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nichuuu · 2 days ago

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Paper Houses

Cho Miyeon x M reader

(1st instalment of The View Between Villages)

Word Count: 18k+ Special thanks to @defmaybe for helping to draw out the best version of this fic.

(All the details? Really? Oh wow. Okay…)

(I’m gonna dissociate myself from this so… “you” is gonna appear a lot. Don’t sweat it cupcake—you’re not actually the one in this mess.

It’s just a bad habit of mine, that’s all.)

(You’re lucky. You get the sweet start to it all. For what it’s worth: sweetness is a fucking deceiving concept when you have rose-tinted lenses.)

“You know: out of all the men I’ve dated, you cook the best.”

You raise an eyebrow as you flip the grilled cheese in your skillet. Frankly, there’s nothing to be impressed about over grilled cheese and tomato soup. Cheese sandwiched between two evenly buttered slices of bread, grilled till golden brown and served with a side of hot tomato juice in a bowl. Literally everything has been prepared for you and packed neatly into some package in a grocery store. All you did was heat it up and add a few of your own ingredients.

“Is that a compliment or a flex?” you ask, turning your gaze away from your skillet momentarily to look at Miyeon as she replies. Her face isn’t gonna add value to her answer, but you just like looking at her. She is hot after all.

She scoffs and takes a sip of her coffee. “Jeez… Can’t a woman compliment her boyfriend in peace?”

You’ve had this conversation before, but you like to entertain her.

“This woman can’t,” you tell her, making sure she can see the smirk on your face as you turn back to the sandwich. You wave your spatula in the air as you speak, almost like you’re referring to PowerPoint slides. “She’s too weird about everything. Never take her seriously.”

“Oh, so we’re just gonna call me weird and neglect the fact you keep your butter in that?” she exclaims, pointing at the butter bell on top of your fridge. It was a Christmas gift from your mom last year, and even though you did think it was weird at first, you have not gone back to keeping your butter in blocks.

“You keep my fucking butter bell out of this,” you warn, and it’s half joking and half serious.

(No one fucks with your butter bell.)

Miyeon chortles. You don’t need to look at her to know that she’s raising her hands in the air when she says, “jeez man. Didn’t know you guys were tight like that…”

And it’s stupid exchanges like this that make you appreciate her company by bounds. It’s lonely in the apartment when she’s out being famous; really nice to have her around for the holidays, albeit for a short time. It’s been a while since she’s been back. There’s much to catch up on over an 11 am brunch. You don’t know why she’s up so damn early today, cause normally you guys sleep till the late afternoon, then go figure out what to eat for dinner before lazing around in the apartment.

So with cheese falling from the corner of her lip, she gives you the latest developments in her life. Then it’s your turn, and you're glad to say that nothing’s really of interest in either of your updates. That’s usually for the better: sometimes the news you give each other can be a little heart-attack-inducing, so it’s better that your lives are pretty bland.

“You know,” she says as she wipes her mouth. “I might just keep dating you for your food,” she tosses her tissue onto the dining table and lets out a sigh. “Fucking delicious.”

You scoff and sip on your coffee. “Bet you told that to all the guys,” you reply wryly. “Probably gets them real excited, huh?”

She grins. It’s cheeky, mischievous, maybe even a little naughty. “Not telling.”

“You don’t tell me a lot of things,” you chuckle, and you’re low-key unsurprised to hear a little bit of unintended bitterness in your voice. “Not that it matters or anything… I just value communication.”

Oh, you’re petty. So fucking petty that it makes your skin crawl a little.

Miyeon’s unfazed.

“Don’t get your tits in a tussle, pretty boy,” she muses. She folds her arms and leans into the table. “You’ll know more when I trust you more. For now: I’ll give you information as I please.”

And you kick yourself because you forget she can be a bit of a handful herself.

“Ugh, what will I ever do with this mysterious woman?” you smirk, resting your elbow against the table as you lean in as well. To be perfectly clear: you’re not mad at her. Her secrecy just bugs you out a little, and she knows it. “Such little knowledge on such a hardened beauty… must be tough to really crack her open and figure her out.”

You love her eyes, and you love to make them roll (in multiple contexts). They kinda gleam as she tilts her head. “Fine… I’ll give you something since you’re so damn desperate,” she drums her fingers against her cheek while her chin nestles itself into her palm. “What I’m about to give you is gonna change your life in so many ways. It’ll probably redefine your whole damn existence.”

You express your interest by leaning in a little more. Miyeon checks her six—like she isn’t in the comfort of her own home—before leaning in. She’s all clandestine. You have no idea what for.

“You ready?” she checks. And you know she isn’t expecting an answer, but you nod nonetheless. She checks her left and right for good measure. You never know: maybe your lamp is listening.

“I’m aching for cock right now.”

And you guys don’t even make it to the couch.

It’s on the floor next to your table where she has your face in her hands, and she’s kissing you aggressively. She’s properly kissing you, and it makes you knock the back of your head against the floor a little, but it’s really not too big of a deal.

She lifts her lips off yours and smirks. “For the record: it’s your fault that we aren’t fucking on the couch.”

“Yeah, and I actually paid rent early for once,” you shoot back sarcastically. “And would you mind helping me clean the yacht I most definitely own on my luxurious salary? Thanks a bunch, honey.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. She knows you’re full of shit, but she’s full of the same shit as you. Form a shit pile or something, maybe even a shit mountain if you feel like it. You could really go on for a while about how you two can talk for hours, but that’s not the main event.

The real deal comes when she has her hand beneath the waistband of your pants, slithering down to the very thing she aches for. She has that smile on her face, the one that kinda says “Oh I’m gonna love this” or “you’re gonna love this” or maybe even both. There are ways to distinguish the messages by looking at her eyes, but you’re a little too lazy to go figure it out right now. And before someone calls you a bum, you can’t help it: she has her hand on your cock and a piercing gaze trained on you. How about you try and focus on discerning implicit messages when there's a hot woman touching you in the right places?

“How are you hard already?” she asks, a hint of a giggle in her tone as she presses your shaft against your body. There’s barely any space down there, yet she makes it work so easily. “I didn’t even, like, do anything yet.”

“Well,” you hum, just as she starts to squeeze your member, appling that toe-curling pressure to your tip and smiling as you strain a little. “I can kinda see your tits through your shirt.”

Miyeon raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t even look at her shirt. “Oh?” and she starts to pump. “I didn’t notice that…”

“Totally,” you grunt. “Like how you don’t notice that your shorts are barely shorts?” you continue, but there’s something more bugging you. “And at least pull my pants down if you’re gonna jack me off, would you?”

Miyeon snorts, but compiles nonetheless. She gets your pants and boxers off with ease. It’s one swift motion (it’s practiced grace really), and she gets back to the task at hand before she was so rudely interrupted.

“What does seeing my tits have anything to do with you?” Her motions are languid and fluid, steady and flowing like a stream. She doesn’t need to look. She doesn't need to guess. She knows you like the back of her hand. “Does it turn you on? Excite you?”

You have it in you to roll your eyes before they shut. “Stop asking these fucking ridiculous questions.”

“It's a basic inquiry.” She laughs in this aloof tone that you know is paired with the most devious of smiles. “So you won’t let me compliment you and you won’t let me ask questions? Tsk. Chivalry is dead.”

Miyeon goes a little faster, adds a twist of her wrist. This is just her hand, mind you, and it’s already ruining you in a way that only she is capable of. The tender touch of Cho Miyeon is something no woman you’ve met could ever replicate, and it takes you to places that you can only visit with her. Those fingers are magic, that mouth is magic—hell, everything about her is magic.

“Please,” you manage to quip past the jolts of magic being sent through your system. “We both know that you have the answers to all the questions you just asked.”

She giggles—playfully, you might add. This is all a part of the game you play with her; this is the way Miyeon’s cookie crumbles. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Who cares?”

You care: not a lot, but enough to make this as humorous as you want it to be. You kinda only give two shits because it lets you be kinda petty with her, but not that you externalise it or anything. You just have it pent up in you for the fun of it.

“Anyway,” she muses, halting the strokes of her hand to your cock. “Have I told you about how much I wanted you to fill me while I was filming?”

You take a moment to breathe. “No… But do tell.”

And gets to that, but not before ridding herself of her shirt first. By technicality, it’s your shirt, but it shrunk in the dryer at some point, so it just became hers. She gets into the details, the nitty gritty; tells you exactly what she’s imagining during the filming of her Music Video all while you kind just sit there and ogle at her chest. She takes her time, covers the stuff that you don’t really need to know but it’s kinda hot to know — things like “ugh, I needed you to bend me over the hood of that car and just fuck me at that point…” — because you admittedly get off knowing that she ever thinks about you that way and… God, you’re rambling aren’t you? Still pretty fitting though: it’s the way Miyeon talks when she’s thinking nonsense.

“Ugh. Now I’m wet,” she mutters. She speaks as if it’s your fault that she went on rambling about her fantasies with you. “You know you make me like, really horny right?”

“Oh no… Whatever will I do?” you’re really just rolling with it. Not because you want to, but because you want to get this bit where you tease each other over and done with. It’s kinda like marinating meat in the way it makes the sex a little hotter. Truthfully: you’re aching for her. Really: you want nothing more than to just get her pinned beneath you and writhing on your wooden floor.

And frankly? You could do all of that right now.

So it’s with a bit of grace (and some dexterity) that you flip the positions: now you’re kneeling over her while she is the one that lies on the floor, if that makes any sense. Miyeon isn’t shocked by your sudden movements, more so delighted by the fact that you finally gave in to your carnal urges and just went for it. She smiles, knowing full well that she’s done something that's gonna give her that fuel she needs for the week. You know: sex that’s the opposite of soft; some shit that fulfills some wild thoughts.

“Gotta say, you’re quicker than usual,” she has that cocky smirk on her face. You wanna wipe it right off her face, and you know just how. “Normally you’re all talk, no– Oh…”

You like that it really only takes a finger pressed against her panties to shut her up. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make her shut her eyes and shut up for a moment. The spot you press on is damp, soaked in that sweet slick. Gently, you trace the outline of those swollen folds. “You were saying?”

She has it in her to laugh—a breathy chortle. “Fuck you.”

“I’m working on that,” you fire back. Your cock twitches a little when you see her jolt in response to your touch. Your finger pressed down on that one spot that makes her weak, and it really works wonders: an airy gasp slips past those thin, luscious lips. The number of times you’ve kissed those lips swollen is not a number countable with 10 fingers.

Miyeon sighs, and it’s a mix of pleasure and frustration in her breath that humors you. She relaxes into the floorboards, her hips rock, her cunt rubs against your fingers. She's searching for some friction — sweet release in lewd movements. You let her move for a bit, watch her shake like the bough of a willow tree as she pleases herself against your fingers.

“Enjoying yourself?” you quip.

“Yeah..” she hums. “Passing time while you’re still not taking these shorts off me.”

Of course… How could you be so forgetful?

You stop for a moment to help her wriggle out of her clothing. It isn’t one of her most graceful moments, but it quickly passes. The shorts join your pants on the floor. Her panties are pink — not that subtle shade of pink or even like a darker version of pink. It’s Barbie fucking Pink.

“So we’re feeling loud today, huh?” you ask, letting your finger trail the lacy parts of the fabric. Miyeon smiles.

“Sana gave them to me,” she explains, not the least bit sheepish that her damp spot is visibly darker than the rest of her underwear. “Hope this doesn’t affect you in your work or anything…”

You feel the corner of your lip turn up. “No, no… Of course not,” you assure her, all while you let your hand slip between the fabric and her skin. You can feel her shudder, then you feel the heat of her cunt at the tip of your fingers. “You caught me on the right day actually… Pink’s in my rotation of favourite colours this fine morning.”

“Right,” her voice has a lilt. It’s shuddering a little too. “I knew that… Definitely had that in mind.”

You laugh. Your index fingers slip between her folds. She moans.

You lower yourself, capture a swollen, taut nipple in your mouth. The sweet suction you deliver makes her gasp. Her hand finds itself in your head.

It’s all quite rhythmical, almost like a routine for the two of you. The way your bodies react to each other feels so natural that you think it might just be second nature at this point. You know her body: you’ve memorised the dips and curves and tender spots; the hot spots, the warm parts and the best parts. She knows you—the way you think, the way you talk; the way you play with her and the things you want to do with her. It would be safe to say that you guys practically have PhDs in the subject of each other, but that’s not a fair statement because you’re both a little more complicated than you let on. That keeps the sex exciting; it makes you crave each other a little more than last time.

“One or two?” you whisper, letting your finger dip in and out of her lips and getting it all wet in her slickness. She takes a moment to think, or maybe she’s taking a moment to really soak in the teasing. Either way: she takes some time to reply.

“Two,” she shifts herself a little lower, her clit pressing into the base of your middle finger. It makes her sigh — a low, kinda sonorous escape of air through her lips. “I hope you trimmed your nails this time.”

“That last time was a minor mishap,” you admit. You kinda want to pull your hands out to double-check, but you’re too mired in the moment to assuage your worries. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control.”

She beams like the damn sun. “Good. I like it when you’ve got the reins.”

And that makes you suck in some air through your teeth.

(God, does she know how to try you on.)

Your digits push themselves inside of her. They’re wrapped in her tight warmth, snug as a bug in a rug or whatever. You love the way her abs kinda flex as your fingers introduce themselves to her insides. It makes the best parts of her pop. Her chest rises a little more than the last time, her breaths becoming a little longer and more drawn out as your fingers explore her like always. The way she jolts when you get to that one spot at the roof of her pussy tells you that she has been primed and ready for this moment, loaded up like a shotgun and the trigger is really just any part of you that makes her cum. It could be your fingers, your tongue, your dick, your thigh—any part of you that can get her to that sweet high. Of course: you’re more than happy to assist. And so your mouth latches itself back onto her breast, tongue licking and swishing and flicking the swollen nipple atop her small yet generously sized breast. You relish the way it feels in your hand as you cup it—not too firmly and not too gently—and give it a squeeze, enjoying how the flesh spills out a little between your fingers but still fits in the palm of your hand.

“How do you only get better at this?” she hisses through her teeth. “I mean, I just saw you last week but… Oh god…”

You remove her nipple from your mouth. “Art is honed. This is art.”

She laughs, then throws her head back to let out a moan. “Well I’ll be damned,” her eyes close as she speaks, resting themselves for a bit so that she can enjoy the feel of your fingers in the best part of her slick. “Paint me like one of your French girls then.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now.

You can’t track the exact moments where she starts to blue screen on you, but you can guess it's somewhere between you pinching her nipple and when you slide a third finger into her. The pressure, the stretching—it’s, like, everything she wants as of right now. She lets out this choked-up cry that you like to hear, the supple curve of her back growing more defined as she arches just a little more. She doesn't hold back, she never does. When you’re making her feel good, you can bet some good money that she’ll let you know. She’ll find her own way to express herself, be it through sound or action or words—sometimes a combination of all three.

The way she feels around your fingers—delicate squeezing and sweet pressure around your digits as they stretch her to new lengths—is nothing short of enthralling. You can feel her pulse around you, the dull throb of her heartbeat as it beats for the sole purpose of getting all that blood rushing into the right areas. Your hand is kinda messy, fingers coated down to your knuckles in the sweet substance from her heat. Miyeon starts to writhe, squirm. A whine leaves her mouth. It’s followed by another, and another, and another—keeps going till the whiny stream ends with a guttural moan.

Her legs close around your wrist. Her throat bobs.

“Mmph… baby…” her hand flails a bit as she tries to search for you. She catches your shoulder and her nails dig in. “Your mouth… I want your mouth on me.”

You always loved how forthcoming she is.

“Miyeon…” you drawl, and this next bit is really just for the fun of it. “What’s the magic word?”

She laughs softly through the pleasure, lets a smile grace your eyes. She doesn’t fight it; she wants it—wants you. She just wants you in any shape or form. Any version of you will do; she’ll take all the different sides of you in a heartbeat. All she needs is you. “Please.”

You’ve never found so much delight in hearing that word. Kinda makes you want to hear it again.

“I can’t hear you,” your thumb presses down onto her clit. Her thighs start to twitch.

“Please!” she yells that magic word in the form of a shout this time. Your cheeks hurt from how widely you’re beaming.

You retract your fingers. They come up to your mouth so you can taste her off of them. She’s nothing short of delicious, and you can kinda tell that she knows it because she’s smirking as she watches you clean off yourself.

“How are we feeling about the samples?” she has that proud gleam in her eye. “Pineapple’s been in my diet as of late… Just wondering if anything’s different.”

You smack your lips. “Picking up on a little tang here… Can’t be sure though.”

Her hands slide down to her hips, thumbs hooking into the band of her panties and pulling them down her thighs. “No worries. There’s more where it came from.”

The gall of this girl is insane, you’re thinking, smirking as you assist the journey of her underwear down her slim, milky legs. Like all your other clothing, it’s tossed aside.

Miyeon spreads thighs, bends her knees so that her feet are flat on the floor. You get in position, let your palms slide down her body with careful consideration: run your hands over the sensitive parts of the stomach, skim that one portion of her inner thigh that makes her shiver. She watches—waiting and anticipating while failing to keep her excitement off her face.

She is glistening, swollen and plump to your eyes, kinda far ahead considering that you just used your fingers. She’s eager, unashamed and more proud than embarrassed about her arousal. Her legs shift a bit. She looks at you, a fingernail between her teeth as she exhales sharply when your thumb traces the outline of her pussy, careful in its endeavor as you feel the muscles around her slick tense up in response. Oh she’s so damn impatient right now, but she lets you get away with all of this because it gets her off a little harder; the teasing is just part of the show and the climax will probably follow pretty soon, fast and hard

“You’ve been looking forward to this, huh?” you remark, watching as her eyelids flutter when you put a little pressure with the pad of your thumb.

“Mhm…” she replies. It’s a low hum, one that resonates in her throat rather pleasantly. “You have no idea…”

You laugh. Your eyes roll towards the ceiling then set themselves back on her. “Please… We both know I have some idea,” you stop your thumb on her clit, and you begin to draw small circles around it. “You did tell me” —and you have to pause for a bit to use your other hand to press down on her pelvic area, stopping her from jolting her hips up to get that sweet sensation of your thumb rubbing her swollen nub. She whines a little, a soft plea following suit— “about all the things you wanted to do with me.”

She desperately tries to shift herself, press herself a little more against you. The smooth wooden floor hinders her, the lack of friction failing to aid her. Her brows furrow. She’s frustrated. “Yeah, well, if you know what I want so much, why aren’t you fucking getting to it?”

You wink. “Relax. I’m just letting the meat tenderise.”

“Oh shut it you fucking— Mmmph!”

And the way you part her with your tongue, it’s like she’s butter and you’re a hot knife slicing her open. You're slow with it, and you don’t stop when Miyeon’s thigh stiffens against your palm, or when she squirms a little and almost got your tongue derailed from its track. You know what makes her tick, what makes her hit the octave and gets her nice and messy for you. If anything gets Miyeon going more than actually fucking—it’s definitely gotta be when you get your tongue on her folds.

“You’re never gonna let me finish my sentences, are you?” she laughs breathily. You watch her abdomen as it rises and falls together with the quick breaths she takes.

“Dunno…” you nuzzle your face in her folds for a little, giving her time to say whatever she wants for a bit. “You did say that chivalry is dead.”

From your bottom up view of her, you can tell that she just rolled her eyes. “No comment. You won’t let my finish it any— oh my fucking god.”

Now it’s the flat of your tongue against her clit that stops her dead in her tracks. Her juices have begun to lather your tongue in their addictive taste, drawing you into her just a little more with each lap of your tongue. You suck on one of her folds, then your tongue is inside her, and she moans, her hand finding a spot on the back of your head that she can grip on to. She calls you crazy, calls you baby, runs her fingers through your hair. Your tongue dips in, circles, laps; your nose brushes against all the right spots of her skin and it draws out these almost sob-like, quiet sounds from her chest and she’s… Fuck, she’s amazing.

“I might take a while,” she whispers to you. You call malarkey, but play along nonetheless.

“Fuck yes,” your tongue swipes the entirety of her in a long, broad stroke. “Please, by all means princess. Take your time,” you don’t think you could ever sound as enthusiastic as you did right now. She pushes you down a little harder onto her slit, and you delight in how she squirms when you push your tongue a little deeper between her folds.

Her nails start to dig into your scalp a bit, and she starts pushing you down onto her cunt a little more.

“You know,” she speaks with this half-whisper-half-gasp, the type of tone that tells you that she’s fighting to stay in control of her own body. “I— mmph… Sometimes I lock myself in the changing room and just get off to the thought of you eating me.”

You suck on the other fold that you neglected earlier. “Oh yeah?” and you get a finger inside of her. She cries out, abdomen flexing deliciously as she turns pliant under the pressure of your finger getting a hold of that sweet spot. You can feel the heat—it feels like your skin is gonna melt. “Bet you get off real hard to it, maybe even harder than you will in like, two minutes.”

“Two?” she tries to sound a little defiant, but her voice is cracking and it’s really not working out in her favour. Your finger is barely pushing up by the way, yet it seems like she’s got thousands of pascals of pleasure weighing down on every part of her being. “Don’t put yourself on a fucking pedestal… I am nowhere close.”

You hum in reply, saving your energy to suck on her clit. And it’s almost like she’s spring-loaded in the way her thighs clamp around your ears immediately after. Her fingers eat into your scalp, a light, searing pain growing across your head as you kiss her right fold, then her left. You can tell that there’s liquid burning heat running through her body, spilling all over her. Miyeon tries to hold on, tries to prolong this for a little more by getting her nails deep in your scalp. But she’s falling apart, coming undone with each second.

“Baby.”

“One minute left,” you put your lips back around her clit. Her head thumps against the floorboards.

“I—can’t.”

“Ugh. Hate it when you lie.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Just fucking cum.”

And she ruins herself. She loses sense of the world for a bit—convulsing and twitching on the floor while you continue to lick her. No cry leaves her mouth; a strained, choked up phonic gets caught in her throat and refuses to dislodge. Her back arches, her thighs flex. Her world fades for a bit.

Give or take: she takes a minute or so. When she gasps for air, you know she’s come back down to earth. You welcome her with a kiss to her abdomen as you rise up. Her cheeks are rubicund—flushed and making her glow as she smiles at you. She softly captures your cheeks in her hands.

“Okay,” she huffs, taking deep breaths as she strokes your face with her thumb. “Out of all the men I’ve dated: you can cook and eat the best.”

“Twenty dollars says that you’ve said that to at least four guys,” you muse. “Maybe five if I’m generous.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. Inhales. Exhales.

“Hand on my heart,” she uses one hand to push some hair out of her face. “I’ve only said this to you.”

Ignorance is bliss. Believing her is a sort of ignorance.

You willfully let yourself be blissful because you can.

(Then fast forward a little. Maybe like, three hours? Or however long it takes for you to have a nap and a shower to get ready to go out.)

“Are you seriously going out in that?”

And you have to stop at the door. You know that tone all too well.

“What is it this time?” you grumble, turning around to face the bed so that she can get a full biopsy of your outfit. It isn’t a bad outfit in your honest opinion, and you’re no stranger to horrible (unintentional) attempts at making fashion statements. Colour-blindness is a hereditary curse; it’s not your fault that you can’t tell that this shade of blue doesn’t work with that shade of grey and whatnot. “I swear I wore this a week ago and you said nothing.”

Miyeon slips out from under the covers. In your T-shirt, she saunters with purpose and urgency as she makes her way over. She stops in front of you and takes your tie into her hands. “It’s either you lose this tie or do something else to this already god-forsaken outfit.”

You consider the options for a hot minute. You’re kinda proud of this outfit—it took a lot of time and vetting through Miyeon to get it planned out and everything. The tie was kind of a staple piece—as important as the shirt or trousers. To hear that (in essence) you looked like shit admittedly dealt a blow to your ego, but why be petty when you can be cavalier?

“Whatever,” you reply, making no effort to stop her from trailing a nail up your shirt. “I couldn’t really care less about how this woman perceives me tonight. Not even into her anyway.”

Miyeon chuckles. The finger on your chest wraps itself around the top of your tie. “That’s an option as well,” she adjusts the knot, though it doesn’t look like she’s doing it to make you look better. “But can I give you one more alternative?”

“By all means, princess.”

She tugs on your tie, pulls you close. Your lips are just centimetres away from hers. You get a whiff of her scent. She’s using the shampoo you bought her.

“Stay home,” she makes sure that her voice is kinda breathy, tickles your face as she lets the phonics dissipate into warm air. “Skip the date. You have a smoking hot girlfriend to fuck anyway.”

Oh and it takes you just about everything to stop you from grabbing her by the face and just kissing her. It's so easy: reach forward, get her face (or waist) in your hands and just smash her lips against yours. You know she’s thinking the same thing; but she’s waiting on you, anticipating what you’re going to do next. It’s a sick little game the two of you play, but it’s fun as hell and really doesn’t get boring in the near future.

“You know what my mom would say…” you begin, and you know she’s gonna stop you.

“Say you're sick”—bingo motherfuckers. She owes you five bucks—“tell her that you got the cold and so you can’t show up.”

“Expended on that one… And the work emergency one too,” you regretfully inform her. “And no: I will not be telling them that we’re actually a thing—“

“Cause you want to protect me and blah blah…” she interjects yet again, her fingers moving up and down, closing against her thumb in mimicry of a mouth moving. It’s petty, kinda frustrating—but it’s Miyeon. She’s a handful to deal with at times, but at least she’s your handful to deal with. “Been running the same jig for a little too long, tiger. I know your game.”

“I know,” you admit. “I’m a one-trick Pony and my carrot is you. What’s new?”

She chortles at that, and you take that moment to really get a good look at her because by god is she beautiful. Head-turner, eye-widener, heart-racer — not to be a bore, but again: it’s Miyeon. There’s a lot more about her that you could synthesize into words, but you won’t (not because you don’t want to or anything; but it’s more about the fact that you probably don’t have enough time to get someone to understand her.)

Cause here’s the thing (about her, you and both of you): she’s just as human as anyone, and that means she’s just about as complicated as anyone. You’ve got a story, she’s got her’s, and the two cross somewhere to form a midpoint before they start running parallel to each other before meeting again and running together and… You get it, don’t you?

No? Fuck.

Okay. She may or may not be able to hold down a relationship; and you may or may not have been able to secure a relationship. You kinda get drunk with her over this revelation one night and you may or may not have joked over the fact that maybe you should get together. And then you may or may not have had the hottest sex you’ve had in years before you may or may not have realised that she’s the best thing to happen to you. It’s all kinda hypothetical to you cause you’re still processing the fact that this is all real. Still wondering if it’s a fling cause it’s only been about 3 months since this started.

(Calm down cupcake, no one likes a party pooper who prods on details in the midst of a story. It’s just… Ugh. The story behind how the two of you know each other is so boring and complicated—full of unnecessary exposition like this whole bit really. It hurts to retell it, so here’s a summary: she used to date your roommate, roommate moved out after they broke up, she stayed and hanged around you, here you are now. Fuck the details, there’s no room for it really. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.)

“Save the charisma,” she tells you, really putting on some breath behind her words. “I prefer it when you use it in bed.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now.

The kiss kinda blurs the line between passionate and sweet (if there even was a line to begin with). It’s quite aggressive, a little tender but also a wee bit emotional. It makes you a little bitter, but don’t get it twisted: you love this girl with all your heart and you’d do anything to stay with her. It’s just that you’d love—more than anything—to lose the shirt and pants you’re wearing to make out with her, and then let things flow as they do. Unfortunately, your parents really want you to meet this girl, and you have to get going or you’ll probably get cut from the will or something.

She tries again. “Stay…”

“Miyeon—”

“I fucking need you… Please.”

It’s just so fucking tempting…. But there are only so many lines you can cross before you find yourself in trouble with border patrol. And if there's anything you hate more than lectures, it’s lectures from your mother.

Her lips graze yours, hovering just millimeters away. She wants to kiss you—bite your lower lip and pull you into an undoubtedly sloppy lip lock. That will end with your hand somewhere on her body that gets the ball rolling (and we all know where that ball goes). She has it in her to do it; she has the right, the means and the fucking autonomy (and audacity). She’s just waiting on you, seeing what happens when she plants the seed of an idea in your head and waters it a little.

Unfortunately for her, you’re too damn terrified of your parents to let that seed grow.

“I‘ll see you later,” you whisper, albeit a little reluctantly. “Call me if anything comes up.”

She understands that she’s lost. Doesn’t stop her from giving you that kiss though. “Don’t keep me waiting tonight… I love you.”

Ugh. She’s one hell of a woman, isn’t she?

So get this: this woman that your mother found for you is possibly the most boring person you’ll ever meet. She’s beautiful and all, but she has the personality that has just about the same amount of flavour as food in the west before spices.

She spends the meal talking about her job, and you kinda just fix her with a hundred yard stare and tune out. You couldn’t give a shit about computer security really—never was and never will be into that shit. It doesn’t help that your phone is kinda blowing up at the moment. It’s buzzing all over your thigh in your pocket. Pretty trippy, kinda makes you wonder if Miyeon had just slipped one of her vibrators into your pocket.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at some point. You’re not sure how long she’s been yapping your ear off for, but it kinda doesn’t matter. All you’ve gotten from this meal is really just a handful of nonsense and a migraine.

Anyway: it’s in the confines of the bathroom store that you check on the ruckus in your pocket. The screen lights up and you find that the spasming of your phone was caused by a combination of posts from a news outlet and from Miyeon. She takes precedence over the news.

Miyeon//8:01 pm: I swear to you I have no idea what’s going on

Miyeon//8:01 pm: I’m getting this at the same time as you

Miyeon//8:02 pm: I don’t know what’s happening. Please come home.

And the way you open your news app almost instantly makes you feel like you’re all too familiar with this. It’s not a headline, but it might as well be from the way it makes your eyes widen and your breath stop for a second.

You blink. You blink again.

The words don’t change.

Suddenly, you have a valid reason to get out of this dinner.

(How you get home is a little fuzzy, but that’s not really the important part.

What? The headline? Oh you know it, don’t you cupcake? It was literally the only thing on people’s minds for some reason, as if an idol dating an actor is something unheard of.)

“What the fuck?” you ask when you step through your apartment door.

She sighs as you remove your coat and hang it behind your door. “Look… I’m just as confused as you are—”

“An actor?” you interject. You’ll admit that it’s a little rude, but you’re really just trying to make sense of this as fast as possible. “How long have you known this guy?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t,” she huffs. “I swear to you, hand on my heart and the other on the bible, I am not in love with that man.” She says. “I barely even know the fucker, never talked to him in my life.”

It’s a little hard to look at her right now. You have lots of things to say; lots of feelings and lots of thoughts. If you’re really gonna be honest with yourself: you’re scared, hurt and a little confused. Miyeon’s good at lying—a little too good for your liking. Pair that knowledge with your insecurities, and congrats: you’ve just given birth to multiple insecurities. They’re like little demons running amok in your chest. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

You can’t do this with her now. Not when all this is all so fresh and new.

But she catches your arm as you try to walk past her. Her grip is firm, pleading.

“Please,” she utters, letting her hand slide down your arm to let her fingers wrap around your hand. “Trust me on this.”

You want to. You really want to. And so it hurts you to ask, “Am I just another fling?”

You can see it in her eyes when she realises the motivation behind the question. She doesn’t take long to come to the epiphany—just a little less than a second before her eyes soften and her lips part a little. Her expression scares you. You want to run from this all together and leave it to another day, but God knows that you won’t be getting any sleep with this weight in your head. It’s comical, almost hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that it’s your relationship with her on the line.

You like to think that she can’t express her answer into words, so she kisses you instead. You’ll never know why she chose to kiss you, but it's sweet and so powerful that you can kinda live with that gap in your knowledge. You may or may not have teared a little, and you may or may not have melted into her lips a little too quickly. What you can say for certain: when you find yourself back in those eyes, panting with your face between her hands—the words ‘I love you’ escape your mouth faster than you can think. You don’t say it for the sake of it; you say it cause you mean it. You want her to know that you’ll fight for this relationship, that you’ll fight for her.

And it makes her smile.

“I’m like, in love with your goofy ass,” she mutters, thumb tracing a path along your cheek. “So don’t you ever think that I’d drop you for some slick-back fuck face.”

That’s more than enough for you. Her smile is contagious as you hold her waist. “Crude. I love you, Miyeon.”

“Yeah. I heard you the first tim—”

Of course: you don’t wait for a finished reply to kiss her. It’s a practice, almost a common tongue at this point.

Miyeon lets her hands fall, gets her arms around your neck while you reacquaint your lips with hers. She’s lovely, fucking divine and maybe even a little addictive—straight up dangerous if you’re to sum it up. You wonder, for a second, if you’re being manipulated, and it’s really only for a second because she’s got her teeth in your bottom lip and she’s dragging them towards her. She wants more—more of you and less of this need to prove her love. She touches your chest, palm flat against your flesh as she deepens the kiss. Ignorance is bliss. Believing her is a sort of ignorance. Kissing her deepens that ignorance, makes you all the more blissful.

“I need you,” you breathe, unashamed by your blatant desire to have her right now. Really: you can’t get enough of her smell right now. “Please Miyeon… Let me be the only one.”

She smiles softly. She runs her fingers through your hair. “Baby, you already are.”

You press your forehead against hers. “I know. But can we just…”

You can’t really verbalise what you want out of this. You want Miyeon, but you don’t just want the idea and concept of her. You long for that connection with her, that union and that closure, not just some fleeting, superficial feelings. This woman is quite literally one of your dreams. It’s selfish to say this, but you want that security—something tangible to know that you’re really hers and she’s really yours, a piece of her that you can hold on to that helps rid your heart of those little demons. You hope she can understand this through your closed eyes.

And something about the way she fixes your hair tells you that she does.

“It’s okay,” she assures you, her other hand finding that one spot on your chest. It feels like it’s touching your heart directly, calming it. “I get it,” her fingers wrap around the knot of your tie, loosening it till it unravels completely. “You’re hurt and scared. Frankly, so am I.”

Miyeon wraps the tie up neatly in her fist. Her hands cross over each other as she reaches down to grab the hems of her shirt. It slips off her, a layer peeled away. Then the tie rolls down from her hand.

“I want you to know”—she drapes the tie around her shoulders, the thin portion ever so slightly shorter than the broader portion as they hang on either side of those perky mounds—“I will do everything I can to protect you and us.”

She tosses the smaller end across her body, cloth flying over her left shoulder and dangling behind her arm. The broader end is wrapped around her neck—once, twice.

Miyeon steps closer and takes your hand. The broad end of the tie gets slotted into your palm.

“And even though I might have to be seen with him,” she coos, and she’s a little clumsy as she reaches for the thin end behind her, but she gets it on her second or third try. “Even though I might have to hold his hand in public,” she slips it between her skin and the loop she’s made, ties it off. “You should know: I am yours.”

She shocks you into silence as always. You know what she’s insinuating. You know that she knows what she’s insinuating. Your eyes search her for consent, and you find that it’s the only thing you can make out behind the veneer of a tender gaze. She checks the makeshift leash she’s made. It’s not coming off anytime soon.

You wrap some of the tie around your hand. Your fingers close around the silky fabric.

(Just so we’re clear: the tie may look horrible on you, but she looks amazing in it.)

You pull.

And it’s just that.

Clothes come off, lips meet, sighs fly through the room. Her hands explore you, grab you, pump you; your kisses find the best parts of her, the parts you love the most and the parts she loves attention at. The tie never leaves your hand, and you give it a tug or two when you get your digits in her on the couch. You’ll never forget the way she looks when her head is forced up just after it whips back, the glassy look in her eye as she begs for you, keens for you. Never in your life has anything this debauched been so intimate. You’ve never heard sighs out of you and her so luscious.

“Princess,” you quite literally growl as you address her. It’s not necessary, but the squelching of your fingers in her slick brings out something in you—a part of you that’s wild and somewhat untamed. “I fucking love the way you moan.”

Miyeon bites down on her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. “Yeah? She husks, her eyes going half-lidded in pleasure when you get your fingers in the same, soft, tender spot on the roof of her pussy. “It’s all for you. Ngh— A-All yours…”

And you don’t know how you can not believe her at this point.

You pull at the tie. She almost straightens completely. You kiss her. Her moans send pleasant vibrations down your windpipe.

It’s all so perfect. And it somehow gets even more perfect when she cums—waves of heat burning through her system; eyes shut and mouth agape; hands around your neck and your name spilling from her lips in a mix of curses (that mostly contain the word ‘fuck’); body convulsing and twitching in ways that make a low grunt emerge from the depths of your chest as you watch her. She’s beautiful—your beautiful princess.

When it’s over, you let the tie go slack. She crashes against the couch, forcing air back into her lungs with deep breaths. There’s sweat on her face, her body. Your hand finds its place on her tummy as you place small kisses on the corner of her lip, her jaw. Her skin is moist and sticky.

“Have me,” and it’s more so of a demand than a request. “Take me. However you want, wherever you want,” she runs her hands through your hair, “You’re the only one I want.”

You let out a low hum. It lightly vibrates at the base of your throat as you catch her earlobe between your lips.

“Has anyone told you how fucking beautiful you are?” you can’t help but ask. She searches your face or a minute, then she chortles.

“About half the world,” she replies. “But it means the most coming from you.”

(Oh… That line really means the fucking world to you.)

You kiss her, hard. It’s messy, sloppy, and at some point you guys are scrambling to get on top of each other. She wins at one point, and so she rides you—dropping and rising hard and fast on your cock like a lewd merry-go-round carriage. She’s relentless, letting your cock fill her while she blanks out and just lets herself cry and moan like you don’t have thin walls in your apartment. You let her please herself, throw herself down onto your cock again and again till you decide that it’s your turn to have some fun. The tie is your friend, and you use it to pull her real close to not too kindly hiss your instructions into her ear.

You’d kill to see the look in her eyes again.

And so you have her against the nearest wall in less than a minute, her back flushed against it and one of her legs bent in the crook of your arm. She reaches between your bodies, grabs your throbbing shaft and rubs your tip against her slit. You feel the heat of her pussy—the desire and depravity that burn in her core. You can’t believe she’s yours.

“I’m gonna put this in me,” she narrates her course of action, all breathy and silky. “It’s gonna fill me, fuck me… Maybe even cum in me.”

“I wouldn’t get ahead of ourselves here,” you whisper, your hand wrapping itself back in the fabric of the tie. “That last part? I dunno… Seems a little optimistic, don’t you think?”

She pushes your head in between her folds—not all the way, but enough to part them. “And why is that?”

You pop your hips, push yourself in a little more. She inhales sharply.

“I only cum inside good girls.”

The smile that creeps its way onto her face is wicked.

“Trust me,” her hand finds purchase on your shoulder, pads of her fingers digging into the muscle. “I’ll be the best you ever get.”

She puts her weight onto the leg in your arm. You slide into her.

And you both take a moment to enjoy the unity—the feeling of the two of you being joined as one; your out of sync heartbeats that feel like pattering raindrops around your shaft. You want to say something witty, a quip that will get a nice chuckle out of her.

All you can really manage is, “Fuck.”

And in response: “Talk less. Fuck more.”

You draw back, push in. There’s the sopping sound of your shaft going in and out of her, wet pushing into warm flesh. You groan. She sighs.

Tight, hot, wet, divine.

And it goes without saying: when you pick up the pace, she lets you know that she loves the feeling—the stretching, the filling, the push and pull. It comes to you in the form of pure filth: words that have very little consideration for propriety and no room for decency, something along the lines of “I can’t believe you feel this good. I can’t believe this cock is mine” or “That’s it. Keep filling me. Keep fucking— Oh” or maybe even a mix of both. You can’t be certain, because between you and her, you both know that the undulating of your cock into her tight, creamy heat and the almost torturous pressure around your dick is taking you under by the second. It’s not hard to lose yourself in her when she’s basically a little piece of you.

Like always, she let her pleasure be known through desperate noises and choked up words. “Keep going, please, fuck—don't stop,” and it sounds like it hurts but you know it’s the other way around. Her pleasure coated tongue makes the lust in her words undeniable, her half-lidded eyes ruining the argument that she’s in any pain whatsoever. You yank on her tie, her body curves closer. You need a better look at that face.

(Trust me, it’s a face you don’t want to forget.

For lack of a better word: it’s porny as fuck.)

It's a blissful dance – the rhythmic, almost metronomical give of her thighs as you slide yourself home again and again steadily and firmly. The smacking of sweaty and sticky skins colliding is almost evenly paced, sighs and grunts filling the spaces between slaps. She follows your lead, rocks her hips accordingly, angles herself and adjusts so that she can feel you in the deepest parts of her cunt. You lift her leg a little higher, spear yourself a little deeper. You listen to your body, she listens to hers. You give in to your desires.

You don’t mean to blurt it. You don’t mean to make the sex more complicated than it already is. But it happens—it fucking happens and you can’t stop it.

“I love you,” your voice is nothing more than a rasp. She feels so fucking good around you — squeezing, pulsing and doing every little thing that makes your jaw tighten and you legs tense. “I fucking love you, Miyeon.”

She holds your gaze, then smiles, then nods. She nods vigorously, enthusiastically. “I know… It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Your hand on the tie releases it from your grasp. You catch a bouncing breast in your hand, squeeze the tight and taut nipple with your fingers. The tie shakes violently like a snake writhing, bouncing and swaying with each firm impact against Miyeon’s skin. She mewls, pulls you in, kisses you. She lets herself come undone with her chest flushed against you and your hearts aligned as she lets the cries transfer from your mouth to hers. You pump yourself faster, harder, faster, harder. Your finger digs into the flash near her knee. Your blood is boiling, molten metal spilling over and washing over you—gold rush, acid flux, saturating you in this bliss that numbs you out. You can’t tell where your thrusts start and end. They’re blurred by the heat washing over your eyes. You can’t get enough. The way you fuck her—it feels relentless, merciless, a fire that only burns brighter and can’t be put out, fuelled by the heat of Cho Miyeon flushed against you and the sublime squeeze of her slick heat. Everything about this is hot; everything about her is hot.

“Don’t you ever let me go,” she hisses. “Fuck— don’t ever leave. This cock is mine. You are mine.”

“Princess, I’d never,” you nuzzle yourself into the crook of her neck, pepper her nicely with kisses. “You. Only you.”

“Yeah,” and her breath is hot on the nape of your neck. “Cause I can’t ever fucking imagine anyone else filling me this fucking good. No one has ever filled me this good.”

And her fricatives feel like acid: Aqua Regia—melting straight through solid gold just to get to you. It makes you burn a little hotter, fuck her a little harder. Your heart burns at the thought of her; your brain melts at the sight of her—glassy-eyed and mouth agape while cock pumps her full of pleasure and want. She finds a spot on your shoulder, whispers her proclamation of love— “I love you I love you I love you— Fuck—”—before she buries her face into your shoulder blade. Her love is an animal call, cutting through the darkness and bouncing off the walls, reaching a soft spot in your heart that you hold for her. Nothing in this world is gonna stop you from turning her into a messy little fucktoy.

It’s hard to think. It’s hard to breathe. She’s become your world, the only thing you ever want to think about. Anything that isn’t her tight little pussy is irrelevant; what isn’t her thin lips pressed against your shoulder is invalid; no pair of eyes will ever match the glassy, lust-fogged ones that Cho Miyeon possesses. Your pulse is rushing, your head is reeling, your face is flushing. You want her—all of her. You suck hard on the milky skin you’ve caught between your lips, marking her, claiming her. She has no qualms nor worries; she tilts her neck to give you better access to that lovely patch of skin that becomes your canvas. She mewls, presses her forehead harder into your body, grounding herself in the sensation of her skin on yours.

“I’m gonna fucking fill you, Miyeon,” you drawl. “I’m gonna cum inside this pretty little pussy and make a mess out of you,”

“Yeah, yes,” she’s barely holding it together at this point. “Please. Oh god please.”

Your hips move on their own now, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you pump yourself into Miyeon with the sole goal of piping her full of your hot seed. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into her in a mindless, fervent fashion, giving in to your desires and your depravity and fucking her like she’s a doll. You relish the feel of her skin in your palms; the feel of her hands pressed against your chest; the sheer, strained phonetic atrocities that rise from the depths of her throat. Your shaft glistens in the light of the room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her hot cunt, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weaker by the second. Miyeon cups your cheek, moans your name. You bury your nose deep in those silky locks of jet black hair. You need every last part of her to be close to you.

She's whimpering, eyes squeezed shut, toes clenching; she’s a coiled up spring, a bundle of nerves waiting to be released. Her bottom lip is between her teeth, her throat bobs. She's coming undone, breaking a little more with each thrust of your cock. You know that she’s cumming before she announces it, and when you fuck her over the point of no return, it’s bliss.

Miyeon melts, head whips back and thumps against the wall, positively combusts on the spot and ceases to hold on to the last bits of herself. She lets herself fall through the pleasure, orgasm almost ripping through her system as she shakes in your grasp. She’s such a precious thing, yet she can look like lust itself when she’s busy cumming all over your cock and whining like her life depends on it. She’s tighter, wetter, even better to fuck.

She really is the best you’ll ever have.

“Miyeon–”

“Just fucking cum.”

Your line; same effect. You fill her, make a creamy mess of her cunt because you can. You fuck her through it, push your load deeper with each thrust. Your cock pulses, spasms, shoots load after load after load into her pussy till you can’t take it anymore and jitter to a halt, and there’s nothing left but a filthy mess flowing out at the base of your cock where her lips are splayed the widest. It’s a sight for sure.

(And there really isn’t a word for the moment that the two of you share in that wrinkle in time, that moment where it’s just all warm and fuzzy and you have your forehead pressed against hers.)

You cradle her in your arms, kiss her chest, her jaw, her lips. It’s tender, it’s gentle.

“We’ll figure this out,” she pants through closed eyes. “I promise you: you and me, we’re gonna figure this all out.”

Somehow, you don’t doubt it.

(Still here? Great. We’re getting to the good part. Get your special sock out or something.)

So the newest rage of the K-pop scene is the photo of Miyeon kissing him in a car.

It's a publicity stunt—the whole damn relationship. They are supposed to appear in love according to Miyeon, and it was his idea to kiss her. She never consented and he just did it. It’s a pretty lewd photo: up close and personal and all. You can see his lips on hers, his hand on her breast and they’re like, clearly getting it on in three. Pretty steamy if you do say so yourself,

(...)

Oh fucking hell. Who are you kidding describing this photo like you’re just viewing an artwork. It makes your blood boil, and speaking to her after seeing this photo feels like dancing to alarm bells when you feign ignorance and just talk with her like it’s a normal Wednesday. You’re gonna hurt yourself at this rate, but she really means too much.

She told you that he forced his lips on hers, you believe her to the best of your ability. You kiss her, tell her it’s okay, that she’s doing what she has to do to protect the two of you. She says she’s sorry, that she feels like she’s failed you. You kiss her again—albeit a little half-hearted—and assure her once more that it’s okay. You want to nurse her pain, but you also have your own problems to deal with.

And as if this fucking actor hasn’t interfered enough with your relationship, he has the audacity to call during the make up sex.

Her phone starts to ring when she’s on her hands and knees on your bed, and you’re fucking her into the mattress like she’s some pliant plaything. There's a rage inside you that hasn’t been quenched, and you don’t realise that it’s bringing out that dark side of you till you spank her ass a little harder than you intended to. It doesn’t help that you kinda twitch when you hear her yelp, and it really doesn’t help when she tightens after the second spank. The phone only continues to vibrate next to her head.

“Baby,” she rasps. “My phone…”

“Pick it up,” you hiss. “Pick it up and let whoever the fuck it is hear how you’re being fucked like a slut.”

Degradation has never really been a kink of yours, but you know she’s kinda into it. Even so, you’re not calling her a slut because you consciously want to. You feel like an asshole for being angry, kinda hate yourself a little for not being able to accept that she’s doing what she needs to do. And then you kinda hate her for making you hate yourself and— Ugh. It just gets more complicated the more you try and rationalise it. You can’t stop the hot blood from coursing through your system, fuelling your firm strokes into her tight heat like you’re trying to inject all the hate in your body into her.

Her hand that was once clawing at the sheets now reaches for her phone. You keep thrusting as she flips it over, keep thrusting as she shows you the caller ID, keep thrusting as she looks back at you with a gaze that says “are you sure?”. You hope she isn’t met by that dark look you often see when you look at yourself in the mirror after a new headline about them hits your screen. It’s funny how one person can flip the idea of make-up sex on its head—turn it from something so tender and beautiful to a spite-fuelled fuck fest that’s gonna make things more complicated. She hasn’t even picked up the fucking phone, but you can hear his sick voice in your head as you drive yourself deeper into her cunt, fuck her harder and faster than you knew you could. She’s in no state to answer the phone, yet her finger taps on the ‘accept call’ button.

(She would’ve rejected it if she could, but she got into some deep shit the last time that happened. Must’ve been threatened or something for her to pick up the phone while she’s getting fucked.)

“Hello?” she does her best to steady her voice, and she’s doing pretty well considering how loud the smacking of skin against skin is. She presses the phone a little tighter against her left ear. You don’t intend on stopping. Let him hear her being owned by you for all you care. “T-This is a bad… a bad time.”

Damn straight it is.

Your hand caresses the curve of her ass. You spank her again, making sure that it’s loud and it leaves a red patch on her smooth, creamy skin. She contacts around you, gasps a little as you bend down and pin her down with your weight on her back.

“W-What?”—and it feels like she’s talking to both of you. You hiss into her other ear. “I’m going to fuck you like this,” your voice is actually a snarl, a dark one. Your body is energized by the promise of taking and ravaging the helpless, prone woman beneath you, your words dripping with loathing and your thrusts brimming with spite. “I’m going to fuck you hard and rough, and you’re gonna keep him on the fucking line so he can hear it.”—“No I’m… Jogging.”

She’s terrible at lying. You let her know through each thrust—hard and deep, uncaring for her pleasure or her comfort or anything other than your need to bury yourself again and again inside her body. There’s the need to dominate her, the need to make her yours. You hope this guy can act like he doesn’t care that his supposed girlfriend is being prone-boned by another guy, act like he isn’t totally aware of the fact that Cho Miyeon’s body is never gonna belong to him at any point as long as you’re alive.

(Keep this between us: but with the way you're going down on her, it feels like the message is being transferred to her and not him.)

You hear indistinct chatter. Miyeon bites down on her lower lip, undoubtedly holding back the stream of cries and sighs and lyrical monstrosities that threaten to burst forth. With her eyes she begs, challenges you to do more. You could be reading her wrong by like, a hundred percent. Doesn't matter, not when you can take every liberty with her body because you couldn’t give more of a shit. There’s more indistinct chatter on the other end of the phone; Miyeon says something along the lines of “no. Don’t buy the choker for me”. You give her a choker—raise yourself up and reach around her to wrap your fingers around her throat. Her whole body tenses when you apply pressure around her windpipe. In no universe does this guy not know what’s going on right now.

Cause she’s there—right there, all choked up and struggling to breathe while the fucker keeps yap-yap-yapping away like he’s some fucking guard dog. It irritates the hell out of you. At some point, he kinda has to hear a squelch or smack or two, maybe even a moan or a cry as well. But he stays on the phone, and not once does Miyeon ever have to address the question of whether she’s being fucked on the other end of the call or not. You thought you were ignorant, but this guy is a whole new fucking level of blissfully ignorant. It feels like his sole purpose is to drive a wedge between the two of you, to make you hate her because you hate him. Again: it’s kinda complicated to say exactly what it feels like to be in this situation.

And you can imagine the moans she wants to let out. They’ll tumble out of her lips like water down a waterfall, and they’ll mix with the sound of your lips smacking against her skin as you lean back down to kiss her neck, stopping at one spot that you know will be good to mark her and sucking hard. It feels like getting back at her—doing all the things you want to do while she can't speak her mind freely (and you know how tortuous it is for her when she can’t moan while she’s being railed like this). You’re not sure why you would ever need to get back at her when she’s done nothing wrong, but I guess it helps to synthesise and dumb down the emotions you’re feeling at the moment.

“Tonight?” she asks. Then she buries her head into the sheets because she can’t hold back this moan that almost explodes from her chest. You’re not squeezing really hard around her throat, mind you—only enough to make her a little uncomfortable, like a tie has been wrapped around her neck. She's getting off on it though: her walls squeeze you a little tighter; her breaths become more ragged and short. Honestly, she's taking your cock so well, and you communicate this to her with a growl. It makes her shudder a hell lot.

Her other hand clutches the sheets, spasms. She’s pliant, she always is, but it feels like you can wrack her tiny body with so much more pleasure as you keep a hand around her throat and keep your dick pumping in and out of her. You wish you had a mirror to see that pretty face warping under the heat of her lust. You kinda forget that she’s still calling him when she speaks again, cause she follows up with, “I can’t— I can’t believe…”

And if that damn phone call wasn’t happening, she’d be saying something along the lines of “I can’t believe that you’re fucking me this good”.

“Sorry. I got cut off,” she pants. “Yeah… It’s harder to hear me when I’m running.”

Now she's talking to you. The reply is to him, but she’s addressing you. You take her up on it, and the slapping and squelching start to ricochet off the walls and ceiling. What you’re doing should be considered as a whole sin in itself. Technically, it’s adultery, but you’re not too sure if you can even classify this as something that simple. This is jealousy, hate and love mashed into one—a mix of things that kinda shouldn’t go together when you have a woman who’s quite literally like putty beneath you. It doesn’t help that she's this hot, this tight, this wet. She’s straining her moans, and it’s so cute that you want to choke her a little harder. You don’t do it (just clarifying some doubts here), but you almost do.

“R-Really?”—you’re almost certain that what comes next is gonna be addressed to you. You can imagine her signing your name off on it—”wow… That must be so fucking good.”

Bingo. Gotta say: she’s kinda smooth with it.

“I’m fine. Out… Out of breath” you don’t know how she manages to keep her voice steady. “Y-yeah… I’m gonna come… Don’t worry.”

You hope that she can hold on.

You don’t know how long more you fuck her for while she’s on the phone. It’s a blur; you kinda only see red and you’re still choking her out even after she hangs up. It’s only when she goes, “Oh, fuck, daddy—!” with this breathless, perverse, pleading tone and a voice that’s so loud; her body unable to do anything other than gasp and moan and urge you to really give it to her, and when she says “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” like you’re not doing just that (and only that) at the moment that she’s hung up on him. Now she has every facility available to focus on the rock hard meat she’s receiving. You feel filthy, like you’re doing something wrong.

But hey: the sex is hot and Miyeon’s kinda into it, so you keep going. You keep fucking her into the bed—the same way you would if you were fucking her against the wall or in the shower or against any flat surface, really. It’s twisted, it’s dark, it’s hot; the angle her body is at lets you drive yourself deeper and faster and harder into her wet, tight and hot pussy like you never have before. You’re experiencing a novelty, a new chapter.

(Caveat: is it kinda messed up that you call her a cocksleeve? Not really? Huh.)

“God Miyeon…” you feel like the voice that comes from your throat is not your own. “You’re such a good fucking cocksleeve for me,” and you may or may not be tightening the grip around her throat as you speak. “So tight and wet for me. You’re such a good fuck.”

“Oh daddy, fuck you’re so big and deep in me,” she gasps. She has lots to say, even though air is like a fucking luxury for her. She rarely calls you Daddy, yet she’s using her precious air to do so now. “Fuck, fuck me as hard as you can, daddy! Do whatever you want with me! Own me! Take me!”

You barely recognise the woman she’s become: depraved, sordid and one hell of a hot mess. You love it. It’s fantastic. Fucking fantastic.

And she falls apart under you not long after, writhing and moaning and twitching as this beautiful mess of a woman you’ve made out of her. You want to cum in her, really own her; but your thoughts are fueled too much by the hate in your heart that they're wilder than anything she can ever imagine.

You pull out of Miyeon, your shaft glistening in the dim light. You get off the bed, pull her away with you. Her mouth opens to say something. You kiss her—shut her up. She moans into your mouth, and you swallow it, bite her lower lip, and it's not rough, but enough to get her attention.

“You’ve gotten enough loads inside your pussy,” you husk. “Get on your knees. I want your mouth.”

She nods, and you relish the disappointment in her eyes. You push down firmly on her shoulders. She goes with the motion, and you're not sure if you can ever get over the image of Miyeon on her knees with her pretty little princess face staring at you with anticipation. You think about fucking her face, letting your cock thrust into the back of her throat over and over and over till you paint her face in a messy spray of cum.

And you know what? You’ll do just that.

Of course, Miyeon perfectly understands what has to be done. You step up to her. She parts her lips and takes your cock right into her mouth, grasping the base of your cock and pumping it with one hand while she gently cups and squeezes your balls with the other. The pace she launches into is hard and fast; blurring her chocolate hair and your vision—taking the top half of your cock in and out of her wet mouth with rapid urgency while her fingers work your shaft in a corkscrew motion. The suction of her mouth is almost lethal, the seal sublime; and the audacity she has to look up at you while she takes your cock in and out of her mouth is so exhilarating that it makes you weak in the knees. She’s gorgeous, even more so when she’s got cock in her mouth.

Your hand finds a clump of her black, sweaty hair, and you close your fingers around it, holding them in your fist. You push her head down onto your cock, pop your hips and start thrusting with firm, slow strokes. She exceeds every expectation you ever had, adapting to you, changing to please you. Your eyes shut involuntarily. Your brain blocks out all sensations that aren’t the wet, hot cavern of Miyeon’s mouth sealed tightly around your shaft. With the first entry into her mouth her wet tongue is pressed tightly against the underside of your shaft, lathering it with her spit. The backstroke is somehow even better, that pretty little mouth endeavoring to suck you right back in when you draw yourself back out. It feels like time stands still, but Miyeon’s still in motion, and she’s the one making you feel like all the natural laws in the world are being defied.

A small part of you knows that you have to see it happening in order to truly believe it’s all real, so you force your eyes open to watch the spectacle unfolding between your legs. Smoky eyes glazed with pure lust staring right up at you, watering, projecting perverse pleasure with a gaze; hollow cheeks and a seemingly unhinged jaw to accommodate your length; spit leaking from the corners of her mouth, dribbling down her chin.

“Fuck I—” is all you manage to say (or maybe ‘grunt’ is a better word) before your orgasm takes the reins to your body. It overwhelms your senses, but you force your eyes open to watch as you pull Miyeon off your dick just in time. Thick, glistening cum erupts from your tip to land on Miyeon’s face, on her cheeks and nose, painting her smoky features with pearlescent, warm ropes. You paint her face with your hot white seed, and it’s far from an elegant piece of art. She doesn’t look anything like one of the French girls she wanted to be painted like, but the look of utter lust on her needy features is still breathtaking—mouth open, tongue out, eyes closed in delight and bliss.

Ugh, she's one hell of a woman, isn’t she?

And when it’s all over, she takes your cock in her hand and licks off the drops that she’d been deprived of.

“If you ever do that again.” you love the raspy touch to her voice. The lilt in it is doing wonders too. “I’m gonna make sure that you’ll be calling your mom the next time I blow you.”

You roll your eyes and sigh. “Whatever you say, princess…”

The hate seems to fade. Your heartbeat slows.

Maybe this relationship is salvageable. Maybe you guys can last.

You talk to her about it afterwards and apologise sincerely. She says that she didn’t think much of it when it was happening. Then you guys are at peace again.

(What do you think? How long does the honeymoon last? A month more?

Two?

Generous.

Try one. Fucking. Week.)

“Okay. Hands down: this is the best Jjamppong I’ve eaten.”

The growing pile of clam shells beside her bowl tells you that you did something right. It’s the first time you've made this dish, and there’s always that lingering worry that you fucked up somewhere along the way when you eat it for the first time. The soup seasoning is a little off in some places (you don’t know where exactly), but it’s nothing a dash of fish sauce and some chilli flakes can’t fix.

“I mean,” Miyeon continues, speaking between small yet generous mouthfuls of noodles. “You only get better and better at cooking. I don't know how you do it.”

You give a half-hearted smile. Your noodles have kinda gone cold by now: you’ve been stirring them around with your chopsticks for the past five minutes or so. Appetite has become a luxury for you these days, and it’s one of those days where a new article about him and her comes out, one of those days where you both agreed to put a pin on it and just enjoy life. “Well… It’s a lot of love and care, I guess.”

“You can say that again,” she smiles. “Thank you for making dinner. No one cooks like you.”

“Thank you for cutting scallions,” you say. “No one cuts them like you do.”

She laughs and waves it off, then takes another slurp of her noodles. “I honestly don’t know if I like your tomato soup over this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My tomato soups have always been the peak of my cooking prowess.”

“I really don’t know!” she tells you, grabbing another clam from the centre of the table. “This stuff is all smoky and tasty… It just feels like home and I—”

You drop your chopsticks into your bowl. Soup splashes onto the table.

“How do I keep living like this, Miyeon?” you ask. There are only so many pins in your possession and you feel like you’ve used all of them. “I’d love to sit here and talk to you about how I made this meal like everything’s okay, and this is just Thursday and maybe we’ll get ice cream later… But it’s not like that right now.”

Miyeon takes your hand in hers.

“I can’t pretend like things are the same when everything’s… different,” you close your eyes, take a breath. “I love you, Miyeon. You’re like, the best thing that’s ever happened to me and… I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

You can hear her take a breath to start speaking. You really want to let her, but there’s too much on your chest.

“I know you’re doing what you have to, for me, for us,” you want—oh so badly––to just bury your face in your hands right now. But once you do that, the tears will inevitably come and your ability to speak your mind will disappear faster than you can regain yourself. “But it hurts. It hurts to see you holding his hand, walking around and… and kissing him.”

Your heart stings when you see the tears welling in her eyes when you find it in you to look at her. The last thing you want is to see her in pain. This next bit hurts you even more to say, but you know that it’s better to tell her how you feel.

“I feel like I’m an open wound… and you're just pouring salt on me,” and you start to choke up a little. “I’m sorry to put it that way but—”

“No,” she interjects. “No. I get it… I-I understand.”

And for a moment, it feels like everything's okay for a bit.

Then she comes around the table to kiss you, and hell’s bells start ringing all over again. It hurts to kiss her, but it feels so right.

Miyeon leans into you. She kisses you. She pulls you close. She lets you run your hands across her body, down her back. You stand. Your tongue pokes into her mouth. One of you says I need you and you don’t know who it is.

And like when things were okay: you guys don’t make it to the couch.

You get naked. She gets naked. The sex isn’t about pleasure or thrill. It’s the aching within the both of you that drives your shaft into her cunt, rocks her hips as you fuck her. You quite literally make love with her, your strokes passionate and fervent; her cries are earnest and wanton, full of longing. For long moments when her chest is against yours, your hearts are aligned. You wish that you could fuse them together, take away the pain by making the two of you one singular person there on the floor. It feels possible when your dick is throbbing inside of her, pumping her slick with rock hard meat again and again and again.

But the thing that sucks the most is that you can’t do that. You’re two separate people with two separate problems that kinda overlap at the same point.

You have her bent over the counter, propped up on the kitchen sink—anywhere you could reach was a surface for you and her. And normally you’d be a bit of a party pooper about fucking on these surfaces, but today you really can’t give more of a shit. You want to feel like everything’s okay again, like you’re not fighting for your life to hold on to this relationship that’s being torn apart day by day, night by night.

And you may have pieces of each other deep within your souls, but they don’t seem to fit anymore.

When it’s all over and you’re panting against the dishwasher, reality hasn’t changed and you’re still torn. You have a wound that only you can heal through acceptance, yet you can’t find it in you to accept that this is the life you have to lead. You want to love her. You want it so bad. But you can’t find the will in you to love her when there’s another man in the picture, albeit that her love for him isn’t even minimally a concept. You can’t nurse her injuries either, and it hurts to know that as her delicate hands cradle your cheeks. Her touch is perfect, her breaths are soft on your skin. The two of you have tried so hard to make it work, yet you’ve only come so far. The solution to this problem is like thousands of hot fire pokers stabbing you simultaneously, and it only hurts because it’s the only way forward for the both of you.

“Miyeon,” you can’t quite believe what you’re about to say. The tears streaming down your cheeks aren’t making anything easier. “Let’s break up.”

(And this isn’t for pity: but you cry yourself to sleep after she leaves that night. Ain’t it fun being heartbroken? You would know how it feels, right cupcake?)

Three months, two weeks and one day (about 105 days if you really want to be fully accurate. Go write that down somewhere) pass uneventfully—and by that you mean, you never picked up any of the 138 calls that came from Miyeon. It would have been 140 calls if you hadn’t picked up two of them when you were drunk. But hey, she was drunk too. So it kinda cancels out… at least you like to think that it does. It does, doesn't it? Two negatives make a positive?

(No?)

Ah well. Anyway,

(Okay, caveat, again: you’re thankful that she hadn’t showed up to the apartment once throughout this period. You’ve been stuck between your anger and a blame that you can’t face because you don’t know if you blame yourself or her or him. Drinking doesn’t help to lighten the ache in your chest, so you tried exercising: running, swimming, even pilates; you tried to pick up music—bought a guitar and everything. Your fingers still hurt when you play chords, and you’re considering giving up at some point; you tried to learn how to make those pain in the ass French desserts, and now you have a fire extinguisher permanently installed in your kitchen because you somehow managed to set fire to macarons; and you tried to write. That didn’t go well. 5 Wattpad users politely asked you to kill yourself. Not fun.

One way or another, your thoughts would end up drifting back to Miyeon, and you’d have to sit in place and kinda stare into the distance for a little. And yes, you did question your choice to end things with her many times if anyone is asking. You kinda hate yourself a little for not trying to make things work, and you also kinda hate her for not insisting on staying to make things work.

It took two of the three months for you to realise that you were both kinda in the wrong. But it’s already too late by then.

You couldn’t get a grip of yourself and fight off your internal demons; she couldn’t stop doing what she thought was right to protect the two of you. Net-net: it’s a loss for the both of you in the business of love. Now you have to look for a way forward through this grey-area mess that you’ve made, learn to live with the fact that maybe you guys just weren't meant to be in the grand scheme of things.

The updates on Miyeon’s relationship with that damned actor kept coming, but it stopped as of late. But for a while, they were all the rage for gossip blogs. Every now and then, a shitty title like “Cho Miyeon stuns with her visuals on her date” would pop up, and you have to swipe away quickly before you accidentally tap on the notification and see her holding hands with him. You’ll admit that you opened some of the articles just to get a look at her face, then smile to yourself for a bit before you fight the urge to punch the spot next to her where Squid Game wannabe is smiling. You’ve succeeded so far.

You kept away from Jjampong and tomato soup with grilled cheese too. It’s hard to take your butter bell down from the fridge without tearing a little, and the fish sauce and chilli flake panacea for food doesn't apply to a broken heart by the way (it’s just really salty and spicy. You don’t know what you were thinking. Probably drunk. 0/10, please, please, please do not try). The two dishes are too homely; their tastes remind you of her.

Okay. Let’s ‘anyway’ for real this time.)

Yeah, so uh, remember how you said that sometimes the news you give each other can be a little heart-attack-inducing, so it’s better that your loves are pretty bland? Yep… Sad to say that the same confirmed hypothesis still stands, even when you guys are on day 106 of your break up.

This time the news comes in another headline—and you mean like front page, breaking news headline—on Tuesday night. Wonderwall isn’t treating you too well. You’re pretty sure that your finger tips might be turning purple. Your phone buzzes next to you like crazy, just like it did that night, and it’s like having an iPhone seizure. You don’t think too much when you put down the guitar and pick up your device.

And you only read the first six words to give yourself a valid reason to reset your miscall streak with Miyeon.

Idol Cho Miyeon Slapped In Public…

(The title was a lot longer than that. You should know it since you’re here in the first place.)

It’s in moments like this when you kinda wish that speed dial was still a thing. (I mean there's siri and all, but do you really have time for that right now?) In a blur of great clumsiness, you open your contacts and experience no difficulty in locating her number again. She’s on the top of your miscall list, so it really takes no wizard to figure this out.

You hate that she’s letting it ring for so long. Every brr brr makes you tremble a little more in your seat. If your mum could see you now, you’d probably get an earful for your bad habit of biting your nails.

She finally picks up the phone. It’s good to hear her voice. “Hey…”

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Now you realise that in your hurry to check on her, you’ve yet to rehearse what to say to her. The debate between your head and gut almost tears you in two.

“You okay?” you finally manage to blurt after some struggle. “I saw the news… Just wanted to check if, you know, you’re still up and kicking…”

You hear that familiar scoff from the other side of the phone. “Please. You know that it takes more than that to take me down.”

If your ears don't deceive you, you can hear a bit of a strain in her voice. She hates it when you jump to conclusions though, so you leave it as it is for now. “That’s… That’s great.”

And it’s silent again. If you were in the business of losing her interest, you’d be making crazy profits right now. Okay, better end this fast.

“Well uh,” you begin, stopping for a second to swallow some saliva to soothe your semi parched throat. “I guess—”

“Can I come over?”

Like she always does, she shocks you into silence. Your throat dries up. Your mouth is the Sahara.

“I… I miss you… if my miss-calls weren't clear enough about that,” she chuckles. You swear you hear a sniffle. “I’d like to see you again,” and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, “for closure of course… and maybe tomato soup?”

Your heart joins the debate between your head and gut. It wins.

Minutes later, your butter bell is open, a knife scraping out the last bits of creamy butter out of it so that it can be used to evenly butter the other side of your bread. You’re moving on instinct, with glee and excitement. You’re not sure why you’re happy. You’re just happy—happy that you’re gonna see her; happy that you can prepare this dish again without the knowledge that you’re not gonna see her when you turn. It isn’t till the doorbell rings that the joy fades, and in its place comes that familiar tension of a two tonne weight wrapped around your chest.

You aren’t sure why she rings the door when you haven’t changed the passcode to the lock. If she’s trying to be polite? You appreciate it. If she just forgot the pin? Well… you wouldn’t put that past her either, really. Your gut, head and heart agree you that it’s most likely the latter, and you kinda have to remind yourself as you open the door that she's just as forgetful as anyone else.

“Hi,” you catch yourself staring at her. You don’t mean to look at her dress first, but it’s the first thing your eyes are drawn to; it's been a while since you’ve seen her in anything other than a t-shirt and shorts. The white dress she’s wearing is bedazzled out, the light that’s reflected off of it catching you and making you a deer in headlights for a bit. Then you snap out of it. Your gaze travels up to her face and… “You look… Fucking terrible.”

You love her eyes and you love to watch them roll. “Thanks. You look not bad yourself. Gained some weight?”

You try not to stare. You fail—horribly you might add.

But in your defence, it’s hard not to look at the purple spot on her milky skin.

Miyeon covers her cheek. She looks down at your feet like there's something really interesting about them. “Are you, you know, letting me in? Or are we just gonna keep standing here?”

You blink. “R-Right.”

And soon she’s settled into her usual seat, nibbling on some grilled cheese while you ladle out her tomato soup into a bowl. It feels like nothing has changed, but you know that’s not true. Both of you know that everything’s different, that you can’t just give her tomato soup and peck her on the cheek.

“So you play guitar now?” she catches you off guard as the bowl makes a small thunk against the table. It’s in the same spot she always places it, and you know because a woodring has formed in that area. You follow her gaze and see that she’s spotted your Fender on the couch.

“Sort of?” you reply, a little uncertain in how to rate your abilities. “Just basic stuff, you know?”

She smirks and picks up her spoon, starts chipping away at her soup “So you’re finally digging up the singer-songwriter in you… Good on you, man.”

Again, you find yourself staring at the bruise. It’s a deep shade of purple, splotchy and a sight for sore eyes. From the looks of it, he hit her hard. There’s a burning in your chest—a mix of grief, pity and anger as you watch her eat her food. You wish that you could’ve been there to stop it. You wished that you could’ve just dated her under different circumstances so that maybe, just maybe, you could’ve gotten that ending you wanted. You don’t know how she’s ever gonna cover that up when—

“If you’re gonna get something for this thing, go do it,” she mutters. “Chivalry hasn’t died completely, right?”

You nod and scuttle off. It’s easy to lose track of how long you’ve been staring when you’re lost in your thoughts. Is it scary how this feels like just another conversation between you two?

The ice pack from when she bought that ice cream cake was still in the freezer, and it’s chilly in your hands as you grab it and return to the table. She has finished her soup—not a single scrap left inside the bowl. She must be starving.

Her grilled cheese is half eaten in her hand; she stares into the distance as she chews.

(And she’s as beautiful as she can ever be, by the way. A lot of people haven’t seen her the way you see her, and you’re kinda glad that you get to witness that tender part of her that she rarely shows to cameras. It’s… It’s hard to describe what it means to know that someone like her finds it this easy to be herself around you, but you know it’s an honour and a blessing.

But when you're looking at her with your rose-tinted lenses stripped away from you, the notions you hold towards vulnerability become contradictory, because on one hand you know that she’ll never hurt you the way she did, but on the other you know that she’s not the same person when she’s not around you. So at the end of the day, you’re just kinda left figuring out which side of her is the real her. Do you believe what the Cho Miyeon you know tells you? Or do you believe what the Cho Miyeon the world knows? It gets confusing, makes you wonder why she ever has to put up two fronts in the first place.

Then again, it’s not exactly her fault: she does what she has to so she can stay afloat. No industry is free from dirt. Some are just filthier than others.

I guess what I’m getting at is that… she’s this contradiction in my mind. I want to believe her, but I can’t, yet I still love her like she’s just a regular human and our lives are just a little messy. I know there's this whole argument about the fact that idols are humans too and all, but I guess it’s kinda… undermined? Yeah—undermined by the fact that they can’t exactly lead ‘normal’ lives once they’re famous. Look at me, using these big words.

So I guess… I guess dating her was like the worst of all blessings and the best of all curses. Does that make sense?

…

Ugh. I’m blabbering.

Sorry cupcake, I’ll get back to it.)

And maybe you forget that she isn’t your girlfriend anymore, or maybe you just kinda blank out in the moment, or maybe you just wanted to do it. For whatever reason: you call her name, and when she turns, the ice pack in your hand is gently applied against her face. You don’t think much of it for like, three or four seconds. But when her wide eyes finally register in your head, there’s a moment where your breath is caught in your throat.

This is important, so you should know: the silence is fucking deafening.

She swallows the bit of sandwich in her mouth. “I refused to sleep with him, and he hit me like a girl. Fucking embarrassing on his part,” and there’s that smile on her face as she speaks, the same one that she loves to flash your way when she told you that she loved you. “Barely felt it. Light work.”

You can’t resist—your other hand cradles her unblemished cheek. “Miyeon…”

She closes her eyes. She knows that tone you’re using, the one that’s like ‘don’t lie to me’ or ‘it’s okay, you can tell me’. “Look: when the man that loved you the way no one else loved you breaks up with you, nothing can be more painful than that,” she whispers. Her throat bobs a little. She furrows her brows as her eyes squeezed themselves shut themselves a little tighter. “And that man is you by the way…” her voice cracks, her eyes open, “don’t know if I was clear enough.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now. She always is.

The familiarity of her lips against yours almost makes you melt. The ice pack drops from your hand, your palm taking its place on her face. You kiss her like you used to. You kiss her like you want nothing else but her. You kiss her like you want nothing else but her because you want nothing else but her. She’s home – Jjamppong and Grilled Cheese with Tomato soup — and you don’t ever want her to leave again.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, and you wipe the tear trailing down her cheek. “I should have never… We should have never—”

You shush her with your lips. She lets herself melt into you, her hands running through your hair the way she would sometimes when she called you crazy or baby. You don’t realise how much you’ve missed her touch till now.

“We were both wrong,” you tell her once you break away (rather reluctantly). “So how about we just call it a truce?”

She nods, and she does it enthusiastically. “If it’s cool with you…”

You scoff. “Why would it not be?” and your thumb gently caresses her bruise gently. You want to kill him, but you’ll save that for another time. “I’m the one who suggested it… Guess Chivalry is not all dead, huh?”

And it’s good to hear her laugh again.

“Come here you big idiot,” she giggles, and she kisses you again.

Then you dive down to her collarbone when you can’t take it anymore. And the rest is history repeating itself.

You know: it feels like you’ve been picked up from the ground. Miyeon has come to get you… she's come to get you.

Maybe everything’s okay after all.

(And uh… The media covers the rest. What was it? Like, two weeks later?

Ah whatever. You know what happens, don’t you? It’s pretty crazy, made headlines and all.

CUBE has some really good lawyers… And liars. Almost the same thing.)

“So that’s the story?”

Nursing your third bottle of cider, you chuckle. You’d thought by fleshing out whole smuts in verbal form would have chased her away by now, yet here she is. Then again: she is an old friend of yours, so you guessed that she’d be rather adjusted to your bullshit. “Are you sure you’re an investigative journalist?” you question her, “I thought you’d ask something more along the lines of ‘what happens after?’.”

From across the booth seat, Chou Tzuyu shoots you a smirk.

“The news covered it. Why should I pour salt into old wounds?” she admits. Her glass of wine swirls, manipulated expertly by her delicate fingers. “Anyway, I think I got… The main gist of it. Unless you have more information regarding the restraining order filed against you by CUBE, I have no further questions.”

You roll your eyes. No, you do not have any new information about why CUBE decided that you were a danger to Cho Miyeon, and you’ll never know if Miyeon knows either. She was out of town when it happened, and all she knows is what the news reported: you’re allegedly a stalker and hence a threat. You only know that she called and texted you frantically after, but…

You know what? Maybe you’ll think about this another time.

“You do know that, like, you're kinda bad at this right?” and you set your cider bottle aside, letting it join the almost empty whiskey bottle you bought yourself. You fold your hands and lean into the table. The world spins a little. “I don’t know why you’re prying, but I’m guessing that you heard something from the grapevine that you were itching to hear more about. Either that or you’re just… Could it be that you’re desperate to get something fresh, Miss Chou?”

She sips on her wine, leaves the question hanging in the air for a little as she swallows.

“Keep this between us: I can’t trust Shuhua sometimes,” she muses. “If I’m gonna write about this, I’m gonna have to make sure that all the information I’ve gotten from her can be corroborated,” she pushes a wisp of hair behind her ear. “And for the record: I am not bad. I do my research as thoroughly as anyone else would—enough to know that you are someone who tells the truth.”

“So you’re saying that you trust me as a source?” you can’t help but scoff. “Me, the very guy that got fucked over by CUBE? I could be bigoted and biased for all you know. Or even worse: I’m lying.”

She smiles knowingly. “Respectfully, you have too much… personal voice in this recount that I might as well write an autobiography on your behalf.”

And she stuns you into silence. It occurs to you that you're a little drunk, and you’re pretty sure that you called this woman ‘cupcake’ multiple times. You’re not too sure; you don’t even have half a mind to know what you’re doing or saying.

Tzuyu gulps down the rest of her wine before she rises from her seat.

“I best be going,” she opens her purse and fishes something out of it. She hands you a card, an address and a phone number handwritten onto it in what looks like a felt pen. “If you want your story to be heard, give me a call… Or a text. Whatever strikes your fancy. I’ll need a version of this that doesn’t include all the fucking and your drunk blabbering,” she shoulders her purse and smiles. “Can’t promise that I’ll buy you a drink to make you talk again, but I can treat you to some really good Chinese dumplings. Maybe we can catch up a little too. It’s been a while.”

You stare at the card, tracing the hooks and curves that form numbers and letters. Your eyes fix back on her. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugs, and it’s not a “I dunno” type of shrug, but more like a “the proof’s in the pudding, open your fucking eyes” type of shrug.

“I want to report the truth, and I know you well enough to know that you want that too.”

That's right. Another series. I know I'm doing everything but finishing up Beats Me, and you can go cry a river in my asks if you want. Just kidding, I love all of you, but I want to write what I want to write. Let me have my fun, would you? Also, for the record: I did not finish this 5 days after Beats Me 7. Beats Me 7 was finished before I vanished from tumblr for a bit. This has been brewing since December. You can thank long drives and Noah Kahnan for this.

Anyway, another big thank you to @defmaybe for being such a great sport and reading through the 39 page document that showed up in their discord DMs one fine day. This fic would have been full of typos and horrible grammatical errors if it weren't for them.

Stay safe, Nichu

#smut #kpop #fanfic #cho miyeon #miyeon #gidle miyeon #miyeon smut #gidle smut #kpop smut

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noonecareslol · 2 days ago

Text

𒀯𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚

Anaxiphilia: love for or attraction to unsuitable mates; an act of falling in love with the wrong person

Hwang In-Ho x Fem! Reader

wc! 7k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After you move away from your childhood best friend (and first love), the last place you expected to see him was stuck with you as a “player”.

TW: Violence (duh its squid game), cursing, smut 18+ pnv, unsafe sex, probably pregnant lol

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Classical music filled your ears as your eyes adjusted to the bright lights. It played throughout the room as you woke slowly and attempted to make sense of your surroundings. But, as you looked at the number placed on your tracksuit you remembered where you were.

Or at least why you were there.

You were never uncomfortable growing up. You were actually quite wealthy. Your father owned a very successful company, your mother invested money intuitively, and life seemed to improve daily. That was until you were 17 and news broke that your father’s company was a front. A money laundering business that cleaned his filthy money from years and years of fraud. When they died, they left you a monumental amount of debt. And when a suspiciously attractive guy handed you a little brown card, you couldn’t help but call the number on the back.

You knew the games were too good to be true. And you realized you were right after the first one. It took you 30 minutes to wash the blood off your face and out of your hair.

Now you were standing next to a girl with the number “222” written on her tracksuit, watching as an older lady and her son begged the guards to let them go. You fiddled with your hands, flinching at the rawness after scrubbing them relentlessly. Your attention was grabbed when another person stepped through the crowd.

“Clause three of the consent form!” Your eyes trained on him as he spoke angrily, “The games may be terminated upon a majority vote.”

Your heart stopped. You could go home and be safe. But you would still be drowning in debt. You bit your lip, remembering about the share of money you would receive. Would you have enough to cover it?

As if the guards could read your mind, a large piggy bank lowered from the ceiling, “The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91. Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated.” Every eye watched as the piggy bank began to fill, “If you quit the games now, the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share.”

Another man shoves past the crowd, “And how much is that?”

“Each person’s share would be 24,931,500 won.”

Exasperated sighs and annoyed words broke out amongst the crowd. But your eyes stayed trained on the man who first spoke, “456” written on his chest.

The pink guard spoke loudly, “The rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game, the prize amount will increase accordingly.”

The crowd stayed silent, “The total amount of prize money for all 456 players is 45.6 billion won.”

The crowd erupted again, full of enthusiastic words and motivated cheers. The girl next to you placed her hands over her stomach, almost cradling it closer to her body.

If you went home now, you wouldn’t even have enough to cover a third of your debt. But if you stay and continue the games, you could die.

The doors opened and two guards wheeled out a metal podium with two buttons, a red X and a blue O. “Now, let’s begin the vote. If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers.”

“Player 456.”

The same man from before stepped forward without hesitation. As he walked to the podium his stride was filled with wrath and as he slammed his palm against the X, his eye contact didn’t break with the guard.

The voting continued, each person stepping forward to decide whether to live or die. Each time either button was pressed you silently celebrated, still not sure if you should stay or go.

“Player number two.”

Your face fell as your eyes centered on the podium. And with each slow step you took, you became more sure of your decision. And as you reached the podium, you had made up your mind entirely.

A high beep rang through the room as your face reflected the blue button. You decided to continue. Flinching at the sound of defeated sighs from behind, you took the patch embroidered with an O and joined the other voters.

“Player number one.”

You hadn’t cared to look at the man when he was standing next to you earlier. But now that he was about to break a tie, your eyes were locked on him. You didn’t catch his face but you studied his figure. He had a tall frame and dark brown hair that seemed to be styled perfectly. He walked with a thick sense of confidence and you hadn’t failed to notice how his tracksuit clung to his biceps.

You watched intensely as he lifted his hand and hovered between the two buttons. The room held suspension and your eyes were locked on his hand. He hesitated for a few more moments before pressing his hand down. Blue light illuminated his face and the surrounding crowd cheered as he walked from the podium.

He had selected to stay. To play another game where you, or him, could die. You voted for that too. So why aren’t you happy about winning?

Because he’s turned around now and you’ve seen his face. And you would recognize that face anywhere.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

“I don't understand, you’re moving?” He grasped the sides of your face, afraid to let go.

You looked at the boy in front of you who’ve you known your whole life. You went to private schools together, fancy parties together, and you shared your first time together. And now you’re leaving.

You placed your hands over his, “I don’t understand either In-ho. I want to stay, I don’t want to leave you.” Tears fell down your rosy cheeks as In-ho placed his forehead gently against yours.

You ignored your mother’s frantic yells for you to come and pack your things. You didn’t want to leave him. You loved him, and you knew if you left now you wouldn’t just be leaving your house. You’d be leaving your life behind. Your father would be arrested and your mother would have to work while taking care of you herself. You would move from Gangnam to Daegu. And you would have to start a new life. You just didn’t understand why In-ho couldn’t be a part of it.

That was the last time you saw him.

Well, until now.

You kept your distance, watching him talk to player 456. You recognize him from before as the man who’s already played.

You observed intensely, not bothering with your food. You watched how he exchanged words with 456. How his hair moved slightly as he used his hands to talk. You didn’t understand why he was here. The last you heard about him, he was married and his wife was expecting.

Would could’ve gone so wrong for him to be here?

The girl next to you shuffled in her seat, setting her empty dosirak-tong on the ground. You knew she was pregnant just from how she walked uncomfortably with her hands supporting her back.

“Here, take mine. I don’t like dosirak.” It was a lie, dosirak is one of your favorite meals. But she was eating for two, and you didn’t have an appetite.

She looked up at you before gently taking the metal box from your hands, “Thank you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and you smiled in return.

Your eyes searched for In-ho again to find him walking towards a fight you hadn't noticed had broken out. His frame was large and towered over the boys as he approached them, “Boys, what are you doing in the middle of mealtime There are elders present, mind your manners. Aren’t you embarrassed?”

“You’re lecturing me when you ended up in this shithole too?” In-ho’s jaw clenched as he tilted his head at the boy, “Dude, stop running your mouth and take care of your own damn kids.”

You knew where this was heading, In-ho always knew how to fight. You smirked as he grabbed the boy, turning him around and twisting his arm behind him.

Forcing him to the ground with a thud as he whined, “Wait! I’m sorry! Please, let me go!”

He let go of his arm and stood up straight, adjusting his tracksuit. As he looked around the room while walking back toward player 456, his eyes suddenly met with yours. And he froze as he scanned your face. He was so caught up in Gi-huns plan that he had failed to realize you had entered the game. The girl he fell in love with. Who he shared his first kiss with, who he has thought about every day for 20 years since you were 17.

Your heart ached as old feelings rushed over you, watching as his eyes softened slightly before player 390 dragged him over.

You couldn’t sleep that night. You were too busy trying to figure out why he was here. Plus, you caught word of the next game being Dalgona. Which worried you because you had always sucked at cutting out the tiny shape, always giving in and eating the cookie whole.

You spent the night staring tiredly at the piggy bank, the soft yellow light casting across your face. What you didn't know is that 50 feet away, In-ho watched you. His mind also trying to understand why you were here. He stared at you, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, remembering when he would trail kisses on your pretty little face.

When he met your eyes earlier, he froze. Not because he didn't expect to see you, which he didn't, he froze because his heart did. He marveled at your beauty, and you took his breath away. Just like the first time he saw you all those years ago.

And now as he lays in his bed, his pillow propped up on the opposite end so he can see you, he can't help but address the elephant in the room. You know his name. You know his identity. You could ruin everything, his plan that he had focused solely on for the past three years.

As the lights turned on and classical music rang out from the speakers, his eyes stayed on you and only you.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Welcome to your second game. This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of six in the next ten minutes. Let me repeat."

Sand kicked behind you as you walked into the room. The speakers repeated the instructions as you whispered to the girl next to you, "Is Dalgona played in teams?" She shook her head and her hand caressed her belly. You've grown somewhat protective over the girl, whose name you learned is Kim Jun-hee.

You take her hand as you look to find a team and your eyes try to pick out In-ho from the crowd. You think you spot the back of his head and start to pull Jun-hee towards him when she makes a be-line to a group. Your protests go ignored as she reaches them. Your eyes still search for In-ho as she inquires about joining their group.

"Of course, you can join." The voice snaps you from your search as you meet familiar piercing brown eyes with your own. Your breath hitches in your throat as he doesn't break eye contact.

"Time for team selection is up." The PA system breaks your stare, but In-ho holds his. You look around the room, scanning over the tall blue walls and the rainbows painted on the floor, "The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a minigame at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the minigames: Number one, the Ddakji. Number two, Flying Stone. Number three, Gonggi. Number four, Kendama. Number five, Spinning Top. Number six, Jegi. Your goal is to win all the minigames and cross the finish line in five minutes. Please decide on players for each minigame."

Your team divides the games between you. You get stuck with Kendama, a game that is played by tossing a ball into the air and attempting to catch it on a wooden stick point. You're fairly confident in yourself. You and In-ho grew up playing games like these.

You sit with your group as each team competes. You sat at the end next to Jun-Hee, checking on her every once and a while. You flinched every time a gunshot rang out, anxiety bubbling with every elimination.

In-ho could not stop looking at you. It was as if you had a magnetic pull, and he couldn't look away. You were a piece of art, crafted with the hands of God himself. And he was jealous of God's hands, wishing it had been his very own that created such beauty. Every time you looked his way, he looked elsewhere.

"Final two teams, please get ready." You help Jun-hee stand up, 390 stepping in place next to her. Standing on the other side of 388 as you all line up at the start. You lower your gaze as In-ho steps in line next to you. He's always been intimidating, especially with his large frame towering over yours.

390 chuckles, "It's weird to be the only ones who don't get an audience, isn't it?" His attempt to lighten the mood works a little, a small smile forming on your lips.

"I think it will help us focus more!" You rub 388's shoulder in comfort while he repeats the motions of throwing and catching the Gonggi.

The guard finishes locking In-ho's and 456's shackles before you feel an arm snake around yours. In-ho's bicep compresses your own as your face heats up. You glance up daringly meeting In-hos sharp gaze. You should say something. Anything. Ask him why he's here, or where his wife is. But before you can speak, 456 starts the chant and steps forward.

"Hana dul! Hana dul! Hana dul!" You chant as you approach the first game. Jun-hee slams the red ddakji down, successfully flipping the blue one on the first try.

As you chant and walk to the next game, 388 breaks the pace and steps forward quickly. Without hesitation In-ho's hand moves from your arm to your waist, effortlessly steadying you "Hey! Keep the pace!"

388 steps back into pace as we reach the next game, "Back when I used to pitch, I never threw very fast, but the ball always went where I wanted." 390 steps one foot back before aiming and throwing the stone precisely, hitting the target on the first try!

You all cheer before continuing forward, quickly approaching three minutes. As you sit on the ground you feel In-ho steadying you again, allowing you to lean slightly against him to give 388 more room to play his game.

"Okay, just take your time. You got this." I reassure 388 as he grabs the gonggi. With a quick hand, he tosses one in the air before collecting them one at a time. Then two at a time, Then three and one. Then all. He flips them on the back of his hand before catching them effortlessly.

Your cheers were quick as you stood up and rushed towards the fourth game. The guard hands you the Kendama and you can feel In-ho's gaze on you intensely. You held the Kendama out in front of you, tossing the ball up, quickly moving your hand to catch it. You close your eyes as you feel the ball land on the spike.

"Yes! You did it Y/N!" In-ho grabs your shoulders and shakes you, you shake his back as he beams a smile at you. And for a second, you forget about the timer and you're both 17 again, in love.

He wraps his arm around your waist again as you move to his game. He takes the spinning top in his hand and begins to wrap the rope around it, confidence radiating from him. We have this in the bag! -oh.

The rope fell off.

You feel his body tighten as stress began to build. He wraps the rope around once more before tossing it, praying that the top spins. It falls to its side and In-ho curses under his breath. You remember him using his left hand when growing up to play this game. You wondered why he was using his right, but you didn't ask him. You could tell he was getting annoyed at himself.

"It's okay! Just try again!" You let go of In-ho's arm to give him more room. He flings the spinning top with too much power and it flings backwards.

In-ho freezes, too embarrassed to move. The man next to him, 456, grabs his shoulder firmly, "It's okay, we'll get it. All right, backwards. Ready, set."

In-ho holds my waist tightly as we walk backwards in step, "It'd be boring to win everything fast." The group nods in agreement at 390's words, " 'Cause if you're ever gonna grow, you need to fail first, right?"

In-ho picks up the spinning top and we trek back to the line. He wraps the rope around successfully, "Okay now take it slow, wait- no don't rush it!"

In-ho interrupted 388's instructions by quickly, and messily, throwing the top. It falls to the side and you feel In-ho throw his head back and laugh. You quickly remove your hand from his waist, knowing what's about to happen.

"You piece of fucking shit! You ruin everything! You're worthless!" In-ho drops the piece of rope in his hand as he hits his head against his hands. "You're so pathetic!"

The group stands shocked as he hits himself angrily, stomping in the dried blood below him. You bend down and pick up the rope, glancing at the clock.

50 seconds.

"Hey!" You slam the rope against his chest and pull his face to look at you, "No one's blaming any of this on you! Now, take a deep breath, okay?"

In-ho nodded slowly, the feeling of your touch burning on his face as he placed his right hand over his chest, something he would do when you were younger. As the group shuffles to pick up the top, you place one of your hands over his and slow his breathing, "You can do this In-ho. Use your left hand like you did when we were kids. And if I die because of this I will kill you myself."

In-ho gave a small smile at your sarcasm as he wraps the rope around the axel, then the top. He places it in his left hand and looks at you quickly before throwing the top.

It spins.

You erupt in cheers as In-ho succeeds! He gives a quick hug to you, that you wished had lasted longer, and your group moves to 456's turn. In-ho's gaze darkened as he focused on 456, and you failed to notice it, still flustered from the quick hug.

"One! Two! Three! Four!" You all counted as 456 bounced the jegi on his foot, watching him and the clock as it counts down. For a split moment it seemed that he wouldn't be able to get the last hit in, but suddenly In-ho swoops in and reaches with his foot. "Five!"

You all cheer as you practically run to the end, crossing right as the timer hit zero. The heavy shackles get removed and you are immediately engulfed in a bear hug from In-ho. His arms wrap around the small of your back as he pulls you closer to his frame, if possible. He buries his head in the crook of your neck and you stay frozen. Not from the near- death- experience you just had, but because you realized you had forgotten what his hugs had felt like. You threw your arms around him in return, deepening the hug you have longed for every day for 20 years.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You sat closely next to In-ho as the group chatted and complemented each others moves from the game. You were looking forward to catching up with In-ho, but you were too engrossed in 388's retelling of 390's stone toss, "And, sir, you were incredible at Flying Stone!" He proudly stood up and pretended to throw a stone, "You just lined it up and... Boom! First try!"

You giggled as 390 proudly shaked his head, and In-ho turned to look at you. God, that laugh. He had forgotten what it sounded like, and he frowned when you stopped, "I was thinking, what if we go around and say what our real names are? I'll go first, my name is Kang Dae-ho. Dae as in 'huge' and ho as in 'tiger'!"

390 laughed as Dae-ho gave himself tiger fangs with his fingers, "Now that's a cool name. My name is Park Jung-bae. It means 'righteous' and 'double.' So, I should be living twice as righteously."

"My name is Kim Jun-hee. I don't think I know what it stands for." Jun-hee smiles as she pushes a stray hair from her face.

"Jun means 'talented' and hee means 'star'. You are a talented star Jun-hee!" You ruffle her hair as she beams at you, "My name is Y/N. L/N, Y/N."

You can feel In-ho's stare as he watches your lips move, "My name is Young-il. You know, like 'yeong il.' 'Zero one' in Korean." You whipped your head towards him. Was there a reason he was hiding his name? Did he not trust anyone? He gave you a reassuring look, you'd just ask him later.

"My full name is Seong Gi-Hun." You looked away from In-ho's gaze as you watched 456 introduce himself.

"Seong Gi-hun. Like our un-'Seong' hero?" Everyone laughed but you. You were still pondering about In-ho. There were so many unanswered questions running through your mind. In-ho must have noticed your distant look, because he gave your hand a squeeze. A promise that he'll explain everything.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

After another failed vote to go home (you had voted to leave this time), Gi-hun warned about the possibility of an ambush. It plagued your mind with worry as you laid on your mattress. Another night of no sleep adding to the eyebags growing under your pretty E/C eyes.

Gi-hun stood from his watch as In-ho took over, and headed to bed. Now was your chance to fully reconnect with In-ho, "Can I sit here?"

In-ho turned to you, "Cant sleep?" He asked as he scooted over a tad, making room for you. He didn't make a whole lot of room though, which you didn't mind.

Your thighs touched as you sat next to him, "No, never could when my mind is running like this." You dusted off your pants as you placed your legs out in front of you, fingers avoiding the blood that plagued your bottoms.

"You shouldn't be anxious about the game tomorrow." He watched your face intently, trying to read you. You were always so easy to read.

You stifle a small laugh, "Oh i'm not anxious, 'Young-il'. " You tilted your head towards him as you dragged out his "name", smirking as he nodded defeatedly.

"Ohhh, okay." He leaned in close, making your heart flutter, "I just don't want anyone to know my name yet. In a game like this there's a lot of... betrayal."

Your spine shivered as his words tickled your ear, "Oh, I guess I didn't think about that..." You turned to look at him but failed to realize how close he was.

Your lips were now inches apart, barely. You could feel his breath fan across your lips and his eyes remained focused on yours, "It can be our little secret? Hmm?" You found yourself nodding before you could even process what he said.

You didn't move, instead, you tested the waters. You leaned in closer, tilting your head slightly, "Last I heard you were married?"

He shook his head no, not caring to explain as he quickly licked his lips, his eyes now focusing on your own. Your breath caught as your heart beat at an unearthly rate, he was so close. If either of you moved your head even a centimeter, his lips would be on yours.

But you weren't able to find out. The small metal door slammed as Jun-hee, Hyun-ju, and Ae-sim walked in, and you pulled back quickly. "I should try and sleep."

In-ho nodded as you walked away, his eyes trailed the curve of your ass and he adjusted his pants slightly before going back to his watch.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Players, welcome to the third game. We will begin momentarily. The game you will be playing today is Mingle." The beady-eyed horses caught your attention first. The black, soulless, painted eyes boring into your own as you followed behind In-ho. "I will now explain the rules of the game. All players will step onto the platform in the center of the arena. Once the game begins, the platform will spin. Shortly after, a number will be called out. You must then form a group that matches this number, enter one of the surrounding rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds, or be eliminated."

You stopped in front of the red platform, In-ho stopped next to you, "The real crucial thing for us to do is to stay calm and don't panic. Trust each other. And we'll all get out of here in once piece." He looked down at you, a need to protect you suddenly clear, "Deal?"

You looked up at him, "Deal." And he took your hand as you both stepped on the platform.

"With that, let the game begin!" The woman over the PA system was replaced with a nursery song, "Round And Round". The platform jolted before starting its spin, and you grasp onto In-ho for support as he steadies you.

"Ten."

The lights were replaced with flashing red as In-ho pulled you close. Gi-hun grabbed a group of 3 people as you searched for an open door, "Room 44!" You pointed to the light green door before dragging In-ho and Dae-ho with you. Hyun- ju grabbed a stray woman while running through the green door, barely making it.

In-ho placed his hands on the sides of your arms firmly, "Are you okay?"

"Yes." You breathed out, trying to catch your breath.

He took one hand and cupped your face, "Just stick with me. You'll be okay." You nod as the door unlocks and he grabs your hand, leading you back to the platform.

You spin for another few agonizing seconds with your hand still firmly grasped in In-ho's. "Five."

Your face fell, there were six of you. Who was going to leave? In-ho quickly pushes you into Jung-bae's grasp, "Watch her, i'll go! Hurry!" In-ho takes one more glance towards you as he runs through the crowd.

Jung-bae drags you with the others as you call for In-ho, "Young- il! Young-il!" The door locks behind you and you break from Jung-bae's hold.

"Im sure hes okay. He's smart Y/N." You press your face to the door, peering out of the small window, searching for his tall frame. You know he's smart, but you were so scared of losing him again you couldn't even register the other players getting shot in front of your door.

It unlocks and you push it open, rushing out and onto the platform. You whip your head around as you scanned for In-ho. When you lock eyes with his brown ones you make a beeline towards him, pushing past other players as you jump into his arms, "What ever happened to, "Stick with me"?"

His hand wrapped protectively behind your neck, cradling you in his arms, "I know, im sorry. But i'm okay." He pulled your head away to look at him, a small smile resting on his face.

The platform began to spin as you and In-ho stood next to Jun-hee, "Attention, players. The final round will now begin." The God forsaken nursery rhyme plays again, and this time, your eyes were glued to In-ho.

"What do you think the number will be?" Jun-hee asked curiously while clinging onto Dae-ho.

"It will be two." In-ho looked towards her.

"Wait, why?"

He squeezes your hand, "We're at 126 people, and there are 50 rooms. Even if there's two in every room, then there's still only enough for 100 of us. If you don't find one fast, you're done for."

The platform comes to a halt. "Two." The lights flash again and In-ho pulls you on instinct, running to a yellow door.

In-ho was going to keep you safe, at any cost.

You look back towards the group for a split second when your body meets the ground, you look up in slow motion as the man who pushed you runs to the door. You took a staggered breath before grabbing onto his ankle, slamming him to the ground and buying you enough time to run in behind In-ho and close the door.

Relief washed over you only momentarily as your eyes met with a third person in the room. In-ho steps in front of you, "Out."

"But, we were here first. Why don't you put her out and I stay?" In-ho tilts his head at his last remark before wrapping his biceps around the man's head.

The door behind you shook as the other man tries to push it open, you are quick to press your body weight against it to hold it close, "In-ho, what do we do?" Your voice was frantic as the countdown continued.

In-ho's arms tighten around the mans neck as he pulls and pushes at his grasp, but In-hos eyes never faltered. Not once. They stayed piercing yours, full of determination.

"Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two..." The cracking sound of the mans neck made you flinch, his lifeless body hitting the floor with a thud.

I did say in-ho would keep you safe. At any cost.

"One."

The door locked behind you as you pressed your back against it, In-ho's stare stuck on you as he stepped over the man's body and towards you. He pushed your body against the door, his hand finding the flesh of your waist as his other hand pulled your neck into a desperate kiss. You became putty under his touch as he dug his fingers into your skin, he craved your touch as much as you did. And it was taking every muscle in his body not to take you and fuck you right now.

Your hands traveled from his chest and up to his neck, pulling him closer. A small whine escaped your pretty lips as he slid his hand up and under your shirt, the same hands he just used to kill for you.

For you.

You felt the door unlock with a click behind you. And In-ho pulled away reluctantly as your head fell back against the door, "I need you Y/N." He brushed his thumb over your red and swollen lips before taking your hand, and leading you out of the door.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Attention, all players. Lights-out will be in approximately 30 minutes. With the remaining half hour, please disperse, and prepare to return to your beds for the night."

You sat next to Jung-bae who was excitedly talking about the next vote with Dae-ho as you watched In-ho move your mattress next to his. You hadn't dared to tell a soul about what happened in the yellow room, the kiss or the dead guy.

And you weren't going to tell anyone.

You should be concerned, right? Concerned over how easy it was for him to snap a guys neck without breaking eye contact? He was emotionless, cold, really attractive. You had witnessed many fights between him and other men while growing up, especially when it came to fighting over you.

But he never once killed for you. Until now, at least. Were you wrong to think it was really hot?

"Once the lights go out, the ones who wanna stay are gonna come for us." Gi-huns voice broke you from your thoughts, "Killing us would mean they win the next vote. It would also increase the prize money."

In-ho sat down next to you, his hand immediately finding your back, "We have to attack first then, it's our only chance. Those guys assume we're just waiting it out till the next vote. When the lights go down, we should hit them first since they won't expect it." He looked at you out of the corner of his eye, watching is you nod in agreement.

Gi-hun shook his head and leaned in closer to the group, "No, we can't. We'd be playing right into their hands if we did."

"Who is 'they'?" You tilted your head as you asked, failing to notice In-ho's gaze darken.

"The ones who built this whole place. The ones who created the games and who watch us play." The group listens closely, "If we're gonna try and fight anyone, we should be going after them instead."

"Sure, but where are they?"

Gi-hun looks up, "They're up there. At the top of the staircases. They keep everything here running from up in their central control room." He looks back at the group, "There's a man in a black mask who's the head of the operation. If we can get to him, we finally can end this."

In-ho sighs in disagreement, "It's too risky. Even if we manage to get a few guns they'll outnumber us when we try to get out." You feel his hand slide from your back and wrap around your waist.

"What are you suggesting? That we fight the other group through the whole entire night, and hope that we all make it? Is that it, Young-il? Do you really think that's a good plan?" Gi-huns voice is a little raised and you feel In-ho's grip on you tighten.

"Do we... stand a chance?"

"If we can manage an ambush, yes. Those bastards up there, they'll never expect our side to attack. They'll be focused on other things. This is it." You nodded with Dae-ho, ready to fight, "This is our last chance to put an end to these games and make sure they never happen again."

"Lights out in ten seconds."

"Once the lights are off, we have to get under our beds as quietly as we can. We can't afford to get caught by the other side. And we know they'll be out for blood." Gi-hun whispers as he slides under his bed.

You and In-ho follow suit, laying on your stomachs as you peer out from under your bed. You feel the contrast between your shaky breaths and his own steady breathing, and you can't comprehend how he could be so calm.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one."

"I have a plan." In-ho's voice was barely above a whisper, and a shiver runs down your spine at the sound of a woman yelling.

You look at him, "But, what about Gi-hun's plan?"

You didn't miss the small smirk that played on his lips, "Just stay by my side." Without a word In-ho swiftly moves from out of his bed, pulling you with him.

"Wait! What are you-" His hand came to your mouth as you both hugged the wall while discreetly moving towards the small metal door.

In-ho removed his hand to place a short knock. The small window opened, a guard peering through the flap. Without a single question, the door opened, and In-ho was quick to push you through.

You watched as the guard swiftly opened the bathroom door allowing you and In-ho to enter. You turned to the door as it shut behind you before looking at In-ho, "How did that guard just let you through? I don't understand, we have to go back In-ho."

"Or we can stay. We're safe here- you're safe here." He stood on the opposite wall in front of you, watching as you rested your hand on the doorknob.

He knew you were thinking about going back. But he also knew you weren't going to. He had you wrapped around his finger, just like all those years ago. And you knew it too.

You dropped your hand from the doorknob, biting your lip as you feel him slowly stalk towards you. Need courses through your veins as his hand comes from behind and wraps around your neck, his other hand pulls your waist against him. His lips find your neck and you've melted instantly.

His bulge presses harshly against your ass as he sucks and bites your neck with unhuman desire. This wasn't like when you were younger, when you were flustered and shy. No. You were hungry with want and your eyes were filled with lust.

He whips you around, lips on your own now as he moves you backwards to the counter. Your knees go weak and he lifts you with ease, as if you weighed nothing, and places you on the counter. Your fingers dug into his back, desperate for more. Hungry for him.

In-ho bites your lip roughly, and you give him what he wants, opening your lips wider and letting his tongue fuck your mouth. You were intoxicated, In-ho was the man you thought of each night as you fucked yourself, screaming his name into oblivion. And now here he was, hiking your shirt over your head.

"Y/N." Your name slipped from In-ho's mouth swiftly as he lifts your shirt over your head before his lips find your exposed skin. A small whine escapes your lips as his hot mouth gives your cold skin goosebumps.

It was like that small little noise ignited something animalistic within him, a grunt fell off his tongue as he bit your skin. He loved the way you squirmed as he dipped his tongue into your collarbone, his eyes looking up at you.

Sweat slicked your forehead as your head throws back, your bra falling from your tits, landing on the floor. How did he take it off? His hand didnt even-

oh.

Oh.

You looked at the bra, the back was still clasped.But the straps, the straps were ripped. He had ripped your bra off of you with hunger. But, you couldn't focus on the bra anymore as a moan escaped your mouth, your hands gripping the edge of the counter as In-ho rolls your nipple under his tongue.

He trailed sloppy kisses up to your mouth before stepping back, observing you. He pulls his shirt of with ease, "Take off your pants." It was demanding, and you obeyed. Your fingers trembled as you slipped off your bottoms and panties.

In-ho presses his tongue against his cheek, cocking his head as he takes you in piece by piece. You were sprawled out on the counter, your back resting against the mirror and your chest heaved, "What. What are you looking at In-ho."

"I'm thinking about all the bruises your pretty body is going to have after I fuck you."

He sinks to his knees in front of you, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he delves his tongue into your folds. You gasp, your legs involuntarily locking around his head. His tongue laps as he looks up at you. His nose perfectly brushes your clit, and he knows it as you rock your hips, "Oh, f-fuck. In-ho please."

He smirks against you as you sputter his name. He feels himself growing harder each time you whimper under his mouth. He drinks you up, your taste slicking on his face as you his tongue finds your clit.

One of your hands remove from the edge of the counter and find its way to his hair, "In-ho please," You pull his hair up to make him look at you, "If you stop now, I-I will kill you."

A small chuckle vibrates through your core as his lips latch your clit, rolling it under his tongue. Your legs pull him closer, if possible, and you feel your climax building. You arch your hips, rolling against his mouth as the need to cum grows louder. In-ho roughly laps on your swollen clit, desperate for your release.

And suddenly the earth stops spinning as you dissolve into pleasure, letting yourself unravel under him. Your body jerks as shockwaves move throughout your body, and you let his name roll of your tongue.

"Scoot down." You do as you're told and wiggle your ass until its slightly off the counter. In-ho watches as you still attempt to steady your breathing, smirking as he dips the waist of his pants down.

Your eyes widen as he places one of his hands on the side of your body, letting him tower over you. Your eyes trailed to his other hand that was busy lining his dick up with your core, but his eyes are on you. Waiting to watch your reaction as you take his cock.

He sinks into you, your breath catching and your eyes closing as he doesn't ease you into it, stretching you out. A grunt escapes his mouth at your reaction, you were so beautiful like this.

In-ho leans back and takes a hold of both of your ankles, holding them above you as he sets the pace. Your knuckles turn white as you grip the counter with one hand and cover your mouth with the other.

In-ho quickens the pace with each thrust, pounding into you like a toy. Animalistic grunts escape his mouth, "Y/N, you're so good for me. I've missed this so -fuck- so much."

You whine at his words, desperate attempts to buck your hips failed. He had you pinned down under you, controlling everything. He can feel the way you grip him, lustful tension building in the air, "Atta girl."

Oh fuck, he feels so good. He fits perfectly in you, just like all those years ago. The passion was still there, and god, he made you know it. You're drunk with desire, clenching around him as the pace picks up. His thrusts are sharp, deep, and you can tell he's close.

Your hands find his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes met yours as his cock hit every. right. spot. His eyes softened, a contrast to his pornoraphic thrusts. In the middle of everything, all the death around you, you rekindled a love you never thought you would experience again.

Your eyes stay locked as the grip on your ankles tightened, In-ho's head dropping slightly as he came, time slowing as waves of electricity engulfed him. Warmth flooded over your body as he pulsed inside of you, gently laying your legs back down before leaning forward.

He pulled you close to him, his hands cupping your face and his thumb gently lifting your chin, "I love you Y/N." A smile displayed on his lips as he kissed you softly.

You bit back a sob, "In-ho... I never stopped loving you. You've been my person, even when you weren't mine."

He kissed you again, this time with promise. A promise of making it out of the games, a promise of love, a promise of hope.

In-ho never thought much of a future. He always saw himself living for the games. He expected to die as the front man, he didn't have anything to lose. But now he does. He has a future now, and it's you. He is not living for the games anymore. He is living for you.

Would you still love him when you find out the truth?

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

A/N: Hey pookies!! Tysm for all the love recently it's definitely motivated for me to come out of retirement. Pls lmk who I should write for next! I'm in a squid game mood so maybe Gi-hun?

@tsarinaaaz @flowersbloom8787 @vixtyhu @dottoremybbg @fnl9zer @cdej6 @galadoesart @watasinekoru @icantcryicantstopcrying @seasaltrasp @pepsicolacoochie @lily-ann-b @gurjxxpp11

#hwang inho x reader #in ho x reader #young il x reader #hwang in ho #in ho #front man x reader #front man #001 #001 x reader #squid game x reader #squid games x reader #squid game #smut #i love old men #im pregnant

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beloveds-embrace · 2 days ago

Note

Neglected omega reader who got taken care of by someone else. Nikolai or Konig. The drama ✨✨

I hope i did KorTac justice, I’ve never written them before except König lol @nightunite pspspsps i have nikto crumbs 🙏🏻

Neglected omega reader p1 + p2

KorTac had always liked you.

From the very first moment they’d met you, they’d been drawn in- pulled by the quiet gravity of your presence and the sharp edge of your competence. You were quick on your feet, sharp with a knife, steady under pressure. Smart and resourceful in a way that demanded respect.

But more than that?

You had heart.

You’d been assigned to their unit during a joint operation months ago. Just a temporary deployment, only meant to last a few weeks, but it had been long enough for them to notice things- little things they hadn’t been able to forget.

The way you’d patched König up without hesitation after a mission went sideways, hands steady even as blood slicked your fingers. The way you’d shared your rations with Horangi after a supply drop came in light, brushing off his protests with a stubborn glare. The way you’d sat quietly beside Nikto on watch, not asking questions when he didn’t feel like talking but always ready to listen when he did.

They noticed you, and they liked what they saw.

Liked the way you worked. Liked the way you took care of your team without ever expecting anything in return. Liked the way you carried yourself- confident but kind. Fierce but soft.

But you weren’t theirs. Couldn’t be.

You belonged to 141, and KorTac had backed off, unwilling to overstep boundaries when you already had a pack waiting for you at home. They’d told themselves it was fine- they were fine- watching from a distance.

But then you came back.

Alone.

Hollow-eyed and sharp-edged, moving like a ghost through the halls of the base, and suddenly?

All bets were off.

The first time König sees you in such a state, it’s in the corridor outside the mess hall.

You don’t look up when he walks by, don’t even seem to notice the sheer weight of his presence as he slows, lingering just long enough to let his shadow stretch over you. You’re leaning against the wall like you’re trying to hold yourself together, arms wrapped tight around your middle, shoulders curled inward. Small. Smaller than he’s ever seen you look before. Smaller than he’d ever thought he’d ever see you.

His instincts itch- Omega, alone, hurting- but you’re not his. And still…

His eyes track the tired slump of your shoulders, the way your clothes hang loose, like you’ve been skipping meals. He scents the air. Picks up the faded traces of peach and rose, but there’s something sour underneath- bitter and wrong, like spoiled fruit. König’s stomach twists.

It’s the scent of neglect.

You should never have looked like this. You should have never smelled like this.

Not you. Not the Omega who had once dragged him out of the line of fire without hesitation, barking orders and holding the line until reinforcements arrived. Not the Omega who had once laughed with him under a tin roof during a monsoon, eyes bright.

The smell lingers after he walks away, clinging to the back of his throat like smoke. But it’s the emptiness of it- the hollowness- that keeps him awake that night, staring at the ceiling and wondering which one of those 141 bastards let their Omega rot like this.

The next time König sees you, it’s in the armory.

You’re cataloging weapons, checking and re-checking the tags with mechanical precision, but your hands shake when you reach for the next one. Just a little. Just enough for him to notice.

König moves closer. Quiet, but not too quiet- he doesn’t want to startle you. You don’t look up until his shadow stretches over your workbench, and when you do, the look in your eyes hits him like a gut-punch.

Flat. Guarded. Resigned.

Like you’re expecting him to scold you.

König’s heart cracks wide open. He grips the edge of the table just to keep from reaching out.

“Doing good work.” He says softly, and you just blink.

It’s such a small thing- barely even a compliment- but your throat bobs like you’re swallowing something down. Then you duck your head and go back to your task, not looking at him again.

But you don’t flinch.

Not this time.

Nikto is next, and he doesn’t hesitate.

He remembers you. Remembers the way you’d stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the rain, eyes scanning the horizon with sharp focus as you both waited for the enemy to make their move.

You hadn’t been scared. Not even a little.

And now?

He catches you outside the rec room, sitting on the stairs with your knees drawn up to your chest. You don’t even react when he approaches, just keep staring at the floor like it might swallow you whole.

Now, you look like you’re drowning.

So Nikto doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t say anything. Just crouches down beside you and sets a cup of coffee at your feet before walking away.

You stare at it for almost five minutes before finally picking it up.

The next morning, he does it again. Same cup. Same coffee. Same wordless offering.

It becomes a routine- something quiet and steady, something you can rely on when everything else feels too heavy.

And then there’s Horangi, who pushes the hardest.

He pushes, because he knows you can take it.

You had before- back when you’d yelled at him for ignoring orders and running off alone, eyes blazing as you shoved him back toward the evac point. He’d liked your fire back then, liked the way you didn’t back down even when he towered over you.

But now?

Now your fire’s gone out, and there’s only one group to blame.

So Horangi pushes. Tests the waters, pokes at the edges, trying to find the spark he knows is still there. He is the loudest of the three, sharp and quick with his words, but he also knows when to keep them soft. He finds you cleaning your gear one night and sits down beside you without asking.

“You missed dinner.” He says casually, pulling out a protein bar and tossing it onto your lap. Pushing past the bubble you’ve wrapped around yourself, yet not being overbearing or too much.

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“I’m not your Alpha,” he says with a shrug. “You don’t have to listen to me.”

You close your mouth. Look down at the protein bar. Then, without a word, you tear it open and take a bite.

Horangi grins. And just like that, he’s in.

And when you finally- finally- smile at one of his jokes?

He knows he’s got you.

141 starts noticing the shift almost immediately. Soap catches König lingering near you in the gym, eyes following the curve of your spine as you stretch, and something inside him snaps.

Ghost sees Nikto brush his fingers against yours when he hands you something, and his jaw clenches so tight he can hear his teeth grind.

Price overhears Horangi making you laugh- a real, honest-to-God laugh, a sound he can’t hear any longer even in his dreams- and has to excuse himself before he says something he can’t take back.

It gets worse when your scent starts to change; the bitterness fades first, then the sourness.

The first time Price catches a hint of warmth blooming underneath, it stops him dead in his tracks.

Because it isn’t for him. It isn’t for them.

It’s even worse to know that they drove you to it, and have no one to blame but themselves.

They let you fall through the cracks. Let the weight of their own issues and distractions leave you stranded in the dark, too far away for them to pull you back when they finally noticed you were gone.

And now? Now KorTac is picking up the pieces, with no hesitation.

König steadies you. Makes sure you eat, makes sure you rest, makes sure you feel safe even when the world outside is crumbling. Doesn’t push you away when you, big hand lingering on the curve of your spine until his scent is left there.

Nikto grounds you. Offers quiet comfort without demands, without expectations. Makes sure you know he’s there, always there, steady and unshakable. A lighthouse in the stormy seas, the hand that pulls you out of the swirling ocean.

Horangi pushes and pushes. Draws out smiles and laughter, reminds you what it feels like to be wanted. Finds excuses to bump shoulders or brush against you when you pass, just to see if you’ll let him.

And you do. You let all of them, slowly greeting them with the quietest little purr (cat activation noise).

Because it’s easier to be wanted by them than it is to be unwanted by your own pack.

And slowly- so slowly it hurts- you start to come back to life; your scent changes. Softens. Warms. The bitterness fades and the sourness disappears.

And all they can do is only watch as König takes the space they abandoned. As Nikto feeds the hunger they ignored. As Horangi brings back the fire they let burn out.

And they can’t do a damn thing about it.

Because the truth is- KorTac wanted you from the start, and now that they’ve got you?

They’re never letting go.

#noona.asks #cod x reader #cod x you #cod #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #tf 141 #cod imagines #kortac x you #kortac x reader #könig x you #könig x reader #konig x you #konig x reader #horangi x you #horangi x reader #nikto x reader #nikto x you #cod omegaverse

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astonmartinii · 13 hours ago

Text

other side of the moon - chapter three | formula one imagine

chapter three: home away from home

pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli

back in monaco for the first time after the crash, y/n reckons with ghosts from the past and the uncertain future.

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | PART ONE | PART TWO

despite the hefty price tag of the cat carrier, brando looks less than impressed. y/n continued to try and coax him in with a treat but the cat was suspicious to say the least.

“please get in the carrier brando,” she waved the treat in his face again, “we’re going to see max! you love max and you don’t mind kimi, yeah? remember them? we just have a short 16 hour drive because your lordship doesn’t like planes so can we please get in the carrier?”

brando bit into the treat and slowly made his way into the carrier looking sorry for himself. the biggest and final chore was now done with minimal guilt, she would take that. y/n wasn’t moving to monaco - no, she prided herself on being one of the only drivers to not make that jump, but she also didn’t exactly know when she was coming back.

there was less than a month until car launches and tests and max insisted on hosting some team-bonding sessions for her and kimi. it was probably just an excuse to see her before she is ‘tainted by mercedes’, but y/n found herself excited to see the dutchman again.

the suitcases were by the door and the plants had been watered, it was now or never. crossing the boundary of her front door, it dawned on y/n that her life was changing again. there wasn’t quite the excitement she had leading up to her first race in formula one, but she could feel the butterflies threatening to return.

the door clicked shut and the next phase started. in the lobby of her building, y/n approached the front desk.

“hi frank,” y/n said to the concierge, “i’m going away for a little while so could you keep all of my mail together for me?”

the older man smiled up at her. frank had been working at this building since y/n first moved in. he had tried to hide that he was a formula one fan but wasn’t quite successful. he had stuttered when she had turned up one evening, cap low on her head and oversized sunglasses despite the darkness.

“miss y/ln, would you like me to help you with your bags?”

y/n had frozen when frank said her name. frank had taken his hat off, trying to sort out the salt and pepper freckled hair on his head.

“i’m so sorry miss y/ln, that was unprofessional of me. as you now know, i am aware of who you are, i hope this does not make you uncomfortable. we will do anything you need to be comfortable here.”

y/n had also taken off her hat and looked frank in the eye. she deemed him sincere and allowed herself two minutes of respite from her burning anger. “no worries,” she looks down at his name tag, “frank. i would love some help, maybe on a better day i can sign something for you? other than these bags, i’d really love if this being my home was just something we keep between us.”

frank mock saluted and started grabbing bags.

“you won’t be gone forever will you, miss y/ln?” frank asked, pulling y/n back. the older man looked uncharacteristically worried.

“and miss our scintillating conversations? i would never! i assume you’ve heard i’ve taken the job with kimi? i’m going to do some ‘team-bonding’ with him in monaco and then i’ll be back”

frank took one of her suitcases, helping her to the garage.

“monaco you say? you wouldn’t be staying with the handsome dutchman by any chance,” frank said, raising an eyebrow in question.

“i might be?” y/n opened the door of her pink cadillac, “was it you who let him and kimi up without my permission, frank?”

“guilty as charged ma’am, but they were there with good purpose so i just had to”

frank continued loading the car with her suitcases, opening the back door and securing brando’s carrier in place.

“he also gave me a signed pair of race gloves, sorry!”

y/n exclaimed as she shut the door of the car. “i knew he was bribing you! but yes, i guess i am glad you let them up - for now.”

frank pulled y/n in for a hug. she let it linger before clearing her throat and pulling back.

“i know i’m just an old man, but it’s nice to see you excited about something again. you came to me three years ago a broken girl with a constant face like thunder,” frank pinched her cheek, “but here you are, ready to conquer the world again. i am proud of you. but don’t get too lost in your new role to not see what’s right in front of you.”

y/n was confused. frank continued, “the crash took a lot from you, but it did not make you unloveable. give people a chance.”

the older man stepped back and gave her a wave.

“make sure you make enough stops and get some sleep, it’s a long drive to monaco. say hi to max for me.”

frank turned and made his way back into the building. y/n sighed and climbed into her car. the pink cadillac was hardly subtle but she had banished all of her other cars to a different garage three years again so it would simply have to do.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, kimiantonelli and 11,304,788 others

yourusername: sixteen hour road trip ahead of us, i hope brando is ready to get real acquainted with taylor swift's discography

view all comments

user1: she’s so cute

user2: it’s the pink caddy!!!

user3: y/n is back in formula one and is driving the pink cadillac - never kill yourself

charles_leclerc: okay miss active on instagram

yourusername: had to come back and steal all the likes from you obviously

charles_leclerc: oh yes please remind me how you still have double the followers i do when you haven’t posted in three years?

yourusername: idk sounds like you have a skill issue to me

charles_leclerc: sixteen hours and you’re back on my stomping ground… watch it missy

yourusername: i will watch

yourusername: because i know you and you will grovel

charles_leclerc: maybe…

charles_leclerc: i’ve missed you, sue me!

yourusername: i just might!

charles_leclerc: wait-!

user4: all these reunions are making me sappy

user5: i’m stuck on the fact that y/n is driving all the way to monaco?

yourusername: brando doesn’t like flying 😕

user6: oh to be a high maintenance cat of a rich person

maxverstappen1: jimmy and sassy are eagerly awaiting your arrival

yourusername: awwww i’ve missed them

maxverstappen1: i was talking to brando…

yourusername: rightttttt

maxverstappen1: but i am eagerly awaiting your arrival

yourusername: as you should be

maxverstappen1: i stocked up on all your weird english biscuits and everything

yourusername: you’re too precious

user7: oh to have a bond like theirs

user8: i fear it’s a trauma bond

user9: it’s still cute!

kimiantonelli: can’t wait to get started miss y/ln

yourusername: please call me y/n kimi you’re making me feel so old

kimiantonelli: oki

kimiantonelli: miss y/ln what kind of pasta do you like

kimiantonelli: *y/n what kind of pasta do you like

olliebearman: you are such a failure omg

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the road was quiet, with taylor swift’s voice filling the silence. y/n had exhausted the conversation with brando, who was tuckered out in the backseat. by now the pair we deep into france, y/n had stopped being able to translate the road signs many miles ago.

the thought of returning to monaco was daunting. there would be ghosts around every corner and memories that y/n wasn’t sure she was ready to confront. y/n wasn’t even sure which drivers even lived in the principality any more - however, she knew that her former teammate did.

lando norris was a bit of an enigma in y/n’s life. there were early growing pains in their friendship? work relationship? but as the 2021 season rolled around, she thought they had finally been ironed out. the gap was slim, but lando had outscored her in 2020, so his ego was still intact and that made him a little more enjoyable to be around.

y/n wasn’t sure who or what had pushed lando over the edge of accepting her as a teammate and not just a mere annoyance, but january 2021 was night and day from her rookie season. y/n had a sneaking suspicion that lando had been subject of some heated PR meetings over the christmas break, but as long as she wasn’t in them, she didn’t really care.

suddenly there was a shift in the atmosphere. lando spoke to her outside of meetings, in between video takes and checked in over the breaks. suddenly lando knew the name of her friends, where she had gone on holiday and her favourite food. y/n didn’t think much of it at the time. but then came everything else.

july 2021.

y/n didn’t tend to spend long on social media, why open herself up to the opinions of stupid people just because they were loud? one morning, a sunny one in monaco, y/n received a flurry of texts from her trainer luca. ripped from her yoga session on max’s balcony, y/n checked her texts.

luca: is there other strenuous activities i need to be aware of?

luca: tiktok.com/userlandonorris/reposts

luca: if this is a thing, should jon and i coordinate training plans?

huh?

y/n clicked the link and was taken to lando’s tiktok page. she felt like an old woman trying to navigate the app but finally found the reposts. the first few she saw were edits of herself? and then a couple talking about “finally being understood by that person” and some other more charged in nature.

what the fuck. there wasn’t a normal day in this team it seemed. y/n pulled back the door and went to find max. the dutchman was tucked into bed, still sore from silverstone just two weeks earlier.

“have you seen this shit?” y/n said, shoving her phone in max’s face, “i mean what does this even mean? 69? i didn’t even know lando could count that high?”

“i think he’s referencing sex, y/n”

“i know he’s referencing sex idiot! why is he referencing having sex with me?!”

“i don’t know, you’re the dumbass who joined that team - he’s probably trying to like get you on side after the shit he pulled in austria and is doing it in classic dumbass lando fashion.”

austria had been eventful. both lando and y/n had somewhat slow starts to the season, with just one podium to their names by the time they pulled up to the red bull ring. the two papaya cars lined up fourth and fifth on the grid, with y/n managing to edge in front of her teammate, which meant the two were subjected to the word teamwork 72 times in a 45 minute meeting (y/n had counted).

when the lights went out, y/n got the jump on the ferrari of sainz ahead of her, wrestling her way past the spaniard and up into third. with cleaner air, max had already wrangled a healthy three second gap back to her and was hunting down lewis, so she focused on keeping the prancing horse behind her. as they approached the steep incline, carlos jerked out to the right and tried his luck up the inside. the spaniard was heavy on his brakes, burning up his tyres as he missed the apex and shunted his front wing into y/n’s front right tyre.

the contact didn’t manage to cause a puncture or any terminal body damage, but the push had made way for carlos, lando and charles to slide past her as she strained to keep her mclaren from going into the gravel trap.

“what the hell was that?” y/n asked down the radio, keeping her eyes focused on charles’ ferrari down the road. “do i have any damage?”

“no damage that we can see. hang back for a couple of laps, the ferraris are eating their tyres and will fall back to you.” jude, her usually cool race engineer, had a bite to his voice.

taking the corner as tight as she could y/n barked back, “surely he has to give that place back? he forced me off the track?!” y/n was practically vibrating, with anger or from the force on her tyres, she wasn’t sure yet. “just keep your head down, we’ll get back to you,” hugo replied.

the ferrari of charles was getting further and further down the road. “hugo their tyres aren’t falling off, can i hunt them down yet? what about this penalty?” it was like talking to a brick wall as the pit wall didn’t reply. y/n bit down the urge to swear up a storm and put her foot down with renewed vigour.

by the next lap y/n had managed to battle her way into charles’ drs and was priming her tyres for a late move further down the track. charles tried to cut off the slip stream and predict which side y/n might choose, but it wasn’t enough as the mclaren breezed past charles before they even hit the apex.

unbeknownst to y/n the silence from hugo was indicative of the larger argument happening on the pit wall. despite putting massive flatspots on his tyres, lando had yet to make his way past sainz’s ferrari. will, lando’s race engineer, was deep in discussion with him over the radio (which would’ve made quite entertaining viewing for y/n after the fact if it didn’t concern her so deeply).

“lando we are confident that sainz will get a penalty. y/n has cleared charles, we need you to back sainz into y/n so she can overtake. when she does we want you to give the position back.”

and if that wasn’t the sentence that summoned the shitstorm.

“why should i give the position back? i did nothing wrong?”

lando kept his foot down and increased the gap between himself and sainz. will’s voice rang out on the radio again,

“lando. sainz pushed y/n off track and you all gained positions, the right thing to do is to give the position back.”

that was a red flag to a raging lando. he let off a spiel that had made the post-race debrief and all media duties torture for the pair of them.

“carlos did nothing wrong and i did nothing wrong. y/n needs to learn we won’t just let her past like schumacher did. tell her to hurry up if she wants this position back, i won’t give her a podium just because she can’t defend.”

there was silence on the mclaren radio for a few moments. there was even silence on the broadcasts. no one quite knew what to say to that.

y/n had closed in on sainz, hundredths away from being in the spaniard’s drs range. her radio finally crackled back to life, “y/n you have full permission to use your tyres, we aim to pit soon. you are free to race with lando.”

excuse me? on one hand y/n was glad, there had been a couple awkward moments already this season where she had been told to hold position and not fight. however, that was her position, lost through no fault of her own?

“i am free to race? he should give me that position!”

“you are free to race. head down and clear sainz before we discuss again.”

this was bullshit. she knew it, hugo knew it, zak brown knew it, the broadcast team knew it and deep down lando knew it too. sainz was an easy pass for y/n in the end as she pipped him on the start finish straight. lando had a three second advantage which meant that y/n had some free air to cool down her tyres and get ready to fight her teammate. she would be clean but she was finishing on that podium whether he liked it or not.

within two laps y/n had completely dropped sainz and was breathing down the neck of lando. she was within his drs range as they rounded the final corner but before she could launch an attack lando swerved into the pit lane. that was an early stop? y/n quietly thought to herself that it seemed all too convenient that he was called into pit just as she was about to catch him… not that it really bothered her all too much, the over cut was more powerful at austria, so if she kept her good pace, she should come back out in front of her teammate.

many laps later and a late pit stop for y/n, the younger mclaren driver proudly picked up her second podium of the season. she hauled herself out of the car in parc ferme and immediately embraced max who had once again managed to win his quasi home race, catching lewis with ten laps to go.

once she had been weighed, y/n made her way to the interviews, glad to see it would be jenson conducting them - he always gave her nice questions.

“up first we have our third place finisher, the incomparable y/n y/ln! what a stint on those mediums, i thought for a second you were going to go all the way on them!” jenson said with a wide grin.

“thank you jenson! yeah… after the first lap i thought my race was pretty screwed… the fia took their time with carlos’ penalty so i had to regain my positions myself… but i think all in all it was a good race i’m glad to being going into my home race on the high of a podium and i’ll be looking to do even better there!”

jenson smiled at her but started to pick at his nails, a telltale sign he was going to have to ask a question he didn’t want to ask. “not to bring you down after a great race, but i must ask, what do you make of lando’s comments on the radio?”

y/n was puzzled, and her face showed that much. she started stuttering and shrugging. one of the production assistants behind jenson passed her a phone and pressed play. y/n held the phone up to her ear and felt the words rush over her.

oh. okay. y/n knew she needed to take a couple breaths before she responded or she would say something she would regret. people would probably forget about lando’s comments by next week but if she said something like that she’d be stuck with the brat label for the rest of her career.

“that’s disappointing for sure to hear. third and fourth is a good result for the team and it ended how it should’ve. we’ll discuss this with the team but for right now i’m going to celebrate my podium and drink some champagne!”

jenson gave her a nod to say she did well and beckoned over lewis. y/n walked back to the side of the podium pen and slid in next to max.

“who the fuck does he think he is saying that? i’m being serious, someones got to knock some sense into him,” max said under his breath, aware cameras were still on them.

“i know, it’s bullshit, but i doubt they’ll say anything severe to him.”

just as y/n was making peace with the fact there would be no severe consequences for lando, her and max turned to see the man himself in the media pen. intrigued, both listened in on his interview.

“it sounds bad on the radio, yes. but i stand by the message, maybe not the delivery. this is formula one and y/n needs to know that you can’t just bat your eyelashes and be let by.” lando’s PR handler cuts the interview there and drags him back towards the mclaren garage, barely concealing her anger on her face.

“well, well, well.”

max groaned from under the blanket he had wrapped over his head, snapping y/n out of it.

“yes he was a massive knob in austria, as per usual, but i don’t understand how implying he’s sleeping with me makes it any better? it makes it look so much worse!”

“can you stop bothering me about it i think you just retriggered my concussion.”

“i don’t think that’s a thing, max,” y/n said and then her phone chimed, “speak of the devil, he’s asked if we can go for some lunch to ‘discuss the season’ whatever the fuck that means”

“good leave me alone”

“we’re going to luigi’s do you want me to get you some carpaccio to go?”

“i actually take it back, i love you - yes.”

y/n refilled his water and got his painkillers from the kitchen before she slipped on her shoes and made her way out of the complex. this is what was confusing about lando. he was more than happy to berate her on the radio but then would set up meetings like this like nothing had happened. usually y/n could write it off as a heat of the moment thing - she had once called mick an ‘incompetent cunt with shit hair’ on the radio so she definitely understood it. but it never stopped there, media duties were the death of lando and y/n was interested to see how he aimed to worm his way out of this one.

luigi’s was surprisingly busy for a tuesday afternoon but y/n spotted lando easily with his big jumper in the july heat. lando didn’t stand up to greet her so y/n just sat down as soon as she got to the table.

“do you know what you want to order?” lando snapped the menu shut and looked over to her.

“i’m doing well lando, thanks for asking,” y/n muttered sarcastically, “i’m just going to get some of the salmon, it’s good here.”

the waiter turned up just as she put the menu down and y/n ordered the salmon, a juice and the carpaccio to go. lando had ordered some chicken salad and a water. once the waiter had left he hissed at y/n, “did you order that on purpose?”

“what?”

“the salmon.”

“are you allergic or?”

“no?”

“then what’s the big deal? i like salmon, it’s good for you.”

“i hate fish. everyone knows i hate fish. i invited you here to sort things out and you’re already starting with the mind games.”

y/n’s mouth fell open. he was actually being serious.

“you know not everything is about you right? salmon is in my meal plan and they cook it nicely here. i don’t think about you in everything i do.”

lando huffed, whispering a ‘that i’m sure of’ to himself. this was so childish, and y/n was very to let lando know that. “do you want to repeat yourself lando? or are you going to continue to be a child?”

lando was taken aback, “me being a child? says you! i wanted to talk this out after silverstone like we planned? you were going to come to see my family and everything. they were so excited to meet you, especially my sisters. but no, you let me, let us down!”

y/n actually laughed in disbelief. “i told you i was sorry about silverstone and i was, but max needed me and in that moment he was who i had to be with.”

“it’s always max, isn’t it?”

“he was airlifted to the hospital lando, i’m sure he would’ve preferred me hang out with your family than have to do that again.”

lando had started to rip apart the napkins, a sign he was desperately trying to regulate himself.

“you always choose him! you choose him then, you only stay at his when you’re in monaco - you’re even picking up food for him on our date!”

“our date? are you kidding me? i’m going to ignore that,” y/n took a sip of water,” and for max? i care about him deeply and he was in hospital after a very dangerous crash!”

“then why don’t you care about me? huh?” lando was getting choked up, “you’ve never been there for me when i’ve crashed?”

now y/n was even more confused. lando had wanted her to be there for him when he had crashed but also couldn’t stand to be around her longer than necessary until this season. this boy was such a headfuck.

“you fucking hated me last season lando. and the way you’re acting here and how you acted in austria don’t really tell me that you like me any more.”

lando huffed and crossed his arms like a child. y/n continued, “this is what i don’t get with you. you can’t stand me all last season, literally refusing to call me by my name, only calling me rookie and running from meetings as soon as you can but now, now! i need to be there for your every need. now you can repost dumb tiktoks and fuel rumours about us?”

“they told me we needed to look closer!”

“so you decided to tell the world we’re fucking?”

“i didn’t say that!”

“you basically did, i saw the reposts. and for your information i would never fuck you in a million years.”

“no, that’s for max only isn’t it?”

“what is you people’s fucking obsession with thinking i am sleeping with someone on the grid? is it that inconceivable that i might be able to exist around my fellow drivers without trying to sleep with them?”

“well you should stop acting like you are then!”

y/n stood up abruptly, scraping the chair across the floor. she hastily grabbed her stuff and slotted her sunglasses back.

“you can send me what i owe for the lunch, i don’t feel like sitting here and being berated because you can’t handle this season. you know who actually has something to be stressed about, the guy actually in the title battle, who is in bed still recovering from a crash. so goodbye lando, i’m going to go take care of my friend who actually cares about me and can talk to me without belittling me.”

she sweeped out of the restaurant, the waiter at the entrance saw her coming and passed her the carpaccio. the heat of monaco was sweltering but the drama between her and her teammate was heating up even more.

present.

y/n was still none the wiser about how she felt about lando, even all these years later. something inside of her wanted to reach out to him, reassure him that he was good enough, especially after how 2024 had panned out, but then the memories of their time together at mclaren come flooding back and she feels content with her silence.

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texts between y/n y/ln (bold) and charles leclerc (italics)

little birdy told me you’re back in monaco

by little birdy i mean your instagram post

omg have you considered a career switch to being a detective?

you’re mean

anyway!

cocktail night at mine tonight

i guess you can bring your losers too

yes that includes ollie before kimi asks

wow that’s a big assumption that i’m going to say yes

drinking on my dime? when have you ever said no?

you have a good point

i’ll be there at 8 - losers in tow

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

“we get to go to a cocktail night at charles? oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”

kimi squealed down the phone to y/n, “hold on let me tell ollie, we’ve got to get ready!”

y/n could hear him shuffling through their shared flat, “it doesn’t start for another like three hours kimi!”

the two boys had started excitedly discussing outfits and which cocktails are the ‘cool’ ones.

“we’ll swing by yours at 7:45, be ready we won’t wait.”

y/n hung up and turned to max smiling, they were so cute. the two of them had been curled up on the couch with the cats for the majority of the afternoon as y/n was catching up on sleep. the brit turned to max,

“oh i forgot to tell you,” max perked up, “guess who came to my apartment after the GQ thing?”

max shrugged, throwing a toy for jimmy.

“lewis.”

“hamilton?”

“yeah!”

max’s eyes sharpened, “why would he be at yours?”

“wouldn’t you know? you’re the one who gave him my address,” y/n replied, trying to make eye contact with max who was avoiding her gaze.

“yeah i thought he was going to send you like condolence flowers or something not show up unannounced?”

both of them had sat up at this point. brando was sat between them, looking between them confused.

“he showed up and complimented my dress. i asked him if he was sad he missed me at mercedes and he like proper leaned in and asked what i could possibly teach him? kissed my hand and left. it was weird.”

y/n laughed as she recounted the story but max wasn’t laughing.

“it’s funny max, you’re meant to laugh.”

max forces out a sarcastic laugh.

“what’s wrong?”

“nothing. i just think it’s weird. food for thought.”

“don’t worry he won’t replace you. you’ll always be my favourite.”

max smiled at that. he piled on top of her, with brando squished in the middle.

“you’ll always stay at mine in monaco right? i’ll always be your best friend on the grid?”

“always,” y/n said, tucking one of max’s hairs behind his ear, “beside where else would i stay? in kimi and ollie’s bachelor pad? i’d rather die”

max let out a laugh and let his head fall on y/n’s chest, her hands immediately tangling in his hair.

“i’m sorry for that. i just love you and our bond, i get jealous that mr seven titles might steal you away.”

“away from you? they’d have to take me kicking and screaming. you’re the only one who had my address, you’re the only one i spoke to in the three years. don’t think i’ll ever not have you first.”

the cocktail party was nearing, but the pair were content to stay tangled on the couch, with a grumpy brando tucked in between them. outside of the apartment, the ghosts of monaco still lingered. maybe it was a good thing charles had a weird obsession with cocktails and his at home bar, y/n could use some liquid courage tonight.

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charles_leclerc

liked by maxverstappen1, pierregasly and 2,304,667 others

tagged: yourusername

charles_leclerc: it’s been three years and she still can’t mix drinks.

view all comments

user1: war is officially over

user2: i hope nothing bad happened between them but it is stuck in my mind that they didn’t talk in the three years

user3: i’m hoping she just flat out wasn’t speaking to anyone but max and charles did nothing bad

user4: his tribute post is still up which others can’t say so

kimiantonelli: i think her drinks are just right!

yourusername: i think we’re gonna work so well together

kimiantonelli: i think so toooooooooo

olliebearman: he’s just really drunk?

yourusername: so he’s not always like this?

olliebearman: loud? not really. but hanging off every word you say? yeah that’s pretty normal

user5: oh how i’ve missed my beautiful wife

user6: lando’s beautiful wife

user7: nuh uh george’s

user8: what about the guy who actually posted it

user9: i actually think you all should kill yourselves!

yourusername: i’m really not that bad you just have bad tolerance

charles_leclerc: i have measuring tools right there and you insist on doing the ‘y/n pour’

yourusername: does the ‘y/n pour’ get the party started or not?

pierregasly: yes because everyone is pissed by 9pm

yourusername: is that not the aim of a party

charles_leclerc: this is a sophisticated soiree - i even bought olives for this

yourusername: oh please

maxverstappen1: i think it would be funnier to watch everyone drunk stumbling around y/n

charles_leclerc: okay well we’d all be a bit more chill if you didn’t gatekeep her for three years

maxverstappen1: don’t care 😛

user10: max is the level of unbothered i need to be right now

user11: he’s on necks even in the off season

user12: so who else is to come?

user13: please please please let the brits be there i need my dose of y/nlando

user14: they're meant to be i swear

user15: oh my sweet summer child

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fin.

note: enjoy my quick updates while you can i am back at my big girl job tomorrow :((((( but i will try to keep up with this pace where i can!

taglist: @folkloresreputation @hc-dutch @shimmermotorsport @96mcobo @eclipsedcherry @formulaal @czennieszn @gothicwidowsworld @emily-b @suns3treading @henna006 @kazgirl20 @anotherapollokid @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @annimausi @yawn-zi @lulu-1998 @xsilkesworld @justaf1girl @daddyslittlevillain @evans-dejong @abq654 @elizamoe133 @wierdflowerpower @t1nkerbel1 @okcurran @raizelchrysanderoctavius @skepvids @multilovebot @fernandoalonso14 @jules-kup-172 @m4xgirlie @rorabelle15 @minkyungseokie @formula1-motogpfan @peterholland04 @miureiz @freyathehuntress @lighttsoutlewis @aleatorio1234 @chaosandevelyn

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #charles leclerc #max verstappen #kimi antonelli #ollie bearman #lando norris

689 notes · View notes

covenofagatha · 2 days ago

Note

hey!! can you do one where you run into professor agatha at the library while doing homework and it ends with her making you sit on her cock without moving while you study and you're impatient and she ends up fucking you right there in thar secluded corner (with lots of overstimulation and daddy kink if you're comfortable with that?)

Inspiration struck for this one today so hope everyone enjoys

I just started a new semester so probably won't be posting as much but I will do my best to keep writing and putting stuff out regularly. Also will be pausing any Agathario x reader fics for the moment

Learning to focus

When you run into Professor Harkness at the local library while you're supposed to be working on a project for her history class, you find yourself distracted by her (again)

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: public sex, GP Agatha, fingering, cockwarming, daddy kink, overstimulation, it really was agatha all along, slight humiliation?, hints of degradation

The Westview University campus library is always packed, so you usually opt for the local library about twenty minutes away from the school.

Much quieter and way less crowded.

And you don’t have to worry about running into any failed situationships or crazy roommates from past years.

Plus it’s a really nice library, two stories with long glass windows stretching from the ceiling to the floor. Even when you don’t have school work, you often enjoy coming here just to read or play on your computer. It’s a peaceful place, a place that lets you just relax and forget about the outside world and all the stress you feel.

Stress mainly from one class. Your history class.

Professor Agatha Harkness was the only one who taught U.S. History when your schedule could allow it, which meant you had to ignore all the bad reviews on RateMyProfessor.com, because you had no other option.

On the first day, you could see exactly where they came from.

One boy had shown up five minutes late, practically a miracle on the first day of classes, stammering an excuse about how bad traffic was, Professor Harkness had fixed him with a glare and told him that he better drop the class.

You were just thankful that you had a class before hers, otherwise you would’ve been late, too.

She was just as mean and ruthless and cold as everyone said she’d be. Her assignments were almost outrageous and she graded them so harshly it was honestly impressive you weren’t failing yet.

But the one thing the reviews forgot to mention was how attractive she is. Her long, dark hair that she’d often keep back in a ponytail. Her sharp blue eyes that reminded you of the ocean on a dark night. Her high cheekbones, her pointed nose, her wicked smirk, honestly, everything about her.

You suppose the more impressive thing is that you aren’t failing with how often you get distracted by the way her fingers on her left hand tighten around the dry-erase marker when she’s drawing time-lines on the board. When she sways her hips and flexes her knuckles which tightens her veins, you feel a tugging in your gut and you have to bite your lip.

And you definitely should not be noticing the bulge in her pants when she sits back with her legs spread in her chair while the class is taking an exam.

You have an optimal seat, all the way to the right of her desk and in the front row, so you can take her in without her noticing you too much.

If anyone looked too closely at you, they’d assume you were sweating because of the forty-five multiple choice and five written questions you had to answer in only a little over an hour.

That wasn’t it.

You swore she saw you looking one time, one particular day when she was wearing a blue flannel and loose fitting cargo pants. You were staring, so completely distracted when you should’ve been taking notes that you didn’t even notice she had dismissed the class.

It wasn’t until you finally realized that she was stalking toward you that you had fucked up. You had swallowed roughly and moved to shove your stuff into your bag when she had put her hands on your desk and leaned in, causing you to completely forget how to breathe.

“You seemed a little preoccupied there,” she murmured in a low voice, her hint of cologne tickling your nose. “Try to pay better attention next time. Don’t want to have to teach you a lesson.”

You had promptly nodded and almost ran to your dorm to fuck yourself to the thought of her teaching you a very different kind of lesson.

Professor Harkness is in your head, and you can’t get her out no matter how hard you try. Except right now, you really need to focus, because the end-of-semester project is due in a week and you haven’t started.

Did she give you the entire four months of the course to complete it? Yes. But you have never been good at working ahead or at time management.

She had assigned a ten page paper along with a hand-drawn timeline about something that had happened in the history of the United States. You had picked the Salem Witch Trials, and Professor Harkness had winked when you got the topic approved by her.

So you’re about to spend the next probably five hours in the library trying to make some headway on this project. The timeline should be easy, but it’s the paper you’re worried about.

You go up the stairs and wind through the aisles of books on the second floor until you get to your secluded corner, the one you always go to, the one with a small table and two chairs hidden by bookshelves and gasp.

Your favorite spot has been taken by none other than Professor Harkness. She’s sitting in the chair you usually sit in, pen between her teeth, staring at papers.

When she looks up, she doesn’t even seem surprised to see you and a slow grin spreads over her face.

“Professor, what are you doing here?” You ask, fiddling with the straps on your tote bag. Should you go somewhere else?

She chuckles. “In a public library in the town where I live?”

Your cheeks burn. “Right. Um, I’ve just never seen you here before.” And then you inwardly kick yourself because now it sounds like you’ve been on the lookout.

“Wanted to get out of the house,” she shrugs. “Have some papers to grade for that project due next week. How’s yours coming?”

“Oh, really good,” you lie, shifting your weight and trying to think of a quick way to get out of this conversation. “Almost done. Well, I don’t want to bother–”

She interrupts you by sliding the chair out next to her and patting it. “Why don’t you come show me what you have? I can give you some help, free of charge.” She winks, a glint in her eyes, and it makes your stomach twist.

“Oh, Professor, that’s not necessary,” you say nervously but she tsks and waves dismissively.

“Please, call me Agatha. It’s the weekend and we’re off campus. Now, come sit.” She makes it clear it’s an order and you gulp before taking the seat. Even being this close to her is affecting your body and you know there’s absolutely no way you’re getting anything done.

She’s currently grading a paper about the Boston Massacre and it’s drenched in red ink. You’re not sure which you feel more of: annoyance at your over-achieving classmates or absolute dread for how Agatha is going to react when she finds out that you haven’t even started and, even worse, lied about it.

You take a shaky breath, feeling her intense gaze on you. “So, the thing is…” You trail off, reaching down to pull out your laptop. You set it on the table and slowly open it, silently begging for the floor underneath you to open up and swallow you whole.

Anything would be better than this humiliation.

“Yeah?” Agatha breathes, suddenly much closer to you. You will your eyes to not look away from the computer screen and type in your password, praying that you didn’t leave anything that embarrassing up.

It opens up to the blank document titled Salem Witch Trials, just so it’s clear to Agatha what exactly this page was supposed to be.

You’d rather it have been porn.

Your professor chuckles slowly next to you. “Thought you were almost done?” She simpers in that gruff voice that drives you wild. “Did you get distracted again?”

Agatha leans forwards, resting her elbow on the table, and perching her head in her hand so she can peer at you. Your eyes glance over to meet hers and then back to your computer, but in your peripheral vision, you can see her body tilt toward yours and her legs open just the slightest.

Your mouth runs dry and you make a pointed effort not to look between them.

“What’s gotten you so preoccupied, babygirl?” She asks and you clench around nothing at the shift in tone and the pet name. Holy fuck. “I’ve seen you staring in class, you know. You’re not very subtle at all.”

Forget being swallowed by the floor, you might just combust out of pure embarrassment.

You try to stammer out something, an apology maybe, sorry for wanting to fuck you, Professor, but no sounds come out of your mouth. Her other hand comes up and teases a lock of your hair and you finally work up the courage to look at her.

Agatha’s eyes are heated and dark, all the blue practically gone, and her lips are parted just so. And then you flick your eyes down to between her legs involuntarily and you have to bite back a whimper because she’s fucking hard.

You can see her length through her navy pants and your brain short-circuits. Agatha likes this. Agatha likes you.

“Is that what gets you all hot and bothered? Can’t focus because you’re too busy staring at me?” Agatha asks, hand dropping to palm herself. She gives her dick a quick stroke and lets out a tight sigh and you have to hold onto the table to steady yourself.

Heat rushes through your body in an almost unbearable way. “Yes,” you whisper hoarsely.

Agatha takes her hand off herself and taps a finger to her lips. “Hmm,” she draws out thoughtfully. You can feel a puddle growing in your underwear. “You know, I’m used to the crushes. Doesn’t even phase me anymore, usually it’s college girls who are just so desperate for attention. Not getting it anywhere else and they think that their fifty year old professor will be into them.”

Your jaw clenches. Is this the part where she rejects you?

But Agatha smirks and looks you up and down, takes in your squirming body in the chair. “And I never have even considered it. Until you. None of them have been as delicious as you, pet.”

And it makes your head spin. It’s almost as if you’re in a trance when your hand grabs onto her thigh and Agatha lets out a low moan.

“Please,” you say, desperation in your voice. What are you asking for? You don’t even think you know.

Agatha tuts. “Do you really think you deserve anything? This paper is due in a week and you haven’t even started. Doesn’t seem like you should get a reward for procrastinating, does it?”

“It’s not my fault,” you whine before you can even think about it. There’s something about this side of Agatha specifically that makes your mind turn to mush.

She raises an eyebrow like she’s daring you to say that again. “I think you need to learn how to keep that pretty head of yours focused.” She nods to the computer screen. “Make an outline.”

You swallow roughly and straighten up, putting your hands on the keyboard. You’ve just switched tabs and begun googling “Salem Witch Trials” when Agatha’s hand lands on your upper thigh.

You freeze and glance at her out of the corner of your eye to find her scribbling another note on the paper in front of her. You don’t know how she’s so calm and collected when you feel like your entire body is on fire.

“Focus,” she tells you in that deep voice of hers and you click on the first result that comes up as her fingers begin to toy with the hem of your skirt.

You try, you really do try, but it’s so fucking hard to read the words on the screen when she’s inching closer and closer to your underwear, which you can feel is absolutely drenched.

And soon enough, she’s going to feel it, too. You can almost hear her dark laugh already when she realizes just how affected you are.

Her fingertips brush against you and instead of laughing, she gasps. “Oh, pet, no wonder you never pay attention in class,” she coos and a thrill runs through you despite how embarrassed you are. She effortlessly finds your clit through the fabric and rubs it and you have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip so you don’t make a sound.

“Agatha,” you say under your breath and you can practically hear her smirking. Why is it so hot that she is still grading the paper as she starts to run her fingers up and down your pussy over your underwear? She dips in at your entrance and a muffled groan tears itself out of your mouth.

“Is this what you’re like while I’m teaching, too?” She muses conversationally, but you look down just in time to see her cock twitch in her pants. It makes you feel even more exhilarated, knowing she’s just as affected. But then she moves your panties to the side and slides her fingers through your folds and you forget any train of thought you had. You really hope your wetness isn’t as loud as it sounds. “Dripping for me like a little slut? Getting yourself all worked up when I’m talking about the Declaration of Independence? It’s pathetic.”

You whimper, maybe in agreement, maybe at how good it feels when she pushes a finger into you, but her eyes slightly glaze over at the feeling of your warm walls around her.

“God, Agatha,” you moan, your own hand coming down to wrap around her wrist when she starts moving. You can feel her flexing with each thrust and your tongue presses against your cheek as you breathe heavily, leaning toward her.

She presses a quick kiss to your head and scrapes her teeth against your ear before hotly whispering, “Better be quiet, babygirl. And focus. Or I’ll stop.”

You manage to type out three bullet points worth of information when she slips another finger into you and you clamp a hand over your mouth before you moan obscenely.

Agatha leans over to read what you have so far. “Who was the first woman to be executed for witchcraft?” She asks and you realize that you never finished that sentence.

“Bridget Bishop,” you gasp, and she swipes at your clit as a reward, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

You continue to type, hoping it’s making sense because you can’t even comprehend the words, while Agatha continues to twist her fingers inside you roughly and rub your clit. You can feel your orgasm slowly building, and it only makes it worse every time Agatha hums right into your ear at something you’ve written. Your walls are clenching around her, trying to draw her even further into you, and she can tell you’re getting close, you’re going to cum so quickly around her fingers.

“There we go pet, such a good girl for Daddy,” she says into your ear and you spasm all around her, the name sending you right over the edge.

Who knew you’d like that so much?

Apparently Agatha did, who grins like a cat getting her cream as she fucks you through your orgasm with her fingers, keeping a steady rhythm on your clit. You taste blood from biting your lip so hard but you manage to keep quiet and you finally come down from your high.

But it’s not enough, you need more, and judging by the straining of Agatha’s cock against her pants, she needs more, too.

You move to touch her but she slaps your hand away. “Not yet,” she growls and it sends another blast of heat through you. You think there might be a wet spot on the chair underneath you.

It only makes it worse when she reaches down and undoes her own belt, fiddles with the button exasperatedly, and finally unzips her pants. She reaches inside and your jaw drops open when she pulls out her hard and leaking cock. It’s big, big enough to make your mouth water, and it almost looks painful. Agatha gives herself a few strokes, hips jumping, and she hisses when she rubs her thumb over the tip.

“Think you can focus while you sit on Daddy’s cock, babygirl?” She taunts. You’ve never felt so empty in your life, you need her so bad, and she’s right there.

You almost want to bend down and take her into your mouth, taste her hard cock.

“I asked you a question,” she reminds you roughly, slapping your thigh to get your attention. The sting makes you jump. “God, you really do get distracted easily.”

You mumble an apology, cheeks flushing. “I can focus, I promise,” you say, trying to sound convincing, but neither of you believe it. Regardless, she smirks and pats her legs and you do a cautious sweep of the surrounding area. This is incredibly dangerous and if you get caught, you both will get in serious trouble.

But for some reason, the thrill of getting caught only turns you on more.

So you stand up and straddle her and sit down, taking her cock in one fell swoop. She goes in easy with how wet you are and you bottom out in her lap, the both of you groaning quietly with restraint.

“Fuck, babygirl,” you hear Agatha huff and you squeeze your walls around her in response. It makes her thrust up and you inhale sharply at the feeling. She is so big and you can feel her throbbing inside you. “Better keep working.”

You lean forward slowly to move your laptop closer, the stretch absolutely delicious and she chuckles when you gasp as you settle back onto her. Agatha wraps her arms around your waist and you really do try to be good and focus, but every so often, she shifts beneath you and it hits that spot so deep inside you and you can’t help but squirm to try and get more.

Would she notice if you slowly start moving? Most likely, but it’s worth the risk. You give the gentlest roll of your hips and Agatha moans low into your ear before her fingernails dig into your hips through your skirt to still you. “Don’t even think about it,” she whispers dangerously so you’re forced to sit without moving on her cock that is filling you up better than anything ever has before.

It’s sweet torture and you write a few more sentences before you can feel your wetness dripping down her cock and out of you. Every so often, you’ll clench around her, too, completely involuntarily, of course, and she’ll buck into you like she can’t help it while breathing suddenly. You’re not sure how much longer of this you can take, the ache spreading everywhere in your body and absolutely ruining you.

“Agatha,” you whine again, begging, starting to move despite her death-like grip on your waist.

She moves your hair to the side and nips at your neck. “Yes, babygirl?”

“Can you please–” you begin, frustration leaking into your voice, tears pricking in your eyes. “Can you please move? Please, I need it so bad. I’m trying so hard to focus, please, can you fuck me? Daddy–”

Turns out, all you needed to convince her was to call her that, because she finally breaks and starts thrusting her hips up and pounding her cock into you. Your hand flies over your mouth and you bite onto a finger to stop yourself from crying out and you wish you weren’t in a library right now, rather be in the comfort of Agatha’s bed or car or office or anywhere but here, so you could be as loud as you want.

“Let’s see if you’re still distracted after Daddy fucks all the thoughts out of your head,” she snaps and fuck, you’re already so close after cockwarming her for those few minutes. She reaches around you with a hand to circle your clit, which is already sensitive from your previous orgasm and a muffled sound escapes you. Agatha laughs breathlessly and you strain your ears to hear if anyone is coming near you – not that you could do anything about it now – but there’s nothing.

Thank god this is a relatively empty library, especially at this time of the day, and that the two of you are tucked away in the back where it’s hard to see normally.

Agatha’s thrusts are getting so powerful that you’re forced to put your hands out on the table for balance which means it gets a lot harder to control your noises. But your professor, ever the problem-solver, comes up with a solution.

She slides two fingers into your mouth so you can suck on them and so your moans are stifled. Agatha presses her fingers against your tongue, scrapes her nails against it, and draws them out before shoving them back in, effectively fucking both your mouth and your pussy.

“You feel so good, babygirl, so fucking tight,” she pants into your ear and you gag when she pushes her fingers down your throat.

It’s so much, so much stimulation from her cock and her fingers and the fact that you’re being fucked in a public library where anyone could see that your orgasm hits you out of nowhere and it’s explosive. You sink your teeth into her skin and she moans, almost being louder before she remembers to control herself.

You need a moment to collect yourself, but she doesn’t give it to you; instead, she shoves you off her lap and stands up right behind you without her cock ever leaving your body.

Agatha bends you over the table, hand pressing against your back, and you have just enough awareness to move your laptop out of the way before she sets a bruising pace. The table must be bolted down to the floor or something, because it thankfully doesn’t move.

Agatha grunts softly with each thrust and you can feel her twitching inside you even though it feels like every single one of your nerves is on fire.

“Daddy, I don’t know if I can again,” you quietly sob, the pleasure fraying your mind, the sensitivity of your clit making you gasp when she rubs it. You feel like you’re drifting away from your body, dizziness swarming your head. “Too much,” you babble.

But she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she picks up her speed and tears fall from your eyes. “You can, babygirl, I know you can. You can take it – fuck, you feel so good around me.”

Agatha losing her composure because of you, just knowing you have that kind of affect on someone usually so cold and unaffected, is starting to build your orgasm back up.

“Daddy,” you whine, trying to be as quiet as you can. Her rhythm is starting to falter, she’s throbbing and twitching and cursing, fingers scrambling for purchase on your hips, and you know she’s getting close.

“So perfect, babygirl,” she mutters and you know she’s refraining from being louder, too. “I’ve wanted you for so long, ever since the first day when you walked into my classroom wearing that short skirt.”

The confession makes you clench and a gasp escapes your lips. You’re climbing closer and closer to the edge and Agatha isn’t far behind.

“Knew I had to have you,” she keeps going and your body is practically vibrating.

She’s pounding into you so deep, filling you so good, her cock dragging against your walls in the best way. Her ragged words are getting to her, too; you can tell in the way her thrusts become shallower and shorter like she can’t do anything more.

You’d make a quip about her being distracted but you can’t form a sentence right now. Every thought in your head is gone.

“Daddy knows you come here,” she continues and your eyes roll back into your head. You don’t even think you can understand her. You’re close, so close. “Knew you hadn’t started on the project. Knew you’d be here – fuck, babygirl.” She breaks off with a sharp inhale as you squeeze around her at her words.

This whole thing was planned. She’s wanted you just as badly as you’ve wanted her. And now she’s fucking you against a table in a library because of it.

She reaches around and rubs your clit and that’s it.

You cum all over her cock, walls convulsing around her, and she quickly follows, pumping her cum into you. You feel her warmth spreading through you and it makes you gasp.

Thankfully she pulls out because you truly can’t take anymore and she slides your underwear back into place before her cum can drip down your legs. She turns you around after zipping her pants back up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You okay?” She murmurs and you weakly nod. “Is that pretty head of yours clear now? Think you can focus?”

The question makes you laugh. There are no thoughts left in your head whatsoever. “You do know that I’m only going to be thinking about this in your classes right? You just made the problem ten times worse.”

Agatha smirks and taps under your chin. “Tell you what, pet. For each day early you turn this project in, that’s one more reward you’ll get.”

And even though you’re completely worn out, your clit pulses at the thought of more.

“Think you’ll be able to focus now?” Agatha asks sweetly. You nod eagerly, your brain suddenly able to piece together how you’re going to structure your paragraphs, and she chuckles. “It’s all about finding the right motivation. I look forward to seeing your final project.” She winks, packs up her stuff, and then walks away.

You sit down in the chair, making a mental note to clean that and the table before you leave, and open your laptop back up.

Cracking your knuckles, you get to work, suddenly able to focus so much better now.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along

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souljahwwitch · 2 days ago

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PINK HAIRED SWEETHEART!

;hc’s for thanos and reader with pink hair who hate eachother

“i fucking hate that pink haired sweetheart”

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who immediately noticed you, pink hair and doe eyes—everyone noticed you two, the unusal hair color making you two stand out in amidst of 456 players

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who, of course, first flirted with you and, of course, got his ego hurt because you just ignored him—you were here to win, not get distracted by stupid rappers.

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who actually saved your life in the very first game, unusally so—he pulled you behind him as people in the row started to slip before the doll turned around

“you look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart—need me to make it all better hm?”

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who-when the game was over, approached you with confidence, saying “i saved your life, i think i deserve a little kiss—don’t i?” with that cocky voice of his

“oh fuck off—i just got caught off guard and you were there.” you said—and that’s when the hatred started.

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who got offended after you said that-because how could him pulling you behind him be ‘no biggie’ he totally didn’t do that to get in your pants!!!

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who would start mocking you, pulling you by your hair everytime you pass by him, throwing your lunch on the ground—everything, and him being actually struck by your pretty eyes, even though you annoyed him so fucking much, he didn’t mind one bit when you yelled at him—in fact, he found it cute.

“stop fucking pulling my hair!” you’d yell—but he’d just smirk

“relax, angel—would be a shame if i actually ruined your pretty pink hair, wouldn’t it?” he’d coo in that annoying tone of his, and you’d just hiss at him, walking away as he watched you with annoyance in his eyes—nam-gyu just watching you two in disbelief

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who’d watch you actually being sweet to others, trying to help everyone around you—except him, and that annoyed him to no end, why would you be sweet to those losers when he was right there!!

“man you need to stop looking at her like that.” nam-gyu said as they both watched you sparing your lunch and giving it to some scared boy

“i fucking hate that pink haired sweetheart.”

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who, once in this whole time, took a pity on you when he saw you on your bed—hugging your knees and hiding your face in them as you sniffled, too scared of watching people die around you—and him being him, he approached you—his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

“y’know it’s not your fault, right? i know you wanna help everyone but you’re not some kind of savior.” he says to you, but he sees that it doesn’t make it any better

“you know—i fucking hate you, but when we get out of here with shit ton of money, we’re gonna go to some pretty little cafe, and the soda’s on me, deal?” he says, and that actually makes you smile—so you nod in acceptance, and it makes his heart skip a beat

۫ ꣑ৎ; thanos who, in the game mingle, as soon as the number that was shouted was two, he pulled you by your wrist and ran with you to a room, he didn’t know why he did it, he hates you—you hate him. but it’s something you two are gonna talk about when you get out of here.

#squid game #thanos #thanos squid game #thanos x reader #squid game fic #choi su bong x reader #choi su bong #squid game x reader

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violetrainbow412-blog · 2 days ago

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Intoxication [S. R]

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

wc: 9.2k

Summary: when Spencer and reader accidentally consume aphrodisiacs, it seems impossible to maintain control of themselves. It all comes down to who will lose their mind first.

warnings: +18, mdni!! alcohol consumption, mentions of weed, unintentional use of aphrodisiacs, explicit descriptions, oral (f receiving) fingering, kissing, porn with plot, p in v, protected sex, no y/n!

It had been just over half an hour since I entered the fraternity building, fully aware that within the first second, I’d feel the need to leave. Attending any gathering wasn’t a regular thing for me. The noise, the crowds, and the multitude of germs everywhere were reason enough to avoid them.

However, that time, I thought, why not? I had never been to one of those university parties and wanted to experience it. However, I never considered the fact that, to enjoy one, you either: a) went with a group of friends or b) drank until you forgot your name and the discomfort you felt about yourself. I didn’t have the first option, nor did I want to do the second. So, after a few minutes of reflection, I decided I would walk back to my apartment and go straight to bed.

The place was huge, and since my postgraduate program didn’t include the benefit of dormitories, I rarely found myself in places like that. I was about to leave when a hand grabbed my forearm to stop me. In front of me, smiling widely, was her. The moment I saw her, I could swear my face lit up.

“Hi”

“Spencer! I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Without letting go of my arm, she came closer, wrapping me in a hug and planting a kiss on my cheek before I could react.

I quickly glanced at her, and in the dim light, I noticed her wearing a fitted, spaghetti-strap dress in a deep burgundy red with delicate floral embroidery that looked hand-drawn on the sheer fabric. The material, likely chiffon or tulle, clung to her figure as if custom-made. I tried to focus on her leather jacket instead because the last thing I wanted was to make her uncomfortable by staring too long.

“I was just about to leave, actually.”

“Why?” she asked, noticing my sigh.

“It’s just... I don’t know anyone here.”

“Well, that problem is now solved,” she kindly murmured.

I didn’t even get the chance to respond when she had already walked over to another girl, whispering something in her ear, probably to let her know she’d be away for a while.

Even though I wanted to decline to stay, the truth was that I genuinely enjoyed her company. Rejecting her would have been too rude. We had met some time ago thanks to the advanced classes she took, which overlapped with mine. She was younger than me, of course, but only by one or two years.

She had always been kind to me, attentive, and one could say she was a friend. After all, I trusted her enough to let her hold my hand and guide me through the crowd, despite my aversion to physical contact… and people.

“It’d be a crime to let you leave so early after finally coming to a party,” she breathed once we were both seated on a tiny couch where the noise was slightly muffled. At least she had been considerate in that regard.

“I don’t even know why I came,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. She was leaning against one side, legs crossed, looking at me with a smile. “I don’t like parties.”

“Do you like drinking?” she asked. I shook my head “Maybe that’s the root of the problem.”

“Getting drunk to the point of losing control isn’t my thing,” I replied.

“That’s not what it’s about,” she murmured almost compassionately “It’s more like… fuel for your social battery, you know? You don’t have to deal with these people. I don’t even know half of them, but the guys in this fraternity are disgustingly rich and just want to get as many girls drunk as possible to sleep with whoever they can. They won’t mind if you drink a little. Enough to have fun, but not so much you end up in some stranger’s bed.”

I thought about it for a second and silently nodded. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of her by saying I didn’t want to drink because, come on, what kind of university student doesn’t drink?

“I understand your point, and I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but alcohol has a more complex impact than it seems. It’s not just something that ‘fuels your social battery’; it’s a central nervous system depressant, which means it slows down brain and motor functions. That initial feeling of euphoria or relaxation happens because it inhibits the prefrontal cortex—the part of your brain that regulates judgment and self-awareness. So, technically, drinking a little might make you feel more uninhibited or confident, but it can also impair your ability to make rational decisions if you overdo it, even if you don’t notice right away.”

I paused, gauging how much more I should say before losing her interest. Hearing no objections, I continued:

“Additionally, strong liquors, which have high ethanol concentrations, can hit your system faster than diluted drinks. And if you drink too quickly, you could easily exceed your liver’s ability to metabolize the alcohol. The excess ethanol stays in your bloodstream, raising your blood alcohol levels and increasing the risk of intoxication.”

I avoided looking directly at her, partly because I didn’t want to get distracted by her gaze and partly because I was nervous around her.

“It’s not that I want to ruin your fun, but if you’re going to drink, you should do it slowly, alternating with water, and never on an empty stomach. Not to seem smarter than everyone else, but because staying in control can be the difference between a fun night and a situation you don’t want to be in.”

I expected her to look bored, confused, or even indifferent, assuming she’d left halfway through my rambling. But when I looked at her, I was surprised by the admiration shining in her eyes, accompanied by an amused smile.

“All right, genius boy, if you know all that and basically have the perfect recipe for not making stupid mistakes while drinking, why do you still refuse?” she teased playfully. I didn’t know what to say, but luckily, she answered for me “Listen, I drove here. How about we make a deal? We can drink a little, have a good time, maybe dance if you want, and if either of us starts doing something embarrassing, the soberest one will make sure to drag the other to the car and drive them home. Deal?”

She handed me her car keys, and I wasn’t sure if the brush of her hand against mine was intentional or if she had decided to linger a little longer.

I agreed to her proposal, and a second later, she was already off her seat, walking toward where I assumed the kitchen was. No one noticed us entering, too absorbed in their own business to care if we were strangers.

There was every type of alcohol scattered around, and she took the liberty of pouring me a shot of a clear liquid, which I guessed was vodka. She warned me to drink it in one gulp, and when the warmth hit my throat, I barely managed to avoid coughing. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.

“Tastes like… strawberry.”

“It’s good, right?” she laughed, giving my shoulder a playful nudge.

Our previous seat was already taken, so she opted for us to stand in a quiet corner. I have to admit that, although I still felt slightly awkward, the vodka was having the desired effect; making me feel more animated to talk.

Talking to her was almost hypnotic. Maybe it was the rhythmic movement of her lips, still stained with traces of what had once been red lipstick, or perhaps it was her tone, but it made me feel like I had to watch her. She never faltered when she spoke, always exuding confidence and calm, no matter the topic.

On the other hand, whenever I responded, I completely lost focus. No matter what I said, she kept looking at me with a wide smile, nodding, and even leaning closer when something made her laugh. But her laugh wasn’t mocking—no, it was as if she genuinely found my intellectual jokes or nonsensical remarks funny.

Gradually, my glass emptied, and she guided me back to the kitchen, serving us moderately but consistently. After an hour, all my nerves had vanished, leaving only a normal guy enjoying the terrible background music, unconcerned about how dirty the place was, and utterly captivated by the woman next to him.

“It’s strange, you know? I didn’t think I’d enjoy something like this. Parties always seemed so… chaotic,”

She looked around with a slight smile.

“That’s true. They’re not exactly calm, but in a way, the chaos has its charm. It lets you leave everything else behind for a while.”

“I suppose you’re right. Sometimes, you just need to disconnect.”

“You seem less tense now, huh? Are you sure it’s not the vodka helping with that?”

She moved closer, almost leaning against my chest in a friendly way, and seeing her looking up at me made my face feel hot.

“Maybe. But it’s also largely due to the company.”

She seemed surprised by my sudden boldness and let out a laugh that I interpreted as a sign of approval. We continued drinking, laughing, and soon my stomach demanded food. Even in my slightly tipsy state, I still remembered that eating would help lessen the effects of the alcohol.

I have to admit that the way I held her waist to guide her to the kitchen was entirely intentional. However, she didn’t seem bothered by the contact. By this point, I’d realized that no one really cared about what we took or didn’t take, so we felt free to rummage through the pantry.

“There are chips, pretzels, Cheetos, some cookies...” she began listing, handing me each package she found.

I grabbed a stray cookie, and suddenly, she let out a sigh of admiration.

“What is it?”

“Chocolate,” she murmured happily. It was a half-eaten, luxurious-looking golden package with no label “Do you want some?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Chocolate has properties that can slightly boost energy and mood. Both alcohol and chocolate can be hard for the body to handle, especially with a combination of high sugar and alcohol content. This can lead to stomach discomfort, dizziness, or a stronger hangover the next day.”

But she wasn’t listening. She had already popped a sizeable piece of chocolate into her mouth. Immediately, she offered me a piece, slightly bigger than hers.

“You have to try it,” she moaned.

I resisted, but I have to admit that the fact she grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer caught me off guard enough to let her slip the chocolate into my mouth.

“Hey!”

“You’ll thank me later.”

It was delicious, that’s for sure. Like a pair of sneaky raccoons, we kept scavenging for snacks in the kitchen until we were satisfied. She grabbed a bag of chips, and I took the bag of pretzels.

After our little break, she poured us another round of drinks, and something inside me told me it was time to stop. I decided that would be my last glass for the night.

Let’s dance she suddenly whispered, and once again, I let her lead me toward the crowd.

I didn’t know how to dance; I think that was pretty obvious. But the situation managed to make me forget that fact.

She was patient with me and laughed every time I made a mistake. Even though there was smoke around me, probably from weed, that didn't stop me from staring intently, and even somewhat intimidated, at my friend. Beautiful, statuesque, and drunk friend.

We danced for a long time until something in her swaying movements, in the way she smiled at me, began to make my head spin. It was as if the atmosphere was charged with something more—something I couldn’t identify at first.

She leaned closer, and my pulse began to quicken slightly. Her hands rose to tangle in my neck, bringing a warm sensation that followed: my thoughts seemed clearer, sharper. I wondered if it was the alcohol, but then something different began to course through my skin.

The warmth intensified, not just in my body but in my mind as well. I felt more alert, more awake, yet the calmness of the vodka lingered, balancing the sensation. My skin felt more sensitive, as if every little touch sent vibrations through me in a more intense way.

My eyes focused more on her movements, her voice, and the way the air filled with her perfume. I wanted to get closer, as if there were an invisible force pulling me toward her. And though my body responded with a soft yearning, my mind remained present, conscious of every second.

By the way she was looking at me, I imagined I wasn’t the only one experiencing these kinds of emotions.

“Sweetheart.”

“Hmm?”

“Can we sit down for a moment? I’m completely sweaty, and the smell of weed is starting to bother me.”

“Of course.”

My hands rested on her waist, unsure of where else to go, and we stumbled out of the crowd, finding a couch to collapse onto.

I was sweaty too, and we were both breathing heavily. When I saw her lean her head back against the seat, leaving her neck exposed, something stirred inside me.

“You move well, Reid.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I mean it. You just need a little confidence,” she smiled. Perhaps the alcohol dulled her sense of personal space, which is why she leaned so close to me. “You’re so smart that, with a bit of practice, you’d be the most skilled at a lot of physical activities.”

Did she know how nervous she was making me? My face was already flushed from the alcohol, the effort, and now from the way she was looking at me while twirling a strand of her hair around her finger.

I wanted to say something else, but a voice interrupted mine: a tall, burly guy accompanied by two others who seemed to be flanking him. Probably a member of the fraternity hosting the party.

He specifically addressed her, asking how she was enjoying the party and throwing in a compliment, clearly with ulterior motives. For a moment, I felt disheartened. Of course, she could have gone with him and I would have understood. I was far too used to rejection.

“I’m having a great time—with my friend. Thanks,” she exclaimed, cordial but curt.

“Want a drink?”

“Honestly, no.”

By the uncomfortable smile she gave the men, I assumed she was politely ending the conversation. With some reluctance, the guys walked away.

Suddenly, my breath caught when I felt her hand rest on my thigh, sliding painfully slowly down to my knee. I couldn’t even hear her words over the heat of her fingers on my pants.

“Sorry?”

“I thought you were going to say something, earlier.”

“No,” I quickly replied, smiling like an idiot because of the way she had leaned toward me. “Nothing.”

“I like listening to you. You know so many things, and you don’t make me feel dumb when you explain them. That’s very sexy.”

“Sexy?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, because I’d replied in a voice an octave higher than normal. “You are very sexy.”

Her compliment was followed by a soft, distracted kiss on the line of my jaw, which sent my brain into overdrive.

“Uhm… you… you’re beautiful. Very beautiful.”

My clumsy compliment seemed to please her, and I felt one of her nails, long and painted black, tracing circles on the skin of my knee. Each small movement felt deliberate, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Did you know fireflies don’t just glow to communicate but also to… attract?”

Her voice broke the silence between us, soft but layered with a double meaning that made me lift my eyes to her.

“Yes, I know,” I responded automatically, my brain switching to autopilot. “Bioluminescent signals are a form of courtship. The light patterns vary by species and can be very specific.”

She turned her head toward me, her lips curving into a lazy smile.

“Of course you’d know that. But tell me something—do you think it actually works? Making someone notice you just by glowing?”

My throat went dry. There was something about the way she was looking at me, like she was expecting a more personal answer than a scientific one.

“I guess it depends on who you’re trying to attract,” I murmured, feeling ridiculously exposed under her gaze.

“That makes sense.”

Her hand slid slightly—barely noticeable—toward the edge of my knee. After tapping her fingers on my pants, she withdrew it.

She didn’t move from the couch, and neither did I. There was something about her posture that held me captive—the way she leaned back against the seat, relaxed yet naturally elegant. Her dress had ridden up slightly along her thighs, revealing more skin than I felt prepared to handle at that moment. I tried to look elsewhere, but it was as if my eyes had a will of their own, always returning to the same place.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with a hint of amusement.

“Yes, of course,” I replied quickly, turning my head in the other direction. Perhaps too quickly, because my neck cracked slightly in the process.

She didn’t say anything, but her suppressed laughter made me feel even more awkward. In the silence that followed, I forced myself to focus on something safer: the empty glass on the table, the flickering lights through the window, anything but the curve of her leg or the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” she commented suddenly, with almost theatrical casualness. Then, without warning, she leaned forward as if to adjust her shoe, causing the neckline of her dress to dip even further.

“Do you think so?” I muttered, my voice raspier than I intended.

She smiled, a gesture somewhere between innocence and knowing.

“Yes, definitely. Though maybe it’s because we’re sitting so close,” she said, glancing around as if she had only just noticed the temperature.

Her words felt like both a slap and a caress at the same time. I tried to keep my gaze fixed on her face, but it didn’t help that her eyes shone with a kind of mischievous intent. Then she lifted one leg, bending it to get more comfortable on the couch, and her knee accidentally brushed against my thigh.

“Did you know you have a very particular way of distracting yourself?” she remarked while toying with the hem of her dress, as if unaware of the chaos she was causing in my head.

“Do I?” my voice sounded weak, almost a whisper.

She nodded slowly, leaning in a bit closer until I could feel the warmth of her proximity.

“Yes. It’s like you’re trying to avoid something but… you can’t.”

My throat went dry. I wanted to say something clever, to steer the conversation away, anything to regain some ground. But instead, all that came out was a nervous, forced laugh.

She didn’t stop looking at me. Then, with exasperating slowness, she smoothed the fabric of her dress over her thigh—a casual gesture.

“You know, sometimes you seem so self-aware. It’s something that can be endearing, but also… well, how do I put it?” she paused for a moment, bringing a finger to her lips as if she were reflecting. “It makes you seem easier to impress.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing, Reid. It’s just me rambling” her voice softened, and I felt the lightest touch on my nose as her finger grazed it. I tried to ignore the fact that her gaze had lingered on my lips “Scattered thoughts I have in my head.”

Without warning, she let out a loud exhale and leaned back into the couch, arching her back as if trying to relieve some muscle tension. I know she probably wasn’t aware of the movement, but it was what finally made me lose the little composure I had left.

“I need to use the restroom. Can you give me a moment?”

I escaped. Cowardly, completely, I got up and practically bolted toward the bathroom, desperate for a moment of peace. As soon as I entered, I realized I had an obvious problem in my pants—I was hard as a rock, and that wasn’t good. I looked at myself in the mirror, surprised at how flushed my face was. My pupils were dilated, my lips dry… What the hell was happening to me?

It quickly became clear that she was the reason for my situation.

The alcohol prevented me from feeling the embarrassment I surely deserved, and instead, I felt like my head was spinning. I placed a hand over the fabric of my pants, letting out a frustrated, pained groan.

I stayed there for a while, trying to think of something that would make my erection go away, but nothing worked. A couple of knocks on the door startled me, and that forced me to leave. Once in the hallway, I walked for a bit until I bumped into someone.

“Spencer! I’ve been looking for you. Are you okay?”

“No! I mean, yes… it’s just…”

I needed to think of something quickly—something believable, but not catastrophic. However, it was hard to concentrate with her body so close to mine, mere inches away from her noticing my situation.

“Did you throw up?”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s nothing. I think the vodka didn’t sit well with me, uh, maybe I got dizzy from dancing, I don’t know. I think it’s best if I leave.”

“Poor thing,” she murmured, pouting “I’ll take you home right now.”

“I can take a cab.”

“Nonsense. That was our agreement, remember? If one of us was in bad shape, the other would take care of them. Plus, I was the one who encouraged you to drink. I’d feel bad if something happened to you.”

She was already putting on her jacket—she’d been holding it, probably suspecting the situation—and tried to find the keys in her pocket. My outstretched hand reminded her that she’d already given them to me earlier.

When she placed her hand on the small of my back to guide me out, my breathing deepened. The sensation of excitement coursed through me in a way I couldn’t ignore. I realized that something in me desperately wanted her. Too much.

It wasn’t an impulsive desire but a subtle one that had been building throughout the night—with every glance, every gesture. Perhaps the vodka had intensified my evident attraction to her, but whatever the reason, it had turned into something far more palpable.

It was almost as if my body was begging me to stop her right then and there, to kiss her recklessly, and maybe, just maybe, ease the relentless ache inside me.

The cool night air made me feel better, and as the noise faded behind us, I began to calm down. I fervently tried to hide the bulge in my pants, but the truth was she didn’t even seem to notice. Then again, it would’ve been strange to catch her staring at my crotch, right?

“Are you sure you’re in a condition to drive?”

“I’ve driven home in far worse states of drunkenness. Don’t worry,” she smiled.

She looked more lucid now, as if her intoxication had vanished in an instant. I decided to trust her abilities.

The drive home was silent, and I kept shifting in my seat, trying to find strategic positions to avoid embarrassment. I guess she attributed my silence to the supposed discomfort I was feeling, as she didn’t try to start a conversation.

She didn’t say anything when she caught me looking at her through the rearview mirror. It was an innocent glance, at least on my part, simply admiring her. Her lips were driving me crazy, her eyes, slightly narrowed from the lack of light and smudged with mascara, seemed the most beautiful to me. I didn’t know what she saw in me, but I think—no, I feel—that it was something she liked.

“Thank you so much for bringing me home… and for everything.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Quite a lot, actually.”

“We should do this more often.”

“Go to university parties?”

“Just go out in general. To a bar, grab some drinks, a coffee, the library if you’d prefer,” she laughed “The place doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re there.”

Was she implying she wanted a date with me? I swallowed hard and looked at her, trying to decipher what she wanted me to do. I couldn’t figure it out.

“I’d like that, yes. We can talk about that later. Thanks again for the ride.”

A kiss on my cheek marked her goodbye, and I rushed out, eager to get inside my apartment. I was about to unlock the building’s door when the sound of a car horn made me turn around.

“Hey, would you mind if I use your bathroom? I’ll be quick,” she promised.

I needed to get to the shower and turn on the cold water, but I didn’t protest when she turned off the car engine.

Almost no one visited me in the apartment, so I kept the space however I pleased. It wasn’t really messy, but there were plenty of things on the desk and several books scattered around.

She entered, as she had said, rushing to the bathroom. It was only then that I dared to put a hand over my pants, swallowing a moan that was about to escape from my throat.

In my limited sexual experiences, nothing like this had ever happened to me, and I wondered what the cause might have been. Alcohol couldn’t be blamed, of course, but it was responsible for ruining my ability to react enough to find another explanation.

The shirt began to feel heavy on me, and almost out of necessity, I undid the first buttons to let myself breathe. I tried to ventilate my skin by tugging at the fabric with the tips of my fingers, but it was useless. I sighed.

I glanced around the room, just wanting to make sure nothing was embarrassing in view, and at that moment, she came out of the bathroom. She looked flushed and had some wet hair, as if she had washed her face.

“You okay?”

“Yes, just… suddenly felt a bit feverish”

“Let me check”

My intentions were purely medical when I cupped her face with one hand, putting the back of the other against her forehead to confirm or deny my suspicions. Of course, I hadn’t considered how close we would be. Or maybe I had, subconsciously, and that’s why I moved forward.

My choice of words wasn't the best either.

“You’re hot,”

“I don’t think it’s as much as you.”

A daring smile slid across her lips, and I held my breath as her fingers traced up to the line of my collarbone, exposed by my shirt.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“It’s just… I don’t understand it.”

A soft laugh echoed in my ears.

“Well, I think you’re very handsome. Would there be any other reason for that?”

I swallowed deeply. She noticed the movement of my Adam’s apple.

“No… I think… I think not. It’s the most logical thing.”

“Don’t they tell you that often?” she murmured, genuinely confused. I shook my head “That’s a shame.”

Her hand, which had been tentatively caressing my skin, moved up to my neck and pulled me just a few inches closer to her.

“Hey, Spencer.”

“Yes?”

“Could I kiss you?”

A chill ran down my spine. And without thinking, I answered yes.

Her mouth found mine with a softness that contrasted with the whirlwind of sensations inside me. It was a heady contrast: the sweetness of her lips against the intensity of the desire that had been building up in every fiber of my being.

My hands instinctively moved to her waist, hesitating for a moment, as if fearing that this might just be a product of my imagination. But she didn’t hesitate. Her body leaned into me, closing any distance that remained.

Her lips were insistent, demanding, and before I could process what was happening, her hand slid down to my chest, pushing me gently back until my back collided with the wall.

“I’m sorry…” I managed to murmur between kisses, pulling my face slightly away. My voice came out more trembly than I wanted.

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her face toward mine, her fingers now brushing my jawline.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“For this” my gaze dropped quickly before returning to her eyes. “No… I didn’t want you to feel it. It’s embarrassing.”

For a moment, I thought she would pull away, that the spell of the moment would break. But instead, her lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Embarrassing? I thought I was the only one feeling all this tension,” her tone was low, almost a whisper, but filled with a certainty that made my breath grow even more erratic.

Before I could respond, her lips captured mine again, this time with more intensity. The kiss was everything I didn’t know I needed: desperate, intoxicating, completely consumed by the connection between us. I felt her body press against mine, her curves fitting perfectly as if they were made to be there. And then, all my doubts, all my attempts to hold back, vanished.

My mind was a whirlwind. Every touch of her lips, every time her tongue sought mine, was like a fire I couldn’t put out. My face was hot, yes, but now not because of the alcohol, not even from the effort of holding myself back. It was her closeness, her touch, her condescending voice still echoing in my head.

She knows what she’s doing. And she’s slowly killing me.

“Hey, wait…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Do you feel okay with this?”

“A lot. Do you want to stop?”

“No. It’s just that… you’ve been drinking. I don’t want you to think I took advantage of you” my voice came out hoarse, full of doubt and repressed desire.

Her eyes met mine, firm and warm at the same time, as if her gaze could completely disarm me.

“Relax. You’ve been drinking too, pretty, and I think if anyone could make that accusation, it would be you. Do you feel like I’m taking advantage of you?”

“No”

“I’m fully aware of everything. I don’t even feel drunk anymore. The only thing that’s making me dizzy right now is you, Spencer…”

I shivered when I heard my name on her lips like that. She continued:

“I’m just as anxious as you are. I’ve been holding back all night, trying not to make this too obvious, but I can’t anymore. Please, don’t doubt me. Don’t doubt what I want. I want you”

Her confession hit my heart like a blow and ignited a spark that set my entire body on fire. My hand moved up her back until it tangled in her hair, while the other rested on her hip. The pull was gentle but enough for her to understand that my inner struggle had ended. I wasn’t resisting this anymore.

I wanted her too. I wanted her now.

“I never imagined…”

My words were barely audible as our lips brushed in a kiss that was both an explosion of emotions and a long-awaited relief. Her mouth was soft, and so perfectly synchronized with mine that I felt like the world stopped at that moment.

Her hands gripped my shoulders, anchoring the connection between us, while my thumb traced a slow path along her jawline, savoring every detail of her skin. It was more than a kiss. It was the confirmation of something that had been lingering all evening.

When we parted just a centimeter to breathe, our foreheads stayed pressed together.

“Did that clear your doubts?”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say all that,” I replied with a weak smile, the only one my pounding heart allowed me to form.

“Then stop overthinking”

The space between us disappeared again as we kissed with desperation we had both been suppressing. Her low laugh vibrated against my lips, and I couldn’t help but smile. How did she do it? How did she drive me crazy with so little effort?

But now wasn’t the time for questions. It was time to feel.

The whole world had reduced itself to him: his warm breath, his lips that wavered between soft and desperate, and the hands that roamed my waist with a mix of reverence and clumsiness, making me want him even more. Spencer had always been an enigma to me, a balance between restraint and passion that I didn't know how to decipher... until now.

I had waited for this moment more than I would ever admit. Maybe it had been the way he looked at me when he thought I didn't notice, or the warmth in his voice when he said my name, as if it were something sacred. But now, with his body pressed against mine and his doubts finally gone, I knew I hadn't imagined anything.

It was as if the pieces of a puzzle I had been trying to put together in the dark finally clicked into place, and the resulting image was more beautiful than I had ever dreamed.

Wanting to reverse the roles, it was now him who gently pushed me against the wall, and I felt the control he always seemed to have begin to crack. His breath was heavy, his body trembling slightly, a sign that this was as new and overwhelming for him as it was for me.

"Spencer..." I murmured his name again, feeling it resonate in my chest at the same time his lips moved more intensely against mine. "Can I ask you something?"

I received an affirmative exhalation, and to let me speak, his lips moved to the hollow of my neck. Although my mouth was free, the soft and wet kisses I was receiving blurred my judgment a bit.

"Tell me”

"Did you really feel bad at the party? Or was it just..."

"I didn't want you to notice what you were doing to me. Although I think at this point it doesn't matter much, right?"

Contrary to what I expected, Spencer pushed his hips against mine, as if he wanted to prove that it was true. I could even call it a claim, something that said: look what you did to me. And I wanted him to know just how much my body was begging for him.

Carefully, I moved one of his hands from my waist, and before he could protest, I guided it to one of my thighs, dangerously close to my core. I was glad I had thought of lingerie as a great complement to my dress, maybe in an attempt to feel sexy even if no one saw it. But now, he was going to see it.

Spencer understood my silent request. Those long, slender fingers, which seemed made for more than just flipping through the pages of a book or scribbling frantic notes on paper, slid across my smooth skin. I sighed as I remembered the veins tracing a map under his fair skin, like rivers of contained energy.

Until they finally reached where I needed them. And his touch... God, his touch was something else. They were hands made for discovery, for holding, for exploring, but in those moments, they seemed to be made only for me.

Spencer wasn't an overly bold guy, so it didn't surprise me that he just traced shapes above my panties, as if he wanted to diagnose my anatomy before making any move. My sighs at his ear seemed to please him.

Suddenly, he stopped kissing me, and I huffed, since I liked the attention he was giving my shoulder, until I felt his lips drop just slightly. A loud, pathetic moan escaped me when he squeezed my tits while burying his face to leave an experimental kiss.

I was barely processing that when he knelt in front of me and, carefully, took the edge of my dress and lifted it.

My legs trembled with anticipation at the thought of what he was going to do next, and then I felt his lips brush my thigh. He started gentle, kind, but soon he began sucking every bit of skin he could, and in the end, he made sure to leave bites strong enough to make me whimper.

Who would have thought that this man, seemingly so inexperienced, turned out to offer the best foreplay a woman could desire?

I squealed as I felt his kisses trail down to the fabric of my panties, pausing for a moment to lick the length of my still-clothed pussy.

“You’re dripping wet,” he observed. I was too focused on not giving in right then and there to say anything "Is oral something you're into?"

“I don’t know,” I exclaimed honestly. I didn’t care how vulnerable I looked as I confessed that no man had ever dared to give me head “You?”

“It’s an idea that piques my curiosity, yes.”

Gently he slid some of the fabric aside to clear the way for his tongue, and I felt as if my entire body was only aware of the parts he was probing, kissing, sucking. When he raised my thigh to shoulder height, deepening his thrusts, I felt like I was going to pass out.

I lowered my hand to his thick head and tried, in vain, to push him away from me. I honestly didn’t have the strength or desire to do so, much less when he had picked up the pace.

I moaned a sweet nickname out loud and then Spencer pulled away, looking up at me with glossy, swollen lips.

“Take me to bed, please.”

He didn’t need me to say it twice as he immediately stood up and took me by the waist to guide me to said spot. I was able to taste myself on his lips and for some reason that only turned me on.

Once we hit the mattress the way he laid me down was gentle and I sighed at that. How could he be so sweet all the time? I wondered. And worse yet, how much would this little adventure affect my future expectations?

Because if it was about standards, I was finding out that Spencer Reid was the standard.

Seemingly more enthralled now by my lips than my pussy, he continued with the make-out session we were having. With each touch we had, my excitement was increasing more and more. In the midst of it all I managed to unbutton his shirt and take it off to leave it somewhere on the bed; the semi-darkness of the room shielded any insecurities he might be feeling, as well as my own.

“You are painfully stunning, did you know?”

My tone was one of reproach, and he laughed at that, looking down almost embarrassed. Maybe he wasn't used to compliments, but something told me he was definitely enjoying it.

I heard him murmur something under his breath about me, while he took down the straps of my dress. My hands almost instinctively went to unbuckle his belt, and before I could do anything, he pulled away from me. Needless to say, this left me confused.

"Sorry, I..."

“You don't want to?” I murmured understandingly. I thought maybe he wasn't a big fan of these situations, and I understood, but somehow I felt hurt.

"No! Sure I want to. I want it a lot, but..." he tried not to look at me, as if avoiding confrontation "It's just that I don't have any protection here”

A laugh escaped my lips, and I feared he might interpret it as mockery, so I stretched my neck to steal another kiss.

"One would think there are many girls who pass through these sheets."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you. It's cute, actually. It even makes me feel guilty," I murmured, smiling "For a second, I was afraid something had made you uncomfortable."

"No, it's not that."

I hesitated for a second whether I should suggest what was on my mind.

"We could do it like this. It doesn't bother me."

"It's not just about avoiding an unwanted pregnancy..." he began. At that moment, I saw him return to his usual nerdy mode. "Although, of course, that counts. But there are things like sexually transmitted infections, some of which don't even show symptoms at first and could complicate things if not detected on time. I know this doesn't sound very attractive, but believe me, protection isn't just for avoiding future problems; it's also to take care of you now, so you don't have issues later: because sometimes men can transmit diseases we're asymptomatic for, and to be honest, I've never done those kinds of tests. A lot of people don't think about it, but the risks are real. And don't get me wrong, I trust you, but even though you trust me, diseases don't discriminate. And I'd like us both to have that peace of mind. Prevention is never too much."

“You conflict me deeply. On the one hand, I admire how responsible you are; it's very cute. But on the other hand, I just urgently need you to fuck me deep and cum inside me”

Spencer was surprised by my desperate whining and tensed when I placed one of my legs around his waist, trying to persuade him. But I was even more surprised when I felt him pull completely away to stand beside the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"To the pharmacy," he announced, putting a jacket over his bare torso.

"Are you serious?" I laughed widely, sitting on the bed now that my companion had moved away.

"Definitely. I feel like I can't handle it any longer, it’s physically painful, and when you talk to me like that, it just drives me crazy” he groaned, joining in the fun. It was the first time something like this happened, and I honestly thought it was absolutely hilarious “I'll be back in a minute, I swear! Please, don't go...”

"I couldn't," I murmured sweetly. He came closer, and I took the opportunity to kiss him again "Be quick. I'll be waiting anxiously for you."

Something in my tone of voice affected the man, or maybe it was the wink I gave him, but I saw him bolt out the door. I flopped back onto the bed, taking a moment to digest what was happening.

I have to admit that my classmate had always been attractive to me, but I never thought he could feel the same way. Not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would be waiting for him in his bed so that, with any luck, he could ravish me without holding back.

As I reached out my arms, I could feel the fabric of the shirt I had previously removed from him, and then I brought it up to my nose, inhaling without thinking. A familiar scent hit me immediately: the mix of sweet cocktails he had drank during the party and a subtle trace of cannabis, as if the night was still impregnated in him. I could distinguish a hint of wood, perhaps from the furniture in the place, combined with a light scent of sweat that was not bothersome, but rather natural. And then, among all that, there was his perfume: a citrus and spicy aroma that evoked something fresh, but also deep, sensual, as if every molecule of his being was waiting for something more. I breathed harder, feeling that this aroma, this moment, defined him.

I didn't know why that particular night my whole body was screaming for his closeness. I was crazy about him and it wasn't the alcohol's fault, because I'd had too many drinks to know. Neither of us had ever done drugs and for a moment I was terrified by the idea that I could want to be with someone like that, with such fervor that it was worrying.

Still dizzy from the excitement of the moment, I lowered one of my hands to my crotch to get rid of my panties. I thought about him, wondering how skilled he was. Not that I doubted his abilities, but just like I’d told him that night, he might need some practice.

I started to fantasize about helping him through this situation, maybe guiding him or pampering him by just asking him to lay back so I could do all the work. Spencer was the kind of man who invited you to please him, the kind of man you wanted to satisfy because he never pressured you into it.

Playing with myself, I sniffed his shirt again, desperately wishing I could have the source of said scent with me, until my brain was filled only with daydreams in which he was the protagonist and my fingers were replaced by his. That's why I didn't notice when he opened the apartment. And that's why I didn't know he was watching me from the door frame until I heard him let out a ragged sigh.

Being caught in that position made me feel embarrassed at first, but the way he practically lunged at me and kissed me more decisively than before, I figured he liked seeing me like that.

"Busy?"

I was caught off guard by his sassiness and I knew he was proud of it by the smile I felt on my neck.

“I guess you found what we need, right?”

“Uh-huh”

“Have you read any books on female anatomy?”

“Quite a few”

“So I guess you know a lot about sexuality, don’t you?”

“In theory, yes. Unfortunately, I haven’t had many opportunities to put it into practice.”

A smile spread across my face, which luckily he couldn't see because he was too busy leaving a trail of kisses along the top of my torso.

“How unfortunate, considering you’re a scientist. I wouldn’t mind becoming an object of your study, though, you know?”

He subtly slid the straps of my dress and revealed my bra, from which a considerable part of my boobs protruded, which he happily kissed.

At the same time his hand came down to caress me, making me shiver with anticipation, resting on just the right spots. It was the least I could expect from such an intellectual man, one who definitely knew about the thousands of nerve endings concentrated in my clitoris, which he was definitely tapping into to satisfy me.

“May I?” he whispered, looking at the little underwear he still had on.

I nodded immediately and arched my back to make it easier for him to unbutton it, which didn't take too long. He was practically worshipping every inch of my skin, which, combined with his gentle yet firm fingers rubbing me, was driving me crazy.

We both moaned in unison as he pushed a finger into me. It felt just as good as I had imagined.

I had read somewhere that, physiologically, women need more time to achieve an orgasm and although none of my exes had cared about that, this one seemed to know that fact. Maybe that was why he was giving me such attention, which I was undoubtedly grateful for.

“Honey…” I choked out “you’re doing great, really, really good, but would you mind if we replaced those fingers? I want to feel you inside me,” I practically begged.

I never begged, I felt like a fool doing it, but if that got me the intensity of the kiss he gave me, I wouldn't mind starting to do it.

Spencer pulled away from me, searching for the packet of condoms he'd run off to get, and while he unbuttoned his pants I got rid of my dress, which by this point was just a mass of fabric around my waist.

My body wasn't perfect, but I figured that wouldn't matter to him. Besides, I doubt he'd be rude enough to mention it.

“Need a hand?” I joked playfully, noticing that he was struggling to open the silver package.

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous,” he said to himself, hoping I wouldn’t mind too much.

I wanted to reward him for treating me so well a few moments ago and I took the package from his hands, placing my palm on his chest until I laid him down against the mattress. Once in that position it wasn't difficult to get rid of the wrapping to place the piece of latex on him, thinking that I didn't have a single complaint about his body.

My hands on him made him nervous and I watched him turn into a mess as I began pumping his cock up and down to make sure he had the condom on properly.

“You don’t have to hold back. I like the sounds you make,” I exclaimed in a velvety tone, trying to sound as genuine as possible “That way I know you’re enjoying it.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to hold out for much longer,” he confessed, as my hand continued to move along his length. Although I wished I could take better care of him, I understood the situation.

“Your wish is my command”

He didn't complain when I put each leg on his sides and he bravely hardened as I teased him for a moment before sinking my pussy onto his dick. I started slow, trying to make him last as long as possible, but with each second it was getting harder to keep up a pace.

I tried my best to ride him, trying to give him the best experience as a thank you for all his hospitality. And from the whimpers coming out of his throat I assume I was doing my job well.

At some point his hands ended up on my hips, guiding me as he pleased. Sometimes he pushed me down, as if he wanted to get to the bottom of me, and other times he manipulated me so that the thrusts were fast.

He wasn't lying when he said he would cum in no time, as the repressed desire added to the previous sexual actions had him on the edge of the abyss. I knew he had reached orgasm when he closed his eyes and his hips slammed against me, in erratic movements.

I kept riding him a little longer, chasing my own climax, and when I got it I put my hands against his chest, arching in pleasure. Spencer, breathing heavily, grabbed my wrists in his hands and then pulled me so that I was against his torso, my lips too close to his.

He placed his palm on my cheek and pulled me in his direction, seemingly asking for a kiss. I granted it.

“Are you satisfied?”

“I am,” I sighed wryly. It was cute that he didn’t know that sometimes girls don’t even make it. “How was it for you?”

“I'm speechless.”

I laughed and, to a certain extent, felt flattered that I had left a man who knew a million ways to express himself in that state.

We enjoyed the high we had just had for a few minutes and waited for our breathing to slow down; when our sighs took the same rhythm, he spoke again.

“You should go to the bathroom. It’s, uh… healthy for you to do it after every encounter.”

I reached for the garment he had been wearing and, trying to protect myself from the cold air, I put it on over myself.

“Do you mind lending it to me?”

“Nu-huh,” he hummed, eyeing me as if I were a cupcake. I would later learn how affected he was to see me using his clothes to slide out of bed.

When I came out of the bathroom he already had his boxers on, probably wanting to maintain modesty, and when he went to attend to his needs I also looked for my panties. It wasn't long before he returned to keep me company.

“Do you want to cuddle? I’d feel like a whore if I just left”

“Yes, of course I want”

He made sure to throw anything that was on the bed onto the floor and patted the pillows to make them more comfortable. I settled into the space next to him, leaning against his chest, right at heart level.

One of his arms was holding me from behind and in some strange way that made me feel safe; protected.

“Your feet are frozen, are you cold?”

"Not much"

“Do you want me to get you some socks?”

“I’m fine, Spencer,” I laughed softly. I brushed my cheek against his skin and tried to snuggle closer to him. “It’ll just get colder if you leave.”

“Did you know that the human body is incredibly efficient at maintaining its temperature? When two bodies are nearby, like… now,” he paused, settling a little closer to me, “heat transfer occurs due to thermal radiation and direct conduction. Essentially, each body generates heat that helps the other maintain a stable core temperature.”

“So you’re like a human blanket”

“That’s right. In fact, in situations of severe hypothermia, sharing body heat in this way can literally save lives.”

I raised my head to look at him and noticed an excited gleam in his eyes, the one he always had when he shared something from his vast knowledge.

“I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what you said earlier, about female anatomy,” seeing him frown, I continued, “No field of study considers one experimentation enough, right? Everything needs to be replicated two, three, four times. Ten times if necessary.”

“Your guess is quite accurate.”

“Say no more. We must give everything if it is in the name of science”

From the smile on his face, I knew that my joke had pleased him and that my proposal seemed to please him. To seal the deal I reached up and kissed him softly. We remained silent for a while, him caressing me over his own shirt and me enjoying the closeness.

“I like you a lot”

“I had a feeling,” I teased, earning a soft laugh from him “I really like you, too."

He pressed a kiss to my forehead and for some stupid reason a blush crept up my cheeks, even though we had just had sex. I carefully placed myself on top of his body and buried my face in his neck, feeling him hug me around the waist.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep, I could tell by how calm his breathing was becoming, and I tried to enjoy the peace he emanated a little longer, until, eventually, Morpheus picked me up in his arms too.

@spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @shuichiakainx @gghostwriter @cafters @weallhaveadestiny @your-left-sock @jaeminsmilk @tmrs-basilisk @kristennotstewart @lostinwonderland314 @f4tpo3s @lortheswiftie @dark-unicorn222 @samsienichole @blackholegladiator @gretaandthatsit @cherrysprlte @halfbloodwriter @piercethefic @reidingandallthat @ariel-23-19 @zorrasucia @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @juluina @kylakins88 @tinainaction @sadroses98 @dumbbunnys-safes @bowerfeithwk @freyafriggafrey

Thank you very much for your interest! I hope you liked it, if you feel like it, let me know what you think :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jason gideon #JJ #penelope garcía #david rossi #emily prentiss #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #spencer reid spicy #spencer reid imagine

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dollracha · 2 days ago

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𐙚 i want it ⋆ h.js x fem! reader

pairing: han jisung x inexperienced! reader genre: smut warnings: swearing ⋆ slight corruption kink ⋆ needy han ⋆ slight perv!han ⋆ sorta dubcon ⋆ reader is called “baby” (several times) & “my girl” (once) ⋆ non penetrative sex ⋆ munch jisung ⋆ dialogue heavy wc: 707 synopsis: you both promised to take it slow, but jisung struggles to keep his word, and you certainly don't mind. author's note: been thinking about this for days this is so incredibly self indulgent its not funny. this is not beta read. this is barely proofread. i'm just a whore.

“fuck, ‘m sorry, baby.” jisung whines into your neck as he ruts his cock against your wet panties. he’s got one hand wrapped tightly around his cock, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. you’ve both soaked your panties, his precum and the wetness from your pussy make it almost uncomfortably sticky.

“god, ‘m so fuckin’... gross.” he rambles, pulling himself up to spit on his cock. he watches it slide off the side of his tip and down your ass. “making a mess of your poor pussy just to get myself off.”

“hannie…” your moan has him rolling his eyes back. you can’t remember how you ended up beneath him, just that you didn’t want it to stop yet. It wasn’t enough. and yet you were trying to find it in you to tell him to slow down, it’s what you wanted after all. to take it slow, wait until ‘the right time’ for your first time with jisung. that went out the window the moment he started feeling you up today.

“i know… said i'd keep my pretty girl all pure for a little longer.”

but jisung’s cock throbs at the sight of you all defiled. your hair is a mess from when he shoved you down on the bed and had his hands all up in it when he kissed you earlier. your makeup is smudged, mascara messy from the way tears well up in your eyes and spill when his cockhead rubs against your clit just right. your lipstick blurs around your lips from the sloppy kisses you shared. he begged you not to wear a bra this morning when you got dressed, it made your tits even easier for him to access. all he had to do was pull down your little tank top and they were all his. your skirt is pushed up, soft tummy peeking out. and your pussy, so wet for him already and he’s still one layer away.

“look at you… so nasty f’me.”

“can i take off your panties? please, baby?” jisung stops rutting against your clothed pussy and gives a couple hard taps against your clit. “know it’s dirty, baby. but it’ll feel good, okay?”

all you want at this point is to feel good–screw everything else–so you nod and lift your hips so he can slide your panties off your legs.

You try to shut your legs but jisung is quicker. both of his hands keep your thighs open. “let me see that pretty pussy, don’t hide it from me.” he’s quick to spit on it again, and this time you can’t help the high pitched moan that escapes your lips.

“did your exes ever spit on it, baby?”

you shake your head, hands coming to cover your flushed face. nobody’s ever touched you like jisung has. you’re not a virgin… you're just unexperienced. very unexperienced.

“like it?” he asks and you don’t respond. is it wrong to say you liked it? it’s gross, you think. it’s so so gross… but is it wrong?

warm saliva hits your pussy again, this time you can feel jisung’s breath on you.

“do you like it when i spit on your pussy, baby?”

“... yes…” you respond, and finally pry your arms away from your face. jisung’s laying down on the bed, hands pressed against your thighs to keep them open. he can’t decide whether to look at your pussy or your eyes. he settles on your eyes.

“fuck…” jisung whispers. his eyes fall back to your pussy with a smile. he licks his lips and lets his head fall against the blankets.

“ji?” you reach for his hand, and as soon as he feels your hand on his he’s grasping it, and raising his head up to kiss your knuckles.

“i know you wanna take it slow… but please, please can i eat you out, baby? ‘s all i want.”

jisung agreed to take it slow, but he's got you half dressed and soaking your bed. maybe you should be mad, but god, the pleasure jisung was giving you was addicting. you weren’t afraid to give yourself away to him at this point.

“i want it.” you nod, and jisung kisses your hand again.

“gotta give my girl what she wants then, yeah?”

#dollracha #han smut #jisung smut #han jisung smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids x reader smut #skz x reader smut #han x reader #han jisung x reader

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playnextdoor · 2 days ago

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dating modern abby headcannons

cw: both sfw and nsfw

Abby didn’t know naps could be a luxury until she met you. She was always on her feet, never stopping long enough to close her eyes for a "weak" 30 minutes. But now? That quick nap became her personal slice of heaven. Her cranky, sleep-deprived self would curl up next to you, her face buried in your neck. By the time she woke, she’d be all sunshine, grinning like she hadn’t just been grumbling an hour ago.

Sweet tooth!!!!!!! She loves sweets, especially dark chocolate. If you ever peek into her bedside drawer, you’ll find a nearly demolished chocolate bar waiting for her nightly ritual.

“What?” she says with a shrug, stuffing a square into her mouth. “I like a piece of chocolate before bed,” Her eyebrows furrow as she chews, eyeing you like you’re judging her life choices.

“Nothing,” you chuckle, watching her puffed cheeks work overtime. “I never met anyone who would do that.”

Her arms crossed immediately, mock-offended. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh my god, Abigal, nothing, it’s cute.” You lean in, silencing her pout with a kiss, the faint bitterness of chocolate lingering on her lips.

Abby has a thing for books. Not just reading them—collecting them. We’re talking first editions, special releases, and rare overseas copies. This girl gets down. Her study practially a library, shelves nearly touching the ceiling filled with books, some on display and some in special casings. You even catch her one day, headphones blasting as she carefully and meticulously cleaned some of the books. The music was so opposite to what she was doing, her hands handling the covers so carefully. Instantly wet holyyyyyy

This goes with her being veryyyy clean and organized. It was so cute when you snooped in her drawers, her undergarments folded up so neatly in rows, and her socks in perfect little squares.

She likes her space, which you understood very early in the relationship. Sometimes, the two of you would be on separate ends of the couch, her playing some game on the TV while you color in your coloring books, or when she would carve out days for the two of you and then days for just her. She loved you dearly, and it was just that she needed the only time to recharge.

Really into speakeasies. It’s her preferred place to grab a drink with you. The dim lighting, quiet atmosphere, and cozy corners make it her ideal date spot. She also likes sitting with you in some dimly lit corner, you more tipsy than her, laughing hysterically at some awful joke she said. If you really wanted to go to a club and shake ass, you bet Abby is going to take you, but she’s just gonna stand behind you like an awkward teenage boy getting grinded on for the first time.

This girl is not big on PDA, sorry not sorry. She’ll hold your hand, wrap her arm around you, maybe a kiss here and there, but she will most likely shy away from anything else, not that she’s embarrassed, she prefers to keep things just for you and her.

Food is Abby’s love language! Loves cooking, loves trying new places, loves eating, period. How else do you think she keeps her physique?

Speaking of muscles, the gym is practically her second home. She’s not a gym rat per se, but she’s got a solid routine, especially when it comes to upper body days. She loves how her arms look in T-shirts, but she loves that you love them even more.

Keys clanked into the trinket dish as Abby slipped off her shoes. Just getting back from the gym, all she is thinking about is going straight to the shower; once wet with sweat, her shirt feels disgusting on her. She sees you eyeing her from the kitchen, occasionally looking up from your phone, eyes lingering on her bulging arms; the pump did her good today because you’re ready to strip naked right there. She flashes a knowing smile as she puts her things away. She strides towards you, coming next to you to place a kiss on your head.

“How was the gym?” turning off your phone to provide her the full attention she most definitely deserved, hand creeping to caress the veins that littered down her forearms all the way up to the hard muscle on her bicep, squeezing it.

Abby just watches you, smile bitten back as you look almost in awe at how fucking massive her arms are, your sweet eyes meeting up to hers.

“Good,” she murmurs, watching your fascination. Her voice drops, low and teasing. “Something on your mind?”

“Mmm,” you hum, nails raking lightly over her back. She groans softly, and you know exactly where this is going.

nsfw

Boobs. Loves boobies. Likes to look at them, have them in her hands, in her mouth. Sure, she appreciates your ass—who wouldn’t? But there’s just something about slipping your nipple into her mouth, especially in those early morning hours. The sensation wakes you in a frenzy, loving how Abby does this for herself. Or when the two are cuddling, she’ll sometimes lay her face in them, the warmth of your scent lulling her to sleep.

Pronebone is her favorite position aside from missionary. Any time and any day, she is tightening the straps and fucking you into the mattress.

Speaking of tightening straps, the first time you did it, Abby nearly came, hips stuttering as she felt the firm tug of your hand tightening one of the straps that sat at her hip. Lord have mercyyy just thinking about how she would just pant above you, her golden hair cascading around your face like a curtain. Her hips moved against yours in a rhythm so devastatingly slow and deliberate hnghhhhhhh

Stone top AT FIRST. She told you right before your first time together, you didn’t mind, genuinely. You have always been on both the receiving and giving end, so you were willing to be open for your girlfriend. And fuck how much it turned you on when Abby would slip a hand in her own pants as she ate you out, nearly heaving into you as you both came. It wasn't until a couple of months into the relationship that you asked.

Grinding down on her jean-clad thigh, the rough seam pressed perfectly against your cunt, drawing out a needy whimper that matched the low groans spilling from Abby’s lips. Her soft “mhm’s” spurred you on, the delicious friction pulling the two of you deeper.

Abby didn’t know what shifted in her—it might have been when you slid to your knees with a slow, deliberate grace, your nails dragging down her thighs. Her body moved instinctively, thighs spreading wide as if something had taken over her.

Or maybe it was when you pressed your cheek near where you needed her the most. Her hand came to caress your head, finding it so endearing how eager you had been all night, your fingers lingering for just a second longer, lips finding solace in her neck as you murmured how bad you needed her. She should have known you were going to beg eventually.

“Abby, please.”

You didn’t even need to elaborate, eyes were locked on the belt still fastened at her waist, the buckle catching the light and taunting you. Her own gaze, glossy and heavy with want, flickered down to meet yours.

Fuck. How could she possibly say no?

She can get rough if you would like, but she prefers to cuddlefuck than to fuck you upside down and sideways.

This goes back to the pronebone position, something you didn’t even know had a name until you tried explaining it to Abby in a very clumsy, very horny way. After that, Abby does it at least once when you guys have sex.

She’ll have your face down, your elbows digging into the bed as she fucked your leaking cunt with two thick fingers. Abby always took her time, kissing up the curve of your ass, her lips soft and warm against your heated skin. When she finally slipped her fingers out, you’d whimper in protest, only for her strong hands to press you further into the bed, spreading you open as her groan mingled with yours. The blanket so warm underneath you, mixing with the weight of her body and hands on you, have you in such a blissful haze.

“Yeah?” Abby asked, her voice low and breathless. You could barely process what she was saying, too lost in the feeling, but you nodded eagerly into the pillow, pushing your ass higher in response.

Chuckling, she sat perched on the backs of your thighs, holding you in place as she made your body tremble with anticipation. Sliding up and down with the tip of her black 6 1/2-inch faux cock it only makes you wiggle around impatiently. With a teasing pinch to your thigh to remind you to relax she finally shifts, pushing its length into you so slow you nearly grab it to put it in yourself. The stretch had your whimpers climbing into desperate, high-pitched cries muffled by the pillows. The pillows do what you need them to do because if you remove them, people will think someone is dying in there. Well, kind of, don't the french say orgasm means "tiny death"? Yeah that was happening.

Prefers if you orgasm first. She claims her own release isn't as satisfying when you don't.

“I dunno, Abby.”

The words escaped in a soft gasp as you abruptly sat up. Abby’s lips popped off your mound, glossy and parted, her wide eyes locking on yours in utter confusion. “I can’t…”

Her brows furrowed, her head tilting slightly as if to ask why in the world you’d stop her now. “Can’t what?” she asked, inching closer like she didn’t plan on letting you go anywhere.

“Cum,” you admitted, pushing her head away gently, though you both knew she wouldn’t take kindly to it.

Sure enough, she shook your hand off and gave you a look that could only be described as determined.

“Stop. Lay your ass down."

Before you could protest, she scoots you closer, which causes you to fall back into the mattress, her lips finding the inside of your thighs, skin slightly tacky from her spit and your slickness.

“No, like actually,” you said again, sitting up despite her best efforts to keep you in place, your legs starting to close instinctively.

Abby pouts, and you can’t help but mimic her expression because this poor girl has been following you around like a lovesick puppy ever since you got home from work, clearly bored and horny, while you were too stressed and tired to even think about anything else. She was all smooth with it, too, claiming she was going to “put you to bed,” but your head was still spinning with thoughts of annoying coworkers and unfinished tasks. You were too far in your own head to focus on the woman between your legs who was clearly trying to help.

Her warm hands found your shoulders, pressing with that unique weight only she carried, her thumbs kneading gently. The gesture softened you immediately.

“We can totally stop, it's just..." Her lips find yours in a gentle yet hungry kiss, her teeth nipping then soothing it with the wet of her tongue. You nearly moaned into her mouth, your body betraying every word you were about to say. “I have been wanting to taste you all fucking day. I know you had a shit day, but please, baby, I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight if you don’t come on my face”

You couldn’t help it; you burst into laughter, and Abby froze, staring at you ???????

“Oh, you’re serious,” you managed between fits of giggles, your eyes watering as you met her utterly unamused glare.

Two minutes of laughing later, Abby had had enough. With a firm nod, she launched herself forward, tackling you onto the bed and pinning you beneath her. Her body weight pressed you into the mattress, her lips hovering over yours, and you could see that look in her eyes that she was really going to put you to bed this time.

a/n: this sucks butt lol but i hope you all enjoy still.

#abby anderson #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x reader smut #abby anderson fluff #abby anderson fanfic #abby x reader #abby tlou #orion’s writing

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littlegrapejuice · 3 days ago

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Flatline | LN4

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Lando parties a bit too hard and needs to be patched up. Luckily, he can count on a pretty nurse.

Author's Note: I'M BACK MFS🙂‍↕️ it's been a while haha but enjoy this lil lando fic that was inspired by the song Flatline by 5sos!! Also happy new year hehe, hope everyone is doing good and i wish y'all the best for 2025🫶🏻

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

King’s Day 2024. Amsterdam, Netherlands.

Amongst all the drivers, people would’ve thought Max Verstappen the most prone to be sighted in public while celebrating his country on its national day. However, the one that was currently trending on social media was Lando Norris. Pictures as well as videos were being posted, reposted, and commented on every second. No one had expected Lando to spend the weekend away in the Netherlands in between two grand prix. But here he was, partying on a boat and even DJ-ing along with his good friend Martin Garrix.

Lando didn’t know whether people just didn’t care about him – seeing as the Netherlands were the home of one of the greatest drivers of the current generation – or if people actually didn’t know him. In any case, he was glad not to be disturbed by fans – even though he loved them – and be able to enjoy the day the same way everyone else was doing it: by partying, dancing, singing, and drinking.

Obviously, Lando was planning to be careful as he knew that his PR team would have his head if he did something stupid during his two-week break. But still, he was having fun like a typical twenty-four year old. He was having the time of his life. Dutch people definitely knew how to party on their national day, that’s for sure.

…..

A few hours later however, what everyone hadn’t been expecting was for Lando to end the day with bandages all over his face. As the surprise of him being in the Netherlands settled down after a while, pictures and videos stopped circulating around. Until fans all over the world were met with images of Lando with a bloody nose, a smile still on his face. People had no idea what had happened. No context had been given, only the speculation of Lando having drunk and partied too hard that he had hurt himself.

Fortunately for him, Lando had been able to count on you. Being a friend of a friend, you loosely knew Martin but had never really exchanged more than a few words with him. However, he was currently glad that the invitation to his boat party had managed to reach you as you were qualified to take care of Lando’s battle wound – his words. Being a nurse, and the only one with some medical knowledge on the boat, you had quickly reacted when people had started panicking after seeing Lando’s face starting to bleed.

To be honest, people had overreacted a bit. Because when you approached Lando to see the extent of the damage, you realised it was only a cut albeit the consequence of some glass. So although he wasn’t hurt very badly, you still suggested bringing him into the hospital where you worked. Obviously, Lando had refused at first as he pretended that everything was fine. He was. But just to be sure, you needed to give him a general check-up in a clean location as a random boat in Amsterdam wasn’t exactly the most hygienic place to patch someone up.

So after Martin also agreed to the idea, Lando had no choice but to listen to his friend and go with you. The Dutch told Lando that he would come get him later as he needed to bring his DJ equipment back home – he promised to be ready to give him a ride back from the hospital later on as he knew that Lando had a flight the next day. This is thus how you found yourself in a cab with none other than Formula One driver Lando Norris on the way to your workplace. Truth be told, you hadn’t expected to go there today. But you knew it was part of your job to be able to help anyone in need even if you were on your day off.

The ride had mostly been silent. Lando had been on his phone, probably texting a few people about his whereabouts, while you were focused on the next steps to do when you’d be arriving at the hospital. You were pleasantly surprised when Lando paid the driver without a second thought and told him to keep the change.

“I could’ve paid, you know. Thanks,” you told him as you entered the building.

“You’re taking care of me on what definitely seemed like your day off, so that’s the least I can do for you.” Lando smiled at you and even with the bandages around his face, he was still very good-looking.

“Still, I appreciate it. You can go wait in this room if that’s okay?” He nodded and you finished explaining what would happen next. “I just need to inform my manager I’m here, get some stuff for a small check-up, and then I’m all yours. I won’t be long.”

“Sounds perfect”, Lando replied with a grin.

True to your words, you were back in the room where you’d left the Brit less than ten minutes later. He noticed that you’d changed into your uniform – which you’d been lucky to have a spare here as your usual one was at your flat – and enjoyed the view of observing you in your element. Working in the medical field was your calling, and you didn’t see yourself anywhere else.

First, you removed the bandages that you’d wrapped around Lando’s face earlier before you cleaned up the small wound – properly this time, with adequate material. As Lando winced when you disinfected it, you apologised.

“Does it hurt much?” You asked.

“Not really”, he shrugged. “Just uncomfortable I guess.”

“Hmm, okay”, you nodded. “Tell me if there’s anything else at any point.”

Quickly finishing up, you were soon enough putting a band-aid on Lando’s nose. You debated offering to put a silly one originally designed for kids, but decided otherwise as you didn’t want to look weird for suggesting it. However, the driver had noticed your eyes drifting to them when you’d hesitated in which one to take, so he spoke up:

“You think you could actually give me one of those”, he wondered with a smile before adding. “The cute ones, there.”

When you saw that he was pointing at the Disney ones, you stiffled a laugh. You hadn’t expected him to directly ask for one himself, but you were kinda glad that he did. Amongst the different characters present, your choice was easily made.

“I guess that the Cars one caught your eye?” You raised an eyebrow, waiting to see if you were right.

“Bingo!” He laughed. “I’ll admit that Frozen was tempting but I gotta stay true to my roots.”

“Fair enough”, you chuckled. “Your job ain’t really much to do with building ice castles, or I’ve done my research wrong.”

“You looked me up?” Lando asked, the surprise obvious in his tone.

“Well, yeah?” You answered with a ‘duh’ tone as you gently put the Cars band-aid over the plain one you’d previously applied. “Even though the whole country supports Max and not many people care about the other drivers, I gotta know about the competition.”

“You think I’m competition to Max?”

“Of course! Anyone is: as long as Max isn’t the only driver racing on track, he has competition.”

Your explanation made Lando’s grin widen as he was glad to be considered in the same league as the Max Verstappen, especially by someone who lived in the Netherlands. To you, any other driver that had managed to be a part of the twenty that raced in Formula One was a good one – Lando included.

“He does have three more championship titles than me though”, Lando stated. “And God knows how many wins.”

“He’s had a good car for years,” you pointed out. “Your time will come, don’t worry. I can feel the papaya greatness for this year – though if I ever wear orange, it’s for Max.”

Not knowing what to reply to your words, Lando simply nodded while you put away the box of band-aids. You thought about the final steps of your check-up, and turned back to face the driver.

“Okay, so I’ll just put this on your finger to see your heart rate and then I’ll make you do a breathalyser if that’s alright with you?”

“Yeah, no problem. Do your job, don’t worry.”

“Great, thanks.” You carefully clipped the pulse oximeter on Lando’s finger before stepping away. “I'll be right back in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Lando replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When you left the room, the Brit let out the biggest sigh of his life. Oh God, he thought. It seemed like you hadn’t realised how close you’d been to Lando as you were only focused on doing your job, but he hadn’t been able to take his eyes away from you. He really hoped you hadn’t noticed anything, as the last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable at your workplace. Get a grip, Lando told himself while waiting for you to be back. Don’t fuck this up if you want a chance.

You came back into the room shortly after, a box in your hands – which Lando assumed to be the breathalyser. He knew he had drunk enough that he wouldn’t be allowed to drive, but he hoped he had sobered up enough after his trip to the hospital. After unboxing the breathalyser, you got close to Lando again and explained to him what he’d have to do.

“Nothing too complicated, don't worry. You’ll just have to exhale into this.” You showed him the object. “And I’ll tell you when to stop. Then, you’ll be good to go!”

Lando nodded in reply, even though he hadn’t really paid attention to the actual words you’d said. He had been more focused on your face and the way you’d gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face. He almost wished he’d been the one to do it, and he wondered if it was the remains of alcohol in his blood making him think that. He also wondered if he would still be attracted to you if he had met you while stone cold sober. But when you gave him a soft reassuring smile as you told him to be ready to blow into the breathalyser, he knew he would find you gorgeous no matter his state of mind.

What he didn’t know though, is if it was the alcohol or his attraction to you that was making his heart faster – both, to be honest. The result was the same: the machine was showing his heart rate quickening and Lando could perfectly hear it echoing in his head, which made his eyes widen at the thought that you would hear it too. Lando’s heart rate was actually the least of your worries as you were focused on the current task of measuring the level of alcohol in his blood, but it became the most important barely two seconds later when you heard the continuing beep that usually meant the lack of heartbeat.

“Your heart is going flatline!” You exclaimed in shock as you tried to quickly assess how Lando looked in order to find the cause. “Oh my God… oh my God, what the fuck is happening?!”

And while you were panicking, Lando realised that he had made a grave mistake. See, as he still wasn’t back to his normal state of mind, the driver thought that it was a wonderful idea to just remove the pulse oximeter from his finger so that you wouldn’t have noticed his heart rate speeding. But of course, you had immediately noticed the lack of constant beep from the machine and were currently still stressing – breathalyser completely forgotten.

Seeing your panicked state, Lando was now feeling extremely guilty and decided to come clean.

“I’m fine!” He was almost shouting. Hearing his voice made you stop in your tracks, and you looked at him with worry in your eyes. “Sorry”, he apologised. “I accidentally removed the thing, please calm down. I’m not dead.”

“Oh”, you could only answer. You felt awkward now. “That’s good, then.” You scratched your neck and nervously laughed. “It’s weird, it shouldn’t come off that easily unless it’s forcibly removed. Sorry if I gave you one that wasn’t properly working.”

And this was his last straw. Lando was now feeling even guiltier at your words, as you were going to blame yourself for using seemingly faulty equipment.

“Please don’t be mad, but… I-actually-removed-it-myself”, he said as quickly as he could.

“What?” You questioned with a tilt of your head.

“I removed the heart thingy myself because I didn’t want you to hear my heart rate.”

“Lando, that’s my job?”

“Yeah, but like…” He didn’t know what else to say, except for the truth – thank the alcohol for giving him the confidence to utter the next words. “I was just thinking about you, and you were looking super pretty while explaining stuff, and I wasn’t really paying attention to be honest, but then I felt like my heartbeat was going really fast, and you’d hear it, and you’d think I’m like weird, and–”

“Oh God, Lando calm down!” You put your hands on his shoulders so that he would look at you instead of the floor, and meeting your eyes silenced him. “You’re good, don’t explain yourself. I know that you’re not completely sober yet so your mind might make you do weird things. I’m just glad you’re alright and not suddenly a victim of a heart attack.”

“I don’t want you to see me as a crazy drunk guy right now!” He retorted, trying to clear his name. “Even sober, I’d think the same. Maybe not do the same stupid shit though…” He muttered the last sentence.

Silence now filled the room as you removed your hands from Lando and put them in your pockets before sighing. You tried to assess the situation and process his words. You’d had your fair share of people complimenting you in your workplace so Lando’s feelings weren’t that unusual, but it was still rare to end up in this type of situation. You thought for a minute about what to do while Lando stayed quiet. He was scared of dumb words leaving his mouth, so he didn’t want to take any more risks.

“Tell you what”, you caught his attention. “We finish this up, I clear you free to go, and maybe we can start over when you’re not my patient anymore. Sounds good?”

Still not trusting his words, Lando simply nodded. You then kept going with the last steps of your check-up before announcing to Lando that he was discharged. He had surprisingly sobered up quicker than you would’ve thought – maybe because of the heart rate incident – and his alcohol level wasn’t as high as you’d imagined it to be.

You walked him back to the entrance hall and asked him if Martin was here to get him. He briefly checked his phone and noticed a couple texts from the Dutch that were notifying him of his arrival in a few minutes. You therefore decided to wait with Lando, having all the time in the world – it was still your day off and you knew that the hospital wasn’t understaffed today, so there was no need for you to stay and give a hand.

As you were waiting in an excruciatingly awkward silence, Lando chose to man up and clear the previous situation up.

“I still think you’re beautiful,” he stated. “And I’d love to get to know you,” he added. “I know I’m not fully sober yet, but I’m almost there and my thoughts haven’t changed.”

“That’s good to know”.

“Good as in positive for me to shoot my shot?” Lando wondered with a nervous smile.

“You can try, I think your chances of success are pretty high right now.”

“Great.” His grin widened, and you couldn’t help thinking about how he was currently the beautiful one. “So, can we go out together one day? I know this great restaurant that my wonderful local friends told me about.”

“That’d be my pleasure”, you replied.

“When do you finish work?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

“I’m actually done…” You feigned to analyse the time on your watch. “Right now. What a coincidence!”

“Coincidence indeed”, Lando agreed. He then took out his phone and gave it to you. “I’ll text you the location?”

“Sure”, you nodded. “Maybe not a full meal tonight, but I’m still down for a drink and snacks.”

“Works for me. Raincheck for a proper date then?”

“Come back for it once you have a race win under your belt”, you challenged.

“Deal”, he accepted. “I have really good motivation.”

“Tell you what, you can also get a wish if it’s the next race that you win.”

“A wish? Anything?” You nodded and Lando thought about ideas. “Kiss on the first date?”

“Alright, you’re on!” You sealed the deal with a handshake, a playful glint in your eyes.

Merely a couple seconds later, Martin was pulling up in front of the hospital which was yours and Lando’s cue to go your separate ways before meeting soon again.

…..

A week later following your semi-date with Lando, you were now watching him celebrate his first win on the top step of the podium in Miami. You couldn’t be prouder of him, and your first thought was to text him as soon as you saw him go back to his garage. You hoped that he’d have access to his phone soon enough and quickly drafted a message to congratulate him. Right before you sent it, your wish – and eventually his in the process – seemed to have been granted.

Flying back to you next weekend before imola

I’m expecting a welcome kiss👀

You chuckled at his texts, a blush appearing on your cheeks as you thought about how he was still serious about you, and deleted your initial message before sending a new one.

Wouldn’t have it any other way

Congratulations race winner! Can’t wait for the next ones, I knew your time was coming🧡

If Lando never imagined that being hurt could lead to him bagging a pretty nurse and getting his first Formula One win, he was now thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get a small wound before each race if it meant that you would take care of him and that he’d be lifting the winner’s trophy afterwards.

..........

Hope y'all liked this ^^ idk if it's common knowledge on here but I'm a HUGE 5sos fan and when i recently heard flatline after a while, i knew i had to write smth f1 related for this song (esp the chorus)

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated if you enjoy my writing<3 it means a lot to me and i love knowing what people think - apart from my bestie who's often my #1 fan haha

See you next time, take care🤍

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #lando norris x you #f1 x you #formula 1 x you #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 x you

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cryptwrites · 14 hours ago

Text

It started as a joke.

A few of us, sitting around a cheap card table in my crumbling apartment, brainstorming ways to pay rent without actually working. The scam was simple: create a fake religion, prey on the gullible, and rake in some easy cash.

We called it The Order of Cythra, a name pulled out of thin air by my roommate, Toby, who thought it sounded “cryptic and legit.” We scribbled down some nonsense about Cythra being the god of renewal and hidden wisdom, created a website, and bought some dollar-store candles for the “rituals.”

At first, it was harmless fun. A few Reddit posts here, some vague TikToks there, and suddenly we had people donating. Not much—just twenty bucks here and there—but enough to cover bills and groceries.

Then things got... strange.

It started with the emails. Testimonials flooded our inbox from people claiming Cythra had spoken to them in dreams. A woman wrote about how her chronic migraines disappeared after chanting one of our made-up prayers. Another claimed their barren garden had suddenly burst into bloom.

We laughed it off at first. Toby even joked that we should hire a PR agent.

But then the dreams started.

It was always the same. I stood in a vast, desolate wasteland beneath a broiling, blood-red sky. A towering figure loomed in the distance, its body shifting between forms—human, deer, shadow. Its voice echoed in my head, not in words, but in feelings: hunger, anger, and something worse.

One night, I woke up to find the word Cythra carved into my arm, not by my own hand but by something else. I confronted Toby and the others, but their faces were pale. They were worried, like I had done something to them.

We tried to shut it down. Deleted the website, pulled down the TikToks, and stopped all donations. But the followers didn’t go away. If anything, they grew more fervent. They showed up at my apartment, chanting in unison, their eyes glassy and strange. They called me High Priest.

Then the first miracle happened.

One of the followers, a man in his sixties, collapsed on my doorstep during one of their late-night vigils. His heart had stopped. I panicked and reached out to him instinctively, yelling for someone to call 911. The moment my hand touched his chest, I felt a searing heat shoot through my arm. His body jolted, and his eyes snapped open.

The followers fell to their knees.

I slammed the door, trembling, my palm still burning. When I looked, there was a black symbol etched into my skin—a sigil I’d never seen before but somehow understood.

Cythra was real.

The days that followed were a blur. The followers proclaimed me as their leader, and no matter how much I tried to resist, they wouldn’t leave me alone. More people came to me for healing, and each time, the sigil on my palm burned brighter. I didn’t know what I was doing, but it always worked. Broken bones knit together. Tumors withered away. One woman even claimed her blind son could see again.

But with every miracle, I felt a piece of myself slipping away.

The dreams became more vivid. Cythra spoke now, its voice a low rumble that made my teeth ache. It demanded more worshippers, more faith, more sacrifices.

One night, I woke to find Toby standing over my bed, a knife in his hand and a vacant look in his eyes. He muttered something about “offering blood to Cythra.” I fought him off, but he slit his own throat before I could stop him. The followers found his body the next morning and cheered.

They said his death would “bring Cythra fully into our world.”

I tried to run. Packed a bag and fled to the nearest bus station. But as soon as I stepped outside, I saw them— hundreds of followers, all chanting in unison, their faces lit by the flickering of candles. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur.

The ground beneath their feet began to crack.

The last thing I remember before everything went black was the sky splitting open, and a monstrous, shifting form descending from the heavens.

Now I sit on a blackened throne in a temple I never built, my body barely my own. The sigil on my palm has spread, covering my arms, chest, and face. I can no longer close my eyes without seeing its form, nor speak without its words spilling from my mouth like black, molded bile.

I am the High Priest of Cythra, a forgotten god reborn through my foolishness.

And I know, deep down, that when it is finished with this world, it will consume me too.

You started a scam religion for a quick buck. You begin to panic when your fake god was actually a real forgotten one awakened from new worshippers, declared you it's high priest, and granted you the power of healing.

#writers #writers on tumblr #writing prompts #writeblr #writing inspiration

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neovillains · 3 days ago

Text

PINK BOWS | NANAMI KENTO

syn. your boyfriend is scared of intimacy, but for all the reasons you never expected.

── virgin!nanami kento & fem-bodied!reader, established relationship, panty kink, masturbation, sexual fantasies, accidental vouyerism, etc | 3.1k words ( minors, ageless & blank blogs : do not interact )

note. a fic i found in drafts that i never got around to posting.

Nanami had been raised to value his future career-wise over all else. Taking his parents’ teachings to heart, he solely focused on his career, making sure that he followed the path to becoming someone who was financially stable and didn’t need to stress over bills and obligations. However, that seemed to be the only merit to it— not having to worry and being able to live a lavish life. They didn’t mention the exhaustion he would experience, putting excruciating hours in working behind a desk. They didn’t tell him how robotic it would feel to wake up for most days to get ready, go to work, and come back home at late hours to only eat takeout and fall straight to sleep.

Barely a social life because all of his friends and the people close to him are always busy and when they do have the time, he unfortunately doesn’t. It was such a period of lonesomeness for Nanami, surviving but never really living. It wasn’t until a rare occasion of getting off of work early that he found himself in a bar, hitched up at a stool and slouching over the counter with a glass of whiskey nestled in his hand. He let out a deep sigh as he felt like this is the most rest he’s gotten ever since becoming a salaryman. In his blue button and animal print tie, he loosens the decorative piece and unbuttons the first few of his shirt as he slouches.

The sound of jazz playing through the speakers and the voices of other customers piling in on the Friday evening. He’s unaware of the pair of eyes that have settled on him this evening, the fine dime that watches two seats to his right. In a cute black backless dress that hugs every curve, you admire the blonde beauty that seems so exhausted. The way he composes himself, you can tell that he’s a reserved man and if anything, you’d have to be the one making a move on him. In your hand, a Sex on the Beach, the fruity drink gets disposed of in a few chugs before you’re standing on your heels and pulling out the stool right next to him. The scraping of the chair legs finally calls for his attention as his chestnut-colored eyes come into view.

He wonders how you were able to do it so quickly. The many times he’s been approached by women in the office, he was always quick to turn them down. However, with you, he didn’t feel that inclination to deny you. You spoke as if it was your right to have him, the way your eyes twinkled as you smiled up at him and started an easy conversation beginning with a simple “hey!” You had so much charm to you that it loosened him up, and while you carried on most of the conversation, he found himself deeply captivated by you as you were him.

At the end of the night, both of you exchanged numbers. You gnawed on your bottom lip, eyes flickering to his with a desire that he wasn’t used to seeing. You started to inch closer in hopes of something more, but you felt his body tense up when your lips ghosted him as you stood on your tippy-toes as he backed away. He cleared his throat, quickly dismissing the failed kiss and bidding you a farewell. “Have, uh— have a lovely night,” he stammered out before his leather shoes clicked on the hard concrete and he turned his back on you.

Leaving you alone in the chilling night, you were grateful for the lack of people to witness your embarrassment before your heels clicked against the sidewalk as you walked in the other direction. He remembered feeling such guilt for leaving you hanging like that, and he felt anger within himself for doing the same to him. He’d love to have a taste of those plump and glossy lips of yours. Do they taste as sweet as you look? However, that curiosity died as his anxiety overcrowded his brain and spoke against his better judgment, his mind chastising him for a week as he stared at your phone number, neither one of you having the strength to message first.

It’s pathetic how he deprives himself of something— someone— he wants. Someone he needs. Because only the heavens know how much Nanami needs this. Thankfully the gods listen to his pleas and his incessant whining, granting him the courage to finally message you first and ask you out on a date. It took you a couple of hours to respond back, debating with yourself if you should really go out with a man who backed away from a kiss. However, you figured that you were only being too fast and he wanted to take things slow.

He took you out to a food mall, a large building backed with restaurants, bakeries and cafes all in one setting. It proved that he was truly paying attention to you when you were droning on and on back in that bar. Dressed in a pink sundress that flowed down your body, each strut you took had Nanami mesmerized when you got excited and ran off to look at something. Your eyes would sparkle as a worker would come and hand you a little skewer to try. And for once Nanami was happy with his job, grateful to be able to spend ample of money on a pretty thing such as yourself. He didn’t care how much he spent on you, as long as he got to see the way your eyes lit up as you beckoned him to follow right behind you.

Winning over each other’s hearts, you placed the titles of boyfriend and girlfriend on each other. Nanami was content with it, happy to spend time with you— to hug and hold you close whenever you came to visit him and vice versa. However, while he was complacent in the place where your relationship stood, you weren’t. When you finally managed to kiss him, they were always a peck and never lasted for too long, and even when he held you, that felt awkward.

You could never rest on his lap, your head always against his chest. When you tried to deepen the kiss, he’d always pull away. Dammit, when you tried to take it even further, thinking that you were ready to sleep with him, he’d always break that sexual tension that lingered in the air, cutting his visit short.

He treated you so well in almost every aspect except for the ropes of intimacy. Were you doing something wrong?

—

Nanami felt guilty for how he’d pull away, and deny you of what you wanted. He really did, but you really didn’t understand what you do to him. He felt weak and pathetic about how just being in such close proximity to his girlfriend made him feel. How his cock would create a tent in his pants and he struggled to conceal it. How had you not noticed? His body would shudder every time you tried climbing on his lap, his entire body stiffening as you’d do so. When you tried to deepen the kiss, he felt like he was a high school boy again, near to releasing in his pants. Things would escalate and he was afraid of the possible embarrassment he would feel for his inexperience.

He should know better. He should know that you, his sweet little girlfriend, would always be so understanding and love him regardless. Something that he shouldn’t be so ashamed of. What was there to be? For you to know that your boyfriend loves you so much that he finds your presence to be an excruciating turn on? That a simple peck on his lips drives him crazy? That a single hug made him want to devote the rest of his life to you? He knows this conversation will happen sooner or later. But, for right now, he’d prefer it later.

Standing outside your apartment door, he unlocks the door with ease, pushing it gently open. Your car’s not outside, but you should be home soon according to your work schedule. He had forgotten some work from his last visit, wanting your company while he caught up on the tedious workload, but ultimately forgetting it by the time that he left. Entering your small abode, the chill of inside greatly contrasts the heat of outside as he shuts the door behind him. He kicks off his shoes, a habit of his as he makes a beeline straight to your bedroom. Your bedroom door is wide open and he can spot just what he needs right on the desk that he claims as his own as you barely use it.

He reaches for the stack of paper when he takes notice of a flimsy piece of fabric lying on the ground. Letting go of the documents, the sound of his footsteps echo through the room. Bending on his knees, he picks up a pair laced white panties with a pink bow right at the center. It has pink trimmings and in Nanami’s hand, they feel silky to the touch. He curses to himself for this type of intrusion. You’ve come to trust him so much to give him a spare key to your apartment, but here he is violating it to hold your dirty pair of panties and having the nerve to get hard while he’s at it.

“Fuck,” he curses, looking at the crotch of your undergarment to see a dirty patch of your discharge. The way he can feel his cock strain in his khaki work pants makes him feel embarrassed and dirty, his face heating up in a shade of red. However, he never throws down the flimsy garment. He doesn’t stop himself from bringing it up to his nose, taking a heavy waft to know what you smell like. The musky scent of sweat and the pungent scent of your discharge overflowing his senses is overwhelming, feeling how his cock twitches inside his pants. He lets out a stuttered breath, his free hand going to cup his erection in some sort of attempt to let go of some of the tension.

Veins protruding his hands as he palms himself, hands running along his girth. He can feel precum leaking from his tip. He hisses with how the urethra runs against the cotton fabric of his boxer briefs, wanting relief from its confined torture. He used to think of himself as a better man than this, a man who wouldn’t succumb to lust. However, the longer he withholds himself from you, the stronger the urge and his resolve is breaking— or, it has already broken.

He finds himself sitting on the very edge of your bed, toes curling as he brings himself to undo his belt, letting the buckle fall as he loosens it. He unzips his pants, providing further relief to himself before he’s shimmying out of his pants and underwear. His work shirt rides up, revealing the blonde happy trail that leads to his cock. A dark shaft in comparison to his bright pink head, it’s swollen with lust as he continues to drip of precum.

Nanami glances at the clock sitting on the ivory-colored nightstand. You’ll be back in less than an hour, which should be ample of time to get himself off before disappearing. He just has to make sure that he cleans up after himself well. His heart races at the excitement, which only makes him more turned on for this endeavor. Cupping his balls, he fondles them before letting your panties drop, them landing on his lap before he drapes it around his length. It looks pretty like this, he can’t help but think. He fixes the next hole down his cock before gripping the base of his length. Spit pools in his mouth before it lands on his pelvis, making him swipe the glob down. He smears it down his length, painting himself with the innocent body fluid.

The palms of his hand are cold, making him tense up as he hikes up one leg for the pad of his foot to rest on the edge of your bed frame. The metal digs into the heel of his foot as he sets a moderate pace, toes curling as he can only think about you. He imagines your plump lips wrapped around his length, taking him in so slowly as those beady eyes of yours would look at him so innocently. Batting your eyelashes at him while you have your mouth open, on your knees so pliantly as he guides his cock to your lips. Precum smeared over your lips just how you like to decorate your lips with gloss. They’d shine so beautifully and smell just like him, too. You’d work your mouth like a pro, taking him inch by inch and making his mouth fall open as he’d throw his head back.

This is all he thinks about when he’s pumping his cock, his grip tightening as he can only imagine. It’s shameful with how quick that coil in his stomach approaches, a choked up gasp leaving his lips as his cock twitch. His hold tightens around the base as he uses the next hand to cup at his balls with your panties wrapped around it. He can imagine you wearing these, how they’d hug you so cutely.

You’d be stripping out of your clothes slowly, in an effort to tease. They’d work, too. Shredding each layer of clothing until you’re in nothing but those same pair of panties before sauntering over to him seductively. And when you’re in front of him, forcing him to look up at you as you push him to lay down. You’d crawl over his body, your bare breasts hanging freely as you rest your ass down on his pelvis. You’d grind your hips so sweetly wearing those white laced panties, pink trimmings and a pink bow right in the middle, telling him to claim his prize.

You’d grind your hips amazingly, putting him in a trance as you have his cock aching for more than the rock of your hips. His fingers digging into your flesh before trying to bring you even closer to him. You’d manage to make him whimper out the most pathetically filthy whines and whimpers known to man. He knows it. He just knows it.

He knows it by the drawn out moan he makes when he releases on the white tiles, spurting out a load that should be stuffed inside of you. He throws his head back, nearly slipping off the bed before he catches himself. It feels euphoric to let himself go, to give into his cravings for you. If only you were here though, he sighs. It feels pointless to voice that if the person he craves the most isn’t here.

But, speaking of the devil, you’re parking next to his silver Lexus, your 2010 Honda looking shabby in comparison to the up-to-date vehicle that belonged to your boyfriend. You hum in content, your eyes lighting up in anticipation to see your boyfriend. Parking the car, you reach for your handbag as you climb out the vehicle. With the click of a button, your car is locked as you climb the two-story flight to your apartment. You’re out of breath by the time you’re in front of the door and fishing for the right key off of your keychain.

He promised himself that it would be quick, but Nanami’s still fucking his fist. His carnal desire for you pouring throughout in this moment, not hearing the shuffle of the locks from your front door. So absorbed in this lustful moment as he squeezes the tip, his fingers coated in his seed as he quickens the pace.

You can see his shoes resting in the right corner while you hang your bag on the rack and shimmy out of your cardigan, kicking off your flats gently. While he can’t hear you, you hear him— the deep sounds of his voice grunting and panting from afar. With furrowed eyebrows, confusion fills you before realization as you near your bedroom. The wet sounds of plat, plat, plat echoing as you take careful steps. Your heart races as your eyes widen when you take a peek inside of your bedroom to see the compromising state of your boyfriend.

Sitting on your bed with his pants resting a bit above his knees. His cock, spent as he strokes it. You can see the jagged line of his cum squirted out on the floor, strays catching his pants and the rest dripping from his fist. Arousal pools immediately as you silently watch, clenching your thighs together as you shuffle on your footing. You’ve been unknowingly holding your breath, your face heating up as you watch this moment. Your mouth dries up, gulping as your eyes flicker to his length as you watch his languid movement. His hip bucking in further need. It’s then do you see the strikingly bright shade of white and hints of pink, falling under realization that he’s jerking off with your panties wrapped around him. Shit, you curse as you start to heave. You cup your heat in need, thighs trapping your hand as you grind into your digits.

“Shit,” Nanami curses, calling out your name as he can feel his balls tighten and his legs stiffen. “Fuck, I need you.”

With another orgasm, it’s not as copious as the previous, the trail following a shorter path as he paints his hand in his seed. Hips stuttering, he brings himself to lean back, using his cleaner hand to hold up his weight to bring himself back to reality. A fog full of stars and ecstasy clouding his vision before it’s all cleared up. He thinks he’s alone. He thinks the coast is all clear until he’s sitting up and right at the door way you’re standing there. He gasps, calling out your name in shock.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, but this is your apartment after all. Eyes dilated as your hand is still stuffed in between your legs, you let out a heavy breath. It’s nice to know that all your worries about your relationship seem to get relieved at this moment as you quickly become elated.

You start to saunter towards him, just as he envisioned. Only, you’re fully clothed when you push him down on the bed. His eyes widen as he calls out, “Wait. I—”

You cut him off, taking his cum-coated hand and bringing it to your lips. Tongue sticking out, you clean him all up and all his worries dissipate as he curses once more, fuck. “Whatever it is, promise that we work through it together, ya?”

Nanami nods, speechless and he puts all of his trust in you and his cock hardens again. He was a fool to be so worried. Finally, he’s able to mutter out a single word. “Yeah, okay.”

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hivemuthur · 20 hours ago

Text

The Ugly Thing

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! smut, love confessions, D/S dynamics (if you squint or if you know what I'm talking about), pinning, dom!viktor (but also not, if you squint, something something), Viktor-centric, AU college/university + modern era (again, you have to do some squinting for it to be relevant)

word count: 4,9K

summary: Yet another self-indulgent one-shot of Viktor and Reader. It's just an exploration. I want to believe this is erotica, but you tell me. Subspace/Domspace if you squint. Just squint, alright?

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Viktor was, at the very least, difficult. That was what he had called himself, and he relished the label, as it allowed him to be all things at once—sweet, shy, bold, cruel, smart, oblivious, observant. He walked through life making observations and turning his conclusions into actions, placing people exactly where he needed them, ensuring they couldn’t place him somewhere he didn’t want to be.

His relationships were fleeting moments of leniency—sometimes even kindness—offered only when he felt inclined. Occasionally, the kindness transpired twice, or three times, but never more, as the risk of forming a one- or double-sided attachment was undesirable. Viktor’s desires lay elsewhere, and in his pursuits, he indulged the weakness of the flesh while keeping his ultimate goal—recognition of his brilliant mind—crystal clear.

Always polite, so that nothing could hurt him. His armour of politeness and astute behaviour shielded him from the lingering hands that sought to cradle him through the night, from the tender offerings of morning coffee, and from the quiet intimacy of shared silences. Viktor didn’t crave these things. He made sure his politeness was cold, detached, and practised—a skill perfected to keep others at bay. There was no warmth in it, no invitation to linger.

From time to time, he indulged in fleeting encounters, moments where he allowed himself to surrender to the pull of human connection—physical, but never emotional. Emotional, but not lasting. It was a necessary recharge, a way to quiet the body’s demands, but he was always one step ahead. He ensured his partners understood that whatever fragile universe they built together in the night would dissolve with the first light of morning, leaving no trace beyond the cooling embers of his skin.

All that was left was being polite—a polite smile in the hallway, a pencil lent during a lecture, an elevator held for his perishable lover rushing to class. Their names never forgotten, but their warmth never wanted again.

Until you. Until you invaded his orbit and refused to be erased. Until you befriended Jayce, making it easy to keep meeting him, keep looking at him, keep exchanging amusements and something more than politeness—exchanging kindness. Until it turned out you were smart and driven and managed to scare him once or twice by pinning him with your joke.

Until he had slept with you, giving you his mediocre self—not the calculated, observant one, but the needy, touch-starved, pathetic one that moaned your name and groped you with begging hands. All during a completely unorchestrated evening in your dorm room, still half-clothed, just lustful and impatient. Just really fucking hungry in your mutual understanding, though you understood absolutely nothing. Oblivious to the ugly thing in him. Oblivious to the concept of boundaries. Oblivious to the need to protect yourself from prying eyes that might see the truth of what they were.

And the way you stared at him afterwards, gave your body a long stretch, and your limbs flopped back onto the mattress. And the way you said, “It’s ok if you want to go,” an understanding smile cracking across your face—yet you understood absolutely, utterly nothing. A way out he craved, but he wanted to carve it out for himself with his politeness, not with this—this knowing, wise look in your eyes that came from nowhere, because you knew nothing. He almost wanted to stay, just to spite you, but found himself only nodding, scrambling to his feet to fetch his brace and cane, and bidding you goodnight with a polite nod.

And the way you remained friendly. Not friendly—the way you two remained friends. The long nights spent in study groups, pulling straws to determine who was doomed to coffee duty, your head slumped in sleep on Jayce’s shoulder, his head resting on Mel’s. Your bare, cold feet stretched out, toes brushing against Viktor’s thigh, sending ice through his veins—and the way he didn’t mind. The way he contemplated cradling your feet in his palm, warming them against his better judgement.

The way your touch lingered on his arm when you grabbed him in the corridor to show him something funny on your phone. And the way the thing on your phone actually was funny—a picture of Jayce passed out in the library under a mountain of plastic cups balanced on his shoulders. The way his own laugh startled him, made his chest shake and his face lean in close to yours.

The way you would fall asleep in the common room, watching old horror films, your throat vulnerably exposed on his lap. And he just wanted to grab it, squeeze it tight, choke the confession out of you—that you lingered because you wanted more, because this friendship was unthinkable.

The way you got upset when he was mean, and the way he went out of his way to apologise with a childish, shit-eating grin. His arms reaching out for you, your palm pressing his face away in that same friendly gesture.

When he flushed his system with alcohol, all he could think about was fucking you senseless. And when your gaze lingered on him, burning all the way down into his ugly thing, you would ask what was on his mind, and he would say, “Physics.” And you would laugh his lie out.

The way, once, he gave you a lingering kiss on your doorstep and stopped himself. But seeing the question poised on the tip of your tongue, he sunk back in, turning the kiss into a sloppy, drunken mess, so you would be the one to push him away. A gentle pat on the shoulder, sending him off with the unspoken instruction to come back sober. And how he never came back for that.

All of this made him so fucking angry. His carefully mended self, constructed from sweetness, shyness, boldness, cruelty, wisdom, and oblivion, was crumbling under your pensive eyes—and the way you floated atop the pissed-off ocean of his mind.

And oh, he loathed himself on that evening, loathed the way his feet carried him to your room because he was feeling vaguely sad and distracted. He loathed his feet for doing so, loathed his finger for pressing the elevator button, loathed his knuckles for placing a quiet knock on your door. It was all so gross, so out of character, and he loathed it all.

And there you were, opening the door, your face full of dinner, hair messy, cheeks puffed out as you curled them into a closed-mouth grin and gave him a wave to come inside. A quiet “hi,” followed by a chuckle as you tried to swallow before chewing—and a cough when the gulp was too massive for your throat.

“Are you busy?” Viktor found himself blurting out, scanning the room. Your flatmate was gone for the weekend—her bed made, her shoes and coat missing. Observed, concluded. His eyes flicked over to the other bed: messy but cozy, notes scattered across it, a steaming cup on the bedside table, and a laptop propped in the leg area playing background noise. Studying, of course.

“I am always busy,” you grinned at him, your teeth bare and beautiful like the rest of you, as you dropped your dishes into the sink and put the kettle on. “Watching Dexter and studying. Do you want tea?”

“Maybe,” Viktor mused, biting his lip. He negotiated silently with himself, wondering what it was he hoped to find in this room that might sweeten his sour mood—and why his mood was sour in the first place. His hand wobbled on his cane, the traitorous thing, and he leaned against the doorframe to deflect, refusing to decide whether to step fully in or out.

“Okay, what’s gotten into you today?” you huffed, picking a mug you deemed suitable for him. Good Vibes Only, with a middle finger printed on the bottom of it, seemed fitting.

“Meaning?” Viktor cocked an innocent eyebrow, feeling the burn of your inquisitive gaze. Oh, to yank that lovely head by the neck and shove it between his legs, to ease the torment in his mind.

“This is the third time you’ve bothered me today. It’s the weekend. You usually work on the weekends. You’re being vague but resistant to probing. Did something happen?” The countdown of his sins, and it was only the count of one day. Nothing had happened, and that was the issue.

“I suppose I’m feeling… down?” He shrugged, the movement worn down, defeated. His brain ached, and he felt lonely. It had started to feel indecent to pursue others—and for that, you deserved a whack as well.

“Do you need a hug?” A mocking snort reached his ears. A long pause as the scales tipped between a ‘no’ and a ‘yes.’

“Yes.”

Another long pause, as you blinked and scanned him for any signs of a sham, your expression still uncertain. You had to make sure again. “Do you need a hug now?”

“No, in fifteen fucking minutes.” His undignified huff earned him a pair of raised eyebrows from you, and a remark already rolling off your tongue—but he cut it short. “Yes, now. Come here.” His head hung low, and only his hand made a beckoning gesture.

You smiled, disarmed by the black cat of Viktor, finally trying to scramble into your lap after months of teasing and playing around—head bumping and blinking at each other from afar. You walked up to him, your hands hesitant, as if this open display of need was unthinkable.

Before you could settle, Viktor snaked himself around you, his cane propped by the door, his frame bent and draped over you, leaning his body weight forward. It was the grabbiest, the neediest hug he had ever given—or that anyone had let him have. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, smashing his nose against your skin, and inhaled you deeply, through both mouth and nose.

His palms, open and wide, raked as much of your body in one go as they could. They slipped under your clothes, seeking the taut skin stretched across your back and shoulders. He wanted to go lower but could only squeeze.

You weren’t hugging him; he was hugging you. Caging you in his grip, controlling when the hug would end—and as far as he was concerned, not ever. You stilled under his touch, your hands resting obediently on his chest as he rubbed his face on yours, purring like a cat.

“Viktor?” Your voice was barely a whisper, bouncing off his mouth, an inch away from yours. “Would you like me to kiss you?” He sang his swan song in that moment, almost asking permission, granting you the illusion of control, the illusion of choice—when in truth, it was him silently begging for the kiss to happen.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Of course. A deflection. Nothing he wasn’t prepared for.

“I asked you first.” A cruel blow, almost childish. He pulled his face back a few inches to watch you wrestle with the indignity of the situation. The whine you tried to suppress at the loss of contact didn’t go unnoticed, and the snake in Viktor’s belly coiled its head up, smug and poised.

But then you did the thing he didn’t expect—twisting the serpent’s head off and tossing it aside with quiet defiance. You moved closer, nudging his chin with your cheek, your wide eyes pleading for his plea. His resolve shattered instantly.

He held you in place, his lips hovering just above yours. His whisper was longing, desperate. “Can I kiss you?”

A silent ‘yes.’ He only knew it was a ‘yes’ because he felt the movement of your lips on his—but he didn’t let you finish. He sank into your mouth with a disturbing, possessive urgency, pressing his tongue inside, licking your beautiful teeth, biting your beautiful skin.

He kept you locked in, pressing you down under the weight of his kiss. His mouth drooled into yours obscenely as he breathed heavily through his nose. It was the ugliest kiss he had ever given anyone—the ugliest anyone had ever taken from him. And yet, it was taken with such grace, such gratitude, that he wanted to give you everything else.

With inhuman strength, he pulled you both apart and placed his thumb on your lower lip, still glistening with his saliva. He traced it lazily, transfixed by the shimmering reflections on your skin. His heart swelled as he observed the redness blooming around the spots he had bitten. He wanted you bruised by his love—for everyone to see.

“What are you doing tonight?” Another plea, another promise, fell between you. Viktor cursed himself for being so open, so exposed. Because even though you knew nothing, you would understand this question.

“Watching Dexter and studying,” you said in an absent voice, your eyes following his, following the path of his thumb. The silence stretched between you, taut, until you felt the need to fill it. “Do you want to watch Dexter and study with me?”

“No.” The word escaped him in a croak, sung low and jagged, as if he had only just realised this wasn’t what he wanted at all. “Are you wet?” was all he wanted to know.

“What?” The word escaped you, surprised, almost appalled. Viktor braced himself for you to pull away, so he tightened his grip—but you didn’t. You just stared at him with those beautiful eyes on your beautiful face, your pupils dilating at the vulgar perversion of his question.

“I think you heard me. Are you wet right now?” He leaned in to whisper the filth into your ear, feeling his snake grow out a new head at the full-body shudder that went through you.

“What if I said no?” you asked shyly, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek.

“I would demand proof,” he murmured, holding the sides of your face as he poured his poison straight into your ear, his voice so quiet and rude that your eyes fluttered closed.

“What if I said yes?” You found some bravery in yourself, tracing your fingers along Viktor’s neck, just under the line of his hair. You smiled at the feeling of goosebumps rising under your fingertips. He couldn’t have this, of course.

“I would demand proof regardless,” he responded, his lips grazing the shell of your ear before licking it, slow and deliberate. He craned his head back to look at you. You appeared frightened and excited all at once, and if Viktor had no restraint, he would have run his fingers through your hair to soothe you. Instead, he placed a flat palm on your stomach, fingers pointing down, waiting for your permission.

He received a timid nod, but it wasn’t enough.

“Use your words.”

“You can check.” You closed your eyes and exhaled, as though allowing yourself to be judged for your crime. And as the crime was that of lust, Viktor, somewhere deep down, knew he didn’t really need proof, and that your punishment would be light. Because he didn’t truly want to punish you. He wanted to love you in an ugly way.

He slid his hand down, down beyond the waistband of your pants, down your lower belly straight to your womb, palming your cunt through the underwear and gasped, “Oh lásko, look at you.” His chest fluttered at the first touch, with joy and accomplishment, but also because he was right, when he slid the fabric to the side and ran his finger through your slit. Warmth dripped onto his fingertips, and he felt himself grow hard beneath the restraint of his own clothes.

“Do you really like me this much?” he cooed, so pleased that just one ugly kiss had managed to drench your knickers and make you feel so ashamed you nearly flinched away.

“Viktor—” You looked at the floor, your brows furrowed, your face burning from being so exposed, so naked. And you looked so, so beautiful.

“I am not mocking you,” he murmured, placing a reassuring hand on your cheek and caressing it gently. It was almost a praise, though he dared not say it yet. “What makes you want a cripple so much? Is it your heart that longs for me, your mind that thinks you can change me, or just your body?” he mused, revealing too much merely by asking.

You looked almost offended by how blunt he was about knowing what you wanted, just not knowing why. His fingers now parting you, playing at your entrance, teased you but you wouldn’t flinch. You just searched his face hesitantly and as Viktor grew tired of waiting, he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them, mercilessly bumping your wall, forcing you to flinch. He really wanted to see your eyes roll back into your skull, and he really wanted to hear his name distorted by a breathy moan.

“Which… would be the worst?” Your breath fanned his face as you steadied yourself on his shoulders. Truly, you weren’t ready for any of the options to be soured.

Viktor thought for a moment, his fingers slowly retreating, almost absent-mindedly. When his answer was found, he pushed back in, smiling innocently, his face moving close to yours. “The first. The second,” he mused, another slow, unbearably so, thrust. “I could fuck out of you. The third, well…” A gentle kiss on your lips, almost loving. “I see no fault in the third.”

“Of course, you don’t,” you scoffed, your grip on his shoulders tightening with each minute. “And what bring you back to me over, and ah,” a gasp escaped your mouth when Viktor brushed his thumb over your clit. You closed your eyes and evened your breath. “Back to me. Heart, mind or… body?” you asked, your brow furrowed in concentration against Viktor’s efforts to throw you off course.

“Which would be the worst?” He quirked his lips against yours and chuckled at another concentrated huff. He could feel your unrelenting grip on his shoulders, was convinced that it would leave a mark, and it made his cock twitch in his pants. To be marked by this gentle creature, a dream.

“Any of them, without the others,” you quipped, your eyes shut. Viktor’s movements stilled at that. You had managed to surprise him. Again. Of course, you would want to devour him as much as he wanted to devour you. Eat you whole, spit out the bones and build a shrine out of them. Ugly.

He retreated his hand and chuckled at the muffled whine that followed. He licked his fingers clean once your eyelids fluttered open, making sure you were watching. Rude. But he was going to kiss you with this mouth.

His hands snaked back up your spine, your body pliant against his, providing him with warmth. His teeth and lips got back to work on the swell of yours, and you fell right into it, mouth open, when his tongue pushed itself down your throat as Viktor began his meal. “I will die if I don’t fuck you,” he rasped. So fucking dramatic over nothing, over just a kiss and some unfinished fingering, and a clipped conversation about what he wanted.

He could abandon it here. He could walk out; he could sit on your bed and just study and watch Dexter. He could drink his tea, already cold, he could make you blush all evening, bid you goodbye and go back to his grimy room to jerk off and fuck off. But he couldn’t stop.

“Please, I’ll be so good to you,” he prayed to you, your hands so warm on his waist as he kissed you till he was out of breath. “You don’t know what you are doing to me.” Pathetic, moronic wail escaped him. And he knew you only grew wetter and wetter, your lips getting hotter on him. Panting, you pulled him by the belt and walked the two of you over to the bed, leaving Viktor with no other support than yourself.

He had never rid himself of his clothes so fast. Everything he had on, tossed and crumpled by the bed, next to your own little pile. All the layers of the second, the third skin abandoned, his brace, his pants, his boxers, embarrassingly soaked with sweat and precum, when he crawled on top of you just to keep kissing you and biting your neck, leaving nasty marks everywhere. He panted, his own breath betraying him as your skin came in contact and Viktor whined simply at his cock rubbing against your thigh and he wanted more.

“If you want to stop, tell me.” Another raspy, absolutely dishonest, but a proper plea, asking for the complete opposite. Please, never ask me to stop. “Do you understand?” You nodded, again—not good enough. Your eyes so wide, he could barely see the colour. When you were splayed flat below him, he could see your heart twitching, your chest contracting. A minuscule movement, but he could see it.

“Words, I need to hear your words, lásko,” he growled, stunned by his own impatience.

“I understand.” A kindness in your voice enveloped him. He slid you down the mattress by the ankles, his cock rested against your slit. With clumsy hands he put on a condom, stole a pillow from under your head to support his bum leg and adjusted his crooked crouch. You had the audacity to chuckle at the commonality of his movements and he bit your calf in response.

Absolutely unhinged, you hooked your foot behind his neck, and he immediately loved the weight that pulled him down, steadied him, as he teased your entrance. You held a breath; he had forsaken the privilege of air long time ago.

The first thrust was just blissful. He could feel the crease on his forehead relaxing, his mouth opening, his jaw hanging heavily, just joy and warmth, him awash in it. He felt so full, so complete, yet it was you who was full of him as your bodies slotted together easily, differently to the last time, which left him feeling awkward and ashamed and unfinished.

You rested your hands on his hips, gripping the sharp angle of his bones, your fingernails leaving crescent marks that he would run his fingers over in the morning. “You are doing so well,” he whispered in awe, and it was honest, and you loved it, he felt it in his cock getting squeezed in a silent gratitude.

He felt his ugliness leaving him with each pump of his hips, each sloppy sound of your bodies bumping against each other, his cock twitching inside you, and he needed one more thing to make this even less ugly.

He brushed his thumb over your clit, stretching it, teasing you and taking in all your huffs and puffs, your contorting stomach muscles, your tightening walls. A longing look and an echoing question followed. “Do you love me?”

“Viktor, don’t be cruel,” you answered so fast, he almost retreated. How could you think so? A childlike curiosity creeped onto his face.

“I am not. I really ought to know. Just say yes or no,” Please, just say yes. He felt you twitch at the question, and it made him think he was right. But he could have also been completely deranged. Brain burnt by lust and all the ugly things.

“Viktor—” you pleaded at the loss of his thumb on you.

“I can feel you. Yes or no?” A hard thrust, right up your guts. You yelped, and he could see the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, and the sight was something to behold, keep in the palace of his mind forever.

“Then, why are you asking?” You were ready for filth. For his erotic weirdness, for his awkwardness, for all the want he would suppress every time you interacted. You felt it all in his fleeting touch, in the warmth of his thigh when your naked toes rested against it idly, unintentionally, though very intentionally. But this was how you coax a cat. And this was not how cats responded.

“You will see,” he promised, more to himself. “Do you love me, now, in this moment, when I’m fucking you? Yes or no?” Another twitch of your cunt at ‘love’. He left himself unguarded, shielded only by the mould of your womb.

“Yes.” A tiny, shy ‘yes’. But it fell right into Viktor’s heart and there it grew into a big promise, and he would keep it and take care of it and cherish it.

His body bent in half, his mouth seeking yours. A sloppy kiss, painful, with teeth at your tender lip. Another, earnest, slow and careful. Another, quick and fleeting, before he found your ear. Between them, “I love you,” whispered back like a secret, like a prize for your struggle.

Your breaths grew frantic, you wanted to keep him close. You tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging him in, so you could lick the sweat from his neck, bite it and claim it. Your leg slipped onto his hip, and you curled it around him, his bone digging into your thigh.

“Do you see? How it feels?” he rasped into your ear, gripping you tight. “To be loved while being fucked? Tell me how it feels.” Viktor moaned with each of his thrusts, holding back getting harder and harder. His cock getting more swollen. Your walls getting tighter.

“Amazing,” you whispered, pulling his mouth back to yours. “I love you.”

Viktor’s eyes rolled back into his skull. He slumped onto you, his hands snaking behind your waist, and he could feel your sweat merging with his as your chests pressed together. “I love you,” he cooed weakly. “You can come now, lásko.”

He felt your thighs clutch on his hips, a long spasm twisting your spine underneath him. You came with an orgasm wrenching breath out of your lungs, leg bending, blinding. The ‘I love you’ falling from your lips over and over again, and Viktor could finally let go and spill all his ugliness out. He came with a loud moan seconds after, his brain fucked out, his heart swollen, as he came loved for what he was.

He held you tight through it, chests heaving, when he felt a quiver and wetness on his cheek. “Are you hurt?” he whispered.

You sobbed onto his chest, hands caged in his arms as you tried to release them and wipe the tears away. “No, no,” you shook your head. “What is this… feeling?” It had no name. For Viktor, it was a dumbing bliss. He could cry too if he wasn’t so warm.

“How do you feel?” He wanted to know what it was like on the other side. No one ever told him, no one ever shared this with him.

“Hollow. Ah… fuck. Empty,” you struggled to find the words, trying them out on your tongue, but they felt wrong. “I feel like you took something… bad from me. And now I don’t know what to do with the space left—” you gasped between sobs as Viktor rolled you to the side and pulled your hair to expose your neck.

You buried your face in the curve of his shoulder. Tears fell on their own, and Viktor wanted to drink them and cry them out himself. When the sobs transformed into clipped breaths, and clipped breaths transformed into one long exhale, you asked carefully, “Viktor, you don’t really love me, do you?”

“Well, do you really love me?” His chest was swollen, his head heavy. He was triumphant. He was so invincible he had it in him to love you.

Silence, for a while. Viktor nudged you gently with his chin and whispered a soft command, “Go to the bathroom, I’ll be here.”

You looked at him, the practicality of it spreading a strange warmth in your belly. Wordlessly, you got up and disappeared, still naked as day, and Viktor watched your feet shuffle in the creak of the bathroom door. He got up, put on his underwear, and drank his cold tea in one go.

When you got out, a relief glimpsed through your face, as if you were expecting him to be gone. He waited for you with a cup of tea and a clean sweatshirt, beckoning you to slide into it. Once you both had a singular piece of clothing on, he pulled you back into bed and cuddled sweetly into you. “How do you feel now?” he asked, running his fingers through your hair.

“I feel… like I really need you to love me right now,” you let it slide out. Even though your sweatshirt shielded you from the chill of the room, your soul was still completely bare and shivering. And Viktor loved this nudity, the weirdness of it, the feeling of belonging it gave him.

He found that is was his hands that were lingering now, that the tender thought of the morning coffee was no longer distorted by fear, the quiet and the silence became comfortable in a good way. He felt so wanted, so beautiful in your eyes. He felt all the right things and none of the wrong things. His ugly snake was skinned and turned into a beautiful object. In this beautiful space only beautiful words seemed fitting. “I really do love you right now.”

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