#whichever is scratching the itch at the time

[yuribalisms]

I hate my gender I hate it I hate my gender this is fucking stupid I hate it I hate it I hate it could I be literally anything fucking else I’m so goddamn sick of this

[jiminrings]

four seven eight, phase 3 (1)

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 9k

glimpse: jungkook's secure when it comes to being a husband and a dad, knowing that he grew to love being both after everything you've been through. what he isn't so secure about is the possibility that it's everything he'll ever be.

alternatively, jungkook pursues his dream of making a film, even if it means making your rival his main lead behind your back.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale — complete series masterlist, from phase 1 to 3 ]

[ the return of 478jk (derogatory), major angst, fluff, the weight of devotion except jk's mean this time, flashbacks to phase 1 (im so sorry), the both of them r in an identity crisis, The Return of yoongi, yearning and the ache of unfulfillment all over, eventual redemption ]

notes: FINALLYYYYYY after a long wait, phase three is finally here :-) the og era of 478 is a time i'll truly never forget so now that i'm putting them in Several Inconveniences again, i look forward to creating another era with u citizens!!! mwah thank u love yew

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

Jungkook likes to be needed.

He likes to be needed fully, sometimes even all at once to the point that every mention of his name makes him think that his assistance is needed. He wants to be needed like the way you rummage through your old film canisters that you dumped in a large drawer just to retrieve a specific picture of him; needed like the way you sigh in relief when you find said roll.

Jungkook wants you to seek him in a crowd, past all the banners of your name from your fans and lanyards of your staff, and ask specifically him for a cold water bottle he keeps in his bag for you. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t even mind if you ask it from him indiscreetly — he wants to be needed, even if neither of you are alone with each other.

He’s used to the feeling of being needed because it’s practically routine for him. The way Jungkook loves you has changed and evolved (needlessly to say for the better) through the years, and although he tries to look for the balance in it all, there’s a tiny, tiny part of him that wonders what would’ve happened if neither of you changed.

It’s perhaps the change in seasons, or maybe it’s the build-up of the stupid little things Jungkook’s seen recently; one of those things happen to be a ridiculously long thread by your fan, who happens to also be a fan of Yoongi, assuming that your marriage with J*ngkook (that’s exactly how they typed his name out) is ending, hence your recent collaboration on a brand deal. Jungkook, of course, has half the mind to go on his secret stan account and snark at said poster before reporting, but even then, there’s an itch in his mind that he can’t scratch.

Whatever weather it is outside nowadays or whichever stupid little thing pisses him off online, Jungkook can’t shake off the nagging question of what if in his mind.

When Jungkook cleans your water bottle every night for you to take to set the next day, he wonders if the two of you would still be together if only he didn’t rush to your place by the exact second your month-long break ended, right when he takes off the rubber from the cap to clean the ridges thoroughly.

When he blowdries your hair (even if you tell him not to bother) after you begrudgingly take a shower because you can’t sleep in bed after going outside and not washing up the second you come home, he wonders if you would’ve kept loving him even if the very incident with Sora didn’t push him to change, right when he sees you close your eyes while his hands scratch your scalp.

When Jungkook sounds out syllables to Hwayoung and tries his very best not to baby-talk her (he can’t help it sometimes) as he recounts his day to the toddler, he wonders if you would’ve even had a daughter with him if he stayed the same silent lover that he used to be, right when she parrots your name back to him with a smile.

“Young-ie’s probably starting to need me less and less,” he sighs to you with a pout, eyebrows knitted in concern as he gives you his rookie version of a blowout he’s still trying to perfect. Jungkook can’t flick his wrist the way professional hairstylists do, just in the same way you can’t pick up why he’s brought up the thought out of nowhere.

“How could you say that? She’s the biggest daddy’s girl ever,” you chuckle, placating him with the truth despite your initial confusion. If you weren’t fully awake awhile ago, you certainly are now — mostly because Jungkook springs up an unbelievable idea, and partly because whenever he tugs the brush at your hair, your whole head comes along with it.

“Not really. More like biggest mommy’s girl, you mean,” he defensively scoffs, apologizing quickly when he hears you wince at a particular experimental tug he does on your ends.

“Should we wake her up right now and let her decide?” you murmur, your eyes locking with his on the mirror.

Jungkook, at his most comfortable state, wearing ratty oversized pajamas and glasses on his face that he’s yet to update the prescription on, has never felt more competitive in his life.

“Well we could-…”

“I was joking,” you deadpan, the silence between the two of you getting long enough to the point that you suddenly find yourself laughing, effectively getting Jungkook out of his daze.

“… I knew that.”

You may have had an inkling about Jungkook feeling slightly off before in the past weeks, but all it took was his random, unprompted question tonight for you to solidify that seed of concern in your chest.

Jungkook likes to be needed, even if he can’t say the same that you need him as much as he thinks you do. He thinks it’s a perfectly rational feeling to want to be needed by both your wife and your daughter, and although he’s not as receptive to being needed as much by anyone other than his family, the feeling still stays the same.

He has all the time in the world. You’ve enabled him to do so even if he’s the one mainly looking after Hwayoung while you worked, but despite that, Jungkook doesn’t feel needed enough.

There’s an itch in his mind that he can’t scratch with neither your constant affection nor Hwayoung’s grabby hands. There’s an unplaceable, agitating urge in Jungkook’s chest to put a pause on everything and be back to who and what he used to be, despite your affirmation that he is needed.

There’s that tick going on in Jungkook’s brain that amplifies everything he does to seem wrong; that makes him grumpy when he wakes up to prepare you breakfast whenever you had early shoots, that makes him purse his lips when his daughter asks him to watch the same movie with her for the third time in the week.

All of the uneasiness in him, however, disappears when Namjoon, the acclaimed screenwriter that he has for a friend (whom he actually met through you), calls him up with an offer that Jungkook can’t refuse.

It’s an offer that releases the ache from his bones, makes him want to blowdry your hair better, and watch the same movie over and over again with his daughter — but Jungkook postpones saying it to you when you come home and want nothing more than to be in his arms, and for Hwayoung to be in yours.

( ♡ )

Jungkook could wait more.

He convinces himself that he can because although there’s a date set for the short film that Namjoon’s pitched for him to produce, it hasn’t grown yet to become the unstoppable force against Jungkook’s immovable object: family.

He knows he needs to tell you eventually and that he’s not really asking for permission in the first place, but there’s a sense of guilt in him whenever the thought of breaking the news to you comes into mind. He’s not nervous per se because he knows you’re as supportive of him, if not more, like he is with you.

It just happens that it’s within the fine details that Jungkook truly feels hesitant to tell you that he has to leave for awhile.

Jungkook could wait more, and although that means he has to deal with the occasional voice in his head telling him that lying to you (even under the guise of protecting you) has the capacity to bite back at him, he manages. He swallows down the words whenever you unintentionally give him an opening to tell you about the news of him going abroad, and just settles for holding your hand.

He could wait more because telling you now wouldn’t be the right time, now when you’re on your day-off as you’re close to wrapping up your current project before moving to the bigger, more exhausting one; not now when you have a time of reprieve to spend with your family before taking on the biggest project of your career to date.

Jungkook hums to himself as he looks down on Hwayoung who has a tiny shopping cart to herself, her strikingly round eyes that she got from him (Hwayoung looks more like him the older she gets) looking up to his own.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he lulls, mumbling loudly enough for only her to hear. “You’d understand if appa left for awhile, right?”

“Left?” she questions, holding up her left hand at the mention yet she reels at his query, brows furrowing as she seems to digest the question. “Why?”

“Yup. That’s your left. Good job, baby,” Jungkook praises, the knot in his throat growing when he looks to his daughter who looks confused at the sudden query, again, that came out of nowhere. “You would, won’t you?”

Hwayoung hums because she doesn’t quite understand, but that’s the thing that Jungkook fears most — she’s young and smart and although he wants to use those facts to his advantage, he realizes that Hwayoung being the age that she is in now could also prove him to be dispensable.

Jungkook likes being needed, but he’s much too afraid of the possibility that Hwayoung won’t even recall him as soon as he leaves.

Your husband’s snapped out of his reverie when you go downstairs with a skip in your step, the tell-tale mischievous tone to your voice already predicting that Hwayoung would make the two of you chase after her in the backyard all day. “What are the two of you plotting again?” you ask playfully, hands on your hips as Jungkook chuckles at the sight of his two girls.

“Nothing!” Hwayoung giggles, the word slipping out of her seamlessly as she even shakes her hands fervently, accustomed to what you mean exactly with your tone of voice. She’s young and bright and you see so much of Jungkook in her, even if Jungkook would argue otherwise.

Jungkook’s dazed this morning with the way his gaze locks in from far away, his bottom lip bit between his teeth more often than not as if he’s always at war with himself.

“You okay, Kook?”

“Mhmm. Couldn’t be better,” he hums half-heartedly, his lips grazing your temple as he guides you to sit down on the carpet with him. “You finally slept for more than eight hours. That’s good,” he says as an afterthought, the pauses in between his words growing in distance as his gaze is fixated on everything but you.

Jungkook looks at your daughter who’s now pushing Miso around the house in her shopping cart, and while your cat (who’s always seemed to hate your husband) looks more than pleased at being played with, she meows to Jungkook and only at him with a hiss at the end of her spiel as if in warning — as if Jungkook is guilty of something that only the two of them know about.

Almost as if out of everyone in the room, it’s only your cat who knows that Jungkook’s lying.

Jungkook can wait, but he’s certain that he can’t wait any longer because if his brain is unoccupied for long enough, he’ll start to hear Miso cursing at him through her yowls.

“Hwayoung doesn’t look like she needs you any less,” you say gently, your line of sight following Jungkook’s as he tenses at your words.

“Oh,” he sighs, jaw grinding down to a halt. “Right."

Your words seemingly came out of nowhere, even if the both of you know deep down that they’re influenced by his impulsive thoughts from last week.

“You can say the same for me,” you add, not as an afterthought, but as a lesser-known fact that Jungkook seems to forget every now and then.

There’s a weight in his chest because all of a sudden, Jungkook can’t wait anymore. The itch in his mind has already been scratched too much that it had already bled and scabbed.

There’s a weight in his chest that reminds him he can’t wait anymore, because in hindsight, the weight of him and everything that comes with him settles on his shoulders.

Maybe, Jungkook doesn’t want to be needed as much.

( ♡ )

Jungkook drops the news on you while you’re folding laundry.

He was meant to go for sincere but the way the words leave him, right when you’re in the middle of folding Hwayoung’s pajamas that she’s about to overgrow in the soonest, it sounds as if he’s been dying to tell you; now that he has, he sounds beyond relieved.

“Namjoon offered me a script,” he announces, taking the pajamas from you to put in his pile as he sees your eyes widen, the remnants of the heavy mascara they used on you on set awhile ago highlighting your surprise. “He wants me to produce.”

“What?” you punctuate, tilting your head as you try to make sense of what Jungkook’s saying. You know he’s speaking and you’re familiar with said words; you just never expected for them to be compacted in the same sentence, meaning the way that he makes it out to be. “Kim Namjoon, as in the producer for In Terms of Eternity?”

He chirps at that, posture straightening as he tries to jog your memory. “Yeah. You’ve worked with him before and introduced us, then turns out Jin’s also a friend of his and-…"

“I mean I know Namjoon and that you’re friends with him, Jungkook,” you interrupt, trying to reel yourself in as you’ve lost your focus trying to fold Hwayoung’s clothes and talk to your husband at the same time. “But I didn’t know you were that close for him to ask you to produce something for him.”

Jungkook doesn’t completely crash from the high he’s in over finally telling you the news, but there’s that spike that flashes briefly over his face, the frown on his lips letting on more than he shows.

“What’s that supposed to mean?"

You sigh at the impossible position the both of you are in, the words that try to line themselves up in your temple being no match to the way they translate out-loud. “It means nothing. I’m just… surprised that he’d ask you to be a producer for his script, that’s all. It came out of nowhere.”

Jungkook recoils at that, a stubborn brow raised as he tries to keep his composure. “Because you don’t think I’m capable of being a producer?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you inhale sharply, gripping a random article of Hwayoung’s clothing beside you to pace yourself. “Namjoon’s.. big. He’s established, and well, you’ve never become a producer before.”

“And you have?” Jungkook digs, even if it’s unnecessary to do so, and the way his face falls at the forthcoming regret that creeps up to him lets you know that he thinks so too.

“Jungkook,” you try again, quirking your lips to the side as you try to manage with the pace he’s set you up on. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. This is all new to me. All new to you, even. If anything, it’s nice that Namjoon trusts you a lot.

“He does. We’re close,” he nods, clearing his throat as he feels that the both of you could move on to the other phase of the news you had interrupted him at. “As a matter of fact, we’re taking it on a global scale.”

Jungkook doesn’t get why your face falls.

He doesn’t get why your shoulders rise and fall, not in relief, but out of controlled tension that threatens to pour over.

“What?”

“The script. The film,” he smiles, trying to get you to finish his sentence and connect the dots together but to no avail. “It’s… it’s — we have to film in the US for a few months.”

“What?” you repeat, the knot in your throat tangling up more and more hesitance in you the longer it stays there.

“I said, we have to-…”

“No, I heard what you said,” you interrupt, jaw clenching tightly as you try to grasp everything Jungkook has said.

You don’t get why Jungkook’s smiling.

You don’t get why he’s completely at ease and only in confusion as he sees you piece everything out.

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Kook, all of this is new. Everything you’ve just said is and will be new,” you chuckle humorlessly, running your hand through your hair in frustration as you try to relax. “I’m happy for you, believe me, but Jungkook, what you’re saying is serious. It’s a lot to take in,” you pause, eyes wide as you repeat the words to yourself. “You. Producing. In the US, of all places, a-and for months.”

There’s not one exact emotion that runs through you because the longer that Jungkook looks at you, ecstatic, while you’re weighing what he’s just said like a bag of bricks — you feel even more conflicted.

Your husband wrings his hands together, nervously smiling at you as if he’s asking for permission, but the both of you know that his mind’s already set. He thinks the opportunity of producing a short film that’s been drafted by his friend is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, eager to take off even if he’s had no experience at all in the industry.

“I don’t know, baby. It’s just been so long since I got this excited and alive, y’know? It’s a nice change of pace and I get to do something nice-…”

“Isn’t being with your daughter nice?” you ask abruptly, unable to mask the conflict that’s been brewing in your mind ever since Jungkook pulled you aside to talk. You feel hesitant; disconnected even from wrapping your head around his wording.

Even convincing yourself that you’re just spent from working sunrise to sundown doesn’t work. No matter how hard you try, Jungkook’s tone remains as is.

“Y/N,” he sighs, lips in a tight line as he screws his eyes shut. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything, Jungkook,” you grit, crossing your arms in defense. You feel guarded more than ever, not because you’re the one whom he’s pertaining to, but because your Hwayoung is involved and you won’t sit around for it. “It’s just that when you put it like that, it sounds like taking care of Hwayoung is a chore.”

You used to be sure awhile ago that you were seeing double because in between memorizing scripts and going from schedule to schedule without any time to rest in between, you’ve been worried sick because Jungkook hadn’t texted you the whole day. You were shocked enough to come home to your daughter playing by herself downstairs (with Miso watching her the whole time), even more-so when you saw Jungkook engrossed in a highly-enthusiastic phone call.

Jungkook sighs as if talking to you completely exhausts him, pinching his nosebridge before muttering under his breath. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“Excuse me?” you blink in surprise, tilting your head in sheer confusion. You’re about to shrug it off but he does that thing again, the one where he almost rolls his eyes at you but realizes it at the last minute.

“Nothing.”

“Say that again, Jungkook.”

“My god,” Jungkook groans, throwing his head back. He runs his hands through his hair frustratedly, sucking in a rushed breath. He looks straight at you when he gives his grievance. “I’m just saying! Why do you get to live out your dream but I don’t?”

“This is my job,” you bite back instantly, the second it took for you to digest his words being enough time for him to groan again. “If it were up to me, do you think I’d work six days a week? Do you not know how much it kills me to stay away from my family?”

You’re at a loss for words, the tiny bit of insecurity you have being dug up once again. You feel guilty because you actually don’t — you know to yourself that you still dedicate so much of yourself to Jungkook and Hwayoung even if you work full-time.

Jungkook chokes up a laugh in front of your face.

“Then quit your dream if you’re so miserable.”

Your jaw clenches quickly in annoyance, unable to retain the disbelief that builds up in your chest. “My dream is my job! It’s why we’re living this life in the first place, Jungkook! Your dream is this project that was pitched to you like what, two weeks ago?”

“Can I not live my life the way that I want to?” he asks exaggeratedly, eyes wide in defense. “Why am I only your husband and why am I only Hwayoung’s dad? Why can’t I go to the US a-and try things out? Why can’t I be free from all this even for just a while?”

Your mouth falls apart at that, your moment of shock simultaneously being Jungkook’s instance for guilty. He wants to reel it in right then and there, but the small part of his pride grows to hold him back.

“Do we hold you back that much?” you whisper, the headache that has been building in your head since this morning shrinking to the size of Jungkook’s words. “What are you getting so angry for? I’m not saying no. I’m asking you why you’re so hellbent on suddenly leaving to do this.”

A large part of you, if not all, feels more disappointed than angry. Hwayoung has not and should never be an afterthought for the both of you yet Jungkook brings her up with you like mere variables.

You can grasp the fact that being a parent is a full-time job like yours yet what you can’t get a hold of is your husband’s apprehension; his sudden need of pursuing something beyond your family.

“Because I’m scared, Y/N,” Jungkook whispers, exhaling heavily. “I’m scared that this is all what life could ever be for me.”

It’s only when you’re completely silent that he comes back to the severity of his words, the tension that’s been building up in him breaking the moment that you break eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry for being your wife.”

“Baby, that’s not-…” Jungkook tries to correct himself, hot on your heels as you get up from your seat on the couch. You’re not even speeding up yet he catches you just as urgently, the hold he has on your arm doing little to put you at ease.

“And I’m sorry for making you a dad.”

“Y/N, sweetheart, I’m-…”

“You should do this project if you really want to,” you quip, back still turned to him as you enter the bedroom. Jungkook noticeably stops in his tracks, the furrow in his brows fading because you’ve put him on whiplash.

“What?”

“You’ve held down the fort while I was out being the breadwinner. It’ll be nice for you to do your own thing,” you smile tightly, eager to sleep on the whole thing just so you don’t stay hung-up for too long.

“What about Hwayoung? What about your film? They want it to be an entry for the Academy, right?” he asks in concern, different from the worry he had awhile ago when he thought you were against him leaving.

You nod, easily shrugging despite the weight on your shoulders. “I’m her mom, of course. She’s gonna come first. And for the film, I think I can still do it. I’ll juggle them both if I have to.”

Jungkook nods, eyes set on the floor. He didn’t think this far at all.

“Do you want to hire a nanny? I know a friend.”

“I’ll pass. I don’t trust nannies.”

There’s an overwhelming silence that engulfs the both of you, the white noise machine in your nightstand unable to fill it completely. Jungkook looks at the ceiling while you look at Hwayoung who’s sprawled in the middle of your bed, clutching Miso like a teddy bear — she already fell asleep waiting for the both of you.

“I didn’t mean what I said awhile ago, I’m sorry. It came out the wrong way,” Jungkook apologizes after some time, hand darting out to hold yours while you only hover above your vanity, taking off all of your jewelry except for your wedding ring.

“When do you leave?” you ask, still unable to meet his gaze.

“Next week,” he clears his throat. “When do you start filming?”

You nod, coming into terms that Jungkook would leave no matter what you say. “Next week.”

You’re arranging the covers when your husband tries to hold you again, voice strained and rushed. “Y/N, I really am sorry. I love being your-…”

“Shh,” you interrupt, pursing your lips. “Hwayoung’s sleeping.”

( ♡ )

You asked for a day off.

You’ve rarely ever asked for them throughout your entire career because you were built on the mindset that at the end of the day, you’re also an employee no matter what gig you land. Be it the cameos you used to book with Yoongi or the titular characters you take from studio after studio, you’re still the employee who had worked her way up fairly.

You didn’t ask for it during that instance when you fell sick after back-to-back shoots because you didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. You didn’t ask for it when you woke up with the type of fatigue that settled in your body no matter how hard you closed your eyes or laid your head against the cushions.

You’ve never asked for it for your sake, but you’ve asked for a day off now because Jungkook’s leaving for a place you can’t come and go to as you wish.

Unlike your house or the hotels you book for him and Hwayoung to be at whenever you have to film out of town, Jungkook’s out of reach. He’s one call away, granted that your timezones match up and there’s a connection strong enough for it to continue without a hitch. He’s far from your grasp and he will be for months on end, and you don’t think you can ever stomach working on the same day he’s leaving.

“Are you seeing me off at the airport?” he asks during the car ride, voice audible enough for only you to hear and not Hwayoung who’s sprawled across both of your laps, sleeping soundly with her plushie that resembled Miso.

“I will, but I don’t think I can see you off near the gate. I can only manage up to here,” you answer honestly, willing yourself not to break down even if the both of you are still in the car, away from any prying eyes of the media that lurks outside. “So can Hwayoung,” you add, a large part of you being grateful that she’s asleep when Jungkook has to leave so neither of you would hear her cries.

Jungkook sees that hesitance in you, the same kind that softens him into fragments.

“It’ll only be for awhile, okay? Just for a few months,” he smiles tightly, rearranging his backpack next to him, the keyring that held Hwayoung’s second-favorite toy (not the ultimate favorite because she won’t ever let him take it) clattering loudly. “I love you,” Jungkook murmurs. “Do you know that?”

“Mhmm.”

“Say it back.”

You refuse to do so because saying it back feels finite, perhaps even forced, because although you love Jungkook, saying so at the moment only weighs you down as reality sinks in. “This is gonna be easy for us, right?"

“It’s not like we’ve never been in a similar set-up before,” he shrugs, the pout on his face casual as he tries to level with you.

“But this is different, Jungkook. This is beyond different. We have Hwayoung and now, we’re both working,” you stammer, chest rising and falling as you wrap your head around everything. “This— this isn’t Seoul to Jeonju. This isn’t a leave by day, come back by night type of trip. This is-…”

“You’re freaking out,” Jungkook interjects, his soft yet stern voice cutting through your thoughts as he lays a hand on your thigh, the platinum of his wedding band looking right up at you.

You surrender in defeat, not because you’re fighting with your husband, but because there’s simply no other answer he could ever conjure for you as to why this is happening.

“Why aren’t you? Why am I the only one scared?” you whisper.

“You’re not supposed to be.”

“Of course. It’s not like you— we put everything on the line,” you clear your throat, looking down on your shoes as you convince yourself. You ignore how you’re still not entirely aware of what’s with Jungkook’s project, other than the fact that Namjoon’s the screenwriter, all in favor of giving you a semblance of sanity before Jungkook leaves you and Hwayoung. “Right?”

( ♡ )

You wonder if Jungkook already ate breakfast.

You wonder if he ate the supposedly excellent in-flight meal that comes with first-class tickets, or if he ate the ramen he’s always had a penchant for eating especially during your trips, whether by land, sea, or air. You wonder if he’s grumpy with the altitude and the way he has to pop his ears ever so often, along with the way he always seems to be too long for airplane seats turned into beds.

You call but Jungkook doesn’t answer, even if you know he’ll never not purchase in-flight wifi because he’d rather knock himself out than have to read a book or something of the sort. You message, but then again, your husband doesn’t answer, even if you know he’ll much rather reply via text than to record a voice note because he’s shy with people hearing him in public spaces, albeit closed.

Hwayoung waits patiently beside you, swinging her legs back and forth on the couch as Miso stays up with her. She should’ve been in bed half an hour ago but you let her stay up with you, all in the pursuit of getting Jungkook to respond.

“Appa?” she asks again after a minute of you trying for her dad but through another app, her pout reminding you of Jungkook’s who’s unreachable.

You try not to frown in front of her, leveling yourself as you settle for kissing her forehead to cover up the sigh that originates deep from your chest.

“Not yet, Young-ie.”

.

.

.

There’s no text from Jungkook when you wake, but there is a picture of him in the buffet of the private lounge he’s staying at during his layover.

Atleast Jungkook did eat breakfast and Hwayoung was able to sleep without him (the first of what you dread is many), nevermind the dull thrum in your chest in Jungkook’s absence.

( ♡ )

Hwayoung's been behaved the whole time you were on set.

With Jimin prioritizing his voluntary role of being a babysitter to your daughter over his position of being a manager to you, you became instantly comforted at the reassurance that you're not in this situation alone.

It's only been a week since you started working right after Jungkook left, his absence rearranging every system you've previously had in place. You do your very best to have Hwayoung still thriving, and even just the reminder that you are succeeding at being the only present parent for the meantime melts all of your fatigue away.

Your trailer's more equipped for her than it is for you, the space apparently reminding Hwayoung of home so much that it's enough to make her remind you that Miso should go join the both of you sometime. Your dressing room's always been hers, and so has been the affection of everyone close to you.

“I take my role of godfather very seriously.”

Yoongi explains even if you haven't asked him anything. In fact, you weren't talking to begin with. It's not in his nature to talk for the sake of talking (that's Jungkook's), but even with Hwayoung in his arms and you still being lost in your thoughts, he can't help but to feel concerned.

“I can tell," you snicker, finally taking notice of the sight in front of you. The earpiece that was previously on Yoongi is now slung over Hwayoung's shoulder, obviously too big on her. She wanted it as an accessory (it reminds her of the toy stethoscope she'd put on Miso as a collar) and with Yoongi being himself, he can't bring himself to say no.

Your shooting day's nearly over and although today wasn't as long as your previous record of hours on end, you already seem exhausted. Yoongi, of all people, knows what scenes wear you out. You hated doing monologues as a rookie and still despise monologues (but with random, out-of-place advertisements in between) as a veteran — you’ve done neither today.

"What's with the frown?" he asks gently, not only because Hwayoung’s been quiet for the past two minutes and she’s getting groggy, but also because if he were to ask you any louder, he feels as if you’d break.

"It's nothing," you answer automatically, looking at Hwayoung to ground yourself. "Just usual family things, I guess."

"Trouble in paradise?" Yoongi asks with a chuckle, abruptly stopping his fit of amusement when he gets goosebumps starting from the tail of his spine. He instantly recognizes it as deja vu. "I've asked you this before, haven't I?"

The realization doesn’t hit you until he points it out.

"Mhmm," you hum absent-mindedly, playing with the hem of your dress. “I don't think the problem now is anything like how it was before, though."

One night several years ago, you and Yoongi were sat side-by-side in the booth of a club, the heartbreak you had over what Jungkook’s done (and haven’t, at the time) being the wedge between you.

Now, Yoongi’s standing in front of you while you’re sat down, your daughter with Jungkook in his arms.

“Me neither. I don't know how you and Jungkook can encounter any problem worse than last time, to be honest," he chuckles, shaking his head at the recollection of the hell you’ve been through. "Also, I think I can say that because I literally don't know what's going on with you. But if you do tell me-!"

"You're so nosy,” you snort, the brief moment of playfulness welcome because your head aches the longer that you dwell over your worries.

"I can be the judge to see if what you're going through now is worse than before," Yoongi shrugs to fake nonchalance, unaware that you’re gasping in awe until you kick him lightly in the shin.

Hwayoung’s asleep in his arms.

"She's never did that with anyone before," you murmur, fishing for your phone to take a picture, but not before quickly skimming to see if Jungkook’s sent you any messages; he hasn’t. “She only either sleeps in mine or Jungkook's arms. Not for my parents, not for my in-laws. Just me and him."

Yoongi smiles proudly, stroking Hwayoung’s hair proudly. "What can I say? I'm godfather of the year."

He only sways her gently back and forth, rocking her with the patience and attention that remind you of Jungkook’s when Hwayoung was a newborn.

You’re calm and quiet to see her adjusting so well already, but you can’t help but to feel lost because you feel the exact opposite. No one’s gonna stroke your hair for you and tell you to take your time — those are Jungkook’s tasks alone, yet your grievances are also because of him.

"Jungkook's producing this short film in the US. It's by his friend," you mutter under your breath after some time in silence. Yoongi flicks his eyes up at you as if you’re talking about the weather, careful not to make you feel more conflicted than you already are. “You know… by Namjoon.”

"Since when was he into that?" he asks out of curiosity, eyebrows furrowed because he didn’t know that your opening line would ever transition to this point in the conversation. Yoongi catches a second wind the longer he processes your words, the scoff that leaves his lips making his bangs loose despite the hairspray on them. “Since when did Jungkook and Namjoon belong in the same sentence?”

"I don't know either.”

"So we're both producers now?" he snickers, the teasing already coming natural. "Nepo husband alert."

You roll your eyes in recognition, clearing your throat as soon as the laughter died between the two of you. “We got into this argument and I don't know, I-I realized I was being selfish for a moment because I didn't want him to go at first, you know?" you admit in full sincerity, exhaling the lump that forms in your throat. “He said he was afraid that this is everything he'll be. My husband, Hwayoung's dad. So on and so forth."

Yoongi only listens this time, giving the occasional hum there to remind you that he’s still there.

"And last night, he, uh, he forgot to call," you gulp, already feeling the weight of your worries settle in your stomach. "The call wasn't even for me. It's for Hwayoung because he promised he'll still read her whatever she wants."

The three of you cherish that time together because normally, it happens as soon as you get home from work. Hwayoung’s long graduated from storybooks and has now branched out to the most ridiculous texts that Jungkook indulges her with nonetheless — from the ingredient list at the back of milk cartons, and all the way to Reddit threads of how cats find their way back home to owners.

"He's been secretive about the whole thing and I-I… I do that too with my projects, I get it. But only at first because I'm literally bound to an NDA," you stammer, pinching your nosebridge to get past the frustration. “I’m just-…!" you give up, admitting the truth. "I did some snooping."

"And?" Yoongi prompts, tilting his head in anticipation.

"I think he's been secretive because the main lead's Eunsu."

Yoongi recoils at that, so much so that it almost wakes up Hwayoung.

"Eunsu? As in Park Eunsu?" he repeats, the scowl on his face getting deeper the more that you stay indifferent. “Eunsu as in your nemesis?"

You relent, the mention of her finally hitting close.

"Nemesis sounds a little childish."

Yoongi scoffs immediately, rolling his eyes at your correction. “I mean yeah, because people keep pitting her against you when she doesn't even come close," he shrugs easily, make you tut in warning. "What? I'm just saying what everybody's been thinking."

To know that you can still confide in Yoongi no matter what comforts you — what doesn’t is that this time around, your gut feeling’s stronger than it had been the last time.

"I hope I'm wrong."

"I hope so too," he exhales, shaking his head in disbelief. "What kind of asshole sleeps with his wife's enemy?"

"Don't put that out there,” you grumble, the unintentional yet weird arrangement of words making you dizzy.

"Sorry. It's a metaphor, dummy," Yoongi surrenders, clearing his throat. "Okay. Retake. What kind of husband produces a film featuring his wife's rival?

"Hopefully not mine."

( ♡ )

It takes little effort to love you.

Loving you specifically doesn’t have to be hard.

Jungkook thinks that loving you isn’t hard when you serve as the peace to his otherwise hectic and turbulent mind. You manifest into the comfort he looks for in all seasons, be it the heat pack you wordlessly put in his coat pocket or the scrunchie you put around his wrist no matter the weather whenever his hair got too long.

You don’t text him at every hour of the day whether you were working or not, but you’ve made it a point to always check up on him multiple times even if the both of you are at home, going as far to randomly waking up in the night to pause your breathing and check up on his with a hand on his chest.

It’s easy love — one that could be grasped by everyone because as the world has proved to him time and time again, you’re easy to fall with and for.

You may not coo and awe at every single thing he utters, but the adoration behind your eyes always makes him warm from the inside because you held onto him, no matter how anticlimactic his stories could be.

Neither you and Jungkook are easy, that much he knows.

He knows it because although it’s never been his intention to come home late during his allotted short break between filming (it’s disguised as a break even if he only came back to take care of work-related matters personally), you make it known that you’re irked with him for every other reason.

He knows that you aren’t easy because for the past three weeks he’s been gone, you’ve reiterated twice in the last hour alone how you’ve asked him again and again who will star in his short film. You’ve asked Jungkook repeatedly to give you details outside of Namjoon and the vaguest bits he could ever give you, establishing the fact that he isn’t even bound to an NDA.

It’s the persisting barrage of questions in your head that bothers you without a single break. It’s the hovering feeling of doom above your head because having no answers to any of them, on top of Jungkook closing himself off with or without the physical distance between the two of you and being Hwayoung’s sole caregiver, that your patience ultimately thins.

Your annoyance towards your husband is clearly obvious and it bothers him to the point of frustration. Jungkook’s been convinced since last week that if he just dodged your questions for long enough and blamed it on the connection of your call, he wouldn’t have to answer to you; he wouldn’t have to explain the fine details of the project he’s kept from you.

If he had only avoided you for long enough, you would’ve forgotten about the rumors surrounding Namjoon’s upcoming screenplay that had been leaked to the press, and the roster of actresses thought out to be the main lead of his short film.

If he had only ignored your pleas for long enough, he would have never succumbed to the preliminary guilt that comes with lying to you under the impression that he’s only being protective, pushing him to drink until his vision spins — enough for him that when he admits the truth to you, your face of heartbreak directed at him isn’t as anguishing.

“Fine, fuck it! Since you’re so nosy, yes. Eunsu is my main lead, there! She’s my muse!” Jungkook just about yells, breathless from the burn of alcohol in his throat that spreads all the way to his chest, and from the back and forth he’s been going at with you for the last hour.

“Why didn’t you tell me in the first place?!” you retort, fists clenching at your sides as the thought of Jungkook with Eunsu, with her of all actresses, in a foreign place at almost every minute of the workday irking you.

“Would it have made a difference? You’d still be angry at me,” he rolls his eyes, placing a hand on his hip as he tries to stabilize his gaze on you.

“And even then, you wouldn’t do anything about it, right? Because that’s just your nature, Jungkook,” you scoff, your dig at him being incredibly low yet you steel your pride, unwilling to back down at the thought that Jungkook’s been lying to you for three weeks– perhaps even longer.

He presses a tongue to his cheek as you pertain to the past loud and clear, the sarcastic nod he gives you making your breathing tremble.

“Why? Why does it have to be her?” you try again, this time with your jaw clenched so your anger won’t flare up because you’ve been dying to have a decent explanation from Jungkook for weeks.

“Why can’t it be her?” he counters. “B-because she’s what, she’s your rival or something? You’re jealous? Bitter?”

The knot in your chest tightens, the recall you have of the woman who had sabotaged you repeatedly when you were still a rookie putting a metallic taste on your tongue. She’s hindered you in ways that not even Yoongi could explain fully despite being the closest friend to you in the industry, the vitriol you’ve had for Eunsu in the past reviving back to life.

You have no words except for the fact that begs to be acknowledged without a single syllable.

“I’m your wife, Jungkook,” you exhale shakily, the gravity of it seemingly not enough for him because he refuses to use it as a reason to get on your side.

“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think everybody knows that by now?” Jungkook spits. “When I’m producing my film with Eunsu, I don’t want to be your husband, Y/N! I’m sick of it,” he seethes. “Eunsu has nothing to do with me. Why should I fight your battles for you? Why do I have to carry your grudges for something that doesn’t even concern me?”

Jungkook’s the drunkest he’s ever been in his life, yet he utters the clearest words you’ve ever heard him say.

“This is showbiz, Y/N. It’s inevitable for you to get caught up with shit.”

“You’re talking as if being my husband and being Hwayoung’s dad is a chore.”

“Because maybe it is!” Jungkook bursts with a cry, the tears that spring out of his eyes momentarily blinding him. “Because maybe, I’m fed up trying to be sickeningly devoted to you all the time.”

There’s something akin to white, hot, searing pain that spreads across your chest all the way to your temple, the tremble of your lips not enough for Jungkook to realize that you’re on the verge of sobbing.

“Sometimes I hate this. I… I-I hate this life I’m living because of you, Y/N,” Jungkook whispers. “I hate how you’re so, so perfect in juggling everything. I hate how I could spend an hour just convincing Hwayoung to eat a single carrot and you come in the room, and she finishes the bowl with a smile on her face. I-I hate how you never complain whenever you need to do late night feedings after a long day because I’m already snoring. I hate how with or without work, you’re still just—…” he stills, looking at you with a distraught gaze. “You’re still so content. You’re still able to be yourself like you’ve always been.”

There’s no words left in you; no thought at all that could ever pick you up from the ground and gather yourself the way you’ve always had whenever you and Jungkook had felt the furthest from each other.

“Jungkook,” you sniffle, even if he waves you off half-heartedly. “I’m sorry if-…”

“There it is. There it fucking is again!” Jungkook whines, foot agitatedly stomping against the floor as he pulls at his hair. “You’re apologizing for being so perfect in life that it’s making me feel bad!”

“But I’m not! I’m far from it, what the hell are you talking about?” you rasp, the sarcastic laugh that goes past your lips making his ears ring. “I’m sorry if it seems that way but I’m telling you myself that everything is not perfect the way you make it out to be. I’m sorry because it makes you feel bad, but if anything-…”

Jungkook raises a finger at you, his jaw tightening the longer he stews in displacement.

“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t tell me how content you are with everything despite being exhausted, or how you juggling everything is worth it. Don’t tell me how good of a dad I am."

“Then what can I say to make it lighter for you, Jungkook? What can I say that won’t make you resent me?” you grit in surrender, chest falling so lowly, you’ve forgotten to breathe for a long second. “Do you hate the life that we’re living now so much that you can’t even look at me?”

Love isn’t always a matter of ease and although it’s always stuck to you, you prove now that Jungkook coming home to you at this instance, in this light, that he makes love the most difficult thing.

“Do you hate the life that I gave you so badly?”

“I don’t,” he answers, mouth dry as his vision spins. “Sometimes. Tonight, though — maybe I do. It comes and goes.”

“Then what can we do about it?” you whisper, your vision hazy as you look at him. “Where do we go from here?”

“It’s getting late,” Jungkook only whispers, unwilling to look at the bed you share. “I have an early flight tomorrow.”

[the-travelling-witch]

𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

summary: there's nothing quite like being pampered by your partner after coming home from a fight... at least in childe's eyes

pairing: childe x gn! reader

warnings: fluff, a smidge angsty towards the end, mentions of fighting/ wounds; just a scene i had to exorcise from my brain since i'm ridiculously down bad; this is either a modern au or a 'teyvat has blow-dryers now' au, pick whichever one you fancy

genshin masterlist

“Watch it,” you threatened, though your voice lacked any sort of real bite. How could you be truly mad when Childe was grinning up at you, all boyish and playful, a strand of his wet bangs stubbornly falling back into his ocean-hued eyes?

“I wouldn’t have to if you just joined me,” the ginger hummed with no remorse, wet fingers dancing along the hem of your already soaked shirt, itching the creep under it. No doubt, he had already thought about just pulling you into the bathtub with him. “Or you could just take off your clothes if you’re so worried about them getting wet.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s the only reason you’re proposing that, huh?” You cocked your eyebrow at him, gently sweeping his hair back again. Even after you shampooed and conditioned it, it was as unruly and wilful as the guy it was attached to. “No ulterior motives whatsoever, I presume.”

“No ulterior motives whatsoever,” Childe echoed, though his voice carried the same mischief as it did right before he splashed the first wave of water over you. “I’m just looking out for you, darling.”

“The only thing you’re looking out for are your best interests,” you snorted, grabbing the body wash and sponge, motioning for him to turn around. “Now sit still, you literal child. I don’t want to accidentally reopen the wounds I spent so long dressing.”

“You got it,” the ginger laughed, clearly not as concerned with the deep scratches littering his back. Though you really didn’t want to meet whatever had caused them, Childe had excitedly told you all about his scuffles as he came home, still high on adrenaline as you ushered him into the bathroom and peeling off his many layers of clothing.

You shook your head, dispelling the thoughts that started clouding your mind. It was a conversation you have had plenty of times before. Instead you concentrated on the way his lithe muscles flexed and relaxed under your touch, his skin as always pleasantly warm and smooth despite the faded scars littering it. You knew the origins of most, having spent many nights tracing them as you listened to the stories behind them. Sure, some were from thrilling battles, but there were also smaller, odd ones like the one where Teucer accidentally nicked him as he taught his younger brother how to prepare a fish they caught together.

When you were certain your boyfriend was all clean again, you got some fluffy towels as he clambered out of the tub, purposefully not meeting his smug expression as he caught you eyeing the water droplets running down the dibs of his abs. You were also sure there was no need for his arms to flex as much as they did as he towelled his hair dry, leaving the white fabric to rest around his neck. 

Though there was a shirt set out next to his sweatpants, he forewent it completely and you sighed as you followed him out of the bathroom with the blow-dryer in hand. Idly, Childe sauntered over to the bed, sitting down with his back to the frame waiting for you to take your place behind him like you always did.

Gingerly, you rested your legs over his shoulders, feeling his calloused palms wrap around them, his fingers tracing random shapes into your thighs and calves as his bare body radiated heat. Watching the stream of hot air tussle his fluffy strands, your thoughts couldn’t help but circle back to the bloodied wounds on his back. None of them were too deep this time, but…

There was a tap against your calf.

“What are you thinking about?” Of course, Childe would pick up on your dip in mood; he always could. He could probably also guess the direction your thoughts had turned, it wasn’t an uncommon point of discussion. “And you’d better not say it’s nothing.”

“I know I tell you all the time and you always tell me not to worry. And I do have more faith in you than anyone else, but can you be at least a little more careful?” In that moment you were glad your boyfriend was turned away from you, certain your voice would shake even more if you were to look into his eyes right now. 

Running your fingers through his soft hair, you busied yourself with parting the sections to resemble a somewhat orderly hairstyle in order to keep your hands from trembling. Still, Childe easily caught your wrists, sliding his fingers between yours as he twisted to face you.

“You really do worry too much. I’m fine, right? See, everything still attached and working,” Childe smiled, drumming his fingers across your knuckles.

“Yeah but what if something happens? Something that is outside of your control and you don’t—“ You cut yourself off, not daring to speak your worst fear into existence. It would make it seem so much realer. “Just… Ajax, if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, if the other side of the bed was cold—“

“Hey now, none of that,” Childe soothed, reaching up to smooth out the crease of your brows. “You’ll never have to go to sleep alone or wake up to an empty bed. I’ll always come back home to you, I promise. Nothing could keep me away from you.”

The heat of his kisses spread from your knuckles all the way up to your heart, warming you from the inside out as his words soothed your frayed nerves. The logical part of your brain knew he couldn’t actually prevent all bad turns of events from happening but you willed those thoughts away. 

As you curled up under the blanket with him that night, his arm draped securely over your waist to pull you close to him and into his safe embrace, you reminded yourself Ajax had never broken his promises before. So, as the moon bore witness to his vow sealed with more kisses, you decided to believe him.

© the-travelling-witch 2024 - do not repost, translate, copy or edit and do not feed my writing to ai

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated (also, yes, there will be second parts for the characters) ♡

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[rayveneyed]

cw: smut / a/b/o dynamics / cisfem!reader

contrary to popular, old-fashioned belief, alphas and omegas can be friends.

long gone are those times of wilful ignorance, the use of nature as an excuse for shitty behaviour —well, i'm an alpha, see, so i really can't help trying to shove my hand up your skirt, so—

most people are chill nowadays, you like to think — like to being the key phrase. sure, you get the occasional tradomega trying to tell you that you need to dive into your divine feminine and serve your alpha as god intended — and you've definitely been on the receiving side of some ticking biological clock rhetoric, for sure, by snot-nosed alphas with not even a single yen to their name — but it is what it is.

all of this to say that: when sero hanta is guts deep in you, it's completely platonic. completely. cute. casual. nowadays, no hair-brained ideas of marriage or monogamy or commitment accompany your coupling — it’s animal instinct, dirty and intense and slick and hot, scratching a biological itch, and that’s it.

you really lucked out on your choice of partner, too. sero’s an alpha, yes, but not in the derogatory sense. he doesn't get pissed when he smells other alphas on you, like a territorial dog; doesn't tell you that you should be settled down, already, with a household of pups to manage at 25 years of age; doesn't push and prod when you work long hours and devote most of your time to your career. he's funny, and goofy, and tall, and lean, and — and, well, his hair is floppy and inky black, and when he's hunched over you, sweat dripping onto your collarbone from his pointed nose, his cheeks flush the cutest shade of pink…

ahem. anyways.

while there are many omegas that are no doubt stronger than you when it comes to heats, forgoing human contact in favour of 700-odd pounds of silicone, you're part of the large majority that would rather shack up with somebody real. you're not knocking it, of course! your sock drawer is testament to the fact that you love your silicone, really, but there's just something about a person. all heat and skin-to-skin, sticky and nasty in a way that leaves you more satisfied than anything else.

and sero — with his kind eyes and goofy smile (and skintight hero suit) — is not only more than willing to help you through your heats, but have you enjoy them. not an easy feat when your insides are tying themselves up in knots between orgasms, but by god does he do it. something about his hips... something about the way he bows his head to your shoulder, grinding long and slow into you, hips pressed flush to hips. his lips brushing against your skin when he groans, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back. you're not sure if you should be jealous of his obvious sexual experience, or just grateful that you get to be on the receiving end of it.

there is, of course, the obvious romantic connotations of it all. you’re not stupid enough to completely ignore it; after all, heats are these romanticised, coming-of-age-esque happenings, the plot of most early 2000 rom-coms and bad pornos. cute omega roommate forgets her suppressants and goes into heat! real alpha-omega love-making guaranteed!

but its not like that, because hanta is hanta and you are you. you’re like sharkboy and lavagirl. or fireboy and watergirl. whichever pairing fits the dynamic better — you’ve always been the hothead between you two.

“that’s a really shitty idea,” a friend warns you. she’d caught you with your scarf undone, baring the hickies that hanta had left on you to the world — an embarrassing result of the occasional non-heat trysts you’d find yourself caught up in. you couldn’t even blame the heat hormones for the way you’d almost mauled him, but a girl simply has needs! “i’m telling you, casual heat sex never works. trust me.”

but it works for you and hanta, right? because no matter how much you fight, how much you disagree, how much you chastise him for putting himself directly in the line of fire — on live tv, no less! — it all melts away in a pile of blankets and pillows. no matter how deep his cock drives in you, no matter how his teeth scrape your scent glands and have your toes curling against his back, it all ends up the same — slumped in front of the tv, lazily lounging on your phone while he boots up his nintendo 64 to kick ganondorf’s ass for the billionth time.

(and it doesn’t matter that sero isn’t seeing anyone else — it doesn’t matter that he’s deleted his dating apps, or that you keep the pillow he sleeps on when he comes over so that you can scent it when he’s gone. it doesn’t matter that he reminds you to take your anxiety meds — you know, omegas are 44% more likely to have GAD than the average person? — or that he remembers how you take your tea, coffee, and pho. these are things you’d do with any friend, of course.)

it’s cute. casual. not at all romantic, so surely you shouldn’t think twice about leaving a toothbrush at his place. and what harm could a set of pyjamas do? and you could always do with an extra pair of socks, and your skincare, and perhaps an extra phone charger…?

[sevs-corner]

Tf 141: Mafia AU! - Ch 2: Mini Epilogue

{A/N: I might make this a regular thing 'cause I love character development} Link below to the 2nd Chapter :DD

Graves never knew he could laugh that hard.

It was like he got left hooked by that hooker again. Swift and out of nowhere- knocked him out of his knickers really. (Yes, he did wake up without it after being knocked out cold.)

It was said so nonchalantly and off-handedly like it was natural for you to assume that he was the 'boogeyman incarnate.'

He was just so amused by you blatantly and ever so confidently insulting him, right in front of his face.

He was quite surprised himself, usually- if someone had insulted him right in front of his face- a barrel would instantly be between their eyes, or a quick flip of his knife would find itself lodged right besides one of their ears-- whichever he was in the mood for really.

But you.

The glaring exception that he stumbled upon when he just wanted to do a quick smoke at his favorite spot at the bakery.

Before he even entered, he heard murmurs echoing, waking him out of his tired stupor and sobering himself up as he prepares to- potentially- make contact.

It might be that stupid cat that hates him whenever he goes to this spot, but with all the clearly pronounced non-cat like "meows-" he guesses it would be a person, playing with that ridiculously hedonistic cat. (He knows that plump white cat gets spoiled by Nonna and Nonno when they see 'em.)

So he rounds the corner, silently, steps carefully calculated with the intent of dodging anything that would make a sound.

Yet he pauses, taking a better look at you.

‘Who the hell were you?’

Why was there a stranger at his Nonna and Nonno’s place? There was no way you were a thief, judging from the looks of your outfit and how utterly careless of a job you did if you ever infiltrated this place.

Also…why a bakery? Were… you that hungry?

Maybe… he could provide a better source of income for you, instead of living the live of an unruly street rat.

Even if you were a new face, you had to know the rules of the street.

So he asks, and just like that cat- you jump and unceremoniously land on your ass. Yewouch.

He keeps the grimace to himself, keeping his guard up as you seem to…

not?

be intimated?

by him???

What is going on.

Now, he definitely has to get your ID and papers from the border patrol at the edges of the city. There was no way that someone from this city would act like this, especially if they have been out and around.

He wanted- no... that wasn't right... needed to know who you are.

You were like an itch at the back of his head that he couldn't scratch. Whether you were a threat or not, a new person in town never bode well for the families.

His gut tells him that he discovers a new cog in this creaky old machine he call his home.

So, he follows you through the back door, but was unfortunately stopped by that dreaded cat that was waiting for to lower his guard enough to assault him from the shadows.

He definitely needs his vengeance on that cat.

Once he gets away, he slicks back his hair in a huff as he went in and watch you absent-mindedly wash your hands.

"mio figlio*!" {A/N: Italian for "my son"}

He turns and smiles, "Nonna! I miss you!" opening his arms for a hug but all the old woman did was click her tongue and cross her arms.

"I'm surprised you didn't call me old hag," she sends an unimpressed look to him who reacted sheepishly, "why are you here?"

He pouts, "'cause I missed you and Nonno obviously."

"sure," she deadpans, "you're always welcome here son."

"I know that."

She irks at his confidence and proceeded to lift her foot, aiming for him until she sees at the corner of her eye- you, washing your hands for the umpteenth time now.

Connecting the dots and seeing where her son just came from, she smirks and lowers her foot.

"So you met cara?"

He raises his brow and nods, "did you find your new housekeeper from out of town?"

Seeing as how you had the bakery's apron on, he knew that you worked here, as well as the point that you looked a little too comfortable in the well-guarded space of Nonno. (Nonno's kingdom is the kitchen and anything the light touches in that space, anything outside of it is out of his control.)

Hence he charted it up to you being affiliated to either of the hags, and since Nonna just freely strolled up to him-- he'll take his chances.

But she shrugs, making him frown.

"Just came in last night," she begins explaining, "with John and his boys."

Graves sighs, another factor he did not want to think about at the moment.

"John's friend then?"

She shook her head again, making his creases grow deeper. If you weren't related to John, then how did you get to this place? By accident? This spot is so secluded in already desolate part of town, there was no way you came here intentionally. So, he continues gathering information from Nonna.

"Poor cara bumped into Kyle and was so sick that she couldn't get up," Nonna sympathizes, "had to let her stay for the night and let Johnny take care of her 'till the morning."

"Johnny?" He asks a bit astounded, "took care of a stranger?"

She raised her brow, "you think he did it willingly?"

He lets out a short laugh, "you're right."

"She's been cleaning her hands for the 10th time now," Nonna points out, "I think she still haven't sweated the sick off."

He looks at you, and-- lo and behold, you still were, eyes clearly in a daze as you stare at the wall, hands in an endless cycle of washing and drying off.

"You still say that?" He smirks at her shrug.

"Its true."

Graves watches his Nonna turn around to leave, only to get pinched by her again after scrutinizing your hand washing technique. (A++ for thoroughness.)

"Go and snap cara out of it," she nudges his signature mug in his hand, giving his Nonna a thanking smile while she just rolled her eyes- knowing that he could handle the situation that is you.

And so he does, and your reaction is as skittish as ever, even more so than that blasted cat-- maybe he should just call you 'micia.' {A/N: Italian for cat/kitten}

Although your quips immediately erased that thought, how DARE you call him-- a what?

'a boogeyman incarnate?'

First it was a tombstone (he knows that fairly well) but this?

THIS?

This is new.

And... he doesn't quite mind the light, fuzzy feeling in his chest when he got it.

A new refreshing face you are indeed, making him feel things he hasn't before.

So he tries to explain, why he was so apprehended before you left, despite the wheezes that seemed to be never ending.

He wants it to stop but it feels like he walked into a room filled with laughing gas, and it was quite... addicting.

Now he finds himself staring at you, working both the front and back of the bakery like it was a routiened thing ingrained in your brain. Maybe you waited tables before? You looked experienced, both in terms of service and communicating with customers.

He had half a mind to listen to his Nonna's rant about Nonno and the state of this place, but the other half was on you.

You with the messy hair, a food-stained apron, deep bags on your eyes, frame quite frail, hands shaken-- yet a smile stayed so bright like the sun above you in the alleyway.

Now he genuinely wonders how you found yourself here.

Were you like him? Needing a place to call home?

He hums, letting his thoughts spiral until it lands on you again. The you that snapped out of your rhythm and talked with a snark to John and his gang, quite similar in the manner that you did with him- making him grin quite a bit.

Nonna sees this and smirks, patting Graves' shoulder before standing and calling out to you.

He sees the color pop in your eyes, sparkling in wonder as you ask what Nonna wanted before it fully opens in shock at her words. He knew that the old hag likes messing with her kids.

Wanting to know what you were so shocked about, he approached the table with a smirk, a nod in greeting to the others while you were still in a panic, shakily holding onto Nonna's shoulders as you begged her for an explanation.

"Why don't you finish the lunch rush first, cara?"

So you resigned and nodded, having no choice but to comply to finish that part of the list. One ticked off, another tick to do.

As you finish that part of your shift, albeit more slowly now as fewer people entered and finished off their plates, you did a final check up and removed your apron with a relieved sigh.

Sitting with the rest, right in the middle of Suds and Nonna, as you held onto your own mug of cuppa.

You first listen in to the conversation, letting them lead the conversation as you think of ways of how to convince Nonna to give you minimum wage.

Even if it was a single bill for an hour- you'd take it. You just needed to start somewhere, and you would use this stumbled-upon-opportunity to the utmost possible way.

Once the conversation redirects to you and your situation, you took a sip and decided to explain what happened last night.

"That apartment's been run down for years..." Gaz, who you now learned was the kind man who took care of you last night, mentioned softly-- hands fidgeting above the table as he glanced at you and Price- the big boss man- nervously.

"Aye," Soap- you'd like to still call him Suds for fun- agreed with furrowed brow, "ye' said that ya friend lent it to ye' while ya' find a job 'ere?"

You nod, "that's the gist."

"Quite a ways away you are then," Price frowned, "this bakery is at the opposite end from where you need to be, hun."

You groan, sliding further down your seat- thinking of how the unlucky streak you've had has been fucking you up in more ways than Britney has 99 problems.

After a quiet moment of reprieve, you sat up again and down your shot of cuppa courageously.

"I have a proposal."

Nonna gleamed, arms crossed and an ever so present smirk on her face (just like Grieves.)

"Go on then, cara."

You inhaled and nodded, "I know I'm not in a position to ask but while I finish the list, can--"

You hesitated, knowing the heat of their gazes was crawling under your skin and making it itch, but you decided what you had to do-- whether it would to good or bad results thereon.

"-can... can I ask if its possible? Possible to get minimum.. wage.."

She perks up, and this makes you feel that you have to explain more--

"wh-what I mean is that--"

"You want to work here then?" She smiles, her voice soft, quite different from how she's talked to you so far.

You better consider her words now, thinking if it meant what it truly meant.

You nodded and she sighed in relief.

"Good," she pats your arm, "I was starting to feel guilty from how good you were working."

"So you did feel bad!" You glared at the old woman who simply laughs it off, ruffling your hair as your pouted.

"I did, but a job needs to be done."

"And I happen to be here- I know."

You both giggle and finally feel a bit more relaxed, that tension of holding onto that issue now gone quickly as soon as it was brought up.

"What if I contributed to that minimum wage?" Graves suddenly offers and you both turn to him in shock, one in confusion while the other in appreciation.

"Why?"

"I knew I raised you right mio figlio!"

Graves smirks, leaning back onto his chair with his hands in his pockets, "just want to pitch in to the cause."

You huffed, "I'm not a charity case...sir."

He chortles again, knowing that it was hard for you to deny the extra pay as it goes against your morals.

"No, no-" he corrects, "think of it as a son, helping his ma."

He wraps an arm around Nonna's shoulders, making her snuggle into his embrace happily while he looks to the four smugly. He knew that- with this proposal- he'd have more opportunities to... get to know you better per se.

"Then we want to help to," Price proses as well, making Graves throw him a quick pointed glare that earns him the same from the other three.

If he knew John as if he was his brother, then he knew he has a card hiding up his sleeve.

But its still to early to look into that, so he lets it happen.

You, on the other hand, were quite in a predicament of accepting it or not. You still wanted to repay both Price, Nonna, and Nonno (for lodging and food)- but it would be quite awkward if you did so through the means of their own money going back to them.

Although, from the looks of their faces, it seemed like they weren't going to stand down so you nodded- checking in with Nonna if that was alright with her and she simply grinned, an enthused reply of "yes! My sons are the best~!" coming from her.

"So," you cleared your throat, "I start today?"

Nonna thinks about it for a moment, "I don't see why not."

You internally cheer at this.

"Which means you have to know about the family business!"

The table shakes as the men stand in protest, but she pays no mind to it as your focus gets directed to her forcing eye-contact with you by grabbing both your cheeks.

"The family...business?"

"Yes!" you could hear the others scream but you could only hear the next words coming out of her mouth as she whispers...

"we're... a mafia family!"

Hearing this, the color- which is ironic as it is already colorless and pale- drains from your face, making you slump and faint in shock- brain shutting down as you.exe required a self-reboot.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! THE WHOLE LOT OF YOU!"

Nonno enters, now pissed off at the mess and was going to ask you until his brows raised in question at his wife, carrying you by the face- was shaking your limb body awake.

Once again, you regret taking the offer of someone trying to 'un-fuck' your week.

A/N: A little long bit this time hehe (i enjoy writing Graves being one of the first charas that gets "enamored" by you, just because he sees you as an oddity in the city. He actually went to visit Nonna that day because he was so tired of his current life, that he needed a change of pace. He was thinking of helping around for a bit before exploring his options but, lo and behold, you appeared and presented a different kind of opportunity of experience he has yet to feel <//3) All of the boiyos are touch-starved and sometimes- in their moments of weakness- they ache for it hehe Thank you for reading! Next chappie will be up soon (im havin too much fun with world building this au)

[animasolaoriginal]

I n f a t u a t e d ♦️TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾TEN ELEVEN◾TWELVE◾THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN TWENTY

The trip through the mall continues. More obstacles and surprises await. And a decision that will change her life forever.

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dubcon elements. Dom/sub dynamic. Praise kink. Free use/power play. Jealousy. Sex toys under clothing. Forced public masturbation. Orgasm denial/control. Cockwarming. Vaginal sex. Fingering. Spanking. Oral cockwarming. Oral sex. Collaring. (For even more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 11k

A/N: As this is the finale of Season Two, we have another Big Angst Episode ahead of us. Or you have, I already know what happens. Enjoy! (But be aware: there is so much going on here... mind the tags!)

NINETEEN 🟥 TWENTY

They spend the rest of the afternoon strolling through the mall, and by the end of it, she is sore, her insides are buzzing, aflame with the need for release after hours of walking around with those damn toys vibrating inside her. He's either forgotten he turned them on or doesn't care too much about her discomfort, and she's not willing to ask him to make it stop. This is her punishment, she has to pull through to make him proud. To make him praise her.

She's desperate for it, that itch that needs to be scratched worse than the constant stimulation, and it grows every time she sees him smiling at whichever woman is serving them next. That horribly annoying (and annoyingly pretty) waitress at the cafe, the shop clerk that ran after him to sell him a new tie, that girl who handed out fliers for a local festival, the older woman giving out samples of cheese or whatever, no matter who, he's always been so goddamn nice and friendly and flirty, and she hates it.

He's charming, yes, and handsome, and sure, she is the girl whose hand he is holding, but whenever another woman steps forth, he starts to ignore her, would even let go of her hand if she wouldn't squeeze it so tightly. Sometimes he'd look at her then, his eyes dark, and she doesn't know if it's anger or annoyance or something else, but she always ducks her head, lowers her eyes, and just hopes they'll move on soon.

Eventually they do, and he pulls her in front of the cinema that's located at the far end of the shopping center. He steps behind her and wraps his arms around her shoulders, nudging her to look up at the large sign showcasing the available movies to watch. Instead of focusing on the choices ahead of her, she savors the touch, his warmth, his strength, leans against him happily, hands placed on his strong arms.

“What are you in the mood for, baby?” he whispers, his voice that low thrumming right in her ear, vibrating all the way down to mingle with the other vibrating things inside her. Her cunt clenches hungrily around the toy. “Some generic romcom with a boring guy and a too-hot-for-him girl? A murder mystery where it's usually the butler with the frying pan? Some historic tale that's probably good to fall asleep to? Or a nice, gory slasher movie full of blood and fake boobs?”

She giggles softly at the way he lists the films, and he turns his head slightly to press his lips to her jaw. “I don't know...” she says quietly, licking her lips when her cheeks burn up. “I don't mind either way...”

“Hmm,” he hums, leaning his chin on her shoulder. “How about this thriller about the jealous girl who kills off anyone who looks at her lover the wrong way?”

She freezes, clearing her throat. “Um, which one is that?” she asks, trying to hide her surprise, feigning ignorance.

So he knows about her jealousy, is that it? Was it that obvious? Probably. He's been the first man she's developed some sort of feelings for, and with how he has claimed her, it felt only natural to do the same, to claim him. Is that how it works? She isn't sure. (Also, did he refer to himself as her lover just now or is she reading too much into it?)

Instead of replying, he kisses her cheek again, then grabs her chin and turns her head, meeting her lips while looking deep into her eyes. “Sounds intriguing, though, don't you think?” he whispers between slow and soft pecks.

“I... I don't like violence,” she croaks out, gripping his arm tighter as she leans into his kiss needily. “Can we watch the love story instead?”

He huffs a laugh, his warm breath tickling her lips. “You wouldn't call that a love story too?”

“Killing people for love? Not my kind of romance...”

“No?” he breathes, nuzzling his nose against hers. “Well, it is unusual, but I'd certainly appreciate the gesture.”

She frowns at that, but he only winks and leans back, letting her go. His hand is around hers when he starts walking towards the booth selling the tickets. “Romcom it is, then,” he tells her and buys them each a ticket and some popcorn.

She's shifting in her seat, squirming all the way through the commercials until he finally acknowledges her discomfort. “What's wrong?”

“Sitting is... uh... a little... well, weird,” she stammers out quietly, biting her lip. Walking she has somehow gotten used to, but the soft seat makes her sink deeper into the cushion, causing the stiff harness to dig into her flesh and the toys to push deeper, and with the constant buzzing they move against each other through her walls, and her muscles can't keep up with the clenching.

She sees him frowning in the semi-darkness of the room. When he pulls his phone out and the light of the display hits his face, she notices the smirk. “Oh,” he says with a low chuckle. “Forgot about your two best friends,” he adds, but she knows he didn't. “You could have said something, darling,” he tells her with a stern gaze that she can't take serious with the way his lips curl.

“I'm sorry. It was okay when we were walking...” she whispers back, waiting for him to turn the toys off. Of course he doesn't immediately indulge her, and instead turns them up a notch, then another, and some more, and she grips the armrests of the chair and bites her tongue as a loud moan wants to spill from her lips.

Luckily the room isn't too crowded, there are a few other couples, a small group of women, a larger group of girls, but none of them in their close vicinity. He chose the last row for them, the corner seats, pretty much in the far back, overlooking the rest of the auditorium. And the volume of the commercials does drown out her little squeaks as she presses herself deeper into the seat, thighs clamped together tightly as she fights the sensations.

“Do you want me to turn them off?” he whispers, phone in hand, leaning over to her side. “Are you sure you deserve that?”

She stares at him, sunken into the seat, hands white-knuckling the chair. “Please...” she gasps out, her insides convulsing painfully. The strength of the vibrations goes through her entire body, makes her teeth chatter if she wouldn't grit them. The way the toys hit her oversensitive flesh makes her see stars. If she'd be allowed to come, it wouldn't even be that bad, but she's fighting the burning tension so hard that her muscles start cramping.

“Please what? Use your words, baby.” He's teasing her, and she hates him for it.

“Please... turn them off... or down... but not... like this... please... it hurts...” she stammers through tight lips. “You... you told me... to tell you... when it... when it hurts...”

He hums softly, his thumb sliding over the screen of his phone. “That I did,” he whispers, and she feels the buzzing grow weaker until it finally stops. She still feels the echo of it, the aftershocks, but slowly her body relaxes again.

“Thank you,” she breathes, closing her eyes for a moment.

Of course it's wrong to assume he'd let this go so easily. So when she feels his hand between her sticky thighs, she isn't surprised, but it still startles her. Eyes flying open, she stares at him in the dark, stiffens when he slips his fingers over the harness, then fumbles with the belt holding it together.

She's too weak to move much, to protest, so she lets him unfasten the leather strap that spans over her mound, and in the next moment his fingers don't pull on the dildo, but push in next to it. She cries out quietly, quickly raising a hand to cover her mouth. He watches her intensely, fingers probing, stretching her already tense muscles, pushing the toy this way and that, nudging all the sensitive spots that make her thighs twitch.

Her free hand closes around his wrist and tries to pull him away, but he narrows his eyes at her, and she whines into her palm, hand falling back to the seat. He continues his poking until he finally grips the base of the toy and pulls, only a little, nudge after nudge, before he pushes it back into her clenching cunt, out and in, in and out, a slow rhythm that makes her thrash her head against the backrest, her muffled noises luckily drowned out by the movie beginning with a happy dance song.

She feels like crying though, overwhelmed by the sensations, too sensitive to really enjoy the motions, but he doesn't care, keeps pumping the dildo in and out, and the heat builds up inside her, more and more, stomach tensing, her body contorting in the seat, hips bucking, legs kicking helplessly. He leans over her a little more, his free hand gripping hers and pulling it away from her mouth, and she stares at him in shock, biting her tongue hard to keep the noises down, but he seems to have mercy, finally, and presses his big hand over her quivering lips, holding her jaw, pressing her deeper into the cushions as he doubles his efforts.

Her eyes roll back, stars and black spots dance all around her, head is filled with cotton that's sizzling at the edges, the heat almost unbearable as it gathers in her lower stomach, at the end of her channel, heating up with every deep plunge of the toy, and she's so close, drowning in pleasure but it's not enough, only a few more nudges, a few more...

Suddenly he's pulling back, taking his hand off her face, leaning away, and the dildo slips from her clenching core and leaves her empty and hanging mid-air as shock settles in the place where pleasure has been, and she falls, collapses into the seat, and can't help the loud “No!” that comes out as a whine that echoes through the large room.

And she freezes as she realizes just how loud she's been, staring at the screen and the seats in front of her with wide eyes, holding her breath, further pushing away the sensations deflating inside her. Luckily the protagonists are fighting on screen, bickering back and forth, and her outburst could have easily been a reaction to that because no other cinema goer notices anything or cares enough to turn around.

She huffs a deep sigh and closes her eyes, hiding her burning face behind her hands as she lets the tears flow. It's only a moment of forced reprieve, in which her mind goes into overdrive (she can still feel the heat burning away inside of her, she's been so close, she may not deserve it, may not be allowed, but she would have loved to see it through to the end, no matter how public the place is, she would have done it, would have let him push her over, after hours of being denied, of being edged with no release, and she's been so freaking close...), but the turmoil stops the second she feels his hands on her waist as he manhandles her onto his lap. Not the usual way, but facing the screen, her legs falling open over his strong thighs as he pulls her back against his chest and wraps his arms around her waist.

His cheek scrapes against hers. “Did you really think I was gonna make you come?” he whispers into her ear, making goosebumps pebble her skin. “No, baby, not yet...”

She whines quietly, gripping his arms. Her chest is heaving, heart still thundering within, the burning cotton doused with shockingly cold water, leaving it charred at the edges but still filling up her head. She stares blankly at the screen, barely follows the story, just lets her eyes rest on the moving pictures, lets the sounds sink into her body. She feels numb now, frozen in place, denied to go anywhere else.

His hands move then, one holding her hip, pushing her slightly down his legs, the other fumbling with something behind her. She barely registers anything anymore. How he lifts the back of her skirt, how he grips her waist again and pulls her back, how he moves her legs to rest between his, but when his voice thrums in her ear, she perks up.

“Come sit on my cock,” he breathes into her, heating up the cotton in her head.

She grips his knees when she leans forward on shaking legs, raising her rear and her hips, nudging against him until she feels the warm tip of his cock against her wet skin. Grinding slightly, she hopes for him to just slip in, surely it must be easy with how she's been stretched and prepared over the last hours, but it's not easy without looking at what she does.

“Please help me...” she whispers as she looks at him over her shoulder.

There's a smile on his lips, but it looks dark and menacing, causing a shiver to run down her spine. He still indulges her when he grabs the base of his length and guides it to her entrance, then grabs her hip with the other hand and pushes her down, hard, swift, and she gasps, slapping her hand back over her mouth, as she feels him sinking deep and deeper until he bottoms out, pushing through tense muscles, scraping over sensitive flesh, prodding her deepest spots.

And then he just rests there, or she is, on top of him, impaled and stuck. He pulls her back against his chest, and the tight squeeze nudges the plug in her ass, making her whimper into her palm. She's braced on his legs, her own pushed together as he strains his thighs against hers, caging her in, holding her in place. His arms come back around her waist, further limiting her movements.

She wants to buck her hips, grind on him, find any kind of relief from the tension building up all over again, but he clicks his tongue quietly, and she stiffens, just sits there, on his cock, staring at the screen through bleary eyes, with her cheeks burning and the tears rolling uncontrollably.

Eventually they dry on her warm skin, and she becomes numb again. She still feels his warmth, his strength, his steady breaths on her neck, his hands occasionally rubbing along her side or over her breasts and down her stomach, and she leans into him, into the closeness, her hands relaxing on her lap. The cotton is gone, or expanded so much she can't make out the difference. Her head feels empty, no thoughts, just him...

A freeing void. A space only for her.

And she relaxes enough to focus back on the movie, watches it with growing interest, reacts to hectic scenes by twitching and tensing up, coos when the couple-to-be is touching or, God forbid, kissing, even laughs softly when the comic relief character does something funny.

She forgets about the all-consuming need to climax, or any need for that matter. She doesn't forget about him, big and strong behind her, holding her on his lap, his cock deep inside her, warm and cozy like it should be, using her hole to keep him happy and content. That's her purpose after all.

He moves sometimes, shifting in his seat, rolling his hips upwards, teasing her, and she lets him, leaning into it, into him, smiling softly when his fingers brush against her chin to turn her head. He looks softer now, relaxed, proud of her? She hopes so, but it doesn't matter either way. She has no needs, no wants, this is all about him.

He presses his lips to her cheek and makes her mewl, then turns her back to focus on the rest of the film. She grows tired after a while, the plot sizzling out on the screen, becoming predictable and silly, or she's just too exhausted to follow along properly. Her eyelids grow heavy, her head lolls back against his shoulder, and she breathes deeply until the noises around her become a comforting drone that lets her slip into a dark soothing nothingness.

She wakes up to a soft hum, then a nibble to her earlobe, and when she stirs with a tired groan, she is already being lifted, the pressure within easing for a moment before she is draped over the seat in front of her, her hair falling over her head when she dips down into the soft cushions, a surprised yelp escaping her before she braces on her arms and lifts her head a bit more.

The auditorium is dark and empty, the movie over, the other people gone, and he stands behind her, hands on her hips, and without waiting for her to wake up more, pushes his hard cock back into her clenching hole. She wails quietly, arms shaking as she leans on them, trying to hold her heavy head up. He seems to be in a rush as he starts pounding into her right away, with hard thrusts, hips slamming into her legs, making her bounce on the backrest of the chair.

He's quick and hectic, driving himself deep, chasing his own orgasm, but as he does so, he doesn't seem to care that her clit keeps rubbing against the fabric of the seat, back and forth, making her howl and cry. She's still sensitive, and the added stimulation makes her head spin, the tension within coiling up tightly, ready to spring free, and it's when he groans behind her, picking up the pace, ramming and rutting into her, that she squeezes her eyes shut and parts her lips for a drawn-out moan as the pleasure finally, finally, washes over her tense limbs, like a cold soothing breeze after stewing in the sun for too long.

She goes limp as the lights still flicker behind her eyelids, her thighs twitching against his, toes curling in her shoes, hips stuttering, her arms losing grip before she collapses into the seat, no longer caring that she's upside down, no longer caring about anything. He must have felt the tight clenching of her cunt, and there's a pause in his thrusts, but only for so long before he continues, hammering into her fast and hard until he grunts and stills deep inside her, hands digging into her waist, holding her, his body shuddering against her rear as he spills his warmth into her depths.

He pulls out soon after, and she feels his cum dripping out of her clenching hole, a satisfying sensation somehow, like a caress on irritated skin. The moment only lasts so long before she feels something hard rubbing along the inside of her thigh, gathering his spend, and then the dildo pushes back into her, plugging her up, sealing his seed, warm and comforting inside her. Her muscles clench, but she feels too loose to hold the toy, though she doesn't have to worry as he then fastens the harness back around her mound, holding the item in place.

She barely registers any of that with her head hanging upside down, the seat pressing into her stomach. She's just a limp body, draped over furniture, a doll someone forgot to take with them. But he doesn't forget, she's pulled upright then, and his hand finds her throat, holding her as he presses her against his chest.

“Did you just come?” His voice sounds angry, and she doesn't know why. She still feels like floating, relaxed, content, and he should too. He came inside her, didn't he? They shared this beautiful moment... why is he so upset?

Slowly the cotton in her head dissolves, and her eyelids flutter, she inhales deeply, swallows against his hand, her eyes focusing back on his face. He stares at her, hard, stoic, and she blinks, blinks again, licks her dry lips, then furrows her eyebrows as cold dread crashes through her body. “Oh...” she breathes out.

Her punishment. She wasn't supposed to come.

A pained whine escapes her, and she raises her hands to grab his wrist, looking at him pleadingly. “I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I'm sorry!”

He stares at her, then shakes his head. “I'll remember this,” is all he says as he lets her go, fixes his clothes, then hers, even untangles her hair, before he grabs her hand and drags her past the row of seats out of the auditorium.

Her legs are shaking badly, and the soreness of her body returns with every step. The toys shift inside her, tormenting her all over again, even more so with how sensitive she still is, the stickiness between her thighs feels hot and uncomfortable, the welts on the backs of them sting, the skin tight and burning.

But the ache in her heart seems to be the worst. She didn't mean to disappoint him, but how was she supposed to stop that with how he handled her over the seat?

It's not fair.

She's fighting tears as he pulls her after him through the mall. After a long trek in uncomfortable silence, they stop in front of a coffee stand, and before he turns to the woman behind it with his order, he turns to her, raises a hand to wipe at her wet cheeks and gives her a pointed look. Pull yourself together, it says, she's sure, and she nods, biting her lip, swallowing hard.

She is then forced to watch yet another display of his charming personality as he flirts with the barista, who laughs and throws her hair back, enjoying herself a little too much as the tall handsome man talks to her in a soft voice that is usually reserved for her. Grinding her teeth, she clenches her hands into fists (he's just let her stand there, a few feet behind him, completely ignoring her).

Suddenly a voice chimes in her head, one she hasn't heard before, or never paid enough attention to. Run, it tells her, use his distraction and flee, get out of here. He cannot keep treating you like this! You are more than just a hole, a doll to move, you don't deserve this!

She freezes, panic rippling through her. To her own surprise, she looks along the crowded hallways, eyes scanning the various exit routes. It would be easy to slip between the other people, with how small she is, he wouldn't even notice while he's fixated on that woman at the coffee stand.

Just go. Move! the voice urges.

And then, she does, driven by the coldness spreading within her, turns slightly, takes one step, then another, putting a little distance between the busy man and herself, and her heart is pounding hard in her chest, loud in her ears, drowning out everything but the nagging voice. She reaches a group of people in front of a window display, she just has to move between them, out of sight. Cold sweat spreads all over her body, her limbs are tense and shaking, tears burning in her eyes.

She doesn't look back, but she wants to, wants to turn around, go back to him, throw herself into his strong arms. Where is she even supposed to go? All alone in a place she's never been to? She has no money, no ID, nothing. Just those damn toys inside her holes and the bruises on her skin. A sight she doesn't want to share with anyone (but him).

What if she went to the police, told them her story, what happened, they'd treat her like a dumb victim, just another case file, and what if he got arrested for it, or accused and then cleared of all charges because he's rich and can afford lawyers who'll kick him out of anything. It's her word against his, and his wrath will be even worse. He'll find her, she's sure, he told her he won't let her go, she is his.

She is his.

It's her purpose to serve him, to please him, to make him happy, proud, make him praise her. And she needs the praise. She is a good girl! She did everything he's asked of her! She made mistakes, yes, but she'll make it better, she'll redeem herself. She can still make it better. She just has to turn around...

And so she does. Sniffling pathetically, she stumbles back the way she came, back to him, back to the coffee stand, where he's still standing (and flirting), and even though his back is turned to her, she can imagine that beautiful smile on his handsome face, the twinkle in his dark eyes, things she wants to see, for the rest of her life.

She's so focused on him, on her own guilt burning through her, that she suddenly trips over her shoes, those damn shoes that give her two inches she doesn't know how to balance on, and she falls, with a shriek, landing hard on her hands and knees, several sharp pains assaulting her at once, and the tears come without warning. She feels horrible, for trying to run away, for the state of her body, for embarrassing him in public.

He's with her immediately, his hands on her elbows as he pulls her to her feet, cradling her in his arms, genuine concern on his face as he looks down at her. She sniffles, cries without restraint, lets it all out as he presses her to his chest, soothing her with soft hums. “I'm so sorry,” she wails into his shirt, gripping at the fabric, holding onto him.

He rubs her back, his hand warm and comforting, easing the hiccups that shake her small body. “It's okay, shh, calm down, it's okay,” he whispers. His voice does calm her down eventually, and she leans against him, tired and sad, but glad to be back in his arms, having his attention, his comfort.

Leaning her back by her shoulder, he watches her, wipes her tears from her flushed face, tilts his head. He doesn't ask what happened but he can't know that she tried to escape from him. He shouldn't either. He's already angry with her, she can't handle more. “Sorry,” she mumbles again and rubs her burning eyes, hoping he'll brush this off as her being too clumsy to stand on those damn shoes.

He frowns at her, then bends down to pick up his coffee cup. She's leaning into him when he drapes his arm around her shoulders and guides her past the group of people she's attempted to hide between. What a stupid idea. Why would she ever leave this man? She'd be stupid to try, she is stupid for trying. He's giving her so much, changed her whole pathetic life, gave her a purpose. She's still afraid of his anger, of the rest of her punishment, but she'll live. He won't kill her, won't throw her away if she breaks, she is his. And he'll keep her, no matter what. He has to!

It's a reassuring thought in the midst of her doubts and fears while her body screams for her to make it stop. She doesn't care about the soreness anymore, the prospect of more pain, her heart is aflame with a feeling that's burning down anything else, a feeling so strong she'd rather die than leave him, a passion, a need, a growing obsession. For him. And only him.

The sun is setting when they eventually reach his car on the emptying parking lot. She's caught deep in her mind, already making plans of how to make it up to him. He pulls her to the trunk, opens it, and, without warning, crouches down beside her, his hands slipping under her skirt. She gasps, gripping the cold metal of the car and his shoulder, her eyes darting around the lot, but nobody seems to be close enough to see them.

He's fumbling with the harness, opens the belts and then pulls the leather straps down her legs. The toy in her cunt moves first, her muscles unable to hold it, probably more willing to push it out after such a long time. He catches it before it slips out fully, and while she's burning up in a mixture of shame and relief, he turns her around and pokes at her butt plug, moves it in and out for a moment to ease her muscles, then pulls it out, one ball-shaped bump at a time. She sighs deeply when it's gone.

The loss of pressure feels heavenly, but only for a moment, then she feels strangely empty, lost without her new best friends, as he's dubbed them. She watches him discard of the glistening dildos in one of the bags in the trunk, before he closes it with a thud and nudges her towards the passenger side of the car. Her core is clenching around nothing now, her wetness a steady stream down her legs until she presses her thighs together, trapping it. She should feel embarrassed about it, but she can't bring herself to care anymore.

He guides her into the car, buckles her in, doesn't look at her when he closes the door and walks to his side. He's punishing her with silence again, and when the engine roars to life and he drives off the parking lot, she lets out a quiet sigh as she wrings her hands in her lap nervously. But she only has to stew in her dark thoughts for so long before he pulls onto a service road leading into the forest at the edge of town.

She swallows hard when he kills the engine and gets out, then opens her door, unbuckles her and pulls her out as well. Her legs are shaking, the air is cold around them (adding to the ice inside her stomach), and he leads her towards a fallen over tree trunk. Sitting down, he pats his lap, and while she's confused why he would stop here to let her sit on there, she's corrected in her assumptions when he pulls her close and drapes her over his lap with her ass in the air and her hair falling over her head.

Bracing on his thigh, she knows what's coming. She can already feel the sting of his hand on her ass cheeks, but... nothing happens. Instead she feels his hand in her hair, pulling it back and her head up by gripping it hard, then his other hand is in front of her face, holding something, and even in the darkness around them, with only the last glow of the setting sun behind the trees, she can see that it's her panties, the soft pink ones he took from her (before they visited Mistress' sex shop). They're bunched up into a ball, and before she can wonder why he's showing her that, he pushes the fabric against her lips, and she's too surprised to stop it, opens her mouth almost willingly, then croaks a muffled wail when he shoves it past her teeth.

“Bite down on that,” he tells her, his voice harsh and dark.

She sniffles through her nose, tasting the remnants of sweat and his cum on the fabric, her spit seeping into it, her jaw aching already, but she nods into his hand, holding the gag in place, forcing herself to endure. He lets go of her hair, shifts her on his lap, then pushes her skirt up and exposes her bare ass. His hand rubs over the soft skin, teasing lower at the welts still straining on her thighs, and she prepares for the first impact, for the pain crashing through her, but again, nothing happens.

His fingers tease between her legs, nudging them apart, before he slips them between her wet folds, her cunt clenching in anticipation. The first poke comes as a surprise, making her cry out into the panties between her teeth. His finger slips deep, then pulls back, pokes in again, harsh and fast, a sudden stab that confuses her body. He adds another finger, repeats the motion, sudden stabs, deep, plunging into her wet hole, the squelching noises loud in the quiet forest.

She squirms slightly on his lap, her fingers curling into his jeans, her feet kicking uncontrollably. He keeps fingering her, now with three fingers, pressed tightly together as they invade her cunt, stretch her, penetrate deep, then scissor out, pushing against her tight muscles. She moans voicelessly.

He leans over her then, hot breaths on her ear. “One day I'll put my entire hand into your cute little cunt, and I'll play you like a puppet.” His lewd words make her clench around his fingers, and a soft chuckle escapes him. “Oh, you'd like that, hm?” He pushes his fingers deeper, then rips them out, gives her time to scream into the gag, before plunging them back in roughly. She writhes, wailing, confused and aroused, and he has to push his other hand onto her back to keep her still.

The fingers disappear then, leaving her empty once more, but when he presses his wet fingertips to her throbbing clit, she arches her back and wishes he'd finger her some more. The sudden stimulation makes her jump, thighs twitching, legs kicking, her breaths ragged, her muffled noises loud in her ear.

He draws tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, teasing, prodding, pushing, pinching, and the edge is near, she can feel it, that tension coiling up, lights flickering behind her eyelids, but she should have seen it coming: it stops before she can get anywhere, the sudden darkness almost turning red with how frustrated he leaves her.

In her angry haze she hears the sound of his belt buckle, then a strange scratching noise, and without seeing it, she knows, he's pulled his belt from the loops of his jeans. A sudden coldness crashes through her, freezes any other emotion, and the sheer panic is back, of pain she never wants to experience again, of leather hitting her soft skin, digging into her flesh to leave ugly red welts.

She's squirming on his lap then, panic turning into the hysterical need to get away, but he only has to grab her arm and twist it to make her stop moving. She howls into her gag, and he has to use both hands to fold her arms behind her back. She stiffens when she feels the leather she's expected somewhere else being wrapped around her elbows and her forearms, holding her arms in place.

Rolling her shoulders against the restraints, she realizes she can't move, and somehow that eases the panic instead of making it worse. At least to a degree. Without being able to do anything else, it forces her to focus on her breathing. Gagged and bound, she can only kick her legs, but he doesn't seem to care about that when his hand is back on her thighs, fingertips teasing up her skin, fingernails scraping over her bruises, making her gasp and shiver under the sensations.

And then he slaps her, a hard and sudden blow against her left ass cheek, catching her completely off guard. Her scream is muffled, and she almost chokes on all the spit gathering in her mouth before she tries to ground herself by biting down on her panties when he does the same barely a second later on her other cheek. He does that a few more times, and she squirms and cries out with every slap, body convulsing against the pain shooting through her.

Her skin is burning, blood pulsing in the same rhythm as her rapidly beating heart in her chest. His hand smooths over the irritations, making her whimper, and more so when he slips it between her thighs and pushes two fingers into her again. Then another slap echoes through the forest, making her jump and squirm and clench heavily around his fingers. The angle is different, he's using his other hand, and he hits spots he hasn't hit before. With his fingers stuck in her tight cunt, he repeats the motion, hitting her left cheek, then her right, the sides and the soft slope that leads into her thighs.

Not an inch of her ass is left untouched, and all she can do is cry and whimper, wail and whine, struggle and clench, and clench some more. It's a strange stimulation, and the pain bleeds into pleasure, flares up white-hot, then smooths into gentle darkness. Light, dark, slap, clench, slap, clench. He's properly fingering her now, moving his digits in and out, while the blows of his other hand become calmer, still strong and unrelenting, but spaced out more, keeping her on her toes (that hurt from how hard she's curling them in her shoes).

She wouldn't say she relaxes into it, but she finds herself lying still on his lap, legs twitching under every blow, but the rest of her body seems to give in to her fate. Her breaths are ragged through her nose, tears clouding her vision, streaming down her face, the panties in her mouth soaked in her spit. Her fingers twitch in their tight hold on her back, the leather of his belt cutting into her skin.

He gives her three more blows, on the left cheek, then the right, then onto the back of her thigh, right against the tight skin of her welts, and that last one makes her arch her back, a muffled scream stuck in her throat, her legs kicking frantically, the pain blindingly intense. For a moment she thinks she's dying, so close to finally being released into the void, but through the torment of that last blow, he pushes his fingers faster into her clenching cunt, presses his thumb against her clit, and the pleasure burst through her lower body.

She's whining into her gag, if she could have said anything she'd beg him to allow her to come (because that is what this is all about, isn't it?), and he seems to understand her struggles, when he suddenly whispers, right against her ear: “It's okay. You can come. Come for me, baby girl.”

And she does, that tight coil inside her stomach breaking free with a sudden snap, before wave after wave of pleasure crashes through her, lights like fireworks exploding behind her eyelids. Her body spasms on his lap, and she can't stop it, can't control anything anymore.

Her legs fall open, and he keeps fingering her, keeps pressing on her clit, prolongs the sensation burning through her nerves. She's whimpering, moaning, crying, head empty and full at the same time, her hips bucking, and he curls his fingers and bullies another spot, and she seems to come again, clenching around his digits as she goes stiff, then breaks out in more convulsions, and those bring a strange relief as her wetness splatters against his hand and down her trembling legs.

She's positively breathless when she goes slack on his lap, and he eases her down gently, caresses her fluttering walls, pulls his fingers out and rubs over her mound, between her puffy lips, then smooths the soft skin of her inner thigh before resting his hand on her calf.

“Well done,” he says quietly. “That was intense, hm?”

Her head is hanging limply off his leg, hair falling over it, she doesn't care, everything is spinning anyway. Being upside down only adds to it, and she wants more of it, doesn't want it to stop. Delirious in that strange space full of pain and pleasure, she barely registers how he lifts her head, pushes her hair away, his other hand on her jaw, easing it open, pulling the drenched fabric of her underwear out of her mouth. Drool follows the motion, and he wipes it away, turning her head slightly to make her face him.

Blinking her eyes into focus, she's able to see his smile, the twinkle in his eyes, a soft expression that makes her feel warm all over, even warmer than the burning skin on her butt and thighs, the echoing sensation pulsing through her core. It goes straight to her heart, and despite the state of her body, she smiles back, weakly, shyly, but genuinely, and he caresses her cheek with the back of his finger.

“Thank you,” she croaks out barely audible.

“For what?” he asks, tilting his head.

Her mind is reeling, but the words spill from her lips as if he's planted them there himself. “For... for taking the time... to correct... my m-mistakes... to p-punish me... for my... d-disobedience...”

He nods with an approving smile. “And what did you do wrong?”

Her voice is a shaking hum, her lips trembling as more words tumble over them. “I was... ungrateful... I denied you... I... came without permission... I tried to... run away...” The confession leaves her without revision, and as soon as she's done, she's stiffening, her eyes widening while his darken, the smile vanishing from his face.

“You tried to run away?” he repeats, the grip on her jaw tightening, his voice cold and stern.

“I... I didn't mean to,” she whines softly, struggling in her bend-over position, turning her shoulders and straining her neck to better look up at him. “You... you were... flirting with that woman... and I... I felt... I thought you... I... I didn't think,” she sums up her stammering. “B-but I came back!” she cries out, looking at him pleadingly, struggling against the belt around her arms. “Because I need you! I can't be... without you...”

He takes in her frantic words with a strangely calm expression. Then he clenches his jaw and she feels his hands on her waist, pulling her up and into a standing position. She wobbles on her shoes, can't seem to find her balance without being able to use her arms. He grabs her shoulders and stares down at her, towering over her menacingly.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he says quietly. “But you know what I have to do, right?”

She swallows hard, licking her dry lips. “Sp-spank me again?” she croaks out, the pain rushing back into her buttocks as her mind remembers what happened.

He shakes his head. “There are other ways to punish you, but you have to understand that you force my hand here. You did something wrong, and there have to be consequences. And I'll think of something, don't worry.”

She chews on her lip, nodding as her eyes fill with a new batch of tears. “Yes, sir,” she sniffles.

His loud exhale hits her warm cheek, then he pats it with his hand. He guides her back to the car and leans her against it, before he goes back to the fallen tree and picks up something off the ground. Shaking it out, she sees it's her soiled panties, now drenched in spit, caked with cum, and covered in dirt and pine needles. He could have left them there, she thinks, but then realizes he doesn't want to leave a trail, evidence of them being here. Of her fate.

They vanish back into the pocket of his jeans before he opens the passenger door. He considers her then, with her wild hair and reddened skin and with her arms tied behind her back. Sighing, he grabs her waist and carefully sets her down on the seat. The soft leather is cold against her burning skin, and she can't help the wince and sharp inhale when he lets go of her, her own body weight pushing her down on her bruises.

He doesn't buckle her in, though, just closes the door and walks around the car to his side, then slides behind the wheel. He pulls his seat belt down while he looks at her. She holds his gaze, even though her vision is blurry and her stomach feels tense and she just wants to curl into a ball and wallow in her sorrow, but he has other plans.

His hands are under her elbows, pulling her towards him. He makes her lie down on her stomach with her head resting on his thigh. She has to angle her legs, her shoes nudging against the window. Leaning over her, he reaches for them and pulls them off, then throws them onto the backseat, and she's grateful. They were just another thing on the long list of her aches.

He pulls her a little further until her face sits right over his groin, and she swallows and licks her lips in preparation, looking up from under her lashes. He meets her gaze, inhaling deeply.

“This is neither a reward nor a punishment,” he then says while his hands move to open his jeans and push his underwear down. “Just something for you to pass the time and me to feel good, okay?”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

He grabs his cock, semi-hard, and guides it towards her mouth, and she opens it willingly, tongue out flat. He's warm when he pushes between her lips, his scent filling her nostrils, his taste exploding on her tongue, her body shivering slightly as saliva pools around him. He arranges her head on his thigh, pulls her a little closer until she lies on his lap properly, suckling softly on his tip, unable to move away even if she wanted to (which she doesn't). His hand is on her cheek, brushing her hair away gently.

“Try to swallow,” he tells her, and she does, it's not easy in her position and with something between her lips, her mouth unable to close, but she manages, and he pats her cheek again. “Good. Now relax, we'll be driving for a few hours.”

She hums against him, nestling into his lap, fingers twitching and tingling in their restraint, feet dangling in the air, her lips tight around his cock. It's a comfort, being so close to him, knowing he still trusts her enough to let her do this. He cares about her, she knows it, and her confessing to him that she tried to run away is probably hurting him as much as it hurts her. She should have never done that. Stupid voice of reason. Destroying everything.

She has no idea which punishment awaits her, but whatever it is, she deserves it, and she'll fight through it, to make him proud, to show him that she wants to stay with him, no matter what. She is his, and she'll make sure to remind him.

By the time they finally reach their destination, as the lights of the city rush by in a blur, she is not in a happy place, not in the subspace he wanted her to be. She kept thinking back to how she disappointed him, what she did wrong, seeing the anger and sadness in his eyes, and no matter what plan she tried to think about to make it all better, she never came to any conclusion, still doesn't know how to mend the rift between them. She thinks there's a rift, even though her lips are still closed around his cock, and his hand keeps coming down to caress her hair.

Yet it's nothing like the first time she had to cockwarm him. She may have spaced out for a bit, but always came back by herself, with her mind reminding her of everything that went wrong, showing her the faces of the various women he's flirted with, and she was in a constant up and down of rage and anger and jealousy, and hating herself and hating him and hating those women. But mostly hating herself because she feels like a failure.

She was struggling to keep the drool in her mouth, unable to wipe it away with her arms tied behind her back, and she thought back to soiling his pants and how he belted her after that (and she doesn't even know if that was the reason why it all escalated, he told her he doesn't even need a reason), and her wounds stung and burned as she remembered how she got them, and the new ones are tight and warm, and yet she's grateful he made her lie on her stomach to keep the pressure off, while also fearing he'll snap again and hurt her even more. It's all so confusing, and in all that time her cunt kept clenching, needy for the thing that was stuck in her mouth.

She's absolutely miserable when he stops the car. His hand is under her jaw, gently nudging her to open her lips, but she hums, eyebrows furrowed, not wanting to part from him just yet. She moves her head closer, pushes down on him to take him deeper, and he lets her. He's hardened significantly during their silent car ride, and she feels the need to finish the job.

It's hard to bob her head without her hands to steady herself, so it's sloppy and uncoordinated, and she could be doing this better if he hadn't tied her arms together, but this is part of her redemption, another punishment, not the last one, but it doesn't matter. It has to be done. He notices her struggle and puts his hands on her head, gently guiding her movements. She looks up from under her lashes, and seeing him so calm and patient makes her vision blur again.

She's been so ungrateful. Not a good girl. A horribly disobedient thing that shouldn't be allowed to suck his cock. She still tries her best, wraps her lips around him, presses her tongue against his bulging veins, sucks long and hard, swallows around him even though it hurts, and when he pulls her closer, his grip tightening, she tries to relax to let him into her throat. Tears mix with her drool when she gags around him, body jerking, hating herself even more for not being able to take him properly, but he doesn't seem to mind the mess this time, only moves her head up and down, bucks his hips slightly, and fucks her face until he starts groaning quietly.

She keeps her eyes closed even though she wants to see him relax under her ministrations, but she tells herself she doesn't deserve the sight. Instead she keeps sucking hard, hollowing her cheeks, fighting her gag reflex whenever he hits the back of her throat, holds her breath when he pushes deeper, forces herself to stay still, relax, and let him use her like he should be using her.

Her head is spinning when he finally comes down her throat, a low grunt escaping him as he presses her head down hard, holding her there, his cock throbbing between her lips, and she doesn't fight it, too exhausted, too tied up in her own self-pity. Slowly he pulls her head back, pats her cheek, tells her to breathe, and she does, rasping heavy breaths, before she swallows, spit and cum, and he wipes her tears away when he turns her head, caressing her jaw.

“Good girl,” he whispers hoarsely, and she sniffles, the praise tainted now, because she doesn't deserve it.

She can't remember how they end up in the elevator to his penthouse, but she's there, in his arms, sees her reflection, this tiny girl with messy hair and a flushed face and swollen lips and wet eyes, all light gone from within. Averting them, she looks at him and meets his warm gaze, soothing and comforting, and it only makes her sniffle again. His eyebrows furrow slightly, a sternness crossing his features, as if he wants to tell her to cheer up, to stop fussing, and it's enough to calm her, to stop the nagging thoughts, at least for a moment.

The ding startles her. The doors slide open, and he carries her further. She closes her eyes and leans into him, remembering how she left his apartment with almost the same mindset, miserable, thinking he'd bring her back to her old life, leave her behind, but now she knows she's staying, he'll keep her, and she should be grateful, happy, but she can't bring herself to feel that just yet.

Her eyelids flutter, and she looks around barely noticing anything. Well, until he doesn't carry her to his bedroom or the guest bedroom, but to one of the rooms he told her not to enter. He nudges the door open with his hip and turns the light on with much the same gesture, and her eyes widen.

She remembers his penthouse as dark and masculine, warm wooden floors with white walls and dark furniture, luxurious light fixtures, no clutter, barely any plants. Minimalist. The view she has now is anything but. It's colorful, a room exploding with soft hues of pinks and yellows and blues, white accents. Thick pale pink curtains cover the night view of the city, there are various plush looking rugs scattered over the hardwood floor, adding to the cozy feel.

A desk stands in the corner, looking out of one of two windows, the space filled with boxes and plastic containers that feel strangely familiar. She blinks her tears away, focuses on the rest of the room. One wall is covered in fairy lights that give off a soft glow, then there are two doors on the other side, one leading to a bathroom she can't look into, the other opening up into a large closet that's already filled with various clothes.

And then there's a big bed facing the windows, covered in throw pillows and blankets and soft looking quilts, and atop one of the pillows sits a used looking stuffed animal. Mister Wolfie. She can't help the sob when it forces its way out of her throat.

This is her room, from her old shitty apartment, her room, in his penthouse. Cluttered and cozy and filled with her stuff (well, he replaced the furniture, the desk, the chair, the bed), the stuff she had to leave behind. He even added new ones, a nice sofa and a large bookshelf, thrice as big as her old one, already filled with books, and again she recognizes the few things she had owned. He even brought the old mirror with the thick white frame that's now leaning against the wall next to the bed, showing her startled reflection.

She's crying softly, completely overwhelmed, by the time he sets her down, holding her by the shoulder as he finally takes off the belt from around her arms. Her toes sink into the soft rug, and she rubs her wrists for a moment as she looks around, still not able to process it all. He had her place brought into his, made her her own little corner.

His hand finds her wet face, and when his thumb nudges her chin, she looks up at him, biting her lip, sniffling. “What do you think?” he asks, with a soft smile on his face.

She swallows hard, blinking new tears away. “I... I don't deserve this...”

He tilts his head, frowning slightly. “Baby, listen to me,” he says and cups her face with both hands. “You do, you do deserve this. You've been such a good girl for me, you did everything I asked, and more. I couldn't wish for anyone better, okay? You made mistakes, yes, and I'll have to punish you for them, but you'll take it like you did the last one and then we'll move on, yeah? I want you to feel comfortable here, with me.”

“I do!” she croaks out quickly, furrowing her brows. “But –”

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, silencing her immediately. “This is your room. You can retreat to it when I'm not here or when I have to work. I still expect you to spend the night with me, in my bed, and I will use you whenever I want, how we established, right?”

She nods into his hands. “Yes, sir.”

“You are mine,” he says and lowers his head until his nose brushes against hers. “All of you is mine. Whenever, wherever I want.” He tilts his head and presses his lips to hers, but he's gone the moment she tries to kiss him back, straightening back up to walk to one of the nightstands.

She watches him with growing curiosity, slowly going back to telling herself that this is her purpose, and it's an honor, a privilege, that he cares so much about her, enough to bring her shitty little apartment into his prestigious penthouse. It's not something she's expected, not in a million years, but she is slowly accepting that it's okay to be happy about it. No matter what'll happen next.

Yet when he returns to her, she stiffens as she stares at the item in his hands. It's a thick leather band held together by a small lock between two metal rings, with another metal ring in the back. A collar. She swallows.

“I didn't intend to give this to you just yet,” he tells her, and she looks up at him, “but I think this'll do nicely as part of your punishment.”

She's breathing heavier when she watches his long fingers fidget with the collar. The lock clicks open when he presses his thumb to it, then he pulls the leather band apart.

“Hold up your hair,” he tells her quietly, and even though her hands are shaking, she follows the order, gathers her hair and twists it into a messy bun she holds at the back of her head.

He walks behind her and snakes his hands through her arms, then she feels the soft leather pressing against her throat. He turns her to face the mirror and meets her gaze. She's so tiny and frail with him bulking behind her, his big hands still moving the collar with enough finesse. The lock clicks shut again, and the thick band sits around her neck, not too tight, but barely loose enough to maybe slip her fingers under it.

“Only I can open this lock,” he says, his finger running along the thick edge of the leather before he grabs her wrists and makes her let go of her hair, his fingers weaving through it before he puts his hands on her shoulders, leaning down a little. “This collar is a sign of my possession, you are my possession, my property, my good little girl, aren't you?”

She swallows, her throat moving against the wide leather band. “Yes, sir,” she says breathlessly.

He moves his hand along her neck, then hooks a finger into the metal ring at the front of the collar. “As your punishment, because you tried to run away from me, I will leash you,” he says, gently tugging at the collar, making her sway a little. “To this room. You can go to the bathroom, you can shower, you can sleep. You'll always have food and water. You will stay in this room until I say otherwise. I may visit you, but maybe I won't. We'll see. Gotta keep you on your little toes, right?”

He turns his head and presses his lips to her cheek, catching a tear that slipped from her eyes. He inhales deeply, watching her closely.

“No need to cry. You'll get through this, we'll get through this. You understand that this is necessary, don't you?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, licking her lips. He nods, then lets go of her and shortly leaves the room. She just stands there, on the soft rug, staring into the mirror that used to stand in her old apartment. The collar isn't too bad, but it feels heavy in a way that's important. It needs some getting used to, but she'll manage (once she stops being so overwhelmed by it all).

A sudden rattling sound makes her flinch, and she turns around to see him carrying a long chain made of thin but sturdy looking metal links. There's a ring on one end, and the same small lock that he opens with his thumbprint once more. Standing in front of her, he attaches the chain to her collar, and she feels the weight of it immediately, a gasp escaping her. He notices her reaction, raising an eyebrow.

“You'll get used to it, don't worry,” he tells her, then walks to the far wall and into the closet, pulling the clanging chain behind him until it uncoils and tugs on her, making her stumble forwards a few steps. Her hands fly up to grab it and hold it in place. It feels smooth and not as heavy as she has thought. Probably stainless steel or aluminum or something, she has no idea and frankly doesn't care. It won't change anything.

She sees him attaching the other end somewhere in the closet, before another tug runs through the long line. He glides the chain along his palm as he returns to her, smiling softly. His hands find her shoulders, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of her blouse before he pushes it off her shoulders, then opens the small buttons and the bow in the front.

A shiver runs through her when it falls to the ground. He keeps watching her as he moves his hands lower to slowly push the skirt over her hips. She steps out of it mindlessly, holding his gaze, holding her head up even though the chain drags it down a little. “Look at you, so beautiful,” he coos, turning her around once more, hands gliding up and down her sides, fingers teasing at the swell of her breasts.

The chain rests between them, the metal cool on her skin. She feels exposed but strangely confident as well. The way he looks at her makes her stomach tense and her cunt clench around nothing. He inhales deeply, wrapping one arm around her back to press her to his chest, then turns her slightly.

“Look in the mirror,” he tells her, and she does so, over her shoulder, and gasps at the sight. His free hand moves down her back and gently over the bright red skin of her ass cheeks. The bruises bleed into the still reddened welts on her thighs. “You've taken your last punishment so well, you can take this too. I'd prefer it if I wouldn't have to punish you at all, but I'm sure you'll learn your lesson. You already did, didn't you?”

She nods, biting her lip. “And I'm sorry,” she whispers.

“I know you are,” he replies and nuzzles his nose into the soft skin behind her ear. “And you'll be a good girl and make me proud, won't you?”

“Yes, sir,” she breathes, closing her eyes as her breath quickens.

“Good,” he says and leans back abruptly, his hand smacking hard against her rear, making her cry out in pain, tears burning in her eyes. He steps away and picks up her clothes. “Now get some rest, maybe take a shower. You will remain like this, understood? No clothes, even if your closet is full of them. This is part of your punishment.”

She swallows, the collar seemingly tightening. Her lungs burn. “Yes...”

He watches her, then looks around the room once more. “I don't care how you pass the time, read or –” He waves his hand over the boxes on the desk. “Do some arts and crafts or whatever you did with these things.”

She licks her lips, wants to smirk at his words, but she feels too empty, the weight of her new situation pulling her down like the chain does the collar. She carefully sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing through the sting of her skin against the cool material of the quilt, and mindlessly moves the chain links through her hands.

“I have one condition, though,” he continues, oblivious to her struggles. “If I catch you with your fingers in your cunt, I will have to think of yet another punishment. Unless I give you a toy to play with, you will refrain from touching yourself, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, almost automatically, not even having the desire to do what he suggests. If there is one desire burning within her, it's to be in his arms, to feel his warmth, his strength, his dominance, (his cock in her cunt), but it sounds as if he's going to leave her for a bit, and that might just be the worst punishment.

She notices how he looks up into one corner of the room, and she frowns at the sight. It's hidden, but it's obvious: a little dome made of dark glass, a camera mounted to the ceiling. And even though she should be appalled by it, it makes her feel a little better. If he's willing to keep an eye on her when he isn't here, then that's better than him forgetting about her completely.

When he takes a step towards the door, she jumps up quickly, the chain rattling quietly. He stops, looking at her, his eyebrows rising up when she falls to her knees in front of him. Her hands itch to reach out to him, but she keeps them on her thighs, clenched into fists, and looks up at him.

This is my purpose, she reminds herself, my place, on my knees in front of him. He may do with her whatever he wants, but she wants this too, if not for herself, she wants it for him, to make him happy and proud. And she's grateful to be given so many chances. She truly is. Her mind is still reeling, trying to process everything that's happening, but when the words finally make it out of her mouth, she just lets them spill.

“Thank you, sir,” she says quietly, blinking away tears as she focuses on his face and his face alone. Nothing else matters. “For doing this, for this... my room, for your... patience with me... for... everything...”

The corner of his lips twitches when he reaches his hand out to touch her face, fingers slipping into her hair, thumb brushing against her bottom lip. She parts her lips, and he watches her for a moment, before pushing his thumb into her mouth, pressing hard onto her tongue. She closes her lips around his digit tentatively, giving it a gentle suck, the motion calming her instantly, her mind going quieter until he is all there is. Only him.

“My good little girl,” he coos, slowly moving his thumb back and forth between her tight lips, pushing deeper. “Welcome home, darling,” he adds, and she closes her eyes, fighting new tears that come for a completely different reason now. A familiar heat settles in her stomach and much lower. That traitorous itch flaring up all over again.

And she knows, she will do absolutely anything to be praised, to be his good girl, to make him happy. Even if it means wearing a collar and a leash, answering to his every whim. This is her purpose after all.

NINETEEN 🟥 TWENTY

End notes: And there we go: our dear Darling is collared and leashed, fully submitting. Or is she? Well... her story isn't over yet. I am working on Season Three, so there will be at least ten more chapters. Soon.

I am taking an uploading break though as I visit my family over the holidays. Stay tuned for 2025 I guess :D

Thank you for reading and joining me on this wild adventure.

This started as a smut story, a dumping ground for my darker, kinkier ideas, but then the characters developed and plot was added and there was angst and confusion and drama and feelings? It's now so much more than just smut (even though every single chapter has at least one smut scene in it, wow what a feat...), and I hope to bring Sir and Darling's story to a proper end eventually.

See you soon!

TAG LIST: @untamedheart81 @qmsvpx @cyan1decandy @bimbos-are-angels @voiceactivated @reader-1290

CHAPTER / / / ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE

SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾TEN

ELEVEN◾TWELVE◾THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN◾️SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN TWENTY

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

[neostrayteez]

DANCE ALL DAY

PAIRING. jung wooyoung x female reader

WORD COUNT. 6.4k

SUMMARY. you couldn’t have asked for a better roommate than Wooyoung. until he asks you to stop bringing guys over.

WARNINGS. smut, profanity, brief alcohol use

PLAYLIST. “say so” by doja cat

LIKE IT LOVE IT NEED IT BAD TAKE IT OWN IT STEAL IT FAST

Sharing an apartment with a guy that was not your boyfriend always got you some weird looks, but you wouldn’t trade having Wooyoung as your roommate for anything.

That changed last night.

You had a bit of a system when it came to boys and it was foolproof. Your commitment issues and daddy issues banded together to make you totally undateable and so, you were sticking with the casual thing.

Which was a nice way of saying you were in a friends with benefits situation.

Up until now, it hadn’t been an issue. You mastered a balancing act of three guys - each of them a friend you trusted implicitly with your body and very rarely your need for affection. When you had an itch that needed scratching, you called up whichever boy was available and sent him home with a kiss after.

You weren’t noisy; you were very discreet. You never paraded your booty calls around your roommate. None of them stayed for breakfast or dinner.

And that was why you were stunned when Wooyoung asked, “Can you please stop bringing guys over?”

You blinked and immediately assumed the worst. “I’m sorry. Did one of them say something to you?”

Though given detailed instructions on how to behave when in your shared apartment, it would be just like San to say something snarky on his way out. Even Hongjoong wouldn’t pass up a chance to let your roomie know you were getting railed. Only in Seonghwa did you trust. He wouldn’t utter a word about what happened in your bedroom.

“No,” Wooyoung said, and you breathed out in relief. “It’s just… I don’t know. Forget I said anything.”

You sidled closer to him on the sofa and put a comforting hand on his arm, insisting, “No, this is your space, too. I won’t bring anyone into it if you’re uncomfortable.”

Wooyoung could barely look at you, which was definitely out of the ordinary. He glanced down at your hand on his arm like it unnerved him and that made you feel horribly out of place. Usually, you and Wooyoung were touchy with each other, like inseparable besties as well as roommates.

Most evenings consisted of you molded to him on the couch in front of the television, his arm around you and his hand on your waist or hip. Both of you were cuddly. There was nothing wrong with that.

Or so you had been led to believe.

“I’m uncomfortable,” Wooyoung said, making you worry even more.

“Oh. Okay.”

Wooyoung apologized again and quickly retreated to his room.

To say you were miffed would be an understatement. You cared deeply about Wooyoung. He was a great roommate and an even better friend, and you weren’t ready to lose him.

Determined to get to the bottom of things, you took out your phone and messaged each of your hookups and asked, Did you say something to my roommate the last time you were here?

No, was - thank goodness - the unanimous answer.

San, however, was the only one to ask, Why?

You knew better than to respond, because San would find a way to tease you for this. He was playful by nature and loved to get a rise out of you any way he could. He also had some rivalry with your roommate. They played the same sports, were in the same dance club, and had mutual friends on campus.

You couldn’t help yourself. San was unfortunately very easy to talk to and you were at a loss when it came to Wooyoung.

He doesn’t want me having sex in the apartment anymore, you replied.

San responded with a bunch of laughing emojis.

You frowned. For once, couldn’t he take things seriously? It’s not funny, you texted rapidly. He says he’s uncomfortable.

Yeah. Uncomfortable that he’s not the one giving you dick.

Your jaw dropped and you exclaimed aloud to an empty room, “What?!”

You called San and he picked up after the first ring, chuckling as he said, “You really didn’t know?”

“You’re serious?” You lowered your voice, mindful of your roommate in the next room. “Wooyoung is into me?”

“God, you’re dense. I don’t haul ass out of your apartment because I want to get away from you - I’m trying to avoid getting murdered by your roomie!”

You slumped back against the couch, shaking your head. Of all the bullshit, this was the one you didn’t anticipate. Wooyoung never hit on you. Not once. Sure, he flirted with you and you flirted back. It was harmless. If he had ever made a romantic move on you, you would have stopped it, but he didn’t.

“I really don’t know what to do with this information,” you whined, rubbing your brow.

San replied without missing a beat, “Bone him.”

“San…”

“It will break the spell! You’re this beautiful girl that doesn’t hide that she likes sex. He’s got you up like an angel on a pedestal. If he actually gets to touch you for once, maybe he’ll chill the fuck out.”

“Or it will completely fuck up our roommate dynamic,” you shot back. Running a hand through your hair, your imagination immediately went to images of Wooyoung. Having sex with him had crossed your mind before. Intrusive thoughts, but mostly just plain curiosity.

He was handsome. Duh. And that gorgeous smile? Whew. Naturally, you never voiced either of these opinions, because Wooyoung’s ego already struggled to fit into the apartment.

Rustling in the background brought you back to the phone call. It sounded like San was at the gym, as to be expected for someone with his physique. Wooyoung hit the gym a lot too. Lately, you noticed its effects on his arms and shoulders, leading to more intrusive thoughts you stifled down.

“Maybe,” San said in a cute voice. “You won’t know until you try.”

You pursed your lips. “I keep forgetting you get off to me fucking other people.”

San laughed loudly at that. “Do it or don’t do it. I’ll still come running when you call me.”

“Good to know. Bye, San.”

San, the little shit, had ruined your entire evening. You avoided Wooyoung like the plague, because you didn’t know what in the actual hell you were supposed to do now.

Talking to him would be the first step, obviously, but where would you even start?

You decided to get a second opinion, hoping this one would settle all of your doubts.

Hongjoong answered your call with a low, “What’s good?”

“Promise me you won’t laugh.”

“Okay?”

You whispered, “Does Wooyoung like me?”

There was a short pause followed by Hongjoong giggling.

“Joong!”

“Calm your perfect tits,” he chided playfully, then his tone took a dive. “But leave me the fuck out of it.”

“You knew this whole time and you didn’t say anything?!”

“What did you want me to say exactly? ‘Hey, your roommate is jacking off to us fucking.’ It would have killed the mood.”

“Not in San’s case,” you deadpanned.

Hongjoong chuckled.

You smiled at the sound of his laughter, but your lips slowly lowered into a frown. You sighed. “I guess I have to talk to him.”

“I guess you do.”

Hongjoong, of course, was no help, but this did mean that two out of three boys confirmed Wooyoung liked you as more than a friend. But you needed more than that. You needed more than reassurance.

You needed someone to tell you what to do. Matters of the heart were a foreign language to you.

That left Seonghwa, the feelings expert.

“Just talk to him,” he said sweetly, but with urging. “You know him. You’ve been living together how long?”

“Over a year.”

“Exactly.”

You glanced at the clock. You’d been on the phone with Seonghwa for almost an hour.

“Done stalling yet?” Seonghwa teased. He knew you too well.

You nodded, looking at a strip of pictures of you and Wooyoung taken in a photo booth last summer. “Almost.”

Seonghwa snickered.

“Thanks, Hwa.”

“Do you love him?”

You sucked in a breath like he just socked you in the stomach. “That’s a strong word.”

“As a friend?”

You chewed on your lip, glancing down at the photos again. “Yeah, I love him. He’s my guy.”

Wooyoung was the first person you saw in the morning and the last person you saw at night. He was always willing to study with you for hours on end, pulled his own weight in keeping the apartment tidy no matter how much he despised cleaning and complimented whatever you cooked. Even the food you burnt to an accidental crisp.

He made you laugh till you cried, cried freely with you during sad movies, and covered you tenderly with a blanket when you fell asleep on the couch. There were a few times you crashed at the dining table, your head on an open textbook and your neck at a very uncomfortable angle, but you woke up the next morning in your bed, because Wooyoung had carried you to your room and tucked you in.

Your roommate never overstepped your boundaries or made you feel like you owed him in any way. He was just there - always; a steady, reliable presence in your chaotic life.

The more you sat and thought about him, the more you accepted how much love you had for Wooyoung.

“I think you answered your own question,” Seonghwa said and you could tell by his tone he was smiling.

You thanked him again and said goodbye, wallowing in the silence and your conflicted feelings, and weighing your options. And what you decided to do next.

In the evening, when Wooyoung came home, his hair still damp from a shower after soccer practice, he immediately let out a loud approving sound. “What is she cooking?” your roommate exclaimed, practically kicking off his shoes.

You grinned from ear to ear. “Get in here and find out!”

Wooyoung hung up his things before rushing into the kitchen, eyes darting toward the crackling on the stove. “Fried rice?” he asked, peering over your shoulder.

You held out a spoonful to him, hovering your hand underneath to catch any falling pieces, and shoveled it into his mouth.

“Mm!” Wooyoung was dramatic as always, making a bunch of noises and smacking his lips together. Though, in his defense, it was very good. “Delicious!”

“And lots of side dishes,” you said, pointing at the collection of bowls on the counter full of seasoned vegetables and the like. “I know how you get after practice.”

“Like a bottomless pit,” Wooyoung quipped as his stomach rumbled, leaving the kitchen to set the table in the living room in front of the television.

As you ate together, you asked about his day and he asked about yours. You both spoke casually about upcoming assignments and exams, then switched to spring break which was looming.

All the while, you caught yourself staring at Wooyoung. You were waiting to see that look in his eyes - the unmistakable sign a boy was into you. But all you saw was affection. Wooyoung’s eyes sparkled like stars whenever he looked at you, but that was what you had come to expect from him.

He always looked at the world around him like it was one big playground for him to explore and conquer.

And in that moment, you realized you wanted your body to be added to that list.

After clearing the table, bellies full, you set out two glasses and filled them with red wine.

Wooyoung watched you top off his glass and joked, “Trying to get me drunk?”

You snorted. “Me first.”

That had his attention. “Oh?” Wooyoung took a sip. “What’s bothering you?”

Feeling his eyes on you, you gulped down some of the wine and asked, “Can we talk?”

“Of course.”

You propped your head on your hand, studying him. In the past day, you had become hyper aware of Wooyoung, desperate to know if he felt something for you before you made a fool of yourself.

He watched you with that same adorable smile, an extra twinkle in his eyes courtesy of the soft buzz setting in from wine. But hadn’t he always looked at you like that?

Yes.

Wooyoung mirrored you, holding his head on his hand, making you smile bashfully.

You took a breath and finally said, “Why don’t you want me bringing guys over anymore?”

Your roommate frowned and his pretty smile dropped, every feature of his face shifting to fear like a spooked animal. He sat up and fiddled with his glass. “I told you. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Can you hear us? I’ve always been careful to be quiet and not disturb you.”

“No. I mean, yeah. I can hear a little bit, but…” he trailed off.

“But?”

Wooyoung turned to you sharply. “Do you like those guys?”

You shrugged. “They’re my friends. I like having sex with them. I trust them.”

Blunt and to the point. Wooyoung always respected that about you, but it wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “Why don’t you date them?” he pressed.

You pretended to wince and said, “Sorry, Woo. Only my therapist is welcome on that conversation.”

Wooyoung was flustered and lowered his head to hide it. He so badly wanted to understand you. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry.”

Your first instinct was to comfort him, but you couldn’t understand why this was difficult for him to talk about. Wooyoung had always been open and fearless about everything. Why did that stop with you?

“I feel like I’ve made things awkward between us now,” he said with a heavy sigh.

Yeah, you thought, but you didn’t voice that because you didn’t want it to be true. You decided your friendship with Wooyoung was far more important than getting laid and you would make arrangements not to fool around in the apartment anymore.

But that wouldn’t solve the real issue. If Wooyoung liked you, as your trio of fuck boys were certain he did, things would only fester.

“Answer me one thing and answer honestly.”

Wooyoung nodded. “Okay.”

“If me bringing guys into our apartment bothers you, I won’t do it anymore. I’ll respect your space.”

Wooyoung thanked you.

“But,” you continued, holding up a finger to let him know you weren’t finished. “If you want me to stop bringing them over because you’re jealous I’m having sex, then we need to talk about it.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened and he became understandably defensive. “I’m not jealous. I hook up with people, too!”

“Alright then.”

“It’s just…”

“What?”

Wooyoung scratched the back of his head. He wanted to be honest. It was in his nature, but he regretted the words the moment they left his big mouth. “When you’re with them, I know what you’re doing. I’m not an idiot. And… it turns me on.”

You made a face. Damn you, Choi San.

It was just about the sex. There were no deeply rooted feelings. Wooyoung was just a boy and you were just a girl, and knowing you were getting fucked aroused him. It was basic biology.

“You could always ask to join in, you know,” you said dryly, hoping it would put him at ease.

Wooyoung did the last thing you expected - he visibly bristled. The idea infuriated him. His brows stitched and his nostrils flared as he snapped, “No. Hell no. I would never share you. I wouldn’t let any man touch you but me.”

Your lips parted. Damn it. You were wrong. The fuck boys were right, after all.

Wooyoung realized what he’d done - what he admitted to you - you, his best friend, his roommate and his unrequited crush. A secret he had successfully hidden for months and just spilled all over you.

“I… fuck!” Wooyoung stammered, knowing damn well there was no recovering from this humiliation. “I’m so fucked now. Aren’t I?”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “Only if you want to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stood up slowly and told him, “I’m going to my room now. Do you want to come with me?”

Wooyoung stared up at you in disbelief and there was a cute crack in his voice when he said, “To your room?”

“Yes.”

Your roommate was on his feet in the time it took you to blink.

You grabbed him by the hand and led Wooyoung with you into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. You stopped at the foot of your bed and turned around, smoothing your hands up his chest and to his head, winding your fingers into his hair.

Wooyoung held onto your waist, his eyes glazed over like he couldn’t believe this was happening. He stared at your lips before scanning your face, searching for any sign of hesitation.

He found none.

“Kiss me,” you whispered, tipping your head back and closing your eyes.

Wooyoung met his lips to yours slowly, sending a pleasant heat rushing through your body.

You couldn’t help but smile. He kissed you gently and intimately, and tightened his arms around you to bring you flush against him. You hummed a little as you melted into the warmth of his body and deepened the kiss.

Wooyoung broke reluctantly from your lips to search your face again, hoping you liked kissing him as much as he liked kissing you, and smirked when he saw the daze in your eyes.

“Wow,” you said, looking at him hungrily. He had just opened a well deep inside you and you were ready to have it filled.

“Yeah.” Wooyoung swallowed the lump in his throat. The tension in his chest was almost painful, the ache his body had for you was even worse.

“Keep going.”

Wooyoung didn’t need to be told twice. This time, when he kissed you, it was scalding and heavy, causing a catch in his breath.

You held onto his arms as he moved forward, legs bumping into yours. When the backs of your knees felt the edge of the mattress, you fell back and took him with you.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung groaned before slipping his tongue into your mouth.

You fisted a hand in his hair and hooked your legs around his hips. That got Wooyoung’s attention, because he grunted and pressed himself against your clothed sex in a heat-seeking thrust.

“You wanna get naked?” you asked, nibbling at his lips.

Wooyoung chuckled. “Is that a trick question?”

You batted your lashes at him coyly. “I’m just following your lead.”

With a shake of his head (because he still hadn’t accepted you were actually beneath him), Wooyoung sat up, your legs still wrapped his waist, and stripped off his shirt.

You helped him get it over his head and immediately brushed your hands over his toned chest and abs. He was hard to the touch, and hot as hell. Like he carried the sun inside him. It would make sense, considering the way his smile always lit up the room.

Wooyoung snickered as your hands bumped into his, hurriedly trying to undress each other, stealing kisses in between. You shimmied his jeans down his legs and Wooyoung lost his balance, landing on you. He distracted you from teasing him for it by slotting his lips back to yours, swallowing your laughter.

Dragging your fingertips down his back, you hummed into his mouth, trying not to think about how crazed he made you, how badly you wanted him to touch you until he’d felt every inch of you. Wooyoung was trying and failing not to think about your breasts against his chest, but the brush of your perked nipples on his skin made him buck his hips into you.

You gasped for breath when Wooyoung trailed wet kisses down your neck, finding a sensitive spot to suck and bruise. You rocked into him, feeling his clothed cock rubbing against your sex, and whimpered. Your pulse was out of control, thundering through your body. You wondered if he could hear it.

The little noises you made as he nibbled at your neck and palmed over your breasts, teasing your nipples, had Wooyoung endlessly swearing. Fuck’s sake, every single thing she does is so fucking pretty.

“You’re so beautiful,” Wooyoung purred in your ear, smashing his lips on yours before you could answer with a kiss that made your heart stop altogether.

You were running out of patience at breakneck speed. You wanted him inside you then and there before you lost your mind. If he only knew that you were aching for him, but you were too busy kissing him to admit it. Instead, you drifted your hands down his body and grabbed at his cock.

Wooyoung finally tore himself away from you to strip out of his boxers. You licked your lips the moment his hard cock slipped free and got on hands and knees, reaching for his dick and fisting the head.

“Shit,” Wooyoung whined, staggering out a moan. You’d wasted no time and leaned forward, steering his cock into your mouth and sealing your lips around it.

Don’t come, Wooyoung told himself. Repeatedly. But it was probably in vain. The girl he liked since the moment he met her - you - who was always in the room beside his, but felt like worlds away, was touching him.

And not just touching, but sucking the soul out of him.

Wooyoung said your name shakily, getting a handful of your hair and pushing on your head in an attempt to slow you down, because fucking hell, you were relentless. You chuckled, sending vibrations down his cock and to every corner of his body and kept bobbing, taking him deeper into your throat.

“Oh, fuck. Baby, please,” Wooyoung cried, knees buckling and thighs trembling. At this point, he didn’t care how much noise he made. You deserved to hear every damn note.

You worked him up with your saliva, using your tight fist at the base of him while your mouth focused on the head. You watched the lines of his abs flex with restraint and his rapid breaths. Next on your to-do list would be leaving hickies all along his chiseled stomach and chest. You wanted to mark up his perfect skin and see what other sounds you could get out of him for it.

Wooyoung clenched his jaw. His hips thrust forward no matter how badly he fought it, shoving his cock further into your throat. A wet choking noise was his reward and it made his dick twitch with arousal. Your roommate quickly looked down to see if he’d gone too far, but instead, he saw you staring up at him, sinking toward him until you had swallowed every last inch of his cock, gagging loudly and making tears glisten in your eyes.

Fuck.

Wooyoung tipped his head back, lips parted with pleasure, and moaned at the top of his lungs. His eyes rolled. All the blood in his body rushed to his cock. He felt light-headed and shaky, imagining you sucking every drop of cum out of his dick until he was spent.

“Damn it,” he whined, both hands in your hair now. He held on tight, matching your pace and slowly thrusting into your mouth. His moans pitched higher with desperation. “I’m gonna come,” Wooyoung warned, panting, chest heaving, pleading your name to either finish him or have some mercy.

He would get neither for now. You pulled away from his cock with a wet pop, rocking back onto your knees, his fingers falling out of your hair. Wooyoung looked at you worriedly, his face flushed with heat and an adorable red staining his cheeks, and swallowed to wet his throat.

Tantalizing slow, you laid back, propping on your elbows and spreading your legs apart. “Condoms are in the top drawer,” you said offhandedly, cocking your head toward the nightstand beside your bed.

Wooyoung’s eyes were on your folds, his mouth watering at how they glistened with need. Blowing him did that to you? I’m screwed, he thought.

You were more than ready for him to fuck you and you weren’t sure you could make it any more obvious than holding your thighs wide open for him, but when Wooyoung suddenly dropped to his knees at the end of the bed and buried his face in your cunt, you cried out in surprise.

Pleasant surprise, that is.

Oh, fuck, you thought, biting your lip to keep from saying it like a mantra. Your head fell back and your eyes winched closed, a moan escaping on your exhale.

Wooyoung got your legs on his shoulders, his hands anchored to your hips, and found your clit with his tongue. He wanted to drop comments about how wet you were and another comment about how good you tasted. Both of them very horny and lewd, of course. But Wooyoung would have to take his tongue out of your pussy to speak and that just wasn’t worth it.

You started squirming and Wooyoung knew he was on the right track. Your hands flew to his head and your fingers winding into his hair tightly made a groan rumble in his chest. He wanted you to pull his hair as hard as you could, right on the edge of being painful.

A hungry, persistent suck of your clit did just that. You arched on the mattress, your body bowing at the pleasure between your legs and you tugged on Wooyoung’s hair at the roots, making him break from your sweet cunt to let out a loud raspy moan, sneaking an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh before diving back in.

“Shit. Shit. Fuck,” you cried, writhing beneath him, squirming in his arms. Wooyoung was finally using a little pressure to keep you in place and you were suddenly very aware of how much stronger he was than you.

Wooyoung could feel his cock twitching. Your sex was overloading every one of his senses, making his cock so hard he began thrusting his hips, trying to find some friction. He loved that you were trying to escape him; it meant the pleasure was almost too much. Kinda like when his dick was lost in your throat.

We’re even now, he thought with a grin.

You turned on your side and Wooyoung let you, latching onto your clit, out to ruin you for anyone else. Your body tensed, coiling and coiling, about to snap. Your breaths were loud, your chest heaving with them. Clamping your thighs on Wooyoung’s head - much to his delight - your voice cracked when you said, “I’m coming. Wooyoung, I’m coming.”

Wooyoung reeled his hand back and landed a palm on your ass, sending a loud smack through the room and a vicious sting across your skin. And it finished you. Your eyes rolled back in your head and you moaned his name, shuddering with orgasm. Wooyoung kept toying with your clit, his lips wet and warm, and you thrashed in his arms.

“Stop! Please,” you begged, yanking on his hair.

Which only turned Wooyoung on more, but he obeyed. He parted reluctantly from your pussy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and stared down at his handiwork, having felt your sex gushing and clenching with release.

“Goddamn, baby,” Wooyoung said with a growl, giving your ass another slap. Before the night was out, he was going to make your body want him and him only.

You blinked to clear the fog in your eyes, still panting harshly. Hongjoong was an expert at eating pussy, but Wooyoung was going to give him a run for his money at this rate.

“Put a condom on,” you said bluntly.

Wooyoung rushed over to the nightstand, cursing himself for looking so eager. He grabbed a packet from the drawer and ripped it open with his teeth.

You followed his every move with your eyes, salivating over that stiff cock curving toward his abs. Your walls were still pulsing from the orgasm he’d given you and you shamelessly wanted to fuck his brains out in retaliation.

As Wooyoung finished fitting the condom on his length, you pulled him onto the bed by his shoulders and straddled his lap. Your roommate grinned, getting off to how badly you wanted him, and held onto your waist for dear life.

Rising up, you steered his cock into your entrance and starting sinking down on him. You were so wet with release, he slid in easily at first, but the fit was tight and made Wooyoung moan with his whole chest.

“Fuck.” You whimpered, lifting up and down, feeling yourself stretch to accommodate him. You underestimated just how big he was and sucked in a breath when his cock rubbed against your sweet spot.

Wooyoung took your reaction to mean you were in pain. “Slow down,” he whispered, running his palms over your sides and breasts to soothe you. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I want it,” you said breathlessly, working your pussy on his length until he was finally sheathed inside.

Wooyoung wondered if you wanted the other boys this badly. Did you talk like that to them too? Did you take them as eagerly as you took him? Did you have that same euphoric look on your face when they were inside you?

But he dared not ask. He was too afraid of the answer. If you said yes, then Wooyoung was just another boy to you. If you said no, then he was different. Maybe even special.

The last thing he needed was hope that you returned his feelings.

Wooyoung exhaled loudly, releasing the breath he’d been holding, and let his hands fall to your hips. He grinded his teeth and felt his lashes fluttering, his eyes wanting to roll back in his head at the hot vice of your perfect cunt.

He was definitely ready to square up with the other boys if they came knocking at your door again.

You hummed at how full you felt and rocked your hips a little, making a tiny circle. Combing your hair out of your face, you glanced down and locked eyes with Wooyoung.

There was no word that could describe how he was looking at you. It surpassed lust and worship and landed closer to nirvana.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumbled, but everything in your face and in your voice screamed that you didn’t mean it. You wanted him to only look at you that way for the rest of your life.

“Like what?”

“Like this is the best pussy you’ve ever had.”

“Well…,” Wooyoung said, lips spreading into a grin. “You’re not wrong.”

You snickered.

Wooyoung softened and reached for you, cradling your face in his hands and gently pulling you down until you were chest to chest and pressing your lips to his. You propped yourself over him and sucked on his tongue in your mouth, tasting your release.

Mm. This was a little too good.

Wooyoung broke from your lips and ran his thumb affectionately over your cheek. Then he trailed his hands down your back and got a hard grip on your hips, and said, “Fuck me.”

You fully intended to. Sitting back up, you braced your hands on his abs and started to ride him. The rest of the world faded away. There was only you and Wooyoung and the pleasure you took from each other’s bodies.

Every time you wondered if you were going too hard or too slow, or if your pace wasn’t making him feel good, you peered down at Wooyoung and saw only lust. His hands on your hips kept you steady, kneading you almost in reassurance.

Ironically, Wooyoung was grateful for the condom. It kept him from blowing early. A grunt left his lips now every time you dropped back down on him, using his cock to stroke yourself to another orgasm. Sweat cast a pretty sheen on your skin.

“I can’t,” you whined, grinding yourself on him. “I’m so close, baby. I need you.”

Wooyoung wrapped his arms around you and pulled you to his chest, rolling over with you underneath him. He slapped his hips into yours, thrusting hard and deep in your slick cunt, and buried his face in your neck.

He would get you the rest of the way if it was the last thing he did.

You wanted to chant his name, but no sound came out. Instead, you dragged your nails down his spine and found purchase in his hips. Wooyoung didn’t slow down as he reached for your hands, pinning your arms to your sides and gloving his cock in your pussy at a desperate pace.

The weight of him on top of you sank you deeper into the mattress. He was all you could feel, taste and smell. Your bodies were damp with sweat, his and yours mixing, and a wet slap echoed through the room each time he drove inside you.

Every stroke of his cock made you more and more crazy and restless, drunk on him. “You feel so good,” you whispered, grazing your teeth over the curve of his shoulder. “You’re so deep. I want to come with you. Please. Wooyoung…”

Wooyoung let out a pained groan muffled against your neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he fucked a girl this hard. If ever. And you were eating it up, that wet pussy sucking him in and clenching when he was balls deep. Her body loves me, was all he could think.

If only your heart would follow.

Wooyoung lifted his head and, crumbling at the pleasure on your face, crashed his lips on yours, flicking his tongue in your mouth and kissing you hurriedly. You couldn’t really kiss him back - you were too busy panting - and Wooyoung inhaled every sound you made, branding them into his mind forever.

Because he knew this could be the first and last time he would get to touch you.

So, Wooyoung kept stroking you to the edge, never letting up for a second, his pace fast and his thrusts hard, perfectly rough. You bounced your hips to meet him, hooking your legs on his, your toes curling as your walls kneaded his cock.

“Come for me,” Wooyoung hissed, pinning you to the bed. “Love me.”

You met his eyes, opened your mouth to answer, and lost yourself to the force of his body, screaming his name. It was more intense than the first, making your vision blur and your ears ring.

The moment Wooyoung felt you clamp down on his cock, he swore in his mother tongue and his pace turned ragged as he started releasing into the condom, moaning endlessly through his pleasure. He worked both of you through the aftershocks, letting your walls milk every last drop out of him.

He was so fucking loud and noisy. You loved it.

With one more satisfied groan, Wooyoung collapsed beside you. Other than both of you gasping for breath, the room was eerily quiet, filling with a stiff heaviness.

Post-nut clarity. Right on time.

Wooyoung got to his feet, disposing of the condom. His legs felt boneless, wobbly even. He scratched the back of his head, thinking about how hard he came. How hard you came.

You stared blankly, still reeling. Sex with your roommate was not supposed to be that good. You were only going to fuck him to break the spell like San suggested and instead, you were drowning in just how good your body felt after he touched it.

Sex with San was fun, but not like this. Sex with Hongjoong was vicious, but not like this. Sex with Seonghwa was passionate, but not like this.

No one had ever made you feel like you did at that moment.

When you looked at Wooyoung, from his soft cock to the pretty flush on his cheeks to the bulging veins in his arms, you instinctively spread your thighs a little. You wanted him again and again. Your body was begging for it.

To your relief, Wooyoung joined you on the bed, flopping onto his back at your side, though there was an obvious tiny gap between your bodies.

“Wow,” you said, winded.

Wooyoung shot you an amused look, crooking his brow. “Surprised?”

“A little.”

He chuckled.

Once you caught your breath, you staggered into the bathroom. After cleaning yourself up, you were suddenly mindful that you were naked and considered covering yourself.

Had the spell been broken? Was Wooyoung done with you after he’d finally gotten what he wanted?

Love me.

You remembered Wooyoung said that. You almost missed it on the edge of your orgasm, but it hadn’t been a dream. Wooyoung had whispered, “Love me,” into your open mouth.

Leaning against the doorway, you watched Wooyoung, and it took you a moment to realize you were looking at him affectionately. Seeing he hadn’t bothered dressing, you decided not to either.

Wooyoung turned to you, feeling your attention on him, and propped his head on his hand. You could tell he was studying you as he always did, reading you like a book. “What’s wrong?”

“Are we… okay?”

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

“I, um,” you hesitated, biting at your lip like you always did when you were nervous. And being vulnerable. “I’m not really used to having someone stay after.”

Wooyoung knew that. The boys got kicked out pretty quickly once you were done. He smiled softly and asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

You blinked. It surprised you that everything inside you screamed for him to stay. That was a strange feeling for you, to say the least.

“I can go to my room,” he said playfully, sitting up and moving to the edge of your bed. “But if I’m being honest, I really wanna cuddle the living shit out of you right now.”

You fought a laugh, but it showed on your face. You walked over to your roommate, stood between his legs, and braced a hand on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart underneath. You liked how it felt.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you said, “I don’t want you to go. Stay. Please.”

Wooyoung was over the moon, landing somewhere between the stars. That was what he hoped you would say more than anything. He put his hand over yours on his chest. “Did you think I’d be over you if you slept with me?”

You nodded.

Wooyoung shook his head. “Nah, baby. I’m even deeper now,” he whispered, drawing you into his arms with a mischievous grin.

You smiled, cradling his head in your hands, and kissed him.

Your roommate pulled you onto the bed, molding himself to your back and managing to drape a blanket over your naked bodies. You decided to turn over and face him, smiling when his arm tightened around your waist.

“This is nice,” Wooyoung said, leaving a sweet kiss on your brow before closing his eyes contentedly.

“Yeah.” You snuggled deeper into his warm chest and tucked your head beneath his chin. “It is.”

END.

[mt-oe]

𝙎𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙖 𝙃𝙤𝙩—bandmate mizu

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Hey dears!

I'm so so sorry for not being able to keep up with requests that well. My program is taking a lot of my time and beating the shit out of me (esp. u immunology and serology >:c).

Anyways, here's a sort of prequel for my headcanons because band au Mizu is so yummy.

Enjoy! Mwa mwa:*

warning: not proofread, she/her for mizu, will refer to her as a boy (bc she canonically appears like a man), implied afab reader

"But you're so good at playing the guitar, and you have the charisma too. You should definitely join our band. Even our manager is amazing. She—"

"For the last time, Ringo. I don't want to join your stupid band."

Mizu and Ringo were already getting ready to go home after finishing their term-end project for their elective, which just so happened to be music. She didn't really think it through when she enlisted and just picked whichever she thought was the easiest. Ringo, however, just picked the same elective as Mizu.

She carefully placed her electric guitar in its case, zipping it up and securing the locks before slinging it over her shoulder. "I have better things to do and joining a band is a waste of time," she added as she walked up to the door.

Ringo followed after her, a smile still on his face despite the rejection. "You never know. This might even be your calling," he chimed as they exited the room, making her groan out of annoyance. They headed into the parking lot where Mizu's bike was parked. "We have an audition in a week if you want," he said, waiting for his friend to put on her helmet.

Once Mizu was finished putting on her helmet, she hopped on and leaned forward, pushing her weight to retract the center stand. "Not interested," she groaned out, slightly muffled behind her helmet. Her foot kickstarted the bike on before she revved the engine up a bit.

"Well if you decide to change your mind, just send me a message." Ringo stepped back a bit to give Mizu some space to move. She grunted in response and drove forward, leaving her friend waving and shout goodbyes at her.

What's so great about joining a stupid band anyway?

It's probably just filled with pretentious kids pretending to be as good as their idols but can't even memorize which strings their hammer ons should be.

Another groan escaped her lips the more she thought about the offer. It was annoying. Yet, a somehow, a small part of her wanted to play even more. The desire ringing at the back of her head like an itch she couldn't scratch off.

What if she did join?

What if it was as much fun as Ringo always said it was?

A sigh escaped her lips at how bothered she was by her thoughts. Why was she even thinking about this? She can always play her instruments at home. A crowd wouldn't make a difference, she thought as the wind whizzed past.

Her thoughts continued to race as she drove home. This band thing was stupid. Maybe she shouldn't attend the audition after a—

"Hey goofy boy!" a voice called out.

'What? Me?' she thought, lifting her visor to look around for the source of the voice. Across the stoplight, she saw another woman waving at her enthusiastically. It was almost ridiculous to look at. She raised an eyebrow, looking at her sides and behind her to see if you were talking to someone else before pointing to herself inquisitively.

"Yes you! Across the stoplight! C'mere!" you yelled, signaling her to stop in front of the cafe you were standing in front of, not really caring if other people were looking at you with how silly you were being.

Her blue eyes narrowed at you, clearly suspicious of your intentions. And yet, the way you were smiling and calling her over made her feel...something. Once the light turned green, she drove over to you, pulling up at the lot in front of the cafe.

You walked over to her, letting out a sigh of relief as she kicked the side stands on. "What do you want?" she asked in a low voice that clearly indicated that she didn't trust you even one bit.

"That.." You pointed to the guitar case on her back, making her raise an eyebrow cautiously. What did you want with her baby huh? She was so ready to throw hands.

"What model? And how long have you been playing?" you asked, still pointing to her guitar. Mizu looked over her shoulder being sighing. This was a waste of time. "I'm not inclined to tell you that," she replied, getting ready to kick her side stands off.

You snorted at her cold reply before leaning closer until she was face-to-face with you no matter how much she pulled away. The proximity allowing her to take in your features better and you were quite...pretty?

No. Wait.

Let's focus on how much of nuisance you were being.

Before she could even kick off her side stands, you already blocked her foot with yours. "Join our band," you said in a serious tone, showing her a business card before placing it in her jacket, smile still on your face.

Mizu groaned and rolled her eyes. "No. Now get your foot off before I kick it off," she replied. Yet, you kept your foot in the way of her stands, making her eyebrows knit together. "You look really goofy riding that bike of yours with a huge ass guitar case on your back," you said, eyes glancing at her guitar case before staring into her eyes intently. "You have talent, don't you?"

The smile on your face despite how serious and forward you were being was unnerving. "So what? I'm not going to join your band," she said in a low voice. Indeed, she was quite stubborn, but nowhere near your level. This motorist was the diamond in the rough you were looking for. "Goofy boy, join me in the café. It's my treat."

There was no way she's going into that café just for you to give her your sales talk and convince her to join your stupid unknown band. Not in a million years

—was what she thought.

Yet here she was, helmet off and sitting in front of you with a cup of matcha latte, watching you take a bite out of the cake you bought for yourself. After taking a slow sip, she sighed and narrowed her eyes at you. "I thought we were here talk about your band," she scoffed.

You smiled at her yet again, fork still in between your lips. "You're not going to talk right away, right? So let's take our time." A small 'tch' escaped her lips as she leaned back against the chair.

"Fine. I'll talk," she replied, staring at you up and down. Now that she was able to sit down and relax the tiniest bit, she was finally taking her time to look at you. And you weren't an eyesore at all. In fact, you were really fucking cute.

She's still not joining your band though.

A small giggle escaped your lips as you placed the fork down, resting your elbows on the table and intertwining your fingers together. "What model?" you asked, eyes darting to the guitar case beside your table.

Mizu glanced at it as her hands wrapped around the handle of her cup. "A les paul," she replied before taking a sip. Your smile widened before you took a sip from your cup as well, setting it down when she set hers down. "How long have you been playing?"

"Long enough," she replied, glancing at you, rolling her eyes at how you stared at her with curiosity, as if coercing her to tell more. "Fine, fine...before I started high school. I think. Maybe even longer."

You hummed in satisfaction and took another bite out of your cake. "Any other instruments?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at her. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow back at you. "A bass. A mustang."

Silence washed over both of you as you continued to eat your cake, making her feel a bit nervous. A small clink was heard as you put your fork down after taking your final bite. "What's your name, goofy boy?"

"Mizu," she replied before taking her drink into her hands. She downed it in one go, placing the cup down and picking her guitar case up. "This is pointless. I'm leaving," she said in a low husky voice, getting ready to stand up.

It was clear to her that she shouldn't have given so much time to you. She wasn't even interested in joining. Maybe if you weren't so cute, she wouldn't have tried to hear you out.

Before she can even stand up, you beat her to it, pushing her back down on the chair gently. Her eyes widened ever so slightly as you leaned forward again.

"I'll make you a star."

Huh?

Her clear surprise and confusion made you giggle. What the hell were you talking about? You pulled away and placed your hands on your hips, giving her a confident smile.

"Talent recognizes talent, Mizu. It may not be now, but I'll make you a star," you beamed.

Mizu blinked before scoffing. "That's ridiculous," she sneered before standing up and putting her helmet on. "For the last time, I'm not fucking joining your stupid audition."

Was what she said.

But here she was, a week later, sitting down inside the studio hallway. Her eyes watched as the auditionees chatted amongst themselves. Those who were done with the audition complaining about how strict the judge was, who she learned was just one person.

Her nerves were sending jitters to the tips of fingers, her throat tightening up slightly in anticipation. She closed her eyes and took a deep inhale before exhaling slowly. Just as she opened her eyes, she jumped slightly at the sight of a familiar pair of feet in front of her.

"I knew you were going to change your mind," her friend's voice chimed.

Looking up, she made eye contact with Ringo who was beaming at her, drumsticks tied to his stubby hands. "But how did you know where our studio is?"

This was the band Ringo was talking about? Oh boy.

She grunted and handed him the business card you snuck into her jacket. "The address is written there," she said with a sigh. He let out a small "oh" before his eyes widened even more. "So you've met her before," he replied cheerfully, handing the business card back.

"Who?" she asked, a serious yet curious look on her face. He looked confused for a moment before he replied, "Our manager. The one who handed you that card?" She wanted to ask more questions, but then a voice suddenly called for the drummer. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I gotta go. Bye!"

Upon Ringo leaving, Mizu sat back down and closed her eyes again, resting her elbows on her knees.

Some time later, all the auditionees had finished and yet, it seems that all of them had been rejected. "This is a waste of time. I should have left earlier," she muttered to herself.

Just as she was about to leave the studio, her name was called, leaving her with no choice. Slowly, she entered the room only to be greeted with—

"You came!" your voice beamed.

Her eyes scanned around the room to see you sitting down on a chair, holding some papers, as well as the other band members presumably. "And you're the manager apparently," she said plainly. A chuckle escaping your lips as you nodded. "You can get ready whenever you want to."

Once her guitar was plugged in and ready to go, she looked up at you again, waiting for any further instructions. Despite her mind telling her that there was nothing to be nervous about, her gut was squeezing and churning from anticipation.

Should she do her best? Or should she fuck this up?

Your eyes watched her carefully, observing how she handled her guitar. "Play any song you'd like," you said, leaning forward in your seat as you set the papers down on a chair beside you.

No. She didn't want to be in this stupid band. She's not going to do her best.

Why the fuck would she do that?

This wasn't even worth it.

Nononononononono—

She looked down on her guitar before beginning to strum the familiar intro of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Despite her bobbing her head slightly, it was clear through her body language that she wasn't even trying at all.

The smile on your face slowly disappeared until all that was left was an unreadably neutral expression. Once she was done, she looked at you with a bored expression. "Well?"

You sighed at her, giving her the same bored expression back, making her smirk a bit. "Guess I'm not in, am I?" She unplugged her guitar, getting ready to put it back in the case before your hands stopped her.

"Sit back down. We're not done," you said in a serious tone, facial expression neutral yet your eyes told her that you were daaaaaaaamn annoyed with how little of an effort she put in. The look in your eyes, they way you were gripping the neck of her guitar, did something to her. "I don't owe you a performance," she replied.

You glared at her lightly before snatching her guitar from her hands, causing her to glare at you. She tried to grab her guitar back but you kept evading her as you plugged it back in. Once it was plugged back on, you pushed towards her, making her stumble back a bit from how harsh you did it.

"Now sit down and play. Talent recognizes talent, Mizu," you growled at her. The scene causing everyone in the room to go quiet. It was clear to them that you were pissed. "If not, then sell that guitar. You're wasting it."

After all, the only thing you hated more than the equipment suddenly breaking was wasted potential. And Mizu was wasting a LOT of potential.

Your words struck a nerve in her causing her. With a loud screech, she pulled the chair towards her and sat down. "Fine. If it gets you to shut the fuck up."

She looked at you with one final glare as she leaned back, hands beginning to move against her guitar.

She began playing Hotel California, immediately skipping to the guitar rift at the end of the song.

By the normal person's ear, it wasn't anything special. There were more impressive sounding songs out there. But to you, you knew how difficult it was to get the tone of the song right with how slow it was compared to other rifts. If she made a mistake here, a wrong pluck, a wrong drag, a wrong vibrato, the mistake would be so painfully obvious.

And yet, here Mizu was, playing it perfectly with the same angry look on her face. She was damn mad at you for touching her guitar, for pushing her towards your stupid fucking band. And yet, she couldn't help but want to impress you.

Did she really not want to be in the band?

Why was she trying so fucking hard then?

Like her body was moving on its own.

Like her hands were itching to play more.

As she ended the song, she looked down at the ground. Suddenly, the sound of clapping caused her to perk up and look at you. The sight causing her breath to hitch a blush to dust over her cheeks. That was when she knew the answer to her question.

It was you and your proud little smile.

That cute fucking smile.

All the annoyance and anger you held at her melted off during her little performance. You knew you saw talent. The moment you saw that goofy looking motorist with the awkwardly large hard guitar case at the stoplight, talent already hit you like a damn truck.

Although she knew you were satisfied with her performance, she couldn't help but want to try more. She'll try. She'll damn try for the hottest fucking manager she has ever seen. Her earlier hesitations of whether she wanted to join the band or not disappearing.

Call it a gay agenda but she was going to secure this fucking spot. She'll be best fucking guitarist you have ever heard or seen.

Just as you were about to congratulate her, she raised a hand up to cut you off. "Wait—fuck—that was too easy. I... goddamnit. Wait, I'll try doing something harder," she said in a panicked slur.

Her hands immediately went back to her guitar, eyes narrowing in thought. If an impressive guitar rift was what she needed...

Suddenly, she began playing the guitar rift for Free Bird. Eyes glued to her guitar, palms sweating a bit as she hit every chord, every pluck, every fucking bend.

You couldn't place your finger on what it was, but somehow, it felt like she was playing more passionately. Like she was putting her all into this one song. Was it the way she was bobbing her head? Or the way she moved her guitar during every vibrato? Maybe the way her body moved with the music?

Once the song ended, she closed her eyes and let out a breath she didn't even know she was holding. You couldn't help but giggle at how flustered she looked, making her blush again.

"Am I in?" she asked, looking at you with hidden desperation in her eyes, making you giggle even more. Her eyebrows furrowed as you continued to laugh, not really answering her question. "Well?"

A gulp went down her throat as you stood up from your chair and picking up the papers you previously held. "Mizu," you giggled out, "You were already in from the moment you tried again."

...

oh

Well that was embarrassing.

You handed her the contract and a pen, humming as she read the content before signing. Looking at her signature, your smile widened. This flustered looking guitarist was exactly what you were looking for and you just hit jackpot.

"You won't regret this, Mizu. I swear." She glanced at you, scanning the big smile you had on your face before looking down at her guitar and unplugging it. "I better not."

Suddenly, you lunged forward at her. Her eyes widened when you suddenly took her hand in yours, intertwining your fingers together. "Talent recognizes talent," you repeated, leaning closer to her, grip tightening with every word.

"I'll make you a star."

She'll be your star.

[shitouttabuck]

oh my god nina!!! 8 for the bedsharing prompts if it takes your fancy <33

thank you sweet peach this scratched an itch !!!

bed-sharing prompts: whispering “Oh, you are going to be very embarrassed when you wake up.”

Eddie’s not old—he’s not even 30, despite the near-constant jokes about his senior citizen-isms he seems incapable of shaking. And he wouldn’t even say he’s a man of creature comforts. He just likes familiarity, and routine, and his own goddamn bed.

Quarantine has brought a lot of change: being away from Chris, living in a single-occupancy apartment with three other people, and sharing a bed with all six-foot-two of Evan Buckley.

Currently, this means waking up at some wretched hour and squinting in the moonlight filtering in through half-open blinds, because the aforementioned best friend has stolen Eddie’s pillow from right under his head yet again.

Eddie groans quietly, easing his neck out of the crick it’s cramped in. He glares at the enormous lump snoring serenely beside him and pats the mattress blindly for his pillow. Eyes adjusting to the dark, he’s greeted by the same sight he’s woken to at ungodly hours thrice this month already: Buck with his gigantic thieving arms wrapped happily around Eddie’s goddamn pillow as he clutches it to his chest, dead to the world.

“Fuck’s sake,” Eddie mutters, reaching out and tugging the end of the pillowcase to no avail. Buck’s vice-grip doesn’t falter even in sleep. Eddie’s usually able to coax it out of his grasp without waking him, but it takes a minute, and their last shift had been a full-body workout from hell, and Eddie just wants to go the fuck back to sleep with a single measly pillow supporting his exhausted head. Surely that’s not too decadent a luxury to expect.

He tugs again, harder and meaner than he normally would. The pillow inches out of Buck’s hold, and Eddie grabs a firmer handful to yank it away, grunting triumphantly when it pops free.

“Hrmmph,” Buck grumbles, crease appearing between his eyebrows. Eddie stills, holding his breath as he gauges Buck’s proximity to consciousness. He thinks he’s in the clear, but then Buck murmurs unhappily and rolls ever-so-slightly towards Eddie.

“S’your turn to be th’ li’l spoon,” he slurs, and Eddie freezes even further. “’M th’ big spoon t’night.” He pats half-heartedly at the mattress between him and Eddie, jaw going slack again after a few seconds.

Eddie grins, just barely containing the snort that bubbles up at Buck’s sleep-talking. There’s enough distance from Ali and even Abby, post-train debacle, that means he can wring weeks’ worth of teasing out of this. Whichever one of them it is Buck’s dreaming of, Eddie thinks multiple nights of interrupted sleep allow him a little good-natured—if merciless—ribbing.

He shifts onto his back, shoving the pillow under his head and shutting his eyes with a sigh, but the movement has Buck mumbling again. His face is mashed into his own pillow, words barely intelligible when he says, “Y’re littler than me. C’mon, lemme be big spoon.”

The snort sneaks out of Eddie then, just a bit. He barely knew either woman, but he can’t quite picture them indulging Buck in this line of conversation. It’s—sweet, if deeply mortifying for Buck himself to know anyone else has heard it.

Buck snuffles discontentedly, forehead scrunching as he reaches out in search of the pillow, still asleep.

“Oh, you are going to be very embarrassed when you wake up,” Eddie whispers, wondering if there’s more entertainment about to be provided and if it’s worth getting up to unplug his phone and catch the tail end of this on video.

“Urgh,” asleep-Buck responds, patting the bed a little more insistently when he’s unsuccessful in his pillow-retrieval endeavours. “Wh’re—c’mere. Eddie. Y’re li’l spoon.”

This time when Eddie freezes, it’s such a sudden locking of every joint in his body that his neck cricks in the opposite direction. He barely feels it, singularly focused on Buck’s latest garbled complaint, because—is Buck awake? Is Buck dreaming about him?

He’s frozen so still he doesn’t realise Buck’s questing hand is now well in range of Eddie himself, and he jolts back into his body when Buck’s strong, calloused fingers wrap around his wrist.

“C’me back,” he whines, tugging at Eddie while shuffling closer at the same time. Eddie holds himself carefully still, hardly daring to breathe as Buck slowly but surely plasters his long, long body along Eddie’s side, hitching one leg over Eddie’s thigh before flinging an arm across his torso and dragging him nearer.

“Mm,” he hums, brow smoothing out. His cheek rests on Eddie’s shoulder, face smushed but seemingly satisfied. Eddie’s arm is trapped between his own side and Buck’s stomach, and he worms it under Buck’s body almost on autopilot, more to get comfortable than anything else. This leaves him basically cradling Buck to him, and Buck gives one final happy grunt before burrowing his face into Eddie’s neck and going limp, a dead weight over Eddie’s right side.

Eddie makes his fingers relax where they’re clutching the back of Buck’s t-shirt. This is—fine. Normal and fine. So Buck isn’t dreaming about cuddling an ex-girlfriend, he’s dreaming about holding Eddie. They’ve been living out of each other’s pockets more than usual recently, leaning on each other a little heavier through a global pandemic and missing Christopher. Eddie’s told himself it’s because of constant proximity, and maybe it is, but whatever the reason, if Buck’s subconscious is embracing that vulnerability in this way, that’s fine. He’s an affectionate guy, and while it’s relatively new for Eddie to be on the receiving end of that from another man, he’s not one to shy away because of someone else’s archaic ideas of masculinity.

And—hold on. Y’re littler than me? Was that what Buck said? Eddie huffs indignantly, and then huffs again for different reasons, feeling his cheeks heat. He doesn’t know why, but he pulls Buck a little closer.

It’s still normal and fine, he finds, turning his head to press his nose into Buck’s curls. That surprises him a little, that there’s no freak-out of any kind accompanying—whatever this is. Buck smells like vanilla, because he used Chim’s fancy shampoo that’s actually Maddie’s fancy shampoo because both of them are missing her something fierce, and he’s definitely drooling onto Eddie’s neck, and now that he’s not sleep-talking he’s back to snoring like a motorcycle, and Eddie’s slipping under before he can marvel any more at just how normal and fine it all is.

When the moonlight is swapped for sunlight, Eddie stirs to Chim singing along to radio in the kitchen downstairs. Buck blinks awake right alongside him, cheek imprinted with creases from Eddie’s collar and turning pink as he hastily peels himself away.

“Oh, um, sorry,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He contorts his body in surprise trying to roll off Eddie’s arm. “Did I—sorry, Eds.”

Eddie works his arm back under Buck, easy and deliberate. “S’fine,” he yawns. “It was my turn to be the little spoon.”

In his peripheral vision, Buck turns a brilliant red, and Eddie gives him a reassuring squeeze before taking great joy in telling him just how embarrassed he should be about the contents of his dreams.

(Buck’s mortification is blessedly short-lived, since the contents of Eddie’s dreams are equally embarrassing in the very exact same way, as it turns out.)

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 15

Jaskier realizes that when Geralt comes back from a hunt, pent up, eyes black, still snarling and panting like a beast, the only thing that helps is cuddling him. He hugs him, and runs his hands through Geralt's hair, and gently washes him with a rag and hushes words into his ear, and it helps bring Geralt back down. Sometimes he wakes up to Geralt coming back from a late-night hunt and immediately grabbing Jaskier's waist and yoINking him into Geralt's bedroll so they can snuggle. It's cute. And Jaskier certainly has no complaints.

Jaskier tries to ask him about it one time, but all it earns him is a "Shut up, Bard." and Geralt acting weird the rest of the day. Maybe he's embarrassed? Jaskier doesn't know why. He has no idea what the potions must feel like to Geralt, perhaps he truly needs the warmth and mass of a person in order to not want to rip his own hair out or scratch off his own skin or something else? So he's just fine with hugging his beefcake of a bestie (of whom he may be completely head over heels in love with) if it means keeping some awful ailment at bay. And he believes this for at least a decade, before he meets Geralt's brothers. Don't get him wrong, they're lovely people! But one day, an exceptionally difficult hunt calls for all three of them to go together and leave Jaskier at camp. Jaskier is a bit concerned over how he'll comfort all three of them at once, but when they come back, he finds that Geralt is suddenly ignoring him, and Lambert and Eskel are acting normal, if not just very exhausted. Jaskier pulls Lambert aside and asks him why they're not itching to hug him, and Lambert is very confused. Jaskier explains that usually Geralt needs to hold him in order to deal with the after-effects of his potions. Lambert explains that's not a normal witcher thing, and that Geralt probably just likes him, but he explains it in his own lovely lambert-y way, meaning it's mostly just laughing hysterically at his big brother catching feelings for some bratty noisemaker in silk (He likes Jaskier! It's just... Not what he saw Geralt going for.) Jaskier tries to talk to Geralt about it, but Geralt stops him from even walking close to him, and walks farther off as extra salt in the wound. It's like he can't even bear to be around Jaskier. It hurts a bit. Jaskier asks Eskel if Geralt took different potions or has a toxin of some sort i him that makes him behave like this instead of the normal, and then explains everything Lambert told him. Eskel agrees that it sounds like him just being comforted by the feeling of his mate safe and sound next to him, and that they've never seen Geralt like that. Jaskier is confused, because surely Geralt doesn't feel the same way, right? sURPRISE SECOND ATTACK! THE MONSTER RETURNS! OH NOOOOO Anyways, It slashes the shit out of Jaskier's arm, or perhaps chest, I don't know, whichever wound strikes your fancy, and the witchers go after it, but as soon as the beast is killed, Geralt rushes to Jaskier, and holds him close. The others try to walk over to help patch Jaskier up only to get growled at by their own brother. So now Lambert and Eskel are playing rock paper scissors on the ground over who REALLY got the final hit on the beast while Geralt sits 12 feet away from them, mending his bard. He growls at them if they look at Jaskier and him too long. A while later, he's off the high of the potions and adrenaline combined, and the witchers sure are going to have a field day lovingly making fun of their brother over this. But first, Jaskier and Geralt need to have a heartfelt talk. ♡!Optional addons!♡

• Big bonus points for a sequel or additional chapter of Lambert starting to act the same way over Aiden (or other ship of your choice, but Lambert and Aiden are my bread and butter lol)

[sorrowfulrosebud]

I-incorporating self care into Shiggy’s rules in your dom/sub dynamic 😵‍💫

It was no secret that Shigaraki had no concept of self care. Most of his waking moments were spent at the cruddy bar, often nursing neat whiskey or scotch with the ashes of dead heroes and civilians caked into his clothes. And, of course, the one thing that bothers you most; those damned nails writhing into his neck.

The sound was disgusting; layers of flesh being irately torn away by misdirected frustrations. Thick lines of crimson blood and scab contrasted harshly against his milky, skinny neck. You hated the tiny thin spider webs of blood that trickled down his wrinkles, embedding themselves deep into his skin.

As his dominant, you warned him about the consequences of him scratching his neck. You would give him a warning; then a verbal and then he would be subjected to whichever punishment you saw fit. You knew it would be difficult for him to stop; it was his addiction. It was the only way for him to cease the horrible itch inside him to kill, even if his master greatly encouraged him to do as he wanted. You needed him to take care of himself, even if if meant putting yourself at risk of his childish tantrums.

The faint glow of the bar lights was a sharp contrast to the scene inside. Dabi was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, passing comments about your submissive. The stapled man was bored, and he knew the best way to entertain himself was to stick himself in his boss’s sex life.

“Well damn, handjob. Who knew it took taking it up the ass to get you to shut up for a bit,” he smirked slyly, staples clinking at the action. Shigaraki glowered through Father.

“Shut it, patchwork. At least I get bitches and don’t stink like burnt flesh,” he bit back, hand slowly tightening around his glass. Dabi let out a dry laugh.

“Seems like you’re the only bitch here. What a waste; (Y/N) is far too sexy to be hanging out with a freak like you. I bet if I ask them nicely I can get some playtime,” he grinned, deeply enjoying pissing his boss off.

“You shut your fucking mouth now, and don’t talk about them like that,” he growled protectively. You were All For One’s gift to him; someone to keep him satiated and relaxed whilst AFO could teach him dirty tricks. Although you were a distraction for the young boss, you weren’t a big a distraction to cause trouble or throw a wrench into their plans.

Your rules caused pain and pleasure; AFO’s rules caused progress.

“Heh, I haven’t seen you so emotionally attached to someone, apart from that UA brat you keep tryna kill. I’m bored now anyway, enjoy your cock cage and leather harnesses,” Dabi waved his hand dully, walking away before Shigaraki could at least destroy his new coat.

Shigaraki was seething on the other hand. His chest raised and fell quickly, causing Kurogiri to look at him with slight confusion.

“Stupid fucking patchwork, talking about Mama like that. If he wasn’t integral to my plan, I would fucking kill him!” He glowered, eyes widening in his rage. The whisky glass disintegrated in his hand as he brought his hand up to his neck. It felt like his neck was burning; surely a single scratch would suffice? The thought of a punishment lingered heavily in his mind. He already had his warning, and his verbal. But you weren’t here, just one teeny scratch. Just to make the itching stop…

Kurogiri could only look away; he knew of your relationship and what time you would be back from your mission. It was up to his young boss to follow your rules.

Twenty minutes later and Shigaraki felt better. One teeny scratch turned into two… then 5… then the next thing he knew, he was writhing into his skin like he had fleas. He hadn’t scratched in so long; and now he felt like crying after his Mama’s hard work was ruined.

“Are you alright, young Tomura? Do you need your neck wrapping up?” He questioned, indicating to the blood dripping down his collarbones.

“Yes Tomura, do you?” Your voice cut through the atmosphere as Shigaraki’s head snapped to your frame in the door.

“M-mama, I-,” he starts, already trying to correct his mistake.

“Don’t. Go to the bedroom. Now. I need to speak with Kurogiri for a minute,” you replied coldly. Tomura whimpered, slowly leaving the bar stool and walking to his bedroom. Fuck, he was scared.

You entered the bedroom about 15 minutes later, ignoring Tomura as he perched anxiously on the end of the bed.

“Mama I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered, trying to tug the sleeve of your shirt. You looked at him with a malicious glare.

“How many times have I warned you about scratching, Tenko?” You asked coldly, grabbing hold of his wrist. His heart beat was elevated, thudding in his ears. His cock was twitching in his trousers, itching to be free.

“T-three times,” he mumbled embarrassedly, milky cheeks growing hot.

“Speak up, boy. Tell me how many times I warned you,” you demanded. Tenko looked you in the eye as he felt embarrassment wrap around his throat.

“Three times, mama,” he whimpered. You let go of his wrist before bending down to his face level.

“And do you remember what would happen if I told you a third time, baby boy?” You asked him, voice deadly quiet and yet Tenko could only hear your dominance.

“I would be punished,” he said nervously. You stood up before extending your hand out. Tenko looked at you before extending his back. Your hand wrapped around his, soft but firm at the same time. You led him to the bathroom, where you opened the medicine cabinet for the first aid kit.

“Sit on the toilet, brat,” you demanded. Tenko whined at the nickname, before shutting up at your harsh glare. He complied quickly, heart still beating quickly.

Red eyes traced your movements as you found the expensive creams, lotions and bandages to fix your baby boy up. Tenko hissed as the disinfectant burned his neck, before silencing himself at your pointed glare. The cotton pad tickled his Adams apple, eyes trained to the ceiling at your feather light touch.

“You have such a beautiful neck, Tenko. It hurts me so much to see you ruin it, because then I can’t mark you as my own. You end up hurting yourself, and put yourself at risk of infection. I knew you wouldn’t stop, so I’ve bought some special toys to hopefully get the message through,” you turned away to wrap a bandage around Tenko’s neck, feeling him gulp around the gauze.

“I warned you, baby. I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me yet again,” you scolded, holding out a pair of nail clippers and a file.

“It was Dabi, he kept on saying stupid things and pissing me off!” Tenko tried to defend himself as you glared at him.

“Tattle-tailing? Really? You’re having this punishment, brat. Understand?”

“Yes mama,” he whimpered as you took hold of his hand. You worked your magic, clipping the longer nails, smoothing and buffing them to just below the skin. You continued on the other hand, touch feather light but still grounding enough for Tenko.

A slightly cold cream was placed on his hands, making him shiver at the texture. You massaged it in expertly, before commanding him to stay seated. Tenko looked at you with slightly fearful eyes. Sensing his fear, you sighed before cupping his cheeks and kissing his forehead.

“I love you very much, Tenko. But, you disobeyed my rules and you must repent. Do you understand me, sweet pea?” You asked him, silently asking for consent. Tenko smoothed out at the affection, wrapping his arms around your midriff.

“I understand mama, I’m sorry,” he murmured into your tummy. You kissed his slightly perspired blue locks as you tap him to release you. You quickly trotted out the bedroom before coming back with a new box and his artists gloves.

“Put your gloves on baby, I can’t have you breaking our new toy,” you purred, a sly grin on your face. Tenko complied easily as you opened the box.

Inside there was a set of black mittens, thick and bulky. Tenko’s face immediately went a bright pink. Next to it lay a thick black collar, a soft black trim on the inside and a loop with a tag on it.

“Now, give me your hands sweetness,” you said, holding a mitten as he extended his hand. You slipped the mitten on, a small shiver going down Tenko’s spine.

“Good boy. And the other,” you rubbed his hand encouragingly. Tenko did so easily, feeling weirded out by the feeling of the mittens on his hands. The thick buckle was tight around his wrist, not so that he would lose circulation but there was no way he would be able to shake them off.

“What’s your colour, sweetpea?” You asked him gently. Tenko thought for a minute.

“Green, mama,” he mumbled shyly. He looked at the collar. Your eyes followed his as you showed him the name of the tag, his cock twitching at the name.

“Mama’s little whore. Fitting, right?” You giggled sultrily. Tenko’s boxers were becoming more and more snug by the second, pre staining his underwear. He fought a whine as you rubbed your thumbs over the protective gauze on his neck.

“If you can’t be a big boy and stop by yourself, you’ll have to do it my way.”

“P-please stop! Mama, it hurts!” Tenko sobbed as you continued spanking his ass. Mittened hands were rendered useless as you had them cuffed behind his back.

“No, that’s not what I asked. How many times have I spanked you?” You hummed as you pulled his hair back to look at him properly.

“F-forgot mama, I’m sorry,” he pathetically snivelled, leaky cock rutting against your legs. His brain was slowly melting into total mush.

“We were at 50, brat, now we have to start again,” you growled into his ear, carmine eyes widening as he struggled in your arms.

“Mama, no please! Hurts, anything else,” he sobbed, mittened hand squirming. Touch was a major part of his sexual preferences; it grounded him and soothed him.

“Such a whiny little slut, aren’t you? Can’t handle the consequences of your actions? Fine then, I know other ways to deal with brats,” you grunted, squeezing and slapping the flesh of Shigaraki’s ass once more.

Tenko’s muffled sobs echoed throughout the room as the steady rhythms of the fuck machine grazed against his G-spot. His cock was spent; 8 orgasms later and the boy was a babbling lunatic.

His mouth was stretched around his black ball gag, garnet eyes crossed and rolled to the back of his head. His nipples were hardened and red from your teasing. Each orgasm, he fought to hold your hand but let out sobs each time his knuckle grazed against the mittens.

“I told you, baby. Don’t scratch your neck.”

[hellpmeimobsessed]

Best Ways to Help Them Relax - MK Men (Baraka, Kenshi, Kung Lao, Raiden, Reptile, Smoke) x Reader

(This is mostly MK9 to MK11 Raiden I'm talking about. The others can be interpreted as whichever one you'd like.)

Baraka: I like to think the way Tarkatan's teeth grow would eventually cause jaw discomfort and a dry mouth. That being said, the best way to help Baraka wind down is by massaging his jaw and reminding him to hydrate. The massage is a great chronic pain relief, and reminding him to drink water tells him not only are you thinking of him, but you care enough to say something, too.

Kenshi: I feel like the sensory overstimulation with being blind would be pretty high, given that the one sense that helps you fully process who is where and what's in front of you is gone. Therefore, simply thinking of this and helping him face someone who's talking to him in a group of people or helping him get out of there when it's becoming too much would be a huge relief. This, paired with the occasional third eye massage to help ease any headaches he may have gotten from too many sounds and smells is greatly appreciated.

Kung Lao: Two words: neck. Massage. The hat may be light enough to throw, but it still weighs on him over time, plus he holds all of his tension in his upper torso. Forcing him to forgo his hat and lay down in your lap and giving him a massage helps him fall right asleep. Another thing that oddly enough helps him sleep is being lightly tickled. Not in a sensitive spot or hard enough to make him jolt, just lightly grazing your fingertips across his back and shoulders to lightly tickle him will send him straight off.

Raiden: Playing with his hair. He spends almost all of his time with his hair practically being matted by that cowl and his hat, so when he finally gets time to spend with you, pulling off the cowl and threading your fingers through his long white hair is perfection to him. He'll gladly grab a pillow to sit on as he sits between your legs as you play with his hair. Do whatever you'd like with it, really. Braid it, brush it, he doesn't care, it all feels great. It's one of the few times he's relaxed enough to just close his eyes and melt into your touch. His absolute favorite is lying atop you as you kiss his face and play with his hair. He could die happy there.

Reptile: As a lizard owner I feel like this one is a pure fact; scratches. In his reptile form, after he's spent all day getting dirty and bloody and whatever else, the moment you start scratching a shoulder or his back be prepared for him to unintentionally put all of his weight on you leaning into the touch. Will practically behave like a dog getting the best ear scratches of its life; please scratch him all over, it's even better if you get a bristled brush and use that. In his human form, any rogue itch he can't reach that you help him with makes him melt. Sometimes just scratching his back all over is nice, even if he wasn't itchy in the first place. Heavy on scalp scratches.

Smoke: Gentle touches. Rub his back, caress his face, run your hand through his hair, rub his arm. He soaks it all up like a sponge, and can and will fall asleep just about anywhere if you do it for long enough. He loves even the simple act of you rubbing your thumb along his hand while he holds it. Hugs are also an acceptable form of affection and will fall asleep in your arms. It's simple, but does it ever mean the world to him and work wonders.

[imbouttasue]

It's been a long while since I last talked about Remarried Empress, but anyway. I don't particularly agree that Ergi should be written instead as someone who hates Sovieshu and his said hatred slowly grows into an unhealthy, twisted obsession. Judging by how Alphatart has written him, I think the writer wanted to pull a "haha villain not" contradiction for his character but they keep on backpedalling. It comes to the point that the readers didn't take the bait and thus the author didn't explore his story further.

I'd break down the details of the story that subtly tells us about his character before elaborating, so the post won't be as messy. Beware of spoilers from the novel.

1. Baby breaths

Him holding baby breath flowers definitely struck me for a long time when I was first reading the story. It's a flower with a fragile meaning yet the writer made him hold it. It's included in the novel as well, so it's definitely an important detail. Or at least supposed to be.

2. Ergi's mother

His mother is sickly and thus he always cares for her. This is when Ergi’s warm side has been introduced and completely contradicts what his character is in the last seasons.

3. Heinrey

Their friendship is nothing more than a facade. He never called Heinrey by his name, only addressing him as "Your Majesty" or whichever his title is. While it's true that he calls him by his first name, he only does it in public. Whenever he talks to Heinrey personally, he insists on calling him by his title. It was proven further in the webtoon adaptation where they removed the part of Heinrey squishing Ergi’s cheeks on Navier’s pregnancy banquet when Ergi kept on frowning, which is supposed to be an indication that they are close friends.

4. Navier

It’s not included in the webtoon, but in the chapter where Ergi helps Navier escape from her house arrest in the East, Navier specifically says that "You have questionable methods, but you're a good person." There are also a few moments of them where Ergi shows vulnerability around her, talking about how people often cast you away despite all the good things you've done to them.

5. Guilt

Right after he ran away from the Eastern Empire when the paternity test was done, he was gloomy and kept on staring at the waters from his ship. The pirates have said along the lines of “He always falls into moods like these after he gets what he wants. He’ll go back to normal after he finds something new to be interested in.” It’s meant to be a representation of his guilt or a reflection of the things he had done. But he’s gone too far deep, so he won’t turn back.

6. Alessia

Ah, yes. Alessia. The root of his problems. The one who actually ruined his life but also the person he couldn’t bear to hurt because he firmly believes that she saved him; when in reality, it was a calculative move.

With those points laid out, I feel that Alphatart wanted to write him as a bastardous, but sensitive character. A man of contradiction. A villain with a heart, if that would make sense. While his morals are nothing but gray, there is a kindness beneath him that keeps on holding him back.

He wants to have his revenge, but he doesn’t want to harm the person (Alessia) who almost sacrificed her life (she didn’t, it’s all but a ploy) to save him. So instead of going after her, he exploits Sovieshu, who is secondly the person who only happens to be related to Alessia’s endeavors. And that’s it. No unnecessary feelings or obsession. He only uses Sovieshu as an outlet for his so-called revenge which is nothing but pointless. He knows it and he hates himself for it, but he doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t want to face it either.

In the end, his character is a coward. He would willingly hurt other people to scratch his itch for revenge but never the root of his pain. He preaches about morals when he couldn’t even fix his own. His character arc would be satisfying if he took on Alessia himself and made her run away, but instead he lets somebody else (Angel) expose her fraudulent acts in public. Why would he even hurt other women who happened to be like Alessia when he can just take on her and destroy her himself? His chance of being redeemed just gets thrown off the window. He never grew as a character and that is the only part I am disappointed in.

Saying that he’s obsessed with Sovieshu is too much of a stretch. And it’s just lazy writing to justify his actions. His actions on harming Sovieshu is nothing but pure cowardice. While he had executed his “revenge”, it will never give him comfort because of the other people he had harmed. He will live with guilt throughout his life.

His character doesn’t need much altering. I already like it as it is. Not too dark but he’s complex enough. It’s well enough on its own but only with very poor execution and inconsistency.

[laciere]

If you want to be a dog, first you must learn to wait. You must wait all day until somebody returns, and if somebody returns late, you must learn to wait until then. Then you must learn to speak in one of the voices available to you, high and light or mellow thick and low or middle-range and terse. Whichever voice you learn to speak, you will meet somebody who does not like you because of it, they will be wary or annoyed or you will remind them of something or someone else. Once you have learned to speak you must learn not to speak unless you absolutely must, or to speak as much as you feel you must regardless of how many times you are told to stop, or sit, or placed behind a door—this will depend on what kind of a dog you want to be. And indeed there are many kinds. It may not feel as though you get to choose, and that too is a kind of dog. Next you must learn to relinquish all control over everything you might wish to control. You must learn to prefer to be led about by the neck on a piece of string, or staked to a neglected lawn by a length of chain. You must learn, once you have sampled the freedom of a life without a chain, that it is better to return and be chained again. Or you may learn that it is not— a fugitive is also a kind of dog. Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love. You must learn to be confused but never disappointed by a deficiency of love. You must give up your children and not know why. You must lose yourself wholly in activity; you must never feel an itch that you do not scratch. You must learn how to wait at the foot of the bed and hope, silently, that somebody is drunk enough or lonely enough to invite you up, and you must learn not to show your excitement too much or overplay your hand. If you want to be a dog, you must learn to believe that you are not in fact a dog at all.

"How to Be a Dog" by Andrew Kane

[epicdogymoment]

Andrew Kane

HOW TO BE A DOG

If you want to be a dog, first you must learn to wait. You must wait all day until somebody returns, and if somebody returns late, you must learn to wait until then. Then you must learn to speak in one of the voices available to you, high and light or mellow thick and low or middle-range and terse. Whichever voice you learn to speak, you will meet somebody who does not like you because of it, they will be wary or annoyed or you will remind them of something or someone else. Once you have learned to speak you must learn not to speak unless you absolutely must, or to speak as much as you feel you must regardless of how many times you are told to stop, or sit, or placed behind a door—this will depend on what kind of a dog you want to be. And indeed there are many kinds. It may not feel as though you get to choose, and that too is a kind of dog. Next you must learn to relinquish all control over everything you might wish to control. You must learn to prefer to be led about by the neck on a piece of string, or staked to a neglected lawn by a length of chain. You must learn, once you have sampled the freedom of a life without a chain, that it is better to return and be chained again. Or you may learn that it is not— a fugitive is also a kind of dog. Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love. You must learn to be confused but never disappointed by a deficiency of love. You must give up your children and not know why. You must lose yourself wholly in activity; you must never feel an itch that you do not scratch. You must learn how to wait at the foot of the bed and hope, silently, that somebody is drunk enough or lonely enough to invite you up, and you must learn not to show your excitement too much or overplay your hand. If you want to be a dog, you must learn to believe that you are not in fact a dog at all.

[papasbaseball]

Primo x Reader (Tillandsia Bulbosa: Chapter 2)

+18 CONTENT NOT FOR MINORS. MINORS KEEP SCROLLING

Pairing: Primo x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Pregnancy by plant, the social politics of being pregnant, sexual degradation, monster fucking.

Summary: The Reader continues to experience the consequences of the plant impregnation.

Word Count: 2,468 (work total: 4,906)

Notes: Back by popular demand... 2 years later

AO3 Link, Prev Ch: Tumblr, AO3

The first month had brought an end to the eggs shifting. For that, you were glad. There was not a single ghoul left that had not stuck its cock in you by the end of the second week. It couldn’t be helped as the abbess had denied your request for medical leave. Your stomach hadn’t changed visibly and the pregnancy test in the clinic had come back negative. You wondered how that was possible as you scrubbed the floors, trying to steady your frame so your hips didn’t move with the rest of your body. It never worked. That’s how you had become so thoroughly acquainted with all of the ghouls that would have you. The nauseating pleasure of the eggs rolling and shifting within you would simmer and steam with every step throughout the day, leaving you desperate for something to scratch the itch. You had tried a couple of the siblings, but it wasn’t the same as watching bony and clawed hands wrap around your stomach just so your cunt could be stretched and gaped for their pleasure. Your cheeks heated red as whichever mate of the evening showed the ghouls lounging on nearby mats in the den how ill-suited your body was to handle their cock. The laughs rang in your ears like metal scraping on stone. It felt good, if bittersweet to be rid of that shame as the eggs grew larger and ceased their constant shifting.

The second month the eggs had doubled in size, noticeably swelling your belly. You had begged the abbess for leave again, but when the pregnancy test had come back negative for the second time she had advised you to lay off the extra rolls during dinner with a disapproving once over. You ground your teeth thinking about that as you scrubbed the black and white checkered tiles of the entry way. The weight of your belly pulled your back with it, causing an ache that you had to stop every few minutes to stretch. 3 months. He said that it would be 3 months. If it was even 3 days more, you weren’t sure that you could handle it.

“You’re leaking.”

You had to swipe away a sweat-thick strand of hair from your eyes to see that Sister Amelia was standing over you. Looking to the bucket, you picked it up. Nothing dripped from the bottom and a quick rotation in the sunlight that streamed in through the foyer window revealed no cracks.

“You are leaking,” Sister Amelia repeated. Setting the bucket down with a slosh, you looked up to see her finger swishing across her chest.

“What?” you replied. Your eyes dropped to your own chest to find two wet spots, blacker than the faded black of your well-worn habit. There was one on each breast that rested on the new swell of your belly. Looking to the floor, three barely cloudy teardrops dotted one of the black tiles you had just scrubbed.

The ache of need from the eggs in the early days felt preferable to this. At least you could try and pretend like nothing was wrong only to slake the savage thirst after chores and mass. Here, everyone saw and you hadn’t even felt it thanks to the cramping backache. You sighed, letting the brush fall to the now dirty floor, one hand massaging the stabbing, the other trying to prevent a new ache from forming between your brows. “Can I please go change clothes and see the doctor?” you said, unable to keep the mounting frustration out of your voice.

“Sister,” Amelia started, “I…” The sounds of other brushes scrubbing at the grand tiled entrance filled her silence. “You know the abbess could come through at any minute. Can’t you just go to the bathroom and shove some toilet paper in there?”

Your eyes raised to meet hers again. “Shove some toilet paper in there?” She bit her lip, eyes narrowing in hopefulness. “Did you just-“ You stopped yourself before you could say something that would earn you lashings in one of the cardinals’ offices.

“I’m taking my break,” you said, gathering up your skirt.

Sister Amelia protested, but after the front door shut behind you, it didn’t matter. You were going to take your break. Whether you would be back after 15 minutes depended on how long it would take to find and kill him.

Papa Primo, sweet, meek, and mild gardener of the Ministry, had not sent for you after you had been impregnated. The only contact you’d had with him was when the Ministry doctor had summoned you down the day after the incident and said that they had needed to put you on some new vitamins on account of some health issue or another. The last blood work you had was 4 months prior, so you found it hard to believe that they were just now getting around to addressing a folic acid and iron deficiency. Forced meds, that was it.

On a few occasions— at least twice after testing negative and being denied leave— you had gone to the main greenhouse searching for the asshole at least half responsible for your growing problems. The office door was always shut and locked, a sign taped to the bubbled glass reading “Out of Office”. None of the gardening ghouls could tell you where he went, but a few of them had been happy to oblige in fucking some of the need that had built up in you the first time you had walked over.

Now, your gait had become an angry waddle as you held the swell of your stomach, no longer able to walk normally as you had the first time. Rough white rocks crunched underneath your sized-up shoes as you marched toward the greenhouse.

“If he’s not there,” you said, “I’ll wait until that son of a bitch comes in the next morning. He’ll have to show up eventually.”

You picked up some hedge shears that had been left lying against the outside entrance before you went in. Maybe if you got lucky, he’d hold still enough so you could cut his dick off.

“Primo!” you shouted when you stepped into the humidity. “Papa Primo, you coward!”

The office had been locked as usual, that same stupid sign taped inside the door. You considered smashing the glass, but it wouldn’t do you any good. The second plan came to you with little thought. You weaved through the rows of thick luscious plants. Surely there’d be a garden ghoul in here somewhere. With the help of the hedge shears, maybe you could even get them to talk and tell the truth.

Somehow you had ended up back in the rare plant room. The thudding in your chest beat a deafening tempo in your ears as that spiraling plant sprawled before you. In truth, you had been scared to return here. The reasons you gave had always varied — the door probably being locked, Papa Primo was out of office so why would he be in there, seeing ghouls moving within — but they had never been the truth. The truth lay in your dreams. Winding vines holding you taut, being pierced again by the thick ovipositor until your stomach bulged with hundreds of eggs, the entire ministry having crowded into the foggy humidity of the greenhouse. They gawked and speculated about how profitable you could be, Sister Imperator taking particular note of the black market price of the thousands of plants that resided within you. You’d go to protest but nothing came from your throat, your vocal cords paralyzed.

It would be so easy to just snip it now. It couldn’t haunt you in your dreams if it was dead, right? You looked at the shears, slightly rusted from rain, wondering how sharp they were and if it would take multiple snips.

“A little dove that makes quite the ruckus. I should call you a rooster instead.”

He was wearing his formal robes this time, black and shiny red satin accented with silver sequined unholy crosses that looked dull under the filtered light. A rumble of thunder called outside and light plinks of rain tapped on the glass of the barreled ceiling. Papa Primo remained unfazed by it, staring at you with those mismatched eyes behind a crisp coat of face paint.

Everything you had wanted to say fought and slaughtered in your brain, the result being nothing but blood pounding on your eardrums.

“It does not matter if you cut it, cara,” he said. “What is done is done.”

“I’d feel better,” you bit.

“If you stub your toe, does it make you feel better to cut off your foot?”

It didn’t even make any sense. He was a doddering old fool. What you had seen in him that day in your hormonal haze was gone. “Why?” It was the only question that came to mind.

He took a step forward, but you held the shears up, closed and pointed toward him. “Are you going to stand like that forever?” he asked.

That he had the right of. You had no clue what you were doing. The plan had been half-cocked and rage-baked from the beginning. Tiny wisps of purple smoke circled and wove between his fingers, hands still at his side. He could bind you and snap your neck before the rusted silver would even touch the satin of his robes. The tears came suddenly, heating and constricting your throat. You dropped the shears.

“What about me?” you creaked.

He stepped forward, the gravel shushing beneath his dress shoes until he reached you. The glove on your shoulder was gentle as it turned you, his body bracing yours as his hands rounded the swell of your belly, carefully lifting the weight. The stabbing pain ceased all at once.

“Breathe.” His low voice complemented with the now constant static of the rain pouring outside. Soft loving swipes of his thumbs on your stomach had you leaning into him, the tears flowing still. “I have been absent more than I would like. It has not been easy dealing with the changes within the Ministry. They rely too much on the wisdom of old men who should be retired.”

You stayed like that, melded together in the humidity and disgrace of Satan, for what felt like an hour. So many things you wanted to say, spit, yell, but the only thing that you were able to respond with was, “I’m leaking.”

“Your milk has come in then. Not much use for the seedlings, but I’m sure the Ministry milk bank will be glad for a donation.”

A gloved hand came up and scooped your left breast out of the wrap dress — it was the only thing that fit you anymore — brushing lightly over the leaking and red nipple. A soft gasp escaped your mouth as he rolled thumb and forefinger, sending a fine stream spraying across the emerald foliage. He hummed, repeating the motion, earning him another squirt. “You will want to try expressing to relieve some of the pain,” he said. “Too much milk can become quite painful.”

Another gloved hand came up and pulled dress and bra down, exposing your right breast. He repeated the earlier motion, this time several streams spraying the nearby plants. The relief caused your knees to buckle, bringing you and Papa Primo to the ground. It did not falter him from continuing the expression.

“You were made for this,” he whispered against your ear. “You want to cum just from this, yes?”

You grabbed handfuls of the rocky gravel, pushing the pain into your palms. Anything to get a grip on how right his words felt and how that shame was tightening your core. “No,” you said.

His laugh was threadbare and worn. “I have overheard my ghouls in their work. They are fiendish gossips and love a good brag to pass the time. They call you a plant slut.” He let go of your right breast, quickly hiking up the skirt of your habit. Fingers slid the elastic hem of your panties to the side, hooking themselves with wet ease into your dripping pussy. “’Oh, how she moans. No human cock is good enough for her. The eggs make her more desperate than a ghoul in heat.’ Such wicked beasts.”

The wet squelch and pressure as he massaged into you earned him a squeal as you shut your eyes. He removed his fingers in short order, wiping them down the back of your thigh.

“You want it,” he said. “You want it.”

“I never-“ You stopped yourself. It would be a lie to say you never wanted it. What did you want? Was it the dreams that scared you? The abbess? How alone you had been through all of it? “You weren’t there,” you said.

He sighed. “I was not. It was my mistake little dove.” He pulled you up to your knees. “But I am here now, and that is the best that I can do.” His hand rounded the swell of your belly. “We will see this through together.”

Kisses against the tender skin of your neck turned into scrapes of teeth. Your knees parted once more and he slipped a hand past the waistband of your underwear, teasing the sensitive and engorged bundle of nerves.

Gasps turned into pants and soon the words came across your tongue as you walked closer to the precipice. “I want this. I want-“ his circles slowed. “I want to be your breeder, Papa.”

He sunk his fingers into you, grinding and crushing your clit against his gloved palm. “Then it will be so,” he said, pushing you over the edge of bliss. “You will have all of them and more. I will feed your hunger to breed well. These are only a taste, little dove. I have exotic plants from Madagascar that put a woman into a state of ecstasy for two weeks straight. A tickler that is a parasite, feeding off of arousal and adrenaline pleasuring you when it is least convenient so it can drink your fear. There are so many thing that we can do to you, anything your twisted heart desires.” Your walls clamped hard around his fingers at his promises, the pleasure and belonging wrapping you in their ribbons a compliment to his arms.

As you came down, you felt a new ache. Something was wrong, and you told Papa Primo so.

“Early, but not impossible, given your sexual appetite,” he said. He pushed his fingers deeper. There was the tickle of his gloves against your cervix, causing your walls to clench. A trickle of something ran down your inner thigh to the ground. He removed his hand, pulling you to your feet. “We must hurry. They are coming.”