#tipsy tonic

[amuseoffirebane]

Tipsy Tonic 🤝 Being a box robot that becomes Supremely Gender 🤝 Mettaton Undertale

[amuseoffirebane]

All my fanbots have graduated to OCs, but I feel like talking about them anyway!

Elijah was a doodled character from high school (a monster that rarely came into the light so I think the only drawing I had of her was a pair of eyes and her antenna) and I just liked the sound of the name matched with this mystery monster. Making her "of the House of Usher" was just that I was on a Poe kick at the time.

Tipsy Tonic, as a bartender, is pretty straightforward. I just couldn't decide on which name I liked better so she gets both. Tipsy can have little a surname, as a treat

I do not remember where The Controller's name came from, but I think I had it before I solidified his character because I remember RPing a very early version of him off site. The OC version of Connie may be getting a bit of a name change because the FBS robots don't follow the "The Name" naming convention, but I'm still figuring out what the do with him.

Hey, I’m curious about something!

Steam Powered Giraffe people out there, how did your fanbot get their name?

[cloaksandcapes]

A magic item for use in Dungeons and Dragons 5th edition tabletop role-playing game. This is a homebrew magic item created by Cloaks and Capes.

Tumbles’ Tipsy Tonic

Consumable, rare

“A popular drink among Fey party-goers, this fruity beverage is served in a spherical fishbowl class. There are two types of liquid in it, one green in color and the other purple, that swirl around one another, but never actually mix together. The tonic was created by the famous Tumbles the Toad.”

When you drink this potion, you gain 2d10 Temporary Hit Points, one Resistance at random to Fire, Cold, Lightning or Poison damage, and you can spend 10 feet of movement to jump up to 30 feet. The effects of this tonic last for 1 hour.

You must also make a DC 14 Constitution saving throw or have the Prone condition. You repeat the saving throw at the end of each of your turns until you succeed. On a success, you roll on the Wild Magic Surge Table and create a magical effect.

[minvrahyacinth]

being so vunerable for a moment like im so glad i do all the splatoon stuff o do and im so excited for an interview im hosting tomorrow but it is making me lose my shit like its the guy that got me into the game wo knowing i exist and i have to be normal about it

[stellewriites]

sweet kisses in my embrace

cw: noncon, non-penetrative sex, alcohol, messyyyy

it was only the third time you’d been out with johnny after meeting him online and you were pretty drunk.

you hadn’t meant to drink so much, but he’d brought so many cans of sweet tasting gin & tonic you’d not realised just exactly how much you’d had to drink while sat in the back of his truck, star gazing in the middle of nowhere, away from the city.

not your brightest move.

“anyone ever tell you how gorgeous y’are, hen?”

you covered your mouth with a clumsy hand as you giggled, flushed happily and tipsy as you turned to look at him laid beside you in the bed of the truck.

“so stunning,” he continued and leant up on one elbow to hover over you. he cupped your neck and jaw in his large palm and urged you to tilt up slightly to meet his hungry kiss.

he was oppressive from the start, coaxing your mouth open wide enough to fit his tongue in beside yours, moaning and panting even as you tried to shift in his hold to catch your breath at the heavy and sudden onslaught. and though he didn’t gentle you into a romantic kiss like you’d imagined after your first date, and instead bullied his way between your thighs as he bit and sucked at your lips, his actions weren’t mean; just rabid and yearning.

“christ on the cross, yer gon’ kill me,” he huffed, finally giving you a moment to catch your breath. he pressed your foreheads together as he settled his hips close to yours.

swallowing thickly, you pushed uncertainly against his shoulders. “uhm, johnny, can we— could we slow down a little?” he hitched up the bottom of your dress before you’d even finished the hesitant question and you squealed as your legs were bared to the cold evening air, flashing the ravenous man above you up to your hips. “johnny!”

you could feel the thick sewn seam of his jeans press against your vulva beneath the thin cotton of your panties as he rested his hips heavily against yours. you wiggled, pushing clumsily at him with alcohol-weak hands as an uncomfortable heat mixed with the gin in your stomach when he ducked down to kiss you again.

“promise i won’t touch ye,” he whispered into your mouth hoarsely. “won’t go no further yet. ‘s no’ proper, ah know.”

his hips shifted against yours; a jerky, unsubtle grind, and he whimpered when you tried to buck him off, your feet skittering for traction on the blanketed truck bed.

"still in mah jeans 'n' you’ve already got me close," he confessed under his breath with a bashful giggle, sucking on your neck when you turned your face away from his sloppy tongue.

“johnny,” you panted. “stop—”

“keep sayin’ mah name, hen, c’mon,” he huffed and leant into you further, his heavy shoulder pinning you in place as he used his hands to unbutton his jeans and shift them to just below his arse.

the outline of his hard cock was unmistakable now and you cringed at the hot press of it against your centre. with the way he had you pressed flat, his face hovering close, you couldn’t look down to see the growing wet patch on his boxers where the tip of his cock was leaking profusely.

“johnn— uhngg!”

you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the moan he’d forced from you, his thrusts heavy and pointed.

he grinned and muscled what few centimetres he could get closer between your thighs, hitching one of your legs higher over his hip before letting his hand drift up to your tits. he squeezed meanly, his fingers pinching the perked nipple underneath the thin material while he watched for your body’s reaction dazedly. the way your skin prickled, the hitch in your breaths that pushed your breast further into his clever fingers… the sharp insistent pain took away from the buzzing pleasure of his cock nudging against your clit, but only slightly.

johnny’s forehead pressed to the sweaty skin of your shoulder where the strap of your dress had slipped so he could gaze down at your chest and between your legs while keeping you in place.

you slapped his hand away from your breast with a wince and he dropped it down to his cock and slipped it out of the fly. when you yanked at his hair viciously to try and move him, thinking you’d gained ground, he gave a pleasured hiss and rested up on his elbow, just enough for you to have space to look down and unexpectedly catch sight of his cock weeping over your panties.

your grip grew weak and he rested a broad hand over your lower abdomen to pin you still as he sat up to get a better angle to rub his cock against the admittedly dampening gusset of your underwear.

when you only jerked in his hold, your arms growing laxer by the minute as they pushed against his chest and slipping down to hold his biceps, he moved the hand lower. it rested over your pubic mound and he hooked his thumb over his cock to keep it lined up perfectly as he thrust his hips forward into yours, guiding it to slip over your pussy and nudge at your clit until you started moaning again.

he dropped down to kiss you, holding your mouth open as he soaked up your bitten back noises greedily and swapped them for his own brazen groans.

“want to cum? hm?” he asked with hazy eyes. “want me tae make ye cum, hen?”

he didn’t give you time to answer before his hand was cupping your heat and he chuckled breathlessly at the sticky wetness that had began to soak through the thin cotton barrier.

one finger pushed at your opening, stopped only by the taut stretch of your knickers and he hissed, his hips jerking against the crease of your thigh and groin. encouraged by your evident arousal, he slipped his hand beneath your panties and rubbed his thumb a touch too hard and too fast against your bundle of nerves.

you gasped and your hips jumped up against his hand as you felt your core tighten and your legs shake beside his hips in anticipation.

“johnny,” you whined, and gripped tight onto his shirt. your hips rolled against the thick pad of his thumb and you clenched your eyes closed as your orgasm rolled through you.

johnny’s fingers twitched against your labia, barely holding on to his earlier promise as he felt the flood of wet warmth soak from your opening against his fingertips. he pushed his forehead roughly against yours as you sighed and pulled his hand out of your underwear to grip his cock tight. he ignored your whimpers from the loss of his hand to lazily hump against, no longer able to ride the waves of your distancing orgasm.

he tugged on his cock roughly, angrily, as he panted and moaned against your cheek, the skin becoming warm and wet.

he came quickly with a rabid groan. a half growl that had you shivering beneath him and he aimed his spend to land on top of your drenched panties, to soak with your own pleasure.

he slapped his sensitive cockhead against your clit before dragging it down to push against the soppen gusset and your clenching hole hidden behind the translucent material.

he coaxed out the last of his cum with a firm hand and groaned lewdly at the sight of you beneath him, flushed sweetly, sweaty in the pits, and rumpled beyond measure. he knew his own cheeks were ruddy with exertion.

he slipped his cock back into the confines of his boxers and pulled his jeans back up without closing them. he patted your hip, two solid smacks of his palm, and left your dress hiked up.

“fucking hell, hen,” he huffed as he slumped to the side of you. “so glad we came out here tonight.”

you stared up at the stars without blinking and shivered at the breeze of cold air.

[aleskie]

hii!! hope you’re having a week day, i was wondering if you could write max verstappen angst after 2021 baku dnf?

HIIIII ANON! I actually don't remember what the lore with baku 2021 was ajnskskj so i hope you like this general DNF comfort fic instead MWAH

WHY DOES SHE GIVE A DAMN ABOUT ME | Max Verstappen x Reader

SUMMARY: Max is a winner. But when it comes crashing down, you've got him.

Warnings: None. Hurt with comfort!

He doesn’t say anything when he comes back home — just closes the door a little harsher than usual and heads straight to the terrace after making himself a gin and tonic. He needs to calm down. You know that. You don’t follow him right away. You give him space.

Max was a champion. He won. That’s what he did, what he was born to do, what he was trained to become. Losing took a toll on him — whether it was a DNF or finishing out of the points. It never felt good. But there were things to learn from it, things to improve on. Both on his end as a driver and with the constructor’s team for the car. He could live with that.

But having a car malfunction? Not finishing the race? And when you were in second place? That hurt. That really hurt.

The sun is sinking lower, casting long shadows across the terrace as he sips his drink. The ice clinks softly against the glass. It’s calming, a familiar ritual — but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw stays tight. There’s a lot on his mind. What he could’ve done better. Where he’d be in the championship if he’d won. The what-ifs, the could-have-beens.

You watch him from the doorway for a moment before stepping outside. You don’t say anything. You just sit beside him, quiet and steady, while the sky turns gold and the weight of disappointment settles with the evening breeze.

“I hate myself,” he says, taking another sip from his drink. His words are slurred just enough to tell you he’s a little tipsy — no surprise, considering the drink he poured earlier was mostly gin with just the barest splash of tonic. “I’m a fucking loser. I lost.”

“Don’t say that,” you reply softly, keeping your voice gentle. “The car malfunctioned. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Was it not?” He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh and takes another swig. “I can drive bad cars. I’ve done it before. I’ve pushed them to their limits and I made it work—I made it win. But I couldn’t drive this one? Couldn’t win in it? Fucking pathetic.”

You want to reach for his hand, but you don’t. Not yet. You know that right now, he’s fighting a battle in his own head — one you can’t quite pull him out of. So you stay close, your voice steady even when his isn’t.

“You’re not pathetic,” you say quietly. “You’re one of the best drivers in the world. Four championships, Maxie—that’s nothing to scoff at.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he mutters, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The sunset’s almost gone now, the sky bleeding into deeper shades of blue and orange. “Feels like I’m just…wasting everyone’s time. Wasting my time. Wasting yours.”

The ice clinks again as he lifts the glass, and for a second, you wish the drink would run out. But you know the problem isn’t the gin. It’s everything that’s come before it — the pressure, the expectation, the disappointment.

“You’re not wasting anything—especially not my time or my energy,” you say. “You had a bad day. That’s all it was.”

He shakes his head. “It’s never just one day. It’s every day that comes after it, every chance that slips away. And I—” His voice breaks, just for a second, before he swallows it down with the rest of his drink. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

That’s when you reach for his hand. And this time, he lets you.

“That’s fine too.” You plant a kiss on the back of his hand. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“But I do.” He pulls his hand away and runs it through his hair. “I have to prove it. To the team. To the fans. To dad. To you—”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s worse than you expected. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face drawn tight with exhaustion and frustration and something deeper—something you don’t know how to fix.

“Don’t I?” he whispers. His voice is so quiet, but the weight of those words hangs heavy between you. “You think you’d still love me if I stopped winning? If I stopped trying?”

“But you aren’t not trying,” you say, your voice soft but steady. “You try your best with everything you do. And that’s one of the reasons I love you.”

He shakes his head, his jaw clenching like he’s holding back something that’s threatening to break free. “No. You love the champion. You love the winner. And that’s not who I am right now. This…this isn’t who you signed up for.”

“Don’t tell me who I love,” you snap, your voice trembling. “And don’t treat this relationship like it’s some kind of contract. I didn’t sign up for anything. I’m here because I want to be. Because I love you. Even now—when you’re hurting, when you’re in pain. I still love you.”

For a second, he just stares at you, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the fight between believing you and the doubts that have been eating away at him for weeks. Maybe months.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough for you,” he whispers finally, his voice breaking. “And I want to be. God, I want to be perfect for you. But I…I can’t.”

Your chest aches. That helpless, hollow kind of ache that comes when you want so badly to fix something — someone — and you know you can’t. All you can do is hold his hand tighter, like maybe that will stop him from slipping away completely.

“You are,” you say softly. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”

He closes his eyes, but a tear escapes anyway, sliding down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. “It’s been a tough season,” he murmurs. “The car is fucked. And I—I don’t know how to keep you if I can’t even keep this seat. And I don’t even know who I am without the wins.”

“You’re a four-time world champion,” you remind him, your fingers brushing through his hair. “You’re dragging a seventh-place car to third place. That’s more than enough. You are doing so much—more than anyone should have to.”

You guide his head to rest on your shoulder, feeling the way his breath stutters against your skin. “You can rest for now,” you whisper. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

For the first time that night, his body eases—just a little—against yours. The tension doesn’t vanish, not completely, but you feel the slightest shift, the way his weight leans into you like he’s finally allowing himself to stop holding it all together. And you hold him like you’re trying to keep him from falling apart—like if you hold him tight enough, maybe you can take some of that hurt away.

His breath slows, but every now and then it still catches, like there’s something inside him he can’t quite let go of. You press your lips to his hair, soft and reassuring, and whisper, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, voice rough and low.

“You do,” you insist. “And I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his fingers tighten around yours. And for now, that’s enough.

[oceantornadoo]

ch 1 of the wrong john: masterlist | next

john price x f!reader (johnny's twin)

--

You figure one whiskey in the fancy bar across from your hotel can’t hurt.

Johnny put you up in a nice hotel, considerate with all the travel and logistics it took to get here. Two days of your PTO gone, an almost-argument with the gate agent who lost your luggage, chasing down an AirTag with said luggage, and a very uncomfortable taxi ride. But it was fine. It was for Johnny.

Johnny: the brother, the twin, you hadn’t seen face-to-face in over a year. The one who got in a screaming match with your Catholic family last Christmas over who he can love. Nevermind the sacrifices he makes for the safety of the world, it’s where he puts his dick that matters to them. You told him it was bullshit and thus remained the only family member he contacts. You were worried for a second that he’d group you in with them, would sever your holy twin connection for it, but you should have remembered who you were thinking about. If anything, you’d do that to Johnny before he did it to you, a fact you both pretended did not exist. That scrappy self-awareness that somehow only you had been born with, mistaking protection with isolation. So when he said he had a slow week, said he had a partner (a boyfriend!) he wanted you to meet, you couldn’t say no. That was as good as siding with your family.

The meeting was tomorrow (“1000 sharp, m'eudail. Come t’ base an’ we’ll show ye around. Yer gonna love Simon, ‘es all claws like you.”) For the oddest reason, you were nervous. It wasn’t like Johnny needed his family’s approval, if anything, you needed to meet the approval of his found family. The one he created when he left, the one he was slowly opening to you like a secret garden. One sense of a parasite and the gate would be locked forever. He never said as much, too happy-go-lucky for that, but you could sense the protectiveness behind his words during glitchy monthly phone calls. “Price, Gaz, an’ there’s the L.T. Calls himself Ghost but ‘es more bark tha’ bite. You’ll see, m'eudail.” And so you ordered a whiskey to quell the nerves.

“Miss, a drink for you.” The bartender placed a gin and tonic down that was certainly not what you ordered. “I’m sorry, I wanted a whiskey? You can take this back, I haven’t touched it, I swear.” He shook his head, reaching down to grab a whiskey glass. “‘S from the gentleman on the corner. Told me to say our gin is better than our whiskey, which I disagree with, but whatever pays the tips.” He placed a glass of whiskey (on the rocks) in front of you. “Both are on the house, courtesy of your admirer. Let me know if ya need anything or he bothers you.” You nodded your thanks, glancing around for this mystery man. The bar wasn’t too packed but with a game of football on, there were more single men than not.

Finally, you felt a pair of eyes on you, sticking to the back of your head like honey. You turn and there he is, icy blue eyes and a lumberjack look, bearded in flannel. He’s broad and he knows it, carrying himself with the grace of self-confidence. To add to it, he’s sitting alone in a back corner table, perfect view of all exits (like how Johnny told you to look for one tipsy night eons ago.) When you catch his eyes, he raises a glass, giving you a glimpse of hands you want to examine. Are they soft or worn? What about his beard? You promised yourself a drink to settle you nerves, a bubble bath and lights out before 11, but he’s throwing a wrench into your plans. It feels like foreshadowing, to what you don’t know.

“Bit rude to tell the bartender you don’t like his whiskey. Doesn’t give a good first impression.” Somehow, your feet took you over to his table without your permission. You’re standing while he’s sitting and somehow you’re still tilting your head to meet his eyes. They’re darker than they were on first glance, swimming with something that sends a shiver down your spine. You purposefully take a sip of whiskey, your gin and tonic abandoned at the bar, to will that feeling away.

“Jus’ givin’ some advice to a pretty traveler. Can’t have y’ thinkin’ this part of London has no drinks f’ a woman like you.” You find a gray hair in his beard and track it to the curve of his lips as he speaks, taking in the small details you couldn’t see from the bar. Like the way his eyes crinkle in a world-weary manner or the gruffness of his tone, like he’s used to giving orders rather than initiating conversation. It’s your new mission to unpeel the layers of this man tonight.

“And how did you know I’m a traveler? Could be a local for all you know.” He snorts, and in any other man, the arrogance would put you off, but it’s somehow attractive on him. “Well, sweetheart, everyone’s payin’ attention t’ Arsenal playin’ an’ y’ve barely given ‘em a glance. And any local worth their salt knows the whiskey here is watered down an’ grimy.” You take a sip of your drink, again, to prove a point, biting back a grimace at the taste. You can’t let him win.

“Does that make you a local?” Gracefully, he ignores how you could barely swallow down the last drop in your cup. Instead of answering, he signals the bartender for two gin and tonics, then gestures at you to sit in the other seat at his table. His silent command, and consequential dismal of your question, pulls at a string in your belly you didn’t know existed. Perhaps it’s the whiskey.

“Nah, ‘v been around. Been in London for work a while an’ hav’ learned about whiskey choices the hard way. And you? Not from ‘ere, can tell by the accent.” You write that down in your imaginary notebook, hoping a whiskey enthusiast doesn’t equal a reliance on alcohol. You’re fast to determine red flags, especially with strangers. “From Scotland but haven’t been home in a while so the accent’s a bit over the place. What’s your work?”

He takes a sip of the newly arrived gin and tonic, savoring the taste with his tongue. It darts out to catch a drop the edge of his lip and you’re hit with visions of where else he could put it. God, you don’t even know his name yet. “Security consultant. Protectin’ whatever they pay me to protect. An’ you?” It’s a lie. His eyes don’t stray from your face but your bullshit-o-meter is ringing somewhere. You let him have it, deciding a lie for a lie is the best way to go.

“I’m interviewing with a company around here, so I’m currently in between jobs. But I trade in corporate bullshit.” He chuckles, smooth and low like good whiskey, and it’s enough that you forgive the lie, letting it gather dust in the back of your mind. “My name’s John, sweetheart. An’ yours?” You murmur it sweet and slow, fluttering your lashes to lock in the deal. It’s near 10 now, and you don’t want to be yawning when you meet Johnny tomorrow. You have a feeling the man in front of you could keep you up all night if you let him.

John pulls your chair into his until your thighs are slotted in between each other like puzzle pieces. “Got any plans tonight?” You shake your head no, pressing your leg into his own. The harsh denim of his jeans scrapes against your well-worn ones, reminding you of how rugged he seems. You want to see how untamed he can be, and your panties dampen at the thought.

“Well, John,” you overemphasize the last syllable of his name to make sure he’s paying attention. “My hotel is across the street if you need to expand your London knowledge. Really give you that local aura.” His thumb grazes your knee, stroking against the grain pattern. “Sounds good t’ me, sweetheart. Let’s give it a go.”

–

Few thoughts:

m'eudail - my darling, my dear

The base is on the outskirts of London but the hotel is in the city because I said so.

I don’t know anything about London football, Arsenal was the first team that showed up. Thanks google

This was all build up but the next chapter will have some smut! 

This is more for a plot based audience so here’s my AO3 if you’d like to subscribe

Comment if you want to be tagged 🙂

[weemssapphic]

stay.

Larissa Weems x f!reader

Tags: smut (cunnilingus, dildos - Larissa receiving), overstimulation, hurt/comfort, alcohol may be involved, Larissa is kind of subby and has a praise kink and is hopefully not too ooc

Words: ~4.8k | ao3 link in title

Where does the thump of the bass end, where does your body begin? The song that’s playing doesn’t matter, all that matters is that you can feel its vibrations in your chest. You’re slightly tipsy — not hammered, not by a long shot, but just intoxicated enough to feel relaxed in the mass of people. Scantily clad bodies push against you from all sides, sticky and warm. No ‘excuse me’s, no ‘sorry’s, just vibing. It doesn’t bother you, they don’t bother you; you’re having fun, they’re having fun. You push your way across the dance floor, the bar is your goal. 

As you get closer, you notice a woman standing at the bar. She’s nearly a foot taller than everyone around her, her hair so pale that it takes on the color of the flashing LEDs above her head. Blue red purple yellow. Blue again. It’s curled into an updo, too sophisticated for a place like this, she doesn’t blend in with the rest of the crowd. She leans forward on her elbows, tries to get the bartender’s attention — he’s flirting unsuccessfully with some guy at the other end of the bar, hopeless. Now this woman is your goal.

The person to her left heads towards the dance floor — you take the opportunity to sidle up next to her. A glance at her out of the corner of your eye tells you she’s starting to get annoyed that she can’t get the bartender’s attention, so you do it for her. Luckily, he glances over at just the right time and sees you wave him over and, luckily, he decides he should be getting on with his job.

“Gin and tonic for me, please,” you shout over the music. “And…?” You turn towards the woman, motion for her to speak. She doesn’t yet, she’s taken aback for a moment, and the bartender raises his eyebrows impatiently as he starts on your drink. 

“Whiskey on the rocks, please.” She’s found her voice, and you almost lose yours — it’s just slightly deeper than you’d expected it to be, smooth and velvety, and she’s got the most melodic English accent. You wonder how long she’s been in Vermont.

She shoots you a grateful look, her tension clearly easing with the promise of a drink on the way. The bartender sets down both drinks and she opens her little clutch, but you’ve already tapped your phone to pay by the time she’s snapped open the clasp. Her eyes widen imperceptibly — she starts to protest, you shake your head and give her a look, a broad smile, and her words die in her throat. Her lips move, you assume that she’s thanking you but you can’t hear her over the music. Her lips are pretty. Soft, plump, you don’t know anyone who wears red lipstick like that. She knows you’re staring at her lips, her cheeks are starting to match them in color, but today you don’t care. You take a sip of your drink and she mirrors you.

“What brings you here?” you shout. It’s a basic question, but you genuinely want to know the answer. She doesn’t look like she’s having a good time. And she’s not dressed like the rest of the partygoers. Not that she isn’t dressed well, she is. A little black dress, a satin clutch, with gold details to match her jewelry. But her dress is a few inches longer than what most of the women here are wearing, and her heels a few inches shorter, and she doesn’t have any cleavage on display. She’s a bit stiff, proper, hesitant, like she’s drinking everything in, deliberating, considering. What to say, how to say it, who to trust. You think you already know what she’s going to say before she says it.

“My friend dragged me here,” she shouts back. Bingo. You smile. A beat. “Is it that obvious?”

You smile wider. “Yes.” You pause. “But not in a bad way, trust me.”

The woman gives you a quizzical glance. “What do y-”

“Larissa, I lost you in the crowd!”

Larissa. It fits her somehow. You’ve never known anyone with that name before. That belongs exclusively, uniquely to her now.

The source of the interruption is a petite redhead with long bangs and thick-rimmed glasses. Larissa’s friend places a hand on her arm and leans in to shout directly into her ear, so loud that even you can hear her. She’s a little drunk. “I’m going home with Chel-sea,” she slurs.

Chelsea lingers by the dance floor. It must be Chelsea because the redhead glances back at her and winks. She’s young and she’s butch and she looks a little jealous at the way the redhead’s lips are plastered to Larissa’s ear. She looks away when Larissa looks at her. 

You miss the rest of the conversation between Larissa and her friend, but you don’t really care. Her friend leaves with Chelsea and Larissa is still standing next to you at the bar, and that’s all you really care about. 

“It appears I’ve been abandoned,” Larissa says, you can tell it's an attempt at self-deprecating humor, you smirk. 

“Sometimes it’s more fun on your own. You get to meet new people.” Larissa knows you mean her, her eyes drift from your face down your body, slowly — scanning, appraising — then snap back up to your face. You wonder if she likes what she sees, and you know you’re fucked because you even had that thought in the first place. 

“I didn’t catch your name,” she says, and you take it as a sign that she, at the very least, doesn’t find you completely repulsive.

You introduce yourself and Larissa repeats your name, and you think you don’t ever want to hear anyone else say your name but her. She says her own name then, and you smile, because you already heard her friend say it, but it sounds even more beautiful falling from her own lips. Larissa.

“It’s nice to meet you, Larissa.” 

She smiles with her lips closed, it’s sweet and almost shy — maybe she likes the way her name sounds coming from your lips.

Someone pushes past you, trying to get the bartender’s attention — he’s flirting again, with the same man. He’s down bad. You move to make room at the bar and find yourself closer to Larissa. You’re close enough to smell her, she smells nice, heavy, white florals. She doesn’t smell like sweat or booze or cheap body spray like everyone else here. She’s different, she doesn’t belong. In a good way.

Larissa asks you something but you can’t hear her. “What?” you shout, and she repeats herself but you still can’t make it out, and the person behind you elbows you in the back and you nearly spill your drink down your shirt, and it would annoy you if Larissa weren’t clearly suppressing a smile. You have to shoot your shot. “You wanna get out of here?”

Thankfully Larissa’s hearing is better than yours and, thankfully, she agrees — you both down what’s left of your drinks and you lead her around the bar and towards the door. You’re afraid to lose her in the crowd, you keep looking over your shoulder, but then her hand closes around your bicep and suddenly the thick, warm, sticky air of the club is less suffocating, fades into the background. Your skin is on fire even through the fabric of your shirt, and you cannot get out fast enough.

The air outside is a welcome contrast, there’s a cool breeze, and Larissa loosens her grip on your arm but doesn’t let go completely. The door closes and muffles the music playing and your ears ring. “I don’t know why I come here anyway, I have this ringing in my ears for days after,” you joke. You’re still shouting and it makes Larissa laugh, and you realize that her laugh is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. You’d like to make her laugh some more.

“I don’t think I’ll let Marilyn take me here again,” she admits with a smile. “It’s not really my scene.” You could tell. You wonder how hard her friend had to beg her to come along.

You lean your back against the cool brick of the building, breathing deeply, getting some cold air into your lungs. Larissa’s hand drops from your bicep and you miss the feeling immediately. “What made you come in the first place then?”

Larissa takes her time answering, leans against the wall next to you, clearly pondering her words carefully. “Marilyn always picks up girls here,” she starts slowly. “She insisted on being my ‘wing-woman’. Which has clearly worked out quite well, seeing as she’s gone home with someone and abandoned me.” There’s a touch of humor in Larissa’s tone, as if this isn’t the first time Marilyn has done something like this, as if it’s some endearing personality trait of Marilyn’s.

“The night isn’t over yet…” You try to sound nonchalant — you wonder if Larissa would consider coming back to your place, but you can’t get a good read on her. “There’s still time, you could go back in?”

Larissa deliberates again. “Or I could stay right here?” Her voice rises at the end, like a question. Your gaze snaps to hers, searching, searching for what?

“Would you like to come back to my place?” you ask bluntly. Larissa smirks, her cheeks turn pink — there’s something about her mixture of confidence and shyness that has you desperate for her. She steps closer and nods. 

“Yes.”

Not shyness, something else. She’s reserved, as if she’s never done this before, you wonder why she’s doing it now, if she’s proving something to her friend, if she’s sick of being alone. If she just really likes you.

Your arm goes around her waist. It feels soft and warm. Your eyes go to her lips. They look soft and warm. Your body draws nearer to her as if pulled by some magnetic force, the same force that’s slowly pulling her face down towards your own. 

Her lips are just as soft and warm as they look. Softer even. You feel as though you’re melting into her. She tastes like whiskey and lipstick and you know that the latter will stain your chin but you couldn’t care less. She’s eager but so are you and you deepen the kiss simultaneously, your tongues brushing as you taste each other. The feeling makes you shiver. Makes your arm tighten around her waist and your free hand trace her hip. You wonder what it is about you that makes her let go of her reservations, you shake the thought from your head, you don’t care, kissing her feels so good.

She buries her hands in your hair. Tugs a bit. Scratches your scalp. You moan, dig your fingers into her hip, maybe she’ll bruise. Fuck, she feels like heaven. You’re floating. You mumble something about calling a cab. You don’t though, not right away anyway, you don’t want the kiss to end.

You end up in a cab together. Larissa is handsy, you’re handsy. Your thigh is squished against hers, your hand is inching up her thigh, her hand is in your hair again. Her breath is heavy against your lips. The windows are cracked. The driver is used to this. He clears his throat, he’s come to a stop at the bottom of your driveway.

He’s happy about your generous tip, and you’re happy about Larissa’s hand in your own as you lead her up the driveway in the dark. You let go of it to fumble with your keys and Larissa giggles in your ear, her hand rests on your lower back as she waits, fuck, her fingers are so long, the thought makes you drop your keys.

Finally inside, you close the front door with your ass, lean back against it, pull Larissa against you by the hips, bypass her lips in favor of her neck. Moans fill the air, Larissa’s moans, deep and sensual. They vibrate against your lips as you taste the skin beneath her jaw. Heat fills your belly, sparks shoot up your spine, your groin aches.

You give Larissa a push, walk her backwards through the dark house towards your bedroom. She clings to your shirt, she’s panting, she likes kissing you, her lipstick must be all over your face, it turns you on. Her back hits the bed and she pulls you on top of her by the shirt. Your thighs bracket her hips and your breasts press against hers through your clothes, your teeth clash as you briefly lose the rhythm of your kisses. Her hands slip beneath your shirt, brush against your lower back, you’re sweaty, she doesn’t seem to care, enjoys the way you grind against her.

Your hands push at her dress, it clings to her, you’re almost jealous of the dress, you should be wrapped around her like that, where does your body end and hers begin, you want to meld into her. She tries to sit up, you let her, she pulls the dress over her head, you pull your shirt over your head. Both of your chests are heaving, Christ, it’s hot in here — your gaze traces the lace that clings to Larissa’s breasts, the delicate black pattern creating a delicious contrast against the milky white flesh that strains against it, that moves up and down with every breath. 

“May I?” you ask, fingering the straps that dig into her shoulders. At her breathless “yes” you push your fingers beneath them and drag them down her arms. There are pink indents in her shoulders, your fingertips soothe over them, your lips replace your fingertips which search Larissa’s back for the clasp. The bra falls away from her body and your lips follow her shoulder down to the swell of her breasts, kissing, licking, nipping, letting out little moans, soft soft soft so soft.

Your hands on her waist, also soft, something out of a renaissance painting. Her hands on your back, she’s found the clasp of your own bra, you smile against her flesh. Bra is tossed aside, your nipples poke against her skin, hard, her nipples are hard, too. She arches her back when you lick them, slides her hands into your hair to keep you in place — you’re starting to realize what she likes.

Larissa’s belly is soft, you want to bite it so you do, she groans. You pull back to admire your handiwork, the indents of your teeth in the soft fat of her lower belly, the faint reddish marks covering her torso, remnants of her own lipstick that have transferred from her lips to yours to her skin. You kiss the bite mark, there, all better, you kiss your way down to her venus mound, pull her underwear down, dark blonde curls tickle your chin, her thighs part.

Kiss the crease where thigh meets groin, smell her arousal — shudder in delight. It coats your tongue, tastes just as good as it smells, makes your own cunt ache. Your nose is in her pubic hair and your arms are around her thighs, the softness of which press against your ears and muffle her moans. Your tongue laves her folds, shit, she tastes better than anyone you’ve ever had, you can’t remember ever having anyone else, you don’t ever want to have anyone else.

Larissa holds your head in place by the hair, you can tell she’s a little desperate for release by how roughly her nails scratch your scalp, not gentle like outside the club, and by the way her hips roll against your mouth. It’s hot, how bad she wants this. 

“Mm, good girl,” you moan against her clit — her fingers flex against your head and her hips stutter, fuck, she’s so responsive.

You let go of one of her thighs to touch yourself, popping open the button on your trousers and shoving your hand into your underwear — relief courses through you as you start to rub your clit, matching the pace of your tongue on Larissa’s clit. Her thighs tense around your ears, her hips buck erratically, she’s close, you suck her clit with urgency, you hump your own hand with the same fervor. Come on, same time maybe, it’s building, building, Larissa cums all over your chin, you can’t hear whether or not she moans, your heart is pounding in your ears, your own orgasm coats your hand and drenches your underwear. Trousers ruined, who gives a fuck, being between Larissa’s thighs is worth it.

Long fingers tug at your hair, pull you up, soft lips descend upon yours — you feel Larissa’s breath catch in her throat, you taste like her. You wiggle your hips, kick off your trousers, tug off your underwear, Larissa gasps when she feels how wet you are. Flexes her thigh against you, you mewl, god, what a pathetic sound, you don’t have time to be embarrassed, she kisses you harder. Her hands on your hips encourage them to roll, grind against her, use her to cum.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” you pant — you’re looking down at Larissa as you ride her thigh and she looks like a goddamn angel, lips swollen, parted, lipstick smeared around them, pupils blown, lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed, hair half undone and stuck to the sweat on her forehead, tits bobbing, belly rippling, arms flexing. Her gaze tracks your own features, the movements of your own body as your muscles tense, your tits bounce, your chest heaves. You wish you could take a photo of the way she’s looking at you.

Your release is the sweetest thing you’ve ever felt, heightened by the way Larissa’s throat bobs as she swallows thickly. You want to kiss her senseless, so you do. “God, I want to fuck you so bad,” you mumble against her lips — she groans and squirms beneath you, you reach blindly over to your bedside table and pull your strap out of the drawer and Larissa shivers at the sound of the silicone bumping against the drawer. “Is it okay if I fuck you?”

Larissa moans a “yes” into your mouth as her hands cup your ass to pull you closer, her fingertips brushing against your core. Fuck, your eyes roll back in your head and it takes all your willpower to sit up, climb off of her, put on the harness. Her eyes track your every move, her tongue darts out to wet her lips, it drives you wild. You climb back on top of her, straddling her, squeezing some lube onto the dildo and spreading it with your hand — Larissa’s fingers twitch against the sheets, as though she’s itching to touch you, as though not touching you is driving her wild.

You settle between her legs, they part for you, her eyes are locked on the dildo, she pushes herself up on her elbows to watch as you tease her inner thighs with the tip. Her folds stick together with cum, you part them with your finger, her head falls back and her thighs twitch. She’s glistening, she’s drenched, you push your finger inside of her and she clenches around it, you wish the dildo was a real cock, that she would clench around you like that. A second finger, she takes it well, her body drawing you in, clenching with every pump of your fingers, your free hand gently rubs her outer thigh, there, that’s good, ‘fuck, so wet for me, are you ready?’

You withdraw your fingers and replace them with the dildo, teasing her folds, her clit, circling her entrance, pushing in, slowly, slowly, watching Larissa’s lips part, ‘breathe, that’s it, be a good girl and breathe for me.’ Your hips meet hers and you still for a moment, you let her get used to the feeling of being full.

“You okay?” you ask, you wait for Larissa to find her voice.

“Y-yes… it’s just a little big.” She blushes, it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. You’ll start slow, you tell her, and she looks grateful, she takes a few more breaths before she tells you to move and you drag the fake cock out of her until only the tip is left inside. Wait a beat. Push it back in, just as slow as the first time. She moans. Fuck, make that sound again, you pull your hips back and push them forward, just a little faster, she makes that sound again. 

You call her a good girl again and she responds by rocking her hips into you. She really likes being called a good girl, she closes her eyes and her hands fist at the sheets and her chest turns pink. She mewls and moans and whimpers and her hips meet your pace thrust for thrust, even when you start to pound into her. She grabs your hips for stability, her fingers dig into your flesh, her palms are warm and sweaty and they stick to you, you wish they would stay stuck, you like how they feel on you. 

Larissa cums hard, her face contorts in ecstasy, her eyebrows knit together and the creases there are deep, would it be weird to kiss them? Fuck it, you kiss them — that was the right move, Larissa’s arms wrap around your back, slide down to your ass, give it a squeeze, try to guide it to move again, to keep fucking her. You snap your hips, you kiss her sloppily, you moan into her mouth as if the cock were part of you, as if you could feel her warmth around you, you almost can if you focus on it hard enough, she moans back and clenches as if you could really feel it. She cums again, stops kissing you while she does, just pants erratically into your mouth.

“Be a good girl and turn around for me,” you mumble against her lips, receiving a tired moan in return. You pull back, slowly slip out of her, she whimpers a bit at the sensation. Your whole body is on fire. “I’d love to see you on your hands and knees for me.”

She turns, groans a bit, clenches her thighs together. You grip her by the hips and give her a gentle tug and she falls onto her elbows, her forehead rests against the mattress, her ass is in the air. So pretty, you run a hand along its curve as you push her legs apart with your knees, she’s open wide like this, she’s perfect. “This feel good?” you confirm as you tease her slit with the dildo, you wait for a muffled “mhm” before pushing in again, she’s tight like this and you go slow, you stroke her hips, her thighs, you watch the muscles in her back tense.

Something is different, you notice — Larissa’s moans are much quieter, her hips are much more static than before, she slowly stops meeting your thrusts, her biceps shake as she holds herself up. You slow to a stop, your hands rub her hips, you ask if she’s okay — she freezes, that tells you everything you need to know. You’re going to pull out, you tell her, and she stays perfectly still as you do just that, she stays still as you crawl beside her and urge her to relax, to lie flat on the bed. 

“Larissa?” She avoids your gaze, she lies on her stomach with her head turned the other way. You hardly know her, you don’t know what’s happened or what she needs. “Larissa?” you try again, trying not to sound pleading or desperate.

“Sorry, I just need a minute,” she finally replies, her voice shaky. You give her a minute, two minutes, three minutes. She sniffles and your heart sinks. You sit up a bit and peer around her, seeing tear tracks run down her cheek.

“Larissa…” You tug gently at her shoulder, urging her to turn towards you — she resists, then she relents. She lets you pull her onto her side, she buries her face in her hands, one covering her eyes, one covering her mouth, as if you can’t tell she’s crying like that.

You don’t know what to do, your heart constricts in your chest, your stomach hurts. “I’m sorry,” you say — you don’t know exactly what you’re apologizing for, but you feel like it's your fault that Larissa is crying, you want to make her feel better, you don’t know how. She shakes her head and her palm muffles a sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and your brow furrows. What the fuck are you apologizing for, you want to say, but the words get stuck in your throat and you rub her bicep in what you hope is a soothing manner. Is it worse to touch her or worse to pull away completely?

“What are you sorry for? You have nothing to be sorry for,” you finally say, but you don’t think Larissa has absorbed your words, because she keeps mumbling something about being sorry, that she’ll be ready to go again in a minute. “It’s okay,” you whisper over and over again as you rub her bicep. “We can stop, we don’t have to keep going.”

“We don’t?” Larissa sniffles, glancing up at you, and you shake your head vehemently. 

“We don’t.”

Another sniffle. The words ‘I’m sorry’ repeated again. You don’t like that she’s apologizing. You ask her why. She sniffles again. She dabs at the inner corner of her eye.

“It’s s-silly to be crying,” she says dismissively, it makes you frown. 

“It’s not silly,” you tell her. “What happened? Did you get overstimulated? Was it the position?”

She nods reluctantly, avoids your gaze. “I’m s-sorry… It was just too much…”

Your heart threatens to crack in two — what sort of shitty partners has Larissa had in the past that she didn’t feel comfortable telling you to stop? You push down your sadness and anger, they aren’t productive. You brush Larissa’s hair off her face, catch a stray tear on your thumb, trace her jaw with the tips of your fingers. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, Larissa. If one of us wants to stop, for whatever reason, we stop. Whether it’s just a break or we stop altogether, we both deserve to have fun and to feel safe.”

Larissa closes her eyes, nods slowly, wipes her nose with her wrist — you get up, you’ll be right back, to get her some tissues and a wet washcloth. Larissa blushes as you clean her up, tries to be subtle as she blows her nose, mumbles out another apology which you chastise her for. 

“I doubt this is how hook-ups are supposed to behave,” she retorts — you laugh, that gets you a reproachful look from the blonde. 

“You’re not a ‘hook-up’, you’re a human. You don’t have to behave a certain way. I just want you to have a good time. And to be able to tell me if you’re not having a good time. I’m many things but a selfish cunt isn’t one of them.”

The tension breaks, Larissa snorts and shakes her head, you grin up at her from between her legs. She looks like a mess — lashes clumped together, mascara streaked down her cheeks, lipstick smeared down her chin and up onto the tip of her nose, foundation caked beneath her eyes. She’s beautiful. It’s the kind of moment that could make you fall in love — you shake the thought out of your head.

A trickle of morning light is seeping in through the blinds, bathing your bedroom in a soft glow. As you toss the washcloth aside and crawl up next to Larissa, you realize you can see her irises clearly for the first time. They’re the truest blue you’ve ever seen, deep and bright at once. Your eyes flicker between each of hers, which do the same to yours. 

“Sun’s come up,” Larissa says hoarsely.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask.

She gives you a shy, closed-lip smile. You cup the back of her neck, wait. It’s her move. She closes the gap, kisses you. Still smiling. You smile back, kiss back, stroke the base of her skull with your thumb. She hums, you hum back. 

You pull away first. “We should get some sleep.” You get up, cross the room, close the blinds, the room is dark. Stumble back to bed, bang your knee against the bed frame, curse — your eyes haven’t adjusted yet. Larissa chuckles.

“Should I leave? It’s morning…” she suggests almost timidly as you lie beside her.

“Only if you have somewhere to be. Otherwise I’d very much like for you to stay, if you want that, too…” You hold your breath, you hope she does want that too. Her answer comes in the form of lying down to face you, tugging the covers over herself.

Your eyes meet. “Thank you,” Larissa whispers. “Nothing to thank me for,” you whisper back. 

Even in the dark her smile is radiant. “Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight, Larissa.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69  @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen

[repulsiveliquidation]

Playing Cards || Kika Nazareth

warnings : smut (18+), bondage, vibrators, cunnilingus, fingering, oral sex, rough sex, thigh-riding. mentions of alcohol consumption, alexia is the DD, obviously.

a/n : thanks to the one and only spicy anon who kickstarted the whole idea!

summary : kika slips you a playing card that doesn't look like the others...

You’re not sure who pulled out the game of cards you had in front of you. There were bottles of liquor open on the little side table you had, limes and tonic waters left open to dry out.

Charlie sat in his crate, eyes drooping as it was way past his bedtime. He had gently nudged your knee earlier, the best puppy eyes he could muster plastered on his face. You cooed and nearly gave in, sadly telling him that it was time for him to go to bed by himself just tonight and that you would make sure that he got the bone from the leg of lamb you roasted in the morning.

Kika rested her head on her shoulder as Mapi went her turn. Kika wrapped her arm around yours, softly tilting her head up to kiss along your jaw. All the girls that sat around your dining table were a little tipsy, giggling amongst themselves when you looked slightly smug with the affection Kika was giving you. You hadn’t told the girls about your little secret but they came up with the conclusions themselves, especially with how touchy Kika was with you since you joined the team.

“Baby…” you whispered, smirking when Kika pulled away and pouted. 

“Can you make me another gin and lime please?” she asked adorably, handing you her glass that still had a little gin in it. You take it from her and nod, drinking the last of her drink for her. You watch as her eyes sparkle and go a little dim, before walking to the little table at the side to make her drink just the way she liked it.

“Ha! Kiss the girl you think is the prettiest in the room,” Mapi grinned, reading her card out loud. She giggled and looked sheepishly at Ingrid, who was across from her. Mapi, now about 4 shots of tequila in, stood up and walked around the table. She intended on teasing Ingrid, the whole table watched as the Norwegian went through all 5 stages of grief as Mapi went around examining all the girls.

Ingrid pouted, arms crossed in front of her chest grumpily. Mapi got to her last, turning Ingrid to face her, the swivel chair she sat in made that look infinitely hotter than it was.

“Hmm,” Mapi smirked, tilting Ingrid’s face to look up, “found her.”

Mapi leans in close and kisses Ingrid, the whole table erupting in cheers and calls for them to get a room. Mapi sat back down in her seat with a smug look on her face while Ingrid was redder than a beet.

“Next!” Aitana called, throwing the dice over to you. You take them, rolling a three. Kika reaches over the board and takes a card from the stack for you, Aitana moves your pawn over three spots.

You read the card and you admit, you had to readjust your eyes a little cause you couldn’t believe what it said. You read it out loud once the words made sense.

“Ask the girl on your right to give you a lap dance.”

Kika, who was mid-sip, chokes on the sour drink. Alexia’s motherly instincts kick in and she’s hitting Kika on the back enthusiastically, while the other girls grin and giggle at the two of you.

“Come on, chop chop. I’ll set a timer,” Aitana said over the hacking, tapping her watch as she set a timer on her phone. You made a mental note not to make her game master ever again, standing out of your seat before reaching for Kika.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Ellie called, Mapi wolf-whistling as you two walked into the master bedroom behind the table.

You sat on the bed as Kika closed the door, drumming your fingers on your thighs as she sat beside you.

“Amor,” she began, fiddling with her fingers too. “We can pretend if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No,” you whispered, before looking at the door. The girls had all lined up and opened the door, peeking through the crack. You stood and pushed it closed before locking it, hearing Aitana cursing you out because you hit her head.

Mapi, simply because she was drunk and an asshole, turned on ‘Careless Whisper’ by George Michael, pressing the speaker to the door. It was soft but the unmistakable saxophone made you both cringe. The music suddenly stopped after a loud smack and a Mapi sounding “Ow!”, Alexia’s voice muffled through the door as she scolded the girls for being mean.

“As I was saying,” you fumble, walking towards Kika again. “I’d love that dance, Kika.”

She stands, wrapping her arms around your neck. You hold her waist, leaning in to kiss her softly. She kisses you back and you smile, feeling her hands tangle in your hair.

“Everyone knows how good of a dancer you are,” you whisper against her lips, feeling her pull away gently. She takes your hand and guides you to your reading chair by the window, nudging her chin towards it to get you to sit.

You do, making you to keep your arms on the armrest and your legs spread. She walked over to the stereo you had in the tv console, pushing in your favorite album.

She moved with grace and poise, there was something in the way her hips swayed to the music. The eyes fixed solely on you, there was no one else on earth but you and her.

She twirled and gave you a spectacular performance, sitting in your lap to finish her routine.

She ground down teasingly, gripping the front of your shirt for stability. Your hands itched to hold on to her but you remained professional, wanting to tease Kika too.

She leaned in and teased her lips on yours, feeling her warm breath join yours. You looked up at her through your eyelashes, watching as she disintegrated right in front of you. Her hips ground down into yours gently, skin pricking with goosebumps as your hands slowly trailed up her torso to hold her waist.

“Is this what you wanted, princesa?” you tease, thumbs rubbing the skin under your fingers. “Was this your pretty little plan all along?”

She doesn’t say anything, hips now grinding in tight little circles. She’s biting her lips when they suddenly turn up in a cheeky smile.

“No…”

“Then why was the card you handed me definitely not a part of the set I know I bought?”

“Umm…”

“And why,” you say, suddenly picking her up. You walk and place her on the bed, watching as her hair frames her head perfectly.

“Why did it have your handwriting on the bottom telling me to check the box underneath the bed?”

You step back and reach under the bed, looking puzzled but grin when you feel a cardboard box against your fingers. You pull it out and open it, pouring the contents out on the bed in front of Kika.

A neat roll of rope and several vibrators fell on the bed. Kika reached out for them, fingers trailing over the red rope before picking up the wand to feel the weight of it in her palm. She waves it at like a real wand and you pretend to get hurt before trapping her for a little tickle fight.

The girls outside can hear her giggling and are too drunk to care, helping themselves to the food in your fridge and more rounds of tequila.

“Shh, shh,” you coo at Kika, leaning in to kiss her. She gets lots in your lips moving on hers, not realizing you start to unravel the rope. You gently tease her clothes off, the little tank top and pretty skirt she was wearing were soon in a pile on the floor.

You kiss lower, lips leaving a wet trail along her neck. She whines, hands tangling in your hair. You’re sure to leave a few marks, nibbling at her warm skin in ways that make her head spin.

“Baby…” she whimpers, thighs wrapping around your hips. You give her a teasing thrust forward, core pressing tight against hers. She moans, heels digging into your back to keep you there.

“What are you gonna do to me?”

You clear your throat and run your hands down her smooth thighs, leaving one last kiss on her lips.

“I’m going to tie you up, you naughty girl. Then I’m going to keep this wand pressed right up against your pretty clit while I get the girls home safe hm?” you whisper, lips slowly moving to rest on the shell of her ear.

“You’re going to count how many times you come and when I get back, I’ll double it, entendido?”

Kika merely nodded slowly, the mix of alcohol, adrenaline and sheer arousal in her system was pushing her way past comprehension.

“Use your words, doll.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good girl.”

There was mumbling outside the door, muffled laughter that you smirked to yourself about. Knowledgeable hands maneuvered the rope around and under Kika like it was nothing, pulling her hands behind her back and her calves pressed tight against her thighs. She sits pretty on the bed, eyes a little hazy from watching your expert fingers throw the rope together like it was nothing.

Having dated for only a while, this was a MASSIVE turn on for the Portuguese national. The way your slightly cold hands trailed over her skin made her hair stand. The soft kisses you left on her skin when you pulled a little too tight. The soft groans in your throat as your work was getting close to completion.

Kika pouts and you give in to her, kissing her pretty lips as you turn the wand on and slip it between the ropes around her tummy. You turn it on to a comfortable medium setting before stepping back and leaving a soft kiss on her forehead.

“I’ll be quick, pretty girl.”

You saunter out of the room and she hears Mapi cheer drunkenly, already asking questions a mile a minute.

“Kika’s passed out so I’ll let you girls get home, it’s way past your bed time,” you say sadly, petting Mapi on the head as she clung to you. Alexia, who was the self-appointed designated driver, ushered her mumbling and stumbling teammates into her car. They all waved drunkenly and as evidenced by the picture Alexia sent you as they waited at a traffic light, they all passed out as soon as she started the engine.

You take your time with cleaning up, putting all the glasses in the dishwasher and clearing the game on the table. You can hear Kika whining and moaning in the bedroom. She got louder when she was close, and, if you were counting correctly, she was at 3 by the time you locked the front door.

“Can I come in, princesa?” you ask teasingly, walking into the room and closing the door behind you. You watch as she mumbles a delirious yes, an obvious sheen of sweat on her skin.

She’s on her stomach, grinding her hips into the wand. You turn her over and turn it off, much to her annoyance. She begs, eyes filled with gorgeous tears.

"Por favor, eu estava tão perto!"

“Mm, I know you were close baby,” you say, leaning in close to her, “that’s why I took it away.”

You slowly begin to untie her, watching as the mark the rope left of her body start to go red. She looks perfect, the deep gashes left on her skin magnify her beauty.

“You look stunning, amor,” you compliment, stripping down to your t-shirt and underwear. You reach under your pillow for your strap, groaning when the leather tightens against your skin.

Kika lays on her back in the middle of the bed, legs spread and core soaking wet. You kneel before her, wrapping your arms around her thighs to pull her closer to you.

You press her thighs open more, kissing along her inner thighs. The smell of her arousal floods your senses and you feel yourself get a little intoxicated, eyes rolling into your head.

“Fuck,” moans Kika, looking down at your with admiration in her eyes. She sat up on her elbows, breathing through her mouth as you kissed closer and closer to her core. You moan when your tongue licks a fat stripe over her core, fingertips digging into her flesh.

Kika starts to whine and fidget when your tongue flicks over her clit, hands reaching into your hair to pull. She grinds up into your mouth and starts to shake, whining louder when your tongue slips into her wet cunt.

“I’m close,” she tells you breathlessly, chest heaving as her orgasm gets closer and closer. You double down, knowing Kika had three orgasms to fulfil her debt.

Two thick fingers push into her cunt and she comes, thrashing about on the bed as you push her past pleasure and into a little pain. You pull away just before she passes out, grabbing her chin with your pruning fingers to kiss her.

Kika melts in your arms, hands reaching for your biceps to hold on to. You kiss her soft and slow, free hand slipping between her legs to rub at her folds. She shivers and giggles, grinding into your palm. She spits in her hand and lathers it all over your cock, watching as your eyes rolled into your head in pleasure.

Kika turned and spread her knees wide open before bending forward. She arched her back just a little and you moaned out loud, slapping your strap on her cunt. She bit her lip and begged to be fucked, cunt aching for your to fill it.

“I’ve been a good girl, I came so good for you…” she pleaded, pushing her ass out a little more for you. You oblige, grabbing her hips to push the toy into her cunt. Kika’s thighs shake in pleasure, a satisfied grin on her face.

“You look so good princesa,” you compliment, spanking her ass hard a few times. You thrust deep into her, pulling out a little to spit right on your strap. You fuck it back in and feel her get wetter, the resistance barely noticeable now.

“Being left here to come all over yourself felt so good, didn’t it baby?”

“Much better with your help…” she moaned, jaw slacking when you hit her sweet spot. She reaches back to hold your hand and you interlace your fingers, thrusting into her harder. She’s close, you can tell, feeling her pussy clench up around the toy.

You reach underneath her and play with her clit, feeling Kika tremble in your arms. You’re sure she’s drooling all over the bed, her voice muttered and muffled as she bites the sheets from pleasure.

“Come for me baby, one more for me, that’s my girl,” you coo, thrusting into her cunt harder and faster. She’s seeing stars, breath stuck in her throat. She stutters hard as she comes, shaking like a leaf as the shocks go through her.

You pull out and pull her into your arms, walking back to sit in the arm chair by the window. She’s still shaking but gets the message, wrapping her arms around your neck and looking deep into your eyes.

She straddles your thigh and grinds down hard, moaning when her clit catches the hard muscle underneath her. Her hands tangle in your hair, hips grinding down harder and harder.

She’s leaving a right mess on your thigh but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, watching as the forward spurred herself towards her sixth orgasm of the night.

It didn’t take much, as the alcohol ran through her system and the insanely sexy girl she was riding talked her through her orgasm, she came faster than she ever did before.

Kika kisses you hard and hot, tightly rocking her hips on your thigh as she comes down from her high. You smack her ass one more time before carrying her into the shower for some much needed aftercare.

Feeling clean and loved, Kika crawled into bed smelling like your bodywash and cologne, stealing one of the shirts from your closet. You pulled her into your arms, feeling her body fit into yours perfectly.

You guess the rest of the girls can come over for game nights more often now. Your phone pings and its Alexia, telling you everyone was home safe. You smile and thank her for being a good friend, deciding to make fun of Mapi and Aitana, whom you were sure would come into work tomorrow with a hangover and a half.  

[pseudowho]

Ditch the Party

Nanami Kento hates parties; but the drinks? They make him...bold.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Nanami Kento is a horny drunk, just regular old smut here

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Just...promise me you'll behave tonight," you beseeched Kento as you pressed your earrings into place. You saw Kento lean back into the bathroom on his way out, bristling, indignant. Your nose twitched in amusement as he caught your eye in the mirror, looking stern.

"I don't know what you mean," he replied stiffly. You scoffed.

"You absolutely do," you countered, turning, your hand on his chest. Looking him up and down, in a slim black suit and burgundy shirt, tie-less, you felt outdone.

As you leaned back on the bathroom counter, Kento's eyes had a naughty twinkle as he leaned down towards you. Your eyes narrowed with a smile of warning, and you pressed one finger to his lips. Tapping his nose as he opened his mouth to bite your finger, you reminded him.

"Come on, big guy. We'll be late. The taxi guy's probably sick of waiting for us." You slithered past Kento, feeling his fingers brush your waist for the barest of moments, as you gripped his hand and pulled him towards the door.

In the taxi, Kento gazed at the city lights, considering his life choices; "Why are we going to a party this evening? We don't even like parties." You laughed, reapplying your lipstick in a mirror.

"We don't, it's true. But it's a big birthday for my uncle, and we promised," you wheedled. Kento grunted his disapproval beside you. Your eyes narrowed at him again; "And, it's a family friendly event, so..."

Kento looked at you again, innocent but challenging. He let your statement hang; this time, it was you who was bristling, indignant.

The party had already begun by the time you arrived; held at your aunt and uncle's home, a warm orange glow and thrum of conversation spilled out from the kitchen to the garden, deep green hedges flickering with torchlights and tiny twinkling fairy lights. The music was low, the conversation easy and audible above it. A barbeque puffed out woody smoke. Drinks were flowing freely. You sighed as you approached, relieved.

"See? It's the good kind of party," you pressed, squeezing Kento's hand reassuringly. He sighed, unable to argue with you, reassuring you with a gentle smile that you didn't need to babysit him all evening for fear of him having a dreadful time in the company of others.

While Kento headed in to fetch drinks, you greeted family and friends. Kento returned soon after, with a large gin and tonic for you, and a larger whiskey for him. He slipped an arm firmly round your waist, pulling you flush to him as he planted a kiss to your forehead.

The night wore on, the conversation lubricated by alcohol, and small, tipsy groups milled around the garden fires. As food was served, an elderly aunt approached, and asked Kento how he was enjoying the meal.

"It's delicious, thank you," he replied low and smooth before leaning into your ear, whispering, "it almost tastes as good as yo--"

"I'm sorry, dear?" Kento leaned up, all smiles to your elderly aunt, as you blushed from your ears to your toes.

"I said, it tastes almost as good as your cooking, auntie," he lied and she chirped, flattered, patting him on the arm with a smile. Your auntie headed away, and you spun to Kento with a look of warning. He completely ignored you, honeyed eyes glowing in the firelight.

Eyes narrowing at him, you headed over to the table to fetch Kento a glass of water, and almost immediately felt him cage you against the table from behind, his sculpted shoulders leaning past you to rest on his knuckles on the tablecloth. You felt his warm, whiskey breath against your neck.

"We could always bend you over this table," he murmured, as you felt a throb of lust in your belly, "and see how hard we could make it shake." As you spun, still caged by Kento's arms, a family friend approached just beside you and offered you and Kento an uncertain smile. Kento plucked your hair clip off the table from behind you, holding it up with a cunning smile.

"There it is, darling," he said warmly, the family friend now less uncertain, "I told you we'd find it." The family friend left, and you hissed up at him.

"Kento. Behave." He fixed you with a look of faux-innocence as he stood, finishing his whiskey.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, smiling at your uncle, wishing him a happy birthday as he passed, and then leaned over you again, pulling you close to his chest as he rumbled, eyes hooded and glinting, "but then, you never do make much sense when I'm fucking you until you can't see straight."

You groaned against his chest, hand over your eyes, mortified. You heard your aunt gently asking Kento if you were alright.

"She's fine," he chuckled, "can't handle her drinks, I think." Your aunt cooed, sharing a joke with Kento, and you gaped up at Kento, who accepted another drink from your uncle, utterly shameless.

"Kento," you hissed again, "you are just a--"

"Menace?" He rumbled, ghosting his lips over yours, whispering, "I could be. Just give me a bit of time, and something to tie you up with, and--"

Your mother came over, greeting you both, and you were forced to play drunk, you were so flushed at this point, babysat by Kento as he rolled his eyes fondly at you and made small talk.

Kento slipped his hand lower and lower behind you as he talked with your mother, and you felt his long fingers trace your thigh, surreptitiously climbing upwards beneath your skirt to graze your arse, before creeping round again and you felt his fingers brush softly against your fol--

You squeaked, jumping, your drink sloshing over your toes. Kento flapped a hand above your head.

"Just a moth," he reassured you and your mother. Your mother gave your burning cheek a kiss. Kento waited just long enough for your mother to leave, before looping an arm round your waist, pulling you into the shadows, behind hedges further down the garden. You squeaked with alarm. Kento drained both of your drinks, and unceremoniously abandoned the glasses in a bush, before pulling you onto a sheltered bench by your uncle's koi carp pond.

You were thrumming with embarrassment at this point, and leapt off the bench, mortified by Kento's utter shamelessness and alcohol-loosened tongue, ready to chew him out...but...

Kento sat on the bench, legs spread wide in his tight black trousers, thick, toned arms stretched out across the back of the bench. He looked deeply into your eyes, chiselled face dramatised in the shadows. Slowly reaching a hand out, he pinched the top of your skirt, pulling you in between his spread legs, strong and determined.

"We don't like parties," he toned, low and sultry, as you were pulled into his lap, "but we do like it when you ride me until our clothes are ruined."

Kento grabbed your thighs, forcing your skirt up to your waist and parting your legs around his lap. He hesitated, changing his mind and lifting you off him briefly. With no argument, he stripped off your underwear, pressing it to his nose and breathing in with a groan and a shiver, eyes closed in ecstasy. You hissed to him again, terrified of being found, arse and pussy open to the world--

Kento pulled you back down to straddle his lap again, sinking his hand into the back of your hair and tipping your head back as he ran his tongue and teeth against your throat.

"Nobody else will be able to see that wet little pussy of yours...if it's as close as I want it." Slipping two fingers between your legs, Kento rubbed your clit in tight little circles, and you felt hard and fast pangs of pleasure through you as you trembled, gripping Kento's shoulders desperately.

"Someone will hear, Kento--" he bit your neck in warning, squeezing your arse hard as he moaned, shivering as he continued to press hard against your clit.

"Well then be quiet, my love." You mewled, muffling your face into his neck, quaking as his clever fingers dragged you to orgasm, stimulating you hard and fast until your thighs shook, and his hand was wet with your arousal.

Kento's eyes were dark and determined now, single-minded as he unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock, solid and weeping pre-cum against his belly as he stroked it, lubricating himself with your cum. Locking his arms behind your back, he lifted you and slammed your sensitive pussy down onto himself, bottoming out immediately.

You shrieked, and Kento clapped a hand over your mouth, nipping your lips as he shot you a lustful, playful look. Hands then locked behind your hips again, he lifted you up and down with wet slaps, immediately seeing stars with the relentless pace, chasing your pussy with his hips as he bucked.

You gasped, breathless against his neck as his cock bullied into you, pliable and shaking as Kento groaned into you, unashamedly loud-- "harder," he insisted, increasing the pace with his hands clenching the fat of your hips, "harder."

His mouth pressed to yours, kisses hot and smoky with whiskey as he nipped at your bottom lip, his groans deep and guttural as he felt your pussy clench around him while you held onto his lapels, mewling, tipsy, completely fucked senseless, as promised.

Feeling the trembling of your plush walls around him (the nerves of his cock already electrified by the alcohol) had Kento reeling  and he came, whimpering into your mouth as he ground your hips against his, bottomed out and warm shots of cum spurting directly against your cervix.

You both shook, tangled and sweaty, spent, while Kento chuckled and you slapped him on the chest. You heard voices approach; your uncle, excited to show someone his prized koi carp.

Kento threw you onto the bench beside him as you yanked down your skirt, and Kento zipped himself up, putting an arm around your shoulders.

Your uncle arrived, "Oh, hey kids! Enjoying my carp-- whose are those?"

Kento coughed delicately, eyeing your forgotten underwear at the side of the pond; "No idea," he said, coolly, "they were here when we arrived."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Infiltration, Chapter 5: Breaking Point, IS coming this weekend as promised...but in the meantime

[russellbee]

I MIGHT SAY SOMETHING STUPID (MV1)

max verstappen x driver!reader (team & gender are ambiguous) summary. you've never been good at talking to people. you can never form the right words, hold eye contact, or in worst cases, think before you speak. so truthfully, you're not really surprised when you end up confusing max with your spontaneous confession. unbeknownst to both of you, lando brings you back together. (writing, texts, + a bit of smau) (3.3k) warnings. for self-hate & mentions of hate comments, mentions of anxiety(!!!), everyone is confused and oblivious (except lando!), george and max rivalry is very present, mentions of alcohol & intoxication, use of y/n, reader has parents (and is close-ish with them), sorry if your name is spencer (the name is used for a friend), george doesn't have a gf(!!!), mentions of sex (but it’s really nothing), and cursing. andi's note!! inspired by my beautiful adhd brain 😍😍 (and my max obsession, ofc!) the title is from 'i might say something stupid' by charli xcx but the song doesn't have anything to do with the fic!

nav+masterlist

You've seen multiple media outlets say that your mouth is disconnected from your brain with the amount of (accidental) out of pocket things you've said. Your first post-race interview in F1 ended with you severely embarrassed because you tried to make a joke but the way you worded it made it sound rude. You had backtracked as soon as you realized how it came off (honestly, it took too long) but you still had the comments you'd seen online stuck in your head.

Every season in F1 you get increasingly more nervous to talk in interviews or to the other drivers; the comments and articles gnawing at your self esteem. But with Max it's always been different. He can laugh off an unintentional brash remark or just raise an eyebrow and in a snap you'll realize what went wrong. So, because of how easy it is to talk to Max you've become close.

You're in Abu Dhabi, the season's ended and George Russell is getting on your nerves. He's in your sight, talking to Lando and Alex; laughing. You don't dislike George, he's always been nice to you but your love for Max trumps your like for George. Love?

You're just a little tipsy. It's fine.

As long as George doesn't go near you maybe you won't open your mouth. It's always hard to stop talking the second you get alcohol in your system; not a single word is filtered, it all just comes out.

Someone is staring at you, it better not be George because he knows what you'd do for—

"Are you alright?" Max sits down next to you, gin & tonic in hand. He's so— warm. His thigh is pressed against yours, and you can feel the warmth of his body through his jeans. (It's not really warm enough for shorts but you couldn't remember the weather from last year, so you're stuck in a pair of shorts you brought to Qatar.)

"Huh?" What he said comes back to you and you stammer, "Oh, sorry. I'm fine just thinking. I guess."

"Thinking?"

"Yeah, y'know." You really are thinking; thinking about how good his cologne smells and wondering if it clings to him night and day. Does he always smell this great? How have you never noticed this?

"What are you thinking— Do you ever feel like, really obsessed with someone? Like you see them and you want them. Bad." You cut through his question with your own (stupid) question. Neither of you are looking at each other. You're too focused on not looking at him, actually. Why do you always do this? Did you never learn how to talk to people?

You're so busy panicking that you don't notice your eyes are still on George, and Max has noticed; his lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Had he been reading things wrong?

You're waiting at your gate when you get the text. You feel your phone buzz against your thigh and you hope, and hope that it's Max. You're terrified to message him first, worried he heard the meaning of your question and didn't want to acknowledge it. He hadn't said anything last night. Maybe he's finally sick of you. Can't even let him speak, or think before you talk with a single drop of alcohol in your system. You squeeze your eyes tight and will your brain to stop talking. Then, after a deep breath you open Whatsapp and see it's from Alex.

alex albon

did you tell max to apologise to george?

You blink. What? Never in your life would you think Max would apologize to George. You wouldn't tell him to either. What had gotten into him? Who would be able to change his mind like that?

alex albon

y/nnn

you have read receipts on ik you saw this

You sigh, trying to slow down your brain so you can make your thoughts coherent for Alex.

you

sorry i was thinking

didn't tell him to do that

idk why he would, it's not like him

alex albon

alright thanks 👍

i think we're all confused rn haha

Your boarding group is called and you feel a little bit of annoyance bubble in you. This is gonna be stuck in your mind for the entire flight.

the best rookies

lando

i think y/n likes george

or that's what max thinks at least

alex

and how did you come to this conclusion?

george

That makes no sense

Y/n and I don't talk that often

lando

i saw them together b4 y/n left

they were staring at us

prob george tho

considering everything

george

Many people stare at us, Lando

lando

you don't getttt it

max looked like

mad but confused?? he was very focused on you

and y/n looked like they wanted the earth to swallow them

v embarrassed yknow

alex

y/n probably just said smth wrong

can't really see them liking george

george

If anything, Y/n likes Max

lando

max doesn't care when they do that tho

ik y/n likes max thats like super obvious

ugh u guys dont get it at all 😒

You had practiced your speech for the awards, had repeated it over and over in your head. P3 in the championship, a first for you. Then you made a fool of yourself, stumbled over your words. People had laughed a bit, but in the back of your mind you acknowledge it had nothing to do with the jokes you attempted. At least you didn't have to take any more photos.

Lando finds you as you're about to leave, wiping the tears off of your cheeks and steadying your breathing. "You weren't that bad you know?" Lando teases and you let out a breathy laugh. "Fuck off." He laughs and you both start to leave the venue.

You make meaningless small talk. Lando is going to ski with friends and you'll be visiting a childhood friend, Spencer, in London. You're both anticipating a better season. The valets go to retrieve your cars, and you're both left standing on the sidewalk. It's a little humid, but not enough to make you want to blast the AC.

"Did you see George's post on Insta?" Lando asks after the silence has settled. Your face scrunches up, "Sorry?" You would've been fine to stay quiet until one of your cars arrived and you'd say goodbye. Lando had other plans, apparently.

"His post saying goodbye to Lewis. The last picture was nice, wasn't it?" You feel like there's something Lando's searching for but you can't put the pieces together. "I don't follow George on Insta. I— It's not like I don't like him, it's just. We're not really close?" Lando raises a brow, and it's not like when Max does it. It's something else, and you don't understand. You want to ask why, what he's thinking, but the valet parks your car in front of the sidewalk before you can.

Lando moves forward when the valet gets out, holding the driver's side door open for you. What is going on? You look at Lando, questions floating in your head and then hesitantly get into your car. "Have a nice off-season." Lando's grin is triumphant. Not like when he's at the top of a podium, something different and unfamiliar, yet kind.

"Yeah, thanks." Maybe you just don't know him well enough.

Lando double checks everything. He looks through his and George's mutuals and looks through the likes on George's end-of-season posts. He's never been more determined to prove Alex and George wrong. (And getting you and Max together, of course!)

Oscar looks at him weird 'cause he's grinning at his phone, then teases him, asks him if he's got a girlfriend. Lando laughs it off, because how is he supposed to say that he's investigating into some grid drama? That he's trying to understand what happened after Abu Dhabi, with you and Max? George has been ruled out as a player in this game, none of you are that close.

In London, you facetime your parents. They show you everything in their little villa that you rented out for them, the sandy beaches and the bright ocean. They tell you that they miss you and you repeat the sentiment. A part of you misses Max more, and you try to push that down.

Spencer orders pizza, and you both relax on the couch as you wait for it to arrive. They make a noise, a bit contemplative but unsurprised, and you look up from your own phone. Spencer's looking at you with a wolfish grin. "Oh, no."

"Have you seen this?" Their voice is teasing as they hand you their phone. It's opened to a post on the F1 Instagram account, the caption reads: Celebrating Max's 4th WDC with pictures of the best friendship on the grid 🏆. You gape slightly at the first picture; it's of you and Max in Zandvoort '23 on the podium. You both have bright smiles, your focus is on drenching Max with your champagne. He's laughing, accepting the spray. You don't bother to look at the rest, a sick feeling building in your stomach that you've begun to associate with Max. You know what it means, but you can't acknowledge it now. You haven't talked in over 2 weeks.

The pizza arrives and Spencer makes you pay. You can't get yourself to eat a lot, too stuck in your mind to acknowledge your hunger. When you lay in bed later that night, you feel sick. You know it's not the food, you know what it is. In the back of your mind you wonder if you'll ever be able to accept your feelings or if you'll just have to get over it.

lando norris has made a groupchat

monaco dinner 😁😁 (alex albon, george russell, max 🏆, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, oscar piastri, you)

lando norris

alright everyone. need to know when you're all returning to monaco

"You're up to something," Oscar says from beside Lando. Lando raises a brow, a teasing grin on his lips. "Whatever do you mean, Osc?" His teammate rolls his eyes before scanning the table, landing at the empty seat next to George. Everyone is here, except you. Lando pretended he got a text from you saying that you'd be late, when in reality that's not the case. He told you the reservation was for twenty minutes later than he told everyone else. His plan needed to work and he didn't want you arriving earlier than intended.

"Y/n, someone who is always scared of coming late they come fifteen minutes early, isn't here. I'm assuming you have nothing to do with this?" Lando's grin grows wider. "Mate."

"Just wait."

You arrive at the restaurant 5 minutes early, since you had to walk and that led you to being noticed by some fans. When you go up to reception and say who you'll be sitting with, the host raises a brow before directing you to a table in the far back of the restaurant. Everyone is already there, drinks on the table. Worried, you look at your watch to see it isn't even the time Lando sent. You're early.

The only seat open is at the end of the table, to the right of George. It's also right across from Max. He looks surprised to see you, putting away his phone as you sit down. George says hi and asks you how your break has been so far. You make pleasant, friendly conversation with him. When Charles asks you a question you turn your attention to him, and notice that Max's mood has visibly soured. He must notice you looking, because he inserts himself into Alex and Carlos' conversation. You bite your cheek, trying not to seem annoyed or disappointed. You still haven't talked, and it's been seven weeks. He's liked your posts; the one from your trip to London, a set of gym photos your team took, and your photos from your other trip. No comments, just likes.

He doesn't talk to you for the rest of the dinner, instead he watches you make conversation with your other drivers. You stumble over your words, make mistakes and try to laugh it off. It's nice to talk to them, it just requires more energy. With Max, you don't have to worry about your never-ending rambling or your stories that tend to not make sense. It's easy. You miss it.

Dinner ends, you all split the check and go your separate ways. After getting your card back you head to the bathroom, just standing in silence for a few seconds. You need a break, especially if you run into some fans on your way home. The more you talk and force your brain to try, the more exhausted you get. The easier it is to snap or say something completely wrong. No one deserves to be on the receiving end of that.

You scrub your hands over your face, trying to wake yourself up. In your pocket your phone buzzes once. Then twice.

max 🏆

Are you still here?

I didn't see you leave.

Your breath gets caught in your throat, and you make yourself type slowly. Your hands are shaking. You need to get a grip.

you

yeah, haven't left yet

you're still here then?

max 🏆

Yep. Meet you at the entrance?

you

sure

As you leave the bathroom your brain has fired up again, what the fuck, repeating in your head consistently. Because, what the fuck? Why has Max all of a sudden decided to talk to you? What changed his mind?

He's standing in the waiting area, his plain white t-shirt covered by a jacket you recognize from the Alphatauri website. The corner of your lip twitches, as you fight back a smile. He's so predictable.

"Hey." His voice is quiet, like he was scared that you were lying. Like you'd hide in the bathroom till he left. Even though you're mad at him, you can't see yourself doing that, ever.

"Hi. Um, nice break so far? We haven't talked a lot," You let out an awkward laugh, cringing internally. Why did you bring that up? And in the first sentence too?

"I'm sorry about that, I've been busy," Max's smile is weak and your heart deflates a bit because you know when he's lying. He doesn't do it often, so it's easy to tell. "I meant to text you, really." But that isn't a lie. Huh. You stare at him for a second trying to make sense of what's going on.

"Did you drive here?"

"No, didn't have time to get gas. I mean— I did, I just forgot because I've been doing other stuff." Max smiles and everything feels almost normal again. The seven weeks of silence still looms over the conversation, like it's preparing to end your friendship forever. "I'll drive you. You didn't move, right?" He has a smile on his face, the one when he's trying to be funny. You feel that sick feeling building, and your skin warms.

"No, I should though. Apparently my neighbor almost set the complex on fire, and the one across from me she— she did something weird, I can't remember. But I know it caused a meeting for the building about some policy and everyone was really mad at her," You ramble, voice picking up as you get that giddy feeling, when you know you're really being listened to. Max leads you to his car and you get into the passenger seat. On the drive to your building, you finally remember the reason why your neighbor got in trouble.

"She got in trouble because she had sex on her balcony or something, and then someone saw and reported it. Holy shit, I can't believe I forgot that!" You laugh, face scrunching with your smile.

"Your neighbor?"

"Yes!" It feels really good to talk to Max again, to feel a true connection when you talk to him.

lando norris

hey mate

how's y/n?

max

Good?

Do you not have her number?

lando norris

no haha sorry

thought you guys were dating

things seemed off just wanted to make sure

max

Right.

We're fine

lando norris

but not dating? (max has reacted with 👍)

Everything has been good with Max. It's like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders now that you can talk to him again. You flew with him to Bahrain and now Australia. Media day is tomorrow, and Lando has texted you asking if you want to go explore, like neither of you have ever been to Melbourne. You say yes, anyway.

You're in the elevator going down to the lobby, when it stops at another floor. George is standing on the other side of the doors, and he smiles at you as he walks in. "Hanging out with Max?" He asks as the doors slide shut.

"No, Lando invited me out. He said he wanted to explore, which I don't really understand because he's been to Melbourne multiple times. Also, Oscar's his teammate so, I don't—," You stop yourself. "It'll probably be fun though, it's Lando."

"Lando invited you out?"

"Uh— Yeah? Why?"

"He invited me out as well, that's all." Oh.

Is he trying to set you and George up? The thought hits you like a truck and your nose scrunches up involuntarily. First, the questions about his Instagram and then making you sit next to him at dinner. You feel warm, anger building inside you. Is Lando oblivious?

↳ user since when are they friends????

↳ user you left out the part that lando was with them 💀

You and George walk back together, an awkward silence hanging over you. It was a fun day. You took pictures, ate good food. You had fun. It was just awkward because it seemed both you and George knew what Lando was trying to do.

You're waiting for the elevator when George turns toward you. You shift your eyes toward him, trying to make sense about what he's about to do. "Do you like me?"

Your eyes widen and for a moment all you can do is stare at George. "No, I— I don't know where Lando got the idea that I like you, but I don't." You're trying to be nice in case George does actually like you, but he lets out a breath of relief.

"I'm really sorry, Lando is..."

"He's Lando, I know." The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. You both walk in and George hits the button for your floors. "You do like Max though, right?" Once again you find yourself speechless. George laughs, cheeks turning red.

"Sorry, it's— It's really obvious, I don't know how Lando missed it." You're burning with embarrassment when you look away from George and mutter, "It's not that obvious." He cracks up, and you feel yourself growing warmer.

Thankfully for you, George gets off soon enough and it's just you. When you step off the elevator, you notice someone leaning against the wall by your door, scrolling on their phone. They look up when you come to a stop. It's Max, in another plain t-shirt and skinny jeans. You may hate the skinny jeans but they really show off his thighs, so it's not that bad. "Hi."

Max walks over to you, stopping so there's only a few inches between you. You can smell his cologne, see how blue his eyes are, and how his hair is a little out of place. He opens his mouth to speak but you speak before he can. "You look good, I mean—," You cut yourself off to prevent the inevitable ramble about how good he looks; your friends have heard it numerous times. Max blinks, the beginning of a smile on his face before he leans in and kisses you.

You make a little noise in surprise before you reciprocate, you reach for him blindly, grabbing onto his shoulder. It's easy kissing Max. You've been waiting for this, the soft press of his lips against yours, the heat of his hand against your face. The same sick feeling rests in your stomach, and you feel it; the way your heart speeds up when he's near and the hot flush that builds on your skin when he touches you. You never want it to end.

yourusername close friends story

[caption: @.maxverstappen1 🤍]

view replies

lando OMG DID IT FINALLY HAPPEN??

yourusername yes...? lando oh thank god my plan worked i was so close to locking you two in a closet yourusername HUH????

[10ava01]

The rules we break

Bob Floyd x F!reader

MASTERLIST

Summary: It was supposed to be just physical—no feelings, no complications. You and Bob knew the rules, and breaking them wasn’t part of the plan. But secrets have a way of slipping through the cracks, and so do feelings. Now the quiet glances linger too long, the touches mean too much, and pretending it’s nothing is getting harder by the day. Bob’s falling. You’re falling. But you’re also hiding something. And when the truth finally comes out, it might not just break the rules—it might break him.

Tropes: Age gap · Forbidden desire · Addiction · Slow burn yearning · Smut

Author’s Note: Top Gun owns a piece of my soul—I’ve watched it more times than I can admit without blushing. And Bob? Bob is everything. I needed to write something messy and soft, just like him. Let me know if you want Part 2.

-

You arrived ahead of time.  

Of fucking course you are.  

You only agreed to come to the party because of the open bar, but you couldn’t tell your dad that. He would be so disappointed if he found out about your so called ‘needs’ and disappointing him would be the last thing you can do. He deserved better and if pretending to be the perfect daughter he raised you to be, then you have to keep forcing yourself to do that. Not only that, but he raised you all by himself when your mother took off. She didn’t glance back or intend to include you. Selfish. That’s the extent of your understanding of her; therefore, as you developed, you aspired to be anything but self-centered. If she wanted nothing to do with you, then so be it. She made her choice, and you made yours, even when it sometimes kills you. Not telling is sometimes better.  

Your dad is a man of military. Order, structure and discipline, and you can’t bear to be seen as a failure, especially with his reputation. You already make yourself feel bad for what you desire, but your only loving parent looking at you in disgust makes you want to burn yourself alive. So you do anything that rescues him that you’re a well-behaved girl. More like women, but in his eyes you’re always going to say the little girl. Only if he knew how much you’ve grown. If only.

But here you are in a mini cocktail dress that shows a little too much skin for your own good. The fabric is cool, smooth and clings to your body just like you want it to be. Every inch of your curve is an on display that makes you feel sexier. The hem brushes mid-thigh, short enough to expose yourself, but long enough to leave little room for imagination. High heels match your outfit and make your legs look longer. Your hair is perfectly styled, which flows with every step you take, and your makeup looks exactly how you wanted it to be. Clean and glowing. And you know you look good. You got the confident part from your father and also the cocky side, which only adds to your charm.  

Apparently, everyone other than your father knows that showing up to the party early is a Disaster. To make the most of it, you go up to the bartender. “What can I get you started with, Miss?” The bartender asks. “Vodka martini,” you say hesitantly. You probably should get something less heavy than a vodka martini, and god knows it’s effective as hell. The only thing in that drink is vodka and dry vermouth, but it’s your go-to drink for the past few years. For the price of it you can get easily tipsy with a few of them, and overall that is the whole point of drinking, right? As the bartender prepares your drink, you look around the beach house.  

It’s large and not only does it look expressive but also is. Jake Seresin bragged about it on one night in the hard deck while you only half listened to him because your system was full of gin and tonic, but apparently you didn’t have any signs of being drunk that Jake gave you the honor to listen to him about his new living investment.  

You must give Hangman credits because he may be an asshole, but his taste is marvelous. The beach house looks out of a lifestyle magazine, all glass walls and clean angels. The salt air clings to everything and reminds you of the ocean. The massive bar caught your eyes when you walked in, and you made it your destination. There are stocks with every kind of liquor you could imagine, and the thought of getting yourself one drink after another makes your heart race with excitement.  

While looking at this place, you can easily imagine yourself living here. All quiet and utterly beautiful and a drink in your hand as you make your way through the jacuzzi. Wearing nothing under your rope. The water on your bare skin relaxes your muscles as you watch the sunset.  

Before you can have any sexual thoughts about how you would like to have sex in the large bedrooms with the wide windows and an open view to the ocean, you are pulled back to reality. Your drink is freshly done.  

The first sip of the cold vodka martini tastes like heaven. You only admire the first few sips because after that you gulp everything down just to order one after another till you start feeling something. It didn’t take you more than five minutes to finish it, and you’re already on your third drink.  

Board of your mind, you text Bobby to see how long it will take for him to be here. At least you would have company while drinking, and there is no harm in being admired by him. You know the shy, sweet and innocent persona he puts on is only a disguise. Underneath all that, there is a man no one knows about but you. “Almost there, lovely, are you not having fun?” You know he is genuinely asking but no one in their right mind should leave you alone near Alcohol, but he doesn’t know, so you cannot blame him for that. “No one is here, and I just want to have a little fun with you,” you probably sound like needy, but what is a girl to do in this situation? There is no answer from Bob which frustrates you more. Is it so hard to text back?  

The drink in your hand is gone. If you go up to the bar and get another one, that will be your fifth or sixth drink by now and surely even the bartender will look suspicious by a twenty-year-old drinking like a frat guy. Truth to be told, you can handle liquor very well and that might be a negative aspect to your situation, but before you can make yourself go and get another drink you feel hands around your waist.  

You know these hands. Your body memorized these hands and the slightest feeling reacts towards them like a firework. You don’t need to turn around to know who these long, vein, smooth- but rough on the edges hands belong to. “Finally you’re here,” you try to sound annoyed but know that when you look at his face any feeling other than admiring, caring feeling of warmth just withers away before it ever fully forms. “I’m sorry, baby, let me make it up to you in any way you want.” You turn around at the sound of that. A smirk forms on your face. It’s only been over a day since you saw Bob in his apartment, covered in sweat and pleasure from the mind-blowing sex you had, but a tiny part of you missed his presence. “Any way I want, huh?” You ask curiosity because once a promise has been made you tend to not forget about it. Bob knows he is in for it. An adorable smile forms his face and nods softly to your teasing. Sometimes you believe that he cannot do anything but admire you, and somehow that makes you feel guilty.  

While you did agree to concentrate on your ‘needs’ only, which means sleeping together. The situation between you is complicated enough since you’re way younger than him and to top that off, your dad aka Maverick is Bob’s mentor. Sure the thought of being caught creeps from time to time in your head but at least you choose Bob and not Hangman or others from the group which would probably make your dad more furious. There is a tiny hope inside of you that he would be approved by Mav, but you’re not near dating and the situation you are in is far from acceptable.  

So there are clear rules to this ‘fuck buddy situation’, no sleepovers, not going on dates, no relationship and no falling in love. A few of these rules have been broken a little over the time. You could scratch the sleepover part because it was more like no sleepover at your house rather than his and technically hanging out in the hard deck can’t be called a date, so you were safe. No strings attached, just how you want it. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself over and over again.  

His hands squeeze your waist softly to pull your attention back to him. Bob notices often that you zone out, and a sad look comes on your face. His eyes wander around your body shamelessly, practically addressing you with his eyes. You don’t know if behind those blue ocean eyes you get lost of yourself are admiration or lust, maybe a little bit of both. “I can’t wait to rip this dress off of you,” he whispers into your ear so casually that if anyone heard him they would probably have to double check if it’s this sweet, innocent Bob talking. You know that man is long gone now. You smirk as you look up at him, obviously you know the moment you put on this so-called ‘dress’ was only to make him feral. “How about you put some action to your words.” You say in a low voice. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. You know that but the head filled with Alcohol just gives you ideas that will definitely get you two caught. Before Bob can make a sneaky comment about it, no other than your dad walks up to you. 

He immediately puts his hands away from you and a tiny part of you is hurt that it’s so easy to let go of you. Logically, you know why he did it, but you can’t help but feel the aching in your heart. In those moments you try to remember that there is no you and him, no relationship, no romantically involved in emotions running through his veins, no part of him that wants you to be his. You swallow hard. Pushing down your emotions to not let the urge to cry out and beg him to love you, want you, see you, be with you, but you do neither of these.  

“You made it, Bob.” Mav greets him by petting his shoulder. There’s no hint of suspiciousness, no hint of awkwardness, nothing at all. There is no surprise when Bob puts his act back on, as if you weren’t about to take you right here in front of all people. To make you his to show you that you’re the only one that exists in his eyes to show you that every part of you so body and mind belongs to him to make you understand that the need of you is bigger than anything, but none of that is there.  

With every single day, Bob surprises you, and you cannot help but be amused by this situation. If only your dad knew how unreal that act is, and underneath his cover is a man that takes everything like he owns it. Only if he knew. Maybe a part of him owns you as well. 

While they chat, you sneak a champagne glass from the waiter. If you want to make it through this, you need more than champagne or maybe pure vodka will do at some point. “Bob keep an eye on her for me,” your dad says jokingly as you look annoyed at him. Now it’s time for you to act. The tables have turned. You're annoyed at his teasing because you’re not some bratty little girl that needs babysitting, even if your dad shouldn’t let him babysit you from all the people. Mav laughs at your huff and makes his way to Bradly. Thanks to their father son relationship bond, you can enjoy living in your life in secret.  

While looking around, you see no one paying attention to you two, you pull Bobby towards the house. You need some action, and looking at him in a casual button-down outfit fills your head with images that you tend to experience in real life. The blue shirt he is wearing clings to his body perfectly, and you know the perfect abs that are hidden underneath it. Waiting to be touched by you. Bob’s sleeves are rolled up to the arms, with every move his muscles flex, and you want to lick every vein.  Put one finger after another in your mouth and lick them clean, have his fingers inside of you or tease you with little touches. Bob Floyd could do anything to you. His pants hug his slutty waist, you’re mine makes up fantasies where you rub your legs around him and pull him close to you and at the same time make him dive his dick inside of you. This is getting way out of your hand. But you don’t care as the adrenaline flows through your veins and your mind is clouded with dirty thoughts. 

If you don’t get fucked in a matter of seconds, you’re gonna lose your mind, that’s for sure. You pull Bob to the farthest room you can find. No one would be looking for you, and you can moan as loud as you want since the music outside is so loud. Probably Jake's doing you think. Your mind has only one goal, and that is getting your Bain fucked out by this man.  

You lock the door from the inside and look up to him. He is hovering over you, and the desperate look on your face tells him everything he needs to know. You want him, and it needs to be rough and dirty. 

Within seconds, he puts his mouth onto yours. Nothing about this is romantic, and you both know it. He pushes your body to the door and deepens the kiss. All tongue and teeth.  Devouring you like a starved man.  

His large hands sneak onto your waist as you moan into his mouth. He takes this chance and pushes his tongue. Tongues dancing for dominance.  

Bob is a very good kisser and with your experience you know it. The hungry kiss turns into a full make out scene. You pull him by his collar as if you can’t have even the tiniest space between you two. You need him. Not only that, but you need every part of him. You need him like you need air.  

He pulls away from you to take a breath. You feel his warm breath on your face, and he looks stunning lips swollen cheeks burning, desperate look on his face, all in all the look is your guilty pleasure.  

You’re both heavy on breath. He kisses you again from the corner of your mouth down to your neck. Biting, nipping and leaving little bruises as a reminder. It doesn’t take him long to find your sweet spot. He knows you from the inside and out. He took his sweet time over the past months to get to know you, and he would call himself an expert by now. Bob knows where to touch you to get a shaky breath out of you, where to kiss you to make you feel breathless, how to look at you to make you feel seen and how to treat you just the way you deserve.  

You moan as he sucks on your neck. Attacking your soft spot. The love bites make you permanently his. And his only. “B-Bobby pleasee,” you try to form a sentence but your thoughts are mushed by him. His scent, his hands, his body, his mouth. All you can fell is him. “Tell me what you want, sweet girl,” he demands, and he still nips at your neck. “Fuck, please please fuck me sir,” you blurt out anything that comes to your mind. “Hmm, you want my cock inside of you, honey?” You know that he teases you, but you cannot help but nod dumbly at him.  

You know that you sound desperate, but you don’t care as long as he gives you mind-blowing orgasms. You are willing to beg for him. “P-please I-i ugh please Bobby I need you.” He didn’t even touch you, and you turned into a mess, but the Alcohol in your system is making you more desperate than usual.  

“Alight my sweet girl.” He pulls away from your neck to lay you down on the bed. His gaze in burning your skin and lustful eyes of his tell you that he wants you as much as you want him. The difference is that you need this. The sex. Him as well but getting fucked out more. But that’s a topic you don’t want to think about right now. Not while having the time of your life.  

Bobby presses a little kiss on the corner of your mouth before he starts to take your shoes off. One foot after the other. Bob leaves trails of kisses on your tights and his hands wander to your dress. You gulp in excitement, but he flips you over to your stomach.  

You’re weightless to him, and he almost treats you like a rag doll. You feel him unzipping your dress slowly to a point that it pains you that he is taking his sweet time while you’re suffering. “STOP squirming, or I will leave you like this.” You know he means it. The use of harsh tone makes you stay still. Your dress falls off your body so easily, and you look behind to see what’s going to happen next.  

Your patience is running out, but you cannot do anything but wait. “Ass up baby,” he says in a deep raspy tone as you command. Ass up and face down. Probably one of your favorite positions and Bob knows how much you enjoy it.  

The noise of his belt picks up your heart rate. This isn’t your first time, obviously, but every time it feels like that.  

You see that he is fully dressed while you are laying naked, in front of him. Bare and ready to be taken however he pleases. You feel like a present of his that he gets to unwrap and can play with.  

Bobby pulls his pants and underwear down but not completely off and pumps his dick a few times in his hands. His eyes are on you. “I’m begging you pleaseee just fuck m-.” You are cut off by him pushing his dick inside of you. Your eyes roll back. He does not stop to give you time to adjust. Manhandling by pumping his dick into you. Hard.  

The room fills with the sound of skin slapping, grunts, means and hard breaths.  

You moan at the feeling of being full. All you can feel is him. Every vein, length, thickness.  

There is a guarantee that your waist will get bruised by the tight grip he has on you.  

“T-thank fuck, thank you, ahh.” Bob only thrust faster as the sound of your fucked up voice. * thrust * “can” *thrust* “you” *thrust* “feel” *thrust* “my” *thrust* “cock” *thrust* “inside” *thrust* “your stomach baby?” 

 Every thrust is so forceful that at this point you don’t even know your name. You weakly node. Mind blurred out. A hand sneaks around your neck and pulls you hard towards his body. “I asked you a question, brat,” he tightens his hand around your neck.  

He doesn’t stop abusing his dick inside of you. “Ye-yess lieutenant.” He groans. You know it drives him insane when you call him that’s especially in bed.  

As a reward, he puts his other hand to your clit and makes a figure eight motion. “Hmm fuck fu-uck yes, yes pleasee don’t sto-op,” you whisper.  

The pleasure is building up, and you’re about to burst. He doesn’t stop him, only speeds up his peace and puts sloppy kisses on your jaw. 

You know he’s almost there as you are not far away from cum so hard. “SIR, I-I NEED TO CUM,” you scream in overstimulation. “Need huh angel?”  

You can’t hold it any longer, and your moans are only getting louder with every figure eight on your clit and the sloppy thrust. “Cum for me, baby.” With that, you let go. Your insides are burning and the pleasure that had built up has finally been released.  

With a low groan and few thrusts, he cums inside of you. A chill goes down your neck as you feel his warm breath.  

You’re both out of breath, and Bob slowly pulls out of you as you collapse into the bed. Your limbs are numb. Your heart is beating so fast. 

 Bob puts his pants on as you lay down. The adrenaline that had formed inside of you is finally gone now. Your energy is gone.  

This is exactly what you needed, and he provided you exactly what you asked for. You close your eyes for a second, enjoying the peace that comes after sex. At least with Bob, there is calm and quiet after your daily routines. You’re so glad he isn’t one of those guys that feel the need to say something after sex. It annoys you to death.  

You hear footsteps and moving, and you don’t even need to open your eyes to know that after-care is essential to him. Maybe not for most guys, but Bob isn’t one of them.  

He cleans you up with a soft rug so gentle that you can already imagine what it would be like being with him. Sharing a life. The simplest tasks could become the easiest. There would be nothing like your parents’ relationship, but you cannot let yourself think that way. There are situations where after sleeping together you get yourself home just so you can lie down and feel empty, broken and helpless. You cry yourself to sleep because of huge reasons you cannot have him. Not romantically, not as a friend, not even as a partner. You do this to yourself over and over again. While it’s convenient for a time. But the illusion wears off, and you build yourself up over and over again. Sure, it can be easy if you only tell him about it. But every time you try to bring yourself to do that, you just stop.  

“Do you wane go back downstairs?” His soft voice pulls you out of your depressive thoughts. You open your eyes to see him staring down at you with those puppy dog eyes. You feel him stare at your face, almost admiring you in the most innocent way possible. Only if he knew that your face is a disguise for the odd habits, and desires you have. Just like they say, ‘the devil makes itself look beautiful to decide humans’. You’re sure he could accept you the way you are. You know it.  

“Yeah, sure before they notice we’re gone too long,” you say jokingly, the meaning behind your words are far from it. You know it and he knows it. “Y/N you know that not I mean.” oh sweet Bob. He believes in good, even though there’s a dark part inside of them. So you smile softly up at him. Kiss his mouth softly. Just a light touch nothing more, nothing less. It shows him you understand what he means.

Ever the gentleman he is, he helps you put on your dress. Put your shoes onto your feet and kisses the soft part of your inner thigh. He admires you from the kneeling position. You look like a goddess to him. A beautiful creature that is destined for more. Your eternal beauty takes the breath away every time he looks like you. With the simplest look on your face, you take his breath away. Quite literally. Your mouth on his makes him drunk on you. No liquor could do that for him, but you do to him. The feeling of your touch on a skin awakens a part of himself that he never lets anyone see. The sound of your angelic voice could wake him from a coma. He is certain of it. Clearly he’s in love with you and anyone can see that by looking at his face.  

Everyone might be blinded by your beauty to see that you hold back yourself. That you don’t let anyone come near you. And Bob desperately wants to know why that is. Why do you pull away from him? Why do you run off after sleeping with him? Why do you hide yourself? Why can’t you face the fact that he loves you? Just why?

[stargirlygirl]

when they're drunk

izu, katsuki, kiri, shoto

wc: 360

midoriya izuku

super lightweight ⟶ two shots of vodka and he’s already drunk

clingy and wants lots of affection

will lay on top of you and tell you about his all might merch collection and trading cards ⟶ actually unable to shut up until he inevitably falls asleep on you

doesn’t usually like the taste of alcohol so prefers a piña colada or cocktail

he’ll usually have a drink when going out with the dekusquad cause he doesn’t want them to feel like their drinking alone ⟶ y’all know tenya is the DD

bakugou katsuki

heavyweight

goes red in the face, ears, neck and chest when drunk

prefers beer on tap

actually doesn’t drink that much cause he doesn’t want to lose control of himself like shitty hair; usually the DD for the bakusquad

the other reason why he doesn’t like to get drunk is because he feels sad and lonely ⟶ with you around, he’ll ask you questions about how much you love him and talk about how jealous he gets when he sees you with other men before giving you cuddles

kirishima eijiro

gets fucked up; life of the party and tearing up the dance floor; hitting on the ladies relentlessly

just mindlessly happy n’ extroverted, especially when drunk

would like to think he’s a heavyweight for manliness points, but isn’t

convinces denki and sero to go do something reckless and dumb, like go to a seven eleven and see who can drink a large of all the slurpee flavours first

tries to convince you that he’s not drunk when bakugou calls you to pick him up ⟶ his tongue is rainbow and he’s got the worst stomach ache ever; you don’t need an explanation

goes for hard liquor ⟶ tequila, vodka, whiskey, bourban

todoroki shoto

has never been drunk before

really smiley when tipsy, laughs at all your jokes, talks more than usual

he’s quite alert still, even when he’s tipsy ⟶ he’ll pick up on the lingering scent in the air if you’ve cooked dinner hours earlier

prefers sake ⟶ the only alcohol in the todoroki household was sake, so it’s the drink he’s most familiar with

he’s not very adventurous ⟶ tried a gin and tonic once and it got the nod of approval

[capslocked]

SERENDIPITY

male reader x kwon eunbi

18k words

Before the attraction ferments, Eunbi says, kiss me properly and pull me apart. or, Where all your little tragedies begin.

-

If you want to start getting technical, you’re Minju's plus one to the gala, and that’s already a lot, a lot, a lot to unpack.

She’d gotten whipped into a bad mood that evening before you even had your shoes on, all on account of your apparent inability to distinguish cobalt from azure, and now should anyone have the wherewithal to examine the fabric of her dress, your tie, maybe with a forensic kit, they’d discover the two are not actually matching. If there was any part of you at all inclined toward keeping up appearances, you probably wouldn’t be content with a career in radio broadcast. But here you are, surrounded by actors, actresses, idols, and everyone who thinks the cut of their jaw is just a little better than everyone else’s - the kind of people who feel entitled to time in front of a camera.

Networking, is how Minju ends up pitching it to you, and now it makes the whole thing seem a lot like work and it’s actually kind of exhausting.

It’s not even an open bar either, as she had originally advertised.

You pay - get this - you pay twenty-three dollars for a vodka tonic and it comes with so much ice you’re not totally unconvinced you could build an igloo. So when everything starts to go to shit, nearing the end of drink number one, you’re not even slurring your words. Tipsy, perhaps; just slightly. To the point you can feel it in your fingers. But nothing like a good excuse.

It’s about then that Eunbi navigates her way around the bar - unnerving, enough to make the sweat grow cold.

On account of her being fucking gorgeous, you end up watching her closely: notice first that she’s carrying a pair of heels in her hand, completely barefoot, and you have no idea what that’s about, but you end up more fixated on the fact that she slides herself into the barstool on your left - which comes across as something of an omen, given that the rest are completely unoccupied. It’s only thirty, forty minutes into the event and people are still plenty busy with that thing where they fake smiles at each other until they feel like they fit in, showing, with bare minimal effort, that they too can mingle with entertainment’s elite.

Now, you don’t actually recognize her, not right away that is. The last you’d seen her, she had her hair cut right above her shoulders and its shade was a serious degree blonder than the current iteration - now curtaining her face as she studies the drink menu and flips it over several times in her dainty hands.

After a long minute, she looks up, interrupts the bartender from polishing a piece of glassware, and orders an old fashioned, substitute brandy, leave out the orange peel, with sugar on the rim. If it’s not the usual amendments that give her away, it’s the saccharine-sweet flavor of her voice, lilting in a manner that’s instantly unmistakable.

Eunbi, you’re guessing aloud, a little apprehensive, and immediately you retreat behind the liquor in your glass. She turns to you, slowly, knuckles masking the subtle quirk in her lips at first, before letting her chin rest on the heel of her palm to reveal a flash of her signature hundred-kilowatt smile.

“Oh,” she says, and she’s blinking with clear amusement that you remember her name - as if you could ever forget it, as if these run-ins were somehow infrequent; you’d only both been plotting orbits around the same star that was Minju for the past couple years. Her head tilts, lips parting to ask, “your date ditch you already?”

She’s half-right.

“You break a heel?” you ask her, nodding toward the pair of black t-strap heels she’d tossed onto the bar counter with a defeated sigh.

“Maybe.” Eunbi drags a dark lock of hair back behind her ear. It falls almost immediately back in front of her face and it ends up staying there until the bartender places her drink in front of her. “But my question first.”

For the record, there’s nothing here particularly novel worth dwelling on. It’s always some provocation or another with Eunbi, you remember now, as she holds you with a stare, eyes wide and brilliant; she sails through life all with the confidence of someone very aware of how pretty she is - knows precisely what she can get away with, right down to the letter of the law. The dress hugging tight to her isthmus of a waist is evidence of exactly that - tighter each time you look - so if you’re waiting for her to get it wrong, don’t hold your breath.

“Minju’s having a moment,” you tell her, “it’s not like she doesn’t know where to find me.”

“Hm.” She pauses to take a careful sip of her drink, running her tongue over her bottom lip as she places the glass onto a square napkin. Folds her hands in her lap and asks, “can you explain something to me?”

“If I say no, are you going to ask anyway?”

Eunbi nods to herself, dry laugh telling you it was as rhetorical as you thought. “Seriously, how is it you two are always fighting?”

We’re not always fighting, you want to say, before Eunbi makes a face. She has this uncanny effect on you - raising an eyebrow and tilting her chin as though she were disappointed; the sharp edge to her smile, half challenge, half something far less kind. It could rip truth from the most reluctantly tight-lipped of privacies. “We’re working on it,” you tell her.

“Oh?” she asks, leaning in. 

“God, you don’t have to say it like that.” The ice clinks in your glass as you toss it back, finding it lamentably empty. “You make me feel like I have to repeat myself a thousand times - we are,” you add, “we’re working on it.”

“There’s something that keeps you together, clearly,” Eunbi says, pressing her finger to her lips before fixing you with dark eyes and an easy, charming grin. 

She has you figured out, to some extent: knows how you’ll slip up for a girl with a pretty smile, prettier eyes, all the sorts of errors you’ll start to allow when you start cataloging the curves of her body, inventorying how they taper impossibly at her waist, flaring again at her hips, her fucking chest, the way they all look under the tight fit of that damn dress-

“The make-up sex really that good, huh?”

You almost, almost choke on the ice cube you’d been sucking to keep yourself entertained.

“Optimistic to think there is any,” you admit, regretting it right away - like think about it: there’s absolutely nothing good that could possibly come of that. “That’s just how it goes.”

Eunbi looks downright triumphant. More than usual. “Oh, sweetie.”

She waves over the bartender and asks him for another whatever it was you were drinking, because she’d hate to see you go dry, and as he’s turning around she shouts over his shoulder, go ahead and make it two, actually. You don’t realize it, but you’re beginning to study her, paying really close attention to all these little details - the sparkle of the bracelet on her slender arm, how it falls a few inches off the corner of her wrist as she gets her hand back in front of her face, raking her nails through all that thick, glossy hair, black as night - you don’t know what the feeling is that rears its head as you watch her, but it’s not completely unwelcome.

“What?” she asks as her eyes flick up to yours to catch you looking at her, closely, not that you’re gawking, but she lets you off the hook like you are - just gestures to the pitiful looking heel on the counter and shrugs. “It’s not like I have anywhere to be.”

To be honest, it’s not that you lack basic foresight. In fact it’s shockingly easy to predict where this is going. Because here’s a quick behind the scenes tour on how these interactions usually play out: you’ve got your excuses, your trepidations, justifiably - the reality that you’re kind of already in a pretty high profile relationship key among them. And like clockwork, Eunbi readily finds you game for some flustering. Eunbi, who lays it on thick, comments seeped in innuendo and suggestion, whose glances linger perhaps a little long to be a fascinating coincidence. Eunbi, innocence and arrogance entwined, in the filthiest of minds. Eunbi, always with her fingers twirling her hair and wearing something just modest enough that makes it feel like it’s your fault for noticing that her figure is impeccable. You’ve not actually gathered much from your brief conversations other than that she likes to flirt with you, likes it even more when you’ve got your foot in your mouth, and instead of putting you out of your misery, keeps you suspended there, egging you on - this all beyond the fact that you’ve only really managed to learn the many different ways you want to undress Kwon Eunbi.

You want her pressed up against the wall of your apartment, among other places, one of those pleated skirts crumpling to a pile around her knees as she keens for you, and your hand busy sliding up between her thighs.

You want to listen to her sighs as you unfasten each of the white buttons on one of those collared shirts that stretches and aches to keep her chest concealed, how she’d hum in delight as you trail kisses down each new inch of soft pale skin that all would unveil. 

You want her in your lap when you fiddle with the latch of her bra until her tits spill out of its lacy fabric (it’s always lacy in your head), and she’s got you gasping for air, smothered, asphyxiated, dying, ascending, it’s all so, so great in theory.

It’s just that - some way or another - Eunbi looks at you like she knows all of that. You’ve been skirting around the issue for months.

“Tell me,” she starts, and suddenly, without warning, she has you under the microscope, reeling you further into the conversation, pulling at loose threads - where is Minju right now, are you still living together, does she help with chores, can you trust her, does she trust you - she grabs a handful of pretzels and watches you intently as you try and remain unruffled, diplomatic - are you generally happy with how things are going, when was the last time you had sex - you’re blindsided by that last one, or something, but that’s out there now, in the open.

“Uh.” Eunbi purses her lips. “You’re kidding.”

You just shrug.

“How long has it been now between you two? Like officially."

“I’m surprised you don’t already know.”

“Alright.” Eunbi clicks her tongue. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“My fourth year of university, her first,” you explain. Though never before have you felt as crooked about admitting that as you do at this moment. Others had often appreciated something about the impudence of it, but you’re doubting Eunbi’s going to be one of those people.

“Young,” Eunbi states, matter-of-factly. The look on her face says she’s thinking.

“Not that young.”

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-five.”

“You’re-” Eunbi’s eyebrow’s knit together like she’s trying to remember something. “Wait, really?”

“Does that bother you?”

“Why would that bother me?”

You’re realizing that she’d gotten closer to you, only now pulling her stool along the floor to catch up with her, and she’d started whispering into the waning space between you as though there was anyone else in the bar you’d need to shield the contents of this conversation from. “It just seems like not a lot of time to get to know yourself. If I were you, I’d be relieved.”

You can’t fucking stop looking at her mouth, glossed pink lips, cupid’s bow and all that between her dimples; your voice comes out oddly thick. “You’re not me.”

“No,” Eunbi says, shaking her head, “I'm not. Here you are, in some miserable relationship to score good karma - I’m having way more fun.”

“Easy,” you warn her, and it comes across just antagonistic enough to let Eunbi know she’s pushing the right buttons, digging in the right place; god only knows what she’ll find.

“Really.” Her fingers start skimming the bottom of your tie, like it’s nothing at all. Like she doesn’t know what might happen if she starts touching you. “Let me guess,” she continues, “A real break-up is too  inconvenient or something right now, Minju doesn’t want the bad press, not when her career is still this fragile, because let’s face it-”

“It’s complicated.”

Eunbi smirks, not bothering to hold it back this time. The way she sees it, your usual excuses are losing their efficacy, quickly: you might not be single, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t thinking about how good she looks in that tiny fucking excuse of a dress, how you’re hoping she might need to run off to the restroom later so you can see how her ass fills out the back of it, how it might look even better on the floor next to your bed - that you’re only a breath away, looking for pretext, perhaps just a little encouragement -

She rests her elbow on the counter, leans a cheek onto her fist, and angles herself against the bar so that the intoxicatingly low dip of her neckline is staring you right in the face, soft cleavage out on full fucking display. It’s not subtle. You never thought too hard about why Minju never invited Eunbi over. You’ll never need to.

“But - but I mean, I guess that’s the gist of it,” you feel inclined to add, stumbling a bit, figuring that if you steal away into the safety of your one true talent - talking - you might just resist the very present urge to reach forward and press your lips to hers. 

“You’re an accessory,” says Eunbi, unbothered, and her eyes take a lazy sweep from your face down to your waist. It’s a leer. “Though,” she murmurs, “can’t really say I can blame the girl.”

“First off, rude.” You’ve got a finger pointed to the ceiling when you say it. “Secondly-”

“Too nice for your own good, you know that?” Eunbi takes a sip from her glass, and after fixing a dark, stubborn strand of hair back behind her ear, she finds herself again in that anxious distance inches away from your nose. “Why don’t you have some fun with it?”

“Fun with what?”

“Just because you figure you’re going to go crawling back to her doesn’t mean you can’t take advantage of your-” she stops, eyes fixing to your lips before continuing, “situation.”

“Can I mention something to you?” You swallow once, twice. Now you’re both looking at each other’s mouths, breathing the same air. “You have a pretty fucked up perspective on interpersonal relationships.”

“What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?” she asks, completely ignoring the assessment. Her fingernails skate along the counter until she’s pinching at the cuff of your sleeve, and her hair falls back in front of her face again, though this time she looks into your eyes like she’s waiting for you to move it out of the way.

“What are we doing right now?” you ask, agitation just beginning to rear its head. “What are you asking me?”

“I’m bored, and you’re the only other person here.”

“There’s, like, a million people here.”

“I mean right here,” she says, nodding to the broken heel on the counter and gesturing between your chests. “Besides, I like you.”

You really could surge up and kiss her, you realize. Her lips are so close, right there in front of you, and there’s not any sort of question of whether she’d let you. The part that scares you is you haven’t a fucking clue what you’d say when the moment comes to finally pull your mouth off hers, and that’s not something you’re usually trying to sort out. Nor are you really in a blathering mood, and now you’re imagining it: Eunbi’s expression all smug and haughty, something that could inspire a good blather - uh, did you just kiss me?

“Forgive me, but I feel like I need to point out,” Eunbi adds, mildly entertained, “most guys wouldn’t be asking this many questions.”

“I’m not most guys.”

“Uh, I am fully aware,” Eunbi says, running a fingertip along the length of her collarbone, slowly, and her voice dips out if its usual airy register into something less musical, more serious: “Do you even have a clue what I’d do for a guy like you?”

“Eunbi,” you say, harshly, not that it matters; she’s going to tell you.

“For starters,” she says, and her hand is around your tie, tugging like you won’t tell her to stop, like she knows she’s gorgeous in all the most disarming ways. “I’d take good care of him, like I don’t think I could keep my hands off him. I’d be blowing him all the time - until my jaw hurt, then i’d just tell him to pick a hole and fuck a big, hot load of cum into it - hell, I’d probably let him do anything to me.”

“Tactful.”

“I’m not the one having a hard time reading between the lines.”

“That’s not - I’m not-”

“Into me?” Eunbi laughs, leaning forward, your last vestiges of personal space vanishing like a passing thought, and now she’s touching you - a hand on your thigh, higher, higher. “You want to fuck me so bad.”

The fucked up thing, beyond Eunbi being absolutely right, is that you’d rather die than try and lie through your teeth, than succumb in such austere fashion. This thing, this desire, this want, you understand it so intimately you could probably name it like you were christening it in a church. You grab a hold of her wrist, before her precocious fingers can discover how obviously right she is under the seam of your pants, and the suddenness of the challenge wipes the mirth from her face - pulls a small little sound out of her chest, leaves her eyes wide and uncharacteristically docile.

“Are you sure?” you ask, collected and calm, after you’ve both realized how small her wrist fits in your hand. “Is this really the game you want to play?” 

Eunbi’s head tips onto this angle, expression perfectly cavalier. “Oh,” she says, uncorking an impious grin, “why don’t you and I go figure that out.”

-

It’s hard to focus. You’ve got it all wrong, or whatever, practically right from the jump. Your first mistake was veering toward the restrooms tucked behind the bar, where Eunbi pulled at the corner of your sleeve to shoot you a skeptical look - are you fucking nuts, there’s single occupant washrooms upstairs - her explanation was sound, probably, she lost you quickly at: “would prefer no one hear me cum all over your cock.”

The second transgression is the kiss itself, a fucking honest mess. 

Eunbi’s perched on the sink, precariously, and as much as you’d rather be smoothing your hands up her curves, you’ve got one preoccupied at her hips, steadying her, the other pulling at your own clothes, slinging your jacket to the floor. It’s this sort of callow tangle of limbs, exchange of spit, imprecise groping - fuck, it actually hurts when your teeth bump together, or when Eunbi pulls a little too hard at your bottom lip - over and over, and your mouths keep missing each other, straying off to cheeks and chins. 

You expected there to be a touch more polish to her, for her to be the kind of girl above hooking up barefoot in a public restroom, maybe even preserve any of that infamous intrigue. But those open-mouthed kisses she has leaving marks on your jaw, making welts on your neck do little to help you shrug off the impropriety here, hanging like a sorry cloud. Because you’re barreling toward something desperate and clumsy and hot and needy - so utterly raunchy in all the right ways.

“C’mere,” Eunbi says, smile stretching soft and devastatingly sweet, hardly fussing when you slip your hand beneath her jaw - it takes a moment, a touch of experimentation, until you’re together working toward a common goal. She twists the end of your tie over her wrist once, twice, anchors herself against you, and her legs open wider, a heel hooking around your thigh. The embers in her half-lidded eyes tell a story, tell you you to firm up your grip, clutch her, get rough with her, toss her around - she can take it, she can take more. 

Her chin gets set on the angle opposite yours as she starts to pull you in close, the heat in her breath coming closer, and she furrows a perfectly sculpted brow the moment she realizes it’s not reciprocal - that you’re not leaning into her, not pressing your tongue past her lips and grabbing her hair by the fistful - she squints, glowering. It’s actually not a bad look on her.

“Tell me something,” you say, skating your fingertips up her leg until they’re so close to the apex of her thigh you can feel her heat, radiating. “What were you expecting?”

“I try to never expect anything,” Eunbi tells you, and starts once more for your lips, only vexed again when you stiffen up, maintain the distance between you - stop her short at the limit of tantalizingly close.

“Eunbi,” you say, wry with dry laughter and peeking over her shoulder to the reflection in the mirror - backless; you can see the ridge of her spine from her ass all the way up to her neck when you slide her hair to the side. “This is not a dress you wear out with colleagues and friends. This is a take me home and have your wicked way with me kind of dress.”

Eunbi swallows; that’s how you know you caught her. “If the insinuation here is that I’m a slut, I’m not having any of it.”

“Why? Is that supposed to be some sort of secret?”

Her expression falls onto something rather unamused, a glib reply waiting for release at the tip of her tongue, until finally she says, “do you get off on being withholding or some other bull-”

The word vanishes in a sharp inhale the moment you press your hand up between her legs. 

“Oh god.” Eunbi’s entire body shudders, nerves bundled and tight and ready to fire at the slightest excitation. Honestly, you’re not even doing anything; you’re pushing fabric into her cunt, and fuck, Eunbi’s already this trigger-happy. The demanding, quick-tempered vixen with something to prove, and she’s already melting over the slightest touch. 

Hell, just listen in on those little stuttering breaths falling off her lips when you begin to circle your fingers, slowly, when you reach down further to where she’s so hot, so wet-

You press down and she hiccups.

“Ah, I think I get it now,” you start, watching Eunbi’s lip wobble as the heel of your palm spreads flatter and flatter over her clit, pressure indiscriminate and nowhere close to absolving. “You want me to believe that somehow, you’re a total romantic.”

Eunbi’s mouth slacks slightly as she sighs. “Aren’t we all entitled to a little fantasy?”

“Has the part where I fuck you senseless in a public restroom always worked into that?” you ask, digging deeper, drenching her underwear in her own slick. “Or is that a new development?”

“You’re really testing the limits of your charm here.”

“I dunno. I think the fact that you’re dripping down your thighs means I’m doing all right,” you say, holding onto a smirk that you’re half-sure she’s contemplating slapping off your face.

“What do you want?” she asks, shimmying her hips against you, voice softening into delicate capitulation. “Want me to tell you that I’ve been dreaming about it? Want to know that I think about you when I’m alone - when I’ve got my fingers inside me and I’m sobbing into a pillow - that I’m picturing you fucking railing Minju - picturing how your hands would feel at my waist, on my tits, around my neck - imagining just how good you’d fuck me?”

You nearly snort in amusement. “Oh, want a lot more than that.” 

“Then hurry up,” she says - before the attraction ferments. And she sighs musingly when you press your fingers past elastic, find a touch where she needs you, the unmistakable shiver of real contact. “Kiss me properly and pull me apart.”

You tilt Eunbi’s chin up and place your mouth on hers. Kissing her once, twice, until she realizes it’s not even close to enough, drawing in to kiss you back that much harder, all unknowing and candid - like she never once cared for subtlety in her methods of seduction.

Almost absentmindedly, your fingers had already danced over her entrance, rubbed and touched and felt and begun to push. And god, she’s so incredibly wet - not that the push isn’t slow, so unhurried you can feel Eunbi wanting to cry out in frustration as you get deeper, feel her squeeze onto you, just a knuckle inside her, then a second. She barely manages to hush out a complaint into your lips when you drag them back, returning the perfect roughness in your fingers to her clit and applying all this agonizingly-too-gentle pressure. Do anything, she said - said she’d let you; could’ve said, fuck me, ruin me; should’ve told you, no idea what I really want other than for you fuck my brains out, so please take off your clothes and help me figure it out -

It’s actually kind of adorable, that she has to break her lips away from yours to ask for more.

But only a loud, smacking kiss and the length of a heavy exhale later, Eunbi’s tongue slides into your mouth, slipping gently against yours, and flicks up at your teeth as you press the curl of your index finger back inside her. She cries gently, this pitchy little feminine sound, just when you fuck her open with another. You could take all the time you want, you reckon, just pretend Eunbi’s not already all wound up and needy - pussy soaked and hot and begging beneath loose fabric - pretend she isn’t wrapping her slender fingers around your wrist to hold you firm, keep your fingertips present and reliable: something she can buck her hips into, something she can fuck until she’s gasping for you to stop.

“Fuck.” Her moan hums right into your mouth, thin, stretching out on a broken breath as the pad of your thumb skates over her clit, again, again, lighter, barely a touch this time, gentle and tender, and, well, conflicting - because look, everything about this is such a fucking awful idea - you’re going to walk out into a sea of judgement with kiss-swollen lips, hair disheveled and bothered like you’d trekked through a windstorm, with Eunbi hanging on your waist, knees wobbling and perfectly complicit to the crime. 

You’ve given the thought barely a moment’s attention when Eunbi’s grip on your wrist goes white-knuckle tight, like she can taste the apprehension on your lips. She tugs on your tie, hard - don’t stop, come, closer - like she’d literally die if you stop fucking her with your fingers.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” you say in the spaces between these stinging, deep kisses into her cheek, her jaw, letting her body slump forward when you let go of her waist and start sliding your hand up her flat stomach, scrunching and furling the material of her dress up around her hips. She totters a moment, feet barely reaching the floor how you have her balanced on the lip of the sink, but you can’t help it: you need to get a hand up, higher, over her ribs, onto her chest -

Eunbi gasps the moment your fingers sink in, loudly, and you’re not even going to try and give her an explanation - fucking christ, her tits are incredible.

“How messy,” you tell her, enjoying how it makes her cheeks start to burn red, and with just that, you’re sure, with fingers becoming fast and frenzied. It’s audible, the slick on your hand, working through the thick of her heat, the tension in her clench. “So fucking messy, I bet you’re close baby, so close - close to cumming on my fingers.”

She purses her lips, chin tucked into where her collarbones meet, and closes her eyes. You think she’s readying some riposte, some quip to needle, something she’d lid her eyes and smirk first to tell you with poison laced in her voice, seethed in sarcasm, in spite. 

“I mean, Eunbi, look at you,” you drawl huskily, an effort to lure the words out of her, “and I haven’t even gotten my mouth on you yet.”

Her whole body sighs, a concerted effort; she’s panting, sinking her teeth into her lip, and it happens so suddenly, near all at once - those elegant lines in her face starting to twist, betraying that usual sculpted visage of perfection - at the end of a squalling stretch for air, she starts to beg. 

“Please,” she mewls, escaping her lips pliant and meek.

And fuck if that’s anything like the bite you’ve come to expect, the serrated edge of the girl who was amusing herself just moments ago with how you rattled and ruffled from behind a glass of liquor - Eunbi, all cunning and guile - jesus, it’s not even close:

“Oh, god, do it, do it, use my pussy however you want, fuck, want it so bad-” Her hair is falling into her face. Skin getting hot and dewy with sweat. She told you earlier that she’d kill you if you ripped her dress, said you had the look of a dress ripper about you - and now she’s looking at you like she might kill you if you don’t. “-anything, I’ll do anything, gods, please just let me cum.”

“Baby,” you murmur against her neck, a pet name you’re slipping into a little too easily. The possession, the way you say mine, you promise it’s all instinct. “Who could’ve ever guessed you’d be this needy?”

The pale column of skin beneath her jaw reveals more of itself to you the faster you drag your fingers through her cunt. She’s recovering from a curl of your digits against that spot that might just be able to get her screaming, and then it’s your thumb: each circle around her swollen clit reducing her to little more than ragged breathing and that causeway of a word, pleading, please, please, please.

You’d spent more time fantasizing about this than you care to admit, though when you tug the neckline of her dress down, free her breast from beneath the tight fabric, roll your thumb over her nipple, and pinch, it’s clear this is nothing like you imagined. It’s so much fucking more: her face winding into a look of equal parts pain, pleasure, eyes scrunching, lips hanging open - she can’t even say anything when you pull harder on the dress, pull her other tit up to your mouth and start to suck, hard - a heavy moan, whining; she doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Do it,” she demands, gulping for her next breath. “I’m so close.”

You haven’t written it off yet, but you also haven’t the slightest idea how she’ll come back from this one, flirting with the boundary at desperate and pathetic, responding to your touch, your fingers, your mouth like you’d spent a lifetime studying what makes her tick. This might be the only time between you that you’ve ever stumbled this close to anything like an upperhand, you recognize, and you’re not going to pass up an opportunity like it, milking it for all it’s worth:

“You ever have someone do this to you, Eunbi?” you ask her when your lips break all that cruel suction around her nipple - it’s red, swollen, aching, and it’s a great start. The throb between her legs isn’t growing any less urgent either, pulsing vigorously onto your fingertips and leaking all over your hand, her thighs, it’s so fucking sloppy and hot and that perfectly submissive expression on her face just looks so, so good on her. (You’re really leaning into it.) “Fuck you with one of your dresses bunched up over your hips? Take you into a bathroom and get you moaning and panting until you admit you’re a total slut? Fuck, I could do this until you can’t remember your own name, pull your underwear back up your legs all soaking and messy-”

“No,” Eunbi says, exasperated, and she chokes on her voice when your thumb digs harder into the puffy lips of her cunt, pushes this exact pressure on her tender clit. You don’t think her eyes could get any clearer, needier, until she starts shaking her head, saying, “you - you’d be the first.”

She practically blue-screens after that, words getting lost somewhere in the pangs of her own agitated pleasure. And like putty, sinking backward into the counter, you spread her legs open wider. Press a kiss into her forehead, skin all hot and sweaty. She almost loses it right then and there when you start reminding her she’s gorgeous, how good her name sounds on your lips, so pretty when she cums like this and then- 

Oh.

There she goes. 

“Fuck, you’re - god, fuck, I’m - fuck.” Eunbi hisses out your name, panting for air, and her brittle words fall straight to the floor, smash against the tile, and shatter into a million pieces. Cumming, she adds, two or three times for good measure, and you hold her firm, hold her still. Keep her from sliding off the sink so you might even kiss her hard. Feel her come undone.

Maybe it’s the praise; more likely the tempo of your thumb tapping against her swollen bud, again, again. The only thing you know is that the sound of it alone - over the squelch of your fingers fucking her through it, slow and tender like you have all the time in the world - see, that’s a masterpiece in and of itself. 

Eunbi’s chest rolls and twitches as you draw your fingers out of her pussy, soaked, clenching at nothing, and drag them up along her waist so she can feel just how much damage you’ve caused, that for all her sloppiness, it’s because of you.

“Here,” you say to her, with two sticky fingers at her jaw, “I know you want to taste yourself.”

Beyond the visual in front of you, you’re kind of stuck on how impetuous, impulsive, how utterly lewd it all is - opening her mouth and fitting your fingertips between her teeth. You scissor your fingers, let her lick her own slick off your you, and when you press her tongue down behind her teeth she starts to suck. It’s delightful, you think, she’s so gorgeous and somehow, flushed and fucked and sweaty, she looks perfect. Never been so stunning.

“Such a good girl,” you tell her, almost maliciously.

And it’s instant - Eunbi sinking further into the counter, her shoulders slumped to the cold mirror, knuckles knocking the bowl of the sink. There’s a hum coming up from her throat when you say it again, getting stuck on your fingers until she spits them out and looks at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, all glassy and brilliant, like you know the answers to all the riddles of the universe. Okay, so maybe it really is the praise, you realize, a weakness, a loose thread, you might never be able to stop yourself from pulling at it. You’d never want to.

“Been so patient, haven’t you? Your pussy is fucking creaming for me Eunbi, so fucking messy, you poor thing.” You’re lifting her panties to the side, assuring her in half sentences and leaving the rest to the sound of your zipper coming undone. “Gonna fuck you now, get my cock in this pretty little pussy of yours, don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you baby, just be still and hold on for me-”

“God.” Eunbi startles at the touch of your cock running over her slick, and she starts blinking back into reality, legs bracketing around your hips. Do it - she’s gathering an angry fistful of shirt, pulling at your tie, clamoring for you, all desperation, no composure, as if your mistakes were made for her - do it, do it, and she breathes your name against your mouth, lips trembling, “please.”

Days, weeks, months maybe, the conclusion’s long foregone, inevitable: your cock sinks straight into her cunt.

Jesus. Fuck. Where to start? Eunbi’s eyebrows twist, lips part - with just a wicked, sharp breath of air, she immediately comes undone. So, that might be as good a place as any.

You know by the way she melts, the way her body is coiling tighter around you, clinging to you like you might be able to hold it all together - like you’re not fucking her open, pressing deeper inside her, hotter around you with every passing inch.  

“I cannot believe,” Eunbi starts, voice shredded, and the rest of it is so incoherent, so blathering and baleful, that you’re altogether unsure if it’s in protest of you ruining her cunt, or if you’re not ruining it enough. Even though she’s so unbelievably wet, she’s every bit as tight, and you end up prompting this unattractive groan from her throat when you motion your hips forward, just a fraction, before pulling back again. “Oh my-”

You’re trying not to laugh but it’s slipping out quietly, and Eunbi just glares at you, the vibrations from your diaphragm going straight between her legs, where she’s still throbbing and unduly sensitive. A few disheveled strands of her hair end up in your mouth as she fidgets about in your grip. A few more as you ease in further - until your balls are flush against her ass and Eunbi has both ankles hooked around your thighs. Beyond the sweltering heat of Eunbi’s cunt, you’ve got thoughts, photographically vivid, racing through your head: you lifting her small body up, getting your hands under her thighs and pounding her without remorse - turning her over and bending her over her sink, watching her tits bounce in the mirror, face wracked as she cums like that, and you’ll get there - just that right now, seating yourself in her pussy and nuzzling your face into the crook of her neck is more than plenty to hone in on.

“Fuck, your cock, it’s-” Eunbi sputters, and it takes a beat to even realize you’re completely inside her, right to the hilt.

And you aren’t making any more sense of how she trembles than of the fusillade of curses tossed in your general direction. Her legs remain locked behind you, holding you motionless - making it difficult to not laugh at her inanity on display, squirming graceless beneath you.

Incredible, is the conclusion you both come to as her cheeks flood again with color, and you start circling your hips into her, moving as much as the confines of her legs - the inelegant entrapment - might allow.

It’s almost cruel: Eunbi gasps when you end up brushing against her tender clit, and you pause, thinking- 

(Like this, half naked, dress bundled around her waist, you can take whatever you want. Every now and again you look up and see your reflection, see yourself towering over Eunbi’s lithe frame - oh, the options - they’re nearly endless.)

-she simply growls at you when you inch her hips forward from where they’re perched and do it again.

“I can’t fuck you unless you let go,” you tell her, ducking down and finding her breast with your mouth. 

“If I let go,” Eunbi starts, and her voice is jagged with strain, breath steadying, “are you actually going to fuck me, or are you just going to keep teasing?”

“Oh, Eunbi, believe me.” You’re kissing up her chest, her collarbones, pressing your lips sweetly to the hollow of her throat. “I’m going to fuck you until you’re screaming, promise.”

Eunbi holds her gaze to yours, tips up her chin, and says, half daring, “I’m holding you to that,” and as her bind loosens, she tugs your face towards hers by the bottom of your tie. Hard - it’s hardly even a murmur as she leans in, pressing your brow to hers - harder. A rhythm emerges in your hips against hers, though it only complicates the demands: more, please, need it, don’t stop.

But the drag of it is amazing, your cock gliding through the wet heat of her cunt - squeezed tight onto you and fitting you like a glove. So tight, as if she’d been made for you, incomparably coiled around you, and it’s even more perfect as you start to truly fuck into her. Fast and deep and assuring you’d stay true to your word, that you’d get her fucking screaming with it. Each time you pull back and slam into her again, hard enough that she shifts half an inch toward the mirror, you’re listening to that wounded noise, keening out of her chest, punctuated by the way she shudders, bracing against you.

“God,” you rasp through gritted teeth, stealing a delighted moan as she spreads her legs wider for you, stealing several more. “This pussy, fuck, is incredible, Eunbi” - she’s so wet and turned on that you just fucking rail her, that she lets you, that she loves it, to the point where you’re reminding yourself to breathe - “what a good little cocksleeve you are, you’re so fucking wet.”

“Better?” Eunbi is struggling to stay upright, jaw slacked and slumping against the mirror like a puppet cut from its strings. “Better than her, right?”

“Hm,” you say, and the hesitation alone is enough for the corner of her mouth to pull up into a tiny smile. Something she knows she can hook into, something she can work with. “We’ll just have to see.”

There are tears visible at the end , and her words are quickly becoming slurred and mixed up as your fingers turn threats into reality, bruises at her waist, her thighs, her tits, her neck - you’re marking her like she’s yours, like it isn’t dangerous, like it doesn’t spell trouble for both of you. So when she musters the strength to perk up, look you straight on while you pound her cunt recklessly, and meekly say, “be honest,” it’s far too impossible to deny her anything.

“The best, Eunbi,” you start. She doesn’t know where the lip service starts, where it ends, but just hearing you mutter out her name is enough to get her swooning.

It’s not that you don’t understand the irony, that Minju is downstairs somewhere telling a hundred people she doesn’t know where you are, looking pretty and put together, and you’re saving your honesty for this girl, breaking her further to pieces with each thrust her into tight, sweaty body, each stroke into her sloppy, aching hole. You do understand it, and when Eunbi starts whining, sobbing, moaning, you just can’t be bothered to care. “So perfect on my cock, baby, now be good for me - show me how perfect this pretty little cunt is, want you to cum again for me, want to see what a mess you can be, Eunbi.”

You end up with a hand underneath her, the other in the lose waves of hair behind her head, fingers splaying out against the base of her skull, and - fuck, the new angle you settle into when you pull her tiny body up onto your cock, not to mention the depth - it’s wanton, lustful, it’s thoughtless: you’re fucking her so hard and fast that all she can do is throw is her arms around your shoulders and weave curses into her ragged breathing, thinning, threadbare, “oh fuck, oh, jesus, fuck yes, there, your fucking cock, just like that, fucking christ.”

She barely even has one foot on the ground, toes dangling onto the tile, you realize after you finish chastising her dirty mouth. Completely at your beck and call.

Not that it was ever going to make a difference. You fuck her harder, until she’s shaking with it, until she’s crying out, embarrassment long forgotten. She’s so fucked, breathy moans turning to screams, to whimpers, seams cracking into fissures - you’re not hurting her, but fuck if that isn’t the boundary you’re daring to cross. You bottom out in her pussy, over and over; you’re destroying it, ruining it, and she’s clinging to you like wet clothes, like it might soothe her, like her life depends on it.

Eunbi moans when you draw your hips back and nearly leave the perfect heat of her cunt. And when you bury yourself back into her, she writhes.

You look up from the shadowy spot where your cock is disappearing between her legs, and her eyes are flaring again, teeth sinking into her lip as you seek out her chest and start playing with her tits. There, she wants to say, eyelids hooded and voice purring, that’s more like it. But your thumb flicks at her nipple, pert and pointy, coaxing out a quieter reaction - quiet beneath the haggard recoil her body makes in order to sheathe your cock, the gentle tremor at the end of each thrust, stomach muscles contracting under your hand. It’s too much. She only closes her mouth. Lets it fall open again. Sighs.

“You’re going to cum again, aren’t you?” you ask, breath landing hot against her face, agitating the flush in her cheekbones. “You’re going to cum all over this cock.” It’s in those eyes; she’s so incredibly close, but Eunbi holds fast to what shred of dignity hasn’t since vanished out of sight, throat working hard to swallow, and she shakes her head, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

In fact, she’s murmuring nonsensically at you, and for a moment you see a hand on her neck, thumbprint searing into her throat, but the image fades as she moans again, hips jumping, palm slapping the sink. It’s the want, the need, for everything you have to give her, want for you inside her, maybe forever more - and want and want for anything that might release her pleasured agony. It’s fucking filthy.

So bend, you tell her, don’t break.

(You’ve never fucked anyone like this either, you think, not Minju, not anyone - fingers skating up the ridge of her back, face buried in the hair falling over her shoulder, taking careful note of how you’re taking Eunbi apart. 

How you might ever put her back together.)

“Shit,” she cries out sharply, spine arched and straining against you as - fucking finally - her orgasm rips through her. You’re watching carefully as you fuck into her quivering pussy, listening mostly, once the pressure starts to build behind your eyes. There’s your name torn from her lips (oh god), and how she starts to tremble (oh god), trying to draw you (oh god) deeper inside her while she (oh my fucking god) lets it flood through her.  

It’s a lot to take in. Near impossible to focus on any one thing. For fuck’s sake, even the smell of it is divine, of perfume and sex and vanilla and sin.

You’re grabbing Eunbi’s waist again, so hard she yelps, lips parting, struggling for breath every time you fuck her tight little pussy onto you, but she can’t quite say anything. Not yet. Your cock is still too hard, throbbing madly inside her, and she’s near the point of simply collapsing. 

You touch her mouth, tip it gently closed. And the docile way she looks up at you is a reminder that you had readied a quip, something about the mess between her legs, that she’s flustering and incoherent and sobbing and how it’s so unlike her. But it’s gone now. Lost to the lust and need crackling in your own brain, you figure. You’d been daydreaming a mile a minute about fucking Eunbi on a good day, and now you’re seeing her here, like this.

It takes the velvety drag through her cunt, once, twice, you’re pounding her so fast, not even trying to hold on, shortening your breath, biting your cheek, counting out the strokes - three, four, five -“Come on,” Eunbi manages in the spaces between her soft, bitten back moans, “do it, wanna feel that big cock fuck a creampie deep inside me, wanna feel your hot cum leak out of me.”

You really could. Because she feels fucking unbelievable, and now you’re imagining it: getting reckless and stupid and filling her perfect little pussy with all your cum; risk it, get her pregnant, you tell yourself, fuck it deep enough inside her to make it a certainty - the mental image alone is enough to send you over the edge. You’re sure of that. It has before.

“Eunbi,” you stammer, “this pussy feels… I’m gonna-”

“I know,” she murmurs, “I know.” Her eyes are glassy, mouth cocked back, half-smiling. “Do whatever you want.” Five foot nothing of immaculate pulchritude and irresistible peril, she looks pristine on the end of your cock, tits in your hands, brow sweating, mouth opening, telling you to cum, to do it, want you to cum, just fucking use her.

“Fuck,” you spit, slipping your cock out of her at the last moment - fucking into your fist - cumming. Messily. Explosively. Eunbi still choking for air in fits and starts, your other hand still wringing her waist.

Though it can’t be more than a few seconds, the difference between you releasing that load inside her and the way it instead winds up everywhere else: in her panties, against the swollen lips of her pussy, the crease of her thigh - how some leaks and spills down her leg, onto the floor beneath the sink. There’s a dress ruiner in you after all. “God,” you add, fighting exhaustion, and Eunbi simply crumples against you, kissing you like you’ve never been kissed before - a long, smooth slide of her lips that leaves you both gasping in its wake.

“So.” Eunbi’s hand is between her legs, assessing the damages, accounting the cum all over her and soaking through the fabric of her underwear. She just raises an eyebrow at you, charming, challenging. “You came all over me.”

“What, you really think I’d cum in you?”

Her eyes squint, and her nose scrunches. It’s winsome, in a way. 

Sure, she’s kind of a disaster - the once-carefully-styled waves of her hair are in tatters, makeup running in every direction, tits hanging out of her bra and spilling over the top of her dress, still barefoot and completely unfazed by it. Dismantled is a good look for her, even if she doesn’t appreciate it: reaching into her purse, this emergency kit of wipes, a mascara brush, lipstick. Raring to do a little triage.

“Yeah,” you insist, “you’re out of your mind.”

The droll laugh she gives you when you finally let her go is not antagonistic either, but as with a lot of those things Eunbi does, the click of her tongue, the haughty expressions, the mannerisms, they were all becoming less threatening and more fetching - possibly more now that you’ve seen the face she makes when she cums.

“I think it’s just force of habit.” Having slid from the sink and onto the floor, Eunbi pitches up on her feet to kiss you again, and you don’t try to fight it any more than if she had beaten you in some sporting game and extended her hand to shake yours. When she pulls her lips off you, she adds, “which, you know, serendipitous and all that.”

“Thanks for the ten-dollar-word.”

“Lucky,” she reiterates.

“I know what it means.”

“If I had to guess… Minju doesn’t let you, does she?” And it becomes immediately apparent to you what Eunbi’s playing at. She’s got her teeth sinking into the long game, anticipating that you'll cross your arms, tell her never again: that thing at the gala, the kissing - we can't.

“Can you stop.”

“Does she?”

“Um,” you say, considering carefully for a moment which half-truths you want to tell, which ones you already have. “No, she does.”

Eunbi shifts her body a little, toward you, but not quite close enough to touch you - she’s bending slightly at the waist to scoop her tits back into her bra, her dress. The corner of her lip quirks further, and she asks, completely unrepentant, “does she let you cum in her ass?”

Your throat clicks, swallowing - you can’t even imagine it well enough to begin to know how to lie about it; bashful, everything obvious and on display - so, yeah, you are kind of fucked.

-

“Your shirt isn’t buttoned right by the way.”

“Here,” you say, still stuffing fabric back into your pants, “stand in front of me in case someone we know happens to come around.”

Eunbi crowds you to the wall, almost too aggressively, and she watches a staff member of the venue walk by carrying a platter full of shrimp tails and used napkins. “You’ve got cum on your pants too.”

“One crisis at a time, okay.”

“What are you going to tell Minju?”

“Nothing.”

“I mean… what is your approach, like when we get over there and-” Eunbi takes a step forward, fitting so perfectly beneath your chin, looking up like she’d discovered something worth marveling at. “Oh my god.” She laughs out loud. “How did I get a hickey under there?”

With just one finger returning to her waist, far gentler than the last time it’d been there, you push her back ever so slightly. “I’m just going to be myself.”

“Hm, bad idea.”

“Oh, alright then.”

Eunbi clutches a hand over her chest like she’d been wounded. “I just mean you’re kind of a nervous wreck.”

“I’ll be fine,” you tell her, now properly buttoned, and sliding out from her small-yet-surprisingly-overbearing presence. “And I told you, I bruise easy.”    

“Yeah, no kidding.”

-

History, is the word you’re looking for. Minju and Eunbi have history.

It always starts the same way:

A kiss to one cheek, the other, and the two are immediately falling back on placid smiles and the kind of laughter that seems at a glance to be genuine and real. Almost theatrical, the performance. 

Though Eunbi’s always had that chip on her shoulder - says she knows what it’s like to be young and pretty and famous - and when they’re together Minju always manages to draw from this near-infinite supply of bashful and modest. Actually, that’s more or less her whole thing. 

The mistake you figure, if anyone were to ask you, which no one has one yet - the mistake is in thinking you’re the only one that knows Minju can’t stand Eunbi. Even though she does a great job of hiding it, you might be singular in regards to who gets to hear Minju go off in the privacy of your apartment - arrogant, vain, conceited bitch - but you’re not alone here. No, no.

Because Eunbi - who is perfectly aware just how much disdain Minju has for her - catches your stare. And instead of being content with how you’ve found the ideal spot to stand off to the side to avoid this whole minefield of a situation, she waves you over. Way too enthusiastically.

That has always set her apart. She would invite mischief, if she thought that it would set the scene.

-

It’s not more than a week before your paths cross again. Perhaps you’re tangling with fate. Perhaps it’s out of your control. Perhaps, you consider carefully, that’s more convenient. You see her first: waiting for a cab at the taxi stand outside the broadcast studio, cardigan sliding down around her shoulders, verily bedraggled in the wind.

The ends of her hair are in the corners of her mouth, and those long shadows cast from the evening sun dance across her face to paint those features baroque, build an image serene and stately - statuesque.

(She’s stunning as ever.)

That Eunbi is even here of all places is a coincidence, but her dimples deepen when her eyes meet yours, like she’s finally found something she was long looking for. “How serendipitous,” she says to you again, smiling.

“Right.” You grimace back, self-effacing. “Lucky.”

“You know,” she says after a moment, “our apartments really aren’t that-”

“Far,” you say, seeing the conclusion that she’s leaping at, and the next to make things become extremely complicated is Eunbi, which is so her that it makes your fists clench in your jacket pockets without realizing it.

“It’d be cheaper, I’m just saying, if we split a cab.”

“What if I told you,” you say, after a long while, “I get reimbursed for the commute either way.”

“Do you?”

“No,” you end up saying, bluntly.

“So, purely a hypothetical,” she suggests, leaning into your personal space, and your eyes drop immediately, past her bare shoulders, past the neckline of a matching top, pointedly to her knees beneath a pair of denim shorts. Her whole outfit is simple, but with a figure like hers, clearly intended to provoke a reaction, one that you’re not going to give her. You’re above that. 

“Yeah.” You tilt your head. “Sure.”

Her finger’s tapping at her chin, and it’s sort of cute the way she does it, making the gesture seem about half as patronizing as it should be. “Then just for good company’s sake?

“You-” It comes out uneven enough to get you chuckling to yourself, kind of nervously. Her eyes light up as you swallow back on your drying mouth - a beacon, lighthouse in a storm, safe harbor, siren’s call and all. Your gut is trying to tell you, danger, and then suggests you dive in headfirst. “You might be giving yourself too much credit.”

“Just entertain the thought for me.”

“Like a hypothetical, you mean.”

She laughs, and it has her eyes crinkling at the corners. Likable, you think immediately. Beautiful, right after that, and coincidence, as it were, ends there - just as abruptly.

You’ve made many selfish decisions in your life, but climbing into the back of that cab might be the most out of all of them - Eunbi just smiles when you arrive next to her. You never stood a chance against that, probably. It’s the Orpheus thing. The monkey’s paw thing. It’s not possible to lean out of a moving vehicle enroute toward collision, stop the wheels from spinning when they’re already spun, and unmake the wish. 

The blur of passing street lights streak across Eunbi’s face and present it to you in broken images, cycling like phases of the moon, until finally, an overpass sees everything go dark, and you feel her small body slide across the backseat, the heat in her chest as she presses into you.  

Her lips are featherlight upon yours, gentle and trepid. For the first time, she seems unsure, as if she didn’t think this would happen. Then once more, with a taste of desperation and sinking into the dark corner of the leather seat, she kisses you like she knows you, pulling tight onto the collar of your shirt like she knows you’ll kiss her back - like she knows that all you’ve been doing, at the end of the day, is delaying the inevitable.

-

Eunbi’s apartment, actually, is rather modest. More different, and less however you expected.

The walls are painted alabaster, not white, which is only a color you recognize because Minju had waffled between that and eggshell for weeks before tasking you to paint three of the four walls of your living room - only later to realize she wanted something darker as you were priming the fourth. There’s a small powder room by the door, a tiny closet overflowing with jackets and coats and all sorts of outfits you’ve probably stripped off Eunbi in your head a thousand times over - and what the space lacks in size, more than makes up for in the massive set of south facing windows, benefit of an open layout, daylight warm and diffuse.

Well, at least that’s how you imagine it. The sun set while you weren’t paying attention, your thoughts, hands, lips, all preoccupied in the back of the cab, so you’re left with only the recessed lighting, dimmed down to dreamlike allure.

Not that you've ever been one with an eye for detail. No, Minju will happily corroborate the fact. Your talents start at your wit, end at your charm. But it’s just where you’re at - head tipped over the back of the sofa - you’ve got your eyes anywhere besides where Eunbi’s kneeling in front of you, head bobbing up and down between your thighs. 

In spite of your plans to fold her over any surface sturdy and horizontal, you ended up like this, jeans not even half way down around your thighs. On instinct, you’re threading your fingers through her silky hair, though you can feel the glare she shoots up as you tighten your grip and start to pull. It’s not that Eunbi takes issue with you fucking her face inherently. It’s nothing like that at all.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you murmur softly, voice wrecked. “You take my cock so well. Your smart little mouth was made for this, wasn’t it?”

Between messy kisses in the cab, the lobby, the elevator, while fumbling for her keys, she’d detailed to you all the things she wanted you to do to her, how she wanted you to fuck her, how she was going to make you cum. See, her mouth is gorgeous, even more vulgar, and she wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip: you’d understand exactly what that mouth could do. 

Because there’s the angle you’re now both familiar with, that you can fuck her apart, get her flushed, faltering and fucked into perfect submission until you steal your own release - that you’ve been running the memory back all damn week - but she figures you ought to know that she can make you cum without you ever needing to lift a finger. And given how sure she is running her tongue all over you, sucking your cock, mouth hot, unashamedly sloppy, fingers curled around your shaft in strokes of genius-

Fuck, she probably will.

Not that you’re one for understatement, mouth falling open as you sigh backward into the upholstery - feels amazing, you’re explaining to her when you’re not chewing your lip, so good at that, a little more, your mouth baby, fuck, it’s incredible. Like she doesn’t already know. 

Eunbi just slides her lips down your shaft so perfectly in response. All that wet suction near fatal. But it’s not what gets you to swear audibly, a low rumble from your chest that says she’s on the right track. It’s the look on her face: pouty pink lips cushioning your cockhead, parted around your shaft, sinking further now, back at the top again, spit drooling from the corners of her mouth. Her eyebrows are upturned, and when she hollows her cheeks some - lifts her eyelids and fixes that gaze on you - her irises are gleaming in juxtaposition, this doe-eyed girl blinking up at you, innocently, like she’s not taking your cock further into her mouth, fucking you until she chokes. 

Those eyes half-lidded, unknowing, and staring straight into you- 

She’ll make you cum, they read, blinking, deep in her throat. Her lashes flutter. She coughs. You’ll cum more.

Though for your part, it’s not like you’re aren’t handing yourself over to the sensation either, indulging in everything Eunbi’s mouth has to offer, what more you’re sure still to take. It’s hot and wet and her tongue is even better licking around the tip of your cock than it was pressed flat underneath it - you’re settling into it, just starting to rock your hips up to meet the softness at the back of her throat, and she nods her head down twice more, bathing more of you in her spit each time, sputtering. You’re not the easiest to take, but she’s almost casually contented, or something more smug, the uppish look of a girl who's never backed away from a challenge - who will happily go for more - and without fuss, she takes your entire length between her lips. 

“Oh, fuck me-” you mutter, going speechless the moment she starts to suck.

And with her nose to your belly, Eunbi is straining, fighting for breath. It’s not an accident that she’s making a total fucking mess, drool and precum dripping down your shaft. She’d take more of you, wet on her chin, on her fingers, she’d pull you further into her little mouth, like she’d have it no other way. Still, her tongue licks nonchalantly past the seal of her lips, laps at your balls, and you think you’re going to lose it when she realizes it’ll get you to shiver, how you won’t ask for more, but she can just keep doing it again, again.

You bury your face in your hands as you suck in your next breath. You’re leaking cum actually, only a little, and Eunbi just keeps blowing you like you aren’t.

Fantasies will never work again, not after this, because for all the times you’ve imagined Eunbi’s lips around you, you’ve never come up with anything remotely close. It’s not even clear if this talent of hers is natural, god-given, or if behind each of her coy expressions and holier-than-thou moments of proud eminence she’s secretly an insatiable cockslut, but man, the girl is really good at sucking cock.  

Maybe the tricky part about this, if you even want to begin to get into it (you do not) - allowing yourself a small taste of intimacy has sparked this want for so much more. Even when things were good, Minju wasn’t getting her mouth on you like this. You can’t put your finger on it, the last time you’ve had anything as satisfying as the press of Eunbi’s lips around you, this mess of dark slippery hair bobbing up and down in your lap lazily and unbothered, mouth making all these wet noises like she’s yours and nothing more - like she never will be - and fuck, it’s irresistable. Her tongue curls around you again, and she makes her jaw go slack until more spit drools down the length of your cock, lathering in her fingers and twisting around your shaft - it scratches at itches you didn’t even know you had; nascent itches, silent ones, itches cloaked as something else.

Your breath stutters, stumbling into an embarrassing little moan after Eunbi pops her mouth off your cock, and a fleeting trick of a grin rushes across her face. She picks up on where you’re at instantly: “Aren’t you, like, kinda quiet?”

“There’s a lot going through my head right now,” you tell her, and that’s something she knows she can play along with, reveling in how you swallow at nothing when she hooks her hand behind her back and frees her bra from her shoulders. Her tits settling perfectly into place. “Just to be clear,” you sigh, “I’m going to cum in your mouth if you keep doing it like that.”

She tugs your jeans all the way down to your ankles. Arches an eyebrow. “And?”

“It’s called being decent, just something I'm working on.”

“Oh,” Eunbi says, returning her grip around your cock. Her hands are tiny, stacked one on top of the other, and she pumps them slowly, knowing that the abundance of spit and precum in her fingers makes it feel amazing. Every little flick of her wrists every bit as unbearable. “Now you care about decency; the guy who’s cheating on his-”

“Watch it,” you say, rough, “I could go without the reminder.”

Eunbi’s grin flickers a little wider. “Still the guilty conscious, huh?”

You think on it, a moment too long probably, because on one hand, she’s right. On the other - “I’m not going to say it’s guiltless.”

“Okay simple,” Eunbi shrugs, and pulls herself away from you, suggesting, “just touch yourself.” 

That’s one way to go about it. You wonder if this is the logic her brain operates on daily. It’d explain a lot.

“That’s like getting away with it on a technicality.”

“It’s an orgasm,” Eunbi tuts, “you’re not robbing a bank.” There’s a brief silence while she brings her palm up over her eyes, peeking through her fingers. “Here, see, I’m not even looking.” 

“I’m going to go ahead and just point out that you’re suggesting I jerk off in your living room.”

Eunbi’s hands drop to her sides, before tracking up her ribs and holding her breasts together into a cleavage that is way too inviting for anyone’s sake. You’re enchanted. Beguiled, maybe.

“Or.” Her gaze tapers in on something. God only knows what exactly your tell is; the quirk in your brow, the slightly-more-than-usual-avoidant gaze, something about your lips, the way you’re biting them - that’s where she seems to have honed in. And she’s smoking you out, completely. “I could probably just fuck you with my tits.”

That’s true. She could. And when that developed thought eventually coheres, you sigh profoundly.

She tips her head, interpreting the silence, and the small, wanting groan you make as she starts smashing her breasts closer together between her hands is definitely audible. Here, she’s telling you, with your cock, I know you want to. Even her lips are slanted into a subtle, knowing shape, steeped in all her femme-fatality, before finding the other smile she wears that pretends like it doesn’t know what she’s doing to you. “Is that what you want? You want your cock between my tits?”

“How exactly are those two things interchangeable?” you start, which isn’t anything even in the neighborhood of a no, so Eunbi simply leans forward, raising her chest between your thighs and teasing the sensitive part of your cock with just a brush of her nipple. Grazing down you, it’s hardly any contact at all, but the way you twitch suggests to her you’ll probably never recover from this. 

“Well.” Eunbi’s expression is lit aflame with revelation. “I’m just working in the space, thinking about things someone else could never do for you - things I could do for you.” 

For one thing - of which there are many - it’s a hell of a departure from the Eunbi who was sobbing against the bathroom mirror begging you to cum inside her. You can hear it. Her voice has the quality of a type of: victory. 

(Like she’s just come up with the most brilliant idea in the world. Which - maybe.)

“It’s perfectly normal you know,” she adds, almost as an aside, while trapping your cock between her breasts. “Literally everyone asks me to do this.”

You’re disarmed more than you realized, only able to nod along. Eunbi laces her fingers together, straightens herself, and right after passing her tongue under her top teeth to shoot you a smile, starts moving up and down against you. The way it feels, filthy hot and suffocatingly amazing, fuck, you’re letting out a sound that’s the bastardchild of a laugh and a whimper. You’re stunned. And the way it looks - your cockhead escaping her tits, disappearing again - is almost, almost the best part. 

“You’re, like, so hard right now,” she says, deservedly confident, and sliding her tits up around your cock again, she tilts her chin, trying to goad it out of you. “Should I let you cum all over these tits? Like, you’re already throbbing, honey.”

Let you cum, she says. If you weren’t struggling to cope with everything - every pass of soft skin smothered around your shaft sending you further to wit’s end and threatening to abandon you there - you’d recognize the writing on the wall: you’re in the palms of her hands, figuratively, literally. You’re in trouble.

“Oh, is that it?” she asks again. “Should I?”

“Fuck.” Without even thinking, you’re spreading your knees wider, inching toward the edge of the sofa, aching to get deeper between her cleavage. “Fine, yes, fuck-”

“Unh-uh,” says Eunbi flippantly. 

See, she’s enjoying this - eyes hot and radiant with authority - she’s enjoying this more than you. Her fingers relax, letting her tits fall around down onto your thighs. The pressure she was letting you enjoy, wrapping around your cock and making you speechless, starts to dwindle to something less brain-numbing. It’s unexpected: the lipstick around her mouth is smeared slightly, mascara under her smoky eyes still in disarray from how you’d had your cock in her throat, and now she’s the one taunting you.

“No, I’m serious,” she adds, “I want to hear you say it.”

Her brow furls immediately when you open your mouth, like she’s already very aware of what you’re going to say, and equally unimpressed.

“Say you want me to make you cum with my tits.”

“Eunbi.” Your voice comes out dry, damaged. “Please.”

“Hm?”

This wasn’t quite how you had pictured it when you’d seen Eunbi leaving the studio, looking like an angel, smiling like the devil; when she batted her lashes at you outside the taxi stand; when she clung to you and kissed you in the backseat of the cab; when that escalated the moment you walked through her foyer; when she dropped to her knees and started at your belt, your zipper, all without missing a beat. This is different. This is you, being desperate. 

“Please, with your tits Eunbi, fuck me with your tits.” 

Jesus. Now you know how that sounds. And the words are clear enough given the circumstances, but she’s staring at you expectantly, waiting for more. Waiting for you to concede. Waiting like you have no choice - “please, Eunbi, please make me cum, fuck, I need it so bad.”

“Oh.” Eunbi gathers herself again around your cock. Tighter. Triumphant. She laughs dryly and says, aloof, “good boy.”

-

(Here’s how it goes:

Eunbi has your cock vanished into her cleavage, again, and every soft slide of her breasts coaxes a reaction out of you - some quiet, others louder - coaxes more precum from where your cock is aching, leaking. She adjusts her fingers, moves her palms in further, makes her movements more precise, faster, tighter- 

It’s probably not a good sign of mental hygiene that you’re wilting so fast, that you’ve given her so much power so quickly, but the way she has her tits around you is fucking staggering.

“Aw, don’t worry, I’ll make you cum so fucking hard.” Eunbi moves her tits up your shaft. Lets them fall again. “Just relax for me.”

Her dark hair is falling slightly out of place over her ears as she looks down and presses her out tongue out, licking gently at where you’re appearing over and over from her soft breasts. Oh, she knows exactly what she’s doing, you think, even though there’s not an ounce of culpability in her face. You’re so unused to seeing Eunbi appear so guileless that you nearly don’t recognize her. 

But once you feel the smooth skin of her chest become so wet and slippery with her spit, your precum  - once she’s settled into a reliable motion to fuck you with - her eyes lift their focus from what’s just beneath her chin. Get themselves fixed right on you. 

“It feels so good doesn’t it?” The smirk that finds her mouth is lethal. “C’mon. I know you want to cum.”

You can only nod, breath panting.

“Cum on these perfect tits, baby. Cum for me.” Her brow is cocked, voice lilting straight into seduction. “Cum-”

Eunbi’s name sticks to the roof of your mouth as you shoot a rope of cum past her collarbone. You send more all over her chest, hot and sticky and shimmering in pale white, and as soon as she slowly slides her chest up again, you drain your balls into the warm wrap of her tits. A truly satisfying mess. 

You stare for a moment, wondering, if she’ll open her mouth and swallow you again - all given the way she’s looking at your cock, hungry. But she simply tilts her chin and lets your cum splash onto her neck.

She has her hands pumping you lazily against her clavicle, cooing while she gently fuck out the final, tired vestiges of your orgasm with little flicks of her wrist: “oh, there, look at all that, and it’s all for me.”

Once your knees stop shaking and your breath starts to level - once Eunbi releases you from her warm, wet cleavage - she draws a shiver out of you with her tongue, run up the length of your sensitive cock, and she’s left kneeling there, covered in your cum, with her palms upturned like she’s waiting for someone to give her a towel. It’s you, and it’s her, and there’s something about the image of your cum splattered all over her chest, shining and slippery between her perfect tits. You get your hands on her waist immediately, pulling her up into your lap, her slick, sticky chest sliding against yours, and you devour her mouth greedily, licking hungrily past her lips.

“You are something else,” you say finally, now sunk back into the couch to fully take Eunbi in. “All sorts of party tricks.”

Eunbi preens, utterly satisfied with herself, and she reaches down behind her to your cock, aching in pained pleasure, aching for more. You flirt with the heat that radiates from behind her underwear, grinding against where she’s become hot and wet and needy. She laughs, and the sound turns to a pretty little sigh after she pulls aside her panties and seats herself onto your cock. 

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says, and she starts to move.)

-

It’s never supposed to become a habit. It’s never supposed to be anything at all.

At first? Once a month, and it’s unprompted; then it’s biweekly, then it’s once a week, then it ends up biweekly again in the opposite direction; there are these little text messages back and forth that you’re learning to decipher - hey, they usually start, you up? or you wanna help me move some furniture? or this is crazy, but i cooked way too much ramen? or been horny all day, so like, come over and fuck me? 

Some of them, you puzzle out, are easier to decipher than others. And falling comfortably into that category are the nudes she sends you in the middle of a fucking workday: 

Eunbi’s standing with the backside of her unfathomable figure facing the bathroom mirror, denim cut offs slipping down past her thighs-

(Fuck. Shit. You drop your phone and it lands face down in a way that makes you scared to check for damages. Luckily, it is unscathed. Mostly.)

-denim cut offs slipped down past the cheeks of her ass. Her torso is twisted in profile, a white linen shirt draped up over her shoulders for ceremonial purposes, gaping open at the front in an effort to cover nothing at all. Underneath that is a plaid swimsuit top for god knows what reason - a pair of large silver hoop earrings, perfectly done eyelashes, and hair far too styled to be gearing up for a swim - then it’s her thumb, hooked under the string that looks to barely be holding the tiny thing together. The picture is taken at nearly the precise moment: she’s pulling up on the bikini top, to the point that her tits look ready to fall out and let gravity return them whence they came. 

How she managed it, you’ll never know, but it’s got fantasies come to life immediately. Eunbi whimpering and coming apart, Eunbi stretched out in that bikini top, Eunbi stretched out without it - you nearly drop the phone again.

The text that follows is shameless, complete with a winking emoji and extra letters in all the right places: maybe tell minju you’ll be home late for dinner.

All of this, and suddenly you’re feeling less oblivious about it. You and Minju are at that point. These are your death throes, a swan song, performative; you’re that kind of couple.

-

You realize there’s this thing that Minju always says. 

You’ll often catch her in passing, between your hectic schedules or in her spot between the cushions of the sofa curled up in a blanket and reading another romance novel. She’ll ask you how your day was, or what it’s going to be, and you’ll tell her what you always tell her.

“Nothing,” she responds as you press a dutiful kiss to her forehead, “I’m just thinking.”

-

But what else is there to say?

There’s Eunbi’s apartment, the usual scene of the crime. There’s the backseat of your car, sometimes the front seat of hers. There’s no lack for nooks and crannies in the production studio. You fuck Eunbi. Eunbi fucks you. All of it rabid and increasingly frequent and most of the time it gets seriously freudian.

“Inside me,” Eunbi gasps, twice. Her chest is flushed, stained again with your cum, sticky strands of it bridging between her tits as they wobble and shake beneath you. It’s all routine, and none of it anything you could ever tire of. The way you’re fucking her, every deliberate thrust something you can hang on to forever - buried inside her hot, tight velvety cunt - it should be aspirational. And you’ve got her here so frequently, so selfishly, so perfectly. With her knees folded up to her shoulders as you ride the motions of the bed springs. 

Maybe it’s curiosity at play, to see how far either of you will go. You’re crushing her in more ways than one. It’s hot and filthy and she’s loving every moment of it. You’re pounding her sopping cunt into a swollen, cummed-in mess - more and more as you fuck her further into the matress. “Do it, baby,” she cries, unashamed, “want you to fill this pretty little cunt again, need you to fuck me, use me, need you to breed me - use this pussy however you want, it’s yours, so cum in me over and over until i’m just your little cumdump and nothing more-”

God, you want to give her everything she wants, all of the time. Your hips ride into her again, deep and making her features skip past all the usual coy expressions. And god, she is so fucking tight - maybe you will.

“Just like that, don’t stop.” Eunbi is panting, nails digging into your shoulder blades, and she holds your face to the crook of her shoulder. Her voice comes out in airy gasps, shaking and quivering as you rock her entire body beneath you. You pound away at her pussy, and you fuck her, and you rail her so reckless she starts to cry out, until she’s begging, pleading for you to fill her pretty little cunt.

Even though you should at least hesitate, you don’t. You can’t. You shouldn’t.

Hips grinding against hers, cunt clenched and dripping onto your cock, you do.

You need her.

-

But what else is there to say? It’s not that you don’t do your fair share of thinking either. Though none of it productive, admittedly. You’ve got all these images, photographically vivid, of Eunbi running through your head. The things you’ve done to her, the things you want to do to her, the things you will do to her. 

It starts to get in the way of your work.

“I’m sorry,” you say, caught daydreaming one day. “Could you repeat that for me?”

Sitting across the table from you is Jo Yuri, a mutual friend. She knows everyone, and she’s on your radio show, talking about relationships. “What I’m saying is this: I’m not sure what it is about men that make them think women are so unsolvable, like we’re constantly changing the rules.”

“They’re not simple,” you offer in contention.

Yuri turns her head onto her hand, adjusting her headphones, and leans into the mic. “They’re not complex either.”

But, they are complex, you think to yourself as Yuri continues on her with her point. They’re complex in the way they want you to touch them, the way they want you to hold them, to kiss them; some of them complex in the way they want you to choke them, slap them, get your mouth on them and make them cum over and over-

“If it’s less subtle than a brick to the face,” Yuri says, gauging your lack of a reaction, “it’s probably for your own good. That’s what I think.”

-

Neither of you cry when Minju breaks up with you on a Friday. You know, like officially. Neither of you shout or throw things or do anything that you could put in a tell-all book in your later years.

So that’s that, is the last thing she says to you.

Whatever the opposite of cathartic is - that’s the vibe.

Her publicist finally sends a letter to Dispatch. Apparently the time is right. Or she’s stopped caring. You don’t know. The article that ultimately arrives doesn’t drag you through the mud, but you don’t come out looking all that great either. And as it turns out, surprisingly, the most tragic part about being dumped on a Friday, aside from the fact that every fool that is doom scrolling twitter knows about it, is it’s impossible to get new furniture delivered until the following Monday.

“Jesus,” Eunbi says, sliding past you and into your near empty apartment. “This place is super depressing.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, tepid. “There’s been photographers watching the door to the lobby for hours.”

“I was just passing by. Saw the lights were on.”

“Yeah, well, I mean I’m here.”

“I see that.” Eunbi smiles simply. “Was all the furniture hers?”

“We replaced a lot of stuff as time went on. Didn’t match her decor.” You lean against the door frame. “Or so I’m told.”

Eunbi does a spin in your living room, finger to her chin. “Looks like she left you a coffee table.” 

“The movers said it didn’t fit in the truck.”

“Ah.” Eunbi crosses her arms, and the quiet smile on her face grows just an inch. “Serendipitous, ain’t it?”

-

“Hey,” Eunbi says, from the passenger seat of your car. “Would you say… are you feeling anger?”

“No.”

She taps away at her phone in a few more moments of silence. The turn signal’s click click click punctuating each one, semi-dramatically.

“Hey,” she says again, turning toward you.

“What?”

“How about this, are you feeling depression.”

You pause before you answer. “No.”

Her mouth finds a subtle twist, almost like she’s pouting. “Are you feeling, I dunno, bargaining?”

“I’m not in grief, Eunbi, if that’s what you’re working toward.”

She sinks into her seat, disappointed somehow.

“Oh, that’s the first step by the way: denial.” Eunbi unclicks her seatbelt, and leans over the console as you pull up in front of a hotel. “This article says that soon the emotions you’ve been hiding will begin to rise. You’ll be confronted with a lot of-”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” she asks, blinking deceptively in an almost comically innocent way.

“Psychoanalyzing.” You shut the car door a little too dramatically to be of any help hammering home your point. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Eunbi murmurs, just low enough for you to catch, “you’re living out of a hotel. And denial is not just a river in Egypt.”

“Why don’t we analyze how you’ve got a real talent for getting under my skin.”

“Oh.” She laughs, eyes bright, cheery. “So we are angry.”

“You might want to be more careful.” You’re wandering into familiar territory here. This thing, the needling, the goading, is it on purpose? Your intuition suggests yes, perhaps. A wealth of experience tells you absolutely.

“Is that so?” she asks, interested and daring and dangerously pretty in the shadows of the parking lot.

“Who knows, maybe I end up getting a little rough with you.”

“Oh darling,” she says, and part of you isn’t too keen on her getting so intimate with you. There’s another part of you that is. “I’m hoping you get a lot rough with me.”

-

The way Eunbi perches inelegantly at the edge of the bed says a lot. Her legs are wide open and she’s grasping backward at a set of pristine hotel sheets, cumming over and over on your fingers, maybe a little too easily. She’s even giving you those eyes, watery and irresistable. Of course you’re past all that, well familiar with the act, how deceitful it is of her to act so innocent.

So you bring your mouth onto her pussy and make her do it again. Telling yourself it’s what she deserves.

In fact, when the barrage of oh god’s and moaning and panting finally subsides, she ends up laughing, bubbly cute, in exactly the way you’ve grown fond of. It’s almost strange, you think, to be so used to the sound. But when Eunbi finally uncovers her face from her hands, her expression is pointedly not amused, all need and lust and want - she’s not playing around - simply the way your name comes off her tongue could make you melt. “How do you want me?” she asks, “you can’t just leave me like this.”

Fuck, how don’t you want her? It might have been careless, giving someone like you creative liberty - you’re imaging everything. You want her on her knees, you want her ass in your hands, you want her riding you, beneath you; there’s a million and one things you’re thinking about her tits alone. Then there’s the other liberty. That you’re not checking over your shoulder, worrying, anxious, that kernel of shame hidden away somewhere inside you no longer growing as you get your cock inside her. You’ll make her scream your name, beg you to cum. She’s yours, and you’ll remind her who she belongs to. You’ll take all the time you need. 

“Stand up,” you end up telling her, and after one of those liquid thoughts finally coalesces into something more rigid, “over by the window.”

“Yes sir,” Eunbi says, huffing a smug laugh. Though whatever faux confidence she thought she discovered vanishes without a trace considering her knees are already wobbling, barely able to support her. Some part of her must be able to sense it: you’re worked up, feeling something. She likes you that way. Likes what it makes you do to her. The fact is, to be truly content - being held down and pounded into, filled so full and fucked apart - it’ll take just a press of her thumb on the scale. 

See, Eunbi knows you’ve been holding back. Knows you’ve been flirting with the boundaries she’s dared you to cross. With a little encouragement, she knows you will. 

You saw this coming. And to be frank, you’re going to ruin her.  

“Take your shirt off,” you say, slipping seamlessly into instruction, “socks, underwear, strip.”

It is breathtaking, the way Eunbi ultimately turns her figure around against the pane, hands running up the glass and stretching above her head, ass poked out and shimmying her hips. She’s right there, waiting for you to grab hold of her, to press kisses into her shoulders, her spine, to pump your cock into her, to cum in her deeper and deeper-

And with much less to say, she finds that shimmy again, the round of her ass proffering. Her patience waning.

“You fucking better,” she says, and her elbow’s bent, finger’s pulling at her ass cheek. Look, this pussy, it’s yours, no one else’s and you made it so, so wet. You almost can’t believe that she’s even real - all curves and sharp angles in the right places, a face like that - you should be at her feet, worshiping her, and you will, in a way: you’ll grip her wrists tightly into your fist and sink your fingers into her waist until you’ve got her bruising and breaking. And that’s just a scratch at the surface.

Eunbi’s pupils are blown, mouthing into her shoulder, “I need you to fuck me.”

The tension in the room hardly stretches more than a few moments, you’ve got your cock out, you’re slipping into Eunbi’s soaked cunt, pushing deep, thrusting deeper, bottoming out - “you perfect fucking slut, Eunbi, so needy aren’t you? Begging me to breed you over and over-” You’ve spent the last god knows how many many months hiding away and stealing at something you weren’t supposed to have. Spent even longer pining for something you’ve never had at all. Your hips snap again, harsh contact against her ass, skin milky white and soft, unblemished and delicate - and when you settle into this harsh tempo, railing Eunbi up against the window, you figure you’ll address all that. 

See, you’ve got no ticking clock in front of you. Consider how time starts to slip when you’re inside her, seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, you’ll take as much you can: time to bring her her home, keep your cock in her for a day, two days, three days, keep cumming in all her holes-

“Fuck,” Eunbi sputters, arching her back further, tension building in her spine, in her cunt. The reflection in the window shows her bottom lip start to tremble, and she opens her mouth, repeating it, like it’s all she can remember how to say. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

You slap her ass, hard. Handprint vibrantly pink and staring back at you. You kiss her shoulders, you pound her little cunt into consummate submission. I want other people to know, Eunbi’s entirely incapable of telling you right now, drool cornering in her lips. Want everyone to know how good you fuck me, how you own me, how I’m your personal cumdump and forever will be.

You mark her up, like she is yours, hand at her neck, in her hair - you start to pull.

“Yes?” How you’re holding her, how you’re fucking her - it’s physically imposing. You’re towering over the woman, face bent upward and reaching further as the grip you’ve stolen of her silky hair only ever tightens. You can kiss her forehead, but you don’t. You tease her instead. “Aw, you’ve got a look on your face like you have something you want to tell me, Eunbi.”

All too simple, your thumb lands on the pucker of her asshole. And she cums, just like that.

It’s unholy. The overstimulation has tears welling in her eyes, gorgeous, wide, glassy and brilliant. She’s not meant to take this kind of treatment. Reverence, adoration, that’s her usual faire. And she can hardly believe when you bring your hand down her ass again - can hardly believe that you’re fucking her within and inch of her life and wrecking her like you are.

Each thrust sends her voice higher and the lines of her body rippling faster, bending further. Its beauty in resonance, profundity in motion: the soft skin of her ass shaking against your hips, tits swinging against the window. Your hand snakes across her flat stomach, feels her panting for breath, traces her ribs and up towards her chest. Those little whines make it out to be something selfish. Mewling gasps for air make it seem like you aren’t giving her exactly what she asked for. As if you’d ever give her anything less. 

Fuck. She’s a hot, moaning mess of a woman. She doesn’t even roll her hips back onto you or fuck herself on your cock; she doesn’t need to. You’re destroying that little pussy, and once you start palming the heavy shape of her breast, you’re letting your fingers sink into all that profundity. 

“Please,” finally slips out of her, though she’s unable to add anything in that thin, wilting voice. There’s plea in it, the sound steeped in protest, in penury, in poverty; you’re fucking her and you’re fucking her apart - cock buried deep in her cunt - you never expected to have to piece her together this early.

“Tell me,” you demand, callous, right at her ear, “please what? Please pound this perfect little pussy of yours until I cum? Please fill you with a hot load of cum because what, you deserve it? Is that you want, Eunbi?”

“Please, cum-” Her words vanish like a hot breath against the glass. She’s blathering, eyes falling half-lidded in this amazingly sexy way that almost feels intentional. “Want to feel you cum. Fill me up with cum, please, please, please-”

“Oh, Eunbi,” you drawl, right into the crook of her neck. It makes her shiver. She’s not a princess, curses woven into her breath, but she’s selfish like one. “I’m not going to cum in this perfect little pussy-”

It all happens so fast: you drag your cock out of her cunt, and if you weren’t pressing your fingers into her waist, holding her tighter, you think she might collapse. Maybe you were closer than you realized, moments from draining your balls in her pussy, because when you lay cushioned between the cheeks of her ass, your cock just starts to spill - hot cum weeping from the tip and making a mess of her soft, creamy skin, over the puffy lips of her pussy, across the tight little rim of her asshole.

“Good girls get bred, Eunbi,” you say, voice drying, sensitive, and so far from where you started. “You told me to be rough with you baby. I’m thinking I might cum in this perfect fucking ass. Should I?”

Eunbi’s face is flush against the glass, hands reaching back in response, spreading herself for you. Some part of her knows what you want, and she knows how bad she wants it too. “Please,” she begs, swallowing down on these hoarse uneven breaths, hiccupping between them - “need it.”

You can feel your tip tease her rim, where she’s still impossibly closed and waiting. The cum leaking from your cock is wet and slick and slippery, and with a fist curled around your shaft, realigned, angled down, you slip in.

There aren’t even words for it, how it all comes together. How she comes apart.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, recognizing Eunbi’s weight shift around you. “I’m going to fucking own this little asshole, Eunbi.”

Eunbi’s responsive mmm runs ragged. Face in profile against the window, tits smashed against the glass, you watch her eyes screw shut and her eyebrows draw together - you think for a moment, as you so often do, that you’re hurting her, blazing past safewords and pressing your cock too deep, too fast into her tight ass. “Go,” she tells you, and without even flinching, gets her fingers underneath where you’re splitting her in two, gets them wet with the slick of her cunt and in between your balls, gently. “Want you, please, this big cock.”

Your eyes water, and you start to thrust.

“Baby,” you whisper into the lobe of her ear. For once it’s all slow, sloppy and soft. It’s sin at your waist, fucking her open slowly, pumping into her ass again and again until it’s all so slick she can take you further. But you’ve got your fingers in her hair, preening loose strands back behind her hair. She’s so pretty all the time, and with her face twisted in unbearable pleasure, she’s outright gorgeous. “So good for me, Eunbi, such a good little cumslut aren’t you?”

Eunbi’s voice crackles into broken whimpers, like her lungs are waterlogged and flooded. She steals a hand away between her thighs, and starts ghosting her fingers over her clit. Anything more than that and she’d probably go up in smoke. (If it’s anything like you, cock pulsing with blood and hot as flame, you are about to lose it.)

“Fuck,” she says, grinding out the consonants in your name like she’s crushing them under a boot, “I can’t believe how good you feel, I can’t, I can’t-”

You knew, had always known, that you had - however subconsciously - enticed fate by letting yourself get to this point. Maybe it’s a perfect slowburn, this history, dotting commas and periods in your memoirs, and here you are, pounding at Eunbi’s asshole so fast that she’s stuttering.

“I can’t, fuck - thank you - fuck - feel you throbbing in my fucking ass - love being your cocksleeve,” she hisses, and her body has practically all but given up, knees buckled out, arm dangling at her side, tears streaming down her cheeks. It’s just that she never expected it either, that you’d be pleasing her by fucking her like a toy, so unrepentant she’s sobbing messy, all sloppy and pleading, more, please, harder, faster.

“You like this cock tearing your ass open, Eunbi?” you ask, pushing the hand she has hidden at her cunt out of the way, “you like being such a perfect slut for my cock, don’t you? You weren’t kidding, you’d let me do anything to you.”

“Please, don’t, you’re gonna make me - again,” she squeals, lip wobbling, mouth hung open. You push her hard against the glass, until she straightens out, and your finger is gliding through the slick of her cunt, knuckles knocking the window and honing in on her swollen clit - you’ll make her scream. “Oh god, fuck, oh god, fuck, fuck, fuck-”

Serendipity is about chance meetings, convenient covers. Life has a way of dropping the world in your lap without you having to do anything. It’s Eunbi’s picture-perfect face, wrecked and twisting as she cums all over your thighs, rolling her hips and fucking her ass onto you - it’s that when she cums with her puckered entrance stuffed full of cock, she squirts everywhere. Lucky, is the watchword you’re sitting on, and of all places, of all people, you’ve been dealt the perfect hand, deck stacked in your favor.

There’s wet splattered all over the window. Stains streaking in the carpet. Dark spots that’ll never fade.  

“Keep fucking me,” Eunbi says, head of jet black hair titled back onto your shoulders, hips twisting slow as she grinds down against your waist, moving enough to make your cock throb and pulse. “Keep fucking me, please, until you fill my ass up all the way. I’m yours.”

Yours, yours, yours, she stammers on, failed and wrecked on your cock. Malleable and pliant. Ruined. 

“This tight little ass of yours, Eunbi,” you mutter, drawing sharp breath after sharp breath, “is fucking unbelievable.”

It’s yours.

Her body twists, torso turns into you, and you get your mouth on hers, moaning and mewling on the same hot, damp air.

“Good girl,” you whisper against her lips, and with a final kiss to her temple, you fuck into her hard - hands snuck up to hold her breasts and keep her still, hips snapping fast, faster, faster-

When you finally explode up into Eunbi’s ass, she makes a noise fucked and faltering even further than you. It’s desperate and debauched and only staunched by the fingers you slip past her lips. She bites down, but you’re too far pitched into the reality of pumping cum past Eunbi’s tight entrance that you can’t be bothered to care.

“Fuck, Eunbi.” Your voice is sneaking through gritted teeth. She’s tiny against you, body slender and hot and milking your cock. A flash of muscle, a quiver, a pucker, and she’s got you reeling. You think about getting your hand around her throat - fucking her again - but the look her face is so pristine and contented. You have her like putty in your hands, like you could bend her, mold her, break her, and when you instead bring her face to yours in this lazy, clumsy kiss, lips sliding and her tongue licking into your mouth, you know you’d never need to.

See, she’s so dismantled, completely stuffed with cock, and still, with it leaking everywhere you can feel it run hot and sticky, it’s perfect. 

The hotel room isn’t big, and until this exact moment, had been so filled with sex that the the sounds of it echoing back and forth make this sudden quiet into a silence puzzlingly calm. Her features relax, into something a little more befitting her reputation. She’s sweaty and wet and you did your part, you fucked her and fucked her up, you realize, she’ll return you the favor later. 

You hold your breath, watching the beauty mark on her cheek raise and lower with every panted-out breath, mesmerized-

And with just the slightest shift, Eunbi’s mouth closes into this tiny, satisfied smile.

“You came inside my ass,” she says out loud. She tries not to laugh, and then she does anyway when you slide your cock out of her. “You just came - in my ass. Look.”

It’s almost unfathomable, that you just fucked her until she was sobbing, pushed your cock into her ass and had her uncoil like she did, the window, the carpet. Like a fucking disaster. It’s almost unfathomable that she’s got her hands spreading her cheeks open toward you and presenting the mess you’d made like it was something to be proud of, and after all that the mood of the moment shifts a little more intimate, a little more sentimental.

“You’re trouble,” you tell her, tilting her chin up under your fingers.

“Right back at you,” she says, and she pitches onto her feet until you kiss her again.

-

(It happens.

Time passes. You work on a new show. You move into a smaller apartment. It reeks of passed time. Maybe it’s the humidity of early sobriety, hanging and palpable. You can hear ticking in clockless rooms here.

It’s been years since Minju dropped the bombshell on the media. You recovered, mostly. Years too since you’ve seen Eunbi.

Sometimes the people you wanted as part of your story are only meant to be a chapter. You could probably stitch that into a frame and sell it to the kind of crowd who’d buy words in a frame.

You don’t.

Instead, you end up a little older, not in any meaningful way. You’re not wiser or any shit like that. Just older.)

-

You interrupt the producer of your current gig, a pretty middling radio show in a pretty mundane time slot. “What do you mean by new cohost? Like I’ll be working with another human being?”

He nods.

“Like every week?”

Nods again.

“Does he have a name?”

“She,” he corrects, writing judiciously at the clipboard permanently in his hands. Scowl on his face, pencil in his ear, clipboard in his hands, that’s how you know he’s in charge. It’s a whole look. He untucks a blank envelope from the disarray of papers in his hands, saying, “she dropped this off for you too.”

You turn it in your hands twice, until you see the cursive penned into the top right corner. Memories, stinging trifling things rush back to you, all at once: you see her face, her eyes are closed, she’s smiling, she’s a thought you’d tucked away for good, and now you’re wading through it like you hadn’t. 

Serendipitous.

[pankowcrumbs]

Shared hotel room X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

There’s a certain ache that settles in your chest when something good ends. Not the sharp, clean pain of heartbreak, but the slow, quiet kind. The kind that follows a final take, a group cheer, the clink of champagne glasses and confetti in hair. The kind that comes with knowing tomorrow, you won’t wake up and head to set to see the same people you've seen every day for six months. The kind that creeps in when you're standing across from someone you've grown used to, maybe even too fond of, and pretending like it hasn't meant something.

That was me. At the wrap party. Half-buzzed, half-bewildered, and entirely too focused on Will bloody Poulter across the room.

He looked unfairly good for someone who’d just downed three gin and tonics and attempted (poorly) to moonwalk to an 80s playlist. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, hair a mess from the humidity and dancing, cheeks slightly flushed. He was laughing at something the director had said, and I hated that I could pick his laugh out of a room full of people.

We’d been co-stars for six months, filming a drama that was part love story, part psychological spiral. Most of our scenes together were emotionally intense. I’d kissed him more times on camera than I had any man in real life this year, and still I didn’t know how to ask him out for a drink.

Not that I needed to. We’d shared drinks. Shared dinners. Shared playlists, private jokes, quiet glances across trailers, and the kind of electric silence that always said too much.

But we were careful. Too careful.

Now, the party was thinning out. Robin, our producer, had disappeared hours ago, and the crew were beginning to peel off in taxis and Ubers, still laughing, still tipsy. I spotted Will heading for the lifts and, without even thinking, followed.

“Oi!” I called, hurrying after him in my heels that had begun to feel like medieval torture devices. “You’re not escaping without saying goodnight, are you?”

He turned, smile blooming. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We stood there for a beat, both slightly swaying. The lobby was quiet now, fluorescent lights buzzing. My dress, once perfectly styled, was slipping off one shoulder. His top button had come undone.

“Good party,” I offered, mostly just to fill the silence.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We made it.”

“We did,” I agreed, though it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like something was slipping away before I’d even had a chance to hold it properly.

The lift dinged, doors opening. We stepped inside together. Floor seven.

There was a comfortable silence at first until the doors opened again with a soft chime, and I stepped out… only to wobble slightly on my heel. My clutch tipped sideways, and I watched, in horror, as my room key slid from my fingers and slipped clean through the crack between the lift and the hallway floor.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered, crouching uselessly to peer into the gap. It was gone. Fully, irretrievably gone.

Will hovered behind me, eyebrows raised. “Did you just… drop your keycard into the void?”

“I did,” I sighed, defeated. I stood up and faced him, suddenly all too aware of how close we were. My voice came out softer than intended. “I should probably go back down. To reception. Get a new one.”

He nodded slowly. “Probably.”

But neither of us moved.

The hallway was quiet. Somewhere down the corridor, a door shut. The carpet was thick underfoot, soft. I realised I was still holding my shoes in one hand.

Will looked at me really looked at me and then he held out his hand.

“Or,” he said gently, “you could just stay with me.”

I blinked. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean only if you want to. No pressure.”

I looked at his hand for a second, then placed mine in it.

“Okay.”

His hotel room looked identical to mine, but stepping inside felt strangely significant. Like crossing a threshold that we’d hovered at for months but never dared to step over.

He flicked on a lamp, casting the room in a soft amber glow. I kicked off my shoes and laughed, mostly from nerves.

“Well,” I said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “This is very platonic and not at all filled with unresolved sexual tension.”

He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Should I… put on the telly or something?”

“No,” I said quickly, then added, “I mean unless you want to. I don’t mind.”

He walked over to the mini fridge instead, pulling out two tiny bottles of something. “To the most anticlimactic invitation ever?”

“To hotel lift voids and poor footwear choices,” I said, clinking my bottle against his.

We both drank.

The awkwardness lingered at first. Neither of us really knew where to sit. I perched on the edge of the bed. He stayed standing, leaning against the desk, arms crossed.

“I was kind of hoping you’d follow me, you know,” he said after a pause.

I looked up. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t want the night to end.”

The confession hit me square in the chest.

“I didn’t either,” I admitted. “It’s been… weird. Finishing.”

He sat beside me on the bed, close but not touching. “Yeah.”

We were both quiet for a moment. I could feel the warmth of him next to me, the slow rise and fall of his breath.

“You ever think…” I started, then stopped.

“What?” he asked, turning slightly.

I hesitated. “You ever think maybe we were both too scared to… try?”

His gaze flicked to mine. “Every day.”

I turned my head, and suddenly our faces were close. Too close. Or maybe not close enough. Our breath mingled, his eyes searching mine like he was trying to find permission.

“You can kiss me,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate.

It wasn’t dramatic or rushed. Just… soft. Real. His hand came up to my cheek as he leaned in, lips brushing mine like a question. I kissed him back like an answer.

It felt like everything we hadn’t said finally falling into place.

When we pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the second callback,” he said, breathless.

“Me too,” I whispered.

He kissed me again. Deeper this time. His hands found my waist, pulling me gently closer, and I let myself melt into him. It wasn’t perfect our teeth bumped once, we laughed into each other’s mouths but it was ours. It was overdue and kind and slow, like we both knew we didn’t have to rush now.

Somehow, we ended up lying side by side on the bed, fully clothed, his arm draped loosely over my waist.

“This might sound mad,” I murmured, “but I’m kind of glad I dropped my key.”

He smiled into my hair. “I’ve never been so grateful to a elevator void in my life.”

We both laughed.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was with the comfort of knowing he’d still be there in the morning. No scripts, no trailers, no pretending.

Just Will. And me.

[bloomingbluez]

want that too | calum hood

MDNI

"Calum is not the kind of guy Dee would expect to be interested in, and Dee definitely isn’t the kind of girl Calum would usually bring home from the club.

When their crushes hit it off, Dee and Calum find out that sometimes the least expected is also the most exciting."

—————

pairing: calum hood x fem!oc (+ briefly mentioned luke hemmings x fem!oc)

word count: 5.7k

tw: smut, drunk sex, toxic friendships

a/n:

after attempting multiple y/n blurbs, i came to a conclusion that it’s not my cup of tea, so please meet dee! i hope you enjoy this little piece, that introduces the characters, because if inspiration allows, i plan to write more for dee and calum, and by association also gigi and luke.

i don’t want to commit, but there’s a plan! so please enjoy the beginning of their story, and feel free to send me any requests, maybe in form of what would you like to see in their story, or just generally kind of plots you’d like to see.

© 2025 bloomingbluez

“Jealous?”

A male voice pulls Dee out of her thoughts. She’s sitting on the right end of a curved bar at one of the LA clubs, the gin and tonic in front of her long finished and forgotten. Resting her elbows on the counter, she props her chin on her elbows to steady her hazy eyes.

Her point of observation has been a pair of blonde, supermodel looking people, talking at the other end of the bar. The girl has to be pushing six feet and she’s only able to look the guy in the eyes thanks to the glittery, pink heels. Her flowy pastel dress barely reaches the mid-thigh, and his hand, resting on her hip, has been doing a good job in slightly pulling it up every so often. Her blonde hair easily reaches her lower back, curled in a curated blow out that had to take ages.

Dee would know — she was the lead engineer of the hairstyle, helping her operate the blow dryer only two hours earlier while they pregamed in some fancy hotel room.

She doesn’t really know the guy, except that he was the first and only person to catch her attention since they entered the club. Dee has a type, and it is the type of beauty completely opposite to hers. His blonde angel curls falling softly against the forehead, straight nose and a white, satin looking shirt that hugs his torso without being too tight. While they ordered the first round of drinks, she could already imagine getting towered over that man in a bathroom stall, or maybe even coming home with him. Sadly, Dee was already tipsy and made the stupid mistake of expressing her fantasies out loud.

It was as much as Gigi, her gorgeous friend who actually is a supermodel, needed to take an interest in the guy. Dee knows her chances; compared to her childhood friend, she is average at best, but without competition out of her league, she has been able to pull people who would never bat an eye in her direction. Now, when she has to go against Gigi…

What was supposed to be a fun reunion of high school best friends quickly turned into another of Gigi’s conquests, leaving Dee to slowly sip her drinks under the compassionate stare of one of the bartenders.

“Sorry?” she asks, looking up at the guy who decided to invade her slumber party. He’s tall, and a complete opposite of what she initially fixated on. Where the angel boy has soft blonde curls falling against a ghostly pale face, her new friend appears to have a darker skin tone and a head full of thick, black curls that are a mess. It suits him, in a way, the plump lips and chocolate brown eyes that stare at her with the same intensity that she blessed Gigi with only seconds ago.

“I asked if you’re jealous,” he clarifies, and sits on the vacant stool next to Dee.

She only shrugs.

“Are you?”

“A bit. Look at her, she’s gorgeous,” he says, flagging the bartender. “Another one?” When Dee nodes, he orders them another round of drinks and asks to add it to his tab. She won’t argue with a guy buying her drinks, free alcohol is always welcomed.

“She is.”

Dee is a girl’s girl. She could go off about all the things that made their friendship distant in recent years, but she won’t vent to some random guy, she won’t paint her friend as the devil. Gigi’s not bad, she’s just very specific, and she loves to have what others want, while also making sure they can’t get it — or maybe Dee just always imagined it that way.

“Fuck, ok. I am jealous. I really wanted to make a move on her, but then my friend over there did,” he fires up, and Dee’s eyes widen as she looks up to scan his face for any sign of mockery.

When the bartender brings out their drinks, she clings her glass against his and smiles up.

“Well, I wanted to make a move on your friend but my friend got there first.” She tips the glass against her lips, the bitter taste of tonic water flooding her mouth. “I’m Dee, by the way.”

He laughs, a rich sound that draws out the white trash music the DJ decided to play. It sends a chill down her spine, making Dee bite her lips painted deep red.

In all fairness, she would never expect to be approached by a man. Besides the obvious conviction of her average or repulsive looks, there was a plan for the evening. She just wishes that the night would go as planned and instead of sulking, she would be dancing with her friend to Only Girl. Maybe if life wasn’t a competition for Gigi, they could have fun like the good old days, but the old days were never that good.

Their friendship had been toxic from the start, and the amount of times Dee wanted to end it couldn’t be accounted for. Gigi always envied her achievements, which should be flattering in the long run, except Dee’s worth had always been seen as part of being in Gigi’s circle. In high school, she was the weird goth hanging out with a popular queen B, and later, she was the up and coming designer who made her model friend famous. Except in their circle, with their families and people who knew them from before, it was impossible to comprehend that Dee Simmons could have and give Gigi Bell anything the girl didn’t have already.

The gossip was ridiculous — Gigi was the muse behind her first collection, she agreed to walk the runway when no models turned up, she was the reason Dee managed to break through in the industry. At the end of the day, a designer is only as good as the work they present, and that largely depends on how the models walk. But Gigi wasn’t the next Shalom Harlow to elevate the clothes that Dee put on her back; like most mean and pretty girls, she was just lucky enough to have a friend who grew up in her shadow.

“Like the Princess, hm?”

“Yeah, exactly like the princess. Are you secretly British?” Of course he’s not, she would notice the accent, but Dee is too drunk to notice anything beside his beaming smile. It’s disarming, warm like a sunkiss, and she finds herself pulled towards it in a way she hasn’t experienced before.

“God no. Actually-”

He stands up from the bar stool and does a twirl. Before Dee notices the skirt, or rather the kilt, he’s already halfway done with the turn, but she still managed to shamelessly whistle him up and clap. The people sitting closest to them turn heads, but she doesn’t notice in the slightest.

Anybody can rock a silk shirt, but a skirt…

“Scottish?” she asks, sipping on her drink. Gigi and her new victim are long forgotten, Dee’s attention completely concentrated on her new companion who still hasn’t introduced himself.

“Half.” Sitting back on the stool, their knees bump, and Dee gets another shiver. Even though the club is loud, she uses all her willpower to focus on what he’s saying. “I’m Calum by the way,” he adds.

“Calum,” she repeats. The name rolls off her tongue easily, and Dee already knows it’s not one of those awkward names to moan or whimper. The thought alone makes her blush, because even though she’s quite comfortable in her sexuality, Calum is not the guy she would flag at a club as her potential prey.

She scans his tattoos, the thick hair and full lips, even the kilt that has a very similar pattern to her own skirt. Calum is the complete opposite of the angel boy, which also makes him completely similar to Dee. Her arms are littered with meaningless tattoos, handpoke doodles on her knuckles and freestyle pieces up the shoulder. Short, french bob barely reaches her shoulders. and a thick fringe is almost long enough to cover her dark eyes, even though she still sees everything with predatory precision.

While Gigi is built of soft edges and rounded corners, Dee is a maze of sharp angles and skin that doesn’t really settle well on her bones. She loves her body, it’s a form of art like anything she does, but it’s not something most men would go for, which immediately makes her think why would Calum approach her. He’s not unconventionally hot, tall and broad, he could have any girl at the club. Even if Dee would fuck a guy in the bathroom, she wants to be genuine, or at least mutual. Her whole life is a consolation prize for being Gigi’s friend, and the last thing she needs on top of that is to be a second choice for a guy who didn’t have his chance with her.

“So, you like my friend, hm?” she asks, mixing her drink with a paper straw that softened a few minutes ago.

“I mean, yeah.” Calum’s eyes linger on the spot where Gigi and his friend used to be. Dee didn’t even notice when they disappeared, and she’s hoping that if they leave the club, she won’t bring him to their hotel room. “But if Luke’s interested in her, then we probably wouldn’t click,” he admits, his voice thick with an emotion she can identify all too well. As if he found that out from experience well too many times…

“Yeah, I get what you mean.”

Every time Dee liked someone in the past, Gigi would miraculously find herself in their orbit and end up dating them. She could charm anyone, and Dee understood why people fell into her trap. Gigi wasn’t a stupid doll, she knew how to talk to people, how to manipulate. She could change her persona in seconds, just to fit someone’s idea of her. Sadly, the more Dee’s crush liked her friend, the less she would respect them. It wasn’t something she should blame people about, but fuck if it wasn’t disappointing to see someone fall for a trap that was so evident for her.

“You were interested in Luke?” Calum sends her a side eye, which makes her blush.

Boys don’t make Dee blush.

She elbows him, not with too much force, although she doubts even all her strength would be enough to harm a guy this big, and shakes her head when he theatrically grabs his side.

“Yeah. But I like this Scottish Princess thing you got going on more,” she admits, because if Dee has no filter while sober, she has to lose all the shame after drinking.

Calum laughs, again, and fuck, she likes the sound of it. Usually, Dee is not a person who would notice something like that. Once she finds the guy she likes, their conversation is oriented to a goal in her mind, and she will say anything to get there, only registering if she’s getting closer or further away from the result. With Calum, she doesn’t really know where this will go, where they will allow it to end. It’s all casual and very indulgent, letting her mind drift and her body react.

“Thank you. I’ll be honest, I always wanted to hook up with Princess Diana,” he says, apparently no filter to be found on him either. Dee snorts, making him realise what he just said.

Calum blushes, and fuck her if it’s not the most charming thing she has ever experienced.

“Oh, so we’re hooking up now? What happened to ‘Hello, how are you?’” It’s easy to tell that even though some people might have gotten offended, she’s ready to laugh it off.

She would lie by saying that her plans for the evening were different; Dee just didn’t expect for her and Gigi to separate so fast, but she doesn’t mind this new company. Maybe it’s because they’re already drunk, but there’s no awkwardness between her and Calum. It’s what makes him so attractive in her eyes. Yeah, he might be hot, but he wasn’t the one she picked out of the crowd — the longer they talk, the more she thinks that maybe she made a mistake by flagging Luke as the most desired person in the room.

It’s never fun when your best friend snatches something you really want from under your nose, but for once, the universe seems to be repaying her. And just like Calum said, seeing Gigi be so interested in the angel boy makes him that much less attractive. Maybe he truly is a great person, but Dee won’t be finding that out anytime soon, will she? In two weeks her friend is going to call and say that they went out a couple of times but things flaked off, because he had some very minor but crucial flaw that turned her off too much. Worse case, they will date for two months before she meets someone more interesting. Dee knows Gigi well; she doesn’t do long term relationships, because there’s no need for that when she never has to be lonely. There’s always another person to chase, and now that they see each other once every few months, Dee couldn’t care less.

Maybe it makes her a terrible friend, but Gigi has plenty of friends she values more. All her model friends, the ones who walk for big designers, or the people she met within the industry. Dee would love to hate her, but she knows it’s something her parents conditioned her for. Every human interaction can give you gain, and it’s something she lives by. When Dee was profitable, she was the top friend, but these days she’s just the only one who’s there when no one else shows up for Gigi because of her push-and-pull behaviour.

“How are you, Dee? Do you want to know my family history? Social security number?” he mocks, his stool moving closer to hers with a screech that gets swallowed up by the fuss of the club.

Somehow, they end up making eye contact, brown eyes staring at each other, neither breaking it.

“Time and place of birth? I need to check if our signs are compatible.” She leans towards him, and when their knees block her from getting close, Dee just throws her legs over his. Calum doesn’t miss a beat, placing his hand on her exposed leg, now resting in his lap.

“Might need to call my mum for that.” Calum shakes his head, his finger tracing circles on her knee.

She really doesn’t want to, but Dee leans into the temptation. Biting her lip, she looks down to see how big his hand looks on her, how his skin contrasts against hers. His fingernails are painted black, another thing that makes Calum that more tempting.

“Tell her I said ‘hi’ while you’re at it.” Looking back up, she smiles sweetly, but Calum’s eyes are glued to her cleavage, exposed by the corset top. “My eyes are up here,” she says teasingly. Her two fingers settle below his chin, pushing his head up, until they’re face to face again.

“I wasn’t looking at your eyes, princess” he admits, no shane in his voice, no blush. His hand rides up on her thigh, almost getting to the hem of her skirt.

She sighs, getting goosebumps from the touch. Fuck me, she thinks, because the way he talks to her, the way he looks, everything about Calum makes her want to break the rules. She’s just the right mix of drunk and sober to justify a bad decision as something that might potentially be really fucking good, because the way his name rolls off her tongue makes Dee want to shamelessly moan it, and bathroom stalls are just not a place for that. Going home to a stranger's house is also highly irresponsible, but every so often Dee remembers she’s an adult and has free will and people died for much less than the prospect of possibly great hook up.

“Do you need anything else over here?” The bartender appears out of nowhere, grabbing their empty glasses.

Dee responds before Calum can even open his mouth: “We’re good. Actually, he would like to close his tab.” She sends the girl a polite smile, nodding towards him.

“Sure, just give me five minutes.”

Calum looks at her through narrowed eyes, but even now she can tell that they’re glazed over with desire, and for once, Dee feels pretty under that look.

Usually she couldn’t care less; she just wants to get off, and if a guy likes her enough to get hard, which is not really an accomplishment, she’s fine with being his forgettable one night stand. When she started getting tattoos and pierced her brow and belly button, Dee’s mum told her that looking like that she would never find a man. At first, it was a bummer, but soon enough, Dee realised that she doesn’t want a man, she just wants to be satisfied, and a guy doesn’t have to like her to do that for her.

But the way Calum looks at her, Dee wants to bask in it. It’s been so long since she got shivers down her spine, since the hairs on her arms have stood up from the intensity of just talking to somebody. The way he looks at her, she might even believe that he thinks she’s pretty, hot, attractive.

“Why am I closing my tab?” he asks, even though they both know the answer.

“You’re taking me home, princess.” Dee drags her nail on his arm, across one of the tattoos, and then patiently waits as he signs the check, his hand never leaving her leg.

—————

They tumble into his apartment, their limbs already tangled together. Calum holds her leg the entire drive to his place, and once they reach his apartment door and Dee drops a snarky comment about the fancy building he lives in, he pins her against the nearest wall and joins their lips in a feverish kiss. She makes sure that the neighbours hear her first moan, in case the walls are thick.

It goes very fast from there, a haze of messy kisses and bites and a trial of clothes that doesn’t even lead them to the bedroom. Before Dee can notice, she’s pinned against the wall again, this time face-first when Calum struggles with the ties of her corset top. He swears under his breath, fiddling with the ribbon, and instead of helping him, Dee decides to let him struggle.

“Why would you wear that?” he asks, hopelessly pulling at the strings, hoping one of them will just let go in spite of the knot.

“It’s pretty.” Dee’s tone is innocent, as if she has no idea why he might be so frustrated.

“It’s impractical,” Calum scoffs. “Let me get the scissors-”

“God, no,” she sighs, turning around to face him. Immediately, he leans in to kiss her, but Dee grabs his chin and makes him watch as she simply unhooks the front of her top, getting it off in mere seconds. She can’t tell if his eyes widen because the solution is that simple, or because he sees her fully naked.

Either way, Calum doesn’t waste time. His hands slide down to cup her thighs and Dee doesn’t need a clue to jump. Before she knows it, she’s sitting on the hard counter and Calum is rummaging through the top drawer and pulling out a comically large box of condoms. Dee can’t even say anything, even though her lips curve into a lopsided grin, because right after taking out one foil pack, Calum’s back on her, kissing her neck and collarbone. She holds him by the nape of the neck, guiding it where she wants his lips the most, while he pulls down his boxers and tries to put on the condom.

“Shit, Calum,” she gasps when he enters her in one smooth motion, the way he penetrates her so swiftly is almost painful.

Dee lets go of his hair, allowing him to finally look up at her. His eyes are just as dazed as hers, lips swollen from the kisses and just like she suspected, the hue of her red lipstick across his face. He straightens up, leaning his forehead against hers, grabbing her hips to steady her on the dresser when the first thrust comes.

She’s a mess, her makeup smudged and hair in a complete disarray, sticking out in different directions. She’s pretty sure her claws are leaving marks on his shoulder from how hard she’s gripping him, but Calum doesn’t say a word. His breath comes out as pants as his cock drives into her in precise, strong movement, hips snapping as if measured by the clock. And then there’s his eyes, fixated on her face, that completely disarm the way Dee would usually watch herself. Her whimpers morph into moans, and her lips fall open at a particularly powerful thrust, eyes fixated on him, only on him.

Calum doesn’t slow down; yes, his movements get painfully slow every so often but that’s when she feels him in every cell of her body, making it, if anything, even more intense. He has to do this a lot, hook up, and there’s no shame in it but Dee can’t help but wonder if it’s this frenzied and rushed with every girl, if he wants them all the same.

That’s why going home with a guy is a dangerous territory — he looks at her once and Dee starts imagining too much. It rarely happens, but when it does, it’s always such a let down. From experience, she knows that there’s always an aspect of her that scares that person away, and no matter how much desire can hide in one look, some things can’t be changed.

It’s not only the look in his eyes that makes Dee’s brain go foggy. It’s the praise he whispers in between them every time she reacts to his movements stronger, it’s the tiny wet kisses he lives on her shoulder whenever she bites her lip and tries to act like his words aren’t turning her on even more.

Between you’re so fucking perfect and come for me, princess, Dee actually feels the pleasure build up in her stomach. The hand holding his shoulder grips it even harder, nails digging into his skin even more, and the other one finds his hand on her hip and guides it to her apex, where her throbbing clit is waiting for some attention. She knows it’s all it will take for the climax to wash over her like a wave, and feeling how sloppy Calum’s thrusts have gotten, it doesn’t seem like he will last much longer. Everything happens so fast, the room filled with their moans and the sounds of two sweaty bodies slapping against each other. The dresser Dee sits on creaks quietly every so often, but it would need to actually break for them to notice.

Just like she expects, the orgasm hits Dee with a blinding force, making a moan die in her throat. Her legs shake from the intensity of it, and Calum, who keeps on moving, prolonging her pleasure, doesn’t help. One of her legs wraps around his hip to force him closer, and soon enough, she can feel Calum spill into the condom, his body crushing her against the wall when he spontaneously loses all his strength.

“Wow,” she mutters, giggling. One of her hands comes up to tangle into his curls and stroke them in a calming motion, his hot breath caressing her exposed skin.

“Definitely a wow,” he admits after a couple seconds, slowly standing back up. Even though his body straightens, he stays inside her, his cock still half-hard even after the release. “I chose the right girl at the bar,” he teases, his own hand brushing the unruly strands of Dee’s fringe out of her eyes.

“Glad I could be the consolation prize.” Her smile doesn’t expose that Dee actually means it, and Calum doesn’t know her well enough to catch the conviction in her tone. Still, he opens his mouth as if meaning to say something, but she’s faster. “I’ll clean up and get out of your hair,” she promises.

“Um, sure.” Calum looks thrown off, the words falling off his lips mechanically.

He pulls out, and gives Dee some space while going to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. He doesn’t usually do that, one night stands are not his thing anymore, mostly because he has always been more attracted to the banter rather than how the person looks. He can’t deny that Dee is attractive, in a way, definitely unconventional, and in any other circumstance, he would love to see her again. Except she seems to be much more in her element, and he doesn’t want to come across as too clingy.

When they decided to go out, nobody was fully on board with the idea, but it seemed fitting. In between tours, life would get stagnant, and every so often someone would propose a night out and everyone else would hesitantly get on board. Not that there was something wrong with drinking and having fun with your friends, but Calum liked it when life got borderline boring. He also loved his bandmates and playing music, but a part of him yearned for a quiet life. The months when he would go back to Australia and nobody knew where exactly he was were the most calm, and somewhere along the way, he started chasing that same simplicity in LA.

They walked into the club, the one they frequented most often, and sat in their usual booth. What he told Dee is true; Gigi caught his attention a few minutes later when he watched them down two shots each at the bar. He commented on it, with some intention to approach her later, after the alcohol left a pleasant buzz in his system and the guys got lost in conversation. For the time being, he felt completely content with just tracing her moves, hoping she would notice his burning gaze and that someone’s interest was piqued.

Everything changed when Gigi walked up to their table. Calum was perplexed that the one woman who caught his eye actually decided to speak to them, or rather, as he foolishly anticipated, him. A few times, he caught her looking at their table, getting in his head that she did notice him looking and was, in a way, flirting with the idea. His hopes rose high as she slid into the booth next to him, the pink flowy dress riding up on her thighs, and the sweet smell of her designer perfume pleasantly suffocating. He was getting ready to introduce himself, clearing his throat and trying to formulate the words in a way that would definitely charm her…

But, of course, she had eyes only for Luke. It wasn’t his fault, and Calum would never go around blaming him or calling him selfish, but Luke did tend to be a bit… naive. He assumed everything would be fine, because they’re friends, and maybe it was Calum’s fault, because he never really held him accountable. Why would he? Because girls preferred lead singers to bassists? But Luke always thought that just because the girls approached him, there won’t be any bad blood if he pursued them.

Maybe Calum was just petty, but multiple times, he denied a girl just because he knew that one of his friends had an eye for her. He didn’t expect that same loyalty, but sometimes, it did feel like a punch in the gut to see Luke get all the women he wanted, and especially the women Calum had any interest in.

He walks out of the bathroom, and Dee is just there, still standing next to the dresser in nothing but a pair of panties, her back turned to him. The corset top that caused him so much struggle is tucked under her arm together with the checkered skirt as she stares at her phone. Calum didn’t have the chance before, so he shamelessly observes the tattoo on the back of her body: from the vines of the thighs to intricate ornaments covering her back. Pulling on his briefs, he slowly approaches her and places his hands on her hips, only now remembering how short she truly is. He didn’t notice it until they left together, and quickly forgot when she started making out with him in the cab.

“Or you could stay,” he says in her ear, lips falling down on the crook of her neck and slowly tracing kisses to reach the earlobe, sucking on it. “I have some booze. And a comfortable t-shirt.”

“And a huge box of condoms?” Dee looks at him from above the Uber app, raising her brows, a mocking smile across her lips. Finally, she could comment on it, and Calum sees the pride in the simple tease. He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief.

It’s not like Dee didn’t catch his eye, or she was someone he would never, under usual circumstances, be interested in. Just, Gigi was the kind of girl who he was used to finding attractive. She looked like the Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella and all those other girls he saw while watching cartoons and Disney movies with Mali Koa. Tall, blonde, slim figure and skin pale the veins almost showed through; a definition of beauty from the media, but also his peers. The confidence she carried herself with made the impression even more letal. Her catwalk stride, head held high and perfectly equal steps, the sway of her hips, it almost created an archetype.

As soon as she started talking to Luke though, Calum knew there was no more hope. Especially since he didn’t even have to charm her; from sliding into their booth, Luke had her undivided attention. She even did the holy trinity — pouted, twirled a strand of her hair, tilted her hair. It’s like she came to serve herself on a platter for him, and if anything, that ruined the image Calum had in his head.

Usually, he would get discouraged when seeing that the girls fell for Luke’s easy charm. He couldn’t deny that his friend had a captivating way of being; after ten years of being on stage and doing interviews, it would be a shame if he didn’t. But seeing a girl fall for it was like watching your parents fall for an Internet scam. Not that Luke was a false advertisement, but he loved to use the one line that Calum wouldn’t tread very lightly— his fame. No surprise he could impress anyone talking about being in a band with millions of listeners; hell, Calum would probably fall for it too, if he didn’t know better. But he also cared for his hook ups, dates, call it what you want, to be there for him, out of simple attraction or even sympathy, and not because it would give them street credit or a story to tell.

“And a huge box of condoms,” he confirmed with a poker face, hand gliding up to cup her breast.

Luke and Gigi didn’t stay in the booth with the rest of them long, her cordial offer to go dance quickly agreed to by his friend. They disappeared, and Calum’s eyes followed them even through the dark and foggy club interior. The way Luke’s hands casually brushed her body, the way she grinded on him, the way they were whispering to each other. His hand clutched the glass a bit too tightly, and even when Ashton pointed out that he should just chill down and forget the girl existed, Calum would keep on glancing their way throughout the conversation. Soon enough, Michael needed to get home to help with the baby, and Ashton got lost while fetching drinks, undoubtedly in a conversation with someone more interesting than sulking Calum Hood.

It’s like he felt she observed them too, Calum’s eyes eventually falling on Dee. She sat at the bar on her very own, head propped on her hands, not even hiding that her attention was completely consumed by the couple. Two empty glasses in front of her, it looked like quite a slumber party, and Calum could only relate as he scanned her body. Across the room, he barely saw anything, and as he finished his own drink and registered that Luke and his new girl were getting off the dancefloor, he rose up with an intention to get a refill.

The decision to talk to her was impulsive; liking her wasn’t planned either, but it’s not like Calum fell in love at first sight. He expected awkwardness, and a lot of silence, but they immediately fell into a small talk that took him by surprise with its smoothness. Not that there was much of it, but from the first few seconds, he couldn’t deny that he felt a pull.

And where there’s a pull, there has to also be a push.

Now, he swallowed hard as Dee visibly considered his offer, a battle clearly happening behind her eyes. He hoped she would agree, even if to just go at it again, maybe savour it a bit more too. The thrill of their impromptu small-talk got him so excited that by the time they were done, he couldn’t remember anything beside the feeling of how good it felt. Calum wanted a chance to explore her body, trace every tattoo with his tongue and possibly get crushed by her thighs. If they ended up talking more afterwards, or during, he also wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Hm, under those circumstances, I could be convinced,” she purrs, leaning back into his arms. Calum gives himself an inner high-five, smiling against her skin. “But at least take me to bed this time around.”

“Oh, my bedroom is a sacred space. Once I let you in, I might not be able to let you out,” Calum mumbles between kisses, his neck hurting from leaning down to kiss her shoulder, but he has no plans to stop anytime soon.

Dee reaches behind, tangling her finger into the hair on his nape, pulling him closer, further down to her skin.

“That’s a future me problem.”