#red carpet for rent | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mrsjjongstby · 18 days ago

Text

P: Auction winner!Niki x ballerina!reader

Warnings: Power imbalance, possesiveness, very minor mention of blood, mentions of financial desperations, dubious consent, reader is said to have delicate feet, ownership themes, human auction (reader is sold in an auction), physical touch, fluff-?, usage of both Niki and Riki thought referring to the same person- Nishimura Riki, obsessive behaviour, kisses on feet-?

Synopsis: You were a ballerina—graceful, delicate, and broke. When your mentor whispered about a secret gala, you didn’t know you’d be sold. Bought for a hundred million dollars by a man who spoke little and watched too closely, you expected control, cruelty, maybe even a golden cage. But he gave you quiet hallways to walk barefoot, silk sheets to sleep in, and a world scrubbed clean for your comfort. He never asked you to love him. He only made sure you had no reason not to.

Wordcount: 11,1k

Ballet wasn’t just another hobby to you.

It was your life. A silent language your body spoke when words didn’t do justice.

You find solace in the way you move your muscles, the way you pad on your toes, the way you twirl gracefully with your arms stretched.

You love the beautiful symphonies your body makes mirroring the music that plays, it was as if you were one with the music- the art.

You remember the first time you stood on your tip toes- your calves aching, your ankles trembling to balance the weight of your body, but you didn’t mind the pain. You loved it.

The pain only meant one thing- you were reaching, striving.

In a world where everything was slipping through your fingers, ballet stayed.

The studios which mirrored your delicate form. The pale pink ribbons that moved with you like it was another part of your body. The aching swell in your chest when the music began- like your heart recognized a home it had never seen.

There was some kind of peace to it. The kind of peace when your thoughts melted away and your body moved through the air.

You didn’t need applause- you didn’t want it. You didn’t dance because you wanted to satisfy your mentor, you didn’t dance because you wanted the cheers. No. You danced because it reminded you you were alive. And that you weren’t alone- that ballet was with you.

Your shoes which weren't yours padded against the red carpet which led to a theatre. The dress you’re wearing wasn't yours either. Neither were the diamond earrings which adorned your ears and the glittering thin chain which brushed against your neck everytime you turned your head.

Even your name on the invitation which was printed in delicate gold foil didn’t feel like yours. It was like your name didn’t deserve to be written and printed with such care, such luxury and such extravagance.

But desperate people learn how to lean on to illusions which aren’t theirs.

You looked around the huge halls, the empty space filled with over-the-top pieces covered with diamonds, detailed art pieces and tall ceilings. The interior was lit with warm gold light, soft classical music humming faintly through the windows.

You didn’t eat a full meal in days. Your rent was overdue. And yet here you were- drawn in by whispers and rumors, all tracing back to one thing.

A private gala. A mysterious host. A ballet auction.

“Just smile,” your mentor had told you interrupting your thoughts.

“You’re not there to blend in- you’re there to be seen.”

And so, you walked up the marble steps. You didn’t know that once you entered, you wouldn’t be leaving on your own terms. You didn’t know his eyes were already on you- sharp, unreadable, and far too focused for someone you’d never met.

And that’s how you are here, on the huge stage.

The air heavy with perfume and money. Everyone’s sitting around the velvet curtained stage, wearing sharp suits. Eyes gleaming. Like wolves dressed in suits.

You’re barefoot, your feet feeling the expensive and polished wood beneath you. Dressed in the faintest ivory silk, hair pinned like you are made out of porcelain, not bone and flesh.

You don’t speak. You don't need to.

The music begins. A single piano note continued by multiple.

And you dance.

You dance like the men there don’t exist. Your body remembers the movements though your brain doesn’t. You spin. Controlled. Graceful. Your body dances as if it’s one with the notes.

The room holds its breathe like it’s amazed by your performance- your art.

A voice is heard cutting the invisible amazement resting on the peoples’ faces,

“Starting bid, 5 million dollars.”

It rises quickly.

“Seven.”

“Eight million.”

“Ten”

“Twenty-two.”

You kept dancing as if you aren’t hearing the money proposed to win you.

“Thirty-five million!”

Another shout. Another flash of a raised card.

And then—

From the back of the room:

“One hundred million.”

Silence. His voice sharp and sudden like a blade.

Everyone turns.

A young man sits alone, legs crossed, completely relaxed. No paddle. No number. Just a glass of untouched wine in his hand and eyes fixed solely on you.

He doesn’t say it again.

He doesn’t need to.

The host swallows. “Sold.”

The music stops. But you don’t. You do a one last spin. One last breathe. Before everything disappears into velvet.

And he? He watches you. Like he didn’t just buy you. Like he just bought you freedom and like he’s been waiting his whole life just for you to exist.

The sleek black car pulls up infont of the mansion- a fortress of glass, cement, history and wealth. The gate opens with a mechanical hum, and you feel the car entering. No one speaks. The driver doesn’t dare to glance at you. The windows are tinted too dark, but you don’t care.

The car finally stops; the door opens.

You step out, barefoot, the cool stone pressing against the arches of your foot. The mansion stands before you, towering and gleaming in the moonlight as if it’s the mansion’s way of welcoming. Everything is quiet, too quiet.

You’ve never been here before. You’ve never seen anything like this before.

You enter the mansion, your feet touching the cold marble underneath it. You admire the beautiful interior. It wasn’t extravagant, wasn't filled with huge chandeliers and wasn't filled with unnecessary expensive house decors. But it was perfect, plain black walls which reflected him, high ceilings, few paintings, and most minimal but luxurious interior you’ve ever seen.

And then-

“Welcome home.”

You turn to the source to see him standing, the one who bought you.

Nishimura Riki.

His hands are folded, his eyes too calm for someone who just spent an amount of money that could buy entire kingdoms. He looks young. But there’s something behind those dark eyes. Something old. Too old for his face.

“You should have stayed inside the car,” he continues, eyes moving over your bare feet, your attire, the soft lines of your form. “You’ll catch a cold.”

You raise an eyebrow, unfazed.

“Do you worry about everyone who steps foot in your home?”

He watches you for a long moment. Just looks. As if studying your every move, your breath, your body.

“Not everyone,” he answers finally, his voice dropping an octave. “But you’re different.”

You tilt your head slightly. A challenge, though still wrapped in that quiet, ethereal calm.

“How am I different?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile, but there’s an edge to his gaze.

“You’ll know.”

A slow pause, and you step forward, moving with the same grace you showed at the auction. You don’t say anything, just step lightly, like your drawn to the mansion despite the icy feeling it gives you.

“Do you own this?” you ask, your eyes scanning the modern, polished interior of the mansion.

“I do,” he says.

You don’t respond immediately. The silence wraps around you both again, thick and heavy.

“How long are you planning to keep me here?” You ask, your voice finally laced with something less passive—just a soft curiosity.

His lips curl into a smirk, just a little. But there’s something behind it. Something dangerous. He steps closer, leaning slightly forward as he speaks.

“As long as I want. And as long as you don’t give me a reason to make you leave.”

You meet his gaze evenly. No fear. No hesitation.

“I don’t leave,” you say quietly, “unless I’m forced to.”

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something else—something darker.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to get along,” he says, almost like a promise.

He turns, motioning toward the hallway.

“Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

Your eyes flicker to his back as he leads you deeper into the mansion. It’s huge, an endless series of hallways, high ceilings, stark walls. There’s a feeling that every step you take is watched by invisible eyes. And every step he takes is watched by your eyes.

You reach a door at the end of the hallway; he slides the door open.

“This is where you’ll stay.” he says softly and steps aside so you could enter first.

The door slides open into a room so large it feels like a wing of the mansion. Your eyes widen slightly as you take in the scale of it- the enormous canopy bed, the floor to ceiling glass windows draped with rich, dark curtains, the white marble absorbing the soft glow of the lights.

The room smells like fresh flowers and something else, something clean, like new silk.

The bed is enormous, draped in white silk sheets that shimmer under the low lighting. Pillows are stacked high, luxurious, inviting. There’s a sitting area to the left, complete with velvet chairs and a long marble coffee table. A bookshelf filled with books you know you’ll read. A dresser, a vanity, a full-length mirror.

And then there’s the view. Out of the windows, you can see the mansion’s sprawling gardens- lawns so well-kept they look like the perfect still-life paintings. Nothing out of place. Everything too perfect.

For a moment, you don’t speak. Don’t move.

Niki watches you from the doorframe, his posture relaxed but his eyes intense. He knows you’re analyzing everything, but he doesn’t rush you.

“It’s a little…” he pauses as you step inside, your gaze still flickering around the room. “…larger than what you’re used to, I assume.”

You don’t respond at first. Instead, you run your fingers across the back of a velvet chair, then moves toward the bed. The silk sheets ripple slightly under your touch as you sit at the edge, your legs folded underneath you.

“It’s a little too much,” you say, almost under your breath. Your fingers graze the silk again, still hesitant.

You look up at him.

“What do you want from me?” you ask, your voice steady, but laced with something softer this time. There’s no edge to it, no rebellion—just a curious calm.

His gaze softens. Just a little. There’s something like admiration there, a flicker of understanding.

“For you to be comfortable,” he says quietly, his voice low, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

You don’t know if you believe him.

You glance at him, assessing. His eyes are steady—calm. He doesn’t seem like the type who’d force anyone into something they didn’t want. But his silence speaks louder than his words.

“Comfortable,” you repeat, tasting the word. The weight of the room, the overwhelming luxury, feels foreign. But you don’t want to show him that. Not yet.

You stand up, the silk sheets pooling around your feet as you walk towards the window. You stare out at the garden for a long moment, taking in the moonlight, the cold air that filters in.

Riki stays at the door, watching you, but doesn’t speak yet.

“It’s still too much,” you say softly, almost like a confession.

“Everything I have,” he says after a pause, his voice a little more serious, “I have because I want it. If I wanted you to be just another piece of property, I would’ve given you a room just like any other. But I bought you for a reason. I want you to want this.”

You look back at him over your shoulder.

“You think I want any of this?” you ask, your words quiet, but sharp.

Riki doesn’t move, but his gaze doesn’t waver.

“You will,” he says simply.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He nods, stepping back slowly, giving you space.

“If you need anything,” he says, his voice softer, “just call. The house is yours now. But only as long as you make it your own.”

With that, he turns, but not without one last look over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door long after he’s gone.

And though the room feels too large, too empty, you can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take before it starts to feel like yours.

The dining table stretched long and polished, lined with plates and neatly folded napkins that look too delicate for how heavy the air felt.

A staff guides you to the dining room, your bare foot padding behind them against the marble floor.

You sat near the middle, fingers curling and uncurling in your lap. The silk dress they’d given you was too smooth, too perfect. You felt like a misplaced figurine — breakable in a place built for power.

And at the other end of the table…

He watched.

Riki.

He nodded once at the maid. A plate was set before you, silverware shining like it had never been used.

“You should eat,” he said, voice smooth — quiet, but final.

You glanced down at the food. Everything looked expensive. Fragile. Like if you touched it wrong, it would vanish or crack under the pressure of being touched by someone like you.

He noticed your hesitation.

“They asked what you liked,” he added, almost softer this time. “I told them to make a little bit of everything.”

Your gaze lifted slightly, brows tightening.

“You didn’t know what I liked.”

“I wanted to find out.”

Silence again. The kind that wrapped around your throat but didn’t choke.

He was eating too, now — unhurried, elegant in the way predators usually were. Not once did he look away. Not once did his focus shift.

You took a bite. Small. Careful.

He smiled.

“Do you like it?”

You gave the faintest nod. And something about that pleased him too much.

“From now on,” he said, sipping his wine, “you eat with me.”

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a suggestion either. It was just something he had already decided.

And you?

You only picked up your fork again. Because you could feel it — the way the walls of this place whispered his presence.

There was nowhere to hide.

But there was also… no reason to.

Not when he looked at you like you were a piece of art finally returned to its rightful collector.

After completing dinner, you left to your room to rest as Niki suggested. The staff guided your way back to the room, your feet as always, bare walking on the marble but now, it didn’t feel cold. You don’t know if it’s because you accepted it or because you started to like it.

A few days pass by. Niki showed you a ballroom filled with delicate and sheer white cloth surround few areas, art painted across the ceiling with an elegant chandelier in between, a gramophone which fills out the room when played in the corner of the room sitting on a table beside a box full of classical discs.

Riki told you few stories which were experienced by the people in the frames which sat on his wall in the office room. He told the meanings of every art piece you questioned the backstory of. He bought you drinks in the middle of the day when you were laying on the bed bored or just were simply watching the TV.

One thing Niki also did was he noticed every single thing about you.

Like how you like your drinks cool, how you always read in the evenings when it’s about to get dark outside, how your eyes don’t glow with delight when you eat food you don’t like, how you nod your head- just a little when you like the food, how you like to roam around the huge space and especially how you walk barefoot all the time.

You walk barefoot all the time. Right. He noticed it, ofcourse he did.

He didn’t tell you to wear slippers- hell, he didn't even ask you to wear socks. Because he thinks, you can do whatever you wish for. He didn’t want to restrict you, no. He didn’t buy you at the auction for that. He wanted you to be free. He wanted you to do whatever you want without any concerns. He wanted you to think of him as your safe place.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you- care about the floors which may not be truly clean because before you, no one walked around the mansion barefoot. The floors were cleaned once every morning due to the sake of it. But this shouldn’t continue because now? Now you’re here, in the mansion with your delicate foot pressing on the white marble.

And that’s the reason why he’s standing in the middle of the main hall, his dark eyes sweeping upon the numerous staff lined up before him. A cold silence hung between them—until he spoke.

“Now on, the floors will be cleaned three times a day,” he said, voice like a blade. “In the morning, during lunch and during dinner.”

A few of them blinked, confused. No one dared question him. Still, one hand lifted in hesitation.

“Sir, if I may—”

“You may not,” he cut, calmly.

“No shoes in the east wing. No carts. No buckets left out. Not a speck of dust. If her feet touch it, and I see a mark…”

He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Let’s just hope I never have to explain what happens next.”

The room went still.

“And one more thing,” he said, voice soft but full of threat. “Do not approach her. Do not speak to her. If she asks for something, inform me. If she wanders into your space, you disappear from it.”

His tone didn’t rise once. He didn’t have to. Every word was an order etched in stone.

“That girl walks barefoot in my house,” he murmured, almost to himself now, eyes distant. “So, the world she walks on will obey.”

Then he turned away and disappeared into the endless hallways, his staff watching him until he’s out of sight. No one understood why he’s like this, but no one dared to question too. With that, the staff disappeared with the new rules repeating in their mind like mantra.

The room feels like it’s closing itself again, the silence too thick, too still. You’ve been staring out the long windows for too long, your fingers brushing against the cool glass. The garden bellow calls to you in a way you can't ignore.

The huge transparent mirror is acting like a shield, protecting the freedom, the liveliness and the peace that comes from the garden. It’s the only thing that’s stopping you from going out and laying on the grass.

It looks alive, so alive compared the stillness inside your room right now. The trees sway gently in the night breeze and you can hear the soft hum of insects even through the thick glass windows. There's something about it, the life, the freedom of it all tugs at your chest.

You stand up abruptly, walking to the door, your silk gown brushing against your mid thighs and you slide the door open before you can second guess yourself. The house is quiet as always, but you aren't interested to keep up with the silence anymore.

You find him in the hallway, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed and a phone in his hand.

"I want to see the backyard." You say, the words slipping out. It's not a demand, but it's not a request either. It's a need, a soft yearning in your voice which surprises you more than it should.

He pauses and then turns his head, looking at you with that unreadable expression. His eyes flicker down to your bare legs and feet, the hard marble beneath, before meeting your gaze again.

"It's late." He replies, but the tone isn't dismissive. There's something about the way he speaks that feels more like a suggestion, but also more like permission. He's not stopping you, but he's not pushing either.

You hold his gaze for a beat longer before speaking again.

"I know, But I can see it from my room- I want to go, it seems so lively out there. I just want to feel it. The world out there feels different." You trail off, unsure of what exactly you're trying to say.

Niki doesn't respond immediately, and you almost thought he'll deny it-

"Alright," he says after a moment, he gets up, his voice soft but firm. "If you really want to."

You're happy, more than anything. It feels like there are no more chains which make you roam only in the insides, no restrictions- just freedom. Freedom of going out for the first time after coming here, taking in the fresh air. You don't waste any time. You step forward and he follows you as you move towards the exit- towards the freedom.

When you finally step outside, the cool and fresh air brushes over your skin and you breathe it in deeply, savoring it. The grass feels soft beneath your feet, like walking on a thick carpet, cool and welcoming.

You pause, letting the sensation sink it. The feel of nature beneath you is something you didn't even realize you craved until now. The quiet rustling of leaves and the happy sounds of birds are the only sounds that fill in the air.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the moment stretch out, almost like you could forget where you were for just a brief instant. But the sound of footsteps approaching made your eyes open.

Riki’s in the garden with his back leaning against the garden side of your window. He doesn’t come any closer, but his presence is still felt.

“It’s peaceful out here,” you murmur, looking back at him.

“It is,” he agrees, his voice low, almost like a secret shared between them.

He watches you, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. Not one of triumph, not one of ownership—just something soft, something real.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, the way the night air carries a promise.

“It’s nice,” you murmured, half to yourself.

“You can come here whenever you want,” he said, his voice lower now, softer. “I had it made for you. Just... don’t be out too late.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you look back down at the soft grass beneath your feet, your toes curling into it, grounding yourself.

And for a moment, it feels like home.

The door creaked open with barely a sound.

You didn’t flinch — you heard the footsteps long before. Measured, quiet, almost respectful. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Still, you kept your eyes on the book resting in your lap, the pages bathed in the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp. Your legs were tucked beneath the sheets, the silk brushing your skin, and the room smelled faintly of lavender and well, you.

“You’re not asleep,” he said, more observation than question.

You turned a page.

“Neither are you.”

There was a pause.

Then the soft click of the door shutting behind him.

You could feel the air shift, his presence taking up more space than his body ever did. He stepped closer, eyes flickering to the book in your hands.

“What are you reading?”

“Something old. Something quiet,” you replied.

He nodded once, slowly. And then, without asking, he moved to the armchair across from your bed and sat — legs crossed, one hand pressed to his lips as he simply watched.

“You could’ve slept in your own bed,” you murmured.

“Could’ve,” he echoed. “Didn’t want to.”

Your eyes met across the space. And for a moment, it was quiet. Deep, gentle quiet. The kind that doesn't demand answers, only stays.

Then he leaned back, voice barely above a whisper.

“Read to me.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“You’re already awake.”

A beat.

“And your voice makes things softer.”

You didn’t answer.

You just looked back down at the page, cleared your throat, and began.

And while your words filled the silence, Niki didn’t say anything more.

He just… watched.

Listened.

Stayed.

Your feet padded themselves to the ballroom without you knowing few days after that.

The ballroom was empty, but it never felt lonely. Because ballet and music accompanied you in this vast room.

You stood in the center — barefoot, breath steady, arms poised.

The early morning sun spilled through the grand windows, golden and soft, catching on the polished floors like liquid light. The air was quiet, save for the gentle creak of old gramophone and the faint rustle of your skirt as you moved.

This place — for all its grandeur, its intimidating size — felt oddly yours when you danced.

You moved slowly at first, like the music was inside you and still waking. A turn. A lift of your arm. A precise bend of your ankle. The marble kissed your feet like it knew their rhythm.

And then — freedom.

Your body spun into motion, fluid and deliberate. Every step, every gesture, a word unspoken. You danced like you were trying to remember who you were before the world asked too much of you. Before names and price tags. Before being sold, before belonging.

Now — you only belonged to the music.

You danced.

Not for anyone.

Not to impress.

Just because you could.

Just because the quiet felt softer when your body moved to fill it.

Your silhouette spun beneath the high ceilings, your nightgown fluttering like the petals of a lily, weightless with every turn. Every step glided, every pirouette melted back into stillness, like water finding its shape again.

Somewhere behind you, unseen but always felt, Niki leaned silently against the doorway.

He didn’t interrupt. He never did when you danced. He just watched.

His lips didn’t part.

His hands didn’t move.

But in the quiet corners of his soul, something stirred every time you danced.

As if you were a language only he could read.

As if you were never meant to be anything but his.

No matter how many times you ate multiple meals in the dining room you never got used the ridiculously long dining table.

You counted the chairs once — twenty-six, twelve on each side and two on each end. All of them carved from dark walnut, shining under the crystal chandelier that glowed like a silent star above the table.

You were seated at one end. He sat at the other.

And yet, the room didn’t feel empty.

"You're not going to move closer?" you asked, delicately spearing a piece of fruit on your fork.

Niki looked up from his plate — eyes steady, expression unreadable.

“No,” he said calmly. “I like seeing you like this. Lit up. Like you're part of the art in this room.”

You didn’t answer, though your brows lifted slightly. His gaze lingered, not on your plate, but on your fingers — the way they moved, how your foot tapped lightly against the marble beneath.

You chewed slowly. “It’s strange eating alone when someone else is here.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

“Across twenty feet of table,” you murmured.

He didn’t deny it. Not when you were right and even if you weren’t he wouldn’t deny it then too.

Instead, he stood. You watched him silently as he walked — unhurried — around the table, the soft clink of his shoes echoing in the high-ceilinged hall.

And then, without a word, he pulled out the chair beside you.

He sat, poured you more water like he’d been doing it for years, and placed your napkin across your lap again when it had slipped.

“Better?” he asked.

You looked at him, quiet, your voice softer now.

“Why do you always wait until I ask?”

His gaze was steady.

“Because I like when you ask,” he said. “It means you want me close.”

You didn’t respond. Just lowered your eyes back to the plate and took another bite.

But now, the table didn’t feel so large.

And neither did the space between you.

You both continued to eat while you talk about random stuff. Random stuff including you talking about the recent book, the trope, the characters, your opinion, your analysis most of the time and him nodding, replying and asking questions.

It was simple and you liked it like that.

Somehow, he didn’t make the empty mansion feel lonely, he made it homely even though it’s hard for you to accept it. Not because you hate him but because you never felt like this before. Never felt someone’s care, never felt someone’s love and never felt someone’s presence which was homely and comforting for once. And now that he’s giving all of it to you at once, you aren't sure if it's a dream or not.

Another thing which you never got used to no matter how many times you’ve wandered in these hallways and rooms are its vastness.

You were walking on your feet just like every day but this time you wandered too far.

The hallway you were in was quiet, long, and unfamiliar — no windows, only polished walls reflecting your silhouette and a dozen identical doors. The mansion was a maze made of marble and silence, and you’d made the mistake of thinking you’d remember your way back from the garden wing.

You turned a corner, paused.

And then — a voice behind you.

“Miss? Are you lost?”

You looked back. One of the newer staff, young, maybe a year or two older than you. He looked nervous, holding a tray of clean towels.

“A little,” you admitted. “The halls here feel endless.”

He gave a soft laugh and stepped forward, hesitant but kind.

“I can walk you back to your room— It’s easy to get turned around in the east wing.”

You nodded gratefully. Just as he was about to gesture toward the main corridor, he hesitated — then gently reached for your hand, fingers barely brushing your wrist to guide you.

“This way—”

And then he froze.

The air changed.

You turned your head just as a voice, low and sharp as cut glass, filled the space.

“Don’t touch her.”

Riki.

You hadn’t even heard his steps. But now he was there — at the end of the hallway, his figure calm, but his tone ice-cold. The staff member instantly pulled his hand back, eyes wide.

“S-sorry, sir— I just—”

“She knows how to walk on her own,” Ni-ki said, approaching slowly. “And she doesn’t like being touched by strangers.”

He was looking at you when he said it. Not the staff.

You watched the way his eyes flicked to your wrist — the one that had been touched — then back to your face. Not angry. Just… quietly displeased. Possessive, in a way that didn’t shout but made the whole hallway hold its breath.

“Go,” he said to the boy. The worker bowed quickly and disappeared down another hall.

Riki stepped close, his voice softer now.

“You should’ve waited for me.”

You tilted your head. “I didn’t realize I needed permission.”

His lips curved, ever so slightly.

“You don’t. But I like it when you wait anyway.”

Then he offered his hand — not demanding, not forceful — just there.

And this time, it was you who took it.

He didn’t speak much as he walked beside you.

Just the sound of your bare feet against the cool marble and his longer steps matching your pace. The mansion stretched behind you like a forgotten dream — and ahead of you, he guided, not pulling, just… gently leading.

When he finally stopped, it wasn’t your room. It was his.

Warm light filtered through sheer curtains, and the smell of something faintly familiar — cedar and rain — hung in the air. His room always felt lived-in, quiet, real.

You stood in the middle, not saying anything.

Then, slowly, Niki turned toward you.

His eyes dropped to your wrist.

The same one that had been touched earlier.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t comment.

But his fingers reached for it, careful and slow — like he was checking if the imprint of someone else still lingered there. His thumb brushed over the skin, once. Then again.

“Did it bother you?” he asked quietly, eyes not meeting yours.

You shrugged. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. But he kept his hand there anyway. His touch was different — it never lingered where it wasn’t wanted, but when it did stay, it stayed with meaning.

You looked up at him, curious. “Then why do you look like it did?”

He didn’t answer.

Just kept his thumb moving across that same spot — soft, absent, like he was wiping away a fingerprint only he could see.

“Because it’s yours,” he finally said, voice low. “Your wrist. Your skin. But I’ve seen you dance enough to know every inch of it by heart. It doesn’t feel right when someone else touches it before me.”

Your heart ached, not in pain — but in the strange, quiet way someone’s protectiveness can settle deep inside you.

You didn’t stop him.

And he didn’t stop touching you.

He turned around, opening the door and moved aside so, you could enter first.

You enter without hesitation and let your eyes wander around his room.

You didn’t ask to stay.

But you didn’t have to.

You moved to sit on the edge of his bed — silk sheets pulled tight, a softness that held no weight. You touched the hem of your dress absently; your bare feet tucked beneath you. He said nothing. Just watched, still standing where he had been, as if waiting to see what you needed.

You looked up at him.

“Is it alright if I…?”

You trailed off. The words didn’t come easily — they never did when it came to him. Because no matter how gentle he was, Riki had a way of making everything feel fragile, sacred. Like one wrong move would crack the porcelain.

But he understood anyway.

“Stay?” he asked quietly, as if confirming something he already knew. “Of course.”

He walked to the far side of the bed, slow and calm. Then without another word, he drew the curtains closed with a single tug. The night dimmed around you like a secret being kept from the world.

“You don’t have to be anywhere else,” he added, voice softer now. “Not tonight.”

You watched as he stepped away for a moment — returning with a folded blanket and placing it at the edge of the bed, like a silent offer. But then he sat beside you, careful not to crowd your space. His presence alone was warm.

Your wrist still tingled faintly where he had touched it.

“You always walk like you don’t want to leave footprints,” he murmured, not quite looking at you.

You blinked, smiling faintly. “I don’t like disturbing the world.”

He tilted his head. “Then I’ll make sure the world stays quiet when you move through it.”

There was no grand gesture. No reaching for you. Just stillness.

But you leaned back against the pillows anyway, letting the silence hold you.

And when he eventually laid down beside you, careful and slow, you didn’t flinch.

You stayed.

And so did he.

The next morning rolled by quickly, it was the same routine. You both had meals together, once in a while you’d bump into each other and then you’d talk but return to your own things quickly. And now, you were laying on your bed tossing and turning. It was late, you should be asleep by now but you aren't because whenever you close your eyes, yesterday’s incidents show up.

It was as if the insides of your eye lids were etched with the memory of you and him sleeping together in the same bed, same room and same atmosphere. You never slept so peacefully and carefree before yesterday. You felt comfortable and... protected.

But now that you are alone without Riki’s invisible shield of comfort, you feel weird and sleeps not coming to you at all. So, with a groan, you put your feet down and walk yourself to the bookshelf taking a book you found interesting.

You took that book and without a second thought, slid the door open and walked towards Niki’s room.

The silence of the mansion stretched endlessly, broken only by the distant sound of the wind brushing against the tall windows. Your bare feet padded softly along the cold marble floor, like a ghost searching for something familiar in a place too grand.

Eventually, your steps brought you to his bedroom.

Riki was already sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him, his phone resting in his hand. The glow of the warm bedside lamp threw shadows across his face, making him look almost unreal—too still, too beautiful.

He looked up when you entered. His expression didn’t change, didn’t question. Just a quiet understanding in his eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and calm.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you... read to me?”

There was a pause, and then a small tilt of his head as he glanced at you and the book in your hands.

“Come here.”

You climbed onto the bed, not in the middle, but closer to his side—close enough that your shoulder lined up with his chest. You leaned gently back into him. He didn’t move away. In fact, he adjusted as he took the book, shifting the book slightly and pulling you into him more securely.

His right arm held the book, while his left, the one curled around you from behind, slid up and helped support the other edge of the book—like you were both reading together, but he held it for you.

His arm stayed firmly around your waist, your back against his chest, his chin at the side of your head. The book was stretched across in front of you both, resting against his arm and yours. His fingers gently flipped the pages as his voice began to fill the room, reading the story with a steady, soft rhythm.

You barely heard the words.

Because all you could focus on was this: The warmth of him at your back. The slow rise and fall of his chest against your spine. The way his hand, the one around your waist, adjusted the book with care—not once letting go of you, not even to turn the page.

You were in his arms.

Not trapped. Not caged. Just… there. Held. Close. Safe.

Every time he spoke, the words hummed softly against your back. Every time he breathed, your body rose with him. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. In that moment, he wasn’t the man who bought you. He was just the man reading beside you—holding the book with you, like it was a shared secret.

And you let yourself sink into the comfort of it, slowly, silently, like a petal folding into the palm of his hand.

You weren’t even aware of when your eyes began to flutter shut.

His voice had that effect—low, steady, curling into your mind like warm smoke. The story blurred at the edges. Words became sounds. Sounds became nothing.

His chest rose and fell gently behind you, one arm still wrapped around your waist, the other steadily holding the book, though the words had started to slow, and then pause.

He felt it.

The shift in your body. The weight of your head relaxing back, your temple brushing against his collarbone. Your breathing evened out. Calm. Light. Deep.

He lowered the book slowly, carefully—not wanting to move too much.

His eyes shifted down to you. Your lashes rested softly on your cheeks, lips parted slightly. Your hand had curled lightly against his thigh, fingers resting there as if you had been reaching for something in your sleep and found him.

Riki didn’t move. Not for a long time.

He just watched you, the way you trusted him without saying a word. The way your body softened only in his arms. Like this enormous house, this lonely palace of glass and silence, only became real when you were inside it, barefoot and blinking at the world.

His thumb brushed the side of your arm, tracing slow circles through the fabric of your sleeve.

You sleep like you belong here, he thought.

And God help him—he wanted you to.

He reached over with his free hand, setting the book down gently on the bedside table. Then, with a slow breath, he shifted down, pulling the blankets over the two of you, careful not to wake you.

You didn’t stir.

So he stayed like that—your face tucked just beneath his chin, your breath warming the cotton of his shirt, your fingers lightly curled against his chest.

Niki pressed a kiss to the top of your head, light but firm.

“Sleep dove,” he whispered, the word only for you.

“You’re safe here.”

And for the first time in years, he slept too.

You woke to warmth.

Not the cold shine of chandeliers or the hush of marble floors. Not the distant echo of silence that usually greeted you. No — it was warmth that curled over you like sunlight and safety.

Your cheek was resting on something steady. Soft fabric. A heartbeat beneath it.

You blinked, slowly, and looked up.

He was already awake.

Niki’s gaze was already on you — sharp eyes calm, unreadable, but somehow... soft. His arm was still around you, firm but gentle, the weight of it like a promise you didn’t ask for.

“You slept through sunrise,” he murmured, voice low with sleep. “That’s rare.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your voice hadn’t found you yet, and the weight of the moment held your tongue in place.

You shifted slightly — his hand tightened around your waist without thinking, pulling you back before you could move far.

“Stay,” he said, simply. Like a rule.

Your lips parted, brows raising just a little.

“I wasn’t leaving,” you whispered.

A silence passed. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

“Good.”

His hand moved to your hair, brushing it back gently from your face, fingers warm against your cheek. He didn’t smile — Riki rarely did. But there was something else. Something deeper in the way he looked at you.

Like he could command the entire world to stop spinning — if you ever asked him to.

Like he already had.

And still, he didn’t ask you why you came to him last night. He didn’t ask what kept you awake. He never asked for more than you gave.

He simply reached behind you, pulled the blanket up again — and drew you back to his chest.

“Five more minutes dove,” he murmured into your hair. “Then I’ll have breakfast brought up.”

You didn’t protest.

You didn’t want to.

You stayed.

You must’ve dozed off again, because the next time your eyes fluttered open, the sun had climbed higher — spilling golden light across the silk sheets, warm and almost surreal.

The space beside you was empty.

But you weren’t alone.

The faint sound of footsteps reached your ears first — steady, deliberate — followed by the soft click of the door opening.

“You’re awake,” Riki’s voice came, smooth and quiet.

You turned toward him — he was dressed now, though not fully formal. Still loose dark sleeves, still barefoot. Still impossibly composed, as though nothing ever touched him.

Except you.

He stepped aside, and in came the staff, heads bowed, silent. A tray was set down on the marble side table, covered in a fine white cloth.

“Leave it. I’ll handle it,” he ordered.

They left. Quickly. Quietly. Like shadows.

You sat up slowly, the blanket still drawn around you, hair falling gently over one shoulder. Niki’s eyes followed you with a look only he wore — the kind that studied and claimed at the same time.

“You didn’t have dinner last night,” he murmured, pulling the tray closer. “Eat.”

He lifted the cover — steam curling into the morning air. Warm fruit pastries. Soft eggs. Toast. Fresh juice. Not too much. Just enough.

You blinked. “You didn’t have to bring it here.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just placed the napkin gently in your lap, then slid the tray over your legs.

Then his eyes met yours.

“I wanted to,” he said. “Especially when it comes to you.”

You looked away.

But not for long.

His fingers reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear — slow, deliberate.

“Eat,” he said again. “You can go back to not talking to me after.”

You let out the barest breath of a laugh. Not mocking. Just… small. Real.

And you took a bite.

His eyes stayed on you the entire time.

It was just another day, you were walking around the mansion, padding through different hallways and just enjoying the peace. The floor- like always is clean. No clutter. No forgotten dust. No stray things that could catch your toe or disturb your peace. Especially after you came here. Every surface, every hallway, every corner—immaculate.

But today, someone had made a mistake.

You were walking down the hallway again, your steps light and silent as usual, your thoughts elsewhere. Until—

Crack.

A sharp sting sliced through the underside of your foot.

You inhaled sharply, stumbling back with a soft gasp, your heel immediately lifting off the ground. You looked down. Red. It was already trickling across the white marble like a delicate thread of silk.

Your breath hitched—not in panic, not in pain. But in mild disbelief.

Your fingers gripped the wall for balance, the pain sharp and clean. You look at the cut brining your leg up and then the glass that shimmered in the light, a sliver of it still embedded which was on the floor.

That’s when you heard him.

“What happened?” came the voice—calm, deep, but already laced with something tight.

You didn’t have to look up. You knew that tone. He was always behind you. Always watching.

He was beside you in seconds.

His eyes dropped to your foot, and something changed in his expression. Softness cracked beneath steel. His jaw tensed as he crouched infront of you, fingers already reaching for your foot, surprisingly gentle.

He looked at the cut as if he’s processing something unacceptable.

You watched him as he cradled your foot in his hands, inspecting the wound with careful attention. He didn’t speak again—just moved. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it gently to stop the bleeding.

You whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t see—”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he cut her off quietly, but not coldly.

Then he stood.

“Ji-woon!” His voice rang sharply down the hall. A name barked, cold and final. One of the workers came rushing in, face already pale. “I told you,” Riki said, voice low and dangerous, “this house stays perfect. No dust. No clutter. No risk. She walks barefoot.”

“S-sir, I—I thought—”

“You thought,” he interrupted. “She’s bleeding.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The worker was already shaking.

“Get out,” he said simply. “You're done, I'll deal with you later.”

Once the man disappeared, Niki was kneeling infront of you again, dabbing the blood off with his kerchief. He didn’t speak as he cleaned the wound carefully. His fingers were gentle. Reverent. As if hurting your foot was equivalent to failing as a man.

He was already moving again, lifting you up before you could protest. His arms were warm, strong, and you let your head rest lightly against his shoulder, feeling comfort in his presence.

“You walk on your feet too much.” He states as he walks with you in his arms.

You wrap your hands around his neck and hum, “I like to feel the world beneath me.”

“You shouldn’t have to bleed to feel the world,” he whispered.

And you didn’t know if he meant it as comfort or warning.

Later that night after he made a doctor treat your cut, he left while you stayed on your bed. Dinner was bought to you. There were constant maids checking up on you if you wanted anything. And more books bought into your room by one of the staff.

You were sitting on the bed with your back against the headboard and your thoughts floating in your brain.

You heard the door before you saw him. A soft click, so soft it could’ve been the wind. You didn’t lift your head — you knew who it was by the silence he always carried.

“You’re still awake,” Ni-ki said quietly, his voice brushing the room like velvet.

You kept your eyes on the book.

“I didn’t feel like sleeping.”

He moved closer, not bothering to ask permission, and sat at the edge of the bed. You glanced up briefly — his shirt sleeves were rolled up, veins visible on his forearms. His gaze wasn’t on your book. It was on your foot — the one wrapped neatly in a soft bandage.

“Still hurts?” he asked.

You shook your head once. “Not really.”

He didn’t answer, but his fingers ghosted over your ankle anyway — just barely. Checking, like he didn’t quite trust your words.

“Don’t worry” he said. “he’s fired.”

You blinked. “You fired him?”

“Of course I did.” A pause. Then softer — “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

You stared at him then. Not because of what he said, but the way he said it. Like it offended him. Like your blood on the floor was a crime against something sacred.

“You should sleep,” he murmured after a beat.

“You should, too,” you replied.

He smiled faintly — almost like it surprised him. His hand left your foot, brushing the edge of the blanket instead.

“I will. Once I know you’re resting. Sleep early, dove”

You didn’t respond.

You just watched as he stood, walking back toward the door — slow, deliberate, never turning his back on you completely.

And as the door closed again with that same quiet click. You laid yourself completely on the bed and pulled the covers up- the silk rubbing against your legs as you reach your dreamland with full of thoughts- thoughts of him.

You were curled up on the oversized velvet couch, legs stretched out, your back resting comfortably against the armrest. A quiet film flickered on the screen in front of you. The room was dim and warm, the kind of stillness that made time feel slower.

Then, you heard the faint sound of footsteps — the kind that were so familiar by now you didn’t even have to turn to know it was him.

Niki.

He didn't say anything at first. Just walked in quietly, gaze drifting to you with that unreadable calm he always wore. You stayed as you were, unmoving, used to the way he never asked before doing things.

He reached the couch, and you felt his hands gently take hold of your ankles. You blinked, watching as he carefully lifted your legs — like you were something breakable — and sat down in the space where they had been. Then, without a word, he laid your legs back across his lap.

Your heel rested against his thigh, your toes brushing the edge of his coat. You watched him from the corner of your eye, something inside you oddly still. His hand found your foot, thumb stroking a slow, lazy circle against your heel.

It wasn’t ticklish. It wasn’t meant to be. It was grounding.

Comforting.

“You’re cold,” he said softly, mostly to himself. His other hand settled on your ankle, thumb brushing along your skin again. “You should’ve said something.”

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t need to.

“I didn’t notice,” you murmured, half-focused on the way his thumb moved. " ‘s warm now."

His jaw ticked slightly, like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. He just kept rubbing soft, unhurried circles against your foot — the kind of gesture someone wouldn’t do unless they really cared.

You watched him in stillness — the way his fingers traced every curve, every line of your sole like it was scripture only he could read. His brows were slightly drawn; lips parted like he was whispering secrets to your skin without words.

Then his head dipped lower.

You felt his breath first — warm, feather-light against the delicate arch of your foot.

And then, he kissed you there.

Not rushed, not fleeting. A slow, deliberate press of his lips against the softest part of you. Like it was sacred. Like you were sacred.

His thumb brushed your ankle as he pulled back just an inch, but he didn’t look up. He stared at the place he kissed, then lowered his head again — this time to the side of your heel, then your toes, reverent, unhurried.

“You don’t even know,” he murmured, his voice quiet, a little rough. “How much I’d ruin the world just so you never have to walk on it.”

Your breath caught.

He finally looked up, eyes dark but soft, mouth still near your skin.

“I’d carry you everywhere, if you let me.”

You look away not knowing what to say, but your attention was on him.

And his on you.

You pressed your feet not hard- but light and firm against the palm of his hand.

Neither of you needed to speak. Not in moments like this.

Here, in this cocoon of quiet, he didn’t need to say what you already knew — that you were his, that he would always make space for you. Even if it meant rearranging the entire world just so you could lie comfortably on a couch.

With that you both continued watching the film in the comforting atmosphere which made both of yours hearts warm.

The door to his bedroom was open, just like always.

You stepped in quietly, the silk of your nightwear whispering against your skin as you padded barefoot across the polished floor. Niki was sitting against the headboard, laptop on his thighs, the pale light from the screen casting a soft glow across his sharp features.

You climbed onto the bed without a word, your movements slow and silent, as if not to disturb him — but Niki didn’t need you to be careful. He always knew when you were near.

You settled beside him, laying on your stomach, your face resting just beside his hip. The cool silk sheets felt soft against your skin, your legs curling slightly to the side. He was warm there beside you — not just in presence, but in something else, something steadying. Familiar.

Niki didn’t glance down right away, but you could feel the shift in his breath, the subtle stilling of his fingers on the keyboard. Then his hand, the one not working, moved gently — his knuckles brushing along your cheekbone, slow and absentminded an. His thumb swept just beneath your eye before sliding into your hair, fingers threading through it gently.

“You always end up right here,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You nuzzled closer without answering, your eyes fluttering shut, cheek resting against the softness of his hoodie where it draped across his hip, your chin on his thigh.

“Makes it hard to concentrate,” he added, but you could hear the smile under his breath. He didn’t ask you to move.

Instead, his hand settled at the back of your head, protective, his thumb occasionally stroking your temple while he kept working — one hand typing, the other gently cradling you like you were something fragile, sacred.

You watched him for a while, the soft glow of his laptop illuminating his focused expression, his fingers moving swiftly over the keys. The quiet buzz of the room, the soft rhythm of his typing — it all seemed to fall into the background as you settled more comfortably beside him, your face still near his hip.

Curiosity tugged at you. “What are you doing?” you asked softly, breaking the quiet, your voice barely above a murmur.

Niki didn’t look at you right away. His gaze was still focused on the screen, but you could see the faint twitch of his lips. “Work,” he answered, his voice casual, but with a hint of amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Work?” you repeated, shifting a little to look at him more directly. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”

He finally glanced at you, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small, knowing smile. “There’s always something to handle,” he said, his voice low. But the smile didn’t last long — instead, it softened as he looked down at you again, the light from the screen catching the warmth in his gaze.

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity still lingering in your eyes. “You are working so late,” you murmured, a small frown tugging at your lips.

He hummed softly, shifting his position just slightly so he could lean closer. “I don’t mind,” he said quietly, the words filled with that same quiet intensity he always carried, “But I don’t want you to feel like you’re bothering me.”

A comfortable silence hung between you, but you didn’t break your gaze. Niki’s hand, still resting on the laptop, slowly moved away as if in response to the unspoken tension in the air.

“Do you need anything?” he asked after a pause, a softness creeping into his voice.

It was then that you let your curiosity spill into something more intimate. “Just you,” you whispered, shifting closer to him, ready to pull him from the world of his work.

And just like that, the click of the keyboard stopped, the weight of his attention shifted, and you felt his focus solely on you. His hand, the one that had been cradling your head, paused for a moment before gliding down your back in a long, quiet stroke. Then came the soft click of his laptop closing.

“You're done?” you murmured, barely above a whisper, eyes still closed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, almost lazy. “I’ve got better things to hold.”

You felt the laptop move off the bed, replaced by the warmth of his full attention. Niki shifted, slowly turning his body toward you. His hand found your waist and pulled you gently into him, tucking you into his side. Your face now rested against his abdomen, and one of his arms curled around your shoulders like a shield, holding you close, like you were his grounding point — not the work, not the empire, just you.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, staying there for a moment longer than usual.

“This is better,” he whispered into your hair.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed again.

And he just stayed like that, holding you, work forgotten on the nightstand.

The grand ballroom stretched out before you, its lavish details and golden accents reflecting the light from the crystal chandeliers above. The air was quiet, only the soft echo of your footsteps as you stood in the center, surrounded by the opulence of the room. Niki’s presence was steady beside you, his figure just as commanding as the room itself.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment felt surreal, like a scene out of a dream, but you weren’t dreaming. His gaze was on you, steady and intense, and without thinking, you spoke.

“Niki,” you said, your voice barely a whisper but full of meaning. “Dance with me.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes searching your face. There was a brief pause, but then his lips curved into a small, knowing smile. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers curling around it with a soft but firm grip.

Without a word, he led you toward the center of the ballroom, his body moving effortlessly, guiding you as you followed his lead. Your feet glided across the floor, as though you’d been dancing together for years, the music between the two of you unspoken, but felt in every movement.

The rhythm of your bodies was fluid, as if you were both lost in the moment, and yet there was something more — an electricity that ran between you. His hand rested gently on the small of your back, pulling you closer. Your heart beat faster, not from nerves, but from the undeniable pull you felt toward him.

As the dance continued, his gaze never left you, his movements slow and deliberate. Your body pressed against his, and with each step, it felt like the world around you disappeared.

You tilted your head up toward him, the rhythm of the dance no longer enough to hold the tension between you. The space between your faces grew smaller until his lips were almost brushing yours.

“Riki…” you whispered again, your breath catching.

He didn’t need another prompt. With a small movement, he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss. Time seemed to stop as he deepened the kiss, his hand tightening around you, pulling you even closer. His lips were warm, familiar, and you melted into him, your arms winding around his neck, the world outside the ballroom fading into the background.

The kiss was everything — soft but filled with an intensity that left you breathless. The ballroom, the music, everything around you became a distant memory as you both lost yourselves in the moment, surrounded only by the feeling of each other’s presence.

When you finally pulled away, your faces still close, he looked down at you with a quiet intensity. “You’re mine,” he whispered, the words settling into your skin like a secret.

And as you rested your head against his chest, the world could have stopped, and you wouldn’t have cared. In that moment, it was just the two of you — dancing, kissing, and belonging to each other.

That night the moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. The night was still, save for the sound of your breath mingling with his, a rhythm you both seemed to fall into effortlessly.

His hands roamed over your skin, gentle yet possessive, as if he were trying to imprint his touch into every inch of you. The tension between you had been building for what felt like forever, and tonight, the air was thick with desire.

His lips trailed down your neck, sending shivers through your body, and you couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, your lips finding his once more. It was a kiss of urgency, like you both needed something more, something deeper.

In the heat of the moment, you pulled back just slightly, breathless, your fingers still tangled in his hair. The question escaped your lips before you could even stop it.

“Do you love me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability of the words making your heart skip a beat.

For a moment, Niki didn’t respond. His gaze locked with yours, and there was a brief flicker of something in his eyes — something unreadable, but intense. You could feel the weight of the silence between you, the gravity of the question hanging in the air.

His lips curled into a smirk, a dangerous, knowing smirk that only made your heart race faster. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his face closer to yours, his breath warm against your ear.

“Do you think I would be here, right now, with you... if I didn’t?” he murmured, his voice low, almost dangerous.

The words sent a thrill through you, but you needed to hear it. You needed him to say it.

He pulled away just enough to look into your eyes, and in that moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. There was no pretense, no games. Just him, just you.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice raw and sincere, his hands gripping you tighter as though saying the words made it real. “I’ve loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you, my dove.”

The words hit you like a rush of warmth, and you felt your heart swell in your chest. Before you could respond, he kissed you again, harder this time, as if he were sealing his confession with the heat of his touch. And in that kiss, you could feel everything — the love, the intensity, the raw, undeniable connection between you two.

A year passed like a dream draped in silk and quiet mornings. Days blurred into evenings filled with shared meals across candlelit tables, where words weren’t always needed and glances spoke more than conversation ever could.

You learned the shape of his presence — the way he liked his tea, the way his gaze always found you first in any room. Nights melted into warmth, into the comfort of shared blankets and whispered goodnights, into his arms around you and your breath against his chest.

The mansion no longer felt foreign. It breathed with you. It held your laughter in its walls, your footprints on its floors.

There were kisses pressed to your temple without warning, fingers laced absentmindedly under sun-drenched gardens, soft embraces that lingered longer than necessary. Somewhere between the silences and stolen glances, love settled — slow, certain, and deeply rooted.

Now, the night had quieted, the air in the room warm and still, lit only by the faint glow from the wall lamp near the bed.

You lay tangled in his arms, the sheets slipping low around your waists. His lips brushed lazily against yours, the kisses slow, unhurried — the kind you melt into without realizing. One hand rested on your waist, thumb tracing slow circles on your skin like he was memorizing you all over again.

You breathed against his mouth, murmuring something incoherent, and he chuckled quietly. “What?” you asked, voice a sleepy whisper.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His gaze wasn’t teasing. Not soft. Not playful.

It was quiet. Steady. Unnervingly serious.

“Do you want to marry me?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You blinked up at him, mind foggy from the warmth of his body and the softness of the moment. But his expression didn’t shift. He wasn’t joking.

His fingers grazed your jaw, gently tilting your face toward him.

“I want you here forever,” he said, voice low. “No more pretending this isn’t everything. No more wondering if you belong to me. You do.”

A pause.

“So let’s make it permanent.”

The silence in the room was louder than any answer.

But you didn’t pull away. You smile and nod.

And that — was all he needed.

His hand slid to the back of your head, pulling you into another kiss.

Possessive. Final. Yours. His. Forever.

©mrsjjongstby all writing belong to me. do not copy, modify or repost my works.

taglist: @gnarlyhoons @stormlit-pages @himynameisraelynn @see-c (lmk if u wanna be added!)

A/N: HELLOOOO???!???!?! did y'all miss me? also the layout is inspired by the extraordinary author, (whom im lucky to call my friend hehehe) @elikajinnie !!!!!!! REBLOGS ND COMMENTS R VERY MUCH APPRECIATED, stay hydratedddd!

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0bticeo · 3 months ago

Text

mark grayson | takeout misshap

summary: mark stumbles in, looking wrecked—bruised, bloody, barely holding himself up—but guess what? he still has a takeout bag. the paper’s stained red, but he just grins like an idiot and goes: "still hot." priorities.

(requested by one lovely anon <3)

tw: none! diabetes inducing amounts of fluff, mark gets all the hugs and kisses he needs for the traumatic shit he's been through, blood and bruises, mention of invincible events but no spoilers (also ik there's only two variants in the wasteland dimension but. but viltrumite mark survived bc he's my bby)

you love mark grayson. from the bottom of your heart, to the moon and back, through hell and back. you love watching him geek out about the new seance dog episode, because you don’t understand , they perfectly adapted this one bit from the comics, and the VA’s performance made it sooo much better. you love watching the small crease of his brows when he focuses on his algebra homework. for all his complaining, he’s a good student.

you love invincible. you love watching mark suit up, coming up to him and adjusting his mask for him as his hands rest on your waist. you love watching him take off, flying away like it’s the most natural thing. and it is. he’s told you, fingers stroking your hair, that to viltrumites, it was like breathing.

“i wish i could fly sometimes,” you had whispered, craning your head to look up at him.

a soft peck on your forehead, on your eyelids - left, right. on your nose.

“i can take you flying, if you want.”

you had smiled.

“yeah. i’d like that.”

it was easier, back then. when all you had to worry about was making it into college. three years later and you’re both twenty-one, with the weight of the world on mark’s shoulders. viltrumites are wolves. no sheep’s clothing needed to hide themselves - nolan grayson had been a predator through and through, his glacier blue eyes cold enough to cut you down to your marrow.

you’re lucky you’re still alive and breathing. you’re lucky you get to see mark come home to you, bloodied, broken, bruised, but alive . it’s messy, sometimes. there’s blood on the carpet, stains ingrained in the fabric, unwilling to leave. there’s exhaustion. frustration on both your parts - you want. you want to enjoy a lazy morning in your boyfriend’s arms without that bastard cecil stedman’s call ripping him away from you. he wants to be there for you. that’s why you both rent a small little flat - hero work had him dropping out of college, and he couldn’t bear to watch you deal with it alone.

so you make it work. it’s not perfect, it’s messy - mark’s eyes are growing sadder and sadder, bags deepening under his eyes until he breaks down under the weight of it all.

(he came to you. after thraxa. after levy. after his variants. after conquest. he came to you, bloodied, half-mad with grief, a feral dog seeking its master’s tender touch. you’re no master of his, but your hands are the gentlest things he knows, so he buried himself in your arms and let himself break , knowing you’d pull him back together.)

you make it work.

doesn’t mean you’re still not eyeing the clock, frowning a little. you’ve rummaged around in your closet until you found the outfit, changed said outfit because it was too much for a date at that small, homey italian restaurant that mark organised, then changed it back because it was too casual. you are not spending your three year anniversary in your hoodie. well, mark’s hoodie. finders keepers.

so here you are, pacing back and forth in your living room under the watchful, curious gaze of nero, one feline eye half-opened on the couch. an hour passes. two. you settle on the couch and run your fingers through nero’s fur, the cat purring as he settles on your lap. three hours and all restaurants are closed. three am stares you straight in the eyes, the clock on the wall ticking away minute after unforgiving minute.

mark is late.

you’re not mad at him - dammit, he’s a superhero. that’s his job, and you’re proud of him for it. you are mad at cecil for not allowing him to rest after sending him on four back to back missions in a week right after he almost got stranded in a sordid wasteland dimension with three of his other variants.

a rasp at the window.

you jump on your feet, immediately dashing to the window to open it. in stumbles mark. blue and yellow suit in shreds, bloodied, bruised, one broken arm hanging limply at his side, two teeth missing, the plexiglas of his broken goggles having dug in his skin, a small shard embedded under his eyelid.

in his free arm, takeout.

the bag’s stained red from the blood coating his hand, slowly seeping into the brown paper.

he looks at you with a little smile - a little hiss escaping him when his split, swollen lips stretch painfully.

“hey,” he croaks, floating towards you, feet brushing the ground. “happy three years to us.”

then, after looking at the bag:

“still hot.”

you sigh fondly, cupping his face, watching as he melts into you, nose brushing yours. priorities. gently, you manage to dig out the small plexiglas fragment, earning a mournful sigh from him.

“m’sorry, m’staining the carpet again.”

“fuck the carpet.” you gently peck the spot under his ear, the only patch of skin left unbruised. “i’m just glad you’re alive.”

“mm. managed to snatch take-out at the italian before it closed. ordered your favourite.”

“aw, baby… you’re an angel.”

you peck his nose, lips a soft breeze over the crooked slope of it, taking the bag from him and setting it on the coffee table. nero purrs, tail rubbing over mark’s calf. mark is watching you, mask in hand, gaze soft. he makes a move to drape himself over you and stop, wordlessly looking at you, big brown eyes imploring.

“don’t wanna mess up your outfit.”

your heart melts .

“fuck my shirt. c'mere.”

your fingers close on his valid arm and you pull him towards you, giggling as he effortlessly slides in the air. mark thinks he’s never seen you look this beautiful, eyes sleep-soft, love pouring out of your heart straight to his. you��re happy, he realises. happy that he gets to come home to you. to come home at all.

he drapes himself over you, chest to your back, still careful not to put blood on your shirt- oh , you’re pulling him closer, craning up your neck so your cheek brushes against his. his hand rests on your waist, fingers hesitantly laying on the silk of your shirt until you press your hand against his, until he feels the warmth of you blooming under his palm like his blood on your shirt.

“love you,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

“love you too, baby.”

you feel him against you, body relaxing, melting into you as you pull out the clothes he’s laid out for himself before heading out, six hours ago - black slacks, black shirt. he eyes his limp arm, his shattered knee, and bite back a groan, forehead pressed to your nape, sweat-slick hair brushing the sensitive skin. not having both hands for that will suck. unless-

“look inside the pocket,” he mumbles.

you hum, intrigued, and comply, reaching for his pocket - you freeze when your fingertips brush the corner of something small.

you pull out a small velvet box, eyes wide.

“mark?”

he smiles, reaching out from behind you to open it, taking advantage of you holding it.

“yeah.”

gently, he takes the box from you and floats in front of you, half-kneeling, smile bloodied and unbearably soft.

“marry me?”

you think you’re crying. you might have tackled mark into a hug, then profusely apologized as you effectively crushed his bruised ribs. nero meows, confused.

“yeah. yeah, mark.” you kiss him. "i wanna marry you."

tagging: @tokoyamisstuff @gaiasmight

#obticeo writes #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #invincible #invincible show #mark grayson x y/n #mark grayson x you #invincible x reader #invincible x you #invincible x y/n #mark grayson fluff #invincible series #invincible season 3

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syluses · 4 months ago

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ataxia

sylus x fem reader

⤷ sylus wants kids, sweetie. lots of kids.

kind of a part 2 to this piece, but it can still serve as a lil standalone as well ♡ DAD SYLUS DAD SYLUS DAD SYLUS

cw ▻ nsfw, dubcon, breeding, pregnancy mentions, daddy kink, im a strong believer in sylus wanting a big family, whipped sylus, characters depicted are 18+, stockholm syndrome, yandere/obsessive tendencies, ~2.5k words

notes ▻ eeee they fr live in my head rent free </3 anyways take this crumb while i work on like other fics. daddy sylus is actually KILLING me like always on the noggin 😵‍💫

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

There’s a certain peace you feel, curled up on the leather couch, in watching your husband sit on his knees as the little ones crawl around the carpet, playing with them no different than a toddler would.

Not exactly a pleasant peace, by any means, but a simple, sort of resigned one. Your muscles seem to lose the tension, shoulders always piked high, ready for attack- or some other (meta)physical blow- slumping into rounded blades. You sigh.

Perhaps it’s the knowing that whatever bad thing that could’ve come- already has. Now, you’re experiencing the sloping aftereffects of it.

And this—

Sylus, with a beaming grin, letting out an almost breathless laugh as he scoops up one of the boys and twirls him overhead, the other kept by a protective hand at his side so he won’t bump on the corner of the coffee table—

Is just the fallout.

Ruby-red eyes flit over (and they always do sooner than later, like you’re a beacon in the middle of a dark sea) and crinkle at the edges. You’ve told him before that you don’t like when he throws the babies up in the sky like that, that if they were to suddenly fall, they can’t take flight like Mephisto. He must remember, because he lets out a little, woeful noise and carefully lowers him.

The smile remains, though, kilowatt and wide, a little starry-gazed like he’s inviting you to slip off the sofa and join him on the fluffy rug with your children.

The fatigue natural to post-pregnancy has already claimed you tonight, though. Truth be told, you’d have hesitated even if it didn’t. It’s fine, tending to your children on your own; his long absences leave you with massive windows of alone time with the little ones, and you actually enjoy it (save for the huge toll it takes on your energy, of course, but Luke and Kieran lend a hand where it counts- where they’re allowed).

That sentiment changes a bit, though, when your husband does get home. With his presence comes the cold reminder of how things really are, how you’re still an unwilling counterpart in all this- frilly gowns and jewels and the private chef he hires for fancy dinners (because he has the money for it) be damned.

You want to go home. That wish, hollow as it is, still stands.

…Even if it’s started staggering, in these last few months.

He’s always been more than content with just the two of you, but in the last several weeks, you compare Sylus’s emotional state to a suitcase packed too full, joy spilling out the sides. Evidently, he doesn’t try to close the zipper; he lets it happen with gladness, with his hands open and lifted, but you’re not sure he entirely knows what to do with himself. With these significant developments that are just as new to him (possibly even more, as much as that flummoxes you) as they are to you.

It’s as weird as it is endearing to see what having two children (twin boys, funnily enough) will do to your husband. But if there’s one thing you learned about Onychinus’s illustrious leader in the past couple years of your marriage—

It’s that he does not settle for less.

And when he draws closer, both little ones secured in his lap- dozing off because it’s already thirty minutes past their bedtime- and lifts your hand to place a chaste kiss there, rubbing your knuckles dotingly…

You can tell there’s something more he’s craving.

✿

“A girl,” he moans.

Sometimes- after you’ve just put down the boys for four consecutive nights in a row before collapsing in bed, your lover hardly having the opportunity to show his affections, all but guilted into letting you catch up on your sleep- it’s almost easy to forget how Sylus feels, your brain willing it away. How good he fucks you.

If you’re being more general- how good he takes care of you.

“Give me a girl this time, sweetie, just-“ a gasp, “one more.”

And vaguely, in the haze of sweat and burning hands, his thick, long cock plunging in and out of you deeply- slowly- your juices and his pre slicking between you, sticky as molasses, you wonder to yourself if he’s even convinced of that himself.

Just having one more, you mean.

The twins were unexpected: that right there is an understatement. You were hardly prepared for one rascal- all the countless evenings he spent buttering you up, so attentive, and then cumming into you with whispered vows to knock you up be damned— but when the xray revealed not one misshapen, little form in your womb, but two?

It was a bombshell.

Sylus, beside you (on the leather couch downstairs with your personal doctor he paid God knows how unreasonable a sum to show), had squeezed your hand in his and tried to mask half of his joy. The priority was in comforting you, helping you to realize that this was a good thing- a beautiful thing- that your life was not officially over and- hey, don’t worry, hasn’t he taken good care of you thus far? Surely, adding a couple little ones into the equation wouldn’t suddenly make it impossible.

You’re both very capable people, honey. Even more so together, with him. (Well, he assures you as much, anyway.)

Whether or not he could take care of you was never exactly the worry, though. The worry was that you’d be under his hand forever— and a baby? (two, you strictly correct. Two babies) You could kiss the last hope you had of ever weaseling out from his grip, or luxurious manor, goodbye.

He must know it, buried deep in the back of his head underneath the genuine layers of desire to simply start a family with you, his beloved girl, and flesh out more of a solid, burgeoning life; the silent promise underlying the pregnancy tests and inpromptu housecalls of your poor, overworked doctor.

That a family ties you to him forever.

A tether that’s damn near impossible to cut yourself loose from, even if you stood a punching chance at it to begin with. Glues you together in a way that even marriage doesn’t quite scratch the surface of. Your bond is perpetuated by blood, now. Flesh and bone. Your DNA, warped with his to create—

Monstrosities—

No, a harsh voice in the corner of your skull surprisingly snips back. They’re not monstrosities, far from it. All previous qualms nudged aside (and you had a lot, to be clear; hours spent sobbing and pushing helplessly at his chest as Sylus crooned and wrapped you in his arms proves that), doubts surrounding parenting and your own self preservation- your children are beautiful, that’s true. Healthy. Perfect.

If you’re being honest with yourself, and choose the high road here (the high road means willfully forgetting how involuntary this whole arrangement was in the first place)- they’re positively adorable. With his white hair spiking on their heads but your eyes and lips- and a shared penchant to land themselves into trouble, places they shouldn’t be before either of you stoops over to lift them out. Albeit, you’ll admit that their noses are still up for debate; it’s hard to pinpoint the resemblance when their faces are endearingly round, too chubby to really tell in this stage, but you secretly hope they’ll take after you in that regard.

You… don’t know how you’ll continue to operate if staring at your children is like staring at a mirror image of their father.

But… I mean, they’re fucking innocent in all this—

Your precious boys aren’t like their father. They… won’t be. You’ll make absolute sure of it.

“One more,” he chants, sucking in a long, thin breath through perfect teeth. And damn it all he feels good. So good. Maybe he had more than just one selfish, substratal reason for populating your otherwise fairly quiet home. Because you’re more obedient lately, wanting for it, almost… It gets him riled up in ways he could not begin to articulate. Hesitant still (sometimes he has this awful, basal fear that it’ll never go away, your trepidation towards him)- but sugar-sweet when you lie on the silken bed and present yourself with bashful cheeks that tell Sylus you hate yourself for it but have no real control in the moment.

You moan so prettily for him when he pries your thighs apart and presses them either side of your head, fashioning you like a butterfly, to slide in and out of you with ease. Melodic. Maybe he’s tone deaf to all songs save for you because he knows you, knows you like the back of his hand, pitch and lilt; he could pick out the voice of you in a crowd full of whooping people, he thinks.

Again, you blame your excitement on what he’s done to you. The twins’ pregnancy, the fluctuating hormones that have you bouncing between hysterical sobs and yanking your wide-eyed husband into impulsive, suffocating kisses before his fingers quickly settle around your middle. All the gentle erosion that he’s guided you through across the span of almost two years has left you worn and vulnerable.

But you suppose if something were to ever encourage a deeper bond- strengthen it- what else would it be than to take a man’s seed inside your womb and gift him with a bunch of unruly but cute kids? That’d gnaw away at just about anybody’s inhibitions, even if it grudges you to admit that. It lessens what remnant you held onto of this idea of ‘autonomy’, makes you fully lean onto him.

Sylus takes that news much, much better than you.

It’s… got to be more than physical between you now, you think distantly as he bullies his cockhead against your smooth walls, stroking a spongey spot in the bulwarks of you that makes your head go kaput. Like something spiritual, perhaps. He’s joined his soul with yours and that’s why you’ve been so obedient lately, so needy, clinging onto him and making his back your own personal scratching post as he plays at the idea of impregnating you again.

Oh, fuck, he’s such a bastard you hate him you hate him you—

You suppose your baby girl, inevitable to come somewhere down the line- whether that means during the next pregnancy or the third- won’t be like him, either.

She’ll be a sweetheart, and soft. Perhaps she’ll inherit her daddy’s crimson eyes or his smooth, sharp tongue, his inclination for success, but she’ll carry her mother’s heart with her. She will be kind.

Until someone like her daddy comes along. Flips her world on its head.

(And you know that having Sylus as her daddy would be the simple fact that staves off all potential men intending to prey on her, but still, the thought remains, niggling and bitter.)

“Take daddy’s cock, sweetie,” he goads, breath shot right from his lungs as he traps you beneath him- not that you’ve much the will to resist anymore- and moans over you. “You’ll take what he has to offer, won’t you? Your pretty belly will take all of it in?”

Tears prickle at your eyes when his flit down to your tummy, pupils swelling wildly as his jaw sets tight. He hisses through clenched teeth, cock giving a hot pulse accordingly.

It’s not difficult to imagine the bump there, the mound that’s not yet formed over a for now slim belly and wrinkled skin (stretch marks that you loathe but he worships on most nights, with your heels over his shoulder and his tongue lapping greedily at your pussy, palms kneading the flesh with reverence). It’s hardly been six months since you had the twins (a home birth, he’d insisted, because it was safer that way, more sterile, less stressful for you), but Sylus finds himself pining for your body to adapt to his seed again, for your breasts to plump and your stomach to round, your skin to glow.

(Your hands to reach for him because your emotions have been sat on one long rollercoaster ride and you can’t help whatever the fuck is going on inside you.)

“Sylus—“ You mewl, panting as he knocks his forehead to yours- with a whit more force than you think he’d meant, but he’s a little dazed right now, and your pussy feels so good, so don’t hold it against him, kitten- and grunts back. “Yes?” He breathes, and you liken the sound to a gust of wind, powerful and shaking.

“I- I don’t know,” you all but wail, desperately trying to tamp down your sounds of pleasure before they can escape. You’re failing.

Your reticence is for a number of reasons. First of all, your boys are just down the hall, swaddled in their respective cradles under their rotating airplane fixtures and sleeping soundly. You don’t have any intentions of changing that- especially for something as stupid and pathetic as essentially whoring yourself out to their father (and you’re not a whore, but you can’t help but feel like one when you start to bask in the attention he gives you- your hormones post-pregnancy compelling you to do all sorts of wild things).

And secondly, Luke and Kieran don’t renown you as stubborn for no reason, or your husband, lovingly, as a drama queen— and there’s a defiant part of you that does not want to see the satisfaction on his face when you start to crumble under his ministrations and open your mouth about it.

But all that, for Sylus, is a wonderful work in progress.

And if we’re to be crystal, for as much as the N109 Zone’s number one magnate prioritizes the end goal, he thoroughly enjoys the process.

“You don’t know what, Sweetie?” He whispers. It’s all he can manage right now, you’re squeezing him so tight. In that moment, the fog parts, and he knows with a hundred percent certainty that you do not want him to leave. Yes, your cunt is saying as much, and he rewards it with a carefully angled thrust right against your g-spot, but your face tells no different a story.

You’re beautiful. Perfection embodied. Makes him lose his breath a little.

“I-If I want a girl,” You heave. “If I want one at all.”

Something like dejection passes across his handsome visage then, or maybe it’s uncertainty that weakens the tight knotch in his brow as he inwardly struggles- between his approaching climax and the single mind he’s got to stuff you full of his release- for an appropriate answer. He doesn’t want to anger you. Doesn’t want to make you hate him, no, especially not when you’re finally starting to dip your toes in his waters after all his painstaking efforts to make you comfortable. Oh, God knows Sylus would kick himself for that.

…But this will be good for you. Having another, he means. It’ll be good for the both of you and if you’d just let him show you—

He’s painted the perfect demonstration of that quite well with the boys, hasn’t he? In this past handful of months, you’ve never looked happier and you’re positively glowing and all Sylus has ever wanted was to see your pretty face light with that dazzling, little smile. The twins he’s given you, unbidden as they initially were through your lens, make you so, so happy.

This will be so, so good.

Perfect.

If you’d just give in.

Oh, you’re so maddening sometimes but he adores you, every part and piece. He stoops over so his damp lips brush the lobe of your ear, the perspiration dotting his temple wetting your flushed cheeks. He croons, “You do. You do want it. I’ll show you, kitten, just how bad you need it. The twins need a sister, don’t you think? They won’t know anything other than playing rough, if not.”

Your fingertips squeeze into the lean planes of muscle of his back. He’s burning up, near feverish what with the heat sweltering between your sandwhiched bodies, but he gives a shiver in response like he’s enduring temperatures below freezing.

Panic, beneath the misty veneer of pleasure that makes your face go slack- and the subtle, inexplicable flash of something that almost convinces you Sylus is right, that you do want it- slips into the forefront of your muddled brain. Reaches a hand through the dirt and revives itself, reminding, no, no, you don’t want this, you don’t want him, you don’t want—

You let out a delicious gasp as he spears into you, the flesh of your thighs dimpling as he presses down the undersides of them. Firm, but gentle. It’s true, you’ve become considerably more flexible since meeting him- since having to accommodate him- but he’ll never give you anything more than you can take.

You’d never admit it, but there’s almost a little bit of comfort in knowing that.

“I-I’ll make sure they know how to play nice,” you force out, taking your lower lip in your mouth and suckling as the telltale rush of your climax draws nigh, hardening in your belly as it builds. “I’ll make sure they know how to be gentle, Sy!” Foreign to your own ears. Your voice is horrid as you belatedly register it, all sniveling and gasping- downright pathetic as you cling onto him for dear life and he ruts into you like a dog in heat.

You’re grasping at straws now, you know, but for as feeble as your excuses are, you hope they hit their mark. That they’ll get him to reconsider-

“But sweetie,” he breathes tenderly, “you’re already making sure I’m gentle,” he reminds in a pleasant voice, edged with the remnants of a self control that unravels at a steady pace. “How will you juggle between the three of us? Hm?”

His cockhead, fat and precise, catches on that spot in you that makes you go positively crazy and your eyes flutter back. You let out a strange, choked sound that he marvels at before he capitalizes on the reaction completely, buffetting away at the final walls you’d erected against him tonight.

All are near crumbled.

“I’ll find a way,” you nearly squeak- high-pitched and unconvincing because his mind’s already made- before he’s lolling your jaw back towards him and smashing his lips to yours in a decadent kiss, silencing your protests- for as weak as they are.

It’s close to visceral, the contact, wet lips melding hungrily with yours, trading groans and mewls as he effectively pistons his hips into you and paints colorful stars across the black span of your eyelids. In a word- invasive. Torpefying, all your limbs unfurling and slipping away from him in favor of curling into the sheets as your release approaches at whirlwind speeds, blunt fingernails clinging onto you so tight there’ll be bruises formed tomorrow- as well as an apologetic, rueful sigh on Sylus’s end, because he swears to God he’s trying to hold back—

Fucking mind-numbing.

And isn’t that just what you need? A quiet conscience? A shot of morphine fed through a needle straight into the veins, an emotional kind of tranquilizer or- or something to moderate the snarled mess your heart’s become all because of him—

It seems he’s cognizant then, pupils dilated madly as he finally blinks, of the hands that clench too tight- withdrawing them immediately from your thighs (regrettably, they remain cleaved open in a willing offer for him, shaking and red with his prints) to loop your wrists either side of your head. Holding your hands. Ever the romantic. You almost laugh, seconds off from that white-hot tidal wave of pleasure, at the irony of it all. Onychinus’s formidable, takes-no-bullshit leader, fucking you with all the grace of a big clumsy dog but all the love of one too— loyal and determined, bleeding heart on his sleeve.

He’s still kissing you, sucking on your tongue filthily, and all you can think of is waking the boys sleeping soundly next door how exquisite it feels, his thick member dragging in and out of your walls like it’s his right. Sylus certainly believes as much.

He’s ruined you too good for anyone else; you’re starting to believe it, too.

“There you go, kitten!” He gasps. “Let go. Just- fuck- let go for daddy. Such a good, good girl. Such a good mommy, you are. Our- oh, fuck, that’s it, that’s it, perfect- Our little girl will be so, so lucky to have you.”

When he comes, you do, too.

#love and deepspace #lads x reader #sylus x reader smut #sylus smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads smut #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus x you #sylus x reader #yandere #lads sylus #sylus qin #calebrity #okay now i PINKY PROMISE next sylus fic will be a new concept #just had to get this off my mind whew #‧₊ 🍰.┊𝒄𝒂𝒌𝒆𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

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damneddamsy · 12 days ago

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𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured��still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence.

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

‘Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

-> PART TWO HERE.

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

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spitdrunken · 21 days ago

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'Ant' Tenna x Reader (Deltarune)

Notes: Horror undertones, but they're for things Tenna also does canonically. Happy ending...? I keep seeing people saying that this guy is going to be the new Tumblr sexyman, but I don't see anyone being feral about him yet. So. Here you go.

You’d gotten the TV from Toriel, practically for free. She’s well-known in the little town you’re renting a single-room apartment in, and had practically insisted you take it. (“My son… Is also a student, but he moved out. If he needed something, I would be happy knowing he got help from someone too,” she’d told you with a smile.)

Because, yeah, you are a struggling student, with a commute lasting about 4 hours a day, but you couldn’t afford any other place and were desperate enough to get away from home to take it. The town is beautiful and quiet, the rent is dirt cheap and the people are nice, though you can tell it’s not the same compared to if you had grown up here.

Your half a day long commute prevents you from doing much socializing, you’re always thinking about what time you’ll be home, how busy it’ll be on the roads and what the hell you’re going to be eating for dinner that night. Though, to be fair, even without that added hurdle you’ve never found approaching people the easiest. Like, ever. So, you spend a lot of time in your apartment, alone, doing homework or being online, either on the couch or in bed (which, considering they’re in the same room, kind of feel like the same thing). And, now, you have a television to add for entertainment.

It’s old. Toriel had warned you about ‘images that wouldn’t leave the screen’, and as soon as you turn the thing on there’s clear burn-in from the logos of kid’s tv channels and other things, an unfadeable memory. You can’t do a whole lot with it except watch cable… It doesn’t even have a HDMI port.

Still, you’re thankful for it and the old game consoles you’d brought with you from home out of pure nostalgia. Now you can finally dust them off and use them, remember what you loved about those games you played for hours and hours, on your own, as a kid. It feels warm and you find yourself smiling, face illuminated by the screen’s light.

But it always comes to an end. You turn it off, eyelids drooping, and the stress of your day-to-day with its rising expenses, loneliness, student debt and an already dead future career, rushes back to you all at once. You don’t want to leave your room, sometimes. It’s crushing. You don’t have any say in the matter, though, so you get up and keep going, every day practically the same. With a flicker of hope that it will, eventually, someday, get better. That’s what you’ve always been told.

One night, you fall in sleep in front of your television and have the strangest dream, one that feels as real as reality but surely cannot be. There, you’re chaperoned by a man(?) named ‘Ant’ Tenna, treated like the star of the show, the contestant in a quiz that has questions tailored specifically to your personal niche knowledge, and you absolutely blow it out of the park.

You’re not used to being the center of attention like this… Even if the crowd seems more like a mass of moving audience members, rather than actual people. Your knees are trembling for the first five questions and, even after, you struggle and stutter from time, but the host never calls you out on it. It’s surprisingly… Nice. To get this attention, to feel like you’re being acknowledged.

You linger after the show is over, unsure of what to do in the Green Room. You’re not really hungry or tired, which makes sense considering you surely must be dreaming. You wander outside, led by red carpet, and almost run straight into Tenna. He’s huge, absolutely towering over you, easily twice your height. You pull and tug a bit at your clothes as you crane your neck and smile up at him. “I wanted to say—Um, thanks for having me, mister Tenna! It was… Really fun!” Bright, white teeth shine at you from the screen that is his face. He folds his hands behind his back and leans forward, just a little. “Oh, sweetheart, just Tenna is fine! We don’t have to be all formal with each other, do we? I already feel like I know you so well!” You feel a little bit of heat rising to your face. The quiz had been perfectly finetuned to your interests… But that all makes sense, considering this is all happening in the safe confines of your brain, and this man is just a figment of your imagination. It’s all good. Tenna claps his hands in front of his body and you’re jolted from your thoughts. “If you were having such a good time, how about another round?”

And you do. You play and win at a whole variety of games, until your head is spinning—The dream seems to drag on, and on and on. More than anything, you’re having a good time shooting quips back and forth with Tenna, feeling seen and listened to. You don’t think anyone has ever laughed this hard as something you’ve said… Ever? It’s certainly flattering, to say the least, to have someone be so interested in you.

All good things must come to an end, though, and eventually you do get tired, and the life that you had temporarily left behind starts calling to you again. In your mind, it’s inevitable, so you might as well get it over with.

“Leave?” It’s the first time Tenna’s smile wavers during your… Day? Session. “But we’ve been having so much fun—” He laughs, stuttering over part of the noise. “Why do you want to leave?” His hand drums on the back of his head, making a dull clanking noise. “I can think up some more games, some more fun quizzes?!” Tenna’s voice shoots up in pitch. “We can save that for next time?” You say with a smile. This notion, the thought that you’d like to return, seems to settle Tenna somewhat. His hand drops back to his side, swaying back and forth. “Oh! You’d like to return… I mean, of course you would!” He beams at you. “I’ll—I’ll have some more time to think things over, for them to marinate! It’ll be great!!” “Yeah,” you say, a little breathless. “Thanks. Again. This was fun. I don’t…” you trail off and swallow. “I don’t really talk to a lot of people anymore. So this was really nice. Thank you.” You don't know why you say it. Perhaps because you don't think any of this is real. You've never been this vulnerable around anyone in real-life. Before you completely realise what’s happening, he lowers himself in a crouching position and pulls you into a tight hug. “I know,” he says softly. “I know. Me neither.”

You wake up with a sore neck and dried spit on your chin. It takes you a while to will your body to move. It’s heavy and sluggish. Unlike other dreams you’ve had, it remains crisp in your mind as ever. The world around you seems more gray-toned than ever in comparison to the bright colours and flourishes of the world you’d entered as you were dreaming… One where you didn’t have to worry about anything, with someone who has eyes just for you. Well, if he has eyes at all. Maybe that kind of saying would be considered offensive.

When you fall asleep that night, you do it on the couch in the exact same position, as if that were the reason behind the dream you had the night before. It takes ages for you to drift off. Embarrassingly enough, you’re so excited that your heart keeps racing. You fall asleep, going there again and again, a personal little place of peace you return to every single night. Maybe it’s all some kind of illusion your brain has conjured up to help you to cope and, if that’s the case, you could still have peace with it. You drag yourself through the days for the nights that offer relief.

“Why don’t you just stay here?” Tenna asks, eventually, uncharacteristic in his stillness. He’s an entertainer by his very nature. Even when he’s not on the stage, he’s always moving, always loud, always working to keep your attention on him. Now, he grabs your interest with nothing but quiet. “I know you’ll come back. You have so many times, but—Why even leave? What’s still waiting for you out there? A bleak future? People who don’t appreciate you? Stay with me…” For the first time since you met him, Tenna physically shrinks down in size, becoming close to your height. His head is hung low. “Please. I’d like, no, love for you to stay.” You reach up and stroke the glass of his face. “Me too. I’ll do it.” “You promise?” “Yeah. Definitely.” He swoops you up and you screech as he suddenly increases in size once again, carrying you high up in the air all at once. As he breaks out in silly, impromptu dance moves, laughter bubbles up from your throat and fills your entire body. This is a happy ending, you tell yourself, though a little lingering bit of doubt retains. (Is this the easy way out? Have you chosen stasis over a life of infinite possibilities?) But… Well, if it’s lazy or weak or too easy, you decide that you deserve an easy life.

#deltarune x reader #ant tenna x reader #tenna x reader #mr tenna x reader #mr ant tenna x reader #deltarune spoilers #cha.tenna

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lazysoulwriter · 20 days ago

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safe here. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: fluff overload, cuddly Pedro, big arms, big hands, small girlfriend energy, fans noticing how he melts into her hugs, gentle physical intimacy, relationship goals vibes

---

Pedro gives the best hugs.

Like, award-winning. God-tier. Can-he-suffocate-me-with-love level.

It’s the arms, really. Thick and strong, always wrapping around you with this all-consuming kind of warmth. One second you’re upright, the next you’re fully cocooned in him—your cheek to his chest, your entire body dwarfed under the size of him.

And those hands? His palm practically covers the entire top half of your back when he presses you close. It’s ridiculous. Unfair. Euphoric.

He always holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s making sure you know: This is home.

Even when people are around, cameras flashing, interviews waiting—he’ll take a second, wrap his arms around your waist from behind and rest his chin on your shoulder.

“I needed this,” he’ll murmur into your neck. “You okay?”

And the thing is, he never lets go first.

Even when you start pulling back, he holds on just a beat longer. Like you get to decide when the hug ends, not him.

It drives the internet insane.

After one red carpet, a clip goes viral:

You’re hugging him before stepping back for photos. Pedro’s arms are fully around you, your face pressed to his chest. His hand spreads massive against your back, and people start timing it—

“she pulls away first and he doesn’t even move 😭” “you can see his thumb rubbing her back just once before she steps away omfg” “this is PEAK boyfriend behavior” “his hand is literally half her back. i would never recover.”

And the zoom-ins? Unhinged.

Fans start calling them “Pedro Hugs��” and begging for a hug POV video. Some say they’d pay rent just to be held like that once. One person starts a countdown of how long it takes him to let go in public hugs.

Pedro finds it all hilarious. And maybe a little blushy.

“They’re obsessed with your arms,” you tease one night, scrolling.

He raises a brow, smug. “Jealous?”

You snort. “Only because I have to share you with the internet.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Nah. These arms?” He wraps them around you again, snug. “Exclusively yours.”

And he holds you until you say when.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

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sincericida · 1 year ago

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ANDREW GARFIELD

at the SAG Awards 2022

#andrew garfield #this picture live rent free in my mind #i really need to tell you how much i love this picture #everything in this picture is so perfect #he's so fucking beautiful #he's so fucking sexy #the things i'd would let andrew garfield do to me #awards #red carpet #sag awards #sag awards 2022 #screen actors guild awards #the tick tick boom era was something else #tick tick boom #andrew peter #andrew peter parker #tasm peter #tasm peter parker #sincericida

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beardedjoel · 7 months ago

Note

Okay then #19 from the first prompt post with sugar daddy Joel (since you're cockblocking my other genius idea 🙄) and he better be OLD old how we like it 🫡

we both know how much we love our man sd joel (and we are not talking about your other idea)! but OLD old coming right up 🤪 absolutely love this prompt and this version of joel being such a good daddy. this was healing to write tbh

yes, here — sugar daddy!joel x f!reader

request: "when the teasing in the dressing room gets a little too hot". sent in as part of my 5k celebration!

wc: 3.9k

warnings: smut (fingering, piv), public sex, daddy kink, sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship but they're in love, large age gap (implied reader is much younger and joel is "pushing sixty"), reader is picked up by joel

“Do I really have to come out… there… and show you each one?” You’re nervous, feeling exposed, as you see your reflection in the lavish dressing room. A baby blue silk thong and bra set with the matching garter belt stare back at you. It’s hugging your curves in all the right places, you’ll admit. The quality of the fabric is evident as you slide your fingers over it, adjusting the bra to make your tits sit a little perkier, tilting your head as you inspect them.

Joel smirks from outside the door, thighs spread wide as he lounges back on an expensive, plush white couch. “Well, my money, my rules, I’d say,” he teases you. “So yes.”

It wasn’t like you had that much to be worried about - Joel had rented out the entire boutique just to sample new lingerie on you. It wasn’t the first time he’d purchased lingerie for you, or given you a stack of cash to do so on your own time, but it certainly was the first time you’d had to try it on like this in front of him in public. Well, semi-public, you suppose, counting the one boutique employee who was trying to keep a casual, respectful distance. You’re sure Joel was slipping her an obscene amount of money for her discretion.

You suppress the smile on your lips at Joel’s teasing. Fair enough. What daddy says, goes. You unlock the dressing room door, stepping out, your body language shy as his eyes adjust on you, drinking in the look with lustful eyes. His lips, seemingly turned up in a perpetual smirk today, grin even wider. You step across the small open area outside the dressing room, all plush, soft cream carpets and a sparkling chandelier above, to where Joel sits, smoothing out his perfectly tailored suit.

“It’s nice. I like this one,” he concludes cooly, his voice deep and rumbly, the sexiness of it scratching a very particular itch in your brain. “Turn,” he says, spinning his fingers to mimic the motion he wants from you. You sport a timid smile, starting to turn, flushing warm as soon as you realize your ass is on full display, only a flimsy piece of silk string wedged between your asscheeks for the entire store - albeit empty - to see.

Joel leans forward, his large hand enveloping your ass cheek as he gives it an appreciative squeeze, dropping it to let it bounce. “Show me the next one,” he says, patting the flesh once more to send you on your way back to the dressing room. “That lacy black one,” Joel clarifies once the door is shut behind you.

You stare inquisitively at the rack inside the dressing room. It’s full of suggestions, pre-picked by the staff for you based on Joel’s instructions of what he was looking for. You scan the hangers until you find the one he’d requested, slipping it on. It’s a skimpy sheer black set with an embroidered trim of deep red flowers, sexier in its own right then the last one.

Joel’s positive reaction to this set is similar, his hands placed on your hips, rubbing his thumbs along your skin as you stand between his spread legs for inspection. “Very sexy. But I think I’m wantin’ to see you in somethin’ a little more… cute.”

You bat your lashes at him. “Cute? Which one, daddy?” you coo, watching his eyes darken as you shift your stance, popping your hips to accentuate your curves and bend your chest closer to Joel’s face. His eyes flick to your tits, curving deliciously out of the enticing design of the bra, the sheer material surely giving him a clear view of your nipples as they stiffen.

A tiny chuckle is pulled from his throat, his eyes back on yours. He blatantly ignores your teasing, although you can see the effect it’s already having on him, his cheeks tinged with color as his excitement grows. “Thought there was a pink one in there somewhere. Fuzzy, too,” he says, arching an eyebrow as if to say, go on then.

“Yes, daddy,” you say sweetly, obeying him to sort through the rack in the dressing room again. You see exactly the one Joel was asking to see next, standing out from the others by the sheer volume of it in comparison to some of the skimpy pieces. A flowy light pink set made up of a babydoll top opened in the front, sheer all over and lined with a soft, fuzzy trim. It’s luxurious and a little more showy than you’re used to, giving off the ultimate rich man’s housewife vibe in its tasteful extravagance.

“You’re sure about this one? It’s… a lot…” you ask from behind the door as you slip on the pieces, tying the soft fabric of the bra into a neat bow in the center of your chest like a present to be opened by Joel. You wonder if you should even question him - it’s Joel’s money and Joel’s wishes, but you can’t help but feel this one is a little much. You surely don’t have what it takes to pull off the look of a rich housewife like he’s expecting. The other lingerie felt it suited better how you viewed yourself - a sugar baby, a fun thing for Joel to play with and throw his money at.

Joel senses the hesitation in your voice and feels the shift in the air. “I want to see it,” he reassures you, stern in his tone.

You crack open the door, stepping out into the warm white light of the chandelier once again. Joel’s eyes drag up slowly from your feet to your face, taking everything in with a ravenous sparkle in his gaze. “What’s all this? Why’re you hidin’ over there?” Joel asks when you refrain from stepping closer.

“N-nothing, daddy,” you stammer out, quickly closing the gap as if that will avoid further suspicion. His eyes narrow, and you get the feeling that like many times before, Joel is easily reading right through you.

“You don’t think I look… ridiculous in this?” you finally manage to ask at his silent prompting. The truth is, you love the set. You think it’s gorgeous - fun but with plenty of class, pretty but for all the embellishments it still holds its elegance. You just have some strange fear prickling in your belly all of a sudden that one day Joel might wake up and realize you’re not enough for him. Not experienced enough, not worldly enough, not well versed in finances or business or any of the things that take up so much of his time. Somehow that’s all being projected onto a damn lingerie set today.

Joel cocks his head, the creases between his brows deepening. It’s so unlike you to show this lack of confidence around him. Typically, Joel makes you feel on top of the world - special - and you have no problem being the sweet, alluring woman he knows you to be. You don’t know what’s gotten into you today or why you suddenly worry you don’t fit into his life somehow.

“Ridiculous?” Joel scoffs, leaning forward. His hand grabs yours, holding it gently but with a certain authority that makes you crumble every time. “Now why the hell would you say somethin’ like that?”

You avert your eyes down to the carpet, watching your toes wiggle nervously. “I don’t know,” you mutter, finding your decision to bring this up rather regrettable now that you’re faced with it. Joel tugs your hand, forcing you as close as you can get, your shins hitting the edge of the couch, Joel’s legs on either side of you.

“Tell me, sweetheart, or I’ll bend you over my knee an’ make you,” Joel drawls, keeping his cool despite the threatening nature of his words. Tears prick at your eyes, making you even more frustrated at yourself.

“Daddy…” you whine, eyes wide. “Here?”

“I ain’t above doin’ whatever, wherever to remind you of the rules.” Joel’s grip on your hips is hasty but controlled as he moves your body, pulling you down to straddle him. His exacting gaze locks onto yours as he bunches up the sheer fabric hanging down over your ass, then brings a gentler hand than you’d expected to your flesh, giving it a light smack. You pull your lip between your teeth, biting down softly as Joel does it again, cocking a brow at your continuing silence. You both know that even through the discomfort, the threat of his actions, it turns both of you on, and you can feel your core start to pulse with need in the background of the self doubt you’re feeling.

“I ain’t afraid to go harder,” he growls.

Your eyes well up when he smacks again, harsher this time, enough to leave a bit of a mark, and you finally find yourself breaking down. “I look like I’m trying to be someone I’m not, okay?” you blurt out, sniffling.

“An’ who’s that you’re tryin’ to be, hm?” Joel asks, calm and curious, his free hand carefully grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, keeping you from tilting your head away from his probing stare.

“S-someone who belongs in your world. Aren’t you just going to get sick of me one day? Realize you want someone that people won’t look at like they do me? Someone… sensible.”

“You got all this from a piece of lingerie, princess?” Joel asks, rubbing your ass in lazy circles. He sighs, softening. “I’m not doin’ enough t’make you feel special, I know that. I’ve been busy lately.”

You had to admit you’d noticed, and maybe it seeped into your subconscious, eating away at you that all of this was too good to be true. You’d only been in this arrangement with Joel for six months but it had been heavenly, everything you’d been looking for. You didn’t care that he was pushing sixty, that you two looked like the walking embodiment of what judgemental people imagined a sugar daddy and his baby to look like. You admired Joel for who he was, and had before he’d even brought up how badly he wanted to spoil you. The best part was how much he cared about you above all else, above the money, always doting on you and wanting to guide you, protect you.

“I know, daddy,” you say, frowning sympathetically. “It’s okay, it’s not that. I just… want to make sure that you still want this. That I can be everything you want.”

Joel tsks. “Oh, sweetheart, you already are. That hasn’t changed for me one bit. Look at what I got sittin’ right in my lap. Funny, sweet, carin’, and -” He leans in, wrapping his hand around your cheek, kissing you deeply. “So damn sexy in the lingerie I picked out for her.”

You can’t help but giggle at his teasing compliment, hearing the sincerity in his voice. A weight lifts off of your shoulders, realizing you’d been acting foolish, letting your negative thoughts outweigh any sense of rationality. All of the lonely evenings of late when Joel remained at work, leaving you in his spacious penthouse downtown to come home to, or the mornings when he had to rush out the door, had gotten to you more than you’d realized. You understood it was temporary while he oversaw an important project at his firm, and he’d never stopped trying to carve out as much time as possible for you when he could. You smile, finding peace washing over you once again, raking your fingers through his greying beard.

“Daddy…” you coo, giving him a sultry giggle. “You think so?” you ask innocently, peering down at your outfit.

“Mhm,” he mumbles. “Y’know why this one is my favorite? Why I picked it out special?” You shake your head, feeling it start to swim with desire as Joel’s quickly growing bulge presses against you. His hand slips down your body, right between your legs, and you gasp when his fingers touch bare skin, a teasing touch right to where you’re already slick for him.

“Nothin’ in my way,” he says, grinning darkly. You suppose you’d been too lost in thought in the dressing room to properly register the purposeful hole in the panties when you’d put them on, but now it was all you could think about as Joel’s fingers work their magic. Easily sliding one digit in, he quickly adds a second one, moving them in a steady rhythm.

Joel watches with pride as your eyes start to glaze over, your needy, bitten lip begging him for more. He leans in for a ravenous kiss with small bites to that enticing bottom lip, listening to the gasping little moans caught in your throat.

“You’re naughty, daddy,” you say with a breathless giggle against his lips.

“Mhm,” he murmurs back, kissing you again until the heat grows so unbearable between the two of you that you find your hips slowly grinding against him, seeking relief. “Can you blame me for wantin’ easy access to somethin’ this sweet?” he asks you, bringing his shining fingers to his lips, coated with your arousal, sucking on them.

“You always have it, daddy. Even when I’m not wearing this,” you purr, feeling yourself drip as you watch him lick his fingers clean, rolling your hips over his once again. You hum contentedly as warmth flickers in your core at the friction, especially with the gusset of your panties being well, nonexistent and allowing for your clit to rub on the dark fabric of Joel’s suit pants.

He chuckles, amused, and nods. “That’s right, isn’t it?” he agrees, his eyes growing more serious as he reaches down, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly. “An’ despite all this, how I can’t get enough of you, you still thought I’d get bored of you? Bored?” He says the words like he’s lamenting, incredulous that you could see anything other than what he does: the woman that he’s completely infatuated with, the one who plagues his waking and dreaming thoughts alike, the one who he considers it an honor to come home to, laying in wait every night for his cock or his hands or to hear what’s on his mind.

You stammer, seeing that Joel feels hurt you could ever feel less than in his presence. He pulls his cock free, the familiar warmth of it irresistible against your body, but you glance around, seeming to remember yourself, where you are.

“Yes, here,” Joel says sternly before you can even ask the question, seeing your adorable, nervous expression like this is the first time you two have done something unsavory in public. You always act innocent about it though, and Joel eats it right up every damn time, letting it harden his cock as he starts to slide it into your tight, needy hole.

You gasp, eyes going wide as you bask in that sweet spot along the border of pain and pleasure. Joel’s size always takes some getting used to. No matter how ready you are, how many times he’s fucked you, it’s the same stretch and impossibly full feeling as your body adjusts.

“How could I be bored, hm, my darling girl? You think daddy is bored of this?” he asks, threading his fingers into your hair at the back of your head. You give him a weak shake of your head, eyes fluttering when he starts to move his hips, pressing his cock deep inside of you.

“N-no, no I don’t daddy.”

“Attagirl,” Joel responds proudly, bringing his lips to yours. Your hips collide with his as you meet for greedy kisses, rolling them to meet each thrust upwards of his with soft moans into his mouth. A sound, presumably the front door of the shop in the distance, clanging hard against itself as someone tries to open it when it’s locked, rings out throughout the otherwise quiet store. You realize you haven’t even seen the single employee loitering around anymore, off somewhere to give the two of you some privacy.

“D-daddy -” you gasp out as he ups the pace, forcing you along for the ride. “Th-the door - maybe we should -”

His eyes, darkened and lustful, dance as his lips turn up in a smirk. He shakes his head, leaning down to bite your bottom lip, pulling it hard. You moan, your mind a quickly muddled mess, your heart racing.

“C’mon then, if you’re worried about privacy,” he grunts out teasingly, grasping at each side of your ass with his large hands, starting to lift you up, cock still buried deep inside of you as he carries you across to the dressing room. You crash your lips into his again, hungrily taking, the two of you lost in your own world as he slams you up against the wall. Your legs hook tightly around Joel’s body, keeping him pressed deep every time he drives his hips forward. In here, you feel like you can be louder, knowing it’s a ridiculous concept, but the moans that Joel pulls from your throat would have escaped no matter what at the angle he’s hitting inside of you.

You whimper when you feel yourself getting close, your core tightening as your entire being sits on the edge of pleasure. You start to moan louder, until you’re sure it can’t be contained anymore, circumstances be damned.

“Play with yourself,” Joel grits out, and you quickly unlatch one arm from around his neck, putting a finger to your swollen, aching clit. “Let me feel my baby squeeze daddy’s cock so tight.”

You cry out, nodding fervently as you try to hang onto Joel’s shoulder while rubbing circles on your clit. You can feel the both of you slick with sweat, your bodies pressed impossibly close, his heat surrounding you feeling like home. You can feel both of your bodies trembling with the exertion of this position, but neither one of you wants to stop now, not when you’re both so close. He brings his face to the crook of your neck, pushing all the fluff from the trim further down your shoulder before he bites and sucks on the skin, sending pleasure bursting through you.

“I’m gonna come daddy, I’m gonna come!” you scream out in pure ecstasy as it sweeps you away, your body tightly held against Joel’s as you lose yourself to it, your head tilting back to lean against the wall.

“That’s my girl. That’s it, cream on daddy’s cock like a good girl,” he grunts. “F-fuck.” Joel’s thrusts turn more erratic and choppy, the grunting right in your ear one of the sexiest sounds you’ve ever heard in your life. You can’t believe you had worried for even a second about Joel’s feelings towards you when he’s just as lost as you are in this, stringing praises for you under his breath.

“You want me to fill you up, princess? Let it drip right out of your pretty new set? Show everyone who’s mine?”

Breathless as your pussy clenches around him from his words alone, you nod for him. “Y-yes daddy, please. Fill me up.”

He groans loudly as he slams his hips into yours one last time, spilling himself into you. Heady ecstasy fills your mind with the loveliest haze as you feel Joel come undone inside of you, showing his devotion in the most physical form.

“God damn. You’re perfect.” he pants out, placing soft kisses everywhere his lips can find in the moment - your neck, slowly working up to your jaw, your cheek, your forehead. He still hasn’t let you go, pulled himself out of the mess you’ve both made of your cunt, wanting to sit in this moment a little longer.

Joel finally settles your limp body on the luxurious bench in the dressing room, leaning down to kiss the top of your head, his arms slowly releasing from around you. He stands up tall, tucking himself away and adjusting his suit jacket before tipping your chin, staring into your heavy lidded eyes.

“You know I’d do anythin’ f’you, darling girl. Give you the entire world if I could.”

“I know, daddy.” You give him an exhausted smile, leaning back against the wall. You grab at your clothing, neatly folded on the bench beside you, moving to start stripping off the lingerie and dressing back up. Joel grasps your hand, shaking his head.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he says softly, pulling you to stand, letting you put your tired weight on him as he slips the sheer, fuzzy teddy and panties off, leaving you naked. His eyes land between your legs, where his spend leaks down your thighs, and he kisses you softly, letting his hands roam in gentle patterns down your back. You melt into him, sighing. “Let’s get you dressed an’ get some lunch in you,” he whispers against your lips.

“You don’t have to go back to work?” you ask hopefully as Joel starts putting on your underwear for you. He had set this shopping excursion up first thing in the morning, presumably so he could use the rest of the day to manage things at the office and come home to you wearing the new lingerie later on.

Joel’s head shakes, having you step into your skirt before fitting it snugly on your hips. “No, baby. I want to make sure I’m givin’ you my full attention today like you deserve.”

He watches you light up as he pulls your blouse over your head, starting to tidy your outfit up and adjust everything to have you looking polished again. Warmth fills your entire body at his careful, gentle tending to you after how roughly intimate you two had been. You kiss his cheek softly, moving to his lips, feeling his hands tighten around you as he presses you closer to him.

“I’d really like that, daddy,” you say against his lips, leaving him growling softly at the especially sweet lilt you’d used on his title, knowing the effect it would have on him. He surges forward, capturing your lips more ravenously and sliding a hand to your ass to press your hips to his already growing erection. Seeming to remember his duty to care for you above getting his dick wet another time, he pulls back, interlacing his fingers with yours and taking a long, steadying breath.

“Lunch,” he says decidedly. “Then wherever my darlin’ girl wants to go.”

As you two detangle from each other, you catch sight of the pink, fuzzy set, laying on the ground and filthy with the mess you’d both made of it. Joel smirks, his brows raised in amusement as he takes your hand, leading you to the sleek counter near the front to check out. The woman gives you both a practiced smile, slightly strained but still professional despite everything she’d been witness to this morning.

Joel turns to you, pulling out his wallet, thumbing through the bundle of cash inside. He’d have to remember to compensate the boutique worker extra to express his gratitude for her patience and above all else, her continued discretion.

“What d’you say, sweetheart? We take all of it?” he asks you.

Your eyes go wide at the unexpected suggestion, unable to tear your gaze off of his handsome features. You thread your arm through his, pressing yourself close to show your appreciation for everything today - beyond the pretty new things he was buying you, he’d reminded you of the confidence and safety that you had with him, the deep bond you two shared that was unlike anything either of you had experienced before.

You can’t help but beam when you answer Joel’s question. “Yes, daddy. Especially that pink one.”

lingerie that inspired reader's look:

#julie's 5k celebration #julie's 5k celebration fic #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #x reader

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prael · 1 year ago

Text

Red Wine - Karina & Natty

Aespa Karina x Kiss of Life Natty x M Reader smut

thanks to @capslocked & @passingnotions & @friskyriskywhisky

Masterlist word count: 9,957 Kofi

A new girl every week.

Not like you mind it. As long as Karina is having a good time, then that's enough for you. She meets them all at work, and they're all equally pretty.

Of course they are—it's part of the job.

It's just how Karina is—she has always been a fountain of charisma and that's part of what drew you to her—some call it rizz. So, you know all too well how these girls feel when Karina cranks up that natural charm and it leads to her inevitably inviting them over on a Friday evening, an offer they can’t refuse.

A girl's night in. That's what she always calls it—truth or not.

It's a funny thing to call it, given that you're always there. Not that any of them ever complain. You're there. That's okay. You'll join in the chat or stay out of the way—it's all very casual. Most of the time, it’s just that—casual.

Most of the time.

"And then I told him: 'Look, this dress is Dior, and it's worth a year of your rent. So if you think, even for a second, that it's going to end up on your bedroom floor after you buy me a couple of glasses of bottom-shelf whiskey then you can Johnnie-Walk-the-fuck-on-out-of-here because there are a thousand more ways I can spend my night than wasting time on you.'"

The two girls break out into some sort of intoxicated, riotous laughter. The girl with the story? They call her Natty, and she is the latest of Karina's new friends to visit. This one sporting almond skin, eyes with an inky rich hue, thick lips and a smug look on her face that could melt the paint right off the wall, or the clothes off any man.

She has one leg crossed over the other, sitting at an angle towards Karina. The slight canting of her head, the way her black hair cascades over a bare shoulder, all of it conspires together in order to fully reveal her neck line where the loose t-shirt drapes from shoulder to shoulder.

"Yeah, like any dude's got enough bank to buy himself to a night with you." Karina laughs again before taking a drink from her wine.

You are trying to watch the TV, vaguely—your favourite team is on and it's a bit of a ritual for you.

You will never even know we're here. That's what Karina told you. Yet you’ve spent the better part of the last hour listening to them. We’ll be quiet.

As if that's ever true.

They've been reeling off anecdotes all the while, and if you've learned one thing about Natty, it's that she has a lot to say, and a lot if it comes down to either the pleasures, profits, or travails of her career. The stories just keep coming. And each and every one is punctuated by that same laugh from Natty. You have never heard anything quite like it before, and it's that which keeps drawing your attention back to their end of the couch. Much like her voice, it's high pitched, a little nasally and utterly adorable.

Karina laughs along as well; more than a few times a drink threatens to spill onto the carpet because one of them has laughed a little too hard or bumped into one another. Now that would be a disaster: red wine and a white carpet.

"So I got this really nice pink one. It's really pretty, a little sexy, but it's so comfy too." Natty is talking but you don't have a clue what about and Karina, turned away from you, is nodding her head, the ponytail on the back of her head shaking a little as a result.

You don't need to see Karina to know how she looks—as beautiful as ever. That same sharp jaw, high cheekbones and lips glistening pink, hued darker by her drink of choice. Those eyes. It’s always her eyes that captivate.

Her beauty and grace are two things she truly does share with Natty. All the women that come over are all part of the same constellation. Stars in their own right, but Karina is a supernova—or something equally poetic.

Karina says something, but the voice is soft and muffled and lost to you among the animated exchange.

"There's also this blue one. But I don't wear it nearly as much as the others, but it cuts real low. Nearly shows my, you know..."

That lowered voice draws your gaze right over to them both as Natty leans in towards the woman next to her. A gesture and the shape of her voice, the lilt of her accent, makes it sound as if she is being discreet even though you can clearly hear every single word.

"...you know." Natty then tugs a little at her own shirt.

The two giggle again as if they're not grown-ass women; two women who have admittedly drunk quite a lot.

"He loves this one I have, it's part of a set, and I picked it up in Paris last month,” Karina says. “Black and lacy. Super expensive, but it's so worth it."

"That pair would look good in anything," Natty lets out that same laugh again, if a little softer this time, as if the mood shifted a little. You felt this coming all along. If you're honest, sometimes as soon as Karina walks through the door with a girl on her arm, there’s a certain vibe that hangs in the air that tells you it’s one of those nights.

You're stealing glances at the two of them, and it's Natty who's looking towards you, over Karina's shoulder. Your eyes are caught in this awkward collision. Natty holds the stare, her smile shifting subtly from innocent to devilish.

She's a stunner. Even from the angle where you're catching glimpses at her, a glance out of the corner of your eye, there is something seductive and hypnotising.

"He's a really lucky guy." She says to Karina, keeping her eyes fixed on you.

That is usually the cue, one you're very familiar with. A flirty little comment, maybe an innuendo, something meant to test the waters—see where the land lies, the rocks you can stand on before stepping any further out into the surf. It's how so many of your Friday evenings play out. You are just that—an object of curiosity and interest to Karina's friends, and you have to credit the sales pitch she must deliver about you.

"You're damn right," Karina replies with a chuckle as she tilts back the remainder of her drink.

"Do you think he would like mine?"

"Of course, he would. But if you want, I can be the judge." Karina takes Natty's almost empty glass and sets both down on the table. Her expression and attitude—lips and body language—communicate her invitation far more eloquently.

Karina is reaching over and Natty's meeting her hands with her own at the hem of her shirt. A teasing lift and you can already envision what she's about to show. See, Natty's a dancer—you know that much, and a good one at that. That kind of talent comes with the blessing of a body that turns heads. Your girlfriend knew that well too when she had invited her back home.

"Go on then."

The shirt lifts off Natty's skin, with the help of Karina’s hands running up the side of her body, exposing a pierced belly button. You try, very valiantly, to pretend not to be watching, but you can't help it. Natty raises her arms and lets Karina pull off the shirt fully revealing her in her lace bralette. It's pink, it's pretty and a little sexy—just how she described it.

"They really are nice, wow," Karina leans in close and for a moment you think she's going to start kissing Natty right then and there.

Natty doesn't say a thing. She lets the next moment happen, and with their bodies so close you can feel the anticipation, there’s an agonising pause, but, just a moment later, Karina is running a hand up along her belly, cupping a hand over one of her breasts.

"Really nice," Karina repeats the compliment.

And you're all in now. Fuck the TV. You can't peel your eyes away from whatever the hell your girlfriend is about to do.

"Thank you," the girl purrs as she arches her body to push herself against Karina's hand.

A flirtatious hand and those slender fingers of hers begin to move delicately over the fabric. It's a good touch. You've experienced first-hand all the wonderful things Karina can do with it. She touches how she dances—passionate and precise.

"What do you think?" Karina's finally acknowledging you over her shoulder—your official invite to the fun.

"Gorgeous," you mumble, and Natty's smiling like a minx as Karina continues in a way that you should probably be offended. Your girlfriend runs her hands down to the girl's waist, round to the small of her back, and then all the way back to where she starts again.

"Come, take a closer look. What do you think?" Natty follows her words with a wink and a flick of the hair.

"Fuck yes." You whisper under your breath.

"What was that?" Your girlfriend's smirking to herself as you rise from your seat.

"Yes." You take a step towards them both.

"Yes?" Natty repeats, one of her dark brows arching.

"He thinks you're fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Gets a little lost in the moment sometimes." Karina is leaning her head in close, one arm around the girl. She has a finger running up along Natty's slender back as she pulls at the clips holding her bra together. "Isn’t she perfect, babe?"

"Something like that," you confess. You're standing in front of the girls, looking down at the topless Natty, at Karina who's still snaking her hands around her. And Natty looks up at you, eyes wide, inviting, smouldering with passion. She really is something else.

She peers beneath those bangs of hers with a look that says: why don't you sit right here beside me?

"There we go," Karina says and there's suddenly some slack. The weight of her pair is taken by gravity and Natty catches them into folded arms. She sinks back into the couch. You take a step, and taking her lead, you sit by her side.

Karina reaches down, pats you on your leg, then turns back to face Natty. "You were saying you thought he was pretty cute too, weren't you, Natty?"

"Pretty cute, yes. Hot too. Moreso now that he’s up close." Natty says while Karina's got her hands on her shoulders, taking the straps of her bra between her delicate fingers. And then her bra is gone—the last semblance of her modesty lost along with it. Her small nipples jutting, stiffened with arousal, ready and waiting.

"God, he's practically drooling."

"That's hot," Karina comments as her lips descend onto Natty's shoulder and she starts laying kisses up and along her neck, trailing all the way to her ears.

"Sit behind her, babe, let her make it easier for you," Karina says. There is something entirely different and erotic in the way your girlfriend commands you. It’s so often like this, the dynamic, the guest and you are equals but Karina? Karina is a level above, the one in control and setting the pace.

You move yourself further onto the sofa and seat yourself back, then Natty slides over your lap. She takes her place, just as Karina wants, in front of you. The look in your lover's eye tells you exactly what to do, while her hands give Natty some hands-on guidance. Holding her shoulders, she’s placing Natty’s back against your chest.

You lay your own touch on the starlet’s waist, coiling them around her body. Dragging them up towards her smooth tits causes her to respond with a shudder. You keep your touches slow, leisurely, tentative and exploratory, but with no lack of appreciation.

Natty refuses to shy and settles firmly into your body. Karina, meanwhile, sets herself in front of the two of you, resting her hands on Natty's knees. Your beautiful guest parts her legs a little as Karina slips her hands between them, urging her thighs to open wider. Wider until she has to lift her legs over yours.

"Is this okay with you?" Karina is looking up into Natty's face and the woman simply nods."How does she feel?" Karina's asking you now, placing her hands on the back of yours, guiding your touch over her breast into a rougher pace.

"Perfect." The word slips from your mouth, followed by a throaty groan. Among all of this, Natty's ass is against your crotch, the weight of her pushing your manhood to swell and strain against your clothing. You are thankful she's wearing a thin enough pair of yoga pants that enhances it all.

Karina has planted her knees between yours and Natty's legs. She's pulling her own shirt over her head and you already know what's beneath. For all the talk earlier about bras, Karina isn't wearing one; she never does. "Fuck, Karina," Natty coos at her bare chest. "He likes it too. I can feel him twitching."

Natty’s hands are all over Karina as she pulls her in. There’s grace, there’s tension and there’s a coy giggle from Karina as their lips are only inches apart. The hammering of your heart echoes within as you take a front-row seat to their show. It always triggers something inside you when she first lays lips on someone, it always heightens that delicious, tingling, primal feeling.

"Oh shit, girls..."

Your girlfriend's the best kisser and you love watching her like this—exploring another woman's mouth. Natty is matching her tempo beat by beat, kiss by kiss. Her body arches as you squeeze her breasts. You swear Natty's making little whimpers as the two make out.

Her body is all action against you: ass grinding back, rolling slowly and languidly as your hands pull at her breasts—squeezing them together and then apart. You dip into her neck with your mouth. The sweetness of her skin fills your mouth and the richness of her perfume fills your nose.

You lower your lips and gently nibble at her neck, dragging teeth over her flesh until she gasps from a gentle bite and you work your lips on her skin. Tongue roaming as you feast on her taste. Karina's pushing forward now, Natty sandwiched between you, their pairs of tits pressing together with your hands somewhere between.

They break, and Natty naturally moves to your girlfriend’s neck. Karina has her sights set on you, prying your mouth from Natty's shoulder and catching you in a deep kiss. Tongues battling, clashing. There's the familiar fading taste of red wine in her mouth, and the unmistakable flavour of something foreign to you, the lingering taste of Natty.

She pulls away from your lips, staring down the two of you. There's dissatisfaction on her face. "Why aren't the two of you naked yet?"

She pulls at Natty's hips, relieving your cock of the pressure of her sitting on it, and you hold Natty so as to not let her slip too far away. You and Karina work Natty's yoga pants, and her panties, from her hips. They slip effortlessly down to her ankles, leaving her decidedly bare.

No one speaks and you all know this isn't the time to explain anything or ask questions. When her clothing is out of the way Karina descends upon Natty again, kissing her hard and you catch the dying whimpers of Natty's moans into Karina's lips. Karina's hand is snaking down Natty's back, reaching for your crotch. She unbuckles and opens your belt all the time fighting against Natty's movement as she tries to grind her ass back into you.

"Stop moving." Karina giggles into their kiss as her hand delves beneath your trousers. She breaks her kiss again. "Need some help."

Natty's peeling herself away from you, turning to face you. Natty's naked, Karina's halfway there, you're the one slacking. Not for long. Soon the two are tugging away all the unnecessary clothes until all three of you are equally exposed. Your cock stands heavy and ready under their gaze.

"Woah, you weren't lying." Natty's figuratively licking her lips, hungry and wide-eyed, and you'd bet your last dollar she's got an idea in mind. "Can I...?" Natty turns to ask Karina.

"I'd hate to be selfish." Karina shrugs her shoulders and winks. You're transfixed. There's natural magic about the way they move as if it is rehearsed; the way Natty sinks to her knees and the way Karina pulls your hips to the edge of the seat, then rises above you.

Karina hovers and watches, Natty leans in, and then your balls disappear into her mouth. She’s handling them with her tongue expertly as she takes hold of your cock.

"God, what a pro. She wasn’t lying when she told me she knew her way around a cock," she exclaims, savouring every second as the air rapidly leaves your lungs.

It is beyond explanation, the way Natty's tongue is dancing along the underside of your balls as her lips caress each one. Her eyes occasionally flick up and flash mischievously—it's the kind of look that means she could get away with absolutely anything, and there is no way you are going to stop her.

"She's got the face for it, doesn't she? Like she just gives the most amazing head." Karina's on her knees by your side, sliding a hand between her thighs.

"Y-yeah." You manage to reply. "S-so... ahh! Good."

Karina leans forward, cupping one of your cheeks as she looks into your eyes.

"He's speechless!" She laughs, moving a hand to the back of your head and tugging gently at the strands. "Natty baby, give him a few words or something, will you? If you can?"

It's hard to look at her, but you crane your neck and you catch her looking at you again—one hand upon your inner thigh, the other wrapped around your shaft. "That's a good boy," Natty murmurs.

She teases a thumb over the surface of your glistening wet tip. "She loves that shit. Watch her..." Karina explains, smiling, the delight on her face all you can look at for a moment or more.

She guides your chin and you follow your girlfriend's direction, then you see, Natty's taken her mouth from you for a second and she's licking your pre-cum from her thumb; her gaze on the pair of you. She repeats her motion once more and the grin on her face grows bigger as you leak another pearl for her.

"How does he taste?" Karina asks for both of you.

"Delicious." Natty answers—now she's literally licking her lips.

You'll believe anything this woman tells you.

She's running a teasing tongue along the underside of your shaft, and as she reaches the peak, she catches the snow-white trickle you drip right there. You close your eyes in ecstasy, but before long, you’re feeling a finger poke against your lips.

You part them open, letting Karina's two fingers inside, and she's running her digits over your tongue as you suck her fingertips. The taste is so undoubtedly her, nectar straight from her source, your mouth salivating for more.

The feel of Natty's soft plump lips against the end of your cock is incredible as she moves them in an inch, teasing, testing, and then she withdraws just the same and you want to cry out. But you can't, Karina still lubricating her fingers, your tongue swirling around the digits.

She withdraws and your eyes open. And as much as you wanted to see Natty ready to settle her mouth around your cock, she's got something else in mind. She has her tits in her hand. "Are they still gorgeous?"

"Yeah, totally," you sputter.

"Natty girl, let him fuck them." Karina tells her and then she turns to you, mouth to your ear. "You want your cock between them, don't you? Tell her." Karina's not leaving this up to interpretation. "Tell her you want them."

"Oh yes..." you blurt out, without even really thinking. Karina giggles—it's her sign of approval, a tick. "Your tits, Natty. Fuck. Please."

It's not something you haven't done before. You love Karina's pair too, after all. It would be hard for anyone with a dick to resist a pair of round tits like hers. Luckily for you, tonight she's brought you a girl with a pair to match her own.

"He asked so nicely."

"He's a real gentleman," Natty teases and she raises her breasts a little, then pushes them together. As your head slides into her cleavage, she puts her hand around them, and as the skin squeezes the sides of your member, you are reduced to shuddering. Karina knows exactly how this gets you, knows just how this can bring you undone. It doesn't even matter if the actual thing feels nothing like sex—you'll always go crazy over a great pair of tits.

As the tip of your manhood peeks out through the crease between them, Natty lowers her tongue to it and you swear you nearly cum right then. Then the words echo inside your brain: he wants them, Karina's voice and as soon as she says it, your subconscious concedes to the reality.

"Look how easy and willing he is," she says to Karina and both girls giggle, then Natty forms a mock pout. "Such a good boy. I really want to make him feel good."

"He does deserve something." Your girlfriend runs her fingers into your hair as Natty plants a soft kiss onto your cock-head. Instinctively, you reach out but before you can touch anything, Karina's hand finds your wrist. "Tell her what you want."

She's leaning in closer again and Natty looks up from where she's teasing your tip, sucking, tonguing and lavishing affection and attention. "Ask Natty nice. Tell her you want a blowjob. Tell her you want to cum. Tell her what you want," Karina purrs her words.

And god, if anything makes it impossible to think straight, it is Natty's gaze up at you. She wants to make it easy for you, impossible to do anything but give in to your wishes, whether it’s her intention or your deep-seated desire making it seem so.

"Natty... can you suck my cock?" Your mouth's dry and the words grate in the throat.

"Anything," she says with a twinkle in her eye. And now it's all one motion. Her tits clamped against the sides of your length. Your cock drives between them and into Natty's waiting mouth. She's all tongue, bobbing her head a little and taking the tip of you in and out of her mouth.

Karina's all over you—kissing your neck, holding a hand behind your head, caressing, squeezing. "Aren't I just the best? Always doing this for you with all these girls." She's muttering away in your ear. The heat of her breath is constant and burning. She continues with sweet nothings in her deep, sultry voice.

You're sinking deeper into the couch, like you're laid on the shore and the tide is enveloping you. Wave after wave crashing against you, rolling, engulfing you and drawing you out further and further. Natty is pulling you under; every time she takes you into her mouth, wrapping her tongue around you, it's another wave over you. Karina is a life rope. You're grabbing onto the strands of her ponytail, trying to keep your head above the water. All her touches, her words, her encouragement, that's the air you need.

But the torrent grows ever more intense and powerful and the riptide is too great, Natty's drawing the last vestiges of resolve from you. You lose grip of everything—of reality.

You're lost.

Lost in her mouth, lost between her tits.

Karina knows it, she's seen it all before, so many times, for her and others. "Feel like you're gonna cum?" Karina's in your ear asking you the obvious.

Your answer's a growl.

"Cum!" It's a low-roar in your ear.

You don't say a word.

"All over those perfect fucking tits. Her mouth, her face, look at her," and then that's it. You're drowning in pleasure. Every sense abandons you—hearing, touch, and sight, all surrendered.

You can't think or do anything, because every fibre of your being is focused on a single action—pouring out cum. You're rigid and straining.

Your eyes regain focus and you see it all. All of it smearing her tits and just a little on her face, and then more streams erupt. Natty doesn't shy and she doesn't stop. She is milking you for every single drop.

And Karina's ever the encourager, ever full of pride. "Just like that, yes. Empty all of it right there on her chest."

This is her thing now. Has been for a while, ever since she convinced you to try it just one time. Her imagination was fueled by all those dirty little stories she read online about voyeurism and the like. It opened her eyes and redefined your relationship. It started with an experiment. With her best friend, Winter, all those months ago. It was the first time she took enjoyment in her friend getting you off.

Now it's a regular surprise. Sometimes they're girls you met many times before, almost like she was dangling them in front of you, teasing you. Other times it's just like Natty. You barely say a few words to them and before you know it, you're covering them in your cum.

Truth is, you always get the gut feeling when it's one of these nights, as soon as Karina and whichever girl it is start their first drinks of the night; you know it's one of those nights. Then it's just a case of waiting.

Natty didn't take long to get on her knees—she must have been excited.

And lucky for her, you're nowhere near being finished.

Karina is prowling and on the move, towards Natty, and she reaches her with both arms as she locks her into her grasp. A kiss, deep, hungry. All tongue. Seeing is believing; some of you ended up inside Natty’s mouth and now she’s sharing, distributing to Karina. Back and forth it goes between their mouths, with some spilling from their lips. As it’s shared, it’s swallowed bit by bit between them.

"Your turn Natty. I want to watch you cum for me." Karina announces she breaks away, then lapping up what remains on her lips and she has a hand on Natty's chest, playing with the mess you made of them.

You're lying there, spent and watching, as Karina guides Natty to her feet.

"There you go," Karina is pushing the girl towards the couch and she gets to the edge, then places a knee on it. Your eyes drift over her body as Karina bends her into place, her sticky chest planted against the cushions. Her juicy ass is in the air and the light in the room highlights every line and contour. Her flawless curves are accentuated to their perfect best.

"Legs wider, yes, yes. That's perfect," Karina's voice cuts through the air. She's behind her, hand on the small of her back, urging Natty into position. Lower and lower, Natty's head pressed into the cushion; she's turning to look at you, face full of excitement, of yearning.

A quiver passes through her entire body as Karina's lips descend upon her lower back.

Then lower, kissing her tailbone.

Her ass.

Lower and lower, peppering her skin along the way, Karina finally nestles between the two cheeks. Then she places her hands on Natty and starts parting them. "Perfect. Isn't that so perfect?"

Karina doesn't wait for any reply from you.

She doesn't need to. You are fixed there, utterly mesmerised, entranced and completely undisturbed, watching this gorgeous woman lay tongue on her newest conquest. Karina, meanwhile, can't contain her excitement. She's feasting on Natty, lapping at her sex, diving lower and lower with her tongue. "Oh yes. You taste so good."

Everybody's taste is unique. Just as her aroma earlier was something you couldn't put into words or compare, you can only imagine how sweet Natty must taste. And as if she reads your mind, Karina adds to the narrative, "So sweet."

And the sounds.

Fuck. The sounds.

Natty moans, loud, sharp and high. You should have known it, her voice being what it is—the tone; so unique, so unmissable. You should have expected the melodic composition. The pleasure is pure, crystal-clear music. It's perfection in sound. It's the kind of musicality people work their entire lives to compose, to play, to express.

To do all without a care in the world.

With as much freedom, spontaneity and energy as possible.

The tone shifts, and the octaves change. And it's Karina, playing her, burying a pair of fingers into Natty.

There is no question here. The two are in sync. Karina, a performer by profession, plays your guest as if Natty is merely an extension of herself. Your girlfriend, in her element, her playground, her stage and her domain. You are her audience. And she has never sounded, looked, or acted so majestic in her role.

Natty sings a string of profanities, nonsensical and fragmented phrases.

"That good?" Karina exclaims, teeth digging into her butt cheek as Natty spills into the cushion. Her legs quiver. Karina smiles into her ass, nipping her a second time and then she turns to you, staring at you with the same dark hunger, the same thirst, you always see.

"You still with us, babe?" she asks—rhetorical, she know’s you’re fixated. There's no question in her mind. She can read you and she knows how captivating this performance is.

"God yes," you whisper in reply. She's smiling wide.

"Good." That one word response, so laden with meaning.

It's a dangerous smile. It means only trouble. Good trouble.

"Come here," she's beckoning you behind Natty. Your legs feel weak and like jelly, yet you crawl up and behind her, your hand slips up to her thigh, pressing, pawing and grabbing her flesh. She purrs at your touch, and Karina, too, responds with delight.

"Natty," you begin, feeling her ass under your touch. "Do you want me inside you?"

"Mhm. Yes."

Karina slips a hand around your erection, her wet, lubricated fingertips meet your skin and when she says, let me get you ready for her. That alone could have done the job. But, damn, her hand feels so good as it strokes. The motion's just the right pace and when her grip gets tighter, a tremor courses through you.

"You did such a wonderful job already." Her praise is just as nice as her tongue running along the side of your length and then her lips, pursed, locking onto the tip.

"Karina..." it's a long-drawn groan. She lets her tongue swivel over you, each stroke lasting longer and longer. The more she continues, the more feels you grow and get hard—she works you until the last ounce of sanity leaves your brain.

Then she draws away and finishes her sentence, "I told you, you're the best. Now look at her, look how needy she is." Karina's still got a hand on your cock and the other caressing Natty's cunt.

Natty’s now the girl in the center of it all. Her beautiful face turned, eyes closed. She's twitching, aching, longing. She whimpers, and then gasps in desire as you angle your cock at her slit. Her folds open gratefully and the wet warmth of her sex embraces you. Her groans rise again, heightening ever more in the satisfaction as she backs herself further onto your length.

You move, thrusting into her, and she breaks into a tempered moan.

"Oh yes! God, yes."

And you feel a hand grab at your backside, encouraging, guiding, demanding more of you. She partners her touch with an all-telling grin. Karina's about as happy watching you fuck someone else as she is being fucked.

"That's it... You like it like this Natty? Does this feel good to you?"

It's a silly thing to ask, but it still makes Natty stir. It makes her hot—burning hot. As soon as the words are out of her, and she follows with a moan, she becomes tighter around you.

"Ah! Yes, yes, yes..." she trails into several more repetitions as you angle deeper into her.

Your girlfriend is dancing her fingertips over her skin. "So amazing," your lover is still muttering her words. "So fucking hot," Karina says as she tracks her kisses up Natty's back. Gentle kiss after gentle kiss to her glistening back as Natty keeps driving her ass back against you.

There is the unmistakable look of an idea forming in Karina's mind. She's climbing onto the sofa, crawling past Natty onto the back of it, where Natty's head is pressed against the fabric. Natty grows hesitant at the expectation of what's to come, and it allows you to take over. A hand on either side. You're gripping her hips and really fucking her, pushing your cock fully into her and stretching her.

You see Natty's fingers wrapping around the bottom of the sofa cushions in an iron grasp, trying to bear the surge of bliss. She shudders and clenches up as Karina runs a set of nails up her back.

"Yes, baby, you take her, don't be afraid," Karina hisses her words, raking at Natty's back with her claws. "Harder." Karina demands and you pull on Natty's hips, pulling the gorgeous young woman into your hips as you fuck.

Karina's sliding into where she wants to be, right in front of Natty's face, sitting where she rests it. She's handling her like the toy she currently is, pulling her head exactly where Karina wants it, and coercing Natty's mouth onto her. To bury her in and make her satisfy Karina's craving.

And Natty wastes no time, sliding her lips onto Karina, exploring her core the way she has explored her mouth. "Just like that," your girlfriend cries as she rests a hand on Natty's head and rocks back against her. "See, I knew you'd be perfect for us."

You have to admit, Karina nailed it with this one. Before any of the girls even step into the apartment, they know why they're there, but none of them are as ready for it as Natty. It must be a deep, dark fantasy of her own, maybe something she's played out in her mind over and over. It must have been burning inside her before even that first taste of red wine.

Red wine.

That's it. That's how you knew it was always going to end up like this. Fuck, you must be a fool for having missed it all those times before. It's so obvious now that it's when she drinks red wine with them—that's the signal of how the night's going to end. Your subconscious had made the connection, now you realise.

You smile to yourself in the moment of clarity and Karina has noticed, breaking through her moans to ask, "You look a little lost back there, babe. Something funny?"

She's got a coy grin on her lips and her hand gripping Natty's hair, grinding the woman's face further into her pussy. It's a stream of muffled moans from Natty between her hungry licks of Karina's cunt. She's all action between you and Karina's stare. "Nothing."

You raise a hand and spank Natty's ass; the echo fills the air and her cheek ripples. Karina flinches with surprise and she's drawing the young woman further into her body. "Jesus, fuck. Again."

Again and you lay your palm on Natty. Harder. She mewls in pain and Karina shivers in bliss. Her fingertips dig at the younger woman, grabbing her by her scalp and pushing her harder.

A final time you spank her ass, planting your hands and digging your fingers into her soft flesh. Using the strike on your mount to signal one thing; faster.

You're reckless now—manic. Grab her ass and pound; that’s all that is on your mind. You're rabid—not holding anything back. This is the sole reason that girl's here tonight and you're not letting her down, nor Karina.

You hammer against her body, deep into her depths. Her cries echo over Karina's. Each hit a satisfying smack to Natty's cheeks. Slaps and claps and cries. Sounds fill the room. The wet squelch, the grunt of every stroke to the backing track of Karina's rich mewls.

It's a symphony, eroticism on an epic scale.

Your eyes roll upward, over Natty's body and land on Karina. She's bouncing on Natty's tongue. Head back, face creased with pleasure. A grimace so beautiful that you swear it is the definition of raw sexuality.

Natty's struggling; her legs are giving way and she keeps reaching with her hands. To the couch, the cushions, Karina's legs, to anything. There is no steadying her, and it looks like she's barely clinging on for dear life. She has only her waning strength and determination holding her together.

You think she's cumming. But fuck, it is hard to be sure. Maybe you should slow down, but if she is cumming once, better to make it twice. Or thrice. So, you pick up the pace instead. You become wilder, stronger, faster, more forceful.

She's not even eating Karina's cunt anymore—she just can't. You grab Natty's arms and pull her upright so she doesn't slip. Chest to back now—she’s against you and your thrusts drive upward into her.

Natty wails and all the while, Karina is sliding down the couch onto her knees, face to face with Natty. She brings a hand to Natty's throat, grabbing and pushing to pin her against you. And her other hand is sinking between Natty's legs.

Karina's teasing Natty's cunt with the soft caresses of her fingers, and you're sliding between those fingers and into the girl. "Look at you," Karina's saying between clenched teeth, then a loud hiss passes her lips. "Oh, fuck."

A fire blazes across the brunette's eyes—you swear it is an inferno. Fingernails and knuckles are going white in her grip of Natty's neck, and the same could be said of yours holding her arms.

"Oh, Karina!" Your newfound fuck toy screams your girlfriend's name out at the top of her voice.

Karina responds by rubbing her fingers on Natty's clit, then pressing hard, strumming it at a maniacal pace. She's whispering into Natty's ear, words only the girl can hear, coaxing something out of her.

Natty screams again and again. Your name then Karina's.

She's cumming.

Not just that, she's fucking squirting.

Her body's a boneless jelly in your arms as it spasms. And your girlfriend just won't stop her mischievous act, not a single pause until she's dragged more from the young beauty. She's dragging her second and then a third eruption.

It pours. It flows. Eruption is exactly the right word.

Natty's spraying onto your cock—

onto Karina's fingers—

down your legs—

on the couch—

everywhere.

You've got an ardent geyser in your grip and her voice cracks, the climax too much for her, for any of you.

In a flurry of a moment, Natty falls, slipping from your grasp and collapsing and sinking against Karina's chest. Limp. Saturated and dripping, sweat and cum.

The girl has come undone.

You've slipped out of her, set her free, but you're ready to burst. Staggering behind her, a mess and almost drunk on sex, you catch your breath. "Karina... I..." you begin.

"Look at the mess she made." Look at the mess she is.

Karina's laying the girl down to the side; Natty is almost lifeless aside from the aftershocks still tearing through her.

"Karina..." you try again. "Karina, please..."

"Come here sweetie," and that's enough. You sink to your knees on the edge of the seat. Karina's in front of you, grabbing at your erection and lying back. You're collapsing over her, propping yourself with an arm. She's pulling at your cock. It doesn't take much and you're about to fire.

"Please Karina, please" you growl and Karina whispers back the sweetest reply, 'I love watching you do this'.

She's tugging your cock, aiming it at her wet cunt, freshly eaten.

Then your legs grow heavy and stiff, it's impossible to move, muscles tense, locking your body in place. Karina's jerking your cock and it's impossible to hold it.

Release.

It comes.

You can't explain, words can't describe it, the sheer, earth-shattering and mind-numbing rush as it pours. Spurt after spurt, you feel it all come out, and through your hazed vision you're watching it pour over her cunt. Some on her abs, some on her thigh, but most of it coating her pussy. It is all you want to see before you fall, slipping onto her, your head in the nook of her neck. Her words are just a noise in your ear.

"Stay with us," it's her soft voice that you feel vibrate in your ears as her chest rises and falls beneath you. "Natty? Darling, you too."

There's this moment of near silence. Three sets of heavy breaths.

There are things you know to expect before long, but in this space between you don't really know where it'll go. It’s all wild in the night.

"That was... fuck. Intense," you begin, laying the seeds to push the three of you to the next course, "Wasn't it?"

Karina's responding with a push at your shoulders, making you look at her. Her features, still so sharp, she's still so elegantly composed, the dark and playful look hasn't left her eyes. Her smile endearing. "We're not done," she begins, a whisper into your mouth as you lean over her.

Hand grasping your cock, firm, and she’ squeezing a drop or two more out. "I want you inside me." She demands it of you, of your spent dick. This is always the danger. You're just a single cock in a game that demands more.

It hurts as she rubs your cock. No matter how gentle her touch, it feels rough and you wince in her hold, it's raw pain and all you want is to draw back, but you stay. You have to stay. You want to stay. Refusing to let the pain, the momentary sting and discomfort end it. "Give her what she wants," it's Natty's voice, from beside the two of you. Who knows where the young girl even got the strength?

“Please,” It’s rare that Karina pleads, but her mouth is on your ear, nibbling softly. Her hot tongue traces the shell of it and the whole motion gives you a shiver that makes the hair stand on end. "Come on." She coaxes in a sultry, yet playful, sing-song voice. It makes her intentions unmistakable.

You draw your body back and rest on your knees, looking at the two girls, side-by-side, one melting and the other keening. Your heart is still trying to get out of your chest, but somehow the sight of them has calmed you. They make it all feel a little easier.

"I'm sure your cock can still work for me," Karina's words are undisguised lust.

Natty reaches a lazy arm, working her fingers into the cum you left on Karina's body, playing with it. She begins painting Karina's belly, streaking it over her skin. "So much," she purrs, adding a moan as a compliment, her tone soaked in desire.

Karina takes her own finger to it too, dousing it in your fluid before taking it to Natty's lips. It's a question that goes unspoken, not one word, one command, just a mere motion. Natty's reply is perfect; she opens her mouth and accepts it eagerly, slipping her tongue onto Karina's digit and suckling it.

Natty returns the favour, her finger into Karina's mouth. They're both sucking, tasting, swirling their tongues as you watch, drinking the liquid, gulping it down, savouring the taste. Their eyes locked in an impossibly sinful gaze. Neither can bring themselves to break it.

They only give in and finally end it when their bodies move instinctively, rolling in to a desperate kiss. Mouths together, sharing the fluid back and forth in a series of dirty, noisy kisses.

Natty's running her hand down Karina's body, running it through your cum and heading right for her cunt. One finger sinks inside, met by a silent whimper from Karina and a second finger joins the first as the girl's now twisting inside your girlfriend. She draws in and out, each time pulling more of your cum into Karina's hole.

And your cock, exhausted moments before, now wants to wake. It's stiffening, not too far from hard once again. You're a moth to a flame and Karina's burning brighter than ever.

Natty's insatiable thirst is getting the better of her and her finger fucks your lover relentlessly.

Karina's mewl of satisfaction turns into a blissful howl. And when you climb between the girl's legs, finding them parted, you grab her behind the knees. Karina moans once more when you move to slip her ankles over your shoulders and Natty is forced to concede. Your stiff shaft, the one Karina has yearned for, drives into her.

Karina absorbs you, clinging, squeezing, and she holds you, embracing you. Her body is soft against yours, yet inside she's hotter than molten iron. She's even wetter, every slick and intimate part of her is grinding against you. "Yes, fuck yes," she's slurring, muttering nonsense.

She's a fucking mess between her legs—there's some of Natty's, there's some of hers, and there's a lot of yours down there, and you're fucking it all into her as lubricant. Natty's forced to watch as you're pressing Karina's knees up to her chest. She's riding the edge between pleasure and pain and enjoying every bit of it.

And there's no better feeling than when you press her even closer, and now her ankles lock at the back of your neck. Every thrust from you forces her ass to rise from the cushion and her cheeks meet your hips in a way that resembles Natty not long ago. Her tits are pressed almost flat under the weight. She is so open to you—so, so willing.

Her thighs tremble. Her hands claw. She's losing everything inside herself, everything but the one thing she wants most, a violent orgasm.

It's Natty's turn now, a role reversal, as she tries her hand at the encouragement, the guiding partner, "Harder," her first order. "Deeper," her second. Both punctuated with her nails scoring along your flesh. And in an act that's so entirely Natty, she's now spanking your ass and laughing as she does it. She's playfully flirty and full of giddy enthusiasm.

"Faster." Natty's clapping her hands and she's watching your thrusts drive Karina wild. Every stroke, every strike, all of it Karina is crying out for. Every push forward makes her twinge, a sensation, a mix of pleasure and pain, each jolting through her. "God, isn't she great to fuck?"

"She's the best," you groan, struggling to reply with the only response you can formulate. She is, of course, better to fuck than anybody else. There's no question about that.

"And you," Natty turns to her, "are you going to cum for us now?" Karina's hair sways. Her mouth is full of cries and whimpers. Every roll of your hips, every pull back and every plunge into her pussy steals every breath.

"Yes," she says. "Fuck yes. Right there, baby. Don't stop."

Natty relaxes to enjoy the show. She can see your shaft thrusting. She can see it when you withdraw, almost the full length and then every inch into Karina. Each time, your girlfriend's body jiggles and twists and writhes.

Karina's face grows contorted. A contortion of pure delight.

It's what Natty's been waiting for. Watching. The expectation she couldn't express. The feeling inside her core growing.

"Oh. God!" Karina squeals. She's seeing white spots explode in her vision. A flash of colourful patterns swirl in her head. The white heat rises higher and hotter, so high and so bright it consumes her. She's gone in it. Next comes a sound following a deafening gasp that stops the air dead in her lungs, the release as an equally loud scream.

You hear it, and the heat burns inside your ears, as if sound could cauterize. Every cell of your skin sizzles. It's electric, this passion.

Her cunt turns to water and floods. Your cock is saturated. That's all the reason you need to lose yourself. To slip back and slide yourself deeper into her, pumping. Her eyes squeeze shut and a loud, sonorous gasp is swallowed by her lips. She's never seemed sexier. She is utterly engorged with desire.

"Ah! Ah!"

You know Karina's at her limit. A dire need for respite, for air to fill her lungs—for relief.

You know what you're going to do. Natty is oblivious, so when you pull out of Karina, and slide over Natty—who's lying on her side facing Karina—it catches her by surprise. One that brings a look of elated shock to her face. You push up one leg and mount her from the side, driving your cock into her.

Karina's drowning in air as she opens her mouth to take all she can. Her vision clears. It focuses on Natty.

The young woman is caught, once again, and in the best way possible; she's lost and helpless beneath you, she has to clutch and clasp whatever's available—the cushions, her own arms—and take it. She's face down to the couch; her body twisted. Her tit's pressed underneath her but her waist rotating, one knee pointing at Karina and one leg straight between your own.

And Natty has taken this all in stride. She's dug her nails into her own scalp, grabbing at her hair. And there is no uncertainty or indecision within her body, nor in her mind. She revels in her vulnerability. She loves the feel of you inside her. Loves the thrill that floods through her entire being as you dominate and ravish her.

Karina makes her move. To join Natty, she slides in on her side, lifting Natty's leg over her own hip, turning Natty fully onto her side to face her. You relent for a moment and Karina does what she needs to. She pulls her own leg up under Natty's and hooks it around her ass. The girls pull each other close. Pull each other into a kiss. Their mouths together. Their breath shared.

Karina whispers, but loud enough you can hear her, and says, "Told you," and her words are all wrapped up in a smirk, the smile of satisfaction.

You slap the length of your cock against Karina's ass; teasing her but not sliding into her. And only when Karina has worked herself up even higher do you lower yourself and slide in, penetrating, filling and stretching.

You're fucking in and out of her. This might be a new favourite of yours. The girls tangled together, sharing kisses and bites and tongue. Both their holes are there for you—each available whenever you want it, and each is only a hair width apart.

It's hard for you to keep a focus on everything like this. But you fight through, burying your shaft inside Karina. Once, and twice, and a final time again. And it's ever so easy to just drag yourself out, driving it between their cunts for a few short pumps and then slip it up into Natty.

"Fuck. I wish we'd done this sooner," Karina is mumbling more, but her words are rolling together and coiling into nonsensical verbal splashes of pure want and need.

Natty strains a response, "I'd... love... to... join you. Often."

"Perfect." Karina is happy as she shifts, arching her body to make a point, to tell you who to fuck now.

And you slip, and then you're inside Karina. As easy as that. Buried as deep and hard as you can, she's mouthing a silent cry and her hair falls over her face.

Natty's got a handful of Karina's tit now, caressing her nipples. It's hard not to envy the beauty that's in her hands. Soft, round, pert, perfectly curved, her breasts are works of art, beautiful beyond anything you could ever put into words.

And all of a sudden, Natty has shifted from Karina's mouth, planting her lips on Karina's soft pillows. Natty is suckling at them and Karina's mouth is twisted open in a soundless gasp, then she speaks, "I could do this forever."

Her arms draw along Natty's body until she finds her ass, slipping down and around, and then her fingertip sinks between her cheeks. It makes Natty lurch as it caresses her taint, presses lower, and touches her tight rear entrance.

Then she does it, a manoeuvre only the confident would have considered, a twist and she's pushing a slender finger into Natty's ass and causing the girl to nip at Karina's breast. "Fuck," Natty hisses, giving a breathy shudder. And her reaction draws a grin onto Karina.

And they keep going like that, they are perfectly attuned to each other. And you swap again, seeing the opportunity to really punish Natty. You're angling towards her again, sliding into her soaked cunt.

You push up inside her. With no time or inclination to start gentle, you're instantly fucking her fast. In and out, hard and deep, over and over, you hammer her cunt. She's muffled with a mouth full of Karina.

"How's that Natty? Both your holes are ours." It's Karina, whispering her dirty words again, "tell us you're going to join us again. Tell us."

Natty nods her head against Karina's chest. It's not a verbal answer. But it's an affirmation that, fuck, yes, she'd like that—as would you all. You could have this again, and maybe soon, a replay with a fresh twist.

Maybe next time you can be the one inside Natty's ass. For now, it's Karina's finger working her, and it looks fucking amazing as it drives into her and withdraws in the exact same rhythm that you're giving her.

You both keep the pace, driving Natty into nirvana, and at some point, it's clear when the climax hits. But it's an awfully hard thing to gauge the passage of time while being wrapped and caught and tangled with these two vixens. All you know is that all too soon, your balls are beginning to churn.

And that's when you switch back again, driving into your girlfriend's cunt with no time for a rest.You're going for broke. Slamming yourself fully inside and Karina knows the instant you do what your fate has become. She laughs and squeezes Natty, pulling the girl tighter.

It's only natural that the rising tide, the bubble of the climactic force, grows and grows and grows. Your ears pound in the beat of the blood racing and your breaths come in fits and starts. The noises escaping your three mouths become louder than before, more frenetic, more unchecked. More lustful.

"Karina— I— Natty—" You're losing the fight against your own body. The rush, the pressure, all the sounds, sights, and smells have put the signal in the green. There is no stopping it. No controlling it. It's all building, coalescing, into one pinpoint of space and time, right there between their legs.

Karina's pulling Natty into position as you're pulling out of her cunt. They both turn to face you, their cheeks pressed together, tits too, and their legs in a knot. They're lying in such a manner that they feel to you like an oasis in a hot desert, inviting, like a promised paradise, and it's calling you, tempting, and you can't hold yourself any longer.

You're rubbing yourself over the edge, and they're calling out to you in a desperate tones, still riding some faint traces of orgasms, "On us."

"Go on."

"Please cum on me, on us."

"Cum for us."

You barely hear their calls, and there's no fucking way you know who is saying what. It's just words of need spilling from two filthy mouths.

It takes only a handful of seconds, and then it happens.

With a harsh spasm from head to toe, you feel it shoot forward, ripping free from your body, and pulsing as you paint their flesh. Spurts and ropes and slivers shoot up and over the girls. A little on a thigh, on their bodies, over their tits and all the way to their pretty little faces.

They're smiling like idiots as you cum. They're proud of it. They relish it. Natty's tongue moves around inside her lips, just getting another taste—a droplet or two. Karina's teasing as always, "Is that all?"

You're still forcing every drop out you can, the final bits dropping to their thighs.

"There's no way that's all of it, huh," Karina continues to tease. And then it ends, and your body lets go and you fall beside them. You simply can't stand any longer.

"I think that's all of it, Karina," Natty's giggling to herself. She's twirling her fingers over Karina's nipple, playing with the rope of cum that landed there. And Karina is humming out an almost silent cry, twisting under the touch. "Here, taste," and the offer is clear, and again Natty is surprising you.

She offers her own tit to Karina, willing her to lick your cum from it. And the act brings a gleam to Karina's eyes as she cups it, bringing it to her mouth to taste. She's sucking and licking and Natty's gasping at the sensation, and at the way Karina nibbles just a little—just a little too much for it to be painless.

You're laying and watching in awe at the debauchery of the scene and wishing you could watch it forever, or at least capture it. The girls are just lapping at each other now, filling their mouths with your seed and swallowing. Laughing. Panting. Moaning. Sighing. Gasping.

Their limbs tangle. Their tongues too. And it's then you realise, no matter how drained you are—completely fucking bone-dry—these two aren't even close to finishing. There's still a show to be enjoyed yet.

You shift just a little to find the most comfortable view, and Karina's taking control now. Slowly she rolls Natty onto her back, their legs still tied, in such a way that Karina can mount her. Natty's got a playful smile across her lips, looking up, seeing the glistening of cum and sweat shining against Karina's neck and cheeks and mouth, her entire gorgeous face soaked in the stuff.

Karina's getting rougher, her nails cutting into Natty's skin. A hungry bite here, a nip there, another scratch here. She's threatening to draw blood as red as the wine she drank. Right on the edge of true pain, but Natty's relishing it. Her eyes roll back, and she lets out a small squeal. And you watch her buck and writhe.

Karina grows ever more forceful—pinning her and keeping Natty in place. She's starting to drive her hips against her. The desire is clear; she wants Natty to a delirium.

You can do nothing but marvel at the sight. You may be raw, you may be sensitive, but you're here to enjoy the show that may yet last a whole night.

"Me and you now, Natty. Are you ready to cum for me?"

"Yes," the whimper slips out of Natty. "Yes, anything for you."

#karina smut #kpop smut #male reader #kpop fanfic #m reader #natty smut #kiss of life smut #aespa smut #karina x natty #girlfriend!karina #kpop fanfiction #karina x reader #natty x reader

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fayevalentiinee · 2 days ago

Text

— ACT I: Lights, Camera, Fake it.

Summary. After saving Gojo Satoru’s life, you’re suddenly caught in the spotlight when his team offers you a contract to fake a relationship with him to repair his scandal hit image. Reluctantly agreeing for your own reasons, you face the intense glare of the public and the challenge of pretending affection with a man who’s a master at the performance — even if he claims he isn’t.

— pairing. celebrity Gojo Satoru x f!reader

— info. to join the taglist comment under this post

series mlist. — art by _3aem on twt — wc: 3k — not proofread

you didn’t save gojo satoru’s life out of affection.

you saved it because it was your job as a set assistant and if a 200 pound lighting rig crushed the talent while you were nearby, in charge of adjusting the lighting rigs, the whole shoot would’ve been scrapped — and the blame would’ve landed squarely on your shoulders.

but that didn’t stop the internet from eating it up.

the clip of you tackling the most recognizable face in asia — gojo satoru, six foot something with a jawline that looks like it's been sculpted by gods and a personality better suited for comedy than serious acting — circulated like wildfire. the way he looked at you afterward, dazed and blinking, his white hair in disarray, hands still raised in surrender — it was instant meme fuel. edits. fancams. fanfiction.

and now, apparently, it was also a pr strategy for his team after his recent scandal; just a week ago, gojo satoru’s name exploded across headlines after paparazzi caught him leaving a luxury hotel at 3am with a crying socialite wrapped around him — her engagement ring missing, her mascara streaked, his shirt nowhere in sight.

the video showed just enough to suggest scandal, and the silence that followed only made it worse. rumors took over — cheating, manipulation, something darker — but no one knows the full story. he didn’t deny it. didn’t explain. just smiled through the noise like he didn’t care. sponsors pulled out. projects stalled. his agency scrambled.

a few anonymous “sources” claimed he “crossed a line emotionally” and that she was “taken advantage of” while in a vulnerable state.

#gojoisover trended for three days.

“i’m sorry, what?” you ask flatly.

you’re seated now, across from the man himself in a too bright, glass walled office, staring at a contract that might as well be written in blood.

across the table, gojo satoru looks exactly like he does on billboards and glossy covers — except here, he’s slouched like a delinquent in a chair that costs more than your rent. one leg draped over the other, sunglasses dangling from his fingers, hair tousled like it’s been styled to look effortless. it pisses you off that it works.

“i’m not doing that,” you add, in disbelief.

gojo doesn’t even glance your way.

he stretches lazily, jaw tilting with a slow exhale, voice thick and unhurried when he finally speaks.

“it’s six months,” he murmurs, smooth as silk. “a handful of appearances. handholding. posing.”

his agent cuts in. “just enough to convince the public he’s capable of something stable. affectionate. low drama.”

gojo lets out a lazy, humorless chuckle. “in other words... boring.”

you turn to him. “then don’t do it.”

he finally looks at you. his gaze is heavy lidded, cool, like the room barely interests him.

“you ever try saying no to a table full of men in suits who know what you’re worth per second?” he says, slow and low. “it’s like screaming underwater.”

his agent interjects again. “you went viral. you’re not famous. you have no online presence and no digital footprints. the public likes you.”

you lift a brow. “i didn’t sign up to be likable.”

gojo’s head tilts slightly. he watches you now, really watches — like you’ve said something that woke him up a little, piqued his interest — maybe.

his smile slips at the corners.

“you wouldn’t have to do much,” his agent continues. “a few interviews. red carpet appearances. affectionate photos. you’re allowed to keep your private life private. this is all surface level.”

“surface level,” you repeat. “that’s supposed to be comforting for me?”

gojo exhales through his nose, head leaning back against the chair. “don’t take it personally. none of this is personal. it’s just pr strategy.”

“you don’t like this either,” you say, more of a statement than a question.

he shrugs, voice dropping quieter, lower, then he closes his eyes, probably tired from all the shootings. “i don’t fake things well.”

“aren’t you an actor?”

he opens one eye, a smirk appears at the corner of his mouth. “bingo.”

the paper in front of you doesn’t budge. it just waits — silent, oppressive, too full of zeroes for you to ignore.

your eyes drift back to the number. it's not money. it’s freedom.

your father’s treatment. your brother’s tuition. your own life — something bigger than scraping by in the shadows of other people’s fame, tossing you money not sufficient for a week. you should probably walk away, you should say no, that they can't bribe you with money.

but instead, you reach for the pen.

“you don’t get to touch me unless there’s a camera on us,” you mutter, flicking your signature across the page.

gojo’s smile returns — slow, lazy. he leans back like a man with all the time in the world, voice smooth as honey when it leaves his lips.

“mmh,” he hums, the sound low and easy. “sure.”

his voice dips a little lower, that amused lilt creeping back in. “but let’s not pretend you’ll stay that strict for long.” he winks.

you pause. your gaze shoots to him.

he’s already turning away like the conversation’s over — but then he adds, with a smirk ghosting across his mouth once more:

“i also really hope you like flash.”

you grimace.

every part of you wants to snap something back — but you’ve already shoved the pen across the table and are halfway out of your chair. your hands are stiff, your jaw tighter than it should be, your steps too fast.

if you don’t leave now, you might say something you’ll regret.

and just like that—

the contract is signed.

the cameras haven’t even started rolling, but something tells you the real performance just began.

the elevator doors slide shut with a hiss, sealing off the glass bright office out of sight and everything you just agreed to inside.

your hand is still shaking. not visibly. not enough for anyone to notice. but you feel it — in the way your fingers press too tightly around your phone, the way your thumb misses the unlock button twice before it finally unlocks.

you weren’t even going to check your messages. but you do as an instinct. and there he is. you stare at the screen.

Your boyfriend, who kissed your forehead before you left this morning after staying over, who told you not to let this industry swallow you whole — how could you forget?

you’re supposed to tell him about the meeting — but instead, you let it blur at the edges, ashamed of how much you’re hoping it slips your mind completely.

your stomach flips. hard. when you scroll down and see a whole new set of messages from him, checking in every hour like a worried mother.

you chew the inside of your cheek and tap open the message thread. Then close it. Then open it again.

should you even tell him?

the truth is ugly, even in your own head — outrageous, really: you just signed a contract to publicly date the most recognizable man in the country.

were you supposed to text him something like, hey, don’t take this the wrong way, but i’m probably a gold digger bribed by hush money for my financially unstable family — and in exchange, i’m gonna fake date another guy to help clean up his scandal and get a paycheck out of it?

would he even believe that bullshit? he’d probably laugh. it sounded like something ripped straight out of a bad rom-com.

for six months. on red carpets. on camera. in staged, “intimate” moments designed to look real.

you press the edge of your phone to your forehead and exhale like it might clear something out.

your boyfriend isn’t famous. he’s not even online. hell, he hates the whole industry you work in for the things they've done to you.

you could explain it. spin it. beg forgiveness and swear you didn’t want it — because you didn’t, but that won’t stop it from hurting him.

and besides — it’s not real. it doesn’t mean anything:

gojo satoru barely looked at you in that room. he slouched, smirked, spoke like he was only half listening. he probably won’t even remember your name after six months, and if he does, it’ll be for convenience.

he won’t ask. he won’t dig. you tap out a reply. then delete it. then start again.

you didn’t say a thing about the contract.

“sorry, got caught up in a meeting. i’ll call you tonight.”

a white lie. small. harmless. you hit send.

but the guilt lingers, low and sharp behind your ribs — even if it’s fake, even if it’s for your family…

you’re not sure what hell looks like, but you’re pretty sure it smells like too much perfume and tastes like red lipstick cracking in the corners of your mouth.

a few days ago, you received your first official duty as gojo satoru’s “girlfriend”: attending a fashion event together.

you couldn’t even remember the name — too long, too extravagant, too complicated for someone of your caliber.

or so you thought, staring at your own reflection in the mirror.

people are now fussing around you like you’re a bride on a reality tv show. someone pins a mic near the side of your chest, a bit too close to skin. what did you even need it for?

another tugs the hem of your dress into place. a makeup artist taps at your cheekbone with a beauty blender and gently angles your chin up.

“keep your eyes on him,” she says. “and smile like you’ve known him forever.”

you nod. but your stomach turns. you haven’t even seen him yet.

the hotel lobby where you’re waiting is luxurious, echoing with distant voices, but none of it registers. your thoughts are pounding too loud. you’re not supposed to be here. you’re a set assistant. a background figure. you’re not supposed to be in heels, wearing a dress someone else picked for you, about to step into a scene you didn’t audition for.

outside the hotel glass doors, the crowd roars. the screams of fans and paparazzi rise and fall in waves. camera flashes explode like fireworks. they’re already chanting his name. the pr team probably leaked the address on purpose for your debut — you picked up on that much.

this isn’t a red carpet. this is war for you and of course — your reveal.

the set assistant who went viral for saving gojo satoru. now, playing the role of his girlfriend.

fake, of course. but that detail is yours alone.

he arrives just as you’re exhaling your fifth breath. you hear him before you see him. a smooth voice, a familiar drawl.

“hey, sweetheart,” he says. “ready to pretend we’re in love?” you look up. and there he is.

he looked like he stepped out of a runaway. no, who are you kidding? — he is a model, too.

he’s wearing the dries van noten suit from last month’s paris runway. black silk lapels, tailored waist, open collar. a glint of chain at his throat. he’s undone but sharp, rumpled in that intentional way that costs thousands.

his sunglasses are perched in his snow white hair, tousled and slightly pushed back. his skin glows like it’s been professionally lit. and he’s smiling that same slow, easy smile that the internet eats alive with edits.

he’s obnoxiously beautiful. and the worst part is he knows it. you know it.

he extends a hand. you hesitate — then, slowly, you take it, only then do you notice: you're both matching, each wearing the same colours.

his grip is warm. confident. yours is stiff.

he tucks your hand into the crook of his arm as if you belong there, and just like that, the two of you are walking.

the lobby is suddenly smaller. you can feel every pair of eyes on you as you and gojo satoru approach the front entrance of the hotel. he walks like he owns the marble floors, like the flickering chandeliers are bowing toward him.

outside the revolving doors, the storm is already swelling.

and then — you step out together.

the noise hits like a wall.

flashes. shouting. the low buzz of security trying to hold people back. fans pressed up against barricades. phones in the air, capturing every second.

he lifts a hand, waving like a politician. "showtime," he mutters to you, lips near your ear. his touch doesn’t linger, but it travels. it burns. not in a good way.

in a don’t-make-this-harder-than-it already-is kind of way. the car door opens. a long, black vehicle, glossy like lacquered ink.

he lets you slide in first. you do, silently.

once inside, you sit stiffly, tucking your legs to the side as best you can in your dress. the fabric feels too tight, too short. the makeup on your face too heavy. your skin prickles with awareness.

he follows, slipping in beside you with the same ease he uses to slip through cameras and conversations. his knee bumps yours as he manspreads. you pull back instinctively.

he doesn’t seem to notice. or maybe he does. and he just doesn’t care.

he lounges beside you like it’s any other night. one hand on his thigh, the other adjusting his watch with that same idle grace that makes people fall in love with him from behind a screen.

but you’re not in love. you’re not even interested. what you are is overwhelmed — anxious, guilty for lying to your boyfriend, full of regret — but determined to make your family’s life better.

the car pulls forward. the driver says nothing. the partition rises. and suddenly, it’s quiet. insulated.

and that’s worse.

because now there’s nothing to drown out your thoughts with.

“we’ll step out together,” he says after a moment, eyes still on the passing lights outside. “walk like it’s second nature. hold my hand if you want. or don’t. just don’t trip.”

“thanks for the encouragement,” you mutter, rolling your eyes, sarcastic. his mouth twitches.

he turns his head slightly to look at you. his gaze lingers. not affectionate. not curious. just assessing.

“if it helps,” he murmurs, “you look like you belong here.”

you don’t respond. your heart is already galloping ahead of you, preparing for the next performance, the big one, this time.

the car slows down.

he steps out first. the flashbulbs go off instantly, blinding bursts that eat the night. he poses with the natural ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times. fingers splayed in a careless wave. smile lopsided. chin tilted just right.

the crowd screams. and then he turns, offering his hand to you. you take it.

the moment your heels hit the pavement, the noise doubles.

lights erupt all around you. cameras click in rapid succession. someone yells your name. another screams his.

the sidewalk feels unsteady beneath your feet — no, the world feels unsteady.

a thousand flashes strobe across your vision. people are screaming. pushing forward behind barricades. reporters lurch in with microphones like weapons.

you blink against the lights, smile faltering. your chest feels too tight.

and then — his hand finds yours again. a light squeeze. not forceful. not showy. just there.

“deep breath,” gojo murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. you try. but your inhale is shallow. it catches in your throat.

voices rise, slicing through the static:

“aren’t you the set assistant who went viral for saving gojo satoru from a light rig?”

“what’s your name? are you dating?”

“hey, gojo! what happened to that woman from two weeks ago?”

“did you cheat on her?”

the words crash over you like waves. sharp. relentless.

you flinch. fingers twitch. your free hand lifts like it might shield your face, you're not used to this, you overestimated yourself, you can't do this, you're not meant to be here — but gojo moves quicker.

he turns toward you just slightly, still smiling for the cameras. his hand slides from yours and guides it, smooth and easy, to rest over his chest.

your palm lands flat against silk and warmth. his hand covers yours — solid, grounding. he leans in, voice barely audible beneath the noise.

“they’re always like this,” he murmurs. “you’re doing fine.”

you don’t respond, you’re not sure you can as you desperately try to breathe in some fresh air, under the gaze of the blinding lights.

they're too bright. the crowd is too loud. the questions are piling on, pressing in like heat, making you overstimulated. gojo adjusts your position to pose like he's done this a million times. for someone who didn't want this, he for sure played the part just fine.

his hand grazes your hip, subtle. his fingers brush a piece of hair behind your ear. his body angles yours toward the cameras just right.

he’s managing the scene. managing you.

you focus on the rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand. because everything else is moving too fast.

his laugh cuts through the chaos — practiced, charming — as he leans in, whispering something you don’t catch.

you nod with a smile anyway. because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

another voice barks calling out for you to answer. another microphone is shoved in your direction.

gojo’s hand presses a little firmer over yours. his body shifts even closer, acting as a soft barrier between you and the crowd. you hated him, hated this whole industry from the start, but in this moment, his grip is the only thing keeping you from unravelling and running away.

so you stand there. pretending, faking. letting the noise wash over you like a cold shower in the winter.

then, in the silence beneath the shouting — the part no one else sees, the part you won’t say out loud — you realize something.

a few days ago, he told you he doesn’t fake things well. not good at pretending, he said. you were utterly fooled. he is an actor after all of course he'd handle this well.

what a liar.

and as the cameras keep flashing, his hand stays steady on yours, you wonder—

how could someone this composed, this untouchable, who handled everything amazingly so far be the center of so many scandals this past year? leaving that kind of chaos behind him like smoke trails.

you don’t know. and maybe you won’t ever get to have an answer.

but right now, under all the makeup and perfume and eyes that don’t blink—

you’ve never felt more unlike yourself.

taglist: @earth-to-mee @cherryflavoredconversationsposts @tushkiiiiiii @sanestsanstan @saanday @fawnfaer @miiikooooooo @ilovebeansyay @nanamisbbygirl @sato-suguoi @chocalycake

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru gojo #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru fanfic #gojo fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk x you #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #faye!writes

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