#traffic jam offical
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traffic-jam-official · 24 days ago
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whilst we weren’t picked by investors, we still won in our hearts
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relaxedstyles · 3 months ago
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The daily commute? Ugh.
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thinkingnot · 1 year ago
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went to the place the high school’s finals gonna be taken at and the examiner told us if our path were obstructed tmr morning ask for help from anyone on the streets (just thought its kind of wholesome yk) :]
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flowerbarrel-art · 2 years ago
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I want to say maybe that’s just what monster cops do instead of giving out tickets, but I know it’s just Undyne.
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ig-quince-works · 1 year ago
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who the fuck thought that having 80% of jobs start and end at around the same time??
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ozzgin · 4 months ago
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What would happen y/n is in lunch duty at yandere school?
Content: gender neutral reader, one mention of drugs!
You know there'll be a ridiculous line, going all around the school, because everyone wants to have their lunch touched by you.
"Wow, this looks amazing", one yandere exclaims in dramatic praise, wiping a single tear from their glossy eyes.
"...It's the same burgers we have every day. I'm just plating them", you clarify hesitantly.
Before the man can respond, a security guard swiftly escorts them out of the queue. It's the only way to keep the line going and not cause a traffic jam.
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On the other hand, it's still a better outcome than the opposite scenario. Usually you have your own lunch, carefully prepared with utmost love (and platonic obsession) by your parents. Yet sometimes, if you feel particularly adventurous, you will check out the school's canteen instead.
The first time you tried the food, you ended up terribly feverish, squirming in your seat until a teacher dragged you to the nurse's office. Unbeknownst to you, a student had spiced your food in a moment of sheer desire and exaltation. It was swept under the rug, and the student was naturally reprimanded: everyone had to shamefully admit, however, that they might've done the same.
Since then, they've formed a special student committee meant to evaluate your plate and guarantee its safety.
"Have I been too picky with my order?" you wonder out loud, standing to the side and pacing from one leg to another. Everyone has already gotten their dish, yet you're still waiting for yours.
Mysterious.
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[Yandere School Masterlist]
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tenth-sentence · 2 years ago
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The officer at the window yelled for her to stop, but the die was cast.
"Weaveworld" - Clive Barker
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capslocked · 8 months ago
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PRAXIS
male reader x irene
23k words
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"A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair," you remark, and Irene smiles up at that.
The sound of city traffic underneath your open window makes for an uncertain backdrop - though the browns of her eyes glimmer caramel in the dying light. Something sweet, the beginnings of an addiction if you’ll let her.
"A girl could walk in," Irene says, "but, she never does."
It was not a good idea, of course, to keep doing this where the whole world could see, where your shadows and silhouettes make lurid shapes against the blinds, but your office is small and the lighting is soft and Irene keeps pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing you flat against your desk, trying to kiss you, and you won't be able to stop her - or want to, not when she's already leaning into you with her arms loose around your hips, her eyelashes heavy, her mouth a pink line of want against her smile.
It’s inevitable, maybe.
Here's what they might catch in the exact moment, in a not-so-distant memory:
Your heartbeat, quiet and slow and distant, like there's too much blood for it in your veins, your skin electric-pulsing underneath Irene's, the feel of her leg hitched up your waist, your hand wound tightly in her ponytail. The tiny sigh of a smile at the corner of Irene's lips, like you're tickling her somehow - you'll stop if she really wants you to, but - she doesn't. She never does.
Why wouldn't we want to be mistaken for something? is what you’re supposed to hear; she's too haughty, too proud. Someone could catch you. She’ll never come out and admit, just what would anyone do, if they did?
So yeah. It’s complicated.
You give a little, Irene pulls back. You do your damndest not to push. You hate how goddamn easy it is to convince yourself of anything, everything - whatever the lie. Irene isn’t ignoring you. She doesn't ignore the texts you send her. You don’t need to make plans more than two hours in advance. Mixed signals are such a misunderstood phenomenon: she can just be shy, sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t want to intrude. She was nervous, but she felt really fucking good on top of you - maybe next time, the guilt will be a bit less for both of you.
It’s just sex, she says once to you after; there’s no strings attached. How could it get ever more perfect than that?
-
(And she’s right. You know she’s right, or at least you very well should.
See, you’ve been talking for hours about how you shouldn’t be talking for hours on end. Kissing her after a conversation you’d had around the fact you’d both be better off as friends.
So how's that gonna sound, anyway? Here, go on, try saying it:
Bae Irene? Yeah, met her on the subway - that's the story, the reason you know her; you got on a train one day and she was the prettiest person there. You were both headed to the same place. You’re just not sure when that's gonna change.
And well, the way you see it: you’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)
-
To be candid, you can't really pin down how any of this started. The logistical details, sure. However the suggestion, the sex, the seclusion - these things, not so much.
Somedays, if you squint, it plays out rather predictably. You’ll be going about your business, a particularly average day everything considered, or - well, mostly. Today, there are just the two minor caveats:
First off, your key grinds in the lock when you jam it in. That part is pretty normal, but to your surprise, the door is already very much open.
So, that's odd, you think. That's very odd. You slide inside, cautious, and as you call out an even more cautious "hello?" you realize all the lights are on - so either you've been robbed or are currently in the state of being robbed by someone with suboptimal visual acuity. A disability-washed-burglar. Not to minimize crime, of course, but that'd be interesting, you think, or representative perhaps? Maybe.
Alternatively,
Irene's let herself into your apartment again. It’s quite plausible.
She's not great at the whole 'asking permission' thing, though she swears every time it'll never happen again. You peek around your foyer: there’s her coat, her heels, her shirt, a handbag - all strewn about the hall like she’d been raptured and left a delicate trail of destruction, which does sound a lot like the Bae Irene you've known forever.
(Okay, six, seven months isn’t forever - but you get the gist; the general principle still applies.)
Now another, horrifying option is that both theories are true, simultaneously. A home invader has in fact gotten to Irene. In the middle of robbing the place. How terrible, how awful, how genuinely macabre, what a genuinely-
"Yeah, hey," you hear, followed by a heavy, sloshing thunk. "Welcome home or something."
Sure enough, as you enter the kitchen you spy your truly awful vision being confirmed. One of them, anyway. There is your incredibly hot (this is in reference to Irene), extremely fashionable (same boat as before, honestly), dangerously intelligent (yes) and notorious rulebreaker of an (it really bears emphasis on how hot and fashionable and stylish said rulebreaking often is) acquaintance as per her standard. Irene. A roguish and impossibly captivating conglomerate of trouble with a mild attitude and perfect posture; as a collection, she's a collection you want, a package you intend to keep, an accessory you'd die for. That, and a kettle on the stove apparently, so she can make you tea while you languish on the floor, and you could live like that forever, or so the dream goes.
Also right, the second caveat: there's the robbery. She's stolen a button-up out of your closet.
And look - she's actually so much prettier than she has any business being. Hair up in a messy bun, lips painted light. Nail polish starting to fade. She's still in her nylons and a tight little pencil skirt and you can't really complain. You'd need to be legally dead.
"Hi," Irene says, and the burner sputters to life. "Where'd you go?"
"The bank. And then I had to return books," you say, shucking off your jacket. "You know, I wasn't aware anyone else was living here."
"Excuse you," Irene replies. She turns, leans her forearms on the counter; the shirt buttons are misaligned, but she makes it look like a stylistic consideration - how the sleeves are pushed past her elbows and the neckline has already slipped down one of her dainty shoulders.
She has your clothes. She has an irritatingly winsome half-smirk. The clock above the stove says it’s barely even 9 PM.
"Do you get your mail forwarded here, too?" You shuck off your jacket. "To further clarify, why not call first? Maybe text? Hell, smoke signals could do."
"Because it's a hell of a lot easier to ask you for forgiveness," Irene tells you, knowing, "asking for permission gets me nowhere," and then grabs a mug from the cupboards. She seems to know where everything is already. "I don't know why you get so bothered about it, honestly, what should I do? Call you and say, wow, babe, I am planning on letting myself into your apartment, sorry, yeah, I was thinking we could - ah fuck - you know what, I am irreparably, incomprehensibly horny."
"Nice vocab."
"Thanks," Irene says, beaming, and even tips up her chin to show it.
You notice that you actually match right now, since it is, technically, your shirt. Sure, your collar’s a little stiff - and she’s barely able to keep the fabric from folding and spilling over her lithe frame, but that hardly matters. It's so ungodly hot. She could wear anything - or, probably, nothing, if you're being honest.
And you are, mostly.
So you pad into the space right behind her to tell her some truths, the things you think - but she spins on her heel before you get the chance to grab her, which is a pity; you'd love to do that, maybe just push her flat to the wall. You know, if she'd let you. She would. Probably. You'd ask, definitely, but you’re thinking you wouldn't even have to.
Irene crosses her arms. The collar keeps slipping. You see her collarbone, smooth. She is flawless, no fucking wonder. You are almost terrified of her at times.
"How do you know I’d have said no?" you ask, and it sounds a little sweet - then there’s you noticing an old bruise along her throat, where her shoulder dips down; that was probably your doing, probably from this week, last Saturday maybe? Her skin seems softer somehow, looks like her makeup was fresh at the beginning of the day and the end of the night, that kind of evening smudging. She's smiling with her nose crinkling up. 
She doesn’t react when you press in closer. 
"Really." You’re waiting for her. Probably waiting for her to kiss you, to reach up on her toes and latch her wrists behind your neck, to reach her mouth to yours - though, she doesn't. Her breathing picks up, so it's almost like she doesn't have to, she's smiling at you so sharply. It’s a rare win for restraint as far as your apartment is concerned.
"So then where lies the issue?" she asks, and then she simply waits on this smoldering sort of glance.
You can’t help the laugh that follows. "I mean it's the principle of the thing."
Irene hums at that. She glances to the side. Toward the windows, back to you, and then all over your face.
"Then, allow me a principle," she finally says, staring straight at your mouth, real subtle-like. "Yes, I'm going to keep coming here. Probably a lot. I mean, unless you have an actual issue you'd be hardly one to talk: Mr. Keeps Do Not Disturb Active At All Fucking Times. I bet you're the last person to go through their voicemails, too."
"Guilty, but look - I hit critical mass, like, a thousand unheard messages ago. It’s untenable and unreasonable. You should be offering me pity."
"You are ungovernable." Irene sinks back a bit against the countertop, slow, smooth and sinuous. "You're basically a hermit." She smiles at her own assessment, the grin growing with its truth. Her eyes sparkle in the low-light and her teeth bite at the bottom of her lip. The tea kettle starts to rattle.
"I think we’re supposed to be discussing the breaking and entering here," you correct, dryly, and step a bit closer, "also just for the record, hermits are implied loners. And yet."
"And yet," Irene echoes, letting her voice trail away.
There's an uptick in the corner of her mouth, and she glances at you, quick, momentarily mirthless. You wait for the punchline, the verbal parry, the expertly timed jab-
"What?" asks Irene, and her face instead is all soft edges, light pink lips, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. She grabs for the end of her sleeve and folds it one more time down the slender length of her forearm. The watch on her wrist catches the light. "It's a decent theory."
This almost feels normal, you think, like a routine, something domestic - Irene leaving her things all over your apartment, Irene occupying your bathroom cabinets and the space on your shower rack that used to belong to a singular bar of soap. This is a tale of a typical hookup arrangement gone absolutely off the rails: sex for a night here, a dinner together there, a break from the monotony. You shouldn’t even know Irene that well, you think, or nowhere near as well as you do - and somehow that didn't stop you from giving her a spare key to your apartment - or it didn't stop her from wanting the damn thing.
You try not to read too far into that last one, since you're probably the only idiot that hasn't noticed how smitten Irene has been from day fucking one. It’s your fault, it’s hers; there’s a case to be made for either.
"You can see how a girl might walk in and jump to the wrong conclusions," you remark.
Irene laughs at that, "Oh yeah?" and her eyebrows raise, her lips pursing in an immediate half-smile - this hot little line that’ll get kissed right off her mouth if she’s not careful. She doesn’t even pretend to react otherwise: that same brand of pleased, almost flirtatious - a bit unyielding. Pragmatic, maybe. Not fully on board, still keeping a distance, just an inch outside of what it could be. She never stops fucking with you. She's never anything but beautiful.
It's very unfair, if anyone’s keeping track.
"You mean like an affair?" She laughs out loud. The mark at her temple dots the expression like an exclamation point. "Like me, as your mistress. That’s fucking crazy." 
"Satisfy my ego. Pretend that wasn't, in any conceivable world, the worst possible phrasing, but yeah. More or less," you say, "one which would, mind you, seem very poorly planned on both our parts, all things considered."
There's a pause where she scrutinizes your face; you stare evenly back. It's kind of a bluff. You are sort of a self-centered prick, on occasion, but you are not lying to this woman; you have no reason to. Maybe it's a gamble: to hope she understands you better than she ought to, or to wish she'd accept you in spite of that. To want her, in your home, at your leisure, a friend or something more. 
Trying to materialize words for the immaterial is largely the dilemma.
"An affair, huh" Irene repeats slowly, tasting the word carefully, like she's trying it on for size - and she cants her hips towards yours. Her fingers had wrapped around the bottom of your tie at some point. "My goodness, that’s like, so, so romantic of us."
"Also jesus, please, ‘mistress’ is horribly gauche," you say, and Irene tugs a little too hard and you step forward. The smug look on her face suggests, not entirely unpretentiously: how else, then, shall we call it?
"But look at me. I am in your kitchen, I’m wearing your clothes," she reminds you, with another tiny pull, which draws you so much nearer. You can feel your neck prickle. "That makes us quite close, wouldn't you agree, darling?"
"Dial it back," you tell her, because Irene's the only person in the world that can put so much stress on a single fucking word and get away with it. 
But she's watching you, watching you still, intently. She looks good, smells somehow even better, You inhale her. There's this cloud of shampoo, fragrance, whatever she's decided to wear - citrus today, light. God, she's so fucking gorgeous.
"I'm still trying to scold you," you end up adding, because it won’t go without saying.
"And I'm waiting for you to." 
It's not the right answer, though your annoyance dissipates almost as quickly as it rises: Irene could probably charm her way out of anything if she really tried, maybe, and still make the entire world like her even better - so instead of responding, you just sigh, and sink further into her. She wraps your tie once around her knuckles, and tugs again, harder and pointedly, but it's not so hard that it hurts; you know she could manage that if she wanted. Irene just grins up at you, rosy in the face and pretty: no pain, just fun.
"Are you mad?" She tilts her head in and places her exhale right over yours. You could count her lashes if they’d stop fluttering. "Are you going to tell me you'll send me packing now? Just order me right the hell out of here and change the locks, do you mean it?"
"I would, definitely," you say, without so much as a beat missed. "If I weren't so busy being inconvenienced by the fact you're so goddamn pretty."
"Mhmm." Irene fits her lips to yours, murmuring, "exactly."
Her body presses and pushes up against you, and you're thinking again about Door A, Door B. Thinking about your future, her future: it doesn't mean anything. Who needs to dream, when Bae Irene's already such a walking daydream? Hypothetically - a wicked little fantasy if nothing else. She still can't fucking resist pulling away after just a second, just a touch too soon, and laughing right against your lips - even though, when you open your eyes again, her eyes are softly closed and she’s leaning in for more.
The reality is: the two of you, inextricably, are bound in each other's pull. A binary star of (1) extremely talented, (2) equally charming colleagues that only accidentally get lost inside the same room: (3) office, (4) storage closet, (5) bedroom, (6) living room, (7) kitchen, (8) the little-used laundry nook. Your list keeps growing. It is exhausting, but maybe not the worst: not, actually, so bad-
Your hands flatten against the cool material of her skirt.
"I could," you mutter, trying so hard, "you know, stop this. Maybe."
"I actually happen to believe you," Irene's saying. Her teeth graze your chin. "But maybe you can try," she offers, not so helpfully, "just this once?"
The hem of her shirt slips up the long stretch of her leg. It doesn’t move far before the bend of her knee has her pinned, skirt pressed flat to her thighs. You aren’t exactly a gentleman, so you pull it to her waist as you press even closer. The nylon feels wonderful against her legs.
So you let it boil down to the instinctual, the obvious. To physicality: her hip against your own, her soft sigh as the kiss grows in strength. You wrap an arm around her middle; her hands cradle the sides of your jaw - the tip of her tongue brushing yours - then her fingers find their home on the nape of your neck. When you touch the inside of her thigh, across the smooth fabric, ghosting over the center - where the tension is tightest - her lips part a little. She shivers. You try not to smile about it.
"Slow?" you ask her, and the amusement feels unfair to her, even if it is your best attempt to appear thoughtful. She sinks her nails into your skin and her eyelids open slightly. They gleam. "Told me to try," you point out.
You touch her, feel the heat as she says, a little strained, "I did." She swallows. "I'm allowed to change my mind later, though."
"Fine," you relent, "then so am I."
She considers this briefly. Her lashes lower and raise. She nods.
And the teasing has to go somewhere. "Well," you murmur, and kiss the hinge of her jaw. "Mistress it is. Guess there isn't much left to work with, huh." And in any other context, these are the things that earn you another patented-glare, a toss of a pillow over the bedspread, a hard swat on the chest, an indignant 'well fuck you, I can't believe we're having sex!', an abject departure, a million things all at once - at its most dramatic and emotional: a maelstrom of verbal riposte.
Here, though-
She hikes her leg even higher around your hip. Her fingernails clench even sharper. Your tie falls down a button, to the crook between her neck and shoulder, and her hair comes free of its messy ponytail. The line of it skims over her breast, just so.
Irene sighs louder, and does that thing, a deepening in the middle of the noise that lets you know exactly how badly she wants you - this, you're getting familiar with, or the start of it at least, that fine-tuned way Irene wants someone when she doesn't even hesitate to show it. It was odd, and at first almost embarrassing to see. That might've even been part of the charm, you think: Irene could want to devour you. You were you - slightly interesting, and in her eyes, probably the most intriguing fuck - but whatever her reasons, it all clicked for Irene. She had a system to evaluate and adjust and execute. There wasn't room for wasted effort.
"Hey," she hums, low in her throat.
"Yeah," you say, lifting her right up onto the counter. 
And see - there are these gestures, reminders, not always in good faith, where you make her feel small: Irene's wrists are suddenly so narrow, one right at the surface of the counter, fingertips cool at your collar, and her nail polish chipping a little at the edges. Your palm is larger, enveloping the high, broad arch of her hip, the sharp line of bone to muscle to sinew. She feels fragile, is what it is, a fine-boned little bird, a thin silhouette under her loose, borrowed shirt - it's almost poetic, a regular old fuckbuddy - a physical habit, and you know her, know how many inches, and you can find your favorite parts of her in the dark, but-
"Want your mouth," Irene's saying now. Her lips glistening, eyes liquid; you want to tell her that that's an indisputable victory, just objectively, even before the clothes fall.
"Tell me where to put it," you offer back, and watch the corner of her lips twitch up.
She runs her hand through the back of your hair, mussing it, the lazy drag of her nails, her heel right to your lower back. The light from the stove is doing her wonders, gold catching off the paleness of her skin. "Make yourself useful, I think, like on your knees."
You raise an eyebrow at her.
"Don't give me that look" - and Irene shrugs her shoulders back - the shirt falling more, the flat plane of her stomach - this jut of bone, the pretty contour of her ribcage, the stark outline of her body just under a few too many buttons.
"It just comes off a bit greedy," you say, letting the words twist, playing with the hem of her skirt between your fingers.
"Maybe because you reward that kind of behavior," Irene retorts immediately.
"You’re spoiled," you laugh. "That’s all. Just spoiled. Life must be great for you, do nothing and let someone else do everything."
It's another one of those, 'you fucking like it', and Irene smirks like the shape of her mouth here is foreplay enough alone. She might be onto something. Like the easy back-and-forth - how she's sharp as razor wire underneath you - a double-edged sword if the weapon knew the sheath.
You lean in. She places her palm flush to your heart, like she can measure exactly how long you’re drawing this out with its steady thud. You know she’ll repay it in turn: she thinks it's hot to jerk around with your emotions before she fucks you, like playing roulette with her orgasm, yours - a slow crawl, a nice burn. Her fingers curl.
"And here you said I was ungovernable."
Irene huffs, slightly. "You are still fucking talking."
"If I shut up, will you scream for me, sweetheart?"
You run a hand up her waist. There's this whiny intake of air. Then Irene says, soft and slow: "earn it."
(Maybe you shouldn’t keep enabling her. Therein lies the problem. Okay, so maybe you like this particular problem.)
But she's tugging your tie out of the way before the words leave her lips. The distance you have between is scant, which seems to be fine, with the way she leans in as the last syllable drops off her tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth, impatient.
It takes approximately zero convincing to drop to your knees; that much has not changed. You glance up at her. Your hands curve to her waist, sliding up. It's funny - how your fingertips just brush under the billowy fabric, how the taut skin over her ribcage fills the length of your palms, and then a touch further. Perfect proportions, as Irene usually is; you're on your knees and that's by design.
Your thumb rolls over the outline of her nipple and it peaks, draws into a quick, rosy point beneath the flimsy cotton, like an open invitation.
Irene smiles lazily, gorgeous - and sinks back again against the countertop. Her feet land on your shoulders. The nylon in the bend of her ankle slides soft at your throat, gentle. "Waiting." She sighs a little. "Still, waiting."
You press a kiss over the nylon, the fabric underneath, teeth barred and tongue pushing. "You said slow," and the rest of you might as well catch on fire, just for borrowing a moment’s composure. You can see yourself bringing her down to the floor, the kitchen tiles, spreading her legs and fucking her into the linoleum, scratching them up, making her cum as many times as she asked. But there's this heavy drag down your back, the nerves blooming. "So let me. I won't get distracted," you murmur - or don't, really - into the softness between her hip and waist, along her navel, the tight planes of her tummy. "I promise, I'll get there, baby."
She hesitates. The breath she holds back is a telltale pause.
And the first thing that really sinks into Irene's skin, besides yourself, is this: every last shred of hesitation she was waiting on, the self-control? Now gone. You've done nothing but serve its loss. She seems to sense her power; and in one blink, the act is apex. In a beat her nerves are recovered, and the nerves are fuel. A natural killer, an organic toxin, that same smile curving her lips, a pointed glint to her eyes.
"Baby, your mouth," Irene insists, her knees falling to the sides, "open. And yes," and a pause, or maybe an addendum, a double meaning in the downtime, "to be perfectly frank: free for me to use. To come and go as I please."
"Haven't left my fucking mind for a minute, sweetheart," you offer up right back, not bothering with restraint.
Irene clicks her tongue. "But yet, you don't ever do exactly as you're told-"
She hiccups, or something close to it - because you grab her ass, bring her hips closer, until you can sink your nails into the firm give of flesh.
Irene looks down at you, eyes just wide, and - ah.
She sighs. Sighs because she knows - you can find god in everything; that’s the goal, that’s the creed - and maybe Irene wasn’t your original way, maybe you were always meant for a different sort of holy figure, but the words you choose are doctrine in the end; that first prayer you got down on your knees and said to her was no less truthful for its betrayal. There are rules to it: this is faith, the religion. This is her. You belong to Irene, and she belongs to you.
"Um. Did you just tear my stockings?" she asks, like a sudden realization, her mouth still dropping.
You nod, because, well, yeah, and pull her panties to the side. "Permission, forgiveness, et cetera."
In lieu of a reprimand or a rebuke, she lets a shockingly pretty little moan when her pussy gets stretched by a finger, two - and they're wet, slippery, easier than the lace had ever expected, and she's already so plush, red and rosy. Irene has always gotten wet quickly, with your fingers, your cock, your mouth on her - and her head falls back in one languorous stretch. The tightness around your finger is dizzying. You'll never grow tired of watching her: a sudden shift, the spine so pretty when arched, the pulse of blood under her thighs, the fluttering of her cunt as it comes to the very precipice of letting you in.
"Do you understand me, baby?" she's asking you, and her breath seems to pick up and the muscle flutters again.
You waggle your eyebrows and lean in, and whisper against her skin, "better than anything."
Your mouth attaches to her clit and never lets go. You fuck her, all sweet, on two fingers. Down to the last knuckle. You curl your fingertips, and she's gasping. The scent of her drives you fucking crazy; this is what paradise has always tasted like, and heaven's the press of her thighs - your name spilling from Irene's mouth. She gets wetter, and wetter - you lap as it floods out of her, down her thighs. You lick it, taste the salt and her bitterness and her arousal, how her pussy grows slick in an instant, swollen under your touch, wanting, aching. Her heels press over your shoulders and dig in, tight.
When you look up over the tight spasms in her diaphragm, you realize she's got the shirt unbuttoned, finally. Fabric spilling down to the granite, skin and bra and sheen; you wrap your arms around the perfect curves of her thighs, the nylon shifting soft on your hands and bringing her closer, hitching up to your shoulders. This is only part one of what you owe Irene - the easy part, actually: you can see her clench in the same breath that she's straining - the need and want to fill her up a sin, the wet smack as her folds are pried apart by the flick of your tongue, the sounds of your hands, the desperation. She'll want, and you'll get, until she can barely handle it. Until the tremors overwhelm her, until it is too much and it never will be, ever enough - until she's left so gorgeous like that, shivering.
The kettle's got the pitch to its scream now, and the volume. The sound makes you grind your teeth. Lick harder, suck longer, kiss a bit deeper - her clit, the pink tip of your tongue pushing in past the folds, between the ring, deep and heavy. Fingers moving slow, almost absent-minded, flitting across her breasts, pinching a nipple - Irene groans. The metal rattles louder, louder.
The shirt's rumpled, tangled, bunched up between Irene's elbows. You lean your teeth to the crease of her hips. You lick, the smell filling your nostrils, her fingers threaded in your hair - holding you where she wants you to be:
"And fuck, ah, do you, oh god- fucking do you- have an," she sighs, trembling as the movement of your jaw sends her shuddering, as your mouth runs and your hands open her legs. She pants. "Oh, darling. Have an honest-" she laughs and the sound pitches too, "-idea, I mean-"
Irene has started grinding against you. Your heart is thundering.
"-of what I'm-"
A moan finally breaks from her lips, so disarmingly beautiful. Irene grabs for the edge of the granite counter; she can hardly seem to make out what she wants. Her orgasm is cresting higher, each flick of your tongue and soft sound of you bringing her there, near. You like that she needs you, like that the word 'insatiable' becomes an insufficient assessment. You push, you move - her hands tug you. You taste her: a warmth, the depth, the pulsing.
"-what you're" - a gulp, a gulping swallow - the fridge keeps beeping, the front door sticks, and it'd be so perfectly quiet if not for the fucking tea kettle. It keeps boiling and boiling and you are drinking your fill, drowning. Her skin smells fucking delicious. You can feel her heat pooling. "Fucking, o-oh, fuck- fucking doing-"
You smile into it. Against her messy, quivering cunt. You are: unashamedly smug.
And fuck. She's gone, swept away, carried off, the pressure of your lips sending her crashing back down with a moan - the kitchen still buzzing and the steam a bit of a haze, and you haven't even finished bringing her through the dying breaths of her orgasm before she's gasping, pulling you back up on your feet:
"I need you, I- right now. Up here-"
Irene tries to grab for your neck again. She doesn't seem to mind her own lack of strength, though. In any other circumstance you'd think she'd look a bit pathetic: her shoulders curved, chin resting in a hand, a absent, pleasantly confused grin, legs and hair a complete unmitigated mess - and here: her lipstick wiped, mostly smudged, her wet, glistening thighs-
"Tell me," you say, and a thousand possibilities are imagined. To get inside of her, feel her nails dragging across your chest, her teeth at your throat, her moan as you slide into the very heat of her - fuck, you cannot stop. She's got you spinning and you’ll gladly lose this particular battle; a typical Bae Irene ending. "Please, tell me."
The water boiling over has begun to crack; and the first tendrils of steam begin curling into the air.
"God," says Irene, shaking with her body so desperate, her hand still grasping you back. The look in her eyes seems so beautifully wrecked, but in no hurry to show it. She smiles, because she wants that over anything. "Don't you fucking listen?"
She grins.
"Ah." Irene shakes her head, pulls your head back, staring, but does not rise to a sit, just slides herself out. One leg kicks, one, then two, from the corner of your eyes: her nylons shredding down their long seams. You're on your feet; you're not really standing, but then you have no real bearings to start with. Your cock is throbbing.
She just scoots on out, and shuts off the stove, and sets the kettle a step back.
"Maybe," you say, pressing your thumb to the seam of your pants. You could probably die of lust right now and have no regrets. "Maybe not. I think I need more convincing."
It would probably also help if your thoughts could stop racing.
"Huh."
She turns - though not with the skirt. The hem has fallen to the floor. A puddle at her ankles. She's only slightly out of breath; the wet between her legs gleams. The slick, smooth fabric of her lingerie sticks to the swollen outline of her pussy. Her fingers dip down, playfully, so she's leaning over the counter. She tugs, and it presses and plays and sticks at her center. You're obsessed, half-crazy from it. Her expression twists; it's fucking bliss. She smiles, one breath, then two - the house settles. You cannot stop staring; you can't. Your mouth feels hot and dry and sticky, wet from her cum, and your pants, you can't quite breathe and the view's only getting better: Irene naked, against the counter, the jostle of her breasts as she strums herself, as her breathing catches and rises, and those nails digging deep into her clit as her eyes drift shut-
She's biting her lower lip - but she looks at you and - stops, her toes pressed to the linoleum.
The moment is suspended, and suddenly the words do not fit anywhere in your throat.
"Want it?"
"Fuck," you exhale, and maybe she isn't just asking that out loud, she's the embodiment of the fucking question: the need between her legs so vivid. She laughs again, licks the taste of herself off her fingertip, sucks at the curve of her nails - she touches the tip of her tongue to the very edge of her upper lip. Her smile, in its sharpness and precision, remains unswayed.
"Bend me over?"
And then, very quietly, and without so much as a scoff in disappointment-
"Fucking christ," you mutter, and nearly fall in a heap towards her.
-
It's borderline unhealthy, that this happens as often as it does: sex that leaves you breathless, sex that shivers across every inch of your fucking skin, sex that aches afterward, that drives your lungs to strain, a moan trapped forever just behind her teeth. Her hips were either made for your rough palms, or you’ve worn them down to your grip. Softened all the edges. Her thighs open to you like you own her. The ridge down the center of her back, your mouth trailing down every vertebrae - her pussy. The inside, the depth - and everything she doesn't mean to let out: all these little notes she's learning with each thrust of your cock into her, and you think you should just say yes, give in.
Let it go, and just trust.
Sex as routine? A repetition of desire. What is routine is that, with Irene:
There's always a new discovery. She has you when she's bent over and you're pounding her knees into the cabinets. She has you on the floor with her. She has you when she's bent over and you're eating her out again, then on top, and on your couch, and with her legs kicked high on the shower wall, and - you fuck her, you find room for her on the bathroom sink. You cum all over her stomach and she just smiles dreamily. You fuck her until she’s almost sobbing, and then you're saying her name like she has your life and your attention, for everything and nothing at all. And after an hour of letting her have your patience, and your dick, your face pressed against her throat, and her nails deep in your back - you tell her she needs to stay. 
It’s a hell of an admission, apropos of nothing.
"Oh? Say that one more time for me," and she's half-covered, the comforter pulled up over her the gentle slope of her breasts, the bedsheet tucked around her waist. "Again," and you have no real use left, you're certain. The most recent orgasms have nearly shattered you both in half: Irene can barely focus on your mouth, where your hips had slammed hers into the bed and - you are pretty certain - definitely did crack her skull right off the headboard.
"Yeah," you mutter face down into the duvet, "you should stay."
"Then it's decided," Irene says out loud, rather victorious, and drops a hand down the span of your back. She's there still, fingering her own cum from inside her pussy. The look in her eyes, sly. The message in them could not be any clearer: what an excellent suggestion, since you both know she'll have no shortage of reasons to keep coming back, anyway.
-
It all feels rather satisfying, pretending not to like the girl. It feels good not caring where she is at night.
As she had said, like an affirmation, a real statement: "this thing, between us, is so uncomplicated. It's so easy."
And she’s right: 
She fucks, and you cum. She looks pretty. That's what she wants to show off, she does and does it well, and as long as you don't pay attention and pretend like it doesn't matter to you, it's an absolute fucking win-win. That's it: that's exactly why, when she calls, when she comes around and asks about dinner, you ask how far you're expected to go for her. What'll earn you her gratitude? Her pleasure's a quick hit, and it's free - if she asks nicely, if you're up for it, if it isn't the same bullshit, same scene - and the night's never a big deal to waste. That's her script; there's your line:
"What's your endgame here," is a thing you're always asking.
She tips her head, her hair falling off her shoulder, that old cliché, those large brown eyes, batting and fluttering. Just curious, but also to draw attention; what a killer pair she has, they're gorgeous. Your eyebrows raise, and your mouth falls open as her fingers dance over your chest, playing with the collar of the button-up that you aren't entirely convinced doesn't belong to her.
"Who says I have to have my mind made up right this second?" is Irene's usual comeback - a favorite - followed by another favor, then an expectation. Then, as your hands fall to the small of her back: "for you, the point is probably the chase," she reminds you, a low little murmur.
Your heart thrums with the little spike of anger. Then again, your cock's feeling the yearn ahead of everything else already; it’s a bad habit, and not getting anything you need. Or, there's a tumble, a mutual surrender in this somewhere. 
"Sure, says you." 
You kiss her so easily. Run your fingers through her hair and drink down her sighs, pull away and pretend. Pretend to dislike how pretty she looks when you do things like this. Pretend like you haven't missed her, that there is no desire, not to run your touches down the back of her knees, or sink your hands into her perfect little ass.
"Didn't need me to," she points out, the lick into your mouth. And her finger curls right under your chin, nails a pretty, perfect oval shape, manicured and soft at your throat, that way she loves - the angle intimate. "And yet. Not stopping me, are you?"
Which you're not. Neither of you is fool enough. You don't hate yourself, she doesn't hate the truth. So, whatever, sometimes you give in to it - if you could call this a 'means to an end', you suppose that might just about cover the ground, because her plans, her reasons don't matter to you, and vice-fucking versa: just to find an answer, or to find a few dozen, and that's enough.
You're no good at love; she says she's not looking for it either, no heartfelt romantic shit to get a tear out of you, she'd tell you at the start:
"Let's just play it by ear, how about that? I could surprise you. You could surprise yourself."
-
(But fuck: Irene's surprisingly full of surprises.
Take when she texts a few days later.
Hey, a blip on the screen, an innocuous string of numbers you refuse to mark a contact. There's too much power, and leverage. She isn't asking. 
It's been too long.
A winky emoji.
I think you’re able to do me a big favor.
A period. It is imperative. She would tell you, with an authority she certainly isn't trying to front or to prove: she likes her punctuation.
I could really, really do with that same favor that you gave me back when we went to that housewarming party, you remember. It'd really be the best thing you've done with your evening if you could help me out. Call it the nice thing to do.
Is your vibrator out of batteries? you text back.
You are a genius.
Thanks.
Let’s go somewhere.
Just this once. But dinner's on you.
A selfie. Slippery fingers, glued to her pussy, running through the glisten-
Oh. Actually, it'll probably be twice.)
-
So. ‘Surprise yourself’ was, naturally, the key. 
It's difficult to have a notion as to how exactly you might surprise yourself - but here you are a little later; she's dressed and in heels, and that's a relief, or rather a delight: this woman looks devastating with her hair down. But still, like this: the hem to her slacks that draws her thighs down to an elegant peak, the nice blouse she's got her buttons done to the top, and one less: this cleavage isn't wholly visible but the shadow is still a tease, her thin jacket only pinning in how her waist is cut into such a deep arc. Irene had asked if this looked too formal, and the second response in your brain was to ask why: her normal wardrobe's worse - less clothing, more fucking exposed. Then again, you might not mind watching Irene work so hard if it meant your hands get full quicker-
"That is absolutely no way to put it," she admonishes.
"Come again, Mistress?"
"Ass," she mutters. It's not even a reprimand so much as an agreement, you can see where the smile is trying not to crack open. "No," she corrects, and smiles anyway. She pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, "I just mean- fuck you and your terrible metaphors. Anyway, we should go. You drive, my car is a total mess."
-
You take her out. There's dinner. There's drinks. It's something like a date, because that's what she wants. The hostess smiles politely. The waiter raises a suggestive eyebrow at your fingertips grazing Irene's leg underneath the table, and you both ignore the interest. You pass him her credit card without comment when you go to settle up. When you stroll about, the sun is going down and the dying light paints her skin orange, yellow, and red. She tells a story about work. You manage to get a few of your own. Your fingers loop through hers and the action makes her do this lovely smile.
So the gist of it is: you have a fling, her name is Irene, there’s some vague cohabitation occurring, and - oh, she's an absolutely fantastic lay.
It's the sort of thing that on the surface level sounds like a total and complete win, even for all its contradictions, flaws, and pitfalls. She fucks, and you're willing. She looks pretty. You keep her content. That's enough, as a friend-with-benefits; more of the benefits than anything else, she always reminds you. And every now and then, when Irene starts making demands of your time, of your availability - making plans, making reservations, making the expectation known that the two of you have a standing obligation, ‘benefits’ penciled into your schedules every Tuesday and every weekend (and Thursday, too, if neither of you is booked) - she suddenly becomes more complicated than she should have any rights or reason being. There's a kind of security you take away from it.
Irene's holding her clutch in the parking lot, posture perfect. The sky's on fire and the setting sun is burning down the horizon all around her.
"Can we do it in your car?" she's asking, totally nonchalant. 
"What?" "Sex," Irene repeats, like you didn’t understand the question. Her expression is bright, seamless. She holds her wrist behind her back, and twists a little on one heel. "I want to get you off."
This is a case study; you’re walking, breathing empirical data. You’ve gone from wondering to knowing about what they say in regards to women of a certain age. The appetite. The inexplicable desperation. It used to be a joke. Maybe it's because men in their 30s are unusually relaxed with their dating life, or all of their friends are talking about wedding rings, kids, a white picket fence - with life a non-event to handle with finesse and a delicate grip. Or: maybe Irene simply isn't complicated in the ways people seem to expect her to be. She’s needier for sex than usual, for starters. "Are you expecting some urgent business meeting, or an important call - any sort of personal news, maybe - like, in the next half hour?"
"Are you serious," you manage. Fuck her, actually.
"I don't know why, I just feel like you might appreciate the cramped quarters. We can make out while you cum and stuff."
You almost snort, but - her hips have that sway. The door’s unlocked. You stare. The purse settles on the passenger's seat. This girl is so stupidly pretty.
"You, uh, wanna get on top?" you ask, voice already slightly drying at the sound.
Irene reaches over and traces your jaw. Her thumb feels lovely pressed to the seam of your lips, rubbing over them slowly. Her mouth is this gorgeous color and you just can’t stop staring. "So cute. What’s your best guess, sherlock?" She pats the roof of the car, gently. "Get the fuck in."
-
Irene is, at her most shameless, a list of demands: give me your fingers, touch my clit, do it now; take my wrists, fuck me faster; don't you dare fucking cum - there's no rush here, so put in the effort. You have a basic idea of where you're both headed, and the situation demands you to, um, obey. The sound of her wet cunt fills the tight confines of the car.
"Fuck, Irene."
At her most elegant, she's pretty much the same, but she fucks like a total dream: 
"Slow, yes," she'll coo into your ear, in the early stages, before her head starts falling back and her chest rises, and all the sweet notes from the back of her tongue get driven to the fore, and there are moans instead of directions, groans and cries. "Feel me. Deeper. Fuck, babe, just like that."
Her nails drag deep, and that's not usually the plan - the start is fast and easy; her pussy drips like she's soaking a cloth, a fresh layer every second, and a clench that swallows every thrust; and somehow the friction's good enough that if you stick around and keep your focus, you get Irene begging for mercy by the end of it, just to savor and relish the sensation, the motion of your body into hers.
"There," and her eyes flutter, "yes. You are so fucking hard for me." She leans in, kisses the shell of your ear: "you’re fucking stretching out this little pussy, baby, you know that?"
"Jesus. Fuck, please-"
"Should we? Should I let you?" She clenches down, "fill me up, babe? You think you're worth the privilege?"
"If you'd let me - Irene, the things I could do," you don't breathe, "jesus fucking christ."
And she looks at you with wide, honey-smudged eyes. Pretty even when fucked; especially so. Her fingers get wrapped in your collar and she’s nodding her head in rhythm with her quick little bounce. The snapping of her hips. Up and down, and up and down like she’d be insulted if you didn’t drain your balls into her perfect little womb right then and there. She says don’t do this, don’t do that - and then she fucks you like you’re supposed to.
"Yeah, that’s right, be a good boy for me," her mouth whispers, even though there is no one else in her car, you're pretty sure. Her voice is like a vice, just you, with her hips, her hot little hands pushing you down so she's riding the top of your head. You can hear her dripping down into the space, a new leak.
"How're you gonna deal with it when I'm filling your tight cunt?" You thumb at her ass, squeeze. "This pretty, round ass? Want me to cum inside you every which way, huh? Marking up my territory?"
You hear her stutter on a reply, as her pussy gives a particularly strong flex, another contraction.
"All those wet loads, dripping out your cunt, down your thighs... on your lips... you gonna taste every last one, princess?"
She has a face like she wants to hurt you for that one, the moniker - you have a sneaking suspicion there's nobility in her blood, laid deep somewhere in her veins, another lifetime lived far from this one: she'll have a predilection for thrones, diamonds, queendoms to rule. And if that were true - well, you'd be downright lucky if she consented to an audience, even less entitled to her hand. She's out of your league regardless. Or maybe, she's the furthest thing from royalty and she just knows the script better than anybody. Kneel, she'll say, and you find yourself obliging; give me your mouth, your fingers, she'll ask, and you're compelled. It's all ingrained.
"What was that?" she asks, incredulous, riding your cock so hard the seat shakes instead.
"I said: this cunt, christ-"
You bring her closer to your face, have to feel that clasp of heat with every stroke - and when it is so fucking deep, her hips lock up, clamped, thighs quivering - you just hold her in place, give her a few breaths, let the satisfaction really sink in, even if she's already moaning.
"Well, I guess you got me there, huh." Her mouth gives her away, the lopsided-grin. "Yeah. So cum, give it." And then it twists. Her face looks so beautiful in distress, and you're certain you've had that thought many times since: if the situation demands it - maybe it would be just fine to push a little bit more? It's a neediness that doesn't go understated, even when Irene's more whining for it: like, the fuck are you waiting for, her tits out, panting, sweating, cursing and moaning at the slow drag through her slippery muscle, a grip like satin, like velvet.
You’re a total mess: 
"Breathtaking, the faces you make for me" - "you look so good, like that, so handsome" - "has anyone ever fucked you this good?"
It’s official. She'll have to scrape you off the leather.
And as if to add insult to injury, Irene’s hands come up to her hair, holding it up into a messy bundle above her head. There’s a tilt of her chin, a bite into her lip. She’s bouncing fast, taking your cock deeper on each twist, and it’s all very performative. Fucking Irene is as visual an experience as it is visceral, because chiseled into her figure, the lithe frame, are these model-esque proportions - like she’s not actually five foot nothing in her socks. 
(A beautiful little paradox. She’s showing off here. She’s showing off, simply because she can.)
"And you’re the one always calling me greedy," she breathes, like the punchline, as she takes the next inch, the wet slapping of skin. There's heat. So much fucking heat - she's got a pulse that pulls you forward and won't let go, your balls hitting her ass and thighs soaked, so red and plush and beautiful, a softness that takes a second and an elbow's reach and, fuck. Her thighs on the dashboard. "You've been-"
Your palms fit into the curve of her ass. How a small, fragile, dainty thing like her can have so much to grab onto remains a mystery and a fucking miracle.
"-a bit of a prick, honestly, for a minute-"
But she's so responsive - and you want to wring it out of her, really, a desire to destroy and savor, even when that sounds a little wrong and too close to sacrilege - you really ought to just call her the ultimate fantasy: she has the cutest tits, soft creamy thighs, tightly wound curves and a sexy-as-sin attitude; and when she sits heavy on your cock, wiggling her hips in a circle, you lose the plot and a little bit of your mind.
"-have to say, it's been getting to me."
"Here's hoping it doesn't give," you grumble as your arms tense and your back aches, your shoulders strain. Irene seems unconvinced, and she usually is, but the drive is relentless.
"Then you'll have to hurry up," the rake of her fingernails across your neck, "won't you?" and she is too slick and so eager, "because you’re gonna cum for me, sweetheart, just let it all out, baby." Her cunt and her heels in the upholstery and the stinging welts draw you deeper- 
Your hand braces around the center console. 
She has her lips on your temple, your hairline: "I’m imagining how my pussy will look, all creamy and used and pretty - all because you fucked it nice and hard and raw - no matter how many times I fuck myself with my fingers, I'll keep feeling the ghost of this fucking perfect cock."
The noise that leaves your lips is a full, throaty, ragged groan, your muscles shaking and skin burning. "Irene, god," you sputter out; it's not super attractive, you think.
Irene kisses the juncture of your shoulder and neck like it’s music to her ears, her jaw against your jaw:
"You've got to stop edging me, love, my little pussy was made to get stretched by your cock, show me-"
You thrust in deep. 
"Fuck."
"Oh," she whispers, eyes hooded and lashes sweeping low, an awe so thick to her voice. "Such a good boy for me - now. Make me cum, yes - make me cum all over you - mhm-"
You jerk your hips again - your pants hanging around your thighs, her blouse pushed up around her waist. You've twisted and knotted the fabric over and over into something you can pull or hold onto - it's not clear to you yet which idea's more pressing.
Because there's no breathing room. You need to twist your hips just to fuck into her - her lips are parted with this insatiable moaning, and it's sweet and pretty and filthy. She wraps one knee higher. There's the lock to your ankle, but she's grabbing the lever and trying to pull your seat down, the rest of it; you absolutely let her. All this in heels that would be impressive without a tight wet pussy pressing down on the length of your cock, begging for what seems like an endless number of thrusts into that delicious heat, the perfect clutch. She rides you rough: the leather beneath your knees shifting with the constant scuffle. Her elbows bent, a thumb grazing her tits, pushing up the silk and the lace.
Her soft, pale skin is spilling all over you, her limbs finding purchase as her mouth slides against yours on a new rhythm of need and want: "that's the thing, right? You're such a delight when you put your mind to it." She's pressing a kiss against your temple - her tone, this intimacy, a hotness between her thighs that leaves you breathless, dumb - it's the only sort of inescapable validation that might suit.
You had the perfect view as she shrugged the jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, sat the bra over it, just undid her slacks: this perfection, laid bare, exposed in your passenger seat with her tits squeezed in both palms. Then it was her hand tugging at the zipper to your pants.
So - you're fucking her harder than you have any business doing. Her nails are digging trenches in the skin of your forearms and you have the slightest sense of everything she has, wants, demands; you've had her under you, bent her in half, folded at the corner of your bed. You’ve fucked her with your cock so far into the slick-dripping hole of her cunt until she can't stop cumming - or begging - or the Irene-equivalent.
"There you go," she says into your throat, like it's nothing, and sags a little further into your chest. "There we go," she repeats. Her brow is glistening with sweat, and you kiss it: hot, and a little bitter. You can't help it. 
You're fucking her harder than she can handle. You're filling her. She's stuffed to the fucking brim with your cock, bulging at the folds of her insides.
And, christ, her fucking waist. She is so small, so fragile-looking. You wrap both hands around her middle, and as her hips grind forward, meeting the roll, she grabs your wrists, holds your hands up her ribs and gets, and gets - oh, just where you fucking left her. Your knuckles are left digging to the silky skin, bruises dotting purple across her back, her neck, her tummy and her thighs, every surface - you're grasping and claiming what she has to give you, just a hint. There's a million and one ways to love, to give back, to please a partner - but you have one goal: you're not an artist, you're not a philosopher, or a poet - so you’ll leave physical marks, reminders, of everything you've done and will do. You’ll make her cum. Just hold her still and make her cum again and again and again. The weight, the lift. If she asked, you would. Fuck. You would. She rides your cock and rocks you into the upholstery of the passenger-side chair. She sinks down and presses her mouth to the edge of yours, just shy, her own teeth pulling at her bottom lip-
"Your cock feels," and here Irene takes the moment for a heavy, contented sigh. "-ah, fucking unbelievable. Your fucking cock, jesus."
Her voice is… it's really so dreamy. The praise does strange things: you reach down and pull her thighs so they tighten at your waist. There are no illusions here, she's found something worth chasing. The bare-boned desperation drives her insides wild, you can feel it. The clench, the pulse, the absolute slutty-slick dripping, a real, honest, aching cunt, warm and clamped at the hilt of your cock - it's obscene, and your patience is stretching paper-thin. You aren't asking any questions; she's not taking them.
It’s just you and this petite, absolutely stunning, heartbreakingly gorgeous girl sitting in your lap and working herself on you like a doll, and- oh. She really does look great. It's impossible to look away.
The windows are fogged, and her cunt feels divine as she runs you further into your car seat. Her hips snap up, back down - the soft drag and then the cinching flutter. The inside of her, a total fucking delicacy. One of your hands slides across her back, counting the rise-and-falls of her spine. One, two, three, and so on. Her lips are flush at your throat. You feel her whimper.
It’s the most perfect noise you've ever heard.
"Baby," she mouths at your collarbone, her movements becoming more spastic, more erratic. "I can feel you throbbing."
The encroaching dark keeps threatening the corner of your vision, so much tighter each time.
"You're going to make me," you're gritting through your teeth - this feels a little insane, a little irrational. "Irene you- you’re going to make me fucking cum."
"Oh?" Irene’s reply is immediate. She slams herself down on your cock, hard. "Then cum."
Your patience is truly nothing at this point. There is not a single breath left inside her either: the heavy swell of her chest is proof enough, those eyes fluttering shut, the angle shifting as her ass meets your thighs. "Seriously, I'm going to fucking fill you, and it is gonna slip all down the back of your legs - Irene - sweetheart, I’m going-"
Her fingers curl behind your head. "Cum," and she groans, "I know- I'm here. Take it. Use this perfect little pussy, I want to feel you cum." and you pull the pace up into a frantic tempo. The metal beneath your back creaks with the strain; the bounce of her ass against your groin. The moan, it pitches: a need, a lust, and she is rolling, rutting her body in circles on top of you, a wild gasp and then a beautiful cry, almost in pure unbridled ecstasy.
The angle shifts and - fuck. You’re able to fuck up into her so easily. Her cunt is hot and soft in all the right places, wrapped around your cock, tight and snug like she was made for you. Every drag of slicked skin and clenched muscle sends you both reeling.
"Irene," you barely say, and you're cumming, you’re fucking filling her up with cum - the only possible endgame. You can’t stop fucking into her even though she's just been fucked senseless, stuffed with your cock: little helpless noises, squeals and yelps like they're being tugged out of her. She goes limp on you, and then she collapses, shivering and whimpering with every deep-bore pulse: you're going to mark every inch of her body, claim every part of her soul.
"Oh my god." A groan. Another. It's coming off her like a wave - like a river, really, you're drowning. "It is so, so fucking hot. Your cum, in my pussy..." She trails off.
Her tight cunt twitches: pulsing with every motion. She squeezes down - hard. It takes a great effort for you not to let out a loud, embarrassing whimper. Your fingers dig into her ass, her hips, steadying her grind.
But you're looking right into her eyes when she falls apart, too, that long, tensing shudder, the gasping groan - fuck - because she feels exactly like everything that you've done, you know: Irene's tight cunt has kept your cock perfectly in place. She was just waiting for the spill of it before the final, hardest crest. The smell's in the air and the haze is all through her expression and, god, you want her, you could just sink a million words into that, every possible adoration and every bit of yourself and you still wouldn't be getting the entire story; just fuck - you can never not be fucking her, never not want to have her riding your lap, moaning out and falling and dragging every part of your body deeper-
"Mmmmm," Irene lets out, soft and satisfied, a tiny whimper in the way that she goes all soft around your cock and comes down and presses a wet, tired kiss at the base of your throat.
"Mmmm-m?"
"Thanks, I think." Her blouse is falling off one shoulder, the material crumpled. There are creases all across it. She's biting on her lip, flushed. "Thanks for that."
-
It has to be said, here - because you know, because the sun is setting on your open window and your arm is snug at Irene’s waist and neither of you even have to mutter a word to acknowledge the fact that it will inevitably rise across your living room carpet again. 
Irene is everything you might have been running from, everything you’ve ever chased - and you’d never ever stand a chance.
-
Greedy, however, just isn't the right word for it. Not really. 
It's the way she leans in when you kiss. The way she fidgets. The way her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. So no - greedy isn't quite the right way to say it. It's more: instinctual.
She's this not-so-subtle tincture of want and desire, in its most basic form - and that makes this all so dangerous, isn't that right, miss? Because want isn't something to toy with; want is, by design, something measured in its inability to be indulged.
(And for the record, your car hasn’t even moved from the lot. You were supposed to get frozen yogurt but that's looking less likely, judging by the way Irene's fingers are tapping lightly across your shoulder, your own clamping down on her chin.)
It’s just so indulgent. Irene hasn’t left your lap, blithely warming your cock for you. Stealing kisses while the day’s last light bleeds low over the buildings. Soft sighs. Whimpers, mewls, muffled little keens of, "oh, oh, please." You trace the edges of her, where your body becomes hers, and her movements are fluid - supple and knowing and just this side of eager.
The car feels now even more cramped and narrow than advertised, the sweat in your skin starting to bloom. The musk of sex, a creeping heat: "go ahead," you rasp out. 
She nods, a helpless dip, and that comes with a sigh, "yes, fuck, right there," her cunt squeezing, a hot, slick little velvety clench; there's something about being buried inside her and seeing her fall apart. This slow rock and build-up. All the hard edges worn to a perfect point. Her dark eyes are glowing, her clever little tongue darting to her lip.
You hold her, slumping together in the front seat. The leather squeaks with the gentle shifts, the slides. The color rising in her cheeks. She likes when your breath catches; her smile goes sharp, a hint of teeth: it's very obvious that she is very very drunk - on control, on cock, it doesn't seem to matter.
A beat passes before the architecture returns to her muscles. She's sitting up, and with your hand firmly cupping her ass, and your teeth pressed to the flat of her breasts. "You," she gasps, the most unironic and unexpected reply. The corner of her eyes is still glistening, still dazed, still blissful. "Don't play dumb. Fuck - no, don't stop."
"Sorry, say that one more time for me, miss."
"You- ah." She grins, and her hip shoves your cock out with a filthy wet sound in accompaniment.
The air of the car is sticky, and her slick is still covering your waist, so the discomfort makes the little groan extra appreciative, anyway.
"Fucking god-" she grumbles, and the whine that escapes is an order for attention.
You take her jaw with both hands. Pull her, and look her right in her eyes and kiss her. Not slow. Not gentle. Thoroughly, so the tip of her tongue reaches the very roof of her mouth. She ends up with her back shoved roughly into the dash, and your fingers tangled through her hair and tugging. And her laugh turns to a whimper, her eyes a half-closed - you fingerfuck her cunt open. Thumb pressed tight to the clit. Two, and the palm of your hand smacks between her thighs, resonating all throughout the car. It's your own hot cum coating your knuckles and drip-dropping off your wrist, so she's melting and needy. The evening's passing, her hands go to her bra, so she's twisting and slipping, the orgasms strung together like the pearls on her bracelet.
Her fingers squeeze yours, then let go.
She licks into your mouth. "Jesus, you're way too good at that," is what Irene murmurs, when you're both just left breathless, half-shivering, merely recycling the same torrid air.
"Let’s get you home, princess," you kiss into her skin, joking. "Before curfew."
She sits up. "Shut the fuck up."
"Sorry," you lie, smug - not sorry at all. "Can't help it. You're too pretty when you get like that."
"What, when I'm cumming for you? When your cock is inside me? When you're fucking my brain to mush?"
Her heels clack to the ground.
"You’re gross," she adds, and shoves your arm.
"You like it," you say to her, "don't lie."
"Because I’m just this sweet innocent thing, right? I can't be held accountable for anything. Look at you, fucking me like this - corrupting me." A flutter of eyelash, and she leans forward to meet your eyes. She's adjusting the straps of her bra. She's a picture-perfect pinup girl. "Is that really what gets you off?"
"It's not bad." You let yourself soak in it, for a second, just staring at her. "The whole naive, helpless schoolgirl act. It's a classic for a reason."
Irene snickers. It's sweet-bitter, and that's fitting. You like how her blush is red and stubborn.
"Goodness," she says, like you can't see the dust of a smile, of a smirk, take shape on her swollen mouth. "Okay sure, let’s get into that; say my dad is sitting up with worry." Her head cocks, playful. "My family probably sent a search party out for me," and her laugh's lighter than air, warm, a few shades shy of ridiculous - if you thought that the sound could make you as much of a fool as she does - then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.
"What - like in a rocking chair, with his shotgun and everything?"
"Yeah, you’re so fucking dead. He's so going to shoot you on sight when he sees the absolute state you're returning me in. His precious little girl, " Irene picks at her bra, tucks herself back in, adjusts her hair. The last of her hairpins drops, falls to the dash. It rolls back, between your legs. "Pull the trigger and turn you into swiss cheese. Last rites, eulogy, the full nine yards." Her makeup's smudged - red lipstick, the tip of her nose - and you just don't feel like pointing it out yet.
"Cremation, most likely?"
"Eh, who knows," she smiles, and now, more than ever, there's not a sign of hesitation in her face, her voice, the light and effortless way she drapes across the interior, stretches. "You’re so cute though. Maybe he'll give you a chance and let you run."
-
It hadn't really occurred to you until you arrived onto the front steps of Irene’s apartment and watched her sink back against the door, exhaling softly in the fluorescent light, her eyes heavy, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you're doing everything completely out of order. 
You aren't in some trope-addled tv drama, and Irene isn't your childhood-friend or your slowburn-material, someone with a sentimental backstory.
Maybe in a parallel universe, some twisted alternate ending, where she's in this long, silky wedding gown, both sides of the aisle are watching you commit sins the way people can't resist doing in those fuck-it stories, all heat and sex and dopamine without remorse - but not now, not yet.
(Probably - probably not ever, and if that's a cop-out you can't help it. Because isn’t it silly, the things the people will do. Pretending to not be in love, all for the sake of the chase - getting themselves hung up in this world of digital advances and missed connections.)
You'll regret it later, you think. That's an unforeseen variable you should've predicted, though, isn't it?
Because you've both loved before, both been hurt, the excuses are all in the chamber: all the mixed signals and stereotypes. How she looks at you - or doesn't, some days. Your past, hers, the differences. You've never known exactly how this should go, if there even is a best version of this love to pursue, the idyllic happily-ever-after, that perfect white dress. Fuck, that is not the daydream you're supposed to be having.
The story instead, is like this: you drive her home. She sings along to the music on the radio. She kisses you over the console at a red light. Someone honks. You walk her to the door, because you're old-fashioned when you think it’s useful. You're a charmer, she's yours. You grab her by the chin and probably end up making out for far too long.
Just imagine if it had all been by the book:
A first date, then text messages. A second, where you're supposed to invite her to dinner, drinks. You’re supposed to call her, on the phone, with your voice and everything - low, a little assertive - not bossy or controlling, no: that's what the third date's for. There's a checklist for what to do, what to say; how you're supposed to kiss her, and why she's supposed to act all shy, the picture of demure - like she's innocent, though she'll be anything but. At the end of it, you're supposed to pay. She won’t let you. You're supposed to walk her home. She's supposed to linger, put the keys in the door and ask you what you're doing next - she's supposed to look over her shoulder as she walks inside and say goodnight, be coy, let it dangle on the edge. And that's supposed to be that. All of it: quintessential.
Nowhere in that manual does it say anything about pinning her up against the door and slipping your hand into her slacks either - underneath the soft, dark lace of her panties and placing your other palm over her mouth so the neighbors don't hear what a little slut she can be when she wants to.
Just this side of coquettish. A total delight.
Irene practically sobs into the side of your hand. Her mouth drops open, and you haven't even really touched her; she's wet already, soaked - well. She's always wet for you.
"I'll catch you later," you breathe into her neck, letting your fingertips skirt the puffy lips of her cunt on the drag back up because you’re actually not old-fashioned, like at all.
She tosses her hair, lets a sigh run through her smile, the blush, the creased eyes - and disappears through the door. It's the simplest way you two will ever say good night.
-
Ignoring all the rules of engagement, you and Irene never actually tiptoe around each other.
There's never even been a third date because the lines between hanging out and fucking and hanging-out-fucking blur with astounding ease. It's no real shocker: it's the little details in the way you find her sitting next to you at work, hips shifting minutely from side to side on the stool as she sifts through sheet music, sipping her latte, just barely making a sound.
It's the little details in the way she shows up, dresses to all the events, hands brushing yours to call attention to the ends of her fingertips; it's how every camera in the room seems to favor her.
If any of the 14th-century courtship philosophers could ever weigh in, now would probably be ideal. You’d be grateful, sure - because Irene is the epitome of entanglement. And that's your excuse. If anything's going to kill you, let it be her.
-
The texts do dry up for whatever reason. 
Three hours between replies just to conceal a bit of earnest emotion or whatever. You wonder what that's called, wonder when it gets so boring - why all these steps had to be so dull, and why you can't do without them. The modern era has, after all, rendered the ancient rituals pretty fucking pointless - you could both use a time machine to the medieval ages, then you could get the fireworks. The gallant. Some declaration or betrothal - maybe a show of sword, a fistful of your bride's maidenhead. Or whatever the fuck they were calling it in those days, it all sounds a bit crude-
When it really comes down to it, this is less about the charm, the proposal, or the lack thereof. Less about the dear Irene, will you be mine, and more about the want. Want that's palpable, messy: about shedding decorum together and feeling filthy and rough, taking, receiving, biting into the sweet skin of her inner thighs and spanking her so hard she can't walk the next day.
That's all it is, you're pretty sure.
And look - she still attends a majority of your work functions even though, strictly speaking, she has no reason to. Everything is relatively normal, or maybe you don't know how normal is supposed to look, and that's alright because you're trying - and all you really care about is Irene smiling at you with that one knowing tilt of her mouth - and - and she does. 
Hey, you're not entirely hopeless.
-
(The toxicity, the slammed doors, ignored voicemails and belted taillights zooming off into the night - look, not everyone is built for all the drama, not everyone feels the thrill at the tip of their fingers when they cut their losses and move on to the next. Floating through the memories thinking, wow, what a waste of time.
That's not you, you're aware. And Irene’s seen it before, probably, had a story just like it in her own life, maybe been there, maybe not, but isn't it fascinating how all of it always sounds the same no matter how the story gets told.
So, keep it simple stupid. It's easy that way. Don't confuse her, or yourself, don’t fuck it up by demanding more. 
Afterall, it feels good, pretending not to care where she is at night.)
-
So - take some credit, you do something right for once. You call her.
It’s a Saturday and she’s working late because she’s a singer. She's between hair, makeup and costume. Bored. Or, pretending she is, and if you were a lesser person, the type to lie to yourself, you'd let the pretension sit as-is. It's not even difficult: no effort required to sit back, close your eyes, and listen.
"The way he was just staring at me was so embarrassing," Irene is going on about this production assistant, and her voice is always light, playful - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't even matter what, it's the cadence to her speech that lulls. "Like I could read his mind."
"Can't you?" you ask, indulgently.
"Okay, don't try being cheeky, mister," Irene scolds into the phone, but it's hardly stern; her tone's the softest kind of sultry, like caramel, dripping. "He wanted to bend me over the table. Get some nice little marks in."
Hey, who could blame him? She exhales, almost sounds annoyed - the pout on her face is practically audible.
You are not a good person by the longest stretch of the imagination. "Then what stopped him, princess?" you question, not a hint of chivalry left in you. "Fooled me - isn't that your kink? Fucking men you've barely just met."
She laughs - once, breathless and abruptly; something sharp. You're not actually joking and she can't pretend otherwise. "Fuck." The word is a sigh, the suggestion is all over the air. You aren't blind. "You would, wouldn't you? Probably love to see me bent over, too - and split in half on some stranger's cock. Worshiping it like you've taught me, or whatever the fuck."
You hum in amusement, putting the pieces together from what she hasn't said. "Aw," you coo. "Missing me already I see."
"Don’t flatter yourself," she shoots back, all quippy, fast: quick reflexes, the stuff of her brand. "What am I meant to be doing while I'm waiting for the crew, huh?"
And well, that’s the thing - you end up on the phone for far too long, far too late: she leaves you to wait a minute when someone knocks on the door, and you'll have her later, probably, but what's wrong with dreaming of fucking her in one of those dressing rooms, pulling that corset down her curves and kissing her silent in case someone walks by - leaving teeth and nail marks across the tops of her breasts. You expect her to bring the conversation to something a little more in the moment, but her voice carries back into the room and she's asking you, casually, what's for dinner, how was your day. You laugh, tell her a funny story that happens, talk about everything that's mundane, everything she should know and would know about you if you actually spoke all the words in your head.
"Hey," she says, at some point, quiet and suddenly gentle, and you're already wrapped around her finger and you've yet to tell her. "I like talking to you. Keep calling."
This isn’t like you, really. Or it hasn’t been - not in a while.
"As if that's up to you," you shoot back, your voice so dry you know she can see straight through it, but maybe you're doing alright, making leeway - because at least, it's a placeholder. Irene seems to understand what you can't explain.
"Ha." Another laugh, airy this time: easy-breezy. A vocal shrug. "My hair is way too cute right now to deal with your smart mouth, anyways - they're waiting for me." She hesitates, but the gap isn't uncomfortable, a space to breathe. "Let's just say you'll get tired of me before I get sick of you."
"Do you want me to see?"
"Later," says Irene, almost hurriedly, like an excuse, but in a pretty way, and the click on her end of the line is still warm.
(You hang up, stare at the wall and take deep, shaking breaths: in, out, hold - when you don't, you can taste her. But still, you wait for the feeling to subside.)
-
At first, she had seemed entirely untouchable. It’s funny. At first, you were convinced she'd look right past you.
-
She sends you a video, no commentary: the pretty, delicate sweep of her mouth brushing her shoulder. Her arm casts a shadow down the rise of her hips and your eyes trail that shadow south, across the soft planes of her stomach.
There are no questions after it, no words or emojis. Just her. In lingerie and no fucking context. The sound of her inhales.
(She says things with her face like that - or rather she says nothing at all. There isn't a hand-written translation key, though she leaves clues. She's playing it up, knows how you like her when she gets mouthy, lips glossy, knows how you like her panting. It wouldn't take much if she put her hand between her legs for you: you'd suck on her fingers, clean them off. You'd do anything.
The sound she does make eventually is low, frustrated. It's filthy - just thinking about her, all alone and barely touching herself: waiting for your reply.)
-
And yeah, it'd feel good not having to think about the bullshit anymore - you’d do your best to convince everyone that it's casual: the looks, the touches, all of it - the two of you together. It'd be a total lie, and you'd know it: everyone would know it, but that doesn't really matter. Because keeping things careless works. Never had it been about the feelings, and it's a cop-out, sure, that old cliché, but look - there's a really good chance you'll muck this up if you're given the power to put a name to the way her pupils dilate a half second before she grabs at you. Or the way you always fall a little more for her.
You think about that, about the worst of it: that she could ask you the most invasive question on her mind and instead, you'd answer, honestly and willingly, just like that: "hey, do you want to stay the night?" 
-
But here’s the thing: she's a singer and she's got all these friends. Colleagues and acquaintances from work who are, in her words, also 'friends' (code for: people I am required to tolerate by contract.)
Hey, you're no marriage counselor - you won't try to figure out the etiquette. And her labelmates aren't a total disaster.
It's only fair to make an appearance, meet all these alleged Bae Joohyuns. And - she likes it, in that way Irene likes a lot of things you do to her. She’s texting you a new address every few minutes, texting nonstop by the time you've matched a tie to a shirt and are actually considering heading out. It's this afterparty, or wait, sorry, we're actually at a bar now - no, scratch that, it's a friend of a friend's place, you'll love it, I think? - and you can't really picture her stumbling through the city at midnight like she is, but there's a blurry photo of her and Seulgi and Wendy crowded around a mess of champagne flutes on a counter. An outdoor patio, a rooftop garden somewhere downtown. Her dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. There's an arm snaked around her waist and that's - hmm.
Wendy wants u here lol, the next text reads, and okay, you can't actually be bothered to give her shit for that right now. She can't be helped.
Someone's having fun, you type out instead.
Maybe I'm bored, comes the reply, just as fast, and then a few seconds later: i don't think anyone knows me here.
You roll your eyes. You'd love her despite, or maybe because of, a personality like that. "Never took you for anything like a celebrity."
Fine. I'll have to think of something to do, then, Irene responds, almost lazily, the following text-delete cycle appearing under your thumb like some new and innovative high-speed braille. Maybe.
But you could also come over and get me off, you think she should add. That could be fun, too.
No dice.
Meet me soon, she texts, and maybe a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but she doesn’t even know what it does to your stomach when she follows it with, I miss you.
You wonder, a little, how you got here. You wonder if things like that ever just become normal.
-
Kang Seulgi is standing out front when you spill out of an uber and onto the sidewalk, all stooped over under the yellow haze of the streetlight on the corner, smoke coming up off a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
The chill night wind picks up and the edge of a leather jacket flaps behind her. It's almost eerie in how mundane the sight should be - and you think it's funny: Seulgi can make herself at home, anywhere.
"Hey," the brunette calls, stepping up. She's tall in her heels, the crescents under her eyes deep. The stars in the sky are shining against all the bright signs and street lamps, and it's hard to spot them. "Haven’t I seen you before?"
"Around the office, probably-"
Seulgi's eyes light up - she's not as drunk as the photo suggested, you think - and she gives a bright smile. Her eyebrows jump in recognition: a blur, the glimmering pulse of neon over glossed eyes and a lip caught by a canine. "You're Irene's-"
"-work friend," you answer quickly, before she has the chance to finish. It makes her laugh, which you weren't really counting on, and pocket her hands. You have enough bad ideas; you don't need hers as well.
"Oh. So you’ve got an arrangement," she suggests.
"It's an occupation," is as much as you'll tell her. "We all have one."
"Mhmm," she agrees, the wince on her face passing as a thoughtful hum. She shrugs.
"Did you-?" You clear your throat, don't know why it's hard to get out. "Is, uh, Irene in there?"
She takes a slow pull, long eyelashes sweeping over her cheekbones. Smoke spills out over her top lip. "Of course," says the girl, with all the attitude. "Just, not so alone."
"So," you start, cautious. "Do I even want to..."
Seulgi waves her hand, drops ash off the cigarette. "Nothing to worry your little heart over, friend," she mumbles, shrugging. Her fingers are delicate as she blows smoke between parted lips, eyes angling up at the city lights. "She said she was meeting someone cute. And I’m left wondering, if that someone could be you."
"Um," you respond. "Could be."
"Hm." The word is loaded, considering, and when she takes another step forward there's a smirk painted to her mouth, the deep red cut in the center of her lips almost reflective. She tosses her cigarette aside: a clean arc into a storm drain. "Interesting."
Seulgi's fingertips brush your collar as she ducks into the door in front of you.
"Later, pal," she tosses over her shoulder, and doesn't look back to see what happens next.
-
(You’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)
-
A crowd's scattered around the rooftop, now spread a bit thin - most of the people you recognize from tv screens and billboard ads, and everyone else seems a mix of other media. They're talking to each other in hushed tones about some shoot-down, this piece of gossip. They're comparing agent fees, checking the pockets of their jackets, flicking gold-plated pens in their designer hands. The whine of a power drill going a mile a second comes from over the railing: a few shots left to take. A skeleton crew works behind a camera, behind the glass, but no one seems to mind the business of film in the midst of celebration. They really are a different breed, aren't they?
You pick her out of the crowd instantly - in a white silk cocktail dress that costs more than a college tuition and no sense to act the part, Irene is seated among all of them like she fits. It's never a surprise, her at the center of things.
The seam at her hip rides up when she turns to reach for her drink, her leg extended long: overstretched, one toe pointed elegantly as if she could place her full weight onto a thin little stiletto heel and not snap both ankles. Her bottom lip is coated with bright gloss, pink smearing as it pulls at the straw.
There's a pause where everything slows down: she licks the crease of her mouth, sucks something golden and sparkling down, swallows, blinks - slow, pretty, perfect. Her hair is dark, cute, spilling onto her shoulders, and it brushes a collarbone, slips a little into the slit between her breasts. She's looking for someone, gaze traveling across the patio, swimming through the party - searching - and then, suddenly, those deep-water brown eyes catch yours.
They shine just a little bit brighter.
And then, the only logical thing: Irene smiles, before her feet carry you right in your direction.
-
Inside, things aren’t so loud. The night had gotten its worst out of the way early, the only source of music low and reverberating through the walls, the ceilings - all dark and liminal spaces; you and Irene find one to spare and fall into each other there, slow and searching and full of everything. It would be enough to get lost in her completely, this sweetness. You, and the kiss, and nothing else.
It's almost private enough to call it quiet; you're both out of sight and hidden, but there's voices, drowned noise all around. The bass can be felt through the floorboards, underfoot, but you can only focus on the rhythm that thrums from inside of her chest.
There's a disarm, here, too:
"I kissed someone tonight," Irene confesses, and then there's this break, a fragment where neither of you knows who you are to the other, what any of this means - if she'll bite down, be that sore reminder of a few unspoken words.
"Did you."
"Yeah," she says, exhale tickling your jaw. Her lips drag on skin, trace bone - and maybe it should bother you, but either way you can't help it: a thought finds purchase. Irene in someone else's grip, just enough a squeeze. Someone she'd like, or someone she could put herself back in a relationship with, or whatever they're calling this - and all at once, she's trembling.
The revelation is a bit like getting shot through the heart. A simple, awful: fuck. You think you might be bleeding.
Irene pulls the strap of her dress back up her shoulder and explains how it happened, out in that patio garden: a closed-mouth thing, some fleeting nothing, really, a bold dare on his behalf and her lack of inhibition. No, she assures you - he tasted like vodka and it was boring. She kept his hands off her ass, just in case you wanted to know. But still, the blood pumps harder in your veins knowing what she has and hasn't done - and what's wrong is how you only hear her confession in the middle of feeling something envious, a sudden, strong, profound desire to mark your claim: you'd leave this bruise, something ugly at the hollow of her throat. It makes you a possessive, possessive kind of person, and the sentiment, you figure, can only end in trouble.
"Sorry," she sighs, tipping her face forward to brush her forehead against yours, her eyes scrunching as she apologizes. "I don't think you wanted to know, but-"
You're trying to distract yourself; she's pressed between you and the wall, arms circling your neck as her spine bows under a bit of pressure.
"Yeah?" you question though. You can't not. There's this telltale roughness, the need to breathe: you'll hold on too long, take her mouth the way she deserves, keep her quiet, and let your tongue flick across hers until her lips are numb. "What then - should I care? Am I meant to?"
She swallows. It's all reflex.
"He kissed me," is all she says, and then her palm is stroking against the shell of your ear, soft, quiet. "Then he kissed me again." 
She shivers, eyes wide, wet and round and wanting: you could say you understand how he could only dream of being the one to turn her head and bring out her charm, the easy way she smiles, but-
"All I could think of was you."
There was never a chance to compete; this star whose shine eclipses. Your binary system was never quite fair, was it?
Your hands are on her wrists then, trapping them at her sides; her eyes smoky and dark and looking straight up at you. She can't breathe like that, mouth agape as your nose brushes hers, your words blowing straight against the heat of her lips:
"Are you still thinking of me now?"
It's only that - though you can hear a sound building up from her lungs. You kiss the line of her jaw and whisper things into her skin: you have me, you can have me, you've always had me. The truth.
And her eyes are slipping shut: mouth curling into the kind of smile that drives you crazy; half the reason why you're all over her in the first place. You don't care where she's been so long as this is where she ends up, your face brushing hers, the kiss held just out of reach - you press into her forehead, her nose, her cheeks; she tilts her chin towards you, begging you to just - but your mouth is on her, feather-light, not near enough: she chases the pressure, gasps your name as your lips find hers, tongue sliding right past, and oh-
It's fast. It's heavy: you take, you push; her whole body shifts and shudders when she finds a grip, one hand braced on your shoulder as the other swung upwards, pulling you closer by the jaw. Your hand runs up her thigh and you hear her inhale, deep.
Irene kisses you like she was made to. She makes sounds with her tongue against yours, ones that twist in you, wind, undo. Like this, it'd be so easy to just let it go - take, take, take. There's not an inch to hide as your hand climbs her bare skin, feeling a shiver rise as her breath rushes hot against your cheek, over and over and-
"Breathe, baby," you mutter, and Irene huffs like it's a game, one of her soft shuddering hiccups, like there's something you should've known - the gasp when you kiss her mouth open, how it was getting easier to drown. She's not drunk, but she's getting there - and she doesn't ask to take it back when you both tip and crash into the wall beside. The reverberation of her back hitting the surface is nothing like the rest.
You take her arm, press her further against the space.
"Bedroom," she barely manages to request. Breathes, the sound shaking and short, almost - almost a plea, or a prayer. A beg. "Somewhere quiet, please. Anywhere. Please."
There's nothing Irene doesn't do without grace - but how she needs you: her limbs give, and she sags, falls against the line of your torso. There's this full, bordering helpless sound as you find her waist, holding her up, pulling her closer. You're kissing in this empty corridor, knocking on doors, jiggling locked door knobs and wasting time, barely, maybe, forever until you can step back into some stranger's guest room: some hallway hideaway; the unoccupied kind of paradise.
"I want you," she mutters when your hand traces the slope of her neck, and then her face is burying against the space below your ear, her open mouth skirting across the sensitive skin there. "So bad, so much. Out of these clothes."
Her neck tilts and you lick. You find a place beneath her ear, kiss - hard. Irene says please. You leave a mark. You know you’ll leave more. 
An unlocked door, and she shoves you into a bathroom instead, fucks you in there with her underwear tugged to the side and her skirt rucked up her thighs: the mirror reflecting back every whine, the squeal you draw out of her when your teeth dig too deeply, the shock, the undiluted want in her eyes when she leans up against it. You have her half on the sink, your arms a cage around her lithe waist, your grip white-knuckled in the silk outline of her dress; she cums around your fingers, cunt slick and slippery, gasping your name so loudly that you have to shush her; and even after that, when her gaze locks into yours, the pretty round of her cheeks all red and her lashes stuck with her tears: when she tugs your zipper down, fits you between her legs and pleads for you to fill her with your cock until the tightness around it is unbearable, fucking her just as you're pulling apart her clothes, the clasp of her bra snapped so hard she curses - even that doesn't stop. She doesn't ask you to stop - she's incorrigible, needy, practically begging.
"Please." Again. Again, as she touches her cheek, fingertips on the skin that's already turning a deep crimson, all shades and blooms; and then she touches the lipstick-smudged prints at the top of her breast, and all the ones on her jaw. Your teeth, where it was light, and your tongue where it was hard. You took, and you marked, and the way she is, her thighs quivering like an aftershock; her body pliable, barely-breathing: that was almost all of what she asked for.
Your hips snap, and the impact jolts through her: ripples sent into the curves of her body from the pleasure, the pain. You try not to listen, not to look - not the obscenities leaving her mouth in a steady stream as you press her down against the counter: every hiss and moan, your name, jesus fuck-
Irene cums a second time with a wail, like someone's hurt her, like she's been set free, like she'll never again breathe so well as she does when your lips catch the scream and hold down the sobs, fingerprints at the faint, fragile curve of her nape.
"God," she whimpers into your mouth; and the sound, that voice, as she moans it to you: "your cock - is gonna kill me, baby."
Her cunt is tighter around your cock than it's ever been, this total vice grip, her hips lean and arched upwards where she lies, slick-dripping onto the bathroom counter; the edge of her heel catches on the marble-topped basin, and her ankle knocks over the handsoap - the whole of it hitting the floor and shattering. 
She doesn't care. She can’t. She's a fucked-out mess: her black hair in knots, sticking to her hairline, her face flushed with need.
"Darling," the sweetest, her soft voice cracking with a laugh, the tipsy tilt of a joke; she's begging with it, some lazy, pretty curl of a request, some pretty plea that turns around into a bite, the heat, the feral - you kiss her harder. Take her harder. Leave a few more marks: just so you know she'll still feel it later, bruised and sore and sorry, and it might be too much, but oh, the way Irene grabs and pulls and fights and tries to cling when it crosses the line; she'll be feeling this tomorrow, a sharp tugging at the inside of her chest as she rubs circles into the scrapes and imprints on her hip bones. This reminder; of what's right there, if only-
Mine, you bite against her skin, and the voice in her head might scream with it.
You can see the fantasy in her eyes: her standing here in the mirror after you've filled her pussy, fucked your cum back into her cunt and had your fingers inside her for so, so long that she'd been soaking, dripping with it - your palm pressing firmly on her swollen, desperate clit, two fingers hooking deep, right on the spot that makes her twitch, tremble. Her jaw goes slack, eyes fluttering and back arching as you watch her drip with the mess you've made of her.
"It was always, I think-" and she hiccups, a small pained sound, "it was always gonna be you." She says it like an apology, voice quieter, more uncertain, a little shaky. "I just can't get you out of my head."
Your hips are reckless, a little mean - but your mouth moves slowly across hers. It's tender. It’s everything. 
"Baby," you plead back: and it's something soft and small when you sigh it into her mouth. Your fingers tracing her ribs and feeling how she breathes with your every motion; how you're filling her so deep she almost can't. Choking, with a whimper, like it's hard - and then her jaw goes slack, eyes snapping shut - her knees bend - like she'll give up on the control. Her body slackens and gives under you; her legs widen to fit your hips, all her weight sinking backwards on the marble-top-
She keens when you bottom out, a high, delicate noise. Whimpers at how full she is of you; she must've felt your rhythm slipping and letting it run too rough-
And even then. She asks, totally breathless, panting: "Right there," and fuck, god, please. "I love this," she whispers, the sweetest, the most gorgeous, lips moving as slow as a prayer - "and you fuck so good. And-"
Irene swallows; her chest expanding and then halting, shallow and deliberate. Her chin turns; her mouth opening in some expression of yearning before the word comes; a gasp, and she can't - she can't quite-
"Keep- baby, please." Her throat makes a noise and all the words taper. "Please, right fucking there."
She makes another sound, strung out and desperate - and she keeps gasping the faster you thrust your hips. Each drag through her hot, wet cunt has you both clambering closer.
"This," Irene's panting, this terrible, wonderful realization in her mouth. "This feels like-"
A stutter. A strangled sound: you don't even catch a full breath before she's trying again.
"-like us."
Oh, Irene, her heart murmuring. Like something soft, like something hard - this burn, this hurt; Irene, in her prettiest, highest pitch - the way she speaks, the way she breathes, her voice dropping a decibel like some clandestine secret. Like sin, a honey-coated whisper in the space between you two.
"Irene," you say, and she melts like you’re inscribing it into her skin. DNA-deep, carved into her bones. She takes it like a baptism, something in it an invitation, a promise to hold her dear - and all at once, that smile grows, blooms. 
It's intimate. It's affectionate. Fuck, it's true.
You break open her world with her own name, spoken like a sigh and sounding like sin.
There's this hollow, raspy sound she makes. Beneath the shallow of her clavicle. When your fingers push down, her nipples pressing back into your palm - there, as her breath hitches, as she quivers - right there; her cunt trembles around you, eyes wide-open, and you're just watching each other lose yourselves until Irene has to beg for another kiss, and the next, her fingers grasping at the collar of your shirt as she slips her tongue into the corner of your mouth. You wonder why she bothers with perfume; when all she is is vanilla and cinnamon, a saccharine so sweet with a touch of spice; she murmurs the words into your ear: I want your cum. Fill me up. Use me.
You think:
God, her body; god, the feeling. The sound.
Think, still:
Look, your hand. At her waist. At her pussy. Right here. The place where you're connected. Flesh, bone, a stretch of skin - the raw, obscene mess you make; when all it takes is a rock of your hips, a thrust upwards and in to dismantle everything that is her, everything that is Irene, until her entire world is centered around you-
It could be a chorus, a refrain:
Let go. Let me see. Drown me out. Kill the lights. You’ll take three hours over three weeks where you pretend she doesn’t exist. It's simple. It’s, it’s-
It’s this: the press of her to your skin. The nails to your scalp, down your neck. The splay of her legs across your thighs. The sweat - hers, yours - all of it together; your mouths meeting and meeting and meeting. Again and again.
God. It’s the entirety of you which you were hoping to avoid. You love this woman. You fucking worship her, all of her, every piece and the whole - that she's making that noise in the back of her throat, soft; that her breathing is rising, ragged; that you do this to her, just this.
It happens in a blink. You tell her to turn. Tell her to bend. 
She ends up over the counter, gripping the sink, and you lift the fabric up to bare her ass and keep fucking her, deep, deeper. This sound is all you need, this whine that Irene makes, like you're reaching even her furthest, hottest spots - and then the push through her sopping cunt, how she spills around you and the slickness smears at the insides of her thighs; she clings and squeezes and fucks back against you so wildly, she doesn't even recognize her own name. It's the moment when she loses all sight: that's when you bury inside her, pull back her hair, wrap your hand around her throat, and she's under you, on you, body angling upwards like a flower to the sun. She cums so easily, shuddering into the pull of the climax; her pussy tight around the throbbing swell of your cock - the deep and penetrating pain of that desperate pleasure, like a flash-flood, an earthquake, oh, the grip, the warmth-
The moment stretches, just like that. 
Her heels kicked off and toes arching to scuff at the cool, tiled floors; she's sensitive; she wants to play dirty. Your grip loosens, that same tender thing when her throat bobs, a little movement, swallowing for you. She knows exactly what she's asking for, exactly what this all means - Irene begs so prettily: "put it inside me."
There's a few seconds in which you feel nothing but the heat and the way she flinches, like a reaction that's programmed straight into all her nerve endings; the raw instinct; the shudder from deep within her core when your hot cum finally starts to spill thick and heavy inside her - it's been too long since your last proper fuck, and her moaning in the mirror is, how do you say: an incredible inspiration.
"Your pussy," you can hear yourself say, throat gravel-dry. "Is so fucking tight, baby, shit-"
And she's nodding, voice ripped to ribbons. All the words liturgical, a prayer. She's begging with them; yes, please, fuck, god yes, give me-
Her thighs press together, but her eyelids have begun to fall.
"Use me," she mutters. Her breathing begins to even out - the very real sign she's spent, near unconscious. "Want this, want you - so fucking bad."
And the evidence is there. Irene is falling apart beneath you, hands fisting and legs spreading even further as she's braced against the sink, bent, and presented. All of it makes a beautiful sight: the spread of her toned, ivory thighs; her ass pale and her folds so pink; how she's bent, waiting. Everything about her is an artistic consideration, designed, purposeful.
"Christ," is all you manage. The strain is evident in how your tone rasps.
Because your hips are still pumping Irene’s cunt with cum. Fingers wrapped around her tiny waist and pulling her ass flush against your hips for good measure. Again and again and again; no room for doubt: you've missed the warmth, the fullness. Soaked to the hilt as your length curves within her; she coos, and she loves it. She says it’s ruinous. She says it feels incredible. She says it around the shape of your name and with no hint that you should ever stop fucking her apart.
"Feels so fucking amazing." She's panting and she can't say another word for a while; it's a fact and the other is simple. "It's - so good."
She can't stop moaning. 
You’re both breathless, watching her reflection in the glass, a study in motion: the soft bounce of her breasts in the mirror, the cords of muscle tensing in her abdomen, the small, pinkish mark blooming below her left ear. There's her lower lip, pinched between her teeth, her eyes flickering shut as her hair drapes across her naked shoulder and her skirt rolls higher on her waist. She doesn't try and muffle herself: you could hold her down, or even give her your fingers to bite down on - let her go a little wild as she wrestles against the instinct to stay silent, keep quiet. You plant an open-mouthed kiss against the side of her neck and look up, see her watching the movements, her dark eyes lidded, dazed, fucked-out-of-her-mind content as she smiles - lidded and lovely and impossibly knowing and rocking her hips into the moment.
"You are unbelievable, you know that?" you're murmuring, your palm on her shoulder. Pushing her flat. "Absolutely breathtaking."
You rub a thumb against her cunt, pull at the outer, exposed, sensitive parts as Irene's smile falters. You just keep pushing.
"Oh, baby," she whines, pleading for more. For one more press, another, anything: she begs you. "Your cum feels" - she swallows hard - "so fucking warm inside of me."
A shush, the palm soothingly pressing between her legs, and she bites her lips hard. Still trying.
So - you push it all deep into her cunt. 
There’s this beat, this moment, this quiet - where her eyes pinch tight, voiceless, speechless.
And right after, Irene is whimpering: her body seizing and shaking and arching away from the viscous slickness that just keeps building with each and every drag; the cum left on your cock when you pull it out, leaving Irene on the verge of sobbing, collapsing on her stomach, trembling. Your fingers are covered in her cum. And this is how she likes it, stretched and sloppy. The shudder through her body is proof: all over her nerves, electrified. Irene’s shoulders go limp when she feels the push - then your knuckles, curling. The gentle touch, the pressure, the fingers spreading her slit.
She asks what else, anything, please, and hints at wanting more; so much more.
“Irene,” you say, smiling into the ends of her hair. Maybe, you consider. Maybe later, maybe when you're fucking her flat on your bed; your cock up her tight ass or your palm coming down heavy on the supple roundness. You let her fantasize a minute, imagining it's the roughness she wants to receive; maybe the hot, slow grind of you still inside her or the whisper at her neck and her toes digging into the sheets. The offer has her breath stuttering in the mirror.
Irene tells you it's unfair.
"Sorry," you say, and don't mean a word.
Another breath in, the lungs expanding against your palm, ribs slipping. In and out, a reminder.
"Don't be," Irene manages, exhaling a laugh.
She offers you her lips, you know she doesn't mind - and she kisses you. You sink down to the bathroom floor and she sits so easily in your lap, your mouths meeting over and over again. She strokes your spent cock. Your hands squeeze her thighs and you take her chest in your mouth. Wiping your own smear of wetness off her tummy, bringing them to her face, letting her nose knock into your palm and lick at the tips. 
"Can you taste how sweet your cunt is? Baby," and your mouth is on hers, kissing all traces off her tongue-
There's so many things you could do, it's enough to keep you sated for ages. Her back is pressed against your chest, and you gently draw another spill of cum leaking out from her pussy; she shoves your digits into her mouth, sucks until her jaw clenches, your thumb rolling around the roof, tongue pressed right between.
"If someone sees us," she whispers, licks her lips, your fingers, moans, tilts her hips and grinds down a bit. "We'd be so screwed."
"Don't worry, I'd say," and you can't help the tease in it; your voice low and all grit, the heat and your heart rushing through every vein. "It'd all be my fault."
It's filthy: her sitting in the puddle of your cum, making it soak the thin material of her dress; your heavy spill leaking from her cunt and soaking your slacks as the mess seeps further and further down your pants and her ass-
"We are such a disaster." She says it wistfully. "You and me, like this. A total fucking disaster."
(With your clothes torn open, hair a disaster, the imprints of your lips and fingertips all over her, she means. If it was anybody but the two of you: oh, how ridiculous it would seem. But the sheer audacity of the possibility has her looking at the cum glistening on her thighs. Then looking back to you, her dark-brown eyes, brighter than stars, searching the depth of the hold in yours, your arms wrapped around her.
Maybe she just wants to have this. For as long as you're giving it to her.)
-
You can feel yourself falling so deeply into her, the pull. The draw. It feels a lot like being lost. Like, there's something about loving her. The night's long and she's pressed so closely, fitting like something just perfect, and the way her hands find your ribs is the nicest, fondest ache. You only break out of the haze once the footfalls of her heels begin to echo behind you. The bass fades as you both make a run for the exit. It gets harder not to laugh - your giggling voices slipping between you. You have her nose pressed to the dip of your collarbone, kisses dropping in her hair, her lips curved into a smile every time your thumb does another circle - that place right below her hip, or right there behind her ear.
"Take me somewhere," she sighs. Her body pressed against yours, her cheek snuggling against you.
"Any suggestions?"
She shrugs, and the elevator chimes. "I wanna sit with you."
When she leans forward, just the faintest movement, her mouth upturning in the smallest smile. Her eyes flit away, and her brow wrinkles and lifts, like this: here. You could swear, to god, or the devil: there isn’t an ounce of light inside you that doesn't live at her mercy.
The clock is ticking down into the small hours. The night at its calmest, darkest, most wicked stillness.  You ask her again, this time, just for clarity, a bit of guidance. "Somewhere we can go? If you have nowhere in mind, we could head back if-"
"No." Irene shakes her head. "Take me anywhere but home."
-
You're drunk. Irene's a little worse off. Her heel snaps. The usual grace, the poise, her ease, that’s all but vanished. It's just her: Irene. Hair windswept and the edge of her nose nipped by the chill, the moonlight.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
The night can hear her laughter in the air; you have her hands clasped around your middle, legs hoisted over your elbows. You’re carrying all fifty kilos of her across the pavement; the streets are quiet and the city's yours. Her dress bunches, and her voice is in your ear, a kiss peppered to the back of your hair. The both of you collapse and - ow, it's the crash onto concrete, a scrape and a bruise and a story to piece together tomorrow. Is this from the tumble? the sex? I don't know, Irene will say, sealing a band-aid over the red, the swell. Maybe this, maybe that. It all happened. The physical marks, the chemical thrill - the proof of life, a permanence, tethered.
"Let me, Irene," you're insisting, half-joking, pulling at the broken heel and tossing it a mile behind you. And like it's instinct, you just can't - can't help yourself. "Your legs are gorgeous, but, y'know. I’d hate to see you get hurt."
You run your palm down her calf and steal the other shoe. It gets tossed in the same direction, over her whine. "Babe."
Irene pouts, still too lovely, still too fucking sweet. 
She doesn't laugh, or blush, or try to argue. Instead, she sweeps your hair back, curls her fist at the nape of your neck, and suddenly you're staring, eyes locked and wanting. Irene leans in, her weight settling against your forearms, and gives you a look; just long enough and tender and dreamy and calm enough to have the ache of your heart match its rhythm with her own.
"What the fuck," and her smile cracks open as the words struggle in her chest; her hand goes down your arm and strokes a featherlight finger to the edge of your jaw. "Please don't throw away a woman's shoes without permission."
She hiccups. Sways.
You kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her. Irene smiles right against your mouth.
"Stay right here," she says. "Go get my fucking shoes, but stay right here with me."
-
Look, it feels so good, not worrying where she is at night.
-
"I thought," she's whispering as you cross into a twenty four-hour minimart, Irene on one arm and both her heels in the other - a pack of wet wipes in your hand - and then her pausing, stopping; this brief flutter of something - she says, "I used to think about how this would all eventually fall apart."
Irene leans forward and gives her weight onto you, hand playing around with the sleeves at your elbow.
"I used to wonder which one of us it would be," and the cashier is ringing up your purchases: a bottle of water, a cold compress, baby wipes and neosporin. The ice cream Irene's insisted you treat her for. She runs a hand up the back of your hair and smiles when you meet her eyes again, "which of us would drop the other, you know, first."
"The thought still come up?" you say, sliding a bill onto the counter and offering a quiet "keep the change."
"Yeah, sometimes. Or I mean I'd be watching you, sometimes, I guess." She smiles at your reaction, bumping your shoulder. "That’s the look."
You're walking out to the parking lot and you're pressing a soft kiss against her brow, waiting, patiently; because you always do, waiting. "Do I need to ask?"
Her grin, close-mouthed and gentle, a tinge of fondness, of humor: "you're going to ask either way."
"Hm," you say, popping the lid off the ice cream, breaking off the flimsy paper seal of the container. She's in the pocket of your blazer, Irene's fingers weaving in between yours, her hand reaching for a bite and grinning all the while.
It's four-thirty AM and the early hours will catch up to you, but. It's this: the yellow-orange streetlight above the two of you and her bare feet dangling off a concrete half-wall. In a white cocktail dress and sitting, you and her, atop a parking barrier. You're here, together, watching the skies lighten in the east - there, where the road will split to lead towards her place. Towards your own.
"There's no way," she says, wiping the corner of her lips with her pinky and then making a face. "For us to be together and not mess this up, eventually, somehow." She steals the carton and balances it between her knees. "There's no way to save this."
"Probably not."
Her mouth curls. There, and gone; there again.
"Doesn't that scare you?"
Your stomach is a riot of twists and nerves and the base of your throat is tight, like a swelling.
"It does." You lick your lips, can't think. "A bit, sometimes." You look at her - her profile, her silhouette, the messy, knotted ponytail, the wisping hairs beneath her temple. The press of her lips, how the gloss rubs off onto her knuckles, staining. "But then I see you - and I can't imagine how I'd even pull a 'it's not you, it's me,' convincingly."
Her throat clicks, and she leans her head against yours, and you're forgetting everything else.
You both stop. Sharing a bite. Sharing the silence.
There, and gone.
"Hey," she breathes out - and you can't explain her expression, how her brows knit together; she squeezes your hand, a tremor, and the corner of her lips pulls upwards, almost apologetic; sad, or thoughtful.  "This ice cream is so fucking freezer-burnt."
"It’s not great."
You watch her nose twitch like she's holding back a sneeze, or a sniffle. She laughs instead and leans against the warmth of you; the smell of her, your bodies touching.
"I love it," you hear her say, and she doesn't give the container back.
-
Irene falls asleep in the backseat of a cab as the sun rises, your blazer draped over her chest; she murmurs your name and pulls closer, seeking warmth. The traffic thins as the roads lead to where she'll disappear, and you find yourself dreading it already.
In a day, maybe two. It’s funny. You could end up hating each other. You might have to force a pause, or take a break, or even step back from her entirely. That’s how it goes. It's the hardship, it’s living - it’s the knowing that she has a lease on life that will end, will expire, a loan where all her days are slowly counting down; a timer you recognize the injustice that it might someday read zero.
Not to get too far ahead of yourself, or to project some awful ending where one isn’t likely: but when Irene and you are like this, soft, sleepy, curled into each other; her hand at the small of your back, resting; this close, and closer. Your heart aches with an ambiguous type of feeling, indescribable-
Irene shivers a breath and presses her face into your shirt; and like a revelation: you fall further.
"Where do I take her, sir," the cab driver asks, and your eyes turn, watching her chest rise and fall, steady, easy; as her grip grows looser and her cheek presses onto the leather seats.
She's too gorgeous, too pretty in slumber, in sleep, the innocence the most dangerous thing; you fix these wispy tendrils of hair back behind her ear and press a hand to her temple, stroke the line of her jaw, the bow of her lip. How soft, she's always the sweetest sight - with her head resting, her mouth falling slack, eyelashes fanned out over the fullness of her cheeks, and all of her like this, all her darkness tucked away: you think about all those times you've traced her from across a room, across a city; if there was anyone else you'd rather wake up beside, in your bed and beside the pillow; someone who doesn't pick your fights and your silences and loves them in spite of, despite everything. Who lets the fights burn white hot until it leaves you both splayed raw and exhausted, in her, on you-
Someone who fits so, so perfectly with the grooves and the curves, who completes you.
"Just drive," you murmur, looking away, blinking away. "I'm not gonna remember."
You're thinking about a book you'd once read, an idea. The world of difference, the fact in its finer detail; all the myriad iterations of 'loving' and 'missing' and 'want': the imperceptible shifts between being the absence of something and feeling it, tasting it, taking it, drowning it and holding it in your palms, seeing it every time you turn, breathing, living: wanting to never let her go-
"You alright back there, bud?" the driver asks. The tone: the slow and steady understanding, his age, how he watches you, the soft shake in your voice, the gentleness with which you hold your gaze - he knows. A blind man could read what your heart’s written on your sleeve. "Late nights are a killer," he says, a chuckle, before shaking his head, muttering, "but mornings even more."
There are a few more hours left. Maybe more, maybe less, of not worrying, and not caring. The thing about loving Irene is this: her touch, the press and the tugging and pulling; her body and her heart; she can be anyone, the best friend, the boss, the mistress, the princess. The pet. And you would be remiss, she says, not to remember: you, too, can be just anybody. So long as it’s you, I always come running.
-
It's the last time you kiss her, and that's an okay thing; you pull off the side of the street to brush your hand up to her temple, and when Irene opens her eyes to you, her lashes fluttering against the swell of your cheeks; her hair in soft strands over her forehead and framing her face like this. This vision of her is for you, all yours, all the little things.
"I’ll see you soon," Irene says, sleepily, and you know that you will.
-
The nook she occupies in your head by now, is so well-established.
You can't remember when it began. Not like there was a sign, a hint, or a clue. Just, her. And her lips and her tongue and her touch, all this reckless abandon - like everything else, there had to be a leap.
Even with all the lights burning out and the moon hidden in clouds and the nights and days unraveling around you - in those early days, the press of her shoulders or the palms of her hands would always send the worst kind of butterflies through you, like everything else - just her, the sway and the tipsy, the turn and the look she'd have before she would touch the pad of her thumb to your cheek and drag her nail down the curve of your smile.
(It had felt - and you're no longer in it - but it had felt so frighteningly fast.
Weeks, she had told you once. I fell for you in weeks. Months? Years? Fuck, no time at all.)
-
"Hey," Irene says in the not-so-distant present. She's sitting across the kitchenette - knees under her, bare feet pointed to the window, and the steam rises from her tea.
"Mornin'," you mutter sleepily. Stretching, craning your neck and arching your shoulders and ignoring the pop in your lower back, the strain at your ankles. Irene tilts her chin up and blows through the steam. There's an air of self-sufficiency, a state of mind she seems to always have, as if, the ability to ignore her vulnerability is a muscle she could constantly flex, expand, train herself to avoid - and all you're noticing is how that small movement has her shifting and curling over the cup, trying to keep warm. Her hair is pulled high in a knot and held up by an elastic, her baggy sweats loose and rolled twice over, the camisole low, a thin strap sliding off her shoulder.
"When'd you-"
"Had to wake up earlier today." She blinks, her legs slipping open, bending.
"Any chance-"
"No." And Irene snorts. The teasing pull of her lips has your stomach twisting a little more: "you know me."
That you do; the lazy Sunday, the slight pull in the center of her lower lip as she purses it. Irene, with her hair messy-perfect and that stupid fucking smile, so careless, and the joke-flirt she's doing; she knows just what she's doing and, yeah, god. You still have a weak-spot for her and it's so big; the twist in the base of your throat. Your morning wood rising. You’re familiar with this: the deep ache.
"You know," you say instead, blinking through the heaviness of your lashes and scratching a thumb against the line of your jaw. "A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair."
"Girls love me." She turns the cup around in her grip and grins again, makes sure that the image stays locked. "Or," and Irene holds up the fingers, counts on two. "I've had two affairs in my life. One is basically a distant memory-"
"The other?"
Her teeth press down on her lip again. "How am I doing so far?"
"Honesty and self-disclosure in the kitchen, at eight in the morning? Irene, you're really outdoing yourself."
She lifts a brow, then brings the mug to her mouth - like a second-rate cigarette and a scalding-hot burn. "If you did bring a girl here," she says after a while. And, smiling: "she'd see me sitting here, incriminatingly pretty. I mean, she'd probably cry. Screaming fits, a fist fight. Then the waterworks - oh, he was my first! I loved him! He took my flower - ow, don't touch me, I think I might faint-"
"I doubt it."
"Ooo," Irene sing-songs, turning and crossing the space to sit on the armrest beside you. The sway of her body's so obvious. You've got enough room to pull her onto your lap, but you keep your hands to yourself. She runs the tips of her nails over your shirt, just above the buttons and across the sleeves. "Hun, I bet she'd kill you. It'd be very bloody, but romantic. Sad, but inspiring in a mundane sort of way - something you've only heard in mystery novels. Riveting, sordid stuff. Could fill your entire inbox. I mean, as they say in Chicago: he had it coming."
"Nah," you decide, after a yawn. "Too dramatic."
"Not at all," she scoffs, peering at you over the tops of her glasses. "The man she loved was a heartless betrayer."
"Can I ask why my imaginary girlfriend always comes across like some cliché young ingénue? You seem to have a lot of opinions about this girl."
"What, the girl next door, a little smart, but neglects her intuition?" She flips the bun at the back of her hair. "All wide-eyes, a ribbon in her hair, a flower-child who's seen too many Wes Anderson movies." She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Never once stops thinking about the bad boy."
"If you want to get technical, all my girlfriends have been older than me."
"Whoops," she says flatly, hand falling to her collarbone, "spoke too soon. Got you wrong. No need to panic. I'm sure you, a man, are not drawn to some young thing, easily swept up in a passion. Simply, if nothing else, for the sweet naivete. Those hushed little moans and then, the screams. She would tell you it hurts - and on the same note, she’d be begging you for more - the little slut. God, she'd still be so, so nice and soft and quiet. Ready to be anything for-"
"And if you're the girl?" You stand up and grab her wrist. "What then?"
She pauses, considering this new development.
"You do not treat me very well." Irene pushes the bridge of her glasses back up the curve of her nose. "No candle-lit dinners or grand, public gestures." She twists a curl of black hair around her finger. "Definitely not a confession on bended knee - oh, no, never, never - you'll not have to stoop to that. Because you are, in fact, quite terrible at it. I don't think I'd have a single opportunity to pine pathetically, waiting. And maybe you're a bad kisser, actually," she concludes.
You tsk, scandalized. "You are really not cut out to be the ingénue at all."
Irene laughs, softly, reaching out to tug gently at a tuft of your hair. She smiles up at you - and it's so easy for her, somehow. So graceful. "Shall I fix that for you?"
"Do not fall for me, sweetheart."
"I will try to resist the urge." She tilts her chin and presses a finger to her lips. "Kiss, first."
You lean forward, let your nose bump her temple, her hairline. "Glasses, first."
"Whiner," she murmurs. She yanks, gently. Tugs and pulls, and presses the pad of her finger at the sharp cut of your jaw - her gaze half-lidded and slow as she holds yours. Like she's reminding herself, something she can't forget - what it feels like, exactly. A reminder. You can only keep your eyes on the slide of her jaw. "Gonna keep you like this forever."
"Love," you find yourself whispering. Sometimes you wait just so you can relive that first kiss. Irene swallows. "What a beautiful temptation."
-
You imagine, again, if it had all really been by the book:
Three dates and a letter of recommendation. Making her pay for half, instead of making her feel guilty about paying at all, which for the life of you, you can't fucking figure out: how to treat a woman. Chivalry in modern times: a fucking travesty, truly. She'd lure you to her apartment, or you'd do the same to her - just after the first, you know, the obligatory. The getting to know her, except you'd end up skipping the post-dinner steps of being a gentleman, which would leave the night open-ended, and you wouldn't give it much thought until the kiss against her door is so fucking filthy it makes you reconsider everything and everyone, you know, the morality of fucking someone more than once in a day.
You'd have hit all the milestones, she'd have to lead you to bed, and you'd play all her favorite movies as she lays across your chest and shows you what she likes to do best: finger herself, or something. And you'd talk about it, afterward, you'd acknowledge it - because this should be what dating is, right? This should’ve been the next few months of your life. Running that same exact pattern, knowing each other so well you can tell what sex will be like before it even happens, anticipating exactly what kind of text you'll get the next day - the call the following night, the feel of her hands on you in all the right places. The lazy moans, her lipstick imprints on your skin, the smile at the corner of her mouth. Nothing like putting your own fucking hand in her pants and rubbing a few hasty circles until her slick gathers around her knees and she can't walk for a whole day.
Things fall into place, they fill gaps, the idea must be mutual at some point - mutual attraction, mutual enjoyment-
How it is Irene got to spending five, six nights a week at your place is beyond you. Not because you're worried about what people will say. You're not. It's just - weird, to not know what you've done to make this last so long.
Are there rules to loving someone? Is there a checklist, a script - what praxis will keep things in place: comfortable. Last you checked, you have no fucking idea how to treat someone like she deserves. To treasure and cherish, hold her tight but never cage - what qualifies, huh?
"Irene," you say, one day - as you're both brushing your teeth. Because really, what does.
She looks at you like she's bored.
"Forget it," you reply, laughing to yourself and leaning down to rinse your mouth. "Idiot."
"Wait, no," she says, stopping mid-brush, her toothbrush bouncing obscenely in her mouth. "What?"
"I said forget it," you tease, and of course, the glint in her eyes is a warning if you ever saw one - but who would you be, then, if you didn't lean in close and tell her, ever so gentle. The three words could be: not a clue, or, you're so petty, or, simply, I adore you and she’d let that one lay to rest.
You choose them a little differently, and Irene's face lights up like she hasn't known all this time. 
A foamy spill of toothpaste leaks down her chin. "Th'a m'eh?" She's a mess, wide eyed and dripping and already reaching to swat you on the shoulder, disbelieving. "You can't just-" and her face scrunches, this exaggerated - ugh! - before she hides it in her hands.
Oh, you love her, and it feels so good, not pretending.
"Again. Say it again. I didn’t even hear you." She knocks her knee against yours, grinning behind her palms, wide and genuinely - happy. "Like, have some decorum."
Laughing - so hard you can't breathe - you shake your head and curl your fingers tenderly around her wrists, pull her hands from her face. "You are so greedy," you attempt between breaths, letting yourself press against the softness of her palms, her wrists, the pads of her fingertips - wanting to be a poet, she is a masterpiece - and tell her properly.
-
a/n: thanks for reading, it's always unbelievable to me anyone ever finishes these fics. This one's a very belated 'thank you' present for @yieldtotemptation. I'm like way late, but thanks for everything.
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aurorawritestoescape · 16 days ago
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HARDER THAN YOU THINK
Boss!Joel Miller x f!reader || 4,7k
Written together with @milla-frenchy
Summary: It’s your first day at work and you feel nervous. But what can go wrong if your boss is your dad’s best friend, a person you’ve known and trusted for years?
Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, NON CON, Dbf!Joel, boss!Joel, dark!Joel, power imbalance, blackmail, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), oral (f), pussy slapping, use of a sex toy, degradation, unprotected piv, gangbang, creampies. Reader wears a skirt.
A/n: @milla-frenchy and I wrote this story for @romanarose ‘s Dead Dove December. Thank you for this event, celebrating dark fic, Roman❤️ Milla, baby, it’s always a pleasure to write with you! ILYSM🫂💖
Heed the warnings! If any of this makes you uncomfortable, do not pursue reading. We are not responsible for the content you consume. This is not for everyone and that's okay. We don't condone the actions of the characters.
MILLA’S MASTERLIST || KATE’S MASTERLIST
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Day one at your first job started horribly. You overslept, got in a traffic jam and arrived at the office panting and apologizing. Fortunately, your boss, Mr Miller, didn’t tell you off for your tardiness. Instead he greeted you with a wide, most charming smile. You’ve known him for a few years, him being your dad’s good friend and his employer as well as yours now.
Mr Miller was a successful businessman and your parents owed everything to his generosity and kindness. He helped your father out when your family was about to lose the house and your dad always talked highly of his ‘best bud’. You’ve been calling him Joel all these years, but wishing to show respect at the workplace, you decided to call him Mr Miller.
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Now you’re attending a company meeting in a spacious conference room, taking bullet points of the discussion on your tablet. Mr Miller is sitting at the head of the desk, leaning comfortably in his chair, his thick thighs spread, piercing eyes narrowed. His perfectly tailored blue suit which probably costs more than your future year salary accentuates his broad powerful frame. Throwing glances at him from time to time, you can’t help but admire the way the fabric stretches over his arms and shoulders. You’ve never thought about Joel like that, he was much older than you, but it was hard to deny how handsome he was.
Joel is listening to an employee’s report, pouting his lips from time to time. Knowing him quite well, you read his face easily, so it’s evident to you that he’s not pleased with what she’s telling him. Joel’s always been nice and kind to you and your parents, but right now you feel like a volcano is about to erupt.
“Are you happy with all this, sweet cheeks?” He asks but doesn’t let the woman reply. "I’m definitely not. I hope I won't hear these numbers ever again. Or you're gonna lose your job in a heartbeat. I doubt your family will be happy with you getting fired. You just had a baby, right?”
The woman swallows loudly and nods.
“Get your shit together!” Joel barks and the employee looks terrified. You feel bad for her. You’ve never seen Joel be so mean before but that's probably part of the character trait that goes with his job.
When the meeting is over, some people leave but three men stay behind with Joel, still chatting to each other. You get up, ready to sneak out, but your boss stops you at the door, calling your name.
“Sorry, I thought the meeting’s over”, you explain, coming up to him with an apologetic smile.
“Yeah, the main part’s done but we have something extra on our agenda today.”
Joel gets up and walks over to one of the cabinets. He takes something out of a drawer and puts it in the pocket of his suit pants. You raise your brows with a silent question and he turns his face to the managers,
“Gentlemen! Today is this young lady’s first day at our company and I’d like you to give her a warm welcome.”
You feel overwhelmed when all the attention is focused on you but, fearing to seem rude or disrespectful, you turn to the men and smile nervously, fumbling with your fingers. You wonder what Joel put in his pocket. You didn't expect to receive a gift on your first day, and you don’t know how to thank him properly.
The men hum approvingly but soon you feel uneasy noticing their eyes slide down your body and take you in with something more than simple curiosity. One of them smirks and your face falls. Fortunately, Joel steps up to you and his wide smile relaxes you a little. Knowing him for so long, you feel that he has your back. He takes your hand and holds it in his big warm palm.
“Sweetheart, we have a tradition in our company. We call it “Initiation”.
“W—What is it?” you mumble, smiling and blinking at him with confusion, while your stomach churns. You hope he won’t ask you to give a speech of some kind. You’d die of stage fright.
Joel explains, “Some of us gather here to celebrate our new employee and I’m happy that today it is you.“
Joel inches closer and you instinctively take a step back but he pulls you to him gently yet with unyielding determination.
“Usually one of our top managers does it, but of course, with you it had to be me. Also some of these gentlemen sent me messages during the meeting… Seems that they want to take part, now that they saw you.”
His face is inches from yours and he lowers his voice to tell you, “to be specific, we all are going to celebrate you and your body. Teach you some new things while we’re at it, too.”
Your gaze darts between his darkening eyes as you open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. You can’t comprehend what he’s saying but your instinct is screaming for you to run.
Joel gently cups your cheek and turns to the other men in the room, “she’s adorable.” With that he places his hands on your hips, and mumbling “c’mon”, moves you to the head of the desk.
“Joel, what are you…?” Your voice is shaky, your palms placed on his broad chest push him off you but he’s too strong and soon your ass is perched up on the surface, your back turned to the other men.
“Joel, please, what are you doing?” you mumble as panic rises in your chest.
“Shh, we’re just gonna have some fun, you and me at first, then I'll let the others join us.”
He looks behind you, and you hear the other men react.
“Fuck yeah.”
“I think I will.”
“Give it to her, boss.”
You hear their words and you start to understand what’s happening. Or rather, you start realizing what your dissociated mind was trying to hide.
“Joel… You’re scaring me…” you stammer, eyes wide.
“Fear is a good thing. It means I'm in control. And I want control over you."
Now you feel Joel’s hands rubbing your thighs, covered by tights, slithering up and under the hem of your skirt, while his gaze is set on your chest.
“No, Joel, please,” you plead, searching for his eyes, hoping to keep his attention on you, break the spell that turned these people into wild animals, turned this office into a cage that you can’t escape from. Trying to make him come back to his senses and remind him that it's you, the person he's known for so long, that he is your father's friend, who you thought would protect you from all dangers, if he had to.
But his eyes remain black, cold. The more you beg, the brighter an unhealthy spark shines in them. As if he likes it, likes you begging.
“You’re my dad’s friend, don’t do this to me,” you whine, overwhelmed by his big body caging yours against the desk, terrified to your core at the realization of what he’s about to do to you.
“Yes, you’re right,” he stops, giving you a glimpse of hope, and looks into your eyes. “Your dad’s a great guy but he has a big flaw. He has this pretty little thing for a daughter.”
Your heart breaks when you hear him, your hope is dead.
Joel leans closer and you pull away but he grabs the back of your neck and holds you still, brushing your lips with his.
“If he only knew how much I want to stretch your little holes. And you know me, baby,” he pecks your lips and whispers, “I always get what I want.”
The men behind you chuckle, loving this display of power. The smell of Joel’s perfume hits your nose and your head spins for a second as part of you still struggles to understand what’s happening. You feel tears well up in your eyes.
Your new boss, a man you’ve known for years, wants to fuck you in front of other people on your first day here. You try to make your mind work, get you out of the situation.
“I’ll tell my dad. I’ll tell everyone,” you cry out, making your voice firmer, but Joel just laughs, enveloping you in his tight embrace. To your horror you hear the sound of the chairs moving behind you and then footsteps. You’re surrounded now.
“If you start yapping, sweetie, you and your dad will lose your jobs in a second and I’ll make sure no one ever hires you both.”
His voice is calm, his breathing steady, as if he were telling you the most mundane things in the world, and you shiver.
“Besides, your dad owes me a lot of money. Your family will lose everything.” He searches for your widened eyes and whispers, “you work for me now so it means I own you.”
Suddenly his lips latch onto your neck. His hold is too tight but the kiss is slow and gentle.
“No, no,” you start sobbing and Joel pulls away and takes your face between his big hands.
“Honey, calm down, imagine there’s only you and me here. No one else, uh?” His eyes are obsidian and full of lust and you understand that you won’t get out of this. He will have you.
“Please, Joel, I don’t want to…“
“But you do, baby, you want me,” he kisses your cheek. “You want my big cock in your little pussy. I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.”
He drags his stubble over your cheek and you whimper when his hand snakes between your thighs.
“You really think I haven't noticed the way you look at me, the clothes you wear, when I have lunch at your parents’?”
“What? No!!”
“Shh…” he cuts you, brushing your lips with his finger. “You wanna get fucked by a man older than you. A man who will give it to you good.”
Through the material of your tights and panties you feel his hand caress your folds and you close your eyes shut, trying to escape the horror of the situation.
"Girls your age want that. A mature man,” he adds.
You mewl a quiet “no” again and he uses the moment to kiss you and push his tongue past your lips. With one hand keeping you close and the other gently massaging your pussy, Joel claims your mouth, licking into it, swallowing your soft cries.
As soon as he parts from you, your hands push him away but his strong physique overpowers you in seconds. He grabs your wrists and makes you lie down on the desk. You’re pressed to the wooden surface by his heavy body as his breath fans your cheek when he growls, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be my way or bad way, baby. Choose wisely.”
In your peripheral vision you notice the men next to the desk, one on the left and two on the right. Like hyenas they are waiting for their turn when the main predator is done with the prey.
You begin thrashing around on the desk and Joel slightly lifts his torso but holds you down with his hand wrapped around your neck. You freeze as panic grips your heart. He’s not squeezing it but the threat is swimming in his blown out eyes.
He smirks when you stop moving. “Good girl. Made the right choice.”
Joel straightens up, his figure looming over you, and then starts pulling up your skirt. You try to stop his hands but in vain.
“Let’s see what we have here. White lace. Fuck, it’s hot, baby. Innocence looks good on you. I know you’re not a virgin though,” he laughs and continues, “I remember a boy used to come to your bedroom all the time. Your old man was scared that you’d get pregnant. Fuck, I wanted to kill that little shit for touching you.“
You take a sharp breath, terrified of how long his obsession with you has lasted.
“I know you’re single now. It’s good. Now you have me. I’ll fulfill all your needs, baby. And will fill all your holes.”
With that he rips your tights between your legs, and you squeal scared to death. You try to slide off the desk but he presses his forearm over your belly, not letting you move away.
You hear the murmur of the others, watching you sob and fight the man twice bigger than you like it’s some twisted show.
When Joel grabs your hips to keep you in place, you turn your head, pleading eyes darting between the men but their expressions scare you. There’s not a trace of sympathy on their faces, not a chance that this vile group will help you.
With tears streaming down your cheeks you look back between your spread legs and find Joel’s hungry gaze there. He’s sneering at you, noticing your fruitless attempt to seek assistance from his employees.
“What’s that, baby? Looking for anyone to call an HR? He’s over there. Say hi, Steve.”
You hear a gruff voice somewhere from behind you.
“Hi, sweetie.”
“Aww, isn’t he nice?” Joel mocks and dread spreads in your chest. There’s no way out. You’re trapped. Your only hope is the man you thought to be a friend.
“Please, Joel. Stop. I won’t tell anyone. Let me go.” Your voice is barely audible, you sound pathetic, and Joel’s face softens. His brows knit together as he looks between your legs and talks while his fingers slowly pull your panties to the side.
“I think I’ve made a mistake.”
You gasp when his fingers graze your exposed folds and try to close your legs but he’s holding you securely.
“I haven’t explained your position in this company yet. It will help you to understand what’s happening and accept it.” His fingers stroke your seam and then push inside between your folds, leaving you shocked and breathless.
“From now on you’re my office whore. I tell you to suck, you suck, I tell you to bend over - you do exactly that.”
His voice is gruff and cold, eyes focused on the place where his fingers swirl around your hardening clit and you squeeze your eyes closed, fighting the fire in your core that’s burning brighter with every second of his caress.
“She loves it, your pretty pussy,” Joel smiles, looking up at you, “do you hear how wet she’s getting for me? You should relax, and let your body take what it wants. Stop fighting it, baby.”
He sinks two thick digits into your soft hole and you tighten your muscles, eyes wide, surprised by a heat spreading through your body.
You hear it too. When Joel begins pumping his fingers in and out of you, lewd squelching noises reach your ears, the sign of your body surrendering to his horrible act. A moan crawls up your throat and you muffle it with the back of your hand.
A sharp flick of Joel’s fingers lands on your clit and you cry out.
“Don’t. Don’t hide it. Wanna hear you enjoying it, little slut. I wouldn’t make my cock wait if I didn’t wanna hear some sweet moans from you.”
His hands leave your pussy and he places his palms on your inner thighs, spreading them wider.
“Now— Let’s have a taste.”
You watch him lower his head to your cunt and he licks a stripe between your wet folds from your clenching hole to your sensitive clit and sucks on it for a few seconds. Your back arches involuntarily.
“Delicious,” he mumbles, wet lips against your folds, and the vibrations send shivers down your spine.
You want to hate the sensation his mouth is giving you, but your whole body treacherously buzzes when his hot tongue laps away your slick. Joel kisses your pussy, his gentleness is a striking contrast to the situation. He’s eating you out to make you come, hungry to claim your pleasure as well, and you grit your teeth, fighting it with all your being.
He feels you holding back and growls before focusing all of his attention on your puffy clit, flicking it and rubbing it with his tongue, sucking it in between his teeth, and you can’t help but explode under his ministrations. You begin shaking against the desk, and through the sound of your heart pounding in your ears you hear cheers and clapping from the heartless audience.
“Good job, boss!”
“What a slut!”
“You’re the man!”
Their reaction makes your heart shutter into pieces.
Joel gives his employees his million dollar smile, pride lighting up his dark eyes, and absentmindedly rubs his hands over your thighs still partially covered by tights, ripped at the crotch.
He gets up from the chair and when you try to close your legs, he yanks you to the edge again, pushing his hips between your thighs.
Joel slowly unbuckles his belt with one hand and unzips his suit pants, talking to you, “I thought about asking you out on a date, honey. Making you my girlfriend.”
He chuckles and pulls his boxers down.
“Could be nice. You, waiting for me at home.”
His cock springs free and you feel even more scared if it’s even possible. His manhood is huge, long and thick, bigger than your ex boyfriend’s for sure. He holds it at the base and continues, “you’d greet me with a home-cooked meal and a wet pussy.”
You know what he’s about to do and all your being rises in protest so you slap his hand off and slide off the desk in a fast motion.
“Hold her!” Joel barks and a few pairs of hands grab you and push you down. Your back hits the desk and someone’s holding your wrists over your head, their hands keeping you still, at the same time gliding over exposed parts of your body - your neck, your chest, a slither of your naked belly.
Joel doesn’t stop them. His eyes are fixed on your bare cunt, glistening with the signs of your body’s betrayal.
A sharp slap lands on your mound and sends a bolt of pain through your body, and you squeal.
“Don’t do it again, naughty girl. Or I’ll let these heathens fuck your ass raw.”
You sob, trying to ease the steel grip on your wrists. Through tears in your eyes, you see Joel bring the head of his stiff cock to your pussy and in a second you feel him push it in, slowly, but not for the sake of your comfort. Only for his enjoyment.
His head falls back and he groans, “fuckk, she’s tight. You can’t find a pussy like that in an escort.”
Joel looks down at you with a hazy smile and you plead for him to stop but he ignores you and thrusts into your core. He takes out what’s in his pocket and brings his hand close to your stuffed cunt. You hear a “buzz”, when he turns on a bullet vibe.
“No, Joel, please…” you cry.
“I want you to come on my cock too. And with this little helper, I’m sure you will, baby.”
He begins rolling his hips, pushing his fat cock in and out of your dripping pussy. You whine, feeling your walls spread around his girthy member and your belly is heaving with a mixture of fear and arousal. Meanwhile Joel starts fucking you faster, talking to you like there’s no one else in the room.
“Your dad would mind if we started going out but who gives a shit? I could just throw some money his way. Money can buy everything.”
He winks at you and you sob, sliding up and down the desk with each mighty thrust.
“But — It’s not the main problem. I spend most of the time here. I work hard—Aahhh— and it’s nice to fuck someone between the meetings, right, guys?”
You hear sounds of agreement around you and squeeze your eyes shut, scared to see the faces of the monsters around you.
Joel’s cock is rhythmically brushing your g spot and you hate that behind the horror there’s pleasure, nauseating and terrifying, but pleasure nonetheless. Joel tilts his hips and you cry out when he grazes something ecstatic inside your core.
“You gonna come again, honey?” he coos at you and the pet name he used so many times before, visiting your father, cuts your heart with a sharp blade.
A river of fresh tears rolls down your face but your misery is not noticed by Joel who explains, after a loud grunt, “office affairs take too much time and effort. But you. You’d be perfect as my pretty cum dumpster.”
With that he grabs your sides, nails digging into your soft skin, and starts snapping his hips into you, violating your pussy with his fat cock.
“Fuck, gonna come soon. Pussy’s too good. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”
The men around you cheer again. Joel presses the vibrator to your clit and you whine, your walls clamp around his manhood and it sends him over the edge. With a loud grunt he begins spilling his hot cum into your pulsating pussy, pumping you more and more, pushing his cock deeper, while holding you with the iron grip of his hands.
You start sobbing again feeling the warmth spread deep in your core and it freezes your heart with another terror. You’re not on the pill.
Joel stays buried inside you for some time. You are so shocked that you don't react. You ignore his cock pulsating inside you. Ignore its last twitches. Until reality hits you and you cry harder. Your body betrayed you. Joel betrayed you.
“Joel, please… let me go.”
He finally pulls out and you feel some of his cum slide to your ass. You try to sit up but he grabs your wrists in his hands, keeping you down on the desk, leaning over you. His hazy gaze fixed on yours.
“Not so fast baby… we’re not gonna waste all this cum, are we? I want these men to remember who you belong to and fuck it back into you.”
You realize with shock that he really intends to throw you to them.
“Steve? You worked so hard this month. Enjoy your reward.”
Looking down at you, he adds, “come on, baby, be a good girl. Steve deserves it. And we already know you're a little slut. You clenched so hard on my cock, mmm?” He wipes away a tear running down your cheek with his thumb and steps away.
You try to close your legs but Joel clicks his tongue.
“No, no, no. I made myself clear, didn't I? Jim, didn’t I make myself clear?”
“Yes, boss, very clear.”
“If you're difficult, your father can say goodbye to his income. To his job. Your parents almost got divorced that time, didn't they?” His dark eyes are fixed on you. Even colder than before. There’s no hesitation or remorse in him. “So if you don't want your father to end up under a bridge, and your mother to whore around with her slutty daughter, you're gonna stop whining.”
He points his finger at you. You remember the meeting earlier. How cold he was, how sorry you felt for that woman. But now, it’s you who is facing this terrible side of him.
“And you’re gonna let them take their turn. Final warning.”
You suppress a sob, even when Steve settles between your legs and places one hand on your thigh and the other around his cock.
“Go on Steve, give her a good fuck.”
You hear the men cheer when Joel's employee pushes his tip in your already sore hole.
“Come on man, give it to her good!”
“Fuck that bitch!”
He thrusts in, grunting. Excited by the cheers of the other men. He fucks you hard as soon as he grabs your thighs and buries his length in you. You keep your eyes closed, unable to meet his gaze, and unwilling to give them any more of yourself by letting them see your frightened eyes.
“Well damn, Steve, you got great moves!”
The man puts his hands on your hips for a better leverage, jerking you forward with each thrust.
“Fuck, she's tight…”
“Yeah? Tighter than your wife?”
They all laugh, and you feel nauseous.
“Come on, Steve. Shoot your load. Don't enjoy it too much. I just lent her to you.”
Steve obeys and comes in your cunt, mixing his cum with Joel's.
Then Jim uses you.
And finally, Paul. He turns you around and bends you over to thrust into you from behind. He’s already groaning, when Joel’s phone rings.
“Oh!” he chuckles when he sees the name on the screen. He picks up and, looking at you, brings his index finger to his mouth, ordering you to be quiet.
“Hey, man! Calling to check on your daughter?” He walks around the desk to sit at your side and starts jerking his cock as he watches you getting fucked by the third man.
You can’t hear what your dad is saying, and your mind dissociates again.
“It’s going great. She’s already showing some serious skills!”
Joel smiles in response to what your father’s saying, his hand still fucking his shaft.
“No, sorry, she’s with Paul. He’s showing her some new procedures, they will be very useful to me soon.”
Paul is growling, rutting into you, and you hear Joel say, “Yeah sure, I’ll tell her you called.”
Paul spreads your ass cheeks and spits on your ring.
“No!” Joel gruffs in a low, menacing voice, after hanging up. “No one fucks her ass.”
“Sorry, boss, she takes it so good, I got carried away.”
“Don’t forget your place. Fill her up, and then get out, all of you. She’s mine, got it? We all… welcomed her, but now she belongs only to me.”
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After using you like a fuck doll, the three men leave the office chatting happily.
Joel gets up, his hand working his fat cock.
“Gotta fill you again, baby. I can’t stay like this, with a hard-on, it’s painful, you know?”
You can’t believe he’s telling you this.
“Pussy’s already ruined, anyway,” he says as he thrusts in and fucks you hard and fast in all men’s cum, until he sends his load into your owerflowing core for a second time.
You’re lying on the desk, not even realizing they all left, that Joel has pulled out, until you feel a jacket covering you. Joel pulls down your skirt back over your thighs and grabs your arm to help you up. He fixes your shirt and looks at your face, your makeup smudged, mascara running down your cheeks.
“You’re gonna need some rest, baby. Come back next week. I’ll be the only one playing with you, from now on. Don’t forget - a pretty girl like you needs a man like me.”
You shiver. His voice pulls you out from the depths of your mind, that is lying to you that none of this has happened.
“Are you on birth control?”
You shake your head, eyes empty.
“I’m gonna give you an after pill, I don’t want you knocked up by one of the guys. You’re too precious for me. Now get your stuff and go home. And don’t think of telling anyone. No one will believe you anyway.”
As you grab the handle, he adds “Oh, before you leave. Add to my calendar, tomorrow, ‘a barbecue at your parents’, at noon. Your dad’s just invited me. It’s gonna be great, baby. Can’t wait to pay you a visit in your bedroom.”
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Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3
Other fics by @milla-frenchy and me
Keep on your mean side - Joel x f!reader - dark fic
The Burglary -Joel x f!reader x Tommy - dead dove, noncon
Bad Girl - Joel x f reader x Tommy - dubcon
The hounds of hell - Series - Javier Peña x fem reader x Steve Murphy
MILLA’S MASTERLIST || KATE’S MASTERLIST
Tagging some lovely people who showed interest in the wips: @koshkaj-blog @604to647 @megangovier @tateypots @sunshineispunk @thundermartini @pedge-page @mountainsandmayhem @iamasaddie @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @evolnoomym @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40
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scealaiscoite · 4 months ago
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⋆˚࿔ prompt sets of three 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
write a piece featuring - in any capacity you can think of - all three things depicted in the given prompt!
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¹⁾ a polka-dot bikini, a throw blanket and a pint glass
²⁾ a sliotar, a flat tire and a thunderstorm
³⁾ a teakettle, a fresh bruise and rosewater
⁴⁾ a chipped enamel bathtub, a blue sweater and basil leaves
⁵⁾ howling gale winds, an inflatable paddling pool and an oil lamp
⁶⁾ a fresh buzzcut, pink bubblegum and rolling tobacco
⁷⁾ gas station bandaids, a cellophane-wrapped bouquet and muddy footprints
⁸⁾ a lipstick print, skinned knees and stained-glass windows
⁹⁾ a busted streetlight, green olives and a teak countertop
¹⁰⁾ gun oil, red lace and an old armchair
¹¹⁾ a fresh tattoo, a sacristy, and guilt
¹²⁾ a corner booth, sweet patchouli and a wallet
¹³⁾ donuts, orange juice and a jail cell
¹⁴⁾ a cold red bull, shaking hands and broken traffic lights
¹⁵⁾ new graves, a busted headlight and silver rings
¹⁶⁾ handcuffs, brightly coloured building blocks and fir trees
¹⁷⁾ a shortwave radio, takeout containers and a bare lightbulb
¹⁸⁾ broken windows, waist-high grasses and lit matches
¹⁹⁾ orange segments, divorce papers and a front porch
²⁰⁾ horror movies, steaming showers and cold bedsheets
²¹⁾ brazilian lemonade, a split lip and daisy chains
²²⁾ a red convertible, a priest’s collar and dogtags
²³⁾ a corner office, parking tickets and greyhound races
²⁴⁾ bitten lips, army fatigues, and coca-cola
²⁵⁾ old wives’ tales, creaky stairs and cherry lipgloss
²⁶⁾ smooth whiskey, greying hair and warm hands
²⁷⁾ hospital food, full moons and a reconciliation
²⁸⁾ exes, candy wrappers and a twin bed
²⁹⁾ a rural motel, a pocket knife and iodine
³⁰⁾ a dirty martini, a dressing gown and blood under fingernails
³¹⁾ slept-in braids, a lamplit office and an explosion
³²⁾ blueberry pancakes, a restraining order and the taste of rum off someone’s lips
³³⁾ farmers’ market peaches, burnt coffee and houseplants
³⁴⁾ a late text, faded jeans and lightning strikes
³⁶⁾ desert air, zinnias and chocolates
³⁷⁾ an old truck, freshly turned earth and a tv dinner
³⁸⁾ wedding rings, wildfire and wrought iron gates
³⁹⁾ a hostage situation, evergreen trees and a pierced tongue
⁴⁰⁾ unripe strawberries, bitter wine and a kitchen table
⁴¹⁾ a head laid down in a lap, green tea and a break news announcement
⁴²⁾ a fire alarm, a flower-patterened apron and an ajar kitchen window
⁴³⁾ a jar of jam, two shots of vodka and a stack of car manuals
⁴⁴⁾ techno music at 4am, knitted jumpers and a broken watch
⁴⁵⁾ a green silk scarf, a pan of burnt food and the trunk of a car
⁴⁶⁾ bound hands, a crescent moon and laughter
⁴⁷⁾ a winter coat, a heatwave and fresh mangos
⁴⁸⁾ a thrift store sofa, a highrise apartment building and creaking floorboards
⁴⁹⁾ missing teeth, a house half covered in ivy and cheap beer
⁵⁰⁾ undeveloped camera film, stomach kisses and cigarette smoke
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borathae · 11 months ago
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"Jungkook returns from a work trip, which kept you away from each other for three long weeks. He seeks comfort in the fact that he can finally fall asleep next to you again. Come morning however, those giddy feelings turned into fiery desire. It doesn't matter that you are still sleeping. Jungkook missed you and he needs you."
♢ Requested by @seagulljk ♢
Pairing: CEO!Jungkook x f.Reader
Genre: married life!AU, Slice of Life Fluff, Smut
Warnings: cute love notes, naked cuddling, sub!Jungkook, Dom!Reader, mommy kink, she calls him Bunny, consensual somnophilia, humping of her butt, thigh fucking, needy!Kook, begging, needy kisses, praise kink, good boy kink, spooning position, he cums too soon, creampie, sloppy oral (f.receiving), cum eating, pussy fingering, hair pulling (m.receiving), a bit of nipple play, body worshipping, possessive talk (he is all like "I'm yours"), subby boy tears, cuddly aftercare
Wordcount: 5.7k
a/n: I haven't heard from you in ages *stares longingly into distance* you requested this for Kinktober 22 and I finally finished it. it also fits perfectly into my biggest wish which is "kook comes homes". enjoy besties, this is so lovely ❤
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Not being home has become way too regular for him. Jungkook hates it. He hates it so much. The penthouse is quiet once again when he arrives. There was no delay in flights or traffic jams, it is simply that his plane landed late. And he hates it. He hates how often he has to leave these days.
You knew of his late arrival and therefore Jungkook is greeted with a sticky note on the coat hanger. He picks it up, reading it as he slips out of his coat. 
“Welcome home Bunny! Check fridge :D” 
Jungkook smiles and slips the note into the front pocket of his suit. He discards the suitcase by the stairs like always on his way to the fridge. He opens it. His eyes instantly drift to the container of fried rice and the array of side dishes. He takes them out, eyes drifting to the second sticky note on one of the containers. He picks it up and reads it. 
“Yaay you found me :D…” 
Jungkook smiles, scrunching his nose as he continues reading.
“...you can warm up the rice if you want to and add some cheese on top. I put all my love into it ♡…”
Jungkook feels his heart flutter. He hugs the sticky note to his chest and closes his eyes. One little squeeze and then he continues.
“...sorry I couldn’t be there. Today drained me :(...” 
“Oh no, I’m sorry”, Jungkook whispers and pouts.
“...I hope you are home safe. I adore you, my love ♡”
He smiles again, “I adore you too, my love.” 
He gives the sticky note a kiss and places it on the counter for later safe storing. He keeps a box with all your memories and little letters in his home office. Actually, it is three boxes and he is in the midst of filling up the fourth one. Jungkook likes to keep everything. Truly everything concerning your relationship. Your sweet notes will find their warm home with all the other precious memorabilia tomorrow morning once he slept his jetlag off.
He puts the container of rice into the microwave and uses the time to carry his luggage upstairs. He’ll do the laundry tomorrow. He slips out of his suit and changes into a simple t-shirt and sweats combo, then hurries downstairs again. The food is warmed up and ready, filling his nose with a mouth-watering scent. He takes the container and the side dishes and eats them standing by the kitchen island and with his eyes zoned out on the city lights.
It’s a good time. Jungkook missed your food so much. It is once again important to mention that he doesn’t expect you to cook and that you do so because you want to. If you suddenly decide to stop cooking, Jungkook would be sad because he loves your food the most, but he wouldn’t be angry. You do this voluntarily and Jungkook loves every single dish you make. Tonight’s dish tastes especially good. You grilled chicken breast and some vegetables and you even added canned tuna to the rice, topping everything off with a savoury-spicy sauce. Jungkook loves it so much.
He had to be without you for twenty days. It was hell again. Of course it was because he wasn’t with you. He missed everything about you and that also included your food. It tastes so good. So homemade, so full of love and care. Jungkook enjoys every bite as if it was his first, humming and moaning to himself as he enjoys the good food. 
Once done and happily sated, Jungkook washes the dishes and puts them back into their shelves. He wipes the part of the kitchen island counter he ate on and then makes his way to the upstairs bathroom to wash up. Afterwards and without any clothes on, he finally walks to the bedroom.
He is tired and more than anything, he misses you. 
He sadly walks by the little sticky note you left on the bedroom door because he didn’t have the lights on. He will find it tomorrow and read it with sparkly eyes. It says something along the line that behind this door his snuggles are waiting. You are such a cheesy romantic these days. Jungkook loves it so much. 
The blinds are closed completely. Like always, Jungkook uses the light of his phone screen to tiptoe to the bathroom so he could brush his teeth. Like always, he only uses his phone flashlight for vision and like always, he uses his phone screen again as he tiptoes to the bed. He turns on his purposefully-weak night light and uses it to apply lip balm and drink some water. Then he slips under the cover, keeping the nightlight on for a little longer. You are turned to him, sleeping halfway on your stomach and with your cheek squished. 
Jungkook feels his heart swell and his stomach tingle. He reaches out and moves some of your hair out of your face. He brushes the back of his fingers down your temple and cheek, holding your hand afterwards. His thumb is drawing hearts on your skin. 
“I missed you”, he whispers and moves closer to kiss your cheek, your temple and lastly your eyelid as gently as possible. 
He gives the shell of your ear a soft kiss as well and caresses the back of your head before putting some distance between you and him. 
He turns off the nightlight and holds your hand again. He didn’t even have to look for it. He knew exactly where he would find it. 
He closes his eyes. He is so exhausted from travelling and finally being with you again is doing the rest to him. He is home again. And home means sleep. Jungkook listens to your breathing and finds healing in the sound of it.
Seconds later, he has joined you in dreamland, smiling faintly because nothing beats sleeping next to you.
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Jungkook opens his eyes to darkness. He was wrong. There is one thing which can beat sleeping next to you. Waking up with you in his arms. 
You are his little spoon, giving him warmth. He must have reached for you in his sleep or maybe you cuddled into him in your sleep. Whatever the case, Jungkook slept for nine hours and is waking up with you in his arms. Your scent is the only thing he takes in, he can feel your back sink and rise as you breathe, there is a little wet spot on his arm where you are drooling on him. 
Jungkook smiles and pulls you closer. You would hate it, but you are so cute right now. You would probably wrestle him for it – gently of course and with love – if you read his thoughts right now, but Jungkook thinks you are cute as you drool on his arm. 
His blanket slipped halfway off his body so that only the back side of his body was covered, while his front was pressed against your body. Your blanket served as a barrier and Jungkook doesn’t like that. He shimmies back just enough so that he can open the blanket and slip under. So now he has two blankets covering him and your body against his’.
He feels his breath hitch. You aren’t wearing clothes either. Your body is so warmed up from sleep, your skin is so soft. Jungkook feels his emotions overwhelm him. He was ready for everything but not to cuddle you naked on the first morning together again. He pulls you into his chest and exhales shakily. Your legs tangle as best as possible. Your butt applies pressure on his crotch. Jungkook feels whole again. This kind of emotion only you can give him. This kind of connection and comfort. 
This work trip didn’t leave him as anxious as previous ones did. You visited him for three days in the middle of it, which made it easier to bear, but it was still not easy. Jungkook still had to go seventeen days without you and the last week of the trip was hell. The hours were inhumanely long, the nights were lonely and the yearning unbearable. So Jungkook finds healing in holding you as your bodies share the most intimate of states. 
He stays like this for quite a while. Holding you. Feeling you. Breathing you. And experiencing you. This is what heaven is. This is it. This is the only thing which will make everything better again. Jungkook will fight through all the hellish work trips in the world if at the end of them, your hug awaits. 
Jungkook sighs and relaxes his muscles. He falls asleep again like this. The comfort of cuddling you naked dragged him right down into sweet dreams. He sleeps for another hour, then he wakes again. You are still sleeping, holding his hand by now. Your position hasn’t changed, but the state of one certain body part has. 
He got a boner. 
Jungkook didn’t plan on getting hard. His plan was to cuddle and snuggle you until late into the morning and then when you wake up, kiss you for hours with the sweet thought that maybe passionate sex will follow.
He wasn’t planning on getting hard already, but it seems that his body has different plans for him. It’s not even one of his normal boners. The kind he always gets in the morning because he is a healthy man with healthy blood circulation. 
This hard on aches and he knows for a fact that it won’t go away after a few minutes. It is here to stay and it is here to torture him. 
It is currently squished between his body and your butt. The pressure, which once gave him comfort, is torturing him. You are so soft and warm that it gets difficult not to move. 
He tries to check if maybe you are awake by giving your hand a little shake. You pull his hand closer, but stay unmoving otherwise. You are still asleep. 
Jungkook takes a deep breath, feeling dizzy. He has two options. Ignore the boner and suffer or attempt to find relief by rubbing himself against you. 
He knows that you wouldn’t mind if he did. You and he know that somno is allowed and appreciated, so Jungkook is aware that he has consent to get off with your sleeping body. He still hesitates. He always does because he feels like such a dirty man whenever he does it. He is embarrassed about getting so needy that he can’t even control himself anymore. And he also feels as if he is soiling your body. You are so precious to him, so to secretly find relief with you always leaves him feeling a little guilty.
You would call him a stupid noodle if you knew his thoughts. 
Jungkook feels needy tingles go through his legs. The reminder of his beloved nickname made him even hornier. He loves being your stupid noodle and he always gets giddy when you call him this way. 
He wiggles his hips. Slowly. Just a little. His pretty cockhead grinds against your butt up and down. 
He squeezes your hand, muffling his shaky sigh in the back of your head. This felt so good. He wants to experience it again. 
He wiggles his hips. His cock moves. Up and down. The sensation is electric. Your skin is so soft. Your warmth seeps so deep into his cock. He wants more.
He moves his hips and does it a second time right afterwards. His legs feel so, so warm as the pleasure emits from his cock.
“Oh god”, he sighs, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He is propped up on his elbow this way, using the new support to roll his hips into you. Your scent fills his nose as he inhales deeply in reaction to the grinds. Mellifluous and warm from sleep. You only smell like this when you spent hours cozy and comfy under the covers. You get this addicting sweetness to you. He always feels droopy from it.
Jungkook wets your skin because it makes him so, so needy to have it fill his senses. It makes grinding so much easier and for his needy hips to chase the short relief with eagerness. 
He wants to fucking scream, this feels so good. Grinding hasn’t felt that good in ages. Jungkook knows it’s because he hadn’t been home for such a long time. The thought that he wasn’t, makes him want you even more. 
Jungkook reaches between your bodies and grabs his own cock. He bends it so he can push it between your thighs. The friction is intense, bordering painful. It would be so much easier if he used lube. He can’t reach it right now. You are in the middle of the bed and if he moved too much, he’d wake you.
Jungkook bites down on his lower lip and pushes harder. It burns. He swallows the pain and pushes one last time. Your thighs welcome his cock, letting him sink between them. They hug and squeeze, feeling oh so hot around him. 
“Mommy”, Jungkook moans and pulls his hips back. His cock slides from between your thighs. He pushes it back inside, leaving trails of wetness. It begins covering more and more of your skin, making the fucking easier. 
Jungkook pulls back just to push inside. He does it over and over again, biting his lower lip so hard that it starts to hurt. If he wouldn't muffle himself, he’d wake you up with incessant moaning. Your thighs are so soft. The position they are in as you slumber, makes them press together naturally and therefore get so, so tight to fuck. 
No wonder it hurt at first until he got embarrassingly needy. He gets wet so easily. The friction isn’t uncomfortable anymore. It is still there, but it feels amazing. It makes sure to drag and move his sensitive skin right over the spots which are filled with the most nerve endings and Jungkook can’t stop.
He fucked himself needy. There is no escape anymore. He has to continue. His boner wouldn’t ever go down otherwise.
“Holy fuck, Mommy”, he whimpers and drags his parted lips over your neck in what try to be kisses. He is so, so drooly in his worshiping attempt, but he can’t help himself. Your thighs make him feel so, so, so woozy. 
He kisses, licks and sucks your neck with closed eyes and his leaky cock twitching between your thighs. Small moans escape him. He has no control over them. He is too far gone. Too lost in how good you feel. 
Oh how lost he is. So, so lost that he doesn’t even realise he began slipping up until he suddenly feels something else grind against his cock as well. Your pussy. Soft. Your groomed pubes bring such a new sensation to the fuck. 
“Mommy please”, it makes Jungkook beg instantly. He closes his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as his hips pick up a needy pace. 
This is making him desperate. He is so close to the warmest and softest spot of your body. He is right there. At his home. And he can’t slip inside because the current position would end up hurting for you. You are too tight to slip in. Jungkook is left fucking his needy cock between your thighs and make do with what little contact he has to your pussy.
“Mommy please wake up”, he begs and sucks on your earlobe. He mewls and keens, finding immense relief in the sensation. His cock twitches, his body shivers, “oh god”, he croaks. His lips are pressed to your ear as he begs, “please Mommy, please.” 
You shift in his arms, rolling closer into his chest. Your head moves. Jungkook’s heart skips beats. His hips stutter in excitement.
“Bunny?” 
“Hey Mommy, hey”, he gets out and mewls, “oh god, you’re awake.”
“What’s happening?” your voice is heavy in sleep. You sound so out of it still. 
“I’m sorry. Mommy, I’m sorry. I got hard”, he confesses and whimpers as he fucks his cock between your thighs in example. 
You are barely awake. You still feel disoriented from sleep, so the sensation of Jungkook fucking his cock between your thighs is hidden behind a droopy veil. 
“Please can I slip it in?” Jungkook begs and pulls you closer with his hand dimpling your side.
“Mhm Bunny, you’re doing things”, you lull and laugh sleepily, “you stupid noodle.”
Jungkook trembles. Tears shoot to his eyes. He whimpers in overwhelming emotion.
“Please Mommy, please I’m begging you. Oh god, I wanna be inside so bad. Oh god”, he babbles in high pitched pleas, shaking behind you as his twitchy cock leaks all over your skin. 
His begs are muffled as well. You are so nicely gone in sleep still. You are very awake between your legs however. Jungkook’s needy humping brought all the attention right between them and woke you up. So while the rest of your body was still useless in sleepiness, you feel achingly awake on the spots where his cock grinds against you.
“Please, I’ll be careful. Please, I’m begging you”, Jungkook pleads, struggling with his thrusts as his legs tremble, “oh god, I don’t know what to do. It hurts so much”, he gets out and sobs into your neck, “Mommy please make it stop, please.” 
“Fuck, you’re so needy”, you chuckle lazily, giving his hand a little squeeze. You shift your hips and lift your leg. 
“No, please more”, Jungkook begs and tries to push your leg down again.
“Bunny, I’m trying to give you access. What are you doing?” you laugh, shaking him off.
“Oh. Oh god, I’m so stupid”, he babbles.
“No, you’re not. Slip in, Bunny.”
“Mommy”, he whimpers and follows your order instantly. He pushes inside. The breach steals your breath away. Insane warmth fills your pussy instantly. Holy fuck, you missed him so much. 
You reach behind yourself, burying your hand in his hair. You close your eyes because being filled with him feels too overwhelming not to.
“Mommy”, he whimpers, letting his head drop against the side of your face, “I love you”, he squeaks and bottoms out. He shakes and trembles, soiling your cheek with a sloppy attempt at a kiss as his arms pull you tighter against him.
“I love you too, Bunny.”
“Oh god, ahmhm.”
He chases you instantly. The sensation is too addicting not to. He whimpers and mewls as he does, leaving kiss marks all over your face. You have your head turned to him so you are getting kissed everywhere. Your cheek, your nose, your eyelid and forehead. Down your temple until he finally lingers on your lips for longer. 
You receive them with closed eyes and a droopy smile. He feels so good. He feels so good filling you up, he feels so good holding you and he feels so good kissing your face. This is the best way to wake up. Nothing will ever top this. 
You drop your leg again because you got tired. The sensation intensifies. You moan feeling your senses blur. He is inside you. It gets so intensely obvious now that you are so tight.
“Mommy”, he whimpers into the kiss, feeling his legs shake, “tight, ah.”
“I know. Feels so good”, you whisper with a dizzy head. You can feel him shift and move inside you. His cock is so soft and covered in your wet pleasure. It grinds against your butt and parts of your thighs each time he moves, leaving trails of wetness behind. You know that he us getting fucked twice. By your pussy and your thighs. 
“It’s so intense”, he gets out and moans desperately.
“I know, you’re getting fucked so good. Mhm?”
“So good”, he whimpers, “oh god, Mommy.”
“My Bunny”, you moan and pull him back into a kiss as you finally show him the rhythm you want. He is a little sloppy at first until you calm him down with rubs to his neck and your tongue guiding his’. 
And while his lips calm down against yours, his hips become needier. He pushes them against you as tightly as possible, keeping his cock so, so deep inside one might wonder if he tries to bury his balls in you as well. He probably would if he could. 
Oh, he wants to fucking melt with you. He is so deep inside and yet he still aches. Not even your pussy is giving him the relief he needs. He keeps pressing against you, chasing the tight hug of your soft warmth with small circles of his hips.
You moan into the kiss, twisting his hair gently. Jungkook whimpers because he knows what this means. He is hitting the right spot. Or at least he is getting there.
He feels that you are different than on days where you dedicate a lot of time to foreplay. He knows that you haven’t been paid attention to for enough time that your pussy could properly shift and change to take cock. But he is getting there. Your moans and needy twisting of his hair is letting him know. 
He slides his right hand down your stomach, lingering on the lowest part for a moment. He presses down until he feels how his cock shifts inside.
The kiss breaks, “Bunny”, you breathe and arch your back so you could press yourself closer. He is squeezing the sensitive parts right against his cock. The small circles of his hips give them a constant massage. It feels so good.
“Is it good? Am I careful enough?” he asks in a trembling voice.
“Yeah, ah”, you let out a little moan and pull him down against your lips. 
Jungkook feels his cock throb. Not only on his cock but also against his hand. He doesn’t know how to handle the increasing pleasure running through his veins and so he slides his hand from your stomach to rub your clit instead. He picks up some of the juices coating his cock and uses them to massage circles into your sensitive spot. 
“Bunny", you break the kiss again to gasp and moan. You throb under his fingers, convulse around his cock. The spots he hits inside gain in sensitivity. You are burning up.
“Am I doing good, Mommy?” he begs for your praise. Please. It is everything he needs.
“So good”, you get out and push back against him, “good Bunny, holy fuck ah…”
“Mommy", he sobs softly and feels his hips falter, “oh god, I’m close.”
“Suddenly?” 
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 
He stops his thrusts in an attempt to calm down the approaching high, but he is too far gone. His thoughts are pushing him over the edge. You praised him. This is everything he needed.
“Ah! Oh god, sorry”, he moans and trembles, “no, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mommy.”
You chuckle fondly, running your fingers through his hair. He is so adorable. Your sweet Bunny so, so excited from being praised that it’s throwing him over the edge. 
“I’m so sorry oh god it feels so goood.”
“There we go, let it all out Bunny. That’s it”, you talk him through it, playing with his hair as you do. You can’t even be mad at him for stopping. Not when he is so adorable.
Jungkook finishes after five twitchy strokes, dropping on top of you as his face hides away in your neck. His cock is buried inside, pulsating weakly as he recovers.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, this was so bad of me. I’m sorry”, he gets out between quick pants. 
“You’re right. You’re such a bad Bunny”, you lull, grinning to yourself.
“I’m sorry, Mommy”, he whimpers, shaking in a little sob, “oh god, I’m a bad Bunny. So, so bad. Mommy, you can punish me.”
“No Bunny. No punishments. I want you to say sorry.”
“Oh god”, he croaks.
You smile.
He understood. Good.
“Can you do that for me, Bunny? Can you say sorry?”
“Yes, Mommy. I can. Oh, I can”, he says and slips out of you. 
He rolls you onto your back and disappears under the blanket. Seconds later you feel his hot mouth on your pussy and his long fingers holding your waist. 
“Mhhm fuck”, you purr, arching your back languidly as his hot tongue laps at your pussy. The sensation is different from his fingers. Wetter, hotter and softer. You fucking love every second of it.
He mewls under the blanket, feeling so dizzy. His cum keeps seeping out of you. No matter how hard he tries to clean you, he just can’t finish it. You keep leaking more and more. 
“Mommy, I came so much”, he lets you know and swirls his tongue down your folds, lapping at your entrance. He needs to clean you. He needs to say sorry. He needs to be a good boy. He licks your creamed entrance, trying so hard to get it clean.
“You did”, you sigh your words, feeling lightheaded, “keep going until I’m clean.”
Jungkook hums in obedience and slurps. He licks, laps, slurps and sucks, needing you to be clean so fucking bad. He needs to show you that he is still good. That he is your best Bunny and not a naughty Bunny. This is all he needs and all he craves. He wants you to know that what he did was a mistake. And that he regrets it deeply. 
“Fuck, you feel so good”, you let out and writhe happily. His tongue is filling you as far as he can reach, while his nose is buried between your folds. He has the perfect nose. It fits so perfectly in your pussy to grind on your clit whenever he tongue fucks you. 
“Good Bunny, you’re so…good…”
Jungkook mewls at the praise, dimpling your waist as his needy fingers close tighter around you. Your lovely taste begins seeping more and more through the tangy taste of his own cum. He is doing such a good job at cleaning you, speeding up his tongue because he is so excited for your taste. 
It makes the wettest sound, filling the air with it. It motivates him to perform even better. To press himself closer and fill your pussy. His nose is covered in your juices, stimulating your clit. He feels her throb on the tip of his nose as your scent surrounds him. You smell so warm after penetration. He can’t get enough, showing his desperation by curling his tongue inside you.
Your legs tremble and slip over his arms. Propped up on the mattress and continuing to shake, they lift the blanket just enough that fresh air gets to him. It was so perfectly stuffy and warm before, but Jungkook doesn’t want to complain because he is trapped under your legs and that feels so good. 
“You’re so fucking good”, you get out breathily and run your fingers through his hair. You do it with both hands, giving him loving caresses without ever pulling at his hair. The sensation brings trembles to Jungkook’s lips. The tingles don’t stop running down his spine. 
He breaks away because he genuinely can’t breathe. His nose was blocked by your pussy and his mouth gagged by it. He didn’t want to break away but he had to. He pants, recovering by sloppily kissing the inside of your thighs. He holds them in his hands for it, leaving spots of sensitivity because he sucks way too hard. You let him because it feels so good. 
“I belong to you”, he gets out, “oh god, I’m yours. Yours. I’m yours.” 
“Yeah, mine”, you sigh, “my Bunny.”
“Yours. You own me”, he croaks and connects his mouth with your pussy. He moans, sucking your clit between his lips to make out with it needily. 
His drool runs down your folds and leaves you so messy for later. He can’t help it, you taste mouth-wateringly good. All cleaned of his cum and so intensely you. Jungkook swears he gets dizzy because of it. He missed your taste so much. So, so much.
“Fuck Bunny”, your voice trembles, just as your legs do, “my good Bunny, fuck you’re so good. Holy fuck”, you whispered at first but end up babbling the words as his quick tongue fucks your clit sensitive. 
Jungkook swears he will actually scream because of your praise. He loves it on normal days, but something about it today affects him like nothing else. He feels delirious from it, high and totally out of it. Perhaps it is because he had to be with it for seventeen days. Perhaps he is so starved for it, because his situation starved him. 
He slides his right hand from your waist and shifts a little so he could run his fingers down your folds. Your juices and his drool cover them instantly. He slides his left arm over your tummy, squeezes your side and pushes his fingers inside. Three at a time because you feel so ready for it. 
“Holy fuck. Ah!” 
You arch your back and pull his hair. 
“Jungkook.”
His name fell from your lips. Jungkook presses himself closer and curls his fingers needily. He is doing the best job. You only moan his name when he’s got you high on pleasure. 
Your right leg drops in the sheets because you didn’t have support anymore. You prop it again clumsily and roll your hips into him. 
“Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Oh god”, you chant, gasping for air repeatedly. 
Jungkook mewls and moans against your pussy. His mouth is pressed to your clit, his tongue is lapping at her in upwards motions. He moans each time he drags it down again and pulls another shake from your legs.
Your pussy is convulsing around his fingers, leaking constantly. Your favourite spot is so swollen under his fingertips. He would have to be a total idiot not to know where to touch because it is so fucking obvious to him. And oh how he touches you, how he makes sure that you get fucked so good now that his cock failed to do so. 
“Fuck Bunny”, your voice is slightly pitched, your fingers twist bundles of his hair, “I’m…close…mh ah.” 
Jungkook shakes in excitement. His instinct is to speed up, to do something different so you know how talented he is. But he knows better. You don’t want him to change anything, you want him to continue doing what he is doing right now. So he controls himself. He brings in your waist a little from his desperate grip and he moans against your pussy as his drooly mouth makes love to her. He curls his fingers where you need it most and he keeps pressing down on it as he rubs circles on it. 
You arch your back, twisting his hair because it is all that helps. You missed him so much. You missed his touch, his moans, his mouth on you. You are just as sensitive as him, closing your thighs around his head as the fire in your body gets too much.
“You’re making me cum”, you moan and drop in the sheets with a loud groan of his name. He drags his tongue up and breaks you. Your entire body is overtaken by the fire instantly, it feels most intense in your pussy. “ah Bunny, ah, aha, aah, oh god Bunny…”
Jungkook licks you through it, spilling tears of happiness because he is making you feel good and because he really missed feeling your orgasm on his tongue. You always throb and pulsate so much and it’s the best feeling ever. You’re squeezing his fingers so much, tightening in the most perfect ways. Jungkook fingers and licks and sucks you through it, moaning as if he was the one orgasming.
“Woah damn, wait”, you get out, tugging him away after the good turns bad because of overstimulation, “too much. Sensitive. Woah”, you add and twitch repeatedly.
“Mommy”, Jungkook gets out and kisses paths of admiration up your stomach. He pulls his fingers free, using them to hold you instead. To feel you up and remind his brain how it is to cradle you.
“Thank you so much”, he breathes, covering every inch of your stomach with kisses.
You enjoy it with closed eyes and your lungs working so hard to get air inside. Oh you feel so dizzy. This is going to take a while. 
Jungkook reappears from under the blanket, worshiping your chest now that every inch of your stomach has been adored. He cradles your breasts in his hands, kissing every inch of them with love and shaky breaths.  
“You’re such a good Bunny”, you whisper, feeling his lips tremble against your nipple. He takes it inside and sucks on it, mewling your name because you make him feel so good. He breaks away with yet another mewl of your name, kissing paths up to your neck.
His crotch meets your own, sharing the warm, sticky connection of good orgasms. He is soft, which lets you know that it will take a while for him as well. His tummy and chest are on top of yours, his elbows dimple the pillow beside your head. He hides away in the crook of your neck and begins kissing your sensitive skin. 
“I missed you so much”, he whispers and hugs you. 
Your head is cradled between his own head and the tensing muscles of his upper arm. His warm scent is so strong this way, his skin feels like heaven. You roll your head to the side so you could rub your nose against his head, and close your arms around him. 
“I missed you too”, you say and kiss his cheek, “my best Bunny, this was the loveliest way to wake up.” 
“Yeah”, he sighs, “it was so good. Mommy, can you praise me again?” 
You smile, hugging him closer, “my best Bunny, you’re such a good boy.” 
“Did I do a good job?”
“Yes Bunnybaby, you did the best job.”
Jungkook giggles, melting into you as he puts his weight on you. He wiggles happily, making you smile.
“You’re cute.”
“I love praise so much.”
“I know Bunny and you deserve it”, you say, listening to his happy giggles.
“I’m so happy to be home again”, he says and snuggles closer, “my Mommy. I missed you so much.” 
“Mhm yeah”, you agree and ruffle his hair, “you’re not leaving again. You’ll stay in my arms today.”
He giggles, “this is the best day ever.” 
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count-on-mi · 4 months ago
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Twice Interactive Story Part 1 Welcome to the club (Sana, Mina, Feat. Jihyo)
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Receiving the daily morning blowjob from your little secretary Mina starts your day, on the way driving to the company, there is a serious traffic jam, while you are boring when you are waiting, you drive to a trail and have sex with Mina on the car. It turns out that both of you are late today as you two are too focus on the sex, you two even don't have the time to tidy up.
 When you are in pantry later today, you hear some rumor about your relationships with Mina, which how come an inexperienced fresh grad can find a such good position, and she is in status of mess when she come to office today with you.
 I'd have to meet with Mina at some point to tell of all this
 When you head back to your room, you try to find Mina through the extension, before you make the call, you hear a knock on your door.
 'Come in'
 The one who enter is Sana, a subordinate of you, she is coming to present the progress on the new project.
 The presentation is so usual, but your feeling is so unusual, you feel Sana is a bit different today, every move of her is more sexy, more seductive, you don't understand what is happening, is it because of the rumor? You just act as normal to cover the nerve inside your heart.
 Before Sana leaves the room, she hold your hand and put it on top of her breast, she said' I guess I'm more useful than your secretary?'
 I'll start massaging her breast and say that I need to think about it more as I kiss her.
 Sana passionately replies to your kiss and you two start taking off the clothes.
 'Sir, how can I convince you that I am more useful than your secretary?'
 Sana said while she is teasing you by caressing your bulge still trapped inside you pants.
I joke that she'll have to do a lot more than that. As she strips down I bend her over say if she wants it be at her level she's going to have to show me.
 Sana is crawling on your desk, slowly taking out your semi-harden shaft from your pants. she starts slowly stroking it, and the sensation makes you quiver. Seeing your reaction, Sana smiles and strokes you faster until you are fully erected before she put it in her mouth.
 'Am I doing a good job, sir?' She said while she is swallowing your dick.
 You can feel she is much more experienced than Mina, the way she sucks, the way she uses her tongue, is keep bringing pleasure to you.
 However, you don't want to let her know that you are quite satisfied at this moment.
 I tell her it's not about how much she can give but how much she can take, and that we're going to be testing that
 Sana looks excited when she hears what you say, she let go of your cock and then jumps to hug you like a koala, her meaty leg is gripping your waist, and her breast is washing your face like a sponge, pushing her nipple in your mouth, you then suck on her nipple fiercely. Hearing her loud moan, you are more turned on. It becomes worse when you hear her whisper in your ear 'Use me like you are using your little lusty secretary'
 You just can't hold on anymore, you throw her on the sofa, and drape yourself all over her.
 I fold Sana in half, forcing her legs behind her head, as I press my cock against her. Pussy, I give it all to her in a swift motion, before I start pounding away at her small body.
 Once you enter Sana, you feel like you have entered a black hole, although she is not as tight as Mina, her pussy is like a magnetic, every time you thrust inside, you can feel the suction is becoming stronger.
 Sana is slowly adjusting to your size, you can hear her moan changing from pain to pleasure, you thrust her more furiously, her legs already bending over her head, you tell her to be quiet as you are afraid of others in the office may hear.
 However, Sana ignores you and keeps moaning loudly. 'Harder Sir, is this how you fuck that slut? Then she is too weak, you are too weak either.'
 She starts moving her hips to suit your rhythm and licking your nipple.
 I'll thrust into her harder, telling her to be quiet. I'll dig my hands into her tits squeezing them roughly.
 You keep fucking Sana and squeezing her breast roughly, but she has no intention to keep the volume down. Her moan is even becoming louder when she is close to cumming.
 You also feel your orgasm coming as the pleasure is building up.
 Sana can feel your cock twitching inside her, she smiles and start massaging your ball and caressing your nipple.
 'Seems you like my pussy very much, am I too hot to handle, Boss? Please make me cum too'
 I'll tell her to shut up and kiss her so she's quiet. Even after we both cum I keep fucking her, so that she gets overstimulated.
 You cum inside Sana while you two are passionately kissing, you can feel her pussy become tighter as she reaches the orgasm.
 You know it is a chance to conquer Sana and make her your cum slut, so you keep thrusting Sana when you are cumming, make sure to prolong her pleasure. She cannot recover from her organism and then she reaches another wave of orgasm shortly.
 'Ahhhh, I am cumming again, stop, please stop!'
 This time the orgasm is more strong, she even starts squirting, the warm liquid from her pussy makes you cum in her again.
 I keep thrusting, moving her lower body a little so when she squirts it'll fall onto her. All while telling her "I thought you said you were more useful than Mina. If you want to take her place so badly you need to learn how to handle this just like her. I'm just getting started."
 When Her orgasm has finished, you climb over her body, and put your cock next to her mouth.
 Sana knows what you mean, she immediately starts cleaning your still softened shaft, her tongue licks u tip and her is massaging your ball, make sure you have emptied your bag.
 Soon you are ready again for another round, you flip her body around, wanting to take her from behind this time. You hear some sound outside of your office.
 I decide to take her with me, I plant my cock inside her and carry her to the door in a standing full Nelson position.
 Sana starts moaning again when you are inside her, every step you walk you reach the deepest pot of her pussy.
 'Where are you going, Sir? You want everyone know that I am you cum slut now?'
 'If you want to be my cum slut, then shut up.'
 You then push her on the door, and keep fucking her in the Nelson position. Her moans echo with the sound of you bumping the door.
 You try to peek through the glass, you hope to find what is happening outside. But what you see has scared you a lot, you saw a girl peeking through the glass, and she can see what you are doing. When you two made eye contact, you accidentally cum in Sana again.
 'Ahh, so warm, but why so fast this time' Seems Sana has no idea that you two have been spotted.
 You let Sana get down of you, and she rests on the door to recover. You look through the glass again, but the girl has gone already.
 Well that's not good. I'll have to ask secretary Mina if she saw anything, but I'll have Sana clean me off first.
 You back to your seat and ask Sana to clean you again, She crawls from the door and starts the cleaning. Her skillful tongue is such a magic, you can feel your shaft starts to rise again, She playfully kisses your tips and stroking your shaft.
 'Such a naughty boy, cumming 3 times seems not enough for you, do u need me to help u again?'
 Although you are turned on by the idea to fuck her again, you are not sure will anyone peek again, you don't want to risk again.
 However, she keeps sucking you while you are considering, and you feel something need to be done, perhaps having her to suck your dick under the table would be a safer move?
 It would be a safer option, but I don’t feel like being gentle so while she's under there instead of being passive I'll be face fucking her.
 You wave at her and signal her to go under the table, when she is in the position, she starts sucking you again, but you don't want to treat her too gently. You grab her hair and start face fucking her, she seems shocked by your assault, but she cannot resist.
 You keep fucking her head by pushing her head towards you, you wanna see how much she can take, so you push your shaft all in, reach her deep throat, and stopped for.
 She is adjusting, but as soon as you find that she is licking your base, you start fucking her again, more fiercely. She soon starts gagging, but you don't wanna stop the pleasure, you just keep thrusting inside.
 Seeing her eye rolling up and she is keep pushing your thigh, signaling you to let go, but you are on the edge of orgasm, you know you will cum very soon.
 I'll switch from holding her down, to using both my hands to bring her from tip to base until I start to cum. When I do start to cum I'll hold her down again.
 You hold her head to your base again when you are ready cum, you shot your load deep at her throat, but she couldn't swallow all of them, she starts gagging again, and some of the sevens drop on her body, and the floor.
 You grab her hair again and ask her to clean your shaft, this time she did not tease you again, She just focusing on cleaning your cock, make sure you had cum everything in her mouth.
 You pull out from her mouth, and she starts to play with the cum on her body, licking her fingers and swallowing it. You then ask her to clean the mess before sending her out.
 'Am I performing well, sir?' Sana ask before she left the room.
 I tell her she did great, but she has lot of work to do if she wants to be as good as Mina. I'll spank her as she walks out of the room.
 Sana purposely swings her hip in a larger motion and smirks back to you when she close the door.
 Seeing this you really want to grab that slut back to your room to fuck her until she is out of mind, but you know you can't do it right now.
 You turn back to check what time is it now, you have no idea that you have fucked Sana for such a long time, and it's already near the end of working hours, but you remember you still to find mina for something, so you call your secretary in.
 As Mina walks in I ask her if she saw anyone get near my office.
 Mina shyly answers you that she did not notice anyone has come close to your room during Sana is in the room.
  Seeing her reactions, you know she also knows what was happening previously, you make her sit on your lap, and you ask about her work while you are playing with her body, you found that her panties are fully wet.
 'How can you focus on work when you are all wet, huh?' She just closed her eye and lying on your shoulder, acting shy and refusing to answer.
 I'll gently squeeze her sides "Come on, Mina. Give me answer". When she still refuses to answer I'll strip her of her panties and place my hand at her entrance. My fingers graze her pussy, enough to tease her a little, but not give her too much pleasure.  "Did you want to play a little?" I ask.
 Mina still refuses to answer, but hugs you and swings her head on your shoulder, you feel it is fun to tease her, you just use your fingers to draw circles near her clit, and you feel her pussy getting wet again.
 'You really don't wanna play with me, Minari?'
 She looks at you with an innocent face, did not speak anything, you know it means that she wants it. Her innocent face turns you on, that's the first reason you decided to hire her as your secretary.
 You put 2 fingers inside her, thrust them slowly, but deeper and deeper every time, tour another hand is grabbing her breast. Mina hugs you tighter and start kissing your neck.
 As I move my fingers deeper into Mina, I make sure to pay attention to her small breasts too, playing with her nipples by tugging them slightly. When I feel her pussy tighten around my fingers, I pull them out of her and ask her again "Does Minari want to play?" When she quietly says yes. I respond "that's a good girl" Before plunging my finger back into her and making her cum.
 When Mina finishes her orgasm, you slowly pull out your fingers. 'Do my baby girl want to taste a bit?' She nods and starts licking your fingers to taste her own juice.
 After the little short break, you two back to discuss the work, although she is still sitting on your lap, while your hands never left her breast.
 You ask her to prepare the list of the newly employed staff, you want to find out who is the girl that peeks you earlier.
 You suddenly remember the rumors you hear in the pantry when you are planting hickeys on the neck, so you stop immediately. Mina looks at you with a confused face.
 I apologize to Mina "Sorry baby. I just thought of something." I'll plant a few more hickeys on her neck eventually working myself into a frenzy, where I want to fuck her but restrain myself. I'll ask Mina if she's heard of those rumors from the pantry.
 Mina is enjoying your kiss and did not pay attention to your question, so you ask her again.
 'Hey baby, do you hear any rumors these days, umm about you and me.'
 'What do you mean, sir? Why there would be rumors, I am your secretary, isn't normal that I always stay at your room?'
 Mina seems to know nothing about the rumors, you don't know it's a good news or not.
 It's not the worst thing in the world. As I continue to fondle Mina, I ask her if she'd like to spend the night with me. She's worked so hard and could use a nice "massage"
 You ask Mina would she wish to go to your home tonight, as you want to give her a little reward for her hard work. Unfortunately, she already has plans tonight, so she is unable to join you tonight, but she promises she will be on time for your morning alarm tomorrow.
 You tell her it's OK and let her get off work, you then also pack your belongings and ready to leave.
 Having nothing to do after work, you decided to go jogging in the park. You see a woman with a nice body is stretching herself, you have come to this park for quite a long time, but it's first time you meet her. You greet her and then start warm up next to her.
 I'll stretch as I make conversation, saying that I haven't seen her around before, and asking if she's new to the area.
 You try to start a conversation with the woman when you are stretching, and she answers you passionately.
 The woman whose name is Jihyo, just moved into the district after she married her husband a few weeks before.
 You two keep talking during the jogging, you get to know more about her, and u can't stop admiring her breast, it keeps shaking like there's an earthquake when you are running.
 I'm going to pry my eyes away from Jihyo, and congratulate her for her marriage. I'll ask her if she likes the place so far and tell her that I usually jog at this time so we could work out together if she'd like.
 Jihyo is happy that you are willing to jog with her, you are the first friend that she made when she moves into this place.
 You also offer to help her settle in the district, she kindly accepts it, and then you two exchange contacts and say bye.
 However, you two share the same way back home, so you two have more time to chat and know more about each other. Finally, you find out that you two live in the same apartment.
 Well this is awkward. Before we go our apartments I shake her hand and say "it's nice meeting you and I hope we get along. If you need anything I'll be next door. It'll be nice to work out with you."
 Jihyo shakes back your hand and thank you for helping her, she said she will visit your home with her husband later to greet this good neighbor.
 When you back to your home, you take a shower and get some rest, ready to sleep. Your phone buzzes, and you check that it's a message from your personal trainer, Momo. She said you have skipped a lot of lessons lately, and remind you to keep a regular workout routine.
 I message her back telling her I made a friend who I'll be working out with in the park. If she wants to check up on me she could join us.
 You text Momo you have made a friend as your workout buddy, and invite her to join you. She said she will find you there if possible, but she also try to convince you that you should also do some weight lifting in the gym, you just simply reply ok then fall in to sleep shortly after an exhausted day.
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keiamor · 10 months ago
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Okay but Biker!Toji x Librarian! Reader is still on my mind-
Biker! Toji with one of those massive bike where it's wide enough for you to lay down and of course fucking you atop of it.
Biker! Toji with all black outfit, rarely take off his helmet and just look sketchy as fuck everywhere he goes. The only few times he actually take it off, he just look sexy as fuck with his hair slightly damped from the sweat.
Biker! Toji who checks women out whilst waiting in traffic, nodding at those who notice only to chuckle to himself whenever they blushed.
Biker! Toji who sometimes take women on a ride around when they approach him, only for him to weave through traffic and laughing when you beg him to stop or slow down.
Biker! Toji who definitely bribes officers to get out of a ticket, either offers to show them a good time or speed off when he catches them off guard.
Now comes the juicy part—
Biker! Toji who went to print something in library, only to stumble on you who’s nose deep in your book whilst making your way back to your desk. Having to wave you down just so you can show him how to actually use the printer, you were too busy processing what you had just read to recognise that shit eating grin he have plastered across his face as you followed him to the printer. It was then when you realise the printer was jammed, sighing to yourself as you tried to figure out a solution. Needless to say, Toji watched closely as he leans against said printer, fingers tapping against the cover. “So… Is that why you became a librarian?”
You were baffled, brows frowning as you carefully not to get your fingers trapped in this shitty printer. The last thing you want is for someone to be talking to you right now, “Sorry what was that?” Given the situation, it was only natural for you to sound a little angry. Huffing slightly as you answered without looking up at him, “Don’t play dumb with me now, sweetheart. Should you really be reading those kind of books at work?”
It was then when his question clicked, the way your froze were noticeable but not as much as the redness across your face. “I—“ You were speechless, caught red handed as you were trying to defend yourself, only then do you look up at the tall man with slightly teary eyes. “You’re wrong! I was just— I was—“
“Was what? Taking inspiration and trying to recreate them? I can help with that.” Toji leaned down and whispered with the same shit eating grin on his face, what’s wrong with this guy?
As by miracle, the printer started to working again and you take that as your cue to leave. Slamming the printer drawer close, glaring at this stranger before you walked away without saying another word. All you can hear was the same man, almost yelling atop of his long to thank you only for you to glare back at him again.
Safe to say, this same very strange, annoying man kept on showing up when you’re on the clock.
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doritochoi · 10 months ago
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Sensual Heat | J. Y
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pairing: boss!yunho x fem!reader
sumarry: Booking a room in Tokyo for your boss, not knowing that he wanted to show you something special.
genre: smut +18
warnings: mdni, fingering, eating cum?, shower sex, unprotected sex, yunho is obsessed with your boobs
word count: 4.3k
In the heart of vibrant and exciting Seoul, in an imposing and modern skyscraper, your story unfolded as a secretary for South Korea's biggest boss, Jeong Yuhno. You work at "Eclipse Dynamics", a corporation with diverse fields of activity, from technology to the entertainment industry. It was a world full of luxury and influence, and you were happy to be a part of this thriving story.
Jeong Yuhno, a charming and enigmatic man, seemed to have everything under control. His charming eyes exuded a magnificent power, and when he looked at you, you could feel it seeping through every layer of you. He had a charismatic presence and his hands really had a certain strength that you couldn't ignore. Every morning you would meticulously get ready at home, carefully selecting clothes to make sure they would catch Yuhno's attention. Even though you knew that your relationship was supposed to be strictly professional, you couldn't help but feel attracted to him. You made excuses to hang around him longer, to serve him his favorite coffee, or to bring documents directly to his office, under the pretense of being more efficient.
Today, unfortunately, you had an extremely important meeting scheduled for the first hour of the morning. You woke up early, prepared the necessary documents and left home early enough to reach the office on time. However, as you approach the building, you noticed that the streets were crowded with cars that were barely moving. The traffic was extremely heavy and the minutes ticked by mercilessly. You tried to find alternate routes or make daring maneuvers to avoid the jams, but it seemed like every attempt was doomed to failure. Your attempts to hurry were in vain and delay became inevitable as time relentlessly ticked away. Once you arrived in front of the imposing building of "Eclipse Dynamics", you ran towards the entrance, hoping that maybe you could still make it to the meeting on time. However, when you entered the elegant lobby of the building and looked at the commotion surrounding you, you realized that you were already too late.
With your heart pounding and a subtle hint of panic, you knocked lightly on Yunho's office door. As you waited for the answer, you smelled his distinct scent, a combination of woody and subtle hints of vanilla that always made you drift away and feel like you were in a dream. When the door opened and Yunho turned around with a slight smile on his face, his eyes seemed to search every inch of your body as if trying to reveal your innermost thoughts. Noticing your perfectly contoured skirt and slightly sheer shirt, his smile widened slightly and his gaze seemed to be somewhere between delight and curiosity. “I need an explanation for this…” he said in a slightly husky voice that reverberated through your soul like a hypnotic melody. Your legs felt like they were made of jelly, you had a hard time finding your words, absorbing his every move and word. Taking courage, you explained with concern and sincerity the reasons for your delay, mentioning the heavy and unpredictable traffic that messed up your plans. You apologized repeatedly, trying to keep your cool in the face of that all-powerful presence. Yunho continued to look at you, his eyes deep and mysterious, and in the silence that followed, you felt your heart beat faster and faster in your chest. You could feel your cheeks flush under his intense, piercing gaze, and the sensation was dizzying. After a tense pause, Yunho smiled calm and gentle with a controlled voice “I understand, but please be more careful in the future. It is important to keep your commitments and be on time for important meetings...". As you heard those words, you felt a wave of relief and gratitude that the encounter didn't end in a worse way. With a slight smile and heart still pounding, you left Yunho's office, promising yourself to never be late for such an important meeting again.
After leaving Yunho's office, you took the elevator up to your floor, thinking about the tense meeting and your promise to be more careful in the future. You walked into your office and sat down in your chair with a sigh of relief, opening your laptop to get down to your daily work. But while you were preparing your documents and emails, your hand slipped into your bag and you felt an USB stick you hid there. You take it out and plug it into your laptop, and Yunho's name appears on the screen. With a slight smile on your face, you opened the folder and started browsing through Yunho's pictures. You had pictures from prestigious business events, pictures of him in various poses, and even some more personal pictures with a charming smile on his face. Looking at him, your heart filled with gratitude that you had the privilege of working alongside such an influential and charismatic man like Yunho. However, a feeling of burning desire awoke your soul every time you looked at those pictures. You were mesmerized by his charming eyes, his charming smile and every detail of his well-proportioned physique. You spent some of the ten minutes of your break looking at those pictures, dreaming of a reality where maybe, just maybe, you could be more than just a secretary. It was a forbidden but stubborn fantasy in your heart.
While you were lost in Yunho's pictures, the light knocking on the door instantly made you flinch and the USB stick fell to the floor without you realizing it. Before you could react or realize what was happening, the door opened and Yunho entered the office. You tried to quickly regain your composure and started opening your documents, letting him see that you were busy and not sitting around. However, watching him out of the corner of your eye, you felt your heart beat faster and his every move made you tremble inside. Yunho walked over to your desk and leaning slightly over you. You smelled his divine perfume that made you melt on the spot. It was a smell that hypnotized you, and you couldn't help but breathe it deep into your chest. "We need to discuss some details for our bussines party in Tokyo," he said with a breathy voice and a slightly flirtatious smile. "I need you to reserve two hotel rooms for us. And of course I want to make sure everything is perfect for the event." As you were focused on your task, you could feel his watchful gaze on you and the sense that there was a subtle connection between the two of you. As you noticed with disappointment that the hotel you had chosen already had rooms booked, your questioning look did not escape Yunho's attention. He immediately understood that you had a question or a problem and moved closer, getting behind you. Feeling his left hand on your shoulder, you felt a wave of warmth and comfort, even in the midst of the tense situation. Then he leaned over you a bit, placing his right hand over yours, which was holding the mouse, and you realized he was practically holding your hand. As you two searched for other hotel options, you felt a vibration between you and him, a connection you couldn't ignore. With his hand on yours and his eyes intent on the screen, you felt like you were working as a team, and that feeling made you feel more confident and relaxed. "We should explore more options," you suggested shyly, turning your head slightly to him to read his reaction. "Perhaps we will find another hotel that will be suitable for our bussines party in Tokyo." Yunho looked at the screen for a few moments and then turned his attention to you with an encouraging smile on his face. "You're right," he replied in a calm, soothing voice. "Let's see what other options we have and find something that's perfect."
Finally, Yunho found the right hotel for the party named "Celestial Tokyo Grand Hotel". It was a place of refined elegance where only the most distinguished guests could afford to stay. The exclusive atmosphere and impeccable service perfectly matched Yunho's sophisticated tastes. While he was looking for available rooms and finalizing the reservation details, he said it would be best to you to pack up and head home to rest before the next day. In an elegant and delicate gesture, Yunho lifted you from the chair, letting him sit in your place. As he continued to attend to the details, he would occasionally glance at your skirt. You felt his gaze penetrate deep into you, causing a wave of conflicting emotions in your soul. While you had already left, Yunho stayed to turn off the laptop and arrange a few things on the desk. As he bent down to pick up a small object from under the seat, he noticed a USB stick. He thought maybe you accidentally dropped it and you didn't notice. He wondered what could be on that stick - maybe it was extra work materials you brought for that meeting.
With a mixture of curiosity and speculative thoughts, Yunho decided to insert the stick into the laptop. But the moment he opened the folder, his expression suddenly changed. There were pictures of him. Pictures of him, in different situations and places, in ways that surprised and perplexed him. The pictures seemed to be taken discreetly without him noticing or being aware of it. As he flipped through the pictures, he did his best to keep his composure and not show the surprise and amazement inside him. He was shocked to see that you had such a deep attraction to him, even more than he thought. Despite the initial surprise, a smile appeared on his lips, understanding that the feelings were mutual.
Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you started getting ready for a new day to go to the airport. You chose your outfit carefully, opting for a crisp white shirt and an elegant skirt, slightly shorter than the one you wore yesterday. You put on a little make-up, accentuating your natural beauty, and applied your favorite perfume to feel confident and charming. As you prepared to leave your apartment, your phone vibrated, announcing the arrival of a new message. To your surprise, you discovered that it was a message from Yunho. Surprisingly, he tells you that his car was already parked in front of your apartment and that he was waiting to take you to the airport. You were surprised and a bit confused by this initiative. Later, another message came from him, mentioning that if he picks you up, maybe you won't be late like yesterday. This observation made you smile slightly and think that maybe you should take him up on his offer, especially if it could prevent a delay like yesterday. With your heart beating slightly and a smile on your face, you decided to respond positively to Yunho's message and grab your bag to leave for his car, thinking that this trip to the airport could be different and enjoyable. You entered in Yunho's car and immediately felt that the inside of the car smelled just like him - a divine scent that made you feel surrounded by luxury and elegance. The drive to the airport was quite peaceful, and you were captivated by the beauty of the scenery passing by the windows. However, once you got to the airport, you noticed that you weren't heading to a regular departures area. Instead, Yunho led you to another gate where an impressively sized plane was located - Yunho's private plane. Realizing that it would be just the two of you flying with him at that moment, you felt your heart pound with excitement and anticipation. It was an incredible feeling to know that you would be flying with Yunho in his private plane, a unique and extraordinary occasion.
As the airplane approached Tokyo, your eyes were captivated by the beauty and elegance of the city below. From high above, you could see the tall buildings, bright lights, and the bustling atmosphere typical of a cosmopolitan city. Tokyo seemed to shine in the afternoon sunlight, and you couldn't help but admire every detail of the urban landscape. The animated streets, modern architecture, and fascinating blend of cultures and traditions created a breathtaking panorama, making you feel like you had entered a whole new world. Looking out the window, you admired the Japanese gardens, ancient temples, and well-kept parks, all framed by imposing skyscrapers and dazzling lights. Every corner of the city seemed to hold a fascinating story, and you couldn't wait to explore every aspect of this wonderful city.
While you waited for the taxi outside the airport, you noticed how the afternoon sunlight reflected in Yunho's eyes, accentuating their beauty and mystery. The warm air and the subtle scent of cherry blossoms floating in the springtime air created a charming and romantic atmosphere. In that moment, you felt captivated by his charismatic presence and enveloping aura. You arrived at the hotel and went to the reception. When you spoke to the receptionist that you had made a reservation for 2 rooms, you were shocked to hear her say, "I'm sorry, but under the name Jeong Yunho, we only have one room available." Your mind was reeling, it couldn't be...There couldn't be only one room, you couldn't stay in the same room with him..
Despite your uncertainty and desire to be in the same room as Yunho, you decided to explain the situation. “The reservation is only for one room and not two,” you shyly told Yunho. However, Yunho calmly and understandingly replied, "It's no problem, it's too late to search for other rooms now. We'll manage." The receptionist gave Yunho the keys and you felt a mixture of emotions at that moment. With your heart pounding, you went to the elevator with Yunho. As the elevator ascended to the top floor, you couldn't shake off the thought of whether Yunho deliberately chose this room. Were his actions intentional? Lost in contemplation, a sudden influx of people came into the elevator, pressing you and Yunho closer together. With limited space, you found yourself standing snugly against him, feeling his presence radiating warmth behind you. When the elevator abruptly halted, you stumbled, almost losing your balance. In that moment of instability, Yunho's hands instinctively encircled your waist, securing you in a firm yet gentle hold. You could feel his touch enveloping your small waist, providing a sense of safety and comfort amidst the crowded lift. Once you left the elevator, you felt a strange uneasiness inside you. You wanted to be closer to him, to feel his touch, but at the same time you were stumbling with fear and uncertainty. Looking around, you noticed that you were in an elegant and bright hallway, and you felt like every step you took was taking you away from the intimate moment you had just experienced in the elevator. In the end, Yunho opened to door and he let you in with gentlemanly politeness. As you walked into the room, you were stuck by its elegance and sophistication, which seemed to perfectly reflect Yunho's personality. However, when you noticed the double bed, you felt a knot in your stomach. This wasn't your plan and the thought of that intimacy made you feel a little uncomfortable. Yunho slightly caught your hesitation, but didn't mention anything, merely stating briefly and clearly . "I'm going to take a bath. Get ready in 30 minutes. We have to be there at 8pm." With that he disappeared, leaving you to deal with your own preparations, and you felt the time ticking by with incredible speed, putting pressure on you to get ready in a hurry for the upcoming party.
As you placed your dress on the bed and prepared your makeup on the table, you felt a presence beside you… It was none other than Yunho, his wet hair falling on his forehead and drops of water running down his well-defined chest. Your eyes slowly lowered, admiring his attractive abs, and your gaze then stopped even lower… He only had a towel wrapped around his waist. You swallowed hard, looking at him with a mixture of awe and delight, unable to control your inner reactions. But just as you reached out to open the door and enter the bathroom, you felt yourself being pulled slightly by the wrist, ending up bumping into his chest. Looking deep into your eyes, he says to you in a calm, deep voice that pierced your soul "How much longer do you think you can hide this?" His penetrating gaze runs through your every shred of thought and emotion, making you feel exposed and vulnerable. You looked at him, confused, not knowing what he was referring to and what had suddenly taken hold of him. "I don't understand what do you mean..." you said with a slightly shaky, questioning voice. With a sly smile and a flirty and sexy tone of voice, Yunho looked you deep in the eyes “Oh, my little one, don't be so surprised. I found the USB stick and I was curious to see what's hiding in there. And look what I found...pictures of me. Someone's pretty into me, right?", your eyes widened in surprise as you realized he was referring to the discovery of his pictures. You tried to hide your slight panic but your look said it all and Yunho noticed immediately. With your mouth dry and your heart pounding in your chest, you were speechless. Your gaze locked on Yunho and he smiled slightly, noticing the effect he was having on you. Yunho continued, letting his gaze play over your face and settle on your dry lips. "Are you sure you don't have anything to say? Maybe you should share your thoughts. I can't promise I won't be…intrigued by them," as he spoke, Yunho was slowly getting closer to you and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. It was hard to find the words, but his charming gaze and physical closeness made you feel overwhelmed. Yunho moved even closer to your face, gently caressing your cheek and speaking sweet words that made you feel butterflies in your stomach "I know you want me, my love. I can feel your desire, and I know it's as strong as mine." As he kissed you, you could almost feel your heart pounding in your chest. The kiss was passionate, and as your tongues intertwined in a dance of desire, you felt completely immersed in the moment. It was as if every move, every touch of his lips, were made especially for you. In that moment, time seemed to slow down, the world around you completely disappearing as you enjoyed the intimacy and passion of the moment. When the kiss grew wilder, the desire for more grew in both of them. You felt like you couldn't get enough of his touch, the taste of his lips, and you wanted more of this intense connection. Yunho gently pushes you against the bathroom wall. He closes the door with a determined gesture, and your moment of desire continues quietly. When you're almost out of breath, he stops and looks deep into your eyes, strengthening the bond between the two of you. As his lips met yours again, you could feel the flames of passion burning stronger and stronger. It was exciting and your burning desire made you unable to stop. Especially since you were already turned on and responding to Yunho's every touch with a surge of intense pleasure. With a yearning sigh, Yunho gently stopped next to your ear and whispered in a husky, sensual voice “You're only mine… completely and utterly.” His words echoed in your mind, amplifying the shivers that ran through your body.
Gripping your breasts firmly, his hands massaged them through the thin shirt, sending waves of pleasure. In a determined gesture, Yunho gently unbuttoned your shirt, revealing your firm and luscious breasts. "God, I've waited so long to do this," he murmured as he leaned down, beginning to caress your sensitive nipples. At the same time, you moan in pleasure under his skillful touches, savoring every sensation caused by his talented hands. With his deft hands, Yunho focuses his attention on your breasts, the rush of pleasure you felt was astounding. With every touch, every firm massage, and every hug, you felt overwhelmed with desire, and your body reacted accordingly. Meanwhile, your arousal had grown even more as Yunho felt how wet you already were. “Oh, you're wet already?” Your breathing was ragged and your thoughts were a haze of pleasure, but you suddenly remembered that you have to go to the party." Y-yunho, wait..The party..." you managed to stutter as you tried to res and speak at the same time, fighting all of your awake senses that were absorbed in pleasure. "Fuck the party, i want you now," Yunho spoke with determination and desire in his voice. With an encouraging voice and his firm tone, he conveyed unequivocally that the moment between you was far more important than anything else. His hands continued to explore, wanting more, wanting to feel you completely. He undid your skirt with determined movements and then slipped his hand between your legs, feeling how wet and turned on you were. He began to circle the material of the panty, teasing you, and before you knew it, he pushed the material slightly to the side and inserted a finger, amplifying the sensation of arousal and desire electrifying every fiber of your being.
The rhythmic movement of his fingers deepened the pleasure and the desire to have him inside you. With each quick movement of his fingers, you felt the pleasure intensify and all worries about the party and any other responsibilities seemed to evaporate. “Just like that, let your pleasure pour over my fingers,” Yunho spoke, and you felt yourself being carried away by the heightened sensations, letting go of all inhibitions. You felt your senses open up to the pleasure and he continued to move his fingers in a firm, challenging rhythm. In a moment of ecstasy, you lost control and released your pleasure, and without it being so intense you were in ecstasy. " Oh yes... go like that", he murmured, and you felt that unusual and much-desired pleasure. His fingers were now covered in your juice and he brought them to your mouth. You licked every trace of ecstasy off them, tasting your own juice in a way that added a new and erotic element to the whole moment. Then he kissed you, passing on your divine sweet taste. His lips were passionate and thirsty, and the kiss was so deep and satisfying it seemed to bring two souls into a tender and intimate union.
As the warm water flowed around you in the shower stall, Yunho's light and delicate movement made your heart beat faster. You loved how his wet hair fell perfectly on his forehead, when his lips lightly touched your earlobe you felt a pleasant shiver run through your entire body. Looking at him, you felt his eyes light up with desire and your lips spoke passionate words. “There's something special about you, something that totally captivates me,” you confessed, feeling the flame of desire rise between you. Yunho replied with a charming smile and an intense gaze. "Lucky is on my side to have you now. You are truly irresistible." You felt the towel wrapping Yunho fall at his feet, revealing his extremely aroused cock drenched in the liquid of desire. It was so big you could feel it kicking you, exuding overwhelming power and dominance. At that moment, he cupped your chin with his hand, looking up and looking deep into your eyes. "On your knees now," his strong, determined voice rang out. Your gaze met his cock, which looked so dominant and provocative. As you lightly stroked your fingers along its length, you were mesmerized by the perfect size and shape of his cock. Without hesitation, you took it in your hand and began to slowly lick the tip, feeling Yunho's strong pulsations of pleasure. Then, with expert skill, you began to suck him with passion and desire, satisfying him in the most pleasurable way possible. Yunho's moans, encouraging you even more, fueled the flame of passion and pleasure burning between the two of you, turning the moment into one of intense ecstasy and arousal.
In a moment of intense passion, Yunho quickly lifted you up and slammed you against the shower stall window on your back, placing a hand on your breast and carefully guiding his cock into you. You felt a surge of pleasure as you took him in, and the filling sensation made you feel complete and satisfied. His cock was so big, you wondered how it fit inside you. “Ahh…Yunho…I am close…fuck,” you moaned, your voice full of desire and anticipation. You wanted to make him feel as good as you felt in those moments of hot passion. "Me too, baby, just a little bit more," Yunho replied with a voice full of desire and passion. As you neared the climax of ecstasy, you felt Yunho's body tense up and fill your insides with his hot, hot liquid. The feeling of complete satisfaction and ecstasy filled the shower stall as you both attempted your intense and satisfying orgasm. With a satisfied smile on your face, you let yourself into Yunho's arms, feeling protected and loved. He picked you up bridal style and carefully wrapped you in the towel, carefully carrying you to bed. When he sat down next to you, he kissed your forehead lightly and his melodious laugh filled the room. "I don't think we're going to make it to the party," he said, grinning widely. "But I think I have everything I want here." With feelings of contentment and happiness flooding you, you replied, "Me too. You're all I want." Looking at each other with loving eyes, you knew you had everything you needed to feel fulfilled and happy at that moment.
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ammoniteblue · 5 months ago
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Not a Hero, Just an Author (p.1)
kenji sato x reader
Her latest novel a flop, Y/N is starting to worry she wasn’t meant to be an author. She’s 24, lives alone and most of her college friends are either married or in more traditional jobs. she feels like she’s being left behind. That is until a charming baseball player finds his way into her life and shows Y/N that it takes more than talent to be a star.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
“-And we’re expecting light showers this afternoon with heights of 17 degrees celsius. So make sure to pack an umbrella. In other news, the Giants are about to welcome legendary Japanese baseb-“
The morning radio rambled quietly in your car, some light background music on your morning commute to work. Today you’d left too late, a delay caused by your alarm clock not going off on time, and now you were paying for it. The traffic jam was long. At this rate you were going to be late for work.
You sighed, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. If you were even five minutes late your editor was going to kill you. this was a super important meeting, one Sana had been fighting for for months. It could make or break your career, taking you from a small time author to the real thing. An international bestseller. A book adapted into a screenplay. A movie. A show. World wide recognition. A dream come true.
You could feel that dream slipping away as the traffic in front of you crawled forwards.
There was a ding. Your phone. No doubt Sana asking about where the fuck you were. A cursory glance at your watch informed you had twenty minutes to get down town.
fuck.
Was your heart racing from the three cups of coffee you chugged this morning or the stress ?
Another ding. And then another. Oh my god.
It was wrong, perhaps even evil. something you’d never admit aloud. but a tiny part of your brain wished, just for a second, that a Kaiju would drop down from the sky and rid the streets of traffic.
A great scream tore through the air. It was unlike anything you’d ever heard before. Beyond animalistic. a noise only a monster could make. Horns began to blare ahead of you and as you strained your neck to look up you realised why.
“Be careful what you wish for…” You hissed to yourself, as a towering reptilian figure appeared ahead of you.
It was easily taller than the surrounding skyscrapers. The Kaiju resembled a lizard, a knock off version of Godzilla. It’s beady yellow eyes didn’t seem to blink and as the creature took a step the ground trembled. earthquake like ripples shook the earth, sending your cup of coffee teetering over in your car.
People had begun to panic. Pedestrians turned and ran in the opposite direction, not afraid of pushing each other out of the way. In your rear view mirror you watched as an office worker knocked an old lady over in his hurry. He didn’t bother to stop.
Now you’d never call yourself a hero. You weren’t particularly brave or even outgoing. Maybe that’s why you became an author. It was a great gig and one you got to do alone. So it came to a shock to you when you found yourself getting out of your car and rushing into the crowd.
People barrelled past you, mothers clinging to their children, workers evacuating buildings. even cats and dogs had taken to running for the hills. You did your best to push through them until you were there, standing over the old lady.
She was struggling to pick herself back up, her cane discarded to the side. Quickly, you grabbed it and with your free hand helped her up to her feet.
“Thank you my dear, you shouldn’t be putting yourself in danger.” She said her voice wobbling a little.
A quick glance down informed you that she’d been hurt. blood was trickling down her left leg. she needed medical attention.
“It’s okay, we need to find you hel-“ You began to say only to be interrupted by a thundering roar.
A ray of purple light shot only metres past you both. It hit a row of cars near you, each one vaporising into nothing but debris and ash. From where you were huddled you could feel the heat radiating off of it.
The old lady let out a scared scream and as you glanced up you realised why. The Kaiju’s snakelike eyes were trained exactly on you. You blinked as your body suddenly went numb. It was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. To be under the glare of a creature so big, so terrifying. A primal instinct in you told you to run. to leave the old lady and turn and save yourself. But you didn’t. You stayed. Whether that was out of nobility or fear you didn’t know.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not when in mere moments you would be dead. reduced to nothing but ash on the sidewalk. No big meeting, no movie deal. You’d die a small time author no one has ever heard of. Your parents. What would they think ? their only child dead. They wouldn’t even get to say goodbye.
goodbye mum. goodbye dad. I’m sorry.
There was nothing you could do but try to shield the old woman as the Kaiju opened its mouth and roared. There was a great flash of purple and heat. heat unlike anything you’d ever felt. and then nothing.
Moments passed and you realised you weren’t dead. Neither of you were. The attack hadn’t come. But how ?
A feeble glance informed you how.
Stood only mere feet away from you, shining in silver and red was Ultraman himself. The city’s hero returned after months of absence. He was here. He was back. He saved you.
“Ultraman.” You breathed, staring in wonder up at him as he used a shield to divert the attack.
It was almost beautiful. the way the purple ray clashed with the blueish shield creating a symphony of light and colour.
The attack stopped and his shield dropped. Before the Kaiju could move, he raced forwards and tackled the beast into the ground. the impact sent tremors through the earth, one’s that almost sent you and the old lady toppling over.
“Quickly, let’s find shelter.” You slung her arm over you and used this diversion to try and drag you both to safety.
Soon after the KDF arrived, and emergency services. A paramedic saw to the old lady, Mrs Tanaka, who repeated endless apologies to you. She held your hand in hers and said:
“my dear you saved my life. i can never repay you. i am forever in your debt.”
Then as you started to cry, overwhelmed by stress and sheer relief at still being alive, she brought you into a hug. it was warm and homey. it felt like you were a kid again. like everything would be alright.
When you did finally turn up at your editors, six hours late and covered in scratches and blood, some yours and some Mrs. Tanaka’s, Sana flung herself into your arms. Your boss bitch editor, the self proclaimed Ice Queen of publishing, bawled in your arms like a homesick baby. The meeting was pushed back till you felt better and she demanded you take a few days to rest and de stress.
By the time you got home you were a shaking mess of nerves, trauma and exhaustion. if not for the blood and dirt you would’ve flung yourself on your bed and promptly passed out. But a shower was sorely needed and after the shower you realised how hungry you were. Saving an old lady’s life hadn’t left a lot of time for lunch.
There was a ramen shop below your apartment. a nice cosy spot run by a sweet old man who’d gone out of his way to actually read your book, after you’d finally told him you were an author. you’d been a regular there since you moved into your apartment a year ago. A nice warm bowl of ramen might just be the thing you needed.
In sweats and glasses you padded out of your apartment and down the stairs.
It was only nine thirty and the streets of tokyo were very much alive. People shuffled up and down the streets. groups of giggling university students, no doubt on their way to a bar or club. Oh to be young. Office workers were only just now leaving work, slumping down the streets like zombies. Their briefcases hanging limply in hand.
You shuffled into Mr Ozami’s ramen shop to be greeted with the savoury smell of veggies and meat. It was fairly quiet, a lull between the dinner crowd and night walkers. The booth in the back, your favourite spot, was free. Mr. Ozami didn’t even give you a menu, he nodded from behind the counter and went to whip up your usual.
It was nice. the pair of you exchanged barely any words but had somehow forged an unlikely friendship. right now it was just what you needed. quiet company and a warm meal.
Prompt as always, Mr. Ozami slid a bowl in front of you, popping a pair of chopsticks down. He nodded again and like that returned to his spot behind the counter. He knew you’d leave the exact amount of change for the meal after. Never a tip. you’d tried the first time you came and he’d immediately handed it back.
It was perfect. down to the last minute detail. Warm broth flowed into your stomach and slowly your nerves began to fade. an ease settled over you. tonight you’d sleep well. despite the absolutely harrowing day, you’d sleep well.
Or so you thought, until a stranger walked into the shop.
at first you didn’t notice. your whole face was almost in your bowl of ramen, too fixated on slurping noodles to realise someone else was in the shop. Maybe that’s why you were so startled to notice a guy standing by the counter, examining a menu in hand. Or maybe it was because the longer you stared the more you realised he looked familiar.
Too familiar.
And that’s when it hit you.
Tall, lean and dark haired. the man in front of you was Kenji Sato. New addition to the Giants and legendary baseball player.
Holy shit.
He looked up not giving you any time to wipe the broth off of for your face. a noodle hung limply from your mouth. for the second time today you were shocked still. The moments of eye contact were unbearable. His eyes flickered over you and you could see in his mind he was weighing you up.
Of all the days to be wearing sweats and slippers.
Thankfully he must’ve registered you as disgusting because he glanced away and back at the menu. With his eyes off you, you were free to slurp the noodle up and wipe the broth from your mouth, while trying to ignore the gentle stab in your gut.
Of course a superstar like Kenji Sato wouldn’t find you attractive. He wasn’t just a stupidly talented athlete, he was also good looking enough to be a model. in fact he did model. you’d seen the giant billboards with his face on, the flying blimps with him eating food or drinking something. not to mention in one fashion magazine there’d been this pic of him half naked with fake tattoos a-
No that was enough. stop it. today had been hard enough and you came here to relax. this person, because at the end of the day Kenji Sato was a person just like you, would not ruin that for you. You needed to sleep tonight. You needed to stay calm.
“Hey I saw you staring so i thought you might want this.” And there goes staying calm.
Kenji Sato was stood in front of your booth, looking like sin itself in his varsity jacket and sunglasses, holding out a signed baseball card to you.
For the third fucking time you froze. seriously it was becoming a problem. clearly you could only take action when it came to saving little old ladies. but anything else ?? nope not happening.
“Here then, i’ll just leave it on your table.” He half chuckled, sliding the card next to your bowl.
It wasn’t till he turned away that your brain finally started to work and your stupid mouth opened.
“O-oh uh thanks. that’s very nice of you but maybe you should save it for someone else ?” oh my god. what the hell were you saying.
Kenji paused and half turned to face you. one of his eyebrows was raised.
“It’s just,” you quickly tried to save yourself, “i’m not the biggest baseball fan and there’s probably a fan out there who’s really like it.”
nope yep you made it worse. why were you telling like the best player in japan, maybe the whole world, that you didn’t like his sport ?? Did you hit your head today and just forget ? It had to be the exhaustion talking, it had to be.
Amazingly, Kenji didn’t balk at your words. Rather the corners of his mouth twisted into an amused smile. He considered you for a moment and maybe he would’ve said something in response, if Mr. Ozami hadn’t come over with a take out box.
“Here.” He said plainly, handing the box to Kenji.
Kenji took it with a thank you, maybe a little perplexed at Mr. Ozami’s blunt way of speaking. he had been in the states almost his whole life. They probably did things differently over there.
“So um yeah…here you go ?” you held the card out to him, trying not to blush in embarrassment at your awkwardness.
everything that had come out of your mouth since he walked in felt stupid. it was like you were a completely different person. Why were you acting like this ?
Kenji glanced between you and the card. His amused smile never faded.
“You know what,” he grinned, “keep it. might just make a baseball fan out of you yet.”
He gave you one last look and it took everything in you to not turn bright red under his gaze, before turning and walking out of the shop.
It wasn’t till many minutes later that you glanced away from the doorway where he’d disappeared through. The card in your hands was shiny, a small laminated rectangle.
There he was, bat in hand, dark eyes shining, a self assured smile on his face. at the bottom was his signature scribbled in dark ink.
you flipped it over, expecting to find nothing but a blank white space. what you saw sent your heart into a cacophony of thumps. the blush you’d been holding back spilled over. every part of you felt red and hot and horribly unnerved.
scrawled across it in lazy handwriting were the digits:
+81 3 1234-5678
Kenji Sato’s phone number…..
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literaryvein-reblogs · 17 hours ago
Text
The Most Confusing Words in English
To, two, too
To – used in the infinitive form of a verb, such as “to walk”, and also to mean “towards”.
Too – this means “as well” or “also”; for example, “me too”.
Two – this is the number; for example, “two days ago”.
There, their, they’re
There – this refers to a place that is not here; for instance, “over there”. It can also be used to state something, such as “There is an argument to suggest…”, or (in a slightly old-fashioned way) to comfort someone: “There there, it will be alright.”
Their – this indicates possession: something belonging to them. For example, “we could use their boat”.
They’re – this is a shortening of “they are”. For example, “They’re going to be here at 12pm”.
Your/you’re
Your – this is the second person possessive form, indicating something belonging to you. For example, “This is your decision.”
You’re – short for “you are”, as in “You’re amazing.”
Bonus: Yore – you’re not very likely to come across this one, but it’s an old-fashioned way of referring to a time long ago. For example, “In the days of yore” means a similar thing to “In olden times”.
By/buy/bye
By – this preposition refers to something beside, near or through. For example, “There’s an ice cream van over there by that tree.”
Buy – this is a verb meaning to purchase something. For instance, “let’s go and buy a car.”
Bye – short for “goodbye”, this is an expression used to bid someone farewell. Real grammar sticklers would probably insist on using an apostrophe at the beginning to indicate the absence of the word “good” – that is, “’bye” – but this is old-fashioned, so you don’t need to include one.
Stationary/stationery
Stationary – this word is used to describe something that is motionless (not moving). For example, “the cars were stationary in the traffic jam.”
Stationery – pens, pencils and other things you write with or on, for use in the office or when studying.
Compliment/complement
Compliment – this is a nice thing you say to someone to flatter them, for example, “You look nice today.” The adjective of this is “complimentary”, which has two meanings. It can refer to something expressing praise – such as “He was most complimentary, saying how pretty I looked.” But just to add to the confusion, “complimentary” can also mean “free of charge”. For example, “the airline provided complimentary drinks for those delayed”.
Complement – this is something that goes well with something else. For example, “the dress complemented the colour of her hair.” The adjective form is “complementary”, meaning things that go together, used as follows: “The two of them provided complementary skills; he was good at writing, while she was good at sales.”
Brake/break
Brake – this spelling refers to the brakes on a car or other vehicle, and in a wider sense to slowing down. For example, “He applied the brakes to slow the car down.”
Break – confusingly, this spelling this has several meanings. As a verb, “to break” means to separate something into parts. For example, “I’m going to break this chocolate bar into three so we can share.” Note:
As a noun, it can be used to signify a pause or stop, such as “a break in the schedule”, or you can “take a break”, meaning have some time off.
You can also use the word to describe the consequences of the verb – when you “break” something, it is “broken” and the site of the separation can be referred to as “the break”. For instance, “He broke his leg, but the break is mending.”
Coarse/course
Course – this has many meanings:
A course – a programme of educational study.
“Of course” means “naturally”. For example, “Would you like a chocolate?” – “Of course!”
It can also mean “direction”; for instance, an “unexpected course of events” describes events unfolding in an unanticipated direction. You could also say, “I don’t know what course of action to take”, or “The plane took a northerly course.”
In sport, it describes an area of land or water set aside for the purpose of a particular activity, such as a “golf course”, “water skiing course” or “cross country course”.
Another context in which you might hear this word is to describe parts of a meal. For instance, the “main course” is the most substantial part of the meal.
Less often heard is the use of this word to describe hunting with dogs, such as “hare coursing”.
As a verb, “to course” refers to the movement of liquid, such as “water coursing through a channel”.
Coarse – this word is used to describe things that are rough or crude. This could be rough in texture – as in “sandpaper is very coarse” – or to describe language, such as “His humour was very coarse.”
Here/hear
Here – this refers to something being in one’s current location – for example, “There is a strange smell here”. You can also use it when introducing something, such as “Here is something I know you’ll like.”
Hear – this means to detect a sound. If it helps you remember it, consider the fact that the word “hear” contains the word “ear”! You can also say “Hear, hear” to indicate that you agree with someone. This bizarre phrase is a shortened form of a 17th century phrase used in Parliament, “Hear him, hear
Peace/piece
Peace – this is the absence of war, as referred to by Lennon in 1969. The word also refers more generally to a feeling of contentment, for example “The woods were very peaceful.”
Piece – spelled this way, the word means a unit or portion of something, such as “a piece of cake”. To “say your piece” means to state your opinion about something, while “giving someone a piece of your mind” means to tell them – usually in anger – exactly what you think of a situation.
Whole/hole
Whole – this means “complete” or “entire” – used as in “the whole story”.
Hole – a “hole” indicates a lack of something, as in an opening. For example, the hole in a ring doughnut is the missing bit in the middle, while a “Black Hole” is an invisible area of space that appears to have nothing in it, because its gravity prevents even light from escaping.
Stare/stair
Stare – the verb “to stare” refers to the act of gazing intently at something. As a noun, it refers to the look itself – for example “a long, cold stare”.
Stair – this refers to a single step, or one of a number of steps, used to connect two different levels, with variants including “staircase” (the complete set of steps), “stairway” (the steps and their surrounding walls), “stairwell” (the shaft occupied by the staircase), “downstairs” (the bottom level) and “upstairs” (the upper level).
Know/no
Know – “to know” means “to be aware of something”; for example, “I know he is afraid.” The K at the beginning is one of a number of instances in the English language of a silent K, so it’s pronounced in exactly the same way as “no” – even though if you take the K off, you have the word “now”, which is pronounced in a way that rhymes it with “how”. Just another example of unexpected exceptions to English language rules!
No – the opposite of “yes”, used to indicate the negative. Bizarrely, “no.” – with a full stop after it – is also used to abbreviate the word “number”. For example, “No. of pages: 150.”
7 meanings sounding like “raise”
To finish, this is a 7-variant multinym. Don’t worry – you’re not likely to come across many of these, but you might like to see it to give you an idea of just how complex the English language can be!
Raise – to lift something up
Rays – sunbeams
Rase – to erase something
Raze – to knock something down
Rehs – sodium salt mixtures
Réis – plural of real (the currency of Portugal until 1911)
Res – plural of re, as in the musical scale (doh re mi...)
The above are some of the most common homophones.
Homophone - a word that sounds the same as another word, but that has a different meaning.
Comes from the Greek words “homo”, meaning same, and “phone”, voice.
The two (or more) words may be spelled differently, but just to make life difficult, they can also be spelled the same.
The potential for confusion for native and non-native speakers alike is, unfortunately, great.
Different Types of Homophone
Homophone – words/phrases that sound the same but have different meanings
Homograph – words that sound and spelled the same but have different meanings
Homonym – words that have the same spelling but a different meaning
Heterograph – words that sound the same, but are spelled differently and have different meanings
Multinym – words that sound the same but have more than two different meanings and spellings
On multinyms: In English, there is one instance of a multinym with no fewer than 7 variations, all sounding the same but meaning different things. There’s also one instance of 6 variants, 2 of five, 24 of four and 88 of three. Some of the variants are archaic words.
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