#golden arch bangs

[chulip-blossoms]

Gonna tell my kids these two were Hikaru and Toya

[physical-manifestation-of-spite]

My part of the Malevolent Big Bang event, an illustration for The Essence of a Soul by Calamitatum! The fic is very hurt/comfort and very much my vibe. Check it out!

Image ID and zoom-ins under cut

[ID: The image is in a portrait orientation, depicting the corner of a room with a smeared chalk pentagram on the ground. Arthur is on his back over the pentagram, his back arched and hands clawing toward his chest, seemingly in pain. Above him are two figures: John and a skeletal beast creature.. John is a shadowy being in a golden cloak with clawed hands and an abstract face with glowing yellow eyes. His entire being is a gradient of dark blue to purple and then pink, dotted with multiple stars. The skeletal beast is facing John and snarling. Its skull is almost canine, its teeth stretched outward and jagged. Its bones are jagged and protruding at its spine, and its ribs are showing at its torso. The bottom of its legs fade into shadow. End ID]

[andersonfilms]

❝ TASTE THE CRUSH ❞ ✶ ABBY ANDERSON !

tags: eighteen+, camgirl!abby, lowkey loser!reader, voyerisum, dub-con, dildo penetration (abby!r), minors hop off my shit, friends to lovers (eventually), nerdy!abby.

a/n. happy pride, my loves! here's the first part of a series i'm cooking. there will be blurbs, drabbles, and some sprinkle of fluff if all goes as planned. hope you enjoy!

you aren’t supposed to be home, but it’s a slow night of bartending, so you’re sent early. pushing yourself into the front door despite your aching muscles, dispensing your keys in the small bowl, before grabbing yourself a cold glass of water. chugging it from the chilled glass, the cool liquid sending a sensation down your throat.

something feels off but you ignore it. 

funneling into your room, discarding your pants along with your tank left only in your undergarments. the tension has been building in your shoulders all night. the overwhelming stress of not making enough tips to cover your rent, classes in the morning, as well as the kink in your neck. you need to relieve yourself from all of it. a feather filled duvet has never looked so inviting, parallel with the vibrator tucked away into your night stand. 

bang! bang! bang! 

what the hell? 

taking a final sip from your water, you venture into the living room grabbing the bat next to your bedroom door. ready to swing, you’re met with silence in the still empty living room. odd. 

bat in your stronghold, your sock clad feet patter up the stairs into your roommate’s area of the apartment when you hear moans. soft, whimpering, moans. was she? no. it’s abby for fucksake. she’s too anxious to talk about sex with others much less fuck with her clit while you’re home. 

but you’re not supposed to be home and you’re intrigued. you shouldn’t be but you are. 

against the hardwood floors, your feet are quiet as you bring yourself closer to her room. her moans are louder, you try to ignore the throbbing of your clit, thighs nudging together as abby sounds like an angel — solely sent for your pleasure. 

the cream door is cracked open halfway and it’s then when you see her. for the first time, it’s all of her. the fucking bat nearly drops to the floor, but you catch it and cradle it to your chest as you take the scene in. 

entranced is the only way to describe it. she had lights, her phone propped up with an additional camera while they filmed the show she so clearly was putting it on. blonde hair cascades down her freckled back, completely bare ass on full display, unknowingly for your greedy eyes. 

you need to look away. she’s your best friend. stop. you’re being a fucking creep but then she’s bouncing on the dildo. 

fucking hell. 

your friend, the one you tease endlessly, the shy nerdy girl who can barely say two words when a pretty girl tries to speak with her is fucking herself on a baby blue dildo and filming it. for the first time, you’re seeing abby differently. it almost pains you. 

exquisite, golden hair shines in the moonlight as her delicious hips roll. she finds a rhythm that’s comfortable letting out a collection of whines and moans. the sound of her slick combined with the headboard hitting the wall over and over due to the power of her weight sends you into a frenzy. you’re thighs have never rubbed together so harshly, trying to satiate a need. if you could, you’d moan for her but the fear of being caught strikes you down but it’s festering within you. 

it’s growing. god, it’s for her only. 

you’re paralyzed with arousal but you need to leave. right fucking now before you cum. pathetically, you think you can just from watching her. abby’s soft voice practically nails your soft palms to the walls, crucifying you with every unspeakable desire. pink lips let them fly, gratifying you and somehow breaking the impenetrable wall between the two of you. 

“cock is so big, s’hard to take all of it.” abby whimpers, arching her back while her palms support her weight as she splits her pussy on the dildo. “yeah, you like that? mmm, love when my pussy swallows you whole, huh?” 

she lays her full cheeks on the mattress, pretty face pushed against the sheets as abby gives her audience a better view. she sounds goddamn breathtaking going nice and slow, her lower lips spreading so beautifully. this deserves to be painted and displayed in art galleries. 

the way she moves, golden strands moving as if she’s controlling every movement. abby anderson is fucking art. nowhere to be found is the shy, nose stuffed in her books, abby. this version of her is so different it’s causing you to see stars. 

moving her hips you didn’t even know was possible. you can’t even process fit her body actually is, the one she hides away. suffocated by thick cable knit sweaters, loose button downs concealing her burling biceps, and the chinos she wears on a daily basis. all of it is more than you can stomach. 

“like looking at my pussy, baby?” abby giggles. fucking giggles. “splitting my pussy open, feel you s’deep, almost in my stomach. yeah?” 

the urge to slip your fingers inside your pussy and touch yourself while she fucks herself is right there but you can seem to do it. settling for pressed thighs and tight grip on bat while you breath heavily. unable to catch on breath. 

“why don’t i spread it for you? give you a better view. after all, im such a sweetheart.” with one free hand, she pulls at the fat of her ass and you nearly choke on the air around you. her puckered hole, the sweet sin of her cunt staring right at you while you salivate. it pools to the floor along with your dignity. 

she leaves the shot there for a moment, letting her viewers tune in to take all of her in before she lets go. the fat of her ass bounces, increasing her speed as she slams over herself on the cock. the audacity of you to never think of her like this because fuck, this is everything. 

you want to be the one fucking her. your fingers pulling at her golden strands, pretty face smudged against the mattress as you take her from behind. a curious mind wonders what she would say to you, how good she would be taking it from behind. molding her strong body into whatever you fucking want. would she let you? 

abby’s voice breaks through the stance she has you under, permitting you of daydreaming any longer. instead, your eyes focus on the way she fucks herself. 

“need to stuff my pussy full, don’t you? s’all you can think about, yeah…i know. making a pretty girl like me cum is your fucking dream.” her back arcs, giving them a better view of her. another piece for everyone to enjoy, you included. 

her voice breaks, irrevocably but abby tries again. “t-this is what you wanted all this time? for me to be your whore? show you how much of a slut i can be?” you feel it in your stomach. the light pressure building as you clench your pussy around nothing, your thighs rubbing together continuously. if she cums, fuck, you won’t be able to control yourself. 

“i’ll do whatever you want. it’s all for you.” you’re fucking lost. abby picks up the pace, the way her hips stutter indicates she’s so close. without even touching yourself, you are too. “no one else can make me feel like this, i—”a low groan leaves her lips, the echoes of her slick invade your senses. jesus christ, you would do anything to taste her. 

abby doesn’t say much until she’s reaching her peak. just loud moans, intoxicating whimpers, and delicious sound of her cunt being fucked again, and again, and again. then you take note of her shakes, beautiful thighs trembling as they fail under the undeniable pleasure coursing through her veins. 

“s’close, gonna cum. fuckfuckfuck!” you see her white, hot cum soak the dildo, white substance spilling over sun-kissed skin, staining the sheets. it’s fucking everywhere. abby doesn’t stop. as if she knows you’re watching and wants to torture you. 

“please come for me baby? mommy needs your cum. gonna give it to me, yeah? i’m your sweet girl after all.” just like that, you lose it. white coated cum covers your boxers, staining you through. you feel every nerve in your body coated in her, begging to be trenched in her touch. 

“yeah? that’s it. s’all mine. just like you, baby. my fucking pussy.” your entire body twitches, clit throbbing at her words. only thing you hear is her heavy breaths slowing down as abby slowly calms herself. 

even when she’s shaking, trembling, she fucks herself through it. you can’t look away. not when she’s made you cum like that. no one’s ever made you cum with voice alone. abby’s soothing tone scratches the surface of the unbridled desire bumbling out of you. now, you’ll be sick until you can have her. is it pathetic? maybe. but your hands are greedy, aching to touch every inch of her body, make her feel whatever she wants. 

you make yourself scarce. the stakes of getting caught too high. shame. the overwhelming feeling almost settles instantly but you find it withering the more you think about the tsunami wave of the orgasm she unknowingly gifted you. 

with every passing moment, each turn in your sleep, you feel guilty for watching for as long as you did. you can’t sleep. always thinking of her. every waking moment is always about her. you’ll never be able to see abby the same. maybe it’ll be your demise or your saving grace. for now, all you can do is welcome the all consuming passion that is her. your dorky best friend and roommate who certainly does know how to fuck.

DO NOT BUY TLOU + DONATE TO PALESTINE

[deathlooksgoodonyou-if]

It was the summer of 2010 when you found Jules Hawkins by the lake. But it didn't look like Jules Hawkins.

After all, how could it? Jules Hawkins was a god. And as you know, gods like Jules are unbreakable. If you knew anyone death couldn't touch, it was Jules. And yet, somehow it felt like you had never seen Jules look more like them than they did, that day, dead by the lake. Plump cherry lips, now parched and blue, dirt on their perfect knees, golden hair sticking to their forehead, exquisite clothes matted and muddied, skin, ghostly pale.

Even in death, even as Jules became a child of soil and dirt and ruin, Jules managed to look like art. How could this creature of beauty be anyone else but Jules Hawkins?

A string of murders follow the passing of Jules Hawkins and in the desperation of avoiding being tangled in the web of this cold blooded murderer, you end up right in the thick of it when you find out the killer may have set their eyes on you next.

Of course, you ended up in the killer's radar. You had always been a child of misfortune, after all.

• Customise your mc. Choose your appearance. Play as male, female, non-binary or trans; straight, gay or bisexual etc.

• Play as an emotionally scarred individual. Escape the hell you call your mind, alone or with the help of allies. Or succumb to the voices.

• Find your predator before your predator finds you. Or keep running. How far will you run? Do you even want to run?

• Befriend, antagonize, manipulate or romance fellow residents of Ravenwoods.

• Heavily character driven.

• The lake calls out to you. Will you listen?

JULIAN/NE "JULES" HAWKINS. [he/him or she/her] [semi ro]

You knew Jules in the way you wish you never did. Jules is embedded into your very bones. Jules is a part of you. You wish you could escape them.

Jules may be no more for the world but they are alive and breathing in your haywire brain and they are not very kind. Not that they ever were. But the Jules that haunts you, plagues you like a disease is ruthless with their words in a way the old Jules could never be. Not to you.

Description : Pale skin. Rosy tint to cheeks. High cheekbones. f!Long wheatish blonde curly hair with bangs. m!shoulder length curly wheatish blonde hair. Almond shaped brown eyes. Arched eyebrows. Long, thick lashes. Bow shaped lips. f!willowy frame. 5'11. m!broad back, narrow waist, long legs. 6'2.

CHAE WARREN. [he/him]

There are few you consider friend and Warren is one of them, alongside Sujin. He is revolution in a glass jar. A little rough around the edges, with bullet holes in his paper heart. Lately, the air becomes laced with awkwardness when its just the two of you around. You wish you weren't fairly perceptive. Perhaps that could have made you oblivious to the way Warren's adams apple bobs and his throat tightens when you are around, the way his fists clench when his tongue slips or the way he glances at you thinking you didn't notice.

Description : Sharp jaw. Medium complexion. Monolid chocolate brown eyes. Straight eyebrows. Thin pinkish lips. 5'7. Athletic figure. Short dyed dark red hair.

JESSICA HAWKINS. [she/her]

Jules' twin. You never bothered to acquaint yourself with her. She had always seemed too saintly and your mother had taught you well to stay away from that kind. Those who hide their tainted souls behind rosemary lies, platinum smiles and bright eyes stitched from sunshine. Beware of them, your mother had told you. But is that what she truly is doing? Spinning honeyed tales from saccharine lips?

You would never know. Unless you choose to. If it helps, Jules lips always quirked upwards and the crease in their brows mellowed whenever her name rolled off their tongue.

Description : Kind almond shaped brown eyes. Long, thick lashes. Bow shaped lips. Arched eyebrows. High cheekbones. Straight blonde hair, reaching her back. Pale skin. Willowy frame. 5'10.

DYLAN JEANE. [he/him]

Jules' boyfriend, Dylan. Well, ex boyfriend now. He seems to harbour a deep dislike for you. No matter how hard he denies it— the slight tensing of the muscles in his jaw always give it away.

You had always been curious about him. Jules and him were an odd pair. How could Dylan be what Jules desired? They were polar opposites. Jules was tidal waves and traditional typhoons. He is ruddy sunsets and roseate dawns. He is habit, he is routine, he is rigid, he is never changing. A sad strange kind of tragedy. Jules was anything but that. Jules was everything at once. Jules was never the same. Jules was uneven. Jules was hurricanes and tsunamis.

There is a natural downwards turn to his lips, his shoulders always a little hunched as if the burdens of life have dripped down from the ceiling and chosen to settle like dust upon his shoulders. You wonder what weighs him down so terribly. He talks as if every breath he takes from his lungs rattles him to the core. Perhaps it does. He seems to have taken Jules' death as hard as you, if not worse.

Description : Short slicked back midnight black hair. Heavy lidded hazel eyes. Slender built. Wears rimless rectangular glasses occassionally. Angular face. Sharp lips. Upwards eyebrows. Fair skin. 6'1.

AIDEN HAMILTON. [he/him]

The second child of the sleazy mayor. Boy of many faces. You don't trust him one ounce. For good reasons. It irks you to watch his eyes glimmer as if you are a specimen that intrigues him. You don't trust the myriad of unhealthy secrets he hides behind his charming gaze, the sly smile that tugs off the corner of his lips or the disarming lilt of voice as his salty tongue rolls off silken threads of honeysuckle lies frictionlessly. It comes to him as naturally as breathing. The impurity of his father's gold taints him, it runs in his veins and he embraces it willfully.

He is hiding skeletons in his closets and everybody knows that. What it is however, is a different story.

Will he let you in on a secret?

Description : Unruly brown wavy hair, in a middle part. Luscious lips, heavy lower lip, a small faint and old scar at the corner of his mouth. S-shaped eyebrows. Sea green hooded eyes. Tanned complexion. V-shaped jaw. Toned build. 6'4.

HEATHER HAMILTON. [she/her]

Eldest child of the mayor. You are not particularly friends but she is not a bad company to have around either. You like her. You have met in passing and she always has a quick smile reserved for you. You know she is a dreamer with a pomegranate heart. She has also somehow inherited her mother's love of parties. Hers tend to be a little more wild and carefree, though. Just like her.

Uncharacteristically, she is also fond of painting. Will you be her muse?

Description : Straight brown hair in a bob cut. Hooded brown eyes. Heart shaped lips. Soft arch eyebrows. Skinny frame. Tanned complexion. Dimples on both cheeks. 5'7.

MIA MORGAN. [she/her]

Mia Morgan is the kind of girl who will rip your heart out, eat it raw and call it love. With midnight eyes of catlike grace that could rival any godforsaken abyss and lips richer and darker than the blood running in your veins, she's the kind of girl that would skin you alive and chew on your fickle heart but then kiss your eyelids and tell you 'good night, baby' and you would like a lovesick dog spiral back to her, yearning for more.

Why? Because you are a fool? No. Because she was Mia Morgan and Mia Morgan was born for seduction and playing with the strings of childish hearts. A holy ruination. Destruction in its most, enchanting, enrapturing form.

Will you let her destroy you?

Description : Wispy bangs, short hush cut, black hair. Dark cat eyes. Beauty mark on upper lip. Soft jaw. Chubby cheeks. Crimson pouty lips. Fair complexion. Curvaceous figure. 5'2.

KIM SUJIN. [she/her]

She considers you a close friend, sharing every secret with you.

Description : Bronze skin, wide set brown eyes with gold flecks, button nose, freckles, curtain bangs, medium length chestnut brown hair. 5'3.

ARTHUR MORRIS. [he/him]

Aiden's friend. He's an asshole.

Description : Mahogany complexion, hollowed cheeks, has a stubble, ebony eyes, buzzcut, brawny. 6'1.

PARIS HILL. [he/him]

Local heartthrob. He looks handsome till he opens his mouth.

Description : Sunkissed complexion, wide lips, honey brown eyes, blonde hair in a fringe. Buff arms and broad back. Has an unhealthy obsession with shades. 5'10.

AUNT AUBURN MACKENZIE. [she/her]

She loves you dearly. There is nothing she wouldn't do for you.

Description : Brown hair, generally tied in a loose bun. Wrinkles near eyes and smiling lines around her mouth. Thin lips. Stout and a little hunched frame. Brown complexion. 5'1.

MOTHER. [she/her]

A woman with a twisted understanding of love. You haven't seen her in years and while you may have forgotten her face, her voice still rings crystal clear in your mind, like an old cassette on repeat.

FATHER. [he/him]

A man you knew but never quite understood. It is his face that stares back at you everytime you look in the mirror.

MAYOR JOHN HAMILTON. [he/him]

The mayor of Ravenwoods. It would serve you well to have him as an ally. Having strong connections has always proved to be useful.

Description : Beige skin. Hooked nose. Green eyes. Bushy brows. Short hair, close cropped. Smooth blonde hair. Plump frame. 5'8.

MEERA CHAUHAN HAMILTON. [she/her]

Wife of the mayor. She may be a little snobby but she means well. Most of the times. After all, who isn't a little selfish?

Description : Tanned complexion. Almond brown gold eyes. Brown hair wavy reaching her mid back. Slender frame. 5'10.

LAWRENCE HAWKINS. [he/him]

Father of the Hawkins siblings. You would rather not get involved with him.

Description : Pale skin. Blonde slicked back hair. Blue eyes. High cheek bones. Sharp jaw. Wears frameless rectangular glasses. 5'11.

AURORA HAWKINS. [she/her]

Mother of the Hawkins siblings. You would rather not get involved with her.

Description : Blonde hair, generally tied in a tight bun. Pale skin. Brown eyes. 5'9.

OFFICER RYAN DOUGLAS. [he/him]

He's a good man. He tries his best.

Description : Rosy complexion. Dark brown eyes. Short brown hair. Average build. 5'8.

DEMO. (DECEMBER OR SOONER!)

COG FORUM. (DECEMBER OR SOONER!)

EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. (TBD!)

FAQ.

> Rated 18+ for mature themes such as (heavy spoilers ahead!) explicit language, sexual themes, questionable behaviour, toxic relationships, murder, elitism, child abuse, domestic violence, insomnia, toxic relationships, manipulation, transphobia, racism, internalised transphobia and homophobia, death, childhood trauma, mild nudity, feelings of being watched, stalking, infidelity, hallucinations.

Reblogs are appreciated! Thank you for your interest! <3

[miniversse]

I would like to request for husband Chan X wife y/n, where Chan comes home drunk attending an after party and gets all romantic and suggestive with y/n

⭑ “unresistible” ⭑

⭑ bang chan x female reader

⭑ content includes: non-idol bang chan, non-idol reader, mentions of drinking, drunk chan, established relationship (married), oral (f receiving), use of pet names (baby,honey,channie), releasing

⭑ note: let’s just say anon has taste because i had so much fun writing this. i hope you enjoy it!

⭑ minors dni

⭑——————————————————⭑

you lay in bed staring at the screen of your phone, waiting for a call, a message, a photo but nothing came your way. as you turn to face the empty side of the bed your husband should be laying on, you hear the click of a door and one lock, two locks. his heavy footsteps approach the bedroom.

“hey baby”…

you continue to face the wall, hoping to let him know that you’re bothered by how late he arrived home. he promised he would be back before midnight on a night out with his friends, but it’s well past midnight and you waited patiently for him. the alcohol reeks off his body as he walks to face you and he happens to wear one of your favorite outfits: a black shirt and black trousers that you bought him on your second anniversary. it had the first letter of your name embroidered on the top of the shirt with a delicate, golden thread.

“i’m sorry baby, i just-“ his words trail off, knowing there was no success in making excuses. you glance at his face, feeling a sense of guilt. he has worked hard all week, and only hangs out with his friends on fridays to spend the weekend with you. he also was unresistible, always carrying a romantic and suggestive look in his eyes.

“it’s ok channie, get washed up and we can discuss it tommorow”

he reveals a small smile, and turns to the bathroom, undressing on his way there.

he lets out a long “aaah” as he plops his head on his pillow, hair still wet and straight. you couldn’t resist playing with his dark strands and twisting them with your fingers.

“i missed you baby, i’m sorry for being late” his hands grab yours and he places a kiss on the inside of your palm.

“it’s ok honey, as long as you had fun”

“mm, it was ok. nothing beats the fun i have with you” you both laugh at his remark

“what type of fun? you’ve always made fun of me for being a workaholic”

“ ‘yknow, when we wind down, and i get to have you for the night” he expresses, words slurred and spoken slow. his fingers trace your shoulder blades, and he lowers the sheets to place a kiss on the trails his fingers left. you feel a shudder run through your body and he moves up, to look back into your eyes. he always looked graceful when he’d come back home drunk, face flushed and eyes lustful. you place a peck on his lips and retract your head, only to feel his hand on the back of your neck bringing you back and locking lips with you, intertwining tongues and whispering “i’m sorry” and “i miss you baby” repetitively. you feel his hand moving down to grab at your shorts, grinning as if he doesn’t know what’s going on.

“you really want to do this now channie?”

“mhm, and why not? getting pussy drunk from you is better than any alcohol i can drink” and with that he dives under the sheets, pulling your shorts and underwear down, exposing your cunt to him. he trails kisses from your knees and down to your thighs, bringing them up to his shoulders. he hums in satisfaction before licking your wetness, letting a moan escape your parted mouth. his tongue explores you in all ways, curling inside your folds, rolling circles at your bud and flicking it.

“you’re so good baby”

“h-honey slow down, please” but he wouldn’t listen, rather he uses his fingers to play with your clit as he kisses and sucks your folds, leaving hickeys inside your thighs every so often. you grab at his, now damp, hair as your body prepares to release. your back arches and he pulls you back down, reaching your good spot countless times before you let out a final whimper of relief, your pussy dripping wet. chan let’s your sweet release coat his tongue and he swallows it, moving up to look at your sweaty face. he places a kiss on your forehead before grabbing napkins and helping you clean up.

you cuddle in his warmth, locking lips with him for what felt like hours. almost falling asleep in his arms, you gain consciousness of the situation again, laughing to yourself.

“how do i let you come home late and eat me out?”

“ ‘dunno baby, it seems like you can’t resist me”

you weren’t suprised he knew how your mind works. after all, he was your husband, and yours only.

⭑ TAG LIST

@captainchrisstan

@rylea08

@strayywayy

[ninibeingdelulu]

Lemon cake ✧

Plot: You’re his cute little wife, happily waiting for him to come home.

The rumbling roar of his motorcycle growling up the driveway had your face instantly lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.

Toji was finally home after being gone for that extended undercover op - the first real solo mission he'd taken since you both decided to get married six months ago.

You barely had a chance to set down the mixing bowl cradled against your apron-covered belly before the front door was banging open to admit your husband's hulking, sweat-slick frame stomping across the threshold in a cloud of gunpowder and grime.

"Toji!" Came your gleeful squeal of delight as you scrambled towards those outstretched arms opening to envelop your petite figure against his heaving chest at last.

Nothing could've prepared you for just how fiercely those steel bands would clutch you close once they encircled your waist, though.

As if he'd been withering away without your warmth to cling to while facing down whatever fresh hells the past weeks had dragged him through beyond those city limits.

"Missed you so damn much, baby..." came the deep, guttural rasp muffled into the crown of your soft tresses while his battle-roughened palms roamed up and down your arched spine in long, soothing sweeps.

Like a man dying of thirst finally gulping down the most deliriously refreshing oasis.

Even the woodsy cologne teasing your senses beneath all those lingering metallic and cordite odors couldn't disguise just how eager he was to soak up your delicate floral fragrance again.

Taking heady lungfuls directly from the sensitive curve where your shoulder met your throat as he swayed you both lightly while cradling you so reverently against that granite-sculpted torso.

"I can tell..." you giggled out through beaming cheeks squished against that solid wall of muscle.

Making a show of pinching your nose shut and leaning back with a dramatized look of disgust to take in his weathered, disheveled appearance head-to-toe.

"You’re stinking, mister! What was this mission you went on - crawling through a septic tank?"

That deep timbre rumbled out past his smirking lips while one large palm cupped the back of your tousled crown to guide you forward again for a lingering brush against your forehead.

Tender as a whisper of gratitude for welcoming him back to your shared sanctuary after facing the ugliness of the world beyond too long...too lonely without your healing glow to guide him home once more.

"Let me rinse off this filth then we can snuggle back up on the couch and I'll tell you all about it, doll..."

Punctuating the promise with a gratuitous squeeze over your trim waist to savor that tiny, soft frame of yours safe in his crushing embrace once more.

"...Right after I take a sniff of whatever mouthwatering treat you got baking back there."

Squirming out of his covetous clutches with a dismissive roll of your eyes, you swatted his bicep before padding back over to the industrial oven's open portal just as the rich citrus zest began wafting forth on a fresh wave of heat pouring into the kitchen.

"Lemon cake - your favorite."

You sent him a cheeky smirk over one bare shoulder as the first molten golden peaks came spilling out.

"Figured you'd be too strung-out from your solo run to want a full spread waiting. So I made sure to have dessert ready for when you finally dragged that ass of yours back here again."

The grin bisecting those ruggedly chiseled features was positively rapacious now. Gray irises already devouring every succulent curve of your flushed, glistening silhouette framed within the oven's honeyed glow while he shed his combat boots to recline back onto the plush leather sofa.

"Less yappin', more strippin', Pipsqueak...then bring that sweet peach right over so we can kill two birds with one load of cream filling together."

With a derisive albeit thoroughly entertained scoff tossed over your shoulder, you bit back the indulgent smile tugging at your mouth before reaching up to unfasten your apron strings one-handed.

Just like that, that infuriatingly cocky beast was back on the prowl - chasing your suddenly racing pulse with each molten syllable leaking out past those sensuous lips already glistening with promise.

As if he'd only been lying in wait to pounce on that tantalizing opportunity to make up for all your nights spent far too cold and lonely without him crowding his overwhelming presence back where it belonged.

Maybe there wouldn't be any 'snuggling' for the next few hours after all...just another brand of delicious perspiration dripping between your tangled bodies throughout this indulgent reunion instead.

But what you agreed on, is that you weren’t approaching this man until he took a very long shower.

[p0ssywhippedcream]

if u do pjo..... could u do god apollo smut just need that godly dick atp

“Yeah? How does that feel, baby?”

He’s so fucking smug, he knows you can’t answer him with words and he still asks you.

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, your lip firmly stuck between your teeth as you nod your head. Your eyes are firmly shut, the sensations too much.

“That good, huh? Don’t worry, sweet girl, I’ll take care of you.” You’re not even looking at him and you can tell he’s got a smirk on his face.

His hips press into yours like hot kisses. He goes so fast in his thrusts and slows right as his body meets yours, just to watch you whine and to feel your heels on his back push him in further.

Apollo knows every inch of your body so it’s safe to say that when he’s inside of you, he’s making you feel better than you’ve ever felt.

Your back is a harsh arch off the bed, your shoulders dig into the mattress as he bangs it against the wall. Your legs are shaking around his waist and he’s just gotten started.

He drops one of his hands from where it had been holding him up to grab the back of your knee and throw your leg over his shoulder. He puts his hand back down and grabs your other leg with his other hand to spread you open more.

At this angle, you can feel everything. The way his tip drags through your cunt, the throbbing of his cock when you squeeze him. You’re going to be sore for atleast two weeks.

And he’s so warm, his body is literally radiating heat right now. There’s a faint golden glow all over him and his skin is just warm enough like clothes fresh out of the dryer.

Apollo leans his head in towards yours and bites your bottom lip, effectively stealing it from your teeth and smearing a sloppy kiss on your mouth.

“You look so beautiful like this, baby. So angelic. I couldn’t make an instrument sound as good as your moans.”

Your eyes open and you shudder, your body unable to help the reaction to the way he’s looking at you. Feral, unhinged, in love, so, so sexy. The vulnerability in his face makes him seem almost human but the otherworldly glow negates it.

You can tell he’s getting close, the wet sound of where you connect getting louder as he gets faster. The hand he had used to hold himself up on finds your cheek and he tilts your face into his.

“So beautiful.” He says but it’s mostly to himself. You’re so close, so ready. Your entire body is drenched in his warmth, the feeling of him and it’s so much to experience.

Your lips capture his one last time, his cocky grin almost too wide to be caught and he feels more than hears the words “I love you.” on his lips.

You love him, perfect you. You don’t worship him or pray or beg or seduce, you love him. The way one human loves another. His envy of mortals increases tenfold, he’d give anything to be a man wrapped in your embrace, just a man.

As he feels your body quiver, your cunt tighten and your orgasm hit you like a train, he also feels a pull in his chest. He needs you more than he needs anything else. He loves you the way he would love you if he were mortal.

His heart skips a beat as he groans out your name, painting your pussy white with his desire.

His breath is hot on your face, his whole body seemed to have overheated a little bit but he’s not panting. He’s watching you come down from the heavens and he loves you.

“I love you.” It’s a gift he’s never felt so scared to give, you accept it with a sleepy smile.

[limonecat005]

Caelus x You (honkai star rail) spice warning

Your hair cascades like water under the silverlight; your back arched, his hands scaling down your skin bathing in stardust. Sinful words sounding so sweet as his lips caress in every dip, every curve- burning the feeling of you in his memory.

Face in hand, you were sitting on the bed with satin white sheets pooling on your legs. You silently cursed the man sleeping soundly beside you, who turned your entire life upside down overnight. Your eyes trailed the latter's broad back, covered in love bites and scratch marks, and you couldn't help but swallow thickly at the sight.

His arms kept you steady against the wall and your arms find purchase on his back. As he began devouring you, you couldn't help but tighten your grip, afraid you would melt into a puddle on the floor. Pudding meshed mind, you were a goner. Nothing registered in your mind except his touches or the way he manhandled you around since your body was too numb to be controlled by yourself.

Your cheeks heated up in embarrassment, your fingers treading through your hair, trying to figure about what to do about this situation. But, your traitorous brain kept on reminding of his uniquely golden eyes which looked at you with desire and his soft ash grey hair that you tugged at by the roots which had him spill soft groans of his own.

"Caelus-!" You gasped as he delved deeper, his hand holding yours to keep you grounded.

You wanted to bang your head on the wall until you bled. Your thoughts were going crazy over him and not once were you able to plan how to deal with the awkwardness later. For once, you hated to be human and having hormones that screwed up with your system.

You groaned under your breath and decided to have a cup of coffee to sober up despite your legs trembling with every movement. And maybe also take a shower. But, before you could get up, a hand on your wrist prevented you from moving.

"Where are you going?" You turned around and watched Caelus rise up slightly from his position, revealing his extremely toned body that was hidden under the sheets.

His bed hair was shaggy in a way that had your heart flip in all directions and his deep timbre morning voice had you in his grasp.

"Good morning," you greeted, albeit hesitantly, your brain short circuiting.

The latter pulled you closer to him and wordlessly wrapped his arms around your body, trapping you in his scent and warmth. His eyes were fluttering shut, but his hands had different ideas as they ran south from your nape.

"Caelus-!" You whisper, flustered as shocks of pleasure traveled through your spine.

"Hm?" He asked, not opening his eyes and burying his face into the crook of your neck.

"What is it?" You couldn't answer, letting out a soft moan when his rough hands explored your inner thighs.

You hear him sigh softly. "How is that you manage to drive me crazy everyday?" You felt a kiss and a sharp tug on your shoulder. "Up for another round...?"

[angellayercake]

Distilled Liquor

Raphael x female tav

Warnings: body shots, nudity, teasing

You forget whose idea it was to celebrate your birthday here at Sharess's Caress of all places but once the drinks had started flowing, paying a visit to your favourite devil had seemed a grand idea. 

'He rented a room upstairs in the hopes that you would drop by,' Korilla had said when you had run into her and hadn't that little seed of information taken root in your mind. You had already been to see him, just about business of course, but finding yourself back here again you couldn't stop your mind wondering. Before you knew it you were outside his rented door. You stared into your own eyes as you hesitated, the plaque was polished to a mirror shine. There was enough alcohol flowing through you that you are struggling to focus your vision but without it you would not have been there. The warm mead and rich wine lending you the liquid courage needed to confront the disarmingly attractive devil you knew was waiting inside.

Your hand was poised to knock on the door but it swung open before you had the chance and he was there leaning against the door frame, perfectly posed to affect his indifferent amusement at your presence and yet you know it is an act. You would tease him but as you slowly blink at him in surprise you find yourself speechless. His thick doublet is gone leaving him in only his mostly undone undershirt and you can't stop your eyes from raking over his exposed chest. 

'I thought I heard a little mouse dithering at my door,' he said but you could hear the smug smirk in his voice even as your eyes were occupied elsewhere. 'And what has brought you here I wonder? I hope you are not here to attempt to renegotiate. I've already been much too generous with you I fear.' Your mind slowly catches up with the currently one-sided conversation and you manage to drag your eyes from where his golden brown body hair disappears underneath those few inches of buttoned shirt.

'It's my birthday,' you blurt out, regretting it immediately as he arches one of his perfect brows in surprise or mirth you can't quite tell. He regards you for a moment too long with his sultry half lidded gaze, his amber eyes burning like a hastily downed shot of whiskey. You shouldn't have come up here it was a terrible idea and you need to come up with something quickly. 

'We are drinking downstairs. Wine. If you wanted to join. For my birthday,' You want to bang your head against the door frame, but manage to refrain to save whatever face you might have left. He looks genuinely surprised for a moment, not quite quick enough to school his expression. But as quickly as you notice it passes returning to his usual smug indifference. 

'I would, of course, but I prefer liquor to wine I'm afraid,' he steps back from the doorway and as the alcohol had brought you high enough to even risk extending this offer it brings you falling rapidly down at his rejection. You take a deep breath as you try to school yourself, accept it gracefully and make your escape when he continues. 'And I prefer it served in a quivering belly button, distilled in fear,' he pauses, ensuring he has your full attention. 'and arousal.' You swallow thickly trying to wrestle your wayward feelings under control after the whiplash they had just received. Because this, well it sounds very much like a proposition. 

'Not really appropriate for a public tavern, even in an establishment such as this.' He continues, sauntering deeper into the room leaving you poised at the threshold, unsure of your welcome. The room feels vast as you wait impatiently for him to make his point.  

'However I happen to have a bottle of whiskey here just waiting to be drunk and if a willing vessel was to present themselves to me? I might find myself of a mind to indulge.' He gestures to the bottle on his desk, leaning back against it. He crosses his arms and watches you as his carefully chosen words sink in. With an aborted step you cross the threshold and you can almost see the fire ignite in his eyes, though his expression stays neutral. He steps aside as you approach, gesturing to the almost empty desk where you perch awkwardly waiting for him to make his move. With a click of his fingers your clothes are gone and you shiver slightly at your sudden nudity even as the firelight paints your skin with its glow. His gaze feels like a caress as he takes all of you in and despite your self consciousness you begin to almost preen under his attentions. He doesn't touch you though, not yet. Picking up the bottle he uncorks it slowly, his large hands easing the cork from the neck before coming closer and holding the bottle to your chest.

'Sit up for me slightly, yes that's it,' he directs as you settle back on to your elbows creating a perfect reservoir for the liquor to collect at the end of the journey down your torso leaving a sticky trail in its wake. His eyes lock with yours as he leans over you to enjoy his drink. Your muscles start to shake as you try to hold perfectly still and you can't hide the gasp when his mouth finally touches you. His lips seal over your navel sucking the amber liquid before chasing the errant drops that slide down your waist. His eyes slide closed as a moan of pleasure rumbles through his chest and you hope it was inspired more by the taste of your skin than the whiskey. 

He pours another shot this time holding your gaze as he chases the rivulets between the valley of your breasts and over your twitching stomach until he can lap at his prize. Your laboured breathing had spilled more drops than the first pour which he carefully collects, dispensing with the pretence of licking up the liquid and instead trailing wet open mouthed kisses across your skin. You feel almost feverish as you watch him move closer and closer to where you truly crave his touch but he stops short leaving you gasping in frustration from your anticipated pleasure. Though you shouldn't be surprised he wants to drag this out as long as possible. 

He had spoken of wanting to hear you beg and while you had managed to secure his help without stooping to such measures you have no doubt that he would have you begging for something before the night was over. Another moan slips out of him as he sucks the last drops from your belly button before standing. His long fingers trail the edge of the desk until he is directly behind you, smoothing up your arms until they rest gently on your shoulders. 

'When you have seen a thousand, birthdays really mean very little.' His voice makes you squirm as you feel his breath ghosting against your ear. 'But you mortals do love your trifles.' Turning your head you find yourself nose to nose with him, close enough to taste his whiskey warmed breath. The tension feels crushing as you wait for him to close the distance between you. You let your eyes drop closed, unable to look at him as you wait.

'Many happy returns little mouse,' he whispers against your lips but without coming any closer he snaps his fingers and you are clothed once more. You blink in confusion as your body begins to adjust to the sudden shift in tension and then he is seated by the fire once more reviewing scrolls like you had never knocked on his door.

'Your friends will be missing you. Best not keep them waiting.' It's a clear dismissal and leaves your head spinning. Arousal swirls in your stomach alongside the drink as you dizzily stumble to the door. Pausing as you reach the handle you turn back to look at him and catch him watching you. 

'You know where to find me, little mouse.' He speaks low, his deep voice barely carrying across the room. 'Whether you wanted to share another drink,' he pauses, not allowing you to escape the suspense even now. 'Or something a little more, titillating.' As you catch his meaning you can't control the shiver of anticopation that runs through you. He was playing a game with you but he was helping you decide your next move and you weren't going to waste it. With a brief nod of acknowledgement you slip out of the door, closing it softly behind you. Next time.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

I wouldn't fall for someone I thought couldn't misbehave

I actually wrote a fic, go figure! Huge thanks to @minky-for-short for getting me into Hazbin and @hangsters for the support and love! I got a lot more where this came from <3

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

----

They've been told to live tonight however they want. And with tomorrow's Extermination looming and the Hazbin Hotel right in the middle of the target, there's only one thing Angel Dust wants to do.

And that's the bartender.

---

You didn’t wind up in hell without knowing fear. Whether you got there by painting it on other people or seeing it in your reflection or both, it didn’t matter, to everyone down below, fear was like an old friend. 

And to Angel Dust, fear was like a toxic hook up whose calls he couldn’t make himself ignore after years of dissatisfying back alley orgasms. 

All to say, he knew the taste of it, sharp like battery acid and sour like cheap, soapy lube. He knew how it sounded, laughter stretched so thin you could see through it, the whir of a camera lens pulling close to try and see where you were breaking. He knew how it smelled, sweat and latex and dry ice. He knew how it felt, cheap faux fur and overwarm, foreign skin. 

Angel had been sucking fear’s dick for longer than he cared to remember. But what surprised him was that he didn’t see it here. 

They should be scared. They should all be pissing themselves in terror. In who knew how many hours, the worst Extermination they’d known would descend, with their home and everyone in it smack bang in the center of the target. And Heaven wasn’t in the habit of missing their shot. 

But when Angel knocked back another shot of top shelf whiskey, he didn’t taste fear in it. The laughter that surrounded him was real, all he could feel was a warmth that he wasn’t sure came from the drink. 

Maybe this was what fear felt like when you didn’t face it alone. 

“You’re staring.”

Angel didn’t have much of a defense, especially when he hadn’t even realized that Vaggie had moved onto the barstool next to him and jumped a mile when she started speaking, nearly spilling his next shot. Because he was busy staring. 

So he took evasive action instead, trying to piece his cool back together, “Ain’t you got a girlfriend waiting on you upstairs? What are you still doing down here?”

“Finishing my drink,” she gave him a cool, bemused look, proving her point by draining the rest of her glass, “I don’t think any of us are in a position to be wasting alcohol tonight. Or time.”

“Thanks for the riddle, toots,” Angel rolled his eyes, taking the shot before someone else could come along and nearly make him spill it. 

“Want me to say it plainly then?” Vaggie arched an eyebrow. 

Angel scowled but he wasn’t mad at Vaggie, not really. He was more pissed at himself for not hiding it better. The five time winner of the Golden Tongue Award (for best performance in a pornographic visual production) should probably have been able to school his face. 

He let his eyes wander across the bar, if there was no point in hiding it anymore. Husk was tossing a cocktail shaker from one hand to the other before sending it up behind his back, bouncing it between his wings, making it disappear and reappear before pouring out an electric blue liquid into Nifty’s waiting glass, to her immense delight. He bowed to the slight but enthusiastic applause, showing Angel a glimpse of the showman he’d been once upon a time. 

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It wasn’t just that he was Angel’s exact type and then some, that gravelly voice, the snark, the emotional unavailability, the tortured past that muzzled him, his boxes were well and truly ticked. If it was just that, Angel would have torn his clothes off, rode him on that bar and moved on with his afterlife. 

But Husk had pushed back. He’d growled and snapped and thrown up more walls until Angel started to see getting the cat’s trousers off as a professional challenge. Robbed of his only way to safely interact with people, to feel like he was in control, Angel had fallen apart in front of him on one of the worst days he’d had in a while.

And all Husk had done was put him back together again. 

So it wasn’t just that he was hot, there was a hell of a lot more to it than that. And there was the fear again, souring the booze on his tongue. 

“I ain’t a fan of straight talking,” Angel grunted, hunching his shoulders and spinning the now empty glass on the edge of his finger. 

“Figured,” Vaggie sighed in a way that might almost suggest she actually cared, hopping down off the barstool. 

She looked ready to disappear up the stairs but something made her pause, maybe the weight of their borrowed time, maybe something dangerously close to sentiment. But she did stop, reaching out and putting a hand on Angel’s shoulder. 

“All I’m gonna say…I’ve been told the only way to survive this is to fight for love. Find someone you can’t live without and go out there with one goal. Protecting them.” 

Like a magnet, those words drew his eyes over to Husk again. And this time, he looked back, feeling his gaze. Those narrow yellow eyes, glowing like bulbs on a marquee or LEDs tempting a sucker to a slot machine, crinkled a little at the edges, shooting the spider demon a wink. 

Angel groaned inwardly at himself. He was doomed and Heaven didn’t have anything to do with it. 

“Someone like me don’t even know what love is,” Angel murmured, more to himself than to Vaggie, “Might as well be speaking a different language, sugar.”

But he heard him anyway, those damn sharp ears of hers, “Then what better time to make a change?”

Before he could shield himself with sarcasm, she was gone, off up the stairs to someone who loved her. To another heartbeat against her own, arms around her, a silent promise that she was cared about, no matter what the nightmares said. Angel felt a pang in his chest, somehow finding the poor sense to want something he’d never had. 

“Another drink?” 

Angel dredged up a crooked grin, “Sure! Put it on my tab, I’ll come settle up with you tomorrow night.”

“Very funny,” Husk poured him a couple more shots to keep him going, though he was now without other customers. 

Charlie and Vaggie had gone upstairs, Cherri had dragged Sir Pentious over to the pool table where she’d definitely crush him, Nifty was curled up in an unnervingly cat like way, sleeping on the bar and making Angel wonder if there hadn’t been a sedative jn that drink Husk made her. Alastor was who knew where, Angel only cared that Husk relaxed a lot more when he wasn’t around. 

This was the best chance he was going to get.

Let’s get to living. His own words from earlier that night tried to move his mouth, tried to force him forward, tried to stop him being such a damned fucking coward and just say something…

“Actually…I think I’ll turn in,” he seized the rest of the shots in various hands and sank them one by one, trying to wash away the bitterness, “My aim gets real shitty if I don’t get my beauty sleep. And if I’m gonna die tomorrow, like hell am I going down with bags under my eyes. Did it once, never again.”

If he was the kind to hope, Angel Dust might have tried to convince himself he saw disappointment in those slitted eyes. 

But Husk only gave a rolling shrug, collecting up the abandoned glasses, draining them of their last clinging dregs of amber liquid, “Funny, my luck seems to get better when I’m hungover. Sweet dreams, kid.”

Angel Dust chuckled, putting a little swing in his hips, shooting a smile over his shoulder, “Ain’t no other kind with me, baby.”

One last lie for the road. 

At least he didn’t sleep at all, choosing the cloudy headed middle ground of lying back on his bed, staring at the ceiling and prodding listlessly at the ache in his chest. It was like when his tooth had been knocked out, unable to keep his tongue out of the tender, empty gap, no matter how much it made him wince. Fat Nuggets did the sleeping for both of them, snoring on Angel’s chest, every gravelly honk ruffling the feathers pink robe that always made Angel feel like he could hold it together for a few more minutes than he would without it. 

He was angry at himself but that was nothing new, only the reason was old. It had been a fucking long time since he’d promised himself he was done hiding, done paring himself down because someone else wouldn’t like the taste. Lying here, feeling sorry for himself because he was too chickenshit to ask a guy to fuck him, he may as well have been back in 1940, worrying himself sick that his dad would be able to see his secret written on his face. 

Well, Angel Dust wasn’t Anthony anymore. And Angel Dust was losing his goddamn patience. The worst had happened and then some, he’d lost his family, he’d lost his home, he’d lost his life but the one thing he didn’t have to do was hide anymore. Husk was down there, he’d say no or he’d say yes, either way was better than being too damn afraid to know. 

And if he felt more about it, well that was his problem to deal with. It wasn’t like he was going to live much longer anyway. 

Fat Nuggets squawked a little as Angel Dust sat up, displaced from his comfy position. 

“Sorry, sweetie,” Angel kissed the top of his head, trying to make up for it by tucking him nicely in his own little bed, “Daddy’s got some living to do. Last minute and all but you know me.”

A quick check of his hair in the mirror, a quick fluff of the fur on his chest, like he was going down to meet some doll by his car and get swept off the the dance hall rather than going to proposition his surly friend for a quick and dirty end-of-their-afterlife fuck. But there was no harm in looking his best while he did it. 

His reflection in this mirror looked a hell of a lot different than the one in his studio dressing room. There were half a hundred tiny little flaws that would have earned him a sharp, cutting comment from Valentino and maybe worse, depending on the moth’s mood. But Angel Dust didn’t think Husk would care, in fact, he seemed to get further with the guy when he went in the opposite direction to what work demanded of him. So he left them, as much as a disconnected, confused anxiety itched at him, one that hadn’t realized they weren’t at the studio. 

He took a deep breath, holding his own gaze tight, “You’re a pro at this, ain’t nothing you haven’t seen before. You know the steps, boyo, curtain’s up.”

Angel went to the door of his room, feeling buoyed, feeling confident. Until, of course, he ran into something he hadn’t seen before. 

At least it was soft. Though it cursed like a sailor. 

“What the fuck?” Angel yelped, feathers suddenly thumping against his face. 

“Will you keep your goddamn voice down, you’ll wake half the fucking hotel-”

“Husk?” Angel stepped back, blinking in confusion, “Were you…were you outside my door?”

The other demon’s irritation collapsed, fizzing away like an alka-seltzer to reveal the bitch of a hangover underneath. Expressions he’d never seen on that feline face tried unsuccessfully to hide, embarrassment and coyness and a blush barely visible under dark fur. 

“Look, I…can I come in? Please?” he tacked the politeness on the end like he almost forgot it while running out the door. 

“Uh…sure, hon?” Angel Dust stepped to one side, suddenly wishing he’d tidied up a little at any point since he first moved in. Or that the dildos tossed about where a more impressive size. 

Husk didn’t seem to relax a little until the door was closed, until they were definitely alone. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, an old antique in amongst a lot of plastic and rubber, while Angel leaned against the door and wondered how he’d lost control of this so fast. 

Eventually Husk sighed, tail twitching and betraying his nervousness, “Look. Feel free to tell me to take a hike here, fuck knows you’d have the right. But…I kept thinking about what Charlie said. About spending this night living how we wanted or whatever. And I…I can’t think of anything else I wanted to do but…”

Angel Dust knew he was grinning like an idiot but he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t every day you got a royal flush laid out in front of you. 

“What? What is it you wanna do, Whiskers?” he tilted his head, faux innocence sparkling in his voice as he batted his eyelashes, “Anything I can help you with?”

Husk’s fur bristled and he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Fuck, I knew you’d be like this, goddamnit-”

Panic gripped him, a terrifyingly certain realization that if Husk left now, if he drove him away, he wouldn’t be able to stand it, “Wait. Sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to fuck with you.”

The apology clearly caught the cat demon off guard, eyebrows rising. A small smile pulled at the edges of his mouth, “Well…guess that was the aim of my coming here…”

The grin came back, feeling more honest this time, more firmly in place. Angel stepped forward, offering one of his hands out to Husk, “Good…cos I was just on my way to ask you the same thing.”

He’d heard Husk bitch about his demon form a lot and in that moment, he could see why. Those ears and that tail were tells you could spot from a hundred miles. And right now they were telling Angel he was damn pleased. 

Husk’s fingers- claws? -were calloused, whether from cards or chips or the keys of the sax he’d apparently played once upon a time. But they held Angel’s in a grip he could be certain of, one he knew instantly wouldn’t let go. 

Angel had jumped on odds far worse than that. 

They toppled onto the bed, swallowed by fur and silk. It took some maneuvering, making their strange forms fit but once they found it, it was fucking sweet. Suddenly there was a solid heat between his legs, something to grind into, fireworks exploding behind his eyes when he did. There was a smoky growl in his ear, a heady smell of whiskey and, fuck, Angel could have gotten drunk just off that. His hands moved of their own accord, two anchoring him to the headboard, the other two taking handfuls of soft, impossibly soft fur. 

“Easy…” Husk rumbled when he pulled a little too hard. 

“Sorry,” Angel Dust purred, splaying his legs wide, rolling his hips harder against Husk’s, “Just feels so good.” 

Instead his hands wandered, finding where fur gave way to feather along that strong, broad back. The moment his fingers brushed there, that unfamiliar muscle, Husk jerked and moaned, the hardness in his trousers throbbing. 

“Oh? Kitty liked that, huh?” Angel tittered, pressing one thumb into a hollow at the base of his wing, earning another strangled yowl. 

“I swear to fuck, if you make me come in my pants like a goddamn teenager, I- fuck, baby, I’m sensitive there- ah…” 

“I’d consider it a compliment, honey, don’t you worry,” Angel cooed, shivering happily at the way Husk’s chest vibrated when he touched him, like he was an instrument he could play. 

“Call me old fashioned…”

Suddenly they were rolling, Angel Dust’s stomach dropping dizzily for a moment until he found himself straddling Husk, who was smirking up at him. 

“But when I’m from?” he finished, voice sounding like everything amber and musk and honey in the world, “If you’re taking a fine man to bed, you let him take his pleasure first. It’s good manners, see? So how about you tell me what you want, Angel?”

Angel Dust was left with the sudden anxiety of having forgotten his next line in the script. Or worse, he’d never even fucking read it in the first place. The answer, perched miserably on the tip of his tongue was that he didn’t know. 

He’d gotten too used to sex where the only thing that mattered was getting a good review, any pleasure he got was a secondary concern. He’d taught himself to like whatever his partner was willing to give, even when it called him a whore, even when it was too much, even when it hurt. The real pleasure had been the packet of powder or handful of pills that came after or before, not the sex itself. 

His confusion must have shown on his face because Husk’s voice gentled, a paw coming up to lightly cup his face, “You want my mouth or my hands, baby?”

Angel Dust pushed his instincts away, “Mouth. I want you to tell me how I taste.”

Rolling again but this time, he enjoyed the free fall. Now Husk was between his legs, drawing down the sweatpants he wore to bed, just enough that he could free Angel’s dick. Angel kicked them the rest of the way off, letting Husk see all of him, legs falling open. 

“Fuck…” his voice was melodic, hypnotic and hypnotized, “You look fucking gorgeous, baby…”

“And it’s all yours,” Angel panted raggedly, wrapping his long legs around Husk’s shoulders. For however long we’ve got left. 

Husk’s purr sounded more like a car engine on its last legs, a rough and slightly threatening sound, but as he nosed and nuzzled at the base of Angel’s cock, it ran through his body like the best warm whiskey. In the dim light of his room, Angel could swear those spots on his wings were glowing, along with his eyes, which were fixed on Angel’s face like he was getting as much pleasure from watching him as he was from licking a broad stripe across his length. 

Angel hissed, back arching up like his whole body was drawn towards that sensation, “Fuck, watch that sandpaper tongue…”

“Sorry. I’m kinda rough all over, baby,” he didn’t sound particularly sorry, flashing him a grin but he did ease up, hands taking hold of Angel’s thighs, keeping him spread wide so he could bury his face against him. 

In the studio, Angel Dust had marks to hit, lines to gasp out, a camera to play up to. With Valentino, he had to make the right noises, he needed to sound scared, he needed to beg. But here, with Husk, out of reach of a script or a contract, he let moans and gasps pour heedlessly from his lips, he moved his body however it felt good. He was loud, loud enough to blow out a mic, he cursed and babbled things that didn’t make sense, he just felt . 

Eventually the fur around Husk’s mouth was soaked, his jaw slack. He was good at this, unfairly good, lips and teeth and tongue all as skilled as you’d expect from someone who’d made a living by them. But now Angel Dust was the sole focus of their attention and he was drawn tight as a bow, ready to snap. 

“Come for me, baby,” Husk’s rasp was almost animalistic now, “Let me hear you fucking sing.”

Angel Dust was more than happy to give him exactly what he asked for, giving a broken, soaring cry as his orgasm crashed over him, sinking him down into such an overwhelming sensation that he soon lost sight of the surface. Panic threatened but then a voice echoed to him. 

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes…” his own voice didn’t feel attached to his body so it was free to answer truthfully.

It was those lips that brought him back, a mouth that tasted of salt and opened to warmth, arms coming to circle him and anchor him down. Angel moaned, not able to care that his voice cracked unflatteringly as he did. 

“Baby…”

“I got you, Angel, you did good, you tasted fucking incredible…” Husk’s wings settled over them, shielding him from the pink glow of his room. 

He didn’t know how to tell him that the praise threatened to break him all over again, so Angel took charge this time, needing all four of his limbs to press the stronger demon into the mattress. 

He licked the taste of his own come off Husk’s fangs and drew back just enough to gasp out, “You’re gonna fuck me so hard and so deep that if I go down tomorrow, I’m going down with your spunk inside me.”

“Of course that’s your fucking last wish,” Husk’s laugh was a gorgeous thing, a rough bark that made Angel think of smoky jazz lounges from another time. 

He couldn’t help but smile, even if it was mostly bemusement, he wasn’t used to laughing during sex. It did feel pretty fucking good, he had to admit, having a genuine grin on his face as he pulled open Husk’s trousers. Though it quickly fell into awe at what jumped out and damn near smacked him in the teeth.

“Holy fuck!” Angel grinned in delight, one arm having good sense and stretching out to snag the bottle of lube in his bedside table, “Is that an overlord thing? They took the power but they let you keep the massive cock?”

“Shut up,” Husk rolled his eyes, where they snagged on the two hands now soaking their fingers and reaching around to his ass, “Mm…you’re so beautiful, you know that?”

“Heard a couple of people mention it,” Angel grinned down at him, shivering pleasantly as his hands got to work. 

Husk’s eyes burned in the dim light, “Yeah. But do you know it?”

Angel Dust faltered, eyelids half closed. Another question whose answer flitted on his tongue but he didn’t want to let it go. 

And again, he didn’t have to. Husk pulled him down, bending him near in half to kiss him. Unable to wait a moment more, his slicked hands grasped at Husk’s cock, drawing a hiss out of him that he gratefully swallowed. Angel sighed through the stretch and burn, sitting back and slowly, achingly slowly, every inch of Husk disappeared into him. 

Angel was used to pleasures that dissolved quickly on his tongue and in his nose, leaving cold, bitter metal behind. This was something entirely new, something that felt like it was etching itself on every cell in his body, redefining words he thought he’d known inside and out. Pleasure. Sex. Need. 

“Husk…” his voice was a tremulous, faint thing, like he was afraid to be heard. 

“Oh, I knew you’d be like nothing else, baby…” the other demon groaned, thrusting up into him after a moment to let him settle. 

There was no awkward shuffling now, they moved like a dance, like they could hear some music that didn’t exist outside of their bloodstreams. Husk’s hips rolled, Angel arched, two arms thrown up over his head, two others raking down his lover’s chest, leaving deep grooves in his fur. Before, his mouth had been occupied but now Husk sounded like- what else? -a cat in heat, yowling and gasping.

“That’s it, baby, take it, fucking take it, you feel so fucking good, Angel,” he moaned it like a title rather than just a name, like he’d done anything to deserve it. 

“Aw fuck…” Angel Dust felt like he was going to shake apart, there wasn’t room inside him for all of this, he didn’t know where to put it all. 

But he did know that he was about to come, hard. It was unstoppable, undeniable, and if he was half the pornstar he thought he was, Husk was on his heels. It was in the way his voice had shifted up a few notes, the way his grip on Angel’s hips had grown desperate, the break in the otherwise metronome perfect rhythm of his thrusts. 

And that terrified Angel. All the fear he’d expected to find down in the bar, it thickened the air in his lungs like he’d taken an inhale from a real bad batch. Fuck, please, it can’t be over already. 

But this was a fall that had to end. Husk’s hips shifted, heating that sweet spot inside him dead on and he was lost, every muscle tensing as he surrendered to his release. It was sweet and the low roar of his own name, the heat flooding so deep inside him he could damn near taste it, that was sweeter. This time when he broke, he willed himself to stay in those depths, stay in pieces, there was nothing for him on the surface. 

But there was that voice again. 

“Angel…fuck, that was…that was amazing, I…Angel?”

His muscles must have switched off at some point but Husk had caught him, he was sprawled out across the other demon’s chest, their bodies still joined somewhere within the lovely, thrumming haze where the rest of him used to be. But his eyes prickled, heat running down his cheek, dripping onto Husk’s fur where oh fuck no, he’d felt it…

Angel flinched back from the sting of his own tears, bringing an arm up to try and hide, like there was even any point. He rolled off Husk, hunching down as small as he’d go, shoulders trembling. 

“It’s nothing, I…” What are you doing, idiot? “...don’t worry about it, it’ll stop…” Dumb fucking slut, you’re ruining it! “...just give me a second to put myself together…” Like you have any right, get a grip “I’m sorry.”

“Angel.”

He listened miserably, waiting for the creak as the bed lifted without his wait, waiting for the sound of soft paws on the floor and the click of the door closing behind him. But it never came. 

“Angel, can I touch you? That alright, baby?”

He managed to nod, surprise mostly shocking his muscles into moving. There was a shift, a whisper of silk and then soft fur as strong arms wrapped around his middle, embracing him with a deliberate light touch that would let Angel pull away at any point. Another heartbeat, slowing as the adrenaline ebbed away, drummed against his back like a knock at the door. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Husk murmured against the fur between Angel’s shoulder blades. 

“Nah,” Angel croaked, inhaling deeply, finding that warm whiskey smell again and relaxing, “We ain’t got the time.”

“Fair enough,” he accepted it easily, much to Angel’s relief, “Just get some sleep, okay? I’m gonna stay right here.” 

 He couldn’t help it, however much it made him feel like a child, “Promise?”

“Of course I promise, Angel,” there was an edge of sadness to his voice, more than the usual, not at having to say it again but at the fact that he needed to ask, “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me. However long we got left.”

Angel smiled grimly. The second wasn’t fucking long enough to allow him the first. Just his luck to find exactly what he’d been looking for in the last few hours he had to live. 

But he would take what he’d been given. Angel always had. 

He turned, burying his face in Husk’s chest, feeling his rough but pleased chuckle, “Best roll of the dice I think I ever made, coming to your door…”

Angel Dust allowed himself a moment to smile at that. To feel wanted. To feel precious. Whatever happened tomorrow, he’d remember this feeling. 

Whatever happened tomorrow, he wouldn’t face it alone. 

[pianokantzart]

The Super Mario Bros. Redux (Pt. 3)

What would happen if, in The Super Mario Bros. Movie, after Mario and Luigi are separated, Mario was the one who ended up in the clutches of Luigi’s eventual arch nemesis, while Luigi teamed up with some of his own close allies to go rescue him? (This part of the story is in one shot format. Most other parts are written in bullet points.) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 ________ Mario never coped well with feeling trapped. As early as nine months old he was racing around like his life depended on it, clamoring over gates and out of windows, unbuttoning clothes he felt were too tight and twisting door handles the moment he developed the coordination to grasp them. Starting his own business was supposed to be a path to freedom… or at least the closest thing to freedom one could achieve in the modern world. He never in a thousand years would’ve guessed that the domino effect of his little endeavors would have landed him here. His cell felt more like a coffin than a prison; a golden picture frame hung halfway up the wall in an expansive gallery stacked floor to ceiling with other “artwork.” He could move no more than eight inches to the left or right. He couldn’t jump, lie down, sit, or turn around. The only thing he could do was bang his fists against the transparent barrier keeping him trapped, though that did little more than worsen his sense of claustrophobia.

His surrounding captives– far more accustomed to the cramped conditions– did what they could to calm him, as conversation proved to be the best distraction from their unfortunate situation. The talking turtles and mushroom men– Koopas and Toads, they were apparently called– were generous with what little information they had, and slowly Mario learned where he was, why he was where he was, who was responsible, and that– according to the game of telephone that ran up and down the conversing portraits– he was the only human that had been seen in the gallery. The mystery of Luigi’s whereabouts left Mario conflicted. On one hand, he was relieved. This was the last place his little brother needed to be. On the other hand, it opened up the possibility that he was somehow somewhere worse. He had promised his brother that they would be alright as long as he was together, but… to his shame… there was a selfish part of Mario that simply didn’t want to be alone.

He was listening sympathetically to the woes of the Toad in the neighboring painting when the large oaken doors to the gallery swung open, and a gaggle of cackling boos swarmed in. Mario had learned by now that ghosts of this world, free from the fear of death and any physical need, desired only amusement. They acted with a form of malicious playfulness, like a housecat that continues to hunt despite having long eaten its fill. The boos certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves as they floated through the room, lunging and making faces at the helpless captives, laughing every time they whimpered or flinched. Mario, his heart still clinging to memories of his twin, braced his palms against the barrier and shouted at the ghosts to leave the others alone. His command proved far more successful than he thought it would. All fifteen of the little white ghosts turned their attention to him, then swarmed in his direction, blending together into a whirl of white until they arrived in front of his painting fully transformed into a giant, singular boo, staring daggers with glowing yellow eyes. Mario put on a brave front and stared back.

He was made all too familiar with this enormous specter the moment he first stumbled upon the portraits. He still had bruises to prove the memory, though it was only thanks to the other trapped paintings that he was finally able to put a name to the face.

“Boolossus, is it?”

The behemoth didn’t answer. With a smug, sharp-toothed grin it merely plucked Mario from the wall and flitted away with the plumber tucked under its arm like a piece of common furniture. With his only view of the outside world obstructed by the translucent body of Boolossus, Mario was rendered lost and disoriented, and when at last he was once again hung upon a wall he found himself in a different room, carved out of murky, sulfur colored stone. This new location felt musty and ancient, very different from the colorful, well-tended opulence of the gallery. Long defunct lion-faced fountains stared at each other across the room from between towering pillars, where black grit filled the crevices of intricately carved designs. The only signs this decaying place had that it was ever visited was the lit chandeliers hanging overhead, and the blue flames dancing in the stone lamps that lined the center of the room.

Boolossus maintained his victorious expression as he backed away from the newly hung portrait, then buried himself in a corner to make room for the newcomer, phasing through roof overhead. Mario felt his apprehension grow, not because of the darkness around the ghost's eyes that sharpened the spectral glow of his gaze, or the enormous crown atop his head that indicated his place of royalty, or even his enormous size which dwarfed even that of Boolossus. Instead, Mario was troubled by an instinctive sense of true hatred emanating from him, far different from the impish malevolence of the other specters.

His heart leapt a little when the ghost’s crown lit up, and a field of purple magic reached toward him, plucking his painting off the wall and pulling him suspended mid-air to the center of the room.

“What is your name?” the ghost asked with a thoughtful hum. Mario felt the world spin around him as the giant boo used one of his stubby arms to twirl his painting in the air, then stopped it with such suddenness that Mario’s body slammed into the side of his prison. Slightly dazed, he collected himself enough to answer the question. “Mario.” “Mario… I have to admit, despite the novelty of a human visitor, you don’t seem to know your place in this world. Perhaps you don't know who I am? What I’m capable of?”

“You’re King Boo.” Mario answered after a pause– a brief reflection on his conversations in the gallery. “You shattered something called The Dark Moon, and now you want to lead an army of ghosts.”

“Very good! I guess you’re not as dumb as you look.”

Mario let out a yelp as he felt his portrait turned upside down, his feet remaining fixed in place as his arms dangled over his head and the blood rushed to his face. 

“Speaking of looks,” King Boo continued, his faux smile looking more like a scowl from its new angle, “it appears you didn’t arrive alone. There just so happens to be another human just like you! Mustache and everything!”

Knowing at once who he was talking about, Mario felt every muscle in his body tense up. His stomach tied itself into knots, and he felt his heartbeat double its pace. King Boo’s eyes flashed. His grin widened, and his great purple tongue lolled hungrily at the air like a dog. “Ha ha ha! There’s that fear! Utter terror in fact! So you do know him!”

“Listen, Luigi isn’t–”

“Luigi! Is that his name?”

Mario winced in self-directed frustration, then sputtered to his sibling’s defense. “He’s no threat to you! He’s just– he’s just a plumber! we both are!”

Mario felt his portrait righted, but his relief was short lived when, just as quickly, the frame grew suddenly smaller around him. He took another look at King Boo. His insincere grin had twisted into very sincere sneer. The magic emanating from his crown was clearly the source of the change, and was only making the frame smaller with every passing second.

“Is he now? And what is ‘just a plumber’ afraid of?” “What do you mean?” Mario returned, bracing his arms against the portrait frame, helplessly trying to push it back. “I mean Luigi has decided to make friends with the sworn enemy of my kingdom!” King Boo shouted, shrinking the portrait further in sharp jolts with every word he emphasized. “So if you don’t want to die alongside him, you’ll tell me just what it’ll take to frighten him off.”

“Those are two different questions!”

“What!?”

“‘What’s he afraid of?’ and ‘what will frighten him off?’...” Mario huffed, struggling to squeeze out the words with his head pressed painfully between his shoulders and his arms pinned against his aching chest. “He’s afraid of ghosts, but it looks like you’re not quite scary enough to get rid of him, huh?”

The retort felt good in the moment, but was followed by a sense of dread. Mario squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the painting to crush him then and there, but to his surprise the walls receded.

He would’ve fallen over in relief if his prison allowed, but instead he simply slumped backwards, taking in large breaths and wiping sweat from his brow. King Boo turned angrily to Boolossus, watching from the corner.

“Boolossus!” “Yes, your Highness?” came the answer, fifteen voices speaking as a single entity as they emerged from the shadows. 

“Go to the The Birabuto Capitol! Find E. Gadd and this… Luigi… and bring them here either as paintings or in pieces! Either way is fine with me!”

“Yes your highness!” returned the conjoined voices, falling out of unison as the giant boo flew apart, its fifteen pieces phasing through overhead roof in a gale of otherworldly giggles.

When they were left alone, King Boo turned to Mario to gauge his reaction. It didn’t disappoint, the ramifications of what he’d said clearly dawning on him. King Boo cackled. “Now that’s a face worth mounting on my wall! Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

Mario opened his mouth to protest, when a blast of violet energy from King Boo’s crown suddenly halted him. Mario's portrait lost all color, motion, and consciousness, paralyzed and wide eyed. The perfect preservation of a moment of true fear.

[cravingsfromatwistedone]

CHOCO-CHOCOBO! [ FIC / NSFW ]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: NOW THAT I'M PLAYING FFXV, I JUST KNOW THAT PROMPTO WOULD ADORE THE CONCEPT OF CHOCOBO GIRLS (FF13: LIGHTNING RETURNS IN YUSNAAN) ! I'D LIKE TO THINK THAT THE GUY FROM THE CANVAS OF PRAYERS WHO WANTED A CHOCOBO GIRL'S NUMBER WAS PROMPTO IN ANOTHER LIFE. ANYWHO, ENJOY READING, MY DARLINGS! TW: ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP, USAGE OF PETNAMES (PRINCESS, BABE), EXPLICIT NSFW CONTENT (IT STARTS OFF CUTE BUT IT GETS NASTY AFTER THAT!) PROMPTO ARGENTUM X FEM! READER

The Chocobo Post in Duscae has never been this livelier before ever since they organized Chocobo races. Now that the Deadeye in the area is dead, the owner and staff decided to implement a feature that was long pushed aside due to the past circumstances they had. With enough Gil and materials, what they had planned went in full swing, accompanied with many new and familiar faces; the owner himself even graciously invited the four Hunters

That's why the blonde male was shaking in his boots. Sure, he was excited that Noct mentioned something about visiting the Chocobo Post in a passing statement but he wasn't expecting this. His blue eyes keep flitting everywhere, from the gang to the owner then back to the girls in front of him. Mind you, girls who were dressed up akin to Chocobos. Their outfit consisted of scantily golden coloured bikini tops, thigh high stockings and boots that looked like Chocobo feet. Not to mention the feathery plumage behind them and the feathery wing-like gloves. It doesn't help that the girls were grinning at him, giggling at him as they beckon for him to come closer

"Hey, aren't you the one of the Hunters that killed off that Deadeye? Choco-choco thanks!" "Choco-chocobo, your hair have the same colour as our Chocobos! Say, do you want to take a picture with us?" "You're pretty cute for a Hunter, y'know! Come here, Chocobo boy!"

No wonder the guys were grinning from ear-to-ear in the car, refusing to give an inkling of what he was going to see when they arrived there. Everyone that day could still remember the visible flush that was on his cheeks and neck, the male capable of saying yes meekly to the Chocobo Girls' invitation for an impromptu photo session. It was a really, really long day

⋘══════∗ {♡} ∗══════ ⋙

"Do you think this looks alright?" You asked, the feathery plumage fluttering as you do a twirl. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Hard. "Yeah, it looks fine, totally fine—" He blurted out, propping his chin up on his hand as he stared up at the figure standing in front of him, baby blue eyes skimming down your form greedily. It doesn't help that his skin is warming up considerably too. He sat up straight, hands reaching out for you and his fingertips grazing your exposed sides "Can I touch it?" He coughed out, shaking his head as he cleared his throat before muttering "Can I touch you?—" His eyes are wide with so much hope pooling in them, his brows arching upwards and his lips pursed in a thin line. A very nervous, quivering line

"You don't have to ask permission," You giggled as a smile blossomed on your pink lips. Lips that he just simply adores. He sucked in a breath sharply, holding it as his gloved hands enveloped around the smooth flesh. He pressed his thumbs into your muscles gently, slowly trailing them upwards while he pulled you closer and closer to him "So pretty," He mumbled, his golden bangs tickling the skin of your breasts as he planted a soft kiss in between them "My very own Chocobo girl who's the cutest," The male added a beat later, letting his lips linger on your skin a while longer before sinking his teeth in, evoking out a gasp of surprise out of your lips. It's so hot. His ears are burning from hearing that precious little noise. "The sexiest," He drawled out, arms snaking around your hips and waist as his hands began to fondle with the straps of the costume "Wanna take these off," He muttered, his fingers hooking into the elastic band of your shorts, sliding them down just enough so he could see your pussy. It was soaking wet, your wetness staining the fabric. His tongue swiped against his lips unconsciously, his eyes narrowing in interest as he pulled the cloth down all the way through before his hands went back to squeeze your thighs, tempted to just swipe the pads of his fingers against your clit "All this just for me?" He questioned, the edges of his eyes crinkling from grinning too widely "Can't wait to fuck you stupid, babe—" The male hastily dragged his other hand to the buckle of his belt, undoing it as he tugged you down to his lap, cock straining against the fabric of his jeans and once he does undo his jeans, he's almost embarrassed of how stiff he was. Keyword; almost. He couldn't care less of about what he feels right now, the only thing he wants to feel is your tight walls enveloping him and clenching down on him like a vice. His blue eyes turned into half-lids as he watched how the head of his cock brush and prod against your soaked folds, your arousal just simply dripping and coating over the flushed tip. He let out a hiss through gritted teeth as you started to lower yourself down, fingers digging into your backside as you take him inch by inch He knew that you had to ease yourself like this every time, your cunny too tight even for his size but fuck, he can't take it anymore—

The blond wrapped his arms around you, muttering a gentle 'Sorry' against the shell of your ear before grabbing a handful of your thighs and forcing you down his cock, the male happily swallowing up your whimper when he pressed his lips on yours. " 'm sorry, 'm sorry—" He chanted, groaning into your mouth as your hips met in rapid succession "Wanted my cock in you so, so, much, princess—" As soon as he said those words, he felt you tighten around his pulsing cock and he nearly sprained his neck from how hard he threw his head back, his brain filled to the brim with the thoughts of your warm pussy and how good it felt to be in it. One of his hands slithered up to grab a fistful of your hair, pulling it back just so he could litter a mess of hickeys on the soft skin of your neck

"That's it, keep-mmh-taking my cock like that," The blond praised, his mouth parted slightly before he moved up to your lips, blue eyes fluttering shut from the taste of your tongue invading his mouth which just made him hasten his pace even more. He had to pull away, he had to. If not, he would've busted his load right then and there and he didn't want that He wanted his sweet, sexy girlfriend to cum first So with another whine leaving his lips, he dragged his hand to be in between your legs, rubbing his fingers on to your clit furiously while you start to squirm in his embrace. The male knew you was close, judging by the way your muscles are tensing up, your moans getting higher in pitch. He wasn't so far behind either, his thrusts mostly consisted of him rutting his pathetic cock in and out as he tried to push the both of you over the edge "P-Prompto, I'm going to—" Your words were cut off by a loud, pleasured cry and it made Prompto lose his mind, your slick juices dribbling down his thighs as he continued to bully his cock into you. It was more than enough for the man to let loose now that your needs were satiated first. With another bruising kiss to your lips, the blond pulled away before putting his entire focus into his pace, not really heeding the constant pleas and whines from you to 'slow down' and be 'gentle' He's almost there, he can feel it. His thighs going taut, his jaws clenched and the constant, throbbing ache in his loins as he kept on going. His persistence was then rewarded, the blond whimpering in pure delight as he felt his sweet girl clenching on him for the third time. His body not even hesitating to just simply flood you with his warmth, your pussy milking his cock for he's worth while you both basked in the sweet, sweet afterglow. He'll worry about the Chocobo costume later on, his brain's too mushed to think about cleaning them and returning them back to the owner. It was a rental after all

[skylie-spiderlillis]

Unfortunately I will not be able to finish the payneland fic I wanted on time to publish it on my birthday, however I will publish a snippet for now!

It's a fencing fic, because I'm a fencer Edwin truther, and the boys 100% fence as a game between them so my fic is based about that. Edwin tries to suggest fencing to talk about things and resolve the awkwardness that started between them after the love confession. It's not very long after Port Townsend.

I'm going to try to continue working on it to finish it on time but I'm at a bar on the beach that has loud distracting music to celebrate my birthday, I can't make any promises. However I will publish it tomorrow. Here is the snippet for now!

Charles was sitting on the desk, his legs on the chair, staring vacantly out of a window for the past few hours.

Edwin, who was reading a book on the sofa, eventually had enough of this new awkward distance between them and snapped, deciding he was going to do something about it, shake Charles out of it in any way he could.

.......

He tossed Charles his foil- a golden one with a left handed handle. Edwin’s foil was silver, matching Charles’ set. “Pick it up, we are going to fence.” He declared.

“What?” Charles looks up, shaking off from his thoughts and turned to his best friend, blinking surprised.

“I said, pick it up, we are going to fence. Frankly, I've had enough of your distant behaviour recently and I cannot let it pass any second longer. You cannot fool me, Charles Rowland, I know you, and after Port Townsend you have never made the return quite to your senses yet. So we are going to fence, and we are going to talk, in the way we do things. Because clearly something has gone wrong with you recently you refuse to let me in about.”

“Mate, there is nothing wro-” Charles started making himself force out a laugh in defence, but Edwin cut him.

“I have simply confessed to being in love, Charles, I have not been turned into a fool in all that regards you. I have known you for over 30 years, Charles Rowland, and I can tell when things are wrong. Yet you don’t come to me, although you are clearly bothered by me. Sometimes, I have to wonder if you still consider us best friends after all-” his voice break, trailing off.

“What? Mate, of course you are-” Charles rushed to defend against Edwin's words.

“Then talk with me, Charles. Fence with me, like we used to. Because I miss having my best friend around, and I don’t know what to think of you recently. Talk to me, please.” Edwin moves Charles’ foil on the desk closer to him, offering it to him again.

Charles took a few moments of thinking in silence before he responded again. They could fence, he supposes, he did miss them too, but- “Look, Edwin, mate, I don’t want to fight you- You are still pretty banged up from Esther’s house.” Not a lie, they both still had some traces of their iron burns. Esther’s house was still relatively fresh- they tried to bury it but the events of Port Townsend only took place twelve days ago.

Unfortunately, iron burns take an annoying amount of time to heal. Although not as bad now, slight traces of their burns still left.

They have been taking cases slower because of it, working on easy ones to start. Both of them acting more out of concern for the other than actually to themselves.

“Oh, you assume you would be able to get close to me?” Edwin teased arching his brow and Charles bit his lips, cheeks flushing slightly. Bollocks. Okay, his self confidence was hot-

Seeing him announcing it cockily and sure of himself like that ignited a fond and playful spark in Charles- he liked his overconfidence.

“I assure you, even in my lesser state I can still, as I believe they say today, ‘kick your ass’. You, on the other hand, have been shutting off from me for weeks, and I simply will not sit here and allow our friendship to continue suffering any longer. So please, fence with me again. Challenge me, if you will.”

“Edwin-” Charles gruntle sighing pretending to be rolling his eyes in decline, then he quickly picks up his foil going out to a surprise attack, a spark of mischief igniting back in him.

Adrenaline was flooding his ghost veins, in a good way-

He loved this. This was them. It just felt right.

Edit: fic posted! It's the most recent post below the pinned one on my blog!

[alectoperdita]

jou makes kaiba a character bento of blue eyes. kaiba believes this is a murder attempt via starvation because how can he eat blue eyes

Anon, I'm not sure if this was what you were hoping for, but here we go.

---

"Fubuki, if you don't put on your jacket this minute, I'm punting you out the door like a football!"

A child's screeching echoed through the high-ceiling foyer, followed by two sets of footsteps pounding across the marble.

Seto listened, barely straining to make out the sound of his husband giving chase to their four-year-old son. There was Fubuki's obstinate "no!", the clatter of some piece of furniture, and Katsuya's bitten-off swearing. After a beat, he considered getting up and checking on them.

But then, bright amber eyes, framed by golden blond bangs, peered up from his lap. Asuka, swinging her legs gently, reached out with one chubby hand to offer him a mini-sausage off her plate.

"They'll sort it out," he muttered, both to himself and her.

Her response was to wave the sausage more insistently. The beginning of a pout formed on her stained lips.

Quickly, he bent over and took a small bite. This was their bargain: she finished her breakfast as long as he ate with her. The taste was a bit on the bland side. But she was three, so they didn't want to flavor her food too heavily.

Beaming with pride, his daughter stuffed the rest into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out, reminiscent of a chipmunk.

Seto couldn't help but grin at the picture he made. His hand was halfway into his pocket for his phone before he caught himself. God, he was becoming one of those parents.

Thankfully, his husband's reappearance in the kitchen door restored his dignity. Katsuya's hair was tousled and sticking out in every which way, reminding Seto of their youth. He leaned heavily against the door jamb, using the frame to support himself and the bundle hefted under one arm. Fubuki kicked his feet wildly as they dangled in the air, but it wasn't in a tantrum. He enjoyed being carried like a sack of potatoes for some reason.

"Got 'em," Katsuya grunted, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. It was a dreadfully handsome look on him. "Is Asuka ready to go?"

Seto plucked the napkin off the dining table and wiped her face clean. As soon as he finished, he invited her to wordlessly hop down from his lap. Without further prompting, she lifted both arms so he could help her into her jacket.

"Now she is," he announced and stood.

Asuka laughed and twirled, before running to join Katsuya and Fubuki.

As much as Seto could spend the rest of the day staring at his impossible family, the kids were due at kindergarten and he had an early meeting. While Katsuya tidied the children's appearance, zipping up Fubuki's jacket resoundingly so he couldn't throw it off, Seto brought over the bentos from the kitchen counter.

He arched a questioning eyebrow at his husband as he handed them off. "Don't you think you've overdone it?"

In addition to each child's usual bento box, there was a two-tiered one. Then again, Katsuya always slipped comfortably into the role of house husband when it was the off-season for the pro-circuit.

Warmth spread through Seto's body when their hands brushed. Katsuya's fingers purposefully lingered on his wrists. Nor did he let go after he closed his palms over the back of Seto's hands, drawing him in for a short kiss.

Katsuya smiled. "Nah, the big one's for you."

"You didn't have to."

"Someone says you've been skipping lunch lately. So now you don't have an excuse."

Seto sighed. "Isono."

"I'm not giving up the identity of my mole that easily." Katsuya gave a wink.

Another kiss, a muttered goodbye; and then they were gone. The mansion always felt eerily quiet without them.

*****

Meetings were the bane of his existence. On days like today, when they were packed back-to-back, Seto longed for a megalomaniac or two. At least they had the decency to settle matters, even if it was of life and death, through Duel Monsters.

He collapsed into his office chair for the first time since he arrived hours ago. At the moment, he couldn't bear to check his inbox and see how many messages awaited his attention.

Likely too many.

For now, he wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of his private office.

Eventually, his gaze roamed across his desk's surface: paperwork, pens, photos of his family, a black two-tier bento box.

He straightened.

He'd completely forgotten about the lunch Katsuya made for him until now.

Well, it was lunch time. He didn't have an excuse now as Katsuya said earlier. And he so hated to disappoint his husband. Plus, he liked Katsuya's cooking.

The top level contained an assortment of side dishes: a small salad, stewed beef and vegetables, and a couple of the same hot dog octopuses Katsuya always made for the children's bentos. But the tier below that? Seto gawked at what he uncovered.

Katsuya had been making character bento for Fubuki and Asuka since the start of autumn. The kids loved showing off their colorful arrangements to their classmates. Over time, Seto too had watched his husband get increasingly more creative and elaborate with their lunches.

It appeared he was no exception.

A rather faithful depiction of his ace monster stared back at him. Shaped out of suspiciously blue-tinted rice, his Blue-Eyes roared triumphantly at a background of black rice. It was mostly the head, neck, and upper shoulders with a hint of the wings, but Katsuya had captured its essence, using carefully cut pieces of dried seaweed to fill in the finer details and contour.

Seto wondered how long it took him to make this.

He snapped a photo for posterity. Then he tested his husband.

I think your plan may have backfired.

Katsuya responded instantly.

Why's that?

There's no way I can wreck her majesty.

I love you, even if you are a huge dork.

[illumins]

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚: 𝘽𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙄𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚

The morning sun bathes the towering facade of Daylight Academy in a warm, golden glow, casting long shadows that crawl across the intricate masonry like tendrils of a climbing vine. It's a building that speaks of prestige, its ivy-draped limestone walls and soaring Gothic arches more befitting a castle than a school. I push open the heavy, oak front door, the old hinges complaining with a familiar creak that reminds me I’m home—well, as much as a school can feel like one.

As I step into the grand entrance hall, my footsteps echo off the polished marble floors and the vaulted ceiling high above. Banners of deep blue and silver, the school colors, hang from the walls, fluttering slightly as the breeze from the open doors breathes life into them. It's quieter than I remember; the usual buzz of excited conversations is muted, probably the nervous energy of the first day pressing down on everyone’s shoulders like the thick, humid air.

I’m Liya Faulkner, a senior now, though it feels like I just walked these halls for the first time yesterday. I'm not what you might expect for someone at an academy like this. Short, more comfortable in sneakers than heels, my brunette hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that sways gently as I move. My grey eyes might catch the light for a moment, hinting at thoughts that whirl faster than they probably should. Today, I'm dressed simply—jeans and a soft cotton shirt that falls just right, not too tight, not too loose, with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Lucky—that's the word everyone uses. Lucky Liya, they'd say, to be accepted into Daylight Academy, the kind of place that promises a future brighter than the morning sun streaming through these high windows. Dad says it's a miracle, his lens always focused on capturing the underdog story for the city's news. Mom would have said it was fate. She dreamed of this for me, her hopes stitched into the very fabric of my being, and even though she's gone now, I carry that dream. It's a heavy mantle, one made of memory and desire—her memory, my desire.

Dragging a hand along the cool stone wall, I let my fingers trail over the rough texture, each bump and groove a testament to the history contained within these walls. Around me, the murmur of other students grows, a crescendo of anticipation for the year to come. I should feel excited, maybe even a bit scared, but there’s a calm in me, a steady beat of resilience that drowns out the usual flutter of first-day nerves.

"Heads up, Liya!" a voice calls out from behind me.

Instinctively, I duck as a football zips over my head, narrowly missing the ancient oil painting of the academy's founder. It crashes against the locker with a loud bang, the sound ricocheting off the walls.

"Sorry about that!" The culprit, a tall boy with a sheepish grin, jogs over, retrieving the ball. His apology is genuine, but his smirk tells me he’s gotten away with worse.

"No harm done," I reply, my voice even, betraying none of the annoyance flickering beneath my calm exterior. I'm not one to hold grudges, especially on such a sunny, promising morning. "Just try not to knock out the new kid, okay?"

"Deal," he laughs, then dashes off toward the gym.

The encounter leaves a small smile tugging at my lips as I head to my first class. Today marks the beginning, not just of the school year, but of the final chapter of what started all those years ago when Mom first whispered to me about Daylight Academy, her voice soft and full of certainty.

This is it—the culmination of years of dreaming, of striving, and of holding onto hope even when it felt like there was none left. I can almost hear her in the quiet between each bell, her laughter mingling with the echoes of my footsteps.

This is for her. This is for us.

I pull out the crisp sheet of paper from my front pocket—the schedule that seals my fate for the year. Chemistry, first period. Mrs. Henderson. Room 213B. The numbers and letters blur for a second, my fingers tightening around the edges of the paper as if holding it harder might make me feel more prepared. I tuck it back into my pocket and head towards the science wing, my sneakers squeaking softly against the freshly waxed floors.

As I turn the corner, the noise level increases—a cacophony of laughter, chatter, and the occasional loud greeting. The door to Room 213B is propped open, inviting yet intimidating. Taking a deep breath, I step inside, the scent of wax and whiteboard markers immediately filling my nostrils. The room buzzes with the energy of students reconnecting after the summer break, their voices echoing off the tiled floors and high ceilings.

The classroom is almost full, bodies clustered in groups, some leaning against desks, others standing in the aisles. I scan quickly for an empty seat, my gaze flitting over heads and backpacks, searching for any sliver of space. Most spots are already claimed, belongings sprawled out as territory markers—notebooks, pens, and colorful folders.

Then, amidst the hum of teenage dynamics, a laugh cuts through the noise, clear and familiar. My heart skips, just once, very slightly—as if nudging me. Mark Lee. There, leaning against a lab table near the window, his brunette hair catching the sunlight, making it look like threads of gold are woven through it. His eyes, warm and inviting as a summer’s dusk, crinkle at the corners as he laughs again. Those high cheekbones, more pronounced now, frame a smile that’s disarmingly genuine.

He’s definitely gotten cuter over the summer, not that he needed any enhancement. Mark, with his effortless charm and easy laughter, surrounded by classmates but somehow still standing apart. As usual, he’s beside Haechan, his best friend, who’s animatedly gesturing with his hands, telling some story that clearly amuses them both.

I hesitate at the door for a heartbeat longer, unnoticed. The warmth of the room seems to grow, or maybe it’s just me, feeling suddenly too aware of my own heartbeat, the slight tremor of my hands. I take a quiet breath, tasting the lingering sharpness of cleaning products mixed with the subtle fragrance of someone’s floral perfume.

Pushing past my initial reluctance, I step further into the room, my eyes locked on a small open spot near the back, away from Mark. I can’t sit near him; not if I want to keep my composure, not if I want to focus on anything other than the way his laughter seems to make the whole room brighter.

As I weave through the desks, I feel the cool metal and smooth plastic under my fingers, the occasional bump against my hip or elbow—a physical reminder of the space I occupy in this teeming sea of adolescence. Reaching the empty chair, I slide into it, unpacking my notebook and pen with deliberate slowness, arranging them just so.

From here, I can see him, watch him without being obvious. Mark, who looks even sweeter when he’s listening, his gaze fixed on Haechan as if every word matters deeply. There’s a calmness about him, a steadiness that draws people in, that makes you want to stay in his orbit just a little longer.

I settle in, forcing my attention to the front of the class where the teacher’s desk sits empty, waiting for Mrs. Henderson. My hands fold over my notebook, fingers tapping a silent rhythm, as I steal one last glance at Mark, letting the sight of him anchor and unsettle me all at once. This is how the year starts—with chemistry, both the academic and the unresolved kind.

The classroom door swings open with a decisive motion, heralding the arrival of Mrs. Henderson. She steps in, her presence filling the room like a brisk autumn breeze sweeping through stagnant air. With sharp, efficient movements, she places her leather briefcase on the desk—a thud that demands attention, pulling eyes away from mid-conversation smiles and whispers.

"Good morning, class! Let’s find our seats, please," she announces, her voice a smooth alto that rolls over the chatter, tapering it down to a murmur. I watch as students shuffle to comply, the scrape of chairs and soft thumping of backpacks setting a new rhythm for the room.

Mrs. Henderson is a woman of commanding presence, her gray-streaked hair pulled back into a tight bun that seems to pull her eyebrows perpetually upward, lending her a look of constant scrutiny. She sweeps a gaze over the class, her eyes lingering momentarily on me before moving on. I feel a tiny jolt, as if that brief eye contact was a test I hadn’t studied for.

She begins the class by introducing the syllabus, her hands moving with precise gestures as she points to the projected slides. “Chemistry is not just about reactions and equations; it’s about understanding the essence of materials, predicting outcomes, and—most importantly—applying this knowledge. Expect to be challenged, expect to learn, and expect to be surprised by what you can achieve.”

As she speaks, I try to focus on her words, but my attention is like a poorly tied knot, slipping away repeatedly. My gaze drifts to the front of the room, landing on the back of Mark’s head, his hair catching the light every time he moves. He’s three rows ahead, far enough that every detail shouldn’t be clear, but somehow, each shift and nod are distinct.

The chair beside me scrapes against the tile floor, and a girl with a cascade of curly hair and a nervous smile plops down next to me. “Hi,” she whispers, her voice threaded with the eagerness of making a new acquaintance.

“Hey,” I reply, my smile automatic, a well-practiced curve of lips that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I turn back to Mrs. Henderson, trying to anchor myself to the lecture about atomic structure and periodic trends.

Mrs. Henderson’s enthusiasm for the subject is palpable; she talks about the elements as if they are old friends she can’t wait for us to meet. “You’ll get to know them, work with them, and yes, occasionally, they’ll surprise you—much like people,” she says, a twinkle of amusement in her eye.

I jot down notes, the scratching of my pen a steady sound that helps me focus—or at least pretend to. Beside me, the curly-haired girl is also taking notes, her handwriting a flurry of loops and whirls. Our elbows brush occasionally, a reminder of the proximity grounding me back to the present.

My pen pauses over a diagram of an atom, the nucleus and electrons laid out in neat orbits. I glance up again, my eyes seeking Mark despite my intentions. He’s leaning back slightly in his chair, his profile etched against the bright light from the window, every line and angle of his face a familiar map that I’ve traced in my thoughts more times than I care to admit.

Mrs. Henderson’s voice pulls me back, her words about chemical bonds suddenly mirroring my own thoughts on connections—how some are strong and enduring, while others are too weak to withstand much at all. I look down at my notebook, the ink from my pen bleeding slightly into the paper, indelible and stark.

As I force my attention back to the front, focusing on the molecular structures dancing across the screen, I can’t help but feel the tug of an invisible bond, one that connects me to the boy three rows ahead, made of curiosity and yearning—a compound as complex and unstable as any we might study this year.

My mind can be a peculiar place. Here I am, sitting in my first class of the senior year at Daylight Academy, and all I can think about is how the intricate dance of electrons around a nucleus somehow parallels my orbit around Mark Lee. It's almost laughable, this cosmic tug between a girl and the boy she's been quietly crushing on for years. How was his summer? Did he travel? Explore? Or maybe just lazed around like any normal teenager would?

I often found myself wandering past his neighborhood on my way to the grocery store, a detour that was slightly longer but infinitely more interesting. This summer, though, the streets that held his house seemed unusually quiet, his familiar silhouette conspicuously absent. I'd catch myself lingering a bit longer at the corner, hoping for a glimpse. Nothing. It was odd, his absence, but then, chastising myself for the stalker-ish tendency, I'd laugh it off and move on. My infatuation could be overwhelmingly silly at times.

As I'm tugged back to the present by the sudden cessation of Mrs. Henderson's lecture, I realize the girl next to me is leaning slightly towards me, her voice a careful whisper designed not to travel far in the hushed classroom atmosphere. "I'm Jenna, by the way."

I turn to face her, pulling my focus from the front of the classroom and giving her my full attention. Jenna's curly hair frames her face in a wild halo, strands escaping here and there, giving her a look of someone constantly in motion. Her eyes, bright and curious beneath thick lashes, hold a spark of friendliness that's instantly warming.

"Oh, hi, Jenna," I reply, my voice equally subdued. It dawns on me then—she’s the yearbook girl. I'd seen her darting around school events with a camera, her presence ubiquitous yet unobtrusive, capturing moments most of us would miss in the blur of our high school days.

She gives me a quick, conspiratorial smile, as if we're sharing a secret in just introducing ourselves. "I think I’ve seen you around, with the art club, right? You guys did that mural last spring?"

"Yeah, that was us," I say, surprised she remembered. My involvement in the art club was more behind-the-scenes, a detail not many would notice.

Jenna nods, her interest genuine, and I find myself appreciating the connection, brief as it is. Her presence is like a grounding wire, redirecting my scattered thoughts from their usual path marked by an all-too-familiar infatuation.

The bell rings, shrill and abrupt, like it's slicing through the thick tension of the room—a tension that's only really palpable to me. Around me, students shove notebooks and pens into their bags with a hurried, indifferent clatter. Jenna, with her smile waning into a frown, leans in slightly. "So, do we have the next class together?" Her voice carries a hopeful undertone that feels like a warm breeze.

I zip up my own bag, feeling the weight of her expectation. "Biology," I reply, my voice more of a whisper than I intend. The way her face falls, just a slight downturn of her lips, makes my chest tighten. "I'll see you around then," she says, trying to mask her disappointment with a brisk nod.

"Yeah, see you," I murmur, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. As I step out of the classroom, I watch Mark stride out ahead of me. He doesn’t look back. I take a deep breath, my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Get yourself together, Liya, I scold myself silently, stepping into the bustling hallway.

The corridor feels more alive now than it did this morning, pulsing with the chaotic energy of teenagers released from the confines of their first period. I navigate through the crowd, my steps hesitant but determined. The sounds of laughter and disjointed conversations create a symphony of normalcy that I crave yet feel detached from.

I catch the eye of a tall girl with paint-stained jeans—Mia from art club. Our eyes meet, and I offer a small, tentative smile, which she returns with a quick, bright flash of recognition. We don't stop to talk; our friendship, if it can be called that, consists of shared nods and occasional brushes of conversation about mediums and murals. It’s comfortable yet distant.

As I move past her, I nod to a couple of other faces from art club. There’s Jonah, who’s always sketching in the margins of his notebooks, and Elise, who’s more into sculptures than sketches. They know me, or at least, the version of me that holds a brush or a palette knife. But outside those art club walls, our interactions dwindle to these brief acknowledgements in crowded hallways.

It’s always been like this—me, drifting on the edge of circles, touching the surface of friendships without ever really diving in. People know me. I know people. But the connections end just as they begin to deepen, leaving me floating in this liminal space of near-but-far, together-but-alone.

As the hum of the corridor dwindles behind me, I pull out my crumpled schedule from the front pocket of my bag. My fingers trace the printed lines, double-checking. Biology, Room 210, Mrs. Hawthorne. I exhale, a puff of relief that feels almost tangible in the stagnant air of the hallway.

Stepping into Room 210, the atmosphere shifts palpably. Unlike the rigid order of Chemistry, this classroom thrums with a relaxed buzz. Students are scattered across the room, draped over desks and chairs like casual confetti, their voices weaving a tapestry of soft laughter and fragmented stories. Mrs. Hawthorne, a wiry woman with streaks of silver in her hair, sorts through a stack of papers on her desk, her glasses perched precariously at the tip of her nose.

I slide into an empty seat near the back, my backpack feeling lighter as I set it down. Relief seeps through me—not just at escaping the fraught energy of Chemistry, but at the absence of Mark in this classroom. Maybe I can actually pass this one, I think, allowing a small, hopeful smile to curve my lips.

As I settle in, scanning the room, my eyes snag on two familiar figures—Renjun and Jisung, part of Mark’s usual entourage. They sat diagonally from me, their heads bowed together in quiet conspiracy. Their presence pricks at my tranquility, a reminder of the orbit I circle but never enter. Still, they seem absorbed in their own world, a barrier invisible and yet palpable, separating them from the rest.

Mrs. Hawthorne clears her throat, the sound sharp enough to slice through the chatter. “Alright, everyone, let’s bring it in,” she calls out, her voice firm yet not unkind. The class gradually falls silent, attention turning towards her as she begins to outline the syllabus. Her words, crisp and precise, paint the semester ahead in broad, promising strokes.

As the bell rings, a symphony of relief and chatter floods the room. The class had rushed by, a whirlwind of historical dates that blend together in a blur—just the way it always does. Our teacher, Ms. Hawthorne, with her perennially furrowed brow, had walked us through the Civil War in less than an hour. Everyone is still buzzing about how, under her stern gaze, even the Battle of Gettysburg seemed to last only a minute. I pack my books, the edges frayed and covers battered from use, into my backpack with a practiced haste.

As I zip my backpack shut, anticipation pulses through me. Lunchtime means a momentary reprieve from the relentless pace of classes. I sling my bag over one shoulder, feeling the familiar tug at my muscles, and push my chair back. It scrapes against the linoleum, a harsh sound that seems too loud in the suddenly quiet classroom.

Stepping into the hallway is like diving into a river at its peak flow. Students flood the corridors, their voices a cacophony of plans for the afternoon, complaints about the homework, and the latest gossip which I tune out. I weave through groups of chatting students, my steps quick and light. Being small has its advantages; I slip through gaps between bodies and backpacks with an agility that keeps me from being swept away in the tide of teenagers.

Finally, I reach my locker, tucked away in a less chaotic corner of the hall. The combination lock clicks under my fingers, a sequence so familiar I could do it in my sleep. As the metal door swings open with a creak, I quickly stow away my History book. My stomach rumbles, thoughts of the cafeteria's offerings today—hopefully pizza, but more likely the soggy tacos—distracting me for a moment.

That’s when I hear it: a loud call, piercing through the buzz of the crowd. “Mark!” The voice is unmistakable—Jaemin. I freeze, a book half-shoved onto the shelf. My heart thumps painfully against my ribcage, a bird frantic to escape its cage. I turn slowly towards the sound, my movements stiff.

Jaemin and Jeno stand a few lockers down, their heads together, eyes scanning the crowd. Their gaze locks onto something, or someone, beyond my line of sight. Curiosity prickles at me, urging me to follow their stare. I lean slightly, peering around a cluster of students, and there he is—Mark, surrounded by Jisung, Renjun, Haechan, and Chenle. They're all animated, a dynamic cluster of energy and laughter, so different from my quiet observation.

As the voices crescendo, Mark and the others, caught in their own orbit of jokes and jabs, move like a comet trailing through the crowded hallway. They pass by me, close enough that I catch snippets of their laughter and the tail-end of a joke about Renjun's latest art project, which apparently includes more glitter than is strictly necessary. The air shifts around them, the way the atmosphere bends light around the sun, drawing eyes like moths to a flame.

I lean back against the cold, dented metal of my locker, pretending to search for something in my backpack while I watch. There's a palpable energy that buzzes from them, an invisible shield that seems to part the waves of students automatically. Some of the other girls stand a little straighter as the group approaches, their laughter ringing clear, like the peal of church bells on a quiet morning. One girl, with hair the color of autumn leaves, watches them with such open admiration that I wonder if she realizes her books are about to slip from her grasp.

"Do you think they ever notice?" The words slip out, soft and more to myself than anyone else.

"Notice what?" The voice comes from Jamie, who’s appeared beside me, her eyes bright with curiosity. Another friend I’ve met through the art club.

I jump slightly, not having noticed her approach. "The way everyone watches them. Like they're characters in a movie or something."

Jamie chuckles, a low, knowing sound. "I think they just enjoy their bubble too much to care." Her gaze lingers on the group, thoughtful. "Must be nice, living in your own little world where everything's a joke or a game."

I nod, the words hitting closer to home than I expect. The boys' laughter fades as they turn the corner, and suddenly the hallway doesn't seem as bright or as animated. The chatter around us fills in the void they’ve left behind, the ordinary concerns of high school life knitting back together like fabric after a pulled thread is reworked into place.

Time skates by as I sit alone in the back of the cafeteria, my lunch tray an island in a sea of noisy school life. The table, round and perpetually sticky, usually hosts only me and occasionally others who drift in with nowhere else to sit. Today, though, it's just me and my thoughts, with the distant clatter of forks and knives playing background music. I pick at the cafeteria's attempt at lasagna, more a mushy puzzle of pasta and sauce than anything else, and lose myself watching the swirl of students around me.

The lunch period ends too quickly, a rushed affair of eating and observing, and I'm the last to leave. I remember today is the first day back from summer and the dread of facing algebra with Mrs. Jensen after a carefree break nudges me forward. My steps quicken as I dart out of the cafeteria, swinging my bag over my shoulder. I make a quick detour to the bathroom, checking my reflection in the mirror not for vanity but to reassure myself I can face the rest of the day.

By the time I exit, the halls are ominously quiet, the absence of the usual hustle a clear sign that I'm late. My heart races as I approach the closed door of the algebra classroom. I stand there for a moment, hand poised above the handle, the metal cool and slightly grimy under my touch. I shake my hand, trying to dispel the nerves that buzz through my fingers like static electricity, and then, summoning every ounce of courage, I turn the knob as gently as possible.

The door gives a soft click, but it might as well have been a gunshot for how quickly the room falls silent. Heads turn, swiveling towards me as if connected by strings, and there in the sea of faces, I see a mix of curiosity and annoyance. Mrs. Jensen, mid-sentence, halts and fixes me with a look that's more weary than angry.

"Liya Faulkner, glad you could join us," she says, her voice dripping with a politeness that everyone knows isn't genuine.

I stumble into the room, my words tripping over each other as they come out. "Sorry, I—I got lost for a second there." My cheeks burn with the knowledge of how lame the excuse sounds, my classmates' eyes boring into me like tiny drills. Internally, I kick myself for not thinking of something more believable.

Mrs. Jensen nods, her expression softening a fraction as she gestures to an empty seat. "Just try to be on time, please. We were just going over the syllabus."

As I make my way to the seat, my backpack feels heavier than ever, loaded with more than just books—every step weighted down by their silent judgments and my own echoing embarrassment.

As I hastily sink into the only empty seat left in the room, the chill from the metal chair seeps through my jeans, a cold reminder of my tardiness. My hands fumble for the zipper of my backpack, movements jerky with nerves as I pull out my mathematics textbook, its edges worn from use. The syllabus, a looming specter of upcoming challenges, is notably absent from my desk. I try to steady my breathing, to dispel the flush of embarrassment still burning my cheeks like a slap.

That's when a sheet of white paper slides across my desk, drifting like a lost feather until it comes to rest beneath my startled gaze. I reach for it, fingers brushing the smooth surface, and glance up to thank the provider. The words die on my lips when I see it's Mark, the same Mark who was the nucleus of laughter just minutes ago in the hallway.

He gives me a smile, soft and unexpectedly reassuring, like the first warm breeze of spring after a harsh winter. "You're really okay," he murmurs, his voice a whisper meant only for my ears, "you haven’t missed anything." The simple kindness in his tone, in such stark contrast to the cacophony of the algebra class, makes my heart sink further into an ocean of foolishness.

For a moment, I'm rendered speechless, struck dumb by his casual grace. Words scramble like startled birds in my mind, but none take flight. His presence, the ease of his smile, narrows the world to just this small interaction, erasing the rows of curious eyes still glancing our way.

I manage a nod, a small, tentative smile stretching my lips as I clutch the syllabus a little tighter. It’s an anchor, a tangible reminder that this moment, however fluttering my heart feels, is just a fleeting connection in the mundane rhythm of school life. The room gradually fills back with the hum of teenage voices and the scratching of pens on paper, but the echo of his words lingers, a soft chord in the clamor.

The rest of the algebra class passes in a blur of numbers and letters, each equation Mrs. Jensen scribbles on the board another missed opportunity for my concentration to latch onto. I make a silent vow, keeping my eyes rooted to the white gleam of my own paper, steering clear of even the faintest temptation to glance sideways at Mark. But the resolve of the mind and the will of the heart are often at odds; the latter sneaks peeks when it can, betraying the former with each stolen glance.

From my peripheral vision, framed by the scuffed edges of my textbook, Mark seems absorbed in the lesson, but occasionally, his attention wanders. It drifts forward, like a leaf caught in a gentle stream, landing invariably on Amy-Jane. She's perched right in the middle of the front row, flanked by friends like stars around a moon, her laughter quiet but resonant, her notes meticulous as if each letter were crafted for display.

During one such moment, when my courage gathers enough to let my gaze linger a second longer, I catch Jaemin's elbow nudging Mark. Jaemin's whisper is lost in the space between them, but his grin speaks volumes, teasingly obvious. Mark's response is a sheepish smile, a subtle shrug that doesn't quite reach his eyes before he redirects his attention back to his notebook, his pen moving in bursts of renewed focus.

That interaction, simple and fleeting, stings sharper than I expect. A twinge of something akin to envy, but more complex, twists in my chest—a knotted thread pulling tight. It’s not just the pang of an unspoken crush noticed by others; it's the silent acknowledgment of my place on the periphery of this social cosmos, orbiting distant stars, invisible in their bright presence.

I press the tip of my pencil against the paper, the lead soft and slightly giving, as I force myself back to the problems laid out before me. The numbers blur, smudging into mathematical probabilities that don't account for the human heart's odd calculations. Each theorem feels like a cold reminder of the logical world, one where emotions are outliers, not data points.

The library unfolds in rows of tall, dark wooden shelves, laden with books that range from timeworn classics to modern paperbacks with spines barely creased. Above, the ceiling stretches high, dotted with small, round lights that cast a soft, golden glow, mimicking the stars that might soon blink awake in the evening sky. Between the shelves, large windows offer views of the schoolyard where autumn leaves flirt with the wind, their dance a quiet chaos against the orderly backdrop of the library.

The bell, like a final exhale after a long-held breath, releases us. I linger in my seat, thumbing through the colorful tabs of my planner until the numbers and periods align to tell me what I already hope for: a free period, a pocket of peace before the day ebbs away. I feign a deep dive into the cavern of my bag, rummaging through its contents—a tangle of pens, a frayed notebook, a half-eaten granola bar—anything to look occupied, to avoid unwanted conversations, especially with Mark still nearby.

My fingers brush the cool, smooth surface of a calculator, the textured spine of a textbook, while my ears tune in to the dwindling sounds of classmates dispersing. The shuffle of feet, the zip of backpacks, the low murmur of parting chatter fills the room. I don't lift my gaze until the sounds thin out, signaling that Mark, with his effortless smile and easy laughter, has left.

I choose a secluded corner table, nestled between sections of history and literature. It's an intimate nook where the sun, in its last act of defiance against the coming night, throws slanted beams across the wooden surface, turning dust motes into swirling galaxies. Here, in this carved-out space, I finally unclasp the tight ponytail, letting my hair cascade down in a relieved sigh, shadows playing in the light brown waves. As I settle, the chair creaking slightly under my weight, the library's calm wraps around me, a soft embrace promising solitude and stillness.

The library's quiet wraps around me like a blanket as I dig through my backpack and pull out my sketchbook. It's got a few creases and worn edges from being toted around so much, but I kind of like that it looks used—it's got character. Flipping through it, I can't help but smile a bit at the sketches filling the pages. It's neat to see how much better I've gotten over the past few months. The lines are smoother, the shading more precise, making the random faces and places I've drawn look almost real.

I grab my trusty pencil from its usual spot in my bag—it's short from all the sharpening but still perfect for drawing. Leaning back against my chair, I can't stop the memory of Mark's smile from earlier today from popping up in my mind. That smile had somehow made the whole awkward moment in algebra feel less intense.

I start sketching, letting my pencil lightly trace the outline of a face with that same easy smile. Trying to get his expressions right is kind of tough, but it’s a good challenge. I focus on the way his eyes had crinkled up when he smiled, trying to capture that. It feels a bit weird, drawing him like this, but it's also cool to see it come together on paper.

As I draw, everything else fades away—the sound of other students whispering, the rustle of pages turning. It's just me, my sketchbook, and the memory of that brief, bright smile. My heart does this little fluttery thing, kind of silly, but it makes me push on, adding more details to the sketch.

As I'm getting the smile just right on my sketch of Mark, a shrill, piercing sound cuts through the quiet of the library—the fire alarm. Everyone's heads jerk up, eyes wide. The librarian, Mrs. Finch, is suddenly all business, her voice firm as she herds us towards the exit. "Books down, everyone, let’s move quickly and calmly," she instructs.

I shove my sketchbook and pencil back into my bag, my movements hurried and a little clumsy. The alarm is insanely loud, making it hard to think. I zip up my backpack and sling it over one shoulder, glancing around to see if anyone else looks as frazzled as I feel. Everyone's just shoving their stuff into their bags, not talking much, their faces tense.

As we file out of the library, I can see teachers in the hallways, directing streams of students toward the exits. They look serious but controlled, like they’ve done this drill a hundred times. We all know the drill, but the suddenness still sends a ripple of anxiety through the crowd. I keep my head down, following the crowd, but I’m super aware of everything around me—the shuffle of feet, the occasional cough, and the loud buzz of the alarm echoing off the walls.

Passing by one of the senior literature classrooms, I spot Jaemin and Mark coming out, looking more alert than everyone else. Their eyes scan the crowd—sharp, focused. It strikes me as odd, their intensity. As they find the rest of their group—Jisung, Renjun, Haechan, Jeno, and Chenle—they weave through the crowd with a purpose that seems out of place in the chaos.

I can’t help but watch them, curiosity piqued. They’re trying to act normal, but it's like they’re on some secret mission, looking around cautiously. And then, right by the auditorium, it happens: Chenle bumps into Mark, not gently either. They both go down in a tangle of limbs, and the other guys quickly huddle around them.

The teachers and some annoyed kids just pass by, accepting the clumsy fall at face value, but I can’t shake the feeling that something else is going on. Amidst the fuss, I catch a glimpse of Mark slipping into the auditorium, quick as a shadow disappearing at dusk. The others stand up, brushing themselves off, and keep moving like nothing happened.

Once we're outside, everyone's clustered into little groups on the front lawn of the school. The teachers shuffle around, keeping a keen eye on us to make sure nobody drifts toward the busy street nearby. It's chaotic but organized, like some bizarre outdoor class assembly. I spot Mark's friends, still together, looking unusually alert and tense. They're whispering among themselves, glancing back toward the school building every now and then. What the hell? I think, my brow creasing with worry. There could be a real fire or something dangerous going on inside, and they just let Mark stay in there?

As I watch them, I find myself drifting closer to their group without even realizing it. My feet have a mind of their own, pulled by a mix of concern and curiosity. But as I get closer, reality snaps back. What am I doing? Panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. I'm about to turn around, to just walk away and maybe text someone to check if Mark's okay, but then it's too late.

Chenle’s eyes lock onto mine, his expression morphing from focused to confused in a split second. He nudges the guy next to him and subtly points at me. My heart hammers against my ribs, loud in my ears over the buzz of the crowd. Great, just great. Now what? There's no backing out now without looking totally weird.

Feeling a mix of irritation at myself and a stubborn set to my jaw, I keep walking toward them, trying to look like I meant to come over all along. The closer I get, the more I wish I could just melt into the grass and disappear, but I’m too far gone now. Chenle’s watching me approach, and I can almost hear the unasked question in his look: What does she want? I just hope I can think of something to say that sounds halfway reasonable.

As I get closer to the group, every step feels like wading through mud, thick and pulling at my ankles. I'm rehearsing lines in my head, trying to figure out how to casually drop into a conversation that, hey, I saw your friend sneak back into a potentially burning building. I mean, I'm not being nosy, right? I'm just concerned. But rationalizing it in my mind and actually saying it out loud are two different universes.

When I finally reach them, they're all looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and mild suspicion. Their faces are like an unread book, the kind where you're not sure if it's going to be a horror story or just a really awkward comedy. I don't blame them for the wary looks; we've never spoken before. To them, I'm just that girl who sometimes sits alone at lunch, maybe not even a blip on their radar.

Jaemin breaks the silence first. He leans against the school's brick wall, one hand casually tucked into his jeans pocket, his eyebrow arched. "Hi?" he says, making the word sound like a question, as if he's puzzled by my sudden appearance in their orbit.

"Hi," I reply, my voice squeaking a bit more than I'd like. Great, just great. I clear my throat, trying again. "Hi, I... um, saw what happened earlier, with Mark. In the hall, I mean." The words tumble out in a rush, and I mentally kick myself for sounding so chaotic.

They all exchange looks, their expressions shifting from curious to alert. I shuffle my feet, feeling the weight of their gazes like a spotlight that’s a bit too bright.

"Mark?" Chenle asks, his tone guarded, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Yeah, when the alarm went off," I continue, pushing past the awkwardness clamping down on my chest. "I saw him... uh, he went into the auditorium. It looked like he did it on purpose, you know? And I just thought... well, it's kind of dangerous, isn't it? With the alarm and all."

There's a pause, heavy and thick, where I can almost hear their thoughts clicking into place. My heart thumps loudly, the sound a drumbeat in my ears as I wait for them to either dismiss me or—hopefully—take me seriously.

Jaemin straightens up, his casual demeanor tightening. "Thanks for letting us know," he says, his voice smooth but his eyes sharp, analyzing. "We’ll... um, handle it."

I nod, not sure what else to add, feeling like I've stepped into a stream that's flowing much faster than I anticipated. "Okay, just, you know, wanted to make sure someone knew," I mumble, already backing away, ready to escape the intensity of the interaction.

I'm halfway turned, ready to escape the heavy air between us, when it hits me—like a cold splash of reality. They're acting clueless, but I saw them, saw how they helped Mark sneak into the auditorium. I can't just walk away, not now. I stop, my heart drumming a frantic beat, and I spin back around, my resolve hardening.

Taking a deep breath, I march back towards them, my steps more determined. As I face them again, I can feel the flush on my cheeks, but it’s not just from embarrassment now—it’s from frustration, too. "You know what, no," I say, my voice firmer than I feel. "You helped him get in there for whatever stupid reason, and what if he gets hurt? What if there's actually a fire?" I throw the words at them like they're stones meant to wake them up.

The boys exchange looks—some amused, some just plain annoyed. Jeno steps forward, his expression darkening. He's taller up close, his presence imposing. He pokes a finger towards my shoulder, not touching me but close enough to make his point. "You saw nothing," he says, his voice low and threatening, yet there's a sharp edge to it, like he’s not just advising me but warning me. "Mark can take care of himself. But I'll let him know you were worried," he adds, his tone softening just a fraction, as if that's supposed to comfort me.

Just as I open my mouth to fire back another retort at Jeno, a loud boom erupts from inside the school. The ground trembles beneath our feet, a jolt that travels up through the soles of my shoes, making my heart skip. Instantly, the scene transforms into chaos. Nearby, cars screech to a halt, their drivers craning necks out of windows, while others honk incessantly, adding to the cacophony. The blare of police sirens grows louder as officers start spilling onto the scene, shouting commands and herding students further from the school building.

As I stand there, frozen, the reality of the situation hits me hard—the possibility of Mark, alone in the auditorium, maybe in danger, causes my stomach to clench. Behind me, some students are half-joking, half-serious, wondering aloud if this is the kind of scenario where Spiderman would show up. I roll my eyes at that. Spiderman? Really? I think as frustration is bubbling up. I'm not about to stand here waiting for some hero to swoop in.

Driven by a mix of fear and determination, I mutter to myself, "Fine, I'll do it myself." The words are barely a whisper, a breath lost in the wind, but they seal my decision. I drop my bag with a thud on the grass and start sprinting towards the school entrance. Calls of "Stop!" chase after me—some from the boys, some from other students, and sharply from the police trying to maintain order. But I don't look back. My legs pump harder, each step fueled by the urgent need to make sure Mark is safe, to not just be a bystander.

I can hear my name being yelled, a distant echo that I push from my mind as I focus on the school doors ahead, the heavy double doors that might just lead me to Mark—or into something way over my head. But right now, none of that matters. Only one thought propels me forward: I have to find him.

[mochilatae]

Me Time (Namjoon x Yn/Reader)

Word Count: 7.23k

Pairing: Namjoon x Y/n

Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Kissing (french and other), oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, clit/pussy sucking, orgasms (multiple, yours and his), flirting, seduction, semi-missionary sex, intense sex, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, Namjoon has money/a nice place/is a rich guy in this one. If I missed one, it is what it is. 

Genre: Strangers to Lovers, PWP

AUs: None

Summary: You head to the woods for a Me Day. When you encounter a handsome stranger more than once, it becomes an ‘Us’ day that you could get used to. 

Author’s Note: Glad to be back and I’m happy to have my comeback be a Namjoon adventure. This was requested by @worldwideseal a bit ago and I've been trying hard to finish it.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it, let me know in a comment. 

Tag list: @askkrisachan @kiestrokes

It was a solid battle. A contemplation in the drinks aisle, door open and chilled air rolling over your sun warmed skin. If you were accused of debating too long, it wasn’t something you’d deny. The cool air felt nice on the sting of what had clearly proved a bit too long in the midday sun. 

A wonderful way to start your weekend: an unexpectedly challenging hike that was supposed to take less than 30 minutes from the parking lot. But that proved to be for those initiated types–the ones who made a hike with a considerable grade look like a jaunt. 

For you it was a bit more like a gauntlet of misery. So you’d more than justified it to yourself, leaning against the drinks cooler door frame, letting your profile crush against the frosted surface. 

You hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching but the voice came through. Clear. Amused. No need to look because a grin stretched the distance between the few words over your shoulder.

“Contemplating life or flavors?” 

You straightened, grip finding and holding the door handle. The chilly rush over your cheeks did something to help the panic, which helped a little. You couldn’t blame that kind of tell on lack of sunscreen or an unplanned too-long-hike in the sun.

“It’s rough.” You barely replied. Eyes popping, you grabbed the brightest color visible front and center: blue ice. Lowest on your list, but it was in your hand and you stepped aside.

A large hand grazed your own as grips traded on the door handle. 

The form stepping into your spot in front of the open case was just obvious enough: Big. Broad. Tanned just right. The kind of golden that said it was real deal stuff. No spray tan or tanning bed nonsense. 

The man leaned forward, eyes closing as he hummed into the same cold air your pores sucked up earlier. 

You swallowed, eyes lingering on the necklines. And the biceps, rounded, stressing the cuffs of his white t-shirt sleeves just enough. Suddenly you were hungry–the handful of crackers and cheese burned up long ago in the car. You’d eaten fast and should have prepared more, but now you saw something meaty. 

Something in a healthy, hunky shape, grinning your way, eyes finally open and meeting your nervous stare. Your eyes widened again. At least you kept your mouth neutral–an even line. 

He had a nice smile as selected the same flavor you’d chosen, nodding your way.

“Good flavor. You like it too?” 

You looked down, turned the bottle over in your grip, and looked back up.

Shrugging, you waved the bottle a little. “It’s up there.” 

One perfectly thick brow arched as the man offered a timid smile. He didn’t move much, but his bangs still lolled. The tips feathered his forehead, hypnotizing your senses for a moment. You’d barely noticed the world huffing up the winding trails outside the store, melting under your tank top and workout leggings.

He had the faintest sweat–something normally unappealing. He’d managed to make a biological response magical. The slickness on his skin looked good.

“Up there? Not your go-to?” 

In the middle of the only store for 45 minutes in either direction, there wasn’t room to be choosy.  Trade offs were made for a weekend away from your city apartment. A lot more space. A lot LESS amenities. 

But sometimes there were unexpected perks—exhibit A standing just within reach. 

Blue Ice traded hands as he reached into the case again. This time he selected a considerable bottle of Evian and shook it, like you’d done before. Both his cheeks developed dimples as he beamed.  

Your fingers tightened on the cold plastic bottle that you now gripped for dear life. Your throat was tight enough. It wasn’t the only part suddenly unable to relax. The reason was familiar and longer overdue: Attraction. Raw and unbridled. Washing over you.

“Can’t beat water. Perfect palette cleanser.” Murmuring, his fingers wrapped both bottle necks with room to spare as they overlapped.

“You’re not local.” He added once his assessing gaze finished at your face. 

A scoff dislodged the lump in your throat, allowing a breath.  

“Is it that obvious?” 

You boiled inside all over again–as warm inside as the surface of your skin felt outwardly when a wide, warm smile changed the entire handsome face in front of you. 

If he was a local you’d eat the map you’d grabbed from the gift shop ‘section’ of the store. 

“Maybe.” He added a wink, then looked beyond you, towards the clerk leaning into the counter by the register, yawning her way through the local paper with low lids. She hadn’t looked up when you came in, but she couldn’t have missed this guy.

“Are you?” It was natural to ask so you didn’t feel awkward about it. 

“Yes and No.” 

“I don’t live here year round. I visit now and then.”

“What’s that mean?” You watched his free hand go into a pocket, then come back out with a square of leather.

His head jerked towards the end of the aisle and you took a step, matching his as he walked and talked. 

“Family?” Your eyes scanned the shelves as you moved along, trailing the man but also debating just how hungry you felt before it was too late and you were back into the hike back to your car. It seemed just a touch too far away right now and those Oreos on the upcoming end cap looked all too tempting. 

“No.” He chuckled, glancing at you, then following your eyes to the Oreos. With a rakish grin, the man grabbed two packs and they joined the drinks, tucked against the inside, pinned in place by the inside of his arm. 

You suddenly wondered what that arm would feel like around your neck. Maybe bent over the counter, with his lips along your ear, his hips screwing slowly against your ass. Bold and full of fire. 

That kind of body heat wouldn’t be the worst thing to suffer. You were piping hot in a few places as it was. 

“I own a place up the hill.” He was stopped at the aisle end. You thought about going around, but didn’t. No need to end this encounter any sooner than it was going to be over. It wasn’t getting any less hot outside either. 

“Yeah?” You returned a smile. 

“Mmhm. What’s your name?” 

You hesitated, bringing the drink bottle to your neck and rolling it along one side. You kind of like it more than a lot that his eyes followed the motion. His patient smile didn’t falter but something flashed in his eyes. 

“Y/n.” 

“Nice to meet you.” He said. “I’d shake your hand but—”

Your hand shot out. Until now you weren’t the type for hand shakes. How quickly that changed. 

“Namjoon” He pumped your hand as he spoke again. That big palm was warm and smooth. Silky and dry. By contrast you wondered just how dewy your palm still felt. You’d spent quite a bit of time wiping palms on your thighs as you’d paused all too often on every hill during the hike. But he didn’t have to know that. 

Namjoon gave no indication he minded, if anything was amiss. “Nice to meet you.” 

Finally he moved again and you watched his back as he stopped at the counter. The employee barely looked up, coming away from the counter to situate herself mostly behind the register. The beep of each scan started. In between Namjoon made more conversation, which was a relief because you couldn’t keep your focus on talking with the way your eyes feasted on his ass and calves.

Everything from his hips down looked impossibly tight in his light gray workout pants. 

“You hiked up here then?” 

Leaning around him, you stole a look at your chosen drink still on the counter, then sighed. 

“Yeah.” 

Namjoon moved your bottle towards his selections. The girl was efficient, scanning so fast you had no time to protest. With a single blink you pointed. 

“...That’s mine.” 

He had to forget. That was it. Best to remind him. Just like him, you’d queued up to pay. Reasonable for how you expected things to go. Even if you hadn’t expected to meet someone in the middle of choosing. But that was life sometimes: unplanned, bringing pleasant surprise on the back of undesired situations.

“I know.” Namjoon opened his wallet. 

You noted several cards in various colors. Even black—you knew enough about people who owned a black card. It took a certain level of financial security and comfort to get one of those. 

He’d already paid and turned towards you again with your drink held out in offering. You took it. When he passed a pack of Oreos along after, you sputtered. It wasn’t an insult to injury for the extra sugar, or the worst thing. The cheap energy would help your dreaded trip back down the hill. 

Still… How he’d decided to be so kind. To a stranger. 

“Why?” You inquired, low and confused. Feeling all kinds of knotted up inside at his kindness and that flame still going inside your chest. 

Namjoon stepped around you and started for the door, taking your focus with him as you turned, and paced him with your stare. Looking back, he held the door open and spoke. 

“I wanted to. Be careful out there.” 

---------------------------------------

You kept replaying things in your head, carefully shuffling sideways down the steep hill. There hadn’t seemed to be so many on the way up, but the grade felt a lot more intense going the other direction, towards the store. 

Now, having some distance from the store, you felt a little sheepish over quietly cursing your decision to come up here. It was a lovely day outside, instead of the boiling, sun soaked hell you’d sworn it had become earlier.

Unscrewing your drink cap you took another healthy swallow and swatted at the tinny whine of a mosquito hovering near your ear. You slapped another away from your shoulder and marched down the hill again, taking more cautious steps. 

As you came around a corner, you noticed a form and barely glanced further beyond, where the hill sloped down again, into the shadows of forest canopy. Darkness and coolness was promised and you couldn’t wait. 

You made your way by with measured steps, almost shuffling to keep from tumbling down the trail, treading on the loose gravel and natural divots of long dislodged rocks.

It wouldn’t be attractive to go the rest of the way down on your backside. 

“Y/n?”  A curious voice, tinged in muted surprise.

You looked towards the voice as your pace slowed and  the figure turned to greet your approach. Clear as day: the tall frame with white t-shirt impressively stretched over a broad front. 

Namjoon’s face, still fresh as it’d been meeting him a bit ago, beamed. 

His sunglasses were off, resting on his head and he wiped a hand on his thigh, then extended it. You tried wiping a hand too, missing a good amount of the dirt kissed palm. Namjoon shook hands anyway. 

As he glanced where you’d been heading, you stole a once over. Namjoon didn’t look any more sweat soaked than he’d been. The hill grades weren’t a challenge for him. If he’d hiked to get to that store too, he was in MUCH better shape. You’d never have guessed he’d just come up these hills, looking unflagged in front of the drink cooler.

“So you didn’t drive to the store.” You voiced the determination, earning a raised brow. 

“Is that bad?” 

“No.” 

“I DID drive to the parking lot down there.” Namjoon motioned in that direction. “The road is too long and winding through the woods to get up there safely. From the parking lot it’s an easier walk.” 

An easier walk. You scoffed softly and wiped the back of a hand across your brow. 

“You parked down there too?” He continued, casually wiping trail dust off his shirt. 

“Not quite.” When he looked up again, both brows rose. The least you could do was a little more explanation. Lamely you added “..My friend dropped me off. I have to meet her back down there in a little bit.” 

“That’s nice of her.” He murmured with a smile. His cheekbones had a brief glimmer. Even the overhead sun couldn’t do a thing to dim his appeal. Sweaty or dry as a bone. Rain soaked. Something told you that Namjoon was all-weather handsome. 

“Yeah.” You agreed.

You watched your sneaker toe bully through the dirt in an uneven line. Your muscles protested menacingly from this tiny action. Much too much. Burning and twitching had found a nice home there. The croissant and half a coffee you’d wolfed down for morning fuel hadn’t left a single ounce of energy by now. You were paying for it now, even with half a sports drink down. 

“You should walk down there with me.” 

You were equally surprised and thankful he asked. The  company was welcoming and you needed to see his car. Having several cards in his wallet and looking so good even after a moderately intense hike? Namjoon wasn’t driving a beater. 

“Sure..” You responded, waiting just long enough to look like it’d been a little debate. 

Namjoon pushed upright from the leaning he’d been doing against a tree just off the trail and stepped towards you. Turning to face downhill, he strode forward and you followed, falling into pace. His strides were long, but he went slow enough. It was like he sussed your flagging energy and mounting fatigue. You weren’t exactly projecting boundless energy.

However long the hike felt going uphill, time bent again and it seemed over all too soon as you paced Namjoon to the parking lot’s asphalt edge after coming around the last trail bend a short time later. 

As you stood next to him, looking at the few cars in spaces scattered across the lot, Namjoon turned his face up to the sun and let his head fall back.

You slid your pack straps off both shoulders and brought it around to your front. Namjoon rifled through his pocket, doing the same to free himself from his mid-size backpack. The keys jingled as he looked away from you, to a far corner of the lot. 

“Your friend here yet?” He inquired, squinting.

You scanned. Nowhere did you see the familiar rust nibbled Isuzu. An antique by some measure but it served her father well in college and he’d maintained the interior parts enough to keep it going even now. The car got you up here and you were fairly confident it’d get you back to town. 

“Not yet.” You thought about calling but didn’t go for your cell phone, setting your pack at your feet instead. Namjoon noticed, double taking. 

“Well..” He began, leaning down and grabbing a strap, then lifting the pack like it was empty. It certainly hadn’t felt that way going up OR down the trail. “..Let me drive you? Where are we headed?”

“You don’t have to–” A tut cut you off toot suite.

“I want to, Y/n. Where are we going?” 

Inhaling, you almost choked on trail dust still lingering at the lot edge. The dread of the trip back home in a car without AC was pulling you down into despair. In spite of your friend's optimism, all the windows down had not helped nearly as promised and it wouldn’t be better now, sweaty and tired. 

You glanced at Namjoon after a moment.

“...Well.. Where are you going?”

Namjoon’s smile was cheeky. “Me? I have a place about 20 minutes drive from here. You’re welcome to hang out there and wait for your friend.” 

“I could do that.” You should, not wanting to go all the way back up that hellish trail, to the store. No way you’d make it. No need to even delude yourself. The Isuzu and the trail would not see YOU again, for now. 

“Yeah? I know it’s cliche. Stranger danger..”

“Maybe but.. What the hell. It’ll be nice to see your place and find out there’s more than a few damp cabins out here. So long as it’s not a rotting shack in the pines, we’re golden.” Your mind supplied endless visions of bugs, bears and poison oak. It was anybody’s guess what you’d encounter but there was 1 of those 3, minimum. 

“Hmm.” A playful glare leveled your way. “There’s not much land value in a moss covered single level dwelling these days. The market wouldn’t bear it and I’m not into that kind of ambiance.” 

“Thank goodness.” 

Namjoon reached where he’d been looking: the lot corner, and a cobalt blue sedan parked there. It was dusty but otherwise in great shape. MUCH better than no-AC and AM radio only.

You followed, keeping within a step or two. As you both made your way, Namjoon spoke again. 

“You can call your friend when we get to my place and hang out until they get there. Deal?” 

You nodded.

He opened the passenger door first and watched you climb in, then moved to that back passenger door and opened it. A gentle lob had both your packs situated across the back seat.

As Namjoon settled into the driver’s seat, you buckled your seatbelt,then let your legs stretch out. The footwell was roomy too. This was proving to be a good decision the more time went on. You wouldn’t have bet on this kind of luck turn hours ago.

Namjoon was smiling, watching you get comfortable. The car came to life. He adjusted the rearview mirror.

“I wouldn’t object to some food too.” You suggested, watching him study the mirror’s reflection, then glance back as he reversed out of the parking spot. He shifted to drive, jaw muscles briefly flexing before he spoke.

“I can take care of that.”

---------------------------------------

You finished the last bite of apple and chewed, staring out the picture window. 

Namjoon had more than a ramshackle place with walls, windows and a few doors. It was like something out of Mountain Living magazine–of which you were sure you’d seen a few issues neatly stacked on the coffee table in the living room when he’d led you through. 

This kitchen was spacious. More than any other cabin you’d spent time in.Even if that number wasn’t high, THIS place was impressive. It shouldn’t have been a shock, spotting all the cards in his wallet. That was plenty of foreshadowing. 

Even if assumptions weren’t fair.

You swallowed and turned away from the view, setting the remains of the apple on the kitchen table and headed for the living room. You took a loop around the perimeter, studying the bookshelf, paying close attention to the single shelf dedicated to what looked like photo albums. 

You were tempted to pull one off and go through it. But you didn’t, turning your attention to the photos on the nearby wall: lots of candid photos of nature. Namjoon’s selfies tended to be unique: his form standing in the distance of the shot, back to the camera. 

Or in silhouette barely at the edges. You liked a particularly vibrant one of his bare back to the camera, shorts soaked to the skin with water, flesh glistening in the sun against the expanse of a sky so blue it hardly seemed real. 

It looked like some kind of lake. You wondered where this body of water was, hopeful it wasn’t far, then went to work pondering how it would have been behind the lens, taking the shot.

...And what would happen after, when the picture was done and Namjoon turned around with that smile. 

A smile you’d grown to really like A LOT since the store. 

Hearing a door close, you turned towards the dark hall where the sound had come from. There was a little motion under the door at the far end, shadows moving across a sliver of light at the bottom. 

A moment later the door came open and Namjoon’s form filled the newly made space. Not long after his footsteps came towards you. When he came through from the dark into light, your senses reeled. 

Namjoon was flushed and smiling, hair wet and slicked back, cheeks plumped in a shy grin. He’d changed shirts. This one was thinner and more ivory than optic white. You knew that shape at the front of his chest and the tiny perking points. 

You blinked away the stun and smiled back. 

“You reach your friend?” He asked, walking towards, then around you, heading for the couch. 

You turned. “Yeah.” You’d hit voicemail. It wasn’t your best message and you probably sounded breathless, describing what had happened on your hike and trying to summarize Namjoon in the space of 30 seconds. 

Lord knows how your friend would take it. 

“I…” You paused and Namjoon’s head turned your way. 

“Hmm?” He’d paused arranging the couch cushions, even though they looked perfect to you. “What is it?” 

God you felt…dumb admitting this but it was best to spit the truth out. Time would betray you eventually. 

“I wasn’t sure of your address so I couldn’t leave one on the voicemail.” 

Namjoon chuckled warm and slow. You wanted to grab a throw pillow nearby and stuff your face into it, to swallow up the responsive squeal aching to escape your throat. 

“I guess I hadn’t thought about that.” He motioned to the magazines. “You could have done it the sneaky way.. That’s got my address.” 

“I’m not a sneaky type.” You replied. Namjoon nodded. 

“Appreciate that. Well.. “ He inhaled and picked up one of the smaller pillows, then lobbed it at the far end of the couch. “...If you want to call them back, I’ll give you my address–officially.” 

Did you REALLY want to call your friend right now? This place was pretty damned nice and so was the company. Mulling it over, you finally shrugged. 

“In a little bit.” Namjoon’s brows dropped. You fumbled, continuing. “...If that’s okay? I mean…I can—” 

“It’s fine.” His brows were soft arches over dark, comforting eyes again. “I like the company.” 

“Me too.” It was exciting how the confession sent heat through you. Rubbing at your neck, you realized how sweaty and icky you still felt. Namjoon’s head cocked as he walked closer to you. 

“I’m really glad we met today, Y/n. I like the isolation here but…Having another person around is even better, when I’m in the mood.” 

“Is it?” You croaked, swallowing a lump. Your nod was almost a twitch. “..You’re in the mood to have someone around today?” 

“I wasn’t at first.” Namjoon’s pause dragged on until you met his stare, gazing into the depths of his eyes right there, just above you. “..That changed…” He snickered and softly murmured “...for some reason.” 

You could tell he was being cheeky and it was delightful. You couldn’t help giggling too. 

“I wonder why..” You sighed. 

After a minute, Namjoon looked around. “Let’s get a little more comfortable then. You want to go clean up? My shower’s back there..”

He indicated where he’d come from, with a nod. As if you hadn’t watched him go there prior, the apple pressed to your lips and heart pounding as you drank in this entire place. 

“Thanks..” Was all you managed, head bowing a little. You slipped past him. Namjoon’s turn to watch you go briefly clear in your peripherals. 

“Just pick whatever out of my dresser. Plenty to choose from. See you soon.” 

“You have a beautiful bathroom.” You confided, watching Namjoon standing next to you. It was getting to a really nice addiction: you and he, just sharing this space. It’d only been a few hours but it was like a lifetime away from the rest of the world.

Namjoon looked away from the living room window and smiled at you. “Thanks.” 

What you’d WANTED to say was ‘This whole place is amazing.’, but you weren’t psychic or brave enough to voice that–just yet. 

Combing wet strands back, you shook your hair out again. It was still a little damp from the shower, but you felt so much better with the grime and sweat washed away.

You hadn’t realized just how much you’d collected tromping up and down the hills out there. Not until you’d felt the rivulets of perfectly hot water winding down your body under the massive shower head, did you really conceive how messy you’d gotten. 

The whole shower experience here left your skin humming and nicely warm. A far cry from your apartment’s modest water pressure and scalding or ice cold temperature poles. If you were honest, you could get used to this. 

“I appreciate the compliment.” Namjoon finally said. “I wasn’t sure about the head but it’s got your approval. Think I’ll keep it.” 

When you locked eyes, he winked, grin wider than before. He was more handsome with dimples. 

“What else do you do out here, alone?” You voiced your curiosity this time. Maybe it was the inhibitions washed away with the sudsy heat or something else at play, but it was out before you could regret.

Namjoon took it well.

“Alone? Hmmm. Sometimes I sit out on the back deck or soak in the hot tub outback and stare at the sky. Listen to nature. Ponder the big questions in life..” 

It all sounded pretty damned good. Beat the hell out of your couch and the usual television fare. 

“Hmm.” You stared at him again. Another question slipped out as quickly as it had popped into your mind. “...And when you’re not alone?” 

You matched the way Namjoon raised a brow. When he chuckled your chest went light. 

“Bit of an intimate kind of question, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” You retorted. “If what you do is something intimate.” 

Like storm clouds rolling across a sky, darkening the beauty with impressive danger, a shadowy energy flitted through Namjoon’s eyes. But you weren’t scared. You were absolutely riveted. For once in your normally gun shy, socially conservative life. 

“And if I said it was something intimate?”

He was good, dodging a direct answer just enough. He knew just how to feed your interest with words and the things between them. You licked your lips, feeling them twitch as your tongue rolled along. 

“..Sounds like a good time. Care to share?” 

Who were you, suddenly digging for details? Normally this was kosher for your friends. You’d earned the right, but with a basic stranger like Namjoon? You knew you had a lot of nerve. And you were taking a HUGE gamble. 

“Mmm.” Namjoon stepped close again, not much space now between the front of his body and your own. You didn’t back up, lifting your chin to keep eye contact. His smile shrank. 

“I do whatever I want. Or..my guest wants. I’m interested in being the best host I can, if I have company.” 

“Yeah?” 

Namjoon nodded. He let you take another breath, then continued.

“You’re my guest. What do you want to do? What’s your pleasure?” It was really, REALLY sexy the way Namjoon was opening his place to you. And from the energy you detected, he was willing to give himself too. 

“Have you ever done it here?” 

“Done ..’it’? What’s it?” He queried, teasingly. Your forehead felt hot again. You blinked and Namjoon leaned down a little.

“..You mean sex? Are you asking me if I’ve fucked here?” His breath washed across your lips. You couldn’t help nodding or the whine that escaped. Namjoon’s hungry stare burrowed into your soul. He nibbled briefly on his lip.

“I have. Plenty of times. It’s been a while, though.” 

“Has it?” You squeaked as he ran fingertips along your jaw and added pressure at your chin, tipping your face up more. 

“Mmnhmm.” Namjoon’s smile unfurled again. “..Has it been long for you?” 

You stammered, suddenly amnesiac over the last time you’d properly fucked. Of course you had, and the experiences rated ‘okay’ by usual standards, but work and life wedged a lot of time between each session. Forgettable was too perfect a way to describe how it all seemed now.

“It’s been a minute.” You finally managed. 

“Want to remedy that?” 

Maybe it sounded corny coming from anyone else, in a dark, muggy club dancefloor or bar, but Namjoon’s suggesting it now came off only as unadulterated heat. And something you wanted so very much. 

“Yes.” It was a gasp. Maybe a plea. 

“God Y/n..” Namjoon watched your fingers circling his broad wrist. You pulled his hand closer to your lips and grazed them over a few fingertips. You tingled as his lips parted and his lids lowered.

Whatever he was trying to say you were sure it was the same feeling flooding through your entire body. Pulsing inside you, ending right between your legs as they trembled like they’d never done before. More than any hike could ever induce. 

You cut him off.  “..Relax me, Namjoon. Make me forget everything for a while.” 

It was like the shadow darkened hallway stretched on forever as Namjoon moved, carrying you. You couldn’t wrap around him more, but you wanted to try, tightening your thighs around his waist. 

He didn’t have wide hips, but they were sturdy as he walked, pacing slowly across the wood floor in a leisurely path to the bedroom. You dimly knew the space waited beyond that doorway at the far end. And you wanted time to condense again, to bring you both where nature said you should be: in Namjoon’s bed. 

Doing things that nature intended for two people at the mercy of attraction were fated to do. 

Namjoon didn’t pause kissing you as he opened the door, then bumped it wider with a hip. You were in the bedroom, the setting sun’s rays barely filtering through the treetops outside the nearby window. 

As he paused at the bed, then leaned over it, the kiss broke. Reds and fiery orange hues outlined Namjoon’s triangular upper body as he braced a palm into the bed, finally leaned over enough that your back met the mattress. 

“Let go.” He whispered. 

You fell entirely into the bed, grateful for the cushioned fall. Your hair and limbs splayed. Namjoon’s eyes stayed on your, enjoying your slow wriggle as he grasped his shirt and hauled it up, then off. It met the bed nearby. 

Your own hands clutched down the length of your body, finding the shirt you’d chosen from his offered selection.

“Don’t.” Namjoon growled, dropping his bottoms next. Then his briefs, unbothered at the ferocity of his erect cock springing vertical on escape. He mounted the bed on one knee, outside your hip, then the other one joined and he loomed over your again, head to toe bare of a stitch of clothes. 

Sure you’d pondered how he looked in that shower when he’d taken his turn. And under those tight workout pants in the store. Now all was coming clear. All was on a platter, right in front of you—or over you, as it were. 

Your body arched, breasts jostling. Namjoon cupped the outside of a breast and stroked his thumb across the nipple. It perked and he studied the shape through the t–shirt. A garment you desperately wanted to lose. 

In the game of ‘naked’, he was leagues ahead of you. 

“I’m…Namjoon, please–” You sputtered, then groaned loudly when he pinched that tight nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then tugged. His touch was gone in a blink and he gathered your shirt, pushing it higher, up to your neck. Head bowed, he backed down towards the foot of the bed a bit more, until his mouth stopped above your navel. 

“Let me.” He purred, peeling down the boxers you’d borrowed too, and taking them to your knees. While one hand pushed them to your ankles, then off, Namjoon’s nose spiraled your mound. 

You heard his inhale. The groan he let out was sinfully needy too. You bent your right knee, drawing that leg up a little more and lifting your ass off the bed. Delivering your pussy right against his wide open mouth, swooping in to latch onto your clit. 

Namjoon sucked deep and tight, lips perfectly sealed. Then the pulsing started. He was quiet enough, only making a pop sound when he pulled away now and then. 

It wasn’t like he needed to suck your clit or slide his tongue through your folds to open them. It already felt hot and slippery. Your flesh ached in a way that said making out had long since done the trick. 

But Namjoon was enjoying himself and explored with his pointer finger, tracing it through you, stopping down at your opening. Teasing the winking muscle until it clenched again and your thighs shook. 

“You’re so wet..Y/n. You like this don’t you? Are you always this ready when it’s been a while?” 

You nodded. You couldn’t be sure it was true but if that’s what he wanted to hear, if felt like the truest answer you could give. He seemed to accept it diving down to lick, then stab his tongue deeper into you, pushing through your muscle. 

He scooped your widening thighs up and wrapped them over his shoulders. Hugged them against the sides of his neck as he moaned, jaw dropping wider open. Pushing into you, lifting your hips higher and bringing your ass off the bed again.

A lake of heat was swirling in your belly. You wanted to tell him you were close because you felt like the edge was right there, you precariously toes over and staring down into the fall. 

But you couldn’t get the words out. It was only a long, confused hiss of pleasure as fingers slid into you. Pulled out and dipped in again. Namjoon’s fingers worked to stir you up inside, drawing slick out from the depths, slathering it all over you on the outside. Making a delicious mess. 

When you couldn’t take it anymore and your chest heaved, Namjoon pulled back enough and shrugged your legs off his shoulders. He joined them together and turned you onto one side, hooking them neatly over the bend of one elbow, palm planted deep into the bed with an impressive divot.

It was so much concentrated weight focused into one point, you felt the bed sink just a little. Namjoon’s face came into view over you. He groped between your bodies, finding himself and guiding the tip to nest perfectly against you. 

When his bare cock slid inside you, it was done in a single, firm stroke. It wasn’t about the power of his thrust. It was the unhesitant drive in his hips, planting his cock deep and pushing a strangled gasp right out of you. 

Your upper body twisted, neck and head craning away. Profile bracing into the bed, you inhaled, head spinning off the scent of clean, fresh soap, light sweat and errant traces of Namjoon’s natural scent. 

You keened as he pulled back, slid a hand down your side and cupped the hip facing up, then sunk back in. The pumping was seamless. He flowed in and out of you, building speed but keeping the perfect depth. Hitting spots inside you that sent sparks across your scalp. Sent rails of fire down your spine. Curled your toes, when he circled into you and his hips snapped. 

“You feel so good on my cock.. God baby..that’s it..” Over you, Namjoon’s exhale coasted along your skin, burning hot as he muttered wondrously.

You could only whimper, nails sunk into the crook of his nearer elbow, head rolling back to keep your briefly open eyes focused on the ceiling beyond Namjoon’s rocking head. 

He murmured. Fucked. Pushed your knees high as he folded your twisted body up more. Condensed what little tight, wet space was inside you, more and more. There was only so much room and it was full–slick came out more and more as he pulled out and rammed back in. 

It was an unmistakable wet slap loud and clear over Namjoon’s huffing. He was putting in the work and you were back at the edge, now something invisible wrapping and pulling you over. You tumbled, cumming hard. Cumming quick, seizing around his cycling cock.

Namjoon’s head lolled backwards, but he kept going, through your rippling walls. Working up a froth through the creamy mess building as you squeezed and pulsed. Your throat opened as you groaned out a “P..Please..don’t s..stop…”

Your guts seized so hard you couldn’t cry out when Namjoon heeded your request and let himself really go, fucking you deeper. Harder. Jerking your whole body up the bed as he followed. You weren’t escaping–not from him. Not from the gut wrenching orgasm ripping through you. 

The world whited as your eyes rolled up entirely, leaving you sightless. Your purpose on this earth: to feel every bit of ecstasy rushing through you and sending you to the brink of human experience. 

With the release of pressure a trickle followed down to your ass. Namjoon faltered. His lips dove down to your ear.

“..Inside or…o..out..” 

No time to think meant no room for regret. You HAD to know. 

“Inside. Fill me up, Namjoon..” Your lips joined in a deep, ravenous kiss, gobbling up his moan as he shuddered. A few rough thrusts later, he was still, plunged deep, pulsing. Your twitching pussy probably felt like heaven to him as he emptied every drop into you.

When it was over, Namjoon carefully pulled back. His cock slipped out and you felt emptier. For a moment your muscles stayed open, then closed up tight. Like they were determined to hold onto every ounce of what this man had just given. 

“Holy…shit.” Namjoon wiped a forearm across his brow and laughed slowly, Adam’s apple dancing. 

“You felt..so good.” You blurted out. It took a few moments to see beyond the last rays of sunset through the window. The bouquet of colors was gone, leaving a muted, reddish haze. 

Namjoon’s shoulders flexed back as he rolled his neck. “..If you could understand how your pussy feels.. Fuck..” With a groan he combed his bangs back. 

“Worth the wait?” 

You tickled the downy trail running south, below his navel, then situated both calves on the outside of his hips. Namjoon’s hands rested loose on your hips. He wasn’t shy, eyeing your whole body and wearing the smirk of a job well done. 

There was no doubt he’d smashed your previous experiences. Your insides twitched and your head had barely cleared. You’d just come back to the present, cobbling together enough focus for basic conversation. 

“And then some..” Namjoon hummed, seizing your wrist and bringing that hand to his lips. He tucked a kiss into that palm. Leering down at you, he cupped that hand against the center of his chest. Right between those big, perfectly muscled pecs. 

“Ready to call your friend?” There was a distant hope sparkling in his eyes. You knew as well as he did: No was acceptable, again. 

“In a little bit.” You murmured, then glanced at his bedroom door. He’d left it open. His mouth shifted into a half grin. 

“Something else you want—maybe somewhere else around here?” 

“Well I noticed a hot tub outside.” 

“That’s right.” Namjoon’s muscles shifted under your palm. Your fingers curled along his skin, lightly pressing in, trying to feel more. You wanted more of him, not just the tour of his place. 

“We should try it out.” 

“We can do that. A soak is good for the muscles.” 

“I’ve heard that. ….Got time to give me a full tour after that?” Whatever he might have planned for the rest of his night, he didn’t flinch and his expression stayed pleasant. Welcoming, like his gaze following your legs up to your core and taking a long time to linger there. 

“You’re really changing my mind about this whole cabin in the woods thing.” You added. Namjoon puffed his chest and leaned forward, releasing his hold on your hand as if he knew you’d keep that palm against him. 

You didn’t prove him wrong, adding the other palm as he pressed down over you. A kiss was on the horizon and you tipped your face up. His weight felt good on you–Namjoon’s large frame trapped you in the best way. 

He was warm. His cock was tacky but already semi hard as it inched across your belly. 

“I’m always up for a chance to change an opinion. We can go have a soak and you can think about calling your friend after.” 

You offered a faux pout. “Are you saying I have to leave?” 

“That’s not even close to what I said. Definitely wasn’t thinking it..” Even being faintly chastised felt good. You couldn’t say you had the same take away back at work, in front of your boss or direct report. 

“Good to know.” You snuck a look down to what you could make out of your body underneath Namjoon. It was still damp enough between your thighs. You knew it wouldn’t be as bad as it had been still in the act, but you knew a wipe down was in order before you dared stick a toe in his hot tub. 

Call it respect, but you also wanted a chance to explore what things looked like after you’d been daring enough to ask for and receive what had to be a healthy load inside. That hadn’t happened since your last committed relationship. 

You looked up again, watching Namjoon’s face disappear as he sucked a kiss at the bottom of your neck, where it joined your shoulder. Afterwards he sat up and backed down the bed. He offered both hands to help you up. 

When you stood upright face to face, the bed at your back, you felt shy. Your legs felt surprisingly weak. You swallowed, finding your mouth cottony. 

“Let’s grab a drink too. You can show off your kitchen and the living room? You’re into photography I noticed.”

“What makes you say that?” He tugged you along, taking a step at a time backwards towards the bedroom doorway. If it hadn’t been his cabin, you’d wonder if he’d walked around his place in the city like this. What was that place like? 

You wanted to know more about who Namjoon was beyond this big getaway spot in the woods and his generous many-card credit power. 

“I saw photo albums on your bookshelf.” 

“Yeah.” Namjoon’s features smothered darkness as he crossed the bedroom door threshold into the hallway. “I dabble now and then. Whenever I’m here.” 

“Would love to see it.” 

“We can add that to the tour. I do like to keep my guests happy.” 

“And I think I like this whole day in the woods. Might be time to find out about what a weekend away would be like.” 

Namjoon’s body was against you again as your travel paused midway down the hall. You didn’t have to see, only feel and you knew he was going for a kiss. You surrendered your mouth and he took his time, tongue exploring lightly. 

“A little Me Time…I can support that–in more than one way.”