#for the few of you that actually still follow me for shameless content

[capslocked]

STARLET

male reader x cho miyeon

part 1 of another name up in lights

28k words (special thanks to @passingnotions for helping make all my work possible)

“I would rather throw up,” you murmur out of the corner of your mouth, “than do another take of this scene with you.” “Okay.” Miyeon tilts her chin. The lights begin to dim over the blonde hair she has falling over an upturned brow. “Then throw up.”

It takes a few beats—while production staff scurry about the tense silence rolling through the studio—for everything to fall perfectly still.

Miyeon takes a deep breath, and whispers: “I can get you a bucket.”

“Action!” (The one where Miyeon ruins your career, and you ruin her too.)

- That first time the two of you are photographed together, it’s wholly unremarkable. The entirety of the cast is in frame, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the banner at the presser and pretending that someone had just whispered something worthy of a belly laugh into your ears. Cho Miyeon hangs delicately off your arm, hand wrapped just above your elbow, and all of you are at your most jovial—looking like you’re simply having the most wonderful time, smiles wide and beaming. Because if that isn’t part of the act. You sell the characters, the fiction, the drama even when the cameras aren’t rolling.

The second photo is what gets people talking. 

Anyone with half a brain ought to know that if you were sincerely seeing your co-star, an untruth that the general public is apparently beyond happy to eat up, you wouldn’t be so careless to post up outside a small cafe. Certainly not at a trendy place aside one of the busiest streets in the city, but these tabloids are rabid. Like a head injury, that self-condemning desire to get clicks and hits at any cost has long clouded their ability to think, and so it gets plastered right there on the front page of every rag in the industry. Don’t get it confused, the photo looks good. It’s got allure and mischief written all over it. And that’s exactly what you’re going for.

Miyeon’s hair is up, tied into a messy bun, because she’d have hated to obfuscate the work that her floral shoulderless dress was not doing in hiding from the world the most immaculate pair of collarbones you’d ever seen. Then in her hands—between her teeth—she fiddles with the earpiece of her sunglasses, shooting you with the clearest, most flagrant fuck me now eyes that only a blind person might not pick up on (doubtful still). And you’re there, smirking back at her, for even if a photo tells a whole story, this one really only ever needed a sentence: sparks flying, the two of you really hit it off. 

It’s a point of contention later—several times actually—but regardless of how you feel, the girl can act.

Now the image that really gets the media whipped into a frenzy is a lot less polished. It’s grainy and the lighting is poor and in a change of pace, the quality of the photo would lead you to believe that it wasn’t premeditated. Which, unfortunately, is exactly how it goes down.

Even still, it's all framed perfectly, infamously, a straight-up disaster. Miyeon is immediately recognizable, unabashedly blonde and gorgeous as ever. You’ve got your mouth on hers and the problems absolutely do not end there: her back is flush against the bricks of the alley, pinned under your weight, and yes, your hands are busy. One up her skirt, the other in her shirt, she’s blushing into you, and you wouldn’t know from the photo, but she’s got her fingers working at your belt and as a collection, it’s all utterly shameless. Everything up to that point had been muted in subtext; both of you know the value of intrigue, the art of letting everyone else connect the dots—this, however, unintentionally becomes a phenomenon.

Lights the internet on fire for a minute.

The shocking part of all this, what ends up being labeled a calamity by people whose opinions actually concern you, is the photo that you assume will haunt you forever and follow you to your grave isn’t even the one where you’re making out with the starlet du jour in the harsh yellow of an exterior floodlight—in the relaxed wickedness only two AM might ever know. No, it’s this photo, the press’s favorite, given how it shows up everywhere. Miyeon’s holding the award for best actress in a lead role in one hand, knuckles tight around the podium microphone with her other. She’s radiant. She’s flustering. She’s breathtaking. She even trips up on her words in a way that’s endearing. And every fool with a blog is infatuated by all of it.

Your own thoughts on the matter aside, the most neutral and economic way to describe it is unintentionally funny. You were with her when she picked out that silver sequin evening dress, sparkling in the demand of stage lights and camera flashes. It spills from where the garment ties around her neck over the lines of her body as if it has no bias itself for any form or structure, only curving on its journey to her feet at the behest of where her breasts sloped down from her collarbones, the flare of her hips just below her waist. She’s the spitting image of perfection, a damn icon—the headlines are supposed to be about her—but there you are: tucked into the corner, in a sea of faces all justifiably mesmerized by the beauty that walked delicately onto the stage and adorably needed to adjust the microphone stand down to her height. 

As It turns out, the absolute displeasure in your scowl isn’t any less captivating. Envious. Spiteful. Arrogant. You catch some serious flak for it.

For months, it ends up being the subject of commentary online, in print, on television—your names on the tips of everyone’s tongues. All with their own theories, but no one manages to guess the truth for a long time, because no one could even begin to believe it:

You hate Miyeon, and Miyeon hates you.

-

Oh, there are plenty of clues, if you aren’t already keenly aware of it, that your career is slowly sliding into obscurity. Years ago, walking into your agent's office was an event: eyes widened and turned to you immediately. The quiet smiles, the blushing, the batting of eyelashes. The pomp and circumstance of the agency’s biggest client strolling into Soyeon’s office like you were crossing the Rubicon into the streets of Rome. It was glorious and it always meant something big was about to happen.

To be clear, you’re not saying you need the attention, but today, no one even offers to take your coat, which is a shame, because it’s been raining biblically for the past week, and there’s puddles in your shoes, squeaking obnoxiously as you parade unceremoniously through a row of desks. Even so, sounding like a dog’s chew toy, it’s sheer and utter avoidance—eyes glued to monitors and unlifted from scribbled notes as though you’re simply another courier delivering a parcel (which hey, in all honesty, someone like that might even have some of that magical potential). 

“Hold up. What do you mean they’re passing me up?” you ask, eyes narrowed and leaning forward in your seat so that the blatant abandonment of all your grace and charm doesn’t get lost in translation across the length of Soyeon’s desk. “That part had my fucking name on it.”

“It did.” Soyeon drums her pen against her keyboard. Comes close to making a face. “And now it has someone else’s name on it. Someone the studio trusts.”

“Oh, for christ’s sake, he’s twelve years older than me. The character is supposed to be thirty, not a dinosaur in a Kingsman suit.” 

“It’s the silver fox thing. He markets easily to women.”

“And I don’t?” you stammer out, and Soyeon lifts an eyebrow. “Only a date night staple for almost a decade, Soyeon. Can you honestly sit there and say I wouldn’t play it better? The man plays nothing but himself in every role. Every. Single. Role.”

“Well, it just so happens that he brings people to the theater in droves,” Soyeon snaps back before you have the chance to say anything you could possibly regret. “Look, I told you I have good news and bad news, and it sounds like you’ve figured out the bad news already.”

“Oh please don’t tell me it’s charity.” You wave your hand flippantly. “We’re not doing this.” 

Discount parts for struggling actors. If they were worth more than the paper in the scripts they were printed on, Soyeon would’ve been negotiating them this very moment. 

There’s a lot about it to unpack, your fall from grace. You aren’t bringing in commissions, directors aren’t lining up in front of the firm to shove their scripts in front of your nose, and your last few films are better remembered for the comedic value of their scathing reviews than the actual screenplay or cinematography.

One such review of your most recent work, an ill-fated screen adaptation of Blood Meridian that had ‘studio interference’ written all over it right from its woeful inception, reads: I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it. Hated every simpering stupid vacant audience-insulting moment of it. Hated the implied sensibility that thought anyone would like it. Hated the subliminal insult to the audience by its belief that anyone would be entertained by it.

There are plenty more just like it, and plenty worse, but it’s never done you any good, mentally, to sift through them.

“Really. I’m serious, these parts aren’t bad.” 

Soyeon has enough confidence in her voice to sound convincing, but you’ve also never heard her come across any different. You catch yourself pausing to think about it, which is a clear tell that you’re perhaps nearing wit’s end, considering you’re not one to shy away from blurting out the first thought that forms half-coherent into your head.

“Now, they’re not what you’re looking for, admittedly, but I just think with a little luck, they could end up being a fortuitous move,” she adds.

“Go on, pitch,” you say, before sinking a little lower into your chair because even though it pains you to agree with her, she’s right.

“If you’ll dismount from your high horse for a moment,” Soyeon starts, waiting for you to finish rolling your eyes, “the Coens called again—”

“I’m not.”

“The part is interesting.”

“The part is small, it’s side-cast. Don’t sugarcoat it. I’m not taking one of their rescue-shelter-for-the-has-been supporting roles. That’s the equivalent of throwing in the towel.”

“It’s done wonders for careers in worse shape than yours, to be candid.”

“Careful,” you warn her, lifting your chin and glaring—a look you are definitely not known for—but if there’s anyone in the industry who could hold her own, deflect your best, and make you feel foolish for thinking you could cross swords and come out unscathed, it’s Jeon Soyeon.

“May I remind you that I’ve been nominated for best actor three times? That no one in their right mind predicted any of those movies to be any good? I’ve got talent. Let’s not sit around and pretend like I need to be put on life support here. I’m capable.”

Soyeon just steeples her fingers together. “I don’t need the reminder. I made that exact point in a call with a producer this morning, but it’s hard to get people to look past the fact that some of your recent choices have been—”

“If you’re going to say I told you so,” you grumble, letting out a sharp sigh, “let’s get it over with.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just pushes a folder across the desk and into your hands like she’s betraying national secrets to a foreign adversary. “Listen, don’t walk out in disgust. At least not right away.”

It takes only a moment. You recognize what’s going on here immediately. “Soyeon.”

“I know. I know. I know.” She waves her hand. “But hear me out, give it a chance.”

“It’s a rom-com, Soyeon.” “I’m plenty aware of what it is.” “I can see it already: smart, sophisticated, funny.” It takes a lot not to curl your lip. And then it fucking curls anyway. “I thought… I thought I had climbed out of the depths of romantic-comedy-hell, Soyeon. This is like suggesting that I get back into a relationship with an abuser.”

“I know, but this one actually is different,” she says, and you take a moment to remember you’ve always respected her honesty, paid her for it, and should’ve probably listened to it on more than one occasion. It’s the reason you’re here of all places. 

“You’d kill the part,” she adds. “You spent years killing parts just like it. There’s no shame in that. And the director’s asked for you, specifically. By name. She’s willing to double your asking price.”

So maybe your eyes widen at that, even if it’s the absolute worst way to admit defeat, that you’re just as talentless as you’ve always feared: retreating back to the comfort of the role, all that expertise in acting with—no scratch that, acting at—some barely legal starlet ready to show a little skin to get ahead. 

(That’s the nature of the game, and it’s your roots, unfortunately, but it’s safe, and if the money is there, then better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.) “Ah, yeah okay, well here’s the thing: they’ve already decided on the female lead.” You lean forward, like you’d have to listen to this next part in a whisper, because anything louder than that would make it too difficult to bear. “And?” Soyeon clicks her tongue, runs her thumb across her lips, thinking of how to soften the blow. “I mean she isn’t what you’d call an actress, exactly.” “What the hell does that mean, exactly?” “Cho Miyeon,” she starts, and you’re actually just sitting there, tasting at something in your mouth like it’ll help you make sense of it, if only for the reason that you’re not quite sure who that is. “She’s, uh, well, she’s a popstar, you see.” “Oh you’re not kidding.”

There’s a sincerity that lives somewhere in Soyeon’s lack of any expression at all, perfect poker-face armed and readied. You have to squint to really take it in. Heavens.

-

Exactly how much Soyeon actually knew about this girl, you’ll never know. She claimed first that they met through a mutual friend who does publicity work for another studio, and on a separate occasion saying that they went to school together, determinedly avoiding anything like names or corroborating details. Of course you believed her, because how were you supposed to know any different?

“Wait, you mean like actual royalty?” you ask a few days later, after Soyeon explains Miyeon’s nickname to you, because in this industry, it’s really not that ridiculous a question. 

“It’s just a running gag,” she says casually, and you both watch the waiter wordlessly grate pepper into her salad until Soyeon puts a hand up.

“So,” you continue, incredulous, “it’s supposed to be funny?”

“Look, it’s a whole thing.” Soyeon picks up her fork, but doesn’t quite end up doing anything with it. “I promise she’s only half the disaster you think she is.”

“Then do me a favor: kick my shin when I’m supposed to laugh.”

“Do yourself a favor, and try to be a little amiable.”

“You say that like I don’t know how to be charming,” you deadpan, sipping at your coffee while Soyeon’s glare stands its ground.

It’s nothing official, but Soyeon had organized a script reading. The Director is off in some foreign land scouting for the perfect beach with perfectly white sand on an island that already has enough problems, and tells you in three separate text messages to just read the fucking script. You’re groaning, rolling your eyes, and then, curled up next to the fireplace in your readers at three in the morning, it hits you—like really hits you. And you’re shocked, mostly, that there's brilliance in these pages. It’s not the kind of flick you expected, the kind that has journalists at the Atlantic, real writers with academic chops and know-how, publishing articles with titles like: Why Are Romantic Comedies So Bad?

Which, hey, isn’t that a great question. There are a couple of answers, you imagine. You haven’t read the piece of course; you’re the last person that would ever need to. But perhaps among the most fundamental obligations for the genre is that there must be some degree of obstacle, a challenge to nuptial bliss that the hero and heroine must overcome, all before the story’s happily-ever-after. And, to put it simply, such obstacles have only gotten harder and harder to come by. They used to lie in heaps and piles on the ground, ripe for the picking: parental disapproval, difference in social class, unfulfilled promises, the classic and creatively bankrupt friendship-blossoming-into-romance. Nowadays there’s quite literally nothing new under the sun.

So take that all into account, and then add in the fact that you’ve got your hands on something innovative and creative and tasteful—it’s insulting, absurd even, that you’d hamstring the movie by shooting one of the leads out of a cannon and into the hands of a novice who may or may not be able to act her way out of a paper bag. The part calls for subtlety, not the ham-handedness and dramatic stylings of a girl whose experience with the camera extends to knowing when and when not to wink.

Only here’s the thing, it’s not absurd. Like at all. Because enter Cho Miyeon.

She appears in profile first, before pulling a chair out from the table and taking a seat all with the confidence of someone who’d probably be welcome at any table, anytime, anywhere. And almost immediately, you’ve got the answer to those hundred different questions of why. Why a rookie? Why a pop idol? Why ‘princess?’ 

Well, see, on a basic level, she’s fucking breathtaking.

The devil’s in the details if you aren’t disarmed completely at a glance. Dignified, regal, royal, this girl has it all, and then some. Her hair frames her face as though it were in any need of succor, perfectly messed and ash-blonde and tumbling effortless down her shoulders. She flutters her lashes; her lips part, close again in a way that is oddly captivating; and she gets a tilt in her chin that’s worth a thousand words (most of them admittedly, jesus, fuck, and my god). It’s like she not only understands every cliche in the book—but she’s gone out of her way to make them hers. “Miyeon,” she says, voice gentle and saccharine sweet, extending her hand towards you. 

It dawns on you that there’s a certain authority that comes about from saying your own name, even when you know no one has ever needed it—contrast to the way her hand fits in yours, dainty fingers, wrist flawlessly delicate; she’s five-two, arguably five-three in her socks and you’re the one who could crush her. Even so, it’s your mouth that runs dry. You’re catching your breath, and you have to clear your throat to even return the favor.

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” she adds. 

“Oh,” you start, shifting gears, getting ready to lie straight through your teeth, “me as well.” It’s shamelessly performative. And Soyeon knows that. The wince she struggles to hold back from across the table is hard not to notice.

But then so is Miyeon, your eyes trailing down her body like a palpable touch over every curve.

Black mini skirt, pre-torn sheer tights, a pair of knee-high combat boots with a hell of a heel on them, and you’re just realizing you can see how perfectly flat her tummy is, peeking out beneath where the hem of her shirt decides to taper for the betterment of mankind. Ah, you get it, so apparently idols really do dress like that—anything and everything to tell you, keep your eyes on me now.

The feet of your chair scrape loud on the floor as you stand on your feet. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Alright,” Soyeon tuts as she stabs at her salad, “let’s dial it back.”

It takes two tries to meet her eyes properly, these beautifully dark and dangerous things, but Miyeon just blinks at you, quirks her lips gently into a small smile. And you smile right back, just a little, because maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all.

-

It isn’t anything like the romance Miyeon will later make it out to be. 

Even though sure, you’re both there laughing, blushing and coy—all of it enough to make the characters in the script look even-keeled, something a little more sane. “Please, it’s called chemistry,” you begin crafting excuses toward your agent when Miyeon takes a phone call on the terrace. “I have it with everyone.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe it isn’t. But be careful, there’s nothing noble about what’s going on here. 

“Sorry,” Miyeon apologizes, like she’d ever need to, pulling her chair right up next to yours. “Where were we?”

Just the part where the characters realize everything they’ve ever been looking for is right there in front of them. You spit the pen cap out of your mouth to answer: “the epiphany.”

For what it’s worth, the actual work to be done goes smoother than you expect. Sure, the initial delivery is rough around the edges and in need of a little tender love and care, but that’s far more than what you’d been prepared to give Miyeon credit for.

Not too long after, Miyeon suggests splitting a bottle of wine, something light and sparkling. It goes down easy.

Soyeon figures it’s time to fabricate some way to gracefully exit this whole thing, fingers tapping wildly at her phone, when you and Miyeon start touching each other. It’s subtle at first: she leans over your shoulder when you point something out in the script, pulls back a curtain of blonde hair right back over her ear before brushing up against you, lingers just long enough so that she can flick her eyes up to yours—doesn’t even care to look away whenever you catch her staring. And that’s just what can be seen above the table.

With a coat tucked under her armpit and her belongings all hastily gathered, Soyeon turns her face back over her shoulder one last time; she’s glaring, opening her mouth to say something but decides against it at the last moment. You get the message: don’t sleep with her.

You simply wave her off. Hide your own disappointment that she thinks you’d even need the reminder, because you would never.

“I guess I'm really looking forward to it,” Miyeon says, once the sun’s finished its daily dive into the horizon—once there’s only a mess of papers and empty wine glasses trailing in your wake. 

(The restaurant’s in the middle of whipping itself into shape before a slew of dinner reservations come through. It feels rude to camp out at a table any longer.)

Miyeon turns to you, standing with a hand on her hip like the two of you are neighbors who share a mailbox, and says, “think it could be fun.”

Oh, surely you’ve done a better job at masking a grin. Miyeon picks up on it instantly.

“I’m serious,” she adds, letting the timbre of her voice shift into this juxtaposition of suggestion and naivety that has you doing a double take, mentally. Because the lines in her picture perfect face are so very easy to latch onto—even if you’ve never seen anyone as perfectly sculpted as her, you can’t shake the feeling that all humans ought to come out looking like this—but at the same time, there’s something that lies beneath the surface, something undoubtedly complex, something that quietly chides you for having such untoward thoughts of a subject so innocent and docile.

“I’m not trying to take the air out of your sails or anything,” you say as you guide her through the door, hand pressing at the small of her back, “but these shoots can end up being a lot less enjoyable than they look.” “Of course,” Miyeon says, laughing, because here she is, the rookie, and it’s all very natural for her to appeal to some innate desire in you to come off as the authority on anything—film, stardom, the lack thereof, navigating life as a young pretty thing, the authority you’d discover in bending her over your kitchen counters—to some extent, she has you at least a little figured out. “What I mean is I’m looking forward to working with you.”

You watch her smile slant, shift quietly towards something more suggestive when you slip your coat around her shoulders—it’s a foregone conclusion, not that either of you are willing to look it straight in the face.

What you should have done is grabbed your phone and called her a car; there’s thousands of them in this city. What you should've done is driven home, alone. That’s all it should have been. Just some starlet you charmed for an evening to get your career back in order. Nothing more, nothing more. And instead of getting her for a few months plus change, you get her for life. This should’ve been extra clear when she leaned up against the passenger side door of your car, and found a new angle, something she’d only to that point allow to muse about your idle thoughts:

“And here I was, thinking you were just someone playing a part. Only ever a romantic for the camera.” 

You can’t even say it all happens so fast. 

Not when you take in consideration how you watch Miyeon delicately, slowly, purposefully grab a fistful of your shirt, balling it between her fingers, and begin to twist. This is probably where you’ll start, you think, when you explain it all in a tell-all book long past the age of your youth. Because, oh, what a pleasant surprise. She’s perfect. Flawless. A natural. You can’t keep your eyes away from her, and she’d have it no other way.

“Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” you ask, if only to resist the urge to pull her in.

“Well, I suppose I’ve got a few ideas,” she says, and there’s a glimmer at the surface of her eyes, dark and intelligent and flashing with something like danger, something like the worst decision you’ve made in years. And that’s saying a lot. “But I’d like to think you can show me.”

You give her a practiced smile, stretching just right, careful, careless, carefree. Trust me, that smile says. It’s a scene from a movie, one of many. It’s familiar. You’ve been here, with weapons in a caliber all of your own, and Miyeon’s cheeks start to ever-so-perfectly redden, porcelain skin come aflame. 

“You know,” you say, making your voice drawl until Miyeon shuffles her weight between her feet, “if it was up to the writers, I’d kiss you here.”

“If it was up to me,” Miyeon starts, chin up at you like a challenge, “I’d let you.”

The way Miyeon explains it later is that you duck your head and hold your lips next to hers just long enough to let your next breath make her swoon, all before interrupting her with a hungry exhale and an open mouth pressing into hers. A hard, biting kiss that sends shivers down her spine. That you angle your mouths just right so your tongues can slip together, so you might sweep this girl right off her feet and into your arms—if Miyeon has a face that has fantasy written all over it, then so do you, and she says you ought to know what it does it to people. She’ll be half right. 

Only when you lean into her and start filing away those mental notes of how perfect her tiny waist fits in your hands, you pause at the sound of a cricket chirping, a reminder of the neighborhood around you.

“Not out here,” you murmur, casting a wary eye over her shoulder. “Let me take you home.”

Miyeon sniffles, blinks a few times, and nods.

-

Really, it starts with you. A month before you begin shooting, you suffer from a little insanity of your own. Miyeon’s got the second boot only halfway off her foot, lit up in the soft darkness of your foyer, when you take hold of her. 

It’s not like you figured this was your last chance for happiness—swallowing down the gasp that comes off Miyeon’s lips like it were your only shot at tasting heaven—but that’s exactly how you kiss her. Mouth open and hot and heavy against hers. It’s hard to explain, and it doesn’t quite add up; you’ve got your Furies, your own personal pantheon, the girls you’ve most dreamed about and had running through your thoughts—who’d eventually find their way between your sheets in some manner or another, melting in your hands. But somehow, Miyeon’s different, you convince yourself. Or she does rather, starting with her tongue sliding languidly against yours before she decides to bite down on the swell of your lower lip. It hurts. 

She knows it hurts.

“Watch it,” you say, coming off kind of harsh, before you can realize what all is going on here. Before you come to the understanding that she’s untouchable, priceless, that you can’t afford to break her—and that it’s precisely what she wants out of you.

“What?” she asks, the corners of her mouth slanted up ever so slightly. “You’ve got nice lips.”

How you’ll ever be able to forget someone like her, you haven’t a single clue, because Miyeon uncovers and undresses you down right to the bare soul. Your mouths crash again, just enough subdued to keep your teeth from clicking together like you’ve never done this before—like you’re reading her, getting lost in a new paradox: the intrigue of her tongue caressing yours, the familiarity of her thumb rubbing circles into your back. There’s the Miyeon that was cracking wise and sipping wine with you an hour ago, and now there’s this.

“So, how are we doing this?” she asks, breaths wet and heavy as she fidgets with the button on your pants. “How do you want me?” “Well.” You’re sliding a hand up her stomach, across her ribs, until you hit the silky fabric beneath her shirt. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking here.” “Don’t play dumb.” Miyeon looks you straight in the eye, and she’s close enough that you can count the flecks of gold dancing in her irises. Brows furrowed for a second, she ends up indulging you anyway: “I’m asking how you want to fuck me?”

Every turn in her voice sinks deeper, reels you in further, coaxes you into shoving her to the wall between the door and a coat rack. The way she yelps first in surprise as her back hits the hard surface, whimpering later in delight at the grip your hands make onto her hips, it gives you the sense that she’s flustered, unable to come off as anything beyond embarrassingly forward and drowning in anticipation—

“Miyeon,” you say, slowly, getting a good read on just how much she likes hearing you say her name. That it’ll kill her, you figure, when you’re fucking her with slow, deep, deliberate strokes—once she’s inches within cumming and falling apart and it’s arriving right in her ear. “What do you think?” That lands even more pointed somehow. More dangerous than you could have ever predicted, the charm and practiced charisma in your voice coming out in lethal force: “Maybe, oh let’s see… should I fuck you right here?”

Miyeon starts with her fingertips across your scalp before threading them through your hair. “Well,” she says, teasing the callback, drawing the syllable out as though running it conceptually through her head. “If that isn’t a spectacular idea, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah,” you murmur into the delicate skin under her jaw, and after lifting off her shirt and tossing it aside, she kisses you with a consuming, needy kind of hunger one more time. Until you’re both just out of breath. “I think so too.” Miyeon dips her fingers into the waist of your pants before anything else. Function of the fact that men’s clothing is so straightforward and predictable, she’s able to shimmy them down off your hips until they hang unceremoniously around your thighs. “Um,” she says, sinking her teeth into her lip a moment, right after curling her fingers around your cock, “you’re like, really hard, you know that?”

“I was going to mention it earlier. You’re kinda my type.”

She leans into you, sighing a little into your neck. “Which is?”

“Oh, you know,” you say nonchalantly. “Pretty. Small. Ruinable. That sort of thing.”

“Right.” With a jerk of her wrist, Miyeon brings your cockhead flush against her stomach—pumps you there leisurely. “Wouldn’t want Soyeon thinking you were planning on ruining me.”

“Quick learner,” you murmur, bunching her skirt up over the rise of her hips.

“Well, we’re really not so different, you and me.”

“Hm.” She doesn’t know what she’s saying—you’re you—storied, seasoned, and only heeding right now to the wail of torn fabric. There’s a hole in her tights already, and your fingers work fast. Rip, tear, threads screeching undone. “I’m curious to hear what all gives you that impression.” 

“The way I see it, we both know what we want,” she says, unashamed, and the sound that escapes her mouth sounds a lot like a hiccup, some little hopeful noise or another, swallowing for air at the touches skating across her underwear, where it’s soaked and hot and begging. “Suppose that’s true.” “Not afraid to go for it either.” She tightens her grip around your cock, squeezing like she’s waiting for you to tell her to stop and running her thumb across your slit. “Won’t settle for anything less than you—”

“A word of advice,” you start, and the authority in your voice makes her melt just a little further in your grip. “From someone who’s not so different… A little flexibility goes a long way, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” It’s smug, the way she says it. Her eyes are heavy, hooded—honing the perfect hue of haughty as she drags her panties to the side. “I’m nothing if not a little flexible.” You bend from your knees, because Miyeon is tiny where she stands, up against drywall with her dainty arms thrown over your shoulders. And in a way, she’s right: you see the parallels, cut from the same cloth, the two strained noises or another buzzing in your throat indistinguishable when you hook your hand around her thigh, raise it, and barely slide yourself inside her, just an inch.

Miyeon’s mouth opens like she’s going to speak, and then hovers there, brows turning and knitting together—something you more than understand, because you’re on the verge of losing your mind too. She’s wet and slick with heat and so fucking inviting that you think the world might end if you don’t bury yourself into her this very second. Not that there isn’t near commensurate satisfaction in drawing out the moment, you fast discover, teasing mercilessly until you can hear Miyeon’s frustration. Her eyes shut tight, and her breath becomes ragged as you allow her another inch—almost keening when you pull back before pushing your cock into her cunt again, fucking her open slowly.

It’s only when you hear her beg please, please, please that you sink all the way in.

And she feels amazing. Tight and hot and clinging, she sleeves onto you like a glove. Immaculate enough to chip away at your positions regarding fate, the ridiculous notion that under the stars there was a girl out there for you, that you’re in orbit with some inevitable conclusion and her name is fucking Cho Miyeon. So outright sinful that you still need a beat to come to terms with it, and you make an effort to voice that: “Fucking hell, Miyeon.”

She lets out a whiny, punched out breath, tilting her chin to the ceiling and revealing the long column of her throat to you like an invitation, though you press your lips to her temple first, the taste of her skin and the sweat aside her brow like wine—sweet and woozy and intoxicating. There’s the rise and fall of her breathing against your chest, your fingers spread out across her creamy skin, and a sudden jerk from her hips, as if to bring you back to the present.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon gasps as your hips are drawn back again. 

Only this time you’ve got the soft cheek of her ass spilling through your fingers. Waning self-control. Even less reservation about pulling her right back onto your cock. And though you’re mostly silent each time you work your entire length back into her, Miyeon is anything but—all these appreciative noises coming from low in her throat.

It might be the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed: the way she darts her tongue out to wet her lips, how her breath hitches when you move, each and every sound she makes as you fuck wildly into her cunt—slamming in, in, in, and you can hear her begin to whimper, feel her caressing the curve of your ass with her… ankle? She tugs on you, grips you, and does whatever she can to keep you deep inside her. As though you’d ever, ever stop.

“I can’t,” Miyeon starts, and it’s nearly comedic—you’d be in fits if you weren’t delicately unraveling this girl in your hands, taking her apart piece by piece, blow by blow. The poise in her voice is gone; what’s left is shattered, unrecognizable mostly. Even those dignified lines in her face start to twist and wobble, threaten to come undone. “Please, I need… oh, please make me cum. I need to cum on your cock.” “Breathe,” you tell her, feeling her slip a little against the wall, puddling further in your grip. It surprises you, the way your words come out like the crush of gravel beneath a boot, and it grips at something within Miyeon too, clues her in on how much she needs you—sucking air in through her teeth and sinking her face into your shoulder. The lines that mark where you end and Miyeon start are quickly eroding, boundary become meaningless. “I know you want to cum, but I need you to breathe for me, Miyeon.”

Her palms are damp with sweat, wrung around the back of your neck, hair sticking to her forehead and darkening in a beam of pale moonlight, not to mention what you hear: harder, faster, more—the needy requests make it sound like she’s almost sobbing. 

“I promise, I promise,” you whisper into her mouth, “I’ll do anything for you. But first, I’m going to use this tight little cunt—gonna make a mess of you.”

Your fingers dig into her soft skin, tighter, tighter; you’ll leave bruises, marks, fingerprints, all this damage she’ll trace back to you—evidence that’ll queue memories like a roll of film, bring her right back to how you have her mewling and moaning at the end of your cock, tears welling on her lashes and mascara running dark beneath her eyes.

 “Fuck,” slips out of her, nearly pouting like it’s your fault, that she’d never curse in front of anyone and here she is, teeth gritted—because, god, she’s all coiled muscle, tightened around your cock and meltdown imminent—you get your fingers under her chin and tilt her head to you.

“Gonna make you beg, Miyeon.”

“I… fuck…” Her voice gets locked up in her throat, choking back on something that turns into a wail when you adjust your angle, hit deeper, fuck harder—“I can’t,” she whispers, “I can’t,” but you keep fucking into her tight hole, nowhere close to letting up.

There’s just something so fascinating about a girl like this, a girl like Miyeon, with a gaze that inspires all this admiration and idolatry. It ought to pierce right through somebody like you and leave you for dead, bring you to your knees, but you’re nothing like she expected; you’re everything she hoped. So instead, as you watch her gasping mouth that was coyly smiling in your favor all afternoon; her small tits spilling forward when you lift up her bra; how she’s slumped back against the wall, relaxed and trusting you implicitly to carry her weight for as long as it takes; the shadowy place where your cock is drenched, glistening and disappearing between her thighs—oh, Jesus, is that a visual—it all clicks in your head: Miyeon is so, so astonishingly submissive. 

Whether it’s the fingers at her throat, or the grip hooking under her thigh, the one thing that’s clear is this: you’re using Miyeon. Fucking her within inches of irrevocably falling apart. You, the hammer; her, the nail—pounding her further into the drywall until she’s quivering and moaning and gasping into your mouth. Oh, the places you’ll pin her. You’re relentless, merciless; it’s the fact that she gets off on it that’ll stick with you. For a long time.

“Gonna make you beg for it, princess,” you amend, lips now pressing into Miyeon’s ear, and she immediately shudders apart.

It’s filthy is the thing: you’re railing the girl with deep, harsh strokes, and Miyeon’s pussy is  writhing in both protest and penury. She’s so creamed you can hear it through all the sounds of skin on skin, the percussive soundtrack of your thighs slamming up into hers. Each squelch, the wet sinful sound of it—it’s how you know your cock is making a total mess of her wrecked cunt. More and more each time it fills her and brings her that much closer to toe-curling-climax. 

Let me, she breathes against you, barely held together. The hand you have under her asscheek is doing most of the heavy lifting. “Please let me cum, please, please, please let me fucking cum all over this cock, I need to cum on this perfect cock, oh my god—”

When Miyeon finally turns up at you, she’s biting down on her bottom lip again. Her head tilts a bit, something deep and pleading in those big, brown eyes, and it almost, almost makes you feel guilty. Nearly ashamed that this delicate little thing had fallen into your lap and your knee-jerk reaction was to fuck her so hard she started to wail, cracking at the seams.

“Your cock,” she blurts out, breath jagged and uneven, “is amazing. You are—”

Like you said, almost. 

“—amazing.”

There’s nothing you can say to that, is there?

“Again… want to… again…” she demands of you, like she’s in any position to be making any. Her hands are all over you, finally undressing you, and all things considered, you don’t have the heart to tell her no. You’re hoping that never becomes a problem.

Miyeon scoops up easily enough into your arms after her orgasm had knocked the architecture right out of her legs, wobbling against the wall and almost sliding to the floor. And It all plays out again, just minutes later, after you set her on a barstool in your kitchen and slip back inside her. Sure, it’s a different setting, but you recognize it for what it is: the same story, with the same characters and the same ending, the one where you’ve got your cock fucking hard and fast into her cunt.

“Fucking, oh my god…” she rasps, just a waving white flag short of total surrender. “You’re going to make me fucking cum again. Yes, yes, yes—”

Until everything seemingly comes undone at once. And it quickly turns into stuttering cries of please and fuck and need it and all sorts of things you’ll have to promise you never heard, filth unfitting for a perfect mouth like Miyeon’s—the one now curving into that unforgettable shape while she chokes back on moans and mewls. It hits her like a brick, and her head rolls back as she groans, furrowing her brows and screwing her eyes shut.

You tell yourself it’s the fact that she’s so sweet, so docile, and all at the flick of a switch. Just moments after you’ve bottomed out in her pussy—after you’ve sent her higher and higher to where she’s reduced to nothing like the royalty everyone expects of her: needy, begging. 

It’s whiplash really, from callous and cruel to caring and soft in a matter of seconds. Your foreheads come together while you catch your breath. That’s an image all in itself. And when she laughs slightly, there are the quiet tremors, the spasms of her diaphragm clenching around you. It’s hard to tell what’s going through her head, before she covers the exhausted huffs out of your mouth with a kiss that lives in the gray area between sweet and harsh and consuming. Fuck. You’d stay here forever.

(Forever ends up being a hell of a lot shorter than you expect. Because Miyeon takes to cumming on your cock like water takes to paper.)

“Wanna ride,” she tells you, breath having caught up to her and wiping sweat from her brow—something like an inciting incident, taking the two of you all the way to the living room. 

She doesn’t outright tell you that she wants you to just hold her down and fucking use her, but she doesn’t last long on top of you either, leaning back from your lap with her hands hooked around your neck and dragging you forward, until you’re once again spilling over her, pounding her hot, sopping cunt like she needs. 

You’re cautious, usually—responsible. It isn’t like you, really. The excuse you’ll settle into later is that Miyeon’s cunt is impossibly vice-tight when you make her cum a third time. She’s in the midst of being swallowed up in the cushions of your sofa, the soles of her cute little feet pointed skyward, knees folded to her shoulders and pressed under your weight while you make sure she’s well fucked through the apex of it all.

“Good girl,” you tell her—the praise cutting straight to her final lifelines, tearing them to ribbons and leaving them for dead—and you’re shifting the angle, the depth to try and get her to scream the exact same way she did the first time. “Go ahead Miyeon—cum for me, princess. You’re going to fucking cum all over this cock again.”

And she does. Hard.

Quivering. Squirming even, she comes apart, fucked deep and hard into the springs of a chaise lounge and leaving stains on leather that won’t ever quite go away. Though it doesn’t manage to arrive with anything like an announcement, as it had before, heralded by curses and the elegant simplicity of meekly choking out the word cumming through a fit of gasps and hiccups. Her voice now is so fragmented, so utterly debauched and ruined, that she only manages to husk out a pathetic whine.

“So fucking pretty, Miyeon,” you rasp, watching the blush sear right across her nose, “so gorgeous when you cum for me. And god, this fucking pussy…”

The hands on the clock spin out, numbers running forward and back, and you’re long past the point of temperance. Each stroke in and out of Miyeon’s tight, throbbing, well-fucked cunt twists further at the knot in your stomach, the edge of your own, eager to indulge your fair share of recklessness: “Miyeon, sweetheart, I’m gonna cum.”

Miyeon understands immediately. She’s whimpering, nodding, sinking her fingers into your back—it’s not even a question. “Inside me,” she repeats, several times, until you’re hilted completely in her pussy. It’s hot, sweltering, perfect, and you can’t bring yourself to care that you’re pressing a handprint into her thigh so hard that it hurts. That the sounds leaking out of your throat aren’t anything particularly becoming or that you’re fucking your cum deeper into her cunt with each waning thrust or that you’re not sure if you ever had a better fuck.

“Fuck,” you groan, slumping on top of her petite frame once you’re completely finished. So thoroughly milked and drained.

Miyeon brings her small hands up and cups your face. Just stares like you’ve got something stuck to it. Her gaze drops to your lips—and you’re left thinking for a moment that she’s going to kiss you again, though it never does arrive.

“Hey,” you say finally, panting. Both of you are heaving restless. Everytime her chest rises into you, you’re acutely aware of how her small breasts feel against you, her heart still racing as your softening cock is still warm inside her. “You’re staring.”

“Well, I was going to mention it earlier,” she starts, fluttering her lashes and pressing her lips to the crook of your neck, “but you’re kinda my type too.”

-

The least unusual thing happens.

And if you end up thinking for even a moment that Miyeon is being sincere when she suggests you exchange numbers, you haven’t been paying attention. “You know,” she says, sitting in your lap and tapping her number into your phone, “for work.”

“Ah, of course,” you answer, willing to be fooled, if only just a little, “for work.” 

- Narratively, it’s all out of order: the banal text messages, the playful back and forth, the coy innuendos, the precarious game of being interested without asking too many questions. Both of you are quite content to play your cards close to your chest as though she doesn't know how good your fingers feel in her cunt or that you’re somehow not aware of the small freckle on the seam of her pelvis, another on the inside of her left thigh. That’s just how it goes. But it’s fine, you figure. Especially when you compare it to the alternative: of taking things too fast and careening straight off a cliff. To where, historically, you've burned up in a violent supernova of messy hookups and drunk calls and regrets you’ll carry with you into the next life.

A nice change of pace, if nothing else.And it’s hardly anything unusual either, or at least until you’re standing in the grocery checkout line a few days later. Miyeon decides enough with all that about the rules of engagement. She’s going to call you:

“I was planning on swinging by in a bit to grab my watch,” she starts, and you can make out another voice, maybe a friend? A roommate? in the background of the call, getting shh’d by Miyeon before she continues, “I left it in your bathroom. I think. Maybe on the bedside table.”

“Yeah, I was going back and forth on deciding whether that was purposeful or not.” “Accidental. I swear.”

“Still a little convenient though, isn’t it?” “Nothing convenient about not having my watch.” She laughs out loud. Maybe it’s a bit of vanity on your part to make assumptions, but you’ve got her pieced together, at least a little. Everyone else already reveres and adores her—it’s the fact that you’ll level with her, that she loves a proper challenge.

“Well, I won’t be back for quite a bit. I’m running a few errands.” You smile at the lady at the register. She’s halfway into figuring out who you are.

“Why don’t you do me a favor then… bring it with you to the press event on Friday?”

“Now that’s a surprise,” you tell her. “I’d figure you’d take the chance at face value, to get yourself back over to my place either way.”

“Look, if you’re going to make me need an excuse to sleep with you… let’s put our heads together and come up with something later.”

Oh, of course. Let’s, she says, really leaning into the plurality of it, hoping it’s something you can get used to. And given the fact you figure that Cho Miyeon has never been hard pressed to be anyone’s favorite anything, she is incredibly optimistic you’ll see just how sweet of a deal that all is. You’re answering the woman behind the register first: “paper bags are fine.”

“Are you at the grocery?”

“I am.”

“Sounds fun.” she says, after a considerable pause—the length of which tells you she’d rather dip into the mundane with you than hang up. “What’d you get?” “Breakfast cereal, bananas,” you tell her, staring straight into the conversational deadend. If only you knew any writers. You clear your throat, but Miyeon beats you to it, pulling the emergency ripcord: “What would you do if I was there with you?”

“Dunno,” you start, “take you to the bathroom maybe. Go down on you until you cum.”

At this point the cashier has put it all together. She recognizes you, and is unsure whether to be shocked or disgusted or what, so she just hands you your receipt as you shoot your near-award-winning smile back at her and gather your things.

Miyeon laughs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re horrendous at phone sex?”

“I’ve never had phone sex,” you tell her, “seems like a waste of time when you could be instead, you know–”

“Okay,” she interrupts you, “first off, it’s like the first rule in the geneva convention of phone sex: you’re supposed to ask me what I’m wearing. And just for your information, I’m wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt.”

“What color?”

“Yikes. So bad at this; you’re supposed to tell me to start taking it off. It’s a gray shirt, the pants are blue. What are you wearing?”

“A pair of khakis. And a sweater.�� “Great. Take them off, slowly.” “Miyeon, I’m in the middle of a parking lot.”

“Okay prude, then you tell me what to do.”

You end up listening to Miyeon from the front seat of your car for almost half the hour. There’s a wistful hum from the other end of the phone every time you tell her what to do with her hand, walk her through every area of her body you want her to touch and how. You let her know about the finger you’re tracing over your own pants and she can’t help but let a soft noise out at the thought of it.

“If you invited me over for dinner right now,” she says after she cums, slightly out of breath, “I wouldn’t say no.”

You stifle a laugh. It’s folklore at this point, but there’s wisdom in it surely, so you’ll lean into that old rite of passage and play hard to get. Love is all about the complications, all the ways it can go wrong: endless rules and customs to observe, obstacles you’re determined to put in the way.

“Oh princess,” you start, knowing exactly how it’ll land in her ear, what it’ll do to her. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

-

The press event itself is simple and straightforward. There’s only ever going to be a singular moment during a movie’s production where no one in the cast wants to murder someone else and it’s in that brief period of time before filming starts. So grab onto that by the horns and show the media what a fun time this is all going to be. Go team, go. 

It’s the same series of questions as always: how did this cast come together, what do you think of the scripts, how is this going to be a challenge for you, what are you looking forward to, etc.

You’ve been through this song and dance enough times now to keep your answers evasive and beguiling, because at the end of the day, it’s the most productive way to do anything in this industry. It’s routine. It’s practiced. But the thing you notice almost right away, is just how infatuated the press is with the girl at the end of the table, how they heel almost immediately to her every gesture, the way Miyeon answers questions all with the confidence of someone’s who’s been at it for ages, but with the doe-eyed blinking naivety of a starlet ready to bare it all. You have to consider that part of the reason the media ends up so hot on Miyeon’s trail is all that god-given wit and charisma and charm. She’ll make fun of herself and her group mates and her co-stars and the staff, and she’ll tease the press and give them shit in a way that makes you feel as though there’s this cool, gorgeous, very important girl who’s noticing you and liking you enough to give you shit. Then sometimes she’ll wink for no reason at all, or she’ll get that flip of her hair over her shoulder just right that you think to yourself: wow, that’s an idol.

It doesn't mean a whole lot to you now, though you’ll be wringing your wrists about it later, but the takeaway here is this: Miyeon is universally loved. Full stop.

Please root for me, she says, again and again. All the stuff she’s supposed to say. I’ll do my best to make everyone happy. And she looks down the table, right at you, when she says: “My co-stars are all so wonderful and I’m so lucky to have them here with me, I’ll go ahead and thank them in advance for taking such good care of me.”

-

The press release is worth nothing to anyone with only the opinions of a bunch of attractive people paid to be on television. What it needs is photos. Specifically the ones where Miyeon hangs off your arm like you two are just a little bit more than meets the eye.

Sex sells. Suggestion is priceless.

So you’re standing there, grinning, wide and open, practiced and sure, toward the army of photographers. You look good. You know you look good. You’d know you look good even if Soyeon hadn’t crossed paths with you behind the stage just a few minutes ago and said, “wow, you look hot,” and “if I was any bit straight, I’d bang you right here.” Though it definitely helped. The exact shade of charcoal on your suit jacket is engineered to make your skin glow, and your hair is coiffed just right so that it sits effortless. You didn’t grow up imagining you’d have hairdressers or a stylist or for god sakes ever be wearing tailor-fit suits that cost someone else a fortune, but that’s how this all works. A rag-tag militia dedicated to making it look both like you’d just rolled out of bed and that’s only how things were ever meant to be—it’s your whole deal, all with the comprehensive appeal of a mischievous smile. The first flash, and you can feel your whole soul dilate in response. Hey! Look over here for me. Click. Click. Click. Raise your chin—hands at your sides—hold that for me—perfect. Click. Click. Click. It’s calming in a way. All the piercing lights, the clattering of camera shutters. The feeling that never grows stale is seeped in the familiarity of it all; your roots are here. It’s home. And there’s something unique about the blur of lights, something hard to put your finger on exactly, that it feels like the perfect backdrop to just zone out in. And the fact that you can’t really hear those anxious, gnawing thoughts in your head over all the shouting, the chattering, the commotion—boy, that feels good too. Though what you can hear is all the cameras turn, in unison. Something like a premonition.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen Cho Miyeon. You know how she looks in and out of her underwear, the way her blonde hair sits on her porcelain shoulders, how she’s all curves and pointed angles in the right places; you’ve seen her up close. Hell, she’d already taken your breath away, which in some regards is completely unfair, now considering that you haven’t any more breath to give. 

She doesn’t care; she’ll leave you asphyxiated, with a smile. Perfectly. It makes it feel like every smile you’ve seen before are just failed attempts. Like this is the real deal. Click. Click. Click.

The thing that has you lost for words is that it’s hard to know where exactly to start. Not only is Miyeon drop dead gorgeous, but here she is, pretending that she’s finding all that out for the very first time, blush burning across her cheeks like she’s not used to the attention. Her hair is pinned up, delicately placed into a perfect bun, wispy blonde strands falling aside her ears. And a pair of long, dangling earrings reflect the camera flashes aimed in her direction, scattering the light in every which way. Then it’s the fucking dress: it’s skintight, champagne, which is a good color on anyone, spectacular on her. You can’t let your eyes dip down all the way through the plunging neckline or you’d be staring at her midriff and thinking just how badly you want to undo the whole thing; pull gently on the tie at the back and let it all slump to the floor; get on top of her and have her cursing. Make her hot and flustered and moaning your name until you shoot a hot load all over that fucking tummy. Jesus. Fuck.

“Hey stranger,” she says, with restrained delivery, still smiling at the wall of flashing lights as she hooks her hand under your elbow.

“You’re late.” Maybe—just maybe—if you can somehow manage to find anything to be at fault, you can keep your thoughts as innocent as her doe-eyed countenance. She tilts her head, pulls back her soft, sweeping hair over one shoulder, and when she gets her eyes on you… god, it’s a tall order.

“Do you have any idea?” she asks, starting in half sentences because there’s not a lot of time between poses. Everyone’s looking at her, looking at the combined-unit, the you-and-her, and demanding more. “Just how hard it is to slip into something like this? I swear to god, I think I’m still holding that first breath.”

“Hey,” you whisper, clasping your fingers together. “You look great.”

“Of course I do.” Her other hand is at your waist, gentle and misleading, much like the rest of her. “Just about any girl would look good next to you.”

Falling is just not the correct term, to be precise. Too clumsy. Hardly does what’s going on here any justice. This is a meticulous process wherein Miyeon delicately binds and traps your heart into love—maybe even the platonic ideal of the femme fatale, and you’ll take twenty, thirty paces into quicksand before you realize you’re trapped, waist deep, unable to move, totally and proper fucked.

“Here,” she says, tugging gently on your arm until you’re hunched over slightly, ear sitting perfectly at her lips where they begin to part, whispering: “This will drive them crazy. Just this little private conversation. They’ll be guessing what I’m telling you here, right now, for weeks.”

You laugh as you watch everyone with a camera scoot to the edge of their seats, expecting something unexpected. On the off chance they’ll get lucky and catch the shape of that murmur out your mouth: “And what exactly is it that you’re telling me here?” “I’m curious,” she starts, “how bad do you think I want you right now?”

Oh. You register your whole body shifting its weight onto the other foot. Twice, the muscles in your legs tensing when she wets her lips with her tongue. A problem, maybe. Your eyes dart about because you’re in front of all these witnesses, and the instinctual urge from somewhere deep and unruly in your head amounts to something like a death wish: to get your hands on her in public, to throw caution to the wind and let her have access to you under all this scrutiny. It’s automatic; you’re leaning back on old habits; humor’s never failed a face like yours. “What, like on a scale of one to ten?”

She leans back, takes both your hands in hers and just grins. “I heard there’s sort of an afterparty later. You going?”

You swallow, collect yourself. “I am.”

“Yeah?” Miyeon’s lip pulls up at the corner, smirk cocked, ready to fire, and her eyes are sparkling, literally; every flash of a camera fills her dark irises with a sharp glister of gold. It’s actually kind of mesmerizing. “Me too.”

“Maybe I'll see you there,” you tell her, leading her to the stage exit.

“Hm, maybe,” she says, and she rubs a few circles into the back of your knuckles. “Though it’d be a sure thing if we go together, wouldn’t it?”

-

Truth be told, you never make it to the afterparty. You get sidetracked. You get distracted.

“Feels so good, oh my god.” Miyeon’s jaw clenches, teeth together so tight you can feel her body tense up. “So deep, so good, so, fuck—”

What Miyeon is ultimately trying to do in the backseat of your car is ride you hard and fast to the point where she’s mixing up her words, gasping for air, and blathering filth and obscenity from her pretty lips. Until her legs lock up and her eyes shut tight before cumming all over your waist. So yeah, the charcoal slacks end up being a little fortuitous.

She bucks into you hard, holding her weight with two hands on your chest, though she can’t bounce up and down on your cock like she’d much prefer. The way her clit rubs against you as she ruts into your hips like a wild animal feels awesome, even better for her, you reckon, but that’s no substitute for the heavensent sensation she gets running down her spine when you fill her starved cunt repeatedly with long, deep strokes. It’s cramped and awkward and your knees and elbows knock and scrape and she’s taking that frustration out on you. As best she can without hitting her head on the ceiling of the car.

You can certainly appreciate the irony of it. Because you’ve got the poster girl for a disney princess in a state of half-dress (half-undress? under duress? it’s not entirely clear), the champagne hem of that dignified gown bunched up around her hips, furling in supplication, and she’s fucking you in pretty much the least elegant fashion possible.

“God dammit,” she spits out before sinking her teeth into her lower lip, as you offer to help her grind on top of you with two handprints sunk firm into the round of her tight little ass.

It’s clumsy and uncouth, though still, riding you amounts to a religious experience for Miyeon, given the way her cunt is quivering, torrentially wet, and so, so, so hot. Clenching on you in something like worship, in adoration. She should probably be more embarrassed about some of the noises she’s making. They’re high-pitched, whining, desperate even. You can’t quite hear what she’s saying—not over the hollow echo of your sex through the small cabin of the car—but there are only so many iterations of, oh my god, please, fuck, faster, harder, need it, right there, faster, I, ah, ohmygod.

“Baby,” you whisper, wrapping an arm around Miyeon's waist and sinking you both further into the seat. “Fuck, I cannot believe this pussy; you’re so tight, fuck—”

She’s still smiling, though it’s absolutely devilish. Maybe that’s the praise she lives for. Everyone’s already telling her she’s gorgeous, that she’s talented, that she's beautiful inside and out, but she just simply can’t get enough of it: how you’ll slap her ass so hard she yelps and growl against her throat, cum in her cunt and tell her she’s perfect.“Want your cum, baby,” she murmurs, cheeks aflame, lips again parting open, “I want to watch you cum in me.”

“Miyeon,” you groan, “such a good fucking girl for me,” and she just nods, like a fantasy come to life.

She lifts herself up again. Comes crashing down. Good fucking god. Every little roll of her hips is a touch more agonizing than the last; she feels so fucking incredible around you that it all betokens danger. You’re buried so deep inside her that if let go of the breath you’re holding you would drown in the heat of her cunt, the velvety touch of her skin, the fact that she smells fucking amazing—all worked up and starting to sweat.

“Can you?” she asks, propping up the tall heel of her shoe onto the seat and trying to ride up and down your shaft just a bit faster, a little harder. You pull at her dress again, twisting it in your hand until you can see where your cock disappears between the creases of her thighs and into the warm embrace of her cunt. She’s fucking you reckless and sucking sharp gasps of air past her teeth, asking, “do you think you can cum like this?”

“You want me to finish in your pussy that bad, Miyeon?” you ask, shifting slightly in the space beneath her. “Want it so much, want to feel it,” she starts to pant, words disappearing in wet exhalation every time her thighs come spilling onto yours. “Want to feel your cock throb in my pussy, want to feel you fill me up.”

Even accounting for the fact that she’s so small on top of you and even easier to manipulate with nothing more than the firm grasp you have on her waist, it’s a whole ordeal to maneuver about the cramped backseat. Especially considering Miyeon would rather die than feel your cock leave her cunt. She lets out a needy whine, like you’ve done her some sort of injustice, when you find a hand under her shoulder and start to move. “Please…” she groans, grabbing desperately at the collar of your shirt. Searching hard for the unrealized potential of the tie around your neck.

You twist and turn, slide and shimmy until you’ve got Miyeon’s arms pinned behind her back, wrists trapped in your fingers and her svelte frame arching into you. It’s a little precarious, and it takes a few tries to find any sort of rhythm—holding her in place and gliding up into where she’s soaked and aching—but the moment you start slipping your cock up into her cunt, it dawns on you: you can absolutely cum like this. She’s so mind-numbingly tight, so hot, so easy to use; it’s not a challenge. Not in the slightest.

“Oh my god.” She cuts off those incredible noises, breath hitching in her throat. She doesn’t have an inkling of how to react; there’s no way around it. Not when you’re fucking her—truly fucking her—within an inch of her life and pulling her small body down onto your cock harder, faster, faster. Again, again.

Miyeon’s hair is the first thing begging to be ruined. Delicately fixed and pristinely manicured. Gentle waves tumbling over her shoulder as you trace your fingers up the curve of her spine, knead at the back of her neck, and thread into a handful of those ash-blonde locks. 

“Fuck.” Her whole body melts into you, and her voice is seeped in lust and need and want: “right there, right there, right there—”

Your fingers tighten in her hair, grip, pull. 

“Feel good?” you whisper into her neck, all this soft pale skin begging for a press of your lips.

“It feels—I, fuck.” Miyeon just stutters, eyes watering and chest heaving through all these incoherent breaths as you drive her to silence. Fuck her to submission.

“Princess,” you start, bringing your other hand up to her cheek. It’s the small details that truly send her: the thumb wiping away at the small tears on her long lashes, how you tuck a few misplaced wisps of golden hair behind her ear, dominance soft and doting—it’s not just the fact that you’ll pull her apart; it’s that you’re the one putting her back together. That’ll never be a secret she keeps from you, you figure, because she’s reduced to a whimpering, shuddering mess when you take her lips softly in yours. A chaste, gentle, unscripted kiss. Unbecoming of the reality that has you currently fucking raw and senseless into her creaming cunt.

“Tell me what you want, Miyeon.”

Sure, you’ve got in your hands the script of sin and innocence, and you’ll settle into an assigned part, a role to play. Though to be truthful, you just simply can’t help yourself. She’s delightful. The whispers out your mouth sink once more against her skin, sweaty and red and hot to the touch. She whines like your words cut right to the bone, lethal. Your hips come up, hilting deep in her cunt, and it’s enough to shake an earring loose and into the depths between the seats; you’ll spend a literal lifetime looking for it later. Her breath hitches, regressing to huffs and sharp draws of air when you drag your cock just along the right spot, apparently.

“Please, please, please,” she begs finally, sputtering with the waning energy of air escaping a balloon.

“I want to know what you need from me,” you tell her, letting your voice come out in such tantalizing fashion that it’s the kind of thing that could coerce the truth out of anyone.

“You,” she rasps, “all of you.”

How quick she turns to putty, muscles softening and tensing all at once. And you’re generously allowing her to take more, capitulating to her pleas of right there and harder please, pushing in as deep as you’ll go. You soothe her when she shudders and quakes—just a broad hand at her back—helping her adjust to you.

“Shit, Miyeon, you look perfect like this,” you mutter, watching the small tears that come from the corners of her hooded eyes. “Can’t get over how gorgeous you look taking me.”

Those small hums and moans leaving through closed lips are all she can muster. She clutches ahold of you even tighter, feeling the sharp bloom of everything trickle closer and closer like a dam about to break.

“Is that what you like to hear, princess?” you ask, fucking her right through her own orgasm and realizing it’s hopeless; you’re going to fall in love again and again with that pink stain in her cheeks. “Do you want to be my cumslut? Let me use your pussy whenever I want. You’re so tight and wet for me, Miyeon. You want my cock all the time, don’t you?” 

Some of it—maybe all of it—hits hard. She starts to shake. You’re fucking her cunt, steady and resolute, even as she fucking collapses, and her lips part like she’s going to wail, though never makes a sound.

“Words,” you order, breathless. “Oh…” It’s slow at first, that steady stream of fuck and please spilling out of her—curses flowing as easily as the air she breathes. You’ve got her at your complete control, a seeming extension of your will, and she presses her forehead to yours, gasping, “want to feel you fucking cum in me. Please do it, do it, I need to feel you, I want your fucking cum in me so bad. Please, please, please fucking make me yours. Do it, need you to use this little pussy and cum.”

You’re deep inside Miyeon, clutching hard around her waist and pulling down on it as you vault over the proverbial edge. Breathing heavy into her chest as you fuck all this hot cum into her cunt. She keeps rolling her hips, slowly, as if by instinct, to ride everything out of you, until you’re yanked back to the here and now.

“Oh my god,” she coos. Because it’d be impossible to not notice, leaking out of her and onto her thighs. 

“Miyeon.” The next sound that comes out of you is near indescribable: gravelly and plucked from deep in your throat. 

“So, so much for me,” she adds with a hint of exultation, running her fingers through your hair. 

Some part of you expected her to perhaps be more resilient, put up some semblence of a fight, but this is Miyeon, you realize—the roughness in your voice, the gentle touch of your fingers, the severity of an open palm, your lips at her throat—she loves it. Her hands are soon again cupping at your face, tongue reaching into your mouth. And she shudders at the way your cock slides out of her pussy.

“Messy,” you murmur into her kiss, quietly, and you hear her swallow when you skate your finger over her hips and down her stomach, tracing gently at the place you were pressed together, thoroughly covered in your cum, her slick.

“Uh.” Miyeon makes a face. Wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

“Oh please,” you say as she cuddles up to you as far as the backseat of your car will allow. “You know you love it.”

-

Here’s the thing you fail to realize about a girl like her, a girl like Miyeon:

She’s more than just the physical, than the sum of her parts. She’s a feeling.

Oh, there’s plenty about the ways you touch her, the way her hand fits into yours, her hair running silky smooth between your fingers—how you can leave bruises on her thighs and marks on her neck, or reduce her to a whimpering mess with nothing but a firm grip. She laughs and it’s something that moves you to your core. She’s easy to admire from afar. And even easier up close, where you can appreciate the mastery in those brushstrokes.

But pay attention to how your blood drains from your cheeks, how the world stutters on its axis when you look at her. Because you can’t help but feel like you’re living life the way it’s portrayed in fiction when you do. Like you’re slipping into a world where no matter how insurmountable the odds, the good guy always wins.

-

“It’s all bullshit, that’s what it is,” someone is telling you with an almost unsettling confidence, even though their voice is shaky and ever-so-slurred with drink.

You’re sitting there, slightly listless, on one of the stools at a four-top, busy zoning out at the neon smirnoff sign behind the bartender like it might move if you look away for even a second. Your fingers are tapping on the table, and the fact that you can’t taste the kick in your heavily doctored gin and tonic means you’re already drunk. Probably. You’ll have to thank Miyeon later.

“Hey,” the someone starts again, “are you even listening to me?” It’s a little deep, raspy, but it sounds like it belongs to a girl.

No, you think.

“Sorry,” you say after blinking a few times and pulling yourself away from the sign. The girl sitting next to you frowns. “Have we met?”

“Yuqi,” Miyeon says, handing her a beer and setting her own drink down on the table. It’s pink and full of ice and in a ridiculous looking piece of glassware.

It goes without saying that you couldn’t show up to the main event—late, attached at the hip, and with Miyeon’s hair all disheveled and half-repaired like you two were fucking in secrecy—so Miyeon pitches the idea to you while you’re in the middle of wiping cum off your pants with napkins from the glove compartment: If you’re interested, there’s a bar nearby. My friends are there, it’s quiet but it’s nothing too pretentious.

“And you met Sana earlier,” Miyeon adds, lifting her chin in the direction toward the girl buried in her phone, tapping away furiously at a series of text messages—the way she hasn’t looked up in minutes and how her drink is nearly untouched implies some sort of drama. 

It’s kinda weird—you’re realizing you might have a type: they’re all some sort of blonde. Shockingly easy to look at too. With bodies that could fill a nighttime of fantasy, and supposedly somehow they’re best friends? Look, you’ve never seen two pretty best friends; it grinds against cosmic law, ain’t one of them supposed to be not so pretty? (Though maybe the rules are different when you land on odd numbers? If it isn’t all a little perplexing.)

“Know each other from work,” Miyeon explains, holding her hair back from her face and barely touching her lips to the rim of her glass.

“Uh.” Yuqi pops the top of the bottle off against the side of the table. “And we live together.” “Roommates?” you ask, carefully trying to keep your tone from sounding judgemental, and Miyeon gives you a solemn nod. There’ll be time to pry later.

“Look,” Sana says, only after finally putting her phone face down in front of her. There’s a story there. Maybe you’ll hear the end of it. “I’m not saying I’m proud of this attitude, okay, but that’s the truth: I make judgments based on what drink people order.” 

She fixes her eyes on you, and god, she’s gorgeous. It’s a different kind of beauty, a lot less subtle, way more in your face, and she knows she can get away with it. (Though it’s the patented hundred-megawatt smile of hers that’ll stick with you.)

“Like if you were drinking a cosmo or whatever the hell it is Miyeon’s got—”

“What?” Yuqi scoffs, and her eyebrow turns when she sees Miyeon wrap her arm around yours. “And just like that he’s not sexy or sophisticated, smart or virile? Is that it?” “I suppose…” Sana twists her lip between her teeth. “Maybe it’s context?”

“No, that makes sense,” you say, and you dab at a ring of condensation on the table with a bar napkin. “Like I wouldn’t hesitate to take a cosmo if I was stranded in an airport in February and the planes are getting de-iced and the pilots are deciding whether to take off or go home.”

“I’d order a double,” Miyeon says, and you swear she’s closer to you each time you check.

“So then tell us, what’s the quintessential manly drink then?” Yuqi asks, skeptical, and a little disappointed to even be entertaining the question. “If pink cosmos are on one end of the spectrum…” “Dunno.” Sana crosses her legs, and rubs at her chin. “I suppose anything that comes in one of those squat, burly glasses.”

“The kind that real men hurl across the bar at another man’s head,” you deadpan.

“Oh my god.” Sana springs forward in her seat, and her gaze pins you to where you’re sitting. “You get it. Do I know you from somewhere? I swear you’ve got a face that’s familiar.” “Maybe I just got one of those faces,” you tell her, and Miyeon squeezes her fingers gently around your knee. 

“Maybe.” Sana tilts her head, letting out a mostly unentertained chuckle, dry and humorless. You can see the gears slowly churning in her head.

Yuqi’s got her bottle turned up nearly perpendicular to the ceiling, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand—it’s all oddly charming—and she just lets out a wistful sigh. “Someone should make a movie, an old western maybe, where someone flings an oversized martini glass. You could start a movement.”

You’re not really thinking about anything in particular when the conversation ebbs and flows, except that you’re content; buzzed with the bitters in your drink; and the ephemeral touches of the hand in your lap, gentle, curious, teasing. There’s something laid back about being in Miyeon’s company that draws you in, something effortless, like the world seems less maliciously unfriendly, even if she ends up managing to embarrass you in a game of billiards. She finds the table at the end of the bar and readies a flip comment while rubbing chalk into the end of a pool cue. You watch as it leaves white streaks all over her chic dress, and you’re kind of enamored by the fact she doesn’t seem to care. “You’re sure you’ve played before?” she ribs, pulling a hairpin from her clutch, and clipping it to the hair at one temple to keep it from interfering with her game.

“Aren’t you a wealth of talents,” you say, in admiration.

“Do you mean, appearances can be deceiving?” she asks while sizing up a shot, grins—a smile that suggests mischief, which is normal, except that this one invites you to be part of it. “I think you might be putting words in my mouth.” 

“Oh,” she says, and with her lovely, slender, fingers pressing onto the green baize, she sockets three shots in a row. Misses on the fourth. “So now you don’t like me putting things in your mouth, is that it?”

“Hm,” you say, ignoring the obvious bait and lining up a shot. “This is going to be a weird question.”

Miyeon drops her arm and tilts her head quizzically. 

“What do you think of the script?” 

“The one that has us heartbroken and lost and wandering until we rediscover love is right where we left it?” 

“That’s the one.”

Miyeon covers her mouth to laugh when you take your shot and it misses in such grand fashion that you can’t help but hang your head. “It’s the dress shirt,” she says to comfort you.

“I’ll take what pity I can get.”

You’re watching Miyeon in action—hair carefully swept back, earrings sparkling, and heels set firmly on the floor—all together rather enchanting. She makes several more shots, aimed with perfect precision and seriousness, before finally answering you: “dunno, seems a little psychotic.”

“I mean that’s the thing about romance,” you begin, “there’d be no story if the writers weren’t at least a little psychotic.”

“Oh by the way.” Yuqi’s voice booms at that moment, with all the subtlety of a bulldozer: “I’ve gotta take Sana home. She’s late to getting plowed by her new manager. I’ll catch you later.”

“That isn’t—” Sana huffs, pinches at the bridge of her nose, and stops herself short, before reapproaching it in a more bracing way. “I’m telling you he gets all worked up whenever I’m out drinking this late.” 

“Worked up, huh?” Yuqi grins at a parody of a smile, and turns to you, laughing. “That’s how she likes him.”

“Yuqi,” Sana groans.

Miyeon rests her cue up on the table and crosses her arms, smirking in your direction. “Life imitates art, right?

-

“You’ve got a girl here, don’t you?” Minnie asks, at nine in the morning and standing in your living room. It reminds you of the fact that you have a meeting on your calendar on today’s date between you and your agency’s lawyer at nine in the morning.

She's not some expert sleuth. At least, not as far as you're aware. It could be one of any number of things that tips her off: Miyeon’s heels are in your foyer, her champagne dress folded neatly over the back of your couch, or maybe it’s the pair of underwear that landed perfectly on the corner of your television. What it is not, however, is the reddening outline of Miyeon’s lips on your Adam's apple; you’re doing a pretty good job of coyly covering that up with your palm.

“I mean yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

“I don’t know if you could’ve answered that more ominously.” Minnie laughs, shuffling past where you stand in the door frame and setting her bag down on your kitchen island, surveying the mess in your apartment. She stands before you, wearing all black and looking down her nose at you.

(She’d pretty much cornered the market on wearing all black and looking down her nose at you, and you always take a moment to marvel that anyone could live on the earth only twenty-some odd years and manage to wear all black and look down their nose at you with such timeless self-assurance.)

“If you need her to sign an NDA, I’ll have to swing back by the office to pick up the proper paperwork.” “I don’t need her to sign an NDA,” you say, turning on water from the faucet and filling a kettle. The hand you have running through your hair helps you remember that you are still very poorly put together: a mess of bedhead, t-shirt, underwear, and only a singular sock to your name. Not that it matters, you suppose. Minnie’s seen you worse.

“Wow. Things must be getting serious, huh.” Minnie drums her fingers on the counter. “Well whatever it is, I’ve got stuff for you to sign.”

“I thought we walked through all the contract boilerplate already.” “We did.” “And?” “Contracts change.” The pen she has in her fingers, scanning over a stack of papers, is poised. Her slow nod studious, blandly puzzled. “That’s why you need me.”

“Now if that isn’t an unfortunate truth,” you say, and Minnie raises an eyebrow. “Good change or bad change?”

“Depends. Have you met Cho Miyeon, the other lead? She’s cute, blonde.” Minnie hovers her hand an inch in front of her nose. “About yea high.” 

“A few times,” you answer, sorta truthfully.

Minnie tilts her head, and licks her thumb to flip through the first couple pages in the stack. “Well, the producers want you two to be seen. Together. Somewhere high profile and suggestive.”

“Okay.” You’re pouring hot water from the kettle over coffee grounds and a filter when you realize you have no idea what that’s about. You voice as much: “I have no idea what that means.”

“Well, here’s the general thought: they figure they can get some free marketing, brush up a little media buzz, get people talking about this movie if some paps snap some pictures of you two where it looks like you’re—”

“Where it looks like we’re dating. Okay, sure, wonderful.”

“Your words, not mine—or the producers, legally.” You fall silent, thinking: there’s no such thing as fairytales, it was bound to happen, a trip up, a snag, a snare. You know, in essence, it’s trouble.

“Um.” Your shoulders drop. “The producers want a scandal, Minnie.” “Again, I’m not legally allowed to call it that.” She shakes her head, before putting something down on a lined memo pad with great industry. “And if that’s your assessment, you came to it all on your own with no help from me.”

But yes, she mouths to you silently. You got it, aren’t you clever, now play along.

“Does this not feel like shaking a hornet’s nest?” you ask her. “Surely there’s a better way to go about receiving death threats; she’s a damn idol.”

“She certainly is,” Minnie says, passing you the pen and giving you her practiced professional-but-still-definitely-sardonic-smile that always manages to emote, please don’t be difficult. If she’s hoping it inspires confidence, it does not. “Sign the new contract.”

You’ve got plenty of reasons to have reservations, but here’s a fun fact not a lot of people know: there’s a part of you perfectly content shutting up and doing what you’re told. Maybe it’s something about pretty girls with dark eyes, long legs and a curl in their lip that upstages anything like subtlety—an Achilles heel of sorts. Except instead of your mother forgetting to bathe your feet in the river styx, you’ve just got some mother issues in general.

“There,” Minnie says, watching you initial on the dotted line. “Was that so hard? Someday, you’ll look back and think, yeah, that’s where it all goes to shit.

-

Three weeks into filming, you make good on your promise.

It would have been neater, perhaps, if all the sneaking around and impropriety caught up with you and used this moment as a catalyst: if, filled with embarrassment, you owned up to everything that was going on between you. Might’ve saved you some hurt.

You watch Miyeon’s hand shoot up to her mouth only to find whimpers leaking out from beneath her palm.

What if all those cameras had instead gotten pictures of you and Miyeon here, in the restroom of a cafe that Miyeon swore up and down would be crawling with paparazzi—where Miyeon had dragged you by the wrist halfway through a bottle of dry chardonnay, locked the door behind her, and flicked the skirt of a her floral dress up over her hips. Imagine the way it would look: you on your knees, face buried between Miyeon’s legs— 

“I swear… your fucking mouth,” Miyeon murmurs, fingers running through your hair. 

—all you know is that it would have been a different kind of disaster.

“Oh,” she moans, and you swallow heavily at the sight of her above you, following the movement in her face: every wince, every flinch, pleasure absolute and wringing her dry. She’s pretty as always, eyes dark and twinkling under the cool fluorescent lights. It’s that damn blush again, and you’re convinced eating Miyeon out feels like the most normal thing in the universe, like you’ve done it a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times more. Just listen to how Miyeon’s breath stutters when you lap softly at the heat between her lips, lifting her hood and swirling her clit once, twice, before bringing the narrow point of your tongue back to the shallow depth of her aching entrance. She shudders at all how you tease her, slick pooling in your mouth, down your chin; a pinched off moan filling the bathroom when you add another finger inside her. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” she says, gasping out on top of an embarrassed little sigh each time time she bucks against the touch of your hand. You spread her lips, get your tongue flatter, deeper, and she drops her shoulders, laughing in that high-pitched skittery way she does when she’s struggling not to cum all over you with her eyes clenched shut.

It’s a sight to behold: Miyeon twisting her brows and biting into her lower lip—chewing off all the lip-gloss you know she just put on because you watched her make a show of it at the table like it was the most delicate thing in the world. She looks soft, docile even, and hums out a wistful note when you squeeze your hand into her thigh. Swallows back a moan when you reach up and knead at her chest. Yeah, she is soft. Tender and malleable and perfect. How easily you keep her pinned in place with just a flex of your wrist.

“Now would you look at that, princess,” slips out of you, totally carefree, lifting your lips from her pussy and wiping the wet from your chin. She sways slightly, and you’re leaning into her space, voice nearly coming out breathy and flooded as hers, asking, “You’re so wet, Miyeon. How do you want me to make you cum? On my fingers?”

Miyeon just sighs, lust and need glittering in her eyes. If there’s anything you’ve picked up from all of this so far, from all the raunchy sex, every manner in which she’s puddled in your grip, all the times she’s begged for you to hold her down and rail her—more than anything else, Miyeon loves, loves, loves to be teased. 

But it’s the way her smile stretches, just perfectly, or even just one glance from those doleful eyes—fuck, goddamnit, one day I am really going to fucking die written into the shy curve of her lips—you’re never quite that cruel. Her panties are dropped to the floor and hanging around her ankle, soaked, ruined, but that doesn’t mean she needs to be too; you bring your lips back to her pussy. Fingertips curling up against that spot that drives her up the wall and your tongue running laps around her swollen clit.

“Oh, like that,” Miyeon whines, barely able to make any noises louder than a whimper, “just like that, please, yes, like that—”

And then you catch the aching swell of her clit between your lips. Slowly, start to suck.

“God,” she breathes out, still writhing from the fingers you have inside her, your thumb rubbing against wet, slippery skin, right how you’ve learned she likes it. And she gasps, head rolled back, brows furrowed up: “Oh, yes, oh God, you — you’re perfect. It’s — ”

That really never gets old.

Everything stills for a moment. Everything besides your fingers fucking her quietly while her orgasm quakes through her. She’s catching her breath, staring at you—skin dewy with sweat and chest heaving. Her warmth wraps around you, surrounds you, and you’d be content to stay like this forever, pressing kisses into her stomach and never, ever letting go.

That is until she looks at you, lashes fluttering, as if she’s trying to gauge your emotions. Until she speaks. “I want it,” she gasps, breath steadying, “I want your cock.”

She knows you, right down to the basics: you can never deny her anything.

-

(You’re being cautious—covering your tracks, you convince yourself—but then there’s all this evidence to the contrary, no shortage of close calls, times where you’re so nearly caught: Miyeon’s lithe, tight body grinding desperately against yours in a costume closet or her dressing room or in the backseat of your car; the way she keens when you slip your fingers inside her, how she wails in delight when you really fuck her in earnest; you cutting off those unabashed moans with your mouth or your hand or even just two fingers shoved between her lips so she might have something to bite down on.

It’s this whole thing, the sneaking around, the indiscretion—Miyeon loves it. And the danger of it all become something like a siren’s call, you are just as attracted to the idea too, that you’re masking who you are in the dark, just past drawn curtains and under fitted sheets.

“Wow, I never noticed, but you guys are, like, weirdly close,” Soyeon says once, sometime near the beginning, and perhaps when you’d begun to stare a little too obviously as Miyeon was tying her hair back. It has you both laughing off the observation as something trivial, like Soyeon was the odd one out for noticing anything at all. But fast forward a few hours, and you’re sprawled out on a set of hotel linens, having a laugh again all while Miyeon fucks herself on your hard cock, delighted at how easy it is to conceal everything in plain sight.)

-

“Um,” Yuqi says, walking into the living room of Miyeon’s apartment with her laptop precariously perched on her forearm.

You’re out there on a Wednesday, hanging out, kissing Miyeon every now and again, but talking mostly. The rationalization is that you’re practicing and memorizing lines, ironing out kinks that aren’t really there. Which is all how you know things are getting out of control, if not among the other hints: Miyeon’s added a spare toothbrush in the cup on your bathroom vanity, a pile of women’s laundry atop your washing machine that never grows any smaller, beauty products under the sink, and there’s all those damn bobby pins that show up in every corner of your apartment. “It’s just casual”, you overhear her say once, on the phone with Sana, and you do your best to never, ever think about it.

“You idiots, you’re trending.” Yuqi sits down on the sofa next to you, not at all disconcerted that you’ve got your hand in the ends of Miyeon’s hair or that she’s practically sitting in your lap. You learn pretty quick that Yuqi feels like she belongs anywhere. In some ways, that’s her charm. “And?” Miyeon asks, dismissive.

“Are you both insane?” Yuqi turns her laptop around so you can read her feed.

There’s a series of pictures on the screen attached to a headline that starts with breaking in bold capital letters, like its only true purpose is to fuck up the internet. Your eyes start on Miyeon first, the tilt of her chin, her fingers floating across her collarbones, smile radiant—looking at you the way she always does when she’s mentally undressing you. Fortunately, she’s still perfectly made up, hair tied up above her shoulders and the mascara under her eyes not quite yet running; this photo is before you made a mess of all that, gotten her moaning your name in the restroom. You’ve got your hand at the back of your neck, and you’re laughing. The glint in your eye screams complicity. 

Miyeon says emptily, “you’re overreacting.” 

Yuqi’s frown deepens fractionally, but you’re putting the pieces together. It’s pretty unhinged.

 “Christ,” you start, “get a look at some of these retweets: I’m just thinking of what those kids would look like, the genetic payout; fuuuuuuck I need to see that sextape.” You laugh. “Look, this one just says: sex.”

Miyeon leans forward in your lap, cheek nearly pressed against yours. “Here’s one: how much do you wanna bet Miyeon tops when they—”

Yuqi bursts out laughing, clearly almost snorts, and you both raise an eyebrow at her. “What? This girl here isn’t topping anyone.”

“Shut it.” Miyeon rubs her hand at her chin, turns her eyes up at you, and without an ounce of irony continues, “How much do you wanna bet? That these are your fans.”

Yeah, probably not, you think. “I’m sorry. Do you have any idea how my demographic skews? Not like your fans who are…” Miyeon’s face lights up. “Are delightful?” “Have a sock at home with Miyeon’s name on it?” Yuqi chimes in, grinning. “I mean if somebody wants to make a puppet of me,” Miyeon says, practically huffing out the words, “that’s not really any of your concern.”

Yuqi makes a face. You watch as she slowly twirls one of those long waves of pink hair around her finger (strawberry blonde, Miyeon called it, and you don’t know shit all about that, but it does sound pretty, so that fits, you guess). It goes all the way down to her waist, and you’ve noticed, possibly for a second or third time, that she looks killer in a pair of high cut jeans—what all with the long legs and an ass that more than plenty fills them out, she could be peddling denim on a Levi’s catalog.

“What should be your concern,” Yuqi says, “is that the internet thinks you’re getting railed on the regular.” It’s quick—blink and you’d have missed it—her eyes lingering for a moment on your expression before she lifts her chin and laughs, dryly, almost nervously to fill the silence. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

-

Yuqi’s expertise, first and foremost, is talking. Go ahead, take a moment to consider how wildly dangerous that is, for a girl with a face like hers and a body like that to be good at talking. Every so often you catch her staring at you with her huge, beautiful eyes, these deep pools of pure anthracite; the sort of charming that keeps you smiling and laughing without even knowing why. She’s equal parts badmash and coquettish, you realize, and somewhere in the seamlessness with which she swaps between the two is a hint that both are facades. (That there exists a third Yuqi, the one who determines which mask is appropriate for which occasion but who is otherwise veiled, obscured, entirely impossible to know.)

Whatever your theory for it, the charm, the innuendos, the suggestion, it all gets dialed up to eleven.

Yuqi suggests you stay for dinner in a way that is impossible to refuse, and Miyeon grumbles something inaudible, but you think you’re able to piece it together: this is a regular thing for them. Miyeon and you haven’t talked numbers or cleared up the bodycount, haven’t talked about anything serious at all—the most incriminating thing between you being Miyeon laying her head on your chest, cunt still full of your cum, saying, I’m really glad I met you—of all of Miyeon’s princes-in-waiting, you’d be a fool to think you were the first. And you’re willing to wager Yuqi’s done all this before.

“Hey, how do you take your whiskey?” she asks, pouring olive oil over a bowl of cherry tomatoes and chopping a sprig of fresh basil. If Miyeon wasn’t glaring at her, the quirk in Yuqi’s lip has you swearing she would’ve thrown a wink in your direction. Just for good measure.

“Neat is fine,” you tell her, and Miyeon rolls her eyes. -

It’s actually not true that Yuqi kisses you first. Not the whole truth anyway. “Hard to explain it in words, huh?” she asks, leaning into your space and nearly pushing you over the back of the sofa. Her knee is between your thighs, pressing up on your crotch in a way that feels good and threatening. She knows that’s the only thing she needs to keep you in place, so she leaves her hands at her chest, fingers toying with the top button of her shirt—ruminations of whether to unbutton it herself or wait for you to finally tear the whole thing off her.

(There’s a million different ways you could do this, but you’re perfectly content seeing how this plays out.)

“With just a few of them that is,” Miyeon says, drying her hands with a towel at the kitchen sink.

“Oh,” Yuqi starts, and her lips twist into an approximation of a smile. “You’re saying you two don’t have a label.”

“We’re coworkers technically,” you tell her, faux-casual, like it doesn’t beg twenty more questions.

“I don’t know; the internet thinks you guys are in fucking love.” Yuqi’s fingers come to a decision: slipping the button out of place with a little effort and resting at the next one down. Her neck is pale and tender and you’re only pulling away long enough from the glint in her big gorgeous eyes to know you want to get your lips on it. “And you’re telling me you wouldn’t be jealous—even a little—if I started sucking his cock.” 

She gets jealous easy, is how Yuqi explains it to you, freeing an ounce of soft cleavage, a sneak of black lace with another button. Look, it’s just chemistry—you have it with everyone. Who can fault you for it?

“Hm.” Miyeon shrugs, looking put upon, and leans back against the counter where she spends a long moment with her arms crossed, before running her thumb across her chin. “Can I mention something?” “Anything for our princess,” Yuqi says, finally touching you. Just two fingers at your sternum. “Right?” “Why is it you’re never the one bringing anyone home?”

“I’m not a slut,” Yuqi says, straight-faced, and Miyeon’s whole expression goes awry. That’s probably where she seals her fate.

Not that you think for a second Yuqi had recused herself from the attention of boys, girls—none of it in short supply—and for all her “fidelity”, you refuse to believe the things she does with her words are unintentional, that her talent for seduction is somehow innate, something god-given.

“How can you be so sure?” you ask, fingers threading through Yuqi’s hair until she tilts up her chin and smiles.

Eventually there comes a moment where Miyeon meanders around the kitchen island and gets a hold of you. Figuratively and literally; eyes hardened on you in a way you’re not sure you’ve seen before. 

Mine, is what she’s telling Yuqi in no ambiguous terms, hands hooking into the waist of your pants.  

“Tell me something,” Yuqi starts with your name on her lips, “does she beg for it? When you’re fucking her, does she whine and cry until she’s collapsed and panting? Really, I’m curious. Does she look at you with those pretty eyes and plead for you to pump her full of cum?”

“Yuqi,” Miyeon says, kind of sharply.

To be clear, you’re not totally without blame here either, seeing the opportunity as it appears, seizing it for yourself—and you say the words as you think them: “it’s kind of her thing, I guess.”

“Total cumslut, right?” Yuqi’s hands are all over your arms, your chest, and you’re spread in both directions, reaching around Miyeon’s waist, and toying at the tight fit of Yuqi’s jeans. She leans forward a little, side-eyeing the way Miyeon’s lip ever so slightly curls when she enters that anxious proximity a breath's distance away from you, whispering: “I’m nothing like that, I’m so much better.”

“You’ve got a real mouth on you,” Miyeon tells her, watching her shirt fall down her petite shoulders. “You know that?” Yuqi’s eyes are flaring hot, dripping with untoward intent, and they stay on you just long enough for her to make certain you’re paying attention before she turns to Miyeon. “I know you love this mouth.”

You realized it long before dinner, it’s true, probably long before today: Yuqi likes you, which, at present, is pretty obvious. She likes it when you smile, likes it when you rub your hand at the nape of your neck and laugh at her witty one-liners, likes it when you ruffle your hair just like you’ve done in front of the camera your whole life. Yuqi likes you just as Yuqi likes Miyeon, and she’s twisting her hand at your shirt tighter yet, hoping one of you might just kiss her. “Miyeon,” you say after an inhale, commanding tone right where you left it, and it’s comical how fast both girls heel. Isn’t that good to know. Filing it away in a mental folder of sorts, you straighten yourself onto your feet, slowly. The thing that ends up flipping the table—the thing that has Miyeon’s expression of general discontent rally to something a little more impending—is just how much taller you are than Yuqi. And when that hits her, swallow visible through the hollow of her throat, there’s a waver in that deadly expression of hers, a weakness, something you can exploit. Your hand finds purchase under Yuqi’s jaw, gently, and you tilt her face toward you like you’re about to kiss her. Only instead, you run your thumb across her lower lip and say, “I don’t blame you, her mouth is gorgeous.”

“And?” Yuqi finds her composure quickly. “What do you want this mouth to do?”

 “Oh, Yuqi,” Miyeon says, malice hidden under a voice tender and semi-sweet, before you can think to prepare an answer. She’s twisting Yuqi’s bra strap between her fingers as it comes down around her shoulder. “I want you to get me ready for his cock.”

“I,” Yuqi starts— 

“Hm?” Miyeon asks, and that’s a pitch in her voice you’ve never heard. You’re looking over both of them enigmatically, ready to walk away from this with a clear picture of who Yuqi is, obviously, but then it’s the expression on Miyeon’s face—so unbothered, so lewdly satisfied, you have to know more.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m just gonna watch.” Yuqi reaches up on her toes before Miyeon can react. 

Kisses you right in front of her.

-

It’s not really clear to you who, if anyone, is piloting this thing, only that it’s moving at near out of control speeds. And even though Miyeon’s bed isn’t even quite big enough to hold you all, that ends up doing little to slow either of them down. 

Miyeon is between your legs, preening a few strands of glossy hair back behind her ear that have real determination to keep falling in front of her face. You’d offer to help, to get your hands in it and pull tight, but you’ve come upon an acquired taste for the blowjob Miyeon’s barely giving you right now. A masterwork in its own right: a certain finesse in each flick of her tongue, the soft cushion of her pouty lips, the way every gentle kiss finds you that much fucking harder in her fingers. She drags her tongue up, tastes the pre-cum weeping from your cock. Just smiles like she knows how bad you want hold her tight and fuck her throat. The glint in her doe-like eyes tells you that you will.

She gets it. Terror lives in anticipation, not the bang. That sanguine expectation of pleasure becomes pleasure in of itself. Her instincts tell her to tease, tell her to kiss and lick; only when you’re finally shuddering a wet breath through your teeth, does she part her lips around the head of your cock and start to suck.

She takes in an inch, maybe another. Slides her tongue slowly under your cock, and christ, her mouth feels fucking amazing.

You sigh like you’re stepping into a hot bath, and Miyeon’s satisfaction is equally palpable: corners of her mouth stretching around you into a pretty little smirk, something you’re more than happy to feel running up and down your cock until she slacks her jaw and takes you in full, past her soft, wet lips.

Though when finally you look up, you realize Yuqi’s barely on the bed actually—just one knee and it looks precarious—unfazed that she’s spilling off the end; working her hands into the bottom of Miyeon’s skirt like she’s done it a thousand times. She drags her underwear down her thighs, and Yuqi reminds you that she’s got the exact kind of wicked streak that’ll never let an opportunity go to waste:

“Oh,” she says, head up over Miyeon’s ass, blinking in admiration, “she’s even buying new lingerie for you, huh? I didn’t realize how head over heels—”

“Jesus Christ.” Miyeon’s lips are still half complicating themselves with your cock; she pumps her slender fingers around you in consolation, and murmurs, “do you ever fuck? Or you all tease.”

“Well if you insist,” Yuqi purrs, a mean tilt to her voice—because in the end, she knows that she wants to; that with her small body right between you, like this, there's plenty of her to share; that when it comes to Miyeon, there always is. “Hm,” she hums, slipping a finger or two inside Miyeon’s pussy. Your vision of it being the way Miyeon’s face twists delightfully, eyebrows sewn together in a perfect discord with the rest of her angelic features. “Baby, you’re so wet—”

“She loves the attention,” you say, and Miyeon’s eyes track yours while she lowers her lips slowly down your shaft once more. “If I had to guess, the only thing better than me fucking her perfect little cunt, is if there’s an audience there to watch it.” Your hand rests below Miyeon’s ear, fingers kneading at the back of her neck and guiding her just enough so that her tongue is flat and slick where you want it. “Isn’t that right, princess?”

Yuqi separates her lips from Miyeon’s asscheek, that heavy, open-mouthed kiss at the curve of creamy skin coming to an end just long enough to catch you smirking. She’s fucking the girl’s cunt open with her fingers, slowly, reminding Miyeon that she doesn’t have it confused—that she knows she’s nothing like the princess everyone believes her to be, that she’s so much more. “Always such a good slut, baby. Go on, show me how you take that cock.” “How about you come over here,” you tell Yuqi, before looking back at Miyeon’s eyes, innocent and blinking like she isn’t taking you in and out between her tightly-sealed lips. “Help me cum in her throat.” At that, you feel Miyeon’s jaw slack open even further, and the fingers she has corkscrewing around you find room at your hips instead. It’s hard to get over how perfectly submissive she can be, the way this always plays out; you’ve never needed anything like safewords, because Miyeon trusts you implicitly. Trusts that you’d never, ever hurt her. Trusts that you’ll get your hard cock in her and fuck her until her knees are wobbling and she’s practically unable to walk. Trusts that you won’t even hesitate when she asks for more. Yuqi lands a few more kisses at Miyeon’s cunt, along her ass, and then, without warning, sinks her teeth into all that soft, pliable skin. Miyeon winces, something you can feel, a sharp moan becoming sealed in against your cock and leaking slightly between her lips like it’s the drool running down your shaft. Apparently the image of you firing off a salvo of cum deep in Miyeon’s throat is as hot as it sounds, because Yuqi is grinning like a cheshire cat as she slides off the bed. “I just hope you realize you’re on the docket for quite a lot here.”

“What’s that, high expectations?”

“A lot more than a throatpie,” Yuqi says, hopping onto the bed next to where you’re sitting, where you’re slowly fucking Miyeon’s mouth. Each time you lift her face up and down the length of your cock, you feel the back of her throat, start to catalog the noises she makes as she starts to slobber onto you.

“Yeah,” you say, fisting a second hand into Miyeon’s hair. “I was kind of counting on it.”

“Go figure.” Yuqi’s voice is low and raspy, right into your junction where your shoulder meets your neck. She reaches an arm around you, leaving ephemeral kisses at your jaw, your cheek, getting her lips right next to your ear, where she whispers, “you’re actually kinda depraved.”

“Well, welcome to showbiz, I guess.” “Hm,” Yuqi says, watching you shudder as her fingers arrive around the base of your cock, fucking you with them in tandem as you sleeve yourself in out of Miyeon’s hot mouth like she’s some toy to be used, to be fucked, to be ruined.

Your mouth opens and closes, twice, before sputtering, “I’m actually—”

“One of the normal ones?” Yuqi tightens her grip. She’s picking up all that slick drool and precum where it threatens to leak onto your waist, and it makes her touch every bit as life-endingly-incredible as the tight fit of Miyeon’s mouth. The combination of which has you groaning audibly.

“Yeah, sure,” you breathe, “something like that.” 

“And a narcissist too.” Yuqi pulls at your face to unstick your gaze from the sight of your cock disappearing between Miyeon’s soft, pretty lips. You recognize the touch of her hand as it wanders down to your balls, gently, but still very much present. And right after the silence stretches, just a little too far, she says, “aren’t you two just perfect for eachother.”

Yuqi kisses you hard. These sweltering, stinging, asphyxiating kisses that grab at your lips with no intention of letting go, and everything becomes oddly quiet. All you can hear, outside of those messy, strangled sounds from Miyeon’s throat as you fuck your cock into it, is the dull pulse of blood rushing through your head. It’s as if the two of them are pleasure in resonance, channeling onto the same wavelength: Miyeon’s tongue is doing just about fucking everything each time you pull your throbbing cock out of her throat, and she slips it past her lips—starts lapping—when you weave your fingers in her hair even tighter. She gets messier, sloppier, her composure fading like it’s the mascara beneath her eyes. You can feel the flutter of her lashes against your waist right as you pull her mouth back down your shaft. It’s hot and wet and you don’t even realize you start bucking your hips, dragging Miyeon’s lips around your cock quickly, quicker, quicker—

“God,” you mutter, final threads torn apart, and that’s the exact reaction that has Yuqi smiling against your teeth, whispering into your lips, can feel you fucking throbbing. Cum in her for me, cum in her throat. Cum.

Mnnph.

Yeah, that’ll push you right to the edge, teetering. In freefall, actually, jaw snapping shut first—fingers shortly after—you tug hard at where you’ve gathered slipshod pigtails of shimmering, silky-smooth hair, and Miyeon quite nearly chokes as you release everything into her mouth, deluge-like. You’re going to make a mess, you think. You’ll make more.

Mmnnppph.

Okay, it’s filthy is what it is; the sounds of it alone are fucking filthy. That seal of soft lips around you starts to break, leaving you with the flood of cum and spit spilling down your cock and into Yuqi’s fingers as Miyeon gasps at an overwhelmingly desperate draw of air. The struggle to swallow you down is beyond unreasonable, but she brings her mouth back onto you again—closes her eyes and sucks. 

“All of it,” Yuqi whispers still. That’s the kick, and your whole body commits to sighing as she jerks your cock into the wet heat of Miyeon’s mouth. She twists gently, pumping, pulling, fucking every last bit of tension out of your muscles and draining it thoroughly into Miyeon’s throat.

(So that’s what you like, is how you think Yuqi says it, eyes studying your torn expression in equal parts apathy and awe.

She licks your cum off the sharp edge of her knuckles, from between her fingers, and she glances down at where Miyeon is still lapping her tongue at sensitive skin and sucking and cleaning you between her lips. Her lipstick is smeared, makeup running, with tears visible at the ends of her lashes, her cheeks still burning hot and embered. Miyeon looks perfect in many ways, but only flawless in one.)

“Good lord.” Yuqi’s eyes are creased in laughter near the end of your recovery, lighting fast and pulling you over Miyeon’s delicate frame. It’s the kind of laughter that’s genuine and contagious. Sweetly harmonic.

Calling you to join in while you glide your cock between Miyeon’s thighs and press the small of her back into her mattress until she’s practically prone to the bed, tight little ass angled up, proffering, and simply begging for you to pound away. 

“And I mean this in the most respectful way possible,” Yuqi says, with a hair tie between her teeth and fixing back her long waves into something more manageable, hoping it might be something you can pull and yank. What’s the saying—a brave man dies once, but a coward ought to know that Yuqi will always, always, always get what she wants.

“You two are actually really fuckin’ weird.” Her eyes are smoldering, lips quirked into a careless little grin. “I love it.”

-

“Alright, I’m going to have to ask,” Miyeon says, “do I need to be worried about this?”

Someone probably should be. The realization you’re hurdling into is that there exists both a waking up with Yuqi and a waking up with Yuqi, much in the same way there exists both a sleeping with Yuqi and a sleeping with Yuqi.

The three of you do first wake up together, just this ridiculous tangle of limbs that really only has one realistic conclusion, and when Miyeon reminds you—bent over the bathroom sink minutes later and cumming on Yuqi’s fingers—she has to be at the studio in an hour to refilm a few of her over-the-shoulders shots, and it’s not fair that you get to laze around all day, and that her manager is literally going to be here to pick her up any minute, Yuqi and you do the most natural thing in the world. You continue waking up.

You wake up in the shower, on the kitchen island, back again in Miyeon’s room since it’s already kind of fucked up anyway; Yuqi wakes you up all while her knuckles turn white around the door handle of the refrigerator, the back of the living room sofa, and it’s not really that convincing when she turns to Miyeon, one eye shut tight, and tells her, “no, not at all.”

Because when you try to voice something similar, your words get caught pretty deep in your throat, stuck and unmoving. That's become pretty familiar. It’s all pretty fucked, actually.

Yuqi’s on her knees in front of you, fist tight around your cock and jerking all this hot cum onto her face. There’s sin tucked everywhere into these pages. Particularly on her nose, her lips, her cheek, bisecting one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows. You have your proclivities. The tendency toward destruction, toward ruin, and what is Yuqi if not a gorgeous masterpiece begging for someone, anyone to be just a little destructive and ruinous. She flinches every time it hits her, pumping her fingers around your cock again until a rope of creamy white flies right into her pink hair. 

We’re fine, is what you tell Miyeon, huffing and repeating yourself: “We’re fine, I’ll catch you later.”

Miyeon crosses her arms, and that’s when it becomes a little clearer. The juxtaposition here is striking and immediate: black heels, black leggings, pencil skirt, prim and pressed white-collared shirt, the cute little suit jacket that fits barely over her dainty shoulders—she’s dressed head to toe in business casual like she’s about to put in eight hours hole-punching or making copies or writing emails and it’s so effortlessly sexy that the only thing that could possibly distract you from it—

“He’ll be fine,” Yuqi says, not even chagrined in the slightest that she’s fucking covered in cum. You watch her stand up, wipe her eyelashes free of mess with the back of her forearm, and start leading you to the window with her wrist still flexing out tiny motions around your cock. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

“Just a reminder,” Miyeon shouts, even-pitch and tone slightly indignant, which makes a lot of sense. “You promised you’d sit in for my line reads.”

“And I will.” 

It’s almost idiotic—here you are, the expert in the room, a professional in spinning ludicrous little lies, purveyor of fantasy and fiction and fuck if it’s not obvious that you’re planning on fucking Yuqi’s pretty little cunt until you’re both forgetting how to function. Miyeon reads that from across the room. From where the stench of sex is so heavy it’s probably hitting her too.

“Oh relax princess,” Yuqi says to her, and her lips slant to something more mischievous. Her shoulders are slumped back against the pane of glass and she’s rubbing the head of your cock through the soaked folds of her pussy. Neither of you are in search of ideas, for inspiration. Want for nothing. You’ll fucking ruin this little cunt—get me screaming and so addled I can’t speak straight, Yuqi’s telling you with just the corner of her mouth, curling. 

You grab hold of Yuqi, grappling with her for a moment before you spin her around in your hands—until her tits are plastered onto the window. It’s a show of force, a drill in shock and awe admittedly, but also you’ve got two perfect rows of bite marks above your collarbone. Honest to god, a full dental record, right in your shoulder. You sense the inspiration in it. Yuqi fucks like there’s inspiration in it, like she’s trying to kill you, in a way, but you’re paid for maintaining an image just a tad more wholesome than that. Ideally with a little less blood where a camera could catch it.

“Jesus christ,” Miyeon says, tapping away at her phone. “You guys are gross.”

“He promised. Didn’t he?” Yuqi mutters against the pane, the condensation in her breath fogging immediately. If that isn’t a perfect preview of what you’ll do to her. Perfectly premeditated by the way she fucking keens when you slip back inside her tight cunt. And Miyeon is very unimpressed with all of it: “Yeah okay, whatever, I don’t care, stay hydrated or something. I’m going to wait downstairs.”

“Told you,” Yuqi purrs, grinning all over you, in the breadth of quiet that the door leaves slamming shut behind Miyeon—stage exit, fade to black; you know that sometimes the magic of film isn’t what’s shown on camera, but rather what isn’t. 

“Told me what?” you ask, still enthralled by how Yuqi is so small underneath you, how when you’re both reaching for control, you don’t really even care if she beats you to the draw.

She gets jealous, Yuqi’s trying to explain, in between the sounds of you fucking her open and raw. You hesitate. Like you haven’t always had that effect on people, blossomed into blessing, complexed into curse. You reach your hand up Yuqi’s ribs, her chest, around her throat, and let your words bite at her ear: “oh, I think you will too.”

-

“I get hate mail,” you tell Miyeon. You’re on set the following week, ducking out of the path of a mic boom that is swinging way too fucking low, and there’s this story trending that heavily suggests you and Miyeon are knocking boots and it has a few disheartened fans absolutely outraged. “Like physical hate mail, in envelopes and stamped and everything.”

“It’s because of the stubble,” she says, rubbing a finger under your jaw. The girl in charge of costuming is adamant that beard prosthetics are lazy and cheap and you are neither. Even if you need it for only one scene. “It makes you look…”

“Uncouth?”

“Rakish,” she says, blinking. And as an afterthought: “Like, of all your thoughts, the one you have of pulling my shirt up and kissing at my tits until they’re sore is somehow the least vulgar.” 

Her shoulders pull up into the slightest shrug. “I mean I’m into it,” she adds.

“That’s not fair,” you tell her, “I’m not considering anything like that.”

Miyeon pulls you aside and up one of set’s staircases to nowhere, fingers warm at the crook of your elbow, and says, “well, it’s all I can fucking think about.”

-

Take a second for some personal reflection: you’ve never really tried to make a habit of anything and at the same time been successful. When it happens, it just kind of happens. We are what we repeatedly do.

In a way, it all started in public, this thing between you and Miyeon. Your roots are here, out with the blurs of passing people, daring to be seen, to be recognized, to be identified. You had long thought—and think, you do, particularly when doing the unthinkable—that a girl like Miyeon would steer away from the prospect; fucking you instead in private, comfort realized in the security of drawn curtains and shuttered blinds. A stark contrast to the part of your lives lived out in the open, subject to scrutiny and skepticism, unguarded from microscopic observation.

She only has everything to lose, you understand. And you aren’t more than a few paces behind her either. Reckless, she’s muttering while you sink to your knees and get your fingers up her skirt, so reckless—like this whole thing isn’t her idea.

The crazy part about all this that you actually do get caught. Not just one time either. 

You’ll bring it up in discussion with Soyeon later, when you run into her at the movie’s premier event and you’ve realized the value of having a good confidant:

“I literally told you one thing,” she’ll say, hands on her hips and looking like the mother that has to call the school, has to call the parent of the window you’d shattered with a baseball. It’ll all be highly disappointing. You are unbelievable—is what she won’t be able to say, even though she’ll really, really want to—I told you not to sleep with Miyeon and you slept with Miyeon why would you sleep with Miyeon you absolute moron.

-

There’s the time on set: in a fucking storage closet of all places. You’ve got Miyeon laid back on a table, fucking her slowly. Her panties are in her mouth, and the toes of her foot are curling against your cheek. It starts with a kiss, which most people might consider poetic, just your lips against a heel, the narrow bend of her arch to where she’s got her delicate toes perfectly colored in pastel white; Miyeon’s too cock-addled to do anything like comment on the fact you take them between your lips, slowly, and again, sucking, kissing her feet until she laughs at the way it tickles.

“Oh my god,” a voice says. One of the production assistants. “Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry.”

-

There’s the time in the woods near where you’re shooting a few of the outdoor scenes. You’re stepping out of a tall brush, and Miyeon’s cheeks are so red, glistening in sweat and cum and there’s a technician running an extension cord to god knows where to hook up more lights to the rigging.

“Um,” he says, just staring and unwinding more cord.

“We were looking for her earring,” you tell him.

“In the fucking woods?” He laughs out loud, just this self-amused grunt of a laugh. “Did you find it?”

You actually can’t look him in the eye, and Miyeon is just standing there, mortified. Your forehead creases a puzzled line and you say, with absolute conviction: yes.

-

“Jesus christ, Miyeon.” You swivel on your stool in your dressing room. Think possibly to kneel, but you know what might happen if she sees you on your knees, supplicating.

Let the record show, you and Miyeon are on day six of your self-imposed moratorium—the ban that prohibits the two of you fucking eachother at work, so it’s not like it’s the fastest capitulation in the world either.

Miyeon does a spin, pleated hem of a navy blue plaid skirt flaring out to the sides—how do I look?

There are answers in your throat, no doubt—like sin, like fantasy, like a submissive, fuckable fantasy. Like it should be illegal.

“Uh—I mean,” you nearly stammer, massaging your thumb into your temple. It’s certainly not natural for you to be here, on the back foot, and it has Miyeon’s mouth slanting into a predictable smirk. In an almost inexcusably banal act, she puts a fingernail to her teeth and shimmies her waist so that you’re lost to the moment, tracking how the skirt’s fabric ruffles between her legs.

Is it the fact that some maniac in costume has gone and put her in a school uniform?

Yes. 

That's a great deal of what’s going on here, which is a whole fucking lot. Is it the way her shoulders vanish in a tailored blazer with a nostalgia-inducing insignia above the breast pocket—her fingers poking out from the cuffs and toying at the lapels? Is it that the dress shirt beneath it is made of the cheapest cotton one could find (because the thing doesn’t really need to hold up over multiple washes) so you can see how her stomach flattens, that gentle rise in her chest, the sharp angle of her collarbones, all when the light catches it just right? There’s the stockings, dress shoes, a fucking ribbon in her hair and you’re ignoring the fact that the tie around her neck is a little loose and you might be able spin it over her shoulders and tighten your grip and—

“Cute, right?” She skips across the room and perches on your knee. Really selling it.

“I’m curious,” you say, looking for a narrow gap, something to stow away into, something that might take your mind off the fact that when you look at Miyeon, you’re transposing and overlaying images of an eleventh grade crush, and that’s not a mood you were prepared to be whipped into at just the flash of blue plaid and a charcoal blazer. “When was the last time you wore a ribbon in your hair?” 

“Oh gosh.” One corner of Miyeon’s mouth frowns, ruminating. She hovers her hand up to her ponytail, twisting it gently until it bounces back into place. “It’s been such a long time actually, I don’t know, seventeen, eighteen years old?”

Okay, that’s certainly not helping. A more direct approach, perhaps: “what are you doing, Miyeon?”

“Oh,” she says, nonchalant, because isn’t it obvious, “I’m here to get fucked.”

This is trouble, and among other things, a perversion, you think, but your mouth is too dry to say any of that, and Miyeon leans in and places her fingers beneath your jaw. Tilts your chin and presses her lips to yours, gentle, feather-light.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand.

Shifting slightly, the inside of Miyeon’s thigh presses to the outside of yours, only ever the slightest movement, and it has you sighing into her mouth. It’s impossible to decide whether you ought admire her confidence or find fault with her gall. She’s a delightful lapful—and a handful, and a mouthful—so you’ll flirt with danger, abandon those last vestiges of inhibition, and lean into the former rather than the latter.

Miyeon’s breath lands against your lips, hitching as the kiss breaks.

“Look,” you say, lip smacking back into place when she finally lets it free. There’s a response, bubbling up from your gut, because on one hand, this is the exact kind of impropriety you were hoping to avoid. And on the other, well, nothing ventured, nothing lost—you suppose. Your eyes are flicking to the top buttons of her shirt, collar agape and that gentle invitation of cleavage snuck behind it.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon says, inches from your face, and she starts to laugh. “You have grays in your beard.”

“No there aren’t.”

“I’m serious.” She wraps her hand around your cheeks, and twists your face to the vanity mirror, like it’d be helpful. “Look,” she says, twice, pulling her lip between her teeth and staring at your reflection.

“Those are stress grays,” you amend, before turning back and shifting her weight more comfortably into your lap, soft thighs straddling yours. “Just to be clear, I’m barely any older than you are.”

“Older,” she says, smiling.

“Don’t have to dwell on it.”

“I mean there’s a silver lining to that though.” Miyeon’s fingers are spread across your face, thumbs gently rubbing into your cheekbones. She’s close enough for you to forget her manager is going to come looking for her at some point or another. “Just means I can call you daddy, and it won’t be weird.”

“Uh.”

“You know,” she adds, sliding her fingers over your ears and pressing a kiss into your jaw, “while we’re doing it.”

“No, I understood that part.” You give her another once over and firm your hands on her waist to stop her from grinding her hips any further into yours. “I’m not sure it’s age that potentially makes it weird.”

“Come on,” she says, letting her voice slip into that slightly deepened register that suggests not only will she disobey you, but you’ll love every second of it. “I know you love to play with me.”

“It’s not a trick question. What are you asking for here, Miyeon?”

“Sex,” she says.

“Yes,” you answer, blinking back at her, expression skeptical. “I was there for that part of the conversation. It was about sixty seconds ago, if I recall.”

She lifts your chin, looks straight in your eyes, and asks, “and?”

“I’m just trying to puzzle out what you're telling me.” You slide your fingertips past the waist of her skirt and onto her ass. The quiet hum of satisfaction in Miyeon’s throat says you’re getting warmer. “What it is you want.”

“Any ideas?” she presses again, the lilt in her voice filling you with hundreds—the countenance behind it providing even more. Her hips grind into you further, bucking toward your waist and silencing the anxious distance between you.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Your hand snakes around the curve of Miyeon’s ass, down to where her underwear feels hot and unmistakably damp, where you can feel the shape of her lips through the fabric and the heat smoldering between them. There’s a tiny wanton whine from her throat when you circle your fingers; a sharp draw of air past her teeth when you apply a little more pressure. “Want my fingers inside of you? Hmm?”

Miyeon nods almost immediately.

You kiss her. Slide your mouth over her lips and recognize the strawberry in her lip gloss and hold onto your exhale, breathing the same air. Her eyes open first, lashes brushing yours. “You want me to fuck you, Miyeon.”

“Want you to tell me what to do,” she says, and without even running the word experimentally around her mouth, without testing its taste or the way it feels on her tongue, she fixes her dark brilliant eyes on you, saying, “want daddy to tell me what to do.”

You’ve got all this about nature and nurture running amuck in your head to the backdrop of the sound of a large cable snapping. It’s dangerous. It’s not like you, you’re not the type, you’re telling yourself, and a lot of other rubbish that isn’t concerned by the fact that Miyeon’s here, fucking dressed like this, ponytail bobbing, ribbon in her hair begging to come undone—

Lock the door, you say to her, and she does. Turn around. Take your jacket off, and she pauses first, before twisting her arms from the sleeves and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. You’ve got a hand outstretched as she walks toward you; your panties, hand them over, and she reaches down beneath her skirt, rolling her underwear down her smooth thighs, her calves, eyes never once leaving yours—watching you watch her. 

Sit.

Touch yourself. 

Slowly; slower—

It’s almost ridiculous. You’ve hardly even laid a hand on her, and she’s got her eyes looking up at you like you’d just set all her biological clocks an hour forward, cranked up to ten-minutes-to-midnight, and replaced all her coherent thoughts with just one simple thing: how bad she needs you to cum in her cunt.

She’s settled at the front of the vanity counter, feet against your chest, head tilting back against the mirror, and she’s gently slapping her own pussy with the pads of her fingers, covered and wet in her own anticipation. Your hands are nothing like hers—these slender, delicate things—and it’s driving her up the wall. You’re spreading her thighs, opening her up, bringing the roughness in your fingers, the heel of your palm so close. Miyeon can’t help it.

“You’re such a slut,” you tell her, watching her shove one, two fingers past the glistening lips her pussy—biting back a laugh as she starts to fuck herself slowly for you. “And already this fucking wet.”

Miyeon just smiles, eyes hooded and looking at you with such perfectly sinful intent. “I thought that’s how daddy likes his little girl.”

(Don’t get it confused: it’s never been a challenge to play a character, to be someone you are not, to emotionally identify and aspire to the details of a part. But this is different. This is seamless. This is you leaning into that space, living in it, loving it. A physical part of you. Genuine and true.)

You grapple Miyeon’s wrist, pulling her hand away from the want of her pussy, denying her all of that friction. She whines, but puts up little to no fuss when you bring her hand to her face and clear your voice of anything that doesn’t inspire authority—deliver an order, sternly, with her fingers in her mouth, suck.

“Here’s a lesson.” You click your tongue as she closes her eyes and sets her jaw in motion to clean her own slick off her nails, her knuckles. “The only thing that goes in my princess’s cunt, is daddy’s cock.”

“In that case,” Miyeon says around her fingers still between her lips, a smile spreading across all of her perfected features—voice lilting, reeling you in, sinking its teeth into your skin: I think daddy’s going to have to punish me.

Oh, you’re one step ahead of her, thinking of all the ways how, and the sound of your zipper coming undone makes Miyeon's eyes go wide with want, with need. Her petite, perfect, fuckable body still locked away behind fabric, she starts hiking her skirt even higher up her hips, lazily unfastening the buttons of her shirt. 

You tell her to put her feet together, wrapping a grip onto her stockings and pulling her legs closed—twisting them to the side and letting her heels clack together over your shoulder. The gentle motion of your thumb between her thighs gets her sucking a sharp draw of air. Always so vocal Miyeon is at the slightest provocation.

Your cock is harder than it’s ever, ever been; harder yet as you tease it at the folds of Miyeon’s entrance, pushing it against sensitive skin and earning you pleased little chirrups from deep in her chest, repeating, “yes, yes, yes—”

She’s only halfway down the buttons on her shirt, collar gaping open and lolling to the sides of her soft shoulders, sliding partway downway her arms, and then it’s that fucking tie still loosely hanging around her neck—so impossibly irresistable. The motion is practiced, near effortless: you slip right into the tight embrace of her creaming cunt. When she makes it through the length of a heavy breath through pursed lips, you sink even in further.

“Oh, this pussy is fucking incredible,” you sputter, voice come to reckon with the fucking bind that is Miyeon’s body, coiling beneath your weight the deeper you cock reaches inside her. “I don’t know that I could ever punish you. Maybe I should just spoil you, princess; get on my knees and make you cum on my mouth instead—”

“No.”

“What was that?” you coax, fucking into her cunt slowly, and your little girl growls at you. You can’t help but chuckle, making a tight grasp of the tie around her neck, and start to twist. 

Miyeon’s flushed all over, eyes glassy, but emblazoned still, a spark of defiance in those deep shimmering pools that makes her all the more alluring. Her lashes flutter—whole body tensing in response—as your thighs crash into her, cock deep inside the tight grip of her cunt.

She feels amazing.

“Yes, please,” she tells you, huffing out the words and changing her tune as you begin to let her have you, let her revel in the determined rhythm of you fucking her like she’s come to expect. “God, yes, daddy please…”

It’s so easy to fuck Miyeon—muscle memory and learned behavior—so easy to sink your fingers into her ass, her thighs, her tits, wrap your arms around her waist and start fucking her so quickly it has her pussy so wet it’s not even slowing you down in the slightest when you pull harder on the tie around her neck, draw her writhing body into you, and start to use her.

“You’re fucking, god, you’re fucking tearing me open,” she tells you with her brows sinking over eyes screwed shut, “it feels so fucking good—tell me, do you like fucking me? Do you like fucking your little slut?

“Fucking love it,” you whisper against her ear.

It doesn’t even cross your mind for a second, whether she wanted to be fucked like this, wanted to be used and choked and pounded so hard her legs buckled and her muscles ached and she could barely remember her own name—she landed in your lap, flirted with this danger, both of you immediately aware of what all it entailed. 

Miyeon didn’t just invite it, the girl fucking craves it.

Just like this, she’s muttering, voice barely rasping into anything audible under the weight of your grip, fuck your little slut just like this—bathing your cock in the delicious cream and slick of her pussy so that you might fuck it all back into her. When she starts moving like this, body shaking in quakes and quivers, voice woven into her mewls and moans, you know she’s so fucking close, only in want of a little encouragement—

“There you go, good girl,” you breathe against her lips, kissing them abruptly, before letting her weight fall back to the vanity counter with just the slightest release of the tie in your fist. “Cum for me, princess, I know you want to—know you want to cum all over daddy’s cock. You’re practically sobbing for me, baby. Go ahead, just cum.”

Sheltered somewhere in quiet of those sloppy, wet, lewd sounds, the score of your cock sliding in and out of Miyeon, is the strangled cry that sneaks out of her throat, gasping: “cumming, I’m fucking cumming, please, I—god.”

Accentuated by the fact that her arms are still halfway trapped in the cotton of her shirt, she can’t do a thing from underneath you. She’s near trapped under the weight, the sheer tempo of at which you’re ruining her cunt. You’re ripping your name in moans and prayers off her lips and she can hardly move beyond that slight squirm in your arms, writhe in the way you mold her to you, overcome in pleasure at how she’s left so full, perfectly remade to the shape of your cock.

Her fingers are splayed across your ribs, holding you, bracing against you, and none of it’s anything you haven’t told her before—so pretty, take it so well, your cunt’s perfect, you’re perfect, so good sweetheart—but in aggregate, taking the length your cock, taking all of you, she shatters apart.

Your hands are on her cheeks, thumbing strands of tousled hair ever-so-gently back into place, and you’re feeling the way her skin burns bright red, feeling the way she gasps for air in shallow pants, feeling her cunt clench hard around you. It’s the moments like these, where she’s delicate to touch, soothed only by your lips pressed to the tip of her nose, her forehead—finding comfort in the arm she swings over your shoulders—she’s so wildly beautiful. 

“So fucking—” She lets her voice even out, and after multiple attempts, gets the words she wants in the right order: “so good, how do—so fucking good baby, how do you want? Cum. How do you want to cum?”

“Could fucking paint your pretty face,” you tell her, moving your hips back to life and fucking into her soaked, messy cunt slowly. The way you push a kiss into her soft lips—now wet and slightly swollen from how she’d been biting them—is a little at odds with the suggestion.

“Ha. I think I get it,” Miyeon starts, the shy smile filling her mouth taking over the shape of her ragged huffs and pants, “we throw daddy around a few times, and suddenly you’re afraid to cum inside me, is that it?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s not it at all.” The fact that she’s recovered an ounce of resolve, chip steadily reappearing on her shoulder, is nothing more than a facade, and you’re drawing back the curtain, finding her body still wracked, plenty malleable, puddied and easy to manipulate with a firm grip around her waist. “Let me show you.”

“And just what is it that I’m—” 

Miyeon’s voice breaks almost immediately as you turn her over in your hands. Her knuckles hit the vanity counter and her legs wobble where they land precariously on the floor. She’s so wet and well-fucked that the mess you’d made of her cunt is effortless to slip back into. You allow her more, pushing in as deep as you’ll go, faster than she can blink, faster she can think to protest. It’s the angle that makes her back arch with surprised, sudden pleasure. The depth that makes her eyes shut tight, a gasp not quite making it past her lips. 

Watch.

She can see it all, in the perimeter of fluorescent bulbs, reflection staring back at her. The way her porcelain skin lights aflame. There’s sweat beading across her forehead, blonde hair darkening at its roots. Her lips are parted slightly, tender swell cushioning the bite of her teeth—her eyes are hooded, chin tilting, and she’s watching herself moan and curse as you start to fuck her. She’s perfect, and she knows she’s perfect.

You pull her skirt forward over the round of her ass, fingers sunk into the soft skin, and fuck her harder, until the counter is shaking with it, until she’s crying out, any concept of shame or embarrassment long forgotten. 

“Oh, please,” she starts, settling into your cadence, feeling delighted at the way you fill her.

Her fingers are white-knuckled as she clings to the edge of the counter, and in between breathless little noises, these sharp gasps and whines or another, between the unyielding motions of your cock in her cunt, she writhes.

“Please, please, please, please make me cum again,” she barely manages, blathering and stuttering over her own words. “Please use this little cunt, fucking use me, fuck me, fill me—”

“Anything for my princess,” you say, and after pressing a long row of kisses into the curve of her spine—a heavy kiss of your lips into the sharp edge of her shoulder—you bring a hand to the back of her neck, the slippery-smooth locks of hair already bundled and begging for your fist, becoming your grip.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon mutters, watching her body bend to your will, arching backward into your cock and becoming flush all over. Her eyes flick up to yours, begging you to fill her deeper, fuck her faster, fuck her harder. “Daddy please…”

The way her cunt sleeves onto your cock is so hot, so wet, so unbelievably tight, especially when the fingers woven in her hair flex taut—and so does she—how could you ever think to do anything but?

You pull harder on her hair, tension building in the curving bow of her body, arching further and further into submission. Her face is close enough for you to kiss, to lean into her ear, to whisper, “Miyeon, baby, I’m going to make you cum again. Gonna make you cum all over my cock. Be a good girl for me and take it.”

Miyeon’s voice is flooded, drenched and soaked in meek cries. More so by the minute. She’s whining and gasping and fighting for air like she hasn’t been coached a thousand times on how to keep a clean image. Beyond the curses and filth, the nonsensical string of obscenities falling off Miyeon’s lips, it’s gratitude: “thank you, thank you, thank you, please keep fucking me, please just use me—”

It’s obscene, filthy, it’s practically pornographic–-all framed for her to see. Miyeon’s costume is still barely clinging to her tiny frame, coming off in pieces. And you’re sliding your hand across her smooth stomach, up her ribs and hooking fingers between the cups of her bra, until it comes down far enough around her waist that it simply unclasps and falls to the floor. Every time bring your hips forward, fuck your cock harder into her cunt, you track the movement of her body in the mirror: shoulders lurching, mouth gasping, tits shaking—Miyeon recoiling. 

Even the ribbon in her hair can’t stand against the intensity of it, untangling from her ponytail and falling to the counter, defeated.

Beauty is a picture in motion, and Miyeon is nothing if not elegant. You slow your pace to admire her, hands at her breasts, her waist, still holding firm around her hair and curling her body into your control. She whines louder when you kiss her temple, rasping against the sweat building in her hair. “Make yourself cum for me baby, fuck your little cunt on my cock until you cum again.”

“God,” Miyeon rasps, nodding slightly against you with her eyes carefully fixed on her reflection, and she starts to roll her hips—fucking herself and choking back a whimper every time she finds where it’s mind-numbingly sensitive, where she’s wet and needy and begging for the hard shape of your cock. It’s unbelievable how desperate she ruts against you, grinding her way to her own release.

“Such a good girl for me.” You’re reaching a hand down to her cunt, the hot mess between her legs, and you’re slipping your fingers around where your cock is inside her, skating your thumb across her aching lips, barely touching her clit—

“I’m gonna cum,” she moans out, breathless, “you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

A final kiss at the hot skin beside her temple, your nose in her hair—drowning in the sweet stench of her sweat, her sex—you’re telling her, “I know I am princess,” and when you release the grip you’ve made of her hair, Miyeon collapses, palms flat over the countertop.

It’s hard to miss, all written on Miyeon’s reflection in front of you, cheeks exquisitely red, lips slacking as she cums, brows twisting together and eyes heavily lidded—and that’s just what you can see. You fuck her quivering cunt, thrusts coaxed into this reckless chase as she spasms around you—holding tight to her waist, fucking her faster and faster until your cock is aching and you’re hunched over her, telling her what she’s been dying to hear: “I'm so close to cumming in your cunt sweetheart, you'll be so filled up and perfect that way, princess.”

There’s no mistaking it. Pleasure palpable in the reflection in front of you, eyes smoldering and holding onto you. The hold she has on your cock, the vice that is her cunt around you—it shouldn’t even be possible to feel this fucking amazing—is far and away too good for you to do anything else: you grab her hips, fuck hard and fast into Miyeon’s sopping cunt, and on a thrust deep and unrelenting, you let go. You can barely even register the way your cock pulsates, firing shot after shot into her tight hole.

Miyeon’s still stuttering and gasping for breath when she feels your cum pool inside her. Even like this, wracked, writhing, and barely held together, she’s breathtaking.

“God, fuck, it’s so good,” she cries out, face still spun in pleasure, in ecstasy, feeling you spill more and more inside her. “Can feel you cumming so much, daddy.”

And that’s how you stay, pouring want and jittery contentment into the air by way of your ragged breathing alone, for the remainder of the minute, the hour, what ultimately ends up feeling far too short. 

Her knees buckle and if you weren’t still pressing bruises into her hips, she’d sink to the floor, a hot mess, a real meltdown of a girl. So she remains right where she is as you soften slowly inside of her, until she has to nudge you off. And as you finally pull out, there’s cum still leaking from your slit, and you catch a glimpse of more leaking out from between her soft, reddened thighs, just a few drops that land on the floor, enough to make something inside you tighten with want.

You kiss her one last time, and say, “c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

-

“You need to come up with a better excuse than I needed to get fucked for when you show up like you are to costume,” you say a few minutes later, dabbing at Miyeon’s forehead with a handtowel. “They won’t be too thrilled with me messing up their handiwork.”

Miyeon leans forward in your lap, reaching around your shoulders and placing kisses into the broad shape of your shoulder. “I love the way you mess me up.”

You almost open your mouth again, to lodge a complaint, but nothing comes out.

(You’ve long avoided looking backward, the introspective stuff, the kind of thinking that makes your heart begin to ache in all sorts and manners of cliche. It’s difficult to look straight at the image, to take it in all at once—so full of regret and missed chances.

But for the first time in as long as you can remember, you believe in the things you’re afraid to say. As though you’re more than the weight of all your memories, that the darkness can remind you of where light can be. This is not the end of you, you remember, this is the beginning.

As though you fell so you could land next to her.)

-

It hits you in the middle of a workday. Nothing cathartic or dramatic about it like you’ve come to expect. Dramatic lighting, theatrical score, the meticulous scripting from a team of writers—there’s none of that; which is how you know it’s real.

Miyeon’s watching herself on the monitor. 

And there’s a part of it, you’ve come to understand, that never quite goes away, like listening to how your voice plays back on a recording, the uncertainty, those pangs of doubt—but you wonder, if perhaps, Miyeon can manage to enthrall and captivate even the greatest cynic, quiet her own insecurities and enchant even herself. She nods every now and again, wets her lips with her tongue when she hears her delivery, and furrows her brow. 

It’s not like that.

The sort of girl whose kisses can spin straw to gold—taste of liquor when she’s not even had any to drink—Cassis, juniper berries, gumdrops, sugar cane and molasses, all soft and steamy and sugary sweet. Quote, unquote. That’s what you said.

Don’t—

Please look at me when I tell you I love you. Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed, you will never be lovelier than you are now, we will never be here again.

The whole studio is watching it: the triumph of your lips on hers, holding her softly and kissing her like if you closed your fingers she might shatter into a million pieces. All they did was hold the camera, and it saw what it saw.

Miyeon looks at you, rubs your knuckles with her thumb and says, “you don’t like it.”

Something’s off.

“You think we need one more take?”

(It doesn’t really make sense—the fact that you can’t put a finger on it is bothering you more than anything else. It’s clean, perfect even; smells like a swimming pool: a bleached sea salt, a flower with chemical petals; and not in a good way. Looked at from another perspective, the scene is just as it’s written, as it was rehearsed, but you’re hesitating. And you don’t know why.)

“You think we need one more,” Miyeon says again, inquisitive.

You make a face, and Miyeon squeezes your fingers.

“Yeah. Okay. You think we need one more.”

“I suppose,” you say mildly, “if it’s not too much of a hassle.”

It’s not as simple as that. At least the way you see it. It rarely is. A better guy could probably recognize what it is you’re feeling and put it into words, but you are not a better guy. Spend too much time living on the words of characters and in the confines of a scene, you start to lose sense of the bigger picture. There’s you—outside of the frame, strangely unfamiliar at times, unknowable right now. There’s Miyeon, and she’s not just gorgeous and perfect like everyone knows her to be; she’s gorgeous and perfect to you.

“Here’s what I think,” Miyeon starts, staring straight through you, a pulsing rush of longing—the whisper, irresistible, magic that could make the sanest man go mad. You just want to hear me say I love you one more time.

Everyone’s eyes are glued to the monitors, witness to the story that is you and her, but you’re looking at Miyeon, directly at her, for once not even lost in the details—simply lost in everything, like a stone down a well. It does scare you. That of all things, she might be right.

-

The incident, as it will later be known, is more realistically a sequence of events, but no one has ever been interested in anything other than how it ends. 

(It's always the changes we don’t ask for that change everything.)

There are just a handful of scenes and shots that need to be filmed on location on an island in the Maldives, one that is just about everything you’ve grown to resent. Garishly extravagant resort, beaches of white sand so combed and manicured they yearn to be trampled, and the only locals in sight are either changing sheets or caked up in makeup and hanging around the hotel bar from the twilight hours of the evening and into the early morning. A real lovely place, you admit, maybe you’ll come back never.

It’s as if the universe cashes in on your bad karma all at once via the series of unfortunate events: your flight’s delayed, a storm turns a three hour layover into a two day nightmare, your bags get lost. And the moment you step onto the tarmac, the heat punches you right in the gut, and upon curling over in defeat, the humidity figures it’ll kick you right in the head—this all, by the way, before you find out the air conditioning in your room is fucked beyond repair and the hotel staff have no interest in helping you fix it.

When a series of mistakes has you shooting a scene over and over until you’re pretty sure it’s fruitless—that the exhaustion has brought you to your knees—you quickly find yourself starting to slip.

Miyeon’s standing next to the director, watching the scene playback, and hearing her say, “that’s better,” while everything that could ever go wrong in the history of linear time is happening is the best part of this whole debacle, if anything, for its raw comedic value.

The absolute worst of it, however, is the gaggle of bumbling entertainment journalists (the lowest of the low) following in the production’s wake. There’s a lot a ground to cover: the movie’s nearing completion, the premieres, the fact that everyone thinks you’re screwing Miyeon, the fact that you actually are—

How has working with your co-stars, Miyeon in particular, bettered your understanding of what it means to be an actor? The insinuation, if it’s even an undertone enough to call it that, you do find insulting.

Though it’s hardly the question that trips you up. It’s trifling. And when you force a smile, everyone takes your pandering at face value. Now whether it’s out of envy, confusion, plain old cynicism, possibly a mixture of the three, or just because the part of your brain associated with temperance and self control is melting at the current head index of a million and two, is unclear.

But you fuck up.

It’s under your breath, out of the corner of your mouth. It’s not even directed at anyone in particular. The challenge here—the thing that will come to ruin you in about one media cycle—is that the damn microphone clipped to your shirt is still absolutely live, and it’s broadcasting every thought that should stay quiet:

Acting? From Miyeon? Hah. Swallowing cum maybe… but acting?

You fuck up bad.

[cleo-fox]

As the Clock Strikes Midnight - Part II

Series Masterlist Chapter Summary: In which you sneak into a masquerade. Chapter Warnings: Loki being an absolutely shameless flirt, some kissing, lots of banter.

Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

It’s a strange feeling, walking into the masquerade in your mother’s dress. You’ve thought about this so many times that parts of it feel oddly surreal, like you’ve somehow wandered into a memory you’ve forgotten you had. 

You’re not entirely prepared to feel so visible. Your dress is a shade or two too fine to be owned by a servant, so most people assume that you’re a noble—when a footman calls you “my lady,” you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from correcting him. People smile and incline their heads slightly, whereas before their gazes would simply slide right past you. You find that you have to remind yourself to take slow and deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. Just breathe.

You’d caught glimpses of the ballroom before, but it, too, feels different now that you’re actually here as a guest. Garlands of exotic flowers drape from the walls and ceilings along with strands of crystals and colored glass beads that sparkle like diamonds when they catch the light. The remnants of the feast that you helped prepare are a rainbow of colors that seem grander than they had in the kitchens. Even the cakes—the same ones that you’d barely finished icing before Anja shooed you away—even they seem a little extraordinary.

People are dancing, a glittering array of fabrics, sequins, and masks swaying in time to music played by a small orchestra. You keep to the edge of the room, taking in the sights, keeping a weather eye out for Fritjof. You’re content to watch the crowd for a while—you’re too nervous to eat and dancing seems similarly risky. It’s enough just to be here, wearing your mother’s dress and pretending that you’re someone who you used to be. 

You’re not sure when all the noise and color starts to feel a bit too much, just that your focus on your breathing suddenly isn’t doing enough to combat the tightness around your ribs that squeezes at your lungs. It’s been so long since you’ve attended an event like this that you’ve forgotten how claustrophobic it can become. The room is just a degree or two too warm and the mingling smell of the food, sweat, and perfume is starting to feel suffocating. You’re not used to people noticing you and every pair of eyes that lands on you squeezes your ribs just a little more and you can feel beads of sweat beginning to gather at your temples and down the column of your spine. You catch a glimpse of Fritjof far away in the crowd—

Air. You need air.

The ballroom looks out onto the palace gardens and winter lingers enough to discourage most people from venturing outside, so that is where you decide to go. It doesn’t take much effort to slip out the door unnoticed and the moment you step outside, it’s a relief. You can still hear the rumble of voices and the swell of music, but it’s more manageable, especially with the balm of the night air so blessedly cool on your cheeks. The tightness around your ribs loosens and the sweat on your brow and spine cools and suddenly you can breathe without feeling like you’re about to choke.

There’s a circle of benches surrounding a fountain not far down the garden path and you make your way to one of them, sitting down heavily. The chill of the stone beneath you is soothing, anchoring you more firmly in the moment and easing the trembling in your arms and legs until you feel more like yourself. You take a few deep breaths. After a moment, a weak, shaky laugh falls from your lips.

“Norns, this was a terrible idea,” you say. “I never should have come.”

“Come now. It can’t be all that bad.”

Your heart leaps wildly into your throat at the sound of another voice and belatedly, you realize that there is a figure standing just in the shadow of the empty fountain, easy enough to miss if you’re not paying attention—which of course, you haven’t been.

The air leaves your lungs when you realize who it is. He wears a mask, but there is no mistaking that buttery smooth voice, those emerald green eyes, or the sardonic tilt of his lips. 

Your legs feel as steady as overcooked noodles, but you scramble to your feet anyway. “I beg your pardon, your highness,” you say, dipping into a curtsy. “I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”

His lips curl into a catlike smile as he approaches you. “Isn’t the point of a masquerade that you’re not supposed to know who I am?”

The prince is as imposing as he ever is, but there’s something about the protection of the mask, the glamor of your dress, the crispness of the night air, and the wild and giddy relief of being away from all those people that makes you feel like you can be yourself. Besides, it's not like he knows who you are—he’s only seen you in the dim light of the library; surely the moonlit garden will provide him with no further clues.

“Well, either I am very clever or you are very obvious,” you say. “I’ll leave it to you to decide.”

He chuckles quietly and you can’t help but feel rather pleased with yourself. “And tell me, what is a very clever lady doing hiding in the gardens during the biggest event of the year?”

“I should ask the same of you, your highness.”

He grins. “Ah, but I asked first, my lady.”

You tilt your head to the side. “You act as though you are expecting something scandalous of me.”

“You must admit the circumstances suggest that you have a good story,” he says.

You laugh, partly because he has no notion of how ridiculous your circumstances actually are. “There could be any number of unexciting reasons why I’m out here.”

He folds his arms across his chest, smirking. “Name one.”

“Perhaps I don’t know how to dance.”

“Doubtful. Even if you didn’t, I should think there would be a score of gentlemen eager to show you. Try again.”

“Perhaps I don’t know how to dance and I am very shy.”

He chuckles, a low throaty sound that makes your spine tingle. “If you were very shy, I think you would have taken your leave of me almost immediately.”

“Perhaps I am all of those things and unfailingly polite,” you say.

“Unfailingly polite, yet here you are, skulking in the garden, hiding from your hosts.”

“And again, your highness, I am compelled to note that you are out here as well.”

“Perhaps I am looking for stragglers in order to reprimand them.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort. “I doubt it.”

“Oh?” he says, his voice sounding lightly amused. “You would doubt a prince?”

“You do not seem like a man who concerns himself overly much with the affairs of others.” 

“You are astute, my lady.” He taps a finger against his lips and you’re fairly certain he’s raising an eyebrow underneath his mask. “But you’re trying to distract me from my question.”

You give him a coy smile. “Will you like me as well when my answer is as dull as I promised you?”

“You have my word.”

You lower your voice as though you’re sharing something scandalous. “I needed some air and a moment or two to be myself. Are you terribly disappointed now?”

“Not at all,” he says, giving you a smile that feels like a rather thrilling secret. “We have that in common.”

“Do we?” you say. “I should think you would be used to these events by now.”

“They tend to make for poor conversation,” he says. “Present company excluded.”

“You flatter me, sire.”

“I was hoping that enough flattery might convince you to tell me your name.”

You smile. “Of course not.”

Defying royalty was probably not a smart thing to do (another reason why it was perhaps wise to keep you in the kitchens), but Loki’s lips curl into another smile, like this is all a rather delightful game. “You would deny a prince a simple request?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade that you’re not supposed to know who I am?”

You’re using his own words against him and his smile grows even more foxlike. “But you know who I am. It seems only fair that I should know who you are.”

“Well, then, you must be very clever and guess,” you say.

“And how should I know you are telling the truth?”

You allow yourself a coquettish smile. “They call you the god of lies, do they not?”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” he says.

“You are a prince,” you say.

“That I am. And you are…?”

“Not telling you my name.” You raise your eyebrows at him. “I hope you didn’t actually think that would work.”

“Not especially,” he says. “Though I can’t help but wonder why you insist on being so mysterious.”

You grin. “You seem to forget where we are, your highness. Shall I quote you again?”

He laughs and it makes your stomach flip. “If you will not give me your name, then tell me something else about yourself.”

“Hmm.” You pause for a moment. “I am reading a very good book.”

“And what book is that?”

“The Cloistered Heart.”

He makes a face. “That drivel?”

You laugh. “I take it you are not a romantic.”

He scoffs. “I’ll have you know I’m very romantic, I simply prefer more sensible writers.”

“Like who?”

“Auber.”

You can’t help the bark of a laugh that falls from your lips. “Auber! Now I am convinced that you are not possessed of a beating heart.”

“You wound me. What fault could you possibly find in Auber?”

“He describes emotion like he is writing a technical manual.”

“His prose is a triumph of language.”

“He’s boring.”

You continue like this for a while, playfully arguing about books. His taste is quite different from yours—his interests tend to skew more toward the philosophical and dryly intellectual, which is the sort of thing that makes you want to claw your own eyes out—but you share some surprising overlap on a few notable titles. The more you talk, the more you find yourself wanting to stay, even though you shouldn't. He’s still imposing in a way that makes your heart beat a little faster, but it’s also easy to talk to him when you’re an anonymous masked noblewoman. You’re perhaps slightly too informal with him—you scoff at his bad opinions and tell him precisely what you think, but he only seems delighted by these barbs.

More concerning, though, is the fact that he is very charming and handsome and the more you talk, the more you are tempted to let this go on a little longer. You find yourself wondering what it might be like to kiss him, to run your hands through his raven dark hair.

“Is something the matter?” he says.

Your stomach drops as you realize you have been staring at him for just a second too long dwelling on the possibility of a kiss. “Forgive me, my mind wandered for a moment.”

“Am I truly that dull?” he says, sighing rather dramatically.

You breathe a quiet laugh. “You’re trying to bait me into complimenting you,” you say, giving him an arch look. “It won’t work.”

“I rather think I’m deserving of a few compliments after so many cruel blows to my ego,” he says.

“If you had better opinions on books, I would not need to strike so many cruel blows.”

“You wound me.” He is smiling as he says this.

“I rather think you enjoy such unfiltered honesty,” you say. “You could have stormed off in a huff or ordered your guards to throw me in the dungeons, yet you are still here.”

“That I am.” He looks at you for a moment and you feel as though something has changed, though you can’t quite put a finger on what. “I confess, I’ve grown rather enamored of your wit, my lady,” he says after a moment.

Oh.

You swallow. The way his gaze sweeps over you makes you quite glad for the half-dark of the garden and the shield of your mask. “You flatter me, your highness.”

“What, no witty riposte?” he says. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“I often find myself unmoored by compliments,” you say.

“I should hope so,” he says, his voice lowering and taking on a depth that makes your stomach flip. “I’m trying to charm you.”

“Oh? To what end?” You are amazed that your voice remains steady.

He takes your hand and brushes his lips against your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. “A kiss, perhaps.”

“How very proper of you.”

The corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. “I did say perhaps. The garden is dark and my chambers are close should a more intimate setting be agreeable.”

“Are you always so forthright in your pursuits?”

“Only when the lady is enticing.” 

You swallow. “And you find me enticing?”

There is a hunger in his eyes that you can’t help but be thrilled by. “Extremely.”

You raise an eyebrow, hoping that your voice does not betray the fact that you are trembling. “You don’t even know who I am. You could find me quite dull without my mask.”

He laughs quietly and gives you a look that conjures a dull ache between your thighs. “Would you care to make a wager? It’s nearly midnight.”

Panic cuts through your false bravado like a hot knife through butter and you raise your eyes to look at the clock tower. You’ve lost track of time—it’s five minutes to midnight.

Your first instinct is to flee and you try to do that, but Loki is quicker, his hand closing around your wrist.

“Fleeing without a farewell?” he says. “That would be terribly rude, my lady.”

You fight to tamp down the growing panic in your chest. “I’ve my reasons for not wanting to be seen here tonight.”

“Oh?” he says. “Do tell.”

Your heart is pounding. He thinks this all a game, a small obstacle on his path to seducing you. And of course you can’t tell him that the stakes are much higher, that this is a matter of being found out by a man who goes out of his way to make your life miserable, possibly a matter of being thrown in the dungeons for defying orders. Anja would probably be in trouble as well. His grip on your wrist is firm and his smile is teasing and you’re not sure how you’re going to get out of this.

Unless…

Perhaps you can play along, pretend this is all a game. It’s not certain, but it’s the only plan you have.

“I’ll make you a bargain.” The words fall out of your mouth quickly, albeit with some uncertainty. 

Perhaps it’s the slight quaver in your voice that intrigues him, or maybe it’s the lure of a bargain with a mysterious masked woman that he can’t quite resist. “Go on,” he says and you can tell he’s raising an eyebrow behind his mask.

“You let me go tonight and we let the chase go on a little longer,” you say. “You come and find me in the coming days.”

He chuckles softly and it sends a shiver up your spine. “Now why would I do that when I have you here in my clutches right now?” He pulls you closer, one hand snaking around your waist, his palm pressing lightly on your back so that there is very little space between you.

You wet your lips and try to summon your sultriest look. “Would it not make the conquest all the sweeter?”

He smirks, his voice dropping to a low purr. “And when I find you? What then, little mouse?”

“A kiss, perhaps.”

“A kiss?” he muses softly. His gaze trails over the curve of your lips and it’s all you can do not to shiver.

“Yes.”

“A kiss is a rather dangerous proposition, my lady,” he says and he’s so close that you can feel the whisper of his breath against your lips. “A kiss may stoke other...appetites.”

Despite your fear of being found out, there is part of you—a large part of you—that would gladly let him take you right here, right now in the garden if he wanted to. Instead, you summon every ounce of self-control that you have in order to ignore the heat that stretches like a panther low in your hips.

“I might be agreeable to stoking those appetites,” you say, “but you have to find me first.”

His lips twitch into a slight smile. “Your proposition is intriguing, my lady,” he says, “but I would request one small gesture of your good faith.”

He’s staring at your lips as he says this and you know without a doubt that he intends to kiss you before he lets you go. And it’s probably not a good idea, but you are inclined to allow it.

You lick your lips. “What sort of gesture?” 

He smiles and there’s time for you to draw a single, shaky breath before his lips brush ever so softly against yours.

You’ve been kissed before, but not like this. Never like this.

Loki kisses you like the world is ending and the only salvation to be found is on your lips. His movements are lazy and languid, but there’s a hunger that simmers just below the surface, promising you something more than a breathless kiss in a moonlit garden. He tastes your lips and tongue, first as though he’s tasting a fine wine and then like a man dying of thirst. His hand curls around the nape of your neck, his thumb resting in the hollow of your throat. It’s entirely proper, but something about it is so intimate that it feels like it should be scandalous. 

You try to memorize every part of this moment because after tonight, you will return to your life of drudgery. No more stolen kisses in the last days of winter, no more flirting with a prince in the moonlight. And because it has to last you the rest of your life, you give yourself fully to the sensation, kissing him back with the same intensity, your hands winding around his neck, pulling yourself closer, pressing against him in a way that borders on indecent.

You don’t want it to end.

He is the one to break the kiss, to draw back just a little, resting his forehead against yours for just a moment before taking a step back, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He’s probably only thinking of leaving you wanting more, not realizing that your little flirtation will go no further than tonight. The thought pains you just a little, but you stifle the feeling, keeping your expression neutral.

“Until we meet again, my lady,” he says.

You force a small smile. “Until then, your highness.”

With one last look at Loki, you turn and walk away, the feeling of his kiss burning on your lips.

The clock strikes midnight as you exit the garden. You turn back, half expecting to find him chasing after you. Instead, you see him standing there, a pale figure in the moonlight, his eyes still trained on where you disappeared into the darkness.

Next chapter

[argisthebulwark]

vilkas making you ride his hairy thigh…..him staring up at you, dark eyes alight with wonder and lust…….seeing his chest tighten/his Adam’s apple bob when you whine in frustration……..is this anything

this is everything actually.... omg..... feat: Vilkas x f!reader warnings: explicit sexual content. minors should not read or interact.

"You doin' alright, doll?" Vilkas' deep voice rumbled through the room, sharp teeth visible behind that self satisfied smirk. Rough fingers gripped your thigh, clearly anticipating the way your hips bucked - that bastard knew exactly what he was doing. You were certain the shape of your nails had become permanent fixtures in his skin. Gripping his shoulders was all that kept you upright. Mindlessly, your hips ground down into the delicious muscle of his thigh, cunt grinding needily into the hairy skin you'd been gazing at all night. "Keep your eyes to yourself," he'd growled upon catching your shameless stare. "Or I'll make you regret it." "Please." For surely the hundredth time that evening, your voice broke on that one word. Another flash of those sharp teeth when Vilkas smiled and wrapped one large hand around the curve of your waist. "Please what?" Heat flushed into your cheeks at his directness, though that hand urging on each jerk of your hips threatened your resolve. "Come on, love. Don't get shy on me now." "Fuck me." Vilkas stared up at you, those hungry eyes never leaving yours. You gasped as the muscles in his thigh flexed, rubbing into your sore cunt and leaving you breathless. "Please, Vilkas -" You knew you were babbling but couldn't care. Your thighs burned but that damned orgasm was so close. All you needed was his cock in you but you'd settle for those lovely fingers currently wrapped around your thigh. It would be so easy, just a few pumps with him knuckle deep in you, fucking you just enough to brush that perfect spot only he could find. "Not yet." He grinned, snapping you out of that fantasy. Your hips jerked toward his, gasping something akin to his name. "I want to see you cum like this. I want to watch you get off just from riding me." "Gods," you whined, hips bucking and grinding down into his thigh. He was terribly annoying but his fucking voice was nearly enough to do it. Vilkas gulped, muscles in his chest tight when he gazed up at you. You knew that look - the predatory way he watched you bounce on his leg and whimper his name. It often ended with your bedsheets torn and your legs wobbly. "Cum for me." Vilkas' growl sent shivers up your spine. Tingles ran along every nerve when he gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. Every little gasp only spurred him on, leg raising and muscles tensing while that deep voice pushing you closer and closer. "Just do that one thing and I'll fuck you 'til you can't think." Vilkas murmured, the grip on your thigh bruising. A mess of words tumbled from your mouth when finally you fucked yourself on the slick skin of his thigh enough to follow his orders. The orgasm shot through your body, nerves on fire as you collapsed into his chest. Wave after wave pounded through your body, hips stilling against his soaked skin. "Good girl," Vilkas growled, only adding to the fire burning deep within your loins. The world tilted as he laid you so gently on the bed, that thick chest sliding away from yours as he kneeled beside the bed. He peppered soft kisses around the overstimulated skin of your cunt, your hips jerking involuntarily with each one. You wanted to tell him to stop messing around and fuck you but bliss stole away your words. Nothing in the world mattered but those lustful dark eyes staring up from between your thighs and the stubble scraping over your inner thighs. "Let me take care of you now, yeah?"

[unabashedly-so]

😉 SDV Elliot HC 😘

Flirting.

Content warning: does get a little naughty post 10 hearts, still SFW.

everyone's entitled to their opinion, even if they're wrong, and since i can't be wrong in my own hc post

📣 Elliott is the biggest flirt of all the bachelors.

...and bachelorettes, I feel confident in that too.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and say in the whole valley maybe.

you don't see it much in his actual in-game dialogue, but tbf you don't see much of it in anyone's dialogue. The game's not really written like that.

BUT IF IT WAS!!!!! ☝️

I'd hang my hat on this. Elliott's flirt game would be 🔥✨🔥😩😩👌👌👌

he's self-assured, he's foppish and aware of it, and heck SOMEBODY's gotta hear all the GREAT one-liners and colloquialisms he's got bouncing around in his head all day from writing.

once he gets to know someone (mainly knows that they're okay with playful, meaningless flirting), he's just shameless.

he's complimentary: "that shirt really brings out your beautiful [color] eyes!"

he's self-aggrandizing: "did you miss me already?" (<--narrator voice: it's been <10 minutes).

he uses pet names and terms of affection so much you almost think he's forgotten your name but it's too late to ask now. "dear," "darling," "love," "light of my life," "sunshine," "lovely," "beautiful," etc.

he's also self-deprecating, or the damsel in distress, "oh, if only there was someone strong and dashing who could save me from my misery!" (author's note: his misery is an unopened wine bottle.)

✨ D R A M A T I C . ✨ calm down, sir. (read: don't.)

then the praise. oh the praise. "bless you, you kind and radiant soul. My world would be so dark but for your captivating light."

he's probably not one to use a lot of physical touch in his flirtations because, y'know, boundaries. But with a receptive 4-7 heart farmer, he might make some exceptions, particularly if it was farmer-led, and so long as it wasn't genuinely romantic or sexual. Like dancing, brief hand-holding, kisses on the hand, hugs of most kinds, etc.

and if there was something he wasn't comfortable with, he'd first deflect playfully. ie, holding hands for too long, "I haven't gotten my cooties booster this year."

he'd only use pick up lines if he came up with them himself. a man has to have standards, y'know.

so, he'd basically be like this with ANYONE with whom he has a decent enough relationship with (and he knows it wouldn't make them uncomfortable)

But. BUT.

Here's where it gets really interesting. Follow me down......

after a farmer gets his 8 heart scene... he shuts it down.

he stops flirting with them. cold turkey.

for those of you who think graphically like i do, see below for a representation:

so what the heck is going on between 8 and 10 hearts???? why does it actually get WORSE than before he barely knew the farmer????????

aliensfeelings.png

he's not thinking much about any kind of relationship beyond friendship (with anyone, really) while he's working on his novel because he's So Close and that's really invigorating and it kind of overshadows all else.

then the book reading happens, and he hears himself say out loud that he dedicated his novel--his ENTIRE BOOK, arguably his LIFE'S WORK up to this point so far--to the farmer that he only just met a few seasons ago

(not to mention he canonically made it at their behest?!??? (2 heart scene picking the genre))

most authors dedicate first books to, like, their spouse or parents, or childhood best friend, sibling--someone MEANINGFUL, who has STAYING POWER, and has impacted the trajectory of their LIFE..........

🎵oh no.

🎵oh no.

🎵oh no no no no no.

talk about a fucking tidal wave of realizations that come crashing down on him. Things that he was too swept up in his own head to really realize or fully acknowledge. Like how, oh no, he's actually been putting some heat (and hope) behind his recent flirty interactions with the farmer. y'know, a more sophisticated of "hahaha... unless.....? 👀" Or how, oh no, did their lips always look so kissable? Or, oh no, was that story arc in his novel just an allegory for his subconscious pining? Oh, you mean the one he just READ OUT LOUD to the entIRE TOWN?????

the man's about to go jump into the sea with cement shoes.

and here's the thing: he's very SELF-assured. His confidence comes from knowing his own worth separate of extrinsic factors. But his confidence when it comes to relationships with other people??? Far less assured. He knows he can be intense in some ways, and not everybody wants that all the time. That stung, having to figure that out the hard way. And now it turns out all the sweet nothings he'd been saying to the farmer are actually emphatically true, but now how's the farmer to know that he's being serious when he says them??? And wouldn't it be so weird to say them with the fervor and hope of it being received genuinely while also having to acknowledge he'd said all those things ingenuously before, but he means them fr now??!?

he's too passionate about his adorée to want them to feel that he was being facetious with them, but was he not???

Oh, Elliott...

Despair(TM)-2

so he stops all flirting with the farmer. He doesn't ice them out, he just... acts a little differently. Where once he might have greeted them with a melodramatic tale of how he missed them so... instead he says, "It's wonderful to see you again."

it's almost like he treats them warmly, but professionally. The friendliness, warmth, sincerity is all still there but the jokes have faded away and he's a little more... stilted. It's about as subtle as he can be (ymmv), but the change is definitely... perceptible.

it's even worse when you take into consideration the bouquet, omfg. it DOES grant him a sense of security, but this is man is a ROMANTIC who is INTENSELY PASSIONATE. He's got a foot in the door, but doesn't want to scare them away by suddenly becoming overbearing. 8-10hearts is a bit of a tightrope walk for him, as he navigates getting closer to the farmer and being aware that not everyone can (or wants to) handle all he has to give (which is fine!).

he tries to give little tastes here and there but..... subtlety is not his strong suit, and he knows it.

and maybe the farmer has to confront him about it at some point, ymmv. it could very much be a "it's not you, it's me" conversation that leads to ???? or in this hc post, it leads to the 10heart event, where Elliott knows he has to let go of his fears and commit.

Despair(TM)-2_final_FINAL

It's just so hard because apparently this farmer really, really means a lot to him.

whoops how'd that happen *sweeps mountain of duck feathers and pomegranates under the rug*

without getting into the 10heart scene too much, I'd just also like to point out how fucking funny it is because you KNOW this romantic ass man has day dreamed so many different scenarios of expressing his love and adoration and when the moment finally arrives he just... totally flops. poetic.

but anyway once that's all established and good, the flirting comes back with a vengeance.

a saucy, naughty, 🌶️spicy🌶️ vengeance.

now that he's figured out where the new boundaries are, he's unafraid to use any opportunity (within reason) to express his adoration for them and reaffirm his commitment to them.

example, farmer teases him over a glass of wine, "wine on your tongue got you slurring, El?" To which he smirks, and lets out a low hum. "It's the wine now and you later, my love."

sometimes it's stupid, like stage whispering to Leah as you join them at the Saloon, "don't look now, but a ten just walked in. Should I talk to them? Do you think I have a chance?" (you're married, btw.) Leah's heard this before and says, "No."

sometimes if you're holding hands, he'll just start spontaneously pull you into a wrap in and dance with you, murmuring some lines of spicy poetry he writes and shares only with you. Sometimes this happens at home or on the farm, but not always.

but one way he NEVER flirts with you again is with anything that would put his adoration of you into question for even a moment. You may as well hang the moon and stars for him, and he'll never once let you forget or doubt that. 💖

sometimes it's just so infuriatingly cocky. "I hope you'll still love me when I'm so old and senile that I forget my own name."

"Of course I will."

"You make me so happy, dear. I just hope I can maintain the stamina needed to properly ravish it out of you."

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Pomegranate Ink: XVI

Series Synopsis: Unable to heal but willing to fight, with a fiancé in Kyoto and a last name that looms over everything you do, you accept an offer to study at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. What you did not know was that your salvation and your ruination alike would soon join you at the school, neatly wrapped in the form of a boy followed by death.

Chapter Synopsis: Your outing with Gojo is interrupted by the higher ups requesting that you go check in on Megumi Fushiguro, who still hasn’t returned from his mission from the morning.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Yuta Okkotsu × Female Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6.7k

Content Warnings: angst, misogyny, naoya zenin, forbidden relationships, canon-typical violence, character death, original characters included

A/N: i hate writing sukuna because he’s such a little freak in canon that almost any decision i make abt him feels ooc so sorry to my sukuna lovers but this is the way he is in this fic please don’t be too mad. also yeah megumi is probably kinda ooc here too feel free to be annoyed abt that. I ACTUALLY CAN WRITE HIM (# shameless ‘a song for the drowned’ plug) I PROMISE. just not in this chapter apparently.

“My father resents me for it,” you said. It was the first thing you said to Gojo as you sat down together. He pulled out a napkin from the holder sitting in the middle of the cheap linoleum table and used it to wipe away the crumbs that still littered the surface. “For finding a way around that ultimatum he gave me.”

To heal or to fight. According to your father and the rest of the higher ups, these were the only choices you had, and they were very much so mutually exclusive. You could do one or the other but not both, and the fact was that they were actually correct in saying this. On your own, you could not do it, could not have both, but you were no longer on your own. Not anymore.

“Is that so?” Gojo said, lips quirking up in amusement. “Well, I’ve always wondered how your poor mother married such a man. Isn’t it something, that he has somehow fathered such a prodigy and yet hates her for the mere fact that she is out of his control? Ironic, really. You are exactly what the L/N clan has needed for so many years, and yet now that you are born, you are despised.”

“I am a girl,” you reminded Gojo. “I’m not exactly what they were hoping for in terms of an heir.”

It was a little disquieting when he smiled with his teeth bared. If you did not know him in the way that you did, you’d consider it almost unnatural, even, but as the case was, it just seemed to you as if it were too wide. Too bright, too false. An emotion conveyed that he did not even mean.

“No, I’d wager you’re a great deal better,” he said, reaching out to pat you on the shoulder. “The girl who brought someone back to life and the youngest Grade 1 sorcerer in recent history; you’ve really proven yourself in the past year. I can say that at least I am proud of you, even if your family isn’t.”

“Thanks, I guess,” you said, uncomfortable with the praise. “Anyways, my mother is proud of me, so that makes two of you. As for the rest of my family, I believe that they are unsure. They do not understand what it means for the clan, that I can do both — albeit at Tullia’s expense.”

The past few weeks, you and Tullia had been training intensely with Shoko Ieri, the only Reverse Cursed Technique user not associated with the L/N clan. It had been a slow process at first, trying to figure out how to push your limits without putting Tullia through the same torture that you had inadvertently subjected her to in the process of healing Toge.

You were not always successful. You could not count the amount of times you had had to stop Composition but were not fast enough, were not able to cut it off before she began to bleed again. But it was better now; though nosebleeds were an inevitable side effect, it was a compromise that all parties were somewhat satisfied with. According to her, she barely even felt them.

It was through such tireless practice that you discovered the way to use the contract to your advantage. By pushing the entire responsibility of the cursed energy supplication to Tullia, you were able to ensure that your body was naturally receptive to receiving the repercussions of the Reverse Cursed Technique. An exchange for an exchange, a burden for a burden, but a far more advantageous one than the earlier scenario, because you possessed the body of a L/N, uniquely designed to handle the pain of Composition, and Tullia had that rare cursed technique which meant her reserves were not dependent on her innate self but instead drew from outside sources and could approach infinity if she had sufficient access to poison.

“The healer and the empty glass,” Gojo said, nodding in approval. “Who would’ve thought that things would turn out like this?”

“I suppose that’s the case. Isn’t it strange? I feel like I should be thanking Naoya. It’s only because of his irresponsibility that Tullia and I could even form the contract in the first place,” you said. Gojo choked on the pastry he had ordered.

“There’s never a situation that would justify you thanking him, so you can put that thought out of your mind,” he said.

“I was only half serious. If there’s anyone to thank, it’s Elakshi, for bringing that curse to Japan. By the way, have you heard anything from Iori about her and how she’s settling in?” you said.

“Nope, Utahime is in one of those phases where she won’t respond to my texts or calls,” he said, pouting comically. “I wish she wouldn’t do that! It makes planning faculty get togethers a real pain, you know?”

“I‘ll ask Noritoshi about it, then,” you said. “And I’ll tell him to tell Iori to text you back or whatever.”

“I knew you were my favorite student for a reason,” he said.

“Technically, I’m not your student anymore, I’m Kusakabe’s, so I believe that means Megumi has to be your favorite. By process of elimination — after all, he is the only first year,” you said.

“The other one is coming soon!” Gojo said. “She’s a girl, too. The one who you’re going to try to mentor or whatever. Are you excited to meet her?”

“Naturally. Though I don’t know if the mentoring life is necessarily for me, it would be nice for someone to look up to me and find me cool and occasionally ask me for advice,” you said.

“I always wished I had someone like that. Nanami was my greatest chance, but on the whole he found me mostly irritating,” he said. You smiled, taking a small bite of your own pastry, chewing and swallowing before you spoke.

“Maybe you already have someone like that,” you said. He cocked his head.

“Do you think so?” he said. You shrugged.

“It could be,” you said. Gojo waited for a moment, but when you did not speak further, he sighed.

“Honestly,” he said, and though he was wearing a blindfold, you could feel the weight of his eye roll. “Of course you won’t elaborate. Frustrating child.”

“I learned from the best,” you said. He stuck his tongue out at you, but could not otherwise argue; after all, your logic was irrefutable. In the year that you had become truly close with Gojo, you had found his personality to have rubbed off on yours the slightest bit. It was both a positive and a negative — that is to say, it was a positive for you and a negative for just about everyone else.

“Moving on, have you started thinking about what you’ll do after your graduation?” Gojo said.

“Huh? Become a sorcerer, of course. I’m already a first grade, it only makes sense that I’d continue to fight. I guess I can heal on the side, if Tullia permits it, but the main thing I’ll do is exorcising,” you said.

“I don’t mean for your occupation. When you don’t have your schoolwork to occupy you and you don’t live in the same building as all of your friends, what will you do? For fun. To entertain yourself. That kind of thing,” he said.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted. “I’ll take up something or another. Though, if we’re being realistic, how much free time do you genuinely think I’ll have? There’s not a large amount of sorcerers in the first place, and of that sum total, ones that are as highly ranked as I am barely even number in the double digits. I can worry about entertainment once I’ve retired, and I doubt that that’s going to happen for a very long time.”

“Sorry,” Gojo said. It was unclear what he was apologizing for. That you had inherited such a world? That he had brought up the topic in the first place? That he was so aware of the problem but could not fix it?

Maybe he might’ve explained himself further, but just then, your phone rang. You frowned at the contact flashing on the screen: Yoshinobu Gakuganji. Motioning for Gojo to pay for the desserts you had been eating, you clicked the ‘accept’ button and held the phone up to your ear.

“I didn’t know you could use a phone,” you said critically. “I thought you only communicated by mail, principal.”

“Don’t be daft, girl,” Principal Gakuganji snapped, as if you were saying something entirely unbelievable — as if he did not consistently send you mission instructions through letters instead of emails, as was the commonly accepted practice! “Of course I can use a phone.”

“Why have you called me? I’m a little busy right now,” you said. Gojo mouthed who? at me. You made a face and mimed playing a guitar at him. He pursed his lips, crossing his arms and tapping his foot impatiently.

“Did you know that first-year student Megumi Fushiguro is on a mission to pick up a cursed object at present?” the principal said, his voice heavy and wheezy as always.

“Still? I thought he was sent on that mission in the morning?” you said.

“That is the case. Because of the sensitive nature of the object — it’s one of Sukuna’s fingers, you know — we’ve been trying to get ahold of Satoru Gojo to go and check on his progress and make sure everything is alright. Unfortunately, it seems as though all of the higher ups’ numbers have been blocked on his phone,” he said. You snorted but disguised it as a cough, though judging by Principal Gakuganji’s fed-up exhale, you had not exactly been successful.

“Why didn’t you just email him?” you said.

“We thought it would take too long, so we decided to call you. As a first grade sorcerer, you’re the next best option, and we believed your personal relationship with Fushiguro might incline you to be prompt,” he said.

“Personal relationship?” you said, causing Gojo’s jaw to drop in surprise. Digging your school uniform out of your bag, you stomped towards the bathroom so that you could change. Though you were none-too-pleased about it, it remained that Principal Gakuganji was, in a sense, correct: certainly you would not leave Fushiguro in danger without even trying to help.

“He is your underclassman, so naturally there is a friendship that exists between you two that would not be there if we were to call in one of the older Grade 1s. Even Aoi Todo would not have the same fondness. Unless there is something more to it?” His tone ticked up with suspicion at the last question. You gritted your teeth as you bent over to tie your shoes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s my dear little junior, so I’ll go make sure everything’s alright, but there’s nothing more to it at all,” you said.

“That’s a relief to hear. And if you can, please let that wastrel know that he’s needed as well,” Principal Gakuganji said.

“You’re so rude to Gojo, for being someone that depends on him so greatly,” you said. “I’ll pass along the message.”

With that, you disconnected the call and strode out of the bathroom, not feeling up to discussing anything more with the aged principal, who was nothing like your own Principal Yaga — now that was what a principal ought to behave like, according to you. To be sure, he was a little eccentric, but after so many years as a sorcerer, who wouldn’t be? At the end of it, though, he did care about his students more than the status quo, which spoke more than enough as to the quality of his character, in your opinion.

“We have to go,” you said, returning to Gojo, who was sitting at the now-clean table, his chin in his hands. “The higher ups want us to check in on Megumi’s mission. Apparently he’s not back yet.”

“Oh, is that all? It’s fine, he’s strong enough to take care of whatever’s going on there,” Gojo said. You gave him an incredulous look and tossed a sugar packet at him. It bounced harmlessly off of his Infinity.

“You’re not even a little worried? He was assigned the mission in the morning and he isn’t back yet, so late at night. I’m going to go whether you come or not, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t make me do it by myself,” you said.

“Go ahead and go,” Gojo said, waving you off. “You’ll be fine. I have to pick something up, since we’re in the area and all, so I’ll catch up with you later. I’m telling you, though, everything is definitely fine! Megumi’s no weakling.”

“I’ll see you later, then,” you said, doubting his flippant attitude just a little bit. How could he be so careless with one of his student’s lives?

Sliding into the backseat of Ijichi’s car, you pondered it as you stared out the window at the blurring scenery. Wasn’t this something like Gojo’s method? He would always put his students into the most absurdly dangerous situations, but never too far out of his sight, never anything you all couldn’t handle if you pushed yourselves.

The thought that you might be interfering in this form of training was outweighed only by the thought of the paycheck you’d receive for something that took relatively minimal effort. Checking in on Megumi was essentially glorified babysitting, except the so-called baby was frighteningly mature and self-sufficient, making it the easiest task ever.

Megumi’s mission was, fittingly enough, in a school. Creeping through the hallways reminded you of the first time you had met Yuta, how he had hidden under that desk, with Rika in the closet and the stars hanging high in the sky. He had come so far since then, hadn’t he? From the boy frightened of himself and his own shadow to the special grade sorcerer proper, the one who had faced even death itself and won.

Unlike that night, however, the hallways in this school were destroyed, rubble and glass littering the tiled floor. You stepped around stray shards, not wanting to cut your feet, and allowed your brow to furrow. There were signs of a genuine struggle here, ones hinting that the scope of the mission had been far beyond Megumi, who was still only a Grade 2 sorcerer.

Clicking your tongue, you leapt out onto the roof, finding your target standing there, his back ramrod straight, his hands curled into fists in front of him. It didn’t look like a defensive posture, but there was a certain desperation to his posture that didn’t seem warranted, considering the total lack of curses in the vicinity.

No, that wasn’t right. That pink-haired boy standing across from him…you could only tell because of how advanced your cursed energy perception was, but there was something strange about him. Something emanated from him, something cruel, dark, malevolent. It was at odds with the gentle expression on his face and the wide eyes he was looking around with.

“Say, Megumi,” you said, placing your hand on his shoulder, as much to alert him of your presence as to stop him from doing anything drastic. “What’s going on here?”

He turned to face you in surprise, blood seeping from a wound on his head and dust covering his cheeks. You let out a laugh and quickly whipped out your phone, taking a picture of him and texting it to Gojo first and the second year group chat next.

“What was that for?” he hissed.

“Sorry, it’s just that Maki and Gojo would be terribly disappointed if I didn’t memorialize your sorry state before healing you,” you said, sending another text to Tullia, warning her to take a couple of shots of bleach or something. She responded in the affirmative, allowing you to put your phone away and place your hands on Megumi’s temples, trying to judge the extent of his injuries. “The wound isn’t terrible. Do you mind?”

“We have bigger issues at the moment,” he said. “Namely, that boy.”

“I’m Yuji Itadori!” the boy in question said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“That wasn’t an opening for you to introduce yourself to her!” Megumi said, exasperated. “I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what you’ve done yet, but you should get on that so that you stop acting so goddamn cheery!”

“It’s nice to meet someone so positive, actually,” you said. “It’s a not a common trait to see in a sorcerer.”

“Oh, I’m not a sorcerer,” Itadori said. You paused and contemplated the development.

“You’re not?” you said.

“He’s not,” Megumi said. You scowled, though it was more out of befuddlement than any real anger that you did so.

“Are you a curse, then? No ordinary person would have as much cursed energy as you do,” you said.

“I ate a curse? I don’t know if that makes me one or not,” Itadori said.

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean? Is that your technique or something? I haven’t really heard of people that eat curses, but I guess one of my best friends has a technique that’s just ingesting poison, so I can’t really judge,” you said.

“It’s not like that,” Megumi said. “He literally ate a curse. As in, Sukuna’s finger.”

Reflexively, you gagged. “Ew. Don’t be such a boy, Megumi, that’s not a funny joke at all; it’s just gross to think about. I thought you were above such things.”

“He’s not joking,” Itadori said. “I really did eat the finger.”

“Really?” you said.

“Really,” Itadori said solemnly.

“Do you understand the situation now?” Megumi said, pinching the bridge of his nose. You shook your head.

“In truth, I don’t,” you said. “What — in what scenario does there exist a need for one to ingest a rotten, shriveled old finger? Didn’t that taste putrid?”

“A little like soap, actually,” Itadori mused. You gave him a disgusted look. He shrugged. “I don’t know. There was this massive curse about to kill Fushiguro, and because I was just a normal human, I couldn’t do anything to harm it. So I swallowed the finger and gained the cursed energy required to kill the curse! Sukuna manifested and got the job done, and then he started going on and on about all of the evil stuff he wanted to do, so I suppressed him. He’s such a headache, ugh! But that’s the story.”

“You suppressed Sukuna,” you repeated incredulously.

“According to him,” Megumi said suspiciously. “But what if he’s lying? This could be a trick.”

You peered closely at Itadori, who blinked nervously as you inspected him before tapping on his forehead.

“Dissection,” you said. The normal weak spots glowed white on his body, the full proof that he was a person — though, when you unfocused your eyes, you could just make out a hazy green glow that was not really centered on Itadori but somewhere inside of him. His inner domain, or his soul, or some other such related concept; this green, you surmised, was the presence of Sukuna. But if that was the case, then Itadori really wasn’t lying, so you turned to Megumi and nodded in confirmation. “He’s the real deal.”

“You believe me?” Itadori said.

“I believe myself,” you corrected. “For the moment, you are who you say you are. Megumi, I’m going to heal you while we have the chance; if this comes to blows, I’d rather have you on my side.”

“Fine,” he muttered, ducking his head, his cheeks turning pink. “If you could refrain from sending pictures of it to Maki and Gojo, though, I’d appreciate that. They’d never let me live it down.”

“Don’t stress, I won’t do that. Go on, then, get on the ground while that boy is still in control,” you said, watching over Itadori as Megumi lay on the ground. For his part, Itadori just seemed confused about the proceedings. This came as no surprise, though; if he really had been just an ordinary boy until just today, then how would he know anything about Reverse Cursed Techniques and such concepts? “Composition.”

Instead of a knife, it felt like you were being repeatedly punched in the stomach, each successive blow winding you until you felt like doubling over. Your cursed energy remained intact, however; it was Tullia’s that was rushing into you, allowing you to use it at will, the reward you got for taking every ounce of the pain that you were feeling, that Megumi was feeling, that even Tullia herself was feeling.

Coughing, you wiped away the tears that sprang to your eyes and placed your hands on Megumi’s forehead. Focusing Composition on his battered cursed energy reserves and the injuries his head had sustained, you used the positive energy of the cursed energy reversal to heal the wounds and replenish his reserves until he was somewhat close to the state he must have been before engaging in the battle.

“How do you feel?” you said, reaching into your backpack and taking greedy swigs of water from the bottle you had packed just in case. Megumi sat up and glanced at Itadori, who was watching you in awe.

“Fine. Hey, what are you staring at?” he said.

“Woah! Miss, did you just heal him or something?” Itadori said, ignoring Megumi completely.

“Yes, I did. It’s part of my inherited technique, though I assume those words would be on the whole meaningless to you,” you said.

“They are, but it’s still so cool to hear about! I can’t believe there’s like this entire secret world that’s existed and I knew nothing about until now,” Itadori said.

“We do a very good job at hiding our work from normal people. It helps that most can’t see curses,” you said. “Enough talking, though. We have to figure out what to do with you. You said you suppressed Sukuna? Do you think you could un-suppress him?”

“Why would you want that?” Megumi said.

“Gojo’s on his way,” you muttered under your breath. “It’s the perfect chance to see if he has potential as a vessel or if he should just be killed immediately.”

“Do you really think Gojo of all people should be trusted to arrive on time for anything?” Megumi said.

“It’ll be alright. Don’t underestimate me; I’m a Grade 1 sorcerer, aren’t I? He’s only had the one finger, so even once he manifests as Sukuna, it’ll be in a severely weakened form. I promise, even I can deal with him when he’s in such a state,” you said.

“Are you sure?” Megumi said.

“If I’m wrong, then I’ll have you to help me hold him off, at least until Gojo arrives,” you said. “You probably couldn’t do it by yourself, but if the two of us are working together, then we can probably manage at least that much.”

“If you say so,” Megumi said.

“Itadori, please let Sukuna out for a little bit. I’d like to talk to him,” you said.

“Are you guys personally acquainted or something?” Itadori said. “Sure, I can do that, but are you really certain you want to talk to him? He’s not exactly the greatest guy.”

“Hm,” you said, thinking back to a certain story and chuckling under your breath. “I guess you could say that. Don’t worry, it’ll be a quick conversation. Ten seconds is all I need; after that, I want you to take control back, alright? Or else Megumi and I will have to kill you, I’m afraid.”

“Okay!” Itadori said. “Wait, by the way — what’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you said as he closed his eyes before dark markings made of undulating cursed energy crept over his face. “Y/N L/N.”

Eyes as red as pomegranates flew open, staring at you in horror. They were narrower than Itadori’s, and indeed the entire bone structure of his face had changed ever so slightly, matured a little bit, his nose sharper, his chin squarer. Underneath his eyes were two more with the same crimson irises, though these were smaller and seemed less focused on you. There was no doubt about it: this was the King of Curses himself, the one for whom the stories and the songs were written.

He took a step towards you, but you stood your ground, reaching into the small pouch you always carried and grasping a silver needle in between your thumb and index finger.

“Y/N L/N,” he said, his voice deeper than Itadori’s, gravelly and rough instead of warm and bright.

“Ryomen Sukuna,” you said. “The King of Curses.”

“And the woman who sealed him,” he spat. His canines were sharper than any normal human’s had the right to be, his nails more like claws than anything. You looked over at Megumi, who could no more move than a mouse faced with the jaws of a tiger could. “I would kill you if I could.”

“Nothing is stopping you,” you said, fighting to keep your voice level, though you knew it trembled. Even if it was only a shadow of Sukuna’s true self, it remained that the being in front of you was known as the King of Curses for a reason. In terms of curses, just this small fragment could only be beaten in power by Rika herself.

“You would say that,” he said, and then suddenly he was in front of you, those fingers like talons wrapping around your throat, squeezing to the point of discomfort but nothing more. “You would say that, you witch. How fortunate am I! To be born again into this new body, this new world…and yet, I cannot escape you. Y/N L/N. What is this coincidence, that I must find you again, that I must manifest in the same place that you are?”

“I am not the woman who you think I am,” you gasped out, not wanting to fight the body which ultimately was Itadori’s. Not yet, anyways, not while he was still not actively hurting you, only threatening to do so.

“Yet you share her name, and there is some similarity to your features,” he said.

“She was my ancestor. The one who helped seal you. The one you killed — but her husband brought her back to life in the end, so it amounted to nothing,” you said. Maybe taunting Sukuna wasn’t your smartest idea, but you wanted him to know. You wanted him to know that he had been unsuccessful in this one thing, that the original Y/N L/N had lived beyond sealing him.

“You share her blood,” Sukuna said. “It is close enough. In fact, likely it is exactly the same thing; I cannot risk it. That means, no matter how much I want to, I cannot risk your death in the first place.”

Suddenly, abruptly, he threw you away from him, watching with some satisfaction as you barely managed to break your fall and spring to your feet. It was an odd stare which he trained upon you, equal parts concern and pleasure, like he had not wanted you to get hurt but at the same time could conceive no greater joy than the thought of harm coming to you. You could not understand it. You could not understand any of it.

“It’s been ten seconds, Itadori,” you called out carefully, cautiously, still not sure why Sukuna insisted that you could not die but not wanting to test your limits, either, in case that was the breaking point which led to him changing his mind and going after you anyways. Or, worse, he might decide to turn his attention to Megumi, who he presumably held no convictions about as of yet, and that was something you were keen to avoid, since Gojo still hadn’t shown up.

“Oops, sorry, I lost track of time!” The markings and extra eyes had vanished, and the youthfulness had returned as Itadori regained control of his body. He sounded like himself again, all eager and affectionate. “Did your conversation go well?”

“I’m left with more questions than answers, to be fully honest with you,” you admitted. “But nobody got hurt, and you managed to take back control when you needed to, so it’s a net positive. Now we have some solid proof to take to Gojo in the defense of your control as a vessel.”

“Yay!” Itadori said. “But, um, who’s Gojo?”

“That would be me,” a new voice said. The three of you turned as one unit to stare at the newcomer, who was as late as usual and toted two shopping bags, most likely full of souvenirs from wherever he had gone while you were helping Megumi.

“Gojo,” you said. “It’s about time you got here.”

“About time, indeed! What’s all of this talk about vessels and whatnot?” he said.

“That boy is Sukuna’s vessel,” you said.

“I ate a finger,” Itadori supplied helpfully.

“On Megumi’s watch, not mine,” you added. “I’d certainly never let something like that happen. I did confirm that he has control as a vessel, though, with the ability to suppress Sukuna at will.”

“Wait, slow down. So he ate Sukuna’s finger and became his vessel?” Gojo confirmed.

“He did,” you said.

“It’s true,” Megumi said. “I saw it happen. The most idiotic thing I’ve seen in a while.”

“I don’t know, I mean you do see Gojo on the daily, so can you really consider it to be the most idiotic thing?” you said, earning an offended gasp from Gojo and a look from Megumi. “Anyways, I used my signature detection on him, as well as Dissection. He’s the genuine article.”

“But you said he has control?” Gojo said. You nodded.

“Yes, I asked him to let Sukuna out for a total of ten seconds. After that time was up, he managed to regain control without too much of a problem,” you said. Gojo grew even paler than he usually was, which was saying something, as he already had the complexion of a pearl.

“Are you hurt?” he said.

“No, we just talked for that time,” you said, subconsciously rubbing at your neck, which still felt a little odd after Sukuna had grasped it so tightly. “Nothing more.”

“That’s a lie,” Megumi interjected. “He choked her at one point and threw her on the ground afterwards.”

“You shouldn’t have done such an experiment, knowing the dangers,” Gojo said. “You’re sure you’re fine?”

“Yes, positive. He’s being dramatic, anyways; I could’ve handled it, but I chose not to,” you said. Gojo glanced at Megumi for confirmation, but to your relief, Megumi nodded reluctantly.

“She wasn’t exactly overpowered,” he admitted. “It was more like she was letting it happen.”

“Why’d you let yourself get treated like that, then?” Gojo said. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re into—”

“Shut up!” you said. “No!”

“It’s as fair a guess as any!” he defended.

“No, it is not! I didn’t want to hurt Itadori’s body unless it was absolutely necessary, and to be quite honest with you, I was interested in what Sukuna was saying. You see, he kept talking about how he wanted to kill me but couldn’t. Wouldn’t you be interested if the King of Curses said he couldn’t kill you?” you said.

“Not exactly! If I were you, I’d thank whatever deity intervened on my part and run very far away!” he said. “Now, of course, if it were me, I’d not be surprised. It’s likely he couldn’t kill me, so it wouldn’t be new information.”

“What’s done is done,” you said, deciding there was no point in letting the argument progress any further. “We have to decide what to do with Itadori, and then Megumi and I should probably check in with Ieri. I healed him earlier, but I don’t know if it was enough or not.”

“Good idea. Well, there’s not much deciding that needs to happen; he’ll be executed, that’s all. It’s sad, but that’s how these things go,” Gojo said.

“Wait,” Megumi said as Gojo used an incredibly weakened version of his technique to knock Itadori out in an instant, slinging him over his shoulder and preparing a portal to teleport to jujutsu headquarters. “Can you…can you please save him?”

“It’s strange to have you ask for something from me,” Gojo said. “You think I should save him?”

“Yes,” Megumi said. “Please. He’s the kind of person that deserves to be saved.”

“Do you really think so? Even knowing that he’s Sukuna’s vessel?” Gojo said. You knew him well enough by now to pick up on the fact that he did not doubt Megumi’s words but was rather testing his conviction.

Megumi was silent, casting about for something to say, so you took pity on him and decided to jump in. Besides, it was true that you didn’t want to see Itadori die just yet, either, though your explanation was a little different than Megumi’s was.

“He reminds me of Yuta,” you said. “Not in personality but in circumstance. If there’s a way for you to give him a chance the way you gave Yuta one, I think it could be worthwhile. How often will we meet another person capable of being Sukuna’s vessel? We could use him for our own ends. A mutually beneficial deal, as the case may be.”

“You’re so sentimental,” Gojo cooed. “Did it bring back fond memories for you, being at a high school and going on a dangerous mission like this?”

“It did,” you said shortly. “Not that that’s any of your business, by the way, so stay focused on the task at hand. I hate how involved you are in my personal life!”

“It’s my job!” Gojo whined.

“It distinctly is not!” you said. “Regardless, that’s my opinion on the matter. You may make of it what you will. In the end, I suppose it doesn’t really impact my life all too much if you save him or not, so do what you’d like.”

“My student wants me to save him,” Gojo said, giving Megumi one of those serious looks of his that meant he was being one hundred percent genuine in what he was saying. Megumi shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “I’ll do my best to that end. Y/N, if you could ensure that Megumi gets back to the school, I’ll bring you with me to Africa the next time I go to check on Yuta’s progress.”

“I’m on it,” you said. You would’ve done it anyways, of course, but the thought of seeing Yuta again gladdened you greatly, so you weren’t about to turn Gojo’s offer down. Even though you talked to Yuta on the phone as much as you could, you wanted to be with him in person, wanted to feel his arms around your body and his lips against your own, even if it was only for a little bit. That little bit would be enough to tide you over until he came back for good. “Let’s go, Megumi.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to save Itadori?” Megumi said as Ijichi drove off in the direction of Tokyo Jujutsu Tech.

“He said he’ll try his best. Coming from Gojo, that’s basically a guarantee that he will,” you said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If I ask you a personal question, Y/N, would you answer it?” Megumi said. You shifted in your seat so that you were facing him, but he did not do the same, focusing on the moon and how it shimmered through the tinted glass of the car window.

“I used to pretend like the moon was following me so that it could watch over me,” you said.

“That’s not how it works,” Megumi said. “Scientifically.”

“Of course, I learnt that later on, but to a romantic child, it meant all the world that there was that one entity which cared enough to chase after me, no matter where I went,” you said.

“I see,” Megumi said.

“You may ask your question,” you said. “If it offends me, I’ll choose not to answer. That is all. I won’t be angry or anything.”

“You’re the youngest Grade 1 sorcerer in quite some time,” he said. “Was it worth it?”

“That’s heavy,” you said.

“The difference between us is like a chasm. Even though it’s only one level — two if you count Semi-Grade 1 as its own separate thing — you can claim to defeat Sukuna’s manifestation and not sound utterly ridiculous. You made it sound plausible. I could not even manage to fight against the curses that that finger attracted,” he said.

“You’re younger than me, so it’s not some great weakness to be down about,” you said.

“That’s a separate matter. What I really want to know is what it’s like? Being someone so powerful that when they needed a sorcerer to go in Gojo’s place, the higher ups thought of you,” he said.

“Power,” you said. “I don’t think that’s something I can ever lay claim to. Not truly. I know what you must be thinking — I’m a Grade 1 sorcerer, the one that everyone in jujutsu society seems to be talking about at the moment, so naturally I must be powerful. But it’s not like that. I’m no more powerful than you are, Megumi; in fact, I’m likely your inferior in that department by several degrees. I could never go up against the truly strong and win: people like Gojo, Yuta, even Hakari and Todo, all of them would beat me in a fair fight.”

“So then?” Megumi said. “I know you’ve beaten Todo before, so you’re not telling the full story.”

“So I never fight fair. I use people’s weaknesses against them. I strike from the shadows at the places which shine like beacons to me, and people think of me as some great hero for it. Can I really be considered as such, though? I’d like to answer your question, but I can’t. I don’t know what it’s like to be powerful. I don’t know if all of this was worth it,” you said. He was silent for so long that you nearly thought he had fallen asleep, but finally, he deigned to speak once more.

“What should I do?” he said. “Now that I’ve made such a request and asked Gojo to save that boy. What should I do?”

“You do the only thing any of us can do. You keep trying to grow stronger. You hope that in the end, you don’t regret any of it. Might I offer some entirely unsolicited advice?” you said.

“Sure,” he said. He was oddly vulnerable, in this light. You did not think that Megumi would open up to you like this in normal circumstances, but the trauma of the day’s events had probably worn down whatever defenses he might ordinarily have. Besides, it was generally difficult for someone to keep secrets or be stoic around the person who had healed them — it was a phenomenon that you had noticed, that the patients of your family could not help but bare their deepest secrets to them. Who better to do such a thing to than the person who already knew your entire body and soul so intimately, who had risked their own just to save yours?

“Your decision to save Itadori may not go the way you want it to,” you said. “There’s a reason he would ordinarily be executed, after all. I threw my support behind you because I felt pity, for you and for him, but in the end it was your request that did it, not mine. I think you are aware of this, but are you prepared for what that might entail?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Did I make a mistake?” he said.

“Yes,” you said. “You did. But don’t live like that.”

“Huh?” he said. You thought about Yuta, about the many mistakes you had made and he had made, about how many times the two of you had risked everything for one another.

Bringing him back was the one accomplishment you were proud of. It was the one thing you guarded fiercely as your own achievement, one unsullied by self-doubt. You had not let Yuta Okkotsu die. For better or for worse, you had not let him die. It was the one of the things you guarded deep and close to your heart, that you had saved him. Whatever came of it, you would not, could not, feel apologetic for doing that.

“You chose not to let him die,” you said, and then you twisted in your seat again, so that you, too, could stare out at the moon. Even now, it followed you, as it had when you were a child, and you smiled, resting your finger against its reflection. “That was your decision. No matter what the consequences are, you must always, always hold your head high and be proud of it. Don’t you ever dare let anyone tell you otherwise.”

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for feeling humiliated by, erm, some "things"?

[ Content warnings have been automatically bound to this ask for your convenience. (⁠＾⁠∇⁠＾⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♪ Content warnings are as follows: internalized homophobia, ill-advised relationship dynamics, interpersonal cruelty, and mental illness. ヾ⁠(⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠*⁠)⁠ﾉ ]

What kind of ridiculous function is—?! The delete key won't work?! ...Ah, um, I mean, hello. To get to the point, I (...age is a complicated question. Even I'm not sure, really. Do you count years in a coma?? ...Maybe almost 40 by now??) (~40, straight, M) am in a bit of a tricky situation, and I've been told that I can earn back some points by submitting to this.... forum.

So, with all the shamelessness I have in me, just scroll down and hit NTA for me, alright?!

... Okay. Fine. So the actual context for my question: I've had a few, uh, "misunderstandings" with someone really important. Like OBJECTIVELY important, like MVP level important, not like I LIKE him. Well I do like him but in the way any sane, regular, straight, normal man would: in admiration!

Uh.... So, we have a bit of a complicated relationship. To be clear, I had no choice in the matter at first! I was forced, coerced into ruining his childhood for the sake of his own development. Under threat of my own death!! I admit that I didn't make many efforts to explain this situation to him at the time, so he thought I did it of my own hatred for him. So naturally I would think that he wanted to get horrible gruesome revenge on me when he came back!!

Well, uh... It turns out that was not the case. I did everything in my power to preserve my own life, evading him as much as possible, but in the end it turned out that I accidentally made him gay, and he did not want to kill me but rather, "do" me!! And, well, ever since I realized this, there has been an absolutely unbearable revulsion when I see him, such that my stomach unsettles, my lungs tighten, my cheeks redden (with disgust!!) .... Even if he's OBJECTIVELY the most beautiful man in this world (in a VERY LITERAL sense), there was no way I could endure such humiliation as getting gay with him!!

Ahhhhh, erm, however... I had to!! It was strictly necessary, the fate of humanity was at stake!! I sacrificed my own dignity for this noble deed, admittedly... largely because I realized that my avoidance of him had played a large part in his suffering, and I wanted to right things. I knew... that I could get through to him this way. So I had to.

The, erm, issue is, I do still feel quite humiliated by it!! But I'm certain that if he discovered this, his tender, hopeful glass heart might shatter once more, and I... don't want to hurt him anymore. But, being straight as a rod, I probably shouldn't string him along either, right?! Right?

Ah... The delete key still won't work!!!!

[lovelynim]

First things first- congratulations on reaching 400 followers!! I’m so happy for you! 🎉💕

I’ve been meaning to send this in since I saw the post but I’ve been so busy orz if you’re still taking prompts, may I request some Shizaya? I’m so starved for content I’d take anything with them really adhsjksj but I think something with one of them being drunk or a little too tipsy would be interesting ~ whatever you wanna do though! I just love Them™️ :,)

Eheheh, thank youu ~

Omg this is actually such a fun prompt, because we can literally go down either with them huehuehue. Hope you enjoy this, dear, and let's hope the public make a wise choice once again!

Shizuo looked to the man sitting next to him with the corner of his eyes. The sight was so interesting that he forgot his own drink, simply holding it still a few inches from his lips, as if he had become a statue.

Izaya, the known information broker, chugging one bottle after the other, nearly comically falling off his seat as he turned his head back to make sure every little drop of alcohol fell into his mouth. Since when the flea was this much of a drinker?

The blonde sighed, shaking his head in disapproval as he decided it would be best to just let him be and mind his own businesses. Finally sipping from his cup, Shizuo frowned when he noticed the beer had already become warm. 

“You need to… learn how to enjoy those, Shi-zu-chan.”

The debt collector turned his head to the side as Izaya’s voice reached his ears, his words were lazily spoken, almost dragged out of his lips. His cheeks, ears and neck tainted with a shameless shade of red. He was wasted, Shizuo thought.

However, after taking a second look at him, Shizuo felt that something was off or, rather, missing. Almost sure it was because of the drinks he had, but Izaya didn’t seem as quick-witted as he usually was, neither sassy, mouthy, teasy and… not as annoying. Shizuo raised an eyebrow, curious about this new side of the flea.

“Huh,” he chuckled, placing his cup down, “maybe you should learn the time to stop, flea,” he said in mockery, testing out some of his theories.

“Meanie,” Izaya whined, pouting as he rested his head on his hands, trying to sound mad, “you should… be nice to me, you know?”

The blonde couldn’t hold back his grin at that answer. The alcohol really had the best of Izaya and, now, all that was left was that mess of a man sitting next to him.

“Aight, aight, I apologize, but you should really call it a day,” Shizuo chuckled softly, placing his hand over Izaya’s and stopping him from taking the cup to his lips. “You’ll have a hangover tomorrow at this rate,” he tried to reason as if Izaya wasn’t already completely wasted.

But, to his surprise, Izaya didn’t say anything this time, just turned his eyes to him, giving Shizuo an angry look as he pouted. “I don’t… hic care, you… dumb Shizu-chan,” he muttered, weakly - and awfully slowly - jerking his hand away from the blonde’s grip and taking the cup to his mouth.

As much as he found it quite cute, truth to be told, Shizuo sighed as he felt some sense of responsibility over that scene. It was his idea that he and Izaya went out for a few drinks, but he didn’t expect things to turn out like that. Izaya did seem to be enjoying himself and, maybe, he was just starting to be a little overprotective.

[risingleomoon]

A Return to Reading

Since realizing that I have not one but two libraries barely a stones throw from the Paul Brown Lofts, I've been taking some time to fall in love with books again. Oh, don't get me wrong, I never stopped reading! Once a Kindle was placed in my hands, I never stopped! But the truth is, I started reading exclusively ebooks and lost the passion for reading. Prior to moving, I had relied on old stand-by's like 'Survivor' (Tabitha King) or the Beautiful Creatures series. Anything I already knew because I had enough guessing going on in my real life. Toward the end, I devoured the Fear Street saga by R.L. Stine (which started a whole new rabbit hole of mental clarity) and was "in between books" at the time of my move.

Week one Downtown I stumbled upon the Central Library Annex; or as I call it the "little library". This pocket-sized land of books is no bigger than my entire loft x 2 and situated in Post Office Square. Other offices for FOCUS St. Louis and people like the Secretary of State plus a small gallery paying tribute to bald men in power share space with the newest and greatest tomes of knowledge and entertainment. That first day I was with Kiki. We tiptoed in through the revolving door, quietly past security and into an enormous atrium. It was there I smelled the paper. I followed my nose. The selection is small, as I prefaced. We were able to get our accounts all set up in minutes and walked out an hour later with the best credit limit I can receive from anyone: 100 books at a time. Each!

This initial visit yielded a powerful boon. I stumbled upon the phenomenal Tina Turner's newest title; "Happiness Becomes You". The dam broke. I read this book everywhere. At work, in the bath, lounging in bed on Sunday, over coffee and a Jay in the morning. Everywhere. It isn't a particularly long book and my nose only remained stuck for 3 or 4 days, but I absorbed so much more than words on pages. Everyone knows the Tina Turner story. That isn't what her new book covers. This book is different from "I, Tina". In "Happiness", Tina teaches us to look inward for the peace and balance we all seek so desperately. These were not new words to me, mind you. I've heard them before. Buddhist teaching crosses over my own Witchery pretty much regularly. When it doesn't it crosses over with my Jewish Mysticism and bounces off Scientific Theory quite nicely. I'm well rounded like that. I was also unsurprised that Tina "The Goddess" Turner was teaching Buddhism. After all, Angela Bassett basically just chanted her way through the second half of the movie. Maybe this time I was ready to listen.

My return to reading had less to do with enjoying books and more to do with getting my shit together. Circumstances aside, my one true soulmate has always been books. I outlined my grand plan for Bookstagram and reviews on Goodreads while registering my SLPL accounts. Nowhere in my plan did I specify enjoying it. As I'm sure you can tell, I never made it past the outline and brainstorm and managed to wrap up whatever had been lingering from JeffCo but failed to execute the new plan. I did post a few sporadic 'Grams. Still not ready to actually begin drafting (let alone publishing) my own content, I took this new creative passion to the back burner and returned for inspiration in books.

With the floodgates now wide open, I decided to go further. I'd finished my stack from "Pan's Labyrinth" to "The Essential Anthony Bourdain" and it was time to refill. I returned Julie Andrews and Greta Garbo along with Kiki's finished books and during week three we found SLPD's Central Library (or the "big library". I'm not clever and witty all the time, you know). This time I was prepared and took my shopping cart. Gathering a few comfort reads (Cassandra Clare. New Book. Not my fault.) led to "The School of Good and Evil". Shameless brag: by the time you read this I may or may not have met Soman Chainani. Day and night my world expanded again. I continued to read my Kindle exclusives and download my Amazon First Reads because one doesn't turn away from free books. Yet my heart has been in the turning of real pages.

I'm not sure how many weeks in we are now but I know I still haven't been to every section. From classics to science, a media center and kids wing with climbing chairs, I was mostly blown away by my ease and comfort inside. I never felt that way when visiting the Arnold Library in Jeffco. I was happy to collect any holds and leave. Eventually we stopped going altogether Now I'm becoming a local "Belle"

"I've come to return the book I borrowed! Got anything new?"

"Not since yesterday, Belle!"

I'm sure at some point I will unpack the psychology behind my stasis and frenetic return to reading. But for today, I'm going to enjoy another book.

[mickey-milkovich]

so I finally got the time to watch the episode and, eeeeeeeee, here's some thoughts about it all .... if you might, perhaps like to hear them???

- ok so first of all, gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I can't believe after all of these godforsaken years my eyeballs finally saw /that/ ..... jesus christ  - i am VERY annoyed that mandy wasn't back for this, she’s important as shit to both my boys and it would have meant a lot ... also maybe some of mickey’s brothers????? and speaking of his family??? where tf was svetlana w/yev???? and absolutely no mention of mickey’s son during that whole chat about having kids? ok, cool thanks xxxxx - isolated, this episode was actually pretty great (ian and mickey-wise, that is, I skipped the majority of the rest) like elements of the wedding scenes were really really special to me but the series as a whole leading up to this point made it fall a little flat??? to me at least, it’s felt like a hell of a lot of mickey being really devoted and ian kind of going along with it???? (not to say I think he doesn't love mickey too (and i’m really not saying that mickey has been perfect either) but it doesn't feel like ian loves as passionately as mickey does). looking at this episode as part of the series - the wedding didn't feel like a satisfying end to all the years and years of love and work they have had to put into this relationship (mickey coming out, svetlana/terry, ian’s diagnosis) because only half of them were really in it these past few weeks??? which just breaks my heart so much for mickey??? my boy deserves undying love!!!!! BUT, yes, as a stand alone, this episode /did/ feel like Ian was loving mickey just as hard as mickey loves him back, which was great for the episode - but in context .... ???? i hope that makes sense????  - frank getting teary eyed fucked me up a bit you know????? like back when this show was actually good I always hoped frank might one day redeem himself and although, by the looks of it, he definitely hasn't - these warmer moments of his really highlight the difference between him and terry and I'm so glad mickey gets to be officially a part of a much more warm (bag of shit) family than his own abusive one  - speaking of which, i am VERY glad we got a little moment of mickey having a rant about his childhood and i hope it signals the start of mickey opening up some more about his past. i think sometimes the gallaghers forget how fucked the milkovichs are, yes you have an insanely messed up family but, jesus christ, at least you knew you were loved most of the time - you may not have had your parents but you had each other and that’s more than I can say for mickey - I would have loved ian and mickey to have a little chat by themselves before or after the wedding to fill some plot holes and make up for some awful character assassination in those ~horrible years~ where I totally avoided this bag of shit show. it would have meant to world to have ian say something along the lines of “mick, I’m so glad I get to marry you after all the shit we’ve been through ... fuck, we actually made it here in spite of all the shit terry put us through. sorry I’ve never said it before but thank you for always supporting me ... for helping me through my diagnosis, for sticking by my side and looking after me when I was at my lowest. I’m sorry if I didn’t make you feel like you are the most important person in the world to me - because you are. and I’ll try my best everyday to show you I feel the same about you” - I just think it might have helped ease some of the pain caused by the things Ian said about their relationship when Mickey was inside .... idk man, i just really want some kind of closure??? or acknowledgement of like ??? hang on?? ian’s family for the last few years have ripped the piss out of mickey for being a waste of space but actually mickey was a thousand times better for ian then anyone ever dared to think - idk, im really not happy about the path we took to get here and no, i will never forgive the writers for the mess they made along the way, but fucking hell if I could tell the me that loved this show so much all those years ago what I just watched - she would be beside herself .................. or maybe I’d save her the anguish and just warm myself not to bother because it goes shit after a while hahahaha

p.s mickey’s smile is the warmest thing in the world and after all these years i still love him to pieces xx

[the-iceni-bitch]

The Boyfriend Experience

Pairing: Ari Levinson x fem!Reader

Words: ~3.2k

Summary: Ari does you a solid.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (voyeurism (prompt 13), male masturbation, unprotected vaginal sex, dirty talk, cream pie, teasing, semi-clothed sex), asshole relatives, fake dating, alcohol consumption, SMUT!!! 18+ ONLY!!!!

A/N: Just under the wire, but made it with my official entry for @navybrat817’s and @stargazingfangirl18’s Shameless Hoes for Chris Challenge!! I love wheel challenges and this was no exception, especially when fake dating popped up, because you know that’s my jam. Happy August b-days to you two lovelies!! I hope your birthday month was amazing and you got all the treats you could want!!

I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on all the latest filth, follow my sideblog @the-iceni-library and turn on notifications!!

You chewed on your lip as you stared at his front door, taking a deep breath before finally lifting your fist and rapping a few times.

“Hi, Y/N.” Oh fuck, you must have interrupted his workout. He was all sweaty and not wearing anything except for some very low slung gym shorts, making you swallow thickly as you tried to not ogle him. “What’s up?”

“Ari, hey. Is this a bad time? I can come back.” When he wasn’t standing there looking like a fucking Michelangelo sculpture.

“No, it’s fine. I was just cooling down.” He stepped aside and gestured for you to come in, grabbing a towel and running it over the back of his neck while you followed after him. “You need something, sweetheart?”

“I need a favor. Um, my family is throwing a big, super fancy charity thing- tomorrow actually- and I kinda need a date.” There, it was out.

“Really?” He grabbed some bottled water from the fridge and gave you a lazy grin. “You don’t seem like the type who needs a man by her side at social events.”

“I’m not.” You shrugged uncomfortably as you avoided making eye contact with him. “But my bitch cousin just got engaged, and as soon as everyone finishes fawning over her stupid ring, they’re gonna lay into me about not finding a man. I swear to god, if I have to hear one word about how ‘it’s ok, there’s still plenty of time for you to have kids’…”

“Ok, I get it.” He helped up a hand when you got a look like you were about to go on a tangent. “So, the long term boyfriend experience, then?”

“Yeah, if that’s ok.” You hunched in on yourself to try to avoid the awkwardness. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll bake you all the zucchini bread you could eat.”

“Well, how can I say no to that?” He leaned on the counter as he looked at you. “How fancy is this thing gonna be?”

“Black tie, you have a tux?” That could have gone so much worse.

“I do have a tux.” He stretched when he stood back up to his full height, and you almost choked on your tongue when his shorts sank lower on his hips until that gorgeous adonis belt was teasing you. “Don’t wanna kick you out, hon, but I gotta shower.”

“Hmm? Right!” He was too fucking distracting. “Uh, it’s at 7, my parents are sending a car around 6:30.”

“Ooh, fancy.” You let him usher towards the door with a low chuckle. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, great.” You gave him an awkward wave before he was closing the door behind you. You were gonna have to do something to distract yourself for the next 24 hours, thinking about him in a tux was doing something to you.

You managed to keep from combusting while you anticipated your fake date, most of the afternoon spent perfecting your hair and makeup before finally sliding into your slinky velvet gown. Just a couple finishing touches and then you were slipping on your sparkly heels and strutting over to Ari’s at 6:15, nervously fidgeting with your sleeves as you waited for him to come to the door.

Of course he looked incredible in his tux, the fabric tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders and narrow hips and this may not have been the good idea you thought it was.

“Wow, you look fantastic.” He gave a low whistle when he got a good look at you. “Car here already?”

“Not yet. The driver will call me once he’s here.”

“Should we pregame it?” It moved to his fridge and grabbed some beers.

“Yes.” You grinned when you took the bottle from him, popping the top off and gulping it down eagerly. “So, you might want to prepare yourself for the inevitable questions.”

“I think I know how to handle family interrogations, darling.” He winked at you before bringing his own bottle to his lips.

“Even rich, overbearing family interrogations?”

“Oh, especially those.” He nodded at you when your phone vibrated against the counter. “That our ride?”

“Yeah.” You chugged the rest of your beer before picking up, swallowing the embarrassing belch that almost bubbled out of you from drinking too fast. “Hello? Ok we’ll be down in a bit. Alright, let’s do this.”

The two of you made your way down to the town car your parents had sent, Ari holding the back door open and letting you slide in first before sitting next to you. He could pick up on your nervous energy, letting you lean back in the seat and drum your fingers on his thigh anxiously.

“You sure you’d don’t wanna just go back to my place and order some burritos?” He squeezed your hand when the driver hopped out to open the door for you once you arrived, cocking his eyebrow at you and giving a sweet smile when you snorted at him.

“As tempting as that sounds, I’ll have to see my asshole relatives at some point.” You were so distracted by how much you were dreading seeing all these bitches you barely registered him keeping your hand in his and pulling you towards the hotel ballroom. “Better here where there’s witnesses than at someone’s estate where there’s too many places to hide a body.”

“Oh, it’s like that then?” He steered you towards the bar and you gave him a grateful chortle. “Let’s get you liquored up then.”

You accepted the vodka tonic he handed you with a grin, one that quickly disappeared when one of your fake ass cousins sauntered up to you and started openly trying to eye fuck Ari.

“Hey, Y/N, didn’t think we were going to see you tonight.” She was not looking at you at all.

“Hi Nicolette.” Still not looking at you, but now she was pushing her tits together while she leaned over the bar and grinned at your fake date. “You know the Climate Emergency Fund is close to my heart. How’s your husband?”

The look she shot you was pure poison, but you could not bring yourself to give a fuck, especially when you got a look at Ari biting his lip to hold back laughter.

“Tristan is fine, still working those long hours at the brokerage firm. But we just bought a new boat, so who can complain.” A wicked grin spread over her face when she finally turned towards you. “So, who’s this? Another last minute Tinder match?”

“This is my boyfriend, Ari.” Your lips spread in a snarl you hoped could pass as a smile, softening just a bit when Ari wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close.

“Your boyfriend?” She didn’t look like she believed you. “How’d you two meet, then?”

“Oh y’know, the normal way.” He nuzzled into your hair and you let out a deep sigh, apparently soft PDA did a lot to calm you down. “She drank me and a bunch of sailors under the table at nickel shots night at that dockside bar… what’s it called again, babe?”

“The Beacon.” You were snorting into your drink at his unexpected answer.

“What?” Nicki looked confused at the turn the conversation was taking, frowning at you two as you turned to bury your face in Ari’s chest to hide your giggles.

“Yeah, then I tasted her and that was it.” You choked on your drink when you let out a huge snort, the vodka burning your throat and nasal passages as you struggled to compose yourself. “Never thought I’d be a kept man, but how could I do anything else with my time except keep this fine piece of ass satisfied?”

“God, classy, Y/N.” She rolled her eyes and walked away from you, shaking her head and muttering under her breath about low class antics.

“Sorry, was that ok?” Ari ran his fingers through his combed back hair and sighed when you nodded. “Just rubbed me the wrong way. Are all your cousins that bitchy?”

“Yep. Cousins, aunts, parents.” You took another sip of your drink before turning towards the crowd of rich douchebags you were related to, or who knew the douchebags you were related to. “Gonna be a fun night.”

It was a fun night. You could not have been happier with your decision to bring Ari with you. He answered each of the invasive questions your insanely intrusive family lobbed at him with ridiculous answers that had you in an almost constant state of snorting laughter, especially when your aunt asked him when you two were going to start having kids, and he told her it would happen as soon as you could find a billionaire who was ok being cuckolded.

He did manage to clean it up a little once your parents zeroed in on you, giving thoughtful but firm answers that managed to redirect them from their mission to get you knocked up without them even realizing what was happening. You didn’t even have to drink as much as you normally would to get through the evening, not even concerned about throwing up in the limo when you stood next to Ari and waited for it to pull up.

“That was the best fake date I’ve ever been on.” You grinned at him when slid next to you in the back seat, slapping his chest playfully before leaning against his shoulder with a sigh. “Almost makes me want to fake put out.”

“Aww, don’t tease me.” He started stroking your arm absentmindedly, leaning back in the seat and relaxing now that he didn’t have to be on for your family. “‘Cause I wasn’t kidding, pretty sure if I tasted you, that would be it.”

“Now who’s teasing?” You laughed when he gave you a shit eating grin, hating him a little for dancing that possibility in front of you just to win the banter. “You’re my official plus one now, Levinson.”

“Great, I have no problem drinking fancy alcohol on your rich family’s dime.” He tweaked your nose when you slapped his arm again, the two of you settling in to spend the rest of the ride in comfortable silence.

Ari helped you out of the car and into your building, letting you lean heavily on his arm while you waited for the elevator. You chatted idly about your plans for the rest of the weekend, your only real goal to find some good takeout and binge watch something stupid.

He gave you a soft smile when you said goodnight, giving your upper arm a squeeze before disconnecting so you could both go to your separate apartments. You unpinned your hair and shook it out, rolling your neck and pulling off your heavy jewelry as you prepared to turn in. Right before you were about to slip out of your dress and heels so you could wash up, you remembered you still had Ari’s phone in your purse, cursing as you jogged across the hall to return it to him.

You weren’t even thinking about it when you pulled on the handle, the door opening with no resistance and then you were striding inside.

The sight of him spread out on his couch froze you in your tracks. Not because he looked sexy as all fuck with his tie undone and the top few buttons of his shirt open. Because his pants were unbutton and he was squeezing his unbelievably magnificent cock in slow strokes while he let out a heady moan.

“Hey there, Ari.” You leaned against the wall and gave him a wicked smirk when his eyes dragged open and met yours. “What’cha doin’?”

“What’s it look like?” He groaned when he ran his thumb over his swollen tip, bucking his hips up into his grip and dropping his other hand between his legs to tug on his balls. “Having you on my arm all fucking night while you look and smell like fucking sex was too much, sweetheart. Ungh, fuck. Thinking about what you’re wearing under that dress could break any man.”

“Oh, did you want to see what was under here?” You tossed your clutch aside and teased your fingers over your sides until you were cupping your breasts.

“Goddamn it.” He growled and leaned forward to get a better look at you when you slid a finger under your neckline like you were going to slip it off, spitting on his cock and smearing it over his length as his strokes sped up. “Quit fucking teasing, Y/N.”

“You realize you could’ve told me you wanted an actual date, Ari.” You tugged at the bow that was tied over the back of your shoulders, releasing it and letting your dress slither down your body until it was pooled at your feet. “Then you wouldn’t have had to settle for your right hand.”

“Fuck me.” The sight of you standing there in nothing but your heels and that tiny lace thong had him freezing his movements. “Baby… get over here.”

“Mmm… think you need to ask me something first.” You tugged at the sides of your thong teasingly and bit your lip when he snarled at you. “C’mon Ari, don’t you wanna date me?”

“God, go to dinner with me, honey?” He whined when you slid out of your panties and kicked them aside, slinking towards him with a very tempting sway to your hips that had him practically drooling. “Or just stay home with me and I’ll eat my fill of this pretty pussy.”

“What, this pussy?” You grabbed the wrist of the hand that was squeezing his balls and brought it up to run his fingers through your slick coated folds, grinning at the broken moan he let out.

“Yeah, that one.” He slid his fingers inside you when you straddled his lap, scissoring them to stretch you open and grinning when you dropped your head back on your shoulders with a soft cry.

Ari leaned forward once you were situated and kissed along the curve of your breast, his eyes fixed on your face and the way it was going slack with pleasure as he stroked your soft walls with his fingers until you were clenching around him. His fist was still moving over his length in slow, smooth strokes, teasing his tip against your clit and trying his best not to just smack his cock against your swollen pussy until you were begging him.

You purred when he wrapped his lips around your nipple, your fingers winding through his hair to hold him in place as the sensation echoed in your core. Your hips started grinding down into his fingers, begging him to give you more with a series of broken mewls and keens when he slipped a third finger inside you and curled all of them against your sweet spot.

“Oh god, Ari.” Your body arched into him when he did it again, your cunt starting to flutter around him when he pulled gently on your nipple with his plush lips and hummed, sending a shiver through your whole body. “Please, need it.”

“What d’you need, honey?” He released your nipple with a wet pop and kissed his way across your chest until he could drag his tongue over the other. “Was it this?”

He slapped the tip of his cock against your swollen clit and you came with a choked cry, curling your body over him until you could bury your face in his hair while you sobbed with pleasure. You whined piteously when he pulled his fingers out of you, but then his tip caught at your entrance and he was pulling you down on his prodigious length until all the air flew out of your lungs in a rush when your hips met his.

There were a few seconds of stillness once he was fully seated in you, the two of you taking a beat to catch your breath as you fluttered and stretched while you adjusted to him. Then his hips were snapping up into you and you were tossing your head back with a wanton cry, pulling on his locks desperately as he fucked into you with abandon while his hands trailed up your sides.

“Oh fuck, Ari. Shit!” You had to move a hand from his hair to brace yourself against the back of the couch, rolling your body to meet his thrusts and choking on your tongue at how good he was giving it to you. “So big, ‘so fucking deep. Fuck me.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, I’m gonna.” He smeared his cum soaked fingers over the curve of your chest and bent forward to lick it off, practically whining once he actually got a taste of you. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

If you thought he was fucking you hard before, it was nothing compared to what he did once he had tasted you. You had to clench your teeth to keep them from cracking together when he started driving into you viciously, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding on for dear life as he rutted into you like a man possessed. He was growling into your chest as he did his best to draw another one out of you, his balls slapping against your ass wildly and sending shockwaves of pleasure through your system until you were breathless.

You could feel his fingers drawing bruises on your waist as he gripped you hard, pulling you down on his cock with each thrust and punching the air from your body while his tip kissed your cervix over and over until you were seeing stars. He changed his angle just slightly and ground against your clit and that was it, your body shook with the force of your pleasure as you screamed into his hair, your pussy clenching around him in waves as your muscles seized and released frantically to try to milk him for all he was worth.

The feel of your body contracting around him had him following right behind you, roaring into your neck as his hips stuttered and he shot his thick spend into you until the warm mix of your releases was seeping out around his cock and staining the front of his slacks. You both sagged into the couch once you were finished, struggling to regulate your breathing and running your hands over each other as if you were making sure everything that just happened was real.

“No more fucking teasing, Y/N.” He pulled your head back so you were resting your forehead against his, panting into your open mouth and gazing into your eyes with lust blown pupils. “You wanted the boyfriend experience, well, you’ve fucking got it now.”

[seita]

― your friend tries to steal him from you.

includes: ushijima, kuroo, bokuto, oikawa.

genre: fluff, angs, suggestive in kuroo’s

request: Can I get a ummm readers friend tryna steal their man but he knows what they’re trying to do so he plays along only to turn them down and expose them in front of the reader ( with ushi, kuroo, bo, oikawa)🥺

+ note: i didn’t think ushijima or bokuto would play along so only kuroo nd oikawa follow that plotline!

⤿ requests currently closed.

― wakatoshi ushijima.

≻he’ll be suspicious the minute she starts hanging around him and giving him shy little smiles with a flutter of her lashes ≻ like.........friends don’t do that...... ≻ honestly and truly, he’ll be the one to cut it off the quickest ≻ he truly won’t play a dangerous game like that ≻ he’s also rlly offended that she thinks he would be a cheater ≻ or even date someone who tries to steal a taken man ≻ he’s devoted to you and there’s no way he’ll allow this to happen ≻ the last thing he wants is to weave fear and insecurity into your relationship ≻ so he’ll probably shameless call her on her shit ≻ he’ll be vibin with the Boys when she shows up ≻ he’s completely unsympathetic in shutting her down ≻ in front of his friends ≻ “i don’t know who you think you are or why you think it’s okay but there’s no way i’d ever go out with someone like you. i love my girlfriend. now leave.” ≻ damn wakatoshi ≻ he won’t even apologize if she cries ≻ she shouldn’t have fucked with him rip

― tetsurou kuroo.

≻ he’ll definitely play along with her ≻ but he’ll let you know what’s goin on ≻ “hey babe ur friend keeps tryin to get in my pants so im gonna play a fun game with it and make her cry” ≻ kuroo............ok u do u ≻ lbr you wouldn’t feel bad for her at all ≻ she shoulda found herself another man!!! ≻ so he plays around for a few days, gassing her up ≻ making her think she actually has a shot ≻ he’s so excited ≻ while she’s at home fantasizing about him ≻ about how she’s gonna win him ≻ and you’ll be nothing ≻ he’s at home, laying in bed with you, kissing you, and touching you ≻ you’re in a place she can only DREAM of being in ≻ eventually he does get tired of her ≻ she’s annoying ≻ so he eventually invites her out, asks her on a date ≻ “____ doesn’t know~” ≻ except when she shows up at the little club, she finds kuroo pinning you against the wall in a dark little corner ≻ your skirt pushed up around your waist as you grin over his shoulder ≻ she scoffs, tears stinging her eyes as he looks over his shoulder ≻ “i thought you might wanna see what it would be like if you were good enough for me.”

― koutarou bokuto.

≻ honestly ≻ he doesn’t even notice ≻ he really just thinks she’s being friendly ≻ like he never wants to assume the worst in someone ≻ so he wouldn’t even fathom the idea that your friend was betraying you ≻ but then she starts to be not too subtle about it ≻ she starts making comments about him ≻ how he’s sooooo attractive and funny ≻ and how well she’d treat him if they were dating ≻ it really starts to make him nervous ≻ he doesn’t want anything to happen that could potentially ruin your relationship with him ≻ like he doesn’t know what would happen if you started suspecting him of cheating ≻ or playing along with her advances ≻ and he certainly doesn’t want you to get hurt ≻ so he’s quick to cut it off ≻ or at least try ≻ he’ll start avoiding her and bringing you up more often ≻ saying how much he loves you and everything ≻ but she doesn’t take the hint and continues on ≻ so he finally tells you ≻ he’s really nervous about it ≻ but he’s immediately relieved when you tell him you’re thankful he told you instead of letting it fester ≻ the two of you discuss a plan of action that consists of calling her out.....in public ≻ he can tell you’re pretty pissed about her so he goes along ≻ plus he’s been wanting to give her a piece of his mind as well ≻ so that’s how the three of you wound up in a cafe ≻ with her glaring at you because she thought it was a date with your boyfriend ≻ only for it to all end when bokuto loudly declares that he thinks she’s an awful person and friend for trying to get him to cheat on you with someone like her ≻ she’s so humiliated, she almost starts crying before she curses him out and leaves in a huff

― tooru oikawa.

≻ you were honestly used to girls being all over oikawa ≻ he was a hot, professional athlete ≻ who wouldn’t want to try their luck with someone like him? ≻ but you never thought your friend would be one of those girls ≻ and even worse, you never thought oikawa would be the type to indulge her ≻ you knew he knew who she was ≻ they’d met on several occasions ≻ yet there they were, standing much too close together, giggling as they talked ≻ she placed her hand on his chest and leaned in real close, making you frown ≻ he smiled and shrugged his shoulders at something she said ≻ you were startled when his eyes suddenly found yours, the smile only growing on his face ≻ with a quick motion of his head, he urged you over ≻ you inhaled sharply, steeling yourself ≻ you didn’t want to appear jealous ≻ so you smiled and walked over to the two of them ≻ she still had her hand on his arm, hugging it close to her ≻ “oh hey, babe!” he greeted loudly, making her jump ≻ she glanced over her shoulder and smirked in a way you could only describe as smug ≻ “your friend here was just telling me all about how she thinks she’d be a better match for me and how she thinks you and i should just break up, isn’t that funny?” he chuckles when the girl gasps in shock ≻ “what’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, pouting. ≻ he pulls himself free of her grasp and tosses his arm over your shoulder, “c’mon you can’t be vain enough to think you’re my type, do you? come on. look at my pretty girlfriend here,” he squishes your cheeks together and grins, “you could never compare!” ≻ your ex-friend huffs and storms off, muttering curses under her breath ≻ “thought it might be fun to play a little game with her,” he explains when you raise a brow at him in question.

© all content belongs to seita 2020. do not modify or repost.

[plaid-shirtsandvibranium-arms]

All You Can Eat (3)

Summary: A Siren and a Vampire go on a romantic date to celebrate a birthday.

Pairings: Vampire!Ari Levinson x Siren!Reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY SMUT CONTENT AHEAD. use of vampire compulsion and siren songs to abduct and manipulate humans, the implied murder of humans, teensy bit of unprotected public sex and exhibitionism, a sprinkling of angst but mostly very sweet fluff

Word Count: 1.4K

A/N: I just had a birthday so...

I do not consent to having any of my fics copied, stolen, reposted, or translated. Tumblr is the only site I post. If you find any of my work anywhere else, please report it.

dark!Reader Collection | Full Masterlist

Your first date with Ari was quickly followed up with another. Then another. And another. It wasn’t long before you both naturally just fell into a relationship. The sex was hot, the best either of you have had in your long lives and you were surprised at how much you enjoyed hunting in tandem with him. Feeding on humans had become more of a boring necessity, but being with each other had brought that thrill back.

More than anything else, you genuinely liked each other. You wanted each other’s company. You would argue that you were just like any other couple really. Just like any other couple, you had your eccentricities. Morning coffee runs after a night of debauchery and cuddling was a little different when you both tried to see who could bite a human without getting noticed. Dinner dates often end with a pretty waitress in a to go box. You even exercised together and by that you mean you liked to chase humans who were camping through the woods.

You celebrated milestones together just like any other couple. Birthdays lose their meaning after a few centuries especially for immortal beings like you and Ari. Having lived for millenia now, this was more a silly indulgence than anything else but still you were fuming because he was late.

You tapped your fingers on the table impatiently as you sipped what was your third glass of wine now, leaning back on your seat and huffing as you fiddled with the high slit of your long black dress. The shameless staring of the patrons and staff at your unnatural beauty would have amused you to no end, but the disappointment and anger weighing on your heart kept all your attention.

Ari was the one who had insisted on celebrating your birthday, booking the best table in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city and telling you to dress up. You had been so excited as you dolled up and giddily made your way to the restaurant, so looking forward to a special night with him. His last text came right before you were supposed to meet, just saying that he was on his way.

Has he grown bored of you?

He could have at least told you. You would have understood, after all immortals were such fickle creatures. You sighed heavily, pulling out a few bills from your purse to pay for the wine as the anger was pushed aside by a wrenching sadness. You were surprised at how sorrowful you actually felt. You were surprised at how much you didn’t want things with Ari to end.

You raised your hand to call the attention of the waiter, but before you could a familiar cold touch clasped around it and pulled it down. Ari knelt in front of you with no care in the world that he was wrinkling his expensive suit, a deeply regretful expression on his face as he kissed your palm. You wanted to be angry. You wanted so much to lash out at him and tell him all the harsh things you had thought of before he arrived, but all you could muster was a miserable mumble.

“You’re late.”

“I know, sweetheart. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to be late,” he said, taking your other hand and pressing kisses to it too as his blue eyes implore you. “Please forgive me.”

“Why?” you asked and his heart broke at the sight of your bottom lip wobbling. He wanted to burn himself alive for causing the tears to edge your beautiful eyes, for making you feel unsure of him, for making you wait, and for letting you think he would hurt you.

“Your present arrived late and I had to sign for it. I had it especially made just for you.”

You didn’t notice the long flat box he had beside him until he presented it to you like an offering, a small hopeful smile on his face. You frowned as you took the box, gently placing it on your lap and opening it to reveal contents that made you gasp. With just one look you knew exactly what it was and the feel of it as you gingerly pulled it out of the box confirmed it.

Silk ties.

But they were no ordinary silk ties.

“Handwoven by the followers of Athena, goddess of weaving,” he said, his smile brighter now at seeing your appreciation for his gift. “I wanted to get you something special for your birthday.”

“Ari, they’re beautiful,” you breathed, twisting the ties and watching in wonder as they caught the soft light. “Thank you.”

He stood up just enough to pull your face with both hands to kiss you, long and filled with emotion. He pulled away to stare at you, his thumbs rubbing back and forth on your cheeks. He was relieved that he had somehow taken the sadness away from your eyes, but he still had some making up to do.

“I actually got you three pairs,” he smiled mischievously at your confused expression. There was only one pair in the box. “I had to use the other two for your other present.”

You instantly perked up, eyes wide and eager. “Another present?”

“I got you that barista you said you liked,” he nodded. “The one you said couldn’t make a decent cup of coffee to save his life but it was a good thing he was really cute. He’s tied to the bed in the guest room for you.”

“You didn’t just compel him to stay and wait?”

He kissed the tip of your nose and grinned knowingly at you as he shook his head. “I know how much you like to see them struggle and compel them yourself.”

You practically melted into your seat. This man who mere minutes ago you thought had grown tired of you, had discarded you, had hurt you was actually going out of his way to make your birthday the best that it could be for you. Birthdays hardly ever mattered to you both, but now suddenly it did. He was so thoughtful and so romantic that you couldn’t help your confession from spilling out.

“I love you.”

For a moment you were frightened, shocked that you would have blurted that out. You had only been dating a few months and for immortals that was like a mere five minutes. You were about to panic when his hands still around your face forced you to meet his gaze, tender and loving.

“I love you too,” he said firmly, assuring you with a gentle smile that all of him was yours. In his entirety and for however long you wanted. He was yours. He gave you one last peck on the lips before he took the seat across from you.

“I already ordered some steaks when I arrived, served rare of course, and a pasta in red sauce that I know you would enjoy. Is there anything else you want for your birthday meal? You can have anything you want, sweetheart.”

You looked at him and you couldn’t believe your luck. Multiple lives lived and endless lists of lovers, but it was only now that you truly felt you were living. All because of this sweet beefcake of a gentleman sitting in front of you and suddenly a different kind of hunger rose in you.

He was alerted when you rose from your seat, but the sly smirk on your lips made him chuckle. He knew exactly what that look meant. He leaned back on his chair and watched as you approached, sitting on the table and pulling your skirt aside to reveal to him your black lacy garter belt and nothing else. He groaned at the sight of your bare cunt, already glistening and calling for him.

“The only other thing I want is your cock.”

His amused chuckle as his large hands groped at your thighs drowned out the horrified whispering of the patrons at such a lewd display. He stood up and loosened his trousers, his cock emerging angry and already leaking. You licked your lips as he lined himself up, moaning shamelessly as he entered you inch by delicious inch. He bottomed out with a loud groan, stretching you just the way you liked it. He smirked at you, his body tense and poised to pound into you in a room full of appalled humans.

“Happy birthday, my love.”

[whimsicallywayward15]

Kinktober 2021, Day - 21: Possessive.

A/n: Hey everyone! This time I come with a compensation for yesterday's mess of a fic. When I chose this prompt, I just knew that I had to do DiaBarb for this one. And I'm not sorry for this smutfest.

Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!

Pairing: Diavolo x Barbatos

Rating: Explicit (18+ Audiences)

Content Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Pheromones, Possessive Behavior, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut

Summary: Alpha!Diavolo forgot that he "trained" his omega to react to his pheromones, with or without pressure.

Prompt: Bukkake | A/B/O AU | Impact Play

Word Count: 2,082

Note: Find the prompt list I am following here.

AO3 Link

Barbatos took in a deep breath as he relaxed into the café patio chair, sipping on his bubble tea. Passersby continued on their merry ways as the green-haired man stared off into the distance, his mind blank for once. He stretched his legs outwards, knocking them into the alpha sitting across from him, earning a tiny grunt and not a single glance. He could care less if the other stared or not (okay, maybe a little).

Being outside was great.

Barbatos truly hadn’t enjoyed the outdoors for a long time with how gruelling his work had gotten recently. The same could be said for Diavolo, and Barbatos finally had some time to spare in his schedule for the two to go out on a date and do whatever they wanted for a few days. After a lot of ‘wrestling’, Diavolo was kind enough, for once, to spare his waist and legs so he could actually use them for their intended purpose: walking.

Diavolo’s phone vibrated against the table. From the look of his dark expression, it looked like it was his new assistant calling. Barbatos shooed him away to take the call, knowing that the red-headed alpha would otherwise ignore all messages until they got home, leaving his poor assistant crying on the side (or that’s what he thinks, anyway).

Absent-mindedly, Barbatos decided to focus on his phone, opening one of his favourite recipe sites to see if there were any new updates. With a bit of luck, his eyes caught sight of a number of new recipe updates in his notifications. He immediately started to go through the list, chewing and biting on the poor straw unconsciously as he scrolled.

“Hey there.” A voice called out.

The chartreuse-eyed man looked up. It was a voice he was not familiar with, and the man’s face that came with it didn’t register in his brain either. A total stranger, but at least his face and build were pretty nice. Decent clothes too. And based on his stance and expression, Barbatos was eighty percent sure this man was an alpha. He blinked a few times before looking over both of his shoulders to see if this man was looking somewhere else.

“No, I’m looking at you.” The stranger laughed, confirming Barbatos’s thoughts. He took a few steps forward and sat down in Diavolo’s seat. The omega frowned.

“And whyever would you be looking at me, kind sir?” He asked with a deadpan expression. He was very certain that there were no pheromones being emitted by him.

“Do I need a reason other than I’ve taken a fancy?” The man mused.

Barbatos continued to stare for a few minutes, unimpressed by what the man meant.

“I’ll have you know that I’m dating someone.” He clarified, finishing the rest of his drink. “An alpha, like you.” he further stated. He looked around – he couldn't see where Diavolo had gone.

It seemed like the man wasn't surprised by Barbatos’s statement, outing him as an alpha. “And what of it?” He asked. “He’s just accompanying you for the sake of it. You’re probably an omega, right?”

“And you’re trying to prey on another? That’s a little low, don’t you think?” Barbatos responded calmly, still sipping on his boba tea. He conveniently skipped the question about him being an omega.

“I won’t deny it.” The alpha admitted as he got up from his chair.

A whiff of pheromones reached the green-haired man’s nose, causing him to react. Instincts kicked off and Barbatos too withdrew from his chair, taking a few steps backwards. Suddenly, a large back came into his view.

“Leave.” Diavolo venomously hissed at the other alpha.

“Relax, won’t you? I just wanted to talk, that’s all.” The other alpha raised his hands in defense. Despite adopting a defensive pose, his pheromones did not falter one bit. In fact, they only got stronger.

Stupid alphas and their useless pride. Barbatos rolled his eyes, sticking close to his alpha’s back.

“Fuck off. Leave.” The redhead repeated himself, snarling back with his own pheromones. Others in the close vicinity started to react to the pressure emitted between the two alphas, pulling away before a fight broke out. The omega frowned, tugging at Diavolo’s coat. He liked this café and certainly didsn’t want to be banned from it for his stupid actions. 

He didn't want to be banned from another café, thank you very much.

But before he could say a word, his heartbeat started to speed up and his legs grew weak. The most he can do is utter an “ah” before pulling harder at his red-headed alpha’s clothes in an attempt to keep himself up.

It didn’t take long for either alphas to notice a new, faint but extremely alluring scent being emitted in the air. Diavolo immediately whipped his head around to find Barbatos lightly panting, his body slightly shaking and giving in to his own weight.

Diavolo, this bastard, had forgotten that he had “trained” Barbatos to react to his pheromones, with or without pressure. He hardly ever used his pheromones aside from the bedroom, so it had occurred to him late. The chartreuse-eyed omega could hear him swear under his breath.

Barbatos gritted his teeth as he felt his weight shift, finding a new place within Diavolo’s arms. He didn’t even need to see the other alpha’s reaction to know that the man in whose arms he was, was just about to go feral, his face dark and his aura burning with murderous intention. Being possessive was one thing, sure, but it was his own damn fault for making his partner turn into a mess in public.

Being outside was not great, what the fuck!

Luckily, the café wasn’t too far from Diavolo’s place, so there was just enough time to spare before things got hectic.

Diavolo almost kicked down his front door, moving as quickly as possible to throw down his omega onto his bed. Barbatos’s ears and tail were already exposed at this point, with the tail unconsciously shifting to curl around the alpha’s arm. The omega can feel his grip tighten due to his tail’s ministrations before being abruptly dropped onto the soft sheets of the bed.

The alpha ripped away the omega’s pants, causing the other to whimper at the cool air hitting his lower half. He was leaking, his underwear soiled, his face flushed, and his pheromones still enticing. Diavolo’s heavy breathing and intense stare told Barbatos that this horny alpha almost wanted to thrust his cock into him right then and there.

Which was exactly what Diavolo did.

There was no exchange of words – hell, there wasn’t even any rationality left to consider. Neither could say anything other than irrational moans and grunts. Their body language and pheromones told each other everything, and their lips smashed together as they pried each other’s clothes off in a messy haste.

Hardly any fingers went inside before a monstrous cock forced its way in one thrust, causing the omega to moan loudly. It hurt, but the brief pleasure he felt and the feeling of being full was far more satisfying and gratifying than the pain. He eagerly thrusted his hips to meet Diavolo’s, wrapping his legs around the alpha’s waist to lock him in. The alpha answered by thrusting even harder and faster, his mouth now finding a place against Barbatos’s neck. The omega was reduced to an incoherent mess, spilling out garbled words and attempting to say his alpha’s name before being cut off with another thrust and continuous waves of pleasure.

Barbatos didn’t know how many times he came before Diavolo finally managed to come once. At that moment, the effects of the alpha’s pheromones kicking off his heat had faded, but from the look of the redhead’s lustful eyes, the omega knew that his partner had no intention of stopping. Shivers of excitement ran up his spine as he grinned back. In the spur of the moment, while Diavolo’s cock was still inside, the omega’s hand teasingly gripped the base of the pulsating length in a silent signal to tell him to keep going.

His view of the world shifted and his back met the wall with a thud. However, neither the omega nor the alpha cared enough to pay attention.

Forget the bed. The wall seemed to be a much better place.

Barbatos groaned as his arms struggled to cling around Diavolo’s neck, the weight of his own body sinking onto the alpha’s cock as the other grunted at the new depth and warmth. Their tails intertwined as the buff alpha continued to relentlessly pound into the other’s dripping and twitching hole, making the omega scream and cry until his voice became hoarse.

The alpha’s teeth sank into Barbatos’s collarbone, littering it with red, angry bite marks as his tongue slid upwards to tease his neck once more. In a way to further excite the other, the alpha growled and sucked on his neck, making his omega moan, his cat ears twitching in response. With only a simple bite near his scent gland, Barbatos’s mind blanked and the pheromones being emitted by both of them only grew stronger.

The omega really couldn’t remember what happened after that. His limbs were basically useless as the alpha had his way with his body, leaving no part untouched for what felt like hours. Suddenly, he kind of regretted his decision on enticing the alpha. He was pretty sure somewhere in his vague recollection that they had fucked for at least three hours (based on how many times Diavolo usually came per hour; not that Barbatos took the time to count, anyway).

The alpha’s body shuddered one last time before sinking into the bed, releasing his seed inside the omega’s body before collapsing with heavy breaths. His crushing weight on Barbatos's body stopped him from rolling off the bed, but the omega didn’t seem to mind. The weight was comforting in a sense, and the touch-starved omega greedily accepted it. Their tails had never untangled up until this point, though Barbatos could feel that it was on the verge of disappearing. Somehow, it felt just right to have their tails like this, intertwined and doing nothing else.

“Can you pull out?” The omega asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His throat was too sore from his whole vocal performance (aka moaning), but it was enough for his alpha to hear. The redhead grunted in response, pulling away to take it out. His eyes trailed from Barbatos’s head to toe, his gaze lingering on his “mark of possession” as cum spilled out of the omega’s gaping hole.

He smirked and the omega rolled his eyes in response. It seemed that his alpha was only satisfied when his insides were fully coated white.

The alpha opened his mouth to say something but hesitated. In the end, he shut it quickly and picked up his omega instead, heading to the bath. Barbatos had an inkling of what Diavolo was going to say, but he was too tired at this point to ask.

Although Barbatos struggled initially while Diavolo cleaned him out, the eventual entry into the hot water moved to relieve the fatigue from his body. His back rested against the alpha’s firm chest, a content sigh escaping from his lips as he closed his eyes. A pair of large, rough hands found their way to his hips and thighs, massaging and kneading the soreness away.

They still chose to speak no words, with the sounds of their breathing and the occasional swish of water being the only ones evident. To Barbatos, this type of silence where one didn’t feel the need to speak to each other to feel comfortable was something he never dreamt of obtaining.

But here he was, in another man’s embrace. Happy and content.

His mind slowly drifted off to dreamland as the two continued to soak in the hot bath. The omega could feel a light weight on top of his head along with a deep murmur from the other, but by the time Diavolo decided to say something, his brain was too sleepy to process it.

The alpha could feel that Barbatos had fallen asleep. With a bit of a sigh, he pulled the other out of the bath. When the omega was tidied up and placed into bed, the alpha stared down at the blissful sleeping face.

Forget it, he’ll propose in another, better way.

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[cower-before-power]

Naked Attraction

Summary: A typical day in your art class turn into anything but when you’re introduced to your nude model for the week- a devastatingly gorgeous man named Levi.

Pairing: Modern AU Levi Ackerman x F!Reader

TW: Nudity, swearing, suggestive content, age gap (reader is 20, Levi is 30), dick jokes, reader is thirsty and lewds Levi hard, perhaps poorly written stuff about art and drawing because I literally know nothing haha

(minors please do not interact, just to be safe)

Link to A03 here

A/N: Hello all! This is my entry for @ghost-party’s Meet Cute Collab with my darling husband Levi. I’ve never written for him before so I was a little nervous haha, I hope I did him justice! Thank you to everyone who reads, likes, comments, and reblogs- you are all wonderful and I appreciate your support! I hope you enjoy, my sweet potatoes!

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“Morning,” Jean greets you with a crooked smile and a steaming cup of coffee. It’s the good stuff from the café by his apartment, your favourite thing to help your brain shift into creative mode. “You’re later than usual.”

You grab the cup from him, sighing as you feel the warmth bleed into your hands. “Overslept. Barely had time to get dressed and brush my teeth.”

Jean’s eyes rove over you as you sink into your chair, humming to yourself as you sip on your drink. “I can see. Do you know you’re wearing two different shoes? And I think your sweater is on inside out. Why do you still even have that ugly thing anyways?”

“Thank you for your comments,” you roll your eyes. “I know I look like a hot mess and I don’t need any words from you, Mr. I Asked The Nude Model Out And Got Shot Down.”

Jean’s ears turn red, and he shoots you a dirty look before busying himself with arranging his pencils. “Shut up.”

You snicker to yourself as you set up your own area. Last week’s model had been a soft, pretty brunette that had instantly made Jean all starry-eyed, like a teenage boy with his first crush. It was generally considered a bit taboo to ask out the nude models, but he’d thrown that aside and gone for the kill after she’d slid back into her clothes. She’d laughed and patted his cheek like he was a naughty child asking for candy before dinner. Then proceeded to walk out and climb onto the back of her boyfriend’s motorcycle (but not before making out with said boyfriend for a good 5 minutes, minimum).

Jean had been left with red cheeks and no date, and you’d been left with great blackmail material.

“I wonder who will be our victim today,” you decide to take mercy on your poor friend and change the subject. “Most likely a guy, since we had a woman last week.”

“We’ll know in about 5 minutes,” Jean looks up at the clock on the wall. “Old Cueball is never late.”

Sure enough, in exactly 5 minutes your very bald and very punctual professor casually strolls through the door. A short man in a green coat is following him, presumably your newest subject. You crane your neck, trying to get a better look at his face, but all you can see is dark hair falling like a curtain over pale skin.

“Good morning class,” Professor Pyxis greets you, tossing his briefcase down on his desk with his usual nonchalant air. “I see you are all ready, so let’s get right to it.” He gestures to the person beside him. “This is Mr. Levi Ackerman. He’s your model for the week.”

The class murmurs in curiosity as the mentioned Levi Ackerman turns to face the room.

You swear your heart actually skips a beat.

Steel gray eyes observe the room from a face that practically begs to be immortalized through art. Every line is hard and strong, covered in clear skin that looks like it would slide under your fingers like the smoothest silk. Your eyes drink in his features greedily, from the regal bridge of his nose to the proud edge of his jaw. You decide your favorite thing though, is his cheeks. They are utterly cherubic, round and full and dusted ever so lightly with the lightest shade of pink.

He’s possibly the prettiest man you have ever seen.

“Hey, I know him,” Jean whispers, cutting off your entranced thoughts. “That’s Mikasa’s distant cousin, the one I told you she found on Ancestry.com last year. I’ve met him once, he’s got a stick so far up his butt, he’d need surgery to remove it. Never would have pegged him for the type to do this sort of thing.”

You vaguely remember a previous conversation involving Jean’s childhood friend and some long lost relatives.

“He doesn’t look that uptight,” you muse, too busy admiring the way his lips glint temptingly under the fluorescents to really process Jean’s words. “He’s beautiful, like something out of a Renaissance painting.”

Jean opens his mouth to reply, but Pyxis begins to speak.

“As usual, draw whichever side of him is facing you, all angles will be graded equally,” your professor plops himself down in his chair, already scrolling through his phone to find the playlist for the day. “Completed drawings to be submitted to me by the end of class on Friday. Please remember be respectful and courteous to our guest. Mr. Ackerman, whenever you’re ready.”

The man nods to your professor, already slipping out of his coat as he steps up onto the platform in the center of the room. You watch, mesmerized, as he proceeds to shed himself of his clothes. It’s rigid and methodical (he folds his clothes like he’s worked his whole life in a department store), but somehow oddly endearing. Every inch of his body that is revealed is consumed eagerly by your shameless stare, and you sincerely hope you don’t start drooling. By the time he carefully removes his final items, you feel like you are vibrating in your seat.

Holy fucking shit, he’s built like a god. Like Michelangelo himself carved him out of a block of the most pristine marble. You trace your gaze down the column of his throat, over the strong shoulders and sinewy arms, the impressive set of abs, the thighs that look like they could crush your head and you’d be nothing but happy about it. It takes a minute before you’re able to make yourself look between his thighs, and when you finally do, you have to looks away immediately. Good grief, even that is stupidly handsome. You can’t help but wonder if it would feel as nice as it looks.

Your face heats from your lewd thoughts, and you grip your pencil so hard it almost snaps. Beside you, Jean snickers.

“You okay over there? It looks like you’re about to explode.”

“Can it,” you hiss, glad that the ambient music Pyxis chose will probably keep your conversation private. “I can’t help it that I’m looking at the most gorgeous dick attached to the most gorgeous man I think I’ve ever seen.”

“You haven’t seen mine.”

“I don’t own a microscope.”

“Ooooh, see if I buy you coffee tomorrow, bitch.”

You stick your tongue out at him before turning back to your easel. As you move, you catch the gaze of Levi, his expression unreadable. Warmth creeps up the back of you neck, and you duck behind your sketchpad in embarrassment. You seriously hope he didn’t hear you, he’d probably report you to Pyxis for being creepy. You decide to lock all your stupid horny thoughts deep within the recesses of your mind, and take a few deep breaths to clear your head.

It works, and as you touch pencil to paper, the desire to create overflows inside of you.

Unsurprisingly, you become utterly engrossed in your work, your pencil sweeping over the pad with almost a mind of it’s own. Levi is the perfect model; you swear he’s not even breathing as he majestically hold his pose without even a quiver. The contours of his body spring to life on the page, and you can’t stop the joyful smile that blooms on your lips as you work. It’s times like these, when everything is so perfect, that you truly realize just how much you love making art.

Before you know it, Pyxis announces class is over, and you’ll resume with Levi tomorrow. The man of the hour begins to re-dress as your fellow classmates pack up their supplies and file out. You absent mindedly wave to Jean, who is practically sprinting out the door so he can make his next class all the way across campus. You’re still engrossed in your drawing, staring at it with critical eyes. It good, one of the best starts you’ve had all year, but now that the high of creating has worn off, you can see where you need to improve.

“You’re very good.”

You gasp and jump, whirling around to find Levi standing behind you, eyes fixed on your sketch. How did he even get there? You hadn’t seen him or heard him.

“Oh, uh, Mr Ackerman!” You squeak, your heart racing like you’ve just run a marathon.  “T-that’s very nice, I mean, thank- thank you very much!”

“It’s Levi,” your muse says, seemingly unbothered by your stammering. “Yours is going to be the best one here.”

You blink stupidly at his bold statement. “Did you look at all of them?”

“No,” Levi’s voice is firm, a tone that brokers no argument. “But you had the most joy on your face while you worked. That much passion doesn’t churn out stuff that looks like shit.”

“Oh, that’s only because you are such a great model,” you gush, insides turning warm at his praise. “You stayed so still and you looked so damn regal and you’re just so pretty and-” Your eyes go wide as you realize the absolute words vomit leaving your mouth, mortification slithering up your spine.

“I’m pretty?” Levi raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m pretty?”

“No!” You shout, and the man’s other eyebrow joins the first. “No wait, yes! I mean, fuck, I mean you are probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen!”

Levi’s eyebrows have now practically become one with his hairline. You wring your hands, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow you. “I-well- come on, people must tell you how good looking you are! I can’t be the first.”

“No, but you certainly are the most enthusiastic about it,” Levi deadpans.

Oh, someone just put you out of your misery now.

“I’m sorry,” you offer, cringing internally at your complete ineptitude to hold a conversation with an attractive man. “I....get carried away sometimes.”

“It’s fine,” Levi’s stoic expression softens just a little. “It’s kind of nice to hear, actually. Usually I’m told I’m good looking, but ‘far too short’.”

“That’s bullshit.” you say vehemently, honestly shocked people would deny this man his godhood over something as trivial as height. “Who cares if you’re shorter? It doesn’t detract from you. What’s that phrase again? Good things come in small packages? Well, not that you’re small, I’m not saying that, I just meant-”

“Yes, you did seem to find my package....good,” Levi interrupts, and you swear you see the corners of his lips twitch upwards.

Your eyes widen in horror as your brain replays your hushed conversation with Jean. “You heard that?!”

“I’m told I have exceptionally good hearing.”

“Oh fuck me,” you groan, burying your face in your hands. “I am literally so, so, sorry. That was completely out of line. I have no excuse other than it’s clearly been too long since I’ve gotten some, but that’s no reason to make you uncomfortable. Please, if there’s anything I can do to to make it up to you, I’ll do it!”

“Have tea with me.””

Your head shoots up, surprise coloring your features. “What?”

“Tch, you heard me,” Levi tuts, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone. “I haven’t got free time till Saturday-stupid Shitty Glasses wanting to trade shifts-but if you want to go out, give me your number and we can work out the details.”

You stare at him with your mouth open, unsure if this is really happening or you’re vividly daydreaming again.

“Umm, are you sure?” You ask, wondering if you should pinch yourself to see if you are indeed imagining things. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m wearing two different shoes and my sweater is inside out. Believe me when I say these sorts of fashion statements happen more often than not. Plus, I practically salivated over you like some sort of horny middle aged suburban housewife who hasn’t been laid in years.” You pause to take a breath, once again unable to stop the words from spewing forth like a fountain. “And I’m so awkward! I mean, are you comfortable in this conversation? And I can’t stop talking once I’ve gotten going, and I say the weirdest shit, and, and-”

“I like you,” he says simply, as if he’s just declared something as obvious as 1+1=2. “I couldn’t give a flying fuck about all the stuff you just said, you’re just... you, and I like it. So, do you want to go on a date or not?”

“O-oh,” you suddenly feel shy, your tummy filling with butterflies at the look of sincerity on his handsome face. You’d never met anyone quite like Levi Ackerman before, and you weren’t about to pass up the opportunity to get to know the man behind the drool-worthy muscles.  “Uh, yes, please, I would like that. Very much.”

An almost relieved expression crosses Levi’s face, and he hands you his phone to type in your number. You notice the time as you do so, and sigh sadly as you hand him his device back.

“Well I better go,” you say reluctantly, suddenly fervently wishing it was Saturday already. “I’ve got another class in 15 minutes.”

“I’ll walk you there,” Levi says briskly, slipping his phone back into his coat. “To make sure you get there safely. Someone might murder you on account of their eyes being assaulted by that garish sweater. ” The corners of his lips twitch upwards once again, and you grow warm all over, from both his gentle teasing and the knowledge he isn’t quite ready to say goodbye yet either.

“Excuse me, I thought you said you didn’t give a ‘flying fuck’ about my attire,” you huff, but you’re grinning as you quickly pack up your bag.

“I don’t care it’s inside out, but you have to know that is the ugliest fucking color know to man,” Levi says, holding out his hand. Your brain malfunctions slightly for a moment, until you realize he’s offering to carry your bag for you. The butterflies inside you whip themselves into a frenzy as you pass him your stuff, your hand just grazing over his. Handsome, funny, honest, and sweet? How is this guy even real?

“I’ll have you know, this sweater is an absolute delight. When it’s inside right,” you stick up your nose, but unable to stop he laugh that slips past your lips.

Levi rolls his eyes in an almost playful manner. “Doubtful .”

You’re not sure where it comes from, but a sudden rush of confidence fills you. “If you’re so offended by it, maybe you should just rip it off of me.”

The tips of Levi’s ears turn a delightful shade of pink. You’re sure your own skin is hot enough to cook an egg on.

“Wear it Saturday then,” Levi’s ears may be flushed, but his eyes flash with something that makes your spine tingle. The insinuation of his words has your gut clenching and your mind whispering fervent prayers to please please please make Saturday get here faster, I don’t ask for much, please!

“Only if you wear your modeling outfit,” you manage to say, trying your best to sound coy when you feel like you might combust into a pile of lust and giddiness. “I’ve never seen someone wear it so well, and I want a closer look.”

If possible, Levi’s eyes grow even darker, and you just know Saturday is going to be one of the best damn days of your entire life.

“Deal.”

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Taglist: @clovertitan @millenialfanfictionaddiction @stigandr-the-cat @axoxtxhxh @bowandcurtsey​ @chaotic-nick​ @manjiroarchiviste​

[es-kay-zee]

Double or Nothing | Lee Minho & Han Jisung x Reader

pairing: jisung x reader x minho

genre: smut

warnings: non-idol au, dom! minho, sub! jisung, sub! afab reader, established polyamorous relationship, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), cum eating, humiliation, hair pulling, degradation, praise, pet names, sir kink, choking, swearing, edging, overstimulation

requested: nope

word count: 5.2k

proofread: yes :)

taglist: @bxngchxn @jisungsplatforms @hyunsluvv @qtieskz @etherealeeknow @arohabangtan @channelhan @minholuvs

(can't tag): @doyoungsjohnny

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as soon as you read the message that your package was out for delivery, you were excited, practically waiting at the front door for it to arrive. you’d bought it four months ago, and when it was taking so long to show up, you’d started to think you’d wasted your money on something you weren’t going to get. but here it is, finallyarriving. you watch the postman place it on your doorstep, waiting for him to drive away so you can swing the door open and grab it.

as soon as you have the package in your hands, you rush down the hallway, almost running to the bedroom in excitement. you place the package on the side of the bed, shaking jisung’s sleeping form in an attempt to wake him from his sleep. it doesn’t work, you’re slumbering boyfriend continuing to snore away, barely even stirring.

“wake up!” you shout, grabbing one of the pillows and smacking him with it. he begins to move slightly, and you can tell it’s working. you hit him again with the pillow, over and over until he eventually sits up.

under normal circumstances, you’d take a moment to laugh at jisung’s bedhead, but right now, there’s too much excitement running through your veins to even notice the way his hair sticks up at odd angles. instead, you pick up the package again, holding it up and smiling widely at jisung, waiting for him to notice it. but alas, he doesn’t notice, moving to lay back down and go back to sleep.

“hey, don’t you wanna know what i’ve got?” you ask, waving the package slightly.

“what have you got? just tell me,” he mumbles, eyes already closed once again.

“the outfits arrived,” you answer, and that finally wakes him up properly.

he sits up again, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before looking at the box in your hands. he grabs it from you, impatiently prying it open and carefully pulling out the contents.

“i forgot we actually ordered these,” he says, holding one of the matching maid outfits up to look at it.

“are we sure minho’s gonna like them?” you ask, a small bit of doubt creeping into the forefront of your mind.

“well, if he doesn’t, then that’s his problem. either way, we’re gonna look so fucking good,” jisung says, smiling wide as he continues to look at the item in his hands. “where is he, anyway?”

“he went out for lunch with his parents, remember?”

“oh yeah, that’s right.” he pauses, turning his head to you, and you can tell from the look on his face exactly what he’s thinking, especially because you’re thinking the same thing. “how long before he’ll get home?”

“not sure, i can text him and ask,” you say, already pulling out your phone and opening the messages between you and minho. you start typing, asking him how long before he might get home. it’s only moments before your phone buzzes with his reply.

minho <3: maybe an hour. why?

y/n: we just miss you, that’s all

he doesn’t respond, and you know that he’s aware of the real reason you’re asking. he can tell that both you and jisung are needy and waiting for him to come home.

“we have about an hour,” you say, turning to jisung, and he drags himself out of bed at your words. “where are you going?”

“to shower,” he replies, walking towards the bathroom. “because i’m not gonna be stinky when our boyfriend gets home.”

“ah, that’s a good idea,” you reply, deciding to scroll aimlessly through various apps on your phone.

“are you saying i stink?”

“always.”

he scoffs, but you can tell from the upturn at the corners of his mouth that he’s just pretending to be insulted. “well, you’re always stinky as well.”

“am not.”

“are too.”

it’s childish, the way you and jisung always banter with each other. but you wouldn’t change it for the world.

“just go shower,” you say, shaking your head.

“wanna join me?” he asks, a cheeky grin on his face.

“nah, your hands like to wander, so i’ll just shower after you,” you reply. “just don’t use up all the hot water.”

it takes almost 40 minutes for jisung to emerge from the bathroom, a towel loosely hanging around his lower half. but you don’t even take a moment to complain about how long he took, only opting to glare at him as you zoom past him and into the bathroom.

you shower faster than you ever have before, stepping back out of the bathroom, clad in a towel, in record speed. 10 minutes to be exact, which is quite quick for you, who usually showers for upwards of half an hour. as soon as you step into the bedroom, you’re greeted with the sight of jisung, already dressed in his outfit. he spins around upon hearing your soft footsteps, and the view of him is even better from the front.

you love it, the way his strong arms stick out from the short sleeves, the way the skirt rests around his thighs. the fabric hugs his torso perfectly, accentuating his tiny waist.

“how do i look?” he asks, and you respond with an approving nod and a thumbs up.

jisung smiles at your reaction while you grab the other maid costume. you quickly dry off the rest of your body, excited to put on the new clothing. if you look anywhere near as good in it as jisung does, then you’ll be super happy. you pull the garment on, turning to face the mirror once it’s in place, jisung walking to stand next to you, also looking at the reflection. he was right, about what he said earlier, you both look so good.

“what now?” jisung asks.

“now, we wait for our hot ass boyfriend to get home,” you answer, moving to sit on the bed. he follows you with a soft whine. jisung’s the impatient one, always getting himself worked up then complaining when no one helps him straight away.

you begin scrolling through your phone once again, jisung doing the same. and you can tell he’s getting himself worked up, judging from the way he keeps inching himself closer and closer. you, however, ignore him, determined to wait patiently for minho to come home. you fall into a steady rhythm, scrolling aimlessly, and the time ticks by quietly. or, at least, it was quiet until jisung lets out a frustrated groan.

“where is he? he told you an hour, and it’s already been an hour and a half,” he huffs, and you’re not surprised at his response. nor are you surprised when you face him and find his cock hard, pressing against the front of his skirt.

“he’ll be here soon, just be patient.”

“but i’m tired of waiting,” he pouts, placing a hand on your thigh. “what if we had some fun before he gets here?”

“you’re too horny for your own good, sungie,” you reply with a slight eye roll, feeling the way his hand rises up. a content sigh leaves your lips when his hand finally reaches your pussy, a lone finger running through your slick folds, already dripping with arousal.

“see, you’re just as turned on as i am,” he huffs, continuing to move his finger slowly, teasingly. and he’s right. while you’ve been waiting for minho to show up, your mind has been wandering, thinking up all the different possibilities for what he’s going to do when he sees you both, and you’ve been getting more and more worked up with every passing minute.

“but i, at least, know how to behave myself and wait patiently,” you retort, trying to hold back the whines bubbling in your throat.

“well, i don’t see you stopping me right now,” he says, his finger beginning to rub small circles into your clit.

“oh, shut up,” you say, voice somewhat breathless as you bring your hand up to jisung’s aching cock.

it’s almost instantaneous, the moan that he lets out when you wrap your hand around his length, slowly rubbing your thumb along his slit. you slowly pump him, and his hand stills against your clit, his brain momentarily short-circuiting at the stimulation you’re providing him. it only takes a few seconds for jisung to regain control of himself, moving his hand so that his fingers prod at your entrance. he slides the digit in, quickly adding a second while you continue to jerk him off leisurely.

he curls his fingers inside of you, causing you to let out a particularly desperate sounding moan. you pump jisung’s cock faster, losing yourself in the feelings of the moment, loving the way his fingers drag along your walls. you can feel the beginnings of your orgasm starting to grow, the knot forming deep in your stomach. but you can tell from the chorus of shameless whines and moans tumbling from jisung’s parted lips that his orgasm looms much closer. his cock twitches in your hand, so close to a release, but a voice speaks up from the doorway, halting your movements.

“well, well, well, what do we have here?”

you pull away from jisung, his fingers leaving you while you ignore the irritated whine he lets out from his orgasm steadily fading away. you stare at the doorway, eyes wide as you look at minho standing there, his arms folded across his chest and his expression none too impressed.

minho walks towards you, each step somewhat menacing, and it’s obvious that he’s not very pleased with what he found you and jisung doing. he brings his hand up, gripping your chin tightly between his finger and thumb, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him.

“tell me, lamb, which one of you was the impatient one?”

he doesn’t have to ask; he already knows the answer. it’s jisung, it’s always jisung. but you tell him anyway, finding some joy in telling on jisung. minho shakes his head in disappointment, frowning at the younger boy.

“was my pretty boy too horny to wait just a little bit longer,” he says, and you watch as jisung’s ears grow redder and redder. he cowers slightly under minho’s stare, the older man being entirely unimpressed with jisung breaking the rules. “what do you have to say for yourself?”

“i’m sorry,” jisung says, his voice quiet, meek, and he keeps his eyes trained on the bed underneath him, unable to look minho in the eye. minho just tsks in response, saying nothing more about the disobedience, knowing the best way to punish jisung is with actions, not words.

“do you like our outfits?” you ask, kind of annoyed that you’re not getting enough attention.

minho’s eyes scan over you and jisung, and you can tell that he loves the way you both look.

“of course i do, you both look so cute in your little matching outfits,” he smiles, gently cupping your face and rubbing his thumb along your cheek.

he leans in, pressing his lips to yours, and you smile into the kiss, enjoying the gentle moment. but it’s interrupted by jisung’s soft whines. he pouts his lips, silently asking for a kiss as well. minho rolls his eyes slightly, but you can see the soft smile on his face before he leans over to jisung and kissing him. minho steps back, grabbing the chair from the corner of the room and placing it at the end of the bed, ignoring the confused looks from you and jisung.

“now, my pretty pets wanted to play with each other, so you’re gonna keep playing. but you’re gonna do it the way i tell you to,” he says, sitting down. “so, y/n, as adorable as you look all dressed up for me, i want you to strip.”

“yes, sir,” you say, eager to please. you slowly stand up, reaching behind you to undo your outfit before slowly sliding it down your body, being sure to sway your hips enticingly as you do so.

“that’s my good little lamb,” he says, making you smile at the praise. “now, sungie, sit with your back against the headboard, and y/n, i want you to suck him off.”

you wait for jisung to settle into his spot before you move into your position between his legs, lifting up the skirt of his outfit to reveal his still throbbing cock. just as he did before, he moans the second you take him into your hand, slowly pumping him a few times before bringing him to your lips. you press a chaste kiss to the tip, relishing in the soft hiss he lets out at the minuscule contact. you can’t see minho, but you can tell that he’s smirking at you both from his seat, enjoying watching the way you tease the desperate boy in front of you.

“p-please don’t tease me, y/n,” he whimpers out, bringing his hands to tangle in your hair.

“shut up, sungie. you’re lucky i’m not trying you up in the corner to just watch,” minho spits, and jisung’s mouth instantly closes at the words.

you place another kiss along his slit before finally, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock. your tongue moves slowly against him, painstakingly slowly, and he lets out the most pathetic whine you’ve ever heard. it’s a beautiful sound, and you want to hear it again. you pause, waiting a few seconds before licking another stripe, moving just as leisurely as the first time, and you’re rewarded with another desperate whine, jisung wanting to ask for more, but knowing minho will stop you if he does. you lick once more before finally taking him into your mouth.

the only sound better than his whines is his moan upon finally getting to feel the warmth of your mouth. it’s low, guttural, bordering on being a groan. and it sounds like heaven. it sounds like a sinful delight that you’re all too happy to indulge in. you hollow your cheeks, sucking harshly on the tip of his cock before bobbing your head once, taking as much of him as you can before pulling away. you release him with a soft pop, swirling your tongue around him twice before moving back down his length, setting a calm pace with the bobs of your head.

you can feel him twitch in your mouth, his earlier lost orgasm already beginning to return. you hold your head down, feeling him deep in your throat. you moan around his cock, loving the way the vibrations make him rut his hips upwards, causing you to gag slightly. jisung’s legs start to tremble, his moans rising in pitch, and you can tell he’s getting close to his release.

“oh f-fuck, i’m gonna-” he stutters, eyes screwed shut and his hands tugging softly on your hair, a weak attempt to keep himself grounded.

“cum on their tits,” minho’s voice speaks up, and you’d almost forgotten he was even there, watching, observing the way you swallow around jisung’s cock.

“b-but-” jisung whines, wanting to cum down your throat.

“but what? you should be grateful i’m even letting you cum at all,” minho responds.

but, just like jisung, you also want him to cum down your throat. you want to taste him, want his release to coat your tongue. so, you don’t stop, continuing to bob your head up and down with new vigour, trying to make him cum before you can be stopped. but minho gets there first, moving from his chair to you in the blink of an eye, moving jisung’s hands from your hair and harshly grabbing a fistful of it himself, yanking your head back so that jisung’s cock falls free from the confines of your lips.

jisung is quick, taking his cock into his hand and pumping quickly, not wanting to lose his orgasm for the second time. minho presses one of his hands against your back so that you arch it, your chest protruding outwards. jisung pumps himself once, twice, before you feel the warmth of his release hit your tits. you hang your mouth open, tongue out in an attempt to taste at least a drop. but you’re out of luck, his cum only splattering across the expanse of your chest.

you watch jisung’s hand slow down, jerking himself off until he comes back down from his high. he lays limp against the bed, breathing heavily as he tries to catch his breath. minho lets go of you, moving towards jisung. he gentle strokes the younger boy’s hair, telling him how well he did. but the softness only lasts for a moment, minho yanking against jisung’s hair, pulling his head back so that they’re looking each other in the eye.

“lick it off,” minho orders, voice stern. jisung goes bright red, blood rushing to the surface as his face heats up in embarrassment, and you can practically feel the warmth radiating from him from where you’re sitting.

the look on his face is a marvel to behold, a perfect combination of humiliation and desire. so utterly embarrassed at the mere notion of it, but also so devastatingly turned on at the idea of licking his own cum from your breasts. he nods his head, moving so that you can take his place. you lie down, your head resting upon the pillows, jisung hovering over you.

minho stands up, returning to his chair at the end of the bed, watching as jisung’s head lowers to your breasts. jisung looks up at you through his eyelashes before pressing his tongue flat against the soft flesh of your chest.

there’s something so filthy, so dirty about watching him lick his own cum from your skin. something so entirely erotic about the trails of saliva he leaves behind. you moan softly when his lips wrap around one of your nipples, sucking softly on the sensitive bud. he’s quick to let go, though, moving his lips and tongue across, wrapping his lips around your other nipple as well. and it’s not long before his cum is cleaned from your tits, jisung turning to face minho, waiting to be told what happens next.

“good boy, sungie,” minho says, and jisung perks up at the praise, loving to hear that he’s doing a good job. “what do you say to y/n for making you cum?”

jisung turns back to face you, and it’s adorable, the way he looks so shy. but he says his thanks to you anyway, his cheeks a soft shade of pink.

“it’s your turn to give, pretty boy. y/n made you cum so now you can do the same to them.”

“yes, sir,” jisung says, moving so that his face is in front of your pussy. you’ve ignored the throbbing between your legs for long enough. and it’s only now, with jisung’s breath delicately hitting your dripping folds, that you realise just how desperate you are for some kind of stimulation. for any small amount of contact that can bring you the release you need.

his tongue darts out of his mouth, quickly swiping up from your entrance to your clit. you let out a broken moan, your hands flying to tangle in his hair and your eyes closing tightly. jisung’s always been good at this, making you feel good with his mouth. and as his tongue dips into your hole, you can’t help but feel as if you’re floating amongst the clouds.

he only adds to your pleasure, however, when he brings his fingers to prod at your entrance while he sucks at your clit. he curls his digits, working your g-spot for the second time today and it makes your back arch. you tug at his hair, pressing his face harder against you, greedy for more. and jisung is happy to provide. he thrusts his fingers into you faster, humming against your clit. and the vibrations feel like electricity, setting off every nerve ending in your body.

you slowly open your eyes, and you’re greeted with one of the best sights. minho sits on his chair, clothes in a pile on the floor next to him, his hand wrapped around his hard cock, jerking himself off to the sight of you being eaten out by jisung. jisung’s fingers pumping in and out of your walls feel divine, but the addition of knowing that minho’s watching, and that he’s getting off to it as well, is enough to make the knot in your stomach grow faster.

you look down at jisung, and you love the way he looks. his maid outfit still covering him, his eyes closed as he relishes in the taste of you. his hands wrap around your thighs, grip firmly holding you in place, and you can see the way his hips rut against the edge of the bed.

the knot grows, steadily coiling tighter and tighter until you’re waiting, with bated breath, for it to unravel. with a particularly delightful curl of jisung’s fingers, you’re cumming, your legs shaking on either side of his head. he works you through it until you’re only left trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

minho stands up, signalling for jisung to do the same, and the younger boy does, standing beside the bed awaiting instructions.

“strip,” he says to jisung, and he does, quickly ridding himself of the maid outfit, tossing it unceremoniously into the corner of the room.

jisung stands still, cock hard once again, and you can see on his face how much he’s struggling to stop himself from wrapping his hand around himself. minho ignores him for a moment, helping you manoeuvre yourself so that you’re laying sideways across the bed, your head hanging off the edge. he climbs on the bed, positioning himself between your legs before finally acknowledging jisung once more.

“you’re gonna fuck their throat again, sungie,” he says and is quick to continue when jisung pouts. “and don’t complain. if you were good earlier, then you might’ve gotten to fuck their pussy, but you weren’t. so, you’re gonna take what you get and be grateful for it.”

jisung huffs slightly but says nothing further as he lines himself up with your opened mouth. he takes himself in his hand, rubbing the head of his cock along your lips, his breathing uneven from the knowledge of the pleasure that is in store for him. minho does the same, sliding his tip up and down your entrance, gathering your wetness. and only when you whine softly, a quiet beg for more, do they finally both push into you.

it’s kind of funny, the way they both simultaneously pause when they’re bottomed out, catching their breaths, needing a moment to recover from how good you feel wrapped around them. it feels like a lifetime before they begin to move, and it’s immediate euphoria, the way minho’s cock drags along your walls, every single one of his thrusts deep and purposeful. his hips move slowly into yours, wanting to truly feel the way you clench around him. and jisung’s thrusts are the same, calculated, determined, savouring the way your throat constricts his cock in just the right way.

you keep your eyes closed, just letting yourself feel the way they’re making you feel, the almost overwhelming pleasure you’re being provided. you can feel the drool dripping from the corners of your opened mouth. you can hear the grunts and groans from both of your boyfriends, you can smell the unmistakable scent of sex in the air. and you can taste jisung’s precum on the back of your tongue.

you’re careful of your breathing, being sure to take breaths at every opportunity. you lift your hands, gripping tightly onto jisung’s thighs while minho’s hands do the same to your hips. his fingers dig into the flesh, and you know that the skin there will be littered with a bunch of tiny bruises. but you don’t care, bruises are a small price to pay for total pleasure, especially when they don’t hurt at all.

jisung’s hands cradle your head, and he watches the faint outline of his cock in your throat. the sight alone draws a moan from his lips and sends a shudder through his body. your attention is brought back to minho when he begins to slowly rub at your clit with his thumb, and your body jolts slightly from the pleasure. you clench tighter around him in response, making his hips stutter for a moment before he regains his steady rhythm.

“fuck! c-can i cum? please? i n-need to,” jisung pleads, his thrusts into your mouth growing sloppier and sloppier as he gets closer to his orgasm.

“of course you can, sungie. go ahead and cum for us,” minho says, and you pick up on the tone with which he speaks. you can hear the almost sinister undertones in his words, but it’s obvious jisung doesn’t, because he releases down your throat with a moan.

he thrusts a few more times until he comes down from his high before stilling inside your mouth. he’s panting, trying to catch his breath before minho speaks up again.

“now, keep going.”

“huh?” jisung’s confused, it’s written all over his face. and there’s slight fear in his eyes. he’s well aware of what minho’s order means, but he doesn’t want to believe it.

“you wanted so badly to cum earlier, even breaking the rules to try and do so. so that’s what you’re gonna do. you’re gonna cum again.”

jisung’s frozen in his spot, and you press your hands harder against the back of his thighs so that he can’t step away. you take the chance to catch your breath as much as you can, taking deep breaths in through your nose while you wait for him to move again. but he doesn’t, each time he tries to thrust again his body shivers in overstimulation, and it stops him. minho takes matters into his own hands.

he thrusts into you with more force than before, causing you to moan around jisung as well as lurch towards jisung. you swallow around him and the younger boy whimpers from the overstimulation, his knees almost buckling beneath him, but you can tell he loves it.

minho grips your thighs, lifting your legs so that they wrap around his torso, and he’s able to thrust into you better, the slight change providing the perfect angle for him to reach deeper inside your tight walls. you can hear his breathing getting ragged, the warmth of your pussy starting to get to him, and his hips stutter every few thrusts.

minho lets out a shaky moan, and you clench around him as tight as you can, beginning to grind your hips up against him for some added friction, while jisung finally regains control of himself, managing to restart shallow thrusts into your throat.

all the nerves in your body are alight once more, and you can feel the knot forming again. you continue moaning around jisung’s cock, and the vibrations are sending him hurtling towards another release of his own. you can tell that minho is also nearing his end, his breathing is heavy, his thrusts are getting sloppy. but he doesn’t want to be the first to finish. he slides one of his hands up your body, leaving goosebumps in his fingertips’ wake before reaching your neck. he wraps his hand around your throat, and jisung’s the first to feel it. he feels the way your throat envelops him tighter, and he lets out such a desperate whine before cumming down your throat without warning. you swallow around him, feeling the way his thick cum slides down the back of your throat. his legs shake when he steps away from you, and he’s quick to lay down on the bed beside you.

minho’s hand stays around your throat as he continues to thrust into you, and he rolls his hips expertly. you’re close, so damn close to your orgasm. but you need something more, anything more, and jisung and minho can both see that. they both know what to do, minho leaning down and bringing one of your nipples into his mouth, while jisung wraps his lips around the other.

they both work in tandem, almost in sync as their tongues flick and swirl over your buds and it’s mere moments before they have you right there, standing on the precipice of ultimate pleasure, teetering on the cliffside, so close that a small gust of wind could push you over. but you fall, of your own volition, into an earth-shattering orgasm.

your entire body moves on its own, writhing, trembling. your head is thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, legs shaking and twitching around minho’s torso. your back arches, your hips buck up and down over and over again. you’ve never had an orgasm so good, so exquisite, before. minho can tell from the way your walls grip his cock tighter than ever before, the way your mouth hangs open in a silent moan that just can’t seem to escape the confines of your throat.

the almost unbearable tightness of your pussy sends him over, triggering the orgasm that he’s been fending off for longer than he’d like to admit. you’re still lost in the pleasure, blissed out from the best orgasm of your life when minho releases inside you, painting your wall white. it’s only when you both have come down from your highs that both boys detach from your chest, jisung flopping back against the pillows while minho gently pulls out of you.

“you guys good?” minho asks, leaning back, propped up with his arms. you and jisung nod, happy smiles on both your faces. “good, then i’ll go grab us some water.”

he slowly stands up, catching his breath before heading out of the room. you use the moment to quickly go to the bathroom to clean yourself up. and by the time you return to the bedroom, minho is already there, two glasses of water in his hands and one more in jisung’s. minho hands one to you as you sit back down on the bed. it’s not until you drink the cool liquid that you realise just how much your throat aches. it’s faced a lot of use over the course of the session, but you know a scratchy throat is only temporary.

“i really liked your outfits,” minho says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled in the room.

“thank you,” you and jisung say in unison. you both giggle before you continue.

“i bought them months ago and started to give up hope that they’d even show up.”

“then it’s a really good thing they did because they just might get a lot of use,” minho replies, smiling. “did you both have fun?”

“of course! it was really good,” jisung responds first.

“yeah, i really enjoyed it,” you say.

“i’m glad.” minho grins wider, happy that you both enjoyed it. it always makes him happy to know you both had fun. “what shall we do now? get in the hot tub or watch a movie?”

“who says we can’t do both? hot tub and then a movie,” jisung says.

“i second that motion,” you add.

“alrighty then,” minho replies. “then that’s what we’ll do.”

all three of you make your ways out of the bedroom, stopping to grab a towel each on the way to the backyard. and as you all reach the hot tub, jisung and minho both pulling back the cover, you’re just excited to sink into the nice hot water with both of your loving boyfriends.

[kpop-hive]

NCT Dom Vs Sub Vs Switch MTL

EXPLICIT. CONTENT.

Dom

Yuta

Jaehyun

Johnny

Kun

Lucas

Taeil

YangYang

Switch

Jaemin

WinWin

Jeno

Haechan

Hendery

Mark

Renjun

Shotaro

Ten

Sub

Jungwoo

Chenle

Doyoung

Taeyong

Sungchan

Xiaojun

Jisung

Yuta and Jaehyun are the doms of NCT, the way they carry themselves is very much try me and I will fuck you anywhere in the dorm, they exude so much confident and experience, it would be impossible if I didn’t label them as doms. Yuta is the most shameless type of dom, definitely will not stop if someone walks in, a car is near, or if someone is at the door, he is not stopping until you both release. Jaehyun is a little more subtle with domming than Yuta, he likes the idea of being promiscuous about having sex and enjoys the idea of no one around so your moans of his name or daddy are not heard for his members’ personal enjoyment.

Johnny and Kun are also doms, but they are mainly soft doms. Johnny and Kun are the type of doms where they will love you, respect you and treat you right until you get on their bad side. Become a brat and they will literally bend you over and give you a spank in an instant. Johnny is a little harsher than Kun, but they both have really interesting similarities.

Lucas, Taeil, and YangYang ~ The reason why they are labeled as doms is not because they can be harsh or caring or initiating things, but because they are cocky. Lucas loves to talk about all of your sexscapades to his members to prove that he gets sex on the regular, Taeil is super chill to the point where his members think he subs, but he’s the oldest and one of the most respected for a reason, and YangYang is just a freak who loves when his members hear about him getting his dick wet.

Jaemin, WinWin, and Jeno are switches with dom tendencies. They love to dom, but they won’t mind subbing if they could every once in a while. How I picture it is that if you wanted sex, Jaemin would sub and let you get out all of your needs just with his body, WinWin subs when he is tired or exhausted from work or practice, and Jeno subs when he wants some attention, but when these three dom, your insides will melt from the energy they put into pleasing you.

Haechan, Hendery, and Mark are switches 50/50, there isn’t a specific time for them when they want to be a dom or a sub, it just happens. It does depend on certain situations where they prefer to dom or sub though, like birthdays, if it’s theirs, you submit to them, if it’s yours, they submit to you, anniversaries, you take turns. To Haechan, Hendery and Mark, sex is sex to them so they naturally don’t know if they prefer to dom or sub more. Even if I think Haechan prefers domming, Hendery in between, and Mark preferring subbing. They all love sex no matter what.

Renjun, Shotaro, and Ten are switches that like to sub a little more than domming. They enjoy you taking the reigns and going your own pace but they aren’t afraid to dom either. Renjun gives me the vibe that he would love a someone to be a soft dom to him and show him some love, he wants sex to be intimate while still having those roles in bed, if he doms then it’s usually the same way unless he gets mad. Shotaro is the type that I see wanting his partner to dom him the first few times only to see how experienced they are, once he knows, he’ll probably take over and surprise you with his dom side that has you swooning for more. Ten is naughty by heart and wants sex to be fun and entertaining for the both of you, definitely uses toys and food and if you dom him with those things, he will surely reciprocate the same thing, so be ready.

Jungwoo, Chenle, and Doyoung, The only legitimate reason I put them down as subs is mainly because of the positions. I feel like they love to be ridden and see your body drape over theirs while you try to get them off, but they also all have something they admire that you do that puts them into subspace. Jungwoo loves it when you tell him what to do, command him and he will follow, Chenle actually likes it when you kiss down his body or call him babyboy, and Doyoung wants you to choke him, do these things and they are putty in your hands.

Taeyong and Sungchan, I wanted to put these two at a higher scale but I couldn’t, they give me sub vibes. Taeyong literally does so much work to where he is exhausted, being the parent of 22 children isn’t easy especially when 99% of them are crackheads. He wants someone to care for his body and that’s all he wants, where you dom in the sexual aspect, he doms everything else in the relationship. Sungchan gives me such sub vibes, even if he’s 6’1, he still gives me sub vibes, but I will say he has the power and strength to dom you though, he was given all the materials, height=size kink, strength=manhandling, he just needs more experience, until then, he is a sub who leaves bruises on you waist from how hard he squeezes you when you ride him.

Xiaojun and Jisung, Anytime I think of Xiaojun, I think of sub, only because of how sweet and caring he is, but is very shy to initiate anything, I believe he just needs the motivation and will power to dom though, kinda like the Hulk. Needs to get super angry or worked up to dom. I only put Jisung here mainly because I highly doubt he’s had experience. Jisung is very young, and I don’t think he’s had many sexual favors, I can only imagine he’s received oral before but nothing else. He kinda reminds of Sungchan a little bit, he has the height, strength, voice, and large hands to dom the hell out of somebody and ruin them immensely, but until he gets more experienced, Jisung remains at the bottom.