#they just might all be uploaded at different times

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ℍ𝕠𝕥 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝 ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 - 𝔹𝕒𝕟𝕘 ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕟♡

♡ Pairing: bartender!bang chan x chubby!fem!waitress!reader

♡ Genre: smut/fluff

♡ Summary: Chris has had a crush on you ever since his best friend hired you but he's never had the courage to do anything about it, too intimidated by you to say a word. Little does he know, you've had your eye on him too and tonight's the night you plan to give him a taste of what he's wanted so badly.

♡ Word Count: 4k-ish

♡ Warnings: flirting, kissing, dirty talk, a lil dom/brat dynamic, they're both low key needy, teasing, oral sex (m receiving), very sloppy oral sex at that, swallowing, deep throating, he low key has a big dick, we're playing with balls today, a lil rough nipple pinching, a lil fingering, booty slaps, chris really wants to eat you out, he also very much likes his girls thick, pet names (baby, baby girl, daddy).

♡ A/N: Hello my darlings! So this is my first entry in a series of fics I'm doing based on lyrics from songs that are basically my ho anthems. This is the ✨ masterlist ✨ and I'll be uploading fics over the next two weeks. Every fic is chubby reader centered and, much like an actual DJ, if you have a request feel free to slide into my asks. I'll happily take it 💖

“Better grab a mop, it’s getting sticky in this bitch” - Tyler the Creator

Christopher Bahng has one little problem and it has your name written all over it. 

Six years of bartending have taught Chris how to keep his cool against any number of things. Random fights breaking out between dudes who’ve had a few shots more than they should’ve. Belligerent drunks who lash out if he dares to cut them off. Divorced dads crying on his shoulder about their ex wives half an hour past closing time. After so long it got to the point where he didn’t think anything that walked through that door could throw him off his game. And then there was you. 

When Changbin said he’d hired a new waitress Chris wasn’t sure what to expect. All he wished for was someone nice and competent. Anything else would be the cherry on top and you came sprinkled with cherries. Not only were you an absolute sweetheart who picked up on things quickly, you were drop dead gorgeous. As a rule Chris doesn’t date coworkers. It’s messy and risky. Someone always ends up getting hurt. But working side by side with you every day left him wondering if the risk might just be worth the reward. 

You show up to every shift with your teeny skirts and your glossy lips, bouncing around the bar like temptation incarnate, seemingly unaware of the effect you have on him. He can’t keep his head on straight when you’re around. He makes silly mistakes and trips over his words. Everyone always compliments Chris on how charismatic he is but all of that seems to fly out of the window when you’re around. 

Tonight’s shift is no different. You’re skipping around the bar in your little pink mini skirt. The kind that twirls when you walk and rises when you bend over, giving him the faintest preview of your lower ass cheeks. The crop top you’re wearing is no better. It’s one of those tops with a plunging neckline that knots in the front, making your tits look especially kissable. The lushness of your figure means that everything else bounces when you do. You’re so thick. So juicy. So…

“Pardon me, boys” you sing, easing behind the bar to hunt for a clean glass. 

Minho, Chris’s fellow bartender, spins out of your way, two open beers held high in the air. “No, knock me over. It’s fine” he teases and you just roll your eyes. Minho always has something to say. You’re used to it by now.

At the other end of the bar Chris is busy mixing up a drink. Rum and coke. Quick. Predictable. Boring. Spotting a stack of clean glasses nearby, you squeeze in beside him, careful not to get in his way. 

“Ready for this night to be over or what?” you quip, an arm extended towards a glass that’s just out of your reach. 

Chris grabs it for you, his hands on the verge of trembling from how close you are. You’ve got your tits pressed up against his arm. Not swallowing it whole but brushing it just enough that he can’t ignore what’s there. 

A bit of nervous laughter escapes him as he flashes you that handsomely dimpled smile. “Yeah, I can’t wait to get out of here. You got any plans for later?” 

You shrug, nails tapping at the glass now secured in your hand, “Mmm, I don’t know. Why? You asking me out or something?” 

There’s a long pause. A tense, breathless silence that seems to last forever. Beneath that fluffy brown hair his ears are turning red and the blush is beginning to spread to his cheeks. 

“I’m fucking with you” you giggle, patting him on the shoulder, “You’re so easy to get. It’s too fun. Thanks for the glass by the way.” 

With a flirty wink you’re off, leaving as quickly as you came. Taking his first real breath since you stepped foot behind the bar, Chris watches you weave through the tables and nothing can tell him that you aren’t moving in slow motion. You’re like one of those girls in the movies—the type you dream about—and you’re looking right at him. You’re looking right at him. His grip tightens around the cool glass of rum and coke that's already begun to sweat against his palm . You’re talking to a customer but your gaze is entangled with his, drawing him deeper into your orbit than he’s ever been. 

You’ve never caught him looking before. He dreaded the day when you did but prayed it’d never come. Now that it has, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. The heat creeping up the back of his neck is unbearable and his heart’s prepared to bungee jump from his chest. Even worse, he's feeling something. Something he shouldn’t feel when he’s at work. A rush of blood. The tightening of skin. Fabric stretching to accommodate him. 

“Can I have my drink or is that yours now, sweetie?” the woman waiting at the bar asks. 

Shaking himself out of a daze, Chris panics, handing her the drink. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“What’s with you?” Minho mouths but getting an answer isn’t in the cards. 

Chris speeds by, his back turned to conceal what’s developing below his waist. “I need something from the back! Take over for me!” 

Bolting through a side door, he navigates the small back area cramped with boxes to find solace in the storage closet. He slams the door behind him as soon as he’s in, pacing the floor to calm himself down.

“Get it together, Chris. You’re not in high school. She’s just a girl” he tells himself like a coach giving a pep talk. Pausing in his tracks, he puts his hands on his hips, his brain filing through all the things he could do to help. “Think about bunnies or sports or old people or bunnies playing sports with old people.” Squinting his eyes closed he thinks of just that. The cutest baby bunnies hopping around a baseball field doing their best to win against their only opposition…the elderly. He gives it a minute, letting the thought truly soak in, before he opens his eyes again and looks down. 

“Fuck…” he hisses at the sight of a hard on that’s only gotten worse. If only he hadn’t looked at you. If only you hadn’t looked at him. Who told you to have such pretty eyes? And the nerve of you to devour him with them. 

“Chris, you back here?” you scream, running into the closet to find exactly who you’re looking for, “Oh hey, there you are, a customer had a question about a drink and…why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what? I’m not looking at you like anything. I don’t know what you mean” he stutters, taking a few steps back to create distance between the two of you.

You take those same steps forward, closing the distance and ruining his plans. “No, you are looking at me like that.” You fold your arms across your chest, eyeing him skeptically, “What are you doing in here, Christopher?”

“What am I doing in here? I was just, uh…” he scans the shelves, a lie at the tip of his tongue, “We were out of strawberry syrup and I came to grab it. I just can’t seem to find it anywhere.”

“You came to find the strawberry syrup?” you ask, effortlessly spotting it on the shelf. You hop up to grab it, dangling the bottle in front of him, “Does your dick always get hard for strawberry syrup? Is that a kink of yours or…”

Chris whips around, his back to you, hands swooping in to cover the offending area. “Oh my god, I wasn’t—you weren’t supposed to—shit.”

Sneaking up behind him, you peek around his shoulder, that mischievous giggle of yours brewing again. “See, told ya you were easy to get” you whisper, “That wouldn’t happen to be my fault would it?”

Your eyes flick down to where his hands are and the fact that they’re hardly enough to hide his bulge is exciting to say the least. How oblivious could he possibly think you are? In the beginning you weren’t quite sure if he was checking you out or not. He can have a mean case of resting bitch face when he wants to. During those first few weeks there was no way to differentiate if the stares you were getting from Chris had longing or hatred behind them but it quickly became apparent that it was the first. 

Girls walk into this bar and they swoon over him but you’re the one who turns him to putty simply by existing. That is power and you wield it recklessly, flirting with him every chance you get. So this little situation—him being so hard for you that he has to scurry away to a storage closet—is far from the offense he thinks it is. In fact, it’s an achievement. 

“You know, I like you…” you sigh, trailing your fingers up his arm to feel the firmness of his bicep through his fitted black shirt, “You’re sweet and you’re funny and you’re cute. Too cute to suffer. I can help you out if you want.”

Chris looks back at you, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, “Help me? What do you mean ‘help me’?” 

You glance down again and back up at him, “With that. I can make it disappear if you want me to.” 

Gently massaging his arm, you smooth your hand across his shoulder, down his chest. You haven’t seen this man shirtless but if what you feel is any indication of what it looks like you know his body must be immaculate. His breath hitches as your fingertips dance along his abs, venturing below his belt right to where his own hands hover.

You’re so close—centimeters away from where he throbs with need for you—but just as you’re about to touch it he dips out of the way, slipping from your grasp. Chris turns to you, his expression hardening. At the drop of a hat the boyish confusion you found so amusing has given way to something stronger. More severe. 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable” you apologize, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

He advances on you and now you’re the one backing away. You’ve seen this before in nature documentaries. A poor little gazelle and a ravenous lion. The gazelle gets chewed up every single time. If you were to take a wild guess which one you are, you’d say you were fucked. 

“Chris, I’m serious, I was just—” Your back hits the door, knocking the air out of you, and you let out a faint shriek that makes his lips quirk into something reminiscent of a smile. 

His pointer finger traces the curve of your cheek, his feather light touch tickling your skin. “You were just ‘fucking with me’. That’s how you put it, yeah?”

If there were any air left in you then surely you’d lose your breath. “It sounds so childish when you say it like that.”

“Because it is childish. You shouldn’t say things you can’t back up” he says like it’s a dare of sorts. It is. 

As his lips drift closer to yours you can feel the heat radiating from his body. There’s no denying that some of it’s your own and what’s shared between you is enough to melt the sun.

“Who says I can’t back it up? I’m a woman of her word. If I say something then I always intend to back it up.”

Chris tucks a finger under your chin, tilting your head so that your lips graze his. “Prove it.” 

As if it has a mind of its own, your hand finds his chest again, tugging at the fabric of his shirt to bring him closer, and he doesn’t resist. He leans into you, his plush lips meeting yours as his tongue dips between them, eager to explore the furthest reaches of your mouth. The kiss is everything a girl could want, more delicious than any drink he could serve you up at the bar. It’s a good thing he’s never kissed any of those girls who fall all over him. They’d be helpless, at his mercy, utterly hypnotized by a kiss sweeter than any other you’ve had. 

Gripping his shirt tighter, you put every bit of strength you’ve got into spinning him around. The swap is effortless and he’s right where you were, his body blocking the only way in or out of this closet.

“Open this for me please” you pout, raising the bottle of strawberry syrup still dangling from your fingers.

Chris takes the bottle, vexed by your sudden need to access its contents, but he grabs the cap anyway, unscrewing the lid as you drop to your knees and get to work unfastening his belt. You’re quick with your fingers, undoing his pants with all the finesse of an expert thief cracking a safe. Your hand’s cool as it comes in contact with his length, stroking him from tip to base the second he springs free. He gasps at the chill, his stomach muscles tensing at the sudden hit of dopamine rushing through his body. 

Leaning your head back, you smile up at him, opening your mouth wide, “Pour it.”

“Pour it?”

You stroke his length again and it pulses against your touch, shiny beads of arousal dripping down the head. It takes all of his muscle control for his lets not to give out. 

“Pour. It.” you repeat, placing emphasis on each word.

Still reeling from that last stroke, he does as he’s told, letting a shot’s worth of it trickle down into your mouth. He pours in just the amount that you need. Such an intuitive bartender even now. Careful not to spill a drop, you guide his cock into your mouth, glazing him in the sweet syrupy liquid.

The warmth of your mouth meddled with the thickness of the syrup is what he never knew he wanted but will desperately need every day after this. It’s tight and gushy, hugging him how he imagines your walls might, and when you take him all in—your pretty lips wrapped around the base in the perfect shape—he loses any hope he ever had of holding his composure. 

Blinking down at you, he brushes your hair back out of your face, showering you with admiration. “Took it all in the first go. Didn’t know you wanted it that badly” he taunts, hips rocking to push the tip to the back of your throat. 

You don’t gag, you don’t even flinch, you just take it, your irises dancing like stars as your tongue swoops back and forth beneath his cock. The taste of him makes you drool, your own arousal gathering in your panties the same way his slicks the back of your tongue. You move slowly at first, bobbing your head back and forth at a delicate pace, enjoying every detail of his cock.

It’s nice and thick, the perfect size for your mouth, with veins that travel up to the head in such a picturesque formation that you might think it was deliberately designed to be so exquisite. Chris has the nicest mushroom tip, plump enough to make a crisp pop when it temporarily vacates your mouth, your tongue swirling around it to tease the rim. 

“I wish you could see how fucking gorgeous you look right now” he coos when you roll your tongue across the slit, lapping up his precum. You’re such a mess, your hands and lips all sticky with syrup, but he wouldn’t have you any other way. 

You smile as much as you can with your cheeks filled to the brim, slipping him back into your mouth until, like magic, it disappears. There’s an urge in him to throw his head back against the door, close his eyes and let the pleasure consume him, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He has to watch you. He needs to. You look so good slobbering around his cock, sucking him like a lollipop that comes in your favorite flavor. The way you’re squeezing your thighs together gives away how much this is getting you off too and it only worsens his need for you. 

Pulling back enough to wrap a hand around his length, you spare him one final glance before you let your eyes fall shut, picking up speed that gives him whiplash. The sounds from  your hollowed out cheeks suctioning his cock are downright sinful. You’ve got him biting his lip and bucking his hips, moans pouring out of him as you reach up to cup his balls, rolling your palm against them.

They’re so sensitive that the slightest amount of pressure makes his cock twitch harder between your cheeks but you don’t miss a beat, your wrist and jaw working in flawless unison to keep your pace. You’re too in your zone to notice but your tits are sprinkled in a shiny mixture of everything currently swirling around in your mouth. It found its way down your chin, adorning your neck, and over the hills of the lucious tits that await below. 

Chris can’t resist reaching down to grab one, his hand delving into your bra to knead the tender flesh. You hum around him as he finds your nipple, pinching the pebbled bud between his fingers. “Fuck, you like that baby?” he growls out, testing your limits by pinching just a little harder. 

You let out a whine, your thighs coming together again to ease the throbbing of your clit. Do you like that? You fucking love it. You want more. You want his lips around your bud and his cock deep inside of you, deeper than it is in your throat. You want everything he has to give you but you’re a woman of your word and you’re determined to keep it. Dragging his hand out of your shirt, you interlace your fingers with his, tossing him a defiant look that tells him to behave. 

With your hands now occupied, the full weight of his cock rests on your jaw. You deserve an award for keeping it in, performing tricks with your tongue he never knew a girl could. Every move you make, every wispy flick of your tongue, has his sanity unraveling thread by thread. 

“Fuck…I don’t know how much more I can take” he whimpers, a sound that only encourages your behavior. “So fucking good, baby girl…mmph…”

He squeezes your hands, attempting to push you back a few inches, silently begging you to slow down. Not yet. Just a little more. But you’re deep throating him like your life depends on it, refusing to take pity on him. His body tenses, an involuntary jerk of his hips almost tripping you up.

“Mmhmm” you moan, your nose pressed to his base, throat muscles flexing.

You steal a look at him, his jaw slack, eyes heavily lidded, a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he was drunk and that’s exactly what it feels like. A nice buzz. A double shot of europhoria. 

A splash of something warm trickles down your throat and you gradually slip him out of your mouth, letting him cum on every inch of you until you’re balancing him on the tip of your tongue. You patiently wait for the last drop, slurping him clean. When you lean back, freeing your hands from his, he nearly doubles over. 

“Whoa, don’t die on me” you giggle, flexing your cramped fingers. 

Rising to your feet you capture him in a kiss, softly stroking his cock as he comes down from his high. His shallow breaths fall on your puffy lips, that pining boyish expression back at home on his face. 

“What was that?” he pants, nibbling at your bottom lip. 

“It’s what you wanted, right? Ever since you first saw me.”

Chris kisses you weakly, an effective diversion from the question. Looping an arm around your waist, he holds you close. Your tongue still tastes like candy and he intends to kiss you until the flavor fades. Slipping a hand down to grab your ass, he squeezes it roughly, making you arch in response. With your ass poked out he easily gets to what he wanted more. Tucking your panties to the side, he swishes two fingers around in the juices soaking your entrance. 

“Aah, Chris…” you gasp as his fingers push into you. 

If the sound of you sucking his cock was sinful, the squelching of your pussy accepting his fingers is sin itself. Dragging his lips down to your neck, he kisses it softly, working his fingers in and out of you. Holding tight to his shirt, you quiver from the pleasure, walls fluttering as the pads of his fingers trace the ridges of your walls. 

“I wanna taste you so fucking bad” he confesses, “That’s what I’ve wanted ever since I first saw you. You gonna let me taste you, baby?”

You want to say, “Yes”. No, you want to say, “Fuck yes”. Only you can’t find the words. Not when he’s playing your pussy like a finely tuned instrument. He can do anything he wants to you if all of it feels this good. 

Kissing his way back up to your lips, he stares into your eyes, his gaze oozing lust. There’s no question about it this time around. “Is that a yes or a no, baby?” His fingers curl into your faster, his knuckles flush against your entrance, juices running down your thighs. 

“Yes” you force out, riding his fingers. 

“Yeah? I don’t think I heard you” he teases, giving you a little peck on the lips, “You can be louder for me, yeah?” 

Click. Click. Click. The door knob turns and it only occurs to you now that neither of you locked the door. Worse than that, you’re still at work. 

“Chris, you in there?” Minho calls out, banging at the door, “If I have to work you do too!”

Minho tries to push the door open but it doesn’t budge. The collective force of your bodies is enough to keep it shut though you aren’t sure for how long. 

“Uh, I’ll be out in a second!” Chris shouts back, grabbing the knob to keep it from turning again. 

Fixing his pants as quickly as you got them open, you straighten his clothes out, and dip behind the door. Chris pulls you back over, stealing another kiss before letting you go. He moves away from the door and it goes flying open. Wedging yourself into the corner behind the door, you can’t see a thing. You can only hear the exchange. 

“What the hell were you doing?”

“I was looking…looking for the strawberry syrup.”

“All this time? Did you hit your head or something? I’ll find it.”

Noticing the bottle of syrup by your feet, you kick it over and by the sounds of it Chris grabs it. 

“Oh, there it is. See? Got it! Now go. I’m coming! Seriously. Go.”

You listen as Minho hesitantly steps away, the door swinging in the opposite direction for Chan to kiss you full force. He hugs you tightly enough to almost lift you from the ground and you kick your feet cutely out of surprise. 

“You’re coming home with me tonight” he demands, licking what small sample he got of you from his fingers, “You leave this bar without me and I’ll fight you.”

“Ooh, you wanna fight me, daddy? I am known to like it rough.” 

How can one girl be so hot? He can’t wrap his head around it but he knows he has to get away from you before he can’t hold back anymore. “Get back to work” he says, slapping you on the ass and you get on your way, flashing him your ass on the way out the door. 

Watching you leave, he can only think of one thing. That one little problem—the one with your name written all over it—has just gotten much, much bigger.

[lo1k-diamonds]

Unique 💜 Part 2 - Chapter 1

“Hi, Namjoon.”

PAIRING: idol!Namjoon x OFC

SUMMARY: It's a year later when Angie decides to visit Hyejin, both women looking to get away from their problems. But a certain group is just pausing their tour, and old feelings are rekindled when their paths cross.

WORD COUNT: 4.9 k

GENRE: old lovers to ?

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: mentions of a marriage going downhill (not main characters), drinking, drunk driving, arguing

A.N. Hi! I posted Part 2 on other platforms a year ago, but now I've decided to upload everything here, given that Unique has a whole new look (thank you, @eerieedits) and a Part 3 coming up 🤭 I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist | Masterpost | AO3 | Wattpad | < Prevous Part | Next Part >

Angie had a small smile as she crossed the arrivals platform at Incheon International Airport. The jetlag was familiar, but that was not why her heart was beating intensely inside her chest. Rather, it was because she was such a different person the last time she had landed and crossed that same path a year before. Yet, at the same time, everything was still the same. At the time, she had no idea how her perception of life would change over one weekend. To the point that when she left, it felt like something of hers stayed behind. 

She crossed the glass doors into the fairly chilly afternoon sun and instantly looked at a corner of the parking lot. There, amongst the crowd that gathered and passed to welcome the arrived travelers or to drop off adventurers, had been a black car stopped inconspicuously. In the back of the said car, beyond the smoked windows, she recalled the soft touch of her lover's fingers tracing her jawline as his lips trailed her cheeks. She was smiling at the time, bitter but sweet about what they had experienced, the inevitability of it ending, and the hope that it would be a precious memory she would never forget.

“Angie!!”

She turned to the opposite side to find a familiar woman running with her arms open and a facemask hanging on her chin. As they clashed, a wide grin spread across Angie’s face. She squeezed her best friend in her arms, ignoring all the side-eyes from the passerby.

The smaller but daintier brunette pulled away, then gasped. “You have bangs!”

Angie laughed and combed her dirty-blonde bangs. “I needed a bit of change…”

“I can see that.” Hyejin chuckled with a cheeky smile. “Come, we have so much to talk about!”

Hyejin quickly grabbed Angie’s small carry-on luggage and pointed out how the bangs suited her so nicely. The hair, along with her hoop earrings, made her look ladylike, a sharp contrast from all the years they spent together, during which Angie would hardly step out of her sweatpants and sweater.

They were already inside the car with Hyejin driving them out when she commented, “That’s not the only thing that’s changed, right?”

“No,” Angie admitted, looking outside at the traffic of that unfamiliar place. Being there was like dropping into another universe, only with the perk of having the comfort of being with the person she loved best in the world. “Thank you for having me. I know this was sort of unexpected and with your wedding anniversary and everything…”

“Are you kidding me?” Hyejin scoffed, gripping the steering wheel for a second before she huffed. “I need you more than you know. You coming here was exactly the pause I needed.”

Angie looked at her worryingly. “That bad?”

“That bad.” Her expression was rigid as she drove them, the GPS giving indications that Angie couldn’t read. “Are you sure you want to stay at a hotel?”

“Of course! Come on, you’ve just celebrated your one-year wedding anniversary—”

“I haven’t seen you in a year.”

“We’ll be together all the time!”

“Then you might as well stay over,” Hyejin insisted quietly, driving faster than Angie would have expected.

“I can’t, you guys need your alone time. And so do I, honestly. I need to be with myself too, as hard as it is.”

Hyejin’s lips twitched, but she didn’t give away her thoughts. Not until they stopped at a red light did she glance absentmindedly at the cars outside while biting a fingernail.

“Is it bad that I was hoping you would stay so I don’t have to be with myself any longer?”

Angie immediately straightened up and searched for her eyes, which Hyejin masterfully avoided with a sad grin.

“You know, like in the old days.”

“You’re married, I’m not sure how to take this.” The car restarted moving, and Hyejin’s eyes stayed on the road. “I thought it was working out.”

“It was… until it wasn’t.”

Angie didn’t insist because the car quickly arrived at the hotel Hyejin had reserved for her. She leaned in to see where they were stopping — right in front of the lobby, where a valet was ready to receive the keys as Hyejin stepped out of the driver's seat. Another was already taking the luggage from the truck, and although she should have seen it coming, she was still startled when another opened her car door and bowed ninety degrees.

Angie stepped out of the car, trying her best to bow as well, while everything happened in a flash around her. Hyejin looped an arm around hers and dragged her along with a long face.

“Let’s check you in and go straight for a drink.”

Angie didn’t argue, and the fact that everyone was speaking in Korean around them made it even harder to do so, even if she had wished to. She wasn’t used to having everything done for her, or not to understanding things, for that matter, but she let it happen. Mostly because Hyejin would insist anyway, but also because she was tired. She wanted to be out of the loop and be taken care of for once.

After everything was settled, the receptionist gave her the room keycard, and Hyejin dragged her again, this time to the bar.

“Since you had a stopover of a day in Hong Kong, I’m not giving you a moment to rest,” Hyejin asserted as they sat at a table in the reasonably empty bar. “Unless you need it.”

Angie shook her head, and her bangs moved slightly over her brown eyes. “I’m fine. What’s happening?”

Hyejin heaved a deep breath but ordered their drinks and waited for them before cutting to the chase. “You know last week was our first wedding anniversary.” Angie nodded while siping her Manhattan cocktail, and Hyejin sneered. “And the anniversary of our four-year relationship.” Angie nodded again, licking the sweetness off her lips. “Right? Any sane person would understand it’s an important mark.”

“Because it is. Didn’t you guys plan a getaway?”

She scoffed. “I had to plan everything myself. He got annoyed with any questions to get his opinion, to the point that I just decided on Jeju at the last second so it would be easier. Then when the time came to go, he said he couldn’t because the deadline for an album was coming up, and it wasn’t ready yet.”

Angie’s eyebrows jumped as she grimaced, and Hyejin continued swiftly.

“So I asked him if he was the only producer working on it, and he said no.”

“Good, then someone else surely could take care of it.”

“Oh, no.” Hyejin laughed with derision, leaning forward with eyes flickering. “He said that as a surgeon, I should know better.” Angie could see her grinding her teeth in annoyance. “Would I like it if another doctor operated on my patient?”

Hyejin’s voice pitched, and Angie knew what stage she was at — it was that bad.

“So I told him that I trusted my colleague’s skills.” She scoffed, pleased with herself. “He didn’t like it, so I told him I knew in advance to not schedule any of my patients for that week. You know what he said?” Angie shook her head. “He said his life wasn’t as easily scheduled as mine.” Hyejin fell back to huff at the ceiling before sitting back up and reaching for her martini. “I fucking lost it. I’m a fucking surgeon, I save lives, and he acts like an album deadline is a life-or-death situation when he could have worked on it beforehand.”

Angie pressed her lips as Hyejin shugged her drink. “Sometimes things change suddenly—”

“Whose side are you on?” Hyejin almost choked so she could ask as quickly as possible.

“My best friend’s.” Angie was serious, and so Hyejin looked away. “And my best friend decided to marry this guy so—”

“I’m never first.” Hyejin put the drink down and squeezed her hands anxiously. “I’m telling you what until this very moment I could not even admit to myself,” her voice shook with instant tears. “I’m never first to him.”

Angie leaned to grab her hands over the table. “Maybe… Maybe it’s just a busy phase.”

Hyejin grabbed her best friend’s hands and shut her eyes. “It isn’t. For a year it’s been like this. Always busy, always a new deadline, always something else. I knew our schedules would be hard to coordinate, but fuck. I’m the one staying home alone because he can’t ‘leave the studio right now’.”

Angie’s sadness was possibly the only Hyejin could take. Her best friend’s brown eyes were sweet and showed a hurt that reflected how Hyejin felt deep down. It did hurt, it had for a while. She knew it wasn’t normal and she knew she wasn’t happy. She just didn’t want to admit it or pity herself, but now looking at Angie’s face, she couldn’t hide anymore.

She buried her face in her hands. “Ahh, I don’t know what to do. I’ve told him about this, and at first, he said it would get better. Then, that it was a phase. Then, that I had to be understanding. Now, that my life is easier than his. I can’t stand it. Why did we get married if it was to spend less time together? I don’t get it, and it honestly upsets me even more.” She revealed her face and looked into one of the only sets of eyes she trusted in this world. “I feel like a trophy wife,” she confessed quietly. “Like I was an accomplishment or a stepping stone.” It hurt beyond measure to confess this, and Angie squeezed her hands harder. “The daughter of one of the main producers of HYBE. It does give a certain standing.”

“You can’t possibly believe that he’d marry you for your dad?”

Hyejin snickered. “It wouldn’t be unheard of.” She looked down and refused to continue. Those suspicions were her deepest darkest secrets and even breathing them threatened to rip her apart in ways she wasn’t ready to face yet. “I guess I’m a stupid idiot. Why do I always fall for producers?” Angie stayed quiet, her eyes without a trace of judgment. “I saw my mom suffer while she raised me and my brother alone, but she said it was worth it because she loved my father deeply. And so did he. They still do. I see that, I want that, why can’t I have that?”

Angie pursed her lips. “Maybe you chose the wrong one…”

Hyejin’s eyes were low but quickly snapped back up. Angie feared being insensitive and was ready to apologize when a waiter approached them and spoke softly. She didn’t understand him so she took the moment to take a deep breath and censor herself. Her best friend was struggling in her marriage, and all she had to say was that she had married the wrong guy.

“We can move to the restaurant table for our dinner reservation,” Hyejin translated, grabbing her drink. 

Angie nodded quickly and followed her and the waiter quietly. She noticed Hyejin checking her phone and sighing impatiently. When the waiter left them by the table, Angie instantly fell apart.

“I’m so sorry. That remark was disgusting in this situation, I—”

“Please.” Hyejin sighed, squeezing her arm once before they sat down. “You and I have no secrets. I also wonder sometimes if… If things had been different.”

Angie leaned forward with the table between them. “Marriage is not an unbreakable contract. You don’t have to be miserable.”

Hyejin snorted. “That obvious?”

“Stealing away your smile like this makes me want to punch him in the face.” Angie rolled her eyes as she hid behind her drink and Hyejin smiled.

“You can if he bothers showing up.”

The looming disappointment in Hyejin’s features was enough to resurface Angie’s annoyance. "You know what? Scratch that. I should kick his balls. Unless he’s giving them good use.”

Hyejin’s eyebrows jumped. “You think he’s cheating on me?”

Angie almost choked. “No! I meant with you! Like— Like that you’re at least having sex!” Her eyes widened in shock as Hyejin shrugged. “Are you serious?!”

“No.” She wasn’t convincing because Angie’s eyes were about to pop out. “I mean, I’m my father’s little girl. Most people who work there saw me grow up. I don’t think he’d dare his career or reputation.”

“Hyejin… Fuck, are you listening to yourself?” Angie reached for Hyejin’s free hand while the latter finished her drink. “You shouldn’t be logically augmenting this with me,” her voice was on the verge of lividness. “You should be saying that he loves you and would never look at anyone else.”

She shrugged. “I guess that’s it. I don’t feel loved. I feel like a trophy he wants to put up on a shelf. But I’m a person with feelings. With needs. All my life, I just wanted to be seen. Loved. Important. Enough,” her voice shook as she hid her eyes for a moment. Angie fought the urge to get up and hug her dearest friend. “If I’m not enough, then what’s the point?”

Angie was trying to comfort her the best she could, telling her they could still brainstorm about it more and lay it all out when the waiter neared them again. Angie almost cussed him, though she held her tongue. The waiter was not to blame for being diligent with his work, it was that fucked up situation that was the problem.

Hyejin told him they were still waiting for someone, and they ordered wine before continuing the conversation. This time, the topic switched to Angie being there, and she wholeheartedly exposed her soul inside and out. She was at a crossroads, and she needed a radical change in scenery. One week there could be what she needed to reset. 

As Hyejin suggested things they could do, Angie briefly mentioned that the alternative would have been to tour Europe, but she didn’t have the courage to do it. With a small smile, she acknowledged that she wasn’t half as brave as he was.

After an entire bottle of red wine that Angie tried her best to drink by herself, they were still waiting for Hyejin’s husband. Hyejin started her attempts to reach him on his phone fifteen minutes ago, and now she was fuming.

“This bastard— Seriously, what is wrong with him?! At least pick up the damn phone!”

“Maybe he’s busy—”

“He knew you were coming today and that we had dinner plans, I even freaking emailed him the reservation!”

Angie raised her hands placatingly. “Maybe there’s someone else you could call that would be with him?”

Hyejin looked at her phone but then froze and looked back up at her best friend. Something flashed across her eyes quickly. “You know what? Why bother someone else with my marital issues?”

Angie���s brow instantly creased with worry, but Hyejin was already getting up and gathering her things.

“Wait!” She tried to rush after her. “We need to pay!”

“It’s in your name and room, I’ll pay it later!”

She didn’t bother slowing down, and Angie ran after her. She had never imagined through the chats and voice recordings that this would be going on, nor that she’d be thrown into the middle of her best friend's matrimonial issues, but there they were. As Hyejin drove in an agitated manner that had Angie holding on for dear life, she tried her best to crack jokes and have Hyejin think of something else. At first, she wouldn’t even smile, but they eventually laughed together.

Angie had hoped she had successfully managed to diffuse the situation until Hyejin used a badge to enter an underground park and her smile vanished along with the daylight outside.

“Thank you for cheering me up,” she said, parking masterfully. “But I think he deserves a piece of my mind.”

Angie couldn’t counter her on that. She was pro-communication and against staying in a conventional relationship just because of social norms. 

She debated whether she should be there, to begin with, but Hyejin gave her a small smile. That was when Angie left her doubts behind and followed her dear friend unasked. Maybe Hyejin had had the last straw, and if so, her best friend was there to help her through it.

“Say what you mean and mean what you say,” she told her calmly as they entered the elevator. “And don’t worry about anything else. If he loves you, he’ll listen and figure it out with you. It takes two.”

Angie had never been in a building like that, but she didn’t have time to take it in. Hyejin knew clearly where to go once they stepped out of the elevator and Angie had to rush to meet her speed. All she noticed was the faint music in the background as if coming from the walls, the expansive glass windows letting the sunset lights shine through, and a series of doors that confused her. It felt like they were in an apartment building, seeing all the closed doors with keypads to unlock them, but—

Hyejin started typing a code on one of them and just walked in. Angie followed her and committed to staying by her side until further notice.

She didn’t expect to suddenly hear loud music coming from the speakers all around the room, in a surround sound system that looked expensive, to say the least. But the whole room looked expensive, with multiple keyboards on shelves all the way to the ceiling and consoles extending over a desk that looked into a window to a small room where a lonesome microphone stood. On the screens, just below said window, were multiple programs showing symbols and colors she had never seen before. 

That was the extent of what she captured from the room. Three men were sitting in office chairs, looking at the screens. They all turned around when the door opened and closed, but only one clicked the mouse to stop the music.

“Hyejin!”

She was looking downright fearsome at her husband, who had what Angie could only describe as an idiot’s smile on his face. She avoided the man and whatever he was saying in Korean and looked at the other two: one was Yoongi, Hyejin’s teenage crush, and the other was—

Her eyes widened, the same as his, as he stood up. His hair was longer, and with a gray hoodie like that, she wouldn’t have recognized him. She quickly eyed him from head to toe, then looked back up with a smile. He looked good.

“Be fucking serious!” Hyejin suddenly burst out in English, then pointed at Angie. “My friend from overseas is right here. You’re being rude!”

Hyejin’s husband glanced at Angie, who was frankly not paying attention, and in the moment that he took to react, someone else did.

“Hello.” Yoongi took a step forward and bowed, and Angie was almost startled.

“Hello.”

“Nice to see you again.” He extended his hand, and she met him halfway and shook it.

She smiled. “Thank you, you too.”

Her eyes jumped to Namjoon’s again, trying to decipher his expression, when Hyejin’s husband stepped forward as well to shake her hand. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you finally.”

Angie’s lips curved, and she reached to shake his hand. Hyejin scoffed. “So you remember that you were supposed to meet her for the first time today.”

Her husband stepped back and said something quietly, and she rolled her eyes.

“Please. How about instead of telling me I’m overreacting, you apologize to her for making her wait for our dinner appointment?”

His mouth opened, but he didn’t immediately speak. His eyes alternated between his wife and Angie, who suppressed a sigh. Not that she cared, but she cared about Hyejin. She was disappointed in her stead.

“Oh, I— I’m sorry, I completely forgot. I’m sorry.”

He bowed, but Angie felt uneasy and glanced at Hyejin, who was unimpressed with her arms crossed over her chest. “I told you about it a million times. Reminded you this morning. Forwarded the reservation email so that you’d get a notification thirty minutes beforehand.” Her tone was rising steadily, and everyone felt uneasy. Her husband tried smiling and calling her name, and her expression just hardened. “I called you dozens of times. Where the hell is your phone?!”

He stuttered, finally seemingly embarrassed. “Somewhere, but it’s in silent mode. You know I don’t take calls when I work.”

Hyejin rolled her eyes. “Your smartwatch?”

“It’s set on Do Not Disturb.”

“Fucking brilliant.” She huffed, ready to tell him how idiotic that was, when he grinned.

“Well, you know how it is, darling. We don’t really follow schedules. More like… intuition. And inspiration. Right?” He looked at the other two men, and Hyejin huffed not so subtly. “One can’t really schedule inspiration, and Yoongi and Namjoon here just passed by and offered to help, I had to take the opportunity.”

Angie pressed her lips not to grimace at his extensive list of excuses. Knowing what he had told Hyejin about how her work could be scheduled while his couldn’t just made her gut twist even more. She was curious to observe the other two’s reactions: Yoongi was looking at the wall and his lips were a stern line, and Namjoon looked serious and a second away from saying his opinion. Angie guessed he didn’t want to intervene, it was Hyejin’s discussion, but she was happy to see that everyone else saw the bullshit.

“I was actually trying to fix Taesun’s mistakes,” Hyejin’s husband finally whined, puffing a deep sigh. Angie frowned despite Hyejin’s sigh, and he took that as permission to continue, “It’s an absolute shitstorm in every direction. Divorcing is fine, but being caught cheating with one of the artists you’re producing music for is…”

Angie was the only one with wide eyes, and none of the others stepped in to help him find words.

“Destastful.” He seemed contented with himself. “It’s destroying his career and reputation and the group’s and the company’s!”

“Oh please,” Hyejin huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Your dad stepped down from the board this morning after agreeing to terminate Taesun’s contract.”

“What?!” Hyejin turned to Namjoon and Yoongi for confirmation — the first nodded, and the latter looked down.

“It’s ridiculous,” Yoongi said quietly. “He has nothing to do with it.”

“The public will see it as a show of good faith,” Hyejin’s husband commented.

“Who cares?!” Hyejin was grabbing onto her hair with incredulity. “My father helped build this place from the ground up, he shouldn’t be punished for having an asshole as a son!”

“He’s the one who decided to do it,” Namjoon told her gently. “You should probably talk to him, he’ll need your support. And your mother.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this!” Hyejin was fuming again, angry lines drawn over her face.

“Me? I thought your mother would call you!”

“She’s probably devastated and trying to console Dad! You should have called me!”

Her husband seemed lost. “But I was told to work on the album—”

“You started working on that album last month!”

Angie pressed her lips and fought the urge to excuse herself and leave. She wanted to be there for Hyejin, but the discussion sounded increasingly like a couple's fight.

“Wasn’t the album’s deadline this week?” Hyejin suddenly frowned, remembering what he had told her.

Her husband smiled. “There’s good news. Well, bad news, actually, but good news! Before, your brother was just late, and I was brought in to help, but now, because of the scandal, they moved the deadline!”

Angie’s eyes fixed on Hyejin, who looked like a deer caught in headlights while her husband was grinning from ear to ear.

“This means that I’ll be given three more months to—”

“You mean the album that ruined our first wedding anniversary was—”

Her voice was by a thread, and everyone recognized the dam about to break: Angie stepped next to her and brushed her arm, Namjoon raised his hands, Yoongi grabbed his stuff from the table, and even Hyejin’s husband stepped forward.

“We should really just take a step back—”

“Clearly, there are more important things than this album right now.”

“Darling, I didn’t know it would turn out like this—”

Everyone spoke at the same time, but Hyejin was the only one that mattered. She ignored the three of them and focused on Angie’s eyes and lips pursing. She felt like exploding in every direction, but she took a deep breath at that moment.

She looked her husband dead in the eye. “You and I are going to talk, but not now.” She turned to Angie. “I need to go to my parents.”

“I know, I’ll get back to the hotel.”

“We can help with that,” Namjoon suggested immediately.

“Do you need a ride?” Yoongi asked, but he was looking at Hyejin.

Looking into his eyes almost made Hyejin cry. “I have my car.”

“But should you be driving right now?” He insisted, car keys in his hand as if waiting for the word.

“He’s right,” Hyejin’s husband stepped forward again, but she purposefully didn’t look in his direction. “I should drive you—”

“No,” she responded quickly in a clean cut. “You need to figure out what your priorities are, and I’d suggest you do it tonight. Come home, or don’t, I don’t care. I might stay at my parents’ tonight, but the next time I see you, we are going to talk.”

She grabbed Angie’s hand and walked out of the room. She just didn’t want to be there anymore now that she had reacted, but it had to be done.

“Are you okay?” Angie was following after her quickly, but she was worried.

They only stopped near the elevators, and Hyejin pressed the button to call one. “I’m a surgeon. Making calls in a pinch with a life or death situation in my hands is my job.”

Angie squeezed her hand. “I didn’t ask for your credentials.”

Her expression was gentle even as Hyejin tried to control an emerging sob and threw her arms around her best friend.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” Angie held her firmly and petted her hair. “You’ll come out on the other side happier, I promise.”

They both heard footsteps from the corridor, and Hyejin stepped away, cleaning her tears and composing herself. Angie hated the rigidity and norms her best friend always seemed to conform to whenever someone else was present. At that moment, she wondered if Hyejin ever had time to be herself.

“We said we’d help,” Namjoon reminded her with a soft expression.

Yoongi was standing next to him. “And I’m driving you.”

“I brought my car.”

“And I’m driving you.”

His expression was soft as they looked at each other, talking without words. Angie guessed he knew her well enough to know she had just been crying, and he clearly cared enough to make sure she wouldn’t drive in that state.

The elevator door opened and the four stepped in. Angie noted that Hyejin never said yes, but she never said no either, which was probably enough.

Namjoon asked something quietly in Korean, and Hyejin instantly answered. In a short time, they arrived at the underground parking.

Namjoon turned to Angie. “I’ll make a call real quick.”

She nodded, and Hyejin called her attention. “I’m so sorry about this. We should have been at your hotel eating and having wine, and instead, this whole bullshit just keeps on piling up.”

“This escapes your control, it’s not your fault. Your family needs you, so don’t worry about anything else.”

Namjoon stepped back to her side before she was done talking. “All set, we’ll have a car in a few minutes.”

Angie looked up at him in surprise; she assumed they’d call a taxi for her.

“Thanks, Joonie.”

Yoongi said something that had Namjoon step forward and hug Hyejin with words that sounded like comfort. When he pulled away, Angie was ready to step in as well.

“Call me when you have the time,” she hugged her firmly then gave her best friend a comforting smile before she and Yoongi walked away.

Angie stood next to Namjoon and furrowed her brow. “So… you said ‘we’ll have a car’, so…”

“Ah, yes. I’ll take you to your hotel. We should have a car any minute now.” He scratched his head with a smile, and she nodded.

“Thank you.”

He looked down with a smile that hid his eyes and bloomed sweet dimples, and she stayed quiet, looking at him.

When he finally pressed his lips and looked at her, he found those brown eyes focused on him. He didn’t know what to say for a moment, it was all still so unexpected. He had so many questions: when had she arrived, how long would she stay, how had she been doing, had she had dinner yet, did she remember their time together the year before or was it just him who—

He suddenly gasped mutely. “I didn’t really say hi to you, did I?”

She smiled. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well… Hi.” He was caught in her eyes and totally forgot whatever clever and smooth words were supposed to come out.

Her smile widened. “Hi, Namjoon.”

Next part >

[winxngasks]

🎸 Brio, (AU) son of Musa and Riven, Specialist 🎸

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FINALLY GETTING TO THESE!!! Did not mean to take so long to get to these, but I've just been pretty busy with life + other projects that I didn't take the time to put these together till recently. I also had some trouble at first trying to find proper references and figuring out everyone's individual styles, but I have them all done now!

So, starting up the AU kids' fashion boards, we first have Brio! Honestly the hardest part of his was finding a close/good enough reference for his hair, but I ended up just using the one I put in his moodboard. I hope you enjoy!

More details about his looks can be found under the 'readmore'!

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. For Brio, he has short bluish-purple hair, done in a punkish undercut style where it is a little longer on top. Doesn't mind wearing makeup as he will usually wear a little eyeliner on a daily basis while going a little bolder for performances, and usually has his nails painted either black or dark shades. For a physical detail I wanted to highlight, it would be that he has several ear piercings, which include double lobes and two sets of cartilage.

. For his color scheme, he usually wears only dark colors or neutrals, though has a few pieces in lighter or bolder colors. Blacks, grays, and blues and purples in various shades or his most favorite and worn colors. Following after both his parents his style leans more on the alternative side, mostly punk-rock and grunge. A lot of studded leather jackets, ripped jeans, and tall, combat-style boots. A lot of band tees or t-shirts with other cool graphics, but he does have some solid-color pieces and enjoys a plaid look occasionally. His style is more on the casual side but he does have a few dressier pieces, mainly some silk dress shirts and some traditional Melodian clothing.

. For accessories, he does enjoy wearing them and usually has a few layered with his outfits. Studded belts, chains to attach to his belts, fingerless leather and fishnet gloves, chokers, chain necklaces and bracelets, and a lot of spikes and pointy details. Usually keeps his earrings simple, with either simple studs or rings, but sometimes connects his piercings with chain-cuffs or wears dangling earrings for performances. Most of his accessories leans into his alt aesthetic, but he does have a couple of 'cuter' and matching accessories with his girlfriend. The main accessories I chose to give him here are some layered necklaces, as those are the kind he would wear on a daily basis.

[nobluesea]

A blow straight through the heart.

Fic so good it ended me my art slump

The image quality got messed up, click here for a better version

[aro-aizawa]

going to lose my mind. i've had three people comment on my dead fic asking to post it to youtube.

HI MAYBE LOOK AT THE COMMENT DIRECTLY ABOVE WHERE I SAY IN BIG BOLD LETTERS NOT TO POST MY FIC TO YOUTUBE

[sorikkung]

people interacting w wgoin in my notes... this would be a rly bad time to say all my writing will probably be on hiatus for the indefinite future huh

[bweirdart]

nearly oc-tober time again - time for some prompts for 2024

F.A.Q

do i have to draw?

not at all! you are free to participate with any medium that suits you... writing, artwork, free bases and templates, simple text posts, in-character-as-your-oc roleplay, whatever! (just no stealing or AI)

do i have to make new content?

nope! re-uploading old stuff that fits the prompts is allowed (and encouraged) ... old art that didn't get the appreciation it needed always deserves a chance to be shared again, it's a fun throwback!

do i have to post every day?

nope! only 10 days are mandatory (the ones in red with a star symbol) and everything else (yellow) is 100% optional! if you're busy or tired, please skip as many as you want

can i start early?

you can prep your posts in advance if you need to ... but please wait until the right day in october to share them!

can i re-upload your prompt list to another site?

i would prefer if you dont - i have accounts on most sites, so just reblog/retweet/share from me!

event tag?

#bweirdOCtober

have fun!

image desc/text version ↓under the cut↓ or on bweird.art/october

prompts:

WEEK 1: OC INTRODUCTIONS

⭐ 1: FAV OC

what makes them your fav?

2: NEW OC

how recently did you make them?

3: OLD OC

how long ago did you make them?

⭐ 4: UNDER-APPRECIATED OC

an oc you feel like you don't talk about enough, or you haven't fleshed out as much as you would like

5: RE-DESIGNED OC

an oc who has changed a lot (what changed about them?) or, if you haven't redesigned an oc: is there anything you might want to change about an existing oc?

WEEK 2: BUILDING BACKSTORY

⭐ 6: PAST

where is your oc from? what did they look like as a child?

7: LIKES

what do they like (and why?)

8: DISLIKES

what don't they like (and why?)

⭐ 9: RELATIONSHIPS

doesn't have to be romantic! can any kind of relationship (frienship, family, rivalry etc)

10: PERSONALITY

what are your oc's main personality traits

11: SYMBOLISM/THEMES

what represents your oc? is there a specific colour you associate them with, or a specific animal?

12: FUTURE

what will your oc look like in the future? do they have any plans or goals?

WEEK 3: FUN + GAMES

⭐13: MEMES

do any memes remind you of your oc? are there memes your oc would find funny? maybe you want to redraw your oc as one?

14: WHO/WHAT INSPIRED YOUR OC

are there existing characters that your oc looks like? was your oc based on yourself? is your oc originally from a specific fandom?

15: MUSIC

share a character playlist, write a songfic, post lyrics that remind you of them, etc

⭐16: EYES CLOSED or NON DOMINANT HAND

draw a picture of your oc with your eyes closed or with your non domminant hand, write or type a paragraph about them without your eyes closed, etc ... have fun, and don't worry about it looking "bad" -it's meant to!!

17: DnD ALIGNMENT CHART

put all your ocs into a DnD alignment chart, or any other similar chart if you prefer

i've compiled a few templates on my site, but you can find more easily if you google "oc alignment chart"

⭐18: SWAP

swap something between your ocs - their role in the story, hairstyles, personalities, fashion taste, species ... whatever you want! how would this difference change them?

19: PALETTE CHALLENGES

draw your ocs with as many of these colour palettes as you want (or just skip if you don't draw/don't like doing these!)

hex codes for the colours:

palette 1 - #3C1E81 #6D1EA2 #B059E8 #FE0876 #FE5284 #FE7C96 #E0CFE3 #FFD5C3

palette 2 - #352823 #673F28 #AB541C #BA8233 #897128 #A68B2F #F7BF6A #DAC3A4

palette 3 - #A42E25 #D7412B #E47C29 #F7A233 #FCC02D #FCE4A6 #486548 #FEFDE8

palette 4 - #2F4769 #39597E #53779C #94D1E7 #AADDE7 #D48DB7 #D498B5 #D2BABA

WEEK 4: COMMUNITY

20-26: A WHOLE WEEK OF SOCIAL STUFF

if you don't have the time/energy to do every day this week, ⭐ day 23 is the only one marked as mandatory! you can skip the rest!

some ideas for what you could do: talk about a friend's oc you like, make gift art/writing of them, collabs, trades, reblog/appreciate ocs in the event tag, make interactions between your ocs and other people's

WEEK 5: HALLOWEEN

⭐27: FEARS

is your oc scared of anything? do they have any phobias? are they startled easily? would any of your ocs try to scare ppl on purpose?

28: MONSTER

what would your oc be if they were a monster (eg: werewolf, vampire, eldritch beast.. whatever) or, do you have an oc who is already a monster?

29: PUMPKIN CARVING

your ocs carving pumpkins, a drawing of a pumpkin carved to look like your oc ... or even carve it in real life!

30: GHOST

this can be literally a ghost, or a concept that haunts your oc! up to you!

⭐ 31: COSTUMES

what are your ocs wearing for halloween?

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[thatsveryvortex]

Writing Tools for Planning Your Story

I've tried tons of writing apps and sites, so you don't have to. Here's a list of free sites to plot out your novel, with my review and some images of how I use it.

Milanote

Milanote is like having a giant pinboard with folders. You can upload anything onto it [yes even your main doc] and then draw over it or connect things with lines and arrows

Milanote lets you add up to a hundred things for free, not including drawing. This is one of the downsides of the site as I've found myself reaching that limit recently.

For me, the best part is being able to draw over stuff, and the color swatches.

Milanote is a lot less structured than other sites I've used, and personally, I don't think their templates are worth using.

8/10 overall, Milanote is what I mainly use. Here are some pics of how I use it:

Miro

Miro is a flowchart website mainly used for corporate jobs, however, it can be a great plotting tool for that reason

Miro has a lot of great starter templates if you are looking for a more structured freeform experience. It also comes with a blank page as well.

Unfortunately, I'd argue that it's a bit of a hard tool for beginners to use without a template, I've learned copy-paste is my best friend with Miro the hard way.

It's much better than most platforms at making timelines though.

It has a limit of three boards which is a bit disappointing but overall, I think it's worth the try.

5/10 Miro is very middle of the road for me due to the limited ability to customize things and the free limit. Here are some pics:

[I wrote that part weeks ago, I am now fully using Miro and believe it's the best for making timelines and charts, I just wish it let me make more boards 8/10]

Hiveword

This might be someone's jam, I can't really say it's mine though.

First off, the unpaid version is really just a few boxes saying "Write a summary here." which makes it just not worth it in my opinion

There really isn't any way to customise things which is my favorite part of most of these softwares

I've barely used this, so maybe there's something I'm missing but

1/10, Just use Google Docs at this point, here's a couple pics

World Anvil

People like this software, it's mainly used for tabletop, which is just a different way of writing adventure, and I've seen it recommended by authors.

Unfortunately, I'm going to disagree with a lot of people and say it's hard to use and isn't even really good at plotting.

I may be biased on this one as every time I've tried to use it in the past I've struggled. However, it seems like another just write it in a document and create a folder.

I'd say it's closer to an organizing tool, but even then just use something else.

3/10, I have nothing to say about it but maybe you'll enjoy it, all here are two photos

Campfire

This is the one I think I've heard the most about, but have never actually tried.

right off the bat, I'm going to say this is 100% worth it, you'll see at the end with the photos but this is like if Miro and World Anvil had an organization baby.

It's extremely easy to understand, and it makes timelines, it's more for writing your whole book but idk about that yet.

7/10, its themes are really pretty but it limits how much you can do to 20 I believe. Here are the photos

That's all for now, honestly, I think you should use Miro if you are looking to plot things out, and Milanote if you want to collect and organize your thoughts for writing, as that's what I do. Obviously what I like won't be for everyone, but hopefully, this helped you see some options

[khywren]

it's time for some more astarion analysis~

making this a separate post in case people wanted to reblog just the gifs on their own and don't care about the extra fluff. i'm certain this scene has been analyzed to the hells and back by this point, but when i was making this set something really stuck out to me and i wanted to throw my two cents in anyway.

this is the tail end of the mirror scene from act 1, where you catch astarion looking in the mirror and lamenting about not being able to see his reflection or knowing what he looks like anymore. and while that alone is sad enough, it gets SO MUCH WORSE.

if you express genuine interest in his predicament (i.e. asking him if he misses his reflection and what color his eyes were before he was turned), you get to see the mask slip. it's one of the first times in the game that he's not hiding behind his quick wit and silver tongue.

if you tell him you'll be his mirror, you can see the change in his demeanor immediately. his face softens, the cadence of his voice changes; you can literally hear the vulnerability in every word he says. huge props to neil and the rest of larian for making the distinction between these dialogue options, of course. it's the little details that really make moments like these shine.

but there was something else i noticed in the footage i recorded as well that i hadn't picked up on any of my other playthroughs. i've spent a lot of time staring at this man's face, especially while capturing idle animations for gifs and wallpapers, and most of the time it's what you'd expect, with minimal face movement, expressions changing, etc. most companions i record seem to behave the same way, with similar expressions/blinking/eye movement.

but just look at astarion's face here. this feels deliberately unique. he is SO anxious, so worried how you'll perceive him. the rapid blinking, the nervous darting of his eyes… it genuinely breaks my heart.

(tumblr will only let me upload one video per post, but just look at any other idle footage of him and you'll see the difference)

and the second you tell him what he thinks he wants to hear? that he's very attractive? he slips right back into his suave, flirtatious persona, and even praises you for complimenting his looks. even if you eventually ask him if all he wants is shallow praise, he still deflects and isn't completely honest with you.

note that if you choose to take the less compassionate route and simply tell them that he has a "very good face," he will still prompt you to tell him what you see when you look at him, and the delivery of the line is subtly but noticeably different and more guarded. similarly, if you poke a little too much fun at him by calling him old and draw too much attention to his mole, he gets very flustered and ends the conversation immediately. understandable, since he's relied on his appearance for so long, and hearing (even jokingly) that even that might not be something he can use anymore must be at least a little terrifying for him.

so naturally, you might think that by being truthful with him would perhaps net you a better result -- after all, you're telling him what he asked for, what you really see, that you see him as more than just someone to lust after -- but it doesn't. he actually seems a little upset if you choose those dialogue options. in that moment, he wants to know that you find him attractive, because he thinks that's all he's good for. because if you find him attractive, there's a chance that he could seduce you and use you for protection against cazador. i do think he also genuinely wants to know that there's so much more to him than just a pretty face, since that's a big theme of his entire story/romance arc, but that's not at the top of his priority list this early in the game. he's relying purely on instinct. he knows how to respond to people telling him he's attractive. accepting genuine compliments about the person beneath the mask? that's probably not something he's had much (if any) experience with in close to two centuries. he didn't have the luxury of being able to let anyone see who he really was.

all that to say that this interaction is really heartbreaking. he wants to be seen, wants to be understood and possibly loved, but at the same time he still thinks he needs to put on a front to ensure he can keep himself safe. watching him slowly start to unlearn those habits during the course of the game has been one of my favorite things about bg3 and a huge part of what's really endeared astarion to me as a character.

[silkysoftie]

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭

hitoshi shinsou x female reader

summary: in which hitoshi unexpectedly finds himself getting off to a photo of his classmate.

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, college au, established friendship, masturbation, light exhibitionism/voyeurism (aged up characters)

a/n: hope you like this lil’ drabble! don’t worry toshi stans, i plan to write more full-length content for him in the future :)

Hitoshi was no stranger to 3am, as is natural for an insomniac. Not only did he find himself to be more productive after 9pm, but he’d also grown to enjoy the stillness that settled over the dorms and the darkness that creeped down the hallway outside his door. He often spent this time catching up on homework, or winding down from the long day of training without worry of being disturbed.

It was an uncommonly quiet night. Usually, he could hear Tokoyami, a fellow night owl, up and clattering about in the common area. Occasionally, the pipes in his walls would creak and groan as someone, likely Midoriya coming back from a late night run, showered, but not tonight. Hitoshi couldn’t even hear Y/N, his classmate and friend whom he shared a wall with, shuffling about. Tonight the dorms were noiseless, leading him to believe that all of his classmates were asleep.

Unfazed by the silence, Histoshi busied himself with little tasks just like he would any other night. He spent an hour or two finishing an essay, mended a tear in his capture scarf, and packed up his book bag before deciding to take a well deserved break.

After carefully placing his favorite vinyl on his record player, he stripped off his shirt, threw on a pair of pajama pants, and settled into bed. As the soft music filled the room, he unplugged his phone, intending to browse instagram for a while.

Humming along to the song, Hitoshi scrolled through countless photos and videos of his friends and classmates. Ashido had posted a dance cover that he liked and left a comment under. A little further down Todoroki had uploaded a family photo with his father’s head cropped out. Hitoshi couldn’t help but cackle at that. And then he came upon a very different photo. It was posted a few hours ago the very girl that was asleep just on the other side of his wall, Y/N.

The picture was of her, laughing and smiling as she was being smooshed between the girls from Class 1A. But what made this photo unique was that it was taken during the girls trip to the beach last weekend, and Y/N was in a bikini.

Hitoshi’s eyes widened as he drew in an unusually shaky breath. He’d never seen his classmate in anything less than her school uniform or hero costume which, much to his dismay, was not very revealing. He glanced nervously at the wall they shared, as if she’d somehow phase through it at any moment and bear witness to his wandering eyes.

Clearing his throat, Hitoshi scrolled away from the post, but as he half heartedly watched a work out video Midoriya had uploaded, his mind kept wandering back to the photo.

Though he was alone, Hitoshi tilted the screen a bit closer to his chest, a light blush staining his cheeks. One more peak couldn’t hurt…With a quick search, he’d pulled up her account, bikini pic proudly pinned at the top.

Feeling a bit like a pervert, Hitoshi’s eyes wandered over his friend’s half-naked body. She was much… softer than he expected. The serious mask she put on during combat training had somehow led him to believe she was all sharp edges and strength, but the gentle curves of her torso said otherwise.

Not only was he transfixed by the light sheen of sweat shimmering on her smooth skin, but also by the swimsuit she dawned. It seemed to hug her in all the right places, just barely teasing what might be underneath. And though she was surrounded by plenty of scantily clothed women, he just couldn’t pull his gaze away from her.

A low groan escaped his throat as he threw his hand over his eyes, telltale signs of arousal earning a reaction from his body.

Good lord, he was pathetic. As though he’d never seen a woman before, a simple bikini photo had him pitching a tent.

Sighing, Hitoshi peaked through his fingers at his erection. He’d have to take care of that before he could move on with his night.

Maybe he could use the photo?

No… Y/N was his friend and a rather good one at that. She trusted him. They respected one another.

But the thought of getting off to someone else made his brows furrow in dissatisfaction. He couldn’t, not when she had been the source of his excitement. Hitoshi huffed in frustration. This was no good.

Maybe… maybe she wouldn’t mind? Maybe she intended for him to see this photo when she’d posted it!

It was with these feeble justifications that Hitoshi’s resolve easily crumbled. Without another thought, he hurriedly yanked down his pajama pants, red, aching cock springing free.

Just this once.

Humming with relief, he gripped his throbbing member. Setting a slow pace, Hitoshi’s gaze wandered back down to his phone, the screen illuminating his fucked out expression in the dim room.

Hitoshi stroked his cock lazily as he began committing the shape of her to memory. The subtle slope of her hips, the curve of her breasts... even the way her hair, wind-blown and salty, fell over her shoulders.

Had she always been this beautiful?

A whimper caught in Hitoshi’s throat as his thumb caught on the tip. Without the presence of mind to feel guilty, he imagined it was Y/N’s hands running over him instead. In his mind’s eye he could see her, big, round eyes staring longingly up at him, practically begging for him to take her. Hitoshi moaned at the mere thought.

Would she want to blow him? His eyes nearly rolled back in his head as he envisioned her waiting patiently on her knees for him, mouth open and ready to receive.

Groaning, he thought of all the ways in which he might pleasure her. He’d tie her up, eat her out, and leave her gasping for more. Oh, and he just knew she would sound absolutely exquisite. What he wouldn’t give to hear little whines and whimpers rolling off her tongue as she pleaded for release.

By now, grunts and moans fell freely from Hitoshi’s lips as he panted without care of who might hear. His hand began to move quicker, his movements growing sloppier as he approached his high. Throwing down his phone, Hitoshi gripped the base of his cock tightly. With a desperate whine of his friend’s name, sticky, hot ropes of cum shot out, covering his bare, heaving chest.

Hitoshi raked a shaky hand through his mussed, purple hair as he came down from his high. He hadn’t finished that hard in quite some time and boy, had he missed it. Just as he was beginning to catch his breath, a ‘ding’ from his phone caught his attention.

Not even bothering to clean himself up, he picked up his phone, curious to see who might have texted him this late at night.

A jolt of surprise zapped through him as his screen lit up with the notification.

Y/N

‘Whatcha doin over there? Sure sounds like fun ;)’

Caught off guard, Hitoshi‘s eyes flicked between his phone and his wall. She’d heard him? He’d thought she was asleep…

Maybe he could play this off somehow? Licking his lips nervously, he typed out a quick response.

Toshi

‘Wouldn’t you like to know ;)’

Copying her little winky face, he pressed send, hopeful it implied his volume had been intentional even if it hadn’t.

Y/N

‘Why don’t you come over here and show me?’

Hitoshi had never moved so fast in his life.

tags:

[erodasfishtacos]

Wedding Band Cuts

prompt: YN goes into a massage and things go haywire quickly

word count: 8k (oooops)

warnings: this is all filth, i couldn't get this concept out of my mind

author's note:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-2 days.

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2

one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out here

first fifteen to click here can get a free $5 membership for a month<3

=================

YN may or may not have a slight crush on the owner of the health club that she belongs to.

An boujee, exclusive type of place that there was a waitlist for membership and the prices to join were insane.

The only reason she could attend was because she got a massive discount because of her work.

He wasn’t what someone would imagine the typical gym owner to look like. 

No, he wasn’t a meathead with bulging biceps, thick veins protruding from his forearms, and  a protein shake in hand at all times.

Harry was lean.

Built in a way that was quietly powerful, his strength evident but not flaunted. 

The kind of muscular that didn’t demand attention but commanded respect nonetheless. 

He was intimidating in a different way—not because he towered over people or grunted loudly when lifting weights, but because he moved with an effortless grace that made everything he did look easy. 

The men who spent their time flexing in the mirror and slamming weights to the ground were often left in the dust by him. He bypassed them without so much as a labored breath, but he was never condescending about it.

He didn’t rub it in their faces or attempt to show off.

That, somehow, made him even more attractive.

YN knows that she has never, in her whole life, found someone as attractive as Harry. 

It was almost embarrassing how her stomach flipped whenever she caught sight of him in those tiny workout shorts, the ones that made it impossible not to stare. 

She wanted to drool like a dog when he lifted weights shirtless, every muscle in his torso shifting in perfect harmony. 

But she wasn’t the only one who felt this way—every woman at the gym seemed to have the same not-so-subtle admiration.

The issue was with her (and the other women) she was married.

Despite being the owner, Harry was always around.

 Sometimes he was doing administrative tasks, other times he was covering for employees who had called in sick. 

Hiring college kids meant dealing with last-minute schedule changes, so he often found himself playing the role of front desk attendant, janitor, or—on rare occasions—masseuse.

It was a health club, after all. 

The gym offered more than just workout equipment; there was a spa with facials, manicures, and, of course, massages. While Harry wasn’t an esthetician and couldn’t fill in for those services, he was a certified masseuse.

However, he rarely stepped in for that role because his staff was dependable.

That didn’t stop the women from hoping.

It was common knowledge among the female members that if someone called out, there was a slight—very slight—chance that Harry might step in. 

None of them had been lucky enough for it to happen, though. 

And when news spread that Jerry, a seventy-one-year-old man, had received a massage from Harry when his assigned therapist had to leave due to a stomach bug, the collective jealousy among the women was almost comical.

Jerry, blissfully unaware of the silent resentment directed his way, had wobbled out of the building looking loose-limbed and content, oblivious to the scowls of women who had never before envied an elderly man quite so much.

Tiffany, one of the braver women, decided to test her luck. 

With a sickly sweet smile, she had approached the front desk where Harry was working, tilting her head just so as she asked if he might be able to squeeze her in for a massage.

Harry, ever professional, had simply glanced up from the computer screen, offered her a polite but firm smile, and informed her that since the therapist had left early, they unfortunately wouldn’t be able to accommodate her request. 

He didn’t offer to step in himself, and Tiffany had to swallow her disappointment as she rejoined her friends, shoulders slumping in defeat.

YN was excited for the massage because she kept such tension in her lower back, her thighs, her glutes.

And she definitely didn’t get them regularly enough because life was busy so the strain and stiffness built and built until her body ached enough to have her make an appointment.

It was last minute, they were able to squeeze her in at the last session available, eight in the evening.

The gym was closed at that point but the spa was open until nine.

When YN steps into the dimly lit lobby of the building, she immediately notices how quiet it is. 

The usual low hum of voices or the distant clinking of weights from the gym is missing.

 Instead, the only sound is the faint buzzing of the overhead light and the gentle click of the door settling back into place behind her. She makes her way toward the receptionist’s desk, her steps echoing slightly against the polished tile floor.

The desk is empty. 

No receptionist in sight, no signs of life beyond the unlocked door. 

If the entrance hadn’t been open, she would have assumed the place had already shut down for the night. 

It’s unsettling, the stillness of it all. 

There had been only one other car in the parking lot—a sleek black sedan parked near the entrance. 

She could only hope it belonged to her massage therapist because if she didn’t get the relief she was craving, she might actually scream. 

Her shoulders ached, tension coiled tightly along her spine, and she needed to feel like jelly by the time she walked out of here.

YN lingers at the front desk, her fingertips lightly tapping along the smooth oak surface as she chews on the inside of her lip. 

She glances over her shoulder toward the hallway leading to the massage rooms, her nerves prickling when she hears footsteps approaching. 

The rhythmic sound of sneakers hitting the linoleum floor grows louder with each step.

She fully expects to see Pedro—her regular massage therapist. Pedro, who always greeted her with a knowing smirk and a shake of his head, chastising her for letting herself get so tense.

But it’s not Pedro who steps around the corner.

No, it’s Harry.

Harry, the owner of the gym.

He’s always been effortlessly charming, the kind of man who draws attention without even trying. 

Women often mistook his friendliness for flirting, but that was just his nature—engaging, attentive, and naturally likable. He had one of those faces that made it hard to pinpoint his exact age. 

Deep-set dimples softened the sharpness of his jawline, giving him an almost boyish appeal, while the light scruff and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his real age.

“Hello, I’m sorry about that,” he says as he moves behind the desk, leaning down to click around on the computer, hiis voice is smooth, deep, the kind that makes you want to lean in just a little closer, “You must be… YN, right? Here for your massage with Pedro?”

“It’s okay,” YN reassures him with an easy smile, a bit fluttery because he was cute, “Yes, that’s me,”

“Pedro had to leave earlier due to a family emergency,” Harry informs her as he clicks around a bit more before looking up at her, “I should have called to cancel but I got distracted with some paperwork. Are you comfortable with having one with me? Or I can reschedule and give you a free massage on the house for the inconvenience.”

YN hesitates. A free massage sounded tempting—nearly $200 worth of pampering for nothing. 

But then there was the other option: a paid session with Harry, the hot gym owner with broad shoulders and an easy smile. 

She hadn’t expected to find herself in this predicament, but now that she was here, her stomach gave a nervous little flip.

“I really need one. I’m really stiff,” YN’s eyes darted away nervously, something akin to the feeling when you’re about to drop down on a rollercoaster creeping into her stomach, “But I don’t want to inconvenience you at all.”

“It wouldn’t be an inconvenience to massage you,” Harry replies, his words slow and this morbid monotone that somehow works for him, his eyes narrow just the slightest, and even though nothing he said was inappropriate.

The way he says it sends a shiver down her spine. 

It’s not the words themselves—it’s how they linger in the air between them, heavy with something unspoken.

 YN presses her thighs together instinctively, pulse quickening as heat creeps up the back of her neck.

YN rolls her lip between her teeth, she doesn’t know when she got so brazen but she gives him a small, unsure smile, “Hopefully you’re as good as Pedro.”

Harry’s grin falters slightly, eyes narrowing at the challenge, “I’ve been told I’m good with my hands.”

“Pedro’s hands are amazing though, not just good, you know?” YN keeps her tone casually like she’s not trying to bait him but she’s pretty sure that she’s not misconstruing the sexual tension for him just being nice, he wasn’t like this all the time. 

“I'm sure you’ll be satisfied with my services. Are you hard to please?” Harry asks with a tilt of his head, a slight smirk she's never seen before.

YN lets out a breathy laugh, tapping her fingers against the desk, “Most people would say no. My husband, on the other hand? He might say something different.”

Harry’s eyes flicker down to her left hand, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly when he finds her ring finger bare. 

His jaw clenches just the slightest bit before his tone turns cool, more businesslike,  “I’ll show you to the room we’ll be using.”

YN wonders if she shouldn't have mentioned she had a husband, maybe she had led him on with the fact that she didn't have her wedding band on.

She knew she would have to take it off anyways, and didn't want to get the lotion rubbed into nooks and crannies that are difficult to clean.

He steps out from behind the desk.

YN’s eyes drop to do a full body scan, she often subtly checked him out when she was here but now with a bit of arousal pooling in her tummy - she had a whole other perspective on him.

How his legs were such a sweet juxtaposition of lean but thick at the same time, she could easily imagine herself sinking her nails into them.

The shorts he wore showed them off entirely too well, he absolutely knew what he was doing when he stepped into those short shorts that morning.

And when he turns to start walking down the hallway, YN can appreciate how broad his shoulders are, and they're accentuated by the way they lead down into narrow hips.

The definition of manly.

As they walk down the hallway, YN peeks into the other offices—empty, confirming that they are, indeed, alone.

 It shouldn’t matter. 

This was a professional massage.

 Nothing more.

“I didn't know you were certified in massages,” YN chimes in as they walk, just to break the silence that had fallen in between them.

YN deemed it awkward but she didn't know if he did.

He doesn't turn around but he does reply, “I got a certification when I got my doctorate in exercise science and kinesiology. It was an elective. I did them more when I started the business but now I have employees for that.”

“So you're rusty, is what you're telling me?” YN teases, she should stop baiting him because he seems easy to react and not always in a good way.

YN has seen Harry yell at grown men over poor form that could have seriously injured their backs or throwing them out for not respecting the gym rules.

He was intimidating to say the least.

“Did I say that?” Harry turns to look over his shoulder, “My wife requests them enough that I don't get to become rusty.”

“Oh,” YN replies lamely, eyes darting down to see that he did in fact have a gold wedding band on his ring finger, hard to miss, and proudly shining.

 It’s hard to miss.

And yet, for a moment, she had.

“Oh?” Harry questions, still glancing back, “Is there an issue?”

YN swallows harshly, his eyes were laxer focused and challenging her to say something that she shouldn't.

She shouldn't because he's married.

She shouldn’t because she’s married.

“N-no,” YN stammers at the sudden question, tightened uncertainty winding in her belly - mixing with the hot, subtle arousal.

“Good,” Harry nods before he's stopping one of the last doors on the left, his hand curls around the knob, “Undress to your comfort. Some people prefer keeping their bra and underwear on, others go nude. Whatever you feel best doing.”

YN hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides.

 Normally, she’d strip off her bra but keep her underwear on—just enough coverage to maintain a sliver of modesty. 

But something inside her stirs, something unfamiliar yet enticing, daring her to step beyond her usual boundaries.

She bites her bottom lip, the decision swirling in her head as she looks at Harry.

 But his expression gives nothing away, his patience unwavering as he waits for her to step inside.

“I'll give you a few minutes to get settled. Please lay face-down under the sheet, pull it up to your lower back. Do you have any questions?” Harry asks as he flips on the light, the beautiful room already set up, and a twinkling zen music filters through the built-in speaker.

“No,” YN says again, quiet as she steps past him into the space, “Thank you.”

Harry dips his chin in a silent nod before stepping back, allowing her to move past him. 

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

++

It takes longer than she expects for him to return.

At least ten minutes pass, maybe more. 

She can tell by the way the medley of soft instrumentals has shifted two or three times, a seamless transition of calming melodies. 

She breathes deeply, inhaling the mix of essential oils perfuming the air, but the stillness is beginning to make her twitch.

The way that she can feel her nipples against the sheet, the way that every part of her skin is touching it actually.

It’s warm in the room, enough that she can feel the perspiration start to prickle at her lower back, and she can’t decipher whether or not it’s from the temperature of the room or the flush of her body.

YN digs her fingernails into her palms momentarily, to ground herself, to get a hold of herself.

She’s not in some fucking fantasy novel.

Harry is a professional. 

He’s probably oblivious to the thoughts swirling in her head.

He’s married.

She told him that she is married.

The last thing he probably wants is a client sexualizing him in the middle of his job.

Before she can scold herself enough to feel guilt of her rather debach thoughts - the door opens and her heart squeezes with anticipation.

He cracks the door before stepping in, “Ready?”

“Yes,” YN swallows as she squeezes her eyes shut, the door clicks closed behind him.

YN had pulled the sheet up over her shoulders, every masseuse had different protocol, and as soons as he steps over - she realizes that she already hadn’t been great at following his very simple instructions.

She hears his measured footsteps approach before feeling his hands on the sheet—his fingers brushing against the warmth of her bare back as he carefully folds the fabric down.

 It settles just above the swell of her bum, exposing the curve of her lower back.

He stills for the briefest moment.

Then, a deep inhale.

It’s almost imperceptible. A barely-there intake of breath that might be nothing—or might be something.

YN convinces herself she’s imagining things.

He’s probably adjusting his stance. 

Or stretching his fingers.

 Or something entirely mundane that has nothing to do with the fact that he just discovered she’s completely bare beneath the sheet.

“I'm going to begin. Please, let me know if anything is sensitive or sore during. Is there anywhere you would like me to focus in particular?” Harry inquired, he sounds formal, professional as he should.

“My glutes and calves,” YN responds after a moment of thought.

The calves part was true - they were tight and sore from her legs days at the gym.

Her glutes, however, did not need any work but she couldn't get the imagine of his hands massaging her there out of her mind.

“Noted,” Harry replies with a gruff, clipped agreement like he was gritting his teeth at her answer.

The beginning of the massage is as normal as anything, his fingers press deep into the knots lining her shoulders, working out the tension that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. 

The pressure is firm, methodical.

But the moment his palms cup around the nape of her neck, a shiver bolts through her spine.

She tries to squeeze her thighs together subtly, a feeble attempt at quelling the heat pulsing low in her belly. 

But it’s impossible, her legs already splayed relaxed on the table.

Harry notices the movement.

“Are you uncomfortable? Do you need to reposition?” Harry asks when he notices her fidgeting, concern in his voice that makes her feel even more guilt at her thoughts.

“No, I'm good,” YN’s reply isn't more than a strained squeak.

Harry doesn’t comment on it, but he does press his thumbs deeper into the base of her neck, a silent cue for her to relax.

“Try to relax then. You're tight,” Harry continues to move his fingers and all she can hear is that last sentence on repeat.

He's talking about back muscles, she has to remind herself.

You’re tight.

YN does finally listen, relaxing into the soft, heated cushion of the table, and purposefully clearing her mind.

“There you go, good girl,” Harry murmurs when he notices her shoulders start to loosen, neck letting her head hang more into the face cushion, and her thighs melting into the table too.

Good girl.

YN’s clear mind is now filled once again.

Her muscles should be turning to liquid under his touch, her mind blank with relaxation. 

But all she can focus on is the phantom sensation of his voice curling around those words.

By the time he finishes her back—nothing but completely professional work thus far, she’s half-certain that if she were to open her mouth, she’d be panting like an overheated dog.

“I’m going to start on your calves,” Harry informs her, shifting his stance beside her, “Then I’ll work my way up to your glutes. Since you requested them, I just want to confirm you’re comfortable with my hands there.”

YN knows he’s only being professional, ensuring her comfort.

If only he knew the absolute filth running through her head.

If only he knew just how much she wanted his hands there.

“Yes,” YN replies shallowly, she had been laying down for at least the last twenty minutes and she felt like she’d just ran a marathon, her throat parched and aching.

Harry’s tone sharpens, more assertive than she’s ever heard before. 

There’s a domineering edge to it that sends a shiver down her spine, “Yes, what? Yes, you are comfortable with that, or yes, you do want to change your mind?”

YN feels embarrassment flushing her at the miscommunication, it blends into the heat she already has seeping from her skin so there’s no difference.

“Yes, I am comfortable with your hands there,” YN manages to get out, she wonders if Harry thinks she’s an absolute basketcase or if he even has any awareness of the situation.

If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

 Instead, he resumes his work, his hands slick with the massage oil he had been using. The scent of sweet almond fills the space between them, subtle yet intoxicating.

 It’s her favorite scent—always has been.

 It reminds her of the raspberry almond cake she and her husband had shared on their wedding day, the same one they’d made a tradition of enjoying every anniversary since. 

Her train of thought was interrupted by an involuntary groan that she lets out when he presses on a tight spot right in the center of her calve.

The pain is sharp and sudden, and instinctively, she tries to yank her leg from his grip, but Harry’s grip is firm, steady.

 He doesn’t even struggle to keep her still. 

His hold is effortless, almost dismissive of her attempt to squirm away.

“You should stretch for longer than five minutes before you work out,” he chides, his tone laced with knowing disapproval,“Especially when you’re doing legs. You need to be warming up your hamstrings, groin, calves.”

He punctuates his point by pressing into the same tender spot again, and she lets out a similar sound—somewhere between a whimper and a gasp as the ache flares up once more.

“How do you know I’m not?” YN challenges, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. 

She hadn’t even realized Harry was paying attention to her.

 She hadn’t thought he noticed her at all, let alone enough to critique her habits.

Harry chuckles, the sound low and rough, curling at the edges with amusement, “That reaction, right there.”

YN is about to deflate because it wasn’t because of him noticing her until -

“I’ve seen you stretch. You sit on your mat and scroll on your phone for five minutes while barely trying to touch your toes,” Harry calls her out.

His assessment is shockingly accurate, and she doesn’t have much of a defense.

 Instead, she deflects.

“I’m plenty flexible without stretching,” YN quips, allowing a teasing edge to slip into her tone. 

The innuendo is obvious, intentional.

Harry doesn’t rise to it in the way she expects.

 He doesn’t laugh or smirk or falter.

 Instead, his response is delivered in the same flat, unimpressed drawl. 

“Are you?” His thumb digs into her calf again, pressing into another tight knot of tension, “You’re just as tight as you are flexible.”

Touché.

She doesn’t realize just how tightly she’s been clenching her thighs until Harry’s palms press flat against the backs of them. 

Firm but not forceful.

“Spread your legs for me.”

Fuck.

His voice is steady, authoritative, yet devoid of hesitation. 

There is no question in his command. 

She obeys without thinking, parting her legs easily, pliantly.

 But as soon as the sheet shifts—just slightly, the reality of her own arousal crashes over her in a suffocating wave. 

Embarrassment sinks its claws into her as she wonders—can he see?

 Can he tell? Is there enough of a telltale sheen on her inner thighs to give her away? 

A visible wet spot on the table?

“Why are you clenching—” Harry starts, but then he stops.

Silence.

A sharp inhale.

It’s as if something clicks into place, something he wasn’t expecting, and it cuts off his line of questioning entirely.

“Wha—” YN begins to ask, shifting slightly to glance behind her, but before she can move too far, a hand comes down to the base of her neck.

His palm cups it, firm yet controlled, pressing her back down into the face cradle. 

The pressure isn’t rough, but it’s purposeful.

 It’s the first real slip—something that isn’t professional, not even close.

The way he grips her isn’t the neutral, detached touch of a masseuse simply guiding their client. 

No. 

This is something else entirely.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is rougher now, deeper.

 There’s something strained in the way he speaks, his accent thickening as if he’s forcing himself to remain composed.

 It takes her an extra beat to process his words, to pick them apart through the weight of his tone.

“Jesus. S’ridiculous. Just trying to do my fucking job.”

The words aren’t meant for her, not really.

 He’s speaking to himself as much as he is to her.

And yet, they hit her like a slap.

Embarrassment rattles through her, her heart climbing up into her throat. 

He sounds frustrated. 

With her. 

The realization makes her shrink, makes her feel small—like a child being scolded.

“I’m s-sorry,” YN stammers, her mouth suddenly dry, her tongue thick and useless in her mouth. 

She doesn’t even know what she’s apologizing for—only that she feels like she should.

 Because whatever he saw, whatever he realized, it was enough to shift the entire dynamic between them in a matter of seconds.

To Harry’s credit, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t pull away. 

His hands remain on her, though now they focus on her glutes, kneading into the muscle with a more methodical, calculated touch.

Subconsciously, she starts to clench her thighs again, as if trying to ground herself. 

As if trying to remind herself that this is just a massage. 

That she isn’t some… deviant, reacting to something as simple as his hands on her.

She isn’t.

But then…

His hand moves.

It grips the soft flesh of her ass, squeezing just hard enough that the tips of his fingers press deep into the skin, surely turning it white beneath his grasp.

The gasp that rips from her chest is instant, shocked, sharp.

Because this isn’t just crossing a line.

This isn’t just towing the boundary of professionalism.

This is tearing right through it, shattering it to pieces, leaving nothing behind.

“Stop apologizing and stay still,” Harry orders, his voice rough with unspoken tension.

His fingers remain where they are, digging in just enough to make a point, to drive something unspoken between them.

“Do you understand me?”

YN swallowed hard, her heart was trying to escape her chest at the moment.

Yes.

Yes, she understands.

The massage resumes, thumbs pressing into knots, trading the ache for a different kind.

Should she end the appointment? 

Apologize and never show her face in the gym again?

YN does better, she does, she lasts at least another five minutes as she tries to stay as stock still as possible.

His touches are back to professional and she’s starting to question herself, start to question whether or not he had even squeezed her ass like that.

But then her thoughts start to spiral again, horny and desperate in a way they’ve never been.

It must have been a wiggle of her hips, maybe even a subtle attempt to see if she could find any friction against the table, but whatever it was—Harry had noticed. 

He had noticed, and she knew it the moment the air in the room seemed to shift, thickening with the weight of his attention.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Harry scolded with no more softness in his voice, that upbeat bubbly man that everyone around the gym knew and loved - nowhere to be found and it was as intimidating, thrilling as it was frightening.

The smack comes fast, hard, landing squarely on her left ass cheek with a force that makes her gasp before she even realizes what’s happened. 

The sharp sting spreads out in waves across her skin, the heat sinking into her already sore  muscles. 

She jerks, instinctively trying to sit up, but she doesn’t get far before his palm is at the base of her neck, pressing her face back into the cushioned cut-out of the massage table.

The stinging sensation lingers, blooming like fire just beneath the surface of her skin

 It’s different, though—not just the typical burn of an open-handed slap. 

It’s sharper, pinpointed.

And then she realizes—

His wedding band.

It had cut her. 

Only slightly, just enough for her to feel the tiny scrape, but still, the knowledge of how it had happened made her stomach clench.

 Her cunt shouldn’t pulse around nothing at that thought, but it does.

 It totally does.

“You’re ruining my sheets,” Harry observes, full of judgement and disapproval, like she was inconvenience more than anything.

YN stays quiet because he had told her to stop apologizing and is she pouting about because she just got smacked? 

Maybe.

Harry leans forward, his body heat radiating against her back. 

The soft cotton of his t-shirt brushes against her skin, and she can feel the cool chain of his necklace ghosting over her shoulder.

 When he speaks next, his voice is quieter, deliberate, “You have four options.”

Her breath catches.

“You can either stay still and get your normal massage. You can keep moving and have an ass that aches for the next week. You can end the massage right now and walk out the door. Or…”

YN waits for him but she realizes that he’s teasing it, edging it, her voice is barely above a whisper,  “Or what?” 

“Or you can tell me exactly what you want me to do to you and I’ll do it,” Harry hums as he stands back up, his hands gripping the back of her thighs, and pushing them apart from where they started to drift together once again.

She could tell him. 

She could put it into words, could give voice to the heat curling low in her belly, but the thought alone makes her want to squirm in embarrassment. 

She’s already acted desperate enough—she refuses to push herself further into that category.

The tension in her stomach, the feeling of his wedding band leaving a mark on her ass.

“I’ll stay still,” YN replies with as much of a steady voice that she can manage.

Harry laughs, deep and mean, amusement tinged with something almost cruel. 

It makes the humiliation simmer hotter beneath the surface of her skin.

“Do you soak Pedro’s table?” he asks conversationally, like he’s discussing nothing more than the weather, “Because he’s never mentioned it. And I think I’d remember something that pathetic.”

She knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s trying to break her, to make her react. 

His hand twitches against her skin, like it’s itching to leave more marks. But she refuses to give him the satisfaction. 

She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth, forces herself to keep still even as his hands press into her muscles with increasing pressure.

YN doesn’t bite, has to squeeze her eyes shut but she doesn’t, teeth gritting as the pressure of the massage increases.

Then, he revisits the small cut, pressing his thumb against it, rubbing over it in a way that makes her tense involuntarily.

“Does your husband not fuck you?” His voice is scalding, lips brushing her cheek as he speaks, “You’re squirming like you’ve never been touched before.”

The impulse to shoot an insult at him is hard to not take but she’s staying still out of spite.

Harry’s hands start to dip further in between her inner thighs, his fingers swipe against the damp skin of her thighs, and he then rubs it on her asscheek, “Can’t tell when the massage oil ends and your slick starts.”

Her thighs part slightly wider, a silent offering, even though she knows better than to expect mercy. 

She should have anticipated it—the punishment that follows.

The next smack is harder, sharper.

 It radiates through her lower half, a forceful enough hit that her nipples brush against the sheet below her. 

She swallows back a moan, biting her bottom lip until she nearly draws blood.

“You should be thanking me, do you know how many women wish they were in your position right now?”

Even though it was true, he didn’t have to be a cocky prick about it.

YN stays silent, she didn’t know how he still managed to get up the massage at this point.

“I said thank me.”

Another slap. 

Same spot. 

This time, the band on his finger catches her skin just right—or just wrong. 

She feels the sting of it cutting into her, nothing deep, just enough to make her gasp softly. 

Her breath shudders as she exhales.

YN gnaws on her bottom lip to prevent herself from speaking.

Harry’s patience snaps.

His hand knots in her hair, jerking her head up so that her cheek is exposed to him.

 His lips hover on her cheek, just near the corner of her mouth, but he doesn’t close the distance, “Speak the fuck up,” he growls, “or I’m stopping.”

She can’t believe she’s in this situation.

With a married man.

As a married woman.

But when she speaks, her voice is even, measured.,“I would like my massage to continue.”.

Harry exhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

 He unwinds his fingers from her hair, pushing her head back down onto the table.

“Fair enough.”

He does exactly as she asked.

He massages her like nothing happened, his hands working over her shoulders, the backs of her arms, expertly kneading out tension.

 It’s frustrating. 

Infuriating.

Because he has more energy for edging, doing things out of spite than her.

And fifteen minutes later—she’s the one struggling not to move again.

Harry actually starts to hum, an annoying tune from an old game show, completely out of place in the dimly lit room. 

It breaks into the soft rhythms playing from the speakers.

YN squirms.

Harry smacks her again, sharp and precise, the sound echoing through the space, echoing in the thick air between them.

 It stings.

Of course it fucking does.

 It leaves heat blooming across her skin, a reminder of his control. 

But he does not speak.

 Instead, he returns to the slow, methodical touches that are driving her mad—too firm to be teasing, but nowhere near what she needs.

She breaks.

She fucking breaks.

"Touch me, please," YN throws her pride out the fucking window, off a bridge, down into the deepest black hole where she doesn’t have to face it again. 

Desperation drips from her words, heavy and undeniable.

Harry exhales a long-suffering sigh, unbothered by her distress, "I am touching you," he bleats, his voice laced with indifference. 

His fingers trace aimless patterns along her skin, not nearly enough, "We have about ten minutes left of the hour. Where would you like me to focus the rest of the massage?"

“I need something, please,” YN asks with a pathetic plead starting to work her way into her tone.

Harry, ever unyielding, remains unaffected, "You came in with the complaint of calves and glutes. Are you still not—"

YN wants to cut the shit.

“Please, fuck me. Please,” YN feels like she’s on the line of sobbing for relief at this point, she doesn’t know if she’s even been this worked up, and the inability to see him somehow makes it worse, makes her feel more vulnerable, more desperater, “Please.”

“You could have had it fifteen minutes ago,” Harry chastises but his hands - they slide down her body, teasing the sensitive skin, but they don’t go directly to where she needs them the most.

“Harry, I -”

A smack.

Unraveling her like that wedding band on her sensitive skin.

Then his hands are gone entirely. 

The loss is immediate, unbearable. 

The air crackles with unspoken tension before she realizes—he’s just looking at her.

"Knees," he commands, his voice sharp enough to slice through the thick fog of her arousal.

“I-” YN begins to asks but he’s not patient any longer.

“I said get on your fucking knees,” Harry repeats, louder and thankfully, no one else is here.

Before she can fully process, he takes it upon himself to move her, gripping her hips and lifting them effortlessly. 

Her knees slide inward, bringing them closer to her chest, forcing her body into a position that leaves her fully exposed, fully at his mercy.

He winds his fingers into her hair again, fisting the strands tight enough to pull her out of the cradle of the cushion. 

Her cheek is smushed sideways against the table now, breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry has no manners, taking what he wants by spreading her cheeks to get a better look at her.

There is no manners left in him. 

No pretense of control.

YN realizes belatedly that there are fat tears rolling down her cheeks, that Harry must now be able to see, and in a break from the thick tension in the room.

He does something oddly sweet, it reminds her of her husband actually, he presses his lips to her cheek.

His voice is soft, more so like she hears around the gym or when he greets her in reception, “Okay?”

“Okay,” YN nods in agreement, her voice cracks, and she can see him smile before slipping back into a scowl.

She appreciated him checking in, warming  her up in a different way.

“Never seen a needier thing in my life. God, your husband must not do shit for you. You're clenching around nothing—both holes,” Harry murmurs thoughtfully, his tone a perfect blend of mockery and amusement. 

His words are crude, biting, but they set her nerve endings on fire.

YN barely has time to react before she feels it—his spit landing on her tighter hole, warm and slick, quickly chased by the rough pad of his thumb spreading it around.

Her skin prickles, her breath catches, and then he continues, his voice dripping with sinful amusement.

“Everyone around this gym thinks you're this sweet, kind person. I hear them talk,” He pauses, tilting his head as if considering something. “What would they think if I told them about this? A bored housewife coming into a massage and begging to be fucked decently.”

It's a monologue, she knows he isn't expecting an answer.

“Spread out on this table, showing me everything with no shame.”

Two fingers—his index and middle, drag lazily through her folds, teasing, pressing at her entrance but never quite pushing in.

YN is trembling, trying not to move but everything aches.

“I would have subbed in much soone for Pedro if I knew I'd get such a sweet cunt out of it. I should have known you'd have the prettiest one I've ever seen,” Harry accentuates it with tucking his fingers into her, the slight stretch of his two thick digits were welcome with how ready she already was, “Those little bike shorts you wear hide absolutely nothing.”

YN pushes back, pulling him in even deeper, and luckily, he doesn't scold her.

But he makes her work for it.

“Ride ‘em. My hands are tired from the massage,” Harry curls them forward against her spongy front wall, hitting her spot head on like he had it memorized on a map.

YN was sweating, hair matted to her skin, and visibly droplets of west gathering around her temples as she started to push back on him.

She couldn't believe what she was doing right now.

“You hear that?” Harry asks, thrusting his fingers a few times to make the sound even more obscene, slick and lewd in the quiet room, “Should record that and make it the spa soundtrack. S’that sound like a good idea, baby?”

Her head drops forward, a loud moan tearing from her throat when his thumb presses into her tighter hole, sending pleasure ricocheting through her body. 

She’s never been this full before—never felt this close to unraveling without even having her clit touched.

Harry’s laugh cuts through the haze of her pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” he groans, watching her. “You like your ass played with too? This is my lucky day, huh? Is that how you’ll tip me? Let me choose?”

“Yes, yes—you can choose,” YN babbles, her voice high and desperate, her stomach tightening, her body coiling tighter and tighter. 

She’s grinding now, less controlled, more frantic, chasing something she’s not sure she could explain, “Please, I just need to come. I need it, please—”

But Harry pulls his fingers out.

The loss is devastating.

Tears sting at her eyes, spilling freely, mixing with sweat, with spit, with the sheer mess of her. 

Her hair is frizzy from where he’s pulled it, her cheeks damp, her mouth parted as she gasps through the absence of him.

Harry grips her hip harshly, not giving her choice as he helps flip her over until she's on her back.

And it's the first time in all of this that she's been able to really see him.

It was nice to see that he was affected too with huffing breaths, nostrils flaring, and sweat on his temple from the heat of the room.

And then he’s peeling his shirt off, tugging it over his head in a way that looks effortless.

His body is all sharp lines and defined muscle, the kind she sees every day in the gym but never gets to touch.

Her legs automatically close, a futile attempt to shield herself, to protect her most vulnerable spot.

 But Harry frowns at that, smacking her thigh sharply, silently telling her to open back up.

He tuts, shaking his head as he looks down at her, “Puppy, if you were this desperate for cock, you could have just asked me. You’re cute enough. I’d fuck you in front of everyone—bend you over a weight bench, let those little biker shorts trap your thigh and watch your squirms.”

YN can tell he’s about to put his mouth on her—but she can’t. 

She can’t take any more teasing.

Her hands shake as she reaches up, fingers pressing to the side of his neck, thumb pressing beneath his jaw. 

She’s sniffling, trying to speak through her sobs of frustration.

“I can’t—I need you to fuck me. Please, H, please.”

The hour of foreplay was more than enough.

Harry blinks, his gaze locking onto hers, searching. 

And then….

He moves up the table, his hand cradling her jaw as he kisses her, slow and deep, melting away her desperation for just a moment.

“You want me to fuck you?” he murmurs, the rasp was thick in his tone, “You’re ready?”

She nods frantically, clinging to him. “Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Harry kisses her quiet before pulling back just enough to push his shorts and briefs off. 

She doesn’t get a chance to look at him before he’s guiding himself to her core, pressing in, inch by thick inch, until their pubic bones meet.

He lets out this euphoric, beautiful low moan when he pushing in until their pubic bones meet, and he's big - really fucking big and she's so fucking full that it's insane.

Don’t need to wait,” she breathes, voice trembling with urgency, her fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. 

Her legs wind around his narrow hips instinctively, locking him in, heels pressing into the firm curve of his bum as if to keep him right where he belongs,“Please move.”

And Harry fucks like he weightlifts.

Hard. Determined. Precise.

Every powerful thrust sends electric pleasure sparking through her veins, his strokes deliberate and deep, like he’s got something to prove—like he won’t stop until he’s got her unraveling completely beneath him. 

His pace is relentless, the force of his movements pushing her up the table in tiny, helpless jolts before he’s tugging her back down onto his cock without missing a beat. 

The friction is dizzying, intoxicating, and YN feels herself slipping closer and closer to the edge with every merciless snap of his hips.

“I’m gonna—if you rub my-” she pants, but she doesn’t even need to finish.

Harry already knows.

With a low grunt, he shifts, his weight shifting back slightly as his hand snakes between them.

 His fingers find her clit with ease, with skill, and he presses down, rubbing tight, fast circles with a very specific intent in mind.

 His voice is rough and coaxing as he groans, “Yeah, fuck, yeah. C’mon, baby. I deserve it, don’t I? Soak me.”

And that’s all it takes.

A sharp, wrecked cry tears from her throat as her body gives in completely, pleasure overtaking her in a crashing, uncontrollable wave. 

YN’s limbs go boneless, loose like a marionette with its strings cut, as her orgasm seizes her, dragging her under with white-hot intensity. 

The overwhelming sensation floods her lower half, a gush of wetness spilling out between them, coating both of them in the aftermath. 

The slick, obscene sounds of him fucking her through it echo in the room, each thrust impossibly louder, wetter, filthier.

“Holy shit,” Harry growls, his voice thick with awe and arousal, “That’s the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

His breath hitches, his control slipping,“You just squirted on me—look at you, all swollen and puffy for me.”

His gaze is locked on where they’re connected, utterly mesmerized, before something shifts in his expression—something primal.

 He grips her hips tighter, holding her open as he starts pounding into her even harder, chasing his own release with ruthless determination.

The force of it knocks the breath from her lungs, and before she can even process the sheer intensity of it all, he’s surging forward, crushing his mouth against hers in a desperate, bruising kiss.

 It’s messy—more teeth and tongue than finesse—but it’s everything. 

A claiming, a surrender, a moment of pure, unfiltered need.

He pulses inside her with a deep, guttural groan, spilling into her with a final, shuddering thrust, his body going rigid before finally melting against her. 

He stays there, buried deep, chest rising and falling against hers as he slowly comes back down from his high.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is their mingled, heavy breathing. 

Then, Harry huffs out a breathless chuckle, forehead pressed to hers, body warm and weighty on top of her.

“Told you,” he murmurs smugly, voice thick with satisfaction, “Told you you wouldn’t be patient enough for foreplay.”

YN scoffs, though there’s no real heat behind it.

 Her fingers find their way into his damp curls, scratching lightly at his scalp as her lips twitch into a lazy smile. 

“The whole massage was foreplay,” she argues, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I think I did okay.” 

A playful smirk tugs at her mouth as she adds, “I don’t have the patience you do.”

“You never have,” Harry murmurs, his thumb brushing her slick hair off her forehead with a tenderness that makes her stomach flip. 

He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, voice laced with affection as he murmurs against her lips, “You’re an impatient little thing for orgasms.”

His tone is teasing, but the warmth in his gaze, the soft adoration in his touch - it’s so much love and fondness interwoven between them.

“Don’t like this one bit,” Harry grumped after a moment, pulling her hand up and giving a pointed gaze towards her bare ring finger, “Made me almost break character.”

YN giggles as she allows Harry to pull her up to sit, he slips off the table, “I didn’t want to get massage oil on it. It makes the diamond all foggy and I have to take it to the jeweler to get it cleaned then.”

“Hey,” Harry grips her chin, buttoning their lips together for a long moment, “Happy anniversary. I love you and I hope this met your expectations of the scene you were fantasizing about. I’m just glad your fantasies are with me.”

“I’m in love with you, have been for ages and never plan not to be. It was absolutely perfect but now I’m worried I’ll get greedy for more,” YN laughs as she spreads her loegs once again, letting Harry start to wipe her off with a warm towel he takes from the towel warmer that’s conveniently in the room.

“You’re always greedy,” Harry argues gently, blinking up at her, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk into this room again without getting a hard-on.”

YN shakes her head with another bout of laughter, “You’re going to be fucked. I have a lot of fantasys about fucking a gym owner.” “Mm,” Harry rumbles as he tosses the towel, his touches getting more full of intent once again, “Lucky you’re married to one, hm?”

+

whew. i hope you enjoyed!

now if you are confused about anything the synoposis - harry and yn are a married couple, they own a gym, and yn wants to roleplay masseuse/client for their anniversary. there is no cheating!

now i recommend going back and reading it and finding all the little hints that they were married couple the whole time.

i would super love to know your feedback on it

[glamourscat]

୨ৎ Beautiful as...? BLLK edition

BACHIRA, CHIGIRI, BAROU, KAISER, RIN, ISAGI, REO, NAGI, SHIDOU

Bachira: beautiful as a fair carnival

His light and contagious smile can brighten a whole room. His presence, in a way, makes you feel like a child again. Running around and seeing the world through “naive” eyes. Staring off in space taken aback by the bright, colourful lights. High on way too much sugar. Seeing the beauty in life, aware that there are dangers and challenges out there, but for now, not knowing them is better than anything.

Chigiri: beautiful as spring

When the leaves come back, filled with life and green. Bright, vibrant flowers dot the grass. He is a splash of color that persists even on the darkest days, a lingering reminder that “everything will be okay.” The sun will shine again tomorrow.

Reo: beautiful as the ocean

The calm waves, the sea breeze and that distinctive seaside smell. The sand between your toes, the warm embrace of the sun and the cool water wrapping you in a blanket of shivers and warmth at the same time.

Shidou: beautiful as a museum

Different artists, different paintings, different forms of art. A carefully threaded puzzle filled with emotions, explosions of thoughts, liberty, and need. The need to scream, to ensure someone hears it. The need for a revolution. The hope that someone will remember you.

Kaiser: beautiful as a thunderstorm at night

Not everyone likes it, but many still enjoy it. The clouds fill the dark sky, illuminated by occasional flashes of lightning. It can give you chills just as it can give you comfort.

Isagi: beautiful as the moment after it stops raining

The smell lingers in the air, following you wherever you go. The sky starts to open up, grey clouds mixing with white and the sky is turning a lighter shade of blue. The faint sun rays start to poke through, a welcome touch against your cold skin. The few drops of water still present on the leaves of the trees might, or might not, fall on your head as you walk under them.

Nagi: beautiful as heavy snow

That serene feeling of no school, no work, no worries. The streets filled with mountains of snow, cold yet inviting to jump into. At first glance, soft yet hard and firm. Playful and forgiving when it wants to.

Rin: beautiful as a summer night

Nothing is forever. Summer, just as it came, will end too. It’s the feeling of looking out of your window, smelling the scent that’s unique to summer. Hearing the night insects’ serenade in the distance as you look at the stars with nothing particular on your mind. There’s a nostalgia hitting you, you’re not sure why. Your chest feels a bit heavier and emptier at the same time. You find yourself closing your eyes to soak in this feeling.

Barou: beautiful as fire

Destructive in some cases, yet warm and comforting in others. Wild and untamable. You think you have the upper hand but one piece of wood too much and everything is ablaze. Only the most skilled know how to control it. Not tame it, but understand it. Being able to turn the wild, bursting flame into something softer, something that feels like home.

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[theballadofharkness]

Sickbed

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Summary: While Agatha takes care of you through a particularly nasty bout of illness, you begin to notice that maybe her hovering might be about something deeper…

Word Count: 3K

A/N: Next uploads will be some part 2’s but for now here is some good old fashioned hurt/comfort! 🪻💜

The house was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and the hum of the wind outside. Agatha was sitting on the couch, as she had been for the past few hours, watching movies she was absolutely horrified you admitted you’d never got round to watching- you were too sick to respond to her shocked ‘what self respecting lesbian hadn't seen Mulholland Drive’ quip- while absently running a hand through your hair.

You hadn’t been feeling yourself for the past few days. It started with a headache, then a sore throat, and before you knew it, you were burning up with a fever that wouldn’t let up. Agatha, ever the attentive lover, had been by your side every moment, her sharp eyes watching your every move, her fingers always brushing against you, as if to reassure herself that you were still there, still alive.

It wasn't unusual for Agatha to be affectionate, to hold you close or kiss your temple just because. But today... today she was different. She hovered. She wouldn't let you out of her sight, and every time you stirred in bed, she'd be there, pulling you back to her chest, smoothing your hair with tender hands, or bringing you water with a look in her eyes that made you feel like you were the most precious thing in her world.

You were too tired to question it. Besides, you didn't mind. Her touch was a comfort.

"How are you feeling, love?" Agatha asked softly for the tenth time that afternoon, her voice warm like honey.

You blinked, trying to focus on her. The world felt fuzzy, as if you were existing on the edge of it, but you managed a small smile. "Better... I think. Still a bit... out of it."

She gave you a small, reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes in return but didn’t stop the constant stream of affection. Her hand, which had been gently rubbing your back, now found its way to your cheek, her fingers cool against your skin. You leaned into her touch instinctively.

"Do you need anything? I can make you some tea, or get you something to eat," she said, her voice a little more urgent now, though she tried to mask it. Her usual tone had been replaced with something more desperate.

You shook your head. "No... no food. Just... stay with me a bit longer."

She nodded immediately, her lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before she resumed her position, the two of you cocooned in the warmth of the living room, the flickering light from the TV the only source of brightness. Agatha’s hand didn’t leave your body, and you realised then that, though it had always been natural for her to touch you, now she was holding you in a way that made you feel as though she was afraid to let go.

~

Agatha had cancelled all her plans for the day, even with Billy, which was a rare move for her. Normally, she’d balance her life as a busy witch and mentor with her life as a loving, though slightly chaotic, partner, but today nothing mattered more than you.

You were nestled under the thick, knitted blanket in the living room, your head resting on the soft cushions. The fever was still hanging around, making you feel weak and out of sorts. But Agatha? She wasn’t going anywhere. She hadn’t left your side since the morning, even if it meant putting aside everything else.

She hovered like a protective shadow, her steps light as she moved around the house, always checking on you, always within arm’s reach. Even when you’d tried to push her to go out when she’d mentioned her plans with Billy, she’d just shaken her head, the look in her eyes leaving no room for argument.

"I’ll just nap, love. You go. You love your mentor sessions with Billy. I’ll be fine," you had insisted earlier, your voice a little weaker than you liked.

Agatha’s eyes darkened, a glint of stubbornness flashing in them. "No," she’d said, firmly. "I’m staying right here with you."

You hadn’t pressed it further. Agatha had always been fiercely protective, and when she decided on something, it was impossible to change her mind.

Now, she was gently leaning over you, her fingers softly brushing your hair away from your face as she crouched beside the couch. "You’re so warm, darling," she said, her voice laced with concern. "But we need to get you feeling better. Stand up baby, I’m going to wash your hair for you."

You blinked lazily, a soft, appreciative smile on your lips. "You really don’t have to, Agatha," you murmured, your voice barely audible. You hated feeling so weak, but she didn’t seem to care. You were her priority now, and that was all she wanted.

"I want to," she said, her tone both soothing and insistent. "Come on, love, let me help."

With a softness that belied her usual strength, Agatha helped you sit up, carefully guiding you to the bathroom. She ran a warm bath, the scent of lavender filling the air, and when she turned back to you, her hands were already gentle as she helped you out of your clothes, her movements smooth and considerate. You felt yourself relax under her touch despite the discomfort of being unwell, comforted by the familiar sound of her voice and the feeling of her hands on your naked flesh.

"Don’t worry, I’ve got you," she murmured, coaxing you into the tub with her usual mixture of care and quiet dominance. She helped you settle into the warm water, her hands running through your damp hair with such tenderness that you couldn’t help but close your eyes.

You let out a small sigh, the soothing feel of her hands massaging your scalp pulling you further into relaxation. You were too weak to do anything on your own, and Agatha seemed to revel in the opportunity to care for you in this way, a soft hum escaping her lips as she washed your hair.

"You deserve to be spoiled, you know that?" she said, her voice a soft whisper as she rinsed your hair, fingers gently running through the strands. "I’ve been waiting for an excuse to bathe you."

You chuckled lightly, though it was more a rasp than anything. "I’m hardly in any condition to argue, am I?"

Agatha's lips curled into a smile. "Exactly. So let me do this for you, love."

When she finished, she carefully helped you out of the bath and wrapped you in a fluffy towel, her hands never leaving you for even a moment. She dried you off gently, as if you might break, then helped you slip into your softest, coziest pyjamas—ones she knew you loved. She fussed over your comfort, pulling the blanket up around you when she noticed a slight shiver, her fingers brushing the side of your face tenderly.

Once you were settled back on the couch, your favourite blanket tucked around your shoulders, Agatha sat down beside you, her eyes scanning the TV for something she knew you’d enjoy. You raised a brow.

"Are you really going to let me watch this crap?" you asked, referring to the mindless reality TV show you had a guilty pleasure for, one that Agatha always scoffed at whenever it was on.

Her lips quirked into a small smile. "I’m staying here with you," she said, her voice soft but firm. "And you’re watching whatever the hell you want. I’m not going anywhere."

You knew her well enough to recognise the finality in her tone. It wasn’t a request; it was a statement of fact. You chuckled softly, giving in, and the two of you settled in to watch the ridiculous drama unfold on screen. You barely even noticed the time slipping by. Agatha’s fingers gently stroked your hair, her presence a constant reassurance.

Eventually, when you started drifting in and out of sleep, Agatha gathered you up in her arms and took you to bed, tucking you into her side as she watched you sleep, her lips occasionally brushing against your forehead.

“When did you take me to bed?” You yawned as you were awoken by Senõr Scratchy jumping onto the bed to sleep alongside his moms.

"Rest, darling. You’ve been through a lot. Let me take care of you."

You smiled lazily, your eyelids heavy. "I think you already are, love."

Agatha gave you a soft kiss on the cheek, her voice low and reassuring. "Always."

~

As the days passed, her behaviour only intensified. The fever was getting worse, your body too weak to fight it off. Agatha refused to leave your side, even when she had business to attend to. She’d dismiss it with a wave of her hand, muttering something about ‘not being important’ when she turned her attention back to you.

You had always known Agatha was deeply passionate, but this new level of care unsettled you. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it—it was just that something in her seemed different. She was more possessive, more protective, and at times, you thought she might just burst if she didn’t get to hold you in her arms.

One afternoon, as you lay on the bed, sweat beading on your forehead, Agatha came in with a damp cloth, wiping your face with it as if you were something fragile—something she was terrified of breaking.

"I know you hate when I do this," Agatha murmured, her fingers cool against your heated skin, "but you really need to cool down."

You smiled weakly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t hate it... just... not used to Nurse Agatha… hey maybe we should buy you a little outfit hmm? Really fulfill the fantasy." You tried to keep bringing up her hovering light.

Agatha let out a short, humourless laugh. "I suppose it’s... a side of me I’ve kept hidden for too long. You mean so much to me, love. I... I don’t want to lose you."

Her voice cracked on the last words, and it was then you realised, really realised, that this wasn’t just about you being sick. There was something deeper, something darker in her eyes that you couldn’t quite place, but you knew it was there.

There was something in the way she touched you, something that felt less like affection and more like a fear of losing you. She was, after all, no stranger to loss. You had heard her speak of her past, of her long and storied life, though she rarely ever went into specifics. You knew of her son, Nicky, the boy she had lost centuries ago when he was only a young child. The pain of that loss still lingered in Agatha’s eyes, though she rarely spoke of him. Every now and then, her expression would turn wistful, a soft sadness clouding her features for a brief moment, but she would always push it aside, as though brushing the memory away.

You had never pried. You knew it was a wound that would always run deep, but now, as you lay in bed, feverish and weak, you began to wonder if that same pain had resurfaced. Her obsessive care over you, her constant need to keep you in her arms, was unsettling, though you couldn’t deny that it felt like love. Still, something about it felt… different.

You hadn’t realised how bad it had gotten until one evening, when you turned to her, lying in bed and watching her pretending to read a book, though her eyes kept darting to you every few seconds, checking that you were still breathing. Her concern was almost palpable, and the flickering of fear in her gaze didn’t escape you.

"Agatha," you murmured, your voice soft but steady, "I’m not going anywhere."

She froze, her fingers stilling on the page of the book. Her gaze flicked to you immediately, her lips parting as though she were about to speak, but the words never came. Instead, she reached out, brushing your cheek with her cool fingers.

"You’re not going anywhere?" she repeated, her voice thick with emotion. "You promise?"

You smiled weakly, though the exhaustion from the fever made it hard to keep your eyes open. "I promise. You don’t have to worry about me, Agatha. I’m not leaving you."

Her eyes softened, but there was still an edge to her expression- something unresolved, something she was clearly holding back. You could see it in the way she clenched her jaw, the way her hands trembled slightly.

"I can’t lose you too," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

You frowned slightly, your brow furrowing as your gaze locked with hers. "What do you mean?" You decided to press further.

Agatha bit her lip, and for the first time in days, she pulled away from you, standing up and pacing a few steps away, as though trying to find the words she had never spoken. Finally, she turned to face you, her eyes heavy with unshed tears, her breath shallow.

"Nicky," she said softly, her voice trembling. "It was centuries ago, but it still feels like it was yesterday. I was asleep when it happened. I couldn’t protect him."

You felt your heart tighten at her words. You knew that losing a child, especially at such a young age, was a grief that no one should ever have to bear.

You sat up slowly, your hands reaching for her, and she came to you immediately, her arms enveloping you as you pulled her close. She buried her face in your neck, her breath shaky as she held onto you like a lifeline.

"I don’t want to lose you too," Agatha whispered, the rawness in her voice breaking your heart. "I lost him, and I can’t go through that again I-"

"You won’t lose me," you interrupted gently, stroking her hair. "I’m right here, Agatha. You have me, and I’m not going anywhere. I love you."

She held you tighter, her body trembling with the weight of her emotions. You could feel the fear, the loss, and the deep, aching need for reassurance that was clawing at her. You pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, holding her as close as you could.

"I’m not leaving you," you repeated, your voice firm. "I’ll be here. Always."

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other’s arms, the quiet of the room settling over you like a warm blanket.

Eventually she pulled away just slightly, enough to look you in the eyes. The tears that had been threatening to spill finally broke free, and she leaned down to kiss you, her lips warm and desperate against yours.

"I love you," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too," you whispered back, your fingers tracing the lines of her face as you both settled back into the bed, wrapped up in each other.

As you drifted off to sleep, wrapped tightly in Agatha’s arms, you felt a sense of peace settle over you, despite the lingering fever. You knew that no matter what happened, Agatha would always protect you. And that thought was more comforting than anything else.

~

The next morning, Agatha woke up to an empty bed.

Panic surged through her like wildfire. She scrambled out of bed, her heart hammering in her chest as she darted through the house, her mind racing with all the worst possibilities. She called your name, her voice rising in desperation as she checked every room, every corner.

"Baby? Where are you?" she called, her eyes wide with fear. Her breath hitched when she reached the kitchen, but there you were—standing at the stove, humming a little tune as you flipped a pancake. When you saw her standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and breathless, you couldn’t help but smile.

"Fuck baby" Agatha breathed, rushing over to you in relief. She pulled you into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around your waist as though she would never let go. "Why didn’t you wake me?"

You looked up, a sheepish smile on your face. "Sorry love,” you smiled, your voice warm and soft. "I’m feeling better so I wanted to make you breakfast in bed as a thank you for taking care of me..."

Agatha’s eyes welled up with tears, and for a moment, she just held you close, taking in the relief of knowing you were alright. "I... I don’t know what I’d do without you," she whispered, pressing her face into your hair.

You pulled back slightly, a playful smile on your lips. "You’ll never have to. We are witches baby, you’re stuck with me for a very very long time. You’ll be old and wrinkly with a hundred rabbits and I’ll still love you just as much as I do right now”

Her hands slid down to cup your face, and she kissed you deeply, the tension in her body finally easing. "I can’t believe you’re making me pancakes," she teased, a glint of mischief returning to her eyes. "Do you have the syrup I like?"

You giggled, pulling back slightly to rummage through the cupboard. "Of course I do. I’m treating my girl, after all."

Agatha grinned, her playful side returning. "Careful, if you keep spoiling me like this, I might begin to expect it."

You smiled, feeling your heart swell as you handed her the syrup. "I’ll make sure to add making you breakfast every morning to our wedding vows."

As you stood there together, the quiet of the house no longer felt heavy with fear or uncertainty. Instead, it was filled with the warmth of love and the promise that, no matter what, you and Agatha would always be there for each other.

And for the first time in days, you both felt like everything would be alright.

[burningred1989]

THE INTERVIEW

A/N: Y/N and Harry attend an interview where James Corden shows pictures of Harry with Kendall Jenner on a yacht from years ago. While Harry nonchalantly recounts stories about the day, Y/N grows visibly uncomfortable, fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. Neither Harry nor anyone else notices her discomfort during the show.

MASTERLIST

<<<<<

It was a late-night talk show, and Harry and Y/N were invited on James Corden’s program for an interview. The energy in the studio was high as fans cheered and clapped. Harry, looking relaxed and in a great mood, sat next to Y/N as they prepared to chat with James about their upcoming projects. The crowd loved them both—Harry for his laid-back charm and Y/N for her infectious laughter and grace.

James, always known for his cheeky sense of humor, had an idea for a bit to add some levity to the interview. After talking about music, fashion, and random bits of gossip, James pulled up a set of pictures on the screen. He held up one image in particular, one that instantly made Harry freeze for a split second.

The picture showed Harry and Kendall Jenner on a yacht, laughing, with Harry tugging at Kendall’s foot and her hugging him affectionately. The shot was a few years old, taken during a high-profile trip that had made headlines, with paparazzi capturing nearly every moment of their time together. The image was all over tabloids at the time, and the media had made a spectacle of it, turning it into something more than it ever was.

James, with his usual playful grin, teased, "Remember when you shook the world with these, Harry?"

Harry laughed, brushing it off with his usual charm. “Ah, yeah, that was a fun day,” he said casually, leaning back in his seat. “Kendall and I had a great time on that yacht. It was just one of those spontaneous moments, you know?” He went on to tell a story about how the day had gone, laughing about the playful moments with Kendall and the unexpected waves they had encountered.

Y/N, however, wasn’t laughing. She sat still beside him, a faint unease settling in her chest. She tried her best to keep her composure, but her fingers began to fidget with the fabric of her pants. Her knees bounced up and down nervously, and a cold feeling crept over her. She didn’t look directly at Harry as he spoke, keeping her eyes fixed ahead as though she was focusing on something in the distance. Her mind was racing, but she didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the conversation.

Nobody noticed her discomfort—not James, who was absorbed in the conversation, nor Harry, who was still animated and laughing about the day on the yacht.

It wasn’t until later, when they were back in the car on the way to their hotel, that Harry noticed a sudden shift in Y/N’s behavior. She was unusually quiet, staring out of the window with a faraway look in her eyes. Harry tried to spark a conversation, asking her how the interview went, but she only replied with a soft, "I'm just tired, Harry. It's been a long day."

His brow furrowed in concern, but he didn’t push her further, figuring she might just need some space. They arrived at the hotel, and Y/N went straight to the bathroom without saying much. When she returned, she climbed into bed, facing away from him. Harry, still not fully aware of the weight she was carrying from the interview, settled into bed beside her, trying to fall asleep. But his mind wouldn’t rest.

<<<<<

The next morning, Harry woke up early, his usual habit of checking his phone first thing kicking in. He scrolled through TikTok, lazily watching random videos while yawning. Suddenly, he came across a video of the interview from the night before—fans had already begun uploading their reactions. He tapped on the clip, expecting to see the usual praise for Y/N’s stunning outfit and his charming demeanor.

But instead, the comments were focused on something different. They weren’t discussing Harry’s story about the yacht. They were talking about Y/N’s discomfort.

The video showed her visibly fidgeting, her fingers twisting and her knees bouncing as Harry laughed and joked about his time with Kendall. There were multiple comments pointing out how obvious it was that Y/N wasn’t comfortable during that part of the interview.

"Did anyone else notice how Y/N was looking down the entire time they talked about that yacht trip? 😬"

"Her body language is so off—what’s going on, Harry?"

"I can feel the tension through the screen, poor Y/N... 😢"

“Did Harry not notice? She’s clearly uncomfortable…”

Harry’s stomach sank as he read through the comments, feeling a lump form in his throat. His gaze shifted to the next clip, which was a fan reaction video. This one was more analytical, showing a side-by-side of Y/N’s reactions to the yacht pictures and the moments when Harry was openly laughing about the past relationship with Kendall. Y/N’s discomfort was undeniable, and the video highlighted how it shifted from slight nervousness to visible unease.

His heart twisted, guilt washing over him. He should have noticed. He should have recognized the signs. But he hadn’t. And now it was too late.

<<<<<

Harry put his phone down, pacing the room for a moment as he tried to process everything. He needed to make things right. He knew he’d messed up, but he wasn’t sure how to fix it. All he could think of was the pain he might have caused Y/N, and how he’d been oblivious to her feelings.

When Y/N finally woke up, Harry was already out of bed, sitting at the edge of the room, his hands clasped together. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, trying to shake off the sleepiness. But as soon as she saw Harry, she knew something was wrong.

“Hey…” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Harry looked up at her, his expression full of regret. “Y/N, I—I saw the videos,” he started, his voice thick with emotion. “I saw how uncomfortable you were last night, and I… I feel awful. I should have noticed. I should’ve been there for you.”

Y/N sat up, glancing at him. Her face was still soft, but there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. “It’s not your fault, Harry. I should’ve said something during the interview.”

Harry shook his head, standing up and moving toward her. “No, Y/N. You shouldn’t have had to say anything. I should’ve been more aware. I’m so sorry for making you feel like that.”

Y/N reached out for his hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s okay, Harry. It was just…” She paused, trying to collect her thoughts. “I don’t like seeing you talk about your past, especially not with her. It just… it made me feel like I wasn’t enough.”

Harry’s heart broke as he heard the hurt in her voice. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears that had started to fall. “You’re more than enough, Y/N. You mean everything to me. I never want you to feel like that again.”

Y/N nodded, her lips trembling slightly. “I know you didn’t mean it, Harry. I just needed some time to process it all.”

Harry leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here. And I’ll make sure I’m always aware of how you feel. I promise.”

The silence between them felt comforting, a quiet understanding passing between them. Harry held her close, his arms wrapped around her as they sat there, letting the weight of the moment settle. It wasn’t about the yacht, or the pictures, or any of the past—it was about the now, and the love they had for each other.

PART 2

[ktownshizzle]

Love & Lullabies | Part 4.5

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: porn with some plot kinda, this yoongi is very horny and is a very methodical masturbator (?) in the way he set the mood for himself (could be canon, amirite), let’s fix that boner you left him with, and let’s soothe your weary minds from that Dispatch article, POV switch after the article headline, idk if you know that one video of yoongi in d-day during the piano break in life goes on he does this thing with his tongue… it’s written in here somewhere

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.5k

✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: December 15, 2024

✎ ˎˊ˗ A/N: Surprise! I kid you not, this was written within a span of like 8 hours? So if it sucks, that’s probably why, lol. Lucky for y’all I am too impatient to wait for notes milestones before I upload the next part, so here you go. 🎁 Also, @glossdebut, you know what you did. Enjoy, my lovelies~ 💕

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four |  Masterlist

“Fuck me…” Yoongi sighs, leaning further back into the computer chair. He runs both hands through his hair as the preliminary pinpricks of pleasure makes his cock spring to life under his sweatpants.

His phone is now propped on his half-empty coffee mug, of which the screen—maxed out in its brightness settings—is projecting the photo you sent through its 2x dynamic galaxy amoled display—of which his dick would personally like to thank his Samsung sponsors.

He is so horny he might just die if he doesn’t get off in the next five minutes. 

It’s your fault. Of course, it is.

God you’re so fucking sexy, do you even know that? Do you even realize what you do to him? He is literally about to masturbate in his multi-million won worth studio to the pitiful pixels you have afforded him with.

He stands up, curses you under his breath as he pulls his pants down to pool around his ankles. He drops to his chair, about to slip a clammy hand inside his boxers when he decides to adjust the view juuuust a little, zooming the photo closer…closer…  and that’s it.

Just the view he needs. (Sue him for having astigmatism.)

He grabs the aircon remote and adjusts the temp to a balmy 24 ‘cause it’d be hella annoying if he can’t get hard because his studio is an igloo.

Some velvety track with soft percussions filter out from his speakers.

A pump of lube from his hidden drawer, wet wipes at the ready for the inevitable clean up, and he’s off to the fuckin’ races. 

His fist wraps the base of his cock, coating his entire shaft with the gel. It's cold, but it immediately warms up to his body temperature as his palm slides up and down his semi. 

Greedy eyes rake your body on his phone screen. Your tits. They’re a vision. He can see just the ghost of your nipples, peaking in the slightest way against your silky top and suddenly his mouth is dry. What would they look like if they’re not hiding from him? For sure they’re puffy. Pretty jet-puffed marshmallows that he’s gonna be putting in his mouth and sucking until you’re falling apart and creaming with just that. He smirks. Yeah, he could do that.

He tugs at his cock faster, licking his bottom lip as he imagines the texture of your pebbled nipples against his tongue. He shivers, increasing the pace of his ministrations, cock now fully hard.

Back to the photo.

Huh. You knew what you were doing—squeezing your breast with your hand. The way the mound of flesh is about to spill over, and your areola is just kissing the edge of the fabric is actually killing him. It’s diabolical. Pure torture.

Had you been here, he’s scooping out that breast, the one you’re holding out to him, so it’s hanging generously from your top, wobbling as he bounces you on his fat dick. 

He feels his eyes crossing, caught in the spell of the hypnotic movements playing out in his mind. He moves his hand faster, cock throbbing and aching for release.

But he’s not there yet.

Closing his eyes, Yoongi lets himself sink back into the memory, rewinding the moments from just hours ago. The sensation of your weight against him is the first thing he recalls—the way your ass fits so perfectly in his lap, warm and soft, like you were made to be there. The way your body had melted into his touch, so pliant, so eager, grinding slightly like you were inviting him to ruin you, and he was more than willing to oblige.

Your lips—he can still taste them if he focuses hard enough—sweet, intoxicating, like the lingering memory of his favorite whisky. And your neck, the way it arched so perfectly for him, leaving him no choice but to press his mouth against it, the faint hint of your skin still ghosting on his lips even now.

If he concentrates, he can almost smell you again, that sweet, delicate perfume that drove him insane. It’s like you’ve imprinted yourself on him. Or maybe it’s the faint traces of your scent that linger on his hoodie, the one you pressed yourself into while straddling him and he could feel the perfect ass against his crotch. 

The thought is enough to send his pulse ticking faster, his head leaning back against the chair as a low, frustrated groan escapes him. He needs you. Fervently. Urgently. Needs you like he has never needed another person ever. 

Jaw slack, tongue dangling from the corner of his mouth, he imagines licking your nipples from side to side and his mouth stretches into a smile. He can almost hear you moan oh yoongi and wow what an ego boost to have you unraveling for him when in reality it’s he who is actually unraveling in his own damn hands. His cock is getting heavier, balls tighter at his impending demise. He tugs and tugs, collecting some of the lube that gathered on the base and pushing it back towards his angry tip, concentrating his movements there.

You’re not in the room but you might as well be with the way your name keeps tumbling from his lips. He is whining like a little bitch in heat, but he doesn’t give a shit. He hasn’t had a satisfying jerk-off like this in a while. He can’t even remember sex being this good. Nothing remotely like the way this fog of lust has him ascending to another plane of existence right now, because you’re so fucking sexy and so good to him and he likes you so damn much and suddenly he’s coming, warm spurts of cum oozes from his throbbing cock decorating his fingers like the rings he used to wear to the knuckle, and fuck he’s still going, there’s so much and god dammit his boxers are soaked but it feels phenomenal.

Chest heaving as if he ran a marathon, he stares at his ceiling, waiting for his heart rate to slow down.

Not long after, he laughs at his stupidity, pulling a wipe from the packet and proceeds to clean up. He sobers up from his horny thoughts, but not by a whole lot. Not when the photo that started it all is still bright and beautiful from his phone. Shit. He cannot wait to fuck you for real. 

Little did he know, something was gonna fuck him up come morning.

AllKpop Scoop:

Confirmed: SUGA of BTS Dating Actress Lee Sung Kyung

Eagle-eyed fans are convinced the duo has been hiding their relationship in plain sight, pointing to their undeniable chemistry during a past Suchwita episode, where sparks were reportedly flying between the two.

The story was everywhere. News sites, entertainment shows, gossip columns, social media—each one milking it for all it was worth. 

Darling of the press, K-drama royalty, multi-awarded thespian Lee Sung Kyung, had resurfaced from her mysterious hiatus, and of course, the headlines couldn’t resist pairing her name with “infamous idol Min Yoongi.” You roll your eyes so far back your head they almost didn’t come back.

The South Korean media was having an absolute field day.

And as much as it hurt to see it, your first instinct wasn’t to dwell on the sting of the rumors. It was to scan every word, every post, every thread, checking if Haneul had been dragged into the mess.

Thankfully, he hadn’t been. You’d be devastated if your little sarang had been implicated in any of these stories. You don’t know the first thing about how to protect the poor baby from these trolls, but you will be damned if you don’t try.

The photo that sparked the frenzy was everywhere—a shot of Sung Kyung leaving Yoongi’s Hannam apartment. That was it. No Yoongi, no Haneul, not even a hint of context. Never mind that the building housed countless tenants or that there was zero proof they were together. It was enough to send the internet spiraling into speculation.

You were scrolling through the comments under one of the reposts, your stomach churning at the sheer creativity of the assumptions being thrown around, when your screen suddenly switched to an incoming call.

Yoongi.

You didn’t hesitate, swiping to pick up almost immediately.

“Sarang,” he starts, his voice soft and familiar, like he already knows he needs to tread lightly. Bro’s really starting with the buttering up.

“Where’s Han?” Was your first question.

“My parents drove him up to Daegu this morning. It’s better if he’s there for now.”

You let out a heavy sigh, rubbing your temple as you sit back. “Just answer one question, Yoongi: is it true or not?”

“It’s a big fuckin’ lie,” he says without missing a beat, his voice steady and firm. “None of it is true.”

“So it’s all bullshit?”

“YES.” he replies emphatically.

The tension in your shoulders eases slightly, and you exhale, nodding to yourself. This is fine for now. “Okay.”

“Okay?” There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, like he wasn’t expecting you to let it go so easily.

“Yes. Just get your ass here by 7 and not a minute later.” You say, firm.

A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a chuckle, he replies, “Yes, ma’am.”

Part Five >

A/N: So???? I don't know what that first part was. It just took a life of its own. Anyway, as per ush, please let me know what you thought about the chapter. Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you so much for reading this, you lovely, beautiful human xo

See you in the next half! :)

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