#k/s ficlet

[indeedcaptain]

Spirktober 2023, day 20: Protect

Protective!Spock is my favoriteeeeee <3 so here we go!!

Also posted on AO3 here!

☆☆☆

Starfleet, in its infinite wisdom, had changed the design of the cutlery in the mess halls, and Kirk hated the new ones.

They were balanced differently, they were less ergonomic, and --- as he bent down to regather the knife that had slipped down off his plate onto the floor for the third time in as many days --- they refused to stay where they were placed. 

He returned to upright to see Uhura and Bones staring in states of shock at Spock, seated next to him. Spock placidly spooned plomeek soup into his mouth and gave no indication that he was aware of their attention. He finished his meal, slid his spoon into the bowl, and stood. “I will be in Laboratory 7 for the remainder of Alpha shift,” he said. “Good-bye.” 

“Bye, Spock,” Uhura said faintly, and she and Bones watched him leave with that same slightly dazed look. 

“Alright,” Kirk said. “That’s enough. Why are you looking at him like that?”

Bones and Uhura looked at each other before answering, which was never a good sign. Uhura must have won whatever argument they were silently having, because it was Bones who sighed and said, “Jim, have you ever noticed that Spock is slightly… overprotective?” 

Kirk started. “Now, I wouldn’t call it over-protective,” he said, shifting in his seat. “He’s loyal. He’s a Vulcan. The ship and her crew are his responsibility, as first officer.” 

“Not with the crew, captain,” Uhura said. “It’s really just with you.” 

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Mr. Spock is the best first officer in the Fleet. Everyone says so. Protective? Sure. But we seem to get into trouble more than most, so that’s probably for the best.” 

Bones and Uhura exchanged another glance. “If you say so, captain,” Uhura said, and they finished the rest of their meal in relative peace. Kirk had nearly forgotten about the exchange until his padd pinged with a message from Bones as he was preparing to lay down for the night. 

>TheRealMcCoy: just saying

>TheRealMcCoy: [Attachment: securityfile3214-25.gif]

Kirk tapped on the gif and it opened. It was a looping video that Bones must have pulled from the security feed, or bribed someone else to pull, more likely. It showed a black and white view of the officer’s mess hall. Kirk saw the square table where he, Bones, Uhura, and Spock had shared lunch earlier in the day. He watched himself set down his knife, which promptly slid backwards off his plate and bounced to the ground. He saw himself bend over sideways to grab at it, ducking his head down beneath the level of the table. 

He saw Spock lean over and cover the corner of the table with his hand. He saw himself come back up, and as his head cleared the edge of the table he saw Spock straighten back up and return his hand to its standard position in his lap. 

Kirk sat down on his bed, expanded the .gif to fill his whole screen, and watched it again. He leaned down to grab the knife and Spock covered the sharp corner of the table with his hand until his head was safely away from it. He watched the .gif over and over again, memorizing the little protective gesture of Spock’s that he hadn’t even noticed at the time but was now immortalized in the security footage. Spock hadn’t even turned his head to look at Kirk before moving to cover the corner. How frequently had this happened? How many of these moments had Uhura and Bones seen that he hadn’t? 

>JTK: Huh 

>JTK: Okay

>JTK: I still don’t think it counts as OVER protective 

>JTK: does this happen a lot?? 

>TheRealMcCoy: the good lord gave you your own eyeballs 

>TheRealMcCoy: how about you use them

“Computer, lights to zero,” he said. He lay in the darkness, trying to sleep, unable to wipe the sight of Spock’s hand sliding over the table’s corner out of his mind. 

☆☆☆ 

Kirk watched his first officer carefully over the next few weeks, and it was an enlightening experience. Nothing in Spock’s behavior or demeanor had changed, but Uhura’s comment of “it’s really just with you” had latched in his brain and reframed how he saw the little quirks of Spock’s protectiveness. They sparred in the gym and, even though Spock threw him, Spock’s hand was behind his head before he hit the ground. They ate lunch in the mess hall and Spock inserted himself in the seat between him and the security officer with a peanut butter sandwich. And, without fail, when the new shitty knives slid off his plate and he had to retrieve them, Spock’s hand was between his head and the table’s edge every time. 

How had he never noticed this before? The Enterprise, when flying on her own, was not a particularly dangerous place. And yet almost every time he encountered something that was slightly hazardous to himself, Spock was there. Each observation warmed him. His stoic, unfeeling, deeply Vulcan first officer was protective of him. He still wasn’t sure if he would call it over-protective, though. 

Kirk did keep a small collection of .gifs on his padd when he could get the security video discreetly. He liked the proof. 

☆☆☆ 

Kirk thought that there was a slight possibility that Spock was a little overprotective of him when he went missing for only a few hours --- alright, was kidnapped like a damsel --- on an away mission and Spock went, according to all reports, absolutely berserk. His first introduction to this idea was Spock ripping the door to his cell clean off its hinges. He threw it behind him, where it hit the wall of the corridor with an almighty clanging, and stepped inside. Kirk stared at him from where he sat on the cot in the corner. Spock stared at him, chest heaving, face flushed green, and as he registered Kirk’s unharmed state and general air of relaxation his breath slowed until he was very nearly back to his normal appearance. 

“Hello there, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said, slightly bewildered. 

“Captain,” Spock said, inclining his head. He straightened his uniform shirt and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m gratified to see that you are well. I believe you are free to go.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” he said, rising from the cot. “You were able to negotiate with the rogue faction?” 

“Yes, captain,” Spock said, and turned to follow Kirk out of the cell. “I found that they were willing to acquiesce to my demands rather quickly.” 

“That’s good, very good,” Kirk said distractedly as they walked down the hallway. He did not see any sign of his security team, and there were unconscious guards lying solo or in piles at regular intervals along the hall and down the stairs. He recognized his kidnappers from their clothing among the guards, but they were also all unconscious. 

“What, ah, negotiation tactics did you use, Mr. Spock?” Kirk asked as they ascended the stairs into the front hall and reunited with some red-shirted security officers. They stood around with their arms crossed, phasers holstered, and they gave no indication of having participated in any sort of strenuous activity. What had their role been in the fight with the guards…?

“Vulcan ones, captain,” Spock said, and if he noticed that the security officers stared at him with an interesting mix of respect and horror, he gave no outward indication. 

“Ah,” Kirk said. “That’s… good.” He had a feeling he could guess what Vulcan negotiating tactics were, but he reserved judgment until he had received mission reports from his other officers. Spock walked alongside him with his usual reserve, and as he was now free from the cell he had formerly been trapped within, Kirk found that he had no complaints of however Spock chose to negotiate on his behalf. 

On the ship, in his quarters, he read over the reports from his security team, which varied from professional to unfortunately creative, in mounting disbelief. 

First Officer Spock proved the efficacy of the Vulcan art of Suus Mahna in about thirty seconds… 

Science Officer Spock kicked down the door to the building and then neutralized the entire kidnapping party… 

Mr. Spock in combat is, in my professional opinion, somewhat of a demon… 

God help the man who gets between Spock and the captain. 

Kirk pressed his intercom button. “Mr. Spock, could you please come to my quarters for a moment?” 

“Yes, captain.” Spock’s response came immediately, and the man himself appeared in Kirk’s doorway about twenty seconds later. “How can I help you, captain?” 

Kirk handed the padds with the security reports to Spock and sat back down in his desk chair. “Could you please review these and let me know your thoughts on their accuracy?” 

Spock raised one eyebrow at him, but said, “Certainly, captain.” He stood in front of Kirk’s desk and methodically skimmed over each report. He set them down one by one until his hands were empty, and then he clasped them behind his back. 

“I believe these reports to be mostly accurate, if unfortunately unobjective,” Spock said. 

Kirk blinked. “So you did kick the door down.”

“Yes, captain.” 

“And you refused to wait for the security detail.” 

“I did not need them, captain.” 

“And you neutralized the entire threat before ripping my cell door off the hinges.” 

“I believe you witnessed the second part firsthand, captain.” 

“I see,” Kirk said, and covered his hand with his mouth to hide his smile. When he had regained control of his face and looked suitably serious, he said, “Mostly accurate? What in the reports is false?” 

Spock straightened the pile of padds on the desk in front of him, forcing them into perfect alignment. “I do not believe there is a god in this universe that could help the man that stood between us. Good night, captain.” He turned on his heel and left, leaving Kirk gaping at the space he had left behind. He looked back at the stack of padds on his desk to his closed door once more, replaying Spock’s departing words to him in his head.

“I’ll be damned,” Kirk said. He had never been one for pick-up lines, and he wasn’t even sure if that was one, necessarily, but… that was one hell of a pick-up line. He made copies of the security reports and added them to his little folder of proof and if he smiled to himself while he washed his hair in the shower then it was nobody’s business but his own. 

[a-most-beloved-fool]

For the ask prompt game...

Spirk #17 to distract

"Report," Kirk ordered. The word buzzed low against Spock's ear, quiet and audibly tense.

"Less than two minutes until they reach our location, Captain," Spock replied promptly. "Commander Scott will need at least another eight before the transporter is operable again." His voice was equally hush, despite their perceived solitude. He had seen carelessness take far too many lives during his time in Starfleet; he would not allow it to take his captain as well - and, illogically, Spock could not quite dispense of the phantom sensation of eyes on the back of his neck.

"We'll need to bluff it," Kirk decided, looking grim.

His gaze was strangely intense against Spock, full of rioting emotion, and, almost, Spock wished to look away. He did not. Instead, he nodded, holding steady eye contact.

The odds, Spock knew, that Kirk's gambit - whatever it may be - would succeed were... poor. The guards had, after all, seen their faces. But Kirk would keep fighting right until the bitter end, and Spock, of course, would be right beside him.

Solemn, he vowed, "I shall follow your lead," though he knew Kirk would not have doubted it. Still, the unnecessary words were well worth the way the tension around Kirk's eyes melted away, the somber set of his mouth slipping instead into a golden-edged smile.

Almost wonderingly, a soft chuckle fell from those lips, incongruous in their surroundings and entirely treasured. "What would I do without you?" Kirk asked, reaching up to exert gentle pressure on Spock's bicep.

I pray you never need find out, Spock made to say, getting only so far as drawing in breath before the sound of distant footsteps drew them both from their quiet moment, snuffing the words before they could take shape. "Eighteen seconds," he said instead, after rapidly adjusting his calculations. Faster than anticipated.

Kirk nodded, some unreadable emotion hiding in the soft crease between his brows.

"Forgive me, Mr. Spock," Kirk said softly, and Spock did not have time to question what he meant before Kirk was pulling him down by his shirt, dragging their lips together with great urgency.

Quite suddenly, Spock found that his mind was entirely blank. Strange heat flickered through his whole form, and his universe narrowed to only Kirk, all soft and human-warm, who was pressed flush to his chest and kissing him.

One, then two seconds stuttered by in which Spock thought no thoughts at all, struck utterly motionless in the face of such unexpected attentions. He only felt, swept away by the sensation of pliant lips against his own and warm fingers stroking through his hair, gently mussing.

The very first thought to break to the surface was simply, Jim. A wave of emotion flooded in with it, astonishment and affection sweeping over him in such quantities that he felt nearly lightheaded.

The second was, We will be caught, and Spock jolted as something near to panic rose up inside his gullet, urging him to take Jim into his arms and run.

The third, however, was not his own; it was pressed into his katra from the outside by Jim's careful fingers, his clever mind slipping easily past Spock's shields. Play along, he said, projecting deliberate calm through their connection. Still, Jim was unpracticed in telepathic arts, and beneath that false serenity Spock could feel a tangle of guilt and determination, bitter and writhing.

The truth came to Spock in one fell swoop.

Jim's gambit... was this.

His lips and his hands, which pressed themselves so tenderly to Spock's skin, were not for him.

It was not love which had drawn his captain into his arms, but mere utility. Jim had realized what Spock had not: though they could not hide themselves, they could, perhaps, distract from themselves.

Two men attempting to look inconspicuous would only draw suspicion. Two men locked in a romantic embrace, however, may be overlooked - or even deliberately ignored. Few were comfortable with looking closely at the private passions of strangers, and fewer still would see reason to. Those searching for them, Spock hoped, would not. There would be no logic in halting an escape attempt solely for a kiss, after all.

Therefore, in order to escape unnoticed, they must be convincing.

They must seem, to any observers, to be completely and entirely immersed in one another, with no care for anything going on in their surroundings, and no fear of discovery.

Two lives, purchased with a kiss.

It was entirely logical, then, for Spock to part his lips, inviting Jim's tongue to dip inside of the wet cave of his mouth and meeting it with his own. If a groan rumbled deep within his chest, it could surely only help their cause; there was no need to swallow it down.

This disguise would, Spock observed as Jim's tongue flicked gently at his mouth, be far easier to maintain than it had any right to be.

It was a terribly simple matter for a man in love to behave as though he were a man in love.

The difficult part, then, would be remembering that it was a ruse. Already, heat bubbled deep within Spock, aching want suffusing his every neuron. Every faint brush of flesh sent golden tendrils of telepathic energy sparking across his skin, and it was all Spock could manage to hold himself back from pressing hungry fingers to Jim's meldpoints and sinking into that wonderfully enticing mind.

Instead, Spock slipped a hand beneath the hem of Jim's shirt, rucking up the cloth until he was tracing patterns across a smooth expanse of golden skin. He flexed his hand, allowing his nails to scratch carefully along Jim's spine, and did not permit himself to consider reaching upwards, to Jim's face - or worse: downwards, beyond the waistband of his pants.

He wondered if Jim would have chosen this, had he known how very much Spock wanted.

Perhaps it was selfish of Spock to allow it.

Still, he could not force himself away - not when Jim's life was at stake. The kiss was his lifeline, and so the kiss must remain.

The touch of their minds, however, did nothing to aid Jim. It was solely for Spock's benefit, taken from Jim without his knowledge or intent.

That, Spock could end.

If Jim was to unknowingly place himself into the hands of someone who wanted more than he would wish to give, then Spock would take it upon himself to be his protector - even if the one he must protect against was himself.

And so, Spock opened himself to every offered touch, and girded his mind against every stray thought, until not a single wisp of golden energy could find its way past his defenses.

When Jim's thigh nudged its way between Spock's legs, Spock spread his stance wider, allowing him to press closer, and did not let himself feel. His hands grasped and squeezed at the soft flesh beneath them, drawing quiet gasps from a pink-flushed throat, and no pleasant hum buzzed against his fingertips, carrying with it the flavor of human emotion. Jim nipped at his lips and pet at his hair, and Spock pressed every scrap of yearning deep down within himself to where they couldn't emerge.

Eyes closed and spirit aching, Spock kissed him.

_____________

from this ask game

[illegalpaladin]

Drabble request: spirk picnic

Thank you for the request!!! It was nice to write something cute and fluffy for Spirk 💖

“So. Spock. What do you think of your first picnic?”

Jim pulled out all the stops. A checkered blanket spread across the gentle slope of a grassy hill. A pile of bite sized cucumber sandwiches. Hell–he even replicated a wicker basket.

He watches nervously as Spock scans the meadow, taking in the bright flowers that dot its surface.

Spock clears his throat. “It is certainly an… idyllic use of time.”

Jim's mouth twitches into a frown. It's a non-answer. Is Spock enjoying himself? Is he bored?

The next words out of Jim's mouth are a panicked attempt to fill the silence. “Have you ever done cloud gazing?”

Spock turns his attention from the green field to Jim, a pointed eyebrow raised. “I can't say I have, Jim.”

Jim’s grin returns. “Well, it's another idyllic use of time, but I think you'll like it.” He has his doubts, actually, but he keeps them to himself. He's been so nervous around Spock recently–ever since they started this relationship, or whatever they'd call it.

He stretches his legs out in front of him and reclines, leaning his weight against his hands behind him. “Come here, Spock. Let me show you.”

Spock shifts until he's next to Jim and copies his posture. They're close enough that Jim can almost feel their fingertips brushing. He blushes, and it reminds him of falling in love as a young man again.

“That cloud there–” Jim shifts his weight onto one arm and points at a particularly fluffy cloud in the periwinkle sky. “Take a look. What do you see?”

He glances at Spock just long enough to see him blink. “That is a cumulus cloud.”

It startles a laugh out of Jim. “No, Spock–we aren't classifying them. What does it look like?”

“A cumulus cloud.”

“Hm.” Jim lets himself fall back until he's laying across the blanket. He points at another fluffy cloud. “I think that one looks like a cat's head. See the ears? What do you think?”

He's almost surprised when Spock lays next to him. Their shoulders brush, and Jim feels heat rise to his cheeks at the intimacy.

“That one is also a cumulus cloud, Jim.”

Jim feels his heart sink–just a little. He feels like he's failing Spock somehow. Letting him down.

Spock shifts next to him. Suddenly, Jim feels a cool hand resting on top of his. Fingers moving to tangle with his own.

Jim feels his heart skip.

“And I do believe,” Spock hums, “that it represents a sehlat much more than it does a Terran feline.”

[flippyspoon]

NOTE: Lil SNW Spirk drabble.

Spock was just about to dig into a steaming bowl of plomeek soup when Lieutenant Kirk of the Farragut sat down across from him, grinning in his friendly manner.

Spock blinked at him and said, "May I help you, Lieutenant?"

"Don't let me interrupt your dinner-"

"Thank-"

"Only I was wondering if you could give me the basics on how that ion storm disrupted our ops systems? I'm sure it's something I'm going to see again."

Spock started to speak, frowned, and said, "Have you never encountered an ion storm?"

"Well, yes. But I could use a better understanding of how they work."

Spock forgot about his dinner and fixed Jim Kirk with a wary gaze.

"Lieutenant, this is the sixth question you've asked me today concerning a subject about which I'm sure you are already knowledgable. You have already asked me about diplomatic relations with Andoria-"

"Your thoughts on it were invaluable!"

"And about experiments in the use of neutronium-"

"Well, yes, I've read about that. But I thought a science officer like yourself might have new insights."

"Lieutenant, is there a reason you continually ask me questions to which you already possess answers? Are you testing my knowledge?"

"Not at all, Mr. Spock! I ...suppose I just enjoy listening to Vulcans explain things to me."

Spock raised an eyebrow, perking up slightly. "Do you know many Vulcans?"

"No," Kirk said, resting his chin on his hands. "You're the only one."

"I...do not understand."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," Kirk said. "You're the best mind in the fleet after all."

[sauntering-down]

well, that happened!

[dakusan]

N O   S A I N T   I N K

Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | He tattoos like an artist and eats like a god. You're ruined. Congratulations.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.”

💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Oral (f. receiving) — graphic, intense, life-altering | Pussy eating obsession (Han is a munch) | Filthy, unrelenting dirty talk — degradation + praise mix (chaos edition) | “Good girl,” “slut,” “mine,” “cum for me” energy | Clit stimulation + g-spot pressure = brain cell deletion | Multiple orgasms (yes. multiple.) | Fingering, choking, possessive hand-gripping

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Late afternoon, Seoul.

The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”

You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.

The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:

“we only leave beautiful scars.”

You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—

And then you see him.

Han Jisung.

Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.

Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.

He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—

Freeze.

He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.

“You lost, angel?”

His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.

You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”

He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.

“Name?”

You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

You nod.

His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”

A pause.

“Alright. You’re with me.”

The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.

The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.

Han gestures for you to sit.

You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.

He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.

A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.

“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.

You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.

Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”

You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

“Where do you want it?”

You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”

That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.

“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”

You freeze.

He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.

Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.

You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.

He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.

His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”

You suck in a breath, chest rising.

He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.

He looks up.

“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”

You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.

He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.

You tense.

He catches it immediately.

“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”

You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.

Then his hand is back on your body.

He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.

And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.

“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.

It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.

“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”

You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.

The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.

After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.

He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.

You’re trembling now. Just a little.

He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.

“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”

You nod, throat dry.

He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.

You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.

“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”

You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.

The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.

Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.

“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”

You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”

He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”

“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”

Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”

“I’m delightful.”

He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.

You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.

He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.

“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.

Your jaw drops.

He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”

You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”

“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”

You stare.

He smiles wider.

“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”

The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.

You blink. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”

You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:

HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤

He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”

You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.

“Close is my middle name.”

You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”

“See you soon, angel.”

You’re out the door.

The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.

What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.

Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”

You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”

You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.

He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”

You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.

The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—

“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”

You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.

You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.

“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”

You almost trip on the curb.

The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.

“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”

He moans in your ear when you do what he says.

Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:

“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”

It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.

It started with a text.

Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.

[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one

You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)

You rolled your eyes. Typed back:

[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both

His reply came in a blink:

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

And then:

[You] see you friday.

Friday. 9:04PM.

Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.

The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.

The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.

The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.

Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—

“Back here, pretty.”

His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.

You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.

He’s already set up.

Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”

When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.

The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”

You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“I lied.”

A beat. Then—

“Where’s it going again?”

You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.

His gaze drops.

Stays.

He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”

You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”

He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”

He gloves up without another word.

You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”

You exhale shakily.

“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”

You whisper: “Maybe.”

He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.

And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.

And then—

“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”

You snort. “Wow. So original.”

He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”

You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”

You mutter, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”

You cover your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”

The machine whirs to life.

It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.

And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.

“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”

You tense. He notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another pause. Then—

“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”

But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”

You blink. Your heart skips.

He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.

“Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.

“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…

He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—

“You want me to touch you?”

The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

“Yes what, baby?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Jisung—”

“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”

You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”

He moves instantly.

The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.

“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”

He bends down.

Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”

Your stomach flips. You whimper.

And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”

You blink.

He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.

You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.

He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”

You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”

He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.

Then he lowers himself between your legs.

Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.

“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.

And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.

Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.

“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”

You’re shaking now.

He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.

“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”

You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.

His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”

You breathe, “Jisung—please—”

That does it.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.

He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”

Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.

Then—

His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:

“Stay fucking still.”

Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.

His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your head falls back—gone.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.

“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”

You try to answer—can’t.

He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”

“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”

“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”

Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.

“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”

His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.

“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.

You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.

“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”

That breaks you.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.

You hear yourself. You scream his name.

Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.

And he takes it.

He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.

It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.

“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”

Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.

Blessed.

He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.

He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”

He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“You want more?”

You nod. Desperately.

He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”

You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.

He pushes his jeans down—

And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.

Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.

And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.

He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”

You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.

He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”

He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.

You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.

Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.

“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”

You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.

Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”

He’s rambling now. Whimpering.

Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.

And he’s talking. So much.

“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”

You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.

“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”

You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.

Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”

He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.

“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”

Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.

You moan loud.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”

You try. You try so hard.

“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”

His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”

You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”

That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”

He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.

And you break.

You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.

You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.

And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”

He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.

“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”

You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Sweet. Messy. Possessive.

“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”

“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You didn’t even mean to.”

“That’s what makes it romantic.”

But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.

Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.

“I think I saw God,” he whispers.

You blink, still boneless and floating.

“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”

You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”

He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”

A pause.

“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”

You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.

“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”

You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”

He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”

You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.

Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”

You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”

“I can offer you one of those things.”

He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”

He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.

He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.

You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”

You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”

You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.

“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”

You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”

He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”

You flick his forehead.

“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”

But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.

So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.

[hoshigray]

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢-𝐓𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 ☠︎ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦-𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 | a JJK series

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: another year, another kinktober for the blog; everyone say thank you to @blkkizzat for making me do this before i get off this platform bc i promise you i was ready to throw it in the trash, LMAO !! I can only hope that I can post everything on time...anyway, happy October, everybody!

2023 kinktober list ⋮ masterlists ⋮ playlist

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑭𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒚…𝑻𝒂𝒍𝒆???

All the material below contains 18+ content, so minors do not interact. Changes + added pieces will be updated; look through my RBs to see what was changed or added. Contents of the fanfics/pieces are specified in their respective posts.

☠︎ = ficlet/thirst/scenario (Tues) | ♱ = fics (Thurs)

𓉸ྀི . . . 𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑲 1 :

☠︎ 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭 𝐌𝐞, 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 . . . ft. bully! Gojo ⋮ corruption kink

♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐆𝐨 𝐁𝐮𝐦𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | s. gojō + k. nanami + h. higuruma

Two demon hunters and a witch unite to take down a demon terrorizing the locals — sounds easy enough until the demon puts up a good fight and drags you three in for a night you’ll never forget…!

𓉸ྀི . . . 𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑲 2 :

☠︎ 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 & 𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐲 . . . ft. true form! Sukuna ⋮ cannabilism/ blood kink

♱ 𝐒𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐬 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 | s. ryōmen

The duty of a shrine maiden isn’t straightforward — especially during the olden times. Could you take on the supposed King of Curses head-on and leave unscathed in more ways than one? Who knows…

𓉸ྀི . . . 𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑲 3 :

☠︎ 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐧' 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 . . . ft. werewolf! Nanami ⋮ breeding kink + knotting

♱ 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐲 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐍𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫! | t. fushiguro

Not only are you drunk on a Friday night, but you’re a drunk, closeted succubus who is, unfortunately, under the care of the hot neighbor under your roof! Would you ruin the mood if he found out your little secret? You don’t even wanna know!

extra!! to be announced soon...

𓉸ྀི . . . 𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑲 4 :

☠︎ 𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐬' 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 . . . ft. sirens! Shoko + Utahime + Yuki ⋮ monster-fucking + foursome

♱ 𝐖𝐡𝐨'𝐬 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧' 𝐖𝐡𝐨, 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐞? | c. kamo

Having a phantom in your apartment sounds pretty scary…! But what happens when you finally catch that unexpectedly cute ghost creeping around and frightening you? And…how do you plan on punishing the little scrub?

𓉸ྀི . . . 𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑲 5 :

☠︎ 𝐒𝐨 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 & 𝐓𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 . . . ft. ex-husband! Toji ⋮ cockwarming

♱ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥[𝐞𝐫] !! | s. gojō + s. getō

Ending the month with tradition: pulling up all the best scary movies to watch and hanging with your two best friends! But it's safe to say that the thing poking behind your back isn't a knife…according to Gojo.

𝑾𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒍𝒚 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝑪𝒍𝒖𝒃!!

Would you wish to be tagged? Please lmk in the replies or in my inbox!

Accepting the first 50 ppl ; still open!!

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 ⋆♱✮♱⋆ These tales have been transcribed and written by the original poster (me). Do not steal, edit, copy/plagiarize, or post any of my works on your own accounts, in or out of this app. Please and thank you.

[kcsplace]

Jake loves the tattoos that adorn Bradley's body.

The origami birds that take flight across his shoulder-blades. A goose, a swan, with a rooster gazing up at them.

The stark lines of the missing man formation of four F-14's, three shooting across his chest, with the fourth arcing up to rest over his heart.

No matter how many times Jake's fingers trace the aged lines of the B-25 Mitchell that rests in the crook of his elbow, Bradley won't explain the choice, only murmurs about it being his first, and that he is going to have it covered up.

He never does.

But Jake's favourite, the one his fingers can't stay away from, is the little incomplete hangman figure he comes home with after his last deployment. Five months they spent apart. Five months new ink has been carried on Bradley's hip without Jake's knowledge and investigation. Five months where the spot Jake's hand rests as they settle to sleep has had seven empty spaces for letters. Five months Bradley has waited to play, Sharpie in hand.

Counting the dashes, and even taking note of them being split into groups of 5 and 2, Jake still has to try his callsign first.

"H"

"Not your callsign you egotistical shit." Bradley added a frown on the blank face.

"A"

_A___ __

"J"

"Nope."

"K"

"Are you using your name now?"

"Yes."

"No.

A leg and two eyes added to the tattoo later, Jake is staring more intently at Bradley's hip than he has at any Bandit and then it dawns on him.

MA__Y M_

The smile that stretches across his face hurts. It aches in the best way as he looks up at Bradley, the other pilot's gaze intent on him and not the artwork.

"Yes."

"That's not a letter."

"Still my answer."

Plucking the pen from Bradley's unresisting fingers, Jake fills in the missing Rs and the Y, before adding a big YES across Bradley's lower belly.

Casey's Top Gun Ficlets Casey's Icemav Ficlets Casey's Hangster Ficlets

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

I don’t know if your writing stuff is still open, but could you do a ficlet of Mitu? I just want her happy with everyone else sijce she’s so forgotten 🥺

It is! And ofc I gotta give Mitu some love too!

So this is basically just a little confession scenario <3

........

"Ah, you are...in L-O-V-E with me? Is that so?"

"Wha...how can you tell??"

"Kyahaha! Everyone can see T-H-A-T, silly!" The pigtailed lady before you smiled knowingly, swinging casually in-place. "It's really C-U-T-E. I've got you all wrapped around my fin...erm...H-A-N-D! But are you sure you K-N-O-W W-H-A-T you're getting into?"

You tilted your head. "Whatever do you mean, Mitu?"

"I play a dangerous G-A-M-E. One I can't afford to L-O-S-E. You may find me to be a....." Her swaying comes to a halt, and she looks worried as blue skulls start filling in the lines on either side of her. Beads of sweat line her forehead. "A weir...pecul....ghh. Dang it..."

Her face suddenly goes blue, and she claws at her throat, gasping for air as the letters around her spell HELP. She's clearly writhing in agony, and with nobody else around....you had to figure out something fast.

A simple four-lettered word for her to repeat.

Thankfully, one comes to mind within seconds.

"Grim?"

"Ah! W-H-E-W. Yes!! Being my partner may be a....G-R-I-M experience for you." Life and color return to Mitu's flesh as her hands reached for the sides of your face, tilting your head up to meet her gaze. "But it's always C-O-O-L to have two players, eh?" I get the feeling that we're M-A-D-E for each other." Her grin widens, as though she had won herself a prize.

Your smile, on the other hand, remained bashful. "I-I suppose so."

"Awh, such a C-U-T-E thing you are." She coos, pinching your cheeks. "This is gonna be N-E-A-T for both of us! May I take you on a D-A-T-E to the greatest event ever conceived?"

[carolmunson]

spin doctor | e.m. x reader

mini ficlet, eddie munson works at a record store. he’s a little snobby. sort of shy!reader if you squint? it’s the very late 90s.

tw: 18+ references to smut/virginity, all around meet-cute-ish.

The rain slaps off the top of your coffee cup and into your eyes while you take a sip, woefully regretting not bringing an umbrella because the weather man said it was only misting. This isn't mist, this is just under a downpour, the hood of your dad's old canvas jacket doing little to protect you from the rain while it darkens with each drop the green fabric absorbs. You stop at the corner, protecting yourself from the weather under the awning of a laundromat. Squinting up towards the overcast gray sky, you double check the cross streets, two more blocks and you'll make it there. There being the record store that you found in the yellow pages after you inherited your parent's record player in their latest attic clean out. Your dad was smart though, sold all of the records that were in mint condition to collecters -- which left you recordless and sort of at a loss of where to start now that they were only sold at specialty stores.

You hurry your way down the next two blocks, finally seeing the sign for VI Chord Records lit up across the street in buzzing red neon. You wait to cross, seeing the reflection of the light in the wet asphalt while the sky starts to darken. Winter easing in slow these days while the nights start to come quicker than expected.

The door jingles when you open it, two guys at the check out counter looking up breifly and then back to their conversation; the other patrons don't even look. You take a breath, happy that at least no one is paying attention. You've never been to a record store before -- bought music, sure; CDs and cassettes but never vinyl -- that was like an old people thing. But your dad couldn't stop going on and on about how music just sounds better when you listen to it like that; and to be fair a lot of your favorites from the 60s and 70s sounded flat on your Walkman. You were on the hunt for the authentic experience now, the real deal.

You start at the 'New Arrivals' bin, pulling down your hood and taking off your headphones to put in your nylon back pack while you search. You sip your coffee while your fingers flick, flick, flick through the sleeves, crunching on and over the plastic protective covering of each record. You don’t know who most of the artists are, names hidden in intricate artwork or vulgar close ups of tits and crotch. You laugh at a few under your breath.

You continue your search, going over to the K section to see if you can find Carole King’s Tapestry, only to be inundated with Kiss record after Kiss record. Kix, Krokus, Kick Axe — King nowhere in the bunch. You let out a soft sigh, eyes scanning the back wall over the guys heads at the check out counter. Guitars hang on the velvet wall paper, gleaming with a fresh sign with scribbles of signatures on them. You land over by the S section, fingers flick flick flicking again to run into Slayer, T’s taken over by Twisted Sister. You don’t even realize how much time has gone by until you take a sip of coffee and nothing is left.

“Can I help you find something?”

You jump, not expecting to head a disembodied voice by the back of your neck, “Huh?”

“You just seem like you’re not finding what you’re looking for, can I help?”

You turn while he asks, one of the guys from the counter who looks like he’s stuck somewhere in the 80s and his grunge phase. His hair is to his shoulders, wavy and cut into a shag that put your moms 70s hair do to shame. The slight stubble on his chin and cheeks stretches with his smile — customer service perfection, but only for pretty things like you.

His crosses his arms over his army green tee, matching your coat that’s nearly dry now. His tattooed arms bulge slightly in the stance, straining against the small sleeves. Your eyes focus on the guitar pick dangling in the center of his chest; suddenly embarrassed by the attention.

“Um,” you start, eyes flicking up to meet his brown ones — soft and eager, like he’s excited to talk to you. Your eyes scan down to the black and gray flannel tied around his narrow waist, falling limply over his dark wash worn jeans into combat boots.

“Uh,” you stutter for a second, trying to not to get caught up in this handsome stranger, “I’m sorta new to records. My dad just gave me his but he sold all his good stuff so um — starting from zero I guess.”

“Ooh, nice,” he grins, “So a virgin, huh?”

You sputter, “Well um — no but —”

“Vinyl virgin, sweetheart,” he winks, “Don’t worry. I don’t need to know the horny details.”

“So what were you trying to find today?” he asks, leaning against the stacked milk crates full to the brim at the center of the room, “We actually just got some solid rares in if you’re trying to start a good collection.”

“I just wanna listen to oldies,” you laugh.

He laughs too, it’s smoky and cool, “Nah, nah, I hear you. What kinda oldies like — early Black Sabbath or…?”

You bite your lower lip, “I was more thinking like um, Motown? The Temptations? Maybe some James Taylor. I was mostly trying to find The Flamingos single for —”

He laughs while you continue on but then realizes you aren’t joking, head coming back to center, “Oh you’re, you’re serious?”

You feel heat lick at your cheeks and chest, sweat slickly creeping on the top of your back, “Yeah I thought…it’s a record store so—”

“Not that kind, princess,” he shrugs, hands dropping to lean against the crates behind him, “We only sell hard rock and metal here for the most part. You could check the dollar bins for drop offs, we don’t really sort those.”

“Oh,” you nod, averting his gaze while you see the big bin in the corner labeled ‘Dollar Donations’.

“Yeah maybe you’ll find your doo-wop stuff in there or something,” his voice has a hint of teasing to it that makes your teeth grit.

“Are you like, shitting on me?” you ask shakily, kind of surprised this is actually happening to you. That this guys is legitimately being a jerk over wanting music that maybe he’s not into.

“No, no, no,” he urges, “No. I’m sorry, seriously. It’s just that we don’t really get people who come in here not looking for what we sell. We’re kinda well known for being a vintage metal store.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t know that so,” you shrug, defeated weighing down your shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he assures, sweet smile tugging his lips up to reveal deep dimples, “You’re a vinyl virgin, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” you roll your eyes, making your way to the bin while he follows behind you.

“Maybe if you tell me what kind of music you like now I can find a good one for you,” he offers, hand resting on his chest that’s covered in silver rings and chipped nail polish, “I’ve been told I make great recommendations.”

“I’ve been liking Blink-182 lately. Backstreet Boys on the other side of the coin,” you shrug, “And um, one of my friends has been trying to get me into Nine In Nails.”

“Now we’re talking,” he smiles, “There we go. Anything else? What’s the other older stuff you like?”

“Uh, um,” you shrug again, “Elton John? Eric Clapton?”

He nods again, “Okay, some of this stuff I can work with. What about uh, hmm, Fleetwood Mac? Sort of your vibe?”

You smile at him without meaning to, making him nearly stutter at the site, “Yeah, that’s sort of my vibe.”

“Alright,” he nods while he racks his brain for the perfect album to pick for you, “I think I got an idea of what to pull for you.”

“Okay,” you cross your arms with a smirk, “Fine. I hope it’s impressive.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he grins cockily, “Never had anyone complain about me popping their cherry.”

“At least take a girl for a drink first,” you joke back, “I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Eddie,” his hand extends out and you take it, his skin warm and slightly clammy at his never ending bumbling when talking to girls like you, “Happy to be taking your vinyl virginity today.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand slightly when you introduce yourself before letting go, “Be gentle, please. I’m new to this.”

“C’mon,” he cocks his head to the opposite wall by the ‘F’ section, “I got a lot to show you. We’ll go slow.”

He winks again; making you swallow hard. It might not have been where you meant go today, but it might have been exactly where you were meant to be.

[celestialvoyeur]

So SWEEEEEEEEET! 😍

@practicefortheheart I are collabing! For this piece, I wrote a 500-word fic, and Nina drew a beautiful piece inspired by it! Next, Nina will draw and I will write inspired by their art!

See their INCREDIBLE art here:

And read the fic below!

------

Homesick

The flower sparkles with dew, its thousands of concentric yellow petals mesmerizing, calling Jim to kneel beside it. It reminds him of Earth's sun, Iowa summers, though he is further from his childhood home than he has ever been. Further than any man has ever been, in fact.

"Captain," Spock says, casting a shadow over the flower before Jim even lifts his eyes. "It would be unwise to fall too far behind the landing party."

The voices of Jim’s crewmates echo off the trees and into the depths of this strange and alien forest, as their bright uniforms disappear behind the foliage. They have a mission on this planet. They always do.

"Join me," Jim says. He scoots to the side, and motions to the spot where his knees have left wet indents in the loam and soil. 

Spock hesitates. But he’s used to Jim's whims by now, maybe even fond of indulging them. He tucks his tricorder to his chest and kneels, letting the dappled sunlight through the canopy once again shine over the flower. It's the only one like it in this clutch of grass, in the whole forest as far as Jim can tell.

Jim wonders if it's lonely. 

"I wanted to pick it," Jim murmurs, as Spock reaches forward to touch a light fingertip to an even lighter petal. "But I don't see any others. Can you imagine if my sentimentality eradicated an entire species of flora?" He chuckles to himself, smiles.

"You are feeling sentimental?" Spock asks. He withdraws his touch, a glimmer of dew clinging to his finger. 

"Always," Jim admits. “I’ve been homesick.” He tilts his head to look at Spock, how beautiful and calm he is, how close.

Spock nods, understanding as he understands everything about Jim, that Jim wouldn't trade his life of exploration for anything.

“It is an aesthetically pleasing specimen,” Spock says, which isn't what he actually means. He means ‘I hear you. I see you. I am here with you.’ 

A curious call echoes through the trees, no doubt the landing party realizing their superior officers have strayed. And Jim closes his eyes, sighs. Reluctantly, he puts his hands on his knees and shoves himself to his feet.

“They're ringing the dinner bell, Mister Spock,” he says. But Spock is stuck in place beside the little flower. Before Jim can even think to stop him, Spock reaches forward and plucks the bloom at its stem with a tiny snap. 

“Spock!” Jim practically gasps. Spock stands, unfazed.

“I have observed many of these plants budding throughout the forest. This one is not the last of its kind, merely the first to bloom.” Almost childlike, he holds the flower out to Jim. “You will enjoy it.”

Jim stares at the flower for all of a moment before the blush rises on his cheeks. He reaches out. Their fingers brush. He doesn't let go of the flower, and neither does Spock, and their eyes lock and Jim’s heart flutters, and suddenly --

Suddenly, Jim isn't homesick at all.

[a-most-beloved-fool]

the first time you reblogged the kiss prompt I was like aaah I want all of these for spirk and I ended up not submitting any at all from sheer feeling overwhelmed by the selection.

but i've been thinking about it and i'm so glad you reblogged it, I was gonna go digging for it!

Still can't decide though, there are so many good scenarios, so maybe any of 4, 10, 17, 18, 23, 28, 38, 46 for Spirk?

... in relief.

It happened in the space of a moment.

First, Spock had been dead. Kirk had been sure of it. The transporter had failed at exactly the wrong moment, and where a Vulcan was supposed to stand, serene, on the transporter pad, instead was simply - nothing. Empty space.

Spock had beamed off the planet, yes, but he never made it to the ship. Dead not to some heroic cause, but mere mechanical failure, leaving his atoms scattered in the black expanse of space so very far from home.

It seemed cruel. Senseless.

Kirk had seen death before, many times, but somehow no loss had hit him as hard as this one did, an icy dagger between his ribs. All Kirk could manage in its wake was to grip the edge of the control panel with shaking hands, barely able to keep himself upright under the weight of the grief which knotted thorny vines throughout his chest.

Spock! Kirk despaired, a sob building in his throat.

But then, the transporter grated again into motion, a terrible whine leaving it as a beam of light slowly consolidating into a heartrendingly familiar form. Kirk stared, half agony and half hope, hardly daring to imagine it was possible. The beam wavered, then settled, and there he suddenly was - somewhat ruffled, yes, but upright and breathing.

The most beautiful creature that Kirk could imagine - Spock, alive! - stood at attention on the transporter pad, and Kirk could do nothing else but take him by the arms and kiss him. It was sheer animal instinct, urging him to grasp what once was thought lost and draw it close.

Those narrow lips were shockingly plush beneath his own, and Kirk basked for a moment in the heat of them, the air that puffed gently between them, proof of life. Relief and adoration spilled from Kirk's every pore as he kissed Spock, working to memorize the contours of his mouth.

Dimly, it occurred to Kirk that he had never done this before. He had dreamed of it, certainly, but never once had he actually kissed Spock. Idly, he wondered why.

Then, quite abruptly, he remembered.

He yanked himself away, a desperate apology tripping to the tip of his tongue, but when he looked up into Spock's face, instead of horror or disgust or stiff rigidity, he saw-

Kirk blinked, dazed. Perhaps he had been too hasty when he had called Spock's earlier appearance, "the most beautiful he could imagine," because this, he thought, might just beat it.

Spock's eyes were loosely closed, dark lashes fanning out over olive-dusted cheekbones. There was no crease between his brows, no mark of discomfort or frigidness which closed him off to the world around him. Instead, their slant suggested some far gentler emotion. His typical lipstick had long since worn away, exposing the natural sage of Spock's lips, which here held soft and slightly parted. Slowly, Spock blinked his eyes open, sending those lashes fluttering. Spock gazed at Kirk, eyes so lovely a brown, and Kirk's heart couldn't help but stutter in his chest at the sweetness of his expression.

Spock looked like a man who had just been kissed.

Spock looked like a man who would like to be kissed again.

Kirk's apology died on his lips, and for a long moment he stood frozen, simply staring, mouth agape. Then, Spock tilted his head, gently inquisitive, and time took effect once more.

"I'm, ah - glad you're back safe, Mr. Spock," Kirk said, looking down and coughing lightly as heat flooded into his cheeks. "I feared for a moment there that you were space dust."

"Indeed," Spock replied, dipping his head. Something almost like a smile sat in the corners of his lips, secret and teasing. "Your greeting was... most unusual, Captain."

"Unusual," Kirk mused quietly. His eyes were fixed just beyond Spock's elbow before he snapped them up again, scanning Spock's face for each telltale trace of emotion. "...not unwelcome?"

And, oh, it was beautiful to see how that almost-smile twitched ever so slightly wider, setting Spock's eyes alight with a subtle glow. "No, Captain," he said. "Not unwelcome. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"I see," said Kirk, and something warm and giddy unfolded inside of his chest, fluttering. A smile which he was certain Bones would call "sickeningly besotted" was spreading helplessly across his face; Kirk couldn't bring himself to try to stifle it. "That's - good to know."

On a whim, he darted forward, pressing another brief peck to the corner of Spock's mouth.

"Very good to know indeed."

_____

from this ask game

(also, if you haven't already seen it - one option you gave was Spirk #17, which I answered for a different ask here!)

[illegalpaladin]

@redanalysis requested Spirk "I will only slow you down" for my @badthingshappenbingo card. Thank you for the prompt!!!

After listening to feedback, I've decided to start posting my prompt fills and ficlets on ao3. This way they won't get lost so easily! You can read the ficlet here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66509056

Fandom: Star Trek The Original Series

Pairings: Spock/Kirk

Words: 818

Tags: ambiguous ending, angst, blood and injury

Rating: T

Summary: Spock doesn't have long. And if Jim doesn't leave him behind, then he may not have long, either.

[philon-awards]

Philon Awards 2025: Nominations Phase opens on 1 June

KiScon is honoured to once again host the Philon Awards. Originally established by Jenna Sinclair and Shelley Butler in 1997, this annual event's purpose is to honour outstanding authors and artists in K/S fandom.

Important Philon dates: Nominations: 1 June – 31 July, 2025. Voting: 10 August – 10 October, 2025. Eligibility (works created & published): 1 September 2024 – 31 July 2025.

There are 11 categories: Ficlet (word count under 1K) Short fic (word count 1K–5K) Medium-length fic (word count 5K–10K) Long fic (word count 10K–20K) Novella (word count 20K–50K) Novel (word count over 50K) Podfic Traditional Art Digital Art Poetry Zines For each category the voters will determine a Gold (first place) and a Silver (second place) winner.

Rules: Nominating and Voting:

Nominations are open from 1 June to 31 July, 2025. Each fan can nominate up to 3 works per category, but you cannot nominate the same work twice.

For a work to make it onto the voting ballot, it needs at least 3 nominations. Before we add it to the ballot, we will get in touch with the creator to ask whether they are fine with this! 

Voting is open from 10 August to 10 October, 2025.

The winners will be announced during KiScon 2025. Each winner will receive a certificate and a small prize.

It bears repeating: One person —> one submission of the nominations form. Same for voting: one person —> one submission of the voting ballot. Please do not attempt to game the system by using multiple accounts; we see this and it makes us question the future of the Philon Awards.

Nominating and voting both take place via Google Forms, and you need to be logged in and enter either your AO3 or your Discord name on the form in order to submit the nominations; this ensures that people do not nominate or vote multiple times for the same work. If we suspect sockpuppet activity, we will get in touch for clarification. We keep the nomination and voting process completely confidential! Only the KiScon concom will see the submitted forms.

While *we* won't talk about who nominated what, *you* can still discuss your faves and promote them, if you feel comfortable doing so. Making fellow fans aware of great works and sharing why you love and want to nominate them, is encouraged.

You can submit the nominations form only once, but you can edit your response if you need to add or change something (just follow the link in the email you receive after submitting the form). Please make sure to include every fanwork you want to see on the shortlist. You cannot edit your responses after nominations have closed (31 July 2025, end of day, timezone: Anywhere on Earth, i.e. UTC -12).

To answer a question we receive frequently: yes, you *can* nominate (and vote for) your own work(s). We won't judge you. ;-) 

Fanworks:

The work must focus on the pairing Kirk/Spock or Kirk & Spock. Slash (romantic and/or sexual relationship) and gen (friendship) are equally eligible. If a fic includes Kirk and/or Spock in relationships with other characters, be they canonical or original, this does not disqualify the work for the Philon Awards, as long as the focus is clearly on Kirk and Spock's relationship. 

Art must feature Kirk or Spock or both of them; additional characters in the artwork are allowed, but no depiction of Kirk/Other or Spock/Other.

All universes are welcome: TOS (series and movies), TAS, and reboot, Discovery and Strange New Worlds. AUs and mirror universe are equally allowed. Crossovers between different Trek franchises or between Trek and other media are permitted, as long as Kirk and Spock are the work's main characters.

RPF works (e.g. Shatnoy) are not eligible.

All ratings and genres are allowed. If a work among your nominations includes strong elements that would merit a warning on the AO3 (e.g. rape, major character death etc.), we'd appreciate a heads-up on the nominations form, so that we can make sure to include the warning on the shortlist. 

The work must be complete. It can be part of a series, but the work itself must not be a WIP (missing chapters or a draft/unfinished sketch).

Eligibility: The work must have been created and published (print or online) after last year's nomination period. So, everything from 1 September 2024 onwards until the end of the current nomination phase (31 July 2025) is eligible. Reprints or uploads of earlier works (e.g. a fic you wrote and published a few years ago and uploaded to the AO3 only recently) cannot take part in this contest. If a multi-chapter fic was started earlier, but the date of completion falls within the eligible range, then it can also be nominated.

For podfic the creation/publication date of the actual podfic counts, not of the written fic that inspired it.

AI-generated works are NOT allowed.

Traditional art means that it was hand-drawn or hand-painted; scanning or photographing the finished work in order to publish it online is allowed, of course.

With digital art, we mean art that was created by a fan artist directly on a tablet or computer, or art that started out as hand-drawn and underwent significant digital alterations in the next steps. We do NOT allow AI-generated art! Manips based on still images or photos of the actors are not eligible in this contest.

Zines: Both e-zines and print zines published between 1 September 2024 and 31 July 2025 are eligible.

Last but not least: these awards are meant to be fun and a celebration of the K/S fandom. The shortlist will double as lovely rec list! We get to talk about our faves and let the creators know that we love their works. You can fill in the nominations form embedded on the KiScon website, or directly access it at this link.

[jjwolves]

Could you make a small ficlet of Mitu x male!reader nsfw/smut? I know you can’t get very detailed but maybe what kinda positions, dirty talk, or what she’d like? And if you could add her being possessive too? Clingy, spelling out “M-I-N-E” and stuff

NEXT GAME •°❀─•°•❀•°•─❀°•

What: 5 Mitu X Male Reader Headcanons (NSFW)

Who: Mitu from ENA Dream BBQ

How Much: ~800 words, ~4 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G, Divider -> @thecutestgrotto

Warnings: Sexual Content

Being partners with Mitu means a lot of things. It means dancing in clubs which had been recently cut out from the afterlife and near-constant date nights in ominous ceremonial grounds. It means lots of games, merciless teasing and playful touching which Mitu manages to make sacred. You are constantly besieged by poking, petting, hugging and groping by your hangwoman. It’s usually endearing, but sometimes it’s a little embarrassing when you’re in public, even if most of the entities around you probably don’t care all that much. “Aww, you’re just so C-U-T-E! L-O-O-K at you getting all shy… Trust me, B-A-B-E, they’ve seen weirder.” She shakes you playfully and initiates a weird, upside down hug where her arms loop around your waist and everything above her head lays flush with you.

Eventually, all that touchiness takes a toll on your restraint. Mitu keeps her teasing cranked up to an unbearable degree while you burn hotter than the Uncanny Streets’ acid vein rivers. “Kehehe. You’re looking at me like I’m a M-E-A-L. Is it something I’m doing?” Mitu continues dancing as she circles you, occasionally swinging to rub a part of herself into you or sneaking a warm hand under your clothes. “You’re so fun to P-L-A-Y with. Is my little no B-O-D-Y getting frustrated?” She touches you from every angle. It makes you dizzy. It’s a favorite move of hers to turn up the heat on your date nights and keep the flames stoked for as long as possible, but one thing that Mitu always makes good on is her follow-up. She may be a constant flirt, true, but she’s not cruel—she’s getting you ready for something very special later on. “Looks like the party’s D-O-N-E. You seem… up. Kehe. Let’s go B-A-C-K to my place so I can make you… hm. Now what’s the W-O-R-D?” You hesitate before answering. Happy? Mitu smirked. “Yeah! Very happy! Though the word I was thinking of was something more like… M-I-N-E.”

You return to Mitu’s brightly-colored temple-house after the party. It’s dark out; you don’t know if it’s because it’s night or because a giant flying horse is blocking the sun again. Either way, Mitu insists that you go inside before being zipped up by her rope to who-knows-where. You enter the temple’s labyrinth. Mazes aren’t really your realm of expertise, especially when you’re so tingly and excited, but thankfully, cartoon letters left floating throughout Mitu’s residence give you directions with a helpful ‘E’ for East or ‘S’ for South. You’re familiar with this part, though—a dark room with a blanketed altar and Nazca lines running up and down the walls. Mitu’s room. You can see she’s inside, and you don’t want to keep her waiting.

Mitu gets giggly as she tangles you up in her ropes and suspends you above her altar, wiggling her fingers like a gourmet meal was just set in front of her. “Aw, you aren’t even gonna pretend you don’t like being strung up with my R-O-P-E? You must be pretty P-E-N-T up, huh?” Eager to start, Mitu gets to business. It’s odd and kind of clunky, since your favorite knife-girl is always upside down and her body has an unusual shape, but you find a way to make it work even if you’re in midair. Mitu undresses you and tastes you, but she’s surprisingly gentle now that she has you. You see stars and masks. She draws back as you learn to think again, hanging near your face. “You look like you’ve B-E-E-N screwed silly. But we’ve only scratched one thing off the L-I-S-T! It’s not O-V-E-R yet!” You sigh, pretending to be resigned as Mitu pinches your cheek and snickers.

A few hours pass before you’re both on the altar, Mitu laying on top of you. She gasps and pants as you dig into her. You’re not always forward enough to show how much you love your little trickster, but the inky walls which hold you back during the day get smudged off the paper by night. You both revel in each other, Mitu starting to get a little too fast for you to hold back. “I don’t have a pile of G-O-L-D or any treasure or nothing… ‘Cause you’re M-I-N-E, you know? You’re mine, I’ll K-E-E-P you here forever…” Mitu’s muttering into your ear is what puts you over the edge. You spasm and give her all that you have, collapsing onto the altar (and Mitu falls with you). After a few minutes spent gathering the strength to do or say anything, Mitu speaks. “I didn’t even M-I-S-S a single word during all of that. We need to do something even crazier next T-I-M-E!” You gulp nervously.

A/N: There's only so many GIFs of her

[ksadvent]

✨ K/S Advent Masterlist! ✨1/2

Happy New Year! May it be filled with peace and love, joy and laughter, inspiration and creativity! 

Thank you once again to everyone who contributed to the Kirk/Spock Advent Calendar 2024! 

93 fanworks were posted throughout December, by 26 creators; the works consist of 55 fics and ficlets, 26 poems, and 12 artworks.

Here's the promised masterlist (in chronological order). Or directly check out our AO3 collection. This lovely number of 93 works also means that we need to post this masterlist in 2 parts, because Tumblr thinks it is Too Long, Too Big, Too Girthy, and It Won't Fit. (Sorry, it made the mods snicker.)

Day 1: ForFucksSakeJim: Outside the Mind (fic, AOS) Day 1: SButler: Snowflake Love (art, TOS)

Day 2: ForFucksSakeJim: Snowflakes Did Not Fall (poetry, AOS) Day 2: Orabla: The Day of C'Thia (fic, TOS)

Day 3: ForFucksSakeJim: All I’ll Ever Need (poetry, AOS) Day 3: remylebae: Hot and Bothered (fic, TOS)

Day 4: Android_And_Ale: Imagine the Pastabilities (art, TOS or AOS or SNW) Day 4: ForFucksSakeJim: Extra Credit (fic, AOS)

Day 5: ForFucksSakeJim: Magic Here (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 5: Little_dove_big_world (Diamond_Dove): All That Remains (fic, AOS)

Day 6: ForFucksSakeJim: Winters Sign (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 6: LessonsFromMoths: Of many impossibilities (fic, TOS or AOS) Day 6: wednesday_ukiru: Tight Situation (art, TOS)

Day 7: ForFucksSakeJim: A Study of Courtships (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 7: ForFucksSakeJim: Threads of Gold (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 7: IvanW: Good Cheer (fic, AOS)

Day 8: ForFucksSakeJim: NIFOTK (poetry, TOS) Day 8: gunstreet: A System of Touch (fic, SNW)

Day 9: ForFucksSakeJim: I’ll get your longing glances but she’ll get your ring (fic, SNW) Day 9: SButler: Spock with Piercings and Tattoos (art, TOS)

Day 10: ForFucksSakeJim: “Please never stop.” (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 10: ForFucksSakeJim: Entwined (poetry, AOS) Day 10: Zelda_Bird: Winter Wonderland (fic, TOS)

Day 11: ForFucksSakeJim: Your Hands Wrapped Around A Cold Glass (fic (short), TOS) Day 11: lesbobaggins: In selfless hands (fic, TOS)

Day 12: ForFucksSakeJim: Sweeter than Chocolate (fic, TOS or AOS) Day 12: lorvee: Hot Tub in Winter Time (art, AOS) Day 12: Noideasfornames: Washing Dishes (poetry, TOS)

Day 13: ForFucksSakeJim: Your Tender Hold (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 13: spirkme: A Piercingly Logical Experiment (fic, AOS)

Day 14: ForFucksSakeJim: A Winter's Mystery in Dodge City (fic, AOS) Day 14: spacedogfromspace: A Most Beautiful Sight (fic (short), TOS)

Day 15: Florian_Gray: Your Warmth on a Winter's Night (fic, TOS or AOS) Day 15: ForFucksSakeJim: Chocolate Dripped Tongue (fic (short), TOS or AOS)

Day 16: ForFucksSakeJim: winters haze (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 16: spaceisgay (ChancellorGriffin): sordida speculi (fic, TOS)

Day 17: defythestars: Tight Knit (fic, TOS or AOS) Day 17: wednesday_ukiru: Freezeout (art, AOS)

Day 18: ForFucksSakeJim: Tessellations (fic, AOS) Day 18: ForFucksSakeJim: This Winter's Peace (fic (short), TOS)

Day 19: ForFucksSakeJim: Future’s Keepstakes (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 19: ForFucksSakeJim: Our Final Frontier (poetry, TOS or AOS) Day 19: Zelda_Bird: Cthia (fic, TOS)

Day 20: ForFucksSakeJim: D&D (Daiquiri's and Dumbasses) (fic (short), TOS or AOS) Day 20: spaceisgay (ChancellorGriffin): home is just another word for you (fic, TOS)

Part 2 follows here!