#Applause Addiction | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reveriebae · 5 months ago

Text

Unveiled temptation

pairing(s) : Song Mingi x reader

word count : 5731

summary : You swore you’d never meet an online friend in person—until Mingi. One secret visit to his performance, one photo sent without a word, and now he’s found you. And tonight, he’s going to ruin you.

genre : smut

warning(s) : dominance, obsession, mild possessiveness, public teasing, and explicit language. Expect manhandling, desperate pacing, and overwhelming pleasure. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N : this fic is my favorite one this far. I hope you guys like it🥺🫶

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut 🪐

You had always been careful. Always drawn lines you refused to cross.

The internet was a playground, a place to connect, but it was never supposed to be real. You had rules—clear, solid ones that kept you safe. No meeting people you knew online. No getting too attached. No blurring the lines between fantasy and reality.

And yet…

Mingi.

It started with a simple follow. Then the occasional like on your posts. Then came the conversations—long, winding ones that stretched across midnight and bled into early mornings. His words were addictive, pulling you in deeper than you should’ve allowed. He was confident, but never pushy. Smooth, but not rehearsed. He made you laugh, made your stomach flutter with the way he spoke so easily, so casually, yet always with just enough bite to make you wonder if there was more behind his words.

And there was.

You knew it when he sent you a video of him playing guitar late one night.

"I play here every Saturday," he had texted once, sending you a picture of a dimly lit stage. "You should come watch me sometime."

Your answer had been immediate. "I don’t meet people from online."

His reply had come just as fast. "One day, you will."

It sent a shiver down your spine, the kind that came not from fear, but from the way your pulse picked up at the thought.

And now, here you were.

Breaking your own rule.

The bar was warm, filled with the hum of conversation and the deep strum of a bass vibrating through the air. Dim lights bathed the wooden floors in a soft glow, casting long shadows against the walls. The scent of alcohol and faint traces of cigarette smoke lingered, mixing with something earthy and familiar—something that smelled like leather and musk.

Your eyes flickered to the stage.

And there he was.

Mingi.

You had seen him in photos, watched his videos, but nothing compared to seeing him in person. He was taller than you had imagined, broader. The loose fit of his black tee did nothing to hide the way it stretched over his shoulders, his sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the veins trailing down his forearms.

But it was his presence that stole your breath.

He wasn’t just playing. He was feeling the music. Fingers dancing over the guitar strings with practiced ease, head tilted slightly as if he were lost in the rhythm. His lips parted, brows furrowing slightly in concentration, his body moving with every note. He wasn’t just good—he was mesmerizing.

Your grip tightened on your phone.

You shouldn’t.

You really shouldn’t.

But you did.

Lifting the device, you snapped a picture of him mid-performance.

His fingers curled around the neck of the guitar, his head tilted back slightly, a sheen of sweat on his jawline catching the light. He looked unreal.

Your heart pounded as you typed out the message.

"You look good up there, rockstar."

You hit send before you could overthink it.

And then, you waited.

The song ended. The bar erupted into cheers and applause. You watched as Mingi pulled out his phone, his sharp gaze dropping to the screen. His thumb hovered over the message.

Then, his head lifted.

And he looked directly at you.

Your stomach dropped.

You knew the moment he recognized you.

His eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a firm line as he shoved his phone into his pocket without replying.

And then he moved.

Fast.

Your breath hitched as he pushed through the crowd, weaving between bodies with laser focus. People tried to stop him, patting his shoulder, talking to him, but he ignored them all.

You panicked.

Your heart hammered as you scrambled to stand, but it was too late.

Mingi was in front of you.

Tall. Intimidating. Gorgeous.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you. Long and hard. As if he were seeing right through you, as if every conversation, every teasing text, every moment you had shared online had been leading to this very second.

“You just had to break your own rule, huh?”

His voice was deeper in person. It sent a shiver down your spine, something dangerous curling in your stomach.

“I—”

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Before you could process what was happening, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and firm. He didn’t give you a chance to argue, guiding you through the bar with a grip that wasn’t rough, but commanding.

You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve protested.

But you didn’t.

Because deep down, you had wanted this.

The drive to his apartment was silent, tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. Mingi’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched. You stole glances at him, at the way his fingers tapped against the leather, at the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed hard.

He was holding back.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted him to.

When he finally pulled into the parking lot, neither of you moved. The air inside the car was heavy, thick with anticipation.

Then, Mingi exhaled slowly and turned to you.

“You’re really here.” His voice was quieter now, almost disbelieving. His eyes dragged over your features, slow and deliberate, memorizing you in person.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, something in him snapped.

In an instant, he was on you.

His lips crashed against yours—hot, demanding, desperate.

You barely had time to gasp before he was kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your head spin. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you onto his lap, and you melted against him, fingers tangling in his hair.

“You have no idea,” he growled against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

His fingers dug into your skin, possessive, needy.

You whimpered.

And then, he devoured you whole.

The heat of his body seeped into yours, his large hands gripping your waist as you straddled him in the dimly lit car. His lips moved against yours with raw hunger, as if he had been holding back for far too long. Every brush of his tongue, every nip of his teeth sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

Mingi was possessive.

Not just in the way he kissed you, but in the way he touched you—like he was claiming you.

His hands roamed over your thighs, gripping the flesh beneath your dress, kneading, teasing. His breath was hot against your mouth when he pulled back, his gaze dark and unreadable.

“I should take you inside,” he muttered, his voice rough, strained.

You nodded, swallowing hard, but didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You could feel the hard press of his length beneath you, the way his fingers flexed against your hips, holding himself back.

“Mingi…” you breathed, your hands still fisted in his shirt.

He exhaled sharply, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “If you say my name like that again, I might just take you right here.”

Your breath hitched.

The idea of him not waiting, of him losing control right here in the car, sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

But then he groaned, tilting his head back against the seat. “No. Not like this. Not in a damn car.”

Before you could say anything, he tightened his grip on your waist, lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your legs wobbled when your feet hit the ground, but he was already out of the car, grabbing your wrist again.

The walk to his apartment was a blur.

Your heart hammered against your ribs as he led you down the hallway, his long strides quick and purposeful. He was tense—like he was forcing himself to keep a leash on his desire.

And the moment the door shut behind you, that leash snapped.

You barely had time to take in the dimly lit apartment before you were pinned against the wall.

Mingi’s hands were on you in an instant—gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up to your throat. His chest pressed against yours, his breath heavy, ragged.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, voice dangerously low, “how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on you?”

Your breath came out in a shaky gasp. “Then do it.”

His pupils dilated. His lips parted.

And then, he did.

His mouth was on yours again, but this time, it was different.

Slower. Deeper.

He wasn’t rushing anymore. He was savoring.

The kiss was a drug, intoxicating and thorough. His tongue teased, exploring you with a patience that made you ache. He pulled away just enough to nip at your lower lip, smirking when you whimpered.

“You taste just as sweet as I imagined,” he muttered, voice husky.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, and he let out a low groan.

“You like teasing me?” he mused, pressing his thigh between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you shudder.

You bit your lip, trying not to moan, but he noticed.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, amusement laced in his tone. “You need me to ruin you, don’t you?”

Your body burned at his words, the sheer dominance in his voice making you tremble.

Mingi leaned in, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Then let me.”

And that was all the warning you got before he lifted you into his arms and carried you to his bedroom.

Mingi’s bedroom was dimly lit, the warm glow of a single bedside lamp casting long shadows across the space. The moment he set you down, you barely had time to register your surroundings before he was on you again.

His hands found your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel small under his touch. His lips hovered over yours, teasing—so close, yet refusing to give in completely.

You whimpered, tilting your head up, trying to close the distance.

He smirked.

"That desperate already?" His voice was a low drawl, dripping with amusement.

Your cheeks burned, but you refused to back down. "You're the one who dragged me here."

Mingi hummed, tilting his head slightly. His silver chain glinted under the low light, drawing your attention to the sharp cut of his collarbone. You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to reach out and run your fingers along it.

But he saw where your eyes landed.

And he used it against you.

His fingers reached up, wrapping around the cool metal of his necklace, tugging it slightly as he let out a thoughtful hum. "You like this?" he mused, rolling the chain between his fingers before letting it dangle loose again.

Your throat went dry. "I—"

He didn’t let you answer.

Instead, he leaned in until his lips brushed against your ear. His breath was warm, teasing. "Say it," he murmured. "Say you like it, baby."

Your pulse pounded. You hated how easily he could unravel you with just a few words.

"... I like it," you admitted softly.

Mingi chuckled, the deep sound vibrating against your skin. "Yeah? You like my silver chain?"

His hand suddenly grabbed yours, guiding it up until your fingers wrapped around it. The cool metal pressed against your palm, stark against the warmth of his skin.

"Then hold onto it," he whispered. "While I ruin you."

Your breath hitched.

Before you could process what was happening, his lips crashed into yours again—but this time, it was hungry. Deep. Possessive.

You gasped against his mouth, and he took advantage of it, his tongue slipping past your lips, claiming you without hesitation. The kiss was messy, all heat and need, his hands roaming down your back before gripping your ass, pulling you flush against him.

The bulge in his jeans pressed into your core, making you whimper.

He growled, nipping at your bottom lip. "So fucking soft," he muttered, dragging his hands up your body. His thumbs brushed over your hardened nipples through the fabric of your dress, and you shuddered.

Mingi smirked against your mouth. "That sensitive, baby?"

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a whine, but he caught your chin between his fingers. His eyes darkened.

"Don't you dare hold back on me."

Your heart stuttered.

Mingi was playing with you. Teasing you, drawing it out just to watch you fall apart. And it was working.

His hand moved to the straps of your dress, slowly sliding one down your shoulder. Then the other.

The fabric pooled at your waist, exposing your bare chest to the cool air.

Mingi inhaled sharply, his gaze devouring you.

"Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. "You're even prettier than I imagined."

His fingers trailed down, ghosting over your nipple—but not touching. Not yet. Just enough to make you squirm.

You whined softly, arching into him, and that was exactly what he wanted.

His lips curled into a smirk.

"Needy little thing," he murmured. "I should make you beg for it, shouldn’t I?"

Your eyes widened. "Mingi—"

His thumb finally brushed over your nipple, rolling it between his fingers.

You gasped.

He chuckled darkly. "I’ll take my time, baby. Don’t worry."

His mouth lowered, lips hovering just above your skin. You could feel his breath, so close, but he still didn’t touch.

The anticipation was torture.

"Mingi, please—"

His teeth grazed your nipple, just barely, and your whole body jolted.

He groaned. "Shit. You're so fucking sensitive."

Your fingers tightened around his silver chain, and he felt it.

His head snapped up, eyes burning into yours.

"You like that, huh?" His voice was darker now, rougher.

Your breath came out shaky. "Y-Yeah."

Mingi exhaled sharply, his restraint hanging by a thread. "Then let me see how much you can take."

And with that, his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard.

A strangled moan left your lips, your back arching as heat shot straight to your core.

Mingi growled against your skin, his hands gripping your thighs, pressing you down onto his lap where his cock was already hard against you.

Your fingers pulled on his chain, making the silver dig into his throat.

Mingi groaned.

"Oh, baby," he rasped. "You keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last long."

But that was a lie.

Because Mingi wasn’t anywhere close to being finished with you.

Mingi's grip on your thighs tightened as he continued to devour your skin, his mouth moving from your nipple to the soft expanse of your chest. He was taking his time, teasing you, making sure you felt every brush of his lips, every graze of his teeth.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not for him. Not for you.

The way your fingers clenched around his silver chain sent a shudder down his spine, a deep groan escaping his lips. He loved it—loved the way you pulled at it, the way you held onto him like you needed him to keep you steady.

“You like playing with my chain, baby?” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

You nodded, your breath shaky. “Yeah…”

Mingi smirked, his eyes burning into yours. “Then keep holding onto it. I wanna feel you pull when you can’t take it anymore.”

Before you could process his words, his teeth sank into the soft skin of your breast, just enough to make you gasp.

The sting melted into pleasure as he soothed the bite with his tongue, lapping over the mark he’d just left.

Your body arched into him, desperate for more, but he wasn’t done teasing you yet.

His hands trailed down, gripping your thighs before suddenly flipping you onto your stomach.

You barely had time to react before he was behind you, pressing you into the mattress. His chest was hot against your back, his breath fanning over the shell of your ear.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his hands sliding down your sides. “So eager… so fucking desperate for me.”

Your cheeks burned at his words, but you couldn’t deny it.

You needed him.

Mingi knew it too.

His fingers trailed lower, just barely brushing over the damp fabric between your legs. You jolted, a choked whimper slipping past your lips.

He chuckled darkly. “You’re already soaked, baby?”

You bit your lip, trying not to beg, but Mingi wasn’t having it.

His free hand wrapped around his chain, pulling it taut against your throat as he leaned in close. “Use your words, sweetheart,” he murmured, his lips grazing your ear. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Your fingers tightened around the cool metal, your body trembling beneath him.

“Mingi… please.”

His grip on the chain loosened just enough to let you breathe, but his fingers slipped beneath your underwear, dragging over your soaked folds.

He groaned. “Fuck. You’re dripping for me.”

A broken moan escaped you as he slid one long finger inside, slowly, teasing you, curling just enough to make your stomach tighten.

Your grip on his necklace tightened.

Mingi smirked.

“Oh, baby,” he purred, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “We’re just getting started.”

Mingi’s breath was hot against your skin as his fingers moved achingly slow between your legs, dragging through your wetness just to tease you. His touch was barely there, like he wanted to see you squirm before he gave you what you wanted.

And you were squirming.

Your hips rocked against his hand, silently begging for more, but he only chuckled.

“So desperate, baby.” His voice was deep, smug. “I barely touched you, and you’re already this wet?”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t deny it. You couldn’t.

Because he was right.

The way he was controlling you, the way he was dragging this out, made your body pulse with need.

He brought his lips to your ear, his silver chain brushing against your skin as he whispered, “You like being teased, don’t you?”

You whimpered. “Mingi, please—”

His fingers pushed in deeper, curling inside you just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “So fucking tight.”

You gasped, your grip on his necklace tightening, making the cool metal press into his throat.

Mingi felt it.

And it made him lose control.

His other hand yanked your hips up, pressing your ass against his clothed cock. You could feel how hard he was—throbbing against you, barely held back by the fabric of his jeans.

“Feel that, baby?” He grinded against you, his breath shaky. “That’s what you do to me.”

Your body shuddered at the sensation. The thick length of him pressing against your soaked heat was torture, but he still wasn’t giving you what you needed.

And he knew it.

Mingi chuckled darkly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as his fingers continued to fuck you slowly. “You’re so cute when you beg.”

His lips trailed down your spine, his pace never changing, just keeping you on the edge, making you ache for more.

Then, suddenly—his fingers were gone.

A desperate whimper slipped past your lips as you turned your head, ready to protest, but the words died on your tongue when you felt his hands on his belt.

The sound of metal clinking filled the room.

Mingi smirked. “You’re gonna take all of me, right, baby?”

Your heart stopped.

Then raced.

You swallowed hard, nodding.

Mingi chuckled, reaching for his silver chain again, rolling it between his fingers before grabbing your wrist and wrapping it around your palm.

"Hold onto it," he murmured. "And don't let go until I'm done with you."

And then—

He pushed in.

The stretch was intense—a delicious, burning sensation that had your lips parting in a silent gasp. Mingi groaned low in his throat, feeling how tight you were around him as he buried himself inside you, inch by inch.

"Shit," he muttered, his fingers gripping your hips with a bruising force. "You feel that, baby?"

Your nails dug into his silver chain, the cool metal pressed against your burning skin as you gasped, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him.

"Mingi—"

He pulled out just enough before slamming back in, making you cry out.

He grinned.

"That's it," he murmured, rolling his hips deeper, making sure you felt every inch. "Let me hear you."

His pace was slow, almost torturous, dragging out every sensation, every pulse of pleasure until you were whimpering beneath him. He loved it—loved how your body clenched around him, loved how you held onto his chain like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

"You're so fucking tight," he groaned, his fingers trailing up your spine. "Taking me so well, baby."

You tried to move your hips, desperate for more, but his hands held you down.

"Uh-uh," he clicked his tongue, amusement lacing his voice. "You don’t get to rush this."

He leaned down, his body pressing against yours, his silver chain cool against your heated skin. His lips brushed against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"I'm gonna fuck you slow," he whispered, thrusting deep. "Until you're begging for me to ruin you."

Your breath hitched.

Mingi chuckled darkly. "And baby?"

His pace suddenly snapped.

"You will beg."

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as he fucked you harder, the slow tease replaced with deep, merciless thrusts that had you gasping for air.

Your fingers clenched around his chain tightly, the metal digging into his throat, making his groans deeper, rougher.

"Fuck," he growled, his hips snapping forward. "You love this, don’t you?"

You couldn’t even speak—all you could do was moan, your body completely at his mercy.

Mingi grabbed your chin, turning your head so his lips brushed against yours. "Say it," he demanded, his eyes dark with lust. "Tell me you love it."

Your voice was shaky, breathless. "I—I love it."

Mingi groaned, his lips crashing against yours in a bruising kiss as he drove into you harder, his silver chain dangling between you, cool against your sweat-slicked skin.

"You better," he muttered against your lips. "Because I'm not stopping until you’re ruined."

Mingi’s hand was still gripping your chin, forcing you to look back at him as he thrust deep inside you, each stroke hitting the spot that had your toes curling. His silver chain dangled in front of your lips, glinting under the dim lights of his apartment, teasing you like he knew how much it turned you on.

“You keep pulling on it,” he murmured, voice dark, teasing. “You like my chain that much, baby?”

You whimpered, unable to form a proper response with the way he was fucking you senseless.

Mingi’s grip tightened. “Open your mouth.”

Your lips parted without hesitation, your breath shaky.

A slow smirk spread across his face. He took the chain between his fingers and dragged the cool metal across your tongue, making you taste the mix of sweat and heat from where it had been pressed against his skin.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his thrusts never faltering. “Suck on it.”

Your eyes rolled back as you closed your lips around the chain, the taste of metal and him flooding your senses while he slammed into you from behind.

Mingi groaned, his head falling back. “Fuck, you’re so filthy for me.”

His hand slid lower, wrapping around your throat, tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. His grip wasn’t harsh, just enough to make you feel lightheaded—drunk off him, off the way he was completely owning you.

“You like being used like this?” he rasped, his pace merciless. “Being my little toy to fuck however I want?”

The way your body clenched around him told him everything he needed to know.

Mingi growled. “God, you’re so fucking dirty.”

One of his hands slid down, slipping between your legs, rubbing you in tight circles that had your entire body trembling.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” he taunted, his voice dripping with pure sin. “Gonna cum while sucking on my chain like a filthy little thing?”

Your whimpers turned into cries, the mix of his cock, his hand, his chain pushing you right to the edge.

Mingi felt it.

“Fuck—do it,” he groaned, his hand tightening around your throat. “Cum for me, baby. Make a mess all over my cock.”

And with one final snap of his hips—

You shattered.

Your entire body convulsed, your vision going white as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Mingi cursed, feeling you clench so tight around him, and before he could even pull out, he was right behind you, spilling inside you with a deep, guttural groan.

For a moment, all you could hear was heavy breathing, the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mingi leaned over you, pressing a slow, possessive kiss to your shoulder before whispering,

“Next time, baby… you’re gonna swallow something else.”

Mingi barely gave you time to recover. Your body was still trembling, your breath uneven, your skin slick with sweat—but he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

He pulled out slowly, watching with dark, hooded eyes as his cum dripped out of you, coating your thighs.

His tongue clicked. “Look at that,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through the mess he made. “You’re leaking all over yourself, baby.”

You whimpered, your body over-sensitive, but Mingi didn’t care.

He brought his fingers to your lips.

“Clean it up.”

Your breath hitched as you stared at him, dazed, but when his brows lifted in expectation, you obeyed—your lips parting, your tongue flicking out to lick his fingers clean.

Mingi groaned, his cock already hard again.

"Fuck, you’re so filthy," he muttered, his silver chain swinging as he grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"You want more?" he taunted, pressing his cock against your entrance, rubbing it against your aching heat. "You think you can handle another round?"

You nodded quickly, desperate.

But Mingi wasn’t convinced.

“Beg for it.”

Your breath shuddered.

"Mingi… please," you whimpered, shifting your hips to try and push against him. "I need it. I need you."

His smirk was ruthless.

"That’s my girl," he murmured, and before you could brace yourself—

He slammed into you.

A sharp cry left your lips as he bottomed out in one thrust, stretching you all over again, but this time—there was no slow build-up.

No teasing.

Just pure, raw, animalistic fucking.

Mingi's hands gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts as he fucked into you with no restraint. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, the headboard banging against the wall with each brutal stroke.

His silver chain dangled over your face, brushing against your parted lips.

"You take me so fucking well," he gritted out, watching how your body shuddered beneath him. "You're just made for me, aren’t you?"

Your moans were incoherent, your body pushed past its limits, but you didn’t care.

You wanted more.

Mingi’s hand snaked around your throat, forcing you to arch your back as he pounded into you harder, his cock hitting deep, bruising places that had you screaming.

"You wanna be ruined, baby?" he growled. "Then take it. Take every fucking inch."

Tears pricked your eyes, the pleasure too much, too overwhelming, and yet—you still wanted more.

"God, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight," Mingi groaned, his voice strained. "Gonna cum again, huh?"

His fingers slid down to your swollen clit, rubbing you relentlessly.

"Cum for me," he ordered. "Scream my fucking name when you do."

Your vision blurred, your body seizing up as you came violently, your entire form shaking beneath him.

Mingi followed right after, groaning deep in his throat as he filled you up again, making sure you felt every hot drop.

And just when you thought he was finally done—

He smirked.

"Hope you’re not tired yet, baby," he murmured. "Because I’m still not finished with you."

Mingi barely gave you time to breathe. Your body was still twitching, completely spent from the last orgasm, but he wasn’t finished.

Not until you were soaked.

Not until you were dripping down your thighs.

"You’re shaking, baby," he teased, dragging his fingers down your spine as you collapsed against the mattress, your legs weak, your body wrecked.

But that didn’t stop him.

He grabbed you by the hips and flipped you onto your back, his silver chain dangling over your face as he leaned in close.

"You got one more for me?" he murmured, voice deep, low, dripping with sinful promise.

Your eyes fluttered open, dazed, lips trembling. "Mingi—"

He smirked, his fingers trailing lower, parting your thighs as he spread you wide open for him.

"Yeah," he murmured, watching you, eyes filled with pure lust. "You do."

And then—

His mouth was on you.

A loud, shattered moan tore from your lips as Mingi's tongue flicked over your swollen clit, the sensation sending a violent shudder through your body.

But he didn’t stop there.

No, he was hungry.

Desperate.

His tongue was relentless, licking, sucking, his lips wrapping around your clit as two thick fingers slid into your dripping entrance.

"Fuck—Mingi!" you gasped, your hands fisting the sheets, your legs trembling as he pumped his fingers into you, stretching you open all over again.

His pace was brutal—each thrust of his fingers curling against that sweet, devastating spot deep inside you.

You screamed.

Mingi groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. His silver chain brushed against your inner thigh, cool against your burning hot skin, adding to the overwhelming sensation.

"You gonna cum again?" he murmured, his voice filthy, his fingers slamming into you even harder. "Gonna make a mess for me, baby?"

Your entire body locked up, the pressure building so intensely that you could barely breathe.

Mingi chuckled darkly, sensing it.

He pulled away for just a second, his fingers still moving ruthlessly as his eyes locked onto yours.

"Cum for me," he demanded, his voice like pure sin. "Fucking soak my fingers."

And then—

You snapped.

Your back arched off the bed, a broken scream ripping from your throat as hot liquid gushed from your body, completely drenching his hand, his wrist, the sheets below you.

Mingi groaned, watching it happen, watching the way you squirted uncontrollably, your body convulsing beneath him.

"Fuck, baby," he rasped, his fingers still working you, dragging out every last drop until you were begging for mercy.

But he just grinned.

"You’re so fucking dirty," he murmured, bringing his soaked fingers to his lips, licking them clean. "And I love it."

Your entire body shuddered, completely wrecked, but Mingi wasn’t done.

He climbed over you, his cock achingly hard again, pressing against your soaked, sensitive heat.

"You think you can handle one more?" he murmured, his silver chain dangling over your lips, his eyes dark, hungry.

Your breath was still shaky, but you nodded.

Mingi smirked.

"Good."

Your body was wrecked. Your thighs trembled, your breath came in ragged pants, and the sheets beneath you were completely soaked from what Mingi had done to you.

But he wasn’t done.

Not yet.

Not until you were crying for him.

Mingi sat back, his silver chain glistening with sweat as he ran his tongue across his lips, watching you struggle to catch your breath. His cock was hard and throbbing, still slick from your release, and the way his eyes darkened sent a shiver through your already-sensitive body.

"You did so well for me, baby," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the kind of voice that made you drip even when you were spent.

"But," he continued, gripping his cock and dragging the thick tip through your soaked folds, teasing you until you whimpered, "I’m not done until I’ve ruined you completely."

And before you could even brace yourself—

Mingi slammed into you.

Your scream echoed through the room as he bottomed out in one brutal thrust, stretching you all over again. Your walls were already achingly sensitive, but Mingi didn't care.

He wanted more.

His hands gripped your thighs, pushing your legs back until your knees nearly touched your chest, folding you in half as he fucked you deep.

"Look at you," he groaned, his silver chain dangling over your face, brushing against your lips. "So fucking wet for me. You love being used like this, don’t you?"

Your answer was a broken whimper, your body already on fire.

Mingi’s grip tightened, his pace brutal, unforgiving, his cock hitting spots so deep it made your vision blur.

"You’re gonna take every inch," he growled, his voice pure dominance. "Gonna cum on my cock one more time before I fill you up, baby."

Your mind shattered.

Mingi’s hands slid down, one wrapping around your throat while the other slipped between your legs, his fingers rubbing tight, ruthless circles on your swollen clit.

"Come on, baby," he taunted, his silver chain brushing against your skin as he pounded into you. "I want to feel you lose control. I want you to scream my name."

You were so close.

Your body tensed, your breath caught—

Mingi smirked.

"Cum for me, baby. Soak my cock."

And then—

You snapped.

Your body convulsed, pleasure exploding through you as your orgasm hit you with a force so strong you screamed his name, your walls clenching, trembling, your entire body writhing beneath him.

Mingi groaned loudly, feeling you squeeze around him, and before he could hold back, his grip on your hips tightened and he spilled deep inside you, filling you up with hot, thick cum.

His thrusts slowed, his breaths ragged, his silver chain swinging as he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours.

"Fuck," he panted, his voice wrecked, his lips brushing against yours. "That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen."

Your entire body shuddered, overwhelmed, wrecked, but completely satisfied.

Mingi smirked, pressing a slow, filthy kiss to your lips before whispering,

"Hope you weren’t planning to walk tomorrow, baby. Because you’re not leaving this bed."

#ateez #ateez fic #ateez smut #smut #mingi scenarios #ateez mingi #mingi smut #song mingi #mingi x reader #mingi #mingi fic

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mononijikayu · 5 months ago

Text

guess!? — geto suguru x reader x gojo satoru.

Satoru couldn’t help but blink, glancing down, then grinned. "Well, aren’t you a little minx." Suguru took a sip of his drink, amused. "That better not be a fake number, doll." You simply gave them a look, one that promised nothing and everything all at once. "Guess you'll just have to find out." The white haired model laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, I like you." The dark haired singer could only smirk, something unreadable flickering behind his dark lilac eyes. “Intriguing, doll.”

GENRE: alternate universe - celebrity!au;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, nsfw, r-18, sexual content, poly relationship, threesome, double penetration, explicit smut, consensual sex, sexual intercourse, making out, bodily fluids, nipple play, kissing(fm+mm), rough sex, p-i-v sex, anal sex, creampie, fingering, fingerfucking (female receiving, vaginal/anal), sexual overstimulation, asphyxiation, biting, scratching, pet names (sweetheart, doll, good girl, etc....), flirting, friendship, gender themes, falling in love, secret relationship, fluff, getting together, idiots in love, drama, happy ending, use of she/her pronouns, crack, humour, profanity, lgbtqia themes, depiction of sexual content, depiction of sexual intercourse, depiction of sexual positions, depiction of body parts, mention of sexual themes, depiction of alcohol, mention of body parts, mention of sexual acts, mention of alcohol, soloist! geto suguru, model! gojo satoru, actress! reader;

WORD COUNT: 12k words

NOTE: it took a while to write this and i swear, i will not take much more stuff like this until i have more time. but the idea was too good to pass on. i couldn't help myself. also the first time i've written a poly relationship and a threesome. like, this is really a new thing for me. so if its not up to the same standards as what i usually write or its too much for you, then its fine not read it. i am thankful anyway. in any case, if there are people who will enjoy it, thank you. and im glad you enjoy it with it. i love you all so much <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

kayu's playlist, side 2500;

USUALLY THE APPLAUSE ENDS WHEN YOU GET OFF THE STAGE. But somehow, it does not stop even as you get down the steps of the stage. Your name had just echoed through the speakers, immortalized in the annals of cinematic history. You will forever be someone, something. You will always have this.

You have to admit that the applause was deafening, a symphony of claps and cheers that reverberated through the grand hall. Yaga Masamichi was right when he told you all about the magic of winning. You will never forget that high, it was almost like a drug. You get addicted to the feeling. And you probably always will.

As you made your way down backstage, you could still feel the warmth of the stage lights against your skin, your pulse pounding as you clutched the golden statuette in your hands.

Everything about this moment, you knew that it was real—this moment, this win. You had never expected it. Not because you weren’t good, not because you didn’t believe in yourself. But because it just felt out of this world.

Yet, now it was not out of this world anymore. If anything, it was as it was. It was real. It was your moment. It was now well lived. Your name on this statuette, with the title Best Actress on it. It was all you had ever wanted. It was all you had ever worked for.

And yet, you think that wasn’t the most life-altering thing that has happened to you. If anything, what made the moment even more surreal was the man standing beside you, the one who had presented you with the award just moments earlier. You just didn’t know it yet.

Gojo Satoru.

A name that carried its own weight, synonymous with an ethereal kind of beauty that was almost otherworldly. The super model who graced the covers of international magazines, whose sharp yet delicate features seemed sculpted by the gods themselves.

His white hair gleamed under the lights, his signature tinted glasses pushed up just enough to reveal strikingly blue eyes. You think that it was so vibrant they almost seemed to glow.

You had always known he was beautiful.

Anyone with working eyesight would agree.

But it wasn’t just his looks that held your attention.

It was the way the charisma blew into magic when he spoke.

Even amidst the deafening applause, his dazzling voice had a way of cutting through the noise, a melodic timbre that was both smooth and deliberate. Each word was laced with that one of a kind subtle charm, effortlessly poetic in a way that made people want to listen.

He was almost like a siren, capturing people’s And when he turned to you, flashing that lazy, lopsided grin, his congratulations had felt far more intimate than the formalities exchanged on stage.

Backstage, you barely had time to process what had just happened to you. You were just stunned into silence. You absentmindedly accepted the congratulations from the staff and thanked them.

You were on cloud nine with this win. It wasn’t until you felt a hand brush against your shoulders did you find yourself turning around and meeting those dashing blue eyes of his.

"Congratulations." he murmured, standing close enough that you could catch the faintest hint of his cologne. It was something clean, fresh, and just a little bit sweet. "You deserved that win. Though, between us, I already knew you’d take it."

His sweetened voice was lighter now, teasing, yet beneath it lay something that felt sincere. You found yourself truly turning to him, meeting his gaze fully, and for a moment, it felt as if the chaos of the evening had melted away. Your chaos lay now with him, in this face to face.

"You’re awfully confident in me, Mr. Gojo." you mused, still catching your breath.

"Shouldn’t I be?" His lips curved slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. "I’ve seen your work. You don’t just act in that. I think you truly became her, that spanky witful comedian. It was never a question of if you’d win, only when."

A rush of warmth spread through you, different from the exhilaration of winning, softer in a way that made your heart stutter. Gojo Satoru had just complimented your craft. You knew that it was genuine, real. It was not words echoed out of politeness, not as part of some scripted pleasantry, but as someone who had truly seen you.

And somehow, in the midst of all the flashing cameras and roaring applause from before, that felt like the biggest victory of the night. Because if you were being honest, you were much too certain that not a lot of people understood your craft, how you took it so seriously.

How you lived and breathed it. He understands. You could see that look in his eyes. He breathed his work as much as you did. Your fingers tightened around the trophy in your hands, its cool weight grounding you amid the dizzying realization that Gojo Satoru had just seen you in a way so few ever had.

You turned to him, studying the way his signature blindfold had been abandoned for the night, allowing you to meet his gaze fully. Those striking blue eyes filled with mischief, but something else too. Something that felt dangerously close to admiration.

“You… really think so, huh?” Your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost uncertain.

Gojo’s lips quivered into that signature grin of his, but there was no teasing in it this time. Only sincerity remained. “Would I lie to you?”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Yes. You absolutely would.”

He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Ouch. And here I was, being all nice and supportive. Maybe I should just take it back—”

“Don’t you dare now, Mr. Gojo.” you cut in, pointing a finger at him.

His grin widened, but then, as if something shifted in him, he tilted his head slightly. “But I do mean it, sweetheart.” he said, softer this time. “You didn’t just play the part—you embodied it. That’s rare.”

The rush of warmth in your chest deepened, turning into something else entirely, something you weren’t ready to name. You swallowed, gripping your trophy tighter. “Thank you, Mr. Gojo. Really.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, and it was unsettling how quiet he became, how he almost seemed to be considering something. Then, his lips twitched again. “Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart.” he said, stepping closer. “You do know this means I’m expecting even greater things from you next time, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “So you’re saying I just won an award, and you’re already raising the bar on me?”

Gojo clicked his tongue. “Come on, you wouldn’t want me to go easy on you, would you?”

And just like that, the weight of the night, the exhaustion, the pressure. Somehow, all of it felt lighter. Because if Gojo Satoru, of all people, saw your passion, then maybe, just maybe—you were exactly where you were meant to be. You were meant for this. Your obsession with your work will pay off.

“Oh, by the way, sweetheart?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t have to call me Mr. Gojo all the damn time.” He says to you, a sly smile on his lips. “You can just call me Satoru.”

You raised a curious brow, a small snicker leaves your lips. “While you call me sweetheart?”

“Precisely that, sweetheart. You’re so good at keeping up with me.”

You laugh. “Well, I do try.”

The after-party of the awards ceremony was in full swing by the time you arrived. You would have arrived sooner had you decided to go directly to the party. But you didn’t pay thousands on a custom dress for it not to be used.

So, you went back to your hotel and got ready again in order to get dressed. And you had to say, it was worth it. This dress was more comfortable than the one you wore on stage.

You walked in rather carefully, letting your ears jam through the outgoing echoes of music playing in the background. The entire venue was just exorbitantly bathed in the afterglow of warm, golden light with glasses clinking and laughter humming through the air like a soft melody.

This was a lovely little celebration from the management team, which was usually an invite only event. This was only for the best and brightest in the industry, where directors, actors, and producers mingled effortlessly, champagne in hand. And now you can only suppose you were one of them.

You had barely taken a sip from your own glass when you felt a familiar presence approaching. You immediately found yourself looking up as you heard the footsteps grow louder towards you. You couldn’t help but find yourself paying attention to it more than ever, more than the music in the background.

“Enjoying your victory, superstar?”

You turned, already knowing who it was before you even laid eyes on him.

Once again, standing there in all his wonder and might, dazzling.

It was a bright and beautiful Gojo Satoru standing before you.

He looked just as effortlessly stunning as he had on stage earlier, only now he had shed the formal pretense. His tie was loosened, the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, revealing a sliver of collarbone. His dark rimmed glasses were nowhere to be seen, leaving his piercing blue eyes completely unobscured—unfairly bright under the party lights.

“I was genuinely enjoying it.” you said smoothly, lifting your glass to your lips. “But I think it just got a little more interesting.”

His grin widened at that. “Oh? I do have that effect on people.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him. Yet, you couldn’t deny the way his presence filled the space around you. His grin widened as he leaned in just slightly, just enough to make you aware of how close he was without crossing the line.

“So, tell me, sweetheart.” he mused, swirling the drink in his hand. “What’s it like? You can be honest now, right? How was winning Best Actress? Holding that little golden trophy and knowing you’re officially the best in the business?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Mmm… I suppose it feels a little surreal. Like I’m in a dream.”

“A dream, huh?” He smirked. “Guess that makes me your charming co-star then.”

You arched a brow. “What makes you think you’re part of my dream?”

“Because, sweetheart,” he said smoothly, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down your spine, “I think a dream means looking up. And you haven’t stopped looking at me all night.”

You scoffed, but he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Satoru was hard not to look at, after all.

He was a very, very pretty being to you.

“Big words for a man who’s been following me since I stepped off that stage, isn’t it?”

His laughter was rich, genuine. “Can you blame me? I have excellent taste.”

“You mean you like collecting award winners?” you teased, taking another sip of your drink.

“Nah, not that.” he leaned in, voice lower now, more intimate. “Just the ones who can keep up with me, sweetheart.”

Your heart did something strange in your chest, but you refused to let him win so easily. “Is that so?”

“Yes, so, truly.”

“Then I hope you don’t get tired too quickly.” you murmured, stepping just a little closer. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”

His gaze darkened just slightly, intrigue flashing And just like that, the night had only just begun. Drink after drink was served to both you and him, the glasses never empty for long. The air was thick with laughter, the hum of conversation, and the clinking of glass against glass. The afterparty was in full swing, but somehow, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.

Supermodel icon Gojo Satoru was an enigma. You had seen him on stage at fashion shows, commanding attention without so much as trying. He had that effortless allure, the kind that made people lean in, wanting to know more, yet never quite getting close enough to unravel the mystery of him.

Yet, you realized something. Drawing you in wasn’t the same as keeping you. Like the siren that he was, he lured you in with his charm, his easy smile, his teasing words. And just when you thought you had a grasp on him, he’d slip right through your fingers, leaving you yearning for more. It wasn’t just attraction; it was something else entirely. A hypnotic pull that made his presence almost intoxicating.

Satoru and you had quite a fair bit in common. The relentless passion for your work, the thrill of being on stage. Whether it was acting or modeling, the way you both lived for the art of performance.

You had spent years perfecting your craft, slipping into different roles with the ease of someone who had learned how to exist in multiple worlds at once. And him? He wore his confidence like a second skin, dazzling, untouchable.

But here, now, in the low light of the afterparty, with the remnants of celebration still hanging in the air, he felt different. Less like the untouchable figure everyone admired from afar, and more like someone real—someone sitting across from you with a half-finished drink, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“You’re thinking too much, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip.

You raised a brow. “And you can tell that how?”

Gojo smirked. “Because you always get this look when you’re analyzing something. It’s like you’re trying to pick it apart piece by piece.” He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering just enough to make your breath hitch. “So, tell me—what exactly are you trying to figure out?”

You hummed against your glass, looking at it studiously, before looking up back at him with an enticing smile. “Guess.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. And that had made you feel something deep inside, something you were not sure how to describe. This was the first time you’ve ever experienced that. It was new, it was fast approaching. You don’t know how to dodge.

“Oh, sweetheart.” he chuckled, tilting his glass toward you in a mock toast. “I’m counting on figuring it out.”

You laughed. “Then I look forward to the challenge.”

For a moment, you watched him return that laugh. Before finding that his eyes were wandering elsewhere. You were curious, trying to follow where his beautiful eyes would land. Yet you could not tell how congested the crowd of celebrities were through the vestiges of the room. Before long, you found him getting closer to you.

Gojo Satoru leaned in with that playful smirk and said, “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet, sweetheart.”

You knew things were about to get even more interesting. You nodded at him before you followed him through the sea of guests, past industry elites and fellow actors basking in their victories, until he finally stopped near the stage where the evening’s performances were set to take place.

And that’s when you saw him.

You couldn’t help but let your mouth go agape.

It was him. It was truly him. It was Geto Suguru.

That name alone carried weight—one of the biggest soloists in the industry, a voice that had dominated the charts and hearts alike. Unlike Gojo Satoru, who was all radiant charm and untamed confidence, Geto Suguru simply exuded something deeper, something more rugged. Something rougher, less polished but just as mesmerizing.

His long, wavy dark hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling over sharp features that looked carved with intention. Where Gojo Satoru’s presence was blinding, Geto Suguru’s existence was rather similar to smoldering. It was an ember that burned slowly but left its mark permanently for forever all the same.

“Suguru, meet our Best Actress.” Satoru introduced his tone light but edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “And lucky for her, she gets an exclusive front-row seat to your performance.”

Suguru couldn’t help but turn to you then, his gaze steady, dark lilac eyes deep and assessing in a way that sent an unexpected thrill down your spine. He gave you a slow, knowing smile. One you could not decipher as easily as Satoru's smile. Suguru’s smile was not as flashy as Satoru;s own but no less captivating. If anything, it was wrapped layers you could not understand.

“I saw your speech earlier.” he said, voice smooth, rich, and deep like a song before the first note hit. “You carry yourself well, don’t you? But I get the feeling you’re even more interesting when you’re not under the spotlight.”

You arched a brow, matching his energy. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

Satoru couldn’t help but let out an exaggerated groan beside you. “You two are already doing the mysterious, brooding thing, aren’t you?”

Suguru shot him a look, amused. “And you’re not?”

Satoru dramatically placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “I am the light of this party, thank you very much.”

You laughed, and a mysterious gaze flickered to you again. It lasted more than just a second longer. Yet, that was all that was necessary. It was just enough to make you feel it hit home hard. Then the stage lights shifted, and the room quieted as the host took the mic.

“And now, we have a special treat tonight. Performing his newest song, please welcome the one and only—Geto Suguru!”

The applause swelled, and Suguru gave you one last glance, something unreadable in his expression. Then he stepped forward, took the stage, and the moment he started singing. It was sultry, it was smooth, It was all the while suave and low, and all the same honest and raw, and most of all, devastatingly beautiful.

In that moment, you like to think you finally understood. If Gojo Satoru was the kind of man who captured attention like a supernova, then Geto Suguru was the kind that pulled you in slowly with an unshakable gravity, steady and impossible to ignore.

And right now, you were falling for the charm of both.

Right now you were captured by both of the siren calls.

Yet you were not running the other direction for help.

If anything, you were letting them drown you to the tune of their voices.

You could tell that the more Geto Suguru’s voice filled the venue with milk and honey, the air shifted in a way that would change the world forever. The once lively chatter quieted, replaced by the hypnotic pull of his music. Everything about what he was echoing through that voice, you could tell that there was something that crawled under your skin and settled there, leaving a slow burn in its wake. And he knew it, the moment your eyes met.

You had heard his songs before, of course. You weren’t living under a rock. But it was just so different hearing it live. It was different when you find yourself under his beck and call. His voice was a magic that drags you back in, it was a very heavy feeling. It was the kind that lingered even after the music stopped. You barely registered Satoru watching you, his grin turning knowing.

He leaned down and murmured, “Careful, sweetheart. He has that effect on people.”

You scoffed but didn’t look away from the stage. “And you don’t?”

The white haired man couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, I definitely do. But Suguru? He’s got that slow-burn kind of charm. The kind that sneaks up on you slowly but surely.”

You could see what he meant. If Gojo Satoru was a flash of lightning—brilliant, impossible to ignore. Then you were certain that Geto Suguru was his opposite. Suguru was the slow, rolling thunder that followed. Something deep, resonant, that stayed long after the strike.

As the final notes of the song faded, the applause erupted. Suguru’s gaze flickered over the crowd before landing on you. He held it for just a moment longer than necessary, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips before he dipped his head in thanks and left the stage.

A moment later, he was back, stepping up beside you as if he hadn’t just held the entire room captive. As if he didn’t hold you captive. You swallowed the bile down back into your throat, gathering yourself. He looks quite amused.

“So?” he asked, his voice still carrying the remnants of his performance. “Did I live up to the hype?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. You were alright.”

Satoru snorted, nearly choking on his drink. Suguru just couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his dark velvet eyes. You looked at him almost like you were quite the proud cat.

“Just alright?” he mused, voice smooth as silk. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to impress the Best Actress of the night.”

You met his gaze, feeling the way his words coiled around you, slow and deliberate. But you weren’t going to let him win that easily.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, then.”

Something in Suguru’s eager smirk deepened, like he enjoyed the challenge. Beside you, Gojo Satoru let out a dramatic sigh. You raised a brow at him, as though trying to ascertain why he had even looked at you.

“Great. Now there are two of you.” he lamented, shaking his head. “I swear, it’s like watching a slow-burning movie where the main characters refuse to admit they’re into each other.”

You rolled your eyes. “And what does that make you?”

Satoru had grinned, throwing an arm around both you and Suguru, pulling you in effortlessly. “Oh, I’m the fan-favorite all day everyday pretty man that everyone secretly loves. Obviously.I thought we already had this in the bag, hm?”

You blinked at him and then started laughing. All the sudden, it was three of you laughing, the tension breaking just enough to feel effortless joy about it. But as the night stretched on into the dark flutterings under the moon-light. Everything was filled with drinks, laughter, and glances that lasted a little too long. You knew one thing for certain.

Between Gojo Satoru’’s playful, magnetic pull and Geto Suguru’s slow, smoldering intensity, you were caught somewhere in between. And you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to be freed. If anything, you wanted for this to go on.

The night surely and happily pressed on, glittering and intoxicating, the kind of night that felt like it belonged in a movie, it felt ever so much like the classics. Like the one where the lighting was just right, the music was just loud enough, and the energy in the air made everything feel a little too good to be real.

The two of them seemed to be happy to be striking close, even more so orbiting around you like the world had narrowed down to a world where you were the sun and they were the planets that danced all about you. It was like a universe made for three. The blundering conversations blended together, champagne glasses clinked, but their attention never really strayed.

Then, sometime between the second drink and the third, Gojo Satoru slowly leaned in, a lazy, knowing smirk curling on his lips. "So, are we just going to let you disappear after tonight? Or are you going to give us your number?"

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Oh? Are you asking for my number, Satoru? Or my agent’s number? You gotta be certain if you wanna hear the ring, hm?"

He clicked his tongue. "Obviously. I need a way to annoy you outside of events like these. Of course you know who’s number I want.”

Suguru, standing just behind him, chuckled, the sound low and amused. "What he means to say is—it'd be a shame if this was the last time we talked." His gaze flickered down to you, warm but unreadable. "Don't you think? Of course, without the heap of professional lines ringing."

You could feel the weight of their attention, the way Gojo Satoru’s was playful but insistent, while Geto Suguru’s was steady, deliberate. But if they thought you were going to make it easy? No, you weren’t born to be easy. They were just simply mistaken.

You smiled, tilting your head. "Hmm. My number, huh? You boys must not be used to working for things."

Satoru let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, sweetheart, it’s not that. If anything, it’s just the fact that I love a challenge."

Suguru laughed and then let his lips settle into a mere smirk. "And you must not be used to people willing to chase you down too, don’t you think?"

Oh. You think to yourself absent-mindedly. I’ve been caught.

Your languid fingers curled around the stem of your glass, hiding the way their words sent a slow, creeping heat up your spine. You could feel the heat permeate through your skin as you purse your lips into a rather tight line.

Satoru leaned in even closer, his voice dipping lower, just for you. "So? Are you going to make us work for it? Or make it even more….fun?"

You let yourself hum about, pretending to think. But you were sure to settle with the world you were already willing to live in. You know it yourself even with this sly attitude you were portraying before them.

Then, with a slow smile, you reached for a napkin, plucked a pen for that prop pen in Suguru’s pocket. He didn’t even flinch, just watched you with lazy interest and scribbled something down. Then, just as smoothly, you tucked it into Satoru’s pocket instead of handing it over.

Satoru couldn’t help but blink, glancing down, then grinned. "Well, aren’t you a little minx."

Suguru took a sip of his drink, amused. "That better not be a fake number, doll."

You simply gave them a look, one that promised nothing and everything all at once. "Guess you'll just have to find out."

The white haired model laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, I like you."

The dark haired singer could only smirk, something unreadable flickering behind his dark lilac eyes. “Intriguing, doll.”

The night had already stretched long and far by then, the energy still thrumming through the air, but exhaustion was beginning to creep in. You were surely in need of the rest now, you were sure. The weight of the evening, of winning, of celebrating, of whatever game you were playing with the two most dangerously charismatic men in the room. It was all finally settling over you.

You stifled a yawn behind your hand, the warmth of the drinks making your limbs pleasantly heavy. The music pulsed in the background, the chatter of the party still alive and buzzing, but your focus had narrowed to just the two of them. Gojo Satoru, with his sharp, knowing grin, and Geto Suguru, watching you with that quiet, unreadable amusement.

The blue eyed model leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. “Tapping out already? That’s a shame,isn’t it?” he drawled, tilting his head at you. “I was just starting to have fun with you, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up from your seat. “Some of us have limits, Satoru.”

Suguru chuckled, setting his drink down with a soft clink. “Smart girl, isn’t she, Satoru? We can’t have her play with hyenas for too long.” His gaze flickered over you, thoughtful. “Wouldn’t want you pushing yourself too hard, doll. Big night and all.”

You hummed noncommittally, grabbing your phone off the table. “And yet, somehow, I get the feeling you two are going to keep going until sunrise.”

Satoru gasped dramatically. “You wound me. What kind of degenerates do you take us for?”

Suguru gave him a side-eye. “Don’t answer that.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. There was something so easy about this, about them. It wasn’t lost on you that they were both dangerous in their own way. It was one that was dazzling and reckless, the other being composed and calculating. And yet, here you were, caught between the two worlds, happy to want to see more.

“Well, it’s been fun, distinguished gentlemen, but your lady needs beauty rest.” you announced, stepping back. “Can’t have this Best Actress haggard on the screens.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Need someone to walk you back?”

You smirked. “What, you think I can’t handle myself?”

Satoru grinned, his tone teasing. “Oh, we know you can handle yourself. But I’d feel bad if someone else tried to steal our star of the night before the morning came.”

You shook your head at them, amused. “I think I’ll manage. Try not to get into too much trouble without me.”

Suguru lifted his glass in a silent toast, and Satoru shot you a wink. You snickered at their partings.

“No promises, sweetheart.”

YOU WERE SURE THAT EVERYONE DIDN’T LIKE YOU AT THIS MOMENT. But you think it got worse when everything was announced. Needless to say, it was something that came with fame. Now more so with the interweb. People like to go crazy with everything and anything they see, like a flock of crows pestering for that new shiny thing.

The internet absolutely had a meltdown. Not because you were a bad person or that you were a bad actress. To be honest, not because of anything you did. But because of something you had to do (and particularly, wanted to do for yourself). They just could not help themselves. How could they?

The announcement alone in bright big bold letters—GETO SUGURU CASTING BEST ACTRESS AS HIS ONE AND ONLY LOVER IN HIS UPCOMING MUSIC VIDEO DROP—was truly enough to send fans into a wild frenzy. But then came the real bombshell.

There were intimacy scenes.

The teaser dropped with a single frame: you and Suguru, standing very close under the vibrant echo of those dim hitting neon lights as they glowed for you somberly, tenderly.

His muscular hand resting at the small of your back, your tender fingers curled into the front of his shirt. His face was mere inches from yours, his dark lilac eyes locked onto your plump lips like he was moments away from closing the distance. From doing what was forbidden.

As you can tell, the internet imploded.

“WE WON. I REPEAT, WE WON.”

“This isn’t even a rumor anymore. It’s evidence.”

“Nah cause all the men in this world have to be somewhere LOSING THEIR MINDS.”

“Geto Suguru’s so smooth with it. This is insane behavior.”

“Nah, cause at this point, how can any other fanboy survive this?”

But of course, nothing sent people spiraling harder than the behind-the-scenes clips that started surfacing a few days later.

Behind the Scenes Footage – Interview Clip

The camera carefully pans to you, as you seated comfortably into your own cast chair, the set glowing in the background. You were still dressed in your costume after all this time. It was hours and hours into the set filming and yet your makeup remained blinding, your outfit continued to be carefully styled to match the aesthetic of the video. You were just drop–dead gorgeous.

"So, how does it feel working on a music video with Geto Suguru?" the interviewer asked. “Is it different from all your other works before?”

You smiled. "Oh, it's been great. Suguru's an incredible artist, and getting to bring his vision to life has been such a cool experience. In some ways, yes, it is different. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a fun, exciting vibe on set before."

From off-camera, a voice interrupted—smooth, teasing. "Suguru? You only call me that when you're being professional, don’t you?"

The camera turned just in time to catch Geto Suguru walking over, his usual lazy smirk in place, a cup of hot coffee in one hand. He carefully extended it to you wordlessly, like this was routine. You took it without hesitation, muttering a quiet thanks.

"We are on set, aren't we?" you shot back playfully.

Suguru chuckled, shaking his head. "She’s acting like we haven’t been friends. I am wounded, you guys. Really!"

The interviewer jumped on that. "So you’d say you’re just good friends?"

"Absolutely." you replied smoothly, giving the camera an easy smile.

Suguru grinned at the camera. “One hundred percent.”

That would’ve been enough to cool down the firestorm.

Behind the Scenes Footage – Scene Rehearsal

The video opened with you and Suguru standing in the middle of the set, the director adjusting the lighting. You were supposed to be blocking a moment from the music video—a near-kiss scene, the tension at its peak. The director gave his cue.

You took a step forward, Suguru’s hand instinctively finding your waist. Your breath hitched just slightly at his action, though you were not from nerves. It just felt natural. You just know it was because he was good at this. The way he looked at you, the way his fingers barely pressed against your skin, the way his head tilted just enough to make it look too real.

Then—"CUT!"

The director reset the scene, and the moment was broken. But before the cameras stopped rolling, Geto Suguru leaned down, voice low but very much caught on the mic. "You good?"

You nodded, stepping back with a teasing grin. "What, you nervous? Didn’t take you for a rookie now."

He huffed a laugh. "Not even a little. Just making sure you don’t fall for me on set."

You rolled your eyes. "Please. You wish."

And just like that, the internet broke again.

"Just good friends BUT YOU SEE HOW HE LOOKS AT HER???"

"I know acting when I see it, and THAT was NOT acting."

"I bet her significant is somewhere watching this like 👁️👄👁️."

"WHY is there more chemistry in this behind-the-scenes clip than in some actual romance films???"

"They are making me insane. Just date already."

But despite the theories, the conspiracies, the undeniable fire in every interaction, you never said anything else. You were too good at that. You were too good at hiding away and never revealing more than what you wanted anyone and everyone to know.

After all, you were an actress. And you wouldn’t be good at your job if you weren’t this good at keeping things underwraps. When asked in another interview about the rumors?

You just smiled. "Spoilers."

And when Geto Suguru was asked later on?

He just smirked. "She said it best."

The mystery continues on and on.

THIS WAS NOT AN EXPECTED ROUTE. People thought that things would remain as they were after you broke the world. But the moment the casting announcement dropped, the internet lost once again its mind. You just couldn’t help it. You just liked making the headlines once and a little while. You wanted to make the mundane a little bit more interesting. Well, in the right times.

SUPER MODEL GOJO SATORU TO DEBUT IN ACTING—ROM COM FILM WITH OSCAR WINNING ACTRESS [YOUR NAME] THIS UPCOMING FALL!

Your name and his were plastered across every headline, every social media platform buzzing with excitement and speculation. It was damn crazy, perhaps just as crazy as what happened with Suguru. You were already a household name, but Gojo Satoru? Satoru was on a whole other level. He was more than a phenomenon. He was a lifestyle. He was a life.

The runway darling, the face of every luxury campaign, the man who could sell out a designer collection just by breathing near it. And now? He was stepping into your world. And he was doing it right beside you. He knew you were the one who called the shots here.

After all, you were the mystique of the world. You were the wonder that kept on dazzling. It’s not likely for you to stop. If anything, he wanted to help you with that. You just had to lead the way. He’s going to follow you, happily so.

Behind the Scenes – Press Conference

The first time you and Gojo Satoru appeared together for promotions, the energy in the room was undeniable. It was addicting. It was almost palpable, almost too unbearably dazzling. Satoru was dressed in an effortlessly tailored suit, leaned lazily into his mic, smirking like he already knew what was coming.

The moderator smiled. "So, Mr. Gojo, this is your first film. What was it like acting alongside Oscar winning actress [Your Name], who’s already such an established star?"

Satoru turned to you immediately, tilting his head with a teasing grin. "Honestly? Kinda unfair."

You raised an intrigued eyebrow. "Unfair? Do tell why so, Mr. Gojo. Your senpai would like to know more about it."

He nodded, sighing dramatically. "Yeah. Like, here I am, my first time on a film set, and I’m acting with someone who already has awards and critical acclaim. Obviously, people are going to compare us. It’s like trying to learn how to swim next to an Olympic gold medalist."

The audience laughed. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. "You do realize people have been calling you the cinematic face of the decade right?"

Satoru gasped, placing a hand over his heart. "Aww, were you keeping up with my press, sweetheart? That’s absolutely making my heart jump right now."

You scoffed. "It was kind of hard to avoid."

The reporters were eating up your chemistry. Cameras continued to flash brightly, fingers typed furiously on keyboards, trying to get every bit of your words in for this hot headliner. Then, of course, someone asked the question everyone had been waiting for.

"You two seem really comfortable together. There have been a lot of rumors about your closeness. Can you comment on that?"

Gojo Satoru didn't even hesitate. He turned to you, grinning. "Well, if I say we’re just good friends, will you tell me I have to try harder?"

You blinked, thrown off for exactly half a second before regaining your composure. Then, with a slow, knowing smile, you responded. "I think you already know the answer to that. You’re well too aware of what I have to say. In depth too, kouhai."

The white haired man couldn’t help but light up, throwing his head back with a laugh brightly at your words. Almost as though he was just lost into the world of your comebacks. It was like each word you breathed was something he giggled for, like it was worth losing composure for. The audience went insane.

The headlines that followed? Even worse.

"Oh, this movie promo tour is about to be SO unserious."

"We’re never getting a straight answer out of them, are we?"

"Not Gojo openly flirting in front of an entire press panel HELP."

"Geto is 100% watching this like 👁️👄👁️."

"This is Geto's villain origin story."

“Bro is literally kicking his feet and giggling so bad like hes down BADDDDDD”

On Set

The chemistry was even worse when the cameras started rolling. It didn’t matter if it was a simple dialogue scene or a moment dripping with tension. Gojo Satoru was just quite natural in front of the camera, and the way he played off you? It was magic. One they had never seen before. One that was just too good to deny.

One particular scene had the entire crew buzzing, though.

The lighting was soft, intimate. You were standing close, your character meant to be arguing with him, but somehow, the space between you kept shrinking and shrinking. Little by little, nothing was left but the flesh was nearly touching. Like you were just longing to be close. Like you were longing to blend into one.

You could feel your breath hitching as you looked at him. The dialogue called for intense tension, but the way Satoru’s own voice dropped just slightly, the way his fingers brushed the bare skin of your wrist like it was an accident—it felt real. Way too real.

"Cut!"

The director sounded thrilled. His vision was coming to life. He patted Satoru’s back before smiling down at you. He moved away, walking towards the camera director to check the footage. You stepped back, shaking off the lingering heat, but Satoru? He couldn’t help but just smirk.

Leaning down, he murmured. "Careful, sweetheart. People might think you actually like me."

You scoffed with amusement, shoving his shoulder. "I should be saying that to you."

Satoru chuckled, the sound low and teasing as he straightened up. “Oh, but I do like you.” he said smoothly, tilting his head. “I think that’s the problem.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. It wasn’t your fault. The way he played his roles, the way he blurred the line between acting and reality. The way everything was just as it was.

It was real, it was so tangible, so within the reach of your hands. You just couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by him. He had a presence that was impossible to ignore, and the worst part? He knew it.

“Lucky for you, I’m a professional.” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I don’t fall for co-stars.”

His smirk widened, bright blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Mm, that so, sweetheart?” He took a step closer, just enough to toe the line between playful and dangerous. “Because I gotta say, you looked pretty into it just now.”

You scoffed, brushing past him, ignoring the way your pulse skipped slightly. “That’s called acting, Satoru. Maybe try it sometime.”

His laughter brightly followed you as you walked off, but you didn’t have to turn around to know he was still watching. From the corner of the set, a familiar voice cut in. You could tell the tenor was smooth and dangerously amused.

"Funny. I was just about to say the same thing."

You turned around, your ears almost perking.

Standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable—Geto Suguru.

The internet?

It was going crazy.

Your breath hitched for just a second before you masked it with a slow blink, shifting your gaze from Satoru to Suguru. He stood there, arms crossed, his dark lilac eyes sharp, unreadable. You were in quite the predicament.

"Didn't realize you were watching." you said smoothly, though the sudden shift in energy between the three of you was impossible to ignore.

Suguru tilted his head slightly, his expression giving nothing away. "Didn't realize I had to announce myself, doll.

Satoru let out a low whistle, stepping back just slightly, as if enjoying the scene from the sidelines. "Ooooh, this just got interesting."

OF COURSE, THIS OPENED THE WORLD TO SOMETHING NEW WHEN IT CAME TO YOU. It was just a fun little thing, trying to play a guessing game when it came to you, Geto Suguru and Gojo Satoru. And it didn’t help that you were all helping play the games by fanning the flames to the rumors that came one after the other.

Not when you were spotted at that Paris fashion show sitting between Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru, whispering things that made them laugh while cameras flashed like crazy. Not when some mysterious hand appeared in your Instagram stories. Those fingers being decked out in rings that fans quickly identified as Suguru’s own.

Not even when Satoru posted a very blurry photo of you and Suguru sitting in a hotel room, the caption reading: “Multi Oscar winner, chart-topping Grammy winner, and me, a humble model. What a trio.”

Every year, the internet collects all the evidence about the three of you. And every year, you three gave them more and more to have fun with.

The Timeline of Chaos

1. The Infamous Concert Incident

The world lost it when you and Satoru randomly showed up at Suguru’s sold-out stadium concert, in one of those VIP boxes. The fans were certain that Suguru made sure you had a spot just for the two of you, and quite close to him too. It was really obvious.

It wasn’t the fact that you attended. It was the fact that, mid-performance, Geto Suguru went ahead and walked straight to where you two were sitting, smirked, and sang directly to you. And Satoru? Instead of looking jealous, he just threw an arm around you, grinning like he had front-row seats to the greatest show on earth.

"No, because what are we supposed to DO with this information?"

"Is Satoru just watching Suguru serenade [Your Name] like he's a proud husband???"

"I fear we are witnessing a love story unfold in real time."

2. The Vacation Photos That Weren’t Meant to Be Seen

One summer, paparazzi caught the three of you on vacation. It was not out of the ordinary for you. You always went on various trips everywhere with your friends, whether celebrity or not. But there was something different when you were with Suguru and Satoru. This particularly was a different trip from the rest.

You, Suguru, and Satoru, were on a private beach. Satoru eagerly grinned in the morning sunrise in sunglasses and swim trunks, carrying you over his shoulder while you screamed in protest, dressed in your bikini. Suguru was in the background, laughing, sipping a drink like this was an everyday occurrence. The photos hit the tabloids immediately.

"HOLLYWOOD’S FRIENDLIEST TRIO OR IS IT SOMETHING MORE?"

You? You just posted a blurry selfie of the three of you later that night, captioned: “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Satoru, sulking, commented: “They’re bullying me.”

Suguru smugly replied: “You deserve it.”

3. The Red Carpet Moment That Ended Everyone

The biggest nail in the coffin to the public however was that one awards show in England. You were presenting an award, Satoru was invited as a guest and Suguru was nominated. The camera panned to you on the red carpet, glowing, stunning, an absolute vision. And then—Enter Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru.

Satoru was striding up behind you with the confidence of someone who knew he was about to make headlines. Suguru was walking just a step behind, looking way too pleased with himself. And the way they flanked you? Like it was meant to be.

The interviewer looked at you, and then the boys. "You three are always spotted together. Should we be expecting a project soon?"

You smiled slyly. "Spoilers."

Satoru grinned. "You should know by now we don’t just give answers that easily."

Suguru just chuckled, shaking his head. "It’s more fun watching you all guess, after all."

And just like that, the internet once again erupted.

"THEY KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING."

"I CANNOT handle this trio anymore."

"Are they dating? Are they best friends? Are they just trying to send us into cardiac arrest???"

But no matter how many times people asked, no matter how much speculation spread—the only answer any of you ever gave was a smirk. And your boys on the leash? They were just as willing to play the game with you. The night ended with that infamous maddening vague tweet from you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

THIS WAS THE WORLD ONLY THE THREE OF YOU KNOW. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with anticipation. You, Geto Suguru, and Gojo Satoru stood in a triangle, passionate eyes locked onto each other. Suguru’s smirk was devilish and excited, his lilac eyes gleaming with mischief. Satoru’s blue gaze was intense, a silent challenge passing between the three of you. The tension was palpable, electricity crackling in the air.

Suddenly, Suguru seamlessly reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. Satoru’s hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him.Their touches sent shivers down your spine, your heart racing with excitement and nerves. Even after so many times, it keeps bringing you the fire you wanted to burn in.

Suguru’s touch was gentle yet firm, his fingers tracing the contours of your face. Satoru’s grip on your waist tightened, his thumb brushing against the small of your back. The contrast between their touches was intoxicating, sending conflicting signals to your brain. Geto leaned in, his breath hot against your ear.

"You look delicious, doll." he whispered, his voice low and husky. The white haired man’s lips curled into a smirk, his blue eyes never leaving yours.

"Let's see how much you can handle tonight, though. You’ve been overworked, haven’t you, our poor baby?" Satoru cooes, his hand slowly sliding up your side. The air grew thicker, the tension almost unbearable

“Yes….” You mewled as you drew your body closer to his. “Need something good right now, ‘toru. Please.”

The blue eyed man smirk widened as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. His lips were firm yet soft, moving against yours with expert precision. His tongue danced with yours, exploring every inch of your mouth. Meanwhile, Suguru’s lips tenderly found your neck, his kisses starting at your collarbone and trailing up.

His teeth grazed your skin, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. Satoru’s soft hands tangled in your brazen hair, deepening the kiss. Meanwhile, you could feel Suguru’s fingers dug into your hips, pulling you flush against him.

The sensations you were feeling were just overwhelming, when you three are in need of relief like this. Everything from start to finish finds your mind fogging with desire. There was nothing that could stop you when you’ve begun.

You pulled away from Satoru’s searing kiss, your breath coming in short gasps. Suguru’s dark lilac eyes darkened even more with desire as you turned to him, pressing your lips against his and leaned in eagerly for a deep wanton kiss.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer as his tongue tangled with yours. You could feel the tickle of Satoru’s lips trailed down your neck, his peppering kisses becoming more fervent as he reached your chest.

Satoru expertly unhooked your bra with ease. He looked at your breasts for a moment, basking in the wonder of such marvel before him. He smiles to himself as he leans forward, his bruising lips wrapping around one of your nipples.

You moan as his tongue circled the hardened peak, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Suguru’s hands roamed your back, his fingers digging into your skin as you both kissed over and over.

Suguru’s hands roamed your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.You could only groan in pleasure as Satoru’s lips continued their assault on your chest, his tongue teasing your nipples even further as he passionately moved deeper and deeper into the depths of you.

The sensations were overwhelming, your mind fogging with desire. Suguru’s calloused fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, slowly pulling them down. Satoru’s hands followed suit, his touch grazing your thighs. Soon enough, you too needed air and parted from your lover. You looked at him with lust-ridden eyes.

They worked in sync, almost too well as they continued removing your clothing piece by piece until you stood bare before them. Suguru’s eyes raked over your body, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Satoru’s gaze was equally intense, his pupils dilated with arousal. You whimper as Satoru releases your nipple. You looked at it, finding it quite the little red thing as he smiles at you.

“Lovely little red.” He whispers to you, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “I’ll be a good boy tonight. Saved the other one for ‘guru.”

Suguru snickered. “Only right for me to have some claim, don’t I?”

“It’s time for you two to kiss like good boys then.” You whispered to your lovers, slowly laying down upon the bed. Your elbows are still propping you up. “You would do it, won’t you?”

They looked at each other, before snickering as they got closer. You stepped back, watching as Geto and Gojo's lips met in a fierce kiss. Their tongues clashed, hands gripping each other tightly, passionately, eagerly. The bed creaked slightly as you lowered down onto the pillow and enjoyed their desire for one another.

The sight was incredibly arousing, their lust for one another was too obvious and palpable. You were sure to get it going too as you kept your legs together, your arousal echoing down below. You bit your lip as Satoru’s hands slid down to Suguru’s chest, his tender fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. Suguru then broke the kiss, panting heavily. He grabbed Satoru’s wrist, stopping his movements.

"Not yet, Satoru." The dark haired man said, his voice husky with desire. He turned to you, his eyes burning with lust. “Need to do something first, don’t you think?”

Satoru looked at him and then to you. He slyly grinned. “Of course. Lady’s first.”

"Come here, doll." he commanded, pulling you back into the circle. Satoru’s lips quickly found your neck again, his kisses trailing down to your chest. “Need to love you first.”

Suguru’s hands roamed your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Satoru’s tender lips continued their assault on your chest, his tongue teasing his claimed nipple. The sensations were overwhelming, your mind fogging with desire.

You could feel Suguru’s hands gripping your hips, lifting you effortlessly closer to his side of the bed. Satoru crawled in after you, his body pressing against your side. Suguru carefully climbed on top, his knees on either side of your hips. He leaned down, his lips hovering over yours.

"Tell us what you want, doll." he whispered, his breath ghosting over your lips.

Satoru’s hand slid up your thigh, his fingers brushing against your core. "We'll give you anything you want. Just ask with your words, sweetheart." he murmured, his lips trailing kisses along your neck.

The air was thick with never ending tension, the anticipation to get closer and rougher was almost unbearable. You felt Suguru’s lips crash against yours once again, his kiss brutally demanding another passionate liaison with your bruising lips.

Satoru’s fingers parted your folds, his touch gentle yet firm. You groan against Suguru’s lips as Satoru slowly circled your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you gasp over and over again. Suguru’s warm hands roamed your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

He broke the kiss, his bruising lips trailing down your neck and chest. Satoru’s fingers slipped inside you rather easily, pumping slowly, in and out, watching your face pleasured with his touch. Suguru’s mouth then closed around his claimed nipple, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak. The sensations were overwhelming, your body arching off the bed.

"Fuck, you're so wet, sweetheart." Gojo groaned, his fingers curling inside you.

Suguru’s lips popped off your nipple, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your skin. "You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his breath hot against your chest.

“Uh, uh—” You mewled as you tried to push your hips closer, deep into their fingers. “Please….”

"You like having both of us touch you like this, huh?" His own hand slid down, his fingers eagerly joining Satoru’s in pleasuring you.

“She’s so wet, ‘guru. It’s making me hard, what the fuck…..”

"Tell us what you want, doll. Use your words." Suguru demanded, his lilac eyes locked onto yours.

"Tell us how you want us to fuck you, sweetheart." You felt the pressure of Satoru’s thumb pressed against your clit, his fingers pumping faster.

“I….I… I want….”

"We'll do anything you ask." he promised, his voice husky with desire.

"Please." you gasped, your hips bucking against their hands. "I want you both inside me. I want to feel you stretching me, filling me completely."

Suguru’s eyes darkened at your words, a feral grin spreading across his face. “But be patient first, doll. Need to make sure you cum first.”

You suddenly felt Suguru’s calloused fingers pick up speed, rubbing your clit in tight circles. Satoru’s fingers pumped in and out of you alongside Suguru’s, his touch firm and steady.

Their movements synchronized, pushing you closer to the edge with each passing second. Suguru leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. You groaned hard, feeling the pressure mount down below.

"Come on, doll." he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Show us how much you want it."

Satoru pressed against your clit, his fingers curling inside you. The double stimulation was overwhelming, your body tensing as your orgasm approached. You incoherently mewl against their arms, feeling your body move against their touch to continue the friction.

"That's it, good job." Satoru encouraged, his voice husky." Let go for us."

Their fingers moved faster, pushing you over the precipice. Your body soon convulsed, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Suguru’s massive fingers continued their relentless pace, drawing out your pleasure. Satoru’s own fingers pumped slowly, his touch gentler now. You could feel pleasure build and built within you, like a dam ready to burst.

“I…I–I’m…. c–coming, ‘guru, ‘toru!”

“You’re doing a good job, doll. Come for us, come for us.”

Suguru’s fingers moved faster, his touch relentless. Satoru’s fingers pumped slowly, his touch gentler. Your body tensed, pleasure building to an overwhelming crescendo. Your sounds harmonized so beautifully to the sound of that slick that draws from within your crevices.

"That's it, doll." Suguru encouraged, his voice low and husky. "Come for us."

Satoru’sthumb pressed against your clit, his fingers curling inside you. The added stimulation pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing with the force of it.

"Fuck, yes!" Suguru growled, his fingers continuing their relentless pace.

Satoru’s fingers continued to pump slowly and then soon enough getting in the pace the dark haired man was, drawing out your pleasure until it hit the crescendo.

It goes on and on until you find yourself breaking into overstimulation and growing limp in their touch, the mess of your pleasure soaking you and their fingers.

"You're so beautiful when you come." he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. As your orgasm subsided, you felt their fingers withdraw slowly. “So so beautiful.”

Satoru withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to suck clean. "Delicious." he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours. “Just delicious.”

"Beautiful." Suguru whispers as he too cleans your slick from his fingertips. Suguru’s free hand then slid up your body, his fingers tracing your collarbone. "You're so responsive, aren’t you, doll? Good job." he praised, his voice low and satisfied.

“So good….” You all but say. “I’m…I need…”

“You need what, sweetheart?”

“I….I need more.” You finally catch yourself saying. “Need…need you, need you so badly. Please.”

Suguru’s eyes darkened at your words, a smirk playing on his lips. "More, huh?" he murmured, his hand sliding up your thigh.

Satoru’s gaze was equally intense, his pupils dilated with desire. "What do you need more of, exactly?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

Their touches were gentle yet firm, igniting your skin wherever they landed. Suguru’s lips brushed against your ear. You could feel your sweat fall as he moved closer, his breath bellowing hotly against you.

Then your lover bit the side of your ear affectionately, whispering sweet nothings to you, before pressing a kiss. You cry in pleasure as he proceeds to nibble on the side of your neck, readily leaving hickeys to the side.

Satoru watches on the side, letting his hand touch the growing imprint of his member in front of him. He could feel it hurt as he watched you combust in the touch of your other lover. He mewls as he lets his palm brush against the cloth which separates the pleasure and pain growing inside of him.

"Tell us what you want." Satoru whispered, moving closer as his breath hot against your skin. "We'll give you anything."

You felt the white haired man’s hand slide up your stomach, his delicate fingers tracing your ribs and then your sides. It was as if he was memorizing them, to let them burn into his memory for until the next time. He lets the perfectness of your body pleasure his eyes as he wallows in the thought of wanting to be inside of you.

"Everything, sweetheart." he added, his voice dripping with promise. "Just say the word."

The anticipation was palpable, the air thick with tension. You felt your eyes turn to the growing members against their clothes, wanting to be free. You don’t think you’ve ever been this hungry in your entire life. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything more than to be fucked into a doozy.

You then turned to meet their gaze. "I want you both so bad. Want you both inside me."

Your dark haired lover couldn’t help but feel his smirk widen his hand gripping your hip possessively. "Is that so?" he murmured, his thumb tracing circles on your skin.

Satoru’s blue eyes flashed with desire, his hand sliding down to palm his own length through his pants. "We can tell, sweetheart." he said, his voice low and husky. "The way you're looking at us, like you want to devour us whole into your cunny, into your backhole."

“Want you….want you to use me.” You whimper, almost pathetically. “Want you both inside….”

Suguru felt his eyes darkened at your words, a wicked grin blossoming on his lips. "Use you, huh?" he repeated, his voice low and amused.

Satoru’s gaze was equally intense, his pupils dilated with desire."In what way, exactly?" he asked, his tone dripping with promise. Suguru’s hand slid down your stomach, his fingers tracing your hips

"Want us to fuck you senseless?" he suggested, his touch firm. Satoru’s warm hand gripped your thigh, his nails digging into the skin.

"Or maybe you want us to mark you, claim you as ours?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck.

“Everything.” You cried out. “Everything and more. Please. Just….”

Suguru’s massive length pressed against your entrance, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh.

Satoru’s hands spread your legs wider, his own hips positioning himself at your backside. You could feel the heat radiating off their bodies, the anticipation building to an unbearable level.

Your dark haired lover’s voice was strained as he asked. "Are you sure about this, doll? We're not exactly in the mood to be... gentle."

Satoru’s fingers teased your back entrance with his fingers, earning moans from you as he was applying gentle pressure with each and every push. "Last chance to back out." he murmured, his breath hot against your neck.

Their gazes were intense, filled with lust and dominance. It mirrored your own too well as you wrapped your arms around Suguru’s neck, as you leaned closer to Satoru from behind. You mewl as you feel your behind slowly loosen up.

“I want it.” You whisper to them eagerly. “Please, just go inside of me….I want to feel full of you.”

"As you wish, doll." he growled, shifting his position. He gripped your hips, positioning himself at your entrance. "Ready?" he asked, his voice strained with anticipation.

Satoru smiles slyly, his hands spreading your legs wider to give himself room. Adding his own fingers aligns with the tender slope of your backside, pushing in with the ones he had already slicked and kept inside. “Already been here, ‘guru.”

Suguru pushed into you slowly little by little, his thickness stretching you deliciously. A low guttural moan escaped your lips, your back arching off the bed. You whimper as you adjust to being full front and back.

"Fuck, you're so tight, doll." he groaned, his hips settling against yours.

"Relax." Satoru murmured, his other hand caressing your side as he goes deeper in your back. "We'll go slow like we always do."

He pushed a finger inside you, moving it in tandem with Suguru’s thrusts. You could feel everything and anything. It was like they were on your throat. The sensation of being filled in both holes was overwhelming, your mind spinning with pleasure. Suguru began to move, his pace finally steady and deep. Satoru carefully added another finger, stretching you further.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart." he praised, his breath hot against your ear. "Taking us both like this."

You keen as you felt the depth of Suguru’s hips slammed against yours one after the other, his thick angry cock plunging deep into your soaked pussy deeper than the last.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans and gasps. Satoru’s fingers continued pumping in and out relentlessly of your ass, the stretch burning pleasantly.

"Look at you." Satoru growled, his lips brushing against your ear. "Taking us up like a good little sweetheart, just for me. Just for us.”

Suguru’s hand snaked around, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it roughly, his touch sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Your back arches once again, your body shaking against the hit of wave after wave of pleasure. The push of his cock, his fingers

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me, doll. So, so much. God." he choked, the movements of his thrusts becoming erratic. “Your pussy is divine. It's a church down here. I’m being….blessed. Oh fuck, fuck…. So good, so so—”

Satoru’s fingers curled inside you, pressing against your prostate. "Come for us." he demanded, his voice low and commanding. "Come all over us like the good girl you are.”

Your body tensed, your orgasm building rapidly. The sweat on your body blending against Suguru’s in a symphonic harmony. You could feel like you were on another planet.

Suguru’s cock inside you and his fingers on your clit and Satoru’s fingers your ass pushed you over the edge. Your tears poured down your face as you felt the bed creak against the wall, in the same pace along with your movements.

"Fuck! Fuck! Goddddddd…… I'm coming!" you screamed, your pussy clamping down on Suguru’s cock. Your asshole tightened around Satoru’s fingers, pulsing with each wave of pleasure. You choked on your spit. “Oh my godddddd—”

Suguru groaned loudly, his hips stuttering as he spilled his hot seed deep inside you."Shit, fuck! Fuck! Yes, yeesssssss! Take it all, doll. Take it alllllll……" he panted, his cock twitching with each spurt.

Satoru’s fingers kept moving, drawing out your orgasm. "That's it, milk me with these fingers." he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. “Yesssssss…..”

As your orgasm subsided, Suguru refused to leave from within your crevices, small thrusts bringing in his cum inside of you. Soon enough, you felt Satoru remove his fingers from inside of you and started to lick himself clean once again. He smiled at you as you watched him clean himself of you once again as you took your breath.

A little while later, Suguru moves slightly in order to accommodate your other lover. You felt Satoru’s hard length pressing against your stretched backhole. You purse your dry lips into a line as you collect yourself.

"Ready for more?" he asked, his voice dripping with desire.

“Need you, ‘toru. Bring it on me….”

He smiles at you. Just as you asked, Satoru pushes his thick cock pushed into your sensitive asshole, stretching you even further. The feeling of being filled in both holes was overwhelming, the pleasure bordering on pain.

"Too much, too…..tooo full…." you gasped, your body trembling. Suguru hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing gently. “Fuck….can feel you….can feel you on my throat. Both of you….fuckkkkkk….”

"Never too much, doll." he growled, his hips starting to move again.

His cock slid easily through your dripping pussy once again, coated in his own cum and your juices. Satoru from behind began to thrust, his pace slow but deep, bottoming little by little as he too gained his own speed.

"You can take it, sweetheart. You always have." he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck."You can take us both."

Their movements synchronized, one pushing in as the other pulled out. The sensation of being used, of being a toy for their pleasure, sent your mind spinning. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, the overstimulation too intense.

Suguru’s grip on your throat only tightened as he pushed deeper into you, cutting off your air supply. Black spots danced in your vision, the lack of oxygen heightening every sensation.

Gojo Satoru’s thrusts became faster and faster, harshly brushing against you as his cock continued to mercilessly piston in and out of your ass.

"Look at you, doll." he panted, his voice strained by pleasure. "Taking us so well, even like this. I knew you could. You always do good.”

Suguru’s free hand gripped your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. He leaned down, his teeth sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder. The pain mixed with the overwhelming pleasure, brushing into sweet moans and pulsing sweat, flesh against flesh, juices dancing through the crevices of your pleasures.

You knew everything was pushing you closer to the edge. Satoru’s hand snaked around, his fingers finding your clit once more, causing you to tear up from the overwhelming feeling. He pushed deeper into you, groaning as he rubbed just as roughly, his touch demanding your release.

"Come for us, sweet doll." Geto commanded, his voice muffled against your skin. "Come one last time like the good girl you are."

Your body grew limp as you convulsed, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You scream and scream in pleasure as you felt everything come crashing down on you, burying you in the endless echo in this pandemonium of pleasure.

As your orgasm peaked and pushed, Satoru and Suguru’s movements inside of you became even more erratic. They were so close, so damn close. It just felt good. Too good to be deep in the heat of you. You held tightly onto Suguru, who pushed you closer to Satoru’s back, the echo of Satoru’s thrust pushing you forward to Suguru. And vice versa.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck….I’m going to cum again, doll. Fuckkkkkkkk—” Suguru choked on his words as he let his cock push hard one last time before coming inside of you once again. His new burst of hot piping cum pushed out the first one. “Fuck, fuck….so good, so good….”

Satoru soon followed suit, his fingers digging into your hips as he buried himself deep in your ass. "Fuck! shit, shitttttt, you’re too tight. I can’t hold on anymore, sweetheart. Fuckkk, shittttttttt—"

Your lover roared, his hot seed filling your back up endlessly. Their combined releases painted your skin with afterglow permeating under the sweat of the pressing skin, dirty little secrets, scratching and clawing and marks and blood whispering to the world that you are theirs.

You go limp in the middle of them, heaving and shaking from the pleasure. Soon enough, Suguru came down from his high and realized he was about to crush you. Suguru pulled out, earning a groan from you. Your dark haired lover carefully collapsed onto the bed beside you, his chest heaving.

Satoru pulled out slowly, a stream of his cum dripping from your well-used back hole. He heaved and shook as he tried to still his body. He lets his fingers push the dripping cum back onto your hole, making you mewl against him.

“Shhhh, don’t wanna see it to waste, don’t you?”

"Beautiful. You are so so beautiful, doll." Suguru murmured,looking at your fucked out expression as he laid beside you, his fingers tracing the mess on your skin. “Everything we love and more.

The room was silent except for your ragged breathing and the sound of your hearts pounding. Soon enough, exhaustion becomes of you. You first fell asleep, then Suguru and then Satoru. All three are enveloped into the confines of the love that only belongs to you. And in the whispers of the dark morrow, you would do it again and again, until nothing is left of you to give.

epilogue

Late Afternoon, the next day;

The world was burning with speculation with everything and anything that is happening over the past few hours. But you? This was not your concern. It never was, not when you had such a fun time last night. After all, you were waking up in a tangle of limbs, warm sheets, and the scent of expensive cologne mixed with the remnants of last night.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting golden lines across the bed. Your body still very much ached in a way that made heat curl in your stomach at the memories. And when you stretched, a low chuckle sounded beside you.

“Well, well….” Satoru’s voice was still husky from sleep, his lips curling against your shoulder. “Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

Before you could roll your eyes, a lazy, calloused hand trailed down your back—Geto Suguru. His touch was deliberate, teasing. “You caused quite the scene last night, doll.” he murmured, voice like silk.

Your brows furrowed for a split second. Until you saw the phone on the bedside table, the screen was still open to the post. The post that had the world on its knees. Your notifications were on fire. Your phone was on Do Not Disturb, but even then, you could see the flood of missed calls, text messages, and thousands—no, millions—of reactions online.

Your name. Their names. Trending in every possible country.

And then there was your Instagram story.

That one, simple sweet dreams had single handedly ended people’s sanity.

You bit back a laugh, running a hand through your hair.

“Oh?” you mused, “And what exactly did I do?”

Satoru turned you on your back with obscene ease, his blue eyes glinting mischievously. “Sweetheart, you knew what you were doing when you reposted that before passing out for the actual time.”

Suguru hummed in agreement, brushing his fingers over your collarbone. “It’s cute how they think they’ll ever get an answer.”

You smirked, stretching out between them. “Well, they’re the ones who keep looking for one.”

"They are EVIL. Absolute MENACES."

"No bc they’re just playing with us at this point."

"Why did she repost it like that? WHY."

"‘Sweet dreams’ WHERE ARE WE SUPPOSED TO GO FROM HERE???"

"No bc this is Gojo, Geto, and [Your Name]’s world and we are merely struggling to exist in it."

"I fear the love triangle trope is not a love triangle but a polycule and that’s so real and it’s happening in front of us."

Fan edits? Immediate.

Discourse? Relentless.

Your names? Trending for 48 HOURS STRAIGHT.

People scrambled for theories. Some swore it was a joke. Some were convinced it was confirmation of the slowest-burning relationship reveal of the decade. And when you, Satoru, and Suguru resurfaced at an event later that week? Dressed to kill, standing way too close, sharing way too many inside jokes?

You all just smiled all together in front of everyone.

The interviewer tried again. "So, can we talk about that photo?"

Satoru leaned into the mic first, grinning like the devil. "What photo?"

Suguru smirked, tipping his glass in silent mockery. "You’re going to have to be more specific."

And you?

You just sighed, tilting your head with a teasing smile before repeating the words that had haunted everyone and everyone and their mothers and fathers and anyone else they had known for many more years, just like before.

You slyly smiled. “Guess.”

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rafecameronssl4t · 1 year ago

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All yours || nfl player!Rafe Cameron x dcc!reader

Summary: You wearing Rafe’s initials on your necklace during a Cowboy’s game and people speculating 🤭

Warnings: swearing, other than nothing rlly??

Word count: 1,028

A/n: IM SO GLAD YOU GUYS LOVED THUNDERSTRUCK AS MUCH I DID 😆😆😆 If you’ve watched the dcc documentary, who was ur fav??? ALSO send me more nfl!rafe x dcc!reader requests cuz I’m itching to do more even tho I have a few to finish in my drafts lol

MASTERLIST (nfl!rafe x dcc!reader au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

“Isn’t this a bit risky?” you manage to say in between heated kisses, feeling his hands grip the flesh of your thigh wrapped around his hip. Rafe’s smirk is palpable against your neck. “That’s kinda the whole point, babe,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your skin, making you shiver as your own lips curl into a smile. Your eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, and reality hits you.

“Fuck, we gotta go. I can’t be late, and neither can you,” you say hurriedly, pushing yourself off from Rafe. You rush to the mirror, frantically fixing your hair and touching up your makeup. Rafe’s presence is suddenly behind you, his hands wrapping around your waist as his face nestles into your shoulder, inhaling the addictive scent of your perfume.

“You’re so pretty, y’know that right?” he says softly, his breath warm against your skin. You feel your cheeks heat up at his words. “Like, so so pretty. No wonder they put you front and center. You catch everyone’s attention,” he continues, his arm draped over your shoulder as he gazes at your reflection in the mirror. Both of you, side by side, in your uniforms. You had to admit, the two of you looked hot together.

“Is that why you gave me this necklace? So people know?” you chuckle, your fingers toying with the necklace adorned with his initials. “Mhm, maybe,” he smirks, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Oh, they’ll see it for sure. We’re not supposed to wear any jewelry, so it’ll stick out like a sore thumb,” you chuckle as Rafe leans down to press a kiss on your lips. “Good. I want all those guys crushing on you to know you’re mine,” he says against your lips, and you can’t help but smile. “All yours,” you reply before smashing your lips back onto his, losing yourself in the moment one last time.

As Thunderstruck reverberated around AT&T Stadium, the energy of the crowd was electric. Rafe, standing on the sidelines, couldn’t help but keep his eyes trained on the big screen, his gaze unwavering. Throughout the entire performance, he caught glimpses of your necklace multiple times, glinting under the bright stadium lights. If he saw it, that meant everyone else could too.

You moved with the grace and precision of a seasoned performer, every step and twirl executed flawlessly. The crowd’s roar grew louder as you and the other cheerleaders took center stage, but Rafe’s focus was solely on you. The way you danced had him utterly captivated; each sway of your hips, each leap, and every spin had his heart pounding harder than any game.

And then, the moment that nearly made him lose it—you threw your head back (pls tell me u guys know what move of the dance I’m talking abt if u saw the documentary😭 like the part where they hit their Pom Poms on the ground and then do the hair flip?), your eyes locking with the camera, giving a sultry, confident gaze. The big screen captured the perfect shot of you, your radiant smile and the necklace with Rafe’s initials prominently displayed on your chest. It was a declaration, a bold statement that you were his.

Rafe’s breath hitched as he felt a rush of pride and desire flood through him. His initials on your necklace weren’t just an accessory; they were a symbol of his claim, a visible marker for everyone to see. The sight of it sent a jolt of possessive excitement through him, making his blood run hot.

As the music reached its crescendo, you finished the routine with a flourish, and the crowd erupted in applause. Rafe’s teammates nudged him, laughing and making comments about his obvious distraction, but he didn’t care. His eyes remained locked on you, taking in every detail, every shimmer of the necklace that told everyone you were his.

When the performance ended, and you made your way off the field, Rafe couldn’t wait for the game to be over. The anticipation of seeing you, holding you, and showing you just how much he appreciated you was almost too much to bear.

“Really, kiddo?” Your dad, the Dallas Cowboys coach, gives you a disapproving nod, his presence commanding even in casual moments as he leans against your car. “What?” you respond innocently, unlocking the car and tossing your bag into the backseat, trying to avoid his penetrating gaze.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you. You meet his gaze, trying to keep your expression neutral, but you know exactly where this conversation is heading.

You’ve been on the team long enough to know the uniform policies. Hell, I’m not even on the cheerleading squad, and I know you aren’t supposed to wear any jewelry with your uniform,” your dad continues, his voice a mix of frustration and concern. He crosses his arms over his chest, his stance was something you’d usually see when he’s lecturing his team, not his daughter.

You let out a sigh, mirroring his stance as you cross your arms too. “It’s not that big of a deal, Dad. It’s just a necklace.” “Just a necklace?” he repeats, incredulous. “Kiddo, you know the rules are there for a reason. It’s about professionalism and safety. What if it gets caught on something?”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, feeling a mix of irritation and guilt. “Shouldn’t Kelli be telling me this? Not you?” Your dad chuckles, a rare moment of humor breaking through his stern demeanor. “You’d be glad it’s me talking to you and not her. You know how strict she can be about the rules.”

You roll your eyes, but you know he’s right. Kelli had a reputation for being strict but fair, and you didn’t want to risk your place on the team. “Okay, fine. I get it,” you concede, your voice softening as the weight of his words sinks in.

Later that night, you sink into the comfort of your bed, the events of the day replaying in your mind. You reach for your phone on the nightstand, deciding to unwind by catching up on messages and social media. A few notifications catch your eye—messages from your close friends on the team.

Curious, you open the first message, which contains a Twitter link. Your fingers tap the screen, and the app loads quickly. Your eyes widen slightly as you see your name and Rafe’s name trending all over social media.

You click on another link, leading to a video clip from the game earlier. The footage shows you performing, the camera zooming in just as you throw your head back and lock eyes with the lens, your necklace with Rafe’s initials gleaming under the stadium lights.

The next day, Kelli was furious, to say the least. Her expression was a mixture of disappointment and frustration as she called you into her office. “Y/n, this is unacceptable,” she said sternly. “You know the rules, and you deliberately broke them.”

“This is your official warning,” she continued, her tone unyielding. “The PR team had to work overtime to manage the situation. They even went as far as photoshopping the necklace out of the official pictures taken of you.”

You spent the rest of the day practicing with renewed determination, vowing to stay focused and follow the rules. During a break, you checked your phone and saw more messages from friends and fans. Despite the reprimand from Kelli, the support from your friends and the fans’ enthusiasm about your relationship with Rafe was heartwarming.

“Hey,” you jump slightly, feeling a pair of hands wrap around your waist. “Jesus, Rafe. Don’t come up behind me like that!” you chuckle, turning around and wrapping your arms around his neck as he presses kisses against your jaw.

“Couldn’t help myself,” Rafe murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Seriously, guys?” You pull away quickly as Kelcey walks into the room, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Sorry,” you awkwardly chuckle, your cheeks flushing as Kelcey shakes her head, brushing it off with a smile.

“It’s fine. Just didn’t expect to walk into a lovefest,” Kelcey teases. “Okay, go away now,” you jokingly shoo Rafe out of the room, but before he leaves, he presses a quick kiss on your lips, making you let out a little giggle.

As Rafe exits, Kelcey crosses her arms, a playful smile on her face. “You guys are cute, and apparently the whole internet thinks so too,” she says with a wink. You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, I saw. It’s a bit overwhelming, honestly.” Kelcey laughs. “Overwhelming? Try trending. You two are practically the new royal couple of Dallas.” You laugh, shaking your head.

“It’s wild. I never expected this much attention.” Kelcey nods, her expression softening. “Just enjoy it. It’s not every day you get to be part of a fairytale romance that everyone’s rooting for. Plus, it’s clear Rafe’s crazy about you.” You smile, warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah, he is. And I’m crazy about him too.”

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twistedpink · 5 months ago

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Malleus Draconia x Athlete!Reader, suggestive!

Spelldrive, regardless of the team you cheer for or the position you play, is about sheer pettiness. There’s no place like the field to watch a jacked teenage boy whine about splinters and bruises- You’re a prime example of this, especially when you lose, but who’s not a sore loser once in awhile?

Doesn’t help that it’s so easy to get carried away during games- With all the sweat and tackling, there’s bound to be a couple accidents mid-air,, That’s how you get into.. Situations. That braincell deficient diasomnia freshmen crashed into your torso with a thunk while you had possession, and you soared through the air like a chip bag in the wind. Suddenly penless, and subsequently magicaless, you’re completely at the mercy of the elements..

Just your luck that instead of the many medical mages or crash-mats you could’ve rocketed into, it’s a broom. With a person that you hate. His insufferably muscular shoulders don’t even shake- Your knees nearly blow out from the shock, and it feels like you’re exploding! Malleus’s hands are braced against his wand and your thigh respectively, and it’s weirdly.. Sensual. For a game about contact frisby.

“DAMN FAIRY!”

Even with how hard you’ve worked to bulk up this season, he still dwarfs you with a wicked smirk when he leans closer to go fast. He gets passed to, getting possession of the disk for the first time this game- And it already feels like a loss. You’ve worked so hard to beat his stupid, cocky tail into the ground, just for it to get blown up.

Nobody would blame you for this- Everyone gets a little carried away during games, and you’re already humiliated, getting half-humped with the bumpy ride in front of the entire stadium and all. So, you make eye contact. Totally not romantically, still cussing him out, more like an addict trying to fistfight a bear, and you yank. Hard on his horn. His mouth parts in a silent scream- Sounding weirdly high-pitched, and.. Breathy? He hyperventilates, where he used to look effortless. Blushes, full faced, because of just how insanely pale he is.

Holy seven. That was a moan.

Where are fae erogenous zones, again? WHY WERENT YOU TAUGHT THIS?? Suddenly, a sick, intrusive thought flies behind your eyes like a vision. You’ll never get to have power over a great mage like him, like this, ever again. Your other hand reaches up, and they tug simultaneously. You don’t regret the heat that engulfs you when his drool spills onto your uniform- You can’t hear the crowd, you don’t have a clue of what’s going on in this game anymore. If this broom crashes, then you’d have died a winner. You’d die better than The Malleus Draconia, and your legendary duel’d be something to remember.

His face twists, and you feel how his boxers flood. Gross. Your Fanclub in the stands erupts with applause,, You’re a champion, but at what cost?

This is SO stupid @bju3c0re

#twst yuu #twst #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #yuu twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst x reader #malleus twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #twst malleus #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus x reader #malleus x yuu #malleus draconia x reader #twistedsmut

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bitchlessdino · 1 year ago

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Reckless (m)

Pairing: adult actor!mingyu x pervert afab!reader Genre: smut Word count: 4.8k tags: camboy!mingyu, established friendship, banter, brat!reader, glass toys, invasion of privacy, rough play, anal, double penetration, degradation (pervert, slut), choking, spanking, spitting, oral (giving and receiving), swallowing, hair pulling, deep throating Summary: Mingyu is a camboy and proud of it, as he should. Finally, he's getting the applause he deserves for his work and will be attending one of the biggest adult industry events to date. He just needs you to watch over while his house while he's gone. Easy enough, right? Unbeknownst to him, you happened to be a fan. A big one. One so big that you cant help but take advantage what Mingyu fans have only ever dreamed of. author note: finally the awaited winner, camboy!mingyu! still so crazy he won over multiple reverse harems on the poll. tagging my wife @wongyuseokie because it's her birthday and deserves to wake up with some NASTY mingyu smut. thank you @highvern for beta-reading to better this fic and like both of us are saying, mingyu is a fucking freakkk in this so enjoy my babies.

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @cottoncheol @embrace-themagic @onlymingyus

You have only seen the room in passing personally, but countless times over video. You’re not even shocked by the dozens of expensive toys he’s put in those glass displays, so used to seeing them enter a human orifice one way or the other. The burly man bashfully guides you away from the scandalous room, skillfully diverting your attention to the lush foliage he's entrusted you to tend to, a gentle blush adorning his warm-toned cheeks.

How you keep the fact that you have been secretly watching your friend’s cam shows–including the charity stream of him doing push ups in a singular pair of skintight briefs–was a mystery, even to you.

It’s not like you meant to get addicted to porn. But Mingyu, unapologetic about his line of work, practically served it up on a silver platter for you. He says he could use all the help he could get, but frankly, he couldn’t have it more easy.

With that body, that hair, that face, that smile, there’s no doubt in your mind he’d be a fan favorite and you were right. He’s now one of the rising adult content creators in his line of work, heavily acclaimed in the cam category and recently in independent film. That’s what his trip is about, awarding him for his hard work that he never thought he’d accomplish.

It fills you with pride, yet piques your curiosity; fusing platonic and sensual feelings that blur the lines between friendship and desire for Mingyu, actualizing this full fledged crush. But you’d never let him find that out. Not unless it was against your will.

“And that’s pretty much it. Everything else is pretty self-explanatory. I’ll be back on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday, hmm?” Your eyebrows bounce in place suggestively. “Thinking of pursuing personal projects while working?”

He shrugs like a timid schoolboy, cheekbones pigmented and perky like bright ripe cherries. “No promises—Now, repeat back to me everything I’ve told you to do.”

You playfully roll your eyes, offended he had the gall to doubt you. “Water each green buddy once a day; keep crumbs off tables, counters, furniture, etc; put everything back where it should be; and,” you start to grin, “no sex parties, even though this is the perfect place for it.”

“Okay, that last one was obviously a joke but very much serious. Although tempting, under any circumstances, do not fuck anyone in this house while I’m gone.”

“So circumstances would be different if you were home?”

Getting a shade brighter in red, he points a demanding finger at you like a stern mother, “I mean it.”

“Yes, mom,” sarcasm coating your tongue.

“Good.”

Mingyu, armed with a suitcase containing all his essentials, casually waves you off. There's a playful authority in the final point of his finger, a silent reminder to behave before he disappears behind the imposing door.

You promise him you’ll do your due diligence in taking care of his home, and that would be an easy enough task, the real problem stems from the temptation of one specific room. Mingyu’s cam room.

Distinct from the usual rooms such as the bathroom, Mingyu's kitchen, and his primary bedroom, this space stands alone, akin to an office. Mingyu himself has shared its origin story: starting from the sweetest of riddances of a god-awful roommate, followed by many desperate nights to cover the remaining monthly rent, ultimately giving birth to this room that many of his fans like to call ‘Sinner’s Safehaven.’ So rightfully acclaimed.

You’re a fan of yourself, able to outline the bedroom from memory and recollect every toy from every live stream he’s ever posted. Unable to resist the temptation, your feet instinctively embark on a self-guided tour. Your eyes are bewitched by the intricacies of every weapon of pleasure, every scent of his array of miscellaneous liquids, every phallic-shaped object that stands tall and mighty like a national monument.

It’d be a lie to say you weren’t tempted to take advantage of the opportunity, maybe just to get the sick idea out of the way. Your hands manage to find a mind of their own, reaching over to unlock one of the glass displays, wrapping your hand around the object’s girth, and taking it out from its confinement for a closer view.

A stunning crystal toy that reflects off the lights of the room, looking in pristine condition as if fresh from packaging. If Mingyu is good at one thing it’s maintaining his tools, and he does not let anyone forget.

Ever since he showcased it on screen, you've desired to covet one just like it, inducing a late-night web surf to discover the outrageous out-of-reach prices for a product of such exceptional quality and aesthetic appeal. It does not look to be in the cards for you to own one, but borrowing wouldn’t be a problem. He did say everything only needed to be put back in place and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Following the devilish voice whispering in your ear, you slip into something more comfortable, letting the well-conditioned air blow a draft against your bare legs. You hold the toy excitedly before dipping your weight in the bed, the silk sheets and pillowy cushion embracing you at all sides.

The knowledge that the infamous crystal dildo is in your hand makes your heart pound and pussy throb. You can count all the videos of it being featured with one hand, and despite it all, you know it had to be Mingyu's favorite.

One particular video comes to mind as you hold the tip against your inner thigh, moving it identical to the way Mingyu held it against him, realizing they are coincidentally the same length, same girth, and same tantalizing presence. You practically dreamed of having him and this toy inside of you for months after that show and now half of that dream would be possible.

Your fingers didn’t have to be inside you to know you’re wet, practically soaked through your panties the moment you laid eyes of Mingyu and his sex room. Fuck, if you aren’t so damn ashamed of the truth of your feelings, you’d never let him out of your sight.

A long note of your moan exhales as you insert the tip between your wet folds, introducing the strangest yet arousing thing to be done to you. It’s certainly big as you expect it to be, maybe even more as you plunge it in deeper. Affirmations exit your lips in short bursts, your other hand up your shirt as they tease your nipples through your bra.

Your legs crutch in reaction to its ridged shape massaging your walls, then the cool hard surface finds that familiar hotspot, unfortunately only halfway down its length. Your cheeks flush imagining Mingyu’s face, imagining the words to come out of those lips if it were his cock.

‘Already? I haven’t even put it all in yet.’

It fuels your determination, deadset in taking all of it—all of him.

‘You can do it, can't you? You can take my cock for me?’

Somewhere, lost in the contagious air of sex and starvation, your mind runs rampant. Your hips buck into the crystal, letting it settle inside you all the way before you thrust it harder. You hiss at its size, expelling a moan once you no longer feel its shaft around your fingers and just take it, take it as if it a canine smile were on the other end.

‘So good…so good at taking all of my cock.’

“I am being good,” you mumble under your breath. “So good...”

Your whimpers go unnoticed by you, only worried of the dildo carrying on its mission. Sensation running down your legs and arms, and your hips hover over the mattress. Your back arches and you spell his name out in the only way the body fully intends you to: in longing breaths, “Mingyu…please…”

‘What? What is it?’

You groan at the image of his smile. “Let me cum please…”

‘Do you deserve it?’

“Yes, Gyu, please…” You thrust faster. “Oh my god—“

‘Yes, that’s it. That pretty pussy should cum all over my hard fucking cock.’

“Yes, yes!” Your arousal seeps all around you, a visible stain beneath your thighs and you don’t care. “God, right there! Right there—“

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Then it becomes no longer your imagination. The voice you’ve created in your mind had an echo, lingering in the depths of your filth rotted head, but the one you just heard had to be the original.

You scramble to hide under the sheets, eyes as big as saucers as the man of your fantasy stands clear in your reality at the foot of his bedroom. “M-Mingyu. The train.”

“I forgot some things. Couldn’t leave without them, so I told the driver to turn back.” He peers over your situation, intrigued by your legs folded on top of one another beneath the covers, the proof trepidation of your forehead, and your lips swollen from instinctive biting. “What do we have here?”

You laugh nervously, unprepared for the shitshow soon to arise. “I see how this looks—“

“Looks like you’ve had a bit of fun.” He huffs with his arms crossed as he approaches, the human made stain plain in sight on his bed sheets which you’ve fail to cover up. “Too much maybe. And all by yourself.”

“Well, you see—“

“And the mess you made.” His hand pushes against the mattress, leaning over to your side and drinking in your view. “All over my bed. All over my Crystal dildo.”

You avoid his gaze, wishing to disappear in a cloud of smoke right about now. “Okay. You can understand how this would bother you.”

“Oh I’m not bothered by it—not in the slightest—but…you could’ve at least waited until I came back.”

Mingyu pulls the sheets off of you and he exposes your guilt, seeing it in its raw, glistening glory. His eyes scan over you, swallowing at that scent revealed, and a fire lights up in his stomach. “Dirty little pervert can’t stop saying my name while using my toy, hmm? Don’t you know better to touch things that don’t belong to you?”

“I…I…I’m sorry,” You squeak.

“Well, I can’t just let this go now, can I?”

You shake your head, breathing through your nose. You’re scared of him hearing how fast your heart has decided to pound, how wet you’ve become well after your orgasm, and how dry your throat is after you heard him call you a pervert.

Wordlessly, he takes the glass dildo from your fingertips, claiming what’s rightfully his, and plunging between his lips halfway down its shaft. Your eyes capture it in full color, reveling in the moan that slips past his lips. Your chest rises and falls watching him take it deeper almost effortlessly as his slack cladded knees dip into the mattress.

“Mmh…who knew a pervert’s pussy could taste so sweet,” he mumbles, smiling into the toy. It leaves his mouth with a pop before it aims back at you. “Taste it. Taste how sweet your dirty pussy is all over my cock.”

Your stomach coils, reluctantly obliging to crack open your mouth. Mingyu hums, content with what he sees as he eases the toy towards your mouth. “Don’t be shy. Take my crystal cock, perv.”

Your lips wrap around the head, tasting the salty, faintly sweet, flavor lingering on the glass before it travels past your lips.You look back at him, almost as if waiting for his instruction, and receive a stroke on the back of your head as a response.

“That’s it. Let it go deep down your throat. Have to make up for ruining my bed, right?”

You nod, unable to speak as you bob down, licking up what you can and collecting every inch of the toy. His eyes become a dark pit that stares back at you, dominance taking over his entire presence. He doesn’t speak, only watches and for what feels like forever, pushing the toy in and out of your mouth.

Your muffle around its girth, tears starting to brim your eyes as it hits the back of your throat, but it doesn’t falter Mingyu in the slightest.

"You're crying. Does it hurt?" Mingyu asks in a domineering tone, to which you nod. "Do you want me to stop?" he inquires, to which you shake your head.

His lips graze your ear, and you sense his charming smile whispering against your skin as he replaces the imaginary devilish voice with his very real and alluring one. “Then deep throat it like you mean it, you fucking slut.”

Your lips parted wider, a shattered moan aches out, only to have the toy stuck down your throat long enough for your tears to sting. Gasping for air, Mingyu finally shows mercy and unplug your airways. Coughing uncontrollably, salvia dribbles down your chin as you retrieve your stolen oxygen. His hand tenderly caresses at the back of your head, threading through the tangles of your hair.

“Good job,” he says in a hushed voice, picking your face up by your chin. “Now. Do you think that was an appropriate punishment?”

He tucks your hair behind your ear, lethally silent as he anticipates your response.

It takes you a moment to realize where you are, who you're with, and what this all meant for you. Mingyu’s cam persona has haunted your inner thoughts, degrading you as if you were scum, tossing your body like a rag doll, marking and bruising your skin only he would find, and you relished in every earth-shattering, mind-blowing orgasm it’s caused. You’d be a fool to say otherwise.

“N-no. It’s not enough.”

“Is that so,” He questions amused. Slowly, his hand travels from your hair to your face, tracing your jaw in a languid movement and coming across your neck to size it in his large hand. “What will be enough for you exactly?”

The pad of his fingers presses the slightest amount of pressure on the column of your neck, emerging a gasp so soft Mingyu almost doesn't register it. He grins, hot breath fanning your face as he watches your legs squirm. It comes as a surprise to you when he single-handedly pins your body against the bed frame, leveraging you against it before he comes down and faces your pussy drowning its own cum.

“I should at least have compensation done for the damage you’ve made, don’t you think?”

He grips your neck a fraction tighter before you feel his mouth make contact with your core. Physically vibrating, you feel the sensation of his tongue flicking at your clit, and visibly melt before he explores down. “You’re so fucking wet,” he chuckles condescendingly through your arousal. “If I knew any better I’d think you’re wet because of me, as if the screaming of my name wasn’t proof enough.”

“Mingyu...” you whine through your ceased breath.

“And you sound so pretty when you say my name too,” He groans as inhales your scent that blurs his surroundings, devouring you inside and out. “Fucking tease…taste so damn good.”

Mingyu’s chokehold loosens to cascade down your body, fingers moving like ribbons tracing your shape and memorizing every bump and curve through the thin layer of your shirt. Your voice gives out, clenching your fists as he explores you in swirls, moisture seeping out of your cunt but never ending and leaving you in an endless loop of pleasure.

He holds you up by your legs, your thighs crushing either side of his face as he buries himself in your insatiable pussy while its dripping down his chin and neck. He groans inside you, mustering every impish sound possible as he eats you clean, not minding how you’re at the end of your wits locking his head in place.

“G-gyu, shit,” you sputter. “I’m c-close.”

He simply scoffs, “Good,” plunging his tongue deeper, nose pushing against your swollen clit. Words stay lodged down your throat, trapped from escaping as you writhe in his grip and he swallows the taste of you succumbing to his control. You aren’t aware of the eyes watching every second of you give in, how they beam with pride and greed as he goes for more. The notes of fruit and musk only makes Mingyu’s craving intensify, unwilling to surrender the sweet nectar once he’s gotten his taste.

With a yelp, he drops your legs and tugs you toward him, rendering you defenseless as he's clamped either of your side. You drink in his body towering over you as he swiftly pulls his shirt over his head and off his body, bestowing you a deific image that you never grow tired of.

“Shall I help you undress?” He offers, kindly for once.

You drop your head in a reluctant nod and your heart swells at the sight of his smile before they capture your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Mingyu’s movement isn’t needy, it’s efficient and effective. Salty peppermint kisses and hands that move gingerly with ease culminate proof of a man that has countless amounts of partners and endless experience. Almost as if he’s ready for any and every given opportunity and you more than believe it.

Seeing as he knows how to handle himself, undoubtedly that meant he’d know how to handle you. That rouses you, anticipation resonating in the pit of your stomach, and like that, you’ve embraced your nudity just as Mingyu has in the safety of his firm arms.

He manages to kick off his pants, freeing him of the restraint of fabric and his hips dip into yours. And again and again. And again and again. Just to show you what you’ve created in your messy experiment.

If you weren’t already hot under his touch, you swear the room was hotter than any vast desert. Perspiration sprayed against your back, your forehead, your chest, but strangely you’re obsessed with his and the incidentally salty taste of his skin as you kiss. “You feel huge,” you mutter in a flustered breath.

His cock pulsates through his briefs against your thigh, screaming to join the party and make himself known in ways he hasn’t shown yet. Not yet with you. He smiles against your lips, grasping your hips more firmly. More definitely. “It’s too soon to be saying that.”

“Then…” Your fingers, tantalized by the appearance of his styled hair, didn’t resist the urge to comb through it, pleasantly surprised with the silky, pliable sensation. “I hope I get to soon.”

“Pervert,” he repeats with a grin. His hand wraps around your wrist, pulling it away from his head and landing on the hem of his underwear. Mingyu is good at getting back on track as he immediately pulls his waistband away from torso, springing his cock that stands in your direction in determination. A familiar yet foreign sight that you never expected to be on the other end of. “By the way, don’t forget. You’re making it up to me. Not the other way around.”

Naturally, your hand finds the ridged texture of his shaft. “Yes, of course.” You feel it twitch under his touch, growing as a nail trails up a singular vein. “But I never said I’d make that easy.”

“Really? A sentence where ‘you’ and ‘easy’ just seems to fit.”

You sneer at him, calming down after seeing an amicable jab you’re used to. “You’re one to talk.”

“And I won’t be done talking. On your knees,” He demands.

“Or what?”

Mingyu isn’t new to your taunting but he can't help the steam coming out of his ears this time around. Gathering your weight, he swiftly turns you on your stomach and props you up as his cock settles between the cheeks of your ass. “I’ll do things like that. I’m patient until I’m not. Not when it comes to perverted brats like you.”

You voluntarily moan as you back into him, allowing the cock to slide up and down. “I’d like to see it. Unless you’re all talk.”

A familiar coolness of glass finds itself home in your sopping cunt. You mewl at the sensation, rolling your eyes to the back of your head. The side of your head braces for the bed and letting the toy suction your pussy, buzzing . “Fuck…”

“Spoke to soon, didn’t you?”

“Have—fuck—mercy…” Your words speak like pleads but your body could not be more delightful in taking every inch, adjusting from the backside in record time.

“See? Look at you take all that cock,” he spits in the smack center, rubbing around your rim and pussy thoroughly. “And knowing you and our conversations, I know you can take it well somewhere else. Isn’t that right?”

“Y-you wouldn’t…”

“I can. Unless…that’s not what you want. Unless you want me to leave this room without putting my cock in you and not fuck you like the dirty fucking slut you are.”

“Fuck…you…” The glass vanished through you, reappearing at Mingyu's will, muffling your protests, and swallowing the glass dildo satisfyingly from your cunt. The bedsheets become balls in your hand, wrinkled and worn, just as you planned to be after Mingyu is through with you.

“That’s not an answer.” He teases, thrusting faster.

“Shit…fuck…Yes please fuck, I want it. I want more. Please…”

“Excited are you, pervert?” He inquires, managing to grab the lube from a nearby drawer and squirt it on the ring of your hole. The bite of the cool gel stings in a way that’s familiar, but does not grow any easier as it physically and mentally preparing you.

“You…suck…Kim Mingyu…”

“I’ve already done that already, perv.”

Taking the crystal dildo out of your pussy, he carefully sets it aside, prepping your untouched hole for entry and feeling you clenched around his fingers. “So tight. What? Did you lie and you’re actually an anal virgin.”

“I’m not,” you moan in defense, hearing the erotic squelching burns your ears and makes your already hot skin scorching to the touch. His fingers are tolerable, but still bigger you’re used to and it’s more apparent as he inserts another finger. “I just never had anything that big. Nothing your size.”

“I’m honored.”

You hope that his cock could fuck you the way his fingers does, if not then better, already buzzing at the pace they move inside you, stretching you wider and wider.

“F-fuck off.”

“Not yet. It’s coming.” You feel the head of the dildo perk up your rim as it eases in you, the drip of lube between your cheeks drowning your hole and all the moisture it could ask for. Still, Mingyu is careful to adjust to your preference, opening you up and seeing how the toy slowly destroys you inside and out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your hands slam against the bed, allowing the gradual introduction to take over all your senses.

“You’re taking the cock so well up your ass, fuck. I haven’t seen anyone do that yet. Remember you talking about it, made curious if you actually could.”

“I don’t lie…about stuff…like that…” you spread your ass, offering the perfectly lewd view for Mingyu, practically dripping all for him.

“Shit, I need to be inside you.”

He rolls a condom on his length, tossing the wrapper where he doesn’t see it and teases your slit moist in your cum. In the midst of it, you feel the tip of his cock rubbing your clit, and your whine ensue as you wait for more, not properly being used to the full advantage. Mingyu laughs to himself, seeing how desperate you look, reveling in the sounds that leave your body as it fuels his cock before he plunges inside you.It's an indescribable sensation, almost sacrilegious in its intensity, yet it leaves you convinced that Heaven must reside wherever Mingyu is.

You thought you knew the meaning of being spit open until it’s Mingyu reintroducing the idea. His cock and toy planted so deep inside you, fucking both of your holes until you’re rendered into like what he calls you, a perverted little slut. You don't mind in the slightest; in fact, when the thoughts swirling through your mind are nothing but incoherent, you're utterly indifferent to anything else. Your state of matter was to be fucked, double fucked, and fucked to ruin until you’ve come over and over again.

“Stupid slut…stupid…perverted…fucking slut…Look at you…you like getting fucked in the pussy and ass, hmm?”

“Yes god yes,” you confirm, devoid of words otherwise.

He smacks you full against the cheek, groaning into the sex thicken air as he melts into your body like butter. “Yeah? How does it make you feel?”

“Full…”

“You like that?” Another smack to your ass. “Fucking pervert likes being fucked full. Big fucking surprise.”

His thrusts grow rough, already annoyed by the toy in his hands when he’s eager to plant both on your body and fill the full extent of your body. “God you’re hot,” he mumbles, “Why does a pervert like you get to be so hot, hmm?” He rams into you, feeling you jump back against him.

“Makes me want to fucking drain my cock in you, but no, I have—“ he slams again, a burst of ache living your lips, “—Work! God, I fucking needed this. I needed you and every inch before I needed to leave.”

You’d respond if you weren’t so occupied. He drowns your thoughts out every second he’s inside you, to the point nothing else exists.

“Shit, I have work,” Mingyu repeats as if dawning the thought for the first time. He lets go of the toy and manages to direct it with his thrusts, moving him and the toy into you at the same pace. You scream at him, shattered breaths taking over you, and his name is the only consistent, as you spread yourself wider to take it, left with only the base of the toy and the end of Mingyu’s shaft.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you whine incessantly, shaking and bucking into him until you cum all over his cock, undoubtedly flooding and dripping down the side of your legs.

But Mingyu takes his time and it tastes sweeter than any candy, fucking your pussy and ass deeper, harder until his mind as gone as yours is. “Shit, shit, shit. Turn around and look at me.”

You do as told, dildo still in the pocket of your ass, as his cock is aimed at your lips, the condom abandoned just like its wrapper. His hands run in your hair, gripping from the root and he pushes you over the head of his cock, groaning as more pretty souvenir images appear for him to look back on. “Look at you. Good at taking cock there too?”

You nod, mumbling a confirmation before Mingyu penetrates deeper, noticing him lodged in you throat before bucking his hips in your mouth. “Then take it. Take all of my cum. Can’t leave another mess behind.”

Wide eyes of mischief look back at him, holding him by the back of his cock as you bob against him. He grips tighter to the back of his head, pulling and tugging as your hair become the size of his fists and you feel him hit the back of your throat. He now sees the white of your eyes, the flare of your nostrils, the quiver of jaw before it overwhelms him.

“Fuck, take it.” The load builds up to its full intensity, intoxicating him until theirs tears even in his eyes, the kind that supersedes one of joy.

You hold his hips with both spread hands, welcoming his release with closed eyes. Your mouth gets flooded, blown up so full you’re close to choking, gagging from the contents dispersed in you.

“Take it,” Mingyu says fatigued. “You don’t have to swallow it, but take it.”

But you do swallow it, what you could anyway, and it’s inevitable that you’re a coughing mess when you unlatch from him, dribbling in a concoction of your bodily fluids and cum running along your torso, cunt, and legs.

“Okay,” Mingyu pants, “Now I really need to get to that train.”

You’re catching your breath as he cleans himself off with wet paper towels he had on hands, cleaning off the work of his cock but leaving the rest of him untouched. It’s fine, however, seeing as he glows with an air of lust, making him more charismatic than he normally did, and you’re brimming with pride knowing you’ve caused it. “I’m surprised you have that much energy off camera.”

“It helps, that it’s you.” He timidly admits, raising the temperature in your body. “And who said we’re off camera.” He points to the security camera at the corner of his room, reminding you too late that he’s used to using more than one camera to capture any and all angles. “I even forgot about it for a second.”

“Oh.”

“I can delete it if you want.”

“No it’s okay, but um….Send me a copy.”

2K notes · View notes

astroxrion · 12 days ago

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How to Heal your Inner Child 💛 Astrology Thread ⭐️

Aries in the 5th House

Your inner child wants to win, be seen first, and take up space without guilt. You express through boldness, risk, and raw passion. You crave love that feels like a chase. Underneath? A kid who just wanted permission to be loud and still be loved.

Taurus in the 5th House

You find joy in what’s sensual, steady, and real. Your inner child craved stability in a world that kept shifting. You create slowly, with depth and beauty. But comfort can become a cage, healing is letting yourself explore without needing control.

Gemini in the 5th House

You express through words, chaos, and wit. You crave playful, curious love. But behind the fun is a child who was never truly heard. You keep it light to avoid pain. Healing means sitting with silence and speaking what actually matters.

Cancer in the 5th House

Your inner child clings to safety, nostalgia, and the dream of being nurtured back. You create from deep emotional memory. But you often perform care to feel needed. Healing is letting yourself receive love without earning it.

Leo in the 5th House

You were born to shine but were likely punished or mocked for it. Now you chase validation through performance. You love big but fear being invisible. Healing means creating for you,not for applause,and knowing your worth without the spotlight.

Virgo in the 5th House

Your inner child learned to perfect instead of play. Creativity became a duty, not joy. You express through service and precision but overthink everything. Healing is allowing mess, freedom, and failure. You don’t need to earn your right to joy.

Libra in the 5th House

You crave beauty, connection, and being adored. You learned to people-please to keep love around. Now, you perform harmony instead of expressing truth. Healing means choosing yourself first and creating without needing to be liked.

Scorpio in the 5th House

Your inner child was betrayed or invaded emotionally. Now, you guard your heart, even in love. You crave depth, obsession, intensity,but also fear losing control. Healing is letting yourself play without fear of being destroyed by closeness.

Sagittarius in the 5th House

You express through freedom, exploration, and philosophy. You ran from pain by chasing experience. Your inner child wanted to escape, not belong. Healing means staying still long enough to feel,and knowing joy doesn’t need to be earned through movement.

Capricorn in the 5th House

You were forced to grow up too fast. Joy was not safe, it was selfish. Now you treat love like a responsibility and creativity like a job. Healing means learning to play again, not just succeed. Your inner child deserves rest and laughter.

Aquarius in the 5th House

You performed uniqueness to avoid rejection. You love on your own terms but fear being too much or not enough. You express through rebellion or detachment. Healing means letting people see the real you, not just the interesting version.

Pisces in the 5th House

You escaped into imagination because reality felt too raw. You love dreamers, addicts, artists,but sometimes lose yourself in them. You create to feel whole. Healing means grounding your vision and learning that fantasy isn’t a replacement for safety.

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unsolicited-opinions · 11 days ago

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It's not that people don't understand right from wrong.

It's that moral/ethical concerns aren't what guides most behavior on social media.

People recognize what's principled and kind. But they also recognize what gets rewarded.

The affirmation, the dopamine hit of the likes...is addictive and powerful, and it re-writes our reality if we're not vigilant.

The Algorithm doesn't reward honesty, humility, nuance, or reflection. It rewards certainty, outrage, and loyalty to the in-group. The Algorithm teaches us that certainty is strength, rage is virtue, and loyalty means never hesitating.

We've learned to fear being socially wrong more than we fear being false.

We perform moral clarity instead of living with moral integrity.

We don't stand for values or universal moral principles. We signal alignment.

Ask yourself:

Are you right...or just on the right side?

Are you guided by principles...or by applause/acceptance?

The further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those who speak it.

-George Orwell

The cost of commitment to principles is a social cost, and social media has made most of us unwilling to pay it.

The test of personal integrity isn't whether you're right when it's easy. It's whether you stay true to your principles when it's not.

#jumblr #us politics #Social media #Internet culture #Integrity #Moral principles #dopamine addiction #Morality #Ethics #Social psychology #the algorithm

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cinnxmxngxrl · 2 months ago

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“Check one, two”

Tom Hardy x f!Reader

Masterlist here

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

Summary: A mic accident turns into a viral scandal when you’re caught moaning your boyfriend’s name backstage.

WC: 3.8k

Tags/Wanings: smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, semi-public sex, filming a sex tape, unprotected piv, oral (m&f receiving), established relationship, reader is famous actress. This is a work of fiction. It is written for entertainment purposes only, the version of tom portrayed here is a fictional character. If RPF isn’t for you, feel free to skip this one

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

He was proud of the weight his name carried. Of the legacy he’d built with quiet consistency. The last few years had been about pulling away from the cameras, the spotlight. Choosing privacy over attention. Silence over scandal. His personal life had become something sacred — locked down, sealed tight.

You were the exact opposite.

Famous and filthy rich since your early teens, the word “no” had rarely, if ever, applied to you. The flashes of paparazzi, the roar of the crowd, the center of the stage — that was your natural habitat. You thrived under scrutiny. Craved the chaos.

By 26, you’d racked up more Oscars than Meryl Streep and more controversies than Kim K. You’d lost count of how many times you’d been cancelled — but it never stuck. The outrage always fizzled out, smothered beneath your undeniable talent. Your fans were loyal to a fault. Rabid. Defensive. A legion armed with memes, think pieces, and fan cams, ready to die on every hill you stood on.

The rumors started two years ago, back when you were both cast in that movie. The erotic thriller. The one that had half the internet foaming at the mouth before it even premiered. You and him on the same set was all it took for the tabloids to spiral.

He’d tried to stay under the radar. Tried to keep things quiet. Told you a million times he wanted to keep a low profile. That’s why you never commented publicly, never confirmed the relationship. But after dozens of events, red carpets, and paparazzi photos that screamed louder than any PR statement, there was no need for a declaration. Everyone knew.

Sometimes, he hated himself for getting involved with someone like you. Someone bold. Reckless. Addictive.

He was no stranger to your little games. Like during the press junket for the film — when your hand slid high up his thigh, fingers grazing his cock with the kind of casual confidence that made his pulse spike. You kept talking, kept smiling, answering questions like nothing was happening. Like you weren’t stroking him through his trousers while four journalists sat barely a few feet away.

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

This night, you looked like sin. It was the premiere of the new film you starred in, and you showed up dressed like a provocation.

That dress — red, liquid-slick, poured over your curves like melted wax. Backless. Braless. Dangerous. Every inch of skin you revealed looked deliberate, from the deep plunge of the neckline to the scandalous curve of your spine. Diamonds dripped from your neck like ice. Your heels could’ve slit a throat.

Tom was fucked the second he saw you.

“You’re gonna behave tonight, yeah?” he murmured under his breath, his palm settling low on your back as he escorted you into the venue. His voice was all gravel and restraint, a fragile attempt at composure as cameras flashed and fans screamed.

You leaned in, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Only if you make me.”

That hand slid lower. Gripped tighter. Right above your ass.

“Don’t start,” he warned, jaw already tense.

Too late. You’d started the second you stepped out of the car.

And backstage? Things got worse.

You were scheduled to give a short speech before the film began — five minutes, spotlight, polite applause. Your mic was clipped discreetly to the inside of your neckline.

Tom? Mic’d too — strictly for the behind-the-scenes documentary crew. Supposed to be muted. Supposed to be.

But when you pulled him into the green room before your cue?

That mic was live.

“Ten minutes,” you whispered, voice low and sweet as the door clicked shut behind you. The makeup team had cleared. The room was quiet. Just you and him.

His eyes dropped to your chest. Up close, the dress was almost obscene, the fabric hugged every contour, clinging to your nipples with no shame. There was nothing underneath. Nothing to hide behind.

“You’re trouble,” he growled, stepping in close. The tension in his voice cracked at the edges, already unraveling.

You smiled, slow and wicked, and reached down — palming his cock right through his tailored pants. Bold. Effortless. Deliberate.

“You like it.”

He caught your wrist. Firm. Commanding. A warning.

“Not here.”

You pouted, body pressing closer. Your lips brushed his jaw. “You’re already hard. That mean you want me?”

He stared at you like a man starved.

Then? He locked the door.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he muttered, voice rough with need, hands already gripping your hips, spinning you around, pushing you back against the dressing table. His fingers rucked up your dress — fast, practiced, hungry.

You didn’t wait. You hiked it higher. No panties. No hesitation.

And Tom? Dropped to his knees.

Right there. Suit still on. On the fucking carpet. Eyes locked on your cunt like it was his only salvation.

Face buried between your thighs before you could even breathe.

“Oh—fuck—Tom—”

You gasped, back arching, fingers flying into his hair as his tongue dragged through your folds. Slow. Greedy. Possessive. His beard scratched in the most sinful way, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking hard until your knees buckled and you had to grip the table to keep from collapsing.

“Louder,” he growled into you, “wanna hear how wrecked you get for me.”

“Tom—please—oh my god—”

And that’s when the sound tech’s worst nightmare came true.

Because while Tom had you whimpering and soaked on his tongue, his mic was still hot. Still connected. Still transmitting.

The audience heard it.

First, just a soft, breathy moan — like a secret not meant to be shared, crackling through the venue speakers as the crowd shuffled and murmured, waiting for the film to start.

Then:

“Tom—fuck, right there—”

A gasp.

A slick, wet sound.

A man’s groan, deep and distorted.

And then chaos. Scrambling audio techs. Static. The sound cut.

But the damage was done.

Back in the green room?

You were cumming on his face.

Your teeth sank into your hand to keep from screaming, body shuddering, thighs clamped around his head as his tongue drove you to pieces. He held you in place like you were his meal — which you were. Sloppy. Ruthless. Devoted.

When he finally stood, his chin was glistening. His eyes feral. His chest heaving like he’d been through war.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he muttered, dragging your dress back down, kissing your jaw as you panted in his arms. “Catch your breath. You’re on in sixty seconds.”

And then?

The door burst open. A frantic stage manager. Red-faced. Out of breath.

“Tom, your mic—”

That was when it hit you.

People heard you.

The scandal was immediate. The internet? On fire before the lights even dimmed.

Was that a MOAN during the pre-show?? Is she okay??

“Tom—fuck, right there” 😭 NOT TOM HARDY HAVING HIS MIC ON

Hard-launching his oral game mid-Emmy campaign is a flex I respect.

i want a relationship like theirs. chaotic, talented, public, and completely unapologetic. plus the oral game is clearly elite

we all heard it. you’re not slick.

On stage, you were flawless. Smiling. Glowing. Commanding the spotlight like you hadn’t just been tongue-fucked backstage with a live mic on.

Tom looked like he wanted to strangle the entire sound team.

In the car afterward, you were curled in his lap, laughing breathlessly as your phone buzzed nonstop.

“You’re trending,” you whispered against his throat. “Tom Hardy Oral Audio Leak.”

He groaned. Head falling back. Hands gripping your thigh like a man punished.

“You’re evil. You know that?”

You shrugged. “You ate me out like you were starving. You should’ve expected consequences.”

He kissed your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Then lower.

“You wanna talk consequences?” he murmured. “You’re not walking tomorrow.”

You smirked. Tugged him closer by the tie.

“I didn’t plan to.”

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

You woke up with a sore throat, aching thighs from the night before, and six dozen missed calls.

The sunlight was brutal. Your body ached. Your core still pulsed with the ghost of his tongue, and the rasp in your throat sounded like you’d been screaming through a house fire.

Tom was still asleep behind you, arm heavy around your waist, warm breath at your neck, the weight of him thick and grounding. There were dried scratches trailing down his back like a confession scrawled in flesh. You’d clawed at him, ridden his mouth like a threat. Now you were paying for it.

Your phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn’t just a message.

It was a goddamn news alert.

NY Times: “Was That Tom Hardy’s Mic?” Internet Loses Its Mind Over Mysterious Moan at Last Night’s Premiere.”

You blinked. Stared at the screen. Then snorted so hard it hurt.

“Tom,” you wheezed, elbowing him. “Babe. Wake up. You’re on the front page of the Times for eating me out.”

He groaned behind you, muffled, like he was still halfway through a dream. “What…?”

“Wake. Up. We’re viral.”

He turned over, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, one cheek still creased from the pillow. And when he saw the headline?

That woke him the fuck up.

He sat up fast. Grabbed your phone. Scrolled through the notifications with the dawning horror of a man realizing he’d just publicly deepthroated his chances at subtlety.

Vulture: “When You Hear the Moan That Launched a Thousand Tweets.”

Buzzfeed: “10 Times Tom Hardy Accidentally Gave the Internet a Thirst Crisis.”

GQ: “Mic’d Up and Down Bad: The Moan Heard ’Round the World.”

“…Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, this is a mess.”

Thirty minutes later? PR hellfire.

Your manager was pacing the hotel suite like she was preparing to fling herself out the window. Your agent had called twice, then texted in all caps:

“DO NOT SAY ANYTHING TO THE PRESS.”

“DO NOT TWEET ABOUT IT.”

“DONT DO ANYTHING.”

Tom’s publicist? Sent a single email. Subject line blank. Just the message:

“Tom. Please. Not again.”

You were on your third mimosa. Barefoot, robe half open, legs still aching, a smug ache in your hips where he’d made a full meal out of you.

“Y’know,” you said, sipping from the flute, “we could deny it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You moaned my name into a hot mic.”

You grinned into your glass.

Your manager called again.

“Alright,” you said, exhaling, “so what’s the move? Denial? Apology? Public celibacy pact?”

Your manager’s voice crackled like she’d aged a decade overnight. “Just… let them talk. With luck, they’ll forget soon enough.”

They wouldn’t.

Not today.

Today, Twitter was war.

“the way she said ‘fuck’ like she was his last meal…”

“imagine having tom hardy’s face between your legs and you know the mic is on and you STILL don’t care.”

“i need that man to choke me backstage like he choked his chances at an unproblematic press tour.”

You showed him the tweets.

He laughed so hard he fell back against the couch. “You’re a menace.”

You crawled into his lap like gravity had pulled you there. Straddling him in his towel. Hair dripping. Smiling like a problem.

“You like it.”

His hand slid to your thigh — fingers slipping just beneath the edge of your robe.

“I fuckin’ love it.”

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

Later that day, the interview requests rolled in.

You picked your favorite: a soft, upscale, Vanity Fair-style profile. One-on-one. Fireplace. Matching all black. Glamor and damage control in one shot.

Tom wore a tight black turtleneck. You wore a smug smile, glossy lips, and the memory of his mouth between your thighs.

Midway through, the interviewer coughed delicately.

“So,” she said, flipping her cue card with the stiff grace of someone afraid of HR, “we have to address the elephant in the room. Last night was… eventful.”

You smiled with practiced innocence. “Was it?”

“There’s a lot of buzz. About… a mic. And a moment.”

Tom leaned in. “Sound design’s a funny thing, innit? Could’ve been a technical issue.”

You deadpanned, eyes cool: “Sometimes… you really feel the performance.”

The interviewer blinked.

Tom added, voice a purr: “I like to support her work.”

She stammered something about Twitter and going viral.

You sipped your water. “Tom’s talented.”

He smiled like sin. “She’s vocal.”

You nodded solemnly. “Always support local artists.”

The interviewer gave up.

The internet exploded. Again.

“‘support her work’ IS CODE FOR EATING HER OUT BEFORE SHOWTIME.”

“their media training is nonexistent and i’m obsessed.”

“they are deranged and in love and i would die for either of them.”

“he said ‘support her work’ and she said ‘he’s talented.’ baby that’s not flirting, that’s foreplay.”

TikTok edits hit like a tsunami.

Caption: “TOM HARDY LOOKS AT HER LIKE SHE’S GOD.”

Song: Rihanna’s “S&M.”

Clips: Tom licking his lips mid-interview, you whispering something in his ear, one distorted cut of your moan at 0.75x speed.

A girl sobbing into her ring light: “THEY FLIRT LIKE FOREPLAY AND I’M NOT STRONG ENOUGH.”

Caption: “Tom Hardy’s hands are the real problem.”

30 seconds of slow-motion clips: Tom’s hands gripping your waist, adjusting his mic, resting casually on your thigh during interviews like they weren’t registered weapons.

2.3 million views in 3 hours.

Instagram Reels? Just loops of Tom saying “She’s vocal,” comments:

“he said it with his whole dick in love.”

“i need to go lie down.”

“he’s not acting. he’s possessed.”

Merch dropped the next day.

Minimalist font. Black hoodies. Just said: “She’s Vocal.”

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

You’re sprawled across the bed, silk robe barely hanging on, one shoulder exposed, thighs parted like a half-written invitation. The glow of your screen lights your face as you scroll — red carpet stills, backstage selfies, a grainy, almost pornographic shot of Tom with his teeth in your neck, your lipstick smeared across his jaw in a hotel elevator.

He walks in from the bathroom, towel slung low, still damp, skin flushed from the shower. He sees your expression first, then your screen.

“What’s on your mind?”

You tilt your head, smiling slow and wicked. “I was thinking… we already have the audio of you eating me out. What about the video?”

He pauses, water beading on his chest, eyes narrowing with suspicion and heat. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You drag your gaze down his chest, down to the barely-clinging towel. “I want to record us.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he mutters.

You grin wider. “Little bit.”

“You think I want this shit leaked? ‘Tom Hardy Sex Tape’ trending while I’m buying cereal?”

You drag a finger up your thigh, slow, deliberate, tracing the inside with teasing flicks. “No one’s leaking anything. This is just for us.”

You tilt your chin, letting your voice go soft, coaxing: “You don’t trust me?”

His jaw flexes. “I trust you. I don’t trust your iCloud password to be strong enough to not get hacked.”

You blink, mock-offended. “Oh, come on.”

He snorts — then stops short when you say it:

“I want to watch you ruin me.”

His chest rises sharply. Breath caught.

“I want to see your hands around my throat. I want to hear the way I scream when you fuck me. I want to remember what your face looks like when you’re inside me. When I’m coming all over you.”

Tom swears under his breath. “Fucking hell…”

And then —

“Pass me the fuckin’ phone.”

It starts slow.

His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs circling, mapping every inch like it’s his first time all over again, except this time, there’s a lens watching. Recording.

And that’s what makes your breath stutter when he pushes your knees apart, spreading you open under the warm, amber lamplight.

“Camera’s rolling,” he murmurs, dark eyes flicking up. “Say something for me.”

You smirk. Voice syrup-sweet.

“What should I say, daddy?”

His eyes go black. Pupils blown. You’ve got him.

“Come here and tell the camera how much you love sucking this cock.”

You do.

On your knees, plush and obedient, robe falling open over your shoulders and pooling around your waist. Completely bare underneath. Nipples tight, stomach fluttering, dripping down your thighs before you’ve even touched him.

Your hand wraps around his thick length — slow, reverent, greedy. Fingers barely meeting around the girth. He twitches in your palm, precum slicking your thumb.

You whimper, breath warm against the head as you press soft, open-mouthed kisses down his shaft — tongue teasing the slit, dragging along that thick, throbbing vein that runs beneath.

“I love it so much,” you whisper, stroking slow, tongue dragging along the vein. “Best cock I’ve ever had. Ever tasted.”

Tom groans low in his throat, a feral sound, deep and cracked open. His arm flexes as he tilts the camera downward, angling it to catch every filthy inch of what you’re doing to him.

“Look at her,” he pants. “Perfect fuckin’ mouth. Takes me so good. She’s fuckin’ starving for it. Fuckin’ love you, baby—”

Your lips part wider. You lick a thick stripe up the underside, then suck the tip in hard, cheeks hollowing around him. Eyes fluttering. Throat relaxing.

He groans, fingers twitching at the base, watching the way his cock disappears down your throat, inch by inch, until your nose presses against his pelvis.

You choke — just a little. Just enough. The sound makes his hand tighten in your hair.

You moan around him, the vibration pulling another deep curse from his chest. You hollow your cheeks more. Drool slips down your chin, glistening in the lens.

“She loves it,” he growls into the lens, voice tight with restraint, jaw clenched like it’s killing him not to cum already. “Look at this little slut. Fuckin’ addicted.”

Then he hands the phone to you — slow, deliberate.

You blink up, pupils blown, spit-slick lips swollen. Fingers trembling as you take the phone in one hand… and his cock in the other.

Still stroking. Still needy. Still aching.

“You wanna watch yourself fuck my face, daddy?” you whisper, lips brushing his tip again, eyes gleaming.

And then you angle the phone down, give it the perfect view as you take him back into your mouth — sloppier this time. Louder. Messier.

You gag when he thrusts, and the sound sends him over the edge.

“Fuck… stop,” His breath shudders. “Your turn now.”

You’re flat on your back now, legs spread, camera shaking in your grip as you film him tongue-deep in your cunt, eyes locked on your, groaning against your pussy like he’s fucking starving. His hands grip your thighs hard, pulling you closer with every lick, jaw working, nose buried, and those wild eyes locked on yours.

He groans as he tastes you, lapping slow, then faster, then harder — holding your hips down when you buck up. You can hear the sounds on the recording — wet, obscene, slick, every lap, every slick drag of tongue against your soaked folds.

You’re panting, breathless. “He doesn’t stop until you beg,” you say, voice shaking. “I’ve tried. He doesn’t stop.”

Tom lifts his head, chin soaked. He grins. Cocky. Filthy. Proud.

“Fucking right I don’t.”

You try to keep the phone steady, filming the way his tongue flicks your clit, the way your thighs are trembling, the way your toes curl against the sheets, heels digging in like you’re trying to run from it—except you’re not. You want more.

“Make me cum on camera, Tom,” you gasp.

His tongue answers faster than words. You moan so loud the sound spikes the recording.

You scream. The camera tips. Shakes. Then tumbles to the sheets.

You’re now filming yourself as you ride him — your body rocking, hips rolling, that soaked little pussy taking him all the way in, again and again and again. The camera catches everything: the bounce of your tits, the sheen of sweat on your chest, the obscene way his cock disappears into your soaked heat.

You dip your fingers down, stroke your clit, gliding through your own slick, whispering to the camera, “Look how wet I am. All for him. Only for my man.”

“Fuck, baby,” Tom grunts, one hand gripping your ass, the other adjusting the angle. “Look at this cunt. Mine. So fuckin’ tight and wet.”

You whimper again, roll your hips deeper, and his cock drags against every sensitive spot inside you — slow, hot friction that makes your whole body tremble. The sound of you soaking him fills the room.

“Give me the phone,” he growls. “Wanna film your pretty face. Wanna see that pretty little face when you cum on me.”

He takes the phone with one hand, the other grabbing your jaw, tilting your face up for the camera, and for him. Your mouth is open, eyes glassy, tits bouncing with every thrust.

He’s holding your jaw now, whispering, “Show the camera. Show ’em what this cunt was made for—mine. All fuckin’ mine.”

You sob his name.

Over and over. Louder each time.

“Say it louder,” he pants. “Let the camera hear how I fuck the words outta you.”

“Tom—fuck, deeper—please—don’t stop—don’t stop—” You’re gasping, voice shrill and wild. Your clit grinding against his pelvis, your thighs clenching around his waist, your whole body twitching with every thrust.

“That’s right, babe. Let ‘em hear what my cock does to you.”

The final scene? Pure filth.

He’s got you bent over, cheek to the sheets, hair in his fist, cock pounding into you so deep it makes your legs give out.

One hand tangled in your hair. The other holds the camera. Zoomed in on your cunt. The way it grips him. The way it drools around him every time he slams in.

“This is my favorite view,” he groans, breath ragged. “Watch this when I’m gone. Fuck yourself to it. Promise me.”

Your voice breaks, sobbing. “I’ll cum to it. I’ll cum so fuckin’ hard.”

He grits out a curse, pounding harder, the slap of skin-on-skin loud and merciless.

“Mmm—f-fuck, Tom—ohmygod—right there—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“Look at you,” he rasps. “Fucked open. Cryin’. So fuckin’ desperate for it…That’s it, babe. Cum on my cock. Make a fuckin’ mess of me again.”

“Tom—fuck—I’m—I’m—” Your voice shatters. “I’m cumming—fuck—I’m cumming—”

He growls your name. His thrusts go erratic. “Fuck—fuck, babe—I’m—shit—I’m cumming too—”

Your body jerks. You cum loud, wet, soaking him, legs shaking, ass slapping back into his hips as he fills you, deep and hot, with a strangled groan.

“Keep the camera on me,” you gasp, eyes glazed. “Don’t stop filming.”

So he does.

He films himself kissing your shoulder, stroking your hair, then slipping two fingers into your still-dripping cunt, pushing his cum back inside you, slow and possessive.

“That’s where it belongs,” he murmurs.

You both collapse into the sheets, breathless, sore, laughing through the haze.

Tom rolls to his side, grabs the phone, and films you one last time:

Flushed. Glowing. Fucked out and grinning.

“You’re gonna watch this every time I’m gone,” he says, voice low.

You smile, voice hoarse. “Gonna send you timestamps.”

And then—

Fade to black.

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

A/N: Okay, so this was just a silly little idea I threw together in about an hour — hope you enjoy it anyway! The final part of the Alfie series is dropping this Saturday, and I’m also working on the third and final chapter of the Already Ruined fic with Harry.

To everyone who’s requested Harry and Alfie fics: I see you, I love you, and I promise I’m working on them, thank you for your patience🩷🩷

Thanks for all the love and support.

#tom hardy x you #tom hardy x oc #tom hardy x reader #tom hardy x y/n #tom hardy #tom hardy x f!reader #tom hardy/reader #tom hardy/you #tom hardy fanfiction #tom hardy fic #tom hardy fanfic #tom hardy smut

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elllisaaa · 10 months ago

Text

EARNED IT - P. JONGSEONG

KINKTOBER DAY 4 - PRAISE KINK + MARKING

SUMMARY : after you did a successful presentation for jay's class, he feels the need to reward his favourite student in a very inapropriate way.

-> pairing : teacher!jay x student!reader

-> words count : 1.9k

-> genre : smut

-> warnings : fem!reader, soft dom!jay, praise kink (obviously), marking (on both), little bit of teasing, dirty talk, begging, use of 'good girl', little bit of dry humping, clothed sex, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, implied oral (f. receiving) and cum eating

+ the way i'm depicting jay does not represent him, it's only a work of fiction

-> 18+ content bellow, minors DNI

-> reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated ! sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language.

-> masterlist | ateez masterlist | kinktober 2024

“- And that’s basically how genetic modifications work. Thank you all for listening to my presentation.”

You smiled at the class as some applause erupted, but your smile was mostly directed to Jay. His own smile responded to you, his eyes glimmering proudly behind the lenses of his glasses, and you felt your stomach do flips as he stared at you.

“- Thank you very much Y/N, you can go back to your place. Next is Sunoo, you can go up to the board and start whenever you’re ready.”

Despite Sunoo being in the middle of his presentation, Jay couldn’t help stealing glances your way. After all, he did promise you a reward if you did good this time. You kind of failed your last presentation for his class, and Jay knew that you could do a whole lot better if you had the motivation to do so. So he effectively found something that pushed you to give the best of yourself this time - and it worked.

You were restless for the remaining time of the class, looking at the clock every two minutes in hopes that time would pass by quicker, and nervously clicking your pen. And the fact that you could feel Jay’s eyes on you the whole time didn’t help either. So when he finally announced the end of the class, you were up on your feet almost immediately, though you had to resist the urge to pack up your things too quickly, letting everyone get out before you made your way to Jay’s desk as he locked the door behind the last student.

“- So… How did I do this time Sir ?”

Your tone was a little teasing, with a hint of suggestion, as you walked closer to him, bypassing his desk, your head tilted to the side as if you were really waiting for an answer from him - an answer you already had.

“- Better, much better. You can be proud of yourself, I can tell you worked hard for this. And I’m proud of you too.”

His words had you clenching your thighs together as a smirk grew on your face. Everytime some praises fell from Jay’s lips, your knees grew weak and you felt yourself melting. It was crazy how little work he needed to put in to make you fold.

“- I’m glad I’ve met your expectations.

- You did even better than that, Y/N. Come here, so that I can give you what you deserve for being such an excellent student.”

Your eyes sparkled with lust as you took a step closer to Jay, sitting on his lap and letting yourself go to the feeling of his lips devouring yours. You were already wet, your panties soaked both from how much you anticipated what was coming and from how much his encouraging words had turned you on. The frame of his glasses felt uncomfortable against your skin as you tilted your head to the side, letting Jay explore every inch of your mouth, but you didn’t care about that, you just needed him to tell you that you did good. It was something you became addicted to - the way he always found the right words to make you go dumb on him.

And you always did your best when it came to Jay, be that during his classes or when you were on your knees for him - no matter the time, you just had that urge to be good for him, you were always eager to please him. And Jay loved that, loved how you always put your all into your homeworks, and even more when you were doing your best to take him whole. But today, you deserved a very good reward and Jay planned on making you cum over and over.

His hands roamed all around your body, slipping under your cute pleated little skirt to squeeze at the flesh of your ass. You moaned into his mouth, your back arching and your breasts pressing against his toned chest. You always reacted so vividly to every one of his touches, always squirmed under his fingertips ; and Jay liked to know he had such an effect on you.

“- I’m gonna make you feel good princess, gonna make you cum on my fingers, and then on my tongue, and then on my cock, yeah ?

- Yes, please…”

Your voice was shaking, interrupted here and there by pants as you unconsciously grinded against his thighs, eyes filled with a desperate lust that made Jay want to ruin you even more.

“- I don’t ever need to ask for you to say please, such a good girl.”

Jay smirked as he heard you whine at his words. He knew exactly what they did to you, exactly how to rile you up and make you want him more. Your hands were tugging at his shirt in a vain attempt of undressing him, in a vain attempt to touch his naked skin, but Jay pushed your hands away as he lifted you in arms, wrapping them around your waist as he stood up to drop you on his desk.

“- No touching me this time baby, let me just make you feel good, okay ?”

You nodded as you bit down on your lips, watching closely as Jay slipped back his hands under your skirt, his palms running across your thighs as you sighed in relief. You knew better than to argue with him when he had an idea in mind - and especially when this idea involved you and your pussy. Finally, he pressed against your clit over the material of your panties, bringing you a rush of pleasure that made you whine under your breath.

“- You’re already soaked… So fucking perfect for me.”

Every one of his words made you more desperate, and you both knew it. So when Jay ended up pushing your underwear out of his way to insert one of his fingers inside of you, neither of you were surprised about the way you immediately threw your head back, whimpering his name. And when he added another finger not too long after, you were already trembling on top of his desk. Maybe it was because you were very sensitive, but Jay was also too good with his fingers for you to keep it together.

“- Jay…

- That’s it princess, let it go, yeah ? Be a good girl and cum for me, cum on my fingers.”

You didn’t need more than that to tip over the edge, clenching around his fingers and making it difficult for Jay to keep moving them, his thumb intensifying the pressure against your clit to compensate for it. He kept his thrusts steady until you were telling him that it was too much. At this point, Jay was barely holding on - seeing you come undone from his fingers only, moaning his name, sitting on top of his desk made something snap in him. He quickly unbuckled his belt, not caring about undressing himself completely, simply getting his cock out and spreading your legs wider. His tip bumped against your already sensitive folds, making you whimper once again as he coated his dick in your slick.

“- You’re ready to take me, baby ? You’re ready to show me that you can be even better for me ?

- Yes, yes, I’ll be good Jay, please…”

Your begs were all that Jay needed to push his whole length inside of you, not thinking twice as he took a hold of your waist for some leverage, instantly starting to thrust into you. You wrapped your arms against his neck, burying your face against the crook of his neck to muffle your moans as his rapid pace made you lose your mind already.

“- You feel so good Y/N, so tight and nice around me, it’s like you were made for me. Taking me so well… Fuck, your little cunt looks even better when I’m filling you up…”

Everything he said was getting to your head, your hips moving along to match with his thrusts. He wasn’t able to go as deep as usual because of the position you were in, but his thick length felt even better this way - you could feel every drag of his shaft against your walls, stimulating all the right areas to make you moan against his skin. You knew you were being loud, that someone could easily hear the both of you from outside of the classroom, but you didn’t care enough to do something about it. Still, you started to suck some hickeys on the exposed skin of his skin, biting on the flesh sometimes, but it was more in order to mark your territory than for silencing your noises of pleasure.

“- You don’t know how crazy that skirt made me go, all I wanted was to bend you over my desk and fuck you just like this, shit… You’re so perfect, squeezing me so good…”

Jay was more rambling than trying to be coherent at this point, and he knew you were getting closer by the way you were hopelessly holding on to his shoulders as his hips snapped forward at a steady pace. And he was glad because he knew he won’t be able to hold back for much longer either, the way you were marking up his skin was driving him crazy with want, with the need to feel you up and mark you in an even more intimate form.

“- Are you close princess ? Are you going to milk me dry ?

- Hmm… Y-Yeah, ‘m so close… Please, don’t stop, please…

- I’m not stopping, come on, cum like the good girl you are.”

Jay felt your teeth dig into his neck as you squeezed around him even tighter, and you both moaned in harmony as he let go too, painting your walls white. Your legs were trembling on each side of him as your orgasm crashed over you like a hurricane ravaging everything on its path, and for a moment, you felt like you were floating in another dimension. It was only when you heard Jay call your name that you finally opened your eyes again, you looked up at him with a dazed smile that made him want to fuck you up all over again. But instead, he pulled out of you and got down on his knees, spreading apart your still shaking thighs.

“- This pussy looks even prettier when it's covered in my cum, don’t you think ?

- I love it too.”

Your words were coming in short breath as you were still trying to come down off your high, but Jay heard them perfectly and he loved the sound of that. His lips soon followed the same trail his fingers had traced before - going from your knee and raising up higher on your inner thigh. Every spot he kissed and licked at was left with a deep, red mark. And every new spot he attacked made you squirm and whimper in his hold. Some of these bruises were going to be impossible to hide behind your little skirts, and your heart swelled with an emotion you shouldn’t feel for your teacher at the thought of someone else seeing them, at the thought of him having the exact same marks on his neck, some marks that you had left there.

“- Gonna make you mine again. Gonna make you my perfect good girl.”

You moaned again at his words, letting Jay bury his face in between your thighs to eat you out like a starved man. And it didn’t matter if your roommate caught on the marks and asked you about it, and it didn’t matter either if another student called out Jay for the bruises that were visible above the collar of his white shirt. It didn’t matter because you were his good girl.

-> i don't allow any copies, reposts or translations of my work.

kinktober masterlist (comment or dm to be added) :

enha masterlist (fill in this to be added) :

@bbgnyx @hann1bee @heevllog @puppy-minnie @binniesbabygirl @foxinnie8 @lala-----------lala

@d-dilemma @bath1lda @anxiousskylar

#kinktober #kintober 2024 #kinktober fic #enhypen x reader #enypen smut #enhypen kinktober #enha x reader #enha smut #enha kinktober #park jongseong #park jongseong x reader #park jongseong smut #park jongseong kinktober #jay x reader #jay smut #jay kinktober

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astrologydray · 3 months ago

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Underdeveloped Sun Signs in Astrology: The Shadow Side of Each Zodiac

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

Underdeveloped Aries acts like an impulsive toddler. Impulsive tantrums when they don’t get their way. Rushes into everything without thinking — relationships, careers, fights. Egotistical hero complex: Wants to “save” or “fight” even when nobody asked. Fear: “If I’m not first, I’m nothing.” Learning patience, strategy, and that strength isn’t loudness.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Underdeveloped Taurus becomes a stubborn couch potato. Terrified of change, even when it’s necessary. Materialistic to the point of emptiness — obsessed with luxury but emotionally hollow. Lazy loyalty: stays in toxic friendships and jobs just because they’re familiar. Fear: “If I change, I’ll lose everything. Learning that true security comes from within, not outside comforts.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Underdeveloped Gemini is a chaotic trickster. Talks a lot, says very little — empty words for attention. Chronic liar or exaggerator — reinvents themselves for every crowd. Easily bored, so leaves projects, people, and promises half-finished. Fear: “If I stay still too long, I’ll become irrelevant.” Mastering focus, integrity, and depth of thought.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Underdeveloped Cancer is emotionally manipulative. Weaponizes emotions to guilt-trip others. Hyper-clingy, needs constant reassurance. Dwells endlessly in the past, unable to move forward. Fear: “If I’m not needed, I’m nobody.” Building emotional resilience and healthy detachment.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Underdeveloped Leo craves applause like oxygen. Attention-seeking theatrics: will create drama just to stay center stage. Arrogant and dismissive: believes they’re better than others without earning it. Validation addict: self-worth rises and falls with others’ opinions. Fear: “If I’m not adored, I don’t exist. Shining with genuine confidence instead of seeking hollow validation.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Underdeveloped Virgo is a relentless critic. Nitpicks everyone and everything — including themselves. Paralyzed by perfectionism: won’t start projects unless they’re guaranteed to be flawless. Passive-aggressively resentful when others don’t meet their impossible standards. Fear: “If things aren’t perfect, they’re worthless.” Embracing compassion, flexibility, and trust in imperfection.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Underdeveloped Libra loses themselves in others. Chameleon syndrome: changes personality to fit whoever they’re with. Conflict avoidant to a toxic degree — will let problems fester rather than address them. People-pleaser at the cost of personal truth. Fear: “If I rock the boat, I’ll be alone. Developing authentic boundaries and courageous self-expression.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Underdeveloped Scorpio is a vengeful puppet master. Secretive to the point of paranoia — trusts no one, not even themselves. Manipulative power games: emotionally blackmails and tests loyalty constantly. Consumes itself with jealousy and grudges like poison. Fear: “If I’m vulnerable, I’ll be destroyed.” Learning trust, forgiveness, and the power of transformative vulnerability.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Underdeveloped Sagittarius is a reckless preacher. Preaches wisdom they don’t live. Blind optimism: refuses to acknowledge problems until it’s too late. Irresponsible escapist: runs from anything that feels “too heavy” or limiting. Fear: “If I stay too long, I’ll be trapped.” Learning commitment, honest humility, and deeper wisdom beyond adventure.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Underdeveloped Capricorn is a cold-hearted climber. Sees people as stepping stones instead of relationships. Emotionally cut off: treats vulnerability like weakness. Obsessed with status but feels chronically empty even at the top. Fear: “If I’m not successful, I’m worthless.” Finding soulful success and reconnecting with emotional integrity.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Underdeveloped Aquarius is a detached rebel without a cause. Rebels for rebellion’s sake, not for real change. Emotionally aloof — treats feelings like an annoying glitch in the system. Thinks they’re intellectually superior and looks down on “common” people. Fear: “If I conform, I lose my uniqueness. Embracing true human connection and grounded activism.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Underdeveloped Pisces is a lost dreamer. Escapes reality into fantasy, addiction, or martyrdom. Lacks boundaries and becomes a sponge for other people’s emotions and problems. Plays victim instead of claiming their power. Fear: “If I face the real world, I’ll be crushed.” Becoming a grounded visionary who can manifest dreams into reality.

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clarkeysbedchem · 3 months ago

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dirty little secret

arthur hill x fem reader

summary: being arthur’s sneaky link when things start to get a little more complicated

masterlist | main masterlist

Arthur’s final show of his UK tour had finished. The roar of the crowd still echoed in the stadium, but Arthur didn’t stay to bask in the applause. As soon as the lights faded, and the last note rang out, he was already making his way backstage, wiping away the sweat that dripped off his face, barely stopping to greet the team who helped him put on the show.

The adrenaline of the performance still thrummed through his veins, but it wasn’t enough. Not tonight. Tonight, there was something else he was wanted. Someone else.

Arthur wasn’t known for his patience, especially not when it came to you. He had barely made it off the stage when his phone buzzed with a message.

Backdoor. 15 minutes.

He didn’t need to read it twice. He pocketed the phone, grabbed his jacket, and made his way through the back halls of the venue. The familiar hum of the crowd outside only fueled his anticipation. His mind was on one thing only: you

He didn’t want the crowds, the fame, the applause. Not right now. He just wanted you. Your body pressed up against his, your eyes that were little guarded but full of longing, your lips just a breath away from his, teasing, tempting.

When he finally stepped through the backdoor, you were already waiting. The dim light from the streetlamp casting a soft orange glow down onto your figure, your shadowed silhouette leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed as if you were waiting for someone - someone who wasn’t supposed to show up, someone who wasn’t supposed to matter.

Arthur’s eyes locked on yours, the unspoken understanding passing between them. He didn’t need to ask if you was ready. He knew.

You followed him back into the venue without a word spoken between you, heading straight towards the green room. Arthur knew the rest of the crew and his friends had probably gone straight to the pub from the venue leaving the singer to do as he pleases.

The click of the door locking behind them was enough for you to let your guard slip ever so slightly, tilting your head, a half-smile forming on your lips, the same smile that had Arthur ready to break all the rules they’d set.

“You didn’t waste any time,” you teased, your voice soft but weaved in there was something else – something that made Arthur’s mind race with thoughts.

“I never do,” he replied, his voice low as he stepped closer to you edging to close the gap between you.

You took a small step back as Arthur reached you, but not far enough to keep him from pulling you into his arms, and pressing your back flush the cool wall. The adrenaline from the show had only amplified the desire inside him, and when his lips found yours, it was all fire - wild, desperate, a need that couldn’t be denied.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You whispered between kisses, a breathless laugh escaping you as you pulled away, “We both know what this is. It’s just this.”

Arthur smirked, his lips brushing against your ear, “I know. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Then why am I here?” You asked, your voice thick with a mix of teasing but yet under it there was something more vulnerable.

“Because I don’t want anyone else,” Arthur murmured, his fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you even closer, “Not tonight. Not when you were all I could think about on stage. And definitely not when I know you’re here waiting for me.”

Your eyes flutter closed, letting the moment take over. you didn’t want to admit it, but you felt the pull just as strongly.

The secrecy was something you had grown to love, the forbidden nature of their connection. There was something addicting about sneaking around, how thrilling knowing that no one else would ever understand the moments they shared.

“I can’t want to be the one,” she murmured against his lips, her hands sliding over his chest, “you know that.

Arthur sighed softly, his hand lapping over yours, “I don’t want you to be. I want this. Discreet. No labels. Just this.”

The words hung in the air as your lips met again, a brief, heated exchange that left you both breathless. When you pulled apart, Arthur’s eyes searched yours, searching for something he didn’t quite understand but knew was there.

“You like this too,” he said softly, “You like the way it feels when it’s just us. No one else.”

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly, the intensity of the moment making it harder to pretend you didn’t feel the same.

Arthur didn’t want to rush it this time.

He could’ve. God, his body begged for it. But something about the way your eyes had dropped just then - something about the way you’d said “I can’t want to be the one” - made him pause.

So, he took his time.

His fingers ghosted along the hem of your shirt, his fingertips feather-light on your skin, his eyes not leaving yours, asking for permission in the quietest way. And when you didn’t pull away, when your breath stuttered and how you melted ever so slightly into his touch, he knew you were still his, just for now.

Every move you made together felt like muscle memory - clothes loosening, breaths catching, backs arching into familiar heat. It wasn’t frantic. Not like it had been on previous nights.

This time, it felt almost like an ache. A need you’d both been carrying around the whole time, acting like it wasn’t there.

The green room couch creaked beneath your weight, your legs tangled with his as his mouth found the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. You let out a soft sound – something between a moan and a gasp - and his smirk deepened against your skin.

“You always do that,” you whispered.

“Do what?” he murmured, kissing lower, slower.

“Act like all this doesn’t mean something.”

He stilled. Just for a second. You barely noticed it - but you did.

Then he pulled back, just enough to look at you.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he said. But his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be, “If that’s what you want.”

You stared up at him, your pulse still wild, your mind trying to catch up. Because that meant it did mean something to him, at least that’s what you thought it meant.

You could’ve asked him. Could’ve pushed. But instead, you reached up, dragging him down into another kiss. A hand in his hair. A quiet moan against his mouth. His thumb brushing over your ribs like you were fragile, as if you would disappear the minute his hands weren’t one you.

You didn’t talk much after. Just soft breaths and skin against skin and the hum of silence that didn’t feel awkward. A familiar routine that you had become far too accustomed to.

You sat up, pulling your shirt back over your head, eyes scanning the floor for your jeans. Arthur stayed sprawled back on the couch, arms behind his head, watching you like he wanted to say something but not knowing if he should.

“Don’t,” you said, not even looking at him.

He raised an eyebrow, “Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to say. It’ll just make this harder.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair, “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

You looked at him then, and it was the most honest moment between you all night.

“I know,” you whispered, “That’s the issue.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even attempt to sit up. He just stared back at you like he had already said too much without even uttering a word.

You zipped your jeans, fixed your hair and makeup in the mirror by the door, then turned the knob.

“I’ll see you around, Arthur.” You said, giving him a quick glance over your shoulder.

He didn’t reply.

You walked out without looking back.

But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, Arthur sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the spot where you’d been.

#chrismd #george clarkey #arthur hill #italianbach #george clarke #arthur frederick #isaac smith #chris dixon #willne #arthurtv #arthur hill x female reader #arthur hill x reader #clarkeysbedchem

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dreamauri · 6 months ago

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♪ — 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗬 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗦 - part seven lando norris x fem! streamer! reader (fluff) series summary . . . After unexpectedly making a new friend during a stream, Lando finds himself addicted to playing video games with this girl who he can't get out of his head. His addiction gets worse when he somehow finds himself yearning for her company, eager to spend time with her in any shape or form, whether it's online or maybe possibly in person.

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous )

The campus buzzed with excitement, the air thick with the sound of applause and laughter, students in caps and gowns mingling with proud families. Lando sat in the audience, his cap tugged low, trying to blend in. His eyes stayed glued to you as your name was called. He straightened in his seat, his heart swelling as you stepped onto the stage, radiant in your graduation gown, to receive your degree.

He clapped enthusiastically, his whistle cutting through the noise of the crowd. The grin on his face was as wide as the Pacific, his excitement obvious to anyone watching. When you glanced his way, he waved subtly, mouthing, That’s my girl.

After the ceremony, Lando stood off to the side, nervously shifting his weight as he waited for you. In his hands, he held a bouquet of purple and green flowers—your favourite colours. His nerves only increased when your parents approached, their faces glowing with pride as they spotted their graduate.

“You must be one of Yn’s classmates?” your dad asked, his polite curiosity evident as he eyed Lando.

Lando chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Not exactly,” he began, his voice faltering under your dad’s scrutinizing gaze. “I’m her . . . friend.” He hesitated on the word, glancing toward you as you joined the group.

“Dad, Mom,” you said with a smile, taking over the introduction. “This is Lando.” Turning to your brother, you added, “And this is Chris.”

Chris’s eyes lit up, recognition dawning as he looked at Lando. “You’re cool,” he said, grinning. Lando relaxed slightly, ready to thank him for the compliment when Chris added, “But not as cool as Chase Elliott.”

The mention of the NASCAR driver made Lando visibly wince, though he laughed it off. “Chase, huh? He’s alright,” Lando said with a playful shrug, offering Chris a fist bump.

Chris didn’t hesitate to bump his fist back. “He’s the best.”

“Debatable,” Lando muttered under his breath, sharing an amused glance with you.

Later, after the celebrations and countless photos, you and Lando strolled through the quieting campus. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting everything in golden hues. The sound of distant laughter and rustling leaves filled the air as you walked side by side.

Lando’s hand brushed yours as he spoke, his voice soft. “So, what’s next for you?”

You turned to him, your steps slowing as you looked out at the familiar grounds. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice tinged with both excitement and uncertainty. “Maybe I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Today feels like enough.”

He smiled, his eyes warm as they met yours. “Yeah, today’s more than enough,” he said, taking your hand in his. The two of you walked in comfortable silence, the golden light of the setting sun wrapping around.

The lights of the grand ballroom sparkled like stars, casting a warm glow over the elegant space. Lando barely noticed any of it, his gaze fixed on you. You stood by his side, radiant in a sleek black dress that seemed to shimmer with every step you took. The Richard Mille watch he had gifted you glinted under the soft chandeliers as you leaned in to adjust his bow tie with practiced ease, smoothing out his crisp suit jacket.

“I can’t believe I get to be here with you,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant for your ears alone. His arm slipped naturally around your waist, drawing you closer. His free hand found yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before he lifted it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the back of your hand.

You chuckled, pulling your hand back gently. “Such a gentleman,” you teased, leaning up to press a quick, playful kiss to the tip of his nose. The gesture left him grinning, his cheeks dusted with the faintest hint of pink.

During the ceremony, you sat beside him at a table near the front, your hand comfortably entwined with his beneath the white linen tablecloth. When his name was called as the season’s runner-up, you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. He rose from his chair, the smile on his face as dazzling as the applause that erupted around him.

As he returned to his seat with the trophy in hand, you leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. “Runner-up looks good on you,” you teased softly. “But you’ll get them next year. I know it.” You punctuated your words with a gentle kiss on his cheek.

He turned to you, his eyes glowing with gratitude and something deeper, something more profound. “With you here? I’m already winning.”

The night continued, the atmosphere buzzing with laughter, champagne toasts, and the flash of cameras. But eventually, the two of you found a quiet corner, away from the crowd. Lando had his arm draped over your shoulder, his posture relaxed as if all the pressure of the season had melted away in your presence.

You glanced down at your watch, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you twisted it slightly on your wrist. “I had to wear this, you know,” you remarked, raising your hand to show him the sleek design. “It’s the perfect accessory for the arm candy of the papaya driver of the night.”

Lando laughed, his hand moving to your waist to pull you a fraction closer. “Arm candy? Yn, you’re the real star tonight. Everyone’s looking at you, not me.”

You scoffed lightly, rolling your eyes as you rested your free hand on his chest. “Oh, please. You’re the one with a shiny trophy and a hundred cameras pointed at you.”

His grin softened into something more tender as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. “Maybe. But the only person I care about impressing is standing right in front of me.”

Your breath hitched slightly, your hand curling into the fabric of his jacket. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible for you to resist,” he quipped, his teasing smirk making you laugh.

The chat exploded with excitement as Lando started his Christmas-themed stream. “Alright, everyone, guess who’s joining me today?” he teased, adjusting his Santa hat with a cheeky grin. The screen split, revealing your smiling face. The chat erupted into a flurry of exclamation points and heart emojis, fans flooding the feed with messages of excitement.

“Can you believe it’s been a year already since we met?” he asked, his voice warm with nostalgia as his eyes flicked to your camera feed.

You laughed softly, adjusting your headset. “Feels like yesterday you were calling me at 3 a.m. to play Fortnite.”

“Classic me,” he quipped with a smirk, loading the game.

The match began, and you and Lando dropped into the map, landing on a snowy mountaintop lit up with festive decorations. Lando stuck close to you, his character darting around as he scrambled to collect supplies.

“Okay, I’ve got a shotgun, some meds, and . . . a snowball launcher?” he said, excitement in his tone as he inspected his loot.

“Lando, that’s literally the most useless weapon right now,” you teased, glancing at his inventory as you scouted ahead. “Just stick with me, alright? I’ll keep us alive.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad!” he argued, following close behind. “You make it sound like I’m dead weight.”

“Hmm, let’s see . . .” you mused, raising an eyebrow as you scanned the map. “Who was it that got sniped three minutes into our last game because they couldn’t stop dancing in front of the enemy?”

The chat roared with laughter, spamming Lando’s emotes as he groaned dramatically. “One time! One time, Yn!”

A sudden burst of gunfire pulled you both back into focus. “Incoming!” you called, ducking behind a tree. Your hands moved deftly across the keyboard, your character aiming a sniper rifle at the distant threat.

“I’ll flank them!” Lando declared heroically, charging forward.

“No, wait—” you tried to stop him, but he was already out in the open, firing wildly. “Oh my god, Lando!”

You sighed as his health bar plummeted, rushing to revive him once he inevitably went down. “What did we learn?” you asked as you healed him, the playful scolding clear in your tone.

“Stick with Yn,” he mumbled, clearly trying not to laugh.

“That’s right,” you said with a grin. “Now, let me handle this.” With precision and ease, you took out the enemy squad, your sniper shots landing perfectly one after another. Lando cheered loudly, clapping his hands in mock celebration.

“Chat, can we just take a moment to appreciate how insane Yn’s aim is?” he said, grinning at his camera. “You’re a machine, Yn.”

You shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant. “Eh, someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

As the match progressed, you fell into a comfortable rhythm. Lando focused on looting and building while you covered him from a distance, sniping enemies with practised ease. Despite his antics—like insisting on carrying the “cute snowball launcher” all game—he managed to surprise you with some decent plays, even saving you once when you got ambushed.

“Nice shot,” you admitted as he took down an opponent, genuinely impressed.

“Did you hear that, chat? Yn just complimented me,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Christmas miracle!”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you replied with a laugh, shaking your head.

As the game wound down to the final few teams, the tension grew. “Alright, last squad,” you said, crouching behind a rock. “Let’s not mess this up.”

Lando’s voice was uncharacteristically focused. “I’m on meds and shields. You snipe; I’ll distract.”

It was chaotic, but somehow, you pulled it off. Your sniper shots landed true, and Lando’s kamikaze-style distraction gave you the opening to secure the victory. The words “Victory Royale” flashed on the screen, and both of you erupted into cheers.

“That’s how it’s done!” Lando shouted, throwing his arms up in triumph.

“By me,” you teased, earning a playful glare through the camera.

As the chat flooded with congratulatory messages, you leaned back in your chair, smiling. “Not bad, Norris. Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

“High praise,” he replied, smirking. “See, chat? This is why she keeps me around.”

The game ended, but the banter continued, the chat filling with comments about how much they missed seeing the two of you play together. “Yn’s got a job now,” Lando said, mock-pouting. “She doesn’t have time for you guys anymore. Just me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “Oh, please.”

“Speaking of which,” Lando continued, scrolling through his phone. “When’s your flight landing? Gotta make sure I’m there to pick you up.”

You paused, looking at him through the camera, a soft smile spreading across your face. “She’s spending Christmas with me, you guys, so leave her alone,” Lando declared proudly, earning a wave of amused comments from the chat.

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zaynessbeloved · 4 months ago

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Hung like a Masterpiece

Synopsis: You're an award-winning artist. He’s an arrogant painter with a god complex. Forced to share a gallery, your rivalry turns into something messy, physical, and addictive. But beneath the sharp words and slow-burning stares, something unexpected begins to take shape—something neither of you can frame, contain, or walk away from.

Content warnings: Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, rivals in love and art, slow burn, gallery AU, he falls first, she denies it longer, mutual pining (but in denial), smug flirting as a love language, rough sex with feelings, porn with feelings, teasing, wall sex, “say please” energy, power dynamics, foreplay, biting, sexual tension, power play, praise kink, degradation kink, oral sex, semi-public sex, orgasm control.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 11.4k

A/n: part 2 because ofc they can't stay away from each other, they are like matches and gasoline haha.

Part 2

It had been a month since that night.

A month of arguments that flared too quickly and lingered too long. Of mocking jabs, of rolled eyes and sarcastic claps, of fingers brushing too close to each other’s on shared canvases. Of silence so sharp it felt like a scream.

It never happened again.

But it was always there.

Under every spat. Beneath every cocky remark. The echo of skin on skin, breathless gasps, that moment you’d had him begging. And now—

Now the gallery was ready.

And so were you.

You stood near the centerpiece of the collection—one of his larger, more chaotic pieces bleeding into the calmer, structured section you’d curated. The contrast was intentional. So was the tension.

Much like the two of you.

Your heels clicked softly as you turned, a champagne glass balanced effortlessly between your fingers. The dress you wore was sleek, black, cut high at the thigh and low at the back—impeccable, striking, intentional.

You were talking to two patrons—art critics, maybe, or donors. You weren’t really listening. You were nodding, smiling, sipping, your mind only half there. Because the other half—

Was across the room.

You could feel him.

Rafayel.

Leaning against one of the gallery’s tall window frames, a glass of something dark in his hand, hair tied back with loose strands falling around his face. Dressed in all black, of course—open collar, tailored to perfection, the sleeves of his blazer pushed halfway up his forearms like even tonight he refused to follow rules.

And he was watching you.

Of course he was.

He hadn’t looked away once since you walked in.

You tried not to smile. Tried not to let the heat crawl up your spine the way it always did when his gaze settled on you like a weight.

He raised his glass in a slow, lazy toast when your eyes finally met his.

Smug bastard.

You turned back to your patrons, catching only the tail end of a compliment about the “raw energy and unexpected cohesion” of the exhibit.

Unexpected.

Yeah.

You smiled. “It was a collaborative effort,” you said smoothly, not bothering to mention how many times you nearly strangled said collaborator with your bare hands—or the things you'd nearly done instead.

Across the room, Rafayel pushed off the wall, still watching you. And beneath all the silk and polish and wine glasses and polite applause—

The fire was still there.

Waiting.

You're mid-sentence, smiling that perfectly poised, half-fake smile you’ve perfected for evenings like this. One of the patrons leans in with interest, asking something about the emotional intention behind one of the transitional pieces.

You open your mouth to answer—

“Ah, I see you’re telling stories again.”

That voice.

Silky. Arrogant. Dripping with smug amusement.

You don't even have to look to know who it is. But you do—slowly, deliberately, lips pressed into a thin line as you turn your head.

Rafayel stands behind you, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other casually tucked in his pocket, that infuriating half-smile curved on his lips like he’s already won something.

“Pardon me,” he says to the patrons, not meaning it in the slightest. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the mythology hour.”

You inhale slowly through your nose. “Oh, don’t worry. He does this.”

“I’m like an impromptu performance piece,” Rafayel adds, stepping closer—too close—his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “Unexpected. Unwelcome. But deeply memorable.”

The older of the two patrons chuckles awkwardly, clearly unsure if this is a planned act or actual tension. The woman beside him sips her champagne and murmurs something about the “raw energy” in your curation.

You don’t take your eyes off him. “Some of us like to let the work speak for itself.”

Rafayel grins wider. “And some of us know when to narrate.”

His voice is low, meant just for you now—those last words sliding against your skin like a touch you’re trying not to feel.

You shoot him a sharp glance, and he meets it head-on, violet eyes gleaming. And god help you—

You love it.

You love this.

That he’s always like this. Always pushing. Always throwing gasoline on the tiniest spark just to see if you’ll light.

And you always do.

“Excuse me,” you say smoothly to the patrons, voice sweet but cool. “My… partner and I need to confer.”

“Oh, are we calling it that now?” Rafayel murmurs as you grab him by the wrist and drag him away from the crowd.

He lets you. Of course he does. Because this is his favorite part.

The moment before the explosion.

You don’t stop walking.

Not when he mutters behind you, not when his laughter brushes the back of your neck, not even when you hear the click of your heels echo louder in the quiet hallway leading toward the back storage.

You find the first private corner—dark, tucked between a half-curtained display and a supply door—and you pull him in hard by the lapel of that ridiculous, perfectly tailored blazer.

He laughs, low and amused. “Getting handsy already, cutie?”

You don’t answer.

You bite.

Your teeth sink into the exposed line of his neck just below his jaw, and he lets out a rough, surprised groan, one hand shooting out to brace himself against the wall behind you, the other grabbing your waist, fingers twitching through the fabric of your dress.

“Fuck—” he gasps, but he’s smiling through it, grinning, his breath hot against your hair. “You’re insatiable.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips barely brushing his skin, your voice breathless and sharp.

“You shouldn’t have interrupted.”

His gaze drops—slowly, shamelessly—to the deep line of your dress, the curve of your chest rising with each breath, and he smirks.

“Oh, I absolutely should’ve.”

His hand moves to the small of your back, dragging you closer, and he dips his head—this time he bites, low on your shoulder where the strap has slipped, his teeth pressing through the delicate fabric.

You gasp softly, hand fisting in his shirt. “We’re at our own damn gallery event.”

“And yet here we are,” he murmurs, voice dripping with heat and mockery. “Alone. Again. With your lips on my throat and your thighs pressed to mine like you’re starving.”

You scoff, tugging him closer, your voice a dangerous whisper. “Please. You’ve been eye-fucking me since I walked in.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“I was appreciating the art,” he says smugly. “You looked… devastating.”

You smile, slow and wicked, tilting your head.

“You’re still not getting any.”

His grin widens, his mouth grazing your jaw. “Who said I needed to?”

But god—he wants to.

And you know it.

You don’t kiss him again.

Not yet.

Instead, you let your hand wander—slow, deliberate—dragging down the open line of his shirt, tracing the curve of his chest, the faint trail below his navel. He’s watching you now, dead still, pupils dark, jaw tight.

Waiting.

And then your fingers slide lower. Just a little. Just enough to make his breath hitch.

You stop just before you touch him, the heat of your hand so close it’s cruel.

He shifts, just slightly—his body twitching toward yours, like gravity can’t help itself.

And that’s when you pull away.

You take a step back, smoothing your dress with a flick of your fingers, your eyes locked on his as your lips curl into a devastating smirk.

His chest rises and falls once. Hard. You lean in close, brushing past his cheek, your voice a whisper of silk and sin. “Try not to embarrass yourself out there.”

He turns his head to catch your eyes, the ghost of a very dangerous smile on his lips. “You’re evil.”

You’re already walking away.

“Irresistible,” you correct over your shoulder, not even looking back.

And you don’t look back—not even as you hear his low, wrecked laugh echoing behind you.

You step out from behind the curtain like nothing happened. Champagne in hand. Composure immaculate. Smile sharpened like a blade.

You glide back into the crowd like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just have Rafayel’s pulse in the palm of your hand.

You feel him before you see him. A shadow at your back. A spark crawling up your spine.

“Didn’t take you long to rejoin the masses,” his voice murmurs behind you, soft enough that the nearby guests don’t hear it—but low enough to brush against your ear.

You take a slow sip of champagne and glance over your shoulder.

“Didn’t take you long to recover. I’m impressed.”

He steps to your side, his glass in hand, lips curved in that ever-present, too-smug smile. “You left me in the dark. Cruel, really.”

You don’t look at him. You smile at someone walking by.

“And yet here you are, still breathing. I must be slipping.”

He chuckles, sipping his wine.

“I heard Miss Elaris raving about the piece you arranged on the east wall,” he says aloud, his tone smooth and admiring. Then, lower—only for you—“I didn’t have the heart to tell her how much you whined about that placement.”

You tilt your head, still not looking at him, your voice equally polite. “And I didn’t have the heart to tell the critic that your favorite sculpture was off-balance and structurally flawed. I figured you’d do that yourself.”

“Ouch.”

“Truth hurts, pretty boy.”

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Keep talking like that and I’ll drag you right back behind the curtain.”

You flash him a look then—quick, dangerous, amused. “You had your chance.”

“You are my chance.”

You take another sip, just to mask the twitch of heat that runs through you.

The patrons see a power couple—flawless, brilliant, perfectly in sync.

They don’t hear the war raging just beneath every sentence. They don’t see the way his eyes track the curve of your waist or how your fingers twitch when he leans in too close.

They don’t know that every smile between you is barbed.

You lean in slightly, close enough to smell the faintest trace of his cologne, your lips barely moving.

“Control looks good on me. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

His eyes flick to yours—burning.

“You have no idea.”

You barely have time to set your glass down before someone calls your name from across the room.

“Excuse me—could I get a photo of the two of you together? The visionaries behind the exhibit?”

You blink, caught mid-step, lips already parting for a polite excuse. But then Rafayel’s hand brushes your lower back.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “We’d be delighted.”

You shoot him a glare that could strip paint from the walls. He grins wider, and leans in just slightly. “Smile for the people, cutie.”

You square your shoulders as the photographer gestures, adjusting the lens, motioning you to stand closer together.

Too close.

Rafayel doesn’t hesitate.

He steps into you like he owns the space around you, one hand resting low at your waist, his body warm and maddeningly close.

You freeze for half a second before plastering on the same smile you’ve been using all night.

Click.

The camera flashes. His voice murmurs against your ear. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

You smile without turning your head. “Liar.”

Another flash.

The photographer thanks you both, clearly pleased with whatever he caught. Rafayel’s hand lingers half a second longer than it should, and then slips away as he steps back, as if nothing had happened.

But your skin still tingles where he touched you. You’re almost safe when a voice from the stage calls out—

“Let’s have a few words from the minds behind tonight’s exhibit!”

You turn just in time to see Rafayel already making his way to the platform. Smug. Calm. Deadly.

“Bastard,” you mutter.

He glances back—just once. And winks.

The room hushes as he takes the mic. His shirt’s still slightly rumpled. His sleeves pushed up just enough to show his inked forearms. His hair, loose now, curls around his jaw.

He looks like a storm pretending to be art.

“Thank you all for being here tonight,” he begins, voice smooth and deceptively composed. “When we started working on this exhibit, we had no idea how… collaborative it would become.”

A few polite laughs ripple through the crowd. His eyes flick to you. “Working with someone so brilliant, so relentless, so maddeningly precise—it forced me to challenge the chaos I usually live in.”

You fold your arms.

“And while I disagreed with her on almost everything—placement, palette, volume, lighting, oxygen—I can say this without doubt: none of this would have happened without her.”

Your throat tightens, just a little.

He’s still smiling. “And though we fought like hell—because of course we did—it only made the art better. More alive. Just like she makes everything.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And in that moment—just for a heartbeat—it’s not cocky. It’s reverent.

“I’ll let her speak now,” he says, stepping back from the mic. “Before she sets me on fire with her eyes.”

The room chuckles again. And suddenly, all eyes are on you.

Waiting.

Your heels echo softly as you make your way up to the small stage, the spotlight catching the shimmer of your dress, the controlled grace in your every movement. You take the mic without looking at him, though you feel his gaze still locked on you, burning through the satin of your spine.

You let the room settle before you speak—head high, smile sharp.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” you begin, voice smooth, clear. “This exhibit is the result of far too many late nights, conflicting visions, and at least three near-murders.”

The crowd laughs. Lightly.

Your eyes flick sideways—just a glance—and you see Rafayel smiling, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

You don’t smile back.

“At the beginning, I had a plan,” you continue. “I had a vision for how this space would feel. How it would breathe. I was sure of it.”

You pause.

“And then I met him.”

Another murmur of laughter ripples through the crowd.

You let it settle before adding, “And suddenly, everything I was sure of... became negotiable.”

Your eyes flick back to him now, full force, a challenge wrapped in velvet.

“He’s chaotic. Unfiltered. Difficult. Dramatic. He doesn’t listen. He makes a habit of interrupting people who are doing just fine without him.”

More laughter. He chuckles under his breath, gaze fixed on you like you’re the only person in the room.

You breathe in once. Slow.

“But he’s also one of the most maddeningly talented people I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. He doesn’t just make art—he bleeds it. And somewhere between the noise and the fire and the very long list of things we still don’t agree on... we built this.”

You gesture to the gallery.

“To everyone else, it might look like contradiction and tension. But to us? It’s a conversation.”

You pause—just long enough for him to feel it. “A messy, passionate, loud, beautiful conversation.”

The room is silent now. Watching you. Listening. You smile then—not the sharp one. Not the fake one.

The real one.

And it’s aimed directly at him.

“Thank you for letting us show you what that looks like.”

Applause.

You step down, composed, chin high—but the fire’s still in your chest, your pulse racing not from nerves, but from the way he is watching you now.

Not smug. Not cocky. But something slower. Deeper.

Hunger laced with reverence.

After the speeches, the room fills with polite applause and renewed conversation.

And just like that—he’s gone again.

You’re swept into a new circle of art patrons, curators, donors. Their smiles are rehearsed, their compliments effusive, and their questions just rehearsed enough to make you tired. You answer with grace, your glass of champagne always half-full, your laughter perfectly timed.

Across the room, you catch a glimpse of him—Rafayel—trapped in his own cluster of attention. A woman with too much perfume touches his arm when she laughs, and a collector is gesturing animatedly toward one of his pieces. He’s nodding, smiling, charming them like it costs him nothing.

But you know him better than they do.

You see the slight twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers tighten around his wine glass when someone leans in too close.

He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

And still, you feel it. The heat. That quiet pressure that sits heavy behind your ribs, humming like a secret only you two know.

The hours pass. More smiles. More champagne.More perfectly lit photos with patrons who will forget your name in a week.

You spot him only in flashes—his shoulder rounding a corner, the sound of his laugh echoing briefly, the back of his head disappearing into a conversation.

Neither of you approaches. Neither of you has the time.

Or maybe you’re both avoiding what comes next. But now—

The lights have dimmed to a softer glow.

The music has shifted, slower now, meant for winding down. Less clinking glasses. More coats being gathered, doors opening and closing, murmured goodbyes.

You stand near one of the final displays, the one where your work and his bleed together most visibly—a chaotic burst of color against structured lines, conflict fused into beauty. The piece that took the longest. That started a fight that lasted four days.

And now it’s the centerpiece.

You sip your champagne slowly, letting the last chill melt on your tongue. Behind you, you feel it again. That presence.

That heat.

You don’t look back. Not when the music softens to a whisper. Not when the final guests begin offering farewells, their perfume lingering in the air like a second skin.

And especially not when you feel him—close behind you again, standing somewhere just beyond your left shoulder. Not speaking. Not reaching.

But watching.

You finish the last sip of your champagne, set the empty glass down on the table beside the final display, and smooth your hands down your dress. Slow. Deliberate.

Then you turn and walk away.

Not toward the coat check. Not toward the glowing exit where guests are laughing in tired clusters.

But toward the private corridor behind the gallery floor—the same one you dragged him into a month ago.

You don’t look back. But you know.

You know.

His footsteps start only a beat after yours, quiet but certain. Measured. Controlled. Like he wants to pretend this isn’t what it is.

But it is.

This is no accident.

You disappear past the curtain without a word, heels silent now against the smooth floor of the back corridor, your body humming with the weight of the whole night.

You stop near the same wall he once pinned you to—facing it now. Breathing in. Breathing out. And when the footsteps pause behind you… you wait.

One second.

Two.

Three.

And then: His voice, low. Rough. Familiar. “I knew you wanted me to follow.”

You smile, slow and devastating, your back still turned to him. “Did you think I didn’t know you’d try?”

He steps closer. You hear it. You feel it.

The last lingering noise of the gallery fades behind you. And in this quiet space—just the two of you—there’s no more crowd. No more speeches. No more pretending.

Only fire. And what it’s always been leading to.

You stand still, back to him, eyes on the blank wall, your body glowing from the inside out with the heat you’ve been holding back all night.

“So predictable,” you say softly.

Your tone is light, almost bored, laced with cruel amusement—the kind only he ever earns. “I barely made it halfway down the hall before your self-control crumbled.”

A slow breath from behind you. Then: “You’re not that hard to follow, cutie.”

You smile—just a little, just enough. “I didn’t think I had to be. You always come when I call.”

“Who said you were calling?” he counters, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You tilt your head, your tone mock-thoughtful. “You’re right. Maybe I was just tired of hearing you talk all night without being able to do anything about it.”

His laugh is low, dark, fraying at the edges. “Then say the word. Do something about it.”

You hum softly. “Tempting. But you’ve been far too smug lately. I think you need to work a little harder for it.”

A step. Then another.

You still don’t turn.

“Work for it?” he echoes, voice closer now, warmer. “You mean like I did last time, when you dropped to your knees and begged me without a word?”

You let out a sharp little laugh. “Begged? Oh, pretty boy. I had you so breathless you could barely remember your own name.”

“I remember yours,” he murmurs behind you, and the heat in his voice sends a shiver through your spine.

You press your lips together, keep your eyes forward, unbothered. “Cute.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

Another step. You feel him now—right behind you. Not touching, but close enough to steal your breath if you let him.

And you won’t. Not yet.

“You look too good tonight to be this cruel,” he says softly.

You smile slowly, wickedly. “And you look too cocky for someone I’m still deciding whether or not to touch.”

That earns a rough, low chuckle. Then—

“I’m right here,” he says, voice dipped in fire and challenge. “Say the word.”

You still don’t turn. Because you love the sound of him fighting to hold himself together. And because you haven’t decided how badly to ruin him yet.

He’s so close you can feel the warmth of him at your back, the hum of restrained want vibrating through the space between your spine and his chest.

But you don’t move. You tilt your chin, ever so slightly, keeping your gaze forward, your tone light—mocking.

“You’re breathing too loud.”

His chuckle fans across your neck. “You always talk this much when you’re nervous?”

You smirk. “Who says I’m nervous?”

“You haven’t turned around.”

“And you haven’t shut up.”

He exhales a rough breath through his nose, and you hear the tension in it—the coiled restraint, the way his fingers are probably twitching at his sides. You know him well enough to imagine it without looking.

“You’re waiting for something,” he says.

“I’m bored,” you reply.

“Liar.”

You finally move—not turning, not yet—but one step forward, away from the heat of him. Not to escape, but to remind him: you control the space between you. He doesn’t get to claim it.

His breath catches like he feels the pull, the ache of that inch of distance, and his voice tightens.

“You do that on purpose.”

You glance to the side, your profile half-lit by the gallery’s muted hallway lights. “Do what?”

His laugh is breathless. “Keep me right on the edge.”

You hum in approval. “It’s where you look best.”

That earns a groan from deep in his throat, and you know his patience is fraying—because that’s the kind of line he would usually throw at you.

And still, you don’t turn. You walk slowly, fingers brushing the cold frame of the wall as you step further down the corridor. Every inch you move, you know he follows.

Like he always does.

And you?

You let him. Because this isn’t surrender. This is the hunt.

Your heels echo softly against the polished floor as you continue down the hallway, slow and languid, like a predator who knows the kill is already hers.

You still don’t look at him. But you speak.

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” you murmur, voice syrupy and dangerous. “Worked up. Frustrated. Alone.”

You hear his steps behind you—controlled, deliberate—but there’s a tension in them now. A pressure. Like he’s gritting his teeth with every one.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, his tone matching yours, laced with heat and mockery. “I’m getting used to you walking away with your pride intact and my shirt half-ruined.”

You smile to yourself. “You’re welcome for the aesthetic upgrade.”

“You know what your problem is?” he calls, just a breath louder, still following.

“Only one?”

“You think every time you leave me wanting, you win.”

“I don’t think,” you reply calmly. “I know.”

That one lands. You hear it in his breath—ragged now, pulled through clenched teeth.

You keep walking. Fingers brushing the edge of the wall. Dress swaying with every step. Still not looking back. Still feeding the flame.

“And the best part?” you add, letting your voice drop just enough. “You like it.”

Silence. Then: “You’re cruel,” he growls.

“And you’re obsessed with it.”

He laughs, but it’s broken now—shaken. “One of these days, cutie, you’re going to push me too far.”

You stop.

Right there, in the center of the private corridor, still facing away from him, chin tilted, arms relaxed at your sides like you haven’t just disarmed him entirely with your words alone.

You speak soft and smug. “I already did.”

The air snaps. In one sharp movement, he’s on you.

His hand grabs your wrist, spins you around with force—but not violence. Intensity. His other hand cups the back of your neck, dragging you into him as his lips crash onto yours in a kiss that is nothing like restraint.

It’s a claim.

Your body slams into his with a gasp, and you don’t hesitate—not for a second. You kiss him back with teeth, with growls, with the kind of fury that’s built up from weeks of pretending this didn’t matter.

He breaks the kiss just enough to whisper, breath hot and wild, “You knew I’d snap.”

You drag your fingers through his hair, fist it tight, and yank his mouth back to yours.

“And you wanted me to.”

You break the kiss first—barely—just far enough to breathe against his lips.

He’s panting, pupils blown wide, hands firm on your waist like he doesn’t trust you not to slip through his fingers again.

And you smile. God, that smile.

Sharp. Devastating. Infuriating.

“Careful,” you whisper, your lips brushing his with every word. “We’re still inside the gallery.”

He doesn’t move. “I know.”

“There might be people still around.”

“I don’t care.”

You drag your nails up the nape of his neck, into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath stutter. “Someone might see you,” you murmur. “Desperate.”

His breath catches hard. And you feel it. The shift.

The heat behind his eyes goes feral.

And then he laughs—low and dangerous—and you don’t get to feel triumphant for long before he bites your jaw, then your neck, his hands grabbing your hips hard enough to make you gasp.

“Is that what you think this is?” he snarls against your skin. “Desperation?”

You moan, breath caught somewhere between a taunt and a challenge. “I don’t see you walking away.”

“I told you,” he growls, thrusting you back against the wall with his body, one hand pinning your wrists above your head now, the other already dragging up your thigh, under the slit of your dress. “You pushed me too far.”

“And you love it.”

His mouth crashes into yours again—bruising, open-mouthed, breathless. He kisses like he wants to own every sound you’ve ever made, like he’s trying to erase the smug out of your smile with nothing but tongue and teeth.

You kiss him back harder. Because this isn’t surrender.

This is war.

And both of you are done pretending otherwise.

His hand is tight around your wrists above your head, holding them against the cool wall, his breath hot and erratic against your neck. The other hand has already found its way beneath your dress, dragging slowly—dangerously—up your thigh, teasing, possessive.

You’re panting.

So is he.

But your voice? Still cocky. Still cruel. Still perfectly composed.

“So this is your thing now?” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, breathless and biting. “Cornering me in gallery hallways? With people maybe still around the corner?”

His jaw clenches. His fingers twitch on your thigh.

You don’t stop.

“Do you like it, Rafayel?” you whisper, sweet and poison-laced. “Knowing anyone could walk out and see you desperate—needy—just to get your hands on me again?”

He growls—physically growls—pressing his body harder into yours, but still holding that control, that tension between barely and completely losing it.

“And here I thought,” you go on, tone lighter, crueler, “someone as creative as you would’ve come up with a better setting by now. A bed, maybe. Or your pretty little studio. Somewhere other than this same wall.”

You look at him now—finally—your eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

“But maybe this is the only place you can get me, hmm?”

You hear his breath stutter—feel his hand tighten around your wrists, the one on your thigh digging in just enough to warn.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growls, mouth hovering over yours. “And you want me to lose it.”

You smile like a sin, like you planned this since the moment you walked away earlier tonight. “I live for it.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment he snaps again.

His mouth crashes into yours, brutal and claiming, hips pressing you harder to the wall as his hand slides higher under your dress with no more patience—no more teasing. Your wrists are still pinned, body helpless against his, but your laugh—low and breathless—slips into the kiss anyway.

Because you’ve won. Again.

And he fucking loves it.

You can’t stop. You won’t. Even as his hand slips higher beneath your dress, even as your wrists stay pinned hard above your head, your mouth keeps going.

Your voice is ragged now, breathless between the kisses that feel more like bites, but your tone? Still that same dangerous, wicked lilt.

“You’ve been dying for this all night,” you whisper, mouth brushing his, panting against the heat of him. “Watching me walk around that gallery, pretending you didn’t want to drag me right back here.”

He groans, teeth grazing your lower lip before he bites it. “You were parading around that place. Like you knew.”

“I did know,” you breathe, your thighs parting instinctively as his hand grips harder, higher. “I always know.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours, and his hand—finally, finally—finds its place between your legs.

And god, he feels it.

How ready you are. How soaked. How undone you are beneath that controlled, cruel smirk.

He groans against your mouth, voice cracking just enough to make you smile.

“You talk too much,” he growls.

“Then shut me up,” you whisper, rolling your hips against his fingers, grinding into his palm with maddening precision.

He curses, rough and low, and pushes your dress up higher, dragging his fingers through the slick heat of you, two of them pressing against your entrance, teasing just enough to make you squirm.

Your back arches. Your breath stutters. But your mouth?

Still sharp.

“Thought you wanted to work for it, Rafayel,” you pant. “This feels more like begging.”

He pulls his mouth from yours just enough to look you in the eye. Smug. Starving. Ruined.

“I’ve been working for it,” he breathes, thrusting his fingers into you—deep, slow, deliberate.

You gasp—loud, guttural. His grin returns. “You just didn’t notice how hard.”

You bite his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, your head falling forward as his fingers curl just right, pushing in again, and again, until your knees tremble and you’re grinding down onto his hand like you need him to ruin you.

“I noticed,” you gasp. “I just wanted to see how long you’d last.”

He growls again, pushing deeper, faster now, his mouth back on yours, every stroke of his fingers matched with a kiss, a bite, a groan.

And finally—finally—he’s right where he’s wanted to be since the moment this whole thing began.

Between your legs. Inside your fire.

And god, you let him.

Because this? This is the real war. And neither of you plans to lose.

You’re trembling.

Shaking under the weight of his body, of his hand still pinning your wrists above your head, of his fingers sliding in and out of you with maddening rhythm—just right. Just deep enough. Slow enough to make your thighs quiver, fast enough to make your breath catch.

But you still have your mouth.

And you use it like a blade.

You press it to his neck, lips brushing the pulse hammering beneath his skin, and you bite. Hard.

He groans, and your voice follows, hot and wrecked.

“This really your thing now?” you breathe, your hips rolling into his hand. “Every time you want me, you shove me against this same goddamn wall?”

His breath catches, and his fingers curl just right. You gasp, shuddering against him.

“You running out of ideas?” you pant, biting just below his jaw now, your voice slurring with heat and spite. “Or is this the only place you can actually get me?”

He growls—deep, low, wrecked.

His hand tightens around your wrists.

The thrust of his fingers gets harder, rougher, more deliberate—his control unraveling beneath the sound of your voice still dripping with mockery even as your body melts under him.

“You can’t even get me to a bed, Rafayel,” you gasp, laughing against his skin. “And you call yourself creative.”

His mouth crashes into yours—biting, devouring, swallowing the sound of your next laugh as he presses harder, deeper.

“You think I need a bed to fuck you the way you need?” he snarls against your lips. “You’re the one who can’t stop shaking.”

You moan—high, broken—as your body clenches around his fingers, every nerve wound tight and trembling.

But still—still—you fight.

“You’re just pissed,” you whisper, “because this is the only place I let you have me.”

He breathes your name like a curse, a plea, a warning.

And his pace quickens.

Your legs threaten to give out, your hips pinned between the wall and his hand, your wrists still restrained above your head, helpless to do anything except take it—take him—and speak fire through your teeth.

And you do. Because this?

This is where you both burn.

His grip never loosens.

Your wrists are still pinned above your head, fingers twitching helplessly in the trap of his hand. His body cages you in, his chest pressed to yours, his breath hot against your neck. And between your legs—his fingers move with maddening intent.

Not rushed. Not careless. But measured.

He knows your body now—knows every flicker of tension in your thighs, every sharp breath that signals just how close you are. And he plays it like he plays his medium—skilled, confident, completely consumed by it.

“You always talk,” he growls, voice ragged, lips brushing your jaw as your hips jerk with every thrust of his hand. “Even now. Even like this.”

You moan—a sound you can’t swallow this time.

His pace quickens, pressure intensifying.

“Let’s see what you say when you come on my fingers.”

You gasp—high, sharp, trembling. He keeps pushing, keeps curling, keeps driving you into the edge with ruthless precision.

“You wanted it like this,” he pants. “Up against the wall, trembling for me—you asked for it.”

And god, you did.

Because even as your mouth opens to throw something else—some last breath of mockery—your voice breaks. Your head falls back against the wall, eyes fluttering, lips parted in something between a gasp and a cry.

Your whole body tightens—

And then it snaps.

Your climax hits like fire through your veins—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You shatter in his hand, your thighs trembling around his wrist, your breath ragged, your body writhing as he holds you there, working you through every wave of it.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until your head falls forward, lips brushing his collarbone, your voice a whisper of defeat and satisfaction.

“Fuck…”

And then you laugh. Soft, wrecked, smug.

He releases your wrists—slowly, gently—and your arms fall around his shoulders, your body still pressed to his, spent and heavy and buzzing with the kind of heat only he can draw out of you.

He kisses your jaw. Then your temple. Then—finally—your lips.

And it’s softer this time. Slower. But still dangerous.

“You gonna run your mouth now?” he murmurs against your lips.

You grin, breathless. “Give me five minutes.”

He laughs—low and ruined and wildly in love with this.

Your breath still comes fast. Your dress is rumpled. Your wrists are tingling. Your legs feel like glass about to shatter.

And he’s still so close.

His hand lingers at your waist, fingers brushing your skin like he’s not ready to let you go. His other hand—the one that just ruined you—rises slowly to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he might kiss you again.

But you stop him.

Not with force. Just a look.

A smirk curling back onto your lips, slow and deliberate.

And your voice—soft, wrecked, but still dripping with that maddening arrogance—slips into the space between you like silk over a blade.

“I don’t want you here anymore.”

His brows twitch, his grip falters for a heartbeat—but you don’t give him time to react before you lean in, mouth near his ear, your words a whisper of heat and cruelty.

“Not in this hallway.”

You pull back just enough to see the flicker in his eyes.

The moment the meaning catches up. The moment he realizes you’re not rejecting him.

You’re challenging him. You’re asking.

You’re saying what neither of you would say out loud—not like this.

You want more.

Not just this wall.

His lips part slightly, and god, the way he looks at you now—it’s not smug. It’s not cocky. It’s hungry.

And something else. Something quieter. Like hope.

You let your hand fall to his belt, adjust it lazily, casually, smoothing down his shirt with maddening nonchalance.

“Take me somewhere else, Rafayel,” you murmur, gaze flicking up under your lashes. “Or do you only know how to fuck me in corners?”

And there it is.

The fire relit.

He doesn’t speak. Not right away.

He just looks at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time, even though he’s always looked. Like he’s cataloging every inch of you all over again—your flushed skin, your swollen lips, the wild mess of you that he caused.

Then his hand finds yours.

No more teasing. No more bruising. Just fingers lacing through fingers.

And without a word, he pulls you down the corridor.

Through the side door. Past the crowd that never saw what burned behind that wall. Out into the night air that hits your skin like a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

His car is waiting.

Of course it is.

Black. Sleek. The kind of thing that glides down dark city streets like a secret.

You slide into the passenger seat, heart still thrumming, body aching, the scent of him still on your neck.

He doesn’t say a word.

But his hand never lets go of yours.

The ride is quiet. Tense. Not uncomfortable—charged.

Your dress rides high on your thigh. His jaw is tight.

He doesn’t look at you. But his thumb keeps brushing yours.

And you feel it—that same rhythm from earlier. The one that started the moment you walked into the gallery.

The one that hasn’t let up since.

When the car finally slows, you realize where he’s taken you. Not a hotel. Not his studio. But his home.

Of course he lives in a loft.

Dark wood, black metal, tall windows with half-open curtains, city lights spilling across canvases and statues and forgotten wine glasses.

It smells like paint and cedar and him. He lets you in first. Still silent. Not because he doesn’t have anything to say.

Because he’s choosing this moment.

Letting you walk ahead. Letting you look. Letting you feel.

When you finally turn to face him—standing in the low golden glow of a lamp that barely reaches the ceiling—he closes the distance.

You don’t look around, don’t ask for a tour, don’t pause to marvel at the aesthetic of Rafayel’s loft—though you feel the space in your bones. The open layout, the tall shadows, the way the city glows against the windows like it’s watching. It’s beautiful. Dangerous.

Just like him.

Just like you.

He steps toward you, slow, purposeful—but you move first.

You push him.

Hard.

Right into the nearest wall, the mirror of what he did to you back in that gallery hallway, and he lets you—lets his body hit the plaster with a breathy grunt, his hands falling to your hips more out of instinct than control.

You press into him, palms flat against his chest, your dress still hiked up, your mouth brushing his jaw.

“Your place now,” you murmur. “So tell me—how do you want it this time?”

You drag your hands down his chest, over the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like you might tear it off again.

“On your couch?” you taunt, tilting your head. “On your floor? You gonna finally get me into that bed you’ve been dreaming about since the gallery?”

He laughs—wrecked, breathless, obsessed. “You can’t help yourself.”

You lean in, kiss his throat, bite it. “No,” you breathe, “but neither can you.”

Your hands trail lower, already undoing his belt with sharp, precise movements, your knee pressing between his thighs, forcing them apart just enough to own the space between them.

“You want control?” you whisper. “Then take it.”

You shove his shirt open, nails raking down his abdomen, and his breath stutters—just like you wanted.

“But if you don’t—” your hand slides lower, just enough to make him twitch “—I will.”

He groans, catching your wrist, but not stopping you. Not really. He looks at you now—eyes dark, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

“You’re fucking insane,” he breathes.

You smirk, fingers still hovering just above the place he wants you most.

“And you love it.”

Your fingers make quick work of his zipper—smooth, practiced, unbothered. He’s breathing harder already, chest rising and falling like he’s trying not to lose it.

And you?

You look up at him with a smirk like sin, your fingers hovering, barely brushing against him.

“So what’s it gonna be?” you ask, voice like smoke and velvet. “My hand?”

You wrap your fingers around him—slow, deliberate, just enough pressure to make his eyes slam shut.

“My mouth?”

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw, breath hot and cruel against his skin.

He growls—actually growls—and grips the edge of the wall behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Fuck—”

You stroke him, long and slow, watching his body shudder beneath your touch, his muscles twitching under your hand.

“You like options, right?” you purr. “Visual. Sensory. Full experience.”

His head drops back, and you kiss down his throat—biting once, hard, as your hand moves faster.

“You gonna ask nice?” you murmur, eyes glinting. “Gonna tell me what you want?”

He doesn’t answer. So you stop.

Completely.

He gasps—wrecked, eyes snapping open in disbelief. You smile. “No? Still too proud?”

“You’re evil,” he rasps.

“And you’re hard and dripping in my hand,” you say sweetly. “Try again.”

His mouth opens. Closes. His jaw twitches. And finally—finally—he meets your eyes, that wild, violet fire blazing.

“I want your mouth,” he growls. “I want you on your knees, wrecking me, owning me—just like you fucking planned.”

You grin—slow, wicked, triumphant.

And you sink to your knees.

Your hands never leave him, stroking him steady, teasing just enough to keep him on the edge. You look up once more, lips just above the heat of him.

“Good boy.”

And then—

You take him into your mouth.

Slow. Deep. Controlled.

His hands fly to your hair, and he chokes on a moan, head falling forward as you work him with devastating purpose. No mercy. No hesitation. Just the fire he gave you—and you giving it back.

Your tongue traces every inch, your pace building, and his thighs tremble beneath your grip. He gasps your name—hoarse, desperate, undone. You look up at him again, mouth full, eyes blazing.

And he breaks.

Right there.

Because you didn’t just take control. You claimed him.

And he never stood a chance.

His hips jerk forward instinctively, breath hitching in his throat as your mouth closes around him again. But you stop. Just for a second.

You pull back enough to speak, your voice low, breathless, commanding. “Don’t move.”

He groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, but you grab his wrist—firm, sharp, eyes blazing as you look up at him.

“I said,” you repeat, voice like fire, “don’t get rough. Just take it.”

His mouth opens like he wants to argue—wants to say something cocky, something smug—but nothing comes out except a broken sound in his throat.

“Keep your hands right there,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin. “Don’t move. Don’t even think about taking control.”

And then you take him back in—fully this time.

No pause. No mercy.

Your mouth moves with ruthless, devastating rhythm—steady, deep, precise. Every flick of your tongue is calculated. Every bob of your head is designed to make his knees buckle, to keep him panting, gasping, clinging to his own restraint.

And he’s failing.

His breath is ragged. His body is trembling.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re—cutie, I’m—”

You hum around him, not slowing, and that sound—that vibration—rips a curse from his chest.

His hand claws at the edge of the wall, white-knuckled now, like he's holding on for dear life. You feel him twitch in your mouth, feel the stagger in his rhythm, the crack in his breath.

And still—you don’t let up.

Because you decide when he breaks. You move faster. Sloppier now. Wetter. More desperate. But it’s not your desperation—it’s his.

You moan around him—purposefully, cruelly—and that’s the final blow. His whole body jerks—

And then he shatters.

He spills into your mouth with a loud, helpless gasp, hips twitching, head thrown back, voice breaking on your name. You swallow—every drop—and you don’t look away, even as he crumbles.

Even as he leans back against the wall, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded, sweat-slick and ruined.

You finally let go of his wrist. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. And smile.

“Now you can move.”

He’s still leaning against the wall, chest rising in short, sharp breaths, violet eyes darkened to the color of need. But before he can even reach for you—

You stand.

Slow. Fluid. Effortless.

And you walk backward into the apartment, not taking your eyes off him for a second.

Your fingers hook into the edge of your dress, tugging it higher again—not enough to reveal, just enough to hint. Your eyes glint with that wicked, unbearable smugness he’s come to crave.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

His jaw tenses. “You’re walking like sin.”

You trail your fingers along the back of his couch, nails tracing the leather.

“Here?” you ask, tilting your head, feigning innocence. “Do you want me bent over this?”

You take another step back, running your hand along the top of a side table. Knock over a book just to watch him twitch.

“Or here?” you ask, tapping the glass surface. “Maybe this is where you want me next.”

Another step. You brush your hand along the marble edge of his kitchen counter.

“Here’s a thought,” you continue, voice low and silken, “you could take me right here, legs spread wide, with all your paintings watching.”

He makes a sound—low, broken, somewhere between a groan and a curse—and finally pushes off the wall.

But you keep moving. Still just out of reach.

You reach the bedroom doorway—his actual bedroom—and rest one hand on the frame, the other brushing over the soft fabric clinging to your hip.

You tug the zipper down just an inch.

Then another.

“Or...” you whisper, stepping back into the shadows of the room, “are you finally going to fuck me in a bed like I deserve?”

And then you disappear. And he follows—

Like a storm ready to break.

The room is dim, lit only by the low golden spill of city lights through tall windows and the faint ambient glow from the hallway behind him.

You stand near the bed. He doesn’t speak. He just watches.

Still in the doorway, chest rising and falling, lips parted, eyes locked on you like he’s already forgotten how to breathe.

You drag your fingers over the curve of your shoulder.

Just lightly.

Then down to the zipper. You look at him—not a word spoken—and begin to slide it lower.

Inches. Soft. Intentional.

He doesn’t move.

But you feel the tension in him. The way he’s gripping the doorframe now. The way his throat works around a swallow he can’t quite force down.

The dress loosens around you. Slipping from one shoulder. Then the other.

You don’t rush.

You let it fall with the gravity of a whisper. It puddles around your heels like a silk surrender.

But you haven’t surrendered.

Not even close.

You stand in the middle of his room now—bare, bare-hearted, bare-skinned—completely unbothered. Like this is your space. Like this bed already belongs to you.

Your voice is low, dangerous.

“Still staring?”

He steps forward, slow. Controlled. You tilt your head, your arms still at your sides.

“Do you want to touch me?”

Another step. He’s close now—but not close enough. You smirk.

“Then ask.”

And god—he wants to.

You see it. The war on his face. But you’ve won this battle. He breathes your name. And reaches for you. He crosses the space between you in a single, breathless step—hands on your waist, then your hips, then sliding around to your back as if he needs contact or he’ll lose his mind.

“Fucking hell,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing your jaw. “You just had to take your time, didn’t you?”

You giggle, breathless and wicked, fingers already sliding into his hair.

“Where’s all that self-control, Rafayel?” you whisper, brushing your lips against his ear. “Did I break it?”

He groans. And pushes you. Not harshly—but purposefully.

You tumble backward onto the bed, laughing, your hair fanning across the dark sheets like a crown. You prop yourself up on your elbows, legs bent, completely unbothered by the hunger in his eyes as he watches you from the foot of the bed.

“Careful,” you say with a grin. “You shove me too hard, I might think you’re trying to dominate me.”

He huffs out a laugh—but it’s short. Rough. Tense. Because he’s already undoing his shirt. Fast. Impatient. You can see the shake in his fingers. The way his breath hitches when he glances at you sprawled out across his bed like you own it.

You raise an eyebrow as he struggles with one of the buttons.

“Aw,” you coo, voice warm and taunting, “are you flustered?”

He glares at you. “Shut up.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, eyes dancing. “So confident in the gallery. You seemed so composed.”

He yanks the shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

“I swear to god—”

You laugh, fully now—head tilted back, chest rising with breathless joy and triumph.

“Swear harder,” you purr. “You look like you’re about to beg.”

He kicks off his pants next, half-fumbling, and your smile turns into something hungrier.

But it’s still taunting. Always taunting. You drag your finger slowly up the inside of your thigh, watching him watch you, your voice a purr.

“You gonna climb on this bed, Rafayel?” you whisper. “Or are you just gonna keep undressing like you’re in a rush to impress me?”

He’s on you before you can blink.

Hands on your thighs, dragging you down the bed in one sharp pull, his mouth hovering just above yours. And for once—

He doesn’t say anything. He just growls.

And kisses you like he’s starving.

You gasp against the sheets, breath stolen by the way his hands grip your thighs, pulling you beneath him again, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across your chest.

But even through the pleasure, your voice slips out—taunting, breathless.

“God,” you pant, laughing between shallow moans, “finally. A bed.”

He lifts his head for a moment—just long enough to smirk at you through his lashes, breath warm against the swell of your chest.

“Getting soft on me?”

You grin, fingers threading through his hair, tugging it back until he groans. “No,” you breathe. “Just appreciating that I’m not being shoved into another wall tonight.”

He laughs, wrecked and low, and his mouth returns—kissing, biting, sucking down the line of your breast. His hands are everywhere now—roaming your waist, your hips, your thighs. Possessive. Desperate. But still worshiping.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mumbles against your skin. “You look too good pinned to something.”

“You sound obsessed.”

“Have you looked at yourself?”

Your laugh turns into a gasp when his fingers slide back between your legs—confident now, knowing exactly what you need. You jolt beneath him, your back arching off the bed as he circles just right.

“I just recovered,” you manage to gasp.

“Not my problem.”

You glare, half-laughing, half-moan. “Rafayel—”

His fingers curl inside you, and your words die on your tongue with a cry.

“Say my name again,” he growls, voice shaking against your chest.

You do. Louder.

And god, you don’t care anymore how wrecked you sound—because he is just as ruined. Mouthing at your chest like he wants to memorize it. Fingers moving like he’s addicted to the way you come apart under him.

And all the while—you’re laughing, breathless, high on power and pleasure, tangled in his sheets, not a wall in sight.

“Finally,” you whisper between gasps. “A comfortable position.”

His head drops to your chest again, groaning.

“You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

You kiss the top of his head.

“Never.”

You writhe beneath him, your back arching against his touch, your breath torn from your lungs in gasps and half-formed words. His fingers work inside you again—confident, unrelenting, dangerous—but this time, there’s something else beneath it.

Not just heat. Not just power.

Devotion.

He’s watching you now, eyes dark and focused, lips parted, breath ragged. And you can’t help yourself. Even now, even like this—you bite.

“God,” you moan, fingers clenching in the sheets. “You really like seeing me like this, huh?”

He leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, voice hoarse.

“You have no idea.”

You grin, head tilting back into the pillow, your hips rocking into his hand shamelessly. “You’re obsessed.”

“Completely.”

His voice is reverent now, hushed and raw—like he means it in a way he doesn’t even understand yet.

You gasp again when he finds that spot, his fingers curling just right, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with perfect rhythm.

Your body starts to shake. Your smirk falters. And still—he doesn’t let up.

“Rafayel—” your voice breaks on his name, this time not as a taunt but as a plea.

He presses his forehead to yours, never stopping his hand. “I know, cutie,” he murmurs. “I know.”

And then—

You fall.

Hard.

Your body clenches around his fingers, your thighs trembling, your voice caught in your throat as you come undone beneath him for the second time today—more real this time. More open. Your hands grasp for him without thought, pulling him down to you as if you need him to hold you together while everything else breaks.

And he does.

He kisses your shoulder. Your neck. Your temple. His hand doesn’t move until your breathing slows, until your body stops shaking.

Only then does he draw his fingers from you—slow, careful, reverent.

He looks at you. And this time, it’s not smug.

It’s quiet.

And you see it in his eyes. He knows. So do you.

But neither of you says it.

Not yet.

Instead, you just grin through your haze of breathless wreckage, pushing his chest lightly with one hand.

“You’re still not getting the last word.”

He laughs—low and wrecked—and leans down to kiss you again.

You’re still catching your breath, your skin flushed, your thighs trembling—but your grin?

Still cocky. Still wicked. Still you.

You shift under him, legs parting slow and deliberate, your fingers trailing over your stomach as you arch back into the pillows.

“Now that I’m warmed up...” your voice purrs, lazy and breathless, “how do you want me this time?”

You reach up to brush your fingers through his tousled hair, tugging lightly—just enough to make his eyes darken again.

“On my stomach?” you tease. “On top? Knees? Hands? What’ll it be, little artist?”

His gaze burns down your body, jaw clenched, breath heavy. He leans closer, his palm sliding up your thigh again—slow, possessive.

Then his lips brush your ear, and his voice drops into a low, dangerous whisper.

“Why pick just one…”

He kisses your neck, biting gently.

“…when I can have you in every way I want tonight?”

You shiver.

Not from fear. From promise. Because you believe him. Because you want it just as much. His hand grips your hip, pulling you closer.

“And cutie?” he murmurs, eyes locking on yours, fire meeting fire. “I’m not done with you.”

And god—you don’t want him to be. Not even close.

You don’t say it. You don’t tell him what that line did to you—how it melted straight through your spine and settled between your legs like a pulse.

You just move. Slow and deliberate.

You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back, hips rising with silent command.

Come closer.

And he does.

He groans low in his throat, his forehead dropping to yours as he shifts between your thighs, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your head.

You slide your fingers into his—without thinking. Without planning. And he holds on.

Like he means it. And then—

He pushes in.

Slow. Deep. Devastating. And you arch. A gasp tears from your throat before you can stop it—half-moan, half-shock at the way he fills you so perfectly, like this was meant. Like you were made to be opened this way. By him.

He groans above you, eyes clenched shut, breath ragged as he stills, fully seated inside you.

“Fuck, cutie—” he whispers, voice cracked open.

You squeeze his hands tighter. And though you won’t say it, he knows. Knows by the way you tremble beneath him.

By the way your body wraps around him like it never wants to let go. By the way your voice is almost too soft when you whisper:

“…Then don’t stop.”

And god help you both—

He won’t.

His hips move slowly at first, rolling into you with a kind of reverence that borders on sweet. And you let it. For a second. You’re breathless, shaking, fingers tangled with his, the sheets twisted beneath your back. But then—

Your eyes flick open, and your voice—low, wrecked, but still biting—slips out beneath a gasp.

“Don’t go soft on me now, Rafayel.”

His body jerks slightly, eyes snapping to yours.

You smirk, just enough.

“You know I don’t like it slow.”

His jaw clenches. And then—

He gives it to you. Hard. Deep.

The bed creaks beneath the force of him as he drives into you, his hips slamming into yours, his hand still locked with yours above your head, the other sliding to your chest—palming, squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers until you cry out.

“That better?” he grits through his teeth, panting against your mouth.

You moan—high and breathless—but your grin still cuts through.

“Almost.”

He growls, snapping his hips harder. You arch into him, back lifting off the mattress, your thighs trembling around his waist. And even through the haze, you can’t help it.

You bite again.

“Still not impressed, little artist,” you gasp.

He laughs, rough and wrecked, before catching your lips in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue, his thrusts pounding into you now with the kind of desperation that makes your whole body sing.

“Liar,” he groans. “You’re fucking soaked.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He drops his forehead to yours, voice nothing but breath and sin. “Mine.”

And then—

He hits just right.

You cry out, loud and unfiltered, clenching around him like your body’s finally breaking. And his smile—wild, desperate, full of pride—presses to your cheek as he growls, “There she is.”

You’re so close. So damn close.

Your legs are shaking, your breath ragged, the heat building in your core like a wave just waiting to break—and his thrusts, his hands, his mouth—they’ve all pulled you to that very edge.

You gasp his name, almost a cry, body tensing as the high crests. And then—he stops.

You freeze, trembling, mind spinning from the sudden, jarring stillness.

“What—Rafayel—?”

But before you can even finish, he growls against your shoulder, voice wrecked and hoarse but still laced with that smirk.

“Not yet.”

And then you’re moving—

He grabs your hips and flips you over effortlessly, pressing your chest down into the mattress, your ass lifted high as he kneels behind you.

You hiss at the shift in pressure, nails digging into the sheets, breath catching with frustration and something that feels dangerously close to need.

“You cocky son of a—”

He slides back into you in one smooth, brutal thrust.

You cry out—louder than before—body arching instinctively, your fists curling in the sheets as your back bows perfectly for him.

He groans behind you, gripping your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh as he sets a new rhythm—harder, deeper, more possessive now.

“Say that again,” he pants, slamming into you, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the walls. “Come on, cutie. Tell me more lies.”

You try to speak—really, you do—but every thrust knocks the words straight out of your lungs, leaves you moaning, gasping, writhing.

He leans forward, one hand bracing next to your head, the other trailing up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck as he breathes against your ear.

“You were gonna fall apart too easy,” he growls. “I want you to feel it.”

And you do. Every inch. Every second. Every denied gasp and delayed pleasure.

And god, it’s driving you mad. But you love it. Because this?

This is exactly how you both burn.

Your face presses into the mattress, your moans muffled, your hands twisted in the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you to this plane of reality.

You’re shaking—hips trembling under the weight of him, sweat slick on your spine, your breath hitching with every ruthless thrust. And finally—

Finally, you whisper it.

Not soft. Not sweet. But real.

“Fuck—Rafayel—just—give it to me.”

You hear his breath break behind you, his rhythm stuttering for a second like that one line shattered whatever control he had left.

His grip tightens on your hips. Fingers digging deep enough to bruise. And then he gives it to you.

All of it.

His thrusts slam into you, faster now, harder, every inch of him claiming you, wrecking you, worshiping you.

Your back arches deeper.

You cry out, louder now, not even bothering to hold it back. You can feel it—rising again, building, crashing toward you like a tidal wave with no escape.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged, desperate. “Come on, cutie—come for me.”

And you do.

Hard.

Your body collapses forward, your thighs shaking violently as your climax tears through you, long and sharp and overwhelming. You scream his name into the sheets, clenching around him so tight it pulls a broken curse from his chest.

He follows.

With a strangled groan and a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep—deeper—and lets go. You feel it—his whole body trembling above yours, his grip clinging to you like you’re the only solid thing in his world.

And for a long moment—

There’s only breath.

Only the sound of skin against skin. Only the echo of your names still hanging in the air.

He stays there, still buried inside you, chest pressed to your back, breath tickling your shoulder as he exhales something like worship.

And you?

You smile. Exhausted. Ruined. But proud.

Because he made a mess out of you. But you made a mess out of him too.

The room is quiet now. Just the low hum of the city outside the windows, and the sound of your breathing—both of you, still a little uneven, still catching up.

You’re sprawled on his bed, one leg draped over his, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin sticky, hair a mess, and your mouth curved into the smallest, most smug little grin.

His fingers trace lazy circles on your lower back, like he can’t not touch you.

And you’re fine with that.

You earned it.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, voice low and rough.

His chest rumbles beneath you. “Recovering.”

You smirk. “Need me to call you an ambulance?”

“Only if you plan to ride along.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, fingers playing along the line of his jaw. He catches your hand, laces your fingers together, then kisses your knuckles.

It’s casual. Too casual. So casual it’s suspicious.

Your gaze flicks to him, suspicious. “What was that?”

“What?”

“The hand kiss.”

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “I was being polite.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Polite? You had me face down screaming into your mattress twenty minutes ago.”

He grins. But doesn’t deny it.

You shift slightly, your chin propped on his chest now, looking down at him.

He watches you back—eyes still heavy-lidded, violet and soft in a way you don’t know what to do with.

“So,” you murmur, tracing your finger along his collarbone. “What now? Do we just keep dragging each other into dark corners and pretending it’s not a thing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then—

In a low, cocky murmur that doesn’t quite hide the truth beneath it, he says: “I want more.”

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

But he’s looking at you now—really looking—and the smirk is still there, but it’s softened.

“I want all of it,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Not just the fights and the sex and the gallery wars. I want... you.”

Your heart skips once.

Twice.

Then you smile. Slow. Wicked. Vulnerable in the only way you know how.

“Well,” you murmur, brushing your mouth over his, “you’re gonna have to work for it.”

He laughs against your lips, breath warm.

“Cutie,” he says, voice low, fingers curling tighter around yours.

“I already am.”

Morning light pours in through the loft windows.

Warm. Soft. Too bright.

You groan as you turn your face into the pillow, one leg still tangled with his, your hair a complete disaster, and his comforter pulled halfway off the bed from whatever last act of desperation you two had managed in the dark.

You hear movement. The rustle of sheets. Bare feet on the floor.

Then—crash.

You jolt upright, blinking against the light.

“What the hell was that?”

Rafayel is halfway into a pair of sweats, shirtless, hair a complete mess, holding a pan in one hand and looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just clearly dropped something.

“Breakfast,” he announces, like he didn’t almost burn his own kitchen down. “You’re welcome.”

You blink at him.

“You cooked?”

He grins. “Attempted.”

You sniff. “…Is something burning?”

He freezes.

“…Yes.”

You throw the covers off and stumble into the kitchen, still in his oversized button-down from the night before. He trails after you, smirking.

“Relax, I was making eggs.”

You peer into the pan. The eggs are... not eggs anymore. “You charred them.”

“They’re rustic.”

“They’re suffering.”

He leans in behind you, arms around your waist, breath warm against your ear.

“You weren’t complaining about suffering last night.”

You smack him with the dish towel hanging from the counter.

He laughs, really laughs, and backs off, arms raised in mock surrender. “Alright, cutie, you want to cook?”

You eye him. Then the pan. Then him again.

“…We’re ordering in.”

“Smart choice.”

He leans against the counter, watching you move around his kitchen like you belong there. The sun catches your face, lighting your still-sleepy expression, the tiny glint in your eyes when you steal a piece of fruit from his counter like it’s a dare.

And something settles in him.

It’s chaotic, it’s messy, it’s way too early—but it’s you.

And that?

He could get used to.

Maybe even wants to.

You glance over, catch him staring, and lift an eyebrow. “What?”

He shrugs. Nothing cocky this time. Just a quiet smile.

“Just thinking how fucking lucky I am.”

You freeze for a beat. Blink. Then toss a grape at his head. He dodges, laughing again. And just like that—

It begins.

Something more.

Something real.

Something very on-brand chaotic.

But entirely, unmistakably... you two.

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