#That's supposed to be a ''Representative of Twitch''

[jj-one]

thinking about getting on my knees and grinding on channie’s boot or him pressing it against me maybe even kicking a few times 🥺

OMG I LOVE THIS?!;&:@/@/ i’m totally normal ab this i swear >< but ok so i’m imagining like idol!chan x stylist where there’s a power imbalance between you but you’re willing to do anything to keep this job sofkdkss ok i’ll shut up let’s get into it cw: dubcon, power imbalance, heavy degradation, mean dom!chan (guys pls remember that this is fiction and this doesn’t represent the real him in any shape or form !!)

working as a stylist for one of the major big 3 companies meant you were constantly surrounded by artists, bright, fluorescent lights that are almost headache inducing, long hours— and the quiet pressure of keeping your pathetic crush on chan buried under the guise of professionalism. usually, he made it hard in the worst way with his sweet voice and soft glances, teasing you without even trying, rolling up his sleeves while making small talk that made you weak in the knees.

but today? he wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

he was dead silent, face stone-cold while you touched up his outfit, muscles tense beneath your fingers as you fixed the hem of his blazer. and when you finally dared to speak, something innocent, like asking if he needed anything, he looked at you like you’d just snapped a thread inside him.

“come with me.” his voice was sharp, hand clamping around your wrist, tight enough to sting. you barely had time to react before he’s dragging you down the hallway, past the set, and into one of the vacant storage rooms, filled with racks of old stage outfits and mirror-lined walls. he kicked the door shut behind you and locks it.

you stood there frozen as he looked you up and down, his eyes dark, breath uneven. unsure of whether to speak in fear of agitating him even more. obviously he didn’t come in here to “chat” but you were still confused on what his intentions were.

“you always look at me like that,” he says through gritted teeth, “like you’re just begging to get fucked stupid right in the middle of hair and makeup.”

your lips parted out of shock by his words, but nothing came out. you couldn’t deny it. he could see it written all over your face.

that’s when he grabbed your jaw roughly, forcing you to look him in the eye. his thumb brushed your lip, but there was nothing tender about it.

“you wanna help me take the edge off?” he cocks his head to the side. “then shut up and do exactly as i say.”

before you could even protest, he stepped back and shoved his boot between your legs. the toe of it hitting your inner thigh, parting them with unrelenting force.

“now ride it.” he orders, “make yourself cum on my fucking shoe.”

you whimpered, thighs trembling already. the leather was stiff, unforgiving— and so wrong, so dirty, you felt the rush of heat to your face instantly.

but you did as you were told.

hands bracing on his thighs for anchorage, you ground your soaked cunt against the toe of his boot, your panties already sticking to you, the seam pressing between your folds. the boot’s laced ridges rubbed against your sensitive clit as you rocked forward, desperate and aching.

“fuck,” you breathed, forehead dropping to his chest. “fuck, chan—”

the polished leather curved between your thighs, pressing perfectly against your swollen bundle of nerves with each desperate roll of your hips. you weren’t supposed to like it. you weren’t supposed to moan like this. your body grinding shamelessly on the leather boot of the man whom you thought could do no harm.

chan was watching intently. breathing hard. staring at you like you were some pathetic, messy thing meant solely for his pleasure.

“what a slut,” he murmured, looking down at you like you were so beneath him. “look at you. getting off on my fucking boot. where’s that pretty pride now, huh?”

you whimpered as you rutted against it, slick coating the exterior, thighs twitching with every stroke over your throbbing cunt.

“chan… please—”

“you’re enjoying this aren’t you?” he hissed, yanking your hair so your back arched deeper. “you wanna cum like this? fuck yourself dumb on the same shoes i wear to practice?”

you weakly nodded, hips stuttering with need.

“then earn it,” he snarled, his boot suddenly pulled back, just enough to make your clit miss the pressure. your body jerks at the sudden loss. “i wanna see you ruin yourself on it. cry if you have to. fucking beg.”

and you did.

whining. pleading. hot tears spilling from your eyes as you rode his boot again, rocking your cunt down on the solid leather, against the worn toe cap like it was the only thing that could make you feel human again.

“you thinking about sitting on it?” he mocked, his voice sickly sweet, “bet you’d take it too. bet i could make you cum just from this, without ever touching my cock.”

you sobbed, fingers clawing at his thigh, humping more erratically now, chasing a high you couldn’t quite reach.

but of course, chan wouldn’t let you.

he kicked forward— enough to make your hips jolt, letting out an elongated sigh.

“c’mon,” he coaxed. “be a good little toy. show me how much you love humiliating yourself for me.”

your body spasmed, right on the edge. orgasm hitting you like a wave of fire, and you screamed his name, shaking and twitching as slick gushed down your thighs, coating the laces of his boot with a luminous shine. you collapsed, body quaking, chest heaving, feeling disgusted with yourself yet too lost in pleasure.

he just laughs, speaking to you in the same condescending tone he’s been doing all day.

“good girl,” he whispered, crouching beside you as you lay there spent. “we’ll shine them with your mouth next time.”

[royalarchivist]

Rubius: The VIPs. The V-I-Ps.

The Squidcraft VIPs have officially arrived! They will be observing the rest of the competition. to observe the rest of the competition!

[ananinidraws]

⚠ TW SUGGESTIVE ⚠

LIKE FOR REAL NOT JUST THE LYRICS

Chatical nasty god, cuz if no one else does it then i will >:3

This was sorta the main event i've been leading into with all my posts, cuz i've put an unreasonable amount of effort into this one. It's very stupid, buuuuut it's also a treat for all the chatical girlies (gn) out there <3333

Had to make it a YT video cuz Tumblr was nuking the quality way too much for my liking Ovo Unlisted video cuz ain't NO way i'm releasing this in the wild outside of Tumblr Ovo

[thecoochiefairy]

orchid. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 5.8K word count. blackfem!reader/original character, onyankopon, football player!onyankopon, sweet!onyakopon, dominant!onyankapon, arrogant!onyankopon, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, praising, butt stuff, LOTS of dirty talk, usage of a toy, aggressive dirty talk, oral [f] [m], nasty sex chile, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

𝓐ᥫ᭡

𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ once again, love this couple. from baby phat, to juno, to scorpio—here we are. might keep em’ going forreal. i moved, btw. adjusting to a new city and being with my bestie. love y’all. bye.

𝓐ᥫ᭡ :: a stormy night with your husband.

visual.

A FLASH OF LIGHTNING THROUGH THE WINDOW of your high rise apartment made your eyes flicker open. The drops slamming along the glass represented just how bad the weather was outside—not to mention that it was cold—and even with the heat on in your house, you were freezing. 

It could’ve been the fact that you were naked under the blankets, but that’s how you always slept. A tattoo coated arm hovered above your face, muscular frame laying next to your smaller one as he was within a deep sleep. Your eyes looked over to the clock—four in the morning. 

Of course the storm woke you up. 

The thunder rumbled through the walls. Turning your head back—you look at him. The sable shine of his durag, dark pink lips pulled into a frown, a glare almost on his face as he slept. The muscles within his back flexed with every breath he took, a low snore passing through each exhale. 

You loved him.

The piercing within his nose twitched, frown lowering on his expression. You felt safe, he always made you feel that way. Your lashes brush over your cheeks as you try to slow your breathing—but the minute you feel relaxed, a crack of lightning flashes along the room, a thunderous boom shaking the entire city. 

Your heart nearly jumped out of your chest. Pulling his arm closer into your body, you close your eyes to rid your fear. It wasn’t working. 

“You’ good, baby.” 

Onyankopon’s voice is low, sleepy. He pulls you even closer, pressing himself against your smaller body. His breath fans down the back of your neck, his eyes still remaining closed.

“I’m sorry,” your quiet voice muffles beneath him, bringing the covers closer to your body, “The thunder scared me.”

With heavy breathing against the back of your neck and a tight embrace, you knew he was already beginning to fall back asleep. 

“That’s aight, Mama.”

He’s rubbing his lips against the back of your neck, “Nothin’ to be sorry for. C’mere.”

Onyankopon exhales through his nose, tattooed fingers brushing the length of your arm. His hand then falls lower to your hips, tugging you closer than ever.

“The news said it was supposed to get bad around Canal street,” your voice is barely a whisper, eyes flicking back to the window. You’re not able to see the French Quarter as you usually did. 

“You think the storm woke up lil’ mama?”

You could admit, maybe that question didn’t entirely come from your worries of the weather. You and Onyankopon were now on your second baby, Sage, only being four months old, as Salem was now freshly two. It was hard with Onyankopon being back on the field for a new season, pushing a toddler through his terrible twos, and handling a fresh baby all in one. You needed sleep—but with your own fears being resurfaced, it wasn’t happening. 

Of course, you also got no response from your husband. 

You call softly, “…Baby?”

He had fallen back asleep. 

As you frown a bit—a roar rips from the clouds, lighting nearly reviving the dead sky. You run your fingers along his arm as you murmur in a soft panic, “Ony.”

He gives you a grumble into your neck, “Lawd, mama… mama, you fussin’ more than the newborn. Salem will sleep through a muhfuckin’ natural disaster, and we’d hear Sage’s monitor if she woke up. C’mon.” 

You turn a bit towards him, “You think it’s as bad as a natural disaster?” 

Your body tenses. 

“Nah, Baby.” 

He’s chuckling as his hand brushes against the back of your thigh, “I’m jocin’. Just a storm out there, ain’t nothin’ to worry about. You heard lil’ mama cryin’ before I woke up or sum’?”

You press your lips together. You sigh, “No. I’m sorry—I know you have practice tomorrow. I just—you remember when they said it wasn’t gonna be bad and it was a tornado? What if it’s like that?” 

“I think if that storm disturb me, a nigga gon’ turn into a category four.” 

Your brows furrow, “You really think it’s the time to joce, Onyankopon? Can you stop playin’ and come with me to check on the kids?”

“The storm gon’ snatch you out the house if I don’t come?” 

You’re irritated. You throw the blanket off as you pull his jersey over your head, “Stop talkin’ to me, bro. I’m finna’ go check on them.” 

"Baby.”

Sitting up, the bed squeaked beneath him. His voice had changed, the playful tone gone, "Don't call me yo’ bro. The hell you doin'?"

“I’m finna’ go check on our kids. You’ playing too much.”

Your bare feet are padding across the floor, yanking the shirt around your thighs—that’s until you feel him tugging you in between his legs as he fully sits up on the edge of the bed. The lightning casting along the room gives you an etch of his face, brown skin glowing even within the darkness. 

“Don’t do allat.’ You know I’m sorry.”

Your hands reflexively go around his shoulders, twisting your fingers at the nape of his neck. The moment thunder rumbles, you pull yourself a bit closer. 

“The weather’s been bad down here, Ony. And it’s hurricane season. I’m just nervous for us and the kids, okay?”

He couldn’t get enough of you at times—his fingers trailed up the back of your top, digging his nails lightly into the rouge tattoo you’d gotten months before. They were your favorite flowers, indented on your skin, decorated on the tips of your toes, all along the house—they were pretty, just like you. Your husband’s lips are warm as they press between the valley of your breast, his palms going beneath the loose jersey you wear. 

“I ain’t gon’ let no storm get you. Nigga gotta get through me.” 

He’s lifting his head back up, deep chocolate eyes staring into your soul as he questions, “You’ good? Ain’t nothing more?”

Maybe it was more than that. But instead you shake your head, “Mind checking on Say-Say and the dogs? It’s close to lil’ mama’s feeding time.” 

“Why you lyin’ to a nigga?” 

It’s as if you’re saved by the bell—You hear Sage whining within the monitor along your dresser, the light blinking a soft blue in the darkness.

You find your own way of dismissing that question, pecking a kiss to his jaw before you walk down the hall. Even through the darkness, you know your baby’s room as if it were daytime—the walls an olive green, wooden crib a walnut brown as she laid her head atop of a crochet knitted orchid pillow—the color was a burnt orange, soft for her sensitive skin. Her little whines nearly made your eyes water, a sense of love constantly filling the air each time she cried out for you—her momma.

It’s like a second nature—you reach down for her miniature frame, the scent of sweet milk filling your nose as her tiny arms unfold for you. An exhale parts from your lips as she immediately parts her own, latching along your nipple that you pull from the top of your shirt. 

Your eyes are still watching your baby girl drink from you, voice soft as you ask, “Salem still asleep?”

You could feel Onyankopon’s presence within the door frame. A part of his heart always thumped when he saw you—the mother of his children, his wife. 

"You know he ain’t complaining when we give him that pacifier. We gon’ have to get him off that soon,” He reminds, the light briefly casting against his form. His eyes flick down to you, hands still shoved into his basketball shorts, “You’ gon’ tell me why you dodged my question earlier?”

He never allowed you to go through your emotions alone. You give a soft sigh, “I think being a new mommy all over again is just a little scary—Salem was my first—I just wanna make sure I’m doing everything correctly with him and lil’ mama. No fuck up’s, y’know?”

Just like that, his figure is crossing through the door— Onyankopon leans down, lips pressing against the top of your shoulder blade as he murmurs, “Ion’ know how many times I gotta tell you this—you doin’ real good, mama. Our baby is perfect. She’ healthy—feedin’ good, makin’ progress, allat’.”

You adjust her a bit as you feel your nipple become sensitive from her mouth, glancing back down at the beauty you’d created—midnight black curls, caramel melting within her pupils, and nothing like you’d seen before—freckles, just like the ones along your face. It concerned you as you’d never seen that before in a newborn, but the doctor called it a gift—that’s exactly what she was.

You sigh, “You’re right. She’s giving my nipples the blues, though. Just like Salem.” 

His tongue runs along his bottom lip—a part of Onyankopon wants to groan. Instead, he just lowly chuckles—”You want me to grab yo’ breast milk pads?” already knowing the discomfort when it comes to having a hungry newborn.

You shake your head, “Mm—Mm, just need you to hold her while I grab them. I might pump half a bottle for her,” you mutter more to yourself, leaning towards his large palms that are already out, allowing him to take the baby within his hands, “She smells so sweet, Ony. Salem used to smell like this. I miss that.”

His arms are firm around the infant swaddled within her onesie, the soft blue hue coating her brown skin—which appeared to be lighter than her brothers. The baby’s head laid comfortably against her father’s muscular bicep, lips puckering for more to feed on. 

Onyankopon murmurs, “They gon’ be babies for a few more years, Mama. You gon’ have that smell for a while,” he’s lifting his large palm to her face as he adds, “She real’ pretty, lookin’ just like you.”

“I think she has your nose,” your French tip points gently, “Like a lil’ piggy,” you giggle, already seeing his eyes narrow in the darkness.

He grumbles, “You actin’ bad. My nose ain’t big. It’s just…a lil’ wide,” his index finger comes under the miniature palm of Sage, allowing her to hold onto him. 

“I love your nose. Nice to sit on,” you hum, innocent smile along your face as you pucker your lips out for a kiss. 

His eyes narrow down at yours, a soft chuckle rumbling through his chest as he leans in to press his lips to yours, “Aye—Don’t be starting nothin’ with me now. Got me thinking about a second lil’ boy.”

You accept his lips even throughout your giggle, “No. Salem and Sage are it, you fertile ass nigga. My IUD is back in, so have all the fun you want. Ain’t no seed being planted in there!”

"Girl," Onyankopon’s chuckling, a single brow lifting as he repeats, "You a lie, witcho’ freak ass.”

Before he can say any other word, your lips are on his own. His large palms keep the baby steady as his figure leans in close to you, the scent of him suddenly intoxicating —you swirl your tongue within his mouth, thrusting in and out, sucking his lips as you pull away, “Imma’ freak, huh?”

His brown iris’ flicked from your mouth back to your gaze, his expression hardening—he liked that. He’s leaning back down, his free hand cupping your jaw, holding your face in place as he swirls his own tongue in your mouth, his large lips trapping, sucking at yours. 

Onyakopon’s mouth goes to your ear, his voice low, “You can’t be doing allat.’ You think you’ slick, knowing I can’t get to that ass right now.”

“So come get me.”

It’s different from earlier—you’re playful, a little too playful as you walk away, lifting your shirt, gripping the palms of your ass as you shake the skin in front of his eyes, “Talk to yo’ baby, boy.”

Onyankopon’s jaw clenches. He’s looking at you, his brows narrowing as he murmurs down to his baby, “See how bad yo’ mama is? She think’ I’m playin’. That’s why you gettin’ that extra bottle so you sleep good,” he kisses the top of her forehead, humming at the coo he gets in response as he lowers his voice, “Don’t tell her I told you that.”

You’re able to change Salem’s diaper while he was knocked out, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you place him back in his crib. Your eyes fall down the hallway of your condo as you see your husband—sitting along your rocking chair as he holds the tiniest bottle to your daughter's mouth, his deep voice hushed as he talks to her, prays over her, things you always expected of him. Your heart constantly swelled at this man. 

Making your way back in bed, the rain seems to become worse somehow. It’s as if seeing your children made you forget all of your fears, and as you pointed your remote towards the tv, the news flashed like lightning in the sky—WEATHER ADVISORY ALERT. 

That siren was deafening, a terrifying sound ringing in your ears before regular channels appeared back on your screen. You keep the news at a low volume, soundlessly watching the anchor point along the color gradient map of Louisiana.

Your heart thumps as you hear Onyankopon’s heavy footsteps entering back into your shared bedroom, your eyes shifting back to the window as you hear him tell you, “Turn that shit off. They just wanna make people panic. You don’t needa’ be watching that.”

“What should I think about then?” You blink, “Sorry I can’t pull my mind off the storm happening right against our window.”

“I want you to relax, Mama. That’s what I want you to think about.”

His hand lowers towards the round of your ass, giving it a small squeeze beneath the sheets, “Why you gettin’ all stressed? It ain’t even that bad anymore,” His words are a murmur as he lowers his lips to yours, kissing them softly, before pulling away, “Imma’ just keep kissing you—ain’t no way you can think about that weather when I’m on yo’ ass.”

Yet, somehow—your mind is all over the place. You were worried about the storm, you were a little horny, you wanted to run your mouth a thousand miles a minute—you were just awake. You watch him kiss your lips, scattering your eyes around his face as you then question, “You think it’s bad that Sage doesn’t cry like Salem did?”

He frowns, “Where in the hell did that question come from?”

“I’m just thinking. When Salem was smaller, he used to cry and fuss all the time—But Sage just sleeps. An infant sleeping through this type of weather is concerning. You think she has silent reflux?—“

He’s squinting down at you, “We just agreed she was a chill baby,” he shakes his head, his voice lowered within his throat, “Now you sayin’ she got a condition? The internet be makin’ people crazy,” he’s grumbling, “Lil’ mama is fine.”

You squint back, “I never agreed on that part entirely, nigga. I’m just concerned for our child!” 

You huff, throwing the covers over your body as you flip the opposite way of him, stuffing your face within the pillow, “You suck.”

He frowns at your attitude, “The hell is that supposed to mean? I suck. I suck? I tell yo’ ass the baby is fine, and that’s what I get?” 

He’s flipping so that he’s hovering over you, his eyes peering down at your face hidden within the pillow, “I guess we finna’ sleep like this now? Is that what you want?”

“I do,” you mush his face away, “Stop talkin’ to me.”

His jaw clenches, “You bein’ childish.” 

He shifts so he’s no longer hovering over your frame, turning the opposite way to lay down. His eyes are flicking down to the screen of his phone, your behavior irking him.

Your arms are crossed as you’re staring against the wall. But something in you can agree—you are being childish. Onyankopon was extremely patient with you, but when he dismissed you, he was actually irritated. You wait for him to try to get your attention as he usually would’ve already— nothing. 

It makes you turn a bit, glancing over as he still has his eyes within his phone. You press your nose into his back, taking in the deep scent of cocoa, lashes brushing his shoulder as you softly call, “…Ony?”

“What?” 

His chocolate eyes are locked onto yours as he turns, the muscles along his jaw still clenched, “Go to sleep, mama.”

“I miss you.”

“I heard you’ was done talking to me, huh? You got yo’ lil’ attitude. Now you miss a nigga,” his deep voice is laced with sarcasm. 

It wasn’t until he saw the guilt on your face, that his eyes lowered to yours, brown iris’ staring into your soul as he sighed, “What you’ need?” 

Your eyes are unnaturally round, glowing beneath the lightning that flashes in the window.  

“Sorry.”

He’s exhaling through his nose—your apology was sincere, and he couldn’t stay mad for long. With a lift of his fingers, he runs them along the apple of your cheek, soft with love. 

“I heard you. Now can you stop bein’ fussy?”

“Can I have a nose kiss? You weren’t being nice either.” 

He’s shaking his head at you— this is the girl he decided to have not one, but two babies with. He loves you—but that didn’t mean he forgot your attitude. 

“Imma’ show you what ain’t nice. Come suck some dick.”

You’re nearly elated at his tone of voice. Your eyes that were previously round, innocent—went slender, feline, sultry. You’re already dancing your body beneath the covers, running your fingers over the sculpt of his stomach. You tug down at his basketball shorts, warm breath teasing as you stick your tongue out, gliding it against the flesh of his tip, sighing in satisfaction as you wrap your full lips against girth. 

Slowly, you begin to suck, taking more and more of his dick into your mouth, letting your tongue swirl around his tip, lapping at the sides. You can't help but gag a little—but you push past it, sucking him deeper into your mouth, bobbing your head back and forth.

You whimper softly, “So big, baby." all while taking him back into your mouth again, sucking eagerly, “Wanna make it up to you.”

Onyankopon's head lazily falls back against the headboard, his eyes half-lidded as he watches you—your lips are already bruised, glistening as you dig your teeth within the flesh when you pull away from him, spreading them back around the veins of his length. His hands go to your head, gripping your curls between his fingers as he groans lowly, "You needa’ be chokin’ on that shit if you tryna’ make it up to me.” 

He pulls your hair between his fingers to create a pony tail, getting a perfect angle of you as he grinds his hips into your mouth, "You hear me? Put me in yo’ fuckin’ throat.”

He knew the way he talked to you always riled you up, your hips swaying a bit to relieve the throb of your clit that jumps from Onyankopon’s voice. It encourages you to part your lips wider, opening your throat more for him to go further in. 

Schlack, Schlack, your mouth is creating a noise, drool pooling from between the space of your lips, eyes rolling back, loving every second of this.

Onyankopon's eyes are slanted, mouth hanging open as he watches his balls bounce against your chin. He growls, "You doing allat’ for me? Fuckin’ nasty ass bitch,” the name makes you moan, all while he gives a smack to your ass, “I ain’t seen you like this in a minute.” 

You pull your mouth back, wrapping your fingers along the base of him, rotating your palm as you whimper, “Spank me again, Ony.”

His eyes lower to yours, lips parted as he sees the desire within your gaze. You’re begging him. His arm moves back, hand crashing against the other side of your ass, the sound of skin against skin rippling within the room, "You keep lookin’ at me like that, imma’ put that shit in.”  

He’s thrusting his hips against your mouth, fucking it slow, "You wildin’,” he grunts, “What you’ want? Why you bein’ so good?”

“Want my toy,” your voice trembles at the thought of your vibrator against your clit, just to feel some relief, “Lemme’ use it, baby.”

“You ain’t usin’ that shit til’ I say so. You ain’t finna’ get nothin’ with how you was actin’ earlier.” 

His dick is buried within the wetness of your mouth, and he grunts, "Fuckin’ love the way you suck my shit up. Put that ass up. Let me see you.”

His denial makes you pout a bit—but nonetheless, you give him what he wants—you point your hips upward, keeping your mouth working against him as you shake your ass, skin rippling, taking both of your palms as you spread yourself from behind. You keep your mouth moving, jaw becoming tight, tongue curled beneath his throbbing tip.

Onyankopon's eyes narrow, dancing his vision across the sultry arch of your back, your hips pointed up as you take more of him into your mouth. He's smacking your ass once more, "Fix yo’ fuckin’ face," to which you shudder, dropping the look of disappointment within your eyes. 

His large palm reaches for the drawer beside the bed—finding your baby pink rose, igniting the toy to the highest vibration. Your skin creates goosebumps as he slides it along your back, allowing you to feel the rumbles massage your skin—Your lips are completely bruised at this point, you’re intoxicated, clit throbbing, whimpering at the enjoyment of pleasuring him. But you can’t help it—all the while, your own fingers are reaching beneath yourself, swiping against your clit, spreading your thighs a little more as you lean against your knees— he sees you. 

Onyankopon presses the toy more along your skin, which makes you tense in pleasure—you need him, but you know begging isn’t enough when he’s irritated with you. He’s pressing the button to let it rumble in a lower setting, grunting, "Look at you. ‘Bout to cum off suckin’ my shit up.”

You whine around his tip the moment his fingers slide across your folds, "You think you slick—You already rubbin’ them fingers on my pussy—Youn’ need no dick.” 

You shake your head, “Need you, baby.” 

It’s rare for you to be this indulged—you’re wrapping your fingers around the base of him, rotating while keeping your mouth swirling along his tip. The feeling makes him grit his teeth, holding your hair tighter between his fingers, and that makes you suck him even more. 

“You look real pretty, Mama. Horny as fuck, too. Here,” he hands you the toy, “Get that shit wet.”

Your body shakes the moment your toy connects with your clit, gently sucking the bud—You’re circling your hips, thighs shuddering as you grind yourself against it, feeling your arousal beginning to pool between your fingers. Drool hangs from your lips as Onyankopon’s balls slap along your chin, eyes rolling back—you’re practically drunk.

His hips roll back and forth as he growls, "I bet yo’ ass don’t even remember why you had an attitude. You was’ talkin’ allat’ shit, but you suckin’ my dick like you need it.” 

Onyankopon's dick is becoming slicker, glossed with the wetness of your saliva as he thrusts himself in and out of your mouth, your cheeks bulging with his girth. 

He grunts, "Ooh, shit—horny ass lil’ bitch. You nasty, you tryna get fucked.” 

You’re becoming wetter by the second. You loved sucking his dick, but you loved showing him how much you loved it more. Your pussy is practically drooling the way your mouth is, vibrations of your pleasure humming through each thrust of his tip going between your lips.

A deep pout comes to your cheeks as you pull him from between your mouth, “Gonna cum, Ony.”

“You better fuckin' not.” 

“Come eat me,” you’re whining, “Wanna feed you, Daddy.”

“You want my tongue? Or that toy?” 

“Your tongue.”

Onyankopon's dick is covered in the wetness of your saliva, and he grunts, "Daddy gon’ miss yo’ mouth, I love the way you suck my shit. Put that ass up some more.”

You face the opposite way, pressing your cheek against the plush of the comforter, spreading your opening apart for him, shaking the flesh of your ass for him in repetitions. You’re past needy.

He’s evil—your body trembles as he slaps his dick on your folds, “You hear her, huh?” 

“Ony.” 

A soft gasp pulls from your lips the moment you feel his tongue on your clit—he’s lapping, swirling his tongue around to where he’s throwing his head in circles, creating a soppy noise from how wet you are. You’re rocking your hips down to meet his lips, lightly pressing your toy back against your clit. You receive a spank for that, which makes you dig your teeth within your lip, “F—fuck…”

Onyankopon's tongue dances along the ridges of your opening, burying his face deeper against you, squeezing your ass between his fingers as he continues to suck on your clit. He raises his face to drop saliva against your hole, his thumb teasing to where it feels almost tortuous—you couldn’t wait anymore. 

“Put it in.”

You nearly ride his face, your thighs trembling from the constant vibrations of your toy, spreading yourself more as you repeat, “Put it in, Ony. Wanna’ feel you. Go slow.” 

"Don't be rushin' me. Enjoy it.”

“Wanna feel full, Daddy. C’mon.” 

Your breathing is heavy, exhales a pant, your inhales shakey between your lips. You continue riding the air, gyrating your hips in a coaxing motion, low eyes peering over your shoulder to look at him. 

To see you like this was enough said. His hands held your thighs apart—caramel skin, spreading into a pretty pink—he loved how your pussy looked. He watches down to you, even with how wet you are, his tip chokes between your folds, your walls tightening as he sinks himself in—you give him a groan in satisfaction. 

Your rose is still eating away at your clit, your free hand dipping your fingers in your mouth to hush your noises—but you’re unable to help yourself, you’re already pulling your hips up, dropping your ass onto his abdomen, skin clapping against his hips, eyes rolling back as you whine, “Fuckkk...”

"You doin' the most—damn. This’ all you wanted, huh?” 

His thumb is nudging against your hole again, fingers having a grip against the valley of your lower back, clawing you with each thrust—his dick throbs within the tightness of your walls. 

He groans, "Ride that shit slow, mama."

Onyankopon's dick is nearly splitting you in two—but you love it. You listen, placing your fingers that were within your mouth onto the sheets, twisting the material under your hand as you go slow, the schluck, schluck of your pussy mixing with the echo of your skin colliding with his—It’s a loud echo, your face twisting in pleasure, hearing the way your ass bounces back to meet his dick. 

“Ughn, baby—“ your eyes are rolling, “Your balls are hitting my clit.” 

Onyankopon’s chuckle is low, his balls continuously slapping along your clit that’s becoming sensitive, hips bucking up to meet the collision of your ass. His hand continuously spread your thighs, pushing them apart farther to see your pussy swallowing him whole.

"Goddamn, you loud,” he grunts, “Keep that shit up.” 

Your eyes are at the back of your head, trembling, “Ohhh m—my god,” your back arching further, nearly trying to pull away from him—It all feels too good, your cervix being hit in a delicious pinch every millisecond. The feeling has you talking crazy.

Your curls sway as he’s tugging you down, “Love you, Daddy. Didn’t mean to have an attitude,” you pout, “I was just so…fuckin’ horny.” 

"You don’t gotta apologize, Mama. Just keep fuckin’ me like that.” 

And that’s exactly what you’re doing—fucking him, rocking your hips down, down, down—the rose along your clit, his continuous thrusts, your thighs tremble as you’re moaning,  “I love you, I loveee you.” 

A violent course of pleasure cramps through your lower body—and it happens—a mixture of a whine and a squeal emits from your lips, your thighs trembling as you squirt along his tip. You drop the rose as you frantically rub at your clit, groaning in repetitions as you drench the hair along his public area, Onyankopon grunting, “You goin’ off like a fuckin’ faucet,” grasping his hand around your throat, he slams himself back into you as you orgasm—it makes you shout, “…Shit!…Baby…fuck.” 

“Nuh uh, don’t do allat’.”

His hand is squeezing your neck, fucking you through your stimulation—he’s thrusting himself in and out, his tip smacking against the deepest part of you, "Take this shit, Mama. You got it.”

Your voice is softer than usual, your eyes watering—you’re full, sensitive, only able to take what he gives you. Your lips tremble as you lowly sob, the emotions your body produces making you want him closer. You pull him down, pressing his face against your neck from behind as you cry, “O—Ony…”

Onyankopon thrusts slowy, "I love you, Mama. You aight?" He's stroking your hair, kissing your earlobe, "I love you too much. Too fuckin’ much."

You nod your head, accepting a kiss that he drops along your lips as you beg, “Tell me when you’re cumming, baby…” you’re whimpering, “Want it in my mouth…” 

He moans at that, missing the sight of your pretty face—He needs you just as much as you need him. 

He gruffly tells you, “I'm about to fuckin' cum. Turn around, get that shit in your mouth."

Onyankopon's dick is pulsing. His own abdomen cramps as he moans, "Shit,” gripping your curls out of your face as he cums, your eyes rolling as you moan, swallowing the warm load down your throat. You lazily rotate your palm along his tip, running your tongue over your lips—you’re giggling.

It’s as if nothing had just happened. 

You ask, “Can I have my nose kiss now?”

His jaw muscles clench, his head lifting back up as he exhales through his nose, “Girl.”

There’s a light chuckle that parts from him, his body bending over as he cups your jaw, lips pressing to the tip of your nose as he catches his breath.

“You’ crazy.”

The moment you pull him farther down to push your tongue between his lips, a final flash of lightning brightens the entire room, your upper body jolting as a thunderous sound follows after.

In that moment, the baby monitor begins to croak—and a cry follows. You press your forehead against Onyankopon’s as you sigh.  

As loudly as Sage had called out for the two of you, you’re both distracted as you hear a pair of little feet running down the hallway—the pitter patter echoes until Salem’s small frame comes tumbling into the room.

You shriek, “Say-Say!—Jesus, how the hell did you get out of your crib?!” 

You tug your shirt over your body, tossing your husband's shorts to him as you quickly rise to your feet at the two year olds presence.

Salem looked up at you with those eyes. His fingers went to his mouth as he whined, his voice a sweet whimper as he asked, “Momma?” He looked scared, the thunder shaking the entire house.

You couldn’t even be upset. Thankfully, the monitor had stopped going off, meaning Sage had fallen back asleep, and you were now having to put your attention into one child. His little face makes your heart melt, and you open your arms, “Awe, papa—it’s okay. Come? Wanna lay with me and Daddy?”

Within a blink, his arms wrap around your neck, frame cuddling itself within your hold as he’s rubbing his tiny nose into your warm touch.

“Bad rain, Papa. Scary?”

The sound of his voice makes a smile play upon Onyankopon’s lips, “Yeah, baby boy. But the storm ain’t gon’ do nothin’ to us,” his thick fingers comb through Salem’s curly locks, his deep voice a soft rumble as he questions, “Can I hold you?”

Salem lifts his arms for his father, your eyebrow raising as you murmur to him, “You ain’t gon’ ask how he got out that crib?”

His shoulders raise in a shrug, “We gon’ have to put that crib on lockdown, mama. ‘Cuz lil’ demon don’t stay in it,” his voice is a teasing grumble as he pulls his son’s giggling frame from you, brown eyes peering into your own.

Your face softens as your son pops his thumb into his mouth, hiding his nose within his father’s neck as they both settle beneath the sheets. Your eyes glance back to the window, finally able to see the city of New Orleans, light rain drops now falling through the sky—it’s almost serene. 

You lightly whisper to Onyankopon, “We can’t let him suck his thumb for long, baby.”

He’s cuddling Salem against him, a grunt leaving his lips, “He gon’ stop after that pacifier gone. Just let him be for now,” his words were a murmur as his head laid back, adjusting himself on the pillow with his eyes closed. Both of your boys, together. 

You just couldn’t argue with that.

You nod your head in response, shuffling closer to Onyankopon, laying yourself on his arm as Salem was taking up the space on his chest. As you knew both of them well, they were already on their way to sleep. Your mind is still awake.

So you say, “Thank you for always loving me, Onyankopon.”

You can’t see from how you’re tucked between him—but the corners of his lips are turning into a smile. 

“If you keep sayin’ sweet shit like that, we gon’ make a third.”

You giggle softly, “…I mean it. You’re easy to love…I just hope it’s the same for you.”

He inhales, the scent of sweet milk and your vanilla perfume filling his nose. 

“It’s beyond just easy, Mama. The sound of you, the feel of you,” His large palm is gripping your thigh beneath the sheets, “You don’t gotta hope for nothin’, baby. I’m yours. Always.”

Your smile is soft. You then question, “You wanna renew our vows? You think it’s too soon?”

There’s a slight chuckle, “I wanna talk to you about whatever comes in that lil’ head of yours. But not gon’ lie, I’m tired, baby. Lemme’ get my mind right, and I’ll tell you how many times I’d marry yo’ ass tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

His eyes are still closed, but he can feel your pout. God, he loved you. His hand lowers further down your thigh, squeezing the flesh beneath his fingers one last time. 

“I ain’t gotta’ promise anything. You better know. Now sleep.”

And that’s exactly what he meant.

[alexrosa13]

Supermodel

Xavier; Zayne; Rafayel; Sylus; Caleb; Jeremiah; Greyson; Thomas; Luke & Kieran x female!reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: non-mc!reader

Note: the photos are not supposed to represent you (all of them were found on Pinterest), there are no physical traits of reader specified, enjoy <3

for masterlist and request info head to the navigation →

Thousands eyes on you and the only one that matters belongs to...

Xavier

★ jealous of every eye that looks your way, would fight if he doesn't like the way someone stares at you (would fight if the stylists touch you where he doesn't want them to, even if it's necessary to get an outfit on)

★ falls asleep anytime he's backstage with you, you have a lot of sweet photos with him sleeping at totally random places (mostly surrendered by clothes) (you also have videos of his reaction to watching your walks, filmed by your manager)

★ your manager must be a woman or you'll have a lot and - I mean a lot - of talks about it

★ prepare yourself to be stolen from the show right after it ends, still in your outfit from the runway

"Xavier put me down!" your demanding voice didn't help you to get out of his hold. You were thrown over his shoulder, still in the beautiful dress and heels (that to be fair were already yours) from the show, you had little chance to fight against him in this outfit.

"Why would I do that? I'm just taking you home, you said you were tired." his calm demeanor made your eye twitch, that cute-innocent looking face couldn't fool you, not anymore. Even when you couldn't see it, forced to stare at the back of his head, you still knew that he had that mischievous spark in his eyes.

"You know I would love to change this outfit for my own clothes first, the clothes that I, you know, came in there." you said, your voice sarcastic.

"Your manager will get them, and if they won't then I'll buy you new ones." your only reaction was a loud exhale, there was no point in arguing with this guy. Accepting your fate, you let him carry you on his shoulder with your eyes staring at his legs.

"Jealous hamster." you whispered to his back, whether he heard it or not he didn't let out any answer.

After all he knew you were right, he was jealous, especially since when you walked the runway he heard what some guys talked about, with one of them planning to ask you out after the show and the rest hyping him up.

Now, he couldn't let it happen, could he?

Zayne

★ your personal doctor, won't let you put yourself through any drastic diets and measures for your career

★ will try his best to attend all of your shows, either from the audience or the backstage if you'll invite him there, if he can't make it because of his work, he'll watch it later and either send or tell you compliments (depending on where he is when watching the show)

★ doesn't exactly show you off, but ever since his colleagues got to know through social media that he's dating you, they started randomly bringing you up in the conversation (even with the patients)

★ anytime you come to the hospital when he ends his shift to leave for a date or just to pick him up people will ask for photos, especially if the nurses heard about your coming with a heads-up

Zayne just finished up the paperwork and put on his jacket, ready to leave the office knowing that you were probably already here.

And he wasn't mistaken: right after he found himself in the corridor he heard voices from behind the wall before him, and right after he turned there he saw what was the commotion about.

His lover, you, standing in the middle of young girls, not older than 12, surrounded by phones of parents taking photos. He stood there for a moment, giving you the time to entertain your young fans.

"Okay darlings, I need to go, cause my date is finally here." you laughed softly, patting the shoulders of the two girls standing before you.

"But we wanted to make a fashion show with you." one of them said, clearly sad.

"Sweets, you don't need me to make your own fashion show, just remember to be confident and to have fun." you patted her head, and said a couple more goodbyes while heading his way.

Zayne didn't miss a beat, presenting you with his arm which you took with happiness clearly visible on your face, you waved your free hand as the last goodbyes to the kids.

"Who would have guessed, that I'll have competition even in kids." he said quietly, once you two were before the hospital and he was opening the doors to let you into his car.

You only laughed softly, letting him close the door after you sat down.

Rafayel

★ your nr.1 fan, present at every show, meeting you backstage before the start of the event, then sitting in the best place in the audience with his phone ready to record you, only you, and then leaving to pick you up from the backstage

★ you're his muse and the model for his art, sometimes even having a photoshoot with his art in the background (Thomas approves of the marketing idea)

★ loves taking your photos, and bragging about you, you're the center of his universe

★ everyone knows that the infamous Rafayel, dates you, because of his social media, full of, well, you know - you

"Another photo?" your laughter sounded together with the wind wheezing in your ears.

"You look absolutely beautiful with the ocean as the background, and the wind is a paid actor, cutie. I can't help myself." he put the camera down, satisfied with the result of his work.

"Not everything needs to be saved by pictures and videos, you know?" you tried to act annoyed, but couldn't, a smile visible on your face,

"I know, don't worry, that's why our private moments stay only in our memories." he teased you back, earning himself a punch to the shoulder. He jumped back, as if you actually hurt him, with that perfect, dramatic expression of his.

"Gosh, you're so annoying sometimes." you giggled, not reacting to his attics at all.

"AND you still love me! I mean I can't blame you, I'm super handsome and no one can resist me." his arms came to wrap around your waist, bringing your back to his chest.

"Sure, sure, you're my pretty boy." you turned around in his hold, squishing his face in your palms. When suddenly you stopped, looking at him intensively and bringing his face down to your eye level "Only mine." you whispered, in a provocative tone.

He gulped.

Sylus

★ power couple. he is your mysterious boyfriend whose name no one knows, but they know of his existence, mostly through your social media full of pics with countless bouquets of flowers, and the typical photos of a couple without your man's face in it.

★ they tried guessing that you're dating one of the other models that you seem to know backstage, failed countless times (they want to know who he is, why are you keeping them waiting girl)

★ he is actually present at most of your shows, watching you from the audience, he loves your confidence on the runway

★ buys you expensive gifts, loves showering you with the luxuries you deserve, and you love posting about it on your socials, bragging about your man

After yet another post with the huge bouquet of roses and a velvet box with a beautiful necklace in it your fans went wild.

Thousands of comments started coming up, asking once more for the reveal of the mysterious rich boyfriend of yours.

And you were currently sitting at the restaurant table, in a private room that he reserved for you after yet another successful show of yours, him sitting next to you on the huge comfy sofa with his hand resting on your thigh as you sip your drink, your head resting on his shoulder.

"It's so cruel of you to keep teasing your fans sweetheart." he said, the hand on your thigh gently moving in a calm motion.

"I can't help the fact that I want to keep you all to myself, but also love bragging about you." you looked up at him, stealing a quick peak from his lips. He let go of the glass he was holding, putting it on the table before the hand previously on your thigh moved to your back, then to your waist, pulling your body towards him, making your legs drop over his.

His second hand found itself hugging your legs so they won't fall off, and his lips found yours.

You put your drink blindly onto the table and wrapped your arms around his neck, basking in his attention.

Oh god how in love you were, you knew that you had him wrapped around your finger - he knew that too. And you both enjoyed that knowledge to no end.

Caleb

★ your biggest supporter, even tho he's not often present at your events, either due to work or the fact that it's not his most comfortable place to be

★ would and will watch all of your shows live if he can, texting you in a real time about how stunning you are, or how you were the absolute gem of the show, stealing the spotlight from other models

★ if he's not at the Skyhaven he will drive you to and from the event

★ absolutely does brag about you to his lower (and not only) rank colleagues, he may be higher in ranks but he's still only 25 and finds himself spending time with others during lunches or free time

He was at the gym, in the middle of a work out, doing push-ups with his phone under him and a wireless earphones connected to it.

He felt a pat on his shoulder, and stopping his exercise but staying above the ground, he took off one earphone, sending a questioning look towards the man who disturbed him, noting that it's the guy from the group he often hangs out with.

"Is that... A fashion show?" he asked sceptically, looking at the phone on the ground. Caleb stole a glance at the screen, noticing that it wasn't your turn yet he turned back towards the man,

"Yeah, my girl's walking in it." he answered, a slight smirk on his lips.

"Ain't no way man." the man clearly doubted his words.

"It's actually her turn, look." there you were, confidently walking down the bright runway, if it was physically possible he would have hearts in his eyes at the sight of you.

"With all due respect, there's ain't no way you pulled a woman like this." Caleb only laughed, before opening up his phone gallery, putting a photo of you and him at the full screen. You were kissing his check with his arm thrown over your shoulder.

"... Okay I believe you now, can't you, you know... Ask her if any of her friends is looking for a guy, maybe?" he only threw one last glance at him before putting the earphone back in and continuing with his work out.

He'll call you later to praise you, don't you worry about it.

Jeremiah

★ the sweetest supporter, always bringing flowers to your shows

★ stares at you like you're the goddess made for worship anytime he sees you on the runway

★ loves taking your photos when you visit him in Philo to help with the flowers before or after hours

★ sometimes he just looks at you, unable to turn away, not wanting to turn away, looking and looking, he could admire you for hours without getting bored: his reaction to you catching his wandering gaze would either be him shying away and blushing or throwing a cheeky comment your way to make you laugh: depending on the mood

You were taking care of the flowers, making them look more presentable before the shop was supposed to open. Jeremiah went outside for a second, and you didn't hear him coming back.

About five minutes later you turned around, and jumped with a gasp at the fact he was right behind you. He caught you before you could stumble on your legs, bringing you close.

"Jeremiah! You'll make me have a heart attack one day I swear!" you hit him gently on the chest.

"Sorry, I didn't think that I'll scare you." he laughed, noticing how you relaxed in his hold "I prefer to make your heartbeat race by other means." he whispered to your ear making you hit him once more and hid your head in his neck.

You didn't know yet that a new photo of you will soon find it's place on the wall of his apartment. Your day-to-day life before him was full of unhealthy habits, cameras and perfectionism, but together with him came peace, calm and a quiet place to let yourself be you.

He was your safe place.

Greyson

★ this absolute cutie would be so nervous if you'd invite him to the event

★ absolutely adores you and can't believe that he somehow got you to go out with him

★ would die if you ever model in lingerie, and I mean it

★ lives for the physical contact from you, loves to hold your hand and hugging you

Music played in the background of your apartment, you were watching the show that you walked in earlier on your tv screen, joking around, wearing your matching pajamas set.

He was absolutely smitten by you, watching your every move both on screen and right beside him.

On the screen you were about to walk the runway in the second fit when the song that you absolutely loved (because it made you feel badass) got to it's chorus, and in a playful mood you ran to the other side of the huge living area of your apartment.

He watched you with a smile, you mimicked your runway walk in your apartment, in pajamas, with no make-up and a messy hair, he cheered for you while laughing.

He adored you the most in moments like this, in the quietness of your apartment, without cameras forcing you to look your best. Finally getting to the couch you dropped down onto it, hugging him tightly.

He hugged you right back with a huge smile on his lips, he loved those private shows of yours the most, you were perfect like this.

Thomas

★ he probably is your manager, and if he isn't then he still acts like it backstage, probably besties with the person you hired to take care of your career

★ backstage everytime, he runs around you, making sure that everything will be alright and safe on the runway while also checking on you all the time: you need water? a snack? give him 2 minutes max

★ his public socials are full of pictures from your professional photo sessions, while private ones are just you in more domestic situations and casual outfits.

★ will run to you the moment the show ends, his calm demeanor slowly coming back to him after so much work and stress, please appreciate him

"The mess today was bigger than usual." he was standing close to you with his eyes glued to his phone, already looking up photos of you.

"I know, having to change 3 times all in like 5 minutes is wild." you were finally allowed a moment to breathe, the stylists were running around helping the models take off the clothes from the runway "Darling, do you mind?" you turned around, showing him the zipper on the back of your dress.

Instantly he hid his phone in the pocket of his pants before his hands went to help you out. He helped you pull down the sleeves of the dress, with one of his hands holding up the front of your dress, making sure that your breasts won't get exposed. You put on a shirt over your head and only then he let go of the dress, helping you get out of it.

He handed you the bottom part of your outfit, his eyes searching the floor for your shoes.

Before he had the chance to turn around and search for them behind him he felt your hands on his face, making him look at you.

You placed a quick kiss on his lips, shocking him a little. No one even noticed, busy in their own worlds.

"Thank you for supporting me." you smiled, he hugged you with one arm for a moment before continuing his search for your shoes. Once he got them in his hands he kneeled down, helping you put them on "You're so sweet when you take care of me." you ruffled his hair a little.

He caught your palm and gave it a kiss before standing up. Gosh do we love a man who knows how to treat a woman.

Luke & Kieran

★ if you're dating Luke: prepare for loud cheering every time you walk the runway and him being the owner of your fanpage

★ if you're dating Kieran: you're getting the calmer twin, loves taking the photos of you on dates, most of the time waiting in the separate hall for the show to end, watching you on the screens there

★ if you're dating both of them: you're in for a ride, they promote your socials on every platform they can, arguing with the people who found the audacity to hate you (got them banned so many times but they just keep creating new accounts), random selfies of your three are all over their phones, unpublished

★ your fans saw the photos of you walking somewhere with two masked people behind you, were they your bodyguards?

"You two love to annoy your Boss, don't you?" you laugh, they were just talking about the situation when they accidentally locked their Boss in the wardrobe with his not-yet girlfriend.

"Wrong!" Luke said, making the word last for like 5 seconds, like a buzz button.

"We love annoying everyone." said Kieran, high-fiving his brother and laughing with him.

You shook your head, coming back to drinking your bubble tea and scrolling through your phone.

You saw a post that made you almost spit out the drink from your mouth.

"What the hell is that?!" you showed the twins your smartphone with a smile.

Guess what a**holes, that girl is taken, and you have ain't no way of dating her, stop being delusional xx

"Oh yeah we posted that! Do you like that caption?" Luke asked, with a cocky smile on his lips.

You only laughed, they were unbelievable.

"What have I seen in you." you whispered, knowing fully well they heard you and you were seconds away from the tantrum of the year.

[yanyandam]

Hi there !! I've had an idea in my head for some time, in fact it's one of the members of the bonten who has to sleep with reader because he must have information about her but ends up gradually falling in love with her. (I like all of them except mochi) ( I’m sorry my English is so bad Unfortunately, it's not my native language. ) thanks love have a good day bye bye !!

How dare you exclude my glorious king mochi? (I said, after using this as an excuse to not write for him nor takeomi out of laziness.) Here are small scenarios, myb if u were expecting a long oneshot, did my best. (yall can check out my bonten koko fanfic if interested btw its fiye I swear) ps: your english is perfect dear, im not native either

STAY PROFESSIONAL -BONTEN and how they handle the situation

You were supposed to be a job. Just a stepping stone in a long list of necessary evils. Manjiro needed leverage on a politician, and you were the perfect way to get it: beautiful, easy to manipulate, unaware of the world you had stepped into. That was the plan. It should have ended there. So why the fuck is he watching you from across the bar, his cigarette burning between his fingers, as another man leans in too close, his hand brushing your thigh? He tells himself it’s not jealousy, it’s business. That’s what he tells himself.

But when you finally glance up and see him, your face pales. You freeze like a deer caught in headlights. You know. You know exactly what happens to things Mikey can’t control. He doesn’t make a scene. He simply nods toward the door, a silent command, and watches as you hesitate. In an instant, he’s pushing off the bar, moving toward you with slow steps. By the time he reaches you, the other man has already sensed the danger and slunk away. Smart choice. You open your mouth to say something, but his fingers brush against your wrist, just for a second. A silent claim. A warning. "Outside. Now." His voice is low, steady. But inside, something inside him is burning. He should let you go. Should end this. But for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to.

You were supposed to be temporary. A means to an end. A tool. You had connections to a rival gang, and he needed your secrets. Getting them was easy, Sanzu had patience, persistence, and an unshakable loyalty to Mikey that meant no one was beyond sacrifice. Not even you. You were a night of indulgence, nothing more. He doesn’t form attachments. It’s too risky. So why does his stomach twist when he hears someone mention your name? Why does his hand twitch toward his gun when someone laughs about using you the same way he did?

He wasn’t supposed to care. But when he sees you again, he steps in before he can think. He doesn’t say much, doesn’t even explain why he’s there. Just pulls you behind him and gives the guy a look that promises death. You don’t understand. "Why do you care?"

He doesn’t have an answer. But he does know one thing: he’ll kill for you, if it ever comes to that.

You knew too much, that was your mistake. Kakucho needed to know what this 'too much' you knew represented. He didn't want to go down the murder route, you looked honest as a citizen, and Kakucho hated hurting civilians, let alone women. So he opted for the first option he could find to win you over. It was just one night. One moment where he let himself feel something other than exhaustion and cold detachment. He should forget you. But weeks later, when he sees you again, he realizes he can’t. You smile when you recognize him. "Small world." He almost doesn’t respond. Almost walks away. But instead, he sighs and mutters, "You always smile at strangers?"

"Only the ones who look like they need it."

He should tell you to stay away. Should warn you that getting close to him means trouble. But when you offer him a place to sit, when you don’t look at him like a monster, he sits down. And he doesn’t leave.

You thought you were in control. That was cute. You were a journalist, digging too deep into gang affairs, and Kokonoi seduced you to shut you up. It worked, for a while. Until you found out the truth. And now? You’re broke. Blacklisted. Your career is in ruins. You were nothing more than a distraction, something to pass the time. That’s what he tells himself. Until he sees you again, working some miserable job, looking exhausted, and he feels an unfamiliar urge. He wants to fix this. He wants to fix you. It pisses him off. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t help people. But the next time he sees you, he slides an envelope of money across the counter.

You blink at it. "What’s this?"

"A favor. Take it or don’t, I don’t care."

You don’t take it. You just look at him, arms crossed. "You feel guilty?"

He scoffs. "Don’t flatter yourself." But when you smile, his fingers twitch. He leaves before he does something stupid. But the next time he sees you? He doesn’t walk away.

You were just another night. Another meaningless body tangled in silk sheets, another face he wouldn’t remember after collecting what he needed. That’s what Ran told himself. Until he sees you again. It’s been weeks, maybe months, and yet there you are, laughing, talking, not thinking about him. It shouldn’t bother him. But it does. Maybe you’re working at one of his clubs, maybe you’re just passing through, but the moment his eyes land on you, something ugly stirs in his chest. You notice him. Of course you do. Who wouldn’t? He’s rich, powerful, untouchable. You should feel lucky he even remembers you. But you don’t act lucky. You just tilt your head and smirk. "Didn’t think I’d see you again."

"Neither did I." His voice is smooth, unreadable. You nod, take a sip of your drink. You’re not fawning over him. You’re not desperate for his attention. And that’s the problem. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t need you. So why does he lean in just a little closer? "Tell me." His fingers brush against your wrist. "Did you forget about me?" You raise a brow. "Should I have remembered?" For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t have an answer. And it pisses him off.

Rindou is not supposed to care. That part of him is dead, buried beneath years of cruelty, power, and the weight of the life he chose. But then he sees you again. After that one night. That night night, which was supposed to end with your bloodied body once he'd had enough information about your boss.

Maybe it’s in one of his clubs, maybe it’s on the street, but when your eyes meet his, something in his chest tightens. You smile. Not forced, not fake, just a real, casual smile. Why weren’t you afraid? Like he’s just some normal guy. Like he’s not someone to be feared. And for a second, he wants to pretend.

"Didn’t think I’d see you again." He leans against the bar, acting casual. Acting like he doesn’t care. You shrug. You don’t ask for anything. You don’t beg for attention, don’t try to use him. And that’s when it hits him. That night wasn’t a game to you. You didn’t want his money, his power, his influence. You just wanted him. The him that doesn’t exist anymore. His jaw clenches. He should walk away. Should kill whatever feeling is rising in his chest before it becomes a weakness. But instead, he mutters, "You free tonight?"

And when your smile widens, when you nod…He realizes he’s already lost.

[aventurineswife]

Request alert! 🚨 ‼️

Imagine a scene where the readers partner notices the readers hair getting longer? Like, they’ve always preferred to keep it short—insisting it’s easier to manage. Yet they never cut their hair since they met them. (Hair holds memories and the reader wishes to hold on to every moment with their partner. 😔💙🙏)

Characters: Sunday—he’s a must. Then you can choose whoever else! Or just keep it for him. Up to you. 💙💙

Hair Holds Memory

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Fluff & Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Introspection, Symbolism, Soft & Subtle Romance.

Warnings: Mentions of Trauma & Survivor’s Guilt, Implied Religious Trauma, Emotional Vulnerability & Attachment Issues, Symbolism of Memory & Loss (Hair representing moments held onto).

A/N: AHAHA 😭🙏 LMAOO SUNDAY IS A REAL MUST FOR YOU

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

The quiet hum of the Astral Express filled the room as Sunday traced his fingers through your hair, eyes reflecting the dim starlight filtering through the window.

His touch was featherlight, reverent, as though he feared disturbing something sacred. "Your hair has grown," he murmured, voice as airy as a dream. He tucked a strand behind his ear, his golden halo faintly glowing in the dark.

You looked away, hesitant. "I suppose I just… never got around to cutting it."

Sunday tilted his head, the wings behind his ears twitching subtly—an unspoken curiosity. He always noticed things others didn’t.

"You always said you preferred it short. That it was easier to manage." His voice held neither accusation nor expectation, only quiet observation.

Your fingers clenched around the fabric of your sleeve. "I guess… I just wanted to keep something. A piece of time. A way to remember."

A shadow flickered across his face—understanding, perhaps, or something deeper. Sunday knew what it was to cling to memories, to carry them like fragile glass in trembling hands.

He exhaled softly, reaching up to weave his fingers through your strands. "Memories are fragile," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But if this is how you wish to hold onto them… I will cherish every strand, every moment, alongside you."

For once, Sunday did not question the logic of sentiment. He simply rested his forehead against yours, letting the weight of time settle between you.

"Well, well, well. What's this?"

Aventurine’s fingers twirled a lock of your hair between them, his eyes gleaming with amusement. His lips curled into that signature, knowing smirk. "Aren’t you the one who always said short hair was more convenient?"

You rolled your eyes. "I’ve been busy."

"Mmm. Too busy to even notice? Or…" He let the word hang, his gaze turning calculating. He was always playing a game, even in the most mundane of moments. "Are you holding onto something, sweetheart?"

You hesitated, and that was all the answer he needed.

His smile softened—just a fraction, just enough for someone who knew him to see past the performance. "You know, hair is a tricky thing," he mused, rolling a gambling chip between his fingers. "It gets tangled, weighed down. The longer you keep it, the heavier it gets. Memories are the same way."

You swallowed. "And yet, you always wear that ridiculous feather earring. Seems like you’re holding onto something too."

His hand paused midair. Just for a second. A heartbeat.

Then, with a chuckle, he flicked your forehead. "Touché."

He let your hair slip from his fingers, his touch lingering like a bet placed on the table. "I suppose we’re both terrible at letting go. But hey, at least you look stunning with long hair. Ever consider growing it out just for me?"

You laughed despite yourself. He always knew how to turn a moment into a gamble—but deep down, you knew he understood.

And that was enough.

Argenti was polishing his gauntlets when he paused, his eyes catching something unusual in the candlelight.

"Your hair… It has grown." His voice was quiet, contemplative.

You ran a hand through the longer strands, suddenly self-conscious under his unwavering gaze. "Yeah. I guess I forgot to cut it."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable—curiosity, perhaps, or something deeper. He reached out hesitantly, as if seeking permission. When you didn’t pull away, his fingers brushed against your strands, calloused yet impossibly gentle.

"You always claimed to prefer it short," he mused.

You exhaled slowly. "I guess I just… didn’t want to lose anything. Not since I met you."

Argenti stilled. His hand trembled slightly as he withdrew, his usual knightly composure faltering for just a moment.

"Hair carries history," he murmured, half to himself. "Knights once wove their beloved’s locks into their armor, carrying them as a promise… as proof that someone waited for them beyond the battlefield."

He looked at you then, something fierce and unshakable in his gaze. "If this is your way of holding onto our moments together, then let it grow. Let it be a testament to the time we have shared."

His gauntleted hand cupped your cheek, and in that moment, you knew—Argenti would honor every strand, every second, as though they were sacred vows.

And perhaps, in his own way, they were.

[emepe]

— Pairing: Yuuta x Reader, established relationship

— General info: 18+, one-shot, smut

— Summary: When it comes to Yuuta, “just the tip” is the start of a dangerous game.

— Content warnings: nsfw, unprotected vaginal sex, virginity loss, implied religious guilt, mild god complex if you squint, coercion, slight breeding kink.

— Notes: Honestly, I wrote this just to see if I could still write decent smut (and Yuuta fits the trope perfectly ugh, I can't lie). Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Happy reading! 

Links: Read on AO3 |  Masterlist

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. You promised each other you would wait. But an innocent kiss on the cheek while watching TV led to a sloppy makeout session on the sofa, with your legs on either side of Yuuta's lap and your clothed cunt grinding needily onto his crotch as his fingers crept under your shirt and dug into your waist. 

A whine escapes your lips when he involuntarily thrusts his hips upwards, meeting you halfway, desperate for further friction.

“My God, Yuu,” you moan into his mouth, as your combined drool trickles down your chin.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, yet makes no effort to hold back. Because little by little, with every movement of your hips, his erection has become downright painful. It's practically throbbing in the confines of his jeans, swollen and red, aching to be let out, begging for relief.

But he promised.

It's a mental game to come down to his senses and draw an end when things get too heated between you. God knows you haven't one ounce of willpower when you're spiraling down a lustful haze. But he'd rather be the stronger one than risk the loss of your virtue ending in remorse. 

He loves you too much to force you to carry such an immense guilt. You vowed to wait until you were married and instead settled for a few steamy moments here and there — always sure you never made it too far.

You could hump and whine and he'd swallow every sweet sigh you pour into his mouth — as long as you never fully undressed and as long as he didn't ruin you by pushing himself between your legs. Then he'll wrap his arms around you, assuring you that whatever you did was still innocent, that you have no reason to feel guilty because you're both still pure. 

The vicious cycle never ends. 

You're incredibly precious to him — you're everything — but man, it really pisses him off sometimes that he has to be the one to protect a promise you were the first to suggest.

He brings a hand to collect your hair and nip at your neck, kissing it, tracing its slope with his tongue and sucking fervently at the supple skin. As if that's enough, as if it could compare to the glowing promise that being buried inside you represents. His cock twitches at the thought, the movement causing you to expel another string of holy affirmations.

His eyes land on the hand that grips at the fabric of his shirt as you whimper into his ear and the air thickens with the scent of spit, sweat, and desire.

The engagement ring on your finger has become a symbol of dread. So close to having you bound to him forever, and yet the time couldn't come fast enough.

His chest rises and falls dramatically with every shallow breath. It's all too much — the blood rushing south, the precum he can feel leaking from his tip and soiling his underwear, the line of sweat that transfers from your forehead to his as you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe against his mouth — it's all too good. 

But it's not enough.

He's tired of it, and you're not making things easier with your pathetic whimpers and your feverish body clinging to him. He can feel your pussy clenching around nothing through the layers of clothing dividing you. If he didn't know any better, he might’ve thought you wore a skirt on purpose to further drive him mad. He might be a patient man —loving, understanding, doting— but he's still a man.

“Just the tip,” he groans.

Your hips slow down as you struggle to comprehend what he just said, earning him a chance to will the cum threatening to spurt inside his jeans back.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head as you observe his blown pupils and his eyebrows upturned in desperate pleading.

“Just the tip, please.” 

Your lips part to draw a sharp breath as it dawns on you what he's asking for.

“But we promised,” you softly pronounce.

“It won't change anything if it's just the tip,” he promises. “It's barely anything. It'll be like the time you used your hand.”

He hopes your mind is too dizzy to comprehend that the two situations don't compare at all. 

Uncertainty casts over your features, but he can see a hint of consideration gleaming in your eyes at the idea. 

You'd be lying if you said you never considered loosening up on your convictions every now and then when you got so close to the act. But you didn't think you could handle disappointing Yuuta by breaking the promise you brought up in the first place. After all, he's so devoted to you and he promised to abide by your wishes no matter how long it took because the gratification when you finally joined in carnal pleasure would only make your commitment to each other all the more special. 

“As long as I get to be with you, the rest doesn't matter,” was what he said.

But now that he's looking up at you with such helpless eyes, like you're some sort of god he prays to, your morals take a toll.

His blue eyes stare adoringly into yours. 

“Please?” he asks again.

He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Please,” he insists, tugging on your bottom lip with his teeth, biting down just hard enough to cause a whisper of pain before alleviating the feeling with his tongue.

“Please, please, please, it hurts,” he whines, tears lining his lashes and threatening to spill as he reaches between you to palm himself over his jeans. “I can't take it anymore. I'm begging you, I need you, I love you.”

How could you possibly say no when he asks so nicely? 

You'd have to be made of stone to deny him the pleasure. You'd have to be a monster to not relieve him of his throbbing pain. You'd have to be the cruelest god to impose him with such inhumane punishment.

“Yuu,” you whisper, his pain reflecting on your face upon witnessing his desperation. 

“Please,” he sniffles.

“Okay.”

The word falls over him like a fresh breeze.

“Really? You mean it?” 

His lips curve into an eager smile, with butterflies fluttering in his stomach in anticipation.

You nod, happy to see his teary eyes light up.

“Just the tip.”

“Just the tip, I promise.”

He brushes away at his tears with the heel of his palm.

“You're an angel,” he murmurs as he cradles your face with one hand and starts guiding your hips over his erection again with the other. 

Soon enough, you're back to panting into each other's mouths, feverish and dizzy at your new promise to fulfill. 

Your hands fumble to undo his jeans, clumsily pulling down the zipper in fragments.

“Just the tip,” you huff, as he moans upon feeling your clammy hands palm him through his underwear.

You pull on his briefs just enough for his erection to spring free.

“Oh, god,” you exhale, in awe of the intense red that consumes the head of his cock. Precum oozes from the tip, balls heavy as if he's seconds away from bursting. It's no wonder he looked so pained. 

“Just the tip,” he reminds you kindly as he pets your hair, heart rate spiking when he watches your thumb trace over his leaking tip.

He flips you over so that you're pressed onto the sofa while he hovers over you and hooks his fingers around your pink cotton panties, tugging them down your hips with ease and tossing them onto the floor, leaving you in your skirt.

The sight of your bare cunt — already a sopping wet mess from everything that now counts as foreplay — makes his cock twitch.

With his weight balanced on one forearm, he carefully drags himself between your folds, the most sinful sound reaching your ears as he coats his length in your juices. His free hand cradles your face as he bends down to capture your mouth in a heated kiss. His tongue pushes against yours, swallowing each of your moans as your hands lose themselves in his raven hair. 

With fingers trembling in excitement, he lets you go and starts lining himself to penetrate your insides.

“Yuu,” you gasp.

He watches in fascination as his reddened tip squeezes in and slowly disappears inside you, your cunt glistening with enough arousal that you barely feel any pain in the sudden stretch. In fact, Yuuta swears he can feel you suck him in the tiniest bit further as you flutter around the foreign member in your body. He can feel himself grow weaker as he's hit with the warmth and wetness of your insides. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, face dropping into the crook of your neck.

The overwhelming ecstasy of knowing he's connected to you burns at every inch of his skin as he scrambles to gather enough strength to pull out and push his tip back in again. 

You writhe under him, hands frantically pulling him in for a kiss. He complies. After all, you've gifted him with this — not that he wouldn't give in to your wishes otherwise. 

His brows furrow in concentration, eyes squeezed shut with the image of his tip swallowed by your insides flashing behind his eyelids. He pumps his head inside you — in and out, in and out — mesmerized by how good it feels even if it's barely a taste. 

It alleviates him… just a little.

He grips your hips with bruising force, rolling his hips further into you all at once, leaving a mildly burning sensation in its wake. 

A whine escapes your lips and your eyes close as you feel a tickle of his pubic hair brushing against your lower tummy. Your arms hook under his, bringing him close, scratching his back over his shirt.

An animalistic power washes over him, pushing him to penetrate the deepest part of you,  over and over again. His hand squeezes your face, demanding your attention and forcing you to meet his crazed gaze. His pupils are blown with lust, the gentle blue of his irises nearly gone. With the help of his thumb, he pries your mouth open, aggressively pushing his tongue against yours, relishing in the muffled cries of pleasure you release. 

The kiss is so needy, so aggressive, it's borderline painful and your jaw hurts from the tight grip of his hand. But it's still so fucking good.

When he pulls back, your eyes are lined with tears, much like his when he was begging to let you use just his tip minutes ago.

The sound of slapping skin echoes around you. Sloppy, wet, sinful.

“Yuuta, this doesn’t feel like just the tip,” you heave, feeling an unfamiliar knot tangling in your lower stomach. 

“It is, baby. I swear.”

You both know he's lying but you're too caught up in each other to care.

Your legs wrap around him, barely granting him enough space to move, but he doesn't care. This is better, this is what he needs to relieve the mild guilt that stems from lying to you, because this means you're just as thrilled by him ruining you as he is. And if you're so unwilling to ease your hold on him, he might as well kill two birds with one stone tonight and fill you to the brim with his cum.

The possibility of knocking you up has him reeling. A breathless laugh pushes past his lips as he looks down at you.

You're such a pretty mess and he's so in love. Your pussy does such a good job at sucking him in and he's so fucking drunk on it. 

The image of you sprawled below him, sweating and whining out his name will be burned into his memory forever. And you do have forever promised, he remembers. That ring on your finger — the very finger on the very hand that's creeping between your bodies to toy with your clit — stands as proof.

You perverted little thing, he thinks, as he feels you bucking your hips upward to meet his thrusts halfway.

“Yuuta, my god, oh my god!” you whimper as his strokes grow even sloppier and he grows even heavier on your body.

“Feel good, angel?” he taunts, using the nickname he imposed on you back before you became such a needy disaster.

An airy chuckle bubbles up his throat when you fervently nod and caress his cheek. He hooks an arm under your leg, pressing it further into your chest in a semi-mating press position. 

He carelessly thrusts his hips a few more times before he's washed over with a glorious relief that he pours inside you, marveling at the way your insides flutter around him, milking him dry with every wanton squeeze.

It's like you want to get knocked up, he thinks.

His hold on your leg loosens and his weight tumbles down on top of you as you work your way to clarity. 

He moves around on the limited space of the sofa so that you can snuggle into his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around you as he presses soft kisses onto the crown of your head.

You can feel his cum leaking from your insides and seeping into the couch cushions, but it'll be a while before either of you care to clean up your mess.

His warm embrace coaxes you to sleep. As you're teetering the line of peaceful slumber, a familiar thought pops into your head.

“Yuuta,” you murmur.

“Hm?”

“What we just did wasn't wrong, was it?”

He looks down at you, fingers lifting your chin so he can see your face. Your eyes are wide with worry. The duality with which you're able to confront these matters will forever be a mystery to him. 

His gaze softens and a smile graces his lips.

“Don't worry, angel. This was innocent.” 

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“It's pure love.”

Back to masterlist

[mingi-s-dimples]

Pushed too far - JongJoong

~reader has been thinking about "playing" with Jongho for so long, teasing him around the house and in front of the other members (she’s the group’s submissive that they share). Hongjoong won’t allow it because Jongho is a little more rough than she’s used to. So Jongho shows reader exactly how rough he can be, and Hongjoong can’t help but to participate 🤭~ req. by @miyaluvvsyou

pairing: hongjoong x fem!reader x jongho

genre: 18+, filth

summary: when you tipped the stakes just a little bit higher than you're supposed to.. jongho made sure to let you know just how rough he is.

wc: 4.9k

warnings: rough dom!jongho, softer dom!hongjoong, reader is ateez's fuck toy, neck choking, bulge kink (thru pants and neck/stomach i promise it's nothing too wild), hair pulling, head pushing, double blowjob, multiple orgasms, loooooots of cum, deepthroating, cursing, some pet names, 3some, lots of teasing, manhandling, unprotected (boo use protection irl!), completely consensual!, for sure forgot something, might edit later (probably).

Author's Note: this was hot ngl. tysm sweetie for requesting this... this was truly inspiring LMAO, i wrote it it one day :>. AND I ALSO LOVE HOW IT IS so it's a win win ^^. i hope you like itttttttt if you do plsplspls let me know down below or dm me ^^

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the members.

The penthouse was buzzing with low chatter and the occasional clink of ice against glass, but none of that mattered—not when the real tension in the room was crackling between you and Jongho like a live wire, waiting to snap.  

You had been at this for weeks, pushing, testing, toeing the line Hongjoong had drawn between you and the one man you weren’t allowed to have. Jongho was too rough, he had said. Too intense. He wouldn’t hold back the way the others did, wouldn’t handle you with the same measured control.  

But that was exactly what you wanted. So you pushed.  

Tonight, you were being particularly cruel. Draped lazily over the armrest of Jongho’s chair, your bare legs stretched out across his lap, your silk shorts riding dangerously high. Every few minutes, you shifted—innocently, sweetly—just enough to brush against him. You let your fingers dance along the hard muscle of his arm, traced slow, teasing circles against his bicep, whispering soft, honeyed nothings just to see how long he could take it.  

Jongho had been silent the entire time. His drink sat untouched in his hand, his other arm draped over the back of the chair, muscles flexed so tight you could see the strain in his forearm. His jaw was locked, his throat bobbing with every controlled breath, his legs stiff beneath yours.  

You bit your lip, suppressing a grin. He was close. So close.  

Time to end him.  

You let your foot drop lower, your toes grazing the inside of his thigh. The movement was slow, deliberate, teasing. And then, as if it was the most casual thing in the world, you nudged your foot forward—right against the thick bulge straining beneath his sweatpants.  

Jongho inhaled sharply. His fingers twitched around his glass. But you weren’t done.  

You pressed a little harder, just enough to feel the outline of him through the fabric, your breathy little sigh slipping past your lips like a sweet, wicked confession. “Poor thing,” you murmured, voice laced with faux sympathy. “Bet that’s been aching for me for a while now, huh?”  

Glass shattered.  

You barely had time to process what had happened before Jongho moved. One second, you were smirking, enjoying the control you had over him—the next, you were being yanked off the armrest and into his lap, a sharp gasp escaping you as his hands gripped your thighs with bruising force.  

“Fuckin’ brat,” he muttered, voice low, dark, dangerous. His hands tightened, keeping you pinned against him, the hard length of him pressing against your core through thin layers of fabric. “You have no idea what you just did.”  

Across the room, Hongjoong hummed in amusement, setting his drink down as he stood. “Oh, I think she knows exactly what she did.” His lips curled into a knowing smirk as he watched you squirm in Jongho’s grasp. “She’s been waiting for this.”  

Jongho exhaled through his nose, chest heaving as he stared down at you. His pupils were blown wide, his restraint hanging by a thread.  

You swallowed, lips parting as your breath hitched. “So,” you whispered, voice soft, teasing. “Are you gonna do something about it?” Jongho snapped.  

In a blur of movement, you were hoisted up and thrown over his shoulder, a surprised squeal slipping past your lips as he stormed toward the bedrooms.  

“Hey!” you whined, kicking your legs, but his arm tightened around your waist, holding you in place like a ragdoll.  

Behind you, Hongjoong let out a low chuckle, following close behind. “No point in fighting it now, sweetheart,” he taunted, voice laced with something dark and eager. “You asked for this.”  

As Jongho shoved open the bedroom door, dragging you inside with zero hesitation, one of the other members exhaled heavily from the couch, shaking his head.  

“Well…” he muttered, smirking as he took a sip of his drink. “She’s fucked.”  

And as the door slammed shut behind you, locking you in with two ravenous men who had been waiting for this moment for far too long, you realized—  

He was absolutely right.

The second the door slammed shut behind you, Jongho wasted no time. His hands were on you instantly, rough and possessive, dragging you closer as his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. His shirt had already been discarded, and now his dark eyes raked over you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.  

“You think you’re funny?” His voice was low, dangerous, the calm before the storm.  

Your lips curled into a smirk, tilting your head up at him defiantly. “A little.”  

Wrong answer.  

Jongho scoffed, fingers tightening around the hem of the oversized shirt you had stolen—his shirt, because you liked the way it smelled like him. But right now? He didn’t seem to care about sentimentality.  

“Not anymore, you’re not,” he growled before yanking it off you in one swift motion, leaving you in just your barely-there shorts. His gaze darkened, jaw clenching as he took in the sight of your bare skin. His palm traced the side of your waist, fingers flexing like he was restraining himself from grabbing you too roughly.  

But then his control snapped—because those tiny, teasing shorts were mocking him.  

With one sharp tug, he had them halfway down your thighs before you could protest, his hungry gaze drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.  

Behind him, Hongjoong let out a low chuckle. “Mind if I join in?”  

Jongho didn’t even hesitate. He glanced back at him, pupils blown wide, and rasped, “You better come here.”  

Hongjoong smirked and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before stepping closer. The two of them towered over you now, chests bare, muscles flexing under the dim lighting.  

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as you knelt at the edge of the bed, looking up at them with wide, innocent eyes—eyes that only made them harder.  

Jongho’s sweatpants did nothing to hide how much he wanted you. The thick, aching outline of his cock pressed tightly against the fabric, straining almost painfully. Hongjoong wasn’t far behind, the bulge in his jeans prominent as he tilted his head, watching you with that ever-calculating gaze.  

“Look at you,” Hongjoong murmured, voice smooth, teasing. “Got exactly what you wanted, didn’t you?”  

Jongho let out a slow, shaky exhale, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Not yet,” he muttered. “But she will.”  

And just like that, the last of your teasing had run its course. Jongho reached for his waistband. And you knew—this was only the beginning. 

Jongho smirked down at you, tilting his head slightly, amusement flickering behind his darkened eyes. His hands settled on his hips, his cock still straining against his sweatpants, evident even in the dim lighting of the room.  

“Now what are you gonna do about it, hm?” His voice was deep, slow, condescending.  

You swallowed, heat pooling in your stomach at his tone.  

Hongjoong chuckled, brushing a thumb across his bottom lip as he watched you from the side. “You’ve been begging for this for so long, sweetheart,” he mused. “Are you gonna take us like a good girl? Or are you just all talk?”  

Jongho clicked his tongue. “I think she wants to prove herself,” he drawled, eyes burning into yours. “Wants to show us how desperate she is. Isn’t that right?”  

You couldn’t answer—not with the way they were looking at you, towering over you like they had been waiting for this moment just as much as you had. Your body felt hot, heavy, completely under their control without them even touching you.  

So instead of speaking, your hands moved on their own.  

Your fingers ghosted over the thick outline of Jongho’s cock first, pressing lightly through the fabric of his sweatpants, feeling the sheer heat of him underneath. He let out a slow exhale, his jaw tightening at the sensation.  

Then, your other hand found Hongjoong’s jeans, palm smoothing over his length, feeling how hard he was beneath the rough material. His breath hitched ever so slightly, but his lips curled into a knowing smirk, eyes half-lidded as he watched you.  

“You’re trembling,” Jongho murmured. His voice was quieter this time, taunting. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You were so confident earlier.”  

You sucked in a shaky breath, your fingers tightening around the fabric of their pants as if grounding yourself. Then, without another word, you hooked your fingers into the waistbands of their pants and pulled.  

Hongjoong let out a low chuckle. Jongho groaned. And then— Their cocks sprung free.  

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes flickering between them, heat flooding your veins.  

Jongho’s was thick, heavy, the head flushed a deep red from how hard he was. A bead of precum sat at the tip, evidence of just how much you had worked him up. Hongjoong’s was just as impressive, slightly longer, the veins along the shaft prominent as he exhaled slowly, watching your reaction with amusement.  

You barely registered the way your thighs pressed together, how your breathing grew uneven as you stared.  

Jongho let out a breathy laugh, his fingers brushing along your jaw. “Speechless now, are we?”  

Hongjoong leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, tilting your chin up. “You’ll be using that pretty little mouth soon enough.”  

And from the way their eyes darkened even further, you knew—  

You were in for it.

Your lips parted, tongue darting out instinctively as your eyes flickered between them. The sheer size of them, the heat radiating off their bodies, the way they were both staring down at you with predatory intent—it had you dizzy.  

Hongjoong smirked, brushing a hand through your hair as he nodded toward Jongho. “Go on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Show him what that mouth of yours can do.”  

Jongho didn’t say a word. He just watched you, eyes dark and burning with expectation. So, you did.  

Your fingers wrapped around the base of his cock first, warmth pulsing against your palm as you leaned in. You started slow, kitten-licking the tip, feeling the way he tensed under your touch. Then, you parted your lips and took him in, inch by inch, savoring the weight of him on your tongue.  

Jongho inhaled sharply, his head tilting back slightly as his grip tightened at his sides. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice strained.  

You bobbed your head, working him deeper, your tongue swirling around his length as your other hand reached for Hongjoong. Your fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking him in tandem with your movements, teasing him even as you focused on Jongho.  

Hongjoong let out a low chuckle, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Such a good girl for us.”  

You hummed around Jongho in response, the vibrations making his breath hitch. His patience was wearing thin—you could feel it in the way his fingers twitched, his thighs tensed, his chest heaved.  

And then, suddenly, his hand tangled in your hair, tugging you off him with a wet pop.  

“I don’t feel like sharing,” he rasped. His pupils were blown wide, his jaw clenched. “Not like this.”  

Before you could react, he guided your head toward Hongjoong’s cock instead, pushing you to take him next. Your lips barely had time to part before Hongjoong slid in, groaning as he felt the warmth of your mouth around him.  

You tried to pace yourself, but Jongho wasn’t having it. His grip tightened, tilting your head just so before he muttered, “Open wider.” And then—he pushed you back toward his cock, his length brushing against Hongjoong’s as he nudged himself past your lips again. Your eyes widened as you felt them both pressing at your mouth, Jongho’s impatience clear in the way he guided you to take them together.  

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice deep, teasing. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”  

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Let’s see how much you can handle, sweetheart.”  

And from the way Jongho smirked down at you, one thing was clear—  You were about to find out.  

Jongho's grip in your hair tightened, a silent warning before he and Hongjoong began moving in tandem, setting a brutal pace.  

Your throat burned, lips stretched wide as they thrust into your mouth, using you just how they wanted. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, slipping down your cheeks as you gagged around them, but the needy whimpers vibrating in your chest only spurred them on.  

"Look at her," Hongjoong groaned, his fingers tangling deeper in your hair. "So fucking pretty like this—just a little mess between us, yeah?"  

Jongho let out a low chuckle, but his jaw was clenched, his restraint hanging by a thread. His cock twitched every time he felt the tight squeeze of your throat, every time he saw your pretty eyes glass over with need. He wanted to finish—God, he wanted to—but he refused to be the first. His pride wouldn’t allow it.  

So he held back, even as his body screamed for release, watching through half-lidded eyes as Hongjoong fucked into your mouth a little faster, his own control fraying.  

"Fuck," Hongjoong exhaled, his hips stuttering. His fingers tightened in your hair before a sharp inhale hissing escaped through his teeth. "Shit—"  

Hongjoong let out a shuddering breath, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips jerked forward. “Fuck—” he hissed, voice strained. His cock twitched against your tongue, and a second later, he groaned deep, spilling himself inside your mouth.  

The heat of it coated your tongue, the bitter taste making your body tremble. He didn’t pull out right away, his breath uneven as he let the aftershocks of his orgasm ride out. Then, with a sharp inhale, he finally eased back, his release dripping from the corner of your lips.  

You barely had time to process it before Jongho took control. His patience had run out.  

A hand tangled in your hair, forcing you onto his cock with a harsh thrust. The sudden depth made your throat clench around him, your eyes going wide as a strangled sound escaped you.  

Jongho groaned, head tilting back slightly, his other hand pressing against your cheek, feeling the bulge in your throat as he fucked deep into your mouth. His muscles were tight, his control slipping with every drag of your lips around him.  

“Fuck,” he growled. “That’s it—take it all.”  

You tried to breathe, tried to keep up, but he wasn’t letting you go.  

His hips snapped forward one last time, burying himself deep as his cock pulsed. Hot spurts of cum flooded your throat, thick and overwhelming, making you choke around him. Your nails dug into his thighs, your body shaking, but he didn’t move—he held you there, making sure you took every drop.  

Only when your throat convulsed around him did he finally pull out, a thin string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to his tip. Your chest heaved as you gasped for air, dazed and spent, but Jongho wasn’t finished with you just yet. His fingers tilted your chin up, dark eyes locking onto yours.  

“Swallow.”  

Your breath hitched, but you obeyed, tongue darting out to catch what lingered on your lips before you swallowed every last drop. Jongho groaned, thumb brushing against your lower lip. “Good girl.” Then, with one firm push, he sent you sprawling onto the bed.  

Your back hit the mattress, your mind still hazy, as the two men finally kicked off the pants that had been pooled at their ankles.  

Your pulse raced, anticipation curling in your stomach as you stared up at them—both fully bare now, standing at the edge of the bed, looking at you like they were ready to devour you whole.  

And from the heat in their eyes, from the way Jongho cracked his neck and Hongjoong smirked down at you— You knew they weren’t anywhere near done.

Jongho ran a hand through his hair, his chest still rising and falling with exertion, but his eyes? His eyes were locked onto you, full of unrestrained hunger.  

“Fuck, look at her,” he muttered, his voice rough, raw. “She’s already ruined, and we haven’t even started.”  

Hongjoong hummed in agreement, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. But then, an idea flickered in his gaze—one that made his cock twitch back to full hardness. He leaned in slightly, voice low, teasing.  

“I think I have an idea,” he murmured, making sure Jongho was paying attention. “You’re gonna love this.”  

Jongho’s jaw flexed as he listened, his dark eyes narrowing, and then— A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips.  

“Perfect.”  

Before you could even catch your breath, they moved.  

Jongho grabbed your legs, lifting you effortlessly as Hongjoong settled himself against the headboard. You let out a soft gasp as your back was pulled flush against his chest, his cock—still sensitive, still dripping from earlier—pressing hot and heavy against your ass.  

His arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you snug in place as he leaned down, whispering against your ear.  

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement lacing his tone. “You’re gonna need it.” But Jongho wasn’t in the mood to wait.  

You barely had time to process what was happening before he was there—towering over you, gripping your thighs, spreading you wide for himself. His breath was uneven, his control frayed, and without so much as a warning— He pushed in.  

Your body arched, a choked sound escaping your lips as Jongho buried himself deep in one swift, brutal thrust. No teasing, no slow adjustment—just the sudden, overwhelming stretch of him filling you completely.  

Your fingers dug into Hongjoong’s thighs, your legs trembling as Jongho set a relentless pace, fucking into you hard, fast, possessive. Your head tipped back against Hongjoong’s shoulder, mouth open, breathless.  

“Fucking hell,” Jongho growled, his grip bruising on your thighs. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be ruined?”  

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think—only moan as he fucked you senseless. But then—  Jongho shot Hongjoong a glance. A silent signal. And Hongjoong understood immediately.  The arm around your waist tightened, and suddenly—you felt it. The thick press of his cock nudging at your entrance alongside Jongho’s. A soft, broken sound escaped you. Your body jolted, legs shaking, but Hongjoong just shushed you gently, pressing a kiss to your temple as he started to push in.  

The stretch was unbearable.  

The feeling of them both inside you at once had your mind blanking, your breath hitching into little whimpers as your body struggled to take them.  

But they didn’t care.  

They were focused only on the way you clenched around them, the way your body trembled, the way your nails dug into Hongjoong’s arms as they filled you together, stretching you beyond what you thought you could handle.  

And then— They moved.  

A sharp cry ripped from your throat as Jongho’s hips snapped forward, burying himself deep just as Hongjoong thrust up into you. There was no adjustment period, no easing you into it—they were already ruining you, just like they promised.  

The pace was brutal, overwhelming. Jongho’s grip on your thighs tightened, using them for leverage as he fucked into you hard, deep, his body completely lost to the feeling of you wrapped so tightly around him.  

Hongjoong groaned low against your ear, his fingers trailing down to press against your clit as he rolled his hips up into you, pushing impossibly deeper.  

Your body shook, overstimulated, overwhelmed, tears slipping down your cheeks as they took you together—fucking you open, stretching you beyond anything you’d ever experienced.  

Their pace didn’t slow—it only grew rougher.  

Jongho’s thrusts turned ruthless, his cock slamming into you with deep, unforgiving force, stretching you wide around him. Hongjoong groaned against your neck, his hands gripping your waist tightly, his own thrusts erratic as he drove himself up into you from below.  

You were wrecked between them, their cocks dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, pushing you higher and higher. Your body trembled, your nails digging into Hongjoong’s thighs, your legs barely holding up.  

“Look at you,” Jongho growled, voice wrecked, gripping your waist even tighter. “So fucking desperate, so fucking full.”  

Your breath hitched, tears pricking at your eyes. “Please—”  

Hongjoong chuckled against your skin, pressing a hot kiss to your shoulder. “Please what, sweetheart?”  

A sob tore from your throat. “Let me come—please, I need to—”  

Jongho cursed under his breath, his grip turning bruising. “Fuck—”  

Hongjoong groaned, hips stuttering for a moment. “You gonna come for us, baby?” His voice was dripping with heat. “Gonna let us feel you?”  

That was all it took.  

Your body seized up between them, your head tipping back, a choked cry escaping your lips as pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your walls clenched down hard, milking their cocks, leaving you shaking and gasping.  

That sent them over the edge.  

“Shit—” Jongho lost it first, slamming deep one last time as his cock throbbed inside you, his release spilling hot and thick. The feeling of him filling you up sent Hongjoong right after, his grip on your hips tightening as he groaned into your skin, emptying himself inside you, stuffing you impossibly full with their combined release.  

The overstimulation made your whole body tremble, soft whimpers spilling from your lips as their hips twitched against you, drawing out every last drop.  

Jongho pulled out with a low groan, watching his release leak out of you, mixing with Hongjoong’s. Something dark flashed in his eyes.  

“You’re not done yet, sweetheart,” he murmured.  

Before you could catch your breath, Jongho flipped you over, pressing your face into Hongjoong’s lap. The older man chuckled, brushing damp strands of hair from your face as you blinked up at him, dazed.  

His cock was still hard, slick with release, right in front of your lips.  

“Open up, baby,” Hongjoong murmured, his fingers tracing your jaw. “Let’s see that pretty mouth of yours.”  

Your lips parted instinctively, your tongue darting out to tease his tip.  

Behind you, Jongho was already moving again, gripping your hips and thrusting back inside you without hesitation, filling you up with their combined mess.  

A muffled cry escaped you, your throat tightening around Hongjoong’s cock as Jongho started moving again, his thrusts just as deep, just as brutal.  

“Fuck—” Hongjoong groaned, his head tipping back as you swallowed around him. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”  

Jongho’s breath was ragged as he fucked into you, his cock pushing every bit of their release deeper inside you. “You’re taking us so well,” he muttered darkly. “Hope you’re ready, because we’re not stopping yet.”  

And from the way they were both panting, their hands gripping you tighter, their eyes locked onto you with nothing but hunger—  

You knew they were about to ruin you all over again.  

Their pace was merciless.  

Jongho was buried deep inside you, slamming into you with raw, relentless force, hitting every spot that had you seeing stars. His grip on your waist was bruising, holding you in place as he pounded into you, making you take every inch.  

At the same time, Hongjoong had a fist tangled in your hair, guiding your head down onto his cock, forcing you to take him deeper than before. The tip nudged against the back of your throat, making your eyes sting with tears as you swallowed around him.  

“Look at her,” Hongjoong groaned, his free hand cupping your jaw as he watched the tears spill onto his lap. “So fucking pretty like this.”  

Jongho’s breath was ragged behind you, his thrusts only getting rougher. “She wanted to be a tease, huh? Wanted to act like she could handle me?” He let out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Bet you’re regretting it now.”  

Your muffled cries were drowned out by the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, of your mouth working over Hongjoong’s cock, of the slick mess Jongho was thrusting into. Your body was trembling, overwhelmed, teetering on the edge once again.  

And when they both pushed as deep as they could—  

Hongjoong inching further down your throat, Jongho stretching you wide with one final, brutal thrust—  It hit you like a tidal wave.  

Your body tensed, your back arching as the orgasm crashed over you, your walls clenching around Jongho so hard it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. But this time— You didn’t just come.  

You squirted.  

A sharp cry was muffled around Hongjoong’s cock as your release gushed out of you, soaking Jongho, the sheets, everything in its path.  

Jongho *froze* for a split second—before a deep, pleased chuckle rumbled from his chest.  

“Fuck—look at this messy little thing,” he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. “She just fucking squirted all over us, Joong.”  

Hongjoong groaned, thrusting harder into your mouth, pushing you right to the brink of overstimulation. “Shit, baby. That was—” His sentence was cut off by his own wrecked moan.  

Jongho smirked, still buried deep inside you. “Come on, Captain. Pick up the pace. Let’s *really* wreck her.”  

And just like that, Hongjoong’s grip on your hair tightened.  

He didn’t hold back.  

He fucked into your mouth with sharp, deep thrusts, making you choke around him, your throat spasming. Your fingers curled into the sheets, your body barely able to hold itself up, completely at their mercy.  

A few more thrusts—Hongjoong gritted his teeth, his hips stuttering—  

“Fuck—”  

With a low groan, he buried himself deep one last time, his cock twitching as he came straight down your throat, hot and thick. The taste of him flooded your mouth, dripping from the corners of your lips, but before you could even think about pulling away—  

Jongho *grabbed* your jaw.  

“Swallow.” His voice was low, commanding.  

You obeyed immediately, the muscles of your throat working as you took every last drop, a soft whimper escaping your lips.  

Jongho *grinned*.  

“Good girl.”  

But he wasn’t done.  

Before you could even process what was happening, he *yanked* your head back by your hair, arching your spine, making your back curve beautifully for him.  

It made you take him even *deeper*.  

You sobbed out his name, hands gripping at anything you could reach, your body trembling. The sheer angle of his cock had you completely wrecked, hitting spots so deep you swore you could *feel* him in your stomach.  

The sounds spilling from you only made him go harder.  

“Not so bratty now, are you?” Jongho growled, his grip tightening as he pounded into you. “Not teasing me now, huh?”  

Your walls clenched desperately around him, squeezing every inch, and that was it— His breath hitched, his hips slamming into you one last time, burying himself deep as he let go.  

“Fuck—”  

His release filled you up once more, hot and overwhelming, stuffing you full until you felt like you couldn’t possibly take anymore.  

He groaned through gritted teeth, thrusting a few more times, making sure every drop stayed inside you, before finally stilling.  

For a long moment, the room was filled with nothing but heavy breaths. Then— Hongjoong chuckled, his fingers tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.  

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before teasing him like that.”  

Jongho, still panting, smirked as he let your body collapse against the mattress.  

“But honestly?” He exhaled, dragging his fingers down your trembling thighs, admiring the mess they’d made of you.  

“You should do it more often.” 

Your body was spent, trembling from exhaustion as you lay limp against the mattress, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.  

Jongho, still hovering over you, watched the way his cum slowly dripped from between your thighs, his expression dark with satisfaction.  

But then, something shifted.  

The intensity in his eyes softened, and his hands—so rough just moments ago—were suddenly gentle as he ran them over your body, soothing the marks he’d left behind.  

Hongjoong chuckled beside you, dragging the pads of his fingers down your arm, his touch featherlight.  

“Look at her,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. “Completely ruined.”  

Jongho hummed, leaning in closer, his lips ghosting over your skin. “Mhm… but she’s *ours*, isn’t she?”  

Before you could answer, he *bit down* on your neck, right where everyone would *see*.  

A sharp gasp left your lips as his teeth sank in, not enough to hurt—but enough to mark you. To claim you.  

The sting faded into pleasure as he trailed kisses along your collarbones, biting down again, this time just above your breast.  

Hongjoong exhaled a laugh, watching the possessiveness unfold with a knowing smirk.  

“You just *had* to mark her up, didn’t you?”  

Jongho pulled back slightly, admiring his work. The faint bruises on your skin, the evidence that you *belonged* to them.  

“Damn right,” he muttered.  

You whined softly, your body too exhausted to even pretend to be bratty anymore. Hongjoong wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest, his warmth instantly comforting.  

“Mm, let’s get cleaned up,” he murmured against your hair.  

Jongho smirked, brushing his lips over your ear. “Let’s take a shower together.”  

Hongjoong raised a brow, teasing. “What, no *round two*?”  

Jongho rolled his eyes, but his smirk didn’t waver. “You *wish* she could handle another round right now.”  

You let out a breathless laugh, melting between them as they both chuckled, their bodies surrounding you in warmth.  

And as they carried you off to the shower, you knew one thing for sure—  

You were so in for it next time.

NETWORKS:

@blossomnet

@illusionnet

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@mingleshine @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117 @cypher-03 @peachy-bell26 @atiny1 @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @atzlordz @chai0tea @miyaluvvsyou

[mocchiixxx]

Masterpiece in Progress

Genre: Fluff, Humor, Established Relationship

Summary: Minghao is effortlessly painting a masterpiece, while his girlfriend—who wasn’t exactly blessed with artistic talent—decides to join him. With determination (and questionable brushstrokes), she presents her creation, eagerly waiting for his reaction. Minghao’s mouth says nothing, but his face? Oh, it says everything. Cue playful teasing, affectionate banter, and a masterpiece that’s more about love than artistry.

Minghao’s hand moved gracefully across the canvas, his brush gliding over the surface with effortless precision. You sat beside him in his art studio, watching as he blended colors together like magic. The way he focused, eyebrows slightly furrowed, lips pressed in deep thought— it was mesmerizing.

"You make it look so easy," you mumbled, dipping your brush into the paint.

Minghao glanced at you with a small smile. "It's all about patience and practice," he said, his voice calm as he continued working.

You hummed in response, determination sparking in your eyes. You might not be blessed with artistic talent, but that wasn’t going to stop you from trying. If anything, you just wanted to be part of his world, even for a moment.

So, you picked up your brush and confidently began painting on the small canvas in front of you. You weren’t exactly sure what you were going for—maybe a flower? A sunset? A cat? At some point, it kind of looked like all three at once.

You stole a glance at Minghao, who was completely immersed in his own work, so you continued. After a few minutes, you leaned back, analyzing your masterpiece. It was… abstract. Very abstract.

Proud of your effort, you turned to Minghao, holding up your canvas. "What do you think?"

He finally looked away from his painting and shifted his gaze to yours. His lips parted slightly, and for a solid five seconds, he just… stared.

His mouth said nothing.

But his face? Oh, it screamed everything.

His brows twitched. His lips pressed into a firm line as if trying to suppress a reaction. His eyes flickered from the canvas to you and back again. You could practically hear his internal monologue fighting between honesty and sparing your feelings.

A laugh bubbled out of you as you nudged him playfully. "Say it. I know you want to."

Minghao exhaled, finally letting his expression catch up to his words. "...What is it?" he asked, genuinely trying to decode your painting.

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. "Excuse me, this is art!"

He pursed his lips, nodding slowly. "Yes. It definitely is… something."

You pouted. "I tried my best, okay? I just wanted to join you."

At that, Minghao's features softened, and he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. "I know," he murmured. "And I appreciate it."

Then, with a teasing smirk, he added, "Maybe we should frame it. Modern art is all about interpretation, after all."

You playfully swatted his arm. "Are you saying people need to interpret what this is supposed to be?"

Minghao chuckled, finally letting his full amusement show. "I mean... do you know what it is?"

You stared at your painting. You really, really wanted to argue. But... he had a point.

With a dramatic sigh, you slumped against his shoulder. "Fine. You win."

Minghao grinned, wrapping an arm around you. "No, we win. Because now, we have a masterpiece that represents teamwork and love."

You groaned. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Of course," he admitted smoothly, placing another kiss on your temple. "But it's true."

And just like that, your "masterpiece" found a place on the wall—right next to Minghao's actual work of art.

Because at the end of the day, what mattered most was the laughter, the teasing, and the love behind every brushstroke.

Even if your painting would forever be a mystery.

A/N: Let's be honest, Minghao’s face would absolutely give him away. Hope you liked this hihi!

[antinousletmehit]

˚₊‧꒰ა Chapter 17 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⋆˚࿔ Book 2 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

୨୧┇pairing: Telemachus x reader

୨୧┇aressss

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The heavy doors of the palace burst open as a breathless soldier stumbled inside, his face pale and slick with sweat. Raphael, reclining lazily on a cushioned chair with a goblet of wine in hand, barely spared him a glance. He was far more interested in admiring the deep red marks he had left on Y/n’s skin earlier that night. The sight of them brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction.

But when the soldier collapsed onto one knee before him, head bowed in urgency, Raphael’s grip on the goblet tightened. “My lord,” the soldier gasped, still catching his breath. “The men you sent—”

Raphael’s eyes finally flickered over to him, his once relaxed posture now tense. “Yes? What of them?” His voice was dangerously low.

The soldier hesitated, gulping.

“They’re dead.”

Silence.

The air in the chamber seemed to thicken. Raphael’s fingers twitched, his jaw clenching so tightly it could crack. The room felt smaller, the flickering torches casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. “All of them?” he finally asked, his voice eerily calm.

“Slaughtered.” The soldier refused to look up. “Not a single one returned, my lord.” Raphael’s heart pounded. He forced himself to breathe. No. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were meant to send a warning, not be wiped out like insects.

That meant—

He suddenly stood, sending the goblet crashing to the floor, wine splattering like blood across the marble. The sound echoed through the hall. The soldier flinched. Raphael didn’t waste another moment. He turned sharply on his heel and stormed down the halls, his steps echoing violently against the stone. Servants scrambled out of his way as he made his way toward his older brother’s chamber.

Endymion would not be pleased.

Raphael shoved the doors open without announcing himself, his chest still heaving. Endymion was seated near the fireplace, dressed in only a loose tunic, his thick black hair slightly damp from an earlier bath. He had a goblet in hand, though unlike Raphael, he seemed to be pacing himself, taking slow sips as if the world outside wasn’t on the verge of war. He barely looked up. “You’re making a lot of noise, brother.”

Raphael gritted his teeth and marched closer. “The men I sent—they’re dead.”Endymion exhaled through his nose as if he had expected this. He set the goblet down on the nearby table with deliberate slowness.

“And now you panic?” Endymion murmured, rubbing his temple.

“This isn’t a joke, Endymion!” Raphael snapped. “Telemachus and his crew are here! They’re picking us off like dogs, they’re coming!” Finally, Endymion stood, moving toward a large chest at the corner of the room. He opened it with a slow creak, reaching inside before pulling out something that glinted under the firelight.

A helmet.

Not just any helmet, a decorative one, carved with intricate details of goldeon laurels and obsidian lines running down the sides. It was meant to represent both royalty and war, a symbol of a warrior meant to lead armies. Endymion turned to face Raphael, holding it out with a groan.

“Then prepare for a real war, little brother.”

Raphael stared at the helmet, his heart still hammering in his chest. He slowly reached out, running his fingers over the cold metal. Endymion sighed, shaking his head. “You should have killed Telemachus the moment you took his wife. But no—you had to play with your food.” His blue eyes flickered over Raphael’s face with mild disdain. “And now, you’re dealing with the consequences.”

Raphael gripped the helmet tighter, his nails pressing into the metal. No. He wasn’t going to let that bastard take y/n back.

If war was what Telemachus wanted.

Then war was exactly what he would get.

——

The night air was thick with the scent of salt and damp earth as Antinous sat alone near the edge of the camp, sharpening his dagger with slow, methodical strokes. The others were sleeping, their bodies heavy with exhaustion, but he, he couldn’t sleep. Not with that voice still ringing in his head. It had been there in battle, deep and commanding, flooding his veins with rage, power. It wasn’t his own voice, he knew that much. And yet, it had felt… familiar.

He flexed his fingers, staring at his calloused hands. He should be worried. Should be unnerved. But instead, something in his gut itched—not with fear, but anticipation.

Then—a shift in the air.

Antinous froze. The wind had gone still. The usual sounds of the night, distant waves, rustling leaves, vanished. A presence loomed behind him, heavy and unmistakable. Without thinking, he moved. His instincts took over as he whirled around, fist flying toward whoever had dared to sneak up on him—

But it never landed.

A hand caught his punch mid-air.

Strong. Unyielding. Antinous’ breath hitched as his eyes met the figure standing before him. Tall. Broad shouldered. Cloaked in deep crimson. His skin was bronzed from war, his arms lined with scars, not from wounds, but from victories. His eyes, glowing like embers in a dying fire—bored into Antinous with a knowing smirk.

Ares.

Antinous felt his heartbeat slam against his ribs. He tried to yank his fist away, but Ares’ grip tightened just slightly—a silent reminder of his strength. “You’ve got a hell of a swing,” Ares mused, tilting his head. “But if you’re going to try and hit a god, boy, at least aim to kill.” Antinous barely heard him over the roar of his own pulse. Ares released his hand, stepping back just enough to observe him, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” The god’s voice was smooth, dangerous. “That power, surging in your bones, guiding your blade.” He leaned in slightly, smirking. “My power.” Antinous swallowed hard, his grip tightening around his dagger. He wanted to deny it—to question it—but deep down, he already knew the truth. That voice in battle. That rage. That strength.

It had been Ares all along.

——

Antinous took a shaky breath, his fingers still curled tightly around his dagger. He should’ve been afraid. Should’ve felt something other than the burning fire still coursing through his veins. But instead, all he felt was that same thrumming anticipation clawing at his insides. His voice was steady when he finally spoke. “Why me?”

Ares’ smirk widened. “Why not you?”

Antinous clenched his jaw. “Don’t give me that divine cryptic shit, why have you been in my head? Why are you helping me?”

Ares let out a low chuckle, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Help? Is that what you think this is?” His gaze flicked over Antinous, sharp and assessing. “I don’t help mortals, boy. I favor the ones that earn it.”

He stepped forward, his presence alone enough to make the air feel heavier. “You—you’re all brute strength. Unrelenting force. A blade with no hesitation.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something wild. “You’re my kind of soldier.” Antinous swallowed, his breath slow and controlled. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. Ares noticed. And grinned.

“You remind me of the men in Troy.” The god’s voice dripped with amusement. “Ah, the Trojan War… Now that was a battle. Blood, chaos, glorious carnage. I had so much fun watching fools rip each other apart for the gods’ little game.”

Antinous furrowed his brows. “And now?”

Ares let out a sharp breath, pacing slightly. “Now, I sense the same game being played all over again.” He gestured broadly to the sky. “The others are meddling, slinking around behind the scenes, shifting the tides of war for their own amusement. Just like before.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Pathetic.” Then, his gaze snapped back to Antinous, burning with excitement.

“But that just means more bloodshed. More war. And that—” He pointed at Antinous, his smirk growing feral, “that is why I’m here.” Antinous inhaled slowly. He should’ve felt used, like some pawn in a god’s game. But instead, he felt something else. That same hunger he’d felt in battle. That thrill.

Ares leaned in, voice dropping to something almost intimate. “Tell me, boy—” his grin widened, “don’t you want to see how far your strength can take you? Antinous stared at Ares, the war god’s grin widening as if he already knew the answer. And maybe he did. Maybe he had seen the fire burning in Antinous’s chest long before Antinous himself had realized it.

Strength. Power. Bloodshed.

Antinous had never cared for the gods’ games, but this—this was different. Ares wasn’t offering empty words or divine riddles. He was offering strength. And Antinous wanted it. He straightened his back, smirking. “Fine. Train me. Show me how to win this war.”

Ares let out a deep, satisfied laugh. “That’s what I like to hear.” He clapped a heavy hand on Antinous’s shoulder, his grip like iron. “But be warned, boy. My training is not for the weak-willed.”

Antinous scoffed. “Do I look weak to you?”

Ares grinned, but before he could respond—

“Antinous!”

A loud, annoyed voice cut through the night. Antinous turned just in time to see Eurymachus stomping toward him, arms crossed and looking thoroughly pissed off. “There you are, you bastard—what the hell are you doing out here?”

Antinous blinked. “I—”

“Don’t even start.” Eurymachus grabbed him by the arm, ignoring how much stronger Antinous was. “You disappear in the middle of the night, and now I find you talking to air like a lunatic? I swear, if I have to deal with one more—“

Ares just raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Hmph. You mortals get cranky so easily.”

Antinous sighed. “Eurymachus, let go.”

“No.” Eurymachus yanked him harder. “We’re going back to camp before you get yourself killed doing—whatever the hell this is.”

Antinous growled. “I’m training—”

“You’re sleeping.” Eurymachus shot back, already dragging him toward camp. “And if you even think about sneaking off again, I’ll personally throw you onto the front door of all of those Skiaphos soldiers.”

Ares just laughed as Antinous grumbled, letting himself be dragged off. “Try not to get too soft before training, boy,” the god called after him. “We start soon.” Antinous just smirked, already looking forward to it.

@procrastination20 @jackiepackiee @barrythestrawberry041 @blessedbyahuntress

@f3r4lfr0gg3r @permanently-nothere @eyuunho @jackintheboxs-world @simpingmyassoff @sunshinewhosketches

@sugarlillycookie @kaguraaaa @doodle-with-rhy

@0anodite0 @cocosparkel @tati-the-fangirl

@dazedemery @tsmaruchan

@holywizardprincess @galaxygurlll @pjopinkk

@h0ne4bee @minteaspoon @zendoesstuff

@yuvany @xo-cuteplosion-xo

[justarkive]

TABLE 3 | JJK ch19

“For good service, and cute waitresses.”

pairing: pre!military jk x waitress/secret fuckbuddy!oc

warnings: profanity, angst, humour, fluff, celebrity au, idol!jungkook , mentions of other kpop groups/idols, inner conflict, insecurity.

chap contents: mentions of drunk driving, jk is hungover, he snaps at like everyone lol, namjoon!! jk is YEARNING. he cries for like 80% of the chap again LOL, he overworks himself at the gym. thats p much it!!

wc: short

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @jenniebyrubies @dreamersparacosm @darklove2020 @rayyrayy10 @elinaki92 @alana4610 @bjoriis @kaitieskidmore97 @cuntessaiii

a/n: this is way better compared to the MESS of ch17 and 18 i just had to write this to give me some peace of mind lmao. anyways, enjoy loves.

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Jungkook wakes up to the worst fucking headache of his life.

For a second, he doesn’t even register where he is. His body feels heavy, sinking into the couch, the same couch where Nari had shoved him last night before slamming the door shut and telling him to fix things. His mouth is dry, his head is pounding, and when he rubs a hand down his face, his fingers graze over dried tear tracks. There’s an ache behind his eyes—too much crying, too much drinking, too much everything.

He blinks up at the ceiling, exhaling shakily. How the fuck is he supposed to fix this?

The bitter taste of whiskey lingers on his tongue, and when he pushes himself upright, his phone catches his eye. It’s lying face down on the coffee table. He debates not looking. Just leaving it there and pretending like it doesn’t exist. But, of course, he does.

He expects messages from you. Something. Anything.

But there’s nothing.

His heart sinks.

There’s just the same spam messages he’s been sending for the past two days—the ones you never answer. He doesn’t even know why he was hoping for anything else. He was stupid to think you’d text him. Stupid to think you’d even care to check in. But some pathetic, desperate part of him still thought… maybe. Even just a fuck you. Even just leave me alone.

But you gave him nothing.

And somehow, that hurts even more.

He drags himself off the couch, stretching his sore limbs as he moves through the apartment, the one he hasn’t really been in for the past day. He barely makes it to his bedroom before he regrets it.

Your scent is still in his sheets.

Your hair tie is still on his nightstand.

Your toothbrush is still sitting there in his bathroom, untouched.

His chest tightens. He swallows, willing himself to breathe, but it’s like the air has been sucked out of the room. He needs to get out. Right now.

So he does.

His apartments-gym is right there, but it isn’t enough. He needs to be somewhere else, anywhere else. So he heads to the studio gym instead. And then—he destroys himself.

Workout after workout, pushing himself until his muscles scream, until sweat drips down his skin, until his body feels like it’s being torn apart. He lifts until his arms shake, runs until his lungs burn, keeps going and going until the physical pain almost—almost—matches the ache inside his chest.

But it doesn’t.

Not even close.

Jungkook pushes past his limit. Past the burn in his muscles, past the shaking in his arms, past the screaming protest of his body telling him to stop. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to feel anything. But even that doesn’t work—because the second he’s done, the second he’s catching his breath, slumped over on a bench, sweat dripping onto the floor beneath him—he opens his phone.

And there’s still nothing.

His jaw clenches, a sharp exhale leaving his lips. His fingers twitch before he can even think. And then he’s spamming you—pathetically, desperately—like nothing has changed, like if he just pretends hard enough, he can make it real again.

Jungkook [1:43 PM]: just finished at the gym. you’d be proud. didn’t pass out even though i thought i would lol.

Jungkook [1:43 PM]: if i message you like everything’s normal, will you play along?

Jungkook [1:44 PM]: actually, never mind. don’t answer that question.

Jungkook [1:44 PM]: i love you.

Jungkook [1:44 PM]: i miss you.

Jungkook [1:45 PM]: please just call me. text me. anything.

Jungkook [1:46 PM]: i’m otw to another meeting now. love you always.

He stares at the messages. His fingers hover over the keyboard, waiting, waiting, waiting.

For what, he doesn’t even know.

The screen stays empty.

He swallows, locks his phone, shoves it in his pocket like that’ll make a difference. And then, without another thought, he gets up, grabs his bag, and walks out the gym doors, pretending—just like he said—like everything’s okay.

By the time Jungkook finally drags himself into the building, he looks like absolute shit. And he knows it.

The harsh fluorescent lights do nothing to help—if anything, they highlight the deep shadows under his eyes, the paleness of his skin, the way his clothes sit just a little looser on him after barely eating the past few days.

He barely makes it three steps inside before his manager spots him. There’s a noticeable double take, followed by a sharp inhale.

“Jesus, Jungkook,” his manager blurts out, eyes scanning him like he’s some kind of walking disaster. “What the hell happened to you?”

Jungkook exhales heavily, rubbing his temples. “Nothing.”

His manager narrows his eyes. “That is not nothing.”

“I just didn’t sleep well,” Jungkook mutters, rolling his shoulders like he can shake off the exhaustion clinging to him.

His manager stares at him for a long, scrutinizing moment before scoffing. “Yeah, no shit.”

Jungkook doesn’t even argue. Just sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets, bracing himself for whatever bullshit this day has in store.

He already knows it’s going to be hell.

Jungkook trudges through the building, head low, barely acknowledging anyone who greets him. The place feels suffocating today.

It’s not like he hasn’t walked these halls a million times before, but—fuck.

Today, everything reminds him of you.

The plants by the entrance—tall, leafy, vibrant green. You’d love them. You’d tell him how they make the place feel alive, how you wish the diner had more greenery, how your own apartment is practically a jungle.

Yellow. It’s everywhere. Some in the wallpaper on the walls, the color of the coffee cup in an employee’s hand, the obnoxiously bright sticky notes on a desk. Your favorite color. He can hear your voice so clearly—yellow is the happiest color, Jungkook, don’t you think?

Even the fucking keychains on some staff member’s bag—a lineup of tiny plushies—make his throat tighten.

Your bed is filled with them.

He can’t fucking do this.

His hands shake as he steps into the men’s bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink. His reflection stares back at him, looking as wrecked as he feels. His skin is dull, his eyes are bloodshot.

His breath stutters.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his palms against them.

Get it together.

A stall door creaks open behind him. Jungkook stiffens.

Then— “Hey.”

He already knows who it is before he turns. Namjoon.

The one person he doesn’t want to see. Not because he doesn’t trust him—he does. More than almost anyone. But because Taehyung definitely told him everything.

And Jungkook is not ready to hear it.

“Hyung,” he mumbles, trying to keep his composure.

Namjoon studies him carefully. Then, “You okay?”

Jungkook snaps. “No, I’m fucking not.”

His voice cracks.

Namjoon just exhales, unfazed. “Yeah. I figured.”

Jungkook looks away.

There’s a long pause.

And then—Namjoon sighs, walks over, and locks the bathroom door. “What—”

“Sit,” Namjoon says, sliding down against the wall.

Jungkook just stares at him. “What are you—”

“You’re about to explode.” Namjoon pats the floor next to him. “So just do it here before you do it in a meeting.”

Jungkook hesitates. Then—he crumbles. He slides down next to Namjoon, dropping his head back against the cold tile, and talks.

About everything.

The diner. The first time he saw you. How you had no fucking idea who he was.

“The first time I met her, I thought—I don’t know. I just thought she was different. But then she actually treated me like a normal guy, and I—” His voice breaks. “I didn’t realize how much I wanted that.”

Namjoon listens quietly. Jungkook keeps going.

The first date.

The way you told him you only saw him, not Jungkook of BTS.

The fucking field.

The dinner with your parents.

How he sat there, lying by omission, watching you laugh, watching your parents love him, knowing damn well he was going to ruin you. He talks. And talks.

Until finally—he just stops. He can’t say any more. His chest is tight. His throat burns. Namjoon exhales. Then, finally— “I told you to tell her.”

Jungkook shuts his eyes. “I know.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Jungkook swallows.

And then—finally—he admits it. “I was selfish.” His voice is hoarse. “I finally had something that made me feel real, and I didn’t want to accept that it was temporary.”

Namjoon stays quiet when Jungkook exhales, voice shaking. “I should’ve told her. I knew that. But every time I looked at her, I just—” He breaks off. “I couldn’t.”

There’s a long silence. Namjoon sighs.

“Look, Jungkook,” he says. “You fucked up. You know that. I know that. And there’s nothing I can say that will change that.”

Jungkook’s shoulders sink.

“But,” Namjoon continues, “what I see is two people who were obviously in love with each other. So now, the question is—what the hell are you going to do about it?”

Jungkook’s breath stutters.

“I don’t know if I can do anything.”

Namjoon looks at him. “You’re Jungkook. You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

A beat of silence.

Then, a knock on the door.

“Jungkook?” His manager’s voice. “You’re running late.” Jungkook shuts his eyes. He clenches his fists.

And then, slowly, he pushes himself up. Fixes his clothes. Rubs his face. Namjoon stands with him, pats his back. Jungkook turns to him.

Then—without thinking—he hugs him.

And for the first time in days, he feels just a little bit lighter.

——

Jungkook steps into the meeting room, head low, expression unreadable. His manager barely looks up from his laptop as he starts rattling off numbers.

“The tour was a success,” he says. “Revenue exceeded projections. The engagement was at an all-time high—”

Jungkook tunes it out. He already knows all of this. The shows, the screaming fans, the flashing lights—none of it feels real anymore. Not after you.

Not after he lost you.

His fingers twitch against his phone, lighting up with missed messages. Not from you.

From his members, his staff, his manager—everyone but the person he needs. “Jungkook?”

He blinks, looking up.

His manager eyes him. “Are you listening?”

He nods automatically.

“Good,” his manager exhales. “Anyway—your schedule is packed for the next few weeks. A few shoots, some pre-recorded content before your enlistment—”

Jungkook barely reacts. His manager glances at him.

“When are you cutting your hair shorter?” he asks. “You know it has to be done before—”

Before the military.

Jungkook clenches his jaw. His heart pounds.

He stares at his phone, at the messages he knows he shouldn’t send. His manager sighs. “Jungkook.”

He finally looks up. “You have three weeks,” his manager says plainly. “Three weeks before everything changes.”

Something inside Jungkook snaps.

“I know.” The words are sharp, bitter. His manager startles. The room goes silent. Jungkook realizes what he’s done. He clenches his fists.

Then—he bows.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I have to go.”

Before anyone can stop him, he turns, and storms out.

Three weeks.

Three weeks to make it right.

Three weeks to win you back.

Today— He’s finally going to fucking do something about it.

Jungkook grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white as he stares at his phone screen.

No messages. Like always.

His chest tightens. He’s been staring at your name for God knows how long, debating.

And then, he calls. Once.

Then twice.

Then again.

By the fifth call, he doesn’t even know why he’s doing this. It’s not like you’ll answer. But then, the ringing stops.

A click.

And suddenly, he hears your voice. He perks up immediately. Surprised.

“Oh my God, Nari, no—”

Laughter. Faint rustling. You’re talking to her.

Jungkook freezes, his breath caught in his throat.

“Hello?” His voice cracks. “Baby—hello?”

You don’t respond.

Then he hears it—

A shuffle, a muttered “Oh, shit—”

And then, beep.

Silence. The call ends. Jungkook stares at his screen. Call failed.

His heart sinks.

You didn’t pick up because you wanted to.

It was an accident. Jungkook exhales shakily, dropping his head against the seat. “Fuck.”

For the first time in days. He has no idea what to do next.

He’s been here for hours. Didn’t go to back to the meeting. Didn’t eat. Didn’t move. Just sat in his car, parked a few feet away from your building, watching the entrance like a lovesick idiot.

It’s pathetic. He knows it’s pathetic. But what else can he do? You’ve blocked his number. Ignored his texts. Avoided him at work. Nari has been actively making his life hell. And still—he waits.

Just in case. Just in case you glance at his car when you walk by. Just in case you hesitate. Just in case you miss him too.

And then, he sees you.

Walking up the sidewalk, head low, arms crossed. Nari is right beside you, talking, gesturing, but Jungkook knows you’re not really listening. You just look tired.

His stomach twists.

You used to light up whenever you saw him. Now you won’t even look around. Jungkook wills you to. He holds his breath, silently begging for you to look up, to notice him—

But then Nari’s eyes flick toward his car. And she does not hesitate.

She grabs your shoulders, turns you away so quickly that you stumble. Then she storms forward, dragging you into the building without so much as a glance in his direction.

Jungkook exhales, forehead falling against the steering wheel. Still nothing.

Still no reaction.

Still just—nothing.

——

Nari slams the door behind her, throwing her bag onto the couch.

“You’re not looking outside, right?” she demands, kicking off her shoes.

You blink, startled. “Uh. No?”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

You sigh. You know exactly what—or rather, who—she’s talking about. You shrug off your jacket, pretending like it doesn’t matter, like the knowledge that Jungkook has been outside all day hasn’t been sitting like a rock in your chest.

“I don’t care,” you mumble, heading to the kitchen.

Nari scoffs. “Yeah. That’s why you’re stirring your coffee like you wanna murder it.”

You glance down.

The spoon is practically scraping the bottom of the mug. You sigh. Loosen your grip. “I don’t care,” you say again.

“Right.” Nari flops onto the couch. “That’s why you didn’t even argue when I yanked you inside like a fucking bodyguard. So chill about it.”

You roll your eyes, but she’s not wrong. The truth is—

You do care.

You care that he was waiting. You care that he looked tired. You care that he’s been outside for hours and yet he still didn’t come up, didn’t force you to see him.

You care too much.

And that’s exactly why you can’t let yourself think about it.

“Alright, I’m heading out,” Nari announces, stretching as she gets up.

You frown. “Are you sure? You—”

She waves a hand. “Bitch, I love you, but I also love my bed.”

You snort.

She squeezes your shoulders. “You better call me if you feel like shit. Or if that dumbass does anything extra dumb.”

You smile. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She grins. Then—dead serious—“Block his number again.”

You groan. “Nari—”

“I’M JUST SAYING.” She presses a dramatic kiss to your forehead, grabs her bag, and heads out.

Jungkook is still there when she steps outside.

Still leaning against his steering wheel.

Still waiting. And when Nari walks past his car, she doesn’t even hesitate.

She flips him off.

Then slams her car door and drives off. Jungkook exhales sharply, rubbing his face with both hands. This is going to be a long fucking night.

——

Jungkook watches the lights in your apartment go off one by one. The living room first, a soft glow swallowed by the night. Then the kitchen, where he imagines you standing at the sink, rinsing out a mug, hands moving on autopilot. The hallway next, until the only thing illuminating the building is the neon flicker of the streetlights below and the soft glow of the bedroom window—the last piece of you still awake.

He waits.

Waits for that final flicker, that last sign that you’ve tucked yourself away from the world. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s a foolish hope that you’ll come running out last minute, breathless, eyes wide with a feeling you can’t suppress. But you don’t. The bedroom light clicks off, and it’s over.

Jungkook sighs, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He should go. He should have gone hours ago, before the cold set into his bones and the weight of regret made his chest feel like it was caving in. But he had just… waited. Sat there in his car like an idiot, watching your window like it would give him an answer.

But it doesn’t.

So finally, with one last glance up, he starts his car and drives away.

——

His apartment is dark when he steps inside, the air cold and undisturbed, like a place that’s been waiting too long for something to return. The door clicks shut behind him, echoing through the quiet. He exhales sharply and rubs a hand down his face, kicking off his shoes with a little too much force.

It’s too quiet.

The kind of quiet that lets thoughts creep in before you can stop them, filling the space with regrets, should-haves, and a thousand versions of what could have gone differently.

Jungkook groans, flopping onto the couch, staring at the ceiling like it holds some divine answer. “Okay,” he mutters to himself, voice hoarse. “Think.”

There has to be something he can do.

His phone screen glows as he lifts it, thumb hesitating over the search bar.

How to get your girlfriend back.

He stares at it for a second before he quickly backspaces the whole thing, ears burning. Cheeks blushing at the word: Girlfriend.

Not my girlfriend.

He tries again.

How to win back someone who hates you.

He glares at the words. How to fix a mistake when you really, really fucked up.

That seems more fitting. He presses enter.

A flood of results appear, as if the internet itself is sighing at him like a disappointed parent. Apologize sincerely. Give her space. Prove you’ve changed.

“Yeah, no shit,” Jungkook mutters, scrolling past the obvious.

Somewhere between Plan a grand romantic gesture! and Write a heartfelt letter, he stops. A different suggestion catches his eye.

Start small. Remind them of what you once were.

Jungkook blinks. Small. Simple.

Flowers.

His lips press together in thought, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, before he can think better of it, he’s searching again.

What flowers say “I’m sorry”?

The first answer makes him scoff. White tulips. Too on the nose. The second option—lilies—feels too funeral-ish, and the third… sunflowers? He huffs a laugh. Too bright.

Roses are too romantic. Orchids too dramatic.

He settles on something softer.

Daisies. Yellow ones.

They’re simple. Uncomplicated. They remind him of you—bright, warm, something that could grow even in the cracks of a sidewalk. And they say, “I’m thinking of you.”

Yeah. That’s enough for now.

Jungkook lets his phone drop onto his chest, staring at the ceiling again. His body feels heavy, but for the first time tonight, there’s a tiny flicker of warmth beneath the guilt.

It’s not enough to fix things. Not yet.

But tomorrow—tomorrow, he starts.

And with that thought, he finally lets sleep take him.

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 16

Prompt: Massage  Pairing: Masseuse!Felix x fem!reader WC: 1.8k Summary: First times can be scary, even if its just a massage. But we all have tension that needs to be worked out, right?

This is a work of fiction, it does not represent Felix or any Stray Kids member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this.

Additional TW/CW below the cut.

TW/CW: Lightly abusing professional power, nervous reader, pervert Felix, fingering (fem receiving), squirting.

 “You removed everything, correct?” Felix’s voice is deep and gentle, like you hope his caresses will be.  “I actually had a question about that-”  “You do need to remove socks,” he quickly jumps in, “but underwear is up to your comfortability.”  You giggle, embarrassed. “I suppose you get that a lot.”  His eyes crinkle into a friendly soft smile, “I could write a book and use that as my title, yes. Must be your first time.”  You hop onto the terry cloth massage table in the provided robe, eager to relieve the mounted tension in your body. “Yes sir! I’m a virgin. A massage virgin. It’s my first time. Receiving a massage. Professionally. I’ve like, gotten a massage but not, not like this.” You backtrack and loop with embarrassment, looking everywhere but at the pleasant man in front of you.  Thankfully he seems to gloss over your insane babbling, standing with his back to you as he lights a tea light under a bowl of fragrant oils. “Feel free to lay face into the table with your towel loose.”

 Dimly lit, music softly playing in the background, a handsome masseuse, it all feels like heaven. He hums quietly with the music, voice as velvety as his touch, his hands running down your bare back. Oils warming under his palms as he pushes and pulls at your fascia. Your skin shines and glistens as he rubs down your body. Felix can’t help but notice that for a first timer, you easily slip into a soft pliant puddle on his table. So easily moldable, so easily manipulated. You’re just so trusting, and you should trust him, because he’s a professional he gently reminds himself.

 His hands press and catch on a knot, forcing an almost animalistic grunt from your lungs as it snaps back into place. He can feel you tense up below him, cringing and curling down to the tips of your fingers and toes.  “It’s alright, I’ve heard it all before. It a very natural reaction,” his voice is soft and rich, coaxing you gently like a startled cat. “Whatever your body tells you is right, just go with it.” The warmth of his tone matches that of his palms, lulling you back down as you breathe deeply. He’s not exactly lying, he tells himself as his cock twitches in interest. He really had heard every manner of vocalization in reaction to his talented hands. From whines to groans to the occasional expletive, nothing really surprised him anymore. And yet here you were on his table and one little grunt was enough to have him considering risking his career.

 It was his kind response, his strong fingers, the buzz from the fragrant oils dulling your better judgment, blame whatever but once that groan left your lips a dam burst within you. Every press producing an appreciative moan or sigh as he worked your aching muscles. The glide of skin over skin aided by lotion felt almost transcendent. Separating not only your cramped up fascia but your soul from your skin and bones.

 A hand slips deep between your thighs, your sex flooding with heightened awareness. His pinky narrowly missing direct contact with your slit, he’s so tantalizingly close you find yourself wishing he’d slip up. But his hands are practiced, using the towel as a guide to avoid your bare sex.  It wasn’t professional of him, Felix knows this as the side of his hand wanders up. He can almost feel the steam coming from your dripping hole as he grabs a handful of inner thigh. Abs tensing, another throb of interest. Cock pressing to the edge of the table in hopes of concealing his weakness, he gently lifts your thigh to support your lower back and grant him better access to your hamstring. The towel slips up slightly, exposing more of your wetness to him.  Heat flashes in your ears as cool air hits your sex. Folds dripping wet, there’s almost no way he can’t have noticed it. Your body tightens again below his hands, you’re so easy to read it’s almost unfair.  “Just keep breathing into the places that are holding tension, bring your awareness there,” Felix’s voice sounds strained as the heel of his palm circles where your thigh and buttocks connect.  “Sorry,” you squeak. His palms migrate up and up until he’s working the side of your hip, almost fully palming an ass cheek.  Fuck it, Felix thinks as he starts to reposition your leg. “You carry a lot of tension in your hips and quads, I’m going to need to spend a bit of extra time with them if you're okay with that. I’ll need to reposition your towel though.”

 He’s shameless as he pulls your towel lower, revealing the naked globes of your ass. Vision tunneling as he squirts oil directly on them, against all he’d been taught. Proper procedure was to warm the oil in your hands but he couldn’t resist watching the clear liquid drizzle and disappear into your crack. Breaths reedy he starts by pressing his thumbs into the meat of your ass, digging a large indent where they lay, dragging the globes apart as he pulls the tension from your glutes, revealing more and more of your most private areas.  You’d notice he was shameless if you weren’t so deep into the depths of relaxation, unbothered by how horny you’d become. Strangled groans erupt with each pull, covering his own small grunts. The momentary pain morphs into deep pleasure as your brain slowly numbs over. You can’t help arch back begging for more, for harder, for just a bit deeper.

 The tips of his fingers just barely graze your slit, glistening wetness leaving glittering traces of stickyness. Felix gasps, freezing as his cock throbs. Precum drips steadily into his light cotton pants, a not so mysterious dark splotch slowly forming. One of you should have shame or sense, it should be him. His fingers brush past again, your hips wiggling back to meet him. The both of you still in silence, panting, the barrier between client and professional growing thinner by the second.  “Turn to your front,” Felix’s voice is hoarse and choked. Haphazardly he throws the towel over your ass. Normally he’d hold the towel in place as the client rotated under it, preserving their modesty and relaxation.  In a lust filled daze, you don’t bother to cover your torso as you shift, nipples pebbled and aching for his touch. At this point you’re practically praying to whatever god or demon would listen to drag this man down with you.

 This is so much worse, Felix realizes as he tugs down the length of your arm. Yet he can’t look away from your face as it morphs into pained pleasure, brows knitting and mouth falling open. Your lips look soft, too soft. How soft they’d feel wrapping around him. It’s even more difficult for him to hide the now pronounced dark spot near his crotch, clinging to his rock hard erection.  Felix tries to stand at your head to work on your shoulders and to hide himself better. The image of him dropping the head pillow under the table and slamming his cock into your open throat briefly flashes in his mind, weakening his knees as he spurts another bubble of painful precum into his underwear. “Harder,” you mutter.  Felix nearly passes out as blood rushes from his brain. “Sorry?” “Feelsgoodharder,” you slur as his thumbs stretch over your collar bone.  “Harder?”  “Please, I can take it.”  His eyes roll back in his head, something deeply primal activating with a shiver of his spine. Emboldened by your pleas he fully presses his palms into the tight bundle of muscles right below your collar bones, fingertips stretching down to your areolas just barely able to brush the edges.  You keen below him. It’s agonizing. He moves just the bit lower to graze your nipples, slowly as though he’d be struck down from on high for doing so. No, just the manager if she found out how he’d acted.

 Your quick breaths are hypnotizing. Felix can barely comprehend his actions as he falls deeper into the spell, playing with your breasts like putty. He’s doing the opposite of his job, his calling, he can at least see that. Your tension wound so tight your back is nearly levitating from the white sheet.  “You’re so tense,” he mutters.  “Yeah?”  His hands skim over the expanse of your stomach, towards the shifted towel. “I can fix it but you need to trust me.”  “Anything,” your breathy agreement barely registers in your brain. His arms feel strong as the flex to lift you, moving your limbs into another position, sliding an adjustment block beneath your ass. His finger fit so comfortably inside of you, you hardly notice he’s slipped them in at all. Not until the pads hook upwards, small but confident in their target. Well studied in anatomy, taught in school and outside of, he easily targeting the spongy soft tissue along your walls and presses into it. A primordial groan punches upwards from your core, through your esophagus and out of your mouth. His fingers stir in your gut, a mix of erotic and alarming.  “Just relax for me, yeah?” The reassuring low tone floats through the air as his other hand presses just over your mound. “Breathe and let your body do what it wants.”

 Clearly his speech was meant as a warning peptalk more than comfort. His fingers hook up, whole arm jostling as he fucks up into that laser focused spot. Immediately your legs kick and hips attempt to buck, sandwiched to the mat by his other hand. The bridge between pain and pleasure blurs in your mind as a sob wracks your chest. It’s so much. It’s so good.  “Only a little bit more I can feel you squeezing me,” Felix is focused, its almost a point of professional pride to him. He doesn’t even have to know you to know how to please you, how to tease that release from your muscles. This climax belonged to him, given enthusiastically by you and your trusting body.  Spine jolting and curling the opposite way you’re ripped from your spell suddenly, an urge building in your gut and ringing every alarm bell available. A stream of release erupting from you just in time for your eyes to pop open. Coating the table and his wrist with a caught gasp, you look at each other, wild eyed and breathless as his fingers pull from you.  “Oh shit,” you stare agape.  Felix is silent. Ghostly white.  “Your table-”  “It’s fine.”  “Your next client-”  “It’s fine.”

[necstasy]

cannot stop thinking about being both paul and irulan's concubine. an imperial whore of all sorts 😫

honestly, they just KNEW what they were doing with that casting. UGGHH !!

scissoring, oral, r described as a girl & PRINCESS IRULAN + PAUL ATREIDES MDNI 18+

you represent different things for both of them.

for irulan, you're an outlet. you're not as much experimentation as you are familiar territory. her teenage years were spent with girls like you. girls who looked at her with stars in their eyes and kissed her entirely too gently. girls who fawned over her beauty yet appeared just as beautiful beneath her.

so when she's with you, when you start to behave like the girls she left behind to marry the emperor, irulan falls back into her old pattern. it's dizzying to finally be wanted again. it's addicting to feel a pretty girl shiver and shake beneath her fingers, with assurance that the courteous and honest act of admiration will be returned onto her soon thereafter.

for paul, you're a different form of familiarity. you're familiar in ways of a dream, deja vu, or perhaps a memory slipping through his fingers. you remind him of chani in small ways. the way your chin tilts up when he addresses you. the way you'll teach him something, but only if he asks you to. the way you can be headstrong, usually when you're in his quarters, stripped of your responsibilities and your clothes.

you're not supposed to deny the emperor anything, especially as his concubine, but disobedience comes naturally to you. like the time you'd visited him on arrakis, away from corrino and irulan for just a bit, and paul's overzealous attitude had you on the brink of releasing copious amounts of fluids along his lithe hips and short tuft of pubes.

you weren't a layman, you understood the necessity of fluids on arrakis. so you refused and refused, trying to push paul away as you neared the brink. but paul ordered you to release all over him. he assured you that you would be fine, and it wouldn't be a sign of disrespect to unnecessarily lose this much fluid in one go because you were doing it at the hands of their leader.

paul won't lay with irulan, but he'll lay with you after her. when your skin still smells faintly of flowers and greenery. when you still have her fluids combined with yours between your legs.

you see the way he revels in the evidence of irulan on your body. you notice the way he nuzzles his head between your thighs when irulan's arousal still coats your skin. his tongue, warm and flat, runs along your skin, cleaning you up. and he'll groan afterwards, allowing himself a moment to rest his forehead against your inner thigh, just taking it all in.

he'll seek you out when you're with her, uncaring of the way your naked bodies writhe against each other atop irulan's bed. and he can just come join you two. you always give him a few moments, stretching longer and longer each time he does it. you won't stop, your hips still gliding to and fro, dragging your cunt against irulan's all while you stare at the emperor.

but paul will stand still. his hands clasped behind his back, his curly hair hanging over his hardened face, his expression stoic even when you can see the way his throat bobs and his eyebrows twitch.

he'll often say the same thing. "must you finish here, first?" or something along the lines. and then he'll leave you be, waiting in his own quarters with a rock hard dick nestled beneath linen fabric.

but there's one time—just once where his cobalt eyes appeared weary before morphing into desire. he licked his lips, his fingers twitching against his sides as he hungrily took in the sight before him.

irulan noticed it as well as you did. she began to put on a show.

the empress has always had melodic moans, but she began to emphasize them. with your mouth latched onto her cunt, irulan made sure paul knew how good you were making her feel.

when you heard the sound of paul approaching you both, excitement flooded your body. finally paul would allow himself simple pleasures. and he did, starting with pulling your mouth off of irulan's cunt and tasting her off of your own tongue. when he seemed satisfied at a taste he knew as well as he knew yours, he gently urged you out of the way, and assumed the position of a dutiful husband.

[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

Ok the 'William trying to get you to forgive him' fic gave me a silly little idea. Both because it's funny and it's probably something I'd do.

Imagine that you start giving all the affection and love to the plushie instead of William when you're mad at him. Just to further rub it in. It's so mean but it would be so funny that he couldn't actually logically be jealous of a plushie, especially when that plushie is supposed to represent *him* . But it still irks him that he isn't the one being showered in your love and affection as usual, and what's worse is that he's still being ignored by you at the same time.

Just small things like giving the plushie a lil kiss on the cheek or head, bringing it in close for a hug, or even ranting to it. Maybe even indirectly talk to William by talking to the plushie. "Oh my! Little Springbonnie, did you hear something just now? Because I certainly didn't. Hmm I suppose it was just the wind." Fuck it, maybe even make it respond in the same (perhaps even a little mocking) little high pitched cheery voice and have it respond to you in "conversations".

I feel so bad for poor William, but at the same time I'm giggling at the thought.

🐰 The Ultimate Payback: Loving the Plush More Than Him

William Afton has made a grave mistake.

And for days, you’ve made sure he knows it—by ignoring him completely. But instead of begging for forgiveness like a normal person, he tried to play the fool, using a damn Springbonnie plush as a peace offering.

So you decide— Two can play this game.

The moment William tries to win you back with that stupid plush, you don’t react how he expects.

You don’t roll your eyes. You don’t push it away. You don’t even break into laughter.

Instead— You fully embrace the plush.

"Oh, Springbonnie! You’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you? At least you don’t upset me like some people do."

And then, right in front of William, you kiss the plush on its little cheek.

William freezes.

His hands are still holding the plush up, but his grip slightly loosens. His brows furrow. His eye twitches.

Oh, he was not expecting this.

You keep going, deliberately ignoring him as you hug the plush tight.

"Springbonnie, you're so soft and kind. You always listen to me, unlike that other guy."

And then, you turn the plush towards him—and in your own high-pitched voice, you make it respond:

"Oh, bun, that’s just awful! Tell me everything—what did the mean ol’ Willy do this time?"

You don’t miss how William’s entire soul leaves his body.

His own tactic has been used against him. Worse— You’re giving a damn plush more affection than you’re giving him.

Oh, he can’t stand it.

"Oh my! Little Springbonnie, did you hear something just now? Because I certainly didn't. Hmm, I suppose it was just the wind!"

William stares at you like you just kicked his pride down a flight of stairs.

"Oh, for Christ’s sake—!"

But you ignore him again. Instead, you keep talking to the plush.

"You know, Springbonnie, I just adore you so much. I should take you everywhere with me! You’re much better company than some annoying rabbit I know."

That’s it.

William suddenly rips the plush away from your hands.

"Alright, that’s enough, bun. Game’s over. No more—no more damn plush."

He holds it hostage, glaring at it like it personally betrayed him. He looks at you. Then at the plush. Then at you again.

"…You’re tellin’ me. That I just lost my lover's affection… to a bloody stuffed rabbit?"

You shrug, smug.

"Maybe. He’s been treating me better than you lately."

William groans into his hands.

"I’m never usin’ a plush again."

Alternative version:

You snuggle the plush closer, gently stroking its little ears. "At least you understand me, Little Springbonnie. Unlike some people."

"‘Some people’—?? Oh, piss off." William scoffs, shifting closer, trying to reclaim your attention. "Darlin’, you’re jokin’, yeah? No bloody way yer actually replacin’ me with—"

You kiss the plush’s forehead.

William short-circuits.

"Pardon??" He gapes at you, pointing at the plush with pure, genuine betrayal. "Did you—?? Just now—?? Love, tell me you did not just kiss that stuffed—!"

You don’t answer. Instead, you lift the plush in front of you and wiggle it slightly—before speaking in an obnoxiously cheerful voice:

"O-oh, it’s alright, Big Willy! Y'know, some of us are just cuddlier than others! It’s not our fault we're cuter, nya~!"

The moment the "nya~" leaves your lips, William visibly recoils.

"—NO. No, I will not stand for this."

He lunges forward, snatching the plush away from you. You let out a gasp, dramatically reaching for it, but he holds it out of your reach.

"This? This is a bloody disgrace." He gestures at the plush with pure disgust. "What in God’s name have you done to my persona?? The ‘nya’—??? I can’t—??"

You pout. "Give him back."

"No." He squints at you. Then at the plush. Back at you. Then back at the plush.

And then, as if just to spite you—

He smooches the plush’s forehead. Right in front of you. Mocking.

"Oh-ho, what’s wrong, love? Feelin’ a bit jealous now?" He winks.

You scream.

Notes: Okay this is too cursed rn-

[hambiichu]

Jealously

Sumarry: Sherlock Holmes never show jealously up until now.

Divider by @/enchanthings-a

Sherlock Holmes was never one to indulge in jealousy. He often admitted that he was a highly calculated individual, preferring to manage his own emotions rather than seeking assistance—even from those closest to him. His stoicism was a defining trait; he rarely showed his feelings openly. Yet beneath that composed exterior, he harbored a deep affection for you. When he attempted to express his love, it often came off as awkward or stilted, as if the very act of sharing his emotions challenged his carefully crafted demeanor.

One day, however, everything changed. Sherlock noticed you at work, engaged in a seemingly light-hearted flirtation with a coworker. You had assured him countless times that these interactions were innocuous, mere banter among colleagues. Yet, to Sherlock, they represented a potential threat—a toxic presence that loomed over the relationship you both shared.

As you stepped away to retrieve some important documents from your office, a wave of unease washed over him. Sherlock knew he had to confront the situation head-on. As you left the room, he strode purposefully toward your coworker, his expression a calculated blend of calm and composure. It was a facade; while his smile was polite and carefully crafted, his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil: they were narrowed and twitching, betraying the irritation and anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Can I help you?” the coworker inquired, glancing up from the paperwork he had been poring over. He seemed oblivious to the tension in the air. “If so, please do say,” he added, a hint of nonchalance in his tone as if he were unaware of the storm brewing in the depths of Sherlock's gaze.

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock exclaimed, a smile creeping across his face but quickly morphing into a thin line as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Would you mind if I analyze you?”

“I—what?” The coworker blinked in astonishment, his expression one of utter disbelief. Before he could gather his thoughts, Sherlock dove right into his analysis, his words flowing rapidly as if he were spouting secrets from the very depths of the man's soul. Sherlock was reveling in this — after all, he harbored a profound disdain for this man who had been flirting with you.

“I must say,” Sherlock continued, a teasing glint in his eyes, “I notice you have a small stain on your collar, and is that a faint lipstick smudge? Ah, yes. You’re married, with three kids, no less? What a shame to be carrying on an affair. Is that a hotel booking I spied on your desk? Bringing your dalliance to a hotel for, shall we say, some ‘naughty’ activities?” He leaned in closer, the smirk on his lips growing more pronounced. “As I analyze, it seems you’ve never really held your wife’s hand or kissed her goodbye. Instead, it’s your mistress you’re eager to touch.”

The coworker swallowed hard, his face draining of color as he stammered, “Please, don’t tell my wife. I’d do anything to keep this from her!”

“Anything?” Sherlock enunciated slowly, letting the word hang between them. Then he added your name, clenching his jaw as he did so. “Here’s my recommendation: stay away from her. If you continue to flirt with her, I suggest you pack your things and leave London, unless you’d prefer to have your affair exposed. Yes?”

The man nodded vigorously, fear etched across his features. With trembling hands, he gathered his papers and hurried away, retreating upstairs to the second floor as though he were fleeing to his boss for cover.

When you returned, Sherlock turned his attention to you, a slight smile gracing his lips. He leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on your cheek. “How’s work?”

“Work? Sherlock, what are you doing here?” you asked, chuckling at the unexpected appearance. “And where’s my coworker?”

“Oh, he’s busy,” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. “Up on the second floor retrieving documents, I suppose. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh?” You laughed lightly, holding up a document clipped on your clipboard. “That’s a shame; I was supposed to give him this as well.”

Sherlock nodded, his expression shifting as he deftly redirected the conversation. “Indeed, a shame. Anyway, I’ve booked a movie that you always love. Would you like to go see it after work?”

“Do I? Yes!” you replied, a genuine excitement lighting up your face. Sherlock bestowed another quick kiss on your cheek.

“Wonderful,” he said, taking your hand into his, the warmth of his touch adding to your delight as you both prepared to return to your day.

-

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