#of COURSE I do- what do you expect of me?

[rafesheaven]

tutor!reader thigh riding frat!rafe's tatted thigh ༉ೀ

warnings — frat!rafe, rafe has a thigh tattoo, thigh riding, dirty talk, praising, groping, nipple play, finger sucking wc — 1.1k a/n — based on this post i made + ty @rafescvntyclubgf for the mention of the champion shorts and backwards hat

the semester nearing its end meant finals were approaching, and while half the class panicked, you were more than ready. the one thing you weren't prepared for was being asked for help by rafe cameron. your declines seemingly did nothing but fall on deaf ears, merely encouraging his pleas until you gave in, which led to the two of you spending time together for the past few weeks. while you took the study sessions seriously, there were countless times when you had to get onto rafe, who shamelessly flirted with you the entire time, to pay attention. 

your patience started to wear thin, but thankfully, it was your last session before finals. “rafe, knock it off,” you warned as he shot the mini basketball into the hoop attached to his bedroom door for what felt like the millionth time. as he was about to shoot the ball again, you reached over, snatching it from his hands, “are you even paying attention?”

“yeah, ‘course i am, it’s kind of hard not to pay attention to a pretty girl like you,” he hummed, removing his hat to fix his hair before placing it back onto his head. he clasped his hands behind his head, spreading his legs as he sat back in his chair. your eyes darted to his spread legs at the sudden movement, causing his black champion shorts to ride up his thigh. your mouth went dry when you caught sight of the ink etched into his tanned skin. 

you never expected rafe to have a thigh tattoo, let alone a tattoo in general, and you found yourself biting your lip as the thoughts your brain conjured increasingly became filthier the longer you stared at the permanent ink. after what felt like an eternity, you snapped out of it, quickly averting your gaze and clearing your throat. “can you please just focus? finals are next week,” you tried to hide your flushed face, hoping he didn’t catch you practically gawking at him, but he did. 

“i am focused,” he paused, a knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “but i think i’ll focus better with you on my lap.” he watched in amusement as your eyes widened at his suggestion, “i-i don’t think that’s appropriate or a good idea.” 

“come on, i can guarantee that it’ll help me focus while you review the chapter,” rafe grinned, “don’t you want me to focus so i can pass this final?” you nervously chewed at your lip, “are you sure you’ll focus if i do?” you questioned, eyeing him reluctantly, “i promise, and i’ll keep my hands to myself,”  he held his hands up. 

“okay, only if you pay attention and keep your hands to yourself,” you jab a finger into his chest, “has anyone ever told you how bossy you are?” rafe muttered, earning a small smack to the chest. “i’m just messing with you, princess. no need to smack me around,” his hands grabbed your hips to pull you onto him till your legs were on either side of his thigh. 

“s’okay if i put my arms around your waist or are you gonna smack me again?” he rested his chin on your shoulder. “as long as you keep them there,” you turned your head to the side, your breath catching in your throat at how close his face was to yours before turning back around. 

your hand trembles as you skim through the textbook to find where you last left off, your nerves getting the best of you at the close proximity. when you finally found the page, you started reviewing the material, reading aloud to rafe, and asking questions to ensure he understood. 

as you reviewed the chapter, rafe started to bounce his leg up and down, “rafe, stop doing that, you’re distracting me—” your breath hitched when his thigh rubbed against your cunt through your panties. “stop doin’ what? this?” he bounced his leg again, his breath fanning against your ear, sending a shiver up your spine. “i-i’m trying to make sure you pass” you stutter, your nails leaving crescent-shaped marks as they dig into your palms. 

“just trying to help my sweet tutor loosen up. you’ve been so tense during our study sessions,” he promises. “besides, i already know everything for the final. i just wanted an excuse to be around you,” he added, stopping his movements. you whimpered at his confession, your resolve crumbling as your hips subconsciously rutted against his toned thigh, seeking friction. “thought you wanted me to stop?” he teased, his hands sliding from your waist to under your skirt, settling on your hips, “p-please don’t” you whined. 

his grip on your hips tightened, guiding you to drag your cunt against his thigh. your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, muffling your desperate moans to avoid the chances of his fraternity brothers hearing you. “make as much noise as you want, princess. s’just us here,” rafe whispered, burying his face into the side of your neck, “wanna hear all those sweet noises you make.”

his teeth nipped at your flesh, “feel good?” he helped you rock your hips. your arousal soaked through your panties, making a mess on his bare thigh, and you nod pathetically. “yeah? want to make it feel even better?” rafe rasps, pulling you till your back is flush with his chest. “please, rafe,” you begged, feeling his hand slip lower, his fingers hooking inside your panties to tug them aside, leaving you exposed. you desperately rut at his thigh, a moan ripping from your throat when he flexes his thigh. 

“good girl,” rafe coos, “trying to get yourself off on my thigh like the needy little thing you are.” your eyes flutter shut, a small gasp spilling from your lips when his tongue sweeps up the side of your neck to nip at the lobe of your ear, “you’re so close, aren’t you? c’mon, princess, make a mess f’me.” he slides one hand up your torso, pushing your cashmere sweater to sit above your breasts.

rafe dips his hand under your bra, his thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling at your nipple. your brows pinch together at his touch, “rafe!” you squeaked, your jaw going slack. your cries fill the room; your pussy clenching around nothing as you cum, making a mess all over his thigh. 

you pant, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, “shit…look at the mess you made,” rafe groaned. you crane your neck down, your face flushing at the sight of his thigh glistening, “such a messy little thing. maybe i should make you lick it clean, huh?” rafe swiped his fingers across his thigh before prodding them against your lips, moaning softly when you eagerly take his fingers into your mouth.

taglist: @oceandriveab @rafescorpsebride @cameronsprincess @starkeysbabygirl @rafesangelita @nemesyaaa @heartsforvin @sturnioloshacker @rafesbabygirlx @fallbhind @zyafics @fae-of-prey @cybersunnie @whytheylosttheirminds @ilovefiction4lmen @jjslaybank @whinyangel @momoewn @kazanskied @saintlike05 @coco-cinnamon @starkeysbebe @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @starkeysheart @littlelamy @carolineisdelusional @6r4cie @lacydollette

[lemonlover1110]

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Summary: Is Toji jealous of a helpless baby? Oh, he absolute is!

Warnings: Fluff

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“Isn’t he the cutest?” You gush as Megumi yawns. Toji clicks his tongue. He’s cuter– Plus, he has teeth. The stupid baby doesn’t even have a way to chew food. “You look just like your daddy, oh my…”

“You got that right!” Toji agrees, making a chuckle leave your lips. You were afraid that once the baby came along Toji would act weird, but no. He’s still an overgrown child when it comes to you; Toji isn’t willing to share you with anyone, not even his own son.

Megumi begins to cry, getting fussy as his drowsiness gets the best of him. Would he really be a baby if he didn’t cry for everything? His eyes are getting heavy, and he doesn’t know what happens when they close, of course he’s scared.

“He didn’t get the crybaby part from me though.” Toji quickly defends himself, making you click your tongue. It’s odd to watch your husband compete with a baby, but did you expect less?

“Toji he’s a baby!” You remind him, but that doesn’t impress him. You end up sighing, handing the crying baby to your husband. Megumi isn’t only your son, but his as well. Toji can bear some of the responsibilities. “Put him to sleep, I’m going to take a shower.”

“But–” Toji begins, but he can’t finish protesting before he’s carrying a chunky baby. Megumi was born so small, but at four months, the baby is nearly 17 pounds. His little cheeks are so round and kissable now, something that the man would never admit outloud.

Toji sneaks one of those kisses on the cheek before telling Megumi, “I can pretend to stop hating you now that we’re alone.”

Toji puts the baby on his chest, hand caressing his small back. Something that works charms with the baby. Toji smells the small amount of hair on his head, kissing him again. “You know I just do that because I want your mommy’s attention.”

The crying dies down, sleep getting the best of the baby. He can fight it and fight it, but that’s the one thing that will always win: sleep. He’s just like Toji in that sense too. 

“I love you, Megumi.” Toji says, eyes glimmering at the small baby. He lightly chuckles as he mutters, “You’re still not cuter than me though.”

[chuulyssa]

── ★ the one bed trope™ with the squid game men

teaser the guards cleared out too many beds after the last game, assuming there are far fewer survivors than expected. so when your group stumbles into the dormitory, you realize the horrible truth: there’s only one bed for every two players, and your bed is missing!

starring inho gihun (drabbles) & daeho sangwoo ali (hcs) x gn!reader genre fluff fluff all fluff, some nightmares, some crack

a/n wasnt gonna watch s2 but then i saw the lee byunghyun edits and sjsjs theres only few chars here because i havent watched the whole season :( i dont think ill be watching the whole thing any time soon, jus waiting for s3 to drop before watching it all together

inho / youngil / the frontman / 001

youngil stared at the guards while you stared at the bed in front of you. it looked stiff and scratchy, and barely wide enough for one person, let alone two.

“we can share. i don’t mind,” he had said to you, though he had looked tense as well. he sat on the bed, allowing you to scoot over. he laid as close to the edge of the cot as possible.

“oh, it won’t be necessary.”

“well, what other choice do you have?”

you sighed and nodded, awkwardly laying down next to him on the bed. as your shoulders touched each other, he relaxed visibly, though he was still lying on the edge, and that scared you a little.

“stop lying on the edge like that. you’ll fall off,” you warned.

“i’m fine,” he mumbled, staring right up at the ceiling. you kept looking at him, not minding the three times he had glanced your way pointedly at all. “don’t stare.”

“hm, why not?”

“it makes me feel strange,” he said simply.

you nodded, your hands instinctively reaching to your arms to shield yourself from the cold. there was only one blanket with only one bed after all. next thing you knew, you felt the blanket being nudged towards you by youngil’s foot.

“i saw that; it’s not very subtle, you know.”

“what’s not very subtle?” he asked innocently. then he shifted his body closer to yours. “it’s not because of you, okay?” he muttered quietly. “i just didn’t feel like falling off.”

“are you asking for cuddles now?” you snickered.

“no,” he replied gruffly, though his eyes softened slightly at the sound of your silent laughter.

“nuh uh, i think you’re cold as well,” you lifted the blanket up to accommodate him as well. you then glanced at him expectantly. he hesitated for a moment before slipping under the blanket, taking the moment to tightly grasp your hand. you smiled, resting your head above his shoulder on the shared pillow.

you woke up in the middle of the night to find him softly murmuring your name in his sleep. he looked peaceful, beautifully so. you brushed your hand on his chest to wrap it around him, and felt him waking up as well.

“hush, go back to sleep,” you whispered to him, and he raised an eyebrow at nothing in particular. his eyes were still closed. then he let out a tiny giggle and tightened his grip on your hands.

the guards executed this one perfectly, right as per orders from the frontman; hwang inho will make sure to reward them later, but for now he’d rather stay in this shared bed with you by his side.

seong gihun / 456

“i guess it can’t be helped then,” gihun said simply, sitting you down on his bed and pulling the covers over you. “sorry if i snore by the way.”

“what do you mean? where will you be sleeping?”

“on the floor, of course.”

“no, you’re not,” you shook your head, patting the empty space beside you. “i still have some place left here for someone.”

“oh, then let me find someone who can’t find a partn—”

you pulled the man down onto the bed, his face crashing against the pillow. throwing the covers over him as well, you turned to face him, muttering, “you really aren’t the sharpest tool in the shed.”

“no, uhm, what if i hog the blanket? that would be unpleasant—”

“i can live with that.”

gihun blinked rapidly. “i don’t think i should be sleeping. what if someone attacks?”

“relax, they’re keeping watch.”

“i think i should keep watch with them,” gihun gulped at your proximity.

“well, i don’t. and you need sleep; have you seen yourself?” you laughed.

gihun beamed at the sound. “then how about I tell you a story?”

“a story?”

“yeah, to make you happy.”

“why though?” you said tiredly.

“to make you laugh. i like seeing you laugh,” he said genuinely, and you nodded in response. his eyes lit up and he began, “so there was this one cow, and it had a baby cat—”

…

“gihun?”

he snored.

“gihun!”

he snored again.

did he really fall asleep mid-sentence? you sighed, shaking your head before snuggling up to him. he unconsciously draped an arm over you in his sleep.

throughout the night, he kept tossing and turning, before—

smack !

you clutched your face where gihun’s hand had just made contact. before letting out the loud cuss you wanted to, you peeked over to see if he was asleep. and sure enough, if the snores hadn’t let it be known earlier, then the closed eyes did.

“this dumbass,” you muttered, nuzzling your face into his side.

but what could you do either way? if you complained, he’d be mortified and force you to switch places, and you’d lose a chance to cuddle with him. so you instead figured the occasional smacking would be worth being the first person to see his hair sticking out in every direction with his sheepish grin in the morning.

a/n: i’ve only got hcs for the others; sorry guys i prefer my old men inho and gihun :P

daeho / 388

he insists on taking the less comfortable side of the bed

even if that meant he barely has any space MY GNELTMAN

at some point his hand will brush yours (because its an ff duh) and he’ll get all startled like :O

but he won’t move away because he decides he likes it

we all know the trauma this man carries :( so don’t be surprised when his grip on your hand loosens in the middle of the night and his face scrunches up because he’s having a nightmare

just please cuddle with him :(( he’ll try to play it off like it’s nothing but know better!

when you quietly offer comfort, his defenses will crumble, and he’ll whisper a quiet thank you to you

in the morning he’ll wake up before you and realize just how close the two of you are.

he’s been bearhugging you in his sleep and you’re reciprocating it? hes so confused like ??????? do you wanna get choked or sum yes you do

he’ll just quietly stare at you as if he’s in a daze. he’s got that lovesick smile and all, just silently looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen you are

he just as silently fixes the blanket on you because he wants to offer as much comfort as you did last night to him

then he’ll gently apologize to you for disturbing you, smiling to himself when you grumble in your sleep

sangwoo / 218

this little shit

he’ll pretend not to care about you or about the bed or about the entire situation at all

but you can see how he tries to be as subtle as possible when adjusting the pillow under your head to make sure you’re comfortable

you’re practically begging him to accept his feelings atp but this man is a menace

as soon as he saw the one bed he started calculating how much space you’ll take and how much he’ll get

if you shift closer in your sleep he’ll freeze for a moment but he won’t pull away

if you move a lot in your sleep he won’t say anything just yet

but expect to be bombarded with complaints when you wake up in the morning

he watches you out of the corner of his eye, something he describes as “just trying to protect you” by “keeping watch” but you know he’s just dazzled by your beauty who isnt

he’ll lie awake for a while staring up at that huge piggy bank that his future lies in, and he knows he can’t love you like he wants to, but he hopes that just this once his brain will accept what his heart feels

when the sunlight hits his face in the morning, he’ll look so peaceful that it makes even ali question his mood

all the while gihun is just staring in horror at sangwoo like he got some puss

ali / 199

THE POOKIEST POOKIE

he’s so shy UGH i jus wanna gobble him up sjsjsjkgnskjn

but he can’t help smiling softly when he realizes how comfortable you seem to be around him

he’ll offer to sleep on the cold hard floor and insists you take the blanket for yourself, but duh you don’t allow that

so with a grin on his face he lies down next to you

he asks you if you need more space at least 10 times, he’s that nervous

the blanket stays on you though, he can’t risk you feeling cold or uncomfy because of him GNELTMENANN

he’ll stay awake if you want someone to talk to, or to make sure you’re warm enough, or even just to admire you

but if you don’t want that, he’ll pull an aurora and fall asleep so quickly you don’t even realize it

his hand stays brushing against yours under the blanket though, and you feel so warm and fuzzy next to him

he’s a snuggler, so there’ll be times where he’ll shift very close to you in his sleep, not realizing the hand he’s keeping on your waist or the head he’s resting on your chest

someone points it out in the morning and he’s so flustered he apologizes profusely even though you keep telling him you didn’t mind it all

definitely says something like “i slept with you, remember?” because he doesn’t realize it’s an innuendo

© chuulyssa 2025 - do not copy, plagiarize or repost my works on any platforms. do not translate.

[roastedoatmilk]

Pussy is God

Sevika x Fem!Reader

summary: you eat out sevika idk what else yall expect from me atp

tags: oral (sevika receiving), reader is a MUNCH, bottom sevika ??, slight sub!sevika as well

A/N this is the first thing i've written in a hot minute so please be kind

You loved seeing Sevika like this, completely and totally lost in her own pleasure.

You can feel her strong thighs clench around your head as your tongue flicks just right over her clit. “Fuck babygirl keep doing that I’m so close.” your wife growls and her flesh hand tangles into your hair pulling you exactly where she wants you.

You moan into her pussy at the stinging pain of your head, the pain quickly turning into pleasure. You pull back slightly, replacing your tongue on her clit with your finger, your eyes widen as you watch Sevika clench around nothing.

A smug grin takes over your face as you look up at your wife to see her absolutely wrecked, her stormy gray eyes rolled to the back of her skull. Her short hair clinging to her face, drenched in sweat. 

"Tell me what you need beautiful." you purr causing your wife to groan in annoyance

"You know what I need doll don't make me say it." Sevika grumbles obviously not in the mood for your teasing.

"Use your words baby c'mon now." you tease, enjoying how you can see your wife mentally debate with herself on whether she wants to play along or not.

She eventually decides to swallow her pride and very lowly say, "Need your fingers angel please."

Your grin widens into something more feral before you reply, "See that's a good girl." and sealing your mouth back around her swollen nub before she has a chance to reply

You tease her entrance with the tip of your finger, spreading her slick around before slipping it in.

"Oh, fuck thank you baby shit." Sevika groans as her back arches even further off of the bed.

You moan into her in response, coarse dark hair digging into your nose

Once she's used to your finger you insert another one causing her to whine at the stretch.

You can tell she's close by how tightly shes squeezing your fingers, you pick up the pace watching as her abs tighten and her thighs start to shake.

Sevika lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched moan as she cums. You eagerly lap up her essence not wanting to miss a single drop.

You only stop once Sevika's hips start to jerk away from your mouth, small whines escaping her mouth.

You pull your mouth away and look up at your wife and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. "Well, I'm stuffed thanks for the meal." you tell her with a shiteating grin on your face.

Sevika snorts at this before grumbling "Yeah yeah get up here you weirdo I want to hold you." you of course oblige and up to cuddle with your wife.

[just-sg]

You don't even have to do that! At the very least you don't have to start there.

You don't have to assume a positive. What you do need to do is not assume a negative. And if you can't do that, at least work on getting better at casting doubt on the negative.

"I think people DO like me and WANT to spend time with me!" - Difficult! Especially when you have evidence to the contrary. Sets yourself up for failure to apply too liberally, even, because not everyone will like you (or anyone!), and if you start out trying to assume the impossible, of course you're going to run into times it's not true, and then you accidentally trick your brain into believing it's never true. Still ideal to assume about people who have already established decent or better relationships with you, but if you can't?

"I think people DON'T like me and DON'T WANT to spend time with me." - Easy, cowardly, and frankly really mean to the people who like you! What, do you think they lie to you maliciously for fun? Do you think they're the kind of people who just pity you? Not "do you think you're the kind of person who 'deserves' that", but do you think they are the kinds of assholes who would do that? If so, look for better friends. If not, stop making mean accusations about your friends to server your own self-loathing. Also, simply an unrealistic thing to assume. Everything always being bad is just as unlikely as everything always being good.

"DO people want to spend time with me? I DON'T KNOW. I can't know what they're thinking! If they tell me directly, they could be lying, but they could not. I guess the only way to find out is to try. Sometimes this will not go well but at least I won't be assuming wrong." - Neutral, and potentially more helpful for brand new people especially, even if you should still work on getting better at assuming positives. Going in expecting disappointment is possible but not just assuming it to a point of making it self-fulfilling is a light but functional guard. If you never let yourself risk getting hurt at all, you also guarantee you'll never get any of the rewards those risks may have earned. But it doesn't have to be all or nothing. You can brace yourself and reduce how much it hurts IF (IF!!!) it does end up hurting, and still put yourself out there.

And lastly-

"I think people DON'T like me or what to be around me, because CLEARLY I'm so awful. Then again, if I'm really so bad, why would my judgment be the one single thing I'm amazing at? If I think other people are better than me, and some of them are saying I'm better than I think, maybe I should try trusting they know better than me and see how that goes?" - Sometimes that's where you gotta start. If you simply cannot bring yourself to see anything about yourself that isn't overtly negative, stop asking your own opinion and trust the people who like you, even if you can't believe them, even if it's only just enough to say "I guess there's a chance I could be wrong." Believe in the friends who believe in you.

assuming that people like you and want to spend time with you is crucial to making friends. unfortunately this is the hardest thing to do in the world

[have-you-seen-my-sanity]

Hello! :3 I see ure writing yandere and for inho and with my current obsession over the front man/hwang inho im asking if you can do yandere front man? Pls do it as dark as possible 🙏

Did I read dark? Absolutely!

Yandere Hwang In-ho/Frontman

Squid Game masterlist

Nsfw and dead dove do not eat below.

At first his focus was towards Gi-hun, but when you were part of their team, sat with them, talking to him, his focus slowly but surely shifted to you.

In-ho would silently root for you without letting his front man mask slip.

The guards will give you food that has been only reserved for you during mealtime. Suddenly your ration has the type of food you like, an extra egg or more rice, but most importantly the nutrisions you'd need for the next game.

In-ho is the reason a random player has been shot instead of you, he is the reason the guards have escorted you to the bathroom as another lights out fight happened.

Hwang hears everything you say, whether it's during eating or when he's laying awake in his bed, listening to you speaking with someone.

He's too good of a manipulator, tells you to listen to him instead of the former winner Gi-hun, tells you to stay close to him instead anybody else.

"Why go with Gi-hun and risk getting killed when you can stay with me where you'd be safe?"

In-ho watches you from the corner of his eyes, his knuckles turning white when he sees another Thanos-like douchebag confronting you.

He has absolutely no trouble beating someone bloody who dared flirting with you or touching you without consent. Could easily snap that person's neck without a flinch.

In-ho gets sick pleasure when he sees someone you've got close with get gunned down by the guards. You look so pretty to him, no matter if you're crying or not..

If a raid against the guards happens, Hwang watches you like a hawk, making sure you're not getting harmed and you're not getting away. His stares would be so intense he is sure you would feel them burn through you.

During a raid, he couldn't be happier because whatever happens he knows you will be captured, either by his guards or directly him after faking his death.

He already plans what he would do with you once you've been captured, he would make you watch the games with him, all in his front man attire of course.

Forces you to watch the guards gun down the ones you became friends with, telling you:

"See what happens to those you call friends? The money makes them your friends until they're getting it and betray you..."

Has planned to keep you in his chambers while observing the games, having his right hand man, the Officer, keeping tabs on you.

Hwang will reveal himself to you soon, expecting your eyes widen in fear, shock or hopelessness.

In-ho would personally implant a tracker into you, making sure he always knows where you are, this way you have almost no way of getting rid of him.

In-ho keeps you exclusively to himself, not even the VIPs are allowed near you. He has his moments where he treats you more like his trophy, squeezing your thighs possessively with his cold leather glove.

"You are by far the most beautiful price. But I get to keep you, you're my perfect price.."

In-ho is rich as hell, so there is no doubt he will spoil you with it.

Any rogue guard trying to lay his hands on you gets his lesson taught with a bullet in his brain for touching his perfect price.

Hwang may seem cold to his staff, but with you he isn't. He's the man whispering sweet nothings into your ear until you're too weak to stand.

If you're trying to escape however... that is if you somehow make it past the guards, In-ho can get harsh with you too.

"Trying to escape are we? Perhaps you need a reminder of who you belong to now, hm?"

His favorite is having you on his lap, with his cock stuffed into you while he watches the games. You're not allowed to move until he says so, you're not allowed to cum until he says so, you're not allowed to make noise until he says so.

Your best bet with him is behaving and doing what he says.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

[navybrat817]

If you're still taking ficlet requests, maybe a dark or soft dark Bucky who works for your dad?

I hope you like where I went with this, nonnie!

Dollhouse

Pairing: Soft Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: Over 900

Warnings: Toxic family, implied cheating (not reader or Bucky), drug and drinking reference, inspired by the song Dollhouse. Soft!Dark Bucky Barnes and implied future dubcon/noncon.

You didn’t want to come home for the weekend. You lost track of how many times you told your dad that. It didn’t matter that you weren’t a child anymore or that you weren’t living at the mansion. The expectation was that you would play the part of a supporting daughter in front of his employees no matter what. It was laughable, if not utterly sad. Either most didn’t know your family was far from a happy one or they didn’t care. And why would they as long as they got what they wanted?

Places, places, get in your places. Throw on your dress and put on your doll faces.

“Dad, I’m going to change and go for a swim,” you announced.

Your dad along with the group of men that surrounded him turned their heads toward you. Most of the men averted their gazes after a moment, except for one: Bucky Barnes. Ever since he started working for your dad he took an unexpected interest in you. He was always asking about your personal life, and he seemed all too happy when your recent relationship ended. Your dad, of course, loved him because he was a hard worker and made him money.

“Where’s your brother?” your dad asked, making you look away from Bucky.

“Couldn’t tell you,” you answered. If you had to guess, he was off in his room getting high.

“Okay. Just enjoy your swim, princess.” You did your best not to roll your eyes at the nickname. “But make sure you’re set for dinner. Your mother’s cooking your favorite.”

You did roll your eyes this time, and Bucky continued to stare. Your mom never lifted a finger in the kitchen. She’d order out and make it look like she did it herself.

Everyone thinks that we're perfect. Please don't let them look through the curtains.

“Of course, dad,” you said, leaving without another word and feeling a pair of cold blue eyes follow your every move.

The chatter from the main room filled the hall as you went to your room to change, the sound muffled once you shut the door. You blocked it out as best as you could as you selected one of your bathing suits and changed. You hoped your mom wouldn’t drink too much and embarrass herself at dinner. You also hoped your dad was smart enough not to bring a side piece around until after she passed out. It could be a little entertaining though if your brother ran his mouth.

Picture, picture, smile for the picture. Pose with your brother, won’t you be a good sister?

“Well, look at you.”

Your heart leapt to your throat when you turned around to see Bucky standing by your bed. He held your cover up in his hand. How the hell did he get in your room so quietly? Why was he there?

“What the hell are you doing?” you demanded.

“Sorry. I was trying to find the bathroom,” he said. A terrible lie, like he didn't even try. “Such a large place, you know. Easy to go through the wrong door.”

“Do you normally pick up garments that don’t belong to you when you’re 'lost'?” you asked, trying to take it from him.

He pulled his hand out of reach. “Not normally, but I couldn’t resist,” he said, not hiding the lust in his eyes as they landed on your chest and slowly drifted down. “You know, you have a pretty fucked up family.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” you scoffed.

Everyone thinks that we're perfect. Please don't let them look through the curtains.

“Allow me,” he offered as his gaze flickered back to your face.

“No, thanks,” you said, attempting to grab the cover up again as he narrowed his eyes.

"Turn around,” he ordered, his voice deeper and gruffer than before. “I won't tell you twice.”

Tell, not ask.

You hoped your trembling wasn't noticeable when you turned and faced the mirror, having to look at his reflection as he slowly walked up behind you. He was handsome, you couldn’t deny that, and large. He could overpower you easily.

“This is such a beautiful color on you. Must drive all the boys crazy when you wear it. Also must be why your daddy keeps you locked up as much as he can,” he said more to himself than to you as he ran a gloved finger down your side. “But I’m not a boy, am I?”

“He doesn’t keep me locked up,” you whispered, unsure of why you were arguing. Maybe it would distract you from his touch.

He brought his mouth to your ear, his eyes locked with yours in the mirror. “You think because you live on your own that you’re free? That you aren’t watched at all times?” He asked, chuckling when you shivered again. “You may be your daddy's princess, but you'll be mine soon enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I make your dad a lot of money. He owes me.” He straightened up and slipped the fabric over your shaking frame. “As much as I hate to cover up such a beautiful piece of art, I may lose control if I don't,” he said, as if he had the right to do so. “Keep your door unlocked for me tonight.”

“I won't-”

He had a hand around your throat, but didn't squeeze. “You will,” he said, kissing your temple. “And we'll see if you can keep quiet.”

Love and thanks for participating in Ficlet Friday! ❤️ And this one may be fun to continue.

[mulloey]

clever girl

mafia!seonghwa & mafia!yunho x undercover detective!reader. feat. mafia!ateez

words: 7.5k

warnings: dark content. extremely dubcon. depictions of gangs, violence, death (not you or ateez& not shown) and prostitution.

smut warnings: heavy dubcon, threesome, hard doms!yunho & seonghwa, exhibitionism, gun play, double penetration, anal, unprotected sex, sir kink, pet& degradation names, fear kink, some thigh slaps, mentions of pregnancy and breeding, death threats, humiliation, no aftercare, imprisonment etc

hate is deleted and blocked

-

“Detective.”

Your head darts up, gaze meeting that of your irritated looking boss. He stands above you with folded arms, a displeased expression on his face. “Sir,” you greet him. You struggle to keep your expression blank, a smile pulling at your lips; you know exactly what he’s mad about.

He slams a sheet of paper down on your desk. “Why did you request to do this mission alone?” He asks, wasting no time. “Have you lost your mind?”

You don’t need to ask what mission he’s referring to; though you, much to his annoyance, are known for choosing to go it alone, there’s only one mission on your roster right now that’s dangerous enough to make him this agitated. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you lean back in your chair. You stretch your arms out above you with a yawn before sitting back up, eyes on him. “I’ve been watching these guys longer than anyone else,” you say. “Before anyone here would even acknowledge they were an actual threat. I know how they work.”

“Yes, we’re all aware of your qualifications,” your boss snaps. “But I wasn’t asking about that. I’m asking why you want to do this alone.”

You nod, a small concession and certainly the most he’d ever expect from you. “It took me a long time to fully understand these men,” you explain. “They’re incredibly volatile and unpredictable, even for a gang.”

“Even more reason to have backup.”

“No,” you disagree, shaking your head. “Even more reason not to send officers to their deaths because they don’t know what they’re dealing with or how to deal with it.”

His mouth opens and closes, formulating a response. He frowns, tapping a heavy black boot against the floor. “You really think that’s what it’d be?” He asks. “You think we’d lose men?”

“I’m certain,” you say. “I can’t emphasise enough how dangerous these guys are if you don’t know the way they work or how to stay on their good side. But I do know those things, sir. I’ve studied them for six years.”

He hums. “And you actually think you can handle it alone?”

You smile, nodding confidently. The thought of finally meeting these strange men in person has you a little queasy, but you know you can get this done. “It’s simple intelligence gathering, sir. I’m happy to have backup stationed a good distance away, but I’m not sacrificing good people for something I can do alone.”

He stares at you for a moment, searching for any signs of uncertainty before he sighs, nodding in defeat. “Very well,” he says. “I can see there’s no convincing you. You can do this alone if you’re absolutely certain that’s the best course, but you will call for help when you need it. The moment you need it. Understood?”

You smile, standing up to shake your still hesitant looking boss’ hand. “Thank you, sir. Understood.”

On the other side of Seoul, in a dark office piled with weapons and supplies, a screen lights up, buzzing with a new message.

4:37pm

unknown number: she’ll be coming soon. alone.

A man stares down at the message, a thin smile on his lips. It’s finally happening. The girl he’s been watching, who’s followed him around corners and stared into his windows for years, will finally stand in front of him, and she’ll be completely alone. He couldn’t have asked for more.

He sighs, twirling a knife around sullied fingers. Come, little dove.

—

Five days later, a taxi drops you off just on the outskirts of what has become their unquestioned territory. It’s an unassuming area, not rich by any means but not outwardly dodgy, either, and to the untrained eye doesn’t seem at all like gang territory. But you know better, of course. You know what happens behind the doors that quickly close as you walk by; you know the terrors behind the eyes of the men who leer at you as you venture further away from safety. You know this place, and you know that as far as anyone who knows anything is concerned, you’re not in Seoul anymore. As much as your boss may claim to, try to believe differently, neither the law nor the police nor anything can help you now. Every step you take now is taken at the mercy of the eight men you’ve come here to meet. The Owners, locals call them. You’ve come to know them as Ateez.

You walk with your head down, trying not to catch any more attention than being a lone woman at this time of night already commands. One hand is stuffed in your jacket pocket, fingering at your gun for reassurance while the other hangs at your side. Beneath your jacket, the black dress you’ve chosen to wear hangs just above the middle of your thigh. You hate the feeling of it, shorter and far less comfortable than the pants, jeans and shirts you’ve become accustomed to as a detective, but it’s all that was available for the very specific tactic you’ve chosen.

From your interviews of Ateez’s associates, or at least the ones who you’d managed to catch before they did, you know that they are extremely and understandably stingy with their information. Their personnel, operations and other intelligence is closely guarded on a completely need-to-know basis. It’s what makes trying to capture the lower-level members of the organisation such a pointless task; the majority of them don’t even know who their bosses are, let alone any useful information about them. In fact, the chances of actually meeting the men themselves are very slim even for people looking to do business with them; from several accounts you’ve ascertained that even trusted partners and allies will work with the organisation for years without ever meeting its leaders. No, the only people who get anywhere near the leaders and, more importantly, the information they possess, are the women who come and go from their penthouse on a quickly rotating basis, and according to your informants, always seem to emerge looking even more terrified than they’d entered.

As such you’d formed your plan; you’d enter as one of their hookers, with the clothes and parts to match, find out as much as you could, bug every inch of the penthouse, and leave with your satisfied clients none the wiser. A simple enough plan, but as your years on the force have taught you, not one that’s likely to go exactly as you expect. You just hope that you come out in one piece. Or that you come out at all.

You pull the jacket further across your chest, holding it tightly against yourself. Mercifully, the inconspicuous, but for you instantly recognisable building belonging to the organisation soon comes into view. By design it doesn’t stand out, except for the fact that it is quite a bit taller than its neighbours, but you know what goes on in there; or at least, you’re about to. You take a deep breath before biting the bullet and quickly stepping inside.

The interior of the building is just as uneventful; relatively clean but stained in places with substances you’d rather not think about. A few men shuffle around silently, looking up briefly when you walk in before quickly averting their gaze when they realise what you’re here for. It’s a well-known rule, apparently, that no one is to even think about a girl the leaders have had, even after they’ve discarded her. And with such a fast employee turnaround, it’s no mystery what they do to people who violate even the smallest of rules. The leaders — particularly the eldest two, you hear — run a tight, disciplined ship, and think nothing of throwing anyone overboard. Except each other, apparently; the one thing that every single one of the informants had vouched for is the tight, indestructible bond of the men at the helm of this operation.

A man approaches you nervously, asking why you’re here and you quietly whisper the name of one of your informants; miraculously you’d managed to turn one of the men Ateez frequently used to procure their companions, and he’d agreed to hand you over to them, essentially guaranteeing your authenticity; basically, he’d promised to vouch for you not being the exact thing you were— a snitch. A cop, at that. The man you speak to nods in understanding and directs you where to go and, thanking him with a smile, you make a note to thank your informant the next time you check in with him.

The further you venture into the building, your heart pounding heavier with each step, the nicer it becomes. When you step into the elevator, far nicer and more richly decorated than the front of the building, it becomes clear that the first part of your mission — breaching the restricted area — has been successful.

You step out on the top floor and the difference is obvious; polished floors and hallways lined with mirrors, paintings and flowers show you this is a part of the building few will ever see. This is the bosses’ world. Ateez’s world.

Breathing shakily, you knock on the doorbell the way you’d been instructed — five times, with a gap between the third and fourth. You hear voices before the door opens seemingly on its own, revealing the lavish interiors of the leaders’ apartments. It’s richly decorated with a dark, oak theme, and there’s not a person in sight.

“Hello?” You call out. Your voice almost seems to echo in the vast emptiness of the penthouse. “I’m here to see the Owners? Binwoo sent me.”

Silence abounds and then, just as you start to worry this has all been a big set-up to take out the only detective who’s gotten remotely close to the group, someone emerges. You recognise him instantly as the leader, Hongjoong. You’ve only seen him in surveillance, and very scarcely; the only time he ever seems to leave this place is when someone pisses him off so badly he decides to deal with them himself, so naturally the majority of your surveillance of him has been of torture and murder and pain. Seeing him in front of you now, not as tall as he looked from afar yet somehow even more imposing, those images of him — the things you’ve seen him do — play on repeat in your head.

When he raises a hand to wave at you, all you can picture is the black leather gloves he wears while he brutalises, covered in blood. Your blood, if this doesn’t go well. There’s a reason, you think, that the employees who don’t know this man’s name and thus resort to nicknames, have settled on The Butcher.

You gulp as you wave back. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your hands shake. “Hello, sir,” you greet. You bow politely, trying not to let on to the fact that you have any knowledge of who this man is or what he’s capable of. “I was sent by Binwoo to entertain you.”

He cocks an eyebrow, staring you up and down. “He did say he had someone for us,” he says. This is the first time you’ve heard his voice clearly, and you have to stop yourself from looking surprised at how… normal he sounds. Like a regular guy in his 20s, really— certainly not the monster you know him to be. In another situation, you think you’d quite like his voice. It’s gentle and welcoming and you could even see yourself getting flustered by it; but instead the voice, the man, everything about this moment, fills you with terror.

“Yes, sir. That was me.” You try your best to sound seductive, or even normal, but you’re not sure if he buys it.

He stares at you for a few seconds, eyes narrowed. “Take off your jacket,” he orders. Fear pulsates as you obey; you note that his voice is deeper than before. You hope it’s arousal— or even just curiosity. Anything but what you’re fearing it to be.

You take off your jacket as quickly as possible, hanging it up on the hanger next to the door as he instructs you. You stand in place, hands by your sides like your informant, Binwoo, had told you he teaches his girls to do. Wearing only your dress and heels, you feel more exposed and vulnerable than ever.

He stares at you for a moment before nodding, satisfied. “I’m Hongjoong,” he smiles. “What should I call you?”

You don’t think about your answer; you’d come up with a name while planning this mission, just as you always do. “Mira.”

He cocks an eyebrow, sceptical, but nods. It’s not uncommon for prostitutes to give a fake name, particularly in circles like this, so your obvious moniker shouldn’t be a problem unless he figures out the real reason you’re using it. You pray he doesn’t.

“Very well, ‘Mira’,” he grins. “I’ll take you to the others. They’re waiting for you.”

You follow him down the hallway; dark, ambiently lit, almost cosy. The sound of your heels on the wooden floor breaks the silence into small seconds, giving you a rhythm to follow and cling to as you walk towards what could very well be your doom.

Reaching the door to the dining room, Hongjoong spares a second to look back at you, offering a thin smile that could almost be reassuring before pushing open the door. The room is bigger than you could have imagined and impossibly lavish; more suited for royalty than a criminal syndicate. Along one side of a long, oak table that stretches much of the length of the room sit seven men, arranged to face you in an intimidating formation.

You recognise them all, each face unnerving you more than the last. It’s true, they’re all stupidly handsome — even more so in real life, you realise — but all you see on their faces are the countless, endless amounts of blood on their hands. You’ve seen some of it yourself, more than enough, but the stories are even worse; men, women, children, anyone who stood in their way, slaughtered like sheep. You could swear you hear the faint ringing of screams in your ear as they look up at you.

“Gentlemen,” Hongjoong says. “This is Mira.”

They greet you with interest, a few of them offering a smile while the others simply stare you down. “Turn,” one of them says — San, you think. You stare unsuredly at Hongjoong and he lifts an eyebrow; a silent order to obey. Slowly you turn around, letting them see your back side before facing them once again. They look pleased.

“She’ll do fine,” another, Wooyoung, says with a grin.

Your gaze catches his and you gulp, unnerved. Wooyoung was the person you were most nervous to encounter; though his demeanour is friendly, enthusiastic even, the stories you’ve heard about him are the worst. He kills, massacres people with ease and he does it with that same grin on his face. It’s more terrifying than the more calculated, stoic members, because while they’ve probably killed and maimed more people than him in the long run, they at least treat it with the seriousness it deserves. Wooyoung ends lives without consideration and treats it all like some kind of game.

“Um…” you start. “What would you like me to do now, sirs?”

“Unless anyone has any requests,” Hongjoong starts. He looks around at the others and when no one speaks up, he continues. “You may put your bag on the table then come back here to present yourselves to us.”

You nod, voicing a quiet ‘yes, sir’ before nervously making your way over to the table. Your grip on your bag is iron and you’re hesitant to let it go; your bugging equipment lies in a secret compartment at the bottom hidden beneath the makeup and toys you’d brought to make yourself more convincing, and to leave it with them feels like giving yourself away. But even if they check your bag, you think, they have no reason to think there’d be any kind of secret compartment. You’re safe. You just need to get this done and then you’re safe.

You walk back to where you were, alone this time — Hongjoong has gone to take his seat next to the oldest member, Seonghwa, and now you’re eight-to-one.

Seonghwa speaks for the first time and his voice is surprisingly sultry. “Take the dress off,” he says calmly. His eyes are narrowed. “I’d like to see what I’m working with.”

With shaking hands you remove the dress, carefully unzipping the expensive (for a detective’s salary, at least) fabric and sliding it down off your body. Clad only in black, lacy lingerie, you feel a deep flush across your face; you’ve never been so exposed in front of a man before; certainly not multiple men and certainly not dangerous, notorious criminals. A whistle sounds across the room, though you’re not sure who it came from, and you blush deeper. You feel the weight of their gazes as eight pairs of eyes hover over every inch of you, inspecting and scrutinising you silently. Seonghwa, the closest to you and with the sternest expression, can’t seem to draw his eyes away from your breasts. You swallow, feeling vulnerable and smaller than you ever have before.

“Turn,” Seonghwa says, voice commanding. “Let me see the back.”

You nod, turning once again, taking your time to give them the opportunity to rake their eyes up and down the back of you; no doubt hovering on your ass, globes cleverly exposed by your lingerie. You hear a few whispered comments and try to keep your composure; you almost feel the touch of their hands on your ass, squeezing and slapping it however they like. You know they want to; you hope they will— it will mean you’ve convinced them enough for them to let their guard down.

“That’s enough,” Seonghwa says. “Turn back.”

Relieved, you turn back to face them. You’ve passed one obstacle, you think. Seonghwa stares at you for a moment, expression unreadable before he curls a long finger, bidding you closer. You take a few steps before he raises his palm, stopping you, and you still yourself. His eyes rake over your torso again before he nods. He stares up at you with dark but interested eyes and a smile breaks onto his face before he speaks.

He says it so casually you almost miss it. “I know what you are.”

His voice is so soft you only just hear him and the words take a moment to hit you. When they do, your reaction is sudden and visceral; you heart drops into your stomach like stone, blood rushing to your head at a dizzying pace and you almost pass out. But you do your best to keep your reactions internal; you know the only way to make them more certain of why you’re actually here is to freak out and panic at the mere suggestion. No. You can play this one off. You’ve trained for this. You just need to de-escalate.

You clear your throat, tapping your foot against the floor. “And what’s that?” You ask, trying to sound sultry; your voice almost breaks on the last word but you catch it in the nick of time. “A whore?”

Seonghwa’s lip quirks. “You know,” he says. “That’s not as far off as you think. But no.”

You almost want to huff at the jibe he’d thrown at you, but you remember your situation, the danger you’re in and choose to stay on his good side.

“What am I, then?”

“We don’t really need to say it, do we?” Hongjoong interjects. There’s no anger in his voice; he sounds somewhere between bored and amused. “We both know already.”

You reach up to your chest, to the chip you’d hidden in your bra in case you needed to call for backup, but a loud laugh stops you.

“Are you calling for backup?” Wooyoung grins, confirming what you already knew — they know exactly why you’re here. They’ve figured you out.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, still fighting your case. Your voice starts to falter as you speak, composure beginning to crack. Some small, stupid part of you still seems to think there’s a way out of this, but you know there’s not. They know your secret. And even if they were wrong, if you were innocent, this is their territory and their house— if they say something is so, there’s no arguing.

“You are,” Wooyoung laughs.

“And that backup,” Hongjoong interjects again, “they wouldn’t be the officers we found in vans on the next block, would they?”

You feel your heart drop into your stomach, jaw dropping in disbelief. No. The next block? Does no one listen to a fucking thing you say?

“I—”

“I wouldn’t bother calling for them,” Seonghwa says. You hear a few chuckles from the others, clearly enjoying this. “I don’t think I need to explain why.”

No, you think, he doesn’t. You know what they do to spies and traitors — what they’ll do to you. You can only hope they killed your colleagues quickly. If you somehow ever make it out of here, you’re going to do the same to your boss — you told him to station backup far away and this is why.

Starting to panic, you begin to back away but your pathetic attempt only takes you a few steps before Seonghwa barks, “Grab her!”, and the two men nearest descend on you.

Your years of combat training are no match for the strong, probably better-trained men, and within seconds they have you fully restrained. You struggle in their hold and the taller, Mingi, harshly grabs your hair, yanking it back to force you to stare the others straight in the face.

You expect to see anger, even bloodlust when you meet their gaze, but you don’t. Other than Seonghwa, who seems irritated at your attempt to escape, they look… unbothered. It doesn’t make sense, you think. Not with what you were trying to do and especially not with how painfully close you came to doing it. For having almost had their entire network penetrated by one terrified looking woman, they look strangely calm, like they’re entirely unsurprised by this development, and you don’t know why. Unless…?

You hold back a groan as the realisation hits you. “You knew.”

Hongjoong smiles, amused. “We’ve always known, Mira. You think we wouldn’t realise we were being watched?”

You bow your head. You’re still terrified, knowing these men have killed countless people with the blank, unbothered expressions they wear now, but right now the overwhelming, crushing emotion is just… embarrassment. You feel like a rookie again; cocky and confident with your badge and gun until you fuck up for the first time and it all comes crashing down.

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

You hear someone snort and look up to see Wooyoung, giggling almost gleefully to himself. “Aren’t you meant to be the smartest on the squad?” He laughs. You hear a few others chuckle too. “Didn’t you tell your boss you ‘knew everything about us’? But you didn’t consider the fact that we might know you?”

He makes a good point, you realise. But while you figured they’d know they were being watched, with your high-tech surveillance equipment and ability to blend into a crowd, it had barely crossed your mind that they might know who was watching them — certainly not that they’d somehow know the exact things you’d said about them. They must have bugged you, you think, or somehow gotten a spy into the department to listen in on your discussions on them. You guess you owe them more credit. And a lot more fear.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say.

“I’m certain you are,” Hongjoong says. “Now you’ve been caught. Are you keen on proving it?”

You look up, confused, hopeful and terrified all in one. You thought you’d be dead by now, shot on sight. And if they intended on killing you slowly, torturing you for information before finally letting you die, you figured they’d have started by now. Or at least made any attempt to move. They could still do it, of course, but they don’t seem in the mood for that. They look… curious.

“P-prove it?” You stutter. “How?”

A few of them smile, mouths curling into thin smiles and you shift uncomfortably. The two oldest share a look before Seonghwa nods and seemingly out of nowhere, Hongjoong pulls a gun, setting it carefully but loudly on the table. He keeps a hand on the trigger and his eyes on you as he speaks. “Firstly,” he says. “Don’t try to run. I’d hate to stick a bullet through your pretty face but if you bolt, that’s exactly what I’ll do. And I know you’ve seen yourself how excellent my aim is.”

You gulp. Hongjoong’s right. Through the lenses of your binoculars you’ve seen him — all of them, in fact — make some almost impossible shots. Certainly more impossible than a woman in heels trying to escape from a locked room. There’s no point trying to run. You’ll leave when — if, you think with a shiver — they allow you to.

You feel yourself deflate, nodding defeatedly. “Okay.”

“Alright,” he smiles. “Mingi, Jongho, let her go.”

The men holding you stare almost petulantly at their leader but he raises an eyebrow and they relent, releasing their grip. “Not a fucking toe out of line, Mira,” Mingi whispers in your ear. He says your ‘name’ like it’s diseased.

Despite being released, your body refuses to move; it stays paralysed in the same position, too terrified to even shiver. A blessing in disguise though, you suppose; Hongjoong looks pleased. “See,” he smiles. “It’s so easy to just be good for us, isn’t it?”

You try to respond but all that comes out is a small, pathetic squeak. A few chuckles sound out across the room and your gaze catches Yunho, who, though appearing calm, in his eyes looks just on the edge of feral. You gulp.

Seonghwa is the first to move; he says your ‘name’ lowly, curling a finger towards you. “Come here,” he orders.

You approach him as slowly as you can excuse, soon enough ending up inches away from him. He looks you up and down, inspecting your body with dark eyes.

”You’re shivering,” he says softly.

You manage to force out a few words. “I’m cold,” you reply. “And…”

“And scared?” He asks. You don’t respond, but you flush pink and he chuckles. “Clever girl,” he says. “You should be scared. I’ve never liked the way you seemed so… fearless about us.”

He wraps an arm around your waist, eyes flashing when you jump in surprise. “So flighty,” he mutters. “Sit on my lap.”

You don’t know if you would resist if you could but that doesn’t matter; your body, seemingly in survival mode, moves of its own accord to straddle him. His hands settle on your waist, just above your ass and he smiles.

“Still shivering,” he chuckles. “Good girl.” He leans in close enough that only you can hear as he whispers; “San’ll be much nicer to you if you stay this terrified.” You gulp, eyes flickering in the direction of the man mentioned; he’s watching you intently, face blank but he’s clearly not one to mess with. He’s so much more intimidating in person.

“Now,” Seonghwa says, and you turn your gaze back to him. “Let’s see what you can do for us, hm? Open your mouth.”

You hesitate briefly, but quickly obey, parting your lips slightly. Seonghwa runs his thumb across your bottom lip before he tugs at it to open your mouth further; before you know it a wad of spit lands on your tongue, and he closes your mouth again. He taps your cheek. “Swallow,” he says.

You pray your boss never finds out about this; straddling your enemy’s lap and swallowing his spit on his command. Then again, you’d be lucky to see your boss again at all. You don’t particularly trust that they’ll spare your life just because you let them fuck you. This feels more like playing with their food.

Seonghwa pushes two fingers into your mouth, ordering you to suck. They push to the back of your throat, making you gag but you keep them inside, sucking them desperately and trying to ignore the way your body screams at you to get them out. “Sucking me so good,” he grins. “You’re gonna look so pretty with our dicks in your mouth.”

You can’t help the moan that slips out; nor the flood of relief that washes over you at the praise. Maybe they will let you live after all.

Seonghwa thrusts his fingers lazily in and out of your mouth, letting you choke and gag on them as your throat slowly adjusts to the intrusion.

“I must say,” he says. There’s curiosity and knowing in his eyes; a knowledge of something you think is secret. It unnerves you even further. “You’ve come around to this remarkably quickly. I really thought you’d put up more of a fight, petal.”

Noises of agreement sound out, the men chuckling to themselves. “Pathetic,” you think you hear Yunho say.

“You know, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says. You turn in surprise at his voice— sitting in Seonghwa’s grip, those dark eyes burning into you, it’s easy to forget there’s anyone else in the room. Hongjoong smiles amusedly at you before he continues. “It’s almost like she wanted to fail. Like she wanted us to realise what she was because she knew that’d mean we couldn’t let her leave.”

You manage to stop yourself from scoffing— thank God, you think, because the pistol on the table in front of Hongjoong is ever present and you’ve seen him use it on others for a lot less. But come on. That’s ridiculous. You’ve been after them for years, never for a moment with any intention other than locking each and every one of them up for good. You try to protest but Seonghwa clamps his palm over your mouth, shushing you. “You might be right, Joong,” he smiles. “That would explain why she came here so poorly prepared. Like a lamb to slaughter.” He removes his hand from your mouth; his fingers brush over your lips and linger a little longer than you can justify.

Hongjoong chuckles. “Is that it, little lamb?” He asks. “Were you hoping for this?”

You shake your head, determined to refute him but to your horror, part of you starts to wonder if there might be some truth to his words, if you… no. No way. Of course you weren’t hoping for this. Still, your hesitation tells them more than you want them to know. “I…”

“She was,” Seonghwa grins. “Naive little girl.”

You frown, brows furrowing. “I’m not—”

Before you can finish your sentence, a deep voice you recognise as Yunho sounds out, silencing you. “Will you stop fucking talking back,” he snaps, almost shouting. He leans over to where you’re still held firmly in Seonghwa’s grip, eyes dark. “I swear to God,” he whispers.

“Yunho,” Hongjoong replies before you can, tone warning but amused. “Don’t be mean to her. She must be so scared right now, hm?” He turns back to you, narrowing his eyes. “And maybe something else?”

“She’s horny is what she is,” Yunho snorts dryly. “Dripping for us yet still with so much attitude.”

“She can’t resist,” Seonghwa says. “It’s in her bones, isn’t it?” He strokes your face with a gentleness you’d never expect from him; but the knowledge of how easily he could and might still kill you makes it a lot less comforting. “She wants to hate us, knows she should but this feels so right, doesn’t it? So good.”

You whine, shaking your head; you know you’re past the point of resistance now but you can’t bear to fully submit. There’s no coming back from that. Seonghwa sighs, stroking your hair. “As soon as you give in,” he says, “this will get so much easier.”

“I—”

“Hm?” He asks. “What? You can’t?”

You shake your head and he smiles. “You can, Mira,” he says. “You will.”

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut as if you could make this all go away just by blocking it out. You hear them chuckle, then before you know it you’re being lifted up; you open your eyes and see Seonghwa has stood up, still holding you in his arms, before laying you down on the table with your legs hanging over the edge. Your stomach twists as you realise the position you’re in; completely exposed and at their mercy. Ripe for the taking. Your hands are lifted above your head and you look up to see Yunho, holding them together firmly in one hand. Seonghwa’s hands come to rest on your hips again.

“Open your legs.”

You whine, shaking your head squeezing your thighs together. Seonghwa scowls, displeased and wraps a calloused hand around your plush upper thigh. He stares you down, eyes dark as he starts to squeeze. His sharp nails dig into you, piercing the skin ever so slightly under the pressure. You whimper, squirming a little but he doesn’t react.

“Open them.”

Cold metal touches your temple. You don’t need to look to know that Yunho is holding a gun to your head. You swallow thickly, trying to stay calm. At this point, you’re not disobeying on purpose; you’re not stupid enough to think that would work. But in the thick of adrenaline, where your body had once obeyed of its own accord, now… it won’t move.

Seonghwa gives Yunho a pointed look and then the gun leaves your head. Now in the elder’s hand, he puts it down for a moment before, with one hand on each thigh, he spreads your legs open with ease. “There we go,” he hums.

The steel of the pistol is ice cold against the warmth of your inner thighs as he moves it slowly up your legs until it points directly at your pussy. Covered by the thin black fabric of your panties, you nonetheless feel entirely exposed, like he can see right through them.

The end of the gun comes to press up against your panties and you feel the cold steel through the fabric; but where it presses against your clit, pressure slight but noticeable, it’s almost nice. It doesn’t move; Seonghwa keeps his hand still in place, watching with a small smile as you try to conceal your pleasure. He pushes it against you slightly, making you gasp, and gestures to your panties.

“Take those off,” he says. “Quickly, if you want the safety to stay on.”

You scramble to obey, tugging them off and discarding them next to you. With a small smile, Seonghwa picks them up and stuffs them in his pocket. You bite your lip. “Sir,” you whisper.

He hums, cocking an eyebrow before placing the gun back where it was before. This time he presses it more firmly against your clit and you squirm. “Nice and still for me,” he murmurs.

Turning your head, you see the other men gathered around the table. They’re just… watching. No one looks affected, no one’s touching themselves; they’re just watching their friends take you apart with entirely blank, focused expressions. Like it’s a clinical procedure.

Unnerved, you turn back to face Seonghwa just as he slips the gun ever so slightly into your pussy. You gasp, almost crying out but Yunho quickly shoves his fingers into your mouth, silencing you. “Now, now,” he cooes. “We don’t want to make them angry, do we?” His voice is sickly sweet and condescending and the most terrifying thing you’ve ever heard. You shake your head, still gagged by his fingers and he chuckles. “Good girl.”

Then the gun is gone as Seonghwa pulls it away— a string of wet, sticky liquid following in its wake. He smiles knowingly and you wish the earth would swallow you up. You’ve creamed on a fucking gun, shoved up your pussy by your worst enemies. You’ll never come back from this.

“My, my,” you hear Hongjoong chuckle. You turn to meet his eyes and he tilts his head, smiling innocently. Seonghwa grabs your face to force your gaze back to him. “Stop looking away,” he says. “I’m the one fucking you.”

The gun clatters down and without warning Seonghwa’s long fingers are penetrating you; two, you think, maybe three. He doesn’t ease you into it (why would he, really?), just quickly stretching you out on his fingers. And then Yunho’s there too, standing next to the elder and watching him work you open with dark eyes.

Soon they swap places, and while Seonghwa’s fingers are certainly large, Yunho’s are something else entirely. His fingers pump in and out of you efficiently; your pleasure clearly isn’t what’s on his mind, but rather, working you open for something bigger. He certainly pays no mind to your reactions; even as you whine and cry his eyes never move from your pussy as you come more and more undone around his fingers. He’s focused, dangerously so.

Once his third finger sits comfortably in your pussy, he pulls them all out, leaving you gaping and empty. You whine at the loss and he chuckles before he picks up his gun again. He runs it up and down your thigh with light, teasing touches.

“Want it in you?” He asks.

You nod, desperate. At this point, you wish you felt shame— you wish you were embarrassed and humiliated to be debasing yourself like this for your targets; but instead you’re just aroused. Completely, overwhelmingly, suffocatingly aroused. “Sir,” you whisper again.

He grins, twirling the gun in his hand. The ease with which he handles it is a stark reminder of where you are, who these men are. It does nothing to lessen your desperation.

“Very well,” he says. “Stay still, Mira. Wouldn’t want the safety coming off accidentally.”

Accidentally. You almost scoff. You’re a detective; you know a thinly veiled threat when you see one. And this is barely veiled. Still, you do as he says without complaint, keeping your legs spread and pussy open for access as he presses it against your entrance. It goes in surprisingly easily; lubricated by your gushing pussy and it’s as humiliating as it is exhilarating. You make a noise of discomfort, biting down on your lip until you taste blood; half of pleasure and half of pain.

The steel is cold and inhuman and the edges push painfully against your walls and it’s degrading and terrifying. Yet at the same time it feels so good to be used and demeaned in this way; to be fucked open not for your pleasure, not even his pleasure, but purely for his own amusement. You know every noise or face of pain you make is making him harder and it’s a rush you’ve never even felt from sex. Fuck. What is wrong with you?

At this point, you don’t even know who’s talking; people and voices blur into one distant, surrounding haze.

“She’s loving this,” someone says.

“Sick bitch,” another spits, then, “we should keep her.”

Then the gun is gone, and you’re suddenly empty, your walls clinging to nothing— briefly. Within a few moments something else nicer, warmer, better is sliding into you; you look up, meeting Seonghwa’s gaze as he pushes into you. He’s large and thick, bordering on this side of too much, but it feels… good. Fuck. You’ve never felt like this in your fucking life; neither, it seems, has he.

“Fuck,” he choked. “Tight little whore. So fucking good.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, lost in a fog of pleasure and clinging to the rhythm of his quickening thrusts. Half of you wants to forget who it is that’s doing this to you, making you feel so good; the other half thinks this is the only dick you want for the rest of your life. But with each thrust of Seonghwa’s dick deep inside you, slamming against your cervix each time, you become less and less able to think of anything at all— except the waves of painful pleasure washing over you, and your desperate desire for it to never, ever stop.

It’s just your luck that, just as you feel yourself approaching your climax, Seonghwa pulls out without warning, leaving you empty and leaking. You’re about to cry out in protest when you find yourself flipped over, pressed down and bent over the wooden table. You feel the two men behind you, kneading your ass, and a sharp slap lands against it before Seonghwa pushes back into your pussy again.

“Hwa,” Yunho says. “I don’t think she’s full enough.”

Seonghwa slows his pace, and you feel his stern, scrutinising gaze on you. “You’re right,” he says. He spreads your ass cheeks, making you gasp, and he chuckles. “Look at that little asshole clenching. I think it wants to be filled.”

Yunho makes a noise of agreement, pressing a finger to your rim and making you jump. “Think she can handle my cock in there?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” Yunho says nonchalantly. “But I’d rather not break her completely. She’s too tight, it’d be a waste.”

“Fine,” Seonghwa says, slowly starting to thrust again. After a few moments, he pulls out, and you feel Yunho’s long fingers enter your pussy. You whine, confused, but a slap of Seonghwa’s hand against your thigh silences you. Yunho’s fingers pull away, replaced with Seonghwa’s dick again, before Yunho’s fingers are on your asshole, pushing into the rim with— oh. He’s… he’s using your slick as lube.

“Dirty girl,” he mutters. It takes embarrassingly little time before he manages to fit all three fingers in there and he stills. “You ever been fucked here before?”

“N-no,” you gasp, squirming under the two men’s grips on you.

“Good,” he says. “Hold still.”

The feeling of his cock pushing past your rim makes you scream— it’s fucking maddening; painful and pleasurable and pretty much every adjective you could use to describe anything. You don’t even recognise the sounds you’re making now; you barely sound human, squealing and crying like an animal.

“Yeah,” Yunho grunts. “Bark, bitch.”

You’re fully sobbing now, a broken, dripping mess as two cocks pump in and out of you. Seonghwa’s fingers are digging into your hips, no doubt leaving bruises to match those blooming under the impact of your colliding bodies each time they thrust. Yunho’s hands are in your hair, tugging your head backwards; it stretches your neck painfully, but you doubt he cares; the only thing on either of their minds is using you for their own satisfaction. Only the sound of laughter reminds you of the presence of the other six and you crane your neck to look at them.

“Look at her,” Jongho laughs. “Taking it like a fucking whore.”

Emboldened by his comments, Yunho speeds up, thrusts getting quicker and harder by the second. You feel your walls clenching around his cock, squeezing him each time he moves.

Seonghwa’s thrusts are just as fast, hitting you just as deep, but in the more familiar cavern of your pussy, they’re not quite as overwhelming as Yunho’s. You can tell by their tightening grips on you when they’re close, slowly losing their control.

“I’m gonna fucking cum in you,” Yunho growls. “I’m gonna get you pregnant and fucking keep you here. Our little breeding bitch.”

You cry out, half pleasure half pain, and it pushes you over the edge; with a shout he releases inside you, hot load filling you up and leaking out around his dick before he pulls out. Seonghwa follows quickly, unloading in your pussy before pulling out, leaving you fucked out and leaking onto the floor.

“Disgusting bitch,” someone says.

Seonghwa touches your hip almost gently, and you find yourself crumpling to the floor, unable to hold yourself up anymore. Sat in a pathetic heap, you faintly see the men surrounding you.

“You did a good job, Mira,” Hongjoong says, and he almost sounds fond. “A maid will take you to your cell.”

Cell. The word hits you like bricks crashing down; knocking the wind out of your chest and dropping you back into your reality— you tried to beat them. You failed. You’re trapped. You know they see the terror creep back onto your face. You imagine they enjoy it.

Seonghwa pats your head, and for a moment it looks like he wants to kiss you; instead he just smiles, nodding curtly before following his brothers as they walk away. Hongjoong is the last to exit, leaving you alone, still crumpled on your knees and covered in cum on the floor of the hall. Before he closes the door, he turns back to you; his eyes hover over your shivering form and a smile flickers.

“If you can keep this up, Mira,” he says, “we’ll probably let you live.”

The slam of the oak door echoes around the room.

-

thanks for reading! i think this is darkest fic i’ve ever written. i’m trying to start branching out into more plot-heavy fics along with the usual smut, so this is something of an attempt in that area. your feedback is much appreciated and motivates me to write more. reblogs and comments are appreciated. requests open. love🖤🖤🖤

[moomuzan]

LET ME F✸CKING DECORATE YOU, DOLL

ft. gn!reader x chuuya

sum. chuuya bought a piercing gun. a-fucking-what? i meant, a new toy. and he will most happily pierce your nipples. the catch? his dick gets rock hard! 3.3k

warnings. explicit sexual content (mdni), oral (throat-fucking), stigmatophilia, piercing play, breath and power play, manhandling, d/s, established relationship, praise, cursing, reader’s gender is not specified, anypov

CHUUYA NAKAHARA

“What… what’s all this?” you asked, wary, as you finally stepped into the apartment, locking your eyes on him.

“A new toy,” he said smoothly, lips curving into a smirk that was dangerous and magnetic all at once. Pushing off the doorway, Chuuya moved with that effortless grace he always carried, sauntering to the table. His gloved fingers wrapped around the piercing gun, caressing the metal like it was something precious. The way he handled it sent a shiver rippling through you.

“You’re not serious,” you murmured, though your voice wavered under his unrelenting gaze.

Tilting his head as his smirk deepened, he turned back to you. “Oh, I’m dead serious.” His eyes darkened, the predatory gleam in them sharpening as he stalked closer. “And of course, it’s for you. Who else?”

“Me?” you echoed, your pulse quickening.

Eyes narrowing just slightly, the heat of his gaze rooted you to the spot. “You trust me, don’t you?”

The way he said it wasn’t a question—it was a command dressed in velvet, impossible to resist. Your throat tightened, but you nodded before you could even think to stop yourself. “I… yeah. I trust you.”

“Good.” His voice dropped lower, that single word wrapping around you like a leash. He stepped closer, his scent—cigarettes and faint leather—curling around you. One gloved hand reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering in a way that made your skin tingle. “Take off your shirt.”

For half a heartbeat you froze, the words sinking in, but the command in his tone left no room for hesitation. With trembling hands, you grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air of the apartment licked against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and chest.

A possessive hunger gleaming in their depths, Chuuya’s eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate. Of course, he didn’t bother to hide the way his gaze lingered on your bare breasts, the intensity of his stare making your stomach flip. “Perfect,” he murmured under his breath, as if talking to himself.

Without another word, he grabbed one of the alcohol swabs from the table, tearing the packet open with his teeth. The sharp, medicinal scent filled the air again as he stepped closer, swiping the cold swab across your nipple. You flinched at the sudden chill, though his other hand was already on your waist, steadying you with a firm grip that sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Hold still,” he breathed, the rough edge in his voice doing little to hide his excitement. Leaning in, his breath warm against your neck, his gloved fingers pinched your nipple, pulling it taut. The sensation was sharp, almost painful, and yet it sent a strange thrill shooting through you.

The sharp, satisfying click of the piercing gun echoed in the stillness, followed by stinging pain and the faintest gasp that spilled from your lips—a sound so soft, yet it sent a bolt of electricity straight through him. Chuuya’s gloved fingers lingered on your skin, his gaze fixed on the glint of the small metal bar now nestled against your flushed flesh. While his chest tightened, hot breath catching in his throat, a surge of heat and possession roared through his middle, his dick hardening ever so slightly.

Fuck, he hadn’t expected it to hit him this hard.

Yet, the sight of your body trembling under his hands, so vulnerable yet trusting, was enough to push him beyond reason. Every little sound you made—every hitch of your breath, every sharp intake of air left his blood thrumming with a visceral kind of hunger, one he could feel coiling low in his stomach and pooling between his thighs. It stoked the fire inside him, making his, still, clothed length twitch in need.

You were perfect. Too fucking perfect.

Almost glittering, the cool gleam of the piercing caught the dim light as he adjusted it with careful fingers, though his composure was fraying fast. His hands twitched, aching to touch you everywhere, to leave marks and claim you in ways that went beyond the smooth metal now decorating your skin. His gloves only heightened the frustration, a barrier between him and the heat of your body. It made him want to rip them off, to feel your softness and warmth directly, to let his bare hands roam freely. But no—he liked the control the leather afforded him, the precision. He couldn’t lose himself just yet. Not completely.

But God, the way your chest rose and fell, the way your body leaned into his touch despite the pain, had his head spinning. His cock strained against his pants, throbbing almost painfully as he watched you squirm under him. Pulse racing, his breathing grew heavier with each passing second. You weren’t even trying, and yet you were undoing him, piece by piece.

In contrast, the second piercing was worse—no, better. The sound you made this time wasn’t just a gasp; it was a moan, soft and breathless, and it went straight to his dick. A growl rumbled low in his throat, his control slipping as he worked the piercing into place. Feelingl the heat radiating off you, the way your thighs pressed together, as if you were trying—and failing—to fight off your own growing arousal. It made him grin, feral and wicked.

You were as undone by this as he was.

He couldn’t stop himself from brushing his fingers over the fresh piercings, watching the way you shivered, the way your lips parted as you sucked in a shaky breath. Twitching in response, his cock ached intensifying, growing by the second. It wasn’t just lust—it was something primal, something deeper. Seeing you like this, vulnerable and marked by him, flipped a switch in his brain. You were his now, utterly and completely.

Chuuya leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his voice dropped, thick and rough with need. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growled as his gloved hand slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises. Momentarily, his teeth grazed your earlobe, and he let out a shuddering breath, barely holding himself together. “Seeing you like this—knowing I did this to you—fuck.”

His hand drifted lower, tracing the curve of your thigh before stopping just short of where he knew you wanted him. He chuckled darkly when you squirmed, tilting your head back to meet his burning gaze. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, decorated like the possession you are,” he croaked, his voice thick with possession and desire. “You don’t even know how hard I am right now, do you?”

With rising hunger, he let his gloved fingers trail back up to your chest, brushing against the metal, barely even pulling on it, which made you gasp again. Yet, your aching sounds only drove him further in this abyss of utter lust, his body demanding more, more, more. His lips curled into a smirk, his pupils blown wide as he watched you unravel beneath his touch.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice a low, primal growl as his hand slid to your throat, gripping you just enough to make your pulse quicken. “Every fucking inch of you. I’ll make you never forget that.”

By now, the tension in the air was electric, a raw, unyielding charge that seemed to pulse between you. Chuuya’s piercing gaze locked onto yours, sharp and feral, as if every ounce of restraint had finally snapped. Before you could steady your breath, he was on you, his hands gripping your waist with bruising strength. The sheer force of him sent you stumbling backward until the edge of the table bit into the back of your thighs. In one fluid motion, he hoisted you up with ease, setting you down with enough force to make the table shudder beneath you.

“Stay,” he commanded roughly, yet he didn’t give you enough time to react, anyway, before his hands were on your shoulders. Forcefully, his brute strength pressed you back against the table, pinning you there with one hand splayed across your chest, the other braced on the desk beside you, the cool surface bit into your skin, a stark contrast to the overwhelming heat radiating from him as he loomed over you.

Chuuya’s breath had become uneven by then, his chest rising and falling heavily as he stared down at you. For a moment, it was as if he’d forgotten to move, frozen in place by the sight of you sprawled beneath him—vulnerable, trembling, and completely at his mercy. As though he was committing every curve and dip of your body to memory, his gloved hand trailed down the warm flesh of your stomach, slow and deliberate. His eyes darkened further, the hunger in them growing sharper with every passing second.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with something primal as his fingers, yet again, trailed over your stabbed, swollen nipples, brushing against the small glint of metal and earning a sharp intake of breath from you. The sound made him falter, his jaw tightening as a groan rumbled low in his throat. “It’s—You’re unbearable.”

Stepping back slightly, enough to stand fully before you, his presence ever so towering and suffocating, he drank in the sight of you. His hands moved to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease, the sharp clink of the buckle making your stomach twist in anticipation. But he didn’t rush, didn’t make a move to strip further just yet. Instead, he leaned in close, his gloved hand gripping your chin as he tilted your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes burned with possession, every inch of him demanding your submission.

“Open up.”

Before you even realized you were obeying, your lips parted, your body responding to the sheer weight of his presence. The smirk that curved his lips was pure sin, feral and triumphant as he reached for the glove on his right hand, tugging it off with his teeth. The sight of his bare hand—strong, calloused, and utterly confident—made your heart pound in your chest.

“That’s it,” his tone was dripping with satisfaction as he slid his thumb into your mouth, pressing it against your tongue. Meant to make you feel the roughness of his skin, his touch was firm, unrelenting, as he explored the softness of your mouth. “So obedient,” he muttered lowly, almost like a growl. “Do you even realize how good you look like this? Completely laid out for me, marked like a pet, doing exactly what I say.”

While his thumb pressed down harder, making you suck instinctively, his pupils blew wide at the sensation. A sharp, guttural groan escaped him that made his hips jerk forward slightly, the strain in his pants unmistakable. “Shit,” he hissed, pulling his thumb free with a slick pop that made his cock twitch. “Gonna’ unmantle you for behaving so well today.”

The man straightened, then, his lips curling into a wicked grin as his gaze raked over you. His arousal was palpable, his cock straining visibly against his pants, the evidence of his need impossible to ignore. At this point, he was only barely holding himself together, the sight of you pinned beneath him, trembling, marked and pliant, fraying the last threads of his restraint.

One hand moved to his belt yet again, undoing the rest of it with a sharp, deliberate pull. He didn’t look away from you as he worked, the air between you heating up as his cock sprang free from his pants, flushed and hard, the tip glistening with arousal, sticky pre-cum hugging the tip.

Wrapping his own hand around the length of his dick, he let out a shaky breath, his restraint fraying as he stroked himself lazily. For a brief moment, his head tilted back, teeth biting down on his bottom lip, and he groaned so throaty it almost startled you. Drunk in this moment, driven by your very own blooming arousal, your gaze was demanding, pleading, maybe even fuck-faced, yet ultimately glazed by pure need. When his eyes returned to yours, they appeared to have gotten darker, almost feral.

“Now, you’re going to take care of me,” he commanded while his gloved hand returned to the back of your head, threading through your hair and tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle. He guided your face closer, his cock brushing against your lips as he grinned down at you, feral and dripping with lust. “And if you perform well enough, I might even allow you to cum afterwards. Is that clear?”

When you merely nodded breathlessly, his free hand abruptly shot to your chest, furiously flicking the metal barrel that divided your hardened nipple with his index finger. A pain—so abstract it jarred your brain chemistry—jolted through your body. “Fucking answer me,” Chuuya hissed.

“Y-yes.” A silent cry escaped your lips. “I’ll be good.”

“That’s better.”

The heat of him was overwhelming, the sheer size of his length making your breath hitch as the tip pressed against your parted lips, then. Driven by compulsion, he didn’t give you time to think, his gloved hand tightening in your hair as he roughly pushed forward, his cock sliding past your lips and onto your tongue.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice trembling as his head tipped back. The warmth of your mouth, the softness of your tongue—it was almost too much. His hips bucked forward slightly, forcing you to take him deeper, after a sharp gasp escaping your lips sent a bolt of pleasure straight through his every being. His bare hand gripped the edge of the table to steady himself, his knuckles white as he tried to keep from losing control completely.

“That’s it.” Speaking a foul language of its own, his gaze pierced through your soul. The sight of you, your lips stretched around him, your eyes wide and teary as you struggled to take him all—it was enough to make his cock throb, the ache in his body intensifying. “Aren’t you the prettiest with my cock in your tight little mouth?”

Upon maddening thrusts that forced you to take more of him, he sheathed himself inside your dripping mouth, hitting your throat in a way that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Controlling your movements as he guided you, his gloved hand tightened in your hair, setting a slow, yet demanding pace that had his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathed as he mentally fought to keep himself from snapping. “So fucking perfect—taking me so well, like you were made for this.”

With quickening pace, then, the sound of your muffled breaths and the wet slide of his cock in your mouth filling the room, his grip on the edge of the table tightened. His head tilted back again, a low, guttural groan spilling from his lips as he let himself indulge in the heat of your mouth, the way your tongue moved against him, the way your throat constricted as he pushed deeper.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, his voice rough with possession as he thrust into your mouth harder, the tension in his body coiling tighter and tighter. “Only mine.”

For you, however, the pain, perversely mixed with pleasure, was almost unbearable. Making it hard to breathe, your throat kept burning with each, merciless impact as he buried himself further, the slick pressure of your tongue sending him closer to the edge. Every motion felt like fire, consuming your body, no, fuelling it, as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.

“Fuck,” he growled, the word half-snapped and guttural, his voice rough with desperation. “You’re driving me insane—fucking perfect, just like this.”

Simply primal, the unrestrained hunger twisting into something sharper—more wicked, his gaze shifted, darkening further. His bare hand moved from the edge of the desk, sliding down your neck and wrapping firmly around your throat. The pressure wasn’t overwhelming at first, but it was enough to make your pulse race, the weight of his palm against your skin stealing a faint wisp of air.

“I like it when you struggle.”

Your breath hitched in response to the dual sensations of his cock hitting the back of your throat, while his hand added more than enough pressure around your neck. Ever so slightly, this constriction made you acutely aware of every inch of him—the hardness of his body, the heat radiating from his skin, the raw power in the way he dominated you completely.

With his grip tightening around your throat, the world began to dim around the edges, your vision tunneling as he held you in place, his cock buried to the hilt in your mouth.

He didn't say a word, didn't utter a sound. He didn't need to. The message was clear in the way he looked at you, his eyes burning with a ferocity that stole your breath and set your nerves alight. The way he moved, each roll of his hips a deliberate, measured thrust that forced your throat to stretch around his thick length.

Instinctively, your nails dug into his arms, a silent plea for mercy, for reprieve. But there was no mercy in his expression, only a ruthless determination to claim every inch of your body, to mark you, all while using your mouth like it was made for his pleasure alone.

Hyper-aware of you struggling beneath him, his cock twitched against your tongue as the tight coil of heat in his core threatened to snap. His hand on your throat flexed, his grip tightening as he leaned over you. “I owe you,” he snarled, his tone dripping with possession as his hand squeezed harder, cutting off your air completely for a moment. Panicked, your chest burned as you struggled to inhale. Still, the way your throat tightened reflexively around him sent him spiraling. “Fuck—gonna’ cum, don’t you dare spill one drop.”

It was the moment your throat spasmed again when he broke. The red-haired let out a guttural groan, his hips slamming forward as his orgasm ripped through him, violent and overwhelming. His hand tightened on your neck as he came, the pressure leaving you lightheaded as he spilled his semen into your mouth, the heat of him flooding your tongue like a warm welcome. The way you convulsed beneath him—helpless, gasping—only intensified the pleasure, his body trembling as wave after wave crashed over him.

“Swallow it,” he reminded before his grip on your throat, eventually, loosened slightly, just enough to let you suck in a shaky breath, but his hand didn’t leave your neck entirely. The possessive weight of it lingered, a reminder of who owned you.

When he finally pulled back, his cock slipping from your mouth with a wet pop, he stood over you, his chest rising and falling heavily as he caught his breath. Brushing over the faint marks left by his grip, his fingers lingered on your throat, and he smirked down at you, his expression dark and triumphant.

“You took it so fucking well.“ His eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as he straightened, gently tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, adding “Don’t worry,” as he leaned down to brush his lips against your forehead. “I promised I’d make you cum, too.”

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💌 thanks for reading // & don’t worry, i will continue to write angst. just wanted to try, well, this out (and failed)

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[the-modern-typewriter]

In a recent post you said most of us weren't here for vampires but I beg to differ; your vampire snippets are literally enthralling. If you're in the mood to write another one, here's an excuse for you to do so (pls they're so good-), preferably with an enemies to lover vibe? Who doesn't love a little dramatic tension, right? Thank you!~

"Don't turn around."

The human paused, heart slamming in their chest at the voice. The hall of mirrors was eerie around them, all shadows and neon and flashing lights and distorted glass that offered them no sign of the vampire behind them. After a beat, the hunter kept walking, gaze trained to the wall of mirrors lining the left.

Somewhere, in the distance, they could hear screaming. It was difficult to tell if the sounds were horror or delight.

"What happens if I turn around?" the human asked.

"I'll have to kill you, and neither of us wants that."

"I'm a hunter. I'm pretty sure we both want that fight. Kinda how it goes, you know?"

Yet, the hunter didn't turn around. They had a weapon on them, of course, because they always had a weapon on them. But they hadn't come to the fairground to wage battle against terrible evil. The night was supposed to have been a fun one, candy-floss sticky and sweet with first kisses. A stupid lump wedged in their throat. They hastily wiped the remnant tears from their eyes.

They felt the vampire move next to them, though they heard no steps and felt no breath. Only the slight emanating chill of the undead. Despite themselves, despite knowing better, they searched the glass for any sign. There was nothing.

"What do you want?" the hunter demanded.

"What do you want, coming here?"

"I didn't know this was vampire territory."

"I suppose you are just a baby hunter. How old are? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen," the hunter snapped.

The vampire chuckled. "Seventeen," they echoed. Musing. There was something in their voice that the hunter couldn't quite read.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

The hunter rolled their eyes. They supposed they should have been terrified - on any other day they would have been. They hadn't technically done their first solo hunt yet and even one vampire was not a creature to be taken lightly. Everything in their head was too loud for terror. Too raw.

"Is it the girl you liked, or the boy?" the vampire asked.

"Excuse me?"

"The boy and the girl who were kissing here, not long ago. That you saw. I saw you see them. You looked like you'd been staked through the heart. Which is the one you liked?"

The hunter whirled, furious. They caught a blur of movement before an icy hand clamped over their eyes, slamming them back against the glass hard enough to knock the breath out of them. They were surprised the mirror didn't shatter. Their head throbbed and a low whine of pain slipped free of their throat. The vampire caught their wrist before they'd finished reaching for a weapon, grinding that into the glass behind them too.

"I said," the vampire's lips pressed against their ear, voice a sudden lethal hiss, "don't turn around."

"And I don't take orders from vampires!"

"Touchy subject, was it?" The vampire's grip tightened hard enough to hurt.

"If you're going to kill me, just kill me!"

The vampire was silent, at that. They did not retreat, but their grip eased enough to be only iron instead of something painful. Their body felt hard and lean and strong against the hunter's. Dangerous and gorgeous. Nothing like the gentle wholesomeness of-

"The boy," the hunter said. "Eddie."

"Eddie. And you are?"

"Fuck off, leech."

"You're hot," the vampire said. "Eddie's an idiot."

It startled the hunter enough that the venom died on their tongue and their mouth dried. They'd expected - well, anything but that perhaps. They would have gaped at the vampire if they could see past the press of darkness over their eyes. They were sure their jaw dropped.

Hot. A vampire had just called them hot. Maybe they had concussion. A shiver ran down their spine.

"Want me to kill her for you?" the vampire asked, conspiratorial. "Bet I could make it look like an accident."

"No! She's my friend."

"Some friend. Want me to kiss you?"

The hunter - the hunter had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Well. They knew what they were supposed to say. No. Nada. Absolutely not. Vampires were vampires, and the only acceptable way to deal with them was to stake them.

The vampire chuckled again, presumably at their expression. They pressed a kiss to the hunter's throat, above their jugular. The hunter's breath hitched anew.

"God, you're so angry and so hurt," the vampire said. "I want to eat your heart. You're gorgeous. You can cry again if you like, I won't mind. I won't judge."

Vampires, their parents always said, craved life. It was why they were found so often in bars, or fairgrounds, or the other high points of the night. It wasn't just hunting. They were drawn to the sound, and the vibrancy, like ravenous ghosts clawing at the wounds of the world.

Somehow, it made the hunter feel less pathetic. For all those chuckles, it felt a bit like power. They could only imagine what their parents would say to that. No doubt they would berate the hunter for their unforgivable stupidity, because vampires killed hunters and hunters killed vampires and if the fairground was actually a travelling coven then -

"Do you want to kiss me?" the hunter asked.

"Yeah."

"That's embarrassing for you."

The vampire scoffed.

"And crying alone in a funhouse over some boy who doesn't even know vampires exist is cool?"

"I thought you weren't judging."

"Vampires are all shameless liars. Didn't your parents teach you that?"

Despite themselves, the hunter snorted.

"It's because you're not normal," the vampire said, in a different voice. Quieter. Suddenly serious. "Not like them. Can't do the things they do, because you're too busy stuck trying to slaughter the likes of me. Eddie's normal. Safe."

The hunter swallowed.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," the vampire echoed once more.

The vampire kissed them then, or maybe it was the hunter that started it, but it was clumsy and shockingly gentle and good and definitely the dumbest thing that the hunter had ever done. But they weren't thinking about Eddie anymore. It was impossible to think about Eddie with that cold perfect mouth and the adrenaline searing heat through the hunter's body. Every instinct in their body screamed danger and it was the most glorious distraction from heartbreak.

Their body arched against the glass, pressing foolishly closer.

They were left panting.

Then the vampire kissed them again, and it was a little less clumsy, more claiming, like the vampire was learning how to do it. Like maybe they'd never kissed anyone either. Like maybe they really were seventeen, and had thought their life would all work out differently.

"Next time," the vampire said, and nipped their lip just enough to draw blood. "Don't turn around. I've gotta go."

They shoved the hunter away, and - the hunter wasn't sure if they were left alone with the empty reflections, because they didn't turn. They looked at themselves, all dark eyes and hurt and confusion, in the glass.

All hunger.

They smiled, wiping their own blood from their lip.

They did look hot, actually.

For at least a moment, they walked out of the hall of mirrors feeling better than before.

[evilmenenjoyer]

City of Love

Pairing: The Salesman x fem!Reader

Summary: Months after winning the Squid Games, you receive an unwanted visit from the man who's been haunting you since the very beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), drinking, sex in a public place, some murderous thoughts. Don't be fooled by the title, it's very much not a fluffy romantic fic lol.

*

The City of Love.

At least, that's what everyone calls it. It felt like the place to be after all the horrors you had endured in the past year – horrors you don't dare to say a word about to another soul. Friends and acquaintances have told you about how great it is, how beautiful, how magical. About how just a few days here will heal any woes in your heart.

Of course, it didn't work. Now you're just depressed in Paris.

It's not all bad. The Eiffel tower looks just as pretty as it does in pictures, especially late at night when it lights up and sparkles. The historic architecture and cobblestone streets are a nice break from the modern buildings you're used to from Seoul, so different it almost erases the memories sometimes. Never for too long. Just when you think you're slipping back into something resembling normalcy, they return in your nightmares in the shape of blood, pink jumpsuits and children’s games.

This afternoon, it takes the shape of a ghost – a tall, handsome man, whose face you’ve only ever seen in dreams and in the subway lines of Seoul.

All color drains from your face in a matter of seconds, all that pink winter flush.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, like you're an old friend. It nearly throws you off your balance by how natural it looks, like he's not forcing it.

“Beautiful city, isn't it? Especially at this time of the year.”

This can't be happening. The whole reason you left South Korea was to put distance between yourself and those horrific games, and all the people associated with them. To just run into one right here, in a different continent, mere months after your victory; it makes you feel like you're about to pass out.

You stand up from your seat and walk right out of the patisserie, leaving your ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate nearly untouched on the table.

You knew, somehow, that he would follow you, but you still prayed he wouldn’t. That it had been your imagination, or the PTSD, or anything other than the Salesman himself crossing paths with you in Paris.

“I expected a warmer welcome,” a voice behind you says, making you pause your stroll down the street. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately – you still haven’t completely lost track of what's real and what's not, and you can tell that voice is real, clear as day. He’s real and here and that terrifies you to your very core.

Turning around to face him, you hate how he still looks every bit as infuriatingly handsome as he did the first time you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, your voice shaky and not nearly as incisive ad you’d like it to be.

“Visiting,” he replies. He turns to gaze at the scenery around you. In your hurry to get away from him, you didn't even realize you ended up at the Pont Neuf, the old bridge crossing the Seine River. Dusk settles around the two of you, the purple-ish color of the sky reflected on the river, almost too pretty for this situation. “Like I said, France is quite nice during the winter.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe it's just a big coincidence that you and I ended up in the same place, five thousand miles away from home, at the same time?”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“I’m serious. I did everything you people wanted. I beat the games, I took the money and I kept my mouth shut. You were supposed to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Did what we wanted?” Something in his smile changes, shifts from warmth to something more sinister. “We never forced you to do anything. Remember that. You brought whatever happened on yourself.”

Cold air rushes over you, drawing a shiver out of you. It's not snowing yet, but it start might soon. It's hard to remember you were once excited for it.

He reaches out, ignoring the warnings in your eyes as he runs a finger over the smooth fabric of your scarf, then wraps it around your neck one more time. It’s almost a tender gesture, if he was someone else entirely. It should have you flinching, or slapping his hand away. Instead, it only makes you freeze in your spot.

“Yves Saint Laurent,” he notes. “I see you’ve been making good use of that money.”

It doesn't sound accusatory, but it feels like it anyway. Even after months, it still feels wrong to use the money, despite all the literal blood, sweat and tears it took to get it. Like you should be gathering it all in a pile and setting fire to it in protest. But what would that change? Why shouldn't you be allowed to use it to build a new life for yourself?

So you stayed in five star hotels. So you bought a few more pairs of Louboutin shoes than necessary. Therapy was out of the question, so this was the next best thing you could come up with for the time being. Best-case scenario, a therapist would think you're a nutcase. Worst case, they’d turn you in to the authorities for confessing to multiple murders you had committed at the Squid Games. You didn’t want to take the risk.

“I thought that was the idea,” you say. The Salesman’s hands are still on the fabric, merely touching it, but that doesn't stop your mind from picturing him gripping it, pulling on it until you suffocate in the garment you bought as some empty, mediocre sign of victory.

“It suits you.” He lets his hands fall with no damage to your throat or to your respiratory system. “Much better than those knock-offs you used to wear.”

It disturbs you that he even remembers that. As far as you know, you were only one of the hundreds of people who had played ddakji with him at the subway station. You remembered every second of it, replayed it in your mind over and over again, but there was nothing particularly memorable about you back then. You lost most rounds. You hoped against hope that he would ask you out, even after your cheek was red and stinging.

That was a different version of you. One that smiled more, even with all the hardships in your life. One that was too naive to realize she was selling her soul to the devil from that very first game of ddakji.

“Since the city brought us together,” the Salesman says, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

It would be impossible to keep the surprise from your face if you’d tried. Those are words you would've loved to hear all those months ago, and now that he says them, you can barely draw enough air into your lungs to tell him to fuck off.

“Why? So you can kill me the second we’re off the street?”

He chuckles, like he finds your confusion amusing. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn't that why you're here?” Why else would it be, after all? Maybe it's part of their sick games; to give one person the illusion of victory, let them enjoy the money for a few months, then go after them and kill them. Or worse, pull them back in.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could do it anywhere.”

You suppose there's no arguing with that, but you're not sure if it makes you feel better. Good news: you're still breathing. Bad news: you're still breathing only until he allows you to.

“You still didn't tell me why you came after me, then,” you point out.

“Let's have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

You must be insane for even considering this. The naive girl that had first seen him in the subway, coming home late at night from work, would be enthusiastically urging you to go. You’re supposed to know better than her.

“One drink,” you say. “Then you go home and never contact me again.”

His smile widens. “I know a nice place.”

*

He brings you to a piano bar just a few blocks away from the bridge. It's a fancy place, the kind that makes you feel underdressed even in your designer clothes. He blends right in – not only because of the sleek, tailored suit, but because of his demeanor, the natural elegance with which he carries himself.

Not for the first time, you wonder if he was born into wealth, or if he was ever like you. Someone who had to claw his way out of poverty. You can't picture it, but there's so much you don't know about him. It's what makes him so scary and confusing to you, but also so damn intriguing.

He orders for you before you have the chance to open your mouth. Dom Pérignon, two glasses. You raise your eyebrows once the waiter walks away.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Your victory.”

The response makes your stomach drop. “I don't want to celebrate that.” Not with anyone, but especially not with him.

He gives a small shrug. “Just a special occasion, then.”

The dimmed, warm lights of the bar make the place feel so intimate, almost romantic in a sense. You don't know what to make of it, so you force yourself to look away from him, even when you can still feel his stare unflinching on you. Luckily, the waiter shows up just in time, pouring you both glasses of the bubbly drink and leaving the bottle in a bucket on the table.

You turn back to the Salesman, glaring at him. “I said one drink, not one bottle.”

“You never specified,” he replies, fake innocence in his eyes. “Gives us more time to catch up. Maybe even play a game, for old time’s sake.”

The mere mention of a game makes you want to run away, to lock yourself in the restroom and refuse to come out. It has to be intentional; he has to know what kinds of things would be running through your head, after everything you’d gone through. You take a long gulp of the champagne, nearly done with the entire glass in one go. You can't let him get to you like this. You do your best to look unbothered.

“Do you walk around with ddakji tiles everywhere?” you ask. “Just in case you find someone who wants to play?”

That earns a soft laugh out of him. “No, not ddakji.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a standard deck of cards.

“Have you ever played blackjack?”

You have, but hesitation is written all over your features. “What if I don't want to play?”

“Do you think I’d force you?” he asks, like you're a fool for even thinking so. “Like I said, you were never forced to do anything. It's your choice.” He sips his own champagne in a much classier, more contained way than you. Like he's happy to draw this out for hours, rather than wanting this night to be over as soon as possible. “But you’ve beaten much harder games before. This should be nothing for our big victor, right?”

There's a challenge in his voice, in his eyes. You should know better than to fall for it. So why is there a part of you that still feels like you have a point to prove? That feels like, with a little bit of luck and skill, you can finally beat this man at his own game?

“Fine.” You cross your arms over the table. “Let’s do this.”

Pleased with your answer, he shuffles the cards in his hands. You watch him, almost as mesmerized as you’d been watching him play ddakji at the subway station. It's so hard not to get lost in it, but you refuse to look away in shyness and hesitation again, keeping your eyes on him as you sip the rest of the champagne in your glass.

He refills it before placing four cards on the table: two facing upwards for you, one face-down and one face-up for himself, the dealer.

The rules are simple: your cards all together need to get as close to 21 without going over. Whichever one of you gets the closest wins the round. You have a nine and a four, totaling thirteen. The Salesman has a five, and a card that's invisible for you. 

“Hit me,” you say, figuring your odds can't be too bad.

He places one more card to your pile: a seven. Twenty in total. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, already triumphant even before the end.

He reveals all his cards to you: the five you’ve already seen, a nine, and a three. Seventeen. Your smile widens, relief washing over you like you’d just escaped a near-death experience. You don't think beating a game, no matter the kind, will ever not feel like this again.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He reaches into another pocket for his wallet, drawing a hundred euro note and pushing it towards you on the table.

You just stare at it with an eyebrow raised, baffled and, frankly, a bit offended. With the tip of your index finger, you push the bill back to him.

“Do you really think I still need your money?”

“It's just symbolic,” he argues, but still tucks the money back into his wallet. “Of course, we can bet on other things too, if you’d prefer.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you want. You won.”

“Whatever I want?” A grin stretches across your lips as you lean forward on the table. “Like a dare?”

He leans forward as well, like he wants to meet you in the middle. His eyes never leave yours. “Like a dare.”

You wonder just how far he’d take this game, if he would do something outrageous or serious just because you told him to. Maybe not. But even this is the kind of power that you never, ever imagined you would have over this man.

“Okay. Let me see your wallet.”

He hands it over without a fight. You rummage through all of it, ignoring all the cash and instead looking for something else, anything personal. But there's nothing. No family photos, no old receipts, not even a condom tucked inside one of the pockets. At last you find his ID license, the name Park Ha-Joon listed beside a smiling picture of him that looks so normal you almost want to laugh.

“It's not your real name, is it?”

He smiles. “Smart girl.”

“It was worth a shot.” You close the wallet and hand it back to him.

He shuffles the cards, hands them over again. Seven and six. You tap the cards in a sign for him to hit you with one more.

“Do you really want to know why I came to see you?”

Your eyes snap in his direction, not even looking at the new card that’s placed in front of you. 

“I thought you’d be one of the first to die in a place like that.” He looks focused on the game as he talks, “When I found out you were the winner, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Your throat tightens, making it hard to draw in my next breath. You look around yourself, as if trying to make sure you're really here and not at that disturbing colorful scenario, or at the bunk beds in the dorm. Still the piano bar. Warm lights, soft chatter of conversation, piano notes ringing through the air. The mental image of that place still doesn't vanish from your mind.

“See what, exactly?” you ask, even though you know it would be better not to.  

“If you truly earned it, or if you’re just one more piece of trash who got lucky, like all the others before you.”

Your hand must twitch, an involuntary movement you're not even aware of, and the Salesman places another card to your pile. You look down at it in horror, realizing all the cards together total to twenty-three.

“I didn't say hit me,” you protest.

“You tapped. You know that's the sign.” He looks over the cards again, as if just noticing the source of your distress instead of directly causing it. “Too bad.”

It's not fair, and you both know it, but you doubt pointing it out will make a difference. You bite your tongue around any words as well as the lump that's formed in your throat, tears trying to rush to the surface. Your gaze meets his and holds it.

“Are you going to slap me?”

He’s still for a moment, considering it. It's one thing to hit you in the face in a mostly-empty subway station late at night, and another entirely to do it in this sophisticated bar, with all these people around as witnesses. Still, you don't doubt that he would do it. You hold yourself back from flinching when his hand comes out, bracing yourself for the impact.

It never comes. Instead, his hands merely cup your cheeks, tilting your face to face him fully. He looks at you like he's studying you, his expression unreadable.

“Not now. I want something else,” he says. “A round of shots.”

His grip on your face is firm, but he runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, like wiping away a teardrop that never fell. A gesture that can only be described as affectionate, and it's messing with your head way more than the slaps on the face did.

You nod.

He holds on for just a second too long before he lets you go. He orders the shots to the waiter – you pay no attention to the brand, or even the type of booze –, and you don't say another word until after they're placed in front of you on the table, small glasses so clean they gleam under the light.

“I crawled my way out of that hell,” you tell him. “You have no idea what I had to do to survive. You don't get to sit here and tell me I didn't fucking earn it.”

He looks more amused than anything. “To kill for necessity, anyone can do. It doesn't make you as special as you think it does.” He nods towards the shot on the table, reaching for his own. “Drink.”

You count one, two, three in your head before throwing the shot back, unable to suppress a grimace when the drink comes down your throat like liquid fire.

“Why do you wanna get me drunk so bad?”

He empties his shot glass as well. “Drinking together ensures none of us has an advantage.” He picks up the deck of cards again, before you ever have the chance to tell him you’ve had enough of this game. The words die down in your throat.

One more round. Your cards add up to seventeen.

It’s too risky to ask for one more card; anything higher than four would mean an instant loss. Only then you notice the sweat under your palms, the rush in your ears overpowering the piano music in the background. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to remember that your life is not on the line anymore and losing doesn't mean certain death, even though it feels like it.

He reveals his cards. Eighteen.

“Fuck.”

He seems pleased with himself, accessing you as you brace yourself for whatever he has in mind for you now.

“Come a little closer,” he orders.

You frown, but you find yourself obeying without much questioning, getting up from your chair to slide to the seat next to him on the booth.

He pours you both more Dom Pérignon, and this time he doesn't have to tell you to drink. You focus on the way the bubbles dance inside your mouth, if only to have something to distract yourself from his proximity, from the faint smell of his cologne or from the fact he still hasn't told you what he wants from you for losing this round

His hand lands on your thigh.

You jump in surprise, and his hand tightens its grip there, digging into your skin and keeping you in your seat. Your eyes widen and search for his, a question clear in them.

With his free hand, the Salesman pushes the cards in your direction. “You’ll be the dealer now,” he says, “and for each time you lose, I get to keep my hands on you for one more round.”

Say no, you tell yourself. Say something. A better, stronger woman would throw the champagne in the glass on his face and walk right out of this bar. Instead, you find yourself still as a statue, a sudden rush of warmth overflowing your senses – first, it rises to your face, coloring your cheeks red, then it travels lower to the pit of your stomach and down right into the space between your legs.

You can’t even tell if it’s the alcohol, spreading through your bloodstream and bringing a buzzing sensation to your head that’s not all unpleasant, or the fact you haven’t been touched like this in what feels like forever, or simply the man sitting next to you. How many times had you fantasized about this, until you realized that he was the catalyst of your ruin?

Maybe even a few times after that.

You take the deck of cards. He grins like he knew you would, like a master pleased with a dog following his command. You want to wipe that look off his face, but you can barely concentrate enough to properly shuffle the cards.

If you felt like you were fighting for your life before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The hand doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch until the very final moments of the round, when you realize the two of you are tied. A fingertip slides up the fabric of your stockings until it stops at your knee, your skin erupting in goosebumps following the movement. Your heart beats so hard inside your chest you can barely hear the chatter of people around you as the bar fills in with people.

You lose the next round, and the next, and the one after that. You can’t even tell if you’re doing it on purpose anymore.

With each passing minute that you don’t push him away, that you allow him to test and cross your boundaries, he gets more daring, drawing shapes in the perimeter of your leg and curling into your inner thigh. Your chest rises with a breath that comes tumbling out, the sound of it way too close to a whimper for your liking.

You can tell he notices it instantly, observant and apparently fluent in your body language like he’s spent years of his life studying it. He takes the opportunity to let his hand wander under your skirt, to the spots it hadn’t covered yet.

That’s enough. You need to win this next round.

It’s like, for once, God listens to your prayers. Your cards add up to an even, perfect twenty-one to his nineteen.

He retrieves his hand as if on cue. You thought you would be gasping in relief, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, almost desperate don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t as in stop?” he asks. “Or as in don’t stop?”

Your body answers the question for him before your mind can even process what happened, grabbing his hand and pulling it to the spot where it was. Your skin comes ablaze the second he touches you again, like his touch is charged with electricity.

“Did you know,” you can feel his breath so close to you when he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you were the first person who ever challenged me to play ddakji at the subway? Usually it’s the other way around. Nobody but you ever made the first move.”

It’s hard to concentrate on his words like this, with his body leaning into yours and his hand that still touches you under the table and– whoa, that is not your thigh. The solid press against your core makes your whole body twitch, but you don’t jerk away. You try to focus on the memory.

“I didn’t give a fuck about the game,” you reveal. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.” He draws small, precise circles over you. “Do you ever think about how I would’ve left you alone otherwise?”

Of course you do, more than you would ever admit. But having him confirm it hurts. It’s bad enough to know you’re the one who caused all the trauma you’ve been through since meeting him, that you could’ve just carried on with your life, shitty as it as, if only you weren’t a foolish girl with a crush on a stranger. But to be in his arms right now, your head falling over his shoulder and your lips releasing a tiny whimper; it just makes it all the more fucked up.

“Was it worth it?”

The smile on your lips is devoid of any humor. “Never.”

“Let me prove to you that it was.”

Just like that, everything stops. He scoots away from you in the booth and stands up, bringing all the heat with him aside from the faint lingering warmth on your face. He leaves a few bills over the table, enough for the entire tab, and walks away.

He doesn’t head towards the front door, instead making his way to the opposite direction. You watch him, confused, for a few moments before you trail after him, past the kitchen and the restrooms until you see the red glow of an exit sign.

A chilly breeze rushes over you the second you step outside, and you expect to see him walking into the dark narrow street. But he’s waiting for you, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He raises his eyebrows in that same condescending way he’s done all night, daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate for even a second longer. You grab a fistful of his impeccable suit jacket and pull him closer, crashing your lips together.

From the start, it’s not sweet or gentle. He digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise, wasting no time before he lifts you up into the air and pins you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth, parting your lips and practically begging his tongue inside. Your legs part almost in unison, allowing him to settle between them and effectively trap you, his larger frame blocking any exit.

As if you would dream to get away.

In one swift movement, he reaches between your legs and rips at the fabric of your stockings, the sound echoing through the empty street. You’re already making quick work of his belt; or trying to, frustrated by your lack of mobility from his position. He doesn’t seem willing to let you go, so he does it himself instead, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself from the confines of his underwear.

You’ve soaked through your panties in whatever time it took to play all those rounds of blackjack. It felt like it was drawn-out for hours, but you know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes. He moans when he feels it, before he even pushes into you – a heavenly, otherworldly sound, one you want to hear again and again. You push your hips towards him, feeling yourself throb when he rubs his length over you, burning hot where skin meets even though everything around you is cold. He rewards you with another sound that you drink right in as you deepen the kiss, happy to never have your lips separate from each other ever again.

He pushes the fabric of your panties to the side and thrusts into you without a warning, drawing a strangled, sharp gasp from you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the invasion, setting up a punishing pace that pushes you against the wall hard with every thrust. You claw at his back, losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, helpless to stop it as he all but consumes you like this is his last chance to.

“Ah– fuck,” you have to break away from his lips to attempt to draw in some air, your breaths and sounds interrupted by the rhythmic, vicious snaps of his hips into yours. He takes the opportunity to tilt his head and follow the line of your jaw with his lips, to mouth kisses and graze his teeth over your throat.

Hands find their way under pieces of clothing, trying to cling to as much bare skin as they can. He does most of the work, still holding you up in the air with the help of the wall (you curl your toes just to test the waters, the ones on the foot closest to the ground, and they barely touch the pavement), bouncing you on his cock however he sees fit, and it’s embarrassing how close you are already just from this.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good.”

It’s intoxicating how vocal he is, all the grunts and moans he breathes into your neck, how it rips more sounds out of you than you would usually make. The street is completely silent save for the two of you, not another soul in sight. You could kill him right here and he would never see it coming. Gut him with the knife tucked away in your purse, leave him on the pavement gasping for his last breath. Who would catch you? You have enough money to run to yet another country, to give yourself a new identity and reinvent yourself as many times as you want.

The purse is on the floor where you’d carelessly let it fall, out of reach. Still you run your hands down over his bottom, feeling for any guns or weapons he may have tucked into the back of his waistband, or hidden in his pockets. There’s nothing, but you don’t have a lot of time to be disappointed about it before you’re coming with a high-pitched, broken shout, like your orgasm has taken you by surprise. He holds you up, squeezing you against the wall for support, the only thing stopping you from falling straight to the floor.

The Salesman follows right after, a stream of goods and fucks and your name falling from his lips as he spills deep into you. You wish you had it in you to be offended, to tell him off for it. But all you can think about is how much you wish you knew his name so you could shout it, gasp it, whisper it, for as long as he keeps holding you this tight.

[elryuse]

Pt. 2 Troubles

BABEL'S CHAINS MASTELIST : HERE

Y'n's POV

The Next Morning

The next day started much like the last—my alarm blaring, my groggy attempt to silence it, and my mom sending me off with a reassuring smile. But this time, as I pedaled toward Babel University, an odd sense of anticipation weighed on me.

Was I dreading the day or looking forward to it? I wasn’t sure.

As I approached the gates of Babel, the familiar wave of whispers and stares hit me. I ignored them, parking my bike in the same corner as yesterday. My steps quickened as I made my way to the classroom, hoping to slip in unnoticed like before.

But when I stepped through the door, my heart nearly stopped.

Karina Yu was already there, lounging in her seat. Her perfectly polished nails tapped idly against her desk as she scrolled through her phone. When her sharp eyes flicked up and spotted me, a slow smirk spread across her lips.

And then, she waved.

It wasn’t subtle, either. Her arm stretched high, drawing the attention of half the classroom. A few of her friends snickered, and some students turned to look at me.

I froze, the heat rising to my cheeks. Why was she doing this?

“Y/n!” she called, her voice carrying easily over the chatter. “Come sit here.”

She patted the empty seat beside her.

My first instinct was to bolt, but her gaze pinned me in place. With no other choice, I shuffled toward her, painfully aware of every pair of eyes following me.

When I reached her desk, she grinned and moved her bag off the chair. “See? I saved you a seat.”

“Uh… thanks,” I mumbled, sliding into the seat.

The energy in the room shifted. Conversations buzzed around us, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than Karina’s presence beside me. She radiated confidence, her every movement casual yet commanding.

“Relax,” she said, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “You’re acting like I dragged you here.”

“I just… didn’t expect this,” I admitted, keeping my voice low.

She chuckled, resting her chin on her hand. “Why not? You’re interesting, remember?”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing,” I muttered, earning another laugh from her.

The Lecture Begins

The professor entered shortly after, and the room fell silent. As he launched into another dense economics lecture, I tried to focus on taking notes, but it was almost impossible with Karina next to me.

She didn’t seem to care about the lecture at all, doodling absentmindedly in her notebook. Occasionally, her elbow would brush against mine, sending my brain into overdrive.

“Hey,” she whispered, leaning closer. “What’s the answer to this one?”

I glanced at her notebook, where a half-written equation stared back at me. “It’s… 7.32.”

She jotted it down, her lips curving into a small smile. “You’re pretty handy to have around.”

“Glad I could help,” I said dryly.

The Lunch Break

When the lecture ended, I quickly packed up my things, hoping to escape the awkwardness. But as I stood to leave, Karina grabbed my arm.

“Lunch?” she asked casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I blinked, stunned. “With you?”

“No, with the janitor,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Of course with me. Come on.”

Before I could protest, she looped her arm through mine and practically dragged me out of the classroom. A few students stared as we passed, their expressions ranging from curious to jealous.

When we reached the cafeteria, Karina led me to the same table as yesterday, where Winter, Giselle, and Ningning were already waiting.

“Look who I found,” Karina announced, pushing me into a seat beside her.

“Y/n!” Ningning greeted cheerfully. “Welcome back to the cool kids’ table.”

I glanced around nervously. “I’m not sure if I belong here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Giselle said, resting her chin on her hand. “Karina doesn’t invite just anyone to sit with us.”

“Yeah,” Winter added, smirking. “You must’ve done something to impress her.”

I turned to Karina, who was calmly unpacking her lunch. “Why me?” I blurted before I could stop myself.

She paused, her chopsticks hovering mid-air. Then, she looked at me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Because you’re different,” she said simply. “And I like different.”

The rest of lunch passed in a blur. The girls talked and laughed, including me in the conversation more than I expected. Karina, however, seemed content to let the others do most of the talking, occasionally glancing at me with that enigmatic smile of hers.

By the time lunch ended, I felt like I’d stepped into a different world—and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever find my way back.

The Rival Encounter

The following day started much the same as usual, but it was the moments after class that took a surprising turn. As I was leaving the lecture hall, Karina waved me over—again.

“Sit here,” she said, patting the seat beside her in the cafeteria.

I hesitated, clutching my tray of simple food. The eyes of Babel University’s elite bore into me, their whispers audible even across the room. Still, something about Karina’s unwavering gaze made it hard to say no.

Sliding into the seat beside her, I braced myself for another round of teasing or curious prodding from her and her friends. To my relief, Ningning quickly shifted the attention with a story about her weekend, and the table’s atmosphere lightened.

The Walk

Lunch ended, and to my surprise, Karina and the girls insisted on walking with me. Ningning had latched onto my arm, her energy infectious as she joked about everything under the sun. Winter trailed slightly behind, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk. Giselle walked beside Karina, who carried herself with her usual composed elegance.

I couldn’t help but feel out of place, like a black-and-white photo amidst a sea of vibrant color.

But things took a sharp turn when I accidentally bumped into someone.

The collision was minor—a gentle brush of my shoulder against someone’s arm. Yet, the aftermath was anything but.

“Oh, great,” a voice snapped.

I turned, finding myself face-to-face with a girl whose beauty was just as striking as Karina’s. Her long, sleek hair framed her delicate face, but her expression was anything but delicate. Her name tag read "Jang Wonyoung."

Behind her stood a group of equally stunning girls, their presence commanding the same aura of privilege as Karina’s group.

“Watch where you’re going,” Wonyoung said coldly, crossing her arms.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, taking a step back.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Yujin, another member of Wonyoung’s group, chimed in. Her sharp gaze bore into me, and her voice was as icy as her demeanor. “Do you even know who you just bumped into? Wonyoung doesn’t tolerate disrespect.”

“Yujin,” Gaeul, another girl in the group, said, her tone calmer but no less pointed. “He’s clearly out of his depth. Let’s not waste time.”

Karina stepped forward then, her expression unreadable.

“Out of his depth?” Karina repeated, her voice quiet but laced with steel. “I don’t recall Wonyoung being royalty. Or did I miss the coronation?”

Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed. “Karina, I didn’t realize you were running a charity. Is this your new project?”

Winter stepped up beside Karina, her arms crossed. “Wonyoung, if you’re going to pick a fight, maybe try someone who’s actually worth your time.”

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Students nearby had stopped to watch, their eyes darting between the two groups like spectators at a tennis match.

I opened my mouth to apologize again, but Karina’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” she said firmly, her eyes locked on Wonyoung’s. “Some people just thrive on drama.”

Wonyoung’s lips curved into a tight smile. “And some people mistake arrogance for confidence.”

Karina didn’t flinch. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

Before the situation could escalate further, Ningning stepped between them with her usual playful energy.

“Alright, ladies,” Ningning said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s save the drama for the stage, yeah? This isn’t worth anyone’s time.”

Wonyoung gave Karina one last withering glance before turning on her heel, her group trailing behind her like a flock of impeccably dressed swans.

As they walked away, Giselle muttered under her breath, “Always so theatrical.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Thanks,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Karina turned to me, her expression softening. “Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re all bark and no bite.”

“Mostly,” Winter added with a smirk.

Ningning looped her arm through mine again, pulling me along. “Come on, Y/n. Let’s get out of here before Wonyoung decides to stage a comeback.”

As we walked away, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder. Wonyoung was watching us, her expression unreadable.

Whatever I’d gotten myself into, it was clear that life at Babel University was only going to get more complicated.

To Be Continued…

[woozinhos]

also... seungcheol make up sex.. because i can really see it he's taking out his frustration at you

You storm into the bedroom, your face flushed with anger. You can't believe the fight you just had with Seungcheol - it had been so stupid and pointless, and now you're both seething with frustration. Seungcheol follows you into the room, his jaw clenched tight with anger. "You can't just walk away like that," he snaps, his eyes blazing.

You spin around to face him, your hands clenched into fists. "And what do you expect me to do, huh? Just stand there and listen to you yell at me?"

Seungcheol takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "I expect you to be mature about this and have a conversation like an adult," he says, his voice low and dangerous.

You roll your eyes, feeling your anger flare up again. "Oh, because you're the epitome of maturity right now, aren't you?" you retort sarcastically.

Seungcheol's face twists in anger, and he takes another step closer, invading your personal space. "Don't talk to me like that," he growls, his voice a warning.

You stand your ground, refusing to back down. "Why not? You're treating me like a child," you say, your voice rising.

Seungcheol's eyes flash with irritation, and he reaches out to grab your arm. "You're acting like one," he snaps, his grip tight on your wrist.

Your heart is racing, and you can feel your anger giving way to something else - desire. Despite your anger, you can't deny the effect Seungcheol's dominance is having on you. You try to pull away from Seungcheol's grip, but he holds on tight, his fingers digging into your skin. "Let go of me," you snap, your voice shaking with anger and desire.

Seungcheol ignores you, his eyes raking over your body. "No," he says simply, his gaze lingering on your lips.

You can feel your breath catch in your throat as he steps closer, his body pressed against yours. You're so angry with him, but at the same time, you can't help but be drawn to him.

"You're such a pain in the ass," you mutter, trying to ignore the way your body is responding to his proximity.

Seungcheol smirks, his hand sliding down your arm to grip your waist. "And you love it," he says, his voice low and husky.

You try to protest, but the words die on your lips as Seungcheol pulls you closer, his body flush against yours. You can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your chest.

"Admit it," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "You love fighting with me, because it gets you all hot and bothered."

You shiver at his words, your anger slowly giving way to desire. "Shut up," you mutter, but there's no real conviction in your voice.

Seungcheol chuckles, his hands roaming over your body. "You know I'm right," he says, his lips brushing against your neck. "You love the way I take control, even when we're fighting."

You can't take it anymore. The tension between you and Seungcheol is too much, and you need an outlet for it. You surge forward, crushing your lips against his in a bruising kiss. Seungcheol responds immediately, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you close. He kisses you hungrily, his lips devouring yours as he pushes you back towards the bed. You stumble backwards, your legs hitting the edge of the bed. You fall back onto the mattress, pulling Seungcheol down with you.

He lands on top of you, his body pinning you down as he deepens the kiss. His hands roam over your body, desperate and possessive. You can feel the anger and desire coursing through your veins as you kiss Seungcheol with a fierce intensity. Your hands fumble with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

Seungcheol's hands are just as frantic, his fingers tearing at your clothes as he tries to undress you. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck and chest as he helps you out of your shirt. You arch into his touch, moaning softly as his hands roam over your bare skin. You can feel his erection pressing against you, hard and insistent.

"You drive me crazy," Seungcheol growls, his lips finding your collarbone and biting down gently.

The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing and soft moans as you continue to make out with Seungcheol. The air is thick with tension and desire, and all communication between you is reduced to heated glances and urgent touches.

Seungcheol's hands roam over your body, exploring every inch of you as if he's trying to memorize every curve and contour. He kisses you like he's starving, his lips claiming yours over and over again. You arch against him, your body craving more. You can feel the anger from earlier melting away, replaced by a burning need for him. Seungcheol breaks the kiss again, his lips trailing down your body as he begins to leave a trail of hot kisses down your stomach.

As Seungcheol flips you onto your hands and knees, you can feel your heart racing with anticipation. You're already aching for him, your body trembling with need. He runs his hands over your back, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "You look so good like this," he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

You can feel his eyes on you, taking in the sight of your body spread out before him. He runs his hands over your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he positions himself behind you. Seungcheol enters you in one swift motion, filling you completely. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your fingers digging into the sheets as you try to hold yourself steady. He doesn't give you any time to adjust, his hips snapping against yours as he begins to move. He sets a punishing pace, his thrusts hard and fast as he claims you from behind.

You can feel your body responding to him, every nerve ending on fire as he drives into you relentlessly. The anger and tension from earlier is gone, replaced by a primal need for each other. Seungcheol's grunts and groans mix with your moans, filling the room with the sounds of your passion. His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he continues to slam into you from behind.

"You feel so good," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "So tight and wet for me."

You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling with the intensity of the sensations. You arch your back, pushing back against him as you try to take him deeper.

"More," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need more."

Seungcheol pulls your hair back into a ponytail, gathering it in his fist and using it as leverage to pull your head back. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you can feel your arousal spiking even higher. He uses his grip on your hair to control your movements, pulling you back onto his cock as he thrusts into you from behind.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growls, his voice rough with desire. "You wanted me to take control, to use you however I want?"

"Yes," you manage to gasp out, your voice laced with anger and arousal. "Use me. Take me. Make me yours."

Seungcheol smirks, his grip on your hair tightening as he continues to thrust into you. "You're mine," he growls, his words sending a shiver down your spine. "And I'll do whatever I want with you."

Seungcheol pulls you up, his chest pressed against your back as he wraps an arm around your waist. He holds you close, his hand splayed across your stomach as he continues to thrust into you.

"Say it again," he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasp out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm all yours."

Seungcheol's grip on you tightens, his arm holding you flush against him as he thrusts harder and faster. "Damn right you are," he growls, his lips brushing against your ear. "You belong to me. No one else can have you."

Seungcheal pushes you down onto the bed, pinning you beneath him as he continues to thrust into you with a ferocious intensity. His movements are fast and rough, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your body tensing as you approach your climax. You arch your back, trying to meet his thrusts as you gasp for breath.

"I'm gonna come," you gasp out, your fingers digging into the sheets as you try to hold on. "Please, Seungcheol..."

Seungcheol leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Come for me," he growls, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Come on my cock, baby."

His words are all it takes to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your body shuddering with the force of it as you cry out his name. Seungcheol follows you soon after, his own orgasm tearing through him as he spills himself inside you. He collapses on top of you, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his release. You lie there, panting and trembling as you come down from your high. Seungcheol is still on top of you, his body heavy and warm against yours.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "Damn," he mutters, his voice still a little shaky. "That was...intense."

You nod in agreement, still trying to catch your breath. Your body is still buzzing with pleasure, your mind hazy from the intensity of your orgasm. Seungcheol rolls off of you, pulling you into his arms and holding you close. He kisses your forehead gently, his touch a stark contrast to the rough way he had been handling you earlier.

"I'm sorry for fighting with you," he says softly, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "I didn't mean any of the things I said."

You look up at him, your eyes still hazy with pleasure. "I know," you say, your voice soft. "I'm sorry too. I didn't mean what I said either."

Seungcheol pulls you closer, holding you tight against his chest. "We really need to work on our communication," he says, his lips quirking up in a small smile.

[witherby]

I just wanted to make another Littlest Wayne drabble. Featuring Batlantern of course.

Hal startles badly when the front door of his apartment practically slams open. He jumps up, hands clenched into fists, and prepares to throw down with the intruder before recognizing Bruce's stupidly sexy Michael Kors fur-lined coat. It drapes him perfectly, from the broad lines of his shoulders to his sinfully small waist, and what was he doing? Oh fuck Bruce is talking so fast.

"Babe," Hal says. "Babe! Stop. Relax your shoulders. Smooth out your face. Take a damn second."

Bruce does stop, mouth closing with a click of his teeth. He shrugs his coat off and drapes it over the back of Hal's couch, then walks around it and perches in his lap after nudging him to sit down.

"Oh, shit, hell yeah," he mutters, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Bruce's hair, but he's halted with a palm to the chest.

"Mouse," says Bruce, which kills the bedroom vibes immediately.

"Uh. What about Mouse?"

"They're going to kill me, Hal."

Hal waits. Bruce does not elaborate. He sighs and sinks deeper into the cushions, settling his hands on Bruce's hips instead.

"Alright, I'm listening. Go ahead."

"I think I'm doing the Dad thing right this time," Bruce immediately starts, hands fluttering for emphasis as he speaks. "Today I knocked my coffee over by accident. They looked at the spill and said "uh oh! That's fine! Just clean it, no harm done!" Which is correct! No harm done, because I don't want them growing up in that big, old house and think they can't make mistakes. I didn't expect them to start echoing that back at me this soon!"

Hal, despite the disappointment at the lack of a quick hook-up with his boyfriend, can't help smiling at his enthusiasm.

"Yesterday, Damian nicked his finger sharpening his katanas again — I've shown him the proper way to do it a thousand times by now, so I think he's doing it wrong out of spite — anyway, Mouse grabbed him a bandaid, soothed him, and kissed his finger. It was the cutest thing I've ever seen. I'm so glad I have cameras everywhere, I'll show you the video later if you want it."

"Whoa," Hal says, "first of all, absolutely I wanna see that. Second of all, when you say cameras are everywhere..."

The smile Bruce gives him is terribly lewd. It sends a bolt of lust right down Hal's spine. His hands on Bruce's hips automatically tighten.

"I think you're trying to kill me," he mutters.

"I'll certainly give it my best effort. After I finish telling you what Mouse did."

Boner gone again.

"Most of this started last week, the whole 'echoing sentiments' behavior. Jason was pulling them along the gardens in a wagon, and they jumped out and said it was his turn. We're really working on the importance of sharing is caring right now, and they wanted to share the wagon with him. You can imagine how insane it looked to spot a six-foot-four, two hundred and thirty pound man scrunched up in a little red wagon out my window as a five-year-old tried to pull him along. I have that footage, too; I grabbed it right before Jay could get in and scrub it from the system..."

[cherryc1nnam0n]

Okay but since no one has done it I share with you more of Eddie and his excessive cumming (because I may or may not be horny as hell and in need of being pumped full of cum)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you had sex with Eddie for the first time you had expected him to cum a lot, since he had explained he usually came more than the average man

What you didn't expect was litters, gallons of cum to leak out of this skinny man

He had been fucking you for over an hour, bringing you to orgasm many times before he was even close to cumming, those long sessions of edging himself had worked on building up his stamina

"E-Ed's... Please just... Just cum already I-I can't take any-more..." You said in between moans and gasps as his huge dick rammed into you

His 8 inches of pure cock had been slamming into your g spot since he entered you and you were seeing stars as he kept on pumping inside you, eyes rolled back as you held onto the bed and his forearm for dear life

"Oh, come on baby, you can give me one more can you? Come on, gimme just one more and I'll let you have my cum, m'kay?"

You nodded rapidly, wanting to do anything just for him to finish and have a rest, of course, you did want to cum just one more time and if he was hurting you he would stop immediately, but you wanted this (slut)

His thumb played with your clit as his right hand held your leg over his shoulder, your other leg spread wide open as your pussy kept on being abused and all puffy for him

"Mmm yeah baby, cum again, please cum again" he begged you sweetly, nearing his edge

"C-cumming!"

And that's when you felt it...

He had closed his eyes as he sloppily thrusted into you, his hips stuttering as he finally came to a stop, occasionally thrusting into you again, and then the warm feeling of his cum embraced you, but you felt it twice as much

"Eddie? Are you still cumming?"

From his face you could tell he was, he looked in heaven, blissed the hell out, eyes hazy and glossed over, mouth parted and nose flaring as he kept on cumming, again, and again, and again, deep, deep inside your pussy, reaching your womb and even your cervix

"Aaah... J-just... A little mmmhm more..."

He thrusted into you again, wanting more friction to finish pumping you full, the warmth was running down your ass crack and onto the bed, but you were still as full

"How much do you-?"

"Shhh, just lemme finish babe, I-I'll... I'll clean us up when I'm... Mmhmm done" his eyes rolled back as he kept on shooting cum into you

"Mmmkay hun" you said in a lazy moan

4 more minutes went by and Eddie finally finished cumming, you felt your stomach harden and then deflate a little when he pulled out and all his cum came flooding out and ruining the bed, not your favorite sheets anyway...

"Damnit Eddie, is this normal?"

"I dunno baby, I just know it happens all the time"

You think you fell more in love with him, and now you needed more of his excessive cum...

[theunsinkableship1]

Lukolaship: Why are you here?

I have one simple question for you: Why are you here?

If you’re a fan of Nicola or Luke individually, there’s no reason to be so deeply invested in their private lives. Supporting them as actors and celebrating their professional achievements should be enough. If your goal is to see them happy in life, you could simply assume they are, because nothing publicly suggests otherwise. Why concern yourself with what others think about their personal lives? Focus on your own and sleep peacefully at night.

Here, however, we are focused. We are here for a specific purpose, and that purpose is rooted in a belief in the bond between Nicola and Luke as a duo. We don’t ship them with just anyone, nor do we treat this connection as trivial. We see something rare and precious that transcends the superficial dynamics often seen elsewhere.

We believe they are uniquely compatible in every way professionally, personally, and emotionally. As they’ve described themselves, they are very similar, and their connection is something that doesn’t come easily. It’s not the kind of bond you let slip away without a fight.

If you don’t share the belief that the best foundation for their love is friendship, then it’s worth asking yourself what you’re doing in this space. Because staying here while harboring doubt or skepticism will only lead to frustration, disappointment, or even resentment. And why put yourself through that?

Of course, this is a space open for discussion, but we must acknowledge that engaging in conversations centered on ideas completely opposed to what we’re collectively rooting for is both unnecessary and counterproductive.

This space is for those of us who see, believe, and hope. For those who recognize something special when they see it and want to nurture that belief, even from afar. If you don’t share these wishes and expectations, perhaps this isn’t the place for you and that’s okay.

But here, we celebrate, support, and believe in something extraordinary. If that resonates with you, welcome. If not, it’s best to part ways now to save yourself and others unnecessary grief.

I want to start by emphasizing that I don’t know the truth in this situation. I don’t know these people personally, so I can’t claim to speak for their reality or their intentions. What I have are beliefs and speculations based on the reality they have chosen to present to us. And among all these uncertainties, one belief stands unshaken: they belong together. That belief is the cornerstone of my presence in this corner of the internet.

Now, let me clarify I’m not opposed to the idea of Lukola being in relationships with other people. They could very well be in relationships with entirely different people, and we wouldn’t have any way of knowing.Life is complex, and these things can happen. Nor am I opposed to the idea that they might already be together but keeping it private. In fact, that’s the outcome I’m openly hoping for.

The truth is, either theory whether they are in other relationships or together in secret is just that: a theory. Speculations woven from bits of information and perception, none of which constitute definitive proof. I resist accepting either scenario at face value because, frankly, this story isn’t straightforward. There are too many inconsistencies, too much plausible deniability, and far too many coincidences for it to be simple.

Some individuals are actively seeking out this space, a niche corner of the internet that is not easily found unless you are deliberately looking for it solely to challenge the idea of Lukola being real. They argue that it’s all just PR and treat the very notion of their connection as if it’s utterly impossible or absurd. What’s puzzling is the intensity with which they dismiss it, often acting as though the mere suggestion of Lukola’s reality is offensive or preposterous.

This behavior raises several questions: Why does the idea of Lukola trigger such strong reactions? Why do these critics go out of their way to invade a space they fundamentally disagree with? A psychological phenomenon like reactance might offer some insight.

Reactance is a reaction to perceived threats to autonomy. When people see others confidently supporting a theory or belief they don’t share, they might feel compelled to push back, not necessarily because they have concrete evidence against it, but because they view it as an encroachment on their sense of "truth."

What’s even more contradictory is that these critics often engage in behaviors strikingly similar to those they criticize. They comb through interviews, scrutinize body language, and form conclusions all while claiming to be grounded in “realism.” If Lukola isn’t real and this space is so misguided, why invest so much energy here? The truth is, some of these individuals may be grappling with their own unspoken doubts or insecurities about the narrative and find it easier to ridicule others than to explore those feelings honestly.

Ultimately, this space is built on a foundation of speculation, patterns, and observed dynamics not absolute certainty. If the concept of Lukola is so untenable to someone, perhaps they should question why they feel so compelled to disprove it rather than simply disengaging. This kind of behavior only underscores the uniqueness of what’s being defended here. Why else would they care so much ?

This brings me to what I believe is happening with certain Lukola shippers who react under the guise of pragmatism and so-called reality. When the facts are murky and there’s no concrete proof one way or the other, it’s natural to feel uncertainty. But for some, the fear of being wrong of committing to a belief that might not hold up pushes them toward the opposite stance. It’s a kind of cognitive dissonance avoidance or fear-based contrarianism. Rather than risk the emotional discomfort of being wrong, they align themselves with a narrative that feels safer because it seems more grounded in realism, even if it goes against what they truly want.

But this reaction isn’t as rational as it appears. By clinging to the guise of pragmatism, they often ignore the layers of meaning, patterns, and behaviors that suggest this situation isn’t as clear-cut as it might seem. They risk dismissing the extraordinary connection that brought us here in the first place, the looks, the smiles, the synchronicity, and the undeniable intimacy.

What’s unsettling, however, is the behavior of certain non-believers. Some have started attacking others, calling them delusional or crazy for holding onto their beliefs. What’s ironic and frankly hypocritical is that many of these people were doing the exact same thing not long ago. They were analyzing smiles, interpreting body language, and weaving narratives just like the rest of us.

Psychologically, this could be explained by reaction formation, a defense mechanism where individuals suppress emotions or beliefs, they are uncomfortable with and adopt an exaggerated opposite stance. For example, someone who once believed in Lukola but feels betrayed or disillusioned may go to great lengths to ridicule others who still believe, as a way to distance themselves from their former vulnerability.

Another phenomenon at play is projection. Those who call others delusional may actually be projecting their own internal conflict and doubts. It’s easier to label someone else as "crazy" than to confront the discomfort of one’s own cognitive dissonance.

Finally, there’s the bandwagon effect. When a few vocal individuals start asserting that believing in Lukola is irrational, others may follow suit to align themselves with what appears to be the majority opinion. This creates a cycle where dissenting voices are silenced or shamed, even though everyone in this fandom is ultimately speculating and interpreting limited information.

It’s not just hypocritical but it’s unkind as well to attack others for believing in something extraordinary. We are all here because we were drawn to the same connection, the same magic that transcends the mundane. Whether you still believe or have chosen to step away, there’s no need to tear others down.

The truth remains elusive, and it’s okay to admit that we don’t know everything. What’s not okay is to dismiss or ridicule the hope, joy, and creativity that others bring to this space. What is absolutely unacceptable is harassing Lukola, their friends, or their families online simply because they aren’t aligning with or reinforcing our preferred narrative. Such behavior crosses the line from passionate support into harmful intrusion, and it reflects poorly on this community as a whole.

We must remember that Nicola and Luke are real people with lives, relationships, and choices that extend far beyond what we observe or speculate about. Their friends and family are not all public figures and certainly not part of this fandom discourse. Dragging them into the conversation or pressuring them to validate a narrative diminishes the respect and admiration this space claims to hold for the pair.

Moreover, harassing anyone be it directly through comments or indirectly through insinuations and speculation achieves nothing. It doesn’t bring clarity or truth; it only fuels division and hostility. This behavior contradicts the very foundation of why many of us are here.

If anything, such actions could damage the very dynamic we cherish. It creates an atmosphere of distrust and negativity that might push them to withdraw further from public interactions or force them into making statements or actions they wouldn’t naturally take.

As fans, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard. Our actions should reflect kindness, respect, and understanding, not entitlement or hostility.

Let’s remember why we’re here and not go overboard, this ship is rare and beautiful, even if its true nature isn’t yet fully revealed. Until clarity comes, let’s choose kindness and patience over judgment.

In conclusion, we are not required to take a definitive stance right now. There’s wisdom in waiting, observing, and letting the truth unfold in its own time. For me, this isn’t about being right or wrong. It’s about honoring the belief that their bond is rare and worth rooting for, whether the evidence for it is subtle or glaring. Until clarity comes, I will continue to hold space for the possibility that love complicated, layered, and extraordinary is at the heart of this story.