#doing this one since it's been in the inbox for a while

[serenity-loves-red]

hii, I really love your fanfic! and I hope you know that. I'm curious, what if (reader) invited someone to thier house (in context, them and thier friend who was invited seemed very close) what would Blue and Princess be like?

and thank you for all your hard work! i hope you have a great week, and don't forget to take a rest.

sorry for my bad grammar because english is not my first language

@kiraaa143 @liiilylooolyy @littlepiecefpeace

Meet and greet with other people in da world 🌍anyways the amount of asks in my inbox is pilling up and starting to scare meeee 😰 send help chat🤧😮‍💨

Imagine:

Since morning, you had been busy cleaning the house, tidying up all nooks and crannies. Phainon had walked up to you, pawing your legs to notify his presence. He wanted to ask why the sudden clean up when you carried him over, ruffled his fur for any sheddings.

“There you are Blue!“ you said, carrying him to find Princess. “Let’s find Princess so we can brush your furs together.”

Phainon tilted his head and meowed, pawing at your chest when you didn’t immediately replied. “…hmm? Be a good boy Blue. We have guests later to we have to tidying up the place. That means no sheddings too.” You pointed out.

You saw Princess curled comfortably on the pillows of your bed. When you called out, he jolted awake looking startled, as if you saw something you shouldn’t. “Uh hey?” You greeted hesitantly. “Not the reaction I imagined but c’mere.”

You gave him a pet to calm his nerves down before carrying him on your other arm. Mydei gave Phainon a what-is-happening look as if he hasn’t just had his not-so-secret exposed.

Feeling embarrassed, Mydei continued as if nothing happened and pressed on for answers. “Well?”

Play it cool, Mydei. Play it all cool, Mydeimos.

“…we’ll be having guests over so they had been cleaning the house. And now they want to brush our furs so no sheddings.” Phainon replied and gave Mydei a pointed look. “So Mydeimos, who would have thought that you–“

Mydei pawed Phainon’s face. “Shut. Up.”

Mydei curled next to your lap while Phainon curled shamelessly on top of it. You rested your hand on top of their head and back while animatedly talking to your guests.

Your friends, you introduced them a while ago. And since then you hardly payed them any attention aside from the constant pats and brushes on their body.

At first, Phainon and Mydei–albeit the latter is reluctant to admitted– is looking forward to meet these guests of yours. In this way, aren’t they going to know you better by observing your interactions, aren’t they not? That was supposed to be it.

But now, seeing how your supposed attention was theirs to begin with is now starting to go astray? Both Phainon and Mydei can’t help but feel bitter all of a sudden. So when one of your friend’s curiously asked to pet Phainon, he hissed, paw raised ready to scratch.

“Whoa–“ you exclaimed. “Sorry, he isn’t usually like that.” You explained, scratching Phainon’s ear to calm him down. “I mean–he’s friendly but I guess he isn’t used to strangers in the house.”

Your friend just laughed while the other looked at Princess. “What about him? That’s Princess right?” They pointed out at the Pomeranian curled next to you.

Mydei, hearing his name looked at them, then barred his mouth and growled. “Yeah– this one.” You immediately interrupted and pet him too. “I suggest not petting this one or even think of doing so. He’s a bit feisty when shy to say the least. But I can show you the hamsters, they’re far more cute and friendly than these two.” You said and pointed out to the pen the hamsters are in.

Your friends excitedly went, leaving you alone with Blue and Princess who keeps looking at your friends passively.

“What’s up with you two now?” You addressed them both.

I don’t like them, when will they go? Phainon meowed at you, whining which Mydei followed suit and barked, nipping at your thighs for even bringing those people in. He doesn’t like them, why would you even let them go near Lady Tribios, what if they got hurt?

“You two behave okay? They’ll be staying for the night so for the mean time, you will have to sleep in the living room.” You said and placed Princess on the couch and left, following your friends.

Phainon and Mydei look at you in bewilderment. Those friend of yours took your attention, dared to pet them and now they are going to stay for the night? And you’ll even kick them out of your shared room to accommodate them?!

The audacity! As if they will let that happen without a fight!

Taglist: @speedycoffeedelight @kiransalt @sunsethw4 @wispfish @syntaxandpi @hoo-hoo @aerisevx @wixsvem @reminiscingthesea @hquntinghunter @n8mareee @larettajudith @vashyuu @superbfuryfest @shio225 @line-viper @hiqhkey @fuji-sen @takeyomikamakura @raaawwwr @hoshinosama @shonwithnohope @naOyak1 @whatamoodhoney @violetisreadinghush @shio225 @blushho @bloodrrose @kazudare @monoclesnapple @elymint @lovesickdaydreamss @mangooes @ra404 @knufd @shiholyn @toyomittsuu @O-uchi @redheadedsilly @ofcdimi @wegottastayfocus

[spookysanta]

Chapter 12: Just a Guy With His Girl

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

here we are babies! the home stretch. :( but there's SO much more in store for y'all and i can't wait. don't forget to vote for the next fic in my checklist poll. once that's done we've got some other series in the works. i know i've been writing a lot for michael BUT i do have some stuff coming for other muses, too. i just need to clean my inbox out first lmao

The apartment had gone still, but neither of you moved.

Not yet.

The TV glowed soft in the corner, playing some rerun neither of you were watching. You were sprawled half on top of him, one thigh draped over his waist, his palm warm against the small of your back. Your cheek rested on his shoulder. His heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your ear.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t ask for anything. The kind that made you want to stay suspended in this exact moment, not thinking about tomorrow. Not thinking about what any of this meant beyond right now.

Eventually, you stirred. “Bed?” you whispered.

Michael’s eyes opened slowly, the barest smile tugging at his mouth. He reached for your hand as you stood and followed you down the hall, his fingers still laced with yours.

In your room, the covers were warm from the day. The sheets smelled like laundry soap and cinnamon – maybe from the candle you lit earlier. You climbed into bed. He followed.

You fit together like second nature. His chest to your back. His hand settling at your waist. His legs brushing yours beneath the sheets.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Then, in the dark: “Can I ask you something?”

You blinked up at the ceiling. “You just did.”

He smiled against your shoulder, pinching your thigh with a chuckle. “Smartass. For real though…”

“Shoot.”

His voice was low, careful. “Who all knows about me?”

That made you pause.

You felt his fingers trace soft circles just above your hip, like he didn’t want to make it a thing, but needed to ask anyway.

“I know the girls do,” he added gently. “Tati, Nas, Lex, Kris. I could feel how much they care about you. How they’ve got your back.”

You smiled into your pillow. “They do.”

“So… outside of them?”

You exhaled. “My parents don’t know. Neither does my brother, Jay.”

Michael was quiet.

“I’m not hiding you,” you said softly. “I just… haven’t shared yet. This has been ours. Just ours. And I wanted to keep it close before anybody else had an opinion.”

He nodded behind you. You felt it. But he still didn’t say anything for a beat.

“I get that,” he said eventually. “Truly. I just… I was curious. Felt like I should know where I stand.”

“You do,” you whispered. “You stand with me. And that’s not small.”

He didn’t push again. Just slid his hand to your stomach and pulled you closer, wrapping himself around you like a blanket. “I think I’m still adjusting to this,” he murmured. “You. All of this.”

You rolled to face him, your nose brushing his. “What part?”

He hesitated. “The normal. The soft. The real. It’s rare for me.”

You watched his face, studied the way the shadows played over his jaw.

“I started acting when I was, what, twelve?” he continued. “Maybe thirteen. I’ve been working ever since. I had support, my parents were amazing. But I didn’t really get to live the way other kids did. I don’t remember many summers, or family reunions, or running through the neighborhood with cousins. It was always auditions. Jobs. Prepping for the next thing.”

Your heart tugged. “That’s a lot for a kid.”

He nodded. “I don’t regret it. But sometimes, I wonder what it would’ve been like… y’know, to just be a kid. To be free.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then, you mumbled, “We didn’t have much sometimes, but we were happy.”

He glanced at you, eyes pleading to know more.

Your parents divorced when you were three. And though you barely remember them together, your memories of each of them outweighed the strain in the family’s dynamic.

You started with your mom: how she had a laugh that could stop traffic and a voice that could talk you off a ledge. How she never sent texts, only voice notes, and still used too many emojis.

Then, you told him about your dad – the construction man that could build anything, fix anything, charm anyone. How he’d send you photos of drywall and paint jobs like they were works of art. How he once built Jay a treehouse in a single weekend after watching one YouTube tutorial.

Michael chuckled, eyes crinkling.

Finally, you told him about Jay, your baby brother who now towered over you like a small linebacker. How he acted cool but still melted if your mom kissed his forehead in public. How he was a goofball and a protector all at once.

Then you smiled and said, “You already know about Tati.”

Michael chuckled. “Yeah. Tati’s unforgettable.”

“And Angelo…” Your voice softened. “He’s been like my big brother since I was eight. He takes his job seriously. When I was in high school, he used to sit on the porch whenever boys came to pick me up. With his arms crossed. Wearing a Bad Boys II expression.”

Michael laughed.

“He and Tati basically adopted me. Or maybe I adopted them. Either way, it’s forever.”

The conversation shifted then, from family to childhood memories. Summer road trips in your grandparents’ backseat. Family reunions with matching t-shirts. Fish frys, cornbread, and sun tea in mason jars. Running barefoot through your neighborhood chasing the ice cream truck. Tati at your side, Angelo yelling at you from the porch.

“That sounds… beautiful,” Michael said softly.

You shrugged. “It was. In pieces.”

He tilted his head. “Pieces?”

You hesitated, then shook your head lightly. “I’ve… been through some shit. Stuff I’m not ready to talk about yet. But Angelo and Tati were there. When it all fell apart, they didn’t let me drown. They held me up. Gave me a place to land when I had nothing else.”

He reached for your hand, held it gently in his.

You didn’t cry – just let out an exhale. 

“And sometimes I forget how much it shaped me,” you murmured. “Why I keep things close to my chest. Why I don’t let just anyone in.”

Michael didn’t fill the space with platitudes, and didn’t offer empty comfort. He just stayed. Present. Anchored.

And after a long stretch of silence, he whispered, “Thank you for letting me in.”

You met his eyes in the dark. “Thank you for not rushing me.”

He leaned in then, kissing your forehead, your temple, the space between your brows. Not possessive, not teasing. Just present.

Eventually, your bodies softened into the bed. Your legs tangled again, his breath steady in your ear, sleep pulling you both down slowly.

And even though no one said it out loud, something inside both of you already knew.

This wasn’t pretend. This wasn’t small. And this definitely wasn’t temporary.

It was building in every shared glance, every exhale, every truth whispered in the dark.

—

The morning was warm before the sun even touched the blinds.

You’d kicked the covers off in your sleep. Your legs were bare, one draped across his hip, the hem of his t-shirt tangled halfway up your thighs.

Michael hadn’t moved much, just shifted closer during the night, fingers curling beneath the band of your underwear, head tucked between your shoulder and the pillow like he’d melted into your space on instinct.

You blinked up at the ceiling, heart full. Body still humming.

He stirred behind you. “Morning.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

“I was dreaming.”

“Good dream?”

His voice dipped, hoarse and sweet. “You were in it. Always a good dream.”

—

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon toast and burnt edges by 10 a.m.

Michael had tried – really, truly tried – to help with breakfast. But after a bagel nearly caught fire in your “fancy” toaster, he surrendered to washing fruit and watching you in his sweatpants.

You fed him a bite of your French toast with a proud little hum.

He kissed the pads of your fingertips. “Think I’m addicted to this now,” he said between chews.

You raised a brow. “My cooking?”

“No. You. In your element.”

You blushed. “You’ve only been here four days.”

“And you know I’d stay forty.”

After a slow breakfast with kisses and mumbles in between, you took him out; not anywhere big, just showed him around the neighborhood.

The park, your favorite bookstore with the lazy cat on the checkout counter, the Jamaican spot with the best oxtail in the city.

He wore sunglasses and a fitted cap, keeping things lowkey, but you could feel the tension humming under his skin anytime someone looked too long.

You slid your hand into his as you walked down the block. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just still getting used to being normal. Like… your world doesn’t revolve around me here.”

You smiled gently. “It never needed to.”

Later, back home, you sat together on the couch, your feet in his lap, his arm draped across the back cushion, while you scrolled through your phone and bit your lip.

“What’s up?” he asked, noticing your concentration, brushing his fingers over your ankle.

You hesitated, shaking your head to clear the thoughts swirling around in there. “There’s a dinner tomorrow with some friends from college. It’s a small group thing.”

He tilted his head. “You wanna go?”

“I want us to go.”

Michael’s jaw ticked just slightly.

You sat up. “They’re old friends,” you said. “People who’ve seen me through a lot. I want them to meet the person I’m… y’know. Choosing.”

He softened. “You sure they’ll be cool?”

“They will be.”

“You sure sure?”

You grinned. “I already texted the group chat about it. Made them swear not to act wild. Literally made them send thumbs-up emojis under oath.”

He rubbed your thigh, letting out a breath that resided deep in his chest. “I just don’t want to make your life more complicated.”

“You make it better,” you said. “And if they can’t see that, they’re not really my people.”

He leaned over, kissing you once. Then again, slower. “Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s go to dinner.”

—

“Okay,” you muttered, standing in front of your closet. “Cute, but not too cute. Sexy, but also respectable. Not trying too hard, but also definitely trying…”

Michael glanced up from his spot on the bed, smirking as he watched you hold the third dress in front of the mirror. “You look good in all of ‘em,” he offered, arms behind his head.

You turned slowly. “This is important.”

“I know.”

“They’ve never met anyone I was serious about.”

“I know.” He didn’t even try to deny the grin that was playing on his lips.

You narrowed your eyes. “And stop smiling like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not helping.”

He shrugged. “You look sexy. That’s all I got.”

You rolled your eyes. Then picked the first dress anyway.

In your friends’ group chat, the messages were already rolling in.

--

You met Michael by the door after slipping into your heels.

He looked up slowly, his eyes dragging from your ankles to your mouth like he was starving. “Baby…”

“What?”

“That color on your skin? That little slit right here?” He reached for the hem. “You tryna ruin me in front of your friends.”

You smoothed your hand over his chest, giving him a playful pat on his sternum. “Just a little preview. You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

The restaurant was chill: warm lighting, wine shelves lining the walls, soft music playing under the clink of glasses and low laughter.

Your friends were already seated. And trying so hard to be normal. No one screamed, no one dropped their menus. No one reached for their phones under the table – at least, that you noticed. But the energy was absolutely electric.

Michael helped pull your chair out. Greeted everyone with that slow smile, head tilted, eyes kind, and shook hands with every partner at the table like he’d done this a hundred times.

You swore Karla mouthed “oh my God” into her water glass.

—

He told a few stories. Laughed at all the jokes. Shared bites of your food like no one was watching. And when one of the partners complimented your laugh and Michael leaned in to say, “Yeah, I know, it’s my favorite sound,” the entire table collectively malfunctioned.

They tried to recover. To keep it cute. But Arielle elbowed you under the table and mouthed, Girl. You won.

You didn’t even try to fight it. You know you did.

The Uber ride back to your apartment was quiet in a comfortable silence that felt like safety. Your hand rested on his thigh, his thumb brushing yours.

It was the kind of silence where the night is still lingering, glowing, folding into something permanent.

He walked you up without a word, let you unlock the door, watched you step inside, and closed it behind him like he already lived there.

You both kicked off your shoes at the same time, setting both pairs in the shoe cabinet by the door. You laughed when you saw he’d also unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and he grinned like he’d just undressed for you on purpose. 

“You did good,” you said.

He flopped onto the couch. “So did you.”

“You were very charming.”

He laughed, “Baby, I’m always charming.”

You smiled with a playful eye roll, walking toward him with a container of leftover dessert from the fridge and a spoon. “Key lime pie?”

He nodded, arms open. You sank into them, not hesitating to open the container and dig in. You fed him a bite. He fed you one back.

Then licked a little off the corner of your mouth, slow and teasing, until your group chat buzzed on the coffee table.

You laughed, nose scrunching as you handed the phone to Michael. He read the screen and shook his head. “They were sweet.”

You curled up next to him, face buried in his shoulder. “What can I say? They love me.”

“I do too.”

It slipped out, almost quiet enough that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been paying attention. But there was no wavering in it. It was full of certainty. 

Your head lifted quick, eyes searching his face for any indication of a prank. Maybe he was kidding? Maybe he didn’t mean that.

But he was already looking back at you with the same eyes he’d had all week: a warm gaze that was in awe of you.

His mouth just parted, searching for something else to say, like he knew he’d blurted it out but couldn’t hold it in a second longer. “I know it’s soon,” he said, voice steady. “But I really do.”

You didn’t speak at first, completely at a loss for words. You didn’t rush the moment. Instead, you sat in it, just letting the words bloom around you like they belonged in your space.

You reached up and touched his face, caressing the rough hairs on his chin with soft fingers. “I do too.”

He kissed you then like an oath. Like a man who says shit and means it. And this time, when he whispered it again, this time pressed into your neck, soft and real, it didn’t feel sudden at all.

It felt right on time.

—

The next morning felt different. Not louder. Not heavier. Just… more settled.

Like something had locked into place while you slept. And not just because he was still there, snoring lightly with one hand across your stomach like a promise.

You slipped out of bed, moving slow, trying to find a moment in the quiet to steady yourself from the night before. You made coffee (of course, making another cup for him), opened a window, and watched the light crawl across the room.

He walked out into the kitchen in sweatpants and a sleepy grin, kissed your cheek without needing to ask. “I said it out loud,” he murmured, arms sliding around your waist.

You nodded against his chest. “I heard you.”

“I meant it.”

“I know.”

After that, the apartment started to shift in quiet ways. His charger stayed in the wall. His wave brush joined your edge brush on the bathroom counter. You made more space in the fridge without thinking – his almond milk next to your oat, his hot sauce now a shared domain.

You noticed it and smiled. He saw you notice. He didn’t say anything, just reached for your hand.

Later, you curled up on the couch – a coconut and santal candle lit, your legs stretched across his lap, plates empty on the coffee table. The conversation turned quiet with a weight that sat in your chest.

“What happens after this week?” you asked softly after a while.

Michael didn’t flinch. “I go back,” he said, thumb still stroking your shin. “You work. I work.”

You nodded.

“But I fly back out,” he added. “Not months later. Weeks. Days if I can swing it.”

You blinked in surprise. 

He looked over at you with a raised brow. “You think I’d say that I love you and disappear?”

You smiled, shaking your head. But still, your chest ached. “I just want it to keep feeling like this.”

“It will.”

“Even when it gets hard?”

He leaned over and cradled your face in both hands. “I don’t want the easy version of us. I want the real one.”

You exhaled, relaxing into his touch, leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because honestly? It was.

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[lorrainailurophile]

I'm done,

First off, I don't wanna seem dramatic, I just wanna express myself, my opinion and what I watched through in my Tumblr. I'm leaving, maybe for long, maybe for short, but I'm leaving. I know I just returned from a break, but I really can't do this at this point. this community saddens me, it makes me feel embarrassed, sad, and disappointed. not in a way of which anyone did anything, it's just....me, in a way.

I'm tired, I remember back in 2024, I had mutuals who would interact with me, be with me and socialize a lot. that motivated me to also socialise, i talked to everyone in the community, I was forward, I genuinely loved being here. everyday, despite the harsh treatment I would get from my classmates, I would go on Tumblr and have fun with everyone. it's like it was THE place for me to escape the bullying and have my fun here, obviously, I knew it would end one day, but I told myself to just continue interact with people, and they'll warm up to me.

I know at first, I might have seemed like a copycat, because I'm gonna be honest...I know. I know my design is similar to other creators, I know my animations are very inspired, I know my choice of aesthetic could also be inspired, I admit it, yet....it seemed to make others drift away from me, even worse(?) not even interact with me at all. I remember seeing mutuals reblogging other people's art, and when I click to see the original post, I am blocked. maybe it's something wrong with my Tumblr, but I don't know. I don't find it amusing to see other mutuals being able to interact with everyone while I'm just there only having them as support rather then being with everyone aswell.

now you might not understand it from your point of view. I love my mutuals! with my whole heart, I consider them my friends, ones who I know for a very long time, some I know for a short. they all stayed with me. but I'll say it now, People just don't befriend me, and it's completely fine! it's alright if you don't wanna moot me, or interact, that's completely normal and I don't forbid you from doing that, no!!

the main reason I'm leaving is due to no support. Lately I've realized that I've only been recieving, which is good, but it's sometimes unmotivating, I used to get reblogs and people and mutials would hype me up, complimenting me, And I would do the same. but currently, it's not only that people don't hype me up, but also....I see my mutuals hyping others up. It's like, They post something, mutuals reblog, cheer them up, hype them up, talk to them... while I don't really get support anymore. I love interactions, I don't know what people think of me, I never meant to come off as "intimidating" or like a "clown" for having a similar OC. I just wanted to have a place to show my OC, my art, qnd basically just be me with other people. And I had it once! I was popular, to be honest, waking up everyday on summer break to a lot of activity on my tumblr made me feel happy, especially since at the time, I was in a sad state.

Eventually I got hate, I wasn't suprised, but the hate turned extremely and EXTREMELY bad. a group of people teamed up in order to dox me, found faceless pictures of me and posted it for fun, drew underaged rape of my OC, drew my OC being in EXTREMELY uncomfortable conditions. they would go to my inbox and say horrible things, paragraphs and stuff, even to this day I still get scared a bit when I get an anonymous ask. I closed my inbox and they still managed to say horrible things about me on their blog, which made me extremely uncomfortable. yet, my friends and mutuals cheered me up, defended me and talked to the one who started the hate THEMSELVES and argued with them. I remember feeling so grateful, and I still am to this day! I love every single person who helped me become who I am, Who defended me, and who still stayed with me. but eventually, the drama scared away people to leave the community, leaving me alone with a few little mutuals. a little for me, BUT I was still happy to have my current mutuals, I love and care for every single one. I love all of you!

but I'm unmotivated, people don't talk to me anymore, they don't support me and hype me up. which makes me feel like I'm showing stuff to a wall.

I wish I could express myself better. I just wanna say that I wanted to have a chance with everyone, befriend the new people, and everyone...but I've been seeing my mutuals only get support and love and new moots which is amazing, I feel great for them but, It kind of makes me feel alone? Seeing everyone being together while I'm just... existing on Tumblr, makes me feel disappointed, Everyday I waake up and just hope people would be interested in me yet nothing. I see people's posts filled with people talking about the character's lore, talking happily and reblogging and being together...I look at my posts and they are kinda just dry.

I've been trying to cheer myself up, telling myself I'll get there, I'll have be with everyone, but ut just doesn't seem the same anymore. overall, I feel alone, forgotten, and dry. I wish I could've understood what is so special about others and wrong with me, I think it's ny OCs design. and that's completely fine, do whatever you want! be free! it just feels disappointing for me, working so hard and then finaly being able to show it to others to get little to no respinse...upsetting.

to this day, Don't think the hate warmed down, I still get disturbing asks, but I ignore them, it's not like I get them everyday...but with both the weird asks and little to no support, I've been feeling unmotivated, ashamed even. I'm not brave enough to post here at all anymore. When I do respond sometimes to the hate once in a blue moon I don't get defended, yet when others get hate everyone starts comforting them....maybe people are just tired of me? of me whining? I don't know...either way, this place is not a space for me anymore.

So, i wanna thank everyone for staying with me, for being with me, i love all of you. Your fanarts... words... everything made me feel so lovable. I apologise if I did anything to upset the community, I had no intentions of making myslef appear as a bad person. I would've loved to talk to everyone, yet I'm only damaging myself by staying in a place where I just get sad everyday.

I still love Ranfren with my whole heart, Muri Cat will never be discontinued.

I will still be active on TikTok, so my mutuals can still interact...I always respond to DMs but sometimes I'm burnt out from talking(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠) I still answer though!

(I'll probably make a new account to talk to my non fandom moots so if you see me shhh...)

goodbye everyone, I might return, i might not, either way. I hope you will find me!❤️

And I'm sorry:(

[curiositysavesthecat]

Hypothetical scenario:

Person A is a cis woman in her late twenties who has had 16 serious relationships with 16 different men in the past.

As of now, Person A is in a committed relationship with her 17th partner.

While the relationships she had in the past didn’t overlap, she has never been single for longer than a few months ever since she was a young teenager.

Her current partner is a cis man twice her age.

All of her previous partners were cis men, and most of them were twice her age.

(All of which, except one, were adults when she was still a minor. Although NONE of the relationships were abusive, and she is still on good terms with her exes.)

This poll was submitted to us and we simply posted it so people could vote and discuss their opinions on the matter. If you’d like for us to ask the internet a question for you, feel free to drop the poll of your choice in our inbox and we’ll post them anonymously (for more info, please check our pinned post).

[mattscoquette]

it has been brought to my attention by a few people that there have been concerns about the friendship between me and one of my friends rory (@chrisstvrns). this is in no way meant to defend, deflect, or run away from the accountability of my actions, but simply to clear it up.

rory and i became friends and mutuals in about october of 2024. at that point, she had displayed in her bio, that she was 18. and at that time, i was still 19. a few months passed, and her and i would talk through instagram dms often, and often interact on each other’s posts on tumblr.

in march, i posted to my close friends story asking if anyone wanted to exchange numbers, since everyone in my close friends i trusted. rory swiped up, along with a few others, and i gave them my number. rory and i made a group-chat with our other friend, who is of age, and we talked in it everyday.

after a month, in april, rory texted us and told us she was lying about her age, and that she was 16 going on 17 this august. i was truthfully taken aback by this, i don’t think lying about your age is ever okay under any circumstance, but when she told us how she would get de*th threats in her inbox for being a minor, i felt sorry she had to deal with that. ever since that moment, i made it a point to be conscious of how i interact with her, both personally and on tumblr.

EDIT: i’m also only bringing this up to talk about what happened, im not trying to push the blame onto rory in any way for lying about her age.

i’d also like to acknowledge the fact that i did meet her at the triplets tour. in february, i had purchased an extra diamond vip ticket for the surprise party tour. unknowing what to do with it, i reached out to a few friends, including rory, to see if they were interested in buying it from me. at this point in time, though, i was still under the impression rory was 18, had i known she wasn’t, i wouldn’t have ever offered her the ticket.

however, her and i still did meet at the tour. she told me she had gotten tickets, and wanted to meet up with me at the tour. all of these plans were made before i learned she was 16, as she had told us she was lying about her age five days prior to the show. i personally didn’t see an issue with still meeting her, since neither of us were going out of our way to meet up with one another, and we were both at the same show. i met up with her while i was with my 16 year old brother, we talked for maybe ten minutes by the bathrooms, then went back to our respective seats. rory has mentioned to me again possibly wanting to meet up one on one, and i told her i wouldn’t be comfortable doing that until she is at least 18 or older.

i’d also like to acknowledge quickly that every time rory had defended me on anything, i would text and tell her not to. there have been countless asks she had received pertaining to me, and i always tell her to delete and ignore it. as much as i appreciate the concern, i’d never want her to get mixed up in any drama or anything having to do with me.

as for us texting about nsfw content, i have truthfully no recollection of there ever being any of that since i learned she was a minor. the only thing i know of, and that was brought up to me, was rory’s fic that i gave her the idea for. i had no malicious intent behind it, the only reason i brought the song up was because i was listening to it and i know rory is a big ldr fan. however, despite my intentions, i shouldn’t have said it period. these are the screen shots of that entire conversation.

i will still read and interact with her fics, however in the group chat we hardly ever talk smut fics or anything of that matter to begin with. as i said before, i made it a point for myself to mindful of the way i talk and interact with rory. most of the things we talk about are our common interests and things going on in our lives. however, if there is anything that someone else may know of pertaining to the way i talk with rory, please dm me and we can talk about it.

all in all, i think at the end of the day, being friends with minors may be tricky, but as long as there is a clear set boundary with the adult as to what’s okay and what’s not, i think it is fine. rory is the same age as my younger brother, and that’s truly as i see her- like my little sister. i’m sorry if i have hurt anyone by my actions at all, it’s something i never wanted. i always want my blog to be a safe space for everyone who comes across it. again, if anyone has any issue or concerns please feel free to dm me so we can speak about it.

-rylee ୨୧

[himasgod]

Hey guys! This is gonna be a “slightly more serious” post, so sorry if it’s a bit long lol.

Soo I guess you’ve noticed I’ve been posting less and less lately, and I just wanted to explain why, since this slow pace will probably stick around for at least a month before I go back to focusing on my studies and getting back into the writing routine where I could post daily.

Like I’ve said before, every little heart I get on a post makes my heart do a happy lil jump, so I feel like I owe you guys an explanation — even if maybe no one really cares LMAO.

It's nothing too deep, honestly. It's just... summer. I'm having a great time, enjoying being a teenager, and honestly my whole “responsible routine” has gone out the window. I barely even touch my phone anymore (SORRY TO MY DEAR MOOTS ON IG OR ELSEWHERE FOR NOT REPLYING AAAA 😭)

Also, I’ve been going through a super weird emotional phase lately. I know I haven’t been feeling great for a while now, but this whole emotional rollercoaster I’m on is making me feel all over the place. I’ve been kinda neglecting things like taking time for myself — which is usually when I write my tumblr stuff and get all dreamy imagining scenarios.

Basically, once my life goes back to normal and the heat stops messing with my mood and sleep schedule, I’ll naturally get back to writing. I’m really sorry for all the requests I haven’t touched yet, and I wanna ask for a bit more time. I’m doing one week on/one week off with open requests, so I’ll be taking things super slow. But yes, I am still writing, just not as often as before.

Also, one last thing — I won’t spend too much time on it, but I saw another “AI accusation” in my inbox about one of my fanfics — the Silver one, the latest one I posted. And like… wow. I really thought we’d moved past this phase of reducing writers to just being bots.

It genuinely pisses me off. Especially because if you’ve ever seen my political views, you’ll know I’m super clear about this: No, I don’t use AI. I wish no one did.

AI is being used to profit off our issues and personal data, sold to rich-ass companies who use it to keep us trapped in this system where, without even realizing it, millions of us are basically modern slaves to the top 1%. So yeah. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again — I used to play around with stuff like Character AI or Janitor Bot back the same time when I was just starting to explore writing, so maybe some habits stuck from reading those convos 24/7, I dunno. But even that feels like a stretch.

And anyway, I stopped using any kind of AI tools over a year ago — and completely dropped even stuff like ChatGPT months ago— and that was 100% a political decision.

So yeah. Being accused of something like that really hits a nerve. Deeply.

ANYWAY THAT'S IT. GEEZ, THAT GOT A BIT HEAVY, HUH? But yeah, the main point was just explaining why I’ve gone ghost lately. It’s summer. We sensitive teens get unstable in the heat lol.

I’ll still be lurking around here now and then, and I will keep writing. Don’t miss me too much — even if I’m not posting, I’m still here!

Love, Hima <3

[ambivalentatmosphere]

Corrupted By Despair for Seraphina?

Send me "Corrupted by Despair" and I'll say what I imagine your character's witch form would be

Anastasia

The figurante witch, with a perfectionistic nature. A dedicated dancer by nature, this witch polishes its craft every day in order to impress its peers but seems to have already made up its mind that nothing it ever does will be good enough to measure up to people's expectations, and as such doesn't show the fruits of its labor to anyone. It stays in its labyrinth and continues to practice, resembling a dancer toy at the center of a snow globe, and feels particularly enraged at unskilled performers.

Its familiars are named Tremaine and their purpose is to offer feedback. If they consider someone's movements to be graceless they'll attack by throwing tomatoes, eggs and other assorted objects at the target of their ire. The witch always passes their evaluation with flying colors.

[dailyhtfboards]

Day 109

Today’s board is:

Ya know Handy looks really weird in this board, I don’t know why they drew him like that /silly

(From TV episode 12C Junk in the Trunk)

[iamespecter]

I love this au with my heart and soul, and I'd like you to know that. As soon as I saw those designs, I was in love. It's all so freaking cool, man!

... I-I can explain

[nina-ya]

GOOD MORNING HAPPY FRIDAY TO YOU ALL!!!! ITS THE END OF THE WEEK WE PUSHED THROUGH ILY ALL 💞💞💞

[moeblob]

I'm on an OC kick and also super indecisive so I spun a wheel (thank you for choosing for me, RNG).

Ricardo is a body guard and is bffs with Marlo. Ricardo's current job is watching after a celebrity's daughter who the public doesn't know even exists. She's just a teenage girl vibing with her mom and getting texts and calls from her dad (who loves her a whole lot and keeps her out of the spotlight very purposefully) and has this bodyguard and his weird friend. Marlo is just vibing with his best friend.

(Also Marlo would absolutely laugh if he heard Ricardo say "someone called me eye candy and it wasn't you and now I think you should call me that")

[daincrediblegg]

Nothing wrong with me

[needlesandnilbogs]

Could you tell me about something?

… this is from April 25 and I do not remember what it was in reference to bc I’ve been so busy I did not have an original thought but if I don’t answer it it’ll be a mark of shame so:

about something.

[i2sunric]

𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 (l.hs)

p.s. ─────── ୨ৎ ────── i already did

PAIRING: boss!heeseung x employee!reader (f)

SUMMARY: who knew an email sent in a moment of range could spark a burning desire between you and your boss?

WARNINGS: 95% smut 5% plot. fingering, dirty talk, reader is burnout, semi public sex, oral (m receiving), blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), sex while on the phone, pool sex (not really narrated), missionary, riding, creampie, office sex; fluff, established relationship, reader wears a tiny bikini, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 28th June 2025

WC: 9.4k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon @princesstiti14

a/n: i’m so fucking sleepy i just wan to go to bed but hey! i’ve been dead on this app for sometime so lemme drop this. hope y’all like it and please LIKE & REBLOG to share + lmk your thoughts 🩷🩷 (enjoy my calligraphy in the picture).

It was one of those days.

The kind where your inbox filled up faster than you could breathe, the phones wouldn’t stop ringing, and the breakroom coffee had been left to die a slow, cold death in the pot since 8 a.m.

You hadn’t even had a chance to take more than two sips of yours— barely enough to take the edge off the brutal headache crawling behind your eyes.

Noon had come and gone, and your lunch sat forgotten in your drawer, untouched and already lukewarm.

You rubbed at your temples as you stared at the latest email that had just come in from her again— your personal tormentor for the past three weeks.

Mrs. Kim.

There she was, requesting the same impossible order you had already refused.

Not once. Not twice. Eight goddamn times.

You counted them.

You explained patiently and then less patiently that the items she wanted were discontinued, had been discontinued for two fiscal years now, and were no longer in the company’s catalogue.

You linked her to alternatives. You CC’d the product manager. You called her, even, and yet here she was again—

"Dear,

Following up again. I don't understand why this is taking so long. I’m requesting the original order from 2021. Can you process this today?"

That was it. The last thread of your patience snapped.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, possessed, every keystroke a satisfying clack of indignation.

You didn’t care.

You were soaked in stress and caffeine and the fading hope of ever having a quiet afternoon.s

"Mrs. Kim,

For the last time: we do not carry that product anymore. I have told you this eight times. Eight. I don’t know if you’re ignoring me on purpose or just incapable of reading full sentences, but either way, I’m not wasting any more time repeating myself. Maybe go get yourself checked.

You are welcome to refer to the updated catalogue I sent you four emails ago. If that’s too difficult, I’d be more than happy to point you to someone who does have time to coddle unreasonable requests.

Kindly, please, stop emailing me about this.

— Y/N"

You clicked "Send" with a sense of righteous satisfaction.

A victorious breath left your lungs as you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later that you saw the reply ping.

And then you saw who it was from.

Lee Heeseung

— Re: Mrs. Kim order.

Your blood turned to ice.

You forgot.

You completely forgot about the BCC—the default blind courtesy copy to your boss, a setting meant for transparency, accountability, and gentle professional oversight.

You’d set it up months ago during performance review season and then never gave it a second thought.

You clicked on the thread like you were opening your own coffin lid.

"Hi Y/N

Well… that was certainly a passionate response.

I think she noted on the product being discontinued.

Let’s circle back to this client later. maybe I can take over if needed.

For now, step away from your inbox and grab a coffee. Deep breaths. :)

— Heeseung"

Your stomach dropped so fast it might as well have hit the basement.

He didn’t even sound mad. That was the worst part. There wasn’t a single reprimand, not even a passive-aggressive comment.

He was giving you a chance to fix it yourself.

You stared at the screen for another full minute, then slowly stood, your legs weak as you grabbed your employee badge and took the elevator upstairs.

The executive floor was always eerily quiet compared to the chaos below.

Carpeted hallways absorbed all sound, and the scent of fresh espresso floated from the machine that Heeseung insisted on using himself every morning— never the breakroom sludge.

You walked past the glass meeting rooms, the sleek decor, until you reached the wide double doors that marked his corner office.

You paused. Knocked.

"Come in," came the voice. low, smooth, always relaxed in a way that somehow made it more intimidating.

You pushed the door open and stepped in, trying to keep your posture from crumpling into guilt.

Heeseung sat behind his desk, blazer off, sleeves rolled, laptop open. His eyes flicked up to you.

"Hey," he said, not unkindly. "Surprised you didn’t run straight to the fire escape."

You swallowed. “I… I’m so sorry, sir.”

His brow arched slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the edge of the desk.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just waited, giving you enough silence to make your own words echo back at you.

“I didn’t mean for it to go out like that,” you rushed, nervous now, your throat tight. “I was just so— so overwhelmed, and she’s been driving me insane for weeks, and I know that’s no excuse, I just… I completely forgot the BCC was still on. I wasn’t trying to be unprofessional… well, okay, I was, a little, but I didn’t mean for you to see it, and that’s not better, I know, but—”

"Take a breath," he interrupted gently.

You did.

Inhale. Exhale.

He tilted his head, looking at you with a calm you were desperately trying to borrow.

"You clearly didn’t mean for me to see it," he said with a hint of dry humor. "That was obvious by the way you said, ‘incapable of reading full sentences.’"

You winced. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry, that was… I was just frustrated.”

"Yeah, I got that part loud and clear." He smiled faintly. "You know, if you’d added one more insult, I think the server might’ve flagged your email as harassment."

You dropped your face into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He laughed quietly.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was soft. Understanding.

Which only made the heat crawl up your neck worse.

"I’m not mad," he said, and you looked up, cautiously.

He stood, walking slowly around the desk to lean against the edge.

His arms folded casually across his chest as he looked at you.

"I’ve seen worse. Much worse. Hell, I’ve sent worse. You’re not the first employee to lose it on a client who doesn’t listen, and I doubt you’ll be the last."

"That doesn’t make it okay," you murmured.

"No, it doesn’t. But it makes it human. And it tells me you care enough to be pissed.”

That surprised you. You blinked up at hiem.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I don’t need perfection. I need people whoho get frustrated when things go wrong. But I also need people who can recognize when they’ve gone too far and come up to say what you just did."

You looked at the floor. “Still… I should’ve handled it better. She might report me.”

"She might," he agreed, not sugarcoating it. "But I’ll handle it if she does. I’ve got your back."

You swallowed hard. His voice was calm, but firm. Final. He meant it.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "Really."

"You’re welcome. And hey…" He pushed off the desk, walking toward the espresso machine behind him. "You didn’t have lunch yet, did you?"

Your stomach growled traitorously. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

"Didn’t think so. I’m ordering in. You’re having a rough day, so I’ll let you pick the place."

You blinked at him. “Are you… rewarding me for that email?”

He smirked. "No. I’m rewarding you for surviving the week without quitting or combusting, consider it a boss’s mercy."

You laughed, finally, the tension bleeding from your shoulders.

He handed you his phone with the food apps already open, the glow of the screen warm against your palm.

And as you scrolled through the options, still feeling the flush of embarrassment under your skin, you thought— maybe it wasn’t the worst day after all.

☆.

Today was the worst day.

It had already gone to hell by the time it hit 6:45 p.m.

You were the last person left on your floor. again.

The office was a graveyard of abandoned coffee cups and empty swivel chairs, the windows dim with evening light as the sun dragged itself under the horizon.

Everyone else had mysteriously developed urgent appointments or nonexistent deadlines that somehow meant they couldn’t stay late to help with the mountain of archival reports dumped unceremoniously onto your desk.

You were hungry.

Tired.

Your back ached from leaning over outdated filing codes, and your fingers were permanently smudged with printer toner and dust.

Your last message in the team group chat asking “anyone still around to help scan the last batch?” had been left on read.

Of course it had.

You swore under your breath, stuffing another stack into the ancient office printer that had already groaned at you three times.

The stupid thing was older than your internship

. It made this grinding, death-rattle sound every time you asked it to scan anything double-sided. You were halfway through cursing at it when the overhead lights flickered once.

Twice.

And then the power cut out completely.

A sharp click of darkness. Then silence.

You stood frozen in place, fingers still on the edge of a document feeder. A beat passed. Then another.

You stared into the void, blinking, the only sound the faint tik-tik-tik of the unplugged printer slowly powering down like it was dying dramatically in your arms.

You sighed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You waited. Surely the backup would kick in.

It didn’t.

The battery emergency lights flicked on around the hallway, casting everything in a soft red glow like the inside of a submarine.

Your entire floor looked apocalyptic.

It would’ve been funny if you weren’t thirty pages away from finishing and aching to get home.

"This is so stupid," you muttered to yourself. You paced around your desk, cracked your knuckles, and then, because the universe clearly had it out for you, tripped slightly on a cable.

You whirled around, eyes narrowing at the printer like it had personally insulted your intelligence.

You weren’t usually violent, but something about the whole day had ignited a very specific brand of frustration in your chest— the kind that made you want to break things. Or cry. Or both.

So when the lights buzzed for a brief second and the printer beeped at you with a snide error code for the fifth time in a row, you snapped.

“Alright, you boxy little demon,” you hissed. “Let’s dance.”

You kicked it.

You meant it to be symbolic. A warning. An expression of just how done you were.

Unfortunately, your foot caught the corner of the machine.

And because karma is very real and very punctual, your boot slid awkwardly through the paper tray, lodging itself inside the machine with a humiliating clunk.

“Shit,” you whispered, staggering forward and grabbing the desk for balance. “No, no— come on.”

You tugged. Nothing.

You yanked harder..

“Are you kidding me?” you groaned, now bent awkwardly sideways over the printer, one foot completely jammed in the lower tray, arms flailing for something to grab.

The evil machine wobbled, and you grabbed it to keep from tipping it over, your hair falling into your face as you tried to wiggle your leg free.

The overhead lights snapped back on all at once.

Power returned with an electric hum.

Machines came alive. Computers rebooted.

The lights flickered to life overhead like judgmental gods bearing witness.

And at that exact moment, you heard a door open down the hall.

You froze.

Slow footsteps. Leather shoes on carpet.

You knew that walk. You’d memorized it over the last few months without meaning to— those long, easy strides. That quiet confidence.

Lee Heeseung.

Of course he was still here. Of course he chose now to emerge from his corner office.

You tried to untangle yourself, but the paper tray refused to budge, your boot stuck in such a cursed angle you briefly considered removing your entire leg.

Heeseung’s voice was much too close when he finally spoke.

“…Am I interrupting something?”

You froze, eyes wide.

You didn’t even need to look at him to hear the amusement dripping off every syllable.

“I—” You cleared your throat. “No. I mean, yes. I mean— I’m fine.”

you finally risked a glance up… and there he was, standing a few feet away in his usual dress shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, tie loose, a sleek laptop tucked under one arm.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that was just unfair. And he was smiling. Very clearly trying not to laugh, but smiling.

“Should I even ask how this happened?” he said, gesturing vaguely at the situation.

You, half-folded over a printer like a modern art sculpture. One foot swallowed alive by outdated office equipment.

You groaned and dropped your head against the top of the machine. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He chuckled under his breath, moving forward. “Alright.”

Your head snapped up. “Really? You’re not gonna ask why I did this?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s clear you have some anger management issues.”

You blinked at him. Well, he ain’t wrong.

He crouched down beside the printer, setting his laptop carefully on the floor. “Let me take a look, don’t move.”

“Oh yeah,” you deadpanned. “I’ve got so many options.”

He shot you a grin. “Careful. Keep being cute and I might leave you here.”

You flushed, instantly. “Sorry, Sir.”

“What?” he said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just saying, I’ve never had an employee try to merge with office machinery before. It’s a new milestone.”

You buried your face in your hands as he gently maneuvered the paper tray open from the opposite side, humming softly to himself.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “I see the problem.”

“Is it me?”

“Mostly.” He grinned, grabbing onto the corner of the tray and wiggling it slightly. “But also, this machine is trash. You were absolutely justified in assaulting it.”

You bit back a laugh. “Don’t tell HR.”

“HR’s gone home. And besides, I’m the one you report to.”

You paused. “So you’re saying I could commit minor office crimes and get away with it?”

He glanced up at you from under his lashes, dark eyes amused. “I’m saying if anyone’s going to report you, it won’t be me.”

The tray finally released with a snap, and your boot came free all at once, nearly sending you toppling backward. Heeseung caught your arm before you could fall, his grip warm and steady.

“There we go,” he said, helping you balance. “Foot intact?”

“Barely,” you mumbled, brushing your hair out of your face. You looked down at your scuffed boot, then back up at him. “I think we might need a new printer.”

He smirked. “I think you need a break.”

You hesitated. The words hit harder than they should’ve.

Because he was right.

You’d been drowning lately, taking on every overflow task, every weekend shift, picking up the slack whenever someone else dropped the ball.

You hadn’t complained. Not out loud.

But your body was exhausted, your head full of static, and your foot was living proof that you were about five seconds from completely losing your mind.

Heeseung must’ve seen it in your face, because his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You don’t have to keep doing everything on your own.”

You looked away. “It’s fine. Everyone’s busy. I can handle it.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

There was a silence. A long one. He stepped a little closer.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said softly. “Not in a creepy way— just… I see how hard you work. How you take on more than you’re asked to, how you stay late every night, even when it’s not your responsibility. You think that goes unnoticed?”

You swallowed. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” he said. “You don’t have to burn yourself out to prove you belong here.”

The words hung between you, heavy and warm and real.

You finally looked up at him and found him already watching you, his gaze steady, thoughtful.

You felt something in your chest shift. Something small, quiet, and undeniable.

Heeseung smiled gently. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner, you’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “You’re bribing me with food.”

“I’m rescuing you from this cursed printer,” he corrected. “It’s part of the job description.”

You laughed, a real one this time, and let him lead you away from the graveyard of scanned archives and haunted machinery.

His hand brushed yours as you walked side by side out of the office, and neither of you moved away.

☆.

You hadn’t expected anything beyond some greasy takeout and maybe a few jokes to soften the edge of your embarrassment.

But somewhere between the second round of dumplings and Heeseung trying to guess what playlist you put on when you're really mad, something shifted.

You found yourself laughing more easily than you had in weeks.

He was funny in a sly, dry sort of way— casual but sharp, with this low warmth in his voice that made everything he said sound like it had a double meaning.

Not that he was flirting.

Not exactly.

But there was something in the way his eyes lingered on yours a second too long after every shared joke, something in the way his thumb brushed too casually along the rim of his cup when you took a sip of yours and left a glossed fingerprint behind

And you weren’t exactly not leaning in when he talked.

When you came back to the building, it was after an hour, There was a kind of stillness that made your footsteps echo across the marble floors and made the flicker of vending machine lights look cinematic.

He’d offered, half-jokingly, to let you finish up your work in his office, because his A/C actually functioned, and his desk chair didn’t creak like it was on the verge of collapse.

You said yes. Obviously.

Heeseung unlocked his door and held it open for you.

His office smelled faintly like citrus, due to the candle lit in the corner, and something a little woodsy, probably the cologne that clung to his shirtsleeves.

The overhead lights were dimmed low, and the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk stretched out into the city, glittering in the dark.

You stepped in and paused, suddenly aware that you were somewhere very personal. It was tidy, precise.

You turned to thank him, but he was already watching you from the doorway, his hands in his pockets.

“Take the desk,” he said, smiling softly. “I won’t even be mad if you kick it.”

You smirked and dropped your bag onto the guest chair. “Don’t tempt me.”

He moved past you, loosening his tie the rest of the way and tossing it onto the coat rack.

The click of his laptop followed, and then music— something R&B and low enough that it almost felt like background noise to the silence around you.

You settled behind his desk, relishing the cool burst of air from the functioning A/C vent. The chair was absurdly comfortable.

You kicked off your boots and leaned back with a soft sigh of relief.

“Better?” he asked from his corner.

You nodded. “Miles better. I might not leave.”

He raised a brow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

There it was again— that something.

just enough weight behind the words to make you pause. His voice had dropped half a note lower.

You reached for the folder you’d been working on earlier that you brought there, suddenly conscious of the faint buzz under your skin.

You tried to focus on your work, but your mind kept slipping.

The room was warm now, and so was the space between you, too heavy with something unsaid. Every glance he gave you seemed a little longer, like he was debating something in real time.

You looked up from the folder and found him leaning against the edge of the window, arms folded, watching you.

“You’re different when you’re not in the middle of a crisis,” he said.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re quieter, but in a good way. Like you finally have room to breathe.”

Your heart gave a small, unwanted flutter. “Is that your way of saying I’m usually too stressed out to function?”

“No.” He stepped closer. “It’s my way of saying I like seeing you like this.”

The space between you collapsed by inches.

He was standing just on the other side of the desk now, one hand resting lightly on the polished wood, eyes locked on yours.

The city lights outside were a soft blur behind him. Your breath caught, stuck in your chest.

“Heeseung…” you started, uncertain. Because somewhere between fries and dumplings, he gave uou the green light to call him by his first name.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” he said softly, cutting you off without force. “But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about this… about you.”

You swallowed. The tension had shifted into something tangible now.

It pooled in your belly, a tightness threaded with heat. You felt it in the curl of your toes against the carpet, in the quick, darting beat of your pulse.

“I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it,” you murmured.

“You weren’t.”

You stood slowly, the chair gliding back with a soft scrape.

He didn’t touch you yet.

“I meant what I said,” he said, voice low and even. “I’ve seen how much you carry. You work so damn hard, and no one ever makes space for you to just be. I want to do that, even if it’s just for tonight.”

There was something deeply sincere in his voice. Like this wasn’t just wanted. It was something more careful. Something he’d been holding back.

You stepped into his space, breathing shallow, and said, “Then show me.”

The moment he touched you, it was with a reverence that made your knees weak.

His fingers grazed your jaw, tilting your face up.

He paused, just long enough to make sure— long enough to let you lean in first. And when you did, he kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting.

His mouth was warm and slow against yours, lips parting gently, breath mingling. His hands found your waist, grounding and sure, pulling you closer.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt, the soft cotton warm from his skin. He deepened the kiss gradually, coaxing you into it, tasting the hesitation out of your mouth until you melted into him.

When you finally broke apart, you were breathless.

He leaned his forehead against yours. “Still okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not done.”

He walked you backward toward the desk, hands steady on your waist, until you were pressed against the wood.

He kissed your neck softly, then more deliberately, leaving a slow trail to your collarbone as his hands skimmed under the hem of your blouse.

You gasped when his fingers touched your skin, warm and unhurried, exploring every inch like he wanted to memorize it.

You reached for his belt, nerves trembling with anticipation.

He caught your wrist gently “Let me take care of you,” he said, voice like velvet.

You nodded.

He moved with purpose now, pulling your blouse off with a soft sound of approval, eyes dark as they raked over you.

He leaned you back over his desk, fingers gliding down your hips, lifting you slightly onto the surface. The wood was cool under your thighs, the air sharp against your skin.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

His mouth returned to yours with renewed urgency, hands trailing over every curve, every line, until you were sighing against him, your fingers tangled in his hair.

When he finally undressed you fully, it wasn’t rushed.

It was deliberate. Worshipful.

He pressed kisses to the inside of your thighs, your hips, your ribs, like he was chasing every sigh that left your mouth.

And when his hands finally slipped lower, when his fingers teased and stroked and coaxed you into a slow, building pleasure, you arched under him, gasping his name.

“Heeseung— oh—”

He smirked, slipping a finger inside you, and then a second one.

You were so worked up already, your thighs trembling around his waist as he pressed kisses on your neck.

“Fuck,” you sighed, “Faster.”

“Milady.” he complied, hurrying his fingers, curling them right where you needed them.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Let me hear you, let go.”

And you did.

You came undone with your back arched off his desk and his name on your lips.

Later, as he tucked you into his chair with your shirt back on and a glass of water in your hand, he knelt beside you, brushing your hair gently from your face.

“Still okay?” he asked again, voice soft.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “Whatever happens after this— I want to be the one who makes space for you.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

“I think you already are.”

☆.

It had started with an email. And it continued with an email now too.

You were half-conscious, running on your second cup of coffee and buried in quarterly reports, when your inbox pinged with that familiar chime.

Most emails in your morning queue were mind-numbing— reminders from admin, updates on broken copy machines, requests to “circle back” on things that no one ever wanted to circle forward in the first place.

But this one was from Heeseung.

The subject line read:

urgent file request – please review ASAP

Your stomach twisted the way it always did now when his name popped up on your screen. A quiet, breathless little flip.

You clicked it open, expecting a report or some scanned doc he wanted reviewed.

Instead, you found:

From: Lee Heeseung

To: You

Subject: urgent file request – please review ASAP

Can you come to my office and check if the file I’m thinking about is tucked between your thighs?

Might need to examine it closely.

Very closely.

– H.

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Heat rushed to your cheeks and your neck as you jerked your head up— he was in his office, of course.

Glass walls, the blinds open. He was pretending to be on a call, holding the phone to his ear, nodding, totally composed.

But when your eyes met his, he winked.

The phone probably wasn’t even on.

You sunk a little lower in your chair, your thighs tightening automatically.

That look he gave you set off a ripple down your spine.

It had been three weeks since the first time he pulled you across that desk and showed you just how good things could feel.

Since then, everything between you had changed.

You still worked. Still got things done.

but now, when he passed by your desk, he let his fingers brush your shoulder a little too casually. When he asked you to stay late for “filing,” the door always locked behind you. And now, apparently, he was taking it to email.

You typed back before you could second-guess it:

From: You

To: Lee Heeseung

Subject: RE: urgent file request – please review ASAP

Sorry, that file is confidential. You’ll have to check with your hands. or tongue.

I’m available in five.

— Y/N

You slipped into his office with a folder in your hands purely for cover.

He was seated behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The city glared behind him in the afternoon light, and his laptop was open— but he barely glanced at it when you stepped inside.

He leaned back, dark eyes dragging over you from head to toe.

“Lock the door,” he said quietly.

You did. And closed the curtains for privacy.

When you turned back around, he was already on his feet. He crossed the room in a few slow steps, standing in front of you, taking the folder out of your hands and setting it blindly on the shelf.

He cupped your face, tilting it up, and kissed you without hesitation.

It was slow at first, teasing— his lips soft, mouth coaxing yours open as if he had all the time in the world.

You sighed into it, your hands going instinctively to his waist, curling into the soft cotton of his shirt.

The kiss deepened, his tongue stroking over yours, and you whimpered softly when he slid a hand down your back and pressed you against the door.

“Lord,” he murmured, mouth brushing against yours, “you taste like cinnamon today.”

You swallowed hard. “Too much coffee.”

“Perfect amount,” he whispered, and kissed you again.

He backed you toward his desk, trailing kisses from your mouth to your jaw, down the line of your neck.

Your hands fumbled with his buttons, needing him closer, needing something to fill the ache that had been growing ever since that first email.

When he sat down in his desk chair, he pulled you into his lap without asking.

You straddled him, your skirt already hiked up. His hands settled on your thighs, slow and warm, thumbs stroking upward.

“You always get so worked up when I tease you,” he murmured against your ear. “You like getting those emails?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “You’re going to get me fired.”

He laughed softly, low in his throat. “No one’s firing you. Not when you do such a good job to me.”

You kissed him again and rocked forward just enough to hear the sharp inhale he tried to swallow down.

His grip on your hips tightened. You could feel him through his slacks, warm and firm beneath you, and the pressure of your body against his made your skin feel hot all over.

He tried to pull your blouse open, but you caught his wrist.

“Let me,” you said, voice just above a whisper.

His breath stilled.

You slipped off his lap, slowly, sinking down between his legs.

His brows lifted, mouth parted, but he didn’t say a word.

Just leaned back in the chair, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands, fingers slow and deliberate.

The clink of metal filled the quiet room, followed by the soft drag of his zipper. Heeseung exhaled hard when you brushed him through his boxers, already hot, already thick.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” you said, looking up at him as you lowered his waistband.

He let out a breathy laugh, voice tight. “Are you really going to make me beg?”

You smiled.

“No.”

And then you took him in your mouth.

He groaned instantly, his hips twitching up, one hand flying to your hair but stopping short of gripping it.

Always waiting for you to take the lead. Always making sure.

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, tongue gliding along the underside, savoring the weight and heat of him. He cursed, low and raw, his other hand tightening around the edge of the chair.

“Fuck—” he breathed. “You’re too good at this.”

You hummed around him in response, and he shuddered.

The thrill of having him like this, head tipped back, jaw clenched, breath uneven, sent sparks through your veins.

His thighs flexed under your palms, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were half-lidded and glazed, locked on you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Baby, wait—” he said suddenly, voice cracking. “You keep going like that, an I’m not gonna last.”

You pulled back slowly, your mouth wet, lips swollen. “Isn’t that the point?”

He blinked hard, laughing breathlessly, and pulled you to your feet.

“I’m going to owe you for that,” he said, voice rough, still out of breath.

You climbed back onto his lap, letting him tug you close. His hands found your hips again, holding you there like he never wanted to let go.

“You already do,” you whispered against his mouth.

And when he kissed you this time, it was slower. Deeper.

Less urgent, more full. Like he wasn’t just thanking you with his mouth, but promising something.

His fingers slipped beneath your skirt again, and this time you didn’t stop him.

He pulled your panties to the side and you sank down on him with a sigh.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, already thrusting up into you “You feel like heaven, baby,”

You hummed, already squeezing around him “You’re so big.” you murmured, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

You felt him twitch inside you “You can’t say things like that.”

Heeseung glanced at the clock on the wall. “We have three more minutes before someone gets suspicious.”

“Then you better hurry.” as those words left your lips, Heeseung thrusted up fast and hard, chasing both of your highs.

He planted a hand on your mouth and held your waist with the other, so tight a bruise would probably form the following day.

You squeezed your eyes shut as white washed over you, a particular deep thrust getting you over the edge, tightening to the point of pain around him.

“Fuck.” he groaned and pulled out to jerk off, but you quickly slapped his hand away and put him back inside you.

The mere action caused his hot release to spill, coating your walls.

“You didn’t have to do that.” he said, breathless as you got up on wobbly legs and put your panties into place.

“Oh please.” You fixed your hair “You’d rather me havig to explain why there’s a white stain on my skirt?”

He smirked, tucking himself back in his trousers, “Touché, baby.”

☆.

California sunlight spilled golden through the glass balcony doors, bathing the entire suite in that soft, lazy kind of warmth that made your skin glow even when you weren’t trying.

You were floating in the center of the hotel room’s private pool, limbs stretched out on the flamingo inflatable mattress, sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of your nose.

Your legs dangled in the cool water, barely kicking, your only real effort being adjusting your position every few minutes to stay in the shade of the swaying palm tree outside.

It had taken you exactly one hour on the first morning of the trip to finish the task Heeseung had “urgently” brought you to California for: color-coding and organizing his meeting schedule and dinners with clients.

One hour.

Sixty minutes of tapping at your laptop while sipping overpriced coffee from the mini bar and watching your boyfriend move shirtless around the suite while on a call.

Then, nothing.

The rest of the two-week “business trip” had been one long, uninterrupted vacation— for you, at least.

You weren’t entirely sure if Heeseung had ever actually needed your help or if he just wanted an excuse to bring you along without raising eyebrows at the office.

Either way, you weren’t complaining.

He was in the bedroom now, getting ready for another meeting with suppliers, while you basked in complete, indulgent peace, a mango drink resting on a floatie beside you.

The silence was broken only by the soft splash of water and the hum of light music playing from the speakers in the corner of the suite.

“Baby,” Heeseung called from inside the room, his voice slightly muffled.

You lifted your sunglasses with one hand, squinting toward the balcony door. “Hm?”

“Where’s my tie? The navy one.”

“You mean my navy one,” you corrected, smirking. “The one you let me use for my aesthetic outfit.”

He emerged into view then— black slacks hugging his legs, crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his hair still wet from the shower.

He looked at you, at the pool, the view, the drink, and let out a breath that sounded halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

“You’re telling me you brought it just to never actually use it; since you’ve been floating for a week.”

“No,” you replied, raising your drink. “I brought it for aesthetic purposes. I was actually planning on using it today.”

He shook his head with a grin, disappearing for a couple of minutes before reappearing with the tie in hands.”

“You’re the most spoiled assistant I’ve ever hired.”

“I’m not technically your assistant,” you pointed out.

“You were for an hour.”

“And I was excellent.”

He crouched down beside the pool, tying the silk around his neck with practiced fingers.

The way he stood in the sun, looking so put-together and elegant while you floated in a barely-there swimsuit, made the corners of your mouth twitch up in appreciation.

He caught the way you were looking at him and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You tilted your head, letting your fingers drag through the water. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Just remembering how I was supposed to be working on this trip.”

Heeseung stepped closer, knelt down again so your faces were almost level. The sun lit up his eyes, made the edges of his smirk gleam.

“You did,” he said. “You organized my entire schedule in an hour and got me a better restaurant reservation than the company’s PR manager could. You're essential.”

You scoffed. “Please, you just wanted an excuse to have me in a bikini while you take calls.”

He smiled wider, unapologetic. “Guilty.”

You watched him adjust his tie, watched how he paused to smooth his shirt over his stomach before finally stepping back with a low whistle.

“How do I look?” he asked.

You pulled off your sunglasses, dragging your eyes from head to toe and back again.

“Like you’re about to cheat on your fiancée with your poolside mistress.”

Heeseung let out a bark of laughter. “Good thing my girlfriend is also my poolside mistress.”

He walked over to your float and, with no warning, shoved it gently with his foot.

You yelped as the mattress tipped slightly, water splashing over your legs.

“Rude!”

“You started it,” he said, lips twitching with amusement.

You kicked water at him in retaliation. He dodged it, barely, and pointed at you like he was scolding a child. “Do not make me cancel this meeting.”

“I dare you.”

He gave you one last look, long and deliberate, like he wanted to say something but was holding back, then sighed and backed away.

“I’ll be back in two hours,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Three tops.”

“Don’t hurry on my account.”

“You saying you won’t miss me?”

“I’m saying you should make it up to me for dragging me across the country and making me do sixty minutes of labor.”

He chuckled again, stepping into his loafers by the door. “Oh, baby, I plan on making it up to you every night.”

You raised your glass. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Then the door closed, and he was gone.

You sighed deeply, happily, as you turned your face toward the sun and whispered, “Best fake job ever.

☆.

The sun had shifted from blazing overhead to a slow, golden creep across the hotel balcony, casting palm leaf shadows over your stretched-out body on the poolside chaise.

The water made soft sloshing noises nearby, and the air carried the sweet, heady scent of chlorine and sun-warmed skin.

Your cocktail glass sat empty on the tile. Your fingers had gone limp around your sunglasses, which had slid just enough to let one eye peek through.

But you didn’t move. You were somewhere between sleep and heat-drunk bliss, limbs too heavy to care.

The faintest breeze kissed your thighs, cooling the warm sheen of sun on your bare legs.

The strap of your bikini had shifted slightly. Your breasts curved gently out of their fabric prison, unnoticed by you in your half-dozing state.

The suite’s private pool was wrapped by stone walls and the tallest hedges you’d ever seen. The kind of privacy only the wealthiest or most mischievous sought after. No one could see in. And you didn’t expect anyone to be watching.

But someone was.

You stirred when you heard the creak of the glass door sliding open behind you.

Then footsteps.

Then a pause.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice “This is what I come home to?”

You cracked one eye open, squinting up into the dusky light.

Heeseung stood by the edge of the pool, jacket off, tie loosened, top two buttons undone, a grocery bag of overpriced room snacks in one hand.

His eyes were dark. Hungry. Like he hadn’t had a sip of water all day and you were the first drop.

You blinked at him sleepily. “Hi.”

He dropped the bag. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I was sleeping.”

“You were melting.” He moved closer. “You were— fuck, your tits are just out.”

You lifted your head, lazily looked down, and shrugged. “It’s your fault for buying me a swimsuit two sizes too small.”

“And I’d do it again,” he muttered, already crouching down in front of you.

You giggled, eyes fluttering closed again. “Good meeting?”

“Don’t care,” he said, brushing a hand up your thigh. “Missed you.”

You felt his fingers, warm and familiar, sliding over your skin.

You sighed. “I got tan.”

“You got delicious.”

You opened your eyes just as he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a slow, sun-warmed kiss.

His lips tasted faintly of mint and something sweet, and when he groaned softly against you, you felt it everywhere. You kissed him back lazily, smiling into it, dragging your fingers through his damp hair.

And then, because you couldn’t resist—

You shoved him.

Hard.

He didn’t have time to react. A yelp of pure, startled betrayal escaped his lips as he tipped backward, arms flailing, hitting the water with a spectacular splash.

You burst into laughter, doubling over on the chair, clutching your stomach as the water rocked with the force of his fall.

His head popped up seconds later, soaked and blinking, his once-perfect shirt plastered to his chest.

“You—” he sputtered, coughing once, glaring at you with water dripping from his lashes. “You menace.”

“I warned you not to flirt near the pool!” you said between gasps, wiping your eyes.

He grabbed the edge of the pool, hair slicked back, mouth twitching in a way that should’ve warned you.

“You’re so dead,” he promised. “I’m gonna end you.”

You squealed and tried to scramble off the chair, but it was too late. his hands gripped your ankles and yanked.

You hit the water with a splash and a shriek, the cold shocking your overheated skin instantly.

You surfaced, breathless and gasping, blinking salt out of your eyes.

“You asshole!”

“You started it!” Heeseung was laughing, fully soaked now, his shirt and pants clinging to his body like a second skin.

He was unfairly hot, even wet. Especially wet.

You swam toward him with furious strokes, water flying around you both, and he caught you around the waist as soon as you got close enough.

“Say sorry,” he said, lips grazing your ear.

“Never.”

His mouth met yours before you could say more, hard and deep

He wrapped his arms around you beneath the water, pulling your body against his like he couldn’t bear the idea of even an inch of space.

The way his hands moved over your skin, palming your ass, your thighs, sliding beneath the useless scraps of your swimsuit, made your breath catch in your throat.

“You feel like summer,” he murmured against your neck. “Warm and soft and fucking perfect.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair and tilted your head back, your breath hitching when his lips traveled lower, kissing a slow trail down your jaw, then your collarbone. The water lapped gently around you, your bodies floating in the privacy of the pool, lost in each other.

When he pulled the top of your swimsuit aside, exposing the bare curve of your breast, you didn’t stop him.

And when he kissed over your nipple, dragging his tongue slowly around it before sucking it into his mouth with a quiet, greedy sound, you moaned, arching into him.

You pressed your mouth against his temple, whispering, “You’re still in your clothes.”

He lifted his head, breathing heavily, his eyes dark.

“You planning to take ‘em off me?”

You bit his earlobe. “Maybe.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, sliding his hand between your thighs underwater. “You’re already so wet.”

“It’s a pool, genius.”

“You know what I mean.”

And you did.

You kissed him again, slow and wet and needy, wrapping your legs around his waist as he held you up, the water making everything feel weightless.

His hand found that perfect spot between your thighs and pressed, rubbing slow, delicious circles that made you tremble in his arms.

The sky overhead darkened into soft pinks and golds, casting both your bodies in sunset glow. The water shimmered. The world blurred.

But all you could feel was him.

All you could taste was his breath in your mouth, his fingers pushing you closer and closer to the edge, and the low, ragged way he whispered your name against your shoulder when you gasped, legs tightening, your body pulsing around his hand.

And then, grinning against your lips, he asked, “Still think I wore this shirt just for business?”

You laughed into his mouth, breathless and drunk on him.

“No,” you whispered. “You wore it so I’d rip it off later.”

He smirked. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

☆.

And you didn’t.

After his act of pleasure in the pool, Heeseung brought you inside, not caring about you both being damp, and laid you down on the suite bed.

You undressed each other with the kind of fire that ignited sparks between your burning forms.

And then he was inside you.

The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, casting sharp golds and deep blues against the curves of his body, his bare chest above you, sheen of sweat at his throat, fingers pressing hard into your thighs as he moved inside you like he owned you.

Like he wanted to prove something.

The only thing you could still feel was how he looked between your legs, the way his voice rasped when he told you, “You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve had every part of you.”

You were already wrecked, your body limp from the last orgasm he’d dragged out of you.

You weren’t even sure if this was the second or third round now. His thrusts had gone deeper, slower, more deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring you.

And then his phone rang.

You both froze for half a second. The sound cut through the room, vibrating against the nightstand.

Heeseung groaned into your neck. “Ignore it.”

But then he glanced at the screen. His jaw tensed.

“Shit,” he muttered. “It’s Mr. Dufour, from Paris investors. I have to—” He was still inside you. Still rock hard. “Just… don’t move.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and flushed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he said through clenched teeth, swiping to answer with one hand. His other never left your waist. “He’ll lose his shit if I don’t pick up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but then—

“Bonjour,” Heeseung said smoothly, voice dropping into french, polite and practiced as he settled more firmly between your legs. His hips shifted.

You gasped.

He was still moving.

Not hard, not fast— but deep. Lazy, unhurried strokes, his eyes locked on yours while he spoke like everything was normal.

“Oui, Mr Dufour. Vous allez bien?” (yes, mr. dufour. are you doing well?)

You bit your lip, hard, trying not to moan.

The sheer insanity of it, his voice so calm, words sliding like honey in another language while he kept fucking you, slow and deliberate, hips rolling with obscene precisione

“J'ai envoyé le rapport sur le plan d'investissement hier.” (i sent the report on the investment plan yesterday.)

You dug your nails into his shoulders. He didn’t flinch.

His free hand slid between your bodies, brushing your clit with teasing strokes.

You whined, quietly and desperately but he only smiled.

Not sweetly. No, this was the smile of a man who knew he was driving you insane.

“Oui, je vous serais reconnaissant de me faire part de vos commentaires une fois que vous l'aurez examiné.” (yes, i would be glad if you could give me a feedbacks when you review it.)

You clenched around him, and for a split second, his voice hitched, only slightly, but he recovered fast.

You wanted to scream. Instead, your breath came out in little gasps, your back arching under him, heat rising through you in thick, dizzy waves.

“Heeseung,” you whispered, pleading.

He didn’t break eye contact. Just leaned closer, breath brushing your lips, and whispered back, “Be quiet.”

He was still speaking French into the phone. Still sounding professional. Still thrusting into you like he had all the time in the world.

You were unraveling beneath him.

His fingers found your clit again. Pressed lightly. Rubbed in slow, careful circles.

uour lips parted, and he kissed you hard, swallowing your cries as your climax built dangerously close again.

“Non, il n'y a pas de problème. Je vous contacterai bientôt.” (no, no problem. i’ll call you back soon.)

He ended the call.

There was a beat of silence. You could barely breathe.

Then his voice dropped to a low growl. “You didn’t listen.”

“I—” You were panting now. “I tried.”

He slid out of you slowly, only to slam back in with no warning.

You cried out, loud this time, legs tightening around him instinctively.

“I told you to be quiet,” he said again, but he was grinning now, breathless and wild and just as undone as you.

“You were, fucking speaking another language, what did you expect? That was hot as fuck.”

He grabbed your jaw and kissed you like he’d been starving for you all over again.

“Next time,” he said against your mouth, “I’ll put you on speaker. See how well you stay quiet then.”

You moaned into the kiss. “You’re insane.”

“And you fucking love it.”

And you did. Every slow, punishing thrust he gave you after that call, until you came again, clutching him so tightly he groaned your name like a prayer and finally followed you into oblivion.

Heeseung collapsed over you, breath hot against your shoulder, both of you sticky with sweat and utterly destroyed.

You lay there for a long time, your hand tangled in his damp hair.

“Just so we’re clear,” you murmured eventually, still breathless. “If you ever do that again, I’m going to break your phone.”

He laughed into your neck.

“I’d like to see you try.”

☆.

California wasnt so quiet at night, it still held its chaotic and festive atmosphere; but it was less noisy than day.

Heeseung stood barefoot in the kitchen, phone pressed between his shoulder and cheek, one hand cupped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other resting loosely on the marble counter.

The clock read 3:12 AM, but the supplier he was talking to was halfway across the world in Malaysia, bright-eyed and loud over the line.

“Yes, I got the spec sheets. I’ll forward the revised invoice before tomorrow,” he murmured, trying not to sound like he was barely two hours out of bed, or that he was still aching in every limb from the way you’d pulled him into you earlier that night.

His other hand scrubbed at his face, jaw rough with sleep-stubble.

He wore nothing but a loose pair of gray sweats, the waistband low on his hips, his skin still warm from your touch.

Every time he blinked, he could still see you— flushed, breathless, tangled in his sheets like sin wrapped in silk.

He should’ve stayed in bed. Lord, he wanted to.

But the time zones wouldn’t bend for him.

“Right, just make sure the quantities are adjusted. I don’t want to see another backorder excuse in the next—”

He didn’t hear the sound of you approaching. You always moved soft like that— barefoot, sleepy, half-dreaming when you woke.

It wasn’t until you slipped your arms around his bare torso that he felt you.

You hugged him from behind, face nuzzling into his back, your body covered only by the warm duvet you’d stolen from the bed.

Your skin was flushed with residual heat, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

He paused mid-sentence.

Your voice came out soft, “Come back to bed.”

He swallowed, throat tightening around the words he’d meant to say.

“Just a second,” he murmured into the phone, gently pulling it away from his ear. “Hold on.”

You didn’t let go.

In fact, your arms curled tighter around his waist, and he could feel the slow drag of your bare chest pressed to his back, the way you breathed in the scent of his skin like you needed it to fall asleep again.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, not even turning around yet, his hand covering yours where it rested low on his stomach. “You should’ve stayed under the covers.”

You mumbled something unintelligible and a little whiny against his skin, still half-asleep.

“I got lonely,” you finally whispered. “Bed’s too big without you.”

That nearly broke him.

He glanced at the phone still clutched in his hand, hearing the faint crackle of the supplier’s voice on the other end.

He could’ve finished the call. Should’ve.

But your breath was slow and warm against his back, and your fingers were tracing lazy little circles against his abdomen like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Heeseung tilted his head toward the phone and spoke quickly. “Sorry, I’ll get back to you in an hour. Something urgent came up.”

The line clicked off. He didn’t care if the supplier was annoyed.

You didn’t say anything at first, not even as he set the phone down on the counter and turned slowly in your arms.

You looked up at him through heavy eyes,, hair a tousled halo around your face, skin lit by the faint blue haze of early morning.

The duvet stayed wrapped around you, but he could see the line of your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the flush in your cheeks.

You looked like something out of a dream.

His voice came out rougher than he meant. “You’re dangerous.”

You tilted your head up at him, blinking innocently. “Me?”

“You.”

He ran his fingers through your hair, thumb brushing your cheek. “You do things to me I can’t explain.”

You leaned into his chest again and murmured, “Then stop trying to explain and just come back to bed.”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Pushy.”

You tugged him gently by the waistband of his sweats. “You like me pushy.”

He did.

Buthe liked you like this, too— soft and quiet, in the middle of the night when the world was paused just long enough to let him hold you without pretending.

So he kissed your forehead and reached down, scooping you up in one smooth motion.

You squealed, the duvet slipping a little, exposing your legs as you curled instinctively into him. “Heeseung!”

“You woke up,” he said as he carried you down the hall, voice mock-serious. “Then interrupted my call. Now you’re going to make up for it.”

“I missed you,” you said, chin tucked against his shoulder, “You’re the one who left me naked and cold in your enormous bed.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t steal all the covers and kicked my back”

He nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and carried you back to bed.

The mattress were still warm where you’d been. He laid you down gently and crawled in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You’re such a clingy sleeper,” you mumbled.

“I like sleeping with you,” he said, pulling the duvet higher around you both. “Shut up and let me enjoy it.”

You smiled sleepily, eyes already drifting shut again, your body melting into his.

And there, under the weight of blankets, limbs tangled together, his breath evening out beside yours, you both slipped back into the kind of sleep that only came after passion, laughter, and the slow certainty that neither of you wanted to be anywhere else.

It started with an email, and it ended with love.

[sceletaflores]

COMING UP QUICK (GOING DOWN SLOW)

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 999

ೃ⁀➷ FOR: the super duper fun @sceletaflores & @ebodebo #ratwritingunder1kwordschallenge

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, set post-outbreak, unspecified age gap, joel’s pov, insecurity, lots of dirty talk cause he’s old and gross, oral sex (fem!receiving), pussy pronouns, wet & messy, come eating & swapping, we in fact now know what erectile dysfunction is in this house and we love it, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ ANON SAYS: Joel giving you filthy, nasty, messy oral after he comes inside you because he feels bad he can’t go for as many rounds as he used to be able to ♡

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: yet another installment of rylea and i being unstoppable…when we lock tf in and work as a team there’s nothing we can’t do. this all started with her daring me to write a fic under a 1k words since we all know that never happens on this blog, and ofc i can’t do a single thing without forcing her to do it too so here we are. plus we’re extra so we decided to make it a whole little challenge that anyone can do if they want! we’re just super whimsical like that. check out the masterlist here! hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune!

joel miller always gives his girl one more round…

You’re still twitching as Joel pulls out.

Your pussy fluttering around him warm and wet like you don’t want to let him go just yet, like you don’t want to believe he’s already finished.

And fuck—neither does Joel.

He sits back on his haunches, panting like he ran a mile through mud, staring down at the mess he made between your thighs. His eyes follow the dirty trail of his come as it spills out of you, thick and slow, dripping down onto the sheets. 

He should be proud of it, the way he marked you, filled you up so good you can’t even hold it all. He used to be, his ego nice and stroked each time he’d leave his claim over you.

All he sees now is how fast it’s over.

It makes something ugly and hateful start wriggling to life beneath Joel’s skin, angry and buzzing through the hollows of his bones like bees. It’s all different now, his body doesn’t obey like it used to. He can’t stand it.

Joel’s age was never something that bothered you. It never put you off or made you stop wanting him—but the two of you have been together for a good while now, and he’s only getting older.

You're still young, in the prime of your life. All bright eyed and fiery and you're wasting it on a bitter old man who can barely get his dick up anymore. Joel’s more weathered, worn. Old bones and greying hair, more and more creases decorating the skin of his face.

Still, you never complain.

All that doesn’t change how you look at him like he hung the damn moon, and he tries his best to believe it. Tries his best to believe it when you tell him that he’s enough, but he knows better. 

You deserve more than one or two rounds before his cock is spent and lying uselessly limp on his thigh, his body aching and swamped with exhaustion. 

A younger man would have flipped you over and fucked you all damn night. Would’ve made you come again and again without breaking a sweat. Would’ve kept going until your thighs were shaking and your pussy was swollen and well fucked.

Joel used to be that man. 

“Used to” is a phrase that pisses him off more than he’d ever admit.

Joel’s not the man he used to be, so he does what he can. 

You’re still laid out for him—sweat dotted along your skin, thighs shaking, and pretty, so goddamn pretty. And somehow, he’s the one who gets to see you like this, warm and panting like you’re starved for more.

He’d never leave you like that, something buried deep in his gut just won’t let him.

So now, even as his cock flags between his legs and the muscle of his thighs ache with something fierce, he lowers himself anyway. The comforter makes soft shushing sounds under his palms, bunching around his knees as he settles between your legs.

“Joel?” Your head rises off the pillow, a confused little pinch between your brows. “Come back here, s’cold.”

He doesn’t answer, just trails kisses over the sweaty skin of your leg. Over the jagged scar across your left hip, over the bend of your knee, over the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis.

Lower and lower until his warm breath ghosts over the glossy expanse of your pussy.

“Look at that,” Joel murmurs, voice low and hoarse, like it scrapes up from the pit of his stomach. “Shit. You make me so fuckin’ proud, baby.”

His fingers part your lips, spreading you wide. “Still fuckin’ twitchin’,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckle over your entrance. “Poor thing’s still hungry, ain’t she?”

You open your mouth to say something—something reassuring, probably, something sweet he doesn’t deserve—but you never get the chance.

Joel bends low and licks a fat, slow drag up the slick mess he made between your legs.

He groans into your pussy—vulgar, guttural. The taste of you and him tangled together hits his tongue. Salt and sweat and musk and something sweeter. That thick, filthy taste of his come still leaking out of you and into his mouth.

You cry out, hips bucking, but he just grabs your thighs tighter, pins you down, keeps going. “Joel—shit, oh my god—”

“That’s it, sweet thing.” He presses a wet kiss over your clit, your thighs twitch around his head. “Taste’s so fuckin’ good, creamy little pussy’s makin’ your old man’s mouth water.”

You cry out when he drags his tongue up the mess leaking down your folds, catching every drop, sloppier than he’s ever been. Filthy, desperate sounds coming from his mouth—wet slurps, heavy breathing, growls low in his throat.

You’re close already. He feels it when you start to shake. Hears the way your voice cracks when you cry his name. “Joel—Joel, I’m gonna—fuck—”

“Go on, baby. Wanna feel you come. Wanna taste how sweet this pussy gets for me.”

Your thighs clamp tight around his head when it hits you, back arching, pussy spasming around his fingers like it’s trying to milk them, and Joel fuckin’ growls into you. Keeps his tongue on you through every wave, licking and sucking and moaning like a goddamn animal.

When it gets to be too much, when your feet start kicking at his shoulders and your breath catches on a sob, then he pulls back.

But not for long.

Joel crawls up the shaking length of your body, cranes his neck down and kisses you before he can stop himself. His lips fit perfectly with yours, slotting together slow and deep. You moan into his mouth, arms snaking around his neck as he glides his tongue over yours so you can taste it all. 

You. Him. The pure need pulsing through his veins.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

“Let me do it again,” Joel begs against your lips. “Let me make it up to you, darlin’.”

And he does.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: love how i constantly yap about fucking that old man while i myself am toting around three (3) new knee braces, roll on icy hot, AND a super fancy prescribed pain cream at all times…like babes, you ARE the old man. he’d be digging in my purse for the extra strength advil just as much as i am.

also to the anon that sent this in…thank you. thank you so much. this is exactly what i needed, both in and out of the context of this challenge LMAO. i can’t tell you how much i struggled with this whole thing, like i literally started and scrapped two fics before i found this god send of an ask wrongfully collecting dust in my inbox. i hope you’re freak has been matched and you love it.

thank you so much for reading chickens, love you!

[abbotjack]

Put Him on Speaker

summary : Jack gets home from a long night shift, exhausted and unreadable as always. When Robby calls for a quick update, you decide to test his patience—climbing into his lap and pushing until he breaks.

word count : 1,518

a/n : this is for the one anon in my inbox! a bit shorter than usual, expect something with more substance once finals are over next friday unless I procrastinate studying, then you'll get something sooner

content/warning: explicit sexual content, reader giving oral while jack is on the phone with robby, bratty teasing, silent/dom jack, power dynamics, spit/slick/throatplay mentions, phone call tension, implied punishment sex, language, 18+ only MDNI

It’s a few minutes past 7:00 a.m. when Jack finally walks through the door.

You don’t need to check the time—you know it by the rhythm. The precise click of the deadbolt, the hollow knock of his boot hitting hardwood, then the softer drag of the other. Not a limp. Not pain. Just the quiet, practiced gait of a man who’s used to carrying more than he should. He moves slower after shifts like this—like the night didn’t end, just rearranged itself and followed him home in silence.

You listen from the couch as the weight of him settles into the apartment. Keys hit the counter with a dull clatter. His backpack lands against the back of the kitchen chair, the sound muted but final. Then the crack and hiss of a beer bottle opening, followed by a long, scraped-out breath like it’s been sitting in his lungs since midnight.

You don’t get up.

You’re curled sideways in the corner of the couch, legs bare, the hem of one of his old Penguins shirts skimming the tops of your thighs. The blanket’s twisted somewhere near your feet. You’re scrolling absently through your phone, pretending not to track every move he makes with your breath.

You don’t look at him. “Rough night?”

Jack grunts. The kind that says everything and nothing. “Watched a kid try to clamp off an artery with a fucking Kelly.”

You wince, lips twitching. “Oof.”

“I earned this beer.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching on the strain in his jaw. “It’s not even light out. You starting early with the day-drinking and trauma-dumping?”

He snorts, dragging the bottle to his mouth. “Only if you beg me for it.”

You tilt your head, faux-sweet. “Why are you grumpy? I waited up.”

That gets a flicker of softness in his eyes. “You always do.”

You stretch, slow and easy, your shirt riding up your thighs like it has a mind of its own. “I didn’t say I waited nicely.”

His gaze drops. Tracks the length of your legs like a man committing the lines to memory. “Should’ve known.”

You shift, tuck your legs beneath you, chin tipped with interest. “Was it the post-op guy from yesterday?”

Jack rolls his shoulder, still rubbing at the back of his neck like the shift’s clinging to him. “Yeah. McKay was ready to page IR, but Dana stopped her. Mohan flagged the labs hours ago—picked it up before it spiraled. Saved the guy a ton of unnecessary bullshit.”

You smile—just enough to be smug. “So you’re saying Dr. Mohan was right.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “I’m saying she wasn’t wrong.”

Jack crosses the room and drops onto the couch with the kind of full-bodied heaviness that only happens after an overnight in hell. His scrubs are creased, collar damp from scrubbing out, and he smells like antiseptic, cold metal, and the hollow sterility of trauma bay walls. There’s a settled tension in his body, like exhaustion and adrenaline are still playing tug-of-war under his skin.

He leans his head back. Closes his eyes.

The quiet stretches long enough to start sinking in—until his phone buzzes against the armrest.

Jack groans, already bracing. “If that’s Gloria, I swear to Christ—”

He glances at the screen. Jaw flexes. “Robby.”

You raise a brow. “Your work husband calling for pillow talk?”

“He’s covering days,” Jack mutters, already lifting the phone. “Wants to know if the patient made it through the night.”

“You’re off the clock,” you say, sliding easily into his lap. “Can’t it wait?”

He flicks a tired look at you. “Five minutes.”

“You said five minutes last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He smirks, but it’s faint. Tired. “You always say that.”

Then he answers, voice shifting in an instant—cool, even, professional. Doctor mode.

“Yeah,” he says. His grip finds your hip as you settle in. “Vitals held. He coded once overnight, but charge caught it early.”

You roll your hips. Just enough to make sure he feels it.

His fingers tighten.

“I left instructions. Hourly monitoring,” he says, like nothing’s happening. Like you’re not already winding him up.

You press your lips to the side of his neck. “You’re really gonna do this whole call while pretending you’re not already hard for me?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. His grip answers for him.

“She’s covering now,” Jack adds, voice sharp, eyes fixed straight ahead.

You slide off his lap, slow and sweet, and kneel between his legs.

Jack’s eyes drop to you. His pupils darken.

He mouths: Don’t.

You mouth: You shouldn’t have answered.

You palm him through his scrubs—feel him twitch, thick and eager under your touch. When you tug the waistband down, he falls heavy into your hand, hot and hard and already leaking against your skin.

“No, I’m listening,” Jack says, but his voice hitches, subtle.

You stroke him once—just a tease. Then lean in and lick a slow line along the underside.

“BP held. No fever. No new complaints,” he grits, every word controlled. Distant. Like you’re not kneeling between his knees with spit on your chin and a grin in your eyes.

You hum around him as you take him into your mouth.

Jack’s voice stumbles. “Still stable. Same overnight.”

You suck slow, deep, obscene. Your hand works what your mouth can’t reach. You pop off with a wet sound and a smirk. “Put him on speaker.”

“No.”

“What, scared he’ll hear how good I make you feel?”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t answer. Just grips the phone like it’s the only tether he’s got.

You take him deeper—messier, filthier. Your spit coats everything, dripping from your lips, your chin, your fingers curled tight around the base. He twitches on your tongue, every breath he takes more ragged than the last.

“No,” he says into the phone, voice thinning at the edges. “I’m fine. Just—tired.”

You gag around him on purpose, let it echo wet and obscene. Then pull back slowly, deliberately, looking up through your lashes, mouth shiny and wicked.

“Gonna come with him still listening?”

Jack's hand lifts, covering the phone’s speaker. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispers, barely audible, like it’s carved straight from the edge of control. “Keep going and I swear to God—”

But he never finishes the threat—because you don’t stop. You go harder, meaner, your mouth a mess, your hand slick and ruthless at the base. His cock twitches against your tongue, spit coating everything—your lips, your chin, your fingers. Your throat tightens around him, your jaw aching, but you don’t let up.

Jack’s other hand fists the cushion, knuckles bone-white. His chest is rising fast now, breath sharp and uneven, like he’s losing the fight he won’t admit he’s in. Like you're dragging him under, and he’s letting you.

“Yeah,” he bites out. “Just send the labs—I’ll deal with it later.”

He looks down at you, jaw tight, breath shallow, eyes dark with a fury that barely masks how hard he is for you.

“Robby—I’ve gotta call you back.”

“Everything alright?” Robby asks.

Jack’s voice drops an octave. “It will be.”

He hangs up.

Then he looks down at you.

And everything in his face is wrecked.

"You’re in so much fucking trouble.”

You moan around him, smug.

He thrusts once—deep, sudden, overwhelming. You choke, recover, and go harder.

You’re a mess—slurping, gagging, swallowing around him like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been good at. He’s pulsing now, hips twitching, mouth slack.

“Shit—baby—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You suck him deeper. Tighter. He breaks.

His whole body jerks forward. He comes down your throat with a raw, guttural groan. You swallow every last drop.

He breathes like he’s just come up for air, chest rising in sharp, broken pulls. You don’t stop—not until his thigh jerks beneath you and his hand clamps around your wrist, firm and final, forcing you to still.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Catch your breath.

Then you crawl back into his lap, smug as hell, lips swollen and slick, like you didn’t just make a mess of him on purpose.

Jack doesn’t speak. Just grabs your chin in one firm hand and drags you into a kiss—slow, punishing, laced with quiet vengeance.

Then, low in your ear, deadly calm: “If he calls back,” he growls, “I’m putting you on speaker. Let him hear how desperate you sound when you’re acting like a fucking brat.”

He shifts beneath you, hand sliding down to grip your waist tight, grounding himself.

“You think you’ve won,” he murmurs, voice dark and steady. “But you’re not even close to finished.”

He leans in, breath searing the shell of your ear. “Get up. Strip. Face down on the couch.”

Your breath stalls. Heart pounds. He hasn’t raised his voice once. Doesn’t need to.

“I let you have your little game,” he murmurs, all quiet. “Now it’s my turn.”