#then it cut to a downward angle of his head

[notyourmamasdeerbat]

A Word with Friends 6/30 🐟

Thank you @woundedsoul12 @blackwall-my-tiny-husband and @draco-illius-noctis for the tag! And thank you so much @hedwigoprah for hosting! As usual this is my favorite ever thing and I'm in love with faction-based word prompts. This week's word is

This week's word is:

Moribund

Adjective

• Approaching death; about to die; dying; expiring.

• Almost obsolete, nearing an end.

Noun

• A person who is near to dying. Stuff below the cut!!

The rogue toppled over into the water with a damning splash. 

“Rook!” Lucanis whirled, barely registering Spite’s howl of alarm. Before he knew it he was clawing out of his cape with the sweep of fabric pilling at his feet, shucking off his sword belt and taking rapid strides to the water's edge. The battle was a distant memory now, all that mattered was this shocking scrap of knowledge that clawed its way into his windpipe and squeezed. 

Rook can't swim. 

“Lucanis!” Bellara’s cry drowned in his ears, warbling as the Crow threw out his arms and dove into the water. 

He could see Rook, squinting through the rush of icy bubbles and brine, sinking like a stone, weighed down by their armor and gear, thrashing stubbornly as the dappled light was drained away by depth. Visibly holding their breath, the Veil Jumper yanked off their bow and quiver, hands moving to struggle with the clasp of their laden belt as their weapons drifted away, legs working furiously and cloak billowing like broken wings at odd angles over their head, weight obscuring dexterity and vision. 

Lucanis surged downward, willing the muscles in his legs to obey and the panic in his chest to unravel. All that mattered was the task. The target. Rook’s hands. If he could reach their hands– 

Rook's head shot up, movements sluggish and submerged, dark bangs lashing like fringes of kelp when their eyes widened on Lucanis as he swam down to meet them, haloed by the aquatic gleam rippling the water’s surface. 

Rook shook their head rapidly, gesturing wildly for him to go back. Foolish. A waste of energy and time, and potentially a perfectly good Rook. Lucanis set his jaw, lungs burning– had the quarry originally seemed so deep? On the surface it didn't look this black and cold. He ignored the way the dark made his throat close and his blood curdle, pushing himself lower faster. 

Rook's grunt of frustration rippled across the water to him as he finally reached their side while they worked at their belt with renewed urgency. 

He allowed himself no hesitation as he drew the dagger from his side and hooked it under the belt, slitting the thick leather with a jerk. Rook seized his collar, shaking their head faster and surging uselessly up towards the surface, kicks weak and uncoordinated, growing more sluggish by the minute as their brain worked furiously against its rapidly dwindling oxygen. 

Lucanis grit his teeth and looped his arms under theirs, gathering them close to his chest as he began to swim back towards the surface. Even with the buoyancy the depths afforded, Rook was heavy. 

A silver glint caught in the corner of his eye. Long, diaphanous blue fins. Shining scales. A fish, no larger than his hand. Then another, on Rook’s left. Then another. And another. Below them, above them, tails undulating to keep pace around the divers. A veritable swarm of flashing bodies all around them. 

Spite prickled with unease, thrashing this way and that in Lucanis’ gut. The assassin’s hair stood on end as the fish kept their distance; surging closer, then away with each nauseous pulse of the demon’s hate. Not. Right. Go away! 

Lucanis ignored the burning in his airway and the cold in the water. He forced away the sludge of haze and memories of purified agony that dredged to the surface of his skin. It made his head swim. The light above wasn’t getting any closer. Why wasn’t it getting any bigger? 

The Crow heaved up with his shoulders and kicked with his legs. One of the fish darted in, close to his face, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head as his own horror and Spite’s wildfire instinct roared up to swallow his consciousness. His heart hammered nauseatingly against his ribs and he nearly lost his last lungful of air. 

The silvery fish had rows and rows of blood red needle teeth. 

Maker. 

Rook’s ice cold fingers suddenly seized Lucanis’ armor at the back of his neck, whipping him around in the water, their body coiling around his as they drifted to one side. The fish darted back into the dark, scattering in all directions in a storm of millions of small, tickling bubbles.

From out of the depths rushed a creature roughly the size of an Antaam soldier, and it kept going. Lucanis felt the frigid water’s rush of displacement buffet him back a few feet as the monstrous thing uncoiled, one long length of muscle and shimmering mirrored eye. Jaws of jagged fangs gaping open in a chasmic maw. 

An eel. Or at least, something like it. The thing was massive. So much so he could not see the end of it, disappearing down into the dark as it curved violently in the water, having overshot them. It whipped about in pursuit of a small school of the terrible fish, circles and snakelike coils of softly glowing spots writhing around them. 

Lucanis squeezed his eyes shut against another spray of bubbles as the current lashed at his face, tearing at his legs, threatening to pull him down again as the horrible eel– maybe somehow Fade Touched– rose up in pursuit of its meal. With dawning horror, he felt Rook’s grip on him loosen, dragged down into the water, their fingers limp, legs still. 

Mierda. The Crow struggled in vain– with failing strength, he noted clinically– to heave the rogue back into his arms and push up through the twisting coils to make another break for the surface. The eel’s skin, leathery and dark, had starlike markings that pulsed in time with each lunge for prey. The toothy fish had all but vanished, and the beast hissed audibly through the water. It made Lucanis’ ear drums burn. 

A trio of wavering bubbles leaked up from Rook’s parted lips, and he gathered them closer, his vision blurring. Sangue del hacedor. A voice suspiciously like Caterina’s roared to life in the back of his skull, familiar words and stinging derision tattooing a nostalgic beat into the bone. 

Stupid boy. You must be stronger. Faster. Better. Or you will be nothing. No grandson of mine will fall to this! Get up! You make a mockery of your house. You bring shame to this family! To your parents! Get up!

It was almost a comfort as the dark closed in around them, compared to the memory of submersion, of Zara, of his mouth being forced open, choking on something foul under the ocean. The eel regarded them with a pupil black as night, frilled crest flaring on its triangular head, hooked teeth catching on odd shadows. 

The wings beat once and sent them shooting towards the surface. 

They burst into the air in a shower of diamond droplets as Lucanis’ arms locked tight around Rook’s limp form. They descended just as quickly, Spite depositing Rook on the stones at a roll, hair dripping as he hissed and sprang on the nearest Venatori mage, slit her throat and retreated to crouch bodily over the unconscious Veil Jumper, spectral feathers draped on either side of their prone figure, eyes flashing and teeth bared as the cultists startled through their ranks. Wine dark red bloomed to the surface of the quarry below. “Mine!” 

Bellara whooped from where she lingered at the treeline, bow drawn, her back to the peeling silver bark of an ancient birch. 

Davrin kicked a Venatori in the chest, their red scythes sparking on the stone path as they skidded into a crouch. The Warden raised his shield with a shout and backhanded the next unlucky blood mage in his path. Bellara whispered a word and tore open a galvanized tear, the afternoon air buzzing now with the electric pull of the Veil as three more of the Venatori were sucked into it, contorsions mutilating their screams. 

The one who had pushed Rook was still bleeding. A hand over the sucking wound in his stomach, he yanked an arrow from his shoulder with a snarl. “KILL THE DEMON!” 

Davrin was there instantly, locking sword and board against the Venatori’s crooked staff. The man hissed as dirty smoke began to build from his fingertips, fire crackling to life around his feet. His two remaining companions whirled on Spite. 

Spite’s wings beat furiously as he hissed, fishing two fingers into Rook’s boot for the familiar curve of brass he knew would be there. The thin dagger. The one Lucanis always thought looked too heavy in the filigreed hilt. The one that had ultimately killed Calivan. It never failed Rook. 

He pulled the second– one of his host’s spares– from across his chest. Perhaps at one point, the spirit could have used teeth. And claws. Those days were long behind it. 

He fell into the fierce memory etched into every pulsing muscle, every bloody twitch of instinct and wet string of training. The Venatori with the scythes came for him– scythes like Illario’s. The demon curved his wings around him like spiral petals and surged low beneath the swing, coming back up again too quick to follow. Spite slit the assailant from navel to jaw, using their collapsed knees as a stepstone to their shoulders and twisting to their other side, landing catlike on his feet, eyes flashing. Lucanis’ body ached, his vision unreliable. Blurry. 

Oh yes. 

He forced the body to cough, squeezing air out the chest, the throat, raw and burning as oxygen rushed back into his lungs and a few droplets of lake water splattered to the stones. He turned, ready for the next as his vision swam. He heaved another gasping breath in, filling his host’s lungs, sunlight glittering on the blades.

The last Venatori, having recognized her prey, went for Rook. Laying there, unconscious and sodden on the stone path. Her sword lifted high, screaming an offering to the gods. 

A Fade bolt exploded in a wet smack of gore as the Venatori teetered, nearly headless, and toppled limply back into the bloody water. 

A foaming froth of frenzied bodies the size of human hands shredded and tore at the robes, dragging them beneath the surface of the quarry. 

Bellara shook a few fizzing sparks off her gauntlet, breathing hard as she rushed to Rook’s side. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no oh— Rook! Rook, can you hear me?�� She heaved the Veil Jumper and their sodden armor onto their side with a groan.

Davrin crouched beside her, scowling as he slung his shield across his back and his fingers rapidly untangled the brass buckles against the ribs of Rook’s breastplate. “They can’t swim. Of course. Rook, of all the things they could have learned besides bombs and politics and demons– never learned to swim.” 

He thumped a broad hand between Rook’s shoulder blades as the shell of brass plate fell away, and the Veil Jumper heaved a wet gasp, then hacked up, violently curling in on themself with every painful cough, a small ocean of lake water spilling from their lungs in strings of spit and pooling on the cobbles. 

Rook rolled onto their back, whimpering against another broken cough as they wiped their mouth, brows furrowed against the pain as their eyes opened wide and confused. 

Bellara seized their shoulders, leaning close to inspect their face as Davrin stepped back. “Rook?” 

Rook groaned, and Spite felt the heavy drum of his own panic melt away in the face of the growing, annoying surge of alarm as Lucanis clawed his way back to consciousness. The demon relented gladly, and the Crow staggered as the control of his limbs faded out and back again. Dizzily, he registered Davrin catching his arm and leading him forward.

“Steady,” he drawled, cautious. “Who am I talking to?” 

“It’s me,” Lucanis rasped, already sinking down to kneel, blinking droplets from his lashes and eyes and dimly realizing the unbalanced weight of the bronze throwing knife in his off hand. He set it gently against the stones and sheathed his own as he reached for Rook’s hand. Hesitated, touching only empty air. 

Rook made the decision for him and seized his hand, brows furrowing deeper as their other hand squeezed Bellara’s arm. “You— you moron– The water’s got Fade bubbles miles down– and the fish–” 

“I noticed the fish,” Lucanis mused flatly, hair dripping into his eyes again. 

“You can’t swim,” Davrin complained again as Rook heaved another crackling cough into their elbow and let their head fall back against the stones. 

“Moribund art,” they dismissed hoarsely. 

Bellara giggled nervously, throwing her arms around the rogue. “Oh, you had me worried! Please, please don’t do that again.” 

“He pushed me! It’s not like I did it on purpose.” Rook’s eyes widened as their free hand patted first their chest, then their waist. “Ohh,” they groaned, dismayed. “My gear.” 

“I can get it for you later. Maybe Emmrich can help! If he doesn’t mind the hike… ooh, what did you see?” Bellara helped the Veil Jumper sit up as Lucanis settled on his haunches with a heavy sigh. Rook was still holding tight to his hand. “Are there still blood fish? Pretty sure I saw some blood fish.” 

“And something worse,” Lucanis huffed with a shudder, trying in vain to wring droplets from his hair one handed. 

Davrin folded his arms, regarding the treeline beyond the clearing. “This was a good place to camp. They’re mining something.” 

“Most of the quarry’s been flooded for months,” Bellara agreed. “But the tunnels underneath would be perfect for Veil crystal.” 

“Why would the Venatori need Veil crystal?” Rook gently released Lucanis’ hand to wring out their dusty purple sash, think better of it, and wriggle out of their jerkin to squeeze out the whole thing in a coil. The sunlight shone on their slick skin, every scar, every dark tattoo glistening. 

Lucanis blinked. Then looked away. 

Rook swatted him playfully with the damp cloth, grinning. Their blue eyes glittered, as if to say ‘don’t be silly.’ “Thanks for saving my ass. Again.” 

“Hmm.” Lucanis searched their gaze, then let his head tip up to squint against the light of the blue sky. “I seem to have signed up for little else. I wish I had known near drowning was written in your contract. I might’ve reconsidered.” 

Rook scoffed. “All you do is complain.” 

Lucanis felt a crooked grin pull unbidden at his mouth as Davrin cuffed Rook at the back of the head. “Head in the game. You start growing gills and I’m putting you down. Got it?” 

Rook sputtered, even as Bellara hummed thoughtfully. “Oh! That’s really interesting. Super unlikely, obviously, but if you were close enough to a crystal deposit or the water itself was between the V– you didn’t get bit or anything did you? Let me see!”

** Hehe. I hope you enjoyed the Arlathan Water Bad plot bunny, there might be more to this story somewhere along the line. Thank you for reading and if you made it this far: mwah! I kiss you on the forehead! 💕 Gentlest tags for my beloveds! @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @davrinsleftpectoral @sunny374940 @nevarrantorte @caughtnyact @seaglassmelody @strugglinggranola @jenn2d2 @palenecromaniac @strugglinggranola @woundedsoul12 @aetherflowers

[tonycries]

RAW-MANCE!

Synopsis. First time he can’t pull out = first time he’s losing his mind.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, not pulling out, FÉRAL men, creampíes, heats (Choso), knots, squírting, running from it, he’s BIG, matíng presses, making it fit, true form Sukuna, dp, ínnapropríate use of jujutsu, cúmplay, overstím, jealousy (Nanami’s side), they get REALLY pússydrúnk, pull out game WEAK, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. AIpha Tony just started her shark week, F

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Tight fit!

“Toji, why are you so big- oh.”

Your tear-glazed eyes scrunch closed at the force of one of his roughened palms pressing down on your tummy. Jade eyes widening, gruff breath hitching- “C-can feel myself from the outside, doll.” 

Voice breathy like even he couldn’t believe it. 

He’s hypnotized. That bumpy bulge only makes him plug up more of your entrance with his red, weeping tip, he’s furiously pushing and pushing against that snug resistance from behind. “M’big, she’s tight.”

So feverishly hot, so stuffed- the only thing you can do is thrash your weakened legs against the dampening mattress, “I kn-know that- hck! But what if you’re too-”

“Too big?” Toji’s cutting you off with a roll of his dilated pupils, “Well duh- m’gonna make it fit, silly girl. The only problem will be…” Broad chest shuddering as one of his hands wrap ‘round his swollen hilt with a squelch! “-whether I’ll be able to pull out.”

And oh…he knew he was playing a dangerous game.

Because it was a joke- really, it was a joke to make your cute, split-slicked lips fall into his favorite lil’ ‘oh!’ 

But fuck- if the very second those thick, rasping words depart from his scarred lips, Toji’s chiseled body didn’t buck.

Without him planning it, without even realizing until a singular, sopping thrust rams his bulging inches into you thoroughly- the sudden warmth of your dewy insides making the hulking man gasp.

“Oh, fuck- oh, fuck.” Panting out a shocked breath, the edges of his raven lashes tickle his cheeks as he’s blinking them urgently. Trying to clear his vision, trying to clear his damn mind. “Yer sucking me up s-so much I can barely even move-”

Experimentally, he’s reeling backwards and watching as your maw sags further open. Your pretty gaze turning all cross-eyed and misty, “Oh please- ngh i-it feels so good, Toji.”

He didn’t even have to try. 

Simply massaging your gummy walls with the winding curves of his veins, they’re so damn thick that you can feel him scraping just below your g-spot. Filling out every tiny crevice and nook inside of you with his meaty cock. 

“Oh yeah? T-tight little thing ya are. Sooo fucking tight, mama.” Sinking the sharp points of his canines into his lower lip, Toji’s forced to cling into your hips with one hand in order to sensually ease himself in and out. 

Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing greedily, “O-oooone…” He’s babbling out, teasingly letting the plump ridge of his cockhead snag against your quivering hole. “Two- three…” Whilst you whimper, he’s hiking up one of his muscular legs to angle himself deeper - counting each inch he rummages inside you. “Four- and what’s that?”

“F-five!”

In and out - even the tiniest movements left you seeing stars already. “Seven-” The rounded cap of his mushroomy tip scouring your cunt open like a searchlight, all it takes is the cutest lil’ smooch near your g-spot to make you clench.

“There–!” You’re keening, fingers digging into the softness of your pillows as you gyrate your hips back primally. “So close- ngh- so close there, Toji.”

“E-eight- oh.” It feels so good that he’s losing count. Stuttering and heaving.

Your head’s so heavy and fuzzy whilst being pounded that you can barely even lift it up. Whimpering, it’s just about all you can do to gently swerve your hips downwards until you’re hitting Toji’s tensed core with a spank of your ass. 

Feeling so entirely full that your knees are buckling-

“No-” Just the slightest few centimeters forwards until Toji’s grip on your hips turns bruising, draaaagging you all the way back the distance you’d been driven forward. And more. “Nonono come back.”

Toji’s scratching the very globes of your ass cheeks with his dark happy trail, now damn near bottomed out and yet - it still wasn’t enough. He needed more more more- and he’s ready to plant one of his firm feet straight on top of your sweaty scalp to get you to hold still. 

Seething, saliva-glossed lips pulling back into a snarl– “E-easy there, doll. Yer pussy’s so damn filthy s’driving me craaaazy.” And you could tell, his sloppy cadence was ramming into you even faster, probin’ the button of your g-spot with his slimy tip. “Just a little more a- a little more n’ let me pull out.”

The tight press of his balls aching when you only squeeze around his length tighter, he’s melting on top of you.

Grunting, “Doll-” Bulging his swabbing girth, and you’re tightening so firmly that your trembly legs push together. “-m’serious.” Before he seriously loses whatever’s left of his sanity, that is.

So big that he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to, body refusing to - your bawling pussy too heavenly.

Tighter. 

Tighter until his hoarse pleads stick clammily to your skin, “Let me pull out, mama–” The slightly broken crackle of his deep baritone was barely audible over the repeated squelch of his mazing cock. And oh- you’d made Toji’s voice break. “Let me pull out before I make a ngh- meeeess out of ya.”

Muffling something into the pillows-

He has to manually roam his foot off of your poor head, and you’re bolting up with a wettened pwah! of intaken breath. A puddle of saliva smearing down your lower face, “Want it inside, Tooooji.”

“I-inside?”

And before you know it, you’re being manhandled into a tough headlock by one of his swole arms, the muscles of Toji’s biceps dig into your neck, your throat, your pulse. 

“Tell that to my hah- face-” Grouchy gusts of words strike your features, and you’re mewling as you feel his honed teeth gnaw on your sensitive ear lobe. This angle just perfect for him to smack sultry half-thrusts that make you dizzy.

Babbling, “Want- want it.” Keeping your body hostage even tighter.

Almost as if he was begging you to say otherwise, he’s giving you a taste of your own medicine and it makes your mouth flood with humid drool. Slobbering a slick sheen down the side of his vein-covered forearm, “Please, Toji…don’t pull out.”

“Don’t p-pull out.” Comes his echoing repetition, breathless. Shocked, gone at the very notion that he’s falling back on his knees ever-so-slightly - still unstopping with his cadence. In fact, going even harder. “I-if we make Megs a big brother then s’y-your fault- fuck!”

And Toji knew he was playing dangerously, he knew he could feel the feral twitch of his rock-hard length burying deeply against the door to your womb.

But what he didn’t know was that all it would take was that - the feeling of you getting even more lewdly wetter at the idea of him filling you up - for him to pump his hips in a vulgar stroke and cum. Heavy, hard. 

More than he has in his entire life, Toji’s cumming and cumming so much that he’s almost dazed at how much webbed, white syrup sloshes into your readily awaiting pussy. 

“Didn’t…pull out– oh, mama—” And it’s finally hitting him now, slithering down two of his knobbled fingers to toy open your saturated folds. Watching the mess triiiickle out, “Didn’t…pull out. S’really all inside.”

You’re whining, hazy pupils disappearing to the back of your head once he coats his fingerpads with a few sticky layers of cum n’ plugs it inside your mouth. Letting the salted caramel taste overtake your senses, “Don’t think you’re getting off easy now.”

And those words are abrupt - final.

“Wh-what?”

The questions rush to your larynx before he presses his fat, hefty cock further- “Gonna hafta let me feel her haaaa- alllll the time now-” Rutting, his sharp jaw droops pathetically open before he snaps it shut into a grin. “Gonna hafta let me fill her up. Hafta let me keep it-” Plop! He’s pushing a few dollops of dewy seed with his middle finger, “-inside now.”

Still painfully hard. 

“Finish what you started, mama.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Creampie cutiepie

“Haaaa– stay quiet, my love.” Nanami’s guttural plead scorches your ears, tugging back your restlessly squirming hips with a gentle pinch of your drenched panties.

Rubbin’ his thick fingers right down your dampened folds as he’s puuulling you further down the sleek office desk. Whispering urgently into your popped ears, “Don’t want them to hear- though, I wouldn’t mind…just don’t want them to ngh- hear the noises made by my favorite girls.”

And as if on cue, your needy pussy lets out a slurp of greedy wetness when Nanami drills his fattened cock into you sensually. 

Making your back arch off the frigid table surface at the feeling of his puffy veins tapping your sweetest spots, “K-Ken—” Struggling to wind your boneless legs around his toned waist, “A-are you jealous?”

“Shush, darlin’. And focus on- hah- me. Your husband.”

Not a denial. Nothing but the way he was sagging your plush, puckered pussylips open with his wide girth. With a rude pull on your flimsy underwear as leverage, he’s practically spanking you with his chiseled pelvis. 

Roughly, probin’ your cervix. 

But you knew better - your gentle, sensible husband wasn’t the type to suddenly pull you into his office and pound you right into his desk. All without a condom.

Not until he’d seen that all-new intern ogling you a little too closely, that is-

“Stop thinking.” The cold band of Nanami’s wedding ring sizzles against your cheek as he’s cradling your cute cheeks and squeezing. Mean. “Wan’ you only thinking about- hah- me. About…”

Trailing off- but he didn’t even need to finish his sentence.

He’s pumping all his swollen, aching inches into you like a madman. The sheer raw force of it mussing up his blond hair, curtaining his half-lidded gaze that told you he wanted to devour you right here. Wouldn’t even mind him knowing-

“Kn-knowing?” You’re blinking up in shock at what’d just departed from your husband’s slurring mouth, your entrance saturating a fresh new wave of arousal at the mere notion. 

“Oh, did I say that out loud, my love?” Was he serious? He couldn’t be- ah, but he was. So hazy with how it felt to finally be inside you raw, Nanami’s swabbing your drooling mouth open to suckle lightly on your tongue. Groaning, “Wouldn’t mind them allll knowing, actually-”

Now that he started, he couldn’t stop.

Tawny, tufted ends of his happy trail scratching your back. He’s bottomed-out and still pressing deeper, resting the chubby curve of his balls on your ass cheeks. Spanking- “Wouldn’t even mind them all seeing- because I’m one fucking this pretty pussy, my wife.”

Like he was proving it - to you, to himself, to your sloppy cunt. 

Every rugged whack of Nanami’s curved length makes your mouth froth with saliva. He was just so damn hard that each pulse of his reddened, bruising crown made your walls stretch even further. 

Again and again.

“Wouldn’t mind carrying you out like hck! this- my cum dripping down those pretty legs of yours…”

And then you’re clenching with your snug, velvety-feeling walls and he all but collapses on top of you. Shifting down with a grunt- Nanami’s sweat-slicked abs massaged your front, pearly whites sinking into your neck and marking. Holding himself back.

Choking out- guttural, as if it made him lose his very sanity to even ask, “You…like that, darling?

Nodding, “Y-yes.” Spearheading himself even deeper it felt like - or maybe he was just growing even bigger inside your cunt. Nanami’s hefty cock was so staggering that he’s bruising your sponged cervix with a round, circular stamp. “Please- oh, mmm Ken–”

“Say it- say it again.” Breaths striking out quicker, voice tilting until he sounded almost crazed. “Say you don’t want me to ngh- pull out.”

“I- I don’t want you to- fuck!”

Barely even able to speak with the way he’s fucking the words from your lungs, sounding as if he himself was barely keeping it together. “U-use your words, darling.” But how was that possible when Nanami’s rovering one of his hands to saddle your thighs on his broad shoulders. “Please- want to make sure you can take it all.”

Bending you in half like a lawn chair whilst your limbs dangle over his firm deltoids, he was ravenous.

Resting a capped knee up on the desk to give your sultry g-spot a loooong snog with his split-ended tip, you could feel the circlin’ of his sobbing orifice pushing inside. 

“Because d-don’t get me wrong- love when I cum here–” Letting go of your face with a steaming hot handprint, Nanami brushes your hardened nipples with the band of his cold wedding ring. “And…here-” Lovingly, on your stomach. “And here.” Down, down, down to your clit. “But…”

“But?”

Leaning in even closer, you could practically taste his sweet, sweet desperation for you. Like he was dreaming, “But I’ve hah! always wanted to make your pretty body remember the taste of my c-cum. Mine.”

Stuttering - he was stuttering, begging to not pull out. 

And how could you refuse?

“Ken—” You’re whining, eyes sliding backwards until they’re pure white- and Nanami Kento’s stern lips wobble oh-so-cutely once you’re tugging him in close with a hand around his gulping throat. “Don’t pull out.”

And he doesn’t- oh, he doesn’t.

“O-oh.”

Voice crackling. Those very words are more than enough to make the stoic man burn with a blush, the first time that he’s hearing those words - and he has no idea what to do other than bury his face between your jiggling tits and suck. Breathing, “I don’t…have to pull out.”

Hips thrusting so meanly between your legs that you’re fluttering important documents to the ground. Over and over and over— 

Harder. Sloppier. 

You’re realizing it before he does when he’s crashing the both of you into your highs with a slap of his cock into your slick g-spot. Skidding a line of precum straight down your walls and into your womb-

“O-oh, Kento- not gonna-” Head thrown back, toes curled, maw ajar with so many copious moans and lecherous noises. And yet you have nothing on the wet sounds pulled from your pussy, “Cum—ing–!”

“Yeah? Yeah? My pretty girl—” He’s murmuring breathlessly into your skin, cheek nuzzling where a neat little pool of drunken drool was starting to formulate. “I-I’m not gonna ngh! last either- oh.” Looking down, it’s only then that he’s catching the way your driveling cunt was already stuffed.

The way you’re struggling to hold in the thick, ribbony gushes of seed he’s spraying out. The way he didn’t even think - didn’t even register to pull out. 

“Inside…it’s really- really…pinch me-” Endeared by his request, you’re just about to when- ah, when your husband catches sight of your matching wedding ring. Molten eyes widening, “We’re married?”

Then when you nod- Half-lidded eyes struggling to stay open, “Was already…gonna propose…”

Just that pussydrunk, he can’t even decide where he wanted to watch you more. 

Your prettily fucked-out face, your glinting ring, or the way those gooey splotches of white were splashin’ around inside of you, slightly leaking outside as he moves to tug on your cute office skirt–

“How about we go outside and announce our baby shower in advance, my love?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - “Again?”

And Geto was being mean, Geto was being rude– spanking the quivering slope of your pussy whilst you clench and clench around his barreling, hot cock. Oh-so-lecherously pounding you through your nth high of the night-

“Awww, look- you’re cumming again.” He’s snickering from behind you, trapping you in a full nelson so tight that you could barely even squirm your hips back. Barely even breathe- “My gorgeous girl just can’t stop cumming, hmmm?”

You’re helplessly thrashing your legs, body aching for any kind of friction- before Geto’s inhuman reflexes work to curl underneath your thighs and pull. 

The curving veins of his forearms digging into your mounds of flesh, he’s snickering as you start whining into the heady air. “Seriously- look at this hah- mess.” The low, sultry tone of his voice curdling against the crook of your neck, Geto rovers the doughy soft tips of his fingers over the dollops of cum staining your front and smears. 

Drawing a few wet hearts on your tummy from all his own orgasm from rounds prior, “You look s-soooo fucking pretty like this. Almost makes me want to not pull out- oh-”

And Geto didn’t expect his ravaged cock to react like that. 

The tenderly leaking orifice on top of his crownhead twitching, he feels his teeth sink into his plush lower lip with a hiss. Sensitive pink slit rubbing up against the top of your slippery cunt in a way that made him want to cum right then and there. 

Inside. 

“I- fuck!” Geto doesn’t even know what to say, long inky hair falling like a curtain around you two. Panting. Heaving. The muscles of his deltoids ripple as he perks himself up on his elbows to look downwards. Did he seriously almost cum from the thought? “Fuck- what have you done to me, gorgeous?”

“D-didn’t do- ngh! anything…” You’re babbling out stupidly, the gummy channel of your cunt milking his veined cock. 

A slow trickle of drool drips down the side of your glossed lips, one that Geto smears away with a low ‘tch-’ Grunting gruffly, “Don’t even know what you fucking do t’me.”

Oh- oh.

He didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

But right now he was so hypnotized on your drooling pussy, just so drunk on the way your walls tenderized so softly. Gulping him up with greedy squelches that leave your teeth on edge, he was driving his hips up until he was heart-eyed. 

“Wh-what do you hngh! mean, Suguru–?” You’re humming, a smug smile plastering across your face as his words finally register. 

“What are you smiling all cockily about?” He’s seething from behind, pointed chin spraying with a few glittering droplets of spittle. Geto furrows his dark brows and snarls, “J-just because I said I didn’t wanna pull out- that I didn’t wanna cum a-anywhere but inside- hck! that I wanna fuck this pretty pussy forever—”

And he was so big- but his swirlin’, bulbous tip was only throbbing bigger with each word spilling from his mouth. Nuzzling right against your cute lil’ g-spot to slip and slide in mindless half-ruts. 

Warm tears of overstimulation well up in your eyes, “O-oh, right there- right there! Feels so good, Sugu-”

“Oh yeahhh- gonna squirt for me next?” 

“Only if you don’t pull out.”

Oh, fuck.

Just those words were enough for Geto to pound all his rummaging inches between your swollen folds, spine arching powerfully off of the creaking mattress for a good few seconds as he buries himself and holds it there. 

Words warbling with a slight chuckle, with a slight tinge of madness. “Y-you don’t really mean that-” He’s spitting, fighting to keep the dopey smile far, far away from his rosy lips. Jabbing his crowned mushroom tip, pressing. “-do you?”

And Geto didn’t even need to hear your response, he just needed to feel the way you were streaming out even more gushing waves of slick. Mewling, “N-not gonna last–”

“Nuh uh- not what I asked, gorgeous, need you to tell me-” He didn’t even know what he was babbling anymore, only that the way you were whining and the way you were grinding left his brain feeling overheated. “Want you to tell me- can I…really…inside?”

Voice hoarse, almost small like he didn’t even believe what he was asking.

And all Geto Suguru can do is roll one of his cum-topped digits to skid over your perked clit, swervin’ right on time with the pinpricks of his globed tip. Draaaagging his warm tongue over your throat, “Tell me-” He teases, reeling all the way out until his geysering orifice kissed your entrance, “-tell me.”

“Please-” You’re prattling away, and he’s hanging onto your every word as if he was still in disbelief. “-don’t pull out.”

And he doesn’t- he doesn’t, he doesn’t. 

He’s sinking his fat, pounding cock even deeper and still bucking until he bottoms out. Even after.

Once. Twice. Thrice- treating your poor g-spot like a dartboard until you’re bursting straight into your orgasm. Cunt bawling with a sparkling squirt- it left your head all stupidly white-hot to throw your head back and cum.

“Fuck- f-fuuuck– Sugu–” Your breath catches, heart racing once you’re feeling a splattered puddle of something wet on your shoulder. “Cumming- o-oh my god-”

Sluggishly turning your head around to find that oh- Geto was tearing up, his sensitively stinging length rubbing your sappy walls raw. The red, sheeny curve of his cockhead flinches- and Geto feels fit to burst. 

And he does - squirting, splurging out a few messy wads of translucent white. 

There’s so much of it that you’re feeling a few wettened wads splash all over your cervix, Geto’s cock pushing your pussy so wiiidely agape that your walls struggle to take up all of him. 

Panting- pushing his tensed abs into your back, higher and higher until the curve of his ballsack spanks your cunt. His sweatily flushed forehead falls onto your shoulder with a plop!

“Gorgeous…” Overstimulated, run raw. You were gulping out every droplet of cum he’s pumping out, and Geto thinks he must be in fucking heaven. Kiss-bitten lips wobbling, voice breathy - he was never going to be the same again. “M’never pulling out now.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - HEAT

“This- this heat.” Choso’s spitting, the trembly curves of his fingertips latching underneath your thighs to hoist you into the sloppiest mating press possible. Bending you pliably into angles you didn’t even know were possible- you swear the cheeks of your ass weren’t touching the bed anymore. “It makes me so…”

Whimpering, you’re watching with unsteady breaths as Choso lazily falters his pummeling pace. 

Letting his long, throbbing length slooow down, he’s making sure your hole can feel every carnal scratch of his zig-zagged veins, every pulse of his tip, every push. 

Your sweet, half-curse boyfriend’s cock was so big that every reel backwards of his slender hips left your entrance flooding with syrupy slick. Pushed out of you once he’s filling up every nook and cranny- 

Choso can’t help but swab his doughy fingerpads over that glittery gloss, lapping it into his mouth with a plop! “-thirsty, baby.”

“You’re so greedy, Cho.” You’re cooing out, wrapping your hands ‘round his neck and making him grunt. He was just too sexy whenever his cursed heat took over this time of year.

Fingers latching into his silken, brown hair, you’re using the lewd leverage to grind yourself down on his scouring cock. The dual spanks of skin-on-skin making Choso’s face droop into your neck and breeeeathe in that scent of you.

Slobbering with droplets of saliva, “N-ngh- I know, baby–” He’s whining, huffin’ and puffin’ in your saturated clouds of pheromones - he couldn’t get enough. “Can you p-please move your hips a little slower? S’gonna make me cum…”

“Awww, poor baby—” 

“Don’t tease.” Nose crinkling, playfully caressing the splotchy area of your g-spot with a few more probing pushes, it’s like Choso was trying to make you just as drunken as he was. 

But every thrust, every ram, every smooch into your deepest depths only made him more hypnotized. Push after push after push- he’s gnawing down on his cute pink cheeks to try and stop those wailing whimpers from leaving him. 

Planting your feet flatly on the damp mattress, you can’t help but perk your hips and maze the bulging roundness of his mushroomed tip across your cervix. “Mmm– ngh, what’s that, baby?”

“No- n-nooooo, don’t do that- don’t look at me like that or m’gonna cum.” He’s squeezing his mahogany eyes shut, long lashes glinting with a polish of tears. Clamoring his v-line to glissade down your teary slit, “M’gonna cum m’gonna cum-”

And Choso’s just about to pull out his weeping shaft, he’s just about to let off the most pained grunt before he’s pouring out a steaming hot mess of seed all over your tummy- before–

“S’that sooo–?” 

Without warning, without anything, you’re interlocking your ankles in a circle around his pretty waist. The flesh of your heels digging in deep against the dimples at the bottom of his spine, deeper. 

“N-ngh- let me- pull out-” Choso whines, eyes frantic. Teeth snarling- his canines simply drip with mouth-watered saliva, “Pull out pull out– otherwise m’gonna make a mess of this pussy.”

You’re flinching once his thumb comes hovering back down on your sloppily lustrous pussylips, painting his digits in all the sap leaking from your entrance. Heaps of it. 

Choso darts his half-lidded eyes away from your intense gaze and blushes such a bright, scorching red from the tips of his ears. “If I cover her in my cum I- hck! won’t be able to see her.” Another of his stray hands clawing onto your leg tight, his pace was hard. 

Rough. More curse than man- every thrust of his powerful hips left you darting further up the mattress. And Choso with his urgent bucks followed- never letting you get away. “Can’t hold it in, baby—”

“Well what if I hngh- want it inside, Cho?”

His handsome jaw drops, he gapes- body moving before his mind as he shoves you down even deeper into this mating press, until your hamstrings were burning. Swollen lips moving up and down stupidly - soundless. 

“Awww, do you want that too, baby?” 

Yes- yes. 

Stray strands of chestnut brown dangle to and fro once Choso can only nod fervently. Feverishly. And the only thing more out of control than him was his rummaging thrusts, leaving a firm thwack! on the door to your womb that just left you wanting more. 

“She’s just so soooft n’ warm it makes me wanna make her- drool–” Drooling himself down the ends of his dopey grin, and it wasn’t just the heat talking. “Wanna make her a mama- s-so you better let me pull…unless…” 

Swerving his hips into you even deeper, your ankles yank him until the ridges of his abs were bumping down your front. 

“O-oh my god- ngh- baby–” He’s battering mindlessly, pre spilling out of him like a broken hose.

And you swear you see him slip out a few beaded tears at the raw tightness of your cunt. Jackhammering against the snug resistance of your hole-

Until you could feel his thighs shivering, until you were keening at the bulbous, utter fatness of Choso’s base. 

“Y-you…” He croaks out, making you blink your heady eyes open in question.

Only to find Choso Kamo gaping down below. 

“Baby…you just took my knot.” 

Oh. 

And it’s the last thing said before Choso lets his head fall back with a strangled jumble of your name. Over and over like a mantra while he cums–

“S-so this is what it feels like.” Looking genuinely dazed, eyes all glassy. “This- th-this? S’this even ngh! allowed? S’too good- m’filling you up. M’filling you up and it feels too good.”

“Fuck- fuck– m’so full, Cho.”

He’s shivering viscerally with your every squeeze, trying to claw down your legs. Nibbling on your throat, “You’re letting me cum- really? Really, really letting me cum just this once?” Watery eyes of his staring dead-on into yours, he’s letting his mouth drop into an oh! with every one of your nods. “R-really? But that means m’gonna cum inside you ngh- so fucking muuuch.”

“I-I know—” Body limp with the sheer pressure he was putting on you, scraping the ballooned-up curve of his crownhead down your mushy innards. 

Your eyes roll back with a mewl just as soon as the splash of his ropey seed hits the bottom of your cervix, gluey wads of its sticking to your walls and making Choso shudder at the filthy second skin of it inside you. 

“G-gonna pump you allll full-” Snarling, fighting against the way that the fat knot positioned on the base of his cock meant that he couldn’t properly fuck you into the bedsprings just the way he wanted to. Snagging on the tight hole of your cunt and gyrating to stir your goopy insides, “-fuck- fuck I can’t stand leaving this cute hole a-all lonely. Wanna fuck you properly soooo bad—”

You’re whimpering once one of Choso’s ringed fingers comes rovering down to squeeze his fattened hilt and swear. 

Vision flashing white, blood manipulation seeping out, you can feel his barreling shaft harden-

He’s not even done with you before he’s preparing for more, “Knots o-only last haaaa– half an hour.” Before nudging your sultry folds apart to watch you drool. The hooded peripherals of his gaze locked onto where he’s pushing a knobbled thumb inside– “Until then…”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - You vs. Two

“Easy there- easy, brat.” Two of Sukuna’s big, beefy arms come curling around the small of your back, easily sprawling you out across his chiseled pecs with a simple tug. “Gonna fuck yourself stupid. Although-”

You’re whimpering, the only thing that you can manage to do right now while he’s manhandling you on top of his dual, throbbing cocks.

Clawing down a third of his palms on top of your sweat-matted crown to push you down his barreling lengths like some doll. It’s just so cute the way you’re shrilling yourself hoarse once he’s swirling your tight insides with both thick, globular tips. 

Snickering, “-ya already are pretty fuckin’ dumb on my ngh– cocks, huh?”

Brows furrowing, you’re flapping your spit-glued lips a few times to slur out a coherent response. “F-fuck you–”

“Nooo, little human.” And the smile the King gives you is dangerous, both sets of his devilish lips quirking up into something sleazy. Sukuna slouches further backwards against the headboard and bounces his tattooed knees. Just once. 

Just once to render you speechless on his plump lengths. So swollen that the tiniest rut leaves you arching your back and drooling– “I’m fucking you–”

“P-please-”

“Now now–” The pointed claws of his black fingernails scrape gently down your exposed throat, “Can ya feel me all the way up in that hah! pretty throat, huh?” Just probing your g-spot, once. Twice. Repeatedly. “Every vein? Every inch– heh, how about every drop?”

And you’re so far gone with just a few of his vulgar whacks to your sweetest, most tender spots.

Your heavy head is already starting to feel dizzy- so cockdrunk after every bullying ram that by this point Sukuna’s the one that’s moving you to meet his roughened tempo. 

One clammy hand gripping either side of your restless hips, you ogle the sheer natural bulge of his biceps as he manhandles you. Draaaagging your dripping wet cunt all the way from the strawberry orifices of his tip n’ dooown to hug his twin bases. 

Nestled cutely on the curve of his fattened balls, “I-I wan’ it, Kuna–”

“Want what?”

Lips wobbly once he knocks into your g-spot harder. He’s fucking you so thoroughly that you almost feel shy mumbling, “Want you to- mmm– not pull out.”

Oh. 

His rude lips drop - both sets of them. Hips rutting, girths bulging to stretch your walls even further apart, the edges of his candyfloss hair beading with a lather of sweat. With only a few words you’d all but ruined him and fuck-

“What did you say?”

Sukuna wasn’t taking this lightly- no. 

He’s promptly spanking the fourth n’ final of his hands across the lower half of your face, atoms in the air pressurizing with cursed energy when he manifests that infamous second mouth right across his palm to kiss you.

Sukuna watches you with a dazed glint in his crimson eyes as he thrusts. As he punishes your sopping wet pussy with his rummaging cocks, “Oooo- you need ta wash that mouth out, brat.” The slimy edge of his tongue slithers between your lips and makes you mewl- “What have I said about talking out of that ngh! pussy, hm?”

“But– mmpf–!”

“You better talk to me from this pair of lips, human.”

Knees weak with the sheerly raw points of stimulation everywhere, it takes you a few more gyratin’ bounces to gather your thoughts. 

Maw ajar and stinging once he finally pulls his cursed mouth back with a claggy pwah! “B-but I want you to, Kuna.”

And shit- the minute those words register in his pussydrunken mind, the ancient lights of his chamber flicker. Some burst- 

“F-fuck.” You’d made the King of Curses’ gruff baritone break, “Yer fucking serious about cumming…inside?”

“Yes- please.” You’re nodding, watching through your own hazy eyes as his mouth parts lewdly. “Not gonna l-last–!”

Sweltering breaths heaving, cocks fattening up until each nudging length was almost too much for your tight pussy to handle. 

Lightning bolts of his veins bashing against your sides, he’s bumpin’ into his own pounding lengths and shivering. Two arms snaking up and down your arched spine, “Tch- d-don’t think m’this affected because of- of that. S’just so fucking tight I can barely even move.” 

And it was true- he’s so big with both his twin, rock-hard cocks that Sukuna could only half-thrust into your gaping entrance at his point. The globular curves of his tips pushin’ into you so desperately that you could practically taste his neediness. 

But you could see the way that the sharp edges of his ears painted a feverish red, tattooed inner-thighs glazing with so much of his syrupy, buttery precum.

Your jaw drops as you take in the sheer volume making you slip n’ slide into his battering rams, “Want it- want it, Kuna- ins-”

“Don’t.” Canines gnawing onto the plush edge of his bottom lip, one of his palms creeping up again to leave your babbling mouth slurping with kisses. He was ruined, bit by bit. 

And he’s pumping his full, rounded crowns into your g-spot again. “Cum f’me instead, b-brat.” Making sure you won’t be remembering that little stutter with the way he was making your vision flash with pleasure. “Shut up and cum.”

When you did it was with Sukuna biting back a moan himself, guiding the mushy ends of his tips to swerve into your cervix once more. Your womb. Everywhere. 

“Can’t pull out, huh?” He repeats to himself, almost breathless with a snicker. “Take it then- take it-”

It was bucketloads, absolute torrents of milky white that were flooding your tight channel. Sukuna wasn’t just covering your velvety cunt with all his seed, he was drenching you in it until it overspilled. Loaded up wads webbing down each of his lengths, soaking his pinkish happy trail completely.

So much of it that you can feel splosh around in your throat, that thickly cloying texture tasted on your tongue. “Th-there’s so much, Kuna–”

“Awww, c’mon girl. You can take- every- drop-” Punctuated with a rugged thrust that sent your spongy cervix bruising, the slightly-circular motions of his toned pelvis makes warm sap smear across spots you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck! Look at you- movin’ those ngh- hips like you’re swallowing it all up. Been greedy for it?”

Reaching your limp hands up to cradle his neck and hold on for dear life, Sukuna flinches at the splat! of cum that slips out of you and hits his v-line. “Can feel you mmm- filling me all inside, Kuna–”

“Oh…now that’s fun.”

Rapidly- urgently manifesting his second mouth to slash across his abs, “Looks so much better droolin’ from your cunt like this- n’not anywhere else, brat.” Monstrously tonguing the glutinous puddle formulating underneath you n’ your slick, “Look at it mixin’ all together-” 

You’re sobbing out every time he slides the flattened edge of his tongue between your legs. Teasingly sliiiiding back and forth, “Tch- wish I had a third mouth.”

“For what?” As if you already didn’t know.

He was just hypnotized by what he saw below, only grinning- squeeeelch! goes the motion of his softened tastebuds slipping inside your hole. Fuck. “Itadakimasu”

♡ INO TAKUMA - Till it breaks?!

“Oh.” Comes out Ino’s dampened gasp, the soft puff of air scalding where his toned arms held you into a cute full nelson. 

And your spine arches back into the way his washboard abs tense, into the way his broad chest heaves your boneless body up n’ down. Right in the very same angle that he first felt that heavenly taste of your slick, raw pussy walls. “O-oh.”

Startling your burning skin with a wet splatter! of drool from his ruby red lips, “I think the hah! condom broke, pretty.” Motioning to drag his sloppy length back, Ino bites back a sensitive hiss at the saccharine squeeeelch. “Lemme just-”

And then he does it again- that same little, addicted brush of the splotch where that flimsy rubber was torn. Right on top of where your sweet boyfriend’s flared mushroom tip was so big that he’d shattered the condom open, driving up a tentative dig into the bottom of your pussy.

You’re feeling your mouth drop into a softly panted oh! “T-Taku–?”

“Yes- yes!” Snapping right back into reality, Ino’s pressing the doughy fringes of his fingertips into your thighs to manhandle your hips. Almost as if he couldn’t bring himself to move. 

“I should just-” Massaging and massaging the hot, reddened curve of his cockhead past your walls- it really doesn’t help that your sweet, sweet insides just kept on sucking him back up each time he’s carnally scraping his length down. Trying to pull out. “I reeeeeally should…”

Ah, he was so cute with his rosy lips wobbling in concentration. Chestnut brows furrowed whilst he tried to will himself to try and reel back from your dripping wet pussy. 

You find yourself tittering, craning your neck to plant an innocent peck near the corner of his mouth. “You can just not pull out, baby-”

“B-but if I don’t pull out how will I- oh.” 

You’re ogling at the exact moment it hits him.

When Ino’s molten eyes widen, his tawny lashes fluttering ever-so-slightly, the prettiest pink flush scorching all over the apples of his cheeks. And his cock- oh, his cock practically ravages your gooey innards with a throbbing jolt. 

Mouth gaping open silently a few times before he’s finally, finally finding his voice. “Can I? I shouldn’t- I really sh-shouldn’t, sweetness-” And your heart almost pangs in disappointment when he’s pulling out of your dewy entrance with the loudest sluuuurp-

-only to toss away the useless remnants of that rubber and slam back in.

“B-but you just feel sh-shoooo good—!”

“Hck- oh!” Whines clog up in your throat once Ino’s pinning you to him with a strong forearm, the slippery glide of his length making sure you feel every patterned vein imprinted into your walls. 

Ino swirls his cockhead in an experiment heart all over your cervix and gasps at the utter wetness that greets him. “H-how m’I even supposed to compete?” Comes out his pained whine, followed almost immediately by the thwack! of his rounded balls striking your treacly cunt. 

Making him snap his head down- loud. Fuck- you were so much louder when he didn’t have a condom on. Squelch after squelch resounding like music in his ears every time he slams upwards. Scolding, “D-don’t talk back to me.”

“Taku, baby, are you okay–”

“That goes for ngh! you, too, pretty- do I look okay?” Hooded lids widened, his usual baritone was botched with cracks. Octaves higher. “R-raw? Seriously? S’fuckin’ unfair- who said you can feel this good- soooo fuh-fucking good.”

And you’ve never seen your gentle boyfriend like this before. 

Never seen him so mindlessly rutting with his cadence, never seen him so feral every time he’s pummeling his hips into the mounds of your ass. 

Bruising his thighs against yours, his ballsack against your entrance. Ino was balls-deep and still trying to rover his bawling orifice further across your plush cunt. 

So harshly that you’re bowing your back and clamoring behind you to hold onto the headboard-

“Don’t run from me when you’ve been ngh! holding out-” Ino spits in a seething tone from behind, free palm gripping your wrists like adhesive. He tugs them down and hold you right at his complete n’ utter mercy, unmoving. “You’ve been holding out- th-this? Felt like this n’ you’ve been holding out, sweetness?”

“Fuck–!” Your spine aches with the white-hot ruts he’s bucking into you, the pointed globe of his shaft stirring your insides in a way that made you jostle with each swerve, too. “Mmm– right there, baby.”

And once he’s finding your g-spot he’s never leaving it alone. 

Spraying out a thick battering of warm pre all over that particular bundle of nerves before he jerks his hips and bruises it. Making you throw your head back and clench–

“D-don’t!” Ino gasps, watery eyes drooping with the sheer heat inside your soppy pussy. He felt like he was just melting into you, abs almost melding into your back with each skim. “Makes me go crazy- m-makes me wanna haaaah- cum…inside.”

The very moment he admits this, you coo. Partially shifting your body around to take in his scorching blush, the way that Ino tries to hide away behind his unruly bangs. 

You curl your fingers around one soft lock and pull- making him whine. “When I say don’t ngh- pull out- I mean don’t pull out, Taku–” 

And that was it- that did it. 

In all of two flutters of your lashes, Ino’s snapping. 

All those long, hard years of training letting him trek his powerful forearms underneath your thighs and haul you all the way in half. The caps of your knees hitting your tits, his cock hitting the bottom of your pussy.

“Then…get ready.” 

Crazed, babbling. It’s all the warning you’re getting before Ino froths out generous helpings of creamy white cum. The thickened dollops settling near your womb and sprinkling to and fro once he’s pumping it even deeper. 

You’re whimpering, body jolting at the low hum of reverse cursed energy that seeps from Ino’s fingerpads. Without him even realizing. 

“Taku– o-oh my god you’re ngh- cumming so much.”

More than usual - so much more than usual. 

Ino’s wild tempo meant that your poor entrance was gaping with all the leaky knots of his seed, milking and milking every single ounce out of himself. 

“Oh my god- you squeeze me even tighter when I cum inside, pretty- s-so I just have to…” Until his balls ached with nothing. The strawberry divot homed at the end of his length sputtering out once- twice- before Ino had wrung himself to cum dry. “Shit- don’t know if I can c-cum anymore. But I want to- I need to.”

“Nghhh– fuck!”

Every slurp! that echoed from your overspilling pussy whenever his cum leaked was speaking to him. And Ino was nodding– oh, what a monster you’ve created. 

Lightly groaning as he finally pulls out with a filthy drag, it takes him all of two seconds to flip your buzzing body over and give you a pussydrunken grin. Raw n’ ravaged. “R-ride me dry, pretty?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - “J-just the tip.”

It’s about the fifth time Gojo’s breathily repeating that mantra - maybe even the fiftieth since he’d promised he could handle fucking you without a condom— with just the tip. 

And your boyfriend’s deepened voice cracks numerous octaves higher every time he’s pinpointing your insides with the red, bulging tip of his cock. That rounded crown swirlin’ a sultry smooch right into the spots that make you cutely keen–

“T-Toru! Ngh- oh my god, you’re in so-”

“-deeeep, yeah?” He’s snickering from behind, clouded pants leaving the back of your neck humid. And your overworked bedsprings creak! once he’s sidling his shivering thighs from behind, jostling you up with each meaty limb. “S’alright, my girl. You can take it- you will. S’just the…”

And he can’t even hold his train of thought- can’t do anything but let the tender grooves of his veins tickle your pussy. Rubbing sweetly up n’ down across your walls, deeper. Harder. 

“-tip.”

Teary eyes damn near bulging out of your head, “F-fuuuuck!”

So hard that you’re being driven further up the bed by his sharp hipbones - but he doesn’t let you move a millimeter. Immediately curling the right set of his long, pale fingers around your throat and draaaagging you backwards. 

“J-just the tip.” Gojo’s gurgling - babbling. Syllables coming out just as unsteadily as he’s mindlessly rutting with his swollen, veiny cock. You’re so cute taking everything he gives that he can’t help but chuckle. “See? See?” Eyes wide, tone hoarse. “You’re gonna- hah! take it like my good girl. Take my fat fuckin’ tip until I pull out, m’kay?”

Splat! Splat! Splat! You’re so dazed that the only thing reeling you out of your cockdrunken little reverie is the spray of treacly saliva that leaks from between his clenched teeth. 

He’s slobbering. 

Your lips flap stupidly, sparkly beads of spittle decorating your own chin as you’re whirling your head over your shoulder. “H-huh? Oh.”

Oh, Gojo Satoru doesn’t look like he heard you. 

He didn’t even look like he was breathing. 

Half-lidded eyes oh-so-murky that it’s a goddamn miracle they’re even shifting downwards to stare at your puffy, puckered folds. Huffing out a little ‘oh’, Gojo’s slouching his toned bodyweight on top of yours n’ cradling you into a filthy, filthy French kiss as he pounds you silly.

“Just the tip-” And it’s a good thing he’s smearing his syrupy mouth over yours - because one particularly harsh ram leaves you screaming. Drinking in each of your pretty noises into his breathy mouth. “Shhh sh sh, s’alright s’alright. Don’t run.” You didn’t even realize that you were fisting the silky coverings of your pillowcase and attempting to crawl away until he clings tighter ‘round your throat, hauling you back down. “S’just the tip- just the- ngh-”

And usually - usually - you would’ve given him a piece of your mind. 

Because it wasn’t just the tip. Gojo was so big - so long, and you could feel almost every inch of his hot, throbbing girth. Pushing open your plush walls until he’s filling up every nook and cranny; way, way past the flared ridge of his cockhead to stretch and stretch and stretch you out on his shaft.

Hell, you could almost feel the plump curve of his ballsack lazily nudging your puffy pussylips. 

“Toru–!” Your lungs heave with the effort to raise your voice above a mewl, “This is more than the tip- hngh.”

“Wh-what do you…” Fat dollops of sweat beading down his temple, it takes him everything - every last shred of his sanity to finally look. To finally get his fuzzily sparking brain to realize- “…oh”

And you don’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t for Gojo to plant yet another experimental whack to the bottom of your cervix. Letting your hips jitter underneath his palms, he’s groping a handful of your ass. 

“Then…” You can only watch once he breaks away to tilt his head cutely, cherry-pink maw sagging as if he was hypnotized. “-halfway, sweetheart?” 

Swervin’ straight into your g-spot with three spanks each second, he’s tunneling you open with such lecherous sluuurps. “Mhm, hngh- oh, halfway and-” Hissing, Gojo’s long, angelic lashes flutter once he’s feeling his aching balls squeeze. Close. “-and then I’ll pull out, okay?”

“But you’re shoooo—” It was music to his ears watching you stumble over your syllables with your adorable voice, and it only made him go harder. 

“S-s-sooo mean, huh?” Mocking you, “But I hafta- can let myself go o-only halfway or I…won’t be able to pull out.” If he was in any better state of mind, he’d rather have died than confess to anything so pathetically drunk on your pussy. Laughing- “Just imagine, if I didn’t pull out…h-heh, imagine.”

Oh, that was a dangerous line of thought. 

He’s never done that before. Anything more of that and he’s going to drive himself crazy already, feeling goosebumps raise on the back of his flushed neck as your cute, sappy insides clench.

Milking his prolonged length all the way from his fattened tip to the plump, split-ended circle of his tip. Still murmuring, “How cute- Imagine if I didn’t- pull- out-”

Deeper- he doesn’t even register it. Again and again until both you and the bed frame sing. Harder- he’s still thinking about what he said. 

You’re almost sobbing once those tufts of ivory white at the base of his cock massage your skin raw, bullying you into the mattress with just his prominent v-line. You moan, “I-it’s more than- hck! halfway in, Satoru–!”

“Oh.” Gojo heaves, Gojo snickers. “F-fine. You win.”

And you didn’t even have the time to wonder what he meant by that before he tenses his abs and punishes your hole with a rugged slam. Animalistic. 

“Y-you win- you win you win you- ngh- win-” He’s spitting through gritted teeth, so harshly that the strongest tastes pure metal on his sizzling tongue. “You win n’ this is what’cha gonna get.” Filling up with saccharine trickles of saliva, he scrunches his chin and now fully - mercilessly - gives you a solid few thrusts. 

Gripping on tight to your left ass cheek with one hand, every hold he has on you is pulling you back after every recoil. A bubble of high-pitched laughter departs from his lips as soon as he watches himself siiink all the way in. Over. And over. And over again. 

Groaning, “Can’t take it anymore- can’t- fuck!” He can’t even bear the thought of pulling out anymore-

“C-can’t pull out?” You’re whispering, eyes widening as soon as Gojo gasps, hit with the realization that he was rambling his thoughts out loud without even realizing. Just that pussydrunk.

“N-no.” Comes out the confessional response, brows furrowing as he’s reaching below to give your neglected clit a sweet, buzzing pinch. “You win, just don’t make me ngh…pull out. Please, sweetheart?”

You made the powerful, cocky strongest beg. 

And as he says this he can feel himself cumming - can feel his cursed energy flare out of control. Bolts of tiny blue lightning straying from the edges of his peripherals, oh-so-thoroughly locked down on you and your sloppily thrusting cadence. 

No- he was muuuch more focused on the way that he could see with his Six Eyes. Murked walls of your sopping pussy covering with layers of syrupy white cum as he counts underneath his breath, ‘one…two…’ 

Digging the clean-cut crescents of his nails into the side of your pulsating neck, harder. Sloppier. ‘…three.’

Exactly in time to watch you fall apart as your orgasm hits you like a damn freight train. 

“Fuck- fuh-fuuuuck! Toru m’cumming m’cumming.” So pretty letting your thighs twitch with the white-hot pleasure, your toes curl in pleasure as you position your hips to let his steaming crownhead plunge. 

Bottomed-out and still aching to go deeper.

Barrelling in a rummaging tempo so sinful that thick droplets of sap ooze out of you, sticky n’ pure white. It makes Gojo’s breath hitch to watch the slicked mess pouring from your stuffed hole, glazed shaft so blissfully reeling back- only to not pull out. “I…inside.”

“Y-yeah ngh-” You’re humming with delight at the cobwebs of cum his girth mixes like frosting, so warm and heavy inside of you. “A-all inside, Satoru.”

So far delayed - his melty brain stalls just a few more pumping shudders before he can even think of opening his mouth again. “Did you take the pill, sweetheart?”

“…no.”

And Gojo Satoru can only smile and oh- oh, the look in his eyes made you jolt right to your very core. You weren’t getting off easy. Or walking. “Good.”

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[nighttimealone]

Cw: Nsfw (consent somno)

Sleeping with Simon means you might wake up from the tingling yet comfortable feeling coming from your breast, still disoriented from the slumber, letting out a sleepy whimper as the pleasure keeps coursing through your spine like tiny lightnings.

“Morning.” Simon doesn’t even detach his lips from your nipples as he greets you, lapping lazily and rolling the little peaks with his hot tongue.

“Simon…” Your fingers card through his locks to encourage him, he’s always extra horny in the early morning, but the eagerness in his movements is more evident now than the other days, practically burying his face in your breasts. “What got you so worked up today?” you ask him between the moans caused by his antics, his intentional sucking on one of your sensitive buds makes you unable to hold back a whiny cry of bliss.

“Wake up and see you sleeping in my arms, safe and sound…” Simon huffs out a laugh when he gives your nipples a nip, eliciting a yelp on you “You wearing my shirt, leaning against my chest, just the right angle for me to peek in the collar and see those cute nipples of yours…”

“It’s not my fault, you told me to wear one of your shirts last night.” Your pouty facade can’t be kept on for long, not when he finishes taking good care of your now fully hardened nipples, peppering kisses on his way downwards, as if memorizing your body and claiming his territory again with those pink love bites.

“And you’re the one who chose the thinnest and loosest shirt, ain’t you?” Taking your clothed clit between his lips, he smirks as he dart out his tongue, pressing down forcefully at your core and toying it skillfully, so you’ll throw your head back on the pillow and grind your needy pussy against his lips, begging for more with those sugar-coated pleas. “Fuck, all greedy and soaked just from me worshipping your tits, sweetheart? Who’s the eager one now, eh?”

“Just…Just pull down the panties already, god…” Not enough, your mind screams for more, yearns for his lips directly touching your wet folds.

“Bossy.” He chastises you, like you’re an impatient girl craving for candies, but he won’t deny you—or deny himself, from tasting what he’s been wanting since he woke up this morning.

Pulling down your panties and let it pull around your ankles, not even sparing time to take it off properly, he dives back between your thighs, wet tongue gliding through your core, drinking down those nectar as you reach out and push his face down further, the crook of his nose nudging your clit so good that you roll your hips to meet his consistent onslaught.

“Bloody hell, princess…smells so fucking good.” He groans, a low and half-growling one which only worsen your insatiable desires. Even when he lifts his head slightly to speak, his hands immediately move in, sliding two thick and long fingers into your dripping cunt, pumping and pressing the correct spots to make you scream out his name.

“Trying to wake the neighbors up with those cute moans, huh? ‘m not sure if they’ll feel grateful.” Thumbs spreading your pussy lips, he latches onto the now-exposed clit, bringing you another level of joy by sucking that twitching little thing.

“Simon! Si- oh, gonna…” You try to warn him before you get pushed over the edge abruptly, liquid gushing out and smearing his face, only for him to moan contently and make sure not to miss any drop.

“What a sight…” Straightening up and looking at the pool of mess staining the bedsheets, before his gaze travel to you face, eyes still blurry and cheeks tinted with rosy red, panting and quivering after squirting so hard for him, Simon smacks your pussy teasingly, earning another delectable whimper from you. “Squirting all over the sheets, will have to change it later.”

“Can’t go another round, baby…” You look down at him the moment his lips touch your puffy folds once again, big eyes meeting his dark ones with satisfaction and tiredness, but your protest is cut off by a soft smack on right on your trembling clit, and further words are replaced with moans when he ducks down to resume devouring his favorite meal, pressing a reassuring kiss to your pussy and croon. “Won’t stop until you squirt again for me, you can do it, love, and you will do it.”

[emmiesoverthemoon]

correct me, i dare you

pairing: bang chan x reader wc: 8k. summary: as chan's choreographer, he told you not to test him. now you’re all messed up in a studio chair, trying to remember your own name while he’s planning round two. tags: brat/brat tamer dynamic, porn with plot, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), tension. enjoy

It always began the same way.

With him being late.

You were halfway through your warm-up, music echoing low through the empty studio, when his reflection emerged in the mirror—hood up, the ghost of a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips. He moved with the casual arrogance of someone who had never once been told no. Someone who knew you would forgive the delay simply because he was good.

You did not turn to greet him. Did not acknowledge him. You continued to stretch, breathing steady and precise, though your skin buzzed with a treacherous awareness—an irritating, familiar hum that only he could summon. The kind that made you feel seen in a way that was almost unbearable.

Behind you, the studio door closed with a soft thud.

"You’re late, Chan," you said, gaze fixed forward.

"I’m worth waiting for," came his reply, smooth and infuriatingly self-assured. His voice, lower than usual, dragged across your spine like velvet laced with steel. You heard the dull thump of his bag hitting the floor. A moment later, he stepped into your space as if it belonged to him. “Unless you missed me.”

You finally turned, offering him the flattest look you could summon. "I missed the part where you follow the schedule."

"Schedules are tedious."

"And you’re exhausting."

He hummed, letting his eyes wander over you with the kind of unrepentant interest that made your blood simmer. His head tilted slightly, all charm and provocation. “Strange. You look wide awake to me.”

He came to a halt too close—deliberately close—and there was something maddening in the way he regarded you. Expectant. Like he was waiting for you to snap. To bite. To rise.

You did not dare give into him. Not yet.

Instead, you stepped forward, refusing to retreat. "Are you going to follow the routine today? Or must I play babysitter again?"

Chan’s smile curved, sharp and wolfish. “You can try.”

He moved past you with infuriating ease, brushing his shoulder against yours in a way that felt far too intentional. You swore he did it just to steal the air from your lungs.

And it worked. You exhaled through your nose, reached for the speaker, and pressed play.

As the beat rose and the session resumed, you already knew—this would be difficult. He would not merely follow the choreography. He would flirt with it. With you. With every boundary you had erected between what was permissible and what was not.

And worse still?

You were going to let him.

The first mistake was subtle—a  single beat too early. A downward roll of his shoulder when it should have lifted. Barely perceptible to anyone else—but not to you. You saw everything.

You cut the music.

The abrupt silence cracked through the air like a whip. He glanced up, one brow raised, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, breath steady despite the interruption.

"You’re early on that step," you said as you crossed the floor toward him, your tone calm, precise, with the faint edge of authority you had learned to wield like a shield.

"I’m in the pocket," he countered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You’re simply obsessed with clean lines."

"No, I’m obsessed with accuracy."

"Mm." He made a thoughtful sound, amused. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

You stopped in front of him. "Turn."

He obeyed—slowly, deliberately. As though he were indulging you. As though you had not earned his compliance.

You stepped into his space, eyes on his shoulders, fingers lifting to adjust the angle. The moment you touched him, everything shifted.

His muscles stilled beneath your hand. The air thickened. His breath caught, barely audible—but there. Real. Raw. You were too close. You could count the freckles scattered beneath his jaw, trace the curve of his smirk with your thumb if you dared.

"Like this," you said, your voice softening, almost in spite of yourself. Your fingers guided his arm upward. "Not down. It ruins the symmetry."

You anticipated a nod. Silence. Deference.

Instead, his gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted to meet yours. His lips parted, just enough to be dangerous.

"Are you always this hands-on with the others?" he asked, his voice low and curling.

Your fingers twitched. You pulled away like he had scorched you.

He turned to face you fully, his expression unchanged—confident, calculating, unreadable.

"Go on," he said. "Correct me again."

The words were a dare.

An invitation.

A spark held too close to dry kindling.

Your pulse quickened. Your mouth dried.

"Keep pushing me," you murmured, almost without thinking. "See what happens."

He stepped forward, gaze unwavering.

"I am."

You held his stare.

And for a moment—just a single, suspended second—he believed you would retreat. That you would fall into old patterns: step away, bite your tongue, pretend this was not a game you both played in heat and proximity.

But not this time.

This time, you lifted your chin, voice cool and unwavering. “Is it attention you want that badly, Chan? Fine. Let’s correct the entire routine.”

You stepped forward with deliberate poise.

His eyebrows rose—barely—but the subtle arch was all the proof you needed. A hairline fracture in that maddening self-assurance.

You reached for his wrist, adjusting it into the proper position—higher, tighter, until the tension rippled through his forearm. Satisfaction bloomed in your chest at the way his breath hitched, ever so slightly. Your other hand swept across the line of his back, palms pressing flat, coaxing his shoulders into symmetry with a precision born of practiced control.

“You’re slouching,” you murmured, your tone featherlight and biting.

“I’m relaxed,” he replied, tone casual, though his posture betrayed him.

“Wrong energy.”

You moved behind him, fingers barely skimming the plane of his spine as you traced a slow descent. He stiffened beneath your touch, every muscle drawn taut, as though your proximity alone threatened to unravel him. You paused at his hips, nudging them into alignment, the silence between you swelling with something unspeakably charged.

“You like giving orders, do you?” he muttered, the words caught between a breath and a challenge.

“Only when people fail to listen.”

His head turned slightly, gaze sliding to meet yours over his shoulder. His eyes had darkened, that lazy grin now replaced by something sharper. Edged. Curious.

“Is that why you keep touching me?”

You offered a smile—sweet, sharp, devastating.

“Would you prefer I simply tell you that you’re wrong?”

And then—purposefully—you let your hands fall from him, slow and final, the ghost of your touch lingering even as you stepped away.

“Your choice, Chan,” you said with a shrug, voice dripping with implication. “Keep testing me. I don't mind showing you exactly what you can’t get away with.”

The atmosphere shifted.

His breath caught.

That ever-present smirk faltered.

And for the first time since he arrived, he remained completely still.

Throughout the rest of practice, he listened.

Not perfectly. Not without that trademark insolence glinting in the curve of his mouth or the flick of his gaze. But he listened.

Because now, he knew what it cost not to.

Every cue you gave, he followed—sharp, fluid, intentional. Every correction you made, he absorbed without a word. You watched him from the corner of your eye, and it infuriated you just how good he looked when he was focused. How easily he slipped into that quiet dominance, body cutting through the choreography like he was born to lead.

And still—you felt it.

The shift.

With every pass, the space grew tighter, the air more fraught. Every glance he threw your way bore a weight it had not held before—no longer teasing, no longer smug.

Something else had taken its place.

Something coiled. Waiting.

At one point, you reached for your water bottle and caught him watching you through the mirror—openly, steadily, unflinching. He made no effort to look away.

You raised a brow.

He licked his lower lip—slow, subtle—and exhaled the softest laugh. The sound was quiet, but it struck you like a match dragged across dry kindling.

It lingered between you. That laugh. That look. That dare.

By the time the last beat dissolved into silence, your pulse thundered in your throat, your skin overheated—not from exertion, but from him. From the unbearable presence of him, the pressure that never eased.

You knelt to unplug the speaker, sweat cooling against your spine. You never heard his footsteps—only felt the warmth of his approach, the charged silence that always accompanied him when he drew too close.

His voice came low. Measured. Dangerous.

“You push harder when you are flustered.”

You rose slowly, subconsciously standing just a little too close for professionalism. “And you make more mistakes when you want attention.”

He smiled—barely. But it was different now. The mischief was muted. The darkness had settled in. He leaned even closer to your face, mere centimetres away by now.

The proximity sent your brain into haywire—was he about to kiss you?

Then, he broke the silence softly—almost like a secret—

“So what happens when we slip?”

Your breath caught.

He did not wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, towel slung over his shoulder, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his actions and the heat it carved into your chest.

You lasted four minutes.

Four long minutes of stretching, of pretending to cool down, of rationalizing your stillness in an empty room now thick with unsaid things. You told yourself you were being responsible. That this was routine.

You waited for him to return, to shut up your flustered little brain with his lips, like he threatened to do before he left. But, the doorway remained empty. So, you went after him.

The hallway outside was dim, lit only by vending machines and flickering overhead lights. You found him by some lockers, shirt clinging to his back, head bent as he scrolled through his phone like nothing had happened.

Your voice cut through the quiet.

“You always walk away like that?”

He looked up—slowly. No trace of surprise. Just a small flicker of something that told you he expected this. Maybe even wanted it.

“That a complaint?” he asked.

You gave a half-shrug. “Doesn’t feel like your style to run.”

He offered a lazy smile, but his eyes were sharp beneath it. “I wasn’t running.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There was a pause then. Something softer. And when he spoke again, it came quieter. “You followed me.”

The air changed again, heavier now, suspended in a silence that could shatter with one wrong word.

You took a step closer.

His eyes tracked the movement—first your mouth, then your hands, then back again.

“You keep starting things you don’t finish,” you said, your voice low.

He tilted his head, gaze steady. “And what exactly is it you want me to finish?”

You let the question settle for a breath. “Pick one.”

His jaw clenched—subtle but telling. You saw the moment something inside him shifted, his control fraying at the edges.

“You really want me to finish something?” His voice dropped, warmer now, tinged with restraint.

“I want you to stop pretending this isn’t real,” you said, barely more than a breath. “Whether you act on it or not, stop playing like it isn’t there.”

He stepped forward, closing the space between you. Still not touching. But the pressure of his presence was overwhelming.

“Then tell me,” he whispered. “Which one do you want?”

And God help you—you could not tell if he meant the choreography or the almost-kiss.

But either answer would be dangerous.

And either way, you were about to find out.

You said nothing. You had no need to.

Because something in him changed. His gaze dropped to your mouth—and stayed there. Your breath stuttered, heat washing over your skin.

He moved closer.

Not boldly. Not recklessly. Just—closer. Deliberate. His hand lifted, hovered near your jaw, fingers twitching as though asking permission he would not voice.

Your lips parted. Not in invitation. In instinct.

You did not lean in.

But your eyes flicked to his mouth—and that was all it took.

He leaned forward.

Just enough for your foreheads to brush.

Your breath mingled. His hand found your waist, not with confidence, but with care—uncertain, hesitant, like the moment might collapse beneath the weight of it.

You tilted your head, just enough for the moment to turn.

And then—

The door swung open.

Footsteps. A voice, casual and unaware: “Yo, Channie—manager’s looking for—oh. Uh..”

You broke apart as though scalded.

His hands dropped. You stumbled back. Blood roared in your ears, a deafening rush of shame and unspent want. Chan cleared his throat, turning away as if to hide what could not be hidden.

“Right,” he muttered. “Coming.”

The third voice mumbled an apology and disappeared.

And what followed was silence.

Not the charged kind. The kind that ruins everything.

Neither of you spoke at first. You didn’t even look at each other.

But as he reached for his bag, something passed between you—unspoken, trembling.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Me neither.”

A beat passed.

Then the faintest, wryest smile. “We’re such liars.”

You said nothing, you just watched him walk away for the second time.

But this time, the tension did not dissipate, it settled. Sank deep into your bones.

Waiting. Waiting for the next time. The inevitable. Not if.

When.

The next time you encountered him, it was in another studio. The mirrors were unfamiliar, the playlist unfamiliar still, yet the weight beneath your skin remained unchanged. A pressure that had not dulled, only shifted—waiting. You had arrived early, already moving through stretches when he stepped in. Earlier than usual. Deliberate, perhaps. His gaze found yours too quickly, and for the briefest of moments, both of you froze, suspended in the remnants of memory. The lockers. The breathless hush of almost. The air between mouths that had nearly touched.

But no words acknowledged it.

“Morning,” he offered with the kind of ease that could only be forced, lifting one arm to stretch overhead, voice deliberately light.

“You’re on time,” you replied, nonchalant.

“Trying to be good.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, measuring.

His smile curved, laced with implication. “For now.”

Electricity pulsed between you—not overt, not overwhelming, but coiled tightly beneath the surface, waiting for friction. You chose silence, turning toward the speaker as though the task of finding a track demanded all of your focus. In truth, your hands betrayed you, trembling faintly with the effort it took to maintain distance.

The music began. The session commenced. But the silence between the beats—between the counts—spoke louder than anything the speakers delivered.

Every motion you made was shaped by awareness. His presence carved itself into your periphery, every mirrored movement sending subtle tremors down your spine. When your rhythms aligned, when his shadow stretched too close behind you, it no longer felt like mere choreography. It felt deliberate. Intimate. Dangerous.

He slipped once, losing half a beat on a glide. Your eyes met his in the mirror, and the atmosphere shifted. That heat—undeniable and hungry—returned with a vengeance.

You were the one who looked away first this time, though only just. And yet, before the song had finished its final measure, you reached for the speaker—only to find him behind you once again. Not touching. Merely present. His breath a soft warmth against your neck, the scent of sweat and something inherently him clouding your thoughts.

“Still correcting me?” he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing the back of your mind like velvet dragged slow.

You did not turn. “Do you still require correction?”

There was a pause—barely a breath—before he answered, quieter still. “Perhaps.”

Then, as though his nearness had not unraveled the composure you fought to maintain, he turned away, towel in hand, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. He left you standing there, the ache blooming inside your chest like a bruise kissed too many times.

And this time—this time—you cursed him, because it had been you who wanted to close the space. You who ached to kiss him first.

It began with a glance. He was mid-step, face composed, body fluid—until your gaze found his in the mirror once again, and you gifted him a smile far too knowing, slow and sweet, laced with an innocence you did not possess. He faltered, missing his mark by a fraction of a second.

“Too early,” you noted smoothly, your tone silk and challenge in equal measure as you crossed the studio floor. “Again.”

He cleared his throat, gave a terse nod, and reset his posture. He did not meet your gaze this time. Did not dare.

The music restarted, but you no longer danced. Instead, you circled. A quiet predator draped in calm, arms crossed, watching him with all the patience of something waiting to strike. He held steady, but you saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched slightly each time your footsteps drifted too close behind him.

You waited.

You let the chorus build.

And then you moved.

When he turned, you were there—too close again, and yet not touching, until your hand rose with precision to adjust the angle of his posture. The movement echoed your earlier correction, but this time your fingers lingered. They traced the length of his forearm, slow and deliberate, pausing at his wrist before gliding upward again, your eyes never leaving his.

“Better,” you murmured, your breath teasing the edge of his skin. “I hadn’t expected you to be so obedient.”

His breath caught—a shallow hitch—and you watched the restraint tighten across his brow.

“You like it when I touch you, don’t you?”

He tried to laugh, but the sound caught, strangled by the atmosphere. “Don’t start something you won’t finish.”

You stepped in until your chest nearly brushed his, your gaze heavy-lidded, your voice a murmur blooming like smoke between you. “Who said I wouldn’t?”

His stare burned. His hands remained clenched at his sides, but his entire body trembled with the effort to remain still.

And then you touched his chest—once, lightly, a single mocking tap over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “Start again.”

He did not move immediately.

You saw the conflict in him, the tension that curled like a storm behind his eyes, the desire barely restrained. He waited. He wanted.

And in that hesitation, you knew you had won.

Because this time, he had no words.

This time, it was him left breathless.

You continued, unabated.

The lingering touches, the glances heavy with implication, the murmured suggestions veiled in choreographic critique—each one became more deliberate, more artfully placed. A calculated seduction cloaked in professionalism. And he? He accepted it all in stride. A faint smirk here, a deeper inhale there. But he never rose to the bait. Never stumbled. Never retaliated.

So you pressed further.

During a lull—water break, bodies gleaming with effort—you leaned casually against the far wall, the curve of your hip framed in sunlight spilling through the studio window. You sipped slowly from your bottle, letting the straw linger between your lips, tongue brushing it just so. A test.

He looked.

This time, he did not smile.

Instead, he walked toward you—unhurried, unflinching, and terrifyingly assured. Each step reverberated like a silent countdown. You straightened, half-formed wit on your tongue, some flirty retort meant to reestablish the upper hand—but you never spoke it. He reached you first.

One hand braced against the wall beside your head, grounding you in place with a subtle dominance that stole your breath. The other hand lifted, slow, deliberate, until his fingers curled beneath your chin. Gentle, yet inescapable, he tilted your face upward, commanding your gaze with nothing but touch.

His eyes were not cold—but they were unreadable. Deep and calm, like a still ocean hiding a storm just beneath the surface.

“You finished?” he asked, voice low and unshaken.

Your stomach dropped, heat coiling in its place. “What?” you whispered.

“Playing.”

You blinked, feigned confusion. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

His grip did not tighten, but it also did not relent. His thumb traced lightly along the line of your jaw, as though mapping it to memory—or warning.

“You’re charming when you tease,” he murmured, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips, though it held no mirth. Only precision. “But don’t forget what could happen when I stop indulging you.”

Your breath caught. Blood surged, dizzy and hot beneath your skin.

He studied you like a man memorizing a work of art—one he intended to wreck, piece by piece. His voice remained smooth, but it darkened, dipping into something far more dangerous.

“You believe you’re in control here?” His smile sharpened, languid and lethal. “Princess, I’ve only allowed you to think so.”

Then he leaned in—not enough to kiss, not quite. But his breath caressed your skin, hot and deliberate, brushing your ear like a secret.

“You want to be a brat? Go on, be my guest,” he breathed. “Just remember—”

He withdrew, slowly, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe with devastating intention.

“Brats get handled.”

And then he stepped back. Casual. Composed. As if he had not just stolen every shred of power from your body and left it trembling in your veins.

You remained there—motionless, lips parted, heart thrumming in your throat. Breathless, undone.

You knew, then. The game had shifted.

The next round?

You would not be the one in control.

But you did not stop. Even after that moment at the wall—after the words that laced threat with promise, after the heat of his breath echoing in your skin like a burn—you could not seem to stop. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you now, gaze simmering with warning and anticipation, like a man one heartbeat away from devouring. Perhaps it was the thrill—the exquisite danger of pushing too far, too fast, too close.

But today, he was done playing.

Today, he struck the match.

You had been playing a dangerous game—one step too close, one brush too many, your body skimming his in a way that most certainly did not belong to the choreography. And he saw it. Saw you smirk at your own boldness in the mirror.

That was all it took.

The music cut, abrupt and echoing in the sudden hush that followed. The studio stilled. Heads lifted. A few half-smiles, expecting a correction, perhaps even a teasing remark.

But he did not joke.

He turned to you. “Come here.”

Your stomach turned over at the sound of it—low, commanding, unmistakable. You hesitated, just long enough to register your heartbeat climbing.

“I said—” His tone sharpened. He snapped his fingers, pointed to the floor in front of him with infuriating precision. “Come. Here.”

You moved, pulse thudding like thunder in your ears.

He did not touch you. Not at first. He circled you slowly, like a thought forming in real time, eyes raking over your frame with unnerving composure. And then, he began to correct.

His hand settled at your hip, adjusting the tilt with a firm, measured push. His palm rose to your arm, guiding it upward, fingers splayed just wide enough to graze the sensitive space below your ribs. He stepped in closer, lifted your chin with a single knuckle—not gently, not cruelly, but with a control that brokered no disobedience.

He said nothing.

Not until he stood behind you, breath whispering against your ear like silk edged in flame.

“You want to be a brat?” he murmured. “Very well.”

His hands did not wander—they instructed. They placed. They demanded.

“You will hold this form. You will listen. And if you test me again—”

He leaned in, just close enough for the strength in your knees to falter.

“—I’ll deal with you in private.”

And then he stepped away. As though the warning had never left his lips. As though he had not just carved a promise into your spine with the threat of restraint.

You remained where he placed you—locked in position, every nerve alight, throat tight with anticipation.

And from that moment forward?

You behaved. But it was not fear that tethered your obedience.

It was desire.

After the rehearsal had concluded, you gathered your things in silence, though every motion, every breath, was steeped in tension. You felt his presence behind you like heat radiating from a fire you refused to face. Each glance toward the mirror caught his reflection—poised, dispassionate, but never inattentive.

He was watching.

Waiting.

Your steps carried you to the smaller practice room—the one without windows, the one with a door that locked. You stepped inside. The door closed behind you with a soft, decisive click.

You did not need to turn.

He followed. Still, he did not speak.

He moved toward you with the same deliberate calm, the air between you darkening, thickening, drawing tight around your throat. His eyes raked over your body—not with lust, but with intent. Calculation. Possession.

“You don’t listen,” he said, his voice quiet, surgical in its stillness.

You did not reply.

“You flirt. You provoke. You test.”

He stopped in front of you.

“And when I warn you?”

You glanced at his lips, unthinking.

His hand snapped to your jaw—not violently, but with unwavering dominance—redirecting your gaze back to his with a pressure that brooked no defiance.

“You smile.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, without ceremony, he leaned in. His lips did not find yours. Instead, they brushed your cheek—deliberate, lingering. A claim, not a kiss.

“You wanted this,” he whispered, voice deep enough to tremble through your bones. “Every little stunt. Every subtle touch. Every glance.”

He pulled back, just enough to study your expression.

“You wanted to be handled. Is that right?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His smile returned, slow and devastating.

“Then put your hands behind your back.”

Your breath stilled.

“Now.”

And you obeyed.

The moment your wrists crossed behind you, he moved—swift, precise. One hand gripped your hip, dragging your body flush to his. The other tangled in your hair, firm but controlled, tilting your head until your throat bared for him.

“You don’t speak unless I say so,” he growled, voice rich with heat and power. “You don’t move unless I command it.”

A kiss, featherlight, brushed just beneath your ear.

“And you don’t come until I allow it.”

You shuddered.

He felt it. Smiled.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin. “Lesson begins now, right?”

His fingers tightened in your hair—not cruelly, but with authority. A signal. A seal.

You nod meekly in answer.

He tilted your head just enough to force your gaze to his, his thumb ghosting along your jaw with a delicacy that belied the command in his posture. His eyes locked to yours—unchanging, fathomless, a storm beneath glass.

“Words.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He studies you for a moment longer, then releases your hair with a final stroke and began pacing behind you. Slow. Silent.

You did not turn to look. The weight of his eyes was too heavy to bear.

You felt him instead—circling, appraising, plotting every step like a predator does when they know the prey cannot go anywhere.

Then, without warning, his voice unfurled at your ear—low, deliberate, velvet-wrapped steel.

“Take off your jacket.”

You obeyed. Fingers trembling slightly, you slid the fabric from your shoulders. Slowly. Precisely. Offering him the ritual of your submission with each inch revealed.

He didn’t move to help. Didn’t lift a hand to touch.

Just watched.

When it fell to the floor in a soft rustle, he made a sound—deep and approving, barely more than a hum.

“Good girl.”

The words landed like fire in your chest.

“Now,” he murmured, “come here.”

You stepped forward, heart caught in your throat. But before you could close the distance, he halted you with a hand at your hip. His grip was firm—anchoring, possessive. You felt the shape of his restraint pressed against your body, his power held tightly in check.

Still, he did not kiss you.

Instead, his palm slid upward, trailing the curve of your waist with exquisite slowness, watching your eyes as if waiting for the moment they’d break.

“You know what I want?”

You shook your head, breath caught in your lungs.

His fingertips ghosted along the edge of your waistband—just enough to tease, never enough to give.

“I want to hear you beg.”

Your breath stuttered. But before you could speak, his smile curved—dangerous.

“Not yet.”

Then suddenly—motion. Heat. Pressure.

His hands closed around your hips, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. He placed you on the table’s edge, the wood cool and unyielding beneath your thighs. He spread your knees, stepping into the space he now owned like he’d claimed it by right.

His mouth brushed your cheek. Barely there.

“You’ve been restless all week,” he murmured, breath hot and intimate. “Acting out. Testing limits. All so I’d give you this.”

“I—” you started, but your voice came out as a whisper, shaky and small.

His hand slid beneath your shirt, knuckles trailing your spine, an ache of contact that never satisfied—too light, too brief, too intentional.

“Quiet,” he said, voice like silk drawn tight. “You don’t speak unless I say.”

You nodded.

He clicked his tongue softly. “Still not listening.”

Then his mouth descended on your throat—not with tenderness, but with claim. Each kiss dragged, teased, taunted. He pulled soft, involuntary sounds from you—gasps that dared to break past your lips before you swallowed them down.

His hand dipped lower, brushed between your thighs—once. Barely.

Your body jerked forward, instinct chasing what it needed.

Immediately, he withdrew.

“Don’t,” he growled—low, sharp, searing. “Do. Not. Move.”

You froze. Eyes wide. Breath stalled.

He waited until the tremble settled in your legs, then tilted his head with that maddening smirk.

“I thought you wanted to be good.”

“I do,” you said, the words spilling out, hoarse and needy.

“Then prove it.”

And with that, he stepped back—not to leave you, not to show mercy, but to begin.

To take his time.

To teach you exactly what it meant to fall apart at the hands of someone who delighted in denying you everything until you earned it.

He returned to that maddening rhythm—touching, teasing, coaxing you to the precipice only to steal it away with surgical precision. Again. And again. Each retreat more cruel than the last. Each denied high a blade across your nerve endings.

Your thighs trembled, the ache blooming into something unbearable, your lips parting in a silent plea you no longer knew how to suppress.

His mouth traced your collarbone like a secret he’d memorized. Up the delicate slope of your throat, across your jaw—each kiss a promise without fulfillment, a cruelty dressed in velvet.

Still, he didn’t kiss you.

Still, he withheld.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice a warm breath against your skin, fingers pressing almost—almost—to where you burned for him.

You nodded, a frantic gasp caught in your throat, a tremor running through you like lightning.

But he only leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper edged with wickedness.

“Not even close to earning it yet.”

Then—emptiness.

He stepped back, stripping you of warmth, of touch, of relief. You were left gasping, trembling, hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt like you might come apart if you let go.

His smile as he watched you was both tender and merciless—beautiful and brutal.

“You’ll beg soon,” he said, voice like a verdict.

And then, to your disbelief, he turned.

Walked to the other side of the room with unhurried grace. Dragged a chair across the floor, the sound scraping through the silence like a dare. He sat—legs spread, arms folded, gaze fixed on you with the full weight of his dominance.

“Try again,” he said. “From the top.”

Because this wasn’t indulgence.

This wasn’t even pleasure.

This was a lesson—and you, trembling and undone, were the student.

The chair groaned beneath him as he leaned back—composed, commanding. He looked relaxed, leisurely, like a man with all the time in the world.

But you knew better.

His eyes were sharp—cut-glass cold. Unforgiving. Watching not just your body, but the unraveling of your will. He wasn’t waiting.

He was watching you fall. A performance, a masterpiece in the making.

A slow, sweet descent into obedience.

You were still trembling—perched on the edge, slick and aching, every nerve a livewire. Jaw set tight, lips parted, your whole body strung taut with need. And still, you did not move.

Not until he allowed it.

His voice slid into the silence like silk over a blade.

“Go on,” he said, low and unhurried. “Beg.”

You blinked, your breath catching, heart stuttering like it had forgotten how to beat.

“What… what do you want me to say?”

That earned you a slow, dangerous smile.

“I want you to admit it. Tell me what you need.”

The silence stretched. Heavy. Punishing. You swallowed.

“I… I need you to touch me.”

He hummed—displeased. Like that wasn’t enough.

“You’ll need to do better than that.”

Your hands clenched into trembling fists. Your voice, when it came again, was louder. Frantic.

“Please. Please—just touch me. I need—”

He leaned forward just enough to steal your breath.

“That what all this attitude was about? All week?” he asked. “Pushing buttons, playing games—just to fall apart at my feet?”

Shame flared hot across your cheeks, but you nodded. The truth clung to you like heat, undeniable.

“Say it,” he ordered.

Your throat worked. You were already breathless.

“I want to come for you,” you whispered.

His smile sharpened, cruel and beautiful.

“And why should I let you?”

“I can’t think—I can’t breathe—” The words tumbled out in broken pieces. “I’ve been aching since you walked in—I need you to take it—I’ll be good, I swear—please, please—”

And then he moved.

Two strides. A fist in your hair. He tilted your head up, forcing your eyes to his.

“You’ll be good?” he growled.

“Yes.”

“You’ll listen?”

“Yes—yes, I promise—”

“No more bratty little stunts unless I ask for them?”

“God, yes—please—”

His mouth descended on yours in a brutal kiss—hot and claiming, teeth and tongue, a devouring hunger unleashed. His hands gripped you everywhere—commanding, unrelenting—like your pleading had finally torn the leash from his restraint.

And then he pressed you to the mirrored wall. One hand slipped between your thighs, the other pinned your wrists high above your head.

He smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured, reverent and wrecking.

And you broke.

Not from the touch itself, but from what it meant—that he had made you wait for it. That you had earned this.

He kissed you like he had starved for it. No space. No mercy. Just his mouth consuming yours, swallowing every whimper, every gasp. One hand fisted in your shirt, the other tracing fire between your legs—not teasing this time.

This time, it was real.

Your hips jolted forward, seeking more, but he pulled back—just a hair.

“Don’t,” he said, voice razor-sharp. “You begged to be good. Be good.”

You froze. Your whole body trembling in the silence that followed.

His smile was maddening.

And then he moved again.

His fingers pressed between your thighs—deep, slow, deliberate strokes over fabric. Not fast. Not generous. Just enough to have you writhing, your hands twitching in his grip.

“Still,” he reminded.

You obeyed. Barely.

His mouth traveled down your neck—biting, soothing, leaving traces only he would know were there.

“I could keep you like this all night,” he murmured. “Dripping, trembling, obedient. Until you forget everything except how to beg.”

You whimpered—weak, wrecked.

His fingers circled your clit again, slow and torturous.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “Let me take you apart. Piece by perfect piece.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please—”

“Then ask.”

“Please… let me come.”

He stilled.

And smiled.

“Good girl.”

Then everything changed.

He slipped beneath your waistband, found you bare, drenched, desperate. Two fingers pushed deep, curling just right, sending shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, your body arching, but he held you fast—his strength the only anchor in the storm.

“You hear yourself?” he growled, mouth against your ear. “So fucking loud. So needy. You were made for this.”

He moved with purpose now—no longer denying, but delivering. Each thrust of his fingers uncoiled something unbearable inside you. His mouth was at your neck again, claiming every sound, every twitch, every unraveling breath.

“You take it so well,” he whispered. “Fucking perfect.”

Your body tightened—hips trembling, core clenching around him.

“Say it,” he commanded. “Who do you come for?”

“You,” you gasped. “You—Chan, fuck—please—”

“Then come.”

And you did.

With a cry that shattered the silence. Your body convulsed, clinging to him, coming apart in his hands while he whispered you through it, holding you like something precious. Reverent. Relentless.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s my girl.”

Your vision blurred. Your limbs trembled. But he didn’t stop.

He slipped his fingers free—wet, glistening. He moved to hold them up to your mouth.

“Open.”

You obeyed wordlessly, to which he slid them past your lips, watching as you sucked yourself clean, dazed and undone.

“That’s right,” he whispered, “You’re all mine.”

And then—he lifted you.

A gasp escaped before you could stop it, air rushing from your lungs as the ground disappeared. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs instinctively circling his waist. His grip was firm, assured—like he’d done this a thousand times in the dark of his mind. He carried you like you weighed nothing, then lowered you into the chair with reverence, like he was crowning you, before sinking to his knees between your spread thighs.

“You don’t get to stop now,” he murmured, dragging you forward until you were right where he wanted. “I decide when you’re done.”

You barely managed a nod before his mouth was on you.

His tongue moved slowly—devastatingly—like he intended to savor every inch, like you were something forbidden he’d finally been allowed to taste. He licked into you with aching patience, moaning against your soaked skin, hands gripping your thighs with a possessive edge as he opened you wider, held you still.

You tried to shift.

He growled.

“Still,” he ordered.

A whimper rose from your throat.

He only smiled, smug and sinful, and kept going—flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit until your eyes rolled back, sucking you softly until you cried out, until your legs trembled around his head and tried to close. He forced them open again with a harsh squeeze, unrelenting.

“No running.”

And then you shattered—quick, brutal, your climax torn from you in a sob that barely sounded human.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t pause.

He kept licking, mouth locked to your heat, tongue dragging through your second orgasm as it surged up behind the first—hot and helpless, tearing through you as your body arched, your fingers twisted in his hair, and your voice broke on his name.

When you finally slumped, boneless and breathless, reaching for him with a wrecked sort of need, he rose.

Unbuckled.

His cock was flushed, hard, slick with precum as he stroked himself lazily, watching you with a hunger that made your knees shake all over again.

“Get on my lap,” he said, voice dark velvet—an order barely veiled in honey.

Your breath hitched, heart pounding against your ribs as you obeyed, your limbs moving on instinct alone. You climbed into his arms with a quiet gasp, thighs trembling as they slid around his waist. His hands guided you with slow precision, anchoring your hips as he settled you astride him. The chair groaned beneath the shift of weight, wood creaking with every motion like it, too, was aware of what was about to happen.

“Take it,” he murmured, eyes burning.

Your fingers trembled as they slipped between your bodies, wrapping around his cock—hot, heavy, slick with need. You guided him to your entrance, breath shallow as your body quivered with anticipation, still pulsing from the high he’d already coaxed from you.

You began to sink down—inch by inch, unbearably slow.

He filled you like fire—stretching you wide, pushing into the sensitive ache he’d left raw and wanting. The pressure stole your breath, your spine arching as you took more of him, your walls fluttering helplessly around the thick drag of him.

He didn’t help.

Didn’t thrust.

Didn’t move.

He just watched—utterly still beneath you, like a king on his throne, content to let his prize struggle to claim him. His hands rested on your hips, warm and commanding, but he offered no lift, no aid—only possession. His gaze tracked every twitch of your mouth, every tremor in your thighs, every desperate gasp you made as you worked to take all of him.

“You can take more,” he rasped, his voice jagged with restraint. “Be good for me. All the way.”

You whimpered, nearly undone by the fullness—the way he stretched you open, made you feel too much. But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you, like nothing had ever captivated him more.

Finally, with a trembling sob, you sank the last inch, until he was buried to the hilt—hot, thick, deep. Your body clenched, fluttering in overwhelmed surrender, your thighs quaking around him as you tried to breathe through it.

He didn’t move.

Just one large hand rose, slow and sure, to wrap around your throat—not tight, but claiming. He tilted your face up until your eyes met his.

“Now ride.”

You tried.

You set a rhythm—fragile, unsteady, the rise and fall of your body a stuttering dance over his cock. Each descent was a war against gravity and exhaustion, your slick walls dragging along his length in maddening friction. But your strength was spent, your body trembling from earlier pleasure, and your movements slowed with every pulse of overstimulation.

He watched you falter—watched the way your head dropped to his shoulder, your grip on him desperate and shaking.

And then he took over.

His grip on your hips turned unyielding, and he slammed you down onto him with brutal precision. His thrusts were deliberate—slow, devastating, designed not for pace but for impact. Each one drove up into you with a punishing force, making your eyes roll back as he filled you again and again, bottoming out so deep you saw stars.

“Still think you’re in charge?” he panted against your ear. “Still think you can tease me, push me, and not pay for it?”

You sobbed, lips parted, unable to form a single word as your next climax rushed toward you like a breaking wave.

He caught your face again, palm hot against your cheek, thumb dragging across your lower lip.

“Look at me,” he growled. “You’re gonna come again. On my cock. Right now.”

And you did.

Your body broke like glass—shattered and blinding and unbearable. Your head fell back, mouth open in a silent scream as you clenched hard around him, your walls fluttering in helpless spasms as pleasure exploded in white-hot waves through your core.

But he wasn’t done.

He held you there—crushed against his chest—and kept thrusting into you. His pace slowed, but the force remained—deep, relentless, possessive. He fucked you through the aftershocks, through the sobs, through the trembling collapse of your strength.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he groaned, voice breaking. “So deep you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you move. You’ll think of me every time your thighs press together.”

You clenched around him, broken by his words.

And it was enough.

He let out a guttural moan and buried himself to the base, spilling inside you with a shudder that rocked through both your bodies. His hips stilled, jaw clenched tight as warmth spread between your thighs, thick and hot and endless.

You collapsed against him.

Ruined.

Shaking.

His.

The silence that followed felt holy. Your breath came in broken exhales against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. His hand rubbed slow circles into your back, grounding you as you melted into him—sweat-slicked and spent.

“You alive?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

You nodded, the movement barely there. “Barely.”

He chuckled, low and tender. “Didn’t tap out. I’m impressed.”

“You didn’t let me,” you mumbled, lips brushing his skin.

“Of course not,” he said, mock-affronted. “You begged for this. Over and over.”

You groaned weakly, burying your face in his neck. He laughed again, thumb sliding beneath your chin to tilt your head.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

And his gaze—soft now, reverent—melted everything inside you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Really okay.”

“Good,” he murmured, and kissed you slowly. Like a thanks. Like a promise. Like a home.

Then—“Gonna have to carry you to the showers, aren’t I?”

You scowled. “I can walk.”

He arched a brow. “Is that so?”

You tried to shift—and winced.

His grin turned feral.

“Thought so,” he said smugly. “Guess I’ll have to take care of you. Again. What a burden.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Obviously. You were such a brat. And now look at you—wrecked and clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.”

You slapped his chest half-heartedly.

He caught your wrist, brought your fingers to his lips, and kissed them with mock solemnity.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered as he stood with you cradled in his arms. “I’ll deal with you properly once you’ve recovered.”

You blinked, dazed. “That wasn’t properly?”

His smirk darkened.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he said, walking toward the showers. “That was just the start.”

You were curled against his chest, limbs boneless, body swaddled in the oversized hoodie he’d tugged over your head with gentle hands—still warm from him, still carrying the ghost of his cologne. That scent—clean, musky, unmistakably him—wrapped around you like second skin, grounding you in the aftermath.

A thick studio blanket had been pulled from the couch and thrown over both your bodies, tangled at your waists where your legs remained loosely knotted, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. The lights had been dimmed to a golden hush. Somewhere, the mirror still wore the breath of your bodies—fogged and glistening in the low light, like it remembered.

Everything was slow now. Quiet.

His fingers brushed idle shapes into your bare thigh, the pads of them warm and absentminded, like he couldn’t stop touching you, even when he had no destination in mind. His voice came low, laced with the softness of a man who'd thoroughly undone you, and was still basking in the afterglow of your ruin.

“You were good,” he murmured, tone deceptively casual. “Eventually.”

You huffed into his shoulder, lips twitching. “I tried.”

He hummed, thoughtful and amused, his lips brushing against your temple like punctuation.

“Next time,” he whispered, the words velvet and sin against your skin, “don’t make me work so hard.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut as you nestled closer into the cradle of his arms. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His chest rumbled with a deep, lazy laugh—content and unhurried—as he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to your hair.

“God,” he said, almost to himself, “you’re lucky I like you.”

A quiet grin curved your lips, full of warmth and weariness and something dangerously close to love.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then there was nothing but his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, the rhythm of his breath against your back, and the comforting weight of his embrace as he held you there—tucked safely in the stillness, limbs entangled, skin to skin in the hush that followed the storm.

He did not speak again, he just kept holding you, as if he were protecting your tired form from the world outside his arms.

soo this was a lil longer than expected......

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[giuliannna]

ON CAMERA

— hamzah wants something to watch when he misses you

“but what if you die tomorrow?” he prompts, gazing up at you as you stand over him with your arms crossed over your chest.

“hamzah,” you reply flatly, eyeing him below you as he lounges carelessly in his desk chair. “that’s really the best reason you can come up with?”

he shrugs sheepishly. “i think it’s reasonable. who wouldn’t want a video like that of their pretty girlfriend to cherish after she’s passed away?”

you roll your eyes, shaking your head slightly. “you’re unbelievable.” you huff. despite your weak protests, you slowly sink to your knees before him, slotting yourself between his spread legs.

he chuckles, looking down at you with amusement, reaching out to brush a stray hair away from your forehead. “nah, i think you’re just tryin’ too hard to act like you don’t want this.”

he studies you for a beat, then, without warning, leans back, reaching for his phone. he unlocks it effortlessly, then flips the camera on, holding it downwards to face you.

“you’re seriously gonna record this?” you murmur, glancing up at hamzah as he holds his phone steady.

“duh.” he smiles. “what else am i supposed to watch when i miss you? this’ll be better than any porn on the planet - not that i’d even try watchin’ porn anyway.”

“you’re such a dumbass,” you murmur, tugging his sweats down with another roll of your eyes.

hamzah’s grip on the phone tightens as your fingers tease the waistband of his underwear.

his breathing is suddenly uneven now, his usual cocky smirk slipping, making you grin with satisfaction.

“now you’re quiet, huh?” you murmur, dragging the fabric down just enough to free him.

he huffs out a laugh, but it’s strained. “just—” his head tilts back slightly as you spit into your hand before you wrap your fingers around him, teasing him, testing him. “just.. lookin’ at you. so pretty like this.”

you glance up at the camera lens, knowing exactly what he’s seeing - your full lips hovering just above where he wants them, your fingers stroking him slow and lazy.

you tilt your head, feigning an innocent look. “s’this all you want?” you ask softly.

hamzah swallows harshly. “not even close.”

you hum softly, darting your tongue out to slowly make little kitten licks across his tip before you flatten your tongue, lowering your head to then drag it all the way back up his hardened length.

and, of course - he’s already gotten himself too excited to tolerate your teasing. his free hand finds the back of your head, gentle but firm, guiding you down. nothing harsh, nothing forceful - just silently letting you know how badly he wants you.

the second you part your lips and allow him to slide his cock into your mouth, a sharp exhale breaks past his lips. his grip on his phone wavers for half a second before he steadies it, angling it just right.

“fuck,” he breathes, his fingers threading into your hair. “you’re too fuckin’ good at this.”

you hum around him slowly, your lips wrapped tightly around his length as you dip your head further down. his reaction is instant - his abs flex, his thighs tense beneath you, and a low groan rumbles from deep in his chest.

his hold on your hair tightens, but he doesn’t force, doesn’t rush - just watches, mesmerized, as you take your time ruining him.

“shit, baby,” he moans, his voice breaking slightly. “gonna - fuck - watch this so.. so many times.”

and something about the way he says it, all ragged and desperate, makes you want to give him something worth capturing. he’s watching you in his screen through hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

“you—” he cuts himself off with a groan, his head dropping back against his chair, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before he forces himself to look down at you again. “y’gonna make me cum so fucking fast if - if you keep doin’ it jus’ like that..”

you come up for air, gasping while you press a few lazy kisses across his length before sinking right back down, hollowing out your cheeks just to watch him come undone.

“shit,” he hisses, his voice shaky, wrecked. “you’re makin’ it real hard to keep this steady.” his voice trembles along with the phone in his hand.

you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips slick and swollen as they rest against his leaky tip. “then put it down.” you rasp.

his jaw clenches. “no.”

and then he’s guiding you back down, not rough, but desperate, his head tilting forward so he can watch, really watch, as you take him deeper and make a complete mess out of him.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, his voice breaking around the edges. “gonna lose my mind.”

the camera catches the way you look up at him through your lashes, the way your fingers dig into his thighs, the way you take every stuttered moan and quiet curse like it’s a reward.

he’s reached the point of no return - his hips begin to involuntarily jerk upwards, shoving his length down your throat. you gag, but the struggle only spurs you on.

you inhale sharply through your nose, your fingernails digging at his thighs as you bob your head all the way down - till your nose is pressed up against the base of his cock.

you’re pleased by the shocked, suffocated gasp he lets out, his fingers now uncontrollably tugging at your hair.

“you - fuck, you keep going like that, and m’gonna..”

you hum in response, sending vibrations around his whole cock, and that’s it.

his whole body shudders, his breath catching as his head tilts back, a long, broken moan slipping from his lips.

“ohhh, fuck.. baby - yes, you’re so..” he pants out. his pitiful, breathless, broken flow of mindlessly stuttered thoughts is like music to your ears. “s’good, real - really good..”

the phone tilts wildly in his grip, losing focus for a second, but neither of you care. you just stay there, letting him paint the back of your throat with erratic spurts of his warm release.

by the time he finally exhales, spent and breathless, his free hand is shaking as it cups your cheek, guiding your mouth up off of his dick. his gaze is heavy-lidded, still dazed, still soaking you in like he can’t believe you just did that.

with the little strength he has left, he finally taps the screen, stopping the recording.

“…yeah,” he exhales, brushing his thumb across your swollen, spit-glistening lips. “m’never deleting that.”

a/n: this was gonna be a blurb but im pretty sure it’s too long to call it that !!! so idk what i even just wrote um ok bye

xoxo giulia

[cayleeuhithinknott]

— mean!chris’s ego is threatening to crack. . .

you’re not sure how long you’ve been waiting for this moment.

the moment chris’s ego starts to crack.

the moment he falls apart for you.

you’re on your knees now, lips stretched beautifully around his cock, his grip tight in your hair—but it’s not the control he wants you to think it is. not when his breathing’s ragged, not when he’s brutally face-fucking you, not when the smallest whimper escapes him and his jaw clenches like he’s trying to swallow it down.

he’s losing it. you know it. he knows it.

and God, it’s addictive.

“i—fuck—that all you got?” he chuckles darkly—shakily. he’s crumbling. trying to stay all tough and mean. “don’t get all cocky jus’ ‘cause i made a noise…n-not like it’s that good.” he rasps through gritted teeth, clearly lying.

you peer up at him through your lashes and—oh. you could tell he was really struggling. his hand tightens in your hair as you remove one of yours from his thigh and move it to cup his balls. his hips stutter, betraying the quick, steady pace he’d set when this all started.

“jesus, wh-why does that feel so—“ chris cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, yanking his hand out of your hair in favor of covering his mouth with it to stifle a whimper. you take the opportunity to pull your mouth off of his length, latching your lips solely around his tip, sucking on it momentarily. you pull away and give it a soft kiss, to which he jerks his hips. “shit—don’t—don’t do that again, i—well, maybe—“ his babbling is cut off by yet another gasp.

you’re given a rush of confidence at how quickly he’s crumbling. he pushes back into your mouth, your warm throat constricting around his length once again. you lift your eyes to his face pridefully, and you’d giggle at his wrecked appearance if his dick wasn’t shoved down your throat. “r-real proud of yourself, huh?” he grunts, reaching his hand back down to your scalp, tangling his nimble fingers in the wisps at the nape of your neck.

chris’s tip repeatedly hits the bruised spot in the back of your throat, quickening his rough pace. he was always rough with you, but you didn’t mind. in fact, you happened to thoroughly enjoy being treated like his little ragdoll.

fat, hot tears drip down your cheeks, drool pooling at the corners of your mouth and trickling down onto your bare chest. the both of you were a mess. but only one of you had an ego threatening to crack. and you both know which one it is.

chris squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a pathetic groan as he tosses his head back in ecstasy. he was close. he’s never finished this fast, so you were proud to say the least. “fuuck, you’re gonna make me—shit.” he grunts, tilting your head downward so he can get a deeper angle down your throat.

choked, garbled noises bubble up from your throat as you gag on his length. your knees are burning against the carpet you’re knelt on, and you can feel yourself drenching your panties, throbbing with need already. chris looks back down at your wrecked appearance in awe.

you could feel his cock pulsing against your tongue with each thrust of his hips, the string inside of him threatening to snap any second. he tilts his head back once again, but then jolts forward again, like he can’t decide if he wants to hold it in a little longer or give in.

but, ultimately, his body works faster than his brain, making the decision for him. you drag your nails up his tensing thigh, then grip it to steady yourself as his climax hits him. “fuuuck…swallow it all, c’mon…” he holds your head at the base of his cock, his hot release painting the walls of your throat white. he pulls out slowly, to which you lick his length clean of any remaining cum.

chris taps your chin with 2 fingers, signaling you to show him you swallowed it all. you do as you’re told, sticking your tongue out and showing that you did. “good girl,” chris rasps, his lips curling up into a menacing smirk.

he drags his thumb across your bottom lip, tugging it down slightly as his breathing steadies. there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes—just for a second—but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“getting cocky now, huh?” he mutters, the familiar edge slipping back into his voice like armor protecting his ego.

you stay on your knees, chest still rising and falling, watching as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s not the one who just lost control. like he didn’t almost fall apart in front of you.

he straightens up, tucks himself back in, and flashes you that smug little smirk—the one that used to make you flinch, but now? now it just makes your stomach twist in a different way.

“don’t get it twisted,” he says, jaw tight as he steps back, voice trying to stay cold. “i’m still the one in control.”

but the way his hands are shaking just slightly at his sides?

you know better.

author’s note. . . hi uh this is very short and lowkey buns…not proofread and based off this from twin!

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @mattybsgroupie @zenithsturniolo @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @mattsgracie @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady

© cayleeuhithinknott

[partoffantasy]

Between Heartbeats - Liam Mairi

⸻ image credits to mybookishdoodles ⸻

summary: reader has always had Liam by her side, but it takes almost losing him for her to realize what he truly means to her. As she fights to keep him alive, she’s forced to face her own feelings—before time runs out for both of them.

pairing: liam mairi x fem!reader warnings: angst, blood word count: 4.6k

⸻⸻⸻✦ ♡ ✦⸻⸻⸻

After six relentless hours of flying, our bodies aching from the strain, Xaden finally orders us to take a break. Sgaeyl leads us downward, her massive wings cutting through the air with effortless precision. We descend into a clearing where a small lake shimmers between thick clusters of emerald trees, the water a cool, inviting shade of blue. The moment we land, the dragons waste no time lowering their heads to drink, their massive forms shifting as they settle in for a well-earned rest.

Caelan touches down beside Deigh, his scales glinting in the fading sunlight. As I slide down his leg, my fingers briefly press against his warm hide in silent gratitude.

“Stay close. It’s not safe.” His deep voice rumbles through my mind like distant thunder.

I nod. “Will do. Take a break.” My lips curve into a small smile, knowing full well he’ll remain alert despite my words.

The others scatter across the area, stretching their sore limbs, relishing the momentary respite. Xaden and Violet move slightly away from the group, seeking a rare sliver of privacy. I shake my head, an amused smile tugging at my lips before I reach for my waterskin.

“You good?”

I turn to see Garrick walking toward me, his usual easy confidence evident in his stride. He settles beside me as I take in our surroundings—lush greenery, vibrant wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze, the lake so impossibly clear it looks like melted ice. It’s beautiful. Almost peaceful.

“I am,” I answer honestly. “And you?”

He exhales a chuckle, stretching his legs out as we sit beneath the shade of a massive tree. “Looking forward to getting back. My ass is numb from all that flying.”

A smirk tugs at my lips. “Tell me about it.”

We fall into easy conversation, his presence grounding me. But even as we talk, my eyes betray me, seeking out someone else.

Liam.

The sound of laughter draws my gaze to the water, where Liam, Rhi, and Ridoc are splashing around like carefree children. He peels his shirt off, the golden glow of the sun catching on his damp skin as he kicks off his boots and dives in. I barely notice Garrick falling silent beside me as my entire world narrows down to him.

Liam.

His name echoes in my mind, my breath catching as I watch him resurface, water streaking down his face, his soaked blond hair falling across his forehead. The sharp angles of his cheekbones and jawline, once softened by youth, now speak of a man fully grown. I swallow hard, heat rising to my cheeks as my eyes trace the defined lines of his chest, the sculpted ridges of his stomach.

But it’s not just his body that has my heart stuttering in my chest. It’s his smile—the same one he’s given me for years, the one that feels like warmth on a cold day, like safety when the world is crumbling.

Home.

Liam is home.

And for the first time, I realize I’ve been blind.

He was always there. When I stumbled, when I fell, when I broke—he was there, steady and unwavering. So why didn’t my heart race before? Why didn’t I see what was right in front of me?

Now, the fear grips me. Did I wait too long? Did my indifference push him away? Has he realized he deserves better than someone who only now understands what he means to her?

A lump forms in my throat. I force my gaze away, trying to collect myself, but it’s too late—Xaden is already beside me, his knowing eyes following my line of sight before resting on my face.

I don’t even hesitate when I lean my head against his shoulder, exhaling shakily. “I love him, Xaden.”

The words barely make it past my lips, so quiet, so fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering.

Xaden hums, a soft chuckle rumbling through him as he drapes an arm around me. “I know.”

I close my eyes, his reassurance both comforting and terrifying. “I’m scared.”

“Why?”

I sigh, my fingers tightening around my waterskin. “I’m scared I waited too long. That my hesitation made him realize he can have better.”

Xaden shakes his head, his grip on my shoulder firm, anchoring me. “I don’t believe that for a second. But you need to tell him, Y/N. And yeah, he’s going to be shocked—because believe me, he doesn’t expect this—but he will be with you. He’s always wanted to be with you. He has loved you for so long.”

Tears prick at my eyes. “I hope you’re right,” I murmur. “I’ll tell him when we get back.”

I have to. Because losing him would be worse than rejection. Losing him would be losing everything.

I glance back toward the lake. Liam is watching us now, his expression unreadable. Our eyes lock, and for a heartbeat, time ceases to exist. It wasn’t my signet—it was him. He’s the first to break the moment, looking away, and my heart clenches in my chest.

I will fix this.

I have to.

Shaking myself from my thoughts, I turn to Xaden. “How’s Violet?”

“She’s pissed, as always.” He smirks, rubbing a hand over his face. “But she understands. Or she will.”

“She always comes back to you,” I remind him. “You’re bonded for life. She’ll understand why.”

He nods, exhaling slowly. “Thanks for always having my back, Y/N.”

I meet his gaze, sincerity shining in his dark eyes. “Always.”

We hug, and unexpectedly, I laugh. The sound morphs into a quiet sob, my emotions tumbling over themselves.

Xaden smiles knowingly. “You don’t always have to be tough.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You think I belong here?”

His expression softens. “Y/N, you deserve to be a rider. You always did.”

The words settle deep, warming something inside me. “I’m glad you’re back,” I admit, thinking of the years that stretched between us.

“You had Liam,” Xaden reminds me.

“It’s not the same,” I whisper. “You’re my brother.”

We look back toward the water, where Liam still lingers, his gaze heavy. I meet it, offering a soft smile. Slowly, his lips curve in response, but there’s something distant in his expression. A hesitation.

And for the first time, I truly understand what people mean when they say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

I just hope I haven’t lost him already.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

And then, all hell breaks loose.

"Caelan?" My voice is edged with worry as a sharp pang of unease races down my spine.

"Hurry! You need to get off the ground!" His voice is a thunderous roar in my mind, vibrating with urgency.

I spin, my eyes darting through the trees, heart hammering against my ribs. And then I see it.

A figure lurks in the shadows between the trunks. Pale—deathly so—its skin is almost translucent, veins red as blood spidering down its face. But its eyes—gods, its eyes—are pools of crimson hunger, glinting with something both intelligent and monstrous.

Shock anchors me to the ground.

"Y/N!" Xaden's voice is a raw command, slicing through my paralysis. "We have to go! Now!"

Before I can process it, he's shoving me toward Caelan, his grip bruising, fueled by sheer desperation. My legs finally obey, and I sprint, throwing myself onto Caelan's back just as he leaps into the sky. The moment we ascend, the others follow, wings beating frantically against the night. Below, the creature crouches low, pressing a skeletal hand to the earth. A sickly gray circle pulses outward from his palm, spreading across the ground like a living disease.

"What the hell is that?!" My stomach lurches at the sight.

"A venin. They drain the life from everything around them," Caelan answers, voice razor-sharp with loathing. "They feed from the ground itself."

Then a sound pierces the night—an ear-splitting, inhuman screech. My blood turns to ice.

Wyvern. Six of them, dark shadows slicing through the sky.

"Alloy daggers only!" Xaden bellows from my left, his voice steady despite the chaos. We all carry them—black-hilted blades forged with the only metal capable of cutting through the unnatural flesh of these creatures. I tighten my grip around mine, bracing for the inevitable.

Then Caelan snarls, his voice vibrating through my bones. "Deigh needs help."

My stomach plummets. I snap my gaze toward the left flank just in time to see two wyverns closing in on Deigh and Liam. My pulse stutters, fear gripping my throat like a vice. No. No, no, no.

"Let’s go! Hurry!" I cry, and Caelan veers sharply, wings slicing through the air as we dive. But we’re still too far. Too slow.

A wyvern lunges. Its jagged teeth sink deep into Deigh’s leg, a sickening crunch echoing through the night. Deigh screams, the sound raw and agonized. The second wyvern strikes from the other side, sending them both careening toward the earth.

"Liam!" His name rips from my throat, raw with terror. My power thrums beneath my skin, a violent force begging to be unleashed. Do something. Do something now.

I throw open the doors to my power—Caelan’s power—and reach. My fingers stretch out toward Liam, toward Deigh, toward the descending wyvern. Time bends to my will.

And stops.

The world stills. The night is silent. The wyvern are frozen mid-air, their wings locked in unnatural stiffness. Deigh, Liam—trapped in the moment before impact.

My chest burns. My head pounds. Caelan’s voice is distant, pleading. "We’re almost there."

I can’t hold it. Every second shreds through me like fire in my veins. But if I let go now, Liam will die.

"You need to release it, or you’ll die." Caelan’s voice is pained, but firm.

"No!" Tears blur my vision. "I can’t—I won’t let them—"

Agony rips through me, molten and unbearable. My breath turns ragged, each inhale molten lead in my throat. The edges of my vision darken, tunneling to nothing.

Not yet. Just a little longer—

We’re close. Almost there. Just—

I let go.

Time slams back into motion. The fall resumes. Deigh plummets, his agonized roar tearing through the night. The wyvern shriek as gravity claims them again. I have seconds.

Caelan collides with the first wyvern, tearing through it with ruthless precision. Blood arcs across the sky as he rips its head clean from its body. I don’t stop to watch. I jump.

The wind whips against me as I plummet toward the second wyvern. Its teeth are embedded in Deigh’s shoulder—and Liam’s abdomen.

I scream, fury and fear coiling into something visceral, something deadly. My daggers flash in the moonlight as I plunge them into the beast’s skull. It shrieks, releasing its grip on Deigh, its body convulsing as it falls lifeless.

But so does Liam.

I reach, fingers grasping, catching his tunic just as he starts to slip. "No! Liam!"

Deigh is barely conscious, wings faltering. We’re too low, too close to the mountains. His body collides with the rocky terrain, momentum sending Liam and me flying into a jagged cliffside. Pain explodes through me as we slam into stone, tumbling to the ground below.

Silence.

Pain.

I can barely breathe. My ribs scream in protest. Every part of me aches, but none of it matters.

Liam.

I force myself to move, crawling toward him with shaking hands. He’s deathly still, his tunic soaked in red. Three puncture wounds mar his abdomen, each leaking life with every passing second.

"No, no, no—Liam!" My hands press desperately against his wounds, but the blood keeps coming, spilling between my fingers. "Stay with me. Stay with me."

He groans, lids fluttering open. And then—he smiles.

A broken, dazed smile. "Y/N… you look like an angel."

I sob, my forehead pressing against his. "I love you, Liam. Please stay with me. Please."

He blinks sluggishly. "I… love…" His voice fades.

His body stills.

"Liam?" My breath catches. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t respond. "LIAM!"

I break. Raw, shattering sobs wrack my body as I press myself to him. But then—a flicker of something. A tingling beneath my fingers.

I glance down. The blood—

Frozen. Suspended in midair, locked in time. His wounds are no longer leaking, the flow halted by an unseen force.

My force.

I press my ear against his chest. A heartbeat. Weak, but still there.

"Xaden is coming!" Caelan’s voice is sharp, cutting through my haze.

I’m trembling, exhausted. I can’t hold on much longer. Xaden lands hard, his expression a mask of worry and barely contained fear.

"I think I stopped the blood," I say, voice thin with exhaustion. "But I can’t move. If I let go, he’ll die."

Xaden doesn’t hesitate. "Then we fly."

I nod weakly. "I won’t let go."

Even if it kills me.

Even if I don’t make it.

Because losing Liam would be worse than death itself.

“I don’t know how to do this. I can’t move. I can’t fly with Liam like this.” My voice is raw, trembling, as I fight the overwhelming weight pressing down on me. My energy is slipping away, seeping from my body like sand through my fingers. My vision blurs at the edges, and I clutch Liam tighter, as if sheer will alone can keep him tethered to this world.

“We need to be quick,” Xaden says, his voice urgent. “You’re losing energy. The longer you hold time, the faster you fade.”

Deigh lets out a labored breath from where he lays on the ground. He can’t fly, not with those wounds, but he’s alive—for now.

“Tairn agreed to carry Deigh back,” Violet says suddenly, appearing next to Xaden. Her usually steady voice wavers, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. Liam isn’t just another rider to her. He’s her friend, her shadow. Losing him isn’t an option.

“We can use parts of Violet’s saddle to strap you and Liam to Caelan—if he agrees,” Xaden says. His tone is firm, but I don’t miss the way his gaze flickers over me, assessing, calculating. “But it’s dangerous, Y/N. If you lose consciousness mid-flight, you and Liam will fall.”

I nod. “There’s no other way. I will not let go of him.”

Xaden’s jaw tightens, his eyes dark with something I can’t quite name. “Think about this,” Caelan pleads through our bond. “You might die. I can feel you slipping.”

Tears spill freely down my face, my body trembling from exhaustion and pain. “I will not let him die!” I scream, my voice cracking with desperation. My heart is thundering, my entire being thrumming with defiance, and Caelan—my soul, my partner—understands. He bows his massive head in silent agreement.

“Then we move,” Xaden says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “We’re going to Aretia. It’s a two-hour flight. Basgiath is too far. You wouldn’t make it.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry as I meet his gaze. “Are you sure?” I whisper. We both know what this means—Violet will see her brother. The brother she thought was dead for six years.

Xaden doesn’t hesitate. “I will not let you both die.”

The others move quickly. Bodhi, Ridoc, and Garrick lift Liam’s and my body, careful, reverent, while Xaden secures the saddle straps. My muscles scream in protest as they settle me against Liam’s unmoving form, fastening us tightly to Caelan’s back. The moment we’re secure, the dragons launch into the sky. The ground disappears beneath us, and I clutch Liam closer, bracing against the icy wind.

His face is pale—too pale. His light hair whips around, strands tangling over his closed eyes. He looks peaceful, but I know better. He is slipping.

Tears spill onto his chest as I press my forehead against him. “Please stay with me,” I whisper. My voice is nothing more than a fragile breath against the storm.

The minutes stretch into eternity. Time loses meaning. My breaths grow shallow, my limbs numb. Every fiber of my being is focused on one thing—holding on.

“I’m so tired, Caelan,” I murmur through the bond, my consciousness wavering.

“Don’t fall asleep, timeless one,” he urges.

He tells me stories. About the first time he saw me. The moment I touched his mind during Presentation. The way he knew, instantly, that I was his during Threshing. His voice keeps me tethered, even as darkness claws at my edges.

Then, a voice cuts through the haze. “Aretia ahead!”

I blink sluggishly, my vision barely registering the outlines of the hidden outpost. The world around me is distant, muffled, like I’m underwater. My lips are numb, my fingers frozen. I can’t stop shivering.

Caelan lands with a jarring impact, pain lancing through my body. Hands reach for us—urgent voices shouting commands, but I can’t understand them. My thoughts are sluggish, fragmented.

“Alert him! Get them inside, now!”

The hands pulling at me are too warm. The heat burns against my frozen skin, yet I can’t seem to stop trembling. My soul feels hollow, drained of everything I am.

Then, a touch—soft, almost reverent—on my shoulders. A voice, a whisper, slips through the veil of exhaustion.

“Let go, Y/N.”

“N-no…”

“You’re dying. You need to let go.”

“I can’t let him die,” I sob, my voice barely audible.

The voice soothes, a presence wrapping around me like a phantom embrace. “It’s okay. I’ve got him.”

A cold dread pools in my stomach. Is it death speaking? Is he here to take Liam?

Then a sharp voice cuts through my haze, grounding me. “Y/N! It’s Brennan! He can mend Liam—but only if you stop your powers!”

Brennan.

Hope flickers, weak but still burning. My lips part in something like a smile, my body surrendering at last. I let go. My arms fall limp at my sides, and the world fades to black.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

—Xaden’s POV—

Y/N’s body sags, her arms slipping away from Liam. And suddenly, fresh blood blooms, pouring from the wounds she had held frozen in time.

“Shit! Take her to the side—I need space!” Brennan shouts, his hands already moving over Liam’s abdomen. Power crackles through the air as he chants, his hands glowing with healing energy.

My gaze snaps to Y/N.

My heart stops.

She’s too still. Her skin is ghostly pale, her lips an unnatural shade of purple. Dark bruises stain beneath her closed eyes. Blood coats her in streaks and splatters.

“Y/N?” My voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. I stumble toward her. She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t breathe.

“Y/N!” I roar, shaking her lifeless body.

Frantic, I press two fingers against her throat.

Nothing.

“No, no, no, no, NO!” My hands fist in her tunic. I drop to my knees and start CPR, my movements desperate. “Brennan! What do I do?” My voice cracks, panic clawing at my chest.

“I can’t help them both.” Brennan’s voice is tight, full of impossible choices. “You have to decide. I finish healing Liam, or I start on her.”

My world splinters. A sob rips from my throat.

Y/N would never forgive me. She’d never forgive herself.

“Help him first,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

Minutes stretch into eternity before Brennan rushes to my side. “What happened?” he demands, his hands already pressing against Y/N’s unmoving form.

“She’s a time-stopper,” I manage, barely holding myself together. “She froze his blood flow—but it drained her too fast.”

Brennan exhales sharply, understanding washing over his features. Then, without another word, he begins to mend her.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

—Y/N's POV—

When I open my eyes, everything hurts. A dull, aching pain thrums through every part of my body, heavy and unrelenting. My limbs feel like they’re weighed down with lead, my head pounding as if I’ve been thrown through the sky and slammed into the earth.

The first thing I notice is warmth. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, illuminating the room in a soft, golden glow. Birds flit outside, their wings casting fleeting shadows across the floor. The air is still, carrying the faint scent of herbs and clean linen.

I inhale shakily, lifting a trembling hand to my face, fingertips brushing against my temple before tangling in my hair. A groan escapes my lips as I try to stretch, my muscles protesting the movement. My body feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore, like I’m borrowing a shell that’s been through hell and barely pieced back together.

I take a slow, measured breath and force myself to sit up. The room around me blurs for a moment before steadying, revealing what looks like a medical ward. My feet touch the cool floor, sending a shiver up my spine. I’m dressed only in a loose shirt, the fabric brushing against my skin just above my knees. Every movement takes effort, but I push forward, step by step, drawn by something deeper than thought.

Then I see him.

Liam.

A curtain separates our beds, but I round it, and there he is—lying still, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. His face is pale but peaceful, his blond hair tousled, his lips slightly parted as if caught in a dream. He looks so serene, as though he’s untouched by the nightmare that brought us here.

My breath catches in my throat, my vision blurring with tears. I reach out before I can stop myself, my fingers ghosting over his cheek. He’s warm—so warm—and the relief that floods my veins is almost unbearable. A sob rises in my chest, my fingers trembling as they brush his skin.

“I thought I’d lost you,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

I pull a chair close, not willing to put any distance between us. My hand finds his, our fingers intertwining as if they were always meant to fit together. I stroke the back of his hand absentmindedly, pushing away strands of hair that fall across his forehead. Just looking at him, being close to him, grounds me in a way I didn’t know I needed. My exhaustion takes hold, pulling me under, and before I know it, I drift into sleep.

A murmur of voices pulls me back into awareness.

“Looks uncomfortable,” Garrick whispers.

“Well, we couldn’t just put them in one bed, now could we?” Xaden replies dryly.

“I mean…” Bodhi shrugs.

A smack echoes through the air. “They haven’t talked about it yet,” Xaden sighs.

“It’s so obvious,” Garrick mutters.

“It’s between them,” Xaden finishes firmly.

A groggy voice cuts through their hushed conversation. “You’re being loud.”

Liam.

His blue eyes blink open slowly, his expression hazy with pain. His lips part as he exhales a ragged breath. “I feel like shit.”

Xaden lets out a breath of relief. “Man, we thought you died…”

“You nearly did,” Garrick adds solemnly.

Liam frowns slightly, confusion creasing his brow. “What happened?” His gaze flickers around the room before landing on me. He stills, eyes widening slightly as he takes in the way my head rests against his arm, my fingers wrapped tightly around his hand.

His lips part again, and this time his voice is a little sharper. “What happened?”

My head shoots up and I realize I’m still holding him. The moment our eyes meet, my fingers unclasp from his like I’ve been burned. My face heats, my pulse racing.

Xaden clears his throat. “Okay, we’ll leave you two alone.” He shoves Garrick and Bodhi toward the door, muttering under his breath. The door clicks shut behind them, leaving an unbearable silence in their wake.

“Hi,” Liam says softly.

I swallow hard. “Hi.”

My throat constricts, my emotions tightening into a painful knot. I don’t know how to hold back the tears that well up again, spilling over before I can stop them. My shoulders shake, my breath hitching. “I thought I lost you, Li,” I whisper brokenly.

His expression softens instantly. “I’m here.”

The moment he opens his arms, I fall into him, my body wracked with sobs. His arms tighten around me, anchoring me, and I grip his shirt as if he’ll disappear if I let go. “I tried to be there faster,” I cry, my words tumbling out between ragged breaths. “I tried, but I was too far away. I saw Deigh, and the wyverns, and then you—oh god, Liam, there was so much blood. You weren’t breathing, and I didn’t know what to do. I stopped time in your wounds, but your heart—your heart was barely beating, and I thought—I thought—”

“Y/N.” His hands find my face, cradling it gently. His thumbs brush away my tears, his gaze steady, grounding. “I live because of you. You saved my life.”

I shake my head fiercely. “I should have been there sooner. I should have—”

“No,” he whispers. “You did everything. And I’m here. Because of you.”

I let out a shuddering breath, my forehead resting against his. The warmth of him, the steadiness of him, makes my chest ache with something too big to name.

His voice is softer now, almost hesitant. “I remember one thing before everything went black.”

I pull back slightly, blinking away the remaining tears. “What?”

Liam’s eyes search mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths. “You told me you loved me.”

The breath is stolen from my lungs. My heart stutters.

I could pretend I don’t remember. I could laugh it off, say it was delirium or desperation. But why would I? Why would I waste another second pretending I don’t know exactly what my heart wants?

“I did,” I whisper, my voice trembling. "And I’m sorry it took nearly losing you for me to realize it. I don’t understand how I never saw it before—how I never saw you. Liam, you have the most beautiful soul I’ve ever known. You have this way of making even the darkest days seem a little brighter, of making the impossible feel possible. You’ve always been there—without hesitation, without expecting anything in return. Every time I doubted myself, you reminded me who I was. Every time I stumbled, you caught me. You believed in me even when I couldn’t believe in myself.

You were the one who made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how. The one who stayed up with me on those endless nights when my past wouldn’t let me sleep, holding me, keeping me tethered when I felt like I was slipping away. You listened when no one else did, and you saw parts of me I didn’t even realize I was showing. You never turned away—not from my fears, not from my flaws, not even from the parts of me that I thought were too broken to love.

You are everything, Liam. The best thing that has ever happened to me. And I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t ever want to know. I love you, Liam. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anything in this world."

His hands slide into my hair, pulling me closer. “I love you too, Y/N.”

Then his lips are on mine.

It’s soft at first—hesitant, as if neither of us believes this moment is real. But then it deepens, and warmth spreads through every inch of me. His fingers tighten in my hair, and I melt against him, pouring every ounce of feeling into the kiss.

When we finally pull apart, his forehead presses against mine, both of us breathless, both of us smiling softly.

“Thank you for saving me,” he whispers.

“You would have done the same.”

And then I kiss him again.

[pmpmyread]

Title: Temperature Check Pairing: Nanami x f!reader CW: suggestive themes Summary: Ten months into matrimony, a domestic dilemma doubles as a temperature check between you and Kento. WC: 5.9k

If the distinctive thud of a book closing shut followed by the familiar sound of its cover dragging over the wooden grain of the nightstand isn’t clear enough an indicator, then the dip and sway of the mattress under a shifting weight along with the faint rustle of sheets punctuated by the distinctive click from the bedside light switch all but confirms to you that Kento has decidedly started the short nightly routine you’ve often witnessed him execute.

Another shift, and you sense his approach even as you keep your eyes shut, anticipating what you know is to come. The carefully rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, accompanied by your deep, steady breaths, conceals your state of alert wakefulness as you lie motionless, pretending to be fast asleep next to the man you once believed held no secrets from you.

Sure enough, you feel Kento’s warm breath fan across your cheek for a second before his lips brush against your forehead. He brings his fingers to gently trace the side of your temple and tucks a loose strand of hair securely back under your silk bonnet. And when you hear the hushed, heartfelt goodnight he whispers to your still form, your heart flutters like a candle flame flickers in a gentle draft.

You almost feel remorseful for taking away from the tenderness of the moment.

For having schemed your little sting operation.

For the briefest of moments, you find yourself having to resist the restlessness brought on by a sudden sentiment of guilt and of doubt at the prospect that somehow, your suspicions might have been unfounded, that somehow, you might have made a grave miscalculation.

But it’s not long until you sense Kento enact it, just as he has last night, and the one before that—the short sequence of actions that sees him flipping himself over to face away from you, settling on his side before discreetly unlocking his phone.

Nanami doesn’t know that his attempts at concealing his sneaky little habit are as apparent as they are fruitless.

He doesn’t realize that your eyes are now wide open, rendering pointless his effort to dim the screen’s brightness as soon as it lights up.

He’s oblivious to the fact that minimizing his device’s luminosity by strategically angling his screen downwards doesn’t make its glow any less conspicuous, that if anything, it only makes this betrayal more striking, like a bright beacon of light in the darkness of duplicity.

You tilt your head upwards and the air crinkles with anticipation as you wait for the signal, eyes trained up towards the juncture where the wall and ceiling meet, right where you expect the visual confirmation that forms the basis of the hypothesis over which you’ve been toiling for the past three days.

As expected, after a short moment, your eyes find what they’re searching for.

Did it really have to come to this?

Tonight, you’re fully intent on turning this rhetorical question into a candid conversation.

To this end, you slowly get into position, your arm lifting haltingly, inconspicuously hovering up in the air as you move your hand closer towards his shoulder. Your leg lags a few inches behind, Kento’s hip is its destination, and you trace a trajectory parallel to your arm, doubling down on vigilance as you inch closer with each shift towards him lest you alert him to your presence in his peripheral vision.

Your suspended arm tremors at the self-inflicted tension posed by the imminent activation of your plan, and your pulse races ahead of the moment of revelation.

You set out on a mental countdown.

Three.

Two.

This is a little ridiculous, comes the more rational voice of reason, cutting through the tense silence of your mind to whisper its final plea.

One.

You pull onto Kento’s shoulder with your right hand, and you shift your weight to your hips, swinging your leg over his waist, forcing him down from his side onto his back and hoisting yourself up to settle astride him.

“What the—”

You never register whether he completes that thought, your attention having since focused on the dexterous switch of your hands, the one that pulled onto his shoulder now firmly gripping his phone and you yank it out of his grasp and into the air as you lift it high above your head, your eyes following the screen, and even amidst the slight dizziness induced by your sudden and jarring movements, you confirm what you’ve known for a couple of days now.

You lower your gaze, the incriminating phone screen showering you both with the only source of light in the dark room, illuminating just enough of Nanami for you to distinguish his raised eyebrows, his surprised look, and his mouth slightly agape.

“Caught you,” you say, slightly breathless—half vindicated, half vexed.

While the silent strife that has directly led to tonight’s tussle traces its origins to three days ago, it is merely the latest iteration of a long-standing conflict whose inception point dates back nearly two months prior.

But it’s not like things have always been this dire.

For so long, it’s been smooth sailing between you and Kento.

You function like a well-oiled machine, complementary, in tandem: if he cooks, then you clean; you run point on design for home decor, he’s practicality; he showers right after his morning workout, and you shower in the evening before bed.

When you do have the rare disagreement, the occasional squabble that inevitably punctuates any couples living together, you address it head on, together, opposing yourselves to the problem rather than to one another and rarely retreating from it before you’ve hit either a point of resolution, or a most steadfast promise of hitting one at the soonest.

Only a little over ten months into matrimony, you’re convinced you’ve heard it all. The jokes about the looming end of the proverbial honeymoon period, the warnings against the frustrations, the unassuming frictions concomitant with sharing a living space with a partner for the first time.

Some of these comments reflect a myopic perspective of what’s often seen as a whirlwind romance by outsiders: a relatively short courtship, an even shorter engagement, a quick decision to elope. After all, not everyone was privy to the underside of the iceberg of your union, to the multi-year period of close friendship that often crossed into something entirely more as you slowly circled each other, to the accumulation of small moments that have facilitated your mutual understanding, the one that explained how it is that you’re both so attuned with one another, with what you wanted, that testified to the extraordinary way in which you complement one another.

So you don’t attribute any malice to those who repeat what you find to be platitudinal but harmless cliches, which are, in all fairness, grounded in some form of typical reality. You know that yours and Kento’s is an atypical alignment, a seamless synergy that has swiftly settled between the two of you, a phenomenon that you even find difficult to articulate into words yourself. You’re understanding, even sympathetic to those who struggle to comprehend the idea that most of these trivial, commonplace issues rarely show up as points of contention in your relationship.

Perhaps it is with this steady footing of assurance that you march over the cliff of hubris.

The irony is not lost on you that it is the scorching sun along with its sweltering heat that, in some twisted way, ends up burning holes through the veneer of your assumed immunity.

“The weather forecast is looking quite hot this weekend,” Nanami says one day, midway through the final week of June, as he emerges into the kitchen area of your shared home for a cup of tea. He finds you at the dining table, typing away at your laptop on one of the delightfully fortunate days during which you both work from home. “I’ll dust the A/C vent this evening in preparation.”

“Finally, we get to put this thing to use and see what it’s made of,” you reply, briefly peering up at the unit hanging on the living room wall. “Then it should undeniably feel like summer!”

Your apartment’s A/C is powered by a cooling system central to the building, comprising sleek and compact rectangular wall-mounted diffusers in each of the large rooms that blend neatly into the upper wall, each adjustable via a remote. Given that it was already well into the fall season when you moved into your residence together less than a year ago, you’ve still yet to have an opportunity to use the A/C.

You sense Kento pause for a brief moment before speaking again. “Make sure you stay hydrated. I know you tend to… forget when you get engrossed in your work.”

As though on cue, a work notification flits across your screen, pulling your attention towards an email announcing yet another change order from that one insufferable stakeholder.

“Will do,” comes your distracted response, as you hastily take to typing your reply.

Nanami sets down the mug he’s been holding and crosses his arms pointedly, patiently waiting for you to return your attention to him. You’re more than halfway through your message, the words blurring as you’re finally drawn to meet his gaze and you watch his eyebrows slowly rise in question.

“Hydration. Water. Got it. I appreciate your concern for me, Kento. I promise you I’ll be fine,” you say with a reassuring smile.

He lets out a low, doubtful hum, the sound barely audible above the gentle whirring of his electric kettle as the water reaches its boil.

“Besides, if I do faint this time around, at least it will be in the luxury of a sophisticated A/C, right?” you add, playfully wielding your words like the weapons you know them to be as you make a reference to a short dehydration-induced malaise you’d had in Kento’s presence a couple of years prior and has since made your man punctually paranoid around times of high heat.

A drained sigh escapes his lips. “I know who to blame for the greys I’ve been increasingly finding in my hair lately,” he says as you snicker, and he walks off, retreating to his office with his midday fix of sencha.

Sure enough, Saturday arrives with the sun beating down the city with sweltering heat and with record-high temperatures setting in before the clock even reaches noon. It is a matinal, domestic tranquility that you and Kento both enjoy together this morning, inside the cool and quiet refuge of your home.

As Nanami puts the finishing touches on his massive endeavor of reorganizing his book collection, the spines of his volumes now nearly all neatly aligned on the new shelf he’s recently bought as an upgrade, you’re in the adjacent bathroom, engaged in the meticulous task of putting your hair into braids for tonight’s braid out.

“Phew. Thank goodness for A/C on a day like this, right?” you call out to Nanami. “Could we turn it down by a tiny bit?”

“Turn it up, you mean?” His voice sounds slightly distant to you through the thick, muffling walls.

“No, I mean down,” you say, a bit louder. “As in, cooler?” you add for clarity.

To this, he offers no response, and you assume that he’s acquiesced, until a short moment later, when he shows up in the bathroom doorway, A/C remote in hand, with an incredulous expression that hints at his struggle in making sense of what you’ve just said.

You turn towards him, returning his look with what you can only imagine being a confused one of your own.

“I just want to confirm this: you are joking, right?” Kento finally says, expectantly.

“Uh, I’m not?” you slowly reply, mirroring his incredulous tone as you process the significance of his words before pausing halfway through a braid. “Wait, wait, wait, you honestly don’t find it to be hot?”

“Outdoors, sure. It is practically frigid in here now.”

“What? Come on now, it is so not.”

A long, unwavering gaze passes between you before it dawns on you that you are both dead serious.

“No, you can’t possibly find it to be hot, love?” he asks, his tone now earnest.

“Well, it’s definitely not nearly comfortable yet.”

Kento presses a button on the A/C’s remote, examining it for a loaded moment. 

“We didn’t seem to have this problem in the winter…” he says quietly, almost solemnly.

“How do you mean?” You turn towards him, leaning your hip against the bathroom counter, before adding, “What problem?”

Kento leans a shoulder against the doorway, practically mirroring your stance. “Well, in the winter months, you were perfectly fine with this temperature. You often even set the heater at temperatures that were much higher than this,” he says, supporting his point by lifting up the remote to show you the small LED screen displaying the current ambient temperature.

You squint at the screen to make out the temperature. “Maybe so… But that’s different,” you say, meekly.

“Different?” he asks with a light scoff. “How so?” It’s his turn to grill you.

“In the colder months, you want it warmer than usual, and in the summer, colder than…” you trail off, realizing only now, after having spoken the words out loud, that your sincerity doesn’t make your logic any less flawed.

You can almost see the wheels turning in his mind, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, and when his response finally comes after a pause, it is slowly and deliberately drawn out.

“So… your comfortable temperature somehow… varies… depending on the temperature outside?”

“No, that’s not what I’m… Look, it’s just different, okay?” You turn back towards the bathroom mirror, your attempt to evade his pointed scrutiny is foiled almost immediately as Kento locks eyes with you through the mirror’s reflection. “Please, let’s just turn it down for a bit, and we’ll turn it back up again in a few minutes. These are exceptional circumstances!”

Kento’s lips are parted as if caught mid-thought, his brows still drawn together in a slight arch. You detect it instantly, a subtle yet undeniable restraint, a self-imposed suppression of witty words on the tip of his tongue, drawing your attention.

“Oh, just spill it already,” you say, as you apply a dab of Chebe oil to the ends of the section you’ve just braided.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just… We survived the winter fine, so…” Kento trails off, as though hesitating to complete his idea.

“So…?”

“So, I thought us to be above turning into those thermostat couples,” he says with an air of wistfulness.

“Thermostat coup—did you just make that term up?”

“We were doing so well,” he continues, the hints of the mirthful smile that tug at the corners of his mouth accompany his discernibly mordant tone. “We had a couple’s handshake and everything. All quite a shame.”

“What are you insinuating by ‘had’ a handshake? We still do! You cannot conceivably be this dramatic, Kento!” you exclaim, as indignantly as your amused chuckles allow you to sound. “We are in a heatwave!”

He still holds an air of disbelief when he finally relents, and you watch him begrudgingly point the remote towards the closest vent and bring the temperature down with a few successive presses.

“I’ll indulge you this once,” he rebuts, equally unable to conceal his own amusement.

A mere few weeks later, during the season’s second heatwave, Nanami makes a liar out of himself.

It is mid-July by the time this one hits—intense, the kind to break historical records, the kind that definitely warrants the use of the A/C.

By the second day of this hot spell, you and your husband find yourselves having a conversation that rhymes with the one you had a few weeks prior; he maintains that it is entirely too cold and you believe that it’s not nearly cool enough.

This time around, however, the debate doesn’t stretch long. After a few minutes of banter, Kento raises his hands in mock surrender and walks off, and you think you’ve heard the end of it for now.

You can’t tell when it is exactly that the idea strikes him.

All you know is that on that very evening, when you join him in the living room equipped with a bowl of popcorn to watch your weekly show together, you find Kento already seated on the couch, wearing thick white socks.

“Hey, so…” you murmur, perplexed words hanging unfinished in the air.

“Hmm?” A noncommittal hum escapes his lips, his eyes remaining fixed on the screen as he queues up the episode you’ve left off on.

You wait until Kento eventually meets your gaze, and you throw a pointed glance towards his feet.

“My extremities get cold sometimes.” The subtle, teasing tinge in his otherwise even tone does not escape you.

“But socks indoors in July? Seems a tad bit excessive,” you say as you slowly take your seat next to him.

“I assure you it is not,” he says, nonchalantly taking a piece of popcorn between his index and thumb and tossing it into his mouth with a dexterous flick of his wrist. “Judging by this thumbnail, it looks like we’re in for a gripping episode,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes betraying his casual tone as he steals a fleeting glance at you.

You roll your eyes as you snuggly fit the bowl between the two of you, shaking your head as you think you’ve married the pettiest man on earth.

Pettiness doesn’t even begin to cover what he pulls the next evening.

You’re already in bed, scrolling away on your phone, just about ready to tuck in for the night, when you spot Kento approaching in your peripheral vision. It’s only his bedside lamp illuminating the room, so your first glance does not initially register what your eyes see. Your gaze snaps back, a sharp, surprised inhale catching in your throat, and you do a double-take at the sight of him wearing what you now recognize to be the shimmering fabric of one of his light jackets in the dim light.

“Alright, if you won’t draw the line, then I will. You are not wearing that to bed.” You scoff in utter disbelief as you lift a foot in a playful yet threatening mock kick towards him to block him from settling in. 

Kento grabs your foot, gently tickling it where he knows you to be sensitive, and the dam breaks: the effects derived from the absurdity of the moment combined with the light, tingling flutter against the arch of your foot, set you into a fit of giggles. Nanami’s mellow laughter joins yours as you squirm and make an attempt to free yourself from his grasp.

After a moment, he relents, gently folding your leg back onto the mattress.

“No, you’re right, love, I’m exaggerating,” he says as he slowly unzips his jacket.

You reach for the A/C remote to increase the temperature, a concession you’re willing to make given that it doesn’t feel as hot as the day prior. “I was just getting drowsy, but now you’ve managed to get me worked up and—”

You cut yourself off as you turn your head just in time to catch Kento shrugging off his jacket from his shoulders, only to reveal a thick sweater polo underneath.

“You can’t be serious right now,” you say.

“This one I’m keeping on,” he replies matter-of-factly.

“This is wild… I’m just about to turn the temp up, but here you go again, acting like we’re in the arctic!”

“It is cold in here, and I’m dressing in consequence,” Kento says, as he slides himself under the covers, indicating that he was fully committing to this. “Now, don’t give me that look, Ms. Ice Queen,” he adds, and you recognize that whatever expression he reads on your face is what fuels the amusement you see dancing in his eyes before he flicks off his light, plunging you both into complete darkness.

“My goodness. I’m literally turning it up, right now,” you emphasize your words with the clicks you give to the remote as you relinquish a few more cooling degrees in another conceding gesture.

“Certainly don’t do it on my account. I’m perfectly fine like this,” he mumbles into the back of your neck. If it’s a playful snark that undercurrents his words, it is in great contrast to his actions as he snuggles closer to you and absentmindedly caresses your arm.

The heatwave finally breaks in a wave of refreshing coolness, and what has thus far remained a playful tension of differing preferences fades away with the heat.

All stays well until the next crisis, beginning two days ago Friday night, or really, the early hours of Saturday morning.

You’ve spent the evening gaming with your friends, way past your usual bedtime, let alone anything that could possibly pass for Kento’s, even for a weekend night. By the time you’re ready to join him, you find him in deep slumber, having long lost his battle against somnolence. You know that it’s not for a lack of trying, judging by his glasses being worn, and his book still open on his lap. Light sleeper that he is, he stirs almost as soon as he feels the bed rustle under your weight as you gently close his book and lean over to place it on his bedside table before kneeling next to him to pull off his glasses, just as you’ve done countless times before.

And like countless times before, Nanami lets you.

Just as you lean in to adjust his pillow, his eyelids flutter open, and he blinks at you, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“How was game night?” he mumbles groggily.

“We might have gotten carried away,” you say sheepishly. “You know how it is, don’t want to end on a loss and the next thing you know…”

Nanami chuckles in response, bringing a hand up to your cheek. “Will you wake up on time to go to that new brunch place, or should we postpone?”

“I’ve set my alarm. It might be a rough wake-up, but for brunch with you, you know I’ll gladly take the hit.”

“Hmm,” comes his unconvinced reply.

You lay down and give it some thought, before continuing, “But please, will you wake me up in the event I sleep through it?”

“Now I will,” he says with another light chuckle.

Minutes after your whispered goodnights, you begin to regret your unwise decision of remaining so damn invested in the stimulating activity constituting a FPS video game this late into the night. Despite the time it took for you to shower and to enact your nighttime routine, you find yourself still wired with adrenaline, the lingering effect of the evening’s shenanigans still keeping you up. You don’t know how long you stay awake, lying on your side, your body still, but your mind agitated, staring into the darkness ahead of you.

All you know is that after a while, Kento peels away from you and slowly turns around. You figure he’s just shifting into a more comfortable position.

A few seconds thereafter, the distinctive luminosity from his phone bounces against the wooden bed frame above your head before he brings down the brightness, reducing it to the faintest glow. This too, you don’t put much thought into, you think that he might be ensuring that his own alarm is set.

But then you see it, your eyes drawn towards a small movement you catch in your peripheral vision. Bright blue numbers on the A/C unit flashing the set temperature. Silently, it goes up by one. By two. By a few more degrees before the display flickers off.

You can’t tell for sure, but you think that Kento stays on his phone for a little while longer, after which you hear him replace it back on the dock on his nightstand.

You sense him turning back towards you, slowly finding his spot snuggled behind you, snaking his arm back around you as if he’s never left your side.

It doesn’t take long before his breathing regularizes, before his light snoring fills the otherwise charged silence.

You haven’t moved throughout any of this, and you still don’t do it now. For all intents and purposes, you haven’t seen a damn thing.

You fall asleep, eventually. 

When morning comes, and Kento acts as normal as ever, you set a mental plan in motion and decide to test a theory later this evening.

You wait until you’re getting ready for bed. You’ve just returned from an evening out together and you therefore have the luxury of being synced and of going to bed at nearly the same time. When you approach him, Kento’s already in bed, well into the chapter he’s set on reading tonight.

“Don’t hate me for this,” you trail off, as you grab the A/C remote from his side of the bed, “but I really feel like I need to crank it down a bit.”

“Shocker,” he deadpans, but the affectionate mirth in his eyes betrays his snark, and speaks to the more benevolent, docile stance he’s appeared to have taken lately in the face of your differences in thermal preferences. 

Up until last night’s discovery, you would have attributed this softened, more assenting attitude to the theory that perhaps Kento was finally beginning to feel the full extent of these intensely hot temperatures, just as you did. That you were both finally getting aligned on this. But now? You find yourself inclined to question many things you think you know about him.

“Mind if I hang on to this?” you ask, holding up the remote. “That way I can adjust back in a bit?”

“Of course,” he replies without lifting his eyes from his novel, clearly engrossed in its story.

You lower the temperature a few degrees before placing the remote down on your nightstand, sliding into the covers, kissing your man goodnight, and turning your side of the light off. Tonight, you also slip on your sleeping mask, leaving enough of a gap at the bottom to allow you to take quick, inconspicuous peeks.

As expected on any of the rare occasions you manage to tuck in before him, Nanami doesn’t wait long before following suit. Through the gap of your mask, your eyes remain fixed on the A/C display until you feel him suddenly shift closer and over you.You shut them quickly and keep them closed as you sense Kento peering down at you, a move you now understand carries the motive of ensuring that you’re asleep. You keep your breathing deep and steady, and you assume that you must have convinced him because, after a moment, he finally pulls away to turn his light off.

You wait for a solid minute or two before slightly peeling your eyes open just in time to watch the digital thermostat decrease by a few degrees before flashing once and returning to standby, just like it did the night prior.

What a sneak, you think to yourself.

There is one more data point you want to collect before you can finalize your hypothesis. It requires you to wait until the morning.

When you next slip off your mask, the early sun rays filtering through your window warm your face, and the sound of the running shower confirms that Kento is already up and occupied. You reach for the remote to activate the A/C display.

A chuckle escapes you as your suspicions are confirmed once more: the thermostat has been reverted to the temperature you’d last set it to last night.

Now you know for sure. Alright, Nanami Kento, you sneaky man, you think to yourself, it is so going down tonight.

Such is how you find yourself here and now, with the beginnings of a dull ache creeping down into your shoulder, your extended arm heavy, tingling like pins and needles from holding Kento’s phone up for too long.

“I caught you,” you repeat, breaking the tense silence that has settled between you, “red-handed, might I add.”

After a brief pause, Nanami leans his arm over and flicks his table light on. When his gaze returns to yours, it holds an air of cockiness.

“You caught me doing what, exactly?”

“Don’t do this,” you say, as you finally lower your arm, cautiously clutching the phone in your hand in case he decides to take it from you.

It only occurs to you now that he hadn’t moved to try to stop you at all.

You glance down at the screen and find exactly what you’d expect. A simple interface, a dashboard of some sort, settings surrounding a large circle in the middle, with the temperature displayed.

“I wondered how you were doing it, seeing as the remote was usually by me. I thought maybe it was a pre-programmed setting or something. But of course, it’s just yet another phone app doubling as a remote.” You lift your gaze from the phone to meet his before continuing, “so you wait until I’m asleep, or at least until you think I am, and you increase the temperature. Which is clever except—“

You cut off as you discern it, both evident and seemingly uncontrollable: the full-on grin that begins to spread across Kento’s lips.

You narrow your eyes, quickly trying to figure out why the reaction you’re getting out of him is leagues off from the one you’ve anticipated.

You give his chest a poke. “What’s so funny?”

“Well, for starters, you’re about to make my point for me,” he states.

“Your point?” You shake your head, as though the motion could help you stay on topic. “How long have you been pulling this?”

He just watches you, his eyes glistening with mischief, his voice low, conspiratorial as he inches his face up closer to yours.

“How long do you think?”

“Well, definitely since this latest heatwave started, maybe even before that—”

And suddenly, it clicks.

The question you’ve asked now spins in your mind. How long had he done this? Changing the temperature without you knowing, only to change it back before you woke up. Until this moment, you’ve only assumed that this has been going on for a couple of days. But perhaps it had been longer? In fact, there’s a non-zero chance that he’s routinely done this, and that he didn’t only do this at night.

Your mind flits into your catalogue of memories, back to that one occasion when you’d conceded that the A/C was too cold, when you’d moved to reach for the remote to increase the temperature, and he’d quite literally jumped at the opportunity of turning it up. In the moment, you’d ascribed his eagerness to a sentiment of respite.

Could it be that Kento was, for this entire time, working to conceal that the temperature had already been adjusted to something higher than you’d anticipated?

Could it be that you were the unsuspecting victim of one long placebo-like experiment at the hands of your own husband?

Could it be that he anticipated, or even planned on being caught? That the schemer had long been out-schemed?

“You can admit it, you know,” Nanami’s voice pierces through your contemplation, through the silence of your realization, “that you were a little less than reasonable, that the temperature you want is unnecessarily too cold.”

Nanami shuts off the light for emphasis.

“Say it now, here in the dark. It will be our little secret,” he says, bringing his fingers to the frilly bows that adorn both sides of your PJ shorts, fidgeting with them like he often likes to do. “Tell me that I’m right and that I have been since the end of June.”

“Alright, now I know you’re lying. It can’t possibly have been that long—”

“Since June 28th. The app has historical data. Feel free to check it for yourself, my dear.”

You bring up the phone you forgot you’re still holding, and the few scrolls back into the app’s calendar and through the entirety of the average temperatures that flit through the phone's screen, are sufficient for you to understand that Nanami is very much not bluffing.

“And to think you only noticed when, two? Three days ago?” he says, settling his palms flat onto either side of your hips and giving them a light squeeze.

You can feel the dynamic flipping, even sitting astride him, looking down on his shadowy face in the dark. 

Kento’s gained the upper hand.

“Oh, so you knew that I was onto you?” you ask.

“You were not exactly subtle about it.”

You feel his fingers gently trace up your leg and settle on the bow adorning your short.

“So why don’t you just concede, my love?”

Somehow, this cannot be. Somehow, you just won’t allow yourself to lose.

Time to switch tactics.

“So you did all this… You think I was lying about being sensitive to the hot weather...” It's your move to play to Kento’s conscience, to wring a few words of culpability for you to latch on to.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“How can you possibly know, then, that I didn’t have trouble sleeping thanks to your little gambit?”

“I know you didn’t, and you know you didn’t. Besides, the temperature was adjusted very incrementally over time.”

“I like how you’re using passive terms as though you aren’t the architect of all this scheming. And I think you’ve made a monumental error admitting to all this, by the way,” you say, fully aware that you are grasping at straws. “What if I need to know that it’s at 20 in order to sleep? What if it’s too hot and I’m unable to sleep tonight? What if I have trouble sleeping and I’m late to work tomorrow, and—”

In one swift movement, Nanami flips you both over.

“Let’s play a game then,” he whispers, his tone taking a darker tenor.

He lightly bites down on the bow adorning your shorts and slowly drags them down your legs, before speaking again.

“Give me a few minutes, and if you’re still hot and awake when I’m done with you, you win, and you can set the temperature for the rest of the summer.”

He pulls the rest of your shorts off and returns above you, tracing his finger under your chin before grabbing it.

“But if,” he leans down once more, sliding his fingers under your underwear and pulling them down, “no… When I inevitably do manage to put you to sleep, you lose, I get carte blanche, and you’ll have to grant me your admission when you wake in the morning, in the cold light of day.”

He approaches you again, running both hands up your inner legs, settling on your thighs. You try not to writhe in anticipation of his touch.

You’re pretty hot now, but this heat you welcome.

Nanami pauses, and you feel him peer up at you, feeling his breath, the vibration of his next words against your core.

“You can still just admit that I’m right, and we table all of this.”

“I think I’ll take my chances, Kento,” you say, reaching down and sliding your fingers into his soft hair, bringing his head closer to his intended destination, any semblance of your initial confrontation long since tossed out the window.

“Of course you will,” comes his response before he all but disappears right where you want him.

And suddenly, none of this feels like losing.

[soonyoungs]

Can you do a smut with wonwoo taking pictures before and during sex?

ఇ wonwoo and vagina having!reader

ఇ warnings: smut! not proof read and as usual: written while sleepy!

ఇ wc: 1350 ♡︎

ఇ notes: these all seemed similar so i lumped them together. the end result is a bit different from the prompts, i’m so sorry!! i was struggling with this one a bit and im not sure why 🥺 i’m also sorry this took forever and thank you for being so patient, i hope you like it ✩

[9:48 pm] - wonwoo

“pay attention,” he’s chastising you, albeit playfully “trust me, this is the best part”! you don’t know how he’s managed to stay this calm, when you can’t even hardly catch your breath, let alone stop shaking long enough to steady the camera in your hands. you also don’t know if he means for you to pay attention to him or the movie he insisted on putting on.

“shut up,” you huff, adjusting yourself on the couch, careful to not squeeze his head between your legs “it’s not as if you’re going to quiz me when it’s over,” you pause waiting for confirmation, after several seconds of silence you gasp “are you”? a deep laugh rumbles from him as he rests his head against the inner part of your thigh. “wonwoo!” you complain, knowing how he enjoys teasing you.

“‘m serious,” he starts, looking at you and continuing before you can cut him off “about paying attention. it’s hotter that way.” he moves forward grabbing your wrists angling them downward, making sure they’re able to capture everything that’s about to happen. 

you honestly should have known this was going to happen, it always does when wonwoo goes down on you. he’s messy and desperate and so incredibly, and not so surprisingly, submissive. he’s a whining mess “you taste so fucking good”. the phone in your hands captures shaky footage of wonwoo barely peeking at you from where he’s got his face situated between your legs. he’s gentle with prying your knees farther apart, giving you small kisses on your thighs to appease you, he knows he’s not in control. with a nod of your head he’s quick to get back to work. 

wrapping his lips around your small, hard bud he’s gentle with suckling on it as he teases your entrance. “wonwoo, darling” you warn, “weren’t you ever taught not to play with your meal?” although he doesn’t look at you, you feel his nose scrunch up in distaste at your vulgar joke. 

a small chuckle leaves your throat before it shifts into a groan as wonwoo gives your clit a hash suck, easing his middle finger inside of you. once you seem to have gotten used to the intrusion of the first finger, he adds a second. wonwoo is slow to pick up the pace of his fingers as he lazily drags them out, pushes them back in and curls them before repeating the process. your hips begin to wiggle, indicating your growing impatience. no words are needed: a small glare from you is enough for him to catch the hint.

wonwoo’s fingers, that were ceaselessly moving at a relaxed pace, are now being drilled in to you as he begins lapping harder at your clit. alternating between harsh sucks and sweet kitten licks. free hand on your tummy, gently keeping you still so he can work. you’re letting out loud moans of his name as you begin to feel your climax approaching. a final powerful suck and curl of his fingers and wonwoo has thrown you into the flames - your high taking over. 

wonwoo laps at you softly as he slowly removes his fingers from you as you come down. you’re whining as he believes he is helping to bring you back to reality, until he hears you rasp out “another one”. he lifts his head up from your center, examining your face to see that you mean it. “another one, wonwoo,” you say, warning in your tone “i want more”.  obliging you, wonwoo sits up, crossing his legs and grips your hips, lifting you to bring your legs over his shoulders. 

you startle at the unexpected movement and drop the phone in your hands in the process. you’re quick to recover it and adjust just in time to capture the perfect angle of him bringing your center to his face as he begins to devour you. hands gripping your hips tightly, so you don’t fall as you grind yourself into him. your whines and moans echo throughout your living room, making wonwoo’s ears perk up. raising his head briefly he asks “am i doing a good job”? you bite your lip to keep from letting out a whine.

“yes baby,” you breath out “you’re doing so well. i’m so, so close again. just a bit more,” you steady the phone in one hand and reach your other up to his lips, glistening with your wetness. your thumb makes contact with the corner of his mouth, you gather up your essence dragging it along his bottom lip and gently push it past the entrance of his mouth and press it against his tongue. wonwoo groans as he closes his lips around your thumb and begins suckling on it. once you’ve had enough of watching him suck on your finger, you pull it from his mouth and continue to drag it on his bottom lip down to his chin, gathering more slick. lifting your thumb from his face you bring it to your clit and apply pressure, rubbing in small circles. “wonwoo, make me cum” you order, removing your hand and bring your thumb to your mouth, putting on a show of tasting yourself.

wonwoo throws his head back with a groan. after he recollects himself he makes sure both of your hands are back on the phone before he dives back in. he’s messy with it, licking the expanse of your entire center, bringing his tongue to your opening, teasing the entrance before sticking the tip in and pursing his lips to suck your wetness out of you, as if you’re his favorite juice box.

you’re wiggling around just enough to worry him, so he readjusts his grip on you. straightening out his back he lifts your hips up off of the couch as he pulls back to spread your pussy open for him with his fingers before getting back to it. the phone has fallen out of your hands on to the cushion above your head and you have no plans to pick it back up. you’re crying out, reaching forward and clawing at wonwoo’s hands. at this moment there’s only one thing you’re certain of and it’s that Miss Carpenter had it wrong. this isn’t a painting wonwoo is creating - it’s a masterpiece; certainly not art but worship.

wonwoo is moving his head at a rapid pace as his lips wrap around you and tug, pushing you over the edge. he grips your hips as your body twitches and spasms harshly, bringing you closer to his mouth as he works you to completion, only as soon as your climax ends another begins. “wonwoo,” you repeat his name in warning “coming, i’m coming. feels so good, you’re making me come so hard” tears run down your face as you start to feel an unfamiliar pressure in your belly. before you can warn wonwoo you let out a scream of ecstasy as you release a small gush of climax onto him. wonwoo is working as hard as he can to lap up everything you give him, licking you as clean as he can before he feels your body go limp.

gently releasing you and laying you down properly on the couch, wonwoo rubs your hips where he’s gripped them too tightly. with a small, content, sigh and soft smile on your face you search for the phone you dropped, managing to find it within seconds. you bring the camera up, capturing the aftermath of your climax on wonwoo’s face. 

looking every bit of a wet fantasy you focus the camera on him: his eyes are glazed over in lust, a gloss of your wetness covers his mouth and part of his chin and his fringe is tousled to hell, covering his eyes. wonwoo’s tongue peeks out from the corner of his mouth as he licks up some of your essence before letting out a deep chuckle, running his hands through his bangs, all hints of submission nonexistent. “now baby,” he drawls “can you tell me the name of the main character in the movie that was on?”

[luxerians]

The Last Mask (14)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 14 - Hide and Seek

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 15

PREV : Chapter 13

A pair of black shoes stopped just inches from your line of sight. Your chest tightened as you slowly lifted your gaze. First, you saw the polished shoes, then the neatly pressed pants, and finally the long, all-black outfit that draped elegantly yet ominously over the figure. Your eyes reached the mask: a geometric pattern of sharp angles that concealed any trace of humanity beneath it. You couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t tell if he was looking directly at you, but the slight tilt of his head downwards spoke volumes. He was entirely focused on you.

From a side perspective, you were kneeling on the floor, one hand braced against the ground as if trying to anchor yourself while the other clutched your bleeding injury. Your shoulders were tense, your head tilted upward as you met the imposing figure’s gaze. He loomed above you, his posture perfectly controlled, exuding an authority that was both calculated and suffocating. The contrast between his unyielding stance and your vulnerable position added to the tension, the unspoken connection between captor and captive palpable in the air.

The corridor was silent, the tension in the air so thick it felt like it might suffocate you. The guards stood rigid as they waited for the next command from the black-masked man whom they called the Captain. None of them spared a glance at the dead guard whose body lay crumpled against the wall. No one dared risk invoking the Captain’s wrath.

Your wide, doe-like eyes were glued to the Captain’s expressionless, geometric mask. You felt small like a defenseless kitten staring down a jaguar. He radiated danger, a predator in every sense of the word. Fear clawed at your chest. You were a part of the rebellion, and now the leader of the guards had personally come down to corner you and your allies.

Gi-hun’s grand plan to overthrow the game management crumbled in that very moment.

The sound of a scuffle shattered the silence, pulling you from your thoughts. Behind you, there was movement, followed by Gi-hun’s voice. “Leave her alone! She’s not in on this!”

His shout cut through the heavy atmosphere like a knife, drawing everyone’s attention. But the Captain didn’t react. He remained perfectly still, his focus locked solely on you.

Your breath hitched, and you quickly lowered your gaze, unable to hold the intensity of his stare any longer. You cast your eyes to the floor, trying to collect yourself, but the unease didn’t fade. His unwavering attention was unnerving, and a small part of you couldn’t help but feel puzzled.

Why had he shot the guard who injured you? What did he mean by disobeyed?

A sharp wave of pain pulled you from your thoughts. You winced, clutching your injured arm. The wound throbbed relentlessly, and when you pressed lightly against it, you could feel the bullet lodged beneath your skin. The sensation made your stomach churn.

Though you’d looked away, the Captain hadn’t. His head remained tilted slightly in your direction, his attention fixed on you like a hawk watching prey. Then, he spoke in a commanding tone. “Check her.”

Two square guards stepped forward at his command, lowering their weapons as they approached. You stared at them in a mix of confusion and apprehension. One of them spoke in a flat tone. “Get up.”

“No!” Gi-hun shouted, trying to rise from his knees. But before he could, two guards pinned him down, holding him firmly in place. “Leave her alone!”

The Captain finally shifted his attention, lifting his gaze to Gi-hun and Jung-bae. A tense silence followed, every movement in the corridor stilled. It was as if the Captain held everyone’s fate in his hands, his authority absolute and unchallenged.

“Player 456,” the Captain’s deep, distorted voice filled the corridor, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Did you have fun playing the hero?”

The same square guard as before repeated to you. “Get up.”

You stayed kneeling, your heart pounding, as the Captain began to move. His steps were measured and calm as he circled you and headed toward Gi-hun and Jung-bae meters behind you. Concern for your friends twisted in your chest. Your mind raced as you tried to anticipate what the black-masked man might do. You turned your head to follow his movements, watching him intently as he approached them.

Stopping directly in front of Gi-hun and Jung-bae, the Captain raised his left arm. The stark white pistol in his hand caught the light as he aimed it squarely at Gi-hun’s face. The sudden gesture made you gasp, alarm flooding through you as fear for your friend overtook you.

“Look closely,” the Captain said, his tone ominous. “At the consequences of your little hero game.”

Gi-hun’s jaw tightened, his teeth gritted as he stared directly into the barrel of the pistol. You could see the tension in his body, the way he held himself still to project bravery. He didn’t want to give the Captain the satisfaction of seeing his fear. Despite this, his defiance didn’t lessen your terror. You couldn’t stand by and let him die.

“No!” you shouted, your voice breaking through the silence. Desperation filled every word. You pushed yourself to your feet, your knees shaking as you took a step forward. Before you could get closer, a square guard moved quickly, blocking your path. Undeterred, you tilted your head, craning your neck to keep the Captain in view.

“Please, don’t shoot him!” you pleaded, your voice trembling. “This whole plan was my idea, so it’s my fault. I’ll do anything!”

The corridor fell into a heavy silence. The guards stood still. Gi-hun and Jung-bae stared at you in shock and disbelief. Even the Captain paused, though his grip on the pistol remained unwavering.

“What are you saying…?!” Gi-hun’s voice rose, anger and panic blending together.

The Captain’s mask turned toward you slowly, his attention now fully on you. Though his aim at Gi-hun didn’t falter, the weight of his gaze pressed down on you, making it harder to breathe. His silence spoke volumes, and it was enough to send Gi-hun into a spiral of worry, his expression shifting to one of alarm and helpless frustration.

“Hey!” Gi-hun shouted as he straightened his posture, still kneeling but clearly trying to draw the Captain’s attention back to himself. “It was my idea! She’s lying!”

“Y-yeah!” Jung-bae added, his voice shaky, his eyes wide with panic. “She was lying!”

But the Captain remained unmoved. He didn’t even glance at them. His masked face stayed locked on you. Slowly, he lowered the pistol from Gi-hun’s face. Without haste, he turned his entire body toward you, a deliberate motion that made it clear you now had his full, undivided attention.

Your heart raced, pounding so hard you thought it might burst. Fear and vulnerability coursed through you. His presence felt all-encompassing. It's as if the walls of the hallway had closed in, leaving you exposed and utterly at his mercy. You could feel the weight of every eye in the corridor, yet it was his attention that made the air thick and hard to breathe. You had wanted to divert his focus to protect Gi-hun, but now that you had it, it felt like standing in the path of an oncoming storm.

“Among the trashes in this world…” the Captain’s distorted voice broke the silence as he began to step toward you, “…blooms a single flower.”

You froze, his words twisting in your mind, their meaning unclear but unsettling. Gi-hun’s voice broke through the tension again as he tried to rise from his knees, his movements frantic.

“No!” he yelled, his tone laced with desperation. He lunged as if to intervene, but two square guards grabbed him immediately, dragging him back down. This time, his struggle was wild and unrelenting. The guards shoved him to the ground, pinning him on his side. One of them pressed his head to the floor with brutal force, but still, he screamed in resistance, his eyes wide with fear for you.

Jung-bae, pale and trembling, stayed where he was, his hands still raised in surrender. Two guards loomed behind him, their MP5s aimed squarely at his head, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. The tension in the air was unbearable.

Gi-hun’s shouts echoed through the purple hallways. The Captain, unfazed, continued his steady approach until he stopped directly in front of you. You couldn’t look away, your eyes locked onto his masked face. He stood tall, radiating authority, while you remained standing before him, powerless and exposed.

He was the embodiment of power and control. He alone dictated the rules of this twisted game. You, on the other hand, was stripped of any leverage, offering yourself up to protect those you cared for. The unspoken tension between you hung thick in the air, every second stretching endlessly as his masked gaze bore into you.

The Captain extended his left hand, gloved in sleek black, his palm facing upward. He held it steady, hovering in the air between you two. Your gaze flicked from his hand to his mask, trying to decipher the meaning behind the gesture.

Finally, his distorted voice broke the silence. “Come with me… and I will let your friends live.”

Your eyes widened, locking onto him in shock. The weight of his words sank into you like lead.

“Don’t!” Gi-hun shouted as he fought against the guards holding him down. “He’ll hurt you! You can’t trust him! Whatever he’s offering, it’s a lie! He’ll…”

His voice cracked, his frantic movements becoming more erratic. “He’ll break you apart!”

His words stabbed at your resolve, each one a reminder of the unknown danger you might be stepping into. You could feel the genuine care and anguish in his voice. Gi-hun was more than disappointed at his plan’s failure; he was terrified of losing those he considered friends. He’d rather take the consequences himself than watch them fall on you.

Your mouth felt heavy, unable to form a response to his pleading. Instead, your focus returned to the Captain. His gloved hand remained steady, a silent invitation that demanded a response. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t need to. He ruled this place. He could wait as long as it took for you to decide.

Your heart pounded as fear coursed through you. What would happen if you took his hand? What would he do to you? Would he hurt you? Strip you of your dignity? Hand you over to his guards to face whatever cruelty they had in mind? The questions swirled relentlessly in your head, each one more horrifying than the last.

Then, the sharp sting of your bullet wound brought you back to the moment. You winced as the pain flared, a reminder of the very real danger you were already in. Your left upper arm throbbed, the blood sticky beneath your fingers where you clutched the wound.

You were scared. Terrified. But you cared about your friends even more. Gi-hun, Jung-bae, and the others mattered to you. They had become your family in this cruel, twisted game. If you didn’t act, their lives might be forfeited. That thought was unbearable.

“I will have your wound treated right away,” the Captain said, his voice calm but commanding. The unexpected offer made your breath catch, and your eyes snapped back to his mask.

You stared at him for a long moment, blocking out the noise of Gi-hun’s struggles behind the masked leader. His screams faded into the background as you wrestled with the decision in front of you. Your arms began to tremble, a sign of the terror coursing through your body.

It was at that moment that despair took hold of you, its weight pressing heavily on your chest. If Young-il were here, he would have been livid with you for even entertaining this decision. But he wasn’t here.

Grief surged through you then and there. Tears brimmed in your eyes, blurring your vision until a single drop escaped, tracing a path down your cheek. A sob broke free from your throat. The thought of Young-il – his absence, his sacrifice – slammed into you like a physical blow. He was gone. The memory of his promise to meet you outside this nightmare, should you both survive, now felt like a cruel joke. He had risked everything to protect you, and now you two would never see that promise fulfilled.

The bullet wound on your upper arm throbbed with a dull ache, but it paled in comparison to the searing pain of your loss. You’d lost him. And it was only now, standing here in this twisted moment, that you realized you had fallen in love with him. The man who had risked his life time and time again for you, who had treated you with care and respect even in this unforgiving place, was gone.

Soft sniffles and quiet sobs echoed down the corridor. Gi-hun, who had been shouting moments ago, fell silent. He looked at you, his eyes wide with understanding. He knew. He knew that it was his plan, his gamble, that had led to Young-il’s death and the deaths of others. Now, with the Captain’s shadow looming over all of you, the weight of that guilt was palpable.

The Captain, on the other hand, remained still and patient. His hand hovered between you, waiting for your decision. This enigmatic figure, who had mercilessly shot his own guard moments earlier, stood there quietly as you sobbed, giving you space to grieve. His presence was unnerving yet he offered no words, no commands. He simply waited as if time itself bent to his will.

You withdrew your hand from your face and wiped away the tears staining your cheeks. With a shaky breath, you finally managed to steady yourself. Lifting your gaze, you looked back at the Captain. His hand was still extended, his posture unchanging, as though he had all the time in the world.

Your eyes shifted to Gi-hun and Jung-bae behind him. Both of them were watching you, their faces pale and filled with dread. The terror in their expressions only deepened your resolve. You knew that if you went with the Captain, the three of you wouldn’t be shot dead. This was the only way for the three of you to survive after instigating an uprising.

Slowly, you raised your trembling hand and placed it in the Captain’s gloved palm. The leather was cool against your skin. As soon as your hand settled in his, his fingers curled around yours like the closing of a steel trap. There was no escape now.

You raised your gaze, meeting the enigmatic Captain’s towering presence. His mask remained inscrutable, hiding whatever thoughts might be running through his mind. Without a word, he turned and began walking toward the hallway behind you, his grip on your hand firm but not forceful. You followed quietly, your steps heavy with uncertainty and fear.

Behind you, the square guards followed you two in formation, their boots echoing sharply against the corridor floor. The sound of Gi-hun’s scream suddenly broke through, raw and anguished. He was still pinned to the floor by two guards, but his struggle had only intensified.

The sound made you falter for a moment, but the Captain didn’t pause. He kept walking, pulling you along with him. You frowned, realizing that Gi-hun’s anger was more than just a protest against the Captain’s actions. Perhaps he had seen you in a different light. Maybe he cared for you more than you’d realized. He had told you once that you reminded him of his late friend. Protecting you must have felt like a way to redeem himself, to make up for his failure to save his friends in the past.

What you didn’t know was that Gi-hun clung to you for a deeper reason. You didn’t just remind him of his lost friend. You reminded him of himself. By protecting you, he felt he could protect the part of himself he had lost, the part that still believed in hope and redemption. In saving you, he believed he could save himself from the guilt that had haunted him for so long.

The Captain led you down a labyrinth of hallways. At one point, you tugged your hand free from his gloved grasp. He didn’t stop you, nor did he turn his head or say a word. You were grateful for that small mercy. The thought of his touch manipulating your already fragile resolve made your stomach churn.

Behind you, the square pink guards marched in two perfect lines. Their synchronized footsteps echoed through the corridors. The uniformity of their movements spoke volumes about the Captain’s control. It was clear that his authority reached deep, dictating not just their actions but the very rhythm of their existence. This was power on a level you had never seen before, and it left a dreadful weight in your chest.

As you rounded another corner, a new figure emerged from the hallway ahead. Several square pink guards followed closely behind him, but this man was different. His mask bore the same square symbol as the others, but the rest of his appearance set him apart. His uniform, while identical in design, was entirely black, accented with bold pink stripes and a matching pink belt. He carried himself with a stern, commanding presence that was almost as unsettling as the Captain’s.

The square black guard halted as soon as he saw your group, and the pink guards behind him followed suit, stopping in perfect formation.

“Captain,” the square black guard said respectfully. “One manager and twenty soldiers have been dispatched to the dormitory to subdue the rest of them. It appears there are no backup plans for the uprising.”

The Captain stopped walking just a few feet away from them. The square pink guards and you came to an immediate halt as well. You glanced sideways at the Captain, your suspicions reaffirmed. He was undoubtedly the highest authority here, and this new figure was likely his second-in-command.

The Captain’s voice broke the silence, low and solemn. “What’s the update on the rest of the players who rebelled?”

You blinked, your attention sharpening as the words registered. He was talking about Hyun-ju, Gyeong-seok, and the others you had managed to supply with ammo.

“We had shot most of them down,” the masked officer reported in a detached tone as if he wasn't discussing the loss of human lives. “One or two managed to retreat to the dormitory and hide among the players.”

Your gaze dropped, despair washing over you like a tidal wave. More players were dead. You didn’t know if Hyun-ju and Gyeong-seok had survived, but the weight of the losses was suffocating. The uprising had failed spectacularly, leaving most of you dead.

Then another thought gripped you. All those who participated in the plan were X players. With most of them gone, combined with the losses during lights out, the Os would dominate the next vote. It was inevitable. The remaining players would be forced to continue into the next game, whether they wanted to or not.

Your thoughts shifted to your friends back in the dormitory: Jun-hee, Dae-ho, Yong-sik, and his mother. They must be terrified, anxiously waiting for news, hoping for the best but fearing the worst. What would they feel when they learned about Young-il’s death? The thought twisted your heart, and tears began to well in your eyes again.

Just as the first tear threatened to fall, the masked officer’s voice cut through the air. “Would you like us to single out those rebels and shoot them in front of the others as a lesson, Captain?”

Your eyes widened in horror. The idea was monstrous. To drag out the survivors of your team and execute them publicly for the remaining players to see? It was cruel beyond comprehension. It was an act designed to break what little spirit the players had left.

Ignoring the pain from your injury, you turned your terrified gaze to the Captain, who stood quietly, his posture as steady and unreadable as ever. His head remained slightly tilted toward the officer. The tension in the air was palpable as every guard waited in silence for his command.

Finally, in his deep, distorted voice, he said, “No. Let them. They will have their lessons by the players, the next vote, and the next games.”

You looked away, his words sinking in like a stone in water. You understood what he meant immediately. Those who had participated in the uprising would face judgment, not from the guards but from their fellow players. The X players, now devastated in numbers, would likely blame the rebels for their downfall. The bitterness would lead to harsh reprimands and isolation.

The O players would mock and deride the rebels. Their cruelty would aim especially at Gi-hun. With so few X players left, the Os might seize control of the dormitory entirely, leaving the remaining X players in an even more precarious position.

The weight of it all settled heavily in your chest. The rebellion hadn’t just failed; it had shattered any remaining hope for unity.

Suddenly, the Captain spoke, his deep, distorted voice cutting through the tense air. “Have one worker come to Room 147. Bring a medical kit.”

Without waiting for acknowledgment, the Captain began walking again, moving past the masked officer and the pink guards. The masked officer immediately fell into step beside him, though still slightly behind, a position that subtly acknowledged the Captain’s authority. Clueless, you followed behind the Captain. The rest of the pink guards fell into formation without being told.

In a matter of seconds, the Captain stopped outside an unmarked door, causing everyone else to halt as well. He turned to you and spoke directly. “Wait inside. A guard will tend to your wound.”

You stared at him, your gaze lingering for a moment before you lowered your head. Pushing the door open, you peered inside. The room was stark and simple, painted in the same monotonous purple as the hallways. It contained nothing more than a plain table and two chairs.

Before you could step in, the Captain spoke again, this time addressing the guards. “One manager will stand guard outside the door. Soldiers, arm up and prepare for the next vote.”

He paused, shifting his attention to the second-in-command. “Managers and you, head to the control room. I have a word with you.”

The underlying reprimand was clear.

With that, the Captain turned on his heel and strode away. You glanced at the masked officer, noticing the rigidity in his posture as he stared at the Captain’s retreating figure. The square guards fell in line behind the Captain, moving like disciplined soldiers toward what you assumed was the control room. For a brief moment, the masked officer stood frozen in silence before he, too, followed after them without a word.

One square guard remained by your side and said flatly, “Please wait inside for a worker to tend to your wound.”

You stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you. The room’s silence was almost oppressive, and you sat down on one of the two chairs, cradling your injured arm.

Now that you had nothing else to divert your attention to, the pain of your wound became all the more prominent. A sharper wave of pain shot through your arm. You winced. You adjusted your hold on the wound, trying to ease the pressure without worsening the pain.

It was barely two minutes before the door opened, revealing a circle guard carrying the familiar red medical kit. The guard stepped inside, setting the kit on the table before turning their masked face toward you.

“Sit still,” they instructed, their voice flat and emotionless. “Hold your arm steady.”

You nodded silently, holding your injured arm in place as the guard began laying out the contents of the kit. Antiseptic, gauze, tweezers, and a scalpel gleamed under the fluorescent light. The sight of the sharp instruments made your stomach churn, but you kept your face composed.

After you took off your jacket and lifted up the sleeve to expose the raw injury, the guard began to work on it methodically.

“This will sting,” they said before applying antiseptic. The sharp burn drew a hiss from your lips, and you gritted your teeth to keep from crying out.

As they continued, your thoughts wandered. What would your life look like now? The realization of having surrendered yourself to the Captain weighed heavily on you. Would this be your new reality? A nightmare on Earth where every action was dictated by a man who wielded absolute power? The thought chilled you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering if escape was even possible.

You glanced around the room, your eyes flitting to the door, the walls, and finally the tools spread across the table. The scalpel caught your attention. It was small, but it could be a weapon. The idea lingered. Could you really fight back? Could you find a way out of this labyrinthine hell? The questions gnawed at you.

“Hold still,” the guard reminded. You snapped back to the present, focusing on the pain as they worked to extract the bullet. The tweezers dug into the wound, sending sharp, searing jolts up your arm. You clenched your jaw, your nails digging into the armrest of the chair.

After what felt like an eternity, the guard finally pulled the bullet free. The small piece of metal clinked against the tray. Next, they applied ointment to the wound. Then, they wrapped your arm in clean white bandages, securing them snugly.

“You’re done,” the guard said simply, beginning to pack up the kit.

You stared at the scalpel, your eyes darting back to the circle guard as they moved around the room. The thought lingered in your mind. You wanted to use it. You had a plan, a desperate one, but were you willing enough to act on it? To kill someone, who had done nothing wrong to you, in cold blood? The very idea made your stomach churn.

Yes, you had killed loan sharks and triangle guards before, but you did it to protect yourself. But to kill this circle guard who had tended to your wound and had been nothing but respectful to you? You were hesitant. But your will to survive burned stronger, too. You didn’t want to be violated by any guard, the Captain, or be trafficked. Surrendering didn’t mean you consented to anything, and the fear of what might come next only deepened your desperation.

But as you hesitated, the circle guard packed the scalpel into the medical kit and snapped the lid shut. It was done before you could muster the courage to act. The opportunity had slipped through your fingers. But you felt both relief and frustration. Relief that you hadn’t resorted to violence, but frustration at the loss of a potential lifeline.

The circle guard picked up the kit and left the room without a word, leaving you alone once more. You stayed seated, your arm throbbing with a dull ache under the bandages. But the pain was secondary. Your thoughts were consumed by what awaited you under the mysterious Captain’s rule. What would he do to you? Would he make you a pawn in his twisted games, or worse? You shuddered.

Your musings were interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. The square guard who had been stationed outside stepped inside. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Get up. I will bring you to another room for your next command.”

You stared at him, trying to decipher his tone. Was he implying that you were to become one of them? The phrasing of his words made you wonder if you were about to be inducted into their ranks, a thought that filled you with unease. What you didn’t know was that he was simply taking you to another holding room to wait for the Captain’s summons.

Slowly, you began to rise, your movements stiff as the pain in your arm flared up again. Before you could fully straighten, something slammed into the square guard’s back with a force that made him stumble forward. You flinched, stepping back instinctively as a single triangle guard burst into the room. The door shut with a loud thud, trapping the three of you inside.

The triangle guard attacked the square guard without hesitation, striking him with the butt of their MP5 gun again and again. The sounds of the struggle filled the small room, the square guard grunting in pain as he tried to fight back. But the triangle guard’s assault was relentless, leaving the square guard no chance to recover. Within moments, the square guard collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

You pressed yourself against the wall, your heart pounding in your chest. Your wide eyes locked onto the triangle guard as they turned their attention to you.

Who are they? Were they connected to the triangle guards who you had killed before? Those two who intended to violate you? The thought chilled you to the core. You couldn’t help but wonder if they had come to finish what the others had started. Your back pressed harder against the wall as if trying to disappear into it. You braced yourself, preparing to defend or attack if needed.

To your surprise, the triangle guard stepped backward, lowering their stance as if to show they meant no harm. “I mean you no harm. I’m here to save you.”

You frowned, your body still pressed against the wall as doubt flickered across your face.

“How can I trust you?” you asked, your voice laced with wariness. The memory of the two triangle guards who had threatened to violate you was still fresh, their words and intentions leaving scars deeper than your injury. What if this guard was just like them, luring you into a false sense of safety only to hurt you later?

They didn’t move closer. Instead, they stood their ground, hands at their sides in a gesture of peace. “Someone asked me to save you. It’s no secret to the guards that you’re here because of Captain's mercy and player 456’s plan.”

Your eyebrows furrowed further. “Who’s that someone?”

For a moment, the guard was silent, their gaze unreadable behind the mask. Then, finally, they said, “I can’t tell you who. But I can show you. You have to follow me first. They were injured during the uprising.”

Their words hung in the air, and realization dawned on you. That ‘someone’ had to be one of the players who had joined Gi-hun’s rebellion. Still, doubt and wariness still clung to you.

The guard reached into the pocket of their pink jacket and pulled out a revolver. Placing it on the table, they stepped back again.

“We don’t have much time,” they said, their tone insistent but calm. “If you don’t trust me, take this. Keep it pointed at me if you want. But we need to go. A manager or the Captain himself will come to fetch you soon enough.”

Your gaze darted between the guard and the revolver, uncertainty gnawing at you. Something about the way they spoke, their demeanor, seemed genuine. Why would they arm you if they meant to harm you? The sincerity in their actions nudged at your resolve, chipping away at your doubt.

Slowly, skeptically, you pushed yourself away from the wall. You stepped toward the table and picked up the revolver. Checking the cylinder, you saw it was fully loaded. With a small click, you snapped it shut and slipped it into your jacket pocket, keeping your hand wrapped tightly around the grip.

You looked at the guard, your expression tense. “Lead the way.”

The triangle guard stepped closer to the unconscious square guard and knelt down. They reached for the square guard’s mask and removed it, revealing a man beneath it. His face was obscured by a black headsock that left only his eyes visible.

Standing, the triangle guard moved to the door and cracked it open just enough to peek outside. After a moment of tense silence, they gestured for you to follow. Your grip tightened on the revolver hidden in your jacket pocket as you quietly followed their lead.

The two of you navigated the maze of hallways. You kept your eyes fixed on the triangle guard, observing every detail. Their figure seemed delicate, not the physique you’d expect from someone capable of taking down a square guard. It struck you then that they had used the butt of their MP5 to subdue the square guard, not their bare hands.

You noticed the guard kept glancing upward every time you two entered a new purple corridor. Following their line of sight, your eyes landed on a CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. That’s when it hit you. This guard was carefully navigating through hallways that were free of CCTVs, deliberately avoiding surveillance.

The hallways twisted and turned, each intersection making it harder to keep track of where you were. Finally, the triangle guard halted in front of an unmarked door. They scanned the surroundings, ensuring that the area was clear. They opened the door and gestured for you to enter.

You hesitated, peering inside before stepping through the threshold. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes landed on a familiar face.

Gyeong-seok was sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the wall. His jacket was on the floor beside him. He was only donning his shirt and pants. His hand clutched at his lower abdomen, and his face was contorted in pain. But when your eyes met, his expression changed entirely. A look of astonishment, almost disbelief, lit up his features.

He called your name with a breathy voice that was shaky but filled with relief. “You’re okay.”

Without thinking, you bounded into the room, closing the distance between you and Gyeong-seok in an instant. Dropping to your knees beside him, you reached out, your hands hovering uncertainly as you took in his condition. There was an opened medical kit next to him on the floor. The mysterious triangle guard promptly shut the door behind them.

“Gyeong-seok,” you said, your voice breaking with emotion. “Oh, God. What happened to you?”

He gave you a weak smile, wincing slightly as he adjusted his position. “It’s… a long story. But I’m glad you’re okay…”

The triangle guard quietly walked toward you and Gyeong-seok and kneeled on the other side of him. In a low voice, they said, “Let me see.”

You watched silently as Gyeong-seok withdrew his hand from his lower abdomen. There it was. A gunshot wound that had been hastily tended to, the makeshift bandages still faintly stained with blood.

“I’m okay,” Gyeong-seok said with a labored breath, his softening gaze fixed on the triangle guard. “Thank you…”

The guard didn’t respond immediately. For a moment, it seemed like they weren’t sure how to react to the gratitude. Instead, they remained silent, their body language unreadable.

“But why?” you asked, your curiosity breaking through your cautious demeanor. Your wide eyes locked onto the guard. “Why did you save us? Who are you?”

The triangle guard shifted their attention to you, their mask hiding any hint of emotion. They didn’t answer right away. Instead, they rose to their feet and turned toward the wall, their back facing both you and Gyeong-seok.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” they said solemnly. Then, turning back to face you, they took a few steps closer and extended their hand, holding out a square mask. “Keep this.”

You blinked, confusion etched across your face, but you took the mask from their hand without protest. The triangle guard stepped back toward the door.

“Stay here and keep quiet,” they instructed, their voice calm. “I will come back in a moment.”

They cracked the door open just enough to peek outside. After ensuring it was safe, they slipped out, leaving the door ajar for a brief moment before it clicked shut behind them.

Now alone with Gyeong-seok, you turned to him, your concern evident. “What happened? Were there any others who survived?”

Gyeong-seok let out a slow, pained exhale. “The guards… there were too many of them. Everyone else… they were shot dead.”

His eyes dropped to the floor as if the weight of the truth was too much to hold. “I don’t know about Hyun-ju, though. She might… she might still be out there.”

Gyeong-seok let out another strained breath, his hand pressing lightly against his bandaged abdomen. “The guards moved in on us and we were cornered. We surrendered and I was shot.”

He paused, his gaze flickering to the floor as if trying to piece together the fragmented memories. “When I woke up, I was here. That guard… they were tending to my wound. I don’t know why or how, but they saved me.”

You stared at him, your mind racing. The revelation only deepened the mystery surrounding the triangle guard. Why would they risk themselves to help? What was their motive? You glanced back at the square mask in your hands, its smooth, faceless surface offering no answers.

“Did they say anything to you?” you asked.

Gyeong-seok shook his head weakly. “Not much. Just told me to stay quiet and rest. Then there was a command through their radio. It was about you.”

Your eyebrows shot up, the sudden detail catching your full attention.

Gyeong-seok’s expression was serious despite his obvious fatigue. “Someone was giving orders through their radio. They said that player 423 should not be shot… at all costs.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Player 423. That was your number.

“They seemed really adamant about it. It made me wonder what they’d do to you instead. Through the radio, I overheard them saying you’d been taken to a room. That’s when I asked…” he paused, gesturing weakly toward the door, “…the guard to save you.”

His words hung in the air. You tried to process everything. Why would someone order that you not be harmed? And who and why gave such an order? Questions flooded your mind, each one more troubling than the last.

“So, they agreed?” you asked in disbelief, still wondering why the triangle guard saved you out of the blue.

Gyeong-seok grimaced slightly at the ache in his wound. “They didn’t say much, just nodded and left. When I woke up again, I was here. Then you showed up.”

You sat back slightly, clutching the square mask in your hands as your thoughts raced. The pieces didn’t fit together, but one thing was clear: someone out there had decided your fate, and it wasn’t entirely in your hands anymore.

“Do you have any idea who gave the order?” you pressed in a low voice as something crossed your mind.

Gyeong-seok shook his head weakly. “No clue. But whoever it was, they had authority. The guards followed the command without question.”

You pieced it together almost instantly. It had to be the Captain. He was the one who shot the guard who had accidentally harmed you. It made sense that he would be the one giving orders to keep you alive. But why? What reason could he possibly have for sparing you?

Before you could dwell on it further, the door creaked open. You and Gyeong-seok tensed, your bodies instinctively stiffening. Relief washed over you both when the triangle guard stepped into the room. To your surprise, they were carrying two sets of hot pink uniforms.

They shut the door behind them with a soft click and stepped forward.

“Put these on,” they instructed, their voice calm but firm.

***

Firm footsteps echoed through the endless maze of purple hallways. The Captain strode forward with purpose, his long, calculated strides never faltering despite the labyrinthine corridors. Behind him, four square guards flanked him in perfect formation, their movements synchronized as if pulled by invisible strings.

The Captain’s mask remained forward-facing, his body language exuding an unshakable authority over everything. Each turn of the hallways seemed to have been memorized, as he moved without hesitation, as though the twists and turns of the corridors were etched into his mind.

Finally, he reached a door. Without a moment’s pause, he pushed it open and stepped inside. His masked gaze scanned the room. The simple space contained a table and two chairs, but it was empty. His eyes moved, landing immediately on an unconscious pink guard slumped against the wall, his mask removed and gone.

The Captain’s entire focus fixed on the guard. The tension in the room thickened as the four square guards behind him surveyed the space, their heads turning slightly but never breaking their rigid stance. The Captain’s silence was deafening, his stillness radiating an almost tangible anger.

“Wake him up,” he commanded, his voice low and sharp, carrying an edge that made everyone’s posture stiffen further.

One of the square guards stepped forward and knelt beside the unconscious guard. They patted his cheeks firmly, the repeated motion bringing him back to consciousness. The pink guard’s eyes fluttered open, confusion etched into his features. As awareness returned, he instinctively brought his hands to his face, his fingers brushing against his exposed skin. Horror dawned on him as he realized his mask was missing.

His wide eyes darted upward, locking onto the imposing figure of the Captain. The room seemed to freeze as the Captain stood perfectly still, exuding a cold, silent fury. The unmasked guard began to stammer, his words spilling out in a jumbled mess of fear and panic. His trembling voice filled the air as he tried to explain himself, knowing full well the consequences that awaited him.

The Captain silenced the stammering guard with a single, cold question.

“What happened?” he asked, his deep voice cutting through the room like a blade.

The unmasked guard pushed himself back against the wall, trembling as he tried to muster a response. “I… I was… attacked. By a-a-another guard. I got… knocked out…”

The Captain raised his left hand, his white pistol steady and unflinching. He aimed it directly at the space between the guard’s eyebrows. Without a word, he pulled the trigger, the shot echoing through the room. The guard slumped over, lifeless, as the sound faded into silence.

The square guards standing beside and behind the Captain didn’t flinch. They remained perfectly still. The Captain lowered his pistol to his side, glancing around the room calculatively. His eyes moved and searched for any clues that might reveal what had transpired. Every detail was scrutinized, every corner of the room taken in.

After a long moment of silence, he turned on his heel, heading for the door. As he exited, his voice rang out with authority. “Begin a wide search for player 423.”

The square guards dispersed immediately, exiting the room in formation. The air filled with the sound of their boots echoing down the hallways.

Soon after, an announcement blared through the facility. “Attention. A wide search is now underway for player 423. All guards are to report any findings immediately. Repeat: begin search for player 423.”

The message repeated as guards across the compound mobilized. Pink uniforms flooded the hallways, their movements swift and synchronized. Each guard methodically checked rooms, peered into corridors, and examined every nook and cranny. The tension in the air grew heavier with every passing second.

In an hour, under the Captain’s absolute order, every guard – circle, triangle, and square – assembled in the control room. The circles stood at the far back near the walls, their presence more subdued but still important. The squares took their places in front of the circles, scattered around the room and stationed near the monitors that lined the walls. The triangles, armed with their MP5s, stood in perfect formation on the central floor. Beneath them, a massive screen displayed the remaining players in the game.

In front of all the triangle guards stood the Captain. His presence itself was commanding. Although his posture seemed rigid and calm, unspoken anger still radiated from him like invisible smokes. Every guard in the room could sense it. Despite his stillness, his fury was almost tangible.

The masked officer, the Captain’s second-in-command, approached him and stopped a respectful distance away. The officer delivered his report. “Captain, a wide search for player 423 has been conducted throughout the facility. Unfortunately, there has been no trace of them. The CCTVs have also failed to capture any sightings.”

The control room fell into a heavy silence. The Captain said nothing, his masked face angled downward as if he was lost in thought. Every guard seemed to hold their breath, waiting for his reaction. The sound of the monitors quietly buzzing was the only thing breaking the oppressive stillness.

Then, after a minute of agonizing silence, the Captain finally moved. Slowly, deliberately, he began to walk in a wide circle around the room, his footsteps echoing against the polished floor. He didn’t look at the triangle guards lined up at the center that he was circling around. Instead, his focus was on the square guards standing by the monitors. His masked face turned toward each one as he passed. It was impossible to tell where his thoughts lay. The weight of his presence pressed down on everyone in the room.

You swallowed hard in anxiety. Behind the square mask you wore, your eyes followed his every movement with laser focus. You were stationed beside a monitor in the second row starting from the center.

Your disguise was meticulously planned by the mysterious yet kind triangle guard who had helped you. Before the assembly, they had instructed you to take a position at any unmanned monitor. These monitors, now vacant, were left without operators due to the deaths of their original handlers during the uprising.

As the Captain’s slow, deliberate pacing brought him closer to you, the tension became unbearable. His movements were calm, but his presence was suffocating. Finally, his gaze seemed to finally land on you. His pace didn’t change, but his mask turned toward you, the pointed stare unmistakable even through the emotionless square of his mask.

Your breath hitched as realization struck. He knew. He knew you were there, disguising as one of them. But he didn’t know which one of the square guards in the room it was. But how does he know?

The Captain continued his walk around the room. His masked face turned toward each square guard he passed. When he completed his circuit, he returned to where he had initially stood and stopped. He cast his gaze downward, his posture rigid and commanding.

The silence in the control room was stifling. Every guard stood frozen, waiting for the Captain’s next move. No one dared to speak or even shift in place as the oppressive atmosphere pressed down on everyone present.

Finally, his second-in-command broke the silence. “Captain, would you like to conduct a second search?”

The Captain remained still, his silence stretching on for what felt like an eternity. His head remained angled downward, as though he was contemplating the suggestion. The room held its collective breath, the tension almost unbearable.

After what seemed like an eternity, the Captain lifted his head, his mask facing forward. “No.”

A wave of relief rushed through you, so sudden and overwhelming that you almost swayed where you stood. Behind your square mask, you felt a flicker of hope. He’d given up, you thought. He’d abandoned the search for you. You couldn’t let your relief show, but inwardly, you were delighted.

But the Captain wasn’t finished. His next words shattered your fleeting sense of safety.

“She wishes to play sumbakkogjil (hide and seek). Very well,” he said, his tone carrying a certainty that sent a chill down your spine.

Your relief gave way to a gnawing unease, the weight of his statement settling over you like a storm cloud. He wasn’t giving up. No. He was willing to play with you.

NEXT : Chapter 15

PREV : Chapter 13

Story Masterlist

Please feel free to leave comments and feedback about my story, the characters, the "you", and practically anything! I love reading your comments, especially long ones! It motivates me a lot! So what do you think about the Captain and his overall character writing? Do you feel his dark and ruthless presence? Did I do a good job writing it? What do you think about "you" lying and offering yourself up to the Captain in exchange for Gi-hun and Jung-bae's life? Because of that, the Captain finally gave you his full attention. He then asked you to come with him. What do you think he would do to you once you accepted? And Gi-hun was so distraught about you being taken away. What do you think of it? Next, what about the conversation between the masked officer and the Captain? They talked about the update on what had happened to Hyun-ju, Gyeong-seok and others. Then, what do you think about you considering to kill the circle guard but you were hesitant? Does that show what kind of person you are? Suddenly, a mysterious triangle guard appeared and attacked the square guard who was guarding you. Who was it and why did they save you and Gyeong-seok? Do you like this path of aftermath I took? What do you think about the the Captain being quietly pissed off and told everyone to do a wide search for you? Now, how does he know about you disguising as a square guard? Lastly, what do you think about the ending where you unknowingly started a hide and seek and it's just a special game between you and him?

Leave a comment on the masterlist post to be added to the taglist.

[notyourmamasdeerbat]

WIP Wednesday / Last Line / Short Blurb Sunday

Hello, internet! I am Once Again sitting on so many snippets. Thank you so much to @hedwigoprah , @fenrelmercar and @sunny374940 for the tags!! I love you guys, keep up the good work! I am crunching on all of your WIPs with the enthusiasm of a cat that found a plastic wrapper on the porch. I am having such a blast, and I am so profoundly grateful for all of you. 🥰

Stuff below the cut!

Strife (Do not Joke. Never Smiles.)

First, a Modern/Night Club AU text exchange for your viewing pleasure. As you know, this fic is slowly consuming my soul:

-Hey, boss. I’m really sorry to do this to you but I’m going to have to call out tmrrw. Possibly the next few days. 

You’d better have a good explanation for this, Rook.

-I’ve been stabbed? 

Very funny.

[Rook is typing…] 

Mythal’enaste.

[Rook is typing…] 

WHAT DID YOU DO.

And! This week's A Word With Friends for a fun plot bunny ficlet that curled up in my brain, possibly one of many, where I make the Arlathan Forest just so much Worse. Because I can. It has Rookanis flavor. Or at least, this one does. Post extablished relationship? MAYBE. I honestly haven't decided yet.

CW: Near drowning, water submersion, frightening images/creatures

The rogue toppled over into the water with a damning splash. 

“Rook!” Lucanis whirled, barely registering Spite’s howl of alarm. Before he knew it he was clawing out of his cape with a sweep of fabric pilling at his feet, shucking off his sword belt and taking rapid strides to the water's edge. The battle was a distant memory now, all that mattered was this shocking scrap of knowledge that clawed its way into his windpipe and squeezed. 

Rook can't swim. 

“Lucanis!” Bellara’s cry drowned in his ears, warbling as the Crow threw out his arms and dove into the water. 

He could see Rook, squinting through the rush of icy bubbles and brine, sinking like a stone, weighed down by their armor and gear, thrashing stubbornly as the dappled light was drained away by depth. Visibly holding their breath, the Veil Jumper yanked off their bow and quiver, hands moving to struggle with the clasp of their laden belt, legs working furiously and cloak billowing like broken wings at odd angles over their head, weight obscuring dexterity and vision. 

Lucanis surged downward, willing the muscles in his legs to obey and the panic in his chest to unravel. All that mattered was the task. The target. Rook’s hands. If he could reach their hands– 

Rook's head shot up, movements sluggish and submerged, dark bangs lashing like fringes of kelp as their eyes widened on Lucanis as he swam down to meet them, haloed by the aquatic gleam rippling the water’s surface. 

Rook shook their head rapidly, gesturing wildly for him to go back. Foolish. A waste of energy and time, and potentially a perfectly good rogue. Lucanis set his jaw, lungs burning– had the quarry originally seemed so deep? On the surface it didn't seem this black and cold. He ignored the way the dark made his throat close and his blood curdle, pushing himself lower faster. 

Rook's grunt of frustration rippled across the water to him as he finally reached their side while they worked at their belt with renewed urgency. 

He allowed himself no hesitation as he drew the dagger from his side and hooked it under the belt, slitting the thick leather with a jerk. Rook seized his collar, shaking their head faster and surging uselessly up towards the surface, kicks weak and uncoordinated, growing more sluggish by the minute as their brain worked furiously against its rapidly dwindling oxygen. 

Lucanis grit his teeth and looped his arms under theirs, gathering them close to his chest as he began to swim back towards the surface. Even with the buoyancy the depths afforded, Rook was heavy. 

A silver glint caught in the corner of his eye. Long, diaphanous blue fins. Shining scales. A fish, no larger than his hand. Then another, on Rook’s left. Then another. Then another. Below them, above them, tails undulating to keep pace around the divers. A veritable swarm of flashing bodies all around them. 

Spite prickled with unease, thrashing this way and that in Lucanis’ gut. The assassin’s hair stood on end as the fish kept their distance, surging closer, then away with each nauseous pulse of the demon’s hate. Not. Right. Go away! 

Lucanis ignored the burning in his airway and the cold in the water. He forced away the sludge of haze and memories of purified agony that dredged to the surface of his skin. It made his head swim. The light above wasn’t getting any closer. Why wasn’t it getting any bigger? 

The Crow heaved up with his shoulders and kicked with his legs. One of the fish darted in, close to his face, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head as his own horror and Spite’s wildfire instinct roared up to swallow his consciousness. His heart hammered nauseatingly against his ribs and he nearly lost his last lungful of air. 

The silvery fish had rows and rows of blood red needle teeth. 

Maker. 

Rook’s ice cold fingers suddenly seized Lucanis’ armor at the back of his neck, whipping him around in the water, their body coiling around his as they drifted to one side. The fish darted back into the dark, scattering in all directions in a storm of millions of small, tickling bubbles.

Heheheheheheheheh. Don't worry. It gets worse. Hope you enjoyed! I do love WIP Wednesdays. Uncombed Chapter 2 set to release by the end of this week on Sunday! <3

Gentle tagging my beloveds: @redheadsramblings @davrinsleftpectoral  @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @nevarrantorte @caughtnyact @seaglassmelody @strugglinggranola @jenn2d2 @palenecromaniac @thesummerstorms @strugglinggranola @woundedsoul12

💝 Remember to drink water and take your meds!

[woollypoison]

High-definition closure

Male reader x Itzy Chaeryeong a/n: a little mini-story I got challenged to in between bigger stories. I wanted to limit myself to 1k words. I failed. Word count: 1.1k

Chaeryeong's mascara was already ruined when she got here, but if she were to ask you, you'd say you preferred it this way. You only wish it were you that created the black streaks dragging down her cheeks. She hasn’t bothered to fix it. Maybe she thinks it completes the look—like she’s some princess that has just been cursed, like it's a sign for other men to ask her what's wrong before falling into her jaws. Hints of plum and chamomile stick to her, but the scent is mixed with the salt of dried tears and the faintest trace of vanilla vodka, her favorite alcohol.

She's wearing this loose off-shoulder sweater, just oversized enough to look careless, like she pulled it on without thinking, but you know better. The sleeves slip past her wrists, swallowing her hands when she lets them, but right now they’re bunched up, exposing the sharp angle of her collarbone. A short skirt clings to her waist, stopping high enough to show off soft, bare thighs—bare except for the black thigh-highs hugging her legs, the only thing about her outfit that looks deliberately put together.

She's a frantic storm of emotions, and there's nothing slow about it. Her hand around your wrist jams downwards, slipping underneath her skirt, sliding lace to the side, pressing your fingers against wet heat with a knowing little smirk. The first sensible thing she's done since getting here and screaming about her now ex.

"Feel that?" she purrs, voice silky, sultry and smokey bravado. "You should really take advantage of that while you still can."

You exhale through your nose, noncommittal, but you don't pull away. Instead, you press your fingers into her, feel the way she clenches around them, her walls hot and her smirk turning needy. Her whole body shivers at the touch as a breath gets forcefully ejected out of her. It's nice—good, even—until she ruins it all by opening her mouth again.

"God, he was such an asshole," she groans, head tipping back. "You know what he said when he dumped me? That I was too much. Too needy. Like, what the fuck does that even mean?"

You huff, pushing two fingers inside her, making her gasp, and not in surprise. "I don’t know. Sounds like he had a point."

Her eyes snap to yours, mouth parting in indignation. "Excuse me?"

"You’ve been talking about him for ten minutes," you say, tone flat. "While I’m literally inside you. He might’ve had a point."

She scoffs, lifting herself just enough to slam down against your hand, making a point of grinding into your palm. "Yeah? And yet here you are, knuckle-deep and not stopping."

"Doesn’t mean I wanna hear about him."

“Then shut me up,” she challenges you audaciously, the taunt accentuated by the rolling of her hips against your hand. “You’re man enough for that, aren’t you? Making one sad little girl shut the fuck up?” Your thumb presses into her clit with force like a warning. Her breath stutters at the figurative growl you gave her, fingers tightening against your shoulders. “Better?” you ask, bored. You keep working her, fingers curling, thumb circling, taking your time with it. Her thighs start to shake, her body pressing harder against yours. She’s wet, practically dripping, and you could push her over the edge right now if you wanted to. But she just does not know when to shut the fuck up. And maybe that is your fault.

“God,” she begins, but it’s not a moan. “I can’t believe how much time I wasted on that asshole,” she rambles on, frustrated herself and frustrating you. "Three years. Three years of listening to his bullshit, letting him act like I was the problem. Like I should’ve been grateful for the bare minimum."

“Uh-huh.” Your eyes roll back in annoyance, and you make another attempt at making hers do the same but in ecstasy. “Like, seriously, you wouldn’t believe—” she cuts herself off as a third finger of yours slips inside her, sucking in a breath as sharp as her complaints. “Fuck. Okay. That’s—okay.” “You were saying?” you prompt, but regret it the moment you do. Shouldn’t even give her a chance to talk about this bullshit. She glares back at you, the dark in her eyes meshing with the black of her messy make-up, but she doesn’t answer. She exhales, heaving, rising and falling on your fingers as she presses her chest against yours, finding her phone she tossed somewhere near you earlier. You feel her fingers tap at the screen before she grins down at you.

"I just had the best idea."

You already know it’s not. "Doubt it."

"We should send him a picture. You know, show him what he’s missing."

You blink. "You wanna send your ex a dick pic."

"No, no. A me-with-your-dick pic. Very different. Tasteful. Artistic. Guaranteed to make him angry."

You sigh, slipping your fingers out of her, resting your hand on her hip instead. "That’s fucking stupid."

"That’s closure."

"That’s unhinged."

She grins. “When a girl just got dumped, those two are basically the same thing.” There’s no energy left inside your soul to argue with her. She smirks like she’s won, then slides down, settling between your legs. You watch, half-lidded, as she presses a teasing kiss just above the tip of your cock, phone in one hand, camera pointed down.

"You’re serious about this?" you ask, amused despite yourself.

"Dead serious." She kisses the tip lightly, just enough to make your jaw tighten. "Think about it—he gets a notification, opens it up, sees me like this, working a cock that's at least twice his size. Tell me that wouldn’t ruin his fucking night."

"Or get you blocked immediately."“I can live with that as long as he sees it first. Besides, you’re doing a lot of complaining for someone who’s getting his dick kissed by a girl as pretty as me.”

She’s clearly using you, but the thought doesn’t upset you. You lean back against the couch, thinking this relationship should be a two way street, fingers gracing the side of her face, threading into her hair.

“If you’re sure about making him mad,” you murmur, grasping handfuls of her hair on the back of her head, “you should commit fully and do it properly.”

And then you push her down, the full length of your cock disappearing into the warmth of her throat just as the camera shutter clicks and her mouth sputters, gagging as you push her further than her ex ever reached.

[gaybirdnerd]

Puppy Teeth and Kitten Claws

Ice never noticed how many things Maverick chewed on until after the battle had ended and he had come to a startling realization that made his heart hurt.

They were celebrating the victory at Viper's rather large house that never fails to make Ice a little envious. The BBQ the Top Gun recruits had been invited to was in full swing before Ice noticed what Maverick was doing.

Ice was talking to Viper's wife about something he will never remember when he saw Maverick weaving back and forth out of the corner of his eye. Ice turned his head briefly to check on him and had to look back in a double-take before what was happening registered in his brain and short-circuited it.

The shorter man was going back and forth across the yard, helping Viper bring food to the long row of plastic tables that had been collected and brought to the middle of the large expanse of grass.

That was not the thing that made Ice question Maverick's sanity.

What did do that was the fact that Maverick had a soda can dangling between his teeth by the metal edge, swinging gently with every step and moving the man's chin along with it in a bobbing motion.

As he walks, Maverck's head swings gently side to side, first looking out one eye and then the other to see where he is going past both the can in his mouth and the tray full of food in his hands. He sidesteps the rest of the recruits playing a messed-up version of football that somehow involves wrestling, making his way to the tables beyond the playing children and next to Ice, eventually setting his tray down in a now-rare empty spot on the row of tables.

Ice assumes the younger man will set his soda down as well.

Ice is wrong.

Maverck turns and makes his way past the chaos again, head swinging gently and angled vaguely downwards as he expertly dodges bodies and toys from the children and adults alike.

Ice hears a chuckle beside him, startling him enough to make him twitch an inch to the right as he registers Viper's wife's presence had gotten closer to his left side. He really needs to remember her name.

"What?"

She shakes her head fondly, "He's just like his father. Duke was always holding what he could in his mouth, gave me plenty of heart attacks doing it to my pretty glass cups during dinner time. Lord knows they both forget there's something wrong with the picture. I thought it was the funniest thing, seeing this man about a foot taller than me holding his keys or just about anything in his mouth as he used his hands for something else." She beams a beatific smile at him and walks away.

Maverick passes Ice to put something on a table near him, barely pausing when Ice reaches out and grabs the soda can gently from his mouth. Once the food tray is put down, Maverick turns and beams at him, reaching over to grab it back.

For half a second, Ice contemplates putting it above his head. He knows he will get kicked in the nuts for it and decides against that course of action. He instead turns it over to inspect it-a normal Coke can- and hands it back.

A loud shout and rambunctious laughter makes him look at those playing "football," finding a group dog pile and Viper shaking his head as he nears the table with a tray of ribs.

Viper and Maverick exchange a look that Ice can't discern before Viper passes them and Maverick brings a hand to his mouth. A shrill whistle cuts through the noise. Those on the floor still or sit up and knock heads, those about to tackle (Hollywood) slip in the sudden stop and land face first in the dirt, and those being quieter than the others nearly give themselves whiplash to look. Ice had nearly jumped out of his skin at the noise, clutching his chest and looking offended at Maverick as the smaller man smirks and Viper subtly presses a bill into the hand behind his back.

Viper's voice rings across the silent yard, "Lunch time! Asses in seats, the lot of you."

Ice registers as his right arm is grabbed in two hands, dragging him towards where Viper and his family are starting to sit. He looks at Maverick to find that stupid can in his mouth again and his eyes sparkling with mischief and joy.

Once they're seated, Ice assumes Maverick will remove the can and put it on the table.

You know what they say about assuming.

Maverck starts serving up the food around them, grabbing dishes and serving them to others as they ask, putting some on his and Ice's plates as he gets to it.

The entire time, he has that stupid can in his mouth.

Once everyone has their food and Maverick is satisfied, he sits down fully and takes the can out of his teeth, licking his lips briefly as he settles the can on the table and opens his plastic-wrapped eating utensils.

That entire lunch, Ice cannot for the life of him concentrate on anything but the man beside him. Maverick has always been larger than life, but now that Ice has come to a realization he is still in denial over, he seems much bigger.

The younger man never stops moving; he talks with those around them, his hands waving wildly the entire time, moving his body to emphasize a point he made, standing up to deny something with his whole chest. For someone Slider jokes is "such a little guy," Maverick has the yelling capacity of a Spartan army and quiets the table twice when he jumps up to defend himself and his position in a conversation.

What drives Ice into near-insanity himself is that the entire time he's talking, Maverick has something in his mouth he's chewing on or licking food off of or simply playing with with his tongue.

Today is the day that Ice realizes the shorter man has a freckle on the right side of his bottom lip, almost hidden in the pink until he starts biting at his lip out of some sort of habit that seems to belie nervousness.

Today is the day Ice realizes he's doomed and so deep in his own feelings that he's metaphorically drowning with them.

After tearing his eyes off of Maverick's lips for the nth time, Ice catches the knowing look Slider is shooting him, wishing he could sink into his seat and disappear.

When lunch is said and done and enough conversation has been had, people start standing and helping with the cleanup. When Maverick gets up to help, Hollywood and Jester grab him by the arms and sit him down, forcing Ice down with him and demanding that the raven-haired man be babysat so he doesn't try to help.

Chest warm with laughter, Ice mock salutes and puts his arms around Maverick's shoulders, effectively trapping him in his seat.

Maverick sighs and melts into Ice's chest reluctantly, reaching out to grab his half-empty soda can and start playing with it, taking small sips as well. Ice notices a small clunking noise after a few minutes and cranes his head around Maverick's, watching as the man uses a canine to pry the pop tab off and then start working to separate the top of the can and the rest of it.

Ice grabs the can out of Maverick's mouth, a weak protest slipping from the man before one of the kids shows up with a full can and hands it to him. Ice watches as Maverick pops the can and starts sipping the soda again, then turns to the other can to investigate the damage.

To his surprise, Maverick had already gotten a hole through the aluminum, making it seem as if someone had stabbed the can. Ice wonders just how strong the other man's teeth are to do this.

Before he knows it, Ice is no longer on babysitting duty and the party has been cleaned up. They all get up and going, saying thank you to Viper's family and moving to go to their own spaces to relax after the long day.

Ice is kept awake that night by haunting thoughts of the freckle on his wingman's bottom lip, practically begging to be kissed.

After that day, whenever they're facing each other, Ice can't help but look for the small brown spot, watching as it stretches and moves with each expression and each word. Had Ice been paying attention to the sarcastic words said and not just responding to them instinctively, he would be a pro at reading lips.

Slider has been giving him knowing looks for weeks now.

Ice doesn't like it.

Within weeks, Ice notices the pattern he had been unseeing of before. He watches as Maverick holds cans and pencils and eating utensils in his mouth, chewing on fingernails and long sleeves and sticks of some sort of snack with a mysterious origin.

It's quite literally a mystery. One second, the man is empty-handed; the next, he's got a snack in his mouth.

Ice watches as the man opens things with his top right canine, chewing through cans and bottle lids like they're nothing. Ice absurdly wonders if the younger man can open a soup can without a can opener.

He hopes he doesn't get the answer.

His pining grows each and every day. It's not just this habit he's taking notice of. He notices how soft Maverick is with women and children and those who don't know what to do wth him. Ice even sees the man stop walking to help a small lizard in the walkway on a particularly hot day, taking it aside under a bush and giving it water.

It's almost as if the snark of the younger man is hiding this soft side of himself Ice has only started noticing recently.

Tom "Iceman" Kazansky is doomed.

One day, Slider has had enough; he's carrying a protesting and struggling Maverick over his shoulder when he enters their room. He plops the smaller man down on the foot of Ice's empty bed, whispers something that makes him still, and leaves the room.

Ice looks after Slider in stunned confusion for about a minute, turning to Maverick to ask what's happening and freezing at the full-face blush the other man is sporting. Maverick grins up at him from halfway across the room and stands to cross to the couch two feet from where Ice stands.

Maverick's voice startles him all the same, despite how closely he's watching the man. "So. You've been watching me."

At Ice's spluttering and furious pink flush quickly spreading from his ears to his face, Maverick nods and his smile grows softer. "I've been watching you, too."

This makes Ice pause in his effort to find the right words to brush this off. At Maverick's little pat on the couch next to him, Ice sits and faces the smaller man, tucking one foot under himself to get comfortable while hiding how insecure he feels.

Maverick breaks the silence again, almost startling the other man from his quick spiral into his own thoughts. "You play with your hands a lot, you know that?"

Ice stares in confusion, eliciting a chuckle from the man in front of him. "You do! I noticed during the celebration, when everyone else was cleaning up. You had your hands in front of me, and you were playing with your own fingernails or the soda can. I put my necklace in grabbing distance, and I don't think you even noticed when you started playing with it. There's a ring, see?"

Ice stares as Maverick brings his dog tags out of his shirt, a gold wedding band with decorative lines etched on it on the small chain, clinking against the tags. Before Ice can come to any conclusion about the ring, Maverick slides his right thumb into it and reaches inside his shirt with his left hand for a silver wedding ring with a small diamond surrounded by the same etching design

Ice recognizes the gold ring then. It's the very one that had been on Goose's finger and dog tag necklace the entire time he had been married to Carole. The information hits him like a ton of bricks before he can even think about how he had apparently been playing with it.

It hits him even harder that it seems like Carole had given Maverick both of their wedding rings. For what, Ice doesn't know. He thinks he doesn't want the answer.

A hand on his arm startles him from his reverie, making him look up at the small, sad smile Maverick gives him as he tucks the necklace back in his shirt, giving it what seems like a habitual pat before moving both hands to rest on Ice's shoulders.

"Sorry."

Ice narrows his eyes at the younger, "For what?"

"I didn't realize you didn't know about the rings."

Ice shakes his head, "Why do you have them? Carole must have given them to you, but why?"

The sad smile gets impossibly sadder, turning into a frown. "I loved him. Not like Carole did, of course, but he was my brother. He was the closest thing I had to family until I met Carole and Bradley, then they became a part of us. Carole wanted me to have these because they'll help me remember the good times. With them as a family. Before I ruined it."

Ice feels righteous indignation at that, grabbing Maverick's wrists and catching his gaze when it snaps to him and tries to dart away. He shakes Maverick bodily by the wrists and makes an incomprehensible noise of frustration.

"You didn't do shit."

"Ice-"

"Shut the fuck up, me time. Did you plan to get into my jet wash? Did you sabotage the ejection? Did you hold Goose under water personally?"

A horrified gasp follows the last question, the raven-haired man's throat working to get past the tears that spring up while he shakes his head adamantly.

Ice brings him closer by his wrists, scooting on the couch to wrap the smaller man in a hug. "You didn't do shit. It was a bunch of circumstances that could have been avoided individually, but not all together. If anything, we should both take the blame for letting competition get in the way."

A small noise of indignation greets him as the smaller man decides to release himself by jabbing his fingers in Ice's side. "If I can't take the blame, you can't either. I'll probably always blame myself, but never you."

Before Ice can open his mouth, Maverick shakes his head and covers the older man's face with his hands. "Let's just drop it, ok?"

Maverick pulls his hands away and shakes his head again. "As I was saying, you were playing with Goose's ring-yes, you're allowed to do that, shut up-and it made me realize you have a habit of playing with things in your hands."

Maverick looks down at his own hands, blush returning to his cheeks as he continues, "I started watching. Noticing, really, how you use your hands for everything, even if they're not needed. You talk with them, use them for emphasis, you play with the hem of your uniform or your sleeves when you're bored. It's fascinating to watch because you always end up with a pencil or pen in your hand, and I don't even know where it comes from, and you're almost always twirling it."

Ice blinks, slowly processing the words that had just been thrown at him and had gone faster as the shorter man talked.

Maverick looks up briefly, looking away with a wince and going to stand, "I'm sorry, maybe this was a mistake-"

He's stopped by a hand on his wrist, gripping gently and pulling him back even more gently. "You bite things."

Maverick turns and locks eyes with an extremely red Ice, confusion evident in every inch of his body as he lets the gentle hand on his wrist guide him back to sitting on the couch.

"What?"

Ice looks away, going impossibly more red, the blush creeping down to his neck in a fascinating way that Maverick doesn't know what he wants to do with. "You bite things, and it's the most frustrating thing in my life. Like, you don't understand, you always use your right canine for everything, it's not even longer than the rest of them or anything, you just use it more. You smirk, and it's always angled to show off your right canine. You bite through things like plastic and soft aluminum like it's your job. You think I get pens out of nowhere? Where the hell do you keep those weird ass pretzel sticks you chew on when you think no one is watching in class?"

They had been moving closer together throughout the rant, Ice having forgotten to let go of Maverick's hand and then gesturing with his own as he spoke.

"Do you know how frustrating it is to watch you just chew on your utensils in the mess? They're meant for food, not the teeth marks you leave in them. I swear I saw the cooks point out your dining set one day and set it aside away from the others because of how chewed up they are. I'm pretty sure you get the same set until you've chewed on it so bad it's no longer safe to use."

Maverick goes to open his mouth, interrupted by a shake of the older man's head.

"I don't know how you don't see it, you've destroyed two pens in the time we've been here, one of them actually exploded in your mouth and I'm sure it was gross and then sometimes you chew on something stupid and I can't help but look at that stupid freckle-"

He makes a startled noise when his lips are smothered with the feeling of warm softness. He blinks dumbly as Maverick pulls back and smiles at him sheepishly.

After Ice stares for a few seconds, Maverick starts to get visibly nervous, "Please tell me that's where that was going because-"

It's his turn to be silenced when Ice grabs his chin gently and pulls him closer, lips meeting in a gentle caress before the taller man smiles and kisses the right edge of his mouth, his cheekbone, his forehead, and finally the tip of his nose before returning back to his lips for a slightly longer kiss.

Maverick breaks the kiss and moves to straddle Ice's thighs, pushing the taller man into the couch back and stopping there as Ice gets comfortable under him, hips readjusting to plant his feet on the floor as his hands find purchase on the younger man's hips.

As Ice readjusts himself, Maverick simply cradles his face in his hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones and gliding over fluttering eyelashes. As soon as the other man sits still beneath him, Maverick reengages, kissing softly and sweetly, speaking as he moves slowly to Ice's left ear, each word punctuated by a kiss. "So. About. That. Freckle."

Ice groans in embarrassment and turns his head to catch Maverick's lips again, savoring a slow and sweet kiss before breaking away and looking into mischievous green eyes. "Don't think we could ignore that?"

Maverick smirks and kisses the tip of his nose, "Unfortunately not, I don't know what you're talking about in the first place."

Ice reaches up his left hand and guides Maverick's face back down for another slow kiss, thumb brushing against the freckle as they pull back. "Right here. There's this freckle that you'd think you'd be able to see better when your lips are lighter, but sometimes you bite them, and it gets darker when they do."

"You looking at me that closely, pretty boy?"

"I just willingly kissed you, I think I'm allowed a certain fascination."

Maverick smiles at him, kissing his nose again before leaning their foreheads together and closing his eyes, breathing in the moment.

Ice follows his lead, closing his eyes and basking in the warmth and weight on his lap, happy despite the fumbling of the day.

Slider finds them there later on, curled up together on the couch and sleeping in each other's arms, Maverick buried deep within Ice's chest as if he believes they can become one through way of osmosis.

Slider has to watch his back for a moment to make sure he's breathing, unsure how he is when his face is fully covered and buried in the chest and shirt of another human being.

And if they start trying and failing at being subtle, well, Viper and Jester were out sick that day and the rest of the class suddenly had an aversion to looking in any direction that would get the two men in trouble.

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 196 }

control me.

sylus x (non mc)fem.reader

warnings: 18+ thirst post / drabble; minors don’t interact.

by choosing to interact with this 18+ content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings.

{ but i'm loving watching you think you're controlling me instead… }

it takes a herculean effort for sylus to maintain his nonchalant expression while watching you move back and forth from his cock. despite how his hands were itching with need to grab at your hips and simply slam your wet heat down on his shaft, sylus manages to maintain an air of feign arrogance, appearing almost bored.

he could feel his veins pulse against his temple, forcing his head to remain settled on the plush pillows settled on top of his bed, admiring the way you slowly slide your cunt up and down the length of his erection without fully sheathing him inside of you. sylus could feel his mouth going dry at the sensation, his gaze losing all trace of its ruby red color as an endless void seemed to take its place.

your hands were placed on the broad expanse of his chest, never once moving away from him as you provided his cock with an almost hedonistic sensation. he could feel the top side of his cock collecting at your honeyed arousal, causing it to twitch each time you continued your deliberate massages against him.

the squelching sounds heard coming from your pussy lips was enough for sylus to lose his control right then and there, but he manages to hold back, letting out a grunt in response. he watches the way your silken walls make a shiny sheen appear across his erection, causing the friction to become even more maddening for him.

“d-do you like this…?” you ask him with a pant, and he could practically feel your cunt swelling up with need for him. he lets out a hiss, forcing his head back into the pillow once more when he manages to tell you. “i love it. just feeling you like this makes me want you even more.”

a low, guttural groan was heard coming from him as he watches you removing yourself from his erection, your arousal seeming to drip down onto his pulsating cock, making you lick your lips in response. his heart was felt rapidly pounding against his chest, watching you with bated breath when you crawl down towards his cock and gave it a tentative lick.

red hot pleasure was felt coursing through his veins the moment you began licking and sucking at his shaft, with his hands going to your hair, allowing him to fuck your mouth as he bobbed your head up and down his cock.

“that’s it… fuck, that’s it.” you hum against his dick, curling your tongue up and down every inch of him as you traced at the veins felt pulsating inside of you. you continue your ministrations on him, hearing your boyfriend let out a string of curses as you felt the familiar twitch inside of your mouth.

not allowing him to climax so soon, you immediately pull away from him, a string of your saliva connecting your mouth to the tip of his cock as you proceeded to to lick your lips in response, further teasing him as you heard sylus let out an aggravated roar of your name.

“how dare you deny me-“ however, you manage to cut him off when you got back to straddling him, taking a hold of his cock as you expertly angled it against your slick heat before coming down on him a mere seconds later.

the moment he feels your silken walls envelope his cock in one swift thrust, sylus was forced to bite back his words as a groan escapes from him. “y-you cheeky little brat, hng!”

you smile sweetly down at him, proceeding to bounce up and down his cock. his expression darkens significantly, feeling angry at how you denied him of his prior release as he thrust upward, meeting your downward motion with a forceful stroke, making you toss your head back and nearly lose balance on top of him.

“oh my god, sylus!”

now, you were no longer in control as sylus forcefully pounds himself right up into your aching core, making your legs give out as you were forced to stop bouncing on top of him while trying to hold on to your balance against his chest. sylus gives you a cocky smirk, practically drilling into you as he keeps your hips still with his hands alone.

sylus keeps up with his breakneck pace, watching the way your eyes roll to the back of your head before stilling his hips completely inside of you. your walls clench around him the same time he shoots his seed directly inside of you, letting out a hiss at how your body was clearly trying to milk him for all he was worth from how much tighter your cunt felt surrounding him.

sweat covers his body when he lets out a grunt, feeling you land on top of him as you placed the entirety of your weight against him. a drunk expression paints your features, and he couldn’t help but find you achingly beautiful in such a fucked so good state.

your breathing was all he heard, earning a rich chuckle from him as he gently delves his fingers into your hair, now made damp from sweat. “was i too much?”

a weak giggle manages to escape from your parted lips, “mmm… no… you’re perfect. that was perfect. it still feels so good, even now.”

“heh, shall i continue pleasuring you?”

you gasp when sylus switches positions with you, forcing your back against the bed before spreading your legs, “let’s say you and i go a few more rounds… and by a few, i mean at least five more times.”

unable to fight back your mutual need for each other, you spread your legs even wider and allow sylus to retake his control on you, knowing that you would be exhausted by the time he was done with you-

but with the sheer amount of times sylus has taken you to heaven, you were certain that you didn’t mind one bit ♡

a.n. - i’m so thirsty for this man; send help 🫠

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[k4vehrtz]

⸻ FUCK THE LANDLORD ?!

. ✦ . starring — dom!top! t. fushiguro / m! reader

warnings — pwp, protected & unprotected sex, feminization, breeding kink, discussions of pregnancy, anal, minor degradation, creampie, cockwarming, implied dom/sub dynamic . ✦ . wc — 874 . ✦ . notes — anon said toji has a breeding kink and couldn't be any more right !! this man makes me feel things...

The groan that slips past Toji Fushiguro’s bloodied lip is nothing short of pure frustration. Then, as he throws his head back to emphasize this, he narrows his gaze. One of the fingers that was tangled in your dishevelled hair is brought to your lower lip. Prodding at it, at first, before he drags it downward for a reason unknown to you.

Your mind is elsewhere, focused only on the rhythm of his hips against yours as he drags his cock in and out of your winking hole. Your ‘boycunt’, as he calls it. It’s loud, lewd, and has your cock standing at full mast, throbbing as it threatens to splatter another load of cum onto your exposed stomach.

“Please,” You whimper, and you haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re pleading for. Maybe it’s for his permission to cum, paint your stomach with your bodily fluid like a debauched slut as he’d made you do so many times before. Or, perhaps, it’s a plea for him to go harder on you — your way of saying ‘I can take it!’ through short gasps that are cut off by your moaning and mewling in utter bliss.

He clicks his tongue in what you presume to be disapproval but it’s hard to say. His finger, or, rather, his entire hand has been moved away from your mouth, now tracing the outline of your stomach. It’s strange, which you convey by way of knitting your brows together, feeling him caress the fat of your stomach like that as the head of his cock presses against your prostate at that angle that makes you see stars.

“Maybe Megumi needs a younger brother or sister to get him out of that shell of his,” He muses in between grunts that border on animalistic as your cock begins to spurt another load of cum onto your stomach; the stimulation of your prostate proving to be too much for you. “At the rate we’re going yer’ going to give him a younger sibling.”

You shake your head — grimacing as the pile of used condoms comes into view. Your face heating up all over again (not that it had ever stopped, really). Toji, utterly unbothered by your attempt at denial continues, “How would you explain it? ‘I let him fuck me once a month instead of paying his rent in the form of cash and got knocked up somehow’?” He asks, his voice is all rough and manly, but there’s that unmistakable boyish amusement to it that his lazy smirk only highlights.

You want to tell him how ridiculous he sounds right now. Not only is that a shit explanation but it’s entirely impossible. It’s at the tip of your tongue, really, but so is your squeals as he continues his assault on your ass.

“Should I marry you?” He laughs, pressing the rough pads of his fingers (now with both hands) into the fat of your stomach as the rhythm of his hips becomes more erratic. He’s so close; the veins lining his thick cock throbbing against your walls as they clench around him. You could hear the sound of his balls smacking against you echoing throughout the room.

“Tell me, boy, do you want me to cum inside you like this? No condom protecting you from the possibility of a life-long commitment?” He pants, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite discern, as loose strands of hair begin to cling to his sweaty forehead. And when you’re like this (you swear, your eyes have rolled to the back of your head), body jolting upwards on the mattress with each thrust of his hips like you’re nothing more than his fleshlight, the prospect doesn’t seem all that bad.

It admittedly takes some effort to string a sentence together. Your throat feels raw — a testament to all the noise you’ve made through the past few rounds. But you do, eventually, string one together. “I... I want it,” You respond, your voice wispy as your chest heaves, “I want to give Megumi a younger sibling.”

Toji smiles at that. It isn’t a warm smile; If the wolf smiled in Little Red Riding Hood, this would be it. All teeth and restrained aggression. But Toji doesn’t restrain himself per se, he continues to chase his high albeit with more resolve. His attention solely focused on breeding you — impregnating you, if he could.

Say what you will about Toji Fushiguro — and you can say a lot — he’s a man of his word. He doesn’t stop rutting his hips until his cock is painting your gummy walls white with his cum. Even then, as he rides out his high, he doesn’t detangle himself from you. He’ll see this through until the end.

You, on the other hand, are writhing underneath him. Eyes fluttering, threatening to close, but you dare not close them. Not when he’s still inside you like this, plugging your ass with his cock, trapping his cum inside you.

“You’re disgusting,” You grumble, exasperated, as you bring a hand to his face, tracing the outline of his jaw. He doesn’t kiss you — it doesn’t feel right to do that right now — but he does smile knowingly. “Then make me pay rent some other way.”

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Butter

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: None

Summary: What if Joel doesn't forget to buy himself a cake for his birthday? But by the time he remembers, all the bakeries in his neighbourhood are closed - except yours.

Warnings: No outbreak AU, pure fluff, mentions of baking and food, meet cute, some sexual tension but very mild stuff compared to my other fics, single dad!Joel being a sexy menace, reader has a nickname related to her job, reader has an accent similar to Joel, very lightly edited, not my best work, but I'm in my writing for fun era 💁🏻‍♀️

Word count: 3.6k

Notes: It's here! This was an exercise in speed writing, and just putting words to paper without overthinking anything. I really enjoyed writing this sweet little piece, this is dedicated to @psychedelic-ink who has been the biggest cheerleader for this idea since day one. Happy birthday to our favourite single dad who never lived through a cordyceps outbreak ❤️

September 26, 2003 was supposed to be a good day.

It’s Friday, after all. Not that the weekend is relevant to you anymore, with Saturdays and Sundays being the busiest days for business. But you have a date for once tonight, and you’re determined to enjoy it.

If you can get the goddamn security shutter to close, that is.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pull futilely at the bottom of the metal shutter with both hands, but it refuses to budge. You lament the sweat seeping through the fabric of the nice dress you changed into, the hem reaching almost indecent heights on the back of your thighs where it’s climbed up. And you don’t have to look at your reflection to know that stress has already smudged the edges of the eyeliner you hurriedly painted on as soon as you got the last customer out the door.

You can be forgiven for not noticing the wash of yellow headlights over the windows of the shop front and the sound of rolling tyres as a truck pulls up on the curb outside the bakery, until a gravelly voice pipes up behind you alongside hurried footsteps.

‘Ma’am, please tell me you’re still open.’

You tap on the ‘Closed’ sign through the window without turning around, determined to wrangle the shutter into submission. ‘Bad luck buddy, come back tomorrow. We open at nine sharp.’

‘No I can’t, I’m so sorry, but I need a cake now.’

Curiosity turns your head, and over your shoulder, you find a broad-shouldered man in a dark tshirt and casual jeans standing a respectful four paces away. Under eyebrows sloping downwards in a pleading angle that matches the slant of his moustache, his warm and imploring eyes are on you.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I really need to go,’ you say. ‘Can you give me a hand?’

‘Look, I’ll do you one better. I’ll fix the shutter for you for free - if you sell me a cake.’

You purse your lips, the prospect of saving on what looks like an inevitable repair bill tempting. ‘You can fix it?’

‘I’m a contractor,’ he replies, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a battered looking wallet. ‘Here’s my card, if you think I’m bluffin’.’

Miller & Associates is printed in bold across the top, and underneath, is presumably his name and cell number. Glancing up at him, you say, ‘Look, Mr. Miller, I really want to help, but I’m late for a date, and I’m all sold out of cakes today -’

‘I’ll take anything you got. Cupcakes, cookies, whatever you have left,’ he cuts in, then apologises in quick succession, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m sorry to be so pushy - I’m not, usually - but I promised my daughter I’d bring something home, and by the time I remembered, this is the only place I could think of. Please.’

You feel the exact moment your resolve crack, and then fold like a goddamn lawn chair. What can you say, this contractor really knows how to work those puppy eyes, and you can never say no to a man who refuses to let their kid down. 

Especially when the man looks like this.

Shooting off a text to your date to push back your dinner plans, you nod towards the door. ‘Alright. C’mon in, Mr. Miller.’

‘Nice place you got here,’ he remarks politely, hovering by the entrance as the fluorescent lights flicker on, his manners impeccably southern. 

‘You don’t have to flatter me, I’ve already let you in,’ you joke, lips quirking at the way he flusters. ‘But I appreciate it. You been here before?’

When he smiles, you notice the corners of his eyes crinkle charmingly. ‘No, but I know I’ll be comin’ back.’

‘I wasn’t lying when I said I was out of ready-made cakes,’ you tell him, holding the door open to the kitchen so he can come in after you. ‘But I have some cake layers in the fridge so I can put together something fairly quickly.’

He ducks his head in a manner that tells you he’s not used to demanding things, and protests, ‘I don’t want to put you out. I meant it, if you just have some cupcakes or somethin’ -’

‘Listen, you promised your daughter a cake, didn’t you?’ you interrupt.

He shrugs. ‘Well, yeah I did -’

‘I’m guessin’ it’s for a birthday?’

He nods sheepishly. ‘It is.’

‘Well, as a baker, ‘mfraid I can’t let a cakeless birthday happen on my watch, Mr. Miller,’ you insist, opening the fridge door with a flourish. ‘Let’s see what we have here. Cake for three, I assume?’

‘Two, actually.’

Hopefully you’re as discreet as you think you are when your eyes drop to his left hand - his fourth finger is conspicuously ringless.

Interesting.

You hum, considering the mismatched options in your inventory. ‘It’s gonna be a bit of a Frankenstein’s monster of a cake, if you don’t mind. How does chocolate and vanilla layers with cookies and cream frosting sound?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ he answers without skipping a beat. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

You shake your head, hands full of cake rounds wrapped in cling film as you nudge the fridge close. ‘Please, call me Bri, Mr. Miller.’

‘And you can call me Joel,’ he says in return. ‘Is Bri short for somethin’?’

Laying the cakes on the work surface, you reply, ‘Yeah, Bri for brioche, like the bread. It's a silly nickname.’

The single dad surprises you with a low whistle. ‘Can’t say I saw that comin’.’

You grin. ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Joel.’

You don’t often have an audience while baking, and you find yourself talking Joel through the steps while you prep everything for assembly.

Swirling a spatula through the tub of buttercream you made earlier that day, you explain, ‘I just need to whip up some of this frosting so that it’s nice and soft for putting the cake together. You wanna help me break up some Oreos so we can make it cookies and cream?’

‘I’m all yours, chef,’ he says, one corner of his mouth curling into a teasing smile that has no business warming the apples of your cheek as it does. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

While your Kitchenaid whirrs to life, whipping air into the buttercream, Joel wields a rolling pin, smashing a generous helping of Oreos into crumbs in a Ziplock bag. The almost exaggerated care with which he moves speaks to inexperience in the kitchen, and you muse that either his kid makes up for it in that department, or they live off takeout.

Eventually, he picks up the bag and looks at you in a question. ‘I think I’m done?’

You smile and tap the lip of the mixing bowl. ‘That’s perfect. Why don’t you tip in the crumbs straight in here?’

Before you can step back to allow him space, Joel’s taken two strides towards you, and his arm brushes your shoulder when he lifts the bag and tilts the contents into the frosting. He’s warm and solid, and damnit, he smells good - like sawdust and sweat.

The thought comes to you unbidden - what a man.

There’s a lull, and only when you feel the weight of eyes on you do you realise that you missed his question.

‘Did you say somethin'?’ you squeak, embarrassed.

‘I said, is this ok?’ he repeats, nodding at the mixing bowl.

You nearly stumble over your words. ‘Yes, yes it’s perfect.’

He watches you closely, a touch of concern in his brown eyes. ‘You ok there, honey?’

‘Yup,’ you chirp, far too cheerfully. ‘Just need to mix it all up now -’

If you had your wits about you, you would stir in the crumbs first and set the machine on low. But this man somehow stole said wits by sheer proximity to you, and you accidentally start the Kitchenaid on high, an indignant yelp escaping you when Oreo dust flies aggressively out of the bowl along with a splatter of white buttercream that lands squarely on the front of your dark knit dress.

‘Oh shit!’ you cry out, frantically turning off the mixer. ‘Shit shit shit!’

Over your panicked mantra, Joel is calmness itself. ‘Hang on, honey, I gotcha.’

He makes a beeline towards the sink, grabbing a tea towel and wets it under the tap with a bit of dishwashing liquid. It all screams competent single dad, and you find yourself staring at his unfairly large hand, mapped with thick veins, holding out the damp towel for you to take.

‘Thanks,’ you stutter self-consciously, the tips of your ears hot while swiping at the stain. ‘That was a rookie mistake. I promise I’m actually a good baker.’

He gives you a wink to put you at ease. ‘Don’t worry, I believe you.’

Starting over, the mixer hums as it gently incorporates the Oreos until the buttercream is a speckled grey and doubled in volume. ‘Looks like it’s ready. You wanna taste, Joel?’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘D’ya have a spoon or somethin’ for me?’

‘You can use your fingers,’ you reply, and it's too late to take it back.

You feel the back of your neck heating up when he shoots you a meaningful look, just a touch of mischief in the tilt of his lips. 

‘Can I, now?’ he teases.

You try a nonchalant shrug that probably comes off as painfully awkward. ‘This batch is just for you, I won’t tell the health inspector if you don’t.’

Joel chuckles, his strong shoulders quaking. And so you watch, shamelessly, as he raises his right hand, index and middle fingers at the ready, before diving into the metal bowl, scooping up a generous dollop of buttercream. There’s a peek of his pink tongue when his plush lips part, and then he sucks his fingers into his mouth with a gratuitously loud moan, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

When he turns to you with a pained expression on his face, maintaining eye contact all the while licking an errant streak of frosting off the side of his middle finger, you gape at him for a whole five seconds before you manage to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

‘Good?’ you barely manage to squeak.

‘You betcha, honey,’ he declares, then adds, ‘Mind if I double dip?’

He doesn’t mean anything by it, you know it, but a hot flush runs through your body and you swallow thickly. ‘You can do whatever you want, cowboy.’

You don’t think you’re imagining the wicked glint in his answering stare - you’re getting yourself into trouble, and don’t you know it. 

Clearing your throat, you attempt to thwart your mind's dangerous descent into the gutter by changing the subject. ‘So, I can do somethin’ really snazzy that I think your daughter would like - do you know what a piñata cake is?’

He shakes his head. ‘Sounds dangerous.’

‘Hardly,’ you chuckle. ‘It’s a cake filled with sprinkles, so when you cut into it, it’s a sprinkles surprise!’

He lets out a playful sigh of relief. ‘As long as there’s no whackin’ involved, it’s good by me.’

You gesture at him to follow you across the room. ‘And here’s the fun part - you get to choose the sprinkles.’

Joel whistles at the reveal of your compulsively organised sprinkles cabinet, each shelf sorted by colour, shape and size. He quips, ‘Is this what the inside of your brain looks like, honey?’

You grin. ‘Pretty much. What’s your daughter’s name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘What colour does Sarah like?’

‘Any and all shades of pink.’

‘I can work with that.’

Now that everything is ready and waiting on the work surface, you pull out a lazy Susan and plonk a cake board on top of it, dusting your hands dramatically. ‘Alright, Joel. Ready for the magic to happen?’

Making himself comfortable next to you, he leans on his elbows, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the way his tshirt stretches and strains over his back. ‘Go ahead, I’m ready to be impressed, honey.’

Filling a piping bag full of the cookies and cream buttercream, you ask, ‘You wanna get your hands dirty?’

He raises his palms in surrender. ‘I’ll leave it to you, I don’t want to make you any more late for your date.’

You’re used to working with much bigger cakes, so this one doesn’t take you long. With a cookie cutter, you carve out a small circle from each cake round, then you stack and fill the layers with buttercream. After loading the shaft in the middle with all manner of pink sprinkles, you stopper the top with the cake cut-outs.

‘How old is Sarah turning today?’ you ask conversationally while you spin the cake around, smoothing on the crumb coat.

Joel looks up, surprised. ‘Oh, it’s my birthday today, not hers. ‘

‘Wait, what?’ you cry, throwing your hands up. ‘I made this cake with Sarah in mind - it will literally be vomiting pink sprinkles!’

‘I’m a girl dad. I like pink,’ shrugs Joel easily.

You huff, using an icing smoother to make sure the buttercream is even all over the cake. ‘I would pop the cake into the freezer to firm up before adding a final layer of frosting if I had the time, but this will have to do.’

‘It looks great,’ Joel assures you as you put the finishing touches to the cake, with buttercream swirls all around the top and a final baptism of sprinkles.

‘There, all done. Lemme box it up for you and this bad boy is ready to go.’

‘Amazin’, thank you so much,’ he grins. ‘Please, lemme do the washin’ up while you’re at it.’

‘Oh, Joel, you can’t,’ you protest, but he’s already grabbed the mixing bowl and all the bits and bobs stained with buttercream. ‘You’re the birthday boy!’

‘Least I can do,’ he shoots back over his shoulder, already halfway to the sink.

‘Well no, you promised to fix the security shutter for me, remember?’ you call after him.

‘Damn, I was hopin’ you’d forgotten about that.’

Joel cleans up with a practised air, humming under his breath as he waits for the water to heat up and the soap to lather. You watch him from the corner of your eye while you secure the cake inside the box, throwing in a birthday candle for good measure. You’ve just tied a nice ribbon around the cardboard box when he puts away everything in the drying rack and wipes his hands dry.

‘Didn’t expect you to be good at that,’ you tease, moving towards the door.

‘Sexist much?’ he jokes, no real bite in his retort. Then by way of explanation, he tells you, ‘I work late, so Sarah usually cooks and I wash up afterwards.’

‘Sounds like you guys make a good team.’

Joel helps with the lights and locks the door, and you stand to one side when he grabs the security shutter and forces it into submission by brute force. You can’t help but stare when the bottom of his tshirt rides up, revealing a soft sliver of belly underneath, his biceps bulging and back rippling as the shutter is finally forced shut in a metallic ripple.

You give him a smile. ‘Well, happy birthday, Joel.’

‘Thanks again for the cake.’ He looks around, as if looking for your car, but the sidewalk is empty except for his truck. ‘How are you gettin’ to your date?’

‘I was just gonna call a taxi.’

‘No, you ain’t,’ he nods towards his ride. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Oh, no, it’s late, and you should be getting back to Sarah -’

‘I spoiled your date, so please, let me,’ he insists, holding the door open on the passenger side. Hop in.’

Joel takes the cake off your hands and puts it in the backseat carefully, putting the seat belt over it while you climb in. Glancing over your shoulder, you see toolboxes and newspapers on the floor, and it smells like paint and wood dust.

‘Sorry it’s a bit messy, occupational hazard,’ he apologises as he straps himself in. ‘So, where are we goin’?’

‘Do you know the steakhouse on Third Street?’

‘Vaguely,’ he replies, pulling smoothly away from the curb. ‘It sounds fancy.’

‘You been?’

‘Nope, I barely have time to go anywhere nowadays. It seems like I’m only ever in bed, or at work, or in my truck.’

You turn to smile at him, admiring the way his his thick fingers around the top of the steering wheel, making it look so small. ‘I feel you. Small business owner, am I right?’

‘I hear ya,’ he shoots you a smile. ‘So - what’s the deal with tonight? First date?’

‘Fourth, actually.’

He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Fourth date? You know what happens on a fourth date, honey.’

‘I don’t, actually. Tell me, what happens on a fourth date?’

He blows out his cheeks, and admits, ‘Honestly, I can’t tell ya. I haven’t been on a fourth date since 1991.’

You burst into laughter at his unexpected answer. ‘You’re such a dork, Joel Miller.’

When the truck rumbles to a stop outside the steakhouse ten minutes later, he looks at his watch and announces, ‘Here we are, only fifteen minutes late.’ Squinting through the windshield, he points at a man smoking outside, an impatient frown on his face. ‘That him?’

‘Yeah, that’s him,’ you nod, but you stay put in your seat, in no hurry to make a move.

Joel nods, tapping his tidily trimmed nails on the steering wheel. ‘So I’ll swing ‘round tomorrow after work with my toolbelt? ‘Round six thirty?’

‘A toolbelt? What a sight to look forward to,’ you rib, slowly reaching for the seatbelt and unbuckling it.

‘Hell yeah, it’s got a special clip for my Nokia and all,’ he adds mischievously.

'You must fend off the ladies by the dozen,' you tease.

'Daily,' he answers without skipping a beat.

You probably shouldn’t have, especially not with the guy who you’re supposed to be on a date with glaring daggers at you through the windshield. But there’s something cackling in the air between you and this man you just met not an hour ago, and the way the streetlight filters through the window, backlighting his messy curls and scraggly beard, that has you throwing caution to the proverbial wind.

Impulsively, you lean across the gear shift, your left hand finding purchase on his knee before pressing your lips to the side of his whiskered jaw, your kiss fitting right into that little heart-shaped patch on his beard. 

You’re not sure who’s more taken aback, but you don’t have time to find out. 

‘Happy birthday, Joel Miller.’

He smiles after you as you hop out of his truck.

You’ve just sold your last cupcake of the day when the bell over the bakery door rings. And sure enough, it’s Joel Miller crossing the threshold, right on the dot at six thirty.

‘Hey, Bri,’ he waves, hovering half-in and half-out of the shop, a slight awkwardness having set in overnight.

But it's ok, you're happy to pick up where you left off. Putting your hands on your waist and a cheeky grin, you quip, ‘Wow, you weren’t kidding about that toolbelt, huh?’

Your chest swells as you watch him thaw with an easy smile, and he banters back, ‘I’m a man of my word, honey. You ok with me gettin’ to work now?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll be cleanin’ up back in the kitchen, I’ll join you when I’m done.’

Joel shoots you a thumbs up. ‘Great. I’ll grab the ladder and get right to it.’

When you emerge fifteen minutes later, he’s on the fourth rung of the ladder, tinkering the rolling mechanism with a screwdriver and a studious frown on his brow. He looks like he’s wearing the same thing as yesterday - you can believe that he’s a man who buys the same tshirt in bulk - and he smiles at you when you duck out of the shop.

‘Did Sarah like the cake?’ you ask in casual conversation.

‘She went nuts over the piñata surprise,’ he replies. ‘And the cake was delicious, there were hardly any crumbs left when we were done with it. She says we’re definitely ordering a cake from you for her birthday.’

‘I like the sound of that.’

‘How was your evening?’ he asks, glancing down at you from his perch. ‘Did you find out what happens on a fourth date?’

You let out a dry laugh. ‘Yeah, I did, actually. He dumped me.’

Joel freezes, a scowl darkening his countenance. ‘Oh shit, what? Why?’

You shrug, leaning your weight on the ladder as you look at the ground. ‘I mean, I did show up an hour late in some other guy’s truck. And I guess probably shouldn’t have kissed you on the cheek right in front of him.’

You startle when Joel’s fingers slip under your chin, tilting your head up towards him. ‘It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.’

‘Honestly, you don’t look that sorry, Joel Miller,’ you joke.

He cocks his head to one side. ‘Well, I can't lie, I think you deserve better than him.’

‘Do you now?’ you prompt. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

Joel peers at you from under long lashes with a half-smile that's almost shy. He dodges your question, and says instead, ‘I didn't mean to ruin your night, let me make it up to you, honey.’

‘How?’

Deftly, he climbs down the ladder, landing squarely on two booted feet, his presence comforting as he looms over you, his eyes warm. ‘Can I buy you dinner?’

‘Like - a date kind of dinner?’

‘Yeah, like a date,’ he nods.

You can’t help the dig. ‘And you were just sayin' you haven’t been on a date since...?’

He flashes you a smirk, and you shiver when his hand brushes your waist. ‘Since 1991. Tough sell, I know - but I thought I’d give it a shot.’

Running a finger along his sharp jawline, softened by the endearingly untidy beard, you have to bite your bottom lip to keep yourself from giving away too wide a grin. ‘Why, I think I have a good feelin’ about you, Joel Miller.’

Catching your wrist in his fingers, he presses a sweet kiss to your knuckles, the rough graze of his stubble chasing goosebumps across your skin as his eyes smile at you. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, honey.’

More notes: I hope you enjoyed this sweet little oneshot 🥰 I really leaned into the fluff and I have no regrets. Comments/reblogs/asks are much appreciated as always! I don't have plans for a second part right now, but a smutty follow-up is always a possibility...

The adorable dividers are by @firefly-graphics 👩🏻‍🍳