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nkjemisin · 8 months

Note

You should try to go see public works Tempest in central park, it’s really incredible and reminded me of the city we became. It’s super insane and beautiful and wild and hard to describe, so even though it’s insane to ask someone to go stand in line all day to see a play based off a random tumblr message I really think you should!

Oooh, I haven't done the line for Shakespeare in the Park in years. Not sure I still have it in me, since it requires getting up at 3 or 4 am and spending hours fighting line-jumpers and so on. But I've been hearing good things about this year's Tempest so maybe I'll muster up the energy. Thanks for the recommendation!

Since you reminded me of it, here's a deleted scene/alternate opening I once wrote for THE WORLD WE MAKE. I decided on a different opening for the final version, obvs, but maybe you'll enjoy what might have been. Cutting because long.

He's just a man standing on a rooftop. The outfit he's wearing is bespoke, by a Harlem tailor who came in second on Project Runway's last season. The jacket is rich brown suede, fine-stitched, over olive-tan pants and a piqué shirt of deepest royal indigo, and he's wearing the hell out of it. If there were anyone around to see, they'd think he was a model, standing in the kind of casual-at-attention pose that only men in magazine photo shoots ever do, with one hand in a pocket and his gaze thoughtfully locked on the cityscape horizon. The model aesthetic is reinforced by the fact that he's got a lean, strong figure and the kind of racial ambiguity that Hollywood diversity advocates love: brown skin that's not too brown, lips full enough to be either natural or recent collagen injections, thick eyebrows that are as sculpted as his cheekbones, eyes with just enough epicanthic fold to qualify as "exotic" but not in like an ethnic way.

He's not a model. He's just Manhattan, human representative of New York's contributions to the fashion, media, and sex work industries. He's not even trying particularly hard to look good. He has simply stopped resisting what comes naturally.

But he's about to be late for work -- and while New York custom permits a degree of conspicuous tardiness as a social power move in certain situations, this particular job is too personally important to him for such games. So he steps up onto the low wall that surrounds the roof, and then he steps off.

It's fine. The building is twelve stories tall; anything over five stories is required to have an elevator per city ordinance. He's been practicing, too, so all he has to do is shut his eyes and imagine, and the city's power holds him aloft in midair as solidly as if he's stepping onto flooring. (He is; it's just flooring that exists in several other iterations of his universe.) Even with this, however, he makes sure to take a step or two forward before calmly turning away from the cityscape. People don't usually stare at the back of an elevator, after all -- and verisimilitude is key. "First floor, please," he murmurs. In earlier days of the city, building elevators were a complicated luxury that required trained staff to operate. In current days of the city, many elevators run on voice activation. At Manhattan's request, there is an electronic ping of acknowledgement, followed by a very faint echo of blended, long-vanished voices: "Watch the door, please, watch your hands, going down." Then he begins to descend. It's smooth, slow; this is only a mid-sized building, not modern or expensive enough to have an express elevator. Only the fact that he's descending through thin air makes it odd.

Just above the sidewalk his descent slows, letting him drift to a gentle halt. There are a few dozen people on the street in this moment, and some of them notice as he just stands there for a moment, letting the metaphysical aethers settle and the metaphorical elevator doors open. The ones who stare are tourists. New Yorkers generally don't react to strangeness, but they do notice it, if only to shake their heads and murmur "This fucking city," to themselves before moving on. Manhattan catches the eye of one of the starers, winks and smiles, then strides off down the street.

As he walks, he hums John Coltrane's "Central Park West" -- not for power this time, but simply because he's walking along Central Park West and likes the song. It's also a beautiful day. Here at the heart of the city it is clear that autumn encroaches: Central Park is across the street, dense with color-shifting trees. Their whispers speak to the part of Manhattan that was more, once, than just concrete and cars; the island has always been here, after all, crossroads for many peoples, and those millennia of commerce were enough to form the building blocks of the living entity that it is now. But mostly, he just likes that rustling sound, and the flickers of color and movement, and the faint whiff of chemical sugars forming and breaking down within the leaves. Something about that scent, and the wind's occasional brisk sharpness, speaks to him.

There is the lightest of touches upon the part of him that is more than a man. Just a ping, to get his attention. "You wanna focus, or you gonna just keep spacing out about the pretty pretty trees, Mr. I Was Bebop Before It Was Cool?"

They've all figured out that words work better than thoughts. They are one city, the six of them, and if they ever need to, they can function as a single brain and heart and will -- but doing that is as overwhelming as it is thrilling. New York isn't supposed to be any single thing, see; the distinct characters of its boroughs are part of its strength. More personally, Manny's probably never going to be super-comfortable with letting his fellow parts of the city into his head, because he's got enough going on in there already.

But he's right in reminding Manny to focus. "Just getting into the spirit," Manny replies, waiting for a gap in the traffic before trotting across the street. Then he vaults the low stone wall around the edge of the park. It's a twelve-foot drop beyond, but he manages it easily enough, landing in a crouch in a wooded thicket already carpeted in red and gold leaves. Doesn't even make his knees twinge. Nothing can hurt New York, in New York, except New York.

Well. And one other thing.

He moves forward at a brisk Midtown pace, pushing aside the branches of small trees as gently as he can so as not to damage them. He starts finding white tendrils almost immediately. Just small patches here and there: three wigglers on a broad, still-green sycamore leaf, one on the tree's gnarling roots nearby. A patch shaped like a handprint growing atop a hooded garbage can; that one's especially nasty, positioned as it is to infect anyone who actually tries to deposit their litter in the can instead of just tossing it somewhere. "Rude," Manny murmurs. He's getting rid of the patches as he passes them, just by touching the wood or ground or metal near each cluster and letting a little of "Central Park West" riff through his mind and down his arm and out through his fingers. Earworms can be handy. Good for killing other wormlike things.

(Not so long ago, it would have taken everything Manny had to get rid of these things. He had to replace all his credit cards after symbolically buying all the real estate around a particular rock in Inwood Park. Now, however, the city is whole -- and these tendrils, tenacious as they are, are tourists from another urban locale who've overstayed their welcome. It's easy to obliterate them, but it's more important to find the bus they came in on, and deal with that.)

"Red alert!" says Padmini -- Queens -- suddenly. She tugs on the shared part of their consciousness, projecting an image onto it that is stunning in its precision: a three-dimensional and topographical map, with a moving cursor at its center and a GPS coordinate meter in the bottom corner. Padmini abruptly zooms them in on the cursor, and then she presents them with a simplified view through her own eyes.

There, jolting slightly as Padmini runs, is their quarry. To most other people in Central Park, the young man who slips down a leaf-thick hill and then scrabbles his way over a tumbled, mossy pile of bedrock is just another cross-country runner, or maybe a parkour practitioner with a greater love of natural settings than most. He's a lanky Indian-looking guy, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt -- but through the lens of Padmini's vision, Manny sees the rest. The guy's got patches of white fronds all over him, and as he runs they waft back like long hair which just happens to be growing from his forearms and shins and ass. Manny's used to this, people who look like yeti crabs, however horrible it is. Far worse is the tendril which projects from the back of the young man's neck, thick and veined in a disturbingly umbilical way, forming a long white cord which twists up and out of sight amid the trees. It stretches up into the sky, Manny knows from three months' experience, attenuating until it disappears from human eyesight with distance -- but wending southward before it does. They all know where that cable terminates.

"Mike check," says Veneza, and Manny's mental eye shifts to her view. She's standing under one of the park's stone bridges, her vision bouncing a little as she crouches to stretch out her ankles. Getting ready to run. Manny feels her excitement as the tendril-covered man comes into view, jogging over a grassy hill covered in early-afternoon sunbathers. But who's he kidding? They all enjoy this. "That's it. Come to mamãe. Drive him like a li'l doggie on the range, Queeny McQueenyface."

"I can't believe you mixed like three metaphors in ten seconds," Padmini replies -- but she zigs left, across one of the roads of the park. Manny catches his breath as she veers into a bike lane, because Central Park bikers all think they're in the Tour de France, but in the same moment he feels her latch into the bikers' sense of hurry and entitlement, drawing their power into her legs. Her pace speeds up sharply, until she's nearly flying down a sloping sidewalk, veering now and again to move around walkers and a small crowd near a pretzel vendor.

"That's the Jersey in me. Metaphors are our pork roll."

"Your what?"

"Pork roll. Look it -- wait, shit, hang on."

Tendril man has seen Veneza and stopped, halfway down the grassy hill. It's eerie to Manny how still he is. After all the running and climbing he's done, he should be out of breath, shoulders heaving, dripping sweat, but he isn't. It's just like the other cases of this they've encountered in the past few weeks; they're running on something other than human power. These tendril-people aren't avatars, however; they're more like drones, sent forth by some other malevolent consciousness and endowed with supernatural power only temporarily, and for their task. And if they don't catch this poor guy before that power gets done using him -- Well. Manny picks up the pace.

Padmini skids to a halt. (A man nearby does a double-take, then nods in a grudgingly impressed way at her athleticism.) "Shit. He's going to bolt, isn't he?"

In lieu of any reply, they all see Tendril Man bolt. He jumps off the steeper side of the rocky hill -- a ten-foot drop; Manny really hopes the poor guy was in shape before he got drafted as a spectral conduit for a hostile extradimensional essence, or he's going to feel that in the morning. Then Tendril Man takes off, moving with truly impressive speed up a paved hill-path.

"FUCK," two of them think. (Manny doesn't curse, but he empathizes.) They all take off running too.

Tendril Man is running toward a big, round building at the top of the hill. Its vendor doors are shut and there are only a few people hanging around near it, but abruptly he zigs toward a big wooden gate labeled PERFORMER ENTRANCE -- and vaults it, with the ease of a master gymnast. Manny might be able to think of a way over it too, if he gives himself a minute; surely there is some quintessentially cityish concept, like elevators for tall buildings, that he can harness to grant himself the ability to jump like that. In the fluster of the moment, however, he can't think of anything. Gotta work on that, do better at having a "jumping" construct ready to go under duress.

In lieu of leaping, however, he manages to remember the grating sound of garbage trucks barrelling down the street at oh dark thirty in the morning, usually with wonky transmissions and brakes that screech loudly enough to set off car alarms. Manny's seen several of them scrape or bang into cars without bothering to stop -- and so he draws into himself the desperate need to hurry and finish a shift, the hulking size and diesel-fueled strength of the trucks, the cheerful pragmatism of the tough workers who chuck heavy bags and kick rats with unflappable equanimity. And as Manny runs at the gate, the world blurs a little and an eyewatering stench surrounds him, and he finds it almost impossible to care about collateral damage because he's got a job to do, come on, come on, let's go...

He remembers enough of himself to dip his shoulder a little as he hits the gate. It only looks like wood; underneath, there's plenty of metal, and he sees that the gate has an electronic number-lock. Probably pretty solid. But his supernaturally-powered shoulder smashes the gate wide open, actually cracking the whole frame in half, too, and part of the fence beyond it.

Oops. Well, he'll make a donation on the website, because now that he's through the gate he sees: THE DELACOURTE THEATER WELCOMES YOU TO SHAKESPEARE IN THE PARK.

Tendril Guy is running down the steps of what Manny now sees is a huge open-air amphitheater. He leaps again, a pretty impressive standing jump onto the stage -- and then he stops abruptly. There's a set being deconstructed here; Shakespeare in the Park only runs during the summer months, so someone's in the middle of stripping gigantic rolls of fake grass off the stage floor. And now, from within a huge prop built to look like a small apartment building, the avatar of New York steps forth to confront their enemy.

He's calling himself "Neek," these days -- a phonetic pronunciation of the initials for New York City. He hasn't told them his real name. Manny's not sure it matters anyway; doesn't Manny, of all people, understand that they are no longer who they were? The knowledge and joy and danger of eight million people has found its focus in Neek, and like any of their fellow great cities, this makes him strange. São Paulo was the same, whenever Manny had time and peace enough to study him: a young-old man who radiated urbane cynicism and eerie wisdom all at once. Hong Kong too. Maybe this is the difference between those who represent boroughs or neighborhoods, and those who are whole cities in themselves.

Or maybe it's just Neek. "Yo, man, take a breath," he says to Tendril Guy, as he slouches out of shadow. "Touch some, uh, astroturf. You keep letting that shit run you, won't be anything of you left."

Tendril Guy immediately turns to run, but by this point Manny has reached the other side of the stage. Veneza is in the ampitheater, trotting toward them from the other direction, and from somewhere backstage they can hear Padmini cursing and shoving something heavy aside, because apparently backstage is a mess amid the set breakdown. Unless Tendril Guy can fly -- and Manny puts nothing past the Woman in White -- then he's got nowhere left to run.

It's a dangerous time, though. In the past, whenever they've cornered one of her minions... Tendril Guy backs up, looks around, starts to get tense. Manny tries to think up a construct, and finds himself looking around. At the stage.

Neek's gaze flicks to him, and the little smile on his face widens.

"Two cities," he declares suddenly, spreading his arms wide and raising his voice. The Delacourte's acoustics are perfect, of course, designed to facilitate an outdoors theatrical performance. "Both alike in dignity! In fair Manhattan where we lay our scene."

Of course the theater absorbs this slightly-fudged homage, echoes it, amplifies it, and sends back a reverberation of energy: the faint murmurs and anticipation of a crowd, a lilt of music from a nonexistent orchestra. For just a fleeting moment Manny can almost see the suggestion of bodies in the amphitheater seats, shadowy heads that turn to each other or crane their necks or flip through Playbills. Ready to be enraptured.

Manny finds himself grinning -- but then he panics a little as Neek raises his eyebrows pointedly, because Manny doesn't have any Shakespeare memorized. But Broadway is only a few dozen blocks away; maybe he can use that instead? He sifts quickly through the grab-bag of random quotes in his head. Can't think of an actual line from an actual play, but it's a direct reference, so he clears his throat awkwardly and sings: "They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway. There might be city magic in the air."

Stage lights, multihued but mostly white, appear above the seats. The lights aren't real. Manny can see most of the lighting equipment disassembled and stacked up to one side of the stage. Tendril Guy flinches suddenly and violently, staggering back. Steam rises as Tendril Guy raises his arms defensively, the tendrils on him whipping and hissing wildly as the city's light begins to burn them away.

They have to keep it going. Veneza giggles and runs down the steps, leaping to a crouch as if she's acting out some play or another, and sings, "Now is the time to seize the day! Answer the call and don't delay! New York can be righted, boroughs united; let us seize the day!" In response, loose cables curled on one side of the stage suddenly come to life, whipping around Tendril Guy's legs to keep him from running again.

One of the doors on the prop building slams open dramatically. Beyond it they can see Padmini pushing aside a rack of clothing that persistently keeps trying to roll toward her. She manages it, stumbles out, and glowers around at all of them. Veneza gestures frantically for her to take up the thread; Neek spreads his hands too in the universal sign of Come on, hurry up. Finally, with a little growl, Padmini snaps, "Oh, fine. 'Immigrants: We get the job done!'" This doesn't seem to have any effect at first, but then Padmini shoves a large, heavy-looking wooden desk out of the way with ease; she's much stronger, now. Enough to get this job done.

As performances go, it's all terrible. Slapdash, random, corny; Manny won't be surprised if in the morning they all receive a clipped-out review from a theater magazine that exists only in some alternate reality, panning all of them for defiling the stage. But as a construct, drawing on the power of three boroughs and the delight of a thousand audiences, from the Delacourte to the Fringe Festival and back, it's exactly what they need.

Then, his voice muffled by his own extradimensional growths, Manny hears Tendril Guy -- or maybe the guy within the pelt of tendrils -- try to speak. "A-all the w-world..." he murmurs, his voice thick, too deep, flanged in a way that sounds like bad special effects. He's steaming all over, now. Ah, and at last Manny sees the tendrils burning away, peeling off and curling into nothingness. As he lowers his arms, Manny sees that he's sweaty-faced and visibly exhausted... but he is smiling. He turns to face the whispering, flickering audience, and all at once Manny can feel him. Tendril Guy is part of New York, again -- and he knows it, and some part of his soul rejoices with the knowledge. Probably helps that the guy is a former theater kid himself; Manny can feel that, now that the Enemy's influence has been broken. Neek grins at Manny; he can feel it, too.

So then Neek goes over to Tendril Guy, leans close, and blows on the now-shriveled cord attached to the back of his neck. It snaps free as if Neek's breathed fire onto it, uttering a faint creel of inhuman pain -- and then the cord is snatched away upwards, into the darkening evening sky. Manny catches a fleeting hint of sinuous movement against the clouds, southward, and then it is gone.

Tendril Guy, who is now just Some Guy, beams at Neek. Then he steps back and lifts a finger. "All the world's a stage," he says again -- clearly this time, in a pleasant baritone, projecting with the ease of long practice. "And all the men and women merely players! They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."

He does the whole monologue then, perfectly. Not that Manny would know if he got it right -- but the Delacourte does, and as Manny glances out at their whispery audience, he sees smiles, hears soft "ahs" and giggles of approval with every precisely-enunciated line. As Some Guy finishes, applause breaks out, echoing with unreality but loud and enthusiastic. The artist formerly known as Tendril Guy beams in delight and extends his hands for Manny and Neek to take. They do. Padmini, her pique fading now that she's no longer fighting furniture, shakes her head and takes Neek's hand; Veneza giggles and runs up the steps to take Manny's. The applause goes on as, uh, Theater Guy leads them in first one bow, and then another. Someone in the audience whistles. Someone else yells "Encore!" It's intoxicating. They bow a third time. As at last the applause fades and the lights start to go dark... Theater Guy collapses, between them.

"Oh, no," Veneza says, her delight vanishing. "Please, not again -- "

"He's fine," Manny says, crouching by Theater Guy, though he checks Theater Guy's neck-pulse and breathing just to be sure. It's there, though the guy's skin is clammy with sweat.

"Close," Neek says. He's looking up at the sky, after the ugly cable that had been attached to the guy's neck.

It's only the second time that they've successfully rescued one of these agents of the Woman in White, sent forth from her bastion in Staten Island to... well, Manny's not exactly sure what their purpose is. Are they superspreaders meant to reinfect the city, and thus help her regain the foothold that she lost three months before? Are they drones of a sort, reconnoitering enemy territory? Either way, the result is always the same, if Manny and his fellow avatars don't catch the tendril-bearer and cleanse them in time: the person burns out and dies, all of their strength used up by the alien intelligence that has worn them like a puppet.

Not this time, though. "Let's get him outside," Manny says, grunting as he pulls Theater Guy up. "Easier for an ambulance to get to him out there."

"But what about after?" Padmini asks. She comes over to help him wrestle the guy into a sitting position, so that Manny can pull him into a fireman's carry. "Uff, he's heavy! But if somebody calls his family and they take him back to Staten Island, will she just take him over again? What if she's mad at him for getting caught by us?"

"It's fine," Neek says. He's still turned away from them, facing southward. There is an odd note in his voice, however, which makes Manny frown at his back. Neek sounds... distracted. "Most of the folks on Staten are fine. The ones who commute here lose their little wigglers when they step off the ferry, unless they've got one of those bigger cable-things attached to them. Grow 'em back on the after-work ride. They don't even notice."

"Remember what it was like when she was all over the city," Manny adds. "All those people she... infected. She used them if she needed them and ignored them otherwise. They became part of her, but they didn't seem to mean anything to her, any more than..." He shakes his head, to the degree that he can with Theater Guy on his shoulders. "Individual hairs on a person's head. How often do we notice when we lose one, or when it grows back?"

"We shouldn't let him go back at all," Padmini says, scowling. "We know she's doing something to all those people. He's safer here!"

Neek focuses enough to turn and eye her over his shoulder. His tone is mild and his expression neutral, but his words have a sharp point. "You gonna spring for an apartment for him somewhere? Let him go crash with ya auntie and the fam?"

"No, but -- "

"I know a good spot under the Williamsburg." Neek's relentless. "Probably still good even with all the cleanup and construction since the bridge broke. Warm on cold nights, hard to see so the kids and assholes don't fuck with you. We could dump him there."

Padmini sets her jaw. "Fine. Point made. But Staten Islanders are still people, and we should try to help them."

Veneza, who was peering into the orchestra pit in fascination, turns back to them, plainly uneasy at the tension she's picking up. "We are. But I mean, Pads... that's not really our job."

Now they all fall into an uncomfortable silence, because sometimes the truth is hard. And the truth is that the avatar of Staten Island is not here with them today because she has rejected them, and thrown her people to the interdimensional wolves by doing so. They are all of them New York... but they are not Staten Island, not anymore. Theater Guy's ultimate fate isn't theirs to make.

"Ay yo fuck that bird," Neek says, scowling at Veneza, who blinks in surprise. "Her and Squigglebitch tried to kill us, remember? Tried to eat you. Let Staten Island die."

Padmini stares at him. "Wait. What? Let a whole borough die? Are you crazy?"

"Fuck them." Neek gestures sharply, southward. "Everyone on Staten Island. Buncha racist redneck Republican dumbasses, nobody needs them. They're the reason she's still here, hanging over this city like a fucking guillotine. I'm tired of stressing about this shit! Let her flyover country ass die with the rest of them nobody-nothing sons of bitches."

Manny flinches, despite himself. That's beyond harsh. And something about this little rant feels... off. He's known Neek for all of three months, but in that time Neek has been a quiet and low-key leader of their group, unusually even-keeled for the personification of a city known for its aggression. Are you okay? rises to Manny's lips, but he refrains from saying it, aware that it could sound patronizing. He's wondering it, though.

All at once different lights snap on within the theater -- not stage lights, but all the rest. Padmini frowns at this. "Hey, we don't need these anymore. Which one of you -- "

Abruptly a piercing electronic alarm sounds throughout the theater, and the lights all turn a startling, awful red.

"What the shit?" Neek says. He blinks as if dazed, turning to stare up at the lights -- and then he stiffens. "Manny. You doing that?"

Manny can barely hear him over the noise. "No, why would I? Can't you stop it?" Neek is New York. He has better control over the city's power than any of them... but all of a sudden, the city feels strange. Sluggish and reluctant, when Manny gently urges it to shut off the alarm. It's responsive, but unreliable and slow in a way Manny's never noticed before.

And to Manny's surprise, Neek takes a step back, his very posture radiating unease. "I... can't. Nothing's happening. What the fuck." He shakes his head.

"Yo, uh, we should go," Veneza says, bouncing nervously on the balls of her feet. "If that's a break-in alarm -- I mean, we did break in, but -- "

The Delacourte sits the middle of Central Park, in one of the city's toniest neighborhoods, and is the site of one of its most popular attractions. "Out," Manny snaps, when it becomes clear that Neek has been so thrown by the situation that he's not reacting quickly enough. "Now."

Veneza's already moving, running to the edge of the stage. Manny follows her as quickly as he can with Theater Guy, and Padmini grabs Neek, dragging him along when he doesn't move fast enough. "Cover your faces!" she cries -- and, yeah, if the city's magic suddenly isn't helping them anymore, that's a good idea. But Manny can't, unless he wants to drop Theater Guy, who's been through enough.

There are people milling around in front of the Delacourte, mostly looky-loos reacting to the continuous beeeeeeep of the alarm, but Manny sees how many of them have smartphones in hand. It can't be helped. He crouches and carefully sets Theater Guy on a patch of soft grass, and catches the eye of an older lady who is staring at all of them. "Call 911," he says, with as much urgency as he can. They can't stop people from filming them fleeing the scene of an apparent break-in, but maybe the sight of someone in distress will distract most of the onlookers. "This man is hurt and needs an ambulance. I don't know what happened to him, he just collapsed."

The lady gasps and starts punching at her phone. Veneza grabs Manny, tugging so he'll leave Theater Guy there on the ground. He doesn't want to. If the cops arrive first, there's a strong chance they'll arrest Theater Guy for the break-in. If he could just make sure the paramedics arrive first, and that the cops think the alarm is just a mechanical error... He touches the ground next to his knee and reaches into it, groping for the feel of city power --

He finds echoes of old audience frustration and annoyed staff and prematurely shutdown vendor services... but these energies will not move in response to his will. What's there feels different from all the other times he's ever used city power -- clotted, somehow.

"Dude," Veneza says, giving him a hard yank. They can hear sirens outside the park, coming closer. "Come on, man, I ain't doing Rikers for you!"

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Manny lets Veneza pull him away. They book it for Central Park West again, zigging southward first since there are woods and rock hills in that direction that can obscure their route for anyone trying to put them on TMZ.

In their wake, the Delacourte's alarm blares until sirens drown it out.

TWWM Deleted Scene 1 by N. K. Jemisin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

#the world we make #the great cities #deleted scene #answered asks

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heterotragedies · 2 years

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𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: artist hongjoong + trust fund baby female reader

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: smut, brat taming, body writing, orgasm control, age gap (5-6 years), petnames (doll & baby)

𝐞𝐱𝐭: first installment of 505! based on @atzsslut's kink headcanon.

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“The Dragonfly” at The Modern Art Museum

11 West 53 Street, Manhattan

July 15 & 16, 10:30 am to 5:30 pm

You read off the invitation letter that found its way into your mailbox a month ago.

That day you were sitting on your kitchen island, the stone cold against the bare skin of your thighs. But the feeling was welcomed nonetheless; it provided some sort of relief to the stinging strain of your thigh muscles.

“Babe!” Hongjoong called, his slippers slapping against the floorboards as he skitters down the direction of the kitchen.

Your lover slips his crumpled shirt off his shoulders and onto the ground. He put that button up shirt on haphazardly earlier on his way to get the mail– didn’t even bother to close it, opting to walk out the door with fresh red and purple flowers blooming from his neck down to his chest.

He stands in between your legs and steals the tall glass of apple juice from your hands in exchange for the black envelope he pulled out from your mailbox . You spot gold text at the back of the square that reads ‘MoMA’ and your eyes immediately snap to his own excited ones.

A month later you’re sitting on a luxurious hotel bed, surrounded by gigantic pillows and burrowed in the downy soaked duvet. The parchment sits in front of you, stark ink elegantly curling and curving to form words.

An incense burned on the table across you, the smoke wafting up and disappearing before reaching the high ceilings of the suite. The room smells of Japanese roses, Hongjoong’s favourite scent because it’s the same scent he met you with. Your favourite was white sage, because it reminds you of your lover: bright, refreshing and comforting.

A mirror sits on the wall above the table and you stare at your reflection. Barely dressed, full face of makeup, and hair tousled into a mess. Beautiful, Hongjoong would say. You’d agree with him, you are beautiful. Especially with the way your makeup was done, deep red eyeshadow smudged under your eyes, extended out into a sharp wing and a sweet romantic gloss over your lips.

Yet, you were troubled. Gnawing on your painted lips, you were gorgeously troubled. Laid out in front of you are two stunning dresses.

To your right was a fern green silk dress. One you bought just yesterday, forcing the cab to stop and rushing out when you spotted it displayed in a boutique. It’s backless, strappy and glossy, everything that gets your gears turning in a dress. The ribbons would criss and cross over your back, tight and soft against your skin. It was long, draping down to your shins with a risque slit cutting down from your left hip. Yes, hip. The band of your thong would have no choice but to peek out if you chose to wear it.

Now, on your left is a little black dress that hugged your curves oh so addictingly. When you first put it on, Hongjoong was mesmerised. His fingers were drawn to your waist as if they were opposite poles of a magnet. The black cloque ended right where your thighs began. The smallest move would flash your ass out to the crowd. Just how you like it. A gold chain belt would wrap loosely on your waist, cinched and catching the eyes of whoever dared to look.

Another important thing to note was that Honjoong chose this dress for today. He dragged you out shopping and spent nearly hours touring the city square in search of the best suit and dress for this event. And the best they were indeed. A perfect match for each other yet both so unique in their own ways.

But of course, to your overtly idiosyncratic boyfriend they ‘didn’t scratch his itch’, he said for lack of a better term.

So the first week was spent measuring your bodies, each fraction of an inch counted. The second was for finding the problems of the pieces. Week three was what you called ‘trial and error’; every single day you’d be ushered into a studio to make the tiniest adjustments on your dress. Putting it on and slipping it off nearly eight times a day.

And it was on the fourth week when Hongjoong got the call from the tailors confirming that your outfits were done. When asked if any of that was necessary, he turned to you and firmly said something akin to ‘of course’.

“Because, there’s no one like you, no one like me. No one like us.”

“You’re not yet dressed?”

There’s the man of the hour. Stepping out of the bathroom, Hongjoong holds the towel on his waist, his hair sopping wet and dribbling. Drip, drip, dripping water all over the carpet. You hate it. The droplets making home on the carpet where they aren’t supposed to be. The annoying circular spots of wetness you’ll step on by chance. And with one glare from you, your boyfriend walks back inside the bathroom to retrieve another towel.

“You look beautiful by the way.”

Oh what a sight. Hongjoong bare from the waist up, his skin glistening with water and his bicep flexing with every time he scrubs the towel on his head. The tattoo on his arm catches your eye as it always does.

‘NO1LIKEME’

Inked on his bicep in gothic lettering. So like him, eccentric and unlike any other. He isn’t afraid to be bold or express himself. Be colourful, be loud, or take up space. And you love him. Every single aspect of him. You’d even kiss his personality if you could. But you couldn’t, and there’s something so upsetting about not being able to lay your love on all of him. How your most favourite part of him was something you couldn’t physically come in contact with. It’s maddening.

“Thank you.” You throw him a simple smile, his favourite.

Actually… everything about you is his favourite. The way you bite your nails when you bid a high price on a set of rubies that you’ll probably only wear once (you won the bid, and he was right, you only wore it once because it didn’t ‘fit your aesthetic’). Or your tipsy walk where you keep your head down and focus on walking in a straight line, chanting ‘don’t look drunk’ out loud when you think you’re only saying it in your mind.

The point is, you love each other, so much it’s near overwhelming.

You also love Hongjoong’s ass (and Hongjoong, yours). So can you really be blamed for whistling at him when he drops the towel on the ground? His plump rear just out for you to ogle.

“Marvellous.”

“I’d highly appreciate it if you don’t whisper like that while looking at my ass.”

He throws you a playful glare and grabs his underwear from the dresser to block his precious buns from your predatory gaze.

“Really? When you have an ass like Perseus?”

“Never say that again.”

“Why not? Perseus had an ass that clapped like thunder.”

Your lover pauses, mind halting at the words that tumbled oh so casually off your lips. Sometimes Hongjoong forgets he’s almost ten years older than you– ‘eight years!’ you’d always correct him.

He met you at one of his exhibitions two years ago. You were blooming with youth and staring in awe at his most recent piece. He watched you from the second storey of the gallery, scuttling around looking for the manager. Making sharp turns and circling the entire floor almost five times, Hongjoong wondered what you needed that urgently to be racing around at that pace.

Sure it was entertaining– watching you click clack across the halls like a little mouse and he was a hawk, but he saw you whip dangerously close to his stained glass sculpture and he felt his heart fall to his ass. So he had to intervene.

You wanted to buy his painting and fought tooth and nail with the artist himself to grab it off the wall and put it on yours. Hongjoong liked that. Your vigour and strongheaded-ness. Somehow along the process of commissioning a painting from him, you two ended up going on dates and giving each other little trinkets of affection.

Your relationship was not odd, not at all. But there have been people who questioned you two. Of course, Hongjoong looked nothing like his age, it seemed as if he was barely over twenty-five. However, once thirty-three escapes his lips, all eyes suddenly turn to you with one question in mind.

“Is he your sugar daddy?”

The idea was just the farthest thing from the truth. In fact, you were even richer than him when you first met. He has never in his life met anyone who was more willing to write him a cheque for thirty-six million won for a partially dry painting. It all made sense later when he found out you were a trust fund baby. With your father owning several hospitals and mother being the president of a mobile network company. That near forty million didn’t even make a dent in your bank account.

“Please just get dressed.” he sighs.

You don’t respond.

Odd, Hongjoong thought, you were never quiet. He turns to look at you and you’re already staring back with a pout and glittery eyes.

He knows that look. You first gave it to him when you asked about taking home his painting. And again on your first date where he ended up on your bed and you held his wrist to make him stay. One more time just yesterday when you stood in front of the boutique window, practically kneeling and asking if you could get the dress.

You want something.

“What?”

Your arm slithers out of the duvet cocoon you’re wrapped up in and draws circles on the silk dress splayed in front of you.

“Can I wear this?”

You stare at his half naked form, gaze switching from him to the clothing rack behind him. Where his newly ironed, black and gold suit hung. His blazer was dark as a starless night sky, hung from the iron rod, the structure a perfect fit for your lover. Across the black fabric was a splatter of gold to match his cincher belt decorated with golden petunias and vines moulded out of wire and metal sheets.

The ideal pair to your dress. Which is why Hongjoong’s confused. Did you no longer want to match with him? What’s wrong with the dress he got you? DId you not like it? How is a basic factory made dress better than the dress he got tailored to fit only you? He doesn’t get you sometimes, and this time was one of them.

“What’s wrong with the black one?”

“Nothing! I just wanna wear the green one right now.”

“You said that’s for our anniversary.”

You did say that, but your anniversary was still a couple months away. How could you stay away from the tempting silk of the dress? It’s impossible! Just leaving the dress to collect dust in your closet (which to be fair is what most of your dresses do since you only wear them once), you can’t handle it.

“But it’s so pretty, Hongie.”

There it is, stage two of your ‘get-whatever-i-want’ action plan. First was the eyes, and then came the nickname. It’s adorable, don’t misunderstand. Hongjoong loves it when you call him that; it makes him weak and flutter. But that’s the farthest thing from being ideal right now.

“The dress is pretty too! We got it tailored for a month, baby.”

He walks towards where you sat, wrapping his arms around your bundled self. Just two barely dressed lovers embracing one another, nothing out of the ordinary.

“I know but…”

“It’s a perfect match for my suit, baby.”

His hands are firm on your shoulders and his eyes mirror yours. Furrowed brows and sparkling against the sunlight that pours through the large windows. But you were much more headstrong than your boyfriend when puppy eyes are involved.

“We can always match later!”

“Well, you can always wear that dress later! On our anniversary.”

The more you think about it, the farther your anniversary seems. First it felt like eight weeks, then it turned to three months. Now, it seems as if you’re gonna have to wait for a whole year to wear the dress. What other opportunities will you have to wear it?

Hongjoong could give you many opportunities. Such as:

Your anniversary (obviously)

Your mom’s annual company party

Your dad’s annual company party

The exhibition events he has about three times a year

And many many more.

“Fine, then! I’m not going.”

Hongjoong freezes. Really? You’re gonna give him attitude even in New York?

Stage three of how you get what you want: rebel. In simpler terms, this strategy you mastered is called bratiness. Oh and does Hongjoong hate brats. Can’t stand them thinking they’re in control.

So he sighs, trying to gain his composure because the event is about an hour away. And he knows putting you back in place requires several hours. You’re one tough nut to crack… Or maybe he’s the one who takes his time to crack you.

“But we flew all the way to New York for this, baby.”

“But look at it, Hongie!”

Hongjoong watches you pull up the dress, the silk dangling from your fingers. The duvet around your shoulders slips off and reveals more of your skin to him. Soft and smooth to the touch. God, he wants to run his fingers across it, maybe even scribble his name on your shoulder.

“I know, love. But we planned this for months. It’d just be a waste if you don’t wear it.”

You grumble about your lover being stuck up because he isn’t giving you freedom. Of course Hongjoong heard it, and you can bet your bottom dollar it pissed him off even more. His inner stove dial is slowly turning higher and his blood starts boiling even hotter.

“Come on, baby. Listen to me just this once?”

“No.”

You throw the blanket off yourself and stomp to the vanity, wanting to wipe all your makeup off. Crazy, really, because you spent nearly two hours putting on your face. Woke up at four am to get ready, and showered in the blistering cold.

Just like Cassie Howards in that popular show, ‘Euphoria’. Hongjoong walked in on you the day you were watching the second season’s finale and he threw you the oddest glance upon seeing various men in flesh coloured tights dry humping each other to the beat. What a strange show, he thought.

“Don’t be like that, y/n.”

His voice was stern, it shook your core. But if Hongjoong thinks that lowering his voice an octave was gonna make you waver (he didn’t, he was just hoping it would today) he was wrong. So wrong. Even after he got up and grasped your wrist, you still tried to charge forward.

“Please, y/n! You can wear the dress later in the afternoon!”

“No!”

His grip loosens and you start digging around for your micellar water. The bottle was lodged deep inside your makeup suitcase, underneath the piles of palettes and cream tubes. Were any of these necessary? Probably not, you only needed around two palettes, three if you were feeling adventurous, but the voice in your head told you to bring it all. So your Louis Vuitton suitcase was filled with a drawer’s worth of cosmetic products.

“Even after yesterday?.”

“Most especially after yesterday! Did you think I’m not gonna wear the most stunning dress to ever exist?”

“What about the one I got you?!”

“This isn’t about that!”

Your lover stares at you crouching down in search of the bottle and the pack of cotton pads with a gaze so sharp and heavy. You ignore it, no matter how heavy it felt and how hot it made your skin. You were on a mission. That dress… you’re wearing it today. You’d rather die than not.

“That’s how it’s going to be, huh.”

Just when you finally spotted the gold cap of your makeup remover, Hongjoong stands with his fists balled up by his sides. He was hot, both figuratively and literally. Every inch of his body was searing with fury. A couple hours won’t hurt right? No one will probably notice his absence.

“You know what? Fine! Wear the stupid fucking dress, whatever.”

You whip your head back, eyes bright and happy. But that soon simmered down when you saw the look on his face. Red in the face with an apoplectic flush. Fucking sexy.

You squeal a little cheer, ignoring his angry gaze. You pick the dress off the mattress with a triumphant smirk on your lips. You always get what you want.

Once you slip the dress on, you turn to Hongjoong who hasn’t said a word since then. Instead he stood motionless, staring at your reflection in the mirror. The green fabric hangs on your shoulders, shapelessly draping over your curves.

“What are you waiting for? Get dressed, babe.”

You shuffle onto the bed to grab the gold chain link necklace haphazardly thrown in between the hotel’s decorative pillows. Honestly, you probably would have forgotten about it if you argued a second longer. Oh well, it would have been a pleasant treat to the next tenants, because who wouldn’t want a twenty-four karat gold necklace?

Your fingers just about brushed against the cool metal when your face was shoved into the mattress. A hand (unmistakably Hongjoong’s) roughly grips at your neck, and stars blur your dark vision.

“You wanna wear that dress so bad? Then wear it while I fuck the brat out of you.”

Your lover redirects his grip onto your hips, pulling up while keeping your torso down. And, boy, does Hongjoong think about how delectable you look right now. He could just eat you up and you wouldn’t do a thing. Maybe he should eat you out right now… Or not.

The green fabric gets flipped up and over your ass, exposing you black thong and Hongjoong scoffs. This would have been a glorious pair to your black dress. You wouldn’t even let him have his way for one day? On this day of all days?

“Hongjoong! The party!”

It’s baffling how you have the gal to even say that right after the scene you started. And it’s so funny to Hongjoong, downright hilarious. Oh he’s about to die laughing…

Well, that’s what you hoped. All you ever wanted was to tilt your boyfriend slightly over the edge just so he’d let you wear the dress. You didn’t mean to let his anger boil over like pasta cooking in a pot filled to the brim (side note: you only came to this analogy because Hongjoong himself has been subjected to such a predicament– by himself nonetheless, but that’s besides the matter!)

“Oh now you care about the party?”

It seems Hongjoong was not in a silly goofy mood like you, judging by his searing glare melting through your skin. Hot. But you’re not entirely sure if you’re scared or horny.

“I thought you only wanted to wear this stupid dress.”

He grips at the seam and tears a slit on the mirroring side of the dress all the while cursing at your dress. His hands, calloused from years of sculpting and endless painting, crumples the green silken bust down below your bralette and they start to knead. As if your breasts were the clay he mastered into creating heaven sent sculptures with.

“I thought this covered too much skin anyway.” Your lover mutters to himself, yet the room was quiet enough for you to hear.

Pleased, Hongjoong rubs his palms across your back. When you go quiet, it means you’re near submission, slowly melting into putty for his hands to play with; mould you into every shape he can think of. It is rather early for you to be in this state already, but you don’t hear Hongjoong complaining about it. Maybe you would finish earlier than he expected.

With your face pressed into the sheets and your ass up in the air, there's no denying this feat of dominance Hongjoong is currently displaying is making you wet. As soaked as a kid fresh out the pool and running across your carpet. Too scared to even say a word, you focus on levelling your breath and listening for any movement from the man behind you.

The room fills up with a tense silence while you wait for Hongjoong’s next move, not daring to turn your head because you know what’ll follow if you do. “Did I say you could move?” He would hiss with his voice at a spine chilling tone. And god would it make you so wet.

When a cold palm runs down your back, you flinch. Hongjoong’s eyes study the ribbon that laces across the smooth expanse of your back. Too little skin, he thinks; and he starts to pull each ribbon through the loops, starting from the bottom where the ends hang loosely. When he’s done, he sits back on his heels and contemplates what to do next.

“You’ve been acting spoiled since we landed here, doll. Wanna tell me why?”

No response. Hongjoong expected that much, especially with the way you were so focused on breathing right now. He can tell you want him so bad. He can see it in the flush of your skin and the twitch of your fingers against the pristine white sheets. Oh what a shame, the said sheets would be ruined soon.

“We came all the way for this, baby. And now we won’t be able to make it to the first day because of you. Because you’ve been a fucking brat.”

Your boyfriend gathers both your arms behind you and you yelp when you feel the ribbons wrap your wrists together. Your body gets flipped over on the plush mattress, bouncing slightly at the force. Your arms are restricted behind your back, pressed against the silken sheets and your, now, bare back.

“That’s okay, we’ll just go tomorrow.”

Hongjoong mutters mindlessly, to no one in particular since he’s much too occupied with the visual you present him: chest heaving as you breathe, hair splayed out on the pillows in swirls and curls, and your eyes– oh your eyes. They were almost doll-like with the way they’re glossed over with unshed tears and dilated pupils.

“You’re so gorgeous, doll.” And he dives in.

His lips first attach to the juncture of your neck, pressing butterfly kisses onto your skin and then moving up to your jaw. His hands flutter over your sides, the phantom of his touch burning your skin from under the silk. Hongjoong’s fingers brush over every curve they come across, as if they don’t have the planes of your body memorized after two years of exploration.

But here’s the thing about Hongjoong, he will never settle. He’s dynamic and he knows you are too. Whenever he’s intimate with you, he just wants to overwrite each note he’s made in the past because you’re always changing, growing to be more beautiful than the last. He wants to see the way you change with him, the way you grow with him.

His fingers tickle the skin of your thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The feeling makes tingles shoot up your spine, and heat up your body. His lips kiss and peck at your jaw, noisily moaning in your ear about how he just loves the taste of your skin, how it’s so addicting, and only he can have it.

At some point, Hongjoong’s hands find themselves nestled underneath your thighs, groping and massaging the plush fat that he loves to bury his face into. He lifts your thighs and hooks them around his waist, pulling you closer to him. His clothed cock makes contact with your soaked panties and Hongjoong swears he might just explode. Your cunt was for sure sopping wet by now, and so so warm for him.

Your body jerks up the bed when your lover grinds against your core. An electric zing flashes in your chest and flies through your veins, your eyes widening while holding Hongjoong’s fierce gaze. And he smirks when you yelp after he repeats the action.

“Hi baby.”

You had been silent for the past few minutes, so the noise was welcomed by Hongjoong, reassuring him that you’re still present.

He continues grinding against your core until you're shaking like a leaf. Each brush of his cock over your clit makes your thighs tense in his grip. Truthfully, it makes him giddy. Feeling your body shiver with his touch, hearing you whimper out something akin to his name. Oh it gets his gears going, makes his cock stand taller and harder.

And you’re at his mercy, lying there and taking each rub of his cock on you. Your fingers twitch with arousal and itching to thread into his split dyed hair, You want to tug on them, tell him you want to cum, make him do something about it.

“I didn’t expect you to go quiet at this point, doll.”

Hongjoong pulls his hips away from yours and you have half the mind to complain, until he runs a finger up and down your slit. Your back arches up to him like a sunflower to the sun. Automatically drawn up to him because it’s him who’s giving you pleasure. He is your sun showering you with the warmth of his sunlight.

“Usually you’d run your mouth until you get my cock in your cunt,” he continues his condescending dialogue.

This time, Hongjoong’s middle finger pushes harshly into your clit; which forces your knees to dig deeper into his sides and a squeak to escape from your lips. He likes it, your reaction. It’s just what he wanted: you reacting to each and every little move he does, he wants to see and hear you react whenever his skin meets yours. So he brings his hand back to slap at your clothed pussy once.

“What made you change your mind?”

As per your usual, pathetic self, you had no answer to give to your lover. Instead, your brows had furrowed and your lips now hung open in a silent moan, eyes still stuck on Hongjoong’s. Mesmerized in the way his irises drink in the look on your face; you know it drives him mad when your face scrunches up in pleasure, it’s one of the things he looks forward to.

As for you, you always look forward to having Hongjoong’s fingers lodged deep inside you; and he knows. He revels in the knowledge of it, in fact. Something about the way you suck his fingers in and try to hold him in with your thighs just gets him hotter. The warmth of your pussy around his nimble fingers and the feeling of your arousal running down his wrist. It’s all too addicting to him, dangerous for him to even have unlimited access to it.

And thus, when Hongjoong finally pulls your thong to the side and slides his finger over your cunt it is him who moans. A deep, airy one coming from his chest, like it had been brewing inside him for days. He loves it, loves how it soaks the pads of his fingers immediately. Loves how they coat his skin and leave him all warm and sticky.

You whine when the tips of his fingers finally breach your entrance. The rough pads of his skin rub against your walls and you manage to hold back a yelp at the feeling. Your partner pulls out his finger to make room for another one. His middle finger and ring finger, glued to one another, slowly pushes through your cunt.

The stretch barely stings, but you feel the intrusion. His fingers reach the exact spot that you need him, brushing his fingers against your walls with ease. Your head drops back onto the plush hotel bedding, and Hogjoong keeps an eye at the way you react.

He watches your chest heave up every time he pulls his fingers out and jump when he slams them back into you. Your shoulders are tense and stiff from holding your weight, but he can see that they’re doing their best to support you as you start to grind into his hand.

Your legs slide off from Hongjoong’s sides and plant on the bed, helping you rock your hips forward in search of friction on your clit. You don’t really need Hongjoong to touch your clit for you to cum, but you wouldn’t mind if he did right now. Especially considering how you’re restrained as of currently. He should at least compensate right? You are his lovely girlfriend and all…

Lovely or not, Hongjoong still refuses to acknowledge your actions. In fact, he even tries to hold your hips down with a strong hand. Because, have you forgotten? You had been a brat all morning. If you had only listened to him, you’d be enjoying the art exhibit across the street.

A quick glance at the fancy digital clock on one of the bedside tables tells him that it’s nearly eleven. The exhibit had probably opened thirty minutes ago. By then he’d probably have loads of pictures of you in your stunning black dress, admiring all the paintings and sculptures. And then after circling the room once, he’d drag you back to your hotel room to fuck you senseless and reward you for being such a beautiful doll for him.

Too bad you had other plans in mind.

Hongjoong’s fingers stopped mid pump and you whip your head up to glare at him. You have the nerve to look at him in such a way when you’re the one at his mercy. He could just leave you unfinished and tied up and go to the museum himself. He had every right to do that to you after talking back to him and being a brat.

Why won’t he do exactly that?

Because he can’t bring himself to. Even with your eyes glaring at him, he can still see the way they glitter under the lights with need. A need for him, and his fingers. His tongue. His cock. Everything.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun with you.

A loud indignant whine leaves your lips when Hongjoong fully pulls out. His eyes linger on his fingers and the string of your slick that stretches in between his fingers. Hypnotizing, really, but he has no time to be drawn into the sight. He’s snapped back when you squeeze your thighs around him, silently pleading for him to fuck you with his fingers. Properly this time, not just the lazy in-out in-out he’s been playing with. No. You want him to make you cum and cry.

“You wanna cum on my fingers, baby?”

Hongjoong’s voice was gruff, lowered down an octave, and it rang in your ears. You give him a pitiful nod along with another round of your best puppy eyes. Something to help convince him to give you what you want today.

But all your lover does is laugh inwardly at your poorly done beg. Instead, he humours you.

His fingers slip back into your wet cunt and begin to pump at a slow pace. One that’s too slow for your liking, but what can you do? You’re the one who’s helpless with their hands tied behind your back. The only thing you’re able to do is whine, again.

All this time you’ve been whining and whining nonstop and it irritates Hongjoong even more. He needs something else to slip out of your pink glossed lips.

“Fuck!”

You yelp when your boyfriend suddenly picks up the pace out of nowhere. Quickly thrusting his fingers into your pussy, rubbing against your warm walls and making your legs quiver. Your back arches upwards and your fingers grip at the sheets beneath you.

Finally, the man sighs to himself. He’s gotten tired of your whining, he prefers listening to you moan out his name and dirty curses. He loves listening to the pitch of your voice raise as a result of his touches.

He also loves listening to the sinful squelch of your juices around his fingers. You, on the other hand, find it embarrassing. Your cunt gushing because of two measly fingers? Were you that desperate? But you can’t help it. When his fingers brush up against that certain spot inside you, you can’t help but to clench around him again, leaking your fluids down onto the ruined sheets of the bed.

And– fuck! You’re close. So, so close. Your legs squeeze tighter against Hongjoong’s sturdy frame, hips trying (but failing) to grind up to his hand. God, if Hongjoong could just pinch your clit then you’d–

“You don’t get to cum, brat.” Hongjoong hisses as he pulls his fingers out of you. “Not until I say so.”

“What!?”

You crane your neck to look down at the smirking man who sits idly between your legs. Staring down at your wet core, clenching around nothing and exposed for his eyes to drink up.

“From now on, you do as I say. Got it?”

You were so close and he just ripped the orgasm away from you. How cruel! You glare up at him, and he returns your gaze with even more fire. You scan his face, from the way his eyes burn right into yours and the way his teeth sink into his lips. And when you don’t give him a response, he slaps your core once more.

“I said, got it?” He repeats, his voice dripping with venom and impatience.

The impact makes you yelp and immediately attempt to shut your legs. But they fail to do so with Hongjoong in between.

“G… got it.” You reply with a voice so meek you’d remind Hongjoong of a pitiful little mouse.

Moving forward, your lover’s satisfied with your answer. It was the most obedient act you’ve done all day today! He grips your knees and forces your legs to stretch out a tad bit more. Making just enough space for him to lie on his front, face inches away from your aching core.

His breath puffs against your skin and the feeling makes you squirm. Although Hongjoong has gone down on you many a time, the thought of having him face to face with the most vulnerable part of your body still embarrasses you.

When he licks a stripe up your slit, you jerk your hips back, pulling yourself away from his touch. Annoyed, Hongjoong wraps his arms around your hips and forcefully pulls you back to him. Bringing his tongue back to ghost over your lips.

It hurts, the strain on your shoulders and your arms are beginning to grow numb under your weight. You want to move, to touch your lover, grip at his hair and tug. Guide him to where you want him the most, where you need him badly.

But then he presses his tongue flat against your nub and all thoughts of the pain fly out of your head. All you can hear in your head is a sensual oh fuck, one that you voice out. And one that flies straight to Hongjoong’s hard cock. God, did he ever mention how much he loves your moans?

The split haired male tugs your hips closer to his face and proceeds to lap at your clit. Each stroke makes you quiver in his hold and your eyes roll to the back of your head. Your wanton moans fills up the room and Hongjoong is surrounded by you. All he sees is your lust glazed eyes, and all he tastes is your warm, wet cunt. All his senses are taken over by you.

And you, him. All you can hear is the dirty slurping of Hongjoong’s lips on your pussy. And all you can feel is his hands on you, burning your skin under his touch and the knot in your stomach tightening once more. Calling– begging for release.

The remaining sensitivity from before (from the orgasm Hongjoong so rudely kept from you!) brings you closer to another pending orgasm. Your chest burns white and hot, like a star burning to a supernova.

The tongue previously flat on your clit, gave the nub one last lick before travelling down to your opening. It prods and pokes and does everything but breach your entrance. Hongjoong can only laugh at the way you're helplessly squirming in his grip. The vibrations running up to your body and shooting shocks of pleasure through you.

When your boyfriend’s tongue finally slips inside, you let out a moan of relief. Your head lolls to the right and your eyes flutter shut. Having Hongjoong inside you, whether it was his fingers, tongue, or cock, was always your favourite part. You loved how perfectly he fits into you. Like you were moulded after his person.

But Hongjoong would like to argue that it was him who was moulded to fit you. He was always such a romantic.

“Baby…” was the next coherent word you let out.

Hongjoong hums in acknowledgement, his lips still pressed against your pussy and tongue still busy exploring inside.

“Wanna– ah… touch.”

“But, doll…” He pulls away and you have half the mind to complain. “Why should I let you touch me? You’ve been such a brat today.”

His tone was condescending. You heard his words perfectly, they were short and easy to understand even in your haze riddled mind. You can’t touch him because you don’t deserve it. You can’t touch him because you didn’t obey him and you deserve to be punished. He’s only doing this because he loves you, right? Yeah. He’s said that multiple times. But then again, wouldn’t you let him touch you because he loves you?”

“Answer me, baby. Why?”

A pause.

“Because you love me.”

And Hongjoong has to lean back on his heels because, wow, he’s never heard that one before. It makes him blush, honestly. And his heart flutters at your choice of words. However, he still has a front to put up.

So he throws his head back with a grunt and pokes his teeth with his tongue. With a scoff, he shakes his head in disbelief and slowly brings his gaze back down at you.

“You’re right, baby. I do.” He crawls over you and plants his hands beside your head.

Now he’s hovering over your form, face a mere couple of inches above yours. Your legs shift to wrap one around his waist. Your calf snags on the band of his trousers and that’s when you realize that Hongjoong’s still half dressed. His pants hang loosely around his hips with the button and zipper undone. You can see the elastic of his briefs and the faint outline of his abs accentuated by the happy trail that disappears into his underwear.

“But then if I let you go…” His fingers trace the features of your pretty face. From the slope of your nose to the bow of your lips. “What if you act out again and go back to being a brat?”

You shake your head furiously, desperate to just move along and get to the part where he fucks you stupid!

“I won’t! I-I promise.”

“How do I know you won’t break that promise.”

“Because I love you! I won’t break it, I swear!”

Hongjoong smirks. He likes the direction this conversation is going.

“You do baby?” And when you nod, he continues. “Only me?”

Now he’s leaned his face closer to yours, lips barely ghosting over one another as a low chuckle leaves him. His eyes bore into yours like they always do. His deep, dark irises are glittered with gold and his pupils are dilated. It makes it hard to look away when he has such beautiful eyes and long lashes.

“I do! I promise I love you and only you!”

Your boyfriend’s smirk widens and he gives your lips a soft peck before pulling away to reach for something above your head. You watch as his body stretches and his muscles tense. You just want to run your fingers all over him. Feel his skin against yours, trace every curve and every edge he was given.

“So you wouldn't mind if I did this right?”

He comes back to your view with something in his hand. The diamond encrusted gold casing shines in the sunlight that streams through the large windows of the room. You immediately recognize your Guerlain lipstick (one you had also tossed on the bed earlier in the morning) and furrow your brows in confusion. What does your boyfriend want with your lipstick?

He moves to place his legs on either side of your hips and balances his body over yours. Back arching down to bring his face closer to your collarbones. His hands work open the lipstick and he starts to write on your skin. The rich red colours pop against your complexion and it’s mouth watering how beautiful the colour makes you.

‘HJ’

He scribbles his initials under your left clavicle and he smiles when he follows it with a little heart. Because you love him, right?

“Because you’re mine.”

You knew what he was writing, the downward strokes and curved lines made it so obvious. It wasn’t like it was the first time he did this, no this was about the second time(?) he’s possessively written his name on your skin, if you remember correctly.

The first time was when you went to a bar on a particularly busy weekend. You had dressed up in your favourite little black dress of the week. The Damien black mini dress from AKNA– yes the one Maddy Perez wore in euphoria (Hongjoong swears it’s such an odd show). And some random dude decided to sit right next to you and offer to buy you a drink. Even with you practically hanging off of Hongjoong’s arm.

That night he ruined one of your felt tip eyeliner pens with how much he scribbled his name and the word ‘mine’ all over your body.

But back to the present.

Hongjoong’s now scribbling his full name– last name and all– onto your right shoulder. Muttering something along the lines of ‘to remind you of who you belong to’ and ‘remind you of who to obey’. He writes and doodles and scratches on and on until your chest is covered in many variations of his name, ‘mine’, little hearts, and tiny flowers.

“And because you love me so much.”

He smiles to himself and admires his work. Oh how he wishes he could frame this right now. Keep it in your shared bedroom to remember this forever. But he can’t frame you, that’d be cruel. Maybe he’d snap a picture later when you're done and paint it on a giant canvas (he’s thinking of even painting it on one of your walls).

A small chuckle escaped his lips when he saw your expression. Flushed in embarrassment and arousal with your brows furrowed and lip in between your teeth. You look gorgeous.

His eyes trail down to the scrunched up silk the rests under your breasts. That wretched dress… even though Hongjoong semi-hated the dress, he can’t deny how well it complements the red of the lipstick against your skin. Fuck, he really hopes he can properly recreate this image on a canvas.

Your skin burns when Hongjoong grabs the dress to pull it lower down your body, exposing your midriff to the cool air of the room. And your lover starts to write once more. But this time the sweet little hearts are replaced with nastier words. First it started with brat, but as he got lower they escalated to slut and such. Don’t misunderstand, he still scrawled down a couple ‘mine’s here and there and a little bit more of his initials.

“The dirty fucking slut only loves me right?” He mutters as he carefully dots his ‘i’s and crosses his ‘t’s. “I’m the only one for you because no one else can fucking handle a spoiled brat like you.”

And it’s true. He knows it, you know it. So what’s the point in denying?

You sit there and accept your fate. Let Hongjoong have his little possessive streak without complaint. You do like the feeling of him drawing across your skin even if it’s at the expense of one of your favourite lipsticks. But that’s alright, you could always refill it at the Bergdorf Goodman downtown. You’ve been itching to visit since you landed here. You’ll have to book an appointment for tomorrow, though… and if they don’t have a free slot, then you’ll just throw a couple hundred dollars their way and for sure they’ll give you a refill.

“Do you like it, baby?” Hongjoong asks, finally rising from his bent over position.

And you nod, “I love it, Hongie.”

Now, with most of his pent up frustrations released (and your lipstick used to a blunt), Hongjoong decides that he should probably untie your arms.

You could practically cheer when you can finally move your arms, the blood rushing back to the numbing tips of your fingers. And the first thing you do is cup your lover’s face, rubbing your thumb against his cheek.

Your hands pull the man down onto your lips; meeting in a heated kiss filled with passion, teeth, and tongue. His tongue traces around the edge of your glossed lips, taking some of the peach flavour cosmetic for himself. His lips slot against yours perfectly, dancing with each other in a symphony of your pants and the chirping birds outside.

The kiss deepens with every second that passes and Hongjoong presses more and more into you. Sucking you in like a lost astronaut into a black hole. Neither of you want to break away, not when it’s getting so good. But stupid human bodies and their need for oxygen is what finally parts you two.

Hongjoong’s forehead leans against yours and your breaths mix with how you pant in sync.

“Fuck, doll.”

He can’t take it. He’s been hard for the past hour and he hasn’t done anything to even relieve himself. Why was he giving himself blue balls? Hongjoong doesn’t know. All he knows is screw the stupid punishment, he needs to fuck your pussy right now.

His hands hurriedly yank down his trousers and toss them onto the carpet along with his briefs. The thought of having it dry cleaned and steam pressed again passes his mind briefly but he does not give a fuck right now. The only thing in his mind is you, his cock, your cunt, and cum.

His dick stands tall and proud, blunt head swollen and red and dripping with precum. Your mouth waters at the sight and it takes you no less than a second to reach down and brush your fingers over him. His skin is warm, slightly sticky and wet. His slick coats your palms when you finally wrap a hand around him.

A curse flies out of Hongjoong’s pink-kissed lips when you squeeze him tighter. His lips fall open and his hair falls to curtain over his eyes. Yet through his blonde and black tresses, you’re still able to make out the flicker of lust mixed into his irises and it’s what makes you whimper and clench your core around nothing. A simple gaze from your lover would have you shivering and shaking like a leaf in September, just how you would prefer.

Hongjoong, however, would prefer if you got your hands off him right now because he feels like he’s about to burst. He needs to be inside you at this instant.

So he gently flicks your hand away from his erection to replace it with his own. After a couple pumps on his own shaft, he aligns the head of his cock to your pulsing entrance. And with a quick glance up at you for reassurance, he begins to press into you.

You love it. The feeling of him carefully sinking into you slowly, making you feel every square inch of his skin. The pleasurable stretch his girth gives you. The way his cock brushes up against that spot inside you has you reeling and your toes curling.

He loves it. When you pulse around and suck him even deeper, it leaves him bewitched and breathless. The feeling of your cunt fully surrounding him is hot and wet and it makes his skin tingle and stomach churn. The sinful squelch that fills up the room as he bottoms out inside you fills his heart up with a dirty glee that he knows only you can give.

Now with Hongjoong fully inside you, it’s almost as if time stops. Like the world stops rotating and the clouds stand stagnant against the clear blue sky. Nature falls quiet, no tree’s rustling in the wind or birds singing their happy melodies.

Nothing.

When Hongjoong sits still with his cock deep inside of you, nothing matters other than him.

Your lover likes to say that he takes his time with you in the beginning to help you prep, but you know he’s always lying. He likes to sit there and let you feel the weight of him inside you to tease you. Get you to the point where you’re begging for him to move. Because, face it, Hongjoong never rushes foreplay and will always prep you hours before slipping into you. He has fucked you countless times throughout the years to know that you’re fine by now.

Yet he just sits and stares.

But there’s something that you don’t know, possibly because you're too dazed to look deeper into his eyes. What you don’t know is that behind Hongjoong’s teasing smirk and calm facade, is a panicked man on the verge of climax. His hairline is beaded with sweat and he’s trying so hard to keep himself from just coming at the mere feeling of being inside you.

Pathetic, sure, some people might think. But put them in his shoes, and they’d feel absolutely the same. After an hour of just playing with his lovely girlfriend who has his name written all over her skin, what man would not explode at the sight?

Your back was sticking onto the sheets that you’re laid on with your hair splayed out in different directions. Your skin, again, covered in lipstick (Hongjoong just loves it too much to stop thinking about it) and the mass of silk that could barely be identified as a dress scrunched up around your hips. Your nipples are noticeably pebbled from under your black lacy bra that perfectly matches with your black thong. The one that he has pushed to the side to make way for his cock that has you stretched open.

“H-hongjoong…” You finally muster up the courage to speak and it snaps your lover out of his thoughts.

“Please.” It’s when you clench around him while looking up at him so helplessly does he finally snap.

Fuck his pride.

The first thrust that he drives into you is slow, testing out the waters. Not for your sake, but his. Then with every push his pace picks up, slowly building up to a much more satiating speed. The room fills up with the sound of skin against skin muddled with your voices panting and moaning for one another.

Each drag of his cock against your gummy walls has you reeling. Every wave of pleasure that washes over Hongjoong when you squeeze around his cock makes him falter.

Your lover hooks an arm under your thigh to lift it over his shoulder, helping him reach deeper into you. And it rips a moan from your throat. The new angle just exposes the both of you to a whole new sensation of skin against skin. With your arms finally free, you get the opportunity to do what you’ve longed to do for a while now. Your fingers comb through Hongjoong’s dual coloured hair and twirl a couple locks around them.

And then you tug. Not too much that it hurts, just enough to get a reaction from Hongjoong. Who furrows his brows at first but then a wide smirk flashes on his face.

You’re not sure whether it’s a direct result from you pulling his hair, but Hongjoong’s pace quickens right after you do it. He pumps his cock harder into you, forcing you to jerk up towards the pillows above your head. To oppose this, your boyfriend wraps an arm around the thigh on his shoulder and uses it as leverage to hold you still.

The new pace and force of his thrusts have you arching your back and rolling your eyes. Your lips remain opened in a silent moan, unable to produce anything but breathy whines and gasps. Your hands arbitrarily squeeze and pull against Hongjoong’s scalp to try and anchor yourself to reality.

But Hongjoong knows how to work his cock. He knows what gets you going and what makes you unravel. He does exactly that. His fingers brush over the hood of your clit and your body just tenses. Your thighs start to shiver as a familiar feeling starts to bloom from your chest. It spreads all over your body and makes you mindlessly jerk your hips up towards his touch.

The fingers on your clit start to press harder against your nub as your partner’s thrust starts to get sloppy. They circle around your clit before starting to harshly swipe against it. And it sends you into a frenzy. Your moans get louder and louder with each rub against your nub and you feel a knot tighten in your stomach.

Hongjoong can tell that you’re close, from the pulsing of your cunt to the erratic gasps of his name, he knows those are sure signs of your orgasm. If this had been earlier in the day, he would have stopped right then and held you from another orgasm. But now as he thinks about it, edging you three times was enough, right? You deserve to cum, you are his lovely girlfriend after all.

“Wanna cum, baby?”

You nod, mindlessly nod at whatever he said because you can barely hear him through your own voice. Nothing in your mind but your lover’s cock and how good it’s making you feel. Your cunt squeezes around him again, once, twice, three times.

And Hongjoong pulls out.

But before you can complain he shoves three fingers into your hole and curls them up to rub against the spongy spot in your walls. His other hand continues to roughly play with your clit and that is all that it takes for you to start cumming against his fingers.

“That’s right, baby. Feels so good to cum on my fingers, yeah?”

You twitch and jerk at the intensity of your orgasm, the previous sensitivity still present which lead to your early finish. Not that you’re complaining though. Especially when you feel so satiated. Your hips irregularly jolt up as you come down from your high, your boyfriend’s fingers still nestled in you.

You silently thank the gods that you finally get to release. A whole hour of edging was just too much for you. Thank them for bringing Hongjoong to the conclusion that you deserved to cum.

In fact, Hongjoong now thinks that you probably deserve to cum again… and again. After all, he does love you very much and you to him, remember?

So when he slips back his cock into your sensitive hole, it shocks you. He sets a pace quicker than previous and it has you panicking. You’re still sensitive from the high you just had not even a minute ago and now Hongjoong’s back to rutting his dick into you? Is he out of his mind?

Yes.

“H-hong!! Fuck– … t-too … too… sen-”

You try to gasp out but Hongjoong doesn't care. Now that he had a chance to collect himself (and he’s no longer on the verge of cumming), he decides that one orgasm wasn’t enough. His cock drives hard into your wet cunt and he relishes in your hysteric begging. Whining for him to stop or slow down.

The bulbous tip of his cock prods at a deep spot inside of you and the feeling of him being so deep and pounding into you so roughly brings back the knot in your lower belly. You try and try to beg for him to slow down, give you a break or something. But your words fall to deaf ears.

You squirm against the sweat soaked sheets, and try to run away from your lover's brutal pace. But Hongjoong chooses right then to slide his arms under your back to press himself flush against your chest, holding you still and unable to move away. Your skin burns against his, a delicious feeling welcomed by him.

The lipstick stains of his name most definitely have smudged onto his skin but that doesn’t concern Hongjoong. He’s too occupied with how your eyes are brimmed with tears and your lips are parted to beg. You probably think you’re saying actual words, but all that leaves your mouth are incoherent vowels, not a single understandable word from your fucked out brain.

You wrap your arms around his torso when you feel on the edge of another high, squeezing him closer to you like how your pussy convulses around his cock. In response, Hongjoong groans and throws his head back.

By now the hotel room reeks of sex. If the sound of the bed creaking doesn’t make it obvious then the humid stench of cum and sweat will. Hongjoong spares a glance to where your bodies meet and he has to clench his jaw to keep himself from cumming. The sight of the slick from your gushing cunt connecting his hips to yours whenever he pulls away is one he treasures. Like your skin covered in lipstick, he’d like to recreate this one too. Keep it with him forever.

With a couple more thrusts, your body suddenly tenses again and you’re cumming for the second time. By then your orgasm is twice as strong as the previous one, and it leaves you shaking for a tad bit longer. Your legs twitch and you just now realize that you’re sobbing. The tears that once blurred your vision have now run down your cheeks. The red eyeshadow you had on was now smudged and beyond salvation.

You’re weak, your limbs have now gone limp and you don’t think you can properly make up a sentence by now. You’re mind had been fucked to goo, nothing up in your head but an airy feeling that makes your heart flutter and skin tingle.

You look so peaceful.

But you can’t leave Hongjoong like this can you? High and dry with his balls filled with cum that’s specially for you?

You’re not that cruel right?

“One more, baby,”

Your eyes widen once more and you try to fight back from his arms that are scooping you up. But you’re too weak. You can’t push him away and the tiny tiny voice in your mind says “do you really want him to stop?”. Your mouth opens to say something (you don’t know what), but, again, you’re just too fucked out to form coherent sentences.

So you have no choice but to let Hongjoong slip back his hard cock into your abused pussy. His skin rubs against your raw walls and you’re not sure if you want him to stop. Because you’re exhausted, your body feels like jelly and you don’t want to move. However, no matter how tired you are, you can’t deny that it feels so fucking good.

The friction against his skin and yours is driving you crazy. And when he shifts to lie on his back and pull you on top, you can’t help the loud whine of his name that escapes you when he hits a spot in you that’s deeper than before.

“You can do one more, right? Be good for me, just this once?”

And you nod, even though you know you don’t have the energy to ride him right now. But that’s alright, Hongjoong doesn’t intend to make you ride him. Instead, he places a strong hand on the back of your head and guides you to rest in the crook of his neck. His palm strokes at your tangled hair that was once styled best to match today’s event, but now it’s a mess of tangled curls and stray strands.

With his feet planted on the mattress, he wraps an arm around your waist and gives an experimental thrust up into your wet cunt. And you’re gone. Any and all thought you previously had of how tired you were was forgotten. In fact, you didn’t even feel anything but his cock in you. Not the tight hand gripping into your skin or the soothing fingers that comb through your hair the best they can. Just the sensation of his cock pulling out to the head before slamming back into you.

Hongjoong shifts his hold from your skin to your ass and he gropes the thick flesh of your ass. He especially likes the way your plump skin peeks through the gaps between his fingers. And the mindless moans that get louder with each squeeze he gives your behind. The constant convulsion of your pussy around his cock makes his knees buckle and hips falter.

Fucking you is always an experience he can’t recreate because there’s just too many things that make it what it is. If he has his hand around his dick it wouldn’t feel right without you moaning in his ears or nails clawing at his skin. Or the tantalizing jiggle of your ass when he pounds into you. It would be incomplete if you weren’t physically present. Whether he’d have a picture of your ass on his phone or a memory of your pussy around his cock playing in his mind, neither would be able to compensate for the lack of your skin against his.

Everytime Hongjoong thrusts up at you, your hips follow. And when they fall to pull out, yours would follow once more. This descend added with the sudden plunge back of his entire cock into your cunt drives him deeper with every push. It makes you cry, drives you crazy, leaves you confused and in a daze, the pleasure.

His hot rigid cock, lined with bumps and veins rubs in and out of your wet pussy. Paired with the sheer speed and power Hongjoong pours into each ram of his hips against yours, you’re left to be putty in his arms. A soggy puddle melting into his skin and becoming one with him. Your voice rings in his ears, echoing from the cave your face is tucked into, and it eggs him to pound harder into you.

You can’t help it, your walls start to flutter around him from the saturated pleasure he brings you and by now, you’re cumming. Hard. Your cunt squeezes his cock and milks him for all he’s got. Hongjoong loves it, the feeling of your pussy convulsing and gushing around him. He’d love to be able to bottle up the feeling and save it for another day.

Your lover’s thrusts increase in speed as he gets closer to his climax and you’re still shaking in his hold. You continue to tremble in his arms with your toes curled and hips jerking erratically, grinding your clit on his pelvis. Each time the tip of his cock brushes up against your walls, they clamp back down on him and pour out more of your cum. It runs down Hongjoong’s shaft and creams around his base, if you weren’t so out of it right now, you’d be way too embarrassed to even face the man.

Hongjoong’s thrusts turn sloppy and unsteady, his hips would jolt whenever you clenched around him and the hand on your ass would twitch. He’s so close.

“I’m gonna cum, baby.”

He announces with his voice low and raspy and it makes your body tingle again. You want him to cum inside, feel his seed heat up your already hot and wet core. You want to feel his cum dripping down your thighs when you move. You want it all. And when Hongjoong lets out a final grunt, you brace yourself for the sensation. Lips hanging open and spilling vowels that resemble your lover’s name.

But instead, he throws you around back onto the mattress and shuffles to stand on his knees over you. His calloused hand grips his cock and you watch with glazed eyes as his angry red skin drips with his arousal mixed with yours. He pumps his shaft furiously while his thighs begin to shake and you listen to the little groans that leave his lips.

“Fuck.” He whispers when he furrows his brows and his eyes flutter close.

Hongjoong came in spurts of three. The first one landing on your red stained chest, and the final two dripping into your dress (if you could still call it that) and staining the fabric for good. It’s almost as if he planned this…

Oh what a view.

Hongjoong kneeling over you with a flush on his skin and a sheen of sweat making him shine in the sunlight. His hair was tousled and sticking to his forehead, and his lips were bitten red. You watch as his dick goes limp with a few final drops of his cum falling onto your skin.

With your tangled hair and tear stained cheeks, Hongjoong revels in the after effects of him. The names he had written on your skin were now missing several letters that he’s sure are on his. The “Kim Hongjoong” that he’d written in all caps across your chest was missing an N and a couple O’s, and if he’d look down on his own, he’d see the letters smudged over his skin.

The room is now quiet, the air is still and the smell of sex is still fresh. The two of you stare at each other in silence for a few minutes, processing what just happened and trying to regain consciousness.

It’s Hongjoong who breaks the silence first, scooping you up in his arms and mumbling about going to the bathroom to clean up where he then sits you on the toilet and forces you to pee. He always reminds you to pee right after getting intimate, even if you said you didn’t need to. He’d just throw you over his shoulder and wait on the toilet until you eventually do need to. He’s so particular about aftercare and the looming threat of a UTI. Well, that’s just Hongjoong.

꒰♡꒱

“But, babe.” Hongjoong whines, his arms tired from carrying heavy shopping bags all afternoon.

After a certain someone tore up your dress and jizzed all over it, you decided to buy another. You threw Hongjoong into the car and brought him to the nearest Bergdorf Goodman right after the exhibit closed. Mumbling to him about how he owes you a lipstick refill and one new dress. Well not one, right now you had eight dresses in the bags, and you’re currently looking at another one. It’s similar to the green one you got the other day, but this one is glittery!

“I’ll take it!” You smile to the kind saleslady who then orders a muscular man to take down the mannequin and bag up the dress for you.

You turn to your lover who sits on a velvet upholstered seat, and scowl at his pout.

“This is because you tore up my favourite dress.”

You lied. That dress wasn’t your favourite. How can it be when you just got the prettiest, most sexy garnet coloured mini dress five minutes ago?

“Now, come on, Hongie. I have to get my lipstick refilled.” You call right after you’re handed the bag with your most recent purchase.

And, without sparing your boyfriend a glance, you turn your heel and head towards Guerlain. Hongjoong doesn’t mind the action, at least you don’t catch him staring at your figure. Biting his lip, he trails his eyes down to the way your black dress curves over the plump of your ass and he licks at his teeth when he notices the sliver of black that flashes from underneath your dress and he has to adjust his trousers before he runs to your side.

He walks beside you and listens to you talk on and on about a diamond lipstick case with his hands filled with shopping bags. Your heels click on the polished tile floors of the department store and your steps match with his. Just like how your black, custom made dress matches his black, custom made suit.

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#heterotragedies #505 #het.traj k.hj #|#ateez #ateez x reader #ateez smut #hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut

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