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dakusan · 17 days ago

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BLOOM UNDER NEEDLES

Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | he’s touched you five times. tonight, he ruins you

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.

💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up. p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin? p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,” you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Love Talk — WayV « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:53 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.

The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.

The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.

Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.

God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”

“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”

You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”

“And you?”

“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”

There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.

You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.

Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.

The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.

Still, you stayed friends.

Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.

And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.

“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.

He shrugs. “Just sketching.”

“For a client?”

His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”

There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.

“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”

His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”

You pause.

Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.

It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”

He stares for a long moment.

When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”

You nod.

His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.

Silence.

You can feel the air shift.

Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“You want me to tattoo you there?”

“Yes.”

A long breath. “Why me?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”

You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”

He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”

You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”

The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You’ve touched me five times.”

“Not like that.”

Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.

But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

You nod once, pulse thudding.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”

You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”

His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”

You arrive before closing.

The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.

You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.

“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.

From somewhere in the back, you hear him.

“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”

He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.

You offer him the coffee.

He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”

“Strawberry scones.”

He pauses. Blinks once.

Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”

You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.

“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”

You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.

Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.

One of his.

He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.

“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.

You nod. “Still want you to do it.”

That makes his head lift.

His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.

Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.

Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.

“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.

His inhale is so sharp you hear it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”

You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”

“Not like this.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.

The difference.

It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.

His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.

Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.

You inhale slowly. Exhale.

He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.

“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”

You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.

You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.

He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.

“Well?” he asks.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Then lie back for me, angel.”

You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.

Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.

A little too still. A little too loaded.

And then he turns.

Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.

At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”

He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.

You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”

“Intimate,” he finishes.

You nod once. Slowly.

He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”

You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”

“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.

“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”

You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”

“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”

“It hurt!”

“It was a two-inch peony.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.

He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.

You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.

“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”

You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”

He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.

He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.

“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.

“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.

His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”

“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”

He does not, in fact, move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling.”

“You are.”

“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”

“Always.”

He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.

“You always hold my hand when I do.”

He pauses. Just a beat.

Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.

You don’t let go.

And then—

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The needle touches your skin.

Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”

The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.

“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”

You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”

He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”

He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”

Your whole body freezes.

“I—excuse me—”

“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”

“You know what I thought you meant.”

He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

You let out a long, slow exhale.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.

You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.

His voice drops. “When I’m what?”

Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.

“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”

Those words echo.

Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.

You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.

This has never just been ink.

Not for him.

And not for you.

“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.

His gloved hand is still on your hip.

Still holding you steady. Still not moving.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”

“But you meant it,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.

And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”

It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.

The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.

You’re not sure if he means you or him.

“I’m fine,” you manage.

He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”

You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”

Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.

Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.

He notices. He always notices.

"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.

"I'm trying," you whisper.

"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."

The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.

Another petal. Another clean line.

Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.

“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”

You nod, nails digging into your own palms.

And then—

He stops.

The buzzing dies.

You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down. The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink. The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.

“…Finished,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.

He pulls the gloves off.

Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.

Then looks at you like he’s still starving.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.

You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

You watch him work.

He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

You shiver.

“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”

You blink at him. “But?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.

But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.

You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.

Is he seriously—

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”

You lie back, narrowing your eyes.

He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.

"You're being professional again," you mutter.

His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”

“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”

“I remember everything I say to you.”

He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.

And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.

The goddamn printed paper.

“I know how to—”

“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”

You sit up abruptly.

His words die in his throat.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.

“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.

Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.

“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”

Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.

"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”

“You already have.”

He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.

He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."

His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.

"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"

The shorts hit the floor.

And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.

Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed. They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.

Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”

“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.

“Bullshit.”

He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.

“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”

A kiss over the curve of your ass.

“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”

His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.

“I should rip these.”

“You won’t,” you gasp.

“Oh?”

“You like how they look too much.”

He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”

And then he does something you don’t expect.

He kneels behind you.

Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.

Then—

A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.

“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”

His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.

Then—

Spit.

The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”

And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.

“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.

“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.

One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.

His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”

He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.

“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”

And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—

You do.

You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.

“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.

Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—

And stands.

You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.

He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”

His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.

“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”

You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.

He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.

Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.

“You staring?” he says, breathless.

“Obviously.”

He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”

You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.

“—and all mine.”

He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

You jolt.

“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans down, voice curling around your ear.

“Good.”

And then—

He pushes in. Slow. Deep.

Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”

You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”

He pulls out halfway—

Then slams back in.

Your cry echoes through the studio.

“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.

Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.

“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”

One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Hyunjin—!”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.

The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.

And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”

His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—

Everything snaps.

You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—

And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.

“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.

You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”

“Worth it,” he grins.

Then: “Round two?”

You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly. “Better than.”

He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”

You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.

A gasp escapes your lips.

Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”

You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.

Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.

“Let me see it,” he whispers.

You glance back, confused.

“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.

You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.

He crouches again.

One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.

His eyes go soft.

“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”

You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—

He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.

“Come home with me,” he says.

Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”

You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.

Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.

The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.

Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.

You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”

You snort. “You mean mine.”

His gaze flicks up.

“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”

You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.

He grins. “You love it.”

His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.

You squirm. “Hyunjin—”

“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.

He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.

And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.

You blink. “Another what?”

“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”

He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.

You shiver. “Hyunjin…”

His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”

You moan—already soaked, already clenching.

But he just smirks.

“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”

#stray kids #skz #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin smut #filthy friday #skz smut #황현진

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heysailorboy · 4 months ago

Text

⚠️ Little flash warning

Song: Slingshot - Good Kid

Hope you enjoy :3!!!!

#kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts fanart #riku kingdom hearts #riku #sora #sora kingdom hearts #kh riku #kh sora #kh2 #donald duck kingdom hearts #goofy kingdom hearts #kh3 #roxas #kh roxas #animation #fan animation

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sm-baby · 1 year ago

Text

⚠️FLASH WARNING

ko-fi🔪

anyway, you know how I said that Able is technically dead in canon? and everything I draw about him is just a "what if"? You don't? I do.

fun gif of the silly :3

#the amazing digital circus #caine #pomni #able #the amazing digital circus caine #the amazing digital circus Pomni #the amazing digital circus able #tadc caine #tadc pomni #tadc able #animatic #gif

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myloveer0 · 2 months ago

Text

Caught in the Act

Ambessa medarda x Fem!reader x Sevika

Ambessa x Sevika

🔥🔥🔥❤️❤️❤️

⚠️warning contain smut⚠️

Summary: As Ambessa Medarda’s secretary, delivering bad news was part of the job—but interrupting her day off? A nightmare. When she didn’t answer the door, you made the reckless decision to enter her penthouse uninvited. What you found inside was not what you expected.

A secret. A scandal. A side of your boss you never imagined.

I love everyone's comments on Part 1—you're all hilarious! Just so everyone knows, I was also embarrassed the time I reread it, haha.. Here's part 2 enjoy!!

Part II

It didn’t even take a second—before you could react, before you could even think, a heavy step thudded toward you, and the closet door was wrenched open.

And there she was.

Madam Medarda stood tall above you, her bronze skin slick with sweat, hair a wild mess, jaw tight and eyes sharp with something between shock and confusion as she loomed over your cowering form.

It was like time had stopped when your gaze meet. Your entire life flashed before your eyes in a single second. You couldn’t breathe. And then—suddenly—you weren’t on the ground anymore.

You were sitting. In a chair.

Rigid. Stiff as a corpse.

Across from you loomed the massive bed, the scene still burned into your mind. Your head hung low, eyes fixed on the floor, your whole body trembling with a sick, burning mix of shame and fear. You glanced at the door—it was shut tight. You were trapped. Trapped in the room between two women whose presence alone felt like it could crush you and pointing looks at you.

You could feel their eyes. Was it confusion, anger, surprise? You didn’t know anymore—you didn’t have the courage to look up, to meet their gaze.

Madam Medarda face was in shock, still trying to process it all: her assistant, hiding in her private collection, caught sneaking into her quarters... maybe even watching her have sex with her business partner.

The silence was unbearable, thick enough to choke on. You kept your eyes on the floor, wishing you could melt into it. You wanted to cry out of your humilating action. Your heart pounded like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest. You wished it could. You wished it would. Anything would’ve been better fate than this. Right now, all you wanted was to disappear and die.

From your peripheral vision, you could see Madam Ambessa standing near you, arms crossed. She wasn’t even fully dressed—just a lacy bra with pants—and it was so distracting. You hated that your eyes kept drifting, hated yourself more for even thinking it: She looks hot.

You couldn’t see much clearly from the closet earlier. But now? Now she was right beside you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.

And with nothing on but that lace bra… God.

She looked insane. Strong. Sexy. Her abs were tight, defined, the kind that only came from years of discipline. Her chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately, and her skin glowed under the soft lighting. You never expected her to be this ripped, this built, not under those sharp suits and perfectly tailored jackets.

And it made your mouth go dry.

Stop — you scolded yourself. Haven’t you learned your damn lesson already?

Meanwhile Sevika was still sprawled against the headboard. She reached under the drawer, pulled out a lighter, and lit a cigarette with the same lazy calm she always had. Completely unbothered. Watching you through the smoke like you were some new kind of entertainment. You didn’t dare look at her. You couldn’t. There was already too much on your plate. One more look, one more word, and you weren’t sure you’d hold it together.

You wince when you heard your boss sighed shifting you back to reality.. You look like a criminal now. A small rabbit between two large preditor. Caught in the act, guilty and you don’t know what to do—what sick, desperate part of you ever thought this could be justified? which literally you cannot. No excuses. No justifications could ever forgive this. Just shame.

"Explain yourself, child.." Madam Medarda began.

Her voice was sharp—clipped with anger—but it wasn’t how she was that got to you. It was the weight behind every word. Like each syllable was a verdict. You bit your lip, trying to stay still, but your heart was going wild in your chest. You’d never heard Madam this angry before. Not like this. And the way how her brows keep on twitching made you more nervous and scared for your life.

"You didn’t just cross into my quarters that I explicitly forbade...." Her caramel eyes narrowed, she took a single step closer "You touched what was not yours to touch. But worse than all of that… You saw something that was never meant for you to see. Now explain yourself child, what part of stay out didn’t you understand? I didn't know you were this... unprofessional? ”

You drop your head, sinking into the chair—your limbs trembling, hands gripping on your pants so tightly your knuckles turned white. Desperation twists your tongue as you scramble for words.

“I—I swear, Madam I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—!”

Bang.

She slammed her hand down on the top rail of the chair, her palm flat against the carved wood. The sound cracked through the room like thunder.

You flinched so violently you nearly fell out of the chair.

“Do you have any idea what kind of risk you’ve put yourself in?” Ambessa said, her voice sharp, like a blade held just inches from your throat. “What you saw—what you heard— listen to me dear that kind of knowledge comes with a price dearly..”

You couldn’t even meet her eyes. Your chest beating loudly, heart pounding to your throat, and your vision blurred with tears.

“Medarda,” Sevika’s voice cut in from behind. She sounded amused, but not unkind. “Ease up. You’re scaring the poor little thing.”

But it was too late. The pressure, the fear, the overwhelming shame—it all cracked open at once. You broke into tears.

“I-i’m sorry—I’m so sorry—” you choked out, shoulders shaking as you finally broke down in sobs. “I-i didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to break in—I just—” You hiccupped, unable to stop the tears now. You look like a fool right now which was tecnically your fault in the first place. “I just needed your signature. I wasn’t thinking. I—I panicked.”

Ambessa didn’t say anything right away. You could feel her still watching you. Judging every word. Every breath. You were terrified now.

“I suppose you’ll sell this information.”

Your sobbing stopped for a second—not because the panic had faded, but because her words had stunned you. Your brows furrow, unsure what she really meant.

“A scandal like this?” Ambessa continued. “Imagine the headlines: Medarda, fucking her business partner. Who knows what the board, the employees, and my people would think about this… ”

She let the silence stretch, just long enough to make your stomach knot.

“And let’s not forget… her little hobby..” She arched a brow, a low chuckle followed, humorless. “A collection of sex toys and straps who knows where she would use it for..That’s the kind of story people pay for, little one. And some pay a hell of a lot more to make sure it get told just to bring me down”

“No!” you gasped. Your head jerked up, eyes wide, soaked with tears. “I would never—never, I swear to you—I would never do that to you!”

Ambessa’s eyes narrowed slightly. Didn't believe you any longer? She practically lost her fate on you which make your heart ache. And that hurt more, because no matter what you said now… it might never matter to her anymore.

You shook your head violently, “I-i know what I did was wrong. I invaded your privacy, I crossed the line—I’m awful, I know I am, and I’ll take whatever punishment you give me, but that? Selling you out? That’s a whole different level. I could never—I would never do that to you madam.”

You were practically pleading now, willing to do whatever it took for her forgiveness—but what else could you offer? You had nothing, nothing that could make this right. Your hands trembled as you gripped your pants, holding on like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

You regretted coming in—God, you really regretted it. Maybe it would’ve been better to just let the deal fall through. Maybe then you could’ve been spared, since it was technically boss fault for not answering your calls in the first place. But you didn’t have the strength to say that.

Not now. Not with Madam looking at you like that.

“I’m loyal to you,” you said, barely above a whisper, your voice cracking as your sob continue to slipped out. “Even now. I’m really sorry, ma’am… I didn’t mean to—” The words caught in your throat, swallowed by the shame curling in your chest.

Ambessa stood still for a moment, arms crossed, her shadow cast long across the floor as you sat there, broken and shaking. The silence stretched, your sobs the only sound filling the heavy air.

Then her voice came, low and cold.

“Get up, child.”

You blinked up through tear-blurred eyes.

“Go to the office,” she continued, “Pack your things. You’re fired.”

Your heart dropped.

No.

No, no, no—this couldn’t be happening.

Ambessa turned slightly, as if to walk away, then muttered over her shoulder, “I’m still debating whether or not to file a charge before you sell me to the tabloids..”

That horrified you.

“No—please—please, Madam!” You shot up from the chair so fast your legs wobbled, and you stumbled, falling to the floor—but you didn’t get up. Eyes wide and raw with desperation, you looked up at your boss. “Please don’t do this—I can’t lose this job—please…”

You knew she was being harsh—but how could she do this?

You didn’t spend half a decade working under her, giving her everything, just for her to assume the worst. You’d been by her side almost every day, long enough to build something that felt like trust.

Was that not enough? Did she really not see how important she was to you? How much she mattered? The thought stung more—like all that time meant nothing to her. You couldn't afford to be jobless and receive charges at the same time.

“I have nothing else—I’ve barely paid off my student loan, I send money back home to my family they depends on me. You know that well madam—I don’t have anything else—”

You place your knees and press your forehead to the floor.

“I-i’ll stay quiet. I’ll never breathe a word. I’ll act like none of this ever happened—just—just let me stay, please, please.”

She said nothing.

“I’ll do anything.”

That made Ambessa stop on her track.

“I don’t care anymore,” you whispered, voice trembling but clear. “If I have to give you everything to keep my place here—then take it. My loyalty, my body, my soul. I don’t care. I owe you. I betrayed your trust. You know me maam i won't ever sell you out..''

Madam Ambessa Medarda was the kind of person who valued trust above everything. You knew that—God, you knew that. She’d drilled it into your head over the years, again and again, until it stuck like a brand.

And now you’d broken that trust.

There were no second chances with her. No forgiveness once the line was crossed. You understood why she was being harsh and merciless. It didn’t make it hurt any less—but at least you knew where it was coming from.

For a second, there was only silence.

“‘Anything,’ huh?” a voice butt in echoed into the silent room.

You flinched.

You didn’t dare look—until you heard the mattress creak, followed by her slow, deliberate steps. Each one thudded until a pair of feet stopped right in front of you. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Sevika.

“Look at me,” she said, voice low.

You lifted your face, but your eyes quickly darted away the second you realized—she was barely dressed. Just a loose pair of boxer shorts hanging low on her hips. Everything else was bare. You can see every line of her tan skin and muscle. Her breasts were right there, exposed and inches away from your face, making your cheeks burn with heat.

You can smell the scent of sweat, smoke, and her intimate scent—clung to her skin.

“I-I think you forgot to change, ma’a—”

You didn’t get to finish.

A rough, calloused hand grabbed your chin, fingers wrapping around your jaw. She tilted your face up, forcing your to meet her eyes. You winced, pulse raced, wild and panicked.

Then she exhaled. A slow stream of smoke right into your face. You coughed, choking into your sleeve as your eyes watered—partly from the sting, partly from the tears already building. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even try. You just sat there, held in place, looking like an obedient dog.

And then Sevika smirk. That slow, knowing kind of smile, deepened by a flicker of mischief in her eyes.

“So,” she said to Ambessa, her eyes flicked across your face “this is the little assistant you kept going on about? I never noticed she was actually this cute whenever I visited your office.''

You flinched slightly as her fingers brushed your cheek, wiping away a tear—and then, slowly, she dragged her finger to her lips, making your heart toud loudly. You don't know what happening anymore but with that casual move shifted the whole atmostphere too intimate making you exhales harshly.

Ambessa’s voice cut through. “Sevika, stop this. That’s not what we’re discussing now.”

Sevika simply chuckled. Ignoring Ambessa's word.

“You know, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dripping with sly amusement. “Your boss here isn’t quite as modest boss you look up into as you think she is. Behind that professional image of hers… she’s got some interesting pastime. And I’m sure you’ve known that now and got your own curiosities, don’t you?”

Your breath catches in your throat as her hand shift higher, her rough palm against your lips carresing it. You swallow hard. Her words barely process you.

''What do you think...'' She added.

You blinked, still processing—caught somewhere between confusion, anxiety, you feel like your on fire, wanton and unable to stop you started to feel hot.. The silence stretched..

“I…” Your voice wavered at first, but you swallowed and straightened a little. “E-even if my boss… does,” you said carefully, bravely glancing toward Ambessa.“I-i don’t have the right to judge. Everyone has their own hobbies. Their own lives outside work. That’s not for me to question.”

None of this really changed how you saw your boss. Well—maybe a little. She was an adult in her prime fully in control of her own wants. She could explore her sexuality however she pleased.

And honestly? Who were you to judge?

Sevika’s brow ticked up, grin curving.. “Hmph. what a good girl”

She rose back to her full height, stretching slightly as she did, then turned away with a short chuckle. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. But before you could get your bearings again.

“So why are you really here, little secretary?” Sevika asked.

You kneel slowly, sitting on your foot and trying to keep your voice steady. “I-it’s about the Summit Core deal. The preliminary plan needed Madam Ambessa’s signature before ten tonight. I-i -tried calling the whole day, I really did. But when she didn’t answer and I remembered she said she’d be here… I didn’t know what else to do.”

You turned to Madam Ambessa now, eyes pleading. “I wouldn’t have stepped foot in here if it wasn’t urgent. I know I overstepped. But that contract—it’s a million-dollar deal. If it falls through…”

Your voice trailed off, heavy with implication.

Ambessa hadn’t said a word yet. Her arms were still crossed, her eyes dark with unreadable thought. But Sevika didn’t give her the chance.

“Sounds like a lot of pressure for a Sunday. I did remind my secretary to get it to me by ten, as urgently as possible. Forgive me—it’s also our fault you got caught up in me and Ambessa’s mess. We had a little fun and forgot about the other things,” she muttered, then walked back toward the bed, reaching for her shirt but not bothering to put it on.

Ambessa’s silence lingered as she absorbed Sevika’s words and explanation.

“So?” Sevika pressed, looking between the two of you now. “What’s it gonna be? Gonna scold her some more or maybe—just maybe—we forget about it tonight?”

Ambessa’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Sevika…” she warned.

Sevika just shrugged, flopping lazily onto the bed again, one arm behind her head. “I’m just saying. She’s loyal. Honest. Stupid brave, walking into a lion’s den like this.'' She tilted her head, eyes still on Ambessa. “If you do fire her, you wouldn’t mind me taking her, right?” A slow smirk tugged at her lips. “Come on, big bear, give cutie pie a chance, yeah?”

That last part earned her a look from Ambessa. They locked eyes—silent, tense, unreadable. You couldn’t tell if they were fighting or communicating on some strange wavelength only they understood. But they didn’t look away. Not for a long moment.

Ambessa finally sighed and uncrossed her arms.

“Where is the file?”

You blinked, swallowing down the rush of nerves clawing at your throat. It took everything in you not to grin like an idiot. Instead, you stood up quickly—too quickly—and scrambled toward the closet.

Their eyes followed you the whole way.

Your cheeks burned as you opened the closet door, forcing yourself not to glance at anything you shouldn’t. You spotted the folder, grabbed it and turned back around. Holding it out with both hands to Madam, you offered it like a peace treaty.

Ambessa took the folder without a word, her fingers brushing against yours— the contact immedatly sending a shiver straight through your body. Madam noticed.

She stopped mid-step, staring down at you, eyes narrowing just slightly. You felt your cheeks heat up instantly, burning under her gaze. You looked away, unable to hold it, your heart thumping your chest all over again.

Then she turned away, steping toward her vanity table.

You don't know what gone into you but you felt like all the nerves and anxiety in your body disappear. You didn’t even realize you were glancing at Sevika until you caught her staring right back at you. Her expression unreadable, dark and a smug grin. At first, you don't like her. She, always bringing chaos into Madam’s office. But right now? You just wanted to kiss and thank her for what she done. You felt indepted for her kindness or was it really out of kindness.

A loud thud snapped you out of your mind, yanking you back to reality. Madam had slammed the file onto the table, hard and deliberate. You flinched, instinctively looking up—only to lock eyes with her.

Her gaze was dark. Unreadable. And terrifying.

Your whole body shivered under it.

She started walking back toward you. You panicked, stepping back without thinking—until your leg caught on the edge of a chair and you dropped into it with a soft, awkward thump. Now seated, you barely reached her chest. She towered over you, a wall of heat and authority and raw power. You didn’t dare breathe.

“D-Did I… perhaps say something to upset you?” your voice barely holding together.

Ambessa’s right brow arched sharply. You didn’t have time to brace yourself before her large warm hand moved coming to rest on your neck. The touch was sudden, and it stole the breath straight out of your lungs.

You went stiff, every nerve lighting up as her fingers brushed over your skin. It was the first time she'd ever touched you like this, and it felt… intimate. Too intimate. The air felt too thick to breathe. You couldn't help a lump traveled down to your throat.

“M-Madam…” you whispered.

“You said,” Ambessa murmured, her voice low and deliberate, “that you would do anything.”

You froze. You didn’t answer—couldn’t—not when her fingers drifted lower, tracing just along your collarbone. The contact was enough to short-circuit every thought in your head.

“Or were you bluffing, little one?” she asked. “Trying to buy your way out of trouble? Don’t feel too relieved just because Sevika helped you out. You still have a price to pay...”

You swallowed, hard. “I meant it,” you managed to say.

Ambessa tilted her head, watching you carefully. “Did you?” she said, one brow lifting again.

Your voice cracked as you nodded. “Y-Yes. I… I meant it.”

That made her smile—just a little. But it was the kind of smile that made your stomach twist. The kind that told you this wasn’t over. Not even close.

And then her tone shifted “Were you watching the whole time?”

The question hit like a jolt.

Your cheeks burned instantly, heat blooming across your skin. You looked away, but your eyes met Sevika’s across the room—still on the bed, one leg draped lazily over the edge, her expression unreadable.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes,” you admitted. “I was. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— It wasn’t my intention to disrespect either of you.”

Ambessa tilted her head, hand still resting against your chest. “But you did see,” she said softly. “All of it.”

You nodded once, embarrassed beyond belief, your throat dry, heart pounding in your ears.

“Did you like what you saw, little one?” she asked, her voice low—measured.

You froze. The question hit harder than expected. Out of all the things she could’ve said, that wasn’t what you thought would come out of her mouth.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. What were you even supposed to say? Or maybe… maybe you were just too scared to admit it out loud..

You bet both of them already knew that you were watching the whole thing. Every second, eyes wide, unblinking—caught in the moment, too stunned, too enthralled to look away. You hadn’t missed a thing. Liked it every second and more than you wanted to admit. Liked it enough that the thought of touching yourself in that cramped, hidden space had flickered through your mind like a dirty girl. Getting turned on as her boss making out.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to answer. But the silence said enough. The way your eyes dropped, the heat burning across your face. Your breathing was uneven now, chest shaking with every exhale. Your legs squirmed, immediately caught how both of their attention.

“I asked… did you like what you saw?” Ambessa repeated herself, slower this time.

It took you a moment. Then you gave the smallest of nods.

But she didn’t move. Her brows narrowed, dissatisfied.

“Use your words, little one.”

The air in your lungs thinned. You could feel Sevika's gaze as well, heavier now, as if waiting for your answer just as much as Ambessa. You didn't want to further upset your boss.

“I… I did,” you said finally, your voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “I liked it.”

It's like all the validation on Madam medarda eyes shifted in that words. Her eyes darken before a smirk grace her lustful lips. She straighten to her full height, before turning her head slightly toward Sevika.

“Come here, Sevika” Ambessa said, her voice commanding.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, clearly wanted to respond with one of her usual barbed comebacks but she didn't. With a low huff and a lopsided grin, she pushed off the bed.

She paused beside Ambessa, her arms crossed loosely, a casual air about her—unbothered by her naked form, her breasts on full display. It was almost as if she wore her body like armor, proud and confident. The flush on your face deepened as your eyes involuntarily followed the curve of her figure. How could she not be confident, when every inch of her seemed sculpted, perfectly defined? Both she and your boss were not just beautiful—they were stunning, a rare combination of strength and allure that left you breathless.

Ambessa looked back to you. “I bet you didn’t really see it clearly,” she said softly. “You were too busy hiding. Too busy not to make a sound and get caught, right?”

You didn’t know how to respond. You weren’t sure if she was shaming you, but the humiliation still sat heavy in your gut—yet it was no longer the only thing you felt.

Ambessa’s gaze didn’t falter.

“Watch carefully this time.”

You weren’t sure if you’d heard it right, but before you could process, Madam stepped forward without a word. Then, to your surprise, she knelt, one knee touching the polished black floor as she lowered herself right in front of Sevika.

Your chest hammered, your breath caught. You had no idea where this was all heading, but the look in Madam’s eyes—filled with desire and lust—made your resolve falter.

Then she reached out, dragging Sevika’s boxer shorts down. Your heart immedately jumped. That made you slam your eyes snap close before looking away. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break out. Trying to process what the hell they were doing.

“Look here, little dove,” Sevika said, her voice low and dangerous. Completely amuse by your reaction.

You felt her fingers under your chin guiding you. You resisted for a second—then gave in, your eyes slowly opening.

“Look what your boss can do,” she murmured.

And there you saw Sevika was now bare naked away from her last fabric. Her bronzy skin glistering on the warm light. Her muscle all define and firm. Her perky and sensitive tits proudly stood on her chest. And down on her, her right thigh was lifted up on Ambessa's shoulder.

Your breath was caught when on saw Sevika bare glistening shave pussy with triangle trim hair on top. She was so wet. And you could not help but stare. You catch your boss eyes before she smirk and proceed to lick and sucking Sevika pussy and big clit. Which earned her a moan before Sevika grabbed Ambessa scalp, shoving her mouth deeper into her cunt. Shoving her all the way before her head throw back moaning.

'Fuck yess. devour my cunt' Sevika moaned.

Ambessa throw a tongue before she backs away. 'You taste so fucking good..'"

You sat there, jaw hung open frozen in shock and disbelief, unable to tear your eyes away as you watched the your boss devouring sevika's pussy practically the two making out right in front of your face. While you remain seated watching this two hot buff woman.

Your throat went dry, and your thighs instinctively clenched. It was clear now—this was no accident. They intended for you to watch, this time without hiding, without peeking from the shadows, no more secret glances. You were meant to witness everything as they satisfied each other, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you'd be able to stay sane—and composed—the whole thing.

;)

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Taglist;) @doktorblitz @bbybhr @tojisbestslut @fruitfulfashion @jhyoos @wo-ming-bai @trexsuit @femininefables @thatsmadiculous @sevikasrightboob @peskylez @dyketoast @euphoricnyctophilia @immasimp730 @zthebean27 @sleepingwasp @imafuckingravvit @ttsuvsworld @nymanas @marilynthornhilllover @starrycherie @sevsgiirl @sunbun00 @wizard-pdf @xielangit @cookie-crumble24-blog @vvanillaflowerr @theluckymania

#ambessa #ambessa medarda #ambessa x reader #ambessa arcane #ambessa x you #sevika #ambessa x sevika #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #arcane season 2 #arcane #arcane s2 #lesbian #wlw

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fisherrprince · 4 months ago

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UMINAOSHI - KHUX Multiple Animator Project (MAP)

⚠️ glitch/flashing images warning! ⚠️

Thank you so so much to the 13 animators who collabed on this project! It was such a blast and it came out so pretty, and it was such a pleasure to work with y'all :]

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maj77m · 6 months ago

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Flashing warning ⚠️

#brainwashing #hypnosis #mind control #corruption #corruption kink #control #conditioning

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lupucs · 2 years ago

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[⚠️Warning: Flashing Lights⚠️]

Spamton's lies 🎙 Made another Spamton animation, hope you all enjoy! (Listen with audio or click "keep reading" for the transcript + more!)

II Voice Source II Music II On YouTube II

Transcript: I'm a pretty good liar. Done a lot of lying in my time. I've lied to men who wear belts, I've lied to men who wear suspenders. But I'd never be so stupid as to lie to a man who wears both belt and suspenders.

Free Downloadable Wallpapers (use them for whatever you want!):

#deltarune #spamton #ralsei #3D animation #animation #blender #blender animation #flashing lights #flashing lights warning #nubert #starwalker #the ORIGINAL starwalker #deltarune chapter 2 #deltarune animation #been meaning to animate this for a while now so im really happy i got around to it #when i listened to this voice line i just couldnt help but envision spamton doing the sillies ahah #ralsei is mike confirmed

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joaeriz · 2 months ago

Note

you should write uconn!azzi surprising wnba!paige after one of her games!

📎 you always find me

🏷 pairing: azzi fudd x paige bueckers (uconn!azzi / wnba!paige)

📝 summary: after weeks apart, azzi surprises paige after one of her games — and reminds her what home really feels like.

⚠️ warnings: heavy fluff, minor angst (loneliness mentions), kissing, sleep cuddles, domestic softness, food mentions, extreme sapphiness, general yearning vibes (THE MOST FLUFFIEST FLUFF EVER)

📎 word count: ~1.4K

🧸 author’s note: hi anon! i love u for this req. this one made me so emotional to write because i love the thought of azzi being the kind of person who would fly across the country just to make sure paige feels loved 🥺😭 this is just full of hugs, soft kisses, and them being each other’s safe place. pls let me know if you liked it!!! my inbox is always open for screaming about them 💌💌

The late March air outside the Dallas arena was heavy and warm, the city humming under a velvet sky. Inside, the stadium buzzed with fading energy, fans lingering by the court to get one last glimpse of the night's stars.

Paige Bueckers barely registered any of it.

The game was a blur behind her — the points, the assists, even the standing ovation she got after a no-look pass that made the highlight reel. She smiled, she waved, she answered reporters’ questions like she was supposed to. It was automatic now — a mask she slipped on and off depending on who was watching.

But inside, she was lonely.

Bone-deep lonely.

The kind that made her chest feel hollow no matter how loud the crowd screamed her name.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her life — the WNBA had always been the dream. She loved the grind, the speed, the stage of it all. She loved her team, her coaches, the fans. She even loved Dallas, most days.

But none of it was enough when she went home at night to a cold, empty apartment.

Home.

That word barely meant anything without Azzi.

God, she missed her.

She missed her laugh, the one that bubbled up from her chest and made Paige feel weightless. She missed the smell of her shampoo. She missed the way Azzi would curl into her side, stealing all the covers, mumbling nonsense in her sleep.

She missed having someone to come home to.

And tonight, after another long game, another exhausting performance, she felt the ache sharper than ever.

Paige trudged off the court, towel slung around her neck, ignoring the lingering flashes of cameras. She just wanted to shower, crawl into bed, and maybe FaceTime Azzi until she passed out.

She wasn’t ready for what was waiting just around the corner.

Paige slowed instinctively as she rounded the hallway into the players' tunnel. Something — she didn’t know what — made her glance up.

And froze.

There, leaning against the wall in her beat-up sneakers and her UConn hoodie, clutching a bouquet of half-crushed sunflowers, was Azzi Fudd.

Paige’s brain short-circuited.

It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.

Azzi.

Her Azzi.

Her best friend, her favorite person, the girl who still showed up in every one of Paige's dreams no matter how far apart they were.

Azzi’s eyes found hers across the distance — wide, shining, nervous — and for a second, neither of them moved.

Paige’s heart slammed against her ribs, wild and desperate.

And then she ran.

The gym bag hit the ground with a heavy thud as she sprinted across the hallway, crashing into Azzi with so much force that the flowers went flying.

Azzi let out a soft "oof," but she caught her easily, wrapping her arms around Paige like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

Paige buried her face in the curve of Azzi’s neck, breathing her in — warm skin, vanilla shampoo, the faintest trace of airplane air. It was so Azzi it hurt.

"I thought I was dreaming," Paige whispered, voice breaking.

Azzi laughed, shaky and close to tears. "I’m really here."

Paige pulled back enough to see her face — flushed cheeks, shining eyes, that perfect crooked smile.

She cupped Azzi’s cheeks in her hands, thumbing away a tear she didn’t realize she was crying. "You didn’t tell me."

Azzi shrugged, ducking her head, suddenly shy. "I wanted to surprise you. We got a break after the tournament, so... I booked a flight. Almost missed my connection. The Uber driver almost killed me on the freeway. But—" She smiled, tilting her head. "Worth it."

Paige laughed wetly, the sound half-sob, half-joy. She shook her head, overwhelmed, and leaned in.

Their kiss was slow and tender, a thousand I-missed-yous poured into a single touch. Azzi melted into her like she always did, like they were two pieces of the same whole finally slotting back together.

Around them, the stadium noise faded into a distant hum. It was just them. It had always been just them.

They barely made it back to Paige’s car, hands tangled together like lifelines.

The drive to her apartment was a series of stolen glances and half-finished sentences. Paige kept reaching over to brush her fingers against Azzi’s thigh, like she couldn’t bear not touching her.

Azzi was still in her travel clothes — oversized hoodie, leggings, hair messily knotted — and Paige thought she looked like the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

"You’re really here," Paige whispered again at a red light.

Azzi smiled at her, sleepy and radiant. "I’m really here."

Paige wanted to cry all over again.

Inside the apartment, Paige dropped everything at the door.

Azzi wandered through the small space, taking it all in — the framed photos of Paige’s first WNBA season, the pair of sneakers abandoned by the couch, the lone sunflower stuck into a water glass on the kitchen counter.

Paige stood in the doorway, watching her nervously.

"It’s not much," she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Azzi turned around, her smile soft. "It’s perfect. It’s yours."

Paige crossed the room in three steps and kissed her again, fierce and grateful and aching all at once.

They stumbled to the couch, laughing breathlessly. Azzi straddled Paige’s lap, her hands bracketing her face, her forehead pressed to Paige’s.

"I missed you so much it physically hurt," Paige whispered.

Azzi nodded, eyes glassy. "Me too."

They stayed there for a long time, tangled together, whispering nonsense and trading kisses so soft they barely felt like touches.

Paige traced lazy patterns on Azzi’s back, feeling the way her breathing slowed, the way she relaxed fully for the first time in months.

At some point, they drifted into the bedroom, barely managing to peel off their hoodies and jeans before collapsing onto the bed, wrapped around each other like ivy.

Paige fell asleep with her nose buried in Azzi’s hair, Azzi’s fingers tangled with hers under the covers.

She woke up to sunlight streaming through the windows, birds chattering somewhere outside.

And Azzi.

Still there.

Still real.

Paige watched her sleep for a long time, memorizing every little detail — the way her nose scrunched slightly, the faint smudges of eyeliner still clinging to her lashes, the slow, even rise and fall of her chest.

Azzi shifted, mumbling something incoherent, and tucked herself closer to Paige’s side, throwing a leg over her hip.

Paige smiled so wide her face hurt.

Eventually, Azzi blinked awake, bleary-eyed and adorable.

"Mornin’," she mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Paige kissed her forehead. "Best morning ever."

Azzi giggled and buried her face in Paige’s neck. "You’re clingy."

"You showed up across the country," Paige said. "You’re stuck with clingy."

Azzi just smiled, pressing a sleepy kiss to her collarbone.

They stayed like that for a while, cocooned in each other, until Paige’s stomach growled loudly enough to make Azzi snort with laughter.

"Food?" Azzi offered, grinning.

Paige groaned. "I don’t wanna move."

"I’ll cook," Azzi teased. "You just sit there and look pretty."

Paige perked up instantly. "Marry me?"

Azzi laughed, shoving her playfully before dragging herself out of bed.

Paige watched her pad into the kitchen, stealing one of her oversized shirts to wear, her hair a sleepy halo around her head.

And for the first time in months — maybe longer — Paige felt whole.

Not because of the wins or the trophies or the fans.

Because of this.

Because Azzi had found her, across miles and airports and chaos, and she wasn’t letting go.

Paige grabbed her phone and snapped a quick, blurry picture of Azzi at the stove, flipping pancakes with her tongue sticking out in concentration.

My favorite view, she captioned it, sending it to Azzi with a heart emoji.

Azzi looked up, caught her, and winked.

Paige laughed out loud, heart so full she thought it might burst.

She didn’t know where the season would take her. She didn’t know what challenges were waiting. But right now — messy apartment, burnt pancakes, sunflowers wilting in a glass on the counter — this was home.

This was everything.

And she wasn’t letting it go.

Not now.

Not ever.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #dallas wings #uconn #pazzi #paige and azzi #paige bueckers and azzi fudd #fluff #anon request #joaeriz #college wbb #wnba #wlw

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