#writings. © by sana.

[allurenamin-moved]

if you're a minor, please go away.

just secretary!gojo with a good boy kink because why the fuck not

⸝⸝ tags: gojo x fem!reader, smut, car sex, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, oral (f. receiving)

⸝⸝ word count: 2k

⸝⸝ author's note: please enjoy another scrap as i cut and prune my way out of the thick vines of writer's block ♡

“Eight minutes, princess.”

“Fucking hell.” 

You remain compliant, dismissive of your brain’s last tinge of amusement. Maybe it was the incessant self-reminder to take yourself seriously even when you put yourself in situations like this one. 

What about it bothers you? 

Well, for starters, your vendetta towards constant reminders of the time was always the flashiest additive to your briefings—you fail to recall this little blue-eyed shit being any kind of exception. 

And secondly, there’s this thing…this sort of childishness; your hatred of such that denotes you as the typical child-hating gremlin in pantsuits. The sort of childishness that makes itself known by the unsubtle pursuit of control that one could only have for…eight minutes.

Eight minutes…just eight more minutes of aimlessly affirming your place on the corporate ladder whilst his dick is almost inside of you. 

You’ll live. 

“You said it yourself didn’t you? Something like ‘you know how the Lims get. Miss a minute and it’s your funeral.’ ” He mocks.

Right. 

His funeral because it’s his job to keep reminding you what time it is. Silly you. And it’s too late to look back at it now, those notably cliche warnings about men who look like…well…this… from all corners of your unfortunate vicinities. 

It’s on you for not preparing yourself. The resume of a handsome male applicant, probed with sunny rays of approval without the consideration of his charm. Your bad on that one. 

It’s now your turn to charge. Offer your own judicious blow. If babbled curses count. 

“But it’s not what you said that matters. It’s how you said it.”

“Fuck, Toru! Please—”

“That bad ass tone you always got on…”

“Satoru–”

“...always the perfect match with what you wear to work every morning.”

“Fuck, please,” you begin to beg, an instinctive mark of annoyance and a response to the newfound sensation of his tip circling against your clit. Not a sliver of enmity encourages you to take action; the sight of his hand wrapped around his cock is left to be. Still, you think you might actually go insane.

“Fuck, I never tell you how much I love being bossed around.” He masters it this time, purrs working hand in hand with the up-down patterns of his tip against your slit. “It’s always a pleasure to hear you threatening to punish me… ‘nd just seeing you in those pants that hug your ass so beautifully.”

Which is why it’s both a good thing and a shame that you chose to wear them today. Helplessly flung atop the passenger seat like a banana peel as your man indulges in the sight of something much, much better, they’re probably wrinkled by now. 

You’d chosen to keep the blouse on, though. A generous array of something else, like the swells of your breasts, that’ll possibly make him come untouched. It was also he who showed minimal effort, only with a toned arm’s rule over your periphery through his hand resting against the car window for balance. That and how fucking beautiful he looked between your legs. 

But this is not looking good for you. 

“Five minutes, angel.” He hums. 

Head no longer thrown back, you finally manage to retain your mystic audacity. “Then quit teasing me, asshole.” 

“M’sorry.” His words escape with a juvenile drag that you would have rolled your eyes at had you been in the right headspace. Now, the slimming space between your bare crotches founds two things: his closeness to fucking you and a cheeky, cherry flavoured revelation against your lips—possibly a real reason this motherfucker makes you weak in the knees. “Are you mad at me? ‘Cuz I don’t ever want you to be mad at me.” 

Inhibited by his length rubbing between your lips with an unmissable pattern of squelches, is a ‘yes, I am mad at you’ that only takes the form of a deep groan. Lord knows how long it would take for you to fully crack—spoiler alert: it’s not long.

“Are you?” He somewhat slurs, swelling his coquettish resemblance to a purring cat. You wonder if it’s deliberate, if not just the way he is. 

You’re fucked either way. 

“Satoru,” his name sounds heavy, deep and demanding, your breath fleetingly flat as you’d somehow managed to sustain your salacious spirit. Just how he likes it… apparently. “Fuck me now, and I won’t be.” 

“But I like playing with you. I like playing with this pretty pussy,” pouting and trailing a fingertip towards your swollen clit, he shortens the distance between your hot and heavy faces - if that was even possible - finally making his rightful decision, “but you’re right. We’ve got four minutes now, and I doubt that you plan on telling those old geezers what you’ve been up to.” 

Sly fucking fox. You mean what you’ve been up to.

You’re one hundred percent sure that his growing boldness would have remained in its static stage of timidity if it weren’t for your “If I can, I will” basis. He’d given too much away at this point. Only to please him, you’d tell every single body in that boardroom about what a dirty boy he is. 

Only to please him. Your hot-as-fuck secretary. Because as far as board meetings go, missing those fifteen minutes of ungenuine pleasantries before a long-term project proposal that must happen won’t kill anybody. 

It’s only how much the Lims absolutely love themselves. Well… you’d like to think they’re not overly fond of someone who’d rather have their pussy played with. Look at you, already demonstrating the self-given title of a professional sympathizer, which would’ve been more effective if Gojo’s cock wasn’t already effortlessly slipping into you. 

“Oh f-fuck yes,” disregarding all semblance of self respect, your head is thrown back again, your updo blessed by God for preventing any car-door-induced concussions. “Satoru, you little fucking tease, I need you to fuck me right now.”

He coos at your demand, and how obviously devoid of control you are as your words escape as a bunch of blabbery slurs. “Oh, angel. Anything for you.” 

That’s what they all say before a loophole assists in your orgasmic demise. Your head’s too far up in the clouds to scold him now. 

His hips are now rhythmic, deliciously slow and welcoming to the single leg that wraps around him for support. The other one is content, flimsily resting against the leathery shoulder of the passenger seat . 

“How’s this, hm? Does it feel good? Wanna tell me how good that feels, angel?” 

“Oh, you- aunghhhh,” you’re fully certain that you’re drooling. Nonetheless, those unshed tears do nothing to help the fact that his abs are ten times more lickable now, their unattainability having an even bigger effect on you with you basically folded in half. 

Yep, this really ain’t looking good for you. 

“A little drunk there, aren’t we?” he quips, leaning forward to swipe his tongue up the collar of your throat. “Is that how I make you feel, hm?” 

“Mmmfuck, Toru, you f-fucking–” 

“Oh no, you’re mad at me,” his pouty reply is of some new, fresh fucking exigency. You should thank him. Any sly acknowledgement of what was truly stopping you from finishing that sentence? You’d fire him. Right after this. Right after the upcoming stage in which he is no longer rolling his hips like this. So. Fucking. Slow. 

“Satoru,” you whimper one last time.

“M’kay, angel. I’ll be a good boy now,” he slurs - deeply -  one last time. 

But you knew better than to be relieved. 

Through the cue of knees now reaching your shoulders, the jarring snaps of his skin against yours waste absolutely no time. He gets to hear more of your sounds, too and…dear God, your fucking sounds. Through lusty whines syncing with the makeshift rhythm of each hit, Gojo’s cock is seen to bring out the best in you.

Or you may consider it your worst. Depends.

“Fuck yes!”

“Mhm?” 

“Fuuuuck…y-yes!” That’s what he truly takes pride in, your dragged utterances of “fuck yes”, brimming tears finishing it off. 

“Oh, I know.” He almost huffs, thrusts boosting the difficulty of his replies being smoother. “I know, angel. You’re taking my cock so well.”

Well, that’s new. 

Now’s not the time to assess the grade on your sexual journeys—you know yourself better than anyone else…speaking on how well you can, in fact, take cock.

 But damn. 

That’s new.

And sexy. So fucking sexy. 

Maybe you should keep him around, since you now wonder how he’d managed to make the prospect of him rearranging schedules for you even sexier. 

“Am I being good now? Am I a good boy?” 

And he just keeps digging deeper. 

Maybe this newfound futility of your iron-fisted demonstrations was a good thing. All things (recently) considered, he’ll get to keep fucking you like this, physique on display and not a care in the world for who might happen to walk past your car. 

He’ll get to keep murmuring sweet nothings, so boldly as if you aren’t as well capable of bending him at knees every chance you get. 

You’ll get to bask in the sight of two things: him, and the way your tits continue to bounce up and down with every thrust undeterred by the confinement of your bra. Just like today. Right now. Right before Gojo decides to slow down again after you deliver nothing but a breaky cry as a response to his question—or implorement, rather. 

“Come here,” bringing both your legs back to either side of his hips, he murmurs as if he’s not the one already pulling you toward him.

“What are you—”

“Relax. M’gonna make you feel so, so good,” is the only form that his reassurance takes. Still, he confidently watches the state of your widened eyes to shift into that of total ecstasy, lidded and rolling back once again. 

And he’s only a little slower this time. The skin slaps and heavenly clench of your pussy are still here to stay. 

“Oh shit… shit m’gonna come. Please make me come.” Breakily, tearily, but surely, comes a request from you that you couldn’t hold back. 

“Mhm? You wanna cum?” 

“Fuck yes! Please!” You scream.

“Then why don't you come for me angel?” That smirk doesn’t hesitate. And neither do you, screams making tinnitus the new thing as your car doesn’t really have much of an echo to offer. 

You can’t believe you’re about to ask this. You can’t believe what you’re about to put yourself through, all raggedy breathed with cum messing up your seats, “Satoru,” you take a moment to catch just a few other missing ounces of your breath, “How much time left now?” 

You can’t remember when this was a thing, the little nab of his lip between his teeth reminding you of how good his hair looked. How violating unwritten codes of neatness was so sexy. Your desired answer doesn't make anything better, either. Not with that little smile.  

“None.” 

And that was supposed to be it, which is why the sight of him not buttoning up his shirt is beyond you. Which is why his sudden veer towards your bitten lips comes to you as an even bigger surprise.

Speech - potential scoldings that slowly lose their handle as the domineering kind - is instead dancing between your swirling tongues, moans, sighs, grunts and all. Kissing you, Gojo’s precipitous revolution is not missed—call it woman’s intuition or whatever. He pulls back, a lolling string of saliva soon breaking and picking his chin as its landing. 

You’re seeing it all now, the salacious hunch towards you cunt that tells you that this is not over, one that he soon takes the initiative to confirm.

“But I think they can wait a bit longer, can’t they?” 

You still tried. Words still had their eagerness; something along the lines of “Wait…” before Gojo’s tongue had beat you to it, slipping between your folds to clean just a meager chunk of his mess. Words go back to babbles. Sighs. Whimpers. Cries that don’t shroud his next siren-eyed form of reassurance.

“No need for them to fuss. Your ditzy little secretary just forgot what time it was.” 

taglist: @honeybleed @elusivemoon @kamorikiri @ohkento

[xoioel]

are you planning to continue writing how the other lines fuck you too 🫣 if not please consider writing for all of them,, 🫣🫣

HOW THE MIDDLE LINE FUCKS YOU

sana + jihyo + mina

sana | rough + overstimulation

when shes fucking you its a mess especially if you were doing things to get Sana jealous. shes now eating you out and fingering you at the same time and the more you whine and beg for her to slow down is the more she goes. and she wont stop until shes tired and your a mess, tears running down your face, legs shaking, puffy cunt, stinging ass from all the smacking she did. and if shes using the strap; forget about going anywhere for the next few days because your legs will be sore; it will hurt to sit down aswell from her pounding and her obsession with smacking your ass

jihyo | rough + edging + overstimulation

as the leader she has lots of pent up frustration so shes going to use you however she likes. eating you out but not letting you cum just so she could her you beg for her to let you cum. she also would get pussydrunk while eating you out and just cant stop which leds to her accidentally overstimulating you. but she will also use the strap and just make you a throat goat and makes your throat into the shape of the strap. jihyo will also be like sana and fuck you hard and make sure your a mess when shes done with you

mina | rough + overstimulation

mina might be shy on the outside but when it involves her fucking you its a different story. she would finger you and watch how you would squirt all over yourself so she would make you cum over and over just so you could squirt all over yourself and her fingers. she would have you in a missionary position as she fucks you hard with the strap and the bed would be soaking wet from all the squirting you did. she loves when you would beg her to go harder and just tell her to make a mess out of you. she would also have you face down ass up and go pound town on you until your legs give out

© xoioel — do not copy, translate, or share my work.

[itzsana-kiddingmenow]

ִ𖤐.ᐟ 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗶 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗿𝘆, 𝗶 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗱𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸 ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪

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[cafemilk-tea]

Masterlist:

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[esuemmanuel]

"Cerrarse el corazón es callarse las palabras; no se puede escribir si no se tiene la valentía de abrirse el pecho con las manos heladas. El único motivo, la razón de tu placer y la meta de tu bienestar has de ser Tú. Los que te leemos somos visitantes y no nos vamos a quedar".

La desnudez de mis pupilas busca cubrirse con el manto libre de tu inspiración, pues, si hay un brillo en el mundo que gusto de apreciar es el que dejas al pasar… Y es que se puede ser mucho como Todo o se puede ser poco como Nada; ésa es tu decisión, porque escribir es para aquellos que no dejan su salud mental en manos de cualquiera, ya que el acto de plasmar lo que piensas o sientes, ya sea en una hoja o en cualquier espacio donde se pueda dejar un pedazo de alma, sana heridas, libera de prejuicios y emancipa de las propias creencias. Por este motivo, escribir no ha de ser un acto banal ni superfluo, pues, aquel que usa la pluma y la hoja para escribir trivialidades no está escribiendo. Si has tomado la pluma, úsala para sanarte. En ello estriba tu autoconocimiento y, por ende, tu paz. Sé libre. Escribe lo que Eres.

"To close your heart is to silence your words; you cannot write if you do not have the courage to open your chest with frozen hands. The only motive, the reason for your pleasure and the goal of your well-being must be You. Those of us who read you are visitors and we are not going to stay".

The nakedness of my pupils seeks to cover itself with the free mantle of your inspiration, because, if there is a brightness in the world that I like to appreciate, it is the one that you leave in passing… And you can be much like Everything or you can be little like Nothing; that is your decision, because writing is for those who do not leave their mental health in the hands of anyone, since the act of expressing what you think or feel, either on a page or in any space where you can leave a piece of soul, heals wounds, frees from prejudices and emancipates from one's own beliefs. For this reason, writing should not be a banal or superfluous act, for he who uses the pen and the page to write trivialities is not writing. If you have taken the pen, use it to heal yourself. Therein lies your self-knowledge and, therefore, your peace. Be free. Write what you are.

— Esu Emmanuel©, No te dejes amedrentar ¡escribe! (Don't be intimidated, write!)

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Ufunuo 3:11-13 “Ninakuja upesi. Shika sana ulicho nacho, ili mtu asije akaichukua taji yako. Yeye ashindaye nitamfanya kuwa nguzo katika hekalu la Mungu wangu, wala hatatoka humo kamwe. Nitaandika juu yake Jina la Mungu wangu na jina la mji mkubwa wa Mungu wangu, Yerusalemu mpya, ambao unashuka kutoka mbinguni kwa Mungu wangu. Nami pia nitaandika juu yake Jina langu jipya. Yeye aliye na sikio na asikie yale ambayo Roho ayaambia makanisa.

11-13 I am coming soon; hold fast to what you have—let no one deprive you of your crown. As for the victorious, I will make him a pillar in the Temple of my God, and he will never leave it. I will write upon him the name of my God, and the name of the city of my God, the new Jerusalem which comes down out of Heaven from my God. And I will write upon him my own new name. Let the listener hear what the Spirit says to the Churches. — Revelation 3:11-13 | Kiswahili Contemporary Version (KCV) and J.B. Phillips New Testament (PHILLIPS) The Kiswahili Contemporary Version 2015 Bible © 1984, 1989, 2009, 2015 Biblica, Inc and The New Testament in Modern English by J.B Phillips copyright © 1960, 1972 J. B. Phillips. Cross References: 1 Kings 7:21; Psalm 46:4; Isaiah 62:2; Matthew 11:15; Matthew 13:9; Mark 4:23; 1 Corinthians 9:25; Revelation 1:3; Revelation 2:10-11; Revelation 3:6

[sugaringwrld]

♟️. . . ! find my ocs here !

[ hello, welcome to my page! ]

— my name is juli and my pronouns are she / her.

i love to write added members for some of my favorite groups! in this account you’ll be able to find all of them so please give them love and check them out!

hwang nari !

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[kiss4chuu]

⋅˚₊‧ ୨ request rules ୧ ‧₊˚

⋅˚₊‧ ୨ general rules ୧ ‧₊˚

↳ we only write romantic, platonic, age regression, fluff, angst, and semi-nsfw. no full nsfw content.

↳ we write in oneshot, headcanon, social media, and multi-character form. for multi-characters, the limit is 4-6.

↳ lgbtq+ relationships are fully allowed and encouraged, this includes polyamory.

↳ cross-fandom and au’s are allowed.

↳ we won’t write ships, unless it’s in a polyamorous pairing.

↳ mental abuse, physical abuse, and abuse in general within a pairing is not allowed. topics of it, however, are allowed.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨ fandoms ୧ ‧₊˚

— new jersey devils

— edmonton oilers

— seattle kraken

— florida panthers

— toronto maple leafs

— anaheim ducks

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— chicago blackhawks

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— detriot red wings

— new york islanders

— dallas stars

— carolina hurricanes

— umich (not nhl, but i also don’t care)

— twice

↳ nayeon

↳ jeongyeon

↳ momo

↳ mina

↳ dahyun

↳ chaeyoung

↳ tzuyu

↳ sana

↳ jihyo

— blackpink

↳ lisa

↳ jennie

↳ jisoo

↳ rosé

— (g)i-dle

↳ soyeon

↳ miyeon

↳ soojin

↳ yuqi

↳ shuhua

↳ minnie

— red velvet

↳ irene

↳ seulgi

↳ wendy

↳ joy

↳ yeri

— itzy

↳ yeji

↳ ryujin

↳ lia

↳ yuna

↳ chaeryeong

— le sserafim

↳ yunjin / jennifer

↳ chaewon

↳ sakura

↳ kazuha

↳ eunchae

— ive

↳ wonyoung

↳ yujin

↳ gaeul

↳ liz

↳ leeseo

↳ rei

— loona

↳ heejin

↳ hyunjin

↳ haseul

↳ yeojin

↳ vivi

↳ kim lip

↳ choerry

↳ jinsoul

↳ yves

↳ chuu

↳ gowon

↳ olivia hye

— new jeans

↳ danielle

↳ haerin

↳ hanni

↳ minji

— aespa

↳ karina

↳ winter

↳ giselle

↳ ning ning

— bts

↳ namjoon

↳ yoongi

↳ hoseok

↳ jin

↳ jungkook

↳ jimin

↳ taehyung

— enhypen

↳ ni-ki

↳ jungwon

↳ sunoo

↳ sunghoon

↳ heeseung

↳ jay

↳ jake

— stray kids

↳ bang chan

↳ hyunjin

↳ felix

↳ lee know

↳ i.n

↳ han

↳ changbin

↳ seungmin

— txt

↳ soobin

↳ kai

↳ yeonjun

↳ beomgyu

↳ taehyun

— crash landing on you

↳ ri jeong-hyeok

↳ yoon se-ri

↳ gu seung-joon

↳ seo dan

↳ park kwang-beom

↳ kim jumeok

— all of us are dead

↳ lee su-hyeok

↳ choi nam-ra

↳ lee cheong-san

↳ nam on-jo

↳ yoon gwi-nam

↳ lee na-yeon

↳ jang ha-ri

↳ park mi-jin

↳ jang woo-jin

↳ min eun-ji

↳ kim chul-soo

— sweet home

↳ cha hyun-soo

↳ lee eun-hyuk

↳ lee eun-yoo

↳ seo yi-kyeong

↳ jung jae-heon

↳ pyeon sang-wook

↳ yoon ji-soo

— squid game

↳ kang sae-byeok

↳ seong gi-hu

↳ salesman

↳ hwang jun-ho

↳ ji-yeong

↳ cho sang-wo

↳ front man

↳ abdul ali

↳ circle, triangle, and square guards

© kiss4chuu | no reposts

[milfatozaki]

🎞️ . . . JENiYAH (2001)

about her. haechan & jungkook’s biggest fan, black + panamanian, twentythree, loves (women) frank ocean, daniel caesar, pinkpantheress & romeo santos.

ults. nct (127: haechan, dream: renjun, wayv: xiaojun), bts: jungkook & jimin. twice: sana. seventeen: jeonghan & jun.

masterlist (coming soon!) requests (closed)

i do not write anything including: incest/stepcest, dub/non con, idol x idol, DDLG & scat/piss play.

Minors & Blank Blogs Do Not Interact Because You Will Be Blocked.

© 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐳𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 | do not repost or copy any of my work.

[heartsforjngwn]

[ ✧.* ] . . . ABOUT ME.

you can call me rain! 🫶

pronouns (?)

: she/her

ethnicity (?)

: asian (filipino)

who do i write for (?)

: enhypen!

(if my fics looks too familiar, i have written in instagram and twitter before and i just reused my ideas yall so i promise im not plagiarizing 😭)

what genre do i write (?)

: i write fluff and angst most of the time! anything minor friendly, not accepting anything suggestive and 18+!

fave trope/genre (?)

: fake dating, best friends to lovers, arranged marriage

stan list (?)

: enhypen — jungwon & heeseung, new jeans — hanni, ive — gaeul & wonyoung, twice — sana & nayeon, blackpink — jennie, txt — hyuka

© heartsforjngwn — 2023

[allurenamin-moved]

⎯ 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐬 ; 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨

‣ synopsis: it's off with the promises and on with the action, and best believe that satisfaction will follow suit. wc: 3.7k

‣ tags: husband!nanami kento x wife!reader, angst, filthy smut, post-fight sex, shower sex, oral (f. receiving), hair pulling, nipple play, unprotected sex, black coded reader

‣ author's note: soooo for those of you who used to follow me on my old blog, you would know that this fic was originally written for someone else before i sweetly decided that lovely ken fitted the bill, hehe! nonetheless, hope y'all enjoy!

𝐈𝐅 anyone else was to describe it, lifelessness was the prime impression. There’s nothing else that one could possibly gather from your fairly cryptic manner; no words had fallen from your lips to aid the hypothesis.

You’re always so annoyingly adept at your motives. But somehow, there was still one - and only one - living soul that held the mindly means to figure this shit out. To figure you out. He would spend a considerably scant amount of time on such a task, yet fulfil it so thoroughly that the constant aching between your legs seemed more equitable than you would like it to be.     

He’d recognized it through the minute rising of your chest as if it were obvious. He’d recognized it in the concerningly restive footsteps to your shared bedroom. He’d recognized it in the amusingly shrewd vibrations of your voice box that he’d supposed were to display your deadly level of vexation. Even the fresh, new callousness of your hands had been sensed, the ground being much more than the wrathful nails pressed against your palms in a fist - a skillful maintenance of your bitterness. 

You’d hoped to be a mystery. You’d hoped to seem as composed as you believe yourself to be. But truth be told, you were utterly feeble in your means to conceal it; almost in a way that should have you cowering in humiliation. From careless hands inertly twisting your braids into a bun to your unrelaxed journey to the bathroom; cards were laid out. You fucking knew it. 

What lies beyond sustaining his oh so honorable hand as your lover - your spouse, or partner in crime as some might call it - is absolutely no reason he should know you this well. The wonders, the mysteries… the frailties of your being weren’t just on the back of his skillful hand, but were studied, revised and crammed tirelessly by means of writing on every wall he turned to. 

Fuck him, a cunning conscience with devil horns would whisper every two seconds to your delicate soul. Fuck his criminal wit. Fuck his willingness. Fuck those audacious, plump lips against your neck and his wispy “I missed you.” Fuck his free hand for its knowlege of the riddling workings of your body; sliding up your soft inner-thigh in dissonance with the tiny warm droplets. 

But most of all, fuck you. 

Fuck you for your sweet sighs of compliance. Fuck you for leaning back against his chest and serving absolute fuck-all to simmer his smauldering pride. Fuck you for carelessly rivaling your better judgment. 

Fuck you. The one message that he’d received throughout the noise of your mindly cursing… because Lord, was he just too damn good at fucking you. 

“Still don’t wanna talk to me?” His hand makes a bold move towards your aching cunt, leisurely and patient. Perversity had won the part as your middle name, commiserating you with honeyed whispers, convincing you that maybe, just maybe, the steamy torrent before you was well in outwitting the gears of your autonomy. The heat, the profuse clan of droplets crashing boorishly on your skin and on the shower floor, the wispy tendrils of steam, the cruel rashes of pleasure. Your instincts were hampered from the prospect of pushing him away. It wasn’t you. 

Your breathy shudders were back at failing you, alas, and giving a fuck was thoroughly out of the question. His finger proceeds, light rubs against your clit abettering the drift of his persistence, “Tell me, sweetheart. Are you ready to push me away like you always do?  Like you say I always do?”

“Ken…” You drag, lulled by the whispery milieu of the water, whilst afire by the skill of his fingers. You were beyond certain you’d heard a chuckle, a song of timeliness as per what you’d call it; a fair response to what was supposed to be a lesson learned. 

“Baby,” he murmurs against your neck once more, whilst long, beautiful fingers in a pair begin their jaunt to fuck you before his cock does. “I missed you. I missed you so fucking much and all you need is for me to prove it to you.” 

Your gasp might’ve said something, but you’d basked in it for only an appropriate instant. His fingers, slyly slipping between your folds hadn’t done much for your lively ire. They had, however, certainly succeeded in peeving you further. 

You wanted more. You needed more. 

“We both know that this isn’t enough to prove it. ” You managed to breathe out.

Kisses on your neck cease, and fingers retract from what was the miry wetness of your pussy, certainly ready for more than just a round of listlessly apologetic fingering. 

“Then what is?” He slyly murmurs. 

Damn you for having retained the valor to communicate thoroughly. Spinning around to face him (which was, by apt means, quite difficult), you gift your husband with a bold move of your own, bringing a hand up to grip tightly at the nape of his neck and shorten the distance between your burning faces. A piece of your mind was the treasured cargo. 

“I don’t know how long you’d hoped to play dumb with me, but it ends now. You know what I want.” You hiss through gritted teeth.

The deep and tyrannous buzz of your chest had barely succeeded in vanquishing the serene chaos of the atmosphere. In some obscure way, you felt like it mattered despite his fitting proximity to your lips. Hearing words could only do so much. It isn’t enough until his eardrums are damn near dissipated from your vague desires. 

But there’s no need. Hushed demands are sweet in entertaining his specialty as, afterall, he is your husband.

“Always so bossy.” He tuts. Though, he does all but support the remark. 

You’re moving backwards at his accord, coming in contact with the too-near dead end. You wind up grimacing softly at the rabid coldness of the wall against your shoulder blades and ass, instinctively deterred from the warmth of the recurring downpour. But all is effortlessly shirked once the stirring sensation of his cock against your thigh makes its rise. You feel so hot again, a manic arousal putting zero effort into making your head spin. The strengthening masses of steam would have to try harder. 

Just about sick and fucking tired, you pull him in to kiss you, hard, bringing vengeful tongues and teeth to clash against one another in zeal. With a nip of his teeth and swipe of his tongue on your bottom lip, perhaps a good start in replacing the venomous tidings of each other’s disagreements was put in place  A divine pair of hands is making ravenous journeys across the spacious sweeps of your melanated skin, helped by slippery suds that all but succeeded in concealing the scent of your unending keenness. 

“For what it’s worth,” he mutters, breaking the kiss, “I do know what you want. I always know what you want, and I’m always willing to give you what you want.” 

You’re fucked up. Manic. Aching. And your husband is having too much fun with you.

But one last peck against your lips is where it officially begins. 

He continues down your neck once more, whilst this time, your breasts are caught in the arrest of his hands, squeezing and thumbing across the supple skin of your nipples every now and then. 

It happened too quickly, too far from the likes of your expectations. As if only a nip at your collarbone later, his thumb is benevolently replaced by the eager muscle of his tongue, circling vigorously like his life depends on it… which, in this particular respect, it does. 

“Fuck, Ken.” You heave, almost whimpering, back arching in a deliverance of access. A pair of plump lips wrapping around the erect nub was your response.

He then does the same with your left tit, licking, lapping, sucking, skillfully relishing the flavor of your skin as if it were his last. Your hands had conceded defeat and befriended the burning itch to touch him once again. You bring them up for your fingers to card through the doused tresses of his blonde hair, which he’d been making points to trim every so often.

 You sensed an obscure motive behind it. He need not explain a damn thing, he’d probably say if you asked him about it. But the echoes of your casual “you look so much better with short hair” had made its homecoming. His beautiful cheeks would betray him in your honor, alluding with a pink hue at every vibration. You missed it, and you’re sure he missed it too. 

The same could be said about the recurring shifts in his physique. Although you’ve come to appreciate it more than dwell on the intricacy.

“Oh my God,” you moan as he releases your nipple with a final pop to placidly continue with open mouthed kisses down the valley of your chest, your stomach, then down to your pelvis. The feat had become less farfetched than thought to be. But still, it was about fucking time. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs once more, for what seemed like the umpteenth time to you. But it’s impossible to say that you didn’t appreciate it. 

As you basked in the sight of him knelt down before you in diligence, what you did say was, “You said you were gonna prove it to me. So prove it to me.” 

An index finger making its way back to your throbbing pussy, stroking in between your folds and up your slit to gather the flavourful mess of your arousal, serves the power of his cheeky rejoinder. “As you wish.” He murmurs before wontonly sucking on that fucking finger. 

A bullet was wisely dodged. Dissipating the chance of a thorough scolding for him to just fucking get on with it, he wastes absolutely no time. 

Senses fleeting, mouth forming an ‘o’ and hips arduously urged to buck against the art of his mouth and tongue, you free a series of curses as if it were a play for the casual streetwalker outside your house. One thing for sure is that the neighbors were pissed. Loafing folk sat in what was supposed to be the comfort of their homes in fumes, having attained the gall to complain if it weren’t for knowing of the obvious circumstance. 

If it weren’t for the sound of your husband’s name bouncing off your tongue in a notably pornograhpic lilt, the neighbors would’ve said something. And you’re aware of it. 

The strong, wet muscle zealously wiggles on your bundle of nerves before it is engulfed within the warmth of his mouth for him to suck softly. Your husband was finally fucking home. 

“Fuck, so good, Kento. Always s-so fucking good with your mouth.” Along with your words, the grip on his hair meliorates in palpable praise, earning you the pulsation of a deep hum sauntering amongst the nerves of your throbbing pussy. 

One last nip at your clit foregoes his hushed and mellow response, right before he eyes your zestful form through lidded, dragon-like irises. “So sweet.” he murmurs. “Sweet as always.”

He wastes not an ounce of time before diving in between your thighs again. 

Knees lose a few tinges of functionality at the momentous feel of his tongue parting your folds.  His hands dance up and down the stage of your lower body, caressing the small of your back before landing on the bounteous flesh of your hips to squeeze and detain you taut as he devours the absolute fuck out of you. Loud cries ensue in simple accordance. 

A thunderous call from reality was in your heavy braids having rebelliously twisted out of their bun to fall back onto the expanse of your shoulders and back, carelessly falling victim to the wrath of the downpour. You should be irritated. But his tongue, fucking you ever so sterningly, had garanteed failure to give a fuck about anything opposing the likes of his amazing apology. 

“Mmh- o-oh my… fuck!” More whimpers slip out in reverence as his head shakes vigorously from side to side, his nose rubbing against your clit before it is shortly replaced by his tongue again. He soothes the agonizing emptiness of your entrance with his long fingers; scissoring, curling, prodding sweetly at that spot that had, for too long, begged to be touched. 

He could only keep this up for so long. There’s only so many praising mewls you could set about as he laps at your clit, as he works his digits to what he would know to be your principle. His fingers fucked you so good, but not good enough to make your forget whatever else you had craved throughout the course of this dumb fucking stress-train. 

“Ken.”

The benevolent moil of his fingers ends as he returns to fucking you with his tongue again.

“Kento, please.”

Continually, his mouth shifts back and forth from your entrance to your still throbbing clit; licking, sucking and biting ever so softly. At decent levels you were certain that his neck was tired. 

“Kento! Kento, please,” you heave desperately,  “fuck me. Fuck me now. I need you to fuck me right now.” 

The unremitting sounds of the pouring atmosphere stood not a chance against your grippingly melodious pleas. He heard you, loud and crystal fucking clear. The treasurable element that many would identify to be control had blindly resided within his procurity. 

You weren’t going to let him have it for long. 

“Kento!” You mewl with absolute finality. Having devised the mastery from his hair still intertwined between your fingers, you harshly pull his head back for him to look up at you. “Quit playing games and fuck me!”

“Patience, Sweetheart. There’s time.” He, once again, proceeds in ways that effortlessly contradict the dulcet tone of his rules. Kisses already take small treads back up to your pelvis, then to your stomach. “I need you to be patient with me. I need you to lay low and let me fix things.”  He is soon up on his feet, his lips traveling towards the now acquaintable stop between your breasts. He lingers to plant a few more kisses on the spot, then slowly moves up to your neck as he murmurs, “I can make you feel so good. But only if you let me. Just trust me for once.” 

“Kento,” a sigh escapes your lips as you aid his treatment to your neck, leaning back and giving him access. 

“Just let me…” he stops to suck at the advantageously delicate skin before he’d then made it to your lips. “ …make things right.”

His lips were well guarded within the intention of connecting with yours, steeling you for what is soon to come. His hands were gentle too, having found purchase on the space of your hips and being so dexterous to the touch whilst his intentions were anything but. 

Your hands grip tightly at his broad shoulders, hopes instinctively goaded by his cock conveniently rubbing against your thigh again. You thought of it to be the final tease before he adheres to your lusty inclinations. But it is only after the heat of a “Turn around,” is softly blown against the flesh of your treated lips that he does what he’s raucously told. 

You do so without question, facing the wall in anticipation. 

Though (with arrant difficulty) you’re inwardly vowing to be obedient, your form misplaces all pretense of control. It is especially to the songy squelches behind you directly disclosing the act of your husband stroking his cock; your hands are against the wall as you’re moving your hips backwards to brush up against him. You’re fortunate that he responds with some form of enthusiasm, which is closing the distance between your eager bodies and lining himself up with your dripping entrance. 

The contact induces another knotty spate of desperate whimpers, which he obediently acknowledges, sinking into you with utmost precision. “Oh, f-fuck!” 

“Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay, Sweetheart.” 

The soothing response to your sonorous gasp was hushed and ever so demure, a stark polarity to the harsh grip of his winsomely big hands now on both of your breasts, squeezing like stress balls. 

“Kento,” you call out once more, “Kento! Fuck me. Please… fuck me.” 

The need for those words had successfully reached its coming of age; even posing as an anagram had been deducted as an option. You’ll never have to say them again. 

He begins to move, steady thrusts gradually progressing into a speedier rhythm. His grunts, as well as your whimpers, had joined in with the feat of increasing in a higher measure.

 “Baby,” It was his turn to silently twine a series of praises as you, in return, release a reverberant string of salacious cries for the neighbors to hear and possibly enjoy. “You look so beautiful like this. You always look so beautiful like this, taking me so well.” 

Your hips are once again a landing spot for his hands. You bring your hand down as well, letting it rest upon one of his as he fucks into your pussy with an unsparing velocity. 

The vibrancy was beyond sinful. The warm water continues to strike the lustily responsive flooring as his hips rival the noise with jarring contact against your ass. Each cry made up for a snarl, each word of praise made up for a cold shoulder, each thrust made up for a petty form of dismissal.

 He finds it within himself to slow down, the only unchanging fruit being the brunt in which his skin slams against yours. “I missed you, I missed the way you feel. Angel, tell me how good it feels.” He goads. 

“Oh, baby,” It had been your turn to sing the term of endearment. An urge to finally say “I missed you too” was frighteningly near, but remained still… in your favor, really. It seemed like your tongue’s desire to untangle was only in support of praising his touch; praising the way he felt inside of you, praising the clench of your walls around his length or the nudge of his tip against your dear sweet spot. “So good! So f-fucking good,” you mewl. “Please… please make me come.”

 But you’re empty again, pussy clenching around vain flecks of air. The incompleteness brought waves of confusion. Rhythmic pumps of irritation. A need to spew pleas that was soon held off by the gentle contact of his hand on the front of your neck. Your hand that was once atop his had made its way back against the wall.

It is when his grip gradually strengthens do you meet his return to fucking you senseless. Your sounds travel at staggering heights of volume amongst the echoey air. “Oh- Oh- fuck!” You scream. It encourages him. 

Groans, grunts and a final round of “Oh baby”s against your ear had made its endmost cut. A knot in your stomach signals an approach to orgasm. You were close. “Fuck, Ken…I’m gonna-” 

He doesn’t respond. Not with his familiar breathing of “Come for me” or anything else of the sort. No. He speeds up, in pursuit of something much, much more than a customary finish. A compromise. A refitted amity. Hopes had desperately arised from your moans. Hopes of an “I love you” reattaining its fittedness. It’s exactly what he murmurs against the shell of your ear as you reach your high, cumming with ear-cricking wails that do nothing but praise his laborious efforts. 

The jets and quells of warm liquid inside of you incline a decrease in the speed of his thrusts, which eventually turns into a steady stop once light sobs from overstimulation make their way into the cleft of echoes. 

“You’re okay,” he repeats against your neck. “You’re okay.”

Heavy breaths, weak knees,  and a space freighted with teeming clouds of steam. From the very moment that he’d pulled his cock out, that’s all he could’ve left it to be. You were slightly stunned, for a reason that wasn’t identifiable. 

Your loofah remains lifeless, devoid of its purpose with fluffy white froth sticking languidly out of its miniscule gaps. You were about to pick it up, mind unmoved from the strident feel of cum dripping down your inner thighs, to resume the sorrowful bout of washing away the sense of need that your husband could only do so much to vanquish. 

“Hey, relax.” 

You were still facing the wall. You weren’t making eye-contact. You weren’t going to. And you knew that he knew. But his feet were resolutely taut upon the shower floor. They reeked of intention. It seemed like he wasn’t done. 

It was still foreign to you, the slight suction between your back and his upper body that soon vacates as he bends down to retract the loofah. He’s up straight again.  “Can I?”

Yes please, the words had begged to be the ones to make ties with his mellow request, but all you managed to bring out was a hesitant “Sure.”

He proceeds enthusiastically, nonetheless. 

“I am, however, still waiting for you to…” he begins as he sweetly drags the contraption down the trail of your back, “rank the irrefutability of my proof.” 

Be it your weak knees or your opulent bathroom’s restored comfort, you suddenly feel that there’s no point in arguing the prowess of his sex skills. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the time to praise him with more words. 

Within the beat that you remain silent, your eyes instinctively follow his hand trailing towards the swell of your breasts, making it difficult to not stare. Studying the garish shine of soap down the smooth canvas of your melanin, and its corrivalry with the single shimmer of your husband’s wedding ring… was artful. Artistic. Just like him. Just like you always thought he was. 

It gave you time too; time to realize that all this was you. If only your pride allowed it, an immersive rewind to the oh so salacious removal of your dress and heels after what Namami had made out to be a stern “don’t talk to me” could teach you something. 

But despite it all, and you being greatly incapable of turning an inquisitive mind away from what was the flavorous scent of eager suds… control was a factor that you would do everything in your power to make yours. And yours only. 

“We’ll see, Ken.” You reply softly. 

hope you've enjoyed that 🤍 masterlist ‣let me know your thoughts!

all rights reserved ©sanaguru 2023. reposting, copying and translating is not allowed. reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!

[douqhnxtss]

LONG CHAT (#♥︎) :: k.mj smau

pairing :: kim minjeong (aespa) x oc (reader)

oc name :: lee heeseul

genre :: wlw (gxg), smau (social media au) + written, idol!au, band!au, miscommunication, bandmate's!sister!minjeong, nonidol!minjeong, strangers to ??? to lovers, fluff, angst, comedy, crack, slow burn

synopsis! :: after long years of studying abroad, minjeong is finally back in korea. having spent all her time there piled up in her room studying, she's determined to life her life to the fullest. what's better than attending your brother's band's concert, right? when feelings start to bloom and there isn't any sign of spring yet; minjeong and heeseul are forced to navigate. once their hearts' strings get entangled does it really hit to the two that it may just be more complicated to go back than expected.

warnings :: may be slightly suggestive (not sure), kms/kys jokes, broken humor, profanity, typos, lowercase intended, others will be mentioned in the chapters itself

featuring :: aespa, enhypen, nct, le sserafim, (g)i-dle and lots more idols

song recs :: long chat (#♥︎); aespa | feel my rhythm; red velvet | butterflies; (nayeon) twice | love dive; ive | fever; enhypen | hype boy; newjeans | cheer up; twice | heat waves; glass animals | xo (only if you say yes); enhypen | push & pull; (sana, dahyun, jihyo) twice | licorice; aespa | wishing on you; (jihyo) twice | cupid; fifty fifty | cherish(my love); illit | attention; newjeans

updates :: every 1-3 days between 2pm to 4pm IST

status :: ongoing

timeline :: (drafted; september 25, 2024) published; september 29, 2024 started; october 28, 2024 ended; nobody knows

taglist :: [open!]

(heavy) disclaimer! :: this is totally just fiction, i don't hate any of the idols and i'm in no way trying to say that the idols are like how i portrayed them, in real life.

Douqhnxtss © 2024 :: all rights reserved || plagiarism is indeed a crime, and this is comprised of the storyline and writing that is indeed mine. do not translate, edit, repost or plagiarize any of my work !

|| universe!

MASTERLIST (#♥︎)

profiles :: (#1) trick or trick | (#2) minjeong's soldiers | (#3) tot addicts

(#one) :: TIME TO YAP AND SOB

(#two) :: the whore-iest whore in town is back

(#three) :: Plot twist?!

(#four) :: #SeeingMyGF | wc ▪︎ 1.5k

(#five) :: rude alert?!

(#six) :: i wanna kiss mark

(#seven) :: chat do i kms or do i kms

(#eight) :: u devoured pussy slay queen

(#nine) :: my queencards | wc ▪︎ 656

(#ten) :: yuqieth songing the III

(#eleven) :: gosh, men (stress)

(#twelve) :: stfu oldie

(#thirteen) :: project seul protection

(#fourteen) :: #brokebitchcore

(#fifteen) :: i'm gonna burn him. | wc ▪︎ 1.64k

(#sixteen) :: tbw

(#seventeen) :: tbw

(#eighteen) :: tbw

more tba—

[sonmuzik]

Ko Shin Moon Feat Melike Şahin "İsyan"

Ko Shin Moon Feat Melike Şahin "İsyan"

Melike Şahin’in Fransız ikili Ko Shin Moon ile bir araya geldiği ve Haziran 2022’de müzikseverlerle buluşan “İsyan” şarkısının video klibi yayında! Kayıtları Türkiye’de başlayıp Fransa’da tamamlanan parça geleneksel halk müziğini elektronik öğelerle birleştiriyor. “İsyan”da Melike Şahin etkileyici yorumculuğuyla Ko Shin Moon’a eşlik ederken, grup albümün genelinde sizi dünyanın bir ucundan ötekisine pop ve folk kültürünü tecrübe edebileceğiniz bir serüvene davet ediyor. Ko Shin Moon Feat Melike Şahin "İsyan" "İsyan" Şarkı Sözleri Çekinme oyna en kötü kartını – , -̀, Ah eski zorba karıştır altları – , , , Elimde dört as, senin bu kumpas – ’ , ̀ Düzenine boyun eğemem – ̀ ́́ Kendim buldum, elimle kurdum – ’ ́, ’ ́́, Gizemimi sana veremem – ̀ ̀ , ’ Kuralını bozdum, başucuma koydum – ̀, ́, ́ Bu kafa neşe içinde – ̀ , ’ Burda, beni yere seremezsin – , , Burda beni yere seremezsin – , , Sinirimi zorla, almadan ahımı – -, Gelmedim oyuna, arama belanı – J ’ , Elimde kalbim – œ ́ Senin bu dandik düzenine boyun eğemem – ̀ ̀ Denzi & Kaan Dinç Çalışması “Başka Çare” Kendim buldum, elimle kurdum – ’ ́, ’ ́́, Gizemimi sana veremem – ̀ ̀ , ’ Kuralını bozdum, başucuma koydum – ̀, ́, ́ Bu kafa neşe içinde – ̀ , ’ Burda, beni yere seremezsin – , , Sözü sana uymaz – Sazıma bi yer ver – ̀ , ́- Bu kara fasıl içinde – ̀, & - Starring Melike Şahin, Niko Shin, Axel Moon, Olivier Veillon, Brigitte Masure, Nadjim Mekki, Murat Subasi, Roberto Gil, Caroline Menon-Bertheux, Emmanuel Gillet, Myriam El Moumni, Lola Warin & Eric Cornet. Produced by L’Endroit & Total Totem Producer - Pascal Barneville Production Manager - Ismaël Benazzouz 1st Assistant Directors - Antony Renault Director of Photography - Pépin Struye 1st Assistant Camera - Lucas Janiszewski 2nd Assistant Camera - Betty Yamanjian Gaffer - Laurent Ganiage Best Boy - Victor Riou Set Designer - Alicia Zaton Set Designer Assistant - Lilou Thieffenat Recipe translation & writing - Sarah Srage Costume Designer - Marine Peyraud Hair & Make-up Artist - Shana Montier Melike Şahin’s Hair & Make-up Artist - Zeynep Dombaycıoğlu Location Manager - Arthur Couette Editing & VFX - Robin Lachenal & Céline Martin-Sisteron Color Grading - Florian Martiny - Keepgrading Producers L’Endroit - Pascal Barneville, Maud Deschambres & Bastien Ehouzan Total Totem - Aura Anahita Gulbaba Music - Gülüm Baltacıgil, Ahmetcan Tasdemir Service providers - RVZ, Cininter, Cicar, Nestor Factory, Les 2 Ailleurs - Lola Warin & Myriam El Moumni, La Flèche d’Or, Les Chaudronneries, Mezaia, Pic&Chic Avec le soutien du Centre National de la Cinématographie et de l’Image Animée & du Centre National de la Musique © ’ & ( 2023) Read the full article

[jungwnies]

chapter 18 | the day has come

the day has finally come, huening's birthday

(y'all i know i'm late but i lowkey hit writer's block while i was writing this story so let's pretend.)

the party started and you greeted all the guests alongside the other txt members, hueningkai hasn't arrived and there was still some down time before the actually party began.

"thank you so much for helping us y/n." soobin says smiling.

you shake your head, "it's really no problem, i hope this party is as great as it can be."

» ts

"surprise!" everyone shouted as the birthday boy walked in the room, the party has finally begun.

as everyone got a little more settled in you walk over to a table with your friends, "i feel like it's been so long since we've been able to hang out, i'm surprised they let you out winter." you say jokingly.

"i'm surprised they let not only me, but chenle out." she adds laughing as chenle nodded along.

"hey y/n." you hear a deep voice say from behind immediately giving away who it is.

"felix, hi!" you say smiling. “if you’ll excuse me guys.” you walk away to a corner with felix.

“you look, amazing.” felix says with a warming smile.

“you clean up pretty well yourself, i’m glad you got to come despite all the shit that’s going down with the scandal.” you tell him laughing.

felix sighs, “i trust they’ll figure it out.” felix runs his hands through his hair and sighs again, “but there’s something i wanted to talk to you about y/n.”

you look at him confused, “yeah of course, what’s up?”

before felix could reply you feel a grip on your wrist, not too tight and a low whisper, “sorry to interrupt but can we get some help with the cake?” the boy asks.

you nod, “i’ll be back in a few minutes felix, ive really gotta help with the cake.” you tell him walking off with the boy.

“i would be careful talking to him y/n, you never know if someone will leak images from the inside.” yeonjun says quietly as the two of you walked to the kitchen where the cake was.

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masterlist | chapter 19

2022 © jungwnies

[braemjeorn]

CHAPTER II [masterlist]

pairing: bang chan x ofc

genre: general audience (I would say fluff but... there's nothing toothrotting here), regency period drama(?)

wordcount: 3k

summary: miss son going through her first day.

warnings: regency era setting; countryside; schoolroom; Chan being cold; nonsensical conversations of education, author apologizes for that

also available in ao3, if you prefer that format

© Do not repost, copy, or republish into another site or under another name.

⚠️ All characters that shares the name of real life person in this story are represented in a fictional manner for entertainment purpose, and not to be alluded with real life.

TAGLIST: @spookykryptoniteperson

The Bang’s household started early — the maid called her down for breakfast in the dining hall at seven. Mari had roused on her own at six, alert and fresh, and by that time she had managed to write her journal and letters.

The pale walls of Barlnshore gleamed as the morning sun shone through the rows of tall, sky-reaching windows. Mari admired the sight on the stairs—at the top of the first flight before it climbed in two directions. The Commodore passed on the lower ground below her then. They bid one another good morning, and Mari recalled the familiar angle of her sight. She had seen him that morning while gathering her senses by observing the grounds. He was walking with his gardener, attired in a longer, looser coat and coarser boots. Not that the shade differs much in his present garb.

“Have you lost yourself?” asked Commodore Bang as Mari descended the final flight.

“No. I asked the maids for directions,” she replied.

“Ask Sana to take you around; you’ll have to know the rooms well in this house.”

Mari gave her assent, and noticed his gaze was upon her hair, the curling ends of it. There was a hint of surprise in his eyes—the way Minatozaki-san had regarded it, yet it was brief. Soon he turned and walked on, leading them into the dining room.

Dining was a familial affair—uncommon to Mari’s knowledge of gentry families. Despite the silence and her unease of being seated across the Commodore, the number was of some comfort.

The morning was bright and cool, the cutleries tinkling quietly as they began the meal. Mari observed and recollected the boys' names; she sat at the end of the table, and the Commodore far across her at the head. Hyunjin sat at his father’s right, across from his oldest brother. Next to Minho was Seungmin, then one of the twins—Mari was not yet sure which one had which name. The youngest sat next to him at Mari’s right, the red fox doll by his plate; Jeongin looked down shyly when Mari smiled at him.

Changbin sat at her left, helping with the names and the tea. Between him and Hyunjin was the other pair of twins—Jisung, Changbin reminded her, whose cheeks filled out as he munched through his plate. Therefore across him was Yongbok, who turned at Mari and Changbin’s whisper of his name. He sniffed, and scrunched his nose; it pulled a fond smile from Changbin.

Near the end of the meal, Mr Kang entered to deliver a note for the Commodore. The boys made no inquiry nor remark, sipping on their milk. Yet their gaze showed blatant anticipation as the Commodore read the short note.

“We shall have some guests come autumn,” Commodore Bang announced. He folded the paper away and calmly returned to his meal; one would not know if he was pleased or irked by the news. The boys shared glances with one another, before turning back to their father.

“Lady Jang Nayoung?” Minho asked.

Commodore Bang regarded his eldest, and answered, “Yes; it will be good for you to meet finally.”

There glances turned alarmed; Mari wondered and waited. The boys turned to Minho and Changbin; the two shared a look before attending their father again.

“You’ll see Her Ladyship when you go tomorrow?” asked Hyunjin.

“Yes.”

“Like you always do?”

“Hyunjin…” Changbin chided, even so far away across the younger

“You know me well, Hyunjin,” Commodore Bang said. “At least we will not only talk of her in the winter, she will join us for a stay.”

He went quiet for a moment, thoughtful—then adding lightly, “Uncle Bambam will come along too.”

The response could not be more distinct. Each of them started up and asked their father to confirm it again, then clapping with delighted exclamations and cheers when he nodded.

“Capital!” Jeongin called out, his voice loud and sudden over the hum of excitement that everyone turned to him. The outburst surprised himself, and the youngest withdrew with timidity to bite his bread. The progression of his emotions brought much fondness from his brothers. They laughed and cooed over him—Yongbok nuzzled into Jeongin's hair despite his repulsed whines. Even the Commodore smiled—not a mere polite quirk, for Mari caught with awe the plain fondness that crossed his eyes.

The schoolroom was placed at one corner of the house, overlooking a part of the garden full of flowery hedges. The sun brightened up the room; for the windows were wide and many, opened broad to let the breeze in as well. There was a long table, with chairs lining the sides. At the head of the room was a blackboard, and a large desk with dictionaries and a record book of notes (or many horrified exclamations) from previous teachers. On the end were shelves of books and wooden models of little houses or carriages and ships. A globe perched in the corner beside it. For all such items, there was still enough space for six people to move about the room. But now they all sat down. Hyunjin minded them to behave, while Mari settled her books on the desk and pulled her chair to sit before the boys.

“I hope you have been sleeping well,” she said.

“Yes,” came the muffled responses.

“Did you have a dream?” she asked again.

There was a long pause, some shared looks or recollecting with faraway eyes. “I don’t remember,” Seungmin muttered with a frown.

“I laid an egg in my dream,” Mari said quietly, when no further responses came. The statement made them still, eyes up and alert. Jisung coughed and shifted in his seat. Mari smiled.

“But then I remembered I wasn’t even sleeping. Nor even laying in the bed.”

Hyunjin turned, incredulous at the turn of events, “What?”

“It rolled out as I opened my blanket—which was in greater layers than I would need—chickens or dragons could nest between them.” Her tale had a great deal of truth. She was more confused at the sight of the egg. If she had laid on it, she would have been vexed, and less humorous at present. But it had been a ridiculous sight to see at night—and the boys made such effort to be unsuspecting and innocent. So Mari smiled, and wondered if her mild response will cease their mischief, or a sterner route is necessary to end it.

“I don’t think chickens can fly up that high—that they reach your window,” Seungmin replied.

“No.” Mari agreed. “But dragons can glide in the air.”

Seungmin grinned, and shook his head, “There are no dragons!”

“No, there is,” Jeongin muttered, much to the other’s surprise. He sat between Hyunjin and Seungmin, quietly patting his fox doll.

“Where?” Yongbok asked, curious.

“Indeed where?” Hyunjin prodded.

“In the King’s throne,” Jeongin replied, still not looking up. “He sits on them.”

Hyunjin declared him adorable, while Mari verified Jeongin’s statement. It pleased the young lad. The door was knocked, opened by the eldest two before Mari could properly receive them. She thought they might only come for a visit, and give some distraction to the younger ones.

“How may I help you?” Mari asked, noticing the books they carried.

“Father said you are to watch over us,” Minho said; with the sigh in his sentence and the curl on his lips, he was none too pleased by this decision. Mari somewhat sympathised with him.

“But you are not my charges,” she pointed out.

“We’re to study by ourselves,” Changbin piped in. “Under your supervision. So Father said.”

Mari hummed, and made a reminder to speak of it with the Commodore. She considered the chairs and desks under the windows. “Would that place do?” she asked. The two gave some assent, moving to sit and open their books there.

She turned to the other five and applied herself to start their lessons. A few inquiries and references from books made known their abilities to her. They were bright, if not uninclined) to work for longer hours. A habit Mari will need to improve on, but for now, she gave them a reading and writing exercise.

Today the breeze is languid, inducing one to sleep in a hammock. Yet the clock’s shorthand had barely passed ten. She gave Jeongin a slate, letting him show his writing abilities to her. Hyunjin had neglected his book to sketch a small flower cluster in the corner of his slate. Seungmin sat reading in a more diligent, proper manner beside him. Yongbok and Jisung read to each other, heads close over the book they shared, absorbed in the pictures and the tale. Jisung surprised her with his chatters to Yongbok, for the two had spoken little in the hours she had been here. But now she overheard their opinions of the details in the drawings and the stories. Minho and Changbin had their backs to her: one bent over writing and the other musing out the window.

“Your Father mentioned you having sixteen governesses?” Mari asked Hyunjin, after looking over his slate. The boy tilted his head, then turned towards Changbin, who had leant over his chair to watch them for some while.

“Was it really sixteen?”

“She’s the seventeenth,” Changbin nodded.

“True then,” Hyunjin said, turning back to her.

“I see.”

It was a relief to Mari when the clock struck half-past eleven, and she dismissed them to the gardens.

“Run along now; you can go play for a while before lunch,” she ushered. But the boys kept staring at her, with a shared air of confusion in their looks.

“Truly?” Seungmin asked.

“We can play in the garden?” Yongbok followed.

Mari nodded, pointing at the open door, “Of course. Off you run.”

They burst out of their chairs, laughed and cheered with elation as they ran out of the room. Jisung bolted out the fastest and claimed a game of tags, announcing the penalty of having to tidy the playroom for the looser

“Leave them be,” Mari heard Minho mutter. Changbin had risen to watch his scrambling younger brothers better.

“And what will Father say?” he hissed. He then huffed with disdain, then walked out to the terrace. The laughter reached a high pitch, and Mari saw him running out to join the others.

Minho kept in his place, though the books and the papers remain neglected. He watched the rest, smirking as Changbin argued with the younger ones, his whines drawn on as they broke into a run. The eldest picked up his pen, looked down at his books and continued his writing.

Mari read through their slates, noting in the report book the arrangements for their future lessons. A few minutes later there was another sharp knock at the door, followed by the Commodore’s swift entrance. She rose in surprise to greet him—he spared her and Minho a look, then briskly crossed the room out into the terrace. He watched them for a moment, then called out loud. “Come inside now, all of you! It’s lunchtime.”

The games stopped: the laughter and shrieks silenced into an odd hush. Then rumbles of footsteps advanced towards the room: they hurried in, then out to the hallway. Commodore Bang walked in after them.

“You too, Minho.”

There was a lull before Minho hummed in reply. He closed his book and kept his pens, passing the two adults out of the room. Mari piled the slates, kept them with her books near the blackboard, and then tidied the chairs.

“Do not indulge them, Miss Son,” Commodore Band said when Mari stepped out of the classroom. “Too many children have become unruly when they have too much time at their leisure.”

“Your sons are very well behaved, sir.” Some irritation rose in Mari at his displeasure, prompting her to a defensive stance. “I let them out since they’ve finished their work.”

“I want them to attend their education well,” the Commodore expressed. “And it will befit their cultivated minds to exercise their character in discipline. I haven’t spoken about this haven’t I?”

Mari recalled the ‘instructions’ in the first letter. “I believe not, sir.”

They slowly walked back to the dining hall, and he iterated all his regulations. Bedtimes and meal hours are to be strictly adhered to; the same for the hours of their daily routines. No later start nor earlier release from the allotted times for lessons or breaks. No time wasted in daydreaming and intentions unfulfilled. The clock will aid her in keeping time and prevent her from delays. Such arrangements will help her in managing seven heads while building their habits.

“They are to be respectable men,” Commodore Bang continued. “—with good characters and principles to walk with in life, between their peers and society. If I have but one thing to bestow them as an inheritance—such virtues would be first. That not only because of name, standing, or money they can have respect but in themselves. And I will not tolerate indulgences if that liberates them into uncouthness. Those are my wishes, Miss Son. Our wishes. Do not indulge them, simply remember that. Do you understand?”

The length of his speech astounded her, and Mari nodded more in comprehension than acceptance of his words. Commodore Bang starred, but soon looked away after securing her earnestness—as if embarrassed at having divulged so much to her.

Lunch passed in a livelier manner than breakfast. The boys murmured between themselves and made restraints for giggles. Mari was still contemplating her given instructions between bites. The Commodore called her again after the meal concluded, while dismissing the boys to the library and naps.

“Come, I have to give you something,” said he, and lead her through the halls, past the library and further into his study. Inside, the wide-open window faced the north; and the trees in the garden shadowed the writing desk before it. It was plain and functional; of fine, dark mahogany wood. There’s a single row of drawers right below the surface, and Commodore Bang pulled one on the left open. He pulled out a thin, long box, and unlocked it with a little key from his pocket. There were thin papers inside—which Mari recognized as bank notes—he pulled two out of the bundle. He locked and returned the box into the drawer, picked another item into his palm, then pushed the compartment shut. He returned and held the bank notes out towards her.

“Take them,” he said. ”Both will be useful.”

Mari did not lift a finger, examining the amount those notes represented. “Are those my wages?”

“That you will receive every two months. This is your pocket money,” Commodore Bang intoned. “If you need any more facilities in your lessons, use them. It should be enough until my return.”

Mari frowned, “It is too much.”

“Take them.”

She wondered if any of the previous teachers had tricked him through this means of funding. The “pocket money” was nearly one-tenth of her wages. Mari hesitated, but knowing he might insist further, she received them with both hands. Commodore Bang turned his wrist, and from his fingers dropped a dangling object into Mari’s hand. A brass whistle: light, yet cold and gleaming in her palm.

“You can go now.” the Commodore said. Mari walked out of the room, admiring the whistle while Commodore Bang shut the door.

“What of this?” she asked him.

“To call the boys,” he said, like nothing could be more obvious. “Hold a long note for two seconds, then three short blows; they’ll know they are to gather.”

Mari chuckles, “What are they, sheep?”

He did not share her amusement. “These are extensive grounds, Miss Son; let us not tolerate shouting for our throats' sake. Anything else?”

Mari hid the whistle in her palm and shook her head. “No, sir. Thank you.”

Commodore Bang turned away, and she returned to her room, still hesitant about the things given to her. She kept the notes in her box, locked among her cotton handkerchiefs; the whistle rests atop it.

When night came, her mind ran too fast for her fatigued body and heavy lids, persuading her to recount again the Commodore's words; to contemplate their meaning with what clarity she possessed at that moment. Her belief protested the newfound understanding.

"He is to leave tomorrow, and he expects me to fulfil all those wishes before he returns. Ah, no—but indeed, the manner which he said it — 'twas as if I am to bear the full responsibility of it. No, no, indeed. I can set compliance in the classroom that we all might study well — but beyond that, I have to wish to contain them either. Those boys can have their enjoyments and explorations. In manners of character... I only wish them to be good people. Indeed, that is the shared notion? Of his wishes and what I am prompted as a teacher? I suppose that is achievable without such extents of pressing obedience. They can have their childish liberty. But I believe that his involvement would make a greater impact than any spoken instructions. For what is a teacher to a parent's guidance? The Commodore would have greater authority — he would have impressed them. There's no one better to demonstrate such principles for the boys — if he's willing."

But such words are only for her mind, and she regarded Commodore Bang’s morning departure with some dissatisfaction. He was to leave for the capital, like other gentlemen—to return to his society and the gaiety of the fine folks. After breakfast he bids his boys goodbye, minding them to be good and care for one another. Then he entered the carriage, and Mr Kang shut its door. The twins gave a solemn wave as it drove away, Seungmin and Jeongin followed. It drives far up to the gate, reduced into nothing but a thumb-sized blackness in the vast landscape.

The boys clamoured back into the schoolroom, none too unaffected by the departure, while Mari made the resolution that her decisions from then on would be for her pupils' welfare, and no unreasonable opinions will interfere with her objectives.

Sometimes I see clips of Bang Chan, SKZ’s loving, adoring, I’d-lasso-the-Milky-Way-for-the-eight-of-you leader with his soft heart eyes, and think back to this project and how I would have to present him as fierce and stern as his cool teaser photos would have impressed us if we are not Stays and concludes that, “I am bold, I have attempted the unthinkable, indeed. Fear me.” But it’s all too dramatic I think and messy overall so I just wish that I might finish them all 'til the end, kkeut, kkeut!

On a second note, I’ve been watching North and South the 1975 version while revising this (someone uploaded the episodes on YouTube, thank you) and might have been slightly influenced by Mr Stewart’s acting as Mr Thronton like... Mr Armitage’s broody Thornton ain’t got nothing to that deep, stern voice. But Lord, I haven’t been obsessed with a story for so long.

[sxfik]

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