#please do heed the warnings in the video

[icyrose-cat]

side camp character pmv that i finished in like two days

[sodapopseagull]

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 44 OF SEEN ON AO3!!!

Some scribbles for Seen by ayvaines on AO3! The last chapter wrapped up with such a sweet scene and some gorgeously vivid descriptions of how the lads were dressed and I knew I had to draw them 💜

If you haven't read Seen, it's a gorgeous modern AU told from Astarion's POV where he and his terrible partner Cazador join a D&D game DMed by Gale. It's so human and the writing is poetic and loaded with immersive sensory details which I personally really appreciate. Do heed the warnings, but please go check it out if it sounds like something you'll enjoy 🙏

Also- I legit thought the coffin nail necklace was a coffin-shaped press-on nail, like for a manicure, stuck on a chain. I was like, "quirky but okay, slay" and I am so glad I googled it before drawing LMAO idk if I could have ever come back from that.

[inkykeiji]

what now?

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut + angst

notes: eeeee happy birthday dabi!!! sorry i’m a day late, and sorry i keep writing angst for your birthday. this piece is set directly after dabi’s touya reveal, in that dingy little safe house he seems to love so much! please heed the warnings below and stay safe!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dom/sub dynamics, use of master/owner/sir, fem!reader, minimal prep, biting, branding, blood, the piece switches between both dabi and touya as names, size kink + size difference, spanking, objectification, degradation + dumbification, a lil bit of praise, dabi’s pretty mean when he’s fucking, dabi carries reader, toxic relationship, dacryphilia, choking

words: 8.8k

It’s dark by the time he returns, reeking of charred flesh and ash. He had stashed you away in a decaying little safe house—a place no one else knew about, a place that was his and his alone—and had told you to wait for him. He had promised he’d return to you, no matter how long it took, no matter what happened, he’d be back, pinky swear.

Touya never breaks his pinky swears. Dabi might, though.

You had seen his video. You had been watching the news just like he told you to, anxious, waiting for any sign or indication of trouble, of terror, but the heat and the dust had been too much for the news cameras to penetrate, and there had been no reports of casualties on either side. 

Yet. 

It’s astonishing to think that the whole world knows his name now—his true name, the one buried in his blood and his bones, the one staining his soul, the one he can’t snuff out, no matter how hard he tries. You remember the first time he told it to you. 

“Touya.” 

He had said suddenly, randomly, while laying in bed with you one night back at the League’s hideout—back before all of this was set in motion, back when there was just the gentle clink of glass sounding beneath the floorboards, followed by a muddled curse and the rapid mashing of plastic buttons. 

It was muttered out in the dead of the night, when the wind was stagnant and the moonlight shimmered through grimy windows, brilliance of the beams diffused by the dirt, turning everything a hazy silver, glinting off his stitches.

“Hmm?”

“That’s my real name. Touya.”

“Touya,” you had murmured to yourself, rolling the letters around on your tongue, allowing them to seep into your flesh. “It’s beautiful.”

“Todoroki Touya.”

Oh.  

“It’s still beautiful,” you said softly, after several moments of silence, feeling Dabi melt beneath your words, tender yet resolute. “Even if the man who gave it to you isn’t.”

“Yeah,” he had responded, though his voice had sounded weird to his ears; odd, off, broken. “Fuck that guy.”

And that had been it. You hadn’t made a big deal about it, or pushed him to tell you more, or badgered him with questions and curiosities about his past. You had just accepted it and continued on. 

He had offered up shards of information over the next few months, always murmured out in the dead of night, always a piece and never a whole, always something too jagged to fit with any of the other pieces of his jigsaw he had gifted you. 

But it didn’t matter. Who he was, his past, the name he carries around and DNA twined inside his body—none of it mattered. He was, and will always be, the man you love, irregardless of the name he was born into, and the curse it bears.

The harsh unlatching of that decrepit painting startles you from your stewing thoughts, your gaze snapping toward the noise just in time to catch Dabi crawling through the trick window, entrance hidden behind the heavy gilded frame. 

Your legs toss themselves off the fraying couch the instant his gaze meets yours, heart kickstarting thick bouts of adrenaline to rush through your veins, footsteps keeping time with the tattered exhales each bang of your heart sends barrelling up your throat, body colliding into his only a moment later.

He catches you with ease, laughing loudly as he sweeps you from the floor, strong arms locked at the wrists around your lower back. Instinctively, your ankles hook together at the base of his spine, fingers immediately wandering into the dirty hair at the nape of his neck, whole body wound around his own.

He’s still laughing, bright and breathless and so, so beautiful, even as he crushes his lips to yours, even as your tongue pries past his teeth and slams against his own. It spills down your throat in warm vibrations and you swallow it readily, greedily, hands sinking further into tufts of ink-tinged ivory and twining the strands around your knuckles, desperate to tug him closer. 

The tang of death stings your tongue, earth and copper and smoke, so poignant you swear you can taste their screams, those who lost their lives to his flames and Machia’s feet and the rubble left in their wake, but you don’t care.

You don’t care, because he’s here, he’s home, he’s safe and back in your arms, with his teeth clacking against yours and his spit flooding your mouth and his unruly little giggles consistently breaking the flow of your lips. 

“Did you see it? Huh? Did you see it?” he hurls the words into your mouth, lips still mashed against your own but spread in a smile, sapphire eyes twinkling.

“I did,” you confirm with a nod, tips of your noses nudging. “I did, it was brilliant; you were brilliant, baby.”

“I know,” he snickers, foreheads knocking together, breath wafting in small, ragged pants across your face as his feet begin to move, unable to stand still. “It couldn’t have gone more perfect, I swear to fuckin’ Christ. It was—It was better than I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t even believe it.”

Words continue to tumble from his lips in excited gasps as he twirls in wide lopsided circles slow and careless around the decaying little safe house, his boots conjuring small puffs of dust beneath their soles.

“I wish you could’ve been there, baby, honest. I wish you could’ve seen that fucker’s face, it was fuckin’ priceless, and—Oh! Fuck, how could I forget the best part!” 

Halting his whirling, he pulls back to look at you more resolutely, as if he has to see the whole picture, sapphire darting around your face all wild and erratic, his smile spreading impossibly wider; uncanny, inhuman, eyes glowing with the thrill of the secret he’s about to spill.

“Shouto was there, too! How much happier could a coincidence get!” 

“Shouto?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be there, but seriously, it was the cherry on top.” 

His feet begin to move again, resuming his impromptu dance number, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, overflowing from his orifices—smile stretching, chest swelling. 

“His presence is what really made it spectacular, you know? Sure, dad was broken, but Shouto…” Dabi shakes his head. “Little baby Shouto was knocked off his fucking feet.”

“Oh, I can only imagine…” 

…How horrifying of a realization it must’ve been; how terrifying it must’ve felt to encounter your father’s worst mistake in the breathing, bloodied flesh.

“I doubt he even remembers me—” Dabi continues, “he was only five or so when I died; he barely knew me at all.” He laughs, but it sounds tangled, caught on something buried in his throat. “Imagine that! Your big brother, only ever a ghost haunting your life, back from the grave!” 

“I’m sure he was very shocked,” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his again, fingers combing through the hair at the back of his skull. 

“Shocked? Baby, he was beyond shocked. He was—He was—I don’t even have a word for it!”

Another laugh spills from his lips, jagged and squeaky and full of razors. 

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful genuine happiness looks on him, even if it’s tinted with derangement—the edges of his smile a little too sharp, the glint in his eye a little too vicious.  

“The whole thing sounds magnificent,” you admit, soft and genuine, lips brushing his own. “I’m so happy it went so well.”

“It was perfect,” he gushes in a sigh. “The only way it could’ve been any more perfect is if mom, Yumi, and Natsu were there—but I’m sure they all caught the broadcast.”

You’re sure they did, too. That news programme had been playing on every major screen across the entirety of Japan; you’d have to be buried beneath a rock to have missed it.

He’s still babbling, feet still hopping and skipping around with you cradled tightly to his chest as the anticipation of his return finally wears off, clears from your system, and you take a real, good look at him. 

And your heart sinks.

New burns have bubbled up on his cheeks, leaving only a sliver of skin between them and the scars below his eyes. Staples have snapped in half, hanging precariously from chunks of dead flayed flesh, their broken edges tinged an ugly black, burnt by Todoroki flames. Speckles of crimson are splattered artfully across his hair—though whether they belong to him or someone else, it’s hard to tell—the small remaining patches of healthy skin marred by dried black dye. 

“Baby,” you breathe, struggling to keep your smile from trembling, struggling to keep concern from seeping into your voice. “You’re filthy.” 

“Yeah, you should’a saw the other guy!” he giggles at his own joke, strident and sticky in his throat, but his smile is still so bright.

“And you’re hurt.”

He blows a dismissive breath from between his lips. “Can barely feel a thing, though—and I’m not even rolling right now!” 

“Still,” you say, a frown beginning to weight the corners of your grin. “You should let me clean you up.”

“But it isn’t even painful.”

“Still,” you repeat, tender fingers brushing strands of white back from his forehead. “I want to clean you up.” 

Begrudgingly, he allows it, sat on the closed toilet lid and continuing to chatter on as you tend to his wounds, words bubbling up on breathless excitement, massive smile still slapped, almost uncomfortably so, across his face.

Oxygen keeps escaping him before he finishes his sentences, everything bouncy and enthusiastic, and it’s such a stark contrast to the Dabi you’re used to, with his languid apathetic drawl and unhurried, uninterested speech. 

And despite the subject matter, it’s nice, it’s cute. 

He tells you about his father’s paralyzation and the tears in Shouto’s eyes and the horrified panic coating their faces as careful fingers dab and wipe and smear, meticulous in their task, devoted to their cause, your head nodding along with his endless recounter, emitting the perfectly placed ooh’s and mhmm’s, asking questions when the opportunities present themselves.

And even though you love seeing him this way, full of pure joy and exhilaration, you can’t quite kill the question sprouting in the depths of your mind, chewing on the back of your brain.

What now?

It’s on the tip of your tongue, searing your tastebuds, begging to be spoken. You try to swallow it down, but it claws at the back of your tongue, clinging, curling up in your throat and refusing to be forgotten. 

What now? What’s going to happen now that Enji knows of his existence? What’s going to happen the next time he encounters his eldest child, swathed in the flames he once cherished so dearly, praised so hopefully, eating away at his boy as his hatred burns higher, blazes brighter, consumes his blood and flesh and bones and hopefully swallows down the monster that bred him in the process? 

Will there even be anything left at all? Of either of them?

Does Dabi even care? Does Touya? 

You know he’s still in there, despite the fact that his heart’s been corroded by the bitterness that’s been festering inside of him for eleven years—you’ve seen him. 

You’ve seen him, trailing along with Toga, causticity eating at his teeth as he spits that she’s fucking stupid, this is so fucking stupid, but allowing himself to be led anyway, zero resistance as her tiny hands tug him along behind her bouncing form, feet following willingly. 

You’ve seen him, meticulously picking through the glass bowls at the League’s small Halloween get together, checking and then double checking that everyone’s favourite candy is there, growling that he really doesn’t give a fuck, actually, he’s just looking for his own all the while, despite the fact that his fingers have skipped over that particular chocolate bar several times. 

You’ve seen him, on those nights where Tomura just can’t get to sleep, sprawled out on the couch in the early hours of the morning, dirty boots an inch from Tomura’s crossed legs, staring blankly at his phone and waving Kurogiri off with a go to bed already, old man. 

 So what now?

“He tried to cool me down.”

The sudden switch to a quiet, monotonous voice snaps you from your tangle of thoughts, eyes refocusing on Dabi’s face, realizing you’ve rubbed a streak of his cheek near raw. 

“What?”

“Shouto. He tried to cool me down. With his ice.” A pause, a drop of blood, balancing precariously on his lash line. “Like…Like how mom used to.” 

His Adams apple bobs with the heft of a thick swallow, his eyes blank and unblinking, staring at your shoulder. 

The blood in your veins runs frigid, hand held rigid and hovering over his wounds.

“During the fight?” 

His gaze stays fixed on that spot as he nods, slowly, just once. 

“I was overheating, and he…” 

Another beat of silence passes, the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears, harsh and fast with the rapid beating of your heart. The blood collecting along his lashes finally overflows, escaping their confines to pool in the crinkles of dead skin and coat gold in crimson.

“Hey,” you murmur, so gentle, so soft it inspires a second wave of blood, dainty hands cupping his jaw and tilting his face to yours. 

Thumbs swipe through the thick streams of scarlet trickling down his cheeks, smearing bright strokes across healthy skin. His eyes, red and glazed but tearless, hold yours for a moment, his nostrils twitching twice. 

Beneath your palms, the hinges of his jaw flex with another dense swallow, warped smile wobbling a little.

“Whatever,” he says, voice less than an octave off from normal. “Doesn’t matter, not important.”

It does, you want to say. It is, you want to insist—

“All I want to do now is celebrate the best day of my life with the love of my life.”

Saliva pools beneath your tongue, the threat of tears thick in your throat.

“Touya…” your eyes search his face, worry woven into the wrinkles between your furrowed brow. “It—”

“Please,” he whispers, so quiet it’s barely more than a wisp of air, his eyes closing briefly for a moment as he gathers himself, lids lifting a second later. “Let me have this.” 

You want to, you so desperately want to—want to allow him this space to be happy, unfiltered and unadulterated, even in all of it’s unhinged, brainsick fervour. You don’t want to ruin this for him, the self-proclaimed Best Day of His Life, but…

What now?

It’s nipping at your lips, leaving them tingling and twitching, but you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and suck, melting the question in the smothering heat. 

Now is not the time to ask. You will save this question, will fold it into a neat little shape and stash it away in your stomach, where it will rage and roar and demand to be spoken, where you will shove it down and stomp it into submission until it is time to be released.

You refuse to steal this moment from him.

“Okay,” you finally murmur, stroking his blood-slicked cheeks. “Okay.”

It’s hard to ignore the concern scraping at the walls of your skull, to disregard the talons tearing at your heart, to snuff out the flames licking at your lungs, but you’ll do it for him.

Always for him.

And for the first time tonight, his smile softens, sharp edges gone melty with love.

Large hands, hardened by blue fire and the ends of Marlboros, skim up your bare thighs, the callouses adorning his palms scraping roughly against sensitive skin, inspiring trails of chills in their wake. The hem of your dress pools around his wrists as his touch climbs higher, filthy fingers, with dirt caked beneath their nails and grime lining their cuticles, wiggling their way beneath a frilly pink waistband, curling almost protectively around your hips, tips digging into supple flesh just shy of too hard.

“A perfect day deserves a perfect end, don’t you think?” 

The question drips from his lips in a sultry murmur, stare heavily lidded as he tugs you down into his lap, a leering smirk smeared across his face. 

“Oh, yeah?” your arms wind around his neck, nose bumping against his own. “And what’s that?” 

“Stuffing my favourite girl full of my cum.” 

Lips trace along the edge of your jaw as he speaks, words leaving sloppy strokes of saliva as his mouth moves against you skin. 

“Over,” kiss, “And over,” kiss, “And over again, until it’s leaking out of her pretty little pussy, all over her pretty thighs, all over my pretty cock.”

“I think that—ah—I think that’s a great way to end the day.”

“Mm,” he hums, painting a flat, wide stroke of saliva up the column of your neck, the tip of his tongue tracing your cupids bow, nose bumping against your own. “It’s my favourite way to end the day.” 

His lips press to yours, tongues finding each other instantly, dragging across one another in crude, sloppy caresses, heavy and slow and firm as they grind, massaging together in little circles. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soak up his taste, to permanently imbue your tastebuds with it, to keep a little reminder of him—a single piece—with you forever. 

It’s messy, thick drool oozing from the seams of your conjoined mouths, but you don’t care, licking excess saliva from the corners of his mouth, sucking the dribble steadily collecting on his bottom lip, lapping up the foamy spit coating his chin staples, leaving them gleaming with you. 

Lips clash again, teeth gnawing their way into the warm, wet heat of mouths, desperate to devour any part of each another you possibly can, sucking gasps and mewls and laughs from one throat into another, inhaling shards of your souls and swallowing them down, burying them in pits of stomachs and depths of guts—keepsakes, kept safe.

You can taste his blood in your mouth, salty with the tears that can’t fall, trickling from the edges of his eyes. Unfurling from your mouth, the tip of your tongue licks a thin strip up his ragged cheeks, over dead skin and warm bumpy metal, sopping up crimson sadness and consuming it. 

You hold it for him, extract it from him, bear it with him, letting it soak into your heart where it can stay, for as long as he needs it to.

But that isn’t enough for him, because he wants something in return; he wants your blood, too.

Sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, sucked taut and pressed tight to his tongue, a muted chuckle vibrating in his chest at your responding yelp. The strong hinges of his jaw flex, burrowing ivory deep, deep, deeper into your flesh, until the barrier snaps and copper explodes on his tongue, sticky and potent and so, so much. 

He refuses to release you, ribs rattling with a growl when you try in vain to tug your lip free from its captors, a sob hitching in your throat, followed by a wheezy whine. 

“Stay put, goddamn it,” he mumbles the words through his occupied teeth, tongue stroking your lip in the process. “M’not finished.” 

Your squirming stops almost instantly, body deflating into his own, and he huffs out a snort, hot against your face. 

The grip of his teeth loosens marginally, the tip of his tongue laving over the steadily weeping wound in firm, thorough strokes, tracing every indent his teeth left behind, dips rapidly swelling and filling with watered down blood, a mold of six teeth carved into your flesh. 

The strength of his suction increases, siphoning fresh blood from the tiny gashes, and he moans a little, eyes rolling back in his skull as fluttery lashes frame the whites, his hips twitching up. 

Sicko. 

His cock is already hard, rutting into your core in irregular little movements, the lace of your panties so delicate you swear you can feel it throbbing, his motions molding the dainty fabric to your soaking folds with every slight jerk upward.

Slim fingers flex, grip on your hips tightening and further burying his nails in your flesh as he forces you to begin rocking in his lap, grinding down to meet each roll up.

His lips have left your own again, his mouth streaked with your blood, a pretty pink shimmer glazing the bottom half of his face. Blood is still trickling from the six tiny slashes his teeth left, overflowing from the seam of your mouth and flowing down your chin in unbroken streams. 

Swiping a thumb through the thin floods, he smears sticky crimson across your skin, collecting a healthy swap of the substance on the pad of his finger—so much so it begins dripping down the curve to settle in the lines of his knuckle and his palm.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, repeating the action, painting you in messy shades of yourself. “Just beautiful.” 

A whimper slips through your lips, eager tongue catching his thumb and curling around the appendage—protective, possessive—drawing it into the heat of your mouth. 

He lets you guide him willingly, watches with lust-blown pupils as your lips pucker around the second knuckle, slick tongue cradling his thumb as it sucks it to the roof of your mouth, pools of saliva washing your blood from his skin. 

His breath is coming out in hot, hard huffs, exhaled through parted lips as your mouth tightens, swallows his thumb down further. His pupils pulse, gnawing away at his irises as they try to devour you whole, blue so thin it’s scarcely an outline tracing gaping orbs of black.

Your hips are still gyrating against his in erratic little circles, a single palm still clasped around your waist guiding you, encouraging you as he bucks in response, straining cock rubbing along your cunt. 

It’s just barely catching your clit, nothing more than teasing little grazes, dense heat simmering in the pit of your tummy.

You need more.

“Dabi,” you whine a little, wriggling in his grasp, a desperate attempt to garner more friction. 

“Uh-huh?”

“Touya.”

“Yeah, baby,” he answers, the nonchalance in his tone contradicting the mischief glinting in his eye. “What is it?” 

Chrome chips your nails as you claw at the heavy buckle of his belt, leather squeaking against metal. His free hand captures your wrists easily, holding them together in one palm, hard enough that the bones grind together.

“You want something? Huh?” 

Brows knitting, you glare at him, bottom lip quivering a little, fighting the urge to jut into a full-blown pout, fighting the urge to spit out what do you think? 

“You know.”

He does, of course he does. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to give it to you.

“C’mon, I wanna hear you say it,” he purrs as your chin puckers, your whole face scrunched up in a scowl. “C’mon, baby, c’mon, be a good little girl and ask for it.” 

Sapphire scathes your skin, almost as bright and burning as his flames, his unadulterated attention nearly too much to bear, confidence and brattiness withering beneath his scorching stare.

Lashes fluttering, your eyes flee his, tears forming to shield you from his heat, shoulders caving inward in an attempt to protect you from his unyielding scrutiny. 

“W-Want your cock.”

His tongue clicks in disapproval, a mocking frown slapped across his face barely suppressing his amusement, eyes shining, power flaring. 

“That’s not asking, sweetheart.” 

Swallowing thickly, you force your gaze to his, lids squinting a little beneath his brilliance.

“Can I please have your cock? Please?” 

“Please what?”

And although he’s acting unaffected, he can’t quite quell the spasming of his hips, jerking up in minuscule movements and grinding his cock into your sopping hole, panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds.

An eyebrow raises, a question of Well? I’m waiting… imbued in the subtle action. 

He isn’t going to give it to you unless you ask properly, like a good little girl is supposed to.

As expected.

“Please, Master,” you mewl, fingers curling over the edges of his belt and tugging, sharp leather biting into soft hands. “Please, please, let me ride your cock, Sir.”

Cavernous eyes observe you for a moment, scanning for dishonesty, grin growing when a whine vibrates in your throat, low and needy.

“Please?” you whimper, the leather of his belt creasing beneath your grip, squealing as it rubs together, a plead hitching in your chest. “Pl—Please, Sir.”

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying, acting as if he’s doing you some sort of favour, as if his cock isn’t jumping eagerly with each drool of pre-cum leaking from its slit. “Go on, then. Get it out.”

Words of thanks are pouring from your lips as your hands hastily undo his pants, yanking at the buckle, tugging at the zipper, shoving at the waistband, messy and urgent until his cock is finally released.

The stretch is nothing short of incredible, as it always is with him, little hole trembling as it swallows around his girth, drawing him in further and further, deeper and deeper, slow and steady until the head nudges your cervix, his hips twitching up twice, ensuring he’s hit the end, buried to the hilt with nowhere else to go, completely stuffing your cunt full. 

And despite the trademark ache, delicate flesh stinging as it splits into little fissures to accommodate him, your hips begin moving immediately, starved and raring, whimpering a little into his shoulder as you cling to him, every rotation of your hips radiating pricks of pain through your gut.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he snorts, but the insult is soft, edges dulled by love. “So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you?” 

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, rubbing your cheek along the curve of his neck, then his jaw, streaking your face with his sweat. “Missed you so much.” 

“I know, baby,” the tip of his tongue swipes through the blood still staining your chin. “Bet you missed my cock just as much, if not more.”

“Yes, yes, Sir,” you’re nodding in messy little motions, hips still rocking languidly against his own, clit gliding against his slick pubic bone in rhythmic strokes. “I did, I missed it s’much—”

A gasp slices through your slurred words, sharp air shoved from your chest as his hips begin snapping upward, rough and ruthless and without warning, the hands grasping your hips tightening around your flesh as he forces you to stay in place.

“Of course you did,” he grunts out, as if it’s preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m not at all surprised; my sweet lil slut can’t live without my cock, can she?” 

“Never, never, ne-never,” you babble out in confirmation, words stuttered harshly with the piston of his hips. 

Another laugh spills from his lips, airy and malicious in melody.

“No, never,” he rasps, ever-so-slightly breathless with the effort, dewdrops of sweat beginning to adorn his hairline. “Fuck, how would you ever get off without me, huh?” 

The question sends a pang searing through your heart, echoing a question you’ve been asking yourself often as of late—how would you ever survive without him? 

The thought stings your eyes, thick tears rushing to cloud your vision and rendering him nothing more than a watery blur of ivory and violet.

“I—I wouldn’t, Sir, I wouldn’t!” you cry out, rapid fluttering of your lids dislodging teardrops, streaming down your cheeks in glistening pairs. “I n-need you, I need you, always, always, al-always!” 

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails catching on staples, a hiss spit from the gaps of his teeth. They sink into grafted skin, dead and weathered and dusted in ash, and cling, knuckles locked and stiff as you try to pull yourself impossibly closer to him.

Gnarled flesh collects beneath the edges of your nails as your grip strengthens, chewing on his body and gathering it in your grasp, consuming whatever tiny slivers you can, a silent plead to stay.

“It’s okay, precious,” he hushes you, lips pushed into a mocking pout, contradicted by the smothering affection exuding from his eyes. “M’here, m’not going anywhere.”

God, you hope not. 

“Please, please—” 

And you drown yourself in it, drown yourself in him; his taste, spicy hickory and warm smoke, exhaled onto your hungry tongue, soaked up and swallowed down; his gaze, overflowing with adoration and intense attention, tying itself in a thick braided noose around your neck and tightening; his touch, stamping his prints into your flesh in blotchy bursts of blue, singeing his name with licks of sapphire that welt and wound, that crust and crater and scar. 

Your ribs squeeze, sucked inward by the voracious black hole your heart has morphed into—never sated, never filled, always vying for more—whole body curling beneath the strain.

But he’s right there to hold you, to steady you, to keep you intact, his hands the stitches you need to keep from unraveling.

“I know, I know,” he’s cooing as you choke on sobs, still scraping weakly at his back, “your Master’s gonna give you what you need.”

Slim fingers flex, soot-stuffed nails latching onto your flesh like tiny leeches, dug in nice and deep, using his grasp as leverage to control the speed and angle of your hips. 

Your feet skid against the chipped bathroom tile, the muscles in your legs tensing as you attempt to find stable purchase on the floor trying to aid in his movements, to fuck yourself on him.

It’s no use, though—it’s not like it matters, anyway, not when Dabi’s got complete domination over your body, over all of its movements and positions, manhandling you into whatever arrangement he pleases, reduced to nothing more than his favourite little plaything. 

“It’s real cute,” he’s telling you in that sugared condescension you’ve come to love so much, “that you’re trying so hard to help me.”

A whine escapes your lips, caught somewhere between apologetic and petulant, hips stammering as they begin to slow, and he laughs. 

“Aw, no, don’t stop,” his tongue clicks against his teeth. “Keep trying, it’s so precious.” 

And although his tone is taunting, full of characteristic derisive glee, his eyes are encouraging, begging you to keep going, for him. 

And so, you do, desperate to please him, the muscles in your thighs beginning to burn as you work in vain to pathetically hump away at him, hips knocking together irregularly as your footing continues to slip.

It doesn’t do much to assist him, but he’s happy anyway, a certain type of pride saturating his features, dulling the points of his wide smile, dimming the harsh brilliance in his eyes, turning his face into something a little softer, something a little sweeter.

Dabi keeps an iron grip on the pace—not that you’d ever expect anything different—forcing you to ride him hard and fast, bouncing you on his cock as his hips buck up in expert rhythm, completing your movements every time. The head drags over that engorged spot with each pound into you, sending a judder of scorching sparks to rush through your blood, each bout more intense than the last.

“God, look at you, you’re such a little slut for me, huh?” he pants out, rapacious eyes sweeping across your face, keen to soak up your expression. “Taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

He’s really fucking into you now, jerking you on his cock like a toy, because you are—something that’s his to use whenever, wherever, and however he sees fit, something that’s his to own, to care for and splinter to bits and painstakingly piece back together, over and over and over again.

Tears of ecstasy are pouring from your eyes, cascading down your face in twin streams, excess dewdrops embedded in spiked lashes glittering with every rough pump of his hips.

It all hurts—always does, with Dabi, incapable of treating anything with any degree of gentleness; not a flaw, just a fact, oblivious to his own strength—but the pain only works to elevate the pleasure, pushing it higher and higher and higher until it’s choking you, smothering your lungs and stuffing your throat and spilling out your mouth in the form of messy, stringy sobs.

“S’been so long, Sir, so long,” you weep, nails burrowing further into his body, almost as if they’re desperate to reach his core—to pry past his ribs and claw into his heart and curl up in his soul. 

Because it has been so long, too long, most of Dabi’s attention soaked up by Paranormal Liberation duties and his own extensive planning as Shigaraki’s due date drew closer and closer, any scraps of time thrown your way whenever he had a spare moment to sneak off to this dilapidated safe house where he’d stashed you away, his visits sporadic and unpredictable. 

“You’re right,” he says, and there’s a tinge of melancholy to his breath. “It’s been way too long since your sweet cunt has been filled with your Owner’s cock, hasn’t it?”  

“It has, it has,” you’re nodding sloppily, tongue tangled in threads of spit.

“My poor lil pussy,” he pouts, and it’s so derisive. “Must be starving, it hasn’t been stuffed nice and full with my cum in forever.” 

“No, no, no,” you’re chanting in agreement, “feels so empty without you, Sir, feels s-so wrong.”

“Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he crudely laps at the steady stream of tears, vicious bouncing causing his teeth to nick your cheek. “I’m gonna change that.”

Chapped lips find your ear, slicked with saliva, his voice dropping an octave as he continues. 

“Because tonight,” he breathes, sweltering against your ear, his tongue darting from between wet lips to trace along the curve. “I am going to stuff you so full of my cum that—ah, fu-fuck—that it’s going to flood your cute lil tummy, that it’s gonna seep into your organs, into your fucking blood, that it’s gonna be leaking out all over the fucking place.” 

“Oh, oh, please, Sir, please!” 

The pleads come out as a single string, melded together with drool and garbled on your tongue. Little jolts of fire shoot through your body with the constant ramming of his hips, flames licking at your veins as they sear through them, the sharp slap of your ass against his thighs complementing his harsh pants and your broken moans.

“Yeah, I know, my little cumslut wants that so badly, doesn’t she?”

Your brain struggles to stitch together a sentence longer than his name, your mind gone delirious for his seed—and it’s an aching, it’s an addiction, sick and depraved and downright uncontrollable—little uh-huh!’s mercilessly fucked from your throat, head bobbling along with the affirmations.

You can feel it, a taut pleasure building within your body, a fluttering that furls into a tight ball of sapphire flame in the pit of your belly, pulsing a little faster, a little harder, a little more with every drive of his cock. 

“Oh, Touya, Tou—Touya!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, say my name.” 

A growl rattles against his ribs, whole chest vibrating with the force of it, and his head dips down, slick tongue painting strokes of thick, shimmering saliva across your skin, an artist priming his favourite canvas.

��C’mon, tell me who’s making you feel this good—” and although it’s supposed to be a command, it comes out as a plead, voice tapering off into a low whine, muffled against your shoulder. “Tell me, tell me.”

“You, Touya,” you choke out, the name mangling itself in your throat. “You, you, you!” 

“You’re goddamn right, it’s me.” 

Sharp teeth bury themselves in your flesh, mouth clamped over the junction of your neck, harder and harder and harder until the barrier of your skin finally splits, syrupy copper erupting on his tongue. 

His name shatters on your lips, a dark chuckle soaking into the wound when you arch your neck, stretched and strained and offering him more room to work despite the squeal of pain sticking in your throat

It’s all so much, too much, his teeth in your flesh and his cock filling your cunt and—and—!

“Gonna—gonna—!” 

A large palm collides with your ass, sick slap echoing off the cracked walls. 

“Is that any way to ask your Master for permission?” Dabi spits, voice dripping with disappointment. “God,” he huffs out a laugh, incredulous, but the mirth shining in his eyes is so bright, so blazing it almost hurts to look at. “My cock must’ve really made you go fucking stupid, huh? Don’t you know this body belongs to me?” 

Another spank lands against your bottom, a yelp hitching in your chest with the ruthless jackhammer of his hips, his fingers sinking into the burning flesh in a bruising grip, amplifying the sting of the slap, digging it deep into your tissues. 

“This body is not allowed to cum unless I say so—so ask nicely, you little bitch.” 

“M’sorry!” you cry out, a fresh torrent of tears flooding your eyes. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, Master—”

“Yeah? Yeah?” 

His other hand snakes between your heaving, sweat-drenched bodies, thumb and forefinger clamping down on your clit and tweaking, hard enough to force a scream from your tongue, sending spikes of pain rushing through your veins. His fingers flatten against the engorged little nub a moment later, rubbing hard, quick circles into it, a malicious little giggle squeaking in his throat because it’s so swollen, baby and Christ, you must wanna cream all over his cock so badly! 

Sounds of affirmation spill uncontrollably from your lips, head nodding in frenetic little motions, whole face shimmering and sticky with salt, snot, sweat. 

“Uh-huh? Uh-huh?” 

He’s mocking you, chin tilted up in superiority, staring down the bridge of his nose to regard you in patronizing pity, eyebrows raised and imploring you to continue. 

“Apologies are not asking, baby,” his grip catches your slippery clit again, twisting it harder this time, your eyes scrunching shut as a cry shatters on your tongue, fingers scrabbling against his shoulders, tearing out staples. 

He’s right, you know he is, but he’s making it difficult to speak, difficult to ask, difficult to stitch together a single word at all, let alone a full thought, when he’s playing with your clit like that, alternating between pulsing pinches and gentle caresses, the calloused pads of his fingertips providing just the right amount of friction. 

Your whole body quivers with the effort of holding your orgasm back, muscles pulled tight and taut with the strain, and he laughs—beautiful, breathless, bona-fide—cock twitching inside of you. 

“Pl—Please, Sir,” you manage to gasp out, entreatment forced from your tongue in a single thin breath. “Please, let me cum, please, please, please!” 

The pleads melt into one gooey stream as they flow from your lips, slathered in drool and dripping from the corners of your mouth in thick cords. 

“Yeah? You want it? You wanna cum all over your Owner’s cock?” 

“Yes, yes!” you practically wail, pawing urgently at him. “Please, sir, let me cum, make me cum, I wanna—I wanna—”

“Alright, alright,” Dabi’s pacifying, but his actions don’t slow, hips merciless with their assault on your body. “Go ahead, sweetheart, make a pretty mess on me.” 

Never one to disobey a direct order from your Master, you do, almost instantly, entire body convulsing as your cunt pulses around his shaft, gushing so much slick that it floods his thighs and soaks the waistband of his pants.

The constant circles ground into your sensitive clit as you spasm around him only work to heighten the pleasure, brain gone numb with the shocks of ecstasy coursing through your body, another flurry of jolts sent through your veins with every run through the routine, skin rippling with the impact. 

He doesn’t stop his assault even after you cum, vehemently refusing to let up even as the clenching of your cunt fades into something faint and erratic, even as violent tremors loop through your veins, entire body quivering in his tight grasp, even as your fingers claw weakly at his wrist, crooking staples and scraping scarred flesh, blood rushing to fill the gouges left by your nails. 

No, he doesn’t stop until you’re teetering on the brink of passing out, wandering in and out of consciousness, his name leaving your lips in a near incomprehensible jumble, slurred and heavy with spit. 

Only then does he scoop you up in his arms, your legs dangling limply from his elbows as his palms firmly clutch your ass, hard cock still aching and buried deep inside of you, and carry your pliant body to that worn, fraying couch, with the puffs of white cotton leaking through the polyester and the exposed springs groaning beneath your weight.

You barely notice the change in scenery, though, still blissfully fucked out, nerves gnawed raw  by his overstimulation, a soft hiss slipping from between your teeth as the scratchy cushion rubs against your bare bottom, a raised imprint of Dabi’s palm and all five fingers still rapidly swelling. 

“It’s my turn now, angel,” Dabi’s words drift over your body in an indistinct haze, vision fuzzing at the edges, your head nodding instinctively. 

“Gonna—Gonna make good on your promise, Master?” 

“I always do, don’t I?” 

And then his hips are thrusting, cockhead repeatedly ramming your cervix with every harsh plunge forward, leaning down to catch fresh tears with his lips. The tip of his tongue traces their salty trajectory all the way to your bottom lashes, matted into wet little spikes, before sucking a hickey into your cheek, tiny capillaries bursting beneath his tongue, staining the thin skin with swiftly developing violet.

Tufts of ivory cling to his temples in damp clumps, dried black dye liquifying beneath his heat and running down his cheeks, leaving streaks along the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. Sweat collects in the dips of his collarbones, shimmering gently in the flickering light spilling from the television set, a wavering news reporter recounting the tragic events of today, stuttered by static.

“God,” he nearly whines, voracious eyes sweeping across your face, desperate to soak up your twisted expression of pleasure-tinged pain—the way your lids keep drooping as you struggle to keep them pried open, eyes speckled with stars, lashes encrusted with tears; the way your tongue keeps lolling out to draw your slick lip back between your teeth, muffling your whimpers and mewls, and oh, no, he can’t have that, a gentle tut of his tongue clicking against his teeth as his thumb tugs it free from your mouth, drawing out a stringy whine in the process.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous when you go dumb from my cock.”

The words leave his lips in an airy gasp, as if he can hardly believe you’re real beneath him, as if he can hardly believe it’s his cock making you look this way, a hand leaving your waist to slide along your torso, taking the hem of your dress with it, rough palm tracing every curve and dip and bulge as it crawls to your collarbone. 

He takes his time to admire you—to appreciate the sensation of your skin beneath his touch, fingers gripping, kneading, scraping, gathering palmfuls of you in his grasp before letting go again in a stunned sort of marvel—hips slowing to an uneven rutting, unable to fully halt his fucking. 

Keeping a firm, steady grasp on your body and pinning you in place, his free hand continues to roam, hardened fingertips sinking into the pretty blue lace of your bra hard with enough force to elicit a yelp from your lips, amusement tugging at his lips. 

“So, so beautiful,” he pants, eyes skimming your now exposed body, his fiery gaze outlining every edge, dedicated in committing every contour to memory. “Fucking look at you.” 

In all the time you’ve been with him, your body has become a scrapbook of Dabi. It tells stories of him—what he’s done, how he’s felt, where he’s been, why he did it—stamped permanently into your flesh using his teeth and his tongue and his flames, in raised flesh and puckered craters and glittering scabs.

You can’t tear your stare from his face, though, too busy worshipping him, sapphire eyes gaping and glazed as they travel along your body, soft huffs of breath escaping his lips, pushed from his throat with the tender heaving of his chest, saliva glistening on his lips, smeared so prettily across the staples climbing his chin. 

Dainty fingers grope at the air, pathetic and yearning, clawing at nothing, and he laughs a little, nothing more than a smooth, deep vibration at the back of his tongue.

His touch finds the apex of your thighs again, nails dimpling flesh as he spreads your legs wide—so wide your muscles begin to burn, taut beneath the strain—a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he stares at your stretched cunt. 

Two fingers press into your clit, still slick and swollen, grazing over it in slow caresses—back and forth, back and forth, gliding easily over the puffy nub and snorting a little at the way your hole flutters, eager and aching, squeezing his cock, sucking him in, begging for more. 

So cute. 

Eyes wide and unblinking, he plays with you in a trance, slowly but surely building up pleasure in you, pressure in you, fascinated by the way your body so readily reacts to his simple motions, grinding circles and rubbing strokes and pulsing fingertips. 

It enraptures him, puffs of hot air exhaled through slightly parted lips as he watches just his touch bring you to orgasm for the second time tonight, obsessed with the way your cunt trembles around his cock, a surge of your essence streaming from your hole, embracing him in a thick, wet heat.

Your cunt gorges on him—so fuckin’ greedy, even after cumming twice—fluttering a little around the base of his shaft, still oozing so much slick that it’s glazing your ass and his balls, steadily seeping past the tight seam of your hole. 

It’s so pretty, it’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby, he’s breathing, eyes hazy with awe, hips drawing back just a little to watch the way your body clings to his girth, sheathing his cock in a shimmering layer of arousal. 

A palm wraps around the base of his shaft, the head of his cock still buried an inch or two in your straining cunt, and he jerks himself hard and quick, sick wet slaps echoing out among the room as his hand slams between your cunt and his pelvis. 

“Fuck, f-fuck—” 

His hips start moving on their own accord, too impatient, his hand nothing compared to the sweltering ecstasy of your cunt, and he releases his cock, sticky hand collaring your throat, pinioning you to the couch, his thrusts so vicious they’re jostling your body up the cushions, the palm crushing your airway keeping you in place.

Lithe fingers flex as their grip on your neck tightens, coarse pads of his fingertips beginning to heat up, blood in your veins bubbling beneath his touch. 

Your flesh melts beneath his hold, melds itself to his grasp, desperate to stay in his hands forever. 

The sting is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, his palm and all five of his fingers singed into your skin in the prettiest, most precious permanent necklace. You can barely breathe, exhales coming as weak little wheezes, and you swear his flames must be licking into your throat, down to your lungs and straight through your veins, incinerating your blood as your body goes numb, cunt clenching around his cock for the third time, wailing out shards of his name. 

But you don’t allow his hold to let up, to loosen at all, both of your hands placed firmly over his, holding it there harder, a loud moan escaping his lips, his hips stammering out of rhythm. 

“Brand me, Master, brand me, brand me,” you’re gasping out, voice wrecked and raw. “Make me yours, mark me as yours, forever!”

“Jesus Christ,” he nearly sobs, his thrusts turned brutal, primal, losing any semblance of finesse as he relentlessly fucks you, motions stuttering as he finally cums, a violent shudder coursing through his body before he collapses on top of you, drenched in sweat as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with hot, thick cum. 

“More, Touya, more, more!” you’re crying out, scrabbling at his shoulders as you try to pull him closer, shivering legs latching around his waist as tight as you can manage as your hips roll up to meet his own, crudely humping him. “Gimme more!” 

A groan, dense and heavy, spills from his lips, his entire body rippling with hiccups as he ruts into you—automatic, instinctual, desperate to give his sweet girl what she wants, even if it hurts.

“Yeah, yeah, ye-yeah, Touya, Touya, fill me with y’r cum!” 

And so, he does, using your cunt to milk himself even as his form quivers with every rock of his hips, chills skidding across his flesh with every bump of his cockhead against your abused cervix. 

He keeps going, just like you begged him to, just like he promised he would, until your tummy is stuffed full and your cunt is leaking with his seed, until neither of you can take it anymore, bodies shuddering with every hump and drag and grind, deliquescing into one another, a puddle of limbs. 

You stay like that for a while, his body blanketing yours, breathing as one, being as one. Gentle fingertips trail up and down the column of his spine as his bones begin to fuse and harden again, tiptoeing over the trails of staples stitching dead skin to healthy flesh and evoking a mild shudder, pads of your fingers pressing into each golden suture, counting them lovingly, kissing every one. 

Eventually, after your fingers have traversed across all thirty-one, he shifts, manhandling you onto his chest as he shuffles himself beneath you, cradled between his thighs. 

“What now?”

You don’t mean to say it, don’t mean to shatter that delicate, post-orgasmic, precarious peace with two simple words, but they claw up your throat and pry past your teeth and gnaw on your lips, desperate to be vocalized, immortalized, heard.

What now? 

They’re uttered out softly enough, lips moving against his heart, warm breath seeping into his chest, the question worming its way beneath his skin. 

His muscles go rigid, his breath stalling in his lungs.

What happens now that his goal has been reached, Part One in his plan succeeded? What’s the next step, now that the world knows Todoroki Touya is alive and simmering in his hatred, fuelled by spite and ravenous with revenge?

What happens when he goes to face his father for the final time? And what happens if he never returns?

“Oh, I dunno,” he sighs out, but his voice trembles. “We could fix this place up, all nice and swanky, have a couple’a kids, get a golden retriever—y’know, real nuclear family type shit.” 

You laugh, but it comes out strangled, sounding strange to your ears, a distorted sob. 

“The dream, huh?” 

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, nostalgia for a time that has never happened, that will never come, aching in his words. “The dream.” 

A silence settles over the two of you, as tender as the edges of a festering wound.

“I have to do it,” he says after several moments have passed, and his voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it before, softer than you ever thought him capable of—infused with apology.

He does.

You know he does. You understand why. That’s how the story ends, the final chapter he’s been drafting—you were never meant to be a part of this tale, written in between lines and margins, stuffed between words, twined throughout the pages nonetheless. But ultimately, this is his story—to write, to tell, to edit, to revise, to create, to conclude. 

You know.

But the acceptance sticks in your throat, furled into a tight, hard lump, so you nod instead, punctuating your affirmative with a kiss pressed to his chest, planted right over his heart. It soaks into his skin, burrows itself into pulsating muscle and finds salvation there, finds home there, a puzzle piece that snaps into perfect place—something that’s always been missing, now complete. Something he’ll take with him, when his pen leaves the page, when his book snaps shut.

You don’t dare look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the stutter of his chest, hear the hitch of his breath tangling on hard truths to swallow, smell the copper streaming down his cheeks again.

And you hug him tighter. 

You know. And no matter how badly you wish to, you won’t stop him. 

[tightjeansjavi]

The Rite of Movement | drabble

“creamy”

A/N: in anticipation for the suction cup dildo I ordered myself…😵‍💫

~word count: 750~

Summary: Joel watches as you fuck yourself with a dildo until he can’t help himself any longer.

Pairing | pornstar!joel x pornstar!female reader

Warnings: none, fluff, smut, domestic intimacy, established relationship, deep profound trust, amateur porn video, praise kink, sir kink, language, dirty talk, f!masturbation with a sex toy, oral f receiving, unprotected piv, soft!dom joel, reader and Joel and are stupid in love, readers nickname is baby love, reader has no physical descriptions, Joel is in his 40’s reader is in her 30’s, +18 minors dni!

series masterlist

Needy little hot breaths, and strained whines slip past your parted lips as you slowly work the thick, silicone dildo inside your slick, weeping little hole. A drool of your arousal drips down the crux of your thighs, staining the sheets beneath you. Your chest is glistening in beads of sweat, soft and glowing under the ambient lighting.

“Joel, please. I—I need more.” You whimpered, canting your hips upwards, desperate to feel more than what the ribbed silicone was giving you.

You had only recently grown accustomed to the idea of Joel being more of a dom towards you. It was baby steps in heed of the trauma you faced while working for Brazzers.

“Not yet, baby love. Keep workin’ yourself up. I know it ain’t as good as my cock, but you’re bein’ such a good girl, baby. Fuckin’ yourself so good on that cock. Wish you could see how pretty your pussy looks from this angle.” He hums, sinking down on his knees between your legs with the camera zoomed in on the small opening between the dildo plunging in and out of your cunt.

He licks his lips as his eyes zone in on your slick coating the silicone, squelching soft sounds of your velvety walls pulling the silicone in further and further to your wet heat.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby love. You hear those sweet little noises your pussy is making? She’s so wet. She’s glistening…” he trails off, getting lost in the intimate moment of seeing you this up close. His cock twitches against the comforter pathetically, and he shifts his hips slightly for a moment of relief.

“Joel. Please, baby. I need—fuck—please.” You shallowly pump the silicone faster, breath hitching and back arching upwards on the mattress.

“Words, baby love. Tell me what you need. C’mon, pretty girl. Lemme hear you.” He said encouragingly, letting his palm rest close to your core, gently spreading you open further so he could get a better look. His pupils darken significantly, glazed over in lust, Adam’s apple bobbing and the thought crosses his mind again:

Ring. Ring. Ring. I need a fuckin’ ring.

“Need your mouth, sir.” You pant out, lashes fluttering as your internal muscles clamp down, squeezing around the silicone as another droplet of slick slips down from your hole.

“Where do you need my mouth, baby love. Tell me.”

“On my pussy. Please. I need your tongue, and mouth. Need it so bad, Joel.”

His chest swells with pride for your direct communication. He knows it’s a milestone worth celebrating, rewarding you for being such a good girl. He preens, leaning down to press a loving kiss to your pulsing clit, dragging the flat side of his tongue across it, moaning at the taste of you.

“Good fuckin’ girl.” He rasps, dark lashes shadowing even darker brown eyes that flicker upwards towards your blissed out face. “Eyes on me, baby love. Lemme see ‘em.” He softly demands you, stroking his thumb gently across your outer lips.

He grinds the heavy weight of his cock against the comforter once more, staining the fabric with a dribble of precum weeping from the slit of his cock.

Your eyes snap open at his request, chest heaving, thighs begin to quiver and shake the second you meet his heady gaze. The heat rises to your cheeks as you watch the slow drag of his tongue across your clit, flicking it back and forth, up and down all while keeping steady eye contact with you.

He looks so pretty, cheeks flushed, lips moist with his saliva and your slick. Eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

Your freehand releases its steel grip around the comforter and reaches down for his jaw instead, fingers brushing across his beard, cradling his face gently.

“Good girl, baby love. Keep lookin’ at me with those pretty eyes.”

Your pussy flutters around the silicone, squelching and dripping wet, staining the comforter further in your slick, heady aroma swirling around his head like a musky, sex stained halo.

“You look so pretty, Joel—you’re so pretty.” You preen, hips bucking upwards against his tongue.

“Never look as pretty as you do when you’re comin’ undone, baby love. So fuckin’ pretty creamin’ on that cock.”

You’re both insatiable as your orgasm washes over you, and you waste no time to pull the silicone from your weeping hole just as Joel tosses the camera to the side, crawling up your body and chasing your lips while you reach for his cock, guiding him inside of you.

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[fairytsuk1]

hips don't lie | (s)

pairing: alex quackity x reader

words: 2.5k

warnings: sexual content, drinking (of age), sexual dancing, mild voyeurism, mild public sex, bathroom sex, unprotected sex, pre-established relationship

summary: alex knows you think he's hot. when you're all out and about, the pressure builds till you both can't take it anymore.

The two of you dressed in tandem, slipping past each other to apply perfume and perfectly tie a tie. Still, neither of you could hide the longing glances at the silhouette of Alex's body or the whisper of promise accentuated by your curves. Alex watches you work through your make-up routine while he sits on the bed, already ready.

"Is–what's his name–going to be there? Roier?"

Alex stands and draws close to you, crowding your inner bubble and resting a chin on your shoulder, "yeah, but he'll probably be busy with Sabi. Did I tell you how good you look in this dress, hm?"

You have to remember that you have somewhere to be when you feel Alex's hands possessively glide down the bones of your hips, circling back to your ass and squeezing.

"You did, actually, when I bought it," you smirk at him through the mirror, clipping in an earring, "don't get handsy. We need to leave soon."

"I'm not getting handsy! I'm just appreciating your body. I mean, how could I not?"

Alex says it so genuinely, lips quirked up as he wraps his arms around you comfortingly. You know he means every compliment, every embrace, every little instance reminded you that he truly loved you. The two of you glance at each other before your lips are joined in a heated kiss that your boyfriend eagerly accepts. A dominant hand splays across your lower back, tugging you chest to chest; his free hand slips down and grabs a handful of your behind, "Alex!"

"Sorry," he cheekily laughs, pecking your lips softly once more, "let's get going."

He leaves your heart beating and thighs squeezing together most unfairly. He was so devastatingly attractive, with a demeanor that made you feel like a princess. Your lips twist into a pout while you punch his arm, "that's what I've been saying, actually!" 

"Oh, is that what you were saying?"

Your boyfriend's already grabbed his keys as wiggly fingers tickle your waist in the doorway. Alex feels his heart grow as you laugh, hair messily bouncing as your lifted lashes fluttered at him, "stop it! You're gonna ruin my hair, Lex."

He heeds your request, unlocking the front door to your shared apartment before pausing before you.

"Hey, I love you," he says.

The blush starts at your cheeks before encapsulating your head in flames. It's so mushy, brown eyes round like boba sparkling at you as he lets himself have a moment of vulnerability. Your hand comes to cup his cheek, and you feel as if you're precisely where you need to be, your thumb coming up just short of the mole under his eye.

"I love you too," and your empathetic eyes begin to well.

As in tune with you as always, Alex is quick to wave away tears by pulling you close into the warmth of his side.

"Don't cry! I didn't say that just for you to cry. Besides, how can you cry when we're having drinks tonight?"

Alex's ever-present excitement for drinking doesn't go unnoticed by you; it's enough to wipe a lone tear and peck his jaw, "nothing could ever stop me from drinking with you. I still watch that video of you doing karaoke that one time!"

"God, please don't talk about that! Ugh, I can't believe you still even have that. It's horrible! You have blackmail on your phone, literally."

Your conversation delves into nonsense, bantering and lightly ribbing each other the whole car ride. His hand, of course, stays on your thigh the entire ride.

-

You're a few drinks in and realize you severely underscored Alex's attractiveness that night as you took him in during a minute of group socialization. He'd been steadily killing it the whole night, a hand leading you from the small of your back and laughing with people as if he'd known everyone for years. It wasn't easy showing up as a streamer's plus one, but he knew how to make you feel accepted and relaxed.

Now, however, you're starting to get a bit needy after far too many glasses of red wine and a lingering hand on your inner thigh. Alex is faring even worse. It was as if the combination of alcohol with your high-libidos led to a fantastic product of pure lust. The two of you knew there wasn't a more inappropriate time to disappear to the bathrooms. Still, every look was supercharged with arousal and wanting. 

People from the QSMP crowd your table, infinitely singing praises at your boyfriend's table. Rafael, or Cellbit, says something about dancing, and your mind is plagued by thoughts echoing what you wanted to do most. You needed to show Alex how much you wanted him.

Alex beat you to the chase, "Let's go dance!"

"Okay," your skin is flushed from intoxication, and Alex's touch against your palm sends electricity up your spine.

It's a bit crowded moving to the dance floor, but soon, you find your own spot in the crowd where there's just enough breathing room for you and him to be face to face. It feels intimate, just slightly swaying together. Then, his hands are skimming the edge of your dress and sliding right up to your hips.

You lean in close, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear, "not too much PDA for you?"

"Not at all. I mean, it's better than ripping your clothes off and fucking you right here," his hands bring you so close that your hips are flush, "that's what I really wanna do to you right now."

A breath is caught in your throat as you discreetly sway with the group. His cock slowly begins to press against your thigh as he looks at you with pure need. There's no doubt your panties are soaked with arousal as you imagine how he'd feel, leaving bruises on the contours of your hips, pulling you back against his cock as you struggle to barely hold yourself up. 

"Alex, I want you so bad," you whisper into his ear, "and I can feel you. I wanna suck you off."

The fact you're speaking so lewdly with no one catching on makes both of your pulses quicken. Practically in the distance, the DJ changes the song, and you take the opportunity to use Alex's aroused shock to turn in his arms.

"Let's just go to the bathroom real quick and–"

"Let's just dance for a second, yeah?"

He doesn't even have the chance to rebuke you, too entranced by how you teasingly sway your hips against his now prominent bulge. To others, it just looks like an average couple having an intimate time; only God knows how much Alex is thinking of the softness of your cheeks that press into his thighs, the way your hips effortlessly tilt the same way you would be riding him at his desk. You act so nonchalantly like this, but he's the only one making you moan and whine while he sucks on your wet clit like a man starved.

You only tone down your seductive dancing when his hands wrap around your middle with no wiggle room. Alex holds you in place, and your eyes want to roll back in your head from the way he lightly presses your lower stomach against him. He always feels so massive behind you like this, like he's in total control of your body which makes your clit pulse.

"You can be so naughty sometimes, I'm so fucking hard in my pants now. It's all your fault, you know," he whispers hotly in your ear, "Why don't we go to the bathroom for a second, baby?"

"But I'm having fun dancing," you brattily reply, tilting your jaw up to stare at him through your lashes.

He gives you a plain look, and the submissive bone in your body leaves your legs shaking. 

"You could be having much more fun getting fucked by me, getting split open on my cock. But you don't have to do anything you don't want to," he drops the ultimatum, but the both of you already know your answer.

"Take me to the bathroom," you mumble, pressing against him.

Within moments, your boyfriend has come up with a lame excuse: "Yeah, she's feeling a bit sick!" The two of you are speedwalking to the private bathrooms and clicking the locks shut. Once safely secure, affirmed by the slide and click of the lock, Alex is quick to make work of your body and fiercely bring you into a makeout session with him.

It's hot, messy, it's so wet the way your lips collide against each other. The tension finally builds up and culminates in gliding your tongue against his as he works a knee between your legs. You knew you needed him, but your body was buzzing as his hands cupped your breasts roughly, "ah, fuck. I'm so horny."

"How do you think I feel," he groans, sucking a mark into your neck, "I feel like a teenager, about to come in my pants over your fucking grinding."

Alex's hand cups your jaw to bring your lips together again, tugging on the delicate skin as he drinks you in, "you're fucked up for that, you know?"

"I know, but you like being teased."

"I don't! I really don't," he mumbles, pulling off his suit jacket and hanging it on the door hook, "I should really get you back."

Your boyfriend says it as he manages to pull the cups of your bra down, freeing your chest from the confines of your chest. The cold, naked breeze leaves you aching to cover up, but Alex soothes your pebbling nipples with the warmth of his mouth and slick of his tongue. It feels too good, moans squeaking out of you as he tweaks and sucks at the puckering buds.

He always wants to make you feel good, which means learning everything that made you tick as he absolutely ravishes you. Your nipples were always so sensitive, your fingernails scratching his scalp like the pleasure was crawling out of you like a woman enchanted. 

"Yeah, babe? You like it when I play with your pretty tits?"

"Yeah, yes! The way you touch my nipples feels so good," your words come out, exhaled in pure relief, and it is a relief.

You needed his hands on your body, kneading plush skin and making you feel oh-so-good. Alex beckons you away from the door, lifting you up by your hips to seat you on the counter's edge. You're closer to his height now, and there's a brief moment of sweetness as you reconnect by standing flush against each other. He's fully hard now, desperate for you.

"I need you so bad, fuck," he sighs pleasedly.

Manicured hands unbutton the top buttons of his shirt, soaking in golden-tanned skin that gleams under the bathroom lights. Alex catches the sight of the two of you in the mirror, and his thighs shake with the empathetic rush of pleasure that courses through him just seeing the state of you two. Messy hair, make-up smudged, clothes absolutely and unmistakably disheveled. 

Neither of you could wait any longer, "wanna fuck you from behind. Turn around for me, please?"

Once you're entirely on display, you have a front-row view in the mirror as his hands glide over the curve in your lower back before reaching your cheeks and spreading them. Your creamy hole is fully on display, and Alex shushes you when you whine, "Don't stareee."

"Hush, just be patient for a second," he doesn't even take his eyes off your pussy, "I can't appreciate my girlfriend?"

You want to bite back sassily, but then the head of his dick catches on your clit, leaving your jaw-dropping in a dramatic display. The man behind you chuckles lightly, gliding the tip between your sticky folds to thoroughly coat his cock in your wetness, "what was that?"

"N-Nothing, just hurry up!"

Biting your lip, you try to jerk your hips back, but Alex's hand keeps your lower back firmly pinned to the counter, "I've been daydreaming about this since you got ready."

Alex gives you no chance to try and speak, plunging the tip in your pussy and stretching your thick walls. You know he's barely inside you, barely begun to dick you down. Still, you're already gutturally moaning, "Fuuuck… yes, lex–mmf!"

He gives you time to adjust, shallowly thrusting his hips with a hand on your hips. You're already trying to suck him in, and he's barely a few inches inside! It's heaven, and you can see the way his black hair cascades in his face as he slowly bullies his fat cock into you.

"God, fuck! You're taking me so well; this pussy is squeezing me so tight," he groans, eyes locking onto yours in the mirror as he starts to thrust earnestly, "Oh fuck yeah, take my cock, baby."

There's a loud 'pap' that echoes through the room as Alex works his hips into yours, steadily burying his cock deep into your folds and dicking you down expertly. The room grows hot and heady, the scent of sex permeating the air as Alex skillfully pounds you against the counter, "Talk to me, baby. Actually–fuuck. Look at me, babe."

Your hand grips the counter fiercely, but you can still look up to watch as Alex drags his dick through your walls over and over, "Filling me up so good–wanna cum so bad. I wanna be good–oh! Uh-huh, 'jus wanna be good for you."

Alex feels his balls constrict as you tighten around him, feet on tip-toes as you draw closer and closer to your orgasm. 

"Cum all over me, babe. Let me make you feel good, fuck yes. Just like that, honey."

All you can do is hold on as each thrust winds you up closer and closer until stars are bursting behind your eyelids. You cum with a cry of Alex's name, legs shaking as your pussy creams till there's a white ring around the base of his cock. The feeling of your gummy walls squeezing his dick and your words as you cry, "shit, Alex! Make me cum, oh god. I-I'm yours, fuuuck!"

He cums with a loud groan, hips slapping against your hips once, then twice as you feel him spurt his load against your pink inner walls. Your fluids mix together, spilling out of your hole and leaking down your thigh. The both of you fade in and out of existence, the power of your shared release leaving the two of you reeling as his cock softens inside you.

Your man stays inside of you until your breaths have calmed and come to a slow. He gently works his cock out of you, slowly pulling out as you hiss, "Shh, just stay here, babe. Let me get a towel."

"What time is it?"

A gentle hand comes between your legs to wipe up any excess mess. You jump as he swipes over your clit, an action that Alex giggles at.

"Definitely time to go."

The two of you stand side by side in the mirror, horrified. 

"My hair!"

"My dress! You totally screwed it all up!"

"Nuh-uh, that was all you, babe! Do you think everyone's gonna know?"

You would've said yes and promised that no one would know a single thing. But your eyes zero in on his lips' red, swollen state. The way his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to spot a red mark carding down his chest.

"Oh, babe… absolutely."

Alex whines, but you feel delighted.

[strangebiology]

I think a lot of the people in my life who have expressed disgust or disapproval of my interest in/collection of animal remains have come at it first from the perspective of "but diseases!" like regular uncleanliness stigma. the second most common reaction is that interest in/collection of/comfort with animal remains (to be clear, i collect bones and sometimes preserved tails or pelts and these are the objects in question) is... creepy? and, the people who are most disgusted/creeped out are usually people who by and large dont interact with wild animals or livestock. my friends who are vet techs or who hunt or who practice animal husbandry are more or less unfazed.

(Re: What are actual common attitudes towards animal remains?)

Interesting, thank you!

Now, I'm wondering if people mistake personal discomfort for immorality.

I've mentioned my one video that did get some negative comments, showing the slaughter of a reindeer (you can see it here but I have warnings on it for a reason! Blood and death!) And, I think 90% or so (I suppose I could go count them) are more reasonable.

First, people are mad at the assumption that I killed a reindeer (I did NOT kill it, I just filmed it.) Then, the issue is it's being killed for no reason (it was NOT no reason, it's for food.) Then the method is criticized (this is one of the ONLY legal ways to kill them and it's quicker than it looks because of post-mortem spasms.) Then, when those concerns are disproven, the only issue left is "filming and posting it is sadistic." So...killing was no problem, but showing anyone that their meat came from a death was a problem. (Again, I respect if you don't want to see it! So please heed the warnings unless your desire to know how reindeer are killed outweighs your discomfort with watching a death!)

I wonder if sometimes people are overly focused on prioritizing their own 5-second comfort over things that matter a lot more, but are external to them, and they don't really care about others who they are not currently looking in the face of at all.

This isn't a 100% relevant example, but consider the people who don't want to donate their organs after death. A common reason to forgo something that could save and improve lots of lives is "it sounds gross!" Ickiness really should not be a factor in whether or not to save lives--the donor will never see or feel it, but since it's not their own life being saved, the 5-second icky feeling when checking the "donor" box is suddenly more important than the saved and improved human lives.

I know I shouldn't think too hard about one random experience, but I will always remember this one. I was once at a consumer survey thing for a turkey meat brand, where participants tried the meat and said what we thought about the name, taste, packaging, branding etc. We were instructed to circle what we liked on the branding and cross out what we didn't like.

One participant crossed out the part where it said "humanely raised." I asked if she had made a mistake, or...does she feel like the label is disingenuous or something...? Surely she's pro-humane treatment of animals, right??

"No," she said. "I don't want them to do that. I don't want to think about their lives when I'm eating them, and they don't need to be humane to animals that are going to die anyway." Most of the group agreed. I couldn't help but point and say "YOU'RE gonna die anyway!"

That may have been the first time I encountered a group of people shamelessly agreeing that they would rather animals suffer unnecessarily than think for one second that the animal whose body they are using/eating was ever even alive. Because not feeling guilty about something was infinitely more important to them than any amount of suffering that someone else might experience.

[hexonthepeach]

perfume - k.dy

pairing: f4!nct doyoung x fem!reader (past johnny x reader mentions)

genre: hana yori dango/boys over flowers/meteor garden/f4 thailand reverse harem au (mild allusions and characterization only)

warnings:

bully-to-friends-to-lovers, established relationship, polyamory, dom!doyoung, glucose father adjacent, scent kink, control over food consumption/bathing (for scent kink purposes only), gratuitous use of the l-word by anti-romantics, angst/feelings, flashbacks and history

🔞 edging, cockwarming, orgasm denial, oral (m/f receiving), passionate sex, rough sex, spanking, creampie, bukkake, consensual negotiated kink (degradation, somnophilia), anal play (f receiving)

wordcount: 20k

author's note: this is a doyoung-centered continuation of my ongoing F4 au. it can stand on it's own but i recommend reading Dive for more context. Doyoung's role in the F4 is Sojirou Nishikado/So Yijung/Ximen/Kavin (playboy control freak) so this fic incorporates elements of his secondary romance within the original/adaptations, now with y/n.

read on AO3

fic headers / dividers credit to @ saradika + please do not repost

Freshman year, Kocher International. 

Head down in your books at lunch, trying so hard to escape scrutiny from above, you pretend to be no one. 

It shouldn't be hard to be nobody, otherwise ignored and immune to whatever social contract deliberates your life. In a better world you'd be invisible. It's a superpower you'd wish for much more over the usual playground answers of super speed or control of the weather. 

Let me be unobserved, you'd thought. Let me open a door and not worry about a bucket full of dirty mop water falling on my head or the inevitable posting of a grainy video of it, posted in a Telegram channel to fulfill some checklist made up by bored, rich monsters. 

Your four-generation-behind phone with its cracked screen proved useful in some regards; you never heard about these public pillories until some kind stranger sent you a screenshot of them, usually in the context of whatever plans they'd made to torture you again.

Every notification is already a pain, driving splintered glass into the pads of your fingers. Just now you're reading a text message from your father asking you to pick up more cheap instant noodles from the convenience store on your walk home to round out whatever scraps he's picked up from the local restaurant your mother bussed tables and cleaned dishes at when she needed extra money.

"Why is Saint Kim watching you?" your friend asks across the table. She's been looking up at the room this entire time, unable to give you even a moment of her attention or assistance to finish the English homework you'd been working on. You'd been rushing all day to finish it before afternoon class, after a late morning of delivery driving for your family's drycleaning business.

"Are you sure it's not the Devil?" you ask, parsing through the lines of a book you'd bought secondhand, trying to match verse for verse.

"No," she says, shaking her head when you finally look up. "Don't react. He's coming this way."

"Shit," you say under your breath, eyes flicking to your untouched lunch. "I need you to leave now. Take these trays and dump them and I'll meet you outside of 4th. If I make it."

You don't look up from your book as you mutter, but you follow her path and her hesitancy as she internally debates whether to heed your warning or watch from a safe distance.

Your handwriting becomes a scrawl of nonsense you have to cross out in sharp lines. You begin the verse again, holding your breath as you will your entire body and mind back to a manufactured calm. 

If you can't be invisible, you can at least play your role. You're copacetic by the time you see the tips of polished black wingtips beside you, before you hear the Saint clear his throat.

“Y/N.”

He drops a familiar, school-mandated clear cosmetics bag next to your ratty backpack. The already embarrassing stash of tampons and old chapstick has a new bounty including a "used" pregnancy test stick with a second line drawn in with pink gel pen jumbled into its contents.

"You left this . . ." he says, not finishing the sentence to indicate where he'd found it. You immediately hear a titter. Your flock of spectators is growing by the second and the useful idiot at its center seems wholly unconcerned.

"Thanks," you say, not bothering to look up or to even hide the bag. You keep writing, blindly, the English words just rounded shapes flowing from your shaking hand. 

Their kind fed off attention, your only defense is to starve them of it.

The Saint clears his throat, again. Apparently he’s not just unconcerned, he’s also unwilling to leave.

"Aren't you grateful Doie found it before someone else did?" You don’t have to look up to know it's Miranda who’s asked, glimpsing her manicure as she picks up your bag, green gems shining on perfectly-tipped nails. 

"Oh this must not be hers. I didn't think she could afford this."

You think she might be diving into the stash for one of the Lilies' pointed additions but no–you watch in horror as she plucks out the bottle of perfume you'd been carrying with you since your parents had gifted you a single, tiny box last Christmas. 

"Chanel?" she says, laughing. "No wonder you smell like my grandma."

"Probably a knock-off," another of the Lilies says. Ginger, by the sound of her grating voice. Her handwriting on the board in homeroom listing out your abortions is as familiar as the pink gel pen script on the extra large foil condom with xoxo slut written on it staring at you through the plastic.

"Definitely a knock-off. You have a nose, don't you, Doie?"

You look up, finally, at Saint Kim. He's alone for once–the other one, the Devil Kim that shadows him is still up on the second level, leaning on the railing over his shoulder. You watch the Saint’s small mouth turn into a moue of distaste, nose wrinkling at the proffered bottle.

"Authentic," he says, capping it before offering it back to you. Your field of vision is obstructed by that veined, pale hand–fingernails as perfectly groomed as the rich girls who surround him.

You reach up to take your most prized possession back only to find he doesn't let go, holding tight when you try to pluck it from his fingers.

"You should know . . . " he says, sniffing slightly.

You look up at him with alarm blazing in your eyes. Every word Kim Doyoung says to you writes your next damnation. You should ignore him, run, anything–but you can't look away once you've met his assessing gaze, his tall frame limned in the fluorescent cafeteria lights like he's carrying his own personal halo. 

Even seeing him at a distance every day can't depreciate how ethereally handsome he is. You know better than to swoon at that elegant face, night-black hair pushed away from his forehead. Beneath his family’s charities and his PR-scripted concern you know he’s just another ungodly creation birthed of nepotism and curated genes.

He leans in, carefully, musical voice a whisper. 

"You should know it doesn't suit you."

The laughter that follows is deafening.

No, you think. He's just as soulless as the rest of them.

“What do you mean actually sleep?" you ask, coyly, unbuttoning your romper. "Like after we . . . ?"

"I've managed 6 hours of sleep in 36 hours, y/n–” Doyoung seems to hesitate, dark eyebrows raising, hand pushing his hair back from his pale forehead. He snaps his laptop closed, at last, shoving it to the farthest edge of the bedside table.

No–you think–not hesitation. 

Frustration.

You've seen this man before. 

All work and no play made Saint Kim into a Prince of Hell. He'd spent the first 8 hours of your date day half-present–the other in the 4 hours of sleep he's gotten since some crisis at his family’s headquarters in London that usurped your vacation. 

A whole 2 days in which he hasn't held you at all. His rules, his chance, but you can't help but wonder what has him so clenched that he's barely even touched you since your date began at 6 am Bangkok time.

You'd taken two extra strength melatonin and slept like the dead, anticipating his early-riser schedule. Only you and God had to know you'd fallen asleep next to your day tour fit ready to be fucked in it. 

You’d made yourself so pretty only to find him in the kitchen hunched over his phone, laptop softly pinging with notifications. Doyoung had still been dressed in the clothes you'd seen him in the night before, ending his conference call to laser in on you hovering in the kitchen.

"Are you upset?" Doyoung asked.

"No," you'd lied, pushing the piece of paper he'd left the staff on the counter, his English handwriting crisp and formal. "What’s this?" 

"We have a few dietary restrictions today," he’d said. 

"Are you saying I am what I eat?" You’d asked, taking a bite of a plump strawberry. "Is this some kind of prep?"

"It's for the date," he'd said, resigned. "Just be patient with me."

Then he'd smiled, disarming you with a casualness you hadn’t seen on him in a long time, rubbing his eyes blearily under his thick glasses. 

"Can we go back to sleep?"

And so you'd settled into his grasp on your made bed, scrolling Insta and waiting for the inevitable alarm–which turned out just to be Jungwoo delivering two iced Americanos in some gambit of checking your progress.

"Missed the floating market opening?" Jungwoo asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of Doyoung face first in a pillow.

You'd silently mouthed your thanks, leaving the drinks to sweat on the bedside table as you changed into your second outfit of the day, occasionally drifting in to check on your sleeping beauty.

It was a rare delight to have him so vulnerable beside you, blanket rucked up beneath his chin and his white teeth visible past the sweet curves of his mouth. Without consciousness your partner for the day is just Kim Doyoung, the gentler side of the same creature who you knew would often choose a couch to watch serial television with you over a day trip if you wanted it. 

But this was different.

Now instead of using his precious time to fulfill what you'd felt promised in his casual brushes against your back when you'd finally traveled out, or the way he'd stroked your leg at brunch under the table (every bite chosen by him, of course), you're being railroaded into lying still while he sleeps. 

Again.

You continue undressing, letting him drink in the sight of the lingerie set he’d left in your room. You knew it was custom made by the way it lifted each curve he’d already had access to, tailored for you as if every millimeter of your body was to account for.

Doyoung's cheeks are hollowed, lip chewed. He pulls his glasses down and regards you even more as you continue to undress yourself.

"You do know what the word 'nap' means, don't you?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept," you say. "At least let me get comfortable."

His stare pierces into you as you turn around, stripping for utility rather than give him a show he clearly hasn’t earned. You check yourself in the floor-length mirror beside the bathroom, viewing yourself through his eyes as you pluck the lace over your curves to sit just right. 

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You may as well be speaking to the floor when you turn around, finding him buried in the pillows only by the dark fall of his hair.

“You can’t be that tired,” you say. 

You're used to taking a late afternoon siesta in peak summer but you're far too excited to even consider sleep right now. For one, it's sweltering–windows open to allow the noises of hawkers and traffic not far off to drift in.

Second, you've never been more turned on in your life. 

You can still feel the tingling in your toes from when he’d slipped his hand up under the hem of your shorts, teasing at the velvety smooth skin on your inner thigh as you tried not to choke on your mimosa.

You make your way to the bed languidly, crawling up the thick white duvet with a teasing smile.

"Just stay on your side of the bed, please," Doyoung says.

"Oh," you say, collapsing on top of the covers beside him. "Well you're no fun." 

"And you're impatient and uncouth," he retorts in a way that makes you wonder if he really means it. 

"Will you at least hold onto me?"

"Too hot." He rolls on his back, flapping his half-buttoned shirt in the breeze from the fans. You sigh dramatically, collapsing into the pillows in the middle of the bed. 

"You should get naked, then.” You say. “Don't be modest on my account."

He opens one eye to glare at you, finding you relaxed and inviting beside him. His throat bobs, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"That year of celibacy really took a toll on you, didn't it? Two hours. Indulge me."

"Please, sir," you whisper. "I've been such a good girl."

It had been a stipulation of the F4’s latest deal–24 hours for you to recover from your first night before the gauntlet began. Doyoung had been more than strict about the terms, leaving you your own set of instructions including–not surprisingly–not touching yourself.

Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t think about masturbation constantly, at all hours of the day. He may as well have told you to try not to think about a white bear for how powerful the intrusive thought had taken over since then.

"You'll get your reward. Later," he says. He's an impassable wall, stretched out beside you, so you content yourself with staring at his profile. Even under these oppressive circumstances you appreciate the light dusting of freckles on his cheek brought out by the sun, the dark lashes dusting his cheeks over the slight bluish marks of sleep deprivation.

"Yes, sir."

It only takes a few minutes for him to snap at you again.

"Stop that," 

"Stop what?" 

"Getting so handsy."

You hadn’t even realized your hand had drifted over the plane of his belly under his white shirt, too absorbed with watching the muscles in his cheek spasm as you inched nearer. 

"Can I help it when you're right there?" you ask. "I thought this was your–"

Doyoung rolls you before you can slither any closer, pressing your back into the sheets with his hands on your wrists, knees digging into your thighs. 

If the intention was to get you to stop being uncomfortably turned on it has the opposite effect: you let out a moan of pleasure, legs twisting together for friction. He slams them shut between his own, groin pressed into yours.

He's as hard as you hoped, and you lift up into him to let him know you know it.

"If you don't behave I'll have to cancel this," he warns directly in your ear, sounding as choked as you feel. "I thought you were already trained." 

"Trained to fight back," you correct, pressing against him with your own strength.

"That's not trained," he says, lifting up. "I'll blame your lack of experience and experienced partners. Nothing we can't work on. Until then you'll follow my rules or I pull you from the game. Understood?" 

You let a few beats pass, accepting there's no way out and you don't have anything to throw back at him.

"Yes, sir," you pout.

"Now that's a good girl," he says.

Just as quickly as you were taken down you're let go, inhaling deeply now that you're not being pressed into the soft bed. 

"You really don't want to play with me before you sleep?" you ask, brushing your lips against his chin as he crouches over you. You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you enjoyed the way his nostrils flare a bit, working his pink bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever arbitrary rules he’d set for your time together you can tell he’s at least regretting it right now, stiff length brushing against your bare leg as you lift your knee to test it. 

“Are you trying to make me punish you?” he asks, voice husky. 

"I thought you liked it when I was a brat," you say, cocking your head. 

Doyoung sighs, eyes half-lidded. "I do. But not when you're using it to avoid intimacy."

Your throat clenches, a hard knot forming in it you can't seem to swallow as your face gets even hotter.

“What are you talking about?” you ask. 

“I think you know what I mean,” he continues. “It’s not like we both don’t have a habit of using sex as a distraction from anything emotionally challenging.”

You gape up at him in disbelief. 

Of course you’d never been able to hide that aspect of your last relationship with him when he’d often been right outside the door. All of the F4 knew how many times your arguments with he-who-should-not-be-named-especially-not-while-in-bed-with-his-best-friend had ended in you shutting him up by any means necessary. Not that you didn’t enjoy it at the time–but rather you understood it wasn’t the most healthy template for a relationship. 

"I thought this wasn't going to be about feelings," you blurt out.

“Proving my point.”

Doyoung tsks, tapping your cheek with his fingers–nowhere near a slap but just as effective, soothing the spot with his thumb. Soon he’s brushing your tears away when they inevitably spring up and you have to turn to hide their seep into the mass of pillows.

"If I wanted therapy I wouldn't be here, Kim Doyoung," you say, trying to bury your face in the piles of soft down. 

“Shh, silly girl,” He gently pulls you out from hiding, soothing you with a warm kiss against your forehead when you stop struggling and let him hold you, releasing that surge of emotion and writing it off to hormones and the sting of rejection.

“You know I’m speaking to myself here, too,” he states softly. “Bear with me, I’m learning.” 

"Do you even really like me?" you ask, face pressed into his chest. 

It’s horrible to admit this specific insecurity but you can’t help it. Being abandoned multiple times in your life when you’d finally, finally let your walls down would damage anyone’s trust. You’d hoped this day with him would be easy and carefree and light, not dimmed by the shadows of your anti-romantic histories. 

"I adore you, actually." He settles partially on top of you, leg wrapped over yours as he props himself up on his elbow. "Which is why I want to start this right. You wanted the F4 boyfriend experience. This is mine."

"Last I checked you’ve never seriously dated anyone," you groan, sniffling. 

"Last I checked, neither have you." 

Well, that connects. You swallow your fears, relaxing into the cage of his embrace, retreating a little from the vulnerability of being exposed.

"What kind of girlfriend experience were you expecting, then?"

A lazy smile gusts across his features. You can't help but find it a bit sinister after being handled so indelicately. 

“I don’t always know what’s going on in that empty little head of yours." He accompanies his statement with a brush of his thumb across your flushed cheek, tracing your semi-parted lips in a way that sends sparks down to your core. 

"I’d like to stop guessing and actually get you to let me treat you the way you want to be treated. Have you ever asked yourself what you want?"

You panic a little, considering his words. Living with disappointment had made this question a hard one to even consider. 

"I just want a good time. Isn't that what you want, too?"

Doyoung seems to ignore your ask, drifting into a relaxed state against the pillows. His hand traces the hairline at your temple. "You know I worry about you. All the time, actually.” 

His voice is lower, a little wistful, and it’s doing just as much as the slight brushes of his fingertips to make you throb all over again. A lack of sleep must have made him delusional, you think. This is not the Kim Doyoung you know.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

"Is that why you're always involving yourself in my business?" you ask, matching his tone in how breathless you are. You expect a quip, not the sincerity written on his face when he swoops in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, too fleeting to be anything but sweet and sincere. 

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? It certainly wasn’t just to get into your pants. I want you. All of you.” 

You're taken aback by his honesty. You'd always suspected his constant meddling in your affairs came from a place of interest but you'd never wanted to give him too much of a response–maybe a little afraid his fickle nature and fear of commitment would mean he’d give up on your friendship, too. 

Another thing you knew about Saint Kim: he had a tendency to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of emotional neediness in his partners. You'd never given him reason to believe you expected anything from him, but you'd also stopped fighting him on giving you what he desired to give.

It wasn’t just presents or expensive experiences, of course. He’d found out quickly those weren’t welcome without some cajoling. No–his art was in knowing what you needed even before you realized it, nudging it across your path. 

You’d figured out his deviousness after the umpteenth time someone was charitable at your little florist shop part time job, offering to fix your scooter in exchange for a nice arrangement for a proposal. As soon as you’d seen the fully restored bike outside and the customer didn’t return your texts you’d called Doyoung, completely unsurprised to find he was at the coffee shop next door, waiting to pick up his flowers.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you’d said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What makes you think I’m giving you charity,” he’d responded, dropping a department store bag and your own custom coffee order on the counter. “You’ll wear this when I come to pick you up tonight at closing, including the jewelry and perfume. I need you to play your part again. The flowers are a consolation for the heart we’re breaking.”

He’d enlisted you as his defacto “new girlfriend” for the more difficult separations, and though you’d gotten your share of a glass of expensive wine thrown in your face more often than he ever experienced it (his type always went after the easier target) it wasn’t like he didn’t have a replacement dress ready and a nice dinner waiting after you’d cleaned off the Chateau Lafitte Rothschild. 

You have to face the fact that no matter how many times he’d treated you like his girlfriend, you’d never actually expected him to want you to be one. 

“I’ve waited a very long time for this, Y/N. Which is why I want our first time together–alone," he adds quickly. "–To be special."

It's difficult to believe him but you're spellbound all the same, watching pink dust his cheeks and his ears turn a shade darker as he most likely realizes how ridiculous it is considering him fucking you senseless the other night with the help of two other men. 

But you can empathize with his anxiety. Yesterday's Thai massage he'd arranged had helped you work out the flight or fight of anticipating being alone with him. It’s back now, but different. The way he's looking at you makes you feel infinitely naked, infinitely unlocked.

"What do you mean special?" you ask, wary, hoping to see some glimmer of uncertainty or falsehood in his gaze. You want to believe it's a lie or just some artful prank, trying to ignore your heart flip-flopping in your chest. 

It’s a mistake to let him see you squirm considering it’s Doyoung’s drug of choice–his lips twist into another menacing grin as he plays with the charm on your necklace. Another of his little gifts.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Doyoung asks, dripping self-satisfaction. “Or are you going to chicken out on me?”

You turn over so he can't see your expression, realizing he’s throwing your own words from the night before right back at you.

"I haven’t decided if I want to date you, yet,” you say. 

"Maybe not," he says. "But you'll have to pardon me for wanting to show you this good time you supposedly want while also treating you decently. Unless we're no longer friends?"

"We are," you say, biting your lip, "even if you enjoy torturing me."

"Torture?" He laughs, breathy. 

"Metaphorically speaking."

"You have no idea, do you?" You can feel the edge of his glasses as he bites the place where your clavicle connects to your shoulder, his hand snaking around your bare middle.

"You could show me," you invite, mid-gasp, as your body responds to his long-awaited touch. His fingers are almost cool in contrast to the heat in the room, tracing circles in your skin that have you squirming. 

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

Why not?

"We don't have to have sex," you offer. "Maybe you could just–"

"Shh," he says, fingers skimming lower. "My terms. Are you going to stay quiet for me?"

You nod into the comforter, breath hitching as he touches you through the thin layer of your underwear, veined hand flexing as he molds the damp fabric to your body. It's such a delicate pressure but he's already memorized your shape, index finger sinking into your folds, gently rubbing a ring around your throbbing clit.

You're sticky and swelling with each pass, entranced by how good he is at teasing you, cherishing the way he sucks in his breath when he pushes into the indent of your hole.

“Doie,” you whine, leaning back into him, trying to get him to kiss you as he laughs into your hair. 

“Quiet,” he reminds you, kissing your cheek and teasing the seat of your underwear where they're soaked the most. "You want to take these off?" 

You shake your head, sensing it would be too easy of you to give in.

"That wasn't a question," he says, tugging down the band, leaving them trapped tight around your thighs. "I don't want you to wear them until I tell you that you can." 

You feel your core clench at the way his voice cracks, his fingers sliding back up to slowly and delicately draw a thread of moisture from your bared slit. You whine a little when he stops touching you, bringing his fingertip to your lips.

"Taste it." 

You let your mouth fall open, let him run it over your tongue, beginning from the middle and swirling over it. 

"Describe it," he murmurs. "If I like your answer, maybe I'll indulge you more." 

"Salt," you say, immediately. 

He tugs your hair, making you meet his eyes. 

"Have I taught you anything? I want specific notes. Flavors." 

You're transported back to the time he'd taken you to your first (and last) wine tasting. Spitting into a bucket and being lectured about body and tannins and soil conditions was the last thing you'd wanted to do after an hours-long trip to a vineyard but you'd indulged him, allowed one glass of what he considered the only drinkable wine on the premises. 

An unrefined palette, he'd called you. 

"Fruity and floral," you make up. "A nice lingering finish. Want a taste?" 

He looks down at you behind his glasses, equal parts amused and unimpressed. "Did you use the soap I asked you to?" 

Your brain glitches at that. Had you? You'd been in such a rush to go out–

You gasp when he palms your breast, squeezing the meat of it through the breathable fabric of your matching bra.

"I'll take that as a no," he says. "I guess you're not ready." 

He rolls off of you, leaving you in a lurch as you realize your legs are locked together by your underwear. You move to remove them, taking off your bra as well to avoid the awkwardness of being partially dressed.

By the time you're done you realize he's on his back, the hand that had been stroking you buried in his loose khakis. 

"What are you doing?" you ask, more than a little pissed off at the sight of him masturbating as if you aren't ready and willing to assist beside him. 

"Getting ready for our date. You can watch. No touching." He cracks an eye to look at you before closing it again. "Either of us."

"Are you edging me, Kim Doyoung?" Your menacing tone is entirely natural.

He hums a bit, working himself at a more punishing pace, knuckles peeking out from under his boxer briefs with each full pass over his length.

"Can't even look at me? Afraid you'll lose control?" You sidle down on the bed, beside his tensed thigh. You can smell a bit of the ozone on him from a morning in the sun, your knees knocking into his calves when you move over him.

"I don't trust you," he says, voice deeper than you've ever heard it.

"Is it touching if you finish on my face?" you ask when he finally blinks up at your presence, hovering over him with your breasts dangerously close to his clothed thighs.

"Absolutely not."

"Not touching–"

"Just. Watch," he orders.

He pulls himself free from his pants, surprising you with how dark and weeping his tip is as his thumb encircles it. Pools of white precum spatter on his lean, pale belly, your head dipping dangerously close–

"I said watch." He grabs at your hair, denied when you bend up again, showing him your dirty tongue.

He groans, fingers clenching air. "You were put on this earth to test me, weren't you?"

Still, he doesn't break his attention on the way you roll the drops you'd licked from his clean skin in your mouth, swallowing once you've fully enjoyed the taste.

"A little sweet you say," teasing him. "Drinking pineapple juice?"

"Brat," Doyoung says, but he's almost gone–eyes dark with desire, gently gripping your skull as you continue to ease in.

You're a master at following his lead, blowing a breath over the spot you'd licked, and then his length until his movements slow, cherishing the way you hold your mouth over his cock.

"If you can't give me what I want, then at least give me a taste," you say, sticking out your tongue in offering. You love the way he responds to the sight, needy and losing it when you hold eye contact, drilling into him.

"No," he echoes, weakly. He's too smart to push into your open mouth, instead driving his hips up to fuck his fist as you watch his glasses slide down his nose, eyes clenching shut. 

"You're no fun," you say. "Just a little swallow can't hurt?"

"No. Don't want to ruin it," he says cryptically, making a choked noise as you brush his fingers with your nose and he has to pull you away.

"I promise you it . . . It will be worth it," he manages. His jaw clenches as his movements relax, finally in control of you both.

"It better be," you say. 

You lower your lashes as your eyes flick between his cock and his face, stretching out your tongue to the point that drool begins to drip down your chin, splashing on his whitened knuckles and the tight stretch of his balls peeking out from his underwear. He bites his lip, breath holding as he starts to spiral.

The first thick rope of white rockets up his half-bared chest. Soon he's spurting even more, cum reaching his rucked up shirt, a little getting on his glasses. 

He's so out of it he doesn't fight as you wrest out of his limp hold. You clean up the sticky mess on his skin with your tongue, his abdominal muscles twitching under the light flicks and drags. 

"Want to give me some notes?" you ask, straddling him without resting any weight down, taking off his glasses. This time when you move to kiss him he rises weakly to meet you, lips parting to accept what you haven't swallowed. 

In truth, he tastes wonderful. Coffee, a little menthol from toothpaste and a hint of the watermelon you'd shared earlier mix beneath the coat of his spend.

He licks into your mouth until you moan, your body throbbing with unfulfilled pleasure. You follow him as he sinks back into the pillows, enjoying having him at your disposal, your core leaving wet trails on his thigh when you brush against the fabric.

"I'm going to wait until you're asleep and use you if you don't help me get off," you threaten, pressing soft kisses to his slack face. It’s no use. Doyoung has passed out again, lower teeth visible as he snores softly, forehead sheened with drying sweat.

Fuck it, you think. 

You ooze off of him to take your second cold shower of the day, and maybe get acquainted with one of the fancy showerheads in his massive walk-in while you use his special soap. 

It's not–technically–touching yourself.

Your mystery destination isn't an unknown–it's in every tourist booklet and blog you'd skimmed before your trip, thinking you'd be on your own to find a good spot to traverse to. But it still takes your breath away the moment the car door opens in the sprawl of motorbikes and delivery trucks and Doyoung takes your hand to pull you into Paradise.

Pak Khlong Talat is a bustle of energy well after dark, the time you know its treasures are delivered fresh and unbloomed, wrapped in newspaper and steeped in crushed ice. For as far as you can see the market sprawls along Chak Phet road, but even more overwhelming than the sights and sounds is the scent. 

Jasmine, roses, lavender. Thousands upon thousands of blooms strung up and tended to by night owl vendors, delicate arrangements hand-sewed by artisans streetside into garlands so well-crafted Doyoung has to tug you to keep you moving, onwards to some other unspoken destination. 

"I was worried you might hate flowers after working with them for so long. I take it you like it?" he asks, indulging you when you ask if you can take his picture at a particularly lovely hang of garlands, the purple-blue light perfect for the film you'd loaded into your father's old camera. Photography had never been your craft, but after your dad had passed you'd made an effort to capture more of your memories, cherishing what you'd taken for granted before.

“It’s perfect,” you say, admiring him through the viewfinder. "But can you look like you're having fun?" 

Your model is stiff, mouth a moue as he checks the street for other observers or a possible collision with a laden handcart. 

"Fun?" Doyoung asks, and you snap his picture on the offbeat, enjoying his look of surprise. 

“Like you've taken your date to one of the most romantic places on earth, after buttering her up with a night cruise of Chao Praya and finally letting her eat real food." 

He sniffs at a fall of marigolds, a smug look on his face that you commit to film, right before he sneezes. 

"For the record, we're eating after this. Som tam hardly counts as a meal, I just didn’t want that drink going to your head." 

You're shepherded through the vast warehouse of the main market, to an adjacent street, and into a non-descript building painted in a funereal white.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" you ask, once the key code is entered and you enter the strange business. 

"I called in a favor," he says, taking your hand, leading you up a metal staircase past a simple storefront of dried blooms and shelves laden with boxes and bottles alike.

An apothecary? An alchemist's shop? The purpose of the space eludes you.

"An atelier," Doyoung explains. "One of the most sought out in the world."

There's the distant hum of the city outside and a central air you're unused to in this climate but the upstairs is quiet–by all accounts either an office or a laboratory, or a mixture of both. The central working area is a chaotic but organized space filled with tables of glassware and dried floral arrangements contrasting potted orchids, small beakers of coffee beans littered amidst rows of labeled brown bottles.

"So this is how they make perfume," you say, inspecting a stoppered bottle labeled "Gerianol 10%".

"Not just any perfume. The best. Here." Doyoung leads you to a much less cluttered workstation, the desk arranged with the lights still on, a note detailing some instruction you can barely read before he slips it into the pocket of his slim-tailored pants. Beneath it is a notebook, scrawled with a perfect cursive English you recognize from the cards he’d included in boxes or bags whenever he’d bothered to claim their contents. 

"Sit," he instructs. You think he means the comfortable chair but before you can sit down he presses you to the desk, caging you in. 

"Sit," he repeats, hands on your hips through your slinky skirt, lifting you to the bench. You scoot back, carefully, the white blooms of some exotic flower brushing against your cheek until he can move the vase a careful distance. 

"Do you understand what we’re doing here?"

You can't possibly know what he means, eye level with the graceful column of his neck and his exposed collarbone beneath his translucent button-down, drowning in the melange of scents but most especially his clean, neutral cologne. 

"No," you say, honestly, heart beating fast. 

He picks up a corked flask from some kind of metal scale, dipping a thin thread of paper into it to waft it a fair distance from your nose.

"Before we came here--before you even agreed to this trip–I sent instructions to my friend for a specialty blend of their creation. It took quite a bit of back-and-forth–I even visited here last month to take a private class and make sure we prepared the base and middle to your standards."

"For me?" 

You feel dizzy, reaching out to take the sample and smell it again, his hand capturing your own before you can bring it too close to your nose. He wafts it for you, expectant as you absorb the details.

Indeed, it smells divine–exactly the kind of warm, bright notes that make your heart feel at ease. There’s something floral and citrus worked in, not too heavy, the finish leaving you with an impression of a lazy summer afternoon. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Did you make this to match what you knew I liked?”

"Yes.” Doyoung exhales, looking almost sheepish. "I had some references. That cheap shampoo you never stop buying, the Lush exfoliator with the orange blossom, even–" he shudders a bit– "that awful Chanel you doused yourself in, in high-school."

"Coco Mademoiselle," you say. "It's been years since I–"

"It didn't suit you," he says, standing up to sample another bottle from the neat row. 

Something dawns on you, a distant memory locking into place.

"It was you," you gasp in realization. "You're the one who got rid of it. I should have known when you tried to give me that bottle of Jo Malone–"

“It had already turned. You need to store your scents away from direct light.”

“It was a keepsake!” There were very few possessions from your youth that you’d been able to hold onto–not only because your parents had been barely able to afford your school uniforms, much less gifts. What little you’d had was lost when your house was destroyed by the men your father owed money to, this small thing neglected in the destruction.

“It didn't suit you because it wasn't made for you," he continues. "You wore it because you thought it would make you fit in, when you should have made what you wore wear you–"

"Please, stop."

You have to bite your lip to the point of pain, remembering how excited you'd been to unwrap that tiny bit of luxury your parents had saved up to buy you, your mother sure the brand name would save you from another day of humiliation. You didn’t have the heart to tell them that the cutout ad from the magazine on your wall was for the model, not the actual perfume, but you felt loved by the gesture all the same.

Hundreds of thousands of won an ounce for it to only turn on your skin, well before afternoons spent on the basketball court under the thankless sun. That memento had aged from pink to a sickly rose unused on your cosmetic shelf, a totem from a time when you imagined yourself belonging. Before it had disappeared, like so many other things.

You can't remember the last time you'd worn anything, had never even gone near that section of a department store after the humiliation of being made fun of for smelling cheap.

“My dad skipped lunches and my mom worked double shifts to get that for Christmas my first year in Kocher,” you say. “Mira was the brand ambassador for that campaign, you know.”

Mira had been your idol even before you won the scholarship she’d established to attend Kocher. Perfect, beautiful, but most of all the first girl in their sphere to show you genuine kindness.

"It must be so easy for you," you say, wiping your face. You rarely cried these days but that memory was particularly painful, a reminder of how often you’d assumed Doyoung found you just as offensive. Not just your scent, you thought, but you.

Something to be tolerated. Below his regard. 

"Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you don't like, you can get rid of. I'm sorry, I don't live in your world. I can’t just throw something away when it’s not useful."

"No," he says, quietly, abandoning his explanation. "That was thoughtless of me. I can replace it–"

“Can you?” You glare up at him. “Is this what you really want? To dress me up like your perfect doll and feed me from your hand so I’m more able to suit you?

Doyoung looks like he's going to be ill, every design in his head unraveling before your eyes. You’d feel sorry for him if you didn't know this was a lesson worth imparting.

"Don't ever offer to replace what you don’t know the true value of," you say, voice trembling.

There's a weighted silence as he considers his next words. You still haven't slipped away from him, choosing to hold your ground. How many times had you been forced to be the antagonist in some fruitless class warfare, unresolved? But then you also had a habit of finding battles in peacetime. 

You pluck the newest scent strip from his frozen hand and waft it between you, at the designated distance.

“Thank god this smells nothing like it,” you murmur. You offer him a wry smile, anger fading. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You feel Doyoung’s relief as he collapses against you, forehead against your hair as his arms wrap tight around your middle. You relax after a bit, cheek pressed to his collarbone as you breathe in his unique scent–a little like fresh laundry left out in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “All these promises and plans and stupid details and at the end of the day I really . . . Don't know what I'm doing."

"I really don’t know what you’re doing, either," you say. "But I like that you try.”

"You do?" The hope in his voice makes your iciness melt a bit. You let your hands twine around his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with the gesture.

“I know it’s not easy for me to admit but I do appreciate everything you do for me, Doie,” you say. 

He doesn’t respond in words but you savor the shift in his demeanor, like a weight has been lifted from him. You think even he didn’t know it was there. You ignore the glassiness in his eyes when he pulls back, choosing to look at his notes instead.

“Are these all the ingredients?” you ask, working out a few of the more familiar words. “What’s op–?”

“First things first,” he says, rolling up his sleeves.  "Did you touch yourself?" 

"No," you say, surprised by the shift. "I followed your instructions. No products with scents. No underwear."

You spread your thighs to make your point. His hands hike your skirt up, over the breadth of skin to your hips and then to the curl of your belly, his breath hitching as he finds you already glossy.

It had been a bit of a gambit considering your riverside excursion but he'd allowed you a lemongrass-based repellent–the scent of which is still clinging to your bare skin as he kneels down to press a kiss to where his fingers had traced earlier.

You jerk a bit, conscientious of the workspace as he spreads you, just that light touch making your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt and bra.  

“Are we allowed to–”

“Shh. Relax and try not to spill anything,” he interrupts, breath cooling your wetness. “I just need some inspiration.”

“What?” 

"You’re so good already," he says into your sex, spreading you so he can lightly tongue at your skin. “Perfect little flower just for me.”

After waiting so long, you're torn between begging and shoving his teasing licks away, hand threading through his raven hair as the notebook slips from your hand.

"Kim Doyoung–” you gasp as he spears his tongue through your upper folds, nose nudging the sensitive bud. “–if this is another round of teasing I will murd–”  

You yelp as he hunches down to wrap your legs around his shoulders, hands re-occupied by exposing you as you try to stay upright. 

“Don’t worry. You can come like this. I want to know if you taste different after.”

You don't know what he means until his mouth closes over your clit, sucking just right. You jolt, pinched on the meat of your thigh until you can relax again, making little mewls as he rolls his thumbs alongside the point of contact.

“I want you inside of me,” you beg, feeling that fluttering sensation that heralds a build-up. “I wanted to come with you inside me.” 

“Soon. Just need to be good while I sample you.” 

“Sample?” Your hand sinks into his hair in panic, tugging, but Doyoung is too lost alternating between suckling at your sex and palpating you with a circling thumb, his beautiful hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread.

“Drip for me, first.” 

“I don't think I can–”

“You giving up already?” Doyoung scoffs, smirking up at you with reddened lips, tongue-tip darting against your clit. Every brush of soft muscle makes you spasm a bit, belly tightening unfulfilled.

You shake your head, panting. “I just . . . Doie I want you inside me.” 

“You can relax and take it,” he says, tongue wrapping around your labia, sucking slightly. Your head is buzzing, every stray thought removed by his exploration of you.

“Relax. If you don't I'll just have to try until you're begging for me to stop.” 

“No, please, Doie. I'll be good,” you plead. “Just . . . need something inside. Hurts so bad being empty.”

“Hand me a pipette.”

“What?”

“The one that looks like an eyedropper,” he says, hand open to accept like he’s performing surgery. You fight to find the right glassware with his mouth still on you, efforts more focused and intense as your legs tense with each hit. You find the rubber-stoppered glass cylinder, stomach dropping. 

“Is this safe?” You ask, gripping his mussed hair tighter when he pulls away for a moment.

“If you hold still, yes,” he taunts. You seize when you first feel the tip slip inside you. The glass is cool but warms to your body heat quickly, too slim to feel anything.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re even pushing this out, you must be so tight.”

“I am. Too tight,” you groan. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”

He ignores you, focusing on his work, pulling the instrument free when he’s satisfied.

“Not bad,” he says, dropping it on the desk beside you before he’s back on his knees with his nose buried in your cunt. “Bet you can do better than that.”

“No, please, I need you–”

“Then drip for me,” he laughs into your leg, tracing the wetness down the crease in your thigh. You tense your hold on the desk’s edge when you feel his tongue prod at your entrance, muscle breaching your hole to lick into you. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat that has you plummeting just as he resumes stroking your clit through the slippery coat of your arousal. 

Finally, you think, feeling the advent of tears for how wound tight you are, how desperate you are to feel him give you just one more point of contact with the ache inside.

“Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you repeat, the noises obscene as he drinks you in, other hand on your hip to hold you against his face. It’s not even the stimulation that makes you begin to come but the audible groan he releases as he feels you quake against his mouth, heels snagging on his shirt when the first wave breaks and those little tics inside you turn into powerful contractions around his tongue-tip taking everything you can give him. 

He keeps licking you even when you’re begging for him to stop, nose tracing down to catch a stray drop from the back of your knee with a playful dart of his tongue. 

“Was it worth it?” you ask, folding over him as he wipes his mouth clean in your drenched skirt. You know it’s just the start but you already feel wrung out and feather-light, wicking away the sweat that’s beaded on your own face despite the cool, dry air of the room. 

“Hmm?” he hums a bit, disentangling to stand up and hold your face in his hands. His pupils are blown, sweat beading on his temples, but he looks as satisfied as you hoped he would be, your arousal drying on his slender features.

“All the prep,” you say. “Isn’t that why–do I taste as good as you expected after all that?”

Doyoung looks down on you, amused. Already you feel like you’re heating up again, with how his dark eyes flit to your mouth and back up again. 

“You think I prefer you prepped?” he asks, angling his head down besides yours to whisper in your ear. “The next time I eat that perfect little pussy of yours I want it to be filthy.” 

He traces the lobe with his teeth for good measure, pulling another moan out of you. “I’ll even make sure to wait until the other two have a go at you, first.”

You feel your heartbeat stutter as he presses his lips to your pulse point, tongue darting past his lips to dab at the sweat there.

“No, precious, I wanted to make sure the perfume we make tonight matches all of you.” Doyoung’s nose brushes your ear as he breathes in your scent. “Every time I wear it I’m going to remember the way you sounded when you first came for me and me only.”

The promise of it has you feeling a different kind of heat, dizzying for how much you want it to last past this night. 

“Fuck,” you whisper explosively, eyes clenched shut to stay fixed upright, fisting the thin material of his collar as he pulls you from the countertop and against the hard planes of his body. “I need you. Now. Please.”

“I like hearing you say that,” he chuckles a bit. “But I’m going to make you earn it. You can wait a little longer. You made me wait years, after all.”

You let him guide you into his lap, in the chair, pushed into the desk as he opens the notebook to another page. And another, until you take over and explore it for yourself. In the dim golden light from the street outside you catch glimpses of colors and drawings, notes written of impressions and memories you’d all but forgotten in your haze of grief these past few years. 

There’s even photographs taped to some of the pages–ones you know well by the fact that they’d been taken on your camera. Doyoung didn’t have Jaehyun’s artistic training but he did have an eye for capturing candid moments.

November, your first year of college. You’re standing in the first snow of the season, catching flakes on your tongue. You can still feel the burn of them, hear the murmur of the city dulled in a fresh blanket of white and taste the roasted yam you’d eaten, tossing it in your mittened hands until it was cool enough to peel. 

Doyoung’s shoulder is off-kilter beside yours, unable to capture himself in the frame for all his long reach. The peek of the striped scarf you’d knitted for him in gray and blue is all that’s visible of him under his peacoat, the mismatched weave of it captured even in this poor exposure.

“Base note: cedarwood,” you read, carefully, eyes hazing a bit with emotion. Evergreen.

“I still have it, you know,” he murmurs against your temple. “I only stopped wearing it because it started unraveling.”

“I’d make you another but I quit knitting after making three scarves,” you say, wryly. “Well two and a half, actually, I ran out of yarn on Jungwoo’s and made him a hat instead.”

“I thought you were just trying to get him to hide that ridiculous military haircut,” Doyoung muses. “Keep going or we’ll be here all night.”

“Now you’re impatient?” you ask, cementing your flirtation by shifting in his lap. You can’t ignore the feeling of his erection folded against the curve of your ass, or the way he grunts when you find a better seat with it nestled between your thighs.

“Sometimes I forget you were put on this planet to vex me,” he says. You’re lifted up by the waist, a hand on your lower back the moment you’ve found the desk for support, face above the book. 

“Why don’t you try reading until I’m satisfied you know exactly what you’re getting?”

You don’t fight him, elbows bent as he rucks up your skirt. You feel your face grow warm with blood as you find yourself exposed to him again, locked in by his legs and his groping touch reaching up beneath your shirt. 

"Base notes: amber and–" you have to fight to keep your voice steady as he swats your exposed curves, hard enough to sting. 

"Ambergris,” he corrects, voice fried with delight.

“Ambergris,” you repeat. “And white musk."

"Good. And?"

"Bisabol–" you begin, corrected with another slap on your ass that hits, hard, glass jingling on the table.

"Did you jump ahead?" He asks, knowing full well your eyes are swimming with tears. 

"No sir," you say. “I didn’t think that was a real word.”

"Opoponax." He says, reaching over you to grab a bottle, dropping a thick oil on you and rubbing it into your bruising skin. "Also known as sweet myrrh. Go ahead. Keep reading."

"Source: distilled from resin from ancient groves in Somalia, bought in Mogadishu from a local orchard, all profits to fund schools and clinics for women displaced by civil war." 

"Do you believe this to be a charitable effort?" He asks, hand spreading over your buttocks. You think he might be referring more to your arrangement than whatever is written on the page.

"No," you say. Your history and political know-how might be lacking but you've seen the wrong side of kindness. "It sounds like what people write to make themselves feel better about exploitation."

"Clever girl," he answers. You feel his nose brush against your skin, testing the mingling of scent with it. "Keep going."

You turn the page, swallowing back your protests. This spread is rich with text and color, a veritable garden bursting from the page. You fix on the first entry in the upper corner, bracing yourself for another faux pas.

"Heart notes: Turkish rose," you say. "What is this, poetry?"

"Aren’t you familiar with it?"

You shake your head, lips pursed in delight at the scrawl of English. “No.”

You let out a gasp as he bites the flesh nearer your back, the sting of it surely leaving a mark by the way the pain lingers.  

"Read it," he says, dipping over you for another bottle. “You’ll remember.”

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows," you dictate, stumbling over every word and yet never punished for it. Instead Doyoung lets a steady drip of the bottle fall down the back of your leg to your knee, his fingers bringing up the rest to mix what he's already poured on you.

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine." 

You end your recitation in a whisper, leather binding and paper gripped in your fingers as he massages the oil gently into your tingling skin, careful to avoid where your legs are locked together in arousal. You're heady with scent and sensation, awaiting some reminder that this isn't just a strange dream you’ve wandered into.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight," he finishes for you as he paints the rest up your spine beneath your shirt. You let him ministrate on your body as the words settle, as time recedes and you face a version of your youth you’re not sure isn’t just fiction. 

That book beside you, the first time he’d spoken to, long forgotten.

“Midsummer’s Night Dream,” you say, turning to face him again, settling between his thighs as he fails to meet your gaze. You lift his face with your fingers, cheeks indented by your gentle hold. “You remembered that, too?”

“It was the first time you ever looked at me,” he says. “And it felt like you saw right through me.”

No, you’re not dreaming. You’re the architect of this moment just as much as he’ll claim to be a cursory observer if confronted on it. 

You take in his mismatched eyes–one folding a little more than the other when he smiles at you ruefully. Those freckles you’d never really spent time examining, a happy accident of the time he’d spent with you in the sun. His fingers catching yours for a moment when you weren’t paying attention.

But most of all, the haunted cast where he’d lost sleep managing someone else’s problems. When he’d still been worrying about yours.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I ever really saw you until now.”

“What didn’t you see?” he asks, expectantly.

Six years of his careful distance from you, that coldness and disinterest just another mask for someone who was as raw and vulnerable and real as you if you managed to pry open their shell. His tendency towards control, towards the knife’s slice of cutting you so cleanly from his life no one would know your name unless he spoke it aloud.

There wasn’t another human being in their right mind who’d last that test, your only grace being that he’d thought you were untouchable. His best friend’s girlfriend, of course. But beyond that, one of his best friends. 

No, one of his only friends.

“What didn’t you see?”

It wouldn’t require money or taste or a family name to bring Saint Kim down to earth. Just time and small acts of resistance, like the beautiful shell remnants you’d spilled into his hands on that last trip to Maui together, when it had still been the five of you. Each ground down to a small disc with a perfect spiral at its center, a reminder of the beauty remaining in broken things.

You place the notebook in his hands, curling your fingers around his. The pages it’s opened to are sparsely constructed, besides the photographs nestled between. Only you two know what’s there, buried in black sands and blue waters. You can see his handwriting falter where he’s written the notes for this moment in your shared history, sketches of those shells, and flowers.

A single photograph of you watching the others playing in the surf, his shadow cutting across the stretch of your legs.

Top notes: Jasmine for sensuality. 

Orange Blossom for innocence. 

Plumeria, for admiration. a new beginning . . .

You recognize the creamy yellow-white flower he’d tucked behind your left ear when you’d fallen asleep beside him. A non-native plant to the island, you’d learned, worn to indicate one was taken. A weed, like you, now prized as a treasure.

“What didn’t you see?”

You pull back to look at him, giving him yourself without reservation. 

“That I think you love me . . .” you say. “. . . Like I think I love you, too.” 

He looks up at you, astounded, the chair beneath him creaking as he collapses. 

For once you regret being beside him when you’d heard the same words spoken to him by other people, pulled into their lives without you ever remembering their names. The difference between you, you once believed, was that they didn’t mean it. 

Now, you understand, they just never knew the true cost of losing him. 

You watch him collect himself, running a hand back through his hair and curling into his seat, memories forgotten in his lap, bedamned. You’re sure the engines of Hell are running hot for the way he can’t even look at you right now. 

He needs a way out, you think. You’d rather be drowned in other women’s wine poured over your head than be on the receiving end of his disregard again, the script already constructed in your mind before you’d found you had the nerve to sleep with him.

"You can be honest with me,” you say. “Tell me it's been fun but you're not interested in a relationship.”

“What?” Doyoung is just as confused as when you’d told him you loved him, as honest as you’ve been in both sentiments. 

“Your family will never approve of me. I’m just another fling you happened to take a more lasting interest in. It’s better this way. Cut me off, forget about me and move on.”

It's his turn to balk. You expect his pre-programmed response. Saint Kim's gospel for turning down the interested but uninteresting party: deflect, dissuade, detach. 

“No,” he says, face draining of color.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I can handle it. Really. We can still be friends.” 

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully.

“What do you mean, no?” you ask. “Isn’t that how this always ends?”

“You stupid girl,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands so you can’t escape, making you look into his warm gaze. 

"Don’t you get it? This was always about feelings.”

When his lips crush against yours you don't have to speak to respond, catching his head so you’re not suffocated by the raw emotion you can feel in every movement. You return each kiss until the breath is out of your lungs, until you're drowning in his scent as he forces you back onto the desk.

You’re impatient to feel him, everywhere, aware you’re ripping buttons as you open his shirt to gain access to his smooth chest, trailing kisses as far down as you can go, still unable to escape his tongue sliding over yours.  

“I wasn’t going to do this here, like this, but fuck it,” he says once he’s free, fumbling with his belt as he holds you to pepper your face and neck in a steady reminder of his affection. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” you echo wholeheartedly, helping free him out of his clothing, pulling his length to where you’re still slick with oils and cum and ready for him. God, you think you’ve never been more ready to break around him, to show him what he’s brought out of you with this game.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore,” you whisper. 

You watch his face, breath held and heart stuttering as he sinks into you slowly, both of you gasping at the way your heat resists each measure of his continuous thrust. It feels like he’s barely in you when he stops, making you moan in dismay.

“Doie, please,” you say, trying and failing to wrap your legs around his slender hips to capture him deeper. You’re half out of your mind with that burning weight inside you remaining still.

“Say it,” he says, taking off your shirt to have access to your skin. He pulls down your bra, nipples tugged between his fingers as he assaults your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“It’s special,” you choke out. “Thank you, please–”

“Say it,” he corrects, twitching inside you but not moving an inch more. He curls down to nip at your breast above the lace, sucking a mark into the softest part. “Without the ‘I think’.” 

“No,” you resist, realizing what he’s asking too late. Your nails sink into his half-bared shoulder, head rolling against his. “You don’t get to torture me for that.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now.” Doyoung laughs against your cheek, hand splaying around your hip to still your squirming. “I can do this as long as it takes.”

He thrusts, just a little more, making you cry out in desperation as the contents of the desk tinkle behind you. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You think I love you?”

“So, so close.” He pulls out, rocking into you again to feel the seize of your entire body when you anticipate just how far he’ll go before denying you. A little more, at least, and you can feel how much it’s taking for him, see the strain in his body as he holds back.

“You love me,” you tease, this time not a question, no you think. “Saint Kim loves me.”

He sheathes himself in you fully, gripping your nape to kiss you as you clench involuntarily around him, protests in the back of your throat muffled by his tongue sliding across yours. He tugs at your bottom lip when he breaks free, fully smiling now like he isn’t buried completely in your cunt just warming himself instead of chasing his own bliss.

“What did you call me?” he asks, leaning over you to retrieve something. 

You take advantage of his distraction to snake a hand between you, slipping beneath your skirt before it’s grabbed, tight, and brought up to his lips. 

“Don’t cheat,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the cap of a bottle. 

“You never heard anyone call you that?” you murmur, opening it. 

You smell spring flowers and delicate citrus before it’s taken away, set aside when you nibble and suck at his sensitive ear to make him twitch, hands drifting across his ticklish belly down to his hipbones. He reads your intent again, stopping whatever silly task he’s doing beside you to lift your wrists to his shoulders. 

“The name is a little ironic, isn’t it?” you say, squeezing him experimentally with your thighs as you stroke his nape with your nails. You flex other muscles too–earning the grunt he makes as he feels you squeeze around his girth. 

He angles your head, pressing something wet and soft to where your pulse flutters in your neck. You’re immediately permeated with a light, airy, sweetness, the different scents revealed like a melody that ends in that richer, warmer scent from earlier. 

“Is that my perfume?” you ask. 

“An anointment,” he says, blowing across your skin to dry it and sending a shiver down your spine to where your bodies are locked together, that fullness and muted pleasure of him radiating down to your toes.

“I do seem to have a demon inside of me,” you sigh into his neck as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do they do that in exorcisms?”

“Blessings,” he corrects, adjusting with another grunt. “We’ll find out if it worked in about an hour.”

“An hour?” you grumble. “You think you can keep torturing me that long?”

“I think I gave you the key to your own cage,” he says, checking his watch. “About five minutes ago. Does it feel like longer?”

You mumble something into his rumpled collar, making him laugh beneath you. Even just that tiny movement has you involuntarily gripping him, abdomen clenched. 

“What’s that?”

“I’llsayitifyoumakemecome,” you repeat, embarrassed enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck again. 

“You think this is a negotiation, Y/N?” Doyoung’s hands are back on your breasts, thumbing the areola in slow circles that are very much a reminder of his touch earlier on your throbbing clit. You whimper, trying to stay still so he doesn’t figure out that if he continues to do that you might have a chance–

“You trying to make me come squeezing me like that?” he asks, breath ragged. “That seems like a quick way to end this.”

“You . . . you could just fuck me,” you wheeze, feeling the way he teases your pebbled, hard nipple with lighter brushes, his mouth quirked where it’s pressed to your forehead. 

“What if I want to make love to you, instead?” he asks. He inhales sharply at your body’s response. 

“Fuck, you liked me saying that, didn’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, holding onto him in desperation as the combination of his words and soft strokes make you melt into the pleasure of every small motion of him inside you. You realize he’s unconsciously pushing into you, too, unable to keep his hips from pressing into yours. 

Overstimulation is making you hyperaware of the scratch of his unzipped jeans against your burning thighs, the random brush of his open belt against your belly. Time seems to disappear as he holds you quietly, letting you soak up the fragrant, radiating warm reality of him.

“I can wait all night for it,” he threatens, even just his lower register making you quiver a little around him. “Count every time you twitch and moan on me until you break.”

You’d felt him flag a little while he worked but now he’s fuller inside you, stretching you wide as he twitches to life. It’s even hotter than all of this build-up, you think, knowing he can act a menace but that the idea of you surrendering to him is what’s really getting him off.

Of course, you think, mentally steeling yourself like you’re preparing for war. In a way this is something like it, up against as formidable a foe as he is. 

“Doie,” you whisper, threading your hands in his hair as you nuzzle for his lips, kissing him softly and intimately, like it’s your first time. “When did you know?”

“What?” He goes a little rigid against you, unable to hide his rapid heartbeat with how close you’re pressed to him. You blink up at him, expectantly. 

“When did you first know you loved me? Really?”

He smiles, shyly, but you see the hint of anxiety on his features beneath his arousal. There it is, you think, having to hide your own satisfaction. 

“Is this a trick question?” he asks, warily, eyelashes half-lowered.

“Not if I know the answer,” you say, smoothing his kiss-swollen lips with a touch. “I don’t think it’s in that book, either.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued, a tentative rock of his hips against you making you dizzy. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, just as playful. 

“I’ll tell you later,” you say. “After.”

He sighs explosively, nose wrinkling. “You don’t know.”

“Want to bet?” you ask. It’s always a little thrilling seeing Doyoung presented with an opportunity he can’t resist. He fumbles for the notebook beside you, almost slipping out of you when he has to reach even farther for a pen.

“Write it down,” he says, smug as a cat who’s caught something small and easily toyed with. 

“Only if you do, too,” you say.

His answer is a pained sound of agreement, adjusting himself against the desk. 

“No peeking,” you say, flipping to a page in the back. 

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the book before the nib of the nice pen touches the creamy paper. “What are the terms?”

You ponder for a moment, feeling a grin slide onto your lips. “Doesn’t our perfume need a name? Whoever is right, gets to name it.”

You can practically taste his delight as he leans in to kiss you, forcing you to pull your page closer to you. You make him wait, filling the blank space as best you can with detail as he fidgets between your legs, sending small shocks of pleasure through you both. 

“Thank you,” he says in earnest once you’ve handed him it open to a new leaf, his hand and the notebook shaking a little as he tries to write mid-air, finally resting it awkwardly atop your head in order to scrawl out his own answer.

“My eyes are closed, Kim Doyoung.” 

“You’re a cheat,” he says, shushing you with an added thrust of his hips. 

You settle back on your elbows, already enjoying your victory as you feel the tiny pressure of his handwriting, hear the scratches of his sketch. You're more emboldened than ever when the leather binding snaps shut.

“Now tell me,” you say, looking up at him coyly. 

“Can’t I just show you–”

You snatch the book from him, turning to your entry. Then, to his horror, you rip your page free and fold it shut, tucking it into the pocket of his open shirt.

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “You had 24 hours, right? I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.”

Doyoung looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell you that you won,” you say, looking down at his page. You trace the fresh ink with care, admiring his tight script and explanation. “February to April? How could I have guessed an entire season?” 

“Did you at least guess the year?” he asks, looking a little better for your affirmation of his win. 

You nod, finally feeling the discomfort of your position and resting your head against his warm chest. There’s nothing awkward about being wrapped around him like this, the late hour and strange, still space making it easier to forget the world outside.

“Hard to forget,” you say. “I thought for sure I’d never see you again after that winter holiday.”

Another break with Johnny, of course–but this one had been your choice. You’d finally felt the crushing weight of two years of contempt from the people around him, the Suh family matriarch at the center of it all, doing everything in her power to crush not only you but the people you loved. 

And then, when you’d needed him the most, Kim Doyoung had walked away from you, too. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you, either,” he sighs. “It was the first time in a long time you weren’t with us. With me. And it was my fault for pushing you away when you were just trying to–”

“It’s in the past now,” you cut him short with a finger pressed to his lips. 

The memory is painful, still–and you don’t want to sully this moment with it. You appreciate that even in his roundabout admission there’s a clear understanding for all you’d been through. You’d hoped he remembered that time from the past, when you’d first peered between the cracks in his carefully-manufactured facade.

Now you could be sure of what it meant to him. You feel like your own walls are crumbling, the light shining through. 

“So you chose the period of time when we didn’t speak to one another, at all?” you muse. “Not just one day?”

“You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “You were on my mind every minute and every hour of those three and a half months.”

He pauses, sigh warm against your brow. “I couldn’t tell you when I knew, for sure. I certainly couldn’t admit it, then, even to myself. But sometime then, I realized I cared more about you than a friend.”

You’d never doubted he was capable of it, never doubted it might be true. But hearing him admit it, now you know why he wants to hear it from you, too.

“Say it,” you say.

He finally looks at you again, tired but alight with amusement.

“You first,” he says.

“Who knew three simple words would be so difficult for Saint Kim?” you tease him.

“Alright. Come here,” he motions, slipping out of you with a shared groan. He pulls you to a couch under the shuttered window, settling down and forcing you to straddle him. In this position he can’t stop you from immediately taking all of him, his eyelids fluttering when you bottom out.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs. 

“You’re not going to last,” you laugh, delighted by the way his nose scrunches when you clench around him. 

“Says the girl who’s sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He grabs on to your hips to roll them against his own, fingers tightening when you wriggle against him. “You’re gonna say it first even if I have to fuck it out of you.”

“Whoever comes first, then?” you offer.

“I can live with that,” he sighs, head resting back on the couch. 

You rock on your knees slowly, satisfaction warming you throughout as you force him all the way inside you. You let him hear how he makes you feel, pleading sounds and whispers every time he hits that place in your upper walls, curved inside of you perfectly. It doesn’t matter if you're in control you can’t help but hunt down that lovely rush of pleasure in your belly, twining your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself. 

“Good girl,” Doyoung praises, watching you in awe through half-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I always wanted to know what it would look like when you lost yourself with me.”

His words make you shiver, brushing his lips until he holds you against his mouth to show you how he likes it, less exploratory and more confident. It’s maddening how good he is at this, making you feel every single sweep of his tongue across yours, hand on your neck keeping you from escaping. 

“Don’t you want to–” you protest as he helps you to lay flat on your back across the length of the wide loveseat, settling between your thighs. 

“Oh god, Doie,” you whimper when he takes over, finally, finally, beginning to fuck you. It’s just as slow but at least he penetrates you fully before pulling out almost all the way, shoulders quaking as he holds himself up. 

“Promise me you'll let me dote on you for the rest of your life,” he says, not waiting for your response before driving into you again. His movements are barely controlled, grunts escaping the back of his throat when his hips snap into yours again.  

“I promise,” you hold onto him, back arching off the cushion to meet him, blissed out in the relief of each, careful stroke against your fluttering walls. That crescendo is happening whether you want it to or not, every overworked knot of muscle threatening to snap loose. 

“Promise me that no matter who you fuck you’ll always let me treat you right,” he says, voice breaking. “You’ll let me show you how I feel even when I can’t say it.”

“Yes, Doie. Yes.” You pull down on his shoulders, trying to move for you both, kissing his jaw and throat.

“Stop fighting me and take it,” he says, moving more easily with the thick coat of your cum, establishing a gentle rhythm. 

His voice has always made it hard for you to pay attention to anything else but he abuses that power now, murmuring guidance into your neck that has you tightening around him as he fucks you deep and slow. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “You’re taking me so well. Take all of me.”

You feel shivers up and down your body, nipples hardening tight as they brush against his chest, his hair tickling your forehead as he blindly kisses and licks at your mouth and chin. 

You’d thought he’d be concentrating on something else in his head to keep from losing himself but instead it’s you who's floating, breath captured in your lungs when he adjusts on top of you to pin your hips down, pressing your leg wide to bury himself to the hilt.

“You feel so perfect. I could really do this all night, you know,” he smirks down at you from where he’s supported on his elbow. “Is that what you want?”

“No, fuck, please,” you whine. There’s no thoughts in your head besides just how much you want that ache inside of your cunt to melt into real pleasure. 

“You want me to stop?” he asks, feeling how you begin to pulse around him as he swirls his hips up into that most sensitive part of you, his flat belly grinding into your clit. You gasp, leg locking around his, helping him work you apart.

“No no no,” you beg, face hot. “Just . . . just kiss me through it, please.”

Doyoung’s smile grows wider. “Say what you already told me.”

You twist your head against the cushion, earning his hand on your jaw as he makes you look at him while you break, kissing you between panting breaths. His confidence is written in the cocksure grin remaining on his mouth, more cruel when he bites at your bottom lip, hard, before licking the pain away. 

“Say it,” he breathes, slowing down on purpose. 

“I . . . ah,” you cry out, “I love . . . please don’t stop.” 

“What’s that?” he asks, pace punishingly slow. Your legs lose feeling, vibrations starting in the back of your thighs and tremoring down to your feet. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you repeat, nearly tipping off the edge, “I’m coming, I’m finally–”

He slows down right as you hit that crest, making you cry out in frustration. 

“Doie, I’ll kill you–”

“Say it,” he says into your lips, pulling out–too far–

“Iloveyou,” you exhale, seizing around him in time to your wildly beating heart.

“Louder.” He slams into you again, merciless.

“I love you, you stupid bastard,” you say, hanging on to his shoulders. “I love you!”

“Good enough,” he says, drilling into you until he can feel you break, orgasm sustained through the painful pressure of him losing himself in your throbbing heat, finding your mouth again, finally, to silence the repeated mantra on your tongue.

You kiss him fiercely, unloading everything words aren’t enough for, legs tied around his waist to keep him locked inside you until he’s fighting back, fucking you so hard the sound of it fills the quiet room. 

“I love you,” you repeat a final time for him, just to watch the way it makes him break, jaw slackening when he loses control, finally. 

He stutters into his own orgasm, teeth scraping against your locked lips, forehead pressed into yours as he empties inside you for what feels like forever, finally collapsing on top of you with a whimper when his arms give out and he’s as limp as his cock inside you. 

You scrape your nails across his scalp, soothing him. You don’t mind his weight, or the way you’re still pressed together with sweat and your combined spend. 

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he rasps, eyes dazed as he looks up at you. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head tightly. “Not for me, at least.”

“You’re not mad?” 

You know he means his inability to say the magic words but you crack a smile, just as pleased with yourself. 

“About the bet?” you ask. “No.”

Oh, it’s delicious seeing realization dawn on his face, little glimmers of surprise and horror bubbling up from his afterglow. 

“Fuck,” he says. You’re grateful he doesn’t deny it, rolling to the side in defeat. 

“Who told you? ‘Woo?”

You laugh softly, rolling over to pin him down with your leg, trapping him against the back of the couch. 

“You did, right now,” you say, relishing having him where you want him. “I had a hunch. And I know you, you’d never beg for someone to say something during sex–”

“I didn’t beg,” he corrects, grimacing.

“What was it? The first one to get me to say it? Bonus points if it’s on your cock?”

“Ah, well,” he says, perking up despite the fist pressed to his forehead in embarrassment. “Then you don’t know.”

“I’ll find out soon enough, Jaehyun wouldn’t–”

“You’re really not mad?” he asks, painfully reticent as you pull his hand away from his face and twine your fingers together.

“Not if it means I can use it as leverage,” you say, kissing his knuckles.

That doesn’t seem to surprise him, at all. 

“Good girl,” he says. “What do you want?”

A few years ago, give or take 

You’re a little too happy, an awful fact considering how much he'd missed seeing you this way.

Lately you’ve been sleepwalking through your life, all those tiny fractures and bruises finally having the time to mend–but healing is a painful process in itself. Doyoung had returned from his family’s formal Chuseok gathering in Singapore, eager to check in on you after receiving sparing responses from you via text.

You didn’t have a friend he could check in with instead any longer–not after that one girl had fled the country, the other ghosting you after their father was mysteriously laid off from a company he well knew did business with Suh International. 

He’s worried about you long before that, terrified that one last straw would break you even if by all indications you were strong enough to take it. After you’d had Johnny arrested and solicited a no-contact order you’d cut your ex off completely, moving to a tiny apartment far from where you’d grown up, changing your number. 

Only Jungwoo knew about it, and it was he who’d reluctantly offered your whereabouts to him after a few glasses of whiskey in their usual club. 

“She asked me to keep her info on lockdown. Got that hacker kid, what’s his name–Haechan? Wiped her socials off the map, so he can’t find her. He did good but you know Suh.”

Doyoung nods. They hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, probably because the idiot was combing through every civic office and apartment building in the city. Hell, he’d probably driven around until he found her by sight alone, knowing that animal wouldn’t rest until he knew her whereabouts, as stubborn about chasing her down as he was about refusing the F4’s help. 

“His mother called me to ask if the place he bought in cash was for her,” Doyoung says, knocking back his drink as he receives a text, heart sinking that it's not you. “Did you help him buy it for her?”

Jungwoo sighs. “No. I just got her rent halved with some coercion, you know? But then he goes and buys a unit in the same building with whatever stash he thought the Old Tiger didn’t know about.” 

The Devil Kim leans back, long legs akimbo as he gestures towards the server for a refill. “He’s waiting for her to go back to Chicago before he moves in. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I did not,” Doyoung affirms, turning away from the group of women at the bar sending looks towards their private table. “Let’s plan for when Madam Suh leaves. I can have her pull him into the London offices, considering he’s failing his courses.”

“Stone cold,” Jungwoo says, smirking. “Glad I’m not on your shit list.”

“Just don’t fuck with her,” Doyoung says. “Or fuck her.”

Jungwoo laughs into his glass. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

He’d thought he wasn’t, either. 

Not until you’d called a few days later, your speech a little slurred. He couldn’t have told you if what he was doing was important even if he was in a meeting, showing up to find you picking at a bowl of bar snacks in what he thought might be one of the nicer bars in your shitty part of town. Not as shitty as your old neighborhood, but it wasn’t a competition.

“Saint Kim,” you’d heralded him, raising an empty glass still smelling of watermelon and hibiscus. 

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, here,” he’d said. 

You were dressed in one of your few nice outfits, a little on the revealing side for his tastes, but those had been Johnny’s you’d conformed to–animal print and thin straps, tastefully tasteless.

“I wasn’t,” you say, hiccuping. “Alone.”

For the first time in a long time fear spikes his blood pressure into overgear. Were you drugged? Was he going to have to fend off another predator who'd found you vulnerable?

You deserved the chance to move on but there was a real threat in what would happen to anyone who approached you without their permission. Johnny’s, yes, always, but the F4 had also agreed to look out for you well before your last incident at a club. 

“Who?”

“She left,” you say. He feels instant relief, reaching out to adjust the thin coverup slipping off your bare shoulder. 

“You make a new friend?”

You shake your head. “She’s nice. Met her in one of the ikebana classes work is paying for. Thought we were hitting it off but I must have said something dumb because she ran out of here, fast.”

You look up at him cautiously, too inebriated to realize he can recognize a set-up before it begins.

“You didn’t just talk about your ex, did you?” he asks, settling beside you at the bar. He orders something less ridiculous than whatever you'd been drinking, while you scroll through an Instagram feed, finger trembling over the screen. 

You look up at him, color-stained lips curving in an easy smile. “You want to see what we’re working on?”

Doyoung finds himself looking through a grid that is immediately obvious is not yours. His mouth goes dry, seeing rows of beautifully-staged floral centerpieces, the backgrounds as familiar as the back of his hand. You don’t seem to notice, going to the user’s story and tapping in vain to find the picture she’d posted.

“She deleted it already. Huh. Well, she texted me the picture–”

“Stop.” Doyoung places his hand over yours, his palm damp from the immediate flood of adrenaline. 

“So you do know Mona,” you say. You look up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy with the brand of hopefulness and naked curiosity he’s seen you charm everyone else around you with before. 

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Doyoung pulls cash from his pocket, not caring how much he puts down except that he’s sure it’s enough to cover the amount he’d like to drown himself in right now. Enough to go blind and burn out the phantom of that face he’d put behind him years ago. 

“Put your coat on,” he says. “I’m driving you home.”

“But I’m not–”

“Now,” Doyoung says, grabbing your wrist. He’s barely ever touched you in the years that you’ve been friends, and it sickens him when he feels you freeze in fear and confusion, that trauma response buried so deeply it's in your bones.

He wants to be kind, he wants to be patient with you. He just doesn’t have it in him to be anything to you right now.

“What’s wrong, Do–?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, dragging you out into the bitter cold evening, the streets slick with sleet, your heels catching on the pavement as you stumble in his wake.

“Stop,” you yell at his back, trying to yank your arm free from where he’s bruising your skin with whitened knuckles. “You’re hurting me–”

“You’ll live,” he says, pulling you to where he’s parked his car, the engine roaring to life the moment you manage to close your door. He can barely look at you, realizing too late that your crestfallen expression is making him more upset than the lightning strike of seeing her name again.

“You didn’t ask my address,” you say, quietly, met with his silence as he drives much more dangerously than the weather permits. He's forced to speak with you once he's slammed the brakes at an intersection, red light shading you through the windshield.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you try to set us up by having me come there?”

You’re petulantly silent now, an answer in itself.

“Answer me,” he orders, hands gripping the wheel.

“I thought you’d want to–”

“Do you think we have the kind of relationship where you can just do whatever you want and get away with it?” Doyoung’s voice is calm but he sees you flinch at his words and tone, your shoulders moving under your jacket as you begin to quietly cry. 

It drives him deeper into anger, hitting the gas with a roar of the engine the instant the light turns green. 

“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself for this one, Y/N,” he says, already regretting every word tumbling out of his mouth. “You fucked up.”

“I just thought you could both have some closure after that–”

The car jerks as he brakes in the side lane of the service road, cars roaring past them honking their horns. Your sobs are barely audible over the idling engine and the blink of the hazards he turns on while he tries to find calm, your face turned away from him. 

“You thought that interfering in other people’s personal lives would make you feel better,” he says. “No wonder you don’t have any real friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see your full body shakes still, can feel as that armor encasement you’d put together piece-by-piece over years of dealing with loveless reality falls back into place. And, years later–no, even hours later–he’ll remember how at the time he was stupid enough to think it was the right thing to say. 

You needed a reality check, he’d thought. A reminder that all the wishes and hopes in the world wouldn’t change the bleak architecture of it, uncaring by design and much easier to navigate without them. That moving on was the only path to this idiot’s dream of closure, something you knew nothing about for how often you’d let them pull you back into their world, blinded by sunk-cost and loneliness. 

All the things he wished he believed for himself, but without the benefit of your optimism.

“Fuck you, Kim Doyoung,” you say, opening the car door and slamming it shut without so much as a glance behind you. He’d waited to make sure you reached the nearest bus stop before driving off, calling Jungwoo to let him know you were here–crying in the cold. 

He'd seen you in passing.

His best friend knew a lie when he’d heard it, most especially from him. 

He wouldn't hear from you again until spring.

Kim Doyoung can’t sleep. 

He’s not allowed to. 

He can’t move either, arm going numb beneath your curled body, your breathing finally easing for the dozenth time since his trial began. You have horrible sleep habits–kicking off the covers, stealing the pillows–but tonight you’ve passed out with that same bone-deep tiredness he’d felt earlier, face beatific in the slivers of light piercing through the slatted shades. 

It’s close to dawn, he thinks, the cacophony of insects and birds outside transitioning from a quiet chorus to a full orchestral suite. Soon it will be too loud to sleep deeply. 

“Y/N?” he whispers, tentatively, not daring to move.

You don’t respond, relief rushing through him. It’s not that he’s desperate to join you in slumber but that he’s waited for you to finally surrender to REM. He needed you down. 

And you needed it, too. 

He’d negotiated with Jaehyun when you’d been in the shower, earlier, sacrificing precious moments of shared time exploring your skin and the new taste of you under the water to supplicate himself to his best friend and worst enemy in this moment.

“It’s a charter,” Jaehyun said, blinking sleep from his eyes but awake enough to be angry. “You’re not finding another one short term.”

“I emailed you the tickets. Cattle car but first class, at least,” he says. “Jungwoo agreed to give you his day, he doesn’t want to take her out until after dark, anyway. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Jaehyun had slammed the door shut in his face, but he hadn’t missed the budding smile on his friend’s face. At least one person was rooting for him.

That’s how he’d earned another morning with you. As always, making up for lost time.

You’re half out of the covers, one leg sprawled over the duvet as you sleep. You’d put on one of his softer button-downs, inhaling the smell of it after he tried to steal it back. 

“Please let me wear you,” you said. “I want to dream about you.”

Being around you like this is more comfortable than he imagined, as if you’re being slotted into a position he didn’t even know there was an existing space for. He’s woken up to women in his bed but you’re the first who’s ever asked him for this, particular experience.

“I used to have this fantasy, you know, whenever we crashed at your apartment.” He’d watched you go sheepish recalling, dates omitted for a reason. “Sometimes I’d lie there and touch myself thinking about you crawling into that guest bed–maybe a little drunk or you’d forget which room. Or maybe, you just wanted me to think that. I’d be awake but I’d pretend to be asleep while you . . . used me.” 

He experiments by tracing his fingertips up your bare leg, the peek of your lace underwear beneath the hem of his shirt maddening for how it curves into the crest of your ass, presented for him. A treat dangled before him, the command to partake only that you wanted him to make it slow–you wanted to wake to it.

He sucks a breath in, erection in his sweatpants hard against the band already from just watching his sleeping beauty. He finds every mark on your leg, every fine hair, thanking Heaven above you aren’t overly sensitive or ticklish like he is when his hand slips beneath his shirt to your belly. 

He slots himself against you, carefully, as if adjusting in his sleep. He has to wait for your breathing to even out again, slipping his free hand up to your breasts. 

“Used you? Did you not get off in this scenario?”

“I mean, yes. But it’s mostly about you. You wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just fuck me full of your cum and then you’d leave me leaking it on your sheets and go back to your room. Or sometimes I’d crawl in your bed, if you were alone, and you’d cover my mouth so the others couldn’t hear it. And the next day it would be like nothing happened, you wouldn’t even bother to ask how I’d slept.” 

He loved how much of a slut you were, when you felt comfortable enough to share that side with someone. Johnny had certainly never appreciated the subtleties of your nature–too blinded by adoration to even consider degrading you on purpose. 

No, Doyoung had known for awhile you pushed the boundaries with him to see if he’d break.

Your nipples harden even though he’s barely handling them, discovering what shape your breasts make in repose as he tries desperately not to rut into the swell of your ass. Warming himself in you earlier had been one of the hardest challenges he’d faced but it had been worth it to learn you inside and out, to know how to make you grip his cock with that delicious little cunt of yours with just a kiss or a word that pleased you.  

You don’t wake but he knows he’s gotten through to that little lizard brain of yours when your legs rub together unconsciously, pushing back into him so his cock is settled between your buttocks. The friction from the lace is like the proverbial pea under a mattress–rubbing against his cock through the layers, catching on the veins and scraping the underside of his cockhead. 

It’s already a nice ache, one he ignores as he adjusts to better continue plucking and teasing at your body beneath your shirt, until you’re used to his touch enough to truly fall back under, once more.

You're so vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he brings his hand down to test the patch of moisture growing in the fabric, that lace sticky with your dreams of him. 

Use you, he thinks. You have no idea what he wants. 

Doyoung can play with the fantasy of you crawling into your boyfriend’s best friend’s bed while he’s passed out in the other room, determined to be punished for waking a sleeping monster . . . but it’s not what he's fantasizing about now. 

He takes time in stroking you, a single finger digging in between your lips through the fabric, listening intently for your breathing to change. You sigh, one of those full exhales one does in their deep sleep, but you arc back a little, into his touch, leg falling forward crooked so you’re a little more spread. 

Doyoung wishes he could move down there and use his nose to push you apart instead of his hand but that’s not your fantasy–not this time. You didn’t want him to spoil you anymore, completely underestimating his love for it. True, he didn’t often eat other girls out, too personal or just too much of a chore to figure out what they liked, but you weren’t ever going to be with him and not come from that first. 

Just the thought of tying you up so he can spend hours fucking you on his tongue is making his cock pulse, too hard to be ignored. He quietly pulls down the drawstring of his sleepwear, freeing himself so he can replace his finger with the much wider tip of his cock, biting back a groan as he rubs into that damp, soft lace he’d known would suit you the moment he’d touched it in the display box brought to his private buying room. 

You'd never know he’d already fucked himself with it before ever giving it to you, that errant fantasy of touching you finally realized as you whimper a little in your sleep at the soft push of him between your legs. He finds where your clit is getting just as swollen as the rest of you, bouncing against warmth and the promise of unspooling that need with his help, again.

Just his precious little cocksleeve, spoiled and worshiped, showing your gratitude by begging for it even when you’re unconscious. He tests the waters of the scenario by slowly pulling the seat of your underwear to the side, easing in between the fabric and your folds. 

You twitch against him, sheets rustling. He holds still, cock jumping and balls tightening with a little anxiety. 

He only has this one chance. 

Outside in the dark and quiet of the house sleeps the man everyone knows you’re really with, the one who doesn’t have to fight for an I love you to pass your lips. You’d never understood what it felt like watching you climb into Jaehyun’s lap whenever the whim took you, pretending you didn’t know what it did to him or the other two of them watching you.

Your breathing is shallow and your hand flexes a bit, against the pillow, but that’s it. Within a minute he’s grown more confident that you’re still asleep.

He reaches over you, pressing the pads of two fingers against the front of your underwear while he slips a little deeper between your legs, eyes almost rolling back in his head at the contrast between the satiny slide of you and the rougher cling of your panties. It’s a relief as he loses himself to it, rutting from the back while he applies constant pressure to your bud.

“Mmm.” You make a soft noise, but he doesn’t pull free, choosing instead to keep a hypnotizingly steady pace fucking against you. Your hips twitch against him, seeking out more contact, but he doesn’t rush–pressing his head against the back of yours and melding with you in the softness of the pillows and sheets. 

You’re so wet you’re soaking his pants, everything he collects tickling down to his balls pressed into your ass. He’s going to stuff your mouth with his fingers, when you finally open it, make you gag on them while he fills you full from behind. 

You moan now, voice syrupy with sleep. He doesn’t care if you’re still down, not with you gently pushing back, trying to get release.  

Not yet, you little harlot, he thinks, hips going still again. He’s burning at the wait, your cunt continuing to glide against him as you act out whatever is going on in your dreams, the movement making him insane for how closely it adheres to his desire to have taken you back when you were innocent, his little virgin weed learning what her body wanted, seeking it out in his bed.

“Treat me like one of the girls you don’t really like. Use me.”

Such an unending fantasy of yours that he never wanted you, almost sweet for how dumb you are–or just willfully ignorant. He’s always liked the second one better–your little game played out that you were one of them. Dressed in that school uniform, kicking your skinned knees, sucking on a piece of candy while four college-age idiots hid their bathing-suited boners under their robes, fighting or fucking around in front of you so you could keep up that precious little illusion of immunity. 

“Johnny,” you murmur in your sleep. 

It should make his blood run cold but as with all twisted-up and tangled desires it only makes him feel ignited, pulse pounding in his head. You’re still asleep and thinking of someone else, someone not even in this house, the guilt of it passing over him faster than a cloud on a breezy day. 

He rocks back into you, this time pulling out enough that he can find your soft hole, already tight again–the only part of your body not relaxed as he forces his way past the flutter of your opening, cockhead sensitive enough to sense the more textured g-spot where he knows you’ll come fast and easy if he fucks into it. 

“Shh,” he says, finally trailing his mouth against your jaw, pushing into you softly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmhmm,”  you reply, nuzzling into the pillow, curling into him. He pushes a knee between your legs, folding you into the bed beneath him as he begins to fuck you, finally taking you for himself and himself alone. 

You’re so warm inside, body adjusting to take him easily for how boneless you are, kitten-like mewls muffled by the pillow. It turns him on hearing the edge of pain there, the way you struggle when he pulls your underwear up so tight it sticks between your folds, clit rubbing against it the way he’d stroked himself to completion with it tied tight around his cock.

“Stay quiet or I’ll stuff your mouth full instead,” he whispers against your shoulder, feeling as always a little stupid but losing that internal cringe when you choke on a moan.

“Is that what my little slut was dreaming about? Gagging to tears on another man’s cock?”

He feels you tense at a bit at the suggestion, letting him use you in spite of the rougher handling. 

“That’s right. You said another man’s name in your sleep. Do you think that's acceptable?”

You shake your head, whimpering. 

“Such a whore you can't keep track of who's dick is inside of you. Tell me, who's fucking you right now?” 

“Doie,” you say, music to his ears. He'd always hated the nickname until you started using it. You were the only one–you were always the only one who made his chest burn with unsated desire when you said his name.

“Who owns this tight little pussy?” 

“You do,” you gasp out. 

“Are you going to forget me? Maybe I need to fuck you so hard you only think of me when you spread your legs for another man.” 

Doyoung feels electric at how easily you begin to crumble with just a few words, squeezing his dick so tight when he says something you like, even more when he makes it hurt. 

“Sleepy baby going to let me stuff every one of your holes until I’ve had enough? Use you like my own little doll?”

You nod, no longer capable of speaking except in a plaintive moan when he leaves you to shuck off his pants and pull down your ruined panties, pillow pulled beneath your belly to force your ass up. In this position he can drill into you deeper, burying you into the mattress with each thrust. 

“That’s what you get for crawling in here,” he says, fingers digging bruises into your hips to hold you down. “Keep your mouth shut and take it.”

The pleading, almost scared noises you're making have him hard and pulsing, two steps away from coming himself but in no hurry to. He pulls your hair to bring your head back, shoving his fingers in your mouth. 

“You like that?” Your cunt can't hide it, sucking him in. “Get them wet for me.” 

You drool over his knuckles, gagging as he fucks your mouth with them in an awkward rhythm to his merciless rutting. He spits into his hand when he's satisfied, fingers swirling around the tight rim of your ass so quickly it makes you buck. 

“Don't scream,” he murmurs, giving you two fingers at once. You make a noise through the pillow you're biting, gripping him tight. He's gentler with this, slowing, letting you adjust to take him.

“This is my favorite, right here,” he groans. “Feeling my cock inside you with my fingers. I'd fuck this tight little ass again but I want to feel you come like this.” 

He begins to stroke you harder, deeper, wet and sticky when his balls slap against your abused cunt. He keeps his fingers buried in you, scissoring you open as you take it.

“Come for me, Y/N, grip me good so I can fill that pretty mouth of yours.” 

It's a beautiful feeling when you begin to throb, contractions in your ring of muscle letting him know when you hit your peak. He fights the tingling in his balls, the urge to come with you painful for how long he's been holding it back. 

He talks you through it, instead.

“Such a good little hole,” he says. “You're coming so hard, baby, can feel it so well.” 

You moan, loud, as you break, loosening almost immediately, flooding him with sweet, hot warmth. He makes sure the last of those tics is gone before pulling out.

“Roll over,” he says, straddling you with a hand on the headboard, delighted by the sight of your flushed face and starry eyes. You already know what to do, tongue lolling and uvula exposed as he guides himself into your mouth, soft tongue swirling around his tip. 

God help him he's been thinking about this since yesterday, pushing deep enough to gag but not choke, fucking your mouth and the hot tightness of your throat when he hits it. It’s the sight more than anything that drives him to spill hot white ropes of cum into your mouth, pulling out to milk the last few splashes on your parted lips and delighting at the sight of you licking them with your spend-covered tongue.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, dropping down and kissing you, finally, tongues stroking each other until you finally pull free to breathe, blinking up sleepily at him. 

“You do taste different,” you tease.

“I taste like you,” he says, pressing soft kisses all over your face. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Did you like that?” you murmur. 

“I loved–” he pauses, watching the smile spread on your wet lips. 

“I love you, you know,” he finishes. You reach around his neck, comforting him out of instinct, but he doesn’t need it. 

“I love you,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue now that they've flown out so easily, the tightness in his chest easing as you rise up to kiss him. 

“It's beautiful to hear you say it,” you say. “But you're right, I know.”

“I think I even know the exact time and date,” you say, reaching between you into the pocket of your shirt to pull out that torn and folded art paper scrawled with your words and an amateurish sketch.

Tomorrow morning . . .

[Unknown number] [Tomorrow morning April 13th dawn is at 6:17] [I have something to show you. Meet me on the roof of the East Wind Hotel]

Doyoung looks at the text message again, hand hanging over the railing of a dance floor, conversation with the woman by his side forgotten. With the blur of a late night and a trip to a different hotel room, with a different woman, he'd almost missed it.

Probably one of the innumerable flings he's had, Jungwoo recruiting him to get every last lick of enjoyment out of Seoul before he enlisted. His friend snatches the phone from his hand.

“No business,” Jungwoo slurs, eyes bloodshot as he focuses on the text. “I thought you weren't working hospitality anymore.” 

“It's not . . .” There's something nagging at him, like a bird pecking at his skull in time to the drone of the EM, the buzz of conversation. A sense of deja vu so strong he's forced to cycle on it. 

“Pfft. I know you don't bring girls back to your kingdom,” Jungwoo says. “Stop working and party.”

Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to see the cryptic message through, doesn't know why he races across town at 5 am, reeking of whiskey and another woman’s perfume, doing his best to sober up as the designated driver talks about the change in weather, the cherry blossoms in full bloom outside the window.

The morning commute is already surging and the destination central to the city so by the time he makes it he's out of breath from running two blocks away from a jam, head pounding.

“ . . . restricted for non-guests,” someone is saying, voice recognizable as an intern he knows from his leadership program, still stuck on night front desk duty. 

“I just need a few minutes, please. I need to take a picture–” He'd recognize that voice in a hundred years if he hadn't heard it, not just a hundred days.

“What's going on here?” 

You freeze, shoulders stiffening as you turn to face him. Not much has changed–a new haircut, same ratty old sneakers–but you look different. No longer a ghost, but just as untouchable for the skittish way you hold when he approaches, only the barest relief on your beautiful features.

You don't smile, don't even say hello.

You're scared of him, again, just that thought making him spiral.

“You came,” you say, exhaling. “We need to hurry. We need to get to the roof.”

Doyoung turns to the staff. “Is the roof access still shut down?”

“Stair access only, sir.” 

Your eyes go wide at the interchange, something like embarrassment passing over your features as you begin to laugh. 

“Of course this is your hotel,” you state, smacking yourself on the forehead. “Of course, why didn't I think to check that. God, I'm an idiot.” 

“We didn’t change the name when we acquired the chain so it would be unlikely for you to have guessed that,” he says. “What are you doing here?” 

“There's no time and it's easier just to show you. We need to get to the roof, now,” you say, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it towards the stairs. 

“Y/N,” he says, holding you fixed and pointing at the elevator. “We can take it up as far as we need to.” 

You're still laughing maniacally twenty floors up. “I was going to cry if I had to go up another flight of stairs.” 

“Are you really taking pictures?” He asks, gesturing at your camera.

“No, but I started carrying it the first time someone called the police on me thinking I was going to jump,” you giggle, wiping away tears. He feels delirious from lack of sleep, so maybe you are, too, but it doesn't seem to be the case as you spring out the doors, forcing him to guide you when you're lost in the executive suite hallways.

“I managed to sneak in last time, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm glad you came just in time, I think they were going to kick me out.”

He's surprised at how easily things have snapped back into place between you, no mention of anything that's happened as you race up the stairwell to the roof access. 

“Will you tell me–”

“Oh thank god,” you say once your through the heavy doors and collapsed on the green helipad, growing impatient when he props the door open out of habit. He's been up here many times, nothing remarkable about the space besides the legacy sign on top, view crowded by other buildings at varying levels. 

“Stand here,” you say, pushing him into place, turning him by the arms. “Do you see it?”

“I don't even know what I'm looking for,” he says, beginning to grow annoyed. 

“Look over there, at the People's Bank. Relax your eyes, it will only take a minute.”

He feels increasingly foolish but he does what you ask, cool morning breeze clearing his muddled head. The sky is washed in a pink and blue haze, the sun cresting the more mountainous region of the city behind you to bathe the city in solid gold.

“There,” you breathe, letting out a little sigh.

“What?” All he can see is a few birds passing over the vista of crowded advertisements and neon. 

“Do you see the light?” you ask. 

“There's tons of lights–” he begins, cut short by the blinding catch of the sun's reflection on one of the characters, then another. He spells it out slowly, guided by your hand holding his to each one. 

The bank: Sa. 

The next building over, also burning brighter with the touch of the sun: Rang. 

Then an advertisement that has been up long enough most of the original message is lost. Hae.

“How did you find this?” he asks, knowing it would be impossible for him to have ever seen this without knowing the trick of the light. 

“I didn't find it. Well I did–I had to search some buildings for it.” 

Later he'll find out you climbed close to fifty flights of stairs in the last two months, had spent every waking moment not working or in school breaking into buildings before sunrise to find that exact spot, forever amused at the thought you hadn’t checked his family's flagship hotel first.

“You don't remember getting the same message from someone else?” you ask. “I was worried you wouldn't come, again.”

Again. Something tugs the memory up from the oubliette he'd locked it into, Mona teasing him about sleeping in and missing their appointment.

Mona. 

His stomach falls, checking back behind him at the door as if that particular ghost will return to haunt him.

“She's not here. I wasn't trying to set you up,” you say, recognizing the dismay he can't hide. “Honestly. And I know whatever closure you find is yours and yours alone. You were right about that, too, I'm sorry.”

You twist your hands in front of you, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. “I did this for me. Because I wanted to know what she tried to tell you, even if she couldn't say it aloud.”

You don't look at him, can't in order to continue. Doyoung feels like a live wire, exposed, two months of painful loneliness and a lifetime's worth of avoidance of this fact all surging through him in this moment. 

As much as he would prefer to leave he's not going to run like he did back then, when he'd ignored the hard parts to pretend like a friendship wasn't something more. Not with the stakes of losing this one.

“You once told me you were just friends, even if you couldn't be one anymore for her after you realized you loved her. How it broke you to be with someone you couldn't be with, who wanted something different.”

“Now you know. She didn't want to stay one, either,” you say. You look up at him nervously, regaining your confidence.

“I just wanted you to know that you were loved, Kim Doyoung. You still are.” 

You turn away towards the door, pretending not to have seen the tears dripping down his face under his glasses. He ignores them, too, not knowing what to say or do to make sure you never leave him again.

The spot never mattered to him, the word and it's confession forgotten in time. What changed that day was having you in front of him after so long, the way you were a reflection of him so many years ago, fighting to be by the side of someone who didn't know how to love you back, the right way.

He'd promised himself than that even if he couldn't say it, he'd show you.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for interfering with your life, but that’s what friends do.”

You'd almost made it to the stairs when he'd wrapped around you from behind, the first ever time he'd held you in an embrace, unsurprised to find you shaking like a leaf as he rested a wet cheek against your hair. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Thank you.” 

You relax a little, squeezing his hand. In that small gesture everything is reset, everything is okay again. They won't talk about this for the next few years, even when Jungwoo asks how you'd come back into their lives so suddenly and without any indication that things had changed.

But they had. Deeply. 

“You can make it up to me by buying me breakfast,” you say, smiling up at him, wiping his cheek with your sleeve. “We have a lot to catch up on.” 

“Did I win?” you ask. 

Doyoung can only laugh, giddy, as you burrow into his side to smother him in kisses and teasing. You were put on this earth to challenge him, after all–always right there to match him in stubbornness and competition.

He presses his nose to your neck, inhaling the remnants of the scent you'd made together, one bottle for each, though you didn't have to know his formula was just a bit different.

“‘Tomorrow Morning’ has a nice ring to it, I suppose. It lingers well.”

“It was my answer, actually. I needed to see if I could break Saint Kim's vow of romantic abstinence before I made up my mind,” you say, smug as you move to get up. “Glad you were able to find out before your time was–”

You shriek as he pulls you down again, pinning you to the bed. 

“I still have a few hours,” he says, voice dangerous. “I'd like to hear you say it again.”

[katareyoudrilling]

The Sweepstakes: Dave York (Porn Star AU)

Pairing: Porn Star Dave York x Female Reader

Summary: You’ve never been able to explore your kinks with a partner.  Could a night with a porn star give you that opportunity?

Word count: ~2.6k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only. NO MINORS)

Content Warnings: kink negotiation, some choking and breath play, unprotected PiV (paperwork is involved), oral sex (m and f receiving), multiple orgasms

A/N: This is rougher sex than I have written before, and I definitely got in my head about it.  Please heed the warnings, but also know that it’s still me writing it, no matter how much Dave York tried to say otherwise.  The company mentioned is heavily inspired by Bellesa.  Bonus points to anyone who can guess which performer in particular inspired this one.  Enjoy!

Comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated!

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Taglist – link in my bio and on my Masterlist

You can’t believe you’re standing in the room you’ve seen so many times on your laptop and phone.  White walls, hardwood floor, gauzy white curtains, and most importantly… the bed.

You take a deep, calming breath and wipe your damp palms down your leggings as pace around the room waiting for him to arrive.

It all started when you saw an ad for “The Sweepstakes” advertised on your favorite porn site.  It said, “Enter for a chance to win a night with your favorite porn star!”  You filled out the form before you could even stop to think about it.

You won and now you wait anxiously for your choice to arrive – Dave York.

You love Dave’s videos.  He can go from laughing and flirting to intense and demanding in the blink of an eye. It’s ridiculous how much that dichotomy turns you on.

You don’t feel turned on right now, though.  You feel very, very nervous.  You take another calming breath just as the doors open and Dave York walks in.

In his more scripted videos, he’s often cast as a businessman, wearing a suit and tie, or maybe just a dress shirt and slacks.  In the casual, unscripted ones, he wears all black.

That’s what he’s wearing today.

His black sweater strains across his broad, muscled shoulders.  Track pants hang low on his trim waist.  He’s clean shaven and his dark hair is short and neat. If it weren’t for the intensity of his gaze, he would probably just look like an average guy.

He’s anything but.

Dave extends his hand to you and introduces himself.  You manage to fight through the haze of nerves and arousal to do the same.

“Erin asked me to go over your sexual interest survey with you to make sure we’re on the same page, since your tastes run on the rough side.”  His deep, gravelly voice vibrates through your body sending jolts of need to your core.  It’s so much better in person than through a tiny phone speaker.

You met with the director, Erin, earlier in the day to sign releases and fill out paperwork related to your sexual history, health, and interests.  You even agreed to be filmed for your private use.  A chance like this doesn’t come around every day.

You nod and Dave looks down at the papers he’s holding.

“Let’s start with spanking, how hard do you like it?” he asks, warm brown eyes meeting yours.

“I… uhhh…. I don’t actually know,” you stammer.  Dave waits patiently for you to continue.  “My partners have never been willing to uhh… try things with me.”  That’s an understatement.  Not only have your partners not been willing, they have looked at you like you were crazy.  “I like watching it.  I like it when you do it,” you choke out, heat flooding your cheeks as you look anywhere but at him.

Dave sets the papers down on the bed and reaches for you, lifting your chin up so you meet his eyes.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed.”  His hypnotic, liquid chocolate gaze starts to melt the tension you’re holding in your shoulders.  “We can try these things and find out if you like them, but you have to talk to me.  If you can’t, then we can’t.  Can you do that?”

You nod.

“Say it,” he commands, but not unkindly.  Heat floods your center.

“I can do that,” you answer, a bit breathlessly.

“If you say no, or stop, or anything else to indicate something isn’t working for you, I will stop immediately.  Understood?”

“I understand.”

“Good,” he smiles and picks up the paper again.  “Let’s talk about breath play.”

A burst of adrenaline floods your body as Dave moves closer to you.  Holding your gaze, he lifts his arm and places the heal of his hand against your collarbone.  Your heart beats loudly in your ears as he gently wraps his fingers around your throat.  You can still breathe normally even as he squeezes gently.

“I will not squeeze harder than this, is this ok?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Good, remember at any time you can tell me to stop, and I will.  Now…” he removes his hand from your throat and brings it towards your mouth.  “I will only cover your nose and mouth for five seconds at a time, ok?”

“Ok,”

“Let’s practice.”

Staring intently into your eyes, he covers your nose and mouth and counts to five.  Your fingers and toes tingle as the adrenaline courses through your body.  Dave’s pupils dilate as he watches your reaction.

Five seconds isn’t very long at all, but you gulp in air when he removes his hand.  The rush goes straight to your head and you sway towards him.  Large hands steady your shoulders.

“How was that? Are you ok?” he asks, his voice husky with his own arousal.

“That was… very good,” you reply shakily.  Your pussy is already throbbing, and you’ve barely begun.

“Good,” Dave murmurs.  He’s still so close.  You can feel the warmth radiating off his body, he squeezes your arms before letting his hands drop.  “Is there anything else you want?”

“I want…” you take a shaky breath, locked into Dave’s hypnotic gaze, “to be thrown around a little.”

Dave licks his lips, “Fuck yes,” he replies, closing the distance between you.  “You want me to use you?”  His eyes are as black as his sweater as he crowds your vision.  Desire ripples off him in waves.  It hits you that he desires you and it and makes your knees weak.  You nod, hypnotized by his gaze.

“Can I kiss you?” he practically growls.

You whimper yes and melt into him as he plunges his tongue into your mouth.  He’s so intense and overwhelming.  God, you hope the cameras are already recording.

Your head swims with arousal as he explores your mouth, pulling you tighter against his broad frame.  Your hands fist in his sweater as you fight the urge to climb up his body.

You break apart panting.  Dave steps back, his large hands helping keep you steady.

“I have to take this back to Erin,” he swallows and holds up your paperwork, now slightly crinkled from getting crushed between your bodies, “and give you a few minutes to make sure you haven’t changed your mind.”

Dave steps away from you and heads for the door.  You can’t help but notice the bulge in his pants that wasn’t there before.  You lower yourself to sit on the edge of the bed on wobbly legs.

He pauses at the door and turns back to you, “One more question.  Are you wearing underwear?”

“No,” you blurt out, surprised.  He smirks and leaves the room.

You collapse backwards onto the bed, taking in a deep lungful of air to try to calm down.  You’re embarrassingly wet between your legs.

No.

Not embarrassing, you correct yourself.

Just because your previous partners haven’t been open to trying these kinks does not make it embarrassing that you are into them.  There wouldn’t be a whole industry devoted to these things if you were the only one.  Dave certainly seems to be.

You push yourself back up to sitting.  The nerves you felt when you waited for him the first time have burned away in the wake of your arousal.  Your knee bounces impatiently as you wait for him to come back.

You pop back onto your feet when you hear the door handle begin to turn.  Dave enters the room with a question in his eye.  You nod.  There is no way you have changed your mind.

He stalks towards you like a jungle cat and pulls you into another kiss, hands cradling your face.  He’s less desperate this time, but still eager, confident, demanding.

You allow your hands to run down his sides, over the rippling muscles under his thin sweater.  You feel the divot at his hipbone, but instead of trailing down to explore the swell you feel against your abdomen, you slip your hands under his sweater and draw them up his back.

Dave chuckles and breaks the kiss, allowing you to pull his sweater off over his head.  You drag your fingers down the smooth, golden skin of his chest.  You whimper as your fingers get to the waistband of his pants.

He reclaims your mouth with a curse and turns you, so the backs of your legs knock against the side of the bed.  His large hands roam down your body and hitch under your thighs.  Before you realize what he’s doing, he lifts you up and tosses you onto the bed.

You squeal as you bounce.  But before your bottom hits the bed a second time, Dave whips your leggings down past your ass and pushes your knees into your chest.  He dives into your pussy like a man starved.

Your squeals of surprise rapidly turn into moans as his expert tongue sweeps over your throbbing cunt.  His question about underwear makes sense now.

Your hands scrabble for purchase on the bedding as Dave presses you open and feasts at your core.

All the buildup of being here, discussing your list, and finally getting to kiss and touch the subject of so many of your fantasies has you pulsing against his mouth in no time.

Dave pulls back from you to stand by the bed with a satisfied smirk on his face, pulling your leggings the rest of the way off and tossing them on the floor.

As your orgasm fades, leaving you boneless on the bed, you can’t help the huge smile that spreads across your face, or the laugh that escapes your chest.

“What’s so funny,” Dave watches you from beside the bed, eyes twinkling.

“You just… just…. that was so good and I’m just so glad I’m here,” you smile up at him.  You’re no longer nervous.  You’re excited to be here and experience all of this with him.

“I’m glad you’re here too.”  Dave begins to pull down his track pants and you scramble up and over to him to kneel eagerly at the side of the bed.  Now it’s Dave’s turn to laugh.  “Do you want something, beautiful?”

You preen internally at the nickname and don’t even bother to hide your enthusiasm.

“I want to suck your cock.”

“Look who has things to say now.  I think that orgasm loosened your tongue,” he teases you gently, his eyes flashing with humor and want as he frees the cock you’ve been dreaming about.

He’s so perfect.

You lick your lips and pull your top over your head before lining up to take him in your mouth.  Dave hisses as you draw him in.  He strokes your cheek and neck as he watches you.

With every flick of your tongue the ache between your legs builds, until you’re moaning around him with every stroke.

You pop off to catch your breath and Dave eagerly claims your mouth.  He climbs on the bed, pushing you onto your back and crowding your vision, never taking his mouth of you.  He kisses down your neck and nips at your shoulders and breasts as he lines up at your entrance.

“You ready for this cock, beautiful?”

You nod and pull him towards you with your heels.

“So eager for it,” Dave growls as he presses into your wet heat.

Your eyes roll back in your head as he fills you so perfectly.  He plies you with long, firm strokes, pressing you deeper into the mattress, covering your body with his.

He’s all you can see and feel and you melt beneath him, giving yourself over to the force of him.  Your orgasm begins to build in the distance, but before it can take hold, Dave rolls the two of you so that you’re now on top.

His hands stroke up your torso, cupping your breasts and tweaking your nipples as you adjust to the new angle.

Dave pistons up into you, his abdominal muscles tensing with the effort.  His strong hands hold your hips firmly against him.  A boldness you’ve never felt before washes over you as you grasp one of his hands and bring it to your throat.

He places his hand exactly as he said he would, at the base of your throat.  You lean into him, knowing you are in control and could lean back at any time, but the theoretical danger of it sizzles under your skin.  His strong fingers squeeze slightly sending dizzying waves of pleasure through your body.

You stare into his eyes, never breaking contact, as he brings you to the brink.  Your clit throbs, seeking the friction of his body, you’re so close to breaking when he pulls out and flips you over onto your stomach.

He drags your hips in the air and presses your shoulders down onto the bed as he drives into you and smacks your ass.  Your pussy clenches in response.

“You like that don’t you?”

“Yes, oh my god yes,” you babble incoherently.

“I feel that tight pussy grabbing me.”  He smacks your ass again for emphasis and you clench around him again.

He is so deep in this position.  He thrusts into you slowly, dragging his cock against your sensitive walls, allowing the orgasm to ebb away in favor of slow sensation punctuated with the stinging of his palm.

You press your hips back into him, savoring every thrust and allowing your mind to drift.  You are not in control here.  He will move you when he’s ready, you don’t have to think, just feel.

Seemingly to prove your point, he pulls out and flips you once again.  This time onto your side before pulling you into his chest.

His strong arms band around your hips and shoulders as he enters your slippery cunt from behind.  You are at his mercy and nothing has ever made you feel more alive.

He nibbles at your ear as he spews praise and filth under his breath – how good you feel, how wet you are, how he’s going to make you come so hard.

You don’t doubt his promises and when his hand comes up to cover your mouth, all you can do is take and take and take his cock.

You are only need and sensation, unable to move other than how he moves you.  Everything else falls away except the white hot pleasure taking over your body.  He has edged you over and over and you half expect him to do it again, but this time your climax is barreling towards you at full force.

“Give it to me,” Dave demands in your ear, and you launch off a cliff.

He removes his hand and you gasp for air, sparks clouding your vision.  He doesn’t let up as you pulse and scream around him.  He presses on your mound, intensifying the waves of pleasure wracking through your body.

He stutters and moans raggedly behind you, emptying himself into your fluttering pussy.

You sag against him, spent and floating.  He presses kisses between your shoulder blades and up your neck as he helps disentangle your bodies.

You catch your breath, staring at the ceiling above you and then over at the glistening man next to you.

“That was…. amazing.”  A whole new world has been opened to you, and you definitely like it.  “Thank you.”

Dave props himself up on his elbow and looks down at you, angular jaw and aquiline nose catching the light of the fading sunset.

“That was just round one, beautiful.  You have me all night.”  He winks before kissing you once again.

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

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Taglist- in reblog

[imoenhatesthis]

Lily Orchard and Imoen: Is the Mod Popular?

So unfortunately, Lily Orchard talks about the Imoen Romance mod in her 'Addressing Allegations' video (starting at 39:31, ending at 41:13) in regards to Courtney, whose made allegations against Lily you can hear for yourself here. Please heed the trigger warnings in both videos, though I won't be going in-depth here.

In this video, Lily describes that Gorion's Ward and Imoen are "the best of friends whose closeness borders on romantic at times...", (40:13) who discover being siblings in BGII. That isn't true but whatever, I'm not here to talk about the game itself. After going through her other sister OCs, she ends by going, "[I] talked about one of the most infamous and positively received mods for one of the most popular RPGs ever made," (41:05) end quote, so clearly this doesn't have anything to do with the real life allegations.

Two issues: One is that this is a deflection that does not address Courtney's allegations at all, or why she would find the fascination with those characters suspect. But the second is that this idea that the mod is popular and well-loved is just not true, and I'm going to spend time arguing against. If anything, how decidedly unpopular it is says that Lily is the one actively seeking out this content.

So why didn't Lily show proof about the mod's popularity in her debunking video? Maybe include a positive review? Well...

There was once a forum dedicated to the mod, populated only by people who'd want to play this kind of thing. So, if Lily is remembering this forum, that information is going to be skewed one way with any negative reviews chased out. It's long gone now, so I can't pull numbers. Instead, I'll be using general forum spaces that are probably the most popular with general BG fans, Beamdog and Reddit.

On the official EE mod release thread on the Beamdog forum... the total combination of posts from the author/coder and players only total 30 pages, with posts as recent as this month. 25 posts a page equals 750 posts altogether from across 10 years, though the most recent page is just 1 post, so 726. If we're SUPER charitable and say that's about 700 people playing and posting there throughout 10 years, not including mod authors, that's a minuscule audience. Especially when the original BGII game sold about 2 million copies, as well as Steam estimated selling about a million copies of the Steam release of the Enhanced Edition. Let's say the old deleted forum had about 1 thousand, maybe 2 thousand members, let's say there may be 10,000 downloads of the mod--that's still such a small percentage as to not matter. Definitely not enough to call it popular in the community.

Googling for lists of the best mods for BGII will bring up mods for the UI, general tweaks, difficulty, visuals, and portraits/voices. Especially portraits, people really like portrait mods. Sometimes the BG1 NPC Project is mentioned (which has it's own controversies, it's just probably the most talked about of any of these), but all of these will come long before a mention of NPC mods. So, NPC mods, especially romantic ones, are a niche of a niche.

On a few forums where I do see someone recommend the Imoen Romance as a "required mod"... most of the time they get a negative response.

(Source)

(Source)

Just straight Googling Imoen Romance mod or mod reviews will bring up forums with pages in the single digits, with general discussion devoted to "Is this incest?" questions. It's impossible to go onto any forum post about the romance without at least one person weirded out by it's existence. So, there's at least a variety of opinions on the mod, it's not overwhelmingly positive.

But fine, that's general forums. What about BG mod reviewers? ONCE AGAIN, never ever reach out to these people.

Lily uses the Smoldering Mod Bar's review of Saerilith Romance to condemn that specific mod for its bad writing and taboo themes. It sure would be something if the mod reviewer also had a negative view on Imoen Romance...Oh wait:

(Source)

Okay, well, let's look at positive reviews instead. Lily has also quoted a Beamdog forum review to defend her views on the mod:

(Source)

Why didn't Lily link to the review in question? It would prove to everyone people love her favorite mod just as much as she does, right? Well, I can link it below:

(Source; scored on a 5/5 scale)

Oh, that's not quite as positive as she'd have you believe. Still liked it, but not quite to the level Lily does.

Here's another Beamdog mod reviewer making similar negative points, despite overall loving the mod:

(Source) Even reviewers who champion the mod as great can point out "Wow, this talks about incest quite a lot in a way it didn't even have to." And about it's other flaws too, things Lily never does.

I'm not saying NO ONE thinks the mod is good or that no one has ever mentioned it. I included positive reviews for a reason.

The issue is lying about how popular and well-liked the mod is in order to paint her sister as a crazy obsessed stalker whose just overreading into things. Especially saying this in a video about those allegations, and especially after saying the Gorion's Ward and Imoen are "romantic at times" all in the same breath. Putting ANY lie in this specific video is a serious stain on the credibility of Lily, thus it's important to call it out.

[mcflymemes]

ASSASSIN'S CREED III PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the video game, adjust as necessary

we never took them seriously. maybe we should have.

i'm getting ahead of myself.

we've been fighting them for thousands of years.

i've seen the truth.

it holds the power to change everything.

there's only so much we can do.

if we can't find a way to stop it, these next few weeks will probably be our last.

it worked. we think. we hope.

we're here. let's go.

you must find the key.

here we go again.

do you hear us?

you collapsed and entered into a fugue state.

you weren't in any danger.

i know what i'm looking for, by the way. it's a key.

i'd like to run a couple of quick tests.

have you seen it before?

my father brought me here as a child.

on to business then.

the stairs are watched. you'll need to find another way up.

you should have come to me.

for what it's worth, i'm sorry.

that's why we've called you here.

i am yours to command.

well, then i'd best be on my way.

my research has been stolen. without it, i'm of no use to you.

i'll see if i can't speed things up.

we need to find a way inside.

i believe i've found the solution to our problem.

we'll attack on my signal.

i made a promise to you, [name], one i intend to keep.

the sooner we're done, the sooner we can get out of this cold.

it does not engender peace to cut your way to resolution.

if we applied the sword more liberally and more often, the world would be a better place than it is today.

now i've upheld my part of the bargain, i expect that you will honor yours?

you seem disappointed.

you have shown me great kindness, [name]. thank you.

really? that's your response? it's like dealing with a six year old.

i sense my words cause pain.

do you even know what that symbol represents?

come on. i've got something to show you.

very well. i'll train you.

you're also going to need a new name.

what's true and what is aren't always the same.

you'll be happy to hear there's actually good news for once.

it's silly for us to go back and forth like this.

we cannot give up our home.

do you have a name? do you know who is responsible?

time will tell if you speak the truth.

why are you here? has something happened?

you should have heeded my warning.

perhaps you'll respond better to the sword.

are you threatening us?

i thought it might bring clarity or instill a sense of accomplishment. but all i feel is regret.

such sacrifices must never come lightly.

all of them must be dealt with in turn.

you speak the words, but do you believe them?

takes a true monster to do something like this.

every day i wait, more will suffer.

many who should've died today now live because of you.

we do the best we can with what we've got.

you wield your blade like a man, but your mouth like a child.

there are more important things at stake here.

i do what is right. no more. no less.

i don't even see a stall in here. what if i had to take a dump?

please just mute the microphone if you do.

life is not a fairy tale, and there are no happy endings.

in your haste to save the world, take care you don't destroy it!

our interests are aligned.

perhaps some time together might do us good.

i can kill you now if you prefer.

would you like me to come along and hold your hand, perhaps?

why the change of heart? where is this coming from?

you oppose tyranny. injustice. these are just symptoms. their true cause is human weakness.

you have said so much... but you have shown me nothing.

tell me of your latest exploits.

you have not come this far to throw it all away over misplaced sentiment.

there is nothing more to discuss.

i should have stayed.

now you must hide it.

what once was shall be again.

[inkykeiji]

all wrongs do me right

characters: kawata souya x fem!reader x kawata nahoya

genre: smut with the tiniest sprinkle of angst

notes: i haven’t been able to get the kawata twins out of my head since the first episode of season three so here’s an icky lil piece about souya jerking off to nahoya fucking his girlfriend! as always please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: taste of you by rezz ft. dove cameron

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, souya is a nasty little virgin, traces of twincest if you can read between the lines, stuffy humping, masturbation, voyeurism aka jerking it to a poor unwitting couple (or are they? muahaha), implied rough sex, slight daddy kink with nahoya

words: 2.5k

Souya feels fucking sick. 

It’s something bitter and thick, something that coats the lining of his stomach and sours the back of his tongue, something that furls into a thick, hard lump and lodges itself in his throat. 

It’s something he can’t fucking help.

Souya has barely spoken more than a handful of words to you—you, always so sweet, so nice, so kind to him; you, always desperately striving to include him in activities and conversations despite his unintentionally sharp edges and inherently callous tone; you, always gracious, never shameless, even in the face of his accidental offense—but he’s stained his stuffies and his sheets to you more times than he can count. 

Tonight will be no different. 

He should feel fucking disgusted in himself, he’s sure—he does feel fucking disgusted in himself, he thinks. But it’s not enough to stop him. 

Nothing ever will be. 

Even though his bedroom is all the way across the expanse of the flat, he can still hear you, every single time. 

He swears if he listens hard enough, he can even hear that precious little gasp, caught somewhere between surprised pleasure and sharp pain, as his twin brother pushes his cock into you for the first time that night. 

If he shuts his eyes tight enough, he can even imagine your back arching off the mattress as Nahoya fills you, each vertebra bending with each inch shoved into you, spine forming a perfect curve, hips inadvertently pushing downward, eager to meet Nahoya’s.

You must look so gorgeous—at least half as gorgeous as you sound, if not even more so. Souya wishes he could see you, just once—he thinks that would be enough to satiate the gnawing and clawing at the bottom of his ribs, maybe. 

Maybe if he had a photo or two, or a short video, he wouldn’t be forced to resort to such deplorable methods every night; maybe he could even jerk off discreetly, stain his bedspread to the thought of you quietly and without any of your help, instead of encroaching on your privacy like this. 

Maybe.

Maybe not.  

Because as much as he wishes it wasn’t, and as much as he tries to trick himself into believing it isn’t, this is a compulsion, an addiction, a creature raging out of his control, growing stronger and stronger with desire, with desperate need, every day. 

Maybe he’s stupid to think it could ever be satisfied with anything less than your cunt. Maybe he’s stupid to think that it could even be satisfied at all, that this voracious, all-consuming craving isn’t eternally greedy, perpetually needy, that it’s hunger isn’t boundless and it’s yearning won’t grow once it gets a single taste of you. 

A loud whine draws him out of his rumination, his cock twitching against his old stuffed shark in response, and he bucks his hips against it twice, smearing a webby streak of precum across the fuzzy material, its fur gone all clumped and crusty from too many nights like these. 

That whine in particular never fails to inspire a full flock of butterflies to flutter in his tummy, a half-stifled whimper of your name heavy on his tongue. 

This is how it always starts; some aimless humping, lazy and languid with no real tempo, briefs already kicked to the foot of his bed in a crumpled little heap, hips squirming and writhing in erratic little motions as he rubs up against his stuffy—just teasing, really, exactly like what Nahoya’s currently doing to you.

It never stays like that for long, though.

Because Souya just can’t fucking wait—too eager, too desperate, too hungry to ever take his time with it at all, to indulge, to savour, to draw it out—and it always materializes into Souya curling a fist around his cock much too early, his other arm wrapped firmly around his stuffed shark as his hips roll and his hand works, the head of his cock grinding against the plushie, a leg thrown haphazardly over it. 

It’s really fucking perverse.

But your moans are already climbing in pitch and frequency, too, meaning Nahoya has already traversed past his tantalizing and is moving on to something a little more satisfying. 

As expected.

By this point, Souya’s such a seasoned pro that he knows the general pattern and rhythm of your whimpers and moans and mewls, the general pace and timing of his brother’s fucking, that he can stroke his cock in the same manner. 

If he focuses hard enough, closes his eyes and hones his concentration, he can almost imagine it’s him fucking you instead. It wouldn’t be all that different, would it? His cock’s half an inch shorter than Nahoya’s, but it’s a little girthier, which Souya thinks probably makes up for it.  

He’s sure it wouldn’t feel all that unusual to you; not when he has Nahoya’s style and pattern of fucking so memorized that he’s sure he could imitate it pretty well, given the chance. How much different could it be, really? They are twins, after all—he bets with a blindfold on, you might not even be able to tell the difference at all.

Maybe. Maybe not. He sure would like to find out, though.  

A stab of guilt sears through his stomach, chased by sick thorns of pleasure sprouting in his gut, the fisting of his cock accelerating. He’s not sure Nahoya would take too kindly to Souya thinking of you in such a manner. He’s not sure he cares. 

Because it all feels so good, head gone cloudy with a thick haze of hedonism, smothering any flickers of remorse, consuming them and adding to the sheer exhilaration of it all.

Pathetic little noises keep leaking through the gaps of his teeth and the seam of his lips no matter how stubbornly he tries to silence them, pulled from his throat with each swift tug of his hand.

He can’t hear much of what Nahoya’s saying to you, his voice too muted to be anything other than an indistinct rumble undertowing your precious little sounds, but whatever it is, you’re eating it up. 

“Please, please, pl-please,” you’re begging in response to whatever his niichan just said, needy and strained, and his cock throbs violently in his palm. 

“Please, please, please,” Souya’s rasping out in tandem, stroking his cock in hard, fast, thorough yanks, in perfect time with the fractured words his brother is fucking out of you. 

It’s really cute, how increasingly sloppy you get the more Nahoya fucks you, twining your words together with threads of saliva, all slurred and messy. Nahoya gets that way when he’s close, too. Souya thinks it’s kind of nice, the way the two of you match like that.

It’s all so insanely hot, and every once in a while Souya gets extra lucky, fortunate enough to capture a smattering of words from his big brother—never anything more than a handful, just tatters of a single sentence—but his stomach swoops every time he hears that assertive amusement dyed with patronization, Nahoya’s voice husky and edges of his letters gone wispy with breathlessness, Souya’s cock pulsing hotly as another rush of blood surges southward. 

“—Wanna be—little fucktoy?”

“I wanna,” you’re gasping out. “I wan’it s’bad!” 

Christ, how can someone be so fucking sweet and so fucking sexy at the same time? It’s an intoxicating combination, one that goes straight to his cock, one that twists a feverish warmth in his gut and pulls his muscles stiff and taut. 

“Yeah, yeah, take it,” Souya mumbles into his stuffed shark, the rocking of his hips speeding up as he hastily fucks his fist, words tapering off into a gravelly whine, almost as if he’s pleading. “Ta-Take m’cock.” 

Nahoya murmurs something else, voice too low for Souya to make out anything other than the notes of sadistic glee steeped in his tone, but you cry out an affirmative in reply, the yelp jostled by Nahoya’s snapping hips. 

“S’good, Daddy, s’good, your cock is so good,” you nearly sob, chanted out like it’s a fucking  prayer, garbled and soaked with spit, fading into an airy little mewl. 

“Fuck, f-fuck,” Souya’s hips stutter, that heat in his belly blazing, curse snarled out through his nostrils in a harsh, stammered breath. “Ha-ah, fuck.”

The expletive breaks on his tongue, jagged and high, and Goddamn it, Goddamn it—

He has to keep it down, for God’s sake—he knows this, knows that, logically, if he can hear you two, then you two can probably hear him, too. 

The thought sends a vile thrill shooting through his gut, palm squeezing the head of his cock, the ball of his thumb rubbing across it in slow, lopsided circles, doing little to stifle his rapidly building orgasm, fervour coiling in his belly. An exceptionally loud grunt—much too loud to be discreet, that’s for sure—pries its way past his lips, rough and ragged and full of razors.  

And God, he’s so gross, he’s so fucking gross, and can you hear him? Huh? Can you hear him? He hopes you can hear him. 

Can you hear him, fucking himself to just the sound of you? Can you hear him, humping away at his old stuffed animals like the dirty little virgin he is, pretending it’s your body, your hip, your thigh? Can you hear him, fragments of your name slicing his tongue, tangling in his drool, never the full thing, shards bitten back and swallowed down to fester in his heart, to feed the animal living inside his ribcage?  

Can Nahoya?

What does Nahoya think? How does Nahoya feel about his baby brother jerking his cock every time his niichan fucks his girlfriend, without fail, like fucking clockwork? Would he be disgusted, or did he get that same sordid gene Souya did—that knack for the naughty, for the nasty, for the downright nauseating? 

They are twins, after all. 

Another spear of guilt pierces his chest, radiating sparks of euphoria through his limbs, wicked little flares that leave his blood fizzing and tummy smoldering, adding to the dull, dense heat collecting in the pit. 

He should feel worse about all of it, he thinks. He should feel worse about the utter disrespect he’s showing to the both of you, but he doesn’t. It’s hard to feel anything at all other than the push and pull, the tug-of war between rhapsody and repulsiveness, one only working to fuel and heighten the other.  

Thick cords of drool are dribbling from the corners of his mouth now, panted out with his hot breath and his whimpered words, rolling along his jaw and dripping, slow and sticky, to puddle in the ridges of his pillowcase. Are you this filthy, too, when Nahoya fucks you? 

You’re getting close now, he can tell, moans catching on Nahoya’s rough, fast thrusts and shattering into choked little gasps.

You’re trying to get his name out, and God, it’s so fucking cute, adorable little Naho-Nahoy-Naho!’s spilling from your throat in a single continuous stream, juddered by his big brother’s plunging hips. 

Would you sound just as pretty trying to get Souya’s name out? 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nahoya’s panting out, voice still tinged with that trademark teasing tone, almost as if he’s egging you on, a question of if that’s all you got infused into his words.

A threat is uttered, something about hurrying and making a mess on Daddy’s cock, and Souya coughs around the spit pooling beneath his tongue, wheezing out strands of saliva smudged and gauzy across his stuffy. 

Because Christ, you’re so obedient, so keen to please, a chain of jagged affirmations pouring past your lips punctuated with the sweetest sounds of effort, your dedication to his big brother so fucking sexy, your dedication to his big brother rivaling his own.

A growl rumbles behind his ribs, and Souya shoves his face in his stuffy, teeth sinking into the cotton flesh in an attempt to muffle the sound. 

His jaw already hurts from being clenched so tightly, a stiff ache that has settled deep within the straining hinges, something he’ll spend half an hour massaging out tomorrow morning.

But right now it doesn’t matter, not when that ball of heat is roiling in his gut, curling tighter and tighter and tighter with each quick pump of his fist, teetering on the edge of an explosion. 

It’s as though he can’t jerk himself fast enough, hips twitching in quick little motions, sloppy and irregular and so, so fucking eager, into his own grasp, fucking his slippery palm.

His breath stutters as he tries to quiet himself, desperate to hear you cum, harsh erratic exhales huffed out against the synthetic fur of his shark humid against his upper lip, leaving behind tiny beads of condensation. 

A whine splinters in his chest, eyes shut tightly as tears crystalize at the corners, his lungs swelling painfully with stagnated breath while his teeth burrow further into the plush of his stuffed animal, a pitiful attempt to starve off his impending orgasm. 

He doesn’t want to cum before you, not again. 

Drops of sweat are streaming from his brow and catching in his lashes, his curls saturated with salt and clinging in cute little swirls to his temples and the nape of his neck.

You’re so close, moans climbing higher and higher, louder and louder, faster and faster, and only a few more moments now, he only needs to hold out for a few more moments and then—

And then you’re crying out Nahoya’s name, breathless and beautiful, and Souya’s spilling his seed all over his knuckles and his sheets and the soft fur of his stuffy, hot and sticky and so, so much, groaning in time with his brother as he fills your cunt with his cum, Nahoya’s slurred out good, good, y’did s’good for me, baby forcing another weak spurt of cream to cascade over Souya’s fingers, cock jolting painfully. 

He doesn’t stop jerking his cock until it’s too much, until each drag of his fist sends heavy tremors of overstimulation rippling through his flesh, until his thrusts are nothing more than pathetic little ruts, every brush of his cockhead against his stuffed animal causing him to suck a hiss through his teeth. 

It starts to creep over him then, that dense film of shame grimy on his skin, that leaden block of guilt acrid in the pit of his stomach, nausea swelling in his chest and up his throat to sit, biting and bitter, on the back of his tongue. 

It’ll fuse to him as he sleeps, seeping into his tissues, through his blood and his bones to root, to rot, at the very core of his soul, infesting and infecting, every bit of his being. 

And when he sees you tomorrow morning, bright and beautiful despite being stained with his brother’s hands, bruises and bite marks peaking out from beneath Nahoya’s baggy t-shirt, it will reignite, that creature re-awoken, starved for any small piece of you it can devour—a soft smile, a sweet giggle, the brush of fingertips as they pass syrup or the knocking of knees beneath the table. 

And Souya’s not sure he’ll ever be able to tame it.

[buckevantommy]

your tags on that lou vampire video are so good please tell me more 🧛‍♂️

you mean this post. ok, so here’s a refresh: 

#AU where actor!tommy is in the middle of taping a screen test when the crew gets attacked by vamps- and he doesn't just get #attacked. he gets turned. and the tape somehow survives and years later buck stumbles upon it- maybe he's a pi or investigative #journalist or maybe he's trying to track down the thing that killed his brother (spoiler alert: it was the vamp that turned tommy #-but buck wrongly thinks that tommy was the one who killed daniel). and this could go one of two ways: either buck has already #crossed paths with tommy by chance and had no clue who or what he was -and MAYBE tommy planned it bc he's keeping tabs #on evan bc he knows evan is tracking tommy's maker and he wants to keep evan from getting hurt (because btw: tommy is #a good vmapire; he doesn't kill people. only drinks donated blood + animals etc.) so buck finds the tape and is like: ??!!! #i met that guy!! and proceeds to track him down with intent to kill but ALSO he's slightly kinda hesitant bc they had A Moment #and tommy was sweet and kind and handsome and— no. it must've been an act..

OR: there's the version of events where #buck finds the tape and tracks down this tommy guy knowing what he is when they first meet BUT tommy has no idea who evan is. #and maybe they're in a bar and evan flirts his way into tommy's company and tommy is just vibing yknow? and then they're#leaving together and buck is about to strike- but then tommy smells something and ends up saving buck from another vamp #-one who still works for tommy's maker- who is trying to kill buck before buck finds him. anyway tommy shows his strength #+ speed + healing + fangs during the altercation so he knows he can't hide from evan anymore but he insists he doesn't hurt humans. #and buck.. doesn't reveal what he knows. he chooses to play the long game bc maybe tommy can also lead him to his maker #and he can end them all. of course that means working together in the meantime: cue buck reluctantly falling for tommy #and refusing to admit it and hating himself for feeling any fondness for tommy. he doesn't trust tommy he can't— and he has a bit #of a breakdown and tommy is like: what's going on?? are you ok?? and buck gets angry and lashes out that tommy killed his brother #-so much for waiting for the opportune moment. but tommy.. looks horrified (for buck) and also confused. but neither of them #have time to dwell on that bc they're both being hunted. tommy saves buck again but buck can't do this- he doesn't kill tommy but #he goes his own way to track down tommy's maker. tommy warns him it's dangerous but buck doesn't heed it-

which results in buck #soon being kidnapped and hurt and partially drained by the vamp lackeys. he tries to get free but he's too weak. but then tommy is there #he rescues buck and saves his life and kills all but one of the vamps bc he wants info on his maker; he practically tortures the thing #but it works he gets the info while evan watches on. and tommy promised he'd spare the vamp- he lied. he kills it and evan is like: ? #i thought u said u weren't a killer. and tommy just: i'm not. but they hurt you. and buck just: .... he lets that mindfuckery sink in. #and then maybe tommy opens up to buck -maybe buck insists he share- about the night tommy was turned and more. #anyway. now they pair up to track down tommy's maker and end him. and they're both so reluctant to fall in love... but it happens anyway. 

this lou photoshoot (specifically this wet shirt pic) actually inspired some vamp thoughts a few weeks ago, but more of an older vampire tommy not one who was only turned a few decades ago per the above tag rambles. and this leather-clad lou photoshoot inspires a badboy vampire mafia vibe. 

but the above rambles? this is the vibe of tommy after he was first turned: 

and then, a few decades later, i’m thinking of a more casual looking tommy (like this lou photoshoot) who blends in with the crowd but is still suave af: 

as for buck? he’s lowkey but with a few tight-sleeve shirts ofc.. 

i give you my visuals nonny bc i don't have anything else in mind for the plot, except to say there would be plenty of canon faces scattered throughout. gerrard was probably tommy's maker. hen and chim and the rest make appearances as humans. happy ending with buck and tommy getting together, but i envision a rather angsty plot with some sunshine threaded through.

[deathbyhertouch]

Please Please Please

thank you to the sweet anon who made this request. i had a blast writing it.

criminal!julien baker x reader

word count: 1.9k

AN: this is based off the video for please please please by sabrina carpenter. i hope you like this fic as much as i do. also surprise, there's no smut. it's basically just angst.

warnings: angst, crime, toxic relationship, mentions of assault, allusions to smut, slight yandere!julien

Enjoy.

 You always knew you had a thing for bad boys, and by boys you really meant girls. You met Julien about two years ago. All your friends told you she was a bad influence, but you thought she was hot anyway so you weren’t gonna listen. It all started getting hot and heavy that first  night at the bar. you’re quickly enamored by her bad boy behavior, something about her seemed to reel you in. She was covered in tattoos, and was sipping a lowball glass with some sort of whiskey in it. Your mutual friends introduced you, but heeded a heavy warning; she was trouble, best you stay away from her.

That’s all it took for you to do the exact opposite, you were dating within the month of that first night meeting her. Actually, that first night, you both ended up in jail for disorderly conduct, luckily it was dark, so the officer that arrested you couldn’t see just how skilled Julien’s fingers were. You were bailed out the next morning by your best friend, Karina, who gave you quite the lecture, not that you were listening. You were trying to see where Julien was, eventually spotting her being walked in by a handful of officers, escorting her to a cell for holding. She sent you a wink as she caught your eye before being shoved into the cell. 

A few days later, you paid her a visit, as she was being kept for 3 months, before being let out on a bond. You dress in a blue velvet hooded dress, with black gloves, and silver jewelry to match. She told you that she missed you, and was quick to tell you just how good you looked, practically eye-fucking you right there between the pane of glass. You blushed at her, twirling a lock of your hair between your fingers. You squeezed your thighs together at the attention she was giving. She noticed immediately, a smirk creeping its way across your face.

“Wait until I get out of here, beautiful. I can show you just how much I missed you, miss that sweet pussy of yours.” She remarked, eyes locking with yours. You nodded dumbly, falling fast for her. 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

Two Years Later

You stood outside the county jail, sitting atop the hood of your 1978 Trans Am. Julien had got it for you, about a year and a half ago for real cheap, helping you fix it up. As a cool breeze picked up, you pulled your feathered pink coat around yourself. You were in a black mini skirt, tights, kitten heels, and white cropped tank. You wanted to look good for your girl, after all, it had been a year since she got locked up for a minor assault charge. Some guy had groped your ass at a bar, and Julien made sure to let him know you were taken. Unfortunately, an off-duty cop had also seen the display, hauling them both off. You waited dutifully, counting down the days before she was released. Today was the day you were finally going to see her, you could already feel the heat in your pussy, throbbing with anticipation. 

After what felt like forever, you heard the gate alarm sound, before creaking open. You saw Julien walking towards you, she looked good, she always did. Tight black shirt, black jeans, and a pair of brown shoes to complete the look. She had a smile on her face as she walked towards you. You leaned back, using your hands to support you, craning your neck to give her a sweet smile. She filled the distance between you, kissing you heavily, her hands kneading your ass, before she let you go. You looked up at her through your eyelashes and gave her a hazy smile.

“Hi, pretty girl, did you miss me?” She spoke down at you, running her thumb across your bottom lip. You nodded, reaching your hands up to pull her into another kiss. She moaned as her hand snaked to the back of your neck.

“Julien, let’s go home. I need you.” You whined, wanting to fuck her, but not in front of the entire county jail. She pulled away from your lips, walking back to open the driver’s side door for you. You got in, and she closed the door after you, pecking your lips. 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

After a long week of Julien dealing with some personal business, she had promised to take you out for Italian, fancy. You spent hours getting ready, deciding to curl your long hair, and slipped on a rouge, slightly see through, tight dress that hugged your curves just right. Before long, Julien came in to check on you.

“Ready, love? I’m hungry.” Julien mused at you, pulling you close, burying her face in your perfumed neck. You gasped, as her hand slipped into your panties, running her fingers through your dampening folds. You mewled, and she pulled back, giving you a smile.

“Tease.” You murmured at her. She giggled before taking your hand and leading you to your car. She drove to Belladonna’s, her hand on your thigh the entire time. It increasingly made its way  up the hem of your dress. As you pulled in, she parked the car and turned to you. 

“So, I just have to take care of one thing, and then we can sit down and eat.” She bargained, knowing you just wanted a nice night with your girlfriend. You sighed, your smile faltering a bit, but nodding anyway. She kissed your lips, before she pulled you out of the car and into the italian restaurant. As you walked in, there was an older man behind the counter, nodding Julien towards the back of the restaurant and taking an uncomfortably long look at you. Julien grabbed your hand a bit tighter, ushering you through the kitchen, and into a large walk-in freezer. Your eyes widened, seeing 5 large men in velour tracksuits, four with guns in hand and one sat at a table, counting stacks of cash. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, immediately uncomfortable. You squeezed her hand, and she rubbed the back of your hand with her thumb.

“ So, Baker, what the fuck are you doing back here?” The guy at the table spat at her, not even bothering to look up from his task. 

“Well, I was waiting for your ugly ass to bail me out of prison, so I guess we’re both fucking dissappointed.” She quipped back. That seemed to be all it took, because the guys approached her, and she swung at them. You squealed and backed up to the wall. They began fighting back and forth. You ran out of the restaurant, plopping yourself on the hood of your car waiting for your girlfriend to come back to you. After a half hour or so, she came stumbling out, with a budding black eye and a busted lip. You noticed a small nick on her cheekbone- probably from the mobsters’ ring. You frowned and pulled her into a tight hug. She sat down next to you, letting you examine her face. You were in the middle of checking her over, when you heard a thump and muffled yelling coming from your car. You groaned and looked at her, a guilty smile on her lips. You hopped down and moved to the back of your car, fumbling with the keys to open the trunk.

“Babe- stop, it’s not what you think. He needed to learn some manne-”

That’s all she could get out before you opened the trunk and saw some sweaty businessman, tied up and gagged. He was bruised and had dried blood running from his nose. You scowled and looked up at Julien.

“Motherfucker.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

It had been a few months since that incident. Julien hadn’t changed, but you had. She had somehow talked you into joining her little ‘business ventures’. She took you along to a bank robbery- which you found grueling and had you nervous for weeks.  It was when she tried holding up an old arcade, she was apprehended and back in cuffs again. You were upset but she kissed you deep before they hauled her back to prison. 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

One Year Later

After posting her bail, and a few favors called in, you had gotten Julien acquitted. You were back again, waiting outside for her, in a near identical outfit to the one you wore prior to picking her up from jail. This time the greeting wasn’t as enthusiastic, she walked towards you, her metaphorical tail between her legs. She waved at you, and you flashed her a weak smile. She went to pull you in for a hug, but you pulled away, moving towards the driver’s side again. She rushed to open the door for you anyways.

“So babe, for our next hit, here’s the plan…” She dove into some plan, but your mind drifted away from it. You loved her, but you didn’t want to be caught up in this world of crime anymore. It was a hard choice, but you knew it wouldn’t end well if you stayed with her. You began to form a plan to rid yourself of her for good. You feigned listening to her, nodding at where you should, murmuring some noises of agreement and faux interest. You figured to let her do what she was going to do, but make sure she got caught this time. 

It was a week later, and you were waiting outside this mansion for Julien. You were driving the getaway car, your beloved trans am. It sucked that you were gonna have to give this up. It needed to be done, you reminded yourself. 

“Hey! Start the car!” You jumped and turned to see Julien running towards you, full sprint. You huffed but turned over the ignition. Tonight, you were going to put your little plan into motion. You drove her to your appointed ‘rendezvous point’. You stayed there until it got dark. She had moved in a few small pieces of furniture for you. She sat across from you, on a small metal folding chair, in the large abandoned warehouse you were both holed up in. 

You were wearing a short, figure hugging, white dress that stopped just under your ass. You swayed your hips as you waltzed toward her.

“I have a surprise for you Jules.” You cooed at her, all she did was smirk and raise her eyebrows a bit. You pulled out a pair of handcuffs, playfully waving them at her. She swallowed, her smirk turning into a shit eating grin. You walked behind her, attaching one to her wrist, looping it through one of the metal bars, before attaching it the other.

“Hot stuff babe, what now?” She was curious as her eyes followed you. You walked back to the couch, pulling out a roll of duct tape from in between the cushions before turning back to her.

“Do you trust me, Julien?” You asked, giving her big doe eyes, batting your eyelashes at her. She giggled and nodded. You smiled and pulled a strip from the roll, before attaching it to her mouth. Her eyebrows furrowed, as you leaned in, and placed one last kiss to her mouth. The burgundy lipstick, leaving a perfect impression of your lips over hers, as you started backing up.

“I’m sorry, Jules. It’s for the best. I’ll always love you.” You remarked, sad but also relieved. You backed up, turning to head towards the door. You turned back over your shoulder, giving her one last glance.

“Have fun talking to the cops, I’ll come visit you.” You spoke softly, before heading out the door and into the night, hearing police sirens in the distance.

Love, A.

[many-but-one]

EYEWITNESS

⚠️TW: religious trauma, CSA, RAMCOA, descriptions of child death⚠️

Author’s note: This is an intense poem, but is extremely important for me to share as an eyewitness to these atrocities. As the highest level gatekeeper in our system, I witnessed Everything, and was forced to cut my emotions about it away so I could do my job. Yesterday, a mutual on TikTok (The Brigadoon System) posted a video in response to a hate comment on one of our videos, in which they described the emotions about what it’s like to witness child death, and it struck such a chord in me that I actually was able to feel some of these feelings again for the first time in many, many years. It was difficult. Devastating. But also cathartic in a way. It reminded me that I’m not the cold monster I used to believe I was, and that allowing yourself to feel grief can be healing, too.

Please only read if you feel you are able to do so, please heed the trigger warnings above.

This poem DOES end on a good note, but it starts a bit heavy. Please read with caution.

EYEWITNESS

You know what they say about eyewitness reports. How they are often unreliable, how people often focus too much on a certain thing or they are too caught up in the emotions of it all that they mistake brunette hair for black, or black skin for white. Or whatever story serves the highest bidder, whatever story the pigs can scrape out of them to put someone they already hate behind bars.

You’ve all heard that, right?

And maybe it’s true that eyewitness accounts aren’t always accurate, but I’ve always felt like I would be a fantastic eyewitness, so good, in fact, the cops would hate me for how I refuse to stare at the lineup of pictures of black men with dreads or Latino men with tattoos that scare the perfect bottle blonde PTO moms lined up in front of me. They’d hate me for how I’d describe the perpetrator as a white man in a black business suit, I’d note the exact turn the curls in his hair made. I’d let the police know he wore blue eye contacts. I’d tell them not to forget the freckle underneath his right eye, I surely won’t. I could tell them that his dick was 6.75 inches too and that he never shaved, and when they ask me why I know that, I’ll tell them that I could feel him hitting my cervix when I was six years old, and he couldn’t push all the way in. I’ll tell them I used to get his hair stuck under my tongue when he used my mouth like a cunt. I’d let them know he kept his nails clean and trimmed short so that when he gripped at me he wouldn’t leave scratches that would be noticed later.

See, the thing about eyewitness accounts is that emotions are always running high when someone holds a gun to you from the other side of a convenience counter, but luckily for me I cut those away when I was seven, my job description required it, especially after that one cold December night. You know, the really important one everyone talks about all the time. It’s a night that I lament as the one I became god, and so too like god I created the separation between the sky and the land—the inner world one, I mean. Don’t think I’ve gotten cocky, I’m not that much of a sadist.

The sky I created was like spilled ink swelling across a page of parchment, and it held no stars or moon. Instead the black, viscous sky held my grief, it held that singular emotion I could not take that night, the night I was killed three times and what arose from me were sacrificial lambs, a pack of snarling wolves, and a god whose blue eyes were as cold as the winter’s midnight wind. The grief nearly overtook me and so I had to cut him away from me, I placed him in the sky, the one thing that would remain not only above me, but all around me, a place I would swim in every so often and get trapped in like a raptor in a Jurassic tar pit.

The rest of my parts, the children and the tigers and the demons and angels would never know where my grief went, they’d call me cold and cruel, they’d call me a monster, and I’d let them, because I knew they were telling the version of the truth I believed myself. I was a monster for having the ability to cut my pain away from me while they all writhed in theirs like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

For every trauma we took, for every single event I witnessed, the sky would grow larger, darker, heavier. Nobody felt the weight of it except me, the god who resided in it, an Atlas of epic proportions—who experienced everything, witnessed everything, Knew Everything. Omnipresent, omniscient, but not omnipotent. Every December reminded me of that, when I’d find myself on that church floor in my white dress with my limbs bound in prayer. O Holy God, wherest art thou? I’m right here, I’ve Always been here. Shattered over and over like delicate china dolls, those fragment pieces still scream the words I could never say at the time and will never be able to receive an actual answer for.

WHY? WHY? WHY?

The answer that I know you hold in your blackened heart is that you’re a sick and twisted man with sick and twisted followers, who keep the red eyes trained on me for money. Do you really think I’m that fucking stupid, that I don’t know your little games weren’t for a religious cause? They were so you could line your pockets. But at least I’d get a good Christmas present and my dad would get his booze money.

I used to wish that you had killed me, my desire to give up and die was held in a creature called The Nothing, held back by the strongest of my wolf pack, a black hellhound named G’mork wreathed in the fires of Wrath and Vengeance, who holds Hope like a tool of demolition. He held back this immense creature almost as expansive as my grief overhead, and it kept us alive.

It wasn’t until later that I realized how important this would be to me. See, I hated that he existed to keep that desire at bay, sometimes I wish I could tell him to let it free, let it consume us, but our brain was stubborn in keeping us alive.

I now realize that if I hadn’t lived all these years later, I wouldn’t have been able to become the most important eyewitness I’d ever become. The most painful and devastating eyewitness I would ever bear, a witness to monstrosities that cannot ever be truly described, something I wish in my heart of heart and soul of souls that I could have stopped. I couldn’t then.

But maybe now, I can.

I have lived through so many types of torture, the sorts of things that make even my therapist with decades of experience wince and cringe. The sorts of things you can’t even conceive of if you hadn’t seen them yourself.

The first time I watched a child die, she looked like me. It was an accident, and I know this because the men in their black clothes and black masks with their blue eyes peering over and through were swearing and yelling at the one responsible for her death. I never knew her name, but her blonde hair was lighter than mine, and her eyes more of a grey than a blue. Her neck snapped like a gunshot and I froze when her body went limp. The girl next to me, perhaps barely five, screamed. The one on my other side, a girl no older than me, with hair longer than mine and a darker shade of gold than mine, stood stoic, her bright blue eyes barely welling with tears. When they punished the screaming girl mere seconds after the sound had been ripped from her lungs, I copied the older girl out of desperation. I had grown used to cutting out my emotions by now, what was a bit more going to do to me? My inner world sky now held a single star. I named that girl Star in my mind. Her hair was like a halo, fluffy like angels wings. It seemed fitting. I’ll never, ever forget her. I cannot unsee her. I have never been able to grieve her.

Many more stars were added over the course of months and years, a sky full of them, twinkling down upon my system, them none the wiser of who they represented. The girl with the doe-brown eyes, I called her Bambi. The girl who compulsively tore out her hair and was so very tall for being only nine, I called her Willow. They all had nicknames in my mind, all the ones I could see well enough and for long enough to name. For those that I couldn’t, their stars shined the brightest, my grief for them more intense than the heat of a supernova. Nameless stars for nameless girls.

Many of them were named various shades of colors, after what they were wearing, or the color of their skin or hair. Most often I used the colors of their eyes, something I almost always saw. Something I never looked away from, even in their final moments when I wanted to look away.

I made a promise to my first star, that I would never look away. Looking away meant punishment anyway, but even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t. I may never know their real name if they even had one, but I would know them by the color of their eyes.

Honey, Golden, Oak, Leaf, Moss, Ocean, Mist, Bluejay.

The eyes always told me what their screams could not. Their screams were pleas for help they knew wouldn’t come, but their eyes said WITNESS ME and I bore witness to them. NEVER FORGET ME and I never forgot them. LIVE FOR ME and I lived for them.

I taught myself more colors in art class at school so I could find more names to give. There would always be names to give. Perhaps this is why I became an artist. Every time I mix new colors on the palette, dip brush to oil and brush to paint and put paint to canvas, I remember the shades of eyes I saw, who begged me to be their eyewitness. Their eyes cover my canvases. Perhaps this is why I’ve always liked the colors blue, green, and brown in my artworks.

I see their eyes everywhere I go. In the moss clinging to tree bark during an afternoon walk, in the slicked brown leaves after an autumn thunderstorm, in the clear sky on a balmy summer’s day, in the honey I put in my tea when I have a cold, and in my morning coffee.

You’d think this would make me hate going outside, but nature is my favorite place to be. You’d think this would make me stop seeing color in everything I do, but I can’t help but gaze at the colorful world around me. After all, wouldn’t it make me sad to see the cinnamon on my toast and remember the exact way a girl was dismembered before me? Maybe for some this would be true, but not for me.

To me this is the best way I can bring these girls with me along in my life, in this way, it feels like they’re growing with me. In this way, it feels like they’re now an eyewitness to MY life, a life I promised I would live for them.

I always keep my promises.

[cammslush]

6REEZE; each member has their own special and adorable darling (but you don't know they think that way about you).

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Content warning(s): Yandere themes (unhealthy obsession), mention of injury and blood, blood consumption (via sweets)

Let me know if I missed anything.

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Part I: Lead Vocal - Venti

Alcohol isn't something that idols can just drink on the daily like Venti wishes. But, the sweet taste of apples is still something he's allowed to savour – only if they're not part of the sugary delicacies that he insists on eating everyday before and after practice.

"I said that you could eat apples – not apple smoothies, not especially with extra sugar!" The manager of 6REEZE, Jean, had already warned Venti about the drawbacks excess sugar brings to his health and body image, but alas…Advice is like the breeze, blowing through one ear and then out from the other.

"Ehe, did you?" The cheeky lead vocal grinned playfully at the poor manager, "I can't help it, though! You wouldn't stop eating desserts prepared by none other than your bestest, dearest friend either, would you? Neither would I!"

Not ever heeding the health advice of any of his peers, not even his fellow 6REEZE group mates, Venti just keeps eating all the desserts sent to him by his beloved friend with the sweet tooth he never knew he had. Ah, could it be the abundance of apple flavour or the fact that there's just that hint of alcohol inside?

Or could it be purely because it's you, his dear friend, who made those sweets with your own two hands, as a reward for his efforts as an idol?

'Hi Venti! I watched your group's newest music video today and I can tell you that you've been working really hard! I made apple smoothies this time, please share them with all your group mates. Thank you for your hard work!

- ____'

That was the note attached to the tray that was left on the front door of the idols' shared living accommodation. Ah, he could practically hear your cute voice from the written words.

You told him to share, but…

The 5 other empty glasses of apple smoothies say that he didn't really care about that. Well hey, his name was the only one mentioned in the note, no? You mainly made those treats for him, right? Doesn't he have the freedom to drink them as he pleases?

That is the justification he gave himself in his head. He is shamelessly selfish when it comes to you.

Despite everything, Venti is still a picky eater. If the other desserts aren't to his liking, of course he'll share with Aether and the others. "But mine is still the best, because ____ likes me so much more!" That is what he often brags to his friends about while enjoying his dessert. He's a little narcissistic when it comes to you.

Of course, Venti also isn't one to take and not give back. Your regular treats filled with sugar (and love, he believes) gives him enough energy to do his very best during practice and on stage. He would be lying to say he could survive a day without them. So as a thank you, he is doing his very best to show off for: none other than you!

"This song is dedicated to my bestest friend who has always supported me and the rest of 6REEZE! I love you!"

He says that on stage so carelessly, people would think that this 'love' he's talking about is purely platonic. In reality, he really hates saying the phrase 'best friend'. Why can't it be 'darling'?

Aether had to pull Venti backstage during the intermission, "Hey, fans might get suspicious if you word it that way…!"

The golden-haired star was the only one acting this outward about his thoughts, but a few other of his group mates wondered the same thing.

"Suspicious?" The confident lead vocal smiled, just as carefree as before, "Don't idols always say stuff like 'I love you' to their fans? What's the big deal, Aether?"

"You were saying it to a specific person. I get that you like your best friend a lot but you've seen this happen before. Everything an idol says could lead to consequences right now."

"Consequences like what?" Venti wasn't allowing reason to get into his stubborn skull. Why, was it so wrong to express how much he appreciates his dearest darling? No one will ever think he meant it romantically anyway.

"Like creepy stuff such as getting stalked! Or ____ getting stalked! You've been in the idol industry longer than any of us, Venti. You should get it, right?" Aether shook his leader's shoulders, "Last time this happened was with Lumine…!"

Yes, the idol industry is a horrible place to be. Parasocial relationships crawl within the shadows of a healthy idol-fan association. Plenty of people who think that they are privy to the lives of anyone who shines on stage.

Yet, Venti just ate a yummy mouthful of his favourite apple crepe, prepared by the one and only, you. As long as you and your sweets exist, Venti can never feel the slightest bit of stress or fear. He doesn't need any cheap wine anymore, he easily gets addicted to whatever dessert you send over next. It probably would taste even better if you personally fed him with your own hands…What a shame you couldn't be allowed near him just in case some paparazzi takes pictures.

"It's alright," the idol twirled his braid with a finger, "I'm sure nothing will happen to me or ____. I'll make sure nothing happens. I'll just sing a song and everyone will forget about it! That's always how it works, yes?"

Aether already gave up on trying to convince Venti of anything.

Just then, a note slipped into their break room from under the door. Venti's eyes glimmered in delight upon seeing his darling's signature all the way from his seat, "Ah, there it is!"

Nothing makes his day better than seeing a note of that design. He snatched it up from the ground, excited to read more of your praises about how he's been doing such a great job in his concert performance, or how good his new outfit looks.

If only security would allow you through so he could hear the praises coming straight from your mouth instead.

'Hi Venti,

I watched your performance just now. Everyone did a great job, and it seems the huge audience thought so too! I have to apologize in advance, because I won't be able to make any more sweets currently. I injured my hand while making something, but I managed to finish it, so here you go! I could only make enough for you. Tell your friends I'm really sorry I couldn't make any for them.

- ____'

"..."

That's all?

His heart…kind of broke.

No mention of how he mentioned you on stage just now? The song just for you? Did you like it? Not only that…

No more desserts from you for Archon knows how long…? How could he possibly survive without the sweets filled with your utter care for him? He might just have to go on hiatus until you get better. Maybe then he could finally see your adorable face again…

Oh, how impatient he was to swing the door open to reveal the tray of delicacies. Them being the last ones you're making until your hand heals makes them all the more precious.

"Macarons…" Immediately forgetting all his stress and worries literally seconds prior, he picks up the tray from the small trolley outside the door with a bright smile on his face.

"____ sent treats again?" Heizou asked.

"As expected of my beloved friend," Venti already bit off a piece of macaron, savouring the sugary goodness in his mouth. It tastes so divine, most likely made from all the love you have for him. You love him, don't you?!

You really do have an Archon-given talent for confectionery. Although…

"..." Venti stood in place, a strange feeling stirring in his heart. He ate the whole macaron and picked another from the tray. They're apple flavoured, yes. But why does it taste a little bit…different from what you usually make? He twisted off the top of the macaron slowly...

"..."

…No wonder!

Little drops of dark red accidentally mixed in with the light green filling. Must be from when you injured yourself.

Forget wine, forget apples. Forget the suspicious looks on the other 6REEZE members' faces. You must've put that in specially to enhance the taste, just for him. Mhm, little drops of crimson blood.

The desserts taste so much better this way! Now he is re-energized for the rest of the concert!

You'll still watch him, right? As a thank you, he'll steal the spotlights just for you!

[tater-tot-jr]

I think I should put in my two cents considering the Hazbin hotel leaked Angel Dust clip. I’ll say that this post should be one absolutely massive trigger warning. If you’re sensitive please don’t read this, I’m pretty blunt. Also I’m only talking about a small leak but SPOILERS!!!

So before I make any points I’ll start by saying that I’m not an inherent fan of vivziepop, this isn’t meat riding, it’s a genuine attempt at open conversation and discussion. I’ll also say I’m a survivor myself and while I don’t claim to speak for anyone else I have some ground to stand on here. I completely understand that people can be triggered by this type of imagery and will at least skip this particular scene or episode, I promise I’m not talking about you guys.

You wanna know who I am talking about though? The weird ass moral police I’ve been watching mobilize. It’s crazy how people are making a big deal out of this. I’ve seen three arguments and all of them are terrible in themselves and being used to justify terrible behavior.

I’ve only seen people claim three major things, this is a bad depiction of a s/a survivor and situation, this is something that’s too graphic and immoral to put in a TV show, the fact that the singing and dancing lightens the tone in a way people find distasteful. I’m going to be trying to prove why I find these arguments mostly ridiculous and unfounded.

As for argument one, s/a survivors come in all shapes and sizes and hyper sexuality happens to be an incredibly common reaction to sexual trauma. I haven’t watched episode one and two but even if I had I’d still have too small of a sample size to determine the entire tone of an incredibly messed up complex dynamic between too incredibly interesting and layered characters. It’s ridiculous to have so many assumptions and expectations of an *11 second leaked clip.*

Secondly. Creative freedom is possible the most important thing in art. If we didn’t have the freedom to put what we wanted on paper or on screen then we wouldn’t have had so much societal change recently. Just because you might find something distasteful and immoral doesn’t mean it absolutely has to be hated on and removed. It’s okay to not like things because you find them gross, it’s okay to not enjoy graphic depictions of serious subjects, it’s not okay to start internet wars over moral bullshit. It’s okay to be mad in silence sometimes, guys.

Thirdly. I kinda get this one, I don’t agree with it but I do understand the point. The idea you don’t want a serious subject framed with a sexy pop song is not inherently bad, it’s just something that makes me think you wouldn’t have liked Hazbin Hotel anyway. I actually appreciate the fact they are using the creative medium to make bold and shocking decisions but I get some people are sensitive to new things, that’s fine. Where this argument gets ridiculous is when people act like this is very out of line for a show like this. This isn’t a Saturday morning kids cartoon it’s and adult animated show about people in hell. It’s highly likely that this won’t be the worst thing we see, you either need to heed the trigger warnings at the beginning of each episode or get over it.

You’ll notice that I didn’t bring up anything about the merchandise pins or the storyboard artist, I did this because they aren’t arguments but barely related attempts at character assassinations. When you spend five minutes thinking about them critically you come to realize that there is nothing substantial to those arguments.

I’d like to finish up talking about how I think this scene is doing more good than harm. It’s important to make people uncomfortable when you’re talking about things so horrible like s/a and rape. It shouldn’t be meek and palatable for a general audience, it should upset you. I remember hearing something in a video game once that stuck with me. There was a character who said that when you’re sick you need strong medicine and that the strongest medication is very bitter.

I think episode four will be some very bitter medicine.