#cleavage hacks

[zreamy]

please touch, please do it

freaky gym rat bf sunghoon except it's possible that yn is the bigger freak here......

pairing ✩ park sunghoon x fem!reader

genres: smut, pwp 🫩 (with a bit of plot..)

warnings: minors dni, freak shit, he loves her to the point of invention, sunghoon uses every pet name in the book.. and ik u can be a misandrist and still love ur man.. i'm proof, i love jake !

word count: 2,945 (do not get used to this)

author's note: ......unless jake posts a freak ass picture.. i’m not writing anything like this again 😭 i just want to say thank you to sunghoon for posting these pictures and thank you asahicore for encouraging me..

You’ve never been so glad that your past self has no way to know about the woman you’ve become—because if Little Miss Man Hater saw you now? She’d gut you. 

You are absolutely sick with love. Nauseous with adoration. Ill with warmth and affection and desire. 

And all for a man. 

It’s getting out of hand, this girlfriend thing. This attachment to Sunghoon. Like part of you is being cleaved off, hacked away at, every time he leaves your side. It’s been seventy-three minutes since he went to gym, and already, you’re cuddling your pillow, and sending him a text. 

You: Hi baby how’s your workout

Five quiet minutes tick by before he replies.

Hoonie: Arm day princess, my shit’s on fire lowkey

Hoonie: I miss you :( 

Hoonie: How’s home?

His princess — the one he misses — squeals into the pillow, feet kicking as butterflies tumble in your stomach. It takes a little while, but you manage to hold it together for long enough to take a selfie. You tug the lace neckline of your camisole down so your cleavage peeks out, and push your arms together—nature’s push-up bra. I miss you more, you write back, grinning when he heart-reacts to the photo, a string of heart-eye emojis following.

Hoonie: My beautiful baby 

Hoonie: You’re so perfect

Hoonie: My dream come true

Even the old you would crumble at that, surely. You’d have to be completely and utterly heartless not to be moved by sweet Sunghoon and the things he says. 

The picture he sends you, both pictures he sends you, stop your heart in your chest, force a gasp. 

He’s in the gym, drenched in pale overhead light, his white vest hugging every inch of the effort you now feel compelled to thank him for. His muscles are surreal, carved out and flushed. His thick, veiny arm glossy with sweat. He’s gorgeous—that’s the problem. Not just hot, but downright, drop dead gorgeous. In a way that makes your breath snag in your throat, turns your brain into mush. Sets back feminism and wide-spread misandry by at least a hundred years. 

Your past self is rolling in her pre-Sunghoon grave. 

You: ???

You: Dude I’m gonna suck that dick off the bone omg do not come here after your workout ok go straight home and think about whatever the fuck you just sent to me.

You: I’m literally gonna nut to this forever

Clicking on the photo again, you stare. Staring until the screen dims and your breath catches. Without a second thought you tug your underwear off, dark lace forgotten about between your fitted sheet and duvet. Instinctively, your thighs part for your right hand, a sigh of relief at the feeling of your fingers grazing your slit. A featherlight touch, barely there. You’re trying to savour this, taking in every single detail. Eyes catching on the sharp angle of his jaw, his smirking lips, the straight slope of his nose. Composure slips, quickly, when you let yourself fuzz at the edges, fingers quickening, breath stuttering. Vision blurring in and out of focus as your body chases, and chases. 

And then he replies.  

Hoonie: 😰

Hoonie: I’m not dude, I’m baby..

Hoonie: Fucking gooner

Embarrassment engulfs you. Wraps you up in its fiery clutch, tight and unforgiving. How humiliating, to be known so well. At once, you yank your hand from between your thighs like you’ve been burnt, and get up from the bed, scrambling for the nearest pair of shorts. It would be nice to be clothed if you run into Minjeong or her girlfriend in the middle of your walk of shame. 

You don’t. 

From the tap, cold water shocks you back into your body, settles you as you wash your hands. And wash them again just in case. Exhaling deeply, you dry your hands on the plush towel and lean against the sink to reply to Sunghoon. 

You: Calling me a gooner after sending that freaky fucking photo is crazy work

You: YOU’RE THE GOONER

You: Come over. 

You: Don’t shower..

Hoonie: 😂😂😂

Hoonie: I’m On my way! Princess don’t start without me

As soon as you heart-react to his text, there’s a knock at the front door. Sunghoon, somehow. Vest and hair still damp like he stepped straight out of the photo and into your flat. With how quickly he got here, you’re not convinced he didn’t. 

“Hey, beautiful. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he says, breathless. 

“Waiting? It’s been, like, thirty seconds since I told you to come over.”

“That’s thirty seconds too long.” He grins, wide and boyish. “I shouldn’t have left at all.” 

You can’t resist any longer, getting on your tiptoes and looping your arms around his neck, body arching up against his as you kiss him. “I know,” you mumble against his soft lips. 

Sunghoon’s tongue slips into your mouth and over yours. Slow. Deep. Taking his time. He always takes his time with you. His sweat-slick skin slides over yours, big hands cupping your ass, pressing you into him. Grip tight, like he plans for your bodies to spill into one another, to merge into one. If only, you think. There’s no ignoring him—you couldn’t if you tried. You don’t want to. Long and thick and stiff between you, straining against his sweatpants. 

It’s a bit much for the hallway, maybe, especially with your flatmate home and having company, but he’s Sunghoon, and he’s been away, and you can’t help it. As if reading your mind, he picks you up off your feet with no strain, humming when you wrap your legs around his svelte waist. Graceful as ever, he steps out of his shoes and walks the two of you to your bedroom, lips attached the whole way. 

Safe between the four walls of your room, you pull away, speaking only when Sunghoon sits on the end of your bed. “I want..” Words escape you at the sight of him. Lips wet, parted, deep red and swollen. Cheeks flushed the same shade. Slow breaths puffing his chest and pushing it back down. “I want..” you try again, but come up with nothing. 

Holding you tight in his lap, he looks up at you. Eyes on yours, dark and insistent. “What do you want, princess?” he asks in a low voice, gentle. “Tell me what you want.”

Beneath you, his thighs are thick and solid. Big like all the rest of him. He is discipline and patience personified, all bulging muscle and taut skin. All yours.

“Just want you.”

“Always such a sweet girl, huh?” he coos, letting his hand slip up your thigh, humming when he finds the wet spot on your shorts. “You want me here, don’t you, baby?”

You nod, hips bucking towards his touch. “Need it,” you mumble, cheeks on fire. 

It’s embarrassing how much you need it. Need him. Even after all this time, he still has you wrapped around his thick finger. 

“Want my mouth? My fingers?” 

Want everything, you think, but don’t say. 

At your silence, Sunghoon leans in, lips finding your collarbone. Kissing and licking and sucking the skin there. A whimper tumbles out of you when his teeth sink into your flesh, just the way you like—just enough to sting. His thumb slips into your shorts, unsticking the soft cotton from your dripping core and finds your clit quickly. 

You shudder on his thighs as he grazes your slit, dragging a slow strip back up to your pulsing clit. Pressing wet circles over it as he kisses a trail up to your ear. He sucks your earlobe into his mouth, biting. “No panties?” he mumbles, your skin muffling the question. 

Relieved, needy, you sigh, sinking into his hold. “Touched myself before you got here. When you sent those photos,” you admit.

Those photos. Where to start? Sweat-damp white tank clinging to his ever-expanding chest. Veins pressing against his skin. Smirk on his face knowing you’d like what you saw. Those biceps. Flexed. Massive. Glistening. 

A huffed laugh hits your ear as he sits up. His lips curve into a smile, half-proud, half-smirk. “My dirty girl,” he says. “So good and all for me. Such a lucky guy, aren’t I?” 

You feel insane when he praises you, hearing those words from him, such filth from such a pretty mouth. Carnal need overtakes you, forces your hips towards his, craving friction. Craving him. A staggered gasp from your parted lips at the feel of him, hard and throbbing against you, the manifestation of how badly he wants this, wants you. 

Taking your flushed cheek in his large palm, Sunghoon’s thumb strokes your cheek, and he slows down on your clit. “I’m all yours, baby. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

Your heart does a leap in your chest, hammering wildly. “Arms,” you say dumbly, fingers digging into his triceps. “Want your arms.” 

Arching a thick brow at you, he repeats, incredulous, “You want my arms?” Confusion paints his handsome face as he takes his hand from your shorts. 

You hum, chewing on your bottom lip as you slowly drag your nail up to his shoulder. His breath gets caught, chest shuddering under your touch. “I want to ride your huge arm.” Even as the words come out, you have no idea what that would even look like. How it would feel. All you know is that you want it, and you want it now. 

“Alright, bunny,” he starts, a faint smile on his lips as he tilts his head. “I’m not sure I can give you that.”  

Heat curls around your stomach at the nickname. “You said anything..” Pouting, you trail off. 

“I did, didn’t I?” Sunghoon brings his pussy-glazed thumb to your lips. “Suck, baby,” he mumbles, leaning on his palm as you take his wrist in your hands, tongue swirling his fingertip.

“Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you? Such a perfect girl.”

Watching through half-lidded eyes, he groans when you take his whole finger in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you suck your heady taste from him. “Mm. That’s it, baby, Just like that.”

Bobbing your head, you hold his gaze. Every inch of you aches with want, burns with need to replace his finger with his cock. Until his lips quirk into a crooked smile, a breathy laugh slipping out of him.

Eyes wide, you pull his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop. A thick string of spit still binding you to it when you ask, “What is it?” 

“Do you trust me?” His voice is a low rumble. 

Scorching heat laps at the base of your spine as you nod. “Mm.”

Sunghoon’s smile turns wicked. He is the picture of lust. Of all things indecorous. You’re almost scared of what he’s going to say next. 

“I know how we can do it.”

“Do what?” 

Patting your thigh, he mumbles a simple command. “Up, baby.” His eyes trail your body when you stand, not a sliver of your skin unseen by him. “Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so beautiful.”

Shy, you turn your face from him, catching his reflection in the mirror. Catching the swift movement of his palm over his lap, his cock.

“This’ll only take a minute, alright? I’ll be quick.”

Sunghoon stands up when you nod, both hands on his waist while looking down at the bed like it’s a puzzle to be solved. True to his word, he sits on the floor and settles with his side against the bed frame in one fluid, deliberate movement. He raises his left arm, bending it at the elbow and resting it on the mattress beside him—bicep flexed and thick and waiting. 

And immediately, it clicks. 

“Sit, baby,” he says gently, before you have the chance to speak. “I want to see you ride what’s yours.”

You’re frozen in place, jaw dropping as you look down at him. Your Sunghoon. Pouty lips and mussed hair. Adoration in his big brown eyes. He reaches up, hands on your thighs, and pulls you towards him, one slow, awestruck step at a time. 

Sunghoon tugs at your shorts. “Let’s get these off, yeah?” he asks, brows raised. 

He pulls them down when you nod, and you step out of them when they hit the floor. Arm on the bed again, he mumbles, careful, baby, as you step over his legs and kneel on the mattress. With his arm between your thighs, you catch his expression. Slow blinking eyes stuck on you. Teeth digging into his bottom lip. You could cum right then and there at the sight alone—it’s a wonder that you don’t. Sunghoon nods, ever so slightly, but it’s enough to make you sink onto him, sticky and so wet against his warm skin. At the contact, you both shudder, a gasp from you and a groan from him as he curls his fist against the duvet. 

You roll your hips, slow and experimental. Once. Twice. Stomach turning at the slick grind of skin on muscle, clit catching over and over on the thickest part of him. You’re already shaking. Whining. It doesn’t help when he tenses, lifting his arm a little so you can grind down into the curve of him even harder. 

“Good girl,” he mumbles, a fucked out and wrecked look on his face just watching you. Gaze following your throbbing core and the mess you’re making. “There you go, bunny. That’s it.”

You nod. That’s it. Moaning as you speed up, rhythm growing erratic. Heat washes over you, spreading from the inside out, coating every fibre of your being. How did anything exist before this? And how will anything exist when it’s over? 

To steady yourself, you grab a fistful of Sunghoon’s long hair, relishing the way he winces when your nails graze his scalp. A grunt from deep in his chest. He talks you through it, gentle as always, coaxing you towards your release one praise at a time. His sweet girl. His baby. 

“Look at you using me like this,” he breathes. Through squinted eyes you see his tongue slip out to wet his lips, your heart racing in response. “Take it,” he says, your name sweet from his mouth. “I’m yours. All yours.”

The only word you can say is his name, crying out over and over on trembling thighs. White-hot pleasure courses through you, growing unbearable, tearing you apart with every movement. Every slip of your cunt on his bulging veins and coiled muscle. You can’t hold back any longer, can’t keep it in. That searing heat. Sharp. Blinding. Ripping through you, splitting you apart right there on his arm. Arched back. Twitching hips. Clutching his shoulder with both hands, your head falls forward as his palm holds your hip, guiding you. 

“Don’t need to hold it, okay?” he murmurs, flexing again like he knows exactly what you need. “I’ve got you, princess. Let go for me.” 

And you do. 

A moan tears from your chest, raw and high and broken, as an endless wave of pleasure crashes over you. Bone-deep and tingling. Every inch of your body set alight as you ride out your orgasm with curled toes and wildly bucking hips. It takes a while to pass, leaving you stunned and silent when you finally manage to stop moving. 

Spent and starry-eyed, the only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, desperate. You let yourself fall backwards, sinking into the mattress, whole body still trembling, pussy still quivering. 

“You okay, baby?” 

Nodding, you lean up on your elbows. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Just.. Fuck.” 

Sunghoon’s eyes are wide, pupils blown as he pants. “You were perfect. Did so well.” The words come out quietly, gaze stuck on his arm, the mess you left behind. With a thick finger, he grazes through it, bringing it to his mouth for a taste. A full-body flush sets you ablaze at the sight, a satisfied groan filling the room as his eyes screw shut, brows furrowing. 

“Taste so good,” he says, words garbled around his finger. “Always taste so good.”

Wasting no time, he wipes up the rest, pressing four fingers on his tongue as his eyes flick up, catching yours. He looks like he’s about one second away from eating you alive. 

And you’re not wrong. 

Sunghoon wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you towards the end of the bed. Towards his mouth. Unwavering, his gaze doesn’t leave the spot between your legs. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” His breath fans your wet core.

Squirming against the mattress, you shake your head. “Not now, Hoonie. I think.. I think I’ll die if you do that now.” 

At this, his eyes meet yours. “Aw, bunny,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, biting your soft flesh until you whine. With his tongue, he soothes the stinging spot. “Well, we can��t have that, can we?” 

Dazed, you let out a breath, chuckling. “No, baby. I don’t think so,” you whisper, arms outstretched. 

You wrap your legs around his waist when he crawls over you, pulling him down and digging your face into the crook of his neck. Over and over, he kisses the top of your head, each one softer than the last. “My sweet girl. I love you, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. “So, so much.” 

Tuckered out, you nod slowly, letting his heady scent consume you. “I know,” you tell him, meaning it. “And I love you.”

Sunghoon rolls onto his back, holding you into his chest, fingers stroking your hair. The last thing you hear before you fall asleep is the steady rhythm of his heartbeat matching yours.

© zreamy (2025), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let me know your thoughts !

permanent tag list: @asahicore @ikeublr @loverseon @dreamy-carat @littlefluu @cherrymxxnie @mrloverboy3000 @blooqz @immortalonie @enhastolemyheart @fancypeacepersona @heatrache @kxwinasblog @kimjkejyy @anofi

[mistyrani]

Mothery

Jisun x Male Reader

synopsis: You're 18 year old boy lusts for your youthful mom, Jisun. After she catches your fantasizing, you're two give in to forbidden desire.

t/w: incest, angst, lactating

Your mom, Jisun, is in her mid-forties, but you'd never guess it by looking at her.

She's bustling around the kitchen, her petite frame moving with a grace that defies her age. Her face is smooth, still carries a youthful vibe, like she's hacked time.

Her body that you can't ignore, no matter how hard you try. Curvy, tight, with full breasts that barely hold against her fitted blouse and a round, firm ass that sways in her jeans as she bends to grab something from a low cabinet.

You catch yourself staring, your pulse quickening, and immediately look away, guilt twisting in your gut.

She's your mom, for fuck's sake, but you're a man, and your body doesn't care about right or wrong when she's around.

"Hey, sweetie, you hungry?" You mom calls you out, she straightens up, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her blouse pulling tight across her chest.

You swallow hard, forcing your eyes to the TV, some random sports game you're not really watching, "No mom, I'm good," you mutter, you shift on the couch, adjusting yourself, hoping she doesn't notice the growing bulge in your shorts.

She walks over, holding a glass of iced tea, her hips swaying just enough to make your jaw clench.

"You sure? I was thinking of making those sandwiches you like," she says, smiling, leaning forward slightly to set the glass on the coffee table. The angle gives you a sight of her cleavage, her breasts round and perfect, and your cock twitches, heat flooding your body.

You cross your legs, cursing yourself, trying to focus on anything else, the game, the weather, fucking math. "N-not in the mood mom... maybe later," you manage, your eyes flicking to her face, then away, too fast.

She tilts her head, studying you, and for a second, you're terrified she's caught on. But she just shrugs, her smile soft, and heads back to the kitchen, her ass bouncing lightly with each step.

You let out a shaky breath, your hand running through your hair. This isn't new, you've been fighting these thoughts for a while, ever since you hit your late teens and started noticing her as more than just Mom. It's wrong, disgusting even, but every time she's near, it's like your brain short circuits.

You grab your phone, scrolling, trying to distract yourself, but your mind keeps drifting back to her, the way she smells faintly of jasmine.

You're hard now, uncomfortably so, and you know you need to get out of here before you do something stupid.

"I'm gonna take a shower," you call out, standing abruptly, keeping your back to the kitchen as you head upstairs.

Her voice follows you, "Okay, sweetie," and it's so normal, so innocent, it makes the guilt cut deeper.

In the bathroom, you lock the door, stripping fast, your cock springing free, aching. Under the hot shower, you try to focus on the water, the tiles, anything, but all you see is her, Jisun, your mom, bending over, her blouse tight, her ass perfect.

You grip your cock, hating how good it feels, hating that it's her face in your mind as you stroke, fast and rough, imagining her under you.

It's over quick, your cum hitting the shower wall, and you lean against it, panting, shame washing over you. She's your mom, and you're a fucking mess.

It's Monday evening, and you're seated at the dinner table, the clink of cutlery against plates filling the quiet.

Your mom, she's serving food, she passes you a plate of roasted chicken. Your dad, a gruff man in his late forties, sits across from you, focused on his meal.

He'll leaving again, some work assignment that'll keep him gone for weeks. It's nothing new, his job often pulls him away, leaving you and you mom alone in the house. No siblings, just the two of you.

"Another trip, huh?" Your mom says, her voice soft but tinged with resignation as she sits down, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her dress shifts, revealing a hint of cleavage, and you force your eyes to your plate, your grip on the fork tightening.

"Yeah, duty calls," your dad grumbles, barely looking up. "Three weeks, maybe four. I'll know more tomorrow."

He's used to this, and so is she, but you can see the subtle slump in her shoulders. You, on the other hand, feel a twisted heat rising.

Weeks alone with her. Just you and Jisun, in this house, "Sorry, sweetie," Jisun says, turning to you with that gentle smile that makes your chest ache. "Guess it's just us again." Her hand brushes yours as she passes the mashed potatoes.

Your cock stirs, and you shift in your seat, hoping no one notices. "It's fine," you mutter, your voice rough, shoving a bite of chicken in your mouth to avoid saying more.

Your dad doesn't seem to care, already talking about logistics, schedules. All you can focus on is her, Jisun, leaning forward to grab the salt, her dress dipping to show the curve of her breasts, full and perfect. You imagine what they’d feel like in your hands, soft and heavy, and your erection presses painfully against your jeans.

After dinner, your dad heads to the living room to watch the news, leaving you to help you mom clear the table. She's at the sink, washing dishes, her hips swaying slightly as she scrubs. You stand beside her, drying, trying not to stare at her ass, the way her dress clings to it.

"You don't have to help, you know," she says, glancing at you with a teasing smile. "Go relax."

"It's okay, I can help," you say, too quickly, your eyes flicking to her chest before you catch yourself. She doesn't notice, or maybe she does, but she keeps washing, humming softly.

She is so close, you imagine pushing her against the counter, lifting her dress, fucking her right there, her moans filling the kitchen. Your cock throbs, and you turn away, pretending to focus on the plate in your hands.

It's a Tuesday night, you're sprawled on your bed. Your dad's been gone for days, his work trip leaving you and your mom, alone.

You're hard now, lying in the dark, sweatpants pushed down, your hand wrapped around your cock. You try to think of anything else, porn, random girls, but your mind keeps slipping to her. Jisun, your mom.

Her smooth skin, her jasmine scent, the way her dress hugged her curves at dinner. You stroke faster, eyes closed, moaning her name, "Jisun... fuck, mom..." imagining her under you, her tits in your hands, her pussy tight around you. It's wrong, so fucking wrong, but it feels too good to stop, your breaths ragged as you edge closer.

You don't hear the door creak open. You don't notice her standing there, frozen in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Your mom had come to check on you, maybe to ask if you wanted a late-night snack, but now she's watching her son jerk off, moaning her name.

You're lost in your fantasy, hips bucking into your hand, until you open your eyes and see her. Your stomach drops, panic seizing you as you scramble to pull up your sweatpants, your face burning.

"Mom, I... I can explain!" you stammer, sitting up, your voice shaking as you fumble with the waistband. She's still standing there, her hand trembling over her mouth, her eyes glistening with a mix of disbelief and something you can't read, hurt, maybe, confusion or disappointed.

You're caught, exposed, and the words spill out before you can stop them, "It's your fault, okay? You're too fucking hot, walking around like that, your body... I can't help it! I'm a man, Mom, and I... I want you. I want to fuck you."

The words blatant in the air, raw and ugly, and you see her flinch, her breath catching like you've slapped her.

Her hand drops, her lips parting, but no words come out at first.

"Don't say that," she finally whispers, her voice trembling, her eyes wet.

"Don't blame me for... for this," she gestures at you, her face a mix of pain and shame "I'm your mother."

You're shaking, guilt and lust warring inside you, but her reaction, her hurt, cuts deeper than you expected.

"I didn't mean it like that," you backtrack, your voice softer, desperate. "I just... I can't stop thinking about you. You're driving me crazy."

Your eyes flick to her, standing there in a loose nightgown, her nipples faintly visible, and your cock twitches again, betraying you even now.

She takes a shaky breath, stepping closer, her hands wringing together. "This is wrong," she says, barely a whisper.

"You know that. But... I don't want you to feel like... this is my fault. I'm your mom, this isn't supposed to happen," she pauses, her eyes searching yours, and you see something shift, resolve, maybe, or pity.

"If you take it back, if you stop blaming me... I'll help you."

"Help me how?" You're confused, but your pulse race.

She takes a shaky breath, stepping closer, her bare feet silent on the floor. "This... thing you're feeling," she says, her voice low, almost a whisper. "It's not right, but I don't want you to suffer. I'm your mother. I'll fix it."

Her eyes flick down, just for a second, to the bulge in your sweatpants, and you swear you see her cheeks flush before she looks away. "But you can't blame me again. Promise me."

"I promise," you say quickly. You don't know what she's offering, but the heat in your body doesn't care. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to..."

"Lie back." She snaps. Her hand touches your shoulder, gently pushing you down.

Your heart's bumping, your cock throbbing as you obey, lying back, your eyes never leaving her.

She hesitates, her hands hovering over you, then slowly reaches for your sweatpants. "This is to help you," she whispers, her fingers hook the waistband, pulling them down. Your cock springs free, hard.

She gasps softly, her eyes widening before she looks away, her face flushed, "Oh, God," she mutters, but she doesn't stop, her hand trembling as it wraps around you.

"Mom," you groan, your hips bucking instinctively, and she flinches but doesn't pull away.

She's stroking you slowly, her grip tightening. "Just... let me help." Her hand moves faster but warm, and you're lost in it, the sight of her, your mom, Jisun, her nightgown slipping to reveal her cleavage, pushing you closer to the edge.

"Fuck, Jisun..." you moan, and her hand falters, her eyes meeting yours.

"Don’t call me that," she whispers, but she doesn't stop, her other hand resting on your thigh, steadying herself.

You're panting, the guilt drowning in pleasure, and when you cum, it's sudden, intense, spilling over her hand as you groan, "Mom, fuck."

She pulls back, her hand sticky, her breathing uneven, staring at the mess like she can't believe what she's done.

"I'm sorry,"you gasp, sitting up, but she shakes her head, standing quickly, wiping her hand on her nightgown.

"It's okay," she says, her voice barely audible. "We won't talk about this again."

She turns to leave, leaving you alone, your body sated but your mind a wreck, knowing you've pushed her too far and craving her even more.

You can't let her leave, not like this, not when every fiber of you screams for her, your cock hard again, firmer than before.

"Mom, it's not helping,” you call out, before she can leave away.

She freezes, turning slowly, "What?" she whispers, "You... how can it not be enough?" She glances down, seeing your erection straining again, bigger, harder than before, and her hand covers her mouth again, disbelief across her face.

"It wants your pussy, Mom," you say, the words spilling out, unfiltered, your shame buried under the burning need.

Her breath catches, a sharp gasp, "Don't say that!" she snaps, her voice breaking, but she doesn't move, rooted to the spot, her nightgown outlining her full breasts, her round ass.

"Okay... let me do something," she murmurs, almost to herself, stepping back into the room.

She climbs onto your bed, her knees sinking into the mattress, her nightgown riding up to reveal smooth thighs. She's close now, her jasmine scent filling your senses, her eyes locked on your cock, wide and unblinking.

"Fuck, this is my son's cock... how is it so big? It's wrong, but it's... it's bigger than his dad's."

Her voices barely a whisper, muttering to herself, amazed yet guilty seeing your cock.

"Mom," you groan, sitting up, your cock aching as you reach for her. She flinches but doesn't pull away, her hands hovering, unsure.

"I can't stop wanting you," you say low, "You're too fucking perfect."

Her cheeks flush, her lips parting, but she doesn't speak, her eyes flicking between your face and your erection, "This is wrong," she whispers, but her hand moves, trembling, wrapping around you again, stroking slowly. "So wrong..." Her touch is firmer this time, her fingers sliding over your length, and you groan, hips bucking.

She bites her lip, her nightgown slipping off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast, her nipple hard through the fabric. "I'm just helping," she says, like she's convincing herself, but her strokes quicken, her other hand resting on your thigh, her nails digging in.

"It's not enough," you growl, grabbing her wrist, pulling her closer. She gasps, falling forward, her body pressed against yours, her tits soft against your chest. "I need you, Mom. All of you."

Her eyes widen, fear and desire warring, but you don't wait, your hands sliding under her nightgown, gripping her ass, pulling her onto your lap.

She straddles you, her pussy brushing your cock through her panties, and she moans softly, "Oh, God," her body trembling, betraying her.

"You feel it too," you say, your hands squeezing her, your cock throbbing against her panties.

She shakes her head, "No, we can't," but her hips move, grinding slightly, her hips shift, grinding against your cock, her wetness seeping through her panties, betraying her.

You feel it, hot and slick, and your hands tighten on her ass, squeezing the firm, "You're lying," you growl, your voice rough with need. "You want this too."

She shakes her head, but her moan escapes, soft and desprate, as you pull her closer, your cock pressing harder against her heat.

"Please," she murmurs, her voice breaking, "I'm your mother." Her hand down low, start stroking, slow and unsteady, her fingers slick with your precum. You groan, hips bucking meeting her movement.

"Use your mouth, Mom, please," you say, the words unfiltered.

Her breath catches, a sharp swallow, her eyes locking on your cock, thick and straining in her hand. She hesitates, her lips parting, then biting down hard, her cheeks flushing as she fights herself, but the way her thighs clench betrays how your words turn her on.

"This is so wrong," she whispers, as she shifts, sliding off your lap, her nightgown slipping to reveal one perfect breast, nipple hard. She kneels between your legs, her hands shaking as they rest on your thighs.

"Just... to help you," she murmurs, leaning forward, her breath hot against your cock.

You groan, "Fuck, Mom," as her lips brush the tip, tentative, then bolder, her tongue flicking out, tasting you.

She moans softly, "Oh, God," her voice muffled as she takes you deeper, her mouth warm and wet, her lips stretching around you.

You tangle your fingers in her hair, guiding her, your hips bucking as she sucks, her tongue swirling, her moans vibrating against you, "You're so good," you growl, and she whimpers, her eyes fluttering shut, her hand stroking what her mouth can't take.

Her nightgown falls further, exposing her tits, bouncing slightly as she moves, and you're lost, the guilt drowned by pleasure. She pulls back, gasping, "We shouldn't," but her lips are back at it, hungrier, and you know she's too far gone to stop.

You pull her up gently but firmly, she's sitting on the bed now, close enough around you, her curves pressed against you, her breath hitching.

You lean in, your lips brushing her ear, your voice low and rough with desire. "You're so fucking beautiful, Mom," you whisper, and she shivers, her cheeks flushing deeper. You can't stop, the words spilling out, dirty.

"I wonder why I don't have a sibling. Dad didn't fuck you enough?"

Her breath catches, a soft gasp, her eyes widening as she mutters, "Don't say that to your mother..." Her voice is shaky, her face burning.

You grab her chin, tilting her face to meet yours, her lips parted, trembling. "You made me, Mom," you say. "Now I'm yours. You can use me, if Dad can't..."

"Sweetie..." she starts, but before she can finish, you kiss her, hard and hungry, your tongue pushing past her lips. She stiffens, her hands pressing against your chest, but then she melts, a soft moan escaping as she kisses you back, her fingers curling into your shirt. Her mouth is warm, and you taste your own precum on her lips, making you groan into her.

You pull her closer, her tits pressing against you, your hands sliding under her nightgown to grip her ass, squeezing hard, her hips grind against you, her panties soaked.

You break the kiss, your lips trailing to her neck, sucking lightly, making her moan, "Oh, God, no..." her hands are in your hair, pulling you closer, her breaths coming faster.

"You want this," you murmur against her skin, your hand slipping between her thighs, finding her pussy, wet and hot through her panties.

She whimpers, "Please, it's wrong," but her legs part, giving you access, and you push her panties aside, your fingers sliding inside her, tight and slick.

"You're so wet, mom..." you growl, and she's trembling, her moans louder now, "Yes, oh, shit," as you curl your fingers, hitting just the right spot.

You pull your fingers out, and you push her back onto the bed, her legs falling open as she gasps, "What are you?"

You don't answer, your hands spreading her thighs wide, ripping her panties down to expose her completely.

Her pussy is beautiful, pink, glistening, framed by soft curls, and you pause, expecting something else, maybe a faint musk from your crude fantasies, but no. It smells fresh, clean, intoxicating, beyond anything you imagined.

"Fuck, Mom," you groan, your voice rough, and you dive in, your tongue licking a slow stripe up her slit.

She cries out, "Oh, God, no!" but her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, her hips bucking as you taste her, sweet and heady, the very hole you came from. It's wrong, so fucking wrong, but it's perfect, and you shove your tongue deeper, lapping at her clit, sucking gently.

"Sweetie, please," she moans, her voice breaking, but her thighs clamp around your head, her body melting under you. "Fuck, it's too much," she gasps, her fingers tighten in your hair, urging you on as you devour her, your tongue swirling, dipping inside her, tasting every inch.

Her pussy's so wet, dripping down your chin, and you groan against her, the vibration making her cry out, "Yes, oh, shit!" Her resistance is gone, her body arching, her tits bouncing as she grinds against your mouth.

"You taste so fucking good," you growl, pulling back just enough to look at her, her face flushed, eyes half-closed, lips parted in a desperate moan. "Better than I dreamed."

She whimpers, "Don't say that," her hips buck harder, chasing your tongue as you dive back in, sucking her clit, your fingers sliding inside her, curling to hit that spot that makes her scream, "Fuck, I'm...!" Her pussy clenches, her orgasm crashing through her, her moans loud and unrestrained, "Yes, yes, I'm cumming!"

You don't stop, licking her through it, her juices coating your face, her body shaking as she collapses back, panting. You climb up, your cock aching, and kiss her again, letting her taste herself on your lips. She moans into you, her hands clutching you, completely melted.

You pull back from the kiss, her lips swollen, "Fuck, Mom," you groan, your cock throbbing, hard and leaking pre-cum as you hover over her.

Her breasts, full and perfect, catch your eye, nipples hard and pink, begging for attention. You can't resist. You slide up, straddling her chest, your hands reaching for her tits, pressing them together, their softness filling your palms.

"So fucking massive," you mutter, your voice rough, as you squeeze them.

Jisun gasps, her hands gripping the sheets, her voice shaky. "Sweetie, no, we can't keep going," she murmurs, but her eyes are locked on your cock, inches from her face, the tip glistening with precum.

She bites her lip, her thighs pressing together, you don't listen, too far gone, your cock sliding between her breasts, the soft, warm flesh enveloping you as you thrust slowly, coating her skin with your precum.

"Oh, God," she whispers, her voice trembling, but she doesn't push you away, her hands hesitating before resting on your thighs, her nails digging in slightly.

You groan, “Fuck, your tits feel so good," pressing them tighter around your cock, the slickness of your precum making each thrust smoother, her breasts glistening as you fuck them.

Her moans are soft, "This is wrong," but her eyes are dark with desire, watching your cock slide between her curves, her breath hitching with each movement.

You lean forward, your hands still gripping her tits, your thumbs brushing her nipples, making her gasp, "Oh, shit." Her body arches slightly, pushing her breasts against you.

You thrust harder, the tip of your cock grazing her chin, leaving a trail of precum.

"You like this, don't you?" you growl.

She shakes her head, "No, we shouldn't," but her moans betray her, her hands sliding up your thighs, urging you on despite herself.

You don't cum, not yet, savoring the sight of her, your mom, Jisun, her tits coated with your precum. You slow your thrusts, pulling back, your cock still hard, aching for more.

She's panting, her breasts slick and shining, her eyes meeting yours, a mix of fear and want. "We have to stop," she whispers.

You slide up her chest, your cock rock hard, throbbing, glistening with her saliva and your precum. You display it proudly, inches from her face, swaying slightly to draw her gaze. "You want me to stop, Mom?" you ask, your voice low, seductive, laced with challenge.

Her cheeks burn a deep red, and she turns her face away, but her eyes betray her, flicking back to your cock, wide and hungry. She bites her finger, shy yet undeniably aroused, and fuck, she's hotter than ever like this, blushing, torn, her youthful beauty amplified by her shame.

"You want this to stop? In front of my big cock?" you press closer, your erection brushing her cheek.

She flinches, her breath hitching, but her glance lingers, her lips parting slightly, "Sweetie, stop..." she murmurs, her voice weak, trembling.

You don't wait, you grab her head, fingers tangling in her soft hair, and pull her forward, guiding your cock to her mouth, "Open," you growl, and she hesitates, her eyes wide, but her lips part just enough.

You thrust in, her mouth warm and wet, her tongue instinctively pressing against you as you push deeper.

She gags softly, "Mmph," her hands grabbing your thighs, but she doesn't pull away, her moan vibrating around your cock, sending a jolt through you.

"Fuck, Mom," you groan, fucking her mouth, slow at first, then harder, your hips rocking as you grip her hair tighter. Her eyes water, but she's sucking now, her lips stretching around you, her tongue swirling, taking you deeper with each thrust.

"So fucking good," you mutter, watching her, her mouth full of your cock, her breasts bouncing slightly as you move.

She moans again, "Mmm," her hands sliding up your thighs, nails digging in, and you know she’s melting, her resistance crumbling.

You thrust harder, hitting the back of her throat, making her gag, but she keeps going, her eyes half-closed, lost in the act.

You don't cum, not yet, her mouth stuffed. Pull out, a string of saliva connecting her lips to your cock, and she gasps, panting.

"Sweetie, please," she whispers, her voice shaky, "we have to stop." But there's no strength in her words, only a more plea drowned by the way her body responds, her nipples hard, her pussy glistening beneath her torn panties.

"You don't want me to stop," you say low, you shift back her lap, straddling her hips.

You lean down, your lips brushing her ear, whispering, "You're too fucking perfect, Mom. I need more."

She shudders, a soft moan escaping, "No, we can't," her hands grip your arms, not pushing you away, her body arching slightly toward you.

Your hands find her breasts again, full and heavy, pressing them together as you slide your cock between them, the slickness of your precum making each thrust smooth.

She gasps, "Oh, God," her eyes fluttering shut, her hands clutching the sheets.

You notice a faint bead of white at her nipple, and your breath catches, milk, unexpected, but there it is, a drop glistening against her skin.

"Fuck, Mom," you groan, your thumb brushing over her nipple, coaxing another drop, and she moans, "No, don't," but her back arches, offering herself despite her words.

You lean down, your tongue flicking out, tasting the sweet, warm liquid, and it's intoxicating, makes your cock throb harder. "So fucking good," you mutter, sucking gently, drawing more from her, her moans growing louder, "Oh, shit, sweetie, no." Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, her body trembling as you alternate between her breasts, licking, sucking, the milk coating your lips as you thrust between her tits, your cock slick and aching.

"You love this, your son milking you as a baby again," you growl, pulling back to look at her, her face flushed, eyes half-closed, lost in pleasure.

You squeeze her breasts harder, a few drops spilling, and you rub your cock against them, coating her skin with more precum.

You shift, sliding down her body, your hands gripping her thighs, spreading them wide. Her pussy is glistening, pink and swollen from your fingers and tongue, her wetness dripping onto the sheets.

She's panting, her breasts heaving, a bead of milk still clinging to one nipple, and you groan, your cock rock-hard, throbbing with need.

"Sweetie, no! we can't," she whispers, her voice trembling, but her thighs don't close, her eyes locked on your cock as you position yourself between her legs.

You don't respond, your hands sliding under her ass, lifting her slightly as you line up your cock with her pussy, the tip brushing her wet folds.

"Fuck, Mom," you murmur, your voice rough, as you drag your cock along her slit, teasing her clit, her wetness coating you.

She gasps, "Please, don't," her hips twitch, pushing toward you, her body betraying her words.

You thrust slow, deliberate, the head of your cock slipping inside her, tight and hot, and she cries out, "Oh, God!"

Her pussy clenches around you, pulling you deeper, and you groan, inching in, savoring the way she feels, like she was made for you.

"No, we shouldn't," she moans, her hands gripping the sheets, but her legs wrap around you, urging you on despite her protests.

You push deeper, slow and steady, her pussy stretching around you, wet and perfect. "You're so tight," you growl, your hands squeezing her hips, pulling her into each thrust.

Her moans grow louder, "Fuck, sweetie, it's too much,” but her hips rock with you, meeting every slow, deep stroke, her body melting under you.

"You want this, don't you?" you say, leaning down, your lips brushing her ear as you thrust again, deeper, making her gasp, "Yes, oh, shit!"

Her pussy's dripping, and you feel her clench harder, her body trembling as you push her closer to the edge.

"Say it," you demand, your voice dark, and she whimpers, "I... fuck, I want it." Her admission breaks something in you, and you thrust harder, still slow but relentless, her moans turning to cries, "Oh, God, yes!"

You speed up, your cock slamming into her harder, her pussy clenches around you, hot and slick, pulling you deeper with every thrust.

The bed creaks, her thighs trembling around your waist, her nails digging into your back. You lean in, your lips brushing her ear, your breath ragged as you growl, "Mom, I love you, fuck!"

She's panting, her breasts bouncing with each hard thrust, her eyes half-closed, dazed with pleasure. "Sweetie... I love you too, but..." she gasps, her voice breaking, "fuck, this is... wrong... but..."

Her words trail off into a moan, "Oh, shit!" as you hit deeper, your cock filling her completely, her pussy gripping you like she never wants to let go.

You thrust faster, your hands gripping her hips, leaving marks on her soft skin.

"Say it again," you demand, your voice rough, leaning down to suck her nipple, tasting the faint sweetness of her milk.

She cries out, "Fuck, I love you!" her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer as her body arches, her pussy dripping, soaking the sheets.

"It's wrong, but... don't stop," she moans, her hips bucking to meet your thrusts, her moans turning to screams, "Yes, fuck, harder!"

You pounding into her, your cock throbbing as her pussy clenches, her orgasm building fast, your hand sliding to her clit, rubbing hard, making her wail, "Oh, God, I'm cumming!"

Her body shaking, her pussy squeezing you so tight you nearly lose it, her screams filling the room as she comes, her juices coating your cock.

You keep going, not stopping, her moans driving you wild, her body trembling beneath you.

You're close, but you don't want this to end, not yet. You slow just enough to keep control, leaning down to kiss her, her lips soft and desperate against yours.

"I love you," she whispers again, tears in her eyes, her body still moving with yours.

You pull out, and you grab her hips, flipping her onto her stomach. "Get up," you order, and she obeys, her body trembling as she lifts her ass up.

Her round, firm ass is perfect, begging for you, and you slap it hard.

She moans, "Fuck, yes!" her tongue lolling out, her face pressed into the sheets, completely lost in the pleasure.

You slap her ass again, harder, and she yelps, "More!" her hips pushing back.

You line up your cock, thrusting into her pussy, deep, making her scream, "Oh, God, sweetie!"

Her pussy's tighter from this angle, gripping you, you pound into her, each thrust shaking her body, her tits swaying beneath her. Your hand slides to her ass, your thumb brushing her tight butthole, and she gasps, "No, not there!" but her moan betrays her, her body arching as you shove two fingers into her ass, stretching her.

"Fuck!" she cries, she's pushing her back, taking your fingers deeper, loving it.

You pull her hair, yanking her head back, her tongue out, drooling, her eyes rolling as she loses herself to every thrust.

"You love this, Mom," you growl, your fingers fucking her ass in rhythm with your cock in her pussy, her moans mumbled now, "Yes, fuck, I do!"

She's gone, completely, her body shaking, her pussy clenching as another orgasm builds. You slap her ass again, the red marks glowing, and she screams, "I'm coming, fuck, I'm coming!"

Her pussy spasms, her ass tightening around your fingers, her whole body shaking as she cums, her juices dripping down her thighs.

You can't hold back, the sight of her pushing you over the edge. You pull out, stroking fast, and cum hard, thick ropes spilling across her ass, dripping down to her pussy. She slumps forward, her body limp, but her ass stays raised, like an offering.

She's panting, whimpering, "Sweetie..." her voice barely audible, her eyes closed, overwhelmed.

You collapse beside her, your chest heaving, guilt crashing in but drowned by the sight of her, your mom, broken, the line between you shattered forever.

She's turns slowly, her eyes barely there, glazed over with a wild, crazed hunger. She's lost herself completely, drowned by the pleasure you've forced upon her.

She crawls toward you, her breasts swaying, her lips parted, her tongue darting out as she reaches for your cock, still hard, slick with her juices and your cum.

"My son's cock," she murmurs, low, broken, "fuck... I'm sucking it. I'm such a bad mother, taking my own son, but I love this, mmmh..." she wraps her hand around you, guiding your cock to her mouth.

You groan, "Fuck, Mom," as her lips close around you, warm and wet, her tongue swirling over the tip.

She moans, a deep, throaty "Mmmh," her eyes fluttering shut as she takes you deeper, her mouth stretching to your size. She's sucking hard, her head bobbing, her hand stroking what she can't take.

You grab her head, fisting her hair, your hips bucking as you pump into her mouth, fucking it with the same intensity you fucked her pussy.

"Take it," you growl, your voice rough, and she moans louder, "Mmmph," her hands gripping your thighs, nails digging in, urging you deeper.

You thrust harder, hitting the back of her throat. She gags, her eyes watering, but she doesn't stop, her moans vibrating against you, "Fuck, so big," muffled around your cock.

You pull her hair tighter, forcing her to look up at you, her eyes lost, her face flushed, "You love this, don't you?" you say, and she whimpers, nodding slightly, her mouth full, her tongue never stopping.

You fuck her mouth harder, the wet sounds obscene, her saliva dripping down her chin, coating your cock. She's completely gone, her body trembling, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, her moans a wildly, "Mmmh, mmmh."

She's shifts, her eyes glazed. She climbs onto you, straddling your hips, her hands trembling as she grips your cock, lining it up with her pussy.

"Oh, God," she whispers, her voice breaking as she lowers herself, your cock sliding into her tight, wet heat, so tight it's almost painful, gripping you.

She starts slow, her hips rocking, her breasts bouncing gently, her moans soft, "Fuck, sweetie..."

You groan, "Mom, fuck," your hands grabbing her ass, squeezing hard, feeling the firm flesh you've fantasized about for years.

She leans down, kissing you, her lips desperate, her tongue tangling with yours as she rides you, her pussy clenching tighter with each movement.

You thrust up to meet her, your hips slamming together. She picks up speed, riding you faster, harder, her moans turning to cries, "Fuck! Sweetie...! I'm... fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Her voice is raw, unhinged,

"I'm fucking my son's cock, I'm going crazy, I'm a bad mom, fuck!" She’s completely lost, her body moving on instinct, her pussy gripping you so tightly it hurts, but it's perfect, driving you wild.

You grip her ass harder, guiding her, thrusting up to match her rhythm, each movement sending her breasts bouncing wildly. "Do you love your son's cock, mom?" you growl, slapping her ass.

"Yes, fuck, I do!" she yelps, her tongue lolls out, her eyes rolling back as she rides you, her pussy dripping, soaking your cock, the bed.

You feel her tightening, her body trembling, her moans turning to screams, "I'm coming, fuck, I'm coming!"

Her pussy spasms, squeezing you painfully tight as her orgasm come through her, her body shuddering, shaking violently, her cries moaning, "Fuck, sweetie, oh, God!"

She slumps onto you, her sweaty, trembling body collapsing against your chest, her breaths ragged, you hold her close, your hands still on her ass, your cock still hard inside her.

You shift, pulling out slowly, "Mom..." you're murmuring rough.

You maneuver her trembling body, turning her to her side, spooning her from behind. Her skin is hot, slick with sweat, her round ass pressing against your hips as you wrap an arm around her, locking her neck in the crook of your elbow.

She gasps, "Sweetie, fuck me again," her voice is weak, her body pliant, molding to yours as you bite her neck, hard enough to leave a mark. She moans, "Fuck," her head tilting back, exposing more of her throat to you.

You nip her earlobe, sucking it lightly, whispering, "You feel so fucking good, Mom," as your hand slides down, lifting one of her legs, spreading her open.

Her pussy, still dripping from her orgasm, glistens in the dim light, and you line up your cock, brushing the tip against her wet folds. She shudders, "Put it in, fuck me, sweetie..." her hips push back.

You thrust in, slow at first, her pussy gripping you tightly, almost painfully, and you groan, "Fuck, so tight," burying yourself deep.

You pick up speed, fucking her harder, your arm tightening around her neck, holding her in place as you slam into her, the wet slap of your bodies obscene in the quiet room.

She's moaning, "Oh, God, sweetie!" her hand gripping your arm, nails digging in as you bite her neck again, making her cry out, "Yes, fuck!"

Her pussy clenches with every thrust, her leg trembling in your grip,

"Says "I'm yours," mom," you growl, your free hand squeezing her ass, spreading her wider as you pound deeper, your cock throbbing inside her.

She's whimpering, "I'm yours, fuck, I'm yours,” her voice breaking, her tongue darting out as she pants, completely gone.

You feel the pressure building, your cock pulsing, and you thrust harder, faster, until you can't hold back. "Fuck, Mom," you groan, cumming hard, spilling inside her, your cum filling her pussy as she moans,

"Oh, yes...!" Her body shakes, another orgasm hitting her, her pussy milking you as you empty yourself, your arm still locked around her neck.

She slumps, her body limp but her ass still pressed against you, your cock softening inside her, cum leaking down her thigh.

You pull out, your cock softening, you stumble to the bathroom, leaving Jisun alone on your bed, her body curled in the sheets, her breaths uneven.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face, staring at your reflection, barely recognizing the man looking back. Guilt claws at you, what the fuck have you done?

She's your mom, the woman who raised you, and you forced yourself on her, fucked her until she broke, her moans haunting you even now, you hate yourself for it, the shame burning deeper.

When you return, Jisun's still there, moving quietly, cleaning up the mess. She's pulled on her nightgown, changing your sheets, gathering a pile of crumpled tissues into a plastic bag in the corner of the room.

Even after everything, she's taking care of you, it twists the knife in your gut.

"Mom..." you start.

She freezes, her hands clutching the edge of a sheet, her knuckles white.

"I'm... I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..." You trail off, words useless against what you've done.

Your mom doesn't look at you, her shoulders trembling as she folds the sheet with care, like it's the only thing keeping her together.

"This never should've happened," she whispers, her voice barely audible, thick with guilt, "I'm your mother... how did I let this happen?" She shakes her head, a tear slipping down her cheek, and you feel like you've been punched, the sight of her pain worse than any anger.

"I'm the one who pushed you," you say, stepping closer, your voice shaking. "It's my fault, Mom. I couldn't stop."

She finally looks at you, her eyes glistening, "No, sweetie, I should've stopped you," she says, her voice breaking. "I'm supposed to protect you, not... not this," she gestures vaguely at the bed, the tissues, her hands trembling as she wipes them on her nightgown.

"I failed you. I'm a terrible mother," she turns away, grabbing another tissue, her movements jerky, like she's trying to erase the evidence of her shame.

"No, you're not," you say, "You're... you're the best mom. I'm the one who's failed you."

She shakes her head, her breath hitching. "It's wrong that I felt that too," she admits, her voice so soft it's almost lost. "I wanted that... and it's what makes me sick. What kind of mother wants her son like that?"

She chokes on a sob, dropping the sheet, her hands covering her face, "I should've walked away. I should've been stronger."

You stand there, frozen, her words cutting deeper than any accusation. "Mom, please," you say, your voice small. "Can we just... forget this ever happened?"

She nods, wiping her eyes, forcing a shaky smile. "We have to," she says, her voice firm but fragile. "This can't happen again. You're my son. I love you, but... not like this."

She resumes cleaning, her hands trembling, and you watch, helpless, the sight of her love, still there, despite... everything. Making your guilt tearing you apart, a wound you know will never fully heal.

[mitskicain]

navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ poster girl — choso x reader

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: it’s just you, him, and a couch that’s about to see more action than the gig ever will

content warnings: suggestive content, no sex (yet), partial nudity, voyueristic undertones, implied erotic photography

word count: 2.5k

· · ─────── ·{ ✐ᝰ.ᐟ}· ─────── · ·

You came to practice dressed for the heat—and maybe Choso too. The shirt you’d thrown on was an old tee you’d hacked into something riskier: sleeves chopped off, neckline wide and loose enough that it slouched off one shoulder if you moved just right. The front dipped low, a soft promise of cleavage everytime you bent over to adjust an amp or coil or mic cable. I love drummers pasted in big bright letters across the front. You told yourself it was practical—it was hot in the garage, after all—but the truth was you liked the way Choso’s eyes sometimes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

And tonight, they definitely lingered.

“We’ve got a game to catch,” your bassist calls out, eyes flicking from your face to your chest with an unsubtle grin. “You two behave now.”

The others laughed, footsteps fading up the old basement stairs. Then it was quiet—just you, the leftover hum of the amp still cooling down, and Choso, standing a few feet away. Good things happen when two bandmates get left unsupervised. Good because now you can actually talk, and ask questions. Questions like: how long have you played the drums? What are you doing after tomorrow’s show? And, do you want to come over and make me scream so hard my neighbors file another noise complaint?

Instead you shifted your weight, tugged the hem of your already-low shirt a little lower—because if you couldn’t say it out loud, you could at least make him look.

“Thanks for missing the game and helping me clean up. Means a lot.”

Choso’s arms flex as he puts away the boxes of cables and wiring, lifting them as if they were nothing. You wondered if he could do that with you too; sling you over his shoulder and carry you up to his room. He could show you his record collection, or how to cut skulls out of old t-shirts and stretch them out. Maybe after the arts and crafts, he could stretch you out too.

“It’s no problem,” his voice snaps you out of your daydream. It’s gruff, and feigns nonchalance, but you see the way his eyes linger on you for a beat too long. “Wanted to make sure everything’s in order. I don’t trust the guys to check.”

You chuckle, and for a second, he flashes you a soft smile before returning his attention to the checklist on his phone. You step toward him, place your hands on the rim of the cardboard and lean forward.

“Anything I can help with?” You ask, voice dangerously sweet.

His face flickered, with what exactly, you weren’t sure. Lust? Want? Disgust? God, don’t let it be disgust. You’d quit the band if he told you to fuck off.

“Actually, there is something,” he says, eyes actually meeting yours. “I was thinking of re-doing our poster.”

You let out a half-laugh, thinking he was messing with you, but when you realized he wasn’t, you stopped. You knit your eyebrows together, confused.

“What’s wrong with the current one?”

He looks at you like you’re stupid.

“Just look,” he pulls up the image on his phone and shows it to you. It’s a visual mess—colors and graphics placed haphazardly, like an afterthought, and letters of varying fonts and sizes fighting for space.

“Yuji designed that,” you shoot back, evading blame.

He laughs, “that’s even more of a reason to re-do the whole thing.”

Your laughs fill the garage, bouncing off its walls, and back towards you, and you want to play the sound over and over again. Even his laughter had a certain rhythm to it, almost like the way he played the drums—sharp and fast. Maybe he was just naturally gifted the way some musical prodigies are. You imagined him as a baby, banging out tunes on his toy xylophone long before he could talk.

“Okay drum genius,” you quip, nudging closer. “What do you have in mind for the do-over?”

Choso tucks his phone into his back pocket, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. He scratches the side of his neck, as if debating whether to say what’s on his mind.

“I was thinking..” He trails off, turning around to pull a camera from his bag. “Would you mind?”

You let out a single, confused laugh—a quick ha you can’t hold back. You glance behind, half-expecting to see someone else, then point at your chest..

“Me?”

He rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at his lips. “Who else?”

The way he looks at you in that moment very well nearly brings you to your knees—all soft eyes and a grin that could make a nun sin. Angelic. Heaven sent. God.

You’re grinning like an idiot when his gaze dips—from your lips, down to the neckline of your shirt, then back up to meet your gaze. He catches the smooth ball of his piercing between his teeth, and you want so badly to find out how it’d feel pressed to your own. Camera still in hand, he nods towards the gear stacked behind you.

You take a seat on the floor and lean against the amp. The carpet’s scratchy, dust and stray guitar picks buried in its fibers—you try not to think about it as you look into the camera lens.

Red light first. Then a soft click followed by a bright flash. He lowers the camera, checks the screen, then looks at you as if he’s about to laugh.

“What?” you ask, half-worried, half-defensive.

He lifts a brow and turns the camera around. “You look scared.”

You scoff, crossing your arms tight around your chest. “Am not.”

“Just surprised,” he says, taking aim. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be so camera shy.”

You blink. You grasp for something to say—an insult, a smart comeback, anything—nothing.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teases, capturing your wide-eyed expression with a soft whir of the shutter. He tilts his head, a lazy grin curling at his mouth “It’s alright. Just sit there and look pretty for me, okay doll?”

Doll. God. The way he says it makes something warm pool low in your belly. You’d sit there and let him shoot a whole roll if he asked.

You shift, trying to ignore the way doll echoes over and over in your head. He lowers the camera again, eyes skimming over you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

“Move your arms,” he says, gentle but firm, nodding his head at how you’ve got them crossed. “Relax.”

You uncross them slowly, allowing your hands to rest on your thighs. He hums in approval, stepping closer. The lens clicks again.

You do as you’re told, eyes flickering from the camera to him. He takes another shot. The soft click, whirrs, fills the silence between you, punctuated by your breathing. He takes a few more shots, the flash flickering against the garage walls, then lowers the camera, chewing on the ball of his piercing like he’s turning something over in his head.

“Get up,” he says, voice still soft but now edged with something that makes your stomach flip. He quickly sets the camera down and reaches for your hands.

You let him pull you up—his palms rough and warm around your wrists. He steps back and looks at you, head tilting as he sizes you up like you’re a new instrument he’s learning how to play.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

You raise a brow. “Turn around?”

He smirks. “Yeah. Trust me.”

So you do—you turn your back to him, the garage feeling suddenly too warm, too small. You feel his hands brush against your hips, positioning you in front of the equipment.

“Hands here,” he says, guiding them to rest flat against the top of the speaker. The surface is cool under your fingers. You can feel the faint rumble of leftover bass vibrators from earlier, or maybe that’s just your heartbeat. Same thing.

He steps back and grabs the camera again. “Perfect. Hold that.”

The lens clicks. You hear him suck in a quiet breath, like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Look over your shoulder,” he says. His voice is lower now—almost rough.

You glance back at him, and the look on his face—like he’s seeing you in a way no one ever has—nearly makes you forget how to stand.

“Good,” he murmurs. He moves closer, one hand bracing the amp beside yours as he leans in to adjust the hem of your shirt, tugging it just enough to expose a sliver of skin above your jeans. His knuckles brush against your waist, slow, deliberate.

Another click. Another flash.

“Good girl,” he says, almost under his breath. “Stay just like that for me, doll. Perfect.”

The shutter clicks. Your skin tingles everywhere he touches you. You hold the pose for him, feeling the brush of air each time he shifts to find a new angle. He keeps adjusting you—a hand on your hip, a brush of his knuckles against your ribs as he pulls on your shirt again. Each touch feels heavier than the last.

Then he lowers the camera and steps in, close enough that can see the tiny smudge of eyeliner under his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. He flicks his gaze to the old couch in the corner; half buried in cables and battered gig bags.

“Come here,” he says, his voice dipping lower. He slips in hand around your wrist like it’s nothing, and tugs you towards the couch.

“Lie back for me,” he says, gesturing to the faded couch cushions. “Lean on your elbows.”

You shoot him a look. Trying for a teasing laugh, but it comes out breathless. “This still for the poster?”

His grin flashes, wicked and soft all at once.

You do as he says—lowering yourself onto the couch, propping yourself up on your elbows. The angle makes your shirt ride up, your legs part slightly where your jeans stretch. He watches every shift like it’s something sacred.

He climbs up next. One knee on the cushions between yours, one braced by your hip. The camera hangs heavy from his neck, dangling close enough you could tug him down by it if you wanted to.

He lifts it, one hand steadying the lens, the other braced on the back of the couch by your shoulder. The closeness makes your breath catch—the way his knee brushes your thigh, the soft rasp of his jeans against yours.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, but his eyes aren’t on the viewfinder—they’re on your mouth.

You’re putty underneath him. Mouth slightly parted, breathing shallow and quick. Your expression gives up what your words don’t say—I want you; plain and simple. The strap of your top slides off one shoulder, you don’t bother pulling it back up.

“Hey–hold that—” Choso mutters, stepping closer. He lifts the camera again and aims it down at you like he’s framing something just for him.

You laugh—low and breathy. “What? This?”

You tuck your chin down, eyes flicking up at him through your lashes—and something about that look, sharp and lazy all at once, makes his throat go dry.

“Yes,” he says. “God, yes.”

His voice is rough. He hovers over you so close you can smell the cologne under the sweat. He lifts the camera—click—lowers it—click—gets closer until it’s just your eyes filling the frame.

You let your head fall back over the armrest, exposing your neck, your mouth falling open just a little. Your breath hitches—the way you expose your throat like that. Bare. You knew exactly what you were doing.

“You like that, huh?” You tease, voice husky now. Your free hand slides over your stomach, thumb hooking the hem of your shirt.

He swallows. His knee shifts closer, bracing himself over your thigh. The lens clicks.

Choso lowers the camera halfway, lips parted like he’s got something he shouldn’t say. He huffs a breath, shakes his head, grinning crooked. “You’re gonna pack the whole gig tomorrow.”

You toss your hair, grinning wide, feeling the buzz of it in your chest. “Good. Maybe they’ll finally notice the drummer.”

He laughs, eyes catching yours for a beat too long. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“Sure I do.” Your lips curl, lazy and wicked. “These for the poster too?”

“Yeah. Poster.” His voice cracks into a laugh. He doesn’t move—just keeps snapping, angle after angle, the flash popping like fireworks. The camera’s lens clicks and whirrs, but half the time, you’re sure he’s not even looking through it anymore. You shift under him, arching your back to make the top ride up higher.

The other strap slip completely, falling down your arm. You don’t fix it. You look straight into the lens, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, a sheen of sweat on your collarbone. He shifts his weight, knee pressing deeper between your thighs, The shutter clicks again, but slower now—like he’s dragging this out just to watch you squirm.

Choso lowers his camera for half a second, his eyes tracing over your face. Your lips, the sliver of skin where your shirt’s ridden up. He bites the ball of his piercing, his thumb brushing the curve of your waist. Your eyes lock, and your grin turns slow, feline.

“Last one,” he murmurs. His mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smirk—but there’s heat behind it, dark and sweet. “Hold it. This one’s for me.”

The words sink into you like a match to dry paper—a sudden heat, a rush that makes you feel reckless. For him. Not the band, not the poster—him.

“Oh?” You say, your voice soft, teasing. “For you, huh?”

His hand flexes on the couch near your head. “Yeah. Just—hold that pose for me, doll.”

You tilt your head, your grin curling to match his. You feel the thrum of your pulse everywhere—your chest, your throat, between your thighs where his knee brushes so close.

“Okay,” you say sweetly. “One for you.”

And then—before you can talk yourself out of it, you slip your fingers under the hem of your shirt. The fabric brushes over your stomach, your ribs—and then higher, until it clears your chest completely. No bra—just skin, flushed and soft under the garage air.

You feel the chill hit you first—then the heat of his stare, dragging over you like a touch. You swear you hear him suck in a breath, low and sharp, the lens lowering a fraction.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. When he lifts the camera—his eyes aren't behind it anymore. They’re on you, hungry and half-lidded, mouth parted like he’s seconds from forgetting the camera exists at all.

The shutter clicks—just once. Then his free hand slides up your ribs, warm skin to skin.

“Perfect,” he says again, voice wrecked with want. “Fucking perfect.”

· · ─────── ·{ ✐ᝰ.ᐟ}· ─────── · ·

author’s note: hello lovelies it’s been a while :) professional and personal life has been a bit of a mess + very packed as you might’ve noticed in #mitskicain confessionals 📿 this is my little procrastination project before a huge exam i’ve got coming up in a week hehehehe it’s also self indulgent because i too, want to fuck the drummer 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 shoutout to him for being hot!!! until the next drop!! MUAH MUAH 💋💋

[gremlingottoosilly]

Hope you're doing alright. Just wanted to send in an ask for computer nerd!König with a smug reader who thinks it's funny to ask him "where's the sex drive" every time he fixes a PC?

Konig has half a mind just bending you over the computer desk, tying you up with some loose cords, and then fucking you like there is no tomorrow. Maybe he is slapping you with a loose ethernet connector you had hanging out of the wall ever since he fixed the wifi in your dorm room and allowed you to slump over your shittily made bed with a laptop. He does too much for a girl that won't ever let him fuck her - and yet, he can't help but desire being in your presence. Loving each second of your company, even as you just made him some overly sweet tea and ask in your sing-song voice what he wants to have for takeout. You're not dating, but he fixes your computer from time to time and that should mean something. You're not dating, but you bend over his shoulder whenever he fixes your computer and ask dumb questions. Some of them are to just rile him up - some of them just to get his attention so he'd take a look at your cleavage and give himself some jerk off material for the next week. You never thought too much of it - Konig is a nerd, and a loser, but he is a useful and quiet one. You could handle sitting on his lap and asking him about different monitors. Maybe trashing your computer with some old porn hacks that made him blush as he was cleaning it up. It wasn't surprising when he finally got enough and pushed you on your knees, making you choke on his cock while he was trying to unbrick your driver from the amount of trash you piled in it. He should have done it a while ago - your jokes are much more tolerable when muffled with his cock, and your expression is much cuter when he can force you to whimper and mumble as you come from just the feeling of his cock alone.

[msgexymunson]

Life Hack

Description: Maybe Eddie will finally get the message that you do like him when you show him a little bra life hack. 

A/N: what can I say, this was rattling in my head when I showed my partner how to undo a bra one handed and I couldn't help but think of Eddie (because he lives in my brain now and refuses to leave.) If you enjoy it please comment and reblog my sweethearts!

Warnings: NSFW, minor DNI (here there be nipples) fem slightly dom reader, Eddie is an idiot, boob play, dry humping

Masterlist 

1.5k words

You walk into Eddie's room with freshly brushed teeth, wearing a stolen t-shirt of his, the Iron Maiden one with the bleach stains that has become your favourite, and some tiny sleep shorts. Eddie's already sprawled on the bed in a pair of pyjama pants, one arm slung under his head, the other holding half a joint over the full ashtray. 

Fuck, he isn't making this easy. 

His slim toned physique, his tattoos, his happy trail. It's all making your mouth water with anticipation for something that doesn't seem possible. Try as you might to entice him, Eddie's not getting the message. You've been dying for Eddie to take the leap, to move your relationship out of the friendship zone but either he doesn't like you that way or he really is an idiot. 

One minute he's flirting, the next he's punching you on the arm and play fighting with you like you're his kid sister or something. It really makes you wonder how he lost his virginity in the first place.

"You want some of this?" 

"Huh?" You ask just a little too loudly. 

"This," he says, waving the joint at you and smirking.  

"Oh, sure, gimme- oh goddamn!" As you reach out you feel a twang and a pain digging into your side. 

"What the hell just happened?" Eddie asks, looking confused. 

"It's nothing Eds, just my bra rebelling" you laugh, wriggling uncomfortably. 

"You can, erm, take it off… you know, if it makes you more comfortable." He's blushing, you swear you see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Maybe he does like you? The thought places your heart firmly in your throat.

Reaching behind you, you expertly flick your bra open and start manoeuvring the shirt sleeves so you can take it off. Eddie's jaw may as well be on the floor, eyes bugging out like a cartoon. 

"It's undone? Just like that?" 

You laugh at the face he's pulling, until you have a light bulb moment. 

"Do you want me to teach you?" 

"What?" If Eddie's eyes could get wider, they somehow do, taking over his face like an anime character. 

"I could teach you how to do it, if you want. It's like a life hack, you know? I really don't mind." 

Eddie looks in turmoil for a minute. Maybe you crossed a line. Until you hear his response. 

"Oh, erm… OK?" 

Reaching around to clip your bra back in place, you wriggle everything in position. 

"Give me some of that first" you say, wiggling your fingers at him. He wordlessly passes the joint to you and you take a deep drag, blowing smoke upwards. It helps to calm your nerves a little. Taking another, blowing smoke, and passing it back to him, he takes it to finish it off, stubbing it out in the ashtray. He looks panicked, moving the ashtray off of the bed, clearing the bed of debris, like this was going to be some complicated mission. 

Right, it's now or never. Maybe he'll finally get the fucking hint. 

Taking a deep breath, you grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. The bra is nothing special really, just a black cotton one, tiny bow situated between your breasts. 

Eddie's mouth opens and closes at the sight, gaping like a moron at your exposed cleavage. Moving over to the bed, you straddle him, backwards. 

"Right, so if you look, it's real easy." You move one hand behind your back, pushing your thumb into the hook part, and flick the bra undone with your index finger. You're not sure if you hear a gasp or if you're just imagining it.

"See? Easy." You clip it back into position and risk a glance over your shoulder. Eddie's face is glowing scarlet. It's the only sign he's giving you, so you're willing to take it as a good one. 

"Wanna try?" 

"Yeah-" his voice starts, impossibly high pitched, until he coughs and continues, much lower, "-Sure thing." 

You feel one hand at your hip, on your exposed skin. The touch you've been craving. It shoots to your core unexpectedly, making you so grateful Eddie can't see your face right now. The other hand starts shakily fumbling with the catch until he gets it. 

"See? Simple. OK," you do it back up, and swivel around, your heat pressed against him. The feel of him underneath you has your head reeling, imagining all sorts of depraved situations, but you reign it in. 

"You wanna try from this way?" 

"Uh huh." He's responding, but his eyes are glued to your chest. 

"Eddie…?" 

Snapping his head up, he almost looks guilty. 

"Yeah, sure." 

"So, sit up a bit, reach around." You beckon him with your fingers so he pulls himself upright, face suddenly so close to yours you feel his breath on your cheek. 

"So… thumb and forefinger, yeah?" 

Eddie's eyes dart to your lips and back up. 

"Yeah." He reaches, pulling you close for a minute, forcing air out of your lungs. Maybe this was a bad idea. It's getting difficult to breathe. Trying to calm yourself, you settle for staring at Eddie's ear. 

He's fumbling, but after a while he gets it. You feel the sudden free feeling. He looks up at you with his eyes all lit up like a dog that just learned a new trick. 

"I did it!" 

"Sure did. You wanna practise again?"

"Yeah sure." 

Once again, you put it back in position. This time, Eddie barely fumbles and flicks it off in one fluid motion. 

"See? Easy! Well done!" Genuinely pleased that you actually taught the boy something, you look him in the eyes for the first time since you decided to make this risky move. 

His usually beautiful amber brown eyes are dark, dipped in desire. He's breathing heavy, large palms coming to rest on your waist. But he's still not making a move. 

Fuck it. 

"You wanna see them?" You ask, praying you're reading him right. 

"...did you just say… what I think you just did?" 

You slowly slip the straps down your arms and peel the bra off, dropping it to the side. Your nipples, happy to be finally free, perk up at the air around them. Goosebumps run over your exposed flesh. 

"Holyfuckingshit!"

It comes out in one breath. Eddie's gawking gaze darts between your naked breasts; awe, shock and panic are fighting for dominance in his eyes. 

"Eddie." 

No response. 

"Eddie!" 

"Huh?" 

You cradle his jaw with one hand and his eyes finally look at you. Unable to wait for a second longer, you press your lips against his. 

It's like a switch is finally flipped in Eddie's brain. He pushes his tongue in your mouth immediately, swiping at yours with such urgency it shocks you. His hand is pushing into the small of your back, guiding you to grind over the hard bulge in his pants. 

The other hand finds your breast, squeezing at it. His thumb runs over your nibble, flicking at the hardened nub, sending tingles through your nerves and up your spine.  

When he breaks from your kiss and starts mouthing at your neck, you tell him finally, words spilling from slick, kiss bitten lips. 

"I was wondering when you'd get the fucking message Eddie." 

You run your fingernails through his hair making him groan into your neck.

"The hell," he breathes, mouth dragging down to your chest, "didn't think you, you liked me like that." 

"You're a fucking idiot Eds, been trying to flirt with you for weeks- oh God!" 

His tongue starts running around your nipple, shocking you out of your reprimand. Moans replace words as he sucks at your nipple, making you rub against him faster. Your clit is begging for more attention and Eddie's happy to oblige, forcing you against him, hard. 

The friction is building up; body buzzing with desire all the way to the tips of your toes. Eddie's desperately tonguing at your nipple, breath whistling through his nose hotly as he's whining in his throat. 

"Eddie, fuck, I'm gonna come!" You're gripping his biceps urgently, rocking against him with all the power you have. Your warning just pushes him further, sucking at your skin and moaning with you. 

Your release flows from you in an intense flash of white light as your fingernails dig into Eddie, holding on for all your worth, chest heaving with heavy pants. 

Eddie groans just as loudly as you as your hips finally stutter to a halt. He looks like he's had a religious experience, staring at you with hearts in his eyes. 

"Eds, did you just cum-" 

"Yup," he says, popping the P loudly, looking almost proud. His grin is reaching almost from ear to ear. This version of Eddie, the idiot, the one you fell for, is in front of you again. 

"So, you do like me then?" 

"Sweetheart, I think you're incredible, I just didn't think you saw me like that." He says, hands rubbing up and down your sides. 

"You're really stupid Eddie." 

"You're probably right" He smiles, eyes glancing back down to your chest. 

"So, do I get to see the rest?" 

No real tag list, just adding some likely people ;)

@lunatictardis @lightvixxen @roanniom @eddiemunsons-missingnipple @eddiesprincess86 @munson-blurbs @wroteclassicaly @loveshotzz

[sserasin]

thinking abt toxic ex bf!yeonjun….

toxic ex!yeonjun

cw nsfw under cut, noncon, dubcon, female reader, jealousy, degrading names, brief mention of revenge porn, manipulation, dacryphilia, fingering (reader receiving)

toxic ex!yeonjun is so much worse than a toxic fwb!yeonjun cause he’s already had a taste of you, and he’s quite literally obsessed.

ex!yeonjun who can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else, and he knows he should let it go. but he loves you too damn much.

ex!yeonjun who gets pissed and jealous no matter who you’re talking to. it could be your best friend for years and he’d send you a stupid ass text talking about how you were moving on too fast, that you were a dirty whore who was good for nothing other than being a cumdump.

ex!yeonjun who retaliates by sending the nudes you sent him to his friends, his teammates, spreading them across school. it lowers your reputation and thus, getting rid of a lot of competition for him. but then he ends up regretting it because now his teammates are talking about how hot your body is and how easy it would be to fuck you.

ex!yeonjun ex!yeonjun was a perfect boyfriend, and he’s an even better manipulator. he lies and tells you that his icloud was hacked. and you, so desperate to cling to anyone you have left, stupidly believe him.

ex!yeonjun who soothes your cries, holding you in his arms and wipes your tears away. but he’s always had a thing for making you cry, and even out of sex, you’re just so goddamn beautiful crying— he can’t help that his cock hardens at the sight of the tears.

ex!yeonjun who whispers promises of making you feel better, showing you that you don’t deserve those scum sending you anonymous hate messages, as his lips trail down your neck and to your cleavage.

ex!yeonjun sneaks a hand in your pants, collecting your juices with his fingers before mercilessly pushing two of his fingers on, muffling your gasp with his mouth. “just, be a good girl for me,” yeonjun murmurs. the painful intrusion of his fingers lessen as he quickly finds your g-spot, ramming his fingers into the spot and curling them.

ex!yeonjun whose lips curl into a brief wicked smile as he watches you pant from your orgasm, licking his fingers clean. your fingers curl around his wrist, stopping him from moving (as if he was going to) and look up at him with wet eyelashes and pretty eyes, “i want more.”

ex!yeonjun who pushes you down on your bed, pulling your pants off fully, saying, “yeah? you always just want more and more, huh?” his words don’t exactly make sense, but your brain is too fogged over with sex, sex, and sex that you don’t care. you just want whatever he can give you. “i’ll give you what you want,” he only pulls his cock out, sliding it through your folds teasingly.

ex!yeonjun who grins when you beg, raising a hand to your neck to hold you there, “say you love me.” you blink, saying it without hesitation. “good girl,” he presses all of himself in you, cutting off your moan. he hisses, “fu—fuck, you’re such a good— hole. always so tight for me.”

ex!yeonjun who demands to know who else you’ve fucked or had any bit of a situationship with while you were broken up in the middle of sex. “what was his na— fuck, name?” “how far did you go?” and when you question him, “because it fuckin’ matters. tell me.” only gives you an orgasm when you agree to block the person, and definitely watches you block them after you’ve finished.

ex!yeonjun who doesn’t stop there, isolating you from your remaining friends and family. tells you lies about them, that they’ve been talking about you behind your back. convinces you not to confront them and simply block and ignore. they don’t deserve your time. somehow always leads up to sex, or he’s saying that shit during sex ‘cause he knows that’s when you’re most compliant— split on his cock.

ex!yeonjun will probably never reveal his true colors until you somehow find out— but he won’t let that happen. he’s got you wrapped around his finger, with no one to turn to.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Stuck On You

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Dark themes, slut shaming, obsessive behaviour, smut.

Word count: ~6k

Summary: When her email is hacked and racy photos she'd sent to her boyfriend find their way onto Myspace, she becomes the social pariah of Oxford University. She turns to the only person she believes is intelligent enough to be able to help; Michael Gavey. Could uncovering the truth of the situation make things worse than they already are?

Author's note: Written to celebrate one year of my blog existing. Sorry for the delay. Crumbageddon beat the shit out of me. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

“Using a painting of that former duchess as a conversation piece, he describes what he saw as her unfaithfulness, frivolity, and stubbornness, and implies that he prefers her as a painting rather than as a…as a living woman,” her voice shakes, stumbling over her words, watching as her essay papers slip from her hands, fluttering towards the rug of the study.

“Sh-shit…I’m sorry,” she stammers, leaning down to snatch them back up, feeling her skin heat up with embarrassment as she attempts to rustle them back into order.

“Everything alright?” Professor Ware asks, shifting in his seat and clasping his hands in his lap.

“Distracted by her own portrait, I should imagine,” snarks Farleigh, cutting her off before she has a chance to reply. 

He smirks up at her, before returning his focus to the screen of his Macbook, fingers tapping quickly across the keys as he sits on the floor with it in his lap, leaning back against the armchair she currently sits in, his legs crossed at the ankle.

Of course he’d left it until the last minute to do his essay. Lazy prick.

“Stop it,” she hisses, knocking his shoulder with her knee.

“Why? It’s up again already anyway,” he retorts with a casual shrug, not bothering to look at her this time.

Her blood runs ice cold, dread gnawing a pit in her stomach. That would be the fourth time this week.

“Where?!” She demands, leaning down to snatch Farleigh’s Macbook from him, ignoring his protestation of “hey!” as she clicks on the minimised Internet Explorer window to see her Myspace profile already open.

Just as he’d said, there she is. Her profile picture depicts her in a lacy two piece lingerie set, laying on her bed, her cleavage, stomach and thighs on full display. She’d thought the angle flattering when she’d first held the digital camera above herself and snapped the picture, but now it’s splashed all over the internet for everyone to see. It makes her feel sick.

“I have to go,” she says hurriedly, shoving Farleigh’s Macbook back into his lap and stuffing her essay papers into her bag.

She almost trips over Farleigh’s long legs in her rush to escape the tutorial room, the air suddenly feeling too thick and difficult to breathe, as her heart hammers in her chest. Her feet carry her down the hallway in quick strides, no particular direction in mind, just eager to get away.

It had all seemed like innocent fun at first. She had felt excited on the second day of Fresher’s Week when a group of girls from the floor of her accommodation had invited her to go shopping with them

They had wrinkled their noses as she had beelined for the Ann Summers in Westgate Shopping Centre, lured by the big, red sale banner in the window.

“Oh darling,” India had cooed, “don’t buy that rubbish. We’ll get the train into London and take you to Rigby and Peller in Mayfair, if it’s lingerie you’re after.”

She had balked inwardly at the thought of how expensive that would be, but had simply smiled politely, stating “this is fine”, more than happy with the matching black lace set she’d picked from the sale rail.

Back in her room, she’d tried it on, loving the way the material hugged her curves and felt against her skin. Excitedly, she’d dug out her digital camera, contorting herself into various poses that she felt best displayed her assets, until she was satisfied she had several that looked good.

She hadn’t seen her boyfriend, Jake, since she had left for Oxford and he had gone to Brighton. Their reading weeks didn’t align, which meant they’d have to wait until the term came to an end to see each other at Christmas.

Emailing him the photos had felt like a nice way for them to maintain some sort of intimacy, despite the distance, and he’d certainly appreciated it, as a couple of hours later she’d gotten a text from him which simply said “wow!”

The high from that had left her with a smile on her face for days, until she’d stepped out of a tutorial a few days later to see a missed call and a text from him.

“What the fuck are you playing at?!” It had read.

She’d called him back straight away, the urge to vomit growing acrid in her throat as he’d told her what he’d seen, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder, she’d scrambled with shaking hands to free her laptop from her bag, to confirm what Jake was saying.

There it was. Her Myspace profile picture had been changed to one of the lingerie photos she’d sent to him. This one was a full length photo she’d taken, aiming the camera at the mirror in her room.

The hot prickle of tears had burned beneath her eyelids, as she’d drawn in a shaky breath. “Wh-why would you do that?” She’d whispered tearfully into the phone.

“It wasn’t me!” Jake had snapped angrily. “Perhaps if you hadn't taken those bloody photos in the first place then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Are you seriously blaming me?!”

“It just looks bad. I think maybe we should cool things for a bit, I can’t with be someone that—”

Tears had rolled down her cheeks as she’d pulled the phone away from her ear, seeing the call had cut off. She’d run out of credit. In a way, she was grateful; she didn’t want to listen to Jake ending their relationship, to continue to blame her for something that wasn’t her fault.

She had taken the photo down, changed her profile picture back to what it was before, and changed the password for both Myspace and her email. However, the damage was done, the whispers of “slut” as she walked to lectures had already started.

Another two days later she had entered the IT lab to print out her essay, and saw a group huddled around a computer, laughing together. They had turned, immediately quietening down, their voices hushed whispers as they looked at her. 

She had pushed them apart, already knowing what it was they were all looking at, but wanting to confirm it. Just as she’d suspected, her Myspace profile was open. This time her photo had been changed to an over the shoulder shot. The side of her face and her buttocks visible as she’d arched her back.

Running back to her room, tears of humiliation blurring her vision, she’d taken the photo down again and changed all her passwords. But once again, it was too little, too late. A print out of the photo slipped beneath her door that same day, with the word “whore” scrawled across it.

Her friends were already starting to pull away, the invites to the pub had dried up into nothing. When another photo had been uploaded, Felix had pulled her to one side.

“Look, I think it’s incredibly daring of you to be doing what you’re doing, and I respect the fuck out of you for it, really I do,” he’d said, eyes filled with sympathy as he’d looked down at her. “But a few of us really aren’t comfortable with how you’re going about…getting attention, so I just think it’s for the best if we take some space until you’ve figured out whatever this is.”

She had been stunned by his words, her eyes going wide as her mouth had dropped open. “You think I’m doing this to myself?!”

“Well, what else are we supposed to think? We’re worried about you. There are better…healthier ways to make yourself stand out. Just come clean and all of this can stop.”

Turning away in disgust, anger and betrayal flaring white hot in her chest, she’d walked away. This was happening to her, she wasn’t complicit in it, and yet people continued to act like it was her fault. She had started to wonder if she really was to blame. Had she tempted fate by taking those photos in the first place?

Today was the fourth time a photo had been uploaded and having fled from the tutorial with Professor Ware and Farleigh, she finds herself in the Bodleian Library, having walked on instinct. 

It serves as a quiet refuge for her in moments when she feels overwhelmed, hiding among the shelves, admiring tomes that are older than she is. She’d come here on her first day, when the influx of new people, sights and sounds had become too much, and she had crouched between the stacks the first time one of her photos had been leaked. The smell of old books and the peace and quiet feels safe.

Walking silently between the study tables she spots him, alone, as he always is; Michael Gavey. He is hunched over a notebook, scribbling furious notes, stopping occasionally to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.

She had thoroughly embarrassed herself the first time she’d met him, the only time she had ever spoken to him. It had been the night of the fresher’s welcome dinner. She’d heard his outburst in the dining hall, heard how he had answered the subsequent multiplication sum flawlessly and been bowled over by how effortlessly brilliant he was. It was intimidating.

Yet, later that evening fuelled by the courage of five tropical watermelon flavoured Bacardi Breezers, she’d stumbled over to him in the rec room, ignoring how he’d recoiled slightly at her advancing towards him.

She’d wrapped an arm around his neck, taking no notice of the way he’d stiffened beneath her touch.

“Wha’s nine hundred and ninety nine divided by thirteen?” She’d slurred into his ear.

He had bristled slightly, before answering quietly. “Seventy six point eight five.”

She had giggled, patting his cheek, knocking his glasses askew. “Don’t even know how to check that, but I’ll take your word for it, genius.” 

Kissing his cheek, she’d stumbled away, leaving him to wipe away the sticky residue her lips had left behind, while Felix and Farleigh had fallen about themselves, laughing, finding it far funnier than she’d intended for it to be. She had ended up making him a laughing stock without even meaning to.

The memory fills her with shame. She really did find him impressive. He was precisely the type of person she had wanted to rub shoulders with when she arrived at Oxford, yet she had made a fool of herself instead.

She smiled at him whenever she caught his eye on the rare occasions they crossed paths, but he’d either look away or stare at her expressionless.

Perhaps now was her opportunity to make amends. She has no friends now anyway, so it’s not as though she has anything to lose.

Walking over to his table, before she has a chance to talk herself out of it, she sits down heavily in the seat next to him, depositing her bag onto the tabletop.

Michael’s pen pauses its movements, and slowly his head turns to the side, narrowing his eyes at her in silent question.

She suddenly has the urge to run, realising this was a terrible idea. She feels enormous discomfort beneath the scrutiny of his gaze yet, determined to push through it, she offers him a bright smile.

“You’re Michael, aren’t you?” She says, attempting to sound more cheerful than she feels.

“Yes,” he replies simply, placing his pen down and straightening in his seat.

“Thought so. I’m–”

“I know who you are,” he cuts her off. “What do you want?”

“Oh,” she swallows, shifting awkwardly in her seat. She hadn’t anticipated him being quite so blunt. “Well, I wanted to apologise for how I behaved on the first night. I thought maybe we could be friends?”

He scoffs, the corners of his mouth turning up into the faintest of smirks. “As if I’d be friends with someone who’s reading literature. Why pay all that money in tuition fees for a glorified book club?”

For a moment she doesn’t know what to say. Shock, offense and hurt swirl in a hot mixture in her chest. She fights the embarrassing urge to burst into tears. Her voice is small and weak when she finally asks “How do you know what I’m studying?”

Michael nods towards the desk. “There’s a book of Robert Browning poetry sticking out of your bag.”

“Right, yeah…” She feels her skin heat up, turning to slowly tuck the book further down inside, still able to feel his eyes upon her. It’s disconcerting to be observed so closely.

“Where’s that group of losers you usually hang around with anyway?”

The question takes her by surprise, and she laughs softly, though there is no real humour to it. “I don’t think they want to hang around with me anymore.”

“So you’re a Norman no mates too then?”

His expression has softened, a slight playfulness brightens his blue eyes as she looks back at him, and she can’t help but smile. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin up on his hand. “Hmmm. So they got bored of you then?”

“No…I–”

She sighs exasperatedly, running a hand through her hair, before digging through her bag to pull out her laptop. “It’s probably easier if I show you.”

Setting the laptop down on the table, she loads her Myspace page, the same picture she’d seen on Farleigh’s Macbook earlier still set as her profile photo. “Someone keeps changing my profile picture to this. I sent my boyfriend…ex-boyfriend…some photos and now someone has them and keeps doing this every time I change it back.”

Michael’s expression is impassive as he stares at the screen. “Have you changed your passwords?”

“Yes,” she sighs.

“So, you’ve been hacked.”

“Looks that way…I don’t suppose you know anything about computers? Maybe you could help me figure out who’s doing this?”

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, staring intently at her, “so there it is, pretending to befriend the college nerd because you need computer help. Do you not think it’s a bit of a tired stereotype to assume that because I’m reading maths I’d be able to help you with your IT issues?”

“No, it’s not like that!” She protests, her eyes welling up with tears. She turns away, defeated, deciding this is a lost cause and closes her laptop. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone.”

He sighs. “Well, there’s no need to cry about it. I can help you, just not right now. Are you free later this evening?”

She sniffles, her eyes going wide as she looks at him in surprise. “Really?”

He nods, closing his notebook and slipping his pen into his breast pocket. “I’ve got a tutorial in twenty minutes, but I can help trace the IP of whoever’s hacked you. I’m on the first floor of the Brasenose, second room left of the staircase. I’ll be back around five.”

Nodding, she immediately feels lighter, the possibility that this may finally come to an end instantly lifting her spirits. A chance to get her life back. “That’s perfect, I’ll see you then. Thank you so much.”

He rises, his gaze remaining fixed upon her. “See you later.” 

The way he addresses her, first and last name, sends a shiver down her spine as she watches him turn away and walk slowly out of the library. She wonders what she has gotten herself into, but with no friends and no other options there is little else to be done.

She is filled with restless energy for the rest of the day, unable to sit still or concentrate during the only other lecture she has that afternoon, until eventually she finds herself standing outside of Michael’s room at quarter past five, the hours leading up to that feeling as though they’ve lasted an eternity.

Where there is the faint sound of music or talking coming from the doors she’s passed already on her way here, she is struck by the eerie silence she is met with from his, and wonders for a moment if he’s even home.

Nervous excitement crackles like electricity through her body and her knock is louder than she intends for it to be. She hears shuffling from the other side, until the door swings slowly open. Michael stands poker straight on the threshold, staring down at her.

“Did you bring your laptop?” He asks.

Yet again she is taken aback by how forthright he is, but she nods, stepping in as he moves to the side to let her pass.

Looking around the room, she takes in the plainness of his bedspread, the shelves of mathematics and physics textbooks, the desk set up in the corner that has his laptop open on it. There is nothing that gives even the slightest indication as to who he is as a person.

The sound of him clearing his throat startles her attention back to him, and she turns with an apologetic smile to face him. “Sorry, always weird being in someone else’s room…”

“Right,” he replies, his gaze unwavering as he looks at her. “Laptop?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” embarrassment heats up her skin, as she rummages in her bag, taking it out and handing it to him.

He settles it next to his own on the desk, before taking a seat.

She stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking around, not quite knowing what to do with herself. “Um…where should I…?”

“Anywhere,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, not looking at her.

She settles on the edge of the bed, running her hands over the soft cotton of the duvet cover. It’s an odd sensation to sit so casually in the space that she knows he sleeps. It feels too familiar, too intimate.

Glancing to the side, she notices the shimmer of gold and purple in the bin. She smiles to herself, having learned something about him in spite of the lack of personal effects in his room. He has a sweet tooth, evidenced by the Crunchie bar wrappers in the bin.

“Password?” He asks, and her head snaps up towards him.

“Hmm?”

He turns in his chair, resting his arm on the back of it, glaring at her over his shoulder. “The password for your laptop, what is it?”

“Oh!” She exclaims. “Is it safe for me to tell you that?”

“It is if you want me to help you,” he sighs.

She squirms uncomfortably. He has the innate ability to make her feel small, foolish, but what’s most disconcerting is that she doesn’t dislike it, there is something about him that draws her to his condescension. 

“It’s Shakespeare,” she tells him sheepishly, “with a four in place of the first A.”

“What about the passwords for your email and Myspace accounts?”

“The same.”

“The same?!”

“I’ve changed the passwords each time a new photo has been posted, but it’s just easier to have the same one for everything.”

He groans, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “No wonder you’ve been hacked, typical fucking liberal arts student.”

She lowers her gaze, fingers plucking nervously at the bedspread. “Different passwords for every account, got it.”

“Well, that’s a start, yes,” he tells her, turning back to the screens. “Has anyone but you had access to your computer?”

“No, it stays in my bag when I’m not using it.”

She sits watching him tap away at the keyboards of both laptops alternately for a few moments before she speaks again. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she tells him, her voice sounding meeker than she means for it to. “English Language and Literature is no less of a respectable course than Mathematics. I wrote an essay on the Robert Browning poem, My Last Duchess, recently. It’s a fascinating piece, focusing on the Duke of Ferrara using a painting of his former wife as a conversation topic. The Duke speaks about his former wife's perceived inadequacies to a representative of the family of his bride-to-be, revealing his obsession with controlling others in the process. Browning uses this compelling psychological portrait of a despicable character to critique the objectification of women and abuses of power. It’s a compelling commentary on social status and elitism.”

“What would you know about either of those things?” He asks, continuing to type.

“More than I’d like to,” she says quietly, “I don’t fit in here, not really. I earned my place with a scholarship.”

He pauses, stiffening, glancing over his shoulder at her with a “hmm”.

“I’ve managed to get into the access logs for both your email and Myspace accounts,” he tells her. “There are two sets of IPs that have accessed both accounts in the last week, but both are eduroam IP addresses.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that whoever is uploading those photos is doing so from the university.”

The revelation hits her like a punch to the gut, she feels paralysed, unable to speak as his words sink in. A part of her had wanted to believe it was Jake. To think there is someone at the university who is doing this to her makes her feel nauseated. Her mind races with the possibilities of who it could be. Felix? India? Farleigh? What reason could any of them possibly have to want to do that to her?

“What should I do?” She asks worriedly, staring at Michael with her brows pinched together. “Do you think reporting it would help?”

He swivels his chair fully around to face her and shakes his head. “Not if you intend to keep your scholarship. Rocking the boat over leaked nudes won’t look good to the university board, they’ll take issue with the fact that you even took those photos in the first place.”

“So I just have to let this keep happening?” She feels her throat tighten, wetness rims her eyes.

“Change your passwords,” he says matter of factly. “A different one for every account.”

She nods, expelling a shaky breath, before standing. “I should probably get going. Thank you…for everything.”

Before she goes to bed that night, she changes her passwords - a different one for every account she owns, and deletes the newest uploaded photo, returning her profile picture to its original state.

As far as she is concerned, that should be the end of it. However, her breath hitches, icy cold fingers of fear gripping her heart when she logs on the following morning. Not only has her profile picture been changed to another photo from the set she’d taken for Jake, but the “about me” section now reads “vapid cunt”.

On autopilot, she dresses, taking her laptop and walking the six minutes from Christ Church Halls to Brasenose College.

As soon as Michael’s door opens, she flings her arms around his neck, sobbing into his chest. He stiffens, not returning the gesture, until she finally pulls away.

He straighens, adjusting his glasses. His hair is rumpled from sleep, clad in a t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms.

“God, I’m so sorry, I woke you up,” she says tearfully, “I should go. I didn’t think, I just–”

“It’s fine,” he says flatly, ushering her in.

She sits down on the bed. It’s unmade, still warm from where he’s been sleeping in it. The feeling sends a shiver down her spine, despite her emotional distress.

Gingerly he sits next to her, keeping a respectable distance as she removes her laptop from her bag and opens it. “It’s happened again. I did everything you said to do, but it’s happened again, and it’s worse this time. Look–”

Handing him the laptop she shuffles closer to him, her thigh pressed against his. She can feel the warmth of him through her leggings. It causes butterflies to flutter in her belly, it’s been so long since she’s been this close to anyone.

Michael doesn’t stiffen at her touch this time, whether it’s because he doesn’t mind it or is too distracted by what he sees on the screen, she’s unsure, but it’s progress.

“Hmm. And you’re sure you changed your passwords?”

“Yes, all of them. I don’t know what else to do. If I report it, I risk my scholarship, but if this carries on I’ll lose it anyway, because how can I concentrate when this keeps happening?”

He says nothing, closing her laptop and passing it back to her.

“I’ve worked my arse off to get here, to earn my place, this can’t be what ends it,” she says miserably, tucking her computer back into her bag.

“I’d suggest focusing on your studies and less on your peers,” Michael says matter of factly. “You haven’t made the best choice of friends since arriving here.”

“They’re not my friends,” she whispers, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “At least not anymore. Do you think it’s one of them doing this?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” he replies bitterly, “stay away from them. I’ve got a lecture this morning, but maybe when I’ve got some downtime, I can do a deeper dive, perhaps see if I can track the logins to a device type.”

“You’d do that for me?” She whispers, looking at him with eyes full of appreciation.

“That’s what mates are for, right?”

“Thank you…just…thank you,” she tells him with sincerity, holding his gaze.

She reaches for his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, desperate to kiss his cheek as a gesture of her gratitude, but remembers the first time she’d done it and cringes inwardly. Though Michael’s hand doesn’t clutch back, he doesn’t move it away and, after a few moments, she realises they’re simply sitting holding hands, looking into each other's eyes.

He is beautiful in his own way. His stare, though intimidating, is piercingly blue, and his lips are soft and plump. She swallows, lashes fluttering in embarrassment when she realises she’s staring at his mouth.

Chancing her luck, she leans in, planting a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. “I’ll be back at lunchtime, okay?” She whispers, before standing and moving towards the door.

He simply nods, fingers raising to brush over the spot where she’d kissed him. The sight puts a spring in her step for the rest of the morning, almost enough to forget about her being hacked. Almost.

She stops at a vending machine in the rec room on her way back to Brasenose at midday, deciding to buy Michael a Crunchie, an additional thank you for him going out of his way to help her.

As awful as having her privacy violated has been, she is grateful that it has brought her and Michael closer together. She had started the term wanting nothing more than to be his friend, and had royally fucked it up.

Now it seems they have mended their rift, and the prospect of being more than just friends is on the cards. Admittedly, he isn’t her usual type, but there is something about him that excites her. She hopes that once this is all over, this can be a fresh start for her at Oxford; her and Michael, just the caliber of intelligence she had wanted to associate with when she’d first applied.

She knocks at his door, hesitating when he doesn’t open it.

“Michael?” She calls out, brow furrowing in concern when he doesn’t answer.

They’d agreed upon lunchtime to meet, where was he? She tries the door handle and it’s unlocked, gingerly she pushes it open, peering slowly inside. He’s not there, but if he’d left it unlocked then he’d surely be back soon and wouldn’t mind her waiting inside for him.

She steps into the room, finding it much the same as before, only this time the bed is made. Walking over to the window by the desk, she stops to admire the view of the church, startling slightly when her bag knocks the computer chair, disturbing the mouse and taking Michael’s laptop out of sleep.

As she is about to turn back to the window, she notices her Myspace profile is open in edit mode in his browser. She frowns, a feeling of unease washing over her, as she steps towards the desk, her hand trembling as she reaches for the mouse.

She minimises Internet Explorer, gasping when she sees a folder open on his desktop, filled with the photos she had sent to Jake, all of them, even the ones that hadn’t yet been set as her profile picture.

Her heart pounds as she selects all of them, deleting them before clicking on the recycling bin to empty it.

“You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to not create back ups, did you?”

Turning, she sees that Michael has returned, so quietly she hadn’t noticed. His fingers clutch at the USB stick that’s clipped to his cargo shorts, lips turned up into an expression of smugness.

Tears prickle her eyes, as her heart lurches, the only word that escapes her is “why?” as she looks at him with arched brows, her face pinched into an expression of emotional hurt.

“Why?” He repeats, cocking his head, advancing towards her as she shrinks back into the corner. “Because someone needed to take you down a peg or two.”

“You’ve ruined my life!” She cries, tears slipping down her cheeks, looking at him in disbelief.

This has to be a dream, it is too surreal. Any moment now, she’ll wake up and all of this will have been a terrible dream.

Only it’s not, it’s real, real as the heat of his breath that fans across her face as he looms over her, having backed her fully into the corner between the desk and the window. 

“What life? Pretending to play a part with people that don’t really like you? Using your pretentious choice in reading material to make yourself seem intelligent?”

“You don’t know anything about me!” She says defiantly.

“Oh, I know all about you. Hiding your scholarship from those vapid cunts, so they won’t sniff out your working class background and drop you. The variations of John Browning as your password - adding a different number to each variation doesn’t make it a different password, stupid girl.”

“I was nice to you…” She offers feebly, almost pleading with him.

He smirks, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, gripping harshly, forcing her to look at him. “You felt sorry for me. But it’s not me that needs pity, is it? It’s you. Poor little scholarship slut. You love that My Last Duchess poem so much because you see yourself in it, don’t you? Think you’re being objectified, treated unfairly. Well, let me tell you something, you are like that poem, but in the sense that you’re better in pictures than you are in real life.”

“Stop it,” she whispers, trying to pull away from him.

“Truth hurt, does it?” He asks, his grip on her face remaining tight. “That’s a pity. I enjoyed those pictures, really enjoyed them. It’s a shame the real life version is so whiny and pathetic.”

“I’ll report you,” she says quietly.

“Oh, I don’t think you will, somehow. You love the attention,” he tells her, dropping his hand from her chin to her shoulder, turning her and backing her up towards the bed. “I’ve seen how you look at me. If I wanted to fuck you right now, you’d let me.”

“I–I wouldn’t!” She stammers, feeling her face grow warm.

With a gentle shove from him, she topples back against the mattress, and he is quick to move over her, caging her in. “Liar,” he whispers in her ear.

She shudders at the sensation, despising the way her body betrays her, as heat pools between her legs. She shouldn’t be turned on by this, yet she can’t deny the way he sets her pulse racing.

“I haven’t ruined your life, but I could and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He hisses.

The weight of him on top of her, his warm breath fanning against her neck, it’s dizzying. She wants to tell him to get off of her, to push him away, yet she cannot find it in herself to do so. There is a part of her that’s curious to see how far he’ll push this.

When she doesn’t say anything, he carries on, nimble fingers moving to the waistband of her leggings, tugging them down. “I’m going to treat you like the desperate, little slut that you are, and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

She whines, lifting her hips as he rids her of the bottom half of her clothing.

“That’s what I thought,” he smirks.

His gaze falls between her legs, tentative fingers reaching out to brush through the wetness that has gathered there. She sees a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and wonders if he has ever done this before.

She knows his moment of hesitation would be enough for her to push him away, grab her clothes and report him, yet she feels compelled to stay. If this is his first time, then she wants it to be her. She enjoys the dynamic of the power he has over her, while simultaneously being able to take something from him.

Wanting to bolster his confidence, urge him to continue, she sits up, eager hands unfastening his belt and unzipping his shorts. It flips a switch inside him, and he’s surging forward once more, pinning her beneath him as he pushes his boxers down just enough to free his cock.

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps against the shell of her ear.

“I want this,” she mewls desperately, feeling the head of him resting at her entrance.

“You’re going to keep letting me do this to you, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll wear that tarty underwear from your photos for me, won’t you?”

“...yes.”

He presses forward and is met with resistance, not having fully prepared her. He draws back and pushes against her again, repeating the motion until he’s fully sheathed inside of her. It’s exquisite torture, a pleasurable hurt to be split apart by him, to feel so full.

Breathing heavily through his nose, he stills and she can feel his inexperience in the way that he tenses, but isn’t prepared to give up when they’ve already come this far. She rolls her hips against his, a breathy sigh escaping her as she feels her sweet spot rub up against the head of him.

He screws his eyes shut, jaw going slack, before beginning to move his own hips, pulling back to slam forward once more, quickly finding a rhythm that suits him. This isn’t careful, considered lovemaking, they rut against each other like animals, both of them allowing instinct to guide them as they seek out the movements that feel most pleasurable.

She clings tightly to him, meeting him thrust for thrust, their breaths coming in hot, shallow pants.

“Fucking knew this was all you needed,” he mutters, “someone to teach you a lesson, see you for what you really are.”

“Please,” she whimpers, her hands sliding down to his backside to push him in deeper, causing him to groan.

“F–fuck,” he stutters, picking up his pace when he feels her start to tighten around him. “Tell me you’re mine, you don’t need anyone else, just me.”

“‘M yours,” she gasps, pushing her hips against his, zeroing in on the precipice she is about to fall from.

A particularly harsh thrust is the final shove she needs, and white hot waves of euphoria wrack her body, as she cries out in ecstasy. Suddenly, Michael is withdrawing, leaving her to clench around nothing as he paints her inner thigh with sticky warmth.

He collapses beside her, and she stares into the lightly fogged lenses of his glasses, their noses bumping together.

“Are you still going to ruin my life?” She asks, hazy with pleasure.

For the first time, their lips meet, a messy clash of tongue and teeth, that’s sloppy and wet, their breaths still heavy and movements uncontrolled. 

“You’re going to let me,” he whispers when they finally break for air, “because you’re mine.” Resistance is futile, she will let him. She wants this, needs this. After all, Michael Gavey is the type of person she came to Oxford to associate with in the first place, and she’s gotten exactly what she asked for.

Part two || Series masterlist

[redvexillum]

CHAPTER ONE

A/N: I didn't anticipate writing a Vox x Reader story (much less a raunchy, BDSM theme smut). But, I needed to get this idea out of my head so I can focus on my request and my other stories. So, here we are. Also, I've noticed there is a distressingly low number of PURE Vox x Reader stories, so I wanted to contribute to the database.

Though, I apologize if my version of Vox is lacking in any way. I have made many creative liberties with my head canon version of him.

Inspired by this post/conversation with the lovely miss @redfoxwritesstuff

07.09.24 - Now that I know where I'm going with this story, I have changed the title from [Short Fuse] to Signal.

SUMMARY: You royally pissed someone off because you were receiving anonymous hate emails for the past fifteen years. How incredibly petty and...entertaining. At first, you decided to ignore them but as their hate comments got increasingly creative, the more you couldn't help but add oil to the burning, passionate flame of their hatred towards you.

Until one day, the mysterious anonymous hater (probably) accidentally revealed themselves to be the one and only TV demon, an Overlord and CEO of everything technological and modern.

WARNING/TAGS: f!reader, toxic relationship, enemies to f*ck buddies to something indescribable, dom/sub undertone, sub!Vox, dom!reader, reader is a responsible dom, Vox takes a lot of L's but he secretly enjoys it, dual POV, Vox tries to be hip but ends up being a boomer, Reader is sexually liberal and confident, Vox is the brattiest sub you will ever find, kind of fluff if your squint

“Hello, my Sexy Peeps! How are you doing on this hellish day?” A melodious burst of laughter chimed from Vox’s phone. He took a dramatic sip from his coffee, savouring the rich, dark brew, and settled into his plush armchair, preparing to lose himself in her latest video.  

“Today, I thought I’d mix things up a bit due to a very popular request!” She continued and leaned forward in front of the camera, giving Vox a generous view of her cleavage. He approved her outfit choice for today, a tight-fitting cyan blue tank top with a plunging v-neckline.  

But aside from her attire, he was interested by her supposedly “new” content. He didn’t know she took requests from her viewers. Intrigued, he arched an eyebrow, setting his cup down on the side table and leaning his face closer to his phone.  

The newest online sensation on VoxTube was about to begin. This girl had seemingly materialized out of nowhere, drawing tens of thousands of views and subscribers to her channel. Her retention rates were astoundingly high for content so banal and ordinary. Initially, Vox had suspected his network had been hacked.  

He still couldn’t quite grasp how in seven layers of Hell she had managed to manipulate the algorithm with her simple videos. All she did was try the newest foods around the Pentagram and review random merchandise in a phenomenon called “unboxing.” 

His gaze inevitably wandered to the deep trench of cleavage she prominently displayed. He scoffed. He’d seen better. After all, his partner controlled the porn industry in Hell.  

Yet, that didn’t stop him from pausing her video sometimes, openly staring at her chest for a few seconds… or minutes…or maybe he may have saved a couple (several) screenshots of her video and her photos from her Sinstagram account. Perhaps he might have even saved some of her more salacious-looking photos on his internal hard drive for private viewing. 

All for research, of course.  

“Now, I know there’s this series – the longest-running series in all of Hell…” she trailed off, her plump, pretty lips curling into a mischievous smirk.  

Vox straightened in his chair, feeling the first flutter of excitement in his chest. Could it be? Was she going to mention his most prized project, “Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?!” for free?  

Excitement surged within him, a giddy thrill that this lame, greenhorn, no-name nobody was about to mention his series to her 2.5 million (and growing) viewers.  

“Guys, guys, guys,” she laughed, raising her perfectly manicured hands in the air as if in surrender. “I watched the first season and wow–” 

Vox pressed his thighs together, waiting with bated breath for what he hoped would be a glowing review. Perhaps he should contact her, reach out, sponsor her like all the tiny, insignificant, worthless, businesses were doing.  

“I gotta tell you,” She shrugged, raised her immaculate trimmed brow, and with a hearty guffaw, said, “it’s pretty mid.” 

Disbelief washed over him as he stared at the screen. Instinctively, Vox paused the video, staring at the freeze-frame image of her with a large smile dancing across her lips.  

Mid? Mid? What the fuck did mid even mean? 

Scrutinizing the word in his mind, he thought maybe she had given his series an average score. Average. He could work with average. But judging from the comments filled with those annoying crying laughing emojis and agreement that it was bad, he realized it was another piece of slang from this decade that he somehow missed.  

Power surged through his head as his mind dove into the database, and he opened his trusty Urban Hell Dictionary. 

The definition of Mid was… 

Below average. 

Not good. 

Mediocre.  

Boring.  

“WHHHHAT?” He roared, his voice glitching in between the long-drawn-out word. Springing up from his chair, he picked up his mug before hurling it against the polished floor. It shattered into a cascade of jagged pieces, their sharp lines reminiscent of crooked, mocking smiles. The hot coffee splashed onto the hem of his pants, its sudden heat mirroring the fury rising within him.  

Memories surged through him, back to when he was alive, back when they cancelled him for not being innovative enough, for not being entertaining enough, for being… 

Being…. 

Boring.  

His eyes twitched, electricity crackled and jolted up in arcs across the surface of his head before fizzling out at the points of the antennas from his hat.  

He should kill her. Get Val to make her disappear or force her into working at his porn studio. How dare she call the fruits of his labour…b-bo-… He seethed, unable to even say the damn, blasted word.  

Vox thought of a thousand ways to torment her, relishing the idea of making her cry with her below-average, not good, mediocre, BORING looking face. Anger surged, boiled, in his veins, and he did what he knew was the best course of action when faced with this unprecedented insult.  

After all, with VoxTek, he had an image to keep of being on the side of the lowly Sinners. He chuckled, forced, but chuckled, nonetheless. It would smear his good image to go after some small, nobody of a Sinner. After all, he was an Overlord and the CEO of the largest corporation in all the five fucking points of the Pentagram.  

She was going to get so cancelled.  

That he would make sure of.  

Humming a random, jaunty little tune, you shut off the ring light and closed your laptop. Stretching your back, you sighed in satisfaction as your bones gave a gratifying crack. You giggled at some comments from your review of the popular series, “Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?!”  

There were passionate defences claiming the series was a work of art, which was far-reaching at best. It was mildly entertaining enough to watch while you painted your nails. Seriously, the show looked like it was produced for the audience in the 1950s.  

You were the first influencer to give a poor rating to the TV series, and being first meant more controversy, more views, and more money from sponsorships as you rose to the trending list once again.  

Damn, gaming the system was the best. Truly, Hell was way behind its time compared to what people did for views back when you were alive.  

Following your routine, you washed away the makeup, changed from your tight-fitting clothes into a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, and laid on your king-sized bed that was far too big for one person. Staring up at the ceiling, you were surrounded by the void of your loneliness.  

You should…go out and fuck someone.  

Preferably, someone related to the entertainment industry. All that juicy gossip about your newest fling always raked in views and clicks.  

But the idea fizzled and died as you thought about having to play the submissive role, feeding their giant egos to compensate for their shit-sized cocks. You considered visiting the BDSM club, but influential people were rarely found out in the open in those shops. There was probably a private club that you weren’t invited to…yet.  

Vain.

Empty.

Nothing.  

It didn’t change much, did it? Whether you were alive or damned.  

Everything about your life was the same.  

Sitting up, you grabbed your phone and started to scroll through Voxazon, frivolously spending thousands of Hell bucks on useless crap.  

Retail therapy.  

The tried-and-true method to stave off depression and apathy.  

You were ready for that dopamine hit as you read through the reviews of the latest dildo models, your lips pulling into a sly smirk at all the new features of VoxTek’s newest sex toy.  

A chime resounded from your phone – a notification from your personal email. Your brows raised as the sender was from anonymous666@hellmail.com 

Confused, you opened the email, wincing at the possibility of infecting your device with a virus. But that thought quickly vanished as you read the email’s content.  

Subject: (no subject)  Dear Bitch,   Retract that fucking review about “Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?!” from your video today, or you will regret it.   Furthermore, you have a “mid” face, and so are your boobs. Your boobs are super fucking mid. You probably get MORE views if you actually covered your boobs because that’s how MID they are.   And all your videos are MID. Especially the one you posted on July 7, 20XX, where you reviewed the Hellover drink. The one where you wore that shitty neon green tank top, which, by the way, is also fucking MID.   Anyway, this is my FIRST and LAST warning.   Fuck you.   P.S. Seriously. Fuck you.

Your eyes slowly blinked, once, twice, before a hearty, genuine laugh erupted from you. Oh my God. Did this prick actually hack your account to get your personal email to send such a shitty, lame-ass message? 

Breaths coming out in short, uneven huffs, you rolled over on your bed from side to side, clutching your stomach. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes from laughing so hard. You hadn’t laughed this genuinely since you fell to Hell.  

As your eyes traced over the words of their message, you laughed out loud again. It looked like you had a butt-hurt superfan.  

Humming, you rolled over onto your stomach and kicked your feet idly as you stared at the message. “Thanks for the laugh, virgin prick,” you whispered, planting a loud smooch on your cellphone screen. “Annnnd, delete!” Your index finger daintily tapped the trash can icon.  

Now, back to the task at hand. You debated between getting the glittery pink dildo or the two prong dildo. Tilting your head, you decided you deserved a treat, so you ordered both. 

As you were purchasing more random crap, your eyes glazed over, your mind fervently thinking of what to say for your next season review for that TV series. Just then, an annoying ad popped up – of course, from VoxTek – promoting their shitty Cobra vibrator. Seriously, you tried it, and it did nothing for you.  

An idea rapidly formed, growing until you jumped out of bed and ran to your laptop. No one had truly (and honestly) reviewed some of VoxTek’s terrible sex toys yet. In fact, you noticed that every single review for their sex toy line had glowing five-star ratings.  

Now, some of their toys were outstanding, making you come so hard until you were sobbing, soaking your underwear from your release. But that was one out of every five toys you purchased. Like all massive corporations, VoxTek was clearly buying reviews, giving themselves perfect scores.  

Perhaps it was time to change that. 

Your review of the series and the anonymous hate message were soon quickly forgotten. This was your chance to shake things up, to give the unfiltered, raw truth that your viewers craved.  

With a determined glint in your eyes, you started drafting your next video script. This was going to be huge, bigger than Jerry’s dick from last week, that was for sure.  

NEXT ->

[tozette-original]

ONE

--

Emily had never been to a church funeral.

"Well," said Agatha, checking her pale mass of hair in the hallway mirror. "You haven't left the house in a month, so you might consider it a social event. You can't wear that," she added, nodding at the strap of Emily's dress.

"I can't?" It was black, and light enough for the late summer heat. She'd thought it was perfect: no cleavage, no knees, black, and not scooped off the detritus of her bedroom floor.

"You need something that covers your shoulders for the church — get a shawl or something."

Of course, there were no black shawls in Emily's closet. She was nineteen, not a hundred and ninety. She borrowed a shawl from her mother instead, a dove-grey pashmina that was way too heavy for the oppressive heat outside.

"And now we're late. Of course we are." Agatha continued muttering darkly in this vein as she pulled out of the driveway.

Emily sat in tense silence in the passenger seat, certain that nothing she might say would defuse her mother's ire. She applied herself to aimless scrolling through her phone. It was silent, but Agatha still shot the device a disapproving glance.

They merged into the crawling line of vehicles winding its way through their urban neighbourhood, heading further south into the city proper.

"We should just go straight to the church," Agatha sighed eventually, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. "It'll be less embarrassing."

"Who is Michael, anyway?" Emily dared to ask.

"He was Clara's husband. She's my second cousin." She flicked an indicator on and dipped into a back street, which may not have actually gotten her to the church faster than their more direct route but which certainly allowed her to drive at a faster speed. "I only met him a few times, but I'm sure Clara must be distraught."

"What happened to him, then?"

"He fell down the stairs, I think."

"Fell down the stairs?" Emily repeated, bewildered. "Do people really die of that? Like, actually?"

"Apparently."

"Wow. Um. Okay. So Clara's my… third cousin?"

"No." Agatha made a brief, agonised face at this. "She's your second cousin once removed. What do they even teach you in school and how did you graduate?"

"Uh, well, they weren't covering, like, family relative taxonomy in year twelve bio, sorry."

"Genealogy, Emily."

"Okay. So if you don't know Michael, why are we going to his funeral?"

"For Clara, mostly. She's always been a bit… delicate. She's like you that way."

Emily didn't now quite what to say in response to this, so she didn't say anything for a long few seconds, which went on and on unbroken as they waited for a set of lights to change.

"They do think it's, like, genetic," she said, carefully not looking over at her mother. She caught the way Agatha looked sharply over at her anyway, right in her peripheral vision.

"Well. We didn't have mental problems in the seventies," she said after a hanging moment. "She was just weird little cousin Clara. And then I'm afraid she and I rather drifted apart, with her getting married so young. We didn't have much in common. She and Michael must have been together for… oh, surely it's twenty five, thirty years? You know I don't even talk to your father —" (Of this, Emily was very aware.) "— And I still can't imagine what it'd be like for him to die. I can't imagine what she's going through."

Emily nodded, and went back to her social media feed. A friend, presumably having a much better day than Emily was, had posted a photo of her hand holding a giant gelato cone. A streak of lurid blue melt dripped down her fingers. She liked it and kept scrolling.

Messages about mindfulness, productivity hacks and carpe diem drifted by with the same dull feeling as the ads for cosmetics and warnings about dangerous chemicals in tap water. Microplastics. Hitting your protein goals. Scroll, scroll, scroll.

'Balance your hormones,' someone had written. 'Try moon-washed nutrient water. It's perfectly pH neutral!'

Emily chewed her bottom lip.

As they finally got away from the tiny side streets and the traffic and approached a tall, inner-city church, Agatha began nervously reminding Emily of things: she did not know if there'd be communion, but Emily wasn't to take it if there was, being as she wasn't confirmed, and that she should stand and sit only when other people did, not to fidget or talk, to put her phone away, to try not to be inappropriate for once.

Emily let this familiar refrain wash right over her.

The church was well-attended, with a mix of people in dark, formal clothing coming together in twos and threes to chat in the car park before drifting to the old, imposing church. Emily wasn't even the only person wearing a slightly mismatched shawl over her black, summery clothes.

There were plenty of expensive cars in the car park, though. Mercedes, Ferrari, Lambo, about a million BMWs. Agatha's energy-efficient Toyota hybrid looked squat, boxy and distinctly out of place among them.

Emily opened the passenger-side door, misjudged the amount of space she had, and thumped its edge into the car next to them.

"Please tell me you didn't scratch it. That car's probably worth more than you are."

The mark was tiny. They wouldn't even notice. Probably. Almost certainly.

"It's fine," said Emily, with a confidence she didn't feel.

Agatha looked skywards, breathed out, and chose not to argue about it.

The church was cool inside, stuffy and smelling of dust and incense. A veil of silence descended along with the shade, by common consent, at just the moment the threshold was crossed. All sanctioned conversations fell away and there were only footsteps and little whispers. They turned right, and there was the big room with its pointed stained glass windows and long wooden pews on either side. Up at the front was a step up to a raised platform — or a stage, like a performance — and then up there was both the altar and the casket, both curiously similar, draped in their thick fabrics.

The funeral-goers all knelt to the altar at a certain point, each in grim silence after the one before. They walked slowly to give this ceremony the time it needed, and as they approached, Agatha poked her in the ribs, so Emily knelt, too, right in the middle of the centre aisle between pews.

In the silence, her knees went CRACK, echoing up to the roof of a building designed to augment sermons. Heads swivelled towards her, eyebrows raised, glances of confusion.

Agatha gripped her arm around the elbow, creasing her shawl beneath her bony fingers. She didn't say anything, beholden to the same spell of silence as everyone else.

"I can't help my knees, Ma," Emily whispered into her hair as they slid into a pew, scooching right down to the end so Emily was between Agatha and the wall. Agatha looked sideways at her but said nothing.

What followed was a bewildering service. There was of course a lot of religion: in fact, it seemed uncomfortably to Emily as though the priest was kind of hijacking the experience of grief as a marketing opportunity for the afterlife. There were call-and-response style prayers, a lot of mixed murmuring — some people seemed to say 'and with your spirit,' and others murmured 'and also with you,' which made Agatha huff out a short, unimpressed breath.

Phrases that must have been Latin came and passed, and Emily's attention waned. She jiggled her leg until Agatha put one hand on her knee to keep it still and then she chewed on her thumbnail until her dull teeth worked their way through it. It was dim enough in the church that if she tried to check her phone she knew everyone behind them would be able to see the light of the screen, which was pretty rude to the dead guy. Time dilated absurdly before her, though, as it always did when she had to sit still and quiet, unoccupied, for any significant length of time.

"Em, if I have to take you outside like a fussy baby," hissed Agatha, beneath the cover of a group prayer, to which everyone somehow knew the words. "Get your damn hands out of your mouth!"

"How long is this?" Emily whispered back.

"Just speeches. Then we go to the cemetery."

Speeches. Great.

But it appeared Michael had left no children to mourn him, so it was just the priest's comments, and then the wife — Agatha's relative — taking the lectern up there.

Clara did not look much like Emily, or even like Agatha. Where they were tall and colourlessly pale, with dishwater blond hair and sharp faces, Clara was short and had thick, black hair swept back in a riot of curls. She had not borrowed mismatched clothing for the church. Her shirt was black and lacy and buttoned right up to her throat.

Her face was made up immaculately despite her wet eyes and the high pallor of stress. She was almost intimidatingly pretty: soft, lush, lacy and feminine, with painted lips and damp, black, fluttering eyelashes.

It was uncomfortable to hear her talk into the echoing silence with a heartbreaking catch in her husky voice.

Emily paid more attention to how she looked and sounded, rather than what she said. She caught little of the contents of the speech after, "When I married Michael, twenty-seven years ago…"

If that was true, she was probably, like, nearly fifty. Her makeup was really good. Did people get makeup artists in for funerals? It seemed like that might have been in bad taste.

The service at last ended, with everyone's final, murmured 'thanks be to God,' grimly hilarious in the context of its length and Emily's boredom.

Then they all spilled out of the church, blinking and squinting in the dazzling late summer sunlight with everyone talking louder and louder, like noise and colour had been injected back into the world. They piled into their stifling cars out in the broad concrete parking lot and drove to the cemetery for one final graveside benediction.

Despite the stuffy heat, Emily was pleased to get back in her mother's car and wind down the windows so she could feel the artificial breeze of the car's movement. That breeze initially lasted only as long as one lap around the car park. Then, she pulled out her phone as they waited in the long line of luxury sedans and sports cars to exit the car park.

Absolutely nothing cool had happened on social media in the interim. But several people had posted photos of their cats, and one person had reposted a video of an undernourished teenager dancing as a voice-over shared some information about women's health and the dangers of promiscuity.

"That's rubbish," opined Agatha. "Where do people come up with this stuff? I hope they taught you better in school. God knows they bloody charged me for it."

Emily tapped the volume control and scrolled past, but forbore to mention how Agatha had graduated, like, thirty years ago and probably didn't know what she was talking about either.

They followed a car out, finally, and crawled through the three o'clock traffic all the way to the cemetery.

Emily did not spend much time in cemeteries and she was a little surprised by this one. Behind the wrought iron gates it was light-filled, verdant, dotted with flowers and beautifully kept. The mourners were gathered in a black knot around Michael's freshly opened grave site. Emily spotted several shawls now trailing from handbags or hooked over arms, and gratefully left hers behind in the car.

The time at the graveside was mercifully brief. There were tears, and someone poured some home-made spirits over the box they lowered in, and the priest committed it to the ground with a solemn prayer.

Clara, a small, dark figure standing alone in the sunshine, looked stiff and cold and unapproachable. She cried with a dignity Emily could never have achieved. There was no crumple-faced sobbing for Clara. Instead, tears leaked from her shining eyes and her red mouth trembled. She'd even brought a little floral handkerchief that went back into her sleeve after she had gently dabbed it at her eyes.

Emily watched this display until Clara looked directly at her across the grave, and met her stare with her own glossy dark eyes. Emily looked away, then, almost embarrassed to have been caught staring. There wasn't very much else of interest to look at, though. It was a funeral. There was nothing but grief on display, and if she ought not to stare at it, she didn't know where to look.

The headstones weren't close enough for her to make out any inscriptions, and Emily figured that once you'd seen one carefully maintained grave set in pristine greenery upon a manicured, sunlit hill, you'd probably seen them all. It might be a kind of nice place to end up, if you were dead, she guessed, although she didn't give thoughts of death much consequence as a rule.

At the end of all the crying at the graveside, they returned to their cars again. This time, Emily spotted a gleaming Lexus, which was, like, basically the same as her mum's 2000s Prius, really. They wove back through the traffic to the wake. This was the last event of the funeral, which was finally, blissfully, free of the priest, and was at least guaranteed to have little bits of picky finger food to fill her belly.

"City parking," sighed Agatha, as they drove up a ramp and into an off-street garage. The after-hours rate applied, so they got away with only surrendering twenty-six dollars, paid in advance, of which Emily supplied ten dollars when they discovered the credit card reader was broken.

"If we're here more than two hours," Agatha growled, stabbing at the buttons, "I'll stab myself in the eye."

"What happened to supporting Clara?" Emily needled.

"Well, Clara isn't supporting my feet. You wait until you're fifty-five and stumbling around in high heels all afternoon."

Emily did not think this very likely. She felt the time when women wore heels out of obligation was pretty well in the past right now, and would be a distant memory by her fifties.

"You can swap with me if you like," she offered as they got into the elevator and ascended from the car park levels with a dull rattle.

For a moment Agatha looked like she was considering Emily's flat sandals very intently indeed, and then she shook her head. "No. We'll sit down up there. You'll see."

The wake was held in a nineteenth-floor bar with low lighting, masses of greenery and long marble bench tops. It had a terrace balcony, enclosed in heavy wrought iron curlicues, which had been surrendered to the smokers. The air conditioning was turned up so high that Emily wished she'd brought the shawl.

Immediately upon entry, there was a huge photograph of the deceased projected onto the wall. Emily did not recognise his face, although she supposed she might have met him when she was much younger. He was… old? Older than Clara, for sure. But if you really liked smirking older men with roughly symmetrical features and salt and pepper hair, she guessed you could do worse than a guy who looked like that — and he must have been loaded, too, because all his friends were, and the venue was nice and the drinks were free.

Over the next twenty minutes, people trickled in, arranged in hushed knots of two and three, shivering in the air conditioning. Emily quickly lost her mother to the throng.

"How did you know Michael?" people asked again and again, a grim line of black dresses and charcoal suits that blurred together within minutes. Emily heard countless stories of grief from people who cared much more than she did, and nodded sympathetically along. She remembered no names and would not have recognised most of the faces a second time.

At some point — she lost track of the passage of time — Agatha emerged from the blur of low-lit greenery and black outfits and grabbed her arm.

"My daughter — I don't know if you remember — "

And then Emily found herself face to face with Clara. Up close, she was a picture of wounded femininity: a brave face, marked and drawn with recent grief. She licked her lips nervously before she spoke, and Emily watched, curiously compelled by the wet shine of saliva on her red lipstick.

"I was certainly aware of the existence of a daughter. I imagined her rather younger, though," she added. Her dark eyes lingered on the shoulder strap of Emily's dress.

Emily tried to think of something to say. "Time passes faster than you expect, I guess."

Agatha shifted on her uncomfortable heels.

"Oh, yes," Clara said. "It's always right behind you, and you can usually hear it gaining on you."

"We were just discussing how Clara needs help clearing out their country house now, you know, sorting through Michael's things — I've told her you're not doing much and you'd appreciate the chance to get out of the city."

What? Emily blanched, tearing her eyes away from Clara's pretty face to look at her mother instead. She blinked rapidly. "Oh. Um. Well."

"What?" The sound of Agatha's voice was a warning. Her lips thinned. "You should be delighted for a chance to do something a bit useful for a change."

Clara looked between them. "I can see we've sprung the idea on you unexpectedly. I'd appreciate the help, but if you'd rather not, I understand completely."

"Don't be absurd. She's just moping around, here. She works at a juice shop and lives with her mother, for god's sake. She's nearly twenty."

"Agatha."

"What?"

Clara touched Emily's arm, softly, painted fingertips oh-so-gentle on the curve of flesh above her elbow. "You'd be very welcome, and a tremendous help to me personally. I'll be all alone now. But you must think about it for yourself. I'll call you on — on Sunday? Yes."

"Okay," said Emily dumbly. She curled her hands into fists at her sides. Her heart thumped, caged by her ribs.

Clara smiled — like the moon drifting out from behind a cloud — and withdrew.

Emily felt curiously aware of the spot on her arm where she'd been touched for a long time after.

By the time they drove home, it was raining once more, the kind of late summer storm that sent the temperature plummeting and heralded a wet autumn.

"You'll like the countryside," Agatha insisted as they waited for the security arm to let them out of the car park and into the dark street. "Peaceful. No distractions. And Clara's an odd duck. You'll get along just fine."

"I haven't decided if I want to go," Emily said mulishly. "I've got a few days before she calls."

Agatha clicked her tongue as though this was an annoying irrelevancy. "Well, you're not doing anything here. All you do is sit around and stare at your phone. And Clara really needs the help — or, well, probably the company more than the help, if I'm honest. I can only imagine how lonely she is now. She looked terrible."

She'd looked pretty good to Emily, although pale and a little tired. But her husband had died, so she'd had reason to look much worse.

Emily was keen to get away from Agatha, as she always was, but she resented being told instead of asked. She wasn't sure she wanted to go out to the countryside, where she'd be miles from anything and stuck cleaning out the home of a virtual stranger. "You make it sound like I don't even have a job or anything. I help pay the bills."

"It's not about paying the bills, Emily." Agatha sighed.

Emily turned to the window instead. Outside, the street lights flickered by, bright reflections gleaming wetly on the dark bitumen.

"You'll do very well in the country," Agatha insisted, and Emily supposed that, come Sunday, she'd be unlikely to hear the end of it if she declined.

[tangocardiaca]

Everyone in Hyakkao Private Academy knew that Midari was insane when it went to gambling. It was not about the money, she only accepted life and death ones. But this time she overdid it. Midara was not seen at school from the very morning. As students were worried, that something happened to her, Sayaka from student council told Yumeko and Ryota to search for her. Yumeko hated Midari, but she accepted the request. She went to dorm to Midari's room, but it was locked. She used the bobby pin to use it as a lockpick. When she entered Midari's room, she couldn't believe it. Midari was lying on her bed with her midriff and cleavage exposed and AED pads hooked to her chest. "How is this possible? AEDs shouldn't shock you when your heart beats regularly." She noticed that AED was hooked to another device. Midari hacked AED so it could shock her, when the random pre-set number was drawn. It was like a russian roulette but with defibrillator. Yumeko was furious. "I knew you were stupid and crazy but now you have done it." She unhooked the AED from device. "But even if I hate you, even you don't deserve to die." She called Ryota and told him to call for an ambulance and bring Sayaka, because situation is really dangerous. She gave two rescue breaths to Midari and started doing chest compressions. "I only hope the defibrillator can shock her now, when I unplugged it". - she thought while giving her pushing her chest. She tried turning off and on the AED and it said "Analyzing heart rhythm, do not touch the patient" Yumeko stood away from Midari. "Shock advised. Charging, stand clear" A loud beeping sound filled the room. "Stand clear. Push shock button." When Yumeko pressed the shock button, Midari's body shook and Yumeko checked pulse on Midari's neck. There was no pulse. Yumeko was relieved, that AED worked correctly. She continued CPR. While Yumeko was resuming, Midari's eyes faintly opened and she started gasping for air. Those were not normal breaths. Also her arms were moving strangely. "Is she coming back?" Yumeko stopped compressions and tried to reach Midari, but soon after she stopped, Midari's eyes closed again. "Damn, it's not enough". Yumeko continued CPR. Another shock was ready, so Yumeko stood away once again. During second shock, Midari's chest jumped violently. After Yumeko checked, that there was no pulse, she continued CPR, but deep inside she was afraid it was hopeless situation. Yumeko said - "I hope you survive. I hope you survive, because I want to yell a lecture in your face." Post scriptum: Kakegurui is still yet to be continued, but secretly I hope that there will be a scene where Midari is shocked by AED(no nudity of course). That would be totally fitting for her character.

[writing-my-time]

Smoke Break (PART THREE)

Previous part // Part one // Full Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Murphy X F!Reader Word Count: 1.2k Warnings: 18+, Swearing, smoking, mentions of cheating, mentions of sex work, is this canon compliant anymore? Not really. Summary: Nine days after what conspired in your apartment, Steve finds himself talking to Javier about you.

It’s been days.

Close to two weeks, in fact, since Steve skulked out of your apartment, hand slicked and face still glistening. Despite your desks being mere feet from one another, neither of you have said a word. Steve sits at his desk, the sleeves of his shirt pushed to his elbows. Sweat beads off his forehead, which he wipes away with equally sweaty palms. His hair is unkempt, the strands standing wildly from his long fingers constantly running through them. It’s only on the ninth day, when the phones stop ringing, and papers stop coming, does Steve risk looking at you. Blue eyes cast above his newspaper, scanning the newly bustling office. Agents are spread. Javier has one of the other office admins leaning over his desk. No doubt showing off her nails. “Best way to catch cleavage,” Javi said. What a sex pest. Though, is he much better? One week without his wife and he dares look at forbidden fruit? Connie had come back. Like a lighthouse in an unwavering storm, she had come when he called. Every time he closes his eyes, he tries to think about the way he held her. After watching what Carrillo had done in that helicopter, he needed her. Yet, the same hands that held her tight had been tarnished. Your sweet flesh is still embedded in his skin. Your taste still on his tongue. When Steve closes his eyes, it’s you he’s thinking about. It’s never felt like this with whorehouse women. Lingering guilt had never reared its ugly head. Never chewed in his gut when he closed the velvet curtain. It certainly never plagued him when Connie guided his hands under the covers. Yet here it is. Guilt. Burning in his fingertips. Acid on his tongue. A pit in his stomach. His large hands drag down his face again; an illusion of exhaustion while his mind is consumed by everything you.

“You ever heard of the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat’?” Javier’s voice cuts through his mind like a knife. He leans against Steve's desk, arms crossed over his chest with a cocked brow planted on his face. “Our office isn’t shit enough, you had to go and make it a toilet?”

Steve drags two palms down his face, feeling the cool band sting against his warm face. Even as he swallows the growl he desperately wants to make, he snarls. No one else has heard, thankfully. Javier can be hush hush when he wants. 

“I didn’t do shit.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then explain that.”

With a gentle nod towards your desk, Javier forces Steve to look at you. His eyes land on forbidden fruit once more. There you are. Sunken face, lip between your teeth. All of your focus is being poured into the typewriter. You weren’t designated a computer yet. Steve remembers how you’d sat on his desk, cradling a mug of coffee as you complained. ‘A secretary job wasn’t worth such new technology’. The mockery of Messina’s words had him hacking back a laugh. But now, as he sits watching your deft fingers tapping away at the keys, Steve can’t help tense. Maybe it was good he didn’t let you touch him. Your taste was bad enough, seared into his tongue like scripture. God knows what your touch can do. He chews on his thumbnail, finally dragging his eyes back to Javier’s.

“Isn’t that the secretary that you take home?”

“Yep.” He answers, tight lipped and jaw clenched.

“And you two haven’t spoken in, what, seven days?”

“Nine.”

“Oh, you’re counting?”

“Jav.” 

It’s a warning they’re more than familiar with. The office is too busy. Too loud. Sure, there are bigger problems afoot, but they both know that no one is immune to workplace gossip. Steve’s hand hovers by his jacket, Javier’s lingers in his pocket. 

“Smoke?”

Both men lean up against the brick. Javier lit up when Steve first started explaining, cherry a soft orange against the burnt sky. Not a cloud in it. A pure view of the sun beginning its descent back behind the earth. Steve lets the smoke pour out of his lips, not bothering to force an exhale. He can feel Javier’s beady eyes narrowing in on his face, to which he simply keeps his eyes forward. Having just spent the last ten minutes describing what had happened nine days prior, he can’t say he feels like digging the hole deeper.

“Well, shit.” Javier lets out a low whistle, shaking his head before taking another drag. “You told Connie?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yes! No. I–” Steve cuts himself off, pinching at the bridge of his nose before frustration can boil over. “I don’t know. She’s going back to live with her sister, anyway.”

The two men stand in silence again. Javier flicks ash into the garden, while Steve keeps his eyes on his shoes. His thumb glides up and down the cigarette, rolling it in between his fingers. By now, his mind is running rampant, critique after critique of his own actions swarming in his mind until he can’t take it.

“I don’t know what Connie wants. When she first left she said it was over. Now it's–” He waves his hands around as the words fail to come, smoke trailing close behind. “Complicated.”

“Complicated because of Connie or the secretary?” Javier speaks up after inhaling a drag, brows raised with the burn. 

“Who do you think?”

“I think you’re the one making it complicated.”

Steve shoots the other man an unimpressed look, though, Javier’s right. The only person he has to blame is himself. Rolling his head back, the cool brick meets the crown of Steve’s head, supporting him as he slumps back. He drags a palm over his moustache. 

“You didn’t have this problem with any of the prostitutes.” Javier reminds him, leaning back into the wall to mirror Steve. “Why is the secretary giving you trouble?”

“I don’t work with prostitutes. I don’t have to see them again, either.”

“You saw the redhead three times.”

“Not the point, Jav.”

“Just admit that you like the girl.”

More silence. Both men stand, watching the sun begin to clip the embassy building. As the cherry of Steve’s cigarette begins to meet the filter, he flicks it into the garden. There’s no urgency to get back inside. All they’d do is get the rest of their things and go home, anyway. They lock eyes, Steve’s tired and unsure, Javier’s sympathetic but unserious. He offers Steve a shrug.

“All I’m saying is that this didn’t start before Connie left. It’s just evolved.” Javier’s words of wisdom smell like tobacco and a shot of tequila, and much to Steve’s frustration, they’re true. “You both thought your marriage was over. Hell, maybe it still is.”

“Christ, you think we’re that far gone already?”

“Eh,” Javier shrugs as he checks his watch. “I think it might have been the prostitutes. Or getting kidnapped. Take your pick.”

Steve nods his head, dragging his tongue over his teeth before finally pushing off the wall. With both hands now firm in his pockets, he looks towards the embassy doors. The pit in his stomach returns. Bile. A burning in his chest that he can’t tell if it's from the smoke or the guilt. Either way, it’s trickling up his throat until words fail to form. 

“Talk to the secretary, Steve.” Javier speaks up with impeccable timing, freeing Steve from a barrage of internal insults. “What harm could it do?”

“Yeah.” It’s hoarse, and restrained, but Steve relents. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her.”

// Oop, we love a rebrand. Sorry this took so long! I am far from done with this story, but alas, I love my kids more than I love writing (partially true, I would just rather play with them than look at a screen <3) Hope y'all enjoy! //

[novankenn]

I have an Idea what if Jaune is harem protagonist that doesn't want to be one? Like no matter how much he tries women keep falling for him while he just trying to be a huntsman. The idea is based off the Yo-kai Watch fanfiction "The Unwanted Harem Of Nathan Adams" by Black_Omochao on Archiveofourown

NOPE... NAW... NEY...NAH... NO!!!

Jaune: THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT MOM!!

Jaune's Mom: What could you ever be accusing me of, darling?

Jaune didn't answer as his attention was taken by evading and countering the frenzied grab of his partner... the one and only Pyrrha Nikos.

Jaune: YOU FUCKING WELL...

Jaune's Mom: LANGUAGE! I taught you better than that, young man!

Pyrrha: 💕Jaune 💕 I love you! (ACK! HACK! CHOKE! COUGH!)

Jaune backs away a spray bottle held before him. A spray bottle filled with Ice Dust infused water. A spray bottle he just used to hit his overly grabby partner in the face with.

Jaune: You KNEW I was holding out for my one true love, and yet you had to publicly release... that... that FILTH!

Jaune's Mom: Your baby pictures are not filth!

Jaune: They are when they make women go psycho for me!

Jaune's Mom: You're getting older, as am I... you're training for a VERY dangerous profession... can you... really blame me?

Jaune: YES I FUCKING CAN!

Jaune's Mom: LANGUAGE! You are NOT too big for you to put over my knee, young man!

Pyrrha had shaken off the effects of the icy cold mist and was once again preparing to close on her prey. With his scroll cradled between his shoulder and his ear, Jaune frantically twisted the nozzle...

Pyrrha: 💕Jaune 💕... AHHHH!!!!!! COLD!!!! COLD!!!

Pyrrha danced about JNPR's dorm room holding her chest... Jaune having scored a direct hit to her cleavage.

Jaune's Mom: That is NOT the way to treat your future wife Jaune!

Jaune: No... It's the only way I'll be able to keep my chastity until I GET MARRIED!!!

Jaune's Mom: Married. Smarried. I was expecting Spahron by the time your block-headed father finally asked me to marry him.

Jaune: Expecting... Saphron? But she's like the third eldest? Did you baby trap Dad?

Jaune's Mom: No. Good Heavens why would you suggest something like that? I'm your mother, and I love you father and all my babies... almost as much as I'll love all the grandbabies...

Jaune: If you want grandbabies... ask my sisters!

Jaune's Mom: I plan to... however my dear, darling, dense as lead son... you... can... give... me... more... much... faster... capeesh?

Pyrrha: 💕Jaune 💕... AHHH!!! NOT AGAIN!!! COLD!!! COLD!! COLD!!

Jaune: I am not jumping into the bed with every baby-crazed girl you send my way mom! I'm not!

Jaune's Mom: Oh, honey... they're coming whether you like it or not...

KNOCK... KNOCK... KNOCK... KNOCK... KNOCK...

Weiss: 💕Jaune 💕

Ruby: 💕Jaune 💕

Blake: 💕Jaune 💕

Yang: 💕Jaune 💕

Velvet: 💕Jaune 💕

Coco: 💕Jaune 💕

Goodwitch: 💕Jaune 💕

Cinder: 💕Jaune 💕

Emerald: 💕Jaune 💕

Octavia: 💕Jaune 💕

Dew: 💕Jaune 💕

Nebula: 💕Jaune 💕

Gwen: 💕Jaune 💕

Ciel: 💕Jaune 💕

Neon: 💕Jaune 💕

Reese: 💕Jaune 💕

Arslan: 💕Jaune 💕

May: 💕Jaune 💕

Raven: 💕Jaune 💕

Militia: 💕Jaune 💕

Mel: 💕Jaune 💕

Winter: 💕Jaune 💕

Elm: 💕Jaune 💕

Harriet: 💕Jaune 💕

Willow: 💕Jaune 💕

Atlas Moms: 💕Jaune 💕

Jaune: Gods preserve me...

Pyrrha: 💕Jaune 💕

In the corner Ren and Nora are seated on Ren's bed with Neo, watching the unfolding chaos. Small slips of paper being passed between them.

Nora: Neo says she has 200 on him reaching the bullhead docks.

Ren: I say 300 for him only reaching the front doors.

The dorm room door crumbles allowing all of Jaune's "suitors" entrance...

Nora: Well I say 500 for just the win...

SHATTER!!! CRASH!!!

ALL the Girls: 😱JAUNE!!! 😱

Nora: Crap baskets! I lost.

All the girls vanish in a whirl of dust, papers and loose clothes.

Ren: I understand why Nora's not part of that group, but you seem...

Neo (Typing on her scroll) Oh, I want him too... I just prefer the long game, besides I need money to get a proper dress.

Ren: Ah. So Bullhead?

Neo: (Typing on her scroll) No, change that. 1000 that he reaches Vale.

Jaune's Mom: (From Jaune's discarded scroll on the floor) Jaune? Jaune? Are you there? DO not be giving me the silent treatment young man! If you're not talking you BETTER be busy putting babies in those lovely young women... Jaune? Are you there? Anyone?

/==/

A/N: I think I missed the mark, but hey... it got me writing. 😁😁Thanks for the ask. Hope you enjoy.

[writing-rat]

Perverted Hacker

Content: 18+ Content, Smut, Strap-On, Cunnilingus, Sammy is a pervert

Summary: Sammy hacks into Joey's phone and sees her nudes. She already wanted to hook up with the older woman, this made her desire it more.

WC: 1808

Sammy was bored. They were in the truck as they had just finished kidnapping the girl and they were nearly out of the city when Sammy saw a glint of something under her seat. It then turned off. That was when she realised it was a phone and she knew who it belonged to since they had just taken their mask off in the car. Joey. Thinking, she grabbed it discreetly as she hooked it up to her computer. Sure, a high school student would do it, but she didn’t care. She was attracted to the woman that she figured out was a mother. It was obvious from the lock screen. Quick to hack into it, she stole all the photos before she unhooked it and looked behind. No one seemed to have noticed what she had done, Dean focused on driving while listening to his rap music.

“Hey, medic. Dropped your phone,” she spoke with a smile, looking at Joey. “Oh, thank you,” Joey responded with a soft smile, grabbing her phone. Sammy couldn’t help but glance down at her cleavage, the shirt she was wearing doing wonders for the 23-year-old's brain. She wondered how old Joey was too. Humming under her breath, she kept a separate tab open, making it smaller so people couldn’t see as she was looking through Joey’s text firsts, learning her name quickly. She smirked, she could track more info about her then. That’s when she went through her notes, finding out how long she had been sober. She was surprised that a woman as beautiful as Ana had a drug problem.

That’s when she decided to go to the photos, surprised that the first photo she saw was some of her nudes. She couldn’t help but click on it, admiring the woman. What she wasn’t aware of was that Joey had noticed. The medic knew that the hacker was a pervert already since she did openly stare at her tits when she unzipped her jacket. To be honest everyone did but Sammy was more obvious and even licked her lips. Sammy continued to look through her photos, loving to see the occasional nudes before she closed the tab. She would look more in-depth after the mission. She couldn’t help but fantasise about hooking up with the medic.

Soon enough they were at the mansion, everyone going in as Sammy stripped out of the navy blue jumpsuit she was wearing, revealing her yellow undershirt, black top, mesh top and her skirt. Joey couldn’t help but admire the girl before she looked away. “You have 5 minutes to set up the girl in a room and set up a lookout point. Meet back here,” the boss spoke. Joey immediately picked up the girl as Sammy went to help Joey. Joey didn’t push her away at all, just let her follow as she was soon getting out some handcuffs. “You always a pervert?” Joey asked the hacker when they were a distance away from people. Sammy looked shocked. “What?” she asked. “You staring at my tits then also downloading my nudes from off my phone,” she teased her, being more confident as Sammy had a heavy blush. “I was just curious about you then stumbled on them,” Sammy admitted, but didn’t look at the woman. “How old are you?” she blurted. “33, you?” Joey asked with a raised eyebrow. “23,” Sammy answered. Joey nodded as she sat Abigail down.

That’s when the both of them went down, not wanting to push everyone’s patience. They would talk more, Sammy knew it. She would also try and seduce her…

-

It had been 10 minutes since Joey got everyone’s observations and Sammy was on the lookout for the older woman, wanting to see her and hook up with her if possible. If she had more time she would want to get to know her. She was skipping around before she bumped into Joey as the 2 just turned a corner. Joey was on the bottom. “Damn. I knew you wanted me but didn’t think you’d bottom,” Sammy teased. That was when Joey suddenly switched positions and got up. “What makes you think that?” Joey asked, raising an eyebrow. Sammy just smiled. “So… what do you say about having a round? We won’t be seeing each other after this,” Sammy spoke, avoiding the question. “You’ve seen my address and name already I bet. You will be going to visit. Anyway, I’m professional. You aren’t… clearly,” Joey resisted. Sammy shrugged. “Can’t a MILF chaser have a chance?” she asked, pouting. “Tell me your name first then you can do whatever to me,” Joey reasoned. It was fair since Sammy knew her name. “Jessica, Jessica Hurney,” she spoke happily. Joey looked around around before she grabbed Sammy by the hand, and took her to a clean bedroom.

“What do you want to do?” Joey asked, letting Sammy take over. Sammy smirked before she pushed Joey down on the bed and straddled her. That was when Joey felt something. There was a strap-on, she could tell immediately when Sammy moved her hips again. Joey blushed hard. “I always wanted to dominate a MILF. Let me pleasure you,” she asked, looking at the older woman beneath her. All the other ones she got with were dominant after all. “Ok,” Joey breathed out and Sammy was quick to celebrate but also was quick to start kissing Joey.

Joey kissed back in surprise, her arms being pinned down by Sammy’s hand, the tattooed blonde straddling her and pressing her fake dick against Joey’s stomach. Slowly but surely her other hand was going under her shirt. “Want to be fully nude or not?” Sammy asked. Joey blushed. “Nude, you have more space then,” Joey explained, knowing that this was breaking a rule. The no grab-ass one. She didn’t care though, not at that moment in time. Sammy grinned excitedly as she started to kiss the girl again, using both hands this time as they went under her shirt, rubbing at her waist before she slowly started to pull it up. Joey kept her hands up as they were kissing, only removing their lips from each other to take off the shirt. Sammy also eyed her breasts, seeing she wasn’t wearing a bra. Sammy loved that as she kissed the corner of her lip, trailing to her jaw and her neck, her hands slowly unbuttoning her jeans and unzipping them too. Joey didn’t even realise until they were being pulled down. Sammy was disappointed to see she was wearing underwear yet delighted too. It showed how wet Joey was and she saw a big patch as she soon sucked on her breasts.

Joey meanwhile moaned as she threw her head back, feeling how Sammy’s finger rubbed against her wetness too. She was only in her underwear now, Sammy having taken off her boots somehow. “Please strip too,” Joey practically begged. Sammy smirked. “Call me daddy from now on,” Sammy giggled before she started to take off her vest, top and bra, revealing her bare breasts. While Sammy sucked on her nipples and rubbed her, Joey groped at the blonde’s breasts. Sammy let out a moan of pleasure as she was riding against the latina’s thigh before she suddenly ripped off her underwear.

“I want to make sure you stay nude for me,” Sammy growled just as Joey was about to protest, where she crawled down her body, her skirt being removed as she also wasn’t wearing underwear. She also kicked her shoes off before she sniffed Joey’s crotch, before licking. “Sammy,” Joey gasped, throwing her head back as she gripped at her hair. “First I want you to cum all over my tongue and fingers then all over my strap. Got it, baby girl?” Sammy growled. Joey nodded. “Yes Daddy,” she moaned as she gripped Sammy’s hair. Sammy smirked before she was licking more, sucking at the right times around her clit. Sammy also spanked her ass as Joey gasped, moaning louder. Sammy wouldn’t be surprised if everyone could hear now, and she loved how loud Joey could get as she started to press her middle finger against her entrance. Joey moaned louder.

“Please, need your finger,” Joey begged. Sammy just grinned before she entered it inside of her, still licking and sucking as one hand went and squeezed her ass. Sammy thrusted the finger in gently, realising that Joey was already quite loose. “You’ve masturbated recently,” Sammy stated, Joey moaning as she was embarrassed it was that easy to tell she had. “God, that’s hot. I want to watch you masturbate one day,” she kept speaking casually as she was fingering the older woman, licking and sucking her clit again. Joey whimpered as she came quickly and Sammy was lapping it all up as she was wanting every drop.

“Ready for my dick?” Sammy asked with a smirk. Joey blushed as she was nodding. “Please Daddy,” she practically begged. Sammy soon crawled up the older woman’s body as she kissed her again. Joey kissed back in desperation, moaning when Sammy was slowly entering inside her. Sammy meanwhile took that opportunity to enter her tongue into the older woman’s mouth, causing the both to moan louder as Sammy was glad she inserted a double-sided strap. She wanted pleasure after all too. Joey was getting louder once again, Sammy was sure she was louder than before though and she loved that. Everyone would know what they were doing. Sammy meanwhile kept thrusting, slow and gentle at first as Joey didn’t need to adjust. Soon though she got faster and rougher and it seemed Joey preferred it much more. That led to Sammy spanking her while they kissed too, Joey arching her back more. Sammy grinned as one hand kept ahold of her ass, the other rubbing her nipple. The 2 girls didn’t separate from the kiss until they couldn’t breathe. When they pulled away, however, a string of saliva kept them together as they caught their breath, kissing more as Sammy kept hitting Joey’s G-spot. Joey was wriggling around as she was moaning, unable to stay still, going crazy from all the touching that was happening. Sammy loved seeing the medic losing all control of her body as she kept kissing her a lot. Joey clenched against the toy, stopping Sammy from moving for a bit as it was obvious she had come. Sammy moaned as she was getting closer before she suddenly came herself, Sammy collapsing on her as they were breathing heavily.

“You were much better than I thought you would be,” Joey said, looking directly at Sammy. Sammy smirked. “I love to please people, what can I say?” Sammy teased. Joey shook her head as she was thinking. “We can continue hooking up after this mission,” Joey concluded and Sammy grinned.

Sammy couldn’t wait.

[tigers-eyes-26]

Self-preservation Ch. 2

Rouge flew lazily through the sky. Going to her favorite place in the world. Angle Island.  To not be spotted by the resident echidna, she chose a heavily forested part of the island to land on. She started her graceful descent.  

 She heard a high-pitched buzz before she saw a laser come straight towards her. She curled into a ball to fall faster. The laser just missing her ear.  Several more buzzes activated. Drones!  

She flaps her wings furiously to avoid being hit. It seems they have locked onto her movements. She ziggs and zags and swops. Finally, she soars over the edge of the island.  

She finds a little ledge on the islands under structure to catch her breath. She hears them coming closer. Who has taken over Angle Island? These drones didn’t look like Dr. Eggman’s. They usually have his ugly mug plastered somewhere on all his machines.  

She pinpoints where the drones were coming from and hides in a crevasse. She drops hard onto one of the drones causing it to lose flight and kicks another drone, so it hits one that is next to it. They both lose their balance and fall to the ocean below. “Hey!” She heard one of the drones say in a young boy's voice. She knew that voice! 

“TAILS!”  

“Oops!”  

“Stop the laser-light show Tails!” She flipped in the air dodging another laser and kicking a drone from underneath.  

“Okay, Okay! But you better leave Angle Island!”  

Rouge grabbed the last drone and looked straight into the camera lens. “Where is Knuckles, Tails?” she growled.  

“Ah, Umm... He is here.” He was bad at lying. She could tell just through his voice. She shuffled the drone, so the camera was on one eye.  

“Oh Yeah? Can I talk to him?”  

“No, H-he's asleep, I-I wouldn’t want to wake him up” really bad.  

“So, you set up a security system around Angle Island because Knuckles needed to sleep?” she questioned. She tripped the drone so it could only see the sky. Tails could tell she was moving somewhere but he couldn’t know where. 

“Yeah!” He too quickly answered. 

“I don’t believe you, Tails.”  She deadpanned. The feed went black. 

“Well, I’m sorry but Knuckles asked me to protect Angle Island and the Master Emerald and that is what I am doing!” He hit a button that caused the drone in her hands to shoot a laser. Just as she wanted. The laser cut though a lock on a door that was enclosing a cave. She kicked down the door. Tails squeaked and ducked under his desk. She tossed the drone to the side and stalked over to the desk. She put her hands on her hips and bent down to see Tails better and glared at the yellow ball of fur.  

“H-how?” He stuttered.  

She rolled her eyes “I’m a Spy. I know how to track signals.” He glanced at her utility belt that probably had some G.U.N. Tech in one of the many pockets. Drat! He hadn’t thought anyone would get close enough to his drones to hack them.   

Rouge cleared her throat to get his attention back on her face. “Where. Is. Knuckles?”  

Tails tried to get farther under the desk. “I don’t know!”  

She raised an eyebrow at him. 

“He didn’t tell me! Honest!” Tails begged for mercy.  

She inspected his fearful face. She gave a sigh. He was telling her the truth. She turned on her heal and walked away.  

Tails scrambled out from under the desk and ran to block her exit. He stood his ground with hands outstretched. “W-where are you going now?” He still needed to protect the Master Emerald.  

She lowered her eyelids and smiled sweetly down at the teenaged boy. She bent down to his heigh.  

He looked at her posture nervously trying not to look at her cleavage.

“I’m sorry Sweety,” She took his head in her hands so he would look at her face. “Stealing from little boys isn’t my style.” She kissed him on the forehead.  

Tails ears and hands dropped.  

She sashayed around the confused fox.  “Tell Knuckles, I’m looking for him.” She unfurled her wings and took off.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Knuckles had had several first dates that were disasters. But he was learning. Slowly. He learned it was better if he didn’t talk much. He also learned if he didn’t talk, he had to listen. It was hard when sometimes he would wonder if Angle Island was okay without him. He also learned it was better to talk about the nature they were hiking in. But that was hard because he felt like he was wasting time talking about things that didn’t matter much. He kept hearing Vanilla’s voice telling him it isn’t a waste of time getting to know what the other person is thinking about.  He could be patient. He wasn’t like Sonic.   

Knuckles rolled his eyes thinking of Sonic. He had to get Amy to promise to not tell her new husband about helping him out. She didn’t like it, but she had agreed. He was grateful for her help. There is no way he would be meeting all these ladies himself.

He was currently on a hike with a pretty and sturdy koala. They were about the same height. She had a white tank top and green leggings. Her makeup matched her leggings and in her round ears she had multiple earrings.   

This date was going well, she was from a town militia, and they bonded over training and protecting things. He was having a good time until.... 

“Hey, handsome!” A white bat dropped from the trees in front of them.  

Knuckles growled and raised his fists. “What do you want!?” The koala looked between the two getting into her own defensive position.  

Unbothered, Rouge gracefully flew closer to him, “I was checking on MY Emerald,”   

“IT ISN’T YOUR EMERALD!” Knuckles barked at her. She tapped him on the nose; he swiped at her. “What have you done!?”  

“Don’t worry knucklehead, it is safe and sound,” she continued to flitter about dodging Knuckles attempts to swat her way. “I don’t like stealing things from kids.”  

“What did you do to Tails?” He demanded.  

“I gave him a kiss for his good efforts.”  

He glared harder at her not believing a word out of her mouth.  

“Jealous?”  

He pointed a mit at her. “I’m not playing this game with you Bat Girl!”  

“What game? I just asked how you feel?” 

“Annoyed! Now leave us alone!”  

“Us?” She clocked the koala that was in a defensive stance behind Knuckles. “My! My! What a pretty girl!” She swopped toward his date. “Is this the girl you ditched the Master Emerald for?”  

“I didn’t-! I am still the Guardian of the Master Emerald!”  

She tried to circle the koala, but she was fully determined to not to let this bat be in a blind spot. “I’m impressed she seems as paranoid as you are Knuckie.”  

“Don’t call me that!”  

“What? Now that you have a girlfriend, we can’t be friends?”  

“Girl-!” He sputtered. “It’s just-! We-” 

She smirked at his fumbling. She had missed messing with him.  

The koala looked between the two again and spoke up. “Hey! I think it's time for you to leave.”  

Rouge turned to her and shrugged. “Fine, I’ll leave. I already reported my findings. And I got him to stutter. My job here is done.” She floated passed the fuming Knuckles. She gave him a sultry look as she said. “See you around, handsome.” She quickly lifted off. 

He took a beat as his face turned hot. He balled up his fists and yelled after her flying form. “DON’T CALL ME THAT!”  

****

Authors Notes: I didn't think it was relevant to the story but if you all want to know the koala's name is Kate.

Prologue: Self-preservation Prologue – @tigers-eyes-26 on Tumblr

Chapter 1: Self-Preservation Ch 1 – @tigers-eyes-26 on Tumblr  

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

Bond, Jane Bond

007007007007007007007007007007007007007007007007

People are gathered at the Peacock Theater in Downtown Los Angeles watching two ladies, a redhead and a blonde one, perform an act. They are pretending to play a game. The redheaded woman grabs a hidden envelope and cheats. This lady proceeds to read it and announce a category, all the nominees, and then the winner. They both smile and the audience claps.

Meanwhile, Bond is walking up the marble stairs to the top of the theater, overlooking the crowd. Her silky skintight black one-shoulder little black dress was turning heads but more so were her black long legs that went on forever.

Bond gets to a corridor on the top floor, exactly where she wants to be at that time, looks down at a brass doorknob, and sees the reflection of the blue-eyed man in a tuxedo coming at her. Bond spins around faster than the blink of an eye and knocks him down.

He gets up, clearly sore, rubbing his jaw and checking it for fractures.

"What the fuck are you doing, Bond!"

"Oops, sorry! I thought you were, Chris."

"Chris is 6.2!"

"Sorry."

"You're gonna have to pay for this."

"Is that blood?"

"It's a rental Calvin Klein."

2 hours later Mr. Iger was dead. Paramedics were called in but it was too late by the time they arrived.

The cause of death was later determined as arrhythmia and since Iger had a history of arrhythmias and other heart conditions, no foul play was suspected. Bond's alibi was airtight and her plan was executed to perfection with the help of the blue-eyed blond man in the tux with a sore jaw.

007007007007007007007007007007007007007007007007

The old hack knocks Bond to the ground.

She kicks her again, then pulls her by the hair.

"This time, Bond, the pleasure will be all mine."

She laughs like a hyena and crushes Jane's ribs again. Bond struggles, in pain.

Carmy walks in with a gun. Points at the old lady attacking Bond and fires.

1 bullet between the eyes was all it took.

Bond has recovered. She's quick to set the timer and then she runs as fast she can in the opposite direction grabbing Carmy by the arm and taking him with her.

The explosion that follows shortly after erases any traces that both Bond and her "associate" were there.

The explosion was later blamed on a gas leakage. MI6 had to pay good money and collect a few favors in high spheres of power to cover that one up as the Fire Department determined in a matter of hours that gas had nothing to do with the blast.

Bond was cleared. Lived to die another day. So did Carmy who enjoyed this constant back and forth of saving each other's lives. It turned him on.

007007007007007007007007007007007007007007007007

Clothes scattered everywhere, empty glasses, Dom Perignon floating in an ice bucket. It’s the bedroom of the place they’re staying at. Jane is sleeping peacefully on the bed. She's on her stomach, only her black fuck-me heels on.

"Syd?"

Her brown eyes open. Barely above a whisper... "Yes?"

Carmy appears from beside her on the bed, wrapped in the sheets from the waist down. He rolls on top of her and kisses her bare back eliciting a long moan.

"In the hallway, when you punched me - did you mean it?"

They stroke each other’s hair. She smiles...softly as they lock eyes.

"Yes."

Carmy looks at her, he's appalled. Hurt. Not physically this time around, though. Worse.

"Basic rule. Always hit first."

Carmy takes a pillow and playfully smothers her with it. Bond’s laughing...they grin and passionately kiss, and she says she's sorry again. He believes her.

He shouldn't have. She always knew he wasn't Chris. The jab he took had a name and a last name, white porcelain skin, dark hair, blue eyes, and a cleavage that left nothing to the imagination.

"Second rule. I'm Bond for you now, we are on a mission. Forget my name."

"Roger that. But don't hit me again or I will blow your cover, Bond."

"You deserved it." Bond says as she kisses him and bites his lips.

"Sorry."

"Are you? Really?"

"Of course I am. I love you."

"Do you, Carmy?"

"I love you so dearly, Sydney. I want us in each other's lives forever."

007007007007007007THEEND00700700700700700700700

[gurugirl]

Hi. Are you going to do a sneak peak of the series start over (I think I got the name wrong sorry💗)

Why not? And you are close! It's called Can We Start Over?

Chapter 1 will be posted tomorrow at 12pm CST. Sneaky from chapter 1 below...

...

“You don’t mind me dancing with you, do you?” His voice was close to your neck as he spoke.

Shaking your head you turned your body to face him, swinging your hips softly, “Not at all.”

He grinned down at you and the dimple that appeared on his cheek had you taken aback. He was truly stunning.

“Good. Wanted to chat some with you. Find out more about you…” he took your hand in his and pulled you closer, shifting the mood a little as you both danced. You silently inhaled in surprise at his gesture.

“And what did you want to know, Mr. Styles?” You raised your brows and smirked at him. You weren’t sure at that point what he was doing. But he was certainly leading you to believe this was more than just a friendly chat.

“First, what’s your name?”

You laughed, “I’m Y/n. I guess I forgot to introduce myself.”

“Are you here alone, Y/n?” His free hand found a spot on your side over your hip.

“I am. What about you?” You weren’t used to receiving this kind of attention from anyone. Much less a wealthy handsome man.

“I’m here alone too,” he kept a cocky grin plastered to his face as he drew nearer and spoke lowly so only you could hear, “But was hoping I wouldn’t be leaving alone.”

It was at that moment you were truly surprised. Was he…? Couldn’t be. You’d surely misread this situation just in the way all your pretty girlfriends misread it every time a guy showed any friendliness. Maybe it was the three cocktails you’d drank and that had you wondering what was in them.

Harry's hand released yours and he brought his ringed fingers up to your shoulder where he brushed the side of your neck, drawing you in closer with his other hand at your hip, “What about you?”

You blinked your eyes and looked up at him in confusion, “What about me? What do you mean?”

Harry’s grin deepened as he looked down at your mouth and took a clear glance at your cleavage before responding, “Did you hope to leave with someone tonight?”

You scoffed and looked around the dance floor before looking back at him, still not quite believing the direction this conversation was headed, “I hadn’t imagined I would leave with anyone. Figured I’d just go back to my hotel room alone after.”

The ridiculously attractive man licked his lips and kept his gaze on yours, “Really? You don’t want someone to take you back to their room and help you out of this pretty dress tonight?”

You began to cough. You’d choked on your own saliva as you inhaled a sharp breath at the wrong moment. His words caught you off guard.

But now you were hacking and bent at the waist, red in the face like an idiot.

Harry patted your back and you heard him speak into your ear, “You okay, darling? Need some water?”

When you’d recovered you and Harry were standing at the edge of the dancefloor away from the crowd and he had a comforting hand on your back.

You laughed and shook your head, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened…” you wiped your face, which was moist from the tears you’d forced out from all the coughing.

Harry took your hand and led you to a free seat, pulling a chair out for you and then sitting next to you, his hand still on your back, “Do you feel better now?”

You nodded and smiled at him. You hadn’t forgotten what he said. But now you were sure whatever he was getting at was all but out the window after your little display.

“Come back with me to my room.”

Well, that just blasted your little theory.

You sat up straight and your jaw dropped open wide, “Why?”

Harry laughed, “Because I don’t want to go back alone. Spend the night with me tonight, Y/n.”

Were you in a dream? Had you drunk too much and were blacked out and hallucinating?

“I don’t… I’m not sure what you…” you were unable to put your thoughts together coherently. You hadn’t expected it. You assumed you weren’t his type. Too chunky for a man like him. Imagined he preferred a more modelesque figure on women he found attractive given his appearance.

“Look. I’ll just be very straightforward with you. I think you’re gorgeous and I’d like to have you in my bed tonight. Naked. How does that sound to you?”

You whispered the word naked back to him as if it were a word you’d never heard before. You took a deep breath and looked around the room.