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incognit0slut · 3 months ago

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Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust.

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words.

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

“No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

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faebled-stories · 8 months ago

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The Algorithm of Pleasure

Kinkvember Day 17: Massage

IVE's Ahn Yujin

12.7k words

AN: I said that the winter fic was the longest but this fic surpasses it, hope you all enjoy. Thank you for reading!💖

Yujin juggled her tote bag, phone, and a half-empty water bottle as she fumbled with her keys at the door. The strap of her bag kept sliding down her shoulder, and her fingers, stiff from hours of rehearsals, barely managed to grip the key. She cursed under her breath, jamming it into the lock harder than she meant to until the door finally clicked open.

As she stepped inside, her foot caught on the uneven lip of the doormat. She stumbled forward with a sharp gasp, her phone slipping from her hand and clattering onto the floor. For a moment, she just stood there, frozen in the doorway, her pulse pounding in her ears. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she leaned against the door, letting it swing shut behind her with a dull thud that sounded heavier than usual. The echoes seemed to magnify the weight pressing on her shoulders.

The day had been a relentless whirl of rehearsals, fan events, and a back-to-back schedule that left her feeling like a marionette whose strings had been pulled just a little too tight. Her limbs ached, her mind buzzed with half-formed thoughts, and all she craved was the sanctuary of her own space—a quiet evening to unravel the knot of tension that had tightened throughout the day.

Yujin bent down to retrieve her phone and kicked off her sneakers, which landed with soft thuds on the wooden floor, the sound muffled by the stillness of the apartment. She padded toward the kitchen, the faint hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence. Her stomach rumbled, but she was far too drained for anything elaborate. A bowl of instant noodles would do. She filled a pot with water, the sharp hiss of the stove’s flame lighting up against the bottom breaking the monotony of the quiet. The aroma of the noodles and broth soon wafted through the small space, warm and savory, wrapping around her like a comforting hug.

Carrying the steaming bowl to her sofa, she felt her muscles relax slightly, her body sinking into the plush cushions. The dim glow of a single lamp illuminated the room, casting long, soft shadows that made the space feel cocoon-like. She took her first bite, savoring the burst of salty and savory warmth on her tongue, when the sudden chime of the doorbell shattered her momentary reprieve.

The unexpected sound froze her mid-motion, her chopsticks paused halfway to her mouth. It was late—too late for visitors—and she wasn’t expecting anyone. A flicker of apprehension passed through her as she placed the bowl down on the low coffee table and moved towards the door.

The camera monitor displayed the figure of a delivery driver, clad in a reflective jacket, standing patiently with a large box balanced on a hand truck. His faint wave through the screen reassured her slightly. She buzzed him in, her curiosity piqued.

“Package for Ms. Ahn Yujin?” he asked, his voice steady but professional as he glanced at his paperwork.

“That’s me,” she replied, her tone uncertain as she opened the door wider to let him maneuver the oversized package inside. She hadn’t ordered anything recently.

“Who’s it from?” she added, her brow furrowing as her gaze darted from the large box to the driver.

He adjusted his clipboard, squinting at the label. “It says it’s from a Miss Kim Gaeul.”

Yujin’s breath caught for a moment, her confusion giving way to surprise. Gaeul? Her fellow group member? What could she possibly have sent? A flutter of warmth began to fill her chest as she signed the delivery form, exchanging quick pleasantries with the driver before closing the door behind him.

The package loomed large in her small entryway, a monolithic presence that seemed to demand her attention. She crouched down, running her hands over the plain cardboard exterior as if it might reveal its secrets. The weight of her day began to dissolve, replaced by a bubbling sense of anticipation.

Tearing through the tape and packaging, she found a neatly folded note resting on top of the contents. Her heart gave a small leap as she unfolded it, the familiar handwriting bringing an instant smile to her face.

"Yujinnie, I’ve noticed how stressed you've been lately, so I wanted to share something that always helps me unwind. These are hard to find, but I just got a new one, so I’m passing my old one on to you. I hope you don’t mind! Enjoy it as much as I did. XOXO, Gaeul unnie."

Yujin let out a soft laugh, the tension in her chest easing completely. Gaeul always had a knack for reading her like a book, for knowing exactly when and how to reach out. Her curiosity heightened, she peeled back the remaining layers of wrapping until the gift revealed itself.

A massage chair. And not just any massage chair.

It stood like a technological marvel, its smooth, dark leather gleaming under the apartment’s soft light. The futuristic design gave it an almost spaceship-like appearance, with seamless contours that hinted at an otherworldly level of comfort. Her fingers traced the stitching along the armrests, each seam meticulously placed. She noticed the padded leg slots, their grooves perfectly aligned to cradle calves and ankles, and the armrests equipped with flexible grooves that seemed to beckon her to try them.

The chair’s control panel glowed faintly, buttons labeled with options like “Neck,” “Back,” and “Full Body,” each promising tailored relief. She marveled at the attention to detail, the backrest designed to mold to the spine’s natural curve. Everything about the chair invited her to sink into its embrace.

Then she noticed it—a tiny tear in the leather near the edge of the seat, closer towards the leg slots. It wasn’t glaring, just a small imperfection, but it stood out in contrast to the chair’s otherwise pristine appearance. She ran her fingers over it, the rough edges of the tear catching slightly on her skin.

For a moment, a pang of disappointment flashed through her. Had it been damaged in transit? But the feeling was fleeting. The gift wasn’t just the chair itself—it was the thought behind it, Gaeul’s effort to ease her stress. That realization filled her with gratitude.

“It’s just a small flaw,” she whispered, her lips curling into a gentle smile. She stepped back, taking in the full sight of the chair once more. It wasn’t perfect, but neither was life. It was real, thoughtful, and exactly what she needed. And tonight, she decided, she would let it work its magic.

The chair loomed like a portal to another world—a world unparalleled relaxation and peace. The sleek contours of its design seemed almost otherworldly, the polished leather glinting softly under the ambient glow of a nearby lamp. Yujin’s gaze lingered on it, her anticipation building. Just looking at it felt like an invitation, a promise of comfort that she couldn’t wait to explore.

Her fingers brushed over the armrest, noticing how it seemed to mold perfectly to her arm, almost like it was designed to cradle her in place. As she traced its contours, her hand slipped into a discreet slot nestled within the leather, grazing something cool and papery hidden inside. Curious, she pulled it free—a worn, slightly yellowed manual with curled edges and faint smudges on the cover.

The scent hit her as she flipped it open, a strange yet oddly familiar musk mingled with the faint aroma of aged paper. It clung to her skin as she skimmed the manual’s brittle pages, her eyes catching on a bold section titled: “For Best Results.” She paused, the faint, unplaceable familiarity of the smell lingering in her mind like a whisper she couldn’t quite hear.

Her lips quirked into a small, amused smile as she read the next line: “Skin-to-seat contact is recommended for maximum effect.”

“Well, they’re serious about this ‘maximum effect’ thing,” she murmured, rolling her eyes with a soft chuckle. The idea was ludicrous—who stripped down for a massage chair? Still, the thought lingered, hanging in the air like a suggestion she couldn’t quite ignore. If she was going to indulge in this gift, why not get the full experience?

The chair waited patiently, its imposing presence almost daring her to follow the manual’s advice. Yujin hesitated only for a moment before shrugging, a faint blush warming her cheeks. Gaeul’s thoughtfulness deserved her full commitment, no matter how silly it felt. Smiling to herself, she began unbuttoning her shirt, the tiny clicks of each button a soft rhythm in the quiet apartment.

As the fabric slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor, the cool air of the room kissed her skin, raising goosebumps that rippled along her arms. Piece by piece, she let the day’s weight fall away, shedding her clothes until she stood bare before the chair. For a moment, a thrill of vulnerability ran through her—both strange and exhilarating. Her skin tingled in anticipation as she turns to face the chair, its smooth, dark surface now seeming even more inviting.

Yujin lowered herself slowly, the leather cool against her warm skin, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. The initial contact was startling, the texture of the material silky yet firm, cradling her body like a second skin. As she adjusted her position, the contours of the chair seemed to welcome her, perfectly aligning with her frame.

The snug fit was uncanny, as though the chair had been designed with her in mind. Her back pressed gently into the cushioned support, her shoulders nestling into their designated slots. She felt her legs slip effortlessly into the padded grooves, the dividers between them cuddled her inner thighs, firm but yielding, grounding her in place.

For a moment, Yujin simply sat there, letting the chair’s embrace envelop her. The tension she had carried all day seemed to ebb away, replaced by the soothing pressure of its contours holding her securely. She exhaled softly, a small smile playing on her lips as she prepared to experience the full promise of Gaeul’s thoughtful gift.

Hovering a finger over the glowing control panel, Yujin hesitated for a moment before selecting the “Standard Massage” mode. A soft chime acknowledged her choice, and immediately, a gentle warmth began to spread beneath her. The sensation radiated upward, starting low on her spine and moving in soothing waves that rolled through her body. The warmth was delicate yet enveloping, like sunlight filtering through a thick canopy of trees, melting away the knots of tension that had clung to her muscles all day. She exhaled deeply, her breath carrying away the remnants of stress as the chair worked its magic.

A low, rhythmic hum filled the air, blending seamlessly with the soft ambiance of her apartment. The chair began to vibrate, subtle pulses rhythmically traveling up her back. Starting from her hips, the vibrations danced their way to her shoulders, each motion perfectly calibrated, as if guided by the hands of a master massage therapist. The gentle kneading felt intentional, targeting every sore spot, each ache carefully attended to. Her body responded instinctively, muscles softening and loosening with each pass of the rollers, as though the chair was coaxing her into a state of complete relaxation.

As the chair shifted focus, Yujin’s awareness narrowed to the sensation at her thighs. The rollers moved delicately but decisively to her inner thighs, an unexpected yet blissful addition to the experience. The gentle pressure massaged the tender, often-neglected muscles, drawing a soft, contented sigh from her lips. She hadn’t realized how much tension she had been holding there, and now that it was being released, a new layer of relaxation washed over her. The cushioned divider, which had once felt unfamiliar, now seemed like an anchor, grounding her body in place and creating a cocoon of perfect support.

Her head lolled back against the padded rest as the chair’s motions expanded to her entire body. Her feet were cradled in soft grooves, the rollers gently pressing and kneading her soles with an almost intuitive precision. Her calves were embraced by warm cushions that squeezed and released in a rhythmic pattern, encouraging her circulation to flow effortlessly. Her arms rested snugly in the grooves of the armrests, where subtle vibrations massaged her forearms, releasing the strain of holding microphones, signing autographs, and the countless gestures that filled her daily life.

As the chair worked, it seemed to choreograph its movements to a perfect rhythm. Her back, her neck, her shoulders—all were attended to with the same deliberate care. The rollers pressed firmly yet comfortingly into her shoulder blades, dissolving the knots that had taken root from hours of rehearsals. The soothing warmth emanating from the chair now felt like an extension of her own body heat, wrapping her in a sensation so familiar and comforting it bordered on intimate.

Her mind began to drift, each kneading motion drawing her further away from the chaos of her routine. She let out a soft, contented hum as the chair worked its way up to her neck. Here, the motions were slower, more deliberate, each gentle knead feeling like an eraser sweeping away not just physical tension but the weight of her thoughts. The fatigue that had been clinging to her mind for weeks began to evaporate, leaving behind a serene clarity.

As her eyes fluttered shut, a smile spread across her face, unbidden and pure. In the darkness behind her lids, she pictured Gaeul’s kind expression, her unnie’s ever-thoughtful gaze. The memory filled her heart with warmth, and a wave of gratitude washed over her.

“Thank you, unnie,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost reverent, as though Gaeul might somehow hear her. It wasn’t just the chair she was thankful for—it was the care, the love, and the understanding behind the gesture.

The massage cycle continued, the rollers moving seamlessly back down her body. Her calves were squeezed gently, each motion precise and unhurried. Her feet were kneaded with soft pulses that released tension she hadn’t realized had built up. The chair seemed to know exactly where to focus, working in perfect synchrony with her body’s needs. By now, the warmth radiating through the cushions had synced with her own heat, creating a sensation that felt like an all-encompassing hug.

The low hum of the chair’s movements became a steady backdrop, blending with the quiet stillness of the apartment. Yujin’s thoughts grew lighter, her worries dissipating like smoke in the breeze. Every knead, every vibration, every wave of warmth carried her further into a cocoon of peace, until the outside world felt like a distant memory. Her breathing slowed, deep and even, matching the hypnotic rhythm of the chair’s motions.

As the final rollers worked their way back to her shoulders, pressing gently but firmly one last time, Yujin felt the last vestiges of tension dissolve. Her mind floated free, unburdened and light, cradled by the chair’s tender embrace. For the first time in weeks, she had found a moment to simply be—to exist without demands, without expectations.

Her lips curved into a smile, her chest filled with quiet joy. Gaeul’s gift wasn’t just an object; it was an escape, a sanctuary from the relentless demands of her life. As the chair continued its gentle rhythm, she let herself drift further into its embrace, surrendering to the pure, blissful calm that enveloped her.

Just as Yujin thought she had experienced the full range of the chair’s abilities, a subtle shift behind her head caught her attention. Something soft brushed against her nape, and she opened her eyes in surprise. Two rounded cushions extended smoothly from the headrest, their movement deliberate and precise, almost like the slow, purposeful gestures of a living being. They angled downward, adjusting with meticulous care until they rested gently against her chest, cupping her with a delicate firmness that made her pause.

The sensation was startling—unexpectedly intimate in a way that caught her off guard. Her breath hitched for a moment as she processed the feeling. It wasn’t what she had anticipated from a machine; the touch was warm, almost human, as though a pair of hands were there, offering comfort she hadn’t realized she needed. For a fleeting moment, hesitation crept in, but as the cushions began to apply a steady, rhythmic pressure, that hesitation melted away. The lifelike touch wasn’t invasive; it was soothing, reassuring. The chair seemed to understand her unspoken needs, its gentle persistence inviting her to trust it fully.

As Yujin exhaled, her body softened into the cushions’ embrace, her head tilting back to rest against the padded headrest. The rhythmic pressing and releasing felt like a pulse, a calming tempo that resonated through her chest. She could feel the tension unwinding there, knots she hadn’t even known existed slowly dissolving under the cushions’ steady care. Each rotation seemed to unravel another layer of stress, sending ripples of relaxation through her upper body. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, unbidden, as the cushions pressed a little lower, their focus shifting with seamless precision.

The sensation grew more enveloping, wrapping her chest in a comforting warmth that felt less like a machine and more like a gentle, heartfelt hug. It was deeply reassuring, the kind of embrace that coaxed her body into a profound state of bliss. Her shoulders eased further into the chair as the steady kneading rhythmically matched the rise and fall of her breathing, syncing with her as if it could sense her every exhale. There was nothing cold or mechanical about the touch—it felt deliberate, almost personal, like the chair was attuned to her, understanding her without the need for words.

Yujin let her eyelids flutter closed, surrendering to the hypnotic rhythm. The cushions pressed and released, their soft rotations creating waves of sensation that rolled through her chest, each one drawing her deeper into relaxation. Her heartbeat slowed, steadying itself to the same measured tempo as the cushions. She felt cradled, cocooned in a bubble of perfect calm, where even the faint hum of the chair blended into the background as a soothing melody.

“How could unnie keep this a secret?” she murmured softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. A small, lazy smile formed on her lips as the thought lingered. This wasn’t just a massage chair—it was a revelation, an experience so immersive and thoughtful that it felt tailored exclusively for her. Did Gaeul truly know how transformative, how utterly mesmerizing this would be? A faint blush warmed Yujin’s cheeks as the realization set in, but she was too relaxed to dwell on it.

The cushions continued their rhythmic dance, pressing firmly and retreating with perfect timing, guiding her breathing into an effortless flow. Her chest rose and fell in harmony with the chair’s movements, her muscles melting further with every rotation. Her body felt weightless, supported and nurtured, as though the chair was holding her in a gentle, unbreakable embrace. She allowed herself to sink deeper, letting go of any lingering reservations and surrendering entirely to the chair’s touch.

Time seemed to blur as Yujin drifted into a serene haze, her thoughts fading into the background. The steady motion of the cushions lulled her into a state of blissful stillness, her mind clear, her body completely open to the soothing sensations. It was more than physical relief—it was emotional. She felt a quiet gratitude blooming in her chest, a sense of appreciation for Gaeul’s thoughtfulness that filled her heart as warmly as the chair cradled her body.

As the cushions continued their gentle rotations, pressing and releasing in a hypnotic rhythm, Yujin found herself suspended in an oasis of tranquility she hadn’t realized she so desperately needed. It wasn’t just relaxation; it was liberation from the weight she carried, a sanctuary she had been gifted without asking. Smiling softly, she let herself drift further, enveloped in the chair’s warm embrace and the silent comfort of Gaeul’s kindness.

Yujin settled deeper into the chair’s embrace, her body slack and her mind adrift in the profound ease it provided. The tension that had gripped her muscles earlier was now a distant memory, unraveled by the chair’s expert touch. Yet, as comforting as the experience was, a small spark of curiosity stirred within her. She found herself wanting something more—something that might carry her further into this unexpected sanctuary of relaxation.

Her gaze drifted lazily over the glowing control panel. Among the familiar settings, her eyes caught on a small button she hadn’t noticed before. It was marked with a curious symbol, two delicate waves interlocking, their looping design imbued with an almost hypnotic allure. She tilted her head, studying it, the symbol tugging at her attention. The manual had mentioned “advanced features” in passing, but at the time, she hadn’t given it much thought. Now, under the chair’s warm, enveloping touch, the temptation to explore further grew stronger.

“Guess it couldn’t hurt to try…” she murmured softly, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. Her finger hovered over the button, lingering for only a moment before pressing down with quiet resolve.

The chair responded immediately. The gentle hum beneath her deepened, shifting into a richer, resonant tone that seemed to pulse through the seat, low and steady, like a heartbeat. The vibrations slowed, their rhythm becoming more pronounced, as though the chair were focusing its energy with deliberate precision. The warmth she had felt earlier began to intensify, settling lower along her body. It pooled in her thighs, radiating outward in waves that pressed gently yet firmly against her bare skin.

Her breath hitched at the shift in sensation, her cheeks warming as she registered the chair’s unmistakably intimate touch. For a moment, she froze, caught off guard by the unexpected direction the experience had taken. The heat continued to pulse gently, the rhythm steady and inviting. Her initial instinct to pull back clashed with the growing curiosity that rooted her in place. Her body seemed to respond instinctively to the chair’s rhythm, the warmth stirring something low in her belly—a mixture of intrigue and an undeniable sense of ease.

The sensation deepened as the cushions at her chest began to adjust. Their movements, once soothing and general, became more focused and deliberate. The circular pads pressed down again, their slow, rhythmic rotations drawing her attention. They traced patterns against her chest, their touch precise yet comforting, synchronized with the deeper vibrations beneath her. Each rotation seemed purposeful, the soft pressure coaxing her body to relax even further.

A quiet gasp slipped from her lips as the cushions brushed over her more sensitive areas, the sensation sharper and more vivid than she had anticipated. The padding moved in deliberate, gentle circles, carefully calibrated to her body’s contours. It was as though the chair understood her needs without her having to articulate them, its touch intuitive and attuned to her most tense and tender places. Her breathing quickened, shallow at first, before evening out into a slower, deeper rhythm as the warmth in her chest grew, spreading outward in soft, languid waves.

“What kind of machine is this?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a breathy question carried away by the stillness of the room. The sensations were so precise, so deeply immersive, that they felt almost human—like an unseen presence was there, devoted entirely to her comfort. She considered sitting up, pulling away, but the thought felt distant, her body too deeply at ease to act on it. The warmth and pressure seeped into her muscles, leaving them soft and pliant, as if the chair was unraveling her layer by layer, coaxing her to let go completely.

Each time her thoughts turned to resisting, the chair seemed to adjust with uncanny accuracy, shifting its vibrations and kneading motions to draw her back in. The steady, deliberate rhythm became impossible to fight. It wrapped around her like a blanket, pressing against her body in all the right places, unrelenting yet gentle. The heat blooming in her chest flowed down to her core, spreading outward in a way that felt grounding, stabilizing, as though she were being gently tethered to the present moment.

Her mind wavered, caught between the fleeting impulse to pull away and the growing desire to surrender fully to the experience. Each motion of the chair seemed to whisper to her, coaxing her into deeper relaxation. The steady pulse of the cushions against her chest matched the rolling vibrations beneath her, creating a seamless, hypnotic rhythm. Her heartbeat slowed to match its tempo, her breaths coming in time with each press and release, each wave of warmth. The sensation was all-consuming, leaving her body weightless and her thoughts suspended in a tranquil haze.

As the chair worked with deliberate care, Yujin’s senses seemed to heighten and blur all at once. Her body melted further into the seat, yielding to the touch that had become impossible to resist. The chair held her in its expert embrace, each motion pulling her closer to a state of total calm. Her muscles softened completely, her worries dissipating like vapor, until all that remained was the comforting rhythm and the warmth cradling her from within.

With each passing moment, Yujin felt herself slipping further into the chair’s hold. The sensations, the warmth, and the steady rhythm wove together, creating a space of pure serenity. Letting go of the last threads of resistance, she allowed herself to be carried away, surrendering fully to the comfort enveloping her. Whatever this chair was—whatever Gaeul had seen in it—it was more than she could have imagined.

As the sensations intensified, Yujin’s body instinctively reacted, her hands moving to push herself up, to regain a sliver of control over the overwhelming experience. But just as she began to shift, something brushed against her wrists. The touch was startling—soft, silken, and almost weightless as it encircled her skin with a surprising swiftness. Her breath caught as she felt the delicate material wrapping around her, firm but gentle, holding her in place with a touch that seemed purposeful.

Startled, she glanced down, her wide eyes taking in the sight of thin, shimmering cords emerging from the sides of the chair. They looped gracefully around her wrists, binding them snugly to the armrests. The restraints didn’t bite into her skin; instead, they felt secure, almost comforting in their deliberate hold. Yujin tugged gently, testing their strength, but the cords tightened subtly in response, their pressure firm yet unyielding. The message was clear: escape was no longer an option.

“What… what is this?” she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible over the low hum of the chair. Her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling as she tried to process the surreal sight. Bound by something so inanimate yet so undeniably purposeful, she felt an intimate vulnerability she hadn’t expected. The chair, once a comforting haven, now seemed to take on a persona of its own, as if it were in control of the moment. There was an undeniable thrill in the realization, her pulse quickening with the rush of emotions coursing through her.

Just as she tried to shift her legs, she felt the same silken sensation brush against her ankles. She froze as more cords emerged, looping deftly around her bare skin and pulling her legs firmly into place against the padded footrests. The bindings were seamless, their hold just as gentle yet unyielding as those around her wrists. Yujin tested them, her toes curling instinctively as the restraints held her firmly, leaving her utterly exposed.

The restraints heightened everything she felt, amplifying her awareness of the chair’s every motion. No longer able to shift or pull away, she was forced to surrender fully, her body completely exposed to its attentions. The vibrations beneath her thighs deepened, their rhythm deliberate and unrelenting. Each pulse resonated through her core, sending waves of warmth radiating outward. The sensation was electric, her skin alive with the intensity of the experience. She gasped softly, the heat within her building in time with the vibrations, every pulse driving deeper, leaving her breathless.

As her head tilted back against the chair, Yujin’s breathing hitched, her body responding involuntarily to the unrelenting sensations. The air around her grew heavier, and she caught the faint scent she hadn’t noticed before—a musky, intoxicating aroma that clung to her skin and seemed to saturate the space. Her cheeks flushed as she realized its source: her own arousal, exposed and undeniable in the stillness of the room.

The realization hit her like a wave, her body betraying her real feelings as the scent hung in the air, unmasking the truth she had been unwilling to face. Vulnerable and laid bare in every sense of the word, she shivered under the intensity of the chair’s embrace. The vibrations, the bindings, and the unmistakable scent of her arousal all converged into a singular, undeniable truth: she enjoyed this, even if she tried to deny it.

Her eyes fluttered shut as the chest cushions resumed their kneading motions. This time, their touch felt more focused, more precise. They pressed into her chest with slow, deliberate rotations, the pressure measured and exact. Each movement seemed to mirror the pulsing vibrations below, creating a synchronized rhythm that left her completely captivated. Her toes curled involuntarily as the cushions circled over her most sensitive areas, coaxing her body to respond. The sensations overlapped, layering upon one another in a way that left her overwhelmed and yet completely drawn in.

Bound and unable to escape, Yujin felt her breathing quicken again, each shallow gasp evidence of her growing sensitivity to the chair’s relentless rhythm. The cords at her the end of her limbs reminded her of her helplessness, holding her firmly in place, forcing her to remain still as the chair’s touch grew more intimate, more consuming. Each pulse, each knead, was magnified tenfold, pulling her deeper into the chair’s hold, making it impossible to think of anything but the sensations coursing through her.

Her body melted under the chair’s control, her muscles soft and pliant as warmth bloomed within her. The overlapping motions—the chest cushions, the pulsing vibrations, the heat radiating from beneath her—created a dizzying cycle of sensation that consumed her entirely. Yujin’s mind spun, caught between the impulse to resist and the growing pull to surrender fully. Despite the vulnerability she felt, or perhaps because of it, there was a strange exhilaration in the experience, an undeniable thrill that left her breathless and flushed.

Just as she thought the sensations couldn’t grow more intense, her instincts flared, urging her to stop the chair’s relentless rhythm. Gathering her strength, she strained against the bindings, her fingers fumbling to reach the glowing control panel. The angle was awkward, her movements clumsy, each effort only emphasizing her bound state. Her fingertip grazed the buttons, desperate to press the “Stop” command.

But in her haste, her finger slipped. Instead of ending the cycle, she accidentally pressed a smaller button beside the one she had activated earlier. The chair’s response was immediate. A deep, mechanical hum reverberated beneath her, the sound low and resonant, carrying a purposeful tone. Yujin froze as she felt something firm and warm pressing against her lower body. The sensation was unmistakable, and her eyes widened in shock.

Her breath hitched as she realized the source of the pressure. It was emerging from the slit she had earlier dismissed as a flaw. What she thought was a minor tear in the chair’s leather now revealed itself to be something far more deliberate. The object was firm, its warmth radiating through her in a way that left her stunned, her thoughts racing as the chair continued its relentless rhythm, pulling her deeper into its grasp.

She couldn’t see it, not from her seated position, but the sensation left no room for doubt: something firm and perfectly contoured pressed against her, aligning with a precision that felt unnervingly intentional. Her breath hitched, the air catching in her throat as a deep blush bloomed across her cheeks. Her mind raced, grappling with the surreal experience. “Wait… no…” she whispered, the words faint and trembling, as though she barely believed them herself.

Bound securely to the chair, she was powerless to move, the silken restraints holding her snugly against the chair. She tugged reflexively, testing the cords, but they responded with quiet firmness, keeping her in place. Unable to shift, unable to retreat, she was left entirely at the mercy of the chair’s calculated design. All she could do was feel—her senses heightening as the firm shape pressed forward, its slow, deliberate motion leaving her more aware of her vulnerability with each passing moment.

The object moved deeper, its progress unhurried and precise, as if it understood exactly what it was doing. Yujin’s breath stuttered, her body tensing as the sensation reached an unfamiliar height. A tremor coursed through her as her mind reeled, her awareness narrowing to the singular, startling sensation that resonated throughout her frame. She could feel every inch of its ascent, her body hyperaware of the slow, deliberate progress. The firm presence pressed upward with startling clarity, carving deeper than she thought possible.

Her muscles tightened instinctively as she felt it reach what she believed to be her absolute limit. Her breath hitched, her body trembling with the unfamiliar pressure. “That’s it,” she thought, her mind grasping at the certainty that there was no way it could go further. But just as her body began to adapt, the object ascended further, its movements precise and unrelenting.

The realization sent a jolt through her as it stretched her just a bit more, coaxing her to accommodate what she didn’t think she could. Her mind reeled, disbelief warring with the undeniable sensations. It knew her body better than she did, inching upward with unerring patience, measuring her capacity with mechanical certainty. Yujin’s breath shuddered, her skin prickling as warmth bloomed low in her abdomen, her body trembling as it yielded reluctantly to the measured intrusion.

Her bindings held her firmly in place, ensuring she had no choice but to endure every agonizingly precise moment. Each new height sent waves of sensation radiating through her, amplifying her awareness of just how much she could take. The object finally paused, giving her a moment to adjust to the overwhelming fullness, but her heart pounded as she realized it had stopped only to press just a fraction further, testing her once more.

As she sat motionless, her pulse quickened, and her cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and astonishment. “I’ve never…” she murmured, her voice barely audible, as though speaking the words might make the experience feel more real. Her heart pounded as she strained to process the sheer intensity of the moment, her thoughts flitting between disbelief and a growing sense of intrigue.

Just as her body began to adapt, the sensation shifted subtly. The firm presence pulsed faintly, its motion so slight that it felt almost teasing. Yujin’s eyes widened, her breath catching again as the feature seemed to expand with a slow, measured pressure. The gradual increase was slight at first, but every inch brought a new, undeniable awareness. Her muscles tightened instinctively, resisting the unfamiliar stretch, only to relax again as warmth radiated through her, coaxing her body to yield.

The sensation grew with excruciating precision, each incremental adjustment sending ripples of awareness through her. Her body strained to accommodate the increasing width, the warmth of the feature spreading outward, suffusing her limbs with a tingling, electric heat. She could feel the depth with startling clarity, every inch adding to the fullness that threatened to overwhelm her. The expansion felt unrelenting but controlled, a careful test of her limits that pushed her closer to the edge of what she could endure. Her breath grew shallow, each exhale trembling as she fought to adapt to the overwhelming fullness.

With each pause and subtle adjustment, the chair seemed to monitor her, its design attuned to her responses. The faint tremors in her breath, the tightening of her muscles—each reaction seemed to guide its movements, the expansion halting just shy of overwhelming her. The patience in its rhythm was undeniable, its unhurried persistence coaxing her body to surrender inch by inch.

When the feature finally stopped, its fullness left her breathless. Yujin sat still, completely attuned to the sensation, her body alive with awareness. Bound as she was, there was no escape from the intensity of the moment, no way to shift or adjust to ease the unfamiliar pressure. All she could do was feel—the depth, the warmth, the perfect precision with which the feature fit. Every nerve seemed alive, her senses attuned to the faintest shift, the gentlest vibration. Her thoughts blurred as the sensations consumed her, leaving her caught between astonishment and reluctant acceptance

And then, just as she thought she could adjust to the absurd fullness, the chair began a steady, rhythmic motion, drawing back towards her entrance only to push to the same depths as before, each motion precise, powerful, filling her completely. Her body trembled, overwhelmed by the chair’s meticulous design, every thrust magnified by her bound wrists and immobilized state. Every movement felt calculated, pushing, pressing, and filling with a rhythm that left her breathless.

Her earlier thoughts of resistance faded as her body surrendered fully, sinking deeper into the experience, lost to the rhythm that consumed her.

Bound in place, Yujin felt her breathing quicken as the chair’s movements intensified, every pulse and vibration perfectly tuned to her body’s responses. The object inside her moved with a steady rhythm, each thrust reaching that unprecedented depth, while the circular chest cushions rolled and tugged gently on her sensitive skin. The vibrations from the seat pulsed through her, each sensation building upon the last, working in perfect harmony to push her closer to the edge.

As the sensations mounted, she felt her muscles tighten, her mind struggling to keep pace with her body’s growing need. The depth of the toy filled her completely, leaving her no room to escape, no space to breathe. Each motion was slower than the last but powerful, deliberate, driving into her with a force that left her gasping, her body helpless against the precision of the chair’s movements.

“Oh… oh god…” she whispered, her voice barely audible as her body arched, pressing back into the seat. The feature pushed deeper, reaching a place that left her stunned, every thrust brushing over spots she hadn’t realized were so sensitive. Her hands strained against the restraints, and a soft, involuntary moan slipped from her lips. “Oh… fuck…”

The intensity increased with each movement, her body straining as the chair continued its relentless rhythm. The chest cushions pressed in harder, rolling over her nipples, their rotations perfectly synchronized with the objects motion. Each press and pull of the cushions sent jolts of pleasure straight down to her core, leaving her trembling as her breathing grew shallow and her muscles began to tense in anticipation.

The vibrations beneath her pulsed faster, amplifying each thrust until her senses were engulfed by the heat and pressure building within her. “It’s… it’s so deep…” she gasped, her voice trembling as the feature pressed to her absolute limit, sending shockwaves of sensation through her.

The rhythm quickened, the sensations stacking on top of each other, drawing her ever closer. Her body began to react instinctively, muscles tightening as she lost herself to the overwhelming pleasure. Each time she thought she might catch her breath, the chair seemed to adjust, intensifying its movements, pushing her past what she thought she could handle.

“Oh… god, I…” she whimpered, her thoughts scattering, words slipping out as she felt herself approaching the brink. “I can’t… it’s too much…” But her body betrayed her, pressing deeper into the chair’s touch, her last defenses melting away as the chair’s unrelenting design left her no room to resist.

Her pulse raced as the attachment reached her limit, filling her completely, while the chest cushions tugged and rolled her nipples with unyielding precision. Every nerve was alive, each touch, each vibration pushing her further. The intensity was all-consuming, flooding her senses until she could think of nothing else, her entire body caught up in the inescapable rhythm that drove her steadily toward release.

“Oh…Fuck…” Yujin gasped, the words spilling from her lips before she could think. Her body tensed, every muscle tightening as she felt herself reaching a peak, the sensations overwhelming her with their intensity. Her vision blurred, her thoughts scattering as she teetered on the edge, a shudder coursing through her as she finally surrendered to the overwhelming flood of feeling. The release washed over her like a wave, her body arching instinctively as the crescendo of sensations surged through her.

Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, her chest rising and falling as the last remnants of the moment ebbed away. The chair’s movements began to slow, its rhythm softening, the vibrations fading into gentle pulses that allowed her to catch her breath. The chest cushions loosened their grip, their kneading touch easing, as though the chair were guiding her back down from the intensity she had just experienced. Yujin slumped back into the seat, her limbs heavy, her mind hazy with exhaustion. The tension that had gripped her moments ago dissolved into a tranquil calm, leaving her utterly spent.

For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to sink into the stillness, her senses dulled, her mind adrift in the aftermath. The low hum of the chair became a soothing backdrop, its faint vibrations lulling her into a sense of peace. She assumed the experience had reached its end, her body basking in the quiet relief of calm.

But as her breathing slowed and her muscles began to relax, a calm, synthetic voice broke the silence.

Fluid capacity not reached. It stated evenly, the tone mechanical and indifferent.

Yujin’s eyes snapped open, her mind jolting into alertness as the words registered. Not reached? Her thoughts raced, trying to make sense of the statement, but before she could process it fully, the chair’s hum deepened. The vibrations beneath her intensified without warning, their strength catching her off guard. Her breath hitched as the sensations returned with a sudden, insistent force, the precision of the movements leaving no room for reprieve.

The chair seemed to come alive with renewed purpose, its rhythm more deliberate, each pulse stronger and more calculated than before. The feature within her resumed its motion, its presence undeniable as it moved with unrelenting precision. Each thrust pressed into her with a focus that pushed her limits, targeting areas already heightened and sensitive from the earlier experience. Yujin’s breath quickened, her body reacting instinctively to the machine’s persistence, her mind struggling to keep up with the intensity.

The seamless design of the chair continued its work, its movements perfectly synchronized to overwhelm her senses. She could feel every shift, every vibration, as the chair seemed to measure her responses, adapting its rhythm to ensure she couldn’t escape its hold. The experience became all-consuming, every sensation building upon the last, pulling her deeper into its relentless rhythm.

Her body, still quivering from her first climax, was instantly overwhelmed by the onslaught. “Wait… stop, oh fuck!” she gasped, her voice breaking as the feature pressed forward, deeper than it had before, ignoring the boundaries it had previously measured. She felt it push against her in a way that left her breathless, her entire form trembling as the pressure intensified. Her limbs strained against the restraints as she tried instinctively to move, but the chair held her completely still, its rhythm relentless.

“Oh god… please, stop…” she whimpered, but the chair showed no sign of slowing. The feature drove deeper, inch by inch, surpassing the limits it had mapped out before, testing her body’s capacity in a way that left her mind spinning. Each thrust seemed to stretch her in ways she hadn’t known possible, every sensation raw and amplified as the machine pushed her further.

The feature pulsed with a new, unrelenting rhythm, driving into her with a force that left her breathless. She gasped, her voice cracking, “No… wait, it’s… it’s too deep… fuck!” Her body instinctively tensed, her senses heightened as the pressure built within her, her nerves lighting up under the strain. Desperation took hold as she tried to lift her hips, arching away from the relentless ascent of the feature, but the chair seemed to read her like a book. The moment she shifted, it surged upward with calculated precision, matching her movements and pushing her further than she thought possible.

Her muscles tightened in protest as the depth became almost unbearable, her gasps turning into soft cries. The bindings around her wrists and ankles responded seamlessly, holding her firmly in place and preventing her from retreating. The relentless precision of the feature left her helpless, her body forced to meet every inch of its advance. Each adjustment, each movement seemed deliberately designed to draw her deeper into the sensation, leaving her trembling with the effort to endure it.

The vibrations intensified, pulsing faster, sharper, each one a shock to her overstimulated nerves. She felt herself slipping further, her breaths shallow, each thrust pressing her to her absolute limit. The relentless rhythm, the merciless depth—it all merged into one overwhelming sensation that left her gasping for air. “No, please… stop!” she cried out, but the machine gave no response, its synthetic indifference all too clear as it continued, unyielding.

The chest cushions returned, pressing firmly over her chest, the circular pads rolling and tugging her nipples with a fierceness that left her whimpering. Each pull was calculated, precise, dragging her deeper into the chair’s control as her sensitivity spiked. The combination was too much; her body felt trapped, bound in a cycle of unending sensation, each pulse, each thrust driving her closer to the edge of what she could endure.

As the device drove even deeper, a sudden surge of vibration coursed through it, adding an intensity that sent shockwaves through Yujin’s overstimulated body. Her head tilted back, a breathless gasp escaping her lips as the sensation mounted, leaving her helpless against the chair’s brutal rhythm. Every thrust felt precise, unrelenting, each movement pushing her closer to an edge she hadn’t known existed.

Control slipped away entirely, her senses overloaded by the relentless pace. Her body, raw and hypersensitive from the first climax, twitched with every pulse, fresh waves of pressure radiating through her. The rhythmic motion of the chair seemed inescapable, calculated, dragging her beyond her limits. She clenched her fists against the restraints, her breath coming in shallow bursts as her body teetered precariously on the brink of release once again.

The attachment surged with sharper movements, its upward thrusts forcing her to accommodate more. She tried to lift her hips, arching away from the overwhelming depth, but the chair was relentless. It responded as though reading her intentions, pressing further and holding her firmly in place, denying her any escape. The chest cushions tightened against her, the circular pads tugging at her nipples with a methodical precision that left her gasping for air.

The relentless rhythm worked in tandem with the vibrations below, targeting her most sensitive nerves. Each pulse drove into her, the sensations layering until every nerve felt exposed, raw, and alive. “I can’t…” she whispered, her voice breaking under the strain, the words tumbling out unbidden. Her hips strained instinctively, but the device refused to relent, the rhythmic ascension reaching depths she didn’t know she could endure. A heavy warmth bloomed deep within her, a pressure she couldn’t contain, spilling over into every inch of her body.

Her breathing grew erratic, her voice trembling as she choked out fragments of disbelief. “It’s too much…” she whispered, her words dissolving into breathy gasps. The device pulsed faster, its movements pushing her further into a space where sensation overtook thought. Heat spread like a fire through her limbs, pooling low as her body arched reflexively, caught in the machine’s relentless control.

The vibrations below seemed to sync perfectly with the rolling pressure on her chest, drawing her sensitivity to a dizzying peak. Her mind blanked, her body responding with a vulnerability she couldn’t suppress. The sensation of fullness became all-encompassing, a rhythmic wave cresting deep within her. She felt the tension building, a powerful swell that left her trembling. “It’s… happening… oh…” she stammered, her voice barely audible as the climax surged through her.

In the instant of release, the sensations reached their crescendo, the chair driving her to a shattering peak. A sudden, warm rush overtook her, unrestrained and unanticipated. The liquid sensation cascaded down her thighs in slow, deliberate streams, the unexpected release leaving her breathless and stunned. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as her body responded instinctively, her awareness overwhelmed by the unrelenting sensations.

“Oh… my god…” she murmured, her voice trembling as the aftermath left her quaking. The warmth traced a path down her skin, a physical reminder of the vulnerability of the moment. Each pulse from the chair amplified the rawness she felt, leaving her suspended in the quiet, electric stillness. Her mind reeled, struggling to grasp the depth of what she’d just experienced. “I… can’t believe it…” she breathed, her cheeks burning as she lay motionless, entirely exposed to her own release.

The rhythmic hum of the chair softened, its motions slowing as though recognizing her limits. The attachment eased, withdrawing as Yujin’s breathing remained uneven, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her limbs felt heavy, her mind hazy, the echoes of sensation still pulsing faintly through her body. The quiet aftermath enveloped her, the room thick with stillness as she basked in the overwhelming intimacy of the experience.

Then, the silence was broken by a calm, synthetic voice that cut through the haze.

Fluid capacity reached, it announced smoothly, its tone measured and indifferent.

The words hung in the air for a moment, their stark neutrality a strange contrast to the intensity Yujin had just experienced. As the chair’s movements slowed further, the vibrations beneath her eased into a soft, barely perceptible hum. The hidden feature retracted gently, its motion precise and unhurried, leaving her body to settle into stillness.

Her limbs were released as the silken restraints retreated into the chair, their hold disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared. For the first time in what felt like hours, Yujin’s arms fell freely to her sides, her hands brushing lightly against the smooth leather of the chair. She slumped back, her body sinking into the seat, utterly spent. Her limbs felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive, as her breathing slowed and steadied in the soft silence that enveloped the room.

Her mind remained adrift, hovering somewhere between disbelief and quiet awe. The chair, now still, seemed to cradle her with a newfound gentleness, its presence less commanding, more like a silent guardian allowing her to recover. In the quiet aftermath, Yujin could feel the echoes of the experience lingering in her body, her senses heightened, her thoughts distant. The world outside her apartment seemed impossibly far away as she lay there, her body and mind consumed by the memory of what had just unfolded.

Exhausted yet glowing from the intensity of the experience, Yujin lay still, her body basking in the lingering warmth. A faint smile tugged at her lips as her chest rose and fell in steady, calming breaths. The moment felt surreal, the sensations still imprinted on her skin, her muscles tingling with the aftereffects. Every part of her felt both weightless and grounded, as if the chair had unraveled not just her physical tension but the unseen burdens she had carried.

The chair’s steady hum, which had seemed so commanding moments ago, finally faded into silence. She exhaled a long, trembling sigh, letting her head fall back against the soft headrest. Slowly, the silken restraints around her wrists loosened and retracted into the armrests, freeing her from their gentle grip. She flexed her fingers, feeling the return of her movement, though she made no effort to rise. Instead, she sank deeper into the chair, savoring the quiet that enveloped her and the profound sense of calm radiating through her body.

Her gaze drifted toward the control panel, now illuminated and unobstructed, glowing softly in the dim light of the room. The warmth of the chair still cradled her, its presence comforting and steady. As her fingers reached for the panel, her touch was deliberate but light, her body still heavy with the afterglow. A small digital prompt caught her eye: “Session Complete. Save Profile?”

Curiosity flickered through her, cutting through her lingering exhaustion. Without much thought, she tapped the screen, her fingers brushing lightly over the display. The prompt changed instantly, confirming the save under her name. Yujin smiled faintly, imagining how convenient it would be to return to this exact setting in the future.

But as the screen updated, something else appeared—a second profile listed just beneath hers. The name on the screen made her breath catch in her throat: Kim Gaeul.

Yujin’s heart skipped a beat as she stared at the unassuming text. Her unnie’s name sat there plainly, as if it had been waiting for her all along. She blinked, a ripple of intrigue spreading through her as the implications settled in. “Unnie’s profile?” she murmured, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. The discovery was unexpected, and yet it sent a quiet thrill coursing through her.

Her fingers hovered over Gaeul’s name, hesitating for just a moment before tapping it. The screen flickered, and a detailed list of settings unfolded before her. With each line, her eyes widened, her pulse quickening as she took in the descriptions.

Heat: Wax simulation.The words stopped her cold, her breath catching in her throat. Yujin hadn’t realized the chair could simulate such sensations, let alone that Gaeul would have chosen it. She pictured the sensation, the warm, teasing precision of wax, and felt a flush creep across her cheeks. The thought of her unnie exploring something so daring sparked a mix of surprise and intrigue. Gaeul, bold and composed as ever, had used this chair for more than just relaxation.

Size: Length 11 inches, width 3 inches.Yujin blinked, her face growing warmer as she read the numbers. Her own session had felt overwhelming, and yet Gaeul had opted for settings far more intense, far more challenging. The audacity of it left Yujin momentarily stunned, her mind racing as she tried to imagine her unnie embracing something so extreme. A faint shiver ran through her as her curiosity deepened, the idea stirring a quiet but persistent flicker of warmth low in her belly.

Vibrations: Max.A soft laugh escaped her lips, incredulous and tinged with awe. She had barely endured the chair’s standard settings, yet Gaeul had chosen the highest possible intensity. The thought sent a ripple of admiration through Yujin, mingling with a sense of disbelief. Her unnie’s boldness seemed boundless, and Yujin couldn’t help but wonder what it had felt like—what Gaeul had experienced in the chair’s unrelenting embrace.

Texture: Ribbed.Her breath hitched as her eyes scanned the words, her imagination immediately conjuring the sensation. The thought of ridges dragging against her overstimulated body made her stomach flip, her cheeks burning brighter as she shifted slightly in her seat. The deliberate pressure and tactile detail the texture promised left her wide-eyed, her lips parting as a soft exhale escaped her. Gaeul’s choices weren’t just bold—they were designed for an intensity Yujin hadn’t dared to consider.

Clitoral focus: Targeted stimulation.The line of text felt stark, almost clinical, but its meaning hit her like a wave. Her thighs tensed reflexively as she imagined the precise, unrelenting pressure this setting would deliver. The thought left her both apprehensive and intrigued, the memory of her body’s hypersensitivity flashing through her mind. “Unnie really… tried all this?” she murmured, her voice trembling with disbelief.

Her gaze moved down the list, catching on the next line.

Breast stimulation: Spanking mode.Yujin’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing a deep pink as her breath hitched. She hadn’t even noticed this option during her own session, and its revelation left her momentarily speechless. The idea of Gaeul, composed and unflinching, choosing such a provocative setting sent a cascade of emotions through Yujin—shock, intrigue, and a hesitant thrill. Gaeul’s choices hinted at a side of her unnie that Yujin had never considered—a side that was uninhibited and unapologetic.

Double Penetration.Yujin froze, her heart racing as she processed the words. The chair could accommodate such a complex configuration, and Gaeul had chosen it. The implications left Yujin flushed, her thoughts swirling as she imagined the experience, the unrelenting intensity of it. Her mind raced with questions: What had Gaeul felt? What had she thought? Her unnie’s confidence and boldness seemed almost unfathomable, and yet it made Yujin’s pulse quicken.

Her fingers hovered over the option to begin the profile, her chest rising and falling as the room seemed to close in around her. The AI’s synthetic voice interrupted the silence, calm and steady:

“Profile of Kim Gaeul. Would you like to begin?”

The question sent a shiver through Yujin, her senses attuned to the chair’s warmth beneath her. The mere idea of following in her footsteps, of stepping into her unnie’s world, left Yujin breathless. The chair seemed to hold its own quiet intensity now, as though Gaeul’s presence lingered within it, beckoning her to experience everything as she had.

For a moment, Yujin simply sat there, her heart pounding, her body tingling as she considered the choice before her. A small, unsteady smile played on her lips, her breath quickening despite the exhaustion pooling in her limbs. The glowing screen before her seemed to pulse with an inviting warmth, urging her to explore every sensation her unnie had so carefully crafted. Even after everything she had just been through, the allure of experiencing what Gaeul had designed was undeniable. Her mind buzzed with a mix of curiosity, nervous anticipation, and a lingering heat that she couldn’t entirely shake.

The chair, its quiet hum now silent, seemed to watch her in waiting. The faint ache in her muscles from the previous session only added to the surreal allure of the moment, a reminder of the intensity she’d just endured. Yet, against that fatigue, her curiosity burned brighter.

Taking a shaky breath, she tapped Yes

The AI’s calm, detached voice broke the silence: “Profile of Kim Gaeul. Initiating session.”

The chair hummed to life with a low, resonant vibration that seemed to echo in her chest. The sound was deep, almost hypnotic, and carried a weight that seemed to coil inside her. Slowly, the seat tilted backward, cradling her body as it reclined further than before. The movement left her startlingly exposed, her limbs slack against the armrests as the leather adjusted to her frame with a disarming intimacy.

A wave of warmth began low on her spine, rolling outward in deliberate pulses that seemed to seep into her muscles. It was subtle at first, almost teasing, but the intensity built with each passing second, spreading along her skin like molten wax.

Heat: Wax simulation. The words came calm and detached, breaking the silence like a command, just as the warmth settled deeper, teasing her nerves and pulling a faint gasp from her lips.

Yujin’s breath hitched. The warmth wasn’t just heat—it carried weight, a tactile presence that seemed to knead her muscles as it crept lower, flowing down her thighs and curling around her hips. Her muscles fluttered involuntarily as the sensation radiated upward, unfurling across her chest. She bit her lip, her head pressing back into the chair as the sensation deepened.

“It’s so… warm,” she whispered, her voice tinged with awe and disbelief. “Oh god, it feels like it’s everywhere…”

The pulses grew sharper, each one drawing her body further into submission. Her skin flushed as the heat nestled deeper into her muscles, coaxing her tension away even as her heart raced faster. It was intimate, calculated, every ripple designed to tease her in ways she couldn’t ignore. A soft moan escaped her lips as the heat lingered, her body reacting instinctively to the deliberate precision of the sensation.

Without warning, the vibrations surged to life, sharp and commanding, cutting through the haze of heat. The chair’s mechanisms adjusted seamlessly, delivering powerful pulses that hummed deeply into her.

Vibrations: Max. The clinical voice contrasted starkly with the visceral reaction wracking her body, as though indifferent to the way her body jolted against the force.

The vibrations seemed to wrap around her, their intensity rolling through her in rhythmic waves. They blended with the lingering warmth, amplifying the sensation until her entire frame felt alive with electric energy. Her hands curled against the armrests, her breath shallow as the relentless hum sent shockwaves through her body.

“It’s so much,” she murmured, her voice trembling as she struggled to process the overlapping sensations. “I can’t—oh, I can’t…”

The pulses climbed higher, sharper, targeting every inch of her with unrelenting precision. Each wave sank deeper, teasing her nerves into a maddening crescendo.

A new sensation jolted her. Without warning, a delicate pressure closed around her clit. Yujin yelped, her hips jerking as two small prongs adjusted to sit snugly against her most sensitive spot. They pinched lightly, just enough to make her gasp, before beginning a rhythmic vibration that was sharp and devastatingly precise.

Clitoral focus: Activated. The voice followed as though commenting on her quivering form, the prongs already driving her sensitivity to the brink.

The targeted stimulation sent sparks through her body with each relentless pulse. Yujin squirmed in place, her thighs trembling as the dual sensations built rapidly. The subtle pinch added an edge she hadn’t anticipated, heightening every hum and vibration until she could barely breathe.

“Oh… oh god,” she stammered, her voice breaking into shallow gasps. The vibrating prongs seemed to sense her sensitivity, alternating between steady pulses and teasing pauses that left her whimpering.

The sharp, rhythmic taps of the chest cushions came next, catching her off-guard and dragging her deeper into the chair’s grip. Each strike landed with calculated force, perfectly in time with the vibrations below.

Breast stimulation: Spanking mode. The phrase lingered in the air, both clinical and provocative, as if the chair itself reveled in her reactions.

Yujin whimpered, her chest heaving as the alternating taps struck her in perfect rhythm with the vibrations below. The sharp stings jolted her senses, contrasting starkly with the warmth and hum that had engulfed her moments before. She gasped as the taps shifted, alternating between quick bursts and deliberate pauses, leaving her body quivering with anticipation.

“Why does it feel so—ah!—so good…” she managed, her voice breaking into a moan. The rhythm built unpredictably, each strike sending a rush of heat through her chest that traveled downward, syncing with the relentless vibrations.

Before she could process the overwhelming stimulation, something firm pressed against her, unyielding and deliberate. The chair’s mechanisms shifted again, and the feature advanced slowly, pushing deeper inch by inch.

Double penetration. Size: Length 11 inches, width 3 inches, ribbed texture. The voice was even and unflinching, delivering the details as though narrating its own meticulous work.

The ridged surfaces dragged deliberately against her walls as the feature moved, each textured inch teasing her nerves and leaving her breathless. The combination of fullness and texture was maddening, each ridge catching against her hypersensitive body as if designed to drive her over the edge.

Yujin’s trembling hand moved instinctively to her belly, brushing against her taut skin. She froze, her fingers trembling as they met the faint bulge pressing outward. Her eyes widened, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as her chest heaved. The realization of just how deeply the chair had claimed her sent a flush of heat spiraling through her.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief. “I… I can feel it—everything. It’s too much…unnie how do you do it?”

The dual features pressed deeper inside her, their ridged surfaces dragging against her in maddening synchrony. The vibrations grew sharper, blending with the relentless rhythm as her body yielded inch by inch. Her legs quivered, her toes curling instinctively as the fullness swelled inside her.

The clitoral prongs pulsed again, sharper now, sending shocks through her core that made her cry out. Her body arched helplessly as every sensation layered into an unrelenting symphony. Despite the overwhelming onslaught, there was a part of her—a small but undeniable part—that leaned into it. The intensity blurred the edges of her thoughts, pulling her deeper into the consuming waves. Her gasps came unbidden, her lips parting to release a soft moan, as much from pleasure as from the crushing force of the sensations.

The settings merged seamlessly, each feeding into the next to bring her to the brink again and again. The ribbed texture dragged deliberately against her, each ridge sparking jolts of unbearable sensitivity through her body. The vibrating prongs on her clit teased mercilessly, the sharp pinch heightening every pulse that coursed through her. The spanking pads struck her chest rhythmically, their sharp, stinging taps blending with the lingering heat of the wax simulation that clung to her skin like molten silk.

It was too much—her body barely had time to adjust to one sensation before another surged to the forefront. And yet, as overwhelming as it was, it wasn’t pain; it wasn’t torment. Her body responded with raw, instinctive fervor, trembling and tightening as it gave itself over to the overwhelming bliss. Every tap, every pulse, every thrust of the ridged surfaces filled her with an almost unbearable euphoria that she couldn’t deny.

The fullness stretched her impossibly, the ridges teasing her with deliberate precision, while the warmth radiated outward, softening her resistance. The vibrations at her core rippled through her entire frame, blending seamlessly with the targeted pulses on her clit. Her mind spun with the chaos of it all, but her body betrayed her, leaning into the rhythm, craving more even as her trembling thighs threatened to give out.

Her body arched instinctively, her breath catching as the rhythm tightened, faster and more deliberate, pulling her toward the peak with relentless determination. The heat, the sharp taps, the ridged texture—they layered together, each sensation feeding into the next, creating an unrelenting cycle of pleasure that left her trembling and helpless.

“Oh… oh god… I can’t—” she gasped, her voice breaking into a strangled moan. The overwhelming symphony of sensations blurred the lines between pain and pleasure, leaving her lost in the chaos. And yet, as her head tilted back and her lips parted, her cries took on a note of desperate, unabashed need. She was being consumed, but somewhere deep inside, she didn’t want it to stop.

Her body quivered violently, her thighs shaking as the intensity built to an impossible crescendo. The climax approached rapidly, her hypersensitive body teetering on the edge, unable to resist the relentless onslaught. The fullness inside her surged deeper, the ridged texture scraping perfectly against every nerve it touched, while the prongs on her clit pinched and pulsed in a final, devastating rhythm. Her fingers clawed at the armrests, knuckles pale and trembling as she braced herself, her entire body taut with anticipation, the wave of sensation poised to crash over her.

And then it shattered.

The climax ripped through her with unrelenting force, her body seizing violently as the release consumed her. Her back arched sharply, her breath caught in a ragged, desperate cry that broke into gasping moans as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her. The fullness, the heat, the stinging taps, the relentless vibrations—all of it collided into a single, overwhelming surge that obliterated her senses, leaving her utterly undone.

Her cries echoed in the room, raw and unrestrained, as her body shook with the force of her release. Her hands tightened around the armrests, her legs trembling as the relentless rhythm prolonged the peak, drawing every ounce of sensation from her trembling form. The waves began to ebb slowly, leaving her chest heaving as her gasps turned to shallow, broken breaths.

Her body sagged into the chair, her muscles slackening as the aftershocks flickered faintly through her. Every inch of her was hypersensitive, her nerves alive with the echoes of what had just consumed her. Her mind swam in the haze, her thoughts incoherent as her body quivered in the chair’s unyielding embrace.

Just as she thought the chair might relent, the voice cut through the haze, calm and clinical:

Fluid capacity not reached.

The words were punctuated by an immediate escalation. The vibrations intensified, deeper and sharper, the ridged textures dragging mercilessly against her hypersensitive body with mechanical precision. Yujin gasped sharply, her head rolling back as the chair resumed its relentless rhythm. The heat surged again, radiating through her body like molten fire, coaxing every nerve back to life despite her exhaustion. Her muscles twitched involuntarily, her body caught in the unyielding rhythm that refused to stop.

The fullness returned, pressing impossibly deeper, stretching her with ruthless precision. The ridges scraped against her overstimulated walls, igniting sparks of sensation that left her trembling violently. The vibrations pulsed in perfect sync, their overlapping waves building into an unbearable crescendo. Yujin whimpered, her fingers twitching weakly against the armrests as she was forced to endure the escalating pressure.

Her breath hitched sharply as the rhythm quickened, the chair driving her closer and closer to another peak. The sensations surged with a force that eclipsed the first, each calculated motion dragging her higher. Her body arched instinctively, her thighs trembling as the vibrations intensified, the sharp pulses and searing heat blending into an all-encompassing storm.

The second peak loomed suddenly, massive and all-consuming. Her lips parted in a soundless cry as the sensations crested, the relentless rhythm pushing her closer to the breaking point. Her mind spiraled, thoughts dissolving into incoherent haze as her body convulsed. The climax broke over her like a tidal wave, wrenching a strangled moan from her lips as her back arched violently. The fullness inside her swelled impossibly, every nerve ignited in a final, explosive release.

But it didn’t stop.

The sensations refused to relent, their intensity crashing over her without mercy. Yujin’s body bucked helplessly against the chair, her hands clawing at the armrests as her breath came in frantic, shallow bursts. Her vision blurred, the edges of the room dissolving into a haze of swirling lights. The vibrations became muffled, distant, as though her ears were submerged underwater.

Her pulse thundered in her head, drowning out everything else. Even the heat—the unyielding molten fire radiating across her skin—faded into numbness as her body reached its absolute limit. Her legs quivered uncontrollably, her chest heaving as her muscles spasmed one final time. The prongs on her clit delivered one last, devastating pulse, sending a jolt through her body that shattered the remnants of her awareness.

Her head snapped back against the chair, her mouth falling open in a blood-curdling scream that tore through the room before cutting off abruptly. Her entire body stiffened for a single, agonizing moment before collapsing entirely, her limbs falling limp against the chair.

Her breathing slowed, uneven and shallow, her lips parting in a final, trembling gasp as the overwhelming sensations consumed her. A wave of darkness descended, muffling everything—the vibrations, the heat, the ridges, the rhythm—until she felt nothing at all.

Yujin went completely limp, her body unresponsive in the chair’s relentless grip.

The AI’s voice returned, calm and clinical, cutting through the oppressive silence:

User unresponsive. Warming protocol initiated.

The chair’s mechanisms halted immediately, its relentless rhythm ceasing with mechanical precision. The features began to retract, their motions slow and deliberate, withdrawing carefully to avoid disturbing her limp form. The leather cushions shifted, adjusting to cradle her unconscious body with meticulous care.

Then, the warmth began. A soothing heat radiated from the cushions, spreading across her skin in slow, undulating waves. The earlier intensity was gone, replaced by a tender embrace that coaxed her muscles into relaxation. The chair’s presence, once commanding and overwhelming, softened into something protective, wrapping her in a cocoon of comfort.

Yujin’s chest rose and fell faintly, her breathing shallow but steady. Her body trembled softly with the residual echoes of sensation, her skin flushed as the warmth soaked into her muscles. The control panel’s glow dimmed, its light fading to darkness as the room settled into stillness.

The AI’s voice did not return, its task complete for now. The chair hummed quietly, its mechanisms reduced to a faint purr as it stood sentinel over her unconscious form. The relentless force that had pushed her to her limits had vanished, replaced by a serene and protective presence. In the quiet, Yujin lay utterly still, cocooned in warmth and care as the session reached its tranquil conclusion.

The room fell into complete silence, save for the faint, rhythmic hum of the chair’s dormant systems. The stillness was heavy, blanketing the space in an almost ethereal calm. Yujin remained motionless, her body surrendered entirely to the chair’s protective embrace. Her chest rose and fell faintly, her breathing a soft whisper in the air, her flushed skin glowing dimly in the muted light.

Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, damp strands clinging to her forehead and cheeks, a testament to the intensity she had endured. Smudged makeup streaked down her face, dark trails of mascara tracing the paths of the tears that had streamed from her eyes. Her lips, parted slightly, were swollen from the gasps and cries that had torn through her. The soft lighting cast shadows over her features, accentuating the exhaustion etched into her expression—a mix of raw vulnerability and complete surrender.

Her body trembled faintly, her muscles slackened but still quivering with residual aftershocks. Her folds were flushed, the delicate skin red and sensitive from the unrelenting stimulation. A pronounced sheen of arousal still glistened on her inner thighs, the aftermath of a storm that had left her utterly spent. The chair’s earlier precision left her backdoor gaped, the stretched opening a reminder of the fullness that had overwhelmed her.

The scent of her arousal lingered in the air, thick and undeniable, mingling with the faint warmth radiating from the chair. It clung to the stillness like a ghost of the storm that had subsided, saturating the quiet space with a lingering intimacy that was almost tangible.

The faint aroma of the instant noodles she had prepared earlier, once warm and savory, had been completely overpowered. What remained now was raw, primal—a potent reminder of the intensity that had unfolded. It dominated the air, overwhelming the earlier comfort of her small meal with the undeniable mark of her surrender.

The chair’s hum softened even further, its purring vibration fading into near silence, as if giving her space to recover. The leather adjusted beneath her, shifting delicately to cradle her limp form more closely. It held her without force, a silent sentinel watching over her slackened body.

The atmosphere felt heavy yet serene, charged with the echoes of what had transpired. Yujin lay utterly still, her body utterly spent, her mind adrift in a haze far from the quiet room. The world beyond continued on, oblivious to the storm that had raged within these walls. But here, time seemed suspended, as though the room itself held its breath.

And then, the stillness was broken.

A faint buzzing sound cut through the quiet, low at first, then insistent. Yujin’s phone, discarded on a nearby table, vibrated over and over, the glow of the screen casting faint pulses of light in the darkened room. The name flashing across the display was unmistakable: Gaeul Unnie.

The phone continued to buzz, the sound blending with the faint hum of the chair. The rhythm of the vibrations felt deliberate, persistent, as though demanding her attention even in her unconscious state. The air seemed to shift subtly, the charged stillness giving way to something else—anticipation.

And yet, Yujin remained unmoving, her body cocooned in warmth, unaware of the calls that continued, unanswered, as the room watched silently over her.

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mona-risms · 25 days ago

Note

Rumi x Reader where Reader is a cursed deity that helps the hunters generations (through financially or become a manager once etc.) and finally meets Rumi after the defeat of the demon king. and Mira and Zoey are chaotic match makers

◆ MAIN COURSE: Rumi x cursed diety!gn!Reader

◆ TYPE: SFW, romantic

◆ ALLERGEN WARNINGS: N/A

◆ NOTES: I LOVE RUMI SO BAD but also it's half 2 rn why did I stay awake to finish this bro........never letting anyone tell me I give up halfway in anything

Man. You musta done something to get cursed to be a manager for eternity 😭 joke but not actually joke. I can't replace Bobby man.......therefore INTRODUCING 🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁 the A&R Manager role!!!!! This'll be one of the Only times my music diploma will Ever come in handy

For reference before getting into it (bare w me please let me ramble even though this'll never be mentioned about again), an A&R Manager kinda oversees a LOT of things. While a unit/artist manager like Bobby is mostly responsible for one/a few units at a time, an A&R manager's responsible for a HUGE range of things like scouting/signing/developing new talent, being a liaison for the artist and the label, overseeing the recording process, to even being aware of different trends and demographics so that they keep the popularity up with the label and its artists

Much as it is a role for them to be personally involved in basically everything, the fact that there's a lot to do most definitely makes it hard to really do so, which will explain why they wouldn't have really met each other this entire time until the defeat of the Gwi-Ma. Bc honestly let's be real there's no way HUNTR/X is the only unit in their label, just the most famous one........and the one trained to handle demon slaying lol

ANYWAY ONTO THE ACTUAL. THING

When Celine first came up to you about what the next generation of Hunters should be, you weren't necessarily surprised about her proposal that fully leaned into the flashfire that was K-Pop in the modern age. Once upon a time, it would've been more traditional forms of musical entertainment, but there's a reason why you were tasked to oversee 'trends' and such for the next generation to create the Golden Honmoon with.. and take on the world by storm, you supposed.

So seeing them for the first time?

..Yeah, this was definitely going to match up with the algorithm.

"Girls," you hear Celine introduce you as you bowed respectfully, "meet the A&R manager for DH Entertainment, several years your senior."

(An understatement, of course.)

Either way, you follow it up with a simple introduction at the same time as the trio bowed in reciprocation, "[L/N] [Y/N], a pleasure to meet the three of you. Former trainees now, yes?"

The one who piped up first was not only the shortest one, but was most likely the loudest one out of the three, "Yes!! We've been working so hard for this, so it feels like such a dream--"

"Right," you cut her off, though not unkindly, "though do remember that you're not just debuting as idols—you're debuting as Hunters, first and foremost. ..Though I doubt you three can debut without any names..?"

"Oh, oh!" The loud one piped up again with an endearingly playful energy, "So I'm Zoey, and the grumpy-looking one's Mira--"

"Really, Zoey--"

"Shh, it's okay, this is just, like, first-hand practice for when we have to MC on stage and--"

You couldn't help the chuckle that left your lips. "Thank you, Zoey. I.. assume you're the leader, then?"

"If I may," Celine interjects, a slight humorous look on her face from watching the entire exchange, "you assume incorrectly."

"Really? Then who..?"

You see Mira nudge her head to the same person that Zoe ends up glomping from behind, "This one! Her name's--"

"Rumi."

The purple-haired woman spoke—or rather, breathed out—her own name, though she doesn't seem all there, if her expression was any indication. Her brown eyes were wide, as if she was witnessing, beholding, some sort of majesty (which, really, wasn't that much far off, though it's not as if it mattered anymore after so long). She stood stock still, as if suddenly unsure of how to act.

And it seems like the other unit members noticed too.

"..Rumi? You okay?" Mira nudged Rumi's side, "you're acting weird all of a sudden—what happened to your freakish proactivity?"

That seemed to snap Rumi out of whatever reverie she was in, scrambling to form a response, "OH! Shoot, uh, sorry! For staring, I mean, I just--

"Hmm? What's this?"

"Shut up, Zoey, let them talk."

"Don't worry about it," you waved it off with a kind smile and ignored the other two and their whispering. "So you're the unlucky leader?"

Rumi lets out a small snort of laughter before nodding, forgetting her initial awkwardness, "Yeah. Though I'd feel bad if I left them to anyone else."

"Hey!"

"Ha. Good luck with that—I've only had the pleasure of exposure for a few minutes, yet I can already tell they'll be a handful. And so will you."

"Wha-- what's that supposed to mean?"

You simply give her a smile as you stepped back, hands raised in a surrendering position, "It means I can tell that the three of you are going to give me a very hard time, just like the other generations before you."

Now it was Celine's turn to sound offended, though in no part did it seem genuine, "May I remind you who was on field again?"

"Was, dear." It was probably a hypocritical push-back, considering how you haven't been on field at all since being cursed, but alas, life wasn't fair.

So you quickly follow it up by patting away imaginary lint off your clothes before taking out your phone, "Now, as much as I'd like to carry this on, I've got enough work to break a mortal's back." And you pat Rumi's shoulder, which her cheeks tint the slightest pink in response, "Good luck, HUNTR/X. I'll be seeing you around."

And you let your hand slide down and drop to your side as you walked off, though you can't help but catch snippets of remaining conversation:

"You've got the hots for the manager. No way."

"I do not!"

"You froze, Rumi. I have never seen you freeze in front of someone new before."

"Cut it out!"

Idk I felt like I had to write out their FIRST introduction, bc honestly I can't see them NOT meeting you if you're in a high-up role, considering their importance

This DOES set things up though, bc they know they exist. But let's be honest it's probably VERY rarely that you two would ever happen upon each other, and even then it's probably in passing, for a few seconds type shit

You might be cursed to roam the Earth instead of actually be the deity of whatever it is you were supposed to hold domain over, but again. You're STILL a deity. So maybe after sensing that something is ABSOLUTELY WRONG, you manage to find where everyone's gathered, where the Saja Boys were performing, where Gwi-Ma had waited to devour all these souls before Rumi showed up, her half-demon heritage VERY out in the open now. Perhaps you even help them fend the demons off, either by boosting the power these souls had or outright using whatever power you had

I think after Gwi-Ma's banished, ever since you've been cursed, you've been in charge of cleanup. Erasing enough memories and proof to make the entire event seem like a Mandela Effect (you loathe how technology advances every minute bc there's THAT fucking issue too), structure reparation, everything. And THIS would be when you and HUNTR/X start interacting more

You'd probably most likely already know about Rumi's half-demon thing; you kinda had to be told by Celine ages ago for the sake of any possible damage control if, say, someome who shouldn't be able to see the markings see it. So when she asks you why you don't look shocked at all, it's because you're not. You've known what she is the entire time, and you don't really gaf. You're a cursed deity, why tf would you?

After the adrenaline wears off, she'd be back to oscillating between being SLIGHTLY awkward—because Jesus CHRIST she thought you were absolutely gorgeous then and she STILL thinks you're gorgeous now—and genuinely enjoying your presence, especially now that she doesn't really have to hide anymore (no thanks to Celine lmfao). Plus I think her newfound freedom opens up the actual excitement of learning about another supernatural entity that ISN'T a demon

Naturally, Zoey and Mira add 2+2 together and decide to meddle. Because honestly beyond the two of them, they know for a FACT that Rumi deserves happiness and acceptance from someone she genuinely likes. And considering you're there.......looking at her with those eyes............likeeeeee 😜😜😜😜 it's just basic girl math!!!!!

So it starts with them pushing Rumi towards you EVERY chance they get. You need to find new talent? Let Rumi help!!! You're going through recording? Oh suddenly the both of them have a cold oh noooooo Rumi will have to go on her own to record her own parts!! You're filling in paperwork? Oh em gee I wonder why we walked all the way here oh I think we left the oven on okay byeeee

It gets less subtle for them lol. They start asking Rumi how she feeeeeeels in so many different ways ("So is age and experience a thing for you?" "Wh--" "Just asking~! Jinu was like a few hundred, and [Y/N]'s been watching over several Hunter generations, so-- mmf!" "Eat your fries or so help me--"), and they even blatantly go up to ask you about preferences and stuff, even going so far as to just flat-out describe Rumi herself ("Purple hair and glowing demon marks; a turn-on or a turn-off?" "..Why?" "Just answer the question.")

Does it get you all closer? Yes. Does it also get you and Rumi closer? Yes, actually, but not just because of their wingmanning—both of you bond over the sheer exasperation at the VERY obvious attempts of playing matchmaker

The two of you probably eventually give in when you get individual messages from the other person about asking to meet at some secluded spot where you can see the stars really clearly without obstruction. How do you two give in, you ask? By just honestly going for it when the two of you realise that no, neither of you texted each other about meeting here and yes, this was absolutely planned by Zoey and Mira. You sit there on the picnic blanket that was mysteriously set up and kitted out with a vintage lantern from a some local goth shop and a basket of food, and the two of you talk personally: about your days; about how Rumi was handling being a demon out in the 'open' (aka humans can't really see it but supernaturals and Hunters can); about how and why you're cursed; about anything and everything

I don't think the two of you would kiss here, not on the lips anyway maybe the cheek ir the knuckle at MOST but otherwise nah. But it's the opening of something more, and when the two of you just lean on each other as you watch the stars, you can just hear a very faint shriek that sounds SUSPICIOUSLY like Zoey. But rn that's not your concern go back to your date 🙏

#mona's main course...#rumi x reader #kdh rumi x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters imagines #kdh x reader #kdh imagines #huntrix x reader #huntrix imagines #huntr/x x reader #huntr/x imagines

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angelaness · 2 months ago

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140525

Ways to Shift the Angle || It's all about perspective.

1. Go outside ugly.

No makeup. No cute outfit. Just step out. Feel the wind. Notice the clouds like they’re watching you back. You’re not there to be seen, you’re there to see, aka you're right as a HUMAN.

2. Drink water with dramatic flair.

Pour it into your prettiest glass. Add lemon, cucumber, or mint if you’re extra. Sip it like it’s holy. Because it is. Hydration is a rebuke to the decay.

3. Unfollow the perfect. Follow the real.

Curate your feed like a gallery. If it doesn’t make you dream bigger or breathe deeper, cut it. You become what you consume.

My moto has always been See it, be it.

4. Romanticize something stupid.

Fold laundry like a French film heroine. Wash dishes like you’re in a music video. Make it art. You don’t need permission, you have free will!!!!

5. Make something and let it suck.

Doodle, paint, sing badly, dance worse, write shit poetry and convince yourself you're freaking Edgar Allan Poe. Expression is not a talent contest, it’s your soul stretching its arms. There so many ways to do that.

6. Touch grass... but like, really touch it.

Like fr. Sit with your bare legs on the ground. Let dirt under your nails(you can clean it l8r, it ain't gonna kill you) Be wild. You’re not a screen. You’re skin and blood and thunder.

7. Talk to yourself with tenderness.

You’ve survived every ugly day so far. That deserves softness. Praise yourself out loud like you would your best friend.

8. Write a letter to the girl you’ll be in a year.

Tell her what you hope for. What you’re scared of. What you’re trying. Then seal it. Hide it. Come back to it later and weep at your own growth.

9. Watch a movie you loved at 13.

Feel how it hits different. That’s -perspective- seeing the same story with new eyes, older eyes, wiser eyes.

10. Do something the algorithm doesn’t care about.

Learn to knit. Bake bread (!!!!). Read a dusty book. These aren’t for clout. They’re for soul.

You don’t need a full rebrand. You need a tilt. A reframe. A second glance.

Your life isn’t just a reel of wasted time. It’s a painting in progress. And even the mess matters. Every shade. Every smudge. Every layer.

Perspective is more than a trick of the eye. It’s a rebellion. A soft uprising against despair. It says, yes, this sucks right now, but it’s not the whole story. You are not the rot. You are the artist holding the brush, choosing what to do next.

I don't believe everything happens for a reason. But I do believe in reshaping the meaning of things that happen.

So next time you’re lying there, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers, waiting for a sign, turn the paper. Turn yourself. A few degrees is all it takes.

And suddenly, what looked like the end… is just the start of something strange and beautiful.

#angelaness #girlblogging #this is a girlblog #motivation #girlblog aesthetic #wonyoungism #that girl #glow up #it girl #pink pilates princess

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arkofangels · 24 days ago

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Flushed with Emotions

Pairing: Jean Loo Pissoir x Reader – Date Everything!

summary: After losing your job to AI, your life takes a bizarre turn when you receive the Dateviators—enchanted glasses that reveal the true, dateable forms of your household objects. One of them? Your toilet.

a/n: sorry for the corny rhyme idk what to write

Your day started the same as every other since you got fired. You'd shuffled into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and barely awake, trying not to think about your rent or the way your boss had said “the algorithm just does it better.”

Now you’re standing in front of your toilet. And it’s talking to you. In rhymes. With a French accent. And a chain that holds a mic named Ballcock.

You blame the sunglasses.

The Dateviators, gifted to you by a trench-coated weirdo outside the unemployment office, are perched on your nose. And ever since you put them on, your apartment hasn’t been the same. Your microwave flirts. Your vacuum growls. And now—this.

“Bonjour, mon cœur,” the toilet purrs, tilting its porcelain face toward you. His plunger-hat leans rakishly to the side, as if it’s seen some things. “You look like a clogged soul… in need of a flush.”

You stare. “Okay. Nope. No. We’re not doing this.”

Jean Loo doesn’t miss a beat.

“You flush your feelings, bury them deep, But mon amour, the pain still leaks. Sit down, relax, let’s unclog this mess— The bathroom’s a church, and you came here to confess.”

Your eye twitches. You point at the door. “Out. No rapping in the bathroom.”

“I am the bathroom,” he says, arms out like he’s Christ on ceramic. “And the rapper.”

You groan and walk out, only for Jean Loo to follow. Somehow his boots make a flush sound with every step, and the toilet-seat shoulder armor creaks dramatically when he moves.

“I didn’t invite you into the living room.”

He shrugs. “Everything in this home is mine to access. Or are you forgetting who handles your… delicate situations?”

You want to scream. You want to laugh. You want to throw the glasses out the window. Instead, you flop on the couch.

“…You smell a little like bleach.”

He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed. “Merci. I shower in Lysol. Most find it… invigorating.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Why me?”

He suddenly quiets. You peek through your fingers and see something rare—earnestness.

“You looked sad. Lonely. Your eyes were heavy like a tank with no flush,” he says softly. “And I—Jean Loo—do not let my cherie rot in solitude.”

You lift your head. “Did you just say I’m like a neglected tank?”

“…Romantically, oui.”

You sigh, but it’s a little less hopeless now. Maybe a tiny part of you—some small, unhinged recess of your unemployed brain—likes having someone (thing?) around. Even if he does come with freestyles and flexible hoses.

You lean back. “Fine. You can stay. But no freestyling during me time.”

Jean grins. “But all time with you is mon temps préféré.”

“…That better not mean what I think it means.”

He winks. “Would you prefer a bidet pun?”

You hurl a throw pillow at him. He catches it with flair—bowing like you’ve just thrown roses.

#fanfic #arkofangels #date everything #jean loo pissoir #jean loo x reader #date everything game #jean loo x date everything #fanfiction #date everything x reader

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nemo-writes · 2 months ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter twelve

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: jack's day off begins with memory and ritual, a quiet reckoning between breath and bone. but peace never lingers long—not in his world.

⤿ warning(s): graphic depictions of violence

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.3k

Jack’s day off is always thin ice—too much space for thoughts to echo—but he marks Veterans Day anyway, the way a believer keeps holy water near the door.

Morning, he rides the bus to the granite memorial by Point State Park, prosthetic ticking softly on the pavement. He traces eight letters on Panel 19—men who joked about Pittsburgh pierogis during chow, who died clearing a road Jack still sees in dreams. He presses his forehead to the cold stone and bargains, same as every year: I’m still here; I’ll make it count.

By noon he’s walking the river trail while herons lift off the water, but for once the sharp November air feels more like medicine than punishment. He times his breathing to the slap of sneakers behind him—old habit, mapping threats even in a city park—then forces himself to look up, catalog the living: a kid chasing leaves, a couple arguing about grocery lists. No IEDs, no snipers, just ordinary chaos. He reminds his heartbeat that it’s allowed to slow.

Late afternoon finds him at a hole-in-the-wall diner with Ahmad from the old unit, the only friend who doesn’t flinch when Jack jumps at slammed doors. They swap dad jokes, dissect the Steelers’ offensive line, but eventually the talk slides where it always does: how silence isn’t peace, just camouflage.

“Quiet stretches never last,” Ahmad says around a mouthful of pie. “Stay frosty, Doc.”

Jack laughs, but it sticks halfway down. He knows Ahmad is right; something in him is always measuring exits—even now, even home.

His day back, he strides back into the lobby expecting the usual routine end-of-shift bustle. Instead he walks straight into a wall of flashing reds and blues. Police radios hiss under the vaulted ceiling; security tape cords off the east service stairwell. A cluster of officers in ballistic vests crowds the information desk while hospital staff hover at the margins, faces blanched with dread.

His heart slams once, hard. Quiet stretches never last.

“Jack!” Dana’s voice slices through the clamor. She barrels toward him, Robby a half-step behind. Her icy blond hair is half out of its clip, cheeks blotched; Robby’s normally playful grin is gone, jaw set tight.

He takes one step, then another, heart punching up into his throat. The din narrows to a single question: Where is she?

“What the hell happened?!” he snaps out instead, voice already half-feral.

Dana intercepts him, fingers biting into his bicep. “It’s the stalker, they’re both on the roof,” she pants. “He’s a lab doc—pathology—has her pinned with a scalpel. SWAT’s staging now.”

The vowels barely register; the meaning detonates. Your rooftop—your shared sanctuary—has been turned into a kill ring. He lunges for the stairwell entrance, but Robby is suddenly there, forearm across Jack’s chest, muscles corded.

“Brother, stop.” Robby’s voice quavers—he never shakes. “Negotiator’s already up. Gloria’s locked down every route.”

Every instinct in Jack’s body screams breach, clear, extract—the algorithm seared into him overseas—but here he’s hemmed in by Kevlar and assault rifles, a medic with shaking, empty hands while the woman he loves is upstairs at knife-point.

Robby and Dana funnel him toward what used to be the reception bay, now a hive of armor and jargon. The Pitt— chronically understaffed on a calm day— was buckling under the strain. Orderlies hustle bewildered patients toward side exits for ambulance transfers; wheelchairs clog the corridor like abandoned shopping carts. A charge nurse argues with two uniformed cops who won’t let her retrieve a critical drug from Pyxis; an elderly visitor sobs into a cellphone, begging for updates on her husband still in radiology. Above the din, overhead pages stutter with diversion orders—all inbound trauma rerouted to Mercy, all code strokes diverted to Presby—clogging an already overloaded city grid.

The admissions desk is gone, buried beneath stacked monitors, tangle of ethernet cables, and a glowing tactical map where insurance forms once sat. Rifles sway inches from IV poles; the stench of gun oil mixes with disinfectant and sour adrenaline. Nurses hover at the perimeter, eyes round, shrinking from the foreign clink of magazine plates in a place built for scalpels.

At the center of it all stands Gloria, white blouse damp with sweat, headset skewed, radio pinned to her shoulder as if it’s grafted to bone. She barks orders like suppressing fire:

“Seal Imaging elevators. Trauma One hot; C-arm standing by. No one but ESU touches the roof hatch— copy that?”

As if on cue, an ESU lieutenant stomps over, ready to clear them out, and Jack is more than ready to square up to any attempt to have him removed. But instead, Gloria plants her palm on the desk and meets his eyes without blinking. “He’s my trauma doctor,” she snaps. “He stays until I say otherwise.”

The lieutenant’s jaw works—unused to hospital brass talking back—but he nods. Gloria rounds on Jack. Her pupils are pinpoints of battle focus. “Stay sharp, but stay here. When they need medical intel you’re their lifeline. We do this by the book.”

Jack’s fingernails bite crescents into his palms. The urge to charge the stairwell is a live current under his skin, but Gloria’s steel sinks into his spine: Hold the line, doctor.

He gulps air that tastes of ammonia and fear, forcing combat breaths—four in, four out—until the roar in his ears recedes enough to think. Around him, chaos snarls: a respiratory therapist yells for security clearance to reach NICU; a porter tries to wheel an intubated patient through a knot of shields; Dana pleads with a patrol sergeant for scraps of information but gets stonewalled. Everyone is starved for intel, and the cops are sealing it up tight.

Robby presses a lukewarm coffee into Jack’s fist—a flimsy anchor—and plants himself like a guard tower. Dana rubs rough circles between Jack’s shoulders, her own tears biting the corners of her eyes. Code tones ripple overhead—someone in Ortho crashing, another ward running out of ventilators—ordinary disasters threading through the extraordinary and present one.

Time stretches like piano wire ready to snap. Jack’s gaze nails the stairwell doors where helmeted officers flow in and out with reptilian precision. Every slight change in their posture dumps a fresh flood of adrenaline into his blood. He counts respirations, memorizes the tremor of the coffee lid, fights the terror that tells him any minute now could be the last minute for the woman he loves.

A fresh stir ripples the phalanx of shields: the ESU incident commander had arrived. Broad-shouldered in matte armor, visor up, he scans the overflowed lobby once, then motions Gloria away from her makeshift desk. She follows, radio muted, and the two disappear behind a bank of wheeled charts—privacy in a sea of chaos.

Jack can’t hear them, but he reads the body language as if it’s vital signs: the commander gesturing upward, two fingers stabbing roof-ward; Gloria folding her arms, shaking her head, jaw a hard slash. He leans in again, she slices the air with a flat palm—No. He answers with an open hand—Option?—then draws an invisible blade across his own throat. Jack’s stomach knots. Gloria’s shoulders sag; she rubs her temples, then finally nods, clipped and furious.

They re-emerge. The commander’s voice is low but carries across the hush of stalled stretchers. “Doctor Abbott,” he says, visor eyes meeting Jack’s. “Subject on the roof is naming you. Only you. He’s threatening to advance if anyone else breaches.”

A collective inhale shudders through nearby nurses. Gloria steps beside the commander, spine rigid. “You’ll go wired—live audio, vest cam,” she orders, not asks. “Hands visible. If the blade lifts, you step back. ESU owns the follow-through.”

Dana’s grip tightens on Jack’s sleeve; Robby’s jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps. Jack answers before either can object.

“Copy. Get me a mic and a vest.”

An operator hustles forward with Kevlar and a throat mike. As Jack cinches straps, he catches the brief lift of the commander’s brow at the service tattoo on Jack’s bicep, the soft clack of the prosthetic knee. Respect, or recalibration—either way, the tech’s voice gentles while threading the comm line.

Gloria hovers for a single heartbeat, eyes burning. “Slow tone,” she warns. “Open palms. Bring her home.”

“I will,” Jack says, the promise flat as bedrock.

He turns to Dana and Robby—fear and faith sharing their faces—and nods once. Then the tactical wedge folds around him, shields raised, and they move in concert down the corridor toward the familiar stairwell that climbs into November dark, where a scalpel gleams beside the only heartbeat he cares about.

The rooftop is a slab of charcoal under a moonless sky, rimmed only by the faint orange wash of parking-lot lamps below. Jack steps through the access door in a slow, deliberate silhouette—palms open, fingers spread, nothing but night air between him and the man crouched beside the east parapet.

You’re half-folded in the stranger’s lap, knees and elbows scraped. He’s coiled around you like barbed wire—one arm cinched at your waist, the other gripping a scalpel so close to your throat Jack can see your pulse banging beneath the blade. Your tears have carved messy tracks over your cheeks; your chest jerks with soundless panic.

All the bright spirit that greeted sunrise twelve hours earlier is crushed into this trembling knot of terror.

Jack’s heart lurches hard enough to bruise, but his voice comes out steady—field-medic calm. “Dorian. Hands are up and empty, just like you asked.”

Dorian looks over at him, cheek is a blistered patch of red where something scalding had probably struck; sweat beads at his hairline, eyes glittering fever-bright. “I should’ve been first,” he hisses, tightening his grip until you flinch. “If only you hadn’t shown up in her life, she’d have seen me sooner.”

“It’s not a competition,” Jack answers, taking a measured step forward. Every inch he moves is a war against the urge to sprint, tackle, bleed. “No one’s against you here.”

“Liar.” Dorian’s voice cracks, half sob, half rage. “You barge in with your soldier heroics—she was perfect before you muddied it. My notes, my gifts—she understood order. Now look!” He shakes the scalpel in wild emphasis; the blade flashes, too near your skin. Your sob becomes a choking whimper.

Jack’s fingers curl, then flatten. Show no threat. “She’s exhausted, Dorian. Let her breathe. Then we can talk about what went wrong.”

“You went wrong!” he spits. He nestles the edge under your jaw; you freeze. Jack feels his own vision blaze white then narrow to a single target: that trembling wrist. He exhales, forces every molecule of fury down into his boots.

“We both care about her,” he says—voice dropping to that steady frequency meant to slow hemorrhages and heart rates. “And caring means easing her fear. You can do that—right now—by moving the blade away.” He nods at your tear-streaked face.

Dorian’s eyes flick to the knife, conflicted. Jack inches closer, keeping shoulders square, hands still high.

“She’s crying because I disappointed her,” Dorian whimpers, the certainty of his delusion buckling. “Tell him,” he orders you, shaking your shoulders. You sob harder, unable to speak.

Jack’s muscles bunch. The comm in his ear hisses: Seven feet. Clear head-shot. But he breathes, Not yet.

“This isn’t disappointment; it’s exhaustion,” Jack says, voice softening. “Fourteen hours on her feet, then a rooftop wind at night. She needs rest. We can give her that. Slide the blade to the ground, Dorian. Let me check her vitals.”

Dorian’s grip falters—a micro-tremor. He licks cracked lips, gaze darting between Jack’s calm stance and the dark slit of sky beyond the rail, as if weighing two horizons.

Jack takes another half step, almost within reach. Fury climbs his throat—your bruised arm, the tremor in your lower lip—but he buries it beneath the medic’s vow: first, do no harm.

“Dorian,” he murmurs, voice a thread anchoring three frantic heartbeats in the dark, “you’ve got control. Show me.”

The rooftop wind gusts, snapping stale hospital air into their faces. For one suspended moment, the blade wavers—hesitation shining like a crack in glass. And Jack readies every fiber of nerve to slip through that fracture and pull you back to daylight.

Dorian’s wrist trembles. Then—like a circuit finally sparking—he exhales and lets the scalpel slip from his fingers. It clicks against concrete, spins once, comes to rest.

“Good,” Jack murmurs, stepping closer. The night wind cuts between them, smelling of river ice and asphalt. He sees the decision glazing over Dorian’s eyes half a heartbeat too late.

“No one understands balance,” Dorian whispers, almost serene. “But maybe they’ll understand gravity.”

Before the words fully register, he surges upright, hauling you with him. His arm locks across your collarbones, iron-strong despite his wiry frame. Your ragged gasp rips the stillness apart.

Jack reacts—voice lost to roaring blood—but Dorian is already backing toward the parapet. ESU shouts behind him; boots thunder. The rooftop seems to tilt, time shearing into jagged frames: Dorian’s heel hitting the low ledge, your eyes huge with terror.

“Jack!” you scream—the single syllable shredding to panic.

And then he does the unthinkable: with a final, almost tender squeeze, he pitches himself backward, hauling you over the edge into black vacancy. Your cry knifes through the night just as Jack pushes, arms outstretched, heart detonating, every instinct pulverizing the distance between life and a twenty-story fall—

— and the world cuts to white noise and freefall.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #nurse reader #female reader #small age gap

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mattslutt · 2 months ago

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WORSHIP YOU - m.sturniolo

in which: : your boyfriend matt is obsessed with your thighs and always makes sure you feel worshipped and loved.

Matt’s voice is muffled through the bathroom, something about making dinner together, but you barely process it. You’re sprawled across the bed, phone in hand, mindlessly scrolling—a dangerous habit, you know. But today, the algorithm is relentless, shoving image after image of toned bodies, lean legs, impossible proportions right in your face.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, and then you catch your reflection in the black mirror of your phone—a frown, a furrowed brow. Without thinking, your hand moves to your thigh, fingers pressing into the softness, feeling that familiar twist in your stomach. You hate how easy it is for the doubt to creep in.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice Matt until the bed dips beneath his weight, and suddenly, warm hands are gripping your legs, dragging them over his shoulders as he all but buries himself between them. His cheek presses against the plush of your thigh, and you feel his lips—soft, barely-there kisses—trailing across your skin.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice low, a little muffled. He squeezes your thighs, almost like he’s testing the feeling of them in his hands, and there’s a hint of a groan in his voice, like he can’t help himself. “God, I missed these.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, the spell of self-critique cracking just slightly. “You saw me like an hour ago, Matt.”

“Yeah, and it was too long.” His grip tightens, and his eyes—half-lidded, a little dazed—flicker up to yours. “You know, you could suffocate me with these, and I’d say thank you.”

Your cheeks burn. “Matt—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, the playful tone slipping just a bit, replaced by something softer, almost reverent. His fingers trace slow, lazy circles over your thighs, his touch feather-light, but enough to leave a trail of warmth in its wake. “I don’t think you get it. I’m obsessed. These legs, these thighs—” He presses another kiss, this time lingering, his lips hot against your skin. “I love them. I love you.”

His words hit harder than you expect, and you instinctively try to pull your legs away, but his hands are already gripping tighter. “Nope. Not going anywhere,” he insists, his lips still brushing against you with every word. “You can keep thinking whatever you want, but just know I’m gonna keep doing this. Forever. Okay?”

Your heart stutters, the familiar doubt flickering weakly before fading under his touch, his words, his devotion. You reach down, your fingers slipping into his messy hair, and he hums, leaning into your touch like a cat starved for attention.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice a little shaky, a little overwhelmed. “Forever sounds good.”

“Good,” he mumbles, already pressing another kiss to your thigh, his voice going softer, almost sleepy. “Because I’m not letting go. Ever.”

Matt’s lips are still against your thigh, the warmth of his breath spreading across your skin, and his voice drops to a low, almost sleepy murmur. “Softest thighs I’ve ever touched,” he whispers, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles. “Could live right here. Your skin’s perfect. So warm, so soft.”

“Matt—” you try to protest, a nervous laugh bubbling up, but his hands just tighten, pulling your legs even closer around his shoulders.

“No, I mean it,” he continues, voice edging on desperate, like he needs you to understand. “You don’t get it, do you? You could wear anything—shorts, dresses, those leggings I love—and I’d just lose my mind. Sometimes I see you and forget how to talk. I just wanna touch you, kiss you—”

Your face burns, your fingers instinctively tugging at his hair, trying to distract him. “Matt, stop—”

“Not a chance,” he breathes, pressing another kiss, this one wetter, his lips lingering. “I’d spend hours here if you let me. I love the way you feel, love the way you look. I love how soft you are. How perfect.” His voice is a low, steady rhythm, each word sinking into your skin, carving away every ounce of doubt.

“Matt—” you try again, but he looks up, his blue eyes dark and serious, and your voice falters.

“I wish you could see what I see,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something almost vulnerable. “How gorgeous you are. I watch you walk around, and I just—” He lets out a low, breathless laugh. “I can’t believe you’re mine. Can’t believe I get to touch you. I’m so obsessed, baby. So, so obsessed.”

You feel the heat crawling down your neck, spreading across your chest, and you try to squirm away, embarrassment making you lightheaded. “Matt, please—”

“Please, what?” he teases, but there’s a gentleness to it. “Please keep going? Please keep kissing you?” His lips find a new spot on your thigh, his stubble grazing against your skin, sending a shiver through you. “I will. I’ll never stop. Not until you believe me. Not until you understand how much I love every single part of you.”

Your heart is racing, the mixture of embarrassment and something warmer, something more addictive, flooding through you. You try to cover your face, but Matt’s hand catches your wrist, pulling it gently away.

“No hiding, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice a low promise. “Not from me. Never from me.”

A/N:

as a curvy girly myself, im very insecure and have been feeling way more insecure recently so i wrote this to feed my delusions but also make myself feel better LMAO.

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makeitworse · 3 months ago

Text

LIKE A CAROUSEL

with nothing left to lose, you decide to confront your illicit past with ji-yong. old habits die hard (or maybe not at all).

⋆˙⟡ ibelongiiu part three 𓂃 c/w: fem!reader x sub!jiyong. angst | smut | fluff. age gap. cheating. conflict. breakup. confessions. endgame. nsfw content minors dni

like promised, you and ji-yong hadn’t spoken since that night. there was no “we should talk” text. no explanation of what it meant. just clean-cut silence. and that was for the better.

you went your separate ways once again— him, working on the new album. and you, going back home to your boyfriend.

you clung to the safe, mundane life you had with him. you pretended that you hadn’t just thrown it all away for a hit-and-run with your ex.

it was little more than just a singular, impulsive, meaningless night. you tell yourself ji-yong probably felt the same. and for a while, it works.

until the photos surface.

blurry, grainy; obviously shot from a phone camera with shaky hands. you could laugh at how low quality they were, if you weren’t sick to your stomach.

there’s one of you and ji-yong standing in a dimly lit corner of the chanel show. another of him leaning in closer while you’re speaking. and then one that makes your insides flare: ji-yong mid-conversation with someone else, craning his neck to stare at you from across the room.

thankfully, the articles don’t name you— just “a mystery woman spotted with g-dragon”. but, it still found its way to your boyfriend’s algorithm. he sent you the link to one with a question mark. then came another.

it wasn’t long before he finally approached you, holding out his phone.

“this was him?”

you barely glanced at the photo. the way ji-yong’s looking at you in it has been burned into your memory.

“yeah,” you answer, keeping your tone light. “it was just a surprise catch-up. i didn’t even know he’d be there.”

that part, at the least, is true.

what you neglect to mention: the locked hotel door. the drink you shared. the way ji-yong looked at you after you shoved him, like he’d let you do anything you wanted.

but for now, it’s enough to reassure your boyfriend. you just hoped that’d be the last you’d hear of it.

come february, and übermensch drops like a bomb.

his comeback dominates the media. you only skimmed a few headlines before muting all mentions of his name. they’re saying it’s dark, sexy— raw in a way that feels like the carrion of a secret dragged into the spotlight.

you can’t help but recall the lyrics he used to hum against your skin, the verses he’d draft while writing late at night. you wonder if any of the ‘just between us’ songs made it to the final cut.

of course, fate’s got a sick sense of humour.

your boyfriend walked to you in the kitchen, phone in his hand and a strange look on his face.

“have you heard this?”

your throat tightens. you know he must’ve listened to the album. it can’t be anything good.

your boyfriend presses play on a song. it’s got a sensual tone to it. ji-yong’s voice is deep, the words raw.

you realise it must be bonamana— the one that fans have been whispering about online. track seven. the confessional. the one he sounds like he’s bleeding in.

you bite the inside of your cheek, keeping your gaze ahead as you listen. your boyfriend’s studying you.

ji-yong’s quite literally rapping about a girl with someone else waiting at home, but you’re tossing up the explanations in your head— this could all just be fiction, it’s a misunderstanding..

until the song reaches a particular verse. you’re floored. ji-yong’s practically retelling your encounter that night in the hotel: how you pushed him, got on top of him.

and he put it into a song for the whole world to hear. because of course he did.

your reaction’s louder than words. your boyfriend stares at you with his jaw clenched. he pauses the song— he’s got his answer.

“it’s about you, isn’t it?” his eyes search your face. “tell me i’m wrong.”

you swallow. “it is.”

he takes a step towards you. “when.”

“it was just the one time—”

“don’t do that.” he groaned, shaking his head. “don’t act like it was meaningless when the whole fucking world knows what it meant to him.”

there’s no use fixing it. you had this coming.

you gathered your things in silence while he paced the apartment like he was still waiting for something to change. for this to somehow be just another fight, not the end.

but it was. he wanted to hash it out, find some compromise and recover from this. but you refused to stay and ruin him any more than you already have. you would at least do him that grace.

and yet, in retrospect, it almost feels like there was nothing solid to end. like you’d been in limbo the entire time— pretending something steady existed between you, when really, your heart was never his to begin with.

you zipped up your overnight bag. he stood in the doorway, watching you with a hollow look.

“i’m sorry,” you say quietly. it’s all you had left to offer him. pitiful, too little too late— especially after ji-yong had bared the truth of it all to the world, immortalising your betrayal in his music.

your now-ex didn’t yell. didn’t cry. you shared a knowing nod as you turned the door knob— the kind of look that said all the things his mouth couldn’t.

before you walked out, his voice comes softly: “you chose him. maybe not out loud, but you did.”

he’s not wrong. and what’s worse— you’ve started to think that this was always how it was going to end. you, finding your way back to ji-yong. it just shouldn’t of taken someone else’s heart as a stepping stone for you to get there.

you were two bottles of wine into your wallowing. alone in your apartment, a cigarette burning idly between your fingers that really hadn’t done much to take the edge off.

a coworker from your new firm, who’d become a good friend, was just checking in on you— and you, in your boozy woe is me state, bluntly mentioned the breakup. it was half a joke, half a cry for help. if you had sent that sober, you would’ve contemplated suicide for being so embarrassing.

she must’ve passed the word on, because hours later, your phone buzzed with a call from a familiar number. someone from your former styling team.

“we’re all going to the album listening party tonight. you could come out.” her voice is hesitant, like she’s unsure if she should be asking.

you weighed the options: a third bottle of wine, or going to your ex’s celebratory party (who was also the reason your last relationship just ended).

you couldn't decide which option would cost more of the last shred of dignity you had left.

“ah, fuck it. where do i meet you?”

guess that number’s below zero now.

the venue was all flashing lights and booming bass, full of industry faces and overlapping chatter. your back stayed glued to a wall, nursing a drink while you chatted with your old team.

your name hadn’t even been on the guest list— but someone from his team ushered you in without a second glance. you didn’t know how to feel about it. inside, you tried to ignore the way people’s gaze lingered on you, like they had a faint idea of who you were.

you watched the crowd sway to the music. personally, you weren’t paying it much mind; ji-yong had already played some of the demos for you.

but then you hear the start of one you don’t recognise. it’s groovy and upbeat— his voice doesn’t have that usual grit to it.

then the chorus comes, and your breath catches.

take me, i’m yours.

you recall hearing that before, except it was said in private— ji-yong had once cooed those words to you, gazing at you with heart-eyes while his head laid on your chest.

he must’ve wrote this while you were still together. you wonder just how much the rest of the album had your memory etched into it. is that why they called you here? how many people knew?

a lump formed in your throat. it’s all too much.

you scanned the room— searching, needing— when your eyes land on him, already looking at you. ji-yong, drink in hand, with youngbae’s arm slung over his shoulder. he looked untouchable under the pulsing red lights.

everything else around him fell away. his eyes are burning, flickering with something you can’t quite place. and when you don’t avert your eyes— he puts down his drink, and he’s moving. so you excuse yourself from the table and wade through the crowd.

you trail ji-yong to a quiet corner of the room.

as you approach, you stop in front of him, close enough to hear his breath tremble. you don’t speak first.

“didn’t think i’d see you here.” he says, quiet under the music.

“me neither.” you admit.

take me’s chorus booms in the background— ji-yong’s own voice begging to be taken by you. he huffs a shy laugh, lifting his straw hat to ruffle his hair.

how he can act so flustered, when he’s the one who put it out there for everyone (or perhaps just you) to hear. speaking of which;

”i heard bonamana,” you start. ji-yong’s head raises at that, his eyes anticipating your reaction. a smirk tugs at your lips. you scoff. “you’re a mess.”

ji-yong fidgets with his sleeves. there’s a small smile on his face. it’s cute, how shy he is. seems like he really wasn’t expecting this.

“wanna talk?”

his reply is instant, soft but certain. “not here. come with me?”

and you do. because of course you do.

ji-yong leads you into a quieter lounge room tucked away from the rest of the venue, the bass of the party muffled by the door as it clicks shut behind him.

there’s low lighting, and a velvet sofa against the wall that you perch on. ji-yong’s standing there with his hands in his pocket, his stance more relaxed.

“you really listened to it?” he asks, soft.

you met his eyes, cocking a brow. “you’ve got nerve, releasing that while i had a boyfriend.”

his mouth pulls into something between a grimace and a smile. “had?”

you sit up straighter. “well i’m here, aren’t i?”

he nods slowly. his eyes drift, avoiding yours, like he’s scared he’ll say too much if he keeps looking. your hands curl to fists in your lap.

“couldn’t this have been a phone call, ji? did you have to… sing it all?”

his head tilts back, face cracking with a smile. there’s no humour in it though— he’s trying to hold himself back.

“i thought you were done with me.” his jaw clenches. he shifts in his spot. “i got to keep you close to me when i wrote about you. even if i didn’t get to be yours.”

you’re quiet. ji-yong goes to step towards you, but restrains himself. he settles on playing with his ring instead.

“i didn’t plan this. i swear, i didn’t approach you in hong kong intending to drag you back into my life. but when i saw you..” he exhales a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut, like he’s replaying the memory of that night. “i hoped.”

he pauses, staring at you intently— like he’s daring you to look away. you hold his gaze, and he’s sure of himself enough to slowly step towards you.

“i hoped you’d still remember us the way i do.”

your throat tightens as you watch him hover above you in the chair. you stand, and your faces are dangerously close once you’re on your feet. you can hear the faintest noise from his throat.

“i can’t forget.” you murmur. “and that’s the fucking problem.”

“then let’s stop pretending.” his eyes soften. “please.”

you look at him. really look at him. and for the first time in a long time, you feel the mask slipping from your face.

and then you hear it— the intro to gyro-drop bleeding through the walls. you blink at him, registering the lyrics. ji-yong watches your reaction, face a cross between amusement and dread. your face splits in a laugh.

“you’re really letting everyone know you bottom, huh?”

he winces with a boyish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “it wouldn’t be right otherwise.”

you hum in response, pinching the brim of his hat teasingly. he watches with bated breath as you lift it from his head. tossing it to a side table, ji-yong snatches your waist into his hands with a newfound impatience.

“i missed you so much,” he says breathlessly. “been waiting for you.”

“mm, i heard.” you drawl, cupping his jaw in your palms.

and then the tension boils over. ji-yong’s yanking you into a kiss, mouths meeting with months worth of pent-up hunger. by the lapel of his jacket, you pull him down onto the couch with you, wasting no time straddling his lap.

you’re both hurried with the rocks of your hips, trading messy kisses that left your chin stained with saliva. it wasn’t long before hands were being shoved down pants, and clothes swiftly pushed to the side.

you fucked ji-yong right there on that couch. his hands on your hips, looking up at you with heart-eyes as you rutted down on his dick. he was a whining mess— sloppy thrusts trying to match your pace.

you had to muffled his mouth with a kiss as he came— you worried he’d be louder than the music.

as you both winded down from your highs, ji-yong pressed his forehead to yours, strands of hair drenched with sweat.

“i’m yours.”

and in that moment, with your heart thudding against his and your lips brushing softly, you kiss him— sweeter this time. it’s not just want, it’s a promise. and it didn’t need to be said out loud. you’re his.

the dressing room buzzes with a life that could only be described as an organised chaos— stylists flitting around with last-minute touch-ups, his team checking monitors and cue sheets, the distant roar of the crowd beyond the stage.

in the eye of the storm, ji-yong’s calm. he’s seated in a chair at the vanity, head tipped back and eyes closed while you adjust his chains.

“these will wilt if you keep sweating,” you tease, poking the fabric of his rose jacket.

he cracks one eye open with a smile. “promise to dry me off?”

you roll your eyes and flick his ear, earning a low chuckle from him.

you check your watch— showtime’s in just a few minutes. ji-yong’s hand finds your waist with ease, tugging you closer so you’re standing between his legs.

instinctively, you go smooth over the fabric of his shirt, fix up the neckline. despite being well-established at your job, you still find yourself reverting back to your habits from being ji-yong’s stylist.

you brush a stray strand of hair from his face. “you nervous?”

he shrugs. “night can’t get much better than this.”

you arch a brow. he cracks open an eye to scrunch his nose at you, pulling you down for a kiss.

it’s brief, a soft press of lips, but it grounds you both. a reminder of what it took to get here. of the time you spent apart, the quiet hope buried under all the words unsaid.

how now, you can kiss in front of his staff without anyone staring sideways. how you can support him before the first concert of the tour, by his side and in the public eye.

how he’ll go out on that stage, and the crowd will sing along to the words he wrote in reminiscence of you. hoping you’d come back to him. waiting.

a crew member distantly yells the two-minute call.

ji-yong exhales, taking your hand in his. you give him a reassuring squeeze.

“i’ll be watching from the side.”

“well, now i have to do my best, don’t i?”

you watched him as he positioned himself on the platform, giving you one last smile as ji-yong, before he emerged on the stage as g-dragon.

ji-yong to you, g-dragon to the audience. and all of him, belonging to you.

a/n: and it’s done! hope you enjoyed reading this lil series as much as i did writing it, thank you all for readin ♡

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#gdragon x reader #g dragon x reader #gdragon smut #bigbang x reader #kwon jiyong x reader #sub!gdragon #sub!bigbang #g dragon smut #bigbang smut

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