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mggslover · 14 days ago

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ONE MORE — emily prentiss

In which a night full of teasing results in you finally getting your way — at least, on Emily’s terms.

genre smut (18+) cw established relationship, alcohol consumption, semi public sex, reader being a whiny needy brat, edging, overstimulation, dacryphilia, vibrator, multiple o’s, tit play, clit slapping, oral (r receiving and giving), fingering (r receiving) wc 5,4k a/n my first wlw fic! this was honestly so healing to write which sounds wild considering it’s pure porn lol. i’m always super nervous writing for a new character, so let me know if you enjoyed this and if you’d like seeing more emily in the future!

Ambient lights colored the space of the bar Emily guided you into. A beat of music was playing in the background; the rhythm of the song vibrated through your chest, and the thumping of the bass matched the exhilarated pounding of your heartbeat. Looking around, you were quick to find JJ and Penelope. They were sitting at a booth in the corner of the bar, drinks in hand like they usually did during a BAU’s girls night.

Emily’s palm felt clammy in yours as she led you through the crowd of sweaty bodies that had already found their way onto the dancefloor. It was a comforting grasp that grounded you until you reached the booth.

“Where were you two?” JJ calls out over the music. “I thought we planned to be here forty minutes ago.”

Forty minutes is a long time to wait, and you made a mental note to buy them a round later as an apology, although JJ’s smirk told you that she didn’t mind that much.

“We’re fashionably late,” Emily teased, sliding into the booth and pulling you beside her. Her fingers stayed intertwined with yours as she rested them comfortably on your lap.

Your mind wandered to why you had been fashionably late…

-`♡´-

Just an hour ago, you and Emily had been getting ready for tonight. Emily was taking her hair out of curlers, and you sat behind your vanity, the bulbs of light catching the red of your lips as you applied the finishing touches to your makeup.

“I like that shade,” Emily purred, slowly walking up to you from across the bedroom. Her eyes focused on your stained lips as she lazily wrapped her arms around your neck.

You smiled as you met her gaze in the mirror, the white of your teeth bringing an even nicer contrast to the red hue of your lips. “Of course you do, it’s your lipstick.”

“You little thief,” she mockingly scoffed, fingers grazing the bare skin of your shoulders, slowly inching down to brush over your arms. Her mouth hovered over the curve of your neck as she leaned down. “It looks even better on you.”

Turning your head to look at her, you took in the dark, loose curls that framed her face and the fitted black dress that melted onto her curves. Your gaze lingered on her soft cleavage before blinking back up. “You should put some on as well, it fits with your outfit.”

In feather-light strokes, Emily’s fingertips trailed up your arms again, not stopping until she had your chin cupped between her thumb and pointer finger.

“Come here, then,” she breathed out, and before you could answer, her soft lips were on yours.

It was a gentle, sweet kiss, yet still passionate, like everything with Emily is. Chapped lips pressed together with a satisfied hum that she swallowed gratefully. It was only after several seconds that you broke the contact.

Pulling back, you admired the transfer of lipstick; her lips glossing in color. A chuckle escaped you when you saw some excess red on the corner of her mouth. “Could’ve predicted that,” you mutter, reaching out to wipe it away with your thumb.

“It won’t come off like that.” She commented. “You need something wet.”

Before you had the chance to grab some makeup wipes from your vanity, Emily’s thumb was pressed against your bottom lip, caressing the plump skin in permission. Without question you had parted your lips, obediently wrapping your lips around the digit and releasing a small sound as you habitually swirled your tongue around.

“That’s a good girl,” she groaned, irises darkening at your act.

A disappointed whimper escaped you when she pulled her thumb free with a pop. She leaned over, glancing at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed the smudge away — your eyes never leaving her as you took fleeting glances at her figure.

The skin stayed a little pinkish, but the vibrant red spot was gone. What wasn’t gone, however, was the excited tingle that had started to simmer low in your stomach, slowly spreading through the rest of your body as you continued watching her.

Craving more, you placed your palms on the sides of her upper legs, moving them up to her hips and then back now. The thin fabric of her dress allowed you to feel the heat that started to radiate off of her thighs.

With your bottom lip pulled in between your teeth, your hands roamed over to her ass, moaning when you squeezed at her curves.

Emily’s hands cover yours, but instead of urging you to squeeze the flesh again, she gently tugs them away from her body.

“What did you do that for?” You pouted.

She responded with a chuckle, “We have plans, remember?”

Your arms lock over her backside anyway, pulling her into you as you rest your head against her stomach. “Since when do you care about being a little late?”

Her hands slide over your hair, smoothing the loose strands into place. “We can never be a little late when it comes to you.”

“I can come fast, I promise,” you whisper pleadingly, looking up at her with your best puppy eyes. Your finger traces the covered skin of her hip. “You got me all worked up. I’ll be fast.”

For a moment you could see the briefest flicker of temptation glimmer in her eyes, but with a blink it was gone. “Once we’re back,” she promised.

-`♡´-

“Lucky for you,” Penelope chirped excitedly, “we know your orders from the back of our heads.” She finished her sentence by sliding your and Emily’s go-to drinks over the table.

Emily grinned, bringing the glass to her lips. “You are the best, Pen.”

You toyed with the funky straw in yours, your mind too preoccupied by the beautiful woman that sat next to you to take a sip. You watched Emily in awe as her red lips closed around the rim of the glass and how she tilted her head back to take a sip, exposing the skin of her neck. Her lips were coated in a layer of sweet liquor as she placed the glass back down with a clink.

Emily seemed to have caught on to your stares, smirking to herself as she let her fingers slip beneath the edge of your skirt. The sensation of her warm fingertips sends butterflies straight to your core. “You’re gonna drink that?”

Your mouth opens to respond, but you quickly close it when she kneads the flesh of your upper thigh. “Y-yeah,” you gulp, swallowing the moan that’s threatening to escape.

Not paying attention to the smirks of JJ and Garcia, you pick up your drink and down the contents of the glass faster than you usually would.

“It’s not a shot, ch��rie,” Emily grins.

Damn it, Emily.

Calling you pet names, especially French ones, wasn’t fair. She knew the effect they had on you, and by the cocky tilt of her head and the smug sparkle in her eyes, you could tell that this was her plan all along.

Suddenly, you stood up from your seat. The glasses on the table rattled from your abrupt movement. You had to get out of her proximity; the heat that was enveloping your body was getting too much. Albeit to leave to the dancefloor where you’d be surrounded by warm bodies.

“Penelope,” you state determinedly, handing out your palm for her to take. “Let’s dance.”

-`♡´-

Dancing was a welcome distraction. You spun Penelope around in circles and filled the bar with your easy laughter.

Emily’s yearning eyes stayed focused on you from across the room. You could sense her following your every move: every wave of your arm and every sway of your hips. It only encourages you to move more sensually, to give her a taste of her own medicine.

Not long after, she and JJ joined you on the dance floor. You didn’t feel jealousy when her fingers ghosted over JJ’s frame or when she leaned in to whisper something in her ear, making JJ throw her head back in giggles. You felt rather intrigued by it, actually.

Watching them felt like watching a version of yourself from the sidelines, aware of the deep scent of her perfume, of the way her hair would feel as it tickled against your face — JJ’s face.

Emily observed you too, and it felt almost like it was just the two of you in the room — the music and chatter of others fading to the background in a blur. The moment was only broken when she exchanged some words with JJ, then walked off of the dancefloor, her figure disappearing into the bathroom.

“So… Are you gonna do something?”

You frown at Penelope, straining your ears to make sure you’ve heard her right. “Do what?”

She gives you a look that’s usually reserved for Reid, her eyes narrowing and her forehead creased as if you’d just said the most oblivious thing on earth.

“Uh, your super sexy hot girlfriend has been eyeing you all night and then went to the bathroom,” she waves behind her, in the direction of where Emily disappeared.

“You mean… she wants me to follow her?”

“Duh!” She responds with an exasperated sigh.

Emily liked to tease you in public, that much she made clear tonight. But she wasn’t the type to do anything scandalous, saving that for when you’re in private. Still, you couldn’t help but be curious if this was all part of her calculated plan.

“Okay then,” you nod, straightening your posture to appear more confident, brushing the giggly excitement that bubbles in your chest aside.

Penelope let out a thrilled shriek, holding you by your shoulders as she playfully pushed you in the direction you were headed. Get yourself a friend that is this supportive of the prospect of you hooking up with her other friend in a public bathroom.

Breathing your nerves away, you pull the door handle down, entering the bathroom. For a second you believed that you had misunderstood. That you — Penelope — had read her signals wrong, for you could not see her. But then she appeared from around the corner, familiar hands immediately finding your face and pulling you into a deep kiss.

You moaned loudly into her mouth, holding her tight as if scared she’d leave you wanting for more like she had earlier.

“You needed this, didn’t you?” She stated in a low murmur, enticing another sound from you. She used the opportunity to slide her tongue into your mouth, meeting yours in a firm haste.

There was no sweetness in the kiss this time around, just raw, passionate need. The only sweetness you could taste was the hint of lipstick that your tongue slid against.

“Been teasing me all night,” she groaned against your mouth.

“Me?” you exclaim in a high-pitched scoff. “You’ve been driving me crazy since before we even left the house.”

Her eyes flicked over your face, her cheeks heating. “Is that so?”

It was adorable that the most attractive woman to grace the earth even needed confirmation. You chuckled. “Yes, Emily,” you affirmed. “God, I’m so fucking wet for you.”

The words needed to fill the air, make a statement of themself, for you to gain the courage to speak your next offer. “You can check.”

The tips of her ears turned maroon, almost matching her red lips. The noise she made was unlike her desperate groans, it was the cutest little whine that would make your panties wet in an instant if they weren’t already.

Carefully, Emily backed you into the wall. The cool stone tiles were a pleasant welcome to the heat that was coursing through you. One of her hands was holding you in place, while the other brushed up the bare skin of your knee, inching closer to the seam of your skirt.

“So, you’re telling me…” Her eyebrow raised in a playful question, fingertips burning on your thighs, “That if I bunch this skirt up, I’ll find you all wet?”

You vehemently nod your head. It might seem like you’re lying: skin heating up, throat growing dry, not able to find words. But they’re all signs of how turned on you are. And there is no doubt in your mind that Emily will find you soaking through your underwear.

To confirm your suspicions, she skillfully bunches up your skirt. The cold bathroom air tingles your legs and the sliver of stomach that is now exposed, but you’re back to burning when Emily’s palms kiss your skin.

Her thumb and pointer finger hook into the waistband of your panties, but instead of pulling them down, she tugs the fabric up so that it wedges in between your puffy folds.

“Ah!”

Instantly your hands grip her shoulders, clawing your fingers into her lightly covered skin. Your face is etched in a mixture of confusion and pleasurable pain, and Emily divides her attention between observing your reaction and the way your pussy is clenching around the air.

“Hm,” she hums, licking her lips as she finally pulls the soaked layer of fabric aside, exposing you. “Very wet indeed.”

You roll your hips forward, begging for more.

To your relief, she leans in, lips brushing your neck and moving up to graze your earlobe. “Want me to take care of this needy pussy?”

Another whimpery moan. “Please, Emily. I need you, I need you—“

She shuts you up by pressing her lips to your neck, sucking feverishly, and at the same time reaching out to cup your heat. You arch your neck, hair sliding against the tiled wall as you let the pleasure envelop you.

She uses her knees to spread your legs further apart, while you continue to hold onto her shoulders, needing the support for your trembling, fawn legs.

With the flat of her fingers, Emily gives firm slaps to your swollen little clit, it aching under her touch.

Your eyes shut as you moan out, “God, so good.”

“I need you to be quiet for me, chérie. Still in public, remember?” Her words feel warm and tingly against the sensitive spot on your neck she had just left a hickey on.

“I’ll be quiet,” you confirm. Whether she believed you was another story, but it didn’t stop her from rubbing her hand up and down your folds, warming you up and spreading your slick sweetness around.

Your body still trembled, but slowly you got used to the sensations; Emily kept a steady rhythm. You let your hands fall from her shoulders to her breasts, gripping handfuls, groaning when you felt her peaked nipples stiffen through the fabric.

“You’re so fucking sexy in this dress, Em.”

“Just in this dress?” She teasingly smirked, sliding a finger through your folds.

A giggle leaves your lips. “Even sexier when you take it off.”

To prove your point, you hook your finger in the low cut of her dress, tugging the soft black fabric down to reveal more of her cleavage. With ease, your hand slides in, cupping her breast.

And she wasn’t wearing a bra. Fuck.

More turned on than you could imagine, you desperately buck your hips up against her hand, rolling her peaked nipple between your fingers in the same way she did with the aching pearl in between your thighs.

Emily pulls her hand back from your heat. “I think we need these a bit wetter before I fuck you,” she teasingly grins, showing off her fingers that were already wet as they glistened in your slick.

Out of reflex, you opened your mouth, tongue sticking out as you looked up at her with hooded eyes. But instead of using you, she coated her own kiss-swollen lips with her fingers before slipping the digits inside.

She was going to be the death of you one day; you were sure of it. With her mouth open you could see the way her pink tongue swirled around, lapping up all of your juices and humming like there was no sweeter kind of dessert.

So entranced in her ministrations, you only got out of your daze when her hand wrapped around your thigh, pulling the weight up until your leg was hooked around her waist.

“Oh,” you moan when her two fingers push against your cunt, giving little resistance as you feel her entering.

The loud knocking of wood makes you jump up, Emily’s fingers slipping out of you as smoothly as they entered.

“I swear to God,” Emily muttered when the knocking continued.

“Hello! Is someone in there?” The high-pitched sound of a woman, more like a girl, calls from the other side of the wall. “I need to pee!”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you await Emily’s reaction. She’s best to take the lead in this, as you’re known to be shorter-tempered.

Emily glances in the mirror behind you, fixing her top and patting some loose strands of hair down. Your bottom lip turns down in a sad frown, already knowing what time it is.

A cry leaves your throat, hands immediately locking around her wrist. “Don’t go!”

Emily turns her head, her eyes fleeting over your state until she realizes your cry was one out of pure desperation.

“I need to come, Em!” You beg. “Please, just— I’ll be quick. I told you I’ll be quick.”

Emily raises her eyebrow. “There’s someone standing outside banging on the door,” to emphasize, she added, “who will probably piss her pants if we don’t leave right now.”

“I don’t care!” You huffed out in exasperation.

You truly were no better than the young woman waiting outside (who’s probably more drunk than you are and needs to pee, so she has a valid reason to whine), but still you begged as you tried placing her hand back to where it was. Where it should be. “She can hold on a little longer. I can’t, Emily.”

But Emily didn’t budge. Instead, she gave you a chaste kiss and bunched your skirt down.

In an exaggerated motion, you throw your head back, a soft cry escaping your lips as Emily’s hand slips out of yours, walking to the door and unlocking it.

A brunette, not much older than the legal age to drink, walked inside, scoffing as Emily brushed past her on her way out.

Your nose scrunched up in disgust as the woman scurried into the bathroom, unzipping her pants while you were still standing in front of her.

“Fuck you,” you spat at her.

-`♡´-

Of course you had been embarrassed of your behavior for the rest of the night. You didn’t even have the decency to offer JJ or Penelope any polite smiles. You were pissed. And horny. So fucking horny. And pissed. Most of all, pissed.

“Can you at least try to act like you’re having fun?” Emily hisses under her breath the second JJ and Penelope head toward the bar to get a refill.

“No,” you mutter, sipping on the straw of your empty drink.

At least your toddler tantrum had passed, now you’d entered the teenage passive aggressive ‘I don’t care’-phase.

Emily inhales sharply through her nose, and you can tell she’s running out of patience.

“Fine,” she exhales, already grabbing her leather jacket that was bundled up in the corner of the booth. “You’re coming with me.”

You blink up at her in confusion, but with one cock of her head, you’re standing up, following her command.

Weaving behind her, you’re nothing more than some lost puppy, trying not to lose their owner in the crowd. Relief floods through you when she waves her arm behind her, her hand grazing yours, which you gratefully accept.

So much for your little show of anger. It was annoying how you always craved her touch, your body acting before your mind could even process.

When you reach JJ and Penelope at the bar, Emily has her words ready. “We’re heading out. She’s not feeling well.”

Four insistent eyes fall on you, and you feel your cheeks heating up as you’re being completely put on the spot. Thanks, Em.

“Are you okay?” JJ asks, her eyebrow arched, not as caught up as Penelope, who’s trying to stifle back her knowing laughs.

The words tumble out of your mouth awkwardly. “Yeah. Just a bit of a headache, ‘s all.”

JJ nods, her eyes flickering over to your intertwined hands, the realization slowly sinking in. “Right.”

-`♡´-

Patience is a virtue.

You weren’t known for your patience, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that you waited and were finally getting rewarded for your restraint.

“Such a needy girl,” Emily tsked as she backed you into the mattress in your bedroom. You let yourself fall down with a gentle thud, Emily climbing on top of you as her body caged you in. She kneeled over your frame, bare, strong legs curved on either side of you.

“Can’t help but be a little slut, can you?”

Her words pooled warm in your belly, and you arched your neck in an attempt to kiss her lips — those sweet, plump lips that hovered just inches above yours. But Emily pulled back, denying you her taste and causing you to groan.

Her hands swiftly trailed down your thighs, lifting the fabric of your skirt up and letting the tips of her fingers trail up and down your covered lips.

“You can’t even think straight when that pussy is so wet… Just aching to be touched.”

Goosebumps erupt around your skin, the little flames of excitement coursing through your veins as she hooks her fingers in the lace of your underwear and smoothly slides them down your legs.

With a frantic enthusiasm, you helped her kick the fabric off your feet, spreading your legs open for her so that it couldn’t be clearer on what you wanted. What you needed.

Emily settled herself between your thighs, her own dress riding up as she arched her back, giving you a glimpse of the soft curve of her ass.

With featherlight kisses she decorated your inner thighs, every brush of her tongue causing you to squirm in her grasp.

“No more teasing, please.” Your voice is already out of breath, your chest heaving in anticipation, and your clit twitching every time her breath fanned over the sensitive bud.

Her eyes glimmer up at you, sparkling in mischief. “Okay.”

The firm swipe of her wet tongue over your labia is enough for you to plant your feet into the mattress, lifting your body up in pleasure, trying to chase the heat of her mouth.

Emily’s tongue moved with precision, knowing you like the back of her hand. She used the firm tip of her tongue to focus on your clit, the little, swollen pearl peeking out and begging for her attention. Slowly she flicked up the bud, then circled her tongue around, then flicked again, until the tension in your stomach began to pull.

Your fingers tangled into her soft hair, tugging on the dark strands, trying your best to ground yourself and delay the undeniable waves of warmth that flooded you. Tears pricked in your eyes, and it took one more press of her tongue to make you fall apart. Salty drops spilled down your cheeks while you moaned incoherent cries of her name.

She pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, your body so sensitive that the small gesture caused you to shake again.

Eventually — after a couple of deep breaths — you calmed down again, your heart still thumping in your chest as you breathily chuckled.

Emily’s eyes found yours from in between your thighs, a lazy smirk curved at the end of her lips. “That was quick.”

You could only respond back with a satisfied hum. Through your blurry vision, you watched her stand up, turning her back to you as she rummaged through the drawers — probably looking for a towel. Her dress clung messily over her body. You blinked a couple of times, excess tears falling down your cheeks as you focused on the little lacy fabric that peeked from beneath her dress.

She climbed back up on the bed, the mattress weighing down beneath you as she hovered over your frame. With a touch ever so gentle, she used her thumb to wipe a single tear away from your cheek.

Emily’s eyes always had such a physical effect on you. The dark colored irises spoke volumes, and this time they told you how loved you were. A nice reminder after the tension in the bar. Craning your neck, you took the opportunity to press your lips to hers. You were grateful when she took the lead, cupping your face with one hand as she deepened the kiss.

It didn’t take long for need to overcome you again. Wetness still dripped out of you, coating your inner thighs, and it only accumulated by the wet strokes of Emily’s tongue against yours.

Her heavy breasts pressed down on your chest, comfortably caging you in as she pried your legs open with the hand that wasn’t busy holding your cheek.

Too caught up in the heat of the moment, you didn’t hear the small buzzing sound that was added to the background of your heavy breathing as Emily turned on the vibrator that she took out of a drawer earlier.

A strangled sound in between a gasp and a cry left your throat, legs shaking as Emily pressed the buzzing toy on your pussy and let it slip between your swollen folds, vibrating directly at your most sensitive spots.

“Sshh…“ Her nose brushed against the side of your face, cooing you back into submission.

“Come on now, chérie,” she purred as she placed a kiss on your cheekbone. “I know there’s more in you.”

As always, she was right. The muscles in your stomach clenched, and your clit couldn’t stop throbbing and twitching against the silicone in between her hands, each vibration pulling you under until you felt close to reaching that peak again.

Emily moaned at the sight of you, a bunny caught in the traps of a sly wolf. She knew your body better than you, knew you better — precisely aware of the way you’d climb on top of her just several minutes after having come around her long fingers, or her silk tongue, or the strap-on you’d bought not too long ago, begging for another round. So she had to tire you out this time. Release every bit of desire stuck in your body. Fuck you to sleep, for all she cared.

“Em-“ you squealed. Your body gave in fast: thighs clenching around her wrist, head pushed back into the pillow, nails digging crescent moon shapes into her skin as you clung onto her, breathily moaning her name.

Evil as she is, she turned the vibrator up a setting, taking nothing but pleasure in the way your mouth fell open in a gasp, eyebrows scrunching and eyes wide with tears as you let yourself go.

Emily tosses the vibrator aside before the overstimulation could hurt, instantly cupping your pussy with the warmth of her hand to soothe you. “Oh, that’s it, that’s my good girl,” she mutters in praise, leaving gentle kisses over your teary face in an effort to calm you down.

The features on your face slowly inched back into place as your breathing stuttered to a relaxing pattern.

A shaky but vibrant laugh left your chest. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Emily hummed as she kissed your smiling lips. “Crazy is good, right?” She asked with a smirk.

Emily’s hand stayed on your heat, rubbing her palm around in tranquil circles to let you ride out your high. Gradually you started to gain back feeling, your pussy previously feeling numb due to the sensual assault she’d brought you.

It was almost humorous how fast your pussy started weeping for her again, new, sweet juices falling from your hole and dripping down.

“Oops, sorry,” Emily spoke genuinely as the tip of her finger accidentally slipped into your heat.

The feeling of her was addictive, so it came as no surprise to you as you lifted your hips, bucking them in the air for more.

You should’ve felt embarrassment by the way Emily looked at you, rolling her eyes with a cheeky smile, close to shaking her head in bewilderment. But you held her gaze, eyes speaking the words that maybe you were too afraid to speak out loud.

“Still so greedy,” she observed. “Need one more?”

You nodded, grateful to have a profiler as your girlfriend. You did not regret your decision as she curled the digit further into you until it nuzzled that sweet spot inside.

“As much as I love making you feel good, I’m getting a bit impatient over here.” She murmured, sitting slightly up on her knees and using her free hand to hike up her dress.

Your reaction was nothing short of that of a cartoon, eyes bulging out at the sight of her. Soft, biteable thighs on display and her lacy underwear drenched in obvious arousal despite the black color trying to hide it.

“Fuck, I need to taste you, Em,” you commented breathlessly, heartbeat racing in your chest at the mere fantasy of it.

Her finger left you, but you knew it would only be momentarily when she pulled her dress over her frame and wiggled out of her underwear before maneuvering herself on top of you. You greedily held onto her thighs that were placed on either side of your face, inching your hands up to her sides and ass as she lowered down.

“Spread a little wider for me, baby,” you instructed and she did so, revealing the beautiful pink of her slick pussy to you.

Carefully she leaned forward, positioning her elbows on your lower abdomen and finding a comfortable placement to thrust her fingers back into you.

The moan you let out reverberated against her heat, and up close you could see her needy hole clenching around nothing, begging for your affection. With the tip of your tongue, you licked a firm stripe up her center, repeating the action when she begged you for more.

It was impossible for you to be a tease around her. Most of the time she didn’t even have to beg you; you were always prepared and ready to give her your all. So that’s what you did when you nipped at the velvety skin of her labia, coating your chin and nose in her honeyed juices as you let your lips and tongue explore her in sucks and licks and bites.

Emily kept up with your ministrations, scissoring her fingers inside of you to stroke up against the G-spot she had made herself very familiar with.

Soppy, wet sounds left your cunt as the two of you continued playing an unspoken game: her fingers would thrust and curl up harder into you the more you’d suckle on her swollen clit. This was her way of letting you know she was still the one in control. You could make her cry out, for sure, but she’d only make you cry harder for her in return.

Emily felt relieved when your walls started tightening around her, knowing she couldn’t hold on for that much longer either, as her thighs started shaking the moment you dipped your skilled tongue inside of her.

“Come with me,” she panted out in encouragement.

A tinge of pride filled her chest when you were the first to let go, moaning against her cunt as the waves in your core took over. The addictive sounds of your pleasure were enough to tilt her over the edge as well.

Your fingers gripped into her soft skin to keep her steady, chuckling when she gently collapsed on top of you, her sweat stained face falling onto your upper thigh.

“Glad we got that out of our systems,” she said and placed a kiss on your skin.

#emily prentiss smut #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss x female reader #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #lesbian #wlw fanfic #wlw smut #emily prentiss fic #sapphic

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sumluckr · 1 month ago

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Wolf at the door

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x female reader

Summary: One impulsive night leads to a secret you can’t escape. When your sister brings home her new boyfriend, everything you tried to forget comes back to haunt you.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, blackmail, toxic dynamics, non-consensual power dynamics and psychological manipulation.

The bass-heavy music thrums through your body as neon lights flash across the packed club. You stand at the edge of the dance floor, heart rattling in your chest. This isn’t you – or at least, it’s not the you everyone knows. Good girls from respectable families don’t sneak into clubs on a weeknight, don’t let strangers buy them drinks, and definitely don’t fantasize about reckless, illicit thrills. But tonight, you’ve shed your perfect-student skin. Tonight, you’re rebellion in a short black dress, determined to forget the suffocating expectations that cling to you like a second skin.

You down the last of your cocktail, sweetness and alcohol burning down your throat, and sway your hips to the music. It’s dizzying and a little liberating to be here alone – no parents hovering, no teachers, no judgment. Just for a few hours, you want to be someone else, someone free and bold and bad. Your eyes drift over the sea of strangers under pulsing strobe lights. Bodies move in dark silhouette. Laughter and shouts cut through the throbbing bass.

That’s when you feel his eyes on you – a prickle of heat at the back of your neck. You glance over your shoulder and catch sight of a figure lounging against the wall near the bathroom hallway. Even in the erratic neon glow, he stands out. Tall and lean, he’s dressed in a fitted black jacket and ripped jeans, exuding a casual menace. His hair is dark, a few unruly strands falling over one eye. And those eyes… fixed on you with an intensity that sends a thrill up your spine. In the shifting light, you can’t discern their color – only that his gaze is bold, unabashed, and dangerous.

Your pulse skips. A sensible voice in your head whispers that nothing good can come from locking eyes with a stranger like him. He’s exactly the kind of boy you’ve always been warned about – the kind your parents would never approve of, the kind who radiates trouble. Perhaps that’s precisely why you hold his gaze a second longer than you should. Why a spark of defiance flares to life inside you, challenging your own good sense.

He smirks when he sees you looking. It’s a lazy, confident curve of his lips, as if he finds your attention amusing. Under the flashing club lights, he pushes off the wall and begins to cross the room toward you. Instinctively, your breath catches. He moves with a predatory grace, weaving through the crowd without taking his eyes off you, as though he’s already decided you will be his next conquest.

Your heart thunders. Part of you wants to turn away, break the spell, retreat to safety. But your feet remain planted, curiosity and rebellion rooting you in place. The air seems to thicken as he approaches. You catch a better glimpse now: sharp features, a strong jaw marked by a fading bruise near his cheekbone, and a split in his lower lip as if he’s been in a recent fight. A white bandage peeks out from beneath the collar of his jacket, taped at his shoulder or neck. He should look beaten up, rough, scary… and he does. Yet none of it diminishes his appeal – if anything, the bruises and bandages only intensify the dangerous aura around him. He’s like a storm contained in a human frame.

When he reaches you, the scent of smoke and something musky washes over you. He’s a head taller, forcing you to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. In the flicker of neon, you see now they’re a deep charcoal-grey, penetrating and cold. A shiver races over your skin. Too late to run now.

He doesn’t ask to dance. He doesn’t ask anything. Instead, the stranger’s hand lifts, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair off your face. The gesture is oddly tender for someone who looks like him, but the glint in his eyes is anything but gentle.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone?” he drawls, voice low to be heard over the music. There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, laced with something dark that you can’t quite name. Up close, his charm is edged with danger, like a knife cloaked in silk.

Your stomach flips. A dozen possible answers flit through your mind – a lie, an excuse, anything to preserve your dignity – but what slips out is the raw truth: “Trying to have some fun.” You’re surprised by the boldness of your own words. Normally you’d never admit that to a stranger, but the alcohol and adrenaline are dissolving your filter. If my parents heard me now… The thought almost makes you laugh.

He chuckles, a low rumble that you feel in your chest more than hear. His thumb trails lightly down your cheek in a mockingly affectionate stroke. “Oh, I can give you fun,” he says, leaning in. His lips hover by your ear, the heat of his breath making you tremble. “Question is, can you handle it?”

A bolt of heat spears through you, half excitement, half fear. The challenge in his voice and the flirtation ignite something reckless inside you. This is precisely what you came here for, isn’t it? To prove you’re not just the obedient daughter, the straight-A student, the well-behaved sister. To feel something real and wild, even if it’s just for one night.

You don’t trust your voice, so you answer by arching a brow, hoping to appear braver than you feel. “Try me,” you manage, the two words coming out steadier than the hammering of your heart.

His eyes darken, that predatory smirk widening. Without another word, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you onto the dance floor. The abrupt closeness knocks the breath from your lungs. He’s solid muscle under that jacket; you can feel the tension coiled in him, like he might spring into violence or passion at any second.

The music shifts to a sultry, grinding beat. He moves with confidence, hands sliding low on your hips. You follow his lead, letting him press you back until your body meets the hard plane of his chest. It’s intoxicating – his heat, the way he guides you as if he owns your body. You can smell a faint trace of blood mixed with his cologne, or maybe it’s your imagination. Either way, it sends a thrill through you. This is dangerous. He is dangerous.

And you’ve never felt more alive.

You dance, though it’s less dancing and more an excuse to touch. His hands roam over your curves in time with the heavy bass. When your arms loop around his neck, your fingers graze a row of bandages along the side of it. You realize they’re covering what look like half-healed cuts. Your eyes flick to his in question, but he only gives a lazy shrug and pulls you closer, grinding against you in answer. The message is clear: Don’t ask. So you don’t. You shut off the cautious part of your brain that wants to know what happened to him. All that matters is right now.

His thigh pushes between your legs as you sway together, and a small gasp escapes you at the pressure against your already thrumming core. You swear you feel him smile against your temple at the sound. Embarrassed by how quickly your body is responding, you turn your face up, intending to reclaim some control by kissing him first – but he beats you to it.

He swoops down and captures your lips in a bruising kiss that steals all thought. It’s not gentle or slow. It’s teeth and tongue and heat, a clash that sends sparks through your veins. You whimper into his mouth, and he takes the sound as invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your toes curl. You taste a hint of copper – maybe from the cut on his lip – mixed with the alcohol on both your tongues. The metallic tang shouldn’t be arousing, but it only reminds you that this man is raw and real, not some polished prince charming.

His hand moves up your back, tangling in your hair, tilting your head to his liking so he can kiss you even harder. It’s like he wants to consume you, and you find yourself yielding, letting him set the pace. When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard. Your lips tingle, likely swollen from the ferocity of the kiss. A satisfied gleam lights his eyes as he looks at your dazed expression.

“Fun enough for you?” he purrs, voice dripping cockiness. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, which you realize is stinging slightly from a bite – his or yours, you’re not even sure.

A flush heats your cheeks. You bite back an instinctive polite reply. Good girls say thank you or demur. You force those impulses down and, mustering your bravado, give a soft, breathless laugh. “Not bad…,” you tease, trying to match his nonchalance, though your voice betrays you with a slight tremor. “But I thought you promised me fun. Is that all you’ve got?”

His eyebrows lift at your challenge, surprise flickering over his features. Then that wolfish grin returns, more wicked than before. He leans in so that his nose almost brushes yours. “Careful,” he murmurs, and you feel his hand tighten at your hip, fingers digging in possessively. “I might just have to prove I can blow your sweet little mind.”

Your heart skips at the promise laced in those words. Before you can form a reply, he captures your hand in his. “Come.” It’s an order, not a request. You barely have time to snatch your purse from a nearby ledge before he’s tugging you through the crowd.

There’s a surreal thrill in letting yourself be led. Normally, you’d balk at anyone manhandling you – but something about his confidence, the deliberate way he navigates through throngs of people with you in tow, is intoxicating. Part of you can’t believe what you’re doing. You met this boy mere minutes ago. You don’t even know his name. This could be incredibly stupid… No, it is incredibly stupid. And yet, you don’t resist. Whether it’s curiosity, desire, or the rebellious anger at your own sheltered life driving you, you follow him.

He pushes open a heavy door in the back, leading you into a dark hallway that smells of spilled beer and cleaning bleach. The sign on the door that slams shut behind you reads Restrooms. The bass from the main room fades to a muffled thump through the wall, and the sudden relative quiet makes your ears ring. The hall is lit only by a flickering fluorescent light. To your left, the door to the ladies’ room stands closed; to your right, the men’s. He ignores both, instead zeroing in on a third door at the very end – a single unisex bathroom or maybe a staff washroom. A small paper sign taped to it reads “Out of Order,” but he twists the knob and shoves the door open without hesitation.

Your pulse jackhammers as he pulls you inside the tiny bathroom and locks the door behind you with a sharp click. It’s a cramped space – just a sink, a cloudy mirror, and a toilet stall with a busted-looking door half off its hinges (so that’s why it’s out of order, you think absently). The only light comes from a single dim bulb overhead. The walls tremble faintly with the bass from outside, and through the vent you can hear the muffled chorus of the current dance track.

Suddenly, in the confined quiet, reality presses on you. This is really happening. You’re in a dingy club bathroom with a dangerous stranger, about to cross lines you’ve never come near before. A flicker of nerves finally cuts through the haze of lust and liquid courage. Your instincts rear up with a warning – this is too fast, too reckless. What if he hurts you? What if you regret this?

Sensing your hesitation, he steps forward, backing you against the sink. The porcelain edge presses into your lower back. He places his hands on either side of you, caging you in. There’s a thrill in knowing the exit is right behind him and you’d have to get through his strong body to reach it. Thrill… or terror. Possibly both. Your breathing quickens, but you lift your chin, refusing to show fear.

He notices – he notices everything, it seems – and one corner of his mouth twitches in approval. “Nervous?” he asks softly. He brings a hand up to your face and trails a finger slowly from the hollow of your temple down to your jaw. His touch is surprisingly light, almost a caress, at odds with the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

You swallow hard. “No,” you lie. Your voice is barely above a whisper in the quiet bathroom. The word comes out too fast, betraying you.

He actually laughs – a dark, husky chuckle that curls low in your belly. “Liar,” he murmurs. His finger tilts your chin up. “I can feel your heartbeat.” He presses his body against yours, and you realize he can likely feel it, given how hard your heart is thudding against your ribs. It’s practically vibrating through you.

Instinctively, your hands come up to press against his chest, whether to push him away or just to touch him, you’re not sure. They end up fisting in the material of his shirt. Beneath the thin fabric, his muscles are taut, and you become acutely aware of the warmth and power coiled there. He feels like a loaded gun in the shape of a man – all potential energy, ready to go off.

He dips his head, lips ghosting over the side of your neck. You gasp when you feel the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive skin, not quite biting, but threatening to. “If you want me to stop, you better say so now,” he breathes against your neck. It’s not really a question, more like a sly dare. The hint of sarcasm in his tone tells you he’s not used to anyone telling him to stop. He’s mocking the very idea that you might not go through with this.

Your pride flares, overcoming your nerves. You did not come this far to chicken out. If you back out now, you’ll return home to your perfectly curated life and lie awake every night wondering what would have happened if you’d been braver. And beyond that—your body is on fire for him, desire already coiling low in your belly. Fear is there, yes, but it only seems to heighten your arousal, sharpening every sensation. The danger is part of the thrill.

So you answer by grabbing the lapels of his jacket and crashing your mouth to his. It’s messy and ungraceful, but it sends your message loud and clear: Don’t stop. A low growl of approval emanates from him, and then everything becomes a blur of heat and motion.

He kisses you fiercely, drinking in your surrender. Your world narrows to the wet slide of his tongue against yours and the way his hands roam your body, claiming it as his. One hand cups your breast through your dress, fingers deftly finding your nipple and pinching just hard enough to make you yelp into his mouth. The sharp sting sends a lightning bolt of pleasure down your spine. Any lingering inhibitions crumble; you arch into his touch, craving more.

“Hmm, sensitive,” he notes with a dark chuckle, breaking the kiss just to watch your reaction as he gives that hardened nub another squeeze. You bite your lip to stifle a moan. He tuts disapprovingly. “No, let me hear you.” He pinches harder suddenly, catching you off guard. A cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, echoing in the tiny bathroom. You slap a hand over your mouth in shock at your own volume, eyes darting to the door. The music outside is loud—hopefully loud enough that no one heard.

He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away from your mouth, eyes gleaming almost fever-bright in the dim light. “Don’t.” It’s a command. “We’re far from the only ones screwing in this club, don’t worry about them.” The crude confidence of his statement sends a flush through your cheeks. Before you can respond, he’s tugging the straps of your dress down your shoulders, not bothering to be gentle. The fabric slinks down, exposing the lacy pastel bra you’d worn – ironically one of your prettiest, daintiest pieces, chosen this evening on a hopeful whim.

He lets out a low whistle of appreciation at the sight of you, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Better than I imagined,” he purrs, and you flush hotter knowing he’s been imagining you. The thought that this dangerous man picked you out of everyone in that crowd, and was picturing what’s under your dress… it sends a heady mix of power and vulnerability through you.

His hands slide around your back, and with an expert flick, he unhooks your bra. It falls loose, and you hesitate only a split second before allowing it to slip off your arms, baring your breasts completely to his gaze. The hungry way he stares could devour you whole. Self-conscious, you start to cross your arms over your chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them back against the mirror behind you. The cold glass presses into your skin.

“None of that,” he chides softly. “Don’t hide from me.” Again, that note of command. He’s not asking – he’s telling you to let him look. The dominance in it makes your breath catch, a mixture of indignation and unwilling arousal. You’re used to being in control of yourself; giving it up �� even in this small way – feels foreign. But when you meet his gaze, the open heat and lust you see there sends a pulse of warmth straight between your legs. He wants you. Wildly, ravenously. Perhaps as much as you want to be wanted.

Slowly, you lower your arms, leaving yourself exposed to him. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and strangely, the praise – however mocking it might be – sends a thrill through you. Good girl. It’s what you always strive to be, what everyone calls you. But on his lips, in this context, it feels deliciously twisted, almost dirty.

Before you can dwell on it, he dips his head and takes one of your nipples into his mouth without warning. You cry out, the sensation of wet heat and suction pulling taut at that sensitive peak. His tongue flicks and circles expertly, while his hand finds your other breast, rolling and teasing the nipple between calloused fingers. Pleasure jolts through you, and you feel yourself growing wetter by the second, your panties dampening with arousal.

You clutch at his shoulders to steady yourself, head falling back against the mirror. Each lick and gentle bite he gives your breasts sends sparks skittering through your nerves. He alternates between them, clearly enjoying the way he can make you squirm and moan with just this. When he finally lifts his head, both your nipples are pebbled tight and aching, glistening with his saliva. The cool air of the bathroom hits the wet skin and you shiver.

The stranger’s breathing is heavier now, his eyes dark with lust as they rake down your body. “I knew you’d be responsive,” he mutters appreciatively, almost to himself. “Act so pure, but your body’s just begging for it, isn’t it?”

You should be embarrassed, maybe even offended by his cocky assumption – but the truth is there’s no denying how turned on you are. Your legs feel weak and an insistent ache is building between them. You bite your lip, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admitting it aloud. Instead you reach forward boldly and brush your hand over the front of his jeans, feeling for the hardness you know must be there. You’re rewarded with the discovery of a sizable bulge straining against the denim.

His breath hisses through his teeth at your touch, eyes flashing. It’s the first time you’ve seen him react with something like surprise. “Careful,” he warns, but there’s a slight catch in his voice. You realize with a heady rush that you have an effect on him too. The great thing about egotistical boys is they’re often unprepared when you call their bluff.

You palm him more firmly through the fabric, emboldened. “Who’s nervous now?” you whisper, throwing his words from earlier back at him.

A dangerous grin spreads across his face, equal parts amused and aroused. “Alright,” he growls, “you asked for it.” In one swift motion, he grips your thighs and lifts you up onto the sink counter. A surprised laugh bursts from you, cut short as he steps between your legs, spreading them wide around his hips. The skirt of your dress hikes up to your waist in the process, and you flush as you realize how exposed you are – only a thin scrap of silk panty preserves your modesty, and even that is soaked through with evidence of your desire.

He notices, of course. Nothing escapes those sharp eyes. He runs a finger over the front of your panties and it comes away glistening. He holds it up, and even in the dim light you can see the slickness coating his fingertip. “All this from a little kissing and groping?” He tsks softly, though the pride in his voice is evident. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “And you claimed you weren’t nervous. Maybe it’s not nerves at all… maybe you’re just aching for a bad little adventure.”

You’re spared having to answer – or lie – because he doesn’t wait for a response. He hooks his fingers into your panties and, with one rough yank, tears them aside. The delicate fabric doesn’t stand a chance; it rips with a startling sound, the ruined pieces sliding down your thighs. A shock of cool air kisses your now bare sex, and you instinctively try to close your legs, a surge of shyness hitting you at being so exposed. But his body stands firmly between your knees, preventing any escape.

“Don’t hide,” he reminds you darkly, grabbing your knees and pushing them further apart instead. “Let me see.” The audacity of him just taking this without asking should anger you, should scare you – and yet the command in his tone only fuels the heat in your belly. You’re quivering with a potent mix of humiliation and arousal as he gazes down at your most intimate place.

“Perfect,” he murmurs under his breath, almost reverently, as one of his hands slides up the inside of your thigh. You feel a fingertip brush your folds, testing, exploring the wetness there. You choke back a moan when that finger lightly flicks over your swollen clit. He notices that too – the slight jolt of your hips – and rewards you by circling the sensitive nub slowly, sending waves of pleasure radiating outward.

“You’re so wet for me already… such a naughty girl,” he says softly, and for the first time there’s a hint of something almost gentle in his voice, though the words are degrading. It confuses your pleasure-fogged brain; you don’t know whether to be ashamed or pleased. The one thing you do know is that you need more. Each teasing swirl of his finger is driving you mad, winding you tighter.

“Please…” The word slips out before you can stop it, and you hate how desperate you sound.

He arches a brow. “Please what?” he prompts, mercilessly slowing his finger to an agonizing crawl. He’s making you say it. The smug bastard wants to hear you beg.

Your pride and need war inside you. A strangled whimper escapes your throat as he barely grazes your clit, denying you the pressure you crave. The ache is too much; pride crumbles. “Please,” you pant, swallowing your dignity, “more… touch me.”

His grin is triumphant. “Good girl,” he practically purrs, clearly satisfied at hearing your plea. In reward, he plunges that finger suddenly into your entrance, all the way to the knuckle. You cry out, back bowing at the sudden intrusion. He’s thick and his finger curls expertly inside you, dragging along your inner walls in a way that lights up every nerve. You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle your moan.

He doesn’t chide you this time for quieting yourself – frankly, you couldn’t stop the moan from spilling through your fingers even if you tried. Instead, he inserts a second finger, stretching you. It’s a tight, hot pressure that borders on too much, but you’re so slick that he works them in easily. Soon he’s pumping them in and out, setting a relentless pace while his thumb resumes tormenting your clit. The combined sensations make you see stars.

“Shit—” you gasp against your palm, your free hand clinging to the edge of the sink as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core. He’s watching your face with rapt attention, as if cataloging each expression that crosses it. And he looks… hungry, like your pleasure is feeding something primal in him.

“You like that?” he hisses through his teeth. “Knew you’d feel good…” He scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you further, and you bite your lip hard to keep from screaming. It’s so much sensation, bordering the line of pain and pleasure in the most exquisite way. Every pump hits a spot deep inside that has you quivering. Your thighs begin to shake around his waist, and you realize with a shock that you’re already hurtling toward orgasm. It’s humiliating how fast he’s pushing you to the edge, but you can’t hold it back – he’s too skilled and you were too pent-up, too eager for this.

“Come on,” he growls, noticing the way your body tightens. He leans in, his breath hot on your ear as he works you ruthlessly. “Let go. Come for me, and maybe I’ll give you what you really want next.”

His raspy command is the final straw. With a muffled cry, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you in a blinding wave. Your inner walls spasm around his thrusting fingers, and you clutch at his shoulders for dear life as your climax ripples through you. He continues to pump you through it, drawing out every last second of ecstasy until you’re trembling and limp against the mirror.

As you sag, catching your breath, a warm flush of embarrassment and relief floods you. You’ve never come that hard with anyone – not that your experience is extensive – and certainly not so quickly. The stranger withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and you whimper softly at the sensitivity. Through hazy vision you see him hold up his hand, coated in your arousal, and without breaking eye contact, he brings those fingers to his own lips and licks them clean.

The lewdness of the act makes your cheeks burn. “Tastes sweet,” he murmurs, smirking when you look away, flustered. “Don’t go shy on me now.” With his other hand, he grips your chin and guides your gaze back to him. You’re still dazed, the aftershocks of orgasm tingling through you. He presses forward, and you feel the unmistakable hard ridge of his erection nudging against your still-throbbing core.

A spike of nervous anticipation cuts through your post-climax haze. He’s clearly not done – not by a long shot. Your eyes dart down between your bodies as he uses one hand to unzip his jeans and free himself. You suck in a breath at the sight. Even in the low light, what he’s packing is… intimidating. Fully hard, he juts out thick and long, the tip flushed deep red and already glistening with a drop of precum. For a moment, a sliver of doubt flickers in your mind – will that even fit?

He notices your eyes widening and lets out a dark chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he says smugly, positioning himself, the head of his cock rubbing slickly against your entrance. “I got you nice and ready.” He’s not wrong – you’re still dripping from both your own release and his ministrations – but you still tense up instinctively at the pressure.

“Relax,” he orders, softer this time, almost as if he’s coaxing you. One hand strokes down your thigh in a parody of soothing. “Not getting cold feet, are you?”

“N-no,” you stammer, and to prove it, you force yourself to unclench, will your muscles to loosen. You hook your legs around his hips, drawing him closer in encouragement. The movement causes his tip to breach you, just an inch, and both of you gasp in unison – you at the sudden stretch, him at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck… so tight,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. His control wavers; you see a flicker of strain in his jaw as he fights not to slam into you all at once. The idea that he’s holding back, even a little, for your sake in this moment is strangely… flattering. And reassuring. Maybe he’s not completely cruel.

You take a shuddering breath and nod. “Do it,” you whisper. I can handle it, you tell yourself, echoing your bold words from earlier. I want this.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a split second, something like respect glints there. Then his composure snaps. With a guttural groan, he thrusts forward, burying himself inside you to the hilt. The stretch is incredible – bordering on painful for a heartbeat – but the slide is eased by how wet you are, and the slight burn quickly melts into a shockwave of pleasure at how deep he is. You cry out, nails raking across his back under his jacket, clinging to him as he fills you completely. He’s big enough that you swear you can feel him in your stomach, stealing the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he growls against your shoulder, where he’s dropped his forehead as if to gather himself. His breathing is ragged, each exhale warm on your skin. You’re panting too, adjusting to the fullness. There’s a dull ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the raw sensation of him throbbing inside you. You hadn’t realized how empty you felt until now.

He doesn’t give much time for you to adjust. Lust and perhaps impatience drive him to move almost immediately. Pulling out an inch, he slams back in, jolting a gasp from you. Then again, faster – setting a pounding rhythm that quickly has the sink creaking beneath your bottom and the mirror at your back shuddering. He holds your hips in an iron grip, using it as leverage to fuck up into you hard and deep.

It’s feral and unrestrained; he takes you like he has a point to prove. Perhaps he wants to mark himself on you from the inside out, to ensure you never forget this night. Each stroke rubs against that sweet spot he found with his fingers earlier, and soon you’re keening with each thrust, any pain transforming wholly to pleasure. The filthy sounds of sex echo in the small bathroom – skin slapping on skin, your ragged breaths, his low grunts of effort, and the wet squelch each time he drives into your drenched heat.

Your head falls back, thumping lightly against the mirror. The coil in your belly, unbelievably, is tightening again so soon. He angles his hips and grinds against your clit on the next thrust, making you mewl and see stars. It’s overwhelming – he overwhelms you, consumes you. The room feels like it’s spinning, and you cling to his shoulders, lost in sensation.

He notices you tipping toward another climax and lets out a dark laugh, clearly proud of how quickly he’s wrecking you. “Gonna come again for me, huh?” he pants, punctuating his words with particularly sharp thrusts that make you cry out. “Such a greedy little thing… I bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, have they?”

You shake your head frantically, beyond shame, beyond words. It’s true – nothing in your sheltered life has ever felt like this. No boy you dated (under your parents’ watchful eye) ever came close to unraveling you so completely. You feel tears prick your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all.

He groans in satisfaction at your wordless admission. “That’s right,” he snarls, voice thick with possessive glee. One hand leaves your hip to grasp the back of your neck, pulling you forward off the mirror so he can latch his mouth onto yours in a bruising kiss as he fucks you. It’s all tongue and teeth, more claiming than affection, but it sends a thrill through you nonetheless. You can taste yourself faintly on his tongue, mixed with the copper of that cut on his lip that’s reopened from exertion.

“Mine tonight,” he growls against your lips, giving a particularly rough thrust that sends you both sliding a few inches along the counter. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

In the haze of pleasure, you don’t even question it. “I’m yours,” you gasp obediently, anything if he’ll just keep going, keep giving you this mind-numbing bliss. The words echo strangely in your head – you’ve never said such a thing to anyone. You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and wanton.

He rewards you with a hand slipping between your bodies, finding your overstimulated clit and rubbing it in tight, slick circles as he pounds you. The sudden extra stimulation rips a wail from your throat. Your nails dig into the back of his neck, surely scratching him, but he seems to only relish the slight pain, growling and thrusting even harder in response.

“That’s it… come for me again,” he grits out, sounding as unhinged with lust as you feel. “Come all over my cock, baby.” The crude command combined with the relentless attention on your most sensitive spot sends you careening over the edge for a second time. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You convulse around him, inner walls squeezing like a vice. He curses loudly as your climax milks his length.

With a few more erratic thrusts, he suddenly stills, buried as deep as possible. His grip on you is almost bruising as he groans into the crook of your neck, and you feel a burst of warmth flooding your core as he finds his own release. The sensation of him spilling inside you, the filthy reality of it, prolongs your pleasure in a sinful aftershock. He rides it out with a few shallow grinds, as if trying to push his seed even further.

For a long moment, the only sound is both of you gasping for air in the aftermath. Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears, you barely notice the muffled thump of the club music or the faint ringing silence that follows your screams. Your body feels boneless, thoroughly used in the best way, and for a fleeting moment you understand why people get addicted to this kind of reckless passion.

He finally draws back enough to look at you. His hair is disheveled, damp with sweat at the temples; his lips are swollen and red; his pupils blown wide. He looks thoroughly debauched and extremely pleased with himself. You flush and glance away, suddenly shy now that the haze of lust is lifting and reality starts to seep back in.

He isn’t having that. Gently – almost surprisingly gently – he turns your face back to him with a finger under your chin. “Don’t go all shy now,” he murmurs. For a moment, his thumb strokes your cheek and you catch a glimpse of something like softness in his expression, a crack in the cocky facade. “That was…” He trails off, searching for the word. Instead of finishing the sentence, he just smirks and lets out a satisfied exhale. “Damn.”

A shaky laugh bubbles from your lips, relief and agreement in one. “Yeah. Damn.” You can’t help smiling a little, and his grin widens in response. For a strange second, you feel a connection – like you shared something beyond the purely physical. But before you can name it, he pulls out of you and reality rushes back in.

You wince slightly at the emptiness and the trickle of combined fluids already leaking out of you. With a mix of embarrassment and practicality, you hop off the sink on unsteady legs and reach for some tissue from a dispenser on the wall, quickly cleaning yourself as best you can and dropping the soiled paper into the waste bin. He watches you, tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping up. There’s a predatory satisfaction in his gaze, like a wolf that’s just feasted.

Your dress is still bunched around your waist. You tug it back up over your breasts, realizing belatedly that your bra is hanging around your elbows, completely undone. You flush and turn slightly away, trying to fasten it. Your hands are shaking, making the simple task frustrating.

Wordlessly, he steps close again and bats your hands away. Before you protest, he fixes your bra for you with quick efficiency, then slides your dress straps back over your shoulders. It’s an oddly intimate gesture – helping you dress after ripping you apart – and it leaves you momentarily breathless in a whole different way.

“Th-thanks,” you stammer, not sure what else to say. Your mind is a jumble. What do you even say after doing something like this? There’s an awkwardness creeping in that you don’t know how to navigate. The initial thrill of rebellion is wearing off, and a faint whisper of guilt tickles the back of your mind, uninvited: What have I done?

He tilts his head, studying you. In the quiet, you notice a faint purple bruise forming on the side of his neck – your doing, likely, from your desperate kisses or bites. Your cheeks heat at the evidence of your own loss of control.

“You okay?” he asks unexpectedly. The question surprises you; you hadn’t pegged him as the type to care after getting what he wanted. His tone is gruff, though, like he’s a bit uncomfortable asking.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly – reflexively. It’s the good girl response, automatic, and it tastes bitter on your tongue given the circumstances. Were you fine? Physically, aside from the pleasant aches, yes. Emotionally… that’s harder to parse. You feel exhilarated, sated, and yet also strangely hollow now that it’s over. But you’re not about to divulge that to a stranger.

“Good.” He nods, seemingly satisfied. A beat passes where neither of you speak. The reality of your situation settles in heavily – you just had a raw, unprotected hookup with a violent stranger in a club bathroom. And now what? Does one exchange numbers after something like that? Part of you doesn’t even want to know his name; it’s easier to compartmentalize this as a one-time reckless fling if he remains a nameless fantasy.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He taps one out and sticks it between his lips. He doesn’t light it – likely because we’re indoors – just lets it dangle there as he watches you with an unreadable expression. The earlier softness is gone; he’s cloaked himself back in cool detachment.

“So,” he says casually, voice echoing slightly in the tiled bathroom. “That tick the fun box for you?” He’s back to that cocky, almost mocking tone, and it puts you oddly at ease. It’s easier to handle than any attempt at tenderness.

You manage a wry smile. “It was… definitely not boring,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant, though your pounding heart hasn’t quite settled.

His lips curl around the cigarette. “Glad to be of service.” There’s a beat, and then he adds, “You got a name, good girl?” The nickname drips with ironic emphasis.

For a second you hesitate. A part of you likes the anonymity. But it feels awkward not to introduce yourself, given he’s been inside you. “Y/N,” you answer quietly, using your first name only.

He repeats it, as if testing how it feels in his mouth. Something about the way he says your name sends a shiver through you – perhaps because in your mind it’s still shocking that this dangerous boy even knows your name now. This is real, you remind yourself. It happened.

“I’m Seong-je,” he offers after a moment, surprising you. You hadn’t expected him to volunteer anything personal. The name rings faintly in your mind – Korean, obviously, and unusual. You wonder if it’s a nickname or family name, but don’t pry.

“Seong-je,” you echo softly. He smirks at your pronunciation – maybe you said it a bit awkwardly – and for a brief instant, the corner of his eyes crinkle like he’s holding back a genuine laugh. The sight makes something flutter in your chest.

He steps back, running a hand through his mussed hair. Now that you’re not drowning in lust, you can’t help but take in more details about him. The smear of your lipstick is on the edge of his jaw. His shirt is rucked up a bit, revealing a slice of defined abs – and another bruise blooming near his ribs. Just what kind of life does he lead to be this banged up? The rational part of you whispers that this man is trouble, possibly more than just casual bar-brawl trouble.

As if sensing your thoughts, he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear – a gesture almost sweet if not for the cruel curve of his smile. “Don’t overthink it, Y/N,” he chides lightly. “We had a good time. End of story.”

End of story. Right. This was always meant to be a one-night thing, no strings, no messy complications. That’s what you told yourself coming here. You should be relieved he’s on the same page.

“Right,” you say, forcing a bright tone that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just… two people blowing off steam. I won’t read into it if you won’t.”

He nods once, seemingly satisfied. Then, without warning, he leans in and steals one last kiss – a swift, biting press of lips that leaves you breathless all over again. When he pulls back, he’s grinning. “For the road,” he says, winking.

And with that, he unlocks the bathroom door. Cool air from the hallway trickles in, and you suddenly realize how stifling the small room had become with heat and the scent of sex. Seong-je glances out, checking the coast. You’re keenly aware of the state you’re in: dress wrinkled, hair a mess, thoroughly fucked. If anyone sees you leaving together, it’ll be obvious what happened. A flush of embarrassment and strangely, pride, warms your cheeks.

He steps aside and gestures. “Ladies first.”

You slip past him, and he follows. The hallway is empty save for a drunk couple stumbling into the main restroom giggling. The club music is still pumping, oblivious to the small drama that unfolded in the back.

You and Seong-je stand there for a moment, facing each other under the harsh fluorescent light. There’s an odd look in his eyes – something like smugness, but also a flicker of… regret? No, probably just your imagination.

“So, uh… have a good night,” you offer lamely. You cringe internally at how stupid that sounds, but what else is there to say? Thanks for the mind-blowing illicit sex? You want to slap yourself.

Seong-je doesn’t seem to mind. He just exhales a stream of smoke from the cigarette now lit between his lips, even though he’s not supposed to smoke here. He flashes you one more of those insufferably attractive smirks. “Night, good girl.” The pet name lands differently now, making your heart give a confusing little twist.

With that, he turns and strolls away down the hall, as casual as if he’d just finished taking a piss rather than you. You watch his retreating back for a second – the confident saunter, the broad set of his shoulders – and then he’s gone, disappearing into the strobe-lit chaos of the club.

You press back against the wall of the hallway, legs still trembling, and exhale a shaky breath. What the hell did I just do? The gravity of it threatens to crush you now that you’re alone. But beneath the swirl of guilt and shock, an echo of pleasure thrums, and a tiny rebellious smile tugs at your lips. I did that. Me. The good girl broke bad for a night, and no one will ever know.

After gathering yourself, you slip out of the club and into the night, hailing a taxi home. As the city lights streak past the window, you replay the last hour in your mind on a loop. With every replay, you’re not sure if it feels more like an empowering victory or a dangerous mistake. Perhaps both. You tell yourself it’s over – a secret memory to treasure on lonely nights and nothing more. In a day or two, you’ll bury it and return to your regularly scheduled life of perfection.

As you quietly sneak into your house, still smelling of sweat and cigarette smoke, you have no idea that this night – far from staying a secret – is about to shadow your life in ways you can’t imagine.

⸻

Two weeks later, the memory of that reckless night still visits you in heated flashes. You’ll be in class or eating dinner, and suddenly your mind will drift – the music, the neon lights, his hands on your body, his voice growling in your ear. Every time, it makes your cheeks burn and your stomach flutter, equal parts shame and longing. You try to push it away. After all, what good is dwelling on it? You never even exchanged numbers. Seong-je was a stranger – a dark, thrilling stranger – and that’s all he was ever meant to be.

You haven’t told a soul about that night. Not your best friend, certainly not your sister or parents. It remains your illicit secret, something you hold close with a mix of pride and mortification. By day you throw yourself into your studies and chores with renewed vigor, as if being extra good now can erase how dirty you’d been that night. By night you lie in bed restless, sometimes waking in a sweat from dreams where rough hands and bruising kisses find you in the dark.

It doesn’t help that your sister has been chattering about some guy she met recently. Apparently she literally bumped into him at a café on her campus and spilled coffee on him, which led to exchanging apologies and phone numbers. The sheer rom-com sweetness of it made you smile politely while internally rolling your eyes. She’s been on a few dates with him, and from what she’s said, he’s ��sweet, a bit quiet but really charming when he opens up.” You’ve been happy for her, albeit a bit envious of how wholesome her budding romance sounds compared to your own recent debauchery.

When your mother announces over breakfast that your sister is bringing her new boyfriend to meet the family tonight, you hardly react beyond mild curiosity. Good for her, you think. It’s been a while since she dated anyone seriously enough to introduce him. You only vaguely wonder what he’s like – picturing some clean-cut college boy from a good family. Whoever he is, he’ll have to withstand the polite grilling your parents are sure to give.

All day you go about preparing for the evening. It’s a casual family dinner, but your mom insists on breaking out the nice dishes and even nags you to wear a “pretty dress, but nothing too revealing.” You oblige, choosing a demure knee-length skirt and a soft blue sweater that your mother approves with a smile. It’s almost amusing how starkly different you look from the girl who stumbled into a taxi two weeks ago in a rumpled club dress and no panties. Good girl, back in uniform, you think wryly at your reflection.

By the time the doorbell rings, the table is set, the house smells of your mom’s famous japchae, and your dad is finishing a lecture to you about proper behavior. “Be polite, ask him about his studies, no phone at the table, and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention anything embarrassing about your sister,” he rattles off. You nod along, only half-listening, your thoughts wandering to whether this boy will get the Dad Speech about treating her right. Probably.

“I’ll get the door!” you chirp, glad for an excuse to escape Dad’s fussing. Padding to the foyer, you pull the door open, prepared to greet some awkward but earnest college guy.

Instead, the world flips upside down.

There, standing on your front step next to your beaming sister, is him.

Your dangerous stranger from the club is on your doorstep, one hand casually slung in his pocket, the other arm wrapped around your sister’s waist. He’s out of the club gear and bandages tonight – wearing a crisp white dress shirt under a beige blazer, looking for all the world like a picture-perfect boyfriend. His wavy dark hair is neatly combed, and perched on his nose are a pair of familiar half-rim glasses that give him an air of studiousness. He looks clean-cut. Polite. Deceiving.

But nothing can disguise those eyes – sharp and piercing, the eyes that haunted your dreams. In the split second of seeing him, your heart plunges into your stomach. A rush of heat and then cold washes over you. This can’t be real. Perhaps you’ve finally lost it, guilt conjuring hallucinations. But no – he’s real, solid, standing right there.

He meets your gaze, and for an agonizing moment, his eyes widen almost imperceptibly in recognition. You see it – the spark of surprise that flares and is quickly controlled. Yet on the surface, he remains the picture of composure. His lips curve into a polite smile, the kind you’d give a stranger.

And that’s exactly what he does. With a slight bow of his head, he says in a warm, respectful tone, “Hello. You must be Y/N.” As if we’ve never met. As if he wasn’t buried inside you, coaxing screams from your throat.

You realize you’re staring, frozen, mouth slightly agape. Words. You need words. But your brain is short-circuiting, flashes of that night ping-ponging wildly – his face over yours in pleasure, the feel of his hands pinning you down, the way he snarled your name. It collides with the sheer absurdity of him standing here, looking like the ideal suitor.

“Y/N?” your sister’s voice breaks through, a note of concern. She’s looking at you quizzically, no doubt wondering why you’re gawking.

You snap out of it, plastering on a shaky smile. “S-sorry! I…” Think, think. You pretend to fumble with the door. “It caught on the rug,” you lie weakly, stepping back. “Come in.”

They step inside and you shut the door behind them, hand trembling on the knob. This isn’t happening. But the scene continues to unfold, whether you’re ready or not.

Your sister is nearly vibrating with excitement. “Everyone, this is Geum Seong-je,” she announces proudly as she leads him into the living room where your parents stand waiting. “Seong-je, these are my parents, and you already met Y/N at the door.”

He offers a respectful bow to your parents. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. L/N. Thank you for having me.” His voice is polite, deferential – a complete 180 from the husky, taunting tone you heard in that bathroom. It sends a chill through you how convincing he is.

Your parents, of course, are immediately charmed. Your mother clasps her hands, clearly pleased by his manners. Your father shakes his hand and asks what he studies.

“Ganghak High, sir. I’m in my final year,” Seong-je answers smoothly. “I plan to attend university next year. I’m considering business or economics.” The ease with which the lie rolls off his tongue is chilling; you know for a fact he’s no ordinary high schooler – he’s a gangster, a delinquent, something dangerous. But here he is selling himself as a model student. And why wouldn’t he? He looks the part right now, all tidy and earnest.

“Ah, same year as Y/S/N, good, good,” your father nods approvingly.

You linger near the periphery, hands clutched together tightly to stop their shaking. Your heart hasn’t slowed since opening that door. You feel like you’re in a dream – or a nightmare. How is he here, in your home, holding your sister’s hand and charming your parents? Does she have any clue who he truly is? Who he is to you? You swallow hard. Of course she doesn’t. No one knows. And for the sake of everything, they can’t know.

Your eyes flick to your sister. She looks radiant, happier than you’ve seen her in a while, as she gazes at Seong-je with obvious affection. Jealousy twists in your gut unexpectedly – not the romantic kind, but a bitter envy that she can look at him like that, all hopeful and smitten, blissfully unaware of the monster behind the mask. You, on the other hand, know exactly what lurks beneath that sweet boyfriend veneer. You’ve felt it, bruising your skin and setting you on fire.

Suddenly the room is too warm, the air too thick. You force yourself into motion to avoid suspicion. “I-I’ll go help Mom with dinner,” you mumble and scurry off towards the kitchen.

As you flee, you dare one quick glance back. You catch Seong-je watching you retreat, an indecipherable expression in his eyes. Something like amusement flickers across his face as he notices your obvious panic. He gives the slightest wink – so quick you’d miss it if you blinked. Your stomach drops. That single gesture says it all: He’s not going to pretend nothing happened between us. Not entirely. He’s enjoying this.

In the kitchen, you grip the counter and inhale deeply, trying to steady your racing pulse. Your mother is humming as she stirs a pot of soup, oblivious to your turmoil. You desperately wish you could confide in her, or anyone, but there’s no world in which that wouldn’t implode everything. What would you even say? Mom, that boy out there had me against a bathroom sink two weeks ago and— No. You’d rather die than let your parents know you were involved in something like that. Besides, it would break your sister’s heart and likely your family’s trust in you.

No, you have to handle this on your own. Somehow.

You plaster on a facade of normalcy through dinner. It’s one of the hardest things you’ve ever done, sitting across the table from Seong-je while your sister and parents engage him in pleasant conversation. You mostly push food around your plate and nod or give one-word answers if addressed. Hopefully they’ll chalk it up to you feeling shy or just letting your sister’s guest have the spotlight.

Meanwhile, he is infuriatingly perfect. He compliments Mom’s cooking, discusses a few books Dad brings up, and even laughs modestly when your sister teases him about how he tripped when they first met. A story which he recounts with self-deprecating charm, saying he was so distracted by her pretty face that his feet forgot how to work. Cue your mother’s cooing approval.

It’s sickening. It’s terrifying. You can hardly reconcile this respectful young man with the sadistic, impulsive delinquent you know him to be. But you catch glimpses – subtle things only you would notice – that hint at the truth. The way his smile sometimes doesn’t reach his eyes. The slight impatience that flickers on his face when Dad talks too long about some political issue. The way his hand occasionally tightens on the utensils with a white-knuckle grip, as if restraining irritation. He’s acting. All of this is an act. And everyone is buying it.

Except you.

You can’t even swallow a bite of food. Nausea roils in your gut every time his gaze ghosts over you. He doesn’t overtly stare – that would be too obvious – but there are moments you feel the weight of his attention. It’s like a silent game to him: make you squirm without anyone else noticing. Under the table, you clench your fists in your lap, nails biting into your palms to ground yourself.

At one point, your sister gushes, “Seong-je’s been so helpful with my volunteer project too. He jumped right in to help organize the school supplies drive for underprivileged kids. Isn’t he just the best?” She leans her head on his shoulder, and he flashes a humble smile.

Your father nods approvingly. “Very commendable. Good to see young men caring about community service these days.”

You nearly choke on your water. Community service? Underprivileged kids? The cognitive dissonance is astounding. This is a man who in reality likely spends his free time beating people to a pulp for kicks, now cast in the role of altruistic boyfriend.

In that moment, bitterness momentarily outweighs fear. You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “That’s surprising,” you say, trying to keep your tone light, as if genuinely curious. “Someone your age juggling school and still finds time for volunteer work? You must have a lot of energy.”

It’s not much, but you hope he catches the barbed undercurrent: I know what you really do with your time. It’s petty, maybe even reckless, but a part of you wants to see a crack in his façade.

A brief silence falls. Your parents glance at you, slightly perplexed by your sudden interjection. Seong-je’s eyes meet yours. For a split second, something dangerous flares in them – a warning. Did the others catch it? Likely not; it was gone in an instant, replaced by a genial chuckle.

“What can I say, I like to keep busy,” he responds smoothly, lifting his glass of iced tea in a casual gesture. “Idle hands, devil’s playthings and all that.” His lips curve into a smile that to anyone else seems playful, but you feel the needle of that phrase aimed at you. Yes, he certainly had firsthand knowledge of devil’s playthings – your hands hadn’t been idle that night, nor had his.

You swallow, looking down quickly. Point to him. All you managed to do was earn yourself a subtle rebuke. Your cheeks burn and you resolve not to poke him again.

After dinner, everyone moves to the living room for dessert and continued conversation. You linger in the kitchen under the guise of clearing dishes, needing a moment alone to steady yourself. You grip the edge of the sink, staring at the running water as you rinse plates, mind racing. How are you going to survive this evening without slipping up? You thank your lucky stars that he’s pretending not to know you – it’s the only thing keeping you sane. But it unnerves you that you have no idea what he’s thinking or planning.

He must be loving this – fate practically handing him a loaded gun to mess with you. The knowledge that he could destroy you with one word, reveal to your entire family what you did… it hangs over you like a guillotine. You have to ensure he has no reason to actually drop that blade. As much as you loathe it, cooperating with his charade is your only option. For your sister’s sake, for your own, you have to play along and pray he eventually loses interest and goes away.

“Y/N, bring out the tea, please!” your mother calls from the other room.

You take a deep breath and carry the tray of tea and sliced fruit into the living room, your face composed in a mask of pleasant neutrality. You will not break. You’ve survived endless high-pressure exams and family expectations – you can survive one evening of this.

But the universe isn’t done testing you. As you set the tray down on the coffee table, your sister suddenly exclaims, “Oh! I almost forgot, I have something to show you.”

Your sister jumps up. “It’s in my car, I’ll be right back!” She pecks Seong-je’s cheek quickly making your stomach clench and dashes out the front door to retrieve whatever this thing is.

Your parents chuckle, engrossed in their own banter about something, and your mom heads to the kitchen to fetch some more honey for the tea, leaving you, your father, and him briefly in the living room. Your father stands by the window, preoccupied with adjusting the blinds. And then, just like that, you find yourself momentarily alone on the couch with Geum Seong-je.

Every muscle in your body tenses. You place a tea cup in front of him on the table with what you hope is a steady hand. He takes it, and for a moment, his fingers purposely brush yours. It’s subtle, to anyone else an innocent contact. But the touch is electric, and you snatch your hand back as if burned. Your father’s back is turned; he notices nothing.

Seong-je leans back casually, crossing one ankle over a knee. The posture of a young man relaxed and at ease – yet when he speaks under his breath, barely above a whisper, his words are a knife’s edge. “Careful, little lamb. Your family might think you’re afraid of me.” He sips the tea, hiding the smirk that tugs at his lips.

Little lamb. The phrase isn’t particularly special, yet hearing it from him sends a jolt of recognition and dread through you. It’s the tone – low, taunting – the very same he used in that bathroom when he teased and degraded you. And afraid? Damn right you are. But you can’t let it show.

You force yourself to sit down at the opposite end of the couch, smoothing your skirt. Taking a deep breath, you murmur back, voice tense, “What do you want?” It comes out more pleading than firm. You hate that – but you’re desperate for some hint of his intentions.

He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he swirls his tea lazily, feigning interest in the delicate cup. “What do I want…” he echoes, as if pondering a simple philosophical question. “That’s a long list. But at this very moment?” He turns his head slightly toward you. Behind the sheen of civility in his eyes, you see the spark of cruel amusement dancing. “I want to enjoy a nice evening with my girlfriend’s lovely family. That’s all.”

You grit your teeth. Girlfriend. Your stomach churns. He’s loving this power play, knowing you can’t call him out. “Why her?” you whisper, barely audible over the clink of plates as your mom returns from the kitchen. “Why my sister, of all people?” It slips out, the real question burning inside you. Is this some sick joke of fate or did he plan this?

His smile is slow and predatory as he regards you. He sets the teacup down with a soft clink. “Why not her?” he murmurs back. “She’s pretty, sweet, comes from a respectable family.” The emphasis isn’t lost on you. “And she practically threw herself at me that day in the café. Who was I to refuse such a polite invitation?”

Anger flares within you. His casual cruelty toward your sister – reducing her to some convenient naïve girl – ignites a protective spark that momentarily douses your fear. “She’s a good person,” you snap under your breath, eyes flashing. “She doesn’t deserve to get tangled up in… whatever you are.” You stop short of saying “monster” or “psycho,” but your tone says it for you.

He chuckles, a dark quiet sound. “Relax,” he says softly, danger lacing each syllable. “I’m not here to hurt her. I quite like her, actually.” He glances toward the doorway where your mom is chatting with your dad now. No one is paying you two any mind. Emboldened, Seong-je shifts closer by just an inch, his knee nearly touching yours. “In fact,” he continues, voice like velvet menace, “I think I might keep her around for a while.”

The implication makes your blood run cold. Keep her around. As if she’s a plaything. Does he genuinely like her? Or is she just a pawn in whatever twisted game he’s set his sights on now – a game that now clearly involves you.

You open your mouth to whisper a retort, but at that moment your sister bustles back in, a scrapbook and some papers in hand, Mom trailing behind her. You snap your mouth shut and spring up. The sudden movement draws your father’s curious glance. “Everything alright, honey?” he asks.

“Fine!” you answer, voice a bit too high. “Just thought I left the stove on, but I didn’t.” Another stupid lie, but no one questions it.

As everyone gathers to see what your sister is showing (some certificates and photos from her volunteer project, which she wants to share), you find yourself drifting to the corner of the room, letting the others cluster around the coffee table. You cannot stand to be near him right now – not with the way your insides are roiling with fear and helpless rage.

From your corner, you watch the scene: your sister excitedly talking about her project, your parents listening proudly, and Seong-je – Wolf in sheep’s clothing that he is – with one arm comfortably around your sister’s shoulders as he listens attentively. He occasionally chimes in with a supportive comment or a gentle squeeze of her arm that makes her beam at him.

It’s nauseating how convincing he is. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was genuinely the caring boyfriend he appears. You wonder if, in some twisted way, he does like aspects of this normal life. Or is every smile, every touch, purely calculated for your torment?

At one point, your sister pulls out her phone to show a short video. Everyone’s heads lean in, including his. He glances up briefly, and his eyes snag on you, hovering apart from the group. A subtle frown creases his brow, as if he doesn’t approve of you distancing yourself. You realize your aloofness might be noticeable. Blend in, you remind yourself sternly. Act normal.

So you step closer and feign interest in the video, peering at the phone from over Mom’s shoulder. It’s a harmless clip of school kids thanking donors. But you hardly see it, hyper-aware that now you’re standing only a foot from Seong-je. You swear you can feel the heat radiating off his body, and it makes your skin crawl and tingle all at once.

Suddenly, you feel a light touch at the small of your back – feather-light, quick. You jolt, startled. It was his hand, you know it. The others remain oblivious, eyes on the phone. You don’t dare react overtly, but you shuffle a half-step forward out of his reach. The nerve of him, touching you right behind your unsuspecting family.

Your heart is thudding again. Thankfully, the evening begins winding down soon after. Your parents, clearly satisfied with this meeting, exchange approving smiles. It appears Seong-je has successfully won them over. Your mother even sends you a pointed look as if to say why can’t you date a nice boy like that? You swallow back a hysterical laugh at the irony.

As your sister and Seong-je prepare to leave, you stand stiffly by the door. Your mind races for a way to handle future encounters. Surely this won’t be the last time – if he’s her boyfriend now, he’ll be around. The thought makes you dizzy with dread.

Your family bids their warm goodnights and “come again soon”s. Your sister hugs you and you hug her back tightly, whispers of “Congrats, he’s great” somehow leaving your lips because that’s what a supportive sister would say. You hate yourself for lying, but the alternative is impossible.

Then it’s your turn to face him. He extends his hand to you, the perfect polite gesture. Your parents watch expectantly, so you have no choice but to take it. As you shake, his grip firms just a hint more than necessary – a silent assertion of dominance. His eyes lock on yours, dark and knowing behind those glasses.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N,” he says, voice smooth and cordial. Only you notice the faint trace of mockery hidden in the word “pleasure.” Your cheeks flame, recalling just what that word entailed between you two.

“Likewise,” you somehow manage to reply without your voice cracking. You retrieve your hand from his as quickly as possible, palms clammy.

He smiles – that lovely deceptive smile – and then he’s out the door with your sister, waving goodbye as they walk to his car.

The moment the door closes, you feel your knees wobble. Excusing yourself hastily, you retreat to your room and collapse onto your bed, heart pounding. You bury your face in your pillow and let out a silent scream of frustration and fear.

What am I going to do?

⸻

You spend the weekend in a state of high-strung anxiety. Every time your phone buzzes, you jump, half-expecting an unknown number to be him. But no text comes. No calls, no messages passed through your sister. It’s eerie, this silence. It gives you too much time to think of worst-case scenarios.

By Monday, you’re a nervous wreck but try to soldier on at school. At least there you can distract yourself with exams and friends’ gossip. But right after your last class, as you approach the school gates to head home, you freeze.

Leaned against the wall by the gate is Seong-je.

He looks out of place on your campus, not wearing the standard uniform that the other senior boys are in. Instead, he’s in that Ganghak High red blazer you’ve heard rumors about – a symbol of fear, some say, for other schools. And indeed, a few students hanging around whisper as they notice him, giving him a wide berth.

Your heart thuds painfully. How long has he been there? Did he come for you? How does he even know what school you go to? Perhaps from your sister or from some stalking.

Before you can retreat, his head turns and those wolfish eyes lock onto you. Caught. He smirks and pushes off the wall, strolling toward you with lazy confidence.

You glance around; some of your schoolmates are watching curiously, including a couple of your friends. Crap. The last thing you need is rumors flying that you’re talking to some notorious Ganghak guy. Taking a steadying breath, you force your feet to move and meet him halfway, hoping to get him away from prying eyes quickly.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss under your breath when he’s close enough, trying to appear like you’re just casually chatting.

He looks you up and down, making your skin prickle. “Is that how you greet your dear friend?” he chides with a soft laugh. Deliberately, he raises his voice a notch, loud enough for others to catch. “It’s been a while! I was just in the neighborhood and figured I’d surprise you after school, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Friend? Surprise you? He’s giving anyone eavesdropping a false narrative. Why? To cover his tracks or to trap you further? You have no idea, but you play along, weakly replying, “Uh, yeah, long time no see.”

He grins as if pleased. “Walk with me a bit?” Without waiting, he throws an arm over your shoulders in a chummy way and steers you out the gate. The gesture looks friendly to an outsider, but to you it feels possessive, oppressive – his fingers dig just a touch into your shoulder in warning.

Once you’re a block from school, away from the curious eyes, you shrug off his arm and step out of his reach. “Seriously, what do you want?” you ask, keeping your tone low and urgent.

He tilts his head, feigning hurt. “Can’t I just want to see you?” He steps closer and you back up instinctively until you’re pressed against the brick wall of a closed bookstore. The afternoon rush hour masks your little confrontation; people pass by on the street without giving you two a second glance.

“I’ve been dying to talk to you,” he continues, voice dropping to a silken threat. With one hand, he braces against the wall next to your head, leaning in. The proximity floods you with a cocktail of feelings: fear, anger, and disturbingly, that unwanted spark of excitement your body still remembers around him. You curse yourself for it.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you whisper, chin lifting in defiance that you don’t quite feel. “I’ll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine. Just… leave me and my family alone, okay? You made your point.”

He chuckles, clearly amused by your attempt at bravado. “What point do you think I made, hm?” He brings his face dangerously close, and you shrink back against the wall. “I haven’t even started making points.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Please,” you try, softening your tone to a plea. “Don’t hurt them. They haven’t done anything.”

He blinks, then laughs outright. “Hurt them? Why would I hurt them? They’re lovely.” His hand moves from the wall to brush a stray strand of hair off your cheek in a mockery of tenderness. You flinch. “It’s you, little lamb, who I think could use a reminder to behave.”

You swallow hard, eyes stinging with frustrated tears you refuse to shed. “I haven’t done anything to you,” you manage, voice trembling despite your effort. “Why are you doing this?”

His expression hardens slightly. “Not yet. You haven’t done anything yet. But see, I know your type. Act all quiet now, but guilt can be a powerful thing. One day you might just crack and feel the need to spill your guts to sis or mommy or daddy about your naughty escapade. Maybe out of some misguided attempt to save your sister from the big bad wolf.” He sneers the nickname. “And we can’t have that, can we?”

Your blood runs cold. He’s essentially admitting he’s keeping you in line to secure his secret relationship with your sister. And likely for the sick thrill of having you at his mercy, toying with you.

“I wouldn’t… I would never tell them,” you insist urgently, grabbing his jacket lapel in desperation. “I swear. I know it would only hurt them. I won’t ever say a word.”

His eyes flick to your hands fisted in his blazer. One brow lifts. You realize you’ve touched him of your own accord – a bold move. You release him quickly, but the ghost of a grin on his face tells you he found that interesting.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replies coolly. “But I’m not just going to take your word for it.” He leans in, his nose almost brushing yours. From afar it might look like an intimate moment between friends or lovers, but his words are pure threat: “You’re going to prove to me that you can keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“H-how?” you stammer, heart pounding.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. To your confusion, he hands it to you. The screen is open to the new contact screen.

“Put in your number,” he says simply.

Your fingers tremble as you take the phone. You hesitate – but it’s not like you can refuse. With a few taps, you enter your cell number and name. He takes the phone back and presses dial. A second later, your own phone buzzes in your bag. Now he has your number, and you have his, presumably.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, that moniker making you cringe now. He pockets his phone. “Now, you and I are going to keep in touch. See, I want to make sure everything stays nice and quiet. And you’re going to help me do that by being very cooperative.”

You lick your dry lips. “What does that mean?”

He smiles slowly, and there’s genuine delight in his eyes – the kind a predator has when the prey is cornered. “It means, Y/N, that from now on, you and I have a little secret of our own. And you’re going to do whatever I ask, whenever I ask, to keep it.” His hand slides down the wall, and a knuckle deliberately grazes your thigh just below the hem of your skirt. The touch is barely there, but it jolts you. “In private, of course,” he adds, voice dropping. “We wouldn’t want to upset dear sister.”

Your breath shudders out. So this is it – his endgame. He wants to use you, the sister of his girlfriend, for his own twisted pleasure, right under her nose. It’s so perverse, you feel like you might be sick.

The sensible part of you screams to refuse, to run, even if it means telling someone the truth. But then images of your sister’s devastated face, your parents’ disappointment, and the havoc that could ensue – not to mention what he himself might do – flash through your mind. He could destroy your family as easily as snapping a twig, whether through violence or simply revealing your indiscretion and making it look like you seduced him. Who would your parents side with? Their dutiful elder daughter and her “nice” boyfriend, or you – the younger daughter caught lying about sneaking to clubs and sleeping around? The thought is sobering. Your credibility would be in shreds.

He reads the turmoil on your face and his smile widens. “Shh,” he coos mockingly, “no need to panic. If you’re a very good girl, this can even be… fun.” His finger trails up your arm lightly, as if in a caress, but it only makes your skin crawl (and, traitorously, tingle). “I won’t do anything you don’t secretly want, hmm?”

You glare at him, bristling. How dare he insinuate— But the words die in your throat, because some treacherous part of you had wanted him, that night. And the confusing part is, despite everything, your body still reacts to him; you can’t deny that your pulse quickened under his touch just now in more than fear. It’s disgusting and shameful, but he’s keenly aware of it. He’s weaponizing your own desire against you.

Seeing you speechless, he chuckles and steps back, giving you space. “Go home now, Y/N,” he says lightly, as if this were a normal goodbye. “I’ll be in touch very soon. Don’t ignore me.” The pleasant tone doesn’t mask the threat beneath.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “And if I… if I don’t show up when you…?” you ask haltingly.

His eyes harden to steel. “That would be unwise. I wouldn’t want to have to explain to your sister how I recognized her adorable younger sibling from a certain club bathroom video.” He pauses to let the horror sink in. “Yes, I know the club has cameras in the hallway. It’d be a shame if some footage fell into the wrong hands.”

You blanch. Did he actually get footage? He might be bluffing, but can you risk it? The mere idea that a video could exist of you in that state – or even just entering that bathroom with him – could ruin you if he shared it around.

“I understand,” you whisper, defeated.

“Good. Now run along.” He adjusts his blazer, then leans down, shocking you by planting a chaste peck on your forehead. To an onlooker it’d appear affectionate, but you feel the mockery in it. You flinch but stay still, heart hammering.

He walks away then, hands in pockets, whistling a tune. After a few steps, he calls back casually without turning, “Oh, and one more thing: don’t even think about trying to get a new number or block me. I have… other means to reach you and I’d be very unhappy. You wouldn’t like me unhappy.” He tosses a two-fingered wave and merges into the crowd, leaving you trembling against the wall.

You press a hand to your mouth, stifling a sob. The gravity of your situation settles in fully now. You’re trapped in a nightmare of your own making, blackmailed by a sadistic wolf wearing a prince’s clothing.

After composing yourself as best you can, you make your way home. You feel like a ghost moving through your own life. That evening, you can barely meet your sister’s eyes at dinner. She chatters on about how Seong-je surprised her at her campus today with lunch and how sweet he is. Each word is like a knife twisting deeper into your gut.

You force smiles and nods, throat tight. Inside, you’re screaming.

⸻

True to his word, Seong-je doesn’t wait long to make use of his new leverage. The following Friday evening, you get the text you’ve been dreading:

From Seong-je: Miss me? 😉 – Meet me tonight. 10pm. I’ll pick you up at the corner of your street. Don’t keep me waiting, lamb.

Your stomach plunges reading it. It’s 8pm when that arrives. You’re in your room supposedly studying, but in reality you’ve been on edge all day knowing he’d call on you soon.

Hands shaking, you respond simply: Ok. You consider begging him off, claiming you can’t sneak out, but you suspect he’d see right through excuses. And after four days of mounting threats – subtle touches or glances at school, another dinner at your house where he brushed his foot up your calf under the table – you know he’s done being patient.

Making an excuse to your parents that you feel restless and might go for a walk (which earns a puzzled look but no argument), you slip out at 9:50, heart in your throat. It’s drizzling lightly, the pavement shiny with rain under the street lamps. You wait under an awning, pulling your light jacket tighter.

Right on time, a black car turns the corner and rolls up beside you. The passenger window slides down, and there he is behind the wheel, looking effortlessly devilish in a leather jacket, his glasses notably absent – which sends a spike of nervous adrenaline through you. He only takes them off when he expects a “fight,” or some physical action. The significance is not lost on you.

“Get in,” he says mildly. You hesitate only a moment before obeying. The seat is cool against your thighs, which are bare beneath your skirt. At his earlier command, you’re wearing the outfit he told you he liked on you at the club: a short skirt and low-cut top, effectively your rebellion attire that he now uses as your humiliation attire.

As soon as you buckle in, he reaches over and, to your surprise, gently brushes a damp strand of hair off your face. The gesture is almost tender, but you know better now. “Glad you made it, baby,” he purrs, and his free hand gives your thigh a squeeze. You jump, biting your lip.

He chuckles and pulls the car away from the curb. “Relax,” he says, as if that’s remotely possible. “We’re just going for a little ride.”

“Where…where are we going?” you ask, voice unsteady, watching the neighborhood streets give way to a more industrial area.

He hums thoughtfully. “Somewhere private. I wouldn’t want any interruptions while we… chat.” The way he says “chat” sends chills down your spine.

Within minutes, he’s pulled into a deserted parking lot behind what looks like an old closed workshop. The area is dark and shielded from the main road. He cuts the engine. When he turns to you, the playful mask drops from his face, leaving something hungry and unhinged in his eyes.

Instinctively you shrink back against the car door. Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and then yours, the metallic click loud in the silence. “Come here,” he says softly.

You hesitate a second too long. In a flash, he grabs your wrist and pulls. With surprising ease, he manhandles you from the passenger seat over the center console onto his lap. You gasp as your legs straddle him automatically to keep balance, your skirt riding up to your hips in the process. Suddenly you’re face to face, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, noses nearly touching.

He smirks up at you, hands settling on your waist firmly. “That’s better,” he murmurs.

Your breath comes in shaky pants. This position – it’s too familiar, too reminiscent of that night except now you’re painfully aware of the depravity of doing this while he’s dating your sister. “Seong-je, we shouldn’t—”

He tuts, silencing you. “We’re not in the mood to argue, are we?” His grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging in warningly. “You’re here to do whatever I want, remember that.”

You nod quickly, fear spiking. “I-I remember.”

“Good.” He drags one hand slowly up your body, from your waist to your ribcage, then higher to cup your breast through your flimsy top. You suck in a breath. His thumb rolls over your nipple, and despite yourself, it responds, hardening. He feels it and grins. “No bra? You actually listened. Good girl.”

Humiliation burns through you. Wearing no bra (and even no panties) were part of the instructions he texted earlier. You’d complied, cheeks flaming as you dressed. The proof of that compliance is now evident as his thumb circles lazily over the taut peak.

You bite your lip, stifling a whimper. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing your body still reacts, but it betrays you eagerly.

He watches your face avidly. “You’re blushing,” he teases, pinching your nipple suddenly. You yelp, reflexively grinding down into his lap at the shock of pleasure-pain. The friction rubs right against your bare slit on the crotch of his jeans, sending a jolt through you. He inhales sharply, feeling it. “Fuck, you really came out here with no panties. How obscene,” he growls appreciatively.

You squirm, trying to lift off the bulge that’s growing beneath you, but he clamps an arm around your lower back, forcing you down onto it again. Both of you moan softly at the contact.

“Please…” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for – mercy, or more.

He tilts his head. “Please what? Use your words.” His other hand comes up to grab your chin, thumb pulling your bottom lip down. “Be honest with yourself.”

Tears of frustration gather in your eyes. “I… I don’t—”

A sudden CRACK! jolts you as his palm smacks down on your rear, hard, beneath your skirt. You cry out in shock more than pain, the sound echoing in the car. The sting spreads over your buttock, and you realize with horror and unwanted excitement that he just spanked you.

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, eyes flashing. “You came here dripping for it. You knew exactly what would happen.” He shifts his hips up, grinding his erection against your exposed folds. The thick ridge parts your slick lips, nudging your clit, and you can’t help the moan that spills out.

He smirks. “See? Your body doesn’t lie.” His hand that smacked you now soothingly rubs the sore spot, then sneaks lower, under your skirt and between your legs from behind, one finger sliding into your wetness with ease from that angle. You jolt, nails digging into his jacket.

“Already soaked… You act so terrified, but you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you little slut,” he breathes against your ear, slowly pumping that finger in and out, each movement pressing you down more firmly on his cock from the front and invading you from behind at once. It’s overwhelming and filthy, being taken from both angles even in this small way.

“N-no, I—” you protest weakly, but even as you say it, your hips have begun to rock, chasing the sensation. The dual stimulation sends sparks through you.

He clicks his tongue and withdraws his finger abruptly, making you whine involuntarily at the loss. He brings the finger around between your bodies and holds it up – coated in your arousal, strands of it glistening in the dim light. “Liar,” he whispers, before pushing that same finger past your lips.

Your eyes widen as you taste yourself on his skin. Instinct says pull away, but his arm on your back holds you firm. “Suck,” he orders quietly. Trembling, you obey, tongue swirling around his digit, because what else can you do? He watches, pupils blown, undoubtedly recalling your mouth on a different part of him that night.

“Better,” he groans, sliding his finger out with a wet pop. You’re panting now, humiliation and desire in equal measure flooding you.

Seong-je then moves fast. He yanks your top down, stretching the neckline until your breasts spill free. The sudden exposure to the cool air makes your nipples pebble up painfully. You flush and instinctively try to cover yourself, but he grabs your wrists and pins them behind your back. The action arches your chest forward, presenting your breasts to him.

He licks his lips, gaze raking over you. “God, you’re perfect,” he mutters and lunges. His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard, while his free hand mauls the other, squeezing and rolling. You cry out, back arching more as a wave of pleasure crashes into you. The position has you grinding directly on his length; you can feel every inch of him through his jeans rubbing against your slick folds.

It’s all happening so fast. The car windows fog with your combined heat. The smell of rain and sex permeates the enclosed space. You’re losing yourself – it’s as if your body is remembering the ecstasy he gave it and is powerless to resist sliding right back into that state.

He alternates his mouth between your breasts hungrily, nipping one while pinching the other, then soothing with his tongue. You squirm and mewl, the pain and pleasure mixing intoxicatingly. It dawns on you dimly that he’s not even asking you to do anything; he’s simply taking what he wants, using you like a toy for his pleasure. And worse… you’re letting him, body yielding traitorously because it feels so damned good.

He releases your wrists, only to grab your hips. “Enough,” he grits out, voice rough. He’s reached the end of his patience. “I need to fuck you. Now.”

Your heart stutters. Despite everything, the word fuck said so rawly sends another pulse of heat through you, but also fear. Here, now? In his car? While he’s technically your sister’s boyfriend? Your conscience screams that this is so very wrong.

Sensing your hesitation, he narrows his eyes. “Don’t even think of denying me now,” he growls. One hand tangles in your hair at the back of your head and tugs, forcing you to look up at him. “You owe me this, and you know it.”

Tears spill over your cheeks, both from the pain of your scalp and the emotional agony. “I… I know,” you choke out. “Just… please, be quick.”

He regards you for a moment, then wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Surprisingly, he chuckles, a dark, almost sad sound. “So eager to get it over with? We’ll see.”

Then he’s maneuvering you off his lap. Confused, you start to move back to the passenger seat, but he grabs your thighs and turns you around so that you’re facing the windshield, your back to him, still straddling his legs. Before you can process, he pushes your upper body forward. “Hands on the dashboard,” he commands.

You obey shakily, pressing your palms to the cool dash and leaning over it. This angle presents your ass perfectly to him, and you hear him groan appreciatively behind you. The remaining scraps of your skirt are hiked up over your hips, leaving your butt and dripping sex completely exposed. You feel utterly debased… and frighteningly, that only heightens the illicit excitement coiling in your belly.

There’s the sound of his zipper unfastening, the rustle of clothing, a condom packet tearing – thank god he at least thought of that, or maybe he always carries them. Then his warm hands grip your hips, and you feel the thick head of his cock glide through your folds from behind, coating himself in your arousal.

You tense up, anticipating the thrust. He slides back and forth a few times, not entering, just teasing both of you. It has you quivering, a strangled whine escaping your lips as the fat tip nudges your clit on each pass.

“Do you want it?” he asks, voice strained – he’s clearly holding himself on a taut leash right now.

You screw your eyes shut, pride warring with need. He slows the movement deliberately, almost pulling away entirely, leaving you frustratingly empty. Your body betrays you as your hips subtly push back, seeking him. “Y-yes,” you whisper, barely audible.

He yanks your hair. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Yes,” you say louder, voice cracking. “I want it… please.”

The satisfaction in his grunt is the only warning you get. In one powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You both cry out – you at the sudden fullness stretching you, him at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck,” he curses, stilling for a moment as your body adjusts, fluttering around his intrusion. He’s every bit as thick and long as you remember, maybe even more so in this position that lets him hit deeper.

There’s a brief flare of pain from the abrupt entry, but it quickly gives way to an incredible pressure that has you clenching around him. A guttural groan rumbles from his chest. “So tight… You missed my cock, didn’t you?” he pants, pulling out halfway and slamming back in, drawing a yelp from you.

He sets a bruising pace at once, clearly too far gone for gentleness. The car rocks with the force of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard – you know they’ll leave marks tomorrow – using them as leverage to pound you from behind.

Your moans mix with the lewd slap of skin on skin. It’s raw and animalistic, nothing like any romantic coupling. It’s use. He’s using you like a personal fucktoy, and the most shameful part is how your body responds eagerly. Each drive forward rubs that devastating spot inside you that makes you see stars. The angle, bent over the dash, allows him to hit even deeper than at the club. Sparks of ecstasy light up your nerves despite the sting of his roughness.

“You feel that?” he growls, one hand leaving your hip to snake around and press down on your lower belly while he impales you. The added pressure internally is intense. “Feel me splitting you open? Hnh, say who’s fucking you.”

“You… you are,” you gasp out, tears of pleasure at the corners of your eyes.

He lands another sharp smack to your ass. “Name.”

“Se-Seong-je…!”

Another smack, harder. The sound echoes. “Not what I meant.”

It clicks. He wants the perverse title. The humiliation of it sends a shameful thrill through you. “Wolf,” you sob, skin burning with embarrassment and arousal. “Wolf is fucking me!”

He growls in approval and as a twisted reward, his hand between your legs shifts, two fingers strumming over your swollen clit in rhythm with his thrusts. You keen, the added stimulation hurtling you toward the edge with frightening speed.

Your legs shake, and you scrabble for purchase on the smooth dash as your mind goes blank with rising ecstasy. Sensing your impending climax, he pistons into you faster, chasing his own end now too. “That’s it, come for me,” he bites out, breathing ragged. “Come on my cock like the needy little slut you are.”

The degradation pushes you over the precipice. With a wail, you shatter around him, inner walls clamping down hard in pulsating waves. Your vision whites out; you’d collapse entirely if he wasn’t holding you up by a firm arm across your waist now.

“F-fuck!” he chokes as your orgasm milks him. With a final deep thrust grinding as far as he can go, he stills and you feel his cock twitching, releasing into the condom, his own rough cry filling the car. He clutches you tightly to him as he spends himself, teeth scraping your shoulder in the throes of it.

For a few moments, the only sound is both of you gulping in air, hearts pounding in tandem. Your body continues to spasm weakly around him, drawing out every drop. You’re distantly aware of how utterly sinful this is – in a car, behind your sister’s back, with a man who’s effectively your blackmailer. Yet in this haze of climax, none of that matters; all that exists is the afterglow and the man throbbing inside you.

Eventually, as clarity slowly returns, so does the crushing guilt. You stiffen, a sob catching in your throat. What have I done?

Seong-je, still draped over your back, must sense the shift. He gently – almost tenderly – kisses the nape of your neck, an unexpected gesture that makes your heart lurch in confusion. Carefully, he withdraws from your sensitive body. You wince at the loss and collapse onto the dash, boneless.

He ties off the condom and tosses it aside, then pulls your skirt back down to cover you, and your top up over your breasts. You feel strangely numb as he helps you back into the passenger seat. Neither of you speak immediately. The silence is heavy with things unsaid.

You keep your gaze fixed on your trembling hands in your lap. You flinch when you feel his hand brush your cheek, turning your face towards him. His expression is unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes roam over your features, lingering on your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen lips, the fresh marks blooming on your neck and shoulders from his mouth.

For a moment, you think he might apologize – there’s a flicker of something like confliction in his gaze. But then it’s gone. He smirks lightly, thumb grazing your lower lip. “You look thoroughly fucked,” he says, almost in admiration. “Wear those marks with pride, baby. Only you and I know what they mean.”

Shame floods your face, and you turn away, hugging yourself. It’s too much – the way he shifts back to callousness so easily.

He starts the car, and you’re surprised when he drives you not back to the corner where he picked you up (which might arouse suspicion if someone saw you returning from nowhere) but around the block, pulling up discreetly by your house’s side gate. He knows the layout from previous visits.

“How—”

“I pay attention,” he answers your unfinished question, shutting off the engine. “Now, before you go…” He grabs your chin again, but gently this time. “Remember our arrangement. You answer when I call. You do what I say. And in exchange, I keep our dirty little secret safe and maybe treat your sister like the princess she believes she is. Understood?”

Your throat tightens. You nod faintly, drained.

He leans in and kisses you – not rough, but slowly, deeply, leaving you breathless all over again. When he pulls back, he murmurs against your lips, “You were perfect tonight. Don’t disappoint me, and maybe I’ll even let you enjoy it again.” The arrogance in that statement would normally earn an eye-roll, but horrifyingly, you did enjoy it in some twisted way, despite the anguish of what it means.

Tears prick your eyes anew. He pulls back, his thumb wiping one away. “Shh. Now go, before you’re missed.”

On shaky legs, you exit the car. He watches as you slip through your side gate and creep into your house. Thankfully, your parents are asleep. You collapse into your bed, the scent of him all over you.

In the silent darkness, hot tears finally overflow freely. How did it come to this? You’ve betrayed your sister, your own morals, everything. And worst is, you’re not even sure you can fully blame him – because your own body and some secret part of your soul responded to the thrill. That knowledge shackles you in guilt.

A single text pings on your phone, lighting up the gloom:

From Seong-je: Sleep well, little lamb. 🖤 See you soon.

Clutching your pillow, you sob quietly until exhausted sleep claims you, his words and the ache between your legs a constant reminder that this nightmare is far from over.

⸻

The following weeks pass in a tense, clandestine haze. By day, you put on your best performance of normalcy – attending classes, eating dinner with your family, exchanging hollow small talk with your sister about her “wonderful” boyfriend. You even smile when she gushes over the bouquet of roses he sent her “just because” one afternoon. Inside, each lie and each praise for him is like swallowing broken glass.

By night or stolen moments, you live under his shadow. He calls, and you have to invent an excuse to slip away to answer, heart in your throat. Sometimes he simply talks as if you’re old friends, his tone disarmingly light – asking about your day, teasing you until you begrudgingly respond with more than one-word answers. Other times, his voice drops to that low timber that makes your stomach flip, and he describes in lurid detail the things he wants to do to you next time, asking if you’re touching yourself as you listen (you always say no; he always sees through it).

And there are the meetings – the secret rendezvous that you wish you could say you dreaded, but in truth, you now ache for with a twisted mix of craving and shame. In abandoned classrooms after school, in the backseat of his car in dark parking lots, even once in a restroom at a department store while your sister waited outside unaware – he takes you, again and again. Fast or slow, cruel or almost tender, but always intense, always leaving you boneless and soaked with guilt.

Each time, you tell yourself it’s the last, that you’ll find a way to break free. But each time, he lures you back in – with threats, with dark promises, with the simple undeniable pull he has over your body. He is a drug and you’re deeply addicted, even as you hate yourself for it.

And through it all, your sister remains blissfully oblivious. She notices maybe that you’ve grown quieter, paler. You claim stress about exams; she buys it, too wrapped up in her own happiness. The guilt of it gnaws at you till you feel hollow.

One evening, a particularly charged family dinner finds you nearly at breaking point. Your sister excitedly announces that she and Seong-je plan to attend a charity ball together, and she’s already dress-shopping. Your parents toast to the lovely couple. Seong-je – who’s dining with you all – reaches over to squeeze your sister’s hand affectionately. “I’m a lucky man,” he says with a charming smile.

His foot brushes yours under the table at that exact moment – a secret touch that makes you jump. He smirks subtly without missing a beat in conversation. You can barely eat; nausea and twisted arousal churn in your gut.

Later, as you clear the table, he corners you in the kitchen while the others talk in the living room. He presses up behind you as you stand at the sink, his hand sneaking under your skirt.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” he murmurs, nuzzling your neck. “Jealous of the ball? Don’t worry, I’ll make time for my favorite girl after.” His finger finds your slit, discovering you shamefully wet. “Already soaked? Naughty… We just did it this afternoon.”

“Stop,” you whisper, mortified and aching. Your parents and sister are mere feet away beyond the door. The risk is insane.

He only chuckles and slips a finger inside you, making you bite down on a moan. “Meet me later,” he whispers, pumping slowly. “Midnight, my place. I want you in my bed for once.”

Your eyes widen. His place? You’ve never been. Too dangerous. You shake your head frantically. He hooks another finger inside you and rubs your clit with his thumb, a ruthless combination that has your knees buckling. “Midnight,” he repeats softly, “or maybe I’ll have to entertain a different guest. Perhaps your sister—”

“I’ll come,” you gasp quietly, grabbing his wrist to halt the devastating movements before you cum right there.

He withdraws his fingers and licks them clean, winking. Then he’s gone, back to the others, leaving you trembling over the sink.

Midnight finds you standing outside a sleek apartment complex, hood up and heart rattling. He buzzes you in. The elevator ride up to the 10th floor feels like ascending into some surreal fantasy.

He opens the door shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The domesticity of it – seeing him in a home setting – does strange things to your heart. “Right on time,” he purrs, ushering you in and locking the door.

The next hours blur in a fever dream. True to his word, he takes you to his bed – a large, plush bed in a surprisingly tasteful room. There, he peels off every layer of your clothing with agonizing slowness, worshipping every inch of exposed skin with lips and tongue until you’re writhing. This isn’t the hurried coupling in cars or bathrooms; this is drawn-out seduction.

You try not to think about how many girls he’s brought here or if your sister has been in this very bed. But he seems to sense your distraction. “Tonight, you’re the only thing on my mind,” he whispers at one point, as if reading your insecurity. And disturbingly, you want to believe it.

He ravishes you thoroughly: going down on you until you sob his name, then taking you in languid strokes that feel almost like an erotic caress rather than punishment. He even kisses you – really kisses you – throughout, as if you’re lovers. By the end, you’re nestled against his chest in a tangle of sheets, your sweat and his mingling, both of you spent and breathing softly in the dark.

For a fleeting moment, it feels like something normal. Like after all the depravity, you’ve circled around to a tender peace. In that vulnerable haze post-orgasm, you dare to ask the question that’s been buried in your heart.

“Why are you doing this… really?” you whisper, tracing an old scar on his shoulder absentmindedly. “You have her. You could just let me go and… be happy with her. Why keep tormenting me? Is it just the blackmail and sex, or…?” You trail off, afraid to voice the hopeful alternative your silly heart stupidly wonders about in the darkest recesses – that maybe, somehow, he feels something for you beyond just control.

He’s silent for a long time. You can’t see his face in the dim light, only feel the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. Just when you think he won’t answer, he sighs. His hand idly strokes your hair.

“I’m not a good man, Y/N,” he says quietly, almost gentle. “I hurt people – because I like it, and because it’s the only way I survive in my world. Your sister… she’s a pretty doll. An escape maybe. But you…” He tilts your chin up, and even in the dark, you feel the weight of his intense gaze. “You stumbled into my life and saw the real me from the start – and you didn’t run. Hell, you fucked the real me.” A bitter chuckle. “You have no idea how… addictive that is. You make me feel—”

He stops himself. Your heart hammers. Did he almost admit to feeling something?

Abruptly, he pulls away and sits up on the edge of the bed, back to you. “This was a mistake,” he mutters, voice hardening. “Getting cozy.”

Panic flares in you. “No, I– I didn’t mean to upset—”

“Get dressed,” he snaps, standing. The sudden coldness in his tone is like a slap. You jolt up, clutching the sheet to your naked chest. His walls are back up, brick-solid. “I’ll drive you home.”

Tears prick your eyes. You scramble for your clothes, dressing in heavy silence. He’s already fully clothed, mask of detached calm in place. The vulnerable man who held you minutes ago is gone.

The car ride is silent and tense. When he pulls up near your house, you turn to him, desperate. “Seong-je—”

“Stop,” he cuts off, not meeting your gaze. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled. “Don’t read into this. Our arrangement stands. Go.” His voice cracks slightly on that last word, betraying a hint of emotion that twists your heart.

You want to reach for him, to say something that might break through. But fear and pride hold you back. With a trembling exhale, you exit the car. This time, he doesn’t watch to ensure you’re safely in – he’s already driven off, tires screeching softly on the pavement.

You stare after the car’s tail lights until they disappear. A fresh wave of pain settles in your chest. Somewhere along the line, you realize with despair, your dark tormentor became more than just that to you. Inextricably, you’ve fallen for the one person you absolutely should not – the cruel, broken boy behind the monster.

And that, you think as you wipe away tears and steel yourself to creep back into your house, is perhaps the darkest tragedy of all.

Inside, the house is quiet. You slip into your bed, the scent of him still clinging to your skin. You know this twisted game can’t last. It’s a matter of time before it all combusts disastrously – secrets like this always do. But for now, you’re caught in his web, bound by desire and fear and something achingly like love.

As you drift into a fitful sleep, one thought echoes in your mind: There is no way out of this unscathed. And the little good girl inside you curls up and cries, even as another part of you – the part irrevocably claimed by Geum Seong-je – whispers that, given the chance, you’d do it all over again.

#weak hero x reader #weak hero smut #geum seong je #geum seong je x reader #geum seong je smut #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class two #weak hero class fanfic #wolf keum

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hoseoksluna · 11 months ago

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A CELEBRATION OF 2K FOLLOWERS — PLEASANT, GOOD AND MERCIFUL | jjk

pairing: non-idol!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader

genre: smut, angst, fluff — the whole package

word count: 8.9k

summary: jungkook wanted to make the night better for you—but what he didn't expect is that he would come across his true, unabashed self while doing so.

taglist: join | cp: wattpad, ao3

warnings: jungkook, physical violence, jungkook is wearing that mesh top and that exact outfit (god, help me) and he's horny (god, help me again), abandonment issues, dissociation, panic mode, fear, swear words, dom/sub dynamics, protected sex, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat:), teasing, pda, jungkook smokes and jungkook uses his busan accent (you have been warned), religion, praying, anxiety, hyper-independence, trust issues, begging, a little bit of a praise kink — barely, cowgirl:).

note: because we hit 2k incredible followers, i prepared this for you, my babies. a full fucking package of drama, smut, angst and fluff—all from jungkook's own pov!!!!! this is all for you bc i love you sm. thank you, guys, so much for being here with me, sticking around and reading my stupid fics. enjoy this one shot and let me know what you think. i'm sending you so many kisses until you get sick of me. seriously. i won't stop. i love you. MWAHMWAHMWAHMWAHMHWA.

It is a lucid dream, really, the way the lustrous colors of the fireworks bloom across the charcoal sky. They intertwine with the darkened clouds, like vines of wild flowers, that try and fail to remain hidden and Jungkook thinks you burst with even richer, emotive colors.

With your kaleidoscopic glitter on the high points of your cheeks, and the tiny stars that you stuck on each arch of your brow.

He can feel the vibration of the deep bass, belonging to the music, coursing down your chest as he stands behind you, drifting his hands down the upper half of your body while the rest of the strangers are hypnotized by the rapper on stage that he has very little knowledge of. The reason why he paid for the tickets, pumped a full tank of gas, drove you all the way to the countryside outside of the normality of your daily life and never let go of your hand—despite the fact they grew uncomfortably clammy due to the stifling heat—was because you loved the man. The vulgar headliner, whose lyrics nearly made his eyes fall out of his sockets once he fully and consciously listened to the songs that you always sing when you do your makeup or hum at random times when you’re doing your own thing.

And what’s worse, it made his dick hard when he heard you scream out the swear words and the filthy imagery painted in the vivaciousness of the songs.

You, who scarcely cursed.

Who omitted the vulgarity when rapping along.

He doesn’t think he ever caught those words coming out of your mouth. Not even when he was balls-deep in you.

Multiple times.

It had only been four months ago when he found you and his long silent heart gained your voice. It was the sweetest, most languid sound that ever graced his ears and in an instant, you became a fleshly sanctuary of serenity. One he would find himself needing more often than he liked because the truth is—Jungkook doesn’t date.

He considers relationships an unnecessary house of pain. If he spends a long time there, he forgets what the outside world looks like. Forgets how to get home. Forgets the roads and the rules and moralities of life and society because, deep down, he lets go of himself for the girl.

He would kill a soul if she found herself needing it. Or at least destroy one so she would have a peace of mind.

Break hands and break noses of people who looked at her wrong.

That’s who he is and as much as he tried to change it, he failed every time. Failed like the clouds up above. His effort to stay hidden from you vanished into thin air because you would invariably find him and his heart would start praying with your voice. The pathetic thing would beg for mercy from the world. His knees would wobble and he’d let them sink right in front of you—all because of your deeply inert calmness and briskness that would, strangely, pour the nectar of mollification over his bloodstream.

And he gave in to you because you didn’t ask, nor expect, anything from him.

You didn’t do what the others did.

You were independent and so full of life, of a different world, one he wanted to take a peek inside.

And what he didn’t predict was that the road would be molded for his feet. And once he kissed you and learned the ins and outs of your intellect and the chambers of your heart, he still remembered the streets that line the outside world—its names, even. He remembered the address of his own apartment building, the number to his door and to the pass code.

And so did you.

You didn’t ask him to kill for you. And you didn’t ask him for tickets to see your favorite artists.

He did it because he unreservedly loved you.

And here you are, giggling, rubbing your little ass up against his groin and he detects happiness prickling his nerve endings. His hands are enveloped, snugly, as if no one was around and the artists traveled across the country for you, around your waist while your hands are up in the air, pointed fingers erect, dipping up and down to the rhythm of the music.

And what he could never predict, not even in a million years—he’s enjoying himself. Feels the traces of the same vibrations ricocheting off your back into his chest, where the song enlivens him.

He’s enjoying himself because you are enjoying yourself, brimming with elation and the radiance of your smile as you laugh, dance and scream out curse words that he’s equally enjoying hearing.

Jungkook makes a mental note to pull those sounds out of you later in the early hours.

And then you turn around, surprising him. You cup the side of his neck while you point that index finger in his face, screaming out the lyrics. And Jungkook regards it so overwhelming that he can only stare. Doesn’t know the lyrics to scream them back at you and make your experience better, but he’s learning them as he’s consuming them from you, his eyes tracing over each movement of your mouth that engraves them in his brain. He feels your hips moving under his palm at the bottom of your spine and when you roll your body forward, colliding into his like a star that meets its lover once only to never see it again, and brush your lips against his—he’s so horny and so in love with you that his eyes wet, his emotions rushing in and clouding his sight.

The background fades out, fully, into the charcoal of the night, the colored lights softening and it’s just you that is the distribution of incandescence for the people present—and for him. And then you go down, dragging your hands down his stomach and his thighs, only to spring right up, grab his hips and make that collision happen—against the laws of the universe.

A different star. A special one.

Out of his darkened peripheral view, he can sense the audience having a way better time than they did before you turned around to face him. But Jungkook doesn’t give a fuck.

Not when his cock is so tight in his pants.

Thankfully, you’re obscuring it with the shape of your delightful body. He thinks he’s going to run with you to his car, pump more adrenaline into your body, so you can refresh the drowsy grass with a pristine layer of dew through the sound of your laughter. He also wonders if you’re wet yourself underneath that gray dress of yours and just as he’s about to lean over and yell that question into your ear, you turn around and get ready for the next song.

And catch the glance of some guy to your right as you do. Jungkook grits his jaw because you linger for a second longer that he doesn’t particularly like.

A certain fever poisons his veins, but at the same time he feels the pinpricks of a cold sweat at the top of his spine. Who the fuck does he think he is, staring at his girl like that?

But when he follows that line of the half broken gaze, he finds the guy’s slender face scrunched up in disgust.

Oh, Jungkook might be ready to throw some hands and get him kicked out of this place, tell the cops it was all him so you can continue enjoying yourself in his arms. He’s seen some people sticking their tongues down their partner’s throat and he’s giving you a dirty look for dancing?

This can easily be his very last night alive.

Instinctively, Jungkook bunches up his fists and he’s ready to go after him, but you scream out and emit out your excitement, taking a deep breath to go absolutely mad as the rapper begins to perform the song that he’s heard you jamming out to the most. You take his hands, beaming at him from behind, and uncurl them on your tummy. Your glance was too brief and there’s still a furrow to his brows and now he worries you think he’s being a buzzkill. He doesn’t want to ruin the night for you, so he draws in closer to the crook of your neck and begins to dance, softly, with you. Your hands intertwine with his and you bang them in the air, jumping up and down at the bridge of the song that the headliner hypes up.

And then you’re singing in a different language and he’s done for, his heart tightening in his chest. The one he’s heard your mother talk in over the phone while you replied in English. Jungkook squeezes you so hard and you let him, your smile growing. Your voice is more throatier and low-pitched and Jungkook senses your foreignness swathing his cock and he knows there’s a bigger tent in his pants. He presses it against you, makes you feel it and you throw your delicious ass.

His eyes nearly go cross-eyed as he rolls them back, tilting his head. The wind sweeps across the sweat of his exposed forehead, sifting through his hair and he can’t wait any longer. Desire has overpowered the poison in his veins in such a mighty way and he begins to stand in the middle of a crossroad.

Wait forty five minutes until the rapper finishes the show and then get stuck in the crowd as everyone tries to leave at once.

Or wait two more minutes and then bolt to the car to fuck your brains out. There’s a higher chance you and him won’t be caught sinning in the backseat. It’s midnight and the villagers are asleep. And in the forty minutes, while everyone enjoys the last show, he can make you come so many times and ascertain that your experience will be heightened and ultimately better.

He’s also sure you’ll be able to hear him—if he leaves the window open a little bit.

He’s ready to turn you around, the decision throbbing in his sternum, but you make the move first. Swiveling on your feet, your body faces him, though your head doesn’t. Once again, he follows your gaze. You scowl at the guy, your brows knitting and your glossy mouth rounding before moving into the shape of the lyrics. You throw a dirty look his way one last time and Jungkook laughs in pride, his heart constricting in the love he bears for you, and he pulls you in, disposed to kiss you. You wrap your arms around his neck and open your mouth just as he kisses you—and it’s you who darts out their tongue, rolling it against his. Jungkook squeezes your bum, slapping it gently—and it’s simultaneous the way you and him both peek at the guy’s reaction.

The fucker is grinning.

You give him a vulgar gesture, the moonless blue light enveloping around your middle finger.

Jungkook laughs so hard that heads turn in his direction and he’s fucking delighted. You devour it with your mouth, sucking his lips so intensely that he stops breathing. He senses you sealing it in him and he can’t wait any longer.

He needs you and he tells you.

Breaking the lip lock, he peppers kisses on the sensitive spot behind your ear, wafting his hot breath there. He feels the gooseflesh on your arm right upon his ear, too, and electricity courses down his stomach. Fuck, he loves it so much. Thinks you’re so incredible and he wants to fuck that fact into your guts.

“Let’s get out of here. I want you,” he rasps, drifting his hand up your bum to the ends of your hair, bunching them in his fist. “I want to give you this dick. You deserve it.”

You suck in a harsh breath and withdraw to look at him. He bites his lip at the way his words painted a palette of such flushed beauty on your face, using colors this festival has never fucking seen. And his mouth ends rise in a prideful smile, not for his ability, but for your body. For the way it’s able to react to him so wonderfully.

And he blushes when you begin to mouth the lyrics again while dipping to the seat of the amphitheater and sliding his blazer over his shoulders.

He knows why you did that.

And you validate his knowledge when you take his hand and lead him away from the concert, keeping close to him just to be cautious.

You did it to camouflage the evidence of his arousal for you.

And when you walk by the guy, you let go of his hand. Throw both middle fingers in his face. “You wish you had someone to leave with, huh?”

The fucker puts his dirty hand on you, stopping you from walking away, and Jungkook doesn’t fucking hesitate. Like a bolt of lightning, he grabs his collar and fumes in his face.

“What makes you fucking think you can touch my girl, huh? Juk go sip na?” he snarls, shaking him, his Busan dialect impulsively spilling out, darkening his voice and the latter question—‘Do you want to die?’ He watches a tendril of challenge line his eyes with murkiness and what happens next is too fast.

Too fast for his liking.

Knuckles collide with his cheek and at the rapid, unexpected and jarring contact, his lip ring cuts his gums. Jungkook grunts at the twinge that overpowers the throbbing on the side of his face, metal percolating through the aftertaste in his mouth, but he doesn’t let go of the guy’s shirt. In fact, he tightens his hold. Seethes. Is about to push him off and leave before things get even uglier, but then he feels your hands on his back and his heart stops, your voice mute, despite the fact your whole face twists in fear and is smeared with harrowing emotions that he’s never seen on you. Shrinks at the sight of your wet, bulging eyes. Of one singular tear grazing your lower lashes in a caress before plopping onto the wildflower meadow of the glitter on your cheek.

“Get back,” he tells you, despite the swelling of his own emotions at your state of mind. But you don’t comply in time, unclench your fist and step back because far too soon, in the middle of the distraction, another collision bursts in this impenetrable darkness.

Falling into you or falling for you even deeper, he can’t tell the difference within the numbing pain and his temper coaxes his exceedingly too easy tears to blur his vision. You don’t topple back on your hands, for Jungkook catches you in time with a strength that you somehow help him remember that he possesses. From the force of the guy’s jab, he was only pushed into you, but it doesn’t diminish the grave mistake he made.

One he will pay for.

Straightening you, Jungkook guides you towards the edge of the amphitheater and you step back, at last, startled. Turning around, he swings his fist into the guy’s face and he whimpers like a little bitch.

One hit for your dignity.

A second one for your tears.

And the guy would’ve received a third and a fourth one had he not been held back by different pairs of arms all of a sudden. But he shakes them off. Pushes the guy back to his seat. He lands awkwardly on his tailbone with a hard thud and moans in pain. Suits him right for thinking he’s allowed to touch you, make you cry and remain unharmed.

Jungkook shakes his head, his chest rising with heavy breaths and numbing, adrenaline-infused fury. “Sit here and keep your fucking hands to yourself, gaesaekki. Who the fuck do you think you are, making my girl cry by hitting me?”

The music cuts out and the rapper hollers. Jungkook turns around and finds all of the attention of the audience and the headliner on him. Doesn’t want to put you on the spot like that, so he rolls his eyes in annoyance, finds your rounded ones and tips his chin further towards the exit, signaling to you to walk that way, so no one gets to look at you. You’re still standing by the edge of the amphitheater with your tear-stained cheeks and his heart aches, though once he sees that you’re covered by the shadows, he lifts a palm towards the stage and strides off, placing a hand on the small of your back and leading you towards the grassy hill.

People are fucking testing him and he’s not in the mood. Not in the slightest.

He’d go with his original plan—take your hand and run with you to his car, but he needs to cool off. His anger is sapping all the delight he gained from your microcosm of joy and he doesn’t want to ruin the night more than he already has. Jungkook curls an arm around your neck, tugging you flush to his side as you strut together with no one around. Lifts your chin so he can inspect how you’re feeling on your face.

Your cheeks are glimmering, damply, carmine in the yellow light, accompanied by the faint burn of the stars up above, but your eyes have lost their great spark and you’re no longer beaming. They trace over his deadened cheek and mouth and you whimper, stopping dead in your tracks and burying your face in his chest. You wrap your arms around his middle, a hand stroking his back—and Jungkook feels himself drifting to a state of coma. The rapper’s lines decline the harder you nuzzle your face in his mesh-clad pecs and he can’t move his own hands, can’t hug you back, his panic cascading down his sternum, which he senses your warm weight upon. A ringing noise fills his ears, but he can’t wilt. He has to put you first and make things right.

But his body doesn’t listen.

He wills strength into his muscles, lifting his head towards the unmerciful heavens and letting your voice sound out his prayer. You evidently need physical support and emotional reassurement and he can’t give that to you out of his own weakened will. Not when he needs it so despairingly and eminently because he’s hollowed out on the inside. Not when he can’t hear a damn thing owing to the ringing in his ears.

He can’t ask you for help, so he lets you pray through his heart to his father’s God.

But nothing happens.

Radio silence.

White noise.

A feeble, miniature whine loosens from him. He’s not sure if you heard it and he hopes you didn’t, and for that sole reason—he does the unthinkable.

He begins to pray with his own voice.

Because there’s nothing else to do.

Give me strength. To be there for her and not mess this up more than I already have. Fix me for her and help me make this night better for her.

The tiniest of lights against your face unbolts ajar in him, vines of the flowers of mitigation blooming from that sliver of open space—right into his arms that abruptly lift and wrap around your shoulders, pulling you as close as humanly possible.

The ringing lessens.

And then his lips move.

He kisses your forehead, dwelling there for a moment, basking in the fact that his prayer worked, and mentally, he ejects the trepidation and agitation away and out of his system, though the fear loiters in his ribcage. The fear that the mistake he made is unfixable. And there’s no thrumming of the bass to distract it.

What’s worse, his lower regions still ask for a release. He might not be as hard as he was, but the pressure of an ungratified arousal still palpitates in his groin. The unlit disorder of his feelings encourages the blood to pump his cock erect, slowly, and his breath quivers—as well as his body.

The shakes are back. He knows them, intimately, from his past relationships. Feels the long-gone ghost of abandonment catching up to him—and he fears, terribly, that you’ve somehow learned its ways and you’re about to use them on him because of the way he ruined your night. Cover him from head to toe until his mind numbs and he forgets, foolishly, the direction to his home.

To solitude.

He lets go of you and nudges you towards his car. Lets you walk the rest of the short way. But he notices that your forehead, the place he poured his frail love upon, is smudged with blots of blood, the little stars on the arches of your brows crooked and devalued. He’s barely able to get out a cigarette out of his pack and place it in the center of his parted lips, his heart cracking and turning painfully. Though, somehow he does it—he gnites it to life, takes a big drag and hides his hands behind his back. Hides his shakes away from you. Because it’s easier to ruin yourself than it is to give.

You don’t know about them. And in the four months he’s been dating you, he didn’t have a reason to tell you about them. Thought they were lost for all eternity, the tables turned—them forgetting about him.

But now he realizes how naive he was. Begs his shoulder to stop trembling from the impact of his deeply-embossed issues. Wishes they were as beautiful as you when you gaze back at him with the weight of your love and he feels it, swiveling to lean against the side of his car.

It’s a life jacket that straps him down. Abates his shakes. And he’s able to take another drag, pursing his lips in a small ‘O’ when he exhales the smoke, so it doesn’t get near you.

Your hands are behind your back, too. They support your tailbone against the solidness of the vehicle. It reminds him that he’s glad he hurt the guy, but now he wishes that you weren’t such a delicious brat because he could’ve made you happier and pinker with the amount of orgasms he would’ve given you. Would’ve driven you home and washed you clean. Would’ve made you a late night snack to bed and held you while you replayed the songs in your head.

Nevertheless, it’s him who needs to be held.

Foolish, his sensitivity. Another thing you don’t know about. And he’s not too sure, at this very moment, if he’s able to let you in this closely. Let you hold him and stop, ultimately, his shakes. The fear of possibly letting that happen, only to get left behind after, paralyzes him on the spot and even though he can’t breathe, he still manages to flick the ash off his cigarette and puff on it, desperately. Needs the smoke to hold him down, mollify the raging disorder in him—the macrocosm that is too gritty and stony for your delicate feet.

He allows a full, audible sigh to leave him and he hangs his head, but he shouldn’t have done that.

Because he divulged to you how fucked up he is.

You lift a hand to him. “Come here, Oppa.”

But he can’t. He can’t get close. His legs are numb and the thick-soled boots his feet are shod in are too heavy. His fear keeps them planted that safe distance apart. And Jungkook plays it cool. Licks his lips, lifts his head and sucks on his cigarette. Feels something dripping down his jaw and he wipes his hand on the bone. His cheeks hollow out and the smoke gets in his eyes, stinging them, blurring the spots of blood on his fingers

A different type of wetness coats them now.

“You wanna go home?” he asks, then cringes at his stupid words. The smoke makes zig zag patterns in the air as his hands shake harder. And then the breath he takes is too difficult. His chin wobbles, the tears rush in and he can’t stop it. “They’re still—” A soft sigh, a whimper. His breathing speeds up because it seems as though his lungs ask for too much air and he can’t inhale enough of it. The tears threaten to pour out and crown his fear. Ruin his life. But he keeps going as if nothing is happening. “Making hot dogs in that food stand over there. The night’s not over.”

And then he’s sobbing, sinking to his knees as his legs give out under all that weight of his issues compressing him. The cigarette burns on the concrete, as abandoned as he soon will be. And his hands feel the rough material of his jeans, needing something to bring him back to a painless reality. He’s tasting blood and the fumes of the smoke and then he sees your sneakers in front of his knees, the pink Calvin Klein shoes that he bought you last week, and he sits back, feels his head being lifted, feels himself being pushed to a point of absolute submission.

And that’s not something he’s able to stop either.

You sit down on his thighs, sinking your fingers behind his ears and into his hair, forcing him to look at you and he has to blink multiple times in order for his sight to clear up. Sees, while he whimpers pathetically, his bloodstained, fearful girl seeing him. The real him. The flawed, broken him.

“Gguk, Ggukie, what’s happening? Talk to me, baby, please.”

He only sobs. Can’t get a word out. Because you’re here and you’re going to leave him—now that you’ve seen that he’s not a half of the man you pertain him to be. That he’s weak, pathetic and emotional. That he has problems that he doesn’t like to talk about. Unresolved issues that will affect you and guide you out of his life.

You press him to your neck, holding him to you, and you shush him, gently, rocking him from side to side. Run your wet hand up his hair on the back of his head while the other one rubs large circles on his back. The light opens wider in him—and as he listens to the lullaby of your voice, it distracts him from the fear. It stills the ringing in his ears and blesses his arms with strength that he uses, without thinking, to wrap around you.

Something lukewarm plops onto the side of his aching cheek as he, little by little, calms down, and he realizes it’s your precious tears. The salt to his wound.

You’ve cried too much when you should’ve been laughing so hard that you’d be sick from it.

“What happened? Tell me.”

Your hand caresses his bad cheek, careful around the bump that your feather-light touch traces, and it’s how he finds out it’s even there. He finds out his bleeding is from his mouth because you wipe at it and clean your fingers on your dress. And then you’re back to stroking his hair, your long fingernails scratching, tenderly, his scalp, spreading alleviation down his body.

You’re patient and gentle, tolerant and kind, despite the fact you deserve an explanation and he’s unable to give it to you.

It’s what makes his rationality snap back to normalcy and he tugs your dress down, withdrawing from you and helping you stand to your feet. He’s here to make your night better, not unleash his problems at you. He takes your purse dangling from your hand, replacing it with his palm, and hauls you towards his car.

But you stay put and he bounces back to you as if he were on a leash.

And maybe he is—because you stayed at the horrendous scene of his worst. Bound to you in a way that he’s too drowsy to comprehend. Even his fear is tired, scurrying away to some shadowed corner of his soul, instead of attacking him and remaking the scene.

“Give me my purse back and let me buy you that hot dog,” you say, with a hint of a remarkable harshness that makes him submit to you on a higher level. Something positive that he can’t pinpoint breezes through his clavicles and he wipes his knuckles across his eyes, shyness encasing him like steel—like a shield, giving him the hope that maybe, just maybe, he can overcome this with you.

You didn’t leave. You didn’t disappear. You didn’t wrinkle your nose.

You held him. Cleaned the blood off his mouth. Put him, somehow, back together like a puzzle piece. Knew how to do it without needing to look at the full picture.

He hands you the chain strap of your purse—and it’s more of a symbol of his submission to you. Of the acquiescence and the meekness that you seeped into his pores by your touch. And, oddly, he feels whole.

His walls are broken down, but he feels whole. Confident, soft, and manly.

Because he has you and you’re here to take care of him.

You’re quick on your feet as you yank him by the two of his fingers. He follows behind you, but all he can look at is your pendulous, brown, leather purse, suspended from your small hand, and how that shift of the dynamic in yours and his relationship occurred by that exchange. How it’s felicitous, pretty and sturdy. How he can come back to it and remember it—if he ever wavers. Remember that it’s the cure to his shakes.

Letting himself be taken care of by you.

The festival has ended and the ladies at the food stand are packing up to leave. It overwhelms him how much time his issues have stolen, but when he watches you go from nice to bratty in a millisecond, convincing them to make that last hot dog from him because he feels faint and needs some greasy food in order to get home and they comply, his love for you rises sky-high. Your own expression of love for him tidies up the debris from his broken walls and he’s so warm all over that he feels as though he’ll explode.

You pay for the hot dog and leave a huge tip, thanking them with a smile that makes his heart quiver in a way that is pleasant, good and merciful. You hand it to him and it’s another exchange that wets his eyes, that makes him dip to your mouth and give you a chaste kiss that you more than deserve. You coo, deeply, into the kiss, and it’s a sound that he’s never heard from you. A dominant, prideful sound that stirs the butterflies in his stomach that carry your name on their wings to beat so ferociously that he can’t breathe.

In a different way now. Pleasant, good and merciful.

You walk away from the stand and sit with him on the sidewalk. Jungkook lets you have the first bite, sliding your leg over his as he holds the hot dog to your mouth. People are exiting the amphitheater in hefty crowds, but he doesn’t care. Can’t peel his eyes off of you as you open your mouth as wide as you can and take a big bite, whining and fanning your mouth due to how boiling hot it is. He can see the half chewed up sausage on your tongue and if he didn’t love you, he’d look away now, but he can’t because he does love you and your secret, indecent ways enthrall him enough that he can’t help but to kiss you again. Kiss the ketchup and mustard off of your upper lip. Clean you up like you cleaned up his debris. Blow on the sausage in your mouth a little to make you laugh and you do more than that. You chortle so hard that you nearly choke on it and he laughs, too, strangely.

Thinks the hot dog is the best one he has had in a long time solely because you had that first bite.

It fuels him with energy, yet he feels lightweight. Feels as though everything’s going to be okay, despite the fact those issues in him are a persisting threat and they can be triggered anytime. But something tells him you can handle it.

You weren’t afraid to throw your middle fingers in a guy’s face because he had a problem with your public display of affection. Weren’t afraid of Jungkook’s ugliness. Weren’t afraid to fight the ladies so you could fill up his stomach with his favorite food.

You can handle it.

It’s all he thinks about as he drives you to his apartment with his hand on your thigh.

And it’s all he thinks about when he kneels before you while he takes off your sneakers and lingers there, scattering kisses just below the hem of your dress. And you know where this is going because you pull him back by his hair and as he looks up at you like this, a peasant to a queen, his heart hammers so intensively that all he wants to do is cry while he makes love to you.

He came across his salvation—in the worst of it all.

“Let me clean you up,” you hush out, and Jungkook doesn’t understand because you already have. Internally. And outwardly all the same. He can’t postpone this any longer. He has to give back to you, give you his gratitude on a silver platter. He needs to do it because if he doesn’t, he’ll crumble.

“No,” he rasps in a whisper, closing his mouth over the inner of your thigh, placing a singular kiss there before he returns his gaze back to you. “Let me, please.”

Maybe you can see his desperation in the glossiness of his eyes and it awakens your pity for him, for in a blink you nod, and for the second time today—he doesn’t hesitate to do the next thing. He fists the fabric of your dress and yanks it up over your tummy, nuzzling his nose into your clothed mound. Pink, like your sneakers.

He inhales you. Inhales the beginning of your arousal—and the beginning of a brand new scene that will color his life in a soft manner.

Dragging the waistband of your panties down your legs, he tosses them on top of your shoes. Yearns for your legs to part your royalty for him and in order for that to happen, he carries you, bridal-style, over to the white of his bedding. Pretends it’s clouds that he’s laying you down upon because he’s about to make sure he’ll bring heaven down to you.

The heaven that helped him give back to you earlier in his worst.

He hooks his fingers under your socks and slides them off, one by one. Makes you sit up to rid you of your dress. Ruins your ponytail in the process, but he quickly fixes it by lugging your hair tie down your length, rubbing his blood away on your forehead with his saliva-coated thumb once he places you back down.

And it’s not an expression of his dominance, the way he disburdened you from the daytime. That has long ceased to exist in him since that exchange.

It’s an expression of his servitude to you.

Of his lessening and your heightening.

And it’s pleasant, good and merciful. It doesn’t feel as though he’s giving all of himself. On the contrary, it feels as though he has just discovered his true self.

He won’t forget the address of his home because he’s not staying over anywhere.

He is at home.

And your folds revealing your royalty as he spreads your legs is the feeling of homeliness. His mouth on your warm, swollen clit is the epitome of all domesticity and the only thing he can fear at this very moment is his future homesickness if he rips his mouth off your cunt.

And you getting wet so easily just from being taken care of like a queen confirms and validates all that he’s feeling.

And he lets you know.

Peasants are savages and he eats your pussy like it. Sucks on your clit with a verve that surprises him and makes his cock tight uncomfortably in his pants, especially when you make those deep, guttural noises of yours. You’re not the soft girl he knew that omitted swear words in her favorite filthy songs. You’re a vulgar woman, rolling her hips into his mouth as he lets you use his tongue.

And he stops—just to beg for those words.

“Let me hear you swear for me, please.”

You whimper, flopping into the mattress, only to raise your torso using your elbows. You grip the hair on the back of his neck and hump his mouth, but then you suck in a breath and draw back, sobered up all of a sudden.

“Does your lip hurt?” you ask, rounding your brows in pity and Jungkook’s heart quickens at the portrayal of your care towards him. His senses flick to that faint throbbing on the side of his pierced lip and he perceives that he forgot about his physical pain. His cheek throbs as well, but it’s all bearable.

You help him remember.

“It doesn’t hurt, baby.”

But the hand that gripped his hair slides over to his lip, caressing it with a thumb. “But it’s swollen. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He also remembers that he was bleeding from the same place and he checks your folds if he spattered them. With the same digit, he runs it over them, finding no taints of it. Sends a quick, internal thank you to God.

You’re pure—he doesn’t want to mar you.

“You’re not hurting me. You’re saving me,” he utters without a breath, the words more raw than anything he’s ever said to you, alongside his first, secretly sensitive I love you. And while he doesn’t let his lungs lift, you inhale all of the air for him, wafting it over him as you pout ever so slightly. And then you caress him—the good side of his face and he does something he’s never expected to do.

He invites you in.

Rests his head on the apex of your thigh while you continue to brush your hand in circles. Over his cheekbone, his temple, long strands of hair and ear. An ouroboros of love so unsullied and intact that the world’s upcoming destruction could never afflict it, never even come near it. Jungkook pushes your leg back and darts out his tongue. Mirrors your circles over your clit and the gentleness he uses to do it with pull such alluring moans from the bottom of your throat that he’s nearly at the peak of his own orgasm.

And it just makes him hungrier.

He turns you over to your side and closes that leg of yours over his head. Flattens his tongue over your clit and eats it like his life depends on it, one hand holding yours while the other slips to your heat, rubbing the hole until you go mad. And he’s not holding your hand to keep you bound. He’s holding your hand to keep his sanity and not come in his pants like a boy.

You move your hips so his fingers enter you and you scream out at the sudden fullness. Jungkook drips in sweat, your walls slowly stretching around him sending tingles down his spine, and he’s moaning when you fuck yourself on his digits.

It doesn’t take long for you to come.

It is the final piece to your own puzzle and your orgasm thunders through you, the swear words tumbling out of your mouth like refreshing raindrops. You interweave them into his name, adorning it, making it prettier, and Jungkook is so overwhelmed with pleasure that all he can do is suck on your clit until you convulse so hard that you can’t take it anymore.

You may have lost your spark earlier, but now that you’ve come so magnificently, you’ve become it. The star of light isn’t something that gets attached to your eyes whenever you’re happy anymore.

You’re the queen of all firelights and constellations.

He lets you lie on your side as he hauls himself up to face you. He touches your skin besprinkled with the beads of perspiration, kneading the fleshy parts and ending up at your neck. Your eyes are closed when he reposes his head on his pillow besides yours and he detects his pleasure creating a new kind of joy within him, one that etches a lopsided smile on his face.

You said the words for him while your orgasm coursed through your body. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your lips, kissing you with a certain roughness that makes you whine and withdraw. You give him a playful dirty look, fragrant with your love, and Jungkook’s smile deepens.

“Gentle,” you reprimand, fluttering your eyes back shut. “Don’t be a masochist.”

He laughs through his nose, his heart constricting, and he kisses you with the gentleness you spoke of just to show you he can do it.

You hum in appreciation and Jungkook thinks this must be the best day of his life, despite all.

“There we go,” you praise, sleepily. “Gentle, so your boo-boo doesn’t hurt.”

He caresses your face in circles in your fashion, watches you visibly relax and your eyes close all the way, your eyelashes brushing against him. His sleep-kissed queen.

“You wanna sleep?” he asks, fondling the shell of your ear. He doesn’t mind if you’re too tired to take him; he’s willing to study the way your mouth parts and lets out long, restful breaths as you drift off to dreamland.

He thinks it would be an honor.

Everything had changed. The way he sees you, the way he loves you, the way he senses yours and his connection. The pupils of his eyes have been purified and he’s acknowledging himself with the ins and outs of his own relationship.

Everything is new.

You shake your head, humming out a sound of disagreement. “No, give me a second. You made me come really hard.”

He nods, even though you can’t see him, and he sifts his fingers through your hair. Trails his kisses from your cheek to your neck and shoulder, dwelling there as you recuperate from your intense orgasm.

And then you’re swinging your leg over and straddling him. Your lids are so heavy from your little eye-shut that he silently coos at you, but your tiredness doesn’t stop you from mouthing kisses down his mesh-clad chest. From unbuckling his belt and freeing him from his pants. The mesh shirt is the only thing you keep on him. You bunch up its hem in your fist, stabilize his cock with your other and you swallow him.

Not all the way, though.

You rid him of his sanity because you pop your mouth, over and over, on the tip of his manhood. He feels the sound deep in his groin, right beneath your hand, and his chest can’t help but to shudder with each suction, his face scrunching. He unabashedly whimpers for you and you like his noises so much that you give him what he never asked you for.

You do take him all the way.

And your throat is your scent floating through the air of yours and his home.

Heady, oriental and feminine.

You slobber all over him, running your tongue sideways upon the veins along his length and Jungkook slinks in and out of his conscience. The pleasure you’re blessing him with brings him to a rose garden when you gag around him. The pink petals tickle his stomach, encouraging his shudders, and all he sees is you in the middle of that garden. A mighty statue of its queen—with a mouthful of cock.

And then he has to physically pull you away from him because if he felt the tightness of your throat one more time, he’d be spurting ropes of cum down your esophagus.

You’re feral, staring him down with a maddened smile, returning to your original position on his hips. And as delighted as he is to have you be in charge, he remembers something.

He hasn’t put a condom on.

“Wait.”

Jungkook holds your waist as he rummages in his bedside table and once he finds the package he was looking for and rattles it, he finds it empty. Cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck, but he remembers something else as well.

“Did you not put it in your purse?” he asks, the scene where he hands you the last square of the rubber for you to keep in your purse in case you get in the mood during the festival shooting out before his eyes.

You nod. “Yeah, I think so. Can you go get it?”

He sits up with you and kisses you, gently, prolonging the kiss until you whine and he thinks twice before provoking you. He can’t help it—you just keep saving him.

Walking through your corridor, he sees your pink sneakers first, embellished with your panties of the same color. A smile tugs at the aching corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t mind. Thinks it heightens the experience. Bending to pick up your brown purse that he set beside your shoes, the time seems to slow down as he’s reminded of the exchange out there in the countryside. The shift of dynamics that liberated him. Jungkook grows emotional, his feelings liquifying and prickling his eyes.

And it’s automatic and absolutely instinctual—the way he dips his mouth and kisses the leather material.

Gently.

Opening it, he fishes out the white square and hangs your purse on the hook among his jackets. Gives it a long, meaningful look before he returns to you.

And you’re the one who wants to put it on him. You’re so diligent, tugging the peak of the rubber multiple times so you’re unequivocally certain that you did it right. And when you tug him, he whimpers so inferiorly that you emulate his hunger.

You depict it so eloquently when you fight through your residual overstimulation and sink down on him, little by little. And the more inches your walls squeeze around, the more his new role settles within him.

Peasant with his queen.

You ride him like it.

You bounce on him with such hard thuds that it provokes the pressure in his groin. His balls tighten so rapidly and the cinematic view of your breasts slapping against each other doesn’t really help slow down the incoming explosion of his orgasm. A glistening ring forms around his cock from your slick—and Jungkook genuinely considers, right here, right now, buying you a promise ring that will be an eternal reminder of this sublime salvation.

And you’re as aware of the shift as he is because once you reposition your weight onto your feet, you pin his hands back and use them as leverage. Intertwine your fingers with his. His vision gets filled with spots of white. You clamp down on him with each stroke and even though he can’t move, he feels unshackled. There’s no ending to his moans. He’s so close, the pressure deepens in his groin, and he needs one more thing.

One more thing and he’s done.

“Kiss me,” he rasps, and you slow down, crying out, your orgasm catching up to you just the same, but he needs your attention, so he begs. “Please, baby. Kiss me.”

Lowering yourself onto your knees, you lean forward. “Fuck, I love it when you beg. I’d give you anything you ever wanted.”

His stomach spasms. Your nipples sail over his chest and you shudder, the mesh fabric stimulating you, and then you’re swirling your tongue around the arc of his open mouth.

Teasing him, like the vulgar, bratty woman you are.

Extra careful around the lip ring and his swollen flesh, healing it in a way.

Jungkook whines your name. “Please.”

You kiss him just once, but he needs more. Lifts his head off the pillow, chasing your mouth. You begin to swirl your hips in circles on the tip of his cock, just like your tongue, and the intense pleasure he gets from it forces him to bang his head back.

You go for his neck. His collarbone. His nipple.

And Jungkook can’t hold back anymore.

His orgasm bursts in his groin and all the roses in the garden swell with freshness. He imagines he’s filling you up, instead of the condom and it elevates the momentous shocks of the explosion descending down all of his nerve endings. He hiccups and that’s it for you. You let go of his hands to massage your clit and you follow him out into that garden, his name and curse words trickling out of your mouth that lowers to his in a final, years-long kiss.

His last rope oozes out of him at the feeling of your soft, wary tongue and he wants to weep due to the density of your care. More shrubs of roses bloom around your statue in that garden—and once again, he can’t peel his eyes off of you.

Can’t stop brushing your hair back to see more of you. More of your rose-flushed complexion. More of the spark of your being that irradiates you from within. More of your care and love.

And you give it to him.

You wash out the dried blood on his face in the shower. Brush his teeth with extra care, which makes it more than difficult for him to stifle his tears. He lets you be a witness to his sensitivity and you welcome it, cradle it, hold him while the toothpaste foam numbs his achy lip. And it scares his fear away, most peculiarly.

You hold him in bed, too, amidst the crisp, flower-scented linen of his fresh bed sheets, and you apologize.

“I’m sorry for what happened tonight. If I hadn’t said a thing, you wouldn’t have ended up bruised and swollen,” you croak out, shifting the cold compress lower on his face, and you break into tears that trigger his. He had wished you weren’t a brat, but for a far different reason, and he tells you.

“It’s an honor to get punched in the face for you.” He smiles through his tears and you sigh, removing the cold compress. “But I did wish things ended differently. I wanted to fuck you in my car. Keep the window open so you would hear your favorite rapper. But if things went according to my plan, you wouldn’t have healed me.”

You sniffle, your eyes rounding at the onrush of your tender emotions, and Jungkook watches the waterfall of your tears. His own flows and mingles with yours, joining in unity.

“What happened to you when we left?” you ask and Jungkook knows he wouldn’t avoid this question for long. Deems you deserve to know because of all what you’ve done for him. And he readies himself, pausing before he bares himself, fully, to you.

“I got into panic mode because I blamed myself for ruining your night and…” he trails off, aware of the fact he needs to be more specific, and he takes a deep breath, wiping his tears with one hand before slapping it back on the duvet. “I have a constant fear that the people I care for will eventually leave me,” he explains and a wisp of pride envelops his bones for managing to get those words out for the first time in his life. You snuggle closer to his side, placing your head on his shoulder, and he gazes down at you. His fingers find your ear on their own and it comforts him enough, to touch you like that, that he’s able to continue. “I got left behind a lot of times in my past, which is why I swore off love. It just hurt too much and I stopped having the capacity for it. And when we left the concert, I thought you’d leave me, too, after what I’d done.”

You press the cold compress back to his cheek. “I could never leave you, you’re mine,” you whisper, and another stream of tears soaks through the dish towel wrapped around frozen vegetables. Jungkook doesn’t take your words for granted. He puts great meaning to them and hides them, safely, in his sternum. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t ruin my night. It was all me and for that I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your arm. “Don’t be sorry,” he says and means it. Lifts his head and plants a cold kiss to your lips.

Gentle.

“I love you, Ggukie. It’s me who should be fighting for you now.”

Jungkook laughs through his nose. “No, I’ll keep protecting my queen.” One more kiss, gentler. “I love you,” he adds and means it.

And he falls asleep like this. With you clinging to the side of his body while keeping the cold compress intact and unmoving with your forehead. One that he removes in the middle of the night and warms up the iciness of your skin by smothering it with his body heat.

Returns to the rose garden and gapes at the statue of you, hand in hand with you—as a changed person, a sensitive, flawed and submissive person that is loved and accepted.

Finds it hard to believe even in his dream.

And you’re there when he wakes up.

Drooling, indecent and vulgar as you are. And he wouldn’t want anyone else.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

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waternilly · 3 months ago

Text

“You’re flustered.” “Yeah, so?”

Fandom: MCU Ship: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader (race neutral) Word count: 1.4k Genre: Fluff Warnings: none Ao3 link: here Summary: A rather boring night gets better when you meet Bucky during one of Tony's famous parties at Avengers Tower. | Based on the prompt "You're flustered." "Yeah, so? Never seen anyone fall for your charm before?” from this list.

You breathed in with difficulty, the air around you saturated with perfume, sweat and smoke. A sip from your iced drink barely cooled you down, clothes clinging to your skin as it vibrated to the rhythm of the bass. Your feet were aching, trapped in uncomfortable shoes, and all you wanted was to get out of here. As usual, you were not even sure why your boss had asked for you to accompany them at this supposedly professional event, when they ditched you ten minutes after your arrival at Stark Tower.

Apologies, Avengers Tower, as it had recently been renamed. The new title still felt foreign in your mouth while old habits died hard. It was not as if the building had gone through a whole lot of change aside from the name. You'd know, you had been here many times in the past, your boss dragging you around every chance they got. After all, what would they do without their trusty secretary, always present to change their agenda on a whim?

Right. That's why you were here.

You sighed, looking down at your phone to check the time. Another hour and you would be free to slip away without trouble. Pursing your lips, your eyes scanned the darkened room. Ambient lights of different colors allowed you to recognize familiar faces: Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, and even the big man himself, Tony Stark.

Not that you'd ever spoken to any of them, aside from a polite greeting to the latter. Tony made a point of welcoming people one by one to his parties, and you always showed up with one of his best business partners. You assumed that was why he had never protested your presence either. In exchange, you always made sure to indulge in the free drinks offered at the bar. You would not want your host to think you did not appreciate his generosity.

Tipping back your glass but coming up empty handed, you realized it was time for a refill.

The counter was not overly crowded anymore, and you settled on one of the stools to rest your feet. Catching the barman's attention with a wave, you ordered a new glass. He nodded in understanding and got started on the drink.

"Nothing more expensive?" a voice sounded from your left.

You turned in its direction, eyebrow cocked.

"Not tonight, no," you answered. "Unless you're offering to pay."

The man, seated next to you as it turned out, let out an airy laugh.

"I would, but I fear everything is on the house anyway."

A new glass was placed in front of you then, atop a coaster. The stranger lifted his drink. You picked up your own and clinked them together.

"I'm Bucky," he presented himself after a sip.

Swallowing, you put the glass back onto the coaster, then offered your own name.

"Are you new here?" you asked, eyebrows furrowed.

His face was somewhat familiar, but you could not replace him. He was not part of the Avengers, or at least not publicly so, nor was he one of your boss' contacts. You had all those people memorized like the back of your hand, better than your parents' birthdays.

He chuckled.

"Yes, you could say that."

You both sipped from your drinks again, desperate for something fresh in the intoxicating atmosphere.

"You are not, I suppose?" he wondered.

Chuckling, you shook your head.

"I've been here more than I care to or can remember."

"Good nights?"

"Some better than others," you admitted.

"Is this a good one?" he asked, leaning in closer.

You met his gaze, curious and teasing.

Corners of your lips tugging, you first allowed your eyes to detail him: dark hair pulled back into a bun, black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled back, black trousers. You were not sure how you had overlooked the metallic arm until now, but you spotted it resting onto the counter. He was undoubtedly strong, well-built, but you liked how relaxed and welcoming he felt.

Locking eyes again, you finally answered: "It's just gotten better."

"What brought you here then? Are you a friend of Tony's?"

Oh, so they were on first name basis.

"No," you shook your head. "I'm just being a good secretary."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up.

You nodded in the direction of someone across the room. "That's my boss."

He looked over his shoulder to spot the person you were referring to, lost in a conversation with Steve, who frantically flashed his eyes left and right, you assumed in search of an escape.

"They drag me here every chance they get."

"That does not sound very fun," he commented, lips upturned.

"Like I said," you took a sip, "depends on the night."

Glancing to your boss, you admitted under your breath: "At least they're not bothering me this time."

Bucky's shoulders shook under a chuckle.

"Aren't you easily amused?" you teased, a grin spreading over your features.

"I'm only happy your boss isn't bothering you." He flashed you a smile. "Because it means I can do that instead."

You rolled your eyes and suppressed a smile.

"So what brought you here? You a friend of the big man?"

"Do you mean Tony?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

You nodded, lips attached to your glass.

"Big is not exactly the adjective I'd use for him."

You snorted and swallowed with difficulty.

"I suppose you're right."

"But to answer your question, yes, I know him."

"Duh, everyone here knows him."

"I'm not sure he knows everyone though."

"Good point."

You paused.

"So does he know you?" you asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yes," answered Bucky. "Though I wouldn't call us friends, so to say. Think of him more as my... landlord?" His brows furrowed, eyes squinted and head tilted.

A bright chuckle escaped you. "You don't seem very convinced yourself."

"As you put it so well, I am rather new here."

You smiled.

"It's my friend Steve that I have to thank for being around," he said, pointing over his shoulder without looking back.

Glancing to where he motioned, the gears in your head finally turned. You tried to keep your facial expressions under control as you realized who you had been chatting with, but you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

"Bucky fucking Barnes," you whispered under your breath before biting your lip to hold back your smile.

"Hm?" he turned to you again.

"Nothing," you answered in a hurry, shaking your head, avoiding his gaze.

"You're flustered."

It was not a question.

He was grinning.

And leaning closer. Your knuckles almost touched.

"Yeah, so? Never seen anyone fall for your charm before?"

His eyebrows shot up.

"Wait until you see me at my best, doll."

"Are you saying you're not even trying right now?"

"I am. Trying that is." He sipped. "I am also exhausted though. In fact," he leaned closer for only you to hear, "I was about to leave when you sat down."

"Why stay then?" you teased.

"Couldn't pass the opportunity to speak to the most gorgeous woman at this party."

Your cheeks felt warm and your heart fluttered.

Not backing down however, you met his eyes and answered: "The pleasure is all mine."

His breath ghosted over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its trail. Any closer and you would be kissing. Without looking away, his hand found yours in your lap, brushing your knuckles with the tips of his fingers. You could feel the callouses on his skin despite his gentle touch.

The cologne that clung to his neck smelled of moss and lemon grass, both earthy and fresh. You caught a sight of silver, a chain peeking from under his top.

His lips, upturned slightly, looked soft and inviting. You were willing to bet that he would not pull back were you to lean in. His eyes were set on you, hungry for more. You noticed his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

"Can I give you my number?" he asked without moving away. "So I can show you what I'm like at my best?"

"Wanna fluster me again?" you teased.

"I'd like that," he admitted with a nod, eyes lingering on your lips just a second too long. "Very much."

A/N: I cannot believe this is the first time I post a Bucky fic. I had written some in the past (looong ago) but never shared them. Likes, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🫶

#mcu #mcu imagines #mcu scenarios #mcu x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes scenarios #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes fluff #nille writes #mcu fluff #female reader #race neutral reader

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lovebugism · 11 months ago

Note

What if reader's friends convince her to go on a date with another guy, and this guy is an absolute jerk? I think reader would call Eddie and ask her to come pick her up - why is every guy an asshole? Except Eddie of course 🖤

ty for requesting :D — grumpy!eddie rescues you from a bad date then offers to take you on a better one (friends to lovers, hurt/comfort ish | 1k)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

The sunset matches the color of your Slurpee. A fiery red and orange hue, like the mango and strawberry concoction in your cup. You sip from the plastic straw and pretend to taste the sky in your mouth — pretending not to notice the pounding bass of Eddie’s van as he peals into the parking lot.

You sit on the curb and keep your eyes trained on the cracked pavement under your feet. All cool. Like you hadn’t called him for help at all.

“You could’ve been more specific about where you were, you know?” Eddie shouts, punctuating his question with the slam of the car door. His worn sneakers scuff the concrete with each of his rushed strides. You’d almost think he was actually worried about you.

“I told you I was at the payphone by the Seven-Eleven,” you shrug, tilting your chin to look up at the boy when he stands ahead of you.

“There’s four of those,” he argues, with his lanky figure looming over you. He pushes his leather jacket off his sides (which he wears in spite of the summer heat) to put his hands on his hips. “Seriously. I counted ‘em all in the half hour it took me to find you.”

You squint up at him, hardly apologetic after the shit day you’ve had. “Well, sorry for not being more clear,” you spit in a cynical monotone.

“Apology accepted,” Eddie shrugs. He huffs and sits on the curb next to you while you slurp audibly at the slushie in your fist. He leans over to knock your shoulders with his. “What happened?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Figured… Can I have some, at least?”

He’s only partly surprised when you hand over the drink without protest. He takes it in his ringed fist, looks inside to observe its content, then sips at the red straw (trying to ignore the nagging thought that your lips have been where his are now). The strawberry-mango mixture melts quickly on his tongue, foreign and sweet. “’S nice.”

You scoff like you’re owed the compliment. “Right? I let Josh try some earlier, and he said it tasted like shit. I was like, you know what, this is my final fucking straw.”

Eddie’s face screws. He wipes dramatically at his mouth with the back of his hand, hopelessly trying to erase the other asshole’s DNA. “Are you serious?” he mumbles, all annoyed ‘cause you hadn’t thought to warn him beforehand. You don’t seem to understand his meaning, though, as you shrug lazily in response.

“Well, him trying to feel me up in his car was my actual final straw. But then he hated my all-time favorite Slurpee, and I didn’t even want to look at him anymore. I just told him to leave me here.”

The only thing Eddie hates more than putting his mouth where Josh’s has been — other than the thought of Josh taking you on a date at all — is the idea of Josh not treating you right. His chest burns with a withheld rage.

“Are you talking about fucking Josh O.?” he scoffs and passes the styrofoam cup back to you. “Like, the moron from Mr. Mundy’s, Josh O.? That’s who Steve set you up with?”

“Unfortunately,” you grumble and take another sip, more casual about the subtle spit-swapping than the boy beside you had been.

“He was basically setting you up for failure, then. You know that, right?”

“I just wanted a free meal,” you confess quietly.

Eddie squints. His eyes flit from your profile, to your fidgeting hand punching holes in the ice with your straw, and back to your profile again. “Well, did you get one?”

“Yep. We split one burger at the diner.”

A laugh sputters from his pink mouth.

Your head whips to glare at him. “It’s not funny.”

Eddie props his elbow on his knee to hide his smile behind his ringed hand. “I mean… It kinda is, though. ‘Cause even I could buy two meals for us, and I’m basically the brokest fucker in this town.”

“Are you offering?”

His brows pinch. “Offering what?”

“To buy me a burger,” you say in a mousy voice, pretending to be innocent as you peer at him beneath your lashes, all doe-eyed.

“What?” Eddie scoffs through the sparkling in his chest. As a self-proclaimed metalhead, there was absolutely nothing metal about confessing to stupid crushes. “No.”

“Well, it sounds a lot like you’re offering,” you tease before wrapping your lips around the straw of your drink.

“Well, this sounds a lot like talking for someone who doesn’t wanna talk about it,” he mocks.

Your eyes narrow in annoyance. You part from your Slurpee and mumble through the ice on your tongue. “I wasted my quarters on you,” you deadpan.

Eddie rolls his eyes. He rises from the curb with a huff, wincing at the distant ache in his long legs. “C’mon, weirdo. Let’s go,” he urges, towering over you again.

You shake your head, gaze averted, suddenly shy. “I’m okay here.”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m serious, Eds. I don’t feel like going home right now—”

“I’m not taking you home,” he scoffs like it’s obvious. Your eyes flit back to his, suddenly hopeful again, and he tries not to cower. “I’m taking you to the diner. So I can get you a real meal.”

You seem particularly moved by the uncharacteristic act of kindness. “Really?”

“Yes, really— I don’t want you to starve to death,” he grouses, feigning annoyance ‘cause it’s easier than facing his real feelings in the face. “Now, let’s go before I change my mind.”

He walks off ahead of you on long legs, leaving you behind to catch up. But, because he isn’t a total asshole, he opens the squeaking passenger side door for you.

“Can I get a milkshake, too?” you wonder with a scrunched nose, helping yourself onto the cracked pleather seat.

“Don’t push it,” Eddie squints. He goes to shut the door, then catches the pretty pout pinching your features. “Fine,” he groans before slamming it shut.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #stranger things x reader #eddie munson imagine #stranger things imagine #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #event: summer fic fest '24

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mattsstarlet · 6 months ago

Text

fully introducing…dealer!matt and goodgirl!reader

in which…your friend brings you along to a trap house party, where you meet the dealer himself.

warnings: mentions of drugs, alcohol, and suggestive content. no smut.

note: my first ever prompt is here! i’m not the best writer so i really do hope u enjoy.

your heart thumped the same rhythm as the loud bass blasting off the walls. as you walked into the trap house, the more you saw, the tighter your hand gripped your friend.

it was much wilder than you had ever imagined, or maybe it was because parties weren’t your thing. you’d rather be cooped up in your cozy bed with your nose stuck in some romance book.

the lights are down low, and a small disco ball flashes colors, matching the pace of whatever rap song is playing. you scrunch your nose as you smell a whiff of weed and alcohol lingering in the air.

a bunch of rowdy boys huddle up over a table, playing some sort of game involving alcohol, though it looks like they’ve done a lot of drinking and less playing. as you walk in further, each corner is busy with horny couples sticking their tongues down each other's throats.

your friend looks back at you, tightening her hold as you two make your way past a busy crowd. she’s only been here a few times, but she’s already familiar with the layout, having some sort of relationship with a guy who lives here.

squeezing past the sweaty bodies, your friend pulls you towards the direction of a couch. one of the guys sitting there raises his head, a small grin appearing on his face.

“what’s up, baby?” he lifts himself off the couch and snakes his arm around her waist. “y’made it.”

“hi,” her voice soft and gentle. she motions to you with a wave, signaling you to get closer. “chris, this is my friend and roommate.”

he nods, “s’nice to meet you. heard a lot about you actually,” he smirks.

chris goes on, joking about how much of a yapper your friend is. you on your end, block out their conversation, distracted by the items on the coffee table.

teeny tiny bags of colored pills lay on the flat surface, as well as lines of white powder and expired credit cards. in the middle, cold bottles of high-quality alcohol sit next to an ashtray with stones of a certain green plant and cut-up brown paper.

a tattooed arm brings you back to focus when it reaches over, picking up a pre-rolled joint and a lighter. your eyes shift towards the owner, chewing on your bottom lip as you take in the mysterious man.

the first thing you noticed was his stubble, and how well it defined his sharp jaw. the messy hair look makes it seem like it was made for him. it just fell perfectly into place around his sculptured face.

“y’starin’ mad hard, sweetheart.” his low, husky voice snapped you out of your daze. “y’tryna buy or… jus’ like whatcha see?” a slight smirk appeared as he finally pulled his gaze from the joint to your wide eyes. he glances at your pouty lips, licking his own before meeting your gaze once again.

you shake your head; the thought of trying pills or weed alone makes your skin crawl. it’s no secret that you’ve at least tried alcohol, but then again, it was just a tiny sip.

“oh, no thank you... I—I don’t do that,” you say nervously.

he chuckles lowly, “of course you don’t…” he mutters. he looks around, noticing chris had taken off with your friend to most likely fool around in his bedroom.

matt takes in your nervous state; he shouldn’t care if you'll be fine on your own or not. the drugs in his system have already been fucking with his head, but the thought of a pretty innocent girl being all on her own didn’t sit right with him—or maybe he was already making you his… and matt hates when people take what’s his.

“sit. lemme keep you some company, yeah? you...your uh friend dipped. can’t have a quiet little angel all by herself in a place like this.”

you clear your throat as you slowly make your way next to him. being this close to him makes your head foggy; he’s intimidating, and the scent of his spicy cologne mixed with a hint of weed doesn’t help either. he’s got this…thing that creates an unfamiliar warm fuzzy feeling in your core.

you play with the hem of your skirt as you sit inches away from him, rubbing your slick thighs together. the action doesn’t go unnoticed by matt, his imagination running wild, wanting to throw you over his shoulder and into his bed. his cock hard as a rock just imagining your pouty face as he eats your sweet cunt out.

matt runs a hand through his brown hair, trying to shake off the dirty things he wants to do to you. he places his rough, clasped hand on your knee. it’s light and gentle, yet it doesn't help the growing fire in your tummy.

“easy, sweetheart… i'm gonna be honest, angel,” he rubs your thigh in an up-and-down motion, going as high as where the end of your skirt touches his fingertips.

“that thing you’re doin’… ‘s’makin’ me think some things… naughty things.”

you stop the action immediately, your skin filling up with goosebumps as his hand moves to your inner thigh, not that close where you need him but close enough that matt could feel the heat. glancing at him with those big eyes, you mutter a little ‘sorry.’

matt squeezes your thigh, his mind too caught up in the way you’re nervously biting on your bottom lip, “relax, babydoll. jus’ sit back and be a good girl, yeah? i got you, angel.”

he smirks slyly when you nod again. swallowing thickly, you relax your shoulders and sit back. matt’s hand moves higher, up your soft skin when your skirt rises. “there we go, gooood girl,” he praises, his smirk growing wider. he leans in, his hot breath fanning your ear, “y'know...i think we’re gonna get along jus’ well, angel.”

interact under this post to be notified when i upload posts like this!

a/n: been in my drafts for so long, i can’t keep hiding there. also feel free to send me some inbox’s about these two!

TAGS: @mbbsgf

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loganficsonly · 11 days ago

Note

hello!!! hope you're have a great day so far!! I was wondering if could you write something with Logan and an easily flustered! reader?? like they get bashful when he does anything sweet and super embarrassed when he's being flirty or touchy with them?? maybe they're a little insecure that he might still have feelings for Jean or think that he could do way better??

thank you for writing in! this is super cute but i think i ended up writing something so fucking debauched, i'm so sorry. this is just straight up porn lmao

i hope you don't mind me taking jean out of the equation too!

first time writing patch!logan >:)

beneath the mask

patch!logan x f!reader, 3.4k WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI please this is nothing but filthy smut!!!, flirting?, patch is a warning, reader has hair and is able-bodied, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), piv, riding, unprotected sex (please be responsible), pet names, not proofread or edited AUTHOR'S NOTE: writing sexy shit is hard eh. anyway, reader is a singer who looks like she can eat a man up and picks her teeth with his bones but is actually super easily flustered. i think i lost the plot towards the end but at least reader and logan get to bang!

Cherry lips croon from behind the silver microphone. Each syllable forms like the slow drip of nectar, lush and perfect and full of promises for those in the audience who have a thirst to quench.

And indeed one could say you’re a tall glass of water, standing on the stage with your hair framing your face like a painting, delicate nails stroking the mic. But with that deep red dress that shines every time you move under the light, it would be more accurate to call you a tall glass of Madripoor’s finest wine.

Coveted. Delicious. Expensive.

The spotlights are blinding, reducing the faces staring up at you into shadowed outlines.

That’s good. Between that darkness and the buzz of a warm drink you had just before the start of your set, nervousness has no place here.

You feel a curl of a smile on your lips. Melancholy melodies from the piano resound beneath your voice. The plucks of a double bass from the back of the stage, in time with soft shuffles of a drum set. The music is slow and languid, and you feel yourself sinking into it as you sing.

There was a boy

A very strange enchanted boy

They said he wandered very far

Very far

Over land and sea…

A figure in white cuts through the bar. There’s no need for words—a drink is placed in front of him swiftly, the caramel-colored liquid refracting in the light, ice clinking against the chilled glass. He sits, facing towards the stage.

One eye trained on you.

Business held him up more than he’d like. He settles down after a burning sip of whiskey, sufficiently satisfied with how he dealt with the problems that caused him to be late for this.

He’d call it a win-win situation. They paid the price. His suit remains crisp, unsullied. You are still singing. Your last song, evidently—Nature Boy is always your closer—but at least he got to hear you and that beautiful voice.

A little shy and sad of eye

But very wise was he

From behind the rim of his glass, he drinks in your figure.

Stunning. The dress betrays your curves, hugging them like second skin. He sees the sinful slit on the side of your thigh, only visible when you move enough. Your hair is down tonight, he notices—a different impression compared to that of your usual updo. Relaxed. Free. No doubt inviting visions of what you would look like with your head on a pillow, hair splayed as you sigh a sultrier tune…

You look like you were destined to doom good men.

Lucky for him, he isn’t a good man.

And then one day

One magic day he passed my way

And we spoke of many things

Fools and kings

This he said to me

Something pulls your eye to the bar, the only illuminated spot in the crowd.

He’s here.

There’s a subtle shiver—your skin reacting to the sight of him. White suit, black bowtie. Always the same colors, always here, watching. The many stares you earn from others don’t stand a chance to the smolder of his single eye. Unlike the rest, you can’t tell what’s on his mind. Maybe that’s why his presence at poker tables is considered a curse.

You thought he wouldn’t show, seeing as he missed almost the entirety of your set. But now that he’s fifty feet away, strong hand wrapped around a glass, you find butterflies in your stomach.

Your eyes meet.

The greatest thing

You’ll ever learn

Is just to love

And be loved in return

A thunderous applause and fifteen minutes later, he finds you on the other end of the bar, surrounded by admirers. They stand a little too close for his liking, but it’s almost part of your job to smile and laugh at them.

He watches as your fingers move up to fix a gentleman’s tie, half-lidded eyes focused on your task. The man tenses in a way that looks all too familiar. You move smoothly to hug an older woman, lips puckered for an air kiss on her cheek. There’s a hand on your jaw, thumb stroking affectionately, and you lean in, basking in the attention.

A hand on your arm. Fingers brushing against yours as they hand you your drink. And eyes, god, eyes that roam over you, barely veiling the wicked thoughts behind them.

You merely give them a small smile. The kind that tells them you know, and that you like it.

If he weren’t any better, he’d be seething, but really he’s the same as they are. Hungry for a drop of you.

But he isn’t angry, or jealous. Can’t be. Not when you catch his eye and cordially murmur your thanks and ‘excuse me’s before parting the crowd, moving towards his seat at the end of the bar.

Of course, knowing who he is, they don’t pursue you.

He stands as you arrive in front of him, eye locked on yours while he brings your knuckles up to his lips. He notices your painted nails, elegant and manicured to resemble little claws that remind him of cats. He smiles.

The brush on your skin feels innocent, but the shudder you try to suppress is anything but.

“You look beautiful as always.”

Maybe it’s your proclivity for music that makes you so sensitive to his voice. It’s deep and rumbly, awakening a longing for you to place your hand on his chest to feel it.

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” you reply back softly. He places a hand on your lower back, guiding you to walk with him, likely to one of the private lounges he has access to. Your stride is in time with his as you walk side by side into the velvet-covered hallway.

You can see a slight quirk on his lips, ornamental sconces bathing dim light on his handsome face as he murmurs words only for you to hear.

“How could I ever miss your show, honey?”

It’s always like this with Patch.

A big bouquet of red roses, as if you just made your debut when you’ve in fact done this a hundred times over. They’re placed in a nice vase before he pampers you with the kind of dinner you used to have once every year for a birthday celebration. The conversation that ensues with him is quiet but easy, despite each word hanging heavily with the hidden prospect for more.

Before he leaves, he’d ask you to drink with him. A small amount of something heavy and chilled. Keeping him company. So far you’ve never denied his request—not because you’re intimidated, but because you’re interested.

Tonight is no different, except the two of you are standing, and he’s so close.

He’s as striking as a portrait, white suit cutting a clear silhouette against the dark mahogany walls of the room. Low lights and a thick door grant a sense of isolation while you’re, in fact, still in a public place. He has a hand on your cheek, thumb stroking your skin, and you know the heat that gathers under his touch is not because of the alcohol.

“You know I’m a patient man, don’t you, honey?” he rasps, hungry eyes taking in your face. God, you’re even more perfect up close.

He feels you nod, the gesture a little timid. Something in his chest blooms at the look in your eyes—when it was steady before, cool under the hot spotlights, he can feel a slight change swirling in it. It’s been there, brewing since he closes the door to this room. Blooming when he pays all of his attention to you while you eat.

Nervous. Just from being with him.

He takes a step forward, slowly cornering you into the wall. Your eyes widen slightly as you look up at him. He sees you swallow, breath hitched, a hand on his chest ready to push him away.

When you don’t, his blood sings.

“Patch—”

“It’s just us, sweet thing,” he purrs, correcting you. You exhale a little shakily.

“...Logan.”

He hums, pleased at the sound of your voice calling his name. What he’d do to make you sing it louder, like you’re begging for him—he’s had plenty of dreams where you haunt him with just your voice, cooing, coaxing him to unravel you, to take you—

“Not sure I can be so patient anymore,” he says, his body brushing against yours. A hand rests on your waist, pulling you close. The other that’s on your cheek slides down to your jaw before nestling at the back of your neck, craning your head so you’re looking directly up at him.

“What do you mean?” you whisper, staring at his chin instead. If you looked into his eyes right now, you’d wither.

Lips press against your ear. The touch is undemanding, but firm, warm breath eliciting a gasp from you. Your hand on his chest catches him tensing at the sound.

“Means I want you. Now,” he answers, voice low. His hand on your waist slides down to your hip, tugging you until your breath stops—he’s hard. Your chest heaves.

Pulling away, he looks at you. You wonder what you look like. You feel feverish.

“Will you let me have you?”

A warm, calloused hand slips onto your naked thigh through the slit of your dress, and your knees are so close to buckling. Heels knock into the wall behind you, but there’s nowhere to run.

…do you even want to?

Madripoor is filth dressed up as a gemstone. The city’s deceitfulness is something Logan is accustomed to. He has seen and studied all the ways people lie.

Except for yours. The moment he takes you to the penthouse of the hotel, kissing you senseless against the locked door before carrying you to the bedroom, he feels it. The unraveling of your own brand of trickery.

Senses it through the way you slot your lips against his, how your hands glide softly down his back. He’s been with enough women to know exactly how different you are just by having you like this, under him on his bed while his mouth devours yours.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t see the woman on stage. There’s no surety in your half-lidded eyes, already glazed with desire, and certainly not in the way they avoid his own gaze, looking away over his shoulder.

Hazel eye rakes down your body. Your dress rides up, slit revealing your leg in its entirety. The cowl neck of your outfit reveals a hint of your breasts as you heave with each labored breath.

You are a seductress, just not the kind people think you are.

While you put on your mask, you feed their imaginations with easy smiles and affectionate touches. The picture-perfect illusion of a siren, dangerously alluring.

That same person is crumbling underneath him only after a few deep kisses. Averting your gaze, eyelids fluttering. Blushing.

It drives him wild.

His mouth waters as he hovers above you, still dressed. An animal wearing human clothes. His deception. He uses his hand, directing your gaze at him, smirking at the lost look on your face.

“So fucking pretty for me.”

A palm presses against your breast, lips latching onto your neck as he gets you out of the dress. As gorgeous as you look with it on, he needs to see you bare. He is slow with it, letting the straps fall first, marking the skin of your shoulders, preening as he feels your hands on his back guiding him close.

Then Logan tugs the silky fabric down, revealing your breasts. You move your arms to cover it. He doesn’t let you, grabbing them and pinning your wrists with one hand to keep you still.

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, twisting your body away from him, but that only makes you look more delicious, tits bouncing.

“Oh, honey,” he hums. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you try to shrink.

Makes him want to ruin you even more.

“I’d do whatever you ask me to, but that’s just impossible.”

He leans down, tongue lapping up a hardened peak before he uses his free hand to grab your flesh and sucks. You cry out, writhing beneath him, looking like you’re close to tears. Pleasure floods his veins, making him impatient. Where he was restrained before, he’s all relentless lust now—teeth, tongue, and lips working together to coax more of those gorgeous sounds out of you. He moves to your other breast. God, your moans…

“Logan,” you cry out, and he just about loses it.

“Fuck, you sing amazing, but that sounds even better,” he laughs, letting go of your hands so he can provoke you with both of his. The sight of your tits under his palms, slick with the attention he’s given you, nipples hard… Logan wonders whether this is a special type of heaven.

“Give me more, baby.”

You find yourself doing as you’re told, all kinds of lewd noises escaping your lips. He makes you, playing your body like some kind of instrument he’s long mastered, despite having you for the first time. When the dress comes off you entirely, you squeeze your thighs together, vaguely aware of the sopping mess that’s coalesced in your center.

Logan’s hand parts you, growling.

“No hiding.” He yanks the side of your underwear down, slipping it down your legs before tossing it. Where it lands, he couldn’t care less.

He smells you before he sees you, and his cock twitches. His good eye focuses on the glisten at the apex of your thighs, visible even in the dim light of the bedroom.

“She’s so wet already, honey,” he smiles, zeroing in at your pussy as two fingers come up to play with your folds. You arch your back, groaning. “Just from playing with your tits?”

“A-ah…”

Your thighs clamp together, but his other hand interferes just as quickly, gripping your knee to keep you spread. Fuck, he’s still fully dressed—

“So it’s all just an act? The sensual songstress,” he breathes heavily, slipping his middle finger in, watching you writhe at the sensation. He almost laughs, not out of humor, but from the way your walls clench onto his digit like you don’t want him to ever leave. “Soaked for me—”

“No, it’s not—”

“When was the last time you had a man, then, honey?” he grits, his middle finger all the way inside of you. His cock strains underneath the tent in his pants, eager to have you.

“I d-don’t remember,” you reply, your voice thin and airy.

Ideas flood his head then and there. All the ways he can make you feel good, how loud he can make you scream for him, how he’ll change you, make you want more, make you greedy—

“You’ll remember me after we’re done,” he rumbles, sliding down until your legs bracket his shoulders, head between them.

When his tongue slides up your cunt, you part your lips in a silent scream, before whines slip past your throat. He’s almost conceited in the way he eats you out, so sure, and he’s not wrong to be. Lips tease and kiss until you’re certain your lungs are short on air, all while his finger stretches your insides, reaching a part so deep you’re sure it hasn’t been touched in a long time.

Then one finger becomes two and they pump, slick sounds of your leaking cunt echoing in the room. Your hand flies to his hair, tugging needily. He moans against you, vibrations racking your body with goosebumps.

As he closes his mouth around your clit, fingers ruining you, you sob his name, cum soaking his digits.

That’s only the first one.

Logan sinks his fingers into your pussy, two fingers scissoring you. He hovers over you, mouth against your ear saying all kinds of obscenities while he stretches you in preparation for the real thing.

“Pussy so tight, baby, relax for me,” he growls, feeling you drench his fingers. The slapping sounds of his hand against you grow louder. You moan as he curls inside of you, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “Wanna make sure my dick fits inside her, yeah?”

“Fuck,” you cry weakly. He grins.

“It’s just my fingers, honey. My cock’s going to fucking ruin you, I know it. Gonna make you feel so fucking good, you won’t even look at any other guy. That right?”

Your response is an unintelligible mewl. A familiar wave crests, the knot at the bottom of your gut tightening.

“Come on, pretty girl, cum for me.”

How on earth he does it, you’re not sure. Your body obeys his command as if he has some kind of control over it, spine arching high as your hips sway, greedy for his digits, and when his thumb flicks that bundle of nerves you collapse. There’s a long drawn-out moan of his name as you spasm and shake, music to his ears.

He doesn’t waste time entering you, jacket shed, pants hanging low on his thighs—far too desperate at this point. Soon, you’re leaking all over his cock. His hand gently directs your gaze to where your bodies join, holding your chin as he feeds you his inches.

“Fuck, honey, look at that. Taking me so well.”

He moves.

A common sense of decency, the songs you sang in the set earlier, the taste of the drink he poured you—all of these things are forgotten, your mind a clean slate with each thrust of his length inside you. The way he moves is designed to make you fall apart quickly, relieving the ache in your core while making you want more, and you feel that sensation build within you again. Hands grip his biceps as you pant, eyelids fluttering up at him, drinking his expression while he spews filth at you.

“Feels so good, baby, you’re so fucking hot.” His hips snap, a squelching sound between your legs. “Hear that? So wet for me. Want more?”

You mewl a ‘yes, Logan, please’ and he grins in delight, a renewed vigor in his already ruthless pace.

“God, fuck, you’re so tight. Gonna cum on my cock?”

Nodding, you bury your face in his neck, letting out little gasps every time he sinks into you. You feel so full, like he’s all the way in your stomach—

“Tell me. Use your words, baby.”

“I-I’m so close, Logan,” you cry.

“That’s right, let go, sweet thing, let me take care of you.”

The third time your orgasm hits, you’re hit by the reality of everything, your senses honing in to register only him. The way his length drags your walls—fuck, he hasn’t stopped—, his breath on your temple, the rumble of his voice as he praises you—“good girl, doing so good,”—the world stops.

It’s just you, him, and how good it feels.

As the last waves of release begin to simmer down your limbs, electrifying your legs and fingertips, you pant, catching your breath. A gentle hand cups the fat of your cheek. You open your eyes.

Logan looks down at you, studying your utterly ruined countenance. Lips parted, cheeks burning, hair messily splayed on his pillow—the same way he imagined it would when he saw you sing just an hour ago.

That expensive lipstick hasn’t budged, though. He already knows one way he wants to ruin it.

The world spins and you let out a surprised noise as Logan flips the two of you, him on the bed and you sitting on his abs. You whine, feeling the slick smearing his shirt. He all but rips the fabric down the center, yanking it off his skin like it offended him, revealing his bare and hairy chest to you.

Hands are on your hips now, positioning you on top of his length. Your eyes widen. He’s still hard.

Once again, his cock sinks into your heat, and you melt on top of him, hands bracing on his chest, head tilted back.

“Oh my god—”

“Didn’t think I was done with you, huh, honey?” he groans, bottoming out, hand pressing on your stomach. Then his eye snaps up at you, pleased at the hazy look on your face.

“Come on, ride. Gonna fuck the shyness outta you.”

#logan x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #x men #logan howlett #wolverine x you #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine smut #logan howlett smut

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02lvr · 10 days ago

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dance like you’re drunk with me — sjy

synopsis; jake wants to be respectful as friends, but not when he accidentally starts to see you in a different way

friends (to potential fwb) au! perv jake x dancer female reader

warnings; pain and crying, masturbation, both jake and reader being pervs, sensitive, overstimulation(/edging?), didn't proofread!

now playing; haunted - beyonce

Jake felt comfortable around you since you were able to talk about anything. Jake that felt a tiny crush grow, but felt too shy to even bring it up once, but he was nice. too overly nice in the friend group, it became weird at how nice he was.

so one day you needed a ride home, and Jake would arrive at the studio unaware that it was just you. he would look in every window unaware of where you were, in gray sweatpants and messy hair of someone who forgot about his alarm and ended up sleeping past it until you were calling him wondering if he would show up.

Stumbling through every room, but the lights were off. However, he was so sure you were somewhere close by, the way the walls vibrated. He'd rub his eyes, still trying to wake up but not wanting to disappoint you once until he saw lights on.

And he would be so surprised to see you doing something so different than how he's seen you before. The way your tank top was so loose yet so tight in the right places, and how tight he started to feel. He didn't want to see you like this (or at least he thought of being respectful around you).

The bass that would hit and you'd reach the floor, practicing a movement so sensual that you'd close your eyes and he'd stare in shock at your reflection in the mirror. Jake, who doesn't know how to act but suddenly becomes so hard that he's thinking about everything you could do if you were on him just like that, all sweaty because he didn't care. He didn't care about how wet you were.

But the song would end.

Jake would knock nervously on the window, signaling for you to open the door, and you'd be shocked and jog to the door, opening it, and telling him that you wanted to practice as much as you could before he got there.

He'd try and cover himself because who would want to be with a pervert like him? he'd excuse himself to the bathroom with a lie that he was looking for your room before heading to the bathroom. So you'd nod and start packing your things since he assured you that he wouldn't take long.

He sits in a stall, painfully hard and unaware of how to get rid of the pain that he feels in his pants. so sensitive.

He was so sure that the only cure could have you help him but he didn't want to ask. he was so shy. so he decides to pull his waistband down, his dick hitting his stomach while he wraps his hand around the red-colored tip. covering his mouth, unaware if there was anyone else in the bathroom with him.

he'd cum so fast while thinking about how you'd look in his bed, but he wanted to be respectful- take you on a date and get to know you a little bit better although you trusted him. but he'd shake so bad through his second orgasm when you message him.

"I'm waiting outside :)"

He didn't want to leave you waiting, so he'd calm himself down and clean himself up, pretending that nothing happened as he left the bathroom and took you home. But the drive home would be silent, grabbing your attention and asking him if anything happened, to which he'd respond.

"no sorry, I was just asleep so I'm still trying to process that"

and so you'd nod, pretending that everything was fine. pretending that you didn't hear jake moaning so loud inside the empty bathroom that echoed everything into the hallway.

#enhypen jake smut #enhypen #jake sim #jaeyun sim #enhypen smut #enhypen jake #jake smut #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen jake imagines #enhypen jake scenarios #jake x reader #jake sim x reader #enha x reader #enhypen hard hours #enha smut #jake suggestive

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whore4mattsturniolo · 4 months ago

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Throw Away - Dealer!Chris x Stoner!Reader

In which...Chris and angel get back at each other

"Deep down...I believe you know...You're a monster too..."

The lyrics blared loud in Chris' ears, the bass shaking the seats of the car as he sped down the highway. His knuckles were starting to lose color from his harsh grip on the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving the passing bright lights in front of him.

"Go and fuck that nigga get it over with"

You and Chris hadn't seen each other in almost two months, and you found yourself almost growing desperate for his attention. Disregarding the fact that you were hooking up, he was still your dealer. Each message you sent asking for a re-up left you waiting for days, his responses dull and boring.

He even charged you for a 8th.

He insisted that you did nothing wrong, that he was just busy with other stuff, but you weren't dumb. You knew that if you weren't getting his attention someone else was.

You stopped reaching out, choosing instead to entertain a guy who had been talking to himself in your inbox for weeks. He took you out to dinner, something Chris never did. He bought you flowers, told you how beautiful you were, and paid for the bill, before taking you back to his place. The sex was alright, but at least he treated you better than Chris did.

"Does sexing on the late night mean that much to you? My love don't mean that much to you, Fucking these hoes meant too damn much to you"

He was sick. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, but his throat was tight, almost as if it was threatening to close, threatening to keep the oxygen from his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest, almost matching the beat of the song blaring from his speakers.

You weren't dating. He had made that very clear to you. No feelings, no strings attached, nothing complicated. He wasn't sleeping with anyone else, and neither were you. That's all it was. It was better that way. He liked it that way. He could do whatever he wanted with no complaints or arguments from anyone. He never had to worry about how he affected other people. That's why he chose his line of work. People got what they wanted from him, and they left him alone.

And yet, the idea of someone else touching you made him sick.

It didn't matter that you weren't his girlfriend. You were still his. You didn't anyone else. You got everything you needed from him.

"I just hope when you fucking on that nigga, when you finished, He can say that he love you"

Of course, as soon as he found out you were seeing someone, Chris made it his mission to find out everything about him. He worked as a supervisor for some tech company, lived in a huge house, and drove a white Mercedes Benz. His hair was always cut short, his face always clean shaved, his clothes always freshly pressed. He had a smile that made Chris want to knock the pearly white teeth out of his mouth. And, to make matters worse, he was tall. So tall that he had to bend down just to have a proper conversation with you.

Chris never hated anyone more.

"Now do you feel better 'bout yourself? Do you feel better by yourself? Did you feel better when I left?"

He was so angry. Angry at you for letting someone else touch you. Angry at himself for caring.

He knew no one could make you feel as good as he did. Wouldn't whisper how beautiful you looked with drool dripping down your chin. Wouldn't be able to hit that spongy spot that only his fingers could reach. Wouldn't know to curl them just right.

He kept joints in pink rolling papers in his nightstand for you. He spent almost every weekend with you. He washed the clothes you left strewn about on his floor, just so you'd have spares in his closet. He'd buy you little gifts that reminded him of you. stuffed animals, necklaces, anything he could think of.

He was tormented with the thought of you as he sped down the highway, desperately holding onto the steering wheel for some sort of comfort. He thought of the times he'd driven down the same highway, at this same time, only with you as his passenger. His hand gripping your thigh, watching as you sang along to the playlist you'd made just for nights spent with him.

"Got my dick sucked and I was thinking about you, I was fucking on a slut, and I was thinking about you"

His tongue darted out of his mouth, wetting his bottom lip that was now trapped in between his teeth, almost drawing blood. The sour taste of lip gloss lingered on his lips, the smell of cheap perfume burned into his nose. He didn't even remember her name, he barely remember looked like. His brain was too fuzzy, his vision blurry. All he knew was that she was nothing like you.

She was like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, practically throwing herself at Chris. She twirled her hair in between her fingers while she chewed her fruity gum, trying to be sexy, but only coming off a drunken idiot. He could barely even focus on what he was saying, her scratchy voice like nails on the chalkboard. At least she was hot. Eventually, he took her upstairs into an empty bedroom, away from the loud ruckus of the party.

It was terrible.

She could barely take him in her mouth without gagging, and she was more focused on looking pretty than doing her job. She rode him with uneven, ragged movements, and Chris, high off his ass, found himself almost falling asleep, the only thing keeping him away were the loud, exaggerated moans leaving her mouth.

Finally flipping her over, on her hands and knees, his mind wandered to thoughts of you. How much better you were. How perfect your back arched for him, the sounds you made as your ass bounced against his pelvis, how beautiful your moans were. His eyes closed, his imagination getting him through the night.

He softly moaned your name in between curses as he finished, releasing the pearly white liquid all over the girl's back. Not saying a word, he swiftly put his clothes back on and left the party.

"When you laying with that nigga, hope you thinking about me? 'Cause I'm thinking about you"

He pulled into his parking space, stumbling out of his car and up the stairs, mumbling and groaning as he entered his apartment. He grabbed a Pepsi out of the fridge and sank onto the couch, the feeling of the cool soda moving down his throat clearing his head. He ran his hands over his face, the image of you still burned in his mind.

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, searching for your contact. A little voice in the back of his head screamed at him, telling him to leave you alone. But he ignored it, only focused on the trill of the phone ringing. He didn't know what he would say if you even picked up, and a small part of him hoped you wouldn't. But he waited, and waited, and waited, until you finally answered.

"Don't give up on me today, Hold on to me like a true love"

a/n: only took a future song to get me out of my writers block <3 im a slut for angst so pls dont be too mad at me

inbox always open for asks, requests, or just to talk !

taglist: @yourmother29 @bowsandsturniolos @sweetshuga @sturns-mermaid @leah-sturniolo @spideylana @dykes4chris @sophsturns @mattsbunnyxx @slut4christopherr @trevorsgodmother @sosasturns @emely9274 @courta13 @mattsbrowser @oldermenwh0re @chrissweetheart @leoslaboratory @mattybsgroupie @conspiracy-ash @chriss-slutt @secretlocket @sagebutter11 @chrepsi

#✞ whore4matt #✞ dealer!chris x stoner!reader #✞ dealer!chris #✞ stoner!reader #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #sturniolos #chris sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo angst #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader

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taehub · 6 months ago

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homme fatale

Taehyung likes you. He likes you and he likes drugs.

taehyung x reader

wordcount: 4.6k

tags: thick dick taehyung, mindless fuck zombie reader, finger fucking, choking/suffocation, unprotected sex, cum stuffing, squirting, pain and pleasure, anal, hole swapping warnings: dubious consent, maybe could be considered non con, coercion, drug use, non-sober mindless fucking, don't like it, don't read it.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

───────

A vacant look, eyes blurry and head thumping to the bass bouncing off the walls. Your drink is sweet but nowhere near as sweet or deep in your stomach as the voice drifting through your ears. You can feel the wisps of his hair tickling your cheek, a soft melody loud and clear against you despite the booming music.

“Wanna have some fun?”

You don’t pause the bliss in your body to answer, your hands reaching out to grab his sweat soaked shirt for the 30th time in the past ten minutes. You barely remember him approaching you, but you do recognize his face.

A regular on saturday nights, much like you. Always watching, stolen glances, but never shared words or dances. Until now, at least.

He allows your tight grip on him, staying close enough to feel his lips against your ear lobe as he repeats the question, keeping his own hands on your waist as he sways along with you and your drunken dance.

“Hm?” He encourages an answer against you, pulling back slightly to admire your already-vacant eyes from the drinks upon drinks you’ve ordered without his help. He’s counted. You’re on your fifth drink and he can almost taste the sweet alcohol through your scent.

Anyone can see how drunk you are.

“And do what?” You sing your words out to him, unsure of if he catches it due to the way your voice hits your own ears.

Slurred, distant, barely audible over the music playing.

“Wanna burn with me?” He continues with a smile in his voice, tone sharp and clear still against your ear. Still a sweet sound. Luring, something you would follow into the darkness.

“Burn with you?” You manage to get out, your body becoming still as you stand with him in the middle of this dim lighted club.

He nods, tilting his head at you with a smirk, eyebrows arched and dangerous regardless of the expression he gives to you. His eyes shadow deep in this dim lighting as he does it, and all you can do is let him grab your hand, leading you gently from the floor and balancing you through each stumbled and clumsy step.

Only when he gets you towards the back of the club does your mind begin to spin. Likely due to your lack of moving now, unable to match the roller coaster in your brain, you feel like you’re going to fall. Off of something, onto something, into someone.

And into someone, you do fall. But, Taehyung catches you all the same, letting you lean into him with your back to his chest as he moves one arm to his back pocket to present a handful of colorful candy.

Candy?

You look at the array of colors in his hand with confusion, well aware somewhere in your mind that this is a bad idea. Already, you’ve surpassed your limit of drinking for reasons only known to you. Your reckless behavior never ceases though, as the devil on your shoulder shouts “Do it! It’s just this one time! He’s hot anyway!”

“This one–” Taehyung pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you just so he can grab a singular pill from his palm. “Will make you feel like you’re flying.” He continues, uncaring and seemingly bored with that particular skittle-shaped substance. “But this one…” He grabs another, his voice now fond and encouraging. “Will make you feel like you’re burning.”

Well, there’s no question as to which one you should take.

You nod against him, following his enthusiasm for the hellish little pill. He feels a slight chuckle rise in his chest at your absent-mindedness. He thought it would be much harder than this to get you in his arms. He takes it upon himself now to tap the pill against your lips, holding you flush against him in a tight hold.

“Open up,” He whispers against your hair.

You do it on instinct, tasting the tips of his fingers behind the sweet coating of the pill. You suck the flavor into your mouth all the same before gulping it down dry. Taehyung then spins you around to face him, and all you can do is blink up at him, seeing that his pupils are already dilated. They are so dark that they almost appear to be black, like a demon or some sort of otherworldly entity. Somehow, he looks sexier.

“Now, come.” He says, grabbing your hand again and guiding you back, back, back, into a space in the club hidden by three doors and a hallway.

You didn’t know how deep this building goes, but apparently others do. Each room is filled with different dimmed lighting, bodies, laughter, and moaning.

Somewhere, deep in your head, you feel proud to know this space exists. Taehyung must have been here several times before, as you pass room after room only to end in one that’s velvety and comfortable. Your drunken state sees two of everything, but only one of Taehyung with his close proximity to you. Clinging to you as if he’s a child, chuckling against your neck as he holds you in a suffocating hug against him.

“Close your eyes, let it hit you first.”

You’re well aware that taking pills by mouth means it will take at least thirty minutes to hit, but there’s something in your gut washing over you, making you feel warm.

Too warm, too fast.

You were already sweating but now, you feel almost cold with the amount of moisture against your skin within this tight hold.

“Ah–” You groan, trying to push Taehyung away. You feel like you’re suffocating already, like you need to crawl out of your skin.

“It’ll pass–” He soothes you, holding you even tighter.

───────

“Oh, pretty, you look so warm.” Taehyung’s voice echoes in your head, bouncing off the empty walls behind your eyes and amplifying the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

You’ve overdone it. Taking an unknown substance isn’t something you’d never do, but taking it from someone you’ve never once spoken to before tonight, despite recognizing him? It’s new, and it’s terrifying.

Your blood was already boiling over from heat as you danced with him, now it feels as if you’re filled with nothing but steam. The intense sticky feeling against your skin feels restricting, and with him staying so close, equally as heated as you are, you can imagine you must look like a mess along with it.

It’s like you’re melting, with your fingers gripping at your skin as you try to get out of it, only for the pads of your fingers to slip with no grip to them at all. You need ice, or snow, or to be anywhere but in this hot room with nothing but fire to feel.

“I know, it’s scary the first time, isn’t it?” Taehyung smiles knowingly, tugging at your sticky black sweater, the rips and holes in it doing nothing to help you cool down. “Let me help you.”

Thinking straight isn’t on your agenda, only panic as you feel new sensation after new sensation take you by the throat. It’s not that it feels bad either. It’s just that it feels so good you can barely stand it. Like you’re going insane. Like you can and will do anything you want without consequence.

You breathe in deep, feeling your sweater being tugged at by the blurry man, and instantly lift your arms. Relief overwhelms you when the cold air of the room hits your glistening body, goosebumps rising as Taehyung continues to undress you. Each drag of the fabric on your skin feels like heaven, and the air that hits it after feels even more heavenly.

He smiles a wicked grin, pulling you up from the slippery leather of the sofa by the chains attached to your shorts, luring you straight against him.

You can hear the chains rattling as he unclasps them, the weight of them lifting from your hips as his fingers go straight to your button and zipper.

“Yeah.” He confirms for himself as he feels the entirety of your clothing dampened by sweat. “You’re burning up, baby.”

You nod, each removed clothing item cooling you down by the minute until he’s got you standing in front of him in just your bra and panties before he lets you fall back on the couch. You watch him with drowsy eyes, a smile perking up at your lips with the way your body is now hit with a wave of cool, calming euphoria.

He lifts his arms in front of you, standing tall and proud in his black clad outfit, hair sticking to his forehead, v-line on his pelvis peeking from under a shirt too short for his torso. You stare at his skin, longing for it, wanting to clamp your teeth down and feel how warm he is compared to you. And he’d probably let you, if his now naked chest and shaking hands holding himself over you are anything to go by.

“Looking like you wanna eat me up.” He whispers in a snide tone. Knowing you’d probably do just about anything he asks of you. “With a mouth so pretty, I think I’d let you.”

You moan at a phantom feeling of heaviness in your gut, feeling like you’re being touched from the inside out. He’s just hovering, watching you, maintaining eye contact.

Pupils blown and so wide, he can’t help but let you drink in the image of him as he does the same for you. So much to see in you, with that dumbed down little head of yours. He knows what you’re thinking and how you’re feeling, after all, he’s felt like this countless times. So many times he’s learned to control it himself now.

You’re lost in a world of new pleasure, and he’s the one who gets to guide you through it. Like a brainless pleasure zombie, breathing, warm, pulsing in your flesh. A tight and wet hole all for him, any of the three if he so pleases. You’d please too, as he remembers begging for it much like you’re about to.

Before you realize it, your eyes are welling up with salty tears. You don’t know why, but perhaps you’re just too overwhelmed by the jolts of pleasure shooting through you. Still, he’s not touching you. It feels like your body is on the verge of an orgasm every minute or two, skin shivering through the heat and your mind seeing everything in bursts of colors with each deep breath and thump of your heart.

“Ahh–” You sigh out, your hips jutting up against nothing and no one, and still he just watches.

Mostly because Taehyung, too, wishes he could crawl out of his skin, only he prefers to crawl into yours. He may be in more control through experience alone but his brain is also fogged, he is also needy, despite knowing he’s the one who needs to be thinking straight, you make it difficult.

Thinking straight isn’t that big of a deal though, because the act is mindless. To fuck is mindless. There are no instructions, not for him anyway. You though, you will be told how to look, what to do, how to feel, and you will listen easily. No fighting, not with that pretty heaving chest of yours, and that dripping hole between your legs.

Ah, he wonders if…if you were sober, would you still want him as badly as you do now? Would he need to make sure you’re burning or flying first? Because, fuck, he’s wanted you for weeks. Never did you approach him though. This was his only option. Wait til you’re drunk, fuck you up more, then make you want it.

He basks in the way you yearn for it. For him is what he tells himself, knowing you’d be this way towards just about anyone if it were someone other than him who is doing this to you. That's how the pill works, anyway. He will play pretend though, and let the euphoria whisp you both away.

And he watches, and he watches. The way you hump up against nothing, failing to grip anything with both your needy hands and your dissociated little head. The sight is more beautiful than the first day he saw you. There, on the dance floor alone, ignoring everyone around you, ignoring him.

“Ahh–” He mimics you. “That’s right baby, say ahh.”

You do, feeling as if each released breath pushes you more and more over the edge, making your insides feel less tight. Ahh, ahh, ahh. Constant groaning as your body writhes for something, for anything.

Taehyung inspects your open mouth, feeling a heavy twitch run from the head of his cock straight to his balls and it takes everything in him not to pull it out and stuff your mouth full. Instead, he slides his fingers in, slowly, deeply. So far down your throat that he’s shocked you don’t gag. You just lap at the underside of his fingers, blinking up at him, letting your throat restrict around them. Needy, wanting more sensations to bask in.

He moans in response to that, looking at you with the same heat pooling in every end of his body. His fingers feel heavy, soaked in your spit and vibrating against your moans.

“Gag.” He demands, jutting his fingers in further, scissoring them open to try and get that numb feeling in your body to react. He wants to see you struggle for him.

You do gag after that, though you were unable to feel any pain. His fingers press sensitive areas so deep, pressing the back of your tongue down before flicking his fingertips up and making you gag again, and again.

Until your saliva is bubbling out around your fingers, until his cock is weeping in his pants to feel the same sensation his fingers have right now.

Maybe he should do it.

The sound of his zipper being undone feels like a roar of thunder, your eyes shooting down to the action as he fucks his fingers in and out of your mouth a few more times, his eyes not leaving the way your lips suckle around them. You see a blur of his cock whip out, leaking, angry, pulsing as he holds it in one hand and takes a short step towards you.

There, he places himself right in front of you, one leg lifting to the couch at your side, the other standing right between your legs as he pulls his fingers from your mouth and instantly finds purchase in your hair. There, he guides you forward before you can even comprehend what’s happening, and he’s parting your lips right on the head of his cock and pushing in.

All the way in.

Until it hits the back of your throat and your eyes roll back swallowing around it in a gag. Your lips are stretched out impossibly wide, they feel like they could split at the corners if he were to circle his hips.

And his moan that fills the rooms booms louder than any sound you’ve heard tonight. Loud, drawn out, rattling deep from his chest as if it’s a sound that tore through him to get out. His hand in your hair tightens when he holds you there, pressing his hips forward to fit himself impossibly deeper into the wet hole, and he just stands there feeling how you struggle.

“Fucking perfect–” He groans, standing in place and relishing the way your throat jerks him off. He doesn’t need to fuck it, you’re fucking him right now. “This throat, so wet.”

He breathes through his nose, throwing his head back and still holding yours down on him.

“Tight little hole.” He pulls out just an inch, and fucks back in, fitting himself somehow tighter into your mouth. Letting you gag, feeling the way the wet walls hug, choke, and stimulate all parts of his cock, leaving none of him neglected.

You know you can’t breathe, even when you try to use your nose, but somehow that doesn’t bother you right now. You’ve felt suffocated this whole time, it’s actually difficult to recognize when you’re actually suffocating. Taehyung glances down again, noting the whites of your eyes and the way little veins start to burst. That vein on your forehead indicates that you can’t breathe, and he’d do well to let you.

But he doesn’t. Not yet anyway, as he tilts your head back by the hair and watches you. The way your eyes are just as wet as your throat, and how you continuously swallow around him, fingers gripping at nothing and everything at the same time. He knows tilting your head back like this only makes the suffocation worse, but goddamn does it feel even better.

Short, tight thrusts bruise you as he continues, dark eyes fixated on how open your mouth is, and the way your eyes stay wide and open to look back at him. He knows you can barely see him though, too dissociated to recognize what you’re letting him do, too dissociated to put a name to a face, or to really care about the consequences of this.

Finally, when your hands that were trying to grab at him fall to your sides, he pulls out with a wet, sloppy sound. Holding the base of his cock with his free hand and keeping your head tilted back with the other.

Your mouth is wide open for him, throat still constricting as if it’s still trying to pleasure him, and he smiles at you still. Leaning down just slightly to lick against your top lip just to see you chase his mouth now. And you do. As if none of that just happened, you chase him for more. He knew you would, feeling you try to lick back at his small, intimate gesture, whining all the way until you reach it.

It’s a mess for you in your head right now, so much so that you barely recognize that you throw him off balance as you chase. To the point you knocked him back, both of you falling to the floor with you on top of him. And fuck, he knows what you’re gonna do.

He remembers what he did the first time he felt like this and managed to find himself on top. He couldn’t fight you off if he tried.

You writhe all the same though, just like you did when you were under him, just like you did when he had his cock in your throat, and he feels every wiggle, press, and vibrate of your skin right now. You slide up and down, chasing his lips, seemingly not sure what to do with yourself. Tongue lapping at his cheeks, into his mouth, tasting the sweat on his forehead. You’ve never felt so hungry for this before, and you can’t help yourself. Each movement bumps his cock, it skews your bra, letting your tits fall out and against him, it draws moans out of both of you.

Mindlessly.

Perhaps he could stop you and take back control, seeing you grow more and more vacant. To a level he’s never seen anyone reach, to a level he’s never been able to reach. You’re really trying to take from him?

“You have no idea how pathetic you look right now.” He hums out, feeling the way your hot tongue slides all across his face and neck. “So helpless, weak. Just gonna take whatever I give you?”

You hum back in delight at his offer, nodding, repeatedly letting out moans of “mhm” and “please.”

“Yeah.” He encourages it, slipping one hand up to your tit and pinching hard at your nipple. You arch your back at it, lifting from him as you feel the pain shoot all the way through you in a wave of pleasure. “All you’re good for is to make me cum, isn’t that right baby?”

You cry out as he pinches again, his fingernails digging deep against your nipple. The goosebumps rise against your skin repeatedly, non stop, and all you can do is nod more aggressively at his words.

Instantly, you’re dizzy, seeing stars as he shoots up and against you, pulling at your bra so hard that it singes your skin. His mouth is instantly on your nipple as he presses forward, tipping you back. Your head hits the floor, rattling your brain inside and forcing the stars already in your eyes to double.

Still, you moan at it, letting your lips fall open under him as you lick out into the heavy air in the room. You don’t feel it at first, the way his fingers play with you the same way they did with your mouth. He slides three into you at once briefly, and then–

“T-thank you,” You mumble, feeling the head of his cock press past his fingers, plunging all the way in as he drops his head to yours.

“Thank you?” He chuckles before flexing his abs, twitching himself intentionally inside of you as a means to stretch you out. “For what, baby, what are you thanking me for?”

He pulls back, thrusting in again with a pointed, harsh press.

“Thank you–” You mumble again, feeling everything all at once. The burning in your gut, the thick and hard cock fucking you open, the way your clit radiates with heat– “thank you, thank you, t-”

He fucks forward again, faster now. Loud slaps fill the room as he stares down at you with a hold to his breath, seemingly unable to fuck you fast enough, hard enough, deep enough. And still you’re babbling appreciation, repeated words of “th-th-th-an-thank-you, than-k you, thank y-yo-you”

Each time he bottoms out, you stutter, you moan, you lick out like a demon in heat. As if this still isn’t enough despite the force behind his hips. Despite the thanks, despite it all.

He tears his fingers out of you, keeping pace with his cock, and instantly sticks them into your ass instead. The tight fit squishing all three fingers together, but oh, that choked sob you let out is music to his ears. Sobbing now, and still thanking him.

His fingers press in, his cock fucks so deep, and then…you gag yourself. So needy for it, to be filled at all ends, you shove your own fingers down your throat and beg your mind to pretend it’s him. It’s him. It’s him.

And you believe it too, with the way you fuck your own mouth so painfully, drooling all over yourself as Taehyung basks in the imagery.

“Just like that.” He encourages you through a released breath.

“Gag on it.”

And you do, forcing your fingers deep, gagging around them and sputtering moans through wet gasps. He manages after that, pulling out of you entirely just to fit his cock somewhere else, staring down now at your gaping cunt, needy and pulsing open, loose, dripping. He watches the way it flinches when he pops the head of his cock into your ass, grabbing both of your legs and bending them to your chest. Wide open, every part of you.

Open and wet.

He fucks forward painfully now, feeling the dry heat of your ass clench him so tight he feels like he’s being strangled. Your moans go quiet at that, fingers falling from your lips in a silent scream of pain. He likes that. He likes that you’re this gone, he likes the way your ass clenches and tries to push him out. But he loves seeing this pussy so empty. So, so empty.

Taehyung glances up at your face for a moment, so curled into yourself all for him to fuck, and he sees you in full. The way your eyebrows furrow and eyes pour out those salty little tears. You’re loving it, he can tell. And, back down his eyes go, right back to your needy cunt.

“Every part of you fucking whines.” He breathes in disbelief, sucking the saliva in his mouth to the tip of his tongue and feeding it to your pussy. He watches it, the way it drops in and slides down the abused hole. And then, his hips move freely.

The slide of his precum slicking up your tight ass and allowing for a deeper, more pleasurable fuck now. He doesn’t mind the small amount of blood he knows thats there, he doesn’t think you do either, especially when your entire body clenches up with a loud, pornographic “Fuck!” coming out of your chest, followed shortly by a “Yes! yes! yes!”

It drives him on, as if it hyper-focuses him on what he’s doing. He thrusts forward, fast, hard, pushing your legs into your chest so painfully that all you can do is bask in the pain. Your ass is burning, your pussy is hot, and your clit…neglected.

Still, it’s in you. You feel it wanting to push out, and you can’t help it when you do.

Taehyung watches the clench, the way your pathetic cunt shakes in front of his eyes and the other hole clenches him so tight that all he can do is force himself into it and hold it there. A splash hits him then, without comprehension he acts, pulling out of your ass so fast and shoving right back into that drenched pussy of yours, quivering, squirting all over yourself for nothing but the pain he’s giving you.

“Messy, messy.” He coos. “Gotta plug you up.”

His voice is far away as your body shifts with his movements, seemingly trying to literally plug you up with his cock. Forcing the pressure inside of you to sit, as if you can only explode to get rid of it. And still your legs shake against your chest. As if you’re not burning now, you’re freezing. Shivering, feeling ruined, but so, so good.

“All the way.” He adds, unable to hold back his own orgasm.

He tenses up, pressing impossibly deeper and letting all of his cum spill out and into you. Holding you there, both hands wrapped around your thighs and forcing your pussy against him even harder. You feel each pulse of it, every drip, spurt, and shiver of his cock inside of you. And he stays like that, moaning filthy words that you can’t comprehend, sweat dripping onto you. You want nothing more than to stick out your tongue and catch every drop of it like the first rain of spring, but you can’t, not when you’re essentially locked in place like this.

Still, he doesn’t move. His cock stays stiff and painfully hard even after his orgasm as he grunts, now muttering to himself words of “every drop. every, last fucking drop.”

He means those words too, letting your quivering body milk it out of him, all of it until he very quickly pulls out and cups his hand at your cunt, as if to keep any from spilling out.

“Cross your legs.” He demands now, like you’d consider fighting him on it.

You try, but your body is weak, and you’re still shivering. He helps you, or rather, forces you. Using both hands to cross your legs before quickly grabbing your hand to replace his. He picks out four of your fingers before uncomfortably skewing your hand, shoving them into you and pressing your hand hard.

“Good.” He hums. “Stay like that.”

You’re not sure how long he’s going to leave you here like this, but it’s not like time matters too much to you right now. You don’t even know what day it is anymore, or where you are. You don’t care either, even as you hear the heavy door slam and silence overtake you.

───────

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