#weird edges of the design space

[youzicha]

It's cute to say that stealth aircraft got rounder for the same reason that video game characters did: because the computers got more powerful. But it's not the complete story. More accurately, it was specifically Lockheed's stealth aircraft that evolved that way.

Famously, a Lockheed employee noticed a paper describing how to calculate electromagnetic scattering from a polyhedron. They implemented it in software and used it to design the Have Blue demonstrator, which evolved into the F-117.

But at the same time, Northrop developed the Tacit Blue demonstrator, which was not designed using the edge diffraction software, and did not consist of only flat polygons.

Tacit Blue was the first aircraft to use "edge convolution" (a.k.a. "Gaussian stealth"). This smoothes out the edges by convolving them with a gaussian function. In particular, the convolution makes the edge of the wing sharper than if it was just a wedge between two polygons (with an ideal gaussian function it would extend out infinitely, so the acute angle would approach 0 degrees). This means that the edge of the wing will reflect less radar waves if it is illuminated directly from the side (from the horizon), which is the typical case if the plane is flying straight and the enemy radar is far away.

All stealth aircraft now use the gaussian smoothing idea, and you can clearly see the commonalities between Tacit Blue and the Northrop B-2.

Actually, when it came time to design the ATF (which evolved into the F-22), Lockheed also had to abandon their edge diffraction software. The ATF chief engineer commented:

We did not know how to analyze a curved stealthy shape in those days. The software wasn't sophisticated enough, and we didn't have the computational capacity we needed. We had our hands tied by the analytical problems. Lockheed had become convinced that, if we could not analyze a design as a stealthy shape, then it could not be stealthy. We would not break through that barrier until 1984. [...] We simply started drawing curved shapes even though we could not run the designs through our analytical software models. When we went to curved airplanes, we began to get more acceptable supersonic and maneuver performance. Instead of relying on software models, we built curved shapes and tested them on the company's radar range. The curved shapes performed quite well in the radar tests.

So in the end, I think the "smooth stealth planes" (B-2, F-22) were mainly designed heuristically and evaluated by building actual model airplanes; having fast computers to simulate them was not the bottle neck.

[sysig]

Anyway, back to testing (Patreon)

[dismembered-narrator]

eskew city 🤝 pikmin 2 caves

[beloveds-embrace]

Okay what if (and stop me if I'm wrong here I'm new to A/B/O) the guys see someone flirting with the designation-less reader and they start subtly start marking them with pheromones to tell everyone else to back off?

I love this idea so much ugh 😩 scenting in the omegaverse always makes me so jdjsjen and no worries! Nothing about what you said is wrong and welcome to the blessed cursed space that is a/b/o

Original post

It started with Price and Ghost stepping into the armory.

You hadn’t noticed them at first, too focused on trying to edge away from the overly friendly Alpha soldier who just wouldn’t take the hint, no matter how disinterested you made sure you looked. He was leaning in closer than necessary, voice dropping lower with each word like he was trying to make the conversation feel more personal. Though your nose picked nothing, you just knew he was probably, likely, drowning the area with his stench.

You didn’t know how to stop it without making a scene. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong- just too many compliments, too much interest in your plans after hours, too much weight in the way he said your name. It left you off balance, unsure if you were imagining the tension curling low in your stomach. Unpleasant tension, as if youmd accidentally eaten spoiled food.

These days, it seemed as if you either garnered no attention, and when you did, it was unwelcome attention. At least it was different and far more pleasant with the 141.

“So, love, I was wondering-“

Then Price cleared his throat.

It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a gunshot, sharp and commanding. Both you and the soldier froze, heads snapping toward the sound, and there he was- Captain Price, standing in the doorway like he owned the entire building, eyes locked right on the man in front of you.

Ghost was just behind him, silent and still as a shadow, but the weight of him filled the room like a second presence- dark, heavy, watching, shoulders tense like Price. You’ve been with them long enough to tell when they are angry based on body cues, and right now, that’s what they were.

Not for the first time, you wondered just what they’d smell like. Would it be heavy and harsh on your nose? Somehow, you doubted it. Then again, Soap did tell you that angry Alphas smell like burnt rubber most of the time.

You eyed the way your… admirer’s nose wrinkled, jaw tight, eyes shifting around.

You hoped it smelled worse.

The soldier stumbled over a few words before making an excuse to leave. He didn’t even try to finish the conversation- rude- and barely managed to keep his composure as he slipped out the door.

Letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your shoulders relaxed slightly as you turned to thank them- but the words caught in your throat when you saw the way they were now looking at you.

It wasn’t anger, exactly. It was something… sharper. Something that made your pulse quicken and your palms feel clammy, even though you hadn’t done anything wrong.

But then Price strode towards you and nodded, low and firm, clasping a hand on your shoulder, and Ghost lingered just long enough to brush his shoulder against yours before following him out the door.

… weird Alphas.

“Weird Alphas.” You said outloud as well, huffing.

You thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

It was subtle, so subtle that you almost didn’t notice at first.

Soap was the easiest to miss, playful and touchy by nature so much so even one as people-averse as you were comfortable next to him by now. He slung an arm over your shoulders whenever you were nearby, leaning into your space like it was nothing. He’d linger there just long enough that your skin was warm before pulling away, flashing you a knowing grin you didn’t understand.

Gaz was more deliberate. He’d pass you things- gear, water bottles, paperwork, pens- and his fingers always brushed yours and lingered. Small steady touches, leaving traces of his warmth on everything he handed you, leaving traces of his warmth on your skin. When you worked together, he’d lean in close enough that his presence settled over you, wrapping around your skin like a second layer. Your shoulders and thighs would touch, and sometimes you swore you could feel a deep purr coming from him.

Price didn’t touch you often, but when he did, it lingered and was acutely felt. A hand at the small of your back to guide you through a crowded hallway. A warm palm resting against your shoulder during debriefings, right where your faulty scent glands are. Solid, steady touches that felt heavier than they should’ve- clearly intentional even to the likes of you, and yet you didn’t want to really, truly acknowledge them.

And Ghost- Ghost was the worst.

He didn’t say a single word when he draped his jacket over your shoulders after a long, rain-soaked training session, the heavy fabric still warm from his body and shielding you from the wafting chill. You’d tried to give it back later, but he pushed it into your hands with a low, demanding “Keep it.” That left no room for argument. You didn’t think much of it at first- just a practical gesture- but you caught the way the others looked at you after, the raised brows and faint smirks that made you second-guess what it really meant, especially when you found yourself wearing it long after the cold had faded. You’d tried wearing your own jacket, but the look he gave you had you sighing, leaving, and returning to wearing his.

You didn’t understand it at first, didn’t recognize it for what it was. But others did.

It was possessive. Territorial.

The stares started- quick, assessing glances from the other soldiers that led to widened eyes. People moved out of your way in the hallways, gave you more space than before. Conversations shifted when you walked into a room, voices dropping, eyes darting toward the men who always seemed to hover just behind you.

You didn’t know what to make of it.

And then Soap grinned at you over lunch one day where you wearing a shirt of John’s now and Ghost’s jacket, leaning close enough to bump his shoulder against yours, and said, “Looking good, bonnie. Don’t think anyone’s stupid enough to try sniffin’ around you now.”

It took you a second too long to process what he’d said. When you finally did, your eyes darted toward the others- toward Price, who didn’t even look up from his plate, and Gaz, who only smirked and in your shock, slipped the bracelet he was wearing on your wrist. Toward Ghost, who met your gaze with something dark and unreadable before leaning back in his chair like he wasn’t affected at all. No; he was satisfied, like a smug bear.

You swallowed.

It should’ve felt suffocating, overwhelming, but it didn’t.

It felt… safe. Secure in a way you didn’t know how to explain. The guy that had been bothering you had even requested a transfer.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t call them out on it.

But later, when Price pulled you in his face and rubbed his face, his chin and beard all across your neck, you didn’t move away.

The “good girl” you got was all you could think about hours later.

[keferon]

Chapter 3 of Jazzprowl mecha! >:D

Previous chapter

Under the cut⤵️

Jazz thinks Prowl is fucking weird.

With space around him and aliens and fucking teleportation and all that crazy shit...Prowl's weirdness isn't too obvious at first. But once Jazz stops marveling at the view outside the window, his attention shifts completely to his new companion.

And. Well.

"'Your plates are so squarish.'"

Prowl takes a break from reading something on his tablet and raises his eyebrows in surprise

"They are."

Jazz moves closer curiously

"No offense okay but isn't it... Hmm. Stupid?"

He raises one hand and lightly slaps the edge of his palm against the center of Prowl's chest.

"What's the point of making armor this shape? And with so many wide gaps? All the strikes will go straight through. It's kinda dangerous. "

Prowl purses his lips in confusion.

"Excuse me? As if your armor makes more sense."

"It does."

"You...wha...you know what. Humor me, explain what you mean."

Jazz shrugs.

"It's round. And the gaps are...uh. What's the right word. They're thin? It's very hard to grab with your teeth or get under with your tentacles. See? You are. Dude, no offense, but you're like, really grabbable."

Prowl just silently opens and closes his mouth for a couple seconds, trying to think of what to say in response. Finally he decides to focus, but not on the part Jazz might have been expecting

" You... were built to fight the Quintessons?"

Jazz nods

"Course I was. Why else?"

Prowl looks....Very worried and somehow sorry for Jazz.

That's weird.

Jazz lets this detail just linger in his mind. He's not sure what conclusion to draw from it yet. And it's very likely that his poor knowledge of the unfamiliar language is setting him up. He's not sure.

------

Prowl has wheels. Jazz gives himself a mental smack for not paying attention to them in the first three seconds, but it doesn't matter now.

Because Prowl has freaking wheels in his shoulders and Jazz has a bunch of questions in his head.

Why the fuck does he have wheels??? In a place like this??

Prowl looks up at him.

"Something wrong?"

Jazz reaches out his hand mesmerized and spins one of the wheels.

The wheel spins.

What an amazing world.

Prowl looks confused again

"Jazz?"

"What are they for?"

Prowl faintly twitches one of his weird little wings.

"To drive."

Jazz spins the wheel again

"But you can't drive them! I mean, they're...uh."

He tries to find the right words in his head to say "inside your shoulders" but. Shit. He doesn't know how to say it so he accepts his linguistic defeat and helplessly twitches his horns.

"...They're on top."

Prowl tilts his head, clearly missing the point, and turns one of his legs around

"I've got another ones here...?"

Jazz instantly squats down and. Yep. There are wheels in the legs too.

Prowl moves his foot away before Jazz can spin that wheel too.

"I can just show you if you want."

That's a great idea. A fantastic one. Jazz is hellbent on seeing how it would actually work, because all his brain offers him is "fall on your back and awkwardly drag yourself along the ground?"

Prowl doesn't fall anywhere.

Instead, he suddenly ALL starts moving and freaking folds into himself? Jazz isn't sure what exactly he was expecting to see, but watching another mech fall apart like lego sure as hell wasn't that????

Not falling apart, he realizes a moment later.

Is it reassembling? Into something else???

A second ago, Prowl was standing next to him, and now there is a

Is that a fucking car???

Jazz can't say anything more clever than a loud "HAH???"

It is indeed a car. The design is very odd and Jazz can't recognize the model, but it looks like something vaguely race-y?

He pats the roof of it.

"That's so cool!!!"

The car somehow manages to look awkward and moves away from him sideways like some weird metal crab.

What the- what the hell-

------————————-

Prowl's mech has an amazing face.

Not that Jazz is staring, but he can appreciate the amazing attention to details. The eyes, the nose, even the lips. Who and why would make a mech with such lifelike face? That ..would make sense if Prowl had to appear in front of a camera, wouldn't it? Maybe he's some kind of celebrity like Blurr?

Jazz doubts it. Prowl doesn't strike him as someone who's used to attention.

But it's a good face, yeah.

Prowl valiantly ignores his staring, but after ten minutes gives up

“What?”

Jazz shrugs. He's been doing that a lot lately.

"You have a really cool face."

Prowl chokes on air and looks confused again. If you look closer. What is this face even made of? It looks metallic but it bends??? Literally...how?? How does it work?

Jazz is taller than Prowl, so he has to bend down to get a closer look. He wants to ask if the mech's face was modeled after the pilot's, but. Shit. How do you put it into simple words ?

Man. Okay. Uh. Appearance. How do you say "real?" True-positive? Wait, no, true and false are from English, this new language must contain one state word for true and false at the same time.

Prowl watches Jazz's struggle with the patience of a true buddhist monk.

What word even summarizes the state of being true or false? Hot and cold is "temperature", heavy and light is "weight" and then..

Jazz fumbles his fingers helplessly.

"What's the word for. You know how."

He claps his hands hard, and then again, barely audible.

Loud and quiet.

"Sound-positive, sound-negative, right?"

Prowl nods.

"But if I speak. I-mouth-positive."

He claps once more, quietly, barely audible

"I-mouth-positive. Sound-positive. Word-question?

If I do “quiet” but say “loud”. If I do one thing and say another, that's called-?

Prowl twitches his little wings.

"Ah. That would be veracity-negative."

Jazz makes happy finger guns.

"Yes! This..."

He points to Prowl's face

"Appearance-veracity-positive?"

He could probably phrase it more...accurately. Jazz chews his lips in concentration and tries to elaborate

"Appearance-veracity-positive-you?"

Prowl tilts his head

" Uh. Yeah? That's what I look like. I didn't change anything. It's..."

He pauses uncertainly

"Why are you asking me that?"

Jazz gives a thumbs up

"How do you say 'impressive'? Something like "eyes-positive-emotions-positive." Or it would be "good." Good sounds kind of cheap.

Jazz decides to add a couple more positive modifiers on top just in case. He's always been generous with compliments.

Prowl's wings bounce up funny.

One of the passing lilac aliens whistles.

_______________________________

Prowl thinks Jazz is fragging weird.

Okay, to be fair. Prowl has never had to be anyone's guide to interplanetary interactions.

He'd heard that races making contact with the rest of the galaxy for the first time tended to be weird. It's alright. He can understand that. Which of course doesn't mean it's any easier for him to be at the center of it all...everything.

Jazz is clingy. Friendly. He's definitely never been off his planet before, so everything around him surprises him.

Prowl's obviously “surprising” too, but there's this weird familiarity in Jazz's attitude towards him.

Prowl thinks it's because they're both mechanical life forms. It's the only guess he has that makes sense. But Prowl realizes pretty quickly that Jazz only looks like a Cybertronian at first glance. It's the details. Small and disturbing details.

Jazz was built to fight the Quintessons. His entire body, his entire design was made for it.

Now that Prowl knows that, he's starting to see it. Now that he knows where to look, he can't stop noticing.

All the plates are either round or streamlined and sharp.

He has no face, but his head is shaped in such a way that it would be very hard to grab onto. Or to hit it.

Prowl's processor involuntarily tosses him numbers.

Every bend and edge. Every detail. The visor isn't just curved, it's arched at the most perfectly calculated angle to take hits. His chest plates have the perfect ratio of thickness and curvature so that any direct hit ricochets or slips without going through the plate directly.

And Prowl is scared to even begin to analyze the structure of those legs. He originally saw their design as something similar to Empurata's. But no. The Empurata had always made it their goal to humiliate and diminish their victims. The limbs that the Empurata created were simple and often horribly, impractically awkward.

Jazz's legs are an engineering marvel and Prowl honestly almost wants to take a closer look. They bend at...how many? Five? Six places?

He leans forward quietly, pretending to want to change his posture, trying to get a better angle. There's at least one more joint under the front plates. Seven then?

Huh.

Jazz snorts

"Like what you see?"

Prowl flinches and quickly looks away. Idiot. Just because Jazz’s head is pointed in the other direction doesn't necessarily mean that's where his gaze was pointed as well.

"I apologize."

Jazz chuckles

"Hey, don't be sorry. You're giving me a reason to show off~"

Prowl gives up. Okay. Maybe it's just that Jazz's weird openness is contagious.

"Your legs are pretty..."

"Cool," Jazz offers

Prowl nods diplomatically.

"Unusual. I think cool too."

Would it be too weird to ask exactly how many joints are in them? Perhaps yes, that's personal medical information after all.

Jazz takes a few joyful little leaps

"They let me walk on walls."

"I have to admit that's impressive."

______________

"Can I join you?"

The little furry alien folds their arms across their chest and says something that...sounds disgruntled. Jazz honestly can't understand a word of it. He just saw the aliens playing something remotely resembling cards and he got curious. He doesn't remember having a fight with any of them yet.

The alien stares at him expectantly for a couple seconds and then waves one of their limbs and switches to a language familiar to Jazz

"No. Go back where you came from."

Uhm. Rude.

One of the lilac creatures smiles guiltily

"We don't play with robots."

Jazz stiffens

"But I don't..."

His attempt to explain is interrupted by the furry alien

"I don't care what you say. Whatever's underneath the metal, whatever scientific nonsense you come up with. This..."

He gestures toward the entire Jazz’s mech.

"...it's a machine. We don't play with machines. It's an unspoken rule. So go back to your corner and stay out of our way."

The lilac alien folds his limbs in embarrassment

"Hey, there's no need to be so rude."

"I'm just stating facts!"

"You could have done it politely..."

Prowl raises his eyebrows and moves away, making more room for Jazz on the bench.

"Kicked you out?"

Jazz sits down next to him and confusedly begins to play with his own fingers

"They wouldn't even let me explain."

Prowl taps him on the shoulder.

"It's hard to explain anything to them. They think you're a soulless machine just because you look like one."

Jazz snorts

"Well, that's just stupid."

Prowl shrugs

"They think you don't have a soul, so you shouldn't participate in their social interactions."

Jazz twitches his horns angrily

"That's..fucking idiotic."

"Well yeah" Prowl picks up "how can they judge whether we're sapient or not?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Where's the evidence that they themselves have more 'soul' than mold?"

"Ye..Wait what?"

(..What the hell??)

Prowl frowns.

"I should probably be more...sorry. You're new to this topic and...I'll try to explain in an unbiased manner."

Jazz nods awkwardly

Prowl pinches the bridge of his nose

"In general. We don't really meet their standards of ''alive and sapient being'' and they don't meet ours. Because of that, we...don't get along."

Jazz senses that something doesn't add up. Something dramatically big and obvious. But Prowl already looks annoyed, and Jazz is uncomfortable stressing him out with another game of charades. Probably should hold off on discussing such complicated topics until he's talking better.

____________

Prowl finds himself mentally reevaluating Jazz.

He no longer thinks Jazz is just weird.

Jazz is terrifying.

When their transport is attacked by a bunch of Quintessons, Prowl's processor tells him they're totally screwed.

The monsters have the numerical advantage, the ship is full of tiny, fragile organics, and Prowl only has one random tourist on his side who's in space for the first time.

When Jazz excitedly jumps up and asks to be let "outside to have some fun" Prowl's processor says it's suicide. If you squint and tilt your head, the stats numbers add up into a neat little ship that goes down swiftly and surely.

Then he has no time for statistics. Because one of the organics opens the airlock for Jazz and before Prowl can say anything his space tourist is already out the window.

Frag.

Frag, frag frag frag frag frag frg

"Jazz wait!"

Prowl climbs out onto the roof of the transport just in time to see Jazz tear a limb off one of the Quintesson monsters.

The sight is...creepy.

Jazz obviously doesn't have enough strength to just yank it off, so he sort of grabs the tentacle with his hand and then very quickly rotates his forearm a bunch of times literally twisting it off. The monster screams and wriggles and tries to rip Jazz's arm off, but he just lets it clench its teeth on his plates.

Prowl is in pain from just looking at this.

The monster clenches its jaws.

Its teeth cut furrows in the armor.

Jazz doesn't even twitch.

Things only get more interesting from here on out.

Earlier, all Prowl had was Jazz's word. Jazz said his job was to fight the Quintessons. Prowl automatically assumed that to have a job like that, Jazz had to be at least somewhat good at it.

This? It's not "good". It's a killing machine.

And Prowl is, just a little bit, fascinated.

Jazz tears through monsters with more than skill. No.

Prowl's processor is speeding up, analyzing the data.

These moves aren't just devastatingly efficient. They're habitual.

Jazz rips off limbs and locks jaws. Jazz knows exactly where to strike and for how long that strike will knock the creature down.

At one point, he just takes a moment to jump on top of one of the monsters and Prowl can have the pleasure of watching the sheer panic and confusion on the face of the usually inexpressively furious creature.

Quintesson twists and twitches and struggles to throw Jazz off, but he doesn't seem at all bothered by the constantly moving and shifting surface. He's clinging on tight as a damn insecticon. In a way that Prowl himself, with his angular legs, probably never could.

He also doesn't seem to react to pain whatsoever.

Either so used to it or unable to feel it at all? Prowl's not sure.

Jazz takes dozens of hits. He's been dropped, scratched and bitten. His plates are full of fresh grooves intersecting older ones, but they go completely unrecognized.

It's creepy. It's unnatural.

Three monsters at once try to squeeze Jazz into a circle, and Prowl curses himself for not thinking to ask for Jazz's comm. There's no sound in space, making screaming impossible, so Prowl just pulls out his rifle and shoots one of the Quintessons.

The creature twitches in agony and loses all interest in the battle struggling to shake off the sudden source of pain.

Jazz smacks one of the remaining monsters in the face and quickly bounces back to a more comfortable distance from the huge teeth and looks toward Prowl. Spotting a rifle and happily making finger guns again.

Prowl looks at the fresh teeth marks on Jazz's hands and thinks...wow...that's some wild dangerous alien slag.

Then he looks at the angular visor and the little moving horns and bouncy movements and corrects himself. Not slag. And not that weird. Probably.

The weirdest thing he's seen was organic life and he highly doubts that anyone or anything can overtake it.

[assumptionprime]

Playing Dark Souls 2 again and damn, in spite of its rough edges, I think it’s my favorite.

They’re all good, mind you. Dark Souls 1 is the foundation, and 3 is playing the hits while also saying that it can’t just play the hits forever and has to end.

And Dark Souls 2 is doing its own weird different thing and I love it.

I think it has the best story of the three games, because it really concerns itself with people.

The intro isn’t a list of people and monsters you need to kill, it’s your story. How you came into this land. You are afflicted with the curse of undeath, and it’s destroying your life and your mind. Everything that follows is based around that. You’re not the Chosen Undead, a title put on you in the first game because of a role you’re expected to play in some legend. You’re the Bearer of the Curse, because that’s your concern in all this, your curse.

You see it afflict others throughout the game, too. Most of the characters in Majula can’t remember how they got here, their goals, their lives before Drangleic are fading, same as yours. Lucatiel is by far my favorite NPC in any Souls game, a tragic view of another cursed undead that doesn’t quite make it. You fight alongside her. She confides in you, forms a bond with you. And then, as the last remnants of her mind, her self, leave her, she begs you to remember her name. Vendrick, the mighty king of Drangleic, is a shell of himself. He shuffles around in his own tomb, having long ago succumbed to the curse. He may as well already be dead. In every way that matters, he is.

And if you don’t figure something out, it’s going to happen to you, too.

Some to do has been made about the world layout not making sense. Some say it’s bad design or development troubles leading to compromises. Others say it’s intentional, that time and space are warped, though I think that’s either not true here or done much better in DS3. I subscribe to a third camp I’ve seen a bit less frequently: These nonsensical ways you move between some of these places are because you forgot how you got from one place to the other.

“So you got to the top of the tower, then what?”

“Oh, then I got on an elevator, which took me up— up to… I was on an elevator… then I was in an old keep sinking into a lake of lava.”

You’re losing your mind and your memory, you just can’t remember what happened between Earthen Peak and Old Iron Keep.

So you go slay the old ones, find Vendrick, seek out the ancient dragon, defeat Nashandra and—

It doesn’t work. You don’t cure the curse. You can either take the throne, or keep looking for a cure. We don’t see what kind of monarch you are to your ruined kingdom if you stay. And we don’t see you find a cure to the curse if you leave.

You lose.

It’s left to you to decide, does continuing to fight this fate have meaning? Is the struggle, in and of itself, worthwhile?

Dark Souls 2 is about going Hollow, and I love that it goes in such a different direction with its lore and story to be that.

[kyunghwannie]

"Bloom in the Greenroom"

Im Nayeon x M!Reader

➤ Word Count: 13286 ➤Tags: Confession Lovemaking/Sex, Sloppy DeepThroat, Body Worship, Soft Marking (Hickeys), Thigh High Worship, Mirror Sex, Missionary, Cockwarming, Just Appreciating the Bunny

➤Teaser: The greenroom starts to feel like a fantasy—there’s no press, no cameras, no fans. Just Nayeon and her raw self. You start to question whether this is a job or something far more dangerous. (Note: This is just a scenario i had in my mind with my bunny queen, so yeah. Here it is.)

You're the lead set designer hired for a secret, ultra-exclusive TWICE photo exhibition that will never be released to the public—only to be stored in JYPE's historical archives. Each member has a private concept, and Nayeon's is themed “The Other Side of the Idol”—a mysterious, intimate concept that pushes the boundaries of her public image. Nayeon's "set" is a fictionalized luxury dressing room—mirrors, vanity lights, vintage chaise lounge, and costumes scattered like she just finished a solo stage. You're the only designer she's assigned to interact with, and she insists on no cameras, no staff, just you and her to "capture the mood."

But here’s the twist: Nayeon isn’t acting.

The more you build the space, the more it feels like you’re stepping into her personal world—filled with subtle signs that she’s letting her walls down for you. She starts showing up early. Staying late. Sitting in her stage outfit while watching you work. One day, she brings a disposable camera and asks to take pictures of you instead. Instead of you idolizing her, she becomes obsessed with watching you create. You're the artist, and she's the muse... but also the hunter.

Chapter 1: The Dressing Room That Wasn't and The Rose That Walked In

The keycard hummed as the scanner blinked green. You pushed the door open to the dimly lit set space, your boots echoing against the hollow wooden floor. You’d spent three weeks building this—what looked like a glamorous, lived-in dressing room carved out of memory and longing. Velvet curtains, a cracked vanity mirror, half-melted candles on the edge of a clawfoot tub that would never hold water.

This wasn’t for a music video or a CF. This set was a secret. A private photo exhibition. Never to be published. Never to be revealed to fans. Not even to staff beyond a select few.

Only for the JYPE archives. And for her. The muse.

Nayeon had chosen the concept herself. "The Other Side of the Idol," she’d said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

You adjusted a lamp slightly, watching how the light hit the room’s dusty corners. That’s when the sound of heels tapped softly behind you. She was early. Again.

“You added flowers,” she said, stepping in. Her voice was light, but there was an edge in it—like a thread pulled tight.

You turned slowly, nodding toward the tiny glass vase on the vanity. “You said the space felt like it stopped breathing.” You paused. “Flowers help it exhale.”

She walked past you without responding, brushing close enough that you caught a trace of her perfume—vanilla, and something sharper. Maybe sandalwood.

Nayeon sat at the edge of the chaise lounge, legs crossed, one heel dangling lazily from her toe. She wore a deep burgundy silk robe, loosely tied, like she’d just finished a show you weren’t invited to.

“You know what’s weird?” she said, lifting a fake eyelash from the vanity. “This whole set looks like my old greenroom. But it feels nothing like it.”

You raised a brow. “Is that good or bad?”

She smiled without showing teeth. “That depends on what you want it to feel like.”

Silence stretched between you as she leaned back, one hand falling behind her head like a model posing without a camera.

Then—click. She pulled out a small disposable camera from behind a cushion. Raised it toward you. “Don’t move.”

The flash cracked. You blinked. “I’m not the one being photographed.”

“I know,” she replied. “But it’s fun watching you work.”

You couldn’t tell if she was teasing or testing you. She leaned forward again, elbows on her knees. Her voice dropped slightly, the way it did on stage when the mic dipped just right. “Tomorrow... I want to try something new. Lights off. Just the dressing room lamp. Nothing else.”

“Why?” you asked.

“Because I don’t want to see myself the way the world does.” She paused. “I want to see how you see me.”

The camera clicked again. This time, no flash. Just the soft, plastic sound of her winding the reel. You swallowed. This room was never just a set.

You weren’t sure why you dressed up today. White pants. Crisp. Black shirt. Fitted, sleeves rolled just past your elbows. No paint stains. No chalk dust. Just... clean. Maybe it was how she looked at you yesterday. Or maybe it was how you looked at her—and how she let you.

The room was dim again. Just as she’d asked. No overhead lights. Just the glow from the vanity lamp and the soft amber hue of the vintage bulbs you’d strung behind the curtains. It cast everything in gold, like the whole room had been dipped in late afternoon sun.

You were adjusting the curtains when you heard the latch turn. No knock. No warning. She stepped in—and time didn’t stop, but you did. Nayeon didn’t walk into the set. She owned it.

Her top was a corset the color of forbidden fruit—deep red, with sculpted boning that hugged every curve, roses blooming along her neckline like secrets she wore openly. The sweetheart cut, the dainty straps, the way her collarbones caught the light—it was enough to make the air feel heavy.

Your eyes lowered—carefully, slowly. Not by choice, but gravity.

Black performance shorts. Practical. Unexpected. Over them, a flowing red wrap skirt that split down her thigh like a challenge. And beneath that? Sheer tights—stars or hearts, you couldn’t tell—danced subtly along the skin of her legs. Just enough to distract. Just enough to wonder.

She moved, and the slit shifted, and— You looked away. Too late. “You dressed up,” she said, a smile tugging at one corner of her lips. You cleared your throat. “Didn’t know I had a reason to.”

She walked past you, brushing her hand lightly across your forearm. “Maybe you did.” She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

Her hair was styled up, but messy—intentionally. A braid coiled into the bun, wrapped in a pink ribbon that made the whole thing feel too delicate for what she was doing. Wisps framed her face, softening the impact of a look that could otherwise ruin a man in seconds.

She stepped into the center of the room, turning slowly. “So?” she asked, voice velvet and edge. “How do I look… through your eyes?” You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

“Not like an idol,” she said for you. She walked to the vanity, resting her hands on the edge as she stared at herself. “Not like a star.” She looked at you through the mirror. “Just like a woman. Right?”

You felt yourself tense. Not from discomfort. From restraint. “Nayeon...”

She turned to face you fully now. “This room doesn’t have cameras. No stylists. No expectations.” A beat. “So stop pretending you’re not looking at me like that.”

The light hit her just right, catching the soft shimmer in her tights, the curve of her waist under structured boning, the way her confidence wrapped tighter than the ribbon in her braid.

And still—she wasn’t posing. She was waiting.

“What are we really building here?” she asked softly. The question wasn’t about the set.

It's all Red Threads, Quiet Warnings

You didn't answer her question. Not out of rudeness—You couldn’t. Your throat felt dry. Your hands were still. Your eyes, no matter how hard you tried to stay professional, betrayed you. She stepped forward. Slowly. Not threatening, but not soft either. “You’re not used to women talking to you like this, huh?”

You gave her a look. It wasn’t defiance. It was restraint. Her eyes flicked downward, then back up to yours. “Is it because I’m your employer?” she asked, the corner of her mouth curving. “Or is it because you think if you say something wrong… I’ll report you?” That caught your breath. You shook your head slowly. “I’m just trying to respect a line.”

“What line?” She tilted her head, braid swaying slightly with the movement. “The one I already crossed? Or the one you’re pretending still exists?” Her words weren’t loud. But they landed with the weight of thunder.

You stepped back slightly, not out of fear—but instinct. Like your body knew something your mind hadn’t accepted yet. She followed. Not one step faster than necessary. Her heels made no sound on the carpeted floor. Just the whisper of a red skirt brushing her tights.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked, almost sweetly now. You nodded once. She looked at the vanity mirror again—at her reflection. “When I first saw you, I thought you were like everyone else who works with me.”

Her fingers reached up, tracing a rose on her corset as if distracted. “But then… you didn’t look at me like a product. Not once. Not even when you thought I wouldn’t notice.” You stayed silent. She turned again, fully, like she was done talking to her reflection. “Do you know how rare that is?”

You gave her a soft, careful answer. “I figured you deserved more than that.” Her smile came back, this time slower. But there was something else in it now. A heat beneath it. Not desire—Claim.

“That’s the thing,” she said. “I do deserve it. And that’s why I want it from you. Only you.” Your breath caught. She stepped in closer. No distance this time. “You’re scared.”

She looked into your eyes like she was reading a confession. “Not because you don’t want this. But because you do.” And suddenly, it didn’t feel like a flirtation anymore. Not a game. Not a teasing idol showing off for a camera. It felt like something sacred—and dangerous. Like the moment right before a match hits gasoline. You said her name once, quietly. “Nayeon.”

She nodded once, gently. As if acknowledging something unspoken. Then she leaned in—not enough to touch. Just enough to feel the temperature shift. “I don’t want anyone else building this world with me,” she whispered. “So if you walk away now, do it before I start thinking you’re mine.”

She didn’t move closer anymore. She stayed in front of the vanity, both palms flat on the table’s edge as her reflection stared right back at her—but her voice? It was meant for you.

“It didn’t start loud,” she said softly, adjusting the strands that framed her face, not even glancing at you. “It started quiet. Like everything dangerous does.”

You stayed still. She wasn’t performing. She was confessing.

“It was little things at first. Like how you remembered I hate loud velcro sounds on mic packs…” Her fingers gently tugged a bobby pin out of her bun. “…or how you started grouping outfit racks by my color preferences even when the stylists didn’t ask for it.”

Another pin. Another slow undoing.

“Then it was the way you brought me ginger tea without asking, and how you always found the one chair in the dressing room with good back support before I got there.”

She breathed out through her nose, almost in a laugh, but not quite.

“Do you know how strange that felt? To be known without having to speak?”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t try.

“Then I caught myself being angry…” she continued. “…when some new male staff kept staring at me during rehearsals.”

Her voice didn’t raise. If anything, it lowered. “I didn’t like it.” She finally looked at you through the mirror. “I hated it. Because it wasn’t you.”

The ribbon fell from her braid as she pulled the last strand loose. It slipped to the floor. “I didn’t even realize I started avoiding stage crews that weren’t you. Or how I stopped letting stylists adjust my waist unless you were around.” Her lips pressed together for a moment. You saw her jaw clench—once. “I don’t know when it got worse.” She rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror. “Maybe it was when I changed an entire stage theme last minute just because you said the previous one didn’t feel like me.”

She turned her body slightly, still watching you through her reflection. “You were just trying to help. But I…” A pause. “I wanted you to see me more than anyone else ever would.” The room felt hotter now. Or quieter. Or both. “And when our usual manager got sick, and you stepped in…” She gave a soft, bitter chuckle. “…I knew it was over.”

You stayed rooted, not because you didn’t care—but because you cared too much to move. “You weren’t just directing a stage. You were managing me.”

She reached behind her head and started retying her hair, deliberately. “Without touching. Without claiming. Without ever overstepping.”

Her voice grew even lower now. More precise. “So tell me…” she said, finishing the knot of her new messy bun and locking eyes with you through the glass, “…how am I not supposed to get possessive?”

The silence between you two was not empty It was full. Of everything you’d never said. Everything she just had..You finally opened your mouth—but only with a whisper. “You deserve more than this.”

And for the first time, she turned fully, leaning against the vanity. Her eyes never left yours. “I don’t want ‘more,’ Y/N.”

She tilted her head just slightly. “I want you.”

The silence between you hadn’t broken yet. Not really. Her confession still lingered in the air like the faint trace of her perfume—roses and static electricity. And then, she moved. Not toward you. Not yet.

She reached behind her and slowly pulled out a slim, folded piece of paper from the drawer beneath the vanity mirror. “Here,” she said, voice as light as lace. “This is my solo rehearsal schedule. You’re not on shift for any of it, are you?”

You blinked. Shook your head once. “Didn’t think so.” She smiled—too softly. “I just changed it.”

Your eyes dropped to the paper in your hands. Three new days were circled in red. Times adjusted. Locations too. And then you saw it—a fourth circle. Bigger. Handwritten. Your name scribbled next to it in her sharp, slanted script.

Y/N - “Invite Only” | Backroom Studio B - 8PM | Friday.

Nayeon stepped away from the vanity now, slowly walking past you—her hips swaying with that same burlesque flair her outfit was built for. But her voice didn’t match the strut. It stayed terrifyingly calm. “Because I know you’ll come.” She brushed a strand of her hair over her shoulder, stopping just inches away now. “Because I saw how you looked at me today… and the other day. And the one before that.”

You froze. “I know the way your voice changes when you say my name.” Her hand reached forward—not to touch you, but to gently straighten the collar of your shirt. “And I know you’d never cross the line…” she whispered. Then her eyes met yours again. “…but I can.”

Her fingers lingered on the edge of your collarbone before she turned, heels clicking softly as she walked toward the door. Just as she turned to leave, her hand paused on the doorknob. Something about your stillness… made her smile to herself. “One more thing.”

She pivoted—just a step—and walked back to you. Her heels slow on the floor, her gaze fixed like she was memorizing you. When she stopped in front of you, you expected more teasing. A smirk. A giggle. A look over the shoulder.

You did not expect her fingers to hook your collar, dragging you forward in one smooth, practiced tug— —until your breath hitched. “Don’t be late on Friday.” Her voice was low, smoky.

Then—without warning—she kissed you. Not a shy press. Not a testing touch. It was intentional. Possessive. Deep. Her plump, glossy lips sank onto yours, molding like velvet, parting as she sucked on your lower lip—slow and perfectly sinful.

You could feel the way her breath mingled with yours. The wet, delicate smack that came from her lips pulling away echoed louder than it should’ve in the quiet room.

She looked up at you, not even out of breath. “I’ll be wearing something… possessive.” And just like that, she released your collar, turned, and walked out. The door clicked behind her, leaving you frozen. Chest tight. Lips tingling. Mind spinning. She’d crossed the line—and made sure you’d never forget who did it first.

Prelude: The Line Wasn’t Blurred. She Erased It.

There were a hundred things you could’ve said after she kissed you. A thousand, maybe. But you didn’t say anything. You just stood there. Heart racing. Collar wrinkled. Mouth slightly open where her lips had just been. You’d kissed people before. You weren’t a teenager. But this wasn’t just someone.

This was Nayeon. Im Nayeon. The face of the company's biggest female girl group. The center of TWICE. Your artist. Your responsibility. Hell, in most situations—she was practically your boss.

And yet…Your body didn’t move for minutes after she left. The ghost of her lips haunted your lower lip. Her perfume clung to your clothes. The way she whispered, “I’ll be wearing something possessive,” kept looping in your ears like it was part of a song.

You sat down on the couch, fingers locking together, elbows on knees. This was wrong. It should be wrong. But was it? She hadn’t been impulsive. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t confused. She was calm. Steady. Intentional. She kissed you like she already decided what you were.

And part of you? Some sick part or what is it even sick to feel care? You liked it. You’d spent months watching over her. Taking care of little things no one asked you to. Making sure her schedule had breathing space. Helping her stylists avoid dangerous outfits without restricting her shine despite not being the mainstream manager. You knew her preferences without needing to ask. Her tells. Her moods. Her quiet boundaries.

You cared about her. Deeply. But maybe that was the problem. Somewhere along the way, care had started melting into something else. And now…? Now there was no line. Because she erased it. And worse? You didn’t feel like to want to draw it back. Not anymore.

Chapter 2: The Princess Doesn’t Wait. She Reigns.

The lights in the private studio lounge were dimmed low—low enough that even your footsteps felt louder than they should’ve. She was already there. And this time, she didn’t pretend to be busy. Didn’t fiddle with her phone. Didn’t fake nonchalance.

She sat in the center of the leather couch, one leg crossed over the other like a throne had been carved for her. And God, the outfit.

The deep violet satin mini dress shimmered with every breath she took, hugging every curve with a dangerous elegance. The thin spaghetti straps clung to her shoulders like secrets. But it was the matching satin opera gloves that got you—that old-Hollywood, vintage fantasy that made her look like a woman both untouchable and made for sin.

Wrapped around her legs, crystal thigh and calf chains sparkled under the studio lights, draped like jeweled restraints that only drew more attention to her long legs. She wore clear heels that vanished into the floor, making the focus land exactly where she wanted it—on the dazzling chains, and the slow, deliberate way she moved.

Her hair was curled into perfect vintage waves, soft yet seductive. And atop it, a large black bow headband gave her an almost doll-like charm—if dolls could look at you like they owned your pulse.

She looked up slowly. “You’re late, Oppa.”

Her tone wasn’t scolding. It was soft. Sweet. Like a sugar cube melting into tea—deceptively gentle.

You swallowed. You were wearing a fitted black blazer over your white shirt, sleeves pushed up slightly, the way you always did when work got serious. But now, under her gaze, even your most professional outfit felt like a joke. Like a weak defense.

She didn’t ask you to sit. She waited. Poised. Playful. Dangerous. And then— She patted the seat beside her. “Come here. We have… things to discuss.”

Your mind screamed about boundaries. Your heart reminded you how her lips felt. And your feet? Your feet were already moving. You sat beside her. Not too close. Not far either. But you didn’t lean back. Because if you did, her thigh—adorned with those glittering leg chains—would brush yours. And that felt like more than just skin. It felt like surrender.

She watched you settle in, lips curled into something between mischief and menace. “You look serious,” she said, voice velvet-smooth, gaze locked on you like you were hers to read. “Are you scared I’ll do something inappropriate?” You opened your mouth—but nothing came out. Nayeon smiled. Not her public smile. Not the wide, idol smile that had lit stages for years. This was different. This was a woman’s smile. Calm. Decided. With no room for retreat.

She leaned in slowly, resting her arm along the back of the couch, her gloved fingers just barely grazing the curve of your shoulder. “Let me ease your mind, then,” she whispered. “Tonight… isn’t about impulse.” Your heart beat faster. Her perfume wrapped around your throat. “Everything I’m doing…” Her fingers dipped lower, trailing the edge of your collar. “…has been decided. Calculated. Prepped.”

She looked down at her own outfit then, smoothing a hand along her thigh, letting the crystals shimmer and catch your distracted stare. “I don’t wear something like this by mistake.” Silence. Except for the faint, almost cruel smirk she wore when she glanced at you again. "Tonight, Oppa. Bigger lines will be crossed..."

Her voice dropped just enough to make the world feel smaller. “And I’m telling you now… so when it happens—” She leaned in again, breath warm on your ear. “—you don’t lie to yourself… and say you didn’t know.” Your body was stiff. Your chest tight. But not from fear. From that stupid restraint you didn’t want but instinctively have. From the undeniable truth: you didn’t want to stop her. And she knew it.

So she pulled back. Elegant. Composed. As if she hadn’t just shattered every professional boundary in the room. Then she looked straight ahead—at her reflection in the black mirror wall across from you. And in that quiet, with her face glowing under the soft lights, she whispered without turning: “You’ve taken care of me for long enough.”

“Now let me take what’s mine.”

You didn’t say a word. Not because you didn’t have questions. Not because you didn’t have objections. But because your mouth couldn’t form any. Because Nayeon had already decided.

She slowly turned her head toward you, no longer teasing, no longer playing with the moment like it was a game. Her eyes searched yours, and for the first time, you saw everything—clear, raw, and scarily calm. “I know what I’m doing.” She said it softly, but every syllable was locked in. “And I’m not sorry for any of it.”

Her gloved hand lifted again, this time not just grazing. She touched your jaw gently—gliding across the stubble with satin and certainty. Her thumb paused on your bottom lip, as if revisiting the kiss she’d left you with earlier in the week.

She was closer now. You hadn’t noticed when she moved. Or maybe you had, but didn’t care. Her body angled toward you, her leg brushing yours now and staying there. Her perfume—sweet florals and something warmer—flooded your senses.

“I waited.” Her hand now cupped your face. “I watched you be careful… kind… respectful. I loved it.” Her voice cracked into a whisper, “But I hated it too.” Your heart hit your ribs. She leaned forward. The tip of her nose almost brushed yours. “Because I want the version of you that doesn’t care.” “The one that doesn’t think I’m your idol. Or your boss.”

Her lips hovered. Almost there. Heat pulsing between you. “I want the one that wants me.” She paused just before the kiss, searching your eyes—giving you the final moment. The final chance to stop this. But your silence was permission.

So she kissed you again—not sweet this time. She gripped your collar with one hand and pulled you into her mouth like she was claiming territory. Her lips pressed firm and slow before she sucked your bottom lip between hers, deeper this time, wetter. The smack that echoed as she pulled back made your entire body tighten.

Her breath shook slightly when she exhaled. Her other hand slid down to your thigh, resting—not testing—like she was checking how much further she needed to go before you gave in completely. “Tell me to stop,” she said, her voice low, hot against your mouth. But you didn’t. And she knew you wouldn’t.

Nayeon’s kiss wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim. Her gloved fingers tightened in your collar, dragging you deeper into her mouth as if she could swallow your hesitation whole. The satin of her dress whispered against your chest, the heat of her body searing through the thin fabric. When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her breath uneven. "You still think I deserve better?" she murmured, her voice rough. "Then tell me to stop."

Your hands hovered at your sides, fists clenched—fighting the urge to touch her, to ruin her. "Nayeon…" you exhaled, voice strained. "You’re—"

"I’m what?" she challenged, pressing closer, her thigh sliding between yours. The crystal chains on her legs clicked softly, a cruel reminder of how exposed she was—how willing. "An idol? Untouchable?" Her gloved hand trailed down your chest, stopping just above your belt. "Or just a woman who wants you?"

You swallowed hard. She smirked, slow and knowing, before leaning in again—this time, her lips brushed the shell of your ear. "You don’t get to decide what I deserve," she whispered. "Only what you’ll give me." Her hand slid lower, fingertips tracing the outline of your cock through your pants. You jolted, a sharp inhale cutting through the silence.

Nayeon’s eyes darkened. "There he is," she purred. "The man who wants me." Your resolve cracked. One hand finally lifted, trembling, to cup her cheek. She leaned into it, her lashes fluttering shut for a brief, vulnerable second—before her fingers curled around your wrist, guiding your touch down.

Over the swell of her breast. Over the dip of her waist. Over the curve of her ass, the satin clinging like a second skin. "Touch me like you mean it," she breathed. "Or walk away now." Your fingers flexed against her hip—hesitant, aching. Nayeon’s lips parted in a silent gasp when you finally dug in, pulling her flush against you. "Fuck," she choked out, nails biting into your shoulders. And just like that— You were both falling.

Nayeon kissed you again—harder this time, desperate, like she was trying to erase something. Her gloved hands framed your face, holding you in place as her lips moved against yours with a bruising intensity. The satin of her dress rustled as she pressed closer, her body trembling against yours.

And then— Wetness. A single tear slipped between your lips, the salt sharp against your tongue. Your eyes flew open. Nayeon was crying. Not the pretty, delicate tears of an idol—but something raw, aching, her breath hitching between kisses like she was fighting for air.

You pulled back just enough to see her face. "Nayeon—" She shook her head, her grip tightening. "Don’t," she whispered, voice breaking. "Don’t stop." But you had to. Your thumbs brushed under her eyes, smearing the dampness across her cheeks. "Look at me," you murmured. She did. And what you saw there— Hunger. Fear. Longing. It shattered you.

"You are better than this," you said softly. Nayeon let out a choked laugh, her fingers curling into your shirt. "You still don’t get it, do you?" Her voice was raw, stripped bare. "I hate being better. I hate being perfect. For once—" She swallowed hard. "For once, I just want to be wanted."

Your chest ached. Because you did want her. Not just her body—not just the fantasy. Her. The real Nayeon—the one who laughed too loud, who pouted when she didn’t get her way, who cried in dressing rooms when the world wasn’t looking. The one who was terrified of being loved for the wrong reasons.

Your hands slid down to her waist, holding her like she might disappear. "I do want you," you admitted, voice rough. "Too much." Nayeon’s breath hitched. "Then take me," she whispered. And this time— When she kissed you, it wasn’t just heat. It was surrender.

Her body melted against yours, her gloves slipping into your hair as she poured every unspoken word into the press of her lips. The chains on her legs jingled softly as she hooked one around your hip, pulling you closer, closer— Until there was no space left between you. Until the only thing that mattered was the way she shook when you touched her. The way she whimpered when your fingers traced the bare skin above her stockings. The way she clung to you like you were the only thing keeping her grounded.

And when she finally pulled back, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed— Her eyes were still wet. But she was smiling. "Finally," she breathed. And just like that—You were both lost.

Nayeon’s breath was warm against your lips as she pulled back just enough to study your face. Her gloved fingers traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, like she was memorizing you. "You’re still thinking too much," she murmured, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to the satin covering her pulse point. "Hard not to," you admitted, voice low. "When it’s you."

Her lashes fluttered, a soft oh escaping her before she leaned in again—but this time, her kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. Like she was trying to pour every unspoken word into the way her lips moved against yours.

Your hands slid down her back, fingers skimming the delicate straps of her dress before finding the zipper at her nape. A question lingered in the pause of your touch. Nayeon answered by arching into you, her lips parting in a silent yes. The zipper came down with a whisper, the violet satin pooling at her waist—revealing lace the same shade, clinging to her curves like a second skin.

You exhaled sharply. God, she was beautiful. Her breasts rose with each unsteady breath, the lace of her bra doing little to hide the peaks straining against the fabric. The gloves, the chains, the bow still perched in her hair—she looked like a fantasy. But the way she shivered when your fingers brushed her bare waist? That was real.

Nayeon’s hands found yours, guiding them up her sides, under the lace. "Touch me," she breathed. "Please." Your palms slid over her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. She whimpered, her head falling back as you traced the lace’s edge, teasing but not yet crossing.

"Y/N—" Her voice cracked. You kissed the plea from her lips, swallowing her gasp as your thumbs finally—finally—dragged over her nipples. Nayeon jolted, her nails digging into your shoulders. "Fuck," she choked out, hips jerking forward.

You groaned at the contact, your own control fraying as she ground against you. The heat of her, the wetness already soaking through her panties—She was done for you. And you hadn’t even taken the lace off yet. Nayeon’s hands fumbled with your belt, her gloves making the task clumsier than usual. She let out a frustrated noise, and you couldn’t help but chuckle against her lips.

"Let me," you murmured, catching her wrists. She pouted—actually pouted—and the sheer Nayeon-ness of it made your chest ache.

You kissed her again, slow and sweet, as you undid your belt yourself. Her breath hitched when your pants loosened, her hips rolling instinctively against yours. "Impatient," you teased, nipping at her lip.

She huffed, but her defiance melted into a moan when your hand slid between her thighs, fingertips tracing the damp lace. "You—ah!—you’re one to talk," she gasped, her legs trembling.

You smirked, dragging a finger along her soaked seam. "This all for me?" Nayeon’s cheeks flushed darker, but she held your gaze, defiant even as her body betrayed her. "Who else?" Your finger dipped beneath the lace, and her breath stuttered. So warm. So wet. So Nayeon like. Was that even a thing? Doesn't matter?

You swallowed her moan as you circled her clit, slow and firm, relishing the way her hips chased your touch. "Y/N—" Her voice was a broken thing, her gloves fisting in your hair. "Don’t stop, don’t stop—" You didn’t. Instead, you sank to your knees. Nayeon’s eyes flew wide. "W-wait—"

But you were already pressing a kiss to the lace covering her, your tongue tracing the wetness there. She shrieked, her thighs clamping around your head. "Oh my god—" You grinned against her, hooking your fingers into her panties and dragging them down just enough to taste her properly.

Nayeon sobbed, her hands scrambling for purchase on your shoulders. "F-fuck, fuck—" Her hips jerked as you licked into her, slow and filthy, savoring every twitch, every gasp. The chains on her legs jingled with every uneven shift of her thighs, the sound mixing with her broken moans.

This was Nayeon. Not the idol. Not the fantasy. Just a woman, unraveling in your arms— And letting you watch. Nayeon’s thighs trembled around your head, her breath coming in ragged gasps as your tongue worked her over—slow, thorough, devoted. Her gloved fingers twisted in your hair, not pushing you away, but holding on, as if she might float away if she let go.

Then— A breathless, broken laugh escaped her. You paused, pulling back just enough to glance up. Nayeon was smirking down at you, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from biting them. Tears still glistened in her lashes, but her eyes—God, her eyes—were alight with something wicked. "All this time," she panted, "you could’ve just said you wanted me."

Your face burned. She tsked, shifting her hips just enough to grind against your mouth—deliberate, taunting. A whimper slipped past her lips, but her voice stayed steady, laced with amusement. "Instead of—ah!—playing the noble fool."

You groaned against her, your fingers digging into her thighs. She was insufferable. And yet— You licked her again, slow and firm, relishing the way her smirk faltered. "F-fuck—!" Her head tipped back, but she forced her gaze back to yours, stubborn. "D-don’t think—nngh!—this gets you out of talking."

You nipped at her inner thigh, and she jolted, a high-pitched noise escaping her. "Bastard," she gasped, but her legs fell open wider. You pulled back fully this time, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "You’re really going to scold me," you muttered, "while I’m on my knees for you?"

Nayeon’s grin was triumphant. "Yes." She hooked a leg over your shoulder, her heel digging into your back. The crystal chains clicked as she flexed her foot, drawing your attention to the way her lace-clad cunt glistened—still aching for you.

"Because you knew," she continued, voice dropping. "You knew how badly I wanted this. Wanted you." Her gloved hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up. "But you made me wait. Made me beg."

Your throat tightened. She wasn’t wrong. The late nights in the greenroom, the stolen glances, the way her fingers always lingered when she handed you a coffee—you’d seen it all. And you’d ignored it. Not because you didn’t want her. But because you were terrified of what it would mean to take her.

Nayeon’s thumb brushed your lower lip, her expression softening—just for a second. "Idiot," she whispered. "I chose you." Then her grip tightened, her smirk returning. "Now prove you choose me too."

The lights hummed softly overhead, casting a golden glow over Nayeon’s bare shoulders, the violet lace, the sweat-slick curve of her throat. Your hands still rested on her thighs, but they’d gone still. "What do you see in me?"

The question slipped out before you could stop it—quiet, fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering. Nayeon blinked. Then— She laughed. Not cruelly. Not dismissively. But like you’d just asked her why the sky was blue.

"You’re serious?" She shifted, her leg sliding off your shoulder as she sat up straighter. The chains on her thighs jingled, mocking the sudden tension in your chest.

You swallowed. "I need to know."

Nayeon studied you for a long moment, her smirk fading into something softer. Something real. Then, with a sigh, she reached for your hand—and placed it over her heart. Her pulse raced beneath your palm, fast and frantic. "You feel that?" she murmured. You nodded, mute. "That’s you," she said simply. "That’s what you do to me."

Your breath hitched. Nayeon’s fingers laced with yours, squeezing tight. "You think I don’t know what it’s like? To be looked at but never seen?" Her thumb traced your knuckles, slow, deliberate. "Fans see ‘Im Nayeon.’ The company sees ‘TWICE’s center.’ Even the members—" She hesitated. "They see the unnie who has to be strong and chaotic at times."

Her voice cracked. "But you?" She lifted your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "You saw me. The girl who steals extra snacks from catering. The one who cries at dog commercials. The idiot who stays up too late watching bad dramas and laughs at the wrong parts." A tear slipped down her cheek. "You noticed," she whispered. "And you stayed."

Your chest ached. Because she was right. You’d seen the way she tucked her knees to her chest during breaks, the way her voice softened when she talked about her family, the way she glowed when someone praised her—not for being perfect, but for trying. And you’d loved her for it. Silently. Helplessly. Completely. Nayeon leaned in, her forehead resting against yours. "So don’t ask me why," she breathed. "Just know." Her lips brushed yours—soft, sweet, certain. And in that moment— You did.

Nayeon’s breath hitched when you nudged her back onto the chaise lounge. The violet satin of her dress pooled around her waist, framing the lace beneath like forbidden treasure.

You didn’t rush.

Instead, you traced the lines of her—starting where the gloves ended at her wrists, skimming up the delicate inner skin of her arms. She shivered under your touch, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird as you pressed kisses along the way.

"Y/N…" Her voice was barely audible.

You looked up, holding her gaze as you reached her shoulder—then bit down, lightly, on the strap of her bra.

Her lips parted in a silent oh.

You tugged the lace aside with your teeth, baring one perfect breast to the studio’s warm light.

Slow.

Intentional.

Your lips closed over her nipple, swirling just enough to make her back arch—but not enough to give her what she really wanted.

Nayeon whimpered, her gloved hand fisting in your hair. "P-please—"

You pulled back, breathing hard. "Look at me."

And she did.

Her pupils were blown wide, her cheeks flushed, her lips slick from where she’d bitten them.

You palmed her other breast, thumb teasing the peak through damp lace as you lowered yourself between her thighs.

She jerked when your nose brushed her inner thigh, the chains on her legs clinking softly.

"You’re shaking," you murmured against her skin.

Nayeon let out a shaky laugh. "Y-you’re torturing me."

You smirked, dragging your lips higher—kissing every inch but never where she needed it most.

Her thighs trembled around your head, her hips lifting in silent plea.

Finally—finally—you blew a slow stream of air over her soaked lace.

Nayeon sobbed, her back bowing off the chaise. "F-fuck—!"

You hooked your fingers into her panties, dragging them down just enough to expose her—glossy, pink, achingly bare.

Yours.

"Eyes on me," you reminded her, voice rough.

Then—

You licked.

A slow, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit, savoring the way her breath caught, the way her stomach clenched.

Nayeon’s grip on your hair tightened, her hips rolling unconsciously. "M-more—"

You gave it to her.

Your tongue circled her clit firmly before sucking it lightly between your lips—just how you knew she liked it.

Her back arched, a broken noise tearing from her throat.

"F-fuck, fuck—!"

You moaned into her, the vibration wringing another gasp from her lips. Your hands slid under her thighs, lifting her higher, closer—giving you better access to devour her properly.

Nayeon’s legs shook violently, her moans pitching higher as you fucked her with your tongue, deep and languid.

"Y/N, I—ah!—I can’t—"

Her words dissolved into a wordless cry as you slid two fingers inside her, curling just so—

Nayeon screamed, her back lifting clean off the chaise as she came, her thighs clamping around your head like a vice.

You rode her through it, gentling your touch as the waves subsided—but never stopping, never letting her come down fully.

Only when she collapsed back, boneless and gasping, did you finally pull away—your chin glistening, lips swollen.

Nayeon stared at you, chest heaving, her expression caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

"Come here," she breathed, tugging you up by your collar.

You went willingly, crashing into her kiss—letting her taste herself on your tongue.

The chaise lounge creaked softly as you reclined, your back pressing into the plush velvet. Nayeon knelt between your legs, her satin gloves smoothing up your thighs before pausing at the waistband of your underwear.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she glanced up at you—teasing, yet tender.

"Don’t close your eyes," she murmured, fingers hooking into the fabric. "I want you to watch."

Then—

She pulled them down, and your cock sprang free, already flushed and leaking against your stomach.

Nayeon’s lips parted, a soft oh escaping her as she took you in.

"Fuck," she whispered, gloved fingertips tracing your length. "Knew you’d be pretty."

You groaned, hips jerking at the contact—but she tutted, pressing you firmly back into the chaise.

"Ah-ah," she chided, her thumb swiping over your tip, smearing pre-cum. "You don’t get to rush this."

Her tongue darted out, catching the droplet before it could fall.

Then—

She sank down, taking you into her mouth in one smooth motion.

"Ghk—! Mmmph~!!"

Nayeon’s nose crinkled as your cock hit the back of her throat, her eyes watering instantly. She pulled off with a wet pop, spit strands connecting her lips to your shaft.

"Hnngk—! C-Cough—!" She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove, grinning up at you. "S-Sorry. Forgot how big you are."

You reached for her, but she batted your hand away, shaking her head.

"Nuh-uh," she teased, licking a stripe from base to tip. "My turn to worship."

Then she swallowed you again—deeper this time, her throat fluttering around your girth as she fought her own gag reflex.

"Glrrk~… Mmmf~"

Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked hard, saliva bubbling around your cock. The noise alone made your thighs tremble, your fingers tangling in her hair instinctively.

"Blrrgh— Hahh~!"

She pulled off, panting, spit dripping down her chin in shiny rivulets. "Fuck, you taste—" Then she dove back in, her lips sealing around you with desperate hunger.

"Schllp~ Ghh—!"

Her pace grew sloppier, her nose pressing into your pelvis as she took you as deep as she could. Tears welled in her eyes, her throat convulsing around you—

"Nghh—! Ghh—!"

You groaned, your hips bucking despite yourself. "Nayeon—fuck—!"

She moaned around you, the vibration making you see stars—

Then she pulled off entirely, gasping for air, her lips swollen and glistening.

"Hck—! S-Slow—!" she pleaded, but her eyes—her eyes were dark, hungry, her fingers stroking you relentlessly.

"Like this?" you rasped, thumb brushing her cheek.

She nodded, leaning into your touch—then surged forward again, her mouth sealing over your tip as her hand worked your length.

Nayeon’s rhythm was perfect—just enough suction to make your toes curl, just enough teeth to keep you on edge.

"Grgk~ Nn—!"

Your fingers tightened in her hair as she deepthroated you again, her throat clenching around you like she never wanted to let go.

"Hrgk—! T-Too deep—!" she choked around you, but she didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t stop.

Her free hand found yours, squeezing tightly as she took you deeper, harder, her tears streaking her mascara—

And still, she kept her eyes locked on yours.

Watching.

Loving.

Devouring.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your thighs trembling under her ministrations. "N-Nayeon, I’m—"

She hummed, the vibration shooting straight to your core—

Then she pulled off with a wet schlick, her lips red and swollen.

"Not yet," she whispered, crawling up your body to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. "I’m not done with you."

Nayeon’s skin was a paradox.

Smooth as poured cream, yet alive—flushing under your touch like dawn breaking. The violet satin dress had slipped to her waist, pooling around her hips like a discarded dream. The lace beneath clung stubbornly, but you took your time, tracing the lines of her with your lips first.

Her collarbone—delicate, the dip there begging to be filled with your tongue.

Her cleavage—soft, yielding, the scent of her perfume (something expensive, something hers) mingling with sweat.

Her navel—a shallow well, the kind you could drown in if you weren’t careful.

And lower—

Not yet.

You’d savor the journey.

Nayeon’s breath hitched when your lips found the hollow of her throat.

"Y/N—"

You hummed against her skin, sucking gently—just enough to pinken the flesh, not enough to bruise. Yet.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, tugging lightly. "M-more," she whispered.

You obeyed.

Your mouth trailed lower, teeth scraping the swell of her breast before laving the sting away with your tongue. Nayeon arched, a broken sound escaping her as you took her nipple into your mouth through the lace.

"Oh—fuck," she gasped, her back bowing off the chaise.

The fabric grew damp under your attention, her peak stiffening against your tongue. You teased her—sucking lightly, then pulling back to blow cool air over the wet spot.

Nayeon whined, her hips rolling helplessly. "T-tease," she accused, but her hands cradled your head closer.

You smirked against her skin, moving lower.

Her stomach tensed as you kissed a path down her midline, your tongue dipping into her navel. Nayeon jolted, a breathless laugh bubbling up.

"T-that tickles—"

You nipped the soft flesh just below, silencing her. "Bastard," she breathed, but her thighs fell open wider.

The dress was in your way.

You tugged it lower, your fingers brushing the lace of her panties—same violet, same sin. Nayeon lifted her hips, letting you peel the satin down her legs, the fabric catching on her crystal chains before pooling on the floor.

Finally.

Bare except for the lace clinging to her hips, the gloves still on her hands, the bow still in her hair—

Yours.

You kissed the inside of her thigh, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. Nayeon jumped, her breath coming faster.

"Gonna mark me?" she challenged, her voice trembling.

You glanced up, holding her gaze as you sucked a bruise into the tender flesh.

Nayeon cried out, her back arching off the chaise.

"F-fuck, yes—"

You moved to the other thigh, repeating the process—suck, lick, bite—until she was squirming beneath you, her skin blooming with your fingerprints, your mouth.

"Mine," you murmured against her hipbone.

Nayeon’s hand fisted in your hair, dragging you up to meet her lips.

"Prove it," she breathed.

Her kiss was feral, all teeth and tongue and desperation. You could taste yourself on her lips, feel the way her body shook against yours.

"Off," she demanded, tugging at your shirt.

You obliged, stripping it over your head before pressing her back into the chaise.

Nayeon’s hands roamed your chest, her gloves leaving trails of fire in their wake. "So good," she murmured, her nails scraping your nipples. "So perfect for me."

You groaned, your hips rolling against hers instinctively.

Nayeon smirked, her fingers trailing lower, lower—

Then she stopped, her eyes locking onto yours.

"Say it," she whispered.

You knew what she wanted.

"Yours," you admitted, voice rough.

Nayeon’s smile was triumphant.

Then—

She flipped you onto your back, straddling your hips with a look that promised ruin.

"Now," she purred, grinding down on your cock, "let me return the favor."

Nayeon’s hands were not gentle.

Her satin gloves dragged down your chest, fingers splaying over your ribs like she was memorizing the architecture of you. The bow in her hair had come loose, dark strands framing her face as she leaned down—close, closer—her breath hot against your skin.

"You marked me," she murmured, her teeth grazing your collarbone. "Now let me ruin you."

Then she bit.

Not hard enough to break skin—but enough to make you jolt, your back arching off the chaise.

Nayeon laughed, low and throaty, her tongue soothing the sting before moving lower.

"Hah—fuck—" you gasped, fingers twisting in the chaise’s velvet.

She ignored you, her mouth mapping your chest with a ferocity that bordered on holy. Every kiss was a prayer, every nip a psalm—

And you were her altar.

Her teeth found the hollow there, sucking until the skin purpled. "Mine," she whispered against the mark, her gloved thumb pressing down—owning it.

Her tongue traced the dip between your pecs, slow and filthy, before she sealed her lips over your heartbeat. "I can feel it," she breathed. "How much you want me."

Her nails raked down your torso, leaving faint pink trails in their wake. When you jerked, she pinned your hips with hers, her smirk wicked. "Stay still," she chided, before laving her tongue over the sting.

Here, she was merciless. Her teeth sank into the soft flesh above your waistband, her moan vibrating against your skin as you cursed. "N-Nayeon—!"

She pulled back just enough to admire her handiwork—the blooming bruises, the spit-slick skin.

"Perfect," she decided, her voice rough with want.

Then—

She licked a stripe up your cock, her eyes locked onto yours.

"Now beg," she ordered.

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

The words stuck in your throat, choked by the sheer intensity of her gaze.

Nayeon tsked, her gloved hand wrapping around your length, stroking just enough to make your toes curl.

"So stubborn," she mused, her thumb swiping over your tip. "But I know you."

Her lips wrapped around you, sinking down until your cock hit the back of her throat—

"Ghk—! Mmmph~!!"

She gagged, tears welling in her eyes—but she didn’t pull away.

Just looked at you.

Watched you unravel.

Owned you.

Nayeon pulled off your cock with a wet pop, a string of spit still connecting her swollen lips to your tip. She wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark with hunger.

"Mmm… that’s enough lube," she murmured, her fingers stroking you lazily. "My bunny pussy’s soaked already anyway."

You snorted, the absurdity of her phrasing cutting through the haze of lust.

"Bunny pussy?" you repeated, grinning.

Nayeon pouted, her nose scrunching up in that way it did when she was flustered but refusing to admit it. "What?" she huffed, smacking your pec lightly. "I am a bunny. I’m living up to the nickname."

You laughed, your fingers threading through her hair, tugging her down for a kiss. She melted into it, her body pressing against yours, her lace-clad cunt grinding against your thigh.

"Fuck, you’re dripping," you groaned against her lips.

Nayeon whined, her hips jerking forward. "Y-Yeah, well—" She broke off with a gasp as your fingers slipped beneath her panties, tracing her slick folds. "Ah! S-See? Told you—"

You tsked, pulling your hand away just to watch her squirm. "Impatient."

She growled—actually growled—before shoving you back onto the couch. The chaise was just wide enough for her to straddle your lap, her knees bracketing your hips as she loomed over you.

"You’re mean," she accused, her fingers digging into your shoulders.

You smirked. "And you love it."

Nayeon huffed, but the way her thighs trembled betrayed her.

Then—

She yanked you forward by the hair, her lips brushing your ear.

"Claim me," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Or I’ll do it myself."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Your hands found her waist, lifting her just enough to guide her onto your cock. Nayeon moaned, her head falling back as you filled her, inch by aching inch.

"F-fuck—!" Her nails scraped down your chest, her thighs clamping around your hips. "S-So big—"

You groaned, your forehead dropping to her shoulder. "Nayeon—fuck—you’re squeezing me—"

She laughed, breathless, her hips rolling experimentally. "Good," she purred. "Means you won’t last."

You gritted your teeth, your grip on her waist tightening. "Wanna bet?"

Nayeon’s grin was wicked.

Then—

She moved.

Slow, agonizing rolls—her hips grinding down in tight circles, her walls fluttering around you. "Mmm… you feel that?" she murmured, her breath hot against your lips. "How much I want you?"

Sharp, stuttering bounces—her thighs slapping against yours, her moans pitching higher with every sink of your cock into her. "Ah! Ah! Y/N—fuck—!"

Deep, punishing drives—her back arching, her cunt clenching as she chased her own pleasure. "D-Don’t stop—don’t stop—!"

You watched her—her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the way her tits bounced with every movement—and knew you were ruined for anyone else.

Nayeon’s hands fisted in your hair, yanking your head back to meet her gaze.

"Mine," she panted, her hips stuttering. "Say it."

You groaned, your fingers digging into her ass. "Yours."

She smiled—triumphant, beautiful—before crashing her lips onto yours.

Nayeon trembled above you, her thighs shaking, her moans breaking into whimpers.

"I-I’m close—" she gasped, her nails biting into your skin. "Fuck me harder—"

You flipped her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head as you pounded into her.

Nayeon screamed, her back arching off the couch.

"Y/N—please—!"

You groaned, your hips stuttering—

But you stopped.

Nayeon whined, her cunt clenching around you. "W-Why—?"

You smirked, brushing her sweat-damp hair from her face.

"Because I can," you murmured.

Nayeon growled—

Then yanked you down by the hair, her teeth sinking into your shoulder.

"Bastard," she hissed.

You laughed—

Then moved again.

The chaise lounge creaked beneath you as you shifted Nayeon onto her back, her legs parting instinctively to cradle your hips. The violet lace of her bra was barely hanging on, one strap slipped off her shoulder, her skin flushed pink from collar to chest. Her gloves were ruined—stretched, damp with sweat, one nearly sliding off her trembling fingers.

But her eyes—

Her eyes were fixed on yours, wide and dark and achingly vulnerable.

You braced yourself above her, your forehead pressing against hers as you sank back into her, slow, so slow, letting her feel every inch.

Nayeon’s breath hitched, her lips parting in a silent oh.

"Look at me," you murmured.

She was.

She didn’t stop.

Her back arched, her nails scraping down your arms. "Ah—!" A ragged gasp, her thighs squeezing around your hips. "S-Slow—slow—"

You obeyed, rocking into her with deliberate, dragging strokes, letting her walls flutter and cling to you.

Her breath came in shaky bursts, her hips lifting to meet yours. "Y/N…"

You swallowed her whimper with a kiss, your fingers threading through hers, pinning her hand beside her head.

Her other hand fumbled at your jaw, her glove slipping as she tried to keep you close. "D-Don’t—don’t look away," she begged, her voice breaking.

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not when her pupils were blown black, her lips bitten red, her cheeks streaked with tears she didn’t even seem to notice.

"Nayeon," you choked out, your hips stuttering.

She felt it—the way your control frayed—and her smile was triumphant. "C-Close?"

You nodded, your forehead dropping to hers.

She wrapped around you—legs, arms, soul—her breath hot against your lips. "M-Me too," she whispered. "W-Wanna come… with you…"

You groaned, your thrusts turning jagged, desperate.

Nayeon whined, her back bowing off the chaise. "H-Harder—please—"

You gave it to her—one, two, three punishing drives—

And then—

She fell apart.

Nayeon wailed, her cunt clenching around you like a vice, her nails drawing blood down your back.

You followed—helpless—your hips jerking through the waves of her orgasm as you spilled into her, your groan shattering against her lips.

For a moment—

There was nothing but her.

Her breath.

Her heartbeat.

Her name on your tongue.

Then—

Nayeon’s arms tightened around you, her face pressing into your shoulder.

"Don’t move," she mumbled, her voice thick. "Not yet."

You didn’t.

The room was silent save for your ragged breathing, the distant hum of the air conditioning, the occasional drip of sweat from your temple onto her cheek.

Nayeon’s fingers traced idle patterns on your back, her other hand still tangled in your hair.

"Hey," she murmured.

You lifted your head just enough to meet her gaze.

She was smiling—soft, real, her mascara smudged, her lips swollen.

"Hi," you breathed.

Nayeon laughed, her nose scrunching. "You’re heavy."

You snorted, rolling off her—but not away, your arm curling around her waist to tug her against your side.

She went willingly, her head resting on your chest, her fingers tracing the marks she’d left on your skin.

"Mine," she declared softly.

You pressed a kiss to her hair.

"Yours."

Nayeon’s fingers traced idle circles on your chest, her head still resting against you, her breath warm against your skin. Then, with a soft, almost hesitant sigh, she tilted her face up to look at you—her cheeks flushed, her lips still kiss-swollen, her eyes shy in a way that made your chest tighten.

"Y/N…" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

You hummed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Hmm?"

She bit her lip, her fingers tightening slightly on your arm. "Can we…" A pause, her lashes fluttering as she glanced away for a second before meeting your gaze again. "Can we try it in front of the mirror?"

You blinked. Then—

A soft laugh escaped you, your thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "You want mirror sex?"

Nayeon pouted, her nose scrunching in that way it did when she was embarrassed but refusing to back down. "I-I just—" She huffed, her fingers pinching your side lightly. "I wanna see you. All of you. While you’re inside me."

Your breath hitched.

How could you possibly deny her?

The dressing table wasn’t far—just a few steps from the chaise, its wide mirror framed by glowing bulbs, the surface cluttered with makeup, hairpins, and half-empty bottles of perfume.

Nayeon giggled as you lifted her into your arms, her legs wrapping around your waist instinctively. "You’re strong," she teased, her lips brushing your jaw.

You smirked, setting her down on the edge of the table, her back to the mirror. "And you’re light," you countered, your hands sliding up her thighs.

She shivered, her breath catching as you nudged her legs apart, stepping between them.

Then—

You turned her.

Nayeon gasped as she faced the mirror, her reflection staring back at her—flushed, disheveled, your body pressed against her from behind.

"Oh—" Her voice was barely a whisper.

You leaned down, your lips grazing the shell of her ear. "Look," you murmured. "Look at how beautiful you are."

Wide, dazed, locked onto the mirror as your hands slid up her torso, cupping her breasts through the ruined lace of her bra. Her lips parted on a shaky exhale, her hips pressing back against you.

Pink and marked—bruises from your teeth, red streaks from your nails, the faint sheen of sweat making her glow under the vanity lights.

Dark against her pale skin, possessive as they traced her curves, memorizing her. One hand slipped lower, fingertips brushing her clit, and Nayeon jolted, her back arching.

"F-fuck—!"

You smirked against her shoulder, your other hand tilting her chin up, forcing her to watch. "See how wet you are?" you murmured, your fingers sliding through her slick folds. "All for me."

Nayeon whined, her thighs trembling. "Y-Yes—yours—"

You guided yourself to her entrance, your cock pressing against her, not pushing in yet—just letting her feel the weight of you.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the table. "P-Please—"

You tsked, nipping at her earlobe. "Ask nicely."

Nayeon moaned, her head falling back against your shoulder. "Fuck me," she begged, her eyes locked onto yours in the mirror. "Fuck me right here."

You sank into her in one slow, agonizing thrust, her walls fluttering around you, her moan shattering the air.

Nayeon’s hands clutched the edge of the table, her knuckles white, her reflection wrecked—lips parted, eyes wild, her chest heaving.

"O-Oh my God—"

You groaned, your forehead dropping to her shoulder as you bottomed out, your hips flush against her ass. "Fuck, Nayeon—"

Her fingers dug into your thigh, her voice breaking. "M-Move—please—"

You did.

Slow, deep rolls—your hips grinding against her, your cock dragging against her walls in a way that made her sob.

"Y/N—ah!—I c-can’t—"

Hard, punishing thrusts—her body jolting forward with every snap of your hips, her tits bouncing in the mirror, her moans pitching higher.

"F-faster—faster—!"

Desperate, unsteady drives—her thighs shaking, her cunt clenching around you as she teetered on the edge.

"I-I’m gonna—ah!—Y/N—!"

You watched her—watched the way her face twisted in pleasure, the way her nails scratched at the table, the way her entire body trembled with need.

And then—

You stopped.

Nayeon whined, her hips jerking back, trying to chase her release. "N-No—don’t stop—!"

You smirked, your hands gripping her waist, holding her still. "Not yet," you murmured, your lips brushing her ear. "I wanna see you beg."

Nayeon growled—

Then twisted in your grip, her hand fisting in your hair as she yanked you into a searing kiss.

"Bastard," she hissed against your lips.

You laughed—

Then moved again.

Nayeon’s body arched like a bowstring, her back pressing flush against your chest as the orgasm tore through her. A broken, guttural sound ripped from her throat—something between a sob and a scream—as her cunt clenched around you in rhythmic, violent spasms.

"F-FUCK—!"

Her fingers scrambled against the vanity table, knocking over a bottle of foundation that rolled off the edge and hit the floor with a thud. But she didn’t even notice—her entire world had narrowed to the white-hot pleasure searing through her veins, to the way your cock stretched her even as she came apart around you.

You groaned, your forehead dropping to her shoulder as her walls milked you, your own release barreling toward you like a freight train.

"N-Nayeon—I’m—"

She whimpered, her hips jerking weakly. "D-Do it—inside—"

That was all it took.

With a choked gasp, you pulsed into her, your hips stuttering as you spilled deep, so deep, your fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs.

For a moment—

There was nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the drip of sweat from your temple onto her bare back, the thunder of your heartbeats syncing in the aftermath.

Then—

Nayeon collapsed forward, her elbows hitting the vanity with a clatter, her entire body trembling.

"H-Holy shit…" she panted, her voice wrecked.

You chuckled breathlessly, your hands smoothing up her spine. "You good?"

She let out a weak laugh, her cheek pressing against the cool surface of the table. "I think you broke me."

You didn’t pull out.

Couldn’t.

Not when she was still clenching around you, her body refusing to let go.

So you stayed.

Your arms wrapped around her waist, your chest pressed to her back, your lips brushing the nape of her neck as you both breathed.

Nayeon sighed, her fingers lacing with yours where they rested on her stomach.

"Mmm…" she hummed, her voice slurred with exhaustion. "S’nice…"

You smiled, nuzzling into her hair. "Yeah?"

She nodded, her hips shifting just enough to make you both groan. "Y-Yeah…"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"We should… probably clean up," she mumbled, though she made no move to do so.

You snorted, your hands drifting lower, kneading the soft flesh of her thighs. "In a minute."

Nayeon huffed—but she was smiling, her eyes fluttering shut as she melted back into you.

"…Fine."

The studio was a wreck—clothes strewn across the floor, the chaise lounge dented from where you’d gripped it too hard, the vanity table covered in smudged makeup and spilled perfume.

But neither of you cared.

Not when Nayeon was curled in your lap, her head resting on your shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your chest.

"Hey," she murmured.

You hummed, your hand stroking her hair. "Hmm?"

She tilted her face up, her nose brushing your jaw. "…Wanna do it again?"

You laughed, your arms tightening around her.

"Yeah."

The backstage room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of fabric as Nayeon shifted in your arms. The scent of sex and sweat still lingered in the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of her perfume. The vanity mirror was fogged in places, the chaise lounge still bore the imprint of your bodies, and the floor was littered with discarded clothes—evidence of the three rounds of lovemaking that had left you both boneless and sated.

Nayeon’s fingers traced idle circles on your chest, her head resting against your shoulder. Then, without warning, she pinched your side—hard.

“Ow—what was that for?” you yelped, jerking slightly beneath her.

She lifted her head, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed in a pout that was more adorable than threatening. “You,” she declared, poking your chest with each word, “are infuriating.”

You blinked. “I—what?”

Nayeon huffed, sitting up fully, the sheet pooling around her waist. “All those weeks of you avoiding me during my solo shoots. Acting all professional. Ignoring me when I tried to flirt.” Her voice rose slightly, her cheeks flushing. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to focus when you were just—just standing there, looking all handsome and unattainable?”

You stared at her, your lips twitching. “Wait. You’re mad because I was doing my job?”

“YES!” She threw her hands up, then immediately winced, her muscles protesting the movement after the night’s activities. “Ugh. You did this to me.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, reaching for her waist to pull her back down. She resisted for all of two seconds before collapsing against you with a grumble.

“Nayeon,” you murmured, brushing her hair behind her ear, “you’re a global superstar. I wasn’t about to risk your career by getting caught making out with you in the dressing room.”

She glared, but there was no real heat in it. “You should have.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes.” She sighed dramatically, her fingers playing with the chain around your neck. “I had to suffer through months of you being all stoic and responsible while I was dying inside.”

You smirked. “And yet, here we are.”

Nayeon’s expression softened, her thumb brushing your lower lip. “Here we are,” she echoed quietly. Then, after a beat, she added, “You’re lucky I love you.”

Your chest tightened. “Yeah,” you whispered, pulling her closer. “I am.”

Nayeon continued her tirade—though it was half-hearted at best—while you rubbed her sore shoulders, pressing kisses to the marks you’d left earlier. “And another thing—”

You nipped at her earlobe, cutting her off. “You’re adorable when you’re mad.”

She squeaked, swatting your arm. “I’m serious!”

You grinned. “I know.”

She grew quiet after a while, her fingers tracing the scars on your knuckles. “...I hated it, you know,” she admitted softly. “Pretending I didn’t want you.”

You kissed her temple. “Me too.”

Nayeon tilted her head up, her eyes searching yours. “No more avoiding me,” she ordered.

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No more avoiding you.”

She nodded, satisfied. Then, with a wicked grin, she added, “Good. Because I have plans for you.”

You groaned, already knowing you were in trouble.

=====

Chapter 3 – Velvet Wrinkles and Soft Warnings

You tried to sit up, but your spine protested, and you flopped back down with a low groan.

Nayeon looked down at you with that look—a cocktail of amusement, triumph, and just a pinch of superiority. Her gloved fingers plucked your ear.

“Come on, teddy bear. Clothes. Before someone comes in and sees my entire career laid out on the floor like an after-party crime scene.”

You groaned again, throwing an arm over your eyes. “My legs don’t work, Nayeon. You drained me. Literally. Spiritually.”

She reached over and flicked your forehead.

“Then I’ll walk out first. In this, no less—” she motioned toward the satin mini dress still half-slipped down her thighs, “—and let’s see how long it takes before the stylists start whispering or dispatching a fire extinguisher.”

You shot up like a guilty teenager. “Okay okay, message received.”

She smirked in victory, rising carefully from the chaise lounge and wincing a little as she stretched her legs. The leg chains sparkled again under the light, but you noticed how gently she moved. How she touched her hip, then her shoulder.

Without a word, you reached over and helped lift her dress back up, your hands careful, smoothing the fabric back over her skin.

She paused, eyes on you as you adjusted the strap.

“You’re not allowed to be this gentle after being that feral.”

You fought a smile. “Well, you’re not allowed to be this dramatic after pinching me in your sleep.”

Nayeon gasped, feigning offense. “That was subconscious retaliation! And you deserved it!”

You pulled your shirt over your head, then leaned in to peck her shoulder. “I’ll take whatever punishment you want, Nayeon.”

She looked at you for a moment. Her lips twitched into a small, knowing grin.

“You say that now…”

As she adjusted her gloves and stepped into her heels, she kept glancing sideways at you. Like she wanted to say more but was choosing not to. So you zipped her up silently, your fingers grazing her back, and gently handed her the black bow headband she’d thrown across the room earlier.

She placed it on her curls carefully, then turned to you. Serious this time.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

She stepped forward again, standing toe-to-toe, her gloved hands flattening the collar of your shirt like it annoyed her. She looked up.

“You’re mine now.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a claim. It was just… truth. Spoken with soft finality.

“Got it?”

You nodded.

“Got it.”

She smiled—genuine this time. No teasing. Then, with a very Nayeon mix of grace and flair, she grabbed her bag, fixed her lipstick in the mirror without looking at you once, then turned toward the door.o

“Also,” she called without turning, “next time? Don’t leave any hickeys where the stylists can see them. I still have an album jacket shoot on Sunday.”

You flinched.

“Right. Sorry.”

She paused at the door, turned slightly, and added, “But leave one or two where only I know. Just so I remember.”

And with that, she disappeared into the hallway, hips swaying like nothing ever happened.

You stood there dumbfounded, still half-dressed, heart pounding. You were in so much trouble.

And you wouldn’t change a thing.

Chapter 3 (Part 2) – Red Lights and Violet Fire

Two days later.

The studio was drenched in golden afternoon light, bouncing off the metallic set panels and catching on every sequin, lens, and strand of Nayeon’s styled hair. The crew bustled around the scene like bees in a hive—but you were dead silent.

Eyes locked on the monitor. On her.

Today’s concept was “dangerous elegance.” Sleek silhouettes. Moody lighting. A throne-like chair in the middle of the set. Nayeon sat in it like she was born on it—one leg crossed over the other, her smirk sharp, her dress a form-hugging deep garnet number that could stop traffic. Her hair was straight this time, tucked behind one ear, and her makeup screamed dominatrix meets runway royalty.

Your headset buzzed.

“Director Y/N? She’s ready.”

You nodded, speaking into the mic. “Cue camera three. Steady on her left side. Backlight needs a quarter dim—there’s too much glare on her cheekbone. Let her eyes breathe.”

You glanced up.

And she was staring directly at you.

The second she caught your eye, her smile curled dangerously. Like she knew what she’d done to you two nights ago. Like she planned on doing it again.

You cleared your throat and forced your eyes back to the monitor. Professionalism. Right. That old friend.

“Nayeon,” you called gently, “give me something with your eyes. Like you’re royalty… but lonely. In control, but aching.”

She tilted her head. Slowly. Seductively. Her lips parted just slightly as she exhaled, eyes narrowing.

Oh, she’s playing with you.

Everyone else clapped at her acting, impressed.

You weren’t fooled. That look wasn’t acting.

That was for you.

An hour later, the last shot of the day wrapped. Everyone exhaled as lights dimmed and equipment was wheeled off. Staff patted each other’s backs. Photographers scrolled through thumbnails, proud.

You? You were trying to get the hell out of the room before you did something that would make headlines.

But just as you pulled off your headset—

“Y/N.”

Her voice behind you. Low. Smooth. Dangerous.

You turned.

Nayeon stood near the corner exit, now wearing a black silk robe over her shoot outfit, her heels clicking against the studio floor. She glanced over her shoulder with a look that froze time.

“Come here.”

You swallowed hard and followed.

She tugged you around a blind corner behind the lighting rig—just far enough from everyone else. The smell of her perfume hit you first—spicy, soft, sweetly ruinous.

And then—

Her lips crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t teasing. It was hungry. Months of tension, weeks of restraint, two nights of memory combusting into one kiss you couldn’t stop if you tried.

She broke away with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’ve been dying to do that all shoot.”

You blinked, breathless. “That was… incredibly risky.”

She smirked. “You think I care?”

“You should.”

“I shouldn’t.” She kissed your jaw. “But I don’t.”

Then she turned and began walking toward the dressing room. But halfway there, she paused—looked over her shoulder—and said it with a fire that pulled every last thread of professionalism out of you:

“By the way… I cleared the rest of my schedule tonight.”

You froze. “…You what?”

She kept walking.

“I told the stylists I needed ‘deep tissue therapy.’ I told management you requested time to ‘refine our performance synergy.’”

You blinked. “You lied?”

“I acted.” Her robe slipped slightly off one shoulder as she entered the dressing room.

Then, just before the door closed, her voice called out again:

“Now come inside, Oppa. Before I drag you in myself.”

Click. The door shut.

You stood there in the now-empty studio hallway, heart pounding, mouth dry, adrenaline roaring.

And then you walked. Fast.

Because professionalism could wait.

She couldn’t.

Epilogue – Morning Glory (and Regret?)

You groaned.

Not because you were waking up early. Not because of the sun slanting through the blinds of Nayeon’s bedroom window.

No.

You groaned because every damn muscle in your body ached. Particularly… certain regions that had no business being sore in that way.

You turned your head slowly on the pillow and squinted. Nayeon was lying next to you on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek like an angel, her bare shoulder peeking out from the sheets. She was smiling in her sleep.

Smiling.

Like she hadn’t just spent half the night breaking you in the most surprising way imaginable.

You muttered under your breath. “I should’ve known she’d be into that.”

As if summoned by your complaint, Nayeon’s eyes fluttered open, the corners of her lips already curling.

“Morning, Oppa,” she purred, voice still raspy with sleep. “Feeling stretched?”

You rolled onto your back and groaned again. “Nayeon.”

“Hmm?” She leaned over you, her hair falling over your chest like a curtain.

“You lied. You said you’d never tried that before.”

She blinked innocently. “I hadn’t.” Then grinned, smug. “But I’m an incredibly fast learner.”

You covered your face with both hands, dragging them down slowly. “I think you broke me.”

She giggled. “No, Oppa. You broke me. I’m the one who was singing praises in three languages last night.”

You glared. “You were also the one moaning my name like a prayer. Don’t act like you didn’t ascend.”

She leaned down and kissed your cheek. “That’s because you’re huge and freakishly talented. But you’re also very whiny in the morning.”

“Because my everything hurts, Nayeon.”

She cooed. “Aww. My poor baby bear. Want me to kiss it better?”

Your glare sharpened. “Don’t make me limp away from this bed.”

“You won’t.” She crawled on top of you, pinning your arms above your head like it was nothing.

“Because,” she whispered against your ear, “I already booked us a room at the hot springs later today.”

You blinked. “…You what?”

“Mhm.” Kiss to your neck. “And I cleared both our schedules for tomorrow.”

“Nayeon—”

“So you can rest.” Kiss to your jaw. “And eat well.” Kiss to your chest. “And train properly.”

You froze.

“…Train?”

She lifted her head and beamed.

“I meant what I said, Oppa.” A wicked glint in her eye. “I loved it. So we’re doing it again.”

You groaned, flopping dramatically onto the pillow.

“God help me.”

Nayeon laughed and curled up beside you, draping her arm around your stomach like she owned you now.

And honestly?

Maybe she did.

[END.]

[heretherebeturtles-comic]

⭐

ALRIGHT! I told myself I would write this as a reward for finishing today's tasks, so lets go!

Here There Be - Director's Commentary :D!!

Starting with Chapter 1 part 1 (pages 1-4)

First of all, everyone say a big thank you to my friend and editor OurLadyOfCoffee for double checking the spelling and grammar for this comic.

Any mistakes in the writing are my own fault for making last minute changes and not showing her before posting. If she had gotten her hands on this page "missing in all the time in this city" would never have happened ( u_u)... I'll go back and fix the page eventually.

Pages 1 & 2 (and 20) did not exist in the original draft of the chapter. I made it to the lineart/inking stage and the page flow was not working. April's narration felt too cramped and boring. I completely redid the whole 4 page section, and the end the final result is so much better!

Page 1 - Panel 1 had two purposes! One, the establishing shot, introducing our setting. Two, to show that NYC is rebuilding after the Krang. Its been a few months and thanks to cartoon logic, they have made significant progress fixing everything.

I love to experiment with colour as a storytelling device. I use red/orange multiple times at specific points throughout the chapter. It simply morning in NYC or is there something dangerous on the horizon... (figuratively)? The good ol' "Red sky at morning, sailors take warning."

Page 1. Panel 2 has a little 1987 April reference with the lady in the jumpsuit on the right. I was really excited to see a few folks point it out, even if it's not quite the iconic yellow jumpsuit. The colour had to be muted or the bold yellow would pull attention away from April (the focus of the panel).

Hello Junior, what do you have there? Something that won't get context for a while? These panels almost didn't make it into the final cut due to page/panel limits. I was very happy that the added pages gave space for it.

Page 2 - someone sent an ask a while back confused about what April was saying, so to explain the text in a more straightforward way: "the mutants that started out as humans have been going missing, but no one knows how long it has been happening or who has taken them. April has figured out that the non-human based mutations disappeared first."

that orange again, this time over the spots where the now missing mutants used to be :)<. I have no idea if this sort of thing is too subtle or not subtle enough, but it makes me go eheehehee and rub my hands together like an evil mastermind.

Page 3 - I debated whether or not to have them move after the movie. How much structural damage did the Krang do on their way through? What are the chances of the lair being discovered because of this? Would the city be too focused on cleanup elsewhere to bother finding it? Do I really want to design a whole new lair when this one is cool and we barely got to see it? In the end I decided that it was more important to have a familiar visual that the readers can instantly identify as the turtle's home. We'll see if there are consequences for remaining in a potentially compromised lair. :)

Despite only showing two rooms in the page, I spent several hours gathering references and building a layout for the entire station lair. I do not control the hyperfocus, it controls me.

Did you know that there are two different designs for this one archway in the main room? I love seeing stuff like this! If an animation studio with multiple background artists can have small inconsequential inconsistencies like this, then it's completely ok if it happens in my own work. It's relieving in a weird way.

PAGE 3 - panel 5 is another way I tried to show that a few months have passed since the movie. They have put some work into unpacking some of those boxes stacked in the back.

Page 4 - Hello Two Phones Jones <3

The Jones Duo! They both have a little outfit change :D! CJ has a rough edged jean vest calling back to the 1990 movie with 03 colours. Casey has a base outfit colour change to match and a cropped hoodie reminiscent of 1987, in pink ofc.

I do not yet have the skills to show the fight that happened in that shipping yard, so I decided that this comic would begin in the tense quiet after it. This also starts us closer to the actual plot instead of dilly dallying. Maybe I'll eventually make a prelude comic to show what all went down.

Aaand that's pretty much it for April's 03 style narrated opening sequence! This is where the intro theme would start playing~

Thank you for the star, I hope this was interesting! I make so many small decisions per page, it's nice to share some of my thoughts. :)

[animehideout]

idk if u are taking requests but I thought about “jjk men reacting to a s/o with tramp stamp” … if u did it would be nice …

JJK men reacting to tramp stamp

A/N: Hello, thanks for your request, I hope you like it <3 well here the reader is not necessarily s/o but reader and jjk men have feelings for each other.

Warning: hmm kinda smut ❤️‍🔥 ??

Gojo Satoru : At Prom Party.

It was prom party that night at Jujutsu High, teachers were also allowed to attend, and you were one of the new teachers who joined this year. So your secret admirer and co-worker Gojo Satoru seized the opportunity and found it fit to invite you to go to prom with him, as two young and beautiful teachers. Since all of you live in Jujutsu High dormitory, you were already in the middle of the party ground, and no need for Gojo to pick you up from your room.

Satoru mingled through the prom, wearing am expensive and elegant black suit, he was searching for you and then found you with your girl students, all of you dressed in cute dresses. Satoru's eyes widened. He wasn't used to you wearing dresses, you've always been clad in your teaching uniform or something sporty. His heart skipped a beat when he saw you in a sleek low-back dress, you looked really stunning and sexy, outshining everyone there. He took a moment to admire you from afar, then started walking towards but boy stopped mid way when you suddenly turned around to greet Itadori, the intricate design of the tramp stamp tattoo that's briefly visible above the edge of your dress caught Gojo's eyes and took his breath away. For a split second, his expression flickered with surprise. His gaze lingering on your lower back, trying to see the details of your tattoo, but soon you turned again and he's left with replaying that hidden and unexpected glimpse of rebellion in his mind. He'd walk over to you and try to stay composed.

Each time you turn around or something he tried to peek without appearing like a creep, but he desperately wanted to see it up close and maybe trace it with his long fingers. Even though he was surprised, he actually liked it and it made you look even more badass and he loves that. You'd notice how he was acting really awkward and weird, you thought he hated the party or something but truth is he couldn't stop thinking and envisioning his hands tracing your inked lower back so delicately, admiring and taking into the details of that tramp stamp of yours. You'd ask him if he's okay and he'll just blurt it out . He was so done and wanted to see it real bad.

" I noticed you've got a tattoo! I didn't know you're into tattoos "

"Oh this one?" you'd say and turn around giving him a better and clear display.

He'd gulp. His heart hammering against his ribcage at the beautiful sight, the tattoo, your well defined back, the way the dress was looking gorgeous from behind, he couldn't help but fall deep for you, he found you more and more irresistible.

"Wow I wanna touch it– holy shit sorry, I'm not a pervert!!! " he started explaining when he realized he voiced his deepest desires.

But you'd cut him off with a visible smirk,

" Of course, but let's keep it after the party, shall we ? "

He took the hint and realized that you've got something for him as well, and now he can't wait when the party's over so he can get what he's been thinking about for the whole night.

Suguru Geto : At Tattoo Shop

Your friend Geto started a new project and opened his own tattoo and piercing shop. So you and your group of friends, Satoru and Shoko thought about paying him a visit and support him. The shop screams Geto, it's literally his vibe, black and grey wallpaper, and electric guitar hanging on the wall, the scent of his cologne taking over the whole space, making it more inviting. You've always liked the way he smells tho.

Suguru got really happy when you arrived, he appreciated your support for his business, but more importantly cuz you were there. Shoko was getting a new piercing and you thought about getting a small design right under your collarbone. He was too excited to tattoo you and maybe exchange eye contact in the process. It didn't take too long for him to get the tattoo done, the design was really small and Geto is a pro.

" So what do you think?" he asked nervously, handing you a mirror.

" Oh wow I love it Suguru, you're really good at this, good job! you never disappoint"

" You took it like a champ tho! you didn't even flinch for a first time getting tattoed, especially that area is pretty sensitive " he said proudly

you giggled and said, " Oh actually it's not my first tattoo "

" What ? and how come we don't know about that? " asked Shoko

" Um because it's hidden!"

" Care to show us miss ? Come on don't be shy now" she added,

" Ugh fine " you rolled your eyes and smiled,

You lifted your shirt a bit and slightly pushed done your pants only to show your lower back, and a beautiful tramp stamp tattoo came to display. Geto's eyes were fixated in your lower back, your soft skin and how it was decorated with a breathtaking design that made your back even more attractive. His breath hitched up in his throat, feeling more drawn to you, but at the same time jealous because someone else got to touch you there and tattoo you. He wished it was him, taking his time to design your lower back and give you that pretty pain.

" A- a tramp stamp?" he stuttered,

" Yeah I got it 2 months ago, if I knew you're planning to open up a tattoo shop I would've waited so you can tattoo me "

" Oh shoot Suguru, unlucky " teased Gojo knowing about the obvious spark between both of you.

Suguru glared at his friend, getting really upset, because he desperately wanted to be the one to ink you and not anyone else. But he couldn't help how warm the atmosphere was getting, you looked very hot.

" I'm getting more tattoos though, but now I know I'll come to you to ink me " you said wanting his hands to be on you in any possible way.

Suguru's pupils expanded, a smirk appeared on his face. He got more excited and now he can't wait for his next session with you.

" Any specific spots ? "

" I like hidden spots more " you smiled,

" Alright Shoko I guess we don't fit here anymore " exclaimed Gojo wrapping his arm around Shoko's shoulder pulling her outside with him so he can give his best friend some privacy with you.

You spent the rest of the evening, in Geto's shop, just the two of you, discussing tattoos, exchanging your mutual likings, and choosing the perfect spot that he'll ink.

You spent the rest of the evening talking about your mutual passion for tattoos, chosing what spot you'll decorate next and maybe showing him once again that beautiful tattoo, for inspiration purposes.

Choso Kamo : At The Beach

Choso's heart pounded out of hos chest as he watched the sunrise with you, it was your second date together after you officially started dating. He thought that watching the sunrise together at the beach is romantic, and man wanted to act romantic just for you. Poor baby was doing his best.

" I love this place " you said as you rested your head on his shoulder.

The water was inviting, sparkling in the sun rays, the gentle waves creating a therapeutic sound.

" Yeah, a calm place for both of us " he said, hesitantly pressing a kiss on top of your head.

He was still shy around you, very careful with his moves even though you were chill and cool around him. Trying to not rush things to not make you uncomfortable in any way.

" Should we swim ? " you suggest out of the blue with a big excited smile on your face.

" Swim? Now ? I think the water is cold now!"

" I like it cold, it's refreshing. Don't you think " you answered, your eyes shining with happiness.

" I– "

But before he could say anything, you already stripped out of your clothes, living you in your bikini. You knew you can't resist the water, so you wore your bikini in case you decided to swim.

" I came prepared " you laughed and started running to the water.

Choso froze. He didn't know how to act. He didn't expect you to easily take off your clothes, in front of him like that, his cheeks turned red like cherries. But what made him more flustered is the tattoo that was clearly visible on your lower back. Choso gasped, his heart almost jumping out of his throat. Your figure, your inked skin made it hard for him to breathe or function and now he's all red, awkward not knowing what his next move is. But he took his time to stare at your back, since he's your boyfriend and he kinda felt that he has the green light to look at you as much as he wants.

" Aren't you coming? " you asked, as you started playing with water.

He smiled at your cute behavior and built up the courage, taking off his clothes and joined you in the water. You were pretty aware that he noticed your tattoo, it was meant for him to see it and you patiently waited for him to say something. You hugged him while both of you were in the water, his hands wrapped around your waist.

" Your back.. it's so pretty ! " he whispered

" Hmm, come again? " you teased

" T-the t-tattoo on your back, it looks so p-pretty on you! I didn't know you have it " he stuttered,

" Oh thank you, I keep it hidden most of the time only for y– " you said with a shy smile.

" me, only for me to see it " he interrupted growing more confident.

" Yes Choso only for you to see it "

It turned him on, and he felt proud that you're his girlfriend and that he gets to see and touch that tattoo as much as he wants. Without hesitation this time, he crushed your lips together, taking you into a deep wet kiss, while the waves made you sway.

" And only for me to touch it " he mumbled into the kiss.

Ryomen Sukuna : One Night Stand

You've liked Sukuna for so long, but didn't have the courage to confess or even start a conversation with him, so you've always watched him from a distance completely unaware that he's actually obsessed with you. He wanted to have you so bad, he's always seen you as an innocent human being so he was very careful with the way he'd approach you, worried that he might scare you away.

One night, you went to a party to celebrate one of your friends birthday and to your luck, Sukuna was there. You didn't notice he was there, till he offered you a drink and invited you to dance with him. Both of you living the dream that you desired for months.

The sexual tension was so strong between both of you, and none of you could wait any second longer. So you left the party early to be together, under each other's touch. He took you back to his place, and all what you can do is making out, you wanted this for many months and now you can't let this opportunity to taste him slide from between your fingers. That make out session, eventually led to sex. And now both of you stripping out of your clothes. You knew Sukuna is dominant, his appearance, his attitude, his everything screams dominance and you couldn't help but submit to him.

" And now turn around princess can you do that for me ? " he said in his deep voice, sending shivers down your spine.

You did as he said, waiting for his next move. But he didn't do anything. All what you can feel is his veiny hands around your waists.

" Sukuna? " you started and looked back.

You can see his eyes fixated on your arched lower back. His eyes darkening full of admiration and lust.

" A tattoo? " he asked,

" Y-yea ? " you were confused and worried thinking that he changed his mind and didn't wanna make love to you.

" Fuck! and I thought you were innocent huh ? "

" Why? innocent girls can't have a tramp stamp? " you said teasingly,

" Damn, and I thought you can't get any hotter.. that's so rebellious of you princes, and I enjoy handling rebellious ones " he smirked and pushed you down even more.

His tattooed hands roaming your lower back, tracing your tattoo with his nails, that poking feeling making you jump slightly but he kept you still, you can feel his breath and lips on your skin, kissing your tattooed skin, making your heart race and head spin.

" Imma enjoy this pretty view while I make you scream my name "

To say the less, he gave you the best night of your life.

[fayelero]

— WILDFLOWER ! timeskip!atsumu

➥ pr : timeskip!atsumu x famous!fem!reader

➥ syn : after a tough argument with your boyfriend, you got in a car accident…

➥ wc : 3.1k

➥ tw : tough argument, car accident, injured reader, angst to comfort, crying reader, y/n employed a lil.

➥ a/n : trauma era ! (it’s weird I’ll stop)

The lights of Shibuya sparkled like they always did—a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of neon advertisements flashing bright against the obsidian night sky, painting the urban landscape in vibrant, electric hues of pink, cerulean, and electric blue. Massive screens flickered with advertisements, music videos, and breaking news, casting their ever-changing glow across the bustling streets below. But high above the cacophony of the city, inside the sleek, minimalist luxury penthouse that had once been their sanctuary, the air was thick with a different kind of electricity—raw, crackling tension that threatened to consume everything in its path.

The once warm and welcoming space now felt cold, almost suffocating. Gone were the soft throw pillows carefully arranged by interior designers, the artful photography capturing moments of their shared past, the subtle scent of sandalwood that typically permeated the air. Now, there was only silence punctuated by ragged breathing and the distant hum of Tokyo's nightlife.

Atsumu stood by the kitchen counter, a study in controlled fury. His muscular frame was tense, arms crossed over his chest, revealing the definition of years of professional volleyball training. His brow was furrowed, a familiar competitive edge that usually served him on the court now turned inward, sharp and dangerous. His blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, was slightly disheveled—a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil brewing inside him.

You were on the opposite side of the room, pacing back and forth. Your designer heels—Louboutins, a gift from a recent magazine shoot—clacked against the pristine marble floor in a staccato rhythm that matched the racing of your heart. Each step was a statement, a declaration of your growing frustration.

The penthouse, situated in one of Shibuya's most exclusive high-rises, had always been a symbol of your collective success. But tonight, it felt more like a pressure cooker, ready to explode under the weight of unspoken resentments and mounting professional tensions.

"I'm so sick of this, Atsumu!" you screamed, your voice a complex mixture of rage and profound hurt. Tears streamed down your face, tracing perfect lines through your meticulously applied makeup. Your hands, adorned with delicate rings from your latest endorsement deals, gestured wildly, punctuating each word with raw emotion. "You're never here! Never! And when you are, all we do is fight. I've spent the last five years supporting you, loving you, waiting for you—while I'm out there building my own damn career!"

The vulnerability beneath your anger was palpable. These weren't just the words of a frustrated partner, but of someone who had consistently placed another's dreams ahead of their own, only to feel increasingly marginalized and forgotten.

Atsumu's response was immediate, defensive—a reflex honed from years of facing down opponents on the volleyball court. "And what? You expect me to just drop everything?!" His voice was louder than you'd ever heard it before, a mixture of Osaka dialect and raw emotion. "You think bein' a professional volleyball player is just fun and games? That it doesn't take everythin' I have to stay at the top?"

His words were defensive, but underneath lay a deep-seated insecurity. The volleyball world was unforgiving, with careers that could end in an instant. Every moment not training, not preparing, felt like a potential threat to everything he had worked for.

"That's not what I'm saying!" you yelled back, your voice cracking with a complexity of emotions. As you wiped furiously at your cheeks, the carefully constructed persona of the confident model and actress momentarily dissolved, revealing the deeply wounded individual beneath. "But it's like I don't exist to you anymore, Atsumu! It's like I'm just a damn afterthought!"

You paused, inhaling sharply, gathering the last reserves of your emotional ammunition. When you spoke again, your words were calculated, designed to wound. "You know what? Maybe you love volleyball more than you ever loved me."

The silence that followed was deafening.

The sting in your words was palpable—a razor-sharp blade that cut through the carefully constructed facade of their relationship. In Atsumu's eyes, you could see a storm brewing. His pupils dilated, the golden-brown irises darkening with a mixture of hurt, anger, and something deeper—a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.

His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching near his temple—a tell-tale sign of his rising frustration. The fists at his sides tightened, knuckles turning white, betraying the athletic control he typically maintained with such precision. Years of professional volleyball had taught him to channel emotions, to convert raw feeling into explosive physical energy. But here, in the intimate battlefield of their home, those skills failed him completely.

"Don't even start with that crap," he spat, his voice dripping with venom that was more pain than malice. The Osaka dialect grew thicker, a subconscious retreat into his most authentic self—the version of Atsumu that existed before the fame, before the pressure, before the constant performance of being a professional athlete. "You're the one out there posin' half-naked for the world to see! You don't even care about what that does to me, do ya? Every single time I see your face plastered all over those magazines, I'm reminded of how everyone else gets to see what's supposed to be mine!"

The words hung in the air, loaded with possessiveness, insecurity, and a deep-seated fear of loss.

You froze, his words slicing through you like a knife. The transformation was immediate—from emotional vulnerability to razor-sharp defensive mode. "Excuse me?" you said, voice dangerously low, each syllable carefully enunciated. The model's training kicked in—controlled, precise, devastating. "What's supposed to be yours? Atsumu, I'm not some possession you can just claim. I've worked my ass off to get where I am. And if you can't handle my success, that's on you—not me."

Your career hadn't been a gift. It had been a battlefield of its own—endless castings, brutal rejections, critical eyes dissecting every inch of your appearance, your talent, your worth. Each magazine cover, each commercial, each film role had been hard-won, purchased with countless sleepless nights and moments of self-doubt.

"Oh, so now I'm the bad guy?" he shot back, his voice heavy with sarcasm that barely concealed his hurt. "Yeah, sure. Poor you. The perfect little model and actress who gets everything handed to her on a silver platter. Do ya even realize how lucky you are?"

The accusation hung between them—a gross oversimplification of a complex journey.

Your mouth fell open, shock mixing with the anger that burned in your chest like an uncontrollable wildfire. "Lucky?" you repeated, the word dripping with disbelief and mounting fury. You took a step closer to him, closing the physical distance between you, your presence electric and challenging. "You think my career is easy? That I haven't sacrificed just as much as you have?"

The vulnerability returned, raw and unfiltered. "You have no idea what it's like to have your entire life picked apart by strangers, to have people constantly criticize you, to feel like you're never enough no matter how hard you try!"

In that moment, the fight transformed. It was no longer just about time, or absence, or professional demands. It was about two individuals drowning in the expectations of their careers, of society, of each other—desperately trying to maintain their individual identities while simultaneously trying to maintain a relationship.

The room fell silent, heavy with unsaid things. The city continued its relentless pulse outside, indifferent to the emotional storm raging within the penthouse. Neon lights continued to dance across the windows, a stark contrast to the stillness inside.

"I can't do this anymore," you whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of you. Your voice was soft, but filled with a finality that seemed to reverberate through the entire space. Shaking your head, you grabbed your designer handbag—a Chanel piece that had been a hard-earned gift by Atsumu after a particularly challenging campaign.

"Where the hell do ya think you're goin'?" Atsumu barked, his voice rising again, a last-ditch attempt to maintain control of a situation rapidly slipping away.

"Anywhere but here," you snapped, your hand already reaching for the Porsche keys in the decorative bowl by the door. The keys clinked against each other, a metallic punctuation to your decision. "I can't even stand to look at you right now."

Before he could respond—before he could plead, argue, or attempt to reconcile—you slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the penthouse, a final, definitive statement that seemed to echo the fracturing of something once believed to be unbreakable.

—

Travis Scott's "SICKO MODE" blasted at maximum volume, the bass so loud it seemed to vibrate through your very bones. The irony wasn't lost on you—a song about chaos and intensity perfectly matching the emotional storm raging inside your mind. The lyrics seemed to mock your pain, each beat a punctuation to your spiraling thoughts.

The words rang out, and you laughed—a broken, hysterical sound that was more sob than anything else.

"I'm so fucking useless," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the thundering music. Tears streamed down your face, cutting perfect lines through your carefully applied makeup. "Nobody could ever really love me. Not Atsumu. Not anyone."

The streets of Tokyo blurred past, your Porsche cutting through the night like a silver blade of desperation. Every word from the fight replayed in your mind with merciless precision. Atsumu's accusations echoed like razor-sharp whispers, each one cutting deeper than the last.

"You don't even care about me anymore," his voice rang in your ears. "You'd rather show off for strangers than even try to make this work."

The music swelled, Travis Scott's voice a backdrop to your internal breakdown.

"I'm nothing," you muttered, your grip on the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. "Just a pretty face. Just something to look at. Never enough to be truly loved." The words were a mantra of self-destruction, each one landing like a physical blow.

Your mind was a tempest of emotions—guilt, rage, self-hatred swirling together in a hurricane of pain. The city lights streaked past like watercolor brushstrokes, Tokyo's infamous neon landscape becoming an impressionistic canvas of blues, pinks, and electric whites.

You pushed the Porsche faster, as if speed could outrun the pain, could silence the voices in your head. The powerful engine roared beneath you, a mechanical beast responding to your emotional turmoil. At 180 kilometers per hour, the world outside became an indistinct smear, much like your sense of self—undefined, chaotic, on the verge of complete disintegration.

The irony of the lyrics wasn't lost on you. Ideas of worthlessness, of being unlovable, of being nothing more than a commodity—they filled your mind completely.

The intersection approached—a critical point of convergence that would change everything in a heartbeat.

The sharp, piercing sound of a car horn sliced through the music. A moment of stark clarity emerged, milliseconds stretching into an eternity. Your head turned, eyes widening as massive headlights barreled toward you, bright and unforgiving.

Travis Scott's voice was the last thing you heard.

The impact was sudden. Violent. Apocalyptic.

Metal screamed against metal, a cacophonous symphony of destruction that mixed with the final echoes of the song. Your Porsche—a machine engineered for precision and speed—was reduced to a crumpled sculpture of twisted metal and shattered dreams. The collision flung the car across the intersection with a force that defied physics, spinning and tumbling like a discarded thought.

And then, silence.

Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood, rising like a spectral mourner above the wreckage. The music cut off abruptly, leaving behind a ringing silence that seemed to echo your final, unspoken thoughts.

"Atsu…," you whispered, as darkness began to creep in.

The city continued its relentless pulse, indifferent to the personal tragedy that had just unfolded on its streets. Neon lights flickered, a final, distant reminder of a life that now seemed impossibly far away.

—

The phone's shrill ring cut through the silence of the penthouse. Atsumu, still frozen in the aftermath of your departure, instinctively reached for his mobile. The caller ID displayed the hospital's number—a sight that immediately sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system.

"Hello?," he answered, his voice raw from their earlier argument.

The words that followed would forever divide his life into two distinct periods: before and after this moment.

"Sakusa Kei Memorial Hospital," the voice said. "We're calling about a patient involved in a severe traffic collision. Are you the emergency contact for y/n?"

Time seemed to stop.

The next hours passed in a blur of sterile white corridors, the acrid smell of disinfectant, and the constant beeping of medical equipment. Atsumu's athletic composure—usually so precise, so controlled—completely dissolved. His hands shook as he filled out medical forms, his usually confident Osaka dialect reduced to fragmented, desperate whispers.

The hospital room was quieter than Atsumu had expected, save for the soft hum of machines monitoring your vitals. The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of his fear as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, lying amidst a sea of white linens and medical equipment. The sight nearly brought him to his knees.

Your body looked so small, so fragile against the stark hospital bed. Bruises bloomed across your exposed skin like shadows of the argument that had led you here. A cast encased your left leg, another your arm, and your face was marred with small cuts and swelling that no makeup could disguise. But your eyes—their familiar light dimmed but not extinguished—opened slowly at the sound of his approach.

“Atsumu,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a fragile thread that tugged at his heart.

He froze mid-step, his athletic frame tense, as though moving too quickly might shatter what little remained of you. Tears, warm and unwelcome, blurred his vision as he stumbled forward, his legs carrying him to your side.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. His hand hovered over yours, afraid to touch, afraid of breaking you further. “God, I’m so sorry, darlin’. This is all my fault.”

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion from the accident and the aftermath evident in every line of your body. For a moment, you said nothing, letting his words settle into the quiet. Then, with more strength than he thought you could muster, you managed, “Don’t… do that.”

Atsumu’s brows furrowed in confusion, guilt momentarily eclipsed by the sharpness of your tone, fragile though it was. “Do what?” he asked softly, his voice a broken echo of its usual bravado.

“Don’t you dare make this about you,” you replied, your voice gaining a sliver of its familiar fire. “This isn’t your fault, Atsumu. I was the one driving. I was the one who left.”

The tears he had tried so hard to control now fell freely, streaking down his face as he shook his head vehemently. “But ya wouldn’t have been drivin’ like that if it weren’t for me,” he countered, his Osaka dialect thick with emotion. “If I hadn’t been such an idiot—if I hadn’t said those awful things—ya wouldn’t have been out there at all.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of his guilt palpable in the room. “And if I’d listened to you instead of trying to win the argument… maybe I wouldn’t have stormed out,” you admitted, your tone soft but unwavering. “We were both wrong, Atsumu. Both of us.”

The admission seemed to strike him harder than any spike he’d ever taken on the court. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at you as though you were some ethereal being he’d never quite been worthy of. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sank into the chair beside your bed, his head dropping into his hands.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he muttered, his voice muffled but no less raw. “I thought I lost ya. When they called me and said you’d been in a crash…” His voice cracked, and he lifted his head, his golden-brown eyes now rimmed red with unshed tears. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

You reached for him, wincing as your arm protested the movement. Despite the pain, you managed to place your uninjured hand over his. The contact was light, hesitant, but it was enough to anchor both of you. “I’m here, Atsumu,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, as though he was fighting against every emotion threatening to spill out. Slowly, his hand turned under yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that was both tender and desperate. “I’ve been such a damn fool,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on your intertwined hands. “I’ve been so caught up in everythin’—the games, the pressure, provin’ myself—that I forgot… I forgot what really matters.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his voice, at the sight of the man you loved stripped down to his very core. “You matter to me, Atsumu,” you said, your tone firm despite the weakness in your body. “But I need to matter to you, too. Not as an afterthought. Not as something you’ll get to when volleyball isn’t in the way.”

He nodded slowly, his grip on your hand tightening as though he was afraid to let go. “You do,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “You matter more than anythin’. More than volleyball, more than any championship, more than everythin’ I’ve ever worked for. I just… I didn’t know how to show ya that without feelin’ like I was givin’ somethin’ up. But I see it now. I see you now.”

A single tear escaped down your cheek, and you squeezed his hand gently. “Then show me, Atsumu,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of everything left unsaid. “Be here with me. Don’t just tell me—show me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy but not oppressive, a quiet understanding passing between you as the city lights outside cast shifting patterns on the walls. Finally, Atsumu leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture so soft, so reverent, that it nearly undid you.

“I will,” he promised, his lips brushing against your skin with each word. “I’ll show ya. Every day, every damn moment. I’m gonna make this right, darlin’. I swear it.”

The weight of his words settled into your chest, warm and grounding.

The hospital room was still, the hum of machines and the distant sounds of the city your only company. But in that stillness, amidst the aftermath of chaos and pain, the first fragile threads of healing began to weave themselves through the fractures of your relationship.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him.

Ⓒkiesbrainjuice all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !

tag : @haechansbbg

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————————————————

Masterlist

Chapter three: Laugh Track

———————————————————————————

By the fifth pub, Y/N’s voice is starting to slur at the edges.

Not dramatically—just enough to notice it herself. Her cheeks are warm, her thoughts a little looser than they were two hours ago. She's riding that golden middle ground between anxiety and abandon, the space where self-consciousness starts to soften around the edges.

She doesn’t quite trust it, but she’s letting herself sit in it for now.

ArthurTV is waving a receipt like a victory flag. “Ten pubs is a scam,” he announces to no one. “It’s just capitalism in a different hat.”

“Mate,” Bach replies, gesturing at him with a chip, “you just spent thirty quid on nachos and a single pint.”

“It came with extra guac,” Arthur says, affronted.

Y/N snorts into her drink.

She doesn’t remember the last time she laughed this much with people she barely knows. Her default setting has always been cautious—a little held back, always scanning the room, looking for cues on when to speak and when to disappear. But today, dressed like a walking punchline and surrounded by people who don’t seem to care about how they’re perceived, it almost feels... safe.

“Okay,” Bach says, peering at the bingo list again. “We still need to: swap shoes, skull a pint on the street, and get a stranger to sing to us. Oh and swim? Even though we did but it was for a bonus point?”

“Who made this list?” Y/N asks, squinting at the chaotic scrawl. “Are they okay? Mentally?”

“Chris,” ArthurTV answers, deadpan. “So, no.”

“Explains a lot,” she mutters. “It’s giving energy drink and repressed trauma.”

Bach grins. “It’s giving ‘second breakfast is the only joy I have left.’”

“Yeah,” Arthur adds. “It’s very ‘Frodo, but with a YouTube channel.’”

Y/N laughs, sharp and surprised. “Are we just bullying Chris for being short now?”

“Not short,” Bach says solemnly. “Hobbit-sized.”

They dissolve into laughter again, loud enough that a guy at a nearby table gives them a look.

By the time they reach the sixth pub of the afternoon, they’re starting to feel the buzz settling deep into their bones. The city around them seems blurrier, friendlier. A drunker London, Y/N thinks, is a slightly more magical one.

They’re halfway through convincing a guy in a Tottenham jersey to sing Bohemian Rhapsody when her phone buzzes again.

Chris

> Tell Bach his big nose is getting in the way of our win

> Also we’re at pub 6. Suck it.

Y/N shows the message to Bach without saying a word.

“Tell Chris I said I hope Sauron wins,” Bach says immediately.

Arthur nods. “Tell him to enjoy his pints in the Shire.”

She grins as she types. Being the group’s designated roaster-by-proxy wasn’t on her bingo list for today, but she’s not mad about it.

Then she sees him again.

George.

Across the street this time, stepping out of a corner shop with Arthur Hill. They’ve got plastic bags in hand and smiles that look way too relaxed for a competition. George spots her first, raising a hand in casual greeting.

She returns it—awkwardly. Her stomach does a weird little somersault.

She hates how aware she is of him. Like her body’s antennae pick up on him before her brain does. It’s not helpful. He hasn’t even done anything new. Just exists nearby, and her pulse decides to act out.

“Earth to Y/N,” ArthurTV says, waving a hand. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she says quickly. “Zoned out for a sec.”

She doesn’t explain what she was zoning out about. No one needs to know she’s mentally editing the way George said Nice shirt earlier like it’s an embarrassing voice note she can’t delete.

Eventually, they do manage to get a stranger to sing for them—badly, loudly, and completely off-key. Bach gives him a standing ovation like he’s just watched Les Mis.

Challenge complete.

By the time they reach pub seven, Y/N’s voice is scratchier and her legs are sore, but the warmth hasn’t left her chest. She feels... light. Like she’s slowly unhooking from the weight she didn’t realize she walked in with.

They wedge themselves into a booth again, chips in the center, drinks in hand. ArthurTV offers her a sip of something that tastes like battery acid. She politely declines.

Then George shows up again.

Of course he does.

He wanders in like he’s not part of a competing team but just happened to find them. Pint in one hand, smirk in place, like the universe told him she was finally starting to relax and he took it personally.

“Thought you guys might be in here,” he says casually.

“Or you were stalking us,” Bach offers.

George ignores him and looks straight at Y/N. “You surviving?”

“Just about,” she says, shrugging. “Haven’t been hit by a car yet, so I’m counting it as a win.”

He chuckles. “Low bar. I respect it.”

He leans against the edge of the booth, not sitting—just hovering in her space enough to make it feel deliberate.

“You’ve got something on your shirt,” he says, motioning vaguely toward her chest.

She instinctively glances down.

“Just kidding,” he says, already grinning. “Wanted to see if you’d fall for it.”

She groans. “You are the worst”

“Pretty sure you love it.”

She rolls her eyes but her mouth betrays her, lips tugging up into an involuntary smile.

ArthurTV watches the exchange like he’s clocking something but wisely doesn’t say a word.

George lingers for another minute, then disappears again. Back into the noise. The pub feels a little louder once he’s gone. Y/N exhales, not realizing she was holding her breath.

Bach eyes her. “You’ve got a little George crush, don’t you?”

Y/N nearly chokes on her drink. “Absolutely not.”

“Uh-huh,” Bach says knowingly.

Arthur raises a hand. “As a neutral third party, I can confirm: you definitely do.”

She buries her face in her hands. “I hate all of you.”

But she’s smiling. And somewhere under the teasing, the embarrassment, and the buzz of too many half-pints and inside jokes, there’s something else.

Something settling.

Something starting.

———————

I’ve already written 14 parts for this story… it goes into normal life streaming together, etc after this. Let me know if you guys like it!!! It’s very slow burn soz 💛💛

Masterlist

[snowysosturn]

Fire & Desire - Matt Sturniolo Part 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Finale

Pairing: Y/n x Matt Sturniolo

Summary: Y/n has always clashed with Matt. Despite working for Chris’s clothing brand and being close with Nick, her relationship with Matt has always been tense at best. While being forced to be around each other more, their animosity turns into something deeper. Can they overcome their differences, or will their fiery emotions tear them apart?

Warnings: MDNI, angst, tension, toxic relationship, arguing

I woke up feeling groggy and disoriented. My eyes flickered open, it took me a minute to realise that I wasn’t in my room. Then it hit me, I was in Matt’s bed.

My heart sank, I sat up quickly, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling a weird mix of comfort and awkwardness. Why did it feel so nice to be here?

I didn’t ponder on the thought for too long. Pushing myself up, I walked out of Matt’s bedroom. I sauntered into the living area, and there he was, sprawled on the couch, one arm resting lazily over the back of the couch, the other holding his phone. His eyes looked up as soon as he heard me approach.

“How are you feeling now?” he said, his voice low 

I stalled for a moment, still caught between the fog of sleep and the awkwardness of the situation. “Better..” I admitted.  “Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed.”

He shrugged, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips. “No problem. You needed the rest.”

The atmosphere in the room felt.. odd. Not in a bad way, just unfamiliar. Too nice. The kind of nice that would make you second guess everything. I scratched the back of my neck, trying to shake the feeling.

“I should go grab my sketch pad” I said quickly, breaking the silence. “I need to finish off some designs.”

Matt nodded, his expression unreadable as he watched me. 

I gave him a quick side smile before turning and heading up the stairs to my room. I flicked on the lights and my gaze shifted almost immediately to the corner of my room. A white AC cooler now plugged in, keeping the room at a perfect temperature. My eyes then fell to my bed. Sitting on top of the neatly made covers was an eye mask and a pair of earplugs, placed carefully as if someone had intentionally left them there.

I stood there in slight shock. “Did Matt do all this?” I muttered to myself, picking up the eye mask and turning it over in my hands.

Maybe this was Matt waving a white flag. A quiet, small gesture of goodwill to make things easier between us. Maybe it would actually be easy to live here now. It was almost like a weight lifted off my shoulders, cutting through the animosity between us. I should go thank him,

Eye mask still in hand, I turned to make my way back downstairs. But just as I reached the door, the sound of voices carried up the staircase. Chris and Nick were back from their day of meetings.

“I genuinely should be your Director forever” Chris’s voice was loud and triumphant, with a bit of arrogance. “I would make such an impact working at Space Camp!”

Nick laughed, his tone sarcastic. “You took a few photos, Chris. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I hesitated in the doorway, before walking down the stairs, all four of us now gathered in the living area, but I felt a shift in the atmosphere again. Matt immediately returned to his usual cold demeanor. He shot me an arrogant look. "Look who's finally out of bed"

I raised an eyebrow, questioning why he’d say that, especially since he knew how I was feeling, how he went out of his way, in multiple forms to try fix it. It felt petty.

Chris tilted his head, curious. "Did you sleep all day?"

I shook my head, brushing off Matt’s comment. "No, just a nap. I had a migraine earlier" I explained. "But I’ve nearly finished my sketches for the patches." I added, eager to prove myself.

"Nice!" Chris said with an approving nod. "Can you show me them?"

Nick flopped onto the couch beside Matt, giving me a quick smile. “Of course she nearly has them done, it's like witchcraft how she gets things done so fast.”

I smiled back faintly, trying to settle into the group dynamic, though Matt’s comment still lingered in the back of my mind. It was a reminder that even with small moments of truce, things could snap back to how they were in an instant.

’Yeah let me go grab them” I agree.

Before I can leave, Chris’ phone buzzes, the vibration loud enough to catch both of our attention. The screen lights up with a name: Nate.

Chris grins, already reaching for it. “Hold that thought. Nate’s calling. I gotta answer this first.” Without waiting for a response, he picks up and disappears toward the bathroom for privacy, leaving the rest of us in the room.

I wander upstairs ti grab my sketch pad, not wanting to sit in the awkwardness with Matt. I step over the AC cooler, carefully avoiding the tangle of wires on the floor, and grab the sketch pad from my desk. My hand lingers for a moment over the cover, my mind racing with everything I still need to finish. 

By the time I make it back downstairs, Chris has come back from the bathroom, grinning from ear to ear. His energy is even higher than it was before, showing a stark contrast to the tension that’s settled between Matt and I. Again.

“So, Nate’s in.” he says, sliding his phone into his pocket. 

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Nate” Chris repeats, his grin widening. “Nick and I called him earlier and convinced him to come to Hawaii with us. He’s flying into LA tomorrow morning since there’s no other available flights, told him he could stay here while we’re in Vegas.”

“Wait, Nate’s coming here?” I ask, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. He was only someone I met briefly once, but he seemed cool.

“Yup. He’ll crash here until we’re back, then fly with us to Hawaii.” Chris explains, looking proud of himself.

Matt perks up instantly, his face lighting up with a genuine smile, which around me was a rarity. “That’s sick!” he says, leaning forward with sudden enthusiasm. “This is gonna be good.”

I can’t help but notice the shift in Matt’s tone. It’s the kind of warmth and excitement he never seems to have when he’s talking to me. Amazing, really, how he can be so happy with five people in this house but act so cold when it’s just four.

I drop into the chair across from him, clutching my sketch pad a little tighter. The contrast stings more than I want to admit, why is he like this with me? I decide to focus on Chris instead, who’s still riding the high from Nate’s call.

Chris plops back onto the couch, gesturing toward the pad in my hands. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I even have the energy to go through the designs, but I set the sketch pad on the table and flip it open to the latest pages.

Chris leans forward, his expression genuinely interested as he studies the designs. “These are unbelievable” he says after a few moments, nodding in approval. “Exactly the vibe I was thinking. We’ll go over colorways tomorrow, but this is a solid start.”

“Great I was thinking adding letters into the patches too, all we need to decide on a font.” I say, but realistically my thoughts are already elsewhere. 

It’s hard not to feel like the outsider in this group sometimes, and Matt’s solely the reason. But then days like today confuse me, I catch myself thinking about the small things Matt has done, the AC, the earplugs, the eye mask, letting me sleep in his bed. Maybe I’m the problem?

I glance over at Matt, who’s back to scrolling on his phone, his expression unreadable. I sit back in my chair, flipping through the pages of my sketch pad while the idea lingers in my mind. I really should thank Matt for what he did, even if he’d probably just shrug it off or make some snide remark. Still, it feels right.

But how do I do it without the awkwardness? Without it becoming another weird, tension filled moment between us? Especially with other people around.

I pull out my phone and open the Uber app, scrolling through nearby stores. Target pops up, and I click on it, searching for something simple, like a Thank You card. I scroll past the overly formal ones and find one that feels more neutral, a plain white card with a gold "Thanks" embossed on the front.

As I add it to my cart, I pause for a moment, debating whether to leave it at that or add something else. A thank you card alone might come across as too formal, like I've not made that much of an effort. My finger hovers over the snack section before I give in and start browsing.

Matt isn’t exactly hard to read when it comes to his tastes. I’ve seen him tear through a bag of jelly worms during one of his late night streams, so I add a pack of those. Then a couple of chocolate bars for good measure. It feels like a decent enough gesture, casual, thoughtful, but not too over board.

I double check the delivery address and confirm the order. The app tells me it’ll be here within the next half hour. Perfect.

I glance across the room at Matt again. He hasn’t looked up from his phone, completely absorbed in whatever he’s scrolling through. Part of me wants to say something now, just to break the silence, but I don’t trust myself not to fumble over the words. This will be easier, quieter, but hopefully meaningful.

Chris, meanwhile, is still flipping through the sketches. “Seriously, you’re killing it with these” he says, his tone casual but genuine.

“Thanks” I reply, though my mind is still focused on the delivery.

About twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with a notification: Your Target order has arrived. I slip out of the living area as discreetly as I can and head toward the front door.

The small brown bag is waiting at the door. I grab it quickly and head upstairs to my room, where I can put everything together without an audience.

I pull the card out first, grabbing a pen from my desk. I keep the message short:

Thanks for today, and the new bits for my room. I really appreciate it. - Y/n

It feels slightly awkward writing it, but at least it’s honest. I slip the card into its envelope and tuck it into the bag with the snacks.

Now comes the hard part. How do I get this to him without making it weird? After a moment of hesitation, I decide to leave it outside his bedroom door. He’s bound to come across it eventually, and it saves both of us the awkwardness of a face to face.

I wait until the living area clears out, Chris and Nick head to their rooms, and Matt disappears into his. Then, with the bag in hand, I quietly creep toward his door and set it down infront of the door.

Now all I can do is wait, and hope this can smooth out whatever tension is between us.

I head to my room and for once, the air feels bearable, thanks to the cooler Matt got me. I drop onto my bed, sighing into the quiet. I grab my phone, ready to set an alarm for the morning. My thumb hovers over the clock icon when a notification pops up at the top of the screen:

Thanks for ordering! How was your order? Tip Ethan.

I stare at it for a second, my stomach twisting. Ethan. God, that name. It feels like it’s haunting me, popping up when I least expect it.

I push the notification away reflexively, not clicking into the Uber app. I set my alarm and toss my phone onto the nightstand, my chest slightly aching. Why does something so small feel like a punch in the gut?

Shaking my head, I pull the blanket over me, turning onto my side. Tomorrow is a new day, I tell myself. A day to focus on work, on designs, on anything but ghosts from the past.

I close my eyes, hoping to let sleep take control.

The next morning, I wake up to the sound of my alarm blaring on the nightstand. I groan softly, but I force myself up, knowing I can’t afford to hit snooze. I stretch, pull on a hoodie, and head downstairs to the kitchen. The house is quiet, which I’m grateful for. Matt’s probably still asleep, and Nick doesn’t emerge before 10 if he doesn’t have to.

I make myself some scrambled eggs and toast, moving quickly around the kitchen, aware of the time. Chris and I have a meeting scheduled for 9am to finalize designs, and I’m thankful we get to do it here, at his kitchen table. 

Chris walks in just as I’m finishing my coffee. His hair is slightly messy, and he’s wearing a black hoodie and joggers, looking like he just rolled out of bed.

“Morning” he says, voice husky.

“Morning” I reply, offering a small smile.

He gets himself a soda, leans against the counter, and takes a sip. “Ready for this meeting?”

“As ready as I can be for 9am” I say, grabbing my sketch pad and laptop from the chair beside me.

We settle at the kitchen table, Chris leans back in his chair, tapping his pen against the edge of the table as we go over the color options. The table is scattered with swatches, mockups, and half drank liquids.

“So” he says, holding up a navy, white and red combo, “I think this one is clean. It’s classic, but it’s fresh.”

I nod. “Agreed. Navy, white and red always works.”

We scribble down notes on the mockup before moving to the next pairing. Chris points to a pink and red combination I’d suggested earlier. “I actually love this. It’s bold but not obnoxious.”

“Right? It’s kind of unexpected but still wearable” I reply. 

We continue debating until we settle on a full lineup: navy, white and red, pink and red, lilac and violet, and an all black option. 

“All black is always a hit” Chris says, jotting it down. “This is solid. I think we’ve got something here.”

We sit in silence for a moment, both of us looking over the finalized ideas. It feels good to have something concrete, a sense of accomplishment settling over me.

Before we knew it, everything was finalized and sent off to the manufacturer for samples. I was filled with a sense of relief and excitement.

“Alright” Chris said, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I’d better get going to the airport. Nate’s flight should be landing in an hour.”

As if timed perfect, Nick appeared at the bottom of the stairs, yawning and stretching dramatically. He leaned against the wall, still in his pajamas. “You’re heading to the airport?” he asked, his voice groggy but intrigued.

Chris nodded. “Yeah, to grab Nate.”

Nick’s eyes lit up. “Take me with you! I need breakfast. Please.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. “You just woke up, and you want me to detour so you can fill your face?”

Nick clasped his hands together in mock pleading. “Yes! Please!. It’s a win win. You get company driving, and I get tater tots. Come on, you love me.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the exchange. Chris sighed, shaking his head in defeat. “Fine. But we’re not making a whole morning out of it. Quick stop and that’s it.”

Nick grinned triumphantly and darted back upstairs, calling over his shoulder. “Give me five minutes! I’ll be ready!”

Chris glanced at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s like a child sometimes.”

I laughed. “That’s rich coming from you.”

As Chris grabbed his keys and jacket, he paused. “You good here?”

“Yeah yeah, I’ve got plenty to do” I assured him as he headed out. 

A few moments later, I heard Nick bolting back down the stairs, still pulling on his Ugg’s as he followed Chris out the door.

Now that the chaos of work had settled, I decided to take a rare moment for myself. I sank into the L shaped couch, grabbing the remote and began catching up on some shows. For once, it felt like I could truly relax.

Then all of a sudden, I hear this loud, insistent pounding at the front door, completely shattering any calm I created. I froze, unsure of what to do. I didn’t like answering the door in general. Maybe it was just a delivery? But the pounding continued, more urgent this time. Should I get it? I hesitated, glancing at the empty stairs. I mean, I did live here now, sorta. If it was something important and it was missed, it would be on me.

I hopped up from the couch, cursing under my breath about how Matt should really be the one to deal with this. Each step down the stairs felt heavier as the pounding persisted. I reached the door and swung it open.

And there he stood.

Ethan.

Of all people, Ethan.

The world around me started to spin. His face was the last thing I expected to see. He looked rougher around the edges, but unmistakably him. For a moment, neither of us spoke, just staring at each other.

“Hey” he said, his voice steady, but his eyes searching mine.

“What.. are you doing here?” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I needed to see you” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

My instinct was to shut the door, panic and adrenaline coursing through my veins. My mind spun. How did he know I was here? Then it clicked in my brain.

The Uber notification.

He was the driver.

“Wait!” Ethan yelled, shooting his hand out to block the door before it could fully close.

“Ethan, what the fuck? What the fuck are you even doing here?” I hissed, trying to keep my voice low enough not to draw attention. 

“Just hear me out” he said, his tone becoming more insistent with every sentence.

“No. Absolutely not. You shouldn't even know where I am.”

His lips pressed together into a thin line, already getting frustrated. “It wasn’t intentional. I seen the name and recognised the address and I just couldn’t leave it so-”

“So you thought randomly showing up was a good idea?” I interrupted, my voice now raising.

Ethan sighed aggressively, leaning against the doorframe, his hand keeping the door open with his firm grip. “I didn’t come here to fight. I just.. I wanted to see you. We didn’t exactly end things on the best terms.”

I let out a pitiful laugh, trying to keep my composure. “And who’s fault is that?”

“Look” he said, his tone softening, “I know I fucked up, but I’ve been thinking about you. About us.”

I shook my head, stepping back trying to make the distance between us known. “Ethan, whatever you’re looking for, you’re not going to find it here. You’ve honestly lost it, showing up here like this. After everything you did? Trashing my apartment, stealing my things, making me homeless. You crossed every line.”

Ethan threw his hands up defensively. “I came here to talk. To explain.”

“Explain?” I snapped, my voice sharp enough to cut. “Explain what? How you thought destroying my home was some way of winning me back? You’ve got to be fucking joking. I don’t want to hear it, Ethan. I just want my locket back. That’s it.”

Ethan’s expression darkened, and his voice dripped with venom. “You really are a bitch, you know that?”

His words hit me across the face, but I didn’t flinch. I’d dealt with his manipulation long enough to know how to stand my ground.

“Call me whatever you want. Just give me my locket.” I said firmly, trying to hold back tears longing for my locket.

Ethan smirked, taking a step closer. “I was going to give it to you. I really was. But not now. Not after you acting like this.”

I took a step back, my blood boiling. “Me? Acting like this? You’ve got some nerve, Ethan. Leave.”

He didn’t budge, his presence suffocating the space between us. I repeated myself, louder this time. “Go, Ethan. I’m serious. Leave. Now.”

But Ethan stayed firmly rooted in place, his defiance infuriating and almost threatening. Just as I was about to speak again, a voice came from behind me.

“She’s asked you to leave, kid.”

I turned to see Matt standing a few steps above me, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed, but his eyes told a different story.

Ethan’s face scrunched. “This isn’t your business, man.”

“It is when you’re standing at my front door,” Matt replied, his voice low and steady. “She’s told you to leave. I suggest you do before this gets embarrassing for you.”

Ethan’s stance finally cracked, and with a final glare in my direction, he muttered something under his breath before stepping back.

“This isn’t over” Ethan said, pointing at me as he turned to walk away.

“Oh, it is.” Matt laughed after him.

The door clicked shut, and for a moment, silence filled the hallway.

“You okay?” Matt asked, his face softening as he looked at me.

I nodded, though my heart was still thumping. “Yeah.. Thanks for that.”

Matt shrugged. “No problem. Guy’s a fucking loser.”

I displayed a small smile, but the feeling of the encounter lingered. Ethan may have left, but his shadow loomed, reminding me that he wasn’t out of my life just yet.

As we walked up the stairs at the front door, the sound of voices and footsteps echoed from the garage staircase. A second later, Chris, Nick, and Nate appear in the living area, their laughter bouncing off the walls.

Chris stopped mid laugh when he saw us standing there, his gaze flicking between Matt and me. “What’s going on?” he asked, his tone curious.

a/n: protective matt unlocked

taglist : @mattybearnard @sturn-33 @ncm9696 @yourfavsturniologirl @crazy4jewel @sodakid1234 @stupendoustreewinner @lovealwayssturniolos @matthewsturniolosss @m4ttsmunch @loveexxx @ilusa @starkeyszn @wonnieeluvvr @dylnblue @valxrieq @maggot3647 @cigarettecemetary @ribread03 @chrisstvrns @bandasaruswrx @noplaceissafeanymore @amexiass @witchofthehour @mattssgf @jetaimevous @v33angel  @ivysturnss @urmom69lol @ashlishes @watercolorskyy @sturnioloshottiekay @amelia-sturniolo3 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @pvssychicken @alizestvrnss @chrisstxrnsaxe @sophand4n4 @vickytaa @marrykisskilled @bxtchboy69 @yourfavsturniologirl @julisturn @sydneyylainn @sophia-77n @trevorsgodmother @sturnslutz @yourmother29 @girl24cherry @astronea @pinkdyit

[armiliadawn]

Muse

Word count: 3700

Masterlist

Synopsis: It’s an ordinary day aboard the Victoria Punk, and you’re going about your daily tasks. As you turn down a corridor, you notice that the door to your captain’s workshop is slightly ajar. Driven by curiosity, you slip into the forbidden space, and what you discover there far exceeds anything you could have imagined…

Tags: Kid x f!Reader, SFW, complicity, slow burn, silent confession of love.

Notes: I hadn’t planned on publishing another one-shot so soon, but I recently watched a (very old!) movie, and one tiny yet intense scene inspired me! I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I wrote this. I spent several evenings working on the translation because I was so eager to share it, I hope it turned out well (my husband helped me a little, thank you to him ^^). Yes, it’s another Kid x Reader, what can I say? That fiery, angry man lives rent-free in my head. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes.

That day, you’re absorbed in your usual tasks, the gentle rhythm of waves lapping against the ship’s hull providing a steady backdrop. The sun hangs high, its light spilling across the deck of the Victoria Punk as the rest of the crew busies themselves with their own routines. The air carries the briny scent of the ocean, mingling with the tang of grease and metal wafting up from below deck, where Kid is deep in his projects.

As you move through a corridor, your eyes catch on a door left slightly ajar to your left; Kid’s workshop. You pause, your gaze lingering on the shadowed space beyond the opening. This place is forbidden. A personal sanctuary where the captain channels his inventive genius and passion for metal. No one enters without his permission, except perhaps Killer. And yet, an irresistible pull of curiosity stirs within you.

What could Kid be creating, hidden from prying eyes?

For a moment, hesitation takes hold, your heartbeat quickening at the thought of stepping where you shouldn’t. But something about that open door feels like a silent beckoning, drawing you closer. Carefully, you edge forward, nudging the door wider as your eyes adjust to the dim interior.

The workshop unfolds before you, revealing its chaotic splendor. The room is expansive, cluttered with raw metal, scattered parts, crumpled sketches, gears, chains, and half-finished weapons. It’s a captivating mess, a mirror of Kid’s explosive creativity and relentless energy.

A fire burns steadily in the forge, while the muted glow of a single lamp throws flickering shadows onto the walls, amplifying the room’s organized disorder. The air is heavy with the scent of heated metal and grease, clinging to every surface. A familiar, comforting aroma that brings to mind the essence of your captain.

Your eyes drift over a collection of sculptures - weird creations and metallic shapes - that seem almost alive under the trembling light of the lantern. Metal hooks, mechanical parts, and intricate designs lie ready to be forged into weapons or inventions wild yet meticulously crafted. Beneath the industrial roughness, there’s a distinct elegance, betraying the precision and mastery behind the chaos.

Then, something at the far end of the room catches your eye. A large object draped in a thick, heavy cloth, imposing and mysterious. Almost unconsciously, you move toward it, curiosity guiding your steps. Your hand grazes the coarse fabric, fingers lingering before you carefully lift the cloth, as if afraid of disturbing something rare and precious.

When the cloth finally falls to the ground, your breath catches. Before you stands a metal bust, sculpted with a precision you never expected from Kid’s hands.

It’s you. Captured in metal, every detail of your face, every strand of your hair, rendered with astonishing accuracy. The polished surface reflects the light, giving the sculpture an almost lifelike aura, as if it could speak to you, as if it could watch you.

Your gaze lingers on every detail. The contours of your face are beautifully rendered. You can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the tenderness that emanates from each line, each curve.

Staring at the sculpture, you feel as if you’re looking into a mirror. But not the kind of mirror that cruelly amplifies every flaw. This is a mirror that reflects a version of yourself you’ve never dared to see. The features sculpted with delicate precision present an image you’ve never associated with yourself, a beauty you never believed you possessed. Your eyes, usually so weary from your own doubts, appear full of strength in this creation. Your lips, which you’ve always thought too plain, are drawn here with such softness it sends a shiver through you.

It’s strange, even unsettling, to see yourself like this. To see this version of yourself through Kid’s eyes. You’re not used to thinking of yourself as beautiful or even attractive. Your reflection in a mirror is always accompanied by silent criticisms, unfair comparisons, those little inner voices reminding you of everything you’re not. But here, for the first time, you find yourself discovering beauty in your features.

You feel destabilized, almost moved, by this vision of yourself that Kid has immortalized in metal. Not because he’s idealized you, but because he’s seen something in you that you refuse to acknowledge in yourself. He has made it permanent, tangible, as if to say, "This is how I see you." It feels like both a declaration and a challenge: "Can you see yourself this way too?"

" What are you doing here?"

Kid’s deep voice snaps you out of your thoughts, making you jump. He’s standing at the entrance, his brows furrowed, his eyes glinting with a hard intensity. Your heart races, caught between guilt and surprise. You know you shouldn’t have entered, but what you’ve just discovered surpasses anything you could have imagined.

" I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..."

Kid strides toward you, his steps heavy and deliberate. When he reaches you, he towers over you, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sculpture. A displeased smirk twists his lips. He doesn’t seem angry with you, but you can feel that something about this moment is troubling him.

"It’s a failure", he growls, grabbing the cloth and moving to drape it back over the sculpture.

You stare at him, incredulous. A failure? How could he even think that? This sculpture, with its intricacy and precision, captures far more than a simple resemblance. The details are so finely crafted that they reveal something of you that even your reflection in a mirror has never managed to show. This creation isn’t failed. It’s alive, vibrant. It shows a version of you that you never dared to imagine.

"Failed? Kid, it’s… it’s beautiful", you murmur, your voice sincere, your eyes fixed on the bust as if you’re trying to absorb every detail.

He shakes his head, frustration tightening his features. His fingers drum nervously against his arm - a mechanical gesture - so unlike the controlled force he usually exudes. Shadows of emotion flicker across his face; his usually hard features twist under the weight of agitation and something else… something vulnerable. Then, he lifts his gaze to meet yours. His amber eyes, always so piercing and brutally intense, now seem to search for something in you, something he can’t put into words.

"No, it’s not enough", he mutters, his voice rough but unsteady. "I… I can’t capture what I see when I look at you."

His words hit you like a thunderclap, a truth you hadn’t expected to hear in the raw, suffocating atmosphere of his workshop. Your heart leaps in your chest, every syllable vibrating in the charged air between you. Your throat tightens, and a warm flush spreads through your body, burning your skin and leaving your breath unsteady. How could he speak of you this way? His words, so simple yet deeply sincere, stir something within you. An emotion you weren’t ready to confront.

Your gaze shifts to him, taking in every detail: the taut line of his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders, but most of all, the way his eyes seem to devour you, as if silently pleading for you to understand what he can’t articulate. Beneath his gruff words, beneath the façade of a hardened and ruthless man, lies something disarming—a tenderness you never imagined, a vision of you that you struggle to comprehend. A beauty. A strength. Qualities you’ve always refused to see in yourself.

Your mind reels, thoughts tumbling over themselves in an unrelenting swirl. This isn’t just about art or a sculpture anymore. What stands before you is far more than a crafted piece of metal. It’s a reflection - not only of yourself - but of what Kid sees in you. It’s a glimpse into his most hidden thoughts, the ones he’ll never express with words but pours into his hands and raw talent instead.

You lift your eyes to him, your breath still uneven. Kid remains motionless, but his gaze pierces through you, vibrating with such intensity that it almost steals the air from your lungs. In this room filled with heat, metal, and tension, you feel something inexplicable. The vulnerability he’s showing, exposed despite himself, touches you deeply, far more than you could have anticipated. It’s no longer just his art you see. It’s him. His doubts, his hopes, his silent way of watching you, interpreting you, revealing you to yourself.

And that revelation unsettles you, stirring a mix of fear and exhilaration, an irresistible urge to see yourself through his eyes.

"I could pose for you, if you want."

The words slip from your lips almost without your permission, propelled by an impulse you can no longer control. The silence that follows stretches endlessly. Heat rises to your cheeks as the weight of what you’ve just offered sinks in, what it truly means. Posing for Kid, standing there under his sharp, unyielding gaze while he molds you, sculpts every detail of you… It’s far more than a simple proposition. It’s baring yourself to him, offering something intimate, personal.

Kid says nothing, his eyes locked on yours, but you catch the faint flicker of surprise in his gaze. His shoulders, once taut with tension, seem to relax, and the hard lines of his face shift subtly. A spark, barely perceptible but undeniable, lights in his amber eyes. It’s a mix of interest, intense curiosity, and perhaps something deeper, something he can’t put into words.

Your heart pounds wildly, each second of the tense silence amplified in your ears. He doesn’t answer right away, but his gaze speaks volumes, holding you as if you’ve just offered him a treasure he never dared dream of. The tension between you tightens further, like an invisible, fragile thread pulling taut under the weight of your suggestion.

Your breathing slows, almost as if suspended, each breath heavy with the anticipation of his response. It’s a moment of rare intensity, where even the smallest movement, the faintest flutter of an eyelash, feels magnified, as though the simple act of breathing might shatter the delicate balance of this charged instant.

Then, he tilts his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. That subtle movement, so small yet deliberate, feels like a tacit yes, an acceptance of what you’ve offered. His lips part slightly, but no words come, as if he refuses to break the moment’s fragile power with unnecessary speech. That silence, laden with meaning, sends a shiver cascading down your spine, awakening every nerve to the possibility that has just unfolded between you.

Kid takes a step closer, narrowing the distance between you, and you can see the focus in his eyes. That burning intensity that tells you he accepts, that he’s ready to explore this moment, but on his terms, with the same passion and force he pours into his art.

"Do you realize what you’re offering?" he asks, his tone a blend of incredulity and restrained desire.

Holding his gaze, you nod slowly, feeling the heat rise within you. This is no longer just an agreement but an unspoken promise of a connection you can already sense - intense, consuming - a path you’re about to explore together, with every glance and every gesture as your only language.

"Yes, Kid. I do."

The simplicity of those words carries a weight far beyond their sound. Kid remains motionless before you, his gaze searing, almost devouring. He steps closer, his breath mingling with yours in the heat-laden air. His eyes lock onto yours, and you feel the pull of a dive from which there’s no return.

Slowly, he reaches out, his fingers brushing along your jaw with a gentleness that feels almost impossible from someone of his stature. That single touch ignites every fiber of your being. He studies you, perhaps searching for any flicker of doubt, but you know he’ll find only the glow of certainty, a shared connection you’re offering, a bond you’re eager to explore with him.

Straightening slightly, he commands the space with his imposing presence. With a subtle motion, he signals for you to follow. He moves toward the center of the workshop, where shadows dance to the rhythm of the flames. His steps are slow, deliberate, echoing softly against the floor. You follow without hesitation, drawn by the gravity of his presence, each step pulling you closer to a moment that feels suspended in time. Your breath quickens, your chest tightens, but you continue forward, guided by the magnetic intensity surrounding him.

He stops and turns to face you, his amber eyes fixed on you with an almost devouring intensity. His hand reaches out, guiding you gently to a place where the dim firelight illuminates just enough to make every shadow more vibrant, more alive.

With deliberate care, he places his fingers on your arm. The touch is light, yet it sends a shiver through you, warmth radiating from the contact. He draws you toward a chair bathed in the soft glow of the hearthlight.

"Sit, he murmurs", his rough voice resonating like a caress.

You comply, settling into place under his scrutinizing gaze. Kid approaches, his massive silhouette casting an imposing shadow on the floor, yet his movements are surprisingly gentle. He leans in slightly, his large hands finding their place naturally on your shoulders, adjusting you with care. His fingers press lightly, guiding your body to find the perfect angle.

"There", he murmurs, almost to himself.

He steps back briefly, then moves forward again, this time to touch your face. His hand brushes along your jaw, his warm fingers gliding over your skin with a precision that feels profoundly intimate. He tilts your chin toward the light, his thumb grazing your cheek in a way that leaves you breathless. Your entire body seems to respond to his touch, every nerve heightened.

"Lift your chin… just a bit. There", he whispers.

His eyes linger on your face, tracing every shadow, every curve. He studies you as if he’s trying to etch this image into his memory. Slowly, his hands leave your face, but the warmth of his touch remains, imprinted on your skin.

"Look at me", he breathes, his voice barely audible.

You obey once more, lifting your gaze to meet his, and the tension between you becomes volcanic. His eyes drift in yours for a moment before he gently lowers your hand, placing it on your knee. Every movement, every adjustment he makes to your body feels both deliberate and laced with an underlying sensuality, as if he’s already sculpting - not with his tools - but with his hands against your skin.

At last, he steps away. His towering figure stands outlined by the flickering firelight, every muscle and scar cast into sharp relief—marks you find yourself wanting to trace with your fingertips. His eyes remain fixed on you, burning with a mix of intensity and admiration. The air feels thick, saturated with a heat that doesn’t come only from the hearth. As he retreats, he studies you one last time, then, in a silence that needs no words, he picks up his tools, ready to begin.

The crackling of the fire fades into the background, as if the entire world has shrunk to this workshop. To the flickering light of the flames dancing on the walls. To the intoxicating scent of heated metal and the magnetic presence of Kid, standing before his creation. His fiery gaze stays locked on you, but his hands speak another language entirely. They glide, caressing the polished surface of the sculpture with a delicacy that is almost hypnotic, a meticulous care that contrasts with the raw strength his body naturally exudes.

Every movement he makes seems to sync with your breath. You follow the precise motions of his fingers on the metal as if it were your own skin he was touching, and not the sculpture. When he slowly traces the line of the sculpted jaw, a shiver runs through you. He hasn’t even touched you, and yet, you feel every caress echoing within you, a wave of heat spreading under your skin.

You track his every motion, captivated by the way the metal bends to his touch, its surface smoothing or curving exactly where he wills it, each almost imperceptible adjustment betraying his absolute mastery over the material.

His hands move lower, tracing the familiar curves of the sculpted neck, following with an unexpected tenderness the lines of your body you know so well. Your eyes remain locked on his, unable to look away. It feels as though, in this silence heavy with tension, a wordless dialogue has formed between you. His gestures speak of intensity, of control, but also of a desire he seems to channel into the metal, perhaps unable to express it any other way.

Kid leans in slightly, his face drawing closer to the sculpture, and your heart skips a beat. His fingers pause on the line of the metallic lips, a motion so slow, so deliberate, it feels almost sacred. The tension in the air becomes palpable, almost unbearable. Every movement of his hands, every stroke against the metal, seems a reflection of what he wants, what he longs to do with you. Your breath grows shallow, every muscle in your body taut with the anticipation he stirs, even without touching you.

His fingers glide upward, tracing the curve of the sculpted cheek with unexpected tenderness. You can almost hear the material hum beneath his touch, ready to surrender completely to his will, and the shiver it elicits seems to pass straight through you. He lifts his eyes, and you find yourself lost in their fiery intensity, where an uncompromising flame burns. He’s not just capturing your face, he’s searching for something deeper within you, a silent echo of his own desire.

Kid barely moves, yet the intensity of his gaze, combined with the precision of his hands, pulls you into a whirlwind of sensations. This is no longer just a sculpture; it’s a bridge between you, a silent language where every motion of his hands on the metal reverberates through your body. When his fingers trace the curve of the sculpted shoulder, then slowly move down the metallic arm, it feels as though a trail of fire marks your skin, awakening every fiber, every nerve to an impossible heat.

At last, he steps back, observing the sculpture with a gaze as intense as ever. His fingers hover mid-air, as though hesitating to add one final detail. But he doesn’t. A deep silence fills the workshop, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. You remain still, captivated by what he has created—and by the man before you, whose tension feels almost electric, saturating the air between you.

The sculpture is breathtaking. It’s you, but it’s also so much more. Every detail seems to breathe, alive with the energy he’s infused into it. But what strikes you the most is how he sees you. Strong, beautiful, vulnerable, and intense all at once. Your features, shaped by his hands, capture something you never even knew existed within you.

Kid looks at you now, his eyes igniting something deep within your soul. He says nothing, but his gaze is enough. It’s heavy with meaning, charged with a desire he no longer tries to hide. You feel exposed under the dim light, as though the sculpture isn’t the only thing he’s laid bare tonight. And yet, you’re not afraid. You feel drawn, pulled by the magnetic force he emanates.

You stand, hesitant at first, but step closer, as if compelled by the invisible bond forming between you. His eyes never leave you, tracking your every movement. Your breathing quickens, and a burning heat floods your body, but it’s not the fire causing it. It’s him. His presence, his power, his mastery over everything around him, including you.

"It’s you I see in this sculpture", he murmurs at last, his voice rough and low, almost an admission he hadn’t planned to make.

The words hit you like a tidal wave. He doesn’t wait for a response, and you have none to give. You’re already too absorbed by what he’s created, by what he’s just revealed. Slowly, he approaches, and you remain still, unable to look away. When he’s close, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, he raises a hand. With the same gentleness he showed while sculpting, his fingers brush against your cheek.

The touch is searing. You shiver under the caress, your lips parting slightly as a breath escapes you that you hadn’t realized you were holding. His gaze drops to your lips, and for a moment, he hesitates. But only for a moment, because the tension between you becomes unbearable.

At last, he closes the distance. His lips capture yours with a controlled urgency, a blend of strength and tenderness that makes you melt. You close your eyes, surrendering to the fiery wave rushing through you. His hands glide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer as if he can no longer bear the space between your bodies.

The fire in the hearth is nothing compared to the heat consuming you both. His kisses grow deeper, more demanding, and you match his intensity, your fingers tangling in his red hair, still damp with sweat. The room, the world, seems to fade around you. There is only the two of you, and this passionate connection, finally unleashed after being held back for far too long.

Kid lifts you slightly, gently pressing you against the workbench, his gaze locked on yours as he murmurs your name with a fervor you’ve never heard before.

You don’t know when the moment shifts. Only that you’ve both surrendered - slowly - to the purest expression of love, where silence and tension say everything, where every gesture becomes a promise of what’s to come.

And the sculpture, in its stillness, stands as a silent witness to this shared surrender, its metallic sheen capturing the passion that finally finds its way, unrestrained. In this workshop, where fire meets metal, your bodies come together with an intensity even the silence cannot contain, etching this moment into the flickering light of the flames and the eternal steel of what he’s created.

Tag list : @jintaka-hane @novemberhope @imveryyellow @pandora-writes-one-piece Feel free to let me know if you’d like to be added (or removed) from the tag list.

Masterlist

[sarahelizasims]

Clean lines, warm woods, and moody accents come together in this striking row of three contemporary townhouses. With a cohesive façade that balances symmetry and individuality, each unit offers an open-concept layout, oversized windows, and a calming neutral palette inside.

Think sun-drenched living spaces, sleek kitchens, and tranquil bedrooms, all wrapped in a design that feels equal parts sophisticated and soulful. Private courtyards add a touch of nature, making these homes the perfect blend of city edge and serene escape—tailored for Sims with taste.

40 x 30

Residential Rental Lot

Requirements:

Turn bb.moveobjects on before placing.  *optional* TwistedMexi has a script mod that does it for you automatically, so there is no reason to always have to type it in.

T.O.O.L by TwistedMexi.

Required CC - Please refer to the included PDF document for downloading items that were not included in the zip file, as some are still in early access.

The lush red hydrangeas are a recolor; download the mesh here.

FYI - For some reason, the stairs by the false bakery shop disappear whenever I mess around with the area, like changing wallpaper or adding walls. It is a weird glitch. Whenever it gets removed, just add it back again.

My game is DirectX11, so you may need to update your images to DX11 in the Sims 4 Studio.

And of course, if anything isn't right and you need help with something, please do not hesitate to message me! Feel free to comment, send a message to me on Tumblr, or utilize my community chat! I would like to use it more. ♡

Terms of Use:

Do not re-upload my lots and claim them as your own.

You're welcome to edit or modify my builds, but please remember to credit me as the original creator!

Do not put my builds behind a paywall.

I've included some of my recolors, please refer to those posts for their TOU.

Thank you to all CC Creators.

Please let me know if there's any problem with the build. Tag @sarahelizasims so I can see your gameplay and any personal touches you've made!

📥DOWNLOAD (Google Drive)

[berry-potchy]

Indulge Me

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x f!reader Rating: Explicit (18+ only please) Word Count: 7,072 Summary: You're a Spiderwoman who has ended up pinned underneath Miguel O'Hara in his lab one too many times. You're not sure what you are to him or what to call your relationship. And that would've been fine until your neediness kicked in and made you catch feelings. Surely, Miguel taking you to his room for the first time means something right? In which your lack of understanding of Spanish and denial of the hints Miguel drops are keeping you from realizing you already have what you want. Tags/warnings: pwp, p in v sex, rough sex, praise + light degradation, multiple orgasms and overstimulation, face sitting/riding, breeding kink, soft dom!Miguel, needy reader, recording, mirror sex adjacent, implied chubby reader, undefined relationship but soft feelings sprinkled in there as a treat, no use of y/n so lots of Spanish nicknames to make up for it, reader does not understand Spanish, brief sexy use of spider webs A/N: this is quite literally just a self-indulgent fic with most of my favorite Miguel x reader flavors. Not beta read but I hope you still enjoy it! (Translations are the end!)

Also on AO3

Edit: turns out some parts got messed up while I was posting here on Tumblr D: it's fine on AO3 though which is weird because I copied from this post instead of my doc because this has the correct spacing. Everything should be fixed now.

•🕷️────✧˖°˖🕸️˖°˖✧────🕷️•

Miguel has you standing in front of him between his parted legs as he sits on the edge of his bed. Even in this position, you were barely any much taller than him, only needing to tilt your head a bit to meet his red eyes. He looks at you from your face, down to the swell of your breast where his eyes are joined by a taloned finger on its journey downwards. You can’t help but let out a soft sigh as the sharp talon cuts through your spandex suit, fully exposing your soft chest to the cold air of his quarters. He would argue that the stretchy translucent mesh with a spiderweb lace design on your chest area didn’t do shit to cover the fullness of your tits anyway so he didn't understand why you even bothered with it. It was for style obviously but riling up Miguel O’Hara was a great bonus. You let out a shaky breath as he continued further down until he stopped right below your navel.

“Que linda,” he says in that low sexy voice of his, very different from the usual grumpy tone he uses to chastise you. He snakes his arms around your hips, bringing you closer to him and his hands find your plush bottom, giving them a rough squeeze. You are getting so worked up by how much attention you are getting from your usually sulky boss. Your heaving chest is right in front of Miguel’s face and his lustful gaze almost feels like it is burning you. The heat spreads from your chest downwards until it pools in the pit of your stomach and between your legs.

“You ruined my suit,” you pout, not really that upset about it. You think it was hot honestly but you just want to tease him “Am I supposed to go on missions with my whole chest out now? Walk around the HQ flashing everyone?”

“Of course not,” he says, rolling his eyes. He continues to take in your figure, hands gently kneading soft flesh on your sides “I’m making you a new suit. Should be done very soon. It'll be the same design but it will offer far more protection than this flimsy thing.”

“Making me a suit just like yours? What so you can control it hm? Deactivate it whenever you want to fuck me?” You laugh, wiping the imaginary tear in your eye until you realize Miguel is silent and looks like he’s been caught red-handed. You lightly slap him on his arm, flustered. “You’re a pervert, you know that?”

Instead of answering you, he brings his head forward to close his lips on a clothed nipple, his tongue flicking the sensitive erect bud. Your mouth opens as you let out a soft gasp at the sensation and you can feel the corner of Miguel’s lips twitch into a slight smirk. He teases your nipple alternating between flicking it with the tip of his tongue and giving it an audible suck. He pulls away for a split second only to give the same attention to your other nipple. You weave your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to your tits. Your other hand is holding onto his shoulder for support as you urge him to keep going with your whimpers. His hands haven’t stopped exploring your body. His wide hands warm against your hips, ass, thighs, everywhere he can touch, squeezing your softness, committing every curve to memory.

“Migueeeel,” you whine, rubbing your thighs together to try to relieve the ache between your legs. You appreciate the attention to your nipples but your cunt was throbbing with need. You are so close to ripping the rest of your suit and panties off because the way the fabric is sticking to your wet pussy is becoming too uncomfortable.

“Miguel what, muñeca?” He pulls away, licking his lips. Those red eyes are now looking straight into yours and you feel yourself shiver. You try to look away but Miguel grabs your chin to keep you facing him. “Eyes on me. What do you want? Use your words.”

“Please,” your cheeks burn in embarrassment but Miguel just raised an eyebrow at you, unamused. “Stop teasing please.”

“Ah I see okay,” he says, taking his hands off you before standing up and walking to his closet.

“W-wait what are you doing?” you almost trip on your feet, knees feeling weak, as you chase after him. You grab his arm, tugging at it to get his attention as you pathetically look up at him.

“You said stop teasing so I’m getting you a shirt so you can go back to your world and get some rest,” he says as he looks through the neatly folded shirts in his closet. He’s stalling, pretending he was trying to choose one but he’s messing with you. There is no way he would let you go home tonight without getting at least a couple of orgasms wrung out of you. You aren’t leaving until he made sure you were stuffed full and dripping with his cum. You aren’t leaving tonight. Period. He knew you were too far gone with lust to figure that out yourself.

“Miggy, that’s not what I meant please,” you sob, pressing your body against him. Just the thought of being left unsatisfied was painful. “Please, Miggy, I need your mouth. And your cock please”

He finally looks at you and pulls you closer to him by your waist. You run your hands along his still clothed chest, feeling his heart beating with yours. You look up at him with glassy eyes, begging him to finish what he started. He coos at how desperate you were for release.

“You want my mouth and my cock?” he hums, still teasing. He easily lifts you up with one arm supporting your ass to carry you back to his bed. He’s carried you multiple times before but it never ceases to amaze you how he does it so effortlessly. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, hips bucking trying to get some friction against your still unfortunately clothed cunt. “Where do you want them, muñeca? You have to be more specific. Which one do you want first?”

“On my pussy, please. I need your mouth on my pussy. Miggy, I wanna cum on your face” you sobbed against his neck “And then- and then I want you to fuck me. I want you to fill me up with your cock. Only you can fill me up so good, Miggy. I need it.”

“Good girl,” he whispers right next to your ear, making you shudder “Now, was that so hard to do? Was it hard to tell me what you wanted?”

“Yes!” you bite his shoulder and you feel satisfaction when you hear him break character and snort. He shakes his head, smiling fondly while he sets you down on the bed.

"Qué voy a hacer contigo?" he brings his lips to your temple to whisper more softly "Qué haría sin ti?"

Your heart skips a beat at the gentleness of his tone. You’re not sure what he said but the genuine affection is evident. Intimate moments like this with Miguel are slowly becoming more and more frequent and you decide that you don’t mind it. You even crave it now. A satisfied sigh leaves your lips as you lean further toward him.

He pulls away but the fond look on his face doesn’t waver. He slaps your thigh, making the soft fat jiggle just how he likes it, as he moves to get settled in his bed.

“Put those lovely hips and thighs to use and ride my face, conejita.” He lies down, anticipating, patting his chest to encourage you to sit down.

You didn't need to be told twice. You rip off the rest of your suit, your heated skin meeting the cold air of his room making your nipples pebble painfully. You quickly take off your panties and toss them aside with your ruined suit. You squeal as you scramble to get on top of him. You position yourself on top of his waiting mouth, straddling his face but just hovering over his face, hands on the headboard to keep yourself steady. The smell of your arousal is almost too much for Miguel to bear at this proximity. The urge to lock you in his room for the next few days and not let you out until you’re thoroughly fucked and bred is getting hard to ignore. His fangs extend as his animalistic urges surface, yearning to bite you and mark you as his.

“Are you trying to tease me now? How can you ride my face if you don’t sit?” Miguel’s tone is deeper than it was just a second ago. There’s a certain roughness to it, a growl in his voice that makes your hole clench around nothing. He grips your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, waiting for you to sit down or he’ll make you. He’s trying to be patient, turning his head a little to mouth at the fat of your inner thigh. He licks a stray trail of your slick up your thigh, stopping just a breath away from where you both want his mouth to be. You feel him sigh, savoring your taste like he just drank the finest nectar, a promise of what’s to come.

“But Miguel–” you yelp when he suddenly pulls you down by your thighs and you immediately feel his tongue lapping at your aching cunt, his nose bumping deliciously against your swollen clit. He wasn’t going to hear your excuses. The only things he wants to hear coming out of your pretty lips are your moans and whines for more. The way Miguel is sucking and devouring your wetness so eagerly makes your head spin and your grip on the headboard tighten to steady yourself for a moment. He teases your hole, licking around the small opening before plunging in as far as he can, feeling you clench around his tongue. He grows impatient at your lack of movement and starts rocking you back and forth on his face by himself. He flattens his tongue for you to grind your pretty folds onto.

“Miggy, feels so good,” you whine, bending over to look at him from under you. He’s so pretty like this, forehead scrunched up from how focused he is eating you out, and when you get a peak of his nose and his cheeks, they’re shiny from being soaked by a combination of your wetness and his own spit. You take one of your shaking hands off the headboard to brush the hair away from Miguel’s forehead only for him to guide your hand into a fist, grabbing his hair, urging you to use it as leverage to ride his face harder. And who are you to say no to that?

You move your hips to try to match the pace he set for you, your thighs burn but you pay it no mind. Not when you feel that familiar delicious knot forming in your core. Your head lolls to the side and your eyes screwed shut as you immerse in the pleasure, grinding your cunt harder on Miguel’s tongue, nose, chin, anywhere you can get some friction, getting desperate to reach your orgasm.

“‘M gonna cum, Miggy. Gonn’ cum on your face” you whimper. You take your hand off the headboard and bring it to your tits, squeezing them, pinching at rubbing circles on your pebbled nipples. Miguel doesn’t stop lapping hungrily at your pussy, shaking his head from side to side as much as your grip on his hair allows. He groans as he watches in awe as you chase your own pleasure.

So close.

You’re so close you swear you can almost taste it.

Miguel could tell from how your hips stuttered and your pace growing frantic, rougher. He gives your clit another suck and that finally pushes you over the edge.

You feel the sweet release consume you like wildfire, your body tensing, back arching, toes curling. You can’t even hear yourself scream Miguel’s name, curling into yourself as he continues to suck on your oversensitive, pulsating clit. His hands held your shaking thighs steady, not letting you close them. It’s all too much.

“Miggyyy,” you sob pathetically, pawing at his head and his grip on you. You finally manage to pry an eye open only to see him watching you intently “Too much. I can’t-”

He doesn’t stop. He continues to lick stripes at your puffy folds and flick the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue albeit slower this time. He takes one of his hands away from your thigh and plunges two of his thick fingers knuckle deep inside your needy hole. He manages to find your sweet cushiony spot and puts enough pressure on it to make you see stars. That burning hot coil is back just mere seconds after your climax and if you could think at that moment, you’d think it’s unfair how he seems to know your body too well, knows just where to touch to make you unravel.

He adds another finger into your cunt, stretching you out for his cock, curling them inside you, and hitting your sweet spot over and over again. You know that it’s not enough, that it’s nothing compared to what’s coming for you. No matter how much prep you do it's going to be a tight fit and you can’t wait to be stretched to your limits once more. You stop fighting him, needing to chase after your orgasm, grinding your clit again on his tongue as he pumps his fingers in and out of your slutty hole.

Soon enough, you feel your second orgasm wash over you. You spill over his face, making a mess on his pillows and bedsheets. Your limbs go numb and this time you can’t even form words, just sobbing, babbling nonsense as your body shakes on top of Miguel. You would’ve fallen over if it wasn't for Miguel supporting your back with his free hand. You frantically tap his hand as you hiccup a pathetic “no more.”

Miguel relents and lets you catch your breath for a second. He kisses your puffy cunt one more time before moving you to lie on your back on the bed. He lifts your head to turn over the soiled pillow and fluff it up before getting you settled comfortably. You watch as he catches the dripping wetness from his chin with his equally soaked fingers and sticks them into his mouth, eyes rolling back and moaning at your sweet taste. You feel your cunt throb at the lewd action and you can’t help but let out a needy whimper from the back of your throat. It’s so unfair how much he affects you.

“Ay, pobrecita,” he coos at your flushed face with fat tears running down your cheeks as he nudges your legs apart with his knee and settles between your parted legs. “too much for mi conejita to handle? I know you can take more. Your pussy is so slutty, isn’t she? So needy. I doubt two orgasms is enough.”

He cups your face with one hand, thumb wiping away a tear on your cheek, his other hand brushing your hair away from your face, knowing how much you hate the feeling of it sticking to your skin. Your lower lip is jutting out in an adorable pout that he can’t help but kiss, catching your lip between his teeth. You scrunch up your nose and push his face away as you try to steady your breath.

You can see his naked chest rise and fall faster than usual, his mouth open to catch his own breath. You didn’t even notice when he disabled his suit but your eyes are thankful as you drink in the sight of his warm brown skin, stretching across the expanse of his unfairly defined body. He looks like he was sculpted by the gods themselves, taking extra care to give him the most perfect proportions. How lucky are you to see this masterpiece up close? It would be a sin to not enjoy the view.

Your eyes trail down from his strong broad shoulders to his massive tits, and even further down to see his cock standing up proudly against his navel, the head dripping beads of precum and smearing it against his abs. Pride blooms in your chest as you realize that he’s just as affected as you are.

Your throat suddenly feels so empty. You lick your lips as you tear your eyes off his cock to look up at his face only to find his hungry gaze meeting yours. His eyes glint with danger as he takes in the sight of you in your post-orgasm haze, seemingly plotting his next move.

You didn’t have to wait long because, of course, he can’t keep his hands away from you.

He moves closer, making you spread your legs further. His hands grab at the back of your thighs to push them towards your torso, your knees almost touching your chest. Your dripping cunt twitches as it’s exposed to the cold air. Your hole clenching on nothing, begging to be filled.

“Que rico. Podría acostumbrarme a esto,” he says, his voice deep and rough with lust as his hands rub up and down your thighs, squeezing, feeling you. He drinks up the sight of you, so bare and exposed, all for him to take. “I could watch you like this all day. Maybe take a video of you right now so I can watch your pretty cunt pulsing, crying for me, anytime I want. Or…”

He takes his cock in one hand, running his thumb on the swollen tip to spread the beads of precum around, pumping his shaft with a few languid strokes. You yelp when he slaps his thick, heavy cock against your puffy folds.

“I could tie you up like this and keep you here for my own pleasure.” He starts moving his hips at a torturously slow pace, sliding his length along your wet folds, getting it lubricated by your own slick. He brings his hands back to your thighs and pushes them even further until you’re practically folded in half. “Keep you here to breed. Fill you up with so much cum and you’ll stay like this so it will surely take, yeah?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Miggy” you hiss as the tip of his cock keeps bumping into your throbbing clit “What’s stopping you from doing so huh? You have your web and your little surveillance bots. Put them to good use.”

“Of course, you’d love that, my pretty little slut,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he lines up the tip of his cock with your hole. Your eyelids flutter as you hold your breath in anticipation, waiting for that delicious stretch of being filled by his massive cock.

“Eyes on me, cariño,” he commands and you obey, looking up at him from under your lashes “That’s it, good girl.”

He starts to slowly press his cock into your greedy hole. Inch by inch, he sinks in, knocking the air out of your lungs. Midway, maybe, you can’t tell, there’s just so much of him, you start to feel a little faint, your shoulders tense and your mouth stuck hanging open. You feel so full of him, almost like he’s going to split you apart.

“Breathe for me,” he coos as he slowly presses more of him into you, filling you up more than what should be possible. He drapes your legs over his shoulders, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs as he uses his now free hands to cradle your face. You suck in a breath as he instructed and try to even out your breathing. “There you go. Keep breathing. Relax for me. Thaaat’s it. My sweet girl. So good for me.”

You preen at his words, warmth flooding your chest and going straight down to your pussy. His hands stay on your cheeks, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your skin as he pushes the last few inches in. You put your hands on top of his as you lean into his touch. He starts to grind his hips slowly, gently, getting you used to his size. The coarse dark curls at the base of his cock tickle your sensitive clit and the head of his cock softly probing at your cervix makes you roll your eyes back and whimper from the fullness.

“Eres tan hermosa. No sabes lo que me haces, cariño,” he leans in to capture your lips into a deep kiss. Soft and gentle until both of you wanted more. One of his hands finds the back of your neck to tilt your head as he pleases as he tries to devour you. His tongue licks into your mouth and his fangs graze your lips with every movement. You hum against his lips as you feel him start to pull his hips back, letting his dick slide halfway out before snapping his hips forward to plunge himself back inside, his balls lewdly smacking against your ass. And he keeps doing it over, and over again making you moan oh so wantonly.

“Estás tan rica. Estás hecha para mí, mi amor,” he whispers against your lips. The breathlessness and the hint of desperation for release in his voice make you shiver. His pace picks up, thrusts growing rougher with it. The wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you and skin slapping against skin echo around his room. The only other sounds you can hear are your combined sounds of pleasure, calling out each other’s names.

You pull on the hand that Miguel has on your cheek to lace your fingers together, his large hand easily dwarfing yours, his talons folded back to not hurt you. Your other hand slips between your bodies, travelling downwards to feel where you two are connected. There’s a deep rumble coming from Miguel’s chest and he presses your sweaty foreheads together, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. Your tight heat is milking his cock so perfectly and at this rate, he’s not going to last long.

“Miggy,” you whine, keeping your eyes on his. His irises seem a little more brown as he looks at you so tenderly, making you feel like you are going to melt into a puddle of goo. He brings your joined hands to his lips to kiss your knuckles and you think you really just might turn into goo.

His thrusts get messier and more frantic You feel the familiar coil building up in your stomach. You lift your hand from between your legs to press firmly against the area below your navel and the sensation is electrifying. You can feel his cock pistoning in and out of you from where you are touching. You can feel him rearranging your insides, molding your pussy to accommodate him and only him, ruining you for anyone else.

“Mi niña hermosa, mi niña linda. Mía. Toda mía.” he moans into your ear, almost whiney and you know he’s near the edge. He starts peppering kisses on your neck, licking, sucking, grazing the sensitive skin with his fangs but not sinking them in yet. He takes the hand you aren’t holding to rest on your hand on your lower stomach. His thumb reaches further down to stroke your clit earning him a shaky whine from you.

“Cum for me again, hermosa,” he lifts his head to look at your flushed face. You’re sure you look like a mess but to him, you’re more beautiful than the brightest twinkling stars on a clear night sky. “Let me see your pretty face when you cum.”

And with that, you’re gone, pushed over the edge, screaming his name, squirting clear liquid up to his chest. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your hold on his hand tightens, and your legs on his shoulders shake and flail from another intense orgasm. There’s ringing in your ears but you faintly hear him cooing at you, whispering sweet words you can’t quite understand.

Miguel is still fucking into you with messy, frantic thrusts and ragged breaths but it doesn’t take long for him to follow, not when your velvety walls are pulsing, contracting on his dick. He puts a large hand on the space beside your head for support, his claws tearing through the pillowcase, as he drives his hips into yours a few more times before spilling inside you with a deep growl. He paints your insides with his cum as he rides his high with a few more shallow thrusts. You clench around him trying to squeeze as much cum out of him with your tight hole and he whimpers your name.

Both of you pant in unison, trying to catch your breath after that life-altering orgasm together. You turn your head to the side to kiss the inside of Miguel's wrist next to your head. Miguel doesn’t want to move. Everything is too perfect at that moment. You’re perfect.

But he has more plans for you tonight.

He takes your legs off his shoulders to wrap around his waist as he adjusts the both of you so he can lay down comfortably on top of you, putting most of his weight on his elbows on the bed. His dick still plugged in your hole, keeping his seed inside and refusing to part with your tight heat.

“Miggy,” you softly call him, looking at his relaxed face resting on your shoulder, eyes closed.

“Hm?”

“... pull out.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Fine, but only because I want to,” he grumbles, clearly not wanting to pull out. He gets on his knees again so he can at least watch your sloppy hole fluttering as he slowly pulls out. A thick milky ring of your combined fluid sits at the base of his cock. His eyes darken as he sees your cunt trying to clench at air and his cum starts to drip out of you. He can’t have that. He collects the trail of cum with his fingers so he can stuff them back inside of you.

“Miggy, come back here,” you pull at his hand and when he doesn’t budge, you add “You can just cum inside me more later. I need cuddles.”

That gets him to leave your fucked out hole alone. For now. Miguel kisses your stomach up to the valley between your breasts to your neck and lingers on your lips. He goes back to his earlier position on top of you. You drape your arms around his neck as you hum in contentment against the kiss. He smiles and moves to mouth at your sensitive neck, planting soft kisses, licking and sucking as he moans and pants in your ear.

“Miggy, I’m sleepy now,” you turn to look at him. You know what he’s doing. You know that he’s trying to turn you on again. And it’s working.

“You can do one more, mami. One more for me,” he says. He’s almost pouting, almost begging “You said I can cum in you again.”

“I didn’t mean right away. I just came three times already” you whined wrapping your arms around his broad chest. you want to feel him close.

“Mmm, you can cum four times. Maybe more because you’re such a needy little whore,” he murmurs into your neck, not stopping his ministrations. “My cum slut who loves being bred. We’re not going to end the night without your tummy full of cum I promise you that, cariño.”

You roll your eyes at him but you don't push him away and instead start playing with the short curly hairs at the back of his neck, ignoring the way your pussy shivered at his perverted words. You find comfort in his warmth and weight on top of you. You inhale his familiar deep masculine scent and it almost lulls you to sleep until you feel something wet and hard poking at your thigh.

“How are you hard again?” you say in disbelief as you look down and sure enough, Miguel’s dick is erect and ready to go for another round.

“It’s been a while since we had sex and my hand could only do so much to make up for your absence, cariño,” he huffs as gets up on his knees to turn you over and slap your ass. The sound of his palm meeting the sticky wet skin of your ass is undeniably lewd. “And what about needing to get you pregnant does not make sense to you? Get on your hands and knees for me. That baby is not gonna make itself.”

You plant your knees on the mattress and present your ass to him but you don't bother to lift your upper body from the bed. You keep your face down against the softness of his pillows. You didn't want him to see the giddy smile on your face from hearing that he hasn't slept with anyone else. His cum starts dripping out of your hole, coating your clit with creamy white and Miguel almost cums again on the spot.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” His large hands grab at your ass, kneading them. His thumbs spread your puffy lips apart so he can watch your cunt try to keep his cum inside. You groan as you force your arms to lift you up. “There’s my good girl.”

He smacks your ass which earned him a yelp from you. His lips curl up as he watches the flesh of your ass jiggle from the impact.

“Get on with it,” you whine, wiggling your ass to entice him to move faster. For someone who wanted to stop at the third round, you sure are impatient to be filled again.

“You are going to be the death of me,” he chuckles as he guides his cock back inside your wet heat. “There you go, mami. Back where it belongs.”

You moan loudly as you feel him grinding his hips, driving his dick as deep as he can reach inside you. Your eyes flutter close, as you savor the stretch of your hole around his fat cock once more. You couldn’t agree more with his words.

You hear Miguel from behind you input a command on a device. It beeps obnoxiously like it’s mocking you. It’s the last thing you want to hear while he is balls deep inside you, his girthy cock stretching you deliciously and filling you up so good. You think to yourself what was so important that Miguel can't put his gizmo down and enjoy the feeling of your warm, tight pussy on his dick? Right after insisting you can go for one more round?

You are about to snap at him for being ungrateful until a hologram appears in front of you. It shows a live video feed of his very own bed and a clear view of your fully naked self on your hands and knees getting ur insides rearranged by your boss. Your hair is a mess and your makeup is all smudged from how he made you cry from all the begging and overstimulation earlier. And he looks so big compared to you, having to bend low to align his hips with yours. You didn't even notice the recording devices planted around the room until now from how your brain was so fogged by lust. There seem to be at least three around the room from different angles. Well, it turns out he wasn’t just bluffing when he said he could record you earlier.

You wonder if he always had those set up. You haven’t really been to his room before. The few “encounters” you had with Miguel happened in his laboratory on his silly little platform, both of you too consumed by lust to think about moving to a more private area. It’s rather unlikely that they’re for actual safety reasons when they all just record the same area. You entertain the idea that him taking you to his room tonight is not just a spur-of-the-moment thing, that he might have all of this set up for tonight for when he has you writhing in pleasure on his bed. How thoughtful, you think. It makes you clench around his dick.

"You really are a pervert," you quip to annoy him. Clearly, the urge to mess with him hasn’t been thoroughly fucked out of you yet. You didn't even get to laugh at your own childish remark when Miguel abruptly starts thrusting his hips without warning, harder this time, dragging out a surprised whimper from you. His tip is bullying your cervix, testing the line between pleasure and pain but you love it. Your eyes meet Miguel's intense red glare on the screen.

"You're still talking," he tuts, his head shaking like he's some kind of pet owner trying to reprimand a disobedient pet "Let me fix that, cariño.”

He brings his large calloused hands back on you – where they belong, you think to yourself, echoing Miguel’s words. His left hand is firm on the flesh of your waist, you are sure they are going to bruise once he’s done with you. His other hand fondles your breasts, the sharp talons on his fingertips lightly grazing your soft skin. You know that when you look at yourself in the mirror tomorrow morning you’d look like you barely got away from being mauled by a feral beast, evidence of how Miguel O'Hara had his way with you and how you enjoyed every single second of it.

You cry out his name, chanting it like a prayer. He’s so deep inside you that you can almost feel him in your chest, his thrusts fucking the air out of your lungs.

“Miggy, Mi…. Mig– ah, ah Mi– haaaa –guel ahhh”

Your eyes roll back at the continuous assault on your sweet spot and your cervix with every deep thrust. High-pitched whines come out of your throat as your arms give out from under you, making you fall face-first on the soft mattress. It all feels so good but overwhelming. You think you’re going to pass out.

“Que rico, mami,” he pulls your hair so you can face the screens. “Look at yourself. Beautiful. Taking my cock so well. Don’t worry. I have this all recorded if you’re too cock drunk to watch yourself now, cariño.”

You can't say anything back. You try really hard to come up with something but the only word that comes out of your mouth is “please” over and over again becoming progressively needier each time. He wraps his arm around your waist to pull you closer to him, his chest flushed against your back, allowing him to rock you back against his forceful thrusts.

“Gonn’ make sure I put a baby in you tonight, cariño,” he growls in your ear. “I can’t wait to see your tummy swell in a few months. You’ll look divine, I won't be able to take my hands off you even more.”

His eyes are back to a glowing red as they meet yours that are glazed over by tears and lust. His hand tightens his hold on your hair making you tilt your head further, exposing more of your neck for him to suck bruises on. Your tits are bouncing freely at his aggressive pace. Coupled with the high-pitched moans coming out of your mouth, it’s all so pornographic. It makes you feel like liquid fire is running through your veins and pooling into your stomach.

“You’re gonna cum for me? Let go. Come on. cum for me, mami,”Miguel grunts in your ear, his hand on your hair letting go so he can greedily grab at your tits. “I wanna feel your cunt pulsing on my cock. Can you do that for me? Of course, you can. Going to milk me dry.”

And just like that, you throw your head back on his shoulder, eyes screwing shut as another wave of orgasm crashes down on you. Miguel follows closely, filling you up with more cum that drips down your thighs and on the bedsheets. Your body slumps back against his, too tired to keep yourself upright. You don’t even have the energy to open your eyes, content with feeling Miguel’s warm body against yours.

“I got you,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and moving you to lie down on the bed. You hum in contentment, letting him care for your tired body. He bends down to plant a kiss on your forehead before he pulls away. You miss his touch already.

A beeping sound lets you know that he turned off the monitors. You feel him taking the soiled bedsheets, getting up from the bed to get fresh ones. You have half the mind to reach out to him and tell him he can clean up later so you can cuddle now. Your mouth, however, doesn’t want to move so instead you groan as you blindly reach your hands out.

Miguel chuckles at your antics, walking back with fresh sheets and a damp towel to wipe off the sticky mess from your body. He sits next to you on the bed and brings the towel to your tear-stained cheeks, gently dabbing the area around your eyes to get rid of the messed up traces of mascara and eyeliner. You take your hand to rest on your chest trying to calm your wildly beating heart.

The comfortable silence, unfortunately, doesn’t last long. You hear the unmistakable voice of Lyla cut through the air.

“Heeeey, bossman! Heeeey, girlie!” she drawls and your eyes snap open as you snatch the sheet from Miguel’s hands to cover yourself.

“Ay, coño! I thought I said no alerts tonight,” Miguel looks pissed, rubbing his face in frustration before moving to turn off his watch. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Wait, wait! Sorry to interrupt the big night, Miguel, but it’s an emergency. Trust me you’ll want to fix this now,” Lyla raises her hands in surrender before Miguel presses a button. She turns to you, looking apologetic and asking for help “Then you can go back to babymaking, right, dollface?”

“I–” you flush, choking on your own words. You begrudgingly turn to Miguel, your lower lip caught in between your teeth. You lower your eyes as an ugly feeling crawls up your chest.

“It sounds important. You should go,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak up any louder. “I’d say I can be back up but I can hardly move so you’re on your own, big guy.”

Miguel sighs and gets up, telling Lyla to send him the information and that it better be worth his time.

You are already sexually satisfied and tired – that’s what four orgasms could do to you – but you are a little upset and sulky that Miguel has to be called in for work right now. Stupid anomaly or whatever it is. It’s probably important and a universe out there might be in grave danger. But you can't help feeling like shit about it though.

You like how soft Miguel gets when he cleans you up after sex. You like it when he picks up your tired form and whispers soft words to you in Spanish. Plus, you were looking forward to cuddles. What’s the use of having sex in his room on his bed if not to cuddle afterward and wake up next to each other the next day? And then, suddenly, in the early morning light, realize that you’ve been madly in love with each other all along. Okay, you are more than just a little upset.

Miguel notices you pouting and your eyes getting glassy with tears as you try to roll off the bed. He shoots his glowing red web at you, trapping you where you are before going back to readjusting his watch.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, walking back to the bed as he makes sure his suit is all good and ready for the mission. He kneels on the bed to drag you to lie on your back.

“What are you doing? I'm going to take a shower,” you sniffle trying to avoid his eyes “I’ll take care of myself. you should go”

He hums as he takes both your wrists in one hand and forces them above your head to secure them together with his webs.

“Miggy?” you look at him and there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes. He darts his tongue across his lower lip and you feel a shiver run up your spine.

He doesn’t respond. He only keeps looking at you like he’s going to devour you once more. He brings your legs up to the position he had in before, knees to your chest, cunt fully exposed to him. You blush and your heart starts pounding in your chest. He shoots out more of his web, making sure you’re comfortable and your legs are securely tied in that position.

“Good?” he whispers and you nod in response “Words, cariño.”

“Perfect,” you moan, your chest heaving with need. He smiles at you fondly, caressing your cheek with a curled finger, and plants chaste kisses on your temple, your nose, and the corner of your mouth until he reaches your lips. He hums in contentment as he savors the feel of your lips against his. Then, he pulls away reluctantly and puts on his mask. He sets his watch to the right coordinates opening up a portal to wherever the universe needs saving.

“I’ll be back as fast as I can. I’ll make sure that anomaly regrets ever being made for interrupting my plans for our night,” he grumbles and gives you one last kiss through his mask for good luck. “And then it’s going to be all about you for the rest of the night, hm? I promise.”

He walks into the portal backwards so he can look at you until it closes and takes him away. Your heart flutters in your chest, anticipating what’s to come as you feel the webs digging deliciously into your soft flesh.

•🕷️────✧˖°˖🕸️˖°˖✧────🕷️•

Translations:

Que linda - how pretty

muñeca - doll

cariño - dear/darling

Qué voy a hacer contigo? - What am I going to do with you?

Qué haría sin ti? - What am I going to do without you?

conejita - little rabbit

pobrecita - poor thing

que rico - “[you] look good” (literal: tastes good)

Podría acostumbrarme a esto - I could get used to this

Eres tan hermosa. No sabes lo que me haces - You're so beautiful. You don't know what you do to me

Estás tan rica. Estás hecha para mí, mi amor - You feel so good. You were made for me, my love

Mi niña hermosa, mi niña linda. Mía. Toda mía. - My beautiful girl, my sweet girl. Mine. All mine.

mami - mommy (as an endearment for a partner)

coño - pussy

A/N: so many thanks to my friend who helped me with translating and giving me tips on some better Spanish terms to use 🙏

[cece693]

Bound By Obsession Pt. 2

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: I feel bad for you, like you're trying so hard to escape but hannibal is always one step ahead, invasion of privacy, hannibal is a dick, wanted to show a more uncivilized/disrespectful hannibal as he finally drops his 'human suit', it will only get worse from here

RECAP: Your breath rattled in your chest, part of you screaming to keep resisting, to never surrender. But another part—terrified, uncertain—couldn’t ignore the chilling inevitability in his words. His unwavering belief that this was right threatened to unravel your hope. Fury warred with fear. Yet as Hannibal gently dabbed at your temples, as if tending to a faint bruise, you realized he’d planned every detail with excruciating precision. You were truly at his mercy.

Time crawled slowly after Hannibal left. You could almost still feel the glancing brush of his hand against your forehead, the memory of his touch making your stomach turn. He had retreated with the same eerie calm he’d shown when he abducted you. He acted like this was perfectly normal, you thought, fury and revulsion warring in your gut. You tried to keep calm, reminding yourself that you just had to survive until help arrived. Any minute now, someone would notice you missing. Franklyn would realize you weren’t answering his texts and phone calls. He’d put two and two together, but the bitter taste in your mouth told you otherwise.

Franklyn…? The same man who idolized Hannibal Lecter? Who practically worshipped him? The same man who was so obsessed with being “friends” with his revered psychiatrist that he dismissed every uneasy vibe you’d ever shared about the man? No. Relying on Franklyn for a rescue was foolish, and the realization hit like a gut punch.

So you catalogued the room instead. Four walls paneled in pale maple, a ceiling vent too small to crawl through, a single recessed light. No windows. No décor. No edges you could splinter into a weapon. Even the chair you were bound to was a single curve of molded wood, impossible to break. Hannibal had designed the space the way a jeweler designs a velvet box: nothing inside but the gem. Time staggered past in slow, uneven heartbeats. Hunger gnawed first, then humiliation—the hot, urgent ache in your bladder. You clenched your thighs, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing you plead.

Footsteps. Measured, expensive shoes on hardwood. The door whispered open.

Hannibal stepped in carrying a silver tray. He looked maddeningly fresh, like he’d just stepped off a magazine spread: shirt sleeves rolled to the perfect midpoint of his forearm, waistcoat hugging a frame built for precision. His eyes lit when they found yours, as though the sight of your discomfort were a private sunrise.

“Dinner is ready,” he said.

“I need to use the bathroom,” you snapped. Your voice came out ragged, the edge of desperation sharpening every syllable.

He considered you for a beat, then inclined his head. “Of course. However, the door remains open.”

“Close or I piss on your Italian shoes.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, delighted. “Such spirit. Unfortunately, I still require the door open—until I’m certain you won’t attempt to bludgeon me with the cistern lid. I will stand outside the threshold and face away. That is my compromise.”

You wanted to fling an insult, but your bladder had other ideas. “Fine. Just—fine,” you relented with a grimace. “But don’t get any weird ideas. You so much as try anything, I’ll—”

“Nothing untoward will happen,” Hannibal interrupted, a faint, humorless smile curving his lips. “You have my word.”

He loosened the restraints carefully, as though unwrapping a delicate object. Once you were on your feet, he placed a light hand on your arm, guiding you from the room. The hallway was dimly lit, lined with a few closed doors whose locks glinted ominously. He led you to a small bathroom. Sure enough, he propped the door open partway, standing just out of view but still there. You felt humiliated, heart pounding with anger and shame as you went about your business under his watchful presence. At least he’s not looking directly at me, you thought bitterly. Small mercies, I guess…

True to his word, Hannibal didn’t try anything—no touches, no manipulative chatter. In fact, he was startlingly polite, a perfect gentleman. Somehow, that unsettled you even more.

Afterwards, he led you down a short corridor. At the end stood a door that opened into another room—a dining area, by the look of it. Candle‑light flickered over linen as white as a surrender flag. Two place settings gleamed: crystal stemware, antique cutlery, plates art‑house arranged with roasted root vegetables, a pale purée, and a slice of meat pink as a blush. The aroma was obscene in its seduction, but you refused to be impressed. You were still his prisoner, no matter how fancy the setting.

He gestured for you to sit. “I imagined you’d be hungry,” he said, as though discussing the weather.

“You imagined correctly,” you muttered, resisting the urge to snap further. Play it calm, gather info.

You settled into the chair, noticing that while you weren’t chained this time, Hannibal had chosen a seat just close enough to intervene if you tried anything. There was a steely vigilance in the way he watched you, like a natural predator prepared to pounce.

Dinner unfolded in brittle silence. You refused to touch the food at first; your stomach betrayed you with a growl so loud it echoed. Hannibal’s lips curved in quiet amusement but he said nothing, content to watch you with that fever‑bright fascination that crawled over your skin. Finally hunger won. You took a cautious bite—savory, buttery, maddeningly perfect. Revulsion warred with relief as warmth spread through your belly.

Hannibal, for his part, ate with a serene air. Now and again, you felt his gaze cutting across the table, a weird, obsessed gleam shining in his eyes. It was difficult to swallow under such scrutiny, but you forced the food down. Finally, you couldn’t stay silent any longer. “So is this it? Kidnapping me and forcing me to have dinner in your…your psycho lair? How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

He placed his utensils down with meticulous care, meeting your glare without flinching. “I have no end date in mind,” he said mildly, as though discussing a lease agreement.

“Why?” You set your fork down hard enough to clang. “Why do all this? What’s the magic word that gets me out of here?”

Hannibal’s expression softened as though you’d asked something tender. “There is no word,” he said. “Language cannot sever what exists between us.”

“What exists is kidnapping,” you shot back. “You’re going to prison for this.”

He laughed—an actual, delighted laugh. “Prison? I doubt it. Franklyn assures me you are prone to sudden disappearances when overwhelmed. He is already rationalising your absence.”

Your heart lurched. “You manipulated him.”

“I merely provided a narrative. He supplied the belief.” Hannibal leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “In truth, I’ve never met anyone like you—someone who balances genuine compassion with an acerbic wit and an undercurrent of fearlessness.”

You practically snorted. “Fearless? Right. I’m terrified out of my mind here.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging the contradiction. “Fear is an instinct. You’ve every right to it. But even in your terror, you maintain a certain core of defiance. That’s rare, and I cherish it.” An icy chill spread across your skin at the word cherish. He talks like he’s in love—and that is infinitely worse.

“So you caged it.”

“I preserved it,” he corrected gently. “In time, the cage will feel less like confinement and more like sanctuary. You will come to understand that freedom is not the absence of walls, but the presence of someone who sees you utterly.”

You swallowed a surge of bile. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast. “But I am also patient. Fascination, like good wine, deepens when allowed to breathe. We have all the time we need.” The crystal of his glass clicked softly against the rim of yours—an accidental toast you wanted no part of. You set your drink down, untouched, pushing the plate away even though hunger still gnawed at you.

Hannibal watched every small rebellion with fond amusement, as if you were a child refusing bedtime. “Eat a little more,” he urged. “Strength will serve you, whatever path you choose.”

“My path is out of here,” you muttered. “One way or another.”

“That is a destination,” he allowed, folding his napkin with immaculate precision, “but not a path. And destinations are so often less important than the journey.”

You stood abruptly, chair legs scraping the floor. “Show me the way back to my life, Doctor. Right now.”

His eyes glittered. “Would you believe me if I said the door is unlocked?”

For a heartbeat, hope surged—then died beneath his measured tone. “Unlocked but guarded,” you countered. “Or rigged. Or you’ll hunt me the second I step through.”

“Consequences are not chains,” he replied, rising with fluid grace. “But they do guide behavior.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Come. I’ll prove there is no lock.” Wariness warred with curiosity, but you followed, pulse hammering. He led you through a winding corridor lit by low lanterns until you reached a heavy wooden door. At the threshold, he laid a hand on the knob and swung it open.

Beyond lay a dark forest. Tall conifers pressed close on all sides, their branches creating an almost impenetrable canopy that blocked out any hint of moon or starlight. The air smelled of damp pine and moss, and a biting chill seeped in. You could see no roads, no lights—nothing but trees and blackness. “No bolts, no bars. Walk away if you wish.”

A cold wind slid past you, rattling the nearest branches. You squinted, trying to make out a trail or any sign of civilization, but saw only the dark tangle of trunks and undergrowth. Your heart pounded. “Where does this even lead?”

“Somewhere you’re not prepared for,” he replied. “Freedom is rarely found by sprinting into darkness—especially when you have no idea where you are.” An image flashed through your mind of yourself stumbling among those trees, lost, maybe succumbing to hypothermia or exhaustion, while Hannibal followed at his leisure.

He closed the door without force, a quiet click that sounded painfully final. “If you want to wander out there, I won’t stop you,” he said, turning to face you, “but I assure you, it’s a harsh environment. I planned this location for its isolation.”

You swallowed hard. “You couldn’t have just asked me on a…on a date?”

His brows rose with mild amusement. “Would you have accepted?”

“Of course not.”

“Precisely.” He inclined his head as though that single word justified every abhorrent thing he’d done. “Conventional courtship would have led only to your polite refusal. And then distance. I couldn’t allow distance.”

Your anger flared. “That’s not how people function, Hannibal. This—this kidnapping— I’m not going to just fall in line because you’re too cowardly to handle rejection.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved, his soft amusement a nightmarish counterpoint to your rage. “Cowardly?” he repeated in that cultured, low voice of his, as though you’d just made a delightful observation. “Would a coward risk everything to ensure someone precious does not slip away?”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re justifying kidnapping as bravery? That’s twisted.”

“Twisted or simply honest,” he mused, eyes flicking over you with calm interest, like a collector surveying a prized piece of art. “Could it be you’re angered most by the fact that I am willing to do what polite society forbids? Because it calls into question whether you truly know yourself. Whether you might, under different circumstances, be drawn to me.”

“You’re unbelievable.” You spat the words, every nerve alight with fury. “People reject each other all the time without resorting to—to this. You can’t handle the idea that I might say no, so you stole me like some demented child with a shiny toy.”

His expression flickered just once—something close to hurt, as if your fury stung him more than he’d ever admit. Then a measured exhale steadied him. “I prefer to think of it as choosing a path that ensures we fully explore our connection. I will not hide from possibility simply because you or the world might disapprove.”

A tremor rippled through your limbs, pure anger coursing hot. You advanced on him. “No, you’re just hiding behind sedation and locks, creeping around like a monster. That’s the opposite of bravery, you smug—”

The porcelain teacup on the nearby tray caught your eye. Without a second’s hesitation, you seized it and flung it at him. He inclined his head at precisely the right moment, letting the cup sail past and shatter with a piercing crack against the wall.

“Careful.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “You’ll need that energy for what comes next.”

“What comes next,” you snarled, “is me leaving—whether I have to do it over your battered corpse or not.”

You swung a blind punch, your muscles coiling with desperate fury. Hannibal sidestepped it so elegantly, it made your blood boil. Another strike—he dipped under your arm, capturing your wrist. You drove your knee up, aiming for his ribs. He twisted gracefully, letting your momentum pass inches away. A guttural sound tore from your throat—part frustration, part outrage—as you came at him again, swinging for his jaw. He simply circled behind you, and you felt a prick of something cool against your neck.

Instantly, a familiar, sickening warmth spread through your veins. Your blows lost their weight, your vision stuttering. “N‑no—” The word slipped into a groan as your knees buckled.

With obscene gentleness, Hannibal caught you, easing your body against his. Your cheek pressed to the expensive fabric of his vest; you smelled faint cologne mixed with your own sweat. Horror gripped you, but your limbs fell slack, your mind swimming.

“That was quite admirable,” Hannibal said softly, stroking a hand over your hair. “I do appreciate your spirit. It’s part of why you’re here. Why you fascinate me so deeply.”

“Go…to…hell,” you managed, fury still sputtering in your fading consciousness.

“Shh,” he murmured, drawing you close as though comforting a lover. “Sleep now. Anger is exhausting, and we have plenty of time to revisit this conversation when you’re calmer.” Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The world blurred around the edges. Then only darkness remained, along with the nauseating warmth of Hannibal’s arms—his lips against your temple in a final, disturbingly tender gesture before oblivion claimed you.