#low sympathy positivity

[no-empathy-culture-is]

polite reminder that empathy, sympathy and compassion are not what makes a good person. what makes a good person is their actions towards others, and the choices they make, not what they feel

[queerasaurolophus]

I agree on most of this except sympathy is 100% a learnable skill. I’m autistic and had super high empathy but very low sympathy as a child. And now I’m an adult who’s gone to therapy and had some really good friendships develop, and I have the same high empathy but I’ve learned to actively listen in a way to understand how someone is feeling due to a given stimulus. And if I care about that person, I also care about their feelings, even if I don’t always succeed in parsing them.

If I don’t care about that person, sometimes the empathy will kick in and sometimes I don’t see their situation as relatable enough to feel anything, but I can at least figure out *their* emotions more than I used to. Sympathy is a hard skill to learn, but you can definitely make progress if you break it into composite parts! (the ‘caring about their feelings’ part is more an effect of other stuff than something you can change directly, but awareness and understanding can sometimes lead to caring—like how I care about football more now that I know the rules.)

Whatever you can develop of sympathy really helps in forming and maintaining healthy friendships. It’s not easy, and I’m still probably lower than average in the sympathy scale, but I’m super proud of the work I’ve done on my own awareness of the feelings of others.

Something doesn’t need to be innate in order to respect that we’re all at different places with it!

i've seen quite a bit of confusion about this, so let me attempt to clear things up :

empathy is the ability to feel somebody's emotions as though they are affecting you personally. for example, somebody tells you "my dog died last night!" -> you now feel as though you've lost a pet personally -> you feel grief and sadness just like the other person. not everyone has empathy. it's a trait some people develop and others don't. some have high empathy, some have low empathy, some (like me) have none.

sympathy is the ability to understand and care about somebody else's struggles, even if you don't feel them yourself. so, somebody tells you their dog died -> you realize how this affects them emotionally -> you care about this person, and are upset that they are suffering. not everyone has sympathy either! it's a scale, just like empathy.

compassion is doing something to relieve another person's suffering or make them feel better. somebody tells you their dog died -> you don't want them to remain upset -> you come up with ways to help them feel better, like offering comfort and distractions, or other forms of support. compassion is a learned trait, not something you can be born with like empathy or sympathy. anyone can learn to be compassionate, although some may struggle more with it than others; it's a skill, just like anything else.

however, none of these are required to be a good person. that's a choice you make on your own accord. i hope this clears things up!

[i2sunric]

𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 (p.sh)

PAIRING: sunghoon x pregnant!reader (f)

SUMMARY: when the two pink lines appeared on the pregnancy test, the life you had so meticulously built crumbled. but sunghoon gathered the pieces back together, shaping a new life with your two babies.

WARNINGS: pregnancy, suggestive and mentions of sex (no smut), angst (if you squint?), fluff, crack by the end, sunghoon is so caring, their love makes me puke, description of labour and a c-section (i gathered my knowledge from grace anatomy), reader worries a lot, sunghoon works hard, twins (yohan and haneul), bed rest, a little complication with one of the babies, happy ending, pet names (babe, baby), lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 3rd March 2025

WC: 6.5k

TAGLIST: @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon (oneshot) @starry-eyed-bimbo @saphiranishimurashan @jkslvsnella @vrusha01 @notcamii @deluluscenarios @m1kkso @youngheejay @lovingvoidgoatee @motherscrustytoenailclippings @sukisvr @yoonzns @kayjiguki @12e45 @irahina @geniejunn BOLDS COULD NOT BE TAGGED.

NOW PLAYING: Unconditionally by Katy Perry.

a/n: i hope y’all like this, please REBLOG to share and stay tuned for the other members’ fics. <3 sorry for any grammar error, i’m sleep deprived. anw, do you think i should make a small drabble when the twins are older too? lmk.

You hadn’t planned for this. No one really does, do they? 

One month ago, you were just a college student, studying hard, dreaming of the future, with your boyfriend, Sunghoon, by your side.

The two of you were inseparable, sharing classes, meals, and the occasional late-night walk around campus when life felt too overwhelming. 

You thought you had time. time to grow, to figure things out, to live freely before settling into something serious.

But life had other plans.

When you found out you were pregnant, it hit you like a train. 

You remembered sitting on the cold bathroom floor of your dorm, clutching the positive test in your trembling hands, staring at it until the lines blurred from your tears. 

The first thing you thought about wasn’t yourself but Sunghoon. 

What would he say? What would he do? Would he be scared, angry… relieved?

He wasn’t any of those things. 

When you told him, he just pulled you into his arms, held you so tightly you thought you’d break, and whispered over and over that he loved you. That he’d take care of you. That you’d figure this out together.

But love wasn’t enough to stop reality from crashing down.

The college didn’t offer much sympathy. 

As soon as you dropped out—because there was no way you could keep up with tuition and prepare for a baby—they kicked you out of the dorm. No exceptions.

You weren’t a student anymore, so you didn’t belong. It didn’t matter that you’d lived there for years.

You packed up what little you had, stuffing clothes and textbooks into worn-out suitcases while Sunghoon silently paced the small room, phone pressed to his ear as he tried to find somewhere — anywhere — for the two of you to go.

By some miracle, he did.

It wasn’t much. A tiny apartment on the outskirts of the city, far from campus, far from everything you knew. 

The rent was low because the building was old and falling apart, but it had four walls, a roof, and running water. It was home.

Sunghoon tried to stay strong. He was a student, just like you had been, with assignments and exams and his own dreams. 

But those dreams had been put on hold— at least, the version of them he once had. Now, instead of studying in the library with his friends, he was filling out job applications. 

Instead of thinking about internships or grad school, he was wondering how to pay for diapers and formula.

He landed a part-time job at a convenience store after a week of searching, and though he came home every night exhausted and smelling like instant noodles and cold air, he always kissed you softly and asked how you were feeling, if the babies were okay.

Babies. Plural.

That had been another shock, one you’d gotten at your first ultrasound: Two little heartbeats. Two little lives. 

You’d cried then, too. Half out of fear, half out of something that felt a little like awe. Sunghoon had cried with you, holding your hand so tightly his knuckles went white, whispering that it would be okay.

And you believed him. For a little while.

But things were hard. 

The convenience store paycheck wasn’t enough, not when rent, groceries, and prenatal visits drained it so quickly. And even if your parents managed to send you their savings, it still was too little for prenatal vitamins and all the things you had to buy for when the twins would be born.

Sunghoon started losing sleep, staying up late to study after work, waking up early to make it to class, and somehow still managing to hold you when you couldn’t stop crying because your body was changing faster than you could handle, because you felt like a burden, because you were terrified.

You wanted to find a job too. You tried.

But no one wanted to hire a pregnant woman, not even when you were only two months along. 

You didn’t even look pregnant, not really but employers seemed to know, somehow. They’d glance at your belly, at your tired eyes, and find a reason to turn you away.

“We’ll call you,” they’d say. They never did.

It was unfair. You were competent, you had your high school diploma. You could work, you could help. but no one would let you.

Sunghoon told you it was okay. That you should rest. That you were doing enough by taking care of yourself and the babies.

But you saw the way he clenched his jaw when he checked his bank account. You saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the frustration he tried to hide.

One night, after a particularly long shift, he came home, threw his keys on the kitchen counter, and just… broke.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, leaning against the wall, head in his hands. “I’m trying, but it’s not enough… it’s never enough.”

You’d never seen him like that before. Sunghoon was always calm, always steady, the one who grounded you when you felt like you were falling apart. 

But now he was the one unraveling, and you didn’t know how to help.

You went to him, kneeling beside him on the cold tile floor, and took his hands in yours “We’ll figure it out,” you whispered, echoing the words he’d once said to you. “We’ll find a way.”

He just shook his head. “I don’t want you to worry about this, you shouldn’t have to.”

“I already do,” you admitted, your voice soft but firm. “I worry every day, about you, about the babies, about what’s going to happen to us. But we’re in this together, Hoon, you’re not alone.”

And maybe that was what he needed to hear.

Because he pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, you both let yourselves be scared.

And somehow, in the middle of all the fear and exhaustion, there were moments of happiness. 

Late-night talks in bed, Sunghoon’s hand resting on your belly, feeling the faintest flutter of movement. The way he looked at you, like you were the most precious thing in the world, even when you felt anything but.

It wasn’t the life you’d imagined. But it was a fresh start, and you were going to make it work.

⪩⪨.

The chemistry between you and Sunghoon didn’t die, not even with the exhaustion, the stress, or the growing weight of reality pressing down on you both.

If anything, it seemed to shift into something deeper, more intimate. 

Perhaps it was the hormones, or maybe it was the way Sunghoon looked at you— like you were made of glass and fire all at once. 

There were nights when you’d reach for him, despite everything, when your body burned with a desperate, aching need that you couldn’t ignore. 

It was embarrassing at first — how could you think about sex when there was so much to worry about? But Sunghoon never made you feel ashamed.

Even when he was exhausted, after long shifts at the convenience store and nights spent studying, if you whispered his name softly enough, he’d turn to you, his tired eyes softening, and touch you so gently it made you want to cry.

“You sure?” he’d ask, voice husky with sleep, his thumb tracing circles on your hip.

And when you nodded, needy and aching, he’d love you slowly, sweetly, like you were something precious. 

His hands, rough from work and cold from the night air, would warm against your skin, spreading goosebumps as they moved over your growing belly, your curves softening into something maternal and foreign to you both.

“I love you,” he’d whisper, over and over, like a promise.

And when it was over, he’d hold you, tracing patterns on your back until you fell asleep, his hand never leaving your stomach, like he needed to feel all three of you were still there.

Still his.

⪩⪨.

You hated feeling useless. No matter how many times Sunghoon told you to rest, to take care of yourself and the babies, the guilt sat heavy on your chest; a constant reminder that while he was out there working himself to the bone, you were at home, waiting.

So, you kept looking for a job.

And eventually, you found one.

It wasn’t much: a small corner café, tucked away in the older part of town. 

The owner, a kind older woman named Mrs. Park, had taken one look at you and seemed to understand without you having to say a word.

She didn’t ask about the pregnancy, didn’t ask why you were looking for work so urgently. She just handed you an apron and asked if you could start the next morning.

You said yes before she could change her mind.

The hours were short, just enough to bring home a small paycheck without overworking yourself. Between morning sickness, aching feet, and the constant hum of anxiety, you managed. 

The work kept your mind busy, and the extra money, small as it was, helped. anything to lighten the weight on Sunghoon’s shoulders.

The best part was the way his face lit up when you handled him your first paycheck, small and wrinkled from being folded into your pocket all day.

“You didn’t have to…” he whispered, holding the check like it was made of gold.

“I know,” you said, leaning up to kiss him softly. “But I wanted to.”

He didn’t say anything after that, just pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly enough that you felt the tremor in his hands.

Money was still tight.

You became an expert at stretching every dollar, buying second-hand things for the babies: clothes, a crib, even a stroller someone had listed online for half the price. 

You cleaned everything, scrubbed it down until it looked new, and though it wasn’t the Pinterest-perfect nursery you’d once dreamed of, but it was enough.

⪩⪨.

The fifth month of pregnancy crept up on you quietly, like the tide rolling in, soft and inevitable, until one day you looked in the mirror and saw someone entirely new. 

Your belly had grown, round and firm, stretched with the weight of the two tiny humans inside you. It was impossible to hide anymore.

You were blooming.

Despite the morning sickness that still lingered some days, and the exhaustion that settled into your bones like a permanent guest, there was something undeniably radiant about you now. 

Your skin glowed, cheeks flushed with a soft pink hue, and your hair became somehow shinier and thicker.

Even your eyes seemed brighter, though you chalk that up to getting more sleep now that you weren’t balancing school and work.

“Wow, pregnancy looks good on you,” Mrs. Park had said one morning at the café, handing you a fresh cup of chamomile tea instead of the coffee you so desperately wanted.

You had laughed, shaking your head, brushing flour off your apron. “I feel like a beached whale.”

“You look like a goddess,” she insisted, patting your arm gently before returning to the kitchen.

It wasn’t just her, either. Customers complimented you more often now, commenting on your “glow,” asking when you were due, if you knew the genders yet. 

Some people even touched your belly without asking, which drove you insane, but you bit your tongue and smiled through it, knowing they meant well.

Still, no amount of glowing or compliments could change the fact that you were tired. 

All the time.

Your body ached in ways you hadn’t anticipated. Your back throbbed almost constantly, the strain of carrying twins becoming more obvious with each passing week. 

Walking more than a few blocks left you breathless, and your feet… Lord, your feet.

They swelled like balloons by the end of every day, tight and aching, even when you sat down as much as possible at work.

You’d become clumsy, too. You knocked things over more than once at the café, sending cups crashing to the floor, apologizing profusely as you bent down (with great effort) to clean up the mess.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Park always said, shooing you away. “Go sit down for a minute. You’re carrying two humans, for heaven’s sake.”

When you got home from work, you always tried to clean the apartment before Sunghoon came back. 

It was small, but you wanted it to feel like a home, not just a temporary place you were stuck in. You’d make the bed, wipe down the tiny kitchen counters, and vacuum the living room—all while trying not to collapse from exhaustion.

Sometimes, you’d manage to cook dinner too, though more often than not, you just ordered something cheap and easy, feeling guilty but knowing you couldn’t push yourself too hard.

Sunghoon never complained.

When he came home, usually around sunset, the door would creak open, and you heard the familiar sound of his keys hitting the small bowl by the entrance.

“Babe?” he called, voice soft but tired.

“In here,” you answered from the couch, where you’d usually ended up, legs propped up on a pillow to help with the swelling.

He appeared in the doorway, still in his uniform from the convenience store, black slacks and a button-up shirt, a little wrinkled, smelling faintly of coffee and instant ramen. His hair tousled from the wind, dark eyes warm but weary.

Without fail, he smiled the moment he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, crossing the room to kneel beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your belly. “How are my girls?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile came anyway. “Or boys.”

“Or one of each,” he teased, hands gentle as they splayed over your bump, feeling for any kicks.

“How was work?”

He sighed, leaning his head against your shoulder, closing his eyes for a moment. “Long… some guy tried to shoplift again, i’m starting to think I should charge admission fees for all the chaos.”

You laughed softly, fingers brushing through his hair, knowing how much he hated that job but how hard he was trying to keep it for you, for the babies.

“I made dinner,” you said, though ‘made’ meant heating the leftovers you had in th fridge.

“Mhh,” he murmured, already half-asleep against you. “I’d rather eat you. Cheaper and more delicious.”

You smacked his head lightly “You’re almost collapsing, go eat, Hoon.”

“Alright,” he kissed your cheek and got up, moving towards the kitchen “But I’ll have you as a dessert!”

⪩⪨.

Nights were the hardest.

Your body ached more at night, your back screaming every time you tried to find a comfortable position in bed. 

You’d toss and turn, sometimes getting up to walk around the apartment because lying down just hurt too much.

Sunghoon always noticed, even when you tried to be quiet.

One night, around three in the morning, you were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking water and rubbing your lower back, when you heard him shuffle out of bed.

“Babe?” His voice was thick with sleep, hair sticking up in every direction.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Without a word, he walked over, stood behind you, and began to massage your shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the knots that seemed permanent these days.

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

His hands were warm and firm, working down your back slowly, easing the tension until you melted against him, sighing softly.

“You okay?” he asked after a while, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whispered, eyes closing as you leaned into his warmth. “Just… tired.”

“I know,” he said quietly, his hands never stopping their slow, comforting motion. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I feel like a whale.”

“You’re beautiful,” he insisted, his voice so sincere it made your throat tighten. “You’re carrying our babies, that’s… incredible.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to brush your lips against his. 

It was soft, warm, and lingering, a kiss that spoke of gratitude, of love, of something deeper than either of you had words for.

“Come back to bed,” he whispered.

And when you did, he wrapped himself around you, one arm under your belly, supporting its weight, the other tangled in your hair. His body was warm, steady, grounding.

You fell asleep like that, safe and held, and for a little while, all the worry, all the exhaustion, all the fear melted away.

⪩⪨.

By the seventh month, everything changed.

Your doctor had been gentle, but firm, when she sat you down after your check-up, her eyes soft with concern.

“I’m putting you on immediate bed rest,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Your body is straining too hard, and with twins, that’s dangerous, iknow you’ve been trying to push through, but if you keep this up, there’s a high risk of preterm labor —or worse.”

“Worse?” you had repeated, barely above a whisper.

The idea of something happening to your babies was too much to comprehend.

You felt your chest tighten, your hands instinctively cradling your belly as though you could protect them from the world with just that small gesture.

“I’ll give you a list of things you need like vitamins and supplements, carrying two is an enormous strain, and I want you and the babies safe.”

You hadn’t argued. You were too scared to argue.

You’d complied immediately, even though it meant using some of the money you and Sunghoon had saved for the babies. money that was supposed to go toward diapers, formula, a proper crib. 

Instead, you’d bought the prenatal vitamins your doctor insisted on, the ones you’d been avoiding because they were expensive and you thought you could get by without them.

When you told Sunghoon, he didn’t complain.

“We’ll figure it out,” he’d said that night, after helping you into bed, his hand warm and steady against your swollen belly. “You’re not going to worry about money right now, i’ll pick up more shifts.”

“But—”

“No.” his voice was gentle but firm, leaving no room for protest. “I mean it. I’ll handle it… for them.”

He always said ‘for them,’ and that was all it took to silence your guilt.

Even Mrs. Park, kind as ever, had understood. When you called to tell her you couldn’t come to work anymore, your voice shaking with apology, she stopped you before you could even finish.

“Sweetheart, don’t you dare apologize. You’re having twins! Focus on your health, and don’t be afraid to ask if you need anything.”

You’d cried after that call,not out of sadness, but out of gratitude.

A week into bed rest, you found out the genders.

The ultrasound revealed it clearly— one boy and one girl. You hadn’t realized how emotional you’d be until you saw their tiny forms on the screen, moving, kicking, their hearts beating strong and fast.

“They’re healthy,” the technician had said with a smile, pointing out their little hands, their spines, the curve of their heads.

In the cab ride home, you and Sunghoon sat in stunned, happy silence, hands clasped tightly together over your belly.

Later that night, lying in bed, you’d brought up names.

“I want their names to match,” you murmured, your head on Sunghoon’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, your own hands tracing the curve of your belly.

“Like… rhyme?” he asked, sounding a little amused, his fingers lazily playing with your hair, “Not rhyme, just… sound good together, you know?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Okay, uhm, Do you like Yohan?”

You looked up at him, surprised. “Yohan?”

“Yeah. For the boy.” You let the name roll around in your mind, “I like it,” you whispered.

“And for the girl?” he asked, looking down at you, waiting.

You thought for a long moment. “Haneul.”

His lips curved into a soft smile. “Yohan and Haneul.”

“Yohan and Haneul,” you repeated, the names fitting together like puzzle pieces, like they were always meant to be spoken side by side.

“Perfect,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “They’re going to be perfect.”

Bed rest, however, was not perfect.

You knew it was necessary, you wanted to do everything in your power to keep your babies safe, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Sitting on the couch all day, only to move back to the bed or the kitchen chair, made you restless and bored out of your mind. 

You felt horrible, especially knowing Sunghoon was working harder than ever to keep everything together.

He had picked up more shifts at the convenience store, working late into the night, coming home exhausted but still smiling, still touching your belly and asking how ��his little ones” were doing.

You tried to keep the apartment clean as best you could from your limited range like folding laundry from the couch, wiping down surfaces slowly, feeling winded even from that.

One evening, Sunghoon came home to find you trying to sweep the floor, your back screaming in protest, your belly making it hard to even bend slightly.

“What are you doing?” he asked, immediately taking the broom from your hands.

“…cleaning.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I can’t just sit around all day, Sunghoon.” You snapped, harsher than intended.

He sighed, setting the broom aside, and took your hands gently in his, guiding you to sit back on the couch.

“You’re growing two humans inside you,” he reminded you softly, kneeling in front of you, his hands warm against your knees. “That’s not useless, that’s… everything.”

You blinked, your throat tight, feeling tears threaten to spill over. 

Damn pregnancy hormones.

“I just… I hate seeing you do everything,” you whispered.

“I don’t mind,” he said, and you could tell he meant it. “I love you, I love them.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing through his hair, and he leaned into your touch like he always did, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment of peace.

“I’m so tired,” you admitted softly.

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss t your belly. “I know, baby.”

⪩⪨.

The pain came fast and without warning.

One moment, you were shifting uncomfortably on the couch, rubbing circles over your swollen belly, trying to ease the dull ache in your back.

The next, a sharp, unbearable pressure shot through you, like your entire body was twisting in on itself.

You gasped, hands flying to your stomach. 

The next contraction came even harder, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred as panic set in.

Your phone. Where was your phone?

With trembling hands, you fumbled around the couch cushions until you found it, barely able to press the call button before another wave of pain wracked through you. 

The dial tone rang endlessly in your ears before Sunghoon’s voice finally cut through.

“Hey, baby, what’s—”

“Sunghoon,” you choked out, voice shaking. “It’s happening.”

Silence.  “What?”

“The babies—” You couldn’t even get the words out properly. 

You were panting, your whole body trembling, the pain stretching and pulling in ways that made you want to scream. “You need to come home, please.”

“I’m on my way,” he said immediately, his voice tight. 

You could hear the sound of his chair scraping back, the muffled voices of his classmates as he grabbed his things in a rush. “Stay on the phone with me, are you in pain?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut as another contraction hit.

“Baby, you need to breathe,” he said, his voice urgent but gentle. “In through your nose, out through your mouth, you remember what the doctor said, right? Just focus on that until I get there.”

You tried. You really did. But the pain was overwhelming, and all you could do was grip the armrest of the couch, gasping through each agonizing wave. 

Minutes stretched into eternity before you finally heard the sound of the front door slamming open.

“Y/N?” Sunghoon’s voice was frantic as he rushed to your side, immediately crouching down in front of you. 

His hands found your face, your belly, anywhere he could touch to ground you.

“I can’t—” You broke off, biting back a sob. “It hurts, Sunghoon.”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his own breath shaky. “But we need to go, okay? Can you stand?”

You nodded weakly, though your legs felt like jelly. Sunghoon slipped an arm around your waist, practically lifting you off the couch as he guided you toward the door. 

Each step sent another sharp wave of pain through you, and by the time you reached the car, you were sobbing into his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he kept whispering. “I’ve got you,.”

The drive to the hospital was a blur of pain and panic. 

Sunghoon gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, running every red light, ignoring every honk and shout from passing cars. Every few seconds, he’d glance over at you, his face lined with worry.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he kept saying, even when you were barely holding yourself together. “We’re almost there. Just hold on for me, okay?”

When you finally arrived, nurses swarmed around you, wheeling you through the halls while Sunghoon ran beside the gurney, his hand never leaving yours.

“She’s having twins,” he told them, his voice strained. “She’s in labour, please, you have to help her.”

They nodded, moving quickly, and before you knew it, you were in a hospital bed, strapped to monitors, IVs in your arm, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling your nose. 

The contractions were coming faster now, sharper, stronger, making your whole body arch off the bed in pain.

“It hurts,” you sobbed, gripping Sunghoon’s hand so tight you were sure you’d break his fingers.

“I’m sorry, baby” he whispered, pressing frantic kisses to your damp forehead. “You”re doing great.”

The doctor came in moments later, her face grave. “You’re not dilating fast enough,” she said. “And with twins, we can’t risk waiting, ae need to perform a C-section.”

Your heart stopped.

“No,” you gasped, shaking your head. “I— I don’t want—”

“Y/N,” Sunghoon whispered, his forehead pressed against yours. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t want to be cut open,” you sobbed. “Sunghoon, please—”

His hands cradled your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “I know, I know,” he murmured, his voice shaking. “But we have to do what’s best for them, okay? I promise I’ll be right there the whole time.”

You searched his eyes desperately, finding nothing but love, worry, and unwavering determination.

You nodded, swallowing down your fear.

They prepped you quickly, the spinal anesthesia numbing you from the waist down, but the fear still clawed at your chest.

Sunghoon was right beside you, wearing scrubs over his clothes, his hand gripping yours tightly.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

You barely felt it when they made the incision, but you felt the pressure, the pulling, the strange sensation of something being moved inside you.

And then—

A cry. Loud and strong.

Your heart clenched as they lifted Yohan into the air, his tiny fists flailing, his lungs filled with life.

“A boy,” the doctor said, smiling. “A very strong little boy.”

Tears blurred your vision as you watched the nurse wrap him in a blanket. He was perfect. Tiny, but perfect.

But then—something was wrong.

Haneul wasn’t crying.

Your breath hitched. You turned to Sunghoon, his face pale with fear.

“Why isn’t she crying?” you asked, panic creeping into your voice.

The doctor was already working, her expression serious as she cleared her airway, checked her vitals.

Seconds stretched into eternity before… A weak, but definite, wail.

Your entire body sagged with relief.

“She’s small,” the doctor said. “She needs monitoring, but she’s here.”

“She’s here,” Sunghoon echoed, his voice breaking.

By the time they stitched you up and wheeled you to recovery, it was just the four of you.

You were exhausted, barely able to keep your eyes open, but you watched as Sunghoon cradled Yohan in his arms, his eyes filled with pure love.

“She looks like you,” he whispered, glancing at Haneul, who was wrapped up in a tiny incubator beside your bed.

You let out a weak laugh. “She looks like you, too.”

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he murmured. “Thank you for giving me them.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you reached for his hand, squeezing weakly.

“I would have never made it without you,” you whispered.

⪩⪨.

The first few days were harder than anything you could have imagined.

Your body was broken, stitched together but still aching, bruised, raw. 

Every movement sent sharp, burning pain through your abdomen, making even the simplest tasks feel impossible. And yet, you had no choice, there were two tiny humans depending on you.

Two.

The weight of it was crushing. You were a mother now, not just to one baby, but two. Yohan and Haneul. 

They were small, fragile, barely able to hold up their own heads, and they needed you every second of the day.

But you were exhausted. 

Completely, utterly drained.

The moment you stepped foot into the small apartment, holding Haneul while Sunghoon carried Yohan in his arms, you felt the overwhelming urge to collapse onto the bed and sleep for days.

Except you couldn’t.

Because the twins were already stirring, their tiny mouths opening and closing, their bodies wriggling in search of warmth and nourishment.

You barely had time to lower yourself onto the couch before the wailing started. 

First Haneul, her tiny lungs stronger than you would’ve expected for how fragile she looked. Then Yohan, following his sister’s lead as if he had to compete for who could cry the loudest.

“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing a hand over your face. “How are they so loud?”

Sunghoon, looking just as exhausted, stared down at Yohan with wide eyes. “Do we… do we rock them?”

“No, let’s just leave them to cry themselves to sleep,” you deadpanned.

Sunghoon shot you a look. “Alright, alright, picking them up now.”

He rocked Yohan awkwardly, bouncing him slightly, but the baby only cried harder.

You tried to do the same with Haneul, wincing as you shifted to hold her properly against your chest. Your stitches screamed in protest, and you had to bite back a whimper of pain.

“Shh, baby,” you whispered, rubbing her tiny back. “Please, just a few minutes of peace.”

Breastfeeding had been one of the most painful surprises of motherhood.

 You had read about it, heard stories, but nothing prepared you for the sheer agony of tiny mouths latching onto already sore and swollen breasts.

Haneul latched on first, her tiny hands pressing against your skin. Yohan squirmed in Sunghoon’s arms, waiting for his turn impatiently.

“God, they eat like they haven’t been fed in years,” Sunghoon muttered, sitting beside you.

You snorted, adjusting Haneul in your arms as she sucked greedily. The pain was unbearable at first, but after a while, you barely noticed it, you were too tired to care.

Once she was done, you carefully passed her to Sunghoon, who traded her for Yohan.

Yohan latched on immediately, his tiny fingers curling into your skin.

Sunghoon stared at the two of you, his eyes soft. “You’re amazing, you know?”

You huffed. “Tell me that when I don’t feel like a cow being milked.”

He chuckled, gently rocking Haneul in his arms. “I mean it, you just gave birth a few days ago, and you’re already handling both of them.”

You wanted to tell him you weren’t handling anything. That you were barely holding yourself together, that you felt like crying every second of the day. But you just leaned against him, exhaling slowly.

“We’re trying,” you murmured.

“We’re a family.” he retorted.

The days blurred into an exhausting, sleepless cycle: Feed. Change diapers. Cry. Repeat.

Bathing them was a whole new challenge.

“We don’t even have a tub,” you groaned, staring at the two tiny and stinky babies.

Sunghoon scratched the back of his neck. “We could… fill the sink?”

You stared at him. “You want to bathe our newborn babies in the kitchen sink?”

He lifted his hands defensively. “It’s clean! And small enough for them.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Fine, Just don’t drop them.”

Sunghoon grinned. “I would never.”

Ten minutes later, he almost dropped Yohan.

“Sunghoon!” you yelped, catching the baby before he could slip further into the water.“I had him!” Sunghoon insisted, looking guilty.

“You did not have him.”

He cleared his throat, adjusting his hold on Yohan. “Maybe this is a two-person job.”

“No shit.”

Together, you managed to get both babies cleaned, even if it was a messy, wet, and chaotic experience.

By the time they were wrapped in towels and back in your arms, you felt ready to pass out.

Sunghoon flopped onto the couch beside you, letting out a heavy sigh. “I think we deserve a medal for that.”

“You deserve a lecture,” you muttered. “Honestly, I don’t know if I should trust you with our children.”

He pouted. “That hurts, babe.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned against him anyway, watching as Yohan and Haneul drifted off to sleep in your arms.

Sunghoon kissed your temple, his voice softer this time. “We’ll get better at this.”

“We have to,” you said. “They depend on us.”

“And we depend on each other.” He squeezed your hand. “We’re in this together, baby. Always.”

Always.

⪩⪨.

The twins were finally asleep.

You exhaled a deep, shaky breath as you slumped onto the couch, every muscle in your body aching from exhaustion. It had taken forever to get them down, rocking, shushing, feeding, changing diapers, starting over again when one cried and the other followed. But now, for a few precious hours, there was silence.

Sunghoon collapsed beside you, his head tilting back against the cushions. He let out a low groan, rubbing a hand down his face. “Holy shit, that was brutal.”

You huffed out a weak laugh. “I thought we were gonna die.”

He turned his head to look at you, smiling softly. “We can’t possibly be defeated by two itty bitty humans.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, your eyes closing for a moment.

Your body reminded you of the pain you were still inn with a dull, persistent ache in your abdomen.

Sunghoon felt your wince before you even said anything. He shifted, glancing down at you with concern. “You okay?”

You swallowed, opening your eyes. “Scar still hurts.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and without a word, he helped you sit up.

“Let’s take care of it,” he said. “Come on.”

The apartment was small, barely enough for the two of you before the twins arrived. Now, it felt even smaller, cluttered with diapers, bottles, and tiny clothes drying on a rack in the corner.

But somehow, Sunghoon still made it feel like home.

He guided you to the bathroom, his hands careful and steady as he helped you undress.

You hesitated when your shirt lifted, revealing the healing incision across your lower abdomen. The skin was still angry and red, the stitches tight. It wasn’t pretty.

Sunghoon didn’t even blink. He just crouched down, his fingertips ghosting over the area as if touching too hard might hurt you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not,” he said, his voice firm. He kissed just above the scar, lingering for a moment before looking up at you. “This is proof of how strong you are, I love it, I love you.”

You felt something in your chest tighten, an unexpected warmth spreading through you.

“Stop making me emotional,” you muttered, blinking back tears.

He grinned, standing up again. “Can’t help it. Now come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Sunghoon washed your hair, fingers massaging your scalp with a tenderness that nearly made you melt. He was careful around your scar, using light touches to clean the area before wrapping you in a warm towel.

You felt better when you stepped out. Not great, not healed, but better.

He sat you down on the closed toilet seat, kneeling in front of you to apply the ointment the doctor had given you. His hands were warm, his touch featherlight.

“Still hurts?” he asked softly.

“A little,” you admitted. “But it’s better when you do it.”

His lips quirked up. “Guess I’ve got the magic touch.”

Once he finished, he helped you into a fresh set of pajamas, sighing when he noticed the stains on your old shirt.

“Your boobs are leaking again.”

You groaned, rubbing at your eyes. “I know… I feel like a damn cow.”

Sunghoon chuckled, helping you put on a fresh nursing bra before tugging a clean shirt over your head. “You’re not a cow, you’re an amazing mom.”

You gave him a look. “An amazing cow mom.”

He pinched your side gently, making you squeak. “Shut up and get in bed.”

You let him guide you back to the bedroom, sighing as you sank into the sheets. He pulled the blankets up to your chin, tucking you in like you were the fragile one, not the twins sleeping soundly in their shared bassinet.

Sunghoon sat beside you for a moment, brushing your hair back from your face.

“You should get some sleep,” he murmured.

You blinked at him,realizing why he hadn’t changed into his pyjamas snd wasn’t under the covers with you “You need to get ready for work.”

“I’ll leave in a bit,” he said, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Just wanna make sure you’re okay first.”

You reached up, curling your fingers around his wrist. “I don’t want you to go.”

His expression softened. “I know, baby. But we need the money.”

You sighed, closing your eyes. “I hate this.”

“I do too.” He ran his thumb over your cheek. “But we’ll get through it.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

But when exhaustion pulled you under, all you could think about was how hard everything was. How much you missed just being you and him.

How much you missed having him next to you, instead of leaving every night to work while you lay awake, waiting for the next time the twins would cry.

Sunghoon stayed until your breathing evened out, pressing one last kiss to your cheek before slipping away to get ready for work.

Even if he hated leaving, he had to. For you. For Yohan and Haneul.

For the life you had built together, not perfect, but beautiful.

[heeluvv]

PERSONAL TRAINING.ᐟ

pairingᝰ.ᐟ personal trainer! jay x client! reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ mirror sex, fingering, oral (m), rough sex, etc.

word countᝰ.ᐟ 12.174k

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ request, mdni, hate comments will be deleted. (not proofread)

you could feel it—every fiber of your body beginning to tremble beneath the pressure, your legs threatening to give out as your thighs burned from the strain. your breath came in short, shallow pants, each exhale slipping past your lips with a soft whimper you didn’t mean to let out. sweat rolled down the back of your neck, your arms shaking as you tried to keep your posture locked in place, just like he taught you.

“jay… please…” your voice cracked slightly, breathless and small. “how much longer?”

you tilted your head just enough to look up at him, expecting… something. maybe reassurance. maybe a hint of mercy. instead, you were met with that same unreadable expression. cold. composed. his jaw clenched, his eyes unreadable beneath the harsh gym lights—no softness, no pity. he didn’t even blink.

when you signed up for a personal trainer, you thought it’d be simple. someone professional. polite. encouraging in a kind of motivational-poster way. maybe a little strict, sure—but nothing you couldn’t handle. you figured it would be manageable. maybe even boring.

but you were wrong. so wrong.

jay was something else entirely.

he didn’t coddle you. he didn’t give in when you begged, didn’t crack a smile when you stumbled through his grueling routines. he didn’t just push you past your limits—he watched you there, waiting in silence, drinking in the way you squirmed and shook under his command. and it wasn’t just the workouts. it was everything. the way his voice dipped lower when you whined. the way his hands lingered too long on your hips when he corrected your form

“you’ve been doing it for just fifteen minutes. you still have thirty minutes to go.”

his voice cuts through the silence like a blade—sharp, controlled, and utterly void of sympathy. there’s no softness to it, no hint of concern for the way your thighs are shaking or your arms are beginning to tremble beneath the weight of the position he placed you in. the words are a command, not a comfort, and they make your heart pound harder than any rep ever could. you swallow thickly, sweat clinging to the back of your neck, your body trembling with every second that drags by, your legs threatening to give out as the burn in your muscles deepens.

you hear his footsteps before you feel him. heavy, steady, unfaltering. each one thuds softly against the mat-covered floor as he circles behind you again like a predator stalking his prey. you can sense the shift in the air, the sudden warmth of his presence settling behind you before his hands even touch you. and when they do—when his fingers curl around your waist with that same rough precision he always uses—it’s like your entire body locks into place. he adjusts you without asking, without warning, gripping your hips tightly as he guides them into the position he wants. your back straightens under his firm control, the curve of your spine aligning perfectly with the angle he prefers. it’s not just correction. it’s ownership.

his touch lingers longer than it needs to. you feel his palms drift upward, gliding over your sides with slow, deliberate motion. it isn’t the professional, detached touch you expected when you signed up for personal training—it’s slower. warmer. almost indulgent. his fingertips press into your ribs, not hard, but enough to make your breath stutter. they slide higher until his hands settle on your shoulders, the heat of his skin bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt. your muscles are tense, overworked, and tight, but his thumbs move carefully, deliberately, massaging soft circles into the knots building beneath your skin. it’s meant to relax you—but it only makes your pulse race faster.

“you have to relax,” he murmurs finally, his voice low and smooth, thick with something you can’t quite name. he’s closer now. too close. his chest brushes your back with every inhale, his breath ghosting over your cheek in a way that makes your skin burn. you can hear every word he says like it’s being spoken right into your bloodstream, vibrating through you in waves.

you try to breathe, but it’s impossible with the way he’s looking at you. your gaze shifts up to the mirror in front of you and there he is—towering behind you, eyes dark and locked on your reflection. he’s watching you watch him, his face calm but focused, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when your eyes meet. and he doesn’t break it. doesn’t look away. doesn’t even blink.

“i’m going easy on you,” he says, and his voice dips even lower, like it’s meant just for you. “and you’re already complaining?”

your throat goes dry. you can’t answer—not with how close he is, not with his hands still gripping your body, not with his breath so hot against your skin. it’s overwhelming. the tension. the heat. the way he doesn’t even need to raise his voice to make your legs tremble more than the exercise ever could. he knows what he’s doing. every movement, every word, every glance—it’s all intentional. calculated.

his hand squeezes your hip, just a little harder this time. not rough, but firm. a warning. and then he leans in, his lips barely brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, slow and deliberate, “keep your form… or i’ll hold you there myself.”

he stays behind you as you move—up, then down, over and over again, your body falling into the rhythm you’ve been repeating for what feels like forever. your muscles ache, your legs feel heavy, and sweat clings to the curve of your lower back, but none of that is what’s clouding your mind now. it isn’t the time or the repetition that’s making your thoughts blur into heat—it’s him. it’s the way he’s standing so damn close, the way every squat presses your ass just barely against the front of his body.

at first, you thought it was an accident. maybe just proximity, maybe just poor spacing. but now… now you’re not so sure. the contact is subtle, almost ghostlike. just the faintest brush of fabric against fabric, friction that makes your breath catch in your throat and your heart stutter mid-beat. it isn’t enough to be obvious—but it’s enough to make you throb.

you try to shift, just slightly. a soft, awkward attempt to create space. your feet adjust, your hips angle differently, a small, almost embarrassed squirm. but he doesn’t let you go far. his hand comes around your waist, firm but gentle, pulling you back into place without a word of protest—like it’s second nature to handle you like that. his fingers spread across your lower stomach, steadying you, guiding you back to the exact spot he wants you in. you can feel his grip through the thin material of your clothes, warm and deliberate.

“just like that, y/n,” he says, low and measured.

his voice is close again, too close, practically dripping into your ear like syrup. your name rolls off his tongue like it tastes good there, like he enjoys saying it this way—watching you flinch at the sound, at the implication. you catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror, gaze locked onto your reflection, and it sends another wave of heat crawling up your spine.

his eyes are everywhere. tracking the way your thighs quiver, the way your back arches just slightly more with each rep, the way your body presses back into him no matter how hard you try not to. he isn’t pretending to be professional anymore. he’s drinking it in. the strain. the tension. the subtle, desperate edge of discomfort in your expression as you try to hold it together under his watch.

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, an unconscious response to the pressure, the heat, the thick silence that’s wrapped around the two of you like a noose. you pretend it’s focus. you pretend it’s effort. but your thighs are clenching for a different reason now—and you know he can tell.

just as your body rises again, thighs trembling with effort and sweat sliding down your spine, he stops you. not with words—just a single, sudden movement. his hand presses lightly against your lower back, not forceful, but enough to make you freeze mid-motion, your breath hitching in your throat. you don’t know why he’s stopping you. your form was right. your balance was stable. but then you see it—his eyes catching yours in the mirror.

they’re locked. steady. dark.

for a long second, he doesn’t say anything. he just stares, expression unreadable, his gaze pinning you in place like a weight heavier than anything you’ve lifted. it sends a jolt straight through your chest, your stomach twisting as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong—something forbidden. and then, just as quickly, he looks away. his hand lifts. the warmth of him vanishes from your skin, and the space between you fills with something colder, emptier.

he steps back.

you can hear the shift in his breathing, the rustle of his movements as he begins to gather his things. no softness. no goodbye. just a quiet command wrapped in routine.

“that’s all for today, y/n,” he says, his tone even, clipped, like nothing just happened—like he hadn’t been pressed up against you minutes ago, eyes burning into your reflection. “make sure you come back tomorrow. same time.”

you turn slowly, still catching your breath, your body buzzing with leftover heat that has nothing to do with the workout. he’s already slinging his gym bag over his shoulder, muscles flexing beneath his black shirt as he moves. he doesn’t look rushed. if anything, he looks calm. collected. like he’s completely unaffected by the tension he left simmering between you.

but then, right before he turns away, his eyes trail down your body.

not fast. not polite. slow and deliberate—starting at your face, sliding over your chest, dipping lower, lingering at your waist, your thighs, the parts of you still pulsing from where his hands had been. there’s no smirk, no word of praise. just the weight of his gaze as if he’s memorizing it. branding it.

and then he’s gone, leaving you standing there breathless, burning, and already aching.

your mind is a mess. completely clouded, overrun, pulled apart by the memory of him. jay—his voice, his touch, the way his body pressed into yours under the guise of correcting your form. and worst of all, the way he walked away like none of it had meant anything. like he didn’t feel the heat, the tension, the pulse in the silence between you. like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

it only made everything worse.

now you’re home, steam rising thick in the bathroom, the hot water cascading over your skin like it’s trying to wash the memory off of you. but it clings—thick and electric—no matter how hard you scrub. you drag the loofah across your skin with slow, distracted movements, cleaning the sweat from your arms, your chest, your stomach. the ache in your thighs is still there, but it’s not just from the squats. it’s from something deeper. something hotter. something he left behind.

your free hand moves without thinking.

it slides up, fingers gliding over the slick warmth of your skin until it reaches your breast. your thumb brushes over your nipple—lightly at first, just a test, a flick of sensation—and you gasp. the water is still running hot, but the way your nipple hardens under your touch has nothing to do with temperature. you rub again, slower this time, then roll the sensitive bud between your fingers. a soft, breathy sound escapes your lips—half-formed, barely-there, but heavy with need.

your eyes flutter shut as the image forms in your mind, uninvited but welcome. his body behind yours. his voice in your ear. the feel of his crotch pressing into your ass, over and over again with every rep, every movement. it hadn’t been subtle. you felt it. the heat. the size. the slow drag of it against you like he was trying to brand the shape of it into your skin. and god—he had. because now, even under the spray of your shower, you can still feel it. still ache for it.

your fingers move lower. your hand keeps going. and your breath catches as your thighs instinctively press together, desperate for friction, for pressure, for anything to satisfy the ache that thought alone is stirring inside you.

the second your fingers make contact with your clit, your breath shatters into a loud, broken moan. it escapes your throat before you can stop it, echoing off the walls of the shower, swallowed up by the sound of the water pouring down your back. your body jolts at the sensation—your legs tightening, your knees threatening to buckle as you start to rub slow, tight circles against the sensitive bud. the pressure sends sparks through your core, but it’s not just the physical touch—it’s the images unraveling in your mind that do it. the way your body remembers his presence, the way your imagination fills in all the blanks he left behind.

you can see it now—so vividly it almost feels real. jay kneeling behind you on the yoga mat, his large hands gripping your hips like you were made to be handled by him. he spreads you open, not gently, not sweetly, but like he’s entitled to it. like your body was always meant to be laid out for him. your skin prickles at the thought of his fingers tracing over the curve of your ass, slow at first, teasing, only to dip lower. you imagine the way he’d drag his fingertips between your thighs, trailing along your slit with a low groan when he finds how wet you are. soaked and dripping—just from thinking about him.

his voice would be so cocky. low and rough with control, smug with the knowledge that you’re falling apart from the slightest touch.

“so wet for me already?” he’d murmur, leaning in close to your ear, his tone dark and taunting.

your breath hitches as you press harder against your clit, circling faster now, chasing the feeling his voice alone could give you. you picture the way he’d touch you—no hesitation, no gentleness—just confident, deliberate strokes. you can practically feel the pads of his fingers rubbing your clit furiously, matching the exact rhythm you’re giving yourself now, only faster, rougher, with more purpose. like he wants to make you come fast, just so he can do it again.

“who knew you were such a slut, hm?” he’d whisper, lips brushing against your neck as you writhe beneath him. “look at you—already falling apart and i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

the words echo through your mind like they’ve been said out loud, and your body responds instantly. a moan slips from your mouth, louder this time, shameless, as your back arches into the pressure of your own hand. your thighs tremble, your body burning from the inside out as the image of jay behind you only sharpens, becomes dirtier, more possessive. and even as your fingers work your clit faster, your mind craves more. his weight. his voice. his cock. him.

your head tips back against the cool tile, mouth parting in a broken gasp as your fingers slip lower, slower, needier. and then you're imagining it again—not just his voice, not just the weight of his body behind yours—but his fingers. those strong, rough, calloused fingers that you know would stretch you open just right. your hand trembles as you mimic the thought of him, plunging two fingers inside with a gasp, curling them upward the way you think he would—like he knows exactly where to touch you, like he’s mapped out every inch of you before you ever gave him permission.

you whimper the moment your fingertips find that soft spot inside, the one that makes your thighs twitch and your breath stutter. in your mind, it’s jay doing it. jay, with his lips curled into a smirk, voice low and taunting as he pushes his fingers deep and pumps them fast, relentless, merciless. you match the pace he’d set—sharp, purposeful thrusts—curling your wrist and fucking yourself on your own hand with desperate, messy need.

loud moans spill from your mouth, one after another, unrestrained, raw. the kind that feel like they’ve been buried inside you all day, waiting to come loose. each sound bounces off the walls, swallowed up by the steam, mixing with the sharp, slick rhythm of your fingers working inside you. the wet, obscene slush of it fills the space around you, loud and needy, and it only makes the coil in your stomach wind tighter, hotter.

you clench around your fingers, vision going hazy, your body squeezing down like it’s reacting to him and not you. and in your mind, it is. it’s jay kneeling between your thighs, watching you fall apart with a satisfied glint in his eye. it’s his breath against your inner thigh, his low chuckle vibrating against your skin as you writhe beneath him. “good girl,” he’d murmur, pushing deeper, harder, fucking you open with nothing but his fingers until you’re crying out for more.

your muscles go tight, your stomach coils, and your moans rise in volume and pitch as you start fucking yourself harder—matching the rhythm he’d use if he were here. he’d be watching you fall apart. he’d make you look at him while he worked his fingers inside you. maybe he’d press his lips to your ear, whispering filth while you writhe beneath him. “gonna cum already, sweetheart? barely touched you and you’re already shaking?”

your head drops back as the pressure snaps.

your orgasm hits you all at once, hard and hot and overwhelming. it punches the air out of your lungs in a guttural, shaking moan. your fingers stay buried inside as your walls clench down around them, fluttering, desperate, squeezing so tightly it nearly hurts. your knees threaten to give out. your thighs tremble uncontrollably. you ride it out with your mouth open, panting his name into the steam, breathless and ruined and soaked in every way.

even as the pleasure pulses through you, wave after wave, your hips keep rolling forward like you’re trying to chase more—greedy for every last drop of it. and when your fingers finally slow, slipping free from your dripping cunt, the mess you’ve made glistens across your knuckles and thighs. your whole body twitches. you’re left breathless, braced against the tiled wall, skin flushed and still pulsing with heat. it’s overwhelming—but not enough. not even close.

because even in the silence that follows, even as you struggle to breathe again, he’s still there. not physically—but in your head. on your skin. in the way your body aches for him now. it wasn’t just a fantasy. it was something real, something that clung to you the second he touched you, something that’s going to live in your skin until he finally does what you’re both pretending not to want.

the air in the private gym is thick with heat and the scent of your own sweat, but there’s something else in it too—something heavier. something you can’t name. you’re bent over the padded edge of the workout bench, palms gripping the sides, your knees slightly bent, back arched at an angle that forces your ass to stick out as you try to steady yourself. your breath comes in short, controlled bursts, chest rising and falling as you focus on the pull in your arms and shoulders. you're doing bent-over rows, or at least trying to, but it’s hard to concentrate when you feel him behind you.

jay.

he’s been there the entire session, watching, adjusting, correcting—always so close it makes your skin prickle. he doesn’t say much. just the occasional murmur of your name, the soft clink of weights, the sound of his breath too close to your ear. and now, as you lower yourself again and pull the weights back with a slight tremble in your arms, you feel him shift behind you. you don’t have to look. you feel him. the heat of his body, the shadow he casts over yours, the way his hand comes to hover just above your lower back—not touching, not yet.

“core tight,” he says, voice smooth and dark like melted honey. “back straighter.”

his palm finally makes contact, pressing down between your shoulder blades, guiding your spine into a deeper arch. you swallow hard. you feel the way his fingers spread slightly, resting there for just a second longer than necessary, his breath brushing over the nape of your neck like static. your body responds before your brain can stop it—hips pushing back slightly, ass brushing up against the space behind you. and then you feel it.

you feel him.

the hard shape of his cock, thick and unforgiving, nestled against your ass through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. your lips part, a soft gasp escaping before you can catch it. your fingers twitch around the edges of the bench. you don't move. neither does he.

he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t retreat. instead, his fingers flex where they rest on your back, sliding lower, tracing the dip of your spine until his palm cups the curve of your ass. he squeezes once—firm, deliberate, like he’s been waiting to do it all day.

“just like that,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks. you know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

you can barely breathe. your mind is foggy, your body hotter than it should be. but you nod. not because you meant to—because your body betrays you. you nod like you’re begging for it.

his touch becomes greedier then, both hands sliding over your hips, gripping them tight as he pulls you back into him. you feel every inch of him now, thick and heavy and so, so hard. it makes your knees weak, your arms shaky as you try to hold yourself up. your pussy pulses between your legs, wetness spreading and soaking into the thin fabric of your leggings.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice husky. “you feel that? this what you wanted, baby?”

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. your voice is caught in your throat. you can only nod again, hips rolling back into him, seeking more friction. his fingers slide around your waist, dipping between your thighs as his chest presses against your back.

“let’s see how ready you really are,” he says, and then he’s peeling your leggings down slowly—agonizingly slow. they drag over your ass, cling to your thighs, and fall in a soft puddle at your knees. cool air hits your skin, but you barely notice it—too consumed by the burn of his gaze as he steps back for just a moment to take you in.

he groans, low and raw. “fuck. look at you.”

his fingers return, sliding between your legs, spreading you open from behind. he hisses at how wet you are, his touch gliding through the slick pooling there. he doesn’t even need to prep you—your body’s already begging. he circles your clit once, then twice, and your whole body jumps, back arching, a soft cry slipping from your lips.

“you’re dripping,” he growls. “just from this? from me pressing my cock against you?”

you nod, dizzy with need. it’s humiliating how easy it is for him to reduce you to this—how quickly he has you melting under his fingers. you try to say something, but all that comes out is a moan, guttural and broken, as he slides one thick finger inside you.

he pumps it slowly, then adds a second, stretching you open with expert precision. your walls flutter around him, greedy and pulsing, as he scissors you wide. he curves his fingers up just right and your legs almost give out. a whimper rips from your throat, loud and helpless.

“that’s it,” he breathes, fucking you with his hand now, rhythm fast and steady. “so tight around my fingers. you’d take my cock so well, wouldn’t you?”

you don’t even hesitate. “yes—yes, jay—please—”

his other hand returns to your clit, rubbing tight, messy circles that match the motion of his fingers inside you. your hips jerk, trying to keep up with him, trying to match the rhythm, but it’s overwhelming. every nerve is on fire. every touch feels like it’s dragging you closer to the edge.

“you’re gonna cum for me just like this,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “so fucking desperate. didn’t even need my cock. just needed me.”

your body responds before your brain can. you’re gasping, moaning, choking on his name as your orgasm crashes into you. your thighs shake, knees buckling as you cry out, hands scrambling for something to hold onto. your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, pulsing with wave after wave of pleasure. you can’t stop shaking. your vision blurs. you’re soaked—dripping down your legs, onto his hands, the bench beneath you stained with your arousal.

he groans behind you, breath hot and labored.

“fuck, baby,” he says, dragging his soaked fingers down the inside of your thigh. “look what you did. made such a mess for me.”

you can barely think. your body is limp, trembling, twitching with aftershocks. you feel his lips press to your lower back, soft and slow. grounding. almost sweet.

“next time,” he whispers, voice deep and dark and promising, “i’ll make you cum on my cock instead.”

you let out a soft, broken noise in response. you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. your body is weightless. your skin hums.

but then—

you gasp.

your eyes fly open.

your chest is heaving. the air in your room is cool and dry, completely still. your sheets are damp and tangled around your legs, clinging to your thighs. your heart is pounding in your ears, and your core is throbbing—still clenching around nothing, still dripping from a climax that didn’t really happen. your breath catches in your throat as you look around, as you realize—

you’re alone.

no jay. no weights. no fingers inside you.

just your own body, aching and trembling in the dark.

it was a dream. just a dream.

and yet—your panties are soaked through. your thighs still stick when you move. your clit still throbs from where phantom fingers once were. it all felt so real. so raw.

your hands drag sluggishly across your face, palms rubbing at your bleary, unfocused eyes as you blink against the soft morning light bleeding in through your curtains. your limbs feel heavy, weighed down by the aftermath of last night’s orgasm and the sleep that barely touched you. there’s a faint ache in your thighs and a dull throb low in your belly—remnants of the way you touched yourself, the way you thought about him. about jay. and it’s almost comforting, that slow, sinful burn still lingering under your skin.

you reach lazily for your phone on the nightstand, fingers fumbling against the cool surface until you finally wrap your hand around it. the screen lights up, glowing too bright against your tired eyes, and you squint at the notifications that fill the display. your heart skips when you see them.

five messages.

from jay.

your brows knit together in a sleepy confusion, thumb hovering over the screen before you swipe to read them. your mind is still sluggish, the words not fully registering until you glance at the time in the corner—and then your stomach drops. the haze of sleep evaporates instantly.

you’re an hour late.

your breath stutters in your throat as panic rushes through your chest, sharp and electric. your eyes widen, your body jolting upright as the realization fully sinks in. you were supposed to be at the gym. you were supposed to be with him. right now. and instead, you’re still tangled in your sheets, hair a mess, skin flushed from sleep and the shameful thoughts you let yourself drown in the night before.

“fuck,” you whisper under your breath, voice hoarse as you throw the covers off and scramble out of bed.

your movements are frantic—hands tugging your shirt over your head, fingers yanking your panties down in one harsh motion. they stick to your skin, damp from more than just sweat, and the feeling makes your stomach twist with something guilty and hot. you toss the fabric aside without a second thought, rushing into the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the cool tile.

you don’t even let the water fully heat before you step under the stream, the temperature stinging at first but quickly fading into a scalding comfort. it slides down your skin, washing away the traces of sleep and the filth clinging to your thoughts. you scrub yourself in a frenzy, fingers dragging the loofah over your skin in quick, shaky motions. there’s no time to savor anything, no time to enjoy the warmth or the way the steam curls around your shoulders. all you can think about is jay. his unread messages. the way his face might look when you walk in late. disappointed. unreadable. maybe pissed.

your heart races faster at the thought.

you work shampoo through your hair with trembling fingers, scrubbing hard at your scalp like it’ll clear the fog in your mind. your chest rises and falls too quickly, breath shaky as your pulse pounds in your ears. what if he’s mad? you rinse, let the water beat down on your face, and close your eyes just for a second—only to see his again. the way they stared at you in the mirror. sharp. hungry. like he already knew what you’d do the second you got home.

and fuck, he was right.

you finish the fastest shower of your life, stepping out onto the bath mat with water still dripping down your legs. you barely towel off—just enough to get your skin dry enough to slide into your clothes. your black sports bra clings tight against your damp skin, molding to the curve of your breasts as you hook it behind your back. the biker shorts come next, stretched up over your hips in one swift motion, hugging your body snugly, your cunt still faintly sore underneath them from the way you came against your fingers just hours before.

you grab your socks, your shoes, your gym bag all in one chaotic breath, flinging the strap over your shoulder and nearly tripping over yourself as you rush toward the door. keys in one hand, phone in the other, heart slamming against your ribs with every passing second.

you don’t even look in the mirror before you leave.

don’t check your hair, don’t fix your flushed cheeks, don’t try to calm your nerves. you’re already too far gone, already imagining what you’ll say when you see him. if you say anything. because really—what do you even say to the man you moaned for in the shower? to the man whose name spilled out of your mouth as you came all over your own fingers?

the car ride is a blur. red lights, honking horns, the buzz of your phone vibrating again with one last message you don’t have the courage to open.

and when the gym finally comes into view—cold and familiar under the morning light—you feel your throat tighten. your thighs clench instinctively.

you walk in quickly, your shoes squeaking slightly against the polished floor, the cold air of the gym brushing against your skin and doing nothing to soothe the way your body’s already burning up with nerves. your breath is still uneven from the rush, your pulse racing from the inside out. your hair’s ruined—messy from the fastest shower of your life, tangled and still slightly damp, clinging to your temples and the back of your neck. strands fall across your face with every step, and you don’t even try to push them back.

because the moment your eyes meet his, you forget how to move.

jay is standing a few feet away, tall and silent, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting. and not patiently. his entire body is stiff, still, as if he’s holding something back—something sharp. his jaw is tense, mouth set in a firm line, and it’s not the same look he wore yesterday. there’s no teasing in his expression now. no smirk, no curiosity, no lingering softness beneath the surface. just a hard, cold stare that lands on you and doesn’t move.

your feet stop like they’ve been nailed to the floor.

you suck in a shaky breath, chest rising with the effort, but your lungs feel too tight. your stomach coils on itself, heat flushing down your neck as the weight of his gaze settles heavy on your shoulders. it’s like he’s reading you—picking you apart with just a glance, like he can see every reason you were late, every shameful thought that kept you in bed a little too long, every mark your own fingers left behind.

your hands fumble to unclip your gym bag, fingers unsteady as you drop it onto the bench beside you. the zipper snags a little. you don’t even bother fixing it. everything feels off. too quiet. too tense. and still, jay doesn’t say a word.

you take a careful step closer, trying to find your voice, even though your throat is dry, your tongue heavy, like it’s stuck to the roof of your mouth. you wet your lips without thinking, your eyes flicking up to his once more, searching for something—anything—beneath that unreadable mask he’s wearing.

“jay, i—”

your voice cracks. it’s soft, small, far too fragile. you’re not even sure what you were going to say. maybe an apology. maybe an excuse. maybe a desperate plea for him to just look at you the way he did yesterday—like he wanted to tear you open and crawl inside. but you never get the chance.

“save it.”

his voice cuts through you like a blade. low. calm. controlled. and somehow, that’s worse than if he’d shouted.

your mouth shuts immediately, your breath catching as his words hang heavy in the air. you nod before you even think to, the motion instinctive—submissive. your heart pounds in your ears, and your body responds without permission, feet shuffling into motion as you try not to crumble under the weight of everything you want to say but can’t.

he doesn’t move toward you. doesn’t give you even the smallest indication of what he’s thinking. but his eyes—fuck, his eyes—they stay locked on you, following your every step like he’s measuring how far he can push you before you break. he doesn’t look curious. he looks sure. like he already knows.

he tilts his head slightly toward the mat in front of him, chin angled down, gaze sharp.

“get ready to do sit-ups, y/n.”

your name on his tongue sounds clipped. colder than before. professional, almost. but not quite. not when it’s him. not when you’re still reeling from the memory of his voice whispering filth into your ear in your dreams.

you nod again, smaller this time. your legs feel stiff as you walk toward the mat, your breathing still uneven, the air thick and strange. it’s all wrong. this isn’t how things usually go. jay always greets you with at least something. a word. a look. sometimes a smirk. sometimes that condescending little tilt of his head that made your knees wobble more than the workouts ever did.

but today? nothing.

not a single sound passes your lips as you nod once and move toward the mat, your movements quiet and rushed, careful not to make any more mistakes than you already have. your body feels stiff, your heart beating uncomfortably loud in your ears, each thump echoing the shame still curling in your stomach. you drop to your knees before lying back, your spine pressing flat to the floor, cool against your skin even through your clothes.

you know this routine. your muscles remember the order—the placement of your arms, the bend in your knees, the strain in your core—but today it all feels different. heavier. tighter. like you’re performing under a spotlight with no applause at the end. your hands rise to rest near your temples, elbows angled wide as you settle into position. your knees are bent just right, feet planted firmly into the mat, and yet nothing feels stable. not with him so close. not with that unreadable tension still radiating off of him like a silent warning.

you hear his footsteps approach before you see him. slow. measured. unhurried. jay stops at the top of your mat, standing tall above your bent legs. he doesn’t kneel. doesn’t crouch. doesn’t even look like he’s planning to move anytime soon. he’s positioned right in front of your knees, arms still crossed over his chest, gaze heavy as it lingers down your body like he’s sizing you up, but not in the way he used to. not in that lingering, teasing, near-predatory way that made your insides twist with anticipation.

this look is colder. clinical. distant.

“you’re going to do twenty,” he says finally, his tone stripped of emotion, every word firm and clipped like a checklist item. “i want them to be precise.”

you nod again, barely managing to breathe past the knot forming in your throat.

you start your first rep. your body moves instinctively, muscles activating as your core tightens, your shoulders lifting off the mat. you curl up slowly, chest rising until it presses lightly against your thighs. your elbows stay wide, your hands by your face. your breath comes out in soft, controlled exhales. it’s not difficult—not yet—but your body is tense in a different way. not from effort. from him. from the silence. from the way you feel his eyes follow you the entire time, burning into your skin like he’s waiting for you to fail.

when you reach the top of the sit-up, you pause briefly—just long enough to look up at him. your eyes search his face for something. encouragement, maybe. a nod. a sliver of softness. some sign that he doesn’t hate you right now.

but all you’re met with is a blank stare.

his eyes meet yours, but they don’t offer anything. no warmth, no recognition, not even that smug little glint that used to drive you crazy. his expression is unreadable—his jaw tense, his features locked in place like stone. you don’t even know if he’s breathing.

your stomach twists painfully.

you drop back down, your shoulders hitting the mat, and you rise again. a second sit-up. same motion. same ache. and yet, everything about it feels harder now. not because your body can’t handle it—but because his silence is heavier than any weight you’ve ever lifted.

you reach the top again. your chest grazes your thighs. your eyes flick up.

still nothing.

no nod. no flicker of approval. no soft good. no teasing keep going.

he just stares.

you keep going. the reps start to blur together. three. four. five. your breath comes harder, your abs starting to burn slightly, but it’s nothing compared to the ache spreading through your chest. you don’t know why it hurts so much, why the absence of his usual taunts feels worse than anything he could’ve said. it’s the way he keeps watching you without reacting. like he’s above responding. like you don’t even deserve the words.

and maybe you don’t. not after what you did. not after showing up late, flushed and guilty, with the memory of his voice still echoing in your head while your panties stuck to your skin.

you lose count for a moment, mind spinning as you go back down, then lift again, pushing through the tension in your core, your arms still beside your face. every time you come up, you’re right there—face to face with his stare. every time, you search for something. and every time, he gives you nothing.

the silence stretches on.

the tension tightens.

you try to keep going, but your body is no longer cooperating the way it should.

your movements start to falter, your breath quickening in short, desperate bursts as your core burns from the effort. each sit-up becomes harder to complete—your elbows trembling, your back aching slightly with strain—but you don’t stop. you can’t. because even though you reached the twentieth rep—the number he told you to hit—he didn’t say you were finished. he didn’t give you that nod, that small flicker of approval, that quiet good job he sometimes throws your way like a crumb.

no, he just stood there. unmoving. unreadable.

so you push into twenty-one. twenty-two. twenty-three. every time you rise, the burn intensifies, and the sweat collecting at your brow slides down your temple, curling under your jaw. your hair is sticking to your cheeks now, your breathing growing more ragged with every rep, and the fire in your abdomen only twists tighter as you fight to keep your form clean, sharp, controlled.

but it isn’t the physical effort that’s making you tremble now. it’s him.

jay hasn’t looked away once. his arms remain crossed over his chest, his stance still stiff and locked in place, but his eyes—god, his eyes—they never leave your body. they trail after every lift of your chest, every twitch of your arms, every slip in your form. they’re cold, hard, unreadable—but you can feel the storm brewing behind them. something simmering just beneath the surface, like he’s holding back more than just his voice.

he’s angry. you can feel it in the silence. in the way he hasn’t spoken a word since the command he gave you. in the way he’s letting you exhaust yourself, letting you burn, sweat, struggle—just to make a point.

you made him wait. you didn’t show up on time. and now he’s showing you what that costs.

your movements start to stutter more, your knees shifting slightly, your back beginning to curve as the fatigue hits deeper than your muscles. you try to fix it on your own, but it’s too late. he sees it.

and then he finally moves.

his steps are slow, deliberate. you don’t even see him kneel—you just feel him. one second, he’s standing over you like a judgment you can’t escape, and the next, his hands are on you. large, warm, unforgiving. his fingers press into your sides as he adjusts your hips, nudging you back into the position he wants. his touch is firm but not rough—controlled. precise. like he’s sculpting you into the version he prefers.

but he doesn’t stop once the correction is made. not this time.

his hands stay.

his fingers glide slowly along your waist, brushing just under the edge of your sports bra. the touch is barely there—ghostlike, more warmth than pressure—but it lights a fire under your skin. you suck in a sharp breath, body freezing for a second beneath the soft sweep of his fingertips. they trail lower, passing over the curve of your hip, lingering at the edge of your shorts like they might dip inside if you just moved wrong enough.

you gasp—quiet and instinctive. it slips from your lips before you can stop it, and the sound lingers in the air like a confession.

jay hears it. he always does.

his fingers pause, just for a moment, like he’s letting the sound register. then, slowly, he leans forward, his face close enough that his breath ghosts along the side of your cheek. your eyes flutter open to meet his, and the weight of his gaze pins you flat to the mat.

“how many times do i have to correct you?”

his voice is low—soft, almost—but there’s no gentleness in it. it’s cold. calculated. the words slip out like a reprimand and a threat all at once. they don’t rise above a murmur, and yet they feel louder than anything else in the room. his eyes lock onto yours, and the intensity of his stare makes your throat tighten, your lips parting around a shaky breath.

you try to answer, but nothing comes out. your brain is too fogged, your body too hypersensitive, your skin still tingling from where he touched you. and he sees it. he watches the way your mouth opens slightly, how your lashes flutter, how your legs press just a little tighter together even though you’re supposed to be focused on your form.

you think you can hide behind innocence. but you can’t.

not when your body gives you away so easily.

he sees the way your chest rises with every breath, how your gasps get softer, more airy, more needy when he leans too close. he sees the tremble in your thighs, the quiver in your lip, the way you glance away and then right back, like you want to be scolded. want to be touched again.

you sit up fast, body still buzzing, limbs weak beneath you as your shaky hands push against the mat to help you stand. your legs don’t feel steady. your thighs tremble faintly as you move, and your chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven bursts that you can’t quite control. you barely make it to the bench before collapsing onto it, breath spilling out in soft pants as your hand comes up to wipe the sweat clinging to your bare shoulder with the back of your wrist.

your body feels overheated. flushed and overwhelmed. your skin burns everywhere—where his hands touched, where his hips pressed into yours, where his voice dropped too close to your throat. and now, with him still standing there, still watching, it’s like your whole body is on fire.

you try to play it off. to catch your breath, to cool yourself down.

“l-let’s just… take a break,” you mumble, voice unsteady, a little too thin.

you lift your hand in a weak attempt to fan yourself, the motion useless, more of a distraction than anything else. your eyes flick upward, trying to meet his, but they only land on his chest—broad and still rising subtly with each of his slow breaths. then lower, without thinking, and your stomach turns.

he’s still hard.

still tenting his sweats, his cock clearly pressing against the thin fabric like he hasn’t even tried to hide what just happened. your mouth goes dry. your gaze lingers too long before you catch yourself, eyes darting back up to his face, only to find him already watching you.

his expression changes.

just for a second, his mouth twitches—tightening into something sharp, something cold. his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s about to say something you won’t like, and your heart skips. but it disappears just as fast. smoothed over. replaced by that same neutral mask you’ve seen so many times before.

he steps forward.

it’s slow. unhurried. and you feel the air change around you as he closes the distance, his body blocking out the light, casting a shadow over your lap as he stops right in front of where you sit. your eyes trail up to his again—slow, reluctant—and you realize you’re holding your breath.

“you come late,” he says, voice even but firm. “and now you’re needing a break?”

you tense. his tone isn’t angry, but it cuts through you anyway, sharp with disappointment, as if your body betraying you is somehow an inconvenience to him. you want to argue. to snap back. but the way he looks down at you—like you’re something small, like you’ve given him exactly what he expected—keeps your lips pressed tightly together.

his stare remains blank. unreadable. not cold anymore, not exactly. just... calculated. like he’s measuring your reaction, watching you squirm under the weight of his presence. and it’s starting to get under your skin. it always does.

you’ve never been able to crack him. not once.

not when he’s like this. not when he decides to shut you out completely, bury everything under that perfect blankness. it frustrates you. confuses you. especially after what just happened—after the way his hips rolled into yours like he wanted to fuck you through the mat. how could he just shift back into this version of himself like he wasn’t grinding against your soaked core moments ago?

but then your eyes drop again. you can’t help it.

his cock still strains against the fabric of his sweats—thick, hard, unmistakable. it’s there, evidence that whatever he’s pretending doesn’t exist between you? it does. and it has a pulse.

before you can think too hard, a sound breaks the silence.

a soft chuckle.

low. deep. lazy. it rolls from his throat like a slow exhale, not loud, but sharp enough to slice straight through your thoughts. it sends a chill down your spine. not because it’s cruel. but because it’s the first thing he’s given you that feels real.

your head lifts sharply, eyes locking on his face again. and this time, for just a split second, you swear there’s something there. a flicker of amusement. hunger. maybe even pride.

you’re still breathing hard when he steps forward, and even though he’s not touching you, it feels like he might as well be. the space between you evaporates with every inch he closes, and you feel your pulse spike in your throat the moment he casts his shadow over your lap. he towers above you, quiet and controlled, while you sit on the edge of the bench like something wound too tight—flushed, trembling, your inner thighs already sticky with proof of what you’ve let happen.

his expression doesn’t change, not visibly. he still wears that unreadable mask, calm and perfectly in control, but there’s something sharp hiding just beneath the surface. something in the slight tilt of his head, the measured stillness of his breath, the way his eyes trail over you without softening. and you know—without a doubt—that he’s waiting for you to say something. to admit something. to give in.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. your chest is rising and falling too fast, your hands pressing into the bench beneath you like you're grounding yourself, trying to keep from shaking apart. your lips part again with a breathy start of a word you don’t have the courage to finish, and that’s when he speaks—quiet, almost lazy, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you.

“you keep acting like i did something to you,” he murmurs, voice low and infuriatingly calm, like the truth he’s about to drop won’t leave you completely destroyed. “like i touched you first. like i crossed a line.”

your heart jumps in your chest. your fingers curl tight against the edge of the bench. your eyes lift to his face just in time to see the glint in his eyes—subtle, dangerous, the kind of satisfaction that only comes from knowing he has you exactly where he wants you.

“but we both know who started it,” he continues, stepping just a little closer now, his tone dropping lower, quieter, every syllable drawing out like he’s savoring it. “you remember, don’t you?”

you freeze. your breath catches painfully in your throat. you already know what he’s about to say, but hearing it in his voice—hearing him take it and twist it, throw it back at you—makes your skin burn with something hotter than shame.

“you were the one backing into me,” he says, and there’s a weight behind his words now, a slow pressure like a hand curling tight around your neck. “grinding your ass on my cock during squats like you wanted it there. like you needed it there.”

your whole body tenses, and the heat between your legs only grows worse. you can’t hide it. you don’t even try. his voice is too much—rough and steady, threaded with dark amusement and something far more dangerous. your eyes drop on instinct, landing low—right where he knows they’ll go—and there it is. the outline of his cock, thick and hard through his sweats, no longer something you can pretend not to notice.

“you kept going,” he says. “pushing back on every rep. not pulling away. not saying a word. just letting me feel how turned on you were.”

you inhale sharply, and it’s humiliating how shaky it sounds. your knees try to press together, but it’s too little too late. he’s already seen it. he’s seen everything. your soaked thighs, your trembling hands, the way your eyes keep flicking down to his bulge like it’s gravity pulling them there.

his voice drops lower. darker. quieter.

“and then you let me touch you.”

your lips part, but you can’t form a response. your tongue feels thick, useless, your thoughts spinning out of control as he steps in even closer—still not touching, but close enough now that you feel his body heat bleed into your skin.

“you let me correct your posture. touch your waist. slide my hands over your hips. rub your shoulders like i owned them. and you didn’t stop me. you didn’t even blink.”

he leans down now, just slightly, just enough that his mouth hovers near your ear, and the air in your lungs goes still.

“you fucking wanted it,” he whispers. “and now you’re sitting here acting like you’re tired? like you didn’t spend the last fifteen minutes soaked and desperate for more?”

you shiver beneath his words. your whole body clenches, thighs twitching, breath locked up in your chest as you try and fail to form a single coherent thought. you want to argue. deny it. fight back. but everything in your body betrays you.

before you can even act—before your breath settles, before your mind catches up to your body—he’s already moving.

jay doesn’t give you the chance to speak. doesn’t give you time to change your mind. his hands are at the waistband of his sweatpants, thumbs hooking into the band of his boxers, and he drags both of them down in one fluid motion. the fabric slides low on his hips, past the muscle of his thighs, and then his cock springs free—thick, flushed, hard. it bounces slightly against his abdomen as it’s released, the head glistening wet with precum.

he exhales a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat, not loud, but full of tension. his hand wraps around the base without hesitation, fingers curling around his length like it’s a habit, like he’s been waiting for this all day. his other hand reaches for you, slipping into your hair, threading through the strands with fingers that are both steady and possessive.

he pulls your head closer—not rough, not forceful yet, but enough to make your lips part instinctively as you look up at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

“why don’t you be a good girl for once,” he murmurs, voice heavy with heat, “and show me what you’ve been wanting?”

you barely have time to register the words before the head of his cock taps against your mouth, sticky with precum, smearing it across your lips like he’s marking you. he doesn’t wait for permission. doesn’t wait for consent that’s already written all over your face, in the way you moan softly, lips falling open without hesitation, tongue flicking out just slightly to taste him.

the moment you do, he groans again. rougher this time.

you wrap your lips around the tip, soft and slow, your mouth warm and wet as you suck him in. the taste of him hits your tongue first—salty and bitter, thick with heat—and the reaction it pulls from him is immediate. his hips jerk just slightly, his hand tightens in your hair, and a low “fuck…” slips past his lips like he’s trying to hold it back and failing.

you take him deeper, inch by inch, your mouth stretching to accommodate him. your jaw aches almost instantly, but you push through it, needing more. your tongue slides along the underside, tracing the thick vein that runs the length of him, and the sound he makes above you nearly makes your thighs squeeze together.

you get halfway—maybe a little more—but it’s not enough for him.

not even close.

his hand flexes in your hair again, and suddenly he’s pushing forward, guiding your head down slowly but firmly until the tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat. your nose brushes against the hard plane of his abdomen, your eyes watering instantly from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer size of him filling your mouth so completely.

you gag softly, throat tightening around him as your fingers curl against his thighs, and the reaction it pulls from him is pure filth. his teeth sink into his bottom lip, biting down hard as his brows furrow, hips twitching with restraint. he’s breathing heavier now—slow and deliberate—like he’s savoring the way your mouth feels around him, like he’s never going to forget the image of you on your knees, lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowed out with effort as you choke on his cock.

his voice is barely a whisper when it comes.

“fuck… just like that.”

your mouth is stretched wide, your lips swollen and slick, and jay is buried so deep down your throat you can barely breathe. but you don’t want to pull away. you don’t even think about stopping. your knees are starting to ache, your jaw sore from the strain, tears already brimming along your lashes—but none of it matters. not with the way he’s looking down at you like you’re the best fucking thing he’s ever seen.

he starts slow. his hips rock forward just enough to feel the pressure, just enough to make your throat constrict around him with every push. your gag reflex twitches but you breathe through it, fingers curling tight around his thighs for stability, for something to hold on to. your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock, the thick vein pulsing against the back of your tongue with every lazy thrust. your spit coats him already, warm and slippery, and every time he pulls back, it strings between your lips and the flushed tip of his cock.

jay groans low in his chest, one hand still threaded in your hair while the other braces at his side. his jaw is clenched, his breath heavy, but his face stays trained on you—on the way your cheeks hollow when you suck him in, the way your throat tightens and trembles as you take more of him, deeper, sloppier, hungrier with every stroke.

and then, without warning, he shifts. his fingers flex, his grip in your hair tightens, and he pulls your head forward again—not rough, not violent, but firm, like he knows exactly what you can take and exactly how to give it to you. his hips meet the motion, pushing deeper. suddenly his cock is shoved farther down your throat, nudging the tightest part, and your body flinches. your eyes snap open, watering instantly, your nails digging into his thighs.

he doesn’t stop.

his hips begin to move in earnest now. slow, deep thrusts at first, then faster, more rhythm to it. more weight. each time he pushes in, your throat strains around him, your gag reflex fluttering again and again as your spit spills from the corners of your mouth. you’re choking softly with every breath, but fuck—you want to. you want the mess. you want the ache. you want the way he moans your name under his breath like he’s never heard anything sweeter.

“fuck,” he groans, low and rough, eyes dark with lust as he watches your lips stretch around him. “you were made for this—look at you.”

you’re not even sure you hear him at first, not through the thick haze of wet sounds and breathless need, but it lands somewhere deep in your chest. it makes your core clench, makes your thighs press together, makes your entire body react to the filthy praise as he keeps fucking your mouth like it belongs to him.

you gag around him again, this time harder, and the sound makes him groan louder, his hips stuttering just slightly. he pulls back—not all the way, just enough to let you breathe for a second—and his cock glistens with your spit, twitching as another drop of precum beads at the tip and smears across your lip.

you gasp, drawing in air like it’s the first you’ve had in hours, your mouth still open, still ready, tongue peeking out like you’re starving for him.

he hisses, his grip on your hair tightening again as he pushes forward.

“don’t stop now,” he mutters, breath ragged. “not when you’re doing so fucking good.”

and then he’s moving again—faster, harder, thrusting into your mouth with less restraint now, letting the wet slap of skin and the messy, desperate rhythm fill the room. his cock pounds the back of your throat, and you can’t help the whimper that bubbles up from deep inside your chest. spit drips down your chin, thick and glossy, soaking into the collar of your shirt. your eyes blur. your legs tremble. you’re falling apart on your knees, and all he’s doing is watching.

he looks wrecked. sweat beading at his temple, brows furrowed, lips parted as he fucks into your mouth like he’s not going to last much longer.

“shit,” he breathes, voice shaking. “fuck, your throat—feels so good—squeezing me—god, baby, i’m not gonna—”

his hips stutter. his cock twitches. your throat tightens one more time around the weight of him, and he groans, loud and broken and raw as he grabs the back of your head with both hands, holding you there as he buries himself deep.

you gag softly around him, tears spilling over your cheeks as his cock pulses against your tongue.

and then he cums.

hot and thick, the first spurt hits the back of your throat without warning. then another. and another. he grunts low as he holds your head still, forcing you to take it all, his breath shaking, body shuddering with every wave of release. you swallow as best you can, but it’s messy—some of it dripping past your lips, sliding down your chin as you choke softly on the heat of it.

he finally pulls back, just barely, and you suck in air through your nose, blinking through the tears as his cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop. you’re wrecked—drool and cum on your lips, your chest heaving, your throat raw.

jay looks down at you.

and even through the mess, the ruin, the flushed haze of satisfaction on his face—there’s still hunger in his eyes.

you barely have time to catch your breath. your throat’s raw, lips slick with spit and his cum, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven pants. you glance up at him through wet lashes, dazed, thinking maybe—just maybe—he’ll pull back, give you a break, let you recover. but he doesn’t. not even for a second.

his hand grips your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek like he's wiping his cum from the corner of your mouth, and before you can say a word, he’s grabbing your wrist and yanking you up. your legs barely hold you—unsteady, weak, trembling—but he’s already pulling you forward with him, your body moving on instinct as he drops down onto the bench and tugs you into his lap. his grip on your hips is bruising, his breath heavy with restraint, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—his cock, already hard again, pressed thick and hot between your thighs.

“get on,” he growls, voice deep and wrecked. “you want it? then ride it.”

your mouth parts with a gasp, the sound spilling from your lips before you can stop it. “j-jay…”

your voice trembles, soft and needy, and the second it leaves you, he twitches beneath you. his eyes snap up to yours, his expression shifting—something sharp and dark curling in the corners of his mouth.

“fuck,” he mutters, dragging your soaked shorts down with both hands, baring your cunt in one smooth, practiced motion. “you’re already moaning my name again, huh? didn’t even get my cock inside you yet.”

you shiver, your hands bracing against his shoulders, your pussy slick and throbbing as he lines himself up with your entrance. the swollen tip of his cock slides against your folds, and the sound that slips out of you is pure need—raw, breathless, aching.

“jay, please,” you whimper, your voice cracking as you try to lower yourself onto him, your thighs shaking from the effort.

“yeah?” he taunts, his grip tightening on your hips. “go ahead, sweetheart. take it.”

you do.

you sink down, slow at first, the thick stretch of him forcing a cry from your throat as your cunt swallows inch after inch. the fullness makes your head drop back, your fingers digging into his arms as he groans low against your skin, the sound guttural, almost feral.

“fuck—you feel that?” he grits out, voice right at your ear. “feel how tight you are around me?”

“yes,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper, your walls fluttering as you bottom out, the tip of his cock buried so deep inside you it feels like you can’t take it. “fuck, jay—feels so good…”

his hands slide up your sides, then back down to your ass, gripping you hard as he starts to move. he thrusts up into you with no patience, setting a rough, unforgiving pace that forces your body to bounce in his lap with every snap of his hips. it’s fast. aggressive. deliberate. like he’s trying to fuck the breath out of your lungs, like he’s trying to fuck his name into the pit of your stomach.

you cry out, loud and messy, your hands scrabbling for something to hold onto as he slams into you again, again, again. each thrust forces a gasp of his name from your lips, your moans dissolving into broken syllables that don’t even sound human.

“jay—fuck—jay, please, i—”

he laughs. dark. breathless.

“god, you sound so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters, eyes locked on your mouth. “moaning my name like you need it just to breathe.”

your head tips forward, your forehead pressing to his as your voice trembles, full of everything you can’t hide anymore. “i do—fuck, i do, jay—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”

“i’m not fucking stopping,” he growls, fucking up into you harder, faster, his grip bruising now. “not until you scream it. not until you cum all over my cock and say my name like you fuckin’ mean it.”

and when your eyes crack open—wet, wide, desperate—and you meet his in the mirror across the room, what you see undoes you completely.

your mouth is parted, your body bouncing in his lap, his hands bruising your hips as he thrusts up into you with the kind of rhythm that makes your whole body shake. your hair is sticking to your sweat-slick skin, your throat hoarse from crying out, and your pussy’s so soaked, you can hear it—wet and filthy with every slam of his hips into yours.

his voice is in your ear again.

“look at you,” he hisses, snapping his hips up into you so hard your whole body jolts. “so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moaning my name like a good little slut.”

you can’t hold it in anymore.

“*jay—oh my god, jay, please—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“yeah?” he growls. “you gonna cum? right here on my cock, in front of the fuckin’ mirror?”

you nod, whimpering, helpless, hands clawing at his shoulders. “yes—please, let me—need to—need to cum so bad—”

he grabs you by the throat again, not tight, just enough to keep you still, to keep your eyes on the mirror as he fucks into you harder than ever, the bench underneath creaking from the force of it.

“then cum,” he snarls. “cum for me, baby. let me hear you scream my name like you fucking mean it.”

you don’t stand a chance.

not with the way he’s fucking into you—fast and deep, relentless, rough. not with the way your knees are already buckling on either side of his hips, your legs barely holding on. not with the sound of your own moans echoing off the gym walls, getting louder, higher, more desperate every time he thrusts up into your dripping cunt like he’s trying to split you open.

and definitely not with the way he’s holding you—one hand braced on the small of your back, pressing you forward, forcing your spine to curve and your chest to push against his while his other hand curls around your throat again, gentle but firm, controlling your breath and your view and your body all at once.

his mouth is at your ear, hot and ragged, words slipping past his teeth like they’ve been sitting on his tongue for too long.

“you hear yourself?” he growls, hips slamming up into you so hard your breath hitches mid-moan. “fuckin’ crying for it, baby. you gonna cum for me like that?”

your voice breaks—another moan of his name, raw and high and aching. “j-jay—”

he bites down on your shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who’s in control—and the way your body clenches around him in response makes him groan low against your skin.

“that’s it,” he mutters, voice strained. “say it again. moan my name while i ruin this tight little pussy.”

you do.

you can’t stop. his name keeps falling from your lips like it’s the only word you remember. you’re shaking now, full-body trembles that start in your thighs and travel up your spine, and your nails scrape down his shoulders as you cling to him, cunt fluttering wildly around his cock as the pressure builds too fast.

“jay—please—fuck, i’m gonna cum, i can’t—i can’t—”

you’re sobbing now, voice wrecked and falling apart, your head tipped back, your mouth wide open with a cry that turns into a full scream when he slams into you just right, again and again, never breaking pace. and then it hits.

your orgasm crashes over you like a wave you can’t outrun—violent, pulsing, blinding. your whole body goes stiff for one perfect second, your toes curling, your walls locking down around his cock like you’re trying to keep him inside forever. and then you’re shaking. gasping. your face pressed against his neck as you sob out his name again and again and again.

he growls low in your ear, his thrusts sharp and deep, chasing the clench of your cunt like he’s addicted to it.

“fuck—fuck, that’s it—cum for me, baby, that’s it—jesus, you feel so good—so fucking tight—”

he doesn’t slow down. he fucks you through it, his cock dragging through the aftershocks, making you jerk and twitch in his lap while he breathes hard against your cheek. the wet sound of your cunt swallowing him gets louder, filthier, every time he pushes back in. your slick’s everywhere—on his thighs, the bench, running down the backs of your legs—and you can feel the way his cock twitches inside you with every clench of your pussy.

he’s close.

so fucking close.

“you want it?” he pants, voice sharp with strain. “you want me to cum in this pretty pussy?”

you nod frantically, still gasping, still crying, your voice gone but your body giving him every answer he needs. your hands grab at his back, your nails dragging down hard, and he hisses when you whimper against his jaw.

“yes—jay, please, cum in me—want it—want you to fill me—fuck, please—”

that’s all it takes.

he curses—loud, sharp, filthy—and then he’s coming inside you, hips jerking up in stuttered thrusts as his cock throbs deep in your soaked, clenching cunt. he holds you down on him, buried to the base, one hand gripping your ass, the other still at your throat, and you can feel the way he shudders under your palms. feel the warmth of his release spilling into you, thick and hot, making a mess of your insides.

he breathes your name like it’s the only thing grounding him. like he needs to say it or he’ll lose his mind completely.

your body collapses against him, still shaking, still pulsing around him as he slows—his hips rolling lazily, drawing out the last wave of his orgasm until you’re both panting and soaked, glued together in a mess of sweat and cum and need.

in the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself.

your hair is stuck to your forehead. your lips are parted. your thighs are trembling around his. and your pussy is still wrapped tight around his cock, cum already leaking down the inside of your legs.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ okay i want feedback for this, honestly idk how i feel about it >-< but i hoped you all still enjoyed !

[2tarbell]

BF!RAFE didn’t mean to. you were tired and he’d do anything to make you feel better and happy. but not long after you had dozed off, he became rock hard as you slept with your head in his lap. it was an innocent position at first, but rafe couldn’t stop himself from arching his clothed erection into your sleeping face. hissing every time the tip bumped against your nose. maybe this should feel wrong, but he can’t stop imagining being in your throat again. to work you open and make a home for his dick in that pretty mouth.

it was addictive, you were addictive.

his perfect girl that only wanted to make him happy. that let him teach her everything. he felt like it was the least he could do to let you nap on him, but it was proving increasingly difficult. from the way your ass was peeking out of your slip to the way you nuzzled further into his crotch; rafe was a mess.

soon enough, you wake up to his rutting hips and sigh sleepily, looking up at him with hazy eyes.

“mmm?”

the confused hum you let out almost makes him feel bad, almost. but then he’s exhaling heavily as you nudge his cock with your nose, and he knows you aren’t that dumb.

“heeey, baby. woke you up, huh?” he mutters.

his low, pleasure ridden voice makes a warmth surge down your body, coiling tightly in your lower tummy. you nod and snuggle further into his lap. the hard length of him a solid presence against your cheek.

“was sleepin’…” you mumble and feel the way his hips push against your face slightly, seeking and seeking.

“mhm, i know… jus’... y’looked so pretty laying in m’lap…”

and you really, really did. lounging on his bed, curves soft and inviting. skin warm to the touch and just begging for his hands to squeeze, to mark up. it’s worse now that you’ve woken up; wide eyes glazed with sleep and hands just shy of where he needs.

“yeah?” you whispered, titling your head coyly, finally palming the length of him.

“jesus, yeah — need your help, baby. got me so fuckin’ hard…”

you giggle sleepily as he moves your hand towards the waistband of his sweats. for a moment, you glance up at him for approval, still unsure how to initiate this intimacy. rafe nods and watches with baited breath, lifting his hips to help you slide his pants down just a bit.

he’s so hard it looks painful, you pout in sympathy.

rafe huffs out a chuckle at the doe eyed expression on your face, his heart swelling (as well as his cock). he runs a hand over your hair, smoothing it back then hooking a finger under your chin. the sight of you staring him down makes him arch into nothing.

you grin as the appendage twitches and grab ahold of him lightly. rafe hums and uses his thumb to pull down your bottom lip, watching as it bounces back into place. with a devilish grin, he takes hold of his dick and rubs it all over your cheeks, leaving glistening trails of pre cum.

“bet you were dreaming ‘bout this, yeah? jus’ dreaming about daddy’s cock?” he drawled out lowly.

the action mixed with his words are degrading but so, so good. he’s so mean and you love it; you need it. you nod and drop your jaw, trying to catch and lick at him best you can. he sighs when you take the head in your eager mouth.

“yeahhh, there you go — fuck — remember, relax, kid…”

you’d do anything if he said it like that.

he’s sitting with his back against the headboard, your head resting on his lap as your cheeks hollow around his pulsing cock. his head lolls back as he lazily fucks your mouth. you make sure to keep your jaw slack; it’s a mess of drool, but that’s exactly how he likes it.

when he hits the back of your throat, you gag but his coos are enough to keep you down for just a bit longer, holding him deep in your throat longer than you ever have. craving some sort of validation for your efforts. you’re rewarded with a sound that reminds you of a hiccup mixed with a half hearted growl of ‘fuck’. nose nuzzling his trimmed pubic hair before coming off with a pop.

you gasp for air and jerk him off as you catch your breath, looking up at him excitedly. he’s insane to look at, heaving chest and low lidded eyes holding a twinkle that excites you to no end. sleep long forgotten.

“didja see that?” your breathless exclamation makes him laugh, still slightly rolling his hips into your fist. he hisses when your brush over the tip.

the deep chuckle he lets out makes your core ache. he drags you up to place a hot kiss on your lips, his hand then tangling in your hair and guiding your head back down with a proud smirk on his face. he reaches and squeezes your ass firmly, voice low as he praises you.

“look at you, dick suckin’ pro for dad. that’s my girl…”

[godjo]

✮ — altar girl.

hasn’t it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire?

tags — true form!sukuna x concubine/f!reader. 3k wc. explicit smut. dubcon at first (trust me in this one pls). exhibitionism. thigh riding. doggy style. manhandling. rough sex. womb fucking. humongous cock!sukuna (hello???). multiple orgasms. mindbreak. drool. cunnilingus bordering on tongue-fucking. orgasm denial once. he carries you. creampie. lots of cum. fuckton of religious symbolism. physical violence against the reader but not from sukuna. sukuna calls you brat like one time. minors, ageless, and blank blogs dni.

from hunter — not to be dramatic or whatever but i do feel like this fic took a huge chunk off of my sanity … the things i do for sukuna omg … if this flops i will officially retire from tumblr /j + also it's 3 am for me so i didn't proofread the last bits and i prolly got lazy ... ha ha ... ✮

gods exist. 

the annals of history tell us so.

they exist in a way that no mortal can comprehend, for a god is more than a face. they leave their imprints not with their feet but with the rise and fall of dynasties, the ruination of empires, and the death of kings. they materialize as the birth of a deluge and they rise as the reason for war. it is not the body that proves their existence but the carnage they leave behind. 

they have manifested before human eyes through myriad guises, and once again incarnated in the flesh of ryomen sukuna. 

many have met their untimely demise at his hands; he walks the earth with their tormented souls at his feet. from village to village, their numbers increased until a procession of weeping thickened behind him. hundreds of graves mark the land since his advent, and yet the heavens remain deaf to the hysterical prayers for justice. only he can hear the prayers; only he laughs at them. 

they say he is a devil. you say he is a god. because only a god can saturate the earth with blood and emerge unpunished from such transgression. hasn’t it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire? 

ryomen sukuna, in a form of some twisted mockery, decides to act the part. and so like every famished god, he demands a sacrifice to satisfy his voracious appetite. you would think that a house of gold would placate his hunger for blood, but riches mean nothing to him. his appetite needs flesh and it is flesh he got. 

“have i been too lenient that you’d dare fight amongst yourselves when i’m not around?” his voice reverberates inside the room. low, guttural, and pregnant with malice. it is enough to scorch everyone’s lungs with tension. 

you want to run away from this nightmare. go back to the peaceful bliss of mundanity when sukuna is only a piece of horrifying tale used to frighten children and not an absolute being seated cross-legged mere inches away. you try transporting your mind back to the days before his pillaging, before your village succumbed to his authority. yet his pervasive presence obstructs all your pathetic attempts at nostalgia. 

“look at what you did to the poor girl.” two of his four hands sweep you from your position to his lap, parading you to the rest of tearful eyes looking at him with entreaty. 

and it stings— their eyes. you’re in the claw of a savage hound from hell, ready to be devoured, with only your hadajuban as protection. even in this pitiful state, they offer no sympathy. their tears are for themselves alone despite their cruelty being the reason for your shared plight.

selfish bitches. 

“was it jealousy that caused this infighting? have i not divided my attention to all of you equally?” sukuna continuously taunts, lacing his voice with poisonous prudence. he fools no one and that’s what urges him forward. everyone knows that his seemingly laidback attitude is plain derision. nonetheless, he tastes the lingering hope in each of your faces before dragging his teeth along such pathetic daydreams.

“y… you have, my lord,” one of the women answers, her voice betraying a noticeable stutter. “if you would permit me to speak, i can offer his lordship an explanation for what transpired in the courtyard.”

sukuna emits a languid sigh as he rests his cheek upon his fist. he runs a rough hand down your arm, triggering vibration in the pit of your stomach. his hand is as huge as your face, his fingers long enough to snap your neck with ease. despite the surge of terror, you fight the urge to retch.

after a moment of battling your dread, it’s repulsion that filled you afterwards. repulsion rising from the woman’s explanation for your wretched state. the rest of the women nod their heads along with her account of how you tripped on a slippery stone multiple times, causing your current injuries, as if you’re a toddler who cannot orient her legs properly. 

they will save themselves with falsehood. 

sukuna yawns after the woman’s narration. his set of eyes seeking you after in the silence. 

“this matter is of your stupidity, then? you’ve wasted my time, brat.” he dips his cadence in amusement and disgust. 

anger flares within you, filling your nose and ears with the bitter scent of hatred, yet its heat descended down your throat, dampening your ability to defend yourself. what is one against many? there are twenty concubines in this room and nineteen of them just sold you to your demise for unintentionally raising this trifle to the lord of the land.

all of this— all of this merely because they have immersed themselves in playing a game in which you’ve been excluded since your arrival. after all, you’re just another competition for sukuna’s attention. 

“have mercy, my lord,” you whisper, on the verge of losing your sentience. “i… i mean no disrespect. it’s… it’s stupid of me—”

sukuna drawls, “speak no more of your nonsense. i have heard enough.” 

distressed apologies race past your mouth, along with entreaties that he spares your life. but you should’ve known that a god won’t turn his back on the sacrifice of blood. 

thus, when his enormous body finally moves to encase your fragility, you close your eyes and with jittering teeth have accepted your fate. you wait for the final release of death, a snap or his fist through your heart, but none came. instead, at your feet lay your torn garments, casting your nakedness before the other concubines in a humiliating display. the crisp air blows against your nipples, causing them to pucker tight. the same air turns your blood gelid, your bones immovable. 

“now, let’s see what all the fuss is about.” from behind, sukuna gropes your breasts, swirling the tips of your nipples with his fingers. “i’ll kill anyone who looks away.” the warning is vehement, ripe with threat, that even mere insects won’t dare defy it. 

is this the ultimate act of worship? to be stripped of all your layers? to be eaten?

his lips latch onto the bareness of your neck, sharp teeth dragging across the skin. the silence is thick, saved for the sound of your uneven breathing and the rustling of fabric as the concubines shift uncomfortably on their seats. sukuna’s wet and unusually long tongue starts licking the base of your shoulder to the back of your ear, before placing his thick and robust thigh between your quivering legs. 

your exposed cunt sticks to his skin, pussy folds flapping open. with practiced ease, as if manipulating the strings of a marionette, he subtly guided your movements. he has your pulsing clit riding the ridges of his thigh as if gushing all over will save you from inevitable demise. 

“m… mhm!” no longer entirely in control of your own form, you turn and sway in a helpless dance to his hands’ command. a gasp tinged with surprise and undeniable pleasure, escapes your lips and echoes softly in the confines of the room. you feel the searing heat of the concubines’ gazes drilling into you, a tangible weight of disapproval and something more primal — a flicker of envious fascination.

“for a condemned woman, aren’t you loving this too much?” sukuna takes the reins to your body. with speed that has your heavy tits bouncing, he secures your waist and drags your slick pussy faster and more recklessly. 

pleasure, sharp and electric at first, surges through your core, blossoming outwards like a firework. your cunt clenches and unclenches involuntarily, a delicious tremor wracking your body. the world narrows, sound and sight fading at the edges as every nerve ending sings with a single, glorious purpose. slowly, the intensity ebbs to leave a pleasant afterglow that paints your limbs with a newfound weight.

you’re but a tiny speck compared to sukuna’s imposing body; a feeble creature under the jurisdiction of a god. 

possessive hands have found you in your fleeting refuge, scooping your lower body up like you weigh nothing. with the tip of his finger he traces the curve of your spine, pressing enough weight to flatten your stomach against the tatami mat. 

“even your back is filled with lacerations,” he points out brusquely.

sukuna’s hefty cock drops to the base of your spine, its puffed up cocktip lazily pulsing to leak his thick liquids of pre-ejaculate. it must’ve been a whole arm laying heavy against your spine, warm with a gluttonous desire to ram itself through the sloppy confines of your pussy. 

and you lay there, waiting for his teeth and his claws and his animalistic hunger to devour. he presses his chest to your back, filling your ears with promises that he’s going to feed on you, eat you down to the marrow of your bones— and you’ll love it. 

“look at them,” sukuna hisses as he tugs at your forehead, “i want you to look at them while i fuck you.”

with your flesh you’ve received him like some kind of communion from root to tip. he hammers your cunt with his cock, until the heat of his savage lust reaches the pit of your belly. you feel his warmth soiling your cervix and uterus with every vigorous thrust. 

“oh! m… mhm!”  completely overtaken by sukuna, your thighs can only twitch as he destroys your insides. 

“you’re soaking wet,” he groans in your ear, deliberately adjusting his pace so he can coat his thick girth all over with your creamy hole, “and so fucking tight.” 

sukuna grunts like a wounded animal each time his cocktip kisses the smooth spot of your womb. a sheen of sweat glazes his body, tattoos aglow in the lanterns, from manically fucking your cunt. he bares his fangs whenever you tighten around his shaft enfolded with prominent and proud veins. 

the once vibrant forms of the concubines, their faces alight with prurient interest, dissolve into a sea of indistinct shapes as fog descends upon your sight. you’ve been reduced to a babbling and drooling mess, unable to grasp the reality that you’re being mounted and fucked to madness before several witnesses.

sukuna extends his hand, searching for your abandoned clit during his primal need to turn your pussy to pulp. 

“there it is,” he breathes against your clammy cheek, satisfied at his discovery. 

“n… no! not there…!” you pant as the last thread of reason frays and snaps. 

a tempestuous force of pleasure sweeps through you, leaving behind a tremor that has shaken you to the core. around you, a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations spins until a guttural moan runs from your lips, delivered by the exquisite torment of rapture. your nails scrape desperately across the tatami mat, clinging at the remnants of spilled sanity. 

sukuna cackles at your desperation to find a moment’s reprieve. the roughened end of his fingers dip into your yielding flesh as he forcefully slams your pussy back to his cock.  

“you’re not going anywhere,” he pronounces frenziedly, his eyes blowing wide. sukuna’s desperation for release intensifies to the point where he’s blatantly manhandling you, brutalizing your cunt and his cock during the process of reaching zenith. flesh meets flesh, fervid thrusts after fervid thrusts, until he feels that familiar coil in his own stomach. 

sukuna plugs your abused cunt with inconceivable amounts of cum. his cock pulses wildly, shooting globules straight to your womb it’s almost physically possible to feel his viscous cum filling every crevice of your uterus. when he’s finally pulled out, ropy cum still links his raw cocktip to your pulsing pussy hole. despite such a mind-numbing culmination, sukuna’s cock refuses to yield. it springs up proudly, aching for another taste.  

“what a sight,” sukuna issues with cavernous and demonic utterance, pertaining to your body lying inert upon the tatami mat. he sweeps the sodden hair from his brow with a lordly air, his pride evident in the contemptuous curve of his lips. 

look at the state he’s reduced you to. his thick ejaculation pools around your lower body because your little pussy can’t hold all of him. with an indifferent shrug, sukuna lowers his formidable body to your level. and only when the malevolent glint in his eyes becomes apparent does the gravity of the situation dawn upon you.

he starts fucking your cunt with his tongue.

you grit your teeth in response as sukuna places your knees upon his shoulders, burying the slimy width of his tongue in your heated pussy. it’s no mere licking— he’s practically shoved his tongue up your gummy walls, toying with the warmth of his cum pooled in your poor cunt while simultaneously licking your puffed up clit. 

“o… oh! c… can’t— please, please!” drool seeps between your gritted cuspids after your hysterical plea.

pearlescent tears warm the corner of your eyes. your sensitivity from his rigorous fucking has not yet abated, but another swell of release approaches at a hand’s reach. down to your heart, the bundles of nerves and veins constrict painfully because it’s too much. you have nowhere else to put the pleasure— the imminent pinnacle will utterly ruin you.

i’m losing my mind

i’m losing my mind

i’m losing my mind—

when ecstasy is but a heartbeat away, sukuna withdraws, denying you the finality your body craves. as if saved from drowning, you suck in and grace your lungs with air only to be propelled back to the brink of delirium when he lifts you up from the floor like a breeze. 

with carnal ferocity, he seizes the meaty flesh of your haunches with two of his limbs, while the others secure your torso. there and there, sukuna slots his insatiable cock in your dribbling cunt; an act that he’s accomplished without effort because you’re so wet, he’s slid right in. 

everyone has witnessed sukuna’s cock abusing your tingling pussy; all can see how he bounces your tingling cunt along his stiff length without strain. 

“yes… squeeze my cock like the obedient girl you are,” he sibilates on your face, followed by a harsh chuckle. “you can’t hear me now, can you?”

the voice is a distant echo, barely perceptible to your waning senses. your body, devoid of strength, limps completely in sukuna’s embrace. he buries his face in the crooks of your damped neck, groaning and babbling as he ruts into your swollen pussy. 

“how come you’re still so fucking tight?”

hasn’t he prepared you for his sheer girth? hasn’t he stimulated your pussy enough to hug his cock smoothly and effortlessly? you’ve already coated his balls shiny with all the slick your cunt has produced, but sukuna’s chest tightens because you’re milking him with a viselike grip. 

yes, it is human that he’s even affected by this carnal desire. what more can he do? he feels faint with exultation merely by fucking you. 

sukuna pumps your pussy to the hilt with slow yet profound thrusts. he bares his teeth down the blade of your shoulder as the maelstrom of release engulfs him completely. battered by waves of ecstasy, he grunts with your flesh between his teeth, the rough sound reverberating deep from his belly.

you must’ve reached the peak with him— you absolutely cannot tell. the only thing that your puddled mind can grasp is the swirl of his potent cum in the pit of your womb and the endless pulse of your cunt as you struggle to accommodate his release. 

petrified and silent, the remaining concubines are as fixed in place as if struck by an immobilizing spell. yet they watch— they watch intently while sukuna’s cock throbs with white strings of cum dripping from your cunt hole down to his balls and thighs. a hefty amount pools beneath him, oozing from where the both of you are connected. 

the envy that consumed them is a silent, suffocating thing, a palpable presence thick enough to choke. this envy deepens as they witness the delicacy with which sukuna has placed your dormant body on his own tatami mat. they grit their teeth secretly, throwing every known curse your way. may your womb not bear the fruits of sukuna’s seed, they vehemently pray. 

for ryomen sukuna, it’s nothing but a moment’s weakness, a foreign string of unknown emotion that you’ve managed to evoke from him. and even though he’s beyond human grace, he’s wasted your body to his own satisfaction, it’s only right to touch you with his claws retracted.

“performance is over, my dearests,” sukuna announces while a smirk tugs at his lips. facing his concubines, he dons his fundoshi haphazardly that it barely covers what it means to hide. 

“w… what will become of her, my lord?” one dares to ask. 

a fleeting, imperious gaze from sukuna sweeps over you before ushering the women from the opulent chamber. “you shouldn’t worry yourselves about such trivial matters. she will meet her own reckoning by my hands.”

a wave of malicious satisfaction ripples through the group as they exchange covert nods. you’re already a dead woman. with poisonous glee, they bow before ryomen sukuna with their faces shaped in unbridled mirth. 

“make sure that my wives are accompanied home safely,” sukuna orders the nearest guards. he tastes their fear hanging heavy in the air just by being in his presence. oh, humans. 

as the group began to retreat, they cast over their shoulders a flurry of flirtatious farewells to the imposing sukuna. however, before they could vanish entirely from sight, his deep voice cut through their progress.

“guards, before i forgot…” sukuna displays a grotesque smile filled with malice. “kill them all. i want nineteen heads on my feet tomorrow.”

they say he is a devil. 

you say he is a god. 

and despite all the names, sukuna has found himself a place of worship, with you as his altar. 

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Without Parole.

Pairing: Yandere!Neuvillette x Reader x Yandere!Wriothesley (Genshin).

Word Count: 3.8k.

TW: Implied Non/Con, Prolonged Imprisonment, Wrongful Imprisonment, Unhealthy Relationships, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Blood, Possessive Behavior, and Gratuitous Old Man Yaoi.

“You reek of mortal blood.”

Neuvillette watched through half-lidded eyes as Wriothesley glanced over his shoulder, a careless grin already tugging at the corner of his lips. He paused, letting the shirt he’d only just started to button hang limp over his chest, and turned to face Neuvillette properly – albeit, never removing himself from the edge of the mattress. “I wonder why,” he murmured, keeping his voice low, playful. “It’s not like I’ve been carrying six liters of the stuff around or anything.”

Neuvillette softened, as he always seemed to when gifted with Wriothesley’s full attention, but didn’t relent. “It’s not yours. You’ve never been so—” He couldn’t stop himself, grimacing. “—sweet.”

Such a simple description didn’t do justice to the extent of the wrongness currently laid over Wriothesley’s pointed, metallic scent. It was almost sickeningly saccharine; overripe fruit and overused perfume and sugar boiled to the point of caramelization. It was a haze more than anything, the type of numbing agent used to dull the senses and hide something more vile, more cutting. Neuvillette didn’t care for it, but then again, Neuvillette didn’t care for most things that placed himself between him and Wriothesley.

“…I don’t like it,” he admitted, nearly under his breath. He let his eyes fall shut and, as if in response, felt Wriothesley’s hand cupped his cheek, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing over his jaw. “Someone’s been putting their hands on you. If it’s one of your guards, I’ll have them transferred to—”

“Careful, love.” At least Wriothesley was delicate with his interruption. “You’re starting to sound a little jealous.”

Neuvillette stiffened, more out of reflex than anything. Despite his best attempts at self-restraint, possessiveness was simply in a dragon’s nature. No part of him wanted to treat Wriothesley like a precious object to be locked away without sympathy or softness, and even if he had any desire to be so domineering, it would’ve been impossible; he had his duties to Fontaine, and Wriothesley had his to the fortress that lied under its seas. Taking him away from his station would be irresponsible, if not cruel. Wriothesley was not a man who could live under the heel of another.

And yet, while the humanity within him knew Wriothesley could only ever be a lover (a distant one, at that), his draconic nature howled for something soft and pliable and able to be captured and kept, something he could dig his fangs into and never release. For a mate, as primal and primitive as the idea seemed.

He forced himself to relax, to exhale, to open his eyes and pull himself into a more respectable position. One hand found Wriothesley’s where it was laid over his cheek while the other found a thigh – his pointed nails burrowing into well-scared skin. Kissing Wriothesley came naturally, as unfamiliar as he’d once been with such human gestures of affection, and his lover posed no resistance, even as the defined points of Neuvillette’s teeth dragged across his bottom lip and the iron tinge of fresh blood joined the taste of Wriothesley’s mouth. Neuvillette couldn’t stop himself, letting out a raspy groan, pushing himself against Wriothesley with all the tenderness and all the misery of a wild animal, desperate not to tear apart what it loved most.

And, for the most part, Wriothesley was kind enough to pretend he felt the same.

~

He met you a month later, tucked within the iron walls of Wriothesley’s underworld.

You were already in his office, sitting at an ancient player piano he would’ve sworn hadn’t been there the last time he’d visited the fortress. He’d mistaken it for one of Wriothesley’s records, at first – your playing paced and melodic, hesitant in a way that could be regarded as pleasant if your listener happened to be rather patient. You only paused as he crested the staircase leading to Wriothesley’s loft, snapping towards Neuvillette with an expression only comparable to that of a small, frightened animal. You recognized him quickly enough, relaxing somewhat when you did, but not before he recognized you.

Or, rather, the sweetness you absolutely reeked of.

It was more overpowering than it had been, when he’d only been taking in the residuals of it left on Wriothesley. Rotting fruit abruptly seemed like an inaccurate comparison, too simple, too blatantly vitriolic. If your scent could be linked to anything, it would’ve had to be caramel – sugary and fresh and cloying in its inescapability. It took more self-control than it should’ve not to bare his teeth, not to let his anger rise to the point of visibility. It grew easier to control himself as your eyes fell back to the keys in front of you, as you shrunk into yourself – his presence not so great of a relief as to completely undo your meekness. “Monsieur Ludex,” you muttered, nearly under your breath. He had attempted not to think of Wriothesley’s hypothetical lover, but if he had, he might’ve pictured someone more brazen. “I… I’m not sure where His Grace is, at the moment. I know he’ll be returning eventually, but if you’re in a rush, you might be able to find him in—.”

“I can wait.”

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded regardless, never looking away from your instrument. It wasn’t until he fell into the seat slotted against the opposing wall that your hands found the keys and you spared him a quick, almost skittish glance over your shoulder. He caught your gaze and held it, and although he’d never confess it aloud, his more primal aspects relished in the way you seemed to wither under the weight of his gaze. “Please, don’t let my company disturb you.”

You didn’t need much more incentive than that. Admittedly, your playing was far from insufferable; not quite as polished as the musicians of the Opera Epiclese, but far from that of an amateur. It would’ve been impossible to guess how long he listened to you for; one song seeped into another without pause, forming a medley that you’d either memorized long ago or, more fantastically, made up as you went along. You seemed used to your instrument, too. Wriothesley must’ve had you play for him often.

It was also, admittedly, difficult to reconcile the image of you in front of him with that of the conniving, sugar-sweet seductor he had pictured upon first noticing the new tinge to Wriothesley’s scent. The bland, standard-issue clothing of a prisoner hung loose on your form, clearly a size too large by the most generous of measurements, and no aspect of your posture nor your expression communicated that you found any amount of comfort within the walls of Wriothesley’s office. When he thought to look, he could make out discoloration encircling your wrists, painted over your knuckles, but minor injuries were common in the fortress. It would’ve been unwise to make assumptions based only on a handful of bruises.

Your medley only faltered upon Wriothesley’s arrival – unpredictably abrupt and endearingly violent, you and Neuvillette given only a moment to acknowledge that the door to his office had opened before he showed himself. His attention fell to you, first, as did his affection. You bit back a grimace as he pulled you into a crushing embrace, his mouth brushing over your temple, then falling to the corner of your jaw, as if he intended there to be something more intimate than a fleeting kiss. Before he could make contact, though, his gaze darted to Neuvillette. There was an unpolished grin, a teasing glint in his eyes, and then he was drawing back from you, muttering something as he pulled away. Neuvillette forced himself not to want to hear it.

And yet, he watched intently as Wriothesley separated from you and came to him, instead. A single knee was propped against the worn velveteen cushions of the loveseat, two bandaged hands clasped over the bronze gilding of the backrest – Wriothesley once again choosing to put himself in the position of the cager, rather than the caged. Neuvillette allowed himself to be guided into a shallow kiss, but when Wriothesley pulled away, he didn’t chase after him. It was pathetic as far as shows of discontent went, but Wriothesley let out an airy, knowing chuckle regardless. “Do I owe this visit to business or pleasure, monsieur?”

“Business.”

Wriothesley’s grin quirked into a defined pout, but he didn’t protest. Neuvillette feigned disinterest as he collapsed into the chair behind his desk, and you fell back into your song as if you’d never missed a note. The conversation ranged from middlingly polite to stiflingly bureaucratic; Neuvillette careful not to broach any topic more personal than the number of prisoners the fortress should expect in the following six months. It was only as their discussion neared its end that you seemed to shift, your music drifting in and out of audibility as you pushed yourself to your feet and, after gathering the sheet music you hadn’t bothered to touch, started towards the staircase leading—

“(Y/n).”

Whatever Wriothesley might’ve been saying was immediately forgotten with a snap of his fingers, a vague beckoning gesture. You stiffened, but complied, leaving your burden on the corner of his desk as you shambled to your warden’s side. Your routine seemed practiced, albeit still rough around the edges. An arm lashed out as soon as you were close enough, catching you by the waist and dragging you into his lap, keeping you there with a forearm bared over your midriff.

It’s almost impressive, just how blank you manage to keep your impression – the pinnacle of passivity. Wriothesley was not so aloof.

“Monsieur Neuvillette’s been asking about you,” he started, his hand finding your wrist. You tried to pull away – an automatic response, Neuvillette guessed – but Wriothesley’s hold was tight, unyielding. “I’m sure you can find it within yourself to thank him for all the time he’s spent thinking about you, now, can’t you, dear?”

Your eyes flicker to the ground. “…thank you, sir.”

“And for keeping you company while I was away. I know how much you hate being alone.”

Your fist balled around the hem of Wriothesley’s coat. Neither of you seemed to notice. “Thank you, sir.”

“See what I have to deal with? I promise, they’re normally more well-behaved. It just takes them a few minutes to come out of their shell.” Wriothesley’s head bowed low as he guided your hand to his mouth. You didn’t resist, this time, only flinching into yourself as his pointed canines burrowed into the tender apex of your wrist. You held onto that shut-eyed, furrowed expression as the flat of Wriothesley’s tongue ran over the twin pair of puncture wounds and then, with no particular ceremony, held your wrist out for Neuvillette’s careful evaluation. “For your trouble, monsieur.”

Wriothesley’s intention was clear, as was Neuvillette’s refusal – signaled with little more than a quick shake of his head, a steeper arch to his frown.

He had no need to taste you. Not when his senses were so sharp compared to Wriothesley’s, so refined.

Not when he could already feel his twin cocks hardening against his thigh.

“No gratitude is needed.” He stood abruptly, eager to be on his feet. For whatever reason, Wriothesley’s office suddenly seemed several times smaller than it had, before. He could feel saliva pooling underneath his tongue, his vision growing sharp and predatory, and he fled with no further commentary; only nodding curtly to the fortress guards as he escaped from Wriothesley’s office altogether and started for the elevator, the only way back to the surface and all of its wonderous open air. It was an abuse of power, of position. Failing that, he could be tried for inappropriate conduct, or public indecency – something defined and sterile that Neuvillette could put a name to and assign an appropriate sentence. He needed to—

“Monsieur Ludex!”

He felt a smaller hand catch his sleeve and bit back the temptation to claw, to snap, to bite. Instead, he turned slowly, eyes flickering downward to find you standing behind him, glancing from side to side as you held the frill of his sleeve in a pale-knuckled grip. He could see a flush dusted over your cheeks, making out the slight, shallow panting you were attempting in vain to suppress. You must’ve been chasing after him for quite some time.

“It was—” You paused, swallowed, bowed your head. You cupped his hand between both of yours, clenching your eyes shut entirely. “It was an honor to meet you.”

He waited for you to release him, which after a stilted beat, you did hastily. “Likewise.”

You said nothing else, only nodding stiffly as he turned away from you. It wasn’t until he boarded the fortress’ elevator that he noticed the scrap of paper tucked into his glove; clearly torn from the corner of some yellowed sheet of music, if the measured bars and dotted notes were any indication. Two words had been messily scrawled across the yellowed parchment, almost endearing in their predictability. Despite himself, Neuvillette found himself smiling as he read over them.

‘Help me.’

~

It wasn’t difficult to find your file. It wasn’t kept in his office, but a smaller wing of the Palais Mermonia, one meant for trails that never made it to the Opera Epiclese. He opted to retrieve the file in the dead of night, so as not to disturb his dedicated staff, and review its contents in the privacy of his personal chambers.

No detail was particularly interesting, but he read over each page with a meticulous sort of care, careful not to let any word or figure go without loving appreciation. You were born to a small farming village north of the city, orphaned at the age of ten and released into your brother’s custody at twelve, after he served a minor stint in the very fortress you were currently resigned to. At eighteen, you enrolled into one of Fontaine’s premier preforming art academies on scholarship and withdrew at twenty due to familial difficulties, resigning from your position among the Opera Epiclese’s in-house orchestra in the same year. Your crime was equally unremarkable; petty theft, only a single count to which you plead guilty. Neuvillette wasn’t surprised. Theft was not an uncommon crime, especially for those unused to the overwhelming splendor of Fontaine’s courts, although it rarely resulted in a criminal change. He would have to look into the details of your case later on.

No, it wasn’t the crime itself that surprised him, but the sentencing information scrawled underneath it – the assigned length of your sentence, followed immediately by time served. The former was four weeks, the recommended length for first-time, non-violent offenses.

The latter, updated as of three days prior, was seventeen months.

Neuvillette rarely found the time for sleep, and when he did rest, he rarely dreamt. That night, he plagues with visions of Wriothesley kissing his neck, honey and caramel dripping from his lips and drowning them both.

~

The next morning, he penned a letter to Wriothesley – not as one lover to another, but the Ludex of Fontaine to the Duke of Meropide. The contents were blunt, polite, consisting of little more than a request as to the documentation behind your extended sentence. The letter he received back, delivered by one of Wriothesley’s couriers, contained no written response, but a tattered scrap of pure ivory silk, stained with scarlet blood and still damp with a transparent, viscous, saccharine substance.

 He spent the remainder of the day with the cloth pressed against the lower half of his mouth, his fist moving over his cocks as he pictured you bound in silver at the bottom of the sea.

~

The arrangements were made as quickly as could be expected. Neuvillette took care to lend your plight his personal attention, muttering your name aloud for the first and only time when he had Wriothesley pinned to his desk, both cocks hilted entirely inside of his lover. His lover and yours, he supposed. He found that the thought no longer revolted him the way it once had.

Wriothesley, for his part, was agreeable. Where his enthusiasm failed, his dedication to maintaining peace within his fortress saw the matter through. Paperwork was drawn up and signed, guards were given their orders, and soon enough, he was standing at the entrance to the Fortress of Meropide, watching on as you blearily stumbled out of the rustic elevator – one of Wriothesley’s more trusted officers to either of your sides. He waved them off quickly. This was a joyous occasion, but a private one. He wanted no more witnesses than there absolutely had to be.

You were a doe-eyed thing; standing in daylight for the first time in more than a year. He’d chosen for an accommodating time of day, opted to schedule your release for the soften hours of a post-sunset twilight, but it seemed any amount of natural light would’ve been enough to render you senseless. It took a long moment for you to find your footing on solid land, another to remember to blink, and yet another for you to notice him. Instantly, he knew any amount of preparation he might’ve done was useless – his scheduling, especially.

Your smile was enough to rival the sun at its brightest.

“Monsieur Ludex!” Still unsteady, you wandered towards him, taking both of his hands into your own. You were tactile, despite your meekness. It wasn’t often Neuvillette was touched so casually. “I—I really can’t thank you enough, and I’m—I’m sorry for the hassle, but the warden, he wouldn’t let me go, and I didn’t know if you had any jurisdiction over the fortress, but Wriothesley wrote to you so often, and—”

“I ought to be the one apologizing.” He kept his tone gentle, even, only a touch warmer than the stunted greetings he’d exchanged with you weeks ago. Despite this, you melted as if addressed by your oldest, closest friend; your shoulders dropping and your eyes glimmering with all the radiance of a rising tide. “The inflation of your sentence was a grave and unforgivable foresight. If you wished to leave Fontaine altogether, I would understand.”

“I… I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” You released his hands, clasping them in front of your waist. Reluctantly, he allowed you to. “Honestly, sir, I’d really just like to go home.”

He couldn’t help but mirror your smile back, albeit not quite as shining. “If that’s so, then the necessary accommodations have already been made.”

With your arm tucked in his, you allowed him to escort you to a waiting carriage (secured as to avoid forcing to travel by sea so quickly after escaping your imprisonment underneath it). The first leg of your journey passed in comfortable silence, your attention rarely leaving the glass-paned window. As you passed through the countryside outside of the Court of Fontaine, you glanced toward him and beamed. “My village isn’t far from here. I don’t suppose you’ve contacted my brother?”

His response was a curt nod, a contemplative hum. “We’ll be arriving shortly.”

As you passed through the city’s gates, your smile dimmed some, taking on a strained undertone. “Is there anything in the city we have to do? I’m afraid I never got the chance to ask the other prisoners about release protocols.”

Once again, his response was brief. “You shouldn’t worry yourself with unnecessary specifics.”

As your carriage came to an ambling stop in front the Palais Mermonia, your smile fell away entirely. “Monsieur Ludex,” you tried once more, your voice now shaking so delectably, it nearly rivaled the sweetness of your scent. “I… I’m afraid I don’t understand what’s going on.”

This time, he made no attempt to answer you sincerely. “Please, call me Neuvillette.” And then, as he stepped out of the carriage and signaled for you to do the same, “Come with me.”

You shrunk into your seat, but even the most skittish creatures knew when to attempt submission rather than escape. Given another second’s worth of patience, you followed him up the palace’s steps and through its vacant halls, its usual attendants sent home in anticipation of your arrival. No part of him expected you to run, but there was a small, paranoid faction of his mind that had anticipated an attempt to distance yourself from him – a passing glance towards possible exits, a widening gap between you and him as you proceeded. Your eyes remained fixed on the floor in front of you, though, and you were never more than an arm’s length from his side. However Wriothesley had treated you, it had apparently not been with much leniency.

Finally, you reached his personal chambers. You paused for the first time as he ushered you through a pair of tall, wooden doors, but the hint of a scowl had you scurrying inside before he could think to flash his teeth. Still, you only made it a step or so into the room before coming to a halt yet again. Neuvillette didn’t have to imagine why. He was unable to dampen his grin as he followed your gaze to the far wall, or rather, to the four-poster bed slotted against it. He’d done the utmost to ensure your comfort, but rationally, he knew it wasn’t the Liyuan silk sheet or the down-stuffed comforter that had you so transfixed, nor the antique grand piano that stood some paces to the left.

No, as far he could tell, your eyes were solely locked onto the sleek, velvet-lined collar sitting on the center of the mattress, connected to the headboard by a thin, silver chain. He couldn’t be surprised that you were in such a state of shock.

Wriothesley had always preferred bronze.

“I suggest you get on the bed,” he started, a hand already moving towards the stiff collar of his suit. “You may undress if you wish, but I won’t force you to. Your cooperation is appreciated, but unnecessary.”

For a moment, you stayed where you were; motionless and quiet, trembling ever so slightly. For a moment, you didn’t do anything at all.

Then, with a quick nod and a sniffle of a sob, you moved towards the bed, as unhappy as you were obedient. It should’ve broken his heart to see you in such a state of distress, but for now, he could tolerate your misery, your scorn. It was only proper that a lover should be kept happy, but a mate’s discomfort could be tolerated.

And Neuvillette already knew you would make a wonderful mate.

[0cta9on]

Lessons

Length: +7k words

Genre: Smut

IVE Gaeul x Male Reader

(Author's Note: Thank you to the buyer for purchasing this commission, and thank you to @msafterhours for beta reading! If you are interested in purchasing a commission from me or simply want to leave a little tip, head on over to my ko-fi page!)

【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】

“Ugh, this is so fucking annoying!” Gaeul groans, slamming her fist against the table, the clattering of silverware echoing throughout the apartment. Wonyoung, used to her sudden bursts of anger, doesn’t even look up from her phone. “I already told that old guy from SBS that I’m not interested, yet he keeps spamming my messages!”

“Why did you give him your number in the first place if you’re not interested?” Wonyoung inquires.

Gaeul’s cheeks turn a bright red, her gaze falling nervously to the side. “...You know why.”

“Because you’re horny?” Wonyoung posits, raising her brow.

The older girl’s face falls into her hands in misery, emitting a deep guttural groan that carries the weight of her dissatisfaction. “This is so unfair, how did you guys find boyfriends and I have to slog through all these gross older men and obnoxious boy group members?” Gaeul glances at her with a pout on her lips. “Am I ugly or something?”

Wonyoung sighs, gently holding her groupmate’s hand from across the table. “Of course you’re not ugly, you’re just… unlucky.” Gaeul faceplants into the table, her muffled whimpers eliciting sympathy from the younger girl. “Look, why don’t you just ask out our manager already? I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Gaeul’s face shoots up, tomato red with panic. “W-what are you talking about!? That’s our manager, that’s w-weird!”

Wonyoung scoffs. “And you think touching yourself while moaning his name isn’t weird?”

“H-how did y-”

“These walls are paper thin, just because you play ocean noises in the background doesn’t mean we can’t hear you.”

Gaeul sinks into her chair, covering her face in embarrassment. With a sigh, Wonyoung pulls up a website on her phone and slides it across the table. “Here, a bunch of my friends used this website when they were in your position and they all managed to find a boyfriend within a week.”

The older girl scans the phone, immediately grimacing at the shoddy nature of the website. Aside from an embedded video in the middle of the site and a measly drop down menu titled “Lessons”, it’s essentially barebones. All the text is in Comic Sans for some god awful reason, and whatever moron made this sorry excuse for a website decided to use bright orange over pink. It’s like wrapping a terrible gift in even uglier wrapping paper.

“Wonyoung, this is… grim,” she mutters.

Wonyoung shrugs. “The results speak for themselves.” She takes her phone back and walks towards her room at the end of the hallway. “You better watch those videos. You’re already ruining my beauty sleep, I won’t let you ruin beaches for me too,” she calls out, her bedroom door slamming behind her.

Gaeul leans her head against her palm, contemplating her options. She could ignore Wonyoung’s advice and continue to foolishly look around for dick until her standards drop so low that she ends up sleeping with — God forbid — some washed up 2nd gen idol, or she could learn a thing or two from that hideous website and ask out her hot manager, potentially making things awkward between them for the rest of her career. 

She barely has to think about it before pulling out her phone, pulling up the website in mere seconds. With a deep breath, she presses play on the first video.

______________________________________________________________

LESSON 1: HOW TO GET A MAN

Being the manager of one of the biggest girl groups in the world leaves you with little energy and even less free time. At first, it was fun. When IVE first debuted, they were nervous yet excited about finally achieving the dreams they’ve worked so hard for, and you wanted to help them out anyway you could, becoming a strong pillar that they can rely on. 

However, after a couple years of idol experience under their belt combined with their very quick rise to stardom, the job that you once loved turned into a complete nightmare, which only worsened once the girls found partners. Just last week, you had to wrestle a camera away from a Dispatch worker after he took photos of Rei sucking off her boyfriend in the middle of a park—all of this at 3 fucking AM. To add salt to the wound, instead of being commended for preventing a potential PR disaster, you got chewed out by your supervisor for not managing them well enough. Sure, let’s ignore the million other times you’ve warned them about doing stupid things in public that they keep ignoring. 

At least not all of them are a handful to deal with since Gaeul doesn’t have a boyfr-

*Ring Ring*

Speak of the devil. You answer your phone.

“Hey Gaeul, what’s up?”

“H-hi, um…” She clears her throat, her nervousness putting you on edge.

“Is something wrong? Are you in trouble?”

“N-no, it’s nothing like that! It’s just, uh… Are you busy tomorrow?”

You scan your desk, cluttered with a messy pile of paperwork. Even at your most productive, it’ll take you the entire week to get through everything alongside the plethora of meetings you’ll have to attend. “Yeah, I’ll probably be busy tomorrow, why?”

“Oh, um… How about Saturday?”

“Gaeul, what is this about?”

“Just…!” She sighs audibly in frustration. “Yes or no?”

Rolling your eyes, you take a quick glance at your calendar. Aside from a note that says “buy groceries”, it seems like your entire weekend is free. “Yes, I’m free on Saturday. What is this-”

“Great! I’ll text you an address. Be there at 5pm sharp. Bye!”

“Wai-”

Gaeul hangs up before you can utter another word, leaving you to wonder what all of this is about and why she sounded so nervous over the phone. Your mind runs through all the potential scenarios this could be. As far as you know, there aren’t any events Ive are performing at and filming for their YouTube show doesn’t start until next week. Could this be a prank the girls are pulling on you?

Even as you look up the address she sent you, all you're left with is more questions than answers.

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LESSON 2: HOW TO ACT PROPER ON A DATE

Saturday rolls around after another particularly difficult week of running around protecting IVE’s image. If you’re being honest, you fully expected to pass away from stress alone after Yujin and Liz nearly got caught having a foursome in someone’s pool by Dispatch yet again. At the very least, this photographer didn’t put up nearly as much of a fight as the last one.

As you travel to the far side of the city and stroll up to the fancy restaurant Gaeul all but forced you to come to, you silently pray that this isn’t some weird way of her announcing her new relationship to you. You enter the restaurant, almost immediately receiving a glare of disdain from the host as he scans your casual outfit of a T-shirt and jeans, unbefitting of the atmosphere.

“I’m sorry sir, but we have a strict dress code and we unfortunately cannot seat you with your current outfit,” he says, flashing a condescending smile.

“Actually, sorry if this is weird, but is a woman named Gaeul here?” you ask, ignoring his poor attitude.

He looks down at his podium, scanning through some papers before his expression suddenly shifts into something more genial. “Ah, of course! Right this way, sir.” He leads you down a side hallway that’s hidden away from the main seating area, and brings you to one of many doors. “Ms. Gaeul is right in this room, sir.”

You open the door, your jaw hitting the floor in awe as you scan the intricate decorations that adorn the room. A golden chandelier hangs overhead, illuminating everything in a warm glow, while beautifully realistic paintings of fruit bowls and flower vases hang on the walls. In the center of the room sits a table, draped with a red silk cloth and topped with lit candles that set a sort of romantic mood. Gaeul sits on one end, sporting a black strapless dress that shows off her milky skin and thin figure.

“Hi!” She says, walking to you with outstretched arms. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

“Hey— o-oh.” You flinch in surprise as she pulls you into a warm embrace, instinctually slotting your arm around her delicate waist. It’s the first hug you’ve shared with one of the members, and your discomfort quickly fades as you sink into her. 

“Have a seat, make yourself comfortable,” she says. You sit across from her, your eyes darting around the room, overwhelmed by the ambience. “You like the view?”

“Yeah, this place is pretty cool, but why did you want me to come here?”

“To surprise you of course!” 

Just then, a procession of servers files through the door, carrying silver platters full of food. With each dish they place, you salivate more and more, your stomach rumbling intensely. By the time the last dish is set, the entire table is filled with various dishes of different smells, colors, and textures, none of it discernible but all of it delicious. The final cherry on top is the bottle of expensive wine that the server pours into your glass. This is it. This is Heaven.

“Since you work so hard for us, I thought it would be fitting to treat you to a nice meal,” Gaeul explains, smiling at you. “You deserve it.

“W-wow, this is just… thank you so much, Gaeul,” You say, still scanning the food in front of you. “I wish you would’ve told me to wear something nicer though. That guy at the front side-eyed me the second I walked in.”

“It’s okay, I think you look sexy in anything you wear,” she giggles, cutting her laughter short with a bite of her lip. For a split second, you swear your heart skips a beat.

Blush grows on your cheeks, taken aback by her sudden compliment. “O-oh, uh, thanks. You look, um, very nice too.”

“Just nice?” She pouts cutely. “I got all dressed up for you and that’s all you’re gonna say?”

The heat in your face deepens as you nervously avert your gaze. You compliment the girls all the time, why do you suddenly feel weird about it now? “You look… very pretty, Gaeul.”

She grins warmly, satisfied by your answer. “Thank you. Now eat up! It’s all for you.”

You spend the next few minutes in pure bliss trying out every single dish, each bite better than the last. Sweet, savory, bitter, earthy, flavor combinations you never even knew existed dance around on your taste buds; pair that with the rich taste of the wine and suddenly, you’re floating on cloud nine.

“How’s the food?” She asks. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Of course I am,” you say, grinning at her. “I’m eating delicious food and drinking expensive wine with a beautiful girl.”

“Oh?” Her brow raises with intrigue, a smirk playing on her glossy lips. “Beautiful? I thought you said I was just pretty?”

“I-I mean yeah, the entire world thinks you’re beautiful,” you stutter, trying to keep your inhibitions in check, a task that’s becoming increasingly difficult with the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed.

“Okay, but what do you think?” Gaeul leans in like a predator backing up its prey into a corner, her light-hearted tone dropping to reveal something more sultry.

You gulp, beads of sweat forming on your head. “W-well, I think you’re a great performer and-”

“That’s not what I meant,” she states, staring intently at you. “Have you ever thought about me? Imagining what you would do to me if we were all alone with no one to bother us, just me and you?” She brings her spoon to her lips, giving it a slow, sensuous lick without ever breaking eye contact.

You shiver as her tongue dances across the silver, desperately wishing it was you instead of the damn spoon. You shouldn’t be having these impure thoughts—though you’d be lying if you said this is the first time you’ve looked at Gaeul this way. You’re her manager, Starship will toss you out in an instant if they suspect that you took the job just to get with the idols. But it’s so hard to think properly with the alcohol flowing through your system and the tightening in your pants.

 Tell her no. Stop her advances immediately before things get out of hand. Yet, you don’t object as Gaeul takes your hand, leading you out of the restaurant. The words start to meld together like goo, all you can make out is an utterance of a “good time” and how you’ve been such a “good boy”. You say a lot of things to her, probably—it’s hard to talk with her tongue shoved in your mouth—but as the taxi takes you to the familiar route towards her apartment, the only clear thought running through your head is how impossible it is to tell this girl “no”. 

______________________________________________________________

LESSON 3: HOW TO PLEASURE A MAN

Gaeul tosses her phone on her bed, scoffing in disgust. After her conversation with Wonyoung last night, she binge watched the first two lessons, even jotting down notes to remember for later. As much as she would hate to admit it, the questionable looking website is an information goldmine for a desperate soul like hers, it’s a wonder how she hasn’t stumbled upon it before. However, her view of it immediately soured again after watching the third lesson.

“Act submissive? Let him do whatever he wants?” Gaeul questions, reiterating the points made in the video. “What kind of bullshit advice is this? If I’m gonna sleep with someone, I’m not trying to be their little fuck doll or whatever!”

She paces around her room, hands running through her hair over and over again as the thoughts bounce around her frustrated mind. What’s the point in doing all this work trying to get a boyfriend if it only amounts to his pleasure? What about her needs? Is she supposed to be happy being reduced to a glorified cum rag?

Fuck no. A sudden realization hits her like a bolt from the blue — She’s Gaeul from IVE. An icon in one of if not the most popular girl group in the world. Any man should feel lucky that she even gave them the time of day.

With a newfound determination, Gaeul picks up her phone, her finger hovering tentatively over the “Call” button on her manager’s contract. She’ll use what she learned in the first two videos for sure; she’s not dumb enough to completely disregard their teachings. But if—no, when things get to the bedroom, she’ll do things her own way.

______________________________________________________________

You and Gaeul stumble through the door of the dorm, lips, limbs, and fingers intertwined in a needy ball of lust. Don’t even bother making it to her room, half of your clothes are already off by the time you reach the living room. Palm her toned stomach, savor the taste of her lewd moans dancing off her tongue and onto yours, shiver as her nails graze against your skin. Do all the dirty things you’ve kept hidden in the back of your mind.

Gaeul breaks away, sitting back on the couch as she strips away the rest of her dress, leaving her in a matching set of black undergarments. She spreads her legs, inviting you to fill the space in between.

“Eat me out,” she commands, words unwavering even as the sheen of arousal coating her thighs tells you exactly how badly she needs this. You quickly oblige, practically diving face first into her sweet heat. Discard her soaked panties; to you, they’re just another obstacle keeping you from what you really want.

“Good boy~,” Gaeul moans as you attack her slit with your tongue. You alternate between long, slow licks to flicking your tongue furiously against her clit. She yanks at your hair, forcing you to take a whiff of her sex. Her scent is intoxicating. You don’t even feel the pain anymore, all you can think about is about pleasuring her gorgeous pussy.

“F-fuck yes, lick my pussy, you fucking perv!” she goads you on and you follow her every command like the dog that you are. Her slim thighs wrap around your head, forcing you deeper and deeper into her until it’s physically impossible for you to get any closer. Forget the alcohol, you’re getting drunker on the sweet nectar dripping from her hole.

Fuck her with your fingers as you lap at her clit with a hunger you’ve never felt before. Her guttural moans are like a siren song, drawing you into her. The way her face contorts with pleasure is so alluring. You thought she was attractive already, but fuck this is the kind of beauty that only you are lucky enough to see. No hounding fans, no Dispatch, just you and Gaeul.

She grabs your hair, pulling you away from her heat, much to your dismay. “Take your fucking cock out,” she commands before pushing you back onto the floor. You make quick work of your boxers, but before you can ask for a condom, Gaeul’s already climbing all over you, lining up your painfully erect cock with her slit.

“W-wait, Gaeul-”

She clasps her hand over your mouth, leering at you with a ravenous glare. “I’ve waited too long for this to use a damn condom. You’re just gonna have to pull out or I’m kicking your ass out into the streets, got it?”

You nod, both terrified and turned on by this new side of Gaeul. With her hand still covering your mouth, she slowly impales herself on your rod, her face silently contorting with each inch of you she takes. You move to grab her hips, but she swats your hand away.

“Absolutely fucking not, we’re doing this my way,” she growls at you. All you can do is submit as she fucks herself onto you at a selfishly slow pace like you’re nothing more than her personal dildo. Your hot breath flows through the miniscule gaps in between her fingers, not even giving you the luxury of a deep breath. You want to get angry, you want to show her who’s boss, but each time she slams her hips down onto you, it’s like she sucks away your will to fight little by little until you're completely left at her mercy.

“Fuck, this is so much better than using my fingers,” she groans, throwing her head back in ecstasy. “I bet you’ve imagined this before, huh? Filling my pussy with your disgusting cock?”

You nod sheepishly. Her words aren’t entirely false; you’ve imagined what it would be like to sleep with some of the girls, but never did you think you would actually get the chance to. Gaeul rocks her hips back and forth, relishing in the way your breath quickens and your eyes twitch with each slam of her petite hips. You feel yourself begin to reach the apex of your climax and urgently tap her thighs to warn her, but all she does is laugh in your face.

“You wanna dump your cum deep into my cunt, don’t you? Impregnate me with your disgusting seed?” she teases. “I’m not on the pill. What are you gonna do?”

Your eyes clamp shut, trying desperately to ignore the building sensation in the pit of your stomach. But with her warm walls making you lose all sense of control, it’s only a matter of time before you inevitably burst inside of her. Right at the last second, you grab Gaeul’s hips and lift her off of you, shooting your cum onto your stomach. Gaeul’s body shakes violently as she reaches her own orgasm, furiously rubbing at her clit as her juices spray all over your torso. Once her messy climax subsides, she scoops a dollop of your semen off of your stomach and licks it, swirling your combined juices in her mouth with a smirk.

“Mmm, tasty,” she says, cupping your chin while her other hand strokes your semi-hard shaft. “You better get it up soon, I’m not done using you.”

“Y-yes…” you mutter, still basking in the high of your orgasm.

Her grip on your face deepens, digging her nails into your cheek. “Yes, who?”

“Yes… mistress,” you utter like the word is commonplace on your tongue. With an amused smirk, Gaeul plants a kiss on your lips, much gentler than you had anticipated.

“You learn quickly. Good boy~” Hearing her say that makes your skin shiver in delight, craving the sensual lilt in her voice. You want her approval. You need her approval. With her, you’re not her manager anymore, you’re her plaything that lives to serve her.

Gaeul bites her lip as she looks down at your cock, already at full mast once again. “Carry me to my room.”

“Yes, mistress,” you answer promptly, scooping her up into your arms. Gaeul nips at your ear as you carry her to her room, trapping yourself inside with the little beast that you’ve worked with for years. The line of morality blurs to the point of disappearing, almost as if it was never there in the first place. It doesn’t matter anymore. All you care about is serving your mistress until she’s completely satisfied.

______________________________________________________________

Your eyes blink open to sunlight peeking through the window. The mattress feels oddly soft, more so than usual. Maybe it’s finally time to bite the bullet and get a new mattress. A blinding headache keeps you glued to your back, unable to make any sudden movements. Your ceiling fan looks odd too. Has it always been this big?

The door clicks open followed by a few light footsteps. “Good morning!” That’s Gaeul’s voice. Why is that Gaeul’s voice?

Panic begins to ensue as you finally look around the room. This isn’t your room. This isn’t your mattress. That’s not your ceiling fan. And where the hell are your clothes?

“W-what the-”

“Here.” Gaeul hands you a water bottle. “I bet your hangover is killing you right now.”

You quickly cover yourself with a blanket, blushing sheepishly. “G-Gaeul… Why am I here? A-and where are my cloth-” Your jaw drops in shock as you scan her outfit — She’s wearing your t-shirt paired with nothing but black panties.

“W-why are you wearing my shirt!?”

She pouts at you, placing the water bottle on her nightstand. “Do you not remember what happened last night?” She leans in with a smirk. “Because I definitely do.”

Her warmth tickles your ear. It’s an oddly… pleasant feeling, but that’s not important right now. “D-did we…?”

“Have sex?” Gaeul finishes your sentence, sitting down next to you. “Yes, we did. And it was amazing.”

Your face falls into your hands. You could lose your job for this. Hell, you could get blacklisted from the entire industry. No one’s going to want to hire a manager that fucked an idol they were supposed to be managing. This is it. You’re gonna have to flee the country, maybe even change your name. You’ll become a beet farmer on some remote island where your only friend is a seagull and-

“Hey,” Gaeul soothes you, rubbing your back. “You look worried. Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I-I should’ve never let this happen, I could lose my job, my apartment, my-”

“You’re not gonna lose your job,” she assures you. “If they fire you, I’ll threaten to leave the group.” You turn to her, confused. “W-what, why?”

“Because…” A light blush grows on her cheeks. “I like you. And you made me feel sooo good last night.”

“U-um…”

“Do you still not remember what happened?” she sighs. You shake your head no. “Hmm… maybe this will help jog your memory.”

With a smirk, Gaeul cups your chin, forcing you to look at her. Her hair is still messy and her face is barren without makeup, yet she still looks so beautiful in front of you. She leans in, giving you that same pleasant feeling as her breath dances on your earlobe.

“Good boy.”

Like a movie, the scenes of last night’s misdeeds play vividly in your mind, reminding you exactly what transpired: The dinner. The taxi ride. The sex. Holy fuck, the sex. You’ve dated submissive girls before, but the way Gaeul dominated you was a whole different experience, nothing you’ve ever felt before. She took away your ability to breathe properly, completely leaving you at her mercy, and you enjoyed it. It felt dirty, but it felt good.

Gaeul chuckles as she notices your erection poking through the blanket. “Did that turn you on?”

“N-no, uh…”

“You’re really gonna be shy about it now? It looked like you were enjoying yourself more than I was last night,” she teases.

The blush on your cheeks deepen. “L-look, I… I’ve never done that kind of thing before. Hell, I’ve never had sex with an idol before. This is all kinda new to me,” you admit.

Gaeul sighs, gazing at the wall in contemplation. “I’ve never done anything like that before either. But I liked it.” She turns to you. “Did you like it?”

“Uh… Yeah. I did.”

“Would you want to keep doing it?”

The threat of losing your job still lingers in your mind. This is all new and potentially dangerous territory, and you have no idea what the future could possibly hold for either of you. But you would be the biggest idiot in the world if you lied to yourself and declined her offer.

“Yeah. I want to keep doing this with you,” you say. With a smile, Gaeul tears away the blanket and excitedly jumps into your lap, her crotch resting on your exposed erection. The thin fabric of her panties is the only thing keeping you separated from her sweet pussy.

“So does that mean you’ll be my boyfriend?” She asks, now grinding her hips against you. Your breath gets thinner as the heat of ecstasy fills up your entire body.

“Y-yes, I would love to be your boyfriend.”

Gaeul grabs your chin, her nails sinking into the flesh of your cheeks. “Yes, who?”

A moan escapes your lips as the pleasure mixes with the pain, leaving you in a state of bliss. “Yes, mistress.”

She smirks at you before taking off your shirt, revealing her perky tits and her petite waist to you. “Good boy. I can’t wait to play with you some more~”

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LESSON 4: HOW TO MAKE IT LAST

The last few weeks have been the most exciting weeks of your life. All the previous stress of working as IVE’s manager practically disappeared now that you were with Gaeul. No more wrestling with Dispatch after one of the members gets caught anymore, all she has to do is assert her dominance as the oldest and the rest of the members will listen to her. If you knew that a cheat sheet was underneath your nose this whole time, you would’ve dated her sooner.

Of course, to avoid any controversy and damage to the group, your relationship was kept a secret from everyone, including the members. However, that didn’t stop her from constantly calling you to fulfill her needs. It doesn’t matter where, when, or how many people are around, if she’s in need of release, you’re on your knees, lapping at her pussy like it’s your last meal. Gaeul is absolutely crazy, but you would be downright insane to tell your mistress “no”.

After a couple of close calls, both of you decided that it would be best to come clean to her members about your relationship. It’s already hard enough trying to keep your hands off of each other; you wouldn't want any of them to walk in on the two of you while your tongue is deep inside your girlfriend. At first, you assumed that Gaeul would simply send a quick text to the girls to alert them, but it seems like she has some other plans in mind as the two of you wait for them in one of Starship’s meeting rooms.

Gaeul moans in delight as you suck on her neck while she grinds against your leg. “Fuck, that feels good, baby,” she coos.

“Not that I’m complaining, but don’t you think it’ll be awkward if they walk in on us like this?” You ask, nipping at her ear.

“I locked the door, so they’ll have to knock before they can come in.” Of course she accounted for that. God, you fucking love her. “Now shut up and get back to sucking.”

“Yes, mistress,” you oblige, sinking your fingers into her ass as you ravage her neck. However, your playtime is cut short as a knock at the door signals the presence of the other girls.

“God dammit,” you groan. “Can we make this quick, babe? I need you so badly.”

Gaeul flashes you a mischievous smirk, giving you a soft parting kiss before climbing out of your lap. “Don’t worry, cutie, we’ll get to have some fun sooner than you think.” You ogle at her hips as she sashays over to the door, unlocking it and smiling brightly at Wonyoung, Yujin, Liz, and Rei as they file through. You try to offer a similar smile, but with the aching in your jeans, you’re barely coherent enough to breathe properly.

“I’m so glad you guys could make it!” Gaeul exclaims, locking the door behind them.

“Of course!” Yujin replies. “You said you had an important announcement, so that means it’s important to us too!”

“Couldn’t you just text us though? And why is our manager here?” Rei asks, eyeing the two of you suspiciously. You nervously avert your gaze, looking towards Gaeul for support.

“Because he’s part of this and I wanted to show you guys something in person,” Gaeul explains. She takes a quick breath before continuing. “So, I’m sure you’re all aware of how much I’ve been complaining about not having a boyfriend, and-”

“Wah! You got a boyfriend!?” Liz exclaims, connecting the dots fairly quickly. “Who is it? Is it that one rookie that was staring at you during recording last week?”

“Ew, no,” she grimaces. “It’s actually someone all of you know very well.” Gaeul suddenly climbs onto your lap, planting a delicate kiss on your cheek. Normally, you would feel pretty nervous about doing something this vulgar in front of others, but her body heat combined with your raging hormones from your interrupted makeout session makes you completely forget about everyone else. A billion people could be watching and you would still let this gorgeous beauty do anything she wants to your body.

The girls applaud at Gaeul’s announcement, except for Wonyoung, who overdramatically rolls her eyes at the news. “You called us in to tell us this? It was so obvious you two were dating, you were practically attached at the hip for the past couple weeks.”

Gaeul chuckles, eyes darkening as she captures you with her gaze. “Actually, there’s something else I wanted to show you guys too.” Much to your dismay, she gets off of you and drags a chair some distance away from you, sitting down. “You see, our manager here is actually a bit of a freak.”

The girls stifle their laughter as they glance at you, causing your cheeks to burn with embarrassment and confusion. “U-um, babe? W-what are you-”

“I could’ve acted like some ‘ditzy little fuck doll’ and let him have his way with me,” Gaeul scoffs, disdain dripping in her tone. “But then I thought ‘Why should I let him have all the fun? Our dear manager is always bossing us around, so why don’t I take charge for once?’ Granted, it was a gamble, but it paid off sooo fucking well. Don’t you agree, baby?”

Your cheeks grow redder by the second as they all look at you expectantly. “I-I mean, yeah, I-I liked it-” Suddenly, a piece of fabric hits you in the face. You examine it in your hands, your eyes growing wide with shock as you realize what it is — Gaeul’s shirt.

The rest of her members cheer at her boldness while your heart pounds against your chest, tracing her silhouette with your hungry gaze. “Crawl,” she commands.

Your eyes dart nervously between her and the rest of the girls, desire and judgment warring in your mind. “B-b-but-”

“I didn’t say you could speak,” she spits, her eyes narrowing. “Now, be a good boy and fucking crawl.”

A flip switches in your brain as desire wins the war by a landslide. Any hint of embarrassment you once held is now gone, replaced by an overwhelming amount of lust. You fall to your hands and knees, ignoring the hollering from the other girls. To you, they don’t exist anymore. All that matters is satisfying your mistress in any way you can. 

Gaeul harshly grips your hair once you reach her, forcing you to stare into her eyes. The heat from her breath hits your face, driving you mad with want. You swear a glob of drool falls from your lip at the thought of getting to taste her sweet pussy again. 

She drags her thumb over your lips, smirking. “Tell them what you are,” she orders, turning your head towards her members. Wonyoung rests her head against her palm like she’d rather be somewhere else, while Yujin starts recording you with her phone, no doubt to hold it over your head if you inconvenience her later on. Liz stares at you, deeply flustered, yet a hint of jealousy in her eyes, and you notice Rei sneakily trying to touch herself, her face beet red with pent up arousal.

“I am mistress’s plaything. I live to satisfy her and her alone, no matter where or when she asks me to,” you state. Wonyoung mouths an impressed “Oh wow” at Gaeul before glancing at you with a hint of disgust in her eyes.

Your hair is yanked back towards your girlfriend. “Mmm, it’s cute just how pathetic you fucking look. I bet you want your reward now, don’t you?” She teases the hem of her shorts with her other hand, flashing a glimpse of her panties at you. You nod enthusiastically, ignoring the pain in your scalp while you pant like a dog with desperation.

“Y-yes, please. I want you so badly, mistress. I crave the taste of your sweetness,” you beg. She smirks at you before standing up and removing her shorts, leaving just the fabric of her panties to block you from the true prize within like a wrapper on a candy bar. Hastily, you move your hands to the hem of her panties, but she quickly swats them away.

“Use your teeth, you fucking dog,” she spits.

“Yes, mistress.” As you get closer to her heat, her scent wafts through your nose, sending your mind deeper into a frenzy. You bite down onto the hem and jerk your head downwards, quickly uncovering the object of your desire hiding underneath. With her panties hanging from your teeth, you look up at her in search of her approval.

“Damn, I wish my boyfriend was that obedient…” Liz mutters under her breath.

Gaeul gently cups your chin, smiling at you with a palpable desire in her eyes. You love that look. You want her to look at you like that all the time, even if it means humiliating yourself in front of the girl group that you are paid to take care of. You are her pet, her plaything, her good boy that does anything she wants.

“Lick my pussy, baby,” she whispers, commanding yet soft. She bites her lip as she watches your face inch closer and closer to her dripping core, glistening and beautiful. You run your tongue along her slit, gratefully lapping at her juices while your hands caress her slender thighs. Gaeul grinds her hips against your face, pulling at your hair every time you make contact with her clit.

“F-fuck yes!” she moans, forgetting about the audience that she brought along. “J-just like that… Such a good boy… K-keep fucking me with that tongue, oh fuck!”

The sound of her pleasure is your favorite song, but it gets harder to hear as her thighs clamp around your ears. No matter; you’re doing this for her and not for you, after all. Double your efforts to please her, work your fingers into her hole while you flick your tongue against her clit. Don’t worry about the cramping in your tongue or the lack of oxygen in your lungs. All the pain is worth it for your mistress.

You feel her entire body contract as her orgasm overtakes, nearly collapsing on top of you in the process. You do your best to support her body, all while drinking up her nectar like it’s the first drop of rainfall during a long drought. The familiar tanginess hits your tongue, a flavor that you crave more than the fancy dinner she treated you on your first night together.

“H-holy shit…” Gaeul stutters, holding onto your shoulders for support as she catches her breath. “Get on the chair… I-I wanna ride you…”

You notice her legs are still shaking underneath her. “A-are you sur-”

“I said get on the fucking chair!”

You quickly jump to your feet and do as you're told, subtly making sure Gaeul doesn’t fall over before moving from underneath her. She silently scorns you with a furious glare for not immediately following her orders. The rest of the girls watch with bated breath, not used to this side of her.

Gaeul makes quick work of your jeans and your boxers, roughly squeezing your shaft in between her fingers. “Are you gonna keep fucking disobeying me, or are you gonna follow my instructions like a good boy?” she whispers harshly into your ear.

You squirm underneath her grasp, the pain only turning you on even more. “I-I’ll be a good boy, mistress. I s-swear.”

“U-um…” Wonyoung nervously interjects. “Isn’t this a bit much, Gaeul? He looks like he’s in pain.”

Gaeul wraps her other hand around your neck, her palm pushing against your Adam's apple. You moan against her touch, enjoying the lightheadedness. “Don’t you like this, baby? Don’t you love being a good little dog for me?” She teases, slowly stroking your cock.

“Y-yes, I love it so much. I love being my mistress’s dog,” you say, your breath shivering.

Gaeul turns back to Wonyoung. “See? He likes it,” she states simply. Wonyoung concedes and sinks into her chair, continuing to watch the sick and twisted display of affection in front of her with faint but growing interest.

With that out of the way, Gaeul turns back to you and hops into your lap, teasing your tip by dragging it along her wet slit. “Do you want this pussy, baby? Do you want to fill it with your disgusting cock?” 

“Y-yes, mistress. I want you so badly.” Your skin crawls as jolts of electricity shoot through you with each slow drag of her lips. Any ounce of sanity you had left has completely turned into mush at this point. Despite your basest desires, you know better than to thrust into her without her permission. She has you right under her thumb, and any mistake could mean getting squashed without warning.

Her grip on your neck tightens. “Beg for it, bitch.”

“P-please… I-I need it… N-need you…” you manage to choke out, writhing under her grasp. She grins at you, shoving a messy kiss on your lips as she slams her hips down onto you. She rips a moan from deep within your chest as you grant her tongue free reign over yours, earning a hum of satisfaction in response. Her velvety walls grip onto your cock, squeezing any remaining energy you had left. You’re nothing more than a glorified dildo to be used by your merciful mistress.

Gaeul suddenly breaks the kiss, slapping you across the face. Blood rushes to your cheek, now marked red by her hand.

“Gaeul…!” Yujin gasps in shock. “Th-that’s-”

“Do it again!” you plead, silencing her concern. “P-please, mistress. Hit me again.”

Your mistress bites her lip at you, intensifying the gyration of her hips while blessing your cheeks with a frenzy of slaps. You grow dizzy with pain and pleasure, higher than any drug could ever take you. 

“T-take it, you fucking dog!” she moans, continuing her assault on your face as her second orgasm rapidly approaches. You feel your own quickly following suit and tap her thigh to warn her, but Gaeul instead wraps her arms around you, showing no signs of slowing down her hips.

“I-I’m safe today, b-baby,” she whispers into your ear, much more gentle than she usually is. “Y-you can c-cum in me if you want… I f-fucking love you…”

The walls of her gorgeous pussy squeeze your shaft as she squirts onto your cock. You follow her soon after, covering her insides with your cum for the first time ever, clinging onto Gaeul’s delicate body. Your mind floats around in pure ecstasy, a feeling you never want to let go of. Gaeul lazily kisses on your neck as she recovers from her high.

“I… love you… too,” you breathlessly mutter before falling victim to exhaustion and collapsing against the chair. Gaeul climbs off of your lap and collects her discarded clothing off the ground, stumbling with each step.

“Well… that was interesting to say the least,” Yujin says after a long silence, finishing the recording on her phone.

“Send me that video later, that was really hot…” Rei whispers to her.

“Um, is he gonna be okay?” Liz asks. “I’m pretty sure we have a schedule tomorrow.”

Gaeul looks over to your now sleeping form and smiles with adoration. She kisses your reddened cheek, careful not to wake you. “He’ll be fine, I’m pretty sure,” she assures them.

Wonyoung stands up from her seat. “I’m glad you found a good… boytoy, or whatever you call him,” she says, patting Gaeul’s shoulder before leaving the meeting room. The rest of the girls follow suit, leaving Gaeul alone with you as she waits for you to wake up.

She slides a chair next to you and plants another gentle kiss on your cheek before sitting. “Good boy~” she whispers delicately, resting her head on your shoulder.

[fear-is-truth]

PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY ࿐

warnings — menstrual cramps. dacryphilia (if u squint). perv!rafe. very suggestive .. mdni a/n — repost + tweaked the ending

rafe cameron fights back the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose to ward off an incoming headache. of all times he should not be thinking about this—shouldn’t be noticing the way your lips are all swollen, or how pearly droplets of tears cling to your lashes. it’s fucked. he knows that. and yet, when you sniffle again, burrowing deeper into the pillow with a pitiful little whimper, his dick gives an interested twitch.

jesus christ.

“babygirl,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, trying to snap himself out of it.

“c’mon.”

no response. you’re curled up in a fetal position, shivering under the blanket as if you can hide from the onslaught of cramps if you just make yourself small enough. rafe clenches his fists. unclenches his fists. fights down something in his gut that stirs at the sight of you so helpless and pretty like this. he forces it down, because shit, you’re in pain, and that’s not—this isn’t—he shoves it away.

“god, enough,” he sighs, reaching for you.

“let me help.” you shake your head, sniffling, curling up tighter. god, you’re so fucking stubborn. his fingers twitch, and then—fuck it. he hauls you up, maneuvering you into his lap, manhandling you like you weigh nothing. you land straddling one of his thighs, his arm bracketing you in despite the weak, hiccupy protests you make. you struggle for all of two seconds before your body falls entirely limp, tearstained cheek pressing into his chest. he sighs, keeping a steady grip on you as he settles back against the headboard. a toned arm locks around you, one hand gently pressing against your lower stomach.

“you’re gonna listen to me, alright? this isn’t the time to play a goddamn martyr.” his voice has lost its authoritative edge, gone softer, but no less firm. you hiccup against his chest, eyelids fluttering shut when his thumb starts moving in slow, repetitive circles. applying gentle pressure, easing the cramping away.

“poor baby.” rafe clicks his tongue in sympathy and affection. you sniffle, fingers curling into his shirt, and he rubs a circle over your belly. it’s just that—just him taking care of you, like he should—but then you let out this content little sigh, so soft, so fucking sweet, and fuck. the protectiveness in him is immediately tainted with lust.

he catches himself wondering where he can make you wetter, what other sounds he could pull from your mouth if he really tried. his dick twitches again (thank god you didn’t notice, because how the hell is he going to explain that), a sharp pulse of heat low in his gut and he forces himself to ignore it. later. right now, you need him. so he rocks you a little, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. trying to ease the strain in his jeans, rafe carefully shifts his weight, but you make this sweet little noise when the movement jostles you—something between a contented sigh and a moan— goddamnit, he knows you didn’t mean it like that, because you’re still all soft and pliant from the pain, but.. he simply can’t help himself.

“that feel good?”

you nod, nuzzling against him, and his hand is still rubbing absently over your stomach, dipping just a little lower, teasing the waistband of your shorts.

“mm.” a sleepy little hum, barely even words. “feels nice.”

“yeah? bet i could make you feel even better, princess.”

[euphoria-looney]

Credits to the idea:

Batfam X Neglected Reader ( Squid Games)

Creds to the dividers: (?)

The Winner Takes It All by ABBA

When do humans get so desperate they give up their own lives for that small chance of money?

Money is a category in your history class dedicated to why money is the basis of your life. Economy.

I first witnessed someone leave everything had for money, my mother. When I was 5, I didn't know why my mother was leaving the manor with a huge suitcase, filled with cash.

My mother engaged to Bruce Wayne who only allowed her in as they procreated me. In her words, both sides should take responsibility, it takes two to tango, and why should she be the only one to deal with the consequences.

Which now is very hypocritical as she ran away taking everything but me.

I didn't want sympathy, but I didn't want to be treated like dirt for a mistake I didn't make.

For the next 13 years of my life, I tried to stay on the down low, no matter how many dirty looks, and the insults, not even when Damian would hurt me.

I just hoped they wouldn't mind if I stayed with them a little longer until I could find a stable way to leave.

That hope burst when Alfred came to my room and told me “Master Bruce has decided to kick you out and disown you, I'm so sorry, [name].”

I tried to somehow make it, promising myself, it was going to be okay.

I got into college, and the debt collected from that was massive, so I had to go get loans at the bank, and then get into a part-time job, but every day seemed like we were always getting robbed. My manager had no choice but to let me go.

“I'm sorry, sugar, but we aren't pulling in enough customers and I can't afford to keep too many employees, there's no easy way to say this but, you have to quit. I don't want to fire you, it'd look bad for any job you'd apply for next.”

I held onto her hand like a lifeline I begged and pleaded with no avail.

I tucked my tail in and went to the Wayne manor.

"Um, It's [name], could I... um..." I swallowed my words, afraid to say them, I mean, this was humiliating, 13 years since I'd seen them and the first thing I asked for was cash? "... borrow some money."

No surprise I was rejected, but that didn't hurt me it was the comments, how I was so much like my mother.

I waddled to the train station, if I was lucky, the train wouldn't be hijack or filled with gas tonight.

"Hey, you want to earn some money?" A guy next to me.

"No, thank you."

"10,000 dollars. Just a child's game"

I lifted my head to stare at him. I couldn't see his face, hidden behind a mask.

"It's a Korean game, visited it a few days ago, so would you mind playing it with me?" He gave an authoritative vibe, it made me want to back away, his aura was sinister.

I had already hit rock bottom, what could be lower? I hesitantly nodded my head.

I don't know how many times I lost, but I finally did it!

Handing me the cash and then handing me this weird card.

"If you ever need more, contact us." with that he walked away.

Third POV

“B, are you sure this is the right spot?”

‘Positive. Are you sure you want to join on this mission, Dick.”

Despite what anyone might think Batman, otherwise known as Bruce Wayne cares and loves his kids.

Changing into suits and golden animal masks, they went to the VIP room, make some bets on random numbers.

Oracle was doing the background work, hacking into everything, it wasn't like the movies and the stress was on.

The court of Owls was not just one villain working but a cult that was not only wealthy but influential, with their own members, called Talons who were armed and ready.

On the screen 456 players appeared.

“Today, we have prepared the game red light, green light. A child game.” The frontman introduced the V.I.P’s at the start of the first round.

[name]’s POV:

Waking up, the clothes I was originally wearing changed into the tracksuit outfit with a number on it.

A person caught my eye, it’s Astro! From the law department, I couldn’t help but approach him.

“What are you doing here?” Word got around that he was an academic genius, and many had hope for his bright future.

I could only remember how fond his mother was when talking about him, I thought I saw her the other day working.

“Oh, [name]. It’s been a while hasn’t it? What are you doing here?” He dodged the question.

“I… couldn’t afford college and took out a loan, eventually I got a lot of debt.” Our conversation got cut short as we headed to this random room.

Going to this machine it said ‘smile’

I gave a gummy like smile before making my way to the field

Playing red light, green light.

After explaining the rules everyone started running, nothing was wrong until a person got spotted moving during the red light, poor guy, going home penniless after making it here-

Spat

Oh.

There’s blood on my shoes.

It was like a stampede of people running to the door, stacking on top of each other. I was frozen out of fear.

Wha-

What do I do?

I’m afraid.

Someone tell me, what do I do?!

Before I knew it, I made it to the end.

Third POV:

Thankfully no one found the bat family suspicious or they would’ve noticed how they tensed up seeing as their daughter/sibling had the first contestant’s blood splattered not only on her shoes but also on her clothes.

A break had ensued as the game was over and everyone made their way to their individual rooms.

“What are they doing there?!”

“Should we stop it now?!”

“How?!”

“Quiet down!” Bruce had stopped the panic, but in reality he, himself didn’t know what to do either.

[name]’s POV:

Going back to the room, I felt like a doll and everyone sat on the floor.

The sickening feeling of seeing the gold lighting illuminating the clear pig, with money dropping down into it.

I could feel my stomach drop just thinking about it.

I didn't know what was happening until Astro got up and rebutted the guards.

“Clause three, The games may be terminated upon a majority vote, right?”

Thankfully, ending this sick and twisted game.

That didn’t last long though as a day had passed and I was back in this building. I think everyone who left was.

I talked to new people, especially this one old man who reminded me of Alfred.

“I could say the same to you. You’re young, and your debt is lower than most people here, so why continue risking your life for this money?” I shook my head, my face holding a sad smile.

“No matter how hard I try I just keep gaining then losing debt. But it’s different for you sir. Doesn’t the government give insurance and medicare for the elderly?” I held his hands in mine.

“The government isn’t as nice as you think, corrupt up in their high-paying jobs, but still greedy for more.”

As the games ensued I could feel myself deteriorate.

Third POV

Gripping onto the couch arms, and bouncing off one's feet could symbolize when someone is... anxious.

Or it could be showing anticipation.

So let's pretend that's what Bruce Wayne is feeling right now.

And if we asked his opinion on number ###, [name] [lastname]...

Most people would think, "Yes, he must be anticipating her death, how the blood would splatter, whether it be from losing a game or betrayal from another contestant." That's what most people would think of that entire family.

How could you not?

They shamed her, bullied her, and scorned her away from their home.

Wouldn't even provide financial aid much less.

Isn't that why she's here in the first place?

It was like they wanted her to grovel and die, die a death that would have no meaning, not even to this unforgiving world.

However, you'd be shocked that's not correct.

Anxiety is a scary thing it makes you make rash decisions. Good or bad.

It was nothing new to these vigilantes.

But oh. seeing her tired eyes, sweat dripping down everywhere, from her head to her legs. Her trembling form.

If you didn't know the context you'd already think she was a corpse.

No! That's wouldn't couldn't be true.

They couldn't allow it to be, she was going to be safe.

She had to be.

She was forgotten, but now, everyone's eyes were on her.

Anxiety is a scary thing, and with the current event, situation, there was nothing they could do but hope for the best, bounce their legs, and grip the couch.

-

It’s time for the next game.

“For this game we’ll be playing the marble game.”

—

There will be 2 endings choose which one. (I'll be making both.)

-> Thank you… for playing with me.

-> Astro!

Also, I love the idea and from fic from both @jellyfishmoon97 and @not-weirdoshrek

@holysoulsweets @sh4rk-k1d @sillysealsies @loomspuddle @cantfindmelol @alwaysholymilkshake @leitor-sonolento (I think these are all the ones that wanted to get tagged idk though 😍)

[no-empathy-culture-is]

you don't need empathy to be a good person but also, you don't need any standard relation modes to be a good person. being a good person is about what you do, not how you feel.

[tfwbluu]

PAIRING — jungwon + f!reader

WARNINGS — exhibitionism, fingering, oral (f. rec), pet names, cum eating, he’s lowkey rough and a bit mean, just more kink talking.

WORDCOUNT — 0.6K

NOTE — finally finished writing the kinks series for all members >< i hope this is up to your standards, special meal for my moot ! lmk if i need to add anything to warnings <3

Jungwon knows you love his hands, and he uses that to his advantage—whether it’s caressing your thighs under the table, gripping your waist or hips, or having them buried deep inside you, completely covered in your arousal.

“Yeah, that’s it… cum all over my fingers, angel,” he murmured, not minding how your hands gripped his wrists tightly, as he curled his fingers just right inside you.

He doesn’t care whether you’re in the privacy of your home or out in public. If there’s an opportunity to have you, he’ll take it—even if it means teasing you under the table, calm as ever, while his fingers push you closer to the edge with people nearby.

“Oh, she’s not feeling well at the moment. Don’t worry, I’ve got it handled,” he said with an innocent smile to concerned staff members. The second they left, he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “You’re drenched, pretty. Do you want them to know how much of a mess you are for my fingers?” He pushed your panties aside and slid a finger inside, making you yelp softly.

Jungwon most definitely has an edging kink or some form of orgasm control. There’s something about the way he teases the fuck out of you, bringing you so close with his fingers only to stop at the last second, just to see your lips tremble and tears well up in your eyes.

“Aww, are you close?” he asked, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. Just when you thought you were about to fall over the edge, he pulled his fingers away, leaving you a whining mess.

“Shh, be a good girl,” he whispered, pressing his palm firmly against your soaked pussy before teasing your entrance again, curling his fingers fast and deep, coaxing more of your juices out with ruined orgasms.

He’s mean like that—making you work for him. He loves watching you desperately grind against his thigh, completely bare while he stays fully clothed, your wetness soaking his pants.

“Come on, work for it, baby. Maybe then I’ll reward you,” he cooed, gently tucking a strand of hair out of your face. His gaze drifted down to your hips moving desperately against him. “So pretty.”

He may not be the strongest in the group, but he’s strong enough to manhandle you into any position he pleases—especially when he pins your wrists behind your back as he pounds into you mercilessly, leaving you no choice but to take it.

“Stop squirming and take it, baby,” he growled, his grip firm on your wrists as his hips moved harder and faster. “Pretty little pussy taking me so well,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your back as you melted under him.

He likes doing quickies. The type to drag you into a small, quiet room, push you to your knees, and have you suck him off before heading back to work like nothing happened. He’s busy, after all, and the least you could do is be a good girl and take care of him, right?

“Quiet,” he whispered, his voice low and commanding as he hastily undid his belt and pants. With one firm motion, he pushed you down onto your knees, his cock already hard and finding its place in your mouth. “Take it, baby, I gotta be quick… please,” he muttered, gripping your hair tightly as he thrust into your mouth. His movements were fast and rough, his release hot and thick as it spilled deep down your throat.

But he’s also a jealous little shit who doesn’t care if you have somewhere to be—he’ll make sure you’re marked up and completely claimed before letting you leave. His bites, kisses, and possessive touch ensure everyone knows exactly who you belong to.

“Can that guy fuck you this good, baby?” he growled, slamming into you with such intensity that your moans came out broken and desperate, your nails digging into his arms for support. “All mine,” he whispered darkly, his teeth sinking into your neck, leaving yet another mark as proof of his ownership.

TAGLIST — @kikidoul @rikiives @contyynishimura @ziiao @lilmarsh-t @bxcndd @laylasbunbunny @d-dilemma

[zeropro]

Hi, what are your thoughts on Megatron? Most Starscream fans don't have very positive ones about him lol, but everyone is different and I would like to know that you think

I like Megatron okay, he doesnt bother me but im not like jumping up and down for megatron content yknow? but I get not liking Megatron as a Starscream fan. It's just, you can't deny how intrinsically the two characters are tied together. Really can't have Starscream without Megatron, which is unfortunate for someone like me who does not like drawing Megatron lol!

Maybe the reason most Starscream fans dont like Megatron is because of their abusive relationship? And let's be clear, due to the power imbalance, I do interpret it as an abusive relationship. Despite how much we like to joke that Starscream deserves the punishment he gets (I'm not entirely sure how attempted murder/political assassination attempts factor into an abuse allegory) no one ACTUALLY deserves to be abused. The fact that Starscream is low key also evil and has done evil things is a separate issue from Megatron's abuse of him, we can hold him accountable for the one while also having sympathy because of the other. For me personally tho? Megatron abusing Starscream doesnt make me dislike the character at all, it's honestly the main draw of the dynamic for me. Maybe I just like to see my blorbos suffer…

The G1 Cartoon Megatron is probably the most fun, and I think this dynamic is the most on the level in terms of Starscream dishing back as much as Megatron gives him. They're all just bullies on the playground, their toxic back and forths feel a lot more slap stick and silly than actual abuse. What makes it work I think is that Megatron is not as crazy powerful as he is in later continuities, and Starscream responds to the abuse like a cartoon villain, immediately bouncing back and plotting his revenge, so it's funny rather than upsetting! I also find it hilarious how Megatron is weirdly nice to all the other Decepticons who aren't Starscream lmao? G1 Cartoon Megatron is a 10/10 for me.

If G1 cartoon's Megatron and Starscream are more on an even playing field, Prime Megatron is like the opposite of that. Prime Megatron is so impossibly powerful it almost feels like no one has a chance against him in a fight, and Prime Starscream is so scrunkly and small it's almost laughable. I think I feel the most pity for Prime Starscream when he gets beat up by Megatron, but he almost always makes up for it by being possibly the most evil of the Starscreams. I like how in the third season, he genuinely seems happy to finally dedicate himself fully to Megatron, but you just know how much he'd been beaten down and broken over and over again to even get to that point. Good for him for trying to get revenge in the sequel series. As for Megatron himself, I think more often than not when I am reading fics I see Prime Megatron in my head, and it's his voice I hear. What can I say, it was the first Transformers show I watched haha. Do I love how his redemption arc was handled? Not particularly, it sorta came out of nowhere, felt really rushed, and he just goes away anyway so we don't even get anything out of it. I like redemption arcs in general, but I don't necessarily think this particular Megatron needed one.

To be perfectly honest, I didn't think the 2005 IDW Megatron deserved one either, only because when it comes to over powered, unstoppable, irredeemably evil Megatrons, this one ranked right up there if we take into consideration everything he did before Dark Cybertron. His redemption does kinda come out of nowhere. But like, idk mang! It's also really fun? Like, Bumblebee carrying him around cuz his pants got blown off is hilarious! Him actually upset at Bumblebee's death and then taking Bumblebee's Autobot badge and putting it on over his own was sweet! Him dealing with the crazy crew of the Lost Light is a lot of fun! And him actually having to confronting and deal with what he's done (and other characters dealing with him dealing with it) is a lot more interesting than just him dying. idk. The comics have been around for years by that point, and passed through the hands of many writers, so if a little handwaving and a little contrivance and a little suspension of disbelief is what is required for us to have an honestly pretty fun take on Megatron, I think I'm okay with that.

I do have one complaint tho, mostly based on content I haven't read yet so take it with a grain of salt. I have been told that the adjacent series to the Lost Light Megatron stuff covers Starscream's side of the story and that it does actually address his abuse at the hands of Megatron. My problem is that apparently (and again I haven't read that far yet so this is just hearsay, but apparently) the writers on the Lost Light Megatron stuff didn't get the memo so while Megatron feels bad for and is working at redemption for all the evil war stuff he did to everyone, the one thing he doesnt regret is apparently his treatment of Starscream? Haha, like come on! on the one hand it's really disappointing to me because id like the catharsis of Megatron’s remorse, but...on the other hand, I guess it's kinda true to life actually. Your abusers are people, and they can change and grow and become better, but it doesnt mean they will ever become better for you. It doesnt mean they will ever apologize or even feel bad for what they did. Maybe theres something to be said about having to move on and heal without that. I guess whether this is a complaint I maintain will depend on how its handled.

I get that some people don't think Megatron should ever get a redemption arch, because he's an abuser, a monster, a tyrant, and an evil warlord, and it's completely fair for your stance to be that he should just be killed and that would be justice. I personally really like continuities that treat him more like just some guy. I think Starscream put it best in 2005 IDW during Megatron's trial when he said Megatron wasn't some political genius or the most gifted strategist. He wasn't even the most evil man. In IDW, Megatron started out as a social advocate from the lower class, and despite the problematic narrative of "the bad guy had a point and just did advocacy wrong/went too far," I think the idea that Megatron kinda got swept up by his own hype and was used by people and powers more devious than he is a compelling one.

Starscream is Starscream, so who knows how much of what he says is true and how much is him lying, but this idea just rings true to me. It humanizes him. If handled well, I'm honestly not opposed to stories redeeming Megatron. I'm also not opposed to stories treating him like the devil and just killing him lol. I love a character that can do both!

Uh uh, what else. Earthspark Megatron is nice, I like him. There's...a bit of cognitive dissonance in trying to reconcile the things he chastises Optimus Prime for and the idea that he still was a ruthless warlord at one point, both of which continue to be left unexplored. Transformers One Megatron is neat, I was worried going in how they would handle the switch from Orion Pax's brother to lets start a 4-6 million year war, but like, I like the way he actually was super okay with accepting his lot in life. Like obviously he didnt like it but he didnt see a point in fighting it, and that adamant complacency as a coping mechanism is what lead to his feelings of rage and betrayal by the end. Also I think its hilarious how much younger he is from all the other Decepticon high command, especially Starscream XD.

I don't think I've read or watched anything else with Megatron in it. Man, I wrote a lot. At the end of the day, Megatron is a good character, I like the role he plays in Transformers, I'm not like actually that interested in him on his own but more what he brings to the table when considering Starscream's character. You can't have one without the other! Do I ship them? No, not really, no more than any other ship. But I'll still read Megastar stuff cuz sometimes you just want to watch two people be toxic and make it hurt so good. I'll always prefer Trine stuff anyway ha! Have fun out there!

[specshroom]

BLOOD IN THE WATER꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷

"How much longer?"

Your current patron meekly asks from his seat behind you.

"Not much longer."

You curtly reassure him.

You should be used to these tourists and their consistent whines but it never seems to get less pathetic. You suppose you shouldn't blame them considering the position they've gotten themselves into, although a bigger part of you just couldn't muster up sympathy for people who are dumb enough to find themselves in the middle of a monster infested lake with a complete stranger at the oar.

That thought breaks you form your daydream and you take a moment to stare at the deceptively clam waters below. You stop your slow rows, bring the gondola to a steady halt and turn to your patron.

"This is your stop."

You fasten the large oar to the hull and step towards the man so that you can look down at him properly.

He looks around at the open water, the mist is so thick he can barely see a few feet Infront of his face much less any semblance of land. He looks back up at you and hesitates before speaking,

"I...payed for the full trip."

You shake your head solomly,

"I only said I could get you on the lake...which I did."

You gesture around to the lake that you both are very much on.

"If you want to get to the other side, that's a seperate trip."

You hold your hand out, clearly indicating what you want. The man's eyebrows scrunch, his eyes go from wide with fear to a heated glare and his hands grip the travel bag he's been cradling.

"You can't do that! We agreed!"

He yells and you quickly cover his mouth with your hand as ripples break in the water all around the gondola. As if he just remembered where he is, the man freezes and lets out a little whimper when he hears tiny splashes in the water right next to him. The small boat rocks side to side as the water vibrates, sounding out the life that dwells beneath it.

The water settles after a few moments of silence and you stand again and look down at the quivering man.

"What choice do you have?"

The tourist heaves out a defeated breathe and digs in his bag to retrieve a sack of coins for the rest of the trip. He hands it to you with an icy glare.

"Is that enough for you?"

He hisses, a little quiver remains in his voice.

You give him a look and continue to count your coins. If you're being honest, you expected more from him. The disappointment must show on your face because he looks just about ready to swing at you before you let out a loud whistle.

Just then several claws burst out of the water and grab him. He shrieks as wet scaly hands cling to his shirt. One by one three heads pop out of the water to leer at his now pale face, drained of any colour once his wide eyes meet the inky black orbs of the creatures holding him down. They bare their sharp teeth as talons sink into his skin making him unable to struggle lest they dig further.

His panicked eyes can only follow you as you start plucking valuables from his pockets and rummaging through his belongings.

From the corner of his eye he can see more of these creatures circling the gondola. Waiting.

You sit down with a huff, slightly rocking the boat as you count and inspect your new plunder.

After a few moments you hear low growls that simmer into whines, you peer up at the multiple black eyes staring at you, waiting for the go ahead. The man's blood is already seeping into their claws and they're practically drooling.

You take pity on the poor creatures and with no more than a final glance at the man you let out another whistle and he's instantly pulled from the boat into the water without time to scream. You huff as the water splashes you, as eager as they are it was a pretty good deal you struck with the creatures, you get the valuables and they get dinner.

As you watch the merfolk fight over their thrashing meal you feel a tug on your sleeve. One of the creatures looks up at you from the surface with intrigue. You give them a questioning look and in response they bring themselves higher over the hull to rather boldly nuzzle at your neck.

You huff in amusement and waste no time grabbing their jaw and kissing their cold but soft lips, caressing their wet cheek with your warm hand. They croon at the warm touch and lick into your mouth.

Another one surfaces the water to place kisses on your neck with a few cheeky nibbles as they cling to your clothes to try and bring your body closer.

You fully indulge in the benefits of your agreement with these creatures as the water around you turns crimson.

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷

Some more of this!

[harryhighkey]

183.

hi! this is my first ever Lee Byung-Hun/The Frontman one shot! I hope u like it! this man has taken over my life !!!!!!!!!!

a frontman x reader series - masterlist to series here

183.

That was the number that ticked over on the screen as the final vote was casted by Player 001. The people who voted to stay had won. You were in disbelief. Standing on the side of people who voted to leave this hell you were positive that this was the side that was going to win the vote.

How wrong you were.

183, this number was going to haunt you during your time here, which was ironic considering it was also the one that was labelled on your green tracksuit.

Now you stood in utter shock at this outcome. All 183 of them had witnessed the same brutal deaths that had only happened hours earlier, so how could they choose to stay?

You were frozen and your eyes were trained on the man who had been the 183rd vote. You kept watching as he turned to face everyone else. Half the room cheering and the other half disappointed. However, his expression was unique, a sinister smirk adorned his face that sent shivers down your spine.

------

The guards had demanded you had spent too much time in the bathroom and were making you return to the room the vote had taken place. It had been a long time, but you weren't doing anything wrong, you were so desperate for a moment alone to cry over your terrors which is exactly what you had been doing. You cursed yourself for not trying to do anything productive in looking for any chance to escape, there was a vent in the roof that you wanted to have a closer look at later.

Not wanting to draw attention to yourself as you walked back through the doorway, you kept your steps quick & quiet. You were about half way back to your bunk when you got stopped.

"Hey, now look at this pretty girl, I didn't notice you in the game today." Thanos. The purple haired, Player 230 had certainly let himself be noticed by everyone today.

"I was laying low, wouldn't you expect you to get it." You quipped back, keeping your head down due to the fact you could feel your eyes were puffy & were positive your nose was red from crying and you didn't need it pointed out.

"Why lay low, baby? We're here to have fun. We should have fun together!"

You scowled at the pet name and instantly snapped back, "I'm not interested in joining your tiny dick parade."

"Such a dirty mouth on a pretty girl! I'd like to know what else that mouth-"

Just as you were about to raise your voice and interrupt the unwelcomed comment by telling him to fuck off, someone beat you to it.

"Enough." It was another man's voice, this one much more commanding, not as loud but it was dominant.

Yourself & the purple haired man turned to who spoke up. It was him. The final voter. Player 001. You stood there with the only red 'X' on your green tracksuit out of the three of you yet he was coming to your aid, going against a fellow blue 'O.'

His eyes briefly landed on yours and you inhaled a sharp breath, you were so hyper-focused on him that you swore you noticed his face contort into a display of sympathy. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone just as fast and Player 001 was stone faced once more as he looked back to Player 230.

You watched the interaction between the two men, had something happened whilst you were in the bathroom? They were only saying a few words to each other but the tension was so high.

"Leave her alone." Was how Player 001 ended the moment and this man shocked you yet again as he caused the most bold player to follow his order and walk away from the two of you. Once Thanos was gone he turned back to you. Your chest going tense at the eye contact. "Are you-"

"I don't need your help." You quickly cut him off, already walking away from him so he didn't get a chance to answer. This unknown man had just come to your rescue, but he was also the deciding vote for staying in this hell. If you hadn't of rushed off so quick maybe you would have paid more attention to how his face softened when looking at you and maybe paid attention to the fact that part of you noticed how nice that felt.

------

"There you are."

You were laying on your side and the voice came from behind you, but you already knew who it was without seeing them. You'd heard that same deep voice hours earlier when it had come to your rescue. The only difference this time it was more hushed and closer to your ear.

"Go away." You didn't turn over to look at Player 001, you stubbornly stayed in place.

"I would like to talk to you."

"I'm sleeping."

"And conversing?"

"Sleep talking exists."

"Yours is quite advanced." His tone was light-hearted, but you were still on the defence. It wasn't lost on you that you had to protect yourself, being a female and much younger than a lot of the other contestants here. Player 001 included.

"Wait until you see how I sleep hit." You suddenly waved an arm back towards his direction, only for a firm grip of his hand coming around your wrist that quickly halted your movements.

He used his hold around your wrist to pull you so you were flat on your back. The movement was so fast, your strength was no match for his and now you were face to face. If you lifted your head the slightest bit from your pillow, your nose would graze his and that had your heart racing. Surely just because you were scared, not for any other reason.

Acting fast, you went to grab his hand with your spare one to try and free yourself, but he was faster and easily caught your second hand in his own second hand, trapping them both.

"If you are going to make it out of here alive, you need to keep that attitude of yours under control." His tone was serious now, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. You were so vulnerable right now, your breath was coming out in quick pants, your wide-eyed gaze had become frightened as you were forced to look into his stern one.

"Please let go of me." Your voice came out shaky, tears began to well in your eyes. He had scared you. Your hands were freed and you swiftly moved to sit up and move to a corner of your little bed to put some space between you and this man.

His face softened, the same way it had when he looked at you earlier and would have noticed the after effects of crying being present on your face. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Well you did."

"I'm sorry." He apologised and you didn't know what to say. "May I sit for a moment?" He asked so politely, his tone now gentle. You took a second before nodding your head and he sat on the side of your bed, facing you. "I don't want you to die in here."

"I don't want to either. That's why I voted to leave." At that response, his eyes fell to the red 'X' labelled on your outfit before lifting to find your gaze once more.

"Let me help you in here."

"I don't need your-"

"You do." He cut you off, his words were impactful. You clenched your jaw.

"No I don't."

"Yes."

"No."

He huffed and dropped his head into his hand, rubbing his fingertips into his temples. "Stubborn girl."

You watched him silently, a million thoughts running through your head. Part of you still felt afraid, but another part of you was curious about him, you almost felt drawn to him. Your eyes were trained on his fingers massaging his own head and before you had a chance to think about what you were about to ask, you already blurted it out. "Can you rub my head like that?"

"What?" He paused his movements and looked at you again, an expression of confusion present on his face.

God, he had a handsome face.

"I know it's a weird request but I can't sleep and I'm exhausted. I'll never able to sleep here and I will obviously need energy for tomorrow and my head getting rubbed always makes me sleepy." You spoke fast, rambling your words out and you could feel your face heating up in embarrassment as he continued to stare at you in surprise. Which only got worse when he let out a quiet laugh which made you put your head in your hands and let out a little whine. "Forget it-"

"I'll do it." Yet again he cut you off and his response made your heart beat harder.

The two of you sat there looking at one another in silence. You were memorising the details of his face when he snapped you out of it.

"Are you going to lay down?"

"Oh, yes." You returned to your original position of laying down on your side, this time your back was leaning against his leg as he stayed in his spot.

When his fingers combed into your hair and made contact with your scalp, you took a deep breath at the soothing movements he began making.

"Like this?"

"Yes, just like that."

"Close your eyes." You finally listened to him without arguing back and fluttered your eyes closed.

The more you focused on the feeling of Player 001's fingers dancing such peaceful patterns along your scalp, the more you relaxed back against him and forgot about where you were. In your mind, only the two of you existed in this moment.

Maybe the next time he offered help, you wouldn't be so quick to fight back.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Unfinished Lap || F1 driver!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: One moment, Rafe was dominating the race; the next, it all slipped away. You tried to steady his rising emotions, but his frustration overwhelmed him, leaving you no choice but to walk away from the paddock.

Warnings: angst, kinda toxic!rafe if there’s anything else lmk!

Word count: 1,865

A/n: nfl!rafe x dcc!reader later today!!! (Second part is up!)

MASTERLIST (F1 driver!rafe x fem!reader au masterlist)

“No! No! What happened?” Rafe’s voice crackles through the radio, his panic lacing every syllable as the chaos unfolds on the screen. Your gaze flickers back to the broadcast, watching his Ferrari crawl around the track, smoke billowing from the engine.

One moment, he was dominating the race, leading effortlessly—now, he’s barely moving. A mechanic’s voice cuts through the air, sharp with frustration. “His engine’s fucked,” a mechanic mutters, his voice heavy with disappointment. The team around them exchanges grim looks, all too aware of what this means for Rafe.

In your head, you can already hear his inner monologue—his fury at the failure, his frustration bubbling to the surface. Rafe was the kind of guy who measures his worth by every lap, every second on the track. Failure doesn’t sit well with him—especially failure that isn’t within his control.

You swallow the lump in your throat. The best you can do now is try to stay positive, to soothe the storm he’s bound to unleash on himself. But you know how hard that will be. Rafe is a perfectionist. The smallest misstep, the smallest flaw, eats away at him. Problems that he can’t control, like this—like his car giving out—will be the ones that break him.

Your gaze shifts back to the screen, where Rafe’s car is now completely immobilized. Smoke still rising, he’s done for the day. You exhale sharply. The screen zooms in on him, his face a mask of frustration. He’s already agitated, you can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way he rips his gloves off his hands. You sigh, half in pity, half in resignation, when hand suddenly appears on your shoulder.

Austin gives you a sympathetic look. You force a smile, trying to lighten the moment, you both know the storm Rafe’s about to bring. You watch as the safety car pulls up in front of the garage, Rafe soon emerges, his movements stiff, every step heavy with the weight of his disappointment.

He walks past his team, offering a few terse pats on the back, but his face is an unreadable mask. It’s clear he’s holding everything inside, and that’s never a good sign. When he finally approaches you, your heart sinks. You open your arms, ready to offer the comfort you know he needs.

But Rafe, eyes dark with frustration, only snakes his hand briefly around your waist, his touch cold, distant. “It’s okay-“ You start but is cut off my him, “It’s not. It was a fucking shit show, so don’t say that it’s okay,” he spits, his voice low but sharp, full of venom as he practically hisses the words into your ear before brushing past you.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. His words hit harder than you expected, the sting of them sharper than you imagined. You can feel your heart beat erratically in your chest, a mix of shock and hurt washing over you. You scoff, trying to hold yourself together, trying not to let his outburst tear you apart.

His behavior is worse than you thought—this rage, this venom he’s spewing, it’s not just at the race. It’s at everything. And you, standing here, helpless to make him see reason, feel like the target. Rafe’s PR manager, Mia, watches the exchange from a distance, her eyes filled with sympathy.

You give her a small, dismissive wave, brushing off the weight of the situation as best as you can before turning sharply to head toward Rafe’s room. You close the door behind you, and the silence envelops you both. Rafe sits hunched over, his head in his hands, but when you speak, he doesn’t respond.

“It’s not your fault,” you say, your voice soft but firm as Rafe lifts his head from his hands. His eyes lock onto yours—cold, distant, unreadable. The usual fire you know him for is gone, replaced by a storm you can’t understand. You step closer, your heart tightening in your chest as you meet his gaze. “You know that, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just stares at you, his jaw clenched tight, his expression a mask of frustration. There’s something else behind his eyes, something that feels like defeat. “I don’t need your sympathy, Y/n,” Rafe mutters, the words barely escaping his lips, low and edged with annoyance.

You flinch, but you don’t back down. You refuse to let him push you away, not now, not when he’s clearly falling apart inside. “I’m not trying to pity you,” you reply softly, crossing your arms as you take another step forward. “I’m trying to help you.”Rafe growls under his breath, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“I don’t need help. I need things to fucking work out for once,” he snaps, the bitterness in his tone cutting through the air like a blade. Your chest tightens at his words, but you stay calm, your hand trembling slightly as you reach out to him, your fingers running through his hair, offering a fragile comfort.

You lean his head against your stomach, holding him in the way you know he needs, even if he doesn’t want it. “You were doing great out there, Rafe,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t your fault the car broke down. You couldn’t have known—”

“Just stop, Y/n,” he interrupts, his voice rising, harsh and guttural. He jerks his head away from your touch, the movement quick and sharp. He stands up abruptly, pacing away from you as his frustration boils over. “I’m fucking tired of this. Tired of everyone pretending like it’s fine when it’s not.”

You watch him, unsure of how to respond. He’s pacing now, back and forth, his movements agitated, like he’s trying to escape the tension that’s building up inside of him. The room feels smaller now, and you feel more distant from him than ever before. “Why do you have to keep pretending everything’s okay?”

He spits, his eyes flashing with something fierce, something you can’t quite pinpoint. “You keep telling me I’m fine- that I did well- but it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s not fine.” You stand frozen, trying to make sense of his words, your heart sinking with every second. “I’m not pretending, Rafe,” you say softly, trying to make him see, trying to make him understand.

“I know you hate losing, but you were amazing out there. I just… I just don’t want you to beat yourself up over something you couldn’t control.” “You don’t get it, do you?” he snaps, his voice breaking with the weight of his own frustration. “I don’t need your fucking sympathy. I don’t need you trying to make it better with your damn words. Words don’t fix this.”

The sting of his words hits you like a slap in the face, but you hold your ground, refusing to let the hurt show. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Rafe. You think I don’t know how much you’re killing yourself over this? You’re destroying yourself from the inside out when things you can’t control go wrong. But I can’t just sit here and watch you do that to yourself.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes with a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want your fucking help.” His voice is cold now, empty of anything resembling warmth. He sinks into a chair in the corner of the room, slumping back as if the weight of the world has finally crushed him under its pressure. “I’ll deal with it myself.”

You stand there for a moment, the silence deafening, before the frustration boils over, spilling from your lips before you can stop it. “I’m sorry for caring about you,” you mutter bitterly, the hurt in your voice unmistakable as you turn away. You can’t stand to be near him right now, not when he’s pushing you away like this.

You grab your bag, the strap slipping off your shoulder as you prepare to leave the Ferrari garage. Your pace quickens, the footsteps echoing too loudly against the concrete floor. The people around you, the team members, staff, mechanics—they all seem to part in front of you, but their gazes follow you, like they know something’s wrong.

And it makes everything worse. As you make your way towards the exit, Austin steps into your path, his eyes scanning you with concern. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, his voice low but urgent. You freeze for a moment, his gaze locking with yours. You don’t even know how to begin explaining what just happened.

The words that Rafe had spat at you earlier still sting, his anger, his frustration—none of it was about you, but somehow it felt like it was. “I… I need to get out of here,” you mutter, trying to sidestep him, but Austin’s hand gently grips your arm, stopping you in your tracks.

It’s as if he’s waiting for you to break down, to tell him what’s going on. But you can’t. You just can’t. You feel your chest tighten, your throat constricting. Every part of you wants to leave, to get away from the suffocating atmosphere of the garage, the pitying looks, and the questions you don’t want to answer.

“I… I just can’t right now,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t want to break down in front of him, especially not here. Not now. Not when everything feels like it’s crumbling around you. You shake your head, blinking away the tears threatening to fall. “I just need space,” you choke out, your voice cracking under the weight of it all.

“Please, I just need to go.” Austin doesn’t stop you this time. You step out of the garage, the cool air hitting your face, but it does nothing to numb the pain inside. As you walk past the crowd, the stares feel even sharper now, their judgment cutting through you like a knife. You ignore them, but the weight of their eyes only adds to the heaviness in your chest.

“Y/n, why are you leaving so soon?” A voice calls out from behind, but you don’t turn. Paparazzi surround you almost instantly, their cameras flashing in rapid succession, each click a reminder of the chaos you’re trying to escape. You keep walking, your head held high, your face stoic, their questions are nothing but noise.

You reach your car, your hands trembling as you unlock it, your phone buzzing relentlessly in your pocket. Your phone buzzes in your pocket again, persistent, like it won’t let you escape. You pull it out, knowing who it’s from before you even look at the screen. Rafe’s name is there, multiple texts, all apologies and pleading, the usual dance he does when he’s trying to fix something.

But this time, you can’t bring yourself to read them. Not now. Not after everything that just happened. You scoff, a bitter sound, the frustration and hurt bubbling up again. With a harsh swipe, you shove the phone back into your bag and slam the door of your car shut, the sound of the engine roaring to life offering you a strange kind of relief.

PART TWO HERE