#but well..... that's what an outline basically is. right?
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transformers-spike · 3 days ago
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slight vent I'll probs delete undercut:
legit so desperate to actually rest or spend my time doing things I enjoy
the TFA Megatron fic has a special place in my heart, and I want to write for it so bad but whenever I'm in front of my computer trying to type down my handwriting, I'm just... paralyzed.
the concepts are down, the basic outline is down - but i'm just staring at my stuff like... what now
maybe i should prepare more, or maybe i'm just not in the right mental space for it. Rn it feels as tho it's my only chance to start writing - between homework and commissions, I'll have less free time for personal projects in August
internal pressure sucks as well, bc i know people are totally fine with me putting TFP stuff on hold to focus on TFA, but guilt is consuming me whenever I think abt the current fic
I'm just... tired. and it's def the insomnia speaking rn
I also miss my cat. Like a lot
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trainsinanime · 9 months ago
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I've seen a number of people worried and concerned about this language on Ao3s current "agree to these terms of service" page. The short version is:
Don't worry. This isn't anything bad. Checking that box just means you forgive them for being US American.
Long version: This text makes perfect sense if you're familiar with the issues around GDPR and in particular the uncertainty about Privacy Shield and SCCs after Schrems II. But I suspect most people aren't, so let's get into it, with the caveat that this is a Eurocentric (and in particular EU centric) view of this.
The basic outline is that Europeans in the EU have a right to privacy under the EU's General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), an EU directive (let's simplify things and call it an EU law) that regulates how various entities, including companies and the government, may acquire, store and process data about you.
The list of what counts as data about you is enormous. It includes things like your name and birthday, but also your email address, your computers IP address, user names, whatever. If an advertiser could want it, it's on the list.
The general rule is that they can't, unless you give explicit permission, or it's for one of a number of enumerated reasons (not all of which are as clear as would be desirable, but that's another topic). You have a right to request a copy of the data, you have a right to force them to delete their data and so on. It's not quite on the level of constitutional rights, but it is a pretty big deal.
In contrast, the US, home of most of the world's internet companies, has no such right at a federal level. If someone has your data, it is fundamentally theirs. American police, FBI, CIA and so on also have far more rights to request your data than the ones in Europe.
So how can an American website provide services to persons in the EU? Well… Honestly, there's an argument to be made that they can't.
US websites can promise in their terms and conditions that they will keep your data as safe as a European site would. In fact, they have to, unless they start specifically excluding Europeans. The EU even provides Standard Contract Clauses (SCCs) that they can use for this.
However, e.g. Facebook's T&Cs can't bind the US government. Facebook can't promise that it'll keep your data as secure as it is in the EU even if they wanted to (which they absolutely don't), because the US government can get to it easily, and EU citizens can't even sue the US government over it.
Despite the importance that US companies have in Europe, this is not a theoretical concern at all. There have been two successive international agreements between the US and the EU about this, and both were struck down by the EU court as being in violation of EU law, in the Schrems I and Schrems II decisions (named after Max Schrems, an Austrian privacy activist who sued in both cases).
A third international agreement is currently being prepared, and in the meantime the previous agreement (known as "Privacy Shield") remains tentatively in place. The problem is that the US government does not want to offer EU citizens equivalent protection as they have under EU law; they don't even want to offer US citizens these protections. They just love spying on foreigners too much. The previous agreements tried to hide that under flowery language, but couldn't actually solve it. It's unclear and in my opinion unlikely that they'll manage to get a version that survives judicial review this time. Max Schrems is waiting.
So what is a site like Ao3 to do? They're arguably not part of the problem, Max Schrems keeps suing Meta, not the OTW, but they are subject to the rules because they process stuff like your email address.
Their solution is this checkbox. You agree that they can process your data even though they're in the US, and they can't guarantee you that the US government won't spy on you in ways that would be illegal for the government of e.g. Belgium. Is that legal under EU law? …probably as legal as fan fiction in general, I suppose, which is to say let's hope nobody sues to try and find out.
But what's important is that nothing changed, just the language. Ao3 has always stored your user name and email address on servers in the US, subject to whatever the FBI, CIA, NSA and FRA may want to do it. They're just making it more clear now.
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madamechrissy · 3 months ago
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Stripper! Satoru
Pairings- Stripper! Satoru x Bride! reader
Summary- You've been promised your entire life to Naoya Zenin, and now there's just one night left. Never having a choice, or any freedom, raised to be his perfect bride- your friends throw a party with the hottest male revue show there is, and that's where you meet him - Satoru.
Warnings - MDNI- Satoru is basically Magic Mike, angstyyy, explicit sex, loss of virginity, oral ( f receiving) sweet/whipped Satoru, sheltered reader, kissing, drinking, reader is engaged (arranged marriage) so morally gray but it's Naoya so fuck him, emotional asff , open end for now! (story will wrap it up) <3
This will be a FULL length multichapter fic after I finish a cpl wips, it's been eating me up to write so I want to show you at least a preview of it! tag list open for when it's released, drop a comment if you wanna get added! it's a long one <3
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Stripper! Satoru who is the star of the biggest male revue in the nation, he's always showing off his well oiled, defined abs, and making every girl there feel so good. He loves watching how they tremble as they touch his abdomen, loves the way they giggle when he dances, straddling them in their chair, brushing their cheeks with his fingers, a wink that makes them melt.
Stripper! Satoru oils his toned, muscular body before each show until it's gleaming under the lights, hips undulating as he tossed that cowboy hat into the air, clad in assless chaps and a thin tie, with some black silk on his cock that shows his entire outline. And God was he packing, the other dancers of the review get the oohs and ahs, but he is always center stage and thrives in it, in the looks of everyone dying to bring him home.
Stripper! Satoru and his crew have an exclusive party tonight, for a bride to be - and she must be wealthy, because they're walking right into a mansion, dressed up as cops tonight, Satoru loves to put on a good show for these women, his white hair tucked under a police cap, as he rings the doorbell, which opens with what he assumes are the bride's friends. They're already giggling and rushing the men in, one pulls Gojo aside, whispering in his ear - 'please, make her smile tonight... she's really...' he doesn't need the rest of the answer when he sees your face, so lost and broken, and it makes him falter.
Stripper! Satoru has never seen a bride not giggling and excited, once or twice he absolutely saw them nervous or worried, some of them would want to sleep with him or the crew as their 'last night' of freedom, and most of them were usually fine giving it to them. Not Satoru however, although he has hooked up with his fair share of women, he does not sleep with brides to be, as much as they have tried, he does have a couple small boundaries and that is one.
Stripper! Satoru still gave them a good show, he still licked across their skin and let them touch his body, he put a smile on their faces, made them blush, he made them all soaking wet. But he's never encountered the sad eyes that meet his now, the nervous biting of your lower lip as you look around in utter confusion. Your friend sighs, tugging Satoru down now. 'Arranged marriage, and he's... fucking horrible. Please, help her forget for one night?' he sees now why they paid so much, it's clear your friends love you, as the lights turn off and the LEDs turn on, your face is illuminated with red light, haunting him as he almost forgets the routine.
Stripper! Satoru and the crew begin to 'pretend' to arrest you and the girls, fake handcuffs on their wrists while the men press the girls down on the chairs, beginning their 'pat down'. But as Satoru approaches you, and touches your skin with the toy, fake metal of the cuffs, you just sigh, making him pause. The music continues, but he instead gently presses you on the seat, getting on his knees now, as your eyes drink the prettiest man you've seen once he takes off those dark shades. Your breath catches when he gently brushes your hair off your shoulder, and asks - 'Are you even okay with this, sweetheart?'
Stripper! Satoru doesn't realize, you've never been asked if you're okay with anything, your whole life was just made so you can marry the leader of the Zenin clan, so that you were a pristine, perfect and untouched wife. You take a shaky breath, easing in his presence, finally having someone ask if you were okay was something you didn't even have growing up. To come from a stripper dressed like a cop was surprising, but you instantly relax, thighs spreading just a bit, which his insane blue eyes dart to. 'I'm sorry, yes, I want to, please...'
Stripper! Satoru has never felt whatever the fuck it was when he touches your skin, the sensations shooting through him, he watches goosebumps rise on your skin when his crew grabs his attention. He smiles, looking at you once more. 'I'll give you the funnest night, I promise' you giggle, you don't think you've ever giggled, nodding as he steps back, and the men play that music and rip off the fake outfits bit by bit. That's when your tummy clenches, heat pooling, watching Satoru's body revealed as he rolls his hips, and your friends all smile at you, seeing you actually happy for the first time since you heard the wedding was impending.
Stripper! Satoru is insanely talented, not just his ripped, perfect body, but how he moves it, so clearly the leader of them all, surely they all had gorgeous bodies, but something about him drew your avid attention. You get flustered and shift as you study his movements, and his eyes just won't leave yours, they kept glancing at you, a smile on plump lips while they all strip down, and then step close to each of you, you're the only one without the cuffs, they sit on your lap instead. Satoru braces his arms on either side of you, breath trailing across your neck when he dances between your thighs, abs flexing right in front of your face. Your breath dances on his skin as you nervously exhale, feeling your heart pounding in your chest.
Stripper! Satoru runs the most famous male revue for a reason, he's about as charming and confident as it gets, it's enigmatic his pull, but mostly you keep looking at those eyes, getting lost in them - for a moment forgetting your wedding to Naoya tomorrow - a man you've known bits and pieces of for a long time, long enough to be terrified of him. For a moment you let go and smile nervously, you touch his slick muscles when he puts your fingers on his chest, and the laughter carries through the room. As their set ends, an entire party begins, with shots everywhere and dancing, you see your friends stealing little kisses, envying their freedom, but the blue eyed man with slicked back white hair seems to focus on you, taking your hand and bringing you into a dance then. You giggle again, shaking your head. 'I can't dance... what's your name? The real one, not the stage name' you say, looking up at him then, and he tugs you closer against him. 'It's Satoru'
Stripper! Satoru uses a stage name, but for some reason he wants you to have that name, a hand sliding down your body over your pretty white dress, addling his mind. 'Anyone can dance, you've just never tried, sweetheart' you shake your head again, but he's already moving your hips for you, turning you so that your back presses against him, and that's when he feels it, your sweet body against his making him ache in ways he hasn't in a long time. 'See, you're dancing now' you lean back against him, shutting your eyes then, just feeling him. 'My friend set you up to cheer me up, huh?' he sighs against your ear, aching to press a kiss against your neck, but knowing he shouldn't. 'You do have good friends, but I just like dancing with you'
Stripper! Satoru has you downing another shot, the atmosphere is intense- these parties get this way, frequently, another perk of being the most famous male revue was endless beautiful women, and making bank on top of it. Satoru notices the dilation of your eyes when you take one more shot, licking your lips before peering around so shyly. 'Everything okay, these parties get a little...' he's asking about you again, the mere thoughtfulness pushes you to step forward, pulling him down by the black bow tie he's got on, nothing else but a black speedo at this point, revealing the body carved out like a statue, but he lets you yank him down, eyes lowering to your lips. 'If I could, have a kiss, a real one before I... don't get a choice anymore' your whisper ends him, his heart breaking for a girl he doesn't know, even in a haze of liquor and undulating bodies, everything fades but you.
Stripper! Satoru can't help but ask in surprise - 'you've never kissed?' and you see the surprise in his eyes, you look around, the music still blaring, overwhelming your senses. 'No, never, um... I shouldn't-' Satoru breaks his own rule then, slamming his lips down on yours, your first kiss, one you will think upon when it's just that cruel man looking down at you instead. You gasp against his lips, inviting his tongue to dance inside your mouth, yours dances along his, messy and clumsy but following every movement like a dance itself. He feels it then, his cock throbbing from a kiss, you don't seem to notice or maybe don't even want to say something as it presses high up on your tummy, while his hands slip up your body, for all eyes to see. But your friends clearly are pleased- they wanted you to have one night of fun, even if it wasn't what you were 'supposed' to do.
Stripper! Satoru has you against a wall before you can blink, like a switch went off in his mind and all that turns on is you. His hands are on either side of you when he pulls back, taking a breath, cursing softly, your breasts are rising and falling as you look up at him, desire for the first time in your life overtaking you. 'Thank you, Satoru' you smile sadly, was it better to not kiss at all than to have this? 'Is it that bad, the guy?' he murmurs then, and you look down, trembling just a bit, and his instinct is to protect you when he doesn't even know you. Satoru is protective of those he loves, but this feeling makes no sense. Tears fill your eyes and you sniffle, looking away, but he tilts your chin up, swiping one off with a thumb now. 'Thank you for tonight, I see why you're so popular...' he tries to smirk then, raising a brow. 'Because I'm so sexy?' you giggle even through your tears, you've never laughed so much in your life, shaking your head, making him pout. 'You're kinda mean, you're saying I'm not?'
Stripper! Satoru is trying to tease it off, the feelings throbbing though his body, but you're too much when you say - 'no, it's because you're really something special' another tear falls despite tremulous lips, swollen from his kiss, he feels the eyes on him, this isn't what he does, never ever the bride, but it's like he can't drag himself away from your gravity. Kissing you again is too easy, lifting you like it's nothing is even easier, the way you cling to him and lose yourself as the two of you are now locked in a room is even easier. Your dress slips up your hips with a silky whisper, his big hands gripping your hips and dragging you against him, you whine out as you feel it, the sweat dripping against your skin while he barely holds it together, ignoring the fact that he knows better, forgetting that you're not his, and how badly that for some reason feels to him, while he's got your back on a bed, kissing down your breasts and tugging at your dress now.
Stripper! Satoru has his mouth devouring every pretty inch of skin you allow him to, hot and hungry while you melt under him, clothes dissolving with gentle tugs, baring you to his vision, his fingers dance across your skin like you're a canvas and they're delicate paint brushes at first, then they're more insistent, more pressure, hungrier and hungrier for you. 'Fuck, you're beautiful...' he doesn't say that either, of course he compliments, but he's never seen someone earn that title quite like you, when he frees your breasts and they gently bounce from your bra, when your nipples perk up just for his mouth to suck on. When your hands entwine in his silky white hair, and he's pulling one into his mouth, while the other hand twists your other bud taut, and your cunt starts drooling, throbbing, one that's never been touched, even by yourself. Sheltered and taught it's all terrible, your friends had shown you some things but you're mostly lost to anything Satoru is doing, just lost in how good it all feels.
Stripper! Satoru pauses for a moment, as he's licking a trail between your breasts, eyeing you under snowy lashes, watching as you breasts rise and fall. 'We should stop now, before... I can't stop' his husky declaration is filled with need, your hand rushes through his hair, taking a shaky breath and whispering - 'would you be my first?' he pulls back, terrified at the statement, his mouth wide open, he knows it's too far to do, his morals grey enough, just hovering. 'He's cruel and he's... awful to women, it won't be happy for me. I just want once, to be my choice...' Satoru swallows nervously, lifting one of your thighs now, pressing his cock against your heat, watching your head fall back. 'You're really stuck in this? there's no way to get out of it?' you shake your head, trying to focus as your body responds to him. 'N-no, there's no way, y-you don't have to just I-' he moans then, internally cursing himself, because he's already intoxicated off you. 'Your choice' he repeats softly, you nod quickly, taking shaky breaths and gripping his shoulders. 'My choice'
Stripper! Satoru has his long pink tongue slipping across your panties, hot and wet against your cunt, the material pressed tighter and tighter, you're whining out, uncaring of any noise you make, the first time any one has touched you and it's with his mouth. Satoru moans against you, vibrations making your cunt throb when he yanks your panties to the side, baring your perfect, pretty pussy to his hungry gaze, glistening already with your slick. You cry out now, hips raising up for more, when he places a lewd kiss on it, honeyed arousal pouring from your little hole. You should be more nervous right? Afraid of a stranger seeing you? But you're not, you're so ready the moment his mouth latches you're screaming out, hips bucking, whining out at how good it feels.
Stripper! Satoru loses it once he tastes you, those panties slipped down your thighs, torn between leisurely teasing you and straight up devouring you. He opts for the latter, slipping panties down your thighs and gripping you by the fat of your ass, bringing your cunt flush so he can bury himself. He drowns in your cunt as his tongue lavished your walls, while you are rolling your eyes back, breaths coming in little pants while he licks every part of you, tastebuds soaking in your flavor. He has you falling apart under him in moments, your gummy little walls gripping his wet muscle, feeling you tremble underneath him as your first orgasm rocks you so hard you can't see.
Stripper! Satoru presses one more kiss, leaning over you and slipping down that thin satin layer between you, revealing a thick, long cock, you gasp when you see how huge it is, for one moment wondering how it would fit, when he kisses you so messy and desperate, hot heavy cock slapping your skin. 'Satoru!' Your cry makes him leak precum against your inner thigh, as he looks down at you, sighing. 'Are you sure, sweets? We can stop here' again, he gives you the choice, despite speaking through gritted teeth, as if he's in pain, holding his breath and just watching you. You shock him then, hand sliding down to touch his cock, a featherlight brush that almost makes him cum, eyes meeting his now. 'I want it, please'
Stripper! Satoru isn't going to turn down your sweet plea, your desperate ask under him, asking him to take something so special, but he understands you, he knows you need to have a choice without even knowing you. He kisses you then, more intimate in moments than he has been with women before ever. His cock teases and dips against your soppy little hole then, pressing slightly and feeling your tight resistance, moaning as he does. 'It will hurt just a sec, okay sweetheart?' You nod then, and the pain hits, sharp and sweet and addictive, he pauses, letting you adjust, trying not to bust from how fucking right you feel, how perfect. Instead he holds back, watching you with bright blue eyes. 'You okay honey?' - and making you relax under him, the burn and stretch mixing with pleasure the further he presses, nodding eagerly, dragging him back down for a kiss, which he whimpers into as he thrusts inside.
Stripper! Satoru hardly holds back, knowing it's your first time, shaking with the effort not to fold you in a mating press and fuck you to the hilt like he wants. 'Perfect, fuck you feel s'good, mnh...' he's muttering those words as he pulls back and thrusts further, stretching you out impossibly, she's soaking down his veiny length to accommodate, while she pulses from her aftershocks, and you feel that fullness, you're so full. Satoru shoves in harder, deeper, seeing what you can take, your head falls to the side to be littered with kisses, careful not to mark you, though God he wants to, to bite and bruise every inch of skin with his teeth. He wants to leave bruises on your hips, fill you with so much cum you drip him when that man comes near you - but he knows that's fucking stupid.
Stripper! Satoru is pussy drunk so fast, as you open for him, as you loosen your hold, arching your hips up to meet his thrusts, unleashed as you scratch his back, leaving your marks, marks he'll wish will never leave in the coming days. You kiss across his neck, teeth sinking into it and leaving your bite, as he bottoms out in your perfect cunt, the echoes of the squelching wetness and your cries mixing with the smacking of skin, as he loses his control, and you fall off the edge with him. Moans and sighs, gasps and cries, all while he's filling you over and over, bringing you closer to the brink, losing anything and everything all under his long, lithe body, the shadows casting and stretching across the wall, of him over you, of your thighs wrapped around his narrow waist.
Stripper! Satoru has never felt anything like you gripping him, never tasted anything like that honey lingering on his lips, fucking you and dragging his tip on your spot just so, until you shatter, cumming blindingly, crying out his name as you do. He quiets you with a kiss, your cunt spasming around his cock and gushing down further, making a mess of the bed, of him, of you. You're blinking back your vision as you gasp and he leans up, dragging you all the way down his length, his whine so sexy while his head falls back, veins in his arms bulging as he grips you so tight, watching the bulge in your tummy as he slowly moves in and out. 'cum once more, please, wanna feel her again' his whisper is met with a jerky nod, when he finds your clit with the pad of his thumb, running in circles and shoving in so deep he slams your cervix.
Stripper! Satoru watches the pretty bride - not his, how are you not his? - cum for him then, thighs shaking, your head falling back into the soft pillows, and he's done for, leaning forward to pump a few more times, fucking you through that orgasm, before he pulls out with a gasp, wishing he could finish in you, instead pumping that cum on your tummy, white networks of ropes decorating it as it moves up and down with your heavy breaths. You start to come to, when he's cleaning you up, when he's wiping the soreness between your thighs, when he's holding you and kissing you. You feel the emotions hit, the overwhelming pleasure can't override this one singular feeling - dread - and moreso now that you felt this, that you know what it is, to feel so perfect and cherished by a stranger.
Stripper! Satoru panics when you cry, 'was it too much, are you hurt sweetheart or-' you shake your head, hugging him to you tightly, sweet kisses on his neck and cheek then. 'No, it was perfect, so perfect Satoru. Thank you' you shouldn't be thanking him, he musees to himself, letting you kiss him as the knocks finally sound on the door. He gently helps you get dressed, the party is clearly still going on but your friend wanted to check on you, to see your disheveled state she just smiles, rushing off and apologizing, but your skin is decorated in your blush, and he sees it, the fear in your gaze. 'Am I horrible?' he shakes his head then, kissing you again. 'No, you're perfect' and it just leads to more, he can't stop kissing your skin, he can't stop fucking into you, each time hurting less and just feeling better, letting you ride him tentatively, holding you from behind as he fucks you, until the two of you fall asleep, against each other.
Stripper! Satoru overslept clearly, as you're all ready to leave - for a wedding to a monster - and most of the men are hungover, sipping coffee and ready to go home. When he does get dressed in the normal clothes he brought with, you hold his hand, looking down and swallowing, not knowing what to say - that you think in one night you fell for a man - that you'll never be available. It sounds too cruel to say to someone, when there's no future, so instead you hug him tightly, and he holds you against him, trying to hold back everything he wants to say and do. 'Are you gonna be okay?' he asks softly before he leaves, and you smile as brightly as you can, nodding. 'I will be. Thank you for... everything.' one more sweet kiss, and Satoru has to let your hand go, knowing he will never have you again eats at him and he was just inside you, he can't even speak or answer a question, all he can think of is you.
Stripper! Satoru seems like a fantasy, as you walk down the aisle, seeing the bored and cruel gaze staring right at you, dark brown eyes with murderous intent, a nasty smirk as he assessed you. Tousled blond hair, he looks instead at a few of the women sitting in the benches waiting, winking at them instead, before turning back and setting his jaw. When you stand in front of him he yanks back your veil, eyes narrowing and humming to himself. 'Suppose you'll do' he says then, leaving you to feel sick as he grips your wrist, unceremoniously putting a glittery ring on it. 'that hurts...' you whisper weakly, and he squeezes harder, glaring now. 'Keep your mouth shut, little bitch, got it? you're my property now' you sink back, knowing then, the pit in your stomach had been correct, the rumors must be true- he is horrible.
As you sit through the ceremony, as your friends try to comfort you are sent home, as your entire world crumbles and ends, you try to cling to the memory of feeling special, beautiful, you feel his touch, you feel his caress - his gaze. You cling to it as your eyes fill with tears, as your stomach fills with nausea, as he's yanking you onto his lap and laughing cruelly at you. You think of him...
Satoru
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Soooo yes this will be a long one, and dw it will end happy somehow! Comment for tags of you're interested in their story <3
perm tagsss- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny
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shinoko-oshi · 4 months ago
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Simon’s sweet wife
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seen other people talk about the task force finding out about Simon’s bird at first in subtle ways so I made this
It started with the lunches.
At first, no one thought much of it. Simon had brought the occasional sandwich before, nothing out of the ordinary. But then it changed. Out went the basic bread and meat, and in came proper meals. Lasagna. Curry. A neatly packed container of something warm and homemade, tucked right beside a little folded note Simon was far too quick to snatch out of sight when Johnny leaned over, grinning.
“C’mon, Simon,” he teased, voice full of curiosity. “Just let us have a peek. We wanna know who’s makin’ you lunch like that, eh?”
Kyle nodded, snickering.
“Piss off,” Simon grumbled, big hand curling protectively around the note like it was a classified file. He didn’t care that they were watching, didn’t even look up. Just reread your words, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth beneath the mask.
“Ay, Johnny, look! you can see a heart through the paper!” Kyle laughed, catching the way the light hit the thin paper just right, revealing the faint outline of a heart signed with your name.
After that, it became a bit of a running joke. Not that Simon gave them anything to work with. But the mystery only deepened when, during a three week deployment at another unit, a care package showed up with his name on it.
To say the guys hovered would be an understatement. Johnny and Kyle practically sat on either side of him like vultures, trying to act casual. Price stayed back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, looking disinterested but Simon could feel his eyes, just as nosy as the others.
The box had all the essentials: snacks, cold weather gear, a familiar blanket from home. A couple of your sweet notes, some of his favorite tea in bulk. But what really got them going were the Polaroids tucked in between the layers of stuff.
Kyle caught a glimpse of one. Simon sitting on a porch step with you in his lap, your smile soft, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.
Johnny elbowed him. “Alright, Simon. When ’re we gonna meet this mystery missus of yours?”
“She wouldn’t like you.” He grunted in response 
“What is she, a grump like you?”
Hardly.
The real surprise came a few weeks later, when a sweet bird showed up at base asking for Lieutenant Simon Riley.
Price was the first to see you. He’d expected someone with a set it glare, reserved, maybe a little sharp around the edges. Instead, you walked right up to Simon with a warm smile, kissed his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world, and handed him a jacket. 
Simon knew Price, Kyle, and Johnny were watching from around the corner. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if half the rookies and a few of the other sergeants were too.
But none of that mattered.
Not when his sweet girl was standing in front of him.
“Why are you here, baby?” he asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“You forgot your jacket,” you said, brow furrowed. “And I heard it was supposed to be cold today. I didn’t want you to get sick.”
Your voice alone cracked something in him, and it was impossible not to smile under the mask.
“Y’know I would’ve been fine, love.”
Still, he took the jacket from your hands with a quiet “thank you,” promising to wear it, walking you down the hallway before watching you turn and head back out.
Well— not before Johnny and Kyle caught you at the corner, peering over the wall like a couple of kids up to no good.
They didn’t say much, but by the time Simon heard about it later, you’d already agreed to let them come over for dinner sometime.
He just shook his head. Not even surprised by their antics. But he didn’t say no either.
Because you’d said yes.
So next Saturday, he guessed he’d be setting an extra few plates at the table for Johnny, Kyle, and probably Price, too. 
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classyrbf · 11 months ago
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ᯓ★ YOU TURN ME ON! — JJK MEN
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SYNOPSIS...what turns the jjk men on? Don’t worry, I’m here to tell you!
INFO...jjk men (geto, gojo, nanami, toji, choso, higuruma, sukuna) x fem!reader, sexual and non sexual turn ons (kinda), whispering, eye contact, tight clothing, shower sex, p in v, hair pulling, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), pheromones (?), mention of glasses (sukuna), facial (sukuna), not proofread
OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated
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GOJO
gojo loves when you whisper in his ear. Something about you being so close to him, feeling your breath on his skin just does something to him. He gets immediate chills up his body and a small little smirk on his face. It doesn’t even have to be sexual either, you could whisper the most basic shit and he’d be giggling like a school girl cause he just loves hearing your voice in that tone. Now, when it is sexual…that man will nut inside of you without warning. You’re moaning and whispering in his ear? He’s a goner, quite literally on another planet. Nibble on his ear a little and his eyes will roll back. Sometimes you’ll do it in purpose while you two are out in public and he gives you the biggest pout ever. “Baby, don’t do that to me c’mon,” he whines. He damn near dragged you to the car and fucked you in the backseat…
NANAMI
nanami loves eyes contact a little too much. Sometimes it’s intimidating because he’s such a stoic man and doesn’t show very much emotion in his face, so he will just stare at you. But overtime you’ve grown to be comfortable with making eye contact with him, just staring lovingly while he talks about work or whatever. He stares into your eyes so much that he can tell what you’re thinking and feeling. More specifically, he knows when you’re in the mood, the little glint in your eye while you smile at him, looking at him up and down like he’s a piece of meat. In that case, expect eye contact during sex! Nanami loves missionary just looking at you, forehead pressed against yours, and he can’t get over that pleading look, batting your pretty lashes at him while you moan his name. “Yes, right here, baby. Keep looking at me. There’s my girl,” he softly sighs.
TOJI
toji loves tight clothes (no surprise). He genuinely thinks you look good in anything, but something about seeing the outline of your body makes him a crazed man. He will nonstop be touching you, handing on your ass, waist, titties, thighs…he does not give a damn. You could be wearing your pajamas and he will still find you sexy. You bend over in something tight? He’s now hard and has to fix the problem, not that he minds. He bends you over right there on the couch with your shorts around your ankles. It’s date night? He’s excited because you’re gonna wear that new dress he bought you—the one that hugs your body so well, showing off all your curves. Wandering eyes follow your every movement while you get ready and be chews on his bottom lip while he thinks of everything he wants to do to you. “Yeah, doll, I don’t think we’ll be making it to dinner tonight,” he chuckles.
GETO
geto loves soapy titties. Now I know that’s like very specific…but I just see him getting turned on by soapy tits for some reason (I don’t make the rules). He doesn’t care what size they are, what they look like, just throw some soap and water on them bad boys and he’s a satisfied man. Bonus points if you send him an unexpected photo in the shower while he’s away. He almost drops his phone while waiting in line for food because he can’t believe his eyes—your perky nipples and soap cascading down your entire body. Expect shower sex…a lot of shower sex. He will go out of his way to help you wash up, trying to be all nice and polite but minutes later his hands are groping your chest and playing with your nipples, soap running between his fingers while he fucks you against the shower wall. “They look so pretty in my hands, baby. I love ‘em.” He lazily smiles.
CHOSO
choso loves when his hair gets pulled or when you play with his hair. He only discovered this when you were doing his hair and accidentally pulled it and to his surprise (and yours) he let out a small whimper. Now you go out of your way to tease him, tugging at his hair whenever you walk by, giggling when he huffs in annoyance. He likes laying on your chest and you just run your fingers through his hair, he immediately melts into your touch. Oh but Choso definitely likes it when you tug at his hair when he’s eating you out…why wouldn’t he? It makes him so hard when he feels your fingers entangle in his hair, pulling and tugging at it while you basically ride his face for your pleasure. You only tug harder when you get closer and closer to your orgasm and his dick is throbbing. “Yes, yes, pull on my hair, please, please,” he begs.
HIGURUMA
higuruma gets turned on when you smell good, whether it’s your natural smell or your perfume, conditioner, lotion, whatever you use. You’d walk by him one day in the kitchen, greeting him when came home from work and he stops in his tracks and sniffs the air a couple of times because you smell so good…??? Like really good to the point he just wants to devour you, hold you, do whatever to you. He’ll hold you close and just smell your hair, your skin, kissing you over and over while his hands roam your body. And if you wear a scent that evokes memories of you two, like a first date or something like that…he pounces on you like a tiger. “How do you smell so fucking good? God, I could just eat you up right now…would you let me?”
SUKUNA
sukuna loves glasses. Yes I said it. Modern sukuna more specifically cause yk…But he will see a woman with glasses and think about how cute her face looks, how smart she looks…the innocent thoughts at first, and then his evil, horny ass would think about what they would look like when he’s fucking you. He can never be wholesome. Will they fog up? Will you let him cum on them? Do you even keep them on? Will they break if he fucks you too hard? All questions that need to be answered. So yes, he eventually fucks a woman with glasses and god does he love it. He finds it adorable when you push up your glasses every ten seconds cause he’s pounding into you too hard. He loves it when you look over them while giving him head. And yes, they do fog up. “Gonna let me cum all over your face? Yeah..? No, no, keep them on for me,” he devilishly smirks, licking his lips.
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taglist (comment to be added):
@valleydoli @zxnxy @screechingbasementprincess @lexluthorbutnotbald @lynxslokley @briyah0 @levisjinchuriki @maiiluvs @levizonlywife @xllizs @sm8th0p @waterfal-ling @bonneyzsk @ventila98
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elliewithcellie · 11 months ago
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Girl, Interrupted
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summary: Eddie crashes by your home when you least expected, but everything happens for a reason, right?
wc: 1.8k
cw: PURE SMUT (MDNI 18+), basically no plot, friends to fwb?, oral (f receiving), Eddie is a tease, fairly bold reader lol, fingering, talk of p in v sex, hair pulling, orgasms idk let me know what else
a/n: my bestie bought me slutty pajamas for my birthday, and since I'm a hypothetical whore, this has been on my mind nonstop. Finally took a break from my spn series to write this down. This is the filthiest thing I've written to date but definitely short and sweet
Eddie’s jaw fell slack as the door opened before him. He knew he shouldn’t have shown up to your place uninvited. Sure, you were his best friend, and of course, you had said he could come over whenever, but that never truly meant unannounced. He was already kicking himself for showing up as late as he did when you opened the door.
Your oh so short pajama shorts were the first thing that caught his eye, how your thighs spilled out beneath them, the cotton begging for relief. His eyes trailed higher to your tank top one size too small. The hem rested just above your midriff, the outline of your hips more prominent than he had ever seen. Your face was flush, pinks and reds lining your cheeks. He fought the urge to pinch himself, scared that he was dreaming, scared that he’d wake up to the absence of you and very real feelings emerging.
“Eddie? What are you doing here?” you asked, your arms crossing over your chest. “I thought you had a date.”
Date, what date? Eddie’s mind was going numb. His brain was flatlining at the mere sight of you, more exposed to him than he’d ever seen you. Fight or flight kicked in, debating on whether to say something or just turn around and leave. He was almost sure he was not supposed to see you in this state.
“I—uhh—it didn’t go well, so I cut it short. But I know you love the place, so I figured I’d bring over the leftovers.”
“Oh, sweet. Thank you.”
Eddie hesitated, scared to ask, but his interest piqued. “Is someone—you’re alone right now, right?”
Your eyebrows pinched together. You exhaled a dry laugh. “Please, I’m always alone. Come in. Tell me about your date.”
You ushered Eddie inside and settled into your couch. You pulled a blanket over you, and Eddie released a sigh. He couldn’t believe the hold you suddenly had on him. It was like he was in high school again, ready to combust at the sight of a shoulder. At least with your legs covered, he was less inclined to think about spreading them.
“Was it really that bad?” you asked, drawing Eddie from his thoughts.
“She was just so boring,” Eddie complained. “Like, there’s nothing wrong with her, but it was like we were from different planets! She didn’t know Metallica! How am I supposed to bond with someone when there’s nothing to relate to?”
“Did you think of showing her?”
“Showing her what?”
“Metallica!” you laughed. “Wouldn’t that be kind of romantic, you know, to introduce that to her? Maybe tell her you’re in a band? It’d be like showing her a whole new world. And maybe you’d get a groupie out of it.”
Eddie swatted at the air. “It’s not worth it. We were both bored. And it was clear she wasn’t looking to rock with a guitarist.”
“Oh, I highly doubt that.”
“You didn’t meet her. She’s pristine, a Chrissy Cunningham type. Meant to be with a lawyer or some shit.”
You leaned in closer to Eddie, your blanket sliding down your thighs. “Those are the girls who fantasize about guys like you the most. Those girls on the straight and narrow, the ones who seemed destined to be sweet stay-at-home moms or perfect career women, those are the ones who dream of just one night doing something they never thought they could. Something so wild that when they’re taking their kids to soccer practice, or their ‘perfect husband’ is asleep on the recliner while they're doing the dishes, they can think back to that wild night when they fucked a rockstar.”
Eddie’s lip trembled as chills coursed through his body. You leaned back against the couch and shrugged like what you said was nothing. You had to be on something, he decided. Never had you been so frank when the topic of sex came up. Your face was still flushed with color, and you couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position on the couch, shifting yourself from one side to the other to no specific rhythm. Heat radiated off of you, though you weren’t known to be the furnace between the two of you. Something struck Eddie as so foreign but so familiar as he took you in.
“Would you fuck a rockstar?” Eddie found himself saying.
Heat rose to your cheeks. “Do I seem like one of those straight-and-narrow girls to you?”
“That’s not what I asked,” Eddie said, a newfound confidence overtaking him. “You came up with that way too fast to act like you don’t think of it, too. So, would you fuck a rockstar?”
You bit your lip and shifted in your seat. You huffed into the couch. “Wouldn’t anyone?”
“Why so shy all of a sudden?” Eddie asked, egging you on. “You’ve been squirming since I got here, sweetheart. Is something on your mind?”
Your eyes trailed from his eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Tonight is not the night to ask me that.”
“Why is that?” Eddie chuckled. “Were you in the middle of something? Was something left unfinished when I so rudely interrupted? And now all you can think about is the ache between your legs?”
You shuddered at his words. “Eddie,” you said, your voice shaking.
“I could help you.” Eddie leaned closer, his words almost a whisper. “Because I may not be a rockstar, but I’m sure I could give you the night of your life.”
Your breath hitched in your throat. “Don’t tease me. It’s not funny.”
“No one’s laughing.” Eddie pulled the blanket back, his hands resting on your thighs. Your legs slightly opened on instinct. “What kind of friend would I be, huh? If I didn’t at least offer?”
Eddie didn’t know where this bravado came from, but he didn’t care. All he knew was the longer you looked at him like that, the harder he got.
You grabbed him by his shirt and forced his lips on yours. Nothing soft or sweet came from your lips. You were needy and desperate, clinging to him like he was the air in your lungs.
The urgency shocked Eddie, but he quickly found your rhythm. He smirked against your lips as he pulled his jacket off. His hands snaked from your thighs to your hips to your ass, lifting you onto his lap. You groaned into his mouth as he rolled you against him.
He was sure he was dreaming now. Only there did he ever picture you above him, grinding your hips into his. Only there did he imagine you moaning from his touch. But never were his dreams this vivid, this real, this fucking good.
He pulled you from him and pushed you back onto the couch. You whined at the loss of contact. He’d never seen your eyes so dark, so lustful, so hungry for him.
He slid down to the floor onto his knees and pulled you to the edge of the couch. “You still want my help, sweetheart?”
You nodded emphatically.
“I need to hear you, baby. Say it.”
“Please help me, Eddie. I need you. Please.”
“Atta girl.”
You lifted yourself up as Eddie pulled your shorts down your legs. Eddie’s cock jumped at the sight of you. He bit his lip to maintain what little composure he had left.
“Aww, your poor little pussy’s just as needy as you, isn’t she?” He spread your knees apart, the cold metal on his fingers sending chills up your spine. The throbbing between your legs only intensified, a small whimper escaping your lips.
Eddie couldn’t wait any longer. There was no time for teasing, no time to explore. You needed him, and he was going to deliver.
He dove into your aching pussy like a man starved. You jumped at the contact, your hands flying to his hair. His tongue worked overtime, kitten-licking your clit before diving in for more.
“You taste so good, sweetheart,” he said, smiling against you. You moaned in response, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him closer.
Your sounds turned him on even more, searching for his own release as he rubbed himself against the couch. His mind was in a daze, in utter disbelief that anyone could look so perfect for him with your legs spread and your back arched. Your chest rose and fell to the rhythm of his tongue, and your lips formed a perfect ‘o’. Oh, how Eddie wanted to feel your lips around his cock. How you’d sink down on him, your perfect innocent mouth being completely sinful just for him.
He placed a finger at your entrance and pumped in and out, his thumb now circling your clit. Your head fell back. “God, yes, Eddie. Just like that.”
“I need you to do something for me, baby,” Eddie said as he added a second finger.
“Wha—what’s that?” you asked, breathless.
“I need you to tell me what you think of when you get off. Tell me what you were thinking of before I showed up at your door.”
“I—I oh god,” you shouted as Eddie’s lips found your clit. “I—I thought about you on your fucking date.”
“Oh fuck,” Eddie groaned into your pussy, the vibrations shooting up your spine.
“I pictured you fucking her from behind, her skirt hiked up to her hips, her panties to the side as you fucked her in front of the bathroom mirror.”
“Fucking C—Christ,” Eddie stuttered, his hips rutting into the couch faster. “Keep going.”
“Then it was me you were fucking. You grabbed me by the hair, so I could watch what you were doing to me,” you said, your voice shaking with every word. “Eddie, please. I’m close. Please.”
“Come on, baby. You can do it. Tell me what I was doing to you.” He was past dreaming at this point. He was sure this was heaven. Hearing your words had him reeling. He didn’t want to stop, didn't know how to stop. He just knew he needed to see you come.
Your lip trembled. “Your hands were all over me, playing with my tits, your lips on my neck, and—and your big cock pounding into me over and oh-ver and—and Fuck! Eddie, don’t stop! Please, please, please!”
Your orgasm crashed down on you, expletives and Eddie’s name on your lips. Eddie continued to pump his fingers in and out of you like a madman as he lapped up your cum.
“Oh god, oh fuck!” he moaned against you.
You pushed his head off of you and caught your breath. Eddie took a breath, too, leaning back against his heels. You pulled him back up to you and kissed him, tasting yourself on your lips.
“That… was so hot,” Eddie said, releasing a breath.
“Can it be my turn to help you?” you asked, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
Eddie’s cheeks rouged slightly, his eyes trailing to the growing wet spot on his jeans. “I had a turn already,” he said, guilt painting his words. He leaned in toward you, a devilish smirk joining his features. “But I’m not done with you. Not yet.”
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heritageposts · 2 years ago
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if you support israel right now, you're supporting the extermination of the palestinian people.
it really is that simple.
this isn't a 'complicated conflict,' it isn't a situation that 'requires nuance,' it's not a 'geopolitical event' that requires us to condemn the 'bad actors' on 'both sides.'
it's a genocide.
there is no 'nuance' to be had here. it's a genocide, committed by the israeli state against the palestinian people, and it's happening right now as we speak. you don't have to infer anything: israel has openly, with next to no pushback from so-called liberal democracies, cut off gaza's access to water, food and electricity. that's more than two million palestinians denied even the basic necessities for life. a million of them, children.
what is that, if not a genocide?
and that's only the latest escalation. we could go all day, listing the atrocities the palestinian people have been subjected to. the killings, the beatings, the children sexually abused in detention center, all the hospitals and ambulances being blown up, videos of palestinians being heckled by settlers as they're driven from their homes, israelis gathering on hilltops to cheer as their military drops bombs on gaza...
but all westerns want to talk about, is hamas.
because the murder of palestinians by the IDF is status quo; it doesn't affect them. what's one more dead palestinian but a statistic? but if hamas has killed a handful of israelis — if they've go as far as to even kill babies — then that justifies the extermination of two million palestinians, children and infants included.
westerns will even say that the palestinians brought it on themselves; that they should have know that a drop of israeli blood requires a river in return.
and just so we're clear, you don't have to like hamas. but when you equate hamas with the IDF, when you derail every conversation by demanding a condemnation of 'both sides,' or when you, god forbid, agree that israel is justified in dismantling hamas — which, as israel themselves have outlined, will involve the complete destruction of gaza and the murder of hundreds of thousands of civilians — then either wake up, or own up to the fact that you're a participant in the extermination of the palestinian people.
do you think i'm being harsh? then imagine how it's like living under constant aerial bombardment. with no food, no water, no electricity. constant air-raid sirens. a bomb, dropping every minute. never knowing a moment a peace, always wondering if today is going to be your last day, if you and your family are still going to be here tomorrow.
could you stomach living in gaza, for even a day? i doubt it.
and still, now, on the eve of what might be the ground invasion of gaza — with one million palestinians being told to flee, with nowhere to go — i'm getting messages from people who demand my sympathy... for israel.
well, you're not getting it.
i'm not even humoring your hand-wringing.
if you live in israel, and you're one of the ones who've turned a blind-eye to the suffering of the palestinian people, if you've fought for the IDF or tacitly supported them, if you've callously called upon the memory of the holocaust thinking the death and suffering of your ancestors would wash the blood of your own hands....
then yeah, i think you deserve every single hamas rocket lobbed at you and so much more.
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silentwalrus1 · 1 year ago
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I like to think about what if the Kaminoans just, fucked all the way up and made the clones telepaths on purpose.
Kamino is in the Rishi maze, the equivalent of total buttfuck nowhere. This is like a cattle processing plant in rural Montana manufacturing an order for Shenzhen as outlined by a third party intermediary from Monaco who keeps contact with neither production nor “client” and nobody’s first language is Basic. Jedi are like, totally psychic right? Right. Psychic army for psychic clients, sounds right, checks out. There are whole ass telepathic alien species out there, some of which are also Jedi. Why would they want NON-psychic clones. Get it done, Tally Ho or Nala Says or whatever her name is. Chop chop.
Cue like seven years into production and the Kaminoan project leads are starting to get some… inklings…. that maybe some of the deliverable specs were perhaps not so much well-researched as based off cross-galactic hearsay some underpaid analysts pulled off space reddit. This is a business, okay? You’re not gonna make profit manufacturing two million units of fucking anything if you treat it like a luxury product, but especially not if the product has goddamn childhood development & socialization needs. Of fucking course some shit maybe slipped through the cracks. What are we supposed to fucking do now, Lama goddamn Sue sir, tell the Jedi or the pickled fucking Sith that oopsie woopsie, we got the specs wrong half a decade in and have to start over again?
No. No we are not. We are going to lie our fucking semi-aquatic asses off, is what we’re gonna do, and so will you clones if you know what’s good for you. NONE of you are fucking psychic, and you never were. Got that? Understood?
Fast forward to Jedi pickup D-Day and every time anyone with a lightsaber gets within aural biosystem of choice distance the clones immediately start loudly and dutifully Having Conversations.
Hello Commander Sir, It Is I, Trooper McSoldierClone, What A Weather It Is Today, Ha Ha? Over. Yes Indeed McTrooper One Two Three Four, I Am Agree, Now Here Is An Order To Follow Which I Am Vociferously Giving You, Acknowledge Orally, Over. Every clone making rock-hard sweating eye contact like don’t fuck it up as they mentally chant encouragement and script notes and jeering performance feedback at each other. Cadets trooping to fucking speech practice to learn speaking out loud with all the enthusiasm and skill of the average white suburban Floridian teenager taking their fifth mandatory Spanish 1 class. The jedi are like damn these poor asylum grown freaks are so unsocialized and uncomfortable around us, Their Owners, this is so tragic and horrid and unfortunate and meanwhile every clone standing silently in formation is mentally spectating the 400-person telepathic tetris team sport they invented with the same vibes as a football world cup back alley street party complete with official & unofficial betting pools and expert panel commentary
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beargyu313 · 2 months ago
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cliffside
Love is so blind, it feel’s right when it’s wrong
˚.🎀༘⋆ Summary: what was supposed to be a quiet retreat turns into an unforgettable romance with a man almost twice your age (or the story of how your boyfriend’s dad seduces you). ྀ. 𐙚 ̊ Word count: 17.5k
ᵎ!ᵎ⭑.ᐟᵎ!cw: cheating !!! don’t read if uncomfortable !!!! mentions of food throughout the whole thing (they will nawt be hungry), also I do not encourage big age gap relationship irl, this is a fictional and heavily ROMANTICIZED story (ladies don’t let older guys take advantage of you !!)
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𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝
⋆˚࿔ Tags: MDNI – smut (it’s basically pwp), soft power dynamics, forced proximity, boyfriend’s dad (meaning cheating – don’t read if u don’t like it), age gap (OC is 27, Sunghoon is in very late 30’s!), one bed trope, doting and dom!Sunghoon,, 𓆝
⋆smut tags: corruption kink, undertones of ddlg (no use of daddy), heavy petting, groping, spanking, possessive and obsessive Sunghoon !! (but he’s not acting like a freak), choking, brat-tamer!Sunghoon, praise kink
⋆˙♪ Playlist: LDR – norman fucking rockwell + Baekhyun – delight
⋆. 𐙚 ̊ A/N: was this plot just an excuse to write 17k Sunghoon smut? YES lmfaoo. My reqs are currently OPEN for Niki, Sunghoon and Jake, pleeeease request something (I don’t mind detailed reqs, because I’m not writing anything atm and would love a new project) 𓆝 also I’m opening an AO3 account by the end of the month 🦭ིྀ
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝
You’re holding onto your seatbelt as your boyfriend Jihoon speeds over the winding road up the hill.
“Slow down,” you tell him, knowing it’s in vain.
You’d only been together for six months, and this was supposed to be your first real couple’s retreat. The plan had sounded romantic— staying at his dad’s remote cabin, no cell service, time to unwind, just the two of you—but right now, you’re gripping the handle on the door and trying to bite your tongue as the car takes another sharp curve.
He exhales sharply, like your voice is a burden. “We’re literally ten minutes away.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh my god,” he mutters. “What is the point, then? That I’m not driving the way you like?”
You glance at him. He hasn’t looked at you once since you got in the car.
“I’m trying to talk to you,” you say quietly. “You’ve been on edge since we left.”
“I’ve been on edge?” he laughs, humorless. “You’re the one who quit your job and suddenly needed a ‘healing escape.’”
You go still. The words hit harder than they should.
“I told you why I left.”
“Right. Because it was ‘toxic.’” He throws air quotes around the word with one hand while the other grips the wheel. “Or maybe you just couldn’t the real world.”
Silence drops like a rock between you.
You stare out the window, jaw tight. Trees blur by—dark pines, broken sunlight. The air feels heavier than it should.
He sighs again. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying, not everything is a crisis.”
“I didn’t ask for a crisis,” you murmur. “I asked for support.”
He doesn’t respond.
Not when the road evens out. Not when the trees thin and the sea appears in the distance, glittering like glass. Not even when the outline of the cliffside cabin comes into view—tucked into green and shadow like it was built to disappear.
Jihoon pulls into the gravel clearing with a crunch of tires. The cabin stands just ahead—smaller than you imagined, all warm wood and deep shadows, the ocean visible just beyond the slope. It’s stupidly beautiful here. It almost makes you more angry.
He doesn’t bother to put the car in park before saying, “Well. We made it.”
You sit still. The air between you is thick with things unsaid.
“I guess we did,” you say.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at the rearview mirror like he's already thinking about leaving. “Do you want help bringing your stuff in or…”
“No,” you cut in. “I’ve got it.”
That finally gets his attention. He turns toward you, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You unbuckle your seatbelt. “It means I think we need space. A break. Just a few days.”
His mouth pulls into that condescending half-smile you’ve grown to hate. “So what, you’re kicking me out?”
“I’m asking you to give me time to think,” you say, voice calm but tight. “I came here to breathe. You don’t want to be here anyway.”
He scoffs. “Wow. Alright then.”
You open the door and step out before he can say anything else. The gravel shifts beneath your shoes as you head to the trunk. He doesn’t move to help you—not a step.
You drag your suitcase out, the wheels catching on rock and dirt.
When you turn back, Jihoon’s already behind the wheel again. Sunglasses on. Expression unreadable.
You pause. Half of you expects him to get out anyway. To walk over. Say something. Fight for this.
But he doesn’t.
He raises one hand in a lazy wave. “Enjoy your break, I guess.”
And then he hits the gas.
The car kicks up dust and pebbles as it speeds off, tires whining slightly on the curve. You watch the taillights shrink and vanish down the hill. Just like that, he’s gone.
Melancholy creeps into you like a shadow, sighing you can’t help but judge yourself. Really, what were you thinking going for a younger guy. And yeah, maybe 5 years wasn’t that much but as your 27th birthday approaches you somehow wish Jihoon could be more mature, less selfish. You shake the thought away and tightly grip your suitcase.
The wind rises a little, brushing your hair into your face. There’s no one around. No sound but the gulls and the faint hush of waves crashing far below.
The sound of your steps crunching down on the gravel is loud compared to the quiet hush of the nature around you.
You look at the cabin again. And someone is standing in the doorway.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. White shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows.
You squint against the sun. Then recognize him.
Mr. Park. Jihoon’s father.
He steps out onto the porch, bootsteps slow and deliberate. You’ve met him once before, at a dinner—Jihoon had barely let you talk, but Mr. Park had been polite, distant. Watchful.
Now, he looks at your suitcase. Then at you. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen.
“Did Jihoon just leave you here alone?” he asks and you can tell he’s angry at his son.
You exhale through your nose. “Apparently I needed a break.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then so quietly you think you imagined it, “He’s more like his mother than I thought.”
You blink. You don’t know how to answer that.
Mr. Park glances at the suitcase again, then back to your face.
“You staying the week?”
You nod. “That was the plan.”
He tilts his head toward the open door.
“Then come inside. Wind’s picking up,” he states, as he bends ever so slightly and reaches for your suitcase. His fingers brush against yours as he grabs hold of the suitcase. You let him. But you’re still hesitating, stuck to the same spot on the driveway.
He notices.
“I don’t bite,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite a joke.
Then he turns and walks back into the cabin—like he knows you’ll follow.
And you do, eyes lingering on the subtle shift of his shoulders beneath his shirt.
If that dinner months ago was any indication, he’s a man of few words. Quiet, intense. Unreadable.
It didn’t help that you also thought he was very good looking. Long, black hair tucked behind one ear, a few strands falling across sharp cheekbones. Thin silver glasses framing his eyes, drawing attention to the thick brows that make his expression look serious—even when he’s relaxed.
He looks like someone who doesn’t speak unless it matters. Someone who sees more than he lets on.
And now you’re stuck in a cabin with him.
A cabin you thought would be empty. Jihoon never mentioned his dad was here.
Kicking off your shoes on the porch, you follow Mr. Park inside.
The inside of the cabin is warmer than you expected. Not just in temperature, but in tone—like someone curated comfort instead of just decorating it.
The floor is rich in dark wood and worn slightly in the center like it's been walked barefoot a hundred times. A plush sofa stretches across one side of the open-plan living area, upholstered in a deep jade green that catches the light from the tall windows. A few burnt orange cushions are scattered along its length—just enough color to feel intentional.
The kitchen is minimalist but modern. Clean black stone countertops. Matte brown cabinetry. Pans hanging above the stove, catching glints of sunlight through the trees outside. There’s a teapot already out on the burner—old but polished, like it gets used daily.
A single spiral staircase in wrought iron and wood winds upward to the lofted bedroom, perched just above the living space. It has no door—just a wooden railing and a clean sightline to the floor below.
You can see the bed from where you’re standing. It’s large, maybe a queen, with a low frame and linen sheets in soft earth tones. Moss green. Warm gray. A single burnt orange throw draped carelessly across the foot.
There’s no real privacy, not with the open layout. You can already imagine the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, the creak of bedsprings, even the breath of someone turning over in the night.
The whole place smells faintly of cedar, citrus, and coffee.
It’s domestic. Intimate. A little too intimate, maybe.
“Um-“
“So,” you two start speaking at the same time.
You glance at each other. You offer a tight laugh.
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
He shakes his head. “Ladies first.”
You shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “I was just going to ask… would I be, um, in your way? I mean, I didn’t know anyone else would be here.”
His gaze flicks toward your suitcase. “You’re not in my way.”
A beat. You’re not sure what to do with your hands. “Jihoon didn’t mention you’d be staying here.”
He gives the faintest shrug. “I didn’t know he was planning on coming either.”
You nod slowly, not sure how to respond.
“I usually come up for a few weeks every summer,” he adds. “To work, it’s nice and quiet here, no buzz of the city.”
“It is nice,” you say as you glance around again, avoiding looking in Mr. Park’s eyes. But you can feel his gaze on you. It’s making you squirm and you start overthinking everything. From your clothes, to your hair and down to your makeup.
“It grows on you,” he says, finally tearing his eyes off you.
Another pause. You try to find something to say. Something neutral.
“I like the colors,” you say finally. “All the… green. And wood. It feels… warm.”
He almost smiles. “That was my doing. The decorator wanted everything to be white and steel.”
You blink. “Wait. You picked the throw pillows?”
His eyes crinkle just slightly. “I’m not a savage.”
That makes you laugh, even though you try to stifle it. His gaze lingers on the sound. It softens something in his face.
Then he nods toward your bag. “You want tea? Or coffee?”
“Tea would be nice,” you say.
“I’ll get your things upstairs.”
You protest, “Oh, it’s fine, really—”
But he’s already moving.
“I’ll set it by the railing,” he says over his shoulder. “You’ll be able to see everything from up there.”
Including him, you think—but you don’t say it.
He disappears up the steps, feet thudding lightly against the polished wood. You hear the creak of the loft floor above you, and then silence.
You glance around the living room again, unsure what to do with yourself. The couch is a soft, worn leather. A stack of books sits on the coffee table. Nature. Photography. One novel with a cracked spine.
The kettle whistles from the kitchen, sharp and sudden.
You reach for it, but Mr. Park is already coming back down the stairs.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
You step back instinctively. He moves past you, not touching you, but close enough that you feel his presence, his warmth.
You silently move into the kitchen with him and watch him as he pours the hot water, slides the mug towards you and then fixes his own tea as well.
Chamomile tea with no sugar, just the way you like it.
“Oh, thank you,” you softly say as you wrap both of your hands around the cup and bring it up to your lips, blowing gently.
Mr. Park doesn’t reply, just continues moving around the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Pulls out vegetables, eggs, a small bundle of herbs wrapped in twine.
You hover for a moment. Then, ask uncertain.
“Do you want help?”
He glances back, his dark locks falling onto his cheekbones. You almost want to fix the bothersome strands, but suppress the itch to have an excuse to touch him. He is your boyfriend’s dad for god’s sake!
“No need. You’ve had a long trip.”
You offer a faint smile, trying to make it casual. “Not exactly the couple’s retreat I imagined.”
That earns you a low, dry sound. Almost a laugh. And against yourself you’re pleased.
He turns back to the cutting board. Begins to chop in precise, even strokes. Everything about him is deliberate. Controlled.
Then, without looking up he asks. “He left you up here alone?” only it wasn’t really a question.
You pause. “…He was upset. We argued.”
Sunghoon hums, neutral, but not quite, “He’s always been impulsive.”
A brief glance your way.
“Didn’t inherit that from me.” The words are clipped. Measured. Sharper than the knife he’s holding.
You hesitate. “You two aren’t close?”
He shrugs.
“Not the way I’d like. He doesn’t… think before he acts.” His voice is calm, but there’s weight behind it. History.
You tuck your hands under your thighs. “I guess I was hoping this trip would… reset things.”
He finally looks at you—really looks.
“You deserve more than hoping.”
Sunghoon continues cooking and you continue drinking tea as you try not to stare at him. You tell yourself to look away. Instead, your eyes trace the flex of his forearms as he works. The slow rhythm of the blade. The subtle tilt of his head as he concentrates.
You’re still staring when he speaks.
“See something you like?”
Your stomach drops.
He doesn’t look at you. Just slides chopped zucchini into a pan like he didn’t say anything at all.
You blink. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”
“Vegetables,” he says smoothly, mouth quirking. “I meant the vegetables.”
You let out a short laugh. Your cheeks are too warm. You take a sip of tea to mask it.
He finally meets your gaze. His expression is unreadable—but something in it lingers, like a touch you weren’t expecting.
“I’m making it for us,” he says. “Hope you’re hungry.”
The food is comforting. Warm rice, sautéed vegetables, the kind of seasoning that makes you pause for just a second, surprised it’s this good. You’re halfway through your bowl when the quiet between you stretches too long, and you feel the need to fill it.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “This is... really good.”
Mr. Park nods once. “Simple’s best up here. No delivery. No distractions.”
You glance at the windows, where the sun’s started to dip lower behind the trees. The silence out here feels different. Like it listens.
You clear your throat. “So… about the sleeping arrangements.”
He looks up at you, expression unreadable.
You add quickly, “I mean, I know you said I could take the bed, but I don’t want to—”
“You won’t, the couch isn’t suitable for sleeping anyway,” he interrupts gently. “Doesn’t stretch out.”
You blink. “Oh. Right. Of course. I didn’t know.”
His gaze lingers. “It’s not a problem. The bed fits two.”
You hesitate. “Mr. Park, I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”
“Sunghoon,” he says, voice low but firm. “Call me Sunghoon.”
You look at him. That subtle edge of command in his tone—not aggressive, not inappropriate. Just... sure. Your stomach flips.
“Okay. Sunghoon,” you softly say, his name heavy on your tongue. Like you’re saying a bad word. Forbidden.
His eyes stay on you a moment too long as if he can feel it too. Feel your unspoken desire. You fidget in your chair, his eyes piercing.
Then, just like that, he stands, collecting the dishes with easy efficiency. You rise to help, but he waves you off.
“I’ve got it. But…” He pauses at the fridge. “Do you want dessert?”
You blink. “You have dessert?”
“Kind of.” He opens the freezer. “One popsicle left.”
You let out a soft laugh. “We can split it.”
He tears the wrapper and hands you the stick. You take it, a bit taken aback that he unwrapped it for you. So far Sunghoon was being really caring towards you and you couldn’t tell if he’s being like this because he’s so much older than you and instinctively wants to take care of you specifically or if he’s always like this and it doesn’t mean anything.
Your lips wrap around the cold stick, the cold sharp and sweet on your tongue. You hear Sunghoon open the tap as he starts washing up. By the time he’s done you’re halfway done with the popsicle.
Sunghoon sits down on the sofa, right next to you as he watches the way your cheeks dip as you suckle and bite on the stick. Eyes dark, lids heavy and legs spread. But you don’t notice as you absent mindedly scroll through TV channels.
“Would you like some?” you innocently ask, “thought we said we’d split it?” only to almost drop the cold stick when you turn to look at him. Heat spreads through you like wildfire.
Sunghoon is sitting down on the couch looking like pure sex. Glasses sliding down his nose, hair a bit messy from brushing it back and heavy-lidded. Without hesitation, he slowly leans in and wraps his lips around the same spot your lips had just touched.
His mouth is slow as he softly bites down on what’s left of the popsicle. Hand wrapped around the same stick you’re holding. Deliberate. The wet sound of his tongue and the quiet sucking goes straight down to your core.
“I don’t mind sharing,” he says, dark eyes on you.
When he pulls back, he licks a faint drip from the corner of his mouth. The slow drag of his tongue as he pulls away makes you forget what you were about to say.
You stare at him. You can’t help it.
The air feels heavier now. Warmer. Intimate in a different way. He takes one last bite, then tosses the stick into the trash like nothing happened.
“You should get some rest,” he murmurs. “You can unpack tomorrow.”
You nod, fingers still cold from holding the popsicle. Mouth still warm from watching him.
And when you finally climb the stairs to the open loft, you know exactly what you’ll be thinking about when you try to sleep.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟
You wake up sweaty and sticky. Annoyed, you try to shake the duvet off but freeze as you feel the warmth behind you. Sunghoon is sprawled out next to you, his glasses on the bedside table. He’s not touching you, but with how closely he’s snuggled to you he might as well be.
You chuck the duvet off yourself, but do your best so it stays as it was on Sunghoon and let yourself fall back asleep.
The next time you wake to a steady rhythmic beat under you. You cuddle into the it, the sound calming you further into a daze. But then you register strong arms draped over you, hugging you protectively. And you realize you’re literally laying down on Sunghoon’s chest.
His arms tighten around you when he feels you waking up.
“Finally up, huh,” he mumbles, but his voice is kind. Sleep still seeping into it.
“Didn’t want to move and wake you, sorry,” he tells you and lets you roll off him.
“Sorry,” you squeal, face turning red, “hope I didn’t droll, I’m not usually the cuddling type.”
“No? S’kay, I didn’t mind it,” Sunghoon tells you as if it was nothing and starts getting ready for the day.
You’re still hiding your face behind the duvet as you listen to his quiet shuffle around the small loft. It is only when you hear the front door shut that you force yourself to get up too.
The morning is spent in quiet solitude that you invite with open arms, enjoying the scenery. You prepare yourself a simple breakfast and a tea to go along with it. As you sip on it you see Sunghoon outside, taking photos. And that’s when you remember Jihoon telling you his dad did photography.
You go back upstairs to unpack and change out of your pajamas. It’s true that it was summer, but the mountain air was a bit chillier so you decide on an oversized sweater, shorts and knee socks.
As you go out, you look around for Sunghoon, slightly jogging up to him when you spot him just off the trail. Near the forest. The sun is high up in the sky and Sunghoon has his camera raised, gaze narrowed like he’s tracking something invisible. A gull wheels overhead. His finger clicks the shutter.
"You're out early," you say, a little breathless from jogging. You brush your hair out of your face.
He turns at the sound of your voice. His eyes take you in—sweater hanging off one shoulder, the soft skin of your thighs above those socks—and there’s a flicker of something there. But just as quick as you notice it, it’s gone.
"Best light doesn’t wait. You want to try?" he asks.
"Really?" you ask, already shuffling closer to him.
Sunghoon watches you as he gruffly tells you, "come here."
He pauses when you leave some polite space between the two of you.
"Closer," he tells you, opening his chest as he indicates he wants you to come directly against his chest. You gulp as you move, his broad stature engulfing you as he put his arms around you and holds the camera in front of you.
"I’ve never held one like this before," you tell him, your heart racing at the proximity.
Sunghoon quietly chuckles, "that much is obvious. Relax your grip—you’re choking it," his hand over your, softly fixing your fingers.
"Sorry—"
"No need to apologize. Just let me guide you," and you do, his fingers guide you, as his breath caresses your neck. And you have to suppress a shiver when he quietly speaks next, his voice right next to your ear, breath tickling your neck.
"Tilt your wrists like this... yeah. Just like that. Feel better?"
"A little," you rasp and you swear his voice sounds deeper than before. You feel a warm buzzing seep from your inner thighs and try your best to will the thoughts away.
"Don’t overthink it. Let the camera rest in your hands. Let it want to be touched," he speaks, his hands moving from your wrists up your arms and settling on your shoulders as he watches you click away.
You softly chuckle in hopes of dissipating tension"you’re making it sound... kind of dirty."
"Is that how you’re hearing it?" he asks, not bothered in the slightest, but his hands on your shoulders start applying pressure – almost in warning.
"I didn’t mean—" you fumble for words, panic shooting through you. How was he always so calm?
"Mm. Focus here. Look through the viewfinder. Keep your hands steady," he cuts you off. His face is right next to your as he looks into the viewfinder.
"Breathe in," he proffers.
A beat passes as you breathe in and you swear heat builds between you. But only his hands touch you, their weight a constant reminder of how close he is.
"Now exhale slowly. Feel that? How everything sharpens when you stop fighting it?"
"Yeah..." you say, your voice coming out in a quiet breath. You shuffle in your spot, your shorts rubbing against your lower lips.
"Good girl," says Sunghoon, his voice like honey to your ears. But still – you momentarily falter, his voice bringing you back to reality.
"Mr. Park..." you hope your voice is at least a little serious, turning slightly to look at him through your lashes.
"If you keep calling me that, I’m going to start thinking you like it," Sunghoon easily replies, his gaze dropping to your lips. It’s back on your eyes just as quickly, so much so that you start to think you imagined it.
"Is that a problem?" flustered, you laugh and take a step forward. His hands drop from your shoulder as he continues watching you. A lip caught between his teeth.
"Not at all. But if we’re going to keep doing this... it’s Sunghoon. Say it."
"Sunghoon," you say, turning to look back at him.
"Better," he smirks and your gaze falls to the grass.
Sunghoon takes over the camera then, and you end up spending the entire day with him. Mostly just listening, letting his quiet confidence settle into the spaces where your thoughts usually race. He explains this and that—aperture, lighting, texture—and you try your best to keep up, even though you mostly just enjoy the sound of his voice. Low and calm, like the tide pulling in.
For lunch, you make sandwiches for the both of you, slicing the bread carefully while he’s still reviewing the shots on his camera. You place the plate beside him with a soft, "Here."
He glances up, genuinely surprised. Then, that soft flicker of something like warmth passes through his eyes.
"You didn’t have to, sweet girl," he says.
Just like that. Casual. Almost lazy. But your face burns for the next hour.
By the time the sun dips behind the trees, painting the cabin in golden light, he mentions putting on a movie in the living room—and you stupidly agree before even thinking to ask which movie.
You only realize your mistake when he dims the lights and presses play on Hereditary.
The couch is wide but low, sunken from use. You curl into yourself immediately, legs folded up beneath you, oversized sweater sleeves covering your hands. You retreat into your corner like a cat anticipating a thunderstorm.
Sunghoon claims the other side—sprawled out, knees wide, one arm draped over the backrest. He doesn’t look at you, but his presence takes up all the space anyway. Calm. Heavy.
You’re not touching. But you can feel him.
At first the movie is fine. Almost boring. You’ve seen horror films before, and for a while Hereditary just feels like another cliché movie. A family unraveling. A creeping unease.
But as the minutes tick by, your body starts to betray you. The way the music swells without warning. The shadows that linger a little too long in the corners of the screen. The sudden cuts to faces that shouldn't be there.
Your fingers curl into the blanket. You try to laugh once—force it out like it’s no big deal—but it dies in your throat.
Beside you, Sunghoon doesn’t move. He watches with the same intense stillness he brings to everything. Like he already knows exactly what’s coming.
When the first real scare lands—a sharp cut, a scream, something unnatural jerking into frame—you jump.
Not dramatically. Not even enough to make a sound, but enough that your knee brushes his thigh.
You freeze.
So does he.
Then, slowly, you start to pull away—
“Scared?” His voice is low. Barely a whisper. Almost amused.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, only to find that he's already watching you. Not the screen.
“It’s just a movie,” you say, trying to play it off.
But your voice isn’t steady. Not enough to fool either of you.
He doesn’t call you on it. Just leans a little closer, arm still draped behind you on the couch.
“Come here,” he says simply. Not a question. Not a suggestion.
Just… an offer.
And somehow, that’s even more dangerous.
“It’s fine, really,” you tell him but as the climax of the movie approaches you’re getting progressively more and more scared. Your eyes shifting in paranoia to look outside the windows to make sure no one is looking in, you almost scream when a big hand wraps around your wrist.
But you relax, when you realize it’s just Sunghoon. He pulls you right against himself, his arm falling protectively against your body. He moves your legs so they’re resting in his lap, his other arm placed on your naked thighs.
“You’re too stubborn,” he tells you, but his arms tighten around you whenever you jump.
Once the movie ends, the room is too quiet.
You don’t move at first, staring blankly at the credits. There’s still a weight in your chest—your heartbeat quick, your breath shallow. That last scene… you wish you hadn’t watched it.
Sunghoon stretches, slow and deliberate, his body radiating calm. He looks down at you—really looks—and sees it.
“Too much for you, sweetheart?”
His voice is low. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone much smaller, like he’s already tucking you into safety without moving an inch.
You glance at him, face warming. You nod, just barely.
“It got really scary at the end,” you admit softly, voice small.
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t laugh. Instead he softly asks, “Want me to put something else on?”
You nod again, biting your lip. “Can we… watch a cartoon? Something stupid. With animals, or magic. Just something nice.”
That earns the smallest smirk. Not mocking—fond.
“Of course you want animals.”
He reaches for the remote, his hand trailing down your thighs. He pulls your sliding sock back over your knee, smoothing over the goosebumps that appear on your thigh where he touches.
“Any favorites, baby girl?”
The nickname makes your stomach flip, but you don’t correct him. You just sink a little deeper into the couch and mumble something about whatever’s cute.
Sunghoon scrolls quietly until something soft and colorful starts playing. You don’t even register what it is—just the bright lights and silly voices, the kind of show you used to watch on Sunday mornings with cereal in your lap.
He glances at you again.
“Better?”
You scoot deeper into him “mhm,” you whisper. “Thanks… Sunghoonie.”
There’s a pause, and then you feel his hand move, caressing your thigh.
After some time you shuffle against him again – your back hurt after laying sideways. Your legs spread as you sit on Sunghoon’s lap, now chest to chest with him as you let your head rest on his broad shoulder.
You don’t seem to realize you’re straddling him, Sunghoon’s even breathing lulling you into a sleepy haze. You just knew the TV light was starting to bother you and Sunghoon was warm. So you snuggle further into him.
He doesn’t say anything, instead he brings his legs closer and angles his hips upwards, so your core is pressed directly against his. You squirm around a bit, trying to find a comfy position when you feel it.
Something is poking right against your butt, just as you sit fully down and begin to nod off. Bothered by the prodding you subconsciously roll and press your hips against Sunghoon’s warm body.  You quietly groan, as pleasure starts replacing discomfort.
You continue dragging your hips up and down and Sunghoon groans underneath you. You moan, nuzzling your head into his neck as you push your front into his chest. Sunghoon’s hands travel from your thighs to your waist and it’s getting harder to breathe.
You pick up the pace, grinding with more intent when his hands grip your hips, the strength forcing you to stop. You whine at the loss of friction.
“You’re sleepy baby, let me take you upstairs,” Sunghoon groans, his voice hoarse as if he’s holding himself back from saying too much.
You let him lift you up in bridal position and carry you upstairs. He softly lays you down on your side of the bed. You don’t hear him, as he quietly goes into the bathroom. Trying to hold back any sounds as he grips his hard and leaking cock. And maybe that night he furiously tugs at his cock like a teenager, cumming embarrassingly fast before he’s able to come and sleep next to you. But you don’t know that, already asleep.
When you wake the next day you’re tangled with Sunghoon again. You’re calmer this morning compared to the previous one, and that’s when his hand twitches – shifting the mood. You’re spooning, only Sunghoon’s hand isn’t around your waist. No, it’s resting directly on your boob. Almost fondling it. You feel twitching as he starts waking up, the hand on your boob momentarily tightens into a grope, and you feel your nipples stifling, poking up. You mewl, subconsciously pushing your chest further into his hand.
You don’t move more than that, pretending you’re still sleeping as Sunghoon carefully continues touching you.
His fingers pinch your nipple, hips pressing into you. You feel how hard he is, and memories of last night fill your mind. Afarid he will pull away again you continue pretending to sleep. Sunghoon quietly groans into your ear, his hips rutting against your ass. The hand covering your tit less gentle as he roughly massages your boob.
You try really hard not to make any noise, not to push back, even though the ache building between your thighs has you nearly shaking in want. A moan escapes you when his thrusts get more irregular, less controlled and his dick twitches right against your lips.
Not being able to take it anymore you jut your ass out, shifting your thighs so you feel more pressure on your pussy. You quietly moan when Sunghoon’s other hand sneaks underneath your laying figure, resting on your navel.
“My sweet little thing, so good to me,” he breathes, pulling you into a back hug as he lets you feel his hard cock.
He breathes in your hair and you mewl when his hips move, thrusting upwards. Your pussy clenching around nothing and you feel your panties start sticking to you.
You’re a whining mess as Sunghoon lets you rub yourself on his cock and he continues playing with your nipple, pinching and pulling at it. Noting what makes you whine and moan the loudest. Hit other hand drawing comforting circles on your navel and you wish he’d let it slip under your shorts.
“Feel good, baby?” he asks you, nose grazing your neck, hips gently thrusting into yours, “you like when da-“ he coughs, “when I play with you, hm pretty?” he asks, before leaving a soft kiss right where your ear meets your neck.
“You poor thing, can’t even properly do it by yourself” he pouts at you, mocking you. But you don’t realize it, instead pouting as you nod.
“Yeah Hoonie,” you whine “need your help.”
Just then a loud smack ruins the moment, Sunghoon’s hand coming down your thigh in stinging pleasure. You hiss and blink at him, dazed and still needy. But the way he’s looking at you now—stern, jaw tight—makes your stomach knot.
“That’s enough,” he says, voice low and sharp.
You blink again, still catching up. He left you empty, just when you were getting there.
“Wha—?”
“You have a boyfriend,” he says flatly, standing up fully. He adjusts himself in his boxers, then runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to wipe the heat off. “What the hell are we doing?”
The words sting more than you want them to.
“You started it,” you shoot back, voice soft but defiant. “You didn’t seem to mind a second ago.”
His head tilts. Slowly.
“And I’m ending it,” he says, firmer now, like you’re testing him. “Before either of us does something we’ll regret.”
You scoff, crossing your arms as you look away. “Maybe you’ll regret it. I won’t.”
He’s quiet for a beat.
“Take a walk.”
You glance up at him, pout deepening as your eyebrows furrow.
“Make me.”
That gets him.
He steps forward, just a little too close—his shadow long over your legs.
“Don’t tempt me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Go cool off. Before I stop caring that you’re someone else’s problem.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, still warm and buzzing from the way he pulled away. Your thighs press together instinctively, but you refuse to let it show.
“Whatever,” you mumble to yourself, standing to rummage through your suitcase.
You start peeling off yesterday’s clothes—tossing the rumpled sweater and socks into a corner—and Sunghoon pushes past you, down the stairs.
You pull on something softer: a little camisole, barely opaque, and matching shorts that reach barely over your butt. You add a loose cardigan over it, just in case. Not like you're dressing for anyone.
As you start to turn away, something on the nightstand catches your eye.
A book.
You pick it up and see it’s Dracula. Of course, you loudly exhale through your nose in a quiet chuckle. Leather-bound, dog-eared, marked with a single worn slip of paper. You flip through a few pages, thumbing the edge. It smells like cedar and time. Somehow, that feels like him, too.
Curling onto the bed, you prop a pillow behind you and let yourself sink into it. Reading helps. Sort of. The frustration doesn’t really fade—but it settles, coiled and waiting.
Downstairs, you hear the front door open and shut. A car engine stirs to life. Sunghoon’s going somewhere.
Good.
You need space.
By the time the sun has risen higher and warmed the back patio, you’re already downstairs, water bottle in hand. You tug a towel out from the closet, find your sunglasses, and step out into the golden light. The air is warmer today. Still crisp from the mountain wind, but hot enough to sunbathe.
You stretch out on the lounging, sighing as the sun warms your skin. You don’t even hear the car pull back in—until the crunch of gravel in the driveway makes you glance up.
The door shuts.
And then you hear it. The steady, familiar steps rounding toward the back of the house.
Sunghoon. Butterflies erupt in your tummy even though you’re still mad at him.
He stops in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up on his head, one hand full of grocery bags, the other holding something vaguely bottled—wine, maybe. You don’t watch, but you hear him putting groceries away inside the kitchen.
He’s back out after five minutes. You take note of his clothes despite yourself – a tight black tee, accentuating his muscular frame and broad shoulders paired with light washed jorts.
His eyes find you.
“Need help with sunscreen?” he says, voice deceptively casual as his eyes drink you up. Clad in a flimsy pink bikini set that barely covered anything.
You peek at him over your sunglasses, not bothering to sit up.
“I’ve got hands, don’t I?” you say, all mock-innocence. “Pretty sure I can manage rubbing lotion on myself.”
Sunghoon doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Just arches a brow like he’s heard this kind of sass before—and knows exactly what to do with it.
“Mm,” he hums, stepping fully onto the patio. “Thought maybe your hands needed a break, since they were so busy earlier.”
Your stomach dips. You shoot him a glare—half mortified, half flustered—and throw an arm over your face dramatically.
“You said we weren’t talking about that.”
“I said we were done,” he corrects. He walks towards you pushing his hair out of his face. “Didn’t say anything about keeping my mouth shut.”
You snort despite yourself, still hiding under your arm. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re burning,” he says coolly, pointing at the tops of your thighs with the little bottle of sunscreen he grabbed on his way out. “Flip over or sit up, brat. You choose.”
That gets your attention.
You peek up again, pout forming instantly. “You’re so bossy when you don’t get what you want.”
He steps closer, crouching down beside your lounger now, one big hand coming to rest casually on the side of the chair near your hip.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dipping dangerously low, “if I were getting what I want, you wouldn’t be able to lie still right now.”
You blink, heat rising all the way to your ears.
He twists the cap off the sunscreen and holds it up between two fingers. “Well?”
You make a show of sighing. “Fine,” you grumble, rolling onto your stomach with an exaggerated huff, the curve of your ass now fully on display. “But you better not make it weird.”
“Oh, baby,” he says, smoothing lotion into his palms, “I think we’re way past that.”
And then his hands are on you. He starts with your calves, wrapping his big arm around your plush skin, hot after being warmed by the sun now high up in the sky.
You force your breathing to stay even as Sunghoon rubs the sunscreen on your skin. Even though his touch was on your legs, the way his fingers knew where to apply pressure and massage made your skin tingle with raw want.
But Sunghoon smoothly continues, his hands traveling past your knee and on the back of your thighs. Once he reaches your sensitive spot you unknowingly spread your legs slightly and Sunghoon smirks, squeezing the sunscreen directly onto your skin, straight from the bottle.
You shriek, “that’s cold.”
“Serves you right for being a brat,” he lightly scolds. His hands rub the cold cream on the spot right where your thighs meet your butt, eyes glued to the spot between your thighs. He licks his lips, his fingers continuing working on your inner thighs. High. His long digits reach your bikini, grazing your lower lips and you twitch. He smirks, not saying anything.
Your breath is shallow as as his hands grasp your thighs, nails softly digging into your skin as he drags circles into your skin – spreading the sunscreen all over your legs. Sunghoon, ever the detail oriented man, doesn’t miss a single spot.
You butt starts lifting, against your best tries to just lay there and take it.
Sunghoon’s breathing is heavier when he squirts the cream on his hands again and starts spreading the creamy substance over your butt. Your bikini bottoms start to wedge into your ass, turning it more into a thong the longer he plays with you.
You sigh, melting into your chair as Sunghoon’s hand slips under your bottoms.
“Gotta make sure you don’t get burned anywhere,” he explains, his voice dropping an octave and you clench around nothing.
You just hope he doesn’t feel how wet you’ve gotten and scold you again. Sunghoon squeeze your butt and jiggles it, watching the shine from the cream reflect from it. It made your butt look so inviting and he has to bite his lip so an inappropriate comment doesn’t slip past his lips.
You on the other hand are holding your breath in quiet anticipation, but Sunghoon’s hands are already on your back. Hands sticky from the sun block as he carefully finishes his application. Grazing your lower back, then your waist and moving onto your shoulder blades.
“You’re trembling, sweetheart. You want more and you don’t even realize it yet, do you?” Sunghoon quietly murmurs by your ear, his voice telling you everything he isn’t saying.
Your body’s humming. You’re dizzy. You’re about to turn around and do something reckless—
But then he’s telling you to turn around so he can do your front side as well.
You listen, moving the sunglasses so they cover your eyes. But Sunghoon doesn’t miss your blushing cheeks and the bead of sweat right in the middle of your boobs.
“Good girl, see how well we get along when you listen to me?” he teases as he rubs on your stomach. His fingers touching your underboob, pushing your top up and revealing the softness underneath.
You moan a small ‘mhm,’ putty in his hands. You don’t dare to glance at him when he is this close. But his shadow looming over your laying figure and his scent all around you is enough to make you dizzy, all your senses filled with him. Sunghoon. Sunghoon. Sunghoon. Everywhere around you.
The moment is broken by the shrill of your phone. Sunghoon flinches away from you, as if he was caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t be.
You re-adjust your bathing suit as you reach for your phone.
You check the screen: Jihoon.
You hesitate, and Sunghoon notices. In a low, unreadable voice he matter of fact asks you. “Don’t let it go to voicemail. He’s still your boyfriend, isn’t he?”
You answer. Jihoon’s tone is annoyed and distracted right off the bat. “Hey. You alive or what? I texted you yesterday.”
“I’ve been fine. It’s… it’s peaceful up here,” you reply, lowkey already exhausted from this conversation.
“That’s the whole point. You needed to chill out. You were being weird lately,” he tells you in a clipped voice.
Your stomach twists. Your words feel small.
“Did you know your dad was going to be here?” you ask instead of giving into the fight he was starting.
“So what if he is? He’s never even home, I figured he’d be working like always,” he defensively nags.
“Well, he’s not. He saw everything, Jihoon. When you dropped me off.”
At this point, you hear the rustle of movement—Sunghoon, standing just behind you now.
“Let me talk to him,” he tells you, reaching his hand towards the phone. You’re caught off guard but hand the phone over without thinking. He takes it with fingers still faintly warm from your skin.
“Jihoon,” Sunghoon interrupts him.
A long pause is heard before he speaks again. “You left her alone, without food, without checking in. You didn’t even tell her I’d be here. What exactly were you thinking?”
You don’t hear Jihoon’s reply, but Sunghoon’s answers has you assuming what must’ve been said anyway.
“She said she wanted space, so you dumped her at the edge of a mountain?” “Grow up,” he tells him, visibly annoyed.
“That’s enough, Jihoon.” He pauses, listening before speaking again. “You lost the right to have an opinion the moment you left her here.”
He hands the phone back to you like it burns and goes inside the house, giving you privacy to finish the call.
You hold the phone to your ear and Jihoon’s voice is furious now “what the fuck was that? You seriously told my dad on me?”
“He saw everything, Jihoon. He’s the one who took care of me,” you firmly tell him, refusing to be the bad guy here.
“So now you’re what, flirting with him? Jesus, no wonder you’re acting weird,” he childishly jabs.
“I’m not the one who drove off like a child,” you tell him, trying to keep your tone steady. No matter how much Jihoon wanted to have this fight with you, you wouldn’t let him ruin this vacation for you.
“You really think he cares about you? My dad doesn’t get involved. He watches people fall and doesn’t say a word,” he quickly speaks, his voice panicked.
You pause. The words cut—because Sunghoon has cared. In ways Jihoon never has.
“That’s funny. He’s the only one who has,” you reply and then hang up, fuming.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝
You don’t see Sunghoon for hours after the call. The house is too quiet and you assume he went out to take photos, since one of his cameras was absent too.                You try to nap, to read, to scroll aimlessly on your phone, but your thoughts keep circling to the way Jihoon’s voice rang out loud enough for Sunghoon to flinch. The way Sunghoon's jaw clenched so tightly after, like he was grinding back words he didn’t trust himself to say.
When the sun begins to fall behind the ridge, casting the inside of the cabin in deep, amber shadows, you finally venture out of the bedroom.
You find Sunghoon in the kitchen.
His back is to you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, knife in hand as he slices into something soft and green on the cutting board. The overhead light cuts a sharp halo over his shoulders, casting half his face in shadow when he finally turns to glance at you.
Not a word passes for a long second.
You cross your arms loosely, staying near the doorway. “I didn’t know if I should come downstairs.”
He looks back down at what he’s doing. “Didn’t want you to go hungry.” There’s warmth in that sentence, but no softness. It’s clipped. Guarded.
You both sit at the kitchen island. The meal is simple—roasted vegetables, grilled tofu, rice. You push food around your plate. The silence between you is heavy. Borderline unbearable.
And then, finally Sunghoon softly speaks “don’t mistake silence for regret.”
His voice is quiet, but deliberate, “I just don’t trust myself to say something I won’t take back later.”
You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He sets down his chopsticks, leans back against the chair. His jaw is tight, but his eyes are impossibly clear as they settle on you.
“I knew I shouldn’t have touched you.” A pause. He swallows. “But you looked so small when he drove off. And I guess, I just wanted to protect you, show you the love Jihoon wasn’t giving to you.”
Your chest clenches. The hurt spills before you can reel it back.
“Then why are you treating me like I did something wrong?”
His gaze sharpens.
“You didn’t. But I did. You’re not mine… yet.”
The word clings in the air between you like the taste of smoke. It makes you sit a little straighter. Makes your breath catch.
He watches you intently, but not indulgently. His expression isn’t soft. It’s honest. Bruisingly so.
“You said I’m not yours. Like I’m someone’s. I’m not.”
“It’s not that simple,” Now he looks at you.
“It could be.”
“You still have him.”
“I don’t want him,” you cross your arms, jaw tightening.
He doesn’t speak. You take a step closer, looking down at him as he still sits behind the table.
“I want you.” There it is. You said it plainly.
His gaze drops to the floor for a moment, like the weight of it hits somewhere deep. Then back to you.
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I do.”
You pause, softer now. “You want me too.”
He exhales once, slowly. Runs a hand through his hair. That veneer of control, cracking.
His eyes flick to yours. “Of course I do,” he says. “Don’t think for a second I haven’t tried to push it down.”
You don’t speak. Just hold his gaze.
He threads your fingers together like it’s something he’s done a hundred times. And when he steps in close, the heat between you rises. The air shifts.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, low. “Not unless you mean it.”
You swallow, heart pounding.
“And don’t say my name like it matters,” he adds, “if you’re still planning to go back to him.”
Your voice comes out steadier than you expect. “I’m not going back.”
A beat. “I’m right here.”
His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes the back of your hand, almost unconsciously.
“…Say it again,” he murmurs. Not commanding. Just needing to hear it.
You step closer. Tip your chin up.
“I’m right here, Sunghoon.”
And then he kisses you. His mouth claims yours with a purpose that makes your knees lock. It's not hesitant, not testing. It’s decisive. Like a line is being crossed, and he’s the one drawing it.
You gasp against him, and he swallows it whole.
The kiss is deep, slow, deliberate — not the fumbling of someone new, but the kind of kiss that knows exactly where to linger, how to make your pulse stutter. He tilts your chin just enough to control the angle, to taste you properly. Like he’s waited long enough.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel like relief. But it does. Because this is wrong. Because this is forbidden. And because that only makes it worse. Better, sweeter.
You feel the age between you in the way he moves — in the steadiness of his hands, in the quiet control he keeps even as he presses closer. There’s no rush, the kiss is slow, intimate. And his hold on you is firm, possessive, holding you close to him as if he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go.  
By the time he pulls back — lips parted, breathing uneven — you’re flushed down to your chest. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, slow, like he’s memorizing the shape of it now that he’s finally tasted it.
His voice is low, warm, and just a little bit patronizing — the kind of tone that curls around your spine and makes you want to misbehave just to hear it again.
“You kissed me back, babygirl,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Don’t get all shy on me now.”
Your breath hitches, but you don’t look away.
He tilts your chin up further, just enough to make you feel small beneath his gaze.
“Want me to stop?” he asks, voice velvet-dark. “Or do you want Mr. Park to take care of you properly this time?”
Your breath catches.
It’s not the words exactly—it’s the way he says them.
Mr. Park.
Your lashes flutter. That word settles somewhere low and hot in your belly, like it had been waiting to be spoken all along.
You chew your lip, looking up at him through your lashes, voice barely above a whisper.
You pause, eyes flickering across his face—testing, teasing. “You wanna take care of me, Mr. Park?” you purr, face close to his. Sunghoon traces your whole face, eyes sparkling and lips curling into an almost proud smile.
“So now you get it,” he says, voice low and rich, eyes scanning your face. “Took you long enough, baby.”
He lifts a hand, fingers brushing under your chin, tilting it up like he’s studying you, admiring his own effect.
“You like being looked after, don’t you?” His thumb grazes your bottom lip, and he hums when you part your mouth, pliant for him.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispers, hot and slow. “You’ve got me now.”
And then, quietly, firmly, sure of himself “and Mr. Park is gonna take real good care of his sweet girl.”
And then his lips are on you again, he back walks you into the living room and you let him lead, lips not parting. This kiss is messier, loud squelching sound fills the room and you can’t hold back the little whines escaping past your lips.
Sunghoon doesn’t mind, his hands now unashamedly groping everywhere. Your thighs, your butt, your waist, your boobs and it’s dizzying.
You gasp when your legs hit the sofa, falling back on it. You lay there, breathing uneven and Sunghoon just stands over you. Studying you, his eyes dark and focused, tracing every inch of your body.
He unbuckles his belt, “take your shirt off baby, let Mr. Park see you,” and you comply. The bossy tone turns you on. Your hands pull the fabric off your body.
“Mr. Park,” you breathe, pupils blown as you watch Sunghoon. You need him now, immediately. Your pussy is practically pulsating as you continue watching, waiting. But Sunghoon doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He spreads his belt on the table, carefully.
You whine, “do something already.”
He crouches next to your laying figure on the sofa, your legs dangling over the tiny thing. Caressing your neck in a dark velvety voice, almost as if he’s enjoying seeing you beg he tells you mockingly, “you’ve been whining about this all day and now you can’t even wait five seconds?”
You whimper, softly blowing a raspberry as you move out of his hold. You pull the shorts down your legs, done with the waiting.
“Fine, I’ll just take care of it myself,” you fuss, hand starting to slide down towards your core.
But Sunghoon swiftly grabs your wrist, tightly. His body is on you in a flash and it only excites you more. You moan when he speaks.
“Keep acting like this and you won’t be leaving this room today,” he is breathing hard, eyes softening when he sees the raw desire in yours.
You push your hips up, rubbing your pussy on him as he holds your forearms next to your shoulders, your left side pressing into the sofa cushion. His legs trap yours and you’re completely at his mercy, your strength no match compared to his.
“You’re cute when you’re mouthy, but don’t push it” he warns, voice husky, “now say please. Properly”
You almost want to cry, the ache so visceral you can’t even think. His words don’t even properly register before you’re’ already blabbering.
“Please please please, Mr. Park, please,” you beg, unsuccessfully trashing underneath his iron hold.
“I promise I’ll behave, just please touch me, I won’t be impatient anymore,” you whine, tears building behind your eyes out of sheer frustration.
“There she is. That’s better. My good girl knows how to behave,” he murmurs, allowing you to grind your pussy against his muscular thigh, as he caresses your face, a smirk on his face.
“Took you long enough to say it,” a dangerous lilt in his smile. He lowers down, biting in your neck in what should be pain but is instead making you mewl. Your pussy gushing at this point.
“Mr. Park, Hoonie,” you breathe, “f-fuck” you gasp, stumbling over your words as Sunghoon continues biting you, now moving onto your tits, littering small marks, “fuck me please, need you so bad” you whine, legs wrapping around his hips and pulling his lower body into you.
He’s aching you can tell, he pulls his lips from your body with a pop, a string of saliva connecting him to you, his lips red and swollen. And suddenly you’re licking your lips, desperate for just another taste of this older man.
“You love when I make the rules. Don’t pretend you don’t,” he teases, as he finally, finally pulls his cock out. He pumps it two times, licking his hand before bringing it to your face.
“Spit,” he instructs and you comply. You watch as he wraps his fingers around his long and fat cock again, droll pooling in your mouth as you watch, mesmerized.
He notices your gaze, “ah, wanted to taste my sweet girl, see if you taste as good as you look, but” he groans, lining his cockhead to your entrance, “my little one is just too impatient,” he gruffs.
He pushes his dick into you, slowly deliberately. Torturing you once again, and you’re utterly helpless. Whining, moaning, groaning, squeezing your walls together but Sunghoon doesn’t give in to your whining.
He’s barely pushed his cock in halfway when you test his patience once again.
“Hoonie just push it in already,” you whine, “need you so bad, stop teasing.” You pout. His dick twitches and that’s when it clicks. He likes seeing you this needy for him.
You look at him through your lashes, pushing yourself into the sofa, making yourself small under his larger frame, “feels so good, Hoonie,” you quietly moan, “you’re so big,” you mewl and Sunghoon finally sheaths himself fully inside of you, groaning as he does.
He stays like that for a moment, allowing both of you to adjust, his eyes are squeezed shut. Your thighs around his waist twitch, impatient once again.
You bite your lip, just watching him. You know he feels your walls pulsating, purring just for him. begging him to fucking move. You needed it fast, rough but Sunghoon was hellbent on having you slowly. Devouring you whole as you cry for him.
“Now you can wait your turn,” he breathes, almost as if he can read your thoughts. His hand wraps around your throat, his gaze dark and your walls clasp tightly around his dick. Sunghoon smirks as he draws his hips out, slowly, before pushing back into you hard.
You can’t stifle the loud moan that leaves you and that only spurs Sunghoon on. He continues fucking you like this, pace incredibly slow and powerful – as if he had all the time in the world to get lost in your pussy. He watches your every breath, every move, gaze heavy – too heavy. You shut your eyes the intensity overwhelming you.
Your smaller hand cups his bigger one, still on your throat and his voice is husky when he speaks again.
“Look at me,” his voice like honey, the thumb on your neck drawing comforting circles as he continues fucking you, “No hiding. I want to see exactly what I’m doing to you.”
He tells you and when you look you can feel it. The control, the power he has over you, how he could ruin you if he decided to. And how you would probably let him.
Your mouth opens, gasping as he picks up the pace, fast and irregular and you can tell he is close.
You try to claw at his hand that was clasping around your throat. You gasp for air and Sunghoon continues watching you, groaning as his hips work an incredible pace.
His hips stutter, eyes shutting and arm leaving your throat. And you can finally breathe again. Sughoon sheaths his hips into you and he grinds them into you.
Your orgasm starts hitting you in powerful waves, when he starts humping his dick into you, barely pushing out. Your walls tightening impossibly, and Sunghoon can’t do anything else but just take it. Let your pussy squeeze the orgasm out of him, as he stills and spills inside of you.
And you whine, you fucking whine, he flops onto you, carefully not to hurt you as he rides out his orgasm, softly thrusting in you.
You feel incredibly full, can tell that he came so much it’s overflowing out of you while he’s still inside. You two just breathe for a moment, catching you breaths and you swear your soul left you for a moment.
“Hoonie,” you mumble, “feel so full.”
“I know baby, I know,” he wraps his arms around you, turning you two so you’re laying down on him instead.
“Hoonie’s got you,” he tells you, patting down your hair and kissing you on your forehead.
Your breath slows. His doesn’t.
You’re still curled into him, skin sticky and trembling, but there’s a tension still-
“You okay?” you whisper.
Sunghoon chuckles softly, low and wrecked. “You have no idea what you just started.”
And he kisses you again. Slowly and deeply, holding you close. You moan softly as his tongue explores your mouth. You’re squirming, needy again and you can tell Sunghoon is starting to get hard again.
"That wasn’t enough," he tells you, lips not leaving yours, "you’ve been driving me crazy for days. Thought one time would fix it?”
His fingers close around your thigh, hard enough to ground you, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to fuck you like this,” he tells you and then he’s manhandling you, your torso rests on the backrest as you kneel on the couch. Sunghoon’s hands are on your hips, pressing your front over the backrest, your chest pressing into it. Ass up.
He has you bent over the couch and he reaches towards the table. You turn, watching as he picks off his belt and you tremble. Excited. You bit your lip to stop the smile from spreading across your face as you instinctively cross your arms behind your back.
“You’re gonna let me have you like this pretty girl?” Sunghoon asks, almost panting as he fondles your ass.
“Y-yes Hoonie,” you say, voice shaky.
He slaps you, watching in satisfaction as your pussy clenches around nothing. Then he wraps his belt around your wrist – not tight, just enough to stop you from moving. He hums once he’s satisfied.
This time when he lines his dick to your entrance he doesn’t wait. He stretches your walls again and you push your face down, biting on the sofa in hope of silencing any noises from escaping you.
But Sunghoon doesn’t like that, his fingers grip your hair and he gently yanks you by the hair. Your spine against his chest as he continues fucking into you hard.
“Nu-uh princess,” he moans, right next to your ear and you shiver, “let me hear you.”
You’re choked on air, pleasure overwhelming, but still you comply, “you make me feel so full, Hoon… I can’t help it.”
You mewl, rutting yourself back, as Sunghoon continues with the hard and rapid pace, his hips pushing into your ass anytime he fucks into you. Head lulls back, putty in his hands you completely relax, letting him use your body to chase his own pleasure.
“Tell me you feel it too. Tell me it’s not just me going insane over you,” he breathes right by your ear, hands holding you by your waist in position.
“I think about you all the time… even when I shouldn’t,” you confess, drunk on his cock.
“No one else gets to see you like this, you’re mine,” Sunghoon continues, his hold on you tight. Possessive.
“Then don’t let anyone else touch me. Keep me,” you rasp, moaning when he brings his digits to your clit. You shake, from the pleasure and pressure as Sunghoon rubs your clit expertly, as if he had done it a thousand times before.
“Doing so well for Mr. Park,” comes his husky voice, he softly bites down on your ear, “that’s it baby, cream my cock, make a mess little one,” he groans when he feels you clenching down on him.
Your pussy convulses, clenching around him in waves and Sunghoon stutters, pushing his dick impossibly deeper into you and you feel him twitching, filling you up for the second time.
After a moment, after you have both came down you speak, softly. “You make me feel so safe like this…” you murmur, your voice quiet, breathy. Barely there.
Sunghoon gently undoes the belt still loosely hanging around your wrists. His fingers are slow and unhurried, tracing the curve of your hips like he’s calming you through touch alone.
“Such a pretty girl,” he murmurs against your temple, lips brushing soft and warm. He kisses your cheek next, and you lean into it instinctively, your body boneless, spent.
You don’t fight him as he lifts you—your legs too sore, your mind fogged with the aftermath of everything. He carries you upstairs like you weigh nothing, one hand splayed over your thigh, his chest warm where your cheek rests against him.
He sets you gently on the closed lid of the toilet, crouching beside you to check the tender insides of your thighs with a light touch. His gaze flicks up to your face, searching, but you’re already watching him, lids heavy, lips parted.
“I didn’t mean to…” he starts to say, almost more to himself.
“I liked it,” you whisper, interrupting. Honest.
He exhales slowly, something fierce and protective shadowing his face—but it softens when he turns back to the tub, running the water, checking the temperature with his wrist. You watch the rise of steam, the pour of oil — something herbal and grounding.
He doesn’t speak, but the care in his movements says enough. When he returns to you, he sinks to his knees. His hands are warm on your waist as he coaxes you to stand.
“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes searching yours.
You nod, your voice caught in your throat. “Mhm. Just… floaty.”
He touches your face. “I’ve got you.”
You step into the water, and he follows behind, settling with you between his legs. The heat wraps around you both, and his arms immediately encircle you, pulling you into his chest.
He starts to wash you slowly — his hands gliding over your skin in steady, calming passes. The silence stretches between you, but it’s not heavy. It’s safe.
“Everything’s warm,” you whisper, eyes half-lidded. “You’re warm.”
“So are you,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “Still glowing, baby.”
Your lips curve into a lazy smile. You hum, nuzzling against his chest. “I don’t want to think. Just stay here.”
“Then we’ll stay,” he replies, wrapping you tighter in his arms. His voice dips low — protective, anchoring. “You don’t have to do anything now. Just let me take care of it.”
You nod again, your breath softening, your heartbeat slow. The water laps around you both as you sink deeper into him.
And just before your eyes fall shut, you hear him say it—quiet, more to himself than to you “so small, so mine.”
You wake up slow. Limbs heavy, thighs sore, skin warm. His hand is already curled around your hip under the blanket, thumb brushing your waist lazily, like he never stopped touching you even in his sleep.
You shift with a sleepy noise, nuzzling into his chest. He murmurs something low.
“Mm. Thought you’d run away,” he says, voice thick with sleep.
“I can’t feel my legs,” you softly whine, curling into him even more.
He huffs a laugh, hand tightening around your hip, “that’s not a complaint, is it?”
You pinch his side, and he groans dramatically.
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“Only when I’m right,” he laughs, “come downstairs when you’re ready, I’m making pancakes,” he taps you butt as he stands up, leaving you to lounge on the bed a bit longer.
You emerge from the bedroom wrapped in one of his shirts—oversized and hanging low on your thighs. He’s barefoot, shirtless like he does this every day. Your hair melts as you note how fluffy his black hair looked.
He glances over his shoulder. The look he gives you is unfair—equal parts pleased and hungry.
“That mine huh?” he nods towards the shirt, amused. “Didn’t even ask.”
“I think I’ve earned the right to at least one shirt last night” you grin.
He chuckles, plate in hand as he slides it in front of you on the counter.
“Careful. You’re getting spoiled.”
You hop up onto the counter, tugging his shirt down on your thighs.
“I don’t mind.”
He stands between your knees without needing to ask, fork in hand. He feeds you the first bite himself, watching your mouth.
“My sweet girl.”
“You’re feeding me like I’m five,” you playfully complain, deflecting.
“Didn’t I tell you, pretty? I plan to spoil you rotten, besidesI like seeing you soft,” Sunghoon says, his eyes sparkling and a soft grin on his lips.
Your eyes flick up to his. “What does that mean?”
“That you let me take care of you,” he easily replies, tucking your hair behind your ear.
You’re breathless as you reply, “you’re not playing fair…”
But Sunghoon just chuckles, “I’m not playing at all.”
His fingers linger a second too long, grazing your cheek before slipping down your jaw. You blink at the weight of his gaze like he’s memorizing you. His thumb taps your bottom lip once, absently.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmurs. Not teasing. Just quiet, like a truth too heavy for the air.
Your pulse kicks, and when you look away, flustered, he lets you. Doesn’t push just rests his palm on your thigh, warm and grounding.
A moment passes like that. And as you reach for your juice, he tugs the hem of his shirt on you a little lower, eyes scanning your bare thighs.
“Don’t go outside in this.”
“Why? Afraid someone’ll see?” you tease.
“No. I just don’t like sharing,” he firmly replies, voice stern.
Your breath catches.
“Go finish eating. We’ve got all day.” He kisses your forehead.
The sun climbs higher. Warm light spills through the big windows, turning everything golden. You're curled up on the sofa, still wearing his shirt and nothing underneath but cotton panties, your legs stretched across the cushions.
“You look too pretty to waste the light,” Sunghoon says from across the room, holding his camera.
You blink up at him, amused. “Are you seriously about to make this a photoshoot?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t call it that.”
You tilt your head. “Then what would you call it?”
He lifts the camera halfway, gaze steady over the top of it. “Mine.”
Your throat tightens, pulse kicking up. You sit up slowly, legs tucking under you. “Tell me where you want me.”
He gestures toward the floor near the window where the light cuts in strong and clean. “There. Knees up. Just lean back on your hands.”
You settle into the pose, feeling a little silly, a little shy. But then he steps closer, lowering the camera for a moment.
“No, not like that,” he murmurs. “Chin up. That’s it. Now relax your mouth—yeah, like that.”
His fingers brush along your jaw to adjust the angle. Then lower, tracing a line from your throat to your collarbone.
He clicks the shutter.
You try to hide your shiver. “You’re not even looking at the pictures.”
“I’m looking at you,” he says, voice low.
Another shutter click.
He crouches down in front of you now, so close you can feel his breath. The lens barely a foot from your face. “This one’s just for me,” he says. “No one else gets to see you like this.”
Your thighs press together involuntarily.
“Sunghoon…”
He looks over the lens at you again, heat simmering in his gaze. “You like this. Knowing I’m the only one who’ll ever have this version of you.”
You swallow hard, voice quieter. “I do.”
He lowers the camera entirely now. “Good.”
You're still seated where he posed you, but your breathing has shifted — shallow, anticipatory.
Sunghoon sets the camera down on the nearby chair, but doesn’t move away. His fingers skim your jaw again, softer this time, trailing along the column of your throat.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Flushed everywhere.”
You feel it too — the heat that’s crawled up your chest, painted across your cheeks.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, trying to sound annoyed. It comes out breathless.
“Can’t,” he says simply. “You let me have this. You don’t get to complain now.”
Your stomach tightens at the word have.
He brushes your hair back over your shoulder, exposing your collarbone, your bare leg tucked under you. His eyes never stray far from your face — as if every shift of your expression matters.
“Why are you looking at me like I’m going to vanish?” you murmur.
His jaw ticks. “Because you might.”
You blink, thrown by the admission.
He cups your face with both hands now, firm but gentle, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Do you even understand what you’re doing to me?” His voice is velvet-wrapped steel. “You let me take care of you. Let me see you like this. I don’t just want you anymore, sweetheart. I need you.”
Your lips part but you don’t know what to say. The gravity in his voice, in his touch—it hits you low, deep. And the wildest part?
You love it.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmur, but lean into his hands anyway.
“Why not?” he asks, brushing his nose along yours. “You want gentle? I can be gentle. You want rough, you just have to say the word. But don’t ask me to be casual.”
He shifts to sit behind you, legs bracketing your body as he draws you against his chest, palms slowly smoothing over your bare thighs.
“I’m not sharing,” he says quietly against your ear. “Not your body. Not your time. Not your smile.”
You tilt your head back against him, eyes fluttering closed.
“You’re getting worse,” you whisper, teasing, but there’s no real fight in it.
“I know,” he says, dragging his mouth along your shoulder. “And you love it.”
And you do.
God, you do.
You feel him smile against your skin — slow and smug — before he lifts the camera again, his fingers adjusting the lens like it’s second nature.
“Let’s try something,” he murmurs, tone deceptively casual. “Lean forward for me a little. Just rest on your hands.”
You obey, your palms flattening on the hardwood floor in front of you, back arching slightly. He hums in approval behind you, one large hand gliding up your spine to encourage the motion further.
“Good girl. Now—eyes here.”
You glance over your shoulder, and the click of the shutter follows instantly.
“Perfect,” he praises, the warmth in his voice making your stomach flutter. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me like this.”
“You’re the one making me do it,” you mumble, flushed.
“Correction,” he says, lowering the camera slightly. “I’m just helping you play.”
You can’t help the laugh that slips out — breathless, soft. “Play, huh?”
He shifts behind you, one hand pressing lightly to the small of your back. “Mm. Sit up again. Just like before. Keep your knees bent, feet tucked close.”
You adjust, trying not to overthink it — but then his hands slide along your inner thighs to reposition them just slightly wider. Your breath catches.
“Yeah, like that,” he says lowly. “That’s the shot.”
You swallow, your skin prickling with awareness as you feel how close he is, how warm his breath is at your neck again.
“Smile for me,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
You try — you really do — but it comes out more like a shy smirk.
Click.
He lowers the camera, lips ghosting near your ear. “Now lose the shirt.”
Your head turns sharply, eyes wide.
His voice is gentle, coaxing. “Just turn your back to me. Let me see your skin. Nothing I haven’t already memorized.”
The way he says it makes your breath hitch.
“You don’t have to,” he adds, though his fingers are already curling at the hem of the shirt.
You pause for a second, then slowly unbutton it, letting it fall down your shoulders, your back remaining to him as he asked.
He draws in a slow, audible breath. “You’re so good like this,” he says. “Soft. Obedient. Trusting.”
Your whole body hums.
He sets the camera down now, forgotten. His hands trail up your sides, slow and reverent. You lean back into him without thinking, and he wraps his arms around your middle, drawing you flush against his chest again.
“You really like taking pictures of me,” you whisper, dazed.
“No,” he says into your hair. “I like proof that you’re mine.”
You bite your lip, a warm ache blooming in your chest at the quiet, possessive honesty in his tone.
“Now,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw, “let’s play a little more.”
Then his phone buzzes. Sunghoon frowns as he checks the screen “it’s Jihoon.”
You freeze. Sunghoon answers. His tone shifts, cool and calm. You hear Jihoon’s muffled apologies to his dad through the phone, “I shouldn't have blown up like that… I can pick her up Sunday, give you both some space.”
You watch Sunghoon, waiting for the guilt to hit you. It never does. You watch the serious look on Sunghoon’s face, the way his jaw clenches. You bring a hand between your thighs, shifting your weight on it for just a second. Just to relieve a bit pressure.
Then you drop on all fours, waiting for him to look at you. When he does you crawl to him, sitting yourself in his lap. Sunghoon wraps an arm around you, thinking you want to cuddle because you feel bad.
But instead you pull his shirt up, hands exploring the strong and toned frame. You shift closer, crotch directly on his half hard dick.
Sunghoon shoots you a look. A warning.
But you continue, pressing your lips on his jaw. Sunghoon hisses when your finger traces his nipple, the hold around you tightens. And you can tell he is getting hard. And mad.
 “You said we had all day,” you seductively whisper in his free ear.
He clears his throat. Tries to keep talking to Jihoon, but his voice shakes slightly. You don’t listen to their conversation until your name is mentioned again.
“Anyway. You’ll bring her back, right?” you hear Jihoon ask Sunghoon. You tentatively roll your hips, pressing your pussy on him.
Sunghoon is deadly calm, as he speaks in a strained voice, his hand griping the phone, knuckles white.
“Yeah. I’ll handle her, I mean I’ll see she comes to the city safely.”
Then he hangs up mid-sentence, tosses the phone onto the sofa, as he grabs your jaw, clearly mad.
“You really don’t care about playing nice, do you?” he scolds, pushing you back and forth on his lap, fully hard now.
“You started it,” you whisper, shameless as you moan. “Please Hoonie, I want more,” you beg, fisting his shirt.
“Yeah? You like it when Mr. Park lets you play?” he asks, voice deep. He lets you hump yourself against him just watching you, gaze serious, brows furrowed slightly. But you don’t notice.  
“Mhm,” you say blissfully. Hugging him to you, your tits press against his chest and he twitches.
Sunghoon sneaks his hands between the two of you, pulling his cock out.
“But you haven’t been playing nice, doll” he tells you and lands a smack against your ass.
You cling to him, position yourself so your clothed pussy is touching his dick. Mewls turn into whimpers as pushes you off of him.
“Come here,” he tells you, seating himself on the sofa, legs spread. His hand is on his dick, lids heavy as he watches you.
“No, not like that” he scolds, “crawl like you did before.”
You clench around nothing as you go on all fours, padding towards him. Eyes on his dick, when he sees your gaze he teases you. Gripping his cock, lip caught between his teeth as he strokes himself.
You stop at his feet and Sunghoon pulls you up by your upper arms, bending you over his lap. He roughly pulls your panties off and you clench when the cold air hits your wet pussy.
“You think it’s funny? Grinding on me while I’m talking to him?” Sunghoon asks, voice low as he rubs your exposed ass, touch deceptively soft.
He spanks you again, a sharp clap of sound that makes you whimper.
“Do you know what you sounded like? Panting into my neck while I’m trying to keep my voice steady?” he continues, fondling your ass as he speaks before he lands another spank on your pink ass. This one harder, the sting makes you hiss upon impact.
“Princess. That wasn’t cute. That was reckless,” he scolds you, hand resting on your lower back.
You wriggle, needy for his touch and he lets out a laughs. He grabs your hips, stilling you.
“Don’t squirm like that unless you want more,” he says, breathing hard. And you feel his dick poking you, can feel the precum leaking onto you where his dick presses into your plush skin.
He runs his hand over the curve of your ass in a brief caress, before another sharp slap lands.
“Making me hard while I’m talking to your boyfriend. Is that what you wanted?” he asks, breathless. Then in three quick succession slap, slap, slap.
But you liked being punished, so you test his patience, teasing “you were already hard before I moved.”
“And now look what you’ve earned. Mr. Park can’t even take one call without his little one acting up,” he growls, spanking you once again and your ass is starting to hurt. But you invite the pain, lean into the sting as your thighs rub together.
He leans close to you, lips brushing your ear, “you think I won’t punish you just because you’re cute? Think again, baby,” he slowly speaks, possessively.
He pulls you up and you cringe, your ass sensitive from the spanking. It hurts to sit down on him and you lift on your feet hovering over him in a crouching position.
Sunghoon just watches you amused, but then. He rubs his dick against your pussy. You sigh, looking down and watch as he wedges it between your lips.
“Such a pretty thing, just for me, for your Hoonie,” he breathes in a daze.
You nod, clenching down around nothing as you watch Sunghoon rub his dick on your pussy, spreading your wetness all over himself.
You softly moan when he pushes past your tight entrance, “want more,” you grind. Pushing down you sit yourself on him and Sunghoon brings you close to him by your hips.
His lips find yours in a surprisingly soft kiss, as you start to grind. Pushing up and down, slowly in an uneven rhythm.
You’re already a whining mess, your eyes shut as you let Sunghoon kiss you. He slips his tongue in your mouth and you’re like putty in his hands.
He plays with you, hands over your boobs, pinching and scratching lightly. You’re numb with pleasure, cock drunk as your Hoonie starts thrusting upwards.
You come undone at the same time, orgasm crashing into you in strong waves. Sunghoon watches you, and you don’t notice when he reaches for his phone, snapping another photo of you looking so small and so sexy on him as you come undone.
You collapse against his chest, body boneless, breath hitching as the aftershocks ripple through you. He’s still buried deep, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring you to earth.
You’re only just coming back to yourself when you hear the shutter click.
Your head jerks up, eyes wide. “Did you just—?”
He smirks, absolutely unapologetic as he shows you the photo: you, flushed and undone, mouth parted, nails dug into his forearm. “Couldn’t help myself. Look at you,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know how good you look when you fall apart.”
You swat weakly at his shoulder, more flustered than angry. “You’re insane.”
“Mm,” he hums, kissing your temple. “over you.”
He pulls out slowly, groaning at the mess you’ve both made, and then scoops you up like it’s nothing. You squeak in protest.
“Put me down!”
“No,” he says simply. “You can barely stand. That was the point.”
You hide your face in his neck, skin still burning. He takes you upstairs.
Once inside the bedroom, he lays you gently on your stomach, palms trailing down the backs of your thighs before he pulls away. The bed shifts with his weight, and then you hear him rummaging softly through a drawer.
“Don’t move, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just stay right there.”
You glance over your shoulder, lids heavy, and catch the glint of a container in his hand. Vaseline.
Your stomach flips.
You flinch slightly as the cold ointment hits your skin. “Ah—” “I know,” he says softly, stroking it in with care. “Shh, I’ve got you.”
His fingers massage it in slowly, deliberately. Tender, as though undoing the sting of every sharp smack from earlier. “You’re red,” he mutters under his breath, thumb brushing a particularly sore patch. “Should’ve gone easier.”
“No,” you mumble. “You were perfect.”
A beat. His hand pauses.
“You always say the filthiest things, and then turn around and say shit like that.” He leans in, pressing a long kiss to the base of your spine. “Gonna ruin me.”
You hum in response, half asleep already.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟
A Bit Later… You wake to the soft crinkle of blankets on the living room floor.
Sunghoon’s back from the kitchen, a tray in hand — cut fruit, chocolate, a bottle of wine, and a heating pad that he doesn’t say anything about, just plugs in and tucks gently under your thighs when you sit down with a tiny wince.
You’re wrapped in one of his hoodies now. No underwear. He let you keep it.
The music playing is soft and dreamy. Something instrumental. The air smells like strawberries and lavender soap.
Sunghoon sits beside you, legs spread lazily, shirt halfway buttoned and sleeves rolled to the elbow. His eyes are heavy-lidded, but sharp — always watching.
You curl up beside him again. He opens his arm and pulls you in without asking.
“You good, baby?” he asks, brushing a knuckle under your jaw. “Mhm,” you whisper, nuzzling into his chest. “Warm.”
He presses a kiss to your hairline. “You did so well today. My good girl.”
Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. The compliment sinks deep — deeper than it should.
“I like it when you take care of me,” you murmur.
He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back. “Yeah. I know you do.”
A few moments pass in comfortable silence.
“You don’t think it’s too much?” you ask, quieter. “Me being like this?”
Sunghoon shifts to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His expression is unreadable at first — then softens.
“No,” he says. “I think it’s perfect.”
You hold his gaze for a beat too long.
Then you speak, even softer.
“You’ll spoil me.”
He smirks faintly. “That’s the plan.”
And spoil you, he does.
You spend the day camped out on the living room floor, a makeshift indoor picnic laid over the throw blankets and couch cushions Sunghoon pulled down with quiet intention. There’s a soft jazz record playing in the background and between bites of fruit and chocolate, he feeds you with his fingers, eyes never straying far from your mouth.
At some point you curl up in his lap with a glass of wine, and he reads to you from whatever book you pulled off his shelf, voice smooth and low in your ear. The sunlight drifts lazily across the floorboards. You don’t notice how much time passes — just that it feels suspended. Like nothing outside this cabin exists.
He’s good at that — creating small, perfect worlds for you to collapse into.
Sunghoon’s fingers stroke idle lines across your lower back. You feel him breathe. Slow. Anchored.
Neither of you says much. There’s no need.
Eventually, he murmurs, “Let’s go to bed, sweetheart.”
You nod against his neck, already half-asleep, letting him guide you. You don’t even remember falling asleep.
You wake in his bed again, the morning sunlight streaming in.
Sunghoon’s already dressed, sitting behind you with his legs spread, guiding a comb gently through your hair. You’re settled between his thighs, back to his chest, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“You always wake up first,” you mumble.
“I like watching you sleep,” he says, not missing a beat.
The comb glides through another section. “It’s calming,” he adds. “You look like you trust me.”
“I do.”
He pauses at that — just a beat — then keeps combing, slower now.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the hush of the room, the smell of his cologne clinging to the shirt you still haven’t given back, the lazy warmth of early sun.
Then he speaks again, voice low beside your ear. “Finish waking up, sweetheart. We’ve got a place to be.”
You shift slightly, eyes cracking open. “Where are you taking me?”
“The lake.” He presses a kiss to the side of your head. “We’re leaving in an hour. I packed wine. Fruit. Towels. Blanket.”
You turn in his lap to face him, grinning now, suddenly wide awake. “You planned a date?”
His smile matches yours. “You deserve one. A real one. No interruptions. No guilt. Just you and me.”
You stretch your arms up, still nestled between his thighs. “Guess I better get ready, Mr. Park.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty,” he says, but doesn’t let go just yet — he pulls you in for a slow, warm kiss first.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝
Sunlight sparkles off the water. A breeze rolls across the dock. Everything is golden and quiet and slow.
You’re both barefoot on the wooden planks, dripping after a swim, wrapped in towels and each other. Sunghoon hands you a slice of peach. You feed him the next one.
For a while, you just lie there on the blanket, the world held at bay.
Then you speak. “It’s weird to think this ends tomorrow.”
Sunghoon’s quiet for a second, “it doesn’t have to.”
You blink over at him.
“We go back,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean we go back to how things were. I don’t want to.”
You trace a finger over his forearm. “Me either.”
He watches you. “This wasn’t a fling for me. You know that, right?”
“I know.” You sit up, eyes on the water now. “It wasn’t for me either. And... I want more.”
There’s a stretch of silence that isn’t uncomfortable — just real.
Then Sunghoon speaks, voice gentle but unwavering. “Jihoon didn’t just leave you here. He left you alone for a long time before that.”
You inhale through your nose. It hurts — but it’s true.
“He didn’t protect you. He didn’t see you,” Sunghoon adds. “But I do.”
You turn to him. “And I see you, too. I don’t want to sneak around or feel guilty. I want to be with you.”
His hand slides around your thigh. “Then be with me.”
You nod. “Okay.”
It’s said so simply. Like it was always going to happen this way.
The air is warm, the late morning sun painting everything golden. You’re both still sticky with fruit juice and the tipsiness of wine-soft smiles when Sunghoon eyes you sideways.
“You’ve got that look,” you say warily.
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to do something stupid.”
He grins. “I’m hurt. This is going to be very dignified.”
“You’re literally crouching like a cartoon villain.”
“Princess, I’m just trying to bring balance to the universe.”
“What does that even mean—Sunghoon—!”
But he’s already lunging.
You shriek and take off across the dock, laughing so hard your legs barely move straight. He’s right behind you, water splashing around your ankles as you try to dodge.
“You’re gonna pay for this!”
“For what?! Being charming?!”
“For splattering me with peach juice!”
He grabs you around the waist, and the two of you topple into the lake in a messy, dramatic splash. The water is cold but refreshing, and when you surface, hair plastered to your face, you’re both wheezing with laughter.
“You look like a drowned kitten,” he says, absolutely delighted.
“Rude. And you look like you just lost a shampoo commercial.”
You splash him in the face before he can respond.
“Oh, it’s on now.”
You flail as he comes after you, hands trying to grab your ankles underwater. There’s shrieking. More splashing. You push his head under once — a bold move — and he resurfaces with water dripping down his lashes, mock-offended.
“You’re lucky I like you.”
“You love me,” you say smugly, swimming just out of reach.
He lunges. “Not if you keep talking like that—!”
Eventually you give in, breathless, letting him pull you close in the center of the lake. His arms wind around your waist, and you float there together, the water gently rocking your bodies.
Your laughter fades into warm quiet, cheek resting against his damp shoulder.
“I haven’t laughed like that in forever,” you murmur.
Sunghoon presses a kiss to your hair. “Same.”
Later, you walk back to the cabin hand in hand, skin sun-warmed and soft from the lake. He carries the towels; you carry the last of the fruit. Everything about it feels easy. Shared.
The next morning, the day of going back home, you pull your suitcase out from under the bed, still in one of his shirts.
Sunghoon’s already halfway through folding your clothes for you, methodical and quiet, each movement precise. You watch him for a moment—brows furrowed, fingers smoothing fabric—and grin sleepily.
“You always like playing house this much?”
He looks up. “What?”
“You fold clothes like a husband,” you tease, nudging his foot with yours.
He chuckles but doesn’t stop. “And you wear my shirts like my wife.”
You hum, walking over and leaning your head on his shoulder. His hand reaches for your waist, grounding. A soft forehead kiss follows, like it’s instinct now.
As you zip your duffel shut, you notice something nestled inside: his hoodie, a polaroid, and a paperback novel you’d been eyeing on the cabin shelf.
You blink. “You packed these?”
Sunghoon shrugs, brushing your arm as he walks by. “Now you have to come back.”
You look up at him. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice light but sure. “I’m not going anywhere.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝
In the car, the playlist is a mix of both your tastes. It’s playing low as the trees blur past outside. You’re curled in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, humming to the music. You catch him looking at you at a red light, when you’ve reached the civilization again.
“What?” you ask.
“Just wondering if you’re gonna pretend you’re too cool to be seen with me after I drop you off.”
You scoff. “We literally live twenty minutes apart.”
He smirks. “Fifteen if I drive like a crazy person, which I am for you,” he says, hand resting on your thigh as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building, turning the ignition off.
You share a deep kiss, your hands cupping his jaw, his on the back of your neck. He pulls away first, flushed cheeks and breathing heavy.
He taps your thigh gently. “Come on, let me carry your suitcase up.”
You roll your eyes but smile, as he unlocks the car door. “You just want an excuse to come upstairs.”
“Maybe I just want to make sure you get inside safe,” he says, grabbing the handle of your suitcase with one hand and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder with the other. “Can’t help it. I’m responsible.”
You snort. “Husband behavior.”
Sunghoon smirks. “You’re not the first person to say that.”
“You better not be serious,” you deadpan, nudging him with your shoulder as you both head inside.
Once inside your apartment, you toe off your shoes and flick on the lights while Sunghoon sets your suitcase neatly by the couch. Everything looks a little dustier than you remembered. Like your old life is already softening around the edges.
“Wanna eat something before you go?” you ask as you scroll for the takeout app.
“I already ordered,” he says, smug, showing you his phone. “It’s on the way.”
You blink. “You ordered for both of us?”
He shrugs, casually leaning against your counter. “Figured you’d be too tired to cook after all the swimming... and making out.”
“Wow.” You press a hand to your chest, feigning shock. “Romantic and cocky.”
He winks.
The food arrives, and the two of you eat cross-legged on the floor, a movie playing low in the background. It’s peaceful. Cozy. But there’s something pressing in the air, unspoken but understood. When the containers are empty and the credits start to roll, Sunghoon doesn’t make a move to linger.
He leans in to kiss your cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Call me after.”
You nod, eyes soft.
“I mean it,” he says, gaze holding yours. “Even if it’s late.”
You stand at the door, still barefoot, as he walks out. You watch until the elevator closes.
The apartment feels quieter now. Still carrying the scent of him.
You don’t hesitate as you find his contact in your phone and press call.
The knock at your door comes later than expected. You open it to find Jihoon standing there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, hood pulled up despite the heat. His eyes flick over your body—still wearing one of Sunghoon’s shirts—and narrow.
“Nice shirt,” he mutters, already walking past you into the apartment without being invited. “You two playing house now, or what?”
You don’t react. “There’s a box with your stuff in the hall closet.”
That stops him mid-step.
“What?”
You don’t flinch. “Take it. We’re done.”
He laughs. Sharp, disbelieving. “You’re breaking up with me now? After going off-grid for nearly a week? With my dad?”
“Jihoon.”
“No, seriously,” he says, throwing his arms out. “You disappear, don’t answer your phone, and when I do call, you’re suddenly all buddy-buddy with him? You think I’m an idiot?”
“I’m not doing this with you,” you say, voice still calm but harder now. “You made your choices when you left me there without a second thought. And now I’m making mine.”
“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “You’re seriously choosing him? You couldn’t keep it in your pants for five days?”
“I think we both know you stopped loving me long before I ever looked twice at him.”
That hits. His jaw tightens.
“I waited,” you say quietly. “I tried. But you kept treating me like an inconvenience. Like I was always too much or not enough, depending on your mood.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, breathing uneven.
You point toward the closet. “Your stuff’s in there. Take it and go.”
“You’re not even gonna pretend to be sorry about any of this?”
You shake your head. “No. I’m not.”
Jihoon exhales hard, scoffing again, then yanks open the closet door. Grabs the box. He pauses at the threshold, glaring at you like it’ll change something.
“You’ll regret this,” he mutters. “When he gets bored of you.”
You meet his eyes, steady. “I won’t.”
And then—finally—he leaves.
The door closes with a quiet finality.
This time, it stays closed. You go into your bedroom and sit on the edge of your bed, phone in hand, heart still beating steady and slow — not from nerves, but from clarity.
It’s done.
The apartment is quiet now. His box is gone. The door’s locked. You’re still wearing Sunghoon’s shirt.
You thumb open your messages first, but after a moment’s hesitation, you press call instead. He picks up before the first full ring.
“Hey,” Sunghoon says, voice low and warm.
You let out a soft breath. “It’s done.”
A pause. Then, “You okay?”
You nod, even though he can’t see. “Yeah. I think I’ve been okay for a while, actually.”
Another beat of quiet, and then you hear his exhale — relieved, grounding.
“I wanted to do it face-to-face,” you add. “…didn’t go too well, I might have been too honest.”
“You didn’t owe him anything past your truth,” Sunghoon murmurs. “I’m proud of you.”
Your lips curve into a smile. “You always say the right thing.”
“I try,” he teases gently.
There’s a beat. You hear movement on his end. Maybe he’s in bed. Maybe pacing.
“I can come over,” he offers. “If you want.”
“I do,” you say, no hesitation. “But… no rush. Just knowing you’re there is enough.”
He hums, and you can almost feel his smile through the line.
“You were never too much, you know,” he says. “You’re just the right amount for me.”
That gets you. You blink hard. “Sunghoon…”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t get cocky just because you’re my boyfriend now.”
He chuckles. “Not cocky. Just… grateful.”
You both fall quiet again, but it’s the good kind. The safe kind.
“Call me if you need anything,” he says.
“I might just fall asleep on the phone with you.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed, sweetheart.”
You breathe in slow, gaze drifting to the camera polaroid he left in your bag — the one of you in his shirt, bare-legged, smiling like you already knew this was how it would end.
Or maybe, how it would begin.
“Goodnight, Mr. Park.”
You hear his smile in the dark.
“Goodnight, babygirl.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝
🦭ིྀA/N: thank you for reading !!! I struggled so much with the first scene because it’s literally the two things I hate most: fighting and describing interior lmaoo but once I was past that it was super fun, hope everyone enjoyed reading (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡
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jazziejax · 3 months ago
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𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡
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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore x Black!OC & Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In the underbelly of Prohibition Chicago, a quiet bartender begins to suspect a dangerous secret about a man who might not be just one man after all.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Violence, implied abuse, trauma, period-accurate sexism, organized crime elements
𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - another one.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 2,511+
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 - 𝐈. 𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝐕. 𝐕. 𝐕𝐈
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𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐈𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟕
To the people of Chicago, Odessa Ripley was a simple woman. All they knew about her was that she worked at Gertie’s Fine Dining, was born and raised in Clarksdale, Mississippi, and the second wife to Laurence Ripley, who they only assumed could be the on putting those bruises on her skin that she tried to hide with makeup and a beaming smile. And that was all true. She was born and raised in Clarksdale Mississippi, far out from the small city life the place did have. She lived a small plantation where her family did a little well, though they were still slaves to the money they only could dream of. The eldest girl of four kids.
But she wasn’t the ideal child, not to her father at least. She was so focused on doing her work, making as much money as she could to take care of her family, but the time she was sixteen, she had no prospects. And that didn’t sit right with him. He spent the next two years, trying to turn the field girl into a suitable wife. And she knew the basics, cooking, cleaning, sowing, all that. And though her beauty was there, men didn’t want a girl who worked her whole life doing labor. They wanted a lady. And that was something she wasn’t.
She wasn’t soft spoken, and she wasn’t stupid and naive as most men wanted her to be. She was reserved, didn’t talk much, but when she did it meant something. She was an observer, so she started a lot, and she resting face gave off an unwelcoming feeling to most. And Carl Coulter had lost hope.
That was until he caught word from some white men speaking about their daughters during work, and how they’d send their girls off to marry suitable men.
And then all hope didn’t seem to be lost, and he also saw extra money in his future.
And next thing Odessa knew was that five years ago years ago, she’d been Odessa Maree Coulter of Mississippi, a barefoot girl with callused hands and no prospects. And then her father had sold her off like a debt, packed her onto a train with a suitcase and a scrap of paper: Laurence Ripley, Chicago. And she wasn’t even sure how much she was sold for.
She just hoped it made her family happy, and now they could live a bit better.
And now, by day, Odessa Ripley served fried meats and bootlegged coffee at Gertie’s Fine Dining, a “restaurant” so polite you could bring your elderly mother after church. And by night, she ghosted through the real heart of the place — a speakeasy buried under the floorboards, lit dimly by candles, cigarette smoke and broken dreams.
She wasn’t loud, wasn’t showy. She never was but it was something she grew not to be after years in the bustling city of Chicago. She minded her business, kept her eyes low and her hands busy. In a place like Gertie’s, it was safer not to see too much, though nothing could go down in the designated safe zone.
But even a reserved woman could notice patterns.
There was him. This one man. He was tall, dark, well built and sharp at the edges. Everyone that was anyone seemed to know him. The Italians bragged about him, and the Irish laughed with him over glasses of rotten whiskey.
Same man.
Only… he wasn’t the same man. At least, that’s what Odessa gathered.
She caught it in the smallest things. When he came with the Italians, he wore polished shoes, a perfectly pressed suit, a gold pinky ring flashing under the low lights. His hair slicked hard and smooth when he took off his fedora. The gold outlining the teeth of his canines when he laughed loudly with the men and he kissed cheeks like he was born in Naples.
But when he rolled in with the Irish, he wore scuffed boots, a crooked tie, a rough grin that didn’t stretch far but signaled trouble. His hair tucked under a flat cap, and he laughed easy, slapping backs like he grew up tossing stones at windows in Dublin.
From the inattentive men of the mobs to the unassuming bystanders, it was just one man. A man like no other that gained them more power and money than some of them could ever think of.
But to Odessa, it was two. It had to be. It didn’t make any sense to her. Unless her lack of communication to people besides her children was staring to get to her.
She noticed things about them—him. Some nights, he drank bourbon neat. Other nights, he asked for gin with a twist. Some nights, he limped on his right leg. Other nights, his left shoulder hung low. Some nights, he spoke sharp and clipped, like he’d been raised in Chicago proper. Other nights, there was a soft, creeping drawl that curled the edges of his words.
Most folks would’ve chalked it up to exhaustion, to drinks, or to the weight of the life. But Odessa had lived enough of a double-life herself to recognize a crack in the mask.
But she wasn’t brave enough to say it out loud.
Lord knew she had enough troubles stitched into the seams of her life already. But she did have the ones she grew to love more than she could ever imagine.
Her husband, Laurence Ripley, was a widower. She never knew fully what happened to the woman, and she wasn’t strong enough to ask the little ones or the grieving husband. But from word of mouth, it seemed to everyone that it was simply unexpected. And now Laurence needed help, he said. Needed a wife, he meant.
Odessa learned the difference between the two quick.
She also learned to love his children — Beatrice ‘Beaty’ and Peter ‘Pete’ — who clung to her like barnacles to a sinking ship after the loss of their mother. Nothing but ten and twelve when she first met them, her nothing but eighteen.
Now, she lived with the children, who were closer to her age than she was to their father. She tried her best to keep smiles on their faces, even when they would drop when Laurence came home drunk or angry every night. The three found solace in each other after abruptly loosing the life they once knew.
Still, she couldn’t help but tell the kids her theory late at night, when the dishes were washed and Beaty was playing with her hair while Pete was pretending he wasn’t listening.
“I think there’s two of ’em.” She said, dropping her voice like the walls had ears as she sowed the hole in Laurence’s shirt closed.
“Two what?” Pete asked, looking up from his whittling knife.
“Two men, keep up Pete.” Beaty said said, looking up from the woman’s hair and over to the older boy. Pete simply threw her an annoyed look while Odessa continued. “You don’t know them, but you’ve probably seen them. The one the Italians love and those Irish men laugh with. They look alike, sure, but… they ain’t the same. I swear it.”
Beaty giggled, finishing off the one braid she did with a white ribbon. “Mama Dessa, that has to be the craziest thing I ever heard. Are you making up stories to keep us entertained?” She questioned, causing Pete to snort while Odessa playfully rolled her eyes at the girl. “Ain’t no one slick enough to pull that off.” Peter stated. “’Specially not with those fellas.” He said, before standing up from the table and grabbing his new banjo from the living room, new to him since he saw an old white man throw it out that morning when he was in town getting groceries.
“Ehh.” Beaty chimed back in as she continued with the other half of Odessa head. “It sounds crazy but don’t give those white men too much credit. They ain’t that bright.” She shrugged.
“That ain’t dumb either.” Pete said as she walked back into the small stable that sat in the corner of the kitchen, placing the instrument in his lap. “They just let their egos get in the way of making smart decisions. That’s how they always mess up.” He said, strumming a few strings and letting the soft sounds fill the kitchen. He then paused, looking over at the older woman in the other side of the table. “At least, that’s what you say, right mama?” He asked.
And Odessa smiled into her cup. She then placed it down, offering him her soft look. “Of course.” She said, a bit endeared that he remembered her words. “But don’t go ‘round saying that to other people ‘else word get back to ya and bites. And since you’re in the mood for quoting, also remember—.”
“There ain’t no white man smatter or better than you.” The younger two echoed before the woman could even speak. And hearing their words caused a smile to cross her lips.
“But based on your story, mama Dessa, we may be smarter than you. Cause ain’t no two men posing as one with the mod.” Beaty woke up, her and her brother sharing a laugh while Odessa rolled her eyes at them again as she went back to her sowing.
As they laughed, she wasn’t sure she believed it herself, not really. But deep down, in the place that still had a little fire left, she knew.
She knew.
They never interacted. The man — or men — never said anything to her. Never gave her a wink or a hint. But sometimes, when he passed by her at the bar, shoulder brushing hers, he’d tip his hat just a little lower. And she would nod back. That was it. And it didn’t eat away at her like she thought it would, because even if she was ever right, she knew some things — and some people — were safer left in the shadows.
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The night came in heavy, wrapping Gertie’s in smoke and low murmurs as they prepared to close down for the night. Odessa was working her upstairs shift, and as she wiped down the polished wood of the upstairs counter, head bowed like always, but her sharp eyes caught movement near the door.
There he is, she thought.
Tonight, he was dressed crisp. Tweed suit with a dark green color, a matching flat cap, silver cufflinks, and a dark coat slung over his shoulder. Irish side, then.
He moved smooth through the room, parting it like a ship through water, a close-lipped smile that offered no one comfort.
When he reached the bar, Odessa had already poured a whiskey. Neat. No words exchanged.
He smiled wider now, still small, just a touch to show his nice teeth. Enough to make a lesser girl blush.
“Appreciate it, sweetheart.” He said, voice low and syrupy. She gave a small, polite nod, sliding the glass to him across the bar. Her fingers brushed his glove.
He smelled like tobacco and cologne, something expensive.
He drank standing up, surveying the room that was beginning to thin as families closed down to the night and some men headed to the back to enter their downstairs area.
“Busy night?” He asked, kidding his head over to the bereaved curtain that was stationed behind the bar. They both knew he was taking about the speakeasy below their feet, the room buzzing full of boisterous men drunk off illegal drinks and high off gambling.
“Steady,” Odessa said, voice even. She kept her gaze slightly averted, like a good and unsuspecting girl would.
He let out a small chortle under his breath, tossed a coin onto the bar, and tipped his hat. “Save me a spot next time. I’d love to try the food here.”
Then he was gone, vanishing into the back and disappearing into the dark like a shadow.
The next time was about a day later. She really say then in the same day. She was working her speakeasy shift that night and after the Irish had cleared out and the Italians had flooded in with louder laughs and messier boots, he returned.
But different.
Black suit with a matching wide brimmed hat, gold cufflinks, a white pocket square so sharp it could slice you. He moved as smooth as before, though a little less assertive. He flashed that smug smile that had the women swooning, opposed to the close-lipped smile that said everything and nothing at once that she saw yesterday. His accent was smoother now — words rolling looser, more careless.
“Evenin’, darlin’.” He said, dropping onto a stool with a heavy sigh, like he’d been working all day digging graves. “You got anythin’ that’ll kill a man twice?” He asked with a smirk, showing those gold teeth in the corner of his mouth.
Odessa lifted an eyebrow but kept her voice mild. “Could rustle up a gin, maybe some moonshine or a prayer. Whichever you think’ll hit harder.” She deadpanned.
He barked out a full, throaty laugh — none of that tight and taunt smile from before.
“Gin’ll do,” He said, tapping the bar with two fingers.
She poured him one, hand steady even as her mind rattled. Up close, he seemed a bit broader. His knuckles looked less scuffed, but his skin a shade darker from sun or soot. Maybe she’d imagined the roughness earlier.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
He threw back the drink and grimaced happily.
“You’re a blessing, you know that?” He said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Odessa hummed, taking the glass and pointing him another before moving to the rest of the empty glasses left by men from earlier. “Don’t rightly feel like one some days.” She murmured, surprising herself.
He tilted his head at that, studying her now. The easy humor faded from his face, replaced with something quieter.
Softer.
“You oughta.” He said finally, almost serious before picked a toothpick from the short glass on the bar and put it in his mouth. Then he slid a few coins her way — double what the drink cost — and sauntered back toward the table in the back where a few Italian men were raising hell over dice and cards.
Odessa watched him go, wiping down the already clean bar with slow, careful strokes.
Same man, she thought. Same eyes, same voice.
But…
But not the same weight behind the voice.
Not the same way he wore his own skin.
And no matter how many times Beaty and Pete laughed at her for it, Odessa just knew that those had to be different men. There were two of them. Two faces. Same damn lie stitched up in different suits.
She tucked the extra coins into her apron and said nothing. Some secrets were safer locked behind your teeth.
And she had learned a long time ago. Women like her didn’t survive by speaking the truth.
That is how she got her husband after all.
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animatewarriorcats · 24 days ago
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Crookedstar 2.0! He is one of my top 5 all time warriorcats, and I'm grateful I was able to complete a project with him as a focus character. This is mostly just a color adjustment update, with more written information about key design elements. It can be hard to walk the line between light brown and pale ginger, so I adjusted his secondary and tertiary colors darker and less saturated to fully seat them in the brown and not ginger category. Additional construction and story notes under the cut.
I also went through some veterinary studies on common jaw breaks in cats and how to treat them, and learned some interesting (probably cursory) stuff! Apparently the symphysis joint where the right and left jaw meet in the middle doesn't fuse as strongly in cats as it does in dogs or people, and can become porous with poor health or age, as well as very commonly shears when cats break their jaws. Some of the images I reviewed just the symphysis joint was torn, and in others it was part of a larger compound fracture. in modern veterinary medicine pins can be used externally to stabilize fractured jaws, or if it's just an issue with the symphysis they can actually tie both bones back together with basically a sterile twist tie and the two sides stabilize each other. With that in mind, I outlined some thoughts about how one might possibly conceptualize Crookestar's broken jaw (this is not the only way, just what I came up with):
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Also purely for my own entertainment I wanted to illustrate what it might look like to draw or animate Stormkit in the moments after his accident. I of course think any art is up to interpretation and this is just mine, but also! I'm morbidly curious about how Brambleberry in particular might have helped him recover from such an injury, taking inspiration from the little I know about veterinary jaw surgery haha and the limited resources she has to work with:
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kamaluhkhan · 7 months ago
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HER CANINE TEETH IN THE SIDE OF MY NECK
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pairing: werewolf!vi x vampire slayer!reader word count: 11.1 k summary: she's a monster, and you're essentially a monster hunter. it shouldn't work, but it does. (or — you and vi decide to escape the narrative together) warnings: ooh various mentions of fighting + blood + injuries ranging from mild to life-threatening; reader and vi both smoke + consume alcohol; rough sex (fingering [vi receiving], oral [reader receiving], tribbing, biting, spitting ++ aftercare); 18+ ! vibes are basically buffy the vampire slayer with chaotic lesbians loving each other so much it consumes them both a/n: i think i've been watching too much buffy and fantasizing about werewolf!vi for like,, too long,, and this unholy mess is the result. this has been sitting in my drafts unfinished for a WHILE but tonight is the wolf moon so it felt right to post now, i really hope y'all enjoy 🖤 i'll include credit for each subtitle in the tags too <33
♪: "bullet with butterfly wings" by the smashing pumpkins; "dig me out" by sleater-kinney; "taste my despair" by lesbian bed death; "i wanna be your dog" by joan jett; "fantastic" by king princess
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i. sorry about the blood in your mouth
vi wakes up with a terrible motherfucking headache, which isn’t anything new. 
she doesn’t know where she is — that isn’t particularly something new, either — but what is new is the tongue slobbering all over her face. when she opens her eyes, vi sees a 50-pound black dog standing over her.
“whoa!” vi sits up abruptly, but the dog only gets more excited and jumps up on the couch, caging her in.
“sorry. she usually isn’t so enthusiastic about company.”
the voice is coming from the other side of the room, where you’re sitting on the edge of the mattress closest to the window. there’s a cigarette in your hand, and each time you exhale, you point your chin accordingly so the smoke travels outside. a crisp breeze trickles in. 
“morning, killer.”
vi swallows the heart that has jumped into her throat, takes a deep breath to steady her breathing. fuck, she literally just moved here and might already need to leave. she tries to remember if something bad happened last night. 
it wasn’t the full moon, was it? no, that shouldn’t be for another few weeks. but then why are you calling her a —
“killer?” she asks, swallowing the lump in her throat.
she stares at you, eyes trailing your injured jawline as she waits for you to respond. you do look vaguely, achingly familiar. whatever happened last night, you were probably part of it. 
“well, you’ve got a killer right hook,” you quip. you snuff out your cigarette and twist around to fully face vi. “and i’m pretty sure you killed my reputation as a pit fighting champion. i was undefeated before you.” 
fresh blood emerges from your split lip as you speak, and you’re quick to swipe it away with your tongue. 
oh. right. 
your tank top is torn at the bottom, just cropped enough that vi can see the imprint of her fist on your lower ribs. she now remembers the feeling of yours on the side of her face, and has a bloody, crusted eyebrow, painfully tender cheekbone, and the outline of your ring seared onto her skin forever to prove it. 
what kind of pitfighter wears pure silver?
vi takes note of her surroundings to get a better sense of who she’s up against: the place is small, dingy, but has a good amount of light. you’ve got a broken mirror, old books stacked in the corner, and an open cupboard filled with clothing and various weapons, mostly daggers and some wooden stakes. an intricate glass cross dangles from the centre of the window, filtering through multicolored light. there are a bunch of dried plants next to a mortar and pestle on the sill below — nightshade, juniper, wolfsbane. on the tiny kitchen counter is a silver vase filled with more wilted flowers. 
even from far away, vi can hear your heartbeat — strong, steady — as you shuffle around and gather some things. she inhales your scent. she remembers that she was slightly taken aback, in the pit when she had you pinned to the mat, that under the musk of sweat and metallic tang of blood, vi sensed something else, something delicate and floral. 
your whole apartment smells overwhelmingly of dried roses and decaying fruit, too, sweet and earthy.
“did you bring me here for round two?”
“no.” you let out a short, breathy laugh. “i brought you here so that some creep wouldn’t take advantage of you. you were pretty out of it.”  
“so you’re — what an enforcer?”
“no fucking way,” you declare, and vi can practically feel rage coursing through you, your heart pumping with reignited vigor. “like an enforcer would care enough to actually help the undercity,” you grumble. 
you shake your head and sit down at the edge of the couch, shooing your dog away so you can drop first aid supplies in her place. she settles on the floor at your feet. 
you offer vi a somewhat bruised apple. when she hesitates, you push it into her hand.
“this isn’t a fairytale,” you say, hands busy soaking a cloth in some alcohol. “i’m not trying to poison you,” you add as if reading her mind.  
“there…there are some good enforcers, though,” vi tries, trained to have such platitudes at the ready.  
you roll your eyes. “if there are, i haven’t met them.” 
vi’s not sure she believes what she had said, either. she feels her side ache, a phantom bruise from when caitlyn slammed her rifle into the very injury she had once helped heal. 
what started as you’re not like the rest of those animals. you’re one of the good ones. became you’re all the same. it’s their blood in your veins. as soon as things went downhill. 
vi bites her lip to prevent herself from wincing, and it isn’t because you’ve pressed an alcohol-soaked cloth to the cut on her nose. her sharp nails break through the skin of the apple, digging into its soft flesh until juice is running down her wrist.
“eat,” you insist, but you’re focused on removing as much dirt and dried blood from her face as you can, brows furrowed in concentration. “you ruined my reputation, so you better keep up your strength if you wanna keep yours.”
“so, you’re helping the enemy,” vi, still wary of you, wonders.
your frown softens. you place a bandage on the bridge of her nose before saying: 
“you’re not my enemy.” 
maybe it was the sincerity of your words, or the unconditional care you’re showing her, or the fact that it’s been so long since someone has touched vi so tenderly, but she decides in that moment to trust you, whoever you are. 
she takes a bite of the apple, the sweetness invading her mouth, as you lean over to search for something else in the first aid kit, mumbling to yourself about how the wound is deeper than you thought. 
“you should really be more careful,” you chide. “are you a topsider?”
vi scoffs through a mouthful of fruit. “i’m from the lanes.” 
“yeah, well this neighborhood is a different level of bad,” you tell her.
“i can hold my own — ouch.”
you start stitching up the cut on her eyebrow, one hand keeping her head steady. her cheek pulses against you as she chews, your skin calming and cool. 
“when you’re sober, maybe.”
“you didn’t have to help me,” vi grunts. “most people would’ve gone about their business.”
“i was going about my business. i was out on patrol; vampires never sleep, you know.” 
you say it so casually, almost too casually, that vi wonders if she misheard you.
“vampires?”
you raise an eyebrow at vi. “there’s a high concentration of them around here, near the hellmouth. a lot of monsters, actually —”
vi hopes you don’t notice how she shudders at the word monsters.
“ — some of whom can and will eat you alive if they get the chance,” you deadpan. “that’s kinda what i’m here for.”
“so….what are you, exactly?”
you don’t say anything for a few seconds, your expression unreadable while you finish vi’s stitches, but your heart thumps so forcefully against your ribcage, vi almost thinks she’s seconds away from hearing the bones there crack. you start gnawing at your bottom lip, let the blood gather until it starts to trickle down towards your chin. vi swipes it away with her thumb, which she then wipes against her bandaged palm. 
you inhale slowly, then exhale. your heart rate eases; still a bit higher than most people’s, but to what seems to be normal for you. 
“the correct term is slayer,” you finally say, watching vi carefully for her reaction. 
vi isn’t quite sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound good for someone like her. she’s wondering if she should make a run for it when you drop your voice an octave or two and add: 
“the chosen one standing against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.” you clear your throat. “if you were wondering.” you break out into a cheeky grin, teeth sparkling in the late morning sun.
“you’re joking?”
“most days, i wish i was. that’s the official tagline, actually.” your smile shrinks into a sigh. “i’m the slayer. i won’t bore you with all the details, but me saving you last night? that’s kinda just what i do. my destiny, so to speak.”
“do you normally take the people you save home?”
you blink away, wipe your hands half-heartedly on the white tank top you’re wearing, smearing vi’s mess of crimson and grime.
“no,” you admit. 
vi narrows her eyes at you, shifts her body so there’s at least more space between you before she figures out what the hell to do. it’s possible that you’re lying but —
vi puffs out her chest. “why are you being so nice to me?” 
you already have her blood on your body, and vice versa, and not just because you’d been fighting each other. it’s not quite trust, but it feels like something close. something you’re willing to share without even knowing much about the other. 
an unspoken question: do you know what i really am? 
because if you did, vi’s sure you wouldn’t be so….friendly towards her. so gentle.
“honestly?” you gesture towards the dog who’s busy nuzzling into vi’s leg. “fangs kinda hates everyone but she seems to like you.”
her jaw drops. “you decided to be my guardian angel because your dog likes me?”
“i already had a good feeling about you before.” you shrug. “i took it as a good omen, i guess.” 
“i’m not sure you should,” vi advises. 
you’re looking out for her, so she should look out for you. it’s better, for everyone, that vi be left alone. 
she’s been good, had to learn how to be, in order to survive; that doesn’t mean she’s innocent. 
on the bad days, she can’t control her anger. on the worst days, she can’t contain her hunger.
“okay, well, maybe i’ve got a thing for strays,” you reach your hand down, run it through fangs’ thick black fur. your lips curl upwards as you look at vi, all bright-eyed and beautiful, sunlight itself emanating from your smile. 
something sparks in her chest that she thought would never light again. something that, like her, could be dangerous if it’s not controlled. 
vi decides it’s probably about time that she left, though it's difficult to tear herself from your warmth.
“so, will i see you in the pit again?” she still can’t help but ask as you accompany her to the door.
“probably, yeah.” you lean against the doorframe, and vi is about to turn the knob when you add: “but, that pub you passed outside of? the bronze? maybe we can, uh, get a drink there, afterwards sometime.”
your heart skips a beat or two as you anxiously wait for vi to say something. her entire body heats up when she realizes what’s going on.
you were….asking her out. 
the good thing is that then there’s no way you actually know what vi is because, well, would this even be allowed in your line of work?
“you promise you’re not just playing the long game? gaining my trust and then stabbing me in the back?”
you give her a playful but sincere smile and make a small ‘x’ on the left side of your upper chest. “cross my heart.”
“guess i’ll will call you my guardian angel,” she muses, her chest glowing. “i’m vi, by the way.” 
you grin, then formally introduce yourself. you reach out your hand. vi holds it, delicately, even though your grip is firm.
“one more thing, though — keep the whole me being the slayer thing under wraps? it’s supposed to be a secret.”
“why’d you tell me, then?” vi wonders, raising an eyebrow. 
you tilt your head, examining her. “like i said — i had a good feeling about you. slayers are meant to have good instincts, so i decided to trust mine.” 
vi takes a deep breath, removes her hand from yours, and glances at you once more with a small smile. she promises not to tell a soul. 
(she, of all people, knows that there are far worse secrets to keep.)  
“thank you,” vi adds. “for saving me.”
she hears fangs scratching at the door from inside the apartment after she’s gone, along with the deep rumble of your voice telling fangs not to worry, our new friend will visit again soon, like you’re so sure vi will be back. 
with the way you already have her sharp edges softening, her heart fluttering in her chest, vi probably will be. 
except —
vi’s not quite human, hasn’t been since she started bleeding between her legs at 13, since her mother told her that this was a blessing passed down to eldest daughters in their family, no matter how many people will try to convince her it’s a curse. 
it would be a few months later that her mother would be killed because of said blessing. 
really, it’s more nightmare. 
because vi knows what it’s like to pick ripped flesh from between her teeth, to have the metallic sweetness of blood linger on her tongue and throat-tearing screams ringing in her ears. 
meanwhile, you — with your good instincts, strong fists and stronger heart  —
it’s your destiny to end those nightmares. 
you’re the thing that monsters like her are supposed to have nightmares about.
ii. you’re an angel / i’m a dog
there’s an intimacy to knowing how someone fights. 
vi fights with bared teeth and burning rage, knuckles cracking against bone, elbows bruising skin without any remorse. her own wounds are half-hazardly hidden behind layers of gauze, her chest wrapped tightly to keep her heart from bleeding out. she doesn’t bother to clean the dirt underneath her nails, to wipe the blood from her upper lip after an opponent breaks her nose, to wash her face clean before smearing on more dark paint until all she sees in the mirror is a shadow of her former self. 
you, on the other hand: you’re precise and quick in how you defeat your opponents, maybe even a bit bored. vi figures that when you fight monsters for a living, it must be fairly dull, knocking out some guy with a single, well placed uppercut, even if he is twice your size. your bandages are always fresh, and you always make vi a little dizzy when she catches a whiff of rose. you walk past her with a playful grin, easily replaced by the glint of your razor-sharp canines as you defeat another opponent in the arena. she listens as your heartbeat barely increases a beat, despite the inevitable adrenaline of battle. 
you might not be as feral as her, but vi thinks you’re just as dangerous. she likes it, admires that your violence is always calculated rather than all-consuming. 
she does wonder if you’d ever let anything consume you, curious to know what’s hiding under your armor.
so, a few days after she first woke up in your apartment, vi builds up the courage to suggest: 
"whoever wins the most fights tonight picks up the tab for the bar." 
your face brightens the dim, dirty sidelines of the pit as you’re both waiting for your turn, when you answer:
"you're on, killer." 
later that night, both of your bodies are aching as vi tries to examine your injuries once you’re both done for the day, away from the roar of the crowd. 
"guess i'll be picking up the tab," you smile, your lip splitting open even more, just like the morning after her knuckles first kissed your skin. 
(she wants to kiss this wound closed, too, press her lips to your bloody ones, if you’d be willing to give her a taste.)
"i'll still take care of it, angel,” vi soothes. she rummages around the tiny locker room, a single light bulb flickering above you. finally, she finds a small first aid kit — poorly stocked, but good enough for now. “lemme take care of you first."
you must understand what vi’s implying, because your heart starts racing faster. 
it’s a routine that becomes vi’s guiding light — the two of you patching each other up after a rough day (and, regardless of the fact that you’re both strong, it’s always a rough day). you share a drink at the bronze, and then you’re off slaying vampires or whatever other nightmares will keep you awake and fighting every night. 
then, it’s another full moon, and the routine changes. 
she’s able to prevent herself from turning even in the worst of circumstances, but she doesn’t want to risk any accidents, knowing that you’re out there on the prowl. vi is confident that you’d never hurt, let alone kill her, but that’s counting on you being able to recognize her. 
vi locks herself in the basement of the bronze. spike, the bartender, let her crash in a storage closet, temporarily, no questions asked and a promise to keep it a secret.
she emerges from her isolation after three days, eyes stinging from the harsh morning sun. her first instinct is to head underground, search for you. she makes one stop beforehand, drops something off in the locker room before she’s ushered into the arena without any more preamble. 
the show must go on, and you’re already center stage. 
the lanky woman you must’ve just knocked unconscious is being dragged away. you spit out what looks like a combination of blood and saliva, and crack your neck before resuming a fighting stance, feet squared, bruised knuckles at the ready. 
you falter when you see that it’s vi who’s your next opponent. vi picks up the increased pace of your heart, the muscle worrying against your chest.  
you’ve had this conversation, though — about what would happen if you were ever up against each other again in the ring — and you both agreed: once the bell rings, the fight starts, because you both need the money to survive. 
nothing personal. winner buys two rounds of drinks at the bronze. three, if there were some nasty hits involved.
you hadn’t needed to worry about any of that until now.
the bell rings, and vi waits for you to make the first move, like you tend to do.
but, you don’t.
the first time you were up against each other, vi dodged your attack and delivered a jab hard enough to make you bleed. you had looked at her with wide eyes, fingers touching your bottom lip and becoming stained with red as the crowd roared. you adjusted your posture with a newfound interest, and a glimmer of what vi can only describe as hunger.
this time, you drop your stance like you’ve already lost the fight. you ignore the shouts and groans from the crowd as you walk away.
….
vi finds you in the locker room — and you’re not alone. 
“there a problem here?” vi asks, glaring at the guy you seem to be arguing with. 
“it’s fine,” you answer coolly. still, vi sits on the bench nearest to the door, waits for you like a patient dog. 
“fine?” the guy barks a laugh. he’s wearing topside clothes. an enforcer, no less. “you made me look like a fool.”
you scoff. “i doubt that’s hard to do.”
the guy suddenly reaches forward and snatches your arm. vi feels rage surge through her when his nails indent your skin. you must sense it, because your eyes lock with hers in a silent command not to do anything, not just yet.
“i don’t think you understand, bitch,” he seethes, face a pissed off shade of red. “i’m out more money than you’ll ever see in your entire pathetic life.” 
“i’m sure you’ll manage.”
vi follows your gaze as it drops to his belt. he’s got his badge, a standard issue pistol, and a pouch full of gold coins. 
“clearly i bet on the wrong fucking dog.” 
you force a smile. “better luck next time, officer.” 
you finally rip your arm out of his grip, push him away abruptly, effectively manoeuvring him to stumble between where you’re standing, and vi’s waiting. you gesture towards vi with a smirk, a taunting dare for this enforcer to challenge two of the undercity’s best fighters. 
vi gets up just as he’s walking out, grumbling an incoherent string of swears. she not-so-subtly knocks into his shoulder and hip, her nimble fingers still quick.
“guess we can get dinner with our drinks, now,” she quips with a toothy grin. vi tosses you the pouch, but you don’t seem too thrilled, even as you catch it effortlessly. 
“you can’t just disappear like that, vi.” your voice sharp, crossing your arms over your chest. 
“i didn’t mean to,” vi lies, walking over to open your shared locker. she pulls out a bouquet of roses, the same deep red as dried blood. 
vi pouts, gives you her best puppy dog eyes. “i’m sorry, angel.” 
the only reaction she gages from you is a quickening heartbeat at the nickname, your face still hard to crack marble. 
“this is serious, vi.” 
“i know! but —”
“do you know what’s out there? i’m not the only monster hunter around here. you need to be careful,” you rush, walking over to her and talking with your hands. “i looked everywhere for you, and….and you just left without saying anything. i thought…i thought you’d been killed —”
your blood roars in vi’s ears, your pulse close to out of control, and vi doesn’t know what else to do except bring you into her arms in an attempt to calm you down.
“i’m okay, angel. i’m here. i’m right here,” vi mumbles against your shoulder, inhaling sweat and roses.
your heart starts beating steady against her own as you exhale.
“i was safe, i promise. i was in the supply close at the bronze.”
“are you kidding?” you guffaw, unravelling yourself from vi’s body. “that basement is a hellhole.”
vi shrugs. “it does the trick.”
you chuckle dryly, shaking your head.
“well, i guess now that i lost one of my best sponsors, fangs and i might have to move in there with you,” you deadpan.
you reach around vi to pull a jacket from the locker, slipping on worn leather that vi realizes is hers. you take the flowers from her with a small thank you, and vi adjusts the collar of her jacket on you, her warm fingers subtly grazing your pulsepoint. vi can’t help the possessiveness that sparks in her abdomen: you, wearing her clothes; you, heart beating rapidly for her. 
“well…what if….i moved in with you?” deep down, she knows it’s not an ideal situation, but vi reasons: “we can pool our money together for rent. besides, what’s another stray in your home?” 
you bite your bottom lip as you mull over the offer.
“well, you did buy me flowers, ask me out to dinner….seems like the logical next step.”
“so….” 
vi wiggles her eyebrows at you, and you finally crack a smile. 
it was only been three days apart and vi already felt deprived of the sunlight of your smile. 
“okay, killer. as long as you don’t make a habit of disappearing on me.”
….
on paper, there might be reasons why you and vi, together, shouldn’t work, but the simple truth is that you do.
you still spend your afternoons engulfed in the darkness of the underground arena, patch each other up at the end of the day, share drinks at the bronze before parting ways.
now, in the mornings, you spend a few hours training together, moving furniture around so there’s enough space to spar. you try not to get distracted by how hot her skin is every time it brushes against yours, how solid her thigh is between your legs when she’s adjusting your stance, how a shattered moan emerges from her lips as you pin her to the floor after showing her a new technique to catch an opponent off-guard.
the nights are your favourite, though. like fangs, vi is able to fall asleep anywhere in the apartment, and is usually passed out by the time you’re off the clock from slayer duty. after the first few nights, you insist that vi sleep on the bed, and she begrudgingly agrees. now, you get home just before dawn, bone-tired, to find her belly up, drooling and snoring on top of the dilapidated mattress. the moonlight illuminates all the curves and shadows of her sculpted body, her skin shimmering with sweat because her body runs warm, even on the coldest nights. you can see the trail of pink hair disappear beneath her black underwear, while her dyed-black hair is a tangled mess you’re tempted to tug at, curious to see if she’d moan again for you. vi sleeps shirtless, nipples winking at you like two fallen stars with those titanium rods pierced through. 
gods, you try not to drool when you slip under the covers and fall asleep dreaming of her, all the places you would sink your teeth into, all the places you wish she would do the same. 
(meanwhile, vi tries to ignore the sound of your whimpers, the quick tempo of your heartbeat, and the overwhelming musk of desire between your legs as you sleep next to her, because she’s so sure that you would never dream of her.)
these fantasies of vi, all her warmth, all her chaos, gnaw at you from the inside out. it’s an overwhelming sense of hunger, but with vi, you also feel something else, something gentler and more fragile building between you.
it’s really the little things. 
like, vi brings you fresh roses every week, and even though you keep telling her to save her winnings for better things, she tells you that pretty girls like you are worth it, angel. they should teach you that in slayer school. 
she winks, makes you flustered, then has the audacity to blush when you leave her the ripest apples because you know that she likes them a bit sweeter. 
sometimes you open the window as you share a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the starlit twilight as you exchange stories about your pasts, about the people you’ve loved and lost. she’s the first person you confide in about how weighed down you feel by the responsibility of being the slayer, a burden that’s cost you many loved ones, and the uncertainty of whether what you’re destined to do is truly what is good for the world. she tells you about her time in prison, the lonely nights lamenting the death of her father and brothers, but keeping her strength because she hoped to one day make it back to a sister she just ended up losing, anyways. 
other times, the two of you play a game. you imagine that you’re elsewhere, that there are no such things as monsters, no reason to have to battle and bruise yourselves just to survive. instead, you have a life and a family and a home together, filled with luxurious parties, decadent dinner tables, and endless sunny days. 
you comfort her and she comforts you through the dark, morbid world you both have been fighting against, alone, for so long.
it works. it works really well. 
except — you’ve been the slayer long enough to know that nothing this good will last. it's nauseating — dangerous, even — this desire buried in you deeply like a knife to the gut, twisting and taunting you with what can never be.
you’re just waiting for the next nightmare to reveal itself.
….
vi’s hair has started to fade back to pink, so she asks you to re-dye it.
it’s easy to forget that she sits in a rickety chair in your decrepit but well-loved apartment because all she can think about is your body behind hers, solid and steady. your cool fingers work the dye through her hair, your nails scrape against her scalp, and you’re humming as fangs snores peacefully at her feet. she’s died and gone to heaven, pure bliss glowing in her chest and releasing through her throat as a deep rumble. 
she closes her eyes and indulges in a little daydreaming:
just you and your sunburst smile and your soft, rose-petal skin.
there’s a firm knock that rustles vi out of her reverie, and you tell her to go rinse out her hair while you answer it.
she can hear you talking with someone through the rush of hot water. she tries not to eavesdrop, but…it’s difficult, especially once she hears:
“it’ll be fine. silver bullets usually do the trick,” you say, without much enthusiasm. vi bites back her hurt, keeps rinsing her hair, waiting for the water to run clear instead of sludge gray. 
you’re not talking about her. 
“i’m not sure you understand the severity of the situation,” a voice with a thick british accent replies. “i’ve been on the council for fifty years — five times longer than you’ve been the slayer — and i’ve never seen something quite this vicious.”
“my guess is you don’t get out in the field much,” you quip. 
whoever you’re talking to clearly is not amused, ignoring your backhanded comment and instead offering the details of what has been witnessed in the past few days. it’s so gruesome and gory that vi herself is shivering as she turns off the shower, towels off, and gets dressed. 
when vi opens the door, she almost trips over fangs, who’d fallen asleep just outside. she gets up immediately as vi steps out, her tail wagging. the owner of the stern voice — a man wearing a very pristine looking tweed suit — is handing you a crossbow, a bunch of silver-tipped arrows already splayed on the table. you notice vi first as your grip on the weapon tightens, and the man’s gaze follows.
“you know there’s a rule about slayers keeping….pets,” the man says, turning his nose up at vi and fangs from where they’re still standing at the doorway of the bathroom. 
you glance back at the pair, jaw clenched, and then focus back on your unwanted guest. 
“mr. travers, thank you for the heads up, but i believe it’s time for you to leave,” you clip, dropping the crossbow on the table. 
“actually, i believe that we have much more to discuss, namely how you’ve allowed this mutt into your home —”
“get the fuck out of our apartment,” you practically growl. you walk towards him menacingly until his back is millimeters away from the door. “you of all people know what i can do.”
“you will be punished for this…this transgression,” travers warns, but there’s an unmistakable tremble in his voice. 
you laugh in a way vi can barely recognize, sharp and bitter. 
“fine. i’m no stranger to dealing with the council’s bullshit.” you open the door, flash an exaggerated, sickly sweet smile. “have a nice day.”
“i hope this animal is worth it,” travers huffs. 
“she’s worth it,” you reply without hesitation before you slam the door on his ass, so hard that the walls shake, the vase in the kitchen toppling over and cracking on the counter. 
vi’s seen you fight in the pit — hell, she’s been on the receiving end of some of your wicked moves — but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen you this angry. 
your chest is heaving as you pace back and forth. 
“so that sounds….bad,” vi remarks, heading over to the kitchen counter to gather the broken shards of pottery.
you freeze. “how much did you hear?” 
vi just shrugs. “just that there’s something bad out there —”
“don’t worry about it,” you say with a forced smile. you walk over and push some damp hair away from vi’s eyes. “let’s take fangs for a walk before we leave, yeah? while it’s still light out.” 
there are whispers throughout the next few days leading up to the full moon. the crowd at the arena starts to thin, most topsiders too scared to journey underground with rumors of a bloodthirsty monster on the loose. 
you’re not sleeping anymore, still fighting during the day to a half-empty arena, out on patrol at night, your rosy scent fading from the bedsheets with each passing night. even if you get home before dawn, you spend your time scouring through books and scribbling into your notebook, mumbling to yourself theories about where and how you can stop this thing. vi tries to get you to take a break, or at least eat instead of burning through shimmer-laced cigarettes to keep yourself awake.
the best vi can do is convince you to sit down on the couch with her and share a snack. you settle for doing some research, flip through yellowed pages as you take a bite of an apple, juice dripping down your chin. 
vi reaches her finger out, puts it in her mouth to suck off the juice, moaning around the salty-sweet taste of your skin. you let out a pleased hum, turning your attention back to your research, but angling your body to invite her closer. vi nuzzles into your side, puts her head on your lap, twitches in pleasure as you reach down to scratch behind her ear. 
she looks up at you, and you finally give her a real smile — the first ray of sun after a pitch dark night.
a slice of paradise vi was certain she’d never find.
….
the night of the full moon is when all hell breaks loose. 
vi tries — she begs you not to go out there, sensing that tonight, of all nights, it will be at its strongest. but you, too headstrong and too righteous for your own good, just won’t listen. 
“this thing has killed eleven people in less than a week. i don’t care what phase of the moon it is — i’m ending this, tonight.” 
“why does it have to be you? that thing is stronger than anything you’ve ever fought!” 
“which is why i’ve been preparing,” you snap.
“can’t you – can’t you just call the fucking council, or something, tell them to deal with it?” 
fangs is right there with vi, scrambling and whining as you’re meticulously arming yourself with as many weapons you can carry.
you scoff, notching a few silver blades to your belt. “it’s not their responsibility, it’s mine. where the fuck — i can’t go out only in this tank top, it’s fucking freezing — ”
vi swallows the lump in her throat.
“you’re gonna die if you go out there alone.”
“yeah, well, i’ve accepted my fate a long time ago,” you say stoically. 
you’re fairly well supplied at this point; if vi was the monster you were hunting, she’d be running scared from a glance alone. you’re only half paying attention to vi’s pleas, and sigh in relief when you find what you’d been looking for. 
“please, angel, don’t —”
“i was literally born for this, violet. if i don’t go out and stop this thing from killing more people, then my life is worth nothing.” 
“you make me happy!” she shouts desperately, forcing you to pause as you slip on her jacket. “that’s worth something, isn’t it?”
a tense silence follows. 
you freeze for a few moments, avoiding vi’s gaze. then, you walk over to the cabinet, grabbing something so quickly vi can’t pinpoint what it is and stuffing it in your back pocket. you clench and unclench your left fist, a tick of yours that vi recognizes from the arena. 
you’re planning your next move. 
in a daze, you pick up the crossbow, but you hesitate once more —
“fuck,” you exhale before letting the weapon clatter to the ground and rushing over to crash your lips against vi’s. 
you’re kissing and kissing, teeth and tongue and a pleasure so guilty, vi’s sure she’ll be damned for all eternity. vi’s lungs are burning when she pulls away first.
“wait. you should know that i’m —”
“i still have to go,” you interrupt, voice determined and sharp, cutting right through to vi’s heart.
there’s a fear curling up her throat as you watch her, your eyes the darkest she’s ever seen them. 
“then let me – i mean, i can help —”
you kiss her again. you taste so heavenly, better than she ever dreamed of, that vi doesn’t even care that it’s probably just to shut her up. 
she almost doesn’t notice that you’ve cornered her between the kitchen counter and the front door, until she hears a distinct click, feels something heavy and burning against her wrists. 
you pull away first this time, eyes glazed over as you back away to make space between you and what you’ve done:
vi, handcuffed to the exposed heating pipe. the cuffs are stronger than any vi has ever been bound by. must be made of real silver. the metal sears into her skin, down to the bone, as she struggles against them, screaming to the point of howling, watching as you pick up the crossbow and a handful of silver tipped arrows as a final hail mary.
“no!” she cries. the pipe you’d cuffed her to rattles, but it doesn’t give. “please, please don’t —”
“i’m…i’m really sorry,” you mumble, quickly wiping away a tear. vi flinches when you try to touch her cheek; she bares her teeth at you like a rabid beast, but you don’t give her the courtesy of a reaction.  
“why are you doing this?” she growls.
“because….you deserve a happy ending, violet. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 
you take a deep breath. you look at fangs, affectionately pat her head as she bows her head and whines, tail between her legs. “bring her the key once it’s morning,” you instruct. your eyes slide over to vi’s, for what she fears might be the last time. “take care of each other.”
with that, you’re out the door.
vi isn’t sure how much time passes. her wrists sting, her muscles ache, but still, she keeps going. she doesn’t care how, but she’s not letting you die tonight. 
a sliver of moonlight shines through the window. something claws at her ribcage. 
you’re not dying tonight. 
and vi’s been hungry for too long.
iii. all my devotion turns violent
the streets are empty, deserted due to fear and damp from the cold evening rain.
you search through the shadows, around every corner, play with one of your daggers just to pass the time, the blade weaving between your expert fingers.
all you can really think about, though, is vi, and how scared she was to lose you, and how terribly you must have hurt her — 
fuck. 
you accidentally sliced through your palm, your blood emerging as thick, black tar in the darkness. you sigh and kneel down in the alleyway, dropping your heaviest weapon so you can use your uninjured hand to wrap the other. 
something pounces on you before you can stop the bleeding. the crossbow — the weapon that was supposed to deliver a fatal blow — is now out of reach. 
you jab one of your silver blades into the creature’s side; he howls, but you manage to kick him away long enough to get to your feet, get a better sense of what you’re fighting. you’ve never seen anything like it before: a hulking mass roughly five times your size, wolf-like features, and chemical machinery woven throughout his body, a neon green liquid pumping through glass tubes. 
the beast growls at you, lunges forward once again; you jump out of his path, roll away so run, fast, and grab the crossbow. you quickly notch a silver tipped arrow, aim at his heart; you hold your breath and fire without hesitation. then another, and another, just to be safe.  
your stomach turns as you watch the creature remove the arrows as if they were nothing but splinters. he lets out a roar that shakes the earth. you’ve made him angrier.
you drop the crossbow, deciding instead to propel yourself off the wall, leap onto the beast’s shoulders and stab the glass tubes with all the force you can muster. green liquid gushes out, and the beast howls in pain, but doesn’t give up. with sharp claws, he throws you to the ground, and you shriek as he tears through the skin of your ribs. 
you’re very suddenly dizzy, bleeding out on the cobblestones, yet continue to struggle with whatever strength still courses through your veins. the beast looms over you, foaming at the mouth, and your vision is getting fuzzier by the second.
that’s when you see a flash of dark fur, almost fuschia in the moonlight, jump in front of you, knock the beast out of the way, tumble to the side. you glance at the creature that saved you — a wolf with a fierce set of teeth and beautiful powder blue eyes — before you fall unconscious. 
iv. stitch me up (touch me inside and out)
vi barely registers that the temperature in the apartment is dropping.
she doesn’t regret how she had to rip the heating pipe from the wall — there are nasty burns, still untreated, stinging her wrists where the silver cuffs had restrained her. 
she doesn’t regret transforming from human to something wild, unrestrained, in order to save you from something much worse. 
she’s still burning off adrenaline, her nervous system on high alert. it’s been a while, and she’d forgotten how exhilarating it can be.
it all happened so fast. there was something oddly familiar about the beast; he seemed to recognize vi, too. that’s the only explanation — for all the ruthless, bloody stories she’d heard, why else would he have let vi take you away and just disappear into the night without so much as a growl? 
vi doesn’t have the energy to answer such questions. all she cares about is you. she can’t get over the overwhelming scent of your blood, already spilling out onto the street when she showed up. she almost lost control, blinded by rage and a desire to kill the beast — but you were there, on the brink of death, and she just wanted you to be safe, wanted to bring you home.
she just hopes she wasn’t too late. 
vi hyper-focuses on your labored, disjointed breaths from where she tucked you in. she tried her best to stop the bleeding and dress your wounds with combinations of herbs and flowers she frantically read about in one of your books, desperate to keep you alive. 
you’ve lost blood. a lot of blood. 
vi wants nothing more than to curl up on the bed next to you, but after you saw her last night, once you realize that she’s no different than the savage beast you were so determined to kill, she’s not sure you’d want her near you. 
she’ll just stay long enough to know that you’ll wake up, and then she’ll be out of your life forever. 
dawn breaks. the sun shines through cracked, frost covered windows, and your eyes remain shut.
your heart’s still pumping blood, which is a good sign, but otherwise….
day bleeds into night, and you’re still out cold. vi manages to drip some water between your parted lips, and watches with relief as your throat reacts accordingly. you let out a gentle sigh, eyelids fluttering ever so slightly. 
“please wake up,” vi whispers. 
fangs jumps onto the bed and whimpers, nudging her nose against your arm so that she’s snuggled underneath. vi drapes a blanket over the pair of you.
another sleepless night passes.
at first light, vi changes your bandages. she struggles a bit, given her injured wrists, but she’s pleased to find you healing from what might have been a fatal injury to most humans. she tries to feed fangs, but the dog refuses. 
fair enough — vi can’t bring herself to eat, either. 
instead, to pass the time, vi glues together shards from the broken vase and places it back on the kitchen counter. there are no more fresh roses; vi decides she’ll bring you some as a parting gift once you’ve woken up. 
you’re shivering by the time darkness starts to creep in. vi piles as many blankets as she can on you and fangs, but it’s not enough. vi accepts what she had been reluctant to do: she slips into bed next to you, uses her body to keep you warm, arms wrapped around you protectively.
vi doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she wakes up late the next afternoon, to cold rumpled sheets and an even colder empty apartment. 
you must have a knack for perfect timing, because just as vi’s about to start spiralling, the front door swings open and it’s you — cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, holding a brown paper bag with one arm while your other hand grasps the key. fangs rushes through the door, too, tail wagging as she zooms around the apartment, bounces on the furniture and lets out excited little yaps.
“morning, killer.” you smile like you hadn’t been knocking on death’s door since a few nights before. “i would have waited, but you were pretty knocked out and fangs had a ton of energy to burn. clearly she still does,” you chuckle, sending a warm, fuzzy feeling through vi’s body. “i got us some food, too, and i’ll contact the landlord to fix our — whoa!”
the bag drops to your feet as vi pounces on you, engulfing your body in her arms and squeezing tightly. your heartbeat is as strong as ever, steadies her own frantic pulse. 
“s-sorry.” she pulls away and takes a step back. “i shouldn’t have —”
you just shake your head and press a finger to her lips to quiet her.
“i’m sorry,” you say. “i shouldn’t have — i shouldn’t have treated you like that; shouldn’t have used who you are as a weapon against you. you saved me, vi.” you take a shuddery breath. you place a gentle hand on her cheek. “thank you.”
it takes vi a minute to process what you’ve said. 
you thanked her for saving you. 
you apologized for using who she is as a weapon. 
what did you mean by that? 
unless —
i’m not the only monster hunter around here. you need to be careful.
she’s worth it. 
you deserve a happy ending, violet. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. 
“you….knew,” vi realizes, and even as she says it, she can’t quite believe it. “how….how long?”
“from the first time i landed a punch on your handsome face.” smiling softly, you run your thumb over the faded burn on her cheek, the one mirroring her tattoo, the one left by your silver ring. 
“are you serious?”
“well, fine, i didn’t know what you were, not exactly, until later. i just had a pretty good feeling that you weren’t human; you had a pulse, so you couldn’t be a vampire, which meant —” 
“you knew what i was this whole time and it didn’t bother you?”
you shrug. “you knew what i was this whole time and it didn’t bother you.” while vi continues to stare at you in disbelief, you bend down to pick up the fallen items. vi crouches down with you.
“that’s different,” she reasons, handing you a soft red apple, your cold fingers brushing over her warm skin momentarily. 
“i don’t think so. not all monsters are evil and not all humans are good. i saved you from a human that night, remember?” 
“b-but you’re you and i-i’m me.” vi scrambles to find the right words. she’s still shocked at how calm you are. is it really as simple as you make it seem? “you weren’t….scared that i’d hurt you, because that’s who i am?”
you get up and place the bag of groceries in the kitchen, lean against the counter as you stare back at vi. instead of answering, you challenge her once again:
“were you scared that i’d hurt you?”
vi blinks at you. “never.”
“there’s your answer,” you declare, giving her that razor-sharp grin you flash whenever you win a fight.
fangs has calmed down, and she’s asleep on the living room couch, her snores the only sound between you as vi processes everything that’s been said. 
she feels like her entire world has flipped upside down.
this whole time…..
it went terribly when she last told someone the truth, at least anyone outside her family, and even they would sometimes walk on eggshells around her, like they were worried she might snap. 
but you….you’ve sparred and you’ve bickered and you never even flinched once. 
you welcomed her into your home, into your life. 
you kissed her. 
this whole time.
“i was scared you wouldn’t love me, if you knew,” vi admits, a whisper so soft that she’s almost sure that you didn’t hear. 
except you falter then, your confident posture melting at her confession. your lips part in a soft exhale. 
“well, it’s like you said; i knew this whole time, and i still….” you swallow the rest of your sentence, but you’re looking at vi with so much adoration that it’s overwhelming. “i still want you.”
her brain short circuits, and all vi can think to do is kiss you.
it starts sweet, your lips rose-petal soft. her lips are chapped, rough against yours and already bleeding from the pressure. you run your fingers through vi’s hair, swallow her moans. she’s dizzy with anticipation, imagining how you might do the same when she’s between your legs later. you kiss the scar on her upper lip, gently like you’re hoping to heal the permanent wound. then, your tongue laves over the cut on vi’s bottom lip, soothes her, pushes into her mouth again so you’re both tasting copper. 
but then, you bite down, and a desire buried deep within vi is unleashed: the desire to cut herself open for you so you can love each and every part of her. even deeper down, vi hopes that you’d want the same.
vi brings a hand up to your jaw, pushing you into her mouth even more. she lodges her thigh between your legs and shoves her tongue into your mouth when you gasp. one of your hands slips underneath her shirt to trace the contours of her abdomen, meticulously outlining each one.
“it’s been days since you’ve eaten, hasn’t it?” you mumble against her lips, pulling away slightly. your brows pinch together in worry, because you already know her body too well, can tell that each muscle is more defined, each edge a bit sharper. “you must be starving, baby. let’s eat something before —”
vi whines when you start to pull away even more.
“we can do that after.” she offers you her best puppy dog eyes as she pleads: “i’m hungry for something else now. i want you.”
to prove her point, vi guides your hand to her belt. your fingers dance along the metal and she eagerly awaits your response.
“fine,” you decide. “but whoever has the most orgasms makes dinner.” 
“you’re on, angel.”
her breath hitches when your hand moves down the waistband of her pants; you play with her tangle of curls, tease the tip of your fingers into her wetness. she purrs against you. 
“wait —” you pause your actions. vi whimpers when you remove your glistening fingers; you take off the silver ring on your pointer finger, grinning guiltily as you toss it on the counter behind you. “that would have been bad,” is all you say before inserting two fingers into her already slick pussy.
“ugh, ah — fuck, just like that, angel,” she moans, twitching as you ram your fingers into her. 
you hum, stuff another finger into her heat, stretching her so deliciously that her legs start to tremble. 
“such a good girl for me. aren’t you, violet?” you coo and start sucking the skin behind her ear. “you gonna make a mess, right here in our kitchen?” 
and that does it — vi’s walls tighten around you, her wetness soaks through her clothes; she’s almost sure that it drips down onto the floor. vi whines as you remove your fingers, feeling empty. you shove your syrupy fingers into her mouth instead, her tongue greedily lapping up her own cum. a string of spit follows as you rip away your fingers and press your mouth against vi’s kiss-swollen, cum-covered lips. you feel something smouldering in the pit of your stomach at her whimpers; you’re nowhere near satisfied, but her eyes, all wide and dark and desperate, are pleading at you to let her indulge in her hunger, as well.  
“what else do you want?”
vi paws at your breasts from above your shirt.
“i want to fuck you,” she declares, and you nod eagerly, your body bursting into flames. 
she gestures at you to wrap your legs around her hips, and she carries you to the bed as you kiss more fiercely, teeth clacking and tongues fighting to explore every crevice of her mouth. you tear each other’s clothes off; but the cold air doesn’t faze you in the slightess, because you have vi, hot and passionate, above you, keeping you going.
your teeth gnaw on her bottom lip as vi messily thrusts against you, your cunts sliding against each other; sticky, languid bliss. 
vi takes her time. she wants to savor every part of this, of you — the sting of your nails scratching down her tattooed back, no doubt leaving red marks in their wake; the familiar scent of your skin, sickly sweet roses, combined with the thick musk of your desire, dripping against hers so deliciously; the hoarseness of your voice, encouraging her to go faster, harder. 
she nudges her nose against the crook of your neck, salivates at how your vein pulses for her like a tantalizing butterfly. her teeth graze your pulsepoint, but she’s trembling with the amount of self control it takes not to add any more pressure.
“v-vi,” you breathe her name like a prayer. “baby.”
a guttural moan bubbles from the back of her throat in response.
you gently run your fingers through her hair, coax her to look you in the eye, the gesture a sharp contrast to the harsh squelching of your cunts against each other, melding together with each determined thrust. 
“you – ah,” you gasp as vi rolls her hips into yours with even more vigor. “you can bite me, if you want.” 
vi licks her lips, swallows the hunger burning in her throat because you must be too fucked out if you’re willing to let vi fully indulge in this craving. 
“but then you would —”
“lycanthropy is only transmitted when you’re in wolf form,” you explain through labored breaths. “so if you bite me now….and gods, i’m begging you to…..nothing’s gonna change.” 
“i have never been more thankful for your slayer training,” she growls. “you really want that, huh? for me to mark you up really good, show everyone that you’re mine?”
“o-only if i can do the same,” you manage a smirk. “or are you all bark and no bite?” you tease, buck your hips upwards. vi is willing to die for your knife-like smile alone, so of course. she’d let you eat her whole, if that’s what you really wanted. 
vi finally sinks her teeth into you, rolling her eyes back at how absolutely luscious you taste. like a good girl — your good girl — she follows your orders and bites. she bites down your neck, across your shoulders and collarbones, relishing in the imprints left in her wake.
vi knows now that she calls you angel for a reason. it’s a religious experience, watching you throw your head back against the pillow as your orgasm crashes through you. vi follows a few seconds later until you’re covered in her — she drenched the curls of your bush, her cum dripping down on your own wet pussy as she watches from above. vi can’t help it; she bends down, and you jolt slightly when her cold nipple piercing brushes against your clit. she does it again a few more times just to appreciate how you whine, rut your pussy against her perky breast, begging for more. 
but, vi’s on the hunt for something else — she splits your folds with her sharp tongue, sucks any and all of your shared essence. she lets it slosh around in her mouth before hovering over you once more, silently ordering you to part your wet lips; when you comply, so obedient, vi spits into your wanton mouth, thick and velvety. 
“swallow,” she orders, voice rough with lust. you do so quite eagerly.
and just like that, you’re back to grinding on each other, leaving a delectable mess along the skin of each other’s thighs. the tension in vi’s abdomen snaps when you wrap your lips around her nipple, suckling at your own wetness until drool dribbles from the corner of your mouth. 
after feeling her gush against you, a feral impulse rips through you. you release her nipple with a distinct pop, the cold metal still burning on your tongue as you yank vi’s hair, exposing her tender skin, glittering with sweat in the dark golden light as the sun starts to set. you pull her close, bite around the tattoo on the side of her neck, hard. vi howls in pleasure as you taste salt and iron and her, reaching your peak. 
vi waits patiently as you come down from your high, chest heaving, your neck still engraved with the outline of her teeth while yours are stained red. you crash your lips onto hers, chaotic and insatiable, kissing her like she’s your last meal. in turn, she licks into your mouth, tongue tracing your canines to savor what you’ve consumed of hers. 
“you sure you’re not a vampire? that would be quite the scandal,” vi jokes later when you’re sitting in her lap, taking time to clean each other up. vi’s only wearing a shirt, but you’ve doubled up on clothes, the apartment growing colder as night approaches. 
you already tended to the burns on her wrists (and apologized profusely for causing them; you also scolded her a bit for not tending to herself sooner). now you use disinfectant to wipe down her neck, where you broke skin; you quickly place a bandage that soothes the sting and vi presses a grateful kiss to your sternum.
you hum around the unlit cigarette in your mouth, which you had rolled beforehand with dried rose petals. with your hands unoccupied, you reach for your lighter. vi tilts her chin to gaze up at you; you’re backlit by the evening twilight, a silver halo around you as flowery smoke billows from your mouth.
“i’m sure they won’t be thrilled to know that a slayer’s fallen in love with a werewolf, either,” you muse, beaming at her. 
vi clicks her tongue. “sounds like we’re breaking some bylaws.”
“oh, she’s worth it; i’d do anything for my charming, sexy, handsome werewolf.”
you lean forward and exhale smoke into vi’s parted mouth, lips brushing against each other as you share the same breath. you sit back once your lungs are burning and admire the view. 
vi — normally all rough edges and dark shadows — blushing a delicate pink as you praise her.
“she’s got a killer right hook, too,” you continue. you offer vi the cigarette and she nods; you hold it, place it between her lips as she takes a drag. “a body so hot that it’s honestly unfair. she’s a fighter, which i love, and some people might think she’s just a scary dog, but i think she’s beautiful and brave and a total softie —”
“okay, okay,” vi coughs, the tips of her ears red. she takes the cigarette from you and stubs it out on the makeshift ashtray by the windowsill. vi rolls over so she’s on top of you, cupping your face in her hands. she pecks across your cheeks until you’re giggling; you try to turn the tables, and the two of you just end up wrestling in a tangle of sheets and laughter and tender kisses.
eventually, you both calm down. 
“you hungry?”
“not really. you?”
vi shakes her head. “we’ll make breakfast together in the morning?” 
“sounds heavenly.”
it’s dark outside, but the stars are out and the waning moon shines bright. vi positions herself behind you, her body curving into yours, chin notched over your shoulder and arm secure on your waist.
fangs must feel left out, because she shuffles under the covers for warmth before immediately falling back asleep, her fur tickling at your feet.
your thumb rubs against the gauze on vi’s wrist. you can’t help but feel regret, heavy like lead in your stomach.
“baby, i’m fine,” vi assures, already knowing what you’re thinking.
“i….i just hate that i did this to you,” you mumble, bringing her wrist up so you can kiss it. 
“you were trying to protect me. it’s what we do, yeah? protect each other?”
when you hum in agreement, vi guides you to turn around so you’re facing each other. on instinct, she parts your legs with her thigh. your sweatshirt has ridden up, so vi starts to rub circles onto your exposed hip bone, her touch soft as velvet.
“next time you go out there, i’m coming with you.”
your breath hitches as you trace the tattoos licking up her arm. “vi….”
“this isn’t up for debate,” vi declares. she reaches her hand up to caress your cheek, thumb delicately rubbing the shadows under your eye. “you almost died. whatever almost killed you is still out there. you’re strong — gods, you’re the strongest person i’ve ever met — but you don’t have to face any of this alone. not anymore.”
you let out a surprised laugh. 
“what?” she murmurs shyly, her eyes the soft, pale blue of moonlight, star-like freckles dazzling her sculpted cheeks. 
“no, it’s just….anyone who’s known that i’m the slayer either calls me delusional, runs scared, or expects me to do it all by myself. hell — that’s how it was written, how it was destined to be."
vi nudges her nose against yours. her breath tickles your lips, heats up your entire being with a warmth so divine, you wonder if you actually have died and gone to heaven. 
you’re both alive, though, a bit bruised and wounded. the world is dark and cold, but here’s this beautiful, strong girl with a beautiful, strong heart who holds you close, parts her full lips — like two rose petals, kiss-bitten and crimson — and vows:
“fuck destiny. it’s you and me now, angel.”
v. my heart is black and beats for you
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
it’s a quiet night. you spent most of it lamenting how you got your ass kicked earlier and fantasizing about the woman who did it, when you see a shadow of a person passed out at the corner of the street, and another trying to steal from them. 
someone has to stand against the forces of darkness and evil, and the universe somehow determined that would be you — a fate you’ve had to accept through bruised ribs and broken hearts and bloody prophecies, but one you’ve had to accept nonetheless. 
if that goes beyond vampires and demons, so be it. 
after you’ve managed to send the creep on the run, you recognize the person you saved:
it’s her. 
she looked more intimidating in the pit, honestly — all harsh and dark, furrowed brows and vicious snarls. 
it takes you kneeling in front of her to be able to really see it through the black face paint. you take a little pride in the bruise that blossoms on her cheek and the cut through her eyebrow, thinking that at least you got a few shots in before she took you out with a killer right hook. 
your jaw still aches and you still taste copper thanks to her, but without the roars from the crowd or the pressure of hefty prize money that you need to survive, you can see her more clearly. she’s bleeding through her bandages; she’s shivering because, gods, it’s freezing this time of year and all she’s wearing underneath a flimsy leather jacket is scrap fabric that would not be counted as a shirt; and she looks like she hasn’t eaten in days despite reeking of alcohol. 
that’s when you see a burn on her cheekbone, too, just about where your silver ring would have collided with her skin. you hold your breath, lean in closer to her chest and listen closely to check — the thumping of a strong, steady heartbeat; the gentle rush of blood flowing through her veins. 
so, not a vampire. maybe a human with a silver allergy, but what’s more likely is that she’s….something else. 
“hey.” you whisper. when she doesn’t respond, you cup her face in one hand and tap her bruised cheek with your thumb. her skin is warm; if she were a human, you’d think she had a fever. “wake up.”
you resist the urge to jerk away when she softly takes your hand in hers, the gesture a sharp contrast to her knuckles bloodied from earlier.
“five more minutes, cupcake,” she whines, her voice echoing down the empty alley.
“look, it’s late and freezing. we should really go before —”
“please. just stay with me. i promise i’ll be good.”
your chest aches at her sincere tone. did you sound the same, when you made a similar promise before to the people you’ve loved after they found out who — what — you are? did you also look so broken, so bruised when they left? 
you know the council wouldn’t approve of what you’re about to do. 
but you also know well enough from years of studying and training and fighting as the slayer that their judgement should not be taken as scripture.
in other words: fuck the council. 
(plus — you need a friend, or just….someone. it’s lonely, being the chosen one. and this girl, in front of you — when you fought, her body reacting to yours so fluidly, you had somehow never felt more understood.)
you manage to get her to her feet. 
she mumbles something incomprehensible into your neck, her breath hot against your skin. you let her lean into your body after a weak attempt at holding herself up. it’s not much trouble for you, though. it’s a cold night, anyways; her body, solid and warm, is almost comforting against yours.
you trust your instincts and carry her home. 
771 notes · View notes
stellamarielu · 10 days ago
Text
restraint
andrew “pope” cody x female reader
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summary: your curiosity leaves andrew in a compromising position while he prepares for a job
content: established relationship between reader & pope, but literally no plot, just smut, bondage, edging, oral (m receiving), reader has hair but there’s no specific descriptions, basically just submissive andrew because of course that’s the first thing i’d write coming back from a hiatus
word count: 1.3k
author’s note: it’s actually criminal how sloppy this is— no outline, no proofreading, just a girl and a google doc— this feels kinda rushed and isn’t reflective of my best work, it’s literally just pointless smut, but i really wanted to write to get myself back into a creative headspace! anyways, inspired by an ask in my inbox about pope and bondage that made my brain short circuit.
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The severely outdated digital clock sitting on andrew’s nightstand reads 10:51pm as you sit on his bed, watching aimlessly as he organizes a pile of materials on the open space next to you. It’s preparation for the job he’s running early tomorrow morning. Taking his time to go through some essentials the night before had become a part of his pre-job ritual that you often got to witness.
He’s laying everything meticulously in a row before packing it in a black duffle bag.
A gun, a mask, a hoodie, zip ties…
zip ties.
Your stare lingers for a few extra seconds on the little strands of white nylon bundled together.
Andrew has made it a point to never tell you the intricate details of what he does. The less you know the better— for both of you. And even with minimal knowledge on the ins and outs of what each job entails, it’s easy for you to imagine the necessity behind most of the objects laying next to you, however, the zip ties catch you off guard.
He places a few tools in the bag before moving on to the items laid out at your side.
“Zip ties?” you voice your curiosity, causing andrew to freeze.
He doesn’t say anything, just peers down at you, as if he’s waiting for you to expand your questioning.
“Why do you need zip ties?”
A quick smile twitches on his lips.
The question is so completely innocent.
The reason for their use seems blatantly obvious to him. But to you? Of course you don’t know.
“We use them to limit mobility.” His explanation is simple as he avoids eye contact, once again busying himself with packing the duffle.
“You know… to tie someone’s hands together so they can’t do anything stupid.” He expands further after a few beats of silence.
You don’t say anything at first. The long strands of plastic just look so simple sitting there on the bed.
“I feel like they’d be easy to break out of.” Your response is unconsciously naive as your eyes float up to meet Andrew’s.
He’s staring at you again, the once fleeting smile adorning his face now completely evident on his lips.
“Easy?” He’s repeating the word back to you with a grin of disbelief straining his cheeks.
You stay confident in your opinion, nodding your head and smiling right back.
“You wouldn’t be able to break a zip tie.” He’s still watching you, putting an emphasis on the first word of his sentence, causing an immediate defensive attitude to catch fire in your chest.
“Oh and you could?” you serve the question to him through a scoff.
But your interrogation quickly loses steam as your eyes venture down to his biceps— defined and bulging without him even flexing. The veins running through his arms are obvious, and the sheer muscle cascading down his limbs suddenly make you regret your line of questioning.
“Maybe.” His answer disrupts your ogling. It isn’t confident but the smile still lingering on his lips tells you there’s pride stirring in his chest.
“Well then, let’s see it big guy.”
You hardly give him time to protest before you’re snatching a single zip tie from the pile and standing directly in front of him.
You lift an eyebrow in question and he obeys, simply putting both hands behind his back.
You move around his body until you’re met with his broad shoulders and his wrists pushed together gently right above the waistband of his jeans.
It takes you a few seconds to fasten the zip tie around his wrists, pulling it slowly, making sure not to pull it too tight until-
“tighter.”
Andrew’s voice is low, encouraging you to keep going, and so you do.
Satisfied with the restriction of his hands, you take a step back, watching as he turns to face you with his hands now tied at his back.
His eyes bore into yours— stare calm and collected, contradicting the flex of his shoulders as he works to break the nylon holding his wrists.
He does his best to mask the struggle.
With him pulling against the zip tie, all you can think about is how you’ve never seen him in a position like this.
Physical control comes so naturally to him. His strength is something he’s worked hard for, and it typically gives him a dominant edge. Seeing the him, standing across from you, fighting with a piece of plastic, suddenly unearths a sick enjoyment from watching him in such a submissive position.
Wordlessly, you usher him back until he’s forced to sit on the edge of his bed, hands still stuck behind his back— helpless.
“What are you doing?” he’s questioning while still subtly attempting to come out victorious against the nylon at his back.
“Just wanna take advantage of your limited mobility” The words leave your lips in a hushed tone as you sink to your knees in front of him, slotted perfectly between his legs.
His struggle to free himself of the restraint immediately stops when he sees you kneeling before him. With an audible swallow rising from his throat and his eyes slightly widening, he watches you carefully beneath him.
After a few strategic shifts of his hips to help you pull his jeans and underwear down his legs, he’s back to instinctively fighting with the zip tie at his back in a desperate attempt to bring his hands into your hair as your lips carefully kiss up his inner thigh.
Your tongue meets the underside of his shaft causing him to fold in the form of a deep groan that holds its vibrato as you lick all the way to his tip before taking him into the hollow of your cheeks.
“Fuck- this isn’t fair.”
The curse seethes from under his breath as his body nearly trembles from trying to rip through the binding at his wrists.
Bringing a hand to wrap around his length, you pull your lips from him and pump his length entirely too slow, taking a brief moment to bask in the satisfaction of watching andrew’s head fall back in a display of pleasure induced defeat.
“There you go. Just relax.”
Your encouragement allows him to give up full control, and sends a shaky sigh floating down from his lips that only inflates your ego.
Your mouth is back on him in seconds, lips closing around the head of his cock, working in tandem with your hand to elicit a string of sinful moans from the man above you.
His quads tense up at either side of your head, signaling his descent into euphoria. But there's a part of you hungry to hear Andrew's desperate groans grow into breathless pleas, so just as he’s about to let go and spill into your mouth- you drag your lips off him. And the sighs of broken anticipation flooding past his lips sound like a symphony.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuckkk."
The last profanity stays drawn out on his tongue in a raspy hiss as he forces his head down to look at you. He’s met with a smug smile as you stop the stroking of your hand, leaving his cock hard and throbbing— straining for release.
"You just look so pretty like this." Your voice remains innocent despite the diabolical pace of your hand picking up movement again between his legs. up and down, your palm gliding leisurely over his cock.
Stiffening once again from the tension of trying to break the tie at his back, his biceps bulge and his shoulders roll back, but his eyes stay locked on yours— greedy and pathetic. You can tell he’s trying to keep an ounce of composure as your hand keeps a steady pace, the flush of his cheeks giving away just how worked up he is.
His hips rut watching your mouth lower. Your tongue tracing the head of his cock with a playful precision that sends a frustrated groan erupting from his chest.
You’re having far too much fun playing with him like this, testing his restraint, with his pleasure at your disposal.
His body grows more rigid with each of your kitten licks working to lap up the arousal leaking from his tip.
His focus is unmatched as his head angles toward the ceiling and his jaw visibly cleches.
Maybe he’s trying to prolong his inevitable release— holding on to a semblance of self-control to prove that he still holds an ounce of power.
But just as you take him back into your mouth, you hear a quick snap of plastic, and feel Andrew’s hands tangle into the roots of your hair.
His focus wasn’t on his impending orgasm. No. It was on the zip tie keeping him from having his way.
The seemingly thin peice of nylon that had been plaguing him had finally given way to the force straining against it, and Andrew was free. Free of the restraint, and free of your incessant teasing.
You hum onto him in a wordless praise as you keep your pace, willing to surrender and give him the long awaited reward for his victory.
Abruptly, he uses his hold in your hair to pull your mouth off of him.
His celebration of success looks different from yours as he nearly yanks you from your kneeling position and onto his lap.
With your legs straddling him, he keeps one hand on your waist holding you in place, and reaches over with his other, grabbing another zip tie from the pile and bringing it behind your back.
You’re impressed with his ability to pull your wrists together, fastening them without even seeing what he’s doing. It’s like second nature as he pulls just tight enough on the binding to keep you from slipping your hands free.
“Let’s see how easy it is, huh?”
If it weren’t for the smile on his lips you’d feel slightly threatened by his words.
His little smirk is the last thing you see before he’s effortlessly maneuvering your body. You’re met with the mattress; face down, with your cheek smushed against the comforter, ass up, and hands tied behind your back. Completely at Andrew’s mercy, who, thanks to you, was very pent up, and undeniably ready to reclaim his control.
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wholoveseggs · 7 months ago
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Gingerbread
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18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}{Five Days of Fluffmas}
{Stefan Salvatore x Reader} A gingerbread house competition with Stefan turns into a playful, sugary disaster! And maybe something sweeter than frosting...
♡♡Happy Fluffmas♡♡
1k words - Warnings: flufffff, holiday baking chaos, competitive banter, playful food fights, lots of sprinkles and sweetness...
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@starkleila @lydia1369sworld @notleylaaa @vampiresluv
@myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming
@spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse
@cs-please @complicatedandconfusing-25 @youcanhavemybuckanyday @akala6670229 @yeaiamme2
@itsjulzandmydiamonds @witch-of-letters @elijahstwink @rosecentury
@amanda08319 @starshipcookie @li-da-savage @veggie-eggrolls @spideybv28
@sunkissedebony97 @idk00sblog @savannaounana @sekaishell @b1tchy
@loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy @ziayamikaelson
@absolutemarveltrash @darkened-writer @nina6708 @evasmlp
@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight @blacknightrises @poppet05 @sweetieseven
@xoxo-shy @nova-j @decaffeinatedparadisepost @fandom-princess-forevermore @theotherworld97
@origshipfan @cocoabliss @eternalnoble @darth-laeka
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The aroma of fresh gingerbread and cinnamon filled the air as you walked into the Salvatore mansion. Stefan was already in the kitchen, a tray of gingerbread pieces laid out before him, a focused expression on his face. He looked up when you walked in and smiled warmly, beckoning for you to sit down across from him. You obliged, smiling back.
"I didn't take you for a baker," you teased as you sat down, picking up a gingerbread piece and inspecting it.
"Well, it's actually been a long time since I baked," Stefan admitted. "But, well, Christmas is my favorite time of the year, and I just...I thought it would be fun."
You looked around the kitchen and saw various cookie cutters and icing. There was a bunch of different candy for decorating, too.
"Are we making gingerbread houses?" you asked, your face lighting up.
"Yeah, if you want," he replied, a slight flush on his cheeks.
You let out a happy squeal and reached for a piece of gingerbread, trying to find the perfect piece. After a moment, you finally found one and set it down on the counter, ready to start decorating. Your expression was serious, your tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.
"What's on your mind?" He teased, pouring you a glass of whiskey and eggnog, which you gratefully took.
"I'm thinking about what style I want my gingerbread house to be."
He laughed. "Oh? And what's the plan?"
"I'm thinking I'm going to recreate your house, it has such interesting architecture." You grinned, looking around.
"That sounds like a fun idea. Why don't we have a little competition? Whoever makes the best house has to pay for dinner,” 
"Oh, you're on," you said, grinning.
Stefan smiled. He grabbed a piece of gingerbread, placing a few more pieces next to it, and then carefully assembled a rough outline of the Salvatore mansion, which was quite impressive.
You began to carefully cut pieces of gingerbread to create the basic structure of the mansion, which was a challenge considering how old and intricate it was.
After a while, Stefan finished the outline and got to work on piping the roof with icing, creating intricate patterns on the surface. You looked up from your work, your eyes wide.
"You are irritatingly good at this," you grumbled, focusing back on your task.
"Don't be jealous," he said, smiling.
After about an hour of working, Stefan had finished the basic structure, and had begun to add candy as decorations, creating a very realistic and detailed look.
You, on the other hand, were struggling.
Your roof had collapsed several times, and you couldn't seem to get the front door right.
You groaned and leaned back in your chair, defeated. All of your design skills were wasted on sugar and confectionery.
"You alright over there?" Stefan asked, a slight smile on his lips.
"No, I suck."
"You don't suck," he reassured you. "Let me help you."
"How are you going to help me?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugged and leaned over you, piping a little bit of icing where you had failed.
You stared at him, a smile forming on your lips. His face was so close to yours that you could see each individual eyelash. You felt your cheeks warm up, but didn't move. You liked the closeness.
He continued working, his eyes focused on the gingerbread. You watched him, admiring his hands and the way he concentrated, his brow furrowed, his eyes squinted.
The nervous energy you felt from being so close to him, manifested as butterflies in your stomach. Your heart rate quickened, your breath hitched and you reached up and booped his nose with a dollop of icing.
He looked up, surprised, his eyes wide, and you grinned, licking the icing off your finger.
"Oh, you're asking for it," he warned playfully, taking the piping bag that was in his hand and flicking some icing at you.
It landed on your cheek, and you gasped, wiping it off, staring at him. He smiled innocently, shrugging, and then you retaliated, reaching for the container of sprinkles, grabbing a handful, and throwing it at him.
A cloud of sprinkles rained down on him, and you burst into laughter, unable to stop. He looked so cute, his face and hair covered in them.
He grinned, his eyes mischievous, and stood up, coming towards you. You squealed and jumped back, trying to run away. You tripped, landing directly on top of Stefan's gingerbread house.
Your laughter abruptly stopped as you stared at the damage, horrified. It was completely destroyed, pieces of gingerbread and candy scattered everywhere.
"Oops," you whispered, turning to look at Stefan.
He was laughing, his shoulders shaking, and you couldn't help but laugh, too.
"I guess I win, huh?" you asked, your laughter finally subsiding.
"Absolutely not," he said, a grin on his face. "Mine was better."
You gasped, feigning offense. "How dare you."
"It's true," he said, chuckling.
"It was not," you insisted, glaring at him. "You have no proof,"
"Was too," he argued, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
"Was not," you repeated, giggling and poking him in the chest.
His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your breath hitched as his face was once again close to yours.
You stared at him, your heart racing. His eyes flickered down to your lips, and he slowly leaned forward, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn't, your breath catching as his lips brushed against yours.
He kissed you, gently, tentatively, as if he wasn't sure how you would react. His lips were soft and sweet, and he tasted like sugar and spice and everything nice. You kissed him back, your hands resting on his shoulders, and you felt him relax, his hands gripping your hips tighter.
You pulled back, staring at him, and he stared back, his eyes searching yours.
"Stefan..." you whispered, unsure of what else to say.
He smiled, pulling you in for another kiss, and you happily obliged, losing yourself in the feel of his lips.
The gingerbread houses were long forgotten as Stefan pulled you upstairs, leaving a trail of icing and sprinkles behind.
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Note
Hihi!! I have a small request idea if you're still taking them.
What if Shadow needed to take off his gloves -maybe they got a tear and needed to be fixed, etc, and the reader gets to admire his paws/ hands/claws (and perhaps the lil experiment number/mark I’ve seen him have in some things)? Can be platonic or romantic!! If romantic... maybe some hand smooches?
“A Show of Trust”
Pairing: Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader
Requested: Yes (by an anon).
Description: Mobians almost never took off their gloves. So when you get the chance to see Shadow’s hands, you aren’t going to take it lightly.
Notes: Eeee fics like these are always so cute! I hope I live up to that expectation with this one, and I hope you enjoy!
(Reader will be gender-neutral, and will be mobian for story purposes.)
(Not proof-read/beta-read.)
– – – – – – – – – – – –
It was a basic day for you; you didn’t have work today and there wasn’t much to do. Though, your partner, Shadow the Hedgehog, was off doing his own thing.
He was probably with Team Dark or racing with Sonic. Or shopping with Amy.
…Actually, you were banking more on the first one.
While you were in the middle of watching Cutthroat Kitchen, you heard the sound of Shadow warping back into the house, causing you to pause your show.
“Hey Shads! Welcome back,” you say, turning around on the couch, away from the TV.
…Only to immediately turn back around.
“I- didn’t realize your gloves were off, sorry,” you mutter.
“…And why is that a big deal?” Shadow asks.
“Well, um- Mobians typically only take off their gloves around the people they deeply trust,” you explain. “And partners, of course.”
“Considering you’re my partner and I trust you, I don’t think it matters if I have my gloves off,” Shadow says.
“You’re…allowing me to see your hands?” you ask.
Shadow steps in front of you, holding out his hands, palm side up.
“Only if I get to see yours as well,” he states.
You immediately take off your gloves and hold his hands by the back, admiring them.
His hands are more like, well, human hands, but he has paw beans and noticeable claws.
Each of his beans are the same color as his hand, except for the big one in the middle, which is pink, and the one on his middle finger, which is red due to his arm stripe reaching up to his middle finger.
“Shadow. Your paw beans are adorable,” you tell him.
“Thank you?” he says.
You kiss the tip of his middle finger, causing his face to tint green slightly, before turning his hands over, now holding his palms.
On the back of his left hand is his symbol, while on the back of his right hand is a different marking. His stripe goes around the back of his hand to make a red-outlined rectangle, the inside of the rectangle reading in red letters, “P.S. 02.”
“P.S. 02?” you question.
“Project Shadow, the second attempt,” Shadow mutters.
“Oh,” you mutter. “Sorry for prying.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You were just curious.”
You pull his right hand up to your lips and give it a kiss as well, causing the green blush on Shadow’s face to become deeper.
You were starting to wish he would take his gloves off more often with how cute he was.
“Your hands are…much different than I thought they’d be,” Shadow says, holding yours up. “They’re more…paw-like.”
“Is that a compliment?” you ask.
“It is,” Shadow says. “They fit you.”
“Aw, you’re so sweet to me, moonlight,” you tell him.
“Not as sweet as you are to me, sunshine,” Shadow replies with a small smile.
You give him a kiss on the cheek.
You couldn’t be happier to have him in your life.
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d-z20 · 8 months ago
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The Witch's Plaything (NSFW)
Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader
Summary: You come home from work late and your girlfriend, Agatha Harkness, doesn't take kindly to being kept waiting, so tonight she makes sure you understand exactly what that means, and she’s not stopping until you’re completely undone.
-OR-
Agatha punishes you for being late and then fucks you with her fingers (Darkhold edition).
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut with basically no plot, dom Agatha and her darkhold hands, humiliation/degradation, magical restraint, magical leashing if you squint, oral, fingering, choking. spitting, smidge of praise
Words: 5.2k
A/N: Listen mean!Agatha makes me weak and those fingers, ugh those fingers. Fic inspo
AO3 | Masterlist
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You don’t even make it past the entryway before she catches your eye. Agatha is leaning against the wall, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in wild waves. Her robe clings to her in all the right places, the floral pattern on the fabric shimmering under the low lamplight. But it’s her fingers that draw you in, delicate yet commanding, wrapped in layers of dark magic. The way they curl, the way they twitch slightly, almost as if they’re yearning for something—or someone.
“Well, well,” she says, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Look who finally decided to come home.”
Her tone sends a shiver down your spine, and the way she tilts her head, slow and deliberate, has your stomach twisting. Her smirk grows as she pushes off the wall, sauntering toward you. The robe sways with her movements, teasing flashes of her bare skin underneath.
Her voice drops, her fingers trailing through the air like they could wrap themselves around you without ever touching. When she stops just shy of you, her hand lifts. The black nails gleam as they hover near your cheek, teasing, before they begin their slow descent down your neck, brushing against your skin with the gentleness of a whisper.
“I—I didn’t mean to be so late,” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Shh,” she cuts you off, her finger pressing softly to your lips. “Excuses won’t save you, my darling. Not tonight.”
She lowers her hand, and you feel the weight of her fingers as they curl into a firm grip around your wrist. The pressure sends a shock of heat through your body as she pulls you closer, her magic thrumming in the air. The door behind you clicks shut, and you feel the full force of her presence closing in.
“You’ve kept me waiting,” she says, her voice lower now, almost a growl. “Do you know how frustrating it’s been? No one here to help me... unwind.” She slides her hand from your wrist to your waist, her fingers splaying across your skin, dragging softly as though testing your response. Her touch is a promise, a warning—her hands possessive, but with the delicate precision of a conductor guiding an orchestra.
You swallow hard, your pulse quickening as she presses you against the wall, the heat from her body radiating against yours as her hands roam with purpose, fingers skating down your sides, lightly scraping the fabric of your clothes. The sensation leaves goosebumps in their wake, her touch just enough to have you holding your breath. Her fingertips dance over your waist, tugging at your top with an almost teasing slowness.
“Look at you,” she says, her tone shifting to something almost tender, though the edge of her frustration remains. “So sweet, so perfect. You drive me absolutely mad.” She traces the outline of your collarbone before slipping down, her touch maddening, never quite satisfying, as though it always promises more but never gives enough.
Her lips meet your neck, her teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver through your body. Her hands move downwards, the path of her fingers deliberate, as if they could sense every flutter of your heartbeat beneath your skin. She tugs at your clothes, and every brush of her hands feels amplified by the tension coiled between you, leaving you trembling as she works her way closer to the heat of your skin.
“Such a good little pet,” she murmurs against your skin, her voice laced with affection. “Always trying to please me. But tonight, my love, you’re going to take everything I give you.”
She pulls you tighter against her, her body pressing flush against yours. Her knee slides between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. The pressure of her body against yours feels almost overwhelming, her fingers flexing around your waist as she forces you to submit to her.
Her smirk returns, sharp and triumphant, as she tilts your chin to meet her gaze. “Oh, sweetheart,” she purrs, her blue eyes blazing with intent. “We’re just getting started.”
She takes her time, being deliberately slow, letting her frustration fuel every touch and each kiss. Her magic dances along your skin, heightening every sensation until you’re trembling beneath her. She’s unrelenting, her dominance absolute, and yet there’s an undercurrent of care in everything she does—the way she murmurs soft praises, the way her hands never stray too far from your body.
“You’re mine,” she whispers, her voice like a promise, her lips ghosting over yours. “Every inch of you.”
She captures your lips in a searing kiss, her frustration finally giving way to something softer, though no less intense. Her hands trail lower, and the rest of the world melts away until there’s only her—the weight of her body, the heat of her touch, and the undeniable power she holds over you.
Before you can catch your breath, Agatha’s hands grip your wrist again, pulling you away from the wall. Her touch is commanding, and you don’t dare resist. She leads you into the living room, her pace unhurried but purposeful, and you know better than to speak. The air feels heavier with each step, her magic thrumming faintly around you like a leash as she drags you towards the couch.
She spins you around, pressing lightly on your shoulders, and you fall back onto the plush cushions with a soft gasp. Agatha stands over you, her figure framed by the flickering candlelight. The robe slips further off her shoulders, revealing more of the smooth skin and intricate purple lace beneath. Her smirk is wicked; her eyes darkened with hunger.
“Stay right there,” she commands, her voice a silky blend of sweetness and steel. She slides her hands to the belt of her robe, untying it with deliberate slowness, her movements agonisingly graceful. The fabric falls open, pooling at her elbows as she lets you drink in the sight of her.
“Like what you see, darling?” she teases, one perfectly arched brow lifting as she steps closer. You nod, unable to find the words, and her smile widens in satisfaction. “Good. Because I’ve been aching for you all day.”
Agatha straddles your lap without hesitation, her knees bracketing your thighs. The sheer weight of her against you sends a spark racing up your spine, and when her hands slide up your chest, her nails scraping just lightly enough to tease, you shudder beneath her.
“You’ve kept me waiting,” she says softly, her tone almost scolding, though her lips curl into a playful pout. “Do you have any idea how frustrating that is for me? To sit here, imagining all the ways I was going to make you pay for leaving me alone for so long?”
“I—I couldn’t help it,” you stammer, your voice shaky.
“Oh, I know, my sweet thing,” she interrupts, cupping your face in both hands. Her thumbs brush over your cheeks, a fleeting moment of tenderness before she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear. “But I think you want to make it up to me, don’t you?”
You nod frantically, a soft whimper escaping your throat. She chuckles, low and throaty, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Good,” she whispers, her breath hot against your ear. “Because you’re going to. And you’re going to be so, so good for me.”
Her lips crash onto yours, silencing any reply you might have had. The kiss is searing, almost punishing, and you feel yourself melting into her touch. She presses closer, her hands sliding under your top, nails trailing over bare skin. When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and desire.
Her hands make quick work of your remaining clothes, and the heat in her gaze is almost overwhelming as she takes you in. She doesn’t waste a moment, shifting her weight as her magic flares faintly in the room. You feel it ripple across your skin, amplifying every sensation until you’re trembling beneath her.
“Let’s see if you can keep up,” she murmurs, her lips quirking into a smirk as she begins to move, her hips rolling against yours with agonising slowness. Her hands grip your wrists, pinning them to the couch, and she leans down, her lips brushing over your collarbone.
You’re gasping now; every movement, every touch sending shocks through your system. Agatha’s magic lingers in the air, amplifying everything—each brush of her fingertips, each shift of her body against yours, every low, breathy moan that slips past her lips. Her frustration is palpable, woven into every deliberate motion as she moves against you, her dominance absolute.
But just as your body begins to rise to meet hers, desperate for more, she suddenly stops. Her hips still, her hands pulling away, leaving you trembling beneath her.
“Ah, ah,” she tuts, her voice low and teasing as her magic pulses faintly, holding you firmly in place. Her smirk is wicked as she sits back, the sheer lace of her lingerie leaving nothing to the imagination. The floral patterns barely cover her skin, and the flickering candlelight dances across her curves. She looks like a vision—powerful, untouchable, and entirely in control.
“You didn’t think I was going to let you off that easily, did you?” she asks, tilting her head as her fingers trail along your jaw, a deceptively soft gesture. “You made me wait for so long, leaving me here all alone, knowing how badly I needed you.”
“It—it was my boss, he—" you stammer, your voice weak and trembling, but her sharp gaze cuts you off before you can finish.
“Excuses,” she says simply, shaking her head. Her hand moves to your throat, her grip firm yet careful, her thumb pressing gently against your pulse. “No. You don’t get to explain yourself tonight. Tonight, I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
Her magic sparks faintly around her, a shimmering, tangible presence that tightens the air in the room. She leans down, her lips brushing over the shell of your ear as she whispers, “And you’re going to learn that lateness has consequences.”
Before you can respond, she pulls away, her absence a cruel tease as she rises to her feet. Her magic holds you still, your body humming with unfulfilled need, as she takes a step back, surveying you with a predatory gleam in her eyes.
“Sit there,” she commands, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “And watch.”
She doesn’t wait for your response. Her hands slide over her own body, tracing the delicate lace of her lingerie as her eyes stay locked on yours. Every movement is deliberate—the shift of her hips, the toss of her hair—all designed to draw you further into her web. You feel your breathing quicken, your body aching to reach for her, but the invisible bonds of her magic keep your hands firmly at your sides.
“You want to touch me, don’t you?” she asks, her lips curling into a smirk as she reads the desperation in your gaze. “Poor thing. So eager, so needy. But no. Not yet.”
She struts closer, her fingers ghosting over your cheek before trailing down your chest. The light scrape of her nails against your skin sends a shiver racing through you, and she chuckles softly, the sound both amused and wicked.
“This is what happens when you make me wait,” she says, her tone almost playful, though her intent is anything but. “You get to sit there, helpless, watching me pleasure myself. And you don’t get to touch, not until I say so.”
Her hands glide over her own curves, her touch slow and teasing as her magic keeps you pinned in place. Your breath hitches as she leans in, her lips hovering just inches from yours. You can feel her breath, warm and tantalising, but she doesn’t close the distance.
“Does it frustrate you?” she whispers, her voice soft but laced with power. “To be so close yet so far? To want me so badly and know that you’re entirely at my mercy?”
You nod frantically, your pulse racing as you try to lean forward, to close even the smallest bit of distance between you. But her magic holds you steady, and she laughs softly, her eyes glinting with satisfaction.
“Good,” she purrs, her voice dripping with delight. “I want you frustrated. I want you to feel just a fraction of what I felt, waiting for you all day.”
Her fingers trail along your collarbone, then down to your waist before stopping abruptly. Her smirk deepens as she pulls away again, her hands resting on her hips as she tilts her head.
“Do you think you deserve to be rewarded after coming back so late?” She asks, her tone mockingly sweet. “Do you think you’ve earned the right to touch me, to even breathe the same air as me after today?”
You shake your head, your voice catching in your throat as you whisper, “No.”
“That’s right,” she says, her smile sharpening. “You haven’t. And you won’t—not until I’ve decided you’ve learnt your lesson.”
Agatha’s smirk sharpens as she shifts, moving with a predator’s grace. In one smooth motion, she straddles you again, settling into your lap. The weight of her against you is dizzying, and her magic thrums faintly in the air, heightening the tension that crackles between you.
She slips her robe off completely, leaving her completely bare except for her lingerie—delicate and sheer. Her hands capture your attention once more—the long, delicate fingers stained faintly black by the Darkhold’s corruption, the inky tendrils curling along her skin like forbidden whispers.
She notices your gaze, her smirk widening as she raises one hand, turning it slowly, the candlelight catching on the glossy black stains. “Ah, these,” she murmurs, flexing her fingers, the dark marks seeming to ripple faintly, almost alive. “A reminder of everything I’ve done. Of everything I’m capable of.”
Her voice lowers, rich and honeyed, as she leans closer, her lips brushing against yours. “And tonight, my sweet, you’re going to feel every bit of that power.”
Without breaking eye contact, her hand trails downward, slipping between her legs. Your breath catches as her fingers disappear beneath the sheer lace. She exhales softly, her head tipping back just slightly, the tiniest shiver running through her as her fingers begin to move. She shifts her hips slightly, pressing herself closer to your lap as her other hand grips your shoulder for balance.
You’re completely trapped beneath her, unable to look anywhere but at her—her sharp, hungry gaze, the subtle flush blooming across her chest, the way her fingers work against herself.
The air is filled with the sounds of her pleasure: the soft, slick noise of her movements, the quiet hitch of her breath, the rustle of lace against her skin. Her magic buzzes faintly around her, a hum of energy that seems to make everything sharper and more intense.
“Look at you,” she purrs, her voice thick with amusement as her eyes flick down to meet yours. “So eager. So desperate. And yet, all you can do is watch.”
Her words are a taunt, but you don’t dare look away. The sight of her—the way her body moves against her own hand, the way her lips part with quiet, breathy moans—is almost too much to bear.
Her movements become more urgent, her breath hitching as the tension builds within her. Agatha's back arches slightly, her head tipping back as a low, guttural moan escapes her lips. Her hips jerk forward involuntarily, and she shudders, her body trembling as the wave of her orgasm overtakes her, her fingers stilling against herself as she rides out the peak of her pleasure.
She withdraws her hand, her movements slow and deliberate. The inky hue of her fingers catches the light, glistening with the unmistakable sheen of her cum. She holds them up between you, her smirk widening as she tilts her hand just slightly, letting you see every detail.
“Open,” she commands, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Your lips part automatically, and she leans in, her free hand gripping the back of your neck as her fingers press against your bottom lip before sliding into your mouth. The taste of her is intoxicating, and it sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through your body.
Her eyes stay locked on yours, blazing with satisfaction as her fingers press against your tongue. She moves them slowly, deliberately, making sure you take in every drop. “That’s it,” she murmurs, her voice a mix of praise and dominance. “Such an obedient little pet. Taking exactly what I give you.”
Her fingers slide free, leaving a trail of warmth across your lips. She traces them with the pad of her thumb, her movements slow and teasing, before pulling back slightly. Her posture remains dominant, her knees digging into the couch on either side of you, her body still heavy against yours.
She watches you for a moment longer, her expression softening just enough to show a flicker of approval beneath her smirk. “Do you understand now, my darling?” she asks, her voice low and commanding. “This is what happens when you make me wait.”
You nod wordlessly, your body trembling beneath her, the weight of her gaze pressing down on you as her words sink in. The heat of her body against yours, the intoxicating mix of cruelty and approval in her voice, and the way her touch lingers like a spark—it all floods your senses, leaving you reeling. You can’t stop the rush of arousal pooling low in your core; the ache is almost unbearable. Every nerve in your body screams for her; the shame of how utterly turned on you are only fuelling the fire.
She chuckles softly, the sound dripping with amusement, her fingers brushing against your jaw as she tilts your chin up. Her blue eyes blaze with satisfaction, taking in every twitch of your trembling body as if you’re a masterpiece she’s sculpted herself.
Agatha’s smirk deepens as she slides off your lap with a fluid grace, her fingers wrapping firmly around your forearms tuggin you up. But then her eyes flick down to the cushion beneath you, and her grin turns wicked. “Oh, look at this,” she purrs, her voice dripping with mock concern as she traces a finger along the damp spot. “You’ve made quite the mess, haven’t you?” She tilts her head, her eyes full of amusement and something sharper.
Your breath catches, and you squirm under her gaze, the heat rushing to your face as your pulse pounds in your ears. The embarrassment mingles with the relentless arousal coursing through you, leaving your knees weak and trembling. The blood rushes from your head straight to your core, leaving you light-headed and dizzy with need.
Before you can even attempt to stammer out an excuse, she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear. “Pathetic,” she murmurs, her tone deliciously cruel. “That’s another thing I’m going to have to punish you for.”
Her grip tightens, and she steps back just enough to draw you toward the hallway. “Bedroom. Now,” she commands, her voice soft but laced with steel. She doesn’t wait for a response—she never does. Instead, she turns sharply, dragging you along behind her. The cool air of the hallway contrasts sharply with the heat still radiating from your skin, and the sound of your footsteps echoes faintly as she leads you to the bedroom. The hum of her magic lingers in the air, almost tangible, wrapping around you like a leash, unrelenting and intoxicating.
When the door swings open, it reveals the space bathed in the soft, flickering glow of more candles. Shadows dance along the walls, the air thick with the scent of amber and something darker—something distinctly Agatha. The bed dominates the room, its dark, silken sheets looking both inviting and foreboding.
Agatha releases your wrist, but before you can process the change, she’s behind you, her hands sliding down your arms, her breath warm against your neck. “Do you see that?” she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear as she gestures to the bed. “That’s where you’ll be begging me before the night is through.”
She steps back just enough to nudge you forward, her hand pressing firmly against the small of your back. You stumble toward the bed, your legs weak beneath you, but she doesn’t let you fall. Her magic wraps around you like an invisible leash, holding you steady as she circles you like a predator.
Her fingers trail along your spine, her touch light and maddeningly slow. “Kneel,” she commands, her voice low and commanding. You drop to your knees instinctively, the plush rug beneath you soft against your skin. Agatha steps in front of you, her body framed by the flickering candlelight, and you can feel the weight of her gaze as she looks down at you.
“You look so good on your knees,” she says, her tone shifting slightly, though the edge of her dominance remains. Her hand moves to your cheek, her thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “But good isn’t enough. I want you perfect. I want you wrecked.”
Her thumb brushes against your lips, coaxing them apart, and without a second thought, your mouth opens for her. The instinct to obey is so ingrained now that you don’t hesitate, and when she presses her thumb past your lips, you suck on it greedily, the taste of her skin grounding you in the moment.
“Good,” she purrs, her voice laced with approval as she watches you. Her eyes glint with satisfaction, but there’s a sharper, hungrier edge beneath her praise. She tilts your chin up, holding your gaze as she pulls her thumb free and lets her other hand cup your jaw.
“Open wider,” she commands, and you comply, parting your lips as far as they’ll go. Without breaking eye contact, she spits into your mouth, the action deliberate and unhurried. “Swallow,” she says, and the heat in her tone leaves no room for disobedience. When you do, her smirk deepens.
“Stick out your tongue,” she orders next, and again, you obey, the vulnerability of the act making your pulse race. Agatha hums in approval, leaning her body in close enough that your breath fans over her clit, eliciting a small moan from the witch. With a slow, deliberate motion, she shifts forward, using your outstretched tongue to fuck herself. Her soft, teasing moans fill the room, mingling with the sound of your own ragged breaths as you watch her climax once again.
“Such a good pet,” she murmurs, the praise warm and biting all at once. “You know exactly how to please me.”
When she pulls away, you barely have time to miss her before she’s behind you, her hands finding their way to your throat. Her grip is firm—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of who’s in control. “Look,” she whispers, her breath hot against your ear as her free hand gestures toward the mirror in front of you. “Watch yourself. Watch what you become for me.”
Your eyes dart to the reflection, catching sight of your flushed face covered in her arousal and her poised figure behind you; the contrast is stark and undeniable. Her fingers tighten around your neck as her other hand slides down, slipping between your thighs without hesitation. You gasp at the intrusion, her fingers pressing into you with deliberate precision, but her grip on your throat holds you in place.
“Move,” she orders, her voice a low growl. “I want to feel how much you want this.”
Your hips jerk instinctively, seeking more of the maddening sensation, but it remains just shy of what you need to fall over the edge. Each thrust of your body meets the resistance of her touch, the pleasure building but refusing to crest.
“Don’t close your eyes,” she snaps, her tone cutting through the haze threatening to consume you. “Look at me.”
Your eyes snap open, finding hers in the mirror. The intensity of her gaze is overwhelming, her blue eyes boring into you like a commandment. The sight of her blackened fingers against your skin in the reflection sends another surge of heat through your body. “Forget yourself,” she whispers, her fingers pressing deeper, her magic pulsing faintly against your skin. “Surrender to me.”
Her grip on your throat tightens just enough to draw your attention back to the moment, her lips curling into a possessive smile as you meet her eyes again. “Right now,” she murmurs, her voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate whisper. “You’re mine.”
She thrusts her fingers deeper, her movements calculated and unrelenting as she continues, her voice soft and commanding all at once. The faint tendrils of dark power emanating from her seem to twist with your pulse, tying you to her inescapably.
“Give in,” she urges, her grip on your throat holding you steady. “You’re mine. All mine.”
The pressure building inside you becomes unbearable, your hips bucking against her touch in a desperate rhythm. Agatha’s fingers press deeper, and her smirk widens as she senses you nearing the edge.
“Don’t you dare look away,” she murmurs, her voice like velvet laced with steel. “I want to see it. How you are completely and utterly mine.”
The command drives you over the brink, the tension snapping as pleasure crashes through you in an uncontrollable wave. Your body trembles, every muscle straining as your release washes over you, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. In the mirror, you catch the faint, glowing edge of her power pulsing faintly against your skin, binding the moment to her inescapable control.
Agatha watches intently, her eyes burning with satisfaction. She doesn’t give you a moment to recover before her fingers pull away, leaving you trembling and weak. The absence is sharp and cruel, a reminder of how entirely at her mercy you are.
“You’ve made such a mess of yourself,” she says with a mocking tilt of her head, her tone cutting in a way that only deepens your submission. “Pathetic.”
Before you can catch your breath or attempt to steady your shaking legs, she’s gripping your arm with bruising firmness and spinning you around to face her. Her strength is almost startling as she effortlessly manoeuvres your unsteady body, pushing you until your knees hit the edge of the bed.
“Lie down,” she orders, her voice carrying the same undeniable authority that made you orgasm moments ago. She doesn’t wait for you to comply, instead shoving you down with a force that leaves no room for resistance. The mattress dips beneath your weight as you land, your body pliant and still humming with aftershocks of pleasure.
Her smirk deepens as she climbs onto the bed, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. Your cum still clings to her fingers, glinting faintly as she presses them against your chest, pinning you in place.
“Don’t think for a second that we’re done,” she murmurs, her voice low and threatening in the most thrilling way. “I’ve barely begun with you.”
Her hands slide up as she leans in, her breath ghosting against your lips. “Stay still,” she commands, her tone brooking no argument. “You don’t move unless I tell you to. Understood?”
You nod weakly, your body completely at her mercy as she looms over you, her power and presence overwhelming. The bed beneath you feels vast, but all you can focus on is her—the way her eyes devour you, the faint shimmer of her magic against her fingers, and the promise of what’s to come.
She moves down your body, her hands bracketing your hips, fingers firm against your skin as she holds you in place. Her lips ghost against your inner thigh, her breath hot and teasing. “You’ve made such a mess,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with mock pity. “It’s only fair I clean you up, don’t you think?”
Her tongue flicks out, dragging deliberately against the sensitive skin of your thigh, closer and closer to where you ache for her. Her fingers tighten their grip as she presses your legs wider, exposing everything to her hungry gaze.
Without warning, her tongue finds you, lapping up the evidence of your recent orgasm with a deliberate, agonising slowness. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, her expression smug and possessive as she savours every drop. The contrast of her cold magic pulsing faintly from her fingers and the wet heat of her tongue sends shivers coursing through your body.
Her tongue works with maddening precision, collecting every trace of your release as if savouring a rare delicacy. Each movement is deliberate, calculated to keep you on edge, your body twitching and squirming beneath her.
Agatha’s tongue lingers, deliberate and unrelenting, the wicked precision of her movements leaving you a quivering, incoherent mess. Just when you think you might come again, she pulls back with a hum of satisfaction, her lips glistening as she looks up at you.
“I’ve been thinking about the taste of you all day,” she says, her voice a low purr that sends a shiver through you. Her hand remains firm on your thigh, her magic’s faint, chilling pulse grounding you even as your head swims.
Then her smirk deepens as she leans back down, licking and sucking more of your cum (and at this point, fresh arousal) into her mouth. Her eyes lock with yours, blazing with a cruel, teasing glee as she spits it back onto you, the warm, viscous wetness landing squarely against your aching heat. The sound you make—a strangled moan somewhere between embarrassment and arousal—only fuels her wicked grin.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, her fingers spreading the mess across your skin with deliberate cruelty, mixing her magic into the slick heat of your body. “Absolutely filthy.”
Your hips jerk involuntarily, your body reacting to the overwhelming humiliation and the fire it stokes deep within you. Agatha’s grip tightens again, her nails pressing painfully into your thighs as she holds you still. “Did I say you could move?” she growls, her tone a warning that sends a fresh wave of heat through you.
Her fingers dip lower, teasing but not giving you what you crave, as she leans in, her lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of your thigh. “You’re mine,” she whispers, her voice dark and possessive. “Every part of you. Don’t ever forget it. And don’t ever make me wait again.”
She draws back slightly, her thumb brushing over your sensitive clit, spreading the mixture of her spit and your cum as she watches your every reaction. Her expression is a mix of amusement and triumph; her power over you absolute. “Now,” she says, her voice soft but brimming with command. “Let’s see how much more of a mess I can make of you.”
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