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textmel8r · 5 months

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[ DRABBLE ] 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ! ( fourth installment ) in which you are forced to plan a corporate event with your office enemy .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; kento nanami

୨୧˚ cw; smut (?) , dub-con , alcohol consumption , profanity

( flashback; ) Wreaths and holly plants decked the usually barren, white walls of the seventh floor office level, and soft Christmas music looped on the overhead speaker in attempts to induce a jolly spirit. Colleagues conversed, discussing plans for December break over plastic cups of spiked cider. Everyone seemed in high morale; even Gakuganji, who donned a cheaply made Santa suit, still wrinkled from its time being folded in a package. Your first ever office party was about as much as you expected–not the worst time, but certainly not the best time, either. It didn’t help that you were still technically the “newbie” despite having been a member of the company for a few months at that point. Man, it was hard to make friends in an office full of stoic suits.

You remain near a far wall, slumped against the oversized copy machine with a drink in hand. Nobody had even appreciated your dress; a modest crimson thing with white, cottony trims to mimic Old Saint Nick. Figures. You pout into your cup, knocking back a heavy swig.

“Woah-ho, you sure went all out.”

The dialogue was unexpected and you sputter on a swallow of liquor, startled. A preemptive hand pats your back, something like a mother trying to burp a newborn. You swallow your spit at last, recollect yourself, and whip your head up to follow the source of the voice that nearly killed you. There stood a man tall and spindly in his stature with the most beautifully long, goldish hair drawn back into a ponytail. He is dressed down, wearing a simple pair of dark jeans and a sweater in favor of the suits nearly everyone else sported.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on ladies,” comes your meager reply. Your free hand smooths down the skirt of your dress, and you clear your throat. “You scared the shit out of me.”

The man smiles apologetically. “Ah, I noticed. My bad.”

“It’s okay. Just… just don’t do it again.”

“Roger that.” He has his own drink, and you manage to catch a glimpse of it over the rim of the solo cup. It’s a dark, murky color, much more amberish than the cider that was being served. “I haven’t seen your face around before, it made me curious.”

“I secured a position here during spring.” Now that you think about it, he was unfamiliar to you as well. You would have definitely remembered that ponytail. “Are you–I mean, do you work in this building?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, they got me holed up in the Shibuya location,” he winks, leaning in. “I make it a habit to come to all the office parties, though. I can’t resist a little holiday cheer.” Two bony knuckles move to brush delicately against the trim of your dress. “I’m Haruta Shigemo, and you’re…?”

“Not interested.”

Shigemo juts his bottom lip out. “C’mon, don’t be like that. I can’t know your name?”

Holding an index finger to your chin, you pretend to think about it. “What will you give me in return?”

A smirk worms its way onto Shigemo’s thin lips. He angles his hip toward you and pulls up the hem of his knitted sweater, gesturing to the uncanny flask half sticking out of his jeans’ pocket. “I brought good stuff,” he sings quietly, away from prying ears, and suddenly you understand the reason for his drink being a couple shades too dark. “And I’m good at sharing.”

Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the wisest decision to accept unknown liquor from a virtual stranger, you should’ve really considered all of the possible outcomes to this situation. You’d already had a little over two cups of warmed cider, rotating on the axis between tipsy and full on drunkenness. Your foggy brain didn’t care much to think about how some of this so-called “good stuff” would only lead to an inevitable, total inebriation. Or, a less likely but just as concerning scenario, Shigemo’s flask could be chock full of poison. Either way, you were itching to turn a less-than-okay party experience into a fun one.

“Y/n L/n,” you said finally, and Shigemo looks pleased. Strategically as to not give away the secret, he stood before you and widened his shoulders to create a makeshift cover while he poured a solid few glugs from flask to your cup. Immediately, the booze reeks of something strong like industrial glass cleaner. Your nose wrinkles as the stench singes the hair from your nostrils. “Smells fucking rancid.”

“Maybe you’re just not used to top shelf liquor?” Was that a dig? You’ll show him that you’re plenty accustomed with expensive booze (you’re not. not at all).

So you drank it. The taste of piss mixed with vinegar nearly made you retch, but after your second glass and an assload of determination, it started to taste… good? Maybe this Shigemo guy wasn’t too bad. The rest of the night was a blur of silly dancing to dumb Christmas songs, ugly laughing at the horse calendars pinned to the wall, and… well, the bathroom.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Your tone was breathy, a cross between giggly and pure apprehension. There in the men’s restrooms, you were perched up on the sink counter. That festive dress was slipped up around your hips by two slender, greedy hands, and a tiny waist worked between your thighs. Shigemo kissed you into silence.

“Why not?” He kisses you again, fumbling with his belt buckle. He’s nipping down your neck, whispering, “The risk is so fucking hot.”

And oh goodness, was he a man on a mission. Tearing the collar of your dress down beneath your breasts, fingering holes into your sheer stockings, stuffing a fist inside your panties… You were in no state of coherence to stop him.

Had it not been a professional obligation on his part to attend this year’s Christmas party, Nanami finds himself fantasizing about all the ways he’d much rather be spending this brisk winter evening. Probably soaking in his tub, nursing a glass of red wine and working on that book he’d been putting off thanks to the ungodly amount of work on his plate as of late. Then, he’d exercise those cooking skills he seldom had time to use and prepare a meal that had much more to offer than these feeble, sugary snacks at this party. Seriously? Cookies and cake? They were adults for goodness sake.

The floor was stuffy and claustrophobia-inducing. Everywhere he turned, Nanami was accidentally bumping somebody with his shoulder or his elbow or some other limb he lost track of. And the conversations were abysmal. Nanami has always been good with his words—he had to be in a profession like this—but Christ, talking to his zombies-for-coworkers was a worse fate than death itself. They drone on about office assignments, about deadlines and paperwork with no hint of light behind their eyes. Is that what he looks like to others? A worrisome thought, that Nanami was just as much of a slave to the corporate world as they were.

The deep train of thought is cut off before it spirals when red catches his eye. A dress red as rubies sticks out like a sore thumb among the sea of blacks and blues and grays of suits. You’re dressed in a silly get up, like those Mrs. Claus actresses in the malls that take pictures with children. Y/n L/n, Nanami recalls your name. He knows you, the newest employee in the office. He’s had very few chances to speak with you, and when he did it mostly consisted of him relaying orders from Mr. Gakuganji. But even in those brief instances, Nanami saw it plain as day: you were different. The first lively fool he’d seen in a while, eyes still glinting with the prospects of optimism and naive hope for the future. Foolish indeed, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. You were a breath of fresh air, but Nanami knew that it was only a matter of time before you were beaten and battered into another mindless cog in the corporation's machine.

A strange urge bloomed within the hollows of the man's chest; an urge that told him to initiate communication with you. Perhaps just a "hello" at the very least, seeing as you were his direct subordinate. It was the polite thing to do, right? Or maybe that was just a weak excuse he convinced himself of because Nanami didn't want to admit that you intrigued him in every sense of the word. You would provide an interesting back and forth, something Nanami desperately craved in the throes of this tedious party.

Golden eyes scanned the room. But no matter how long and meticulous he stared into the mass of bodies, Nanami could not locate the shade of red that had incited this search to begin with. There was a muted pit of disappointment the settled heavy in his stomach when he came to the realization that you simply were gone. He didn't doubt the probability that you ditched, no, he'd commend you for doing something he could not. Nanami sighs under his breath, lets his shoulders droop, and takes the last swig of his drink (water of course, the spiked cider was much too sweet for his tastes) before maneuvering through the crowd towards the bathroom. A five minute breather alone in a stall sounded like Heaven on Earth.

He shouldered through the metallic door, eyes closed, fingers tugging the knot of his too-tight tie as he stepped inside the restrooms. Only the sound of a feminine gasp was what pried his heavy eyelids open.

All three bodies froze: Nanami by the entrance with a slack jaw and wide eyes, a man he vaguely recalls from the Shibuya district stood between a pair of opened legs with his jeans tugged down to mid-thigh, and you. You, with your stupidly red dress in disarray, the neckline dipped below your bare breasts and the lower hem bunched up around the curve of your waistline. There you were, sitting up on the sink completely exposed... God, that bastard's hand was still buried down the front of your panties.

As if time suddenly unfroze, said bastard rips his hands away from your most delicate parts in favor of pulling his jeans back up. Nanami blinks once before cocking his head to the side at the unnatural speed of light, focusing on the faux plant in the corner, the uneven tiles beneath his dress shoes, the cracks in the eggshell paint on the wall... anything besides your indecent self.

"Whoops, would ya' look at that?" Shibuya fucker laughs halfheartedly as he fumbles with the button on his jeans, flustered and giggly. "Guess we got a little carried away there, my bad man!" He slinks towards the door, towards Nanami, but pauses. "Hey, you're Nanami Kento, right?"

"Yes." It's a cold response. Nanami doesn't look to the other man, instead he keeps his eyes trained down as to not get another eyeful of you.

"Aha right! Well," Shibuya fucker sweatdrops, clasping a hand over Nanami's shoulder. "Let's keep this a secret from the higher ups?"

The elder grimaces. "Please don't touch me."

The hand is ripped away. Shibuya fucker shows his palms in sort of a defensive stance as more anxious chuckles erupt from his throat. "Good seeing you, then!" And with that, he slips out of the bathroom leaving you high and dry. The prick didn't even bother to stay and help you get recollected.

"I'm decent." You sound meek, a tone Nanami has yet to hear from you thus far. It sounds small. Humiliated. "You... you can look now."

So he does, only to regret it. There you are, hopped off the sink and standing before him in a pitiful display. Your slender neck was tainted with love marks, darkened bruises bit into flesh with little artistry. Your stockings were shredded carelessly, bits of plumpness squishing through the holes. Your hair was mussed, forehead sweaty, lipstick smeared and... why was Nanami so irritated by the sight?

"What..." He starts, trying to find the words. "What is the matter with you?"

You gawk. "Nothing."

"Nothing." Nanami scoffs, hands pressed to his hips. "How careless could you possibly be? Fucking at a work event? I mean, for fuck's sake Y/n."

"I'm sorry, okay?" Your words are clipped. As if you have any right to catch an attitude with him right now.

"Sorry doesn't change the fact that you..." His sentence trails off into a tiny, frustrated growl scratching from the back of his tongue. The man takes his nose bridge between his thumb and forefinger. "The door was unlocked. Anyone could've walked in and saw you like that!" Exposed. Bare. Vulnerable.

"I don't know what else you want to hear other than sorry." Nanami doesn't miss the microscopic vocal crack in the word sorry. You hug yourself tight, forearms crossed over your chest. Your shoulders stutter, and your lips are sucked between your teeth to hide the wobble in them. "I'm... sorry."

You dress strap hangs off your shoulder. Nanami can't peel his gaze away from the strip of fabric. He takes a slow step in, gauging your reaction to it. You don't show any signs of discomfort, so he advances closer. The red strap is dainty against his rough fingers, so he cautions himself to be extra gentle when slipping it back up into place.

"Thanks," you sniffle.

He shushes you. Nanami isn't done yet, far from it. You still look disheveled and sad and weepy and he can't fucking stomach it for some ungodly reason. So he gets to work, first wetting a paper towel in the bathroom sink—the same one you'd been getting groped on a mere few minutes prior—and gingerly swipes away the smeared makeup from your kiss-swollen lips. Then, he's taking it upon himself to straighten out your hair. You let him stroke down your baby hairs without pushback, limply letting him rearrange your appearance as if you were some sort of life sized doll.

Nanami steps back to admire his work. The evidence of foreplay was nearly gone, save for the dreadful state of your stockings and those ugly teeth-shaped indents down the side of your neck. “Take those stockings off before you leave the bathroom,” he utters. “They look…” Slutty is the word that comes to mind first, but he’d never say it aloud. So he leaves it at that.

You’re looking at him with an unreadable expression. If anything, Nanami discerns a little concern in the way your brows turn upwards. “Are you going to tell anyone about this?”

He wants to oh so bad. To be the lame tattletale and snitch to Mr. Gakuganji because fraternization is wrong, and fraternization in the workplace is double wrong. “I should report you,” there’s a pregnant pause, “but I won’t.”

Why? He asks himself.

You seemed to have read his thoughts. “Why?”

Nanami doesn’t have an answer to that. Where is this slice of mercy coming from? All he knows for certain is that staring at the trembling woman in front of him any longer will have him blow a fuse. “Go home, Y/n.” It’s the last thing he offers before turning on his heel and walking back out into the Christmas function, swallowing down each and every confusing feeling swirling around his brain.

likes and reblogs are appreciated !

tags . • @justbelljust @amnmich @ti-mame @silkija @maddietries @vyntagei @ebrysteria @aesukuni

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greensparty · 2 years

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Remembering Jeremiah Green, Anita Pointer and John Osterlind / Rebecca Pratt

Well 2023 just began and news has come in that we actually lost two musicians and a radio personality at the very end of 2022. Here is my combined remembrance:

Remembering Jeremiah Green 1977-2022

Green’s Party salutes drummer Jeremiah Green

Modest Mouse drummer and co-founder Jeremiah Green has died at 45. The WA indie-rockers had some cool tunes and albums. He was in the band from 1993 to 2022, but took a short break from 2003-04, which happened to be their breakthrough year with Good News for People Who Love Bad News (great title) and hits like “Float On”. They came up at around the time of indie rockers Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Death Cab for Cutie were breaking into the mainstream in the early-mid 00s, which was exciting to see.

The link above is the obit from Rolling Stone.

Remembering Anita Pointer 1948-2022

The Pointer Sisters’ Break Out album from 1983

Singer Anita Pointer of The Pointer Sisters, the vocal group she co-founded with her sisters, has died at 74. They were one of the great pop R&B vocal groups of the 70s and 80s. My earliest exposure to them was the “Pinball Number Count” on Sesame Street. Still a cool sing-along song. They, then, had a string of hits including “Fire” (a Bruce Springsteen cover), “He’s so Shy”, “I’m So Excited” (made legendary by the famous episode of Saved by the Bell where Jesse melts down singing it), “Automatic”, “Jump (for my Love)” (released the same year as Van Halen’s “Jump” but wildly different), “Neutron Dance” from Beverly Hills Cop, and “Dare Me”, many of these I was exposed to on MTV and V66 when I was learning about music at a young age. They also took part in USA for Africa’s “We are the World”. They also did a fun cover of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” on A Very Special Christmas album.

On July 4, 1995, I went with a group of friends to the Boston Pops 4th of July at the Hatch Shell in Boston. There were too many people and we had to leave since there was nowhere to sit or stand, but off in the distance I was able to hear The Pointer Sisters performing a medley with the Pops.

The link above is the obit from Hollywood Reporter.

Remembering John Osterlind / Rebecca Pratt 1967-2022

Osterlind with WAAF in the mid 90s

[UPDATED 1/4/23] Radio personality formerly known as John Osterlind has died at 55. From 1992 to 2001 they were a DJ on WAAF-FM in Boston. In April 1995, I saw Slash’s Snakepit in concert at Axis in Boston and they hosted the show. I talked to them for a few minutes and was very cool. After 2001 they left WAAF and in 2003 left Boston for New Orleans.

Since my initial post, several obits have now brought to my attention that in the last few years, John transitioned to Rebecca Pratt. Story updated accordingly.

The link above is the obit from Audacy.

#jeremiah green #modest mouse #rip #the pointer sisters #anita pointer #Sesame Street #Bruce Springsteen #saved by the bell #beverly hills cop #usa for africa #a very special christmas #the boston pops #john osterlind #waaf-fm #slash's snakepit #music nerd #radio #rebecca pratt

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iznsfw · 8 months

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Reputation, Or Whatever That Is

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 12 - Jang Wonyoung

IVE's Jang Wonyoung x Male Reader Smut

7,063 words

Categories | daddy kink, brat!Wonyoung, squirting, blowjob, please appreciate Wonyoung's power bottom capabilities

Sorry, Yena is coming out sometime but I wanted to finally write something timely. JANG WONYOUNG WHAT THE FUCKKKKK.

Please bear with the religious metaphors, I have Catholic guilt and Wonyoung reignites it. I'm not sorry for all the other fucked up shit here I'm just ooga boogaing because what the FUCK

It’s a little brighter today than usual. The sun surely knows what's about to happen upon its rising. It has no plans of telling you beforehand, so you’re forced to find out yourself.

You open Instagram, which is insane because you never bother to look at pictures—much less edited, filtered ones made for meaningless impressions. Your blissful ignorance of online concepts is what would make your fans hate you if they had space in their deluded hearts to. Or maybe that’s your age talking.

But today, clicking on that app is what you do, and that already should have been a sign that something’s not right. The usual run of your universe has gone off course. Who could have made that so?

Coffee. The black stillness that’s pure of sweetness and sugar. That’s supposed to keep everything normal. You sip on it as you scroll through clickbait, fan accounts, edits—

Then you wish you never took that hot gulp at all.

Wonyoung.

It’s all because of her.

She stands there from behind your screen, silky hair tangled in those lithe long fingers. She’s looking at the camera like she wants whoever took the time to click on her profile to come over and fuck her right now. Man or woman, poor or rich—it doesn’t matter. What ought to matter though is the fact that she doesn’t have someone’s hands slipped around her waist and pulling her close.

You shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

Usually, she’s dressed in knitted pink coats and miniskirts; looking fashionable but modest, modest but unplain. That’s what everyone loves about Jang Wonyoung: she’s prim, sweet, and the daughter of the nation.

Now, she’s the ideal girl to take right home and have your wicked way with. Yes, you’d feel guilty since she’s so young, just the little age of nineteen. Still, that doesn��t mean you’d have any regrets. She’s the kind of girl you can’t get away from. You’ll always come back for more.

You’d hate to be so upfront, but there’s no other way to interpret it.

There’s that fucking denim bra hugging her tiny chest, stitched up so high that her abs are on full display. That little pinch of a waist curves so perfectly right up to her wide hips that invite and invite and invite—

Remember to exhale.

So, yeah. That’s how Wonyoung ruined your day, and you barely had your morning coffee.

A text message from your boss appears. You nearly miss it because of how you’re staring all ogle-eyed at the tempting girl on your screen. Before you even click it, you already know what you ought to do.

hey, it reads, you need to—

—go to Wonyoung, and for such a scandalous photo, she’s chosen a remote but classy hotel only the biggest stars know of to shoot it.

There’s no going back when you drive like you’re running from the law when you’ll break one if you pull the wrong stunt with her. Your throat’s coiled with an unreleased breath that won’t go away unless you see her. It’s like traveling with the promise of meeting a goddess, and although you’re not religious anymore, you wear very, very close to rediscovering faith.

The hotel is grand—clear marble floors and shining chandeliers—and it’s no surprise. Wonyoung wouldn’t have things any other way. You know that when she’s come to your office to complain about her outfits and brands.

You go up to the desk with prepared evidence for what you’re going to say. “I’m an associate of your client miss Jang Wonyoung,” you say to the lady tapping away behind her computer, “and I’ve come to visit her.”

Associate? It’s more like mentor. You’re a veteran idol whose efforts inspire the rookies, therefore getting you the responsibility of looking out for Wonyoung. So, father figure, maybe? You wince at that.

She makes a polite sad look, still not removing her eyes from the screen. “I’m sorry, miss Jang doesn’t have—”

Slide your ID card on the counter.

She glances at it, stiffens, then looks up at you. There’s only one of you in the entire South Korea, and although the 1x1 traces back to when you were a bit more youthful, it’s not hard to put two and two together.

She apologizes quickly and offers you an elevator ride exclusive for VVIPs. Smile. It’s been a while since your last return to music, but everyone knows you here. Everyone knows your power.

Wonyoung’s place is the first room on the twelfth floor, a flinching irony.

Knock. You rap your knuckles three times for good luck and charm, because you’ll need it with her. Jang Wonyoung is everything save an easy girl. You remember the many times she refused to give up a debate on how she’s managed, how she’s styled, how she’s treated. She wants things to go her way only.

“Wonyoung,” you call out. Fidget with the handle of the door that refuses to budge. “It’s me.”

Knock a little more. There’s no eye behind the peekhole or a soft “come in.” You receive only the unlocking of the furnished knob and a welcome that makes you wish this could go the way your morals would want it to go.

The door opens you to a gorgeous suite that’s the supreme of all room tiers. This is the kind that only the richest of the rich are able to attain. Big as a house with a soft carpeted ground, there’s a queen-sized bed before a wide window of the city. Picture frames commissioned by the wealthy hang from the painted walls. All for the fucking aesthetic.

Even you, a star who paved the way for the Korean entertainment industry itself, aren’t used to this type of wealth.

Find her sitting on the ledge of the window frame. Wonyoung has her hands resting on the sides of the window frame. She doesn’t try at least a stance at nonchalance—no admiring stare at the beautiful view, no worried gaze at her clean fingernails. Her interest is you standing before her like you’re afraid to touch her. She might be right, but it’s not like you’d ever have it in you to admit that.

Even you, a man lusted over by girls and women all over the world, aren’t used to this kind of woman—the kind that eats away at you.

“Wonyoung.” Inside, you feel like the weakest man in the world.

She has this smarmy, confident smile on her perfect lips that tells you that it’s no surprise that you’ve come all the way here for her. No surprise at all. She expected it. Anticipated it, if you will.

Don’t mistake the coquettish float of her lashes for theatrics. No, Jang Wonyoung’s just naturally someone you’d want to fuck, no matter the politics of it. “Yes?”

Her voice is also just that pretty. That’s a large part of why it’s so hard to act professional in front of her when she’s your mentee. Even more so by the fact you’re someone she’s looked up to for the majority of her trainee years, which is already something that would make people’s brows lift.

“Wonyoung.” You let your shoulders rest. “Why are you still dressed like that?”

You know all the dialogue that passes around the general public. Oh, Jang Wonyoung’s so gorgeous! Jang Wonyoung’s even more beautiful in real life! You hate to say you can’t disagree. She’s deadlier in person; her body’s there before the glass like she’s waiting for someone to give in to temptation. That coy simper can ruin careers. It can ruin yours.

To think it all could be gone because of a nineteen-year-old celebrity with a tiny waist and legs you’d love to have around your head.

“Why are you still dressed like someone from the eighties?” Wonyoung taps her chin, then grins. She’s figured it all out. “Oh wait, you are.”

You’re not taking insults from someone who’s below you in experienced years and power. Unluckily, she’s not taking advice from someone above her or below her.

The step you take towards her, towards the little star seated comfortably waiting for you, feels like a sin.

“You’re incredibly unprofessional for a girl who’s worked her way up here,” you note. Cross your arms and give her a reprimanding look.

Wonyoung’s immune to nasty looks, too. She’s been doing this since she was a child. If someone gave her a glare that read all too well of a career assassination, she’d wink the bullet away sweetly. “Hm,” she says contemplatively, “I don’t think you get to say that, honestly.”

Your laugh is blunt and sarcastic. Unbelievable. Wonyoung’s the kindest girl according to the people who work for her, so why is she a rebel in your hands? It doesn’t make sense.

“Look here, we—”

You take three steps closer to her. You’ll keep your little rituals and superstitions to keep yourself grounded. Without them, you’d go insane.

Then without her having to do anything, she comes nearer, like a doomsday foretold by a ticking clock. Who knows? That clock could be a bomb, and that bomb would set off if you dare to touch her with a trembling fingertip. You’d leave the scene injured. And eventually, you’d die the moment they try to help you, because the deed’s been done.

“Oh, I’m looking, alright,” she chirps. She’s doing what you’ve held yourself back from doing: letting her eyes wander. “And I really, really like what I see.”

You’re someone several awards her senior, and you’re still quite intimidated by her at this moment. She’s so sweet yet so honest—she won’t make up a lie to make you feel better and she won’t hide the truth to make you comfortable. Refuse the truth her eyes locked on your crotch tell. You won’t accept it. It’s not right.

“I’m serious.” Approaching her makes you want to go on your knees and beg the lord for a little saving. Do it anyway. No one will rescue you. That’s what the industry taught you. “You’ve made it all the way up here. All by yourself. There’s gotta be something. What are you throwing it all away for?”

She laughs. Funniest thing she’s ever heard. “I’m not. How am I throwing it all away?”

“Those posts,” you hiss. Doesn’t she get it?

Before she could ask you what you’re talking about, you whip out your phone. Click on the app icon. It instantly shows you the opened tab containing Wonyoung’s recent Instagram posts. Look at her, wrapped in nothing, not even those curtains—giving the camera bedroom eyes when girls her age shouldn’t be shooting them at anyone or be aware of how to.

It’s already massed a million likes in under an hour. But you know what people who turn on anyone easily will say, and what they say could blot Wonyoung’s bright future by a lot. A million people around the world have caught sight of the abs she’s worked hard for, her toned back, and just about everything. A loud minority with frisky influences can sabotage her whole reputation.

“These posts,” you continue, shoving the screen into the poor girl’s face, “can take away everything you’ve worked for. All that fame, all that money, you can’t brag about them after this.”

Wonyoung looks on innocently. She stares at the screen with uninterested eyes, then switches them back on you. She looks like such a good girl in that second, with her hands seated beside her and that face so full of sparkling perfection.

Deception can’t lead you away.

“So, what’s it gonna be, Wonyoung?”

Long silence that builds up your frustration. Finally, she clicks her tongue. Gives you a shrug of her thin shoulders.

“You liked it.”

“What?”

She points to your phone. “You liked my post,” she repeats. “It says so right there.”

What the hell is she talking about?

You look at the device you’re brandishing. For a while, you can’t find out what she’s referring to. You can never take a liking to her posts, although if they switch on something you didn’t know you can feel. You’d die before—

The heart.

Wait.

The heart button below her set of pictures is filled with red.

Your heart pumps faster, a button pushed and played.

Fuck.

You turn to her and open your mouth. No sensible words come out. You swear you didn’t tap twice on her update or take it to a private setting. How did it happen? Worse, even if you say that to her, she’d take it as a pathetic lie.

Wonyoung giggles. It’s a tinkly sound that’s adorable, but you’ve long realized that being cute is not all there is to her. She rises slowly, sets her palms over your blazer-clad arms, and gives you an empathetic face. It’s so condescending that you want to dissolve.

“I know what men like you are all about,” she tells you. She speaks with a sultriness that makes you feel warm and has bumps appearing in masses across your skin.

She smiles. Her eyes disappear into crescent moons and the dimple appears on her cheek. You’re done for.

“Come on,” Wonyoung continues, squeezing your forearms. “Here you are, a big old man known for being a good singer or whatever. You’re so popular that the first thing that pops up on Naver is your face. Everything goes right for you, doesn’t it?”

You have no idea where she’s going with this. You’re afraid to even ask. Your teeth grit as her massages grow stronger, harder.

Something else is, too.

“Then, of course, you see me.”

Her hand. It’s curling around your wrist and bringing your fingers right around that flawless waist. She closes them there tightly.

It’s so bad that it’s good. You want to keep touching her, maybe slip your gliding fingers down her jeans. Oh, you shouldn’t. You can’t.

“You see me, and you get all hot and bothered. And what’s so funny is I’m not even doing anything. I’m just being myself, you know. Being young and rich… a beautiful girl…” Wonyoung is unbuttoning your shirt and you don’t realize it. “You can’t understand how I’m allowed to be this hot when you can’t even fuck me with a normal conscience.”

It’s all so wrong. You want to shake her by the shoulders and tell her to shut up. But if Medusa has her eyes, Wonyoung has her lips to turn you to stone. They keep opening elegantly to speak the filthiest, most fucked up shit, and you can’t deny anything.

Her eyes are creased with knowing pride. Her youth doesn’t rescue her from being so messed in the head already. Those thoughts don’t go along with such a pretty face.

“That’s why you like to get rough with me. You tell me to watch how I speak, watch how I act. You tell me to stop talking to you like you’re no one. You tell me that I’m such a little brat. But you only do that so you can get to control me. That’s your most fucked up dream, right?”

Her mouth is the tiniest space away from your chin.

You’re another word away from saving yourself a spot in damnation.

Her finger that scratches a flaw on your blazer beckons you to the fire. “You’re not breaking the law or anything,” says Wonyoung, “so why not break me instead, daddy?”

That’s a deal sealed with a rough kiss.

You grab her cruelly and cover her lips with yours. They’re more amazing than you imagined, soft and competent with how she pushes in deeper, depriving herself of the air she needs the most just to get what she needs just a bit more:

You.

Your tongues collide and clash, striving to get the most taste. She pulls your blazer off (because fuck professionalism, right?) while she kisses you with a hunger that’s equally mental and physical. It’s not like she’d bruise up if you didn’t get your hands on her yet it’s close to that.

And, in your case, it’s not like you’re breaking any law. She’s nineteen, not anywhere under the limits you’d kill others and yourself for touching. Nonetheless, you’re much older—by age, she could be your daughter; by career, she’s your junior; by power, you’re much stronger.

So, it’s still so wrong.

Can’t be when Wonyoung’s fist, firm around your cock, feels so right.

Can’t be when she lands on the edge of the bed with her lips parted in delight as she watches your dick stiffen under her service.

“There you go, daddy,” she coos, smirking. “Just get all hard for me, then you can stuff that big thing up in my pussy.”

Her thumb toys with your cockhead. You purse your lips to hold back a groan. Let go of it anyway when her smooth, closed palm rubs your sensitive flesh. She cups your balls lovingly before gliding her teasing fingertips under your length, right up to your tip. The girl knows how to do this; she’s good at more things other than MCing and performing.

Wonyoung hones this skill with firmer pumps, giving you the handjob of a lifetime. Her long fingers are just made to handle dick. Each stroke is perfection that holds and pulls and slides. You’re leaking so much already.

So you turn into the driver of the hate train, the press that loves getting her bad angles and the articles that slash up her name:

Blame it all on her.

Because you have here a girl, young and pretty and confident, so of course you have to scrape off your sins and nail them all on her, like a quivering hand to wood.

“You think you’re getting it that easily?” you say. Your moan is squeezed in your throat. “Baby, you’re not even close to it.”

Wonyoung smirks. It’s that self-assured, elegant smile that tells you that won’t work on her. She might be a rookie, but she knows how to play the game.

She tightens her grip painfully. That’s what you get for trying to one her up. Do that to anyone, just not Jang Wonyoung. Your cry goes unheard as she yanks you rather than jerks you off. Spits on your head for good measure. Wonyoung’s eyes make a connection with your soul and says, Yep, that’s what I’d do if you weren’t my senior. In fact, I’d do it regardless. I’d choke and spit and leave you to die, because a pretty Samaritan is better than a good one.

“You’re really out of touch, daddy.”

With Wonyoung slathering her drool all over you, you’re forced to teeter on the line between heaven and hell. It burns yet the offer of pleasure leaves you sated.

“You think I’m like the pretty girls out there? Other girls might have broken down and begged you to come back.”

Your rod is subjected to a brief torrid kiss, then a smile as the wicked girl looks up at you.

She laughs, gives you this smile full of haught and womanly power. “Too bad I’m Jang Wonyoung,” she says, her last words before taking you in.

Yes, it’s too bad she’s Jang Wonyoung. It’s too bad she’s not the other girls who’d kneel for a burning touch of stars like you. She wouldn’t be holding control over you with the power of her lips if she had sanity in that pretty head.

Her plump tiers wrap around you and seize everything, encasing it in softness and wetness. Her tongue, the one she uses as a killer expression for her selfies and Instagram updates, kills you all the same with how it swirls around your skin and tastes you. Trying to pretend the girl wasn’t a pro at this like she is with everything else is useless. She’ll keep proving you wrong and overpowering you.

The whole of your shaft is sucked in, then, when her cute nose is pressed directly to your stomach, she lets out a hummed laugh. You shudder—as much as it makes you feel good, fear grips your muscles and makes them limp. She’s loving how wrong everything is, and you’re not sure if you like it.

Her jaw slacks, and then Wonyoung’s swallowing you like you’re water. Can’t be water when you’re this solid in her throat. You let out a shivering groan. You can picture the bulge in Wonyoung’s neck and it’s the last thing you’d count on turning you on, but they did tell you to expect the unexpected.

Her saliva becomes excessive, resulting in some dribbles down her chin that help her work her mouth on you. Wonyoung’s drool sheens you entirely and she keeps adding more. On the occasion she pushes her face into your stomach, your cock gets wetter. She does, too.

“Fuck.” Cussing won’t help deter the onslaught of pleasure. You’re unsalvageable. Say it anyway. You babble meaningless, slurred words and not one gets to Wonyoung. All she can hear is the sound of your quivering moans and her mouth taking you all in.

She becomes less of an idol, less of the elegant princess for the cameras, and instead a fleshlight. However, she reminds you that it isn’t that way with a fierce sneer that stays on at all times. She’s not your girl—she’s Jang Wonyoung, and you’re already incredibly lucky that she chose to go down on you.

All that beautiful hair isn’t of any purpose if you don’t get to touch it, to gather it in a ponytail, to pull on it. Your fingers creep into her brown locks not only to give it a little meaning but also for sanity.

That isn’t a thing in Wonyoung’s world. She pulls your hand off and slaps it on your side. “No,” she says with a shake of her head. “Daddy can’t touch me, not when he’s pretending that he’s hot shit.”

Her nails bury themselves in your hips. Oh, the manicured talons of a gorgeous monster. Oh, the pain that runs through your sides. Should you run before she devours you? Too late for that.

“Wonyoung,” you breathe, and then ask, genuinely: “What the hell is wrong with you?”

She’s so proper and serene on her shows that not even her most desperate fan would think she’s a terror. They don’t know she’s a girl who likes older, weaker men who’d ruin her if she hasn’t the pretty face and attractively black heart to do them the favor instead.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You’d respond if you knew the answer.

Wonyoung rubs her thumb under your dick, sending little sparks aflying. “Why’d you kiss me earlier?” Her lipstick decorates it as a kinder girl would to your face. “Why didn’t you grab my hair and tell me to be a good girl? Why didn’t you leave? It’s not my fault you want to fuck me.”

All these words of destruction and your cock remains standing. It’s a staunch reminder to her that you can say whatever you want and the hard evidence remains. You want to fuck Wonyoung. You want to do it to a rookie who’d turn the story around on you if it ever came out. You want to fuck her so bad it’s borderline pitiable.

“I’m just giving you what you want, daddy.” Her fingers caress your sides. “Trust me, I could be a very good girl if I wanted to.”

You almost didn’t believe that until Wonyoung started to suck you off again.

Her lips stroke you effortlessly as if this were her pastime. That’s your most accurate guess, because this seamless performance—the one of her mouth working on you with the impression that this whole thing is nothing to her—can’t be a natural gift. The combination of dripping saliva and her soft lips is lethal.

It’s unbelievable how she manages to find all your tender spots. She preys on them, licking and licking until you’re very sure you were going to blow all over her. But you can’t give her that satisfaction.

You’re very close to doing so though. She’s perfectly sloppy and rough. You glare at her when she lightly teases her teeth on your girth. She winks at you in response. She leaves you breathless in so many ways.

“Wonyoung, Wonyoung, god—” you whine. It’s so hard to adapt to the girl sitting there with that innocent face and wild mouth that doesn’t dare give up on you.

Her expressions on camera are always poised. Off camera, there’s this one she flashes you as she shoves her face into your stomach that looks downright evil. Although she’s already fucking you with her throat, Wonyoung partners it with strong suction that’s sure to drain you.

“Yes, daddy?” She doesn’t pant when she goes up for air, replacing her sucking with her long fingers.

“I’m really close,” you admit. It’s obvious from your shaking legs.

Sounds of returned wet suction start to increase. Criticism and compliments prod Wonyoung on. How else would she improve in her idol life? In blowing you? In devouring you?

You realize you’re fitting the cliché. There’s you, an idol whose name is uttered on the daily by both young and old fans, igniting a scandal in the making by fucking a girl beneath you in everything. There’s this expensive suite where stars go for a little precious privacy to do what they want. There’s the two of you doing exactly what you desire: fucking each other. There’s the classic maneater trope with how it’s more like Wonyoung fucking you—she fucks you with her face, fucks you in the head, fucks with your righteousness. Well, fuck.

Wonyoung drools so much that you’re invited to a sea the moment your head pushes past her tongue again. It’s slicker, sloppier, and so much sexier because she’s so completely devoted to your cock. Her hypnotizing eyes trap you and so does her body, tight and tiny—that tummy is flatter than a board and only thin panties hide what her long legs lead to from the bottom.

The only time she stops sucking you is when she darts her tongue side to side with an unhinged pace on your sensitive tip. “Good. Cum in my throat.”

“Shit, god, I can’t—”

Wonyoung attacks you again, and there, in her warm orifice, your plentiful orgasm spends itself. Her throat welcomes you tightly every time. Her hot restricted breaths fan your groin and evokes more semen that spills with no care.

Your hands ball into fists. Although you’re hot and shaking, you can’t touch her. Why are you following her rules when it should be the other way around? It’s a reversal of roles, a Stockholm’s Syndrome of some sorts whose victim is your cock never wanting to leave from the predatory embrace of Wonyoung’s puckered kiss.

Of course, after she gathers all of your cum in the pool of her mouth, she swallows.

She really could be a good girl.

“Awh.” Wonyoung pouts mockingly. “Daddy, are you crying?”

Touch your face. To your horror, she’s right. The electricity and shock of her continuous blowjob results in a few tears on your cheeks. You haven’t done that in years. Wonyoung is the first one to make you cry like this.

You flush. What more to hide your weakness than anger? “Wonyoung,” you start, then you realize you don’t know what to say, “I—you—”

She smiles. You aren’t going anywhere.

She shoves you to the bed. You’ve reached rock bottom in spite of the softness of the quality pillows. You’ll scrape your way out if not for Wonyoung finishing the job by keeping you there assisted by her legs. They close around you with not even a courtesy false promise of an escape. No negotiation, no coaxes.

Wonyoung is sitting on your crotch but not on your dick, which is a problem. Which is a solution. Her hands are pinned to your chest while you try not to meet her eyes. It’s a losing game when your runaway glances are met by her grinding hips, silky thighs, and the hard, flexing abs of a perfection of a midriff.

Her fingers tug on the waistband of her panties before slowly slipping them off. Her pink pussy clear of blemish or hair comes in contact with your length. Up and down she goes, her dancing hips always seeking for more friction. You understand their need because you share the same—Wonyoung’s splayed lips on your member feel heavenly. It’s kind of disappointing that she might as well have climbed her way out of hell.

If she did, she’s the prettiest little devil you’ve ever seen.

“Ohhh, don’t you get it?” Wonyoung asks. She moves so smoothly, you nearly forget she’s humping you rather than dancing. Her soft moan brings you back. It’s the first time you’ve heard it, and you’re melting; it sounds so seductive and innocent in the same breath.

You know her. She knows you. So it’s clear: Jang Wonyoung can be anything—supermodel, actress, dancer—but she cannot ever be innocent.

Her gorgeous voice is silky when it twists into moans and gasps. Looking down at your crotches meeting and swaying is a better show than end-of-the-year performances. The blowjob and commanding you around must have turned her on by a lot—her flesh is hot and wanton with juices as it slides up and down you.

“You’re not going anywhere, daddy!” Wonyoung giggles. She kisses your nose, then your chest until her lipstick marks you. You burn up with feverish lust after each peck. “Daddy is only Wonyoung’s. And I knew your perfect cock would be mine when I posted those pics. I know men like daddy would do anything for me.”

“Wonyoung.” Breathe again, because you’ll need to after this, so why not do it now? “Why are you doing this?”

You thought her flirtatiousness in your office was just her coyness coming out to play. She’d rest her chin on your desk, suck a red lollipop on some days, maybe run her fingertips over your knuckles. Day in and out, she plays the same game. You didn’t know it would reach this level.

“Because I want to mess you up, daddy,” Wonyoung says. Her tongue swipes at the cavern of your mouth right until she nibbles at your lower lip. Her lipstick peppers your face. “I want to fuck my daddy up so bad he’ll never go a day without thinking of me.”

Swallow. The friction of your sexes is driving you crazy and close to the edge. All the same, you don’t want to make a fool of yourself cumming early for Wonyoung.

What happened to your dynamics? Your relationship? There wasn’t a romantic one, but it was always you holding the reins professionally and her just being an insistent passenger. Now she’s wrapping that rein around your neck and claiming you for her own. Looks like you have control everywhere excluding the bed.

“That’s it?” you ask. Shut your eyes—just seeing her grind on you with her utterly wet cunt can make you bust. “Your career doesn’t matter to you?”

“I could say the same thing to you.” Wonyoung lifts herself up and flashes that wicked smile again. “But I want to feel this in me before you wimp out.”

You and Wonyoung fall down a bottomless hole of consequence and wrongs but Wonyoung makes sure to bottom out the first time she sits on your dick. She engulfs you whole and traps you there with her soaked, grippy walls that slide all the way down.

You’d say her pussy has a vise grip, holding onto you like all goes wrong if it didn’t, except you think it has the grip of a vice. Need for her juices that coat you replaces the need for alcohol. Even if you get out of this suite alive, (which is a low possibility), you can see yourself always coming back for more. You could be addicted to anything—smoking, eating, cheating—but it just so happened your vice is Wonyoung.

“Daddy!” she yelps, and from there you can’t count the times she slams her cute butt down your thighs. “Oh my god, daddy!”

Her dainty, cute yells make you throb inside her. Perhaps it’s the kittenish quality of it that turns you on so much. She sounds so appealing, so fucking ruinable that it’s surprising to see that she’s doing the ruining here. Her expression in bed is more animated than the ones she makes onstage—her nearly closed eyes look upwards while her mouth falls open.

The squeeze of her tight, wet cunt renders your knees weak. It’s a good thing you’re lying down. Wonyoung makes sure you stay that way by penetrating herself with you over and over again. Her being barely a weight on you doesn’t stop you from lying there uselessly. You know better by now not to challenge her, not when each time you enter her vagina is better than the last. Her pussy is slippery and tight, proving to be the smallest and the best fit for your shaft simultaneously. Her hole is too tight and too good.

“Is this all for me, daddy? Huh?” Wonyoung circles her hips, making you moan, then continues her up-and-down movements. “You’re so hard, you naughty daddy. I know you got a b-boner when you looked at my posts. Now I’m giving you another one.”

You always thought of Wonyoung as justifiably confident yet arrogant. She told you once at your desk that she doesn’t deserve a stylist who only has a four-star rating. She lamented about the lack of competence of her staff preparing her comeback stage. All those you turned down to give the topics of her complaints the benefit of the doubt, but you know she’s right. She doesn’t deserve less when she’s better than the best. She doesn’t deserve less when she knows her place: a royal throne. So you can’t deny that she’s too hot to handle, undiscriminating to you whose connections always have impossibly beautiful women somewhere in there.

She’s so hot that her small breasts bouncing from behind that denim bra and tube top looks appealing. She’s so hot that the heat between her legs grows wetter. She’s so hot that when her soft ass crashes down on you again, you don’t find it a repetitive bore.

She’s so hot that you’d let the slim, tall girl use you until dusk turns to dawn, even if the curtains behind her are drawn apart and the secret cameras get to snap a photo.

“Shit, Wonyoung,” you say, your core squeezing. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“I bet you’ve thought about this, daddy. You thought that one night, I’ll be so bad that you could book us a whole hotel and fuck me in all the rooms, just like this one. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yes, fuck yes.”

“You wanted to open my legs and use my little pussy all day long, huh? Until I’m yours to throw around and do whatever?”

“Y-yes.” Nod. Your face twists—she shouldn’t speak when she’s fucking you because all the filth she says makes you want to blow inside her already. It’s the kind of truth that arouses rather than hurts.

Wonyoung’s riding switches to a rapid intensity that makes you yell. She lets you in so deep to the point that her butt cheeks touch your heavy balls. She’ll drain them for sure; the pace she sets is terrifyingly quick. It seems that she becomes tighter after each bounce, and it’s not helping you hold out at all.

Watch the wildness in Wonyoung’s eyes become animalistic. It makes you all the more certain now of one solid fact: there is something seriously wrong with Jang Wonyoung.

She smirks. “Well, you got it wrong. I’m not all yours, daddy.” She leans down, resting her palms on your shoulders. “You are all mine.”

Her hands might as well be a chained collar waiting to close around your neck. Her devilish simper is supposed to scare you, not turn you on. Somehow, it does both.

She flicks back her hair as she sits up again. Through it all, her riding doesn’t stop. “This cock?” she asks before slamming her pussy down it with a different kind of ferociousness. Cry out but she shuts you up with a furious kiss. “It’s gonna be my dirty secret. I’ll always go to daddy after my schedules so I can make him cum—over and over again.”

To think that a young girl like her has you at her beck and call is laughable, but there’s no laughing now. As you stare at Wonyoung’s fluid body and her hair bouncing beautifully, you realize she actually can have you for herself. It only took one Instagram post to lure you to her. She sees you’re falling deeper and deeper for her.

She didn’t exactly tell you how to escape.

“You gonna cum, daddy? Is my perfect pussy milking you?”

You can do nothing except nod.

“Of course, I can feel you throbbing, i-it’s making me lose it,” gasps Wonyoung. Her whines are making you lose it yourself. “Let’s cum together, okay? You can only cum when you feel Wonyoung squirt all over your massive cock.”

She squeezes tighter on top of you when she reaches down to rub her clit. She’s in search of any kind of stimulation: the slap of her ass on your thighs, the upward shoves of your erection, the pulse of her clit. Her moans increase in their whiny girlishness. Their tender vulnerability makes you think she should be the one underneath your body though you’re aware that’s never going to happen. Wonyoung belongs on top, just the same with her name in first place in the list of brand reputation rankings, browser searches, followers.

Once upon a time, you took charge over her. You managed her lessons, her videos, her behind-the-scenes duties. Funny how it’s the opposite now, wherein she jounces on you freely with the domineering message of caution: don’t cum until she does.

And god, is she making that hard. Everything about her is so attractive, from the bounce of her hair to her midriff showing your entering cock to her pretty pink pussy clutching you. What gets you, however, is her face—everyone loves looking at that face. Today, you’re under an aphrodisiac for it: you’re in love with the roll of her eyes as she rides you, the pink on her cheeks, the part of her lips.

“Fuck yes! Ugh, daddy, you feel so good inside me…” Wonyoung’s core clenches and slides your penis along its textured, sensitive walls. Her gasp is straight out of fantasies. “You’re balls deep, see? Look how your meat’s filling me. My pussy’s going to be so sore after this.” She chuckles. “Wait, who says we’re stopping?”

You shudder. You’re getting very close. Your earlier orgasm still has its effects on you. You’re afraid you’re going to do something you shouldn’t under her bedroom law. She’ll imprison you with her thighs and waterboard you with all the girl cum she promised until you confess that she’s the best fuck you ever had.

“Daddy’s going to cum so hard he’s probably going to breed me. Then I’ll, oh, I’ll feel it inside my tummy and it’s going to be a scandal. Wouldn’t you like that? Getting to knock up Jang Wonyoung? I can hear you moaning. I think you really like that. I think that’s why you’re thrusting up in me. You want to be a real daddy and make your baby girl a mommy. That’s so fucked up, you know that, right? You shouldn’t be having sex with me, let alone breeding me. But you’re a fucking weak old man, so of course you like that.”

You’re burning up. They’re the signs of what’s to come. If her confident words inspire her young fans, her monologues of lust make you feel like you’re the worst person in the world. Of course, the boner is part of the effect.

You groan. “Wonyoung, baby girl, please—”

“Oh god, daddy, I’m going to cum!” she squeals. Her emotions control her and tell her to go harder, bounce harder, squeeze harder. She’s pushing past her limits. “Agh, agh, you’re cumming, too, right? Cum for me. You’ll be—fuck, my daddy’s going to make me cum! I’m squirting all over his cock!”

She slams herself down roughly and repeatedly till your lower body’s flooded with her cum. You can’t take it anymore. It feels like dying because you swear you can see stars in the ceiling, stars of lust in her eyes. La petite mort. How poetic, since Wonyoung’s screaming still sounds as beautiful as her singing and speaking.

Her shouts are close to breaking the windows’ glass. Anyone can figure out what’s happening without the destruction of the pane—the curtains are wide open, letting the world see the youngest icon of the new generation pumping herself onto her co-worker.

You wonder if there’s actually poor watchers out there seeing you cream Wonyoung’s princess pussy, grab her ass to guide her, and kiss her when she leans down.

Wonyoung tastes the best when she’s squirting.

Consequences always catch up no matter what. You can hide under a cloak, in another country, underneath the earth in a secluded bunker and all that won’t help. You’ll be stuck dealing with the outcome, thorns from a rose you thought was too pretty to have some.

That’s the first thing you remember when you wake up, wrapped in the bed sheets and by Wonyoung’s arms. Someone’s calling you. Bad news: it’s your boss—the ringtone itself sounds angry, too.

“Hello?” you ask. You can’t help the grogginess of your morning voice, try as you may. If your boss didn’t know what happened, he can perfectly guess from the exhaustion riddling your greeting.

“You dumb little shit.” You can feel the spittle of your boss’ insult from miles away, cities away, screens away. “You’re lucky I’m friends with the fucking CEO.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t give me that. Some janitor saw you from the wing. I needed to hear it from you: did you fuck Jang Wonyoung?”

Unexpectedly, a veiny hand you remember holding something else grabs your phone. Wonyoung leans against your shoulder wearing nothing as she holds the phone to her ear.

“Why?” she quips, loud and clear. “Wouldn’t you?”

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mididressobsessed · 2 years

Photo

Source: instagram.com/neesees_dresses

#red dress #pencil dress #midi dress #modest dress #christmas dress

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fundielicious-simblr · 4 months

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(Kyleigh's POV)(Summary: Where we last left off, Barrett and Kyleigh are expecting their 12th child, the seasons have just changed to winter, and the next big event is Celeste's wedding - Family tree for reference)

This pregnancy is going well, and for that we thank the Lord! Sometimes I feel this little one kick and I have to say a prayer of thanks that this is going to be the 12th little blessing that the Lord has thought us worthy of receiving. I've been seeing my doctor more often this pregnancy due to the risks of preeclampsia that showed up when I was pregnant with Jackson, they're also still monitoring me for gestational diabetes and have got me on the same workout plan just so that the risk is lowered. Since we already took a family picture at Harvestfest, we decided to add in a picture of this pregnancy to our family christmas card so that this little one is acknowledged. It also serves as an announcement to those of our friends and family who haven't heard the news.

The kids are faithfully doing school as we head into the winter, but they've been counting down the days until we travel to visit my parents. They get a bit of school free time when we go visit my parents, especially around the immediate holiday season when we're visiting and fellowshipping with various friends and family. They've been working on their usual scripture memory with an additional set of scripture that they'll recite during the christmas service at my parents church. The older kids have been dedicated with reading and memorising their verses, since they don't attend the sunday school class at my parents church regularly, they want to be on the same level as the kids that they'll be presenting with.

Little Jackson is growing ever more by the day! He's made a lot of progress and hit his milestones quite quickly, wanting to play with the other kids has him pushing himself to do more faster. He's mastered crawling, but now we're slowly practicing walking. His birthday is coming up before this new little one gets here, and even though he's the 12th child in the lineup, having them grow up and progress does bring a tear to my eye.

We've had dustings of snow, so the kids get to go out if they've finished their schoolwork and their chores for the day. Violet and Olivia have gotten quite close recently, Olivia turns 6 next year and will officially join the older kids in the school classroom. That will make it 8 kids that are actively being homeschooled! People always ask me how we deal with homeschooling so many children, and I have to say that it gets easier the more students there are! I sit with the kids and we have focus time, and I've grouped them together so theres no more than 3 in each round. That way we get all the difficult bits handled before I leave them to finish their work and do their assigned reading.

We love when the aunties come over! All 3 girls happened to be in town and have a free afternoon (Ashton was in Windenburg with Amira and her family after Harvestfest, Amira chose to come into town early for the wedding), so they stopped over and had some playtime in the snow with the kids before they took the a few back to the big house for music lessons. Having a big family is such a blessing, these girls are keeping themselves busy in the season of life that they're in that I'm so grateful that they still prioritise coming to see their nieces and nephews. With Celeste's wedding happening very shortly, we're about to have almost all our family in town again - praise the Lord!

#fundie sims #fundiesims #quiverfull sims #collins family #quiver full sims #modest sims #sims 4 legacy #collins legacy #homeschool sims #gen 3 #Barrett and Kyleigh #gen 4 #post #i need to do the actual christmas cards that i keep talking about cause i've set myself up and enjoy making life difficult for myself hehe #my little break became a big break accidentally #im about to clear tf out of this queue so i can open up my game guilt free hehe #im also doing more christmas cards cause i like the christmas card vibe and opportunities for outfits #i really did forget a bit of the lore about these guys #i missed them

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buckets-and-trees · 21 days

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Now That I Saw You

Characters/Pairings: lawyer!Bucky x curvy!female assistant reader Word Count: 4k Summary: Finally home from the work trip to Norway where things changed with your boss, you are uncertain about what the future means exactly, but eager to see him again. Sequel to What You Want.

Content Warnings: modern AU, slight power dynamic, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, body reverence/worship, use of "plum" as a term of endearment, sex in a semi-public place

Logistical Notes: My August entry for @buckybarnesevents Build-a-Bucky-Bingo using the BODY WORSHIP prompt and week 3 of Hot Bucky Summer hitting up that SOMEONE ELSE'S HOUSE prompt.

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Normal breathing, you thought to yourself as the driver pulled up the drive of the massive estate of Alexander Pierce, one of the senior partners of the law firm where you worked. This was your first time attending the firm’s New Year’s Eve party since you’d only begun working for Bucky in the early spring, and although you were only Bucky’s assistant, you had heard enough directly and indirectly to know that making an appearance here mattered. Bucky had insisted that you didn’t need to feel obligated to come – especially since he’d kept you away from your family over Christmas when the weather had made it impossible to fly home from the business trip to Norway. He had even insisted on paying for flights for you to go straight home instead of making the long drive to your hometown.

What he didn’t know was that you had called and changed your return flight from January 2 to December 31.

Bucky was close to making partner, and you wanted to show that you were one of the small but dedicated team he had in his office that took their work supporting Bucky seriously.

And while being home for some delayed holiday time with your family had been nice, the longer you were there, the more you were itching to get back to New York and figure out what life was going to look like with your boss post-Norway.

Five days of normal business followed by the three “stranded” days of Nordic adventures, shopping, sightseeing, dining, spoiling, and so much sex. So much sex.

With Bucky.

Your boss.

A valet stepped up to open your door as the Uber driver stopped in the circular receiving area of the driveway at the front of the mansion. As you stepped out and began walking up the steps, you were glad you went with the modest heels rather than the strappy high heels your best friend had tried to coax you to pick when you FaceTimed her while getting ready. Since you were nervous about enough other things, you didn’t need to worry about your shoes tonight.

Things like the bolder shade of lipstick you’d put on, or the sexiest dress you’d ever worn, or simply the fact that you didn’t know where everything that happened in Norway left you with Bucky Barnes.

Minor things to trifle over, really.

You gave your name to an attendant at the front. They scanned the list, smiled, welcomed you to the festivities, and gestured toward the staff taking care of a coat check just inside, off to the right of the grand foyer.

As you approached the coat check, you couldn't help but marvel at the opulence surrounding you. The foyer was a masterpiece of marble and gold, with a grand staircase sweeping upwards and crystal chandeliers twinkling overhead. You were enveloped by a pleasantly thick scent of gardenias and champagne, mingling with the soft murmur of conversation and tinkling laughter from the rooms beyond.

You slipped off your coat, revealing the dress you'd agonized over for hours. It was a deep emerald green, hugging your curves before falling in a silky waterfall to your ankles. The neckline dipped low, and the back was even lower, leaving you feeling both sophisticated and slightly exposed.

The attendant handed you a small golden ticket in exchange for your coat, and you tucked it carefully into your clutch. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the evening ahead. The butterflies in your stomach were performing an intricate ballet, a mix of excitement and nerves that left you feeling slightly lightheaded.

As you turned to face the grand ballroom, you were immediately enveloped by the soft glow of candlelight and the gentle tinkling of champagne glasses. The room was a vision of elegance, with towering floral arrangements adorning every table and shimmering gold accents catching the light. The air was filled with the gentle hum of conversation and laughter, the tinkling of champagne flutes, and the soft strains of a live orchestra.

You took a tentative step forward, your eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face. The sea of designer gowns and tailored suits was intimidating, and you found yourself second-guessing your decision to attend. Just as you were considering a hasty retreat, a warm, familiar voice called your name.

"Hey there, stranger! I was hoping you'd make it tonight."

You turned to see Steve Rogers, Bucky's best friend and fellow lawyer at the firm. He approached, moving with a swift grace as he always did, his broad shoulders filling out an impeccably tailored navy suit, a glass of champagne in each hand. He’d be intimidating if you hadn’t forged a wonderfully warm friendship over the past months working in the office. You admired how much he wanted to take care of those around him, unafraid to speak up whenever needed, and equally ready to make someone smile.

Even now, the tension in your shoulders eased at the sight of him and his bright smile.

“Bucky will be happy to see you!”

You ducked your head a moment, taking a sip of the champagne he offered. “He will?”

“I don’t think he could tie his shoes anymore without you,” Steve exaggerated, but the compliment warmed your insides anyway.

Steve offered you his arm and then led you further into the party.

Your senses were overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur of the event. Everywhere you looked, your eyes drank in more exquisite details infusing the atmosphere. You passed by a magnificent ice sculpture of the firm's logo, its edges glinting in the candlelight. You passed by tables laden with delicacies from around the world - tiny caviar-topped blinis, glistening oysters nestled in beds of ice, and delicate pastries that looked almost too beautiful to eat. Waiters in crisp white jackets glided effortlessly through the crowd, their trays balanced with flutes of golden champagne and jewel-toned cocktails.

You couldn't help but feel a bit like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. Each new sight was more wondrous than the last. To your left, a living statue covered in shimmering gold paint posed gracefully atop a pedestal, her movements so subtle you had to blink to be sure she was real. To your right, an aerialist in a glittering silver bodysuit performed breathtaking feats on silks suspended from the vaulted ceiling, twirling and spinning in mesmerizing patterns.

Near them, a group of women in shimmering gowns laughed melodiously, their jewelry catching the light with every gesture. You nodded politely at a few familiar faces from the office, but your attention was divided, always seeking. You noticed Alexander Pierce himself holding court near a grand fireplace, his silver hair gleaming as he regaled a captive audience with what was surely a riveting anecdote.

As you and Steve wove through the crowd, your eyes continued to roam, searching for one face in particular. The anticipation built with each passing moment, your heart quickening its pace. You nodded politely at a few familiar faces from the office, but your attention was divided, always seeking.

Then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, your gaze was pulled across the room to finally land on Bucky Barnes, looking devastatingly handsome in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. His dark hair was newly trimmed since you last saw him, sleek in a way that made your fingers itch to rake through it and over his scalp. He was engaged in conversation with a small group, his head thrown back in laughter at something someone had said.

Suddenly, Bucky's attention shifted to you, his eyes locking onto yours across the bustling room. The laughter died on his lips, replaced with a bit of wonder and an impossibly charming grin. Immediately heat was pooling in your stomach, nerves somewhat calmed, but a different itch pitching inside you.

The world seemed to slow down as Bucky excused himself from his group and began making his way towards you. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched him approach, his eyes never leaving yours. The crowded room seemed to part for him, or perhaps it was just your imagination playing tricks on you.

As he drew closer, you could see the slight widening of his eyes as he took in your appearance. His gaze traveled slowly from your face down to your toes and back up again, lingering on the curves accentuated by your dress. When his eyes met yours again, they were dark with an intensity that made your skin tingle and memories of your time in Norway together flash vividly through your mind.

"You're here," Bucky said softly as he reached you, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "I thought you were still with your family."

You smiled, trying to keep your voice steady. "I wanted to surprise you. I hope that's okay?"

"More than okay," he murmured, his eyes still roaming over you appreciatively. "You look absolutely stunning."

You felt a blush creep up your cheeks at his compliment. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself," you replied, taking in his impeccably tailored tuxedo.

Steve cleared his throat beside you, reminding you both of his presence. "I'll leave you two to catch up," he said with a knowing smile, giving Bucky a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

Suddenly alone with Bucky, you felt the air between you crackle with tension. The noise of the party faded into the background as you stood there, lost in each other's gaze.

"Can I get you a drink?" Bucky asked, gesturing towards the bar.

You lifted your half-empty champagne flute. "I could use a refill," you said with a smile.

Bucky's hand found the small of your back as he guided you towards the bar, the possessive heat of his touch sending flames radiating across your skin. You were acutely aware of every point of contact between you, rejoicing and regretting over choosing the dangerously low and exposed back that allowed him skin to skin access in this moment.

As you waited for your drinks, Bucky leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. "I can't believe you're here," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "Since Norway, you’ve been on my mind constantly.

Your heart raced at his words, memories of passionate nights, morning, afternoons, and so many stolen kisses streaming through your mind. "I couldn't stay away," you admitted softly. "I needed to see you."

Bucky's eyes darkened with desire, his gaze dropping to your lips. For a moment, you thought Bucky might kiss you right there, in full view of everyone. But he seemed to catch himself, remembering where you were. Instead, he reached past you to collect your drinks from the bartender - a flute of golden champagne for you and a tumbler of amber whiskey for himself.

"Come with me," he murmured, his voice husky and filled with promise. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining as he led you away from the crowded ballroom.

Your heart raced as you followed him down a dimly lit corridor, the sounds of the party fading behind you. Moonlight streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. His fingers tightened around yours as he glanced back, a roguish glint in his eyes.

At the end of the hall, he paused before an ornate wooden door. With a quick look around, he turned the handle and drew you inside. You found yourself in a luxurious study, shelves of leather-bound books lining the walls and a grand desk dominating the center of the room.

Bucky took your glass and his and set them on the desk. Then his strong arms encircled your waist and drew you to him. "We shouldn't be in here," you whispered, even as excitement coursed through your veins.

"Shh," he replied, pulling you closer. His lips found yours in a searing kiss that made your knees weak. You melted against him, hands roaming over the broad planes of his shoulders.

As Bucky's lips moved against yours, all thoughts of propriety and caution melted away. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers curling into the lapels of his tuxedo jacket as you pulled him closer. The kiss deepened, pent-up longing and desire pouring out between you.

Bucky's hands roamed your back, tracing the exposed skin left bare by your daring dress. And the way he touched you? Reverently worshipping the curves and plump flesh you were usually so insecure about? This was why you dared to show more than you typically did. He made you believe you were gorgeous. His touch ignited sparks along your spine, each caress stoking the fire building within you. You gasped as he nipped at your lower lip, using the opportunity to sweep his tongue into your mouth.

The taste of whiskey on his lips mingled with the lingering champagne on yours, creating an intoxicating blend that left you dizzy with want. You pressed yourself closer, desperate to eliminate any space between your bodies. He slipped a finger beneath the strap on your shoulder and pushed it down, tugging until he freed one of your breasts. He hummed as he began to palm it with his large hand, and you arched into his touch.

Suddenly, Bucky broke the kiss, and spun you around. You gasped and brought both hands out to steady yourself on the edge of the desk.

Bucky's lips traced a burning path down the curve of your neck, pausing to nip gently at the sensitive spot where it met your shoulder. You shivered as his warm breath ghosted across your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. His kisses continued their southward journey, open-mouthed heat following the elegant line of your spine.

Each press of his lips felt like a spark igniting your nerve endings. The cool air of the study contrasted sharply with the heat of his mouth, creating a delicious tension that had you trembling. As he moved lower, his hands skimmed down your sides, fingers tracing the curves of your waist and hips with reverent appreciation.

As Bucky sank to his knees behind you, his hands slid down to your hips, his breath now teasing the small of your back. The anticipation built, your heart racing as you felt him gather the silky fabric of your dress in his hands, lifting it inch by tantalizing inch. The whisper of the material against your skin was electric, heightening every sensation. When he reached your hips, he paused, his fingers tracing the lace edge of your panties.

"You're exquisite," he murmured, his voice rough with desire.

Slowly, reverently, he began to peel your panties down. The delicate lace clung to your curves before giving way, sliding down your thighs.

You shivered as the cool air hit your exposed skin, a mix of anticipation and nervousness coursing through you. Bucky's hands caressed your thighs, urging them apart, his touch both soothing and electrifying. You could feel his hot breath against your most intimate areas, causing a fresh wave of arousal to wash over you.

"God, I've missed you," Bucky groaned, his voice husky with desire. "Missed tasting you."

Without further preamble, he leaned in and ran his tongue along your slit, eliciting a gasp from you. Your fingers gripped the edge of the desk tighter as he began to explore you with his mouth, his skilled tongue alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, teasing flicks.

You bit your lip to stifle a moan, acutely aware of the party continuing just down the hall. One of his hands snaked around to caress your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. The dual sensations had you panting, struggling to keep quiet as waves of pleasure washed over you. The thought of being caught only added to the intensity of sensations swirling through your body.

Bucky's tongue worked magic between your thighs, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your most sensitive spots. Your legs trembled as the pleasure built, threatening to overwhelm you. You bit down on your lip, desperately trying to muffle the moans that threatened to escape.

"Let me hear you, plum," Bucky murmured against your heated flesh. "I want to know how good I'm making you feel."

His words sent a shiver through you, and you allowed a soft whimper to escape.

Encouraged, Bucky redoubled his efforts, his tongue circling your clit with increasing pressure. One of his hands slid up your inner thigh, and you gasped as he slowly pushed two fingers inside you.

The dual sensations of his tongue on your clit and his fingers curling inside you had you seeing stars. Your hips began to move of their own accord, grinding against his face as you chased your release. The coil of tension in your core wound tighter and tighter, ready to snap at any moment.

Just as you were about to tumble over the precipice, the sound of approaching voices in the hallway made you freeze. Panic mingled with arousal as you realized how exposed you were, bent over the desk of what had to be Alexander Pierce’s private study.

But Bucky was undeterred, and you bit your lip to stifle your moans, acutely aware that you were in a semi-public space. The thought of getting caught only added to the thrill, your arousal only surging more, lapped up by his wicked tongue. He worshipped at the altar of your sex with so much devotion, you weren’t quite ready to think about the implications of yet.

Bucky's fingers curled inside you, hitting that perfect spot that made your toes curl. His tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge of ecstasy. The voices in the hallway grew closer, and your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

"Bucky," you whispered urgently, your voice trembling. "Someone's coming."

He hummed against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. "Then you better come first," he murmured, his voice muffled but determined.

The voices in the hallway grew louder, and you could make out snippets of conversation about quarterly reports and market projections. Your heart raced, torn between the need for release and the fear of discovery.

Bucky, however, seemed to relish the added excitement. His ministrations became more intense, his tongue flicking rapidly against your sensitive bud while his fingers curled inside you, hitting that perfect spot with each thrust. The combination of pleasure and danger pushed you closer to the edge.

"Come for me," Bucky whispered against your heated flesh, his breath sending shivers through your body. "Let go, plum. I've got you."

His words were your undoing. The tension that had been building inside you finally snapped, and you came with a silent scream, your body shuddering as waves of pleasure washed over you. Bucky's mouth and fingers worked you through your orgasm. Your legs trembled as the aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you. Bucky's touch gentled, his fingers slipping out of you as he pressed soft kisses to your inner thighs. The voices in the hallway faded, moving past the study door without pause.

With shaky hands, you pushed yourself up from the desk, your breath still coming in quick passes. Bucky helped drop the fabric of your dress back down to the floor and rose to his feet behind you. He turned you back around to face him and brought you back into his arms. You could feel the hard line of his arousal pressing against you, but he seemed unconcerned over seeking his own relief.

"You're incredible," he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead. "So beautiful when you come undone for me."

He dipped down and pressed a kiss to the swell of your still exposed breast before then bringing your dress back up and over your shoulder, setting it completely right again.

Your hands slid up to loop around his neck. His eyes were dark with desire, his lips slightly swollen from his ministrations.

"That was…" you trailed off, unable to find the right words.

"Amazing," Bucky finished for you. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.

But before either of you could be tempted into anything else, the voices in the hall returned.

"I'm telling you, Alexander, the Ultron account is a goldmine waiting to happen," a booming voice declared footsteps drew closer.

Bucky quickly reached for the drinks on the desk, pressing your champagne flute into your fingers. The he dipped to the floor, snatched up your panties, and pocketed them. You bit your lip, and he smirked at you.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Wilson, but I'm not convinced the risk is worth the potential reward," came Alexander Pierce's measured reply as the door opened.

"Barnes! There you are," Alexander Pierce's voice boomed as he entered the study, followed by two other senior partners. "We've been looking for you."

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure everyone could hear it.

Bucky turned, his body language relaxed and confident despite almost being caught in a compromising position.

"Mr. Pierce," Bucky greeted smoothly, his voice betraying none of the tension you felt. "I was just showing my assistant the impressive library you have here. We both share a passion for rare first editions."

You nodded. "It's truly remarkable," you managed, proud of how steady your voice sounded.

Pierce's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked between you and Bucky, but his expression remained neutral. "Indeed it is," he said, moving towards one of the bookshelves. His hand swept over one of the shelves. "I'm particularly fond of this Hemingway collection. However, I’m afraid I can’t entertain you with its history and how I had to hunt them down presently. I’m actually glad we found you, Barnes. We have some urgent matters to discuss regarding the Stark Industries merger. I’d like to bring you in on it, if you’re game."

"Of course, sir,” Bucky nodded, his professional mask slipping for only the briefest of moments, but you saw the excitement there for the opportunity presented.

"Excellent," Pierce said, clapping his hands together. "Gentlemen, have a seat." He turned to you, his smile polite but dismissive. "Thank you for your interest in the collection, and, please, enjoy the rest of the party."

You nodded, understanding the clear directive. "Of course, Mr. Pierce. Thank you for your hospitality."

As you moved to leave, Bucky caught your eye. His gaze was intense, filled with unspoken promises. "I'll find you," he mouthed silently, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

You felt a shiver run down your spine as you slipped out of the study, leaving Bucky to his impromptu meeting. Your mind was reeling from the events of the last few minutes - the passionate encounter with Bucky, the near-miss of being caught. Mostly, though, you were happy you had come after all and were eager to spend the rest of the evening with Bucky. At a party like this where business and pleasure stood side by side, you knew the host couldn’t be gone in his study for long, and then Bucky would return to your side, and you’d be able to ring in the New Year just right.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Read more stories from the Deliciously Debauched Labor Day Weekend!

It's been SO LONG since we've seen these two! I hope it was a nice return to them.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fan fiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #female reader #babb2023 #hotbuckysummer2024 #aspen wrote something #what you want #deliciously debauched labor day weekend

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