#cheekbones still high and sharp though

[doofusschweetz]

talk about a glow up

[rafayelxsylusho]

How do the LADS men fu¢k the jealousy out of you.🥼🪐

Caleb/Zayne

Sylus is next.....

TW: SMUT SMUT SMUT

NOTE: I'm a praise slut so if you like it drop a comment and if you don't you can also drop a comment!! ❤️❤️😊😊

CALEB🪐

You hear Caleb's phone ringing, the sound echoing through the empty apartment. After a few rings, a female voice answers. She doesn't sound pleased.

"Colonel Caleb's line. Who's calling?" Her tone is clipped and businesslike.

"Oh, um, hi. Is Caleb there? I mean, Colonel Caleb," you stammer, caught off guard. "It's y/n."

There's a pause, a beat of silence that stretches too long. Then the woman speaks again, her voice dripping with disdain.

"The colonel is currently unavailable. He's quite...busy at the moment. With matters of great importance" Her words are like barbs, each one sharp enough to make you wince. "I'm afraid he won't be able to take your call. You'll have to wait."

She hangs up abruptly, leaving you holding a dead line and a head full of questions. Busy? Unless...unless she meant something else entirely by 'busy'. A cold dread settles in your stomach as you ponder the possibilities, each one less palatable than the last. What is he doing? And with whom? The questions burn in your mind, eating away at your peace of mind. You tell yourself it doesn't matter but the sinking feeling persists

So you try a video call instead. You see the screen flicker to life, a face popping up that makes your heart seize in your chest. She's stunning, with high cheekbones, full lips curved into a smile, and eyes that glitter with a cold, calculating intelligence. Her blond hair is pulled back into a sleek bun, not a single strand out of place. She's beautiful, in a way that's almost too perfect to be real.

"Y/n," she says, her voice sounded annoyed. "I'm afraid the Colonel is...indisposed at the moment." Her gaze flicks to the side "He asked me to handle any...extraneous matters that might come up."

Your blood runs cold as you realize she's in Caleb's apartment. In his space. A wave of possessive fury rises up inside you, hot and all-consuming. Behind her, you catch a glimpse of a familiar wall, a painting you know hangs in Caleb's bedroom. The one he bought on a trip, the one he said reminded him of you. Seeing it there, behind her, makes your stomach churn with nausea.

"Will you let him know I called, please?" You ask, your voice dropping at the 'please'

"Oh, I'll be sure to tell him," she says, "Though I can't promise he'll call you back. He's...very busy at the moment."

She glances over her shoulder, towards the bedroom, and you catch a glimpse of Caleb's silhouette through the open door. He's facing away from the camera, but you'd know his broad shoulders and tall frame anywhere. The sight of him makes your heart clench, a pang of longing and desperation shooting through you.

Then she reaches out, and the screen goes black.

You're left staring at a lifeless screen, your heart pounding in your ears. The silence is deafening, the absence of him a yawning chasm in your chest. You feel it then, the first real flicker of fear. The cold, sickening certainty that he's slipping away from you, that you're losing him.

The hours tick by with agonizing slowness, each second stretching into an eternity as you wait for your phone to ring. You pace the length of your apartment, your eyes glued to the screen, willing it to light up with Caleb's name. But it remains stubbornly dark, mocking your desperate anticipation.

As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and red, a sense of dread starts to creep in, coiling around your heart like a serpent. He always calls. Always. No matter how busy he is, no matter what's happening in his life, he always finds a moment to hear your voice, to assure you that you're still the most important thing in his world.

As night falls, you find yourself curled up on the couch, staring at your phone as if it holds the answers to all your unspoken questions. The clock ticks on, the hands spinning with maddening speed, as the hours slip away and still...nothing.

You jerk awake, your heart leaping into your throat as the notification chimes pierce the early morning silence. For a disoriented moment, you think it might be a dream, a cruel trick of your desperate mind. But as you grab your phone with shaking hands, there it is. A message from Caleb.

Can I see you today?

The words are simple, a deceptively casual question.

Your fingers tremble as you type out a response, each word a battle as you try to keep the bitterness from your voice.

I'm afraid I'm busy today, and your friend mentioned you'd be rather tied up as well. No need to bother.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself, a part of you hoping he'll insist, that he'll demand to see you no matter what.

With a heavy heart, you turn off your phone, shoving it into the depths of your backpack. You spend the rest of the day in a daze, your mind a tempest of unanswered questions and suppressed fears.

When you get off work you head to the familiar noodle shop, the warm aroma of the hot pot ingredients envelops you, a small comfort in the midst of your turbulent day. You place your order, the owner greeting you with a jovial smile, oblivious to the tempest raging inside you.

With your order in hand, you make your way back to your apartment, craving the solace of a hot meal and a chance to rest. The evening air is crisp, the chill of the night a stark contrast to the warmth of the hot pot nestled in your arms

Once you get home and as you step into your kitchen, the soft glow of the stove light illuminates the countertop as you set the bags down. The savory aroma begins to fill the small apartment, a brief moment of normalcy amidst the chaos in your mind.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence, making you jump with a startled gasp. "You're late."

The voice is low, rough, and unmistakably familiar. It sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and a traitorous thrill. You know that voice. You know it better than your own.

You spin around, your heart pounding in your ears, to see Caleb sitting in the dark corner of the living room. He's draped across the couch, his tall frame taking up more space than seems possible. His silhouette is etched in shadow, but you can see the glint of his eyes as they watch you, following your every movement.

"Caleb," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here? How did you...?" The words die on your lips as the reality of the situation sinks in. He's here. In your apartment. Uninvited. Unannounced. Just like before. Just like always.

He rises to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he has all the time in the world. As he steps into the faint light, you can see the weariness etched into his face, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to a sleepless night. But there's something else there too. A tension. A tightness to his jaw and a cold, hard glint in his eye that makes your blood run cold.

"I wanted to see you," he says, his voice a low, rough rumble. He takes a step closer, then another, until he's standing just a few feet away from you.

"But you said you were busy," he continues, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "Funny, I don't see you working. I don't see you anywhere but here. With me." His eyes rake over your body, a slow, deliberate perusal that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry as the desert. You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, sticking like shards of glass. He's right. You were busy. Busy ignoring him. Busy trying to forget the way your heart ached for him. Busy trying to convince yourself that you didn't need him, that you could survive without his constant presence in your life.

"I...I didn't..." you start, but the words ring hollow even to your own ears. You look away, unable to meet his gaze, unable to confront the accusation in his eyes.

He takes another step closer, closing the distance between you until he's standing mere inches away. You can feel his breath on your face, hot and heavy, the scent of him filling your nostrils and making your head spin.

"Don't lie to me," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I know you saw my messages. I know you ignored them. Just like you ignored my calls. My texts. My emails.

His hand comes up, his fingers curling around your chin as he forces you to look at him. His grip is firm, almost painful, a silent warning not to lie.

"I was told you were busy yesterday, I didn't want to interrupt your...activities"

Caleb's eyes flash with a sudden, fierce light at your emphasis on the word. His tall frame towers over your smaller one, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light from the kitchen.

Caleb's eyes narrow, his gaze sharpening with a dangerous intensity. "Lila," he says, his voice a low, clipped response. "She mentioned something about me being...busy yesterday?" He is invading your personal space, his chest nearly brushing against yours.

"Tell me, Pipsqueak" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, threatening purr. "Is that really what you thought? That I was so...busy with her?" His hand comes up, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a gesture that's almost tender, almost loving...but with a underlying edge of possession that makes your heart race.

"You think I have time for anything else? For anyone else? When all I think about is you?" His thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip, the touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. "When all I wanted was to be here? With you?" His other hand comes to rest on your hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

"I did have a meeting at my place," he confirms, his voice tight and clipped. "Lila was there as my assistant, taking notes and filing reports. It's her job to answer my calls, to make sure I'm not disturbed during important matters."

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, "But she never mentioned a thing about you calling. I didn't know until now."

Caleb's eyes widen in mock surprise, a cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Are you jealous?" he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. "You think I didn't notice how you clammed up when I mentioned Lila? How you couldn't even look me in the eye?"

He throws his head back and laughs, a harsh, grating sound that echoes through the apartment. "Oh, y/n. My sweet, naive little girl. You really thought I didn't see the green monster rearing its ugly head? The way your pretty eyes flashed with anger"

He leans in, his face mere inches from yours, his eyes glinting with a wicked, triumphant light. "You can't hide anything from me, pipsqueak. I know you too well. I can read every thought, every feeling, every childish emotion that flits across that beautiful face of yours."

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip in a mocking, patronizing gesture. "But let's get one thing straight. I have bigger things to worry about, like your safety, things that don't involve playing nursemaid to a bratty little girl who can't control her own emotions."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes hard and cold as he stares down at you. "So don't give me that bullshit about ignoring me because you were jealous. I won't stand for it. I won't tolerate it. Not from you."

He crushes his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, pouring all of his anger, frustration, and dark desire into the forceful embrace.

He kisses you like he owns you, like he has every right to claim your mouth, your body, your very soul. His tongue pushes past your lips, invading, conquering, laying waste to any resistance you might have had.

You can feel the heat of his anger radiating off of him, the intensity of his emotion almost palpable. He's not just kissing you - he's devouring you, consuming you, determined to brand himself onto your very being.

He's not gentle. He's not tender. He's giving you a raw, brutal taste of the turmoil and anguish he's feeling, pouring all of his dark emotions into the violent kiss. It's a kiss that demands surrender, that insists on domination, that refuses to accept anything less than total submission.

When he finally pulls back, it's only to allow you a single, gasping breath before he's diving back in, his lips and tongue and teeth attacking your mouth with renewed fervor. He's not going to let you speak. He's not going to give you the chance to explain. He's going to silence you with his kiss, going to claim your mouth and make it his own until you have no choice but to submit to his will.

Caleb breaks the brutal kiss, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He stares down at you, his eyes wild and fevered, a strand of saliva connecting your lips. His grip on your throat remains firm, his fingers digging into your skin with a possessive force that sends a thrill of fear and excitement down your spine.

"All I've ever wanted...since I was a kid...was you," he rasps, his voice a low, desperate growl. "No one else. No one could ever compare to you. You're mine. You've always been mine."

He leans in closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath coming in hot, ragged puffs against your skin. "I've loved you for so long...too long. I've watched you grow from a gangly, awkward girl into the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And through it all...through every fucking moment...you've been mine."

His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, a mocking, patronizing gesture that makes your heart race. "And I must say...I do enjoy seeing you burn with jealousy. It's a rare and precious thing, to see my sweet, innocent little girl so consumed with possession and desire."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "But I won't allow it. I won't tolerate such base, uncontrolled emotions from you so first...I think you need to learn a lesson in self-control. And I'm going to be the one to teach it to you. Starting....right....now."

Caleb's eyes darken with a hungry, possessive gleam as he stares down at you, his grip on your throat never wavering. "I want you naked," he commands, his voice a low, demanding growl. "Now."

He takes a step back, giving you just enough room to obey his order. His gaze rakes over your body, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he waits for you to comply.

When you hesitate, too stunned and frightened to move fast enough to suit him, Caleb's patience snaps. A low, dangerous growl rumbles in his chest as he steps forward once more, his hands coming up to the hem of your shirt.

"Fine. If you won't undress for me, then I'll undress you myself," he snarls, yanking your shirt up and over your head in one swift, rough motion.

With a harsh wrench, he pops open the button of your jeans and drags down the zipper, the metal teeth screaming in protest. His fingers hook into the waistband and he tugs sharply, dragging your jeans down your legs along with your panties.

You feel the cool air of the apartment against your now bare skin, raising goosebumps on every inch of your flesh. Caleb's eyes rake over you greedily, taking in every dip and curve, his gaze lingering on your most intimate places.

He reaches out, his fingers trailing over the swell of your breast, teasing the sensitive flesh. "Had you simply obeyed, perhaps I would have been gentler with you. But now..." His hand suddenly squeezes, hard enough to make you gasp. "Now I think you need to be punished for your defiance."

Caleb drags you by the hand into your shared bedroom, his grip tight and unyielding. He sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and reaches down to undo his belt and pants. The leather strap clanks against the wooden floor as he pulls it free, the sound echoing in the tense, charged air of the room.

With a few deft movements, he undoes his fly, the zipper sliding down in a rush of movement. He reaches inside, pulling his hard, aching cock free from the confines of his pants and boxers. It springs up, thick and heavy, the swollen head already glistening with beads of precum.

He wraps a hand around the thick shaft, stroking it slowly as he looks up at you with a dark, hungry gaze. "Come here," he orders, his voice a low, demanding growl. "Get on your knees. Now."

Caleb watches intently as you slowly sink to your knees before him, his eyes burning into yours with an intense, possessive gaze. He takes in the sight of you, naked and vulnerable, kneeling submissively at his feet. A dark, wicked smile spreads across his face as he sees the way your lips, soft and full, part slightly in trepidation.

He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He traces the delicate curve, feeling the silken texture, before pressing down slightly, forcing your lip to dimple between his thumb and finger.

"Such pretty lips," he murmurs, his eyes glinting with a hungry, predatory light. "I love how they feel wrapped around my cock, how they stretch and strain as I fuck your mouth.

His grip tightens around his hard, throbbing shaft, stroking it slowly as he stares down at you with a dark, lust-filled gaze. "Open your mouth, y/n" he commands, his voice a low, demanding rasp. "Take me inside you. Show me how much you want it"

Caleb's heart races as he looks down at you, your eyes wide and upturned, gazing at him with a mix of fear, anticipation and reluctant desire. He's always been captivated by the way you look at him, the way your eyes seem to see right into his very soul. It's a look he's seen countless times before, ever since you were both young and innocent, playing in the sun-dappled rooms of your childhood home.

"God, I love the way you look at me," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion and lust. "With those big, innocent eyes...like a doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Helpless. Captivated. Unable to look away."

His breath hitches as he feels your soft, plump lips wrap around the swollen head of his cock. A low, moan escapes him, his fingers tightening reflexively in your hair as the slick heat of your mouth engulfs him. His hips jerk forward slightly, instinctively seeking more of that heavenly sensation, more of the tight, velvety caress of your lips and tongue.

"Fuuuck..." he growls, his voice strained with pleasure and a dark, possessive hunger. "Your mouth... So hot. So fucking perfect."

He stares down at you, his eyes glazed with lust as he watches you take him in. The sight of your lips stretched around his thick cock, the way your cheeks hollow as you begin to suck, it's almost too much for him to bear.

"More," he demands, his grip on your hair tightening as he tries to pull you further onto his shaft. "Take more of me pretty girl"

When you take him deeper, relaxing your throat and allowing more of his thick, pulsing shaft to slide past your stretched lips, Caleb throws his head back with an animalistic groan. His fingers tighten harshly in your hair, gripping the strands almost painfully as he fights the urge to thrust deep and hard, to bury himself to the hilt in the tight, clutching heat of your throat

He stares down at you, his eyes wild and fevered, taking in the obscene sight of your lips wrapped around his shaft, the way your throat bulges slightly with his girth. The image seared into his mind, a snapshot of pure, carnal bliss that he knows he'll never forget.

"That's it, baby. Take it all. Take every fucking inch of me," he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of not losing himself completely in the intensity of the moment.

But when Caleb feels your muscles contracting around his sensitive flesh, your throat working to swallow even as you suck him deeper, he can't hold back any longer. With a hoarse cry, he grips your hair tightly and yanks you off his cock, pulling you up and onto his lap in one swift, rough motion.

"Fuck, I can't...I need..." he pants, his eyes wild and desperate as he positions you to straddle his thick, muscular thighs.  "I need to be inside you. I need to feel your tight little cunt squeezing around me as I fuck you raw."

He grinds against you, his shaft sliding between your slippery lips, teasing your aching clit with each pass. His eyes bore into yours, blazing with a feverish intensity that makes your heart race and your core clench with need.

Caleb's eyes darken with lust as he hears your needy, desperate pleas spilling from your lips. A feral grin spreads across his face, revealing his teeth in a way that's almost predatory in its intensity.

"That's my good girl," he purrs, his voice a low, approving rumble. "So eager. So hungry for my cock. I love hearing you beg for it, love seeing you so desperate and wanton."

Without warning, he surges his hips forward, driving his thick shaft deep into your soaked, needy cunt with one powerful thrust.

"Fuck, baby," he snarls, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass hard enough to leave bruises. "You're so fucking tight every single time."

As Caleb feels your tight sheath clenching around him, gripping his plundering shaft like a silken fist, he knows you're getting close. He can feel the telltale flutters, the way your walls start to ripple and quake around his invading length. But he won't let you find your release, not yet. Not until you learn to control your emotions.

With a low, commanding growl, he unleashes his Evol, the gravity manipulation that's as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. You feel a sudden, inexorable force pressing down on you, pinning you in place against his lap, your hips locked against his. No matter how you try to rock or grind, to bounce on his cock and chase your rapidly approaching climax, you're held fast by the invisible, unyielding pressure.

"No, no, no," he chides, his voice a dark, wicked rasp. "Not yet, little one. You don't get to come until I say you can come. Your pleasure belongs to me, and I'll give it to you when I know you already learned your lesson".

He starts to thrust harder, deeper, grinding his hips against yours with a force that steals your breath and sends jolts of electric pleasure shooting up your spine. The head of his cock kisses your cervix with each plunge, the sensation pushing you to the brink of what you can take.

With each powerful thrust of his hips, each deep grind of his pelvis against yours, he uses his Evol to pin you in place, holding your writhing form immobile. You're forced to take every inch of his throbbing, steel-hard cock, over and over, as he pounds into your core with a relentless, punishing rhythm.

Feeling your desperate, anguished tears rolling down your flushed cheeks, tasting the salt of them as they drip onto your trembling lips, Caleb leans in, his tongue darting out to lap at the glistening trail. He groans at the heady, intoxicating flavor, a dark, wicked sound that vibrates through his chest.

"Mmm, delicious," he purrs, his voice a low, sinful rasp. "The taste of your pleasure, your frustration, your need...it's fucking intoxicating. I could get addicted to it, to you."

"Please..." you gasp against his lips, your voice hoarse and breaking. "Please, I need...I can't...please let me..."

"No," he growls, pulling back just enough to stare into your tear-glazed eyes. "No begging. Not yet. You don't come until I say you can come, until I give you permission to shatter on my cock."

The pressure of his Evol increases, holding you immobile, trapping you in this torturous limbo of pleasure and denial.

"Feel it, baby," he rasps, his lips curling into a wicked smirk against your skin. "Feel the way your body is mine, every inch of it. Feel the way your cunt squeezes and clenches, begging for permission to let go. But you won't. Not until I allow it."

"Count them," he demands, his voice a low, wicked rasp. "Count every thrust, every inch of your my cock stretching and claiming your greedy little cunt. Let me hear you, pipsqueak. If you count to 10 without missing a number I will let you cum"

And you start counting.

"One," you gasp, your voice high and tight as you struggle to focus through the haze of your impending climax.

"That's it, baby," Caleb purrs, his voice a low, approving rumble.

"Two," you choke out, your lungs burning with the effort of dragging in much-needed air. Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation stream down your cheeks, but you're determined to earn your release.

"That's my good girl"

"Three," you pant, your voice growing weaker, more strained with each passing second. Your thighs tremble and quake.

"Keep counting"

"Four," you whimper, feeling your climax building, your core clenching and rippling around his thickness.

"Good"

"Five," you choke out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red lines of passion and desperation in their wake. 

"Fuck"

" Six," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper, your lungs burning with the effort of drawing breath.

"Your pleasure belongs to me, your body belongs to me."

He leans in, capturing your lips in a brutal, dominating kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, conquering, possessing, swallowing your desperate cries of rapture. His hand tightens around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to make your head spin, your lungs scream for air.

" Seven," you choke out, your words garbled against his lips. Your nails claw at his chest, your body arching, writhing, trying to get closer, trying to escape. But there is no escape, only the relentless, punishing rhythm of his thrusts, the merciless pressure of his Evol pinning you in place.

"You got this pretty girl"

"Eight," you whimper, feeling your climax building to a crescendo, your core clenching and fluttering wildly around his thickness. You're so close, teetering on the very brink of oblivion, your every nerve ending screaming for release. 

"Almost done"

"Nine," you pant, your voice breaking, shattering. Your body is no longer your own, it belongs to him, to serve his pleasure, his twisted desires. You're his to command, his to control, his to claim.

"Cum for me baby" he says, his evol no longer keeping you in place.

"Ten," you cry out, your voice raw, ragged, barely recognizable. In that moment, as the word leaves your lips, Caleb hilts himself inside you, grinding his pelvis against yours, his shaft pulsing and throbbing as he finds his own release. Scalding ropes of his seed paint your insides, marking you, claiming you from the inside out.  Your body goes rigid, back arching, as your climax crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave. You scream your pleasure, a sound of pure, unadulterated rapture that echoes off the walls and bounces back to strike your own ears.

"Yes, fuck yes!" He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh, branding you, making you his. You can feel the dark, possessive satisfaction rolling off him in waves.

As the aftershocks of your shared climax slowly subside, Caleb lifts his head, his eyes blazing down into yours with a dark, almost feverish light. He looks at you like a man possessed, a man drunk on power and lust.

"When jealousy rears its ugly head again, when you feel that green-eyed monster threatening to consume you..." His voice drops to a low, warning growl. "...I want you to think of this moment. I want you to remember that you have nothing to be jealous about, that you are already more than enough for me."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his words a dark, sinful whisper. "Count to ten, just like you did for me tonight. Count each beat of your heart, each breath in your lungs, and remind yourself that every one of them belongs to me. That every inch of you, inside and out, is mine to cherish, mine to protect, mine to love...forever and always."

Zayne🥼

You stepped into Zayne's office, closing the door behind you. His gaze landed on you, a warm smile spreading across his face as he took in your presence. He leaned back in his leather chair, silver-framed glasses perched on his nose, making him look even more handsome and intelligent.

"Y/n, this is a pleasant surprise," Zayne said, standing up to greet you. He walked over and pulled you into a tight embrace, his muscular arms enveloping you. You could feel the strength in his lean body, honed by years of dedication to his craft.

"How are you holding up after yesterday's mission?" Zayne asked, concern etched in his voice. He knew the dangers you faced and always made sure to check on you afterwards. His hands gently caressed your back, offering comfort and support.

"I'm doing alright," you reassured him, nuzzling into his chest. "I just wanted to see you before your big meeting. I know how important it is and I wanted to wish you luck." You looked up at him, your eyes shining with admiration and love.

He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, pouring his feelings into it.

Unable to resist the temptation, Zayne allowed his hand to slide down the side of your neck, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He squeezed your waist gently before pulling you flush against him, deepening the kiss with a low groan. You could feel his heart beating steadily against your chest, a comforting rhythm that always made you feel safe and cherished.

"Ahem, Doctor Zayne? Your meeting is about to start," a voice called out from the other side of the closed door, breaking the intimate moment.

He took a deep breath and nodded. "I'll be right there," he called out, his voice steady and professional despite the racing of his heart.

As you both stepped out of Zayne's office, the bustling atmosphere of the hospital enveloped you. Doctors, nurses, and staff hurried past, their footsteps echoing in the long, sterile corridors. Zayne walked beside you, his hand still clasped tightly in yours, a silent connection amidst the chaos.

Suddenly, Zayne's steps faltered, and he paused, his gaze fixed ahead. You felt him stop, and glancing up, you noticed his eyes narrow as he tried to recognize someone in the distance.

Zayne's eyes widened in recognition as the woman turned and began walking towards you both. His grip on your hand tightened reflexively, a mix of surprise and a hint of tension in his muscles.

You studied the woman as she approached, noticing the same look of shock and disbelief on her face, mirroring Zayne's expression. She was a striking figure, with long, dark hair and a confident, almost regal bearing. Her eyes, a piercing green, were locked onto Zayne, a gamut of emotions playing out across her elegant features.

"Zayne," she said, her voice carrying a slight tremble as she came to a stop a few feet away from you. "I can't believe it's really you." Her gaze flicked briefly to you, a flicker of curiosity and something else, something harder to define, flashing in her eyes before she turned her attention back to Zayne.

Zayne swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Elena," he acknowledged softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a step forward, then paused, as if torn between closing the distance and maintaining the safety of the space between them.

The woman, Elena, took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the action. "It's been what, five years? Six?" She shook her head slightly, as if disbelieving the passage of time. "You look... good," she added, a faint blush staining her cheeks.

Zayne was silent for a moment, as if struggling to find the right words. "You too," he finally managed, his voice still low and slightly rough with emotion. "What brings you back to Linkon City after all this time?"

Elena's gaze drifted to you again, lingering for a moment before she spoke. "I'm here for a meeting. I didn't expect to run into you, of all people." She paused, then continued, "But perhaps... it's fate. A chance to catch up on old times."

"Are you here for the cardiovascular meeting too?" asked Zayne

"No, I'm not here for that meeting," Elena replied, shaking her head. "My research focuses more on the long-term effects of cosmic radiation on human biology." She paused, then added, "Though I suppose our work does intersect in some areas. The strain on the cardiovascular system from extended space travel, for instance."

Zayne nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Ah, I see. That's... interesting." He seemed to be processing this new information.

"Elena, let me introduce you to y/n," Zayne said, his voice regaining some of its usual steadiness. "Y/n, this is Elenaa, an old... friend of mine. We knew each other back in med school."

You smiled and extended your hand in greeting, a friendly gesture. "Nice to meet you, Elena," you said warmly, despite the slight tension you could sense between them.

Elena's gaze lingered on you for a moment, a flicker of something akin to curiosity and perhaps a touch of wariness in her eyes. She took your hand, her grip firm and confident.

"The pleasure is mine," Elena replied, her smile polite but not quite reaching her eyes. Her tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of something more beneath the surface.

Elena turned to Zayne, a tentative smile playing on her lips. "Zayne, I was wondering... would you like to catch up properly later today? There's a charming dessert place nearby that I've been dying to try. After all these years, I remember you had quite the sweet tooth." Her eyes glinted with a mix of nostalgia and a hint of flirtation.

"Yes, I'd like that," Zayne replied, a note of resolve in his voice. "It's been a long time, and it would be good to catch up." He paused, then added, "Just let me finish up here and we'll meet you there around 8 pm?"

"Excellent, I'll make a reservation for us then. 8 pm it is." She glanced at you, her smile softening slightly. "And don't worry, I'll make sure to keep the medical jargon to a minimum," she teased gently, a hint of playfulness in her voice.

You jumped in, a slight wince at the mention of the upcoming dinner. "Actually, that's okay, Elena. I have some things I need to take care of around that time anyway," you said, hoping to sound casual and unassuming. "You two should go ahead and have a nice catch-up. I'm sure you have a lot to talk about after all these years."

Zayne looked at you, a mix of emotions flickering across his face. You could see a hint of something, a silent question perhaps. He seemed to be searching your face for something, a sign that you were truly okay with this arrangement.

Elena nodded, a satisfied smile on her face. "Wonderful, then it's a date," she said, her eyes lingering on Zayne for a moment before she turned to you. "I have to get going now" With that, she gave a small wave and walked away, her heels clicking on the tile floor.

"Doctor Zayne, the meeting is starting now. We need you in the conference room immediately."

Zayne closed his eyes briefly, a flicker of frustration crossing his face at the interruption. He opened them again to look at you, a look of apology in his expression.

"I'm sorry love, I have to go. But I'll see you back at my house later, alright? Wait for me there." He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

As the day wore on, you found it increasingly difficult to focus on your own tasks, your mind constantly drifting back to the encounter with Elena that morning. Questions and curiosities about her and her past with Zayne lingered, gnawing at the edges of your concentration.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the city, you found yourself sitting in your own apartment instead of waiting at Zayne's place as originally planned. The empty room seemed to echo with the questions and doubts that had been swirling in your mind all day.

You tried to distract yourself with mindless tasks, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the image of Zayne and Elena together, their shared history hanging heavily between them. The way she had looked at him, the history in their eyes... it was hard not to feel a pang of worry.

You stirred from your restless slumber on the couch as the sound of a firm knock on your apartment door echoed through the quiet space. For a moment, you were disoriented, unsure of where you were or what time it was. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains.

Blinking away the lingering drowsiness, you glanced at the clock on the wall. It was well past midnight. You sat up slowly, your muscles stiff and aching from the makeshift bed on the sofa. The knock sounded again, more insistent this time.

As you unlocked the door and pulled it open, you found yourself face to face with Zayne. He stood there, his tall frame slightly hunched in the doorway, his hair slightly disheveled from the breeze outside.

The sight of him hit you like a punch to the chest. Relief, joy, and a lingering thread of uncertainty all swirled within you. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the definition of his forearms visible. But his eyes, those striking hazel eyes, were filled with a warm affection as they met yours.

"Y/n," he said softly, a note of concern in his voice. "I'm sorry for the late hour. I tried calling, but you didn't answer." He paused, as if debating whether to say more. "Are you alright? I was worried when I noticed you weren't back at my place."

"I decided to come back to my place in case you wanted to take someone else back to your house tonight" the words came out of your mouth without thinking.

He took a step back, his eyes searching yours with a mix of surprise and hurt. "What are you talking about, y/n?" he asked softly, a note of bewilderment in his voice. "Why would you think I would do something like that?"

He was silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving yours. Then, his expression softened, a look of understanding dawning in his eyes. "Ah, love," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "Is this about Elena? Did you think..." He paused, then sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Zayne looked at you intently, his hazel eyes filled with a mix of surprise and gentle understanding. He took your hands in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze as he spoke.

"Y/n, are you jealous of Elena?" he asked softly, his voice low and filled with a note of concern. "Is that why you didn't come back to my place tonight?"

He was silent for a moment, searching your face for the answer. Then, he sighed, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand. "You don't need to be jealous, you know. There's nothing going on between Elena and me. We have history, yes, but that's all in the past."

"Elena and I dated for a few years during our time in med school," he explained, his voice taking on a slightly distant tone. "We were quite serious, or so I thought at the time. But as we graduated and pursued our careers, we realized that our paths were leading us in different directions"

You started to turn away, "What a coincidence, she is back now and maybe..." But before you could finish your sentence, Zayne pulled you back towards him, his strong arms wrapping around your waist. He tilted your chin up with his fingers, his intense hazel gaze locking with yours.

Then, he kissed you. It was a deep, passionate kiss, filled with a fierce intensity that stole your breath away. His lips moved demandingly against yours, a silent declaration of his desire and his love. One hand slid up to tangle in your hair, while the other pressed firmly against the small of your back, pulling you flush against his muscular frame.

Zayne kicked the front door shut with a firm thrust of his foot, the sound echoing through the apartment. Without breaking eye contact, he swept you up into his strong arms, carrying you effortlessly to the kitchen. He set you down on the counter, the cool granite a stark contrast to the heat radiating off his body.

Looming over you, Zayne placed his hands on either side of your hips, his fingers digging into the fabric of your clothes. His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours with an unreadable expression. "Why are you giving me that attitude, love?" he asked, his voice low and rough with barely restrained emotion. "You know you don't need to be jealous of Elena or anyone else. There's no one else for me but you." His grip tightened slightly, a silent emphasis on his words. "I thought I made that clear."

Zayne's voice dropped to a low, almost menacing tone as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Maybe I need to make it completely clear," he growled, his hands sliding up your sides, his fingers splaying across your ribcage. "Maybe I need to show you, in no uncertain terms, that you're the only one I want. The only one I crave."

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he trailed his mouth down the column of your throat. His hands continued their upward journey, pushing your shirt out of the way to expose more of your skin to his hungry gaze.

His fingers found the clasp of your bra, and with a deft flick, he unhooked it, allowing the garment to fall away. He leaned back just enough to drink in the sight of your newly exposed flesh, his eyes darkening with unchecked desire.

Zayne stood before you, his intense gaze raking over your partially exposed body. He reached out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your shorts. With a swift, decisive tug, he yanked them down your legs, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

He stepped back, drinking in the sight of you seated on the counter, clad in only your lace panties. His eyes lingered on your curves, the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the length of your bare thighs. He didn't touch you yet, maintaining a maddening distance even as the air between you crackled with tension.

Zayne loosened his tie with deft, practiced motions, the silk slipping through his fingers as he slid it from around his neck. He circled behind you, the heat of his body a brand against your bare skin. You felt the smooth, cool fabric brush against your wrist before he began to wrap it around, binding your hands behind your back with a tight, secure knot.

As he worked, his fingers lingered on your skin, tracing the delicate bones, the soft flesh. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice a dark, possessive rumble. "And I'm only yours. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

With your wrists secured, he circled back around to stand before you. He had shed his tie, his shirt now hanging open at the collar, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his muscular chest. His belt was next, the leather slipping through the loops until it hung loose around his hips.

Zayne's eyes flashed with a dangerous glint as he stood before you, his tall frame towering and imposing. He reached out, his fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his intense gaze. "I won't hold you," he said, his voice a low, commanding growl. "You need to keep yourself straight, no matter what. We wouldn't want you to hit your pretty little head now, would we?"

Zayne disappeared into your bedroom, returning a moment later with a silk tie in a deep, rich shade of blue - one of the spare ties he kept at your place for emergencies. He stood before you once more, the tie dangling from his fingers as he took in your bound wrists and partially nude form.

Then, he lifted the tie, the cool silk brushing against your cheek as he slowly, teasingly dragged it across your skin. He brought it up to your eyes, his fingers grazing your lashes as he carefully, meticulously folded the fabric and placed it over your eyes.

You felt the tie wrap around the back of your head, the knot tightening with a soft tug. Darkness claimed your vision, your world narrowing to the sound of Zayne's breathing, the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne. Your heart raced in anticipation, your skin tingling with goosebumps.

As the blindfold blocked out the world, your other senses heightened tenfold. Each breath you took was ragged and shallow, your chest rising and falling with growing anticipation. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant sound of traffic outside and the steady, rhythmic sound of Zayne's footsteps as he circled you like a predator stalking its prey.

His fingers grazed your shoulder, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of electricity down your spine. You couldn't see him, but you could feel his presence, feel the heat radiating off his body as he drew closer. The air grew thick with tension, with the promise of what was to come.

Suddenly, you felt his hands on your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh possessively. He yanked you to the edge of the counter, the cool granite a shocking contrast to the scorching heat of his body now pressed against yours. His breath was hot against your neck, his lips barely a hairsbreadth away from your skin. You could feel the rough stubble of his jaw, the firmness of his chest, the hard length of his arousal pressing insistently against your core.

Zayne's lips descended upon your bared breasts, his mouth hot and hungry against your sensitive skin. He kissed and nipped at the soft mounds, his teeth grazing the delicate flesh until he left a trail of marks in his wake. Each bite sent a jolt of sensation through you, pleasure and pain intertwined, stoking the fire building within your core.

He took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of your breasts save for the hardened peaks begging for his touch. His tongue swirled around the areola, teasing the edge before moving on, always keeping you on the precipice of where you needed him most. The anticipation was maddening, the emptiness between your thighs aching for his touch, his fill.

One hand slid down your stomach, his fingers splaying across your hipbone before dipping lower, skimming the waistband of your panties. Your breath hitched, anticipation coiling tighter in your core, your hips canting forward in a silent plea. But he denied you, his fingers merely tracing the lace edge, not dipping beneath to where you needed him most.

"Zayne..." you gasped, your voice a needy whimper. But he silenced you with a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your breast as he nipped at the tender underside.

Zayne paused his tormented ministrations, his lips trailing up from your breast to the column of your throat. He nipped at your racing pulse before murmuring hotly against your skin. "Lift your hips for me, baby. Lift them so I can remove these soaked panties that are no longer serving their purpose"

You lifted your hips, the movement causing your soaked panties to peel away from your slick, heated flesh, you couldn't help but gasp as it brushed against your aching clit. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine, your back arching off the counter as you struggled to maintain your composure.

Zayne didn't miss your reaction, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest as he slowly, torturously peeled the panties down your legs. He took his time, his fingers grazing your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Once he had tugged the garment past your feet, he tossed them carelessly aside, his eyes never leaving your face as he drank in your expression of need and desperation.

"There," he murmured, his voice a low, approving growl. "Much better. Now I can see all of you, taste all of you." His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, his touch feather-light and teasing as he drew closer and closer to your dripping core. "Spread your legs for me. Let me see your pretty little pussy, swollen and ready for my touch."

You spread your legs, the cool granite of the counter a shocking contrast to the scorching heat radiating from your exposed, aching core. A breathy moan escaped your lips at the sensation, your body trembling with anticipation and need. The cool air hit your dripping folds, making you shudder and clench around the emptiness inside you.

Zayne's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of your glistening, swollen flesh, the proof of your desire coating your thighs. He leaned in closer, his breath hot and heavy against your sensitive skin. "Fuck," he growled, his voice rough with unchecked desire. "Look at you, spread out and dripping for me."

He paused, his fingers hovering just above your dripping entrance, not quite touching, not giving you the relief you craved. "Is this what you want, my love?" he asked, his tone a sinful purr. "Do you want me to plunge my fingers into your tight, wet heat? To stroke and tease and curl them just right until you're writhing and begging for more?" His thumb brushed over your clit, a feather-light touch that made you jerk and gasp. "Or do you want something else? Something harder, something thicker, something that will stretch you wide and fill you completely?"

Zayne's lips curled into a wicked smirk against your thigh as he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Or maybe you want something softer, something that can lick you in all the right places until you're trembling and crying out in ecstasy. Something that can tease and taste and savor every drop of your sweet nectar until you're drowning in pleasure and begging for more."

Without warning, he leaned in, his tongue delving between your slick folds in one long, slow lick. He groaned at the first taste of you, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh and sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your veins. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he feasted on your dripping sex, his tongue swirling and flicking and stroking in ways that made you see stars.

Zayne continued his relentless teasing, his tongue exploring every inch of your dripping sex except for the one place you needed it most. He licked along your slit, his tongue delving deep to taste your essence before dragging slowly up to your hood. He circled your entrance, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh as he denied you the direct contact you craved.

His hands slid up your stomach, palming the soft swells of your breasts, all the while, his tongue continued its maddening dance, licking and tasting and stroking everywhere but your throbbing clit.

"Zayne, please," you gasped, your hips bucking desperately against his face, seeking that elusive friction, that perfect touch. But he was merciless, his grip on your hips tightening as he held you in place, preventing you from chasing your pleasure.

He dipped his tongue inside your entrance, fucking you with the slick muscle, his nose pressing against your clit as he drove you closer to the edge. But just as quickly, he pulled back, leaving you empty and aching, your walls clenching around nothing.

"Zayne, please," you whimpered, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of your eyes behind the blindfold. "I need...I need..." But you couldn't even form the words, too lost in the haze of sensation and desire.

Zayne pulled back slightly, a dark chuckle rumbling through his chest as he took in your desperate, incoherent state. "Tsk tsk, You silly girl, can't even form a proper sentence?" he taunted, his voice a low, mocking murmur against your dripping sex.

Zayne paid no heed to the dampness spreading across the frames of his glasses, the evidence of your arousal smearing across the lenses. In fact, he seemed to revel in it, in the depravity of the act, in the knowledge that he had reduced you to such a state of desperate, aching need. He licked his lips, savoring the taste, before diving back in for more.

Zayne continued his relentless teasing, his tongue swirling around your aching clit, never quite touching it directly. Each flick and lick sent bolts of electricity shooting through your body, your back arching as you cried out in frustration. He could feel your thighs trembling, your hips bucking desperately against his face as you sought more friction, more pressure, more of anything to finally push you over the edge.

Zayne abruptly pulled his mouth away, leaving your dripping sex empty and aching. Before you could form any words, he gripped your hips tightly and in one swift, powerful thrust, he impaled you on his thick, hard cock.

You gasped and arched your back as you were suddenly filled and stretched wide around his impressive girth. He didn't give you any time to adjust, instead setting a relentless, pounding pace as he fucked into you with deep, powerful strokes.

Zayne unleashed his evol abilities just as you needed him to. Suddenly, you felt an intense, tingling coldness grip your nipple, his powers allowing him to pinch and roll the sensitive bud between his icy fingers. The contrast of the frigid temperature against your heated skin sent a shockwave of sensation straight to your core.

At the same time, he pressed his thumb firmly against your clit, rubbing the aching nub in tight, rapid circles. The combined stimulation of his cock pounding into you and his evol-enhanced touch on your most sensitive spots pushed you rapidly towards the brink of ecstasy.

Your climax hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that stole your breath and your voice. You couldn't hold onto him, your wrists still bound tightly behind you, but your body convulsed and trembled beneath his as the intense pleasure consumed you. No words could describe the overwhelming sensation, no name could be screamed as your walls clamped down around his pistoning cock like a vice. All you could do was let out a primal scream of pure ecstasy that echoed in your ears as your orgasm ripped through every fiber of your being. Your eyes rolled back behind the blindfold, your toes curled, and your back arched almost painfully as you surrendered to the pure, unadulterated bliss of your release.

As you slowly floated down from the highest high of your life, you became vaguely aware of Zayne's movements. He had slowed his thrusts, his own release having passed unnoticed in the haze of your overwhelming orgasm. With gentle care, he carefully withdrew from your still fluttering depths, a mix of your combined releases trickling down your thighs.

Before you could open your eyes, you felt the soft brush of silk against your skin as Zayne tenderly removed the blindfold from your face. The sudden rush of light made you blink rapidly, your vision slowly coming back into focus. As your eyes adjusted, you found yourself staring into Zayne's intense, hazel gaze filled with a mix of satisfaction, affection, and a hint of the dark, primal desire that had driven him moments before.

Gently, almost reverently, Zayne leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your eyelids, his lips brushing away the tears of pleasure that had gathered there. His fingers trailed down to your wrists, carefully untying the silk ties that had bound them. He massaged the slight ache from your joints with a tender touch, his thumbs circling the delicate skin in soothing motions.

"I want this," he whispered, his voice low and filled with emotion. "I want us, together like this, for the rest of our lives. I want to wake up every morning next to your beautiful face and fall asleep every night with your body pressed against mine. I want to face whatever challenges come our way, hand in hand and heart to heart."

He paused, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek with a tender touch. "You're not just my lover, my partner in passion. You're my best friend, my confidante, my soulmate. And I promise to cherish you, to protect you, to stand by your side through every joy and every trial. I want this, y/n - I want you, forever and always."

[drewswife]

summary — while getting ready for a case with the team your crush spencer walks in with a new haircut and ur a mess

pairings — pining!reader x oblivious!spencer

warnings — fluff, garcia and morgan being a tease, you are pining and being very obvious about ur crush and use of y/n

The bullpen was a familiar hum of activity, a comforting chaos of keyboards clacking, phones ringing, and the low murmur of conversations. You, however, were a hurricane of barely contained panic. Today was the day you were presenting the preliminary findings for the "Silver Serpent" case, a particularly nasty serial killer who left behind cryptic riddles and a trail of victims. And while the case itself was enough to tie your stomach in knots, there was another, far more pressing issue at hand.

You glanced at your reflection in the darkened computer screen. Your hair, usually a cooperative entity, had decided to stage a rebellion this morning, escaping its ponytail in frizzy tendrils around your face. The dark circles under your eyes, a testament to another night spent poring over case files, seemed to have deepened into permanent fixtures. And your shirt, which had seemed perfectly acceptable when you'd stumbled out of bed, now felt… lopsided. You sighed, defeat settling heavy on your shoulders. You were, in short, a mess.

"Rough morning, Y/N?" Garcia's voice, bright and teasing as always, cut through your self-pity. She sauntered over, a mischievous glint in her eyes, a giant, novelty mug clutched in her hand. "Looks like you wrestled a badger and lost."

You grumbled, running a hand through your rebellious hair. "Something like that. This Silver Serpent is really getting to me."

"Or," Morgan chimed in, leaning against the doorframe of your office, a smirk playing on his lips, "is it the anticipation of a certain doctor gracing us with his presence?"

You felt a blush creep up your neck. Garcia giggled, a sound that usually charmed but now felt like a thousand tiny needles. You shot them both a glare that held no real heat. "You two are impossible."

"We just care, Y/N," Garcia said, though her grin betrayed her. "We want you to look your best for… professional reasons, of course."

"Of course," Morgan echoed, winking.

Just then, as if summoned by their teasing, the glass doors to the bullpen swished open. Your breath hitched.

Spencer.

He walked in, head held high, a stack of books precariously balanced in one arm, a steaming mug in the other. He was wearing his usual tweed jacket, a little rumpled but charmingly so. And then you saw it.

His hair.

oh god his hair

It was shorter, neatly trimmed around his ears, the curls still there but more defined, framing his face in a way that highlighted his sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes. It looked… good. Really, really good. And suddenly, your own disheveled appearance felt even more glaring.

Hotch, who had just entered the bullpen, paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Spencer's new look. A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Reid," he said, his voice a low rumble that carried across the room, "what? Did you join a boy band?"

A few heads turned, and a couple of agents chuckled. Spencer, however, seemed oblivious, or perhaps chose to ignore it.

Garcia and Morgan exchanged a look, their grins widening impossibly. You could practically hear their silent commentary: Exhibit A: The object of Y/N's affections. Exhibit B: Y/N's immediate meltdown.

Spencer, still oblivious to the silent drama unfolding around him, made his way to his desk, setting down his books with a soft thud. He glanced up, his eyes meeting yours. A small smile touched his lips. "Good morning, Y/N."

"M-morning, Spencer," you stammered, feeling your cheeks flush even deeper. You busied yourself with shuffling papers on your desk, pretending to be intensely focused on the case files.

"So," Garcia whispered, leaning closer, "new haircut, huh? I wonder who he's trying to impress."

Morgan hummed in agreement. "Definitely trying something new. And it's working."

You ignored them, or at least tried to. Your mind, however, was a whirlwind of self-deprecating thoughts. He probably thinks I look like I slept in a dumpster. He's so put-together, and I'm… this.

The team gathered for the briefing, and you found yourself inexplicably seated across from Spencer. Every time he shifted, every time he ran a hand through his newly shorn hair, you felt a jolt. You tried to concentrate on Hotch's calm, authoritative voice, on the details of the Silver Serpent's latest taunt, but your gaze kept drifting.

"Y/N," Hotch said, his voice cutting through your reverie, "your thoughts on the psychological profile of the unsub?"

You blinked, scrambling to pull your thoughts together. "Right. Uh… the unsub seems to be highly intelligent, meticulous, and derives pleasure from intellectual superiority. The riddles are designed to challenge law enforcement, to showcase his own cleverness." You managed to articulate the points, but your voice felt a little shaky.

Spencer nodded, his eyes on you, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I agree. The narcissistic tendencies are quite pronounced. The choice of 'Silver Serpent' suggests a desire for both cunning and a certain refined elegance in his crimes."

Your heart did a little flutter-kick. He agreed with you.

As the briefing wrapped up, Garcia caught your eye and mouthed, 'Good job, Y/N! Even when you're distracted by pretty boys.' You narrowed your eyes at her, but a small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips.

Later, as you were packing up your bag, Spencer approached your desk. Your stomach did another nervous flip.

"Y/N," he began, his voice soft, "I was wondering if you had a moment to discuss something related to the Silver Serpent case?"

"Of course," you said, trying to sound professional and not like your brain had just short-circuited.

"I've been reviewing some of the symbolism in his riddles, and I had a thought about the recurring motif of the ouroboros. I believe it might represent a cyclical nature to his crimes, perhaps tied to a specific date or anniversary." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "I know you've been working tirelessly on the psychological profile, and your insights have been invaluable."

You felt a warmth spread through you. He valued your insights. He'd noticed your hard work. And he was standing so close, his new haircut making him look even more… approachable.

"That's a really interesting theory, Spencer," you managed, your voice a little breathy. "I hadn't considered the ouroboros in that context, but it makes a lot of sense given his desire for intellectual dominance."

He smiled, a genuine, open smile that made your knees feel a little weak. "Perhaps we could go over some of the historical and mythological interpretations of the ouroboros later? I have a few books that might shed some light on it."

"I'd like that," you said, perhaps a little too eagerly.

As Spencer turned to head back to his desk, you saw Garcia and Morgan giving you twin thumbs-ups from across the bullpen. You rolled your eyes, but a genuine smile finally broke through your earlier anxiety.

🏷, @sleepysongbirdsings @spencerreid66 @khxna @raysmayhem-72 @multiversefanfics @starrii-sturns

[importantpuppystarfish]

A filthy wild night with my Cousin and her bestie

Male reader or Y/N x Minji and Hanni

!Minji as your cousin and Hanni as Minji's lesbian partner.

Kinks: Incest (Cousin!Minji x you), shy!Y/N, Threesome, Lots of kissing, armpit licking, facesitting, romantic, squirt & pissing, lesbian.

Minji and Hanni are openly a lesbian couple. They live together (not so always, here Hanni stays in Minji's room for most of the times as shes her best friend. They sleep together), they have fun, and their intimacy is deep.

Y/N, his uncle married a Korean woman, which makes Minji his cousin on that side of the family. It's a beautiful day, and Y/N + his family is traveling with his family to South Korea to visit Minji’s parents. The last time Y/N and Minji met was during their childhood, when they were around 9 or 10 years old. Now, both of them are 18.

P1

The humid Seoul air clung to Y/N’s skin as he stepped off the plane, his heart thumping with a mix of jet lag and nervous excitement.

It had been nearly a decade since he last saw his cousin Minji, back when they were scrawny kids chasing each other around their uncle’s backyard. Now, at 18, Y/N was a lanky, awkward dude with a mop of dark hair and a tendency to blush at the slightest provocation. Minji, though? She was a fucking K-pop goddess—a member of NewJeans, plastered on billboards and TikTok feeds worldwide. The thought of seeing her again, all grown up and probably drop-dead gorgeous, made Y/N’s stomach do flips.

His parents, chatting animatedly about kimchi recipes and old family stories, led the way to Minji’s family home in a sleek Seoul suburb. Y/N trailed behind, fidgeting with his backpack straps, his mind racing. What if she’s, like, too cool for me now? he thought. She’s probably got a million better things to do than hang with her nerdy cousin.

The cab pulled up to a modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows, and before Y/N could brace himself, the front door swung open. There she was—Minji, all 5’6” of her, looking like she’d just stepped out of a music video. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her tight crop top and high-waisted shorts showed off a slim, sexy figure that made Y/N’s brain short-circuit. Her face, though, still had that innocent and playful spark.

“Annyeonghaseyo!” Minji chirped, her voice bright and melodic. “Auntie, Uncle, welcome to Korea!” She straightened up, flashing a megawatt smile that could’ve melted a glacier.

Y/N’s mom gasped, clutching her husband’s arm. “Oh, Minji, look at you! You’re such a young lady now, so beautiful!”

Minji’s parents appeared behind her, beaming with pride. Her mom, a petite woman with Minji’s same sharp cheekbones, hugged Y/N’s parents tightly. “Y/N, my goodness, how big you’ve grown!” she exclaimed, eyeing him up and down. “Such a handsome young man!”

Y/N felt his cheeks burn. Handsome? Me? He was skinny as a rail, with zero game and a face that was, at best, “fine.” He mumbled a shy “Thanks, Aunt Soo-jin,” avoiding Minji’s gaze.

Minji’s dad clapped Y/N’s dad on the shoulder. “Can you believe it? Our kids are all grown up! Minji’s out there conquering the world, and Y/N’s… what, heading to college soon?”

“Oh, he’s still figuring it out,” Y/N’s dad said with a chuckle. “But Minji—wow, a K-pop star! We saw your latest music video. That dance move with the…” He mimicked a clumsy hip sway, making everyone laugh.

Minji giggled, covering her mouth. “Uncle, you’re gonna need some practice!” Then, for the first time, her eyes flicked to Y/N, who was standing there like a deer in headlights. She tilted her head, her lips curling into a teasing smirk. “Hi, Y/N,” she said softly, her voice dripping with playful familiarity.

Y/N’s heart did a somersault. “H-hi,” he stammered, giving a dorky wave, his hand flapping like a fish out of water. Fuck, why am I so awkward? he cursed internally.

The parents wandered into the living room, already deep in conversation about old times and Korean barbecue plans. Minji gestured for Y/N to follow her. “C’mon, I’ll show you my room,” she said, her tone casual but with a hint of something… flirty? Nah, she’s just being nice, Y/N told himself, trying to ignore how her hips swayed as she led the way upstairs.

In Minji’s room, Y/N’s jaw nearly hit the floor. It was a K-pop stan’s dream—posters of NewJeans, LED lights casting a pink glow. There was a girl sprawled on the bed, scrolling through her phone. She was tiny—5’2” at most—with a heart-shaped face, pouty lips, and a body that, despite her petite frame, curved in all the right places. Her tank top rode up slightly, showing a sliver of toned midriff. "Holy shit", Y/N thought, his teenage brain going into overdrive, " Thats Hanni, isn't it?".

The girl looked up, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Hey, who's this?” Hanni asked Minji, hopping off the bed with a grin. “Oh Hanni, Thats just my cousin brother. Y/N meet my… bestie.. Hanni, you already know her ofcourse, my group mate.”..

Minji plopped onto the bed beside Hanni, patting the space next to her. “Y/N, don’t just stand there like a weirdo. Sit!” she teased, her voice light but commanding.

Y/N hesitated, his palms sweaty. Bestie, huh? he thought, noticing how close Hanni was sitting to Minji, their thighs almost touching. Guess she’s just super tight with her group members. Normal K-pop stuff, right? He perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, trying not to stare at either of them.

“So, Y/N,” Hanni said, leaning forward, her voice playful. “What’s it like seeing your superstar cousin after all these years?”

Minji swatted Hanni’s arm, laughing. “Stop asking him stuff and talking to him Hanni!, you’ll make him blush!” She turned to Y/N, her eyes glinting. “But seriously, Y/N, you’re not a kid anymore. You’re kinda… cute, in a nerdy way.”

Y/N’s face went nuclear. “Uh, th-thanks?” he squeaked, his voice cracking. Cute? Me? From MINJI? His brain was a mess, and his body wasn’t faring much better, hyper-aware of the two insanely attractive girls inches away.

Hanni giggled, nudging Minji. “Look at him, he’s dying! Minji, you’re too much for the poor guy.”

Minji smirked, leaning closer to Y/N, her perfume—a mix of vanilla and something dangerously sweet—hitting him like a truck. “Am I too much for you, Y/N?” she purred, her tone teasing but with an edge that made his pulse race.

Y/N swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “I-I’m fine,” he lied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N’s head was still spinning from Minji’s teasing and Hanni’s playful energy when his mom’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Y/N! Come down, we’re going to the market with Minji’s parents!”

“Uh, coming!” Y/N called back, scrambling to his feet. He shot Minji and Hanni an awkward smile, his face still flushed. “I’ll, uh, see you guys later?”

Minji grinned, leaning back on her hands, her crop top riding up just enough to show a sliver of her toned stomach. “Sure thing, Y/N. Don’t get lost in Seoul!”

Hanni winked, her voice dripping with mischief. “Yeah, come back soon, nerd boy.”

Y/N practically tripped over his own feet as he bolted out of the room, his heart pounding. Nerd boy? Fuck, they’re gonna eat me alive, he thought, hurrying downstairs to join his parents.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the door clicked shut, the vibe in Minji’s room shifted instantly. Minji and Hanni exchanged a knowing look as they got some privacy. Hanni slid closer, her petite frame pressing against Minji’s side, her fingers tracing lazy circles on Minji’s thigh. “Finally, some privacy Unnie, lets kiss.~” Hanni murmured, her voice low and sultry.

Minji smirked, turning to face Hanni, their lips inches apart. “You’re so impatient,” she teased, before closing the gap. Their mouths crashed together in a deep, passionate French kiss, tongues tangling with practiced ease. The room filled with soft moans as they devoured each other, hands roaming freely. Minji tugged Hanni’s tank top over her head, revealing perky breasts and a slim waist, while Hanni yanked Minji’s shorts down, exposing her smooth, flawless skin.

They collapsed onto the bed, naked in seconds as they open each others clothes, their bodies a tangle of limbs and heat. Minji’s lips trailed down Hanni’s neck, then lower, sucking on her nipples until Hanni gasped, her fingers digging into Minji’s hair. “Fuck, Minji,” Hanni whimpered, her hips bucking as Minji’s tongue found her pussy, licking slow, deliberate circles. Hanni’s moans grew louder, her body trembling as Minji ate her out, her own fingers sliding between her thighs to rub herself.

“God, you taste so good Hanni” Minji purred, her voice muffled against Hanni’s slick folds. Hanni arched her back, squirting with a cry as Minji pushed her over the edge, their bodies slick with sweat and desire. They switched, Hanni diving between Minji’s legs, her tongue working magic as Minji moaned, her hands gripping the sheets.

Panting, they collapsed side by side, still kissing lazily, their lips swollen and wet. Hanni giggled, wiping her mouth. “Your cousin looks so nerdy and shy, lol,” she randomly says, her voice playful but with a wicked edge.

Minji laughed, propping herself up on one elbow, her naked body glistening. “I know, right? When we were kids, we’d play hide-and-seek and shit. Now? I don’t think we’d even be friendly. He’s, like, terrified of me.”

Hanni pouted, her fingers tracing Minji’s collarbone. “Why not? He’s kinda cute, in that awkward way. Like a lost puppy.”

Minji snorted, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Cute, sure, but he’s so out of his depth. Did you see him blushing? I bet he’s never even kissed a girl, let alone fucked one. Not like us with… you know.”

Hanni’s face smiled for a split second, both of them remembering their agency’s CEO—a sleazy, 50-something bastard who’d taken their virginity in exchange for promises of stardom. They’d done what they had to, but it left them jaded, craving control over their desires. Hanni shook it off, her grin returning. “Yeah, well, Y/N’s not like that. He’s… innocent. Bet I could make him cum in, like, two minutes.”

Minji’s eyes widened, a competitive spark igniting. “Oh, you think? I’d have him blowing his load before you even get his pants off. I’d just flash him, and he’d be done.”

Hanni laughed, shoving Minji playfully. “No way, bitch. I’d suck his dick so good he’d see stars. Bet he’s got a decent cock under those baggy jeans.”

Minji raised an eyebrow, her voice dripping with challenge. “Haha, bet? I’ll ride him till he’s begging, and he’ll be screaming my name, not yours.”

Hanni leaned in, her lips brushing Minji’s ear. “Okay, but why fight? We could both have him. Imagine him, all flustered, not knowing what to do with two hot girls like us. We’d ruin him.”

Minji’s smirk widened, the idea sinking in. “Fuck, that’s hot. He’s so shy, he’d probably die just seeing us naked. But… he’s my cousin. Isn’t that, like, weird?”

Hanni rolled her eyes, straddling Minji’s lap, her hands cupping Minji’s face. “Unnie, Isn't that even better? You're gonna fuck with someone you trust, your family!. Besides, he’s 18, horny as fuck, and probably jerking off to NewJeans fancams already. Why not give him the real thing?”

Minji bit her lip, her mind racing. “True. He’s probably fantasizing about me right now, the little perv. And with you there? We’d blow his fucking mind.”

Hanni grinned, grinding against Minji, their bodies heating up again. “Exactly. We’ll seduce him, tease him till he’s begging. He won’t know what hit him. Bet he’ll cum so hard he’ll thank us.”

Minji laughed, pulling Hanni into another messy kiss. “Deal. Tomorrow, we’ll play nice, get him alone, and then… we’ll fuck him senseless. Poor boy won’t stand a chance.”

P2

By mid-afternoon, Y/N and his family, along with Minji’s parents, had returned from the bustling Seoul market, arms laden with bags of spicy tteokbokki ingredients and souvenirs. The house buzzed with laughter and the clatter of dishes as both families prepared for a big dinner. Y/N, still reeling from his earlier encounter with Minji and Hanni, kept to himself, his mind replaying Minji’s teasing smirk and Hanni’s flirty wink. They’re just messing with me, he told himself, but the way his heart raced suggested otherwise.

Dinner was a lively affair, the long table packed with steaming plates of bulgogi, kimchi, and japchae. Y/N sat across from Minji, who looked unfairly stunning in a low-cut blouse that hugged her curves, her frame just a tad taller than his when she sat up straight. Her parents and Y/N’s were deep in conversation about old family vacations.

Minji, ever the extrovert, leaned forward, her cleavage on full display as she passed Y/N a bowl of rice. “Here, Y/N, you need to eat more,” she purred, her voice sweet but laced with something dangerous. Her foot grazed his under the table, lingering just long enough to make his breath hitch.

Y/N’s face turned beet red. “Uh, th-thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing the bowl and focusing way too hard on his food. Is she doing this on purpose? he wondered, his skinny frame tensing as he tried to ignore the heat pooling in his jeans. Minji’s eyes sparkled with mischief, catching every flustered glance he tried to hide. She “accidentally” dropped her chopsticks, bending forward to pick them up, giving him a clear view down her blouse.

“Oops,” she said, smirking as she sat back up, her lips glossy from a sip of soju. Y/N nearly choked on his kimchi, coughing to cover his panic. She’s my cousin, she’s my sister literally, he chanted internally, but his teenage hormones weren’t listening.

Dinner wrapped up with the parents laughing over old stories, and Y/N was told he’d sleep in the living room since he was “a grown young man now.” As the adults gossiped in the kitchen, Y/N sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone to distract himself.

As he was scrolling tiktok, in the video, there was Minji, center stage, shaking her ass in tight shorts, her moves fluid and fucking mesmerizing. Y/N’s dick hardened instantly, straining against his jeans. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby. Goddamn, she’s hot, he thought, guilt mixing with raw desire. He was so lost in the video he didn’t hear the parents’ conversation winding down.

Eventually, Y/N realized he needed a pillow to sleep. He trudged to the kitchen, where Minji’s mom was washing dishes. “Aunt Soo-jin, do you have an extra pillow?” he asked, scratching his neck awkwardly.

“Oh, just ask Minji, dear,” she said with a smile, nodding toward the stairs. “She’s probably in her room with Hanni.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped. Minji’s room. With Hanni. He climbed the stairs, his heart pounding, trying to psych himself up to knock. But in his nervous haze, he didn’t think—just twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

What the fuck?

The sight hit him like a freight train. Minji and Hanni were stark naked on the bed, THEY ARE LITERALLY IN WORDS HAVING LESBO! a tangle of sweaty, glistening skin. Hanni’s petite 5’2” frame was crouched between Minji’s spread thighs, her tongue buried in Minji’s pussy, licking with sloppy, eager strokes. Minji’s head was thrown back, her full lips parted in a moan, one hand gripping Hanni’s hair, the other pinching her own nipple. The room smelled of sex—musky, sweet, and fucking intoxicating.

Y/N froze, his jaw dropped, his dick throbbing painfully in his jeans. Shock gave way to raw, primal horniness. They’re… holy shit, they’re fucking?. He should’ve turned away, but his feet were glued to the floor, his eyes locked on the scene. It's his first time seeing a girl naked as well.

Minji’s eyes snapped open, catching Y/N in the doorway. “Oh!” she gasped, her face flushing as she scrambled to grab a pillow, pressing it against her chest to cover her perky tits and glistening pussy. Hanni yelped, diving for another pillow to shield her naked body, her cheeks turning pink. For a split second, the room was silent, the three of them frozen in a tableau of embarrassment.

Then Hanni burst out laughing, clutching the pillow tighter. “Oh my God, haha, your cousin boy saw us shit!” she wheezed, her voice a mix of mortification and amusement.

Minji, still red-faced, couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Bitch, he’s just standing there like a deer in headlights!” she said, her eyes flicking to Y/N, who was rooted to the spot, his face burning.

“I-I just came for a pillow,” Y/N stammered, his voice cracking as he gestured weakly, his erection impossible to hide. Fuck, why is this so hot? he thought, torn between bolting and staying glued to the scene.

Minji’s gaze dropped to the bulge in his jeans, and her embarrassed expression shifted, a sly smirk curling her lips. “Oh~” she purred, her voice dropping to a teasing lilt. “Looks like you’re bringing more than just a pillow request, Y/N.”

Hanni’s eyes widened, catching on. She stifled another laugh, her pillow slipping slightly as she leaned forward. “Minji, you seeing what I’m seeing? awwww your cousin is hard!!”

Y/N’s heart pounded, his face so hot he thought he’d combust. “I-I should go—” he started, but Minji was already moving. Dropping her pillow, she stood, her 5’6” frame just a hair taller than his, her naked body a vision of slim, sexy curves. Before Y/N could process, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him onto the bed with surprising strength, his skinny frame stumbling forward.

“Oops, too late,” Minji said, her voice dripping with mischief as she locked the door with a decisive click. Hanni tossed her pillow aside, high-fiving Minji with a cackle. “Game on, bitch!” Hanni cheered, both girls dissolving into giggles as they turned their attention to Y/N, who was now sprawled on the bed, his eyes wide with panic and undeniable arousal.

P3

“W-wait, guys, stop!” Y/N protested, his voice shaky, but his body betrayed him, his dick throbbing as Minji straddled his legs, her hands deftly unbuttoning his jeans. Hanni tugged at his underwear, and in one swift motion, they yanked both down, his hard cock springing free, embarrassingly erect.

“Oh my God, it’s so hard!” Hanni squealed, her cute face lighting up with delight. “Nerd boy’s packing!”

Y/N’s hands flew to cover his face, mortified but secretly loving every second. “This is insane, you guys—” he mumbled, but his words dissolved into a gasp as Minji leaned down, her lips crashing into his in a deep, hungry kiss. Her mouth was hot, her tongue sliding against his with a mix of saliva and the faint, tangy taste of Hanni’s pussy from their earlier escapade. Y/N’s brain melted. I’m kissing Minji? My cousin? A K-pop star? What the fuck is happening?

It was heaven—wet, messy, and so fucking real. Minji’s hands cupped his face, her naked body pressed against his chest, her perfume and sweat driving him wild. She pulled back, her lips glossy, a string of saliva connecting them. “Not bad for a nerd,” she teased, her voice husky.

Hanni pouted, crawling up the bed. “My turn,” she whined, nudging Minji aside. She kissed Y/N next, her smaller frame curling against him, her tongue just as eager, carrying the musky sweetness of Minji’s juices. Y/N moaned into her mouth, his hands trembling as he instinctively gripped her waist, her skin soft and warm. The kiss was sloppy, tongues tangling, saliva dripping, and Y/N’s head spun with the surreal pleasure of it all.

As Hanni kissed him, Minji slid down, her eyes locked on Y/N’s throbbing cock. “Fuck, look at this,” she murmured, her fingers wrapping around it, stroking lightly. Hanni broke the kiss, glancing down and grinning. “Oh, we’re gonna have fun with this,” she said, and both girls slid lower, their faces hovering over his dick.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Minji’s tongue flicked out, licking the tip, her lips glossy with spit. Hanni joined in, her smaller mouth sucking the side of his shaft, their tongues brushing against each other as they went to work. They were like animals—licking, sucking, slurping, their moans vibrating against his cock. Minji took him deep, her throat tightening around him, while Hanni lapped at his balls, her giggles muffled by her enthusiasm.

“F-fuck,” Y/N groaned, his hands gripping the sheets, his skinny body trembling. He was losing his mind, the pleasure overwhelming, their wet mouths and eager tongues driving him to the edge. “I-I can’t—” he gasped, his voice breaking as Minji and Hanni worked him like they were starving, their lips and hands relentless.

Minji pulled back, a string of spit connecting her lips to his cock. “He’s gonna cum so fast,” she teased, her eyes glinting as she stroked him.

Hanni grinned, licking her lips. “Told you I’d make him lose it,” she said, before diving back in, her mouth sucking hard.

Y/N’s moans grew louder, his body bucking as the girls devoured him, their laughter and dirty talk pushing him over the edge. He was in heaven.

Y/N was sprawled flat on Minji’s bed, his skinny frame trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Minji and Hanni were relentless, their naked bodies pressed close as they worked him over. Minji’s lips were wrapped around his cock, her tongue swirling around the tip, while Hanni kissed her way up and down his shaft, occasionally leaning up to make out with Minji, their tongues tangling over his throbbing dick. The wet, sloppy sounds of their mouths—sucking, licking, and moaning—filled the room, mingling with the musky scent of sweat and sex. Y/N’s head spun, his brain barely able to process the fact that his K-pop star cousin and her bandmate were devouring him like this.

His cock, harder than it had ever been in his 18 years, pulsed painfully. It was his first time getting sucked, and the sensation was overwhelming. Minji’s warm mouth took him deep, her throat constricting, while Hanni’s petite hands massaged his balls, her tongue flicking against the base. Their eyes met, sparkling with mischief, as they kissed each other over his cock, their lips brushing his sensitive tip in the process. Y/N’s moans grew desperate, his hips bucking involuntarily. “F-fuck, I can’t—” he gasped, his voice breaking.

With a muffled groan, he lost it. His cock twitched violently, and he came hard, a massive load shooting into Minji’s mouth. Minji takes every drop, her eyes fluttering as she swallowed. Pulling back, her lips glistened with cum, a satisfied smirk spreading across her face. “Oh gosh, it’s so delicious,” she purred, licking her lips. She turned to Hanni, her voice teasing. “Want some, babe?”

Hanni’s eyes lit up, and she leaned in, crashing her lips against Minji’s in a nasty, open-mouthed kiss. Their tongues swirled, sharing Y/N’s cum, strands of it dripping down their chins. Hanni moaned into the kiss, savoring the taste. Pulling back, she wiped her mouth and laughed. “Damn, it’s way better than that CEO’s old-ass cum, bitch,” she said, her voice dripping with playful disdain. Both girls burst into giggles, their shared history with their sleazy, 50-something agency CEO a dark joke between them.

Y/N, still reeling from his orgasm, lay there panting, his cock still twitching. “G-guys, that was—” he started, but Minji and Hanni ignored him, their laughter cutting him off.

“Oh, oppa, we’re gonna have so much fun with you,” Minji teased as she climbed up the bed. Hanni winked, her petite body bouncing with excitement.

Y/N tried again, his voice weak. “Wait, I—” but they just laughed harder, their giggles drowning him out. They're having a nice time by now.

P4

Minji grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up to a sitting position on the bed.

“Enough talking, cousin,” she said, her tone commanding but playful.

She lifted her arm, exposing her smooth, slightly sweaty armpit, and pressed his face close. “Lick and clean it,” she ordered, her voice a mix of teasing and dominance.

Y/N’s mind reeled. What the fuck? His brain flashed to those NewJeans concert videos he’d secretly watched, zooming in on Minji’s glistening armpits as she danced under stage lights, her sweat-soaked skin glinting.

His mind gets nostagia of the video of Minji's armpit in concert. He’d always found it weirdly hot, a guilty fetish he’d never admitted. And now… I’m actually doing this? His body betrayed him, his cock twitching again despite just cumming. He leaned in, his tongue tentatively flicking against Minji’s armpit, tasting the salty tang of her sweat. It was musky, raw, and insanely intimate. He groaned, losing himself, licking and sucking like a starving man.

Minji laughed, a mix of ticklish delight and pride. “Omg, OPPA, you’re actually licking it!” she squealed, her voice giddy as she held his head closer, her armpit pressed against his mouth. “Such a good boy.”

Hanni, watching with a grin, slid down to Y/N’s lap, her small hands wrapping around his still-hard cock. “Fuck, he’s into it,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. She lowered her mouth, sucking him off with sloppy, eager strokes, her tongue swirling around the tip as she moaned. Her petite frame bobbed as she worked, her lips stretching around him, spit dripping down his shaft.

Y/N’s moans were muffled against Minji’s armpit, his tongue lapping harder as Hanni’s mouth drove him wild. His body shook, caught in a haze of pleasure and disbelief. Minji’s laughter and Hanni’s wet sucking filled his ears, their teasing words blurring together.

Y/N’s tongue worked feverishly, lapping at Minji’s smooth, sweaty armpit, the salty tang driving him wild. His skinny frame trembled, his face buried in her skin as he licked and sucked like it was his life’s mission. Minji, her body arched slightly, moaned softly, her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re so into this,” she giggled, her voice a mix of ticklish delight and raw pleasure. “Do the other one, come on.”

She lifted her other arm, exposing her second armpit, just as sweaty and glistening from the humid Seoul night. Y/N didn’t hesitate, diving in, his tongue tracing long, hungry strokes across her skin. Minji squirmed, laughing as the sensation tickled but loving every second. “Oh my God, cousin brother, you’re nasty,” she teased, her eyes glinting with pride and arousal. “Who knew you’d be this freaky?”

Hanni, still on her knees, sucked Y/N’s cock with sloppy enthusiasm, her petite frame bobbing as she took him deep, spit dripping down her chin. She glanced up, her eyes sparkling at the sight of Y/N devouring Minji’s armpit. “Fuck, this is so hot,” she mumbled around his dick, her words muffled but her excitement clear.

Minji finally pulled Y/N’s face away, her armpits glistening from his tongue. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing heavy. She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing his cheeks, and leaned in, kissing him deeply. It was messy, passionate, their tongues swirling, saliva mixing with the faint taste of her sweat and Hanni’s pussy from earlier. Y/N melted into it, his heart pounding, his hands trembling as they gripped her waist. This was no ordinary kiss—it was raw, intimate, and loaded with years of distance.

Minji pulled back, her forehead resting against his, her voice soft and sincere. “I love you, brother Y/N,” she whispered, her eyes shimmering. “I missed you so much over the years.”

Y/N’s breath caught, his heart swelling. “I… I missed you too, Minji,” he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. For a moment, the room felt still, the air charged with a tender, almost a romantic connection between them.

Hanni, still on her knees, paused her sucking, her lips hovering over Y/N’s cock as she watched, her small hands clutching his thighs. “Oh my God, you guys,” she sniffled, her voice shaky with exaggerated emotion. “This is so fucking romantic, I’m gonna cry! You guys are saying 'I love you' to each other!!” She wiped a fake tear, then burst into giggles, ruining the moment.

Minji laughed, shoving Hanni playfully. “Bitch, shut up, you’re ruining it!”

Hanni grinned, licking her lips. “Fine, fine, but let’s get nasty again. I’m not done with nerd boy.” She crawled up the bed, her petite 5’2” frame dripping with sweat, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Y/N, you ready for the real fun?”

Y/N, still dazed from Minji’s kiss, barely had time to process before Hanni shoved him flat on his back. “W-what—” he started, but Minji was already moving, her smirk returning.

“Time for a treat, cousin,” Minji purred, climbing over him. She positioned herself above his face, her pussy—already soaked from Hanni’s earlier tongue work—hovering inches from his mouth. Her thighs, slick with sweat, framed his vision, and the musky scent of her arousal hit him like a drug. “You’re gonna eat me out,” she said, her voice commanding but playful.

Hanni clapped her hands, straddling Y/N’s waist, her small hands stroking his cock to keep him hard. “Oh, fuck yes, facesitting time!” she cheered, her voice dripping with excitement. “Make it messy, Minji!”

Minji lowered herself, her pussy pressing against Y/N’s mouth, hot and wet. Y/N groaned, his tongue instinctively darting out, tasting her salty sweetness mixed with sweat and traces of Hanni’s spit. He licked hungrily, his hands gripping her thighs as she ground against his face, her moans loud and unfiltered. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re so good at this,” she gasped, her hips rolling, smearing her juices across his lips and chin.

Hanni, watching from her perch on Y/N’s waist, laughed. “Look at him, drowning in your pussy! Nerd boy’s living his best life!” She leaned forward, kissing Minji sloppily, their tongues tangling as Minji rode Y/N’s face. The room filled with wet, obscene sounds—slurping, moaning, and the creak of the bed.

Minji’s body trembled, her pussy gushing as Y/N’s tongue flicked her clit. “Oh, shit, I’m gonna squirt,” she warned, her voice shaky. She didn’t hold back, grinding harder, and with a loud cry, she came, her juices flooding Y/N’s mouth, dripping down his cheeks. He sputtered but kept licking, swallowing what he could, his face a mess of sweat, squirt, and spit.

Minji laughed, lifting herself slightly to let Y/N breathe. “You okay down there, cousin?” she teased, wiping some of her juices off his chin. Y/N, panting, could only nod, his cock throbbing under Hanni’s touch.

P5

But Hanni wasn’t done. “My turn,” she said, shoving Minji aside. Her smaller frame climbed over Y/N’s face, her pussy already dripping from the night’s chaos. “Open wide my besties's oppa~,” she giggled, lowering herself. Her pussy was tighter, her scent sharper, and Y/N’s tongue dove in, licking eagerly. Hanni was messier, her hips bucking wildly, smearing her juices and sweat across his face. “Fuck, yes, eat it!” she moaned, her small hands gripping his hair.

Minji, now at Y/N’s side, leaned down to suck his cock, her lips wrapping around him as Hanni rode his face. The double assault was too much—Y/N’s moans were muffled against Hanni’s pussy, his body shaking. Hanni’s movements grew erratic, and with a high-pitched squeal, she squirted, her juices mixing with a sudden, unexpected gush of piss, soaking Y/N’s face in a hot, messy flood. He coughed, shocked but too turned on to care, his tongue still working as Hanni laughed. “Oops, got a little carried away!” she said, not remotely sorry.

Minji pulled off Y/N’s cock, grinning. “Bitch, you pissed on him? That’s so fucking nasty, I love it!” She kissed Hanni, tasting Y/N’s cum and Hanni’s squirt on her lips. “You’re such a slut.”

Hanni smirked, climbing off Y/N’s face. “Says the girl who made her cousin lick her armpits!” She turned to Y/N, his face drenched and flushed. “You good, nerd boy? Or you tapping out?”

Y/N, gasping for air, his cock rock-hard, could barely speak. “I-I’m… fuck, this is insane,” he rasped, his voice drowned out by their laughter.

Minji straddled his waist, her pussy brushing his cock. “Oh, we’re just getting started,” she teased, her voice dripping with promise. “Ready to fuck your superstar cousin, Y/N?”

Hanni high-fived her, giggling. “Let’s ruin him!” The night was spiraling into pure, filthy chaos, and Y/N was too far gone to care.

the night was far from over. Minji’s eyes glinted with mischief as she pushed Y/N flat on his back again, his cock still rock-hard and twitching. “Time for the main event Oppa,” she said, her voice low and sultry.

Y/N is totally flat, laying in bed. Minji straddled him, her pussy—wet and glistening from earlier—hovering over his dick. She gripped him, guiding her cousin's cock into her pussy, and slowly sank down, his cock sliding into her tight, warm pussy.

Y/N gasped, a sharp mix of pleasure and pain shooting through him. It was his first time, and the sensation was intense—her walls gripped him tightly, almost too much. “F-fuck,” he groaned, his hands clutching the sheets. “It… it hurts a little.”

Minji smirked, her hips starting to move, bouncing slowly at first. “You’ll get used to it, nerd boy,” she teased, her medium tits bouncing with each thrust. “Feels good too, doesn’t it?”

Y/N’s moans grew louder, his body betraying him. Despite the initial pain, the pleasure was unreal—Minji’s pussy was hot, wet, and perfect, her movements driving him wild. His mind screamed, This is a dream, this can’t be real, but his body was in love, his cock throbbing inside her, his heart racing for both Minji and Hanni. I love them both, he thought, lost in the haze. Y/N starts moaning a little bit loud.

Hanni, not waning the people outside the room and not one to be left out, climbed onto Y/N’s face, her petite frame facing Minji as she lowered her pussy onto his mouth. “Eat my pussy, bitch!” she ordered, her voice playful but commanding, her small hands gripping his hair to keep him in place. Y/N’s moans were muffled against her wet folds, his tongue diving in, licking hungrily despite the overwhelming sensations. Hanni’s pussy was messy, dripping with sweat and her earlier squirt, the taste sharp and intoxicating.

“Fuck, he’s screaming down there!” Hanni laughed, grinding harder against his face, her juices smearing across his lips and chin. “Keep moaning, nerd boy, it’s hot!”

Minji’s bounces grew faster, her pussy slamming down on Y/N’s cock, the wet slap-slap of their bodies echoing in the room. “God, his dick feels so good,” she moaned, her hands gripping his chest for balance. “Better than that old CEO’s shriveled cock, huh, Hanni?”

Hanni cackled, her hips rolling as Y/N’s tongue worked her clit. “Fuck yeah, this is way better! Minji, your couson got game!” She leaned forward, kissing Minji sloppily, their tongues tangling as they rode Y/N’s body, their sweat-soaked skin glistening.

Y/N’s mind was a whirlwind. The pain in his cock had melted into pure ecstasy, Minji’s pussy driving him to the edge. Hanni’s pussy on his face was suffocating in the best way, her juices flooding his mouth as he licked and sucked. He didn’t truly like the intensity—it was too much, too fast—but his body loved it, his hips bucking into Minji, his tongue desperate for Hanni. I’m in love with them, he thought, his heart pounding. This is fucking heaven.

P6

Hanni’s moans grew louder, her small body trembling. “Oh, shit, I’m gonna squirt again!” she warned, and with a high-pitched squeal, she did, her juices gushing over Y/N’s face, mixed with a hot, messy stream of piss that he couldn’t escape.

He sputtered, swallowing what he could, his face a drenched mess. Minji laughed, her own orgasm building. “Fuck, Hanni, you’re soaking him!” she gasped, her hips slamming harder. “I’m gonna cum too!”

Y/N’s moans were lost in Hanni’s pussy, as his mouth was fully covered by Hanni's ass and pussy. his cock pulsing as Minji’s pussy clenched around him. He was close, his body betraying him again, loving every second of this filthy, romantic, chaotic night.

Y/N’s body was a trembling mess, pinned to the bed under the relentless onslaught of Minji and Hanni. His skinny frame shook as Minji, her 5’6” body radiating an almost evil confidence, rode his cock with brutal intensity. Her pussy slammed down on him, the slap-slap of their sweaty bodies echoing louder, each thrust rougher than the last. Minji’s medium-sized tits bounced wildly, her face twisted in wicked pleasure, her eyes glinting with a sadistic edge. She was in control, and she loved it.

Y/N’s cock, raw from the pounding, ached with a mix of pain and ecstasy. His moans turned to screams, his voice cracking. “Ahhh, Minji, ahhhh!!” he cried, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sticky remnants of Hanni’s piss and squirt still coating his skin. The tears were half agony, half overwhelming pleasure, his body betraying him as it craved more despite the intensity.

Minji’s lips curled into a triumphant smirk, her voice dripping with pride. “Yes OPPA, scream more!” she taunted, her hips slamming harder, her pussy clenching around his cock like a vice. “Scream my fucking name, Y/N!” She leaned forward, her nails digging into his chest, leaving red marks as she rode him mercilessly, her moans mixing with his cries.

Hanni, still grinding her soaked pussy on Y/N’s face, giggled through her own moans, her petite frame bouncing as she smeared her juices across his lips. “Fuck, Minji, you’re breaking him!” she laughed, her tongue flicking out to tease Y/N’s nose. “Look at him crying, soaked in my piss—such a pathetic little bitch!”

Y/N’s screams grew louder, his body shaking uncontrollably as Minji pushed him past his limits. His cock pulsed inside her, the pleasure overwhelming the pain. Minji’s moans hit a fever pitch, her pussy tightening as she neared her climax. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna cum!” she gasped, her hips slamming one final time. With a shared scream, they came together—Y/N’s cock erupting inside her, his thick load filling her pussy as Minji’s juices gushed around him, dripping down his thighs. Her body trembled, weak from the intensity, her breaths ragged.

Minji collapsed forward, her sweaty body pressed against Y/N’s chest, her pussy still twitching around his softening cock. “Fuck… that was good,” she panted, her voice hoarse but satisfied. She kissed him softly, a stark contrast to her earlier cruelty, her lips lingering with a hint of tenderness. “You did good, brother.”

Hanni, ever the instigator, slid off Y/N’s face, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Time to clean up,” she chirped, crawling down to Minji’s pussy. Her tongue darted out, lapping at the mix of Y/N’s cum and Minji’s juices, sucking greedily as Minji moaned weakly. “Mmm Minji, your cousin's cum tastes so much better than that CEO’s nasty shit,” Hanni said, her voice muffled as she licked Minji clean. She moved to Y/N’s cock next, her small mouth wrapping around his sensitive tip, sucking gently, cleaning every drop. Y/N groaned, his body too weak to resist, his cock twitching painfully.

P7

Next Hanni wasn’t done. With a devilish grin, she climbed up, positioning her tight, dripping pussy over Y/N’s cock, which was somehow still half-hard despite the abuse. “No way you’re tapping out now, nerd boy,” she teased, grabbing his shaft and guiding it to her entrance. “My turn.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, his voice a desperate plea. “Oh, no, Hanni! I can’t—” he started, but as Hanni sank down, her pussy swallowing his cock in one smooth motion, his words melted into a moan. “Oh my God, I love it,” he gasped, his body betraying him again, the pleasure reigniting despite the exhaustion. Hanni’s pussy was tighter, her petite frame bouncing as she rode him with wild abandon, her moans high-pitched and gleeful.

Minji, still catching her breath, laughed weakly from the side, her body slumped but her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Look at him, Hanni,” she said, her voice raspy. “He’s fucking destroyed, and he still loves it.” She crawled closer, her strength returning, and with a wicked smirk, she positioned herself over Y/N’s chest. “Time for a bath, cousin,” she purred, and without warning, she let loose, a hot stream of piss and squirt gushing from her pussy, soaking Y/N’s face, chest, and hair.

Hanni cackled, her hips still grinding on Y/N’s cock. “Yeah, bath and soak your cousin with piss!” she cheered, her own pussy clenching around him as she watched Minji drench him. “Fuck, this is so nasty, I love it!”

Y/N’s mind was a haze of disbelief and ecstasy. The warm, musky flood of Minji’s piss and squirt coated him, the golden shower from his goddess cousin and her bandmate feeling like a divine gift. This is unreal, he thought, his cock throbbing inside Hanni, his body trembling under the weight of their dominance. He felt godly, chosen by these beautiful, filthy queens, even as his tears and their piss mixed on his face. His moans were muffled, his body weak, but his heart screamed, "I love them, I love this."

Hanni’s bounces grew faster, her small tits jiggling as she chased her own orgasm. “Fuck, nerd boy, you’re gonna make me cum!” she squealed, her pussy tightening around him. Minji, now spent, leaned down, kissing Hanni sloppily, their tongues tangling as they laughed over Y/N’s drenched, moaning form.

“Ruin him, Hanni,” Minji whispered, her voice dripping with pride.

Y/N’s body was beyond exhausted, his skinny frame trembling under the relentless assault of Minji and Hanni. His cock, raw and overstimulated, pulsed inside Hanni’s tight, dripping pussy as she rode him with wild abandon, her petite 5’2” frame bouncing with gleeful energy. Her high-pitched moans filled the room, mixing with the wet slap-slap of her hips against his. Minji, still straddling his chest, her own body slick with sweat and the remnants of her earlier piss and squirt, laughed wickedly, her medium-sized tits heaving as she egged Hanni on. “Fuck him up, Hanni,” she teased, her voice hoarse but proud. “Make him cum again!”

Y/N’s moans were incoherent, his voice reduced to desperate whimpers. “H-Hanni, I can’t—oh God!” he gasped, his hands clutching the sheets, his body too weak to resist. But his cock betrayed him, throbbing harder with every thrust, the pleasure drowning out the pain. Hanni’s pussy clenched around him, her small hands gripping his shoulders as she pushed herself closer to climax. “Fuck, nerd boy, give it to me!” she squealed, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Minji leaned down, kissing Hanni sloppily, their tongues tangling over Y/N’s drenched, trembling form. The sight pushed Y/N over the edge.

With a loud, broken scream—“Hanni! Minji!”—he came hard, his cock erupting inside Hanni, a massive load flooding her pussy. His body convulsed, his vision blurring as the orgasm ripped through him, leaving him utterly spent, his limbs limp on the bed.

Hanni moaned, feeling his cum fill her, and quickly slid off, her pussy dripping with his load. “Oh, fuck, look at that! So many white cum loads!” she giggled, crawling to Minji. Both girls dove for Y/N’s cock, their mouths hungry, licking and sucking the last drops of his cum, their tongues brushing against each other. Minji took a long, greedy lick, savoring the taste. “Mmm, so much better than that CEO’s nasty shit,” she purred, her voice teasing. Hanni nodded, her lips glossy with cum. “Fuck yeah, nerd boy’s got the good stuff!”

They turned to each other, crashing their lips together in a filthy, cum-soaked kiss, their tongues swapping Y/N’s load, moaning into each other’s mouths. Strands of cum and spit dripped down their chins, their laughter muffled but gleeful. Y/N, barely conscious, watched through half-lidded eyes, his body too weak to move, his mind a haze of disbelief and raw love. I’m in love with them, he thought faintly, his heart pounding despite his exhaustion.

Finally, the girls collapsed beside him, their naked, sweat-soaked bodies pressing against his. Minji on his left, Hanni on his right, they hugged him tightly, their arms draped over his chest, their legs tangled with his. Y/N was in the middle of the bed, enveloped in their warmth, their skin soft and musky. Even in their exhaustion, Minji and Hanni’s hands lazily stroked his softening cock, their fingers teasing him gently, keeping him on edge even as he drifted toward unconsciousness.

---TO BE CONTINUED :')---

[joeyfromthetrack]

Sneaky Kisses 💋ྀིྀི

Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary - They promised to keep things professional. But just before qualifying, when tensions are high and adrenaline’s peaking, Lando Norris finds himself sneaking around with his teammate.

Contains - sexual innuendos, allusions to sex, kinda fluffy

The paddock always buzzed on qualifying day. Tight schedules. Tighter nerves. The team staff zipping around their garages making sure everything is perfect.

But within the chaos and tensions of hot laps and tyre strategies, Lando Norris and his teammate found themselves facing the tensions of not being caught. Not by staff, not by fellow drivers, not by family or friends.

Y/n slipped in through the side, her race suit half-zipped and her helmet under one arm. She didn’t even glance his way. She didn’t have to. He felt her, like a shift in gravity. Lando leaned against the back wall of the garage, pretending to study telemetry on his tablet.

In reality, he was tracking every step she took, every flick of her fingers as she passed the car he knew better than his own reflection. He could still feel her legs around his waist from earlier that morning, the imprint of her lips on his jaw, the whisper against his neck:

“Last time. We can’t keep doing this.”

Yeah, okay.

That promise lasted about as long as his lead from pole last weekend, less than 5 seconds.

She passed him casually, like they hadn’t spent the early morning tangled together in the hotel room three blocks from the circuit. Like he hadn’t kissed her goodbye with her legs wrapped around his waist, whispering “we’re gonna get caught one of these days” against his lips.

Like they hadn't spent the previous race weekends sneaking from their own hotel room to the others, staying up until the early hours of the morning, bodies moulded together, releasing all the tension and anger from the races on each other.

“Nice of you to show up,” he murmured without looking at her.

“Had a late breakfast,” she said, her voice low, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “Bit of cardio, too.”

He fought a smile, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t—not with the way that memory lit up every nerve in his body. Her nails on his back, the way she laughed breathlessly against his chest afterward, already knowing they were going to pretend it didn’t happen once the garage doors opened.

Around them, the team moved like clockwork. Mechanics swarmed the cars. Engineers barked numbers. Journalists peered in from the periphery. No one noticed the two drivers exchanging quiet smirks and veiled glances like teenagers pulling off the world’s most high-stakes prank.

“Eyes up, Norris,” she teased, brushing past him just a little too close. “You’ll give us away.”

He followed her movement like a magnet.

“I think your lipstick is still on my neck,” he shot back.

Everyone thought they hated each other.

And they let them.

Y/n stopped by her car, turning her attention to her race engineer. But Lando watched as her fingers lingered on her zipper just a moment too long, like she knew he was still staring. Like she wanted him to.

God, she was dangerous. More dangerous than a wet track on hard tires.

He waited until no one was looking. Until the cameras panned away, and the mechanics were elbow-deep in tire blankets and software updates. Then he moved, just a few steps across the garage, enough to stand beside her.

“Wearing my hoodie when you left the hotel was bold,” he murmured, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“I left before sunrise. It was cold.”

“You could’ve taken yours.”

“I like yours better.”

A pause.

He smiled.

“You know one of the PR interns saw you. She didn’t say anything, but she knows.”

“She better keep quiet if she wants a job next season.”

“God, you’re terrifying.”

Y/n turned her face slightly, just enough that he could see the sharp curve of her cheekbone.

“Still keep crawling back, though.”

He leaned in, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat between them.

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“That, or insanely obsessed with me. I would be too if I was you.” She shrugged cooly. His scoff was soft but loud enough for her to hear.

“Don’t worry,” she added, voice dropping, “I won’t ask you to say it. Not today.”

The pit lane loudspeaker crackled to life. Two minutes to qualifying. Drivers to cars.

Everything around them sped up—radio chatter, boot-up sequences, the steady rhythm of race prep reaching a crescendo.

Still, neither of them moved.

Lando glanced around. Everyone was looking the other way.

“I need it,” he said quietly.

She arched a brow at her teammate. “Need what?”

He met her eyes, finally.

“You know what.”

And without waiting, without thinking—because thinking would ruin it—he bent down and kissed her.

Not frantic. Not hungry. Just sure. Quiet and slow, like the kind of kiss you steal in the calm before a storm. One hand brushing the small of her back. Her fingers curling into the front of his suit. Lips warm. Familiar. Forbidden.

They pulled apart at the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway.

Lando backed off like nothing had happened. Just another driver talking to his teammate.

Y/n blinked once. Then zipped her race suit all the way up, slipped on her gloves, and climbed into the cockpit of her car with the same smooth grace she used to dismantle his self-control every single time.

Lando climbed into his own car, heart pounding against his ribcage harder than it should’ve been.

His engineer’s voice came through the radio.

“Alright, Norris. Give me a clean out-lap.”

He smirked, eyes narrowing behind the visor. The conversation between Y/n and her engineer going the same. Both of their eyes squinting with focus and determination, their heart rates still high from their secret kisses.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

Word count: 955

[bills5lut]

under the table

masterlist prompt list

synopsis: you try and survive some corporate dinner Billie drags you to, but her hand under the table has bigger plans. 

warnings: smut, public teasing, semi public touch, dom!Billie, implied consent play, exhibitionism, fluff.

w/c: 5k

The dining room is dim, all candlelit corners and matte black surfaces polished to a soft gleam. The table’s one long slab of dark wood that smells faintly like varnish and eucalyptus oil, lined with high backed chairs that make everyone sit a little too upright. Conversations drift lazily through the air, a low buzz of curated politeness, laughter that sounds practiced, stories that loop into themselves like they’ve been told a hundred times. You don’t recognize most of these people, but you know who they are. Manager. Publicist. Label rep. Two brand people from some beauty company. Industry guys, all of them.

You’re not quite sure why you’re here.

The food is fine. Pretty, even. Every plate comes out looking like a museum piece, sculpted dollops of saffron puree, charred vegetables arranged in arcs like flower petals. Billie’s thrilled about it in that distracted, amused way she gets when something is both genuinely impressive and also completely ridiculous.

You’re a little drunk. Not embarrassingly so, just enough for your skin to hum, for the candlelight to look prettier than it probably is. You swirl your wine, deep red and expensive tasting, watching it catch the light. Your thighs are pressed together under the table, your back resting against the curved support of your chair. Your elbow rests a little too close to hers. It’s the only part of your body you’re allowing to touch her right now. It’s a quiet, kind of closeness.

Billie’s hand rests lightly on your thigh, under the tablecloth. Just resting there. The weight of it is warm and familiar. The pad of her thumb makes a slow, absent minded arc on your leg, like she’s tracing something only she can see. Her fingers are cool, heavy with silver rings that drag ever so slightly against the smooth fabric of your dress when she shifts. The texture sends a tiny jolt up your spine.

You lean slightly into her space. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough for her to feel it.

Billie’s suit tonight is black, slouchy in that very intentional, expensive way. Shoulders a little exaggerated, the fabric puddling soft around her wrists where she’s rolled the sleeves up. She looks sharp, a little androgynous, a little fuck you cool. Her hair’s pulled back in a loose low pony, little wisps curled around her cheekbones. Her skin catches the light like satin, a little flushed from the wine, glowing just beneath the surface.

She leans over to whisper something, her lips brushing your cheek more than your ear. “This mushroom steak’s tryna be beef so bad,” she mutters, her voice low and husky from the wine and the weak.

You press your mouth against your glass to stifle a laugh. You feel her smile more than see it.

It’s been like this all evening. She drifts in and out of the group conversation, charming when she needs to be, quiet when she’s bored. Always with that glint in her eye, like she’s one sentence away from derailing the whole thing just to make you laugh. Sometimes she’ll glance at you with a tiny, private look as if to say you still good? and you’ll nod. Or give her the smallest smirk back like barely. She’ll tap your thigh in response, once, twice, then go back to sipping her wine.

It’s boring, but Billie isn’t. 

You try to focus on the conversation when it comes your way. Someone’s talking about streams and digital presence, and you nod politely even though it isn’t directed to you at all, the words already dissolving in your head. Billie chimes in with something thoughtful, articulate. You wonder how many of these dinners she’s been to. How many times she’s had to talk about brand alignment like it means anything.

You glance at her. She catches you, then leans in again, lips brushing your ear. “Guy across from me’s been talking for four minutes and hasn’t blinked once.”

You laugh, shoulders shaking. “Don’t make me look,” you whisper, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Too late. He saw you laugh,” she murmurs, triumphant.

You slap her knee softly under the table, a gentle cut it out. Her fingers tap your thigh again in mock innocence.

Her perfume catches you again when she leans back, that warm, woody scent that clings to her neck and wrists, something smoky and soft underneath it. Like sandalwood and citrus peel and something darker. You want to bury your face in her skin. You want to curl into her side and disappear into that scent, into the warmth of her, but the table is long and the conversation never ends.

You shift slightly in your seat. Her hand on your thigh shifts too, fingers curling a little. Not enough to be anything. Not yet.

She glances over, and her mouth quirks, just a little. You know that look. She’s bored. Restless. Starting to get ideas. You give her a warning look, arching an eyebrow. Her eyes narrow, playful. Innocent.

Her thumb starts to move again. You feel the pad of it press in, trace a slow line along the outer curve of your thigh. Lazy, absentminded. The tablecloth hides everything, but it feels visible. Intimate. You bite your lip and pretend to keep listening to the conversation. Something about a campaign rollout.

Her rings catch again, cold metal kissing your skin as her knuckle drags upward a little. The heat between you flares.

You cross your legs, trying to mask the way your breathing has shifted. You know she feels it. You know she’s enjoying it.

Billie leans in again, voice low. “You okay, baby?” she says, soft enough to melt. Her thumb strokes once, just a little higher now.

You nod without looking at her. Your voice is quiet. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she whispers back, innocent and evil.

Your wineglass is shaking slightly when you bring it to your lips again. You hope no one notices.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to laugh. She’s looking at you like she already knows how this night’s going to end.

And you’re still not sure if you hate her a little for it or if you’re going to let her win.

Your plate’s still half full, your wineglass nearly empty. Billie’s barely touched her food,  some deconstructed vegan thing with roasted fennel and artichoke hearts she poked at with her fork for a few minutes before giving up. She’s never eaten much when she’s distracted. Or scheming. And she’s very clearly doing both now.

Her hand shifts again under the table. It’s subtle, palm flattening first, then fingers sliding further along your thigh, slow and casual like it’s not even on purpose. You don’t move. You’re suddenly hyper aware of the heat between your legs, of the way your dress clings too close to your skin. Your heart does this tiny hiccup thing in your chest when her thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles just above your knee.

She’s still talking. Casually, effortlessly. Something about press timelines, about tour budgeting. She’s answering someone’s question about tour dates like she doesn’t have her hand halfway up your thigh. Like your skin isn’t buzzing under her touch.

You try to chew. You try to breathe. You can feel how fast your pulse is now, thudding against your collarbone, your wrists, deep between your legs where her hand is slowly, slowly migrating.

You reach for your water glass, steadying it with both hands. Sip. Breathe. She hasn’t looked at you in minutes, but you know she’s clocking every breath you take.

The pad of her thumb slides higher, just a half inch, and your legs tense involuntarily.

“Bills…” you murmur, barely audible, not even looking at her.

Still, her eyes flick to you. Just for a second. That glint again, a silent what? behind her lashes.

She leans in, face neutral, eyes on her plate. Like she’s about to say something mundane. But then her lips brush your ear and her voice dips low and warm, sliding beneath your skin.

“You look so good tonight,” Billie murmurs. “That dress, baby… fuck.”

Her breath fans over the shell of your ear. You feel it everywhere. Chest, arms, knees. Deep in your stomach.

You let out a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite. “Stop,” you whisper, mouth twitching with a warning smile. “Seriously.”

She doesn’t stop. Her hand is a little higher now, her fingertips resting right at the edge of the hem of your dress. Just beneath the fabric. Just barely.

You glance around the table like maybe someone noticed, like maybe you’re giving something away, but no one’s looking. Someone’s mid rant about touring logistics, and half the table’s nodding along. The clink of silverware against ceramic masks the quiet stutter of your breath.

“Billie.” You say it softer this time. It’s not a plea. Not quite.

She grins, not openly, not widely. Just enough for the corner of her mouth to lift, for the smallest dimple to show. You hate that she can look this calm.

Her knuckles ghost up the inside of your thigh. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers spread slightly, resting just under the curve of your ass where your dress is riding up from the way you’re sitting. You shift your legs, clench them slightly, not to stop her, more to feel her more. It’s automatic. Instinctive. Your body’s already begging for something your mouth won’t admit to.

And still, she’s laughing at someone’s joke across the table. Casual. Playful. Like she hasn’t just dragged the back of her ring across the soft skin near your hip bone, sending a visible shiver through you.

You press your hand to your lap, steadying yourself. Your fork trembles when you pick it up again.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, not looking at her.

She tilts her head slightly, pretending to miss it. “Hmm?”

“You heard me.”

Billie leans in again. Another whisper, sweet and smug. “You like it.”

You do. You hate how much you do. You hate how hot your skin feels now, how even the candlelight seems warmer, stickier, like the whole world is bending inward around the pulse between your legs.

You press your thighs together again. She feels it. You feel her feel it, the slightest press of her palm in response. Her fingers flex, her thumb brushing that sensitive space at the inner seam of your underwear. Not enough pressure to be anything. Just enough to set you on fire.

You don’t move. You don’t push her away. You just sit there with your wine in one hand and the other clenched around your napkin in your lap like it might anchor you somehow.

From across the table, someone says something that makes Billie laugh, a sharp, unfiltered burst, and you flinch because her fingers twitch with it, dragging accidentally against you.

You glance at her. She glances back. For a second, neither of you speaks. It’s just breath between you.

“I swear to god,” you mutter.

She smiles sweetly, innocently. “You okay?” she asks, again like it’s nothing.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re evil.”

She lifts her wineglass with her free hand, takes a small sip. Her fingers on your thigh don’t move. “You’re the one who wore that dress.”

You glare at her, but you’re blushing now. You feel the heat crawl up your neck, across your chest. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Her hand drifts a little higher again, one inch, two. You feel the edge of her pinky brush against your underwear now, the gentlest pressure. Just resting. Just there. Like it has every right to be.

And still, she talks. She laughs. She nods along. All while her fingers graze your inner thigh, moving in slow, teasing circles like she’s just trying to drive you insane.

You lean into her a little, keeping your voice low. “If you make me cum at this table, I’m gonna kill you.”

Her mouth presses close to your ear again. “Then die mad, baby,” she whispers.

You exhale hard through your nose. Your eyes close for half a second. Her fingers shift again. One knuckle, just barely, against the damp cotton of your underwear.

You try to steady your breathing, but it’s already shallow, barely there. Billie’s hand is still and warm between your thighs now, and you can feel the heat of it through your dress, through the thin stretch of your underwear. She’s so casual about it too, the way her fingers rest like they’ve always belonged there. Like this dinner’s just background noise, and she’s in no rush to move.

Someone’s laughing across the table, a loud bark of a laugh. The PR guy, maybe. You can’t really focus. Your pulse has moved into your ears, and it’s drumming a rhythm against your skull. You sit straighter, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it brings Billie’s hand higher, your thighs naturally drawing her fingers closer.

She leans in just enough that her breath brushes your ear. Warm. Calm. Cruel.

“These the ones I like?” she murmurs, voice low, almost lazy. “The pink ones with the little bow?”

Her index finger taps once against the center of you. Right where she means. Right where it’s already damp. You feel your face heat, full blush, instant and shameful. You nod once, quickly, and stare hard at the half full glass of wine in front of you like it might rescue you from the sharp throb building in your stomach.

Billie exhales a soft laugh against your cheek. You hear it more than feel it, her lips right there but not touching.

You lift the wine glass, too fast, it clinks against your teeth, and your hand trembles slightly. You try to play it off, take a longer sip than necessary. Swallow. You don’t dare glance at her.

And she doesn’t move her hand at first. Doesn’t press. Just lets it stay there, weighted, the heat of her skin seeping through your dress. Her fingers flex a little, shifting so she fits into the dip of your inner thigh, thumb brushing just under the hem of your underwear. Not even touching anything specific yet. Just close.

You exhale through your nose and cross your legs. Not to stop her, just to manage the ache that’s forming, the slow, molten drag of want low in your belly. Your body reacts before you’re ready to admit it. Before you even register how wet you already are, her fingers slide more deliberately now, two fingers exploring, pressing gently through the cotton.

And it’s unmistakable.

She knows.

You don’t look at her. Can’t. But her mouth is near your shoulder now, lips parted like she might say something else, and then she doesn’t. She just shifts slightly, the same effortless poise she always carries, and lets her fingers start to move.

Tiny, slow circles.

Barely pressure at all. Like she’s still thinking about it. Like she could stop at any second, and you wouldn’t even be allowed to protest.

You grip the edge of the table. The wood is cool under your fingertips. You will yourself not to react, to keep still, but the movement she’s making, it’s so light, so calculated. Each circle grazes over your clit through the cotton, making the damp fabric cling tighter, stickier.

Her rings catch slightly when she curls her hand, and the texture sends a jolt right through you.

You shift in your seat again, pretending to adjust your posture. Trying to breathe through it. You blink too slowly when you look down at your plate, half of it untouched now. A bite of roasted fennel, some polenta, a few beads of olive oil reflecting the low lighting. Everything looks too sharp. Too real.

The man across from you, one of Billie’s team you think, glances up and asks, “You okay over there?”

Your stomach flips.

You manage a smile, voice cracking just a little. “Yeah, just… warm in here, isn’t it?”

You see Billie withdraw her hand just slightly at that. Not fully. Just a respectful pause. Like she’s letting you catch your breath. Letting you answer the question, letting you exist for a second in the version of yourself that isn’t quietly being touched under the table.

You press your thighs together in the brief reprieve. Your clit pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take another sip of wine, slower this time, grateful for the burn in your throat to ground you.

Then she’s back.

Fingers sliding with more confidence now. Two of them circling in slow, tight circles again, her thumb holding just outside the crease of your thigh. You can feel her pinky curl slightly, nudging the soft edge of your underwear aside so that just a sliver of you is bare against her skin. It’s subtle. So subtle.

You glance down, your hands are white knuckled around your napkin in your lap.

Another soft whisper from her, “So fuckin’ soft down there, baby…”

You make a small, involuntary sound, low in your throat. You pray no one hears it over the clatter of cutlery and soft jazz playing from a speaker mounted behind the wine rack.

Your breathing has turned to shallow pulls now. Every inhale a little shaky. Your whole body is humming under your skin. She’s still talking every now and then to the person next to her, casually, like she’s not ruining you in slow motion. Like she’s not pressing just a little harder now, her middle finger finding the precise spot and circling it, deliberate and slow.

You think, dimly, that you’re going to break if she keeps going like this. That your underwear’s soaked and sticking. That you can’t move without showing something, somehow. So you stay still. You grip the edge of the table and take another sip of wine and try to keep your legs from twitching, your hips from lifting into her hand.

Billie shifts closer in her seat. You feel her thigh pressed against yours, firm and grounding. She leans into you a little, not enough to draw attention, but enough that you know she’s here. She’s present.

Her voice in your ear again. “Doing so good, baby. Just stay still. I got you.”

And you do.

Billie’s fingers don’t hurry. She knows exactly how to drive you mad without spilling the secret to anyone else. Every tiny shift of your body, every hitch in your breath, every almost-suppressed sigh, she catalogs like a map, learning the way you respond. It’s like she’s memorizing your body in real time, tracing your edges with her fingertips, reading you with the quiet precision of a painter perfecting her masterpiece.

You try to stay still. Your fingers clutch her thigh beneath the table, nails digging just enough to anchor yourself, to remind yourself that you’re here, in this room, at this godawful dinner, and not somewhere else entirely. The fabric of her black pants is soft but sturdy, the weave catching beneath your nails, and it grounds you, just barely. You want to be still, but your whole body hums with vibration, like a silent electric current running from your core down to your toes.

Her thumb strokes the skin near your clit with gentle, deliberate pressure.

You’re acutely aware of everything. The subtle weight of her hand, warm and confident; the soft press of your dress fabric against your bare skin, soaked in places; the quiet murmur of conversations around you, clinking silverware, low jazz filling the dimly lit room.

The scent of her perfume drifts over you again, warm, woody, and it wraps around you like a cocoon. You can feel her breath, soft and steady, brushing your hairline. It’s intimate and electric all at once.

“You gonna cum for me at this boring ass dinner?” she murmurs, voice low and smug, almost teasing but with a sharp edge that makes your chest tighten.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you clamp your jaw shut and try not to let your body betray you. Your legs tremble under the table, knees knocking lightly against hers in the small space between your chairs. Your fingers press harder into her thigh, nails grazing the fabric and skin beneath, desperate for something solid to hold onto.

Your breath catches, short, stuttering, barely a whisper, like you’re suppressing a cough, but every muscle inside you coils tighter and tighter. Your hips shift involuntarily, pressing just a fraction more against her fingers. Your clit pulses insistently, slickness soaking your underwear completely now.

Billie’s touch is steady but relentless. She moves her fingers in slow, deliberate circles, building the pressure just right, never too much, never too little.

Your vision blurs slightly. You close your eyes for a moment, biting your lip to stop the moan you’re sure you’re about to make. Your pulse hammers in your ears. Your cheeks burn red, hot and flushed.

Your body trembles, a low vibration that starts in your belly and spreads outward, radiating through your thighs, your stomach, your chest. Your hands tighten their grip on Billie’s leg, nails digging in deeper now, as if holding her could somehow hold the moment together.

And then it happens.

A slow, shuddering wave crashes through you, rippling outwards. Your hips jerk subtly, legs trembling so much that your knees brush against the underside of the table. Your jaw clenches tight, teeth grinding as your breath catches and stutters, trying to suppress everything spilling out from inside.

Your toes curl inside your heels. Your body tenses in a way that feels too much and not enough all at once. The warmth floods your core, spreading to your chest and neck, your cheeks hot as fire.

Billie’s hand lingers for a heartbeat after, her touch soothing, steadying. She presses gently against your thigh, grounding you, bringing you back slowly, carefully, with her presence.

“Shhh,” she breathes softly, voice low and warm. “Got you.”

Her lips brush against your hairline again, soft, comforting, a quiet anchor in the madness of your racing body. You rest your head against her shoulder for a moment, chest rising and falling unevenly, feeling the tremors in your muscles slowly ease.

She pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and tenderness.

“You’re glowing,” she says quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

You try to smile back, cheeks still flushed, throat still tight from holding everything in.

“It’s the wine,” you whisper, voice rough but genuine.

Billie laughs softly, the sound like silk sliding across skin.

“Yeah, wine,” she agrees, but you both know it’s not the wine at all.

You lean into her a little more, finding warmth in the closeness. The dull dinner fades away, all the talking, the fake smiles, the clinking glasses, replaced by the quiet pulse of her hand resting on your thigh, and the steady rhythm of your breath slowing back down.

You shift, subtly, careful not to jostle your chair too hard. The fabric of your underwear sticks against your skin now, soaked, clinging, and every tiny movement reminds you of what just happened, what Billie just did, what you let her do.

And she’s just sitting there.

Calm as fuck, of course. Her hand has returned to your thigh, casual, fingers spread just enough to anchor you but not enough to start anything again. Her pinky taps gently, rhythmically.

Your breath is still coming in uneven pulls, so you reach for your water, trying to play it off. The glass is a little too cold in your hand. You sip slowly. Carefully. The chill helps.

Across the table, someone’s droning on about audience engagement metrics. You can’t even pretend to follow. Words just pass through you like air. You glance toward Billie without turning your head, and sure enough, she’s smirking.

Not a full smile, not something obvious, but that crooked little pull at the corner of her mouth, the kind of look she gives you when she’s proud of herself for something she shouldn’t be proud of.

You shoot her a glare. Or, at least, you try to. It doesn’t land. Not when your cheeks are still pink and your lips are curved in spite of you. You feel dazed and warm and breathless and, god, you’re smiling.

Billie leans in slightly, her shoulder brushing yours again as she shifts. Her mouth hovers near your ear.

“You’re still shaking.” she murmurs, low and smug.

You nudge her with your elbow. It’s the most you can manage. She lets out a soft snort and leans back like nothing happened. Turns to the girl across from you, the one from PR with the glossy bob and clipboard posture, and asks her a question about the upcoming campaign. Something innocuous. Just enough to draw the attention off you, to fill the space, to let you breathe.

It’s so smooth you could kiss her.

You glance down at your hands resting in your lap, one still curled loosely in the soft black fabric of Billie’s pants. You hadn’t even realized you hadn’t let go yet. Gently, you unfurl your fingers, pat her thigh once, a silent thanks, and bring your hands back to your glass.

You sip your wine next, slower now, letting it linger on your tongue. The warmth of it spreads down your throat and nestles in your chest. Your body is starting to return to you, piece by piece. But your pulse is still a little high, and your skin still buzzes with the echo of her touch.

Her knee nudges yours under the table again. Presses against it. Stays there.

You risk a glance sideways. She’s not even looking at you, not yet. Her eyes are focused on the PR girl, nodding like she’s listening, even though you know she’s not. Not fully. But then her hand slides just an inch on your thigh. Just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to say I’m here.

You exhale slowly through your nose and let your knee press back against hers. A silent I know.

The conversation continues around you, a dull buzz of industry jargon and polite laughter. You tune most of it out.

You glance at Billie again and this time she catches you. Her smirk deepens.

You shake your head, cheeks heating again.

She leans closer just slightly, drops her voice. “Still feeling it?” she asks, soft and teasing.

You bite back a smile, roll your eyes.

“Shut up.”

Billie chuckles, low and quiet. Then her expression shifts, still playful, but gentler. She glances down at your trembling hand resting near your wine glass and then back at your face.

“You okay?” she asks, and it’s not a joke this time.

You pause. The hum inside you hasn’t faded completely. But her voice brings you down, softly. You nod once, a little breathless still. Smile at her, small, real, a little sheepish.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Her smile softens to match yours. Her hand squeezes your thigh once, firm and warm. Her body shifts toward you just enough that your arms brush again. You lean into her without thinking, not a big movement, just a quiet weight against her shoulder for a moment.

And she lets you stay there.

The conversation continues around you. The wine is still half full. The night isn’t even close to over.

But you don’t care. You’re here, flush with warmth and Billie’s perfume and the buzz of pleasure that still lingers low in your stomach. You close your eyes for a beat, just one, and let yourself breathe.

She squeezes your knee again. You squeeze back.

[leehnz]

when words fail

taesan x fem!reader (self insert lowk)

summary: a new job at the convenience store introduces you to a love you never thought you would find :3

wc : 4.9k

friday nights are usually your designated nights. you enjoy spending time cuddled up in your bedroom, duvet draped over your body while you watch your favorite kpop band perform on your laptop screen.

despite being unable to see them live, the feeling is electric—unreal, even. but those nights of solace are no longer, and all because you decided to get a job. it isn’t easy finding a place suitable to your taste, but you manage to find one at the convenience store on the corner of your street, a place you frequent.

of course you don’t choose to get a job out of the blue, there’s an underlying reason. that being your desire to see your favorite band in concert. though watching through the screen is enjoyable, the feeling of seeing them live is unmatched.

listening to their heavenly vocals, seeing their elaborate and skilled dance moves along with their angelically crafted faces in person? you’d be a fool to turn down a chance at experiencing that.

that’s why you’re standing in the doorway of the convenience store, application in hand as the owner, an older man with graying hair, leads you inside the store. “come, come!” he ushers you in warmly, a gentle smile on his face.

“i’m sure you got the email about getting the job already.”

you nod, following closely behind as he leads you to the register. the register that changes the course of your experience at your new job, and all because of one boy.

he’s gorgeous. extremely tall and sharp featured with high cheekbones and the cutest pouty lips. his face holds no expression, but his eyes, his eyes speak to you more than you believe he ever could.

“ah, this is taesan!” your manager introduces excitedly, ushering the boy to come out from the counter. he complies, steadily making his way out until he’s in front of you.

“taesan, this is yn. she’s the new employee i was telling you about.”

you bow, to which he reciprocates, before offering your hand out for a handshake. he glances down, slightly surprised, before taking your hand in his own. his hand is soft, but you can feel the slight callouses—a testament of hard work.

“nice to meet you.” he says, voice silky smooth and full of honey. this job is only supposed to be a means of getting money, but your introduction to taesan makes you second guess your intentions.

would it be all that bad to find romance if you were still making money? 

“i’m hoping you can start soon. i know it’s short notice, but can you come in tomorrow?”

“definitely,” you reassure him, offering a small smile. your manager thanks you, before leading you around the backroom where the employees stay. all the while, you find it hard to keep your eyes off of taesan.

he’s just so captivating.

you’re in for a lot of trouble.

–

the next day, you begrudgingly roll out of bed an hour earlier than usual. yes, having money is exciting, but your beauty sleep will always be more important. nonetheless, you make it to the store in just the knick of time, quickly greeting a bored looking taesan who lazily nods in acknowledgment.

“morning,” you mumble, bowing quickly, before disappearing into the back room. taesan’s eyes follow your figure, a slight quirk of the corner of his lips making an appearance at your disheveled semblance.

“rough morning?” he asks when you finally emerge from the room, hands hurriedly tying the straps of your apron behind your back. you nod, brushing your hair out of your face before joining him at the register.

he just chuckles, and holds his hand out. you tilt your head in confusion.

“huh?”

“phone.” he says simply, brows raising expectantly.

you pout, muttering under your breath as you dig in your pocket to hand him your phone. then he laughs, a genuine laugh, and it makes you look up at him, and the sight makes your breath hitch.

he’s even cuter when he smiles.

“i’m just messing with you. i’m supposed to be training you today though. are you ready?” he leans against the counter, eyes never leaving your face.

you nod, speechless, to which he claps his hands together.

“alright, first up i’ll teach you about the register.”

training goes relatively smoothly, as smooth as it can go, with a few blips here and there. he teaches you the ins and outs of using the register, including all of the shortcuts he’s managed to create since working there.

he also goes over how to take inventory (something so tedious it quickly becomes your least favorite task), and of course what he likes to call “standard” customer service skills. though to you, the skills are a lot more than just the bare minimum.

taesan is impossible to ignore. he’s extremely kind to the customers, speaking lightheartedly to them as if it’s second nature. it’s obvious to you that he’s grown a reputation around the store, judging by how receptive customers both young and old are to him.

it’s kind of endearing to watch.

“you’re good at that,” you comment once rush hour ends. he shrugs, picking a piece of lint from off of his apron. “it gets easier when you get used to it.” you nod, continuing to wipe down the counter.

the sun has already begun to set by now, the moon illuminating brightly, casting dark shadows along the sidewalk. you look through the window, huffing at the sight. today goes by quicker than you expect.

if every work day is like today, you wouldn’t mind having a job at all. especially with eye candy like taesan.

“ah, almost forgot,” he says suddenly, weaving past you and toward the shelves. you watch him, confused, when he motions for you to follow him. “forgot what?”

“another shortcut.” he says matter-of-factly, leading you to the 3 layered carts filled with crates of what you assume to be merchandise.

“i was going to teach you tomorrow, but doing it like this makes it so much easier.”

“doing what like what?” you ask, bewildered.

“stocking, duh?” he says as he crouches down to lift a box of merchandise from the cart. you nod in understanding, grabbing a box of your own. but what you don’t realize is that convenience store snacks can be so heavy, and you nearly topple over at the mere weight of the box.

“what’s in this, bricks?” he chuckles at your expense, plopping the box he holds down to assist you with yours. you thank him, heading over to the aisle that corresponds with the box.

“it’s pretty self-explanatory, just make sure you arrange them neatly or the owner gets mad. doing it the night before makes your job so much easier.” he explains, crossing his arms, his body leaning against the shelf.

“i’ll help you today, but most days we split up the work.”

you nod, shooting him a thumbs up, turning to get to work. stocking is pretty easy, and it quickly becomes your favorite task. taesan is right about everything being relatively simple— all you have to do is find the correct spot and organize it in a neat way, something you enjoy doing anyway.

in fact, you enjoy it so much you secretly wish you could rearrange all the shelves, but you don’t get paid enough for that. everything goes smoothly until it’s time for you to reach the dreaded top shelf.

you click your tongue, turning to see if there’s a stool nearby, but there isn’t. so being the ever independent girl you are, you figure out a way to reach the top shelf—for the most part.

brilliantly, tossing the bowls of ramen on the shelf seems to be working perfectly. they even manage to align themselves correctly, something you chalk up to divine intervention. but as you near the front of the row of ramen, it gets more difficult.

you huff, shifting on your tippy toes, hands stretching as far as they can to slide the final bowl of buldak on the shelf, but you’re just short of it.

then, warmth.

the feeling of something—someone—coming up behind you makes your body grow slack, your weight shifting back to your heels as taesan’s hand grabs the cup from your hand, effortlessly sliding it into place.

you feel your breath catch in your throat, cheeks warming at the feeling of his body so close to yours, but the feeling only lasts a second. he dusts his hands off, placing them on his hips with a sigh.

“next time, ask for help.” he says simply, as if he hasn’t almost just given you a heart attack. you feel like a freak for reading into it, but how could you not? your oddly attractive new coworker just comes up behind you and helps you reach the top shelf.

it’s like something straight out of a drama. “whatever.” you stumble over your words, hiding your face as you quickly walk over to the backroom. taesan watches you, a perplexed look on his face, before shrugging.

–

for the next few weeks, you consistently go to work, and things run smoothly. customers start to warm up to you, the tasks become muscle memory, and the job isn’t too tiring, so you still have enough time to have a social life outside of it.

needless to say, getting this job is a blessing.

as for taesan, he’s still his usual polite self, but he’s sort of closed off, you notice. at first it kind of bothers you, but you chalk it up to him being an introvert. plus, it’s better this way.

who knows how fast you would fold if a friendship bloomed between the two of you.

but after a while of smooth sailing, taesan starts growing increasingly agitated at the unspoken awkwardness that seems to loom between the two of you. yeah, you’re friendly—sometimes even having small conversations here and there—but there’s still this odd feeling of tension. heavy, yet unserious at the same time.

it’s driving him insane.

so he does what any other logical person would do: he decides to confront you about it.

the first time taesan tries to bring it up, it doesn’t go too well. in truth, it just makes things even more awkward than they were.

“yn?” he calls for you one day while you’re busy restocking the shelves.

you pause, dusting off your apron and walking toward him.

“yeah?”

“is everything… okay between us?” and the way he says it—hesitant and soft—makes it so hard for you not to believe there’s a double meaning behind his words. makes it hard to believe he doesn’t mean something else by it. but as delusional as you are about your favorite band, you know the difference between fantasy and reality.

and this is reality. taesan doesn’t mean anything by it. “of course, why?” you chuckle to ease the awkwardness. he just scratches the back of his head, nodding before motioning for you to go back to work.

after that, you make sure to keep extra distance from him. whenever he’s talking to a customer, you hide on the opposite side of the store so he can’t pull you into the conversation.

during breaks, you insist on eating after him just so you won’t be alone with him in the breakroom.

but taesan isn’t stupid. he notices, and it bothers him. but he doesn’t know if he’s reading too much into it. maybe you have a reason, or maybe it really is just all in his head.

he won’t know for sure unless he tests it—so he does.

“yn, i need your help with the register!”

you quickly jog up to him, slipping behind the counter to assist.

“what’s up?”

he hums, tapping a few random buttons, hoping you won’t notice his blatant acting. “i keep getting stuck on this screen when i try to exit.”

you look up at him, confused, tapping a few buttons before the register returns to its original screen. “how do you not know this? you’ve been working here longer than me,” you tease, turning to head back to your task.

“wait,” he suddenly says, reaching a hand out to stop you. you glance down at his hovering hand before he quickly retracts it, motioning for you to come back.

“there’s this thing too,” he says, inching closer to where you stand in front of the register. and you, being you, notice this, and begin to scoot further and further away from him.

“what thing?” you accidentally stutter, forehead creasing in embarrassment. you hadn’t meant to show your nervousness, it just happens.

“this.” he taps a random button on the screen, attempting to lean in closer to you again. this time, you take a full step back, nervously giggling at your sudden closeness.

this time, there’s no mistaking it. you deliberately take a step away from him when he moves close to you, and he wants to know why. so he moves again. then you move again—away from him.

the two of you play this little dance until he has you backed against the wall, your hands raised in surrender. it doesn’t help that he refuses to break eye contact the entire time.

“what are you doing?” you ask, your voice coming out as a squeak.

he doesn’t say anything. his eyes continue to bore into your face, engraving every feature of yours into his memory.

then, finally: “why do you act so awkward around me?”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding when he steps back, arms crossing. you shrug, trying to wave him off, trying to pretend han taesan didn’t just have you cornered against the wall.

that you hadn’t just seen his gorgeously carved face up close—too close.

“i don’t. it’s just my personality.”

but taesan doesn’t buy it. instead, he scoffs, muttering something under his breath, still refusing to let it go.

“well if we’re going to be coworkers we need to be comfortable with each other. let’s spend our lunch break together.” he insists, leaving no room for refusal.

you sputter, blinking in confusion while he nudges you from behind the counter. “now get back to stocking.”

—

when lunchtime rolls around, your nerves are on ten. taesan closes the store, flipping the open sign to closed, leaving you absolutely no options for escape.

you know it’s ridiculous to be this nervous about sharing lunch with him, but it’s impossible not to be—especially when he looks like that, when he looks at you like that. like you’re the only person in the world.

you touch your finger to your lips, tracing them—a nervous habit you’ve picked up. taesan finally enters the backroom, two bowls of steaming ramen in hand as he sets one down in front of you.

“alright, let’s get to know each other.”

you snort at the way he says it, like it’s a mission that has to be completed. that earns you a slight smile from him, and in that moment, you wish you were a comedian just so you could see that radiant smile every day.

“ask me any question, i don’t bite,” he adds, picking up his chopsticks. you nod in thought, swirling the noodles in your bowl before mustering up the courage to speak.

“when did you start working here?”

“i started a year or two ago, in my first year of university,” he answers, taking a big bite of his ramen. you take one of your own, humming in understanding.

“university? how old are you, and what are you studying?”

“i’m twenty, and i’m studying music production.” you don’t miss the way his eyes seem to twinkle at the topic of music—it’s kind of cute.

“enough about me. what about you?”

you cover your mouth as you chew, freezing at the sudden question.

“me? what do you want to know?”

“everything you asked me.”

you hum, setting your bowl down. “i’m eighteen, i’m in my first year of university, and i’m studying math.”

he gasps, making a dramatic face of disgust. “math? who does that to themselves?”

you smile, rolling your eyes. “intelligent people.”

the two of you keep eating and chatting, and the more time you spend with him, the more you realize how much you enjoy just being around him. maybe avoiding him hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

“oh, i’ve been meaning to ask,” he says suddenly, just as the conversation begins to wind down. “is there any particular reason you got a job?”

you pause, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. you’ve got two options: lie and say it’s for tuition, or be honest. judging by the way he’s looking at you, option one sounds appealing—but for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to lie.

“don’t laugh at me…” you start, hanging your head in shame.

he laughs before you even get the words out. “i won’t, i won’t.”

you exhale, shutting your eyes. “i’m saving up to fund my obsession with this boy band,” you finally admit.

taesan puffs his cheeks, a terrible attempt at holding in his laugh, but it bursts out all at once. “you only got a job for kpop?” he sputters between laughs, hunched over in his chair.

“that’s some serious dedication,” he teases, once he’s caught his breath and sips his water.

“see, this is why i didn’t want to tell you,” you whine, fiddling with the cap of your water bottle. he shrugs, clearly not serious.

“i’m just teasing you. what group is it?”

“it’s this band called boynextdoor,” you say, already pulling out your phone to show him a song. he hums, feigning interest. if he’s being honest, the idea of a kpop group you’re obsessed with doesn’t exactly excite him, but if pretending to care makes you happy—he’ll do it in a heartbeat.

he hums along as you scroll through photos of them littered across your pinterest board, explaining the lore of the group. “they sound alright,” he comments, trying to sound casual.

“alright? they’re more than alright! let me show you their newest album!”

–

for the next few weeks, you and taesan grow closer—a lot closer than you intended or imagined. spending lunch breaks together becomes part of your daily routine, and if you’re honest, you look forward to them every single day.

taesan also gets much more comfortable around you, which means the teasing starts. relentless teasing. he constantly pokes fun at how your cheeks puff up when you eat, how your voice goes an octave higher when talking to older customers, or how you have this oddly specific system for organizing shelves.

of course, you cherish this new bond between the two of you. but the more time you spend together, the more your crush grows. at first, it was just physical attraction—but now, after actually getting to know him, it’s worse. or better. depending on how you look at it.

he’s sweet. he’s thoughtful. and he’s stupidly talented. falling for him was inevitable, and honestly, you can’t even blame yourself. but you’re not going to act on it. that would just make things weird, so instead—you set boundaries.

invisible boundaries that taesan seems determined to ignore.

he’s surprisingly touchy. always resting his hand on your shoulder, hovering near your waist when he brushes past, placing his palm lightly on your lower back if you’re in his way.

he also makes weird comments sometimes—calls you cute, slips in random compliments like it’s nothing. it’s confusing. he’s confusing. and impossible to gauge. still, you brush off the moments, chalking them up to his personality. until today.

today was supposed to be a normal day. rush hour ended early, which meant the store was quiet. quiet enough for you to pull out your phone and fangirl over your favorite group, who just so happened to be performing live tonight. the timing was awful—their set landed during the last hour of your shift—but with no customers, you had more than enough time to indulge.

taesan’s off sweeping the floor, music blaring through his earbuds, completely unaware as you prop your phone up against the register and clap your hands like a kid on christmas. the live starts, and you’re already grinning at the comment section flooding in.

“yn, i finished—” he pauses, catching the pure joy on your face. he’s never seen you look this animated before. it’s… kinda cute.

“what are you doing?” he asks, eyes flicking to your phone.

“my favorite group performs tonight!” you practically squeal, looking up at him with genuine excitement.

he hums, sets the broom aside, and walks over, arms crossed as he leans in slightly to see your screen.

“that’s what’s got you this worked up?” he teases. normally, your heart would flutter at how close he’s standing, but you’re too focused on the angels on your screen to care.

taesan glances sideways at you, a weird twinge of irritation rising in his chest. he doesn’t get what’s so great about these guys. hell, you haven’t even looked at him since they came on.

then, it happens.

you squeal—loudly—as one of the members lifts his shirt to flash his abs. taesan squints at the screen, scoffing.

“did you see that? he just showed us his abs! oh my gosh, they’re glorious! if i could see that in person…” you gush, completely in your own world, rambling about how unreal it’d be to see them live.

taesan rolls his eyes. “they’re not that cool. anybody can have abs.”

“tch, not just anybody. look at you, for example.” you shoot back without missing a beat, eyes still locked on the performance.

he frowns—actually frowns—at how easily you dismiss him. he knows you’re joking, but something about your total lack of attention gets under his skin.

“oh yeah? you want to bet?” he says suddenly, leaning in even closer.

you wave him off, still replaying your favorite part of the performance. “yeah right—”

“how am i supposed to show you if you won’t even look at me?”

you scoff, finally turning to give him a piece of your mind—but stop cold when you see what’s in front of you.

taesan’s hands are gripping the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to reveal a sliver of his abs.

“what are you doing?! stop!” you squeak, immediately turning away, flustered out of your mind.

he laughs—really laughs—smoothing down his shirt like he didn’t just flash you.

“i’m taking fifteen,” you mumble, cheeks burning as you practically sprint to the backroom. you fan your face, glaring at the sound of his laughter echoing from the front.

you cannot believe he just did that.

but taesan? oh, he’s smug. leaning against the counter with a smile tugging at his lips, proud of himself for successfully pulling your attention off your beloved boy band—and back onto him.

–

later that night, your face is buried in your pillow, a poor attempt at self-suffocation. no matter how hard you try to erase the image from your mind, that moment with taesan plays over and over like a broken record.

he makes it so hard not to like him.

you scream into your pillow, fists pounding the mattress, when a notification sounds from your phone. confused, you reach over, mouth falling open at taesan’s name flashing on your screen.

taesan: what’s so great about boynextdoor anyway? anyone could do what they do you: are you seriously still on that? taesan: yes, you were going crazy over them you: yeah, bc they’re amazing. they can sing, dance, rap plus their beauty is hard to find taesan: not really you: yes really taesan: who’s cuter me or them? you: stop asking weird questions

(read 11:09 pm)

you sigh, dropping your phone back onto your pillow. the more you think about it, the more delusional you feel about the chance taesan might actually like you back.

come to think of it, he’s been acting weirder than usual lately—complimenting you more, always finding reasons to be close, even now asking questions about what you think of him.

of course you think taesan is cuter, but you’d never tell him that. that would just make everything awkward.

then, another notification.

this time, it’s a voice message from him. your breath catches as your finger hovers over the play button.

you press play—and immediately regret it.

it’s taesan singing, his voice steady and smooth, filled with emotion. of course, he chose a song from your favorite group.

and just as the message ends, you hear his voice—low, sleepy—

“goodnight yn.”

–

work is unbearable. things between you two are awkward, and it’s mostly your fault. you absolutely refuse to make eye contact with him, and when you can, you avoid him. taesan looks slightly confused by the sudden change in your attitude.

the two of you had made so much progress — only for it to unravel in exactly one day. he isn’t going to let that slide.

“yn,” he hums, as you pretend to be busy wiping down the counter.

“yn,” he says again, more urgently this time. you exhale and finally tear your eyes away from the counter to look at him.

“yes, taesan?”

“why are you being weird again?”

you wish you could slap him for asking such a stupid question, but you’ve learned by now that taesan is just naturally oblivious. any girl in your position would avoid him after the stunt he pulled yesterday.

it’s hard to believe he’s even asking.

taesan tilts his head, genuine confusion written across his face as he waits for an answer.

“are you serious?” you scoff lightly, turning back to resume wiping.

taesan huffs, annoyed, and inches closer. you freeze, hand still pressed against the damp cloth.

“is it because of yesterday?” his voice is teasing as he leans in again, and in that moment you briefly consider whether physical violence would be so bad. you step back, holding your hand out to create distance between you.

“you’re being weird…” you mutter, eyes darting everywhere but his.

taesan’s brows knit in frustration. he’s starting to feel bad — you look so uncomfortable, and that wasn’t his intention at all. he thought the feeling was mutual.

“i’m sorry if i made you uncomfortable,” he says quietly, kicking at dust on the floor. you blink, looking up at him in surprise.

“no, no, i’m not uncomfortable, it’s just…” you trail off, searching for the words.

taesan gives you a moment, then grows impatient. he tilts his head again, leaning closer so you can see his face. your breath catches as you fight the urge to meet his eyes, but it’s no use.

“just…?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

that’s your breaking point.

taesan keeps doing things — the skinship, the voice messages, the random compliments. it’s driving you insane. not the actions themselves, but the fact that he does it so mindlessly.

taesan doesn’t actually like you. he’s just being himself, and that’s what bothers you. you thought it’d be okay at first — accepting his teasing — but it’s become unbearable. your feelings for him are unbearable.

you have to put an end to it.

but before you can speak, your tears say it for you. they pool in your eyes, and you blink furiously, trying to hold them back.

“oh, wait, yn, are you okay?” he suddenly steps back, concern written all over his face. you shake your head, sniffling as you wipe the tears from your cheeks.

“i’m fine, i just… just stop teasing me before i think you’re serious.” your voice cracks, your bottom lip trembling as you finally say the words you’ve been avoiding.

taesan’s eyes widen in shock as he watches you cry, unsure what to do. he isn’t good at moments like this — and making you cry was never his intention. what did you mean, you thought he wasn’t serious? he was serious.

“wait, i’m sorry if i’ve been confusing you but i am serious,” he stumbles over his words, eyes closing in frustration as he tries to find the right way to say it. but you don’t hear any of it — your shoulders only shake harder, tears spilling over.

you don’t even know why you’re crying. you’re not usually emotional, but now the waterworks won’t stop no matter what he says.

“it’s fine. i think i just need a minute.”

you sniffle again, turning toward the breakroom. but just then, taesan moves — finally finding the courage to act. to prove he’s serious about you, that he always has been.

his arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you into his chest. your eyes widen as your arms instinctively circle his wrists. he rests his neck in the crook of yours, breath warm and tickling your collarbone.

“i am serious about you, yn. i just tease you because i like you so much.” his voice is low and gentle, the scent of his cologne warm and comforting as he hugs you tighter.

then he pulls back, turning you gently to face him. his hands stay on your shoulders as he says:

“i like you, yn.”

his hands find their way to your cheeks, cupping them as he pulls you in for a brief peck on the corner of your lips. somehow, that small gesture was more intimate — more romantic — than a kiss on the lips could have ever been.

your tears fall again as you bury your face in his shirt, fist limply punching his shoulder.

“i like you too, stupid,” you say between sniffles.

taesan smiles, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“i know you do.”

you punch him again, earning a small laugh.

“don’t be so confusing next time.”

taesan just smiles, pressing his lips against the crown of your head.

“i promise.”

-

m.list

[siilent-wanderer]

The Things You Do To Me

Summary: A bold change leaves Jimin glowing in confidence and Y/N hopelessly distracted. Between playful teasing and quiet moments, it’s clear some things are impossible to resist.

Genre: contains suggestive themes, lowkey fluff

Word Count: 2.3k words

Yu Jimin (Karina) x aespa 5th member! reader

A/N: song recos while reading telepatía & earned it

Y/N was lying on the couch, aimlessly scrolling through her phone when her screen lit up with an incoming call from Jimin. She sat up quickly, smiling at the sight of her girlfriend’s name.

“Hey, unnie,” Y/N greeted, already imagining the sweet, soft tone she always associated with Jimin.

“Hi, baby,” Jimin replied, her voice warm and slightly playful. “So, don’t be mad…”

Y/N furrowed her brows. “Why would I be mad? What did you do?”

There was a pause, and Y/N could almost hear Jimin’s sheepish smile through the phone. “I’m getting a haircut.”

“A haircut?” Y/N repeated, her tone dropping slightly. She loved Jimin’s long, silky hair. It was one of the first things she noticed about her when they met — how it fell perfectly down her back and framed her face so delicately.

“Yeah,” Jimin said cautiously. “I thought it was time for a change.”

Y/N huffed, flopping back against the couch. “You’re cutting it without me? I would’ve gone with you!”

“I know, I know,” Jimin said, laughing softly. “But I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Y/N’s pout deepened. “What kind of haircut?”

“You’ll see when I get home,” Jimin replied, clearly enjoying Y/N’s sulking.

“Fine,” Y/N mumbled, trying to hide her disappointment. “But it better not be too short.”

Jimin chuckled. “Just wait. You might like it more than you think.”

An hour later, Y/N heard the sound of the front door opening. She quickly sat up, half-expecting Jimin to walk in with her long hair still intact, perhaps just trimmed at the ends. But when Jimin appeared, Y/N froze.

Her girlfriend’s long, flowing hair was gone, replaced by an edgy, layered wolf cut that framed her face perfectly. The soft, natural waves added texture, and the shorter pieces at the front highlighted Jimin’s sharp jawline and high cheekbones.

Jimin ran a hand through her hair, her lips curling into a slight smirk when she saw Y/N’s stunned expression. “So? What do you think?”

Y/N blinked, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to find the words. “You… look…” She trailed off, her cheeks heating up.

“Is that a good speechless or a bad speechless?” Jimin teased, stepping closer.

“It’s…” Y/N swallowed, her heart racing as she took in the sight of her girlfriend. “It’s unfair. You look too good, babe.”

Jimin laughed, tilting her head. “Too good?”

Y/N stood up, her hands instinctively reaching for Jimin’s hair. She ran her fingers through the soft layers, marveling at how effortlessly the new style suited her. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d look this… hot?”

Jimin’s smirk widened. “You were sulking about me cutting it. I didn’t think you’d notice anything else.”

“I’m still sulking,” Y/N muttered, her hands dropping to her sides. “But you look so good I can’t even be mad.”

Jimin stepped closer, her voice dropping slightly. “Oh? Not mad, but you’re blushing.”

“I am not,” Y/N protested, though the pink tint on her cheeks betrayed her.

Jimin leaned in, her face inches away, her smirk growing as her eyes flicked between Y/N’s flustered expression and the way her lips parted, ready to counter with another excuse. “You sure about that?” she asked, her voice soft but undeniably teasing.

Y/N tried to glare at her, but Jimin’s proximity made it impossible to think straight. “Stop teasing me, unnie. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do I?” Jimin murmured, her hand brushing lightly against Y/N’s arm before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers lingered, grazing Y/N’s cheek as her smirk deepened. “Maybe I do,” she admitted softly, her tone playful yet sincere. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she added, “Or maybe I just like seeing you like this. All shy and cute. What are you going to do about it?”

Y/N took a step back instinctively, trying to create space, but her back hit the wall. Jimin followed without hesitation, closing the distance and resting one hand on the wall beside Y/N’s head. Trapped between her girlfriend and the solid surface, Y/N’s breath hitched, and she felt her knees go weak under Jimin’s piercing gaze.

“You’re impossible,” Y/N muttered, her voice shaky but soft, her hands lifting as if to push her girlfriend away but instead finding their way to the hem of her shirt.

Jimin chuckled, leaning even closer until their faces were mere inches apart. “And yet, here you are,” she whispered, her voice low and teasing.

Before Y/N could respond, Jimin took full advantage of their proximity, closing the gap and capturing Y/N’s lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. The softness of the kiss contrasted the intensity of the moment, and Y/N melted into it, her hands tugging lightly on her girlfriend’s shirt as her resolve crumbled entirely. Jimin’s hands slid to Y/N’s hips, pulling her closer, their bodies pressed together as the kiss grew more heated.

When Jimin finally pulled back, her forehead rested lightly against Y/N’s, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. “Still think I’m impossible?”

Y/N laughed breathlessly, her cheeks flushed as she whispered, “Completely impossible.” Her fingers moved up, combing through the layers of Jimin’s hair. “Seriously, babe. This haircut should come with a warning label.”

Jimin grinned, her thumb brushing over Y/N’s jaw. “You’re the only one it’s meant to distract, so I guess it’s working.”

Y/N groaned, burying her face in Jimin’s shoulder to hide her flushed cheeks. “You’re so unfair.”

Jimin tilted Y/N’s chin up, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Unfair?” she echoed, her smirk turning playful. “You’re the one who started playing with my hair.”

Y/N opened her mouth to retort, but Jimin silenced her with another kiss — this one slower, more deliberate, leaving no room for argument.

When they finally broke apart, Jimin’s smile was soft but mischievous. “You can sulk all you want, but you’re stuck with me. And this haircut.”

“Thank God,” Y/N muttered, pulling her back in for another kiss.

Later that night, as Y/N lay on the couch with Jimin curled up against her, her fingers lazily running through Jimin’s hair, she sighed softly. “You really do look too good, you know.”

Jimin chuckled, her voice sleepy but affectionate. “And you really need to stop looking at me like that unless you want round two.”

Y/N blushed furiously but couldn’t stop the grin spreading across her face. “Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you love me,” Jimin teased, nuzzling closer.

Y/N pressed a kiss to her girlfriend’s temple, her voice soft. “I really do.”

Jimin tilted her head up to look at Y/N, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Uh… baby?”

“Hm?” Y/N murmured, still lost in the feel of Jimin’s hair between her fingers.

Jimin’s smile grew as she lightly traced her thumb along Y/N’s neck. “You might want to, uh, check this out in the mirror later.”

Y/N froze for a moment before realizing what Jimin meant. Her hand flew to her neck, her cheeks burning as she stammered, “You didn’t…”

Jimin laughed softly, burying her face against Y/N’s shoulder to muffle the sound. “Sorry, but… you didn’t exactly stop me.”

Y/N groaned, tilting her head back against the couch. “Unnie, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Jimin peeked up at her, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “At least you’ll have an excuse to use the turtleneck sweater we bought the other day,” she teased, her voice light and playful.

Y/N narrowed her eyes at her, though the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Oh, you’re so smug right now.”

Jimin grinned, resting her chin on Y/N’s shoulder as her arms tightened around her. “Because I know you’ll forgive me.”

Y/N let out a dramatic sigh, but her fingers gently resumed combing through Jimin’s hair. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know,” Jimin replied smugly, her voice laced with affection.

As the room fell quiet again, Y/N tightened her hold around Jimin, her lips brushing against the top of her girlfriend’s head. “You’re still apologizing for this tomorrow,” she muttered.

Jimin just grinned, her eyes fluttering shut. “We’ll see, baby.”

The next morning, the dorm was unusually quiet. Y/N was still half-asleep when she shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Jimin was already there, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in hand, looking impossibly gorgeous with her freshly styled wolf cut.

Y/N stopped in her tracks, blinking at the sight before letting out a soft groan. “You’re seriously starting the day like this?”

Jimin smirked over the rim of her mug. “Good morning to you, too, baby.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, grabbing a mug of her own. “You’re going to make it really hard to focus at practice, you know that?”

“Not my fault you’re easily distracted,” Jimin teased, walking over to plant a kiss on Y/N’s temple.

By the time they arrived at the practice room, the rest of aespa was already stretching and warming up. As soon as Jimin stepped through the door, all heads turned in her direction.

“Oh my God, unnie!” Yizhuo exclaimed, practically dropping her water bottle. “When did you get a haircut? You look like a model!”

Minjeong’s jaw dropped as she hurried over for a closer look. “Wait, when did this happen? Why didn’t you tell us?”

Aeri grinned, leaning casually against the wall. “You’re really rocking that wolf cut. Definitely girl crush material.”

Jimin chuckled, clearly amused by their reactions. “I figured it was time for a change,” she said simply, running a hand through her hair.

Y/N stood slightly off to the side, her arms crossed and lips pressed into a tight line. She watched as the other girls crowded around Jimin, showering her with compliments and admiration.

“Unnie, you look so cool,” Yizhuo gushed, tugging at Jimin’s sleeve. “You’re going to drive the fans crazy with this look.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t let us come with you,” Minjeong added, mock-pouting. “We could’ve helped you pick it out!”

Aeri smirked knowingly, her sharp eyes catching Y/N’s sulky expression. “What do you think, Y/N? Isn’t Jimin’s haircut amazing?”

Y/N forced a smile, though her tone came out more curt than intended. “It’s fine.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow, turning to look at her girlfriend. “Just fine?”

Y/N shrugged, trying to keep her composure. “You already know what I think, unnie.”

Minjeong and Ningning exchanged a glance, clearly intrigued by Y/N’s uncharacteristic tone.

Aeri, ever the instigator, leaned closer to Jimin. “Don’t worry, Jimin. If Y/N doesn’t appreciate how amazing you look, the rest of us definitely will.”

That was the final straw. Y/N uncrossed her arms and stepped forward, slipping an arm around Jimin’s waist. “Alright, that’s enough,” she said, her voice firm but not unfriendly.

Jimin blinked in surprise but didn’t pull away, a small smile tugging at her lips as she glanced at her girlfriend.

Yizhuo stifled a giggle. “Ohhh, someone’s feeling possessive.”

Y/N shot her a glare, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m just saying, we’ve got a lot of work to do today. Let’s focus on practice.”

“Right,” Minjeong said, smirking as she nudged the maknae. “Totally about practice.”

Aeri grinned but didn’t push further, knowing when to let up.

As the group moved into position, the music started, and they began running through the choreography for their upcoming performance. But it didn’t take long for Y/N’s focus to slip.

In the middle of their second run-through, Y/N completely blanked on her next move, her feet halting awkwardly as the others continued. She quickly recovered, but not before Yizhuo caught it.

“Oh, are you okay?” Yizhuo asked, her grin all too knowing.

“I’m fine!” Y/N replied quickly, avoiding Jimin’s amused gaze.

But it happened again during their vocal rehearsal. Y/N was supposed to sing her part of the harmony, but she was so distracted by the way Jimin absentmindedly pushed her hair back that she completely missed her cue.

“Y/N!” Aeri called out, stifling a laugh. “Where���d you go just now?”

“I—I zoned out for a second,” Y/N muttered, her cheeks burning as the girls burst into laughter.

“Zoned out?” Minjeong teased. “Or were you too busy staring at a certain someone?”

“I wasn’t staring!” Y/N protested, though her voice cracked slightly, making Yizhuo laugh even harder.

Jimin, who had been watching the chaos unfold from the corner with a faint smirk, finally stepped forward. “Alright, that’s enough,” she said, her tone calm but firm.

The teasing immediately subsided, though Yizhuo still giggled softly behind her hand.

Jimin turned to Y/N, her expression softening as she placed a hand on her shoulder. “You okay, baby?” she asked quietly, her voice just for Y/N to hear.

Y/N nodded, her cheeks still pink. “I’m fine. Just… distracted.”

Jimin chuckled, leaning in to whisper, “By me, I hope?”

Y/N groaned, playfully swatting at her arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mhmm,” Jimin teased, giving her shoulder a light squeeze before returning to her spot.

When practice wrapped up, the girls gathered their things, still chatting animatedly about Jimin’s haircut.

“You really do look like you stepped out of a magazine,” Minjeong said, giving Jimin a once-over.

“Maybe we should all get wolf cuts,” Yizhuo joked, tossing her hair dramatically.

“Please don’t,” Y/N muttered under her breath, earning a sly grin from Aeri.

As they left the practice room, Jimin lingered behind with Y/N, her hand slipping into hers. “You were cute today,” she said, her voice teasing but warm.

Y/N shot her a look. “I was a mess, and you know it.”

Jimin laughed softly, pulling her closer. “Maybe, but you’re my mess.”

Y/N’s pout melted into a smile as she leaned into Jimin’s side. “You’re lucky I love you, Yu Jimin.”

“I know,” Jimin replied, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “And I love you more.”

As they walked down the hallway together, hand in hand, Y/N couldn’t help but think that Jimin’s wolf cut wasn’t just distracting — it was absolutely worth it.

A/N: oops hehe this was def self-indulgent

[skzdarlings]

the demonstration ; skz ; jeongin x reader

requested by anonymous: you keep your hands where they are or i'll tie them up. ❜ w Jeongin? 😩 please 🥰. requested by anonymous: I.N AND ❛ do whatever you want with me, i'm yours. ❜ ❛ you taste like heaven. ❜ PLEASE IF YOU CAN BEGGING YOU

pairing: yang jeongin/reader content info: friends to lovers. reader asks jeongin if he has ever made someone squirt and if so please show her hehe. reader mentions a bad date with a rude guy who called her high-strung. squirting, pussy-eating, riding, just a good time lol. explicit sexual content. word count: 4000 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy <3

-

Jeongin is finally awake when you return to his apartment.  You visited this morning but he must have had a late night because the flat was dark and silent when you let yourself in. You went for a stroll, hoping the fresh air would clear your mind, but what you really needed was him.  A conversation with Jeongin always improves your mood.  Just thinking about those deep dimples brings out your own smile.  

“Hi there,” you say sweetly.  You close the door and replace your shoes with the slippers he keeps for you.  You bound up to the kitchen counter.  “Can I ask you something?”  

Jeongin clearly just rolled out of bed.  Far from glamourous, your nonetheless very handsome friend is wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and his black thick-rimmed glasses.  He has the hood pulled over his head, his dishevelled black hair peeking out.  A bowl of ramen sits in front of him, though his sleepy gaze is on his phone, long ringed fingers curled around the device. 

You look at those fingers thoughtfully, your mouth a little drier than before.  Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all…

It’s too late.  Jeongin emerges from the slumped cavern of his hoodie, lifting his bespectacled face.  He dutifully puts his phone facedown on the counter.   Pushing his sleeves to his elbows, he says, “Of course.  Hi.  How are—”  He yawns before he can finish.  The yawn breaks into a wheezy little laugh.   

You take the seat across from him at the kitchen island and watch him twirl his chopsticks.  Nimble fingers flip them around before he digs into his noodles, slurping a little ungracefully.  He swallows almost half the bowl in a scoop.  Your eyes are still on his hands.   

“Jeongin,” you say.  “Have you ever—oh, no, thank you.” 

He is holding out a clump of noodles on his chopsticks.  When you decline, he shoves it in his own mouth. 

“Jeongin,” you say again.  “Have you ever made a girl squirt?”

He chokes on the noodles.  It gets ugly quick.  You emit a little squeak of your own when he thumps on his chest so hard that his hood falls back and his glasses fall off.  He hacks up the noodles and spits some across the island. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.     

“I’m fine,” he says in a rough voice, squinting hard like a beleaguered puppy.  He fumbles with his glasses, blinking quickly once they are back on his face.   Then he reaches for his water bottle and unscrews it with a flick of his fingers.  He rubs his chest while drinking.

You purse your lips, watching him.  His profile is so defined, his jaw so sharp and cheekbones high.  He really is ridiculously handsome.  And those hands.  You look at the prominence of the veins running down his forearm, the subtle strength in his slender form, the long easy grace of his fingers.  If any man is turning women into waterfalls, it must be him.

“So,” you say, “have you ever done it?”

He chokes on his water, but not as dramatically as the noodles.  It’s a messy hiccup and he dribbles water down his chin, barely catching it in the cup of his hand.  He puts the bottle aside and wipes his hand on his thigh. 

“I don’t think I understand the question,” he finally says. 

“What? ‘Have you ever made a girl squirt?’” you ask, tipping your head.  “Sorry, what’s confusing?”

“Um.”  He looks at you in bewilderment.  “The part where you are asking me it?” 

“Oh.”  A little – okay, a lot of embarrassed heat explodes in your chest.  It radiates out with rapid-fire speed, scalding your neck and your face. 

You lower your gaze.  His dark eyes and expressive brows are now too intense for you.  You fiddle with your fingers in your lap, thumbs pushing at each other. 

“Well,” you say, slowly.  You look anywhere but him. “Something sort of happened.”

When you chance an upward glance, he is looking at you very studiously.   

“Sort of…” he says, looking more confused by the second.  “Did you… sort of… squirt?”

You cover your face, suddenly embarrassed beyond words.  Why did this seem like a good idea again?  You were so convinced a few minutes ago that this was a totally fine conversation to have with your friend.  Now you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. 

You make a miserable little sound into your palms and Jeongin finally laughs.  His whole face crinkles with delight and he laughs so hard that it sounds like he can barely breathe.

“Don’t laugh at me!” you wail. 

“I’m not, I’m not,” he lies, because he is laughing his ass off while he says it.  “Come on, it’s fine.  Stop hiding.” 

He reaches across the counter for you.  You jerk away, mewling pathetically, which just makes him laugh again.  He eventually uses both hands to peel apart your death grip.  You still avoid his gaze, staring down at the counter, but he dips his head to chase your eyes. 

“There you are,” he says when your gazes meet.  “Crazy girl!  Ask me again.” 

“I forgot the question,” you say, petulant.

He snorts.  “I didn’t,” he says.  “You wanted to know if I ever made a woman—”

“Yes, I know what I asked!” you say, shaking your head.  You see him smile, a giant grin of immense amusement as you tug at your cheeks in distress.  “I’m sorry I asked.  It’s just that…”

“Something sort of happened?” he supplies when you trail off. 

“Technically,” you say, “something sort of didn’t happen.” 

“Ohhh.”  He returns to looking bashful, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Were you… with… someone?”

“Mhm.”  You both look at the kitchen counter while you speak.  “I had a date.  I planned the whole thing out.  You know me, I like a plan.”  You try to laugh but a flood of humiliation washes over you, the recollection of last night and how everything went so, so wrong.  You close your eyes and sigh.  “Ugh.  It was going well so I brought him back to my place.  Things got heated.  He said he was really good at… doing that… I said I had never done it before and he got excited and said I would like it.  I think I just… thought about it too much.  You know me!  I like a plan!  That wasn’t the plan!  Anyway, we put a towel on the bed which is why it was even more embarrassing when I couldn’t… when he couldn’t make me… ugh.”  You flop forward, pressing your forehead to the cold marble countertop.  “He called me high-strung and left.” 

You lift your head slowly, looking at Jeongin for his reaction.  His expression is all scrunched up like he smells something bad.  Then he gestures as if he is vomiting, making the noisy hurling sounds to match. 

You laugh in spite of yourself, nodding.

“I know, I know, you’re right,” you say.  “He sucked.” 

“High-strung?” Jeongin says, the word tumbling out like a curse.  “He said that?  Pffft—” 

You are glad you came to him.  Your other friends would have been protective and encouraging, which is nice, but Jeongin’s helpless laughter is more reassuring than anything.  That other guy was so pathetic that all Jeongin can do is laugh. 

Even so, you do feel a little sensitive about the whole thing.  You are smiling now but your gaze stays low.  You trace circles on the counter. 

“I know he… he was just embarrassed too.  He was rude to me, but… he wasn’t totally wrong.”

“No,” Jeongin says, shaking his head.  “No, no, no—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you insist.  You let him take your hands and squeeze, but you talk before he can interrupt.  “Look he didn’t exactly handle it well but I… I am a little… um, overly thoughtful at times.  I’m not good at doing things in the spur of the moment.  It scares me and I think too much and once I start thinking I can’t stop.”  You let go of his hands, giving them one last friendly pat before you neatly fold your hands on the counter.  “Anyway, I asked you what I did because I was hoping you could instruct me so I can practice.  That way next time it happens, I won’t get scared and think so much.”

You smile at him. 

He slowly takes his glasses off, his mouth open. 

“Oh,” he says.  “Okay.  Um.” 

“Soooo… have you?” 

The tips of his ears turn a vibrant red and he puts his reading glasses aside.  He takes a second to rub his eyes with an incredible amount of vigour.  You wait patiently and politely, watching him tug down the sleeves of his hoodie then push them back up.  Those long fingers swipe through his hair once, twice.  Finally, he crosses his arms and nods sharply. 

“Yes,” he says.  “I have.” 

Oh.

The subject of your abstract thought suddenly becomes a tangible reality.  You cannot get the unbidden mental image out of your head: Jeongin, knuckle-deep in the very wet, very soft heat of someone lucky, wringing every last bit of pleasure out of them.  It is unexpectedly easy to imagine yourself in their place, his dark head between your thighs and his steady arm at work. 

You cross your legs.  He notices. 

“Would you mind showing me?” you ask. 

“Showing you?” he repeats, his thick eyebrows high on his face.  “Showing you?” 

“Yes,” you say.  You are so preoccupied with your mental image that it takes a moment to realize your phrasing might be misconstrued.  “Not like that!” 

He jumps in surprise. 

“Oh my god.”  You put your hands over your face again.  “I meant… abstractly.  Draw it.  Or tell me.  I didn’t mean—oh my goodness.”

His ears are still red but Jeongin dissolves into giggles again.   Your mortification works wonders on his dimples. 

“I’m not very good at drawing,” he teases, patting you on the head. 

“Oh my goodness,” is all you manage. 

His laughter is infectious, overpowering your embarrassment until you are giggling with him. 

“I’m sorry,” you say when the laughter finally slows.  You smile, chagrined and apologetic.  “It was a stupid question in the first place.  I’m really embarrassed.” 

“No, don’t be,” he says, waving his hand.  “You can tell me anything.  I was just… surprised.”

“Yeah, so was he,” you say, making both of you laugh again. 

When the laughter subsides a second time, Jeongin sighs.  He puts his discarded glasses back on, blinking his vision into his focus and smiling at you.  After the last few minutes of conversation, that smiles gives you butterflies.  You touch a hand to your stomach as if to still them, but they flutter away. 

“I have an idea,” he says, holding out his hand. 

“Oh no,” you say but take that hand without hesitation.  “Am I about to regret so many things?”

“What?  No.  When have I ever had a bad idea?” he asks while laughing, no doubt in recollection of every combined bad idea your friendship has conjured. 

You can hardly judge him for any bad ideas, though, seeing as you waltzed in here today asking your friend if he had ever made someone squirt.  It sounds very ridiculous in hindsight, but you truly do trust Jeongin so much that the idea seemed reasonable at the time. 

Now you are in his bedroom, hovering by the bedside while he plops down on his bed with a sigh.  He adjusts his glasses and the neck of his hoodie, like this is all protocol and not remotely unusual.  He takes a pillow and lays it gingerly across his lap, then looks up and beckons you forward with the come-hither crook of two fingers.  His smirk is suggestive but playful, just teasing you, but it awakens those butterflies again. 

“Come on,” he says.  “Sit.  I’ll, um, show you.”

“Show me?” you say, eying the pillow in his lap.  “Yang Jeongin, are you… about to defile that pillow?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding solemnly.  “We’re gonna make it squirt.”

“You know when I asked if you had ever done it before, I meant on a human…”

“Wow! I’m helping you with a visual demonstration and you insult me—!”

“Aha, I’m sorry!”  You burst into laughter at the incredulity on his face.   When he pushes the pillow off his lap with a show of dramatics, you wave your hands just as theatrically.  “I mean it, I mean it,” you say, though your laughter contradicts the sincerity of your words.  “Please help me.  I’m sorry, hahaha, I was just teasing, I need your help, please!”

He tries to stand up but you block him, shuffling every time he leans.  He finally grabs your hips to move you but you grab his shoulders.  Your wrestling is a light-hearted tussle, but then he starts tickling you and you stand no chance of survival.  You turn into a flailing, yelping mess, laughing as you spill across the bed with your arms around each other.   He tortures you another second, forcing another apology out of your mouth. 

When it is over, you lay there, panting.  He is leaning over you, his hands on your waist, yours on his shoulders.   Your friend likes to laugh but a very serious look crosses his face.  He looks at you like he is studying you, discovering some detail for the first time even though he has known you for years.  It is like you can feel his stare, a caress across your cheek, across your lips.  You take your bottom lip into your mouth, wetting it.

He takes a slow, deep breath. 

“That man was crazy,” he says.  His voice is lower than before, scratching above a whisper.  “You’re perfect.  He just didn’t care about getting to know you.  And that sucks for him because you—”  His voice breaks, the little squeak making him laugh, a small embarrassed sound.  The tips of his ears are red and he avoids meeting your gaze.  “You’re beautiful,” he says, “inside and out.  Any man would be lucky to be with you.” 

“Jeongin,” you say softly, because what else can you say? 

He meets your gaze.  His mouth is open like he wants to say more but he can only stare at you.  Eventually, he laughs.  He rubs the back of his neck as he sits up straight.  You sit up as well, staring at him while he adjusts his glasses. 

“Right,” he says.  “The, uh, the pillow.  I, um…”

It might have been amusing, watching him poke a pillow suggestively.  But you no longer care about that.  The energy in this room has changed, the whole world melting under the power of his words, changing the very shape of this space.  When you take a breath, all you smell is his cologne, masculine and smoky, all you see is your friend, in his hoodie and glasses with his blushing cheeks, and all you want is him.  Like this.  Right now. 

He reaches for the pillow and you reach for him.  You take his hand and he looks at you, blinking with surprise. 

You turn his hand over.  He really does have nice hands, long fingers, deft and strong.  You measure it against your own.  Then you guide his hand to your lips and kiss the tips of his fingers.  You look at him, making your eyes big, your lashes fluttering. 

“Oh,” he says.  “Oh.”

You laugh.  He cups your face and draws you close and you are both smiling when your lips come together.  Despite his blush, the kiss is ravishing.  You find yourself gasping for a breath, whimpering when he sucks your bottom lip. 

“Lay down please,” he says, speaking against your mouth. 

You nod.  Those butterflies are wild inside you.  You are certain you already look like an unravelled mess, laying on your back and breathing hard. 

He leans over you, catching your hand when you reach for him.  He kisses your palm, your fingers bumping his glasses, making you giggle.  He smiles too, the kiss lingering.  Your whole arm tingles even when he stops.  He guides your hand above your head, curling your fingers around the bars of his headboard. 

“You keep your hands where they are or I'll tie them up,” he says, but laughs at your surprised expression before the words can settle.   “You said yourself, you think too much,” he explains.  “Just lay there.  Don’t move.  Don’t think.  Let me take care of you.”  He puts a leg between yours, pushing forward with his hips to guide yours apart.  He fits there perfectly, pressing his body against yours.  Your breath catches.   “You can trust me,” he says, and somehow that gets you going more than any sexy come-on.

You trust him more than anyone.  You did not hesitate coming to him with an embarrassing story.  You ran to him before anyone else.  You always seek him out first.

You know you are safe in his hands. 

“Do whatever you want with me,” you say.  You never make that sort of offer, but it feels so natural here and now.  With him.  “I’m yours.”

“Whatever I want?” he says, his smile big and dimples deep.   He leans down, kissing your cheek then under your jaw.  When he kisses your throat, it is hot, open-mouthed kiss, all teeth and tongue.  It sends sparks shooting down your whole body, your hips bucking.  He is strong, the weight of him between your legs pinning you to the mattress.  You feel him, firm, hard, his whole body riding the rhythm of yours.  

He has not even undone a single button. 

“Whatever I want,” he repeats.  “That’s a big offer.” 

His hands, those gorgeous hands that had you captivated, slide up your thighs and under your skirt.  He stares down into your face while lifting the material, leaving a trail of goosebumps all the way up your thighs.  You feel yourself clench, a sharp pulse of need in your core.  Your body is thoughtless in its hunger and it feels so good to give into it. 

“Sometimes,” he says, “all I think about this… nothing extreme… just you like this… just us together…”

Every breath of a phrase is punctuated with a kiss, down your chest, your stomach, your thighs.  You are not expecting him to kiss you through your underwear, your hips bucking when he opens his mouth and ravishes you regardless of the barrier.  When you have soaked through the flimsy material, he finally hooks his pinkies into the fabric and tugs it down. 

You do not have time to be shy, just desperate to get them off.  He pushes your thighs back, folding you in half, then goes back to eating your pussy like he has all the time in the world, like there is no where he would rather be.  Your legs shake, your toes curling, body held firmly in his capable hands as he licks you hungrily. 

“Jeongin,” you gasp. 

“You taste like heaven,” is his reply. 

It is so cheesy but it makes you laugh, a happy sound that rumbles in your chest, that couples with pleasure and leaves your whole body singing.  You feel like you could float away. 

You are pliant, soft and malleable in his hands.  He really can do anything with you.  It does not scare you one bit.  You trust him, following his direction when he rolls you onto your side.  You gasp at his hand sliding under your shirt, squeezing your breasts, finding every sensitive nerve as he feels you up. 

“Don’t think,” he says, one arm around your chest and the other sliding down between your legs.  “Just feel, okay?” 

“Mmm,” is your only reply. 

You are so ready for him, wound up from his dirty kisses, taut with tension.  By the time those long fingers are inside you, it feels like completion rather than intrusion.  He fits like he belongs there, curling his fingers against places you never knew were sensitive.  It is like your body gives way, revealing all your secrets to his searching touch. 

“That’s it,” he says when your breathing gets erratic. 

You did not even realize he had found somewhere extra sensitive, not until he is already fucking it slowly.  By the time you realize just how soft you are there, it is too late to brace yourself.  He adds another finger and your body tightens around him.  Your eyes close and you see stars, gasping and rocking and almost crying at the dizzying swirl of sensation. 

“Oh, Jeongin,” you say.  His name is all you say for another minute.  It is the sound on your lips when he moves you, when he turns his hand just slightly, when the new angle sets off a chain reaction of feeling.  You cry out, clenching sporadically around his rapidly moving fingers.  You yank a corner of the bedspread right off the mattress.

Your orgasm seems to go on forever, pulsing and aching and clenching.  Your whole body feels boneless by the time it settles and he slips his fingers free. 

“Oops,” he says, adjusting his skewed glasses with his clean hand.  “Should’ve put a towel down after all.” 

You look down and whimper at the obvious wetness on his bedsheets.   You would apologize but he does not look sorry at all.  In fact, he grins, looking very satisfied with himself. 

You are in a state of utter disarray and he is still fully clothed, having shattered your world with just one hand.  It makes you laugh, giddy. 

Your arms finally drop.  Though it takes a minute, you find a little strength and push yourself up.  He is smiling when you climb into his lap.  He even winks at you when he puts his wet fingers in his mouth. 

You open your mouth too.  You hold his gaze while he puts his fingers in your mouth, his breath catching when you suck them eagerly. 

“I want something more,” you say. 

“Do whatever you want with me,” he echoes your words back to you.  “I’m yours.” 

He is right about the simplest fantasy making for a wonderous reality.  There are no expectations of any over-the-top actions; it is enough it is you and him, together.   Clothing ends up scattered around his room, then you are in his lap and he is holding your waist, and you are holding the bars behind his head as you ride him where he sits against the headboard. 

His glasses get askew but you fix them, laughing against his smile before kissing him again.   It is for nothing because they fall off a second later, when he grabs you and moves, putting you on your back to fuck you at another angle.  He slides a hand between you, rubbing at you, working you up. Your head falls back, your whole body tingling with the approach of another orgasm. 

“Yes, yes,” he says, no doubt feeling you get tight around him.  It is his moaning that sets you off, your legs around his hips, pulling him in close as you come together. 

He kisses all over your face, both of you laughing when he slightly misses your lips.  You find his glasses and put them back on him, meeting his re-focussed gaze and smiling. 

“Was that an okay demonstration?” he teases.  “Like I said, I’m not very good at drawing.” 

“Maybe so,” you tease back, running your fingers through his hair.  “I might need another one.  Just to be sure.” 

“Just to be sure,” he says, nodding very sagely.  “Good idea.  Maybe after that, I’ll take you out to dinner.  Then we better come back here and try again.”

“Just to be sure,” you say. 

“Just to be sure,” he agrees. 

You are already smiling when he kisses you. 

You have never been more sure about anything in your life. 

[lulu-fic]

𝚂𝚄𝙻𝚃𝚁𝚈 𝚂𝙴𝙳𝚄𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽

Synopsis: Your boyfriend just cheated on you. But you can't just let him get away with that, can you?

Warnings: Cheating ( not by y/n), swearing, sfw, mdni

Wc: 2.1k

An: My first published work. Genuinely nothing too crazy just dipping my toes in water but dw next chapter will be something 👀 also the ending is a bit rushed because I was sleepy 😛

Aggressive typing sound echoed through the walls of a dingy restroom, accompanied by someone's sobbing hiccups. That certain someone was you. Who would have thought your so-called lovely evening would end up with you crying in a stall of a dirty restroom? When you thought your life was finally rainbows and sunshine, god had to give you a reality check.

Flashback

"Here's your order, sir! That'll be $6.80." You said with your fake polite voice to the customer. The said customer took his coffee and fished in his pocket for cash. He finally handed you the required amount and exited the cafe. "Huff god today is draining me." You say. You check the cafe's clock and see it's 2:00 pm. "*Sigh* Still couple of hours to go." You think. But you did not let that bother you.

You are in your most optimistic energy today. Well, today is your most awaited date with Nick, your boyfriend of one year. Your experience with dating him has been nothing but nice. And you believe he's the one. You're finally going to propose him today.

"Y/n! Give me a hand here!" You're pulled out of your day dreaming when your co-worker calls for you. "Yeah, coming right away." You yell back. "*Sigh* life is good." You thought and smiled, resuming with your day.

Time skip

It's 5:13 pm. Your shift is almost over. God, was it a busy day today? You never had such a hectic shift. "Well, my shift is finally finished." You think. You were about to start packing up for the day when the bell jingles, indicating someone had entered the cafe. It was a man.

He was intimidatingly tall and it kind of scared you. His jet black styled hair fell on his face, covering some of his features. He wore a overcoat over a three-piece suit. Perfect attire for the chilly weather. Even though he looked like a gangster. When he finally looked up, it seemed like the time has stopped.

He looked enthernal. He had sharp features- somewhat neck-to-shoulder length hair, strong jawline, siren eyes straight nose, high cheekbones- everything about him was breathtaking. He also had light eyebags, giving signs of late night work. And his lips, god his lips. He had thin, soft looking lips, like rose petals. As if the Adonis himself craved his face. If you weren't so much of a loyal partner, you would have definitely shoot your shot. But he seemed oddly familiar to you.

"What would you like to order, sir?" You ask with your most professional voice, making sure there is no tinge of emotion. "A black coffee and a chocolate muffin, please." He said. And god if you already didn't thought he was attractive, now you definitely do. His voice sounded mature, rich and gravelly. His voice was a little rough too, it felt like he spent years smoking through his stressed moments.

"Y-yeah, right away, sir." You nervously replied. Yep, now you're definitely cursing your whole existence for stumbling in words just because you thought a guy's voice was hot. Seriously, what's wrong with you?

You turned around to make his order, which wasn't some rocket science. It's just a plain black coffee. But it actually felt like that. The man just kept watching you, observing your every move. How you ground the roasted coffee beans, how you brew the coffee, how you pour the coffee into the cup. No matter how much you tried to ignore the staring, it felt like he was boring into your soul. God damn, you didn't feel this nervous even on your first day of work. Ugh!

But you forgot to ask him a crucial question, will he takeaway the coffee or drink the coffee in here? You turned around to see him...still staring at you. "Will you takeaway or drink it here, sir?" You ask. He didn't reply at first. He just kept looking at you. Okay, now you're creeped out. "Sir?" You call out again. This time he's finally out of his whatever dreamland he was in.

"Will you takeaway or drink it here?" You ask again. "Um, takeaway." He replied. You nod your head and kneel down to take out the chocolate muffin from the freezer. Genuinely, he didn't seem like a guy who would like sweets. But oh well who are you to judge someone's taste bud? You take out a white cupcake box and put the sugary treat in it. When you're finally ready with his order, you extend it to him on the counter.

"That'll will $9 dollars. Also I'll be needing your name for the bill." You say. He still just kept looking at you. Okay, now he's starting to annoy you. Why he's looking at you like you're some kind of piece of meat? "Sir?" You call out again. He still didn't reply. "Hello, Earth to sir?" You wave your hand in front of him to grab his attention, which you finally did.

"Oh, yes?" He politely ask, while blinking twice. "Your name?" You ask back with a irritated voice. He chuckles at something.

"Colter Hunt."

God, Even his name was hot. You quickly write down his name, to make it seem like you weren't just fangirling on his name. Suddenly a black card comes in front of your vision. You look up to see him holding it out with his index and middle fingers. Your attention averts to his wrist which is adorned with a silver Cartier bracelet and Rolex watch. "Damn," you think, "so he's rich rich." You add after.

You take his card and inserting it quickly in the card swip machine, telling him to punch in his passcode. He type in his passcode and takes out his card after the transaction was completed.

"Have a good day, sir!" You say, back with your professional voice. He takes his order and was just about to exit the shop when he turned around to look one last time at you, and then finally leaves.

Huff, a hectic day it was.

At the Restaurant...

You are finally at your most awaited destination for the night. You open the gate to the restaurant and are greeted by the receptionist. "Good evening, sir. How can I help you?" She asked. "Uh I have a table reserved for two under my name. Hong it is." She checks her computer real quick and give you your table number with a polite smile. You thank her and go inside.

You see Nick already seated and waiting for you. You quickly take your seat. "Sorry for being late. I had a customer last minute who was taking some time." You quickly apologize for being late. "So, what should we order, huh?" You ask while picking up the menu. "Well I wanted to try the main course of here for long time. I saw the review online and they said it's very good, even the customer service. Oh and the dessert choices are also-" You stop with your rambling in the midway when you notice Nate not responding to any of your babble. He seemed to zone out. "Hey, Nick? What happened baby?" You ask. He breaks out of whatever dreamland and finally looks at. "Huh? What did you say?" Ugh why's everyone seemed to zone out today?

"I asked did something happened. You seemed lost." You repeat. "Oh um no- I mean yes- uh I don't know." He babbles. You make a puzzled face. "What do you mean?" You ask. "Did something happened at work?" You ask again. "Uh yes- I mean no but it was someone from so technically yes but no." He again keeps puzzling his word. "Nick what are you even talking about? I don't get it." You say in a baffled voice.

"Ugh, y/n I don't know how to say this but I have been wanting to say this, but it's just I never got a chance." He explains a bit. "It's okay. You can say now." You say. "Maybe he will be the one who's going to propose me." You think with a happy voice.

"I-I...I sleptwithsomeoneonemonthagoatHalloweenparty."

"What? What did you say?" You ask not understanding his "explanation".

"I-I...y/n I slept with someone. A month ago. And I-I just feel more attracted to her." He finally says it.

"What." You depanned. "Y/n, I'm sorry! I tried to tell you this multiple time but never got a chance and-" he tries to explain but you raise a hand to make him stop. "When was it?" You ask trying to keep your temper at bay.

"At halloween party of my office." He nervously admits. "So someone from office then, huh?" You interjected. "Yes." He confirms, not trying to make eye contact with you. "Who is it?" You finally ask. "Huh?" He looks up at you baffled. "Who. Is. It." You grit your teeth.

"Rachel." He breathes out. You exhale a breath of air you didn't know you were holding. The chair makes a screeching sound as you slowly get up. "Y/n I-" He tries to utter something but you beat him to it by splashing a glass water on his face.

"Do. Not. Tell. Me. Your. Filthy. Excuses!" You yell grabbing the attention of other customer. You finally leave that place, ignoring the calls of your name from behind. You stop at your pace and take a turn and make your way towards the the restroom door that had "Staff Only" written with bold letters.

End of flashback

Tears are flowing down your face as you type out the message to your bestfriend, basically explaining the situation. You're not hurt about the fact he cheated, you're just angry on the fact that he cheated on you? Hong Y/N. You remember thinking how guys used beg for a chance to even let them take you on a date. And when you finally decide to settle down, this happens?

No, you cannot let a man control your emotions like this. Nope. You reject the fact that you are crying over a man.

You get up from the toilet seat and go outside to quickly wash your hands. You make a quick text to your bestfriend saying that you'll be late and call for a uber.

You go outside the restaurant and breath in the cold air of the chilly weather, finally feeling at peace a little. Your uber quickly arrives at your destination. "Square Town Club, please." You quickly inform the driver as you take a seat. Tonight it'll be all about you. Not someone cheating asshole.

The uber driver reaches at your said address after 10 minutes and you pay him the amount required as you get out of the taxi.

When you enter the club, it seemed like you stepped into another world. Neon red and green lights blinding your sights, party music booming through speakers, people making out or even having sex in the middle of the dance floor. "Ew, disgusting." You think. But that's main goal of tonight, only stuff like these can take your mind off that bitch.

You go over to the bar counter. You knew the bartender , Ricky, through social media. Also the reason how you got to know about this place. He looks over at you and asks, "The usual?" "No." You answer back. "Give me anything. But 10x stronger." You add. He raises his eyebrows but says nothing. As he was preparing your drink, you felt a little uncomfortable. It felt like someone was boring their eyes into you. Yes it's a club, of course you will grab attention.

But this one seemed a little off. A little familiar.

As you looked around to catch the supposed person, you attention is caught by a person sitting at the most secluded place of the club. It was a very dark corner. You try your best to ignore him. Keyword: Try.

Because the moment you look away a scary looking bodygaurd comes up to you with a drink and says, "Sir, this drink is offered by our master with the small note." Turns out the said master is none other than the guy you tried to take a good look at before.

This time you trun around and squint your eyes to take a good look at him. And this time, by some miracle, you're finally able to get a good look of him. But Oh. My. God.

It's the cafe guy.

© lulu-fic, 2024. All rights reserved. Don't copy, translate or modify my work. And Do not post my work on any other platform.

[excusemyobsessions]

An Ode to You

Sylus x MC/You/Reader

Genre: One shot, Fluff, Gender neutral Scenario: Lying side by side on a field of grass, you conjure all the words your brain can muster to pour out your immense love for Sylus on his birthday. Word count: 1320 words

Little note: highly inspired by Sy's birthday card and my(our) overwhelming love for this man. Teethrotting fluff, for sure.

(I wrote the word hand a total of 16 times over the course of this 1k text)

Warning: use of pet names (kitten), teeth-rotting fluff, you cry just a little because emotions

Also posted on AO3

The tall grass swayed lazily in the gentle breeze of the afternoon, the soft scent of wild flowers engulfing you in its embrace. The sun had begun its trajectory to a setting, still carrying warmth, its rays slipping through the blades of grass to blanket you.

Sylus laid next to you, one hand serving as a pillow for his head, his chest as a pillow for yours. You pushed yourself off him, laying on your side, resting your head on the palm of your hand. His eyes were closed, basking in the sun, its gentle light outlining the sharp contours of his face.

You lifted your hand, allowing the pad of your index finger to rest on his skin, tracing down his forehead and his nose, down the irregular bridge all the way to the very tip. His skin was warm from the sun, soft under your touch. His plump lips curved into a small, lazy smile. 

Long lashes fluttered and he opened his eyes to gaze at you, their ruby shades molten by tenderness. You couldn’t help but smile into them.

When you moved your finger to trace over this high cheekbone, he closed his eyes again. You traced the highs and the lows, over his cheek, the dent created by his bone structure, let your knuckle follow the line of his jaw. You tapped his chin twice and he let out a quiet little chuckle, a soft little amused exhale.

“Sy?” you breathed out.

“Hm?” he answered lightly.

You traced his lower lip with the tip of your finger, delighting yourself with its softness.

“Are you happy?” you questioned.

Sylus’ eyes fluttered open yet again, to gaze into yours, a single eyebrow twitching just a little, lifting softly, questioning.

“Why the sudden question, kitten?” he pressed, with a slight tilt of his head.

You shifted under his gaze, averting your eyes as you traced your fingers over his other cheek, as if memorizing his every contour with your fingertips.

“I don't know when was the last time you celebrated your birthday. I wanted it to be special this year,” you confessed.

“And it was. It is,” he answered instantly.

His long fingers circled your wrist and you watched them, tracing over your pulse, sliding up the palm of your hand, slipping in between yours, fitting like puzzle pieces. He squeezed your hand gently and you returned your gaze to his face.

He looked relaxed, like there was no weight on his shoulders, no clouds in his mind. His eyes were clear and sincere, attentive.

“So, are you happy?”

“I am. Very much so,” he answered without an ounce of hesitation.

You let out a clear and audible breath of relief which stole a chuckle from him. He lifted your tangled hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles and you felt your heart squeeze itself very tightly in your chest, so overwhelmed with love.

You laid back down on the grass next to him, lifting your tangled hands so you could see them. With your other hand, you outlined his veins and tendons, and when he loosened his grip, you turned it to draw up the lines on his palm. You traced each finger, each knuckle, caressed each calloused fingertip.

“There’s something missing though.”

His deep voice rang next to your ear, lightweight, teasing. You turned your head to look at him.

“What is it?” you asked.

The clogs in your brain were already picking up their pace, recounting every step taken during that whole day, calculating possibilities.

“I’m still waiting for your well wishes, or well, your blessings,” he told you.

There it was; that mischievous look in his eyes, that tease in the way his lips curved, that undeniable smugness in his smirk.

“You want more of my blessings?”

“I do,” he responded with a nod.

You let out a pensive hum, returning your gaze to your hands.

You traced his index finger with your own, rested your palm against his and fit your fingers up against his. His hand was larger than yours, his fingers longer. He wrapped his digits around your palm and led it to rest against his heart. You'd gotten used to its irregular beating, to the constant racing. Yet you could almost swear it ran at a leisure pace right there and then, a relaxed jog.

In contrast, your heart picked up its pace, trapped within your ribcage, beating wildly.

There was just so much you wanted to say. 

Your need for him was far too great, just so immense, substantial, gigantic.

Your brain struggled to conjure words magnificent enough to describe it and you knew he was waiting. You could feel his gaze on you. When you looked in his eyes, you could see the expectant look in them, his silent encouragement. He opened his mouth to say something, most likely vocally encourage you, but you lifted your free hand to rest your fingers against his lips, gently silencing him.

You rolled onto your side, facing him.

And you opened your heart.

“I need you. I need your skin on my skin, I need your arms around me, I need you to hold my hand. I need you,” you began.

Sylus understood how serious you were instantly. He didn’t move, simply gripping your hand within his.

“My love for you is overwhelming because I need you like the air that I breathe and I don’t know how to breathe without you anymore.”

He was clearly stunned. His eyes were slightly widened, blinking slowly, watching you closely. Your own eyes stung, warm tears pooling up, threatening to spill along with these greater than life emotions.

“I just… I love you so much,” you told him.

His chest rose and fell with a sharp intake of a breath, as if his lungs were begging for air, crushed under the weight of his swelling heart. You cupped his cheek and moved closer to him. Your nose was inches away from his.

“So, as a blessing, I wish you to always be just like this. I wish you to be showered in love and warmth. I wish you happiness and I wish you’ll find peace.”

Sylus’ heart picked up its pace against the palm of your hand.

He let out a shaky breath and slowly rolled over to his side. Lying face to face, he reached out to drag your body in closer to his. His forehead became a gentle weight against yours.

You watched his eyes, those immense pools of warm crimson, comforting carmine shades engulfing you in their tenderness.

“How could I not be happy when you say these things to me so openly,” he finally said, deep voice laced with emotion.

His large hand cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping under your eye to gently catch the tears which had fallen. He kissed the tears away from your other eye. You gripped onto his shirt.

He pulled back, just enough to see your whole face properly and he watched it carefully, as if trying to engrave your every contour into his memory. As if trying to preserve you and this moment in his heart for all eternity.

“Thank you,” he told you.

You let out a breathless breath, an exhale of emotion, a voiceless laugh, full of affection.

Both of his hands came up to cup your cheeks and he closed the distance to rest his lips on yours. His kiss fit your lips, molded your love to his. It was soft, devastating, reconstructive. It tore you apart and built you back up. It stole your breath and filled your lungs. You pressed in close to him, afraid your heart would just leap out of your chest, right into his palms. And yet you knew he would cradle it with all the care in the world.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

And god, you knew he meant it.

[novaursa]

What Was Promised (1/2)

- Summary: From her childhood, Cersei has been told how she would one day stand next to the dragon as his queen. And she will. Just not in the way she dreamed of.

- Pairing: (targ)male!reader/Cersei Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+ (rating will go up in the next part)

- Next part: 2/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @literaturedog @idenyimimdenial

The great hall of the Red Keep gleamed with the firelight of countless torches, their glow reflected in the polished stone floors and the intricate banners that hung from the towering columns. The dragon’s sigil was everywhere—deep crimson, stitched in black, a symbol of power that had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for centuries. The air was thick with the scent of roses and sandalwood, the perfume of courtiers mingling with the faint lingering aroma of charred logs from the grand hearth.

It was a day of great significance, for Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived at court, and with him, his wife and golden daughter, the jewel of Casterly Rock. Queen Rhaella had ensured that the reception was properly prepared—nothing too extravagant, nothing too humble. Just enough to show the power of House Targaryen without appearing desperate for the Hand’s favor.

Cersei Lannister stepped into the hall with all the grace of a future queen, her golden curls neatly arranged, her dress of Lannister red trimmed with cloth-of-gold. She was young, only a girl, but already carried herself with the poise of a lady twice her age. Her mother, Lady Joanna, stood at her side, her beauty still evident despite the years that had passed since she had served as a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. They walked forward with measured steps, heads held high, as though they owned the place, as though the Red Keep was just another extension of the power of the Rock.

Cersei's emerald eyes were searching, eager, expectant. She had dreamt of this moment countless times. She was here to see him—the prince of her dreams. The silver-haired, harp-playing Rhaegar, the one who was meant to be hers, the one her father spoke of in veiled, careful words when he discussed the future.

But Rhaegar was not here.

Instead, her gaze found someone else.

He stood at the foot of the throne, half-shrouded in shadow, but there was no mistaking him. The younger prince, the other dragon, the one who was spoken of in whispers and nervous glances. He was taller than she expected for his age—twelve, no more—but there was nothing soft or poetic about him.

Where Rhaegar’s features were almost ethereal, delicate as though sculpted by the gods themselves, his younger brother was sharp edges and intensity. His cheekbones were pronounced, his jaw strong, his mouth set in a firm line that did not hint at laughter or songs. His hair was the color of pale silver, falling past his shoulders in an unruly mane, not neatly brushed and tied as Rhaegar’s always was. But it was his eyes that caught her most of all.

Dark violet. Almost black in the dim light. Eyes that did not wander dreamily or hesitate in uncertainty. No, his gaze was piercing, cutting, as though he saw straight through whatever was placed before him and had already judged it unworthy.

Cersei felt her breath hitch for the briefest of moments.

The boy—no, the young man—was watching her. Not in the way the sons of lesser lords did, fumbling with their manners and shy smiles. He studied her like one might a new horse, assessing its strength, its potential, its worth.

A chill ran down her spine. And yet, she did not look away.

“Prince Rhaegar regrets he could not be here to greet you,” Queen Rhaella spoke, her voice as smooth and formal as always. She smiled at Lady Joanna, a forced thing, full of practiced pleasantries. “The Crown Prince has taken to his books this morning.”

Cersei knew it was not a true excuse. He did not wish to be here. He did not wish to see her.

The realization stung, but before the feeling could settle, a voice cut through the silence like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Do you intend to greet the court or stand there like statues?”

Cersei's head snapped toward the speaker. It was him. The younger prince. His voice was not kind nor particularly cruel—it was simply commanding, as though he had every right to speak as he pleased, regardless of who was present.

Lady Joanna hesitated for only a heartbeat before she smiled, dipping her head. “Forgive us, Prince Y/N. We did not mean to delay.”

Cersei, however, did not bow her head. She held her chin high, staring at him, unafraid.

The prince’s lips curled slightly, as though amused. “And you are Cersei Lannister.” It was not a question.

“Yes, my prince.”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and she felt something shift in the air between them. It was not the soft, sweeping romance she had imagined with Rhaegar. This was something else—something colder, sharper, more dangerous.

“You have your father’s arrogance,” he mused.

Cersei’s fingers curled into her skirts, though her face remained composed. “And you have your father’s cruelty.”

The queen inhaled sharply. Lady Joanna stiffened. The court fell into a hush.

For a heartbeat, she thought she had overstepped, that he would lash out, that she would be sent away in disgrace. But the prince only tilted his head, considering her with those dark, dragon’s eyes. And then, to her astonishment, he laughed. A short, low chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Well,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence like a storm rolling in. “Perhaps this court will not be so dull after all.”

And just like that, the world she had envisioned shattered. Rhaegar was a ghost in her mind, forgotten in an instant.

Because this prince, this dragon with his words and unreadable eyes—he had stolen her attention, and he did not intend to give it back.

The morning sun spilled amber light over the Red Keep, casting shades across the polished marble floors of Cersei’s chambers. The scent of fresh marigolds and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint salt-kissed breeze drifting from the sea beyond the city walls. Servants moved about her rooms with quiet efficiency, their hands deft as they worked, brushing, pinning, lacing. They had come with her from Casterly Rock, sworn to her service, and yet today, their movements seemed to irritate her more than usual.

Cersei sat before an ornate mirror, her emerald eyes fixed upon her own reflection as her maids carefully arranged her curls, weaving delicate strands of silk ribbon through the shimmering locks. The dress they had chosen for her was a masterpiece—deep crimson, embroidered with golden lions along the bodice, the Lannister pride stitched into every inch of fabric. It was meant to dazzle, to command attention, to remind the court that the blood of Casterly Rock ran strong in her veins. And yet, despite the finery, despite the grandeur of the day to come, she felt strangely restless.

"You’re nervous," Melara Hetherspoon's voice cut through the hush of the chamber, filled with the quiet certainty that only a childhood friend could have.

Cersei’s gaze flickered away from her reflection to meet Melara’s in the mirror. The girl sat on the edge of the bed, her brown curls pinned up neatly, her hands folded in her lap. Melara was dressed finely but plainly in Lannister colors, the daughter of a steward, a companion rather than an equal. Yet despite the difference in their stations, she had been Cersei’s shadow for as long as she could remember, the one who listened to her every whisper, shared in her every scheme and dream.

"Nonsense," Cersei scoffed, though the word lacked the sharpness she had intended. She turned her head slightly as her maid tightened the laces of her gown, the pressure making it momentarily difficult to breathe. "Why would I be nervous? It is just a tourney."

Melara tilted her head, studying her with a knowing look. "You have seen many tourneys before, and not once have you been like this. You did not even blink when Ser Tygett nearly killed that hedge knight in Lannisport, yet now you fidget like a girl half your age. Your hands," she gestured to Cersei’s lap, "you keep clenching them."

Cersei stilled, forcing her fingers to relax. She had not even noticed.

"It is excitement," she said, her voice smooth, practiced, the lie slipping easily from her tongue. "The festival is a grand occasion. The King himself declared it in honor of the Maiden’s Bounty."

Melara let out a quiet laugh, soft but not entirely believing. "No one truly celebrates the Maiden’s Bounty, not like this. It is only an excuse for the lords to drink and fight, and for the knights to show off before the court."

"Then I shall enjoy the spectacle," Cersei replied coolly, returning her gaze to the mirror.

Melara did not respond immediately. Instead, she watched, thoughtful, as the maids finished their work, stepping back to admire their handiwork. Cersei looked flawless—her golden curls spilling down her back like molten sunlight, her gown a perfect fit, the crimson deep enough to remind those who looked upon her of power, of blood, of the lion’s hunger.

Melara waited until the maids had drifted away before speaking again, this time in a quieter tone. "It is him, isn’t it?"

Cersei stiffened.

Melara took her silence as confirmation. "Not Rhaegar," she continued, her voice just above a whisper, as if speaking his name would summon him into the room. "The other one. The younger prince."

Cersei inhaled slowly, forcing her expression into something unreadable, something detached. "Do not be foolish, Melara."

But her friend only smiled, leaning forward slightly, as though she had just uncovered a great secret. "I saw the way you looked at him in the hall. And more importantly, I saw the way he looked at you."

Cersei felt her pulse quicken, though she did not allow her face to betray her. That moment in the great hall had been playing in her mind ever since, playing over and over like a song she could not banish. She had come expecting Rhaegar—gentle, poetic Rhaegar. Instead, she had met his brother, a dragon of an entirely different kind.

"You mistake curiosity for something else," Cersei said, reaching for the gold bracelet on her vanity, fastening it around her wrist with deliberate movements. "He is different, that is all. Not like Rhaegar."

Melara smirked. "No. He is nothing like Rhaegar. Rhaegar is the song before the storm." She hesitated, as if weighing her words. "But he… he is the storm itself."

Cersei’s fingers stilled against the bracelet. She hated how well Melara knew her, how easily she saw the things Cersei had not yet dared to name.

"It does not matter," Cersei said at last, standing, the silks of her gown rustling as she did. "I am to be queen one day. It will be Rhaegar at my side, not him."

"Are you certain of that?" Melara asked, rising as well, her expression unreadable. "It seems to me that fate rarely follows the path we expect."

Cersei did not answer.

The tourney field awaited, filled with banners and lords and knights eager to spill blood in the name of sport. The whole court would be there. Rhaegar would be there. And so would he.

As she walked toward the doors, she could not deny the thrill that curled deep in her stomach, the thrill she had not felt when thinking of Rhaegar.

She had dreamt all her life of the perfect prince, the perfect future.

But dragons were unpredictable things. And she was beginning to wonder if she had been looking at the wrong one all along.

The tourney grounds outside King’s Landing were alive with the roar of the crowd, the banners of a hundred noble houses fluttering in the late morning breeze. Dust rose from the well-trodden earth, mixing with the scent of sweat, steel, and horses. The air thrummed with anticipation as the latest round of jousts unfolded before the assembled court.

The high stands, raised above the lists, were draped in black and crimson, the sigils of House Targaryen billowing in the warm wind. King Aerys sat upon his elevated throne, his expression impassive for the moment, his mind not yet clouded by the madness that would one day consume him. His queen, Rhaella, sat beside him, pale and drawn, her beauty diminished by the toll of years and sorrow.

Cersei sat among her family, her curls gleaming like spun sunlight as she leaned forward, her eyes alight with a different kind of hunger. Lady Joanna sat beside her, regal and poised, though her gaze flickered to her husband with veiled unease. Tywin Lannister watched the field with the keen, calculating stare of a man weighing every detail, his arms folded across his chest. Jaime, seated next to Cersei, was grinning at the displays of skill, though his hand often went to the sword at his hip as though he longed to test himself against the knights below.

Beside Cersei, Melara Hetherspoon nudged her lightly. “You’ve hardly said a word,” she whispered, her voice barely heard over the din of the crowd. “I think you’re holding your breath.”

Cersei ignored her, her gaze locked onto the field, onto him.

The younger prince, the dragon who did not sing songs, the one who wielded a blade as though it were an extension of his own will, was preparing to ride. His armor gleamed a shade darker than the polished steel of his brother’s—blackened plate, edged with gold filigree in the shape of dragon wings that spread across his pauldrons. His breastplate was adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its eyes set with dark rubies that burned like embers in the midday sun. Unlike Rhaegar, whose armor bore an air of chivalric elegance, his was made for battle, built not for the beauty of poetry but for the raw, unyielding force of war.

His destrier was as fearsome as its rider—a great black beast, towering and powerful, its mane braided with silver rings. Its eyes, dark as night, flared with barely restrained aggression, its breaths coming in great snorts as it stomped the ground impatiently. This was no simple tournament steed, trained to parade before noble ladies; it was a warhorse, a creature that had seen battle, that had felt the clash of steel and the charge of foes beneath its hooves.

Cersei exhaled slowly, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown.

Across the field, his opponent prepared to meet him. Robert Baratheon.

The young Lord of Storm’s End was already a force to be reckoned with. Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered even at his age, he was clad in armor of gold and black, the stag of his house emblazoned proudly upon his chest. His warhammer was absent for the joust, replaced with a lance, but his strength was undeniable. He had bested several knights already, his victories cheered by the stormlanders in the crowd.

As the herald called their names, the field fell into a hush.

Robert set his lance, gripping it tightly as he eyed his cousin with a grin, his confidence unshaken. But the younger prince only adjusted his grip, lowering his helm with a slow, deliberate motion.

The trumpets sounded.

The horses sprang forward, pounding the earth with thunderous force. Dust and sand kicked up around them as they closed the distance, lances aimed true, speed and strength converging in a single violent moment.

The impact was deafening.

Robert’s lance shattered upon the younger prince’s breastplate, but it did not unseat him. The force of the blow barely made him falter, his grip on the reins unshaken.

But his lance—his lance struck Robert square in the chest with a force so brutal, so unrelenting, that it sent the stag lord flying.

The crowd gasped as Robert crashed onto the ground with a resounding thud, the air driven from his lungs. His armor caved slightly where the lance had struck, the impact merciless, unyielding. 

The younger prince did not hesitate. He did not celebrate, did not raise his lance in victory as other knights might have. Instead, he dismounted in one fluid motion, his black cloak billowing behind him as he strode forward, his boots kicking up the dust that still hung in the air.

A predator approaching fallen prey.

Robert gasped, rolling onto his side, one gauntleted hand clawing at the grass as though trying to pull himself upright. His face was red, veins standing out on his thick neck as he fought to regain his breath.

The prince stopped a pace away, tilting his head as he observed the fallen stag. He said nothing, simply watching, waiting.

From the stands, Steffon Baratheon surged to his feet. “Maester!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. “Fetch a maester!”

Beside him, Stannis sat stone-faced, his blue eyes unreadable. Renly, still too young to understand, only clutched at his mother’s skirts.

King Aerys, whose interest had been fleeting throughout the day, leaned forward, his gaze flickering between the two young men. There was no amusement on his face, only the glint of something deeper, something calculating.

“End this,” Steffon called out again, his voice edged with fury. “The boy is hurt!”

Still, the prince did not move, did not offer Robert a hand, did not mock him, did not even acknowledge the cries for the match to be halted. He simply stared.

Robert’s breaths came shallowly, his chest still heaving, but he met the prince’s gaze with a look of smoldering defiance. He coughed, forcing himself onto his knees, his fingers curling into fists.

For a long moment, the two merely looked at one another—two boys who would one day be men, two warriors who would one day lead armies against one another, two forces destined to collide not just in sport, but in war.

Then, without a word, the younger prince turned, his black cloak trailing behind him as he strode away, leaving Robert to rise on his own.

The crowd cheered, but Cersei did not hear them.

Her heart was pounding, not from fear, not from shock, but from something far more dangerous.

Robert Baratheon had been struck down before the eyes of the court. But the only thing Cersei could see was the dragon who had done it.

The roar of the crowd echoed across the tournament field, a storm of voices calling for the victorious prince, for the younger dragon who had shattered the stag in a single devastating charge. The nobles in the stands cheered, their voices raised in admiration or in shock, their eyes drawn to the spectacle that had unfolded before them.

Cersei, however, did not join in the cheers.

She sat stiffly in her seat, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown, her lips pressed together as her gaze followed the figure in blackened armor. The younger prince strode away from Robert Baratheon’s crumpled form, his movements slow, deliberate, untouched by hesitation or triumph. The way he walked—without flourish, without the performative airs of a knight playing to the crowd—was something primal. Something cold.

And yet, he did not stop. He did not bask in the victory, did not raise his fist in conquest or turn to acknowledge the lords who called his name in approval. There was no pause, no moment of indulgence, no seeking of favor from the ladies in the stands as was tradition.

Cersei’s fingers tightened.

She had watched every other knight and noble son in the lists play their part in the tournament’s pageantry. When they won, they turned to the high stands, their eyes sweeping over the noble ladies assembled, seeking the favor of a maiden to bless them for the next round. Garlands of flowers were tossed from delicate hands, a ritual of admiration, of courtly love. Even Rhaegar had done it—turning his solemn, poetic gaze to some lady, offering her the ghost of a smile before accepting her token with princely grace.

But not him.

The younger prince gave the ladies of the court nothing. No glance, no acknowledgment, no gesture to suggest that he sought the favor of any woman. Not even a flicker of amusement at the hopeful looks cast his way.

He walked past the edge of the lists without even turning toward them.

Cersei felt something painful twist in her chest.

“He doesn’t look up,” Melara murmured beside her, her voice laced with intrigue. “Not at all.”

Cersei’s nails dug into the embroidery of her gown. “So it seems,” she said coolly, her voice controlled, measured. But inside, a slow heat was rising, curling around her like a fire starved for air.

The knights who played at chivalry always turned to the ladies, always sought their admiration, their favor. They fought for love, for glory, for the approval of noble maidens.

But this one—the younger prince—fought for nothing but himself.

“He didn’t even glance this way,” Melara mused, as if she, too, could not quite believe it. “Do you think he will at least claim a favor before the next round?”

Cersei exhaled sharply, not looking away from the retreating figure. “He should.”

But the moment the words left her lips, she knew the truth.

He wouldn’t.

He had no need to.

The realization made her blood run hot, an unfamiliar and infuriating feeling settling deep within her. Men had sought her favor since she had been old enough to understand what it meant. She had seen the way boys and young lords looked at her, the way their eyes lingered, the way they blushed and stammered in her presence.

But not him.

The younger prince had stolen the attention of the entire tournament, had commanded the field with the same ruthless efficiency that he carried in his every step, and yet he did not spare so much as a glance toward the highborn ladies watching from the stands. He had bested Robert Baratheon in a way that left no doubt of his dominance, had torn through the young stag’s pride as easily as his lance had broken against his chest—and still, he gave nothing of himself to the audience.

Not to the lords who cheered him.

Not to the ladies who waited with hopeful eyes.

Not to her.

Cersei’s jaw tightened.

Across the stands, she saw her father’s expression remain unreadable, but she knew him well enough to recognize the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. Tywin Lannister was assessing, weighing, calculating—as he always did.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Melara’s voice was quieter now, but edged with curiosity. “I wonder why.”

Cersei inhaled slowly, forcing her face into a mask of calm. “He thinks himself above it,” she said. “That’s all.”

She did not know if she believed her own words.

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he did not need the affections of noble ladies, nor the empty gestures of courtly love. But that did not make it any less infuriating.

Her green eyes followed him as he disappeared beyond the tournament tents, swallowed by the shadows cast by the towering banners.

He had left the field victorious.

And he had left her burning.

The cheers still echoed behind you as you strode from the lists, the weight of your armor pressing against your shoulders, though it was not fatigue that urged you to leave. The tournament field was a spectacle for those who played at war, for lords who measured their worth in the eyes of gathered ladies, for knights who thought glory was something that could be won in an afternoon’s game.

You had no use for it.

Victory meant nothing to you. Not here. Not in a contest where the lances were dulled and the stakes were nothing more than favor and pride. You had dismounted Robert Baratheon not out of desire for admiration, nor for the hollow cheers of the court, but because it had been expected. Because the moment you entered the lists, you had known there was only one outcome—one where you stood, and the other fell.

The warhorse beneath you had sensed it as well. The beast had known that there would be no hesitation in your grip, no tremor of uncertainty as you set your lance and charged. A horse was a reflection of its rider, and your destrier had carried you with the same unrelenting force that burned in your blood.

Yet now, as you removed yourself from the noise, from the fluttering banners and the awed-eyed stares from the stands, you felt something else stirring. Not regret. Not satisfaction.

Only impatience.

The sun burned high overhead as you moved past the tournament tents, past the gathered squires and stable boys who scrambled to make way. You tore off your helm, the metal still warm from the heat of the day, your pale hair damp with sweat. You loosened the clasps of your gauntlets, flexing your fingers as you stepped into the shade of a pavilion, exhaling a slow breath.

Then came the sound of footsteps behind you. Light, deliberate, lacking urgency yet unmistakably seeking you out.

You did not need to turn to know who it was.

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Rhaegar’s voice was as calm as ever, smooth and measured like the notes of his harp. But beneath it, there was something else. A quiet accusation.

You did not immediately respond, instead unfastening the last of your armor, placing it aside with deliberate movements. The weight of it had never felt burdensome, but it was a relief to be free of it nonetheless.

“You left before the final bout,” Rhaegar continued, stepping closer. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, searching. “You know what they will say.”

Finally, you turned, meeting your brother’s eyes. They were different then your own, softer, their depths filled with thoughts that did not concern themselves with war or blood.

“They will say whatever they wish,” you said, your voice lacking the concern he so clearly wished to find in you. “It changes nothing.”

Rhaegar studied you, his silver hair falling in waves over the high collar of his tunic, his princely robes immaculate even in the dust of the tournament grounds. He had never been one for these games either, not in the way knights and lesser lords were, but he understood their importance. He understood what was expected.

And you? You had never cared for what was expected.

“What was that?” he asked at last, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “With Robert Baratheon.”

You tilted your head slightly, expression unmoved. “A joust.”

Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened. “No. It was more than that.”

A flicker of amusement touched your lips. “You always see more in things than is there, brother.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, his patience a thing that had been tempered by years of dealing with courtiers, with sycophants, with those who sought his favor with honeyed words and false adoration. But with you, there was no pretense, no masks. Only the truth as it was, sharp and unyielding.

“You could have unhorsed him without such force,” Rhaegar said finally. “You could have made it a match of skill, of grace. Instead, you chose to break him.”

You shrugged, feeling the tension still coiled in your muscles. “He should not have entered the lists if he was not prepared to fall.”

Rhaegar shook his head slightly, as if trying to decipher something that had no easy answer. “This is a festival. A tourney meant to honor the Maiden’s Bounty, not a battlefield.”

“And yet, even you did not let your opponent win,” you countered, watching him closely.

Rhaegar’s lips pressed together. “That is not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. The sounds of the tourney continued in the distance, the cheers for the next round of jousts ringing out across the field, but here, beneath the shade of the pavilion, it was only the two of you.

Rhaegar’s fingers twitched at his side, as if he longed for his harp, for something to ground himself. “You should have taken a favor.”

You let out a short breath of amusement. “And who would I have asked?”

Rhaegar’s expression shifted slightly, though whether it was amusement or exasperation, you could not tell. “Do you truly not see it?”

You arched a brow.

“The way they look at you,” Rhaegar said simply. “The way she looks at you.”

You did not need to ask who he meant. You had felt the weight of her gaze, the way it followed you even after you had left the field, the way it burned with something that was not admiration nor simple curiosity.

Cersei Lannister.

Golden-haired, green-eyed, the lion’s daughter, the girl who thought herself already a queen. You had seen the way she carried herself, the way she held her chin high, her pride wrapped around her like a cloak. She had come to court for Rhaegar, had set her eyes upon the prince she believed would be her match.

But now, her gaze had shifted.

You had felt it.

And you had ignored it.

“I do not fight for garlands,” you said simply.

Rhaegar’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps you should.”

You gave him a look. “Would that have pleased you? If I had played the game, if I had turned to the high stands and sought some lady’s favor? If I had chosen her?”

Rhaegar exhaled quietly, his hands clasping behind his back as he shook his head. “It does not matter what pleases me.” He met your gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “But it matters what pleases her.”

You did not respond.

Because you knew, in that moment, that Rhaegar was right.

And that made it all the more infuriating.

The air in the woods outside Lannisport was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, the trees bending overhead like silent sentinels as Cersei and Melara made their way deeper into the dark. The torches they carried flickered weakly against the wind, casting long, trembling shadows over the twisted roots and jagged rocks that jutted from the ground like bones protruding from flesh.

The night was cold, colder than it should have been in late summer, and the unease that curled in Cersei’s stomach had nothing to do with the chill. She had wanted this—had insisted upon it ever since the whispers first reached her ears, since she had learned of the woman they called Maggy the Frog, the fortune-teller who lived beyond the safety of the town, in a hovel of wood and straw, wrapped in the stench of strange potions and foul magics.

Melara had tried to protest, had spoken of bad omens, of curses, of the punishment they would face if they were caught sneaking out of the Rock in the dead of night. But Cersei had silenced her with a look, her green eyes burning with something deeper than mere curiosity.

She needed to know.

Would she be Rhaegar’s? Would she be queen? Would the life she had dreamed of since she was a girl come to pass, or was it all just a story told to her by her father to keep her obedient, to keep her waiting?

The door to the hovel creaked as Cersei pushed it open, the wooden frame swollen with dampness, resisting her entry. The scent that met her inside was almost unbearable—mildewed herbs, stale sweat, the coppery tang of something older, something rotten. A single candle burned on a wooden table, its wax dripped over the edge in thick, hardened streams.

Maggy the Frog sat hunched in the dim light, her yellowed eyes lifting from whatever foul concoction she had been stirring in a chipped clay bowl. Her skin was a sallow, papery thing, stretched too tight over her sharp bones, her lips cracked from age and the sharpness of whatever she had been chewing.

“You’ve come,” Maggy rasped, her voice thick with phlegm, as though she had been expecting them all along. “Come closer, golden child.”

Cersei swallowed, forcing herself to move forward, ignoring the way Melara hovered near the doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“I want my fortune told,” Cersei said, her voice strong despite the unease that curled around her.

Maggy’s lips peeled back into something that was not quite a smile. “They all do.”

Cersei pulled the pouch from her cloak and placed it on the table with a deliberate motion, the weight of the gold inside clinking softly as it settled.

Maggy did not reach for it. Instead, she tilted her head, her yellowed eyes gleaming. “Gold won’t buy you truth, little lion. Truth is paid in blood.”

Melara made a small sound in the back of her throat, but Cersei did not hesitate. She pulled a small dagger from her sleeve and pressed the tip to her palm, slicing just enough for a bead of crimson to well up against her pale skin.

Maggy’s gnarled fingers shot out with surprising speed, catching Cersei’s wrist in a grip far stronger than it should have been. She turned her hand, watching as the blood gathered, thick and glistening, before she brought Cersei’s palm to her lips and licked the drop away with a tongue that was too hot, too rough.

Cersei recoiled, but Maggy’s grip held firm for a moment longer before she released her, letting her palm drop. The old woman’s pupils dilated, her breath rattling through her teeth as she leaned back, her bony shoulders shaking with a sound that could have been laughter.

“You will marry,” Maggy said, her voice lower now, heavier. “But not to a prince.”

Cersei’s breath caught. “That’s not true.”

Maggy’s lip curled. “Oh, but it is, little lion.” Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate pattern on the table, the candlelight flickering against the sharp angles of her face. “You will marry a king. A great king, a terrible king.”

Cersei frowned, confusion warring with the certainty she had always carried. She was meant for Rhaegar. Her father had said so. Rhaegar was the prince, the heir, the one she had dreamed of since she was a girl playing at being queen.

“And will I be his queen?” she demanded.

Maggy’s laughter scraped against the inside of her skull. “Oh, yes. A queen you shall be, golden and fierce, with a crown as heavy as your father’s ambitions.” Her yellowed eyes gleamed. “But it is not the prince who will take you to his bed, not the prince who will plant his seed in your womb.”

A shiver coiled down Cersei’s spine.

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “How many children will I have?”

Maggy inhaled sharply, her body shuddering, as though she had drawn in something unseen. For a moment, she was silent, her head tilted as if listening to a voice only she could hear. Then, her lips curled back, revealing blackened gums.

“Three.”

Cersei's fingers were now pressing against the cut in her palm, as if grounding herself. “And will they be strong?”

Maggy’s gaze snapped to her, and in the dim candlelight, her pupils looked like slits. “Oh, yes.” Her voice was thick with something dark, something ancient. “Strong, with sharp teeth and scales beneath their skin. Born in fire, bound in blood.”

Melara whimpered beside her.

Cersei felt the air shift, as if the walls of the hovel had drawn closer. “That’s nonsense,” she said, but her voice was quieter now.

Maggy leaned forward, her breath sour, her lips splitting into something that was not quite a smile. “You asked for truth, child. And truth is what I have given you.”

Cersei’s heart pounded. She did not know why, but something in her bones told her that this was not the prophecy she had wanted. Not the fate she had been promised.

And yet, in the deepest parts of herself, she felt it stir.

A king, not a prince. A brood of children with sharp teeth and scales.

The scent of blood was thick in the air.

And for the first time in her life, Cersei Lannister felt afraid.

The halls of Casterly Rock had always been grand, towering above the sea with their ancient stone walls carved deep into the mountainside, but in the moons since Joanna Lannister’s passing, the castle felt emptier, colder. The great hall, where once warmth and laughter had filled the air, now seemed a place of solemnity, where meals were taken in silence, where the weight of loss pressed heavy upon those who still remained.

Cersei sat at her father’s table, her hands resting in her lap, her fingers curled against the rich embroidery of her gown. She barely touched her food, though the feast was laid out in abundance—roast venison, thick slices of crusty bread, buttered turnips, and a golden swan stuffed with figs and almonds. The scents filled the air, rich and indulgent, but they did not stir her appetite.

She had not recovered.

It had been several moons since her mother’s passing, and yet the ache in her chest remained as raw as the day Joanna had been taken from her. The wailing of the babe had been the last sound she had heard before the world cracked apart. He had come screaming into the world, red-faced and monstrous, and in his place, her mother had gone cold and still.

She did not look at him.

Tyrion sat at the far end of the table, where the nurses had settled him, fussing over the child who had ruined everything. He was too small, too weak, his head misshapen, his eyes different—one green, like hers, the other a muddled color that she did not care to name. He did not belong.

Tywin Lannister had not once looked at the boy. Not truly. He had named him, had ensured that he was fed, but there was nothing in his eyes when they rested upon his youngest son. Tyrion might have been a ghost for all the attention he received.

But he was not the ghost that haunted them.

The clatter of silverware against a plate broke the heavy silence. “Prince Rhaegar is to be wed,” Tywin said at last, his voice calm, measured, as though discussing trade routes or taxation. “The match has been set.”

Cersei’s heart clenched, her fingers tightening against the fabric of her skirts.

“Elia Martell,” Tywin continued, taking a sip of his wine. “Of Dorne.”

Jaime, seated beside her, exhaled through his nose, his golden brow furrowing. “Dorne?”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to his son, his expression unreadable. “Dorne,” he confirmed. “It seems the King has found their alliance of greater worth than ours.”

Cersei stared at her father, trying to read his face, trying to find some sign that this was not true, that he would not allow this.

“But you said—” she stopped herself, her voice tight.

She had spent her whole life believing she was meant for Rhaegar. That she would sit beside him, golden and radiant, the queen of Westeros, the woman who would bring House Lannister to its rightful place of prominence. It had been promised. Her father had spoken of it, had planned for it.

And now, it was gone.

Tywin did not so much as blink. “What I said is irrelevant. Aerys has made his choice.”

Cersei’s chest burned. The wine in her cup sat untouched, her appetite forgotten. She had dreamed of Rhaegar, had imagined the way he would look at her when they were wed, how he would lift her hand in court, how they would rule together. But now, all of it—everything—had been stolen from her.

And by a Dornish woman.

She swallowed, her voice colder when she finally spoke. “Elia is sickly.”

“A match is not made for love, nor for health,” Tywin said, his voice stern. “It is made for power.”

Jaime leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. “And what power does Dorne offer that we do not?”

Tywin did not answer at once, simply staring at his son in that way that made Jaime bristle like an unruly boy before his tutor. But then, he took another slow sip of his wine before answering.

“Dorne remains untouched,” he said. “They do not bow easily, nor do they forget the past. Aerys believes that by binding Rhaegar to the Martells, he will ensure their loyalty should the day come that he has need of them.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “It is a foolish decision.”

Cersei barely heard him.

Her hands trembled beneath the table, rage curling in her chest, coiling like a serpent around her ribs. She had never wanted something so badly in her life. It was meant to be hers. It was supposed to be hers.

“Then what of me?” she asked, her voice quiet, but the sharpness in it cut through the air like a blade.

Tywin’s gaze settled on her, cold and considering. “You will marry well,” he said, as though it were an answer, as though it could possibly be enough.

Cersei’s throat burned.

Rhaegar was slipping through her fingers, his name already entwined with another. Her father would not challenge the King’s decision, not openly, and so she would be left with whatever match he deemed suitable.

It wasn’t fair.

She was about to speak, to press him further, when Tywin set his goblet down with a firm clink, his expression shifting slightly. “There is still the younger prince.”

The room fell silent.

Cersei felt something inside her shift.

Jaime glanced at her, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The younger prince?” he repeated, his tone wary.

Tywin met Cersei’s gaze, his gold-flecked eyes unblinking. “Rhaegar will be wed, but Prince Y/N remains unspoken for. A match could still be made.”

Cersei’s pulse quickened, something hot and sharp rising inside her.

The younger prince.

Not the prince of songs, not the one who played his harp and whispered of prophecy. Not the dreamer with faraway eyes.

No.

The dragon who did not bow.

The one who had looked at Robert Baratheon like prey before sending him crashing into the dirt. The one who had walked past the highborn ladies of the court without so much as a glance, who had denied her the recognition she deserved.

She had spent years trying to forget the way he had made her feel that day. And yet, here was her father, offering him to her, as if that had been the plan all along.

Cersei’s fingers curled against the table.

The lion and the dragon.

Her future had been stolen from her once.

She would not allow it to happen again.

The Sept of Baelor was ablaze with the light of a thousand candles, their glow reflecting off the pale marble columns and the golden inlays that adorned the high domed ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, mingling with the perfume of the lords and ladies who had gathered to witness the wedding of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. The nobility of Westeros had come in droves, dressed in their finest silks and velvets, the colors of their houses woven in elaborate embroidery that shimmered under the light of the stained-glass windows.

Cersei stood among them, her hands clasped before her, her expression composed, yet beneath the rich fabric of her gown, her fingers dug into her palms. She wore Lannister crimson, the color of blood and power, her hair woven into intricate braids threaded with gold. The weight of her jewelry, heavy with rubies, felt suffocating. Yet none of it—none of the wealth, none of the grandeur—could mask the fury simmering beneath her skin.

This was meant to be her day.

She had spent her life imagining herself in Elia Martell’s place, had dreamed of walking these steps, of standing beside Rhaegar as he lifted the crown from the Septon’s hands. But instead, she was here as a spectator, as an outsider watching her future slip from her grasp.

The Dornish princess stood beside Rhaegar at the altar, delicate and dark-haired, her features refined, yet too thin, too frail. Cersei’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked wrong beside him. The silver-haired prince should have had a queen of gold and fire, not one of sand and shadow.

Jaime stood beside her, his posture relaxed, but she knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched every time he glanced toward their father. Tywin Lannister stood tall, unmoving, his face impassive as he observed the ceremony. His pride had been wounded when Aerys had denied him, when the King had chosen a Martell over a Lannister. But he was not a man who sulked. He was a man who planned. And Cersei knew—knew—that her father was already thinking of his next move.

And then, she saw him.

He stood near the altar, clad in blackened armor chased with gold, the sigil of House Targaryen embossed upon his breastplate. But he was no boy anymore. No longer the sharp-tongued prince who had scorned the pageantry of the tourney, no longer the youth who had dismounted Robert Baratheon with merciless precision.

No, this was a man.

He was taller now, broader, his presence commanding even among the finest knights and lords of the realm. His hair, the color of pale silver, was longer, untamed by the careful braiding of the court, falling over his shoulders like strands of white fire. His face had sharpened with age, his features cut from something harder than mere Valyrian beauty. And his eyes—those dark violet eyes—held the same piercing weight as they had years ago, but now they had deepened, grown colder.

Cersei felt her breath catch, only for a moment.

He had always been different from Rhaegar. Where her first love had been soft, poetic, a prince out of songs, his brother had been something else entirely. He did not play harps, did not dream of prophecy. He was the fire itself, untamed, unpredictable.

And now, as he stood among his kin, watching the ceremony unfold, he carried himself with the confidence of one who did not need to seek approval, of one who knew his place and took it without asking.

Cersei swallowed, her nails biting into her palms.

The sight of him unsettled her. Infuriated her.

For years, she had burned under the slight of his disregard, under the weight of the moment in the tourney when he had walked past the highborn ladies, past her, as if she had been nothing. Even when her father had spoken of a match between them, she had seethed at the idea that she had been an afterthought, that she had been offered only because Rhaegar had been lost to her.

And yet, standing here, looking at him now, something twisted deep inside her.

This man—this dragon—was not lesser than his brother. He was not a shadow to Rhaegar’s light.

He was something else entirely.

The ceremony moved forward, the Septon speaking his words, the crowd solemn in their reverence. But Cersei barely heard them.

Because the younger prince had turned his head—just slightly, just enough.

And his gaze met hers.

A single moment. A flicker of recognition.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, he looked away.

As if she were no more than a passing detail in the grander scheme of things.

Cersei’s chest tightened, a slow heat curling through her veins.

Oh, she would not be overlooked again.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with revelry, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasted meats, and the heady perfume of silk-draped nobles. Banners of House Targaryen and House Martell hung above the high table, their colors vibrant in the glow of the massive chandeliers overhead. Musicians played a lively tune, the sound of lutes and drums filling the chamber as lords and ladies twirled across the polished stone floor in practiced, elegant steps.

Cersei sat with her family, a goblet of wine in her hand, though she barely touched it. Her gaze flitted over the guests, her lips curving slightly as she noted the spectacle before her—Elia Martell, seated beside Rhaegar, her dark eyes alight with quiet laughter as she spoke with the princess of Dorne. Rhaegar, as always, held himself with careful grace, nodding along to whatever pleasantries were exchanged.

But it was not them she sought tonight.

Her green eyes drifted past the lords and ladies, past the highborn maidens whispering behind their jeweled hands, past the knights exchanging boasts over their cups.

And then, she found him.

He lingered at the edge of the feast, away from the laughter and the dances, his presence like a shadow against the light. He had shed his armor for the evening, but there was nothing soft about him. He wore black, as was his custom, his tunic trimmed with gold embroidery in the shape of dragon wings. His silver hair, long and unbound, fell over his shoulders, the candlelight catching on the strands, turning them into something almost molten.

He was watching. Not the dancing, not the king’s table, but the room itself—the people, the movement, the way power shifted within the chamber like unseen currents in the sea.

Cersei smirked. He had no love for the games of court, and yet here he was, playing them all the same.

She rose smoothly from her seat, ignoring the way Jaime’s gaze flicked toward her, questioning. She did not need his approval.

Her steps were slow, deliberate, the golden fabric of her gown pooling around her feet as she moved through the crowd. She could feel eyes on her as she passed—some admiring, some envious—but she paid them no mind.

When she reached him, she did not wait for an invitation. "You do not dance," she said, tilting her head as she looked up at him. It was not a question.

He turned his gaze to her, dark violet eyes unreadable. "No."

Cersei arched a delicate brow. "You should. It is a wedding, after all."

He exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to amusement she had ever seen from him. "Then let the newlyweds dance."

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. "That was not a request."

Something flickered in his expression then, something biting and unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might refuse her outright. But then, to her satisfaction, his lips curved—not in a smile, but something close. "So it’s a demand, then?"

She stepped closer, the warmth of the hall making the space between them feel smaller. "It is."

He regarded her for a moment longer, then, with an almost lazy motion, offered her his hand. "Very well, Lady Lannister."

Cersei’s breath caught, but she did not let it show.

He led her to the dance floor with slow, measured steps. The moment they stepped into the swirling mass of couples, the music shifted into something deeper, richer, the lutes strumming a more sensual tune.

His hand settled at her waist, firm but not rough. His grip was steady, unyielding, nothing like the soft, feather-light touch of the boys who had danced with her before. There was no hesitation in him, no need to impress, no eagerness to please.

Cersei had danced with Rhaegar once, at a feast long ago. He had been graceful, ethereal in the way he moved, as if he was not quite of this world. But this… this was different.

This was heat. Strength. Control.

She pressed closer, just enough to test him, just enough to see if he would pull away. He didn’t. "You are not like your brother," she murmured, tilting her chin up to look at him.

He smirked slightly, but his grip did not loosen. "I should hope not."

"Rhaegar is kind," she continued, her voice smooth, measured. "He sings songs. Writes poetry." She let her nails graze over the back of his hand where it held hers. "But you…"

His gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes. "Me?"

"You are sharp edges and fire," she whispered. "You burn."

The music swelled, and he spun her, his hand steady as he guided her movements, never faltering, never letting her out of his grasp. "You play a dangerous game, Lady Lannister," he murmured as he pulled her back to him.

Cersei smiled, her pulse quickening. "And if I win?"

His expression shifted, darkened, something unreadable flickering in those violet depths. He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, his lips so close that she could almost taste the wine on them.

For a heartbeat, she thought he would kiss her.

But instead, his hand found her throat.

Not with force. Not with cruelty. But with purpose.

His fingers rested just below her jaw, his thumb ghosting over her pulse. He did not squeeze, did not press, but the weight of his hand was unmistakable. A silent reminder that he could.

Cersei inhaled sharply, her chest rising against his. She did not pull away.

His lips grazed over hers, so close that she could feel the ghost of a kiss that never quite came. His voice, when he spoke, was low and rich, curling around her like smoke. "Be careful what you wish for," he murmured. "You just might get it."

Cersei’s pulse thrummed beneath his hand, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "I always get what I want."

A slow smirk touched his lips, and then—just as quickly as he had drawn close—he released her.

The music slowed, and they stepped apart, the space between them charged with something unsaid.

Cersei exhaled, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she lifted her chin.

No, he was nothing like Rhaegar.

And that was precisely why she wanted him.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

It's Raining in Portland

PART I

It rained in Portland for 45 days straight. They say this might still be normal—even for the off-season. I’ve gone out wandering, as I have every day of summer since I was a kid. My house was empty and the days dragged. I insisted on my green rain boots with frogs on them, showing them off was as good as a downhill bike ride. My bike was broken by then. The other kids were sometimes around, but the days grew longer. They went off to summer camps and vacation and YMCA soccer programs and it was still raining.

I began to bring the lady things on the tenth day. The puddles were turning into little lakes and I needed to make sure to move the car every five days–so I counted. I found her the day Liz left for camp. She was lying face down in the old Target parking lot. Target was supposed to come back to the building but it never did and the place was good for wandering. She was filthy. Hair tangled, coat an unnamable color, gnarled long skirt, and skin rash-y and fever-bright. She was also beautiful, like a fairy tale princess. A storybook face.

The woman had to be middle-aged at least, a weather-beaten kind look about her and silver hair; her high cheekbones and vivid dark eyes captured the soul as my dad might say. She moaned the first time thunder cracked across the sky. She dragged herself across the parking lot and rolled over into a puddle. I circled the area, pointy stick in hand, peeking out behind trees and heel-toe-ing around the cement.

I kept my distance during the first few visits, pretending we were strangers on the bus or like my childhood cat when she followed you into the same room. The woman remained like a corpse on the ground.

The first present I gave her was a can of soup. Everyone needed soup when the weather was bad. I placed it above her head, inching as close as I dare and pushing the can the rest of the way with my stick. Her liquid dark eyes flickered up, searching and wide. She returned to lying face down on the pavement. I frowned. Sure, I didn’t expect a thank you, but still.

The second day I brought her one of my mom’s old raincoats. Everyone needed a raincoat in the freaking rain. I placed it on top of the untouched soup can and didn’t wait to let her groan or moan or look at me with her spooky eyes. I ran off.

When I returned, the campbells can was standing proud and untouched but the lady was covered in my mom’s bright orange raincoat. I bounced on my heels.

“Is it a good fit?”

She didn’t answer. 

I thought of telling someone about the lady in the parking lot. Afterall, she probably needed help and if she took the coat, she might need more. But I stopped in the same breath. Bethany and Liz were at summer camp, the sleep-away kind, and they are the only ones I would trust to not start tattling immediately. If anyone else came, an adult or anyone with a badge, they might start asking questions about my situation. Why am I out wandering? What am I doing all the way out there on my own? You have to cross the big highway to reach the abandoned Target and really it was such a headache to explain the drainage ditch-crossing.

The lady might get in trouble too. What’s with all the headless pigeons in the parking lot? They’d say. That didn’t have to be my lady, though. She just didn’t like soup.

We were on day 20 of the rain and day 10 of me bringing her things. I had to move the car that morning and Miss Maudlin was giving me the stink eye the whole time. I arrived early, bird-early since that’s when I’m supposed to move the car, and didn't even bother to pick up the sharp stick. The mud was thick as honey and the lady dragged herself to a different spot face-down next to the biggest puddle.

“Hey!” I called out like I always do. “Don’t get up or anything. I brought you some socks . . . sorry they’re not shoes or boots or whatever, but they’re dry. I bet you’d like something dry.”

I set the pair of my mom’s good woollen socks next to the soup and backed up, still feeling bad I didn’t have boots. Good boots made a world of difference—my frog ones were testament to that. The lady didn’t even look up this time. She just lay there. I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Are you asleep?” My heart squeezed in my chest. I was going to feel awful if I didn’t tell Miss Maudlin about the corpse-like lady and she became an actual corpse on my watch. Though, Miss Maudlin would be impossible about the pigeon-thing, I already knew.

I sat cross-legged under my umbrella and started munching on my oreos, waiting for her to moan or groan or twitch. “Do you want, uh, something other than soup? I realize I didn’t even leave you a can opener.” The corpse-lady made a valiant effort of acting like a real corpse.

I scooched closer. “I won’t be able to come around every day soon so you’ll have to speak up. Want some Oreos of your own? Blanket? I’ve got some bottled water too, so much bottled water,” I chuckled, “but you’re probably sick of water by now.” The hand at her side appeared to twitch and a part of me relaxed. That was a good thing. I could leave now. But the thing was, I didn’t really want to go. Miss Maudlin wouldn’t even be on her porch giving me the stink eye and I’d already been to the grocery store twice yesterday. I brought out my book.

“I have this summer reading—did you ever do summer reading?—I’m already finished,” I puffed out my chest just a little bit, not enough for the lady to notice, but enough, “but the IB teacher grades like a motherfucker, I hear,” I giggled. The lady’s hand twitched at her side but she didn’t say anything about the swear word which was good of her. “So, I’m, like, reading this one again before term starts.” Which was not entirely true, we wouldn’t be reading One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich until the second semester. She didn’t have to know that. The book was short and punchy and made me say things like, “well, at least I’m not eating rocks in a gulag this fine morning,” which was something. I situated my umbrella, opened the book on my lap, and began reading. At first, I read silently to myself, but the lady had stopped so much as twitching and it worried me all over again.

I flipped to the beginning and read out loud. 

Her big dark eyes dragged up from the pavement. They were red-rimmed and wide as coins. My skin crawled and I cleared my throat. “Did you like it? It’s my favorite of the books.” She, of course, did not answer.

I decided to finish reading the first couple pages to her because I started this whole thing and I didn’t want to bail just because her eyes were big and weird and staring. We got through the opening sections. I left, like I always did, when I got bored.

I avoided the parking lot for the next few days. I wasn’t really in a place to keep bringing her stuff she didn’t want, I told myself, and it had to stop raining eventually. After nearly a month of rain, I went to our basement and knocked hard on the door. I had another note in my hand, this one mostly about the lady and how super done with my summer homework I was, but I found the last three notes still jammed under the door. I glared at the folded pieces of paper until I gave myself a headache and shoved the fourth one in after it. 

When I went back to the lady, I brought the book and a cushion to sit on. Let her find the damn house empty. I sat on the kitchen chair cushion, letting it sink into the soggy ground and not really caring, and cracked open the book. The lady rolled over onto her back and her big dark eyes were focused on the clouds.

“PAGE FOUR,” I said loudly and began reading. Her eyes dragged over to me in a molosess-drip and I offered her a tin of oreos.

Over the last few days, I stuck to my summer reading list, but by the time the weekend arrived I decided there were only so many pages of eating rocks and being mad at guards you can stand. The lady was already out in the rain. I switched over to one of my favorite books. My friends would have made fun of me for a baby book, but I was sure the lady had never read The Tale of Despereaux, and everyone needed to read that once in their life.

She liked it, I thought. I was sitting, as usual, doing what I was going to be doing at home anyway, and introducing the mouse that got me through a lot of boring classes in elementary school. Her hand jerked out in a blur. I jolted and the woman had a bird by the throat. My mouth fell open. The pigeon.

Her teeth were sharp as fish hooks and gently curved. They dug into the neck of the bird in the same way I imagine sharks dug into seals. My mouth fell open. The woman gobbled down the head and belly of the creature and it didn’t have time to make a sound.

“Woah,” I said. In a flash, she tossed aside her meal. You have to admire anything with that kind of efficiency. She scrubbed her face down with the back of her hand, moaned, and rolled over a second time. I scooted to the edge of my cushion.

“Um.” I gripped the book in both hands, raising it like a shield. “Do, uh, you only do that to, uh, birds?”

I didn’t really give her a chance to answer to be fair. I ran off so quick I imagine a little puff of dust came out of my heels. I spent the rest of the day with the curtains down and the door locked like my mom wanted. 

And I would have stayed gone too. However, the next day I got up, got dressed, put on my rainboots, and went to the door. It was another grocery day. My umbrella was missing. My one good umbrella–that also had a frog on it–was gone, and it was still raining. Thirty days of rain and no umbrella!

At least I knew a little more about the parking-lot lady. This time, I brought her a good cloth napkin. Everyone needs a napkin no matter where they live. I should admit I arrived late, very late since I had to spend most of the day talking myself in and out of going. She ate a bird right in front of me! Raw! And probably wasn’t too fond of mice, I had to bet, so The Tale of Despereaux was really not going to be her thing.

Birds cawed and the setting sun broke through the haze. Bits of orange light turned the puddles into watercolor splashes and set the misty air all to golden dust. Some things can be too beautiful–abandoned Targets and grungy puddles cast in orange.

I darted between the pine trees, keeping my head down and eyes wide. Crows, not knowing to fear for their lives, pecked at the ground. The Target stood unlit and empty, surrounded by piles of trash like a noble dying king. There was no one else in sight. I crept toward the largest puddle, eyeing the ground and wishing my lost umbrella wasn’t green. It could have flown off anywhere by now and blended in with the trees.

The light drained out of the world and the first meager stars popped out. I recounted my steps, one, two, three, and swept the area. At least, on the other side of the lot my umbrella was resting at the base of the Target. The top was weighed down by water, and the handle sticking up like a new plant growth. I sped into a run. Without breaking pace, I grabbed the handle, flung the water out, and sprinted into the foliage. My chest heaved and I glanced around, maybe also to check if anyone had seen that.

A shriek split the air. I dug my heels in and teetered to a halt, animal fear shoving its way into my higher functions. Apparently, I was a freeze kind of girl between the fight-flight kinds. My heart pounded dangerously close to being a medical problem and my ears rang. The shriek had the quality of stone against stone, grating and sharp. Sweat dripped down my temple and a long, dark shape dragged itself across the ground in the corner of my eye.

I swallowed a painful lump. She heaved herself across the space and I wished for the life of me that she remembered those wool socks fondly. The lady moved more quickly than I imagined, belly scraping the concrete and face contorted. I took a step back, she really didn’t need socks, actually.

Out from under the long skirt and dirty coat and much cleaner and nicer orange raincoat, was a thick black tail the color of oil spills. Dark as night and shiny, little rainbows catching the last of the light, a muscled tail whipped back and forth. The mermaid dragged herself across the cement and my mouth gaped.

She moved in the way of dreams: unearthly and fast–much faster than expected. A puddle the size of a small minivan pooled near the base of the Target. The mermaid planted her hands on either side, let out a fantastic shriek, and stuck her head into the water. You’d think she’d give herself a concussion, bonking on the ground, but she plunged her princess-pretty face up to the shoulders. She was gone for only a second and then back yowling like a stray cat.

I didn’t run this time. I took one wobbling step back and then another, clutching the handle of my umbrella like a sword. A mermaid! The brightest part of my brain said. You’re about to be alone in the pitch black out here, said the other part of my head. 

The mermaid was crying, I think, crying very hard, when I left her.

------------

[escarmargott]

First time?

Clark Kent x reader smut

MINORS DNI 18+

triggers: blowjob, loss of virginity

Clark's fingers grip his pants hard, his nails almost tearing holes in the fabric, his mouth falling open, moans spilling out uncontrollably as his sweaty bangs fall into his eyes.

You grin up at him, using your tongue to sickle his thick mushroomed head. You didn't want to tease him too much, but his cock was just too pretty to not enjoy. Thick and uncut, heavy in your hand, so heavy that it almost made your wrist sore while holding it up. The skin was soft and smooth, pretty in a way that made you wanna plant kisses all over it. The tip was a darker pink colour, flushed with blood from his arousal. His veins were almost pulsating in your hands as you gripped his shaft harder, his thighs clenching as your tongue swirled around his slit. A bead of precum squeezes out from the slit and lands on your tongue. You pull back, sticking your tongue out and panting to show how your tongue is coated and marked with his slick. His eyes are heavy, hooded and dark, his flush high on his cheekbones. He catches his breath while you pull back but groans when he sees his own precum on your mouth, such a dirty baby.

You lean back in and rest on your heels, as he rubs his hand down his face with a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself down. It was only blowjob. Even though it was his first, he could handle this, he could hold on a bit longer before busting all over your face and tongue.

You dive back in enthusiastically, slobbering your tongue on the underside of his shaft. He doesn't expect it, and his hips buck up. His hands scrabble at the walls and clench and unclench uselessly, holding nothing, as he doesn't want to hold your head in place. Knowing how much physically stronger he was compared to you, that would be cruel and unfair, and ruin the vibe.

He does kind of want to hold you down until you're choking on him, though.

You slurp and drool on his shaft until his thighs are practically quaking, and gargled moans are spilling out of his mouth. You keep on sucking even when he starts to whimper loudly, his face screwed up. "Ah- ah- ugh- wait, wait, wait... Mm... I-i'm gonna... wait, stop, I'm gon-" You look up at him through your eyelashes, slurping especially loud. Poor baby, he was so innocent he couldn't even say cum.

"Hmmnnngggh," You mumble eloquently around his dick. He sucks in a sharp breath. shudders, tenses his thighs and shoots a load straight into your mouth. His cum was thick and warm, slightly salty and not bitter at all. Now you knew why people called cum cream--- his cum was gooey and smooth like heavy cream.

While he was still recovering, you swipe cum from your tongue and swipe it over his lips. His eyes are blown wide open and his whole face is red.

"Aw, baby, first time?"

Clark nods, and looks down at you shyly, his cock already hard again.

"Do you think we could practise that again?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@erensslut

[holybibly]

𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℜ𝔦𝔫𝔤 | 𝔖𝔞𝔫𝔥𝔴𝔞 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 (𝔗𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔯)

♡ 𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: Boxer San x ring girl reader x Sugar daddy Seonghwa ♡ 𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You know that being alone with San is like willingly entering a tiger's cage, but maybe that's exactly what you want - to be torn to pieces by him. Or you might help San treat his wounds after a tough fight, even though you know Seonghwa won't approve. ♡ 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 / 𝔄𝔲 / 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢: Shameless Smut, boxing club!au, sugar daddy!au, ♡ ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI ♡ 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: ? ♡ 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Hard dom! San, hrad/soft daddy Seonghwa, sub!reader, unprotected sex, threesome, daddy kink, lots of sperm, fingering, degrading, pet names, size kink, spanking, hair pulling, squirting, creampie, humiliation, breeding kink, boobs spanking, pussy slapping, dirty talk, face fucking, pussy drunk, overstimulation, oral, double penetration, manhandling, multiple orgasms, сreampie, rough sex, rough oral, power play, praise kink, anal play, wet and dirty, explicit sexual content, explicit language, and more.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖉 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖞 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖋𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖔𝖕𝖊𝖓. 𝕬𝖓𝖞𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖉, 𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖆 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙

"San!" You call out the dark-haired, handsome man's name, noting his slim figure in the hustle and bustle of the backstage area. He turns his head slightly in your direction as he interrupts his conversation with Mingi, another smoking hot and unacceptably handsome boxer. Mingi has only recently joined the club but has already made a name for himself both in the ring and between the sheets. If the rumours are true, he fucks as well as smears his opponents on the floor. Like San, he has never been defeated, if that means anything. San gives you a licentiously grin and gazes at your figure with a dark, hungry stare before he gives Mingi a friendly pat on the shoulder and begins to walk in your direction. 

He reminds you of a great big cat of prey—elegant and graceful, but also so deadly. San is literally smouldering with sexuality, with all those seductive muscles and all that overbearing aura that literally draws the eyes of others to his person. His gym shorts hang so dangerously low that you can see a subtle, exquisite tattoo on his pronounced V-line. San is still shirtless—sweaty and dirty, the inky purple bruises already beginning to spread beneath the smooth golden skin of his pumped-up chest, and you swear you're looking precisely at them and not at the way the silver piercings in his nipples glisten. 

As soon as he is next to you, your hands automatically go up to his wounded face and gently wrap the palms of your hands around it, turning his head from side to side so that you can see the extent of his injuries. San just grins, lets you do whatever you want to him, and looks at you with heavy bedroom eyes. You look beautiful, fuckable, and fucking attractive. It's even funny the way his body immediately reacts to your presence next to him, his cock starting to tighten under the fabric of his gym shorts. 

Or is it all the residual adrenaline that is still circulating in his bloodstream after tonight's fight? Who knows? 

As the pad of your thumb presses against the deep cut on his lower lip, San hisses like a cat. 

"You should get those wounds attended to. They don't look well.' Your voice is full of concern as you continue to run your fingers carefully over the abrasions and scratches on his face. The smooth, golden skin of his sharp, high cheekbones was irritated, and purple bruises were beginning to form underneath. You could even see tiny drops of clotted blood where it had been torn. But even with all that, San still looked pretty damn attractive, which was almost a crime in your opinion. 

"You're so worried about me, baby doll, huh? How about you give me a kiss to make it all better?' San cheekily wraps his strong arms around your waist and pulls you close to his hot body, so unacceptably close that your breasts are pressed tightly against his naked muscular chest, and you have to stand up on your tiptoes so that you can face him. "I want my victory kiss, baby." San whispers in a sultry, hoarse voice into your skin, his hot, moist breath flowing over your cheeks, and from this a shameful, excited blush spreads across them. His hands slipping from your waist to wrap them around your buttocks instead, gripping them tightly with the palms of his hands and causing your already short satin shorts to rise even higher. 

You swallow unconsciously as the image of him fucking that girl in the changing room comes back to you, just like that, squeezing her buttocks in his hands as she rode on his cock. 

'Get a room.' One of the staff members shouts, and you're jolted out of your mental stupor in an instant, resting your hands on San's strong shoulders and moving slightly away from him to create some semblance of space between your bodies. 

"I'm being serious, San. If you don't, there'll be infection in your wounds.' You insist, wriggling slightly in his strong grip. He's still so damned close to you, you can feel his chest rising and falling with every breath he takes. 

You can smell the faint scent of sandalwood and vanilla on his skin, still hot from the fight, damp and glistening with sweat and oil. San squeezes your buttocks once hard with his hands before he begins to knead the plump, soft flesh in the palms of his hands, and you practically moan at it, barely managing to sink your teeth into your lower lip in time to keep the shameful, lingering sound from escaping your throat. 

"I've seen this before and it was disgusting, you don't want scars on your pretty face, do you? I can get Wooyoung or Yeosang to help, or one of the girls..." You babble on as his hands continue to massage your bottom. San has the good conscience to look completely disinterested in what you're saying - his head is tilted sideways, his feline eyes dark and smouldering with desire, and you notice the tip of his tongue tracing his swollen lower lip. His nose wrinkles slightly as he touches the fresh wound. 

"Pretty face, huh?" San gave you a cheeky grin and deep, sweet dimples appeared on his cheeks, which, to be honest, you hated because it made you feel completely weak and soft in the face of his charms. The contrast between how vulgar and coarse he was when he talked and how soft and gentle his dimples were when he smiled just made you go crazy. Damned you, Choi San, you and your stupid, attractive dimples. "You could just kiss that pretty face; I'm sure your slutty, sweet lips could do it better, couldn't you, baby doll?' He tilted his head to the side as if pondering something before a devilish spark flashed in his cat-like, slanted eyes, which, as you know, doesn't bode well for you. "But if you're so worried about me, dollface, why don't you do it yourself? I'm sure you'll give me professional service." 

There is some context to his words, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what San is alluding to. The time how efficiently you sucked Yunho's huge thick dick, after his fight, but it happened to be randomised, and you weren't in the habit of screwing every boxer in the club, especially after you started dating Seonghwa, or rather after he made you his sugar baby. 

"You jerk..." You nudge him lightly in the shoulder and purse your glossy pink lips in a resentful pout. 'You don't have to be so rude to me." You practically squeal as San suddenly picks you up under your arse and lifts you up in such a way that you have no choice but to wrap your legs around his slender, slutty waist. Your arms are automatically wrapped around his neck, and your faces are in an unacceptably close proximity to each other. Someone whistles loudly, but you don't pay attention. You're too mesmerised by the deep chocolate colour of San's eyes and the way his long, fluffy eyelashes flutter. 

"You don't know how rougher I can get with you, Dollface, but I can assure you that you're going to love every second of it. In fact, I'm pretty sure you'll be coming back to me for more of it." His lips touch the hot, flushed skin on the side of your cheek, and you give a soft moan as his fingers dig into your buttocks. 

"You are too cocky for your own good, and I already have someone else to fuck.' You argue weakly, unconsciously tangling your fingers in his soft dark hair, causing San to blissfully cover his eyes as if he were a cat that had been petted by his owner.

"Oh, believe me, I know who's fucking you, angel." He emphasises the nickname, knowing full well that's what Seonghwa likes to call you. "And I don't mind sharing you if it means I can finally get my dick in that pussy of yours." San is practically purring; the sound of his deep, seductive voice is vibrating in his chest, and you can feel it in your body. "I know you want it as much as me. Do you remember when you caught me in the changing room with that girl? I had you on my mind, baby doll, and while I was fucking her, I was thinking about your sweet pussy squeezing around my cock. All I could think of was how you were squirting on my face as I fucked your tiny hole with my tongue.' 

'San! How much longer are we going to wait for you?" A loud scream from Wooyoung brings you back to reality, and your eyes widen as you finally realise where you and San are at the moment and how his filthy words plunged you into a state of trance. Shit, you should use your head and start thinking with your brain instead of your cunt. 

But it's so hard to do that when San is a walking threat to your restraint and decency. It was easy for you to imagine all the things he'd just been talking about, and that slutty, dirty, yet seductive image made the delicate folds of your pussy wet.

"I'll be there in a minute!" San calls back, lowering you gently to your feet and eventually removing his hands from your body. You immediately take a few steps back, still a little stunned by your interaction with him. But San doesn't seem to want to let you out of his arms, so he wraps his palms around your face and forces you to look at him. "Listen to me, babydoll; be a good girl and wait for me in my room. Got it? I'll try and get back to you as soon as I can." For a moment you feel the soft, warm touch of his lips on your forehead, almost making you melt, but it disappears as quickly as it came.

'But...' You begin, wondering what you should do, knowing that if you're alone with San, nothing good will come of it, and besides, you already had plans for tonight. 'I don't know if I should...' 

"Baby, I didn't ask you." He turns and starts walking towards Wooyoung and the other boys waiting for him. As if he remembered something, San stops abruptly, looks back at you over his shoulder, and grins mischievously. 

"You still have to treat my wounds, doll face, remember? You don't want any scars on my pretty face, do you?" San casts a last dark, hungry glance over your body before bossy ordering you. "Now go, doll. Daddy will be back soon."

And he walks away, leaving you staring in his wake, your head a complete mess and your pussy absolutely wet and trembling with anticipation. 

Shit, you seem to have a problem, and its name is Choi San. 

[usagii-bun]

𝐝𝐫.𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ‧₊˚ (fluff)

╰┈➤ fem reader. reader is haitham’s patient (this may be a bit self indulgent hehe). mild flirting. fluff. attempt at comedy, just a drabble ig, i love alhaitham fr— just wanted to write something small before disappearing again ehe. masterlist

The first time you met Dr. Alhaitham, he walked in like a problem you weren’t ready to solve.

The door eased open with a soft click, and you barely had a second to breathe before he stepped through. And just like that, every rational thought in your head short-circuited.

He was tall—so tall—and built like the universe had carefully balanced strength and elegance just for him. His white coat hung open, effortlessly draped over broad shoulders, the fabric swaying slightly with each step like it knew how lucky it was. Underneath, his black button up shirt fit too well and his tie perfectly in place.

But it was his face that hit the hardest.

Angular jaw. Perfectly cut cheekbones. Lips set in a neutral line that looked like they’d never curve into anything as mundane as a smile. His hair—a soft grey, slightly tousled like he'd run a hand through it absentmindedly—framed his face with just enough dishevelment to be maddening.

And then his eyes met yours.

Cool, turquoise irises - pupils rimmed with amber. Focused. Sharp. Like a lens sliding into place. He looked at you—not through you, not past you, but at you—and your brain promptly melted into static.

You forgot how to sit properly.

You shifted on the exam table and winced at the ridiculously loud crinkle of the paper beneath you. Great. Smooth. Very dignified.

He glanced down at his tablet. “Name?”

You mumbled it. Or at least, you think you did. Your mouth moved, and he didn’t ask again, so that was something.

His gaze flicked up again, this time assessing. “Hm.”

Just hm.

You wanted to die. Or be swallowed whole by the earth. Or maybe just crawl under the table and never come out again.

He walked closer, writing a few things down, entirely unfazed. His presence filled the room with a kind of quiet intensity, like a thunderstorm just waiting to happen. He asked clinical questions in a deep, calm voice that was way too smooth for your current state of mind.

When he stepped beside you and reached for your wrist, you nearly levitated off the table.

His fingers were precise, cool, steady as they pressed against your skin. Meanwhile, you were vibrating at a frequency only small rodents could hear.

“Pulse is elevated,” he said absently, glancing at the numbers. “Unusual.”

You cleared your throat. “I’m—uh. Just—nervous.”

“I assumed,” he replied, flatly. “Though I haven’t done anything yet.”

Oh my god.

Was that deadpan sarcasm? Was that dry humour? From him?

Your face burned. You could feel the flush rising like a tidal wave, heat crawling up your neck and settling in your ears.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you again. Not with empathy. Not with judgment. Just that same unreadable curiosity, like you were a particularly odd research sample.

“Try to relax. You're only making it worse.”

You let out a high-pitched laugh that did not help your case.

He returned to his notes without another word, cool and methodical as he moved through the rest of the exam. Every brush of contact was maddening. He was so calm, so put-together, while you were over here trying not to pass out from sheer mortification.

Finally, he stepped back and moved to the door.

He paused there, one hand on the handle.

“You should drink more water,” he said, still not looking back. “And maybe avoid overly stimulating environments.”

Then, after a beat—so soft you almost missed it:

“Charismatic doctors included.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You sat there, frozen, heart racing like you'd just run a marathon on zero sleep and five cups of coffee.

You buried your burning face in your hands.

You were so, so doomed.

The second time you met Dr. Alhaitham, you told yourself it was just a check-up. Just routine. Just to confirm you’re healthy. That’s all.

You definitely didn’t fix your hair twice in the waiting room. Or rehearse what you’d say if he asked anything personal. Or almost chicken out at the front desk.

And then… there he is again.

Same white coat. Same unreadable face. Clipboard in hand. He doesn’t smile. He nods. That’s it. Like you’re a piece of data.

“Still having the same symptoms?” he asks, setting his pen against paper, eyes flicking up for half a second.

“No,” you say too quickly. “I mean—yes. I mean—sort of?” You feel the shame rise like steam in your face. Be normal, you beg yourself silently. Be a normal human.

His brow furrows. “That’s… not very clear.” He’s not being rude. He’s just direct. His voice is so flat, so serious, it makes you squirm.

You try to say something coherent while he approaches with the stethoscope. And then it happens again—he touches your wrist to take your pulse.

Immediate panic.

He blinks. “Still elevated.”

“It’s warm in here,” you blurt.

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s… twenty-two degrees Celsius.”

You die. Right there. He probably thinks you’re about to pass out. Or lying. Or both. Meanwhile, he’s moving through the appointment like you’re not experiencing a romantic crisis every time he breathes near you.

“You’re giggling,” he says, suddenly.

You freeze. “I’m—not!”

He looks up. That same unreadable stare. “You are. It’s fine. Some patients get nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you say way too fast, your voice a squeak now.

He just nods again. “Hmm.”

Hmm.

That’s it. You’re never recovering from this.

Then, as he’s about to leave, he pauses. Flips through his notes.

“You drink enough water now?” he asks without looking at you.

Your stomach flips. He remembered.

You nod.

“Good,” he says. Still serious. Still calm. Still a walking paradox of soft hands and distant eyes. “You seem better. Maybe next time, you won’t giggle.”

And then he leaves.

And you sit there.

Absolutely gone.

The third time you met Dr. Alhaitham, you weren’t supposed to be here. You just needed toothpaste. That’s all. One boring little errand.

You’re in your softest hoodie, your least presentable state, and you’re standing in the pharmacy aisle, zoning out while debating between two brands of lip balm—because clearly, your life is thrilling.

And then, you hear it. That voice. Calm, low, quiet—but unmistakable.

“Excuse me.”

You turn.

It’s him.

Your doctor. In a black button-up and fitted trousers. No white coat. No clipboard. No clinical detachment to protect you.

Just… him. Hair slightly tousled. Glasses pushed up on his nose. Holding a box of vitamins like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You nearly drop your chapstick.

“Oh,” you say. Too loudly. Too high-pitched. “Hi.”

His eyes land on you, calm as ever, and he nods like it’s perfectly normal that the man you’ve been lowkey fantasizing about is now standing three feet away by the travel-size shampoo.

“I remember you,” he says, flatly. Not unkind. Just observant.

You nearly ascend. “Uh—yeah. I’m… still hydrated.”

A pause. The corner of his mouth twitches. Twitches.

“That’s good,” he says, and somehow it sounds like a compliment.

You just stare. Like an idiot. Because he’s wearing a real person outfit. And his sleeves are rolled up. And his forearms exist. And he’s not doing anything wrong, but you’re actively malfunctioning.

He glances down at the item in his hand, then holds it up. “Do you know if these actually help? I’ve read mixed studies on the absorption rate.”

He’s asking you. For an opinion. On vitamins. And you’re trying to remember how to form a sentence.

“I—I mean, I just… get the gummies,” you say.

He actually blinks. “Gummies?”

You nod. “They’re easier to… chew?”

Another pause. And then, a quiet, rare sound: a soft huff of amusement. You don’t even think it’s a laugh. But it’s close enough to make your chest burst like a firework.

“You’re different outside the clinic,” he says simply.

You panic. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Just… surprising.”

Your heartbeat is in your ears.

You manage a half-smile. “You’re different too.”

He tilts his head. “How so?”

“You… have forearms.”

His eyebrows go up. You want to eat the floor.

“I mean—not that I think about your forearms—I just—”

He’s watching you. Quiet. Sharp. Then he says, very calmly:

“You’re blushing again.”

You wish for lightning to strike you on the spot. He adjusts the box in his hand like this is all very standard and unremarkable.

And then, as casually as anything:

“I’ll remember the gummies next time.”

And he walks away.

Leaving you standing there like a disaster in a hoodie, holding two kinds of lip balm and a pounding heart.

The fouth time you met Dr. Alhaitham, the waiting room is cold again, or maybe you’re just more sensitive today. You clutch your jacket tighter, feeling that weird mix of dizzy and tired that’s been creeping up for days. You told yourself it was nothing—just stress, maybe. But now you’re here again.

The nurse calls your name, and your heart skips. Because you already know who’s going to be behind that door.

You step into the exam room and sit down, and sure enough—there he is. Doctor Serious. Doctor Calm. Doctor devastating.

Except this time, his eyes linger longer when he sees you.

“You don’t look well,” he says immediately.

You blink. “Gee, thanks.” why do you think I am here ? well it is also to stare at your gorgeous face but I am not going to disclose that to you.

His brow lifts. You didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic. But your voice is quieter than usual, and your usual panic feels dulled by how out-of-it you feel. He steps closer, watching you carefully.

“Dizzy spells?” he asks, sitting down across from you. “Headaches?”

You nod. “Yeah. And I feel kinda tired all the time. Like… weirdly tired.”

He watches you. Really watches you. “Have you been eating regularly?”

You hesitate. “Um. I mean. Mostly. Maybe not perfectly.”

“Have you fainted?”

“No,” you say. “I just… feel like a dying Victorian woman sometimes.”

That earns a real reaction: a soft exhale, not quite a laugh—but the closest you’ve ever gotten. He looks at you again, like he’s trying to read through your jokes.

“Victorian woman,” he echoes.

You shrug weakly. “I’d look really cute collapsing into someone’s arms.”

His lips twitch. “Let’s avoid collapsing for now.”

He runs a few tests, checking your pulse again—so gently—and this time when your heart spikes, he doesn’t even comment on it. He just looks at you, a bit more quietly than usual.

“Your iron might be low,” he says. “Have you been on your period recently?”

You blink. “Why would you—how’d you—?”

“You’ve been here before,” he says simply. “You were flushed and talkative. Now you’re pale and slow to respond.”

You stare. “So you… remember me that well?”

He doesn’t answer. Just writes something into his file.

And then, suddenly, he says:

“You were at the pharmacy the other day.”

Your stomach flips. “Yeah.”

“I bought the gummies,” he says.

You blink. “Did they change your life?”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, writing something down. Then: “I don’t usually see patients outside the clinic.”

You don’t know what to say. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, but his voice is… softer.

“I just mean,” he says slowly, “you’re different. Less anxious today. Or maybe just tired.”

He looks up, and for the first time, there’s something like concern in his eyes.

“I want you to get a blood test,” he says. “I’ll write a referral.”

You nod, barely processing, because all you can focus on is the way he’s not looking at you like you’re a puzzle anymore. He’s looking at you like he actually… cares - well he is a doctor it is his job to treat you, his patient and to care for you as his patient.

And when you stand up to leave, a little wobbly on your feet, he places a hand gently—so gently—at your elbow.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re still a little pale.”

You look up at him.

“Will you be there when I collapse dramatically?” you ask, trying to joke through the fog in your head.

He doesn’t smile. But his voice is quieter than ever when he replies:

“Always.”

And then he lets go.

part 2

usagii's note ‧₊˚

welp, ill write another part tmr when i come back from college, ugh i love haitham, i wish he was real ssksjkjskjs