#Design Calculation of Heat Exchanger | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

duskidolsmut · 2 months ago

Text

"Coachella Whore"

Lisa is a k-pop star on fire, an insatiable slut who lives for the raw, limitless lust backstage at Coachella. She throws herself body and soul into lust, her body glistening with sweat, glitter and cum, her pussy dripping with every touch, every insult of “whore” or “slut” that ignites her desire. On stage, she shakes her hips like a hungry whore, her tight shorts showing off her pussy, her moans escaping as she teases, knowing that thousands of eyes are devouring her. Off stage, she is a submissive toy for the dancers, begging for cock in every hole — mouth, pussy, ass —, hot milk dripping down her face, breasts and thighs, shamelessly licking herself. Lisa loves being exposed, humiliated with dirty words, used without warning, her breath stolen in games of control, her body vibrating with pleasures that she cannot control. Every thrust, every jet of cum, every hungry look is a trophy for her, who lives to be the greedy bitch of the festival, dancing on the line of danger where everyone can see — or hear — her degradation.

Tags: exhibitionism, active voyeurism, light humiliation, cumplay, free use, breeding roleplay, breath play, shock eggs, submission, gangbang, oral sex, anal sex, vaginal sex, swearing, public horniness, cum on face, cumming inside, vibrator, breath control, sensual dance, backstage, festival

W: 13.938

The sun beat down hard on the open-air stage where Lisa was rehearsing with her new team of dancers, just three days before Coachella. Around them, tarps and equipment blocked the view of curious onlookers, but the hot wind kicked up dust, leaving the air thick with sweat and tension. Everyone was supposed to be focused on the choreography—or at least trying to be. Lisa, in a skin-tight black top and leggings so thin they showed everything, swayed at the center, her body glistening as the music blasted from the speakers.

The dancers were a team of ripped guys, most built like they had "big dicks" written all over them. Ricardo, the leader, stood out the most: tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and a commanding presence that made everyone snap to attention. But Lisa couldn’t take her eyes off Jamal, the new guy with a smirk and thighs so thick they stretched his shorts. When the choreographer yelled "Positions!", she felt heat flood her pussy just imagining what these guys were packing.

The routine was fucking sensual, full of grinding and touches designed to drive anyone wild. The main move was the worst—or best, depending on who you asked. Lisa had to bend forward, arch her back, and rub against the dancer behind her, who today was Ricardo. On the first try, she lowered herself slowly, the sheer leggings leaving nothing to the imagination as her ass brushed against his bulge. And holy shit, what a bulge. Even half-hard, his cock was thick enough for her to feel every inch against her, and the rush of lust hit her so hard she almost moaned right there.

"Fuck, Ricardo, you’re... really positioned well, huh?" Lisa murmured, laughing low, her voice shaky as she straightened up, heart racing.

He chuckled, his hand lingering on her waist a second too long. "Relax, Lisa, it’s just the dance... for now." His tone was pure filth, and it made her even wetter.

But Lisa didn’t want to relax. The slut in her was screaming for more. When the choreographer called for a repeat, she made sure to "mess up" the move, whining with fake innocence: "Dude, this part’s so fucking hard—let me try again!"

The other dancers, sweaty and scattered across the stage, exchanged glances, some smirking. Jamal, leaning against a speaker, bit his lip as her leggings rode up, showing off her slick pussy so clearly he could see the outline. Lisa knew they were all watching, and it only made her hotter. She bent over again, this time grinding harder against Ricardo, feeling his cock stiffen and throb against her ass. Every roll of her hips was a calculated tease, and she let out soft, barely-there moans—just loud enough for the nearest guys to hear.

"Damn, Lisa, you trying to fuck up the routine or fuck me?" Ricardo growled in her ear, his grip tightening on her waist as she rose, his cock now rock-hard against her leggings.

She laughed, tossing her hair back, her nipples hard under her top. "Just trying to get it right, Ricardo... but if you wanna fuck me, I won’t complain." Her voice was sweet, begging, already picturing him pounding into her.

The other dancers were staring, and Lisa loved it. The open stage, even with the tarps, felt like someone could catch them any second—a roadie, a fan, anyone. And she wanted them to see. Wanted them to know she was a cock-starved slut, ready to beg for every inch. By the time rehearsal ended, she was dripping, her leggings soaked between her thighs as she grabbed her water bottle, eyes locked on Ricardo.

"Man, you’re killing us with that move," Jamal joked, wiping sweat off his face, but his gaze was glued to her ass, and Lisa’s pussy clenched just from that look.

"Yeah, Jamal, but I’m a professional, right?" She winked at him before turning to Ricardo, who was packing up. Trembling with need, she slipped a piece of paper with her address into his pocket. "Come to my place tonight, Ricardo... please, fuck me, I’m your slut," she whispered, her voice so desperate he laughed, his cock twitching in his pants.

"Fuck, Lisa, you don’t play, do you? I’ll be there." His stare burned as she walked away, her ass swaying like an invitation.

At her place, the night was hot, and Lisa waited for Ricardo in black lingerie that barely covered her pussy, her tits practically spilling out as she paced. When he knocked, she opened the door shaking, her cunt dripping just seeing him there, sweaty, the bulge in his pants screaming he was about to wreck her.

"Fuck, Ricardo, I’ve been dying for you," she moaned, dropping to her knees instantly, hands yanking at his zipper. "Fuck me, please, call me your slut—I wanna be your whore!"

He laughed, pulling his cock out, and holy fuck—it was a monster: thick, black, veins pulsing, the kind of dick that’d make any girl whimper with lust.

"Your pussy was begging for this during rehearsal, huh, you greedy slut? Here—take it!" he growled, shoving his cock into her mouth without warning.

Lisa gagged, tears welling as she sucked hungrily, spit dripping down her chin. She moaned loud, the curtains wide open, streetlight spilling in—her arousal spiked at the thought of someone seeing her there, on her knees, being used.

"Yeah, call me your whore, Ricardo, fuck my mouth!" she begged, pulling off just to speak before swallowing him again, her throat clenching tight.

He yanked her hair, throwing her onto all fours on the rug, her lingerie ripped apart in seconds as he drove his cock into her dripping pussy.

"Take it, you hungry bitch, feel this dick tearing you open!" he snarled, pounding hard, the slap of skin—pap, pap, pap—filling the room.

Lisa screamed, pleasure exploding with every filthy word.

"I’m your slut, Ricardo, fuck me, call me your whore!" she pleaded, her cunt clenching as she came fast, body shaking. But she wanted more. All of it. "Fuck, harder, wreck me, please!"

He laughed, slicking his cock with her juices before lining up against her tight asshole.

"Wanna be my perfect little slut, huh? Then relax that ass—I’m gonna fuck your brains out," he ordered, spitting for lube.

Lisa froze, fear flashing hot. She didn’t take dick in the ass often, and that monster looked way too big.

"Wait, Ricardo, go slow, I… I don’t do this much, okay?" she whispered, voice trembling, heart racing as she arched—submissive but gut-churned.

"Relax, you dumb bitch, I know what I’m doing. You’ll beg for it," he growled, pushing the head in slow, her tight hole resisting.

"Fuck, it hurts, Ricardo, shit!" she cried, hands clawing the rug, body tense as he forced himself deeper, her ass burning with every inch. Tears spilled, but she didn’t tell him to stop—lust tangled with pain as she moaned: "Go slow, please, I’m your slut, but fuck—!"

He paused, spat on his cock again, then thrust deeper.

"That’s it, you fucking whore, take this dick! You’ll love it," he taunted, and the degradation lit a fire in her—the pain twisting into something else.

Lisa breathed deep, relaxing, and suddenly the burn melted into pleasure, raw and intense. His cock slid easier now, filling her ass, and she moaned loud, euphoria exploding as he started fucking her slow.

"Holy shit, Ricardo, it’s… it’s good now, fuck! Pound my ass, wreck me, call me your slut!" she begged, arching deeper, her pussy dripping onto the rug as her ass stretched for him.

He laughed, speeding up, his monster cock splitting her open as he switched back to her cunt occasionally, slicking himself.

"Take it, you greedy bitch—pussy and ass, you’re my perfect fucktoy," he grunted, slamming so hard she came again, her ass clamping around him as she screamed: "Yes, wreck me, I’m your whore, fuck!"

She was gone, lost in the stretch of her ass, the filth of his words, the thrill of being seen through the open window. Ricardo hammered into her, alternating holes, her soaked pussy coating his dick while her ass pulsed, already addicted.

"Fuck, Lisa, your ass is tight as hell—gonna fill you up," he warned, thrusting deeper.

"Do it, Ricardo, wreck both holes, cum in me, please!" she sobbed, body trembling from endless orgasms, the pain in her ass now pure pleasure, total submission.

When he was close, he dragged her to her knees and jerked off over her face.

"Open up, slut, take my load like the whore you are!" he growled, hot cum splashing her face, tits, even her open mouth. Thick streaks dripped onto the rug as Lisa rubbed it into her skin, licking her fingers, eyes glazed with lust.

"Fuck, Ricardo, give me more, cover me, I’m your greedy slut!" she begged, grinning as she smeared it everywhere—cum glistening on her tits, her face, her ass and pussy still throbbing.

He laughed, wiping sweat as he tucked his dick away.

"Damn, Lisa, you’re one hell of a cocksleeve. Don’t kill me at rehearsal tomorrow with that ass," he teased, leaving her a sticky mess on the floor—body spent, but her mind already craving more.

The next rehearsal dawned even hotter, the sun scorching the open-air stage where Lisa and the dancers sweated buckets. Tarps blocked outside eyes, but the wind kicked up dust, mixing sweat and lust in the air.

Lisa couldn’t stop replaying last night—Ricardo’s black dick splitting her pussy and ass, cum painting her tits, his voice hissing whore, slut in her ear. Her cunt dripped just remembering, and she needed more.

Today, she upped the ante. A skintight crop top, nipples poking through, and leggings so thin they showed everything—especially since she’d gone commando. No panties. Just her slick folds staining the fabric, and Lisa loved knowing everyone saw how bad she craved cock.

Ricardo led as usual, shoulders gleaming, but Jamal watched too—eyes locked on her ass, the bulge in his shorts screaming game on.

When the choreographer told them to start, Lisa was already in total slut mode. The sensual choreography was the same, with that awesome step where she bent over and rubbed her ass against the guy behind her. Yesterday, she felt Ricardo's cock harden, and today would be no different. On her first try, she went down slowly, sticking her ass up against him, her leggings marking her wet pussy as she rubbed against his hard bulge. Fuck, his cock was throbbing, thick as fuck, and she moaned softly, her arousal exploding at the thought of the other dancers watching.

"Fuck, Ricardo, you're always... ready, aren't you?" she murmured, laughing slyly, her voice trembling as she went up, her pussy dripping with no panties to hold the honey.

He laughed, his hand brushing her waist, the heat of his touch making her want to beg right there.

— Dude, Lisa, you're the one who doesn't make it easy with that ass, you bitch — he replied, low enough for only her to hear, and the insult made her pussy throb.

Lisa knew everyone was watching — Jamal, the other guys, even the choreographer seemed distracted. And she loved that. The open stage gave her that adrenaline rush that someone could peek through the canvas and see her shaking her hips like a hungry whore. So, she found a way to fuck up the choreography again. Every time they rehearsed the step, she made sure to “mess up,” complaining with an innocent face:

— Fuck, it's hard to get this shit right, let me do it one more time!

The dancers laughed, but their eyes were heavy with lust. Jamal, on the side, wiped the sweat with his shirt lifted, showing his abs, and Lisa bit her lip, imagining his dick rubbing against her. She went back to Ricardo, going down again, this time harder, her ass rubbing his cock until she felt it hard as hell, throbbing in her leggings. Without panties, her honeyed pussy was all over the place, leaving a wet spot that couldn't be hidden. She moaned loudly, letting the others hear, her exhibitionism taking over as she thought: I want them to see what a slut I am.

"Lisa, fuck, what do you want with that shaking?" Ricardo whispered, his hand squeezing her waist, his cock so hard it seemed to rip his shorts.

"I'm just training, Ricardo... but if you want to fuck me, I'm all yours," she replied, pleading, her voice so submissive that he laughed, his arousal exploding.

But Lisa didn't stop there. In one of the moves, when Ricardo was behind and Jamal came to the side to adjust the formation, she saw her chance. “Accidentally,” as she picked up the pace, she guided Jamal’s hand to her thigh, letting it slide until it brushed against her wet pussy through her leggings. The touch was quick, but enough for him to feel the wetness, his eyes widening as she moaned softly, pretending it was an accident.

“Fuck, Jamal, sorry, bro, I was distracted,” she lied, biting her lip, her pussy throbbing with the contact, her heart racing because he had felt how crazy she was for cock.

“Distracted, huh? Your pussy is saying something else, you bitch,” Jamal replied softly, laughing mischievously, and the insult made her want to fall to her knees right there.

The rehearsal continued, but Lisa was beside herself. Every brush against Ricardo, every look from Jamal, every repetition of the step was a torture of lust. The wet leggings showed everything, and she shook harder, moaning loudly for the others to hear, imagining everyone knowing that she was a begging whore. When the choreographer let the crowd out, she was shaking, her pussy dripping so much that it left a trail.

The rehearsal ended with Lisa shaking, her pussy dripping so much that her black leggings were stained, the wetness marking her honeyed pussy for everyone to see. She stumbled to the locker room to get her bag, her body on fire, her hard nipples poking through her tiny top. The air inside was heavy, a mix of sweat, testosterone and something else — pure lust. Ricardo and Jamal were leaning against the lockers, their shorts marking their big dicks, their hungry eyes glued to her. Lisa tried to walk past, but her pussy told her to stop, desire overcoming any shame.

The heat of Ricardo's body trapped her against the cold metal of the lockers, the strong smell of his sweat invading her senses, making her pussy throb faster. Jamal closed in behind her, his hot breath on her neck, his hard bulge brushing against her ass. Lisa's heart raced, excitement mixed with a humiliation she loved—here, pressed between two males, she wasn't a pop star, she was just a begging slut, a cock-crazed whore. Their silence only increased the tension, their eyes telling her they knew exactly what she wanted.

Without a word, Lisa fell to her knees, the cold floor biting into her skin as she tore at the zippers with trembling hands. Ricardo's cock sprang out first, black and thick, veins pulsing like a living threat, followed by Jamal's, almost as big, the head glistening with hardness. She swallowed Ricardo's hungrily, her throat tightening as saliva ran down her throat, the salty taste filling her mouth. She switched back and forth between Jamal, gagging, her eyes watering, each gasp a proof of her submission, an offer to be used like the whore she wanted to be. The wet sound of hickeys echoed in the locker room, too loud, and she knew the half-open door was letting it all out into the hallway.

Then she saw it: Marcus, another dancer, standing in the shadows of the doorway, his hand tucked into his shorts, jerking off with wide eyes. Voyeurism hit her honeyed cunt like a shock, her arousal exploding at the knowledge that she was being put on by someone else. The humiliation engulfed her—it wasn’t just being fucked, it was being seen as a greedy slut, a whore who threw herself at cocks while a stranger came watching. Her body trembled, her pussy dripping onto the floor, and she sucked deeper, her muffled moans vibrating on the cocks, wanting Marcus to see every detail of her degradation.

Ricardo grabbed her hair, pulling her up, the metal of the lockers freezing her back as he ripped her leggings with a yank. Her honeyed pussy was exposed, glistening without panties, and he thrust his big dick in with a brutal thrust, the wet sound mixing with her hoarse scream. Each thrust was a reminder of what she was—a hungry slut, a whore who begged for cock in front of anyone who wanted to see. The half-open door swayed in the wind, and Lisa imagined Marcus jerking off faster, his lust fueling hers, the humiliation burning hot as she thought: Look how slutty I am, cum watching this bitch take a dick.

Jamal was not far behind. He smeared his cock with spit, lining it up with her tight asshole, and pushed in slowly, his thick cock forcing its way in as she writhed, her body trapped between them. Her asshole still hurt from the day before, but the pain only increased her submission, the feeling of being broken in like a worthless slut. She moaned loudly, the sound echoing down the hallway, wanting Marcus to hear, to know that she was giving it all up. Ricardo pounded her pussy without mercy, his cock smeared with her honey, while Jamal opened her ass, each thrust deeper, the rhythm of the two becoming a fucking machine that made her body bounce.

Humiliation pulsed through every vein. Lisa felt exposed, degraded, a whore used for their pleasure and for Marcus' show, who was now moaning softly at the door, his hand flying down his shorts. She wanted to be called a slut, she wanted to be cursed until she came, but they were both so focused on breaking into each other's holes that the curses came only in their eyes — looks that said “you're our whore, take my cock.” And she took it, her body shaking as she came, her pussy squeezing Ricardo's cock, her ass winking at Jamal's, each orgasm a wave of delicious shame for being so greedy in front of a voyeur.

The locker room became a chaos of sounds — the metal of the lockers banging, flesh colliding, her moans filling the space. Lisa was lost, the pleasure overwhelming any thought, only the desire to be fucked, wet, humiliated. Ricardo sped up, his big dick pounding her pussy until she came again, the honey dripping down her thighs, while Jamal pounded her ass, her tightness pushing him to the limit. She wanted to scream “call me a whore”, but her voice came out only in moans, her body speaking for her as she begged for more with each shake.

When they were at their limit, they pulled her to the floor, on her knees, right in front of the half-open door, her body glistening with sweat and honey. Ricardo jerked off quickly, his big dick spurting hot cum on her face, the milk running down her lips, dripping onto her breasts, making her ripped top wet. Jamal came with her, the thick jet hitting her open mouth, her exposed pussy, until the floor was stained. Lisa rubbed the cum on her skin, her fingers smeared, licking it all up while she looked at Marcus, who was cumming on his shorts, his eyes glued to the image of her wet, defeated, fulfilled. The humiliation was perfect—a slut covered in milk, used for their cocks and a stranger's lust, every drop of cum a trophy of the degradation she loved.

She stayed there, on her knees, her body shaking, her pussy and ass throbbing, her face and tits glistening with cum. Ricardo and Jamal wiped away the sweat, chuckling softly, as Marcus disappeared through the door, silence returning to the locker room. Lisa smiled, exhausted, the delicious shame still burning, already dreaming of the next rehearsal, more dick, more looks, more milk to beg for.

The third and final day of rehearsals for Coachella dawned with the air so thick it seemed like the sun itself was horny. The open stage, surrounded by patched tarps and speakers, vibrated with the heat rising from the hot sand, the wind carrying a smell of dust and sweaty bodies. Lisa was electric, her honeyed pussy dripping since she woke up, her body still sensitive from the brutal fuck in the locker room with Ricardo and Jamal the night before. The cum smearing her face and tits, the insults of “bitch” and “whore,” Marcus jerking off while watching everything — each memory made her pussy throb, begging for more dick, more looks, more humiliation.

She arrived on stage with a dirty plan in mind. Her black top was just a thin strip, her hard nipples almost tearing through the fabric, and her black leggings — without panties, of course — stuck to her skin like a second skin, highlighting her wet pussy and pert ass. Ricardo was there, leading the dancers, his broad chest glistening with sweat, his eyes already glued to her as if he knew the bitch was ready to fuck everything. Jamal, next to her, wiped the sweat with his t-shirt, his six-pack exposed, the bulge in his shorts giving her pussy a shock. Marcus and the other guys completed the team, all with that look of someone who carried a big dick and knew how to use it.

Lisa couldn't think of anything else but dick. The rehearsal was just an excuse to tease, to feel their dicks, to be seen as the greedy whore that she was. But today she wanted more — she wanted everyone naked, their bodies exposed, the raw lust taking over. When the choreographer, already a little pissed off with her “mistakes,” told them to start, she felt the heat rise up her spine, her pussy getting even more wet on her leggings.

The sensual choreography was the same, with that step that made her blood boil: bending her body, sticking her ass up and rubbing against the guy behind. Lisa had already turned this into a provocative ritual, but today she was out of control. On her first try, she went down on Ricardo, her ass pressed against his bulge, his half-hard dick throbbing through his shorts. The thin fabric of the leggings let her feel every vein, every throb, and the honey from her pussy dripped down, staining her thigh. The scent of his sweat, thick and masculine, filled her nose, mixed with the sticky heat of the stage, and she moaned softly, a husky sound that vibrated in her throat, loud enough for Jamal and Marcus to hear from nearby.

The other dancers were transfixed, sweat dripping from their foreheads, their eyes heavy with lust. Lisa knew she was center stage, the slut everyone wanted to fuck, and the exhibitionism made her heart race. The canvas around her swayed in the wind, leaving cracks of light where someone could peek, and she imagined hungry eyes outside, roadies or fans watching her twerk like a whore. Each repetition of the step was more shameless—she went down slower, rubbed harder, moaning shamelessly as her leggings marked her honeyed pussy, the luscious fabric glistening under the stage lights.

But Lisa wanted more, she wanted everything exposed. During the break, while the guys were getting water, she threw out the idea, her sly voice disguising the mischief:

— Dude, it's fucking hot today, huh? I'm sweating my eyes off in this outfit. What if we rehearsed... I don't know, lighter? Like, without anything, to really feel the choreo?

The choreographer raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Ricardo laughed, his dirty look cutting through her.

— Without anything, huh? What do you want to feel, you bitch? — he muttered softly, and the insult made her pussy tighten.

Jamal joined in, taking off his shirt with a smile.

— For me, let's go. I'm really melting — he said, and the other guys, laughing, started taking off their clothes, their shorts falling down, their already half-hard dicks swinging free.

Lisa couldn't believe it was working. She took off her top in a second, her breasts bouncing, her hard nipples shining with sweat, and she tore off her leggings, her honeyed pussy glistening, the honey dripping down her thigh. The hot air licked her skin, mixed with the smell of male bodies, sweat and lust, and she trembled, the delicious humiliation burning as she exposed herself to the hungry eyes. Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus and the others were naked, their big, thick black cocks swinging, some already throbbing, and she wanted each one of them, wanted to be fucked in front of everyone, called a whore until she came.

The choreographer, embarrassed, mumbled something about “focus” and left, leaving the stage for the dancers. Ricardo took the lead, naked, his big dick pointing as he ordered “let’s do the dance”. Lisa obeyed, submissive, her body vibrating with desire as she positioned herself in front of him. The music came back on, low, a low pulse that seemed to echo in her pussy, and she started to do the dance, now with nothing between her ass and his dick. The heat of his hard cock brushed against her sticky ass, the head throbbing against her asshole, and she moaned loudly, the sound tearing through the hot air, her senses collapsing with the raw touch.

Without fabric, each brush was a delicious torture. Ricardo’s dick, sticky with sweat and her honey, slid between her buttocks, brushing her pussy and asshole, and Lisa repeated the step without stopping, her body trembling as she wiggled harder, slower, wanting to swallow him with her ass. The smell of sex hung over the stage, her sweat mixed with the guys', the heat sticking to her skin like a second layer. Jamal, Marcus and the others watched, spread out, their eyes glued to her ass, and Lisa saw their hands moving down to their cocks, starting to jerk off slowly, the guys' low moans mixing with the sound of the music.

The voyeurism made her horny. Being the show for those men, seeing their big cocks throbbing because of her, made her honeyed pussy drip onto the floor, the liquid glistening on the hot sand. The humiliation was perfect—a naked slut, shaking for one guy's cock while the others touched themselves, everyone knowing she was a begging whore. She wanted to scream "fuck me," but she held back, letting her body do the talking, each shake a silent plea to be fucked.

Then, on impulse, Lisa broke her pace. Halfway down, she turned her body, climbing on Ricardo like a bitch in heat, her thighs wide open wrapping around his waist, her wet pussy rubbing against his hard cock. The heat of his cock against her pussy was unbearable, the honeyed head throbbing so close to her hole that she trembled, sweat running down her breasts as the stage spun before her eyes. The other guys stopped, their hands on their cocks, pounding faster, the air filled with moans and heavy breathing.

Lisa, submissive, begged in a hoarse voice, the sound tearing through her throat:

"Please, Ricardo, fuck me, fuck me in front of them, I'm your slut!" Desperation dripped from each word, humiliation igniting as she felt the dancers' gazes, their big cocks throbbing, Marcus moaning louder, his hand flying.

Ricardo's cock brushed the entrance of her honeyed pussy, covered in sweat and her honey, and Lisa wiggled, begging with her body, wanting to be filled there, on stage, for others to see her be the whore she loved to be. The heat of their bodies, the smell of sex, the sound of the handjobs all around her—it all swallowed her up, the total submission, the delicious shame of being the center of all this mischief.

—Please, Ricardo, fuck me, fuck me in front of them, I'm your slut!—Lisa begged again, her voice cracking with desperation, her breasts bouncing, her hard nipples brushing against his sweaty chest. The humiliation burned her good—being a begging whore, exposed to everyone, made her pussy drip on his cock, the honey running down his cock until it dripped onto the hot sand.

Ricardo laughed softly, the deep sound vibrating against her, his dark eyes shining with mischief. Without saying anything, he grabbed her ass hard, his big hands sinking into her flesh as he aligned his big dick with the honeyed entrance of her cunt. The heat of the honeyed head rubbing against her hole made Lisa moan loudly, the sound echoing throughout the stage, an invitation for the dancers to watch her degradation. With one thrust, he thrust it all in, his thick cock tearing her pussy in one stroke, the wet sound mixed with her scream—half pain, half pleasure—filling the air.

The stage seemed to spin before her eyes, the heat of the desert licking her skin as Ricardo pounded mercilessly, each thrust a thunderclap that made her body bounce. Her honeyed pussy squeezed his cock, making everything wet, the liquid running down her thighs, shining under the improvised lights. Sweat dripped from her breasts, mixing with Ricardo's, the smell of raw sex dominating the space. Lisa moaned and moaned, the guttural sounds tearing from her throat, too loud, wanting everyone to hear, to know that she was a hungry whore. The exhibitionism consumed her—Jamal jerking off faster, his big black cock throbbing in his hand, Marcus moaning softly, the other guys touching themselves with their eyes glued to her broken pussy.

Each of Ricardo's thrusts was a perfect humiliation. Lisa felt like a worthless slut, a pussy to be used, and she loved it. His big dick hit her hard, the impact making her breasts bounce, sweat flying as she wiggled, her body begging to be fucked more. The dancers around her were mesmerized, their hands flying on their dicks, the sound of skin on skin mixing with the thrusts — bang, bang, bang — that echoed like drums. Lisa looked at Marcus, voyeurism turning everything on: he was almost cumming, his eyes wide, and she wiggled harder, wanting him to see every detail of the whore she was.

The heat of Ricardo's cock in her honeyed pussy was driving her over the edge. She came screaming, her body convulsing, her pussy squeezing his cock so hard that he grunted, thrusting deeper as her honey dripped onto the floor. But Lisa didn't want to stop — she wanted more, she wanted all of it. When Ricardo slowed down, his cock still hard, she slid down, on her knees in the hot sand, her body glistening with sweat, her pussy throbbing, wet. The dancers moved closer, their big cocks swinging in front of her, and Lisa, submissive, opened her mouth, her eyes imploring as she licked the air, begging for cock.

She started with Jamal, his thick cock filling her mouth, the salty taste of sweat and lust exploding on her tongue. She sucked hungrily, her throat tightening as she gagged, saliva running down her chin, dripping onto her breasts. But instead of letting him cum, she stopped at the last second, his cock throbbing in her hand, a frustrated groan escaping Jamal. Lisa smiled, the slut inside her loving the cruel control of denying him milk, even though she was submissive. She moved on to Marcus, licking the wet head, sucking deep until he moaned loudly, his legs shaking, only to let him go too, his big cock throbbing, unrelieved. One by one, she sucked them all—five thick, black cocks, throbbing with desire—, gagging, getting her face covered in saliva, but always stopping before she came, leaving each guy with a look of anger and pent-up desire.

The stage floor was stained with honey and saliva, the air heavy with the smell of interrupted sex, the frustrated moans of the dancers echoing as Lisa stood up, her breasts glistening, her pussy dripping. Her humiliation was double now—being the whore who sucked everyone in front of everyone, and the slut who denied them milk, even though she was begging for cock. The voyeurism was still pulsing: she knew the guys were crazy about her, their hard cocks proof of the power her submission had, and the thought of someone spying through the tents only made her want more.

Ricardo, the only one who had fucked her pussy, chuckled softly, wiping away the sweat as he put away his cock, still covered in her cum. Lisa staggered to the corner, grabbing her ripped leggings, her body shaking with lust and delicious shame, the dancers' eyes burning into her back. She imagined the cumplay that never came — the cum she wanted smearing her face, her breasts, her pussy — but she saved her desire for the next round, knowing she had left everyone hungry.

While the crowd got dressed, Ricardo pulled Jamal, Marcus and the others to the improvised lockers on the stage, out of her hearing. His mischievous smile said it all before he even opened his mouth. Sweat was still dripping from his forehead, the smell of his fuck with Lisa stuck to his skin, and he couldn't hold back his betrayal:

"Dude, Lisa is a slut who loves to be used as a hole. She begs to be fucked, sucks until she chokes, and wants to be called a whore while she takes cock. I'm warning you, this pussy and this ass are for anyone who wants to break in."

The guys' eyes widened, their big cocks jumping in their shorts, still hard from the frustrated blowjob. Jamal laughed, patting Ricardo on the shoulder.

"Fuck, she denied me my milk, but now I know this whore will let it all out," he said, his voice full of lust.

Marcus, still red from jerking off, muttered: "Fuck, I saw her taking dick and I already knew she was a greedy slut. I want to fuck her too."

The group laughed softly, whispering plans, their eyes shining with the promise of using Lisa as she wanted — a pussy, an ass, a mouth for dick. Ricardo's betrayal spread her fame, each word planting the seed of what was to come at Coachella, while Lisa, on the other side of the stage, wore her sticky leggings, her pussy throbbing, unaware that her submission was becoming a legend.

The rehearsal ended with the stage empty, the desert heat still sticking to her skin, the air heavy with the smell of sweat and unresolved lust. Lisa was exhausted, her honeyed pussy throbbing, her ripped leggings tucked in haphazardly as she walked to the makeshift dressing room—a tent at the back of the stage, surrounded by tarps and speakers. The honey dripped down her thighs, mixed with sweat, and her breasts swayed in her tiny top, her hard nipples marking the fabric. Her head was spinning with what had happened: the brutal fuck with Ricardo, his big cock tearing her pussy in front of everyone, the blowjob from the other guys, denying them their milk, the frustrated moans echoing. She loved the humiliation of being the stage slut, but she didn't know that Ricardo's betrayal had spread the fire.

Inside the dressing room, the air was stuffy, the smell of hot metal and dust mixed with the distant echo of the test music. Lisa threw her bag in a corner, her body trembling with desire, wanting to touch herself, but before she could breathe, the canvas of the entrance opened. Ricardo entered first, his broad chest glistening with sweat, followed by Jamal, Marcus and the other three dancers — five burly males, their eyes hungry, the bulges in their shorts pulsing. Her heart raced, her desire mixed with butterflies in her stomach. They surrounded her in silence, their bodies so close that she could feel their heat, the strong smell of male sweat invading her senses.

Ricardo crossed his arms, his mischievous smile cutting through the air.

“Your fame is spreading, Lisa. I told the guys that you love being a hole, a slut who begs for cock. Now they want proof,” he said, his voice deep, each word dripping with humiliation.

Lisa swallowed hard, her honeyed pussy clenching at the implicit insult, her exhibitionism igniting as the guys’ eyes devoured her. She should have been scared, but her lust was in charge — being surrounded, judged as a whore, was all the bitch inside her wanted. Jamal took a step, his hand on her shorts, his big dick marking her as he chuckled softly.

“You sucked everyone off and didn’t let them cum, you slut. Show that you’re the whore Ricardo said you were,” he said, and the “slut” made her moan softly, the sound escaping unintentionally.

Marcus and the others closed the circle, the space getting smaller, the heat of their bodies suffocating. Lisa trembled, submissive, her pussy dripping on her leggings, her heart beating so loud it seemed to echo in the tent. She had no way to escape — and she didn’t want to.

“Please… I’ll show you, I’m your slut,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, pleading, her eyes lowered as she tore off her top, her breasts bouncing free, sweat glistening on her skin.

The guys laughed softly, a sound that cut like a knife, and Ricardo pointed to the center of the tent, where a dim light hit the dusty floor.

“Then dance, you whore. Shake your ass naked so we can judge your whore body,” he ordered, and the order made her pussy throb, the humiliation exploding as she obeyed.

Lisa let her leggings fall, the sticky fabric sliding down her thighs to the floor, her honeyed pussy glistening, her asshole still sensitive from the previous fuck blinking with the cool air. Naked, she walked to the center, the hot floor biting her bare feet, sweat running down her back, dripping on her pert ass. The smell of male bodies enveloped her, mixed with the hot metal of the tent, and the silence of the guys was worse than any insult — a silent judgment, their eyes scrutinizing every curve, every drop of honey running down her thigh.

With no music, just the sound of their heavy breathing, Lisa began to shake her ass. She got down slowly, her hands on her knees, her ass sticking up high, her honeyed pussy glistening as she spread her thighs, showing everything. Her movement was slow, each wiggle an offering, a request to be used. Sweat dripped from her breasts, her hard nipples jiggling, and she moaned softly, the hoarse sound filling the tent, loud enough for someone outside to hear. Exhibitionism took over her — the canvas at the entrance swayed in the wind, and she imagined a roadie peeking in, jerking off while watching the slut show off.

The dancers watched, their big cocks throbbing in their shorts, some already with their hands inside, slowly jerking off. Jamal bit his lip, his eyes on her honeyed pussy, while Marcus, still red from the scene on stage, breathed heavily, his hand squeezing his cock. Ricardo stood still, his arms crossed, but the bulge in his shorts said he was dying to fuck her again. Lisa wiggled harder, her ass and pussy winking at the audience, her honey dripping onto the floor, the smell of her sex mingling with the sultry heat. The humiliation was perfect—being judged as a whore, her body exposed for evaluation, every moan a reminder that she was just a hungry slut.

She got down on all fours to the floor, her ass sticking up high, her hands spreading her buttocks to show her wet asshole, her pussy dripping as she wiggled. The wet sound of her pussy moving filled the tent, mixed with the guys' low moans, their handjobs getting faster. Lisa turned around, lying on the warm floor, her thighs spread, her fingers brushing her pussy just to tease, her body glistening with sweat as she moaned:

"Please, look at me, I'm your whore," she begged, her voice shaking, the humiliation exploding with each hungry look.

The guys were mesmerized, but no one touched her—it was the trial, just like Ricardo ordered. Jamal chuckled softly, his big dick throbbing in his hand, and Marcus groaned, almost cumming, but he held it in. Lisa stood up, her body shaking, her honeyed pussy leaving a trail on the floor, and stood, naked, in the center, her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing. The tent seemed smaller, the heat stifling, the smell of lust dominating everything. She knew she had proven herself—she was the slut Ricardo had said she was, the whore who begged for cock, and now the guys were dying to use her.

The stuffy air in the tent smelled of sex, male sweat and hot metal, the heat sticking to her skin like a sticky caress. Each of the guys' breaths was a burden, each of their low moans—their hands squeezing their big cocks in their shorts—a reminder that she was just a begging whore, exposed to satisfy their lust.

She stopped shaking, standing in the middle of the circle, her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing, sweat running down her thighs, mixing with the honey that glistened on her pussy. The silence of the dancers was worse than any curse, a silent judgment that made her heart race, her pussy throb with delicious shame. Ricardo took a step forward, his broad chest shining, the bulge in his shorts throbbing as if he wanted to rip the fabric.

“Fuck, Lisa, you really are the slut I said. Body of a whore, pussy begging for cock,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the air, each word a stab of humiliation that made her moan softly, the sound escaping uncontrollably.

Jamal laughed, his hand on his shorts, his big black cock marking it as he shook his head.

“You shook it really well, you whore. But proof isn’t just about dancing,” he said, and the other guys murmured in agreement, their eyes glued to her honeyed pussy, to her asshole that blinked with heat.

Lisa trembled, submissive, the humiliation exploding like fire in her pussy. She wanted to fall to her knees, suck everyone there, let them smear their cum on her face, but the desire to be judged, to be the slut who begged for more, ruled her. Voyeurism pulsed in the air — the canvas of the entrance swayed, and she imagined someone spying, a roadie or even the choreographer watching her degrade herself. The thought made her pussy drip even more, the liquid running down the floor, the smell of her sex dominating the tent.

Marcus, still red from jerking off during rehearsal, took a step forward, his eyes shining with lust.

“You denied us our milk on stage, you slut. Now what do you want? To be our real pussy?” he asked, his voice hoarse, and the word “slut” hit like a slap, making Lisa bite her lip, her body trembling as she nodded.

— Please... I'm your bitch, use me, judge me, I beg you — she murmured, her voice weak, pleading, her eyes lowered as sweat dripped from her hard nipples, the hot ground biting her feet. The humiliation was everything — being called a whore, being exposed like a hole for cock, being the showpiece of those males who were dying to break her in.

Ricardo laughed softly, the sound echoing in the tent like thunder. He moved closer, so close that the heat of his body burned her skin, the strong smell of male sweat invading her senses.

— You're a greedy whore, Lisa. Everyone saw that body begging for cock. But today you only dance, you bitch. Tomorrow, at Coachella, we'll use you for real — he said, the words dripping with promise and humiliation, his big cock throbbing in his shorts as he walked away.

Lisa moaned, desperation squeezing her honeyed pussy, her arousal exploding at the idea of being used by everyone at the show. The other guys laughed, some adjusting their dicks, their hands still sticky from touching each other while they judged her. Jamal gave her ass a light slap, the sound cracking in the tent, and she moaned loudly, the touch leaving her skin burning, the humiliation mixed with the desire to beg for more.

“Get ready, you whore. Your pussy is going to work tomorrow,” he said, laughing as he left, followed by the others.

Marcus was the last, his eyes glued to her breasts, his big dick showing through his shorts. He didn't say anything, but the low moan that escaped him as he passed her was proof that he was dying to fuck her. Lisa was left alone in the tent, naked, her body glistening with sweat, her pussy dripping onto the floor, the smell of lust and humiliation clinging to her skin. She grabbed her ripped leggings, the sticky fabric sticking to her thighs as she put them on, the tiny top barely covering her hard nipples. Her heart was pounding, her head spinning with what had happened — the fuck with Ricardo on stage, the frustrating blowjob from the others, his betrayal by telling her she was a hole, and now the naked dance, the judgment of her body as a slut ready for cock.

She left the tent, the desert sun beating down on her face, the hot wind licking her sweaty skin. The stage was empty, the tents swaying, but the echo of her moans seemed to hang in the air, as if Coachella itself knew what was coming. Lisa smiled, her honeyed pussy throbbing, her arousal still alive as she thought about tomorrow's show—the stares of the audience, the big cocks of the dancers, the promise of being used like the whore she begged to be. The rehearsal day was over, but the slut inside her was just beginning, ready to give herself body and soul on the festival stage.

Coachella day arrived like a storm of heat and adrenaline, the desert vibrating with the pulse of the crowd, the sound of bass echoing through the tents and stages. Backstage, the air was thick, full of dust, sweat and the metallic smell of equipment under the sun. Lisa was electric, her body on fire since the last rehearsal, where she gave herself like a slut on stage naked, fucking Ricardo, sucking the dancers and shaking her butt naked in the dressing room while they judged her slutty body. Her honeyed pussy dripped just remembering it — the insults of “slut” and “whore”, the big dicks throbbing, the promise of being used as a hole. Today, on stage, she was going to dance for the world, but backstage, the slut inside her was begging for cock.

Lisa was wearing her show outfit: a red top that barely covered her breasts, her hard nipples showing through the fabric, and shorts of the same color so tight that her honeyed pussy left a wet outline, without panties, of course. Sweat was already glistening on her skin, mixed with the glitter from the stage, while she mentally checked the choreography. Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus and the other two dancers — five burly males, their sculpted bodies shining through their tight shirts — were gathered in a corner backstage, laughing softly, their hungry eyes glued to her. The smell of testosterone and sexual tension hung over her, and Lisa felt her pussy throb, knowing that the day was going to be an explosion of naughtiness.

Before the last stage check, Ricardo called the dancers to a corner, his deep voice cutting through the noise of the roadies. Lisa was adjusting the microphone, but she heard bits and pieces, her heart racing with each word.

“Listen, bros. Lisa is our reward today.” Whoever stands out in the choreo, whoever makes the audience go crazy, will fuck this bitch however they want. She begs for cock, she's an open hole for us — he said, laughing, his big dick marking his pants while the others exchanged punches on her shoulder, their eyes shining with lust.

Lisa pretended not to hear, but her pussy dripped immediately, her shorts wet as she imagined being used by everyone, called a whore, covered in cum. The humiliation was like fire — being announced as a “reward”, a trophy for cock, made her want to fall to her knees right there. The exhibitionism was pulsating: backstage was full of people — roadies, technicians, other artists — and she loved the risk of someone hearing, of knowing that she was the slut of the group.

The time for the show was approaching, but before that, the dancers pulled Lisa into the main dressing room, a cramped tent at the back of the stage, the stuffy air smelling of hot canvas and sweat. The lights were dim, casting shadows on their bodies, and the sound of the crowd outside was a distant roar, mixed with the throbbing bass. Ricardo had locked the canvas entrance, but left a crack, the wind rustling the fabric, and Lisa felt her pussy tighten with voyeurism—someone could spy, watch her degrade herself like the whore she was.

Without warning, Jamal grabbed her arm, the heat of his hand burning her skin, and pushed her to her knees on the dusty ground. The impact made her breasts bounce, her top riding up, almost exposing everything. Lisa moaned softly, the hoarse sound escaping her as she looked up, surrounded by the five dancers, their big cocks marking their pants, their hungry eyes devouring her. The smell of male sweat filled her nose, mixed with the sticky heat of the tent, and she trembled, submissive, her pussy dripping in her shorts, her heart beating so loud it seemed to burst.

“Show us whore you are, Lisa.” Prove you want to have sex before the show — Ricardo said, his voice deep, each word a humiliation that made her pussy throb.

Lisa didn't need orders. Her trembling hands went to the zippers, pulling out Ricardo's cock first, that thick black monster glistening with sweat, the veins pulsing as if it were alive. She opened her mouth, swallowing hungrily, her throat tightening as saliva ran down, the salty taste exploding on her tongue. The wet sound of hickeys filled the tent, too loud, and she moaned, wanting the crack in the canvas to let the noise out, for someone to hear the begging whore. Ricardo grunted, his hand in her hair, but pulled his cock out before he came, his big cock throbbing in front of her face.

“One at a time, you whore. Show each one of them,” he ordered, and Lisa obeyed, submissive, passing it to Jamal.

Jamal's cock was almost as big, the sticky head brushing her lips before she swallowed, sucking deep until she gagged, her eyes watering as she moaned. But it wasn't enough—she wanted more, she wanted them all at once, she wanted to be fucked like a slut.

"Please, fuck me together, I'm your whore, I'm begging for more cock!" she whimpered, her voice cracking, pulling his cock out of her mouth just to beg before going back to sucking.

Jamal laughed, pulling his cock out, leaving her mouth empty, his frustrated desire making her moan louder. Marcus came next, his big black cock throbbing as she licked, sucking until he moaned, but he also pulled away, denying her release. One by one, the other two dancers — Carlos and Trey — took over, their thick cocks filling her mouth, their saliva dripping onto the floor, mixed with the sweat that dripped from their breasts. Lisa sucked desperately, begging between each exchange:

— Use me, please, I want more cocks, I'm your greedy slut!

The floor of the tent bit her knees, the desert heat sticking to her skin, the smell of sex and testosterone suffocating. Voyeurism exploded — the crack in the canvas swayed, and she imagined a roadie spying, jerking off while watching the pop star on her knees, being used as a hole. The humiliation was perfect: being the promised reward, sucking one by one while begging for more, her body exposed to the hungry gazes. Her top was crooked, her breasts almost jumping out, her wet shorts marking her pussy, and she loved being seen like that — a begging whore, ready for anything.

But the guys had other plans. Ricardo came back, his big dick in his hand, jerking off quickly in front of her face.

“Open your mouth, you whore, you’re going on stage as our marked slut,” he growled, and before she could respond, the hot jet of cum hit her face, smearing her lips, her nose, dripping down her chin.

Jamal came right after, his cock throbbing as he came, the thick cum painting her forehead, running down her eyes, the hot milk glistening on her skin. Marcus, Carlos and Trey joined in, each jerking off, the jets hitting her face, her breasts, her top, even her wet shorts. Lisa moaned as the cum dripped, the strong smell of male milk mixed with her sweat, the floor of the tent stained. She rubbed the milk into her skin, licking her fingers, begging with her eyes for more, even though she knew it was just the warm-up.

"That's it, you whore, you're going to dance with our cum on your face," Ricardo said, laughing, while the others put away their dicks, their laughter echoing in the tent.

Lisa got on her knees, her face sticky, the glitter from the stage mixed with the cum shining under the dim light. The sound of the crowd outside grew louder, the show minutes away, and she smiled, her pussy dripping, her body shaking with lust. The humiliation of being marked, of going on stage as the dancers' slut, was all she wanted. But she knew that this was just the beginning — the real fucking, the total mess, would come later, when the stage went dark and backstage became her playground.

Coachella was on fire, the desert vibrating with the roar of the crowd, strobe lights cutting through the purple dusk sky. The main stage was a living beast, the bass of the music pulsing like a giant heart, the heat of the day sticking to everyone's skin. Lisa was backstage, her body shaking with adrenaline and lust, her pussy dripping in the shorts that clung to her pussy, highlighting every curve. The top barely held her breasts, her hard nipples shining under the glitter, but what no one in the audience knew — and what made her burn inside — was the dried cum in her hair, on her face, on her breasts, stuck like a tattoo of the dirty dressing room.

The cum dried quickly in the desert heat, leaving shiny trails that mixed with the glitter, the salty smell still stuck in her nose, mixed with the sweat and the sweet perfume of the stage. Lisa didn't clean up anything—she wanted to dance like that, marked like the backstage whore, the heat of humiliation pulsing in her pussy as she imagined the audience seeing, even without knowing, how greedy she was.

She grabbed the microphone, the cold metal against her slick lips, and looked at the dancers, all lined up, their sculpted bodies shining in their tight clothes, their naughty eyes telling her they knew what she was carrying. Ricardo smiled a little, his big dick marking his pants, while Jamal blinked, the promise of the post-show fuck hanging in the air. The roar of the crowd grew as the announcer announced her name, and Lisa took a deep breath, her pussy dripping, her heart beating so loud it drowned out the bass. It was time to be the pop star—and the slut—on stage.

The lights exploded, the stage igniting like a volcano, and Lisa came out twerking, her shorts riding up, her ass shaking as the music boomed. The crowd screamed, thousands of eyes glued to her, the heat of the lights licking her sweaty skin, the glitter and dried cum shining like diamonds. She sang, her hoarse voice mixed with moans that escaped without wanting to, the microphone picking up every sigh as she danced. The smell of smoke and electricity hung in the air, mixed with her sweat, her cum-slicked hair sticking to the back of her neck, every movement making her feel the dancers' marks on her skin.

The choreography was pure heat, each step a provocation that set her pussy on fire. But the moment she wanted most — her favorite step — came in the second song. The beat slowed down, a sensual bass that made the floor tremble, and Lisa positioned herself, Ricardo behind her, the heat of his body burning her back. She got down slowly, her ass sticking up against his big dick, which was hard as hell, throbbing in his tight pants. Her shorts rode up, marking her wet pussy, and the contact of his cock against her ass elicited a loud moan — “hmmm, fuck” — that escaped into the microphone, echoing to the thousands in the audience.

The crowd screamed, thinking it was part of the show, but Lisa was shaking, her excitement exploding with the exhibitionism. Ricardo’s cock rubbed her ass and pussy through the fabric, covered in sweat and her honey, and she wiggled harder, moaning again — “fuck, that’s it...” — the hoarse sound leaking into the microphone, her voice mixing with the music. The smell of his sweat, strong and masculine, filled her nose, and she imagined the audience seeing the truth: a begging slut, dancing with dry cum on her face, crazy for cock. Voyeurism consumed her — every eye in the crowd was a judge, every scream an applause for the whore that she was.

Lisa repeated the step, “missing” on purpose, like in rehearsals, going down on Ricardo again, her ass pressed against his big dick, her moan now a muffled “fuck, fuck” but loud enough for the microphone to pick up. The crowd went crazy, their cell phones recording, and she loved the risk — would anyone notice? Who would see the cum shining in her hair, the sticky shorts, the moans of a slut? The heat of the lights stuck to her skin, the sweat running down her breasts, dripping onto the stage, and she danced with more fire, her body begging for more.

But it wasn't just the steps. Other movements became naughty. In a spin, she rubbed her breasts against Jamal's chest, her hard nipples scraping his shirt, a low moan — "hmmm" — escaping into the microphone as her pussy dripped. In a change of position, Marcus moved behind her, his hand "accidentally" brushing her ass, and she moaned again, the sound echoing, the audience thinking it was a performance. Every touch, every brush, was a torture of lust, the stage turning into a disguised orgy, the smell of sweat and glitter mixed with the echo of the bass, the dried cum on her skin burning like a brand.

Lisa sang, but her voice was hoarse, interrupted by moans she couldn't hold back. She wiggled alone in the middle, her thighs open, her shorts showing her pussy, and moaned softly — "fuck, I want..." — the microphone betraying her again. The crowd screamed, the flashes of their cell phones capturing every curve, and she imagined the world watching: the pop star with cum in her hair, moaning like a whore, her body begging for cock. The humiliation was perfect — dancing marked by the dancers' milk, the glitter not hiding the truth, her arousal exposed to thousands.

The pace picked up during the last song, and Lisa went all out. She went down on Ricardo, her ass shaking so hard that his big dick seemed to rip his pants, the heat of his cock wetting her shorts. She moaned loudly — "fuck, put it in..." — the microphone amplifying it to the entire festival, the crowd exploding without knowing it was real. Sweat dripped from her forehead, mixed with the dried cum that stuck to her skin, the salty smell returning with the heat, and she wiggled, begging with her body while Ricardo laughed softly, his cock throbbing against her ass.

The show ended with Lisa in the center, panting, her body shining with sweat, glitter and dried cum, her pussy staining her shorts, her moans still echoing in her head. The crowd roared, the applause like a wave, but she only thought about backstage — about the dancers' big cocks, the promise of being fucked like never before. She left the stage, her sticky hair sticking to the back of her neck, her face marked by dried milk, and looked at the dancers, who were waiting, their eyes hungry. Coachella had seen the pop star, but now the bitch was ready for the real show, the one that would come when the lights went out.

The Coachella stage still echoed in Lisa’s head, the crowd’s cheers mixing with the thumping bass as she ran backstage, her body on fire. Lisa staggered down the canvas hallways, her shorts clinging to her pussy, her top askew, one nipple nearly popping out as she dodged roadies and speakers. The air was stuffy and dusty, and the sound of the next act was distant, but all she could think about were the big cocks—Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus, Carlos, Trey—waiting to fuck her again. The humiliation of dancing with cum on her face, of moaning “fuck, fuck” to the audience without them knowing the truth, had driven her crazy. She wanted to be used, called “whore,” covered in cum until it dripped, her exhibitionism exploding at the thought of someone watching her degrade herself backstage.

But before she could reach the main dressing room, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Lisa? Oh my God, what happened to you?” Rosé was standing at the entrance to a smaller tent, her eyes wide, her blonde hair shining in the dim light. She was wearing a light dress, her face made up for her own show, but her expression was one of pure shock.

Lisa stopped, her heart racing, her pussy dripping as she felt Rosé’s gaze travel over her state—her hair tangled, the dried cum glistening on her forehead and cheeks, her sticky top stuck to her breasts, her shorts stained with honey and sweat. Her smell was pure sex—cum, sweat, lust—and the heat backstage made everything stick even more, her skin sticky under the glitter. The humiliation hit her hard: being caught like this, exposed like a slut, made her pussy clench, but the lust mixed with a thread of shame that only increased the fire. — Rosé... I... it's just the show, you know, heat, glitter... — Lisa stuttered, her voice hoarse, trying to laugh, but the sound came out weak, pleading, as if she were asking Rosé to believe her lie.

Rosé frowned, taking a step, her nose catching the strong smell before stopping, her eyes widening even more.

— Dude, that's not glitter, Lisa. Are you... oh my God, are you covered in... cum? — she whispered, her voice shaking between shock and something else, maybe curiosity, as she looked at the dried tracks on her neck and breasts.

Lisa bit her lip, the dusty floor of the tent biting her bare feet, the desert heat rising up her legs. She could lie, but the slut inside her wanted to confess, wanted Rosé to know how much she loved being a whore. Voyeurism throbbed — the tent canvas swayed, and she imagined a roadie eavesdropping, listening to their conversation, jerking off while watching the pop star get wet.

— It's... it's cum, Rosé. I... I fucking like it. I'm crazy, I know, but I love being used like this — she admitted, her voice low, submissive, her eyes on the floor as sweat dripped from her forehead, mixing dried milk with glitter.

Rosé was silent, breathing heavily, her eyes glued to Lisa's sticky face. The air in the tent was suffocating, the smell of cum and sex surrounding them both, the sound of the crowd outside a muffled roar.

— Used how? Like... what did you do, Lisa? Tell me, damn it — Rosé said, her voice now firmer, a mix of shock and fascination, as if she wanted to understand her friend's madness.

Lisa took a deep breath, her pussy dripping in her shorts, the clinging fabric showing everything as she spoke, each word a humiliation that made her arousal explode.

— The dancers... Ricardo, Jamal, the others... fucked me before the show. They put me on my knees, they smeared my face, my body. I begged, Rosé, I begged to be their bitch, to call me a whore, to cum inside me. And on stage, I danced with it on my skin, moaning into the microphone, crazy for more — she confessed, her voice shaking, her hard nipples throbbing in her top, her body begging for cock even as she spoke.

Rosé swallowed hard, her eyes wide, but now with a different shine — it wasn't just shock, it was curiosity, maybe even a hint of lust. She took a step, her dress brushing her thigh, the heat of the tent sticking to her skin too.

"Fuck, Lisa, do you... do you really like this? Being like... one of their whores? Doesn't it hurt you?" she asked, her voice low, her gaze fixed on the dried cum that glistened on Lisa's neck.

Lisa laughed softly, the sound hoarse, almost a moan, as she shook her head.

"Hurt?" No, Rosé, I love it. Every curse, every spurt of cum, every look judging me as a slut... that's what makes me cum. I'm running to the dressing room now, they're going to fuck me again, all together, and I want to beg for every cock — she said, her eyes shining, submissive, her pussy dripping so much that her shorts were soaked, the honey running down her thigh.

The floor of the tent seemed to pulse with heat, the smell of her sex dominating the space, the glitter falling on the dusty floor as she spoke. Rosé stood still, her breathing quickened, her eyes roaming over Lisa's sticky body, as if trying to understand the abyss of her friend's lust. The tent swayed louder, and Lisa felt the voyeurism again — she imagined the dancers waiting, maybe listening, knowing that she was confessing to being their whore. The humiliation was perfect: telling Rosé, exposing her degradation, made her want to run to the gangbang even more.

Rosé touched her arm, the contact warm, almost electric, and Lisa moaned softly, the sound escaping unintentionally.

“Dude, you’re crazy… but, like, if it makes you happy, go for it. Just… be careful, okay?” Rosé said, her voice soft, but with a tone that said she wouldn’t forget this conversation.

Lisa nodded, her heart racing, her pussy begging as she smiled.

“Thanks, Rosé. But watch out, it’s not me. I’m the bitch who begs for everything,” she replied, laughing, and left the tent, her sticky shorts sticking to her ass, her hair with dried cum swinging as she ran to the main dressing room, where the dancers waited, their big cocks ready to break her in as promised.

Lisa ran backstage at Coachella like a bitch in heat, her heart beating so hard it drowned out the roar of the crowd outside. The show had been crazy—dancing with the dancers’ dried cum stuck to her hair, her face, her tits, moaning “fuck, fuck” into the microphone while she grinded against Ricardo’s big dick, her honeyed pussy dripping onto her black shorts. The conversation with Rosé minutes before—confessing that she loved being the sticky bitch, begging for cock—only lit the fire. Now, her shorts were clinging to her pussy, her silver top was askew, a nipple almost popping out, and the smell of cum, sweat and glitter hung over her, the desert heat sticking to her skin like a promise of mischief.

She entered the main dressing room, a wide tent at the back of the stage, the stuffy air smelling of hot canvas, metal and testosterone. The lights were dim, casting shadows on the bodies of the five dancers waiting for her — Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus, Carlos and Trey — all sweaty, their pants showing their thick cocks, their hungry eyes shining. The canvas at the entrance was half open, the wind swaying, and Lisa felt her pussy throb with voyeurism — someone could spy, watch her degrade herself like the whore she begged to be. The dusty floor bit her bare feet, the sound of the next attraction echoing softly, and she trembled, submissive, eager to be used. Ricardo took a step, his broad chest shining, his big dick throbbing in his pants as he chuckled softly.

"It's time, you slut. You're our toy now, a hole for us to fuck however we want," he said, his deep voice dripping with humiliation, the "toy" making her pussy drip in her shorts.

Lisa moaned, the hoarse sound escaping as she fell to her knees, the hot floor tearing at her skin. Jamal grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, and shoved his big dick in her mouth, her throat tightening as she choked, saliva dripping down her chin. The salty taste exploded on her tongue, the smell of male sweat suffocating, and she sucked hungrily, her eyes watering, begging with her body to be used more. Before she could breathe, Ricardo ripped her shorts, the sticky fabric falling in shreds, and turned her face down on the floor, her ass sticking up without her order.

— Take it, you whore, a toy pussy doesn't ask for it — Ricardo grunted, shoving his big black cock into her pussy without warning, the impact eliciting a scream from her, the sound muffled by Jamal's cock in her mouth.

Lisa was an object, a slut to be fucked without consideration, and she loved every second of it. Ricardo's cock tore her pussy apart, the honey running down her thighs, dripping onto the dusty floor, while Jamal pounded her throat, his saliva smearing her breasts, her torn top hanging from her hard nipples. The heat of their bodies burned, the sweat dripping onto her ass, the smell of sex dominating the tent. She moaned, the sound muffled, wanting to beg for more, but there was no room — she was just holes, used however they wanted.

Marcus joined in the game, his big cock throbbing as he took Jamal's place, shoving it into her mouth without saying a word. Lisa choked, her throat burning, her saliva dripping onto the floor, mixed with the honey that was dripping from Ricardo's broken pussy. Suddenly, Carlos turned her sideways, his thick cock lining up in her ass without warning, covered only in spit, and thrust deep, the tightness eliciting a scream that vibrated in Marcus's cock. The pain mixed with the excitement, her ass blinking as she was fucked in all three holes, turning her into a meat doll, humiliated and fulfilled.

The sound of the thrusts echoed in the tent, mixed with her muffled moans and the guys' grunts. Lisa imagined a voyeur — a roadie, maybe Rosé — watching her being broken in, her exhibitionism exploding as she thought: Look at what a slut I am, fucked like a toy. Sweat ran down her breasts, dripping onto the floor, the glitter falling with the dried milk that still marked her skin, the smell of old cum and new sex suffocating everything.

Then came the humiliation, rising to a new level. Ricardo, pounding her pussy, leaned in, his hot breath in her ear.

— I'm going to fill that pussy, you whore. I'm fucking you to get you pregnant, you greedy bitch — he grunted, his big dick throbbing as he thrust deeper, his threatening tone making her pussy tighten, even though she knew it was a game.

Lisa moaned, Marcus's dick muffling the sound, and tried to beg:

— Please, fill me, I'm your bitch! — the words came out jumbled, the humiliation of “getting pregnant” burning hot, her pussy dripping even more.

Jamal, who was now jerking off next to her, laughed, taking Carlos' place in her ass.

"This ass too, you whore. We're going to fill you with milk, make you drip like a pregnant slut," he said, sticking his big dick in her tight ass, the squeeze eliciting another scream from her, pleasure and pain mixing as she trembled.

Each guy "threatened" to fill her, calling her a "slut" and a "milk hole," and Lisa came nonstop, her pussy convulsing, her asshole winking, her body begging for more humiliation. Trey took her mouth, his thick cock pounding her throat, while Carlos fucked her pussy, switching with Ricardo, all of them using her as a toy, without warning, without pause. Sweat dripped, the dusty floor was stained with honey and saliva, the heat of the tent was suffocating, the smell of sex and cum dominating everything.

Ricardo was the first to cum inside her, the hot jet filling her, the milk dripping as he grunted:

— Take it, you whore, milk to get you pregnant! — The humiliation of the internal orgasm made Lisa cum again, her pussy squeezing his cock, the honey mixing with the cum.

Jamal came in her ass, his big cock throbbing as it filled her tight hole, the hot milk dripping into her ass.

— Your ass is full, pregnant bitch — he cursed, and Lisa moaned, her body shaking as Carlos took her pussy, cumming inside too, the hot jet mixing with Ricardo's.

Marcus and Trey finished in her mouth, their cocks throbbing as they smeared her throat, cum running down her chin, dripping onto her breasts, her torn top now just a rag. Lisa swallowed what she could, licking her fingers as she rubbed the milk into her skin, the strong smell of fresh cum mixing with sweat and glitter. The floor of the tent was a puddle—honey, cum, saliva—the heat sticking everything to her skin, the air heavy with the echo of her moans.

Lisa was sprawled on the dusty floor of the tent that served as a dressing room, her body glistening with sweat, glitter, and fresh cum dripping from her pussy, her broken ass, and her wet face. Her top was just a torn rag, her shorts torn to shreds, and the heavy smell of sex—cum, saliva, honey—choked the stuffy air, mixed with the desert heat that came in through the half-open canvas. The five dancers—Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus, Carlos, Trey—stood around her, their thick black cocks still half-hard, sweaty, chuckling softly as they looked at the begging slut they had just fucked. But Lisa, submissive, was shaking with desire, her pussy throbbing, wanting more humiliation, more cock, more of everything.

What she didn't know was that Rosé was there, hidden. After the conversation in the hallway, where Lisa confessed that she loved being used like a whore, Rosé followed her, driven by a burning curiosity. Now, crouched behind a pile of speakers on the side of the tent, Rosé peered through the crack in the canvas, her eyes wide, her breathing fast. Her hand slid under her light dress, her fingers brushing her wet pussy as she watched Lisa covered in cum, moaning like a whore. Rosé's active voyeurism was secret — no one could see her, not Lisa, not the guys — and she bit her lip, her desire exploding as she touched herself, hypnotized by her friend's degradation.

Ricardo grabbed Lisa's wet hair, pulling her to her knees, the dusty floor scraping her skin.

"Do you think it's over, you slut?" I'm just getting started with your toy body," he grunted, his big cock throbbing as he thrust into her mouth, pounding deep, her throat tightening.

Lisa choked, saliva dripping, the salty taste of fresh cum and sweat filling her tongue. That was when the breath play began. Jamal, next to her, wrapped his hand around her neck, squeezing lightly but firmly, his thumb pressing against her throat as Ricardo fucked her mouth.

"Breathe when I let you, bitch. If I let you," Jamal said, his voice cold, his grip controlling her air, his eyes shining with the humiliation he knew she loved.

Lisa's eyes widened, the controlled desperation pounding hard, her pussy dripping as she fought for air, her throat blocked by Ricardo's big cock and Jamal's grip. The pleasure was insane—being used without control, her air stolen, her body begging for more. When Jamal let go, she sucked in a sharp breath, only for Marcus to take his place, his thick cock pounding her mouth while Carlos squeezed her neck, repeating:

The sharp tone making her cum without touching her pussy, the honey dripping onto the floor.

Rosé, hidden, sped up her fingers in her pussy, her dress riding up, her arousal exploding as she watched Lisa choke, her face red, saliva dripping onto her breasts. Her voyeurism was feverish — seeing her friend humiliated, treated like a toy, made her pussy drip, the wet sound of her fingers muffled by the noise of the tent. She wanted to scream, but she held it in, her eyes glued to the scene, her heart racing at the idea of no one knowing she was there, masturbating to Lisa's degradation.

In the middle of the action, Trey brought something. While Lisa was on all fours, her pussy exposed, he took a small vibrator, covered in her own honey, and stuck it in without warning, while Ricardo stuck it in her ass. Lisa moaned loudly, the sound muffled by Marcus's cock in her mouth, not understanding what was happening until Trey pressed a remote control, the vibrator turning on with a shock that made her pussy convulse.

"Who— fuck, who's controlling this?!" she screamed, her voice torn between involuntary moans, her body shaking as the vibrator pulsed, her arousal out of control.

Trey laughed, hiding the remote, leaving her begging.

"Shut up, bitch, you're our toy, take whatever we want," he said, as Jamal went back into her pussy, sticking his big cock in with the vibrator, the tightness making her scream.

Lisa was turned over without warning, her ass fucked by Carlos while Marcus stuck his fingers down her throat, the vibrator keeping her on edge.

"Breathe, you whore, or you'll choke," Marcus grunted, his fingers covered in saliva squeezing her throat as Jamal turned up the vibrator, the shock making her cum screaming, her pussy dripping cum and honey.

Ricardo, now in her pussy, pounded deep, the vibrator still inside, and cursed:

"I'm going to fill you up again, you pregnant slut, that pussy is going to drip my milk," his big cock throbbing as he came inside, the hot jet mixing with the vibrator making Lisa tremble.

Carlos, in her ass, came with her, the milk filling her tight hole.

"Your ass is full, whore, ready for one more," he said, and Lisa begged, her voice muffled:

"Fill me up, please, I'm your slut!"

Lisa lay destroyed on the dusty floor of the tent that served as a dressing room, her body covered in sweat, glitter, fresh and dried cum, a living map of her submission. Her honeyed pussy dripped a mixture of honey and warm milk, her broken asshole throbbed, leaking more cum that ran down her thighs, staining the floor. Her face was glistening—cum on her lips, her chin, her forehead—her tangled hair stuck to her neck, her torn silver top hanging from a hard nipple, her black shorts reduced to rags. The vibrator still pulsed softly in her pussy, forgotten by Trey, each vibration eliciting hoarse moans that echoed in the stuffy tent. The smell of sex was insane—cum, saliva, male sweat—mixed with the desert heat that filtered through the half-open canvas, the sound of the Coachella crowd a distant roar.

The five dancers — Ricardo, Jamal, Marcus, Carlos, Trey — were standing around, sweaty, their thick cocks finally softening, their low chuckles cutting through the air as they wiped away the sweat.

Rosé, hidden behind the speakers, had already cum twice, her wet pussy dripping onto her light dress as she watched Lisa being fucked. Her secret voyeurism was feverish — no one, not Lisa, not the guys, knew she was there, her fingers flying in her pussy, biting her lip to keep from moaning out loud. But now, exhausted, Rosé was slowly backing away, her heart racing, her head spinning with what she saw. She left the tent unnoticed, her body shaking, already thinking about what it all meant, especially with Jennie arriving for the show in two days.

Lisa lifted her wet face, her eyes shining with lust and exhaustion, cum running down her chin as she licked her lips.

— Please... I'm your bitch, use me always — she murmured, her voice hoarse, pleading, the vibrator still pulsing in her pussy, eliciting one last moan that made the guys laugh.

Ricardo crouched down, the strong smell of his sweat invading her nose, and pulled her sticky hair.

— You're our hole forever, you whore. Coachella is over for you, but we'll fuck you whenever we want — he said, the final humiliation dripping in each word, his big dick swinging as he stood up.

Jamal gave her sticky ass a light slap, the sound cracking in the tent, and laughed.

— And there's more bitches out there, bro. Jennie's coming in two days, right? I bet she'll want a piece of this — he said, his eyes shining with the idea, planting the seed of a new game.

Lisa moaned softly, her body shaking at the comment, imagining Jennie—her friend who was always so controlled, but with that fire in her eyes—falling into the same madness. The exhibitionism was even pulsing now, the floor stained with cum and honey as proof of the show she put on, the canvas half-open letting the echo of her moans leak backstage. She wanted the world to know—the sticky slut, fucked like a toy, was who she loved to be.

The dancers left, their laughter echoing as they disappeared through the canvas, leaving Lisa alone, face down, the vibrator finally turning off. The heat of the tent was stifling, the smell of sex clinging to her skin, sweat dripping onto the floor. She smiled, exhausted, her pussy and ass throbbing, her face glistening with fresh, dried milk. Coachella had been everything—the stage, the moans into the microphone, the gangbang that had branded her a greedy whore. But Jamal’s comment stuck in her head: Jennie, in two days, on the same stage, with the same dancers. Lisa imagined her friend shaking her hips, maybe hearing rumors of what had happened, maybe giving in to the same lust that had consumed her.

She stood up slowly, her sticky body staggering, cum dripping down her thighs as she picked up what was left of her torn top. The festival was still roaring outside, but for Lisa, the real show had ended here, backstage, sticky and fulfilled. Two days later, Jennie would take the stage, and something told Lisa that Coachella still had more nastiness in store, with the same big dicks ready for another begging bitch.

#kpop smut #blackpink smut #lisa smut #lalisa smut

283 notes · View notes

kangshxrtie · 3 months ago

Text

PLACEBO OF HATE ── KIM MINJI

a birthday gift for my fav, camp, & the spider-man to my mj @jjjaliyah 😽🖤

sypnosis .✦ y/n and minji have always clashed but when their rivalry peaks during a heated debate, they are forced into a joint research project or risk failing. with that, they become each other's test subjects and the results are more than shocking. pairing .✦ college student kim minji x college student reader trope/genre .✦ enemies to lovers, fluff includes .✦ bae and sullyoon of nmixx word count .✦ 3318 words

the lecture hall buzzed with murmurs as students filtered into their seats. you adjusted your notes, barely sparing a glance at the figure who had just entered the room.

minji.

it wasn’t just that they were both top students in the psychology program, it was the fact that everything minji did seemed to piss you off, minji always just seemed so nonchalant about everything while you meticulously planned, calculated, and structured for the class arguments, minji breezed through with abstract theories and gut instincts that somehow, infuriatingly, always made sense.

professor kwon stood at the front, her expression already weary, as if bracing herself for what was about to come, and for good reason too.

“i’m just saying,” minji’s voice rang out, clear and confident, “that human behavior can’t be reduced to pure logic. there are too many variables. emotion and intuition play a bigger role than you want to admit.”

you scoffed, turning in your seat to face her. “and i’m just saying that without structure, your so-called ‘intuition’ is just glorified guesswork. psychology isn’t philosophy, minji. it’s science.”

the room stilled. it wasn’t the first time they had clashed, but this time, the tension was sharper, heavier. minji’s jaw tensed, and then she smirked.

“sounds like something an ai would say.”

“and your reasoning sounds like something a dumbass would come up with.”

a collective gasp rippled through the class. professor lim exhaled deeply, rubbing her temples.

“that’s it,” she said, voice firm. “i’ve had enough of this.” she crossed her arms, giving both of you an unimpressed glare. “since you both seem so determined to prove each other wrong, here’s your chance. your final project? you’re working together.”

your stomach dropped. minji blinked, momentarily stunned.

“what?” you both said in unison.

“you heard me. you’re designing a research experiment together. and if you fail to cooperate, you fail the project.”

you clenched your jaw. minji tilted her head, studying them, and for the first time, you didn’t know what was on her mind.

“fine,” you bit out.

minji just grinned in response, “fine.”

the moment professor kwon dismissed the class, you were up and out of your seat. you packed up your things quickly, hoping to get out of there as soon as possible. just as you swung your bag over your shoulder, ready to leave, minji stepped in your path.

"we should probably exchange contact information," she said, arms crossed.

"i know your socials. that’s good enough," you replied, not in the mood for unnecessary small talk.

minji raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. "alright, then. when are you free to discuss the project? we need to figure out what we’re doing."

"before or after this class on wednesday," you said, shifting impatiently.

"before works. we can meet here," minji decided.

"fine," you muttered, already turning away.

"i’ll text you to confirm everything!" minji called after you.

you gave her a half-hearted thumbs-up without looking back and strode out of the classroom, eager to put as much distance between yourself and her as possible. pulling out your phone, you were about to check what you had missed during class when a familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

"ain’t no way you have to do the final project with minji." jinsol’s tone was full of disbelief as she and yoona walked up to you.

"i thought i was on good terms with professor kwon," you sighed, shoving your phone into your pocket. "but apparently, she hates me too."

"it’s not that bad," yoona tried to reassure you. "at least you don’t have a partner who does absolutely nothing.”

"at least then i’d have full creative control," you shot back.

"what i would do to sit in on your meetings just to instigate," jinsol smirked.

you turned to yoona, deadpan. "i’m actually gonna kill myself."

"just remember, you could’ve been paired with jinsol," yoona snorted as she interlocked your arms and led you down the hallway.

you paused, considering it. "well… when you put it like that."

"yoona, my partner. what does that mean?" jinsol suddenly sped up to catch the two of you.

"we gotta get to the cafe. they’re waiting on us," yoona said, completely ignoring her question.

"no, finish what you were saying!" jinsol demanded, trailing after you both.

you and yoona simply exchanged knowing smiles and continued walking, leaving jinsol grumbling behind you.

you held the door open for jinsol and yoona as they walked into the cafe before you walked in letting the door close behind you. you all headed towards the back, near a window where you all would usually sit. haewon and lily were already sitting there, drinks in hand.

"finally! yall’s class ended like ten minutes ago, what took so long?” lily asked as she took a sip of her iced americano.

you groaned, dropping into the seat across from her. "our professor literally hates me and wants me to die."

"i thought you really liked her, what happened?" haewon asked, leaning forward.

“she’s just mad she has to work on our final project with minji,” jinsol explained.

“minji? your mortal enemy? the one who you can never agree with? that minji?” haewon asked.

“yes and the fact she’s making me do this might just be my last straw,” you said.

“why is it lowkey giving enemies-to-lovers?” lily asked.

"excuse me?" you nearly choked on air.

jinsol burst out laughing holding onto yoona who was chuckling softly. "oh, i like where this is going."

"no, we’re not doing this," you said firmly, reaching for the menu to distract yourself. "i do not wanna be apart of this conversation anymore because nothing romantic will be happening. i hate her too much for that.”

"sure," lily said, dragging out the word like she didn’t believe you at all. "just remember that when you’re forced to be alone together for the next few weeks."

you rolled your eyes. "i hate that you just said that."

"passionately?" haewon quipped.

you were about to throw a thing of napkins at her when your phone dinged on the table. you glanced down and immediately regretted it.

minjiwinji follow me back, partner

you clenched your jaw as jinsol leaned over, reading the messages over your shoulder. "oh, she’s so in your head.”

you groaned and slammed your phone face down. "i need this semester to be over. immediately."

wednesday came around faster than you would have liked. you were now sitting down at a random desk at the front of the lecture hall, switching through random tabs on your computer as minji walked in, coffee in one hand.

"so," she said, sliding into the chair next to you, "come up with any groundbreaking ideas?"

you exhaled sharply, but decided against letting her make you mad already. “we need a study that’s realistic but still solid enough to impress professor kwon. since we clearly have different ways of thinking, we should analyze how personal biases affect decision-making under pressure."

minji nodded, considering it. "not a bad idea. we could design some scenarios that force people to make quick choices and measure how their biases influence their responses."

“exactly,” you agreed with minji for probably the first time ever. “then we can analyze their choices and the reasoning behind them."

"there’s one problem, though. if we’re going to study bias, we need to be unbiased ourselves. and i don’t think we can be.” minji said.

you frowned. "what do you mean?"

minji leaned forward slightly, her voice teasing. "come on, we’re each other’s biggest academic rivals. you don’t think that affects how we view each other? how we react to each other?"

you opened your mouth to argue but hesitated; she did have a point.

"so," minji continued, eyes glinting, "why don’t we test it on each other first?"

you stared at her. "you want to use ourselves as test subjects?"

"exactly. we run the experiments on each other, analyze our own decision-making, and see just how biased we really are."

it was a challenge, and you sure as hell weren’t backing down from it. you knew she thought you would refuse, but she underestimated just how much you were willing to do if it meant passing this class.

"fine," you said, matching her smirk. "let’s see who cracks first."

the first experiment was simple. you and minji designed some high-pressure scenarios where the other had to make a quick decision. the goal was to test how pre-existing biases shaped judgment.

minji set the first scenario. "alright, imagine this: you’re a psychologist evaluating two candidates for a research position. one of them is someone you’ve known and competed against for years, let’s say, me. the other is equally qualified on paper but a complete stranger. who do you pick?"

"easy. the stranger." you scoffed.

"and why’s that?" minji raised an eyebrow.

"because you’d be insufferable to work with," you replied smoothly, but the way she was looking at you made you shift slightly in your seat.

"interesting," she mused, writing something down. "so you’d consciously choose to avoid me even if i were the better candidate? sounds a little biased."

"that’s not what i—" you shook your head.

"my turn," you cut in before she could press further. "scenario: you’re in a situation where you have to trust one person’s judgment under extreme time pressure. one option is me. the other is someone you don’t know well but has a reputation for being logical and precise. who do you trust?"

minji tapped her fingers against her coffee cup, "oh, you. easily."

"wait, what?" you blinked.

"what? you make pretty calculated decisions. i’ve argued with you enough to know that you’re good at that type of stuff.”

you swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the way she was watching you, like she was trying to read you. you tried to look normal adjusting in your seat to seem more relaxed, but her eyes would just not leave you.

"fine," you muttered, typing something into your notes. "we’ll analyze that later."

minji just chuckled, sipping her iced americano. "oh, i’m looking forward to it."

over the next few weeks, the experiments continued, each one more telling than the last. you forced each other into increasingly complex decision-making scenarios, some realistic, some completely crazy to even think of, but the results remained consistent. when it came to logical decisions, you were more methodical while minji was more intuitive. but when the decisions involved each other, things became less predictable.

one afternoon, you both sat in the library, laptops open, looking through results. you had designed an experiment where one of you had to choose between two hypothetical people in a crisis: one option was always an unnamed individual with strong qualifications, and the other was the other participant; minji for you, and you for minji.

"you picked me every single time," minji pointed out, scrolling through the data.

"and you picked me every time too," you countered, leaning over to glance at her screen.

"so what does that mean?" she tilted her head, a slow smile forming.

you hesitated. "that we trust each other more than we think?"

minji hummed, tapping her fingers on the desk. "or it means we’re more emotionally biased than we thought. which is ironic, considering this whole study was supposed to prove how logical we are."

you didn’t like the way minji had began looking at you this week, while she used to look at you with a hint of anger in her eyes now she just seemed intrigued by everything you did. now you didn’t know how to respond and it did make you a little flustered.

minji leaned in slightly. "you look nervous."

"i’m not," you lied, averting her gaze.

"sure," she said lightly, but the smirk on her face told you she didn’t believe you. "alright, last test."

you glanced at her warily. "what is it?"

she pulled out her phone and started typing. a moment later, your own phone buzzed with a notification. you looked down to see a single text from minji.

minji would you go on a date with me?

your heart stopped for a second before beating fast. slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet hers, but minji was as composed as ever, resting her chin on her palm, just watching you.

"this is a test?" you asked, surprised your voice didn’t come out shaky.

"of course," she said smoothly. "a very high-pressure decision. what’s your answer?"

you knew this was another challenge, and you sure as hell weren’t backing down from it.

you took a breath, locked eyes with her for a couple of seconds before typing out your response.

y/n yes.

minji’s smirk widened as she read the message. "i think we just proved professor kwon’s hypothesis right."

you exhaled, shaking your head. "and what was that?"

she leaned back, arms crossed, looking all too happy. "that maybe our rivalry was just a front for something else."

“and what would that something else be?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

minji’s smirk softened just a little, but she didn’t answer right away. instead, she just shrugged, like it was obvious. "guess you’ll have to find out over dinner."

the rest of the session dragged on slower than it ever had before. you tried to focus on the data and analysis like usual but minji’s words kept running through your mind.

by the time you were done inputting all the data and checking over it, you were exhausted, but somehow, you still found yourself taking your time to pack up so you could walk out with minji.

"you look nervous," minji teased as she closed her backpack. "worried i’m going to out-debate you at dinner?"

"please. i just don’t trust your taste in restaurants." you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

minji gasped, feigning offense. "excuse you, i have excellent taste. but fine, since you don’t trust me, i'll let you pick the place."

you paused, surprised. "really? no argument?"

she grinned. "oh, i’m arguing about everything else. just not that."

after much debate on who was the better driver minji ended up driving because you stopped wanting to after realizing how far you parked this morning.

you ended up at a small, dimly lit ramen shop a few blocks from campus. it was quiet but cozy, and as soon as you sat down, minji took one look at the menu and was already starting her stuff up. "bet i can handle more spice than you."

"oh, we’re making this a competition now?"

"what do you mean now? everything we do is a competition," minji rested her chin on her palm.

"fine. loser pays?"

"deal," minji’s eyes lit up at you matching her energy.

you both ordered the spiciest bowls on the menu, and within the first few bites, you were already regretting every decision that led you here. minji wasn’t doing much better, her face slightly red as she reached for her water.

"not tapping out, are you?" you taunted, even as your own eyes watered.

"absolutely not. i’ll die before i let you win," minji shook her head stubbornly.

"that’s fine by me. i don’t mind eating at your funeral if it means free food."

minji let out a breathy laugh before groaning. "this is the worst decision we’ve ever made."

"yeah, well, it’s kinda fitting," you wiped at your eyes with your arms, grinning through the pain.

"how so?" she looked at you curiously.

"this whole thing started because we both refused to back down. makes sense our first date is like that too," you shrugged.

"so this is a date?" minji’s lips curved into a small smile.

"you’re the one who asked me on it." you met her gaze head-on.

minji hummed, pleased. "good as long as you knew."

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but you couldn’t hide the small smile that was coming up on your face. "just shut up and eat your ramen."

she laughed, reaching across the table to steal a piece of meat from your bowl. "make me."

"i really do hate you," you groaned.

"sure you do,” minji just grinned.

the final presentation day arrived sooner than expected. as you set up the slides and minji got familiar with all the tech, being given the pointer. your classmates, well aware of your history, were definitely more eager for what was about to happen during this presentation then the actual research.

professor kwon took her seat at the front, arms crossed, eyes expectant. “alright, let’s see what the two of you have managed to accomplish.”

minji clicked to the first slide, her voice smooth and confident. “our study focuses on how personal biases influence decision-making under pressure. more specifically, how pre-existing relationships shape logical reasoning in high-stakes scenarios.”

you took over, gesturing to the next set of bullet points. “we created controlled experiments designed to test how much prior knowledge of an individual affects split-second choices. our hypothesis was that personal bias, whether positive or negative, would interfere with objective decision-making.”

the data sets appeared on the screen, neatly organized into graphs and percentages. minji continued, “we found out that across all trials, when participants had to make a logical decision regarding someone they had a strong preconception about, their choices consistently deviated from their usual reasoning patterns.”

you switched to the next slide, glancing at minji before speaking. “and that bias was even more pronounced when the decisions involved us.”

a murmur rippled through the room. minji took a quick look at you before addressing the class. “as academic rivals, we expected to maintain neutral about each other. however, when placed in situations requiring trust or prioritization, we consistently chose each other over neutral alternatives.”

“so you’re saying that, despite your insistence on rationality, your choices were still affected by personal bias?” professor kwon raised an eyebrow.

“exactly,” you admitted, though it pained you to say it. ��even though i pride myself on logical decision-making, i still found myself prioritizing minji over theoretically more qualified candidates in various scenarios.”

minji leaned against the podium, arms crossed. “and even though i usually rely on intuition, my choices showed an unconscious trust in her judgment, despite our history.”

“fascinating. and what conclusions did you draw from this?” professor kwon tapped her chin, clearly amused.

“that logic and intuition aren’t as separate as we like to think. that even when we claim to be objective, our emotions influence us more than we realize.” minji spoke first.

you sighed, nodding. “and that maybe our so-called rivalry was built on something more than just competition.”

the class erupted into hushed whispers.

professor kwon just looked entertained. “well,” she said, standing up. “that was certainly more self-reflective than i expected. and surprisingly insightful.”

you and minji exchanged a glance that silently asked, so, did we pass?

“i take it this means you two are no longer at each other’s throats?” professor kwon smirked.

“oh trust we are. just… differently now.” minji shrugged, flashing you a grin. you rolled your eyes in response but didn’t deny it.

“well, i suppose i can call this experiment a success. congratulations, you both pass. i knew this would be entertaining.” professor kwon chuckled.

“we were set up,” minji audibly gasped.

“so you did this on purpose?” you turned to glare at your professor.

professor kwon only smiled, gathering her things. “i had a hunch. and judging by your results, i’d say i was right.”

as you two sat back down in your seats and the next group got ready to present, minji nudged you lightly. “so. now that we’re no longer ‘just academic rivals,’ what does that make us?”

you exhaled, unable to stop the small smile forming. “annoying?”

“i’ll take that,” minji laughed.

“god, just kiss already,” jinsol groaned from her seat.

minji shot you a look. you rolled your eyes again but didn’t completely dismiss the idea.

#kim minji #kim minji x reader #new jeans #new jeans x reader #njz #njz kim minji #kim minji | placebo of hate

214 notes · View notes

drakudoll · 3 months ago

Text

Just thinking about how Connor is so tactical and stern and it makes me shiver when i think about how insanely good he would be at being a brat tammer dom?

Showing the slightest bit of bratty behavior and once he finds your pattern of speach and registers what is bratty behavior versus being actually upset he can so easily pry you apart. He's a highly calculated and competent android of course he can recognize patterns and behaviors and can easily read a room - he's designed for it.

Just thinking about how an exchange with him would go while crushing on him and he is now fully aware of it and feels the same, but now he wants to know just how heavy your feelings are before he makes a move. And he looooves the attitude and brattiness, he truly does.

"Mmmmorning, Connor..."

"Goodmorning, how are you?"

"Hmm.. im decent.. though i definitely could use you for something."

"Is that right? What can i do for you?"

"You could absolutely pass me my water right there."

The water that is... maybe.. a few inches out of your reach that if you leaned forward you full and well could grab it.

"You can't grab it yourself, huh?"

"Ahhgg.. nooo... it's soooo faaaar..."

Connor then moves himself beind you to lean over and reach for the water himself while he breathes down your neck.

"Really? It seems like i did it just fine.. now.. you try it."

"O-oh-... u-um.. okay-"

And you're left with a high heart rate and heated skin while Connor is standing there with the meanest grin on earth,

#!! connor my beloved #connor rk800 #dbh connor #connor detroit become human #connor x reader #connor rk800 smut #connor rk800 x reader #dbh connor x reader #smutty concepts #connor smut #rk800 smut #dbh rk800 #detroit rk800 #rk800 x reader #rk800 #detroit become human x reader #detroit become human

151 notes · View notes

bettelaboure · 4 months ago

Text

⊹The Brushstroke of Desire ⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader ⊹ Warnings: explicit sexual themes, sensuality, intimate situations, and emotional vulnerability ⊹ Word count: 2 k ⊹ Authors note: usually I prefer smut myself, but dear God, how I giggled like a little girl writing this...

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The first time you noticed him, Seung-Hyun was an island amidst the buzz of the gallery’s opening. While the guests swirled in clusters, exchanging pleasantries and hushed critiques over champagne flutes, he remained apart, alone. His presence was subtle but undeniable. A man who seemed to move through the world as if it bent to his will. A man who had no need to hurry, yet, here he was, pausing in front of your painting with a quiet reverence that made your breath catch. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a perfectly tailored suit, a suit that whispered of wealth, of power, yet there was nothing about him that seemed conceited. No, it was as if his calm, unhurried attention to your work held a deeper meaning—an unspoken invitation to witness something intimate, something only the two of you could share.

The brushstrokes of your piece were a map of your soul. The color choices, deliberate. The shapes, reflections of your inner chaos and quietude. When his gaze finally shifted toward you, it was not the casual glance of a viewer. His eyes were sharp, tracing the arc of your expression, as if reading between the lines of your existence, searching for a truth hidden in plain sight. In that moment, you felt a delicate dance of exhilaration and vulnerability flutter in your chest. Was it possible? Could he—this stranger who was no stranger at all—see what you had poured into the canvas? The raw, unspoken parts of yourself you had laid bare for the world?

There was no small talk. No hollow pleasantries. Just a single question that made your pulse race. “Tell me about this one.” His voice, smooth and deep, lingered in the space between you.

The words spilled from your lips with a kind of honesty you didn’t know you were capable of. You spoke of the emotions that had driven you to paint, the restlessness that had gnawed at you, the nights you had spent lost in a haze of color and shadow. You spoke, but it felt as if he wasn’t listening for the facts, but for the unspoken weight of your experience. And all the while, his gaze remained fixed on you—intense, unwavering, as though he could see inside you, past the surface. As though he was savoring every word you uttered.

It was as if time itself had paused, drawn into the magnetic pull of his attention. When he spoke again, it was with the slow certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. "Dinner?" The invitation was simple, yet his eyes held something more—a promise. One you were unable—or unwilling—to deny.

The restaurant was a hidden gem, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The atmosphere was soft, intimate, as if the world outside had been temporarily forgotten. Candlelight flickered against the polished wood, casting shadows that danced along his features, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. He was a man sculpted by grace, by power, by something deeper that you couldn’t quite place. The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around you like a cloak, soothing and heady all at once.

Each brush of his fingertips against your knuckles was an unspoken question, a quiet exploration. There was nothing accidental about his touch—every movement deliberate, calculated, designed to unravel you piece by piece. His hand rested lightly on your thigh, a soft pressure that sent heat spiraling up your spine. Your breath caught, the touch innocent, yet charged with an energy that sent your thoughts scattering.

The conversation flowed, weaving between art, life, and the things left unsaid. Seung-Hyun spoke with a depth that made you lean closer, drawn not only to his words but to the way they were delivered—with purpose, with intention. His eyes, always steady, seemed to see more than you were willing to show. There was a slowness to his every gesture, as if he savored the moment before he moved on to the next. Each sip of wine, each lean toward you as you spoke—it was as if he was tasting you, savoring the very essence of your being.

“How did you start painting?” he asked, his voice low and hushed, as though it were a secret shared between you and him alone. His gaze never wavered from your face, studying the way your lips moved, the subtle change in your expression.

You hesitated only for a moment before speaking, the words tumbling out, soft and confessional. “It wasn’t a choice. Not really. I think I’ve always needed to paint. It was my escape when I was younger—a way to channel everything I couldn’t express. But over time… it became more than that. It became the lens through which I see the world.”

He nodded, his expression softening with understanding. “Art,” he said thoughtfully, “is one of the few things that can capture both the chaos and the calm of life. It holds everything—the contradictions we don’t want to face, the truths we don’t want to see.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his insight. There was a quiet intensity in the way he spoke, as though he understood the very marrow of your soul. “You speak as if you’ve felt it,” you remarked, your voice barely a whisper.

“I have.” He leaned back, studying you as though he were memorizing the way your face lit up when you spoke of your passion. “Art is the one thing in this world that remains untouched by power or wealth. It demands honesty. And it’s not just beauty that I seek—I collect art because it forces something real from me. It opens a door to truth that nothing else can.”

The silence between you thickened, pregnant with a tension neither of you acknowledged yet both could feel. Then, after a beat that stretched between you like a taut wire, he added, “And you—your presence, your passion—it’s like you’re a piece of art yourself.”

You felt the words as if they were a physical touch, something that shifted the air around you. A compliment, yes, but something far more intense. Your chest tightened, heat creeping into your cheeks.

“You mean that?” Your voice trembled with the question, the sudden vulnerability of being seen so completely, so intimately, leaving you breathless.

His lips curved into the faintest smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but there was something deeper there, something that told you that he had already seen more of you than anyone else ever had. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

By the time the night was over, you weren’t sure if you had eaten anything at all. The taste of his voice, the weight of his gaze, and the subtle brush of his fingers against your skin had rendered everything else distant, irrelevant. When he drove you home, the silence in the car was heavy, charged with an unspoken understanding, a quiet storm brewing between you.

You barely had time to breathe before realizing your phone—your lifeline to the outside world—was left in the passenger seat. You had resigned yourself to retrieving it the next day, but Seung-Hyun was not a man who left things unfinished. The next morning, a soft knock echoed at your door, and when you opened it, there he stood, phone in hand, his presence commanding the space.

But something else—something more—was in the air now.

As you stood there, a whisper of sound broke the silence. Your voice. Soft, needy, breathless.

Seung-Hyun froze, his breath hitching at the sound. His pulse quickened as he stood just beyond the threshold, rooted in place, a witness to the private moment unfolding before him.

He could have walked away. He should have. But the pull, the magnetic force between you, kept him there. Instinct moved him, and he turned the knob, stepping into the space you had unwittingly made for him.

The sight of you, sprawled on the bed, fingers grazing over your own skin, lost in a moment of desire you hadn’t known he would witness, was enough to make his chest tighten. His pulse thudded louder in his ears, a rush of heat flooding his veins.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stop. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Your eyes locked, and in them, he saw everything—the vulnerability, the longing, the rawness of the moment. It was an invitation, and he accepted it without hesitation.

With deliberate slowness, he closed the door behind him. His voice, barely a whisper, was thick with something you both felt but refused to name. “Were you thinking of me?”

The confession was already there, written in the flush of your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath. Your body answered before your lips could. The weight of his gaze held you in place as he crossed the room, each step deliberate, measured. He traced the curve of your jaw with a fingertip, and the touch was gentle, reverent, as if he was learning you with each caress.

When he kissed you, it was slow—an unhurried exploration, as if he was savoring the taste of you, imprinting it on his memory. Every second stretched between you, thick with the promise of more. His hands moved with the precision of an artist, memorizing the way your body reacted to his touch. The way you gasped when his lips brushed your inner thighs, the tremor that followed every slow, deliberate caress.

And when he finally took you, it was not rushed. It was deliberate, the way he studied every inch of you, the way he held you as though you were something fragile, something precious. Each movement was a stroke on a canvas of skin, each whisper of his name from your lips a note in a song only the two of you could hear.

When the world outside had faded, and you lay tangled in his arms, the soft light of dawn spilling through the curtains, you felt an unfamiliar sense of belonging. Not just to him—but to the moment. To the quiet certainty that this—whatever this was—had changed you both, irrevocably.

And in the stillness, he whispered against your shoulder, the ghost of a smile in his voice. “I came to return your phone.”

You laughed softly, a sound that felt too light, too free for everything that had just passed between you. And in that moment, you knew. This was only the beginning.

#choi seunghyun #fanfic #choi seunghyun scenario #t.o.p bigbang #bigbang #top x reader #choi seunghyun x reader

177 notes · View notes

kinbedo · 3 months ago

Text

Lyney : Cards and Colours

Summary: You’re just another artist presenting your work at the Fontanalia Film Festival. Just what were the chances that the great magician Lyney would stumble across your art?

A/n: I was in my Herta phase while writing this, constantly listening to her voicelines and watching her burst and skill animation, and this fic is a product of whatever “open sesame!” and “a door to a whole new world” did to me. But hey, at least both Herta and Lyney give off magical girl vibes so :D

Dedicated to the biggest blond man simp I know. @lucishell Happy birthday pookie <3

wc: 3.8k

----------

Although the main attraction of Fontaine’s Film Festival were the films themselves, it wasn’t uncommon to find other exhibits around the city. Even the smallest of stalls seemed to display the most exquisite of creations– from handicrafts to decorated foods, each design was unique.

You yourself seem to have attracted a decent crowd for your own art exhibition. Was it because of the last film you designed a poster for? Regardless, a satisfied smile makes its way to your face as you look at the people browsing through your work.

Three of them seem to be more popular than the others. One is a still from “The Little Oceanid”, another is the spectacle of the courtroom with Lady Furina in all her glory as the archon, accompanied by Monsieur Neuvillette, and the third is of a renowned magician and his assistant.

You watch as two little kids run up to the painting, exclaiming “Look it’s Lyney!” “Sister Lynette’s there too!” A blond follows them, nodding his head in approval and in a low, husky voice states “Looks like this is from when Pers was in the show.”

You lean into the palm of your hand, satisfied at the attention they were giving to the painting, when two more people walk into your view causing your hand to slip and for your chin to collide into the table you were leaning on.

“This is truly magnificent! Even “Father” would approve of this.” Lyney exclaims, not hiding the wonder in his words, making your cheeks heat up.

“The lighting has also managed to capture the sense of suspense you tend to create during shows. Impressive.” Lynette states in her usual monotonous voice, taking another bite of the sweet bun in her hand.

You felt obligated to introduce yourself at this point. “I’m glad you like them.”

Upon seeing you approach, Lyney’s wide grin only got wider. “So you’re the artist then? Pleasure.” His dexterous fingers easily slip the hat off his head, twirling it as he bows and then placing it back in its place. You could tell that he must have practiced this move multiple times for it to be so smooth, just like how you had to practice certain strokes multiple times for them to feel natural.

“The pleasure is mine. I love your shows. They’re mesmerising.”

“I’m honoured. And with the effort you seem to have put into this painting, I truly do feel appreciated, and would like to repay you.” He thinks for a while, his purple irises scanning the other artworks on display. And then, he smiles brightly, his mind calculating the possibilities. He holds his hand out to you and asks, “How about we work together?”

----------

Working with Lyney was easy. He was pretty open about his preferences and didn’t beat around the bush regarding any details. He could be professional but also knew how to stir up a casual conversation. It was like he was made to handle all social situations.

You ended up becoming the first person he sought out to make posters for his upcoming shows, and for a while, you felt like the exchange had become unfair.

“You’re not only paying me the full amount, but also giving me a VIP ticket? Isn’t this a bit too much?”

Lyney only scoffed. “It’s only fair that you get to see the shows you helped me prepare for. Plus, you can say that your presence will be a sort of morale boost for me.”

His easy-going personality and your identity as an artist led to him introducing you to some of his siblings who wanted to try their own hand at art. Some of the little ones had apparently “begged” to be taught by you. (He’s exaggerating, they just expressed an interest and he immediately sought you out, thinking you would be the perfect mentor to them.)

You’d often find yourself just outside the main city, accompanied by some of Lyney’s siblings as they lay in the grass and tried to draw or paint whatever caught their attention. The sound of pencils scribbling on paper, brushes being dipped into the water with a silent ‘plop’ and ‘gurgle’ and the sound of cards being flipped and rearranged filled the air.

Yes, cards. Because Lyney decided to accompany you and his siblings. Not only for everyone’s safety, but also because “practicing out in the open feels refreshing”. It almost felt like a school field trip or a picnic. On rare occasions, Lynette or even Freminet would tag along. And on occasions that were rarer still, even The Knave would come along, taking a seat by the water and either reading a book or polishing her scythe.

Her presence was chilling in the beginning, but realising how gentle she was with the kids and with Lyney’s reassurance, you soon found yourself painting her a portrait.

Working with Lyney changed your life pretty drastically to say the least. You ended up meeting people you never would have met on your own, engaging with personalities that you wouldn’t have expected, and receiving more job offers from influential celebrities in Fontaine’s entertainment industry.

However, despite being the social butterfly he is, you realised Lyney was also quite the people pleaser.

“People pleaser?”

“Mhm, even when it looks like you disagree with something, you hold back. You greet everyone with a smile, and often try to ignore their flaws. You also seem to get tired rather quickly, and are the first to pass out after an event.”

Lyney laughs, shrugging it off by saying, “It’s how the world works. You need to be careful about what you put out there.”

Yes, he also tends to hide things. The more time you spend with him, the more you seem to notice. His nervous glances when things don’t go as planned, his silent pleas when a conversation drags out for too long with someone he isn’t fond of, his clenched fists when he hears a backhanded comment. And yet, he takes it all in stride, his smile never leaving his face when he’s surrounded by others, still radiating warmth and openness.

You sigh, noticing the way Lyney’s bow crinkles as this random guy walks into the Opera Epiclese, boasting his accomplishments. His loud voice echoes through the empty theatre, making him sound more obnoxious than he already is.

“I promise you’ll profit greatly if you work with me. Plus, 70% of our earnings are used for charity, so it would also help you raise your reputation further! We are a rather successful organisation, having worked with multiple drama troupes in the past, and it would be our honour to work alongside the mighty magician himself.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. My associates and I have already made preparations for tomorrow’s show. Suddenly making new contracts last minute can hinder our performance.”

“Oh but we are very cooperative! We will not make any changes to the show itself.”

Lyney’s patience is slipping through his fingers. His usually composed self is starting to show some creaks. You could tell that he really just wanted to finish up the decorations and go home. And to be fair, he deserved the break. Being the lead, he was in-charge of everything– from designing to practicing his own tricks and to checking the budget and ensuring everyone else was prepared for the show. Despite you offering to help with the decorations, the most you could do was repaint faded props or fix up basic damage.

You glance at Lyney’s now clenched fist. To see him this mad was definitely not a good sign. Looking back up at the obnoxious man, you realise that he was completely unaware of how unwelcome he was, as he went on and on. Before Lyney could act on impulse and ruin what he had slowly built up over the years, you had to intervene.

“Alright gentlemen, I think that’s enough for today.” You walk between the two men, trying your best to stand tall. “It would be much appreciated if you came back after the show, or better yet, if never at all, since Lyney has clearly declined your offer and shows no interest in working with your organisation.”

The man tries to explain himself again, but it seems he finally realises the tension in the room. He excuses himself and (thankfully, finally) leaves.

“Thank you [name], I owe you one.”

You merely nod, noticing that he still looks uncomfortable after the exchange. Perhaps you should ask him about it later?

“He was reminding you of someone, wasn’t he?”

You hear the magician’s breath hitch beside you. He pauses for a moment, hesitant, before finally replying in a whisper, “You saw through me.”

“As artists, we tend to search for hidden emotions. It’s what helps us determine the background, the tone, the lighting and the rest.”

“How much do you know?”

“Only what you feel. Only storytellers would go out of their way to extract hidden stories. As an artist, the most I can do is bring suppressed emotions to the fore through symbolism, and for that, I need to be able to read people’s expressions.”

Lyney lets his head fall, staring at the floor as he fidgets a little. You raise your eyebrow at his actions– it’s the first time he was visibly nervous for a reason that was not about a performance.

He doesn’t say a word, and you don’t press the matter. You know better than to. Some things are just too difficult to talk about. But that’s okay, right? Yet you stay for a while longer, giving him all the time he needs, and the magician appreciates it, mentally noting to himself to thank you properly later...

----------

Lyney finds himself visiting you more often with each day. He doesn’t know when or why it happened, but he would subconsciously walk to your abode, often practicing his magic tricks while you painted.

Admittedly, however, he spent more time watching you work. The way your brush moved in simple, neat strokes. The way you would suddenly pause whenever you had a new idea, quickly grabbing a sheet of paper to briefly sketch it out, before returning to your previous work. He could never get enough of watching a blank canvas slowly gain life, the colours feeling like they were always meant to be there.

Subconsciously, he had started thinking of new tricks too. Before he even assembles his thoughts and realises his own words, he’s already blabbering. “What if I used your paintings in a show? Making things, or maybe even people appear out of it?”

You pause. Pulling the brush back from the canvas and watching a drop of paint fall to the floor. “You already make things appear out of thin air. Why would you need a painting to do that?”

“Maybe because it would look prettier?” And maybe because he could spend more time at your place, spend more time talking to you.

You hum in thought, prodding your chin as you look around your room, glancing at each painting hung on the wall. “Well, I would definitely need bigger canvases if you want to make people appear out of a painting. And would you want the painting to look more realistic? Or maybe more cartoonish to add to the effect?”

Lyney’s eyes light up, the prospect of working together exciting him and the fact that you were indulging him making him feel giddy.

----------

He's starting to grow fond of the smell of paints.

If Lyney didn't already spend a lot of time at your place before, then he practically lived there now. He would sometimes even spend the night because "it's too risky going back home so late". The statement makes you raise an eyebrow the first time you hear it, after all, he probably has had to return home late after shows or even head out in the dead of night for Fatui missions. But he brushes it off saying that he's "more prepared" and in a "different" mood when he has to do that. He would curl up against your couch, stretching his limbs before snuggling against a pillow, his cat-genes on full display.

Sometimes, he would help you with your chores.

"I'm just repaying the favour after you helped me deal with that difficult man that one time!"

"Lyney, that was months ago."

"My saviour, you needn't be so humble."

If people ever questioned why Lynette has cat ears and a tail but Lyney doesn't, they should really see him when you're trying to get him to go back to his own house. He's like a cat that refuses to leave his territory.

"Lyney please, your siblings are probably worried about you."

You are genuinely worried about him. Freminet is genuinely worried about the amount of time he spends with you. Lynnette is genuinely worried about his sanity.

One minute, he could be swaying his hands while singing to the wind, the next he would be coming down a flight of stairs, stumbling across until he lands on his chin. You wince at the sight, the box of stage props scattering in front of him.

Lynette barely moves to help him. She places a hand on her hip, her tail drooping down, indicating annoyance. “Oh he fell fast.”

"I uh don't think people take different times to fall…" you laugh nervously, scratching the back of your neck as you watch the great magician give you a thumbs up with a bleeding nose.

Lynette only sighs at your oblivion. She’s so done with the two of you.

Lynette doesn't mind having sharper senses than most– her sharp ears come in handy when she's on missions and her senses can help her avert dangers pretty often.

But she hates it when she's being forced to listen to whatever you and Lyney have to say to each other. She was stirring her tea when her tail stiffens up. Her eyes dart around, trying to figure which path would be a quicker escape but it's too late.

"You seem to really like using lilac in your paintings."

"I feel inspired just looking at Lynette's eyes sometimes. They're really pretty."

"I can't deny that. Her expressions also make her seem like an elegant cat."

Lynnette barely hangs out with you. It's her brother that's always running circles around you. It's his eyes that you see more often.

And they have the same eyes.

So it should be his eyes that you're actually so enticed by.

She might have been better off if only her brother was dumb, but the number of times she has had to urge to break her usually stoic nature and just scream because both of you are hopeless around each other makes her scrunch her nose up.

With how often Lyney visits you, it’s almost impossible for you to go over to the House of the Hearth. On one of the few occasions that you (manage to) go over to his place, you meet with 'Father', who tells you that Lyney talks about you often enough for even her to see you as family. Lyney thinks of you as family.

And the rest of the conversation ends up becoming a background noise for your thoughts. While The Knave is busy complimenting your art and thanking you for indulging the children, you're busy mulling over her words.

You finally get it off your chest when you're helping Lynette in the kitchen.

"I wonder... does he think of me as an older sibling or a younger one?"

Lynette deadpans you. "Do you mind gendered terms?"

You're taken aback by the seriousness in her voice. Laughing nervously, you stutter out a "no" to which Lynette just says "girl you're not actually serious."

"You're right. Knowing Lyney, he probably sees himself as the oldest."

Oh Lynette was so close to smashing the ceramic plate on her head at your words.

And she knows it’s bad bad when even Freminet starts picking up on your requited crushes. “Lyney is really good at reading expressions. Maybe… maybe he should look at himself in the mirror.”

So she does what any good wingwoman person who wants to be rid of the pining would do– set you two up.

----------

A new establishment for the rescue and care of injured and abandoned animals had been set up, and Lynette had already started frequenting the place to play with the cats there. She overheard the owner talk about needing a new poster and just knew what she had to do.

She spoke to both you and the owner to set you up for the poster making job, effectively making herself the mediator.

The owner’s wishes were pretty simple– he just wanted an attractive poster that could give people the message and help them come in contact with anyone who wishes to help the animals.

But Lynette wasn’t going to make things so simple for you.

Not when you and her brother had tortured her enough with your endless pining.

So she gives you awfully vague, but awfully specific details regarding the poster. “He wants it to look like Wonderland with little animals scattered on a backdrop of a vast area, preferably a combination of these.” She hands you a piece of paper with multiple different places written down.

You look through the list.

Weeping Willow of the Lake

Mont Esus East

Lumidouce Harbour

Fort Charybdis Ruins

Mont Automnequi

Tower of Ipsissimus

Chemin de L’Espoir

These places barely have anything in common! How were you supposed to inculcate these places while also adding animals into the poster? And wait are those last few places… “UNDERWATER?”

Lynette only shrugs her shoulders, already zoning out. She doesn’t actually intend to “enter standby mode” without offering you any explanations, does she…?

You sigh. Seems like you’ll be heading out for a trek.

“Let me come with you.”

Lyney can be very persistent when he wants to be. You only sigh, turning the Kamera in your hand to make sure that you hadn’t left any spec of dust uncleaned. You’re tired of telling him that he has far more important things to do– he’s Fontaine’s greatest magician, with his shows highly sought after. He’s one of the older, more reliable siblings at the House of the Hearth. He might even have some Fatui missions lined up for him.

Assuming your quietness to be a sign of you relenting, he continues, “I can fight. It can be dangerous out in the wild and it'd be better for your own safety if you took me with you.”

“Lyney, what about your shows this week? Or in general, because there’s no guarantee I’ll be done within this week. What if I need to camp-out for, say, nine or ten days?” you sigh again, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Not important. Safety first, your safety first. I can also swim, how else will you get your underwater references anyway?”

He makes fair points but you can’t help but worry about his prior commitments.

Lyney refuses to leave your side until you give in. He’s pouting and sulking as he follows you around. You nearly bump into him multiple times when you turn around. You try glaring at him, only to end up admiring his cat-like eyes, his most distinguishable katzlein feature. You’re certain that if he were an actual cat, and if you made the mistake of sitting down, he’d crawl into your lap and refuse to leave. To you,he seemed more like a cat than Lynette ever has.

After hours of Lyney being at your heel, you finally agree. In less than two hours, he’s beside you again, grinning from eye-to-eye with an extremely convenient bag for camping (courtesy of his missions and the random picnics of the Hearth). He’d also brought along an emergency medical kit (that you definitely didn’t forget about) and a bit too many snacks for a camping trip and still had more than enough space to accommodate more of your things. This made you feel grateful that he was coming alone (and that you could bring more stuff along, just in case).

You and Lyney stand in front of “Father” as she reiterates the importance of safety on your little trip. The younger children then fall into your arms, begging you to come back soon. “Please don’t leave us forever.” Foltz clings to your right arm while Heloir takes the left. “I'll be back soon, don’t worry.” You pat them, trying to get them off your arms, worried that they’ll pull them off with the way they’re hanging on you.

In the distance, Lyney’s talking to Freminet and Chapleau regarding some of his house-duty shifts, while Lynette’s further away, purposefully avoiding eye-contact with you as she sips her tea. You send her a nervous smile and wave in her direction and she only turns her head again, her usually stoic face now showing one of both worry and avoidance.

After some more reassuring from Lyney regarding his “completely free week” (he gave most of his work to Freminet) and some more long goodbyes (courtesy of Foltz and Heloir), you finally set off.

“This will surely be fun.”

Lynette doesn’t typically go out of her way for things. She never really bothers putting in extra effort unless it directly affects her or her missions. But she started getting restless. She’d toss and turn around in her bed until she came face-to-face with Lyney’s empty bed.

Is he even using this opportunity she oh-so-gratefully granted him?

She decides to go for a little walk, hoping to catch the two of you in the wild. A glimpse at your current status should be enough, she thinks. “According to the list I gave them, they should currently be around Mont Automnequi. Great, I could visit Navia for her macarons on the way back.”

The sound of grass crunching and a few twigs cracking reaches Lynette’s ears and she stiffens up, her hand on the hilt of her sword as she readies herself to take on another group of treasure hoarders.

Instead, what she’s met with makes the corners of her lips twitch upwards.

It’s you and Lyney.

Her purple irises are met with a temporary camp set-up and your art supplies scattered on the ground, mixed with some of Lyney’s props that he brought along to practice his tricks. Seems you’ve gotten too comfortable camping out with Lyney.

Lynette looks back to see Lyney dramatically kneeling on the ground while you’re laughing, devoid of all worry, completely carefree in this moment. The two of you almost seem like the young kids running around the streets, free of all burdens of the world.

“A rainbow rose, for the artist themselves.”

Perhaps this could go somewhere after all.

----------

#genshin x reader #lyney x reader #genshin impact lyney #genshin lyney #genshin imagines #gn reader #genshin x you #genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin x y/n

90 notes · View notes