#I just need to sit and stare at this for a while

[ninisdollie]

more boyfriend Ni-ki with his hyperfemenine gf thoughts (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

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Your boyfriend Ni-ki pretends to judge you for spending so much money in makeup, telling you that you need to save or spend it in something that really worths it, but at the end of the day, he sits through every one of your Sephora unboxings like he’s your assistant. He’ll lay on your pink sheets, black hoodie cap over his messy hair, watching you with a half-lidded gaze as you peel the bubble wrap off your sixth gloss of the week like it’s a treasure. He’ll say things like, “Another one?” or “25 dollars for a gloss is insane” with the driest voice, eyes lazy as he’s sooo bored, but when you flute your eyelashes at him, small smile on your plumped lips, he’s the first to hold out his arm when you start testing swatches.

He lets you paint his entire forearm with shimmer eyeshadows and bronzers and cherry red blushes, grumbling under his breath warning you to not tell the boys later. He even holds still while you paint his thick lips with a shiny, sheer pink gloss, and even smacks his lips together like he’s on a get ready with me video. 

“It’s sweet�� he shrugs “Suits you better” and then he kisses you, soft and messy at the same time, the gloss falls from your hand as you kiss him back and fall on your back on the mattress. 

Then a few days later, when you’re stressed because you can’t find your new strawberry lip balm and ask him if he’s seen it, he doesn’t even blink. “What? You have like ten of those” 

“You literally stole it. It’s mine!” he just looks at you, so nonchalant, and goes, “Yeah, but it makes my lips soft. Plus… it smells like you.”

You ended up finding it on his desk. Not tucked away or hidden, just lying there like it belongs next to his wallet and keys. Like he didn’t swiped it from your vanity and started using it like it was his all along.

Ni-ki used to groan every time you said “Just ten more minutes” before a date. He would lean against your bedroom doorframe with his arms crossed and a dramatic sigh, saying things like “How are you not done yet?” Or “It looks good, I’m hungry” But instead of actually getting mad, he started watching you. Watching how your hands moved when you did your eyeliner. How your lip combo needed to be layered just right. How you curled your hair in sections and flipped the ends out naturally. 

And one day, he just… asked. “Which one makes it wavy?” You paused, mascara wand mid-air, staring at him. “You wanna help me get ready?” “I wanna help you get faster,” he said flatly. But you saw the little spark in his eyes.

So you handed him your curling iron.

Your boyfriend Ni-ki watched one tutorial on YouTube from a beauty blogger, and then practiced on a doll head you had from your childhood “just for fun,” but secretly he wanted to get it perfect for you. He learned to section your hair, to twist and hold, to use the glove so he wouldn’t burn his fingers, though he totally did once and blamed you for distracting him by being “too pretty.”

He now stands behind you while you sit on your vanity and do your makeup, tongue between his teeth in concentration as he wraps a strand of your hair around the barrel. You’ll be focusing on your eyeliner and hear the soft click of the iron turning off, then his voice: “Next section.” Sometimes he clips your hair back with one of your frilly pink claw clips, totally unfazed by how cute and domestic he looks doing it. Other times, he hums Enhypen songs under his breath while working, casually asking, “Big curls or soft waves today?”

To be fair, he still says, “You take forever to get ready,” but now it’s while he's smoothing a section of your hair down and checking the back with his phone camera to make sure it’s even.

Ni-ki is one of the most dry texters in the world, but you don’t care that much, because when he’s on tour, he doesn’t say “I miss you” too much, but always comes back with something for you tucked in his bag.

Not big things. Not the kind of gifts meant to impress or flex. But cute things. Thoughtful things. Things that say “I saw this and thought of you” in the quietest way. Like the time he was in Japan, and you sent him a half-joking, half-serious message at 2 a.m. that just said, “Bring me back something My Melody or I’m breaking up with you.” But forgot about it immediately, he didn’t. 

He came home with a little box wrapped in pink tissue paper, handed it to you without a word, and inside were three keychains—Hello Kitty, My Melody, and Kuromi—each one in a tiny outfit matching the city he’d been in. There was also a fluffy pouch with sparkly zippers and a note in his handwriting with pink pen that just said, “Don’t break up with me.”

Or the time that he went to Milan for the fashion week and rolled his eyes when you told him to buy you something expensive. But when he came back, he handed you a pink Prada purse and a silk scarf with little hearts woven into the trim. 

“This reminded me of you. The memory was prettier tho” You punched his arm and he kissed your cheek.

He’s too cool to gush but always notices. Always remembers. He never forgets that you love sparkly keychains and girly pouches and lip balms shaped like desserts. And even when he’s thousands of miles away, he walks through each airport, each city street, each backstage area wondering what tiny, soft thing he can bring back to make you smile. And when you tease him, “You miss me that bad, huh?” He’ll just click his tongue, toss a plushie onto your lap, and mutter, “Shut up. It was cute. And you like cute things.”

Your boyfriend Ni-ki pretends to be soo bored when you push him into your bedroom to try on new clothes. He flops onto your bed like he’s been inconvenienced for the millionth time, phone in hand, legs crossed at the ankle, but the truth is? He lives for this. For the way you light up when you’re in front of your closet. For the way you model outfits for him like you’re on a runway made of pink carpet and perfume mist. He barely looks up when you walk out in the first dress, just gives a quick glance and hums, “Cute.”

But by the third outfit, when the top dips a little lower and your shorts hug a little tighter, he suddenly forgets how to breathe normally. You know what you’re doing. You twirl slowly, hands on your hips, acting innocent. “Too short?” you ask, lifting the hem just slightly to adjust it. He sits up straighter. “You’re trying to start something.” You just flutter you eyelashes. “I’m just trying on clothes.” 

Ni-ki is so whipped for you that he starts biting his lip by the fourth outfit. You come out in a little skirt with bows on the sides and a cropped cardigan that’s one button away from scandal, and he’s already shoving his phone into the sheets and leaning back like he’s trying to stay calm.“Babe,” he warns, voice low, “what is this, a fashion show or a test of my self-control?” You smirk. “Depends. How am I doing?” He drags a hand down his face. “Terribly.” 

He breaks the second you spin around in front of the mirror and bend a little too far while adjusting the neckline, the skirt showing the perfect curve of your ass. He’s behind you before you even realize he moved, hands sliding around your waist, lips brushing your ear.

“You know I’m not gonna sit there like a good boy when you parade around looking like that.” Your outfit ends up on the floor. He never gives his opinion. You both forget you were even getting ready.

Your boyfriend Ni-ki doesn’t just say “You’re pretty” when you’re writhing under him, he says it like a prayer, like it hurts him how pretty you are.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.” “Look at you… look how perfect you are for me.” “Made just for me, huh? That’s it, baby—show me.”

His voice never raises. It stays soft, reverent, like he’s telling you a secret that only the two of you should know. Even when he’s breathless. Even when he’s deep inside you, thumb brushing your bottom lip while he watches your eyes flutter and roll.

“Such a good girl for me… always take me so well.” “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” “You make me lose my mind, princess. Fuck—look at the mess you’re making.”

He says the filthiest things while holding your jaw so gently, like he’s cradling something delicate and priceless.

“You’re dripping just from my voice, aren’t you? You like when I talk to you like this.” “You want me to make it worse? Want me to ruin this little body while I tell you how much I love it?”

Because he does love it. Every inch of you. And he says it, over and over, between kisses and thrusts and choked moans.

“I love you so much, baby. So fucking much.” “No one’s ever gonna touch you like this. No one’s ever gonna talk to you like this.” “You’re mine. Say it. Say it again.”

He gets off on your pleasure more than anything. The sound of your voice, the way your fingers curl in his hair, the little gasps you make when he presses deeper.

“That’s it, my pretty girl… you gonna come for me?” “I want you to fall apart, yeah? Be good and make a mess for me.”

And when you do, when your voice breaks and your body trembles and you cling to him like he’s the only thing anchoring you to this earth, he kisses you everywhere he can reach. Your cheek. Your shoulder. Your chest. The side of your neck.

“You’re okay, baby. I got you.” “You’re my princess. My everything.” 

And when he finishes, he doesn’t just roll over and catch his breath after, t’s like the second you fall apart, he pulls himself back together just to take care of you. Because he knows.

He knows that after you finish, your voice goes quiet. Your fingers reach for him, searching without words. You blink slower, lips parted, too overwhelmed to speak. And he knows that’s when you need softness the most. So he gathers you up. Instantly.

Ni-ki wraps his arms around your trembling frame and pulls you into his chest, skin to skin, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the world. “Hey,” he murmurs, lips brushing your forehead. “You’re okay.” He kisses your temple, your eyelids, your damp hair, even the tip of your nose, like he needs to cover every part of you in warmth. In reassurance. He speaks softly, over and over, even when you’re too tired to respond.

“I’ve got you.” “You’re so perfect for me.” “Still with me, pretty girl?” “I love you. You’re my everything.”

His fingers draw lazy shapes on your back, his legs tangled with yours beneath the blankets. When he feels you start to drift, he kisses your shoulder and tightens his hold. “Don’t disappear yet,” he whispers, teasing but gentle.

And when you finally look up at him with hazy, fluttering eyes and a sleepy pout, he smiles like it physically hurts how much he loves you. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and presses his forehead to yours. “Still my princess,” he murmurs, voice low, “even when you’re all messy and dazed like this.”

Boyfriend Ni-ki, who gets up just to grab a warm cloth and clean you softly, slowly, never rushing, like he’s touching something sacred. Then helps you into his hoodie, kisses your cheek, and pulls you back into bed with a quiet “Come here, need you close.”

Because he knows you go small after. And there’s nowhere safer to be small than wrapped in him.

[flowersforbucky]

means i care

joaquín torres x reader

"You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn't beating when I pulled you from that water."

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

word count: 3.3k

warnings/tags: friends to lovers, idiots in love, pining, enhanced!reader with energy manipulation powers, canon level injuries, some angst, fluff, no use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns, pov switches

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“You know, if we don't succeed here, we'll be looking at World War III. I could use a little extra good luck. If you know what I'm sayin’.”

You shift your gaze from the Indian Ocean outside of the jet's window to the man sitting beside you. At first, you question whether or not you heard him correctly. Then, you see the sly smirk on his lips and the glimmer of mischief in his brown eyes and you realize that you had, in fact, heard him correctly.

If you had any doubt about what he meant by a little extra good luck, the look on his face makes it abundantly clear.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for a split-second before you look back out to the endless expanse of blue water surrounding you. God knows that if you stare at him for a moment too long, you might just be weak enough to give in.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come dangerously close.

“Good luck, huh? I hope you’ve got a four-leaf clover or a rabbit’s foot stashed somewhere in that suit of yours, then.”

He laughs. The sound fills the jet and for a second, you forget where you are and what all is on the line.

“A thousand four-leaf clovers wouldn’t give me a fraction of the good luck that I’d get from a kis—”

“Landing in five!” Sam calls, effectively breaking the tension in the air. You doubt that it was intentional, but you’re thankful for the interruption nonetheless. As if the list of things on your mind isn’t already a mile long – the last thing you need to add to it right now is kissing Joaquín.

You should be used to it – the flirting and teasing. He hasn’t held back since the moment you met. First, you had assumed it’s just how he is – that he says the same things to any halfway decent looking girl in his age bracket.

Sam had insisted that’s not the case.

Still, past relationship trauma had left you unable to believe that he was being genuine –and unable to believe that any good could come from returning his flirtatious sentiments. Best case scenario, you hook up and relieve the tension that’s been brewing between you for months, things fizzle, and you have to continue to work together while attempting to ignore any awkwardness. Worst case scenario, you let yourself completely fall for him and someone inevitably gets hurt.

This line of work, this lifestyle – it doesn’t mesh well with romantic relationships. You’ve learned that lesson the hard way, a few times over.

So, despite the fact that you think he’s annoyingly attractive, you brush off the compliments and cheesy one-liners. You look for every excuse when he tries to spend time with you outside of work and missions, never letting yourself give in even when every fiber of your being is dying to do so.

Like right now. He sits beside you, his arm and thigh brushing against yours. Even through his thick, heavy gear, it sends a shiver up your spine. You resist the urge to grab his hand in yours and tell him that you and Sam have this handled if he wants to help from the sidelines.

You can hear his response as clear as day in your mind. “Keep to the sidelines? And let you and Sam have all the fun? Pshhh. You wish.”

You bite your tongue, afraid to let him know just how much you care. You might not let it show, but you’re more worried for his safety than you are your own.

There’s no chance of him staying on the base while you and Sam potentially risk your lives. But maybe you can at least give him an incentive to keep himself alive.

Joaquín starts to stand when you place a hand on his arm. He freezes, an almost hopeful expression on his face as he looks at you expectantly.

“Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“Are you listening to a word I say?”

Sam’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You blink rapidly, lubricating your eyes that had been locked on a beeping monitor for an embarrassing amount of time.

“No,” you answer honestly. You glance at him for a brief moment before your eyes are back on the sleeping body a few feet away from you. “Not really. Sorry. What did you say?”

He sighs. He’s trying his hardest to not let it show, but you know that he’s getting a little annoyed with you.

You can’t really find the energy to care. You’re a little annoyed with him, too. He won’t stop tapping his fucking foot against the linoleum floor and the whole room still smells like the Chinese take-out he’d eaten hours ago.

Your stomach growls. Maybe you’re just hangry.

“I said you need to go home,” Sam says in an even tone. “Get a few hours of sleep, take a shower. Eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Over the last four days, you’ve spent more time in this hospital room than your own apartment. You’ve only left to go home long enough to shower every other day, and to get gas stations snacks and coffee on occasion. The longest you’d been away from Joaquín’s bedside was yesterday morning, when you went to the Target down the road to put together a get well soon basket for when he wakes up.

Most guests would be asked to leave after standard visiting hours, but you suppose working with Captain America does come with some perks. You suppose it also helps that you were the one who pulled Joaquín from the ocean, flew him to safety, and restarted his heart with your powers while you waited on the emergency medical team to get to you on Celestial Island.

Maybe the hospital staff pities or – or maybe they’re a little scared of you. Either is fine, as long as you aren’t asked to leave for an extended period of time.

You’re hungry, and you need to shower, and a few hours of sleep in an actual bed certainly wouldn’t hurt. But the thought of not being here when he wakes up…

“I’ll call you,” Sam says, as if reading your mind. “I swear. As soon as he wakes up, I’ll let you know.”

You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you just nod. You’ve somehow managed to refrain from crying up until this point, but you’re running on a few hours of sleep and it’s starting to get to you.

Despite the various wounds and bruising across his body, he looks peaceful in his sleep. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and you feel yourself relax at the visual reminder that he’s okay. He’s resting, and healing, and he’ll wake when his body is ready.

“Okay,” you whisper as you stand up from the scratchy, old recliner that you have been glued to for the majority of the last few days. “You call me as soon as he opens his eyes.”

Before leaving, you walk to the side of his bed. On the table next to him sits a vase of wildflowers that have already started to wilt, and the basket that you had brought, full of some of his favorite things – beef jerky, Takis, gummy bears – as well as a few personal care items that may be of use for the duration of his hospital stay after waking up – deodorant, a toothbrush and travel sized toothpaste, and the biggest stainless steel tumbler that you could find.

In the middle of the basket sits a small, plush falcon. You hadn’t even been looking for it when it caught your eye in the store, but you immediately knew you had to get it for him. Seeing it had felt like a sign that everything is going to be okay.

You remove the stuffed bird from the basket and tuck it between his side and his arm before leaning down and pressing a tender kiss to the center of his forehead. It’s the first time you’ve touched him since the accident, and you’re reluctant to pull away.

Your eyes sting with all of the emotions that you’ve been holding inside for days. You don’t look back at Sam or say another word as you walk out of the room, hoping with everything in you that the next time you walk into this room, he greets you with one of his obnoxiously perfect smiles and a corny pick-up line.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The first thing Joaquín hears is the low, repetitive beeping of a monitor. When he opens his eyes, he’s momentarily blinded by violent, early morning sunlight creeping through the blind slats.

“Well, well, well. How nice of you to decide to join the living today, Sleeping Beauty.”

He recognizes Sam’s voice a second before he sees him. Slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, he looks like he could use some sleep, himself.

All at once, images of the moments leading up to him plummeting into the ocean come flooding back. He remembers Sam yelling at him to back off from the last missile, the missile firing right at him, and then nose-diving into the ocean as you shriek his name.

You.

His eyes dart around the room in a panic, looking for any sign of you. His heartrate spikes on the monitor. Sam jumps up, rushing over to his side.

“What – where is she – is she okay?”

God, his throat is painfully dry. How long has he been unconscious?

“Easy, easy,” Sam soothes as he takes a seat at the foot of the hospital bed. “She is fine. She was unharmed and has hardly left your side in five days. It was like pulling teeth just to convince her to go home for the night. Made me promise to call her the second you woke up.”

At first, he assumes Sam is just messing with him. You have hardly left his side? You, the same person who has rejected every one of his advances for nearly a year?

“You’re being serious? She’s been here?” He asks in disbelief.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam exhales. “She’s been a mess, man. I don’t know how much you remember, but…” He trails off, avoiding Joaquín’s gaze.

“She’s the one who pulled you from that water. By the time she flew you somewhere safe, you weren’t breathing. She had to restart your heart with her powers until the medical team got to you.”

He can tell by Sam’s demeanor that he isn’t joking around, but he still struggles to wrap his head around it all. He had fucking died? His heart stopped, and you’re the reason that he’s alive? And you stayed with him while he’s been recovering?

Then, he remembers the last words you said to him before arriving on Celestial Island.

Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?

He isn’t sure if you really spoke those words, or if it’s some false memory that his subconscious conjured to keep him holding on while on the brink of death.

If it’s the latter, it worked. If it’s the former, and you really did say that, he supposes that offer is probably off the table since he technically did die.

Damn it.

Joaquín attempts to sit up and becomes aware of two things at once – he feels like he has been repeatedly ran over by a bus, and there's something fuzzy tickling his arm.

“What the hell…”

He picks up the small, stuffed falcon and can’t help but smile at it. “You shouldn’t have,” he chuckles, tossing the bird at Sam.

He catches it, smirking. “Oh, I didn’t.”

Sam gestures towards the table beside Joaquín. He follows his gaze, noticing the dying flowers and basket stuffed full of various snacks and self-care items. Whoever chose the contents of the basket, knows him well. He could live off of beef jerky if he had to, and gummy bears are his favorite.

“Who..?” Joaquín asks, trying not to get his hopes up that it could be from the person he most wants it to be from – the person who apparently saved his life.

“Take a guess,” Sam jabs as he tosses the stuffed animal back to Joaquín.

For a second, he thinks his heart just might stop again. He pictures you picking out the items and he has to shake his head to keep himself from grinning too big.

“Man, if I knew that all I had to do was die to get her attention, I would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner.”

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Just don’t go making a habit of it, okay? I don’t know if she would forgive you if you did it again.”

Sam then pulls out his cell phone, excusing himself from the room to give you a call and to get Joaquin’s nurse. Once he’s alone, Joaquín fights against all of the stiffness in his body to reach for the basket sitting on the bedside table. In addition to all of the other goodies, there’s a card tucked between a stick of Old Spice deodorant and a bag of Takis.

It isn’t in an envelope. He instantly snorts at the image on the front of the card – it’s a cartoon dog wearing a cone collar with a dejected expression. In bold print, it reads: At least you don’t have to wear a cone.

He opens the card, and immediately recognizes your handwriting.

I specifically remember asking you to not die. Guess you were right about that good luck kiss, after all. I'll remember that next time.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The simultaneous dread and relief that you feel when you see Sam’s name pop up on your phone can’t be described in words. Dread at the mere possibility of bad news. Relief that it could be what you’ve been hoping to hear for days.

As soon as you hear him say that Joaquín is awake, you’re jumping out of bed at the ass crack of dawn. You don’t think about taking the time to eat any breakfast or even make yourself a cup of coffee – you just throw on some clean clothes, brush your teeth, and you’re out the door.

The short drive to the hospital is spent talking to yourself about what you're even going to say to him. How are things supposed to just go back to normal between the two of after something like this? After it felt like your heart stopped when his did? Do you even want things to go back to normal?

You knew you’d feel relieved to see him awake, but you don’t expect the overwhelming rush of emotions that comes over you as soon as you hear his voice murmur your name.

He's sitting up in his bed, holding the stuffed falcon that you’d given him and smiling at you like you hung the moon and stars as soon as you walk through the door.

That’s when you know the answer to your question – no, you don’t want things to go back to normal between you. With the way that you feel your heart in your throat, you don't think that’s a possibility, anyway.

“This little guy was a nice surprise to wake up to, you know. Kind of wish it had been you, but he’s cute, too.”

You no longer attempt to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill over for the last five days. You sit on the edge of his bed, directly beside his thigh and meagerly wipe the teardrops that leak down both of your cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” His demeanor completely shifts when he realizes that you’re crying. He leans in closer and pulls you to him. You sob against his chest, and he runs a large hand up and down your back. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. It's gonna take more than a missile or two to take me out.”

You nod against his chest, but don’t pull away. He continues to massage your back as you attempt to calm down, focusing on the feeling of him against you. When you finally lean back, he wipes a lingering tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn’t beating when I pulled you from that water.”

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

You exhale, finally letting yourself return his cheeky grin. The teasing remark makes you feel the happiest you have in days.

“Leave it to you to find a way to flirt when we are having a conversation about your death.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, his expression suddenly turning more serious. “I do have a question, though.”

You tilt your head in curiosity.

“When you brought me back to life, was it like a mouth to mouth type thing? Or..?”

You roll your eyes, playfully shoving him back against his pillows. He cackles, his cheeks turning pink. He pulls you back to him, this time even closer than before. You can smell mint on his breath from the toothpaste you’d put in his get well soon basket.

“No. Thought I’d save that for when you’re awake.”

He places his hands on your sides, the light touches sending a thrill through you. The normally chilly hospital room suddenly feels a whole lot warmer.

“Are you sure?” He murmurs. “I don’t want you to think that you.. owe me anything, or have to kiss me just because of what happened—”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking.

“Joaquín,” you interrupt him softly. “I’ve been stupid. So, so stupid and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that it took something like this for me to open my eyes to what’s been right in front of me this whole time. I knew that if I let myself want more, if I let myself give in, that’d be it for me. And that terrified me. But I don’t care anymore. I’m more terrified of never getting the chance to—”

Suddenly, his hands move from your hips to either side of your face. He pulls you the remainder of the short distance to him, and then his lips are against yours; effectively ending your rambling.

One of your hands cups the nape of his neck, your fingers intertwined in his soft curls. His tongue ghosts along your bottom lip and you eagerly part them for him. The sounds from various machines and the voices out in the hallway all fade to white noise as he moves his lips with yours.

He's gentle. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still relatively bedridden, but he touches you like he’s touching fine, breakable China. There’s an underlying urgency, like he’s scared he’s dreaming and wants to savor this as much as possible before he opens his eyes.

You pull away with a gentle tug of his bottom lip between your teeth. He doesn’t drop his hands from caressing your face, and your rest your forehead against his, basking in the afterglow of a kiss long overdue.

“Damn,” he breathes. “Please tell me we can do that again, minus all of the months of rejection and the close call with death.”

You laugh. “I can promise you no more rejection, but you have to promise me no more close calls with death.”

A gentle stroke of his thumb across your cheekbone sends goosebumps down your spine. “I promise, mi vida. I’ve been waiting too long for this. There’s no getting rid of me now.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

mi vida: spanish for "my life"

thank you so much for reading!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡

[mattsundaes]

♡ DATE EVERYTHING! — DIRK ♡

18+ — f!reader, masturbation, pillow humping, porn, fingering

your phone screen shines brightly amid the inky darkness of your bedroom, and you almost have half a mind to feel somewhat self-conscious about what you're doing—considering you're a little too aware of how much company you actually have in your house.

the key word being almost.

but right now, you can't bring yourself to care about what your captive audience of household objects might think about you firing up some porn on your phone with a big, plush pillow tucked between your thighs.

not when you've been feeling so pent up these past few days, you can hardly think straight.

whatever, it's not like you haven't been giving them free shows for years, apparently.

you sigh, pressing play on the video.

it starts off promising enough—it's a shot of a man from mid-chest down, sitting amongst a pile of blankets, jeans unzipped, hand palming his half-hard shaft.

he moans softly, quietly, and you reach out to increase the volume as your stomach flutters at his raspy tone.

then he reaches off-camera and procures a silky, black pair of panties. his dick visibly hardens, and he groans as he teases the tip of it with the material. you bite your bottom lip as you slowly rock your hips against the pillow between your legs.

now fully erect, the man's shaft is long and curved, requiring a decent stroke from dexterous-looking fingers that have your mouth watering the more you stare at them. precum leaks from his flushed tip.

it's a pretty cock.

one that you think you'd like to suck.

a whimper escapes your throat as you grind down against the pillow, the corner pressing just right into your swollen clit, and pleasure vibrates up your spine.

the man groans again, gravel-rough, and fuck—you think you could get off to the sound of his voice alone.

you tug your underwear up a little higher over your hips, tightening the pressure against your slick folds, sticky arousal soaking into the fabric.

and then he wraps the panties around his cock, fucking into the fabric, and you inhale sharply at the sight, at the way his hips stutter on the impact.

(like he's not just doing this for show. like he's getting off on this just as much as you are.)

you imagine the feeling of him rubbing his cock against your panties, dragging his shaft up and down your clothed slit until you're a gushing, sloppy mess. until he can't help but pull them aside and plunge inside of you—

he lets out a punched out, needy moan that has you humping your pillow so desperately, your entire bed frame creaks in protest as you tightly grip your sheets and keen.

and then he grabs another pair of panties suddenly, ones that are far less sexy looking. they're white with little daisies printed all over them, and they actually look like the pair you lost in the laundry bas—

the man accidentally hits the camera with his foot, just enough to show his face.

dirk deveraux drags a hand through his tousled, black hair before he throws his head back and gasps as he wraps your underwear around his leaking, throbbing cock.

and for whatever reason, the thought of dirk jerking off with your dirty underwear bypasses any and all mortifying confusion at this situation as you start moaning his name while you rub your pussy up and down on your pillow with frantic need.

"god, this is hot."

you'd probably be a little more startled by the very present sound of dirk's voice if you weren't a drooling, cock drunk mess at this point.

but as it were, you carry on, and this time, when you gasp his name, it's directed right to the man now kneeling beside you on your mattress.

"dirk, please."

dirk chuckles, voice low and syrupy, and your empty hole flutters around nothing as you continue thrusting.

in the video, dirk's pumping his cock so hard, the video footage becomes shaky.

dirk's breath is warm against the shell of your ear as he leans in, and you can feel his body heat folding over your own. "i like using the ones you leave all sticky and wet for me, you know."

you can feel him tug your panties aside, just enough to slide a finger into your tight, dripping hole. your cunt spasms in pleasure, and you buck backward into his touch, trembling and begging. dirk's quick to slide another finger in, like he knows how badly you need to be filled, and you choke out a sob.

with one hand grasping your hip, he guides you back into humping your pillow while he finger fucks you, and the dual sensation has you seeing stars, lips perpetually parted as you pant and whine and shake.

on your phone screen, the dirk in the video lets out a groan that boils over your insides like a flash flood, and pleasure floods your body from head to toe in a slick, gushing downpour as you watch his thick, hot, sticky load of cum shoot right through your panties and leak all over his fist.

dirk kisses the curve of your jaw as he fingers you through your own orgasm, his soft hair tickling your cheek as you leave a soaked mess all over his fingers, your panties, and the pillow.

the video ends, and your phone falls flat onto the mattress, enveloping the room in darkness.

a thick curtain exhaustion settles over you suddenly as you collapse against your sheets in a pliant heap, and the last thing you hear before falling asleep is dirk's warm, raspy tone murmuring, "same time tomorrow night?"

[sooniebby]

ఌ 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐊

w.c › 7.4k

warnings › bottom male reader.

plot › A loanshark is terrorizing your community, so you try “scaring” him off. He thinks you’re a dumb fool who will make the perfect plaything after his last toy… unfortunately broke beyond repair.

kinks › manhandling, degradation, semi-pet play, dacryphilia

words to know › P/Phi (พี่) — title used for someone older, can also be a sibling. Nong (น้อง) — title used for someone younger, also for siblings. Khun (คุณ) — Mr/Ms/You. Hia (เฮีย) — “an older brother”, used mostly for an older male with Chinese ancestry. Sawatdee khrap/kha (สวัสดีครับ/สวัสดีค่ะ) — “hello”, khrap ending is for men, kha ending is for women.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

「จะทำทุกๆอย่าง จะทำทุกๆทาง」

“Where’s the rest of the money, you little bitch?”

“What, are you waiting for that savior of yours?”

「ให้เธอได้รู้สึกอบอุ่นหัวใจไปกับฉัน」

“How deep should I cut, Boss?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Everyone’s eyes focused on the man sitting on the makeshift bed in the apartment. Every item of any significant value trashed or pocketed in their pockets.

A pained gasp left the withering body in the middle of the room, his eye swelling black. Despite himself, his one good eye stared defiantly at the man sitting in the center of the room. Portraying a last ditch effort of strength.

The boss slowly rose up. Eyes followed him as his loafers stepped across broken class. The crunch filling the room as he stared down at his victim.

「แต่เราเพึ่งรู้จัก แค่มองด้วยสายตา」

He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out a short blade. It shined underneath the blinking light from the ceiling. His gaze watched as the victim began to struggle against the lackey’s grip.

“Stop struggling. You’ll only make me enjoy this more,” the lackey whispered in the victim’s ears.

The victim could only watch as the boss handed over the short blade.

“Leave a mark.” Was all the boss said. He walked out to the open door. A group of residents stood nearby—the crowd quickly cowering at the sight of him. His head was held high as they bowed theirs, not even daring to catch a glimpse into his eyes.

A sharp piercing scream filled the apartment complex located in the slums of Chiang Mai, Thailand.

And the residents could only offer a prayer to his screams.

「มันทำให้ฉันนั้นรู้คีว่า จะเป็นเช่นไร」

A round of applause set off just as you finished your song. A wide grin spread on your lips. The applause was the best part of being a singer. To hear the appreciation for your artwork. You slide your guitar to rest on your back as you got off your stool.

“Thank you, Thank you. The last song was Everything by Scrubb. Enjoy the rest of your night everyone!”

You immediately got off stage and went to the bar’s owner. She was speaking to one of her employees before catching sight of you. A wide grin appeared on her lips as she began to shoo away the bartender to handle some customers.

“Nong~!” She cheered, engulfing you into a hug as soon as you were near. You eagerly returned the hug, giggling when she pressed a kiss on your cheeks—red lipstick now staining it. “You were great, as always. Let me get your pay for this week.”

“Thank you, P’Janine.” You bowed your head slightly, pressing your hands together. Janine handed over some money that she pulled out of her bra. You blinked but took the money away—used to her quirks by now.

Janine offered you a wide grin and only nodded, “of course, of course. Oh? Nong, I’ve heard you’ve been working extra shifts.” She said, a sudden seriousness to her expression. “You haven’t…” her voice trailed off, letting you connect the dots.

The people here were even scared to utter her name, as if she would appear behind them.

You frowned, “Phi” you said with an exasperated sigh, “why would I be dumb enough to borrow from her? I’m fine, I don’t need anything.”

“Is it for Plawan then? He hasn’t come visited me in a while, is he bored of me?” She whined, obviously trying to left the mood.

“Yea. Wan… His dad,” you shook your head. “He wouldn’t want me to blabber about his business.” You muttered.

Janine nodded. “Of course. Tell him to visit me soon. I always have a spot open for him to work here. I’ll pay him double!”

You grinned and nodded, “Okay, I’ll tell him. I better go now, it’s getting late.”

“Right, right. Go! Make sure to eat dinner! Stop skipping your meals!” Janine yelled just as you left the bar.

Your feet barely touched the ground as you sprinted over to your moped, immediately mounting it with ease. You hastily fastened your helmet and rolled the handles, blasting off to return home.

You made a sharp left and slide into your usual parking spot, killing the engine. There was a sinking feeling in your stomach.

And unfortunately, it was never wrong.

“Wan,” you called out before you even reached the fourth floor, frowning at the sight of his apartment door wide open. Inside, everything was trashed. Valuables all gone. You stepped inside, pausing when glass crunched underneath your sneakers.

“Plawan! Where are you?” You rushed to the only room of the apartment, pushing the door open to see it empty. “Wan..? Plawan?!”

“P’(Name)!”

A hushed voice suddenly called out. You walked out of the bedroom to see Star, a little girl that lived next door to Plawan. She was dressed in her elementary uniform still. Her hair messy from the neat pigtails you saw her with this morning.

“Star,” you sighed in relief, rushing over to her.

Star shushed you, motioning for you to lower your voice. “Come, P’Wan is with my mommy.” She grabbed your hand and began leading you to the apartment right next door. The apartment was bare with only old and fraying furniture.

Star’s drawings were plastered all over the walls, the one thing that breathed life into the decaying room. “Mommy!” Star called out, pulling you to the bedroom.

She pushed open the door and your sight was immediately set on Plawan lying down on the bed. He was badly beaten, a bandaged over his eye. Star’s mother, Pearl, glanced back at you with a glare, her body covering Plawan as if she was protecting him until she noticed it was just you.

“(Name),” she sighed, pulling away. Her hands were covered in blood, her blue nurse scrub darkened in certain areas. “I was able to stop the bleeding but he should visit a real hospital in case of internal bleeding. I heard from the neighbors that they were beating him for at least an hour.”

You frowned, pulling off your guitar as you placed it against the wall. Pearl moved away—giving you space.

“I would’ve left him in his room but… they broke the locks. I didn’t want him to stay in there.” She said, giving you a comforting smile. You tried your best to return it.

“I’ll take him to my room tomorrow.”

She nodded and walked away, guiding Star with her. As the door closed, you couldn’t help but sigh once more. Of course those loan sharks wouldn’t honor the deal they made. They were supposed to come tomorrow morning—not tonight.

“Hia…”

You gazed down at Plawan, sighing in relief to see him staring up at you. “Wan, are you okay? I didn’t think they’d come tonight, if I’d—”

“It’s okay.” Plawan muttered, his voice hoarse. “It’s not your fault. They’re loan sharks.”

“Yea.” You let out a bitter laugh. “True. What did they do? What did they take?”

“Everything. I was only able to keep my phone… so they can keep contacting me.” Plawan sighed. “They even took our photos, what are they gonna do with that?”

“Anything to torture you…”

“Hm.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “He came this time. Told them to mark me.”

“He?”

“The boss.”

You frowned. “He came? Your debt is hardly anything extravagant, you’re always on time.”

Plawan attempted to shrug only for him to curse, “ow… I don’t know, it felt like… it was to show the others just how scary he is. He hasn’t visited our complex in two years.”

“Wait, he told them to mark you?”

“Mhm. It’s on my chest.” He whispered, looking away from your stare.

Your eyes flickered to the bandage on the left side of his chest. All you could really do was just stare and possibly hope he would heal without a scar.

“And…” Plawan suddenly added, catching your attention.

“And?”

“My face. He… he ruined half of my face.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

1 year later

“Wan, what should we do with the ashes?” You asked, staring at the urn resting on the ground in front of you.

Plawan signed, pushing back his bangs. His left side of his face that had a jagged line running from his hairline down to his chin had finally healed after a full year. He frowned at the urn of his deceased father and glanced back over at you.

“Shouldn’t I just flush it down the toilet?”

“Hm, wouldn’t that clog the toilet? That thing can hardly handle your poop. You’re gonna give it a bigger shit to handle?” You joked, grinning at the slight laugh you earned from Plawan.

It was rare from him these days.

“Maybeeee,” you hummed, closing your eyes as you thought long and hard. “You can pour it over some of the loan sharks?”

Plawan frowned. “You can do that. I don’t talk to those bastards unless I have no choice.”

“Hm. I’ll do it for you, in honor of your dad being on his knees for those suits since he was a drunk.” You nodded, already having a plan of when to do it.

It wasn’t a shock that Plawan had developed a phobia over loan sharks. He practically froze up whenever they walked into the complex. Everyone living at the complex in someway owed debt to the same woman. After the incident a year ago, the big ‘boss’ that left a mark on Plawan hadn’t come back.

You wondered why he even came. The lackeys were already terrifying to most of the residents. It got to a point where they even flinched at the sight of any man in a suit. Plawan now being one of those unfortunate people.

He couldn’t even wear a suit for his father’s funeral. Though it wasn’t like the bastard deserved it. After his death, he managed to rack up a debt of 1,299,700 baht, an added 120,000 balance.

Just to think you and Plawan were almost out of those scumbags clutches. If only his father didn’t make his debt default to Plawan.

Plawan yawned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think I’m going to go to bed, Hia. I’m tired.”

“Course. Want me to stay the night or go to my room?”

“You can go. I wanna be alone.”

You hummed, comfortingly patting his shoulder. As you got up, you grabbed the urn from the floor and walked out, closing the door behind you. The urn was heavy in your arm as you walked downstairs to the third floor.

Your free hand reached into your back pocket, fishing for your keys when a yell caught your attention. You looked behind yourself only to get slammed into as a man pushed past you. The urn’s lid popped open and fell to the ground, remains beginning to coat the concrete.

“Khun!” You called after the man, snarling. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Move!”

A deep voice yelled. You were harshly pushed onto the ground as three loan sharks chased after the man. The urn shattered beneath you, the shards cutting into your skin. You hissed at the pain and immediately pulled away, blood and human remains now coating you.

“Seriously…” you whispered to yourself, dusting off the ashes. Your left hand’s palm was cut open, dripping blood onto the ground. You quickly tried to wipe the ashes off the hand so the wound wouldn’t get infected. “Those suits.. no respect.. should’ve thrown this stupid asshole at them.”

As you continued cursing out Plawan’s father’s ashes, footsteps echoed behind you. You glanced behind yourself to see a man dressed in a white button up and black slacks. Another man stood behind him, dressed oddly casual in comparison.

The casual man, dressed in a black wife beater and jean pants, stared you down, “who are you?” He asked, his eyes narrowing at you suspiciously. “Did you just move in?”

You glared at the man, shocked at his audacity to use casual speech in reference to you, “Hey, it’s ‘Khun’ not ‘mung.’ Why should I tell you anyway? You’re not the landlord.”

“What did you just say?” The man growled, looking ready to cross over to you when the other man held his hand up. Like a dog, the man stopped in his tracks.

“Huh? Are you his mutt?” You couldn’t help but whisper, moving to stand up.

“Hope,” the other man said, ignoring what you said, “make sure they catch him.”

“But—” Hope muttered, his glare focused solely on you. He didn’t want to let you disrespect him without any consequences.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

That shut Hope up immediately. He slightly bowed his head and immediately walked away, leaving you with the other man. You raised an eyebrow—wondering if it would be smart to even talk to this man after seeing how easily he commanded another.

You glanced down at the mess around you, sighing. The cut in your hand burned. You had the ashes of a deadbeat coating your clothing, you were pretty sure you could even taste a bit of it.

“You’re not in debt.” The man suddenly said, catching your attention.

“Huh?” You whispered, glancing up at him.

“I know everyone who lives in this complex. You’re not in debt, so why do you live here?”

“Oh. You’re a loan shark.” You rolled your eyes, no longer interested in figuring the guy out. “No, I’m not in debt. So you don’t scare me. Just go focus on getting your money.”

“I don’t scare you?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. You got a good look at him and was almost disappointed. A good looking guy being a loan shark, a shame. His black hair looked silky smooth, probably soft to the touch. A strong nose and almond eyes that were naturally scrutinizing you without even moving.

It was as if his neutral face was scary, no, scary felt juvenile to describe his neutral face. It was unsettling.

As if he couldn’t emote.

The thought of him smiling sent shivers down your spine.

You stepped back. Sure, he had no reason to do anything to you. But loan sharks weren’t exactly known for being law abiding citizens. And this one didn’t seem like a lackey at all. He seemed to be someone of higher status. Only an idiot would mess with someone like that.

“As you can see,” you whispered, waving at your soiled clothing. “I need to get cleaned up. Excuse me.”

His eyes flickered down to your clothing. They slowly trailed up your entire body to your face, staring at you as if he was taking you in. You felt like a mouse, staring at a cat was its tail slowly began to sway, their pupils dilating.

If you stayed here any longer, you were sure you would be eaten alive.

You quickly turned around and tried to keep a brisk pace while walking away.

“You’re staying here for someone.”

Your body froze.

“Plawan Nakhun Laedeke.”

It felt as if time was frozen. He knew Plawan’s full name.

“His father recently died. The service was today, if my memory serves me well. Shame the ashes met a fate on the dirty ground.”

You glanced back at the man, fighting the urge to punch him right in the face. “What? Are you threatening me?” You walked right back over to him, your fists clutching on your sides.

He didn’t flinch even as you got close to him, his hands still resting in his pockets. “Move out. Only residents in debt to Khun Lily stay here.”

“No.” You answered without a second thought. “I’d be a fool to leave Plawan with someone like you and your mutts.”

“You may think staying close helps, but you weren’t able to him save a year ago, were you?”

You blinked, staring up at the man in shock. The dots connected immediately as you subconsciously stepped back. It was him. The boss that ordered Plawan’s humiliation. Anger bubbled up inside you—your past fear all gone at the thought of finally getting revenge for Plawan.

“No. I’m not leaving, I’m staying right here. You’ll have to drive me out,” you said, glaring at the monster in front of you. With a shaky hand, your voice threatening to crack, you pressed your bloody hand right on his crisp white shirt.

His eyes immediately glanced down at your hand. You took a deep breath, leaning in closer as you dragged your hand down his chest. Blood coated the shirt, soiling it with blood and ashes.

“I’m not one to back down.” You whispered, pulling your hand away. “Try to learn more about me, try to make me scared of you, none of it’ll work. I’ll stay by Plawan’s side until the day I die.”

You quickly took a large step backwards, eyes wide as you tried thinking about what you just did. What you just said. Needing to get away, you only shook your head and walked away—leaving the broken urn and ashes of a deadbeat on the floor.

“Saint,” Hope sighed, walking up the stairs. His face was twisted in anger as he wiped off blood that coated his cheek. “I managed to get him—not sure if he’s still alive though.”

Saint kept his gaze in your retreating back, taking note of which direction you went. He looked back at Hope and hummed. “So long as you got the money.”

“Mhm, of—woah, woah, what the hell happened to your shirt?” Hope blinked in shock, seeing the bloody hand print that was on Saint’s shirt.

“Hm,” Saint reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “My first gift from a new plaything. You’ll start collecting money from Plawan Nakhun Laedeke.”

“Huh, Plawan? I thought Drake was handling him.”

Saint only had to give Hope a look before the man quickly nodded. He hummed and began typing in his phone. “Don’t just collect the debt, get close to him. I need to know information about that friend he keeps around.”

Hope nodded. “Okay. What happened to your last one, bored already?”

A slight chuckle left Saint’s lips as he began walking downstairs, not waiting to see if Hope would follow. Everyone followed him.

“You could say that.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

Plawan sighed, staring at the bucket of ice in front of him. The sound of music was beginning to bother him. Why did P’Janine like playing English rock music on Sunday’s? She was a bit too eccentric for his liking. The loud instruments were begging to give him a headache.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he finally grabbed the scooper, shoveling some ice into the glass nearby him. The patrons were talking amongst themselves behind him—speaking louder so they could each other over the music.

“Here, call me if you want more.” Plawan said, giving a faint smile as he handed the drink over.

After another hour or so, the music finally wined down to some American R&B. Plawan sighed in relief. A few patrons began leaving—it being a Sunday night after all.

“See ya, Plawan!”

“Bye.” He nodded towards the door, not making effort to look over.

“Plawan,” Janine came over, a grin on her lips. “I think I might close a little early. There’s hardly anyone here. You can start cleaning up. If anyone walks in tell them we’re closing.”

“Okay.” He waved her off, just happy to make it home quick. His phone rang just as he began putting away the bottles. It was you. “Hello, Hia? Need something?”

“What do you want for dinner?” Your voice was cheery. “I’m stopping by this Chinese shop that recently opened up. It’s the real deal, I can make a traditional dinner that my mom taught me.”

Plawan hummed. “Okay. Anything is okay.”

“Hm, okay. What time are you getting home? Should I do my apartment or yours?”

“Let’s—”

“Scotch whisky.”

Plawan frowned, looking back to see a man near the bar. The man placed his empty glass on the hardwood as he stared at Plawan. Every bone in Plawan’s body immediately stiffened.

“Excuse me?” Plawan managed to mutter, staring at the man in confusion.

The man pointed at the bottle in Plawan’s hand, “before you put it away, pour me some.”

“What happened, Wan?”

Your voice suddenly cut through, gaining Plawan’s attention. He turned his back to the man and sighed slightly, calming his nerves.

“It’s okay, Hia (Name). I’m at work, I’m supposed to get off at 11 pm. It’s only a thirty minute walk back to the apartment. P’Janine should be in her office.” He breathed out.

You were silent for a second. “Okay. 11:30 pm. No later than that. Meet me at my apartment.”

Plawan hung up the call and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He debated what he should say to the man but decided to just to satisfy him. With a shaky breath, he slowly turned back to face the stranger. His footsteps felt heavy as he walked over and poured a generous amount in the man’s glass.

“It’s quite dark in here.” The man suddenly said as Plawan kneeled down to put the bottle in the cabinet. “Does the owner like it dark? I can hardly see your face.”

“I..” Plawan coughed, standing up as he kept his gaze down, switching to polite speech. “I don’t think it’s necessary to see the bartender’s face. If that’s all, I’ll settle your tab. We’re closing early tonight.”

“I heard. But there’s no need to settle a tab. Just put it under Khun Lily’s checking.”

Plawan only nodded. The man was a loan shark. Only a loan shark would say that… but usually one of higher standing. Plawan began to busy himself, feeling the man watch his every move.

“It’s interesting. From what the others described you as, you aren’t like anything I imagined. Or really remember.” The man downed his drink, resting his glass on the hardwood with a particularly heavy force. Plawan flinched from the sound, his body freezing.

“What did they say, you would fight with us sometimes. You were often held back by that friend of yours. Did one little visit from my boss put you in your place?” He laughed as he pushed away the bar.

Plawan quickly moved to the other side of the bar, checking the stock, mentally taking note of which liquor that needed to be replenished. Foot steps behind him caught his attention as the overhead lights were suddenly turned on.

“Wha—?”

A hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly spun him around, slamming into the wall behind him. The bottles shook and clinked against each other. One slid right off its shelving and came tumbling down. It shattered on the ground, somehow able to drown out the music.

With the lights finally on, Plawan was able to get a good look at the man in front of him. Messy black hair with fox like eyes. He had a single earring in his right ear. Compared to the other loan sharks, he looked like a delinquent—different to the type of style she usually wanted her men to have.

Did being a higher up means you didn’t have to follow the uniform?

“He really did fuck you up.” The man laughed, staring at the scar on Plawan’s face. His hand slowly reached out to grab his chin. Plawan quickly looked away—shame and embarrassment pooling in his stomach.

Janine was nice enough to keep the lights low whenever he worked his shift. The patrons were smart enough to not question it. To think he’d be getting made fun of like a kid in high school by a loan shark.

The man scoffed, harshly gripping Plawan’s chin as he forced him to look at him. “Are you five? Do you plan on hiding in the dark for the rest of your life? What, feeling self pity for yourself?”

Plawan glared at the man but it hardly packed any punch. He was all out of anger by now. Because the man was right, Plawan did pity himself. Only someone like him would get stuck with a dead father who drowned him in debt over liquor and gambling.

“I want to see you.” The man suddenly said, his free hand coming to rest right near Plawan’s head. Plawan blinked as he tried to ask what the man was insinuating but he was shushed by the tight grip moving to his jaw. “It must’ve been, ages since I last saw you. You don’t remember me at all?”

Plawan frowned, reaching his free hand to press against the man’s chest. He tried to push him away with as much strength as possible but the man hardly budged.

The man let out a breathless sigh, his gaze felt as if he was drowning Plawan. He was staring at Plawan with a sort of fondness that he wasn’t used to. Maybe you would stare at him lovingly sometimes but it was family like.

This… This was filled with tenderness and a type of warmth Plawan didn’t think was possible for someone like him.

Plawan stiffened as the man’s hand slowly loosened its grip on his jaw, his thumb pressing against his lips. He pressed down on his bottom lip, parting them open. Plawan stared up at the man in shock—wondering what type of humiliation was this supposed to be.

“I want you, Plawan. Even with the burn marks on your arms.” He leaned down and captured Plawan’s lips into a searing kiss. Plawan’s hands tightened their grip on the man’s shirt as his eyes widen.

How’d he—?

The kiss was hungry, as if the man was kissing Plawan like he’d never get to ever again. Plawan reached up and tightly squeezed the man’s nose, gasping when his lips were finally free.

The man cursed, rubbing the tip of his nose as he slightly glared at Plawan. But it hardly felt scary—just a glare you’d give a loved one after they slightly pissed you off.

“Plawan—”

“P’Hope?” Plawan cut him off, knowing there was only two people in the world who knew about his burn marks.

You….

And his ex-boyfriend.

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

“Where is he?” You frowned, watching the clock on your phone. It was reaching 11:20 pm. It couldn’t really take thirty minutes to walk back home.

You were sitting at the small water fountain in the center of the complex. The complex used to be more luxurious until the original owner crossed paths with Lily. After that, it went downhill. At least that’s what people that have lived here for over thirty years attest.

You only moved here for Plawan. Your family wasn’t rich or even comfortable by any means. They just never got into debt by pure luck. You knew many people who unfortunately fell for loan sharks for medical debt, house loans, and other financial crisis.

To say your parents didn’t want you to move here was an understatement. But you’d do anything for Plawan. Your mom joked that he was practically your son, even if you were only two years older than him.

It was the least you could do for him, at least that’s how you thought about it.

You tapped away at your phone—debating if it’d be smart to call him again. Loan sharks wouldn’t usually follow you to work unless you leave them no choice. But they didn’t follow their own rules half of the time.

“Waiting for someone?”

An immediate frown pulled in your lips at that voice. You hadn’t seen him for over a month now—almost believing you imagined the whole situation.

“Why are you here?” You managed to whisper, still not able to look him in the eye. “Collecting late night debt?”

The man only hummed as he walked over to you, sitting down on the edge of the fountain. You immediately scooted over. He let out a humorless chuckle. Great, you certainly showed him that you didn’t fear him at all.

“(Name) Piniwat.”

“Scary, you know my name now. Should I search for yours now too?”

“Saint.”

You scoffed. “Your parents were funny giving you that name.”

“They were no saints themselves.”

You rolled your eyes and checked your phone again. “Where’s your lackeys?” The time read 11:28 pm.

“Why, did you want an audience?”

“Audience?” You finally looked over at Saint, seeing him look straight ahead as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was calm as he lit it up with a lighter—leaving you to just stare at him in confusion.

Whatever goes on in that man’s head wasn’t something you wanted to really learn more about it. It must be like opening a Pandora’s box.

Seeing no point in entertaining him any longer, you moved to stand up only for his hand to grab the back of your collar. A gasp left your lips as you stared at him shock.

One minute you were staring at him—the next, you were underwater.

His left hand held your collar, the right gripped your neck. Your hand dropped your phone onto the ground as you immediately gripped at his arms and shoulders. They travelled frantically across his body.

You took a deep breath just as he brought you back up. Your chest heaved as you greedily took in as much air your lungs could bear. Saint stared down at you, his cigarette between his lips. Smoke blew from his nose as he let out a slight chuckle.

“You look good wet.” He said just as he dunked you back into the fountain.

Your legs flailed, sneakers scrapping against the concrete as you dug your nails into his arms. You tried to keep your lips closed to prevent yourself from drowning but it was easier said than done.

He pulled you out with just one hand, tightly grasping your t-shirt. His gaze was neutral as he watched you gasp for air.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” his voice didn’t waver as he kneeled down close, your nose bumping into his. “Leave or I’ll have my fun with you.”

You gritted your teeth, mustering your best glare. Your body was shivering now due to the cool air that swirled around you. “I’ll never abandon Plawan.”

Saint leaned away, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. He blew out a puff a smoke and sighed. The cigarette fell to the floor as he stepped on it with his loafers.

“You’re already more fun than he was.” He said.

Water filled your lungs. This time his hand was pushing down at your neck, applying pressure. You couldn’t think straight and began panicking. Your body shook and flailed against his as you essentially fought for your life.

The thought of being murdered in a fountain that hadn’t been cleaned in years was an embarrassing thought.

But it was less than the fear of leaving Plawan alone with someone as sick and twisted as Saint.

Just as it felt like you were losing the fight, you were harshly pulled out. Your t-shirt had tore from the force of his strength. It was an old thing—no wonder it tore so easily. Your chest was fully free to the cool air as you coughed and heaved.

A hand cradled your head, holding it high just as you felt yourself being lifted up. You coughed, spitting out water and spit onto your chest. Your eyes struggled to stay open as footsteps filled your head.

You took another greedy gasp for air, resting your head against the solid wall you were pressed against. It felt warm. You could’ve sworn you were hearing a heartbeat. The rhythmic sound of a beating heart brought a sense of peace.

Your hand shakily pressed against the wall, your finger beginning to tap in harmony with the beating.

“Wan…” You whispered as your body officially lost the battle against the fatigue.

“High school sweethearts? Hm. If it works, it works. Whatever you do with Plawan is none of my concern—so long as you do your work. Do I have him? Mhm, I took him for a swim, he didn’t disappoint.”

Don’t be too harsh? If he breaks too early then it’ll be his fault. Did you get a copy of his key? No, I’m not at the complex. Why would I willingly stay there? Am I keeping him here?”

Can’t say. He’s currently listening in. If you’re waiting until I fall asleep—no need. The door can’t be unlocked without a key.”

Saint ended the phone call, watching as you quickly burrowed yourself underneath the comforter. He couldn’t help but smirk slightly. Were you stupid? Possibly.

He carelessly tossed his phone onto the nightstand beside him and got up from the chair. He had brought you back here after you fainted. His apartment. It wasn’t lavish by any means but it was decorated with furniture that only someone with money could afford.

The bed slowly dipped as Saint leaned onto the bed, hovering over you. He stared at you before pulling down the comforter, enjoying the surprised look on your face.

Your eyes were wide—body curled into yourself. But even then, he could tell that you had a growing anger in your eyes. Good, you would be fun.

“Did you collect any useful information?” Saint asked, sitting down on the bed. His hand slowly moving to brush your hair. “Unfortunately for you, your movement quickened at the mention of Plawan. He really is your weakness.”

You mustered a glare, moving to sit up. “Don’t touch me. It’s not a weakness to care about someone.”

Saint hummed, he moved his hand away. His eyes flickered to your neck. “It’s lightweight.”

“Huh?” You glanced down before touching your neck, noticing a collar was there. Your fingers tried to tug underneath it but it was as if it was stuck to your skin. “What—what the hell is this?”

“Don’t speak so loudly—it’s 3 am.” He reached over and pushed your hands away, looping his finger around a metallic item hanging off the collar. “Skin tight, you can hardly feel it. Does it scare you?”

“Take it off.”

“Hm. The padlock is small, to break it, you’d have to be careful to not accidentally cut yourself.” He continued, ignoring your words. “Though, if I find you with it off,” his voice lowered as his hand gripped your hair, pulling you in close harshly. “I’ll dispose of you.”

Saint released his grip on you, glancing back at his phone once it began to ring. You coughed slightly and rubbed the back of your head. He was insane—to think he actually collared you like a dog. You were his mutt, just like that Hope guy.

“Hm? He wants to talk?”

You flinched when he tapped your cheek, glancing over to see him hold up his phone. He lazily shook his phone when you didn’t make any attempt to grab it. Deciding to keep him as calm as possible—you grabbed the phone.

“Hia?”

“Plawan?!” You yelled, a wide grin immediately spreading on your lips. “Where are you? Are you okay? Did you make it home?”

“Mhm. I’m okay. I got home by midnight… you weren’t at the fountain.” Plawan sighed slightly. “I’m sorry. I dragged you into this mess—he has you, right?”

You glanced over at Saint, seeing him tilt his head at your gaze. He looked unfazed by your eyes. You quickly looked away. “It’s ok. I can handle myself. Who are you with? They aren’t bothering you, yea?”

“Plawan is the safest he can be right now. Hope wouldn’t hurt his little boyfriend,” Saint suddenly chimed in. “Oh, of course, unless I tell him to. Maybe then you should be worried.”

“You…” You glared at Saint, wanting nothing more to strangle him to death. “Little boyfriend? Did you sell Plawan into—” the thought made you sick to your stomach that you couldn’t even finish it.

“Hia! It’s not like that.” Plawan quickly placated you. “I know Khun Hope.”

“Khun Hope?” A voice said, startling Plawan. “I’m suddenly Khun Hope?”

You frowned. That voice sounded familiar. “That mutt guy?” You whispered, hearing Plawan say something to Hope that you couldn’t decipher.

“I’m ok, Hia (Name). There was a pearl on the ground that I came across earlier. Before I came home I saw a black bird and this guy selling pig meat so late at night, weird right?”

“Mhm.” Pearl, Nok, and Muu. You let out a slight sigh in relief. Those three would be able to watch that mutt for you. Until you found a way out at least. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell that mutt that if you have any new scars I’ll kill him.”

Plawan laughed slightly. “Okay. Do you want shrimp for dinner?”

Gung. “Yea. Make sure to buy it in the morning. It gets sold out quickly.”

You sighed just as the phone call ended. It hardly did anything to bring you any sense of relief but it was better than nothing.

Saint hummed beside you. “Tomorrow? You think you’ll be going home tomorrow?”

“Yes. Do I have to ask?”

“You enjoy acting like a brat,” Saint said, taking his phone from your hand. “Fine. You can go home tomorrow. It’s like aftercare.”

“Aftercare?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Just let me go to bed.” You moved to lay back down when Saint gripped your arm.

“I’m interested in you.”

You blinked, staring at Saint with a confused expression. “Wha, What do you mean interested?”

Saint gazed down at your arm, his grip loosening as he moved down to your wrist. He gripped your wrist and pulled it close to his face. His thumb pressing down onto the edge of your palm.

“I’m interested in seeing how you’ll react to pain. Interested in why you risked everything for one boy. The way the blood flows through your veins.”

“I’m not a science experiment.” You tried to pull your hand away but his grip only tightened.

“Mhm. More like a toy. I’ll enjoy you until you break.”

“Then you’ll be dealing with me until you get bored.”

Saint looked away from your wrist. He reached over and grasped your shirt. You flinched and wondered what he could be doing when he pulled the already tattered shirt further apart.

You tried pulling away again as he harshly pushed you onto the bed, moving to hover over you. His bangs almost tickled your forehead. His eyes stared down at you—he was silent as he seemingly took in your face.

“Even in submission,” he whispered, releasing your shirt, his hand resting on your collarbone. “You glare at me.” His hand slowly tightened its grip before shooting up, grasping your neck.

A choked gasp left you. He mad no effort to tighten his grip. His gaze simply watching your reaction.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of being scared.” You grunted out.

Saint hummed, releasing your hand as he reached into his pants pocket. “It’s good that you don’t. Then it wouldn’t be fun.” Your eyes narrowed at the moment just as he pulled out a switchblade.

Any feeling of defiance was long gone. Your eyes widen in terror as you began thrashing underneath him. Your hands pushing at his chest, your legs kicking and trying to help you use your lower body to toss him off.

The thought of the knife touching your skin terrified you to death. A slight wet whimper left your throat. You were awaiting the cool blade to touch your skin. Until you noticed he had stopped moving.

You slowly opened your eyes, having not realized they had closed. His hair tickled your nose as he stared down at you. The knife was no where to be found. His hand was empty. The only thing you received was a slight calculated smirk on his lips.

“Thought so.” He said, reaching up to wipe away your tears with his thumb. You hadn’t even noticed that you were crying. “You’re scared deep down.”

“What is wrong with you?” You managed to grit out, your voice shaky.

“Many things. Though if I told you,” he leaned down, his breath tickling your ear. “I’d have to kill you. I’m still Khun Lily’s mutt, that’s what you call us, right?”

You watched as he pulled away. A mutt? Saint didn’t say anything else, getting up and began to taking off his suit.

“What do you mean?”

“What I said.” Saint bluntly said, tossing his tie on the chair. “What, do you really think I call the shots here?” For the first time since you’ve seen him, his face actually contorted into a human expression. One eyebrow rose, eyes wider, a jester like grin on his lips.

He turned his back to you, slipping off his button up. Your eyes widen at the sight—scars, burn marks, and something that resembled a whip, coated his back. They were healed but a few looked recent.

“You’re my toy for a reason.” He said, turning over to face you after having his pajama shirt on. “I’m Khun Lily’s toy, it’s only fair I get to have my own to relieve some stress. I think I’m quite nicer than how she treats her own.”

Saint sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He began to unbuckle his pants. You couldn’t help but watch. There were the same marks littered all over his legs. The sight made you question the rest of his body.

Compared to the other loan sharks, Saint wore a button up that covered his neck. You didn’t get to see his arms as he changed—too focused on the shocking sight of his back. Was there scars all over him?

Just how dangerous was Khun Lily?

“I get it.” You said, watching Saint. “You’re already damaged goods so you just want to make others hurt just like you. What, do you don’t feel lonely, huh?”

Saint didn’t say anything, continuing on with his routine. He diligently put away the knives that were hidden in his pants, jacket, tie, socks, and shoes in a drawer. You were uncomfortable at the fact he could hide so many so easily.

You scowled at the lack of reaction. Just because you were technically under his thumb right now didn’t mean you couldn’t push back. You slipped out of the bed and walked over to where he was.

“I should’ve known that some loan sharks might’ve had their own debts. How much do you owe her? More than Plawan’s debt? Since you essentially sold your body to her.”

No reaction. You almost pouted.

Saint began folding his pants and shirt, placing them on the chair. You groaned in frustration and reached over, roughly pulling his shoulder. He looked back at you with a slightly raised eyebrow as you began pushing him back against the wall.

“I’m not the first person to say that, huh?” You asked, glaring up at him. “Others must call you a whore behind your back—”

“Is this your attempt at provoking me?”

“You know the answer.”

Saint hummed, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’ll give you this—no one has ever been brave enough to say that to my face.”

“I have more than just words.” You said. Your hand moved up to hold the back of his head as you pulled him into a kiss. Saint immediately uncrossed his arms and gripped your shoulders. Without much effort, he pushed you away.

You stared up at him in confusion. “What? Isn’t this what you wanted out of a toy? Sexual pleasure? Is it not fun if it’s not forced onto me?”

Saint glowered at you. “I don’t have sex with toys.” He harshly gripped your face, pushing you with just one hand. You gripped his hand as you glared at him, forced to move back towards the bed. “Sex is pointless. When I could gain satisfaction from seeing you plead for your life.”

Sex is pointless? You blinked, the cogs in your brain turning.

He’s a virgin.

“Was I your first kiss?” You muttered, fighting the urge to smirk if he wasn’t squeezing your face.

Saint scoffed, pushing you down on the bed. “Why, would that make you happy?”

You grunted at the force. His answer was all you really needed as you smirked up at him. You leaned further back on the bed, purposely spreading your legs to allow your shorts to ride up.

“More than happy.” You whispered, catching his gaze flickering down your thighs. But any slight of arousal you thought he would show was nowhere to be seen. He almost looked bored at the sight as he simply shook his head and walked off to the bathroom.

You had a plan to survive Saint and get him and the other loan sharks off Plawan’s back.

You’d get him to fall for you.

Or at the very least, get him obsessed with you.

Shouldn’t be hard enough… right?

lol. Plot twist? Don’t worry, he’s gonna get freaky later. Just wanted to do a little set up. If yall liked Plawan’s PoV, I’ll add a bit more next time, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t take over you. Ask to be tagged for part 2

ps. Nok, Muu, and Gung is the word for bird, pig, and shrimp in Thai. These can also be someone’s nickname. Pearl is already mentioned. But Plawan is basically hinting that Nok, Muu, and Pearl (residents at the complex) saw Plawan get home and know that Hope is with him, meaning they’ll keep an eye out. Him telling Gung is for part 2~

Tag list: @carnalcrows @chill-guy-but-cooler @the-ultimate-librarian @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @smellwell @tomoeroi @castocipher @iwishtobeacrow @tehyunnie @remdayz @love-kha1 @rhetorical-conscience @star-3214 @mooncarvers-world @cherry-blossoms-187 @secretivemessenger @yuzuukix @bensontrechic @anchoredphoenix @ning1e @m00n-b4b3

[lovetei]

Your best friends are happy that someone is courting you, sure. But they need to remind him who's there for you first.

LUCIFER who even invited him to a dinner with you three, it almost seems like a date, between you and Lucifer that is. Laughing a little louder on your cute comments and even going as far as to put his hand on your thigh in front of him, "You never fail to make me happy, MC." he said as he cupped your face gently, staring at your eyes lovingly.

MAMMON who insisted he's innocent. Dropping you off and picking you up from RAD on his luxury car, incomparable to that jerke piece of junk. He revs in front of you while he's trying to get to know you, "Hey babe. Get in, we have somewhere important to go to. Can I drop him off too? Nah, sorry babe. Not enough space for three." He said with a condescending smirk while looking down at him.

LEVIATHAN who never forgets to get on your suitors nerves, always acting like the weird, creepy best friend you picked up because you felt sorry. Sitting close on you in the cafeteria, stealing away all your attention and giving out non-stop inside jokes to make your suitor feel out of place, "Remember when we went to that festival? Yeah, our matching clothes was totally lit!" He said while scooting even closer to show you the pictures.

SATAN who's just too picture perfect to even compare to that lump of flesh you call a suitor. MC, if you're lonely, all you need to do is call him and he'll give you the best time. Letting this piece of mutated lab experiment think he have a chance against him is too mean! "MC where are you going? He asked you out on a... Date? Oh, MC did you forget? We're supposed to study for your he and curses exam. Let's go." He pulled on your arm, leaving no room for explanation or excuse.

ASMODEUS who acts like the meanest best friend out there, always insulting this suitor of yours. You're surprised, usually, he's so sweet and caring but towards your suitor, it's as if he's the most vile thing Asmo has laid his eyes on. He crossed his legs as you introduced your suitor to your best friend, he scoffed, "Who's this? Another charity work? Oh dear, MC. You're far too kind for him, he's probably just taking advantage of you to sit with us. People of our pedigree are always taken advantage of, after all." He explained softly.

BEELZEBUB who's known as the jock of the academy, and you, you're probably known as his popular-part of the cheer squad-partner. You're basically off limits to everyone else so he wonders where this puny shrimp got his audacity from to even get close and think he has a chance to get you. Before the game, he would always drape his big arms on your shoulder, "Cheer loud for me, 'mkay?" and lay a sweet kiss on your forehead as if your suitor isn't watching.

BELPHEGOR never misses a chance to prove this lower demon who's boss and who you like more. Whenever your suitor is feeling sad and in need of your comfort, Belphie will suddenly feel pain on his abdomen and as usual, you will run to his side with that delicious look on your face, that look that doesn't give a damn about anyone else other than him. "I'm sorry, MC... I'm always ruining your plans... I'm more important? Well..." as it should be.

[p1girlfriend]

you're scared of thunderstorms – f1 grid reactions

lando norris the thunder cracks, and your whole body flinches he looks over from the couch and instantly drops his controller “oh no. baby. c’mere.” pulls you into his hoodie like it’s armor and wraps himself around you

“it’s just sky burps. loud, annoying sky burps. i got you.”

oscar piastri you go completely silent during the storm and curl up small he notices right away sits beside you without a word, hands you a soft blanket and holds your hand

“i’ll stay right here. you don’t have to say anything.” lets you put your head in his lap while he reads quietly to distract you

charles leclerc you jump at a thunderclap while brushing your teeth and he rushes in like

“did you fall? are you okay?” you whisper, “i hate storms.” his whole face softens. tucks you into bed and climbs in with you “i’ll talk until you fall asleep, d’accord? you’re safe.”

lewis hamilton you’re trying to hide it, but he sees right through you sits beside you and gently rubs your arm

“what do you need right now, love? silence? my voice? a song?” puts on your favorite calming playlist kisses your forehead between booms “nothing’s gonna hurt you while i’m here.”

carlos sainz a lightning flash makes you yelp and jump into his side he holds you tightly and half-laughs, but it’s soft

“you’re shaking.” carries you to bed, lights a candle, and wraps you in his arms like a human weighted blanket “storms pass. i don’t.”

daniel ricciardo pretends he’s not taking it seriously until he sees your face then all jokes drop

“hey, no teasing, i promise. you okay?” sits you in his lap, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder tells dumb stories and makes you laugh softly “we’ll ride it out together, alright?”

max verstappen you crawl under the covers and he follows without a word pulls you into his chest, one hand steady on your back

“it’s just noise. i’m not going anywhere.” stays up with you the whole time mutters sleepy little things in your hair “if you need to squeeze me when it hits, do it. i don’t mind.”

gabriel bortoleto you flinch every time the thunder rolls and he notices from across the room immediately goes to you, cups your face

“hey. hey. look at me.” kisses your forehead “you’re with me. okay? nothing can get you here.” holds your hand tight through every flash

franco colapinto you’re pacing in the hallway because of the storm he gently guides you back to the couch, wraps a blanket around your shoulders

“shh, mi amor. sit with me.” tells you about his childhood storms and how he used to imagine the clouds just playing “they’re loud. but they go away. and i’ll stay.”

lance stroll he finds you curled up on the couch, staring out the window, body tense immediately grabs the softest hoodie and wraps it around you

“storms freak you out, huh?” sits beside you and pulls you into his chest, lets your head rest over his heart “that sound? that’s all you need to focus on. just me. right here.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[amoressb]

───── MY BIGGEST FAN 西村 力 N. RK

ꪆৎ ⋆˚࿔ you missed him, so why not go to his groups fansign to get his autograph…and him ｡｡ ɪᴅᴏʟ ʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

FLUFF & wc. 1490 + / kissing , skinship , petnames ｡｡

──── ARCHiVE

the venue buzzed with the soft thunder of excited fans, murmuring anticipation and rustling albums clutched tightly to chests. the fansign had just begun, and riki was seated in the center of the table with his members, his body present but his mind drifting.

he was polite as always, playful when prompted, but something about today felt heavier. the kind of heavy that came from being weeks apart from you. every tour stop, every rehearsal, every sleep deprived night had been softened only by your voice through a phone screen, your little texts full of love, your late night videos reminding him to eat and sleep.

but it still wasn’t you.

riki tried to shake it off as he scribbled messages on photobooks and smiled through soft fan interactions. his fingers twirled the pen absentmindedly and he barely noticed the way staff was subtly guiding the next fan toward him.

until he looked up and the air was knocked clean out of his lungs.

there you were. no hoodie. no mask. no disguise. just you—his beautiful girl. smiling, radiant, beautiful, and very much real. you stood there like a dream, an album in your hand and the most mischievous look on your face.

“hi riki,” you said sweetly, as if you weren’t flipping his entire world upside down.

his eyes went wide. for a second, he froze completely, mouth slightly parted. he almost stood up out of instinct, chest surging with the need to touch you, pull you in, confirm you weren’t a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and too many energy drinks.

but staff, cameras, and fans. he forced himself to sit still. barely. “i—what—” his words fumbled out in a whisper. “you’re here?”

you placed the album down gently in front of him, your eyes sparkling. “what, not gonna sign for your biggest fan?” he blinked at the photobook, then slowly back up at you. “this is so evil.”

“don’t worry, i brought a pen,” you teased, tapping your fingers on the table. “autograph, please. make it special.”

riki tried to act cool, but his hands trembled slightly as he opened the album. the page you picked already had one of his pictures staring back at him. his sleepy post concert smile, the one you always said was your favorite.

he swallowed hard, willing his hands to move normally as he signed his name. underneath it, he scribbled a small, hidden message in tiny handwriting only you would understand : i’ve been going crazy without you.

then, as discreetly as he could manage, he slid his hand across the table. his fingers grazed yours and you didn’t hesitate. you interlaced your hands beneath the cover of the album, warm and familiar and home.

riki exhaled softly, the relief palpable in his shoulders. “i thought you were in L.A. until next week,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours.

“changed my flight,” you whispered back. “surprise.”

“best surprise of my life,” he murmured, squeezing your hand.

jake was the first to notice and from two seats down, he let out a very obvious, very exaggerated cough followed by a knowing smirk. riki didn’t even care. he was too busy trying to hold it together while every instinct in his body screamed to get up and hold you properly.

but you gave his hand one final squeeze before gently pulling back, eyes warm and full of unspoken promise. “see you backstage?”

“don’t run. i’m coming straight for you.” you winked, took the signed album, and stepped away. suddenly, the world was colorless without you standing in front of him.

the rest of the fansign was torture.

he powered through somehow, offering smiles and laughter like his heart hadn’t just nearly burst. but every few minutes, his eyes flicked toward the back exit, counting down the seconds until he could bolt.

and finally, finally, it ended.

the moment the cameras cut and the last fan waved goodbye, riki was up. he didn’t wait for staff instructions or even say goodbye to his members. he moved through the backstage corridors like a man on a mission, heart hammering, eyes scanning every corner.

then he turned into the hallway behind the dressing rooms and there you were. waiting against the wall, your fingers nervously twisting at the hem of your shirt, until you saw him.

“baby—”

he didn’t say a word. he closed the space in three long strides and wrapped his arms around you so tightly you gasped. he pressed his face into your shoulder, breathing you in like oxygen, like something he hadn’t had in too long.

“i missed you,” you whispered.

“never, ever leave me that long again,” he said into your neck. “that was the absolute worst.”

you chuckled, arms winding around him. “you’re so dramatic.”

he leaned back, hands cupping your cheeks. “i’m not. you were right there and i couldn’t even kiss you.”

your eyes softened, “you can now.”

that’s all it took before he kissed you. softly at first, then deeper, slower, like he was trying to make up for every second you two had been apart. one hand cradled the back of your head, the other still wrapped tight around your waist.

when he finally pulled away, he rested your foreheads together, noses brushing as his thumbs caressed your cheeks.

“you’re not going back to L.A. tomorrow, right?” he asked, breath still warm against your lips.

“i have five days here,” you whispered, your hands sliding up his back and curling at the nape of his neck.

“then cancel everything. i’m keeping you,” he said, dead serious.

you laughed softly, but it was the kind that came from deep in your chest. the kind that said i missed you just as much. “what would you even do with me for five days straight?”

his eyes narrowed slightly, a playful glint flashing through them. “are you asking me to give you a full itinerary?”

“ki—”

“okay, okay,” he smirked, hands trailing down to your waist, pulling you a little closer. “first, i’m gonna spend the rest of tonight with you in my arms. no distractions. no stage lights. no rushing to the next schedule. just us.”

you smiled up at him, your fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck. “then what?”

“then tomorrow, i’m taking you to every spot i wanted to show you while i was on tour here. that one cafe i kept texting you about? the one with the strawberry croissants?”

“you’ve been thinking about strawberry croissants this whole time?”

“no,” he said, voice dropping a little lower, “i’ve been thinking about you trying them and getting powdered sugar on your lips so i can have an excuse to kiss it off.”

you blushed and he laughed gently, dipping his head down to kiss the corner of your mouth.

he pulled back just enough to look at you fully, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing every part all over again. “you’re really here,” he said again, almost to himself, “i still can’t believe it.”

“i wanted to see you,” you said softly. “you’ve looked so tired on camera lately.” he smiled, the kind of smile that only came when he was completely, fully at ease. “i’ve been tired. missing you is exhausting.”

you tilted your head. “you’re such a drama queen.” he leaned in again, brushing his lips over yours with a light laugh. “only for you.”

you two stood like that for a moment, just the two of you, wrapped up in each other in the quiet hallway where no one else could see. no stylists, no managers, no fans. just you and riki. his arms around you, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and the buzz of the outside world finally quiet for the first time in weeks.

then he whispered, lips brushing your hair, “come back with me to the dorm. the others will scream, but i need you to be with me tonight. i just…want to fall asleep next to you.”

your voice was soft, “are you sure?”

he nodded, eyes glassy with how much he missed you. “i don’t care who sees anymore. i just want you. i want to hold your hand outside a fansign. i want you in my bed, stealing my blankets and kicking me in your sleep.”

“you miss me kicking you?” you teased.

“i’d let you drop kick me if it meant waking up with you next to me.” that earned him a laugh so bright and familiar, it made his chest ache in the best way. he took your hand again, kissed the back of it, and looked into your eyes. “come with me?”

you nodded and just like that, you left together, his fingers laced with yours, hearts finally full again. he made it through the photos, the smiles, the empty days of pretending.

now he had what he really needed. you, in his arms, for real, and he wasn’t letting go.

⋆｡°✩ @cheruphic @liwinly @chrrific @hyukabean @ijustwannareadstuff20 @jellyluv4eva @heekolazz @soona-huh

[byfawn]

THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole. 

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment. 

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you. 

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed. 

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse. 

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest. 

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber. 

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out. 

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you. 

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy. 

 the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement. 

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent. 

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught. 

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says. 

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs. 

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands. 

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it. 

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you. 

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable. 

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

 you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town. 

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation. 

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off. 

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway. 

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin. 

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be. 

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him. 

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so. 

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful. 

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years—each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

[ktownshizzle]

Pigments & Playlists [Final] | myg

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Between makeup and music, you find the one person worth blurring the lines for. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluffy coworkers to lovers, idol au, older woman (by a few years), smut ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: SMUT MDNI!, Undercut Yoongi!!, MC-noona is the embodiment of “independent check, got her own check”, office shenanigans as always, exhibitionist kink, fingering, edging, very minor pain kink, use of a blindfold, power play (im new to writing this so pls forgive any errors), unprotected p in v, idk tell me if i missed any of it, unfair/sexist HR practices, insinuation of self-harm (assumed wrongly), MC hatin’ on HYBE, happy ending woohoo ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 9k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: June 21, 2025 ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Yoongi’s discharge today. So proud of you, baby! 💜 Thank you so much @tea4sykes for your brilliant ideas, betareading, and basically keeping me motivated in writing this! Love yew! ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes 2: Hope you guys enjoy reading this~ Made it a personal goal to publish today, because I didn't know how June 21 was gonna go for us, but I was sure it was going to be emotional. Consider this a gift from me to you. However you may be feeling today, I hope this makes you smile.

[Full taglist to follow in rbs.]

Part One | Yoongi Masterlist

So Yoongi disappeared after he did that. Frankly, how dare he?!

Way too many thoughts swirling in your head while you lay awake and there is no way you’ll be able to sleep.

Your arm flies across the bed as your hand pulls your nightstand drawer and fumbles inside for the one thing you need to help yourself relax…

Nah. Not the rabbit.

Tiger Balm.

You dab a bit on your temples and the tip of your nose and inhale deeply, letting the menthol work its magic. Yup. That’s the stuff.

Unfortunately, you’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour, heart thudding like something’s wrong. Except nothing’s wrong. You kissed. That’s all.

You kissed and now you’re thinking about it way too much. Not because it was bad. Because it was… something.

And because the more you think about it, the more it’s starting to scare you how much you need it to happen again.

You sigh. Rub at the menthol on your nose, frustrated it didn’t thwart your torturous thoughts.

And then you do the logical thing. You call.

It rings once. Twice.

“...Noona?”

His voice is low, a little scratchy. Not groggy, just sleep-warm.

You swallow. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

“Nah it’s fine,” he says. “You okay?”

You hesitate. “Kind of.”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t fill it. Just waits.

You exhale, quiet. “Remember when you said I could call you if I couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t about my ex though,” you say.

“Okay.”

“It’s about you.”

That makes him hum. You hear the faint rustle of his sheets, like he’s sitting up.

“Me?”

“Own up to what you did.”

Faint chuckles crackle through your phone and you can almost imagine how he looks. Eyes like the moon, shoulders bobbing, grin smug as shit.

“What did I do?”

You groan, tack his name at the end of it.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” he says after a beat. “Is that a problem?”

“I don’t know yet,” you reply. “It makes me anxious.”

He hums softly. “Because?”

“Because I liked it,” you say. “And I kinda hate how much I’m thinking about it. And you’re probably chill.”

There’s a long silence.

Then he says, calm and careful: “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

“Thought you don’t date coworkers.”

“And then there’s you.”

You let out a huff—relieved, breathy, kinda giddy. “That’s… okay.”

“Yeah.” 

You sit up in bed, pulling your knees in.

“I was gonna wait,” you admit. “To see if you’d make the next move. But then I figured that’s dumb. I’m not a teenager.”

“No. You’re definitely not.”

“You don’t mind it?”

“Mind what?”

“That I’m older?” You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see.

“Noona,” he breathes. “I’m not really someone who cares about things like that. At the end of the day aren’t we all just human beings trying to find a connection?”

God this man. Your mouth moves before you can think about it any more. “If you’re not too busy… you wanna come over sometime?”

There’s a pause. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

 “Noona,” he says, teasing, “are you asking me on a…”

“Yes, Yoongi,” you cut in. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

He laughs. Really laughs. Low and bright and warm through the speaker. You want to bottle that sound.

“Technically, I did ask first,” he says. “But yeah. I’ll come over.”

You kick your feet under the duvet before replying, “Okay.”

You talk more.

About nothing. About music. About how Namjoon’s on his ass about a song. About how he’s been working out. You tease him mercilessly about how he just casually dropped the last part.

At some point, the sky turns blue.

When you finally hang up, your body feels softer, a little less anxious. And when you fall asleep, it’s his cute throaty laugh still echoing in your head.

“Yoongi, will you please stop making that face? I’m trying to even out your eyeliner,” you scold, trying not to laugh.

Yoongi, the piece of shit, still keeps at his :] while you skim a q-tip along the outer corner of his eye.

“Yoongi-hyung, why are you acting cutely?” Hobi asks from the next chair. “Are we even filming right now?”

A flush creeps up Yoongi’s cheeks as he responds, mock indignant, “What? This is my face. Not my fault I was born cute.”

You meet Hobi’s eyes in the mirror. Then, he winks. You immediately look away, vaguely mortified.

Wait—does everybody know?

Trying to recover, you boop your powder puff on Yoongi’s nose, sending a cloud of setting powder into the air. “Quit it.”

He coughs once, laughing as the puff drops to his lap. Okay shit, good thing he is wearing khaki slacks and not black pants. But finally, he relaxes.

“Noona, you have a Rejuran appointment later,” Jimin chimes in.

Your head snaps up. “What? How did you…?”

Jimin grins from across the room, eyes glued to your phone screen where it’s charging in one of the other stations. Your sockets were full, so you left it there earlier and a calendar alert must’ve popped up.

“You’re so nosy, Jimin.”

“What’s Rejuran?” Hobi asks, peering over with mild curiosity. “I’ve heard that somewhere.”

“It’s just a kind of facial,” you say breezily, catching Hyein’s knowing glance as she smooths Hobi’s hair with her Dyson. These boys don’t need to know your anti-aging secrets.

“They inject salmon sperm into noona’s face,” Jimin announces with a totally straight face, mischief glinting in his eyes.

“Salmon what?!” Yoongi blurts, snapping his head up to look at you. Hobi recoils with a horrified grimace.

“Park Jimin, when I catch you—!”

Jimin squeals and ducks behind a rack of stage outfits as you toss a blending sponge in his direction, trying not to laugh yourself.

The commotion dies down, and you go back to packing up your powders, muttering under your breath, “It’s not even that weird. Just some polynucleotides. Helps stimulate collagen. Keeps the wrinkles at bay.”

Hobi raises a brow. “I don’t see wrinkles, noona.”

“Exactly.” Now it’s you who sends him a wink back.

Yoongi lets out a low chuckle. You glance at him and catch him typing something into his Notes app. Thankfully everyone goes back to their own damn business.

A second later, Yoongi tilts the screen toward you just enough for you to read it: Friday night?

Your hand holding a brush freezes for half a second over his cheek.

He’s already looking away like he didn’t just casually drop that invite.

“Okay,” you mumble softly under your breath.

The lilt of his lips tells you he heard it anyway.

The door buzzes. You’ve been so chill all day. Still chill. You're chill. (No, you’re not.) You rush to open the door before you make him wait too long.

Yoongi looks… casual. Just a black sweater layered over a gray tee, soft black pants. Hair tucked neatly under a beanie. He looks like your neighborhood ahjussi.

“Noona,” he says, voice muffled behind a white face mask.

“Wow. You’re on time.”

“I try to impress on the first date.”

You try not to smile too big, but fail.

He takes his mask off and hands you a small paper bag. “Dessert.”

You peek inside. Cream puffs from that place in Sinsa-dong that always sells out by 3 PM. “Did you have to bribe someone for these?”

“I have my ways.”

Dinner is simple, something you can make with your eyes closed. Miso salmon, cilantro lime rice, and a cucumber salad. You make this at least twice a month. You could’ve cooked steak or some grilled chops, something that gave a more date-night vibe, but you wanted to make the menu fool-proof.

You eat at the kitchen counter with his insistence, saying you didn’t need to set the dining table all fancy. (“It’s just me.”) So you sit close together on your bar stools, knees almost brushing. He clears his plate like it’s the best thing he’s eaten. You beam.

“Noona, this is really good,” he says, tapping a napkin against his mouth.

You smirk. “Better than Jungkook’s?”

He slides an arm on the backrest of your chair. “Are you as competitive as the maknae?”

“I’m just playing.” You chuckle. “I know mine’s better.”

He smiles, watching you quietly but intently as you sip your wine.

“What?” you ask, his stare is warming the side of your face.

“Just... haven’t done this in a while.”

“Eaten?”

“No.” He tuts, picks up his wine glass and sips before explaining, “Sat with someone like this. Them cooking for me. In their home. Talking.”

Your stomach dips. Not from nerves this time. From the way he admits it. Simple. Open.

You shrug, keeping it light. “Well. You’ve still got it.”

“Got what?”

“You know… the kids call it rizz.”

He laughs heartily, and you feel his fingers curling against your arm. “Was worried I might’ve lost my… rizz.” He overenunciates the last word, his lisp decorating the edge of the sound.

You raise your brow, not buying it. “Liar.”

He bites his lower lip and shakes his head at you. Your eyes track the way his pretty teeth sink against the pink plush and ugh. Again with this rizz.

After dishes are rinsed and placed in the dishwasher and dessert’s split between bites and laughter, the two of you end up on the couch. His arm stretched along the backrest yet again, just shy of your shoulder. Your head tilted toward his, but not touching, even if you wanted to.

There’s some Netflix movie playing in the background, purely for vibes. Neither of you are really watching. You talk about work. Gossip a bit. He asks about that corner shelf in your living room, the one with the knick knacks. You tell him stories about your travels, touring with Seventeen. He says you have the same lucky cat figurine from Hong Kong.

You try not to let his voice get under your skin. It’s different hearing his warm, caramelly tone when you’re not otherwise occupied with evening out his contour or with the buzz of a hair dryer in the background. It’s criminal how smooth it is when it’s all you need to focus on, even more so when he’s being earnest.

He glances at your hand resting on his thigh. (How did it get there???) Then up at your face. You nod before your brain realizes that he in fact did not ask a question.

But then he leans in and all thoughts fly out the window. His lips taste like vanilla cream and maybe the wine you shared earlier. It’s sweet. Even better than the first one because you’re ready for it.

You shift closer, hands finding their way to the hem of his sweater, thumbs brushing warm skin underneath. His breath catches a little. And then his fingers are trailing up your arm, until they settle gently on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, coaxing your mouth open so he can press his tongue against yours. You feel dizzy with want.

His hands stay respectful, never wandering too far. Just the faint brush against the back of your neck, the side of your thigh. But every press of his calloused fingers leaves a quiet, contained fire in its wake. You need more.

You move closer, straddling his lap, never breaking contact with his mouth. He kisses you deeper, sloppier when your weight settles against him. His tongue licks into your mouth expertly and you welcome it. It teases you long enough to make you wonder how it might feel in other places, too. 

Like butter, you're melting, unraveling as his hands find more courage—one sliding up, pausing at your ribs, then higher to cup your tits. He groans into your mouth and it nearly ruins you. You roll your hips forward, barely a grind, just enough to feel him straining between you. Just enough to hear him groan again. 

You make out for what feels like an eternity. But you think you’re both on the same page, when your mouths move a little slower, softer. Air starts to seep between your lips as you retreat. You’re somewhere between wanting more and knowing it’s not time. Not yet. But god, it’s close.

Eventually, he leans his forehead against your shoulder, both of you breathless–maybe a little embarrassed.

“I should probably go,” he murmurs, even as he hugs you tighter at the waist.

“Probably,” you sigh, his undercut grazing your neck and igniting a dull, sweet tickle.

You stay like that for a moment, sharing the soft beat of your hearts as they slow back to normal.

He finally rises, slipping back into his white sneakers as you walk him to the door.

“Thanks for dinner,” he says, lingering by the frame.

“Thanks for coming,” you reply, fingers tightening on the knob as you hold it open.

“Next time, my place?”

“Already booking that second date?”

He pulls his mask on, but not before you catch the shy grin he tries to hide.

“I’ll bring dessert,” you offer.

“Just bring yourself. “ he says, gaze flicking down your body, before settling back on your eyes.

Oh. You are the dessert.

And this time, when the door clicks shut behind him, your heart isn’t racing from confusion. It’s welcoming the slow bloom of potential.

You: Thank you for dropping off coffee and donuts for the team Yoongi: 👌

Yoongi: finished it one sitting You: what? You: i got you 10 pcs 🍊 Yoongi: and? You: you dont get acidic? Yoongi: it’s my favorite!! You: i noticed

Yoongi: [spotify playlist link] You: hey dj suga Yoongi: thought you might like You: listened to it on the drive home Yoongi: favorite track? You: musiq soulchild - just friends Yoongi: me too

It’s not like there was a talk. No formal check-in or DTR. But somehow, as the weeks pass, the rhythm between you and Yoongi settles into something steady. There’s no pressure. No constant push for reassurance. No need to define what already feels known.

You see him constantly at work—during rehearsals, music shows, brand shoots. He’s not overly affectionate, that’s just not him. But there are moments. The way his fingers graze yours when no one’s looking. The way his eyes seek you out as soon as he walks in. The way he’ll shift his chair an inch closer when you’re touching up his base, so your knees knock just enough.

He really makes this whole thing feel easy. Comfortable in a way that still thrills you. Because what can be more thrilling at this point in your life than to finally meet somebody that makes you feel vibrant.

What surprises you most is how little insecurity you feel. You’ve seen how people look at him—the other makeup artists, stylists, managers, external clients. There’s something magnetic about him that draws attention without trying. You’ve clocked it. But Yoongi has a way of making sure you never wonder.

It’s in the way he says your name. How his eyes soften when he talks to you. How he remembers the little things. The tea you like. The one concealer you always complain about running out of. Sometimes you find a sticky note in your kit. Or a box of snacks with your name scribbled on it. Just things that say: I see you. You’re on my mind.

And then there are the others. The rest of Bangtan.

It’s a choreography video shoot day, which always means chaos. Full glam’s not required since most shots are wide, so it’s just you and Hwapyeong handling light touch-ups.

You’re finishing Yoongi’s concealer when Jungkook suddenly rests his chin on your shoulder. “Noona, if I promise to sit still, can I go next?”

Before you can answer, Jimin appears behind him. “She’s doing me next. I called dibs.”

“Not how dibs works,” Jungkook pulls back his arm for a mock-punch and Jimin clutches his heart, rattling off a litany of how Jungkook wounds him.

“Hajimaaa,” Yoongi gives them all a staredown. 

But then from across the room, Taehyung yells, “Noona, help! My concealer’s making me look gray!”

“AISH!” Yoongi snarls with his non-existent fangs. It’s not even menacing. You know now that his canines are blunt. But he tries, so you giggle.

Jin comes to your rescue. “Why are all of you crowding her? You never even get your faces done for choreo. Fuck off,” Then, sweetly, “Hi noona, just a dab of lip balm, please.”

“HYUNG!” Jungkook giggles as he shoves his elder playfully away from you and they continue to horseplay elsewhere.

Yoongi turns slowly to Jimin and Taehyung, unimpressed. “Why are you still here?”

“Because she’s nice to us,” Jimin says, fluttering his lashes at you with zero shame.

“Because we love her more than you do,” Taehyung declares with a shit-eating grin.

That gets Yoongi to raise a brow.

“Okay, enough,” you laugh, pointing your brush like a weapon. “If you want me to do all your faces, line up like kindergarteners and bring me coffee.”

“Done,” Taehyung shoots up immediately.

When they disperse to bother other members of the staff, you catch Yoongi watching you through the mirror.

“I think…” you murmur as you smooth out the edge of his eye shadow, “I just got myself a new set of boys.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his smile lingers tells you everything.

When he stands up to finally let one of the maknaes take his spot, he whispers, “For the record, I called dibs.” Then pinches your hip slightly.

You’re still grinning when Jimin plops into the chair and narrows his eyes at you. Eye-smiling. Suspicious. Rightly so.

You: check your studio door Yoongi: ? Yoongi: why Yoongi: what did you do You: just do it

(three minutes later)

Yoongi: you cooked? You: 👩‍🍳 Yoongi: you even packed utensils?? You: i’m considerate Yoongi: shit you the best You: i know you’re busy but now you don’t have an excuse Yoongi: you tryna wife me up huh? You: idiot Yoongi: cmere eat with me You: i have a thing You: meeting a makeup artist friend who started her own salon Yoongi: thats nice Yoongi: but next time come in You: k Yoongi: 134340 You: ? Yoongi: door code You: guarding it with my life

(fifteen minutes later)

Yoongi: (photo attached: empty bento box)

Curious how time has passed and with frequency and proximity, you discover new things about Yoongi. Things that only came with time. Things you wouldn’t catch if you weren’t paying attention. Things you couldn’t have known before.

There are lines you never noticed until you were tracing them at rest. Creases that only surface when he’s thinking too hard, or biting back a smile. Dimples, not on the smile lines, but on his chin, when he’s bored. And then there’s the slightest double chin when he’s slumped and snoozing when schedules get rough. It’s your job to know his face, to fill the lines. There are times you touch him a little longer, not for anything but comfort and maybe your greed. He lets you.

Lips, sweeter than any cherry balm you could ever swipe. But far more frequently chapped than you like so you’ve started packing bottled water inside your kit, making him sip while you let lip mask seep between the patches of dry skin. His lips have become your favorite. Sometimes it splits when he does that shriek he often pulls to make others laugh but then it also presses against your shoulder when he’s too tired to kiss you properly. Sometimes they murmur your name like it’s a sexy secret, and you wonder how you lived before hearing it said like that. 

There’s also his eyes. Small, but somehow holds a significant power. He has a habit of narrowing them, but now you can tell why, when he’s suspicious, or teasing or just tired, or forgot his glasses. You don’t need him to speak. Sometimes the way he looks at you says more than full conversations ever could.

His default expressions are even more cat-like up close. On default :< When he’s playful :] But your favorite is the :3. You always make sure his features stay sharp, complimenting his felinesque features. You pull his liner outward, shade his jaw, angle his brow. Lil Meow Meow, apparently he is called. And what ARMY wants, ARMY gets.

His hair is finer than it looks. Silky in a way that slips easily between your fingers when you card through it absentmindedly, especially when he’s resting his head in your lap. The strands at his nape get extra soft after he showers, curling ever so slightly where they brush against his undercut. He likes when you play with it, especially the buzzed edges, more than he lets on. You figured that out the first time you tugged a little harder and heard the way his breath caught, low in his throat. Now it’s something he leans into, shameless. One tug and suddenly he’s pliant, open.

He smells like tangerines. Rarely does he not have it in his pocket. But also, there’s this perfume he wears. It clings. Intoxicating and addicting, and you wonder if it’s just you who’s not immune. It lives in your hair, your pillow, your skin. You catch yourself breathing deeper when you catch it, like your body recognizes what’s safe faster than your mind can.

You no longer think about what you used to think of him. When he only said four words, and always closed his eyes.

Finally, you know Min Yoongi. Not the pixels, but the person.

You know him now in the noise and chaos of backstage, from watching him when you have your kit open and he’s on his chair waiting to be groomed. 

But you’ve come to know him more in the quietest hours, too. When he wakes beside you in his California king, face bathed in the kind of morning light no makeup could ever imitate. When he opens his eyes, and leans into your space like he always does, all soft and sleepy and sexy.

There’s no need to polish him here. Because this is him at his most perfect in your eyes. When you can just reach for him. 

Not because he’s Min Yoongi, the idol. 

He’s Min Yoongi, yours. Even without the labels, yet.

You: yoongi. Yoongi: ? You: we almost got caught in the fucking meeting room 😭 Yoongi: that was close. You: close??? do you know what would’ve happened if someone saw? Yoongi: i’d probably get a raise You: ddaeng i’d get fired Yoongi: we’re fine You: you are not serious Yoongi: you kissed me You: you pulled me in Yoongi: yeah and? You: AND?? Yoongi: should’ve locked the door You: Yoongi 😩 Yoongi: you wanted it You: i did NOT Yoongi: your hand was where? You: BYE

You (photo attached: wine glass, bare legs, tv in background): guess what i’m watching Yoongi: don’t care Yoongi: all i see is leg You: rude Yoongi: wear a skirt tomorrow You: so direct Yoongi: thought we’re not teenagers You: thought you said you’d behave Yoongi: sure 😃

Another day in the glam room, another TikTok dance challenge Yoongi somehow said yes to. This time with members of TXT. He’s really never beating the allegations of rizzing up his juniors.

He’s already styled when he walks in. And looking at what he’s wearing... Honestly? He’s wearing you the fuck out. And it’s barely noon.

White tank under a greige short-sleeved shirt, pretty, purple embroidered butterflies sitting on either side of his chest. But it’s the jeans—loose, shredded clean through the knees—that have you scandalized like a Victorian maiden seeing skin for the first time.

“Good morning,” you greet.

He hums, eyes you up and down shamelessly and you know the conversation last night is about to resume in the flesh.

“Hey,” he takes his spot on the chair.

“Looking forward to today?” You ask, turning to pluck a brush and pot from your kit.

“You can say that…”

As you face him, he parts his legs, glancing down at the freshly cleared spot on the floor, then looks back up at you. Waits.

You sigh, already knowing what it is. An unspoken invitation to take your place between his knees. To get closer. So you do.

“This what you wanted?” you ask, feigning indifference, as you swirl the spoolie through your brow gel, wiping off the excess on the rim.

“Not exactly,” he says, smirking, knees closing in on the side of your hips. “But close.”

You start brushing his brows up, grooming them into a perfect arch when you feel it. His fingers, slow and sneaky, sliding up your skirt, skimming the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

You look him dead in the eyes.

He winks.

“Yoongi…” you tsk, moving to brush up his other brow.

“Noona…” he shifts forward, tongue peaking on the side of his mouth, which you try try try to ignore.

“Somebody might see,” you mumble. 

“Let them.”

“Such a little shit.”

“You love it.” You freeze when you feel his fingers hook your panties to the side and when he discovers that you’re more excited than you let on, “Oooh. You really do.”

Mortified, is what you are. Soaked from anticipation and some light, slight petting. How dare your body betray you like this?!

“I like your skirt,” he murmurs. The hand that isn’t currently violating you taps the floofy fabric like it’s innocent. As if the other one isn’t busy toying with your cunt.

Dignity hanging by a thread, you grit, “Didn’t wear it for you.”

A bold-faced lie. He knows it, too. “Sure you didn’t,” he chuckles.

His index swipes your folds, lazy, teasing strokes that get deeper with every pass, never quite reaching the one spot you need him to.

“But aren’t you glad you did?” At that exact moment, he flicks your puffy clit, circling it like he’s known exactly where it was all along.

“Fuck,” you gasp, pitching forward, hands gripping his knees just to stay upright.

The pot and brush drops to the floor and rolls into oblivion. Much like your sanity.

He hisses through his teeth as he eases his middle finger inside you, walls fluttering at the sudden intrusion.

“So wet for me, baby,” he grins, lower lip caged between his pretty teeth in his pretty mouth. It’s devastating. He’s devastating. And the way he’s watching you fall apart while knuckles-deep, pumping steadily in and out of your dripping pussy only makes it worse. Or better. Definitely worse. But shit, it feels so good.

“Yoongi… shit…” you breathe, forehead falling into the crook of his neck as your knees threaten to give out. Your palms, slick with sweat, slide beneath the frayed denim of his jeans, desperate for more skin, more heat, more of him. Fingertips dig into his thigh, surely to leave little crescent moons in his flesh. He groans, but doesn’t stop. If anything, he moves with maddening precision, adding just enough pressure to make you whimper. You moan, high and sharp, the sound slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

“Feel good?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wanna cum?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do it,” he licks the shell of your ear. “I got you, baby.”

That fuckin’ does it. 

You come with a soft gasp, body jerking slightly as heat rushes through you in quiet waves. It’s not loud, not messy, but it rocks you all the same—your breath hitching, muscles clenching, forehead buried in his neck to muffle the sound.

“Shit…” you breathe, blinking as the aftershocks melt through your limbs.

He pulls his fingers out slow and slick, and you wince at the emptiness he leaves behind. 

Your mouth falls open. “Yoongi.”

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmurs, nudging his nose against yours so you look up. “When you lose control.”

His lips meet yours, stirring more chaos in your mind. When you pull back, trying to reorient yourself, he leans in again.

“Yoongi… fuck, you need to behave, okay?” You mumble against his lips, nipping his plush lower lip before attempting to pull away.

“But noona,” he lifts himself up, bucking against you once just so you feel the hardness between his thighs. “You're making it hard….”

You’re about to give in, when the door creaks open.

You spring backward like your life depends on it, bumping your back against your kit and you suppress the dull pain across your spine. A familiar voice floats in, Hyein, asking if you saw Jimin.

“Nope,” you reply as you start fixing bottles and palettes randomly. You meet Yoongi’s eyes in the mirror and almost crash out when he brings his hand to his lips—without shame, without pause—and licks two fingers clean.

You nearly choke on air.

“Yoongi needs to be out in 5,” Hyein calls out and closes the door.

The company Thanksgiving dinner isn’t really optional, since you’re both employees. But after a magazine shoot, Yoongi lingers as you pack up and still asks if you want to go with him.

“Why do you say it like that,” you laugh. “Like you’re inviting me to prom.”

 “Well… I’m down if you wanna match…” He shrugs, leaning against the wall as he watches you zip up your Zuca.

That’s how you end up in all black—simple, classic, and just a little coordinated with his own sleek black button-down shirt and pants. Yoongi always finds a way to underdress the right way. You compliment him, but he downplays it saying, he just ‘wore an old shirt.’ Yeah, it's the same look from their Grammy performance, but he says it like it should somehow make him look a little less. Joke’s on him, your humble king.

The event is important, but low-pressure. Not quite a red carpet, but still enough eyes to notice when the two of you walk in together. Thankfully Namjoon and Jin are not too far behind with one of their female producers.

You keep a respectful distance, like the professionals you are. But people see. You know they do. A couple of glances. Some whispers. Nothing rude, just… curious. To your insistence and his disappointment, you have dinner with your glam team. Because wouldn’t it be strange if you’re seated with them? You don’t know if you’re ready for a soft launch.

But it sure seems he is. The way he looks at you like there’s no one else in the room. And it’s in the way he caters to you. Like while you’re walking toward the open bar, the strap of your heel suddenly slips loose. You pause, bending slightly to fix it, but Yoongi beats you to it.

He kneels (!!) right there on the marble floor, one hand steadying your ankle as he buckles the strap with steady fingers.

You panic, pulling him by the sleeve of his shirt. “No, you don’t have to—”

 “Let me,” he tells you as he so often does. Head down, thumb brushing the side of your foot, he fixes your shoe and suddenly you’re Cinder-fuckin’-ella in your own damn fairy tale.

Obviously, more than one pair of eyes are turning toward the scene. Cos the scene is not something you see everyday: Min Yoongi, rapper-producer-self-proclaimed bad boy, on his knees for this random girl, rugged hands wrapped delicately on her ankle. 

A couple of stylists from another team, wide-eyed. One of the project managers from digital looks like she might combust. 

Yoongi rises slowly and nods his head towards the bar. You follow him. And that’s that.

After the dinner, you end up at his place. Still dressed up, both of you nursing hot tea listening to a record he chose. Something low and jazzy filters through the room as you curl into his sofa.

“I usually don’t like company parties,” you murmur. “But it wasn’t that bad.”

“Didn’t think it would be,” he says. “I’m glad you came with me.”

He looks at you for a moment, asks, “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

You were always a good kid, so you never knew what it felt like to be summoned to the principal’s office. It’s probably something like this then. When two days after the company dinner, you were asked to go to HYBE’s HR department.

You’ve never met this woman before, but it’s clear she’s a higher-up. The tightest hair bun you’ve ever seen, cartoonishly wide cat-eye glasses, you already know she’s ripped at least one person a new asshole in the last five business days.

Not much preamble. When she started, oh, she really didn’t mince words and waste time. The way she looked at you spoke volumes of what she thought you had plotted.

“Miss Y/L/N, it has come to our attention that you have gotten involved with one of the members of BTS. As such, you can no longer be the lead makeup artist for the group effective immediately.”

“Due to our current headcount, we are unable to reassign you to another division.”

“Given the years of our professional relationship, we will still provide you with any recommendations you need should you choose to find employment in another company.”

“Your final pay will be sent to you within 30 business days. Please pack up your things and surrender your ID on your way out.”

Somehow, you are able to hold your head high, temper the storm in your chest, and nod as dignified as you can. “I understand. I’ll see myself out.”

You saw this shit coming. Sniffed it out from a mile away. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t sting. You spent more than a decade in this company, shaping and sharpening the creative vision for their two biggest acts, and they’ll let you go all because you decided to date a coworker.

Although they are clearly correct, you are involved with Yoongi, no clear evidence was even presented to you. Nothing was said to indicate that they were in touch with the member of BTS in question to get his side. Regardless, it was never gonna be a man’s fault. She thinks you probably seduced him and took advantage of your close working relationship. Ahh, this is so fucked up. 

“Noona…” a voice interrupts your thoughts.

Namjoon.

“Hey—are you…?”

You swipe a tear quickly from your cheek, but he already saw.

“What happened?”

You pull your cardigan tighter around your frame. Was there a point in lying about it? You sigh, “Got fired.”

“WHAT?” Namjoon’s voice echoes down the hall and your eyes widen like saucers.

He springs into action, stringing you like a marionette into every direction until then you end up in… his studio?

“The hell’s goin’ on?” 

You shrug, take a spot on the couch. “Not much to it, Namjoon. They fired me because they found out about me and Yoongi.”

It’s the first time you’ve acknowledged this to any member verbally. It feels oddly comforting to say it out loud.

“Does he know about this?”

“I haven’t told him.”

“Imma call him right now,” Namjoon fishes his phone from his pocket, but he knocks over something from the side table. It’s a half-full cup of coffee from god-knows-when. “Shit.”

You take some paper towels from his desk and help him soak the brown liquid from the carpet. It’s not really working. His paper towels are kinda thin. And the brown liquid is almost black at this point and it’s making you gag.

“You know what, shit,  let’s just leave that. We’ve got bigger problems…”

“It’s fine. I’m just gonna go.” You rise to your feet, smoothing your skirt down.

“Yoongi won’t allow this.”

“I know. But I did break the number 1 rule.”

“Let’s call him.”

“It’s ok, Namjoon-ah. I’m gonna pack up my stuff and go home. It’s a lot to process and I think I need to just… yeah. I’m gonna go home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you give him what you hope is a placating smile. “I just wish I got to say goodbye to everybody.”

“We’ll fix it,” he promises.

“No need,” you call over your shoulder. “Nothing’s broken.”

Bzzt… bzzt…

Your eyes crack open, a slow, confused blink. You’re warm, groggy, skin dry from sleep and mouth sticky from wine. The room’s dark except for the kitchen pin lights still on.

You glance at your clock: 11:02 p.m. it says.

The hell? There’s some heavy knocking going on now.

You pull yourself off the couch, legs slightly cramping, brain not quite awake. So out of it you don’t actually check the peephole before you pull the door wide open.

“Baby—what the fuck?!”

Yoongi’s voice hits first. Then his body—arms wrapping you up so tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll slip between his fingers. His coat’s cold but he smells like cedar and mint shampoo..

“I thought you—” he chokes out, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the back of your sweatshirt. “You weren’t answering, I—fuck, I thought you—”

“I fell asleep,” you whisper, dazed, unsure how to hold all of this emotion spilling from him. “I’m sorry.”

His hands come up to your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he’s checking if you’re real. His eyes are wet. His breathing unsteady.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did,” you say. “You didn’t pick up. So I just… went home.”

He follows your gaze to the half-full wine glass on the coffee table. His jaw flexes.

“Had a few drinks and crashed,” you add, quietly.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He just exhales shakily and pulls you into his chest again, tighter this time. You press your face against his shirt, feel the way his heart is hammering through the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry,” you mumble.

He doesn’t answer that either. Just holds you there, arms wrapped around you like he needs to physically keep you in his orbit.

You pull back slightly. Look up. “Let me just wash my face real quick. Just sit, okay?”

He nods, wordless, and sinks into the couch like he’s been holding himself up all day.

You go to the bathroom, splash cold water on your cheeks. Brush your teeth. Run a brush through your hair. Change to a lounge set.

You can hear Yoongi’s voice outside. He’s on the phone with someone, and he just told them that you’re okay.

You stare at your reflection, pale and puffy-eyed. Yeah, you’re okay. The lines under your eyes are deeper than usual. But overall, you’re fine.

When you step back out, Yoongi’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying. He lifts his eyes the moment you enter, teeth pulling at the skin of his lips.

You sit beside him on the couch, tuck your legs under you. Let your knee rest against his thigh.

“So I got fired…” you say softly, voice thin.

“Namjoon told me,” he says. “I wanted to punch that new HR guy.”

“It’s a woman.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Found that out belatedly after I barged in.”

You smile despite yourself.

“Anyway, I talked to Bang PD. He didn’t authorize this. This HR lady, she’s new. A bit too eager, trigger-happy. I think she wanted to make a statement.”

“Well what kind?”

“She said she just wanted to protect Bangtan from people…” he pauses, shakes his head. “Who might be taking advantage of us. I told her you’re my girlfriend. Fuckin’ idiot!”

Oh?

“They could assign you back to Seventeen,” he prattles on, nostrils flaring. “Not like they’ve found a new person to take over. It’s not easy to find your level of talent and they’re stupid to…”

“Yoongi.”

“What?”

“You said something…”

His mouth parts, a little confused.

“No cause you just casually dropped that.”

“Baby,” he hangs his head, pinching the space between his brows with his index and thumb. “That’s your takeaway?”

“Well,” you shrug. “News to me.”

“You’re my woman, okay? Don’t–” he tuts when you almost cut him off. “Baby please don’t even argue with me on this. You know I’ve been yours. And right now I feel guilty. I should have said so earlier and done my due diligence with the paperwork and shit. But I hate getting legal involved in my personal life. Hoba told me to do it. Cause he’s doling out NDAs left and right, but I don't want you to think you're just some hookup. This is on me. And I’m fixing it, okay. They will transfer you to any group you want.”

“I don’t want it,” you say, more firmly than you expected.

“Huh?”

“I don’t want it,” you repeat.

“You don’t want your boys?” 

You roll your eyes, because Seventeen is still some kind of chip on his shoulder. “No. I don’t want pity. Or to feel like they just let me stay because they’re afraid of you.”

“Damn right they are.”

You breathe out, jaw tight. “I want to leave with my head up. And I did.”

Yoongi nods, slow. Like he gets it. Because of course he does.

There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t last. Yoongi is still a ball of fire.

“You’re terrifying.”

“Why?”

“You’re so calm.”

You take a moment before you articulate your introspections as you enjoyed your merlot earlier. “You know what? Deep down, I knew it was gonna come to this,” you say. “And if it came down to it, I’d rather just leave HYBE… than you.”

That finally pulls a gentler sound from him. A quiet, pained exhale. His hand finds yours, holds it tight. When you look over, his eyes are glassy again, but his smile is faintly there—gummy, a little lopsided..

“What?” you ask.

He just shakes his head.

“Seriously, what?”

He presses his forehead against yours, closes his eyes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You kiss him, and he lets you. For a minute or two you savor the way his lips slide against yours, no thoughts, just love. Then he pulls back and says something kind of out of pocket.

“I’m rich.”

You stare. “Okay…?”

“You know I can take care of you.” He says it so earnestly, but you can’t help but giggle.

“I don’t need a Sugar Daddy. How do they even call it if the woman is older?”

“How the hell are you so cool about this?”

“Because I know I have you, but I know I got me, too. I have some money saved up and some stocks I can sell if need be. Market’s looking bullish anyways…”

“You know how sexy you sound right now?”

“Umm talking about the stock market turns you on?”

“Something about a bull…”

“Want me to ride you like a bull?” You raise your brow.

“If you don’t let me fuck you right this second…”

Yoongi removes each button from your top, one by one, kissing every patch of skin revealed to him. You close your eyes, savoring the tiny, wet kisses deposited to your neck down to the valley of your breasts where he lingers for a beat. Purrs as he presses his cheek against your soft mounds and sighs before lifting his eyes to meet yours.

“Use me,” he says. “I know you’re angry, baby.” He peels your shirt down your arms. “Let it out…”

He holds your nipple between his fingers, twists it, and you groan helplessly in response.

“You can punish me. if you want…”

It takes a while for you to process his offer, between butterfly kisses and the teensiest sucks against your skin, a combination that's driving you wild. 

But he’s right. As always. You are mad. Not at him. But the broken sexist system.

“Yoongi?” You tug his hair.

“Hm?”

“Sit back against the headboard.”

He nods and situates himself as you asked.

You walk over to your closet to find a scarf, this white and black Valentino that he gifted you some weeks back. You climb onto him, knees bracketing his hips as you watch the curiosity glistening from his eyes. 

You’ve never really done anything like this before. But you’re familiar with it and you’ve always been down to try anything new. Bonus is you know Yoongi likes to play, so this is perfect. Honestly, he is perfect.

“I’m gonna blindfold you. And you’re not allowed to touch me. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

The scarf drapes over his eyes, darkening everything he knows, leaving him with nothing but sensation. Breath. Sound. You.

“Use colors, okay?” you whisper, lips barely grazing the shell of his ear.

He nods, swallows. “Yes.”

“What’s it now?”

“Green:”

You hum in approval, fingers ghosting down his chest. “Good boy.”

You take your time with him. Explore his body in ways you never have before. Yoongi shivers. You watch his Adam’s apple bob, the breath hitch in his chest. 

“You asked for this,” you say softly, dragging your nails across his ribs, just enough to raise goosebumps. “So I’m going to use you.” You slap his cheek, earning a soft gasp from him, before his lips curve into a smile. He’s going to enjoy this, you can already tell.

You trace the lines of his body with your mouth. Flick your tongue on his nipples before nibbling on them until they're raw, slightly bruised. You blow cool air against it, earning you a low purr from the back of his throat.

He’s hard already. His huge cock straining against the waistband of his boxers, but you don’t touch him there. This is not like other nights. You want him aching for it.

You slink down to suck faint bruises into the soft dip of his hipbones. Let your nails wander, grazing his soft tummy where pink lines have bloomed like cat scratches. When he moans, hips bucking slightly, you press a palm flat to his stomach.

“Stay still,” you warn.

His voice is a rasp. “Yes, noona.”

You peel his boxers off slowly. His cock springs free—dark at the tip, already leaking. The bead of cum on his tip shines. You circle it once with your finger, feather-light.

“Fuck,” he gasps, hips twitching again.

You slap his thigh—not hard, just enough for pain to mix with the pleasure painted clearly on his face. “I said still.”

His hands flex against the sheets he’s gripping sooo tightly. You see the tension, the need. His mouth opens, lips trembling.

“More…”

You smirk, finally leaning down and licking a slow stripe up his shaft. He whimpers, whimpers! And by god, if it’s not the prettiest sound in the world.

And just for that you can throw him a bone. But you suck only the tip into your mouth and let it pop free. 

His body arches off the bed instinctively and one errant hand makes its way to the back of your neck.

Another slap—gentler this time.

“Sorry, noona.”

“Patience, baby. You wanted to be used, right? That means you wait until I’m done.”

You tease him for what feels like forever. Stroke him gently, then quicker, then stop just when he thinks you’ll give him more. Every whine you pull from him shoots straight to your cunt.

His thighs are trembling. “Noona. More…”

You finally straddle him, not lowering yourself yet, just grinding super slow against the base of his cock, letting your slick drag across him.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” you murmur, stroking his cheek where the blindfold wraps around his head. 

“Fuck, noona, let me touch you.”

“Not yet,” you lean forward, let your tits press against his chest, and drop a small peck on the corner of his mouth. His lips pucker belatedly as you pull back.

“You are so hot like this, baby. So good to me,,” you assure him, sliding a hand down to wrap around his cock, pumping it just once, then again, tighter. “Color?”

“Green. Fucking green.”

Finally, you shift to guide him to your entrance. Still hovering. Still making him wait.

He’s breathless now, forehead sweaty beneath the scarf. “Fuck noona. Put it in. I need to feel you—fuck—need to cum in you, please.”

God, he sounds broken. Ruined.

You sink down in one slow, aching glide, and you moan in unison, in pure fucking ecstasy. Your voice high and needy, his low and desperate. He’s pulsing inside you as you steady your hips, letting your walls adjust, keeping him warm.

“Fuck, you feel—fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so tight, noona. So warm—please let me touch you.”

“Not yet,” you grit out, riding him slow and mean, using him. You let your clit drag against the short hairs on his crotch, finding the perfect angle to get you off. He can probably sense it now in the steady swivel of your hips and the stutter in your breath. 

“Yeah, just like that, noona,” he says, voice hoarse. “Use me.”

You dig your nails into his chest, bite at his shoulder. You pant. Speeding up your grind. His legs are trembling now, the muscles on his thighs, stomach, taut. “Noona…” He’s babbling now, half-words and curses, his head tossing side to side. “Can’t—shit, please—I’m….”

He’s close. You’re almost there.

“Touch me.”

His hands immediately fly towards your hips, pressing you down, deeper. Grabs your ass and guides your movements.

You fuck him harder like this, ride him like your life depends on it. You feel him losing it. Coming undone beneath you. 

“Where?”

“Inside me, baby. Fill me up…”

His whole body convulses, a strangled moan torn from his throat as he spills into you. You follow a heartbeat later, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sound as you unravel together.

You don’t move for a moment. Just feel his chest heaving beneath you, the sweat between your bodies. You remove the blindfold.

His lashes are wet. He looks wrecked and raw and beautiful.

“Was that okay?” you ask softly, fingers combing his damp hair back from his forehead.

He nods slowly. Smiles. “More than okay.”

You guide him to lie flat again, press your palm to his chest to calm his breathing. You grab a warm towel and clean him gently, kissing each place you left a bruise or scratch.

He pulls you close afterward, arms around your waist, face pressed to your shoulder.

Before you drift off, you remember something you wanted to address.

“Can I ask you something?”

He hums.

“Why were you so worried earlier?”

“Namjoon said you looked a little, like, out of it, you know. And when I couldn’t get a hold of you, I thought you…” he heaves a sigh. “I don’t know why my mind went into that. But I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Your heart squeezes. “That’s not gonna happen, Yoongi. I’m yours.”

He hugs you and doesn’t let go.

Post-HYBE life turns out to be pretty… as Yoongi says, slayyy. 

It was tough in the beginning, starting from scratch. You start your own website and portfolio, reach out to friends and contacts to help get your skin back into the game. A few months in, you’re now affiliated with a salon who specializes in editorial and product campaign shoots. Your last one was with Choi San for D&G Beauty.

Yoongi slips deeper into your life until the boundaries blur. A toothbrush in his cup. His shirt in your hamper. 

You never needed to say it. Because you both knew that this wasn’t fleeting. That you weren’t getting any younger. That whatever this is feels constant. 

One night he sends you a Spotify link. To one song. It’s a BTS track.

He usually doesn’t send his own stuff when you exchange playlists (a ritual that stayed on). You listen to it.

🎵Home - BTS

Your chest tightens. Your fingers hover over the reply. But then he calls.

No hi or how are you. Just one question: “Move in with me?”

Life with him is a burst of pigments.

Yellow, in the warm sunlight that wakes you both every morning. Orange, in the tips of his fingers when he’s peeled his umpteenth tangerine. Blue, in the fabric softener he overused to the point that it triggered an allergic reaction for both of you. (Downy is now banned.) 

Green, in the hangover soup you cook for him after a night out. (You, on the other hand, are sober for 2 months now.) Purple, in the marks he leaves on your inner thighs and the soft bruises on your chest. Pink, in the way he blushes when you walk out in his clothes. 

And then, finally:

Red, in the two faint lines. 

You blink down at the stick in your hand, seated on the toilet, heart pounding.

It’s only a minute before the door creaks open.

“Babe?” Yoongi floats in. “You’ve been in here a while.”

He sees your face first. Then the test clutched around your fingers.

He’s piecing it together.

“Omo,” he breathes, stunned.

You nod, heart tight in your throat.

“OMO OMO, you’re pregnant?” he says it with so much disbelief it makes you laugh through the lump in your chest.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?!” he kneels on the tiles in front of you. His hands are on your cheeks, your shoulders, your belly. “Holy shit!!!”

You’re laughing now, ugly and teary. He pulls you into a tight hug, still stunned.

He leans back, eyes wild with emotion. “We’re gonna have a baby?”

“I guess we are.”

And then the tears come, his. Yoongi chokes out a wet little sound and buries his squishy face in your neck. “Fuck. I’m so happy.”

“Me, too.”

You are.

So happy.

So ready.

So loved.

Between pigments & playlists. 

In technicolor. In surround sound.

In the forever you never thought possible.

This spring day.

:)

A/N: Soooo?? Did y'all bogo your shipdas? (dk what the means, but hope you liked it?)

Yoongi is back! While it was a bittersweet note that we got today, I know things are only going to get better from here for him and us. I hope and pray that he knows that he is so so so loved by ARMY.

So the fic! Yes the fic! I’d love some feedback. And a reblog if you are so inclined?

Thank you for reading this you lovely beautiful human, xo

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[himasgod]

hi hello how are you? uhm this is probably my first time requesting to you

but could I request on twst characters reacting to reader actually having wings but the reader actually hides it underneath their hair(like behind their ears iykyk) to not cause that much attention (because the last time they did it made a huge commotion and had to resist to not throw hands at everyone who keeps touching her wings-) and the boys ONLY noticed when a wind blows their hair aside to reveal it(you can change the way of revealing the wings since I have no idea-)

I don't mind how many you put in this, in fact everyone is fine! just please put Leona and riddle these boys hold a special place in my heart.

and btw pls take your time, I'll be waiting for you. tysm! 🫶

LEONA AND RIDDLE X READER

Where they discover you have wings behind your ears

I hope I understood correctly what you meant, something like this, right?

You were sitting under one of the flowering trees in the Botanical Garden, book in hand, half-lost in thought while Leona lazily lounged beside you.

It was supposed to be one of those rare peaceful moments between classes where he didn’t grumble about being awake. You always appreciated his quiet presence— even if most of it was spent napping.

You reached over to pluck a petal off his hair when the wind picked up suddenly, a gust brushing your long hair to the side.

You didn’t realize anything had happened — not until you noticed Leona had cracked open one eye.

No, not cracked open.

He was staring.

Not in his usual cocky way — but focused.

“...Huh,” he muttered, sitting up just enough to get a better look.

“You’ve been hiding those this whole time?”

“Wha—?” You reached up instinctively and felt the soft edges of your wings, peeking out right behind your ears. You cursed under your breath, immediately trying to fix your hair to cover them again. Leona grabbed your wrist.

“Why hide them?”

You glanced away, ears burning.

“Because the last time people saw them, they wouldn’t leave me alone. Touching, whispering, some wanted to pluck a feather like a souvenir. I don’t need that again.”

Leona’s emerald eyes narrowed.

“People are idiots,” he muttered.

“Touching you without permission... you should’ve let me deal with them.”

“You’re not... weirded out?”

Leona gave a exhale, almost like a laugh.

“You’re at a school full of beastmen, fae, ghosts, and literal magic. Wings are the least strange thing I’ve seen. Still… it suits you.”

“What does?”

He smirked, looking at you through half-lidded eyes.

“That skyborn look. Like you’re from somewhere higher than the rest of us. Regal.”

You gave him a long look.

“…Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” He leaned back down, arms crossed behind his head.

“If people try touching you again, just say the word. I don’t mind throwing hands.”

You were standing beside Riddle, helping with the attendance sheet and budget files, when a gust of wind whooshed through the hall.

Your hair lifted — just enough.

Just barely enough to reveal something delicate fluttering behind your ears. Feathers. Soft, unmistakably wings.

Riddle turned, eyes wide.

“Yuu,” he said lowly, tugging you aside, away from the rest of the group. “Your hair—behind your ears—those… Are those wings?”

You froze.

“…Please don’t make a scene,” you whispered, glancing around. “They’re real. I hide them for a reason.”

“A reason?”

“The last time people found out, they treated me like a pet. Asking questions, touching me, even trying to name them like I was some exotic showpiece. It was humiliating.”

Riddle’s eyes softened with immediate understanding— perhaps even guilt. You expected scolding, or questions. But what you didn’t expect was how gently he stepped in front of you and said, quietly:

“You don’t need to explain yourself, but… if anyone treats you like that again, tell me.”

“Would you collar them?” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He gave a small exhale— a mix of a sigh and a laugh.

“Only if they touch without asking. That's grounds for decapitation by Queen of Hearts rules.”

You smiled despite yours. “Riddle—”

“I mean it,you don’t need to hide what makes you different. But if you choose to, I’ll respect that. Just... don’t shut me out.”

You paused, then nodded.

“Thanks. For not freaking out.”

He adjusted his collar, trying (and failing) to look composed.

“I’m allowed one freakout. But only because I think… you're beautiful.”

You blinked.

“...The wings. I mean! The wings—!”

“Right,” you teased, “just the wings.”

[jaiwritez]

(Damn you fast)

In the Batcave money is exchanged. They had bet on which one of the siblings would be the first to get married as well as bag an inter dimensional entity. Everyone’s money was on Dick but Damien had won because he knew Jason during his league of assassin days. As well as remembered Jason’s love for romance novels.

“Todd spend a great majority of his time reading romance novels. It’s logical to think that he would use the knowledge he acquired in them to his advantage in pursing a romantic partnership. As well as Todd is the magical robin.” Damian replied to his siblings questioning on his betting.

In the watch tower.

Batman and Constantine are being revived. While Wonder Woman, Superman and Flash are asking Jason questions about Danny.

“So Daniel isn’t dangerous?” Superman asked.

“I will be if you call me Daniel again.” Danny said stopping mid bite of his triple cheese burger to stare into the aliens soul. Superman swear he saw a flash of his Krypton blow up in his minds eye but he couldn’t prove it.

“Noted. The King likes to be called Danny and not formal titles. We can manage that right guys?!?” Flash said trying to lighten the mood back while Superman tried to regain his composure.

“We can. So how did you two meet?” Diana asked trying to move to a lighter topic. Considering Danny seemed so fond of Red Hood. As the former was currently sitting on his lap while he ate.

“We met when I died. Met Danny. Hit it off…..eventually. Lost my memories, brought back, Danny became King and started snooping around. We ran into each other. Got my memories back. Danny’s people wanted him to marry and so he spent years courting me. He proposed with the library of Alexandria. So how could I say no.” Red hood stated.

Danny seemed to purr at the telling of events. As if he was thinking of all the fond memories. He finished his burger and then picked up his milkshake.

“Why did you block them babe?” Red hood asked directing toward Danny.

“Personally I think calling for work business on someone’s day off is rude. You know I don’t get many of those. Then on top of that. The bastard that gives me the most paper work and head ache is the one to summon me and then has the nerve to talk down to me while I’m just tryna eat dinner. Do you know how long it took to make?!? Not to mention speedy over there causing space time disruptions every second. ” Danny ranted to Jason mainly. He threw a thumb in Flash’s direction at his mention. He talked with his hands and Superman man could see the happy smirk under Red hoods helmet as he watched.

“Valid. Constantine is an asshole and B is annoying and none of that flashes can sit their asses down.” Red hood said affirmingly.

“Then they’re gonna keep calling. I just wanted to eat my dinner. I had to talk to the ancients all day and didn’t get to eat.” Danny said slouching deeper into Jason. If they didn’t watch Danny become an eldritch space god. It wouldn’t almost been like watching any of the other inter species couples on the watch tower. Bruce and Constantine returned to the table with Zatanna.

“Yeah babe. You need to eat more. You gotta keep you and the babies healthy.” Red hood said touching Danny’s stomach. A loud thump was heard as Batman fainted again.

More money was exchanged and given to Damian in the batcave.

DPxDC #35

Ghost king gets summoned. Danny shows up wearing sweats and a loose t-shirt, holding a pot.

Danny: ...

JL/summoners: ...

Danny looks down and sees he's still holding his dinner.

Danny: Okay, less annoyed now, what's up?

Starts eating his dinner out of the pot with his serving spork. (Danny silently thankful his dinner came too. He hadn't eaten all day.)

JL and/or summoners are completely confused.

[yan-randomfandom]

How would yandere saja boys react to reader being a child of Gwi ma, but is nothing like him as in they want to help people?

Saja Boys x Demon!GN!Reader

a/n; i keep missing in my fics, i keep forgetting the plot!! so sorry anon,, i don't know what i'm trying to do in this one (⁠´⁠;⁠︵⁠;⁠`⁠) but i do love the new scenario!! tho sadly this isn't obviously yandere,,

— 👑

"Dying king with a crumbling crown," you hum, a teasing smile stretching across your feline lips. "Will he let the fire go out?"

Jinu sighs, absentmindedly plucking his strings. "As much as I love seeing two tigers, I think it'd be best if you take another form. It's creepy watching you talk with its teeth."

With a chuckle, you shapeshift into his bird instead, licks of fire dying as soon as it appeared. You made sure to keep the tiny hat on. "Yeah, sure, okay. Hey, that was a pretty bold move to your king. Y'know, my creator."

One of his demon companions snort. You snap your eyes toward the one with abs. "That's Jinu for you. Knows what he wants, knows what Gwi-Ma wants. As it's always been."

Jinu doesn't react, he doesn't reply—yet, you and the rest of the Saja Boys could tell he's deeply uncomfortable. He continues his focus on his bipa.

Baby coughs. "Look, I'll do the rapping, yeah?"

"I already said that—"

... After a while, you stare blankly as they get lost in their planning. Listening to every word. Paying attention to their movements. You can barely contain the frown itching to crawl on your—oh, wait. You have a beak.

"Master," Mystery suddenly calls, poking a finger on your wing.

You make an expression with three eyes. "Do not call me that. What is it, Mystery?"

His lips curl. "Why are you here?"

All your three eyes blink. The rest seem to be intrigued for your answer.

Of course, you're here to disrupt their plans. You don't say that out loud. Always so grateful that you and Gwi-Ma have cut connection, so even he can't hear your spirits.

"I believe I don't need to answer you," you shrug, earning some looks. You flatter your wings and stand on Mystery's shoulder instead. His smile grows. "Just keep doing your magic."

— 🐦‍⬛

You wonder what the Huntrix girls are doing right now.

Probably better than... whatever this is.

"Gwi-Ma is going to be so disappointed in us."

"What? No! The opposite! He'd be so impressed, we'll never have to be punished—"

"Master's waiting for us to move already."

Gwi-Ma this. Gwi-Ma that. Even if you're the literal spawn of the guy, it's still such a bummer with him being the only topic in this damn world. Well, aside from famine and destruction of your kind. Okay. Enough of this. You have to check on the girls.

Jumping off of Mystery's shoulder, you shift into your true form, pink fire dancing in your silhouette.

You thought you could quietly leave but—

"Where are you going?" comes Jinu's voice, inquisitive. Suspicious, almost.

Romance cast you a look. "You haven't even seen our rehearsal yet! Or, maybe, you'd like to see it live—"

You flow your fire to Romance's side, patting his head in reassurance. "I'll be there."

Maybe that's good enough to be convincing. Then, you leave.

— 🔥

In one of the farthest seat of the stadium, you sit and watch as the Huntrix practice for their performance. Put simply, they're amazing. You always did prefer acapella from the girls.

You've taken a human form, hopefully that will be enough for them to lay off if they spot you. Act like one of the staff who's slacking or whatever.

"So this is where you are," a familar deep voice mutters, and you immediately shoot up a hand to their face. A face that's come from a half-body in the seat next to you, the Honmoon tear strong in your senses.

Between your startled glare and fingers, Baby smiles in curiousity as his eyes glow. "I'm a little hurt. Didn't know you prefer the hunters."

You relax. Okay, cool. He found you spying on Huntrix. "No one will believe you."

A cough. You follow the noise on the floor and find three out of four other Saja Boys. Abby, Romance, and Mystery stares at you with something in their expressions—completely unreadable.

"Does Gwi-Ma know you're—"

Hmm. Darn. You interrupt whoever spoke. "Why are you all here? Did you come to look for me?"

You turn, seeing Baby's immense stare on you. But he doesn't answer. None of them do.

... Weirdos.

"Where's Jinu?"

Baby pauses, then points at the other side of the area.

You follow his direction and Jinu barely meets your eyes.

A frown makes its way to your lips. This human... This human is a wonder. You have Gwi-Ma's memories—while the others are fairly content with their sins, you know Jinu's so much more complicated than that.

Honestly. He'll know about Rumi's patterns in one way or another.

Someone pokes your cheek.

You sigh. "Mystery, stop doing that."

"Ah, no, I'm Abby. You're acting weird."

You? Acting weird? Haven't you always been? You look down on your patterns. An intricate design and color unlike the others.

The weight of your memories — not even yours, really — rumbles in the pit of your core. You don't like what you are, or where you are, or who you are. But, at the same time, you care so much. It's hard to think.

"I'm not answering that," you say eventually, using your higher position whenever convenient.

—

errmm my bad, also im trying to combine asks as I go ... hrrmmm eeemm hmmmm it's not working well

i tried to go with demon reader (anon1) and reader who hates the saja boys but loves huntrix (anon2) but for this one—they just really don't like what they stand for

[prettymfwrites]

Paige x teammate reader please! I beg of you 😭😔

Yessss babes 🙏🏾 this was sitting in my drafts sorry ❤

---------------------------------------------------

💙 Paige Bueckers x Female Teammate!Reader Headcanons

(ft. UConn Team Shenanigans)

(Not proofread)

🥺 Protective Paige Mode™

Paige is usually calm and goofy, but the second someone fouls you too hard or gets in your face during practice or a game?

> "Back off, that’s my girl."

She’ll walk up slowly, real chill, and stare until the message is received.

You once got shoved hard going for a layup and Paige didn't even let the ref finish their call before she was checking if you were okay.

> "You good? Need me to handle her?"

Teammates joke that when you fall, Paige gets to you before the trainers.

---

📱 TikTok Addict x TikTok Hater

You are obsessed with TikTok. Paige? Not so much.

But she somehow ends up in all your videos... reluctantly.

You’ll catch her coming out the locker room and be like,

> “Okay babe do this dance with me, just the first part.”

Paige: “Baby I got on slides and no rhythm, don’t do this to me.”

One time you did a TikTok where she had to lip sync Megan Thee Stallion and she gave up halfway through and said:

> “Nah I can’t be sexy on camera like that, mama, my mom gon’ see this.”

Aaliyah, Nika, and Ice Brady are your hype squad. They love watching Paige get roped in.

> Aaliyah: "PAIGE did you just do the body roll?? Who ARE you??"

Paige: "I was held at gun point."

---

💘 Nickname Central

Paige lives off the nicknames. You never hear her say your government name unless it’s something serious.

> "Pass me the water, pretty."

"Yo babe, you left your slides in my locker again."

"You seen my charger, mama? You always take mine."

She’ll casually call you “baby” in front of the team and then act confused when they’re teasing.

> Nika: “Oop, baby??”

Paige: “What? I got a baby. Y’all just mad.”

---

🏀 Practice & Locker Room Moments

During scrimmages, Paige will purposely switch teams if you’re dominating too much just to guard you.

> "Nah nah, I got her. No one else touch her. This is personal now."

You once smacked her butt after hitting a shot on her and she dramatically flopped like she was fouled, yelling:

> “Ref! Domestic!”

Paige leaves little notes in your locker on game days like:

> “Go off, pretty. I got rebound duty today if you start missing.”

---

🛋 Lazy Days and Social Media Chaos

Y’all do “get ready with me” TikToks before team events. Paige is in the background struggling to pick an outfit while yelling:

> “Babe, do I wear the hoodie or the other hoodie?”

You: “Neither. You’re wearing the sweater I picked.”

If you post a photo where she thinks you look too good, she’s in the comments:

> “Delete this rn before they start in the comments.”

And then texts: “You tryna make me fight air?? 😤”

---

💤 Post-Game Snuggles

After games, Paige likes to lie on your chest while you scroll on your phone. She pretends she hates the TikToks but lowkey enjoys watching you laugh.

> “You’re cute when you laugh, baby. Don’t change the vid yet.”

---

🏀 Jealous Paige at Practice

The gym echoed with sneakers squeaking and laughter as practice scrimmage started heating up. You’d been matched up against Jaylin, one of the newer players on the team, and let’s just say… she was being a little too friendly.

You hit a nice step-back three right in her face, and Jaylin smiled, holding her hands up.

“Okayyy, I see you,” she said, tapping your waist lightly. “We got a shooter on our hands.”

You laughed, brushing it off, not noticing the way Paige paused mid-dribble on the other side of the court.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“Yo Nika,” she said slowly, still watching Jaylin, “Switch with me real quick.”

“Why?”

“I’ma guard Y/N.”

“But I’m—”

“Nika.”

“…Got it.”

You raised an eyebrow as Paige jogged over, sliding in front of you with that calm-but-lowkey-murderous expression she gets when she’s annoyed.

“Hi babe,” you grinned, dribbling toward her.

“Hey pretty,” she said, stealing the ball clean. “You flirtin’ today or just hoopin’?”

You snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering,” Paige replied, way too casually, passing the ball behind her back to Aaliyah. “You and Jaylin got some chemistry I ain’t know about?”

You stepped closer, grinning. “Ohhh, is someone jealous?”

“Jealous?” she tilted her head with a smirk. “Nah, I just think people need to keep their hands to themselves unless they paying rent.”

Aaliyah hollered from the sideline.

“NOT THE RENT LINE.”

Jaylin raised her hands. “My bad, Bueckers! I was just playin’.”

Paige nodded, smiling tight. “Play somewhere else.”

You covered your mouth to stop from laughing and leaned into her. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous.” She winked. “Now come on, mama. I’m not lettin’ you score again unless you say I’m your favorite teammate.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Say it.”

“…Fine. You’re my favorite.”

“Louder for Jaylin in the back.”

“PAIGE!”

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Chubby cheeks

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, indulgent post for myself cause i have chubby cheeks lol

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You have the cutest chubby cheeks

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

- “Pearlie, you’re gonna kill me with those cheeks—” he groans dramatically every morning as he squishes your cheeks together like mochi.

- He kisses each one with exaggerated sound effects—“mwah! mwah!” until you’re giggling.

- Secretly has a whole art series of paintings/sketches just of your face. Only shows you the ones where your cheeks look extra pinchable.

- Teases constantly: “If I boop your cheek one more time, do I unlock a prize?” Boop. Boop. Boop.

- Sometimes gets pouty when you pout “Don’t do that face. You know I’ll do whatever you want when you do that face.” And then does it anyway.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

- His thumb always ends up brushing your cheek absentmindedly. He does it when he’s checking your temperature, tucking your hair back, or just looking at you while you talk.

- “Sweetheart, you’ve got the softest little cheeks I’ve ever seen. Don’t blame me if I can’t stop touching them.”

- Will press slow, reverent kisses to each cheek when you’re sad or sick “One for comfort. One for luck.”

- Loves watching you eat because your cheeks puff up a little more when you’re chewing and he finds it irresistibly darling.

- He’ll gently cradle your face between his big surgeon hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks like you’re porcelain. Always says, “My darling angelface.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

- Completely mesmerized. Like, stares at you for way too long in silence before he blinks and murmurs, “…Bunny, your face is so round today.” (It’s a compliment. You’re glowing to him.)

- He gently cups your cheeks when he wants your attention and nudges your nose with his like a sleepy cat.

- When you’re sitting on his lap scrolling through outfits, he rests his chin on your shoulder, cheek pressed to your cheek, mumbling, “This one’s cute, but your cheeks are cuter.”

- Gets very smug when people compliment you and your adorable face. He’s like, “She’s mine. Don’t look too long.”

- Always rubbing soft lotion into your cheeks with the pads of his fingers, murmuring, “So soft… like a little mooncake…”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

- “Kitty, are you doing this on purpose? These cheeks should be illegal.”

- He’s absolutely the type to squeeze them between his fingers when you try to sass him. “Say that again, marshmallow.”

- Takes 1000 photos of you a week. Every close-up has your cheeks in focus. He zooms in and sets them as his lock screen.

- Pretends to “bite” them playfully, he’ll get close and make a little nom sound, then laugh when you squeal.

- Brings home ridiculously expensive skincare “for softness,” but really, he just likes an excuse to touch your face every night.

- “All this power, and the only thing I want to conquer is these cheeks.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

- “Pips, you’ve got food on your face, wait, nope, that’s just your cheek.” Smirks.

- Cuddles you constantly and presses long, warm kisses to the side of your face like he needs to recharge from your skin.

- Holds your face so gently in his big hands and calls you “my soft little pipsqueak.”

- Tries not to show it in public, but if someone else comments on how cute your cheeks are, he gets possessive. Hand around your waist immediately. “She’s taken.”

- During cuddles, he mumbles “Can’t believe you’re real. My baby’s so soft and sweet.” and buries his face in your cheek like a sleepy bear.

- Traces slow, lazy circles on your cheeks with his thumb as you fall asleep in his lap.

[p1girlfriend]

pregnant wife is extra emotional – f1 grid reactions

lando norris you cry because you forgot how to spell “banana” he panics like there’s blood on the floor “WHAT’S WRONG???” you just sob, holding your phone and spelling it out loud he tries not to laugh. fails. but hugs you anyway “it’s okay. we’ll never eat bananas again. they’re banned.”

oscar piastri you’re quiet. emotional. tearful. he doesn’t say a word just sits beside you with a hand on your belly lets you cry it out, kisses your temple “it’s okay. cry if you need. i’ve got you.” asks if you want hot chocolate or a nap. maybe both. he becomes your emotional support husband™️

charles leclerc you get weepy over a commercial with a dog he sits there blinking, like ?? “is this hormones or do you actually want a dog?” you start sobbing harder he panics and brings tissues, chocolate, and every single pillow in the house also googles “what not to say to pregnant wife crying”

lewis hamilton you cry while folding baby clothes he walks in, instantly kneels down and holds your face “what’s going on in that heart of yours, love?” listens to everything, rubs your back, tells you you’re doing amazing tucks you into bed and puts on your comfort movie also cries with you, because he’s that emotionally connected

carlos sainz you yell at the oven. literally scream at it. he walks in like “…am i interrupting?” you burst into tears. “I BURNED THE TOAST” he pulls you into a hug, laughing softly “you’re not mad at me, no?” makes a new batch of toast and calls it “healing bread”

daniel ricciardo you get emotional because your bellybutton’s changing shape he gasps like it’s life-changing “YOUR BUTTON IS BLOOMING” calls it your magic center takes photos of you every day and narrates everything with an Aussie accent to make you laugh kisses your belly like it’s made of gold

gabriel bortoleto you cry while brushing your hair he slowly takes the brush from your hand “leave it to me, meu amor.” sits you down, brushes your hair so gently, tells you you’re beautiful “it’s normal, tá? feel it. i’m here.” makes tea and reads baby name lists out loud to distract you

franco colapinto you get emotional because your feet are swollen and “ugly” he kneels down, kisses each one and says “these feet are carrying our baby. i think they’re the most beautiful feet in the world.” makes you lay down, puts a pillow under your legs draws little smiley faces on your toes with a marker until you laugh

max verstappen you start crying mid-conversation he stares. stiff. nervous. “…was it something I said?” you say no, you’re just overwhelmed. he nods like he gets it (he does not) proceeds to cancel all plans, order food, and set up the coziest space ever sits beside you with one hand on your belly, quiet and steady “you cry as much as you want. i’m right here.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[delilahsturniolo]

‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ sucking sub!chris off while he plays royal kingdom

⤷ 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙟𝙤𝙠𝙚 𝙇𝙈𝘼𝙊𝙊𝙊 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙮 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡 @luvs4matt 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙥 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨

you sit on the couch, your eyes wandering over to chris who's deeply engrossed in his game of royal kingdom on his phone. you've been feeling rather horny lately, and seeing him so focused on that screen just makes you want him even more. you can't help but notice how his fingers move swiftly across the screen, how his eyes light up with every level he passes. it's almost as if he's in another world, completely oblivious to your needs. "chris," you call out to him, your voice soft and seductive. but he doesn't seem to hear you, too consumed by the game in his hands.

"chris," you repeat, a little louder this time. he finally looks up at you, his eyes still glued to the screen. "can you pause the game for a bit?" you ask, biting your lower lip suggestively. "just let me finish this level first, okay?" he replies absentmindedly, his fingers flying across the screen.

you frown, frustration building up inside you. you need him now, and you're not in the mood to wait. you scoot closer to him, your hand reaching out to touch his thigh. you can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his jeans, and it only fuels your desire. slowly, teasingly, you run your fingers up and down his thigh, moving higher with each stroke. you can see him squirming slightly, trying to focus on his game. "chris," you purr, your hand inching closer to the bulge in his jeans. "i need you."

he gulps, his eyes finally leaving the screen to meet yours. "just... just let me finish this level first," he repeats, though his voice lacks conviction. but you're not one to be deterred. swiftly, you unbutton his jeans and pull down the zipper, revealing his boxers underneath. chris gasps, his grip on his phone tightening. "w-what are you doing?" he stammers, his eyes wide.

you don't answer, choosing to show him instead. you pull down his boxers, freeing his semi-hard cock from its confines. it twitches under your gaze, slowly hardening under your intense stare. chris whimpers, his eyes darting between you and the game. "please, just wait," he begs, his voice strained. but you're not listening. you lean down and take him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock. "ah, fuck," he hisses, his hips bucking involuntarily.

you hum around his length, the vibrations causing him to moan loudly. you take him deeper into your mouth, your head bobbing up and down as you suck him off. chris is trying his best to focus on the game, his fingers shaking as he swipes across the screen. "you're making it hard to concentrate," he whines, even as his hips thrust into your mouth.

"then hurry up and finish the level," you purr, pulling back for a moment. you stroke him with your hand, your movements slow and sensual. "the faster you finish, the sooner you can cum." chris gulps, his eyes blazing with determination. he focuses back on the game, his fingers flying across the screen once more. but you're not planning on making it easy for him. you continue to suck him off, your mouth hot and wet around his cock. you can taste the precum leaking from the tip, salty and slightly bitter on your tongue.

"ah, fuck, i'm so close," chris moans, his voice tight with pleasure. chris swiped his fingers quickly, getting a message that he finished the level he was on. you hum encouragingly, increasing the pace of your ministrations. you can feel him throbbing in your mouth, his orgasm imminent. with a final thrust, chris cums, his seed spilling into your mouth and down your throat. at the same time, you hear the victorious sound of him completing the level, his phone dropping to the side.

" holy shit," he breathes out, his chest heaving with exertion. you pull away with a pop, licking your lips as if savoring the taste of him. "that was... intense." you smirk, leaning in to kiss him deeply. "maybe next time, you'll put the game down when i ask," you tease, your hand still stroking his oversensitive cock. chris shudders, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. "y-yeah, definitely," he agrees, pulling you in for another kiss.

© delilahsturniolo