k words

You’ll give credit where it’s due.

If not for her, you wouldn’t be here - and if not for you, she would have quit the logistical side of the show business a long, long time ago. 

She's written her own sweet, tragic, but beautiful tale of madness; willing to stay amidst the whirlwinds of shit she’s put herself through, and you can somewhat see as to why. 

It’s when she’s let herself into the space of your apartment, hours past of the usual and typical workday. Most of the reasons in this case have their own tales and periods of reflection the next morning - though, a common thread of events that you’ve been accustomed to is the trail of her heels leading a path to the couch, her handbag tossed off to the opposite end, sinking into the cushions. She’s tired, and very unbothered. 

You’re doing your own pat down not far from her. A jacket’s tossed onto the nearby chair of your dining table; the usual essentials of your phone, wallet, and one of many pairs of glasses also find their place away from your reach. 

“Since when the hell did you snag my keys from me?” You ask, patting down the quartet of pockets to realize the sudden item wasn’t part of the things you rummaged off your body. 

“It’s called sleight of hand, dear.” Haewon says, a phone spinning in the air and to a nearby pillow, “That’s what happens when you leave a key with me after our last outing. Have someone to blame? Let that be yourself.” 

“I was wondering why you were taking longer getting out of the car.” 

“Girls like to take their sweet time.” 

“Your point being?” 

“My point?” She sits up and leans forward, diverting her attention towards one of the gacha items that you got as a gift from one of her clients - a token of gratitude, for being wonderful with me - you recall the memory for a split second, and Haewon keeps on flipping it around between her fingers. “Don’t get too pressed now. It’s not like you would be locked out of your house for that long. Besides, your landlord’s seen me with you more times than he can count. If I were to ask him for the master key, he’d probably say yes.” 

“Speculation,” you breathe, “Honestly, you can try, and I think you could be on his good side for all I know.” 

A few wisps of her hair fall far off the side, and she pulls it back with a single finger. Even in the dimmest of lightings, you can still see the small twinge of her nose pulling back, flaring her nostrils. Then she flicks her eyes back toward you, hooking. “You’ve always let me lead the way, and you’re following not far behind.” 

You’re tending to the cuffs of your shirt, rolling them up just below the elbows. “I do a whole lot more than just my job.” 

“Tch,” Haewon’s got the tip of her tongue on her upper teeth. “You know well enough that it cuts both ways.” 

Almost as if this was practiced on cue, these sliding strides you make as Haewon picks herself up from her seat, it’s like two characters taking center stage. The lighting’s barely peeking through for you to see where everything’s leveled. Doesn’t matter how much effort you put into it, Haewon’s frame is the only thing you see, the weight on your shoulders start to droop from the imaginary weight on them. You can probably settle with how the luminating radiance of the night sky showers her porcelain skin or the way her silhouette molds itself in the meshing colors of this cozy dark blue pooling through behind her. There’s also the fleeting realization that this is your space that she’s nestling in. But you can’t ignore the sudden occasional chill that sweeps through every time she walks in - even when it’s after hours, the effect is still in play. 

Haewon’s treating another few strands of her hair behind her ear before looking down at the small toy on your table top. “Not a bad idea for you to start a collection going.” 

You glance over her shoulder and pull a firm grin across your face. “You know, I was a bit perplexed in why she gave that to me in the first place - after I politely refused so many times.” A shake of your head and a sigh follows instantly after. “But the more I look at it, it’s pretty cute to have. Brings a whole lot of variety in the place right off the bat.” 

Haewon dips her head down, hiding a subtle smirk when touches the tips of her socks on the floor. “I know that you fancy your books and everything but, I was happy that you took her gift in the end.” 

“Expecting me to just say no?” 

“Blind boxes are a life lesson too. People expect one thing and when they don’t get what they want, they’re pretty torn to whether to be happy or not with what they pulled. Now that I think about it, the same lesson can be seen in Forrest Gump when he’s sitting on the bench with the old lady.” 

“A lot of people can resonate with Forrest in that moment. Probably because almost everybody’s got something that they didn’t want in the first place, and I’ll take your word for it.” You slide your hands into your pockets, rolling your shoulders back. “Makes people appreciate the many things they have.” 

Haewon cocks her head towards her left, bringing it back upright once her body’s facing yours. You’re holding your breath here for a second, swallowing a lump of nervousness down your throat. She’s got it all: the intellect, the beauty, the poise. Each and every single one of those thoughts crosses both ways in your mind, it’s been like that since you got paired with her. The authenticity of her presence doubles down what’s written on paper. Like any fool in this scenario, you carry on, thinking about all of the things you’d never thought you’d do with her - the way she tries to hide the growing blush on her face when your arms hold her, how her eyelids lower their guard when you’re closing the proximity to mere inches, how she sighs with a finger pressed to her temple before whipping some of her hair back - adorable, and perfect. There’s really no other way to describe it, or her; even if she’s not very adamant into accepting the meaningful compliments. 

“Maybe you’re right.” Her small frame nestles itself easily at your front and she’s happily dancing her fingers at the pointe end of your necktie, fiddling along with the button beneath it. You’re deluding yourself at the imaginary tug she has on you and she’s barely laid a finger. “Scratch that, I wholeheartedly agree.” 

You’d wish that you could make a quick snapshot back to the very time you first unraveled her in your home, on an evening whim just like this. The proposition of pulling up a mental calendar and ripping off the pages backwards to a full two years of working with her. Though, you’re able to automatically deduce the fact of the time you and her actually spent working together - a good portion of those cases in the sheets which is worth considering - but despite all that, there’s a good report to draw up in your head where the times flowed in fluctuations, much like in a spectrogram. Some of the days with her peaked higher than the rest, and others were on the opposite end of the spectrum. That’s just how this rapport- this relationship was. 

Haewon never really dabbled with the idea of putting a label on this ‘thing’ you have with her. 

It could be a relationship, or maybe it couldn’t. She would always immediately shut down that thought circling around your brain. 

A tried and true method in getting your hopes up. And each and every time she shot your heart down. It would send you in limbo for what feels like an endless string of days, the firm tone with her delivery very clear and straight to the point. You can’t help yourself in waiting for something to change; heck, it’s possibly everything you ever wanted with her. 

It also didn’t help when the people in your inner circle were already in their own walks of life, blooming into something beautiful with their significant others; while you’re sitting off to the side, watching them from a distance as it feels like with every passing day, you’re falling further and further behind. There isn’t enough space in your journal, let alone the selection of drinks to choose from after being downed, but the feeling remains all the same - it’s a harrowing want to fill that depression oh-so desperately. 

“Whatever happened to ‘keeping things professional’?” Dipping your head down as the tip of your nose hovers right above her head, catching the first few whiffs of that oceanic scent used in her shampoo. “Wasn’t it your words exclusively that we would stop what we’re doing now? At this moment?” 

This time, you were the one to raise that wall up, hoping that it’ll stick after being broken down so many times. 

“Mine?” Haewon blurts out once her hands finally reach to the lines of your shoulders, palms sliding along the fabric of your shirt. “What about it? Don’t try to flip this back on me when we were just talking outside in the staircase and then you decided to push me against the door, perch my chin up and-” 

“Haewon.” 

“One night. That one night. You-” 

“Haewon.” You know that she’s primarily the one who likes to repeat herself at times to get her point across, but not tonight.

She sighs, head falling forward in your chest. “Alright, I’ll bite. Yes, those were my words, and I stand by them. She’s trying her hardest to ignore your overwhelming stature, because she knows your truth; she knows, and knows, and knows.“But that doesn’t mean that what I tell you is enough to sway your mind, nor your choice.”

Her words tell you one thing, but her body welled up against yours tells you another. 

“Haewon,” you repeat again, blinking it through. Your voice slightly chokes up when her thumb skates up the line of your jaw, letting her pull get the best of you, breath canvassing the slope where your chin and neck meet. “You’re not helping yourself here.” 

“It’s been a long day,” she admits, kissing you foolishly, her fingers slither to the back of your head. Your hands have a mind of their own while it tries to scrounge up what’s left of her melting figure, humming gently into your skin. “You could’ve like- taken me home, or something. Rather than bring me here, because we both know how this story goes.” 

“Don’t get all sensical with me now,” you say to her, hand quick to her wrist in an attempt to stop her, but she’s seen that card played before. “You were the one to tell me to get the hell out of the office as fast as we could, and here we are.” 

Haewon flashes her eyes at you, narrowing her expression with the simple tilt of her head. “I guess you’re right. Either I call a cab home or have you as my personal driver. Looks like the second option was the best one to pick between the two.” 

“You did look tired.” 

“Because I am.” Her eyebrows ruffle against each other when you drop the blunt response as she returns to the slacked neck along with her wrists. “After the shitstorm with Bae, and then with Sullyoon? God, don’t even get me started. You were there when everything went down.” 

“In fact I was.” 

She scowls with a much more dragged out tone with her voice, the stress pressing down on her lips returning to their familiar parted place. “I’m trying so hard to not think about it, but it’s just- ugh.” 

“A problem to be dealt with tomorrow,” you tell her, hands bringing her closer to your waist. “Just don’t think.” 

“Easy for you to say.” Haewon deadpans, her face shifting flat with dead eyes. “And it’s easier for it to be said than done.” 

“Why not do it, then?” 

“Huh?” 

“I’m asking you to not focus on work for once, genius.” 

“This is me not focusing on work,” she says, pouting, “you’re the one who’s not letting me go in the first place.” 

You manage to look away for a quick second, closing your eyes to fight back the growing cringe rising on your face. “Says the one who waltzed into my house and arms right now.” 

Haewon lets out another dry laugh, resting the side of her face below your collar, pulling down on the slightly untied knot. “Well, I guess I can let you have that over me. I’ll admit that.” 

A deep inhale puffs up your chest as you’re carding your fingers into those coffee brown locks of her hair, massaging her temple. 

“Consider that to be one of your few wins against my arguments. Why bother tell you my personal thoughts about the details we talked about in the meetings earlier, or even in the office.” She sighs again deeply, burrowing herself into your embrace. “What I would do to give that pretty dumbass a-” 

“I’m pretty sure you’ve already said that to her earlier, by the way.” 

Haewon looks up again, recalling for a quick second, closing her lips before sounding a simple hum. “Right, I guess I did.” 

“You don’t have to handle this all by yourself, you know.” 

“What if I want to, hm?” She beams. The flip in her mood is always an anomaly in the way that she’s brushing herself up closer to you. “You know my business - my affairs, but I didn’t tell you all of them.” 

You’re well familiar with the playing field she’s setting up here. It’s a battleground that’s seen it all between the two of you, the losses outweighing the victories (and by an overwhelming margin on her end too). She’s always the one to initiate, to set up, your thoughts already getting ahead with the same downward tilt of your head, hands caressing the fabric of her skirt, finding a familiar hold of her hips like one would always do at the start of every slow dance. 

Of course you stay silent, blinking. “Well- Haewon, I’ve got no other choice but to hear you ramble all about them, since it’s my job.” 

“You know most of them.” 

“Like you said: most.” 

Haewon rests herself into you, the lines of tape gradually coming undone. The scent of her shampoo hits your nose a little bit harder this time, her palms sliding up across your chest again. She innocently tilts her head up, parting her lips; tiny, rosy, and dangerously inviting. You have no other thought filling your mind but to lift her up and capture her all to yourself. 

Her lips are like putty - easy to form and mold into the shape that you like. But you pull yourself back, a last line of defense before her eyes and hands have their own say. “Could you say that this is a choice too?” 

“Hm.” She tilts herself upwards into the line of your neck, each quick kiss sending both your heart and mind into echelons higher than cloud nine, melting with every touch until she has your head in between her palms, holding you gently. The blinks she gives are slow, and her breath hitting your face leaves you to your own devices. “What you do with me is always a choice.” 

You retreat for a moment, pulling yourself far away where you can, Haewon’s body still within reach in your arms, forming a wall of air between the space of your chest and hers. “I feel like what we do is already risky as it seems, no? Sure, we see each other on a regular basis, deal with what needs to be done with the day, talking to clients, making sure things are right for the events, going back and forth with no definite pause in between.” Didn’t matter if she was out of the country or mere inches away from you, she’s always about work it seems - like that was the only mode programmed in her mind. “More often than not, I’m treating what damage is done which usually ends up with a few bottles of beer and don’t even get me started on how bad of a lightweight you are-” 

“Uh, rude.” Haewon pays no attention to you. Her thumb grazes your cheek again, and you can’t help the way that you’re leaning into her touch, once realizing that what you said might be too much. You feel your head being reeled in lower and lower, until you feel the tip of her nose hit the cuff of your ear. “But you’re not wrong, and I’m sorry that you have to put up with me that way.” 

Nodding was something that you always used to acknowledge her opinions or thoughts, and it isn’t any different here. 

However, your hands are playing a different role: traversing their way into the two small divots below the small of her back, resting just right above her ass. She’s getting herself more and more comfortable, undoing the first three buttons of her shirt, inviting you to dive into the new opening. You keep on gazing into her slightly swollen lips, studying at how quickly her tongue wets the bottom part, and you draw another swift inhale past your teeth before answering, “There’s no need for you to apologize, especially to me.”

Haewon keeps on pulling the undone tie, the knot basically nonexistent the more she pulls down, eventually sliding it out of your collar and onto the floor. She gives it a quick glance when it pools over her feet and yours, and her lapin eyes land on yours again, bottom lip captured between her teeth. “I just feel bad, you know? And part of me thinks that it’s only a matter of time until you’ve had enough and want to-” 

You shut her up before she keeps up the self-lament, meshing her lips against yours, wanting her to be persuaded in a different manner - one with less words and more actions. 

Drawing back, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. And even if I ever had the chance to, I’d straight up say no.” 

“Look at you, so easygoing.”

“I-” 

“At some point,” she breathes, ghosting her face over yours, tugging on that want for you to chase after. “I’d thought you’d give up on forgiving me.” 

“For?” 

“Anything, really.” Haewon answers admittedly. “Whether it’s here or in the office, you have that same look in your eyes, the one filled with sorrow. It hurt me a bit.” 

Maybe right now would be the time to remind her that what she’s thinking is nothing but complete bullshit. 

So you lean down again, and pull her close. Another snapshot taken in the back of your mind. 

Two years is a long time. Two years of the same routine over and over, of working with her, unwinding after the long hours hidden away from everyone else, watching her work herself down to the bone, doing all of these things as if she’s going to die in the next five seconds if she doesn’t keep going. She’s rising to every occasion that she can, moving so fast that you can’t even bear to keep up with her. You’d admire from a distance, in awe, all while you’re at her right-hand side, unwilling to say anything to her. Obviously when she needed to get her mind off of something, or everything for that matter, she wasn’t the kind of person to be upfront about what she wants and let you read into the signs. Luckily, you’ve always noticed at a glance, and even if she isn’t the one to puff out her lips and kiss you first. No. Never. That’s a luxury that’s reserved for you and only you. Because all it takes is one look into your eyes, and the way she’s broken you down like this, she’s very aware of what your downfall is: her. 

All of this is a continuation of a growing culmination, her own personal anthology sprouted from her brain, one which you’ve caught wind of gradually. 

When you’re kissing into her again, hard, you start to feel everything around you collapse. It’s in the way that she smiles against your lips, matching every curve you give her - it’s amazing, and you could write poems of all the good things about Haewon - you’re reminded again and again how out of all the moments in the high achieving days and miserable nights, these instances feel just right. She’s drawing air into her nose, grazing your cheek, never wanting to pull each other away; until you’re sucking the oxygen out of each other’s mouths that leaves the both of you suffocating a bit. It’s all foolish, maybe just a bit, and to hell with the consequences awaiting you at the end of the bridge, because she knows that she’ll be in a safe place as long as it’s with you. 

The arch in her back rises, and you’re clinging tighter into her smaller frame, shoulder bunching up next to her neck, making it easier for you to hold. You can tell her breaths and hums are getting desperate, her own little mess up the more she melts into you. 

You’re not helping her in this situation, and it definitely isn’t the first time you’ve done this to her. She’s hooking her arm well around your neck, the only line of support while you’re taking care of the rest, letting her wrists fall slack as you keep on your loving siege on her lips. 

She’s had a rough one this week. A red eye flight back from a fashion week, an entire day of going to ten different locations with one of her top clients, then there’s the whole incident with Bae and Sullyoon back to back. Amongst all of those things, you’d wish that you’d sweep her away for just a second and take her mind off from all the pressures and stress (and you definitely wished you didn’t wait until now to finally do it). 

“Mmmm,” Haewon lets her voice rumble in her throat, tightening her grip in the back of your collar, signaling you to pull away. When you do, her eyes pool into yours, shimmering pupils working overtime to map out the lines of your face. You could feel the heat from her cheeks grow warmer. Her eyes cross for a second. She lets her head go crestfallen, pulling this one smile, her simplest smile, the rarest one she could ever have that not a lot of people have had the pleasure of seeing. The gentlest and most genuine one that she could have, it sells the whole thing to you. Despite her tough shell, you realize that she’s one of the rare few that sends your heart flipping, every time she’s got your guard lowered - exactly in the way like this - it’s impossible to ignore the outshining tempts when all of your inhibitions are at their lowest. 

Her head goes one side, and then the opposite, “I don’t expect you to forgive me for this.” 

Today’s been one of those days. You’re tired, even beyond tired. If she didn’t come with you, the bed would’ve been full by now. Two years of the on and off and the off and on, it’s draining. You don’t say anything, as always. Instead, you swoop down beneath her thighs and carry her, taking her lips all to yourself. 

She hums this heavenly noise when you press her against the wall, her legs hooking to a familiar spot where it hasn’t been in a while. Some of the buttons in her shirt come more undone not to your knowledge, but you play the counterpart when tending to the clip and zipper of her skirt. Luckily your body can work in two places at once, returning your focus to Haewon’s face, a sweep of her tongue over your bottom lip. 

The pressure to her waist is not too little nor too much, but just the right amount of press when your leg plays this momentary support underneath her legs, helping her slip out of her shirt while she does the same to you. Almost like you’re opening the pages of a book you finished reading, but flipping through to a certain part like the untouched skin of her chest with her simple black bra playing as the final back line of garments waiting to be discarded. She does that part all by herself, indulging on the breadth of her collarbone, forcing her to bite down a soft moan. 

Haewon here isn't one to play nice. There’s a bit of a tug-of-war going on with your mouths until you gnaw on her lips a bit too hard, wanting you to do that again the way her face is chasing after yours. But her eyes find their place in line again, gaze softening - you’re cursing at yourself because of how beautiful she looks like this. She’s always been one to have a heart of steel, create that dam covering her fragile trust, her arms wrap you in her embrace, eyes hinting at a sign of concern. The flame in your heart has gone cold, but she’s always been the one fanning the fire back to life. 

When you let her down gently, back sliding against the smooth drywall, her arms shift over her head - opening up the area of her midriff to see, to feel. Your palms have never felt anything smoother until they’re slipping the skirt off from her hips, curling over the waistband of her underwear and she fills the open space between your mouths, “fix me up baby, please.” 

Most of her solid-colored panties get caught between your knuckles, skating down her thigh - you’re hunting, searching, till you reach that empowering heat between her thighs. You could feel the top part of her forearm press firmly on the nape of your neck while one of her shoulder blades drags itself against the wall behind her. 

A drag up, then down across her folds, and she rasps. 

You get a finger in, maybe two just to test, feeling her body tense and grasp and hook onto anything within her reach. Little by little, piece by piece, Haewon’s gradually reduced to these mere meeked noises and hums the more your hands and lips begin their grand assault across the fine canvas of her body. The wetness consumes your fingers, and your mouth increasingly gets greedy as you’re nibbling away at the firm mound of her now exposed breasts, her bra gone in one swift move, mind focusing on too many feelings all at once. 

Her head lolls up and over, opening up the left side of her neck for you to take, gasping. She can’t stop squirming in place, and you’ll deal with that soon enough. “I love your hands,” she sighs. “God, you sure know how to satisfy a woman.” 

Your brain is working on the clock, finding all of the niche places and spots on her body to get her needy for more, and she’s playing spectator, the pad of your tongue swipes upward at the midline of her chest, capturing the hard bud of her nipple between your thumb and index, twisting without a care of her quick pain. 

Haewon gets both of her hands around your head, pulling you up from drowning beneath her neck, showering your face with kisses, forehead pressing against yours, “Happy with your reward?” 

You’ll give credit where it’s due. You hate how intoxicating she is with the snarky remarks and fast banter, but you love how simple she is to break down - send her mind into a downward spiral. She could let you ruin her life, and it would be the same for you. 

It takes a moment too long to consider, your brain is running through the playbook of all the moves and positions you could have her in, which spot in your house would be the most ideal place to simply just bend her over and tear her insides apart until she won’t be able to walk or think straight. A woman like her: clothes pooled and scattered everywhere at her feet, swollen lips and tattered skin just waiting to be ruined. 

Haewon knows you well, where all she has to do is say something to snap your attention back to her: “How do you want me?” 

She’s selfish, there’s no denying that. Though, she doesn’t really care what you think when she’s kissing you shamelessly once more, smushing and smacking her lips across your face, letting her have her way and to sink into her body again. But here is where she forgets, another callback of the few other times she got too ahead of the curve too soon- 

“I think I find you to be prettier when you’re like this,” you tell her, quickly sinking down to your knees moving her thighs over your shoulders; get your face close to that warm, delightful fountain between her thighs when you lift her up from the floor, holding her there. 

-to realize that you too, are also selfish in your own accord; at some point, there’s a time to prove who has what between the two of you, and the sigh of acknowledgment slipping out of her lips gives just enough that you’re doing something right. 

It all could’ve gone wrong for Haewon at any given point in the time you’ve been working with her. All it took was a few mishaps both in and out of her control and she would’ve snapped. In those dire times of need, she had you. Whether it’d be your mouth or your fingers, the way you settle into these well-practiced strokes of your tongue and cock, and she loves to travel down the little rite of passage when you shut her up with a palm on her mouth or a hand to her throat. She knows that you have your limits, and it’s all in her cards for when she’s able to unshackle you from your common sensibilities. A hand is raked into your hair as you’re shifting your head closer and closer, until your breath starts to blanket her leaking entrance, awaiting for your arrival. 

There’s a few mumbles spilling out of her lips when you gently kiss her folds, brush your nose right up against her clit, to where her head bucks forward, giving an unintentional style of wispy bangs the more your mouth starts to scoop up the mess that you’ve created. Her hips buck and jerk, pressing your head deeper into her quivering pussy lips, wanting to get that ache so much faster than intended. 

“God, yes baby- right there,” is all she says, and she can barely manage to prop her head upright when you look up from below. 

A chuckle leaves your nose, arming a coy smile before you carry on your attention onto her swollen clit, sucking and teasing on it shamelessly until you start to feel the insides of her thighs shake against your ears, digging her nails deep into your scalp. 

“Is this what you wanted?” you ask, feeling the pressure of Haewon’s legs crushing your skull from within. “Looks like you’ve been pent up for a while now, no?” 

Haewon digs a heel into your back, making you secure the tops of her thighs with your fingers, hitting her head back on the wall. “Among other things.” 

“Really.” You reply flatly, giving her another swift lick of your tongue into her aching cunt, her slick pooling across the wet pad. “Because judging how your body’s reacting, you’ve been wanting me badly since the last time.” 

“Sounds perfectly right.” 

She loses that hefty persona pretty damn quickly when you’re diving into her pussy again, stifling a moan, grinding  her hips into your head, wanting you to keep on licking until she’s had enough (spoiler alert: she hasn’t.) “Do tell me more,” you’re telling her, smacking your lips to the heat, “if you’re able to, of course.” 

“Seriously. Fuck you.” 

“Says the one who’s technically my boss.” 

“Not when it’s after hours I’m not.” 

“What are you implying?” 

Haewon’s eyes squint a bit, trying to keep focus, doubling down on the indulgence of your tongue over her folds. Her face is in a rosy shade of pink, similar to when she’s usually drunk - but this shade however, you’d prefer to see her more in. “Stop pretending to play dumb. I know you can read between the lines here.” 

“And what if I want to be oblivious for once? Like in every situation that we’re in while at work?” 

“You’re not, ah-” 

You’re not giving her any chance to breathe here. She doesn’t deserve it. And when you lather her pussy up in your spit, it’s less than an act of mercy, helplessly whining at the harshful gnawing you’re doing to her poor cunt - it’s what she wants, and she has no one to blame for making you like this but herself. 

“If you’re not my boss during these hours, then what are you?” You inquire.

“I’ll be anything but your boss. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

That’s all the confirmation that you needed, forcefully plummeting her down to her inevitable demise. You feel the muscles in her thighs clench in shock from the unexpected anticipation, biting down her shriek the more you dive into the endless depths of her entrance, satisfying that want that you and her so desperately wanted. 

“Oh,” Haewon sighs out as some epiphany. But the moment of relief washes over her in no time, her layers folding. Collapsing. Her entire body wiggles in this circular motion. “Oh.” 

The heavenly chorus of her mewls fill your ears when you’re cementing your pace, wreaking havoc between her thighs. She’s still got her hand gripping the back of your head, the other flat on the wall. Her stomach bucks and folds at the weight of your tongue, moving your head around in different directions to make sure that you’re hitting every spot with the right approach. The pleasure is building in all of the right places, and you can feel the curl of her toes on your back, ensuring that you’re doing the exact job as her personal toy. “Fuck. Right there, right there.” 

It only increases the flood by tenfold. She’s spilling more and more you kiss, swirl, nibble, and tease - doing everything you can to make sure she reaches that unimaginable peak first. “You’re so good. You’re so so good. Baby- don’t stop, oh my god-” 

Haewon can’t help herself here, leaning her back deeper into the wall and dragging her hips outward, keeping both legs on your shoulders to the best that she can, unable to let up with the bucks and jolts her hips are making into your face. Every quick rush of air past her teeth only holds so much until she starts to feel her stomach bunch up in knots. 

“T-tongue, dear. Oh jesus, you’re so good at- fuck!” she yelps, the tailends of her breaths tattered in these hushed moans, picking up in volume the more you slurp up her pussy to your heart’s content. “Almost, almost.” 

You’re well aware of the fact that Haewon is one of the main catalysts when it comes to operating her job. She’s second to none. The standard. The spearhead. She’s got one of the most sizable clientele’s for a reason. But the jaws of work can consume anybody in this climate, no matter how on top or perfect they can be. It would only be a matter of time for the fatigue to get to her - and with the recent events happening around the office, it did just that. Everyone needs a break from time to time, and she’s no different here. A tongue laps up one spot past the clit, there’s a nibble of her swollen folds between your teeth, and here is where you step up to the role of ensuring that Haewon gets her much deserved intermission here. 

“Right there, I’m gonna-ah! -umming,” Haewon wails, failing to let up with the oral assault on her quivering cunt, her cries filling up your ears, the muscles of her legs locking your back in place, fingers tugging the roots of your hair. “Cumming. I’m fucking cumming.”

These puppy eyes you do to look up, she gazes down, bottom lip still stuck to her teeth as her expression tears, coming down from her needed stress relief. You stay the course in holding her steady, taking account of the lingering twitches and tensions of muscle her body does. 

And not long after, you finally let her down from the wall. Her arms slither around the familiar profiles of your back, lazily planting her lips onto your skin again - Haewon wants another taste of you. It’s also kind of cute how her toes stack up on top of your feet, prompting you to lead the way into the bedroom while she’s closely tethered to you. 

“Love it. Love it so much.” Haewon sighs out, half-lidded eyes caught in your vision. “Love it when you make me cum like that.” 

It’s one of the few moments where she doesn’t expect a response from you, because it’s already true. 

Above everything, you carry on with your steps as Haewon’s lips continue to spell out these hushed curses - all the things that she wants you to do to her - her fantasies, the praises, what she likes you doing and what she wants to do to you with the intent of returning the favor. Her figure is so light in your hands and on your feet, limbs loose enough to bend and twist, a marked up canvas ready for another brush-to-paper moment. 

Gravity here does it’s own thing when she falls backward onto the mattress of your room, her arms doing this natural reflex of going above her head, carving up these unbelievable curves in real time to where her back is off the comforters and her left foot is inching up against her inner right thigh. This image alone was enough for you to mindlessly slip out of your pants and underwear, eyes fixed on Haewon rolling her body: belly facing down, back up, her knees dig deep into the sheets, the upper half stretching a bit while her lower half rises up past your thighs, rounding out her hips. 

Her knees spread wider across the sheets and her back dips, you think - just a bit, and the look she does over her shoulder is the right amount of lethality. You don’t even flinch when she manages to get her fingers onto the length of your cock, telling you the only thing she wants you to do: 

“Take this cock and fuck me.” 

You’d follow her words no matter what. 

Like a siren’s call out in the sea, the sound of Haewon’s voice comes off as this daring risk where the mind starts to slowly reduce itself around her hand, languidly pumping you to the point where the urge to rip the fun out of her is impossible to ignore. 

“I’ve always wondered,” she starts to say. 

You lean down to shower a few kisses to her neck, fingers sliding up to her waist, pressing for a firm hold while an airy giggle passes her lips. 

“How long have you dealt with me? Being like this? 

“Where would I even start?” You hunch over with a trail of kisses down her lower back, cupping the swell of her ass while noting that most of her slick has spread past the underside and to the back of her thighs. “I don’t even remember who made the first move back then.” 

Haewon reaches out for one of your pillows, setting it between her arms and chest, “I’m sure it was you, or maybe it was me. Maybe-” 

A wistful gasp stops her from talking when you slowly press your cock into her leaking pussy, lips slicked up and inviting between those lovely thighs of hers. You drink in the sight of the grip she has around your length as you continue to ease yourself into her, keeping it together poorly before the heat and her pulse gets to your head. 

“Maybe what?” you tell her, attempting to bring back her train of thought from fleeing away. 

This girl who’s backside is arched so high up in the air and stomach buried deep into the sheets looks over her shoulder again, eyes filled with tension - a fire blazing beneath the irises. “Maybe- you were just oblivious about the signals I was sending you, but now that we’re here, I guess you can say that you made the curve.” 

“I won’t deny anything here-” Everything about this is the reality, anyway. You drag and push yourself into the fluttering heat of her second pair of lips. Her body is so responsive in the wants and needs just from the wetness alone, but she knows that you’re not easy to take. “That was an argument I lost a while ago.” 

Your hips flush with Haewon’s and she whines, shoving her face into the pillow set in front of her as she relaxes into the stable pace. A simple yank of her waist back to your thighs serves the only preamble, the quick groan ripped out of your chest, that rush of wanting this tightness and addicting feeling more and more. 

“Right?” You’re asking again, meshing her hips with yours, leaning forward and down to the nape of her neck. Sighs joining together in an impromptu chorus, “I’m not denying you winning me over.” 

Haewon’s hands here go a bit haywire, shooting up and out. One of them comes to grips with the comforter beneath her. You watch her body move, ass rippling through every pump back into her cunt. “Yeah, but you-” 

Her head then dips down into the pillow again, writhing in the twists left and right. You catch yourself hobbling over her upper body once more, lip trapped to your teeth. “You said ‘yeah’. Let’s keep it that way.” 

A gradual rhythm gets developed here, taking in every wonderful inch of Haewon’s dripping cunt, shaft picking up more and more slick with ease in every passing stroke. She’s so wonderfully tight around your length, molding to your cock like it’s the missing piece that makes her feel complete, and whole. There’s an attempt to level herself parallel to the mattress, but you don’t give her any kind of luxury whatsoever, pushing down on the small of her back that deepens the arch, nudging your cockhead down further past the threshold of her calefaction. 

You’re blinking, you’re believing, and you’re pretty much swearing to the heavens above at the thought out realization that Haewon was meant to be yours - like she was made for only you. She’s in the right position, taking you at just the right angle, all sensibilities hanging on a singular thread. Every hit spills out a quick phrase of pants, watch her struggle in keeping her head upright, a slacking neck in response with the consistent slaps of your hips into hers. 

Her slick creates these scattered strings across the skin - not only to the tops of your thighs, but to her ass as well, the sound of her moans bouncing off the walls once they start to rise up a bit in volume. 

“Fucking-” and it’s right at this moment, where she sounds relieved, it all comes down with a firm grind of her teeth, “fuck.” 

“Yeah?” You hum. 

“It’s so-” the blowback of your cock into her cunt becomes a little too much to bear, “it’s so fucking good.” 

You’re holding her in place, right at the hips, the unbelievable form of her ass rocking back and forth with every shift of motion caused by you. The low light of your humidifier works its hours on the nightstand, illuminating the comfy and watered colors onto her skin. She’s drenched in this soft honey shade, laying ruin of the pale sheets on her knees and elbows - face gazing to the window, proffering up these listless praises to fill up your head. 

The thing is: this isn’t the first time that you and her were like this. There’s an absolute certainty that someone living in either the floors above or below your room has heard everything that’s happened within these walls. Surely someone minding their own business walking along the sidewalk outside has seen Haewon’s gorgeous tits pressed up against the glass, her face full of rapture and pleasure - not having any sense of respect or decency to keep it in the room. You remember railing her poor pussy out on the balcony one time; and that was an issue for the landlord to bring up the following day, but neither you nor her really cared. 

What really mattered here, was fucking her brains out. Easy as that. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh my god-” 

Every word that’s punctuated out of her lips starts to collapse on top of each other, the impact of your thrusts siphoning the last bits of air trapped in her lungs. She isn’t making her condition any better, suffocating herself deep into the pillow, hoping to drown out the wet noises of her cunt slipping your cock in with refined precision. This choking grip is more dangerous than her hands, her hitched breaths are in no comparison to your labored huffs, slowing your movements with one forceful drive in, a massage of her asscheeks here, another drag and thrust back into her tight cunt, and a playful slap to her ass, tainting the slick skin in red. 

“Baby, your fucking cunt,” you hiss. “Jesus christ.” 

A whiny ‘mhm-” is all you manage to get out of Haewon, breaking underneath your weight. Her ass is still facing up, face shoved into the pillow, nicking her neck up for air, fucking her down the curve of her spine. “Oh my goodness. You got it so deep. Hit me hard. Please, and I swear to fuck - ngh-” 

You’re groaning, increasing the sway of your hips into hers, “So fucking tight.” Haewon’s hands manage to find yours, holding the swell of her ass together, moving her body the opposite direction away from you, meeting the impact down the middle which sends your balls lightly tapping the nub of her clit. She knows that you’ve been working a bit too much for your own sake, so she goes on ahead and has her own fun, fucking herself back onto your cock, the recoil alone enough for you to just freeze on your knees and take it. 

“S’that feel good?” she asks innocently.

Spilling out another expletive, you angle your hips up as her ass comes crashing down. 

“You’re so hard for me,” Haewon continues, looking over with her body still pressed against the sheets, the left side of her face smiling at the sight of you trying to hold it together. “This cock fits so well inside- jesus, ah- had to let yourself go for a bit, didn’t you?” 

“If you keep your hips moving with my hands tied, I’m gonna fucking lose it.” 

The plot was already lost from the first dirty thought you had with her. 

Her ass keeps your lower half in check, unknowingly moving through muscle memory while the walls of your room continue to reverberate the stuttering breaths and quick curses slipping out of both of your lips. Your hands hold still in tandem with her fingers and start to claw into your palms, pleasure spiking everywhere in her body, skin hot to the touch as the claps start to increase in tempo - the rate shifting to something more desperate, erratic. 

“My fucking god, shit!” She wails, her hands shooting down to her ass, spreading herself wider while you lock your eyes at the sight of your cock buried into her cunt becomes a whole lot more clearer now, “Right there baby, holy fuck- this cock is just-” Haewon’s demeanor is diminishing by the second, words and sighs tumbling over in loops, but the pitch in her whines hit a familiar key or tone, gradually crescendoing when she gives up in squirming between your fingers. 

“Pound my ass- yes, fuck- this dick is amazing.” Her head swivels up before ducking below into the open cavity of her chest and arms, sucking in her stomach with whatever strength she has left, “Give me more,” she’s panting, head spinning and spinning like a ceiling fan, “Give it to me. I need more-” 

There’s not much left for you to take other than the stray tit that’s captured into your hand when you hunch yourself over her again, lift the upper half of her body upwards so that she’s in line with yours, entrapping that heat away from the cool air, trembling. Your mouth is back to her ear again, eyes half-lidded, fingers moving around your neck while the warmth of her cunt starts to burn across your length - the new lane created where your cock slides into her that creates this sequence of events of her convulsing, shuddering, pulling her hips back with a sole purpose to just ruin her. You’re hearing a slight wheeze out of her, maybe a sob too, the head of your cock’s hit a spot past her threshold where it literally makes her go stupid; mind and body into putty, exactly the way you like it. 

Her fingers continue to hold tight, cunt clenching around your thick shaft when you’ve finally got her past that edge. There’s a bit of a moment of pause when you and her are stacked on top of each other, exhaustion finally breaking through, coaxing her second orgasm as you’re keeping your cock warm inside of her, feeling her hips spaz out of control while you endure in fucking her poor, spent, pretty pussy. Both heels of her feet bend towards the backside of your thighs, pressing her waist into the mattress, sliding yourself out the tightness before teasing her with the half of your shaft. 

“There we go, Haewon. I’ve got you,” you’re telling her. The tone of your voice drowned out by the keening shattering through. “You’re perfect. Cum over this cock, baby. You deserved it.” 

She keeps on sighing when she comes down from her second high, summoning this lazy grin while you’re peppering her face with kisses, an indication for a job well done. But she taps the top of your hand twice, resting at the crease of her hips - and the shimmy of her hips still embedded with your cock tells you only one thing: 

“I wanna make you cum.” 

The insanity this woman has. It does something to you. 

So you waste no time at all. It’s enormously more than just a mess with how fucked up she is. 

When you give her what she needs: flipping on her back was the way to go, yanking her hips back into yours until you see her eyes go wide at the sudden stroke before rolling up behind her head and past her eyelids - everything starts to fall into place with the way the back of her ankles hold your waist, which only leaves you with the sole choice of pounding her so fucking hard that you’d have to hook yourself into the arch of her back where she’ll have no where to go - it’s a position well practiced, your ol’ reliable: firing your cock on all cylinders at a pace so inhuman until she’s able to look you in the eyes and cast a spell for you to finish on her pretty face and leave her there with the damage when it’s all said and done - the assurance that you’ll give her what she wants and have you craving for more - kissing you shamelessly like she’ll be stoned to a rock come the next day, and when you’re feeling the pit of your stomach open more and more, the muscles in your hips and legs moving and tensing in the midst of this sex-filled frenzy, there was only one instinct in your mind where it didn’t take much to pump and dump your load inside her. 

You can feel yourself getting close, head dizzying. “Haewon-” 

“I know, handsome boy,” she praises, pulling you so that your forehead touches hers, “can feel you throbbing down there.” 

She lets out this airy laugh when you wince a bit, hands reined at the small of her back and bringing her waist in, the impact of your cock rebounds her body once the pace starts to decrease. 

“Fill me up, like you always do,” Haewon husks, voice barely a whisper in contrast to your hoarseness, “Put a baby in me.” 

There’s this sort of tension in the air along with your body, driving your cock deep into her, burying your cum into the crevices of her pulsing hotness. Haewon lets out a sigh of relief, telling you to keep cumming inside of her, feeling every hot thread of your release coating her slopped walls. 

You can feel yourself get light-headed - the warmth alone, not to mention how wet and tight her pussy is still, a place where everything feels right - but the lust filled in your head starts to fade, blackened vision returning to normal; and before you know it, you’re coming back to earth. 

Neither of you move a muscle. Instead, you lay there for a bit, taking in the dwindling time of exploring each other’s bodies, holding yourselves together while your lips are conducting one final battle for that last dominance, the stench of sex and sweat still fresh and out to the open air. 

Haewon manages to wrap both of her arms around your neck, kissing the slope of her neck and collarbone, scratching the back of your head, looking up to the ceiling with a lazy smile, one plastered with satisfaction. She taps your shoulder to grab your attention, but all you could come up with was a simple hum, which seemed to be enough for her. 

“Go get me some lemons and water. I owe you a special something and a ride.” 

–

Morning rolls around not long after, and assessing the lay of the land of your living space with one eye open. Everything seems to be in their place, tv remotes, work bag next to the neighboring desk, and the singular cup on the counter next to the fridge. Another thing to note, Haewon already got a jump start to the day. 

You’re sliding across the floor with said singular cup being put into the kitchen sink, but with the other eye open now, you notice something at the corner of the kitchen island: a small box left open. 

“I wonder what she has for me this time,” you say to yourself, examining the box which turned out to be a contraceptive tablet. A note also slips out with a card attached. 

“Take today off. I’ll be coming over later. By the way, I hope you won’t get mad at me for snatching your little gift from Jiwoo. It was too cute for you to have sitting on your nightstand or coffee table, so I took it for myself. 

p.s 

Don’t worry about last night so much. I had everything thought out since our little ‘accident’ the first time. Can’t really say the same thing with what I said, but you can choose to ignore it…or not ;’)

- Haewon

xo <3” 

The attached card flipped over showed the name of the gacha toy gifted to you. A justified reaction of sighing with rolled eyes and the shake of your head was pretty much the start of some days; but hey, at least the breaks are enjoyable. 

“Sleight of hand my ass,” you mutter, thumbing the small slip of paper in your fingers, “she stole that from me.” 

-

a/n: sending my special flowers to @majorblinks (i love you foreverrr <3), @passingnotions (for happily agreeing to poke around wherever in the draft), and @yieldtotemptation (to opening the floodgates with ur bae fic).

thank you for reading and wemo check. :3

[callmecoke]

sugar baby headcanons!

CW: Mention of sex work, This is sfw generally but still deals with adult topics so proceed with caution.

Tf141 x reader

What you’ve realised about your favourite mystery account is that A) it's run by multiple people, and B) At least one of them is called Price.

You can’t exactly pinpoint who the rest are or how many, but you’ve managed to identify a few common themes when interacting with the account.

First, you know who Price is, and you can almost always tell it's him when he’s interacting with you. He’s the one you go to first regarding bills and fees you physically can’t pay. Within seconds, he transfers you the money and never lets you thank him for any of it. He also does his weekly check-ins to make sure everything is good. “Have you eaten?” “How’d you sleep?” “Did you take your meds last night?” That kind of thing. He’s also the one who calls you ‘Dolly’, a nickname he reserved for you. 

But you're also pretty sure this other guy (Simon) lurks in the chat when you’re streaming. He won’t ask questions; he just sends you random tips throughout the stream while he watches silently. He’s not as talkative as Price or the others, and that’s kind of how you know it's him. But you’ve realised that just because he’s quiet doesn't mean he doesn't want to talk. It’s quite the opposite. He enjoys hearing you talk about your life and day and silently rewards you. When you DM him, you even get a little conversation. Nothing more than money and a “Nice”, but still conversation nonetheless.

You know one other fellow spends most of his time in the livestreams and not in your DMs (Gaz). He’s the one who engages with you in conversation the most, asking endless questions about your life. And he always comes back on the next live stream, remembering everything you said in the last. He’ll want the update on that project you were working on for school or if that job interview went as well as you both had hoped. If you weren’t Live to complete strangers, you’d probably open up to him about stuff you’ve never told anyone.

Now…One more person shows up now and again, mainly in your DMs. Part of the service for the website is that people can pay you to take a selfie and give it to them. They can be dirty or completely innocent; it all depends on what you’re advertising. There’s this one person who rather frequently asks for pictures of you, especially those with you smiling. You know it’s a different guy from the others you’ve spotted because he’s the only one who's outright flirtatious with you. Initially, you were wary. A man spending a lot of money on pictures of your face and upper body just screams trouble. But you grew to trust the account, so when you sent them the image, you were surprised by how quickly he showered you with praise.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ll give a strong man a heart attack walking around that gorgous.”

“Makes me wonder how cute you look in person.” “I’m surprised no ones come along and snatched you up all ready. Can’t complain though. Means I get more of you to myself.”

You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a slight blush on your cheeks after reading his responses.

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (2) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 2 (7.2k) in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1

Tradition is not something you are fond of.

It’s something forced on you. When you question it, it’s offensive–how dare you question these things, made sacred over time? Why would you want to betray thousands of years of history? Time makes it definitive. Your being makes it natural. You submit because that is the natural thing to do, so in that sense, you submit to it all.

That is your duty. That is your calling. When you are claimed, you belong to them. You are property. Autonomy be damned–your place is on your knees, keeping your mouth shut, and any behavior against that is nothing short of a punishable offense, proper. Disobedient omegas make for troublesome households.

To keep you in line, you must be held at a short length from your alpha. It is what is done. It is what is expected.

Tradition.

Simon keeps a hand on you, curled at the base of your spine as he leads you back to where the sleeping quarters are. You know it’s for your protection, but the better part of you wants to smack him off of you whenever you feel his palm press just slightly against you. When you make it back into your room, Simon pauses in the doorway after he opens it for you. He looks nervous almost, sheepish. You turn to face him, looking him up and down. “You can come in if you want. I’m not gonna carry all my stuff by myself, you could probably carry a fucking tank looking at you.”

Simon finally comes inside, ducking his head a little to make it in. You know this room wasn’t meant to house an alpha, but it’s still startling to see him do it, taking up way too much space to be anything but claustrophobic. He watches as you pack your things, stuffing your clothes into your bags and picking up small trinkets around the bedside table and desk. After the bag starts to get heavy, you shove it into his arms as you look towards the bed. It’s a standard issue twin-sized, with barely enough sheets to keep you warm and a lumpy pillow that you hate. You make a face at it before turning around and putting more things into Simon’s arms as you empty the closet.

“Tha’ it?” Simon mutters, still able to peek over the mountain of items that he holds, and you shrug.

“That’s it.”

Simon’s own room is like a hospital room. It’s too clean–there’s nothing personal anywhere, no pictures or barely any clothes other than military issue fatigues. The only civilian clothes he has wouldn’t even make you think twice if you saw him in a bar–Simon will always look like a soldier, through and through, and his room stinks like it. It smells clinical, and nothing about it is cozy or warm. You stand in the middle of the room as Simon puts your things down. You ring your hands together nervously, eyeing the bed with one single, thin sheet on it. It’s too small of a bed for the both of you. It’s too small of a bed just for Simon–you don’t want to think about the kind of sleeping arrangements you’ll need to fit with him on it.

“Wot’s wrong?” Simon asks lowly. You look over your shoulder at him. He’s putting your things into the closet. He’s divided it in half already, and some of your clothes are already hung up next to his. You look back at the bed, pursing your lips.

“There’s not enough blankets,” you say softly. “A-And…And the pillows, here, I don’t like them.”

Simon turns back to your bag, picking up another shirt to hang. You glare at the back of him. It doesn’t do anything; he doesn’t erupt in flames like you might have hoped, but it does give you a moment to notice how well those jeans fit him.

Fuck. Keep it together.

“I’ll get you more blankets,” he shrugs. “And a different pillow.”

The answer is immediate. No fuss. You want to complain, to bite back at him for it, but you don’t know how you would explain your displeasure. You’re looking for a reason to tell your omega that she’s a scheming, hopeless, naïve little shit.

“...I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” Isn’t that what he had said? Isn’t that what he had said when he gripped you by the throat and made you realize that everything you had thought about alphas was true? Hadn’t he already shown you that none of them are redeemable?

Not Kate. Not John. Certainly not Simon–they’re all scheming, terrible fucking people, and you cannot wait until you can sink your teeth into Simon’s jugular and rip it out.

Belonging to, being one’s own, fuck if you care. Simon can claim ownership all he wants, but he’ll never tame you. Your omega might be pulling the strings at the moment, but you’re going through withdrawals, you think. Your medication was your lifeline. It kept you from falling off the tightrope, and you just need to learn how to stay upright without it. You can. When you get it back, when it’s in your hands again, she’ll understand.

She has to understand that only you know what’s good for you.

Simon places the rest of your things on his desk. A couple personal things, like your jewelry and some knickknacks, and then your bag with the rest of your clothes to be folded and put away. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. At least before, you could pretend like things were still a little normal. You could pretend that in your own room, you were simply waiting for another assignment, that you were just waiting for Kate to give you a call and move you somewhere new, somewhere safer.

“Am I just supposed to stay here and wait for you?” You ask finally. Simon shuffles around the room. He doesn’t look at you; instead, he takes a seat at a desk way too small for him and spreads a few papers around, frowning when he reads something that he doesn’t like. “Is that…is that my job?”

“Dunno.” Simon takes his phone out of his pocket, and he starts typing. “Don’t really feel like babysittin’.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” you tell him. “I…I have combat experience. I was in training before this.”

Simon snorts, still focused on his phone. He shakes his head a little.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Tha’s cute.”

Patronizing shit.

“I bet I can shoot a target ten times better than you,” you spit at him. His fingers hover over the screen for just a moment, irritated, before he goes back to typing. “And I can hold my own. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon puts his phone back into his pocket. He crosses his arms over his chest, letting out a deep breath before coming over to stand in front of you. You tip your head back, and he reaches down with a hand to cup under your jaw, holding you there. Just like that–your omega has you. You lean in, just that much. Simon sees it in your eyes, and he sniffs, looking you over.

Maybe he thinks you’re pathetic. In some sense, you agree with him, because what the fuck is wrong with me? You get one look into Simon’s eyes, and something chemical in you fires. You bend, and you relax, and you know if he asked you to open your mouth so he could spit in it, it would take a tremendous amount of effort to tell him no. It angers you and excites you all the same, and the conflicting flashes under your ribs bring tears to your eyes.

You hate yourself. You hate yourself for not being able to say no. You hate yourself for being everything they said you would be. You hate yourself for being nothing like you thought you were.

You’re soft. Sweet. All bark, no bite, a spiteful kitten that deep down, aims to please. The only thing that really baffles you, though, is why you only feel this way with Simon.

Is it because they told you that you were his mate? Is it because he’s done something, that he’s projecting some kind of scent? Has he already unknowingly changed your very makeup so your body knows that you are bound to him? When you look into John’s eyes, you see alpha. You see big, salivating dog, and if you could, you’d rip the hairs of his beard out just to see him in pain.

But Simon–it’s like you can’t move. Every time you look at him, and he looks at you, he holds you there. Just like now, he’s got you, and you feel like he can read everything you’re feeling. He’s being fed your secrets, and you hate him for it, but I can’t look away, please look away, please don’t make me–

“Need to get you somethin’ to eat,” Simon says finally. “And it’s time to meet the rest of the lot.”

Simon is starting to get used to keeping a hand on you. It annoys you a little, to feel his hand at your back, but the annoyance dissolves when you realize this base is filled with sneering alphas. They holler and yell, and they are very large and angry, but they still are small compared to Simon. They quiet whenever they walk past you, and even the whiff of omega doesn’t deter them with Simon behind you.

In the mess hall, you see Captain Price sitting at a table with two others. When you get closer to the table, you cough a little, stumbling back, and Simon catches you around the waist to hold you upright. The stench of alphas hits you like a truck, and Simon grunts as he tells you relax, fuckin’ hell.

You give him a hard stare–how the fuck would he know? There’s four alphas in your close vicinity, and they’re all puffing their chests and smiling, and it stings to smell them all at once. You turn your head a little to shield yourself, and when you filter everything else out but Simon, it frustrates you a little how much of him seems to calm you down.

Smells so good. Get closer. Press your nose to it, I-I want more–

“I see you two are getting along nicely,” John comments, leaning back in his chair. You roll your eyes a little, and when you lock eyes with him, you purse your lips and try to look anything but pleased. Simon guides you to sit down; he motions to the bench, just to the left of where someone else is already sitting–a big, burly soldier with crazy blue eyes. He has a terrible haircut, short along the sides with tufts of curls falling down the middle and over his forehead. He’s wiggling his eyebrows at his lieutenant behind you. Across from him, there’s another alpha with dark eyes and soft skin, and he’s smiling like an idiot around the rim of his plastic cup. You’re a little nervous–you had spent most of your time on your old base surrounded by betas who barely gave you a glance, and now you’re off your meds and being hit with a million different sensations everywhere you go. Simon’s touch on your back eases your shoulders a little.

“Tha’s Johnny,” Simon points to the one next to you. “Tha’s Gaz. ‘n I’m sure ya had the pleasure of our Captain.”

“Yeah, looks like your beard is still in tact, so glad to see it,” you say curtly, crossing your arms over your chest. The two sergeants laugh, ducking their heads, and John raises a brow before looking at Simon with a clenched jaw. Simon just shrugs, stretching his arm out on the back of your chair, and you get the feeling this happens often–John giving Simon that look, and Simon merely brushing it off. You smile to yourself a little, looking at Simon from over your shoulder. When you meet eyes, he stares back, looking over your face. He lingers on your lips for just a second too long before looking back up again.

I bet he tastes good under that mask. Let’s find out.

“Hungry?” He asks, and you blink. Your omega has never been inside of your head like this. You nearly opened your mouth and asked him for it, asked him please, please–let me taste, I won’t look, just let me taste you. You swallow her down a little, and you just nod to keep yourself moving. Simon stands up to make his way towards where the food is, and you watch curiously as instead of standing in line, he pushes open a door into the kitchen and disappears behind it.

“LT’s been gettin’ ye special meals,” Johnny says with a full mouth. You frown a little, and not just cause he’s chewing with his mouth a little too open.

“What do you mean?”

“He has the cooks make you somethin’ special,” Gaz says as he takes a sip of water. He leans back, smiling again, and it irks you a little. Alphas are brutes, disgusting big things with too many hormones, and you hate that this one gets to be pretty, too. Not that John or his sergeant aren’t attractive, but this one definitely enjoys a good mirror selfie, and it shows. “Something not on the menu. He didn’t like that you weren’t eating much, at the beginning. Made a fuss, and now he gets you better food.”

“He can do that?”

“Well, would ye say no to tha’ big man?” Johnny snorts, dipping his crusty bread in sauce. You look back towards the door, and Simon comes out holding a tray. He sets it down in front of you, and you bite your lip looking down at it. It smells so good, and you pick up your fork gently, sticking it into the pasta and twirling it. When you take a bite and sigh, Simon takes a seat next to you, and you can barely hear the sweet rumble in his chest of satisfaction.

Providing for you. Taking care of you. He’s so capable, isn’t he? Look at what he does for you.

If Simon notices you scoot closer to him, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t react either–it wasn’t a conscious choice.

Simon’s shower has hot water. Not that the showers you’d had were cold, but the communal showers were just that–communal. Shared, and although your escort always made sure you were the only one in there while you showered, it was still feeding off a water heater that always had barely any juice left. Lukewarm showers, so you tried to finish quick.

Simon’s shower turns the water scalding. You giggle with relief when you stand under it, letting it loosen your sore muscles and relieve your aching bones. It feels good, and you take a little longer in there, taking your time and enjoying the heat.

When it’s time to wash your body, you realize you’re missing your own soap. You look around for something else, noticing the unlabeled bottle that rests on a ledge. You squirt a pump of it into your palms, and when you raise it to your nose, your eyes flutter shut.

It’s the eucalyptus you smelled on Simon. A little plastic aftersmell, which you know is from whatever backwater dollar store the military buys it from, but on Simon, it smells so good. You lather it in your hands and hold it up to your nose, and you sigh deeply.

He’s just outside. Why don’t you call for him? I bet he’s listening. I bet he’s waiting for us.

You slide your hands down your arms. With the heat of the water, the whole bathroom starts to smell like it, and you let your hands slide down further, over your waist, between your thighs. When your fingers touch your puffy clit, you’re nearly jolted back into reality.

“Fuck–” You gasp, reaching for the level, shutting the water off. The last of the water curls down the drain, and you cough as you look around. You curl your toes, grounding yourself, and then you get out of the shower and reach for the towel. When you look into the mirror, your pupils are blown wide, and you feel like you don’t recognize yourself. You drop the towel and dress yourself, trying to keep your mind occupied with menial tasks.

Get your shit together.

When you open the bathroom door, Simon is back from his little errand he had run. He’s carrying a few blankets and a thick comforter, and there’s a few new pillows on the bed with it. You use the towel to keep drying the wet strands of your hair, and Simon turns around when he hears you walk in further.

You pass by him wordlessly as you reach the bed. You put your hands on the blankets that he put down, and you close your eyes when you feel how soft they are. Threaded cotton and fleece, lots of thick feathers in the comforter to make it nice and fluffy. When you turn to look over your shoulder, Simon does a terrible job of pretending like he wasn’t just staring at your ass in the little sleep shorts you’re wearing. You want to snap at him, but your omega pinches your tongue.

Take them off. Take them off. Take them off.

“So, what…” You clear your throat. “How are we supposed to sleep in that bed? T-Together?”

Simon tilts his head to the side. You start to despise the mask. You hate that you can’t tell what he’s thinking, not even a little, and after the rather joyous conversations you’ve had with Simon (barf), you can’t say you’re entirely excited to be in this close of a space with him.

“Don’t worry,” Simon murmurs. “I’ll be good.”

Oh, that totally makes you feel better.

Prick.

He makes you get into bed and turn facing the wall as he turns out the lights. He pulls at the edge of his mask uncomfortably, and you realize he doesn’t want you to see his fine. Fine, you think to yourself, throwing the sheets back with a huff, bet you’re fucking ugly mug would blind me anyways.

You cuddle under all the blankets, snuggling into the new pillow that sinks under your head. You hum gently, closing your eyes, and you aren’t able to see Simon rubbing his chest warmly as he watches you. He sucks on his teeth, not truly understanding what he feels, but knowing that it’s soothing the beast in him to take care of you.

It rattles him. Simon isn’t used to this. He’s not used to feeling like he doesn’t have control. He resisted this for so long. He tried so hard to fight, he said no to Kate over and over and over again.

Omegas to Simon were liabilities. To care was to have a target on your back. To be mated meant having something to lose.

Ask Price, is what he told her, ask the fuckin’ sergeants, anyone but me, but she wouldn’t hear it. It had to be him, it had to be, and then she locked him into a room with her, and she leveled with him.

She told him that you are special. That you are precious. That omegas like you don’t exist, that you are one in a single generation, and there isn’t anyone else in the world that will do except for him.

Price, married to the field. The sergeants, immature and might as well be titled barracks bunnies. But Simon–purebred, quiet, controlled. Terrified of himself and what he is. His unofficial pack that he defends with his entire being, that is the only alpha worth giving to you.

Kate had thought about it before. What it might be like to push the hair away from your neck and sink her teeth there. As easy as putting her signature to paper, she could have the CIA running laps to keep you protected, but she knew that wasn’t the life for her. It couldn’t be.

In every situation, Kate would have to choose that lesser evil, and in her world, it would mean her choice would unlikely be you.

Simon? Simon answered to no one. Unlike his sergeants, he cared little for authority; he wouldn’t blink twice saying no to his superior. Unlike his Captain, Simon didn’t mind choosing the bloody way out. He was the first with his finger on the trigger, and the last to sweep a room. Kate knew–if Simon had to choose between the greater good and the omega he claimed?

Fuck the greater good. That, she could count on.

If Kate only asked for one thing, it would be this. She did promise you. She promised she would keep you away from it all. She promised that she would make things right. She promised that she would protect you, but even Kate answers to others, and the reality of this kind of world is that the only way to really protect you was to give you away.

To put you into the same world that you had only begged to be kept away from.

Nobody likes playing matchmaker, but maybe putting together the most stubborn and angry people in the world might save you from yourselves. At least she hoped so.

You’re nearly asleep when you feel Simon come to bed. All the lights are off, and it’s pitch black in the room. There’s some shuffling around the room, and then you feel the blankets move. All of the sudden, a heat stronger than you’ve ever felt takes up the entire bed. Pressed against your back, a solid chest, and then a huge arm falls over your waist.

“We cuddling now?” You mumble sleepily, and Simon breathes out slowly, not responding. When you fall asleep, it’s unnervingly easy. Your omega purrs, digging her nails into you, and when you turn your head in the dark and feel the brush of his unmasked face against yours, she preens.

He’s right there–just a little taste. Just a little. Please, please, please–

Omegas cannot claim, but they can bite. It takes everything inside of you not to sink your teeth into him.

“You smell that? Smells like fuckin’ sweets, mates.”

You take off your headphones and safety glasses, looking over your shoulder. There’s a few recruits a few lanes down from you, wiggling their eyebrows and licking their lips. One of them crudely grabs his crotch, winking at you. You make a face.

Gross.

“Let me see you, baby. Smell so good.”

You holster the gun you’re holding, leaning against the counter with your hip. You raise a brow, tilting your head to the side.

“Are you done?” You ask, and they take that as their cue to start walking closer. An invitation.

They don’t get very far. You smell him before you see him. On instinct, your shoulders relax with that whiff of charcoal. You push off the counter just in time for him to come up behind you, and you feel the heat of his chest as it presses against your back. The recruits in front of you stop immediately, and you feel a disgusting sense of satisfaction when Simon bends over your shoulder to look at you.

“‘n wot’s this?” Simon growls. You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I don’t know. They wanna have a dick-measuring contest, but I think they’re afraid they’re gonna lose,” you say. You let out an annoyed sigh, turning again to put your safety glasses on. You put the headphones back over your ears and take the gun out of your holster, turning the safety off as you line it up with the paper targets near the back of the course. “You know. Cause my dick is way bigger.”

You unload the clip just for fun. You’re supposed to be practicing on accuracy, which for you meant slower, spaced-out shots to try and hit the same spot over and over, but the sound of the gun going off again and again helps distract you from the laughing, untrained dogs that are littered across the shooting range.

When you put the gun down after emptying the magazine, Simon is salivating. The paper target head is obliterated, each bullet almost next to its last. When you turn around, Simon tilts his head to the side. You holster the gun, starting to walk, and Simon lets his eyes drop to the sway of your hips as you pass by him. It’s not a conscious decision, the way his fingers curl into fists and squeeze hard.

“Told you,” you say to him. “Huge dick, right, baby?”

Something flares in Simon’s chest when he hears it. Like a switch, his legs start moving, following you, and when he passes by a recruit that is standing much too close to you, Simon shoves the recruit back so hard, they smack their nose against the wall and curses from the impact, blood dripping under their bruised nose.

The rest of the day, you don’t see another rookie walk even five feet into your vicinity. Even without a mark on your neck, you are claimed, and right before you leave your room for dinner, Simon is fitting a dark hoodie over your head. The smell overwhelms you. It’s soaked in his scent, and you turn to face him, looking at him suspiciously. Your omega keeps you from questioning him. She wants you to start walking, because she knows he’ll touch you when you do.

It’s that night that Simon asks John for you to join them. All Simon does is slide the shredded paper target across his desk. John picks it up, tacking it onto the wall. He chuckles, shaking his head. It’s an impressive piece of paper, but being a good shot isn’t the only reason someone is cleared to work with them. Even besides that, it’s forbidden.

“Omegas aren’t allowed in the field, Simon,” John reminds him. “You know that.”

“Think tha’s why we should take her,” Simon mutters. “She’s a distraction. A good one.”

“A weapon,” John frowns. He can already hear Kate screaming into his ear if she ever saw you geared up between them on an op.

“A tool.”

“And what does she think of that, eh?” John slips his hat off, tossing it onto his desk. He sighs, running a hand over his beard, and he shakes his head. “And Kate…Kate would hang my fuckin’ head.”

“Not Kate’s responsibility anymore, she’s mine,” Simon bites back. He knows it’s wrong. In all honesty, the sentiment tasted bad from the moment he said it to you, but it is easier to let you believe that he’s using you then try and make you understand him. You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t get his reasons, and that’s fine, so if he has to be the bad guy, so be it.

The least he could do is make himself useful. Put your skills to work, poke your mind. See what you can really do.

“Don’t let your girl hear you talkin’ like that, Simon,” John says lowly. “Not her, and certainly not Kate.”

“But you agree,” Simon continues, chuckling lowly. “I speak for her. ‘n I think she’d be right in on it, Captain. Wot else is she to do, eh? Sit in my fuckin’ quarters and wait f’me? Wot kind of life is tha’? She needs this. She’s good. I can teach ‘er. She’ll learn. Well and good she will, I know it.”

John sniffs, running a big hand over his short hair before tapping a pen over the target paper on the wall.

“I need her OK,” John relents finally. “I need to hear it from her. I get that, I’m alright with it. But she has to know what she’s getting into, Simon. And no one but you is responsible for her. If she gets into something, I’m not gonna risk Soap or Gaz for it–”

“I know,” Simon mutters. “She’ll be my shadow. I’ll teach ‘er.”

She’ll be good. She’ll be good because she’s mine.

“Bravo-7, sitrep.”

“Eyes on target. Waiting on confirmation.” Simon looks over his shoulder for a moment, where you’re sitting as his cover. You look cute, he thinks. All geared up. He lets his eyes sweep over the cargo pants that are cinched around your waist. Your nice curves. Thick thighs. Fuck, you smell good, even with all the sand up his nose and the smoke clinging to his mask. You have your rifle tucked into your elbow, and you’ve got it aimed towards the door of the roof.

“Is it always so fucking hot?” You ask, running your wrist over your lip. You’re sweating; you can feel it dripping down the back of your neck and along your back. You’re wearing a lot of gear, but you’ve done this before, and you don’t remember it being so uncomfortable. It must be the climate–you’re not used to this kind of desert, and you need to get it together.

Despite the irritation you feel every time you look at Simon, your omega wants to please him. She wants to show him she can do this, that she’s capable, and you’re starting to not like that she’s behaving as if you and her are one and the same.

I’m in control. Shut the fuck up. Let me focus.

“Just watch the door,” Simon mutters, turning back to focus. He adjusts the scope of his rifle, taking a deep breath as he leans into the stock. He gets his target into his line of sight, and he narrows his eye a little more to watch the group more closely on the ground. It’s hard to ignore you. Normally, the person covering him goes almost unnoticed. Their scent never affects him, not enough to make him look away from his scope, but there’s something in the air way too close to him, and he scrunches his nose a little as he adjusts his position on the ground. “You stink, by the way.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap. “Not my fault.”

“Certainly is y’r fault.”

“You reek, too, you ass,” you mumble, wiping your forehead again. You adjust how you’re sitting, clearing your throat. It’s scratchy, and you’re starting to itch a little all over, too. “Like wet dog.”

Simon smiles under his mask. He keeps his index finger next to the trigger, and you keep yours on it.

“How much longer do we have to do this? I mean…I thought you were SAS. Don’t you guys…get your hands real dirty? I mean, don’t you go tearing doors down? Get a lot of action? I mean, we’re just sitting ducks on a roof here right now.”

“Wot, you wanna go kick some doors down now?” Simon asks. He shakes his head. “The real job is boring. We do things nice and clean, we only get dirty when we ‘ave to. If I can get a target from 1000 yards away, then tha’s wot I’ll do. Besides. This is wot I’m good at.”

“Yeah, you look real good there on your knees, honey.”

Simon blinks hard when something strong hits his nose. It stings, makes his eyes water. He coughs a little, dropping his head for a moment.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Simon hisses. “Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?”

“I-I don’t know,” you whisper. You take your hand off your rifle for a moment to adjust the collar of your shirt, but it doesn’t help. You shift a little, loosening your tactical vest. You want to take it off, but you know that’s a bad idea out here. It’s hard to think clearly, though, when your brain is cloudy and you’re starting to see things in double every so often. “It’s…it’s too hot.”

Simon huffs, “‘n when was the last time you had a heat?”

“I’ve…I’ve never.” You clear your throat. “I’ve never had one.”

Can you smell him? I can smell him. He smells so good.

Simon nearly leaves his post. He grips his rifle tight, gloved hands squeezing the metal, and he turns to look at you incredulously.

“Fuckin’ repeat tha’?”

“I know you’re blind and dumb, but don’t tell me you’re fucking deaf, too,” you mumble. You swallow, wiping your face again, and Simon presses on the radio on his shoulder.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, how long do we got?”

“Just observation on target for now. Why?”

“Need 10 minutes.”

Simon shuts off the radio. You blink, starting to see double pretty consistently now, and you take a shaky breath as you grip your rifle a little tighter. You hear shuffling behind you, and you look back to see Simon moving from his position.

“What are you doing? Simon–”

“Get over ‘ere.” Simon sets his rifle down. “Tha’ wasn’t a fuckin’ suggestion, tha’ was an order!”

There’s something different in his voice at the end. Something more animal that lilts his drawl, and it makes you coherent enough to start moving–like his voice made all the fog clear up for just a few moments, long enough for you to realize you need him.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

You put your rifle down, crawling over to him, and just as you stumble, Simon catches you. You put your hands on his shoulders, falling into his lap, and he hoists you up until you’re straddling him. You feel him starting to tug on your cargos, and even in your daze, you squeeze his shoulders.

“S-Simon? What are you…What are you doing?”

“Y’r gonna go into heat soon,” Simon mutters. Alarm bells go off in your head, and you dig your nails into his shoulders. He can see it clearly–the panic on your face.

“H-Heat? R-Right now?”

“Not right now,” Simon clicks his tongue. “More like a…pre-heat. Get y’r bloody pants off–”

When Simon tugs your cargos down enough, you gasp when you see the mess your panties are in. They’re soaked, drenched until the cotton is a darker color, sticking to your cunt, and you whimper as Simon tugs you back into his lap with your pants around your ankles. It’s awkward and messy, and you’re sweating bullets, hot and bothered, and your chest feels tight. There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing sweet about the way Simon turns you in his lap. It’s hurried, but you’re just as desperate, clawing to whatever piece of him you can touch and trying to sink into him. If you could, you’d pry him open and force yourself to tuck yourself inside of him. You want to live there forever. You want to be in his skin, soaking it all in–you want it. You want this, don’t you?

He’s touching us! He’s touching us! Let him in!

“W-What’s happening t-to me?”

“‘s olright,” Simon whispers in your ear. “I’ve got ya. There we are…” He cups your pussy, making you squirm. You jolt in his lap, throwing your head back against his shoulder, and he hums as you sink into his touch. Something inside you curls and lights on fire. Your vision blurs, and his scent surrounds you. “Oh…fuck…tha’ wot ya needed, swee’eart? Yeah…”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Simon–” Your back arches, and you push your hips into his hand. When he touches your clit, your omega seizes inside your head, and it’s a feeling like you’ve never felt before.

She takes the reigns; and God, does she fucking pull.

You palm at the zipper of his pants. There’s something there, something you want–and you need it. There’s something in your chest that blinds you, that familiar voice in your head that chants–take it out, take it out, take it out.

“‘m workin’ on it, love,” you hear from behind, and you realize you’re talking. You’re out of your body, you think. You’re not yourself. When you feel him in your daze, big and throbbing under your hand, you whine. It comes from deep within your chest, a bubble of nonsense, and Simon coos. He drags your hips closer, and his cock slips under you, between your folds, and you use your palm to keep him pressed to you. You can’t see him, but you felt him when you first met him, and you’re feeling him now.

If there was any doubt that he was anything but an alpha, that thought disappears when his fat tip kisses your clit. He’s hot and throbbing under your hand, and he is more than enough to appease the voice in your head that’s screaming for some kind of inherent relief that it knows he can give.

“Simon, I need it–I need it–”

“I know, love.”

Fuck, Simon would win any dick-measuring contest, you think. Barely the tip of him, and you’re baring your teeth, gripping his thighs and digging your nails into him as you try and breathe through the stretch. He’s not even fully hard yet; the blood is rushing to his cock, and you moan and cry as he sits you down further and further and further–

“What the fuck–what is it you have in your fucking pants, a-a fucking pipe–?!”

“Y’r so much prettier when y’r mouth ain’t runnin’,” Simon mutters. “Ahh–fuck–’s mine, oll mine–”

You put your hands on his knees and throw it back. You’re feral, brain foggy, and all you can think about is getting yourself off. Your body clings to Simon like a thick, curling vice, pussy clamping around him and taking him to the root. You’re dripping down your thighs, wetting his cargos, and you’re thankful that he’s wearing black, otherwise you can’t think about the mess you’d really be leaving on him. The sounds are lewd. Frantic smack, smack, smack against his thick thighs, and the sound is only making you drool for more. He’s so big. He’s hitting you deep, and you swear your insides have never been stretched this far, but it’s like your body is molding itself to fit him. Like you’re making room for him.

It’s so good. It feels right. Your omega growls like an animal, crying with relief. It’s the only thing she’s ever wanted, and she has it in her hands, and she licks at your scent gland until it practically vibrates. Simon’s face is pressed to it, like he can hear her calling. His mask is the only thing separating you, but you can feel his teeth straining against the fabric. They cut over the gland, wet like his tongue is poking against it, too, and your omega screams.

Bite me, bite me, bite me.

“Not yet,” Simon grunts. “Won’t take.”

“You’ll make it take.”

He laughs, and then he punches the air out of you with a nice thrust. Then he’s on you. Suddenly, you’re on your knees, your tummy against the sandy rooftop, with a stallion of a soldier on top of you, taking you like his last meal.

He sounds like more bear than man. Growling, spitting, both hands on either side of your head as he fucks you into the floor. There’s a smile on your face, soft relief that leaves you in your pretty moans and gurgled pleas. It feels so good. The tip of his cock curves and hits against the same place each time, sending pulses that rack your body over and over and over again. Your thighs are shaking, and then Simon slips one hand under you and cups your pussy, fitting it just right until you can grind down on his palm in perfect timing with the way the fat tip of him hits you just well enough. It should hurt. You’ve never taken anything so big–of course you’ve practiced, but nothing can prepare you for the real thing.

This is still practice. You’re not in your heat, not really, and Simon hasn’t lost his fucking mind yet.

Like a fiend, you chase it. The stars, the mountain to climb, the beautiful end. You get up a little more onto your knees and you wrap a hand around his neck, force him against your jaw. You goad him on with pretty words, soft moans–that’s it, right there, please.

It’s not his first time. It’s not his first time relieving an itch he can’t scratch, and it’s not his first time taking an omega by the neck and pounding into her until she can’t speak, but it’s the first time his resolve shatters.

He wants to bite. He’s never felt the urge to bite. If it wasn’t for the mask, his teeth would be an inch deep in your neck, and he’d be memorizing what your blood tasted like for the first time. Your scent is just that much off that he knows it isn’t the right time, but fuck–the need is there. It’s clear.

Special. One of a kind. No one like her. Soft. Sweet. Mine.

His knot swells a little, but it doesn’t lock. You’re not in a proper heat, so it’s not right just yet, but you can feel the edge of it, like the preface to a glorious poem. Thick and spongy, hot, and when he comes, your eyes roll back in your head. It feels like being thirsty for days on end and finally getting that sweet drink of crystal clear water. He pumps you full, creamy and thick and dribbling between your thighs as you squeeze them together. Subconsciously, you’re trying to keep it inside, and Simon groans when as he latches his mouth over your scent gland under the mask and sucks–so hard, it pinches you just right.

The stars align. The tide wanes. You mumble softly, dopey smile on your face, and when your own high hits you, and you’re squirting into his hand, you let his rumbling, low voice pull you back to earth.

“I ‘ave ya, swee’eart,” he says. “Shhh…easy, kitty…Shh…yeah, easy.”

You sigh with relief. Simon handles you with ease. He picks you up, gets you to sit back on your heels. You don’t see it, but Simon fits his wet fingers under the mask, and you keen when you hear him suck on his fingers and hum.

He likes us. Hear that? He likes us.

“Want you to eat me,” you giggle suddenly, and Simon wipes you down, picking your pants back up and zipping them. He pats your ass gently, smoothing a hand over the back of your neck. He knows you’re still in a different headspace. He knows there’s still something else drawing your breath, but he’s trying not to think about it too much. It sounds so much like you.

“Do plenty o’tha’ when we’re in the thick o’it, kitty.”

Back in the humvee, Johnny is smiling like an idiot. He’s sitting next to Kyle, hitting him with his elbow as he wiggles his eyebrows at you and Simon sitting across from them. You tilt your head to the side, glaring.

“What?” You snap, and Johnny cackles. His eyes are flashing, and he reeks like happiness.

“Smells like ye had fun.”

“My gun is loaded, shithead,” you warn him. “And I know how the fucking safety works.”

When Johnny moves to sit in the front near your captain, you try not to think about the sudden warmth over your knee, and the squeeze of Simon’s hand on you.

NEXT

[ahqkas]

Can you please write dumb/subtle/random/cute things batboys will do while they are crushing on reader?

♯ FEEL YOUR LIPS CRUSH . . .

— gn!reader, fluff

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BRUCE WAYNE

becomes overly observant but awkwardly obvious

bruce wayne is a master of observation—trained to notice the smallest details in a room, a person, or a crime scene. but when it comes to you, this skill becomes more of a curse than a blessing. his crush transforms his usual precision into something downright awkward as he hyper-focuses on the tiniest parts of your life.

it starts innocently enough. you’ll be in the middle of a casual conversation when bruce interrupts, his deep voice breaking through your train of thought.

“you’ve switched your coffee order recently,” he says matter-of-factly, his piercing blue eyes locking on yours.

you blink, momentarily confused. “uh, yeah. i wanted to try something different.”

“it’s good,” he replies, his tone completely serious, as if your new preference for caramel flavored coffee over vanilla is a critical observation.

sometimes his comments catch you so off guard that you don’t even know how to respond. like the time you came into the room wearing a pair of old sneakers. bruce, who was leaning against the kitchen counter sipping his coffee, glanced down and said, “those laces are frayed. you should replace them.”

you laughed nervously, unsure if he was joking. “uh, thanks for the tip?”

but bruce wasn’t joking. “i’ll send alfred to pick up new ones. you don’t want them snapping mid-step.”

he tries to play it cool, he really does, but his constant streak of seemingly random observations only makes his feelings more obvious. one afternoon, you find him glancing at your notebook while you jot something down. without even looking at you, he says, “you press harder with the pen when you’re tired. your handwriting’s smaller today.”

you set your pen down, giving him a skeptical look. “do you . . . keep track of my handwriting, bruce?”

his face doesn’t change, though you swear his ears flush the faintest shade of pink. “no,” he says smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee. “it’s just. . . noticeable.”

it’s the way he says it—quiet and genuine—that sends your heart fluttering. he doesn’t realize how much he’s revealing, but his small, awkward comments and laser focus on the details of your life make it abundantly clear.

the funny thing is, you’re not the only one noticing. alfred, who’s known bruce wayne longer than anyone, often raises an eyebrow or hides a knowing smirk whenever bruce starts one of his “random” observations.

( “perhaps master wayne should focus on his own handwriting.” bruce glares at alfred, but his lack of a comment only makes the butler’s smirk grow wider. )

finds excuses to be helpful

bruce’s wealth is something he wields with the subtlety of a battering ram when he’s crushing on someone. his intentions are good—he genuinely wants to help—but it often comes off as over-the-top or hilariously unnecessary. for someone as logical and composed as the bat, using his money to make your life easier feels like a no-brainer, but he doesn’t realize just how obvious it makes his feelings.

it starts small at first. you might casually mention needing to replace something—your laptop is acting up or your phone is outdated. the next day, without fail, a box will mysteriously appear at your doorstep. inside, you’ll find not just a replacement but the absolute best version of the device, meticulously selected and clearly expensive.

“bruce,” you say, holding up the latest model of a WE laptop you can’t imagine ever affording on your own. “did you do this?”

he looks up from his work, his expression calm and unbothered. “it’s practical,” he says, as if that’s a reasonable excuse for gifting you a piece of technology worth more than your rent. “your old one was slow. it’s inefficient to struggle with outdated equipment.”

when you try to protest, he waves it off, as though spending thousands of dollars on you is no more different than buying a cup of coffee.

but it doesn’t stop there. one morning, you’re sitting in the kitchen with him, absently complaining about how your car keeps breaking down. it’s an offhanded comment, something you don’t think twice about, but bruce takes it as a challenge. by the time you’ve finished your coffee, he’s already pulled out his phone to make arrangements.

“wait,” you interrupt him, narrowing your eyes as you catch him murmuring something to alfred over the phone. “what are you doing?”

“nothing,” he replies too quickly, but later that day, you’re startled to find a sleek new car parked outside your home, the keys and a handwritten note from the butler sitting on your counter.

“bruce!” you exclaim, storming into the study to confront him.

he doesn’t even look up from his computer. “your old car was unreliable. this one is safer.”

“that’s not the point!”

“it’s just a car,” he says with a small shrug, though there’s a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

despite his attitude, it’s clear he’s putting an incredible amount of thought into everything he does for you. his gestures are less about showing off his wealth and more about making sure you never have to struggle, even in the smallest ways. because to him, it’s just logical—he has the resources, so why wouldn’t he use them to make your life easier?

DICK GRAYSON

finds excuses to touch you

for someone as physically expressive as dick grayson, touch comes as naturally as breathing—but when he’s crushing on you, it’s a whole new level. he’s not even aware of how much he does it at first, but the moments start to add up. it’s little things at first: the way he always seems to find a reason to brush his hand against yours, the casual way his shoulder bumps into you when you’re walking side by side, or the way he’ll lean close when he’s explaining something, his hand ghosting over yours as he gestures.

but then, it becomes less about the accidental and more about the intentional. when you’re sitting on the couch together, he’ll sling an arm over the back of it, his fingers close enough to brush against your shoulder. he’ll offer his hand when you’re stepping out of a car or climbing over something, even if you don’t need it, the contact lingers just a second longer than necessary.

“careful,” he’ll say, his voice soft and teasing, even though the step you’re taking isn’t remotely precarious.

“you know i can walk, right?”

he grins, squeezing your hand briefly before letting it go. “just being chivalrous.”

and then, there are the moments when he gets so wrapped up in the conversation or your presence that he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. like the time you were sitting together, and he absentmindedly started playing with the hem of your sleeve. it wasn’t until you cleared your throat that he looked down, startled, his ears turning pink as he quickly let go.

“sorry,” he mumbled, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “didn’t realize i was doing that.”

but the blush on his cheeks told you everything you needed to know.

for dick, touch is a way of expressing what words sometimes fail to say. every hand on your shoulder, every playful nudge, and every lingering hug is his way of saying, i like being near you. i like you. even if he hasn’t quite found the courage to say it out loud, his actions make it impossible to miss.

teases you relentlessly (but gets flustered when you tease him back)

teasing is how dick shows affection, how he keeps things light, and, more than anything, how he tries to get your attention. when he’s crushing on you, though, his teasing takes on a new level. every little thing you do seems to give him material to poke fun at, not in a mean way, but in a way that makes it clear he’s paying attention to everything about you.

if you trip over a word while talking, he’ll immediately smirk. “careful there, shakespeare,” he’ll quip. “do we need to enroll you in a public speaking class?” or if you drop something, he’s ready with a dramatic gasp. “wow, butterfingers, do you need me to carry everything for you? i could be your personal assistant, but i charge by the hour.”

it’s playful, yes, but it’s also consistent. he’s always looking for ways to make you laugh, even if it’s at your own expense. like the time you were struggling to open a stubborn jar of jam, and he swooped in, popping the lid off with ease.

“guess i’m just the stronger one here,” he said, flexing his biceps with an exaggerated grin. “it’s okay; not everyone can have these guns.”

but if you so much as raise an eyebrow or fire back with your own jab, the tables turn in an instant. one day, after he’d spent a full five minutes teasing you about your choice of coffee ( “a triple-shot vanilla latte with almond milk? fancy. are you sure you don’t need a royal escort to carry it for you?” ), you finally snapped back.

“oh, and i suppose you’re the coffee expert, mr. regular black coffee? real creative. i bet the baristas have your order memorized.”

the grin on his face faltered for a split second, his eyes widening just slightly. then came the blush—the faint pink hue creeping up his cheeks as he tried to recover, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“hey, black coffee is . . . classic,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.

and that’s the thing about dick grayson: as much as he loves dishing it out, he can’t always handle it when it’s directed at him. the moment you tease him back, especially if it’s about something he’s sensitive about (like his perfectly styled hair or his need to one-up everyone), he turns into an awkward, flustered mess.

“you spend how long on your hair every morning?” you asked him once, teasingly ruffling his carefully combed locks after he made fun of the mismatched socks you were wearing.

he froze, his hand shooting up to fix the damage. “it’s not that long,” he protested, his voice defensive but light.

“oh, come on! i bet you use at least three different products. don’t tell me you don’t have a favorite brand of gel.”

his cheeks flushed crimson as he stammered, “i—you know, it’s just . . . maintenance! can’t all of us roll out of bed looking flawless, okay?”

you laughed, and he groaned, muttering something under his breath about how you were “way too good at this.”

JASON TODD

acts nonchalant but is always nearby

jason todd is many things—brash, sarcastic, sometimes even reckless—but when it comes to feelings he doesn’t fully understand, he defaults to keeping his distance . . . or at least pretending he’s keeping his distance. the truth is, when he’s crushing on you, he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, always finding an excuse to be wherever you are without making it obvious. or so he thinks.

take your quiet sunday afternoons, for instance. maybe you’ve settled on the couch with a book, enjoying the rare peace. jason walks in, all nonchalant, like he’s just passing through. he glances at you—just a quick flick of his eyes, like he’s making sure you’re still there—and then he settles in the chair across from you, a spot he never uses otherwise.

“what are you doing?” you ask, watching as he pulls out a book of his own, the same one he’s been pretending to read for weeks.

he doesn’t even look up. “reading.”

you roll your eyes but say nothing, knowing full well he’s barely getting through a page. you can feel his gaze on you every few minutes, like he’s trying to memorize the way your brow furrows in concentration or how you chew on the corner of your lip when you’re focused. and if you catch him? he quickly snaps his attention back to his book, pretending obliviousness.

“didn’t know you liked this spot so much,” you tease, gesturing to the chair.

a smirk plays on the edge of his lips, though there’s a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. “what, i can’t sit here now? thought it was a free country.”

it’s always like that—his attempts to mask how much he cares come with a side of sarcasm. but the truth slips through in the little details. like how he never actually leaves the room until you do. or how, even when you’re sitting in silence, he finds a reason to linger. maybe he’s scrolling through his phone, flipping through a magazine, or staring at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought. but really, he’s just soaking in your presence.

and then there are the times when he doesn’t even bother pretending. like when you’re sitting in the kitchen, finishing up some work, and he wordlessly sits down across from you, arms crossed and chin propped in his hand.

“what?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“nothing,” he replies, though the slight curve of his lips gives him away.

it’s not that jason is afraid to admit he likes you ( although there is a possibility he is but we don’t talk about that )—it’s just that he doesn’t know how. so instead, he hovers. he sticks close enough to feel like he’s part of your world but not so close that he risks giving himself away. so while he might act nonchalant, the truth is, he’s anything but. every glance, every lingering moment, every excuse to be near you is jason’s way of saying he cares—he just hasn’t found the words yet.

fixes things you didn’t even know were broken

jason’s way of showing he cares is a little unconventional, but it’s always in the small, unspoken ways. he’s the type to notice things that no one else would—things that have been lingering for ages in the background of your life, just waiting for someone to fix them. but because it’s jason, he’ll never bring it up. he’ll just do it, no questions asked, and then act like it never happened.

it starts with the little things. your chair in the living room? it’s been squeaking for months now, but it’s not something you’ve gotten around to fixing. it’s one of those annoyances you’ve learned to ignore, a piece of background noise that doesn’t really bother you enough to take action.

until one day, it suddenly stops.

you sit down in the chair, and for the first time in ages, it’s silent. your eyes narrow. you didn’t fix this—so who did?

“jason?” you ask, glancing toward him as he lounges on the couch, pretending to be deep in whatever he’s doing.

he doesn’t even look up. “what?”

“the chair. it’s. . . quiet now.”

he pauses for just a moment, but it’s enough to catch the shift in his demeanor. he shrugs, barely concealing the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “must’ve gotten lucky. or maybe it fixed itself.”

you know it didn’t. but before you can press him on it, he’s already back to whatever he was doing, like the whole thing is no big deal. it’s almost as if he’s trying to play it off, hoping you won’t notice that he’s been quietly fixing things in your life, one at a time.

the next thing happens a few days later. you walk into the kitchen, only to find that the light above the sink, the one that flickers every time you try to use it, is now working. perfectly.

you stop, standing in the doorway and just staring at it. there’s no way you fixed it. and it certainly wasn’t broken enough to need replacing. so once again, you turn your gaze to jason, who’s now sitting at the kitchen table, eating a snack and acting entirely uninterested in your investigation.

“jason, did you—?”

“no,” he interrupts and continues watching the video essay he turns on every time he eats.

“uh-huh,” you say, narrowing your eyes, walking toward the light and testing the switch again just to make sure you’re not imagining things. it stays steady, glowing without hesitation.

he’ll never say it out loud, but each fix—each thoughtful act—speaks louder than any words could. the broken things don’t matter, because jason is here, fixing them in his own way, piece by piece.

TIM DRAKE

gets shy when you’re too close

tim drake is usually the picture of composure. he’s calm, collected, and can handle himself in just about any situation, but when you’re too close, all that confidence seems to slip away. it starts small. you’re sitting beside him, maybe sharing a space while working on something, and without thinking, you slide just a little bit closer to him. maybe your arm brushes against his, or your knee nudges his under the table.

it’s enough to throw him off, just for a second. his heart rate picks up slightly, and he tries to hide it behind the screen of his laptop, pretending to focus harder than he really is. but he knows, deep down, that he’s hyperaware of you now—of the way you’re sitting, of the way your presence seems to fill the space between the two of you.

his eyes flicker toward you, but quickly dart away, like he’s afraid you caught him staring. it’s an involuntary reaction, the nervous little shift in his posture as he tries to seem as casual as possible. he clears his throat, his voice slightly quieter than usual. “uh, sorry, was just—just making sure the laptop was charging.”

it’s obvious to you that he’s not really talking about the laptop. he’s trying to act like it’s no big deal, but every time you’re too close to him, tim’s body betrays him. the way his leg shifts a little away from yours under the table, or how he tries to subtly angle his body so there’s just a little more space between you and him, even if he doesn’t want there to be.

you might not notice the subtle movements, but tim does. and every time you get close to him, whether it’s by accident or on purpose, he feels a flutter of nerves that he can’t quite explain. it’s not that he doesn’t want you near him—far from it—but the proximity messes with him in ways he doesn’t understand. his thoughts get jumbled, and his usual calmness slips, replaced by the flustered feeling he’s not used to.

if you ever catch him looking at you, his gaze quickly drops, and a soft blush creeps up his neck. “i—i didn’t mean to—uh, just making sure you’re not too cramped.” he mutters, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, anything to distract himself from the fact that he’s suddenly very aware of you being so close.

sometimes, when you get too near, tim will just freeze for a moment. it’s like his body can’t process the closeness, and the little awkward silence stretches between you two. it’s not uncomfortable—far from it—but it’s a vulnerable thing for tim, this closeness he doesn’t know how to handle.

but if you keep talking, or even just touch his arm gently when you lean over to look at something, tim’s composure slips even more. he shifts in his seat, trying to act like he’s calm, but his hand might twitch toward yours for just a second before he pulls it away like he’s afraid you’ll notice how he’s reacting.

follows you around during patrol

it’s late at night, the moon casting faint silver light across the streets, and the only sounds are the hum of city life and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. you’re out on a walk, maybe trying to clear your head or just enjoy the quiet, unaware that someone is watching you from the shadows. tim, clad in his suit, has been tailing you for a while now. it’s not that he’s trying to be creepy or intrusive, but rather, he’s just . . . concerned.

tim is the kind of person who can’t turn off his instincts, and tonight, for whatever reason, they’re telling him to stay close. he’s perched high above you on a rooftop, watching you walk along the street below, trying to remain unseen. his red robin suit blends into the darkness of the night, the shadows making him nearly invisible to anyone who might be looking.

he’s not sure why he’s doing it—it’s not like you’ve asked him to keep an eye on you—but there’s something about the quiet stillness of the night that has him on edge. maybe it’s because you’ve been a little distant lately, or maybe he’s just worried something might happen to you in the dark. either way, he’s got his eyes on you, and he won’t stop until you’re safely back where you belong.

he’s quick, agile, moving like a shadow himself. you might hear a faint creak of a fire escape ladder or the flurry of footsteps just out of your line of sight, but when you look, there’s nothing there—just the empty street, the soft glow of streetlights, and the ever-present hum of the city.

it’s when you stop for a moment, distracted by something—maybe you’re checking your phone or admiring a nearby storefront—that he’s closest. in that moment, tim takes a chance, moving closer to you, just a few feet away in the darkened alley. he’s not trying to startle you, but there’s something in his gut that tells him he can’t let you out of his sight, especially when it’s this late, and the streets feel a little emptier than usual.

he’ll hover just out of view, giving you space but never quite leaving you alone. if you keep walking, he follows, keeping his distance but staying close enough to ensure you’re safe. when you stop at a crosswalk or glance around, he’s already a few rooftops away, peering down at you from above, making sure you’re not being followed.

the closer you get to home, the more relaxed tim feels, but he never lets his guard down entirely. even when you reach the safety of your doorstep, he lingers just out of sight, making sure you get inside without any issues. he’ll remain in the shadows for a moment longer, watching as you lock the door behind you, ensuring you’re safe before finally letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

only then does he disappear into the night, his heart still racing, his mind replaying the images of your walk. he’ll retreat to his hidden vantage point, slipping into the dark corners of gotham once more, but the small weight of relief that you’re safe settles deep in his chest. even though he doesn’t want to admit it, there’s a part of him that feels content knowing you’re okay—even if you’ll never know how closely he’s watched over you.

[monstersflashlight]

Werewolf story part 1

Part 2.. are there lapping up dirty juice good dog traits. And then cuddles?

Sorry not really sure how to post this properly

Wrong candy, right hole (part 2)

Werewolf x witch fem!reader || oral sex, size kink, knotting (technically), mentioned somno

You woke up feeling like a train had run you over. Your whole body was sore and there was a warm body against yours, nuzzling your neck as he whined pathetically.

“Wha- what?” You asked, trying to push him away because he was tickling you.

And then you remembered: the candy. He took the candy and fucked you senseless. As if what you felt inside of you was any indication, he kept fucking you for a long time after. Fuck, why was that so hot? He whined again, his hand squeezing your naked boob as his claw traced the shape of your nipple. You shivered and tried to push him away, just to have him press against your body again.

You moved, turning to look at him as he looked at you. When your eyes met, your heart skipped a beat, the confession he did yesterday made your brain a bit fuzzy with confusion. Did he mean that? Did he really have a crush on you? Goddess, you hoped he did because you were heads over heels for him. Especially after tasting how good his knot felt inside of you over and over.

He hugged you tightly, the movement making you feel a sudden gush of liquid coming out of you. Adding to the mess you could feel under you. Disgusting.

“There’s a pool of come under me,” you stated, kissing his neck softly as his hands traveled up and down your back. “I can still feel you inside of me, good goddess,” you groaned as another twitch of your body made you recognize the tiny spike of pain on your pussy.

“Can I make it better?” He teased, a smirk playing on his wolfy face.

“How are you gonna-?” You didn’t finish that thought before he was traveling down your body, his big body fitting between your legs seamlessly.

He didn’t leave you a second to process before you felt his long tongue inside of you, the inhuman part of him making him hit every single inch inside of you. He used that to his advantage, making you moan and groan as he devoured you, taking everything he left there with his tongue. Swallowing over and over as he sucked his cum out of you.

You cursed as your hands found his fur, pulling at the strands and making him groan as loud as you. It was intoxicating to have him against your pussy again, better than last time because there weren’t any aphrodisiacs involved. It was all him. All unfiltered werewolf energy.

He made you come exactly like that, his tongue buried deep as he took everything he left in you and swallowed it down. It was filthy in the best way possible and you couldn’t hold back the cries of his name as you surrendered to the pleasure.

And he didn’t stop there.

He made you come a second time, and by the third, you couldn’t hold yourself anymore. “Enough,” you whimpered. You came so many times in the last 24h that your pussy was asking for help.

He chuckled against your tender flesh and pulled himself up again, landing next to you and cuddling you your side as you breathed hard. You could feel his dick rubbing against your hip, but you couldn’t care enough to help. He seemed to be doing everything on his own either way.

He grunted and groaned, rubbing his dick against you as he turned more and more desperate. You felt his come against your hip when he moaned your name like a whore, making you smile and kiss his cheek adoringly.

And then you felt something more. “Did you just pop a knot?” You asked, amused.

“N-no,” he stuttered, his hips rutting against your hip again as he moaned beautifully.

You smirked down at him and reached down with your hand, pressing against his very obvious knot. He whimpered, rubbing his dick furiously against you as you giggled. You milked him slowly and tenderly, squeezing and releasing until he was a mess under your hand and the sheets were even dirtier.

“You are doing the laundry,” you whispered against his cheek when he leaned down to smell your hair in a wolfy manner.

“I’ll do whatever you want if I can knot you again,” he responded, making you laugh so hard you had to grab your middle.

“Deal,” you conceded as he hugged you tightly, cuddling to your warm body.

[ddejavvu]

Hi babes! Idk if this is the type of plot you’d be interested in, but you introducing Spencer to your little girl for the first time, like 2/3, and Spencer’s made a conscious effort to memorise every single one of her books she owns. And when she gets him to recite any single page she pulls without him even looking she finds him hilarious. Needless to say Spencer’s hopes to make a good impression on your daughter now you two are dating, are going pretty well

"Wednesday!" Your daughter shrieks, cheeks ruddy with excitement, as her tiny fingers clutch her copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar like someone's trying to take it from her.

"On Wednesday he ate through three plums," Spencer recites, "But he was still hungry."

"Mommy! He did it!" Your daughter announces, as if you hadn't heard, and as if Spencer hadn't been dutifully quoting each of your daughter's favorite books by memory all night.

"He did! But let's see if he can do this," You grin deviously at her, scooping her small body into your lap as you flip the book's pages to Saturday.

She giggles mischievously, but you glance at Spencer with a hidden grin that lets him know you're on his side. You know Spencer can memorize entire textbooks, and you're sure that nothing the very hungry caterpillar eats can confound him.

"Saturday!" She announces, like a supervillain talking to their unfortunate prisoner, "What did he eat on Saturday?"

"On Saturday he ate through," Spencer starts, holding up his hands and ticking off one long, lithe finger per food, "One piece of chocolate cake, one ice cream cone, one pickle, one slice of swiss cheese, one slice of salami, one lollipop-" Your daughter starts giggling now, uncontrollable even as Spencer continues, "-one piece of cherry pie, one sausage, one cupcake, and one slice of watermelon!"

"Yay!" You cheer in tandem with your daughter, clapping her tiny little hands as she squirms for Spencer to hold her.

He's more than happy to hold her in his own lap and he runs his hand over her little belly, "And, that night he had a stomachache. Do you know what happened next?"

Her eyes shine like she's never read the book before, like she doesn't have the butterfly painted on her wall.

"He built a small house, called a cocoon around him," He holds her hands, lifting her up onto her feet in his lap, "And when he came out, he was a beautiful butterfly!"

She spreads her arms on 'butterfly' and lets him lift her into the air, all the while shaking with laughter brighter than the sun that's long since set and left you in the dark of evening. You laugh as she wraps her arms around his neck upon descent, and she tucks her face into the crook of his neck with a sleepy sigh.

"I like it when you read to me, Spencer." She hums, drowsiness invading her sweet voice, "Can you read me my bedtime story tonight?"

He looks at you for permission, and you look at him for a moment of pure, unadulterated adoration. 'Yes' is written clear over your face in the shine of your eyes and the sparkle of your grin, and Spencer nods while rubbing a hand flat over her back.

"Sure, sweetheart. What story do you want for bedtime?"

"Fox in Socks." She declares, and suddenly your mother-daughter mischief is back as you anticipate Spencer reciting Dr. Seuss rhymes, "I like the part about the bees and the trees and the fleas and the cheese."

[rafeysbunny]

hyperbaric chamber sex with jj

two hours, twenty-seven minutes, forty-three seconds... forty-four... forty-five... that's the time jj and you have been locked up inside this thing. how did they call it again? oh yeah, a hyperbaric chamber —whatever the hell that is. not that you can complain about it, tho, it has saved you both from a painful ass death.

"this sucks," jj whines in the silence —it must be two or three in the morning, so the hospital it's pretty quiet.

he's laying on his back next to you, your bodies pressed together since the space is a little bit small for two people, though it is not entirely uncomfortable... you even have pillows, which is more than you were expecting —yay.

"it could be worse," you answer, big eyes fixed on the ceiling of the chamber as you listen to the weird sounds it makes. "we could be dead, for instance."

it's warm inside, so you aren't cold despite wearing just a tiny pair of shorts and a thin tank top, your bikini still slightly wet underneath the clothes. the pressure is quite intense, which makes your ears hurt a little, but you try your best not to focus on that, or you might just go crazy in here

jj grumbles a response, shifting his weight to get more comfortable. "you know what's the worst part?" you turn your head to the side to look at him questioningly, and you find him already staring at you, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his pink lips despite the situation you're both in. "we finally found some alone time, just the two of us, and we're stuck in a tin can. talk about romantic, huh?" he says, a certain amused tone in his voice.

you can't help but laugh softly at his words, loving how he always finds the way to lift the mood nonetheless. unconsciously, you shift closer to him, the roguish look in his handsome face drawing you in.

"yeah.... that definitely sucks," you mutter, nodding in agreement.

jj leans in to press a slow kiss to your lips, his hand reaching out to wrap around your waist and pull you closer. your bodies now flush against each other. your eyelids flutter shut instantly, a little gasp leaving your lips in response.

"we could... make the best out of it?" he suggests softly, his voice barely a whisper.

"well, we're not getting out any time soon, so... you murmur against his lips with a smile, small hands gripping the fabric of his worn-out t-shirt.

jj hums lowly in agreement, his fingers trailing up and down your side as he seals his mouth over yours again. this time, his tongue slips past your parted lips to tangle with yours as he shifts to hover over you, the heat of his body enveloping you in the tight space.

you return the kiss lazily while you spread your legs for him, wrapping them around his waist as soon as he places himself in between them. he groans softly against your mouth as he grinds his hips against yours slowly, his touch becoming more insistent as he drags his fingertips along the skin bare skin of your supple thighs; the friction makes you gasp.

"wait," you mumble into the kiss, gently breaking it, and he takes the opportunity to start pressing wet kisses to your neck instead.

you open your eyes as you fumble for his pillow next to you. once you grab it, you shove it against the window, blocking the view from outside. he pulls back slightly to peer at you with a mischievous glint in his eye as he registers what you've done.

"my clever girl," he murmurs approvingly.

he kisses you once more before making quick work of your shorts, swiftly yanking them down your plush thighs alongside your bikini bottom. you lift your hips to help him take them off, and as soon as he's pulled down the pieces of clothing, he tosses them aside. you open your legs for him, pussy now exposed in all its glory; the sight alone has him hard already.

"suck 'em f'me, princess," he commands softly, pushing his middle and ring finger inside your mouth to get them wet.

you comply eagerly, hollowing your cheeks around his digits and sucking until they're covered in your saliva. you can feel his free hand sneaking up your thigh, his thumb eventually latching onto your little clit to rub it in tight circles. the gentle rubbing, added to the high risk of getting caught, gets you wet in a second.

a thread of saliva stretches in between his fingers and your lips as he takes them out of your mouth, aiming for your cunt. you can't help but moan when he slips both of them inside, brows knitting together in a frown at the delicious stretch.

"shh, baby, gotta be quiet," he murmurs with a lopsided smirk, biting his bottom lip as he relishes in the way you squirm underneath him. "can you do that?" after you nod in response, he adds, "of course you can, such a good girl."

he keeps fingering you for a little bit, crooking his digits just right to hit that spongy spot at the front that makes your toes wiggle. he also scissors them as he moves them in and out, slowly opening you up for his cock —that's much bigger than his fingers, for sure. his thumb is still touching your swollen clit with just enough pressure to drive you wild.

soon, you're begging him. "jay, please," you whisper breathlessly, hips desperately bucking against his veiny hand. "need you... need your cock."

with a self-satisfied smile, he slowly withdraws his digits, leaving your pussy fluttering around thin air. you're soaking wet by now, hands eagerly helping him get rid of his annoying clothing so he can get inside you as quickly as possible.

when he finally thrusts into your sopping cunt, neither of you can hold back the moans, jj covering your mouth and hiding his face on the crook of your neck to muffle the sounds as he starts pounding hard into you.

"jesus christ," he grunts, his fingers pressing your mouth shut so harshly that the cool metal of his rings is biting into your sensitive skin. "princess, fuck... you feel so good."

his warm breath caresses your ear as he keeps whispering his filth in it, "you're fucking dripping... getting this wet for being fucked in public, what a slut, huh?" his teeth bite your earlobe, his tongue soothing the sting afterwards. "gonna fuck you in every damn place we go from now on if you like it this much."

your eyes roll back, his dirty talk just adding to the pleasure his thrusts provide. he'd not fail to fuck you dumb, his cock hitting all the right spots inside your cunt until you're cumming around it the hardest you've ever cum, pussy tightening and pulsing around his dick so good that he's right behind you, spilling inside you with the most gorgeous moan.

more.

taglist: @jesschalamet

[help-itrappedmyself]

Dead on Main short part 3

Debating if this can actually still be called a short....

Masterpost to find earlier parts, or my other work.

Danny shudders underneath him and grips the front of Jason’s jacket with both hands. They are both about to make the kiss deeper, when Jason hears the sound of Bats surrounding them. 

Jason can recognize that they make for a weird picture. Jason, kissing some man no one else in the family knows, with the Joker’s dead body five feet away. But he just wants to groan at the interruption. He needs to take Danny back to a safe house so he can learn everything about him as soon as possible. 

Maybe figure out how exactly he killed the Joker while he’s at it. Not that the means change anything about the end point, but Jason is curious.  Because as much as Jason wanted to kill the Joker, planned to kill the Joker, would have if it had come down to it, if this night had ended a little differently.

 The Joker did always seem a little unkillable though. He had a way of coming back. Like a cockroach. Jason may have to make sure that they burn the body.

Jason pulls away from Danny before he could continue the kiss, causing a truly adorable pout. Jason chuckles lightly, stepping back and letting his arms fall to his sides. Batman jumps down from the fire escape he was lurking on. He lands directly behind Jason, with a growl of “Hood”, that Jason knew was both a question and a command. Jason ignored it and watched as Robin jumped down as well. 

Robin crouched next to the Joker and did his own assessment of the body. 

“Dead.” The announcement is not a surprise to anyone present. It still brings Jason joy to hear.

“Hood.” An even lower growl than before. Getting more gravelly, Jason is starting to push Bruce’s tolerance for his bullshit.

It’s not funny. It shouldn’t be funny. But Jason throws his head back and laughs. He laughs for a god ten seconds before he calms and glances behind him at Danny, smiling so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt. Danny gives a small, nervous chuckle when Jason turns to him, but he keeps glancing between him and Bruce. Clearly nervous about Batman’s reaction to the manslaughter.

Jason turns back to Bruce, and his voice comes out so chipper when he talks it elicits another chuckle from Danny.

“I think we should burn him!”

“Hood!” And this one is as exasperated as Batman will allow himself to get in costume. 

Jason saunters over the Robin, whispering at him conspiratorially “We should maybe do this full-vampire style. Chop him up into pieces and then burn him.”

“I can’t help but agree.” Robin mutters, kicking Joker lightly in the arm. Jason liked this kid before, but his affection was growing. Jason  put his arm around Robin in a quick side hug. 

Robin was not expecting it, which gave Jason a full second before he had to dart away from a knife, laughing. 

“Explain. Now.” Batman’s main focus is on Robin and Hood, but he is also crowding Danny, who looks like he is trying to sink into the wall.

“Hey, leave him alone.” Jason walks back over, quickly, hoping Robin will start with the body while he distracts Bruce. He has faith the kid is good for it.

“What is he doing here and what were you doing with him?”

“Batman, this is Danny.” Danny gives a short wave. “Danny here was startled by the Joker, who confronted him while he was very innocently minding his business. Danny then defended himself against him, and now the Joker is dead.”

Batman gave him a blank stare. “Danny killed the Joker.” It’s flat, but conveys his disbelief perfectly.

“Do you see any bullet holes?” 

“Hn.” Batman grunted, turning to look back at the body. Which Robin might have actually been about to get started on. Jason spares a thought for what they would have donw about all the blood

“Robin!” The shout is sharp, and Robin lowers his knife, despondently putting it back in its sheath. “Robin, bag him and get him ready for transport.”

Robin sighs, but starts doing as he was asked.

Batman turns back to Jason and Danny. “ What were you two doing when we arrived?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Look old man, I know kissing is not unfamiliar to you.” Batman grunts again. “But Danny, my new favorite person,” Jason takes Danny’s hand as Danny smiles at him. “Is my soulmate. Recently discovered, obviously. Just after he did what all of you refused to do for me, and by accident.”

There was a moment of quiet.

“I really didn’t mean to, Batman, I swear.” Danny is still holding Hood’s hand, squeezing it intermittently. Jason squeezes back every time. “Wait, what do you mean they refused to do for you?” Danny peers at the stoic faces of Batman and Robin, before nodding to himself. “Not the time.” 

“Hood, cave for debrief.”

Batman immediately started to turn around, but Jason scoffed. Jason could not believe the nerve actually, gaping a little at Bruce as he turned back around, before turning to look at Danny and then back at Bruce.

“ Hood, I understand the situation, but this is something that must be discussed.”

“B, you can’t be serious! He-”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Jason and Bruce both shift their gazes over to Danny. “I understand that meeting your soulmate in costume is probably not ideal. You don’t know me, and I’m not going to pretend you trust me yet.” Danny’s entire focus was on Hood.

“Go, talk things out with your group. My name is Danny Fenton. I’m sure you can find whatever you need on me with that. Find me later, okay?” Jason looked upset and it hurt Danny to already to see it.

“I’m okay with getting to know you in a mask if need be. Find my number, text me, call me. I can and will wait until you trust me.”

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ requiem of a cringe

did something embarrassing last night and was like "I need to go crawl in a hole and die. OR I could write"

type of post: blurbs characters: cater, rook, jack, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral (the term "damsel in distress" is used in vil's part, but it's meant to be teasing and not indicative of the reader's gender), reader is yuu, rook is rook

I. Talks Too Much

It's not that you're trying to be annoying.

Your mouth simply moves faster than your mind, and before you know it, you've been talking for twenty uninterrupted minutes about... well... nothing.

You always notice that uncomfortable, irritated look on their face just after you're done. And then you keep rambling in an attempt to make it less awkward (it never does).

And now you're here, hiding in the hedge maze outside Heartslabyul, thinking about getting lost and never coming out of it.

Of course, if anyone were to find you now, it'd be him.

"Hey, hon~ you busy?"

"Please, not now, Cater," you mutter.

The boy stills, looking a little taken aback by how miserable you sound.

"Are you still upset about that thing at the Unbirthday Party? That was hours ago, babe! I bet no one even remembers,"

You physically cringe. The faces of your uncomfortable tablemates won't seem to leave your memory...

"I remember it," you murmur, burying your face in your hands. "I'm so annoying."

For once, Cater is quiet. A minute goes by, and you think he may have left, until you hear the grass crunching under his knees as he kneels down and pulls you into a hug.

"You are not annoying. And even if you were, it'd only make me like you more," he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Understand?"

Your surprise at his change in tone doesn't stop you from hugging back. "Understood,"

You hadn't meant to say all of that.

You just spilled a potion you'd been working on for hours, and amidst your frustrated floor-scrubbing, you had vented about your entire week to your poor lab partner, a person you had been trying to impress all semester.

He had, gracefully, let you finish your rant, and then let you sit in it, just like the harmless potion now coating your knees as you cleaned up the floor.

Then, he awkwardly said: "That... sucks. I guess. I don't know what to say,"

There had probably never, in your whole life, been a person who looked more unhappy to be around you.

Afterwards, you found a nice spot in the woods behind campus to die.

You lie there, hoping nature would reclaim you before next alchemy class, when some purposefully loud rustling in the bushes catches your eye.

"Ah, Trickster! You really should not lie like that- a predator will take that as weakness, non? Are you injured?"

"Only my pride,"

"Talking about it will make you feel better," Rook says. It's more of a demand than a question.

You sigh. "I think I've done enough talking for... ever, actually,"

"Nonsense," he suddenly straddles your waist and pins your wrists to the earth. "I will not move until you tell me the problem, mon cœur."

You're like an animal in a snare. Once Rook has made up his mind, that's it. He will find out.

And so, with a sigh, you let him take the kill- that is, you tell him everything. Your whole, terrible week, the potion incident, the look on your lab partner's face...

When you're done, he's just. Smiling. "I see now. You are embarrassed,"

"Well... yes. You don't think that's embarrassing?"

He beams. "You are simply overflowing with beautiful emotion and passion for la vie! How could I ever find that embarrassing? You and I are not so different,"

In a weird way, that makes sense. Rook is never one to let shame hold him back from expressing his feelings.

He smiles at your pensive expression, and gives you a kiss on the head.

"Mais, next time you are upset, maybe you should come to me first, non?"

II. Clumsy

Forgetful, scatterbrained, oblivious, dimwitted are all words you've become used to hearing.

As well as a few colorful swears.

You have two left feet, even when you're not dancing- you're used to walking into walls, tripping, and dropping things- it just sucks that you have an audience now.

The first years that had gathered around the mess you made- tripping over your own feet and spilling the papers you were meant to deliver to Ace and Deuce all over the floor- are watching with grins and phones out.

You pretend they're not there, even with their taunts and whistles and laughter.

"Hey! Loitering is a waste of time!" someone barks. Literally.

You look up to see Jack moving through the crowd, scolding the other first years for blocking the hall.

When he sees you in the eye of the storm, on your hands and knees picking up your spilled papers, something upset takes his usually-stoic demeanor.

"What's the matter with you?!" he snarls at the boys. "Didn't anyone teach you any manners?! It's rude to stare- and laugh!"

His ears are flattened against his head when he kneels down beside you to help, collecting the papers, and putting them in your hands.

"Come on, we'll be late if you keep 'sittin there,"

Jack pulls you to your feet and gives one final snarl to the other first years before walking you off.

"...Thanks,"

"Eh? Don't mention it," he says. "Leona woulda had my tail if I just walked by..."

You know there's more to it than that, but you don't push. You're just happy he's forgotten to take his hand out of yours.

You can't handle being the center of attention.

For good reason, too- you're awkward, clumsy, and about the least graceful a person can get.

A true Ugly Duckling at a place like NRC. But Vil Schoenheit sees the swan in you. Perhaps that's why he's always been so patient and sweet.

It's a little distracting.

So much is obvious when he waves at you in the hall and, distracted by his smile, you walk right into a wall.

Though you can't see anything but stars after falling on your butt, the stares and snickers of everyone else are hard to miss.

Vil glares them away with a look that could kill twice over, and then stands over you as you lay on the floor.

"Come on," he says, holding out a hand. "I'll check you for concussion."

He brings you to Pomefiore and sits you down, shooing off a few curious underclassmen as he checks your pupils. "Do you feel nauseous?"

"Not really,"

"Then you'll be fine. Just a bump. You really should be more careful, though,"

You've heard that one before. Vil smiles at your dazed expression, and presses a cold compress against your head.

"This will help with the swelling,"

"Thanks," you mutter, still a little out of it. "You're my hero."

His eyebrows raise in true surprise, and then he chuckles. "And that makes you a damsel in distress?"

He doesn't give you a chance to respond before taking away the compress and kissing the red mark on your head.

"Don't think that being so cute is going to distract me. I'll make some time for lessons on poise this weekend,"

III. Unsociable

You'd think that being quiet and staying out of people's ways would get them to leave you alone, but it really just attracts more attention.

And after a grueling period of your tablemates making you the butt of every joke ("wow, I didn't know you could even talk!" "are you quiet because you hate us? come onnn, you can tell me!") you were ready to bury yourself alive.

"I don't ever want to leave," You mumble into the bundle of sheets and blankets on Idia's unmade bed.

"You could stay, y'know," Idia says from his desk, mindlessly scrolling through some gaming forum. "I should blackmail Crowley into letting you stay down here at least half the year."

"Couldn't it be the whole?"

"Nah. You need like, sunlight and stuff,"

"And you don't?!"

Idia snickers. "I'm built different. You know that. I get all my nutrients from blue light... You could at least stay for the weekend, though,"

You roll your eyes.

"...And I'll leak those normies' data. I'm sure I could get into their browser histories and have that emailed to their parents,"

Hm. You genuinely consider it for a moment, but eventually decide to give mercy. You're basically a saint.

"I think I just wanna pretend like I don't exist right now,"

Idia nods in understanding and pushes his gaming chair over to the edge of the bed, before crawling in and wrapping himself around you.

"That can be done. Pancakes tomorrow?"

Sure, there were people who talked to you, but you didn't talk back.

You just don't know how, you suppose. Every time you try, you end up saying the wrong thing, or are accidentally rude, or do something embarrassing.

You don't understand the references people make. You don't get social cues or hints. You have the social skills of an oyster.

Four months at Night Raven College, and you didn't have a single friend.

Well- except for him.

"How are you enjoying your tea?" Malleus asks, polite and curt as ever.

You take another sip- it's tangy, sweet, with a hint of bitterness. Some sort of Briar Valley blend that Malleus had imported just for you.

"I really like it,"

He smiles. "I'm pleased,"

One of the things you find so agreeable about Malleus is his simplicity. He often says exactly what he means; albeit, in a sort of 13th century Lord sort of way.

There's less stress with him. You don't have to pretend to be interesting, or outgoing, or cool. You can just be... you.

Because he likes you.

"You know," you say with a faint smile. "You're so nice to me. Sometimes I think that you're the only person I need. I could be happy with just you for the rest of my life."

You had meant that casually, but when you look back up from your cup, Malleus has this... look.

Wide-eyed, his lips pressed firmly together. There's even a dusting of color on his cheeks.

"Oh," you internally panic. Was that too much? Was that weird? Did you make things awkward again? Crap, you should have just acted normal, what's wrong with you?! "S-sorry, I-"

"Do you truly mean that?"

You go quiet, looking back at him with wide eyes. Your heart is pounding against your chest.

"...Yes,"

Malleus hums, his expression becoming more... pensive, and then...

He smiles. "I feel the same. Shall we go for a walk while the night is still young?"

[v1sexual]

always forever ; vi (arcane)

a collection of (modern) domestic life activities with vi ! college au , modern au , self indulgent

part one , part two , part three soon !

drabble one: historians will call them flatmates , drabble two (soon)

ꕀ you and flatmate vi actually got off on the wrong foot when you first met.

it was the night you moved in. after a long day of moving, carrying heavy suitcases around, building furnitures, and organizing your room, you’re more than ready to get some good night sleep.

after taking a quick shower, you put on an oversized band tee paired with black boxer shorts (that are new and never been worn) you stole from your brother. just as you were about to fall asleep, you heard the front door slam open. the sound of faint giggles filled the hallway to which you paid no mind to, assuming that it was one of your flatmates.

you’ve dozed off for a couple of minutes until you were woken up by a faint thumping on your wall. you sighed and placed a blanket over your head. just as you closed your eyes, you heard a loud moan. “what the actual fuck?” you hissed. more moans came from the room next to yours, followed by the faint sound of thumping. pissed off, you slammed your hand on the wall. “keep it down! some people are trying to sleep here!”

the moaning and thumping immediately stopped, you could hear two hushed female voices talk. “sorry!” a deep feminine voice called out. shrugging, you placed your earbuds on and blasted one of your bedtime playlists.

you fell asleep for what feels like a couple of hours when more thumping and louder moans came from your flatmate’s room. “how the hell are they still at it, jesus.” you muttered under your breath. sighing, you grabbed a pillow and a blanket then proceeded to make your way outside. you didn’t want to interrupt whatever the hell your flatmate and their guest are doing, so you decided to just spend the rest of the night in your car. besides, it’s already 6 in the morning. you didn’t have any classes yet, but you did want to drive around the neighbourhood and check out some of the cafes.

a faint thumping from your car window woke up you up. a girl, roughly your age, with pink hair waved at you. she wore a white wife beater and plaid boxers, you took note of the hickeys on her neck and chest. you narrowed your eyes at her, ‘the culprit’ you thought. she gave you a guilty smile and motioned for you to roll your windows down.

“you must be my new flatmate,” she said sleepily. “the name’s vi.” she held her hand out.

“charmed,” you muttered sarcastically while shaking her hand. “i’m (name).”

vi apologized profusely, to which you replied with a sigh and waved it off. after that very awkward encounter you avoided vi like the plague, and every time she had a girl over you would sleep over at your friend, ekko’s, place.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who you got to know better when the power went out because of a citywide blackout. you learned that vi was a second year engineering major, she’s part of the university’s rugby and hockey team, and that she’s the oldest of four siblings.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! whose outfit consisted of a black wife beater, a couple oversized shirts, jerseys, sweats, plaid boxers & pjs, and her two sneakers. no matter what though she will always opt to wear her wife beaters, no bra btw (the faint outline of her nipple piercings visible), and her plaid boxers.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who would sneak glances at you whenever you wore those tiny little biker shorts, appreciating the way your ass looks in the snug material. she’d also purposely place essential kitchenware on the top shelf, appreciating the way your oversized band tee would slip up to reveal your ass.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who you noticed, stopped bringing nighttime guests over after a month you two became friends. you paid no mind to it, keeping your nose out of her business. you assumed it was out of respect, and that she didn’t want you sleeping in your car again. but one thing’s for sure though, the fact that vi stopped bringing home guests made you feel a whole lot better. and not just because you get a good night’s sleep. but also because you may or may not feel a small pang of jealousy whenever she did bring someone home.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who fell silent when you excitedly told her that someone asked you out, and the fact that it was a guy made her mentally bang her head in a wall. she’s not one to assume a person’s sexuality, but you going out with a guy made her little lesbian heart deflate a bit. you never did open up about your dating preferences, and it’s not like she asked you either.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who was overjoyed when you came home after you date, ranting to her how goddamn awful it was. if vi had a tail, it would 100% be wagging when you told her (and i quote;) “… this is why i prefer women, women would never!”

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who made subtle moves on you after that night. can’t reach something from the top shelf? next thing you know, she’s behind you. her chest pressed against you back as she grabbed whatever you needed. you could feel the faint outline of her nipple piercing, making your brain short circuit. had a rough day? vi’s got you covered. she’ll have your favorite movie/show on the tv for you, she’ll bring out the electronic heating blanket out, and she’ll have your favorite takeout on the table for you. period cramps? you sure as hell know she’ll grab you some pain killers and a warm compress. out of pads/tampons? vi will literally venture out at night to get you some.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who may or may not have milked that one time she had a bad cold. you practically slept in her room. you’d keep watch on her temperature, remind her when to take her meds, place a cold cloth on her forehead when she gets too warm, and evens helped her get into her shower.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who invited you to one of her hockey games during winter break. as much as you wanted to go, you needed to go home during winter break for your mom’s birthday. which vi understood of course, since she as well would never miss the chance to go home when when it’s the birthday of one of her siblings or her adoptive father.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who felt that the flat became eerily quiet when you left for winter break. you’ve only been gone for a couple of days, but it felt like weeks. she missed your cooking, your nagging (whenever she left her dirty dishes in the sink), your late night laundry runs, the three a.m 7-11 trips. vi wanted to text you so bad, but she didn’t. she didn’t know what say, plus she assumed that your busy spending time with your family. you on the other hand, were 100% always checking your phone. every notification made you buzz with excitement, only to be disappointed when it wasn’t her.

ꕀ flatmate vi ! who was down in the dumps during the day of her game, the game she invited you too. little did she know, you left home a couple of days earlier than planned so you could watch her game. you contacted ekko who’s dating vi’s younger sister, powder, for a favour to save you a seat in exchange of bringing him some of your mom’s famous mango float (that you had to beg for her to make, but the moment you mentioned ekko she caved immediately. she loved your childhood friend, probably more than she loves you but oh well)

ꕀ flatmate vi ! who stared at the empty seat next to ekko and powder. she sighed, shaking her head. she knew that if you would have attended her game if you could. plus she could always invite you to her other ones. vi decided to look on the bright side, deciding that she would text you after the game. you arrived a couple minutes late to vi’s game. you squeezed past the tight walkway, texting ekko to ask where they were. ekko waved at you, he and powder were seated at the very front, the first row of seats right in front of the plexiglass preventing any pucks from flying outside the rink.

ꕀ flatmate vi ! who almost tripped on her own skates when she spotted you sitting next to her sister. you were wearing one of her spare jerseys (you 100% stole it from her clean laundry pile), her number painted on your cheek, and a huge smile plastered on your lips as your eyes met. vi gave you a wink and proceeded to show off for the next hour or so.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who absolutely crushed the game. their team won 4-1, you were here, what else could she ask for. after a quick shower, she met you, ekko, and powder outside the locker room entrance.

you and powder bonded over how amazing the game was, while ekko listened to the both of you. when vi slipped out of the shower room, pink hair still damp, and a towel over her shoulders, you immediately ran towards her. she greeted you with a hug, her chin resting on top of your head. ekko and powder raised an eyebrow at each other, which vi ignored. she instead, shifted her focus on you.

“i thought you wouldn’t be able to make it?” she exclaimed when you broke the hug. you shrugged, smiling at her cheekily. “decided to come back early, i got bored at home.”

vi smiled. “what about your mom’s birthday?” you waved your hand and linked arms with her. “her birthday was two days ago, she practically jumped with joy when i said i was leaving early.”

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who was relieved when ekko and powder finally went home. as much as she loved their company, she just really wanted to be alone with you right now. as soon as you both got home, vi puts on a movie as you guys sat on the couch. you were on the opposite side of the couch, your legs propped on her lap, a nice soft blanket over the two of you.

“i almost forgot!” you exclaimed, shooting up from the couch and darted off to your room. when you came back, you had a small pink box in your hands. vi raised an eyebrow as you sat next to her, a grin etched on your lips.

you excitedly handed vi the box, and gestured for her to open it. a small gasp leaves vi. inside the box was a ring, it was a gold band with a small stone in the middle. the girl practically teared up, she puts the ring on her finger. it was a bit big for her ring finger but it did fit perfectly on her thumb. she could also always put it on the plain gold chain she always wore.

“sooo,” you started. “do you like it?” vi nodded happily, pulling you in for a hug. you sighed contently your chin resting on her shoulder as you wrap your arms around her waist.

“i’m sorry i didn’t get you anything shortcake,” vi whispered, her lips touched the shell of your ear. “don’t worry about, consider it a congratulatory gift and a christmas gift.” you squeaked, a faint blush washing over your cheeks. “plus, i thrifted it. my sister and i went thrifting, and the pink gem reminded me of your hair.”

ꕀ flat mate vi ! might as well have melted on the spot. she broke the hug and held your cheeks in her hands. she tilted your head up, making you look at her.

ꕀ flat mate vi ! who couldn’t resist but press a short kiss on your lips.

you gasped, feeling her soft chapped lips press against yours. the kiss ended as quickly as soon at it happened. vi opened her mouth to say something, you cut her off by gripping the. front of her hoodie. pulling her towards you, your lips landed on hers. vi’s eyes fluttered shut and so did yours, the movie you put on merely became a background noise as your lips danced against hers.

“i’ve waited so long to do that,” vi whispered. she rested her forehead against yours, your hot breath fanning over her lips. “took you long enough.”. you whispered back before pulling her in another kiss.

safe to say that by then the movie was long forgotten.

[annasellheim]

So this was on the @writing-prompt-s site- so I'm treating it as a writing prompt. (I can't fucking draw right now due to a busted shoulder, so I'm doing a bunch of them because I'm alone, hurt, and sad, and they're fun).

Anyway, the story:

I sat down next to him. I looked at my former student, now an adult. A brilliant engineer. I remembered him. I had really liked this kid. The man in front of me was impressive as hell too. It didn't surprise me at all.

"I'm really, really sorry this hurt you. That I hurt you. What I was trying to do was show you some techniques. My goal was that, later, after you learned them, you could deviate from them and make your own thing.

We have a set of guidelines of things we need to teach. It's a mandatory curriculum, with national guidelines, just like math or science or whatever. But it varies from state to state. And who the hell knows what they do in private school. And the curriculum isn't focused on self expression as much as teaching you how to use fine motor skills and..."

Shit, stop it Anna. You don't need to keep justifying yourself.

I try to remember when he had moved away during the school year. I wonder if I hadn't gotten to the point in the spring semester where I gave my students more lee way, to experiment and deviate from the techniques I showed them. To let them decorate their dishes any way they wanted. To make trees and flowers for different seasons. I wondered if he had been part of one of my first classes, before I figured out how to create a really solid curriculum.

Regardless, I could have been clearer about it. I was new to teaching when I had him as a student, I know that much. I was overwhelmed, and honestly, barely keeping it together for the first, like, 4 years I taught. And there were 20-30 students in my classes. It took me a a while to figure out what works and what doesn't in the classroom.

The most important thing was this man in front of me. He was way quieter and more hesitant than the kid I remembered. I hope I didn't do that to him, but I'm was probably reading too much into it.

I took a sip of my coffee.

"You know what's cool tho? The shit you've been doing at work-"

He looked surprised and snorted.

"What?"

"You swore."

It was my turn to laugh. "Yeah, to be fair I'm not in classroom mode right now.

Anyway, the stuff you've been doing at work, it all sounds like it takes a ton of creativity to accomplish."

"I never thought of it that way..."

"Well, you've been on the forefront of a bunch of stuff because you think outside the box. I'm glad I didn't rob you of that."

We sat next to each other on the bench. He was thinking it over. I was trying to not dwell on the fact that he brought this up, that he had carried this pain with him for 20 years.

"Do you still make art?"

"No, not since elementary school, since my last-"

"Your last required art class. Got it."

I gave him a side eyed glance.

"You know you can get back into it at any time, right?"

He was taken aback, he obviously had never considered it.

I smiled. I've had this conversation before, many many times.

"It's not like a sport or something. You can start at literally any point in your life, you don't need to be young and in peak physical condition. Art ain't basketball.

The cool thing too is that you can choose what you want to make, you're an adult. Nothing in art is required for you to learn. You can pick any class you want, or no class at all."

I gave him my business card.

"If you shoot me an email, I can give you some books to read for you to get started. Not to teach techniques, but exercises that help get you back to the point where you just make stuff. I think a LOT of people stop making art for all kinds of reasons, not just because of a novice teacher. There's been a bunch of stuff that's come out recently to try to help adults make art again. y'know, to recapture the joy of it."

We said our goodbyes. I really hope he thinks it over and reaches out.

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

[ariestrxsh]

જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩 content warning: smut, masturbation, teasing, use of restraints, use of feather tickler, use of vibrator, degradation/humiliation, sub!matt, sub!chris, mean!dom!reader

જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩 author's note: this is one of two endings that i wrote for this fic. enjoy! 🤍

જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩 summary: both matt and chris lose the bet you made with them about how long they could last during no nut november, which means submitting to you.

love potions part two (first ending)

He remembered the nude photo you'd sent to the group chat. He wasn't proud of what he was about to do, but he couldn't fend off the desire any longer. He'd never gone so long without masturbating, and it was more than he could bear.

જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩 Day Fifteen

The next morning, Matt rolled over in bed, tangled up in the sheets as the sun started to rise, rays of light peeking in through his curtains. He looked at the date on his phone just to be sure time was moving as painfully slow as he thought it was. It was only the 15th. There was no way he was going to be able to make it another fifteen days, especially with you constantly provoking him.

His thumb swiped a few times across his screen until your picture was staring back at him, and he tucked his other hand into his waistband, pulling out his needy cock. He wrapped his fingers around his girth, which in and of itself, felt incredibly relieving.

He studied your curves, his hungry eyes scanning your voluptuous body parts as he started stroking himself. A sequence of soft moans and profanities fell from his slightly parted, pink lips. His eyebrows crinkled and beads of sweat started taking form on his forehead.

It didn't take long before he was on the heels of his climax, furiously pumping away while a familiar feeling arose that he had greatly missed these past couple weeks. A few more strangled whimpers later, and he came unraveled, his seed overflowing, spilling onto his hand, and making a mess.

He was mesmerized by how much had come out of him and how good it felt to cum again. He laid breathlessly in his bed for several minutes, recovering from his orgasm.

That was when you came bursting through the door. Matt immediately flinched startled by your presence, trying to hide the cum that had spilled onto his tummy. "Unbelievable," you said, shaking your head at Matt as you pulled back his sheets, revealing the evidence of his fragile willpower. "You couldn't even go a month without getting off? Fucking pathetic," you scoffed at him as he scrambled to pull the blanket back over him.

His cheeks were hot with shame, and he couldn't look you in the eye. "Don't look!" He shouted back. "I just caught Chris doing the same thing," you smirked.

You replayed the image in your head of Chris, the way he had been so fixated on your photo that he hadn't even noticed you walk in. You recalled the pretty sounds he had made and how he'd licked his lips right before finishing in his hand as he had urgently fisted his cock.

With every stroke, a rope of cum had ejected from his tip, and just when you thought he'd drained himself, there was more. You remembered that vulnerable smile that had crept into his expression while he came, painting his chest and his stomach in his milky white fluid and staring down at the mess he had made. He had slowed the pace of his pumps to a stop while throwing his head back and letting his phone fall to the bed, revealing your own nude on his screen.

"Wow, that was hot. If that's how much cum you had saved up in just two weeks, it's a shame you couldn't wait two more. Could you imagine?" You had asked him, leaning up against his door frame and watching his smile slowly fall as he became aware of your presence. "Shit," he had whispered out of breath.

"What?" Matt asked you, looking up at you with a shocked expression and bringing you out of your reverie. "Yeah, I actually came in here to tell you that you won, but I guess you didn't," you chuckled, pulling the blanket back once more.

"You know what this means, right?" You smirked down at him. He looked up at you subserviantly with blushed cheeks, but he said nothing. "This means you get to be my little toy, doesn't it?" You cooed, caressing his jawline and your eyes traveling back down to the mess Matt had made on his lower stomach.

A few hours later, you had both boys right where you wanted them, side-by-side, naked, and each tied to a chair. You stood in front of them, completely naked as well. The shopping bags you'd brought back with you a few weeks prior reappeared, and you started to dig through them.

"You know, I knew when you guys first told me about the No Nut November challenge, that neither one of you would be able to make it. But, c'mon, you couldn't even make it three weeks? You're both fucking pathetic," you scoffed at them, pulling out a long stick with a big, fluffy feather on the end.

"What's that?" Matt asked, growing wide-eyed. "It looks like a fucking cat toy," Chris snarked before you could answer him. "Well, maybe that's fitting, because you're both pussies," you declared, sneering at Chris. "It's a feather tickler," you replied, turning your attention back to Matt.

You started to walk closer to him, and you slowly closed the distance between the feather and Matt's gorgeous cock. Matt couldn't hide his intrigue. His blue eyes locked onto the toy as you started to tease the underside of his shaft. You watched the muscles in his cock involuntarily quiver as you tickled his length, blood rushing to it and his tip starting to swell.

"Oh," a sweet sound of pleasure passed through Matt's pink lips. "Like that? Like when I tease your pretty cock for you, Matthew?" You purred, taking the end of the feather and drawing circles on the head while you watched Matt's expression meld into desperation.

He glanced into your eyes and nodded before locking his gaze back onto the way the feather danced across his sensitive nerve endings, and he let out a few more whimpers. "I don't think you just like it, Matt. I think you're loving it," you observed, your voice dripping with seduction.

A silky, clear fluid started to drool from his slit, and you gently ran the tip of the feather through it, watching for Matt's responses. He squirmed beneath your light touch, lifting his hips off the chair a bit and tugging at his restraints as you played with him. "So fucking pathetic. You're so sensitive that I'm surprised you don't cum just from putting on pants every morning," you chuckled, taking delight in his humiliated expression.

Matt had been in submissive roles before during sex, but nothing quite like this. He'd always dreamt of being tied up, teased, and being talked down to by an assertive woman, but the reality was almost more embarrassing than he could handle and somehow, he still adored every second of it.

Shy, strangled moans poured into the room as you manipulated his cock like a puppeteer, pulling your invisible strings and making his cock twitch with every gesture of the feather. Matt couldn't hide his pleasure or his humiliation.

More pre-cum gathered at his tip, and he slammed his eyes shut as if that would make it any less embarrassing that he was getting turned on by something so simple and degrading. "I can't believe how close you're getting from a little feather," you mocked him.

Chris couldn't help but watch the way his brother writhed around beneath the gentle sensation, growing curious about how he'd react to it and if it really felt as good as Matt was making it seem.

After a couple more minutes of teasing, you cast the feather tickler off to the side and replaced it with the hum of a small vibrator, resting it against Matt's aggravated tip. "Oh my god," Matt purred, enjoying the new feeling, closing his eyes again.

"Look at me while you finish, Matthew," you ordered him in a serious matter. His eyes fluttered open, but once his gaze met yours, he wanted to hide again.

"Please don't make me," he begged, his voice cracking in desperation. "I won't make you do anything. But if you wanna cum, you gotta look at me," you said, watching the way his pretty cock twitched beneath your control.

"C-can't," he whimpered. "Sure you can, pretty boy. Don't get all shy on me," you said, running your thumb across his bottom lip. He managed to maintain eye contact, a sacrifice he was willing to make in order to finally feel sweet relief wash over him.

His knuckles started to lose color as he gripped the seat of his chair, and his stomach started to ache from how much pressure had built up in his lower abdomen. You had one hand caressing his jawline, tilting his head up towards you and your other hand on the buzzing toy.

Chris couldn't keep his eyes off you either and the way you expertly taunted his brother, eagerly awaiting his turn while his cock jumped at the sight. "That's it. Cum for me like the pathetic little boy you are," you urged him in a seductive tone.

Matt came undone, pulling at his restraints, arching his back slightly off the chair, and looking deep into your eyes while sounds of sexual release filled the air. You watched as his cock pulsated, emitting a pretty, pearly white substance that squirted from his tip and painted the hardwood floor in front of him.

He savored the intensity of his orgasm, the feeling of pure bliss, and the way his climax ebbed and flowed rather than burning out quickly due to how much you'd teased him. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it, baby?" You cooed, admiring the mess he made for you.

"I knew you'd like that. I didn't know you'd like it that much," you teased him, turning off the toy. He stared at you in awe with his heavy eyelids hooded over his pretty, blue eyes as he tried to recover, panting and babbling about how good it was.

You made your way over to Chris who looked at you with a mix of desire and annoyance. He knew that whatever you were about to make him do, that it'd be extremely degrading. You set down the vibrator and picked up the feather tickler again.

You came up behind him and started by running the tip of the feather across his collar bones and his chest. Slowly but surely, you trailed down his stomach, stopping right before you got to his throbbing member. "Awh. Look at you. Already hard, and I haven't even touched you yet," you taunted him.

You could feel his breathing become more shallow, and his chest rose and fell in a quickening rhythm. "What are you waiting for?" He huffed at you, trying to conceal how much he secretly wanted to know what it would be like to be played with by you in such a vulnerable way.

"I'm waiting for you to beg for it," you whispered, your lips curling into condescending grin. "I don't beg," he said in a stern voice, craning his neck to look you in the eye. "Then I guess you're not going to cum," you nonchalantly replied, shrugging and waving the feather around in the air in front of the two of you.

Chris sat in silence for a few seconds before swallowing his pride and letting out a sigh. "Fine. Please," he half-heartedly mumbled. "Speak up, Chris. I can't hear you over your raging erection," you smirked, peering down at his hard-on. "Please," he said a little more sincerely.

"Come on, Chris. I know you need way more attention than you've been getting. Just admit it," you cooed in his ear, wrapping your arm around his strong shoulder and placing your hand gently on his chest. You passionately kissed the side of his neck, pressing your tongue against his warm flesh and eliciting a faint moan from his pouty lips.

"I do need it," he answered you, a bit of desperation seeping into his inflection. "How bad do you need it, huh?" You lasciviously purred. "Please. I need it so bad," he responded, longingly. You placed the feather-end of the rod against his length and started tracing the veins on his shaft. He hissed through his teeth and let out a satisfied, "Ahh."

"Good boy. Let me hear how good I make you feel," you hummed, walking back around to face him, continuing to tease his aching cock. "Always acting like you're so tough. Not so tough anymore, huh?" You asked in a soft, sweet voice. "Fuck," Chris whimpered, peering up at you through his bedroom eyes, not even trying to defend himself as his lips curled into a pretty smile.

Chris was always the dominant one in his sexual relationships, always being the one to dish out the degradation, but finding himself on the receiving end, he liked it more than he thought he would.

You gave him a diabolical smile, delighting in how easily he submitted to you and how much he liked it, still gripping the rod of the feather while you delicately and methodically tickled his length. "Please. I need more," Chris whispered, his eyes locked on the vibrator that was placed on the table behind you.

"I love it when you beg. Keep going," you told him, making his cock dance and watching him shudder as you played with him. "Please. Please give me more," he begged, his voice dripping with desperation while he nodded eagerly at you, his gaze flickering back and forth between you and the toy.

You smirked at him before picking up the vibrator and switching it on. The low hum sounded, and Chris watched in anticipation as you started running the toy up his staff, teasing the veins on the underside of his dick.

Droplets of precum started to pool at his sensitive tip, and his cock jerked as you started to near the head with the vibrating tool. "You're doing so good for me," you responded, running the pad of your thumb over Chris' pink cheek while you looked into his eyes.

"More," he pleaded, and you turned the toy up one setting. The expression on his face was drenched in pleasure, his lip caught between his teeth, flushed complexion, and seduction in his eyes. He started to pull at the rope wrapped around his wrists as he grew impatient. He needed to cum so bad.

"Please. More," he whimpered, his blue eyes glossing over as he approached the finish line. You felt so powerful, pushing the button to intensify the sensation and watching Chris fold beneath the feeling while you listened to his moans become more needy.

"Cum for me, sweet boy. I know you can do it," you whispered, cradling his face and encouraging him. The way you coddled him and called him cute pet names was almost more degrading to him than anything you'd said to Matt, but he couldn't help how much he loved it.

He nodded at you with a smug smile as his body started to tremble. His hips raised off the seat, and he threw his head back as his pretty cock began to pulse, emitting his sticky, white fluid.

His urgent whimpers filled the room as he submitted to his climax, allowing it to wash over him and leave him in a state of peace and tranquility once it had taken its course. Chris peered down breathlessly, a string of drool hanging from his open mouth, studying the way his cum dripped down the sides of his cock. Humiliation started to set in.

"Look at that," you cooed, but Chris could barely hear you over the powerful ringing that flooded his ears. "I think you might have liked that even more than Matt did. You beg like a little bitch," you said, a condescending smile stretching across your lips.