#Build BEST Word Processing Apps

[gothcsz]

Safety Net: Part I | ~13.8k wc | Co-Written with @ovaryacted | Series Masterlist

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Motivated by boredom, Marcus goes on a sugar dating app and lands himself a date with you, the only person that captured his attention.

CHAPTER TAGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Modern AU. Sugar daddy Marcus Acacius/Sugar baby reader. Age gap [Marcus is 50/reader is 25+]. SMUT. Plot with porn. Kissing/Makeout session. Dry humping. Premature ejaculation. Oral (f! receiving). Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation. MARCUS THE MUNCH! Sexual tension. Flirting & banter. First date chronicles. Lots of plot & world building beforehand. Takes place in Chicago. Marcus uses a sugar dating app. Reader is explicitly described as a curvy woman of color: darker skin tone, curly hair texture, etc. Reader has feminine characteristics - wears dresses, heels, jewelry, & makeup. Reader is afab and able bodied. Marcus is recently divorced. Marcus comes from old money and is a businessman. Chivalry isn't dead.

A/N: This has been in the works for far too long but finally, we managed to lock in and cook up some straight heat! This is what happens when you put two yapping hoes on a doc, so we hope everyone who feens for Marcus Acacius as much as we do enjoys the fruits of our labor lol. Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated. Support your BIPOC writers 🖤

Another lone dinner, nothing but the gritty sound of the song echoing from his record player to accompany him.

Tonight was meant to be a small victory. Marcus had enrolled in a cooking class to keep busy after the divorce, and this meal was supposed to put those new skills to use. But as he chopped, cooked, ate and cleaned, the expected satisfaction never came. Instead, a quiet boredom crept in—maybe even isolation.

It was like his body was moving on autopilot, simply going through the motions.

He brings the rim of his glass up to his lips, eyes falling down to the city below. From his penthouse, the skyline sometimes blurs beneath a soft haze of clouds, making the world below look like a dream. The wealth, the view, the opulence—it’s everything people imagine happiness to be. And yet… loneliness seeps into his bones, slowly debilitating his already precarious joy.

He assumed that divorcing from his now ex-wife would help pull him out of this stupor. They were both in agreeance that their marriage had been nothing but one out of convenience—the best thing for the both of them at that time. No romance, no passion, just a practical arrangement that worked. At least, until it didn’t.

Marcus hadn’t expected her to fight for the marriage, but he also hadn’t expected her to fixate on the prenup. One night, in the midst of her moving out, he’d overheard her gossiping on the phone with one of her friends. It would’ve gotten a lot nastier if I hadn’t gotten what I was owed.

The words hit harder than he expected. On some level, he had loved her. Not in the way a husband should love a wife, but in a way that still meant something to him. There had been care, respect, even a kind of tenderness—out of duty, maybe, but real nonetheless. He even enjoyed being a stepfather to her teenage son.

No resentment was held, not when they were about to part ways.

She was entitled to a payout, and he made sure she got it, wiring the full amount before the lawyers could sink their teeth into the process. No use in dragging things out or turning something empty into something bitter. 

So they ended it quietly and swiftly. One last dinner as husband and wife, a toast to a chapter closing, and then the signing of papers that made it official.

It has been months since then, and Marcus is right where he’s always been. The same life, the same routine—just without the pretense of a marriage. He’s outgrown the bachelor lifestyle and has no interest in jumping back to it. He’s in fifties with a divorce under his belt, family business in his care, and more money than he knows what to do with. 

Most men in his position would see this as a rebirth, an excuse to run wild. He’s seen it plenty—divorcees burning through their wealth to impress women half their age, indulging in recklessness until, eventually, they wonder how the fuck they lost it all.

The thought makes him scoff slightly, shaking his head as he continues to lose himself in his own mind, still gazing over the city.

Ever since word got out that he was single again, the men in his social circle have been relentless. They want him to “get back out there,” find some young thing to do more than stroke his ego and remind him he’s still got it. Their concern isn’t for his happiness—it’s for their own validation. They want him to fall in line, to indulge like they do, to prove they’re all still kings of their own little worlds.

The idea of dating brings a faint migraine thumping at his temples. No way in hell. He doesn’t have it in him to go through first date purgatory of asking the same grueling questions, only to have nothing in common with the person at the end of the night. And his work acquaintances aren’t suggesting anything so conventional, anyway. 

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve invited him to strip clubs or proposed outrageous tropical getaways filled with booze and paid company. They aren’t subtle about their misogyny, either. They brag about the escorts they’ve hired, the women they’ve bought for the night, offering him contact information like they’re handing out business cards. In case you get tired of using your fist all the time, they joke.

The detachment of sex is what he finds peculiar. It’s not about pleasure, it’s about seeking validation from other men while putting another notch at their bedpost. It’s why he rarely accepts their invitations. Avoiding their outings, distancing himself as much as he can… but only to a certain degree. Unfortunately, these men are his business partners, and in his world, he wasn’t exactly given the luxury of full separation.

The act of paying for sex isn’t the problem. He doesn’t care how they get their satisfaction, really, it only grates on him when their vulgarity spills into business meetings, when corporate lunches turn into competitions over who had the best night with the most expensive woman.

Take today, for example, when a longtime partner had sidled up to him as he was headed home for the day, practically shoving the phone into Marcus’s hands.

“Met this chick on that app I was telling you about and scored myself a date tonight. She’s hot.”

Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way this grown man was waving the information around as if it were something to boast about. He barely glanced at the screen—a woman in a tight dress posing in front of a bar. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Congratulations?

Before he had to give an answer, the elevator doors opened. A perfect escape. He handed the phone back and muttered a quick, “Have a good weekend,” stepping out and letting the doors shut on yet another conversation he wanted no part of.

Now he’s here, two and a half glasses of whiskey deep with a curiosity that feeds off his boredom. He retreats from his reprieve at the window, walking into the living room and settling on the couch. Flipping mindlessly through TV channels, nothing seems to hold his attention.

His fingers drum against the side of the glass cup before intrigue gives way, slipping a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulls out his phone, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb, his whiskey resting loosely in his other hand. 

With furrowed brows, Marcus navigates through his phone at an infuriatingly slow pace. He squints slightly, trying to read the small text, and his large thumbs fumble across the keyboard, leaving a string of typos that have him muttering curses under his breath. He misspells the damn thing twice until finally, the name of the ridiculous app pops up in the search results.

The little loading circle spins, downloading the application to his phone. When the prompt to open it appears, he hovers, as if contemplating if this is even worth it. A few seconds pass before the liquor in his system decides for him, opening the app with a tap.

The first thing it asks is if he’s the benefactor or the beneficiary. He huffs, taking a sip of his drink, choosing his role as the sugar daddy before ultimately filling in the blanks needed for an account set up. It all feels ridiculous, but what does he have to lose?

Then he reaches the About Me section and stops. The blinking cursor taunts him, he can’t help but scowl at it, whiskey swirling in his glass as he thinks. What do you say about yourself when you don’t even know what you want?

Marcus A. 50+. Chicago. Business Owner. Not sure what to say here. First time trying something like this. I prefer a strong drink over small talk, but I appreciate good conversation with someone who has something to say.

Not his best work, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He skips through the rest of the trivial questions—religion, favorite movies, hobbies. The longer the list grows, the more tedious it feels.

Then comes the photo prompt. Somehow, this feels like the hardest part.

Marcus scrolls through his camera roll and realizes most of his photos aren’t of him at all—just landscapes from his travels, on-site projects, plenty from his trips back home to Italy, but few that actually put him in the frame.

He settles on a lone one from an important dinner a few years back. It’s stiff, formal, but at least it’s something. 

When he’s done, he studies the profile. Sparse. Impersonal. He’s not exactly proud of it, but he’s not here to impress anyone. He’s here to look—nothing more.

The next hurdle? Preferences. 

He frowns slightly, finishing off his drink before setting the glass on the coffee table. He sinks further into the couch, glaring at the screen.

He sets the minimum to twenty-five. Mature enough to have lived a little, young enough that he isn’t limiting himself too much. Local, of course. No sense in complicating things.

With that, he’s finally done.

Marcus isn’t sure what he expected, but the more he scrolls, the less interested he becomes.

The app is filled with beautiful women—plenty of soft smiles, sultry gazes, perfectly angled selfies. Glossy, curated versions of themselves, posed just right, filters smoothing away any perceived imperfection. He sees them in designer bikinis lounging on yachts, captions that all seem to blur together. No hookups. Fluent in sarcasm. Just here for the pay pigs.

That last one gets a quiet chuckle out of him.

Nevertheless, it’s all the same. It bores the hell out of him. He swipes left again and again and again…

He’s about to call the whole thing immature bullshit when he comes across your profile.

No forced captions, no excessive filters, no painfully obvious attempts to curate some idealized version of yourself. You have a natural confidence, an ease in the way you present yourself. The way you talk about your interests—travel, food, new experiences—it doesn’t feel like a list of things meant to impress. 

And then there are your pictures.

Your hair is thick, wild with curls, framing your face in a way that makes you look like you belong in the kind of old-world paintings he admires when he’s abroad. Your brown skin, kissed with warmth, glows under the soft light of a restaurant where you’re pictured, hands wrapped around a glass of wine, a knowing, almost amused look in your eyes. There’s another shot of you at a market, caught mid-laugh as you react to something just out of frame. 

Marcus exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Damn.

He doesn’t message you. Not yet. 

He told himself that this app was just for curiosity, just to look and pass the time. He hadn’t expected to actually come across someone that made him consider.

The whole damn thing feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man, successful, established. And here he is, sitting alone in his penthouse, scrolling through an app designed to find a sugar baby of all things. What the hell is he even doing?

Without thinking about it, he taps the Super Like and immediately closes out the application.

You probably have a dozen other prospects already lining up in your messages, throwing out their best lines, trying to capture your attention. He’s just another name in the mix, another notification you might just skim over before moving on. 

So be it, he got it out of his system—whatever that was. Some passing curiosity, a distraction fueled by whiskey and boredom. By tomorrow, he’ll be preoccupied with work, meetings, actual obligations, and the whole thing will be nothing more than a brief lapse of judgment. Maybe he should save himself the trouble and just delete the damn app now, wipe his profile along with it before he even has the chance to regret it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sighs, pushing himself up from the couch, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders before making his way toward the bedroom. His night routine is as methodical as everything else.

Yet, as he settles into bed, he finds himself thinking about you and how for a moment, he had felt something he hadn’t in a long time—intrigue. 

The next day flies by quickly for Marcus, swamped with the countless meetings lined up for him at the architectural firm. Overseeing a new development in the city took whatever time he might’ve thought he had, his poor assistants making multiple trips to the coffee shops nearby as the day progressed. He was already greatly familiar with the boost of caffeine running through his veins, growing more on edge with every file that lands on his desk.

By the time he got home, he was damn near slumping against his front door, tossing his keys in the trinket tray by the foyer, tugging off his blazer and throwing it over the edge of the couch while dragging his tired feet to the kitchen. Yanking on his tie and popping it off with one swift pull, he removes his cufflinks and folds the sleeves of his button down up to his forearms, plucking a few of the buttons from his collar to finally allow himself to breathe.

Reaching over to one of the cabinets, he grabs himself a glass, dropping in some ice cubes and taking his favorite brand of whiskey, filling it halfway. The headache building at his temples ebbs away as he gulps down the amber liquid, palms resting on the granite countertop under him. He merely stares at the stone, eyes blank and now deep in thought. A frustrated exhale leaves his aquiline nose, running a hand through his graying curls as the stress of the day radiates through every cell in his body.

He knows he should probably just order something for dinner tonight over cooking, his mind too fried to put together an ingredient list, and the thought of washing dishes was enough to force the decision for him.

Marcus refills his glass and takes his phone to the living room, turning on the TV and leaving the news to play for some background noise as he sorts through his options of what he might be able to stomach.

What was he even in the mood for? Italian? Korean? Chinese? Some lo-mein sounds good, maybe with an egg-roll or two? Yeah, that sounds about fine.

He calls his order in, finding some spare cash and picks it up from the lobby. He didn’t bother to remove his leather shoes when he took the elevator 50 floors down for the handoff, coming back up the same way until he was munching into an egg-roll covered in duck sauce on the couch.

Food long gone and the glass coffee table now cleared of his takeout, the gold watch on Marcus’ wrist reads 10:30 pm when he finds himself weary of the late night news turned mediocre comedy segment. Grabbing his phone and pinning a few emails for him to read over in the morning, he swipes to his apps menu, spotting the new dating application he had completely forgotten about since setting up his profile the night before.

Fuck it, what the hell.

With no thought, Marcus opens the app for a second time, watching the icon load on the screen before he lands on the main page. Swiping to the chats section, his screen explodes with the 99+ Super Likes he had gotten over the past 24 hours. Yet, he could care less of the other profiles he has to sort through. The only match that loads on his screen is from your account, an unread message he had gotten no notification of despite it sitting idly in his inbox for a day. Nervously, he taps at the message box, your icon popping up on the screen along with what you had sent last night.

“So you’re just going to super like my account and not say anything?”

The corner of his lip twitches when he reads that over, his eyes scanning over the sentence more than once with a raised eyebrow. His brain short-circuits as he tries to find a suitable response that doesn’t make a fool of himself. He’s positive he already looks like an idiot by having an account in the first place, but he’s gotten this far, might as well stick around.

After a few minutes of typing and deleting a singular sentence, he triple checks his spelling until he’s satisfied with what he came up with before hitting send.

Marcus A.: “Must’ve missed the chat option when I hit your profile. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I’m new to this whole thing.”

His screen updates with the dot under your profile turning green, a sign that you were active again. You definitely saw his message, and the three little dots he notices at the bottom make his pulse spike, anxiously waiting for what else you had to say to him.

“That’s okay. Figured you had other things going on. You look like a guy that has a lot on their plate, Mr. Businessman.”

Now he was smirking.

Marcus A.: “You have no idea.” He typed the reply and sent it, and you responded just as quickly. 

“Try me.”

Should he talk about what he has to deal with on a daily basis with his work? Bore you with how he oversees the blueprints of different construction plans throughout the city and has extensive meetings that last all day? So much for a lasting first impression.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t want to bother you with work stuff. It’s not all that interesting.”

“I don’t mind really. I’m a little curious to know what takes up all of your time. Must be something serious if you’re all stressed out.”

No harm in being honest right?

Marcus A.: “Well, usually I have a lot of meetings and paperwork to handle while conducting new building developments in the city. But today was particularly hectic, I was swamped all day, probably drank way more coffee today than I had all year.”

Was that good enough? Not too much, not too little. Didn’t come off as petulant or like he wanted pity. This isn’t too bad, at least Marcus thinks so considering you were working on your reply.

“Sounds like a lot of intense work, lots of brain power. At least you have a team to help you out, takes a bit of the strain off your back. Hope you’re relaxing a bit now.”

Marcus A.: “Yeah, got home late but had some dinner. Just watching the news before I repeat the cycle tomorrow. How was your day?”

Bingo. Perfect bait and switch.

“Boring, honestly. Work was alright for the most part, finished a bit early. Ate a few hours ago, and was reading something before bed when I saw your message.”

Oh? Another avid reader?

Marcus A.: “What do you like to read?”

“A mix of things. Non-Fiction, Sci-Fi, History, Romance. It depends on my mood really, but right now it’s Circe by Madeline Miller.”

Marcus A.: “I read that a while back, it’s a pretty good book. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“It definitely has my interest. I hit the halfway mark, so maybe I'll keep you updated once I finish it. :)”

Somehow, he wasn’t opposed to the idea.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t mind listening to your thoughts about it.”

The three little dots appear for a second before vanishing. Marcus stares at the screen for a beat longer, hoping it wasn’t just a fluke. Maybe he scared you off? Said the wrong thing, or something finally gave away just how out of touch he was to all of this. At this rate, he might as well get 50 & Divorced tattooed on his forehead in bright red ink.

There was no point in stressing out about this anymore, it’s late anyway, close to midnight and past his conscious bedtime. Switching the TV and lights off in the living room, he quickly showers and rinses the day off. Changing into some fleece pants and a baggy gray shirt, he brushes his teeth and spits out his mouthwash, flicking off the light as he steps into his bedroom.

As he slips into his too-big king sized bed, he untucks the cream sheets and rests his head on one of the many pillows, glaring up at the ceiling with a huff. Turning over to his side, he catches the lights of the downtown area reflecting by the window, trying his best not to think about how cold and empty the other side of his bed remained. With a sigh, he eases into slumber, hoping that whatever tomorrow brings will be significantly better than today.

The next day in his week was thankfully less hectic, but instead of document packets, his phone had been going off all day speaking to clients, other business partners, and suppliers. And that was only counting Chicago. He got other additional calls from properties in New York, Los Angeles, and now some new construction he’s attempting to get signed off in Miami. He was so preoccupied with his business phone that his personal device was left untouched for the majority of the day.

It was 8:00 pm when Marcus walks through the front doors of his penthouse, repeating the same mundane pattern of tending to his needs and finding something to keep himself occupied until he fell asleep. In the back of his head, he remembers the brief conversation he had with you last night, curiosity getting the best of him as he wonders if you left him something to read over this morning. 

Tensely, he opens up the dating app, heading straight to his inbox to click on your unread message from 18 hours ago.

“Maybe I’ll send you a full book review. Put it in an episode of a podcast. I think it would do numbers.”

The circle on your icon is green now, and he rapidly types something so he doesn’t lose this momentum.

Marcus A.: “Forgive me for the terrible response time, I had another busy day in the office, dealing with non stop phone calls this time.”

The three little dots turn up again, and Marcus sighs in relief.

“No worries. You have things to handle, just part of being a working adult.”

If he wants to take his shot, he knows his best chance is to do it now.

Marcus A: “Actually, I’d like to get your number, if that’s alright. Me and this app don’t mix well. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong idea and make you think you were being ignored.”

You begin typing before you disappear, the green circle now turning gray. He scared you off, maybe even gave you the ick when that was the last thing he wanted. Marcus was just doomed from the start, and getting on this app was a mistake. What would you even really want to do with an old man like him? It’s pitiful really.

Anxiously, he shuts his phone off and storms off into his bedroom, throwing some water on his face and getting into bed once more. He probably should’ve just went to sleep and left you alone, but his hands itch to see if you answered him. Twisting to get his phone from his bedside table and reopening the app, the empty space in his chest flutters when he sees you had left him a very clear yes with your entire phone number, right there for him to take it.

Copying and pasting your number into his phone, he sent you a quick text letting you know it was him, and you reassured him this was no problem, that you hated the app with a burning passion.

“I’m guessing it’s close to your bedtime now?”

Marcus A: “Unfortunately, I’m an old man remember? But, my phone will be on me tomorrow, so I’ll be around if you want to chat some more.”

“Sure thing, I’ll be around too. Don’t want to keep you up so I’ll let you go. Goodnight Marcus.”

He likes the way you say his name, type it out like it’s yours to say. With one last “goodnight”, his phone is off and his face is digging into the pillow underneath. For once, he is looking forward to tomorrow, and secretly hopes that you’d still be interested in talking some more. Maybe, he might just end up lucky.

Marcus quickly realizes he enjoys talking with you; at least when you both had the time to converse with each other, it was better than scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Texting is convenient for the most part when he can, sending little questions about you here and there, and you feed him breadcrumbs, still holding some control over how you want him to perceive you. He doesn’t mind, he’s mostly on your time, and if you want to play the cat and mouse game, he’ll play.

It was actually you that asked to call him the first time, a laconic talk just to hear his voice, to get a feel of him. Marcus didn’t know what to think of how you reacted to the way he spoke, but he knows hearing your voice might’ve been the catalyst to his growing interest in you. The conversation was short-lived, but it was good to hear you on the other end.

He has enough confidence to call you again later on in the week after work, a more extensive recap of both of your days. In the midst of laughing at a stupid joke he’s made, he’s thinking of the best way to formally ask you out. He’d been mulling over it for the past few days as you both tiptoed on getting to know one another, and he knows if he wants to take his shot, it has to be now.

“Out of curiosity, are you free Friday night?” He inquires, holding his phone close to his ear, anticipating every word you say.

“I might be, unless I just happened to forget my plans. Why?”

Shooter’s shot. 

“I wanted to take you out to dinner. There’s this steakhouse downtown by Kinzie Street, really nice food, intimate setting, expensive wine or cocktails if that’s your thing. Think it would be a good time.”

“You had me at cocktails.” You both chuckled at that notion. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Does 7 work for you?”

“Make it 7:30. A girl needs time to get ready, Marcus. First impressions matter y’know?” It was his turn to laugh despite his hands sweating.

“Then I’ll come by at 7:30 and pick you up. Unless you want to go on your own, I can arrange a ride for you.”

You hummed on the other end of the line, contemplating your choices. Probably assessing what was the smartest way of getting out of the situation if things were to go horribly wrong.

“A ride to the place might be better. You don’t need to see me full of anxiety so early in the night.”

“Well, I want to see you either way. I’ll have my driver pick you up, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect. It’s a date then.” There was no question or doubt from you, and he’s glad you were the one that determined what the occasion was.

“It’s a date. I’ll see you Friday night.”

The call ends, and Marcus missed how intense his heart had been beating in his ribcage the entire time. Setting a reminder to call the restaurant tomorrow to place the reservation, he spots the time on his phone screen blinking 11:45 pm on a Wednesday. Two more days until he gets to meet you face to face, and the thought alone brings an eerie sense of restlessness to his stomach.

He’s made it this far, there’s no way he could fuck this up, right?

Friday night rolls around, and the anxiety that’s been bubbling in Marcus’ gut since he asked you out to dinner rears its ugly head. He spent a significantly longer time getting ready, making sure to fit a haircut in during his lunch break and left some room for a beard trim after his extensive shower. Hyper focused on making the most ideal first impression, he dabbles some scented aftershave on his neck and mixes it in with a few spritz of his signature cologne, double checking to ensure it isn’t too overwhelming.

Sorting through the multitude of suits hanging in his closet, Marcus decides that sticking to what he knows would be the best thing for him. He pulls out a classic black suit set and matching dress shoes, foregoing a tie and leaving the first button undone, the skin of his neck slightly visible from the opening. Clicking his golden cufflinks into their designated slots, he finishes his look for the night with his golden watch on his left wrist and slipping on the emerald signet ring on his right pinkie. Before stepping out the door, he takes the bouquet of long stemmed roses he picked out for you, giving his styled curly hair a look over and walking out the front door.

Regardless of how put together he appears, he is anything but composed. Finding himself way out of his comfort zone, his lack of experience in the dating department catches up with him on his drive downtown. His phone rings with a message from you letting him know you’ve been picked up and will be meeting him soon. It was 7:15 pm when you sent that text, and the lump in his throat worsens his breathing the closer 7:30 pm comes.

He’s been mentally preparing for your arrival for the past ten minutes, repeatedly staring down at his watch or his phone to see if you’ve said anything else to him since your last message. Waiting out front, roses in hand, his mind resets to his default settings of methodical overthinking once it hits 7:35 pm.

Did you stand him up? No, maybe something happened on the commute. Must be sudden traffic, it is a Friday night after all. Or you finally came to your senses and your cold feet convinced you to turn his car around and head in the opposite direction.

By 7:40 pm, the familiar view of one of his Escalades rolling into the driveway quiets his mind, brown eyes focusing solely on the figure that steps out from the vehicle.

He is immediately struck.

The dress you’ve chosen is sinful in its simplicity—long-sleeved, form-fitting black fabric hugging every curve, sculpting you like it was made for your body alone. The light jacket you wear does little to hide your figure underneath it; the dress flows over your hips and clings to your waist, cuts off right above your knee leaving your calves bare for him to admire, not to mention the neckline teases just low enough to show the swells of your breasts.

Your curls are pulled back in a half-up style that showcases your beautiful features accentuated by your makeup, leaving the delicate slope of your neck bare—an invitation, a temptation. The golden accents—your earrings, your rings, and the necklace that rests against your collarbone—catch in the evening light, making your warm brown skin glow like you’re drenched in sunlight.

He swallows hard, his grip tightening around the bouquet in his hand as he watches you step forward, poised and self-assured, utterly unaware of the effect you have on him.

He’s staring. He knows he is, yet he can’t help it.

Because right now, with the city lights flickering behind you and that unreadable expression on your face as you scan the area for him, you look like something ethereal. Like a star that shot down from the sky and landed right in front of him, impossibly real, impossibly his for the night.

He stands frozen in awe of you until your glossy lips move, talking to him in the flesh.

“Marcus, right?” you ask, holding on to your purse with one hand. “I’m so sorry for being late, the traffic was more active than usual. I hope I didn’t ruin anything?”

He finally finds his voice in the next couple of blinks.

“No, it’s alright. It’s a Friday night, I forget everyone else has plans set.” That gets you to laugh, and he exhales at the break in tension. “You look beautiful.” It’s sincere as he says it, and from the way you smile at his words, he thinks he’s doing something right.

“You don’t clean up too bad yourself.” You were a witty one, at least from the tone of your voice and demeanor, he can tell this wasn’t your first rodeo. “You didn’t have to get me flowers.”

“I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I came empty handed. A little birdie told me that first impressions matter, remember?” The corner of your mouth curls up at the way he echoes your words from two nights ago, a light chuckle escaping you. He extends his arm to hand you the bouquet, observing your reaction as he did so.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” your voice softens as you speak to him, a faint warmth settling on your cheeks under your makeup.

“Of course. Ready to go inside?” He suggests, and with a nod you take a step forward to the restaurant’s entrance.

As the hostess ushers you through the restaurant, Marcus keeps the steady weight of his palm on your lower back, just the right amount of pressure to not seem too forceful. You are brought to a more quiet section of the place, a few other dining patrons nearby but limited in number. The setting is intended to be intimate with the dim warm-toned lighting, a mixture of stone and archived pictures of an industrialized Chicago decorating the walls around you.

The hostess steps away once you reach your table, and Marcus swiftly helps you remove your thin jacket, placing it on the edge of your chair and pulling it out for you to take a seat, pushing you in afterward. Now situated in your designated place, the older man steps around you, watching him as he undoes the front button of his suit jacket before sitting down, looking in your direction and offering a gentle smile. Mimicking his expression, you drop the flowers at the center of the table, feeling the delicate tablecloth in front of you.

“Have you been here before?” He queries once you are both settled, a waiter coming by to fill your glasses with water.

“No, I’ve been trying to score a reservation here for months but I heard it’s been booked out way in advance. Not entirely surprised you found a way to grab a table so quickly, but color me shocked.”

“I’m a man of many talents. It’s a good thing you found me when you did.” The same waiter from before returns to pass the menu, prepared to give the tailored list of the chef’s specials for the night. “Feel free to indulge. Get whatever you like.”

As tempting as the invitation is, you are more than conscious of what you order off the menu. Playing it safe with a classic salad, a hearty steak, and two glasses of wine that leave you satisfied in terms of appetite. Marcus surprisingly does a good job of keeping you engaged throughout the night with simple conversation, easing into the comfortably of letting his curiosity speak for itself with the questions he asks. Though, he quickly comes to realize you’re charismatic with your responses, almost trained to know what to expect, how to answer and the tone you should be using.

It’s by the time the entree hits your table and you finish your first glass of wine that you loosen up, flipping his questions back to him, finding out more about his career, who he is, his likes and dislikes. Your grin widens more with every sip of your drink, pacing yourself to be sensible in your consumption while you eat.

Now almost finished with your second glass of expensive red, you swirl the last drops that pool at the bottom of the glass. You glance at him from across the table, eyeing him closely with a hint of mischief. He mirrors your expression, his cheek dimpling as he looks at you from the other end.

“You’re an awfully observant man, Marcus.” You remark, a slight edge to your voice, glossy lips staining the rim of your glass as you finish off your drink.

“When something is deserving of my attention, I have a habit of not cheapening out.” He playfully shrugs, his glass running empty a while ago, declining a refill as he’s taking it easy tonight. “Are you in the mood for dessert?”

Whether he meant the next course or something else, that was for him to know and for you to find out. Though, as enticing the prospect is to take it there, you don’t want to misread the situation beyond what it is.

“I actually don’t think I have room for anything else, the steak did a number on me.” An upbeat giggle pours out of you, and he laughs along with you.

“Then unless you want another glass of wine, I can ask for the check. Or…” his voice drifts off, the suspense grabbing your attention.

“Or?” That’s when he sees it, a spark of intrigue that fills him with a boldness he’s been harboring since sitting down at this table.

“Or you can join me for a drink, back at my place, if you’d like of course. If not, I can drop you off at home before heading back to mine.” Marcus is asking you to go back home with him, at least that’s what he thinks. Yet, it almost seems like it’s more than a suggestion, but a subdued command. Not that you’re complaining, you were hoping he’d ask at some point.

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind another drink.”

He tries to hide his surprise at your answer, but after seeing the faint gleam in your eye, his cheek dimples once more.

With a quick gesture of his hand, Marcus whips out his black card and covers the tab, his palm taking its place on our tailbone as you both walk out of the restaurant together. His tinted Escalade rolls onto the street, and he steps to the side to let you in first, closing the door behind him and setting his address as the next destination. Throughout the ride, there is a comfortable distance between you, stuck on opposite ends in the backseat, throwing each other side glances when looking away from the window, a smile here and there. Still, he keeps his hands to himself, thick fingers thrumming on his lap and you hold your bag in yours, the anticipation of seeing where the older man lived incrementing inside you.

Twenty minutes later and a brief dinner recap, he extends his hand to help you out of the car, faintly squeezing your fingers as he does. He remains steadfast in keeping his touch on your lower back as he guides you through the lobby hall, the doorman greeting you both whilst passing him.

Entering the elevator, he taps part of his key on the scanner and presses the PH button at the very top of the selection, what you assume to be the penthouse. He gives you a knowing look, a gleam in his eyes as you’re sent up higher in this modernized building.

Crossing through the hallway that awaits you once the elevator doors open, you are brought to a pair of double doors. Allowing Marcus to formally unlock the door, you step into his space for the first time, and you can’t help the gasp that slips out of you.

Guided through the foyer of his apartment, you find high rise ceilings and earthy tones surrounding you, hints of creams and metallic accents left everywhere to find. The kitchen is fully decked out with modern stainless steel appliances and light wooden cabinets, a marble island taking the empty space in the middle. The open concept layout allows you to see the living room, sunken into the floor at a lower level, spotting a plush dark brown L shaped couch with smaller cream cushions behind a deep wooden coffee table, paired with a twin set of auburn armchairs and an overarching lamp between them. A fireplace is built into the accent wall, a plasma screen TV seamlessly hanging in contrast to the wooden panels that cover that portion of the room.

You can tell there is probably more for you to discover, another hallway that would allow you passage to an office or his bedroom, but that will be left for another day. What really catches your eye is the wall of books to the farthest side of the room, close to the frosted windows and balcony that grant a perfect view of the Chicago Loop area at night. The shelving carries a catered collection of works that were found over the years, and your curiosity piques to see what titles he might have in there.

The space is gorgeous, surprisingly warm and inviting, simultaneously masculine and calming. A harmonization of colors and textiles all in one space. You envy him just a tad for having such a nice apartment, though you might consider this one to be the best interior you’ve seen so far.

“What do you think? Hopefully it’s not too much,” you hear Marcus utter from behind you, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it off to the side. He offers to take off your overcoat, allowing his hands to lightly caress over your shoulders as he tugs the layer off, hanging it next to his. He also grasps the bouquet you’re holding, setting it down on the table closest to the door to grab later on your way out.

“I think you’re a man of fine taste for both exteriors and interiors.” You continue to marvel at your current backdrop. “Did you design all of this too?”

“Partially. Worked with an interior designer to figure out the dimensions of things, what exactly I needed to achieve my vision. But for the most part, the colors, textures and where everything goes was all me. The sunken living room was definitely my idea, did not sit well with the building managers but they came around.”

“I’m amazed you managed to get away with that.”

“You pick up a few things here and there the more you learn about the industry.” He looks at your side profile for a second before he speaks again. “Do you still want that drink?”

“That depends. What do you have?” You turn on your heel to face him, a coy smile on your pretty face.

“Anything really. Wine, whiskey, I can mix a drink for you if you’d prefer that.” For some reason, the potential of seeing Marcus make a drink tugs at your chest. Taking a second to think of a solid option, you settle on a reasonable cocktail.

“You know how to make a whiskey sour?” You watch the way his face quirks up at your choice of drink.

“Sure do. Make yourself at home.”

Marcus wanders off to the kitchen where he has what looks to be a whole bar built into a portion of the sectioned off room. You walk around the space he’s tailored to be his, running your fingertips over the edge of the couch and admiring the paintings hanging on the wall by the bookshelves. Scanning over the varying book titles, you note the multiple accounting and real estate books, some shelves primarily only having that with the rest filled with classics you recall him mentioning to you in passing.

The sound of ice shaking forces your attention back to Marcus whose focus was primarily in making your drink. From the corner of your eye, you see he has his sleeves rolled up his forearm, his bicep flexing as he holds the shaker in his broad hand, moving it with efficiency, a curl falling over his forehead from the effort. You look away when he pops the top off of the shaker, hoping he didn’t see you ogling him longer than you should have.

Playing clueless, your eyes land on a certain part of his book collection, titles relating to history and the world catching your eye, global wars and conquests amongst other things. You were too busy scanning the spines of the different books to notice Marcus observing you as he walked in your direction with a glass in each of his hands. Turning once you feel his presence by your side, you whisper a thank you and take your drink, tentatively sipping through the small straw he offered you, to taste the perfect mix of lime and aged rye.

“How is it? I eased up on the whiskey, figured you wouldn’t want something too strong.”

“You should’ve done bartending instead of real estate. Bet you would be a hit with the ladies, make a hell of a lot of tips.” Marcus chuckles, a pleasant sound that emits through him.

“Guess the mixing classes are paying off.”

A coltish smirk lands on your face in amusement, tilting your head to the bookshelf to grab his attention. “Wouldn’t take you as a history buff.”

“What can I say? I like learning about the world, the past shaping the present and influencing the future. Plus, it keeps me well rounded as one would say, pairs well with traveling.” You hum with a nod, pointing to a specific title you notice.

“SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome by Mary Beard. I was obsessed with Ancient Rome when I was a kid, well that and mythology. Sort of ironic considering you’re from there, you’d fit in.”

“It’s a special interest of mine, but I’m curious about the history of the general area, besides what’s been passed down by family members.” He states casually, letting you wander around a bit more before heading to the couch in his living room, his hand instantly holding yours as you step down into the sunken floor along the way.

With every sip of your cocktail, you find yourself more entranced by Marcus, your eyes drawn to the muscles in his arm contracting when he takes a gulp of his whiskey. Time flies by as you converse more with him, the ice melting in your glass as you sit your empty cup on the coffee table. Your heels are now somewhere scattered on the floor, legs folded over one another as you lean into the couch on your side, facing your date. He stays seated on the corner of the couch, body angled towards the fireplace and his legs spread with his hands on his leg as he listens to you talk.

“You never mentioned it, you know, why you’re on the app to begin with. You don’t seem like the kind of man to bother with this whole sort of thing.”

“And why do you think that?” He twists his head to look at you, curious in your reasoning.

“You’re too smart to be bullshitting around with anything, and I think relationships are the same. Something happened along the way, no?”

Ah, there it is, the feared question. Why was he on that app? Originally it was a joke, he wasn’t taking it seriously, and yet here he is, sitting on the couch with someone from a sugar daddy app of all places. He could lie to you, say he just wanted some company for the night just to save his own ass. But one look at your face and he knew the last thing he wanted to do was use the usual facade that fed the void in his chest. 

He pauses for a beat before finding his words.

“I was married for a few years. The divorce was finalized a few months ago, but feels like it happened way before that.”

“I’m sorry, Marcus.” Your palm flies to his knee in a supporting pat, the action not lost to him as warmth springs from your touch for a moment before taking it back.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Things just didn’t work out, it wasn’t in the cards.” He fidgets with the ring on his right hand, a nervous tick he’s adopted over time as the air thickens in the room. Moving the spotlight from himself, he flips the question to you. “And what about you? Why were you on the app?”

“Honestly, I forgot I still had an account after doing this a few times, never really worked out in the past. I was about to deactivate my profile when I saw your super like. Didn’t want to pass up the opportunity, so I answered. Besides, I was curious about you.”

“You must’ve had hundreds of profile matches at that point.” You chortle under your breath.

“Oh, please. You open the app and it’s just all up in your face. It’s so…overwhelming. But if it’s any comfort, you were the only account I liked back.”

Marcus’ neck pivots to peer at you, sincere in your confession to him. He fights the urge to have his lips curve upwards, instead he shifts his gaze back down to the floor with a shake of his head.

“You flatter me.”

“I’m serious,” you jest, straightening your back and jokingly slapping his bicep. “You’re sitting here acting like you didn't have hundreds of likes coming out of the woodworks.”

“Seeing that high number took me off guard, I’m surprised my phone didn’t glitch from it and I was spared from getting a headache. But I didn’t really care much for the rest. I liked your account and turned my phone off, called it a day.”

Your eyes bore on to Marcus’ face, staring at him incredulously. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Lots of beautiful women on there, don’t get me wrong. However, I’m more particular about what I like.” He ogles at you, as if he needed to make it any more obvious he found you attractive. The thought brings heat to your cheeks, the alcohol doing wonders to lower your inhibitions.

Your sight detours to his hand where his thumb runs over the emerald signet ring on his pinkie, your curiosity getting the best of you.

“What’s with the ring?” You jut your chin out to point to the shiny piece of jewelry.

“Family heirloom. Been in my family since my grandfather, went to my father, and now passed down to me. Just something I mess with often.”

“Can I see it?” You move your hand towards him, suggesting that you want to see the emerald piece up close.

Marcus offers you his hand, your fingers grazing his palm as you look at the ring. He tries his best not to think too much about the way your touch feels, how your soft fingers sweep his calloused ones as you examine the way the ring circles around his thick digit, running your thumb over the emerald stone at the center.

To his disbelief, you bring his hand to your cheek, his knuckles caressing over your jaw and ear before guiding it towards your neck. The knuckle of his pointer finger rasps the front of your throat and the divot of your collarbone, your fingers circling his wrist and slowly bringing his touch down the middle of your chest. His heart pounds in his ribs when you drag his hand over your midriff before placing it on your waist, comfortably laying on your hip and he gives you a nervous squeeze.

Swiftly, you shift your position on the couch, bending on your knees to crawl towards his lap. Marcus watches you the entire time, leaning backwards and letting you get situated with zero protest. The end of your dress rides up your thighs slowly, your hands on his chest, sensing the tension radiating off of him in waves. He keeps both of his hands on your waist, his head angled back to hold your gaze, concealing the groan that threatens to escape from feeling your body over his.

“Is this okay?” You ask, seeing him nod. “Marcus…” you entice him with a whisper, leaning towards him, the tips of your noses edging together. “I really want to kiss you.”

Marcus’ eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as he gawks at you, slightly tipsy from your earlier drink coursing through your veins. He’s considerate enough to keep his hands on your waist, holding you steady as you stare at him with stars in your vision.

“Can I kiss you? Please?” You press yourself against him, one hand on his chest as your words captivate him. His focus lingers in your hazy eyes, then drifts to your lips, watching how they part subconsciously with every breath. Succumbing to his desires, he nods again, and you tip forward to slot your mouth over his.

It’s the lightest of pecks, brief and sweet enough to not overwhelm either of you, a test of boundaries. You briskly pull away, carefully watching Marcus’ reaction, reading his body language to see whether or not he wants to pause or keep going. He squeezes your waist, and that is all the initiative you need to kiss him again.

With a faint grin, you offer him another peck, then another, and another. After every kiss, the gloss on your lips fades and transfers to his mouth, and by the fourth peck, he pinches your chin and brings you forward to kiss you with more intention. Your body ignites with the prolonged feel of his mouth against yours, the curve in your spine deepens and your hands move on their own.

Marcus lets you lead him into the kiss, following your pace and sighing in content when your fingers thread through the hair on his nape, tugging the strands a little to angle his head differently. A groan rumbles in his chest from your touch, taking advantage of this position and teasing your tongue over his bottom lip, signaling you want to taste more of him.

Granting you passage, his mouth opens to welcome your tongue, curling around his own and keeping your grip on him. Slanting your head to the side to get the right angle, your body inches nearer as your hips press over his. Without much thought, his hands move up your back, the feel of his palms a comfort against your heated skin, trailing lower to cup your ass. The action forces you to gasp, pulling away to find darkened brown eyes staring at you carefully and bringing his hands back to your waist, the start of an apology dying on his lips before you interrupted him. “It’s okay, Marcus. You can touch me.” You coax his hand down to your lower back, fingers intertwined with his and urging him to squeeze your tender flesh. “I want you to touch me.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing, the desire he’s been carrying all night dominates the rest of his self-doubt. Palming your ass with one hand and keeping the other on your side, he swoops in for another passionate kiss, more comfortable in initiating this time around. You simply let him have it, the edge of your dress riding up your thighs as your hips settle over his, the center of you pulsing after another greedy squeeze.

The need for his attention grows more ravenous as you sit prettily over his lap, carding your fingers through his graying strands. Discreetly, your hips hesitantly shift over his hips, feeling the evident bulge developing under your thigh. Marcus bites your bottom lip at your slight movement, pushing his hips closer to yours as his cock hardens in his slacks.

Plucking your lips away from his, you litter kisses over his cheek and the side of his jaw, nipping at the juncture where his jaw meets his neck. He grunts when you finally reach his neck, gliding your tongue over the vein that pulses along with the rest of him. Head thrown back on the edge of the couch, he lets you touch him however you want, kneading your rear with his thick fingers, skimming over more of your bare skin as your dress moves higher up your body. 

It all feels too good, the realization of just how touch deprived he is hits him like a ton of bricks. Here you are sitting on his lap, grinding against him in such a way he can feel your heat through his clothes, your scent wafting under his nose with your close proximity. It’s almost too much for him to take.

And he doesn’t want you to stop.

Controlling your movements over him, you adopt a steady rhythm gyrating your body against his thighs, his hands encouraging you with every push and pull. Your panties begin to stick to you, the gluttony enrapturing you growing to new heights as the erection hidden under expensive material twitches the harder you grind. Decorum out of the window, Marcus fantasizes what it must feel like to be between your legs; imagines if you taste just as sweet as you smell, or if your cunt would tighten and clench around him when he brought you to the edge over and over again until the only thing you remembered was his name.

His own imagination paired with your incessant humping forces his body to hit his peak prematurely, shuddering under you with a rasped groan. You’re stunned as his body betrays him, the bump in his pants deflating once the wave of pleasure is done washing over him, his grip tightening around your hips.

The air around you crackles despite the silence, stiff as you observe the man underneath you trying to catch his breath. You can tell he wasn’t expecting this to happen, much less to feel so much he ended up spilling in his briefs from a little bit of kissing and movement. His bearded cheeks are shaded with hints of pink and his eyes distantly off to the side, avoiding your observant gaze.

“Fuck, I am so sorry,” Marcus starts, the self deprecating thoughts running rampant in his head from his mediocre performance.

He curses himself, thinking he should’ve been better prepared for this, maybe jerked off before the date to begin with in hopes he would last longer. This certainly is a first for him, coming prematurely like a fucking teenager was not something he’s known for, and should be reason enough to bury him six feet under from the embarrassment.

“Don’t be. Honestly, it’s kind of flattering,” you affirm bashfully as the last bits of your arousal settle in your gut. “I think it’s hot.”

“Really?” Marcus flexes his eyebrows, seeking your reassurance.

“Feeling so good you just couldn’t help yourself? It’s sexy. I’ll take it as a compliment,” you express, kissing him sweeter than you had for the past thirty minutes. “I can clean you up if you want…”

Your hushed words make his cock twitch again despite already making a mess in his briefs. His mind is going into overdrive, envisioning you on your knees, pretty mouth wrapped around his length and your manicured nails handling the rest.

Next time.

“No, it’s alright. I’d rather repay the favor.” Sure, it might’ve appeared to be a form of damage control, but the reality is he’s developed a craving that only you could satisfy.

“You don’t have to Marcus, it’s fine really. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not the kind of man to leave a woman unsatisfied. Not in my character.” He kisses you again, reviving the same familiar pulse from between your legs. “Let me make you feel good.”

A whimper threatens to slip past your lips, but you swallow it down. From the way he kissed your lipstick off, you wondered what it would feel like to have his mouth on another part of you, granting you something you desperately needed since getting in the car from the restaurant. Reason had already left your mind a while ago, and your body spoke of your intentions before you confirmed them yourself, muttering an airy okay with a nod.

You barely register how smoothly he maneuvers you, the shift so seamless it feels like second nature. You’re sinking into the couch, your back meeting the plush cushions as he takes control.

Marcus doesn’t rush. He never does. Not in business, not in conversation, and certainly not in bed.

But right now, with you spread out on his couch, looking at him like you’re daring him to take whatever he wants, he feels something hungry unravel inside him.

He moves with intention, mouth against yours in a deep, passionate kiss. Your spine arches, breasts pressed up against his chest, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, clenching when he drags his lips from yours to your jaw, then down your neck.

You smell divine.

He lingers at your neck as he inhales against your skin, your perfume an aphrodisiac that disorients him, fogging his mind. It makes a groan vibrate deep in his chest, the sound sending goosebumps over your skin, your nipples hardening beneath the fabric of your dress.

Marcus cups your tits in his large hands, relishing the weight of them, the way they fill his palms so perfectly. He squeezes, kneading the satin-covered flesh, his thumbs dragging over stiffened peaks.

His deep exhale fans over your plump breasts before he continues downward, dragging slow, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. His facial hair grazes your skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

He licks the swells of your chest, teeth nipping at the supple skin, making you yelp playfully and you can feel the small smirk that pulls at his lips before he moves lower, veiled brown eyes flitting up to your flustered face as his tongue mouths your nipple over the dress, biting down on it softly.

“You like that?” He asks, already knowing the damn answer, the satin dampening beneath his tongue as he flicks and sucks at the hardened bud.

“Yes, Marcus…” The breathy sigh of his name is like music to his ears, neck tilting back as your eyes flutter close when he repeats the action on your other breast, kneading its twin in his large hand.

“You are so gorgeous.”

He shifts again, going lower, pushing the skirt of your pretty dress up until it’s bunched at your waist. His palms are warm and firm as he trails kisses above your mound, teasing you with his descent. Your thighs twitch under his touch, anticipation buzzing through you like an electric current.

He spreads your legs wide, pushing them up to your chest and keeping you in the position he wants by pressing his hands to the back of your thighs near where your knees bend.

The sight of your barely covered sex is more erotic than if you had forgone the undergarment all together. Short, dark curls tease him over the flimsy hem of your panties and his cock stirs at the sight despite the mess he’s already made in his slacks.

“She’s real pretty.” His voice drops an octave, the rasp in it making the compliment sound wanton. Your hips move on their own ever so slightly, a natural reaction your pussy is having to his tone, chasing the sound.

Marcus hums, a quiet sound of appreciation, feeding off every little tic of yours. His lips part slightly, tongue rolling over them as his attention remains on your thong.

Thin black lace, skimpy. Practically useless.

His fingers toy with the waistband, slipping beneath it, testing the stretch. Then, with a little too much enthusiasm, he pulls and it gives, the sound of the fabric tearing setting you off even more.

He almost scoffs. The material of it feels expensive beneath his touch yet it rips so easily. He could easily buy you a hundred of these. Better.

Your eyes lazily find his and for a moment, there’s nothing but a silent exchange between you—a subtle tilt of your head, the slight arch of your brow, questioning. Are you really going to do it?

His smirk is slow, knowing. A dimple dents his cheek.

Yes.

And with that, he grips the lace and rips the damn thing off, throwing it over his shoulder. The ruined panties fall onto the coffee table behind him, forgotten.

Now you’re completely bare, the lips of your pussy spread from how he’s got your legs parted, sex aching and glistening beneath the dim opulent lighting. A perfect, needy mess just for him.

The soft trail of hair that leads down to your pretty cunt has Marcus leaning in, nuzzling his strong nose against you, inhaling the musky scent that lingers there, letting it invade his senses and seep into his bloodstream like an intoxicant. 

His tongue follows next, broad and slow, dragging up the length of the strip, savoring the contrast of coarse curls against the slick warmth of his mouth. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, earthy and sweet. You let out a drawn out moan, palms sinking into the couch as you attempt to ground yourself amidst the sensation.

“Shit,” the curse word is muttered, barely audible as you feel delirious from feeling him so close to where you need him. You don’t remember how long it’s been since you craved the touch of a man like this, and it doesn’t help that the alcohol you’ve been consuming all night is amplifying your lust.

Your pussy flutters involuntarily, a fresh trickle of sweet arousal slipping lower, trailing down to the curve of your ass.

Marcus is enraptured, taking in your exposed, creamy flesh, how your smell infiltrates his nose and it’s like his eyes gloss over with a carnal desire to devour you, eat you until you’re crying and begging him to stop.

He needs to reel it in, remind himself that it’s only the first night. He can’t overwhelm you too quickly, scare you away before he’s able to show you what he’s truly capable of. Of how good he can actually make you feel.

“So wet,” he mutters as he maps wet, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. His fingers sink into the soft, pliant flesh, squeezing, kneading—reverent in his touch. He drags his lips closer, his breath ghosting over your messy cunt, teasing but never quite giving.

“Hard to hold back when you’re spread out like this,” he murmurs, nosing against the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your core. “But fuck, sweetheart… I don’t think I want to.”

“Didn’t get the impression that you could hold back.” The timbre of your tone makes him pause, pulling away slightly to look at you properly.

“If I really let you have it…you’d already be begging me to let you breathe.”

The glint of amusement that flickers through your gaze is gone in a blink, replaced by unguarded desire.

“I can handle it.”

His smoldering stare rises to meet yours, narrowing just slightly, a silent challenge passing between you. His thumbs press into your skin as if testing the truth of your statement.

You’re bracing yourself beneath his touch, muscles tensing in anticipation, as if proving to him that your words aren’t just bravado. You mean them. You want this. You want him.

Good. He wants you to need this as badly as he does.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, savoring, as if he’s tasting something forbidden, something he’s been denied for too long. But patience? That doesn’t last. It shatters the second he gets his first real taste, and the groan that rumbles deep in his chest is downright filthy.

Marcus is gone.

He buries himself into your pussy, tongue dragging flat up your slit before going taut and flicking up to your clit, testing what makes you gasp and elicit more of those sweet noises that fill his ears.

“Oh Marcus, just like that.” It’s as if he flips a switch that has your words pouring out. “You’re doing so good.”

Your praise melts into him, impassioning him. He’s been craving this kind of lust for years. It’s been too fucking long since he let himself indulge in his roaring sexual appetite.

He swirls your sensitive nub around with his tongue, sealing his lips around the pert flesh. He suckles on it, making out with your pussy, having you wail out like an aching woman.

Marcus thrives off the way your hips rock toward his mouth, groaning like he’s savoring a meal far more decadent than the dinner from earlier tonight.

Your heady and potent taste drowns his taste buds, clit pulsing against his tongue—all of it is enough to make him lightheaded. His big hands curl around your thighs, pulling you somehow closer, the friction of his nose and beard rubbing against your pussy making you keen and further lose yourself in the pleasure he is giving you.

“Fuck don’t stop, oh my god.” Your sounds turn pornographic, tugging at his hair while your other hand moves up to palm your own breast, the fabric of your dress slipping until your chest is exposed, nipples sensitive to the cool air.

The hand at your left thigh traverses up, nudging your hand out of the way and you let him grab a handful of your tit. The growl he emits vibrates against your sex as his fingers begin to roll and pull at the perky bud.

Marcus’ tongue then slips inside your fluttering entrance, fucking into you as his aquiline nose rubs your slick pearl.

The obscene sounds of his mouth working you over fill the room—sucking, slurping, the guttural groans that rumble from his chest every time he dives back in like he can’t get enough. Because he can’t. He’s drunk on you, addicted after only minutes, and the more you writhe beneath him, the more he loses himself in it.

Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. His name becomes a hymn as your orgasm looms, taunting you, threatening to end this beautiful, salacious act despite you wanting to live in this pocket of pleasure for the rest of the night.

You did not expect him to be this good or fucking eager. Most men treat a woman’s pleasure like an afterthought, something to be checked off a list before they roll over and chase their own release. But not him. He’s eating like he’s never going to get the chance again, showing you with every flick of his tongue, every messy, open-mouthed kiss to your cunt, exactly how much he enjoys this.

Your hand moves on instinct, covering his where it grips your breast, your nails raking over his knuckles and the sleek face of his expensive watch, dragging down until you can feel the veins running beneath his skin. His tongue doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter, even as you babble through a desperate plea.

“I’m right there, mmm don’t stop, please.”

You gyrate against his handsome face, claiming him in the messiest, most unceremonious way, coating his chin, his nose, those full lips that have been driving you insane all night. 

He can feel your desperation in how your fingers clench his hair or how your other hand moves to grip the back of the couch, back arching high off the cushions. You’re unraveling for him, and fuck, that just makes him want to push you further.

Marcus doesn’t need his fingers to make you come. Just his mouth. Just his tongue plunging into you, curling, lapping up everything you give him, working you until you’re trembling—until those soft gasps turn into ragged, broken moans.

And when you finally finish, when you sob his name like it’s the only thing you know, Marcus still does not stop.

He takes your orgasm, drinks it down, tongue still lapping at your sex as your thighs snap shut around his head, as if you’re trying to pull him deeper, to keep him there. And he lets you smother him, lets himself drown in you.

It’s overwhelming. Your vision blurs, lashes wet with tears, streaks of mascara and eyeliner running down your cheeks. You’re coming apart under the relentless assault of his mouth again, your second orgasm stretching, rolling, growing into something bigger than yourself.

“I—I—” The words tangle in your throat, lost in the heat of it all, stolen by the wicked, practiced flicks of his wet muscle. When he pulls back, it’s only to drag his tongue over his bottom lip, hollowing his cheeks and spitting filthily onto your throbbing cunt.

“Thought you could handle it?” He taunts before diving back in, both hands returning to keep you firmly against his face.

You can’t think straight, thoughts slipping through your grasp like water. “T-Too much, oh—” you attempt to pull your hips away, body writhing as if you were a possessed woman, the overstimulation of it all feeling like you’re burning from the inside out in the best way possible.

But Marcus keeps you locked down tightly, staring intensely up at you, letting the edges of his teeth graze along your sensitive clit. A white-hot jolt of sensation rockets up your spine and makes you scream so high-pitched, you’re sure the windows of his penthouse rattle from the force of it.

Your back bows violently, stiffening as the pleasure crashes over you, unexpected and devastating. Your release gushes out in a messy, sinful rush, soaking the lower half of his face. Marcus groans deeply, slurping it, shaking his head against your cunt to smear it all over, the primal feel of it all only intensifying with each drop of yours that he tastes. 

Only when you finally slump against the couch, spent and trembling, does he ease up, pressing lingering kisses to your clit, enjoying how your pussy twitches from coming so hard. A thin string of your essence clings to his lips as he finally—reluctantly—pulls back, breathing heavily, dragging the back of his hand across his slick beard.

The blissfully wrecked look on your face is one that’s going to be burned into the back of his eyelids for eternity. It’s in this moment; as he takes in your swollen lips, ruined makeup, and your ravished body, that something in him clicks. It makes Marcus recognize that whatever this is sprouting between you two is something he wants to continue to chase.

He flashes you a lopsided smirk, one that deepens when the single curl falls onto his forehead. Kisses are placed on each quivering inner thigh in an attempt to soothe the tremors still running through your body, before he begins his ascent, reversing the path that led him to the heaven between your legs.

The skirt of your dress is smoothed down with careful hands, his large fingers tugging the fabric into place, covering you as if he’s tucking away something precious. Then, with the same tenderness, he draws the neckline back over your chest. But his lips don’t stop their journey. They find your neck, trailing up to your jawline, the corner of your mouth—teasing—before finally claiming your lips.

The smell of your pussy clings to him as he kisses you passionately, making you taste yourself. It makes the kiss filthier, his mouth moving against yours with the same fervor he’d shown between your thighs. You whimper into him, feeling the lazy roll of his tongue as he takes his time with you. Neither of you wants to break the moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, still kneeling between your legs, his hand coming up to cradle your face, thumb grazing your cheek before tugging at one of the curls that’s slipped loose from your updo. “Taste so good, too.”

Your smile comes naturally—not coy, not calculated, but soft, bubbling over, breathless. There’s a twinkle in your eyes, and Marcus feels himself get lost in it, entranced by the way you look at him. If this is what he’s rewarded with every time he makes you come, then he’ll gladly do it over and over again.

“Thank you for not holding back,” you finally manage, your voice still wrecked, but carrying that teasing lilt. Your fingers weave into his curls, tugging lightly as you take him in—his dark, blown-out gaze, the shine of your slick still glistening on his beard. “Even if it looked like I was tapping out there for a second. You’ve got real magic in that mouth of yours.”

Marcus huffs out a laugh. “Thanks.” His brown eyes soften while he wipes the streaks of your makeup away with his thumb. You could stay like this all night, just looking, feeling, letting the attraction simmer until it boils over and you’re tangled in his sheets with his name on the tip of your tongue.

But you both know better. This is something to savor and let breathe, allowing chemistry to take the lead.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“More than I anticipated.” 

The answer strokes something deep in his chest, an ego he rarely lets get the better of him. But with you? He allows it, just a little.

“I’d like to keep seeing you. If it wasn’t obvious.”

You sigh, still reeling from his ministrations, tilting your head, unable to stop drinking him in. “Same here. You are a very intriguing man, Marcus.”

“And you are a very fascinating woman.” He gently takes the wrist of the hand in his hair, bringing it to his lips, placing a kiss on your palm. It makes your heart stutter. “I’ll call the driver to take you home if you want to go freshen up.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing, “Oh? You’re kicking me out?”

“If you want to stay, be my guest.”

The invitation lingers in the air between you, heavy with temptation. And it is tempting, yet despite the fact that he had his mouth buried between your thighs not even five minutes ago, you don’t want to lay all your cards on the table just yet.

“I’ll get out of your hair. My bed beckons me.” 

Marcus stands, offering his hand as he helps you to your feet, pointing you to the direction of the master bathroom. You feel the intensity of his gaze as you walk away, aware of how his eyes track the intentional sway of your hips. You can’t help but smirk.

Only when you disappear behind the door does he exhale, rubbing a hand down his jaw, feeling the sticky remnants of you still clinging to him. He glances at the ruined scrap of lace on the coffee table, sporting a smug smile of his own, grabbing his phone to call the driver.

Once your ride is handled, he moves around the space to gather your things, adjusting himself in his pants, cringing at the reminder of the mess that’s there. 

You emerge a few minutes later, face wiped clean, hair slightly more composed yet just as gorgeous, your legs carrying the delicious remnants of euphoria in every shaky step.

“Mailing you my doctor bill if this problem doesn’t go away anytime soon,” you joke, sinking onto the couch to slip your heels back on.

Marcus smirks, shaking his head as he watches you, holding your gathered belongings in his hands. “Think of it as a souvenir. Something to remember me by until we see each other again.”

“Yeah? And when will that be?”

“You tell me.”

You hum, pretending to consider as you rise to your feet, your body brushing just close enough to tempt. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.”

You reach for the delicate scrap of lace left abandoned on his coffee table. “You owe me a new pair, by the way.”

He chuckles, helping you slip into your jacket, then handing over your things. “That thing was on its last thread. Surprised it didn’t just dissolve off you with how soaked you got it.”

You roll your eyes, biting down on your lip as warmth creeps up your neck at the memory. He watches the way you react, the way your body still responds to him even now, and it only cements his need to see you again.

Guiding you out of the penthouse, he keeps conversation light, the easy chemistry between you both lingering like an unspoken promise. But the moment you step into the lobby, you feel the burn of the doorman’s knowing stare, his amusement barely concealed as he tips his head in greeting.

“Have a good night, miss,” he says, and you fight the urge to duck your head in embarrassment, thanking him quietly.

Outside, the cool Chicago night air wraps around you as a sleek black Escalade idles in the porte-cochère, waiting. Marcus, ever the gentleman, steps ahead to open the car door for you.

You stop just before getting in, looking up at him, your voice soft. “Thank you for tonight. I had a wonderful time—you’re great company.”

He grins. “Likewise, beautiful. I’m glad you didn’t deactivate your account when you did.”

Your heart flutters at that, and before you can second-guess it, you lean up on your toes, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses to his lips. He hums against your mouth, his hand naturally finding its place on your waist, the metal of his ring grazing the fabric of your dress.

“Let me know when you make it home, alright?” he murmurs against your lips.

“I will.”

One last kiss, then you pull away, climbing into the backseat. You share a final, lingering glance through the open door.

“Good night, Marcus.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

You smile, and with that, he shuts the door. The SUV pulls away, disappearing into the city streets, swallowed by the skyline. Marcus watches until you’re gone, your touch still burning against his skin, your scent still clinging to his shirt.

He exhales heavily, running his fingers through his hair before turning back toward the building.

“Have a good evening, sir?”

Marcus smirks, the memory of your body, your taste, your voice still fresh in his mind.

“The best I’ve had in a long time.”

[lockefanfic]

City of Light

The following is Chapter 10 in the Toy series, but it can (mostly) be read on its own. 🙂

15,477 words.

---

Even in the darkness of near-midnight, Paris was still beautiful.

The sparkling lights contrasted sharply against the decades and sometimes centuries-old buildings they illuminated. Even as you flew by them in the hired van, the weight of history was nonetheless impressed upon you by almost every structure you passed on your way to the hotel.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hirai Momo says, softly, as though she were talking to herself. You turn to find her similarly entranced by Paris’ lights, even as they painted her soft features in blue and white.

“It is,” you agree, as you return to watching large, particularly ornate buildings fly by your window.

“Some of these buildings must be centuries old,” she continues, her voice surprising you with its depth and thoughtfulness. “How many people have been inside them? How many stories have started and ended in their walls? Kind of crazy to think about. Feels like history is right there outside this window, passing us by.”

It was the kind of statement you’d expected from one of the more introspective members of Twice, but admittedly not from Momo, whom you’d assumed didn’t really give much thought to things like the histories of cities and the stories of the people within them. When she turns to give you a look she lets a slim smile play across her lips, as though she were proud of herself for having surprised you the way she did.

“What?” she prods.

“Nothing,” you answer, “It’s just…”

“Just that that was something you’d expect one of the other girls to say? One of the… smarter ones? Mina or Jeongyeon or… Chaeyoung?”

You are taken aback by how forward she was being - your conversations with her over the past few months were casual at best, and rare outside of the bedroom. Truth be told, though, she wasn’t too far off from the truth.

“Well, yes,” you admit.

“Figured,” she says. There is the slightest hint of disappointment in her tone as she turns back towards the glittering lights flying by the vehicle. “You’re not the only one that would think so.”

She doesn’t seem open to continuing the conversation, and so you leave her be. You ponder her words in silence for the rest of the trip, feeling suddenly guilty for having assumed so much about the young woman next to you.

---

The check-in process at the hotel was relatively painless, much to your relief. You’d come to realize that many of the high-end hotels the girls regularly stayed in had staff on hand that were fluent in English, saving you from having to rely on your high-school level French and a translator app.

The elevator you occupied with Momo opens its doors on the fifth floor, where your room was located. The company had splurged on a penthouse suite for Momo, as it often did with its performers. Despite this, the hotel as a whole was still one of the higher-end ones in Paris, and you were looking forward to grabbing some room service and much-needed sleep in a fancier room than you were accustomed to.

“The makeup people will be here early,” you say with a sigh as you grab your wheeled luggage and get ready to vacate the elevator. It was well past midnight now, and you both had a long, important day ahead of yourselves with Momo’s appearance at a fashion show. “I can give you a call around six, make sure you’re awake-”

Momo stops you, her hand grasping your forearm while you are halfway out of the elevator.

“You’re the only manager here,” she says, matter-of-factly. “So you’re all mine for this trip, aren’t you?”

You find a smile on her lips, and you quickly return it. You knew what she meant, both with her words and the look that accompanied it.

Truth be told, you had settled more into the managerial side of your “job” in the past month or two, and this week-long trip and Momo’s appearances at two fashion shows, five days apart, was your first time as the sole on-site manager with one of the girls. While you were still on-call for the girls’ more physical needs, you also knew this trip was an opportunity to really make something of yourself at the company beyond just being entertainment for the girls. As such, you found that you were more focused than usual at making sure it went off without a hitch.

But as serious as you were about making sure the trip went smoothly from a corporate point of view, you weren’t one to turn down an invitation, particularly when it was shaped like Hirai Momo.

“Of course, Momo,” you relent, stepping back into the elevator and hitting the button for the top floor.

---

Jetlag was a bitch, though.

Momo had decided to take a shower after you’d both entered the luxurious penthouse suite - and you were powerless to resist the call of the luxurious, expensive-looking couch that dominated the suite’s living area. A short nap while Momo unpacked and undressed, you thought, just a quick rest for your eyes, then you’d get up, sneak into the shower with her and give her the pounding of a lifetime-

The alarm on your smartwatch jerks you awake four hours later.

You wipe the sleep from your eyes as you groggily swing your legs down from the couch. The light emanating from the open bathroom door informed you of Momo’s presence in it, and so you drag yourself from the soft, warm, comforting couch to check on her.

“Have a good nap?” she says, even before you fully enter the ridiculously large bathroom. She shoots you a small smile in the oversized vanity mirror, and you manage to return it despite the sleep still lingering in the corners of your eyes.

The smile lingers on her lips as she watches you for a moment longer before returning her attention to the bathroom counter. Before her are an array of cosmetics that made up her daily skincare routine, and she fiddles with the small plastic containers and vials, apparently searching for something.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you admit, rubbing your face with both palms as you lean against the bathroom’s doorframe. “I just can’t get any sleep on planes.” Your first-class seats meant you were admittedly more comfortable than you’d ever been on a flight, but your inability to sleep on planes still resulted in fifteen hours of restlessness. Momo, being well-used to such luxuries, slept like a baby, which explained her high energy levels despite dawn being an hour or so away.

“I even left the bathroom and shower door open,” she admits, smile turning sly even as the elusive cosmetic continues to evade her. “Didn’t think you’d miss the invitation.”

The implication underlying her words stir something in you, and you step into the bathroom, drawing close to her. She smells softly like vanilla, and the sweet scent of her still-damp hair finally shakes the last cobwebs of sleep from your brain.

She loosens the neckline of her white bathrobe slightly to dab something against the soft skin of her neck and upper chest. The generous cleavage she reveals is unmissable in the mirror, still moist from the shower. Rivulets of water stream down her perfect, creamy skin. You reach around her torso, placing a hand softly on the knot of her bathrobe.

“Is this another invitation?”

Her gaze remains locked on herself in the mirror as she continues to dab the small cotton pad against the soft skin of her neck, although the smile curls into a mischievous one. You both linger there for a moment in silence - she must’ve taken pleasure in leaving you in suspense - until she finally decides she’d teased you enough. She places the cotton pad back on the counter, finding your gaze in the reflection of the mirror.

Without breaking your gaze, she undoes the bathrobe’s knot at her waist, pulling its folds apart to reveal her nakedness beneath. Round breasts, toned stomach, long, perfect legs - but it’s her eyes that draw you in. Round, full, somewhere between cute and lustful. Irresistible, either way.

You step close, planting your first soft kiss on the newly revealed skin of her neck. Your arms wrap around her body, your fingers finding her flat, toned stomach, and placing your palm flat against it, enjoying the feel of the slightly quickened pace of her breathing at this first intimate touch between you. Her scent, the feel of her skin beneath your palms, the small gasp she makes as you place a kiss behind her ear - it’s all so alluring, so intoxicating.

Her skin is warm, moist beneath your lips and your hands. Beads of water from her shower trace a path down her neck, past the round curves of her naked breasts, and onto the flat plane of her stomach.

“You’re still wet, Momo,” you whisper into her ear. She sighs softly. You drink in the sight of her closing her eyes in the mirror, canting her head to the side slightly to reveal more of her neck to your lips.

“You have no idea,” she whispers, softly. After a few more kisses on her neck, she turns her head so she is looking over her shoulder at you. You share a kiss, and the touch of her lips on yours is pure electricity. 

She grasps the hand you’d placed atop her stomach, and drags it down her body. Your kiss deepens when your fingertips brush against the wet, warm heat between her legs.

She was right - she was dripping.

She lets a low, slow moan escape her lips as your fingertips graze the soft, warm flesh between her thighs, your middle finger tracing a slow path upward from the base of her opening to its tip, collecting her plentiful juices on the way.

“Since you refrained from joining me in the shower, I had to get myself started,” she says, softly, eyes still shut softly. Her lips have parted slightly, warm breaths of pleasure leaving them with each soft stroke your fingertips make between her legs.

“Sorry, Momo. Let me take care of you.”

She smiles to herself.

“You’re all mine this trip,” she says, softly, as her eyes slowly drift open, finding you staring at her reflection over her shoulder. Between her legs, your ring finger joins your middle one, tracing slow, careful strokes up and down her opening - barely penetrating, carefully spreading the lips of her pussy apart, preparing her for what was to come.

“All yours,” you say against the back of her ear, breathlessly.

“No other toys, no other girls. Just you and me. All mine, just mine.”

“Yes, Momo,” you gasp, suddenly short of breath. The feel of her slick pussy on your fingertips, that tight, hot body pressed against yours - it was so much to take in. “I’m yours,” you say, “whenever, however you want.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I am, Momo. I’m yours.”

She grasps your other hand from where it is clutching her hip, and draws it up her torso until it is cupping a full, round breast. Almost on reflex, you capture her taut nipple between your index finger and thumb. She sighs in your arms as you squeeze her breast and tease the nipple atop it, enjoying the heavy weight of it in your hand.

“I don’t believe it,” she repeats, turning her head again to kiss you. Your lips find each other, tongues not long after. Her body writhes like liquid in your arms. Her cunt leaks her juices onto your fingers and between them.

“I am,” you manage to say, between kisses that were quickly becoming heated, more intense. “I’m yours.”

The kiss continues. You’d kissed her before, of course, but never this passionately, never with this much intensity or intimacy behind it. 

“Prove it, then,” she says, breaking the kiss just long enough to get the words out from between your mouths. For the first time since you’d entered the bathroom you look directly into her eyes, and not through the reflection.

Dark brown, round, filled with an intensity that takes you by surprise with its depth. 

“Momo,” you say, unable to really conjure up more than her name. You can feel yourself being lost to her, feel yourself losing your higher faculties and becoming a simple-minded slave to your base needs. “I’m yours,” you repeat.

“We’ll see,” she relents, even as she brushes her nose and then her lips against yours, teasing a kiss that never comes. “But I still have my doubts. I think you’ll have to fuck them out of me.”

That’s it - that’s what snaps the last vestiges of your self control. You crush her lips with yours, driving them against hers with so much force that it might have hurt her - not that she cared, not when she wanted the same thing. 

Your fingers tighten around her nipple, pulling and twisting, squeezing the soft flesh of her breast in your palm. Lower, your fingertips slide inside her.

She moans into your kiss, lips breaking contact for just a second to fill the bathroom with the sound of her pleasure. The kiss continues for a moment more, but she breaks it again when your fingers slide inside her to the hilt.

Her eyes drift slowly open, holding your gaze, even though your faces are touching, your noses and lips brushing against each other as you finger her slowly, sliding your fingers in and out of her slick, hot cunt. Your eyes remained locked on each other as you continue to finger fuck the young woman in your arms.

You’d fucked her before, roughly, sometimes with one or more others sharing the same bed, or couch, or shower. You’d seen her in the throes of orgasm as she’d cum on your cock, heard her spit filth into your ears, watched her as she’d lain there a sweaty, cum-filled mess after one of your sessions - but you’ve never seen her like this. Those were rushed, hard, messy sessions driven entirely by basic lust; this was something else entirely. Momo had never looked so soft, never looked so vulnerable. 

It never felt so intimate.

“Mmm, fuck,” she gasps, “that feels so good.”

“I’ll take care of you, Momo,” you say, the words leaving your mouth almost faster than you knew you were saying them, your desires working faster than your brain. “I’ll take care of you this trip. I’m yours. I’ll make you cum, as much as you want.”

“Do it, please,” she replies, eyes fluttering, body writhing in your grasp. The hand over yours on her breast tightens. She begins to quiver, legs losing their strength as the pleasure builds between her legs.

“Please,” she continues. “Make me cum.”

Your hand leaves her breast, wrapping around her torso, pressing her back against your chest. Her eyes dart open for a moment, finding yours in the mirror’s reflection. Her lower lip curls under a tooth as your fingers move inside her.

Her eyes shut again when they find the right spot.

She moans, and the warm, lovely sound that leaves her throat bounces off the hard marble and glass of the bathroom, filling your ears with her pleasure. It increases in pitch and frequency as your fingers work between her legs - slowly building in pace, not too fast, not too much all at once. Just a slow, steady increase. 

Her legs are jelly now, the arm you’d wrapped beneath her breasts doing more and more to hold her up against you than her limbs did. She reaches back with a hand to grasp your scalp. She arches her back, throws the back of her head against your shoulder as you pleasure her.

Her reflection in the mirror is sex - that perfect body of hers, perfectly shaped, perfectly fit, just perfect - writhing and quivering in your arms. And her face - my god, her face - wracked with pleasure, eyes shut and brow furrowed, mouth agape as it spills a chorus of moans and sighs from her lips.

Between her legs, she is so wet, so slick that her juices are running between your fingers, staining your palm the back of your hand, some of it dripping down to the cold marble in heavy drops as she makes a mess of you and the floor beneath her.

“Cum for me, Momo,” you hiss. Your lips are pressed against the soft skin behind her ear and while your words weren’t very loud, the effect they have on her is obvious. She tightens around your fingers, begins to pulsate. Her moans reach a new pitch.

“Cum for me, Momo,” you repeat, fingers merciless between her legs. You maintain your pace, no longer moving any faster inside her, simply staying at that speed and tempo. You knew she was right there, right on that delicious edge when building pleasure threatened to become an orgasm. You wanted her to stay there, even as your words tease her, tempt her into throwing herself over it.

“Mmm, no, don’t want to yet,” she says, the words tumbling from her drooling lips in a half-drunken slur, “no, don’t want to cum yet, want, oh fuck, want to, fuck, want to stay here, it feels so good, just like this, just like that-”

“Cum for me,” you snap. “Cum on my hand.”

“No, please, fuck, just a little longer please, don’t want to cum yet-”

You let her have her way - for a few moments more. You savor the sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her entire body is trembling. Her fingers are claws - one digging into your scalp behind her, the other on your forearm. What a sight; you want to freeze it, want to sear it into your memory for a lonely day.

“Yes, yes, so good,” she pants. Saliva drips from the corner of a slack mouth. She is a slave to the pleasure emanating from her cunt. She’s helpless, teetering on the precipice of a pit she wasn’t sure she wanted to fall into, not when the simple danger of it was so wonderful, when the threat of cumming so hard was so hard felt almost as good as actually cumming, when she felt so close to something she wasn’t sure she wanted, not yet, not when she felt so utterly-

“Cum for me, Momo.”

When she cums it is almost violent, the way the entirety of her body shakes and quivers and trembles in your arms. Her legs give way, until only your arm around her torso and fingers inside her cunt keep her upright. She tightens almost unbearably around your fingers. Her moans cut out momentarily, but only for a second, because when she finds her voice again the sound that leaves her throat is nothing short of a shriek.

You hold her close through it all, not moving your fingers inside her, simply holding her upright and letting her ride the waves of pleasure as they crash against her.

It takes a few minutes for her to recover. Longer than usual, not that you minded watching the unbearably beautiful, near-naked woman in your arms recover from one of the strongest orgasms you’d ever given her. She is wet, sweaty, slick. Flushed and pink, breathing heavily. Dripping sex, figuratively and literally.

While she is still recovering, you push forward slightly with your upper body until she finds the strength to brace herself against the counter with quivering arms. Then, placing soft kisses on the back of her neck, you slip your fingers from inside her. They emerge wet and sticky from her cunt.

You bring them to her mouth. 

She begins to lick them clean. Eyes still drunk with pleasure, they manage to find yours in the mirror’s reflection. Her tongue gathers her own slick juices, slurps them up as best she can, licking up and down the length of your fingers and between them. She gets her juices onto her chin and cheeks, making them glisten with her wetness. Her eyes never leave yours.

“Fuck me now,” she says, half-moan, half-sigh as the last vestiges of her orgasm course through her veins. She swipes one last time at the juices that stain your fingers. “Fuck me like I want. Like you want. Fuck your cum into me.”

You slip your hand from her mouth, and she sighs at the absence of them. You strip the bathrobe from her shoulders, finally leaving her naked. Perfection in female form, all curves and perfect skin, marred only by sweat and spit and her own juices. Her eyes have never once left yours, locked on yours in the mirror’s reflection, until she turns over her shoulder to look at you directly.

She leans over the counter, arches her back, spreads her legs slightly. Her leaking cunt drips her juices onto the floor between you.

No further words. A few moments pass as you quickly undo the knot at your joggers and pull them down to your knees, revealing your aching, stiffened cock. You step forward, pressing her against the counter. One of your hands reaches out and squeezes a firm cheek of her ass, before sliding up her spine, fingertips tracing a path along the delicious curve there and resting on her shoulder.

Your free hand brings your tip to her dripping cunt. A stroke forward with your hips, and you’re inside Hirai Momo to the hilt.

Her pussy is tight, wet, slick - the feel of her body wrapped around your cock is sublime. Her ass is wide and full, her waist tiny, spine delightfully arched and shoulders possessing the right amount of tone - the sight of her bent over the bathroom counter, fully impaled on your cock, was enthralling, made you shiver with pleasure.

But it’s her face, her reflection in the bathroom mirror, that takes the cake. Her eyes, shut to relish the feel of being filled with your stiffness, slowly drift open before finding and holding your gaze. Her mouth opens to sigh at the feeling of fullness, that wonderful stretch inside her, before her tongue darts out to lick her lips. She says something, and you don’t hear it, but the message on her lips is easy to read, undeniable.

“Fuck me,” she mouths. 

You slip your cock out of her halfway. The lips of her pussy clutch tightly to your shaft, not wanting to let it go. You glisten with her slick juices. 

One stroke, then two. A third, a fourth. A slow build up of pace and depth and force. She takes it, letting small grunts and sighs punctuate each thrust you make into her body. Her arms brace herself against the counter. Her upper arms bring her breasts together, creating a delicious looking cleavage as they begin to be rocked back and forth with each impact of your hips on hers.

You tighten your grip on her, fixing her, keeping her still, rendering her unable to do anything else other than simply take each thrust you give her tight, wet little cunt.

You reach the rhythm you want, where you are fucking her, giving her long, smooth strokes of your cock. Her sighs turn into soft moans as she settles into your rhythm, matches it with her own with small movements of her hips, driving herself back at you, making each thrust that much more pleasurable for both of you.

You let your gaze wander. Everywhere you look is something you want to never forget - the round cheeks of her ass, her slim waist, even the soft curls and waves in her hair as they are plastered to her neck and upper back with sweat. And in the mirror, more; the dangling, bouncing mounds of her breasts and the tight nipples atop them, that lovely face of hers, soft features twisted and contorted with pleasure in the most beautiful way possible.

“Harder,” she says, softly. You oblige.

You reach forward, grasp her upper arms in your palms. You pull backward, lifting her upper body up off the counter, arching her back.

You resume fucking her.

She yelps at the first few thrusts in this position. She’s truly helpless now, fingers turning into claws as they helplessly search for something to hold on to and find nothing. Her breasts bounce wildly in the mirror, the large, round mounds impacted forcefully with each thrust you make into her cunt. They would be sore later, but she wouldn’t care, not if future soreness was the price to be paid for immediate pleasure.

She throws her hair back, sending sable hair flying. Her eyes roll to the back of her head. Her mouth slackens, able to do no more than moan and sigh. Saliva drips from the corner of her mouth, down her chin as she is fucked, hard, stretched cunt filled again and again with your cock.

You tighten your grip on her upper arms, pulling back slightly until she is almost upright. Throughout it all you are fucking her, pounding her tight little pussy, making her feel everything, giving her everything. Your brow furrows with the effort, your teeth grit. 

“You’re so fucking tight, Momo,” you grunt, “such a tight little cunt.”

“Mmmmm, fuck--!” is the response from a breathless mouth. You up the pace. She takes it all, and every wordless moan that leaves her mouth at the peak of each thrust is proof that she loved each one. You fuck her hard, roughly. You take liberties with her body, using her cunt as you wanted, momentarily forgetting that you were there to serve her - and she loves every moment of it.

You’re the first to relent - as much as you wanted to fuck the young woman into oblivion in that position your arms simply couldn’t take much more. You release her upper arms, leaving clear marks on her fair skin, before sliding them up her torso. You cup her tender breasts in each hand, squeezing the heavy mounds, caressing and pinching her taut nipples. She cups her hands over yours. 

“Mmmm, so fucking big,” she gasps. “So fucking big inside me, fucking me so good - and all for me, all mine.”

You bury your mouth in the side of her neck.

“All yours, Momo. I’m gonna fuck this little cunt, your mouth, your ass - all your holes, whenever you want. This cock belongs to you. I’ll take care of you, baby girl. I’ll take care of this body of yours.”

“Yes!” she gasps. “Yes. All mine. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re all mine, gonna, gonna fucking cum on your cock.”

You up your pace, but only slightly, just enough to make your impending orgasms that much more wonderful. The slap of wet skin on wet skin fills the bathroom. You let go of her breasts, but your hands don’t leave her, wandering to her hips, her ass, her shoulders - anywhere that let you hold her, grip her, tie her down. Anywhere that you could touch and squeeze. 

“Gonna cum, baby,” Momo says to your reflection in the mirror. “Gonna cum on your cock.”

“Fuck, me too, Momo.”

“Cum in me, okay? Give me your cum. I want-”

Her sentence is interrupted with a long, drawn out moan as she nears her orgasm.

“What do you want, Momo? Tell me. Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”

“I want, I want-”

You continue to fuck her. She’s so close, right on the edge once more, and you’re not far off. Your cock fills her cunt again and again and again and she’s losing her grip, and you’re losing yours, and the whole world means nothing aside from the pussy wrapped around your cock, her perfect body and bouncing breasts, the words leaving the girl’s mouth-

“I want- oh fuck, I want---”

“Fuck, Momo-”

“I want your cum inside me,” she spits, finally, right on the edge of cumming. “Cum inside me. Just for me.”

She cums, and you do too.

You have to hold her down, lest the full-body spasm that wracks her pulls you off your cock before you’d had the chance to fill her with cum. With one hand on her hip and the other on her shoulder you pin her down, pushing her over the bathroom counter until her head and upper chest are pressed against the mirror. One, two more thrusts and you bury yourself inside her, your cock spasming, filling her hot, messy cunt with warm, thick cum.

Your world explodes. Her world shatters into a million pieces. Either way, for a few beautiful seconds you’re both powerless. There is only the pleasure coursing through your bodies.

You grip her hip and shoulder so tightly you are afraid for a moment that you’ll bruise her delicate skin. And for a moment, you didn’t care if you did. All you wanted was to hold her spasming, quivering body still while you filled it with cum.

You both lie there, frozen, for a while - whatever a ‘while’ meant when your respective orgasms rendered your mutual concept of time meaningless. Your hands caress her body, sliding up and down her sides, squeezing a firm ass cheek or round, flushed breast, enjoying the feel of shower water and sweat and other juices beneath your hands. You feel hazy, drunk on pleasure, and everything takes on a blurred, unreal appearance, as though you were still asleep on the couch, and this was the sweetest dream you’d ever had.

A knock on the door is what brings reality crashing back into existence.

You both freeze - you’re still hilt deep inside her creamy, messy pussy. You find her eyes, still filled with a post-orgasm haze, in the reflection.

“The makeup staff,” you say, with a surprising, odd amount of clarity. “They’re here,” you add, as though it were some new bit of information that could shed further light on the ridiculous situation you’d both found yourselves in.

Momo squirms beneath you, but doesn’t move any further. She makes a small whimpering sound. It’s you that moves first when the second knock comes, easing yourself out of her cunt. Thick drops of cum and her juices drip onto the floor, and her whimper turns into a soft, low moan as she feels your cock leave her.

“I need to take another shower,” Momo says, softly, the pleasure still coursing through her body still making her feel high, feel drunk. “Tell them I woke up late. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” you agree, taking a moment to grab one of the hand towels off the rack and giving yourself a quick clean before bending to wipe the evidence of your act from the marble floor.

You pull your pants back up, and Momo sheepishly steps toward the shower on wobbly legs.

You are turning to make your way to answer the door when she stops you with a hand on your upper arm. When you turn, she plants a kiss on your lips.

“Thanks,” she says, before flashing you that smile of hers and hopping back into the shower. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks like a mess, but she is glowing.

You find a smile making its way onto your face as you turn to deal with the makeup artists.

---

She was bathed in light again.

This time the lights came from dozens of photographer flashes, each one belonging to a competitor vying for the best shot, the perfect visual capture of the young woman at the center of everyone’s attention. She relishes the moment, doing her best to pose the way they want, the way she knows will show off the best sides of her - not that there was any particular side that outweighed the others, because truth be told, Hirai Momo looked amazing from all angles.

“Fuck she’s hot,” Minnie says.

“Yeah,” you agree, your eyes not leaving the girl who was the center of attention of almost everyone else at the party.

“That fit - damn, not just anyone can pull that off.”

“I think you’d look fine in it.”

“Please,” Minnie scoffs, “don’t patronize me. There’s a reason why the cameras are pointed at her, and not me.”

“Yeah, you look like a real three day old bag of garbage,” you tease. You turn to her for the first time to flash her a smile, and she rewards you with a soft punch to the upper arm. In a similarly all-denim fit, Minnie looked pretty captivating in her own right, albeit in a more subdued, cute school classmate kind of way.

“I’m no slouch,” she admits as she takes a sip from her champagne flute, “but I look like a cardboard cutout compared to those curves.”

As much as you liked Minnie - she was close friends with several of the girls and thus you saw and interacted with her frequently - you couldn’t disagree with her. Momo’s all-denim fit, consisting of wide cut jeans and a halter top that was essentially a triangle of denim strapped to her chest that left her back bare, certainly put all those curves on full display.

You are both admiring Momo from afar when an older, well-dressed gentleman approaches you. Next to you Minnie straightens up and puts on her best smile, but she receives only a courtesy nod of the head from the newcomer.

“Excuse me,” he begins, in British-accented english that reminded you a bit of the way noblemen spoke in period pieces. “Am I correct in assuming that you’re Miss Hirai’s company handler?”

“Yes,” you answer, wondering for the millionth time at the series of ridiculous events that led to you being able to answer ‘yes’ to such a question.

The gentleman reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a business card, on which he scribbles something onto the back with a fancy looking fountain pen. He passes it to you, and you take a note of the company logo on the front of it - one of the higher-end brands in the fashion industry, that was for sure.

“I’d welcome the opportunity to meet with someone in your company regarding a business arrangement with Miss Hirai,” he begins. “My personal number is on the back of the card, should she wish to conduct that meeting… personally.”

Out of the corner of your eye you notice Minnie give a scoff under her breath before turning away and taking another sip of her champagne. You succeed a little better than her in hiding your disgust behind a smile.

You’d had your suspicions about the man from the second he approached, and his words only confirm them to be accurate. You had no doubt he did indeed represent the company he claimed to work for, but the generally slimy, greasy aura about him rubbed you the wrong way.

“I’ll make sure someone at the company contacts you,” you respond. “Have a good night, sir.”

He seems a little surprised at your curt reply and abrupt dismissal - this was a man not used to being rejected. Regardless, he manages a tart nod towards both you and Minnie before he scurries off into the crowd.

“What a piece of shit,” Minnie says under her breath, the second his back is turned - perhaps she’d wanted him to hear it. She was nothing if not honest with her feelings.

You nod in agreement as you turn the business card over in your hand, glossing over the number scribbled onto the back.

“Still,” Minnie continues, “that’s a fucking top-tier brand. She’d look pretty good in their stuff, not to mention what it’ll do for her career.”

“I’m not going to-”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she says, cutting you off. “There’s no way in hell I’d let her anywhere near that guy. But if you take it to the company maybe they can work something out - something that doesn’t involve slimeball execs luring models back to their hotel rooms in exchange for promises.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” you agree, your gaze returning to Momo, who was beginning to signal to her audience of admirers that she was ready to end the little impromptu photo session. If the photographers picked up on her hints, they didn’t show it - the lights continue to flash, and they continue to call her name in hopes that she’d turn to give them the angle they were looking for.

“Anyway, since there aren’t any high-end brand slimeballs hitting on me, I’ll be in the corner getting wasted on free champagne,” Minnie says with a sarcastic but warm smile. You return it - she was a sweetheart, and you hoped to see more of her.

“See you around, Minnie.”

She gives your upper arm a squeeze and shoots you a smile and a wink before heading towards another corner of the room, where several other idols and celebrities in attendance were congregating.

You stand there alone for a few more minutes while Momo wraps up.  She gives everyone small, polite bows and waves as she slowly makes her way towards you, having finally broken free of the throng of admirers and the incessantly flashing lights that accompanied them.

“Who was the creepy old dude?” she asks.

“This guy,” you answer, handing her the card. She makes an intrigued face at the logo on the front before flipping it over and noticing the number on the back. Her curiosity turns into an unamused smirk.

“If you want,” you begin, “we can pretend we never got that card.”

“No, the company will want to know about this,” she answers, with more than a hint of disappointment. “This could be a pretty cool opportunity.”

“I suppose. But you’re sure as hell not dialling that number and meeting with him alone.”

She smiles up at you. Her eyes glimmer in the light of some far-off camera flash.

“Really? Are you going to protect an innocent, naive little girl like me from creepy old execs that want to take advantage of her?”

You smile, and she covers her mouth for a moment to hide her giggle.

“He wouldn’t be the first geezer to think I’d suck his dick and spread my legs just because one of his assistants sends me a bag with a fancy logo on it,” she admits, her giggle fading quickly and turning into a forlorn glance at the card in her hand. “Probably won’t be the last. One of the drawbacks of being super hot, y’know?”

Despite the sarcasm in her tone and the weak smile on her lips, there is a sadness in her eyes that breaks your heart a little.

“Here,” she says, handing you the card with a dispirited look. “You should probably make sure someone in Business Development at the company gets that.”

You draw closer to her and take the card from her hands. You tear it in half.

She looks up at you, the surprise on her face becoming a sweet smile. There is genuine appreciation there, along with something else you couldn’t quite name.

“I appreciate it, I really do,” she says, softly, before returning to a sarcastic tone. “But, like, they’re a pretty big brand. I never want to see that dude ever again, but I like their stuff, so maybe someone from the company can call their company…”

“I can probably… tape it back together?” you say, sheepishly fiddling with the two halves of the card and making a show of trying to piece the two parts together.

Momo giggles again, and amidst the loudness of the event, it sounds like music. “You’re too sweet,” she says, with a warm smile, before she draws close to whisper into your ear.

“And just for the record,” she says, “it’s your cum inside me, your cum that’s dripping down my leg. I don’t want anyone else’s. I just want more of yours.”

She leaves you there, speechless, for a moment that seems longer than it really was. She bites her lip, the slightest bit of ivory poking into soft pink, before sliding her tongue across it.

“C’mon,” she says, finally, motioning towards a corner of the room where Minnie is flagging down another flute of champagne from a passing server. “Can’t let Minnie get wasted all on her own. She’s tiny - so she doesn’t hold her alcohol very well.”

“Right,” you answer, slipping the two halves of the card into your jacket pocket. You’d make sure the guys in Business Development knew to avoid that particular executive when approaching their company. 

On your way to Minnie, Momo tugs at your jacket sleeve.

“Hey,” she says, eyes locked on yours, thoughtful look on her features. “Thanks. Again.”

“You’re welcome. I’m yours this week, remember?”

She pulls away, gives you a thoughtful look over her shoulder, and leads you both to where her friend is polishing off her fourth flute.

---

The Eiffel Tower shone like a golden spear, a beacon against the darkness, a monument to man’s mastery over light.

Unlike other monumental towers in other world-class cities, which were often nestled amidst downtown skyscrapers and other buildings, the Eiffel Tower stands alone and unchallenged against the Paris skyline. That made it difficult to miss, and impossible to ignore.

It is a fact you were thankful for. It gave you something to focus on, something to distract you, if even from a moment, from the woman between your knees.

The simple deck chair you are sitting on squeaks in protest as the pleasure slowly building in your body causes you to squirm atop it. Between your spread legs, Momo smiles around a mouthful of your cock as she slowly eases it from between her wet lips.

“Does that feel good, baby?” she asks, knowing full well what your answer would be. But she asks it anyway, because she wants to hear the answer, wants to hear your praise, wants to hear just how much every little move she made was affecting your body.

“It feels fucking amazing, Momo,” you answer, knowing that no amount of profanity could possible emphasize enough how you felt in that moment.

“Good,” she replies, returning her attention to your cock, planting small, soft, almost chaste kisses along its length. She cradles it with her left hand as she continues her kisses down your shaft, placing a few softer ones on each of your dangling balls.

You reach out, run your fingers through her hair. She raises her head from under your shaft and nuzzles against your palm. Her eyes drift closed for a moment and a smile perks up the corners of her mouth as she enjoys the feel of your skin on hers. The hand on your cock begins to pump slowly up and down your length.

“Just enjoy it, okay babe?” she says, softly, eyes drifting open to lock onto yours. “Let me know when you get close - pinch my arm - and I’ll slow down. I’ll go slow. I want it to last. I want it to feel good.”

“Okay,” you answer. Momo gives you a sultry smile before returning to her work.

Her mouth is sublime - warm, wet, tight - that skilled tongue of hers playing around your head at the apex of each movement, pressed against the underside of your cock on the downstroke. Her hand matches her movements, pumping up and down in time with the movements of her lips and tongue.

You feel the pleasure building, and so you return your attention to the Eiffel Tower.

You wonder for a moment at the sheer scale of it, and how such an impressive structure was created without the construction technology of today. You weren’t really sure when it was built - perhaps early in the 1900s? The late 1800s? Regardless of its actual date of construction you knew it must’ve been a long and difficult process without today’s cranes and Momo’s tongue sliding along the underside of the head of your cock, sending another spike of pleasure coursing up your spine-

That deserved a pinch on her arm.

You can almost feel her smile around your cock as she slows down her pace significantly. Her tongue doesn’t pressed as tightly against your shaft, having momentarily retreated from the offensive it was waging on the tip of your cock. You let a sigh escape your lips.

Back to the Eiffel Tower - gee, the electricity bill on it must be staggering. You were a few kilometers away from it, but from here it seemed like every inch of it was illuminated in some way. It glimmered as though it were made of fine gold and brilliant silver. 

It must’ve cost quite a bit to have it lit up like it was, every night. But it was probably a cost that the residents of Paris bore proudly - it was the fucking Eiffel Tower, after all. If you’d had something as iconic in your backyard you’d bet you’d be lighting it up as much as you could. 

The very tip of the tower contained some sort of slowly rotating searchlight that sent parallel spears of light out into the darkness, as though being a giant lit-up tower of solid gold wasn’t enough to draw your attention to it and Momo’s doing it again, capturing the head of your cock between her lips before swirling the very tip of her tongue around its head and under the sensitive ridge where it met the rest of your shaft. With her right hand she begins to fondle your balls with a light touch; her left hand continues to pump up and down your length and oh my god-

Yeah, a definite pinch on her arm.

She lets your cock leave her lips, and you look down to find an amused smile on her lips. Her tongue darts out, sweeping the spit and pre-cum from them. She can feel that you’re closer now than she’d like, so her hands leave your cock, and she returns to placing soft kisses against your shaft. She nuzzles her face against it, grazing it with her soft cheeks and nose.

The Eiffel Tower, though - wow, what a monument. It was, like, big and stuff, and lit up and it’s so tall and Momo’s reaching behind her now, fingers working quickly at the buckle that held up the ridiculous triangle of denim that was strapped to her chest and now it’s off, and those large, round, perfectly shaped breasts of hers are bare naked, tits you and half the population of Paris had had their eyes glued to for most of the day and now she’s topless and looking at you with lust in her eyes and her hands are cupping her own tits and her fingers are playing with her stiff nipples and and the Eiffel Tower is definitely a thing.

“Jesus, Momo,” you spit, almost on reaction, as the young woman straightens up her back, giving you a full view of her topless form in the low light of the hotel room balcony. You were thankful, not for the first time, that the balcony walls were made of plaster and thus limited any chance of prying eyes witnessing what was happening on it.

Momo’s response is to bring her breasts to your cock, capturing it between the full, warm mounds. She looks up at you, making sure your eyes were locked on her, before she bends her head to spit on the tip of your cock. 

Her saliva lands on your tip, before dripping down your already spit-slick shaft. She squeezes her tits around your cock, and begins to slide them up and down your length.

Your head tilts back and you let a sharp, breathless gasp leave your mouth at the feeling of it. There was no relying on the Eiffel Tower, now, not that any monument in the world stood any chance of distracting you from what was happening between your legs.

“Does that feel good?” she asks, another question she knew full well the answer to.

“Yes, Momo. Fuck.”

“Do you want to cum on my tits?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Mmmm,” she responds, continuing to slide her warm, full tits up and down your shaft. Warm, wet, slick. “I like you here, though, like this. Right on the edge…”

“Fuck, Momo, please.”

By way of response, she bends her head, does her best to swipe the tip of her tongue across the head of your cock as it appears from between her tits with each slide down your length. You’re getting close now, your limbs beginning to quiver, the pleasure building-

Momo lets your cock slip from between her tits. You sigh at the loss of that warm softness around your shaft. She returns to placing soft, simple kisses on its length.

“I didn’t pinch your arm,” you state, frustrated. You were right there, just a few seconds away, one or two more thrusts between her tits.

“I know,” she replies, a mischievous smile on her lips, before her tongue darts out and gives you a slow, careful lick from the base of your shaft to its tip. “But you look so good like this, all antsy, wanting so bad to cum all over me. So fucking hot.”

“Momo,” you say, her name almost a plea.

She relents - quicker than you were expecting, and saving you from having to beg - perhaps she’d been looking forward to your orgasm just as much as you were.

“Alright,” she says. “I’m not a monster. Don’t hold back, okay? Just cum. Cum for me.”

She straightens her back, slides your aching cock between those full, round, perfect breasts of hers once again. You don’t miss the way she captures her nipples between her thumbs and index fingers as she squeezes the full mounds around your shaft.

She spits on your cock again. Then she slides her breasts up and down your cock.

For a moment your mind flashes back to that very first night with her and Chaeyoung - the night that, without exaggeration, changed your life. The blowjob they’d started with was amazing, of course, but when you started fucking Momo’s tits for the first time - that was when it really sunk it. Before then it had felt like a dream. With her breasts around your cock, and that look of utter pleasure on her face as you fucked her tits - it suddenly felt very real.

And now here you were, in Paris, no less, with that same, beautiful woman on her knees before, your cock between her breasts again as she pumps them up and down your length. But you were alone, now, just you and her, and it somehow felt more intense than even than the first time. Was it the city? The fact that you were alone with her, with no other girls or toys to get in the way? The fact that there was something in the way she’d been acting in the past few days that made you think, for a moment, that this all meant more to her than a simple appearance at a fashion show?

The thought flees your head quickly amidst the pleasure coursing through your veins. It chases almost everything else away, leaving only the feel of her soft, warm tits wrapped around your cock. It feels amazing. It feels sublime.

Momo is sighing now, the pleasure she was giving you inspiring a similar pleasure in her. She continues to tease her nipples, even as she slips your cock in and out between her breasts. She wishes she were naked, that she could slide a hand down her body to the wetness between her legs - but the thought of it, that delicious itch that she wasn’t quite able to scratch - brought her almost as much pleasure.

“Fuck, Momo, I’m gonna cum,” you hiss, between gritted teeth. You are watching her now, hand tight on her bicep and the other woven into her hair. She raises her head to look at you, eyes glazed with almost as much pleasure as yours.

“Fucking cum all over me.”

Almost as if on command, your orgasm hits you - hard, intense, overwhelming. Your cock spasms in the soft warmth of her tits as it spurts thick, warm semen, thick ropes of it landing on her neck and chin, her upper chest, those perfect breasts. You want to shut your eyes, want to relish the pleasure overtaking your brain, but you force your eyes open, force yourself to watch as you paint Momo with your cum.

She lets a long, soft moan leave her mouth from the moment your cum lands on her skin. She continues to slide her breasts up and down your shaft, but at a slower pace now, the added lubrication of your cum making her feel even more slick and wet around your still-spasming cock.

You quiver at the pleasure in a way that you didn’t often during sex. The environment, the circumstances, the utter sexuality of the perfect young woman pleasuring you - it was almost too much to handle.

Your hands leave her body, and you slump backward in your chair as the orgasm finally winds down. Momo finally stops moving, settling her breasts down until they are wrapped around the base of your cock. Her tongue darts out playfully, sliding across your tip. You shudder, completely at her mercy.

Eventually she raises her head, releases your spent cock from between her reddened, cum-slick breasts. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes half-lidded with lust. Thick ropes of your cum paint her body, the white streaks contrasting against her perfect creamy skin, dripping down her chest in slow paths of glistening wetness.

She stands, and without a further word she steps inside the hotel room.

Just beyond her the Eiffel Tower stood proudly, a monument to humanity and everything it was capable of - not that you gave it a shred of your attention as you follow her into the room.

You watch, dumbfounded, brain hazy, as she undoes the buckle at her belt and lets the thick denim fall down her long, perfect legs. The small black lace thong she wore beneath it follows suit as she bends to slide it from her body, leaving her naked.

When she reaches the bed, she turns around and sits on its edge, beckoning you toward her with her eyes. You follow, slave to her, a thrall to her whims.

She lies back on the bed. She spreads her legs as you approach the edge of the bed, allowing you between them.

You reach out, caressing her warm, full thighs. They are flushed and pink, wet with the juices freely flowing from her opening. The slick wetness of her cunt glistens in the low light of the hotel room.

“I should be getting you back from what you just did to me,” you say. 

She smiles - a sensual, sultry curve of her lips. “I’d say we’re even, considering what you did to me this morning in the bathroom. And besides,” she says, eyes locked on yours as she captures a rope of your cum from her upper chest with her fingertips, “you liked it.”

She slips her glistening fingers into her mouth, sucking your cum from them. 

In response, you place your newly stiffened shaft on her body - the length of it lying atop her shaven mound. She gasps at the feel of it on her.

“What if I want to leave you like this, Momo? Look at my cock. Look at how deep inside you I’d be.”

She glances down between your bodies, to where your aching, stiff cock is lying atop her mound. She bites her lip, reaching down to caress its wet length, imagining it thrusting mercilessly inside her, comparing its length to her body and seeing how deep inside her it would end up.

“You won’t leave me like this. You don’t have the guts. You want to fuck me. You want to ruin this little cunt of mine, leave me here on this bed a little cum-stained, cum-filled thing.”

“Maybe I want to. Maybe I don’t.”

“You do,” she snaps. “And besides, it doesn’t matter what you want. You’re mine, remember? You do what I want - and what I want is your cum in me.”

You feel yourself giving in. How could anyone resist such a sight, such words? She’s perfect - hot, wet, legs spread, your cum is on her chest and she’s irresistible, in every possible way a woman could be.

“Fuck, Momo,” you sigh, defeated. 

Her free hand continues to caress your cock, forming a ring with her index finger and thumb and pumping it up and down your aching length. She captures another rope of your semen from her upper chest with her fingers, before capturing the nipple atop her right breast and teasing it with cum-stained fingertips. She moans at her own touch, you gasp at the sight of her. Your hands, caressing her thighs, tighten around the soft, yielding flesh, holding on to the last vestiges of self-control remaining inside you.

“Do you like me like this?” she asks, breathless.

You grasp your cock with your right hand, bringing your tip to her dripping lips before sliding inside her. It rips a sharp moan from her lungs. You linger there for a moment, hilt-deep inside Hirai Momo’s tight, slick cunt.

“I like you like this.”

You begin to fuck her - as much as a part of you wanted to get back at her for the way she’d edged you out on the balcony, the tight, slick heat you were pumping in and out of did much to dissolve any thoughts of revenge from your head. The session in the bathroom this morning, the teasing at the fashion show, the way she’d pleasured you on the balcony - it had all boiled over, leaving no room for things like teasing or taking things slow.

There was only pleasure, now, and the hard, firm pace you set puts you both on the path to achieving it as quickly as possible.

At first she gasps and sighs as you fill her again and again, her body adjusting to the way you were taking her, her cunt stretching around you. She was still so slick and so very wet - perhaps some remnant of the cum you’d left in her this morning contributed to how messy she felt, or perhaps it was mostly her own juices. Either way, she was dripping even before you’d entered her, and now, as you hammer in and out of that juicy pussy, she was almost drenched.

“Fuck, fuck,” she hisses, between gritted teeth. She raises her upper body on her elbows, giving her a better look between her own spread legs where you are pistoning in and out of her body. She looks up at you, and for a few long minutes you stay like that, eyes holding each other's gaze as you fuck.

Her breasts are given a delightful bounce with each thrust into her body. The streaks of your cum begin to flow down their curves, leaving glistening trails behind them. You rip your eyes from hers to watch them bounce, hypnotically, mesmerized by their perfect shape and the way they moved on her body.

She gets the hint - returns her back to the bed, reaches and cups her tits with both her hands, squeezing their cum-streaked flesh, teasing her nipples again with needy fingers, giving you a show even as she pleasured herself.

It works, and the sight of her spurs you. You up your pace slightly.

“Fuck, yes, right there, just like that,” she spits, as you reach a new tempo. “Fuck me like that, fuck me like this.”

She continues to play with her tits, pinching and teasing her nipples, but you want to see them free, want to see them bounce wildly with every stroke into her cunt. You reach forward. Trapping her wrists in yours, you pull back towards yourself.

She is helpless now, her upper arms bringing her tits together and creating a delicious looking cleavage as they are rocked by each thrust into her tight little cunt. Her heels dig into your butt. She wants more, needs more. She’s moaning and sighing wordless little sounds of pleasure, of need. Your cum is on her bouncing, jiggling breasts and her perfect abs clench and her thighs are flushed and she’s so much, all at once, all for you, she’s made of sex and she’s yours to take.

But that’s not enough - you want more, want to see her lose herself to the pleasure, want to see her cum around your cock. You let go of one of her wrists. With your hand free, you reach down and begin to thumb her clit.

The moan that is halfway out her mouth turns into a shriek, a scream, at your touch. Her arm, free of your grip, finds your forearm as it works at her wet, slick flesh. Her nails dig into your skin, and the pain is a delicious spice to the pleasure you find in her cunt.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” she says, words falling from her lips in a tumble. “Fuck, keep fucking me.”

You do just that - hammering in and out of her tight, juicy little cunt as you thumb at her clit.  She clenches and pulsates around you and you know you’re building her up to an orgasm that you hoped would be as powerful as the one she gave you on the balcony.

“Oh god,” she sighs, a sign that your hopes had a chance of being fulfilled. “Gonna cum so hard. Gonna cum on your cock.”

“Do it, Momo. Cum.”

“No, I don’t want to,” she says - a theme, now, with her, a kink you hadn’t known she’d had, discovered and out here in the open. She loved it here, right on the precipice. Loved the threat of orgasm, almost as much as when it actually came, for you and for her. She loved being teased about it, loved being goaded into an orgasm she pretended to resist, pretended not to want. Faux-resistance. Pretend. In reality she wanted, needed the orgasm - but every denial of it made it so much sweeter when it finally came.

“Momo, cum. Cum on my cock like a good little girl.”

Her free hand darts up to capture a cum-stained, bouncing breast. She squeezes herself, hard. Her free, bouncing tit glistens in the light with sweat and cum. 

“No, no no,” she insists, eyes shut and head shaking no, even as her cunt tightens around your thrusting cock, mercilessly pounding into her, spreading her apart, making her yours. Her pulsating pussy betrays her needs, even as her mouth spits defiance. “Don’t want to cum yet. Don’t let me cum, I’ll be good, I promise-”

Your thumb works against her clit. It brings her right to the edge-

“No, no, I don’t want, fuck, you’re gonna make me cum. You cum first, cum in my cunt, please, cum in me first then I’ll cum on your cock I promise, I swear, fuck, fill me with cum please-”

It hits you all at once. You’d thought you were a ways from your own orgasm, especially since you’d cum on her chest just minutes before, but the sight, the sound, the feel of Hirai Momo is too much. It hits you like a thunderbolt, and it feels like lightning coursing through your veins. You bury yourself inside her and fill her, your cock pulsating with each rope of hot, thick semen it leaves inside her messy, tight cunt.

“Keep fucking me, keep fucking me, please, don’t stop-”

You are struggling to remain at least somewhat coherent given the pleasure coursing through even inch of your body, but her words still reach you, and you still find it in you to obey them. You keep thrusting, keep fucking her tight, cum-filled mess of a cunt, and she loves it, loves each entry and exit you make in and out of her body.

After a brief pause as your orgasm overtakes your senses for a moment, your thumb continues its work on her clit, slowly sliding from side to side across the slick, taut bud.

You open eyes you hadn’t known you’d closed and there she is, Hirai Momo, object of desire and beauty and captured with a million megapixels and bathed in flashing lights mere hours before - now a cum-filled, cum-stained mess, legs spread, skin flushed, moaning and sighing around a cunt filled with hot semen, being fucked into an orgasm she resisted and wanted at the same time. 

What any one of her admirers from hours before have given to be you at this moment, see what you see, feel what you feel. But no one else is here - there’s only you, and her, and this sublime, intensely intimate moment between you.

There is only one thing left for you to ask, one thing left for you to say.

“Cum for me, Momo.”

She quivers and shakes when she cums, body submitting completely to the pleasure overtaking her.  Her thighs close around your hips. Inside her, her cunt clenches down on your cock so tightly it is almost painful. You let out a groan of pleasure, but it is drowned out by the long, loud moan that leaves her.

The moan ends, and she lies there - quivering, trembling. Her juices and your cum overflow from her filled cunt, dripping onto the bedsheets, ruining them. You release her right wrist and your thumb leaves her clit, and you brace yourself atop her. You’re both breathing heavily, chests heaving, lungs empty.

She’s dirty now, filthy - a far cry from the perfectly dressed, perfectly made-up model beneath the flashing lights of mere hours ago. Your cum stains her body, fills her cock-filled cunt. Sweat glues her once perfectly-styled hair to her flushed face. She is a mess and utterly, completely perfect, somehow all at the same time.

Her eyes glimmer in the darkness of the bedroom. She manages a smile, through the utter exhaustion. 

You return it, and bend to kiss her.

---

“Y’know how people call Paris the City of Light? It’s because it was one of the first European cities to use gas street lamps, in, like, the 1860s. So it was, like, literally, a city of light.”

For not the first time on the trip, you are taken aback by the knowledge Momo liked to drop at her whim, at random times, as though she could have told you these facts at any time but was waiting for the right moment to do so. She wanted to catch you off guard with them, at a time you least expected, right when you’d convinced yourself that there really wasn’t much going on in that head of hers aside from wondering what delightful culinary treat awaited her at her next meal.

She is leaning on a railing of the many bridges that traversed the French capital. Overly ornate gas lamps formed a part of the railing every twenty or so feet, and you follow her gaze up to one of them. You wonder, briefly, how many men and women had looked up at it and wondered about its history over the decades, just as you now did. The history of the city around you weighed heavily on you at the moment, as it often did as you wandered its streets.

It was the fourth day of your trip - after recovering from the exhausting travel and her appearance at the first fashion show, you’d both spent the last few days taking in Paris’ sights and sounds. She had another scheduled appearance in a couple of days before you both returned to Korea the day after, but until then you were both free to wander the French capital.

You’d hit most of the usual tourist traps first, of course - seeing the Eiffel Tower up close, visiting the popular museums and art galleries, eating at upscale restaurants and casual cafes. The sex was wonderful, of course, but so was the company of the young woman next to you. 

You’d thought you’d figured her out long ago. Every day you spent with her proved you more wrong. Every day you spent with her convinced you that you never really knew her at all.

After a moment you return your eyes to Momo, who is still staring with a mix of wonder and amusement at the lamp, a small smile of amusement on her lips. She notices you looking at her and she gives you a quick look, her smile turning warm. You share that moment for a while.

Eventually your gazes drift down to the river below you, and the banks on either side of it. Despite it being the middle of a weekday, there is no shortage of crowds. Citizens and tourists both have taken up spots on the grassy banks, many enjoying the cool shade under the trees lining the walkways that offered some respite from the late summer heat. Some are enjoying a quick lunch, some are sitting and chatting idly, still others are simply sitting in silence, enjoying the sights and sounds of the city around them.

Many of them are couples. Many are flirting - feeding each other bites of cake or salad, whispering sweet nothings in ears, laughing and smiling at every little thing their partner did in the way young people in love did.

“Paris is the City of Love, too,” Momo says, as though reading your mind.

“I can see why,” you answer, looking around you at the green spaces and blooming flowers, the benches and walkways seemingly built for two, the cute restaurants and cafes. Everywhere you looked there was a place ripe for romance, a place for it to bloom, a place for sparks to turn into fires. Falling in love here would be easy. The city itself seemed to encourage it.

Momo slips her arm in yours, her hand giving your bicep a squeeze.

You are instantly on alert. All it took was one random fan with a phone and an image of one of Korea’s most popular stars would be on screens everywhere, accompanied by the salacious rumors and comments that often came part and parcel with such images. Given your recent experience with the photos someone had taken outside Nayeon’s apartment, you knew full well about what could happen when images of you and one of the girls popped up on the internet.

“Momo,” you say, softly, beginning to slide your arm away. But her grasp on you is stronger than you were anticipating, and she holds on to you.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” she says to you, a soft look in her eyes and in the smile on her lips. “Let me have my day.”

She pulls you away from the railing, and you continue your stroll down Paris’ alleys and streets, her arm still locked with yours.

---

The crowds were much thinner here, on this random, relatively secluded park somewhere in Paris, some distance from the tourist traps and busy main streets. You and Momo are lying on your sides on a navy blue blanket she’d bought from a nearby craft fair, having just finished off what were probably the best sandwiches you’d ever had in your entire life. Momo had ordered them for the both of you at a local shop, displaying a rudimentary but adorable French accent as she did so.

You are lying on a slope facing a small wooded area, and the trees, greenery, and fading sunlight of late afternoon provided you some privacy. But you could still hear people chatting faintly some distance away, and nothing was stopping an errant child or curious couple from cresting the small hill and finding you both on its other side. Not that that stopped Momo from playing with the waistband of your pants.

“We really shouldn’t,” you say, as her fingers trace the outline of the belt at your waist, both of you knowing your resistance wouldn’t last long. “I can hear people-”

“Mmm?” she hums, as though she weren’t quite listening to what you were saying, or was simply dismissing it. “Want me to stop?”

“If they see us-”

“I see that you’re not saying no.”

You smirk. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We can-”

“I want you here,” she says, eyes suddenly intense. “Now.”

“We can’t - we’ll make too much noise-”

“Then be quiet,” she responds, her hand having undone your belt, the top button soon following suit.

“And will you?” you tease.

“I won’t be the one cumming at a public park.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she says, drawing her body closer to you on the blanket. With her hand she pulls down your pants only low enough to reveal the bulge in your boxers. With a delicate touch, she slides your underwear down to reveal your cock. You shiver as she touches you, her soft fingers closing around your girth.

“So what, you’re just going to lie there and give me a handjob, and that’s it?”

“Well, no,” she admits, that sultry, sly smile on her lips as she bends forward slightly to give you a short, soft kiss. “I fully expect you to fuck me the way I like back at the hotel. I expect you to leave me dripping. But here…”

“-but here?”

“Here, well, I wore this dress for a reason.”

She’s wearing a loose, floral pattern sundress, one that leaves the perfect, creamy skin of her shoulders and upper chest bare. It is daringly low-cut, displaying a delicious-looking cleavage that you’d snuck more than one glance at over the course of the day. Its material is thin and airy, making the outline of the thin white thong she wore beneath obvious to see - as was the absence of a bra.

Her hand closes around your cock, begins to pump up and down in earnest. You reach up, slide your hand against her cheek, and kiss her.

Your tongues find each other, resume the duel they’d been waging on and off in the four days you’d been in Paris. Your hand slides down her neck, lingering there for a moment, enjoying the feel of her pulse beneath your palm. Between you, her hand continues to pump up and down your shaft, fingers tight around your stiffness. 

Your hand drifts to her shoulder, sliding beneath the thin spaghetti strap of the dress and sliding it down her upper arm. The dress slips over her breast, baring it to your hand.

You caress the firm, round mound, her nipple already poking into your palm. She sighs into your kiss as your fingers close around her bud and tease, pinch, pull. She breaks your kiss for a moment, and you lie there a while, noses grazing each other, breathing heavily against each others’ lips as your hands play with each others’ bodies. Sometimes your gazes are locked, sometimes one or both pairs close, sometimes they are half-lidded. But they always find each other again.

Her hand leaves your aching cock for a moment, and she brings her hand to her mouth. You hear her spit into it. Her eyes are locked on yours the whole while, until the feel of the wetness of her pumping hand around your shaft sends a shiver up your spine that causes your eyes to shut.

“Fuck,” you hiss, through gritted teeth. Momo’s lips find yours, and you sigh your pleasure into her mouth.

“Does that feel good, baby?” she says, softly. Her hand tightens around you, her pace increasing slightly. “Do I look good for you?”

She reaches up with her free hand, slips the other strap of her dress down her shoulder, baring her other breast. She pulls it down further, until she is naked almost from the waist up. For the millionth time on this trip, you are utterly entranced by her chest - their perfect shape, the weight of the one in your hand, the feel of her soft, creamy skin, the way they sat on her chest and moved slightly with every pump of her hand on your cock. 

“You… like my tits, don’t you?” she continues, slightly breathless now. There is a tremble in her voice. It was clear to see in her voice, in the flush on her cheeks, the tightness of her nipples - pleasuring you pleasured her equally.

“I do, Momo. I love them.”

The word elicits a soft, wordless moan from her lips, as though it had triggered something inside her. 

“Cum on them, okay? Cum on me.”

Despite the sharp spikes of pleasure that every movement of her hand sent throughout your body, you find yourself surprised.

“Really? No teasing, no edging this time?”

Momo smiles, despite herself, but the relief is brief, and quickly her eyes become intense again.

“No. I want to see you cum. Just for me, please. Just for me. You said you’d be mine. Just mine. Cum, please. Just for me.”

Your hand leaves her breast, finds her cheek, brings it close for a fierce, passionate kiss. You sigh and moan into each others’ mouths as the pleasure she is creating between your bodies begins to reach a peak.

She breaks the kiss to look into your eyes. 

It strikes you all at once - the intimacy, the closeness, the vulnerability. You are entirely at her mercy in that moment, heart and soul laid entirely bare. She knows who you are, knows your secrets. You can hide nothing from her, and she knows it. 

Somewhere else in the park children are playing, dogs barking, elderly couples going for a late-afternoon stroll, but none of it matters; the entire world is boiled down to the three foot square of the blanket and the wonderful woman you shared it with. Not one other thought - not of the other girls, of this trip, or of the bustling city around you - existed. There was only you, and her, and the pleasure she was creating for you in this private little moment that you two shared. A moment she’d created for the two of you only, that neither of you would tell another soul of - it belonged to the both of you, and no one else.

The past several months had been filled with some of the most intense, erotic, carnal moments in your life - but none as close, as intimate as this.

“Cum for me, please?” she says, almost pleading now, for her as much as for you. “Please, baby. Cum all over me.”

Your breath cuts out, your hand clenches around the side of her head - between you, your cock spasms and spurts thick cum all over Momo’s chest. It lands in heavy streaks across her breasts, her nipples, her collarbones. She sighs with each rope that lands on her skin, the same way she sighed when you filled her cunt - as though it were an equally enjoyable experience for her as it was for you.

“Yes, baby,” she whispers beneath her breath as her pace on your cock slows, fingers still tight around your shaft as she milks each drop of cum from your body. “More, please, more.”

You are drained by now, both of cum and of breath - but your body manages a few more weak spurts of semen that land on the dress bunched beneath her breasts, staining the fabric with thick drops of creamy white. Your hand still clutches at her cheek, your arm trembling slightly as your orgasm winds down. 

You open your eyes to view the mess you’d made of her body. It wasn’t the first time on this trip that you’d seen her chest streaked with your cum, but in the fading sunlight of the Paris afternoon it was somehow more beautiful than the times previous. The thick ropes of semen begin to slide down the round mounds, leaving behind glistening streaks that mark their paths across creamy, perfect skin. 

Your eyes find hers. To your surprise you find them eyes glassy, as though on the verge of tears. The intensity of the moment you’ve shared hits you both, and you find your eyes watering as well.

“Momo,” you say, because she is what your existence is filled with. In that moment, she is all you know.

“I’m here,” she says, softly, lips finding yours.

---

Morning dawned on Paris. Bright rays of gold bathe the city, make it glimmer and shine. It slowly makes its way across its buildings and roads and parks, inevitable, inexorable.

It makes its way through the open balcony window of the hotel suite you’d shared with Momo over the past week. It illuminates the messy sheets and the remnants of mostly-eaten takeout and room service trays, over your mostly-packed luggage, over the navy blue blanket she would take home and treasure, because it would remind her of a week when she felt loved.

Finally, it illuminates the bathroom - unlit by artificial light, it’s a little dimmer than the rest of the suite, meaning the only light that reached Momo’s naked, wet skin is that of the sun.

But you didn’t need much light. The feel of her body against yours, her arms wrapped around your neck and one leg raised against your hip, heel digging into your backside as you slid in and out of her - that was enough.

You tighten your grasp on her ass, holding her upraised leg up, opening her up further, spreading her, stretching her. Your foreheads press against each other, breathing heavily, moaning softly into each others mouths. You kiss, sometimes - little, involuntary movements, acts of affection amidst the passion. You open your eyes to find hers locked on yours, and the shower water flowing down her face makes her appear as though she’s crying. You need to touch her face, need to cradle it, need to make her feel safe. 

You raise your hand to her cheek. Her hands wind through your hair, holding your head, pressing it against her forehead again. Through it all your are fucking her softly, slowly. No teasing or edging here, no playful banter or filthy talk. It is close, intimate, raw.

“I’ll do whatever you want, you know?” she gasps, the rising tone of her voice betraying the depth of her words. “I’ll be whoever you want. Just say you’re mine, please, and I’ll be yours.”

“Momo-”

She presses a finger against your lips. There is need written on her features, of course, and pleasure and lust, but also an genuineness, a realness that you rarely saw in her. Everything about her is laid bare, and the honesty on her lips is plain to see. She meant every word she said.

“Even if you don’t, even if you don’t want me, pretend, okay?” she whispers, barely heard over the patter of the shower on your bodies. “Even if it’s not true, just say it, I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m yours, Momo. I’m yours, I swear.”

The breath leaves her lungs in a long, wistful moan as she cums around your cock. Her cunt tightens, her body quivers. Only your hands on her body keep her upright, keep her back pressed against the cool tile of the shower.

Through the haze of her orgasm she locks eyes with you, her hands cradling your face. There is nothing between you, nowhere to hide, no secrets or mysteries. It feels vulnerable and it feels safe and it feels wonderful, all at the same time.

“Cum inside me,” she says, softly, and soon enough you do, burying yourself inside her, sighing against her shoulder as you fill her yet again. She moans into your ear as you fill her, nails digging into your scalp.

Your orgasms wind their way throughout your bodies, just as they did dozens of times over the past week. But this one doesn’t last as long - perhaps it was the impending end of the week, perhaps it was the words that remained unspoken between you - either way, eventually Momo lets her leg drop from your hip, and you slide out of her body.

You both linger there awhile, the shower dousing you both. Your warm cum leaks out of her, dripping down her still-quivering thighs, joining the water trailing down her leg. She pulls you close, buries her head into your neck. Your arms wrap around each other.

“Momo,” you say, softly, some indeterminate amount of time later. Your flight home was later that morning, and you were already running later than you would have liked. “We have to-”

“I want to stay here,” she says into your neck.

“I know. But we can’t. We have to go.”

Time passes. You remain there, the both of you, breathing heavily against each other. The shower continues to run. The sun continues its advance into the bathroom, illuminating most of it now. Momo turns away from it, nuzzling deeper into your neck, knowing that its appearance signalled the end of the week, the end of the trip.

For many the Paris dawn is beautiful. For Hirai Momo, the light is merciless.

“Momo,” you begin.

“I know,” she answers.

Without any further words or looks, she leaves your arms, leaves the shower and grabs a towel on her way out of the bathroom. You hear the bedroom door shut behind her.

Your gaze follows her, watches her leave. From the doorway of the bathroom you can see the open balcony across the room, where the sun has chased away the last of the night. 

Beyond the balcony Paris continues about its day, adding another tryst, another love story - whatever word could possibly encapsulate the last week you’d spent with Hirai Momo - to the countless others it has borne witness to over the centuries of its history.

---

“So yeah, I guess I’ll see you Thursday? We’re filming the next episode of Time to Twice-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Momo answers, leaning on the doorframe of the apartment she shared with Nayeon. As much as she loved spending time with her members, she liked filming these “reality” shows much less - they were when she was expected to act like the hot but utterly clueless bimbo that the world believed her to be.

“Make sure you get a good night’s sleep the night before. I snuck a peek at the script and they need you to-”

“I know, I know,” she repeats. “Play the dumb airhead.”

You sigh under your breath, knowing how much she hated being portrayed the way she was. You wished you could tell her how much you loved seeing that other side of her - the one that was smarter than she let others believe, the one that knew about the gas lamps in Paris and could speak elementary school French. 

You both linger there in silence for a while as the words you wish you had to comfort her never materialize.

“Momo, about this past week…”

“Just two fuck buddies doing Paris,” Momo declares with surprising zest, although there was something in her eyes that doesn’t quite match with the words leaving her lips. 

“So all that stuff about-”

“Just pillow talk,” she spits, almost on reaction, as though she wanted to cut off that particular line of conversation before it got any further - or if she’d been preparing for you to raise the question and had rehearsed an answer for it. “Just stuff to get me off. Got a romance kink, I guess. Paris, city of love, city of light, you know how it is. That’s all it was. Don’t go thinking I’m in love with you, or anything.”

You aren’t sure you believe her. She felt too honest, too real, too raw on your trip. If she was faking it all - acting - then she was in the wrong profession.

“Okay, then,” you begin, slowly. “I guess I’ll… I guess I’ll see you later.”

“See ya.”

You turn away and begin to head towards the waiting elevator. Midway there you turn to find her still leaning against the doorframe, watching you. A sad smile makes its way onto her lips.

“Hey, Momo?”

She perks up, expectant.

“Thanks.”

Her smile deepens, but her eyes betray her -  there is disappointment in them, as though the word that left your mouth wasn’t what she was expecting, or hoping, to hear.

“No worries! See you Thursday,” she says, as brightly as she could, before closing the door.

She leans her forehead against the closed door for a moment, eyes closing, doing her best to process the past seven days. Her heart pounds against her chest, and she places a hand over it, willing it to calm down.

In her pocket, her phone vibrates. It’s Nayeon. She sighs as she declines the call - dealing with her was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment.

With tired legs, she shuffles her way into the living room of her apartment, where Sana is lounging on the couch with Woody, who has fallen asleep, head on her lap. The younger Japanese girl is idly scrolling through her phone, but she sets it down on the coffee table when Momo enters the living room.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Sana asks as she begins to play idly with Woody’s hair as though he were a pet and not a whole other human being. She’s wearing only a loose t-shirt and Woody is naked aside from the throw blanket thrown haphazardly across his midsection, making it clear what they were up to mere moments before Momo had arrived.

“About what?” Momo replies, sighing to herself as she enters the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water. The trip had left her drained, and without the energy to deal with Sana and her incessant nosiness.

“That you picked him,” Sana continues, finally looking up to fix Momo with a look. “That you picked him out at the concert that night. He should be your toy, not Chaeyoung’s.”

Momo lets out a sharp breath.

“It doesn’t matter,” the older girl replies. “He’s Chaeyoung’s now. He doesn’t need to know anything more than that.”

“But you wish he did.”

As annoying as Sana could occasionally be, she was often more adept at reading a person than the other girls were. Given how much time they’d spent together, she knew Momo better than most, making it obvious to her from the second she’d arrived what had really happened in Paris.

“He’s not hers yet, not completely,” Sana continues. “If I were you, and if you really have feelings for him, I’d tell him how you feel before Chaeyoung does. Wait too long, and she’ll have him wrapped around her dainty little fingers.”

“You’ve seen the way he acts around her,” Momo replies, setting her water bottle down on the counter and bracing herself against it with her hands, letting her head fall down between her shoulders. “He’s probably on his way to see her right now. He likes her.”

“Does he? I think you should fight her for him. She doesn’t deserve him. You do. He should be yours, not hers.”

Momo raises her head, closes her eyes. It was all too much, all too much to think about right now, minutes after getting home from one of the more eventful weeks of her life. She was exhausted, physically and mentally and emotionally. 

She looks down the hallway at the door he’d just occupied. She wanted nothing more than to return to that hotel room in Paris, with him, and…

She shuts her eyes and leaves the room, hoping some sleep would at least provide her with a temporary reprieve from the million thoughts running through her head.

When she hears Momo’s bedroom door close, Sana picks up her phone from the coffee table and brings it to her ear. 

“Did you hear that?” she asks the person on the line.

“Yes,” Nayeon answers. “That was well done.”

“Thanks, unnie. Don’t you worry - I’ll make sure those two are at each others’ throats. Whoever he ends up with, it won’t be either of them. Then he’ll be all yours for the taking.”

She begins to stand, gently lifting Woody’s head from her lap and placing it on the couch so as to not interrupt his sleep. She is still talking softly with Nayeon as she makes her way to the bathroom.

When he hears the bathroom door close, Woody, who’d been awake from the moment Momo arrived, reaches for his own phone on the coffee table. 

He begins to write a text.

---

Author’s Note: lol longest piece I’ve ever written and of course it had to be Momo. she’s the reason why I’m here, after all. :)

Be kind to yourselves and to each other. <3

[pricesprettyprincess]

The roots of desire 18+

Parings:“ex”-husband!price x fem!reader

Warnings: jealous!price, ex- husband price, unprotected sex, piv, oral sex (fem receiving), thoughts of baby trapping, creampie, crumb of angst, workaholic price, right hand man!Simon Riley, use of dating apps, rough sex, porn little with plot, breeding kink, mentions of kids, obsessed price, slight Age gap reader is in late 20s and John is 35. Daddy kink. Lemme know if I missed something

Word count: not sure 🤔

Summary: It’s been 4 months since you gave John the divorce papers, deciding you couldn’t take the stress of his job anymore. He’s not signing those papers and dragging the process out. Price is a man of his word “ till death do us part” and doesn’t intend on letting your outburst continue.

Authors note: I love ex-husband!price so much I had to write about it. Also this is my first story, I’m sorry if it’s bad🙏

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It’s been four months since you starting an attempt at divorcing John price. John has been insufferable, he’s dragging out every step of the process since receiving the papers. You’ve tried talking to him but it’s one sided just him laughing you off and hanging up. You end up calling your lawyer for advice turns out point less as he informs you that “ it’ll cost more in court fees to fight him on this, better to wait him out. But It’s your choice I’ll have your back”. Unfortunately you have to take a loss on this, you can’t afford court prices at the moment you don’t pay bills and are still living in your previously shared home with John you just don’t want to spend unnecessary money. You’re not going to let John ruin the rest of your day though, you pull out your phone and sign up for one of those dating apps, tinder. A nervous swarm of butterflies flutter in your abdomen, or is it guilt. Technically you’re still a married woman, should you be doing this? you let that question halt you just for a beat. You’re going through with this, your ‘husband’ isn’t getting in the way of you finding a new man.

You make your profile using the best pictures of your self that you can find, some selfies and photos you took during travel some that John took . You catch yourself almost using your married name. Old habits die hard you guess. But you instantly match with a man his name is Clark, dark brown hair with eyes to match, slight build and works for a carpenter business, he’s younger than John. A career that won’t have you pacing your home wondering if he’ll make it back home to you. You deeply inhale- calming yourself down as the memories creep their way up back up to the surface. You set up a date with Clark for tonight at a quiet restaurant downtown. He’s sweet, lets you ramble on about your mundane life, indulges in your favorite activities. Another plus he’s not John.

Deciding to take your ring off was the hardest part of moving on, you hadn’t taken it off even when you delivered the divorce papers to his office . Breathing out in a huff you leave it a top your drawer , stepping back and looking at yourself in the mirror. You’re wearing a baby blue dress with a slit going down your right thigh. You hair is in a side part with messy bun, you put on your favorite pair of earrings with a matching necklace , a pair of white pumps and your ready for your date.

As you spray on your perfume the phone rings ,the contact name “ my love J.P” slides across the screen, “damn I forgot to change that” you mutter, weighing your options about accepting the call. Biting your lip- You let it go to voicemail, if he has something to say he could text you.A text that doesn’t come and with that you give yourself one last look in the mirror before you grab your purse and your keys. You just met him and as a safety precaution you’d like to have your own way home.

When you get there Clark is already at the table, when he looks up a flash of surprise pleasantly comes across his features and he hurriedly stands up to greet you. “You look stunning” he’s saids as he pulls out your chair for you “ thank you” you whisper out, taking a seat. The dinner goes smoothly with Clark he listens and it feels like he gets you, lucky he doesn’t ask you about your past love life. You’re not quite ready for that conversation yet. The waiter comes around to take your order. You ordered one glass of white wine and a Parmesan crusted steak, Clark trusted you judgment and did the same. In the end you two plan a second date and part ways at the parking lot. You give him a quick peck on the cheek and thank him for dinner. He helps you into your car, closes your door and sees you off with a wave. A gentleman. The date went by without a hitch very pleasant evening you enjoyed with a handsome man. You must admit that the pictures don’t do him justice, the man was a work of art . Not John but You could get used to this you think.

The drive home is nice and quiet. You listen to your favorite song. Take in the lights of your beautiful city. But like all quiet peaceful things it comes to an end - Another incoming call from your ex husband this time you answer with a sigh “What do you want price” John hums “That’s no way to greet your husband sweetheart” Another annoyed sigh escapes your lips “ how was your date? “ the question hangs in the air like a challenge, a threat. Daring you. “ John-” you try and articulate your words, almost feeling as though you’ve been caught doing something wrong. “ Didn’t think I’d find out love? Nothing gets past me” You just want to hang up on him but his voice- the deep raspy sound keeping your hands planted on the steering wheel. You hate the way he affects you. You hate the way you love it. You finally get out “ I don’t have to explain myself to you, John “. John laughs at that, “cute” he thinks. “ you’re a married woman, out with other men darling. It wounds me .” You look at the phone in disbelief “ I wouldn’t be a “married” woman anymore if you grant me my divorce “ he lets you words and in the air, silence on both ends of the call but much louder than words. “ you look so good in that dress darlin', you know that my favorite color on you “ you blush and nervously bite your lip “ john how do you know what I’m wearing “ that response earns another laugh, one that shoots straight to your core. You’re thighs clench “Ghost, darlin’ he’s the best at surveillance” he’s starting to get you, just like he wants. He loves to make you angry and upset with him. Then he’d swoop in and fuck it right out of you “Listen don’t keep tabs on me, we’re through. Next time we talk it should be discussing the split of our assets“ You’ve had enough of his insanity and hang up the call. He’s going to remember that later

You step out of the car drained from the day. Making it to your porch, you realize the door is unlocked. Immediately on edge but you try and chalk it up to your being forgetful. As soon as you walk over the threshold of your home you notice a light on in your living room, reviving the fear you had previously.“Hey darling” a familiar voice sends a shiver down your spine. One that sends another jolt between your thighs. You turn towards the intruder “Now you're breaking into my house” John huffs out clearly annoyed, he steps dangerously closer to you “Our house, the one I pay for birdie.” You choose to ignore that comment “What are you doing here” his hands roam over your figure down to place his hands on your hips grabbing at the flesh there. A blissful sigh escapes your parted lips. How is he doing this to your body so easily? You pout. You want to blame the wine from earlier . John takes a deep inhale into your neck “ You wore my favorite perfume too, he gets all this sweetness while you’re husband waits for you at home” he tsks at you. Guilt slowly builds in your stomach along with your growing arousal as John brings his hands lower, you don’t stop him- too lost in his touch.

“ John” you warn weakly as he continues to touch you. Kissing your neck and sucking-licking, you whine and grab at his shirt. Then suddenly he steps back hands falling off your waist. “ Well, I’ll be going now, unless you want me to stay” John looks at you a smirk plastered on his face. You want to tell him off, tell him that he’s an asshole and to get out of your house. But these 4 months with no one to satisfy your desires has you acting out of character “ John please” you say weakly your voice betraying you “Please what birdie? Tell me what you need” A light chuckle falls from his soft Scotch-tasting lips “ John please touch me make me yours again, stay with me” With that John lifts you, instinctively you let your legs wrap around his waist. He carries you down to your bedroom “You never stopped being mine lovie” he saids with a kiss you your forehead “I’ll take care of you don’t you worry”

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You're not sure how you got here laying sprawled out on John’s tongue, completely bare for him. Whining and crying out his name like a prayer. A never-ending chant, you’d think if someone were to hear this they’d believe you were a devout believer in the church of John Price. You are. The smug bastard gripping onto your thighs pushing you further on his tongue. “ please- don’t stop I’m so close “ John increases the sped of his ministrations, pushing two of his thick fingers into your sopping hole, scissoring “Bloody hell- so wet love, go head cum for me” you cry out as your release washes over you, a high pitch ring pierces your ears. “ there you go baby, that’s it I got you “ he lets you ride out your high “ he kisses his way up your spent body, you feel something cold slip onto your finger- your wedding ring. A huge diamond it’s truly a beautiful piece of jewelry. John sits up admiring his work. Hickies littering your body, your juices running down your plump thighs, and your blissful fucked out face. John throws his clothes onto the floor, and his cock springs out thumping against his stomach. Hard and angry, it’s mouth-watering. You try a lift yourself wanting to reach out and touch it but John forces your body back down. You whine “Shh none of that love, I’m going to reconsummate our marriage” Your hole clenches around nothing at his words, feeling so empty “Please John” he kisses your lips, and hikes your legs up folding you in half. Then you feel his cock pushing into your entrance. You dig your nails into his back trying to ground yourself. “ Fuck- you’re so tight birdie, ease up” you breathe out slowly letting your body relax. When he finally fully bottoms out, he doesn’t wait for you to adjust his pace is mean, degrading, and demanding. Tears prick the corners of your eyes threatening to fall but John kisses them away “You can take it lovie, you feel so good”. His Hips stop John reaches over to the side table drawer taking his lighter and cigars out. You whine and plead for him to keep going, pressing at his chest . John just looks down at you as he lights his cigar and takes a drag of it, he blows the smoke in your face. You clench around him, “ Daddy please” That causes John’s cock to twitch inside you. That gives Price an idea of how he’ll keep you from trying to divorce him again in the future. He’ll give you a mini version of you. That way you won’t be bored when he’s out on deployment.he thinks boredom is the problem 🙄You should have kept your mouth shut because now his pace is truly unforgiving and ravenous as he tries to find that high sweet release. “ Fuck birdie” John grunts “I’m going to put a baby in you, you’re going to be such a good mommy ” Not registering his words still in your own blissful fucked out world - you moan out his name. “Daddy I’m so close” John lets the cigar hang loosely between his lips slowly puffing out smoke. He reaches his hands down between your sweaty bodies to harshly rub your clit “Give it to me birdie” and with a final thrust of his hips you’re cumming hard on his cock as a pornographic moan leaves your lips- your second orgasm comes down like a wave harder than before. John empties himself inside you and spurts of his cum come out in thick ropes. “ so fucking good love” he sets the cigar in an ashtray on the side table. “ you did so good for me, let’s get you cleaned up” he shifts to pull out you but you stop him and wrap your arms around his neck to pull him in “ just lay with me for a bit longer “ John hums and flips you over so that you’re laying on him without pulling out. He rubs you back and says “ Tomorrow we’re going to call up that lawyer and tell him we longer will be needing his services,” he says with a slight tap to your ass “Okay John” you say with a sigh. Safe to say that Clark never crosses your mind again. John won again like he always does .

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Simon in the meanwhile was deleting your profile off Tinder and informing Clark that if he values his life he won’t contact you again. He’s not doing this out of the goodness in his heart, no. Ghost services don’t come without a Price. He’s got some very intimate photos of you cumming on his captain's cock, some have Price’s thumb spreading apart your folds as his cum drips out of you. “ Fuck- captain your a lucky man,” he says through a ragged breath. Giving his cock one last tug before he releases into his hand with a groan.

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/)/)

( . .)

( づ♡

Lemme know what you think!

My first time writing something like this advice would be appreciated.

[zeroeightzeroone]

Hiyaa,

I have a request?

Producer!Bang chan x reader

Established relationship

Angst/comfort

Bang chan is in a bad mood so when he's at the studio he shouts at a co-worker he's close to/ 3racha member.

The co-worker/3racha member leaves and bumps into reader (who was already on the way to the studio? Because they haven't spent time together in a while?) and like hints at chan's bad mood.

Reader enters studio and chan starts to get mad but like reader is like "can I sit on your lap?" and he's like ❔ and she's like "you can continue working, can I sit on your lap?" and he's like "... Yeah?". Then it's fluff fluff fluff because fluff is the best 💯💯🚫🧢. Like a lot of fluff.

Oh also can you work in the reader saying something along the lines of "I get your frustrated but can you please not speak to me like that?" 🥺

And like chan gets more at peace/ relaxed/ less frustrated and apologies to coworker/ member and yeah and they all live happily ever after

creative differences - bang chan

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff/soft (eventually)

pairings: idol/producer!bang chan x fem!reader

warnings: chan is snappy, use of profanity

notes: thank you so much for your request <3 i hope i did it justice. this may also be the longest fic i've posted on this account with a little over 4.3k words

wc ~4.3 | moodboard

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since their debut, the company had already set expectations that the boys would have at least two comebacks a year–one in the first half of the year and another in the latter half. if they wanted to have more than two, they could, but two was the absolute least. the first comeback of this year for the boys went off without a hitch, resulting in topping multiple charts and receiving a handful of music show wins. however, the process for this second comeback of the year was already off to a rocky start, and the road ahead only looks winding and increasingly difficult.

the boys of 3racha have been in the studio every day for the past couple of weeks brainstorming and trying to put things together for the upcoming release. but they all seem to be hitting walls, or the ideas clash due to the amount of stress and pressures looming over their heads. so many people are counting on them–the members, producers, choreographers, and the jyp entertainment team, stay. and as the days in the studio pass, with the boys not agreeing on songs, arrangements, mixing, and more, the weight on their shoulders increases as well.

bang chan, the leader of stray kids and 3racha, felt the pressures even more so than changbin and han did.

currently, the three boys find themselves in chan's room inside the jyp entertainment building; chan is seated on the rolling chair in front of the multiple screens and mixing boards, while changbin and han are seated on either end of the couch. the three of them with their phones, laptops and notebooks opened up as they continue to brainstorm and discuss. but much like weeks prior, the progress isn't progressing, the progress is lacking or non-existent.

letting a deep sigh slip past his lips, han's eyebrows furrow in frustration as he scratches over old bullet points and writes new ones in his notebook, looking for ideas that could work. changbin is scrolling through his notes app and audio recording app, intermittently bringing the speakers at the bottom of his phone closer to his ear to hear the audio better as it's turned down to not disturb the other two, changbin tapping his fingers on his knee as he listens with his lip pursed in a tight line. chan is doing a mix of what the two are doing; writing and scratching out old and new ideas in his notebook, scrolling through his notes and audio recording apps to find something that they could work with, as well as filing through the production hardware on the system to find any drafts that could also be used to at the least, spark some inspiration.

at one point, chan feels like he's going to tug his hair out by the roots as he runs his fingers through his locks haphazardly. he's reaching the end of his patience; they've been working for weeks, and they can't even find a starting place for the comeback–he feels as if all the old material he finds in the apps aren't good enough, that they won't exceed the expectations or hype of the last comeback, that it won't even reach those expectations. it's frustrating chan to no end as he feels like he's reaching a dead end.

with a sigh, chan turns in his chair to discuss with han and changbin who are on the couch. when changbin notices this, he glances at han from the corner of his eye, surveys the atmosphere, and runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

"we need to figure something out," chan splutters out, his mind quite frantic, "we have to have some ideas–at least something?"

he looks between changbin and han on the couch, their faces look just as discontented and their minds are frantic but blank at the same time–mirroring chan's own face and mind. chan shuts his eyes in an attempt to calm down his bubbling emotions as he leans back into his chair.

"we could look through the demos again?" han throws a suggestion onto the table.

"which ones?" changbin questions.

han shrugs while at the same time he says, "all of them?"

"why would we look through demos we already vetoed?" chan scoffs, "that would be a complete waste of time."

"it's just a suggestion," han restates, this time his tone laced with hints of irritation, "maybe one of those vetoed demos could actually work; we just need to rework it."

"this isn't the first time we've gone through the demos in the past couple of weeks," chan reminds, "if one of those demos could actually work, we would've found it on the first or second round of looking."

"what demos are you thinking of specifically?" changbin asks han, who shrugs.

"i don't know, but what harm is there to look again?"

chan groans in agitation, not understanding why han is so adamant about looking through the demos again: "this would probably be the fourth time–why waste our time with a fifth? we want to make progress, looking for a fifth time is a complete waste of time."

the older boy's tone is sharp, prompting an eye roll from the youngest in the room, his arms going up in protest: " hey. it was just a suggestion–at least something to get the ball rolling." he reiterates chan's words from the beginning of the conversation.

"how is doing something that hasn't worked the past four times for a fifth going to work? if it didn't work a majority, if not, all the past times–it's not going to work," the tension in the room continues to build.

"wouldn't it be better to start from scratch instead of looking through ideas that we already decided weren't working?" changbin chimes in.

at this, han starts to feel like the two older boys are ganging up against him, and he defends himself quickly, "once again, it was just a suggestion. i don't see either of you suggesting anything."

changbin scoffs, "did I not just suggest starting from scratch instead of looking through rejected ideas?"

han turns his head to face changbin on the other end of the couch, "haven't we also been trying to start from scratch these past couple of weeks? that also hasn't been working–if it did, we wouldn't be having this conversation!"

"how are we supposed to start from scratch if we have no ideas?" chan asks in a matter-of-fact tone.

"if we look through the old demos, put some together or play around, then maybe we can find ideas," han speaks slowly as if he's trying to enunciate his point to drill it into the other two's heads, "it's better than sitting at our notebooks and laptops and writing down, absolutely nothing."

han's method of slowing down and enunciating seems to have gone through changbin's head as he begins to see han's point. if they can't conjure something up from nothing, they might as well try to conjure something up from their old demos or many recordings of melodies that have come to mind in the past. putting things together could trigger some inspiration.

"no, i think han has a point here," changbin states, "if we have no foundation or starting point, we can't build anything on top of it. at least with the old demos, we can continue to build off of what we have."

a deep breath expels from chan's lips as he listens to both han and changbin bounce words of agreement off each other for this working with old demos plan.

"again," chan says slowly, "if it didn't work the past four times, why would it work now? the odds are not in your favour."

"but there's still a chance it could work," han argues, "if there's a chance, why not take it?"

chan tongues at his cheek, "because we have a deadline. we can't keep grasping at straws that are obviously not working."

"starting from scratch and coming up with absolutely nothing is also not going to help us meet the deadline."

"so you want to create an album of demos we've rejected? you want to release a subpar album?" chan taunts.

"that's not what i'm saying," han shakes his head.

"that's what i'm hearing!"

"look, hyung," changbin steps in, "just listen to us for a second."

"i'm listening," chan snaps, "and i disagree. we have a standard to reach, one to exceed. i'll be damned if we release something below that."

"why the hell would we release something below standard?" changbin scoffs, running his hands through his hair and over his face in exasperation. letting his hands linger on his face as he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

the youngest in the room snaps at chan, "the fuck? is this you saying you lack faith in our producing skills? that we can't rework old demos to produce something that not only hits that standard but exceeds it?"

the sharp change in han's tone and volume alerts changbin, who realizes this conversation–well now it's an argument–is getting out of hand. chan and han are practically at each others throats and they're both too headstrong but stubborn at the same time, neither of them will back down. obviously, avoiding conversation wasn't going to get them anywhere, but at this point, where emotions are high, and egos are even higher, no meaningful or productive conversation regarding the album will be shared. changbin realizes he needs to jump into action to diffuse the situation before it becomes a screaming match between the two heated bandmates.

"i'm saying we have a standard, we have expectations to uphold," chan speaks slowly, his voice deeper as he's practically sneering at han, "one that the company has for us, stay, everyone."

han snarls back, eyes throwing daggers in chan's direction, "i know that. i know that damn fucking well. i'm out here trying to innovate some sort of progress toward this album, progress that we have been severely lacking for the past couple of weeks. other than rejecting our ideas, what the hell have you been doing?" he raises his chin at the older boy in a provoking manner.

"han–" changbin starts but is quickly cut off by chan.

"what the hell have i been doing?" chan spits out the question, han nods, "i've been making sure all our releases since debut continue to surpass these standards–this upcoming album is no different. don't come into my studio questioning what the fuck i've been doing."

"hyung–" changbin tries again to no avail.

"maybe you should leave," chan hisses, and changbin's eyes widen, darting between the two other boys in the studio with fires in their eyes, "and come back when you have suggestions that aren't going to waste my fucking time."

"look, guys. hannie, channie hyung–" changbin is cut off again when han rises to his feet, jaw clenched as he stares down chan in front of him, eyes narrowed.

"fine. i'll leave," he declares, "this is a waste of my time. i'll come back when you've got your head out of your fucking ass and you're open to listening to anyone other than yourself."

chan spins back around in his chair, eyes rolling back in anger as he clenches his fists on the table. behind him, han is quickly packing up his laptop and notebook as changbin gulps, wracking his brain to think of who to attend to right now. when han stomps to the studio door, swinging it open and stomping out into the hall of the company building. changbin is quick to follow after him, leaving everything but his phone, keys and wallet in his pocket the whole time as he follows after han, shutting the door behind them, leaving chan to his own thoughts alone. he chooses to follow the younger boy to try to calm him down and ensure he's safe wherever he plans to run off to.

meanwhile, you're a couple moments away from the elevator reaching the same floor the three boys are on. your hands clasped in front of you as you keep an eye on the digital sign that changes with each floor, rocking back and forth on your heels to pass the time. you haven't seen your boyfriend in quite a while due to your conflicting schedules, work and life getting in the way of a relationship, but you were grateful for those moments in between the chaos where it was just steady love and happiness. you learned to cherish those small moments instead of grovelling over how much time you can't spend with your boyfriend–obviously you get sad once in a while when you're away from him but choose not to dwell on it. thankfully, tonight is one of those nights where you can spend your time in the comfort of your boyfriend's presence. but he has no idea that you were even planning on coming to the company building, he has no idea of this little surprise you've organized.

when the elevator dings, stopping at your floor, you exit quickly but you make your way down the hallway slowly. your head moving from left to right as you read the numbers on each door, ensuring you landed on the correct floor and were going in the right direction. when you hear footsteps and your eyes dart to changbin and han walking down the hall in your direction, a wave of relief washes over you until you catch a glimpse of the concern on changbin's face and the anger on han's. they notice you walking towards them belatedly, almost running into you, but you catch their attention before any collision.

"hey guys," you greet softly, concern written on your features at the sight of the two boys. eyes looking between changbin whose eyes are drooped with worry and han, who you can feel the anger radiating off of, "what's going on?"

they both exchange small greetings with you. given han's current state, his greetings are shorter and more reserved. his mouth shut and jaw clenched again once he's greeted you.

"creative differences," changbin says to which han scoffs, rolling his eyes, "ok well, that's how it started, but long story short, we got into an argument, and hannie walked out."

"we?"

changbin nods, "yeah, hannie, chan hyung and i."

your lips purse in a tight line when the second name rolls off changbin's tongue: "if you don't mind, could you explain what happened?"

not wanting to get into too much detail as changbin doesn't want further rile up the already upset han, he gives you a quick run down of the main points of the argument between the 3racha boys–mainly chan and han. you keep your mouth shut the whole time and nod, listening intently to changbin explain while han stands with his arms crossed over his chest, a prominent pout on his lips and his eyebrows knit together.

"you're on your way to see, channie hyung?" changbin asks for clarification and you nod, "okay, obviously after what i told you, he's in a really bad mood right now so proceed with caution. angry chan is scary chan."

you thank changbin for letting you know what happened from their perspective, bidding short goodbyes to both the boys as han and changbin decide to make their way back to the dorms. han needs some time to unwind and collect his thoughts after the spat with chan. you continue to walk down the hall, turning a corner and finding the room number that felix sent you earlier–103.

you knock on the door softly but hear nothing from the inside; you knock once again and hear nothing. you sigh and decide to turn the knob, letting yourself in.

chan heard the knocks; the first one sparked his annoyance, and the second continued to heighten it. the sound of the door being opened caused him to bark at whoever decided to come in when, through his silence, he clearly didn't grant the permission to.

"what the hell?" he mutters to himself before he barks out, turning in his chair, "complete silence after knocking is not an invitation to come in, fuckin–"

when chan fully turns in his chair to face the direction of the door, the words get caught in his throat at the sight of you. he assumed it might have been changbin, han or a staff member, but seeing you standing there took him by complete shock. you shut the door behind you and give chan a small wave that he reciprocates hesitantly, still trying to let it sink in that you're actually in the room with him and that he isn't hallucinating due to how long it's been since the last time he's seen his girlfriend in person. you move to sit on the couch that was once occupied by the two other 3racha members; now, one side is occupied by changbin's laptop and notebook while you sit on the opposite end. chan turns his chair, following your every move.

when you sit down, take the pillow and place it on your lap, you smile up at chan again, "hi."

"hey baby," chan speaks slowly, "what are you doing here?"

you hum before answering, "well, we haven't been able to see each other in a while cos of our schedules but some time opened up for me today, so i wanted to pay you a surprise visit."

chan feels his heart warm at the gesture, but he's still quite irritated and agitated from the argument with han and changbin. the lack of progress for the upcoming album, along with the plethora of expectations looming over his head and his patience begins to dwindle again.

"that's nice, but i don't really have time for this right now," chan's tone is stern, his voice deep in warning, "i've got so much shit to do for this upcoming album, and nothing is fucking–"

"can I sit on your lap?" you ask, cutting chan off and causing him to furrow his eyebrows together in a mix of confusion and irritation–irritated that you had cut him off but confused about whether he had heard you right.

"what?" he deadpans, blinking at you.

"can I sit on your lap?" you repeat, and now he knows he definitely didn't hear things.

"did you not hear what i said?" chan holds back from snarling at you in frustration. "nothing is done for the album, and i don't have time to take a break."

you nod, hearing his words but adding, "you can continue working. i just want to sit on your lap while you do."

chan opens his mouth to refuse, but his eyes lock with yours–your shiny, beautiful eyes with a perfect array of colours decorating the irises, gazing up at him with a splash of hope in the depths of love in your eyes. that's when his mouth snaps shut again, probably looking like a fish when it opens again, but this time he says:

"yeah? sure."

the bright smile that stretches on your face feels like a reward to chan. you make your way over, placing yourself on his lap while facing him; thankfully, chan's chair is big enough for you to practically straddle him in a comfortable position. you wrap your arms around his shoulders and nuzzle yourself into his neck.

"you can go back to work now," you say, your voice muffled from the pressure of your lips against his skin.

chan can't help the lopsided smile that makes its way to his lips. he also can't help the way his whole body seems to relax with your touch; the longer he feels the warmth radiating off your body onto his, the more he feels the tension in his muscles deteriorating slowly. the feeling of your body pressed against his, his arms outstretched to continue typing or writing in his notebook, feels comforting.

moments pass when chan's room is quiet, and the occasional noise of chan typing on the keyboard, picking up or placing his pencil down to scratch down who knows what in his notebook. at the same time, you're still perched on his lap, your arms comfortably draped around him, and your face nuzzled in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

chan isn't sure if the arguing with han and changbin or if the feeling of you in his arms sparked some ideas to come out of him and onto paper, but he would like to say both. despite the heated atmosphere and half-hearted words thrown around, he doesn't want to feel like that argument was completely unnecessary and a waste of time; instead, he wants to see it as a bump in the road that shows him how he can continue to improve as a friend, producer, bandmate and a person as a whole.

meanwhile, you're thinking about how comfortable you feel in the position your in right now, and how you could probably fall asleep at this moment. sure, maybe your back will hurt when you wake up, but right now, you feel your whole body relax in your boyfriend's arms. a couple moments later, your eyes are half open and you felt yourself falling asleep, but you jump a little in shock when you feel both of chan's hands sprawled on your back. his hands rub your back gently and comfortingly before he circles his arms around your body and pulls you closer. a deep sigh escaping his lips as he holds you, his eyes falling shut for a few seconds. chan turns his head, kissing the side of your head on your hair.

"thank you," he whispers, placing another gentle kiss as his hands rub circles on your back again.

you respond in a small, quiet and slightly sleepy voice, "for what?"

chan shrugs, "for this. being here."

you nod, pausing for a moment before you say, "i ran into changbin and han in the hall."

you feel your boyfriend tense up in your arms. you begin to reciprocate his comforting action as you trace circles on his back with the pads of your thumbs, his muscles relaxing under your gentle caresses. you continue to speak in a soft, timid manner that only chan can hear since your lips are so close to his ear.

"i know you're under a lot of stress and pressure preparing for the album," you begin, "i get that you're frustrated, but can you please not speak to me like that?"

the man feels his heart drop listening to your words. his mind rewinds back to when he heard the door opening, and how his first instinct was to bark and scold whoever came into the studio uninvited. chan remembers how you blinked and gave him a small smile, trying to hide your surprise, but it was evident in how your eyes widened the slightest bit for a split second before returning to normal.

you and chan sit in silence; he's dwelling on your words while you're still tracing circles into his back with your thumbs. chan wants to say that he didn't know you were the one coming into the studio, to use that as a defence, but he knows how weak that is–that regardless of who came into the room, he shouldn't have let his frustrations blow over, flipping out and greeting them by raising his voice. sure, his emotions were high, which is a factor in how he acted earlier, but he can't use that as an excuse to get away with snapping at people who have nothing to do with what he's emotional about.

you feel chan nod, and he says softly, "i'm sorry." you go to say that it's okay, but chan interrupts, "it's not, though. even if i didn't mean to speak to you that way, i still need to figure out how to regulate and control my emotions."

"you're human," you say, "when emotions are high, it's hard to find a way to keep them under control all the time. but the fact that you recognize your mistake–that's a lot more than many people can say."

chan pulls you even closer against him, if it's even possible, "i'll try my best though. i'll speak to you at a normal volume, respectfully and saying sweet things. that's what my girl deserves."

your cheeks heat up at the way chan calls you 'his girl'.

"thank you," chan repeats.

this time, you pull away, sitting up straight to look at chan's face, your eyes meeting his soft ones. his hands rub up and down your sides slowly, a slight smile on his lips. you cock your head in confusion, "for what?"

"you always know the right thing to say," chan moves one of his hands up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, keeping his hand on your cheek gently and the pad of his thumb swiping over the skin, "i love you."

you're blushing even harder now, "i love you too."

chan uses the hand on your cheek to guide your face so your lips meet his halfway for a sweet kiss. after quite a while, a smile breaks out on your face at the feeling of his soft pink and plump lips against yours. your hands move to hold either side of his neck, and the two of you spend the next couple of moments sharing tender kisses and giggles in between.

in the midst of all of the kisses, you and chan are gazing down at each other when he brushes your hair away again. this time, he opens his mouth to speak with flushed cheeks, "i'm starting to think han and his suggestions were right; it'll be better to build on something we already have and improve on it than to force ourselves to start from scratch and continue to hit a dead end."

you brush chan's hair out of his forehead, and he continues.

"my head was too far up my ass to consider his suggestion," chan purses his lips together, and his eyes flash with regret as he recalls the words thrown around between him and the younger producer earlier. chan lets himself linger in his head again before voicing his concerns, "do you think they'll forgive me?"

you nod.

"really? you're not just saying that?"

you nod again, and this time, you explain, "as long as you can identify and acknowledge where you went wrong and what you did wrong, and sincerely and genuinely apologize–which i know you feel sincerely and genuinely apologetic for–i believe they'll forgive you."

chan's eyelids flutter quickly as he thinks, nodding as he fully processes your words. still, a wave of nervousness washes over him at the possibility that han and changbin won't forgive him.

"they're your brothers," you snap him out of his thoughts, "brothers fight, but at the end of the day, they still love each other."

main masterlist

[vyva-melinkolya]

how do you write songs, help a girl out

speaking just about lyrics rn bc how i personally compose my songs is like, harder to explain? (another day i will get into it)

anyway, my best advice (this is how i do A LOT of my writing) is to, either in a notebook or in a Notes app, (whichever works for you better) write down every phrases or words that come to you throughout the day, like while you’re experiencing life. they can be clever or powerful or pathetic or confessional or loving or cruel etc etc. get in the habit of observing your inner monologue and going “aha!!! there’s something there!!!l” doesn’t even need to be about you, it can be about people from fiction, from books or movies you enjoy, as long as they are people or stories you feel compelled by. these things can come up when you’re on a walk, talking to a friend, waiting for a text back, during a storm, during prayer, watching tv, on the edge of sleep, while doing drugs, in the shower. they can come at anytime!!! be ready!!!!

write these lines down with absolutely no attention to order. let yourself build a library of thoughts and scenes and emotions. once you have a good bit built up, you’ll start to get grander ideas for the songs and connect the lines together, see patterns, emerging. Of course, if you already have a specific idea for a song, like a story or specific feeling in mind, run with that, but, for me, it’s often a lot more complicated than just “I’m gonna write a song about this thing that happened to me”, it often takes more than that. occasionally, I’m able to write a song in one or two sittings (the words for The Angelic Process came to me over a couple hours). But more often, I will have one or two lines in mind for a song and a general idea, but the rest of the lines come to me over the course of a year or two. 

[xxoxobree]

Late Nitez

Miles Morales x Black!Fem!Reader.

Contents: You and Miles Stay up way past your bedtime on FaceTime

WARNINGS: Like one cuss word 🤷🏽‍♀️

It had become a hilarious routine for you and Miles now; every night at 8:30 after a long day of school and homework, you would eagerly open up the FaceTime app and call each other to talk about the most ridiculous things, really, until you both fell asleep, snoring in unison. And tonight was no different.

The blue light from Miles' phone illuminated his face as he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the meaning of life (or what he wanted for breakfast). He listened to your not-so-quiet breaths coming through the phone, bringing him a sense of comfort and the occasional laugh . It had been a while since you two actually spoke, and you were probably drooling on your pillow by now. But just to make sure, he decided to break the silence with a burst of obnoxious energy.

"Yo, you there?" he shouted, probably waking his parents in the process. Miles couldn't resist. You were in that awkward state between sleep and wakefulness when his voice jolted you back to consciousness, making you snort in surprise. Letting out a little groan (or was it a snore?), you sleepily responded with a soft "mhm". You yawned wide enough to swallow a small planet before speaking again, your voice still laced with drowsiness and the remnants of a dream about your favorite actor. "I'm here."

"Oh, hey love," Miles chuckled.

You let out another yawn, your eyes still closed, listening to his sweet voice. "Hey."

Miles rolled his eyes. "Is that all your sleepy ass has to say? Hey?" A smile tugged at his lips as he lifted his phone to his face, waiting for your reply. His smile grew bigger as he saw your sleeping figure, the light from the phone lighting up your perfect face.

"Miles, I'm barely awake. Are you taking screenshots?" you said groggily, using your hand to cover your face as you heard the snapping noises.

"Awe mama, come on, you look so cute," Miles responded. Another moment of silence passed before Miles switched apps, opening Instagram and posting the screenshots he just took of you two to his story, tagging you and captioning it, "I miss you."

Your phone buzzed, making you peek an eye and see that he tagged you in his story. You opened the notification and giggled. "Really, Miles? I miss you too."

Miles felt his stomach turn at your words, his breath picking up. A slight anxiety and guilt filled him. Was it wrong for him to be in love with his best friend? Miles' eyes flickered back on his screen to your face and the way the phone light highlighted all of his favorite features of your face, as if teasing him almost. He could look at you forever, even if you were asleep. Would you feel the same if he told you the truth? He thought to himself.

"Miles?" you called out to him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"You're quiet, you mad at me?" you asked.

Miles took a deep breath, preparing himself up for the big reveal. "Mad nahh," he muttered under his breath, hoping it would go unnoticed. "But you wanna know what's up?"

"What?" you asked, awaiting his answer.

"I'm head over heels, babyyyyy!" he sang out, trying to mask his nerves with a touch of musical theatrics. You couldn't help but burst into laughter at his impromptu song.

"Seriously?"

"Yup," Miles replied, his voice cracking slightly as the effort of keeping his eyes open and staying up late just to talk to you caught up with him. "Wanna hear something else?"

"Sure, Miles," you said , your curiosity now piqued.

"I've got a major crush on you and I love you," he blurted out, finally releasing the words that had been building up inside him for weeks. The room fell silent as he anxiously awaited your response. "Miles..." he waited for your next words, his doubts starting to creep in. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. Maybe you'd think he was a total weirdo now. But then, you said it.

"I feel the same way. I love you too."

It took every ounce of self-control for Miles not to squeal like a little girl. "Uh, cool," he managed to mutter, desperately trying to compose himself.

"Cool? That's all you're gonna say, Morales, after I just confessed my love?" you teased, unable to contain your laughter.

He joined in on the laughter. "So, uh, will you be my girlfriend, y/n?"

"Absolutely, Miles. I'd love to."

Copyright © 2023 Breeandhermunches. All rights reserved.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

Same Time, Same Place

Prompt Day 16: Modern AU | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: None | Tags: Modern AU, Rideshare Driver Eddie, Slightly Injured Steve, Meet-Cute, Eddie POV

Eddie pulls up to the curb of the nice-looking house, and waits. 

And waits, and waits.

He considers canceling. He looks at his app again, and his passenger is supposed to be a guy named Steve. Finally, the front door swings open, and a guy in a suit, on crutches, struggles to get himself out of his house and down the sidewalk. 

Well, that explains the delay, at least.

Reluctantly, Eddie gets out and opens the car door for him, "Hi, I'm Eddie."

"Sorry, I'm Steve, thank you," Steve says, sliding into the back of the SUV, and Eddie takes his crutches from his hands.

"Front seat okay for these?" Eddie asks.

"Yes, thank you," Steve says, smiling at him, pulling his seatbelt over his shoulder. Then Steve looks down at his phone, and starts tapping away.

"Just you?" Eddie asks, because this guy booked the SUV-XL option. 

"Just me," Steve says, "I just thought there might be more room for my crutches and cast."

"That's definitely true," Eddie answers, he will give him that. And this guy doesn't look like he probably cares about the extra cost. Fine by Eddie. He'll take the larger fare. The band bought this big boat to haul around the equipment, and Eddie's been using it to pick up rideshare passengers lately, just to make a little extra cash so they can pay it off quicker.

Eddie hauls Steve downtown, and fifteen minutes later, stops in front of an office building. He hops out to help Steve out of the car. 

"Thanks, Eddie," Steve says, and he hobbles away towards the wall of glass doors.

Eddie completes the trip, gives Steve his five stars, and pulls away. 

He gets his notification of his tip a few minutes later, and it's nearly the cost of the trip. He's definitely glad he didn't get impatient this morning.

At about six o'clock, he gets another fare, and he realizes it's for the same building, and sure enough, out comes Steve. Eddie gets out again, and does it all in reverse.

"Thanks, Eddie," Steve says, and Eddie isn't sure if he remembers him from this morning, or just checked his name before he got in. He's going to go with the former, because unless he got a head injury with that broken leg, surely Steve can remember what happened eight hours ago.

"You're welcome, Steve," Eddie says, and takes him back home.

Eddie winds up getting the same fare, three days in a row, both ways, and it's one of the best parts of his day. Steve's easygoing, and he tips like a motherfucker. But on Friday morning, there's no ride request for Steve. Eddie even put himself in range of Steve's neighborhood to maybe help the matching process along, but he knew it was never a guarantee. 

Well, it was good while it lasted. Steve might be a little slow moving on his crutches, but he was always polite, and his tips were above and beyond.

Eddie's never had that kind of streak of getting the same passenger before. Sure, he's driven a few familiar repeat passengers, but not for several days in a row. Eddie wonders if the pool of new SUVs is just lower in the area.

That evening, he gets the ride for Steve again, and he's really happy as he heads towards Steve's office building.

"I'm so happy it's you again," Steve says as Eddie meets him on the sidewalk, "This morning was rough."

"Sorry to hear that," Eddie answers.

"I favorited you and everything, but apparently that's not foolproof?" Steve questions out loud.

Eddie didn't even know favoriting a driver was a thing a passenger could do. 

"I requested the big SUV, but that's not what he showed up in, which didn't go great with my crutches."

"What happened to your leg, anyway?" Eddie asks, because he's definitely been curious.

Steve laughs, "Well, I went skiing with my best friend, and she's clumsy, and ran me over. She's fine, but my leg, not so much."

Eddie smiles at him, "That sucks."

"Definitely. I can't drive for six weeks."

"Well, I'm happy to be your chauffeur whenever we're paired up, man," Eddie says.

And they chat more than they had on the previous days, and it's fun. Some passengers are rude, others are just quiet, but Steve's talking to him like they're just hanging out.

When he pulls over at Steve's address, Eddie looks back at him.

"Feel free to say no," Eddie starts, "but if you're interested, I could just give you my card. Then you could just contact me directly when you want a ride." 

"Really?" Steve asks, his eyes lighting up. 

"Sure, if you want to. We can try to request the ride once I'm right there, or we can do it under the table for way cheaper."

"That sounds great, Eddie. Thank you. Monday morning? Same time, same place?" 

"Absolutely. I'll see you then, Steve." 

And it goes on for weeks, five more of them, until Steve comes out of the doctor's office Eddie had driven him to, and Eddie sees he's cast free. 

He's happy for him, he is, but he feels a little sad that this arrangement has come to an end. He's had fun. Really, truly, had fun. He's happy Steve's free of the cast, but Eddie still feels a twinge of sadness. He's enjoyed spending thirty minutes of his day with Steve Harrington. 

"Look at you!" Eddie says, acting more excited than he feels. 

"I know! All better," Steve says, sliding into the front seat next to Eddie. 

And Eddie drives Steve home, dropping him off for the last time. 

Eddie's waiting for another fare, when his phone dings. 

[4:15PM] How 'bout I pick you up in my car for a change. Dinner tonight? 

Eddie smiles, re-reading the words a second time, just to make sure he isn't dreaming this up. When he's sure he's not, he says yes, and sends Steve his address.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

[saturna625]

I wanna think about storm chaser!reader and tf141????? (yes, I used to live in tornado valley. I know some of this is unrealistic but I'll make it real enough)

Like maybe Johnny, who watches these absolutely wild YouTubers who chase these massive storms ("Gaz, honestly, take a look at these fuckin' clouds! All spinny an' shit!") And maybe you're the weather predictor, who coaches from the passenger seat as the truck weaves through corn fields, unaware of tf141 within the comment section.

TF141, of course, meaning Twister Force 141, a bit of a nickname for their little weather research team.

Maybe they get so invested that Price pulls a couple strings, and gets satellite view, so the boys can watch both you and the weather live.

Maybe you get a little too close to the tornado, as the county sirens blare in the background, and your audio shorts out. Maybe the boys are on the edges of their seats, seeing you speed headfirst into a storm that is building quicker than your ten dollar weather app can process.

You're too deep in a quick growing storm. None of your tech is working, and you're strapping yourself into your seat, looking over at your best friend who's driving. You don't even know if the camera's still rolling. The wind howls outside, screams so loud you can't even hear yourself yell.

Maybe you hear a gruff voice through your staticky radio, as you see, well, what used to be a barn, crash down in front of you, before disappearing into the murk and dust.

"Throw it into reverse, you muppets!"

Your friend slams on his breaks, and kicks the truck into reverse. You fly backwards as the cameras on your dashboard blink red and green. You're driving blind, and the monster is only growing. A stop sign takes your side mirror clean off, and embeds itself into a tree.

Your friend cuts to the left, turning yall around, and throws it into forward as you build speed, trying to outrun it.

With dawning horror, the team puts together a shoddy storm projection. You won't outrun it.

You, however, have decided to ditch the harness. The haunting sound of a twister, groaning as it builds, lunching towards you. It pulls the roof off a house. A tree flies towards you, and your buddy swerves to avoid it, as you scramble into the back seat.

Soap is so used to watching amateurs outrun tiny squalls, little touchdowns of dust and air, but this thing was processing as E-4.

And you were no amateur.

You call to your buddy to cut left, and drive under the overpass. You're not stopping there. Everyone knows that overpasses are the worst place to be.

You think, somewhere in the dust and wind and debris, that you see a truck pulling a trailer of barrels, but it had overturned. You hoped it's owners were lucky enough to get somewhere safe.

It gets sucked into the storm, and disappears. The sky is swirling black above you, a nightmarish mixture of ink and debris. The truck skids on the pavement, your friend juts off road, as foreign voices coached you out of the storm.

But they were wrong. They're telling him to keep driving forward.

You see the wind shift, in the rolling, whipping grass. The pressure drops, and your ears pop. You stop your commentators explanation to gaze open-mouthed at the sky above you.

"There's.... There's gonna be another one!" You shout at your friend, who seems to pale at your words. "That's good! It'll take the pressure away from that mother over there–" you point. Rain pelts the windshield, but he can make out the shift in the clouds. "They'll fight it out and dissipate! We'll just- I can't fucking see- stop!" You shout, as a house crashes down directly in front of you, but it's too late.

The nose of the truck goes through where the roof had been, burying itself near the chimney. You fly forward and hit the seat in front of you. You think your head knocks against some camera equipment, and the wind howls again, before it all goes dark.

When you come to, you're able to hear the sirens again. The scratchy panic of the radio fills in the rest of the sound, different groups of chasers trying to figure out what the hell they're doing. You no longer hear that European group, though. Maybe you thought it up.

What you didn't know was that, ten miles away, hunkered in the safety of a low level parking garage, the boys cramped around the screen as they watch you pull yourself out of the car. In the unfocused lense, they can tell that you might bruise pretty rough. But in the background, they see the second twister come into view. It's half a mile off, battling out the Mother, as you called it, before suddenly, they both draw back up into the sky, dancing around one another, and then they're gone.

The tornado sirens go out shortly after that, and they hear rain, and thunder, and you– whooping and cheering, and scrambling to find an intact camera.

You thank the audience as your friend joins you at your side. He's probably going to quit after this, you can tell by the look on his face. He was never one for weather anyways.

But it didn't matter. You were usually the driver anyhow.

Simon looks at Price, who looks down at Soap, sketching out the projections, and Gaz, writing all the data down in his uber fancy composition notebook. The livestream ends.

And who knows, there's a ton of storm chasers in town this season. Maybe someone had some people to spare.

(pt2?)

[nanowrimo]

5 Tips for Building a Sustainable Writing Practice

Every year, we’re lucky to have great sponsors for our nonprofit events. First Draft Pro, a 2023 Camp NaNoWriMo sponsor, is a great writing app—whether you’re writing solo or with a co-author. Here are a few tips for building a sustainable writing practice, brought to you by author Ariana Brown and First Draft Pro.

We’ve all heard the advice to “write every day,” as if it were that easy! Translation: suck it up, no one cares if you’re tired. But what if there was another way to get writing done, without being unkind to yourself? 

Hi, I’m Ariana Brown, and I teach writers how to create a writing practice that is sustainable, flexible, and fulfilling. Most of my students are chronically ill, disabled, neurodivergent, or simply exhausted from the daily stresses of life. I know writing isn’t your only responsibility—capitalism makes sure of that! But I strongly believe that writing should be an enjoyable activity you look forward to.

Below I’ve compiled my top tips for exhausted writers who want to be kinder to themselves—and still get the work done.

1. Add pleasure to your writing routine.

Sensory pleasures are neither frivolous nor are they only for children. They’re a crucial part of being alive! They give us something to look forward to when times are tough and we need motivation. Candles, soft blankets, cold beverages, mood lighting, dance breaks, yummy treats—whatever you choose, make sure it’s something you love. Paint your nails a fun color so you have something beautiful to look at while you’re typing away. Make a playlist of your favorite songs and after you finish a chapter, blast one song so loudly you have to get up and dance. Then, get back to writing. Remember, even for the most focused among us, pleasure is a better motivator than shame.

2. Be clear about your intentions.

What brought you to writing in the first place? For some, it was the ability to escape into our imaginations. For others, it was the chance to finally express what we’d been holding inside. Identify your reason for writing, then ask yourself: Am I still enjoying this? Do I still feel connected to my reason for writing? If not, explore how you can strengthen your connection to your inner child’s reason for writing. 

3. Work with your brain, not against it.

If we know that everyone’s brain works differently, why do we force strict discipline and linear processes on ourselves? My advice: find or create a writing process that works for you. Maybe you love outlines; maybe you prefer to see where the words take you. Either way, make space for wandering, play, and discovery as you write. Take brain breaks. Doodle, map, dance, and draw when you get distracted. Body double with other writers, try new exercises and prompts to make the writing sing, and take plenty of breaks to stretch your body and talk to friends. We come to writing with our whole selves. Listen to your body, don’t shut it off.

4. Find a writing community.

You don’t have to wait for a community to come to you! I offer co-writing sessions on Zoom four times a month for my Patreon supporters, but do what works for you. Attend local open mics as an audience member and cheer on your peers. Invite your best friends to your living room once a month for a two hour writing/crafting session. Or check your local library and bookstores for free workshops and author events. You don’t have to do this work alone.

5. Develop a gratitude practice.

Finishing your draft is a huge accomplishment, but it’s not the only milestone to be celebrated. Consider creating opportunities to thank yourself throughout your writing practice. You’re doing an amazing and difficult thing. The fact that you keep showing up is worthy of celebration. Whether you decide to journal, rest, pray, meditate, or reward yourself, a little gratitude goes a long way.

Ariana Brown is a queer writer from San Antonio, TX, based in Houston. She is the author of We Are Owed (Grieveland, 2021) and Sana Sana (Game Over Books, 2020), and a national collegiate poetry slam champion. Ariana holds an MFA in Poetry, MS in Library and Information Science, and a BA in African Diaspora Studies and Mexican American Studies. She has been writing, teaching, and performing for over a decade. Follow her online @ArianaThePoet and www.arianabrown.com. 

[indigostudies]

I saw that you're learning Thai, and i was wondering if you had any suggestions for learning how to become literate in written Thai? I've been struggling to find good resources that focus on the writing aspect

hey, thanks for the ask! i'm going to preface this with the fact that i've only just started learning thai seriously, so a lot of what i'll talk about is very basic/beginner resources, or posts by other people who have studied it for longer. also i should say that i'm not quite sure if you mean the literary register, or being able to read/write words, and since i'm not 100% certain whether the course i use uses common or formal/literary register, so i'll just focus on the actual process of learning to read/write words.

i've been using the apps read thai and mango languages more or less concurrently, plus the app write thai.

read thai is specifically geared towards teaching the alphabet and reading, and while it doesn't have a lot of stylistic bells and whistles, it's the most useful thing i've come across for learning to read thai—i struggled for all of last year trying to learn it by other methods, but i more or less got the alphabet down in a couple hours last night by using the app. it has a reference tab for the entire alphabet, with audio files, romanisation, and the class of the letter.

my process with mango languages is to copy down every single new word i come across, with the romanisation/tone noted down the first time. i also write down all my answers for the quizz/question exercises, which i don't add romanisation for because they're comprised of words i've already learnt. this goes a long way towards getting me used to writing the letters—the muscle memory means that even after only one day i've memorised how to write a dozen or so words almost entirely.

write thai is an app i've used a little bit, which is aimed at practicing writing—it uses a practice-quiz system, where you practice a character, and then are asked to write it from memory. i haven't used this as much because it doesn't build up the muscle memory in the same way that writing with a pen and paper does, but i think it's still useful!

for other resources, the anki decks (consonants - vowels - consonant classes - tone rules) in this post by @lurkingteapot look useful (the memrise course is no longer available unfortunately). there's also the omniglot page, which has videos on how to write the alphabet, and the "reading" section of @kwaamfan's neocities page, which you might find useful.

i hope you find this reply useful! if you have any other questions, please feel free to ask, and i'll do my best to reply! (or, if i can't, i'll recommend some blogs that might know better than i do!)

[littlemelaninfics]

Cuffed (E.B) || Chapter 1 18+ only

“You do realize that it’s been 10 months since you’ve even thought about a guy?”

“Yes, okay I realize that, but I’m sick of being in the cycle of download and delete. I think I just need to stay away from dating sites all together.”

“That makes no sense. Everyone who has ever downloaded a dating app or signed up for one has deleted the app or their whole account an alarming amount of times. It’s completely normal!”

It’s not that she’s wrong, but I’m 26 and feel like I’m going to be alone forever.

“Come on, you know I’m right.” 

“I never said you weren’t.”

“So you’ll re-download them? At least one?”

“Mari, I don’t know. I could still meet someone the old fashioned way.”

“You really want to be one of those girls who wears white beanies, maroon scarves and light brown combat boots in the Fall; hoping to meet your one true love in a coffee shop while drinking a pumpkin spice latte and reading “The Fault in Our Fucking Stars”? That’s what you want?”

“Okay, get out of 2013 and stay off of Tumblr. And no, that’s not exactly what I want. It’d be a caramel macchiato. I hate pumpkin.”

“And I’m starting to hate you. Climb out of your own ass and comfort zone and download a damn app.”

“You’re riding me pretty hard on this. You haven’t had a boyfriend in over a year either, so why don’t I ride you to find someone.”

“You’re not riding anyone, that’s the problem. And you know I get my fair share. Just without all the romance bullshit.”

“You are cold.”

“But my bed isn’t.”

“I’m not going to tell you that I will download another one, but I’m not saying I won’t either.”

“We’ve been best friends for how long? At this point, I know you won’t.”

“Not true. I’m just not going to put pressure on myself. I know I say I’ll be alone forever, but I don’t know if I actually mean that.”

“You’re not going to be alone forever. You can meet and get anyone you want. I just want you to have fun and live a little.”

“I do, just not in the ways you do.”

“I know, Y/N. I know. Let me ask you, do you think I’m a slut?”

“No, I think you’re free spirited and know what you want.”

“Thank you, now go find what you want. I have to get ready for work, but I love you my beautiful antisocial butterfly.”

“I love you too. I’ll text you later.” Goddamnit. 

Over the next few days, all I’ve seen are ads for different dating sites and I’ve tried them all. While I was scrolling through Instagram, an ad popped up for a new dating site. Actually it’s not that new, but it is one I’ve never tried. 

I click on the link and it opens to a different page. In the blink of an eye, the app is ready to be downloaded from the app store. In the process of Apple scanning my face, I tell myself, ‘Last one. For real this time’. The application is now ready to be opened and I kind of sit there and stare at it. I finally click it and a black page with the word “CUFFED” written out in cursive and handcuffs has taken over my screen. It finally loads and I click “REGISTER”. 

“Okay name, Y/N. Height, 5′6. Build? Petite, Athletic, Average, A Few Extra Pounds or Overweight? Jesus.” I start to wonder if this is a bad idea. I’m technically clinically obese, but if a grown man has never seen, let alone "handled" a woman like me then that's a problem only therapy can solve. I chose my answer, swallowed my pride and clicked next.

“Moving on. Ethnicity, African American. Kids, no. Animals, 1 dog. and a Mekhai.”

Ah, yes. Mekhai. The 270 pound lap dog my sister calls her boyfriend. He's been around since I was 17 and even though Erika and I share an apartment, it's pretty much mine as she is always at his place. I'm convinced they're only keeping this arrangement afloat for me and my finances...or lack there of.

I went on to fill out the rest of the registration with my hobbies, whether I drink or smoke, the utmost flattering pictures of myself I can find within the last year and finally my location in Pasadena, CA. 

I reviewed the answers I put in and clicked “Activate”.

35 minutes up the freeway, Buck hesitated. His thumb hovering over the "Activate Account" button on his phone. Chimney, never one for subtlety, slapped the countertop, making Buck jump. "Come on, Buckaroo! What are you waiting for, a formal invitation from Cupid himself? Download it already! Live a little!" He set the enormous salad bowl down with a resounding thud, the lettuce rustling like a disapproving whisper.

"I don't know, Chim," Buck mumbled, scrolling through the app's interface again. "It just feels… artificial. Like reducing connection to a swipe right or left."

Hen, balancing a mountain of garlic bread on a plate, chimed in from behind them. "Honey, everything's artificial these days. My lashes, Mara's princess obsession, the flavor of most 'natural' fruit snacks. Besides," she added with a wink, setting the plate down, "from what I overheard at the mall – a gaggle of ladies practically squealing about it while I was trying to find Mara a tiara that wouldn't scratch her face— it's perfect for people not looking for commitment. Casual fun, that's the key." Bobby, who was meticulously arranging plates and silverware, nodded in agreement.

He looked at Buck with a fatherly concern that always made Buck’s chest ache a little. "You've had a rough patch, Buck. Between being a sperm donor, navigating the whole Tommy situation – twice, might I add – and then… Eddie leaving for Texas. You know, maybe Maddie is right. You deserve to let loose, to have some fun without the weight of expectation. CUFFED might be just what you need to blow off some steam."

Buck chewed on his lip, considering their words. They weren't wrong. The last year had been a rollercoaster of emotions, from the profound joy of helping a couple have a child to the crushing heartbreak of losing Eddie, not to mention the confusing dance with Tommy. He was tired. Tired of the intensity, tired of the pressure to find "the one," tired of feeling like he was constantly failing at relationships.

Maybe Hen was right. Maybe he didn't need a soulmate right now. Maybe he just needed… a date. Or two. Or however many swipes it took to find someone interesting and willing to share a laugh.

He looked at his found family, their faces etched with genuine care and support. They just wanted him to be happy. To not be so… alone.

With a sigh of resignation, but also a flicker of anticipation, Buck finally tapped the button. "Okay, okay, you guys win," he said, holding up his phone. "I'm activating the account. But if I end up on a date with someone who only talks about their NFT collection or their obsession with competitive birdwatching, I'm blaming all of you."

Chimney whooped with joy, throwing his arms around Buck in a brief, slightly damp hug. "That's the spirit! Now let's get that profile looking irresistible. First picture: Definitely action shot. Maybe that time you saved that cat from the tree? Or rescuing that guy pinned under the bus? Heroes get matches, Buck! Heroes get matches!"

Hen chuckled. "Let's keep the profile authentic, Chimney. A little bit of Buck, a little bit of vulnerability, a little bit of… that smile. That smile gets 'em every time." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Bobby smiled, a warm, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Just be yourself, Buck. You're kind, you're brave, you're a good friend. That's enough. The right person will see that."

As Buck started filling out his profile, a mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in his stomach, he couldn't help but smile. Maybe they were right. Maybe this wouldn't be a complete disaster. And even if it was, he had his family here, always ready with a supportive hug, a terrible joke, and a giant bowl of salad. That was more than enough to face whatever CUFFED threw his way. He typed a brief bio, chose a few pictures he thought were relatively flattering, and with a deep breath, officially entered the world of app-based dating. Time to see what awaited him.

[exactlymaximumgarden]

what i did for love (jschlatt x reader fic)

chapter 2: new guy

summary: after endless chatter about the so-called "new guy," you finally have a less than ideal run-in with him. word count: ≈2.0k warnings: fem!reader, use of (y/n), kinda angsty later on a/n: hi chat. this chapter is kinda tea so i hope you like it lol song: again and again - the bird and the bee

You never thought you’d be more grateful for a lunch break in your life. The cast had been dismissed for an hour just after running the emotional monologue from the character Paul, which promptly followed your solo dance number. Teching your routine wasn’t too much of a hassle, but the actual choreography was beyond grueling. You were more than ready for a breather.

Surprisingly, Schlatt, during the run, wasn’t a bother at all. You could’ve sworn you caught him glancing at you from the wings at certain points, and you couldn’t say for sure whether or not he had seen any of your solo at all, but during the monologue afterward in which everyone in the cast was offstage save for your castmate Mateo, Schlatt was nowhere to be found. 

Not that you had a problem with that, anyway. Hell, you didn’t care what all he fucked off to do as long as you didn’t have to be there for any of it.

Now, you could only do your best to rid your mind of all thoughts related to him as you sat in your dressing room, which you shared with Victoria and two other castmates, Sierra and Lola. Aside from your already established bond with Victoria, you’d taken it upon yourself to build a closer friendship with Sierra and Lola since they played the characters Maggie and Bebe respectively, so naturally you would have to stand near them in the chorus line formation. That was also partially the reason the four of you had been grouped together to share a dressing room, so it was only beneficial for you to have a good rep with both.

The four of you were plopped in a circle on the dressing room floor, accompanied by your other castmates Ari, Mateo, and Dante. All seven of you picked at your lunches, more interested in the conversation at hand than actually eating. However, the topic quickly shifted to the oh so mysterious new guy, and as much as you wanted to shut your brain off than have to listen to speculations about Schlatt, you were also insanely hungry. So, you simply forced yourself to sit there and listen.

That was just like Schlatt, you couldn’t help but think sourly. Always the center of attention, even when he wasn’t in the room.

“Has anyone actually gotten a chance to talk to him yet?” Lola asked, her amber eyes twinkling with curiosity as she scanned the group. 

“I accidentally bumped into him after we teched my scene,” Mateo piped up. “He was pretty nice. Apologized to me and all. Even though it was totally my fault.”

“Can I say he’s kinda hot?” Sierra was next to chime in, her silvery voice quickly filling the silence. A quiet laugh promptly rippled through the group, although it took a bit of willpower on your behalf to keep your own from sounding too forced. “Like, respectfully? I’d smash.”

“You’d smash anything that breathes.” Ari, seated behind her on the dressing room counter, nudged her teasingly with his leg.

“Hey, can you blame me? I’ve tried every dating app there is. I’m debating whipping out the last resort any day now.”

“eHarmony?”

“No. Becoming a nun.”

“Okay, but do we know why they brought in someone new so late in the process?” Victoria interrupts. “What happened to the old stagehand? What’s-his-face?”

“Who cares what his name was? He got fired, and good thing.” This heated answer was spat from Dante, who had been cast in the show as the lively tap-dancer Mike. His heavy Brooklyn accent was interwoven through every syllable as he continued, “He was a fuckin’ idiot, not to mention a total dick. Always actin’ like he knew everything, being a shit to Vanja and all. I’m surprised she didn’t kick his ass out sooner. But I heard they put out an open call for someone to fill in for ‘im. Anyone with at least basic knowledge of allat computery shit. I guess that’s how they roped the new guy in. Shat, or whatever he’s called.”

Of course. He made perfect sense for the job. He’d wanted to go into computer science before he’d gone down the rabbit hole of his own career. “Schlatt.” You couldn’t keep the correction from spilling from your lips. You weren’t all too thrilled to discover the way his name still tasted like acid on your tongue.

“Yeah. That.”

“Well, at least he seems nice.” Victoria shrugged. “Upgrade from the last dude.”

“Nice and sexy!” Sierra giggled, earning another nudge from Ari.

Despite yourself, you opened your mouth. You had the insatiable urge to say something, maybe a cryptic, biting remark directed towards Schlatt. Something about how nobody here knew what he was really like, how he was the furthest thing from nice, how he’d ruined everything. However, you were promptly interrupted by a knock on the dressing room door.

“Hello?” Lola called out, craning her neck to snag a better view of the visitor.

The door creaked open, and Lacey poked her head in. Lacey was a petite, curvy girl, her hair tied up in pigtails and extravagant eyeshadow powdered against her lids. She’d been cast as Val, so she figured going over the top in her stage look would fit the character. Nobody had the heart to tell her she looked clownish.

“Just wanted to tell you guys we have five minutes until we’re back,” she explained in her typical squeaky tone, a toothy grin spreading across her lips. “Vanja’s giving us a bit of extra time to get settled, though. She just finished introducing herself to Jay.”

For whatever reason, Lacey first-naming Schlatt created a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach. Nobody ever did that. Not in his circle, anyway. But you couldn’t necessarily fault her for that. She didn’t come from his circle. That was a you problem.

“Thanks, Lacey.” You quickly hopped to your feet, stashing what was left of your lunch back with your belongings. “I’m gonna go to the restroom real quick. Will someone let Vanja know in case I’m not back in time?”

“I got it,” Victoria instantly volunteered, to which you shot her a grateful smile.

“Go piss, girl!” Ari murmured, resulting in a collective snort among the group. He elicited a grin from you, too, but you’re already out the door by the time you clocked it.

___

Wandering through the twisting hallways of the backstage area reminded you of yet another thing you’d never get used to regardless of how long you’d been performing. It never seemed to fully register that the older the theatre, the more historic the building, the dingier the backstage was. And right now, you might as well have been traversing a maze.

All this for a piss.

You couldn’t tell how long it took you to actually locate the bathrooms within the labyrinthine hallways, and you could only imagine that, with your luck, it’d be even longer before you found your way back to the stage. And of course that proved to be true. Before you knew it, you were lost. It wasn’t your fault, you kept telling yourself. This is why you exclusively used the restrooms out in the theatre’s foyer. At least those were easy to find.

“Whoa!”

You were instantly snapped out of your daze as you collided with someone’s larger frame. You stumbled backward from the impact, but whoever you ran into quickly clamped their hands around your biceps to keep you from completely falling on your ass.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, I-” Your vision refocused, your voice instantly trailing off as you gazed upward at the person before you. Schlatt’s eyes bore into yours, hints of both concern and amusement evident in his gaze. Suddenly, the grip on your arms turned from something relieving to much more revolting.

The corners of his lips tilted upward in the faintest of smiles as he let go of you, stepping back. You could feel his gaze raking over you, taking you in. “Hey, stranger,” he greeted, leaning against the wall beside him.

You wanted to walk away, turn your back on him this instant. But you couldn’t. You felt paralyzed. Rooted to the spot.

“Hi,” you muttered in return.

“How’s it goin’? Been a while, huh?”

“Yep.” No shit, it’s been a while. I never wanted to see you again. “I’ve been fine. Been busy with the show and all.”

“I can imagine. Seems like a lotta work already.”

“It’s Broadway. Of course it is.” Your tone came out a bit more biting than intended. Schlatt quickly seemed to catch on, his brow quirking up in a slight smirk.

“You’re right. Stupid thing of me to say.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. You huffed out a scoff, but it was clearly forced. “Well, uh, hey,” Schlatt tried once more after an awkward silence ensued. “I saw you dance a little bit. From the wings. You did… good.”

“Good, huh?” You folded your arms across your chest, a bit exasperated with how the conversation was going nowhere.

“Yeah. You did good,” he repeated, his eyes still glued to you. It was growing increasingly hard not to shudder under his stare, feeling like prey beneath him. Your stomach churned, and you could practically hear your heart’s frenzied beating within your eardrum. For a moment, he fell quiet once more, and you swore you saw his expression falter. Whatever air of confidence was there before seemed to melt, devolving into something softer, something unreadable… disappointment, maybe? Regret? “You look good, (Y/N).”

It felt like the world stopped at that. You had to fight every fiber within you that wanted to bark out an incredulous laugh. “Really?” you instead asked, bewilderment of his utter audacity clear in your voice. “Is this a joke?”

Schlatt instantly straightened, no longer leaning on the wall. An air of defensiveness flickered over him. “What? Can I not say you look good?”

“Are you actually asking me that?” It shouldn’t have been so easy for him to rile you up, get under your skin.

Schlatt’s lips flattened into a straight line as he heaved a heavy sigh. “(Y/N), come on. Listen, I know these aren’t ideal conditions, but-”

“Like hell they aren’t!” You ran a hand through your hair, feeling like you might as well have been on the brink of tearing every single strand out. “Just stop. Not now. Don’t do this to me.”

“Why not now? Look, we gotta talk at some point.”

“There isn’t anything to talk about. You made things very clear when you decided you were done with me,” you spat. Schlatt opened his mouth to protest, but you quickly interrupted. “Can you please just do me a solid and point me back to the stage? I’ve got more important things to focus on right now than this.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. His usually soft expression was icy, and it was evident by the way his eyes flitted all across your face that he was seriously debating what to do next. However, to your relief, he jerked his head over his shoulder. “Straight ahead behind me. Take a left, up the stairs, take a right. You'll find your way.”

You didn’t wait to say anything more. No sooner did the words escape his lips than you practically bolted past him, reciting the directives he’d given you over and over to occupy your mind. To anyone else in the cast, your exchange with Schlatt would have seemed entirely random. Up until this moment, you two hadn’t interacted once. How could it have bubbled up to this so quickly?

That was something only you and Schlatt knew. The history between you two. And yet, knowing that history like the back of each other’s hands, he still wanted to act like things were normal. He still wanted to try and pass off as if nothing happened. As if everything was fine. Tearing your heart and stomping on it, over and over and over again.

Furiously wiping your eyes as your feet pattered up the staircase he’d guided you to, you couldn’t help but ponder. He was so clearly over everything. Over it enough to feel confident enough to act all casual, anyway.

So why the hell couldn’t you be?

prev chapter, next chapter

[so-much-for-stardust6]

You’re My True Love- Damon Albarn

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summary: your best friend damon confesses to you out of nowhere to which you sort of panic about. after not speaking for weeks, you finally realize how you truly feel about him.

lowercase intended

warnings: none (at least i don’t think)

a/n: i’ve had this idea sitting in my notes app but now i’ve finally written it 🙏 once again i wrote this at 3am and proof read it at 5am so pls bare with me

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damon albarn. a very unforgettable name. the name of my best friend. we’ve been best friends since high school and life has only brought us closer. our love for music is what bonded us in the first place, so it makes sense that he’d start his own band named blur. i’ve been his number one supporter since day one. we’re like two peas in a pod. but maybe damon wanted to be more. i finished the last touches to my outfit, smiling at myself in the mirror when i decided i looked good. damon asked to hang out today, saying he needed to tell me something. i figure it’s about his band like how his usual news would be. i grab my keys and head out my door, making sure it’s locked before leaving my apartment building. getting into my crappy old car and driving to the meeting spot felt like a blur (no pun intended) since i arrived quickly.

i see damon’s figure sitting at a table outside this cafe we always go to, sipping what i assume is tea. i get out my car, quietly walking up behind him to surprise him. i place my hands over his eyes, causing him to jump at the sudden touch.

“hey you.” i say.

“hello, y/n. figured that was you.” he chuckled, turning his head to look at me.

“ordered already?” i ask while sitting down across from him.

“just this tea, i’m waiting for you.”

“such a gentleman.” i giggle.

i pick up the menu and scan the lunch options, finally landing on getting a simple blt.

“so anything new with the band? is that what you called me here for?”

“uh, not exactly.” he awkwardly scratches the back of his head.

i raise an eyebrow in confusion.

“did something bad happen? are you okay?”

“yes, i’m okay. it’s nothing bad. well, it just depends on how you feel about it.”

“oh come on dames, spit it out already. can’t keep a girl waiting.” i joke.

“i’m in love with you.”

my smile immediately falls and i sit there process his words. in love with me? he stared back at me, thinking on how he wants to bash his head in at his confession that he knew he should’ve kept secret.

“y/n…?” he whispers, trying to catch my attention.

i was zoned out at this point, trying to look back at memories of us and assume when his love for me started.

“you’re in love with me?”

“yeah, i am. i-i’m sorry, i know it’s weird for me to feel this way but i can’t help it. you just complete me perfectly.”

i stay silent again, still dissecting his words. i lightly tremble at his words, not knowing how to react.

“i have a boyfriend, damon.”

“that’s exactly why i didn’t want to confess. but my love for you has grown so much recently and i needed to tell you before we leave for tour.”

“stop saying that word.”

“what word?”

“love.”

a look of heartbreak flashed across his face, sitting back in his seat to look at me.

“i-i gotta go. i can’t do this right now.” i suddenly spoke up.

i was quick to scoot out my chair and book it to my car, leaving a hollering damon behind. i heard him call out my name but i ignored him. i shakily opened my car door, stumbling inside. i even dropped my eyes onto the floor as i tried to start the car, my nerves at an all time high. i sped out the parking lot and on my way back home, leaving my seatbelt off. i don’t even know why i did that, i regret doing that. it was all just so sudden, he didn’t even sugarcoat it. my best friend is in love with me. what the fuck?

it’s been a few weeks since the whole scene happened. i’ve tried to ring damon and apologize but he never picked up. i even tried stopping by his place but he was never home when i came. it was 5pm as i sat in my apartment’s kitchen, sipping my tea while reading some book my cousin suggested to me. i was paying no attention to the man i called my boyfriend who was causing a ruckus. he came over to go out but i informed him that i’d rather stay in, something he was against. after trying to convince me to go out and me saying ‘no’ every time, he finally gave in and stayed in with me. but with him being the type of guy to pick out every flaw he saw, he ran around my apartment and rearranged things. he claimed his “interior designer” side was coming out.

i was quite annoyed to say the least, just wanting to relax today but now dealing with an idiot ruining my decor. i don’t understand why i was putting up with him anyways, i could easily kick him out. suddenly, the phone rang which caused me to jump and slightly choke on my tea. i coughed as i head towards the phone, hoping to beat my boyfriend in grabbing it.

“hello?” i speak out, voice cracking a bit.

“hey y/n, it’s me graham.”

“oh hello! what’s up?”

“who’s that?” my boyfriend comes storming into the living room.

“my friend.” i whisper, covering the microphone.

“which friend?”

“can you go away, i’m trying to have a conversation.” becoming annoyed with him very quickly.

“hello?”

“yeah, sorry, i’m here. what’s going on?”

“i just wanted to let you know that we leave for tour tonight around 1. i know that you and damon haven’t spoken in a couple weeks but maybe you’d want to see him?”

“i don’t know gra, i don’t think he wants to see me. i feel so guilty on how i reacted, i just didn’t know how to take in the new information i got.”

“i understand, y/n. think it over, okay? the van picking us up is gonna stop at my place last, if you wanna stop by.”

“i’ll think about it. thank you, graham. i really appreciate it.”

“of course, y/n. bye bye.”

“bye.” i hang up the phone.

“graham? is that a guy?”

“can you just stop? he’s a FRIEND. nothing more.” i walk past him to go sit back down.

“that’s what they all say.”

“well maybe try to think that i’m not like everyone else.” i sip my tea.

he says something back but i’ve already tuned him out. after 30 minutes or so of him ranting on about whatever, he finally left. i let out a breath of relief, the reason for my headache gone. i stand up and head towards my room to get ready for a shower. i pick out some random bedtime clothes to wear, my eyes landing on one of damon’s shirt. it was a summer night and we decided to go to this lake for a nice swim. it wasn’t so nice when my swimsuit top got lost in the water somehow. so being the gentleman he is, damon lended me his shirt and i guess i just never gave it back. the smile i wore on my face was a sad one, the thought of damon and i’s friendship being ruined all because of my stupidity.

i shake away those thoughts and go shower, something i desperately need. afterwards, i decided a nice relaxing movie night with wine would finish this night off perfectly. i plopped the vhs in and sat on the couch with a glass of wine. my mind kept thinking back to moments where i watched the movie with damon, laughing loudly at the scenes. my heart ached as i kept thinking of damon. i was able to finish the movie and wine, deciding to call it an early night. after shutting the tv and lights off and locking all the windows and door, i settled down in bed. it didn’t take long for me to snooze off. suddenly, i woke up on a familiar couch in a familiar place.

“good morning, sleepyhead.” damon’s voice rang out.

“damon? how’d i get here?”

“what do you mean? you stayed the night, silly.” he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“b-but i was in my own room?”

“thinking about me again, huh?” he smirked his infamous smirk.

“how’d you know?”

“cause this is a dream. and i’m obviously in your head, so i can see what you think of. why are you thinking so much of me? you were the one who ran off that day.” he leaned against the doorway of the kitchen.

“i-i don’t know..”

“that’s not a real answer. look deep inside your heart, y/n/n.”

“well, i feel guilty. i feel guilty for leaving you alone. i don’t know why i did it.”

“you clearly do.”

“i do?”

“what do you keep thinking of.”

“old memories.”

“and how do they make you feel?”

“fuzzy inside. they make me smile when i see you smile. it makes me want to see you smile again.”

“what else, love?”

“oh don’t call me that, you know how it makes me feel.”

“and describe how it makes you feel.” his words guiding me.

“it makes me feel all giddy inside. my stomach goes crazy with butterflies. like i like it. actually, i love it.”

“what else do you love?”

“you.” i blurt out.

my eyes widen at the realization. it all makes sense, the sudden thoughts of him and the stomach flips.

“i’m in love with you too, damon.” i look up at him.

“don’t tell me that. go tell real damon that, silly.” he chuckled, sipping his coffee.

“shit! they leave tonight, i gotta wake up.”

and so i did, my eyes shooting open. i quickly sat up in bed, turning my head to look at the clock that read 12:37am.

“shit!”

i stumble out of bed, struggling to find socks to put on. i didn’t care about my pajamas, i just needed to see him. i slip on my shoes and ran towards the door. but i made a quick pit stop by my phone.

“hello?” my boyfriends voice rang out on the other side.

“hey, it’s me. i just wanted to call real quick to say that i’m breaking up with you. it isn’t working out and i don’t see us progressing in the future. i gotta go but i’m very sorry.” i then hung up before he could even speak. i ran up to my door, making sure to grab my keys on the little table next to it. the sound of my phone ringing made me grimace, sorry but i cannot answer.

i ran down to my car, speeding off again with no seatbelt. my brain struggled as i tried to remember graham’s address, i’ve only been a couple times. i finally reach a familiar street and see his house. a breath of relief left my mouth as i saw a van still parked outside. i parked very crappy but i didn’t care. i rush out my car, looking both ways before running across the street.

“alex! alex!” i call out to the bassist.

“y/n? what are you doing here?”

“i need to see damon.”

“uh, he’s inside with graham. wha-“

“great thank you!” i cut him off.

i didn’t hesitate to run inside, seeing suitcases at the door. two voices echoed from upstairs, assuming that they’re damon and graham.

i run upstairs, all the running causing me to be out of breath. i make it to graham’s room where they’re both at. they don’t notice me standing in the doorway as they spoke.

“so, i told y/n to come tonight.”

“what? why?”

“you guys need to talk.”

“she doesn’t want to talk to me. she hates me because i’m in love with her. she’ll continue to hate me cause i can’t change how i feel about her.”

“she said she tried calling you, mate.”

“i-i felt embarrassed to talk to her again. hearing her voice again would do things to me and if she hates me then it’d make things worse.”

“i don’t hate you.” i spoke up.

the two boys whip their heads to look at me.

“y/n..”

“damon i’m so sorry. i-i don’t know why i left that day. it was just so sudden and my brain couldn’t comprehend that you feel that way towards me.”

“i’m gonna go.” graham quietly said, fast walking out of the room.

“why did you walk off?” his voice laced with sadness.

“it was too much. which isn’t a valid answer but i honestly don’t know.”

“is your view of me different now? i-is our friendship ruined?”

“what? absolutely not dames, you’ll forever be my best friend.”

“only your best friend?”

i try to find the right words to confess to him, my brain running empty.

“i’m in love with you too.” i blurt out just like how he did.

“w-what?”

“i kept thinking about you after our last encounter and it’s weird to say but i had a dream that made me realize that i love you. our memories make me all happy to think of you, be around you. you make me all fuzzy inside when you do things. and no one could make me feel that way, only you can. you’re my true love, damon. and i’m sorry i didn’t realize when you told me but i-“ i was cut off by damon’s lips.

i was caught off guard, standing there in shock as he held my face. slowly my lips started moving with his and my hands held his face. that fuzzy feeling covered my entire body, i was entirely numb and his touch felt like fire to me.

he pulled away, fast breathing coming out his parted spit covered lips.

“come on tour with me.”

“what?”

“come on tour with me. i want you with me all the time.”

“damon, i’m not really packed for that.”

“so? i’ll buy you clothes and everything else you need. just please, please come with me.” he begs.

he lets go of my face to grab onto my hands, thumb stroking the top of my hands. i thought about it long and hard. not a single ounce of regret crossed my mind.

“okay. i’ll come with you.”

“really?” he smiled brightly.

“yes, really.” i smile back.

“i love you so much.” he leans back in for a kiss i definitely wouldn’t decline.

“hurry up damon! we gotta leave, mate!” dave yelled from downstairs.

“guess we gotta get going.” i say as i pull away.

he grabs a suitcase off the floor and grabs onto my hand. he leads us down the stairs and out graham’s house.

“y/n is coming with us and there is going to be no argument about it.” damon announces.

“she better do some type of work.” dave said.

“i’ll deal with unloading your shit, okay?”

“deal. welcome to the tour life.” he points to the bus.

“oh my, very fancy.” i giggle.

i help damon pack his stuff into the back of the van. we shove ourselves inside the van, cuddling up as it was quite chilly outside.

“i’ll have to ring my sister to come get my car.”

“how would she get in?”

“i left my keys under a plant pot on gra’s porch.”

“well aren’t you smart.” he pokes my cheek.

“very.” i give him a cheeky smile.

i turn my attention to the window, watching as houses fly by. damon rested his head on my shoulder, falling asleep already. i smile to myself at this sudden change in my life. it may be sudden but it’s definitely not bad.

[adorecb97]

♡ Always been you ♡ (4)

Part 4- You are the reason ♡

A Chris Evans x male reader mini fic !

Here part 3 !

Warning : fluff ?? Tiny bit of angst also because otherwise the fluff wouldn't be so good, horny thoughts and touchy hands because my boys are horny dogs. Lots of swearing my bad.

A/N :....sorry ? In my defense I only write when I feel like I can handle the pressure of it, gosh i spend 2h writting 4 paragraphs because this app wouldn't let me save my work....i had to rewrite 3 times these 4 paragraphs...im okay 😃but it's probably the last part before the grand finale ! Can't wait !

Chris' POV

Y/N's show was now over and Chris stood backstage admiring his boyfriend with a shy smile on his face. He knew that even though they were able to talk to each other without blanking out in conversation, their relationship still needed work.

They both needed to talk more about what they meant to each other. And that frightened Chris to no end. Because the more time passed since meeting David, the more he realized that he wasn't afraid of someone else stealing his y/n, but of the love of his life, deciding one day that enough was enough on his own...It gets to the point where Chris would rather Y/n cheat on him than Y/n deciding to leave him without going with someone else. Yes, the former was heartbreaking, but for Chris, the latter would cause his death. This fear has been building up ever since Chris first laid eyes on his best friend's brother. He knew right away that this man could do anything to him, from loving him to killing him by leaving him. And he guessed that he'd rather end himself than go through this horrific scenario.

Even after 8 years of pure fidelity from the singer, Chris couldn't shake his fear. Even after all the kisses, sex, gifts, loyalty, peace and, above all, love. He really didn't deserve the singer, but at the same time, he was everything he wanted, everything he needed !

Chris's thoughts were interrupted by y/n's run and damn, he really fucked everything up. Leaving for 5 months… How the hell did he survive those 5 months ? He tries to remember, but the only memories that he tried to remember but the only memories that came to him were home, with his boyfriend cuddling each other.

Y/n appeared out of breath and all smiles in front of Chris, who was still processing everything in his head : Good lord, the singer was delicious only in his pants, Chris could kill someone right now just to rip the fabric off and make love to him until morning and…

"Stop!” thought Chris, this wasn't the time to fantasize about having sex, he had to make up first.

“Chris? Chris?! CHRISTOPHER! For God's sake…LOVE??!”

Chris immediately met y/n's gaze as he heard the word “love” emerge from his (kissable) lips . Those words were meant for him ! Chris was so surprised he almost forgot to answer.

“Y-yes?” He wasn't so sure of himself ; he never was when it came to his boyfriend (except in bed, of course).

Y/N's was looking at him with conflicting feelings, Chris could discern concern, curiosity but also fondness. He really didn't deserve this man.

“I've been talking to you, but I don't feel like you're listening…” These words alone were enough to squeeze Chris's heart, but as he watched the singer closely, he could see a small smile, probably meaning that he didn't mind afterwards.

And rightly so, for Y/n's hastened to add.

“It's not that I mind! The way you looked at me was enough to let me know you were interested in me…at least I hope so!”.

He let out an awkward little laugh that made Chris's whole body tingle with… love. He was madly in love with this man, he just hoped that y/n could feel the same way about him again

“I… sorry, I got distracted…” Damn, he was so shy he didn't even know how to talk to him anymore! Their first days as a couple all over again ; from their first date to their first time, the shyness was always there, but it had been so long since he'd felt THIS shy ! He felt intimidated by the singer, even though he was shorter than him. And to be honest, Chris longed for this feeling, he LOVED it.

“Yes, I can say that… umm, my gig's over and I wanted you to come with me”.

Yes, all over the world, Chris thought, but he couldn't really tell him. Not if they hadn't had a serious talk first.

“Um yeah of course, where?”

“Well first in my fitting room so I can…you know.. and then home Christopher. I need you.”

Those three words meant even more to Chris than “I love you”. He was euphoric inside, happy beyond belief, and yet this was all he needed in his life to be himself.

Chris slowly but surely made the decision to accept the proposal, which brought a feeling of relief to the singer's lips (lips that Chris wanted so badly to kiss).

“Okay, then follow me.”

Hands in hands , they both walked past y/n's crew as well as the workers. Whispers could be heard, but Chris couldn't care less. He was holding his lover's hand and that was all that mattered.

As soon as Chris had closed the dressing room door, Y/n rushed to his lover's lips, taking care to wrap his arms around his marked waist. Fuck, he could feel Y/n's growing length against him. And yet Chris was the first to pull away from the kiss, which was beginning to take off, leaving y/n with scarlet lips and a trickle of drool, which he quickly wiped away before laughing awkwardly.

“Well… this is awkward…”

Chris was quick to respond, undoubtedly, he wanted his man terribly, but he wanted to do it in their bed, safe from any interruptions and above all, y/n deserved a more thorough explanation from Chris and didn't want to come across as someone thirsty for sex ( he was this close to fucking him mindlessly on the room's sofa)

“Baby…y/n look at me please. It's not what you think!”

He wanted to continue but Y/n cut him off, an almost neutral expression on his face : almost.

“Oh yeah? And what do I think then? Hm? Nah, because it was a bit weird what happened there…I- I jumped on you like an animal and- Fuck! We're supposed to discuss like adults and not like obsessed people, and in fact, I'm the obsessed one, I didn't even let you speak, and I started - oh my God ! I'm so Christopher ! I don't know what -"

He cut him off by sealing his lips with his. He gripped his hips with both his big hands and made sure to squeeze hard enough for his lover to take a few jerky breaths, which he knew pleased him. Then he gently withdrew his mouth so as not to rush him, all the while keeping him in his grasp.

“Love, I promise, you really don't have to worry about anything. To be honest, I can barely think straight around you… Fuck Y/n, I'm absolutely crazy about you, I love you in a way that scares me… a little too much. I'm afraid you'll leave, afraid you'll decide you don't love me anymore, afraid you'll regret our relationship, and deep down I know I don't deserve you because you're extraordinary. Ever since we met, I can't stop thinking about you, whether it's in your simplest outfit or with one of my clothes on you. With a big smile on your face, brightening my life, or a pained face, breaking my heart. I want to live all these emotions by your side as they are and that for all eternity. ”

He noticed his partner's blurry eyes and slight smile; with a little hindsight, his speech strongly resembled to a marriage proposal, something he hadn't intended to do at this particular moment (even though the idea had been running through his mind since the beginning of their relationship).

A feeling of euphoria and pure love took hold of him, and that's when he decided to make the craziest yet most rational decision in months : to ask for his lover's hand in marriage. This revelation sent Chris's heart into turmoil, and yet it was so sweet to realise the pleasure he felt at the thought of Y/n crossing the aisle to join him at the altar, a teasing smile on his lips but crimson cheeks. Fuck, he wanted this so bad…

“Look honey, I know this isn't exactly the right time or place, but I-I-fuck...” Chris didn't know why ( or rather he EXACTLY knew why ), but he began feeling nervous, REAL nervous. Y/n's eyes were curiously looked into his with expectation but also aprrehension.

" Take your time, Love. i can wait." Y/n's eyes reflected all the love Chris wanted him to feel. His hands lingers on his own, slowly but firmly, Chris knew his lover wanted him to feel safe enough so that he would speak his mind and so that was exactly enough for Chris to act up his mind.

" Darling, i'm sorry for what i did, words cannot express how deeply i am, but acts can." He sights, his eyes locked into Y/N's. " I love you. I love the way we laugh, the way we talk about everything and nothing, the way life feels better with you in it. I don’t want to do any of this without you. I tasted it for 5 months, don't wanna do this ever again. I can't believe it took me 8 years to ask you this but…will you become my husband ? Will you marry me ? "

Chris noticed the way the singer's eyeballs popped out of their orbit.

Fuck ! Chris thought.

Maybe...maybe this wasn't the right moment ? Maybe y/n's didn't want to be his husband. Maybe he didn't want to marry him... maybe-

All of these second-guessing thoughts were cut off right away by y/n's leaning forward Chris catching his lips into a fiercely kiss. His lover's hands roamed all over his abdomen, his chest, then finding their way on Chris' shoulder, to end their course on Chris' messy hair, slightly pulling them. Chris was doing his best into giving his all like y/n was giving his, but after a while, driven by the need of air, they both pulled out. Foreheads onto foreheads, Chris' hands on the singer reddened cheeks and the latter arms around Chris' waist, embracing him, loving him.

They both didn't speak for a while, only Y/n's eradic breathing and Chris' racing heart could be heard. The actor must have felt on edge after his made-of-the-spot-proposal was left unanswered. He felt that he deserved it a little bit. He did take him 8 years to ask him. He could wait a little longer for the response.

And what an answer.

"Technically, your act, which is you proposing to me, is still made of words..." Y/n said, his fingers playing with Chris' hair and Fuck did he love this man !

" You know I thought and I said to myself that I was okay to you not giving me an answer but baby please this is killing me, I'm just a man after all !" Chris was in love, but he was also weak, and he, in fact, could not handle the singer not responding.

Y/n playfully rolled his eyes, but with a smirk on his lips as he pulled away to the embrace and let himself fall in the couch near them.

" And me who thought you were a romantic guy....my ass !" Y/n said in faux-dissapointment but still invited Chris into his arms who did not hesitate to settle into them.

" Sooo is that a yes ?"

"Humm, I don't know. Ask me again with a ring on a date with me wearing proper clothes and not some stripper pants, and maybe I'll say yes !"

Chris had his head turned, looking right at him with half a teasing smile and half an understanding look.

" Are you willing to wait for me to get the perfect ring ? The ring you deserve ?"

" I did wait for 8 years ! I think I can wait for eternity, babe. As long as I'm with you, the rest don't matter. And I was just playing with you, you don't have to do all that and it'll be my pleasure to become your husband honey."

" Ye-yes ?!"

Honestly, Chris' heart was about to burst out of his thoracic cage, Y/n's response being enough to both end him and keep him alive. To say he felt relieved was an understatement.

" Of course, yes, darling ! I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life calling you my husband ! It's a hot title and it suits you well !"

They both laughed at Y/n's comment and somewhat started making out again, but at a more lazy pace. Both of them kept busy by their hands exploring each other, especially y/n, enjoying touching Chris through his pants fabric without a care in the world.

Goddammit, Chris was as hard as a rock.

"Baby..." Chris' voice hitched as one his lover's hand went through his t-shirt and squeezed one of his nipple and the other throught both his pants AND boxer. Oh Fuck

But every thought of making love to his almost-fiancé/husband were thrown out of the window as one of Y/n's assistant knocked on the door.

"Humm Y/n's? You guys are okay in there ? It's been a while and the others are looking for you !"

Last thing Chris knew was the sudden cold feeling he felt after, y/n's hand out of his boxer and Chris swore he could murder someone right there.

" I'm sorry baby but we gotta go...fucking Brad, I swear I'm firing his ass"

" And I want to eat yours but I guess we'll never fuck today..."

The singer looked at Chris with a faux repulsive expression on the face but scoffed loudly and stood up of the couch his other hand still in Chris' own.

" God ! How are we in love ?? You're not even in the slightest romantic ! "

" I am ! I also just want to make love to you...like everytime !"

" You have a condition son ! But let's then get out of here, take me home, propose to me with paper rings if you want to and then you'll be able to make love to me for eternity. How's that sounds ? Deal ?"

Chris stood up too and peck y/n's lips ( fearing a loss of control if more ) and intertwined their fingers.

" Deal ! "

————————————————

A/N : honestly I don't know. It's almost fucking 4 am when I'm writting this and I don't know ! I just hope it's readable because I don't have the heart to re-check. Btw if there's mistake of any kind please inform me kindly ! English is not my first language and writting without the help of Deepl is scary but I made it !

Next and probably : Epilogue !

[kyokosasagawa]

I started writing "4 srs" this month and I like how free and accessible writing is, so I'm recommending free software I've experimented with that might help people who want to get into the hobby!

“Specifically Created for Writing Stories”

-------------------------------

Manuskript – Story organizer / word processor. Has an outliner and index card function, along with distraction free mode. Lets you switch between different templates such as a non-fiction mode or a short story.

Bibisco – Novel writing software that includes writing goals, world-building, distraction free mode, and a timeline.

“I Just Want to Write”

---------------------------

LibreOffice – Microsoft 365 alternative, but free! LibreOffice Writer is what I wrote this tumblr post in before I posted it. Also if you copy & paste the text into the Rich Text Editor on AO3, it seems that it actually converts it properly. Nice! No need for scripts.

Note-Taking

-------------------------------

Zim Wiki - note taking application that is very, very lightweight (1.1mb). It functions with a tree structure, so I’d personally recommend it for world-building and character bios. There are built-in plugins that also turn it into a good software for task management (it even has a article on how to use it for GTD) and journalling. See also: CherryTree (2mb), which is a more outdated-looking app, but functions similarly.

Obsidian MD – The Big Boy. markdown note editor that has been adopted by personal knowledge management fans---if it doesn’t do something you want it to do, just look in the community plugins to see if someone has already done it. Some unique non-word processing related usages I’ve found is the ability to create a table of contents dashboard, a image gallery for images, embedding youtube videos and timestamping notes, so forth.

Logseq – A bullet point based markdown note editor that also has PDF annotations, Zotero integration, flashcard creation, and whiteboards. Best used for outlining projects due to the bullet point structure.

Joplin – A modern app comparable to Zim Wiki, it’s basically just a note-taking software that uses folders and tags to sort easier. Looks prettier than Zim Wiki and Cherry Tree

Notion – An online-only website that allows usage of different database types. Free for personal use. Note: I dislike the AI updates that have been making the app lag more. I prefer the others on this list.

Mind Maps

-------------------------------

Freeplane – So much goddamn features, including a ton of add-ons. Looks somewhat ugly, but it works for anyone willing to spend a while learning how to use it.

Mermaid – Text-based diagram creator. Can be used in apps like Joplin, Notion, and Obsidian.

Obsidian’s Canvas – A core plugin for Obsidian, it deserves its own mention in that it allows you to create embedded notes of the mindmap nodes. Thus, if you want to create a 20-page long note and have it minimized to the size of a penny on the mindmap, you could.

Other Things That Might Be Of Interest

Syncthing - A free software that allows you to sync between two or more computers. Have a desktop but also laze around on a laptop in bed, coming up with ideas?? This is your buddy if you don't want to use a online software.

[spectralgecko]

pls giv tips on how to start writing🙏🥺

Pick your word processor of choice and uh. start typing!

Jokes aside, it's gonna look a different depending on what methods work for you personally. Some people thrive on writing a full outline and following it, others have no outline and make stuff up as they go, others hover anywhere between or outside that. I'm not quite sure how to give advice on this front, but I can address some of what I do, and hopefully it works for you!

Some Tips for Le Writing:

I often use a different app - Obsidian, OneNote, or just a different document - to keep track of ideas and outlines, then do the writing in its own document.

Write down an "elevator pitch" - verbalize a short summary or gist of the thing you want to write.

Making an outline can help you start - basic plot line and core events to give yourself a foundation to build on. This is a guide, not a cage, so tweak it as needed. Also, you don't have to use an outline, it's just one tool in the box. I use them to get my thoughts in order, but not always.

You can skip around. If you have ideas for a later scene, you can write that first, even if it's "out of order." You can put it in the right spot later.

Skills get better through practice and feedback. Don't obsess over getting it perfectly the first time. Rather, focus on progress first. A badly written chapter can be revised and polished, and you can continue writing the story from it. There will be time enough for editing and peer review to sharpen your skills, but you need something to sharpen first. It's better to write the idea badly than to never write it at all, because that writing can be improved.

Make yourself move forward. I routinely make the mistake of fixating on polishing one chapter, at the cost of not writing what comes after it. Progress first, editing later.

Waiting for inspiration only takes you so far. Inspiration and motivation help, a lot, but they won't always appear when you want them to. If you're writing casually, then this is less relevant, but if you're looking to develop discipline in writing, try pushing yourself to write even when the creativity feels slow. You may hate what you write, you may scrap it later, but the more you practice it, the more you can train your writing to bend to you and not the other way around.

Peer review is precious. This is more of a mid-process thing, but ask people to proofread and give you feedback! This is one of the best things you can do for yourself. Critique is a massive part of improvement (and yeah, sometimes it stings. Your muscles hurt after exercise, but you've gotten stronger for it. Same thing here). One of the worst things you can do to your writing is to close yourself off from constructive criticism. It's one thing if people don't really respond, but if you actively discourage any sort of constructive feedback or critique, you'll never really learn where your weaknesses are. If nobody is really giving feedback but you're open to it, it is what it is. It's not an absolute necessity. But if you're actively resistant to getting feedback, you're building up roadblocks for yourself. (I had a small tangent about this, I'm going to put it in a reblog instead.)

Backup copies: If you're going to post to Ao3 or something, do your writing in a different document - Word, Google Docs, Notepad, what have you. keep a backup copy of your work that isn't just on the site you're posting to.

Speak out loud. Sometimes brain to voice works better than brain to computer. Vocalizing the thought can help sort out information. Similarly, when you're proofreading/beta-reading, reading your story out loud can help you catch things you missed in your head.

Long story short, I can't give you a magical formula for starting your writing, but here's some of what I've done. These are also kinda... more general writing tips, so the earlier points are the big ones, the later ones are more mid-process stuff.

The best thing you can do is just... type. One thing at a time. Swallow any pride, crush any fear of feedback, grab your ideas by the scruff, and start verbalizing them.

I uh. Hope this at least sorta helps? I'm shooting in the dark a little bit, but this is what comes to mind.