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cinnasite · 29 days ago

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nerd gone viral ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

꩜ pairing: nerd!armin arlert x female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 3.7k

꩜ synopsis: a harmless campus interview turns your best friend into an overnight internet sensation—and suddenly, every thirsty TikTok comment feels like it’s whispering your secret.

☆ art cred: @/juvianism on instagram :3

You nearly spill your coffee all over your Political Theory textbook when you unlock your phone. Another two hundred comments on that TikTok. You know you shouldn't check—you probably watched it about a million times yesterday alone—but your fingers move before your brain can scream at you to stop.

@/bookslvt01: ok but the way he talks about virginia woolf??? NEED HIM CARNALLY @/colossalthighs: i’d let him annotate my entire body fr @/arlertmeout: he looks like he apologises before choking you

You bite your lip, half-entertained and half-horrified, scrolling through the endless comments under what was supposed to be an innocent campus interview. The video has 2.3 million views now, completely insane for something filmed outside the modest main library—the same one you find yourself in at the moment—on a random Tuesday.

"Ugh, don’t tell me. You're watching it again, aren't you?"

Your head snaps up comically quick, caught red-handed, to find Sasha sliding into the seat across from you at your usual table, eyeing your phone screen with knowing amusement.

"What? No."

"You are! You have that weird, glazed look in your eyes. The same one you get when Professor Ackerman extends the deadline for our research papers." Sasha unwraps what appears to be her third sandwich of the day. You don't mention how it’s only twelve in the afternoon. "You know you could just talk to him about it, right? He's literally one of your best friends."

"And say what exactly?" you finally close the godforsaken app, trying to ignore how your screen time report is definitely going to be embarrassing this week. "Hey Armin, I've watched your viral video more times than I can remember and I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about your tongue piercing that I absolutely shouldn't be having about my friend?"

Sasha snickers, a piece of lettuce tumbling to the table from her mouth. "Well, when you put it like that... actually, yes. One hundred percent that."

"Sasha, I can't just—" you frown in frustration, inhaling deeply. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You've had a crush on him since freshman year."

"That was different. That was before we became friends. Before I knew him." You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as fond memories overwhelm you. "Back then he was just this cute, nerdy guy in my intro psych class who got excited about statistical analysis and always smelled like that vanilla body wash I love. I used to sit behind him just to watch him get all animated during discussions about cognitive behavioural theory, you know?"

Sasha merely rolls her eyes. "Jesus, and you call me demented. Well, what about now?"

"Now? Now, he's Armin. He's my friend who stays up until 3 A.M. to help me with my assignments, who brings me soup when I'm sick, who texts me the dumbest memes about historical figures," you slump forward, close to pouting. "He's the guy who spent six hours teaching me how to play that MMO he's obsessed with just because I mentioned being bored over winter break. He's..."

"He's the guy you're infatuated with," Sasha supplies helpfully.

"I'm not," you start to protest, then wisely opt to give up instead. "Okay, maybe. But that's exactly the problem. I can't risk blowing up our friendship just because some stupid interview made me realise I want to climb him like a tree."

"A tree with a tongue piercing," Sasha adds with a cheeky grin.

"Fuck’s sake, don't remind me," you let your head rest against the table. "Do you know how many times I've replayed that two-second clip where he licks his lips? It's pathetic."

"It's not pathetic, it's kind of sweet. There's a difference." Sasha takes another bite of her sandwich, her eyes evidently lighting up. "Besides, you don't know that he doesn't feel the same way. Have you seen how he looks at you during our study sessions? Boy's got it bad."

"He looks at me like a friend, Sasha. Because that's what we are."

"Believe me, friends don't look at friends the way he looked at you last Friday when you were explaining your thesis argument. I thought he was going to combust from sexual tension."

Before you can blatantly disagree, you hear an all too familiar voice behind you.

"Sexual tension about what now?"

Your stomach drops directly through the floor. You turn around carefully, and there he is—Armin Arlert, campus's newest digital sensation, standing there with that signature bemused expression he gets when he catches you and Sasha gossiping. His blonde hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing that adorable blue sweater that brings out his eyes deliciously.

"Oh, um..." You scramble for an explanation, panicking on the inside. "We were just talking about... about..."

"About how Professor Ackerman's lectures are basically academic foreplay," Sasha jumps in smoothly. "All that tension and buildup with no satisfying conclusion. I mean, hello?"

Armin laughs, the sound warm and comforting. "That's fascinatingly accurate, I’ll admit." He shifts his weight, and you only then notice he's carrying his laptop bag and what seems to be a bag of takeout. "Mind if I join you? I brought Thai food and figured you might be hungry since you've been here since—," he checks his phone, "—9 A.M., according to the text you sent complaining about how it’s criminal that the library opens so early on weekends."

Your heart does a little flip at his consideration. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." He slides into the chair next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne—a rich blend of velvety caramel and toasted cinnamon that positively makes you want to lick him all over.

Stop. None of that, you horny bastard.

"Besides, I figured you might want to hear about the latest developments in my accidental internet fame."

Sasha perks up at once. "Hell, yeah. Have you been recognised on campus yet?"

"Five times yesterday," Armin appears to lament, pulling containers out of the bag. "Including once in the bathroom, which was... awkward, to say the least." He hands you your usual order without asking what you want. "But the weirdest part is definitely the DMs."

"DMs?" you pipe up, failing to ignore how domestic this feels what with him knowing exactly what you like. Typical, precious Armin.

"You have no idea," he opens his laptop and turns it toward you two with a nervous twitch. "I've gotten marriage proposals, offers to 'show me a good time,' and at least a hundred messages asking about my tongue piercing specifically."

Your face burns as you push away the thought that you've been mentally composing similar messages. "That's... wow."

"The worst part is, most of them are asking if I'd be interested in demonstrating its uses." He fidgets with his glasses, coming across as embarrassed but also endearing. "I had no idea that thing would cause such a reaction."

"Well, it is pretty noticeable," Sasha remarks with a meaningful peek at you. "Very... attention-grabbing."

"I guess." Armin glances at you pointedly. "What do you think? You've seen the video, right?"

The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone makes you look at him more carefully. There's an out-of-the-ordinary implication that you can't quite put your finger on. "Uh... yeah, I've seen it," you manage to croak out. Terrific. Could you get any stiffer?

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you think?"

You stare at him blankly, trying to figure out if this is a normal friend question or if you’re incorrectly perceiving the foreign edge of curiosity behind it. "I thought... I mean, your book recommendations were really good. Very passionate."

"Passionate," he repeats, the fleeting flash of understanding across his face confirming your earlier weariness. "That's interesting."

Sasha's phone cuts through the uneasiness with its incessant buzzing, and she scans it with obviously fake surprise. "Oh no, would you look at that. I have to go... meet... someone... about... a... very real thing... I have." She begins gathering her stuff with awfully suspicious speed. "You two have fun talking about books. And passion. And tongue piercings."

"Huh? Wait. Sasha—" you squeak out, but she's already dashing out of the private study room you had booked for the both of you until late afternoon (traitor). Which leaves you alone with Armin, who's scrutinising you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Alright," he speaks after a moment, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "Want to tell me what you actually thought about the video?"

"I already told you."

"No, you gave me the safe answer." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with purpose. "Come on, we've been friends for two years. I know when you're holding back."

You hastily shove some noodles in your mouth, avoiding his gaze. "I'm not holding back."

"Really? Because Sasha seemed to think you had some important opinions about it."

You make a mental note to start drafting your plan for the girl’s well-deserved comeuppance. "Sasha talks too much."

"She does," Armin agrees. "But she's usually right about things. Especially when it comes to you."

The rarely there confidence in his tone makes you look up and, when you meet his gaze, the intensity catches you off guard. "What do you want me to say?"

"Did you know," he continues conversationally, "that TikTok shows you analytics about who's viewed your videos?"

Almost instantly, your heart stops. "What?"

"Mhm. Very detailed analytics. Including multiple views from the same account." His lips quirk up in a small smile. "Want to guess how many times your account shows up in my viewer list?"

You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I don't know what you're talking about." You briefly consider denying reality, blaming a technical issue, or claiming a glitch in the matrix—but none of it sticks.

"Seventy-seven times," he announces, the metaphorical checkmate hitting you straight in the chest. "As of this morning."

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He knows. "I can explain—"

"Can you?" He angles himself forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because I've been trying to figure out why my very good friend has watched a boring thirty-second video of me talking about books seventy-seven times."

You want to run away, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I... the algorithm is weird sometimes?"

Armin chuckles, low and warm, absent of any malice. "Try again."

"I was checking to see if the view count was going up?"

"Nope."

You're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to get out of this without completely humiliating yourself. You don't suppose it's too late to jump out of a window? Ultimately, you sigh in defeat. "Okay, fine. Maybe I watched it a few times."

"A few?"

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms in defiance at the unsolicited endless interrogation. "More than a few."

"How many more?"

You want to strangle him, and not in the sexy way. "You’re being annoying."

"Come on." His voice has dropped slightly lower, and there's something almost akin to teasing in it. "I told you about the marriage proposals. Fair's fair."

You mutter a profanity under your breath, groaning. "Fine. I watched it a lot. Happy?"

"No. We’re getting there, though. Why?"

"Why what?"

Armin’s glee sharpens into something ravenous, a flicker of desperation lurking beneath his carefree demeanour—like he’s itching for you to say exactly what he needs. "Why did you watch it seventy-seven times?"

Your lungs feel too tight, too exposed. "Because..."

"Because?"

"Because you looked really good, okay?" The words come out in a rush. "Because watching you talk about literally anything is incredibly attractive, and because that frustrating part where your tongue piercing shows has been tormenting me ever since the video came out."

The silence that follows is eerily deafening. Armin simply stares at you, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

"Shit," you grumble, burying your face in your hands. "I'm sorry. That was completely out of line. I know we're friends and I shouldn't have—"

"Hey. Look at me."

The way he asks convinces you to peep through your fingers, reluctant but unable to look away. His expression is attentive and focused—definitely not one of disgust.

"You think I'm attractive?" he questions softly.

"I... yes?"

He blinks, his usual calm shattered by the raw vulnerability in your voice. His fingers tremble, revealing the fierce hope inside that there’s a potential chance that someone sees him as more than the sum of his quirks. "Even though I'm just a loser who gets excited about obscure paranormal documentaries and spends too much time playing video games?"

"Especially because of that," you admit, having never been more sure of yourself.

His answering smile is slow and devastating. "Good to know."

"Good to know?"

He hums, reaching across the table, and gently pulls your hands away from your face. "I've been wondering if you'd ever see me as more than just your friend who helps you with your homework."

Your brain, without a doubt, malfunctions. "What?"

"Did you really think I started bringing you food and staying up late just because I'm a good friend?"

The words disarm you. You’re trapped between incredulity and the dawning comprehension of what he might be suggesting. "I…"

"And did you think I learned how to play your favourite songs on guitar just because I had time to spare?"

"Y-you said you wanted to practice—"

"And I presume you thought I got this piercing because I was feeling rebellious?"

That stops you short, confusion apparent in the furrow of your brows. "You didn't?"

Armin's grin turns almost predatory. "I got it because I overheard you and Sasha talking about how cool you find them. This was back in October, after you'd been dating that guy with the lip ring."

You feel like a kettle left on the stove too long. "You... what?"

"You said, and I quote, 'There's something about tongue piercings that's beyond exciting.’ Something along the lines of how the person has to be bold enough to get it, but there's the simultaneous insinuation of what they can do with it."

"I’m going to kill myself," you gape at him in horror. "You heard all of that?"

"I was sitting right behind you in the campus coffee shop. You weren’t exactly shy about it." He shifts closer, and you can spot the hint of silver when he speaks, "I made an appointment that very afternoon."

"You got a tongue piercing because of something I said about another guy?"

"I got a tongue piercing because I wanted to be the guy you were talking about."

The confession hangs in the air between you, charged and electric. You stare at him, trying to process this complete change in everything you thought you knew about your friendship.

"I've been trying to get your attention for months. I was starting to think I'd have to do something drastic."

In spite of being made to face terrifying revelation after revelation, you manage to stutter out a breathless laugh. "More drastic than getting a tongue piercing for me?"

"I was considering learning to play your favourite video game."

You snort despite yourself. "You hate that game."

He shrugs casually, as if the lengths to which he would go for you knew no bounds. "I know. That's how desperate I was getting."

The atmosphere between you feels tense now, full of possibility and two years of unspoken tension. Armin traces your knuckles and the simple touch sends heat shooting up your arm.

"So," you say, trying to stay as composed as you possibly can. "What happens now?"

"Now," he starts, standing up, "you tell me what exactly you were thinking about during those seventy-seven views."

He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and the unwavering want in the blue of his eyes makes your breath catch. "I was thinking..." you trail off, feeling timid with his attention on you.

"You can do it. Use your words for me?" his voice has gotten rougher, huskier, and it sends delightful shivers down your spine.

"I was thinking about what it would feel like."

"What would feel like?"

"Your piercing. When you..." You gesture vaguely, cheeks burning. Armin's hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "When I what?"

"When you kiss me," you whisper.

"Just kissing?" The question is loaded with underlying intentions, and you shake your head slowly.

"Tell me what else you were thinking about."

"Armin..."

"Please." The plea is hushed but insistent. "I want to know what's been going through your head."

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry as you let go of the entirety of your self-restraint. "I was thinking about what it would feel like on my body. What it would feel like when you use your mouth on me."

His pupils immediately dilate at your words. "Fuck."

"Is that... is that okay?"

Instead of verbally affirming, he leans down and kisses you. It's gentle at first, tentative, but when you react by fisting your hands in his sweater and pulling him closer, he deepens it. The first brush of his tongue against yours has you gasping, and when you feel the metal of his piercing, it sends intoxicating pleasure shooting through you.

You break apart, breathing heavily, and Armin rests his forehead against yours.

"How was that?" he asks earnestly, voice raspy.

"Good," you breathe. "Really good."

His smile is full of care but there's primal desire behind it. "And the piercing?"

"Want more of it."

He brushes his thumb across your lip again. Truth be told, it’s plain torture. "You know, we're in public right now."

Every wall you built is crumbling under the weight of him, and all you can do is let it. "I know."

"Anyone could walk by and see us."

"I know."

"And you don't care?"

You drag your hand up his thigh, stopping just shy of where he clearly wants it, "Not even a little bit."

He kisses you again, harder this time, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes when his tongue meets yours in another dance of display. The sound seems to flip a switch in him, because his hands are tangling in your hair and he's pressing you back against your chair.

"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmurs against your lips.

"Tell me ‘Min."

"Since freshman year. Since that first day in psych class when you argued with Professor Smith about the ethics of behavioural modification."

You draw away just barely, shaking under the intimacy of his declaration. "That long?"

"That long." He doesn’t think twice before trailing his teeth along your jaw, and when the metal of his piercing digs into your flushed skin, you whimper needily.

"You were so assertive, so brilliant. I was completely and utterly gone."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you were dating that business major asshole, and then when you broke up, we became friends,” he hesitantly halts his ministrations to flutter his eyelashes at you, “I-I didn't want to ruin it."

Good heavens, you didn’t stand a chance from the beginning.

"But then you kept looking at me like... like you wanted me too, and I started hoping..."

"I did want you. I do want you." The admission comes out whinier than intended, but you can’t bring yourself to be bothered at this point. "So much."

His hands tighten in your hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You’re unaware of how many minutes pass as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours, and the way he tastes like mint and something uniquely him. You dig your nails lightly into his sides, claiming him in an act of fervent possession. His breaths mingle with yours and the world outside your tangled bodies fades until there’s nothing but lust burning between you. By the end of it, your chests rise and fall in tandem.

"We should probably get out of here," he mumbles, peeking around the library.

Craving Armin has left you dazed, vision glassy as you attempt to make sense of your surroundings. "Right. Um, your place or mine?"

He pecks your nose, full of affection, tenderly guiding you. "Mine. My roommate's gone for the weekend."

You start gathering your things with shaky hands, hyperaware of the way Armin is observing you. When you bend over to pick up your bag, you hear his sharp intake of breath.

"Something wrong?" you ask innocently.

"N-nothing," he mutters, skittishly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The walk to his dorm feels like it takes forever, full of stolen glances and the kind of anticipation that makes your skin feel too tight. When you reach his room, he fumbles with his keys for a moment—so fucking cute—before getting the door open.

You haven’t had a lot of time this semester to crash at his dorm—neat and organised, with anime posters on the walls and stacks of books and manga everywhere. But you barely have time to take it in before he's pressing you against the closed door, urgency lacing his actions.

This time, there's nothing apprehensive about it. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, squeezing your ass—and when you arch against him, he makes a low sound of approval.

"You taste so good," he shudders against you. "Everything I’ve imagined and so much more."

"You imagined this?"

"Every night for two years." His mouth moves to your neck, nibbling along your throat. "What you'd look like, what you'd sound like when I made you come."

The words send heat pooling low in your belly, prompting you to press your thighs together instinctively. "Fuck, don’t say shit like that.”

"Why not? I’ve been longing for you. All of you," he whispers, pulling back to look at you with dark, lidded eyes. "You’re not getting away until I’ve had my fill."

It would be an understatement to say that you hadn’t foreseen this when you woke up today. That you'd be spending hours with your legs over Armin's shoulders, forgetting your own name; the compassionate, stammering genius the internet drooled over. Too bad he’s not on the market. It would be a treat if his fans could see him like this—flushed and breathless, fingers gripping your hips like he’d die without you. Armin Arlert, golden boy of TikTok, practically begging to let him ruin you.

You grow dizzy at the promise in his voice. "Please."

He lets his hand trail lower, indecently tranquil, and just as you think he’ll do something reckless—he pauses, smirking wickedly.

"Want to find out what this piercing really feels like when I eat you out?"

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aplatypusshapedkite · 4 months ago

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My sister complained about not being able to shake it (i put the plastic wap on too tight) so i re made it.

Introducing Limbo Avid shaker 2.0

Now made with hotglue, a lemonade bottle, and a box of cheerios

The brain worms keep winning

I made a paper shaker of limbo avid

Heres the concept

And the few bits i used to actually make it

#it actually makes noise now #i wanted to add a video of me shaking it but i then remember i dont know how to actually use this app #i also forgot the soul charm and to double layer the charms to try and prevent them from getting stuck in a pile #why did i put tape on one rose and not the other? no clue! There was no reason this time #avidmc

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lov3lycosmos · 2 months ago

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𝑃𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝑀𝑦 𝐵𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑠- Jung Wooyoung

Genre: smut MDNI

Summary: during a dinner with Seonghwa, Yunho, and San...Wooyoung decides to push your buttons, literally.

Warnings: use of vibrator, multiple sex scenes, dirty talk, some degration, teasing, cursing, public sex, squirting, fingering, oral (f and m), let me know what I missed!

Word Count: 5k

Cosmos Note: this was so fun to write omg wooyoung just has me in a CHOKEHOLD HOLY FUCK-

my library! (not proofread!!!)

You’re adjusting your dress for the fifth time when Wooyoung steps into the room, watching you from the doorway with that unreadable look in his eyes. You know he’s been watching you get ready—he always does—but tonight, the air feels heavier. You can feel it in your chest. The way his gaze lingers. The slow drag of his eyes from your heels all the way up to your lips.

"You look unreal," he says finally, voice low and full of heat. “Like, actually insane.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just walks toward you until he’s behind you, fingertips lightly brushing the exposed skin of your arms. “It’s dangerous,” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear. “You can’t expect me to see you like this and act normal.”

“I thought you said you could behave in front of the boys.”

“I said I’d try.” His voice dips. “Doesn’t mean I will.”

You let out a soft laugh, turning your head toward him. “We’re just having dinner.”

“That’s what you think.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can ask what he means, he takes your hand and tugs you gently toward the bed. “Sit.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Sit.” His tone is firmer now, commanding in that way that never fails to send a thrill down your spine.

You settle on the edge of the mattress, your thighs pressed together, your breath catching a little when he drops to his knees in front of you. He pushes your dress up slowly, deliberately, until it pools around your hips.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice suddenly softer.

“Of course I do.”

He leans forward, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Good girl.”

You shiver, thighs parting slightly on instinct. Wooyoung’s hand dips into his pocket, and when you see the small toy in his palm, your breath hitches. Sleek. Compact. Completely unassuming—except for the gleam in his eyes as he looks up at you, phone already in the other hand.

“You remember the rules?” he murmurs.

You nod, barely managing, “Green.”

He hums his approval and lowers his lips again, kissing along your thigh, his breath teasing, almost reverent. “This’ll be fun,” he whispers. “You’ll sit there at dinner all quiet and sweet while I have full control of this… just watching you squirm while no one knows a thing.”

“Wooyoung,” you whisper, heat blooming across your cheeks and deeper between your legs.

He grins, satisfied. “Lift your hips for me, baby.”

You do, and he slowly drags your panties down, pausing to kiss your inner thigh again, higher this time. The anticipation is a burning ache now, your pulse racing when he finally presses the tip of the toy against your entrance.

“You’re already soaked,” he teases. “All this just from getting ready?”

You gasp as he slides it in—slow, careful, too intimate—and your hands grip the sheets beneath you.

Wooyoung presses the toy in place with his fingers and watches your reaction. “Feels good?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He pulls his phone out, tapping it once. The toy buzzes faintly inside you, and your whole body tenses.

He smirks. “That’s level one.”

“Level one?!” you gasp.

He kisses your cheek as he helps you stand, smoothing your dress back down. “You’ll survive.”

✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧

The car door shuts with a soft thunk, and your heart is already pounding. Wooyoung slides into the driver’s seat beside you, phone resting lazily in the cupholder, the little glowing app still open. You eye it warily. He catches the look and smirks, starting the engine with a purr.

“You look so tense, baby,” he coos, backing out of the driveway with one hand steady on the wheel and the other brushing over your thigh. “Don’t tell me it’s already too much?”

Your breath catches as he taps the screen. Just once. The sudden buzz of the toy inside you makes your legs jerk, your back arching slightly against the seat. You clamp your thighs together instinctively, trying to stifle the whimper crawling up your throat.

“I can handle it,” you manage to say, though your voice is already thinner than you’d like.

Wooyoung chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but his fingers are working fast, sliding up the intensity again with a flick of his thumb. You let out a soft cry, curling forward slightly as the vibrations pulse deep inside you. You can’t even think, let alone speak.

He grins at the sound, tapping again, letting it ease down to a gentle thrum. “Just teasing,” he murmurs. “Can’t have you falling apart before the appetizers.”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You huff and cross your arms, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way you twitch when the toy flutters again. You can’t believe you agreed to this. Can’t believe how wet you already are, squirming in the leather seat while he hums along to the radio like everything is fine.

Then—he takes a turn you weren’t expecting. Off the main road. A quiet little pull-off where trees line the sides and the restaurant is definitely not.

“W-Wooyoung?” you ask, breathless. “Where are we—”

He’s already putting the car in park.

“Five minutes,” he says casually. “Maybe ten. Just wanna see something first.”

You start to protest, but he’s already reaching over, gently tugging your seatbelt aside as he leans in close. His voice drops to a whisper as his fingers trail up your thigh again. “I’ve been thinking about this since you walked out of the bathroom,” he murmurs. “How good you’d taste like this. Full of my toy, legs shaking, trying so hard to be quiet.”

He leans further, mouth brushing over your jaw, then lower, until he’s between your legs, pushing your dress up once again. He kisses the inside of your thigh—then bites, gently but firm enough to make your breath hitch.

And then—

The toy buzzes to life again, stronger now, and your hips buck. He grins, locking eyes with you as he presses a hand to your lower belly, holding you down, and leans in.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says, right before he slides his tongue along your soaked folds.

You gasp, biting your lip hard. The added sensation of the toy inside while his mouth works you over is blinding. You can't focus, can't think—he's licking, sucking, moaning into you like he’s starving for it. The pressure’s mounting too fast, too much, and you’re so close to falling over the edge.

BZZZZZZZT

Your phone screen lights up on the dash. The contact reads Yunho.

You whimper. Wooyoung lifts his head just slightly, licking his lips, his chin shining. “Answer it.”

“W-What?!”

He raises an eyebrow. “You heard me. Pick up, baby.”

“No—Wooyoung, I can’t—”

BZZZZT. BZZZZT.

You scramble for the phone with shaking hands, managing to swipe it just in time. “H-Hey!” you squeak.

“Hey!” Yunho says, voice cheerful. “Where are you guys? Seonghwa’s already getting impatient, and San’s—well, being San.”

You try to steady your breathing, but Wooyoung dips his tongue back down between your folds, and your voice catches in your throat. “S-Sorry! We’re—um—we’re just… running a little late!”

“Everything okay?” Yunho sounds genuinely concerned now. “You sound out of breath.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to scream as Wooyoung adds a finger, pressing inside next to the toy, curling just right. You’re dying, you’re melting, and you have no escape.

“Y-Yeah! Just—uh—traffic!” you stammer. “And I dropped my phone! We’ll be there soon, I promise!”

“Alright,” Yunho laughs. “Drive safe, okay?”

You somehow choke out a goodbye and hang up. The moment the call ends, Wooyoung slams the toy to its highest setting.

You cry out, loud and raw, body jolting as your orgasm hits so hard your vision goes white.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re squirming and twitching beneath his tongue, hands tangled in his hair, your moans turning into desperate pleas for mercy.

And finally, finally, he pulls away, licking his lips again like he’s still starving.

“You good to walk into that restaurant?” he teases, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You blink at him, still dazed. “I hate you.”

He laughs, smug. “We’re only just getting started.”

✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧

The walk from the car to the restaurant feels like hell.

Or maybe heaven—if heaven was hot, sticky, and full of tension that buzzes under your skin like the soft pulse currently teasing you from inside. The toy shifts ever so slightly with every step, sending small jolts of heat up your spine. You swear you’re walking slower than normal, but Wooyoung’s hand at the small of your back keeps you moving, gentle but firm. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You want to shove him into the nearest wall and yell at him—or maybe beg.

Instead, you push the door open and step into the warm lighting of the restaurant. It smells like grilled meat and soy-based sauces, and you spot them immediately—Seonghwa, San, and Yunho, already seated at a booth near the back.

San’s eyes light up when he sees you. “Finally!” he calls, waving exaggeratedly. “We were about to order without you.”

Wooyoung chuckles beside you. “Sorry, ran a little late.” His tone is smooth as always, not a single hint of the chaos he left brewing in your core.

You greet them with a strained smile and slide into the booth beside Wooyoung, across from Yunho. Your legs press together tightly the moment you sit, trying to find some semblance of relief. But the toy is still on—low, gentle, maddening.

“How was the drive?” Seonghwa asks politely, sipping his water.

Wooyoung shrugs casually. “Relaxing. Took a scenic route.”

You bite your lip.

San leans forward on his elbows. “You guys look kinda—glowy,” he says with a grin. “Like you were doing something fun.”

You almost choke on your water.

“We were just getting ready for tonight,” Wooyoung says, tone light but with a glance toward you that makes your thighs tense. His hand slides under the table, fingers resting just above your knee. The contact is warm, innocent—for now.

Menus are passed around, and the guys are quick to start discussing what they’re ordering. You’re trying your best to read through the options, but Wooyoung’s thumb begins to move—slow, soft circles against your thigh—and the toy gives a gentle thrum that makes your breath hitch.

You shift in your seat. The menu shakes slightly in your hands.

“What are you thinking of getting?” Yunho asks you.

Your brain scrambles. “Uh… I—I think maybe the bulgogi?”

Wooyoung hums. “Good choice.”

It’s so casual, like he isn’t currently testing the limits of your self-control with a remote-controlled vibe between your legs. Like he isn’t smirking right now because he knows you're already soaked and it’s barely ten minutes into dinner.

You try not to glare at him. Try not to let your lips part when the toy pulses again, a little stronger this time—just enough to make your hips shift under the table.

Conversation flows easily around you. San is ranting about a gym fail from earlier in the week, Seonghwa is giving Yunho shit about being too picky with food, and Wooyoung is the picture of calm.

But beneath the table, he’s not stopping. His hand inches higher, fingers brushing under the hem of your dress while the toy keeps its steady pace.

“Doing okay, baby?” he murmurs low in your ear, voice too soft for the others to catch.

You nod stiffly, gripping the edge of the table.

Your food arrives shortly after, and the smell is enough to make your stomach rumble—but eating proves to be almost impossible. Every time you lift your chopsticks, a sudden twitch of the toy throws you off. And the worst part is how normal everything looks from the outside. You’re here, having dinner with friends, smiling when they laugh. No one would guess that you’re sitting there with your thighs clenched, heat pooling deep in your belly, and a remote in Wooyoung’s back pocket that holds your sanity hostage.

Then, halfway through your plate, the buzzing shifts.

Not stronger—just slower. Deeper. A long, rolling vibration that makes you grip your chopsticks so tightly your knuckles whiten. You can't breathe.

Wooyoung picks up a piece of meat, holding it out to you.

“Try this,” he says sweetly, as if he’s not watching your every reaction, as if his hand didn’t just slide a few centimeters higher.

You open your mouth, letting him feed you, and try not to moan when the toy pulses again.

You chew mechanically. Nod. Smile. And all the while, you’re fighting the urge to squirm in your seat, to press your thighs together, to shove your face into his neck and whimper please.

But instead, you swallow, pick up your water, and take another sip with shaking hands.

Wooyoung leans back, smug. His fingers retreat—for now—but the toy doesn’t stop.

You’re not sure how you’re going to survive the rest of this dinner.

✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧-✧

You're barely halfway through your plate when things start to unravel.

Wooyoung’s hand, which had been resting innocently on your thigh, shifts upward again—fingertips brushing dangerously close to where the toy thrums steadily inside you. His palm settles over your panties, warm and possessive. You keep your eyes fixed on your bowl, pretending to listen to Yunho’s story, but your heart is thundering in your chest.

Then his fingers start moving—slow, subtle pressure, just enough to push the toy deeper against that tender spot inside you.

You inhale sharply through your nose.

The fabric of your panties is the only barrier left between his touch and your soaked, sensitive core. The heat has been building steadily this whole time, but that added friction is what tips the scale. You can’t focus anymore—on the conversation, on the food, on anything except the unbearable, searing pleasure crawling up your spine.

You clench the chopsticks so tightly they creak.

Wooyoung's voice is low, directed toward Seonghwa across the table. “Yeah, we tried that place once. Food was alright.” He’s so calm. So casual. And you’re trembling beside him.

Your thighs press together instinctively. You think you might be able to ride it out—just breathe, blink, survive—but then he rubs a little harder, just the heel of his palm pressing perfectly, and the toy syncs with the pressure.

And that’s it.

Your legs twitch. Your breath catches. Your body locks up for half a second—and then the wave crashes.

Your orgasm hits you hard, fast, and almost entirely silent. Almost.

Your lips part around a strangled sound—barely audible over San’s laugh—but Wooyoung hears it. He feels it. The way you seize up beside him, hips rocking against his hand, eyes glazed and unfocused. His fingers still gently as your walls flutter around the toy, soaked panties clinging to your skin, and then—

He freezes.

You feel it too. A hot gush between your legs—sudden, uncontainable, soaking through your underwear and trickling past his hand.

His head slowly turns toward you, eyes wide for the first time tonight.

He wasn’t expecting that.

You’re trying so hard to stay composed—staring down at your food like it holds all the answers to your shame—but your cheeks are burning, your thighs are a mess, and the seat under you is definitely damp.

Wooyoung swallows hard. His hand pulls back an inch, fingers glistening under the table in the dim light. He stares down at them for a second, then at you, his breath caught in his throat.

Your jaw tightens.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, baby… you really couldn’t hold it, huh?”

You shake your head ever so slightly, eyes still locked on your plate. It’s all you can do to stop yourself from shattering into pieces right there.

His voice drops even lower.

“You just made a mess in a full restaurant… and I haven’t even turned the toy all the way up.”

You don’t even look at him.

You can’t.

Your body’s still buzzing, the aftermath of your orgasm simmering through every nerve ending—your panties soaked through, thighs slick, the soft hum of the toy still pulsing deep inside you like a cruel reminder. You shift in your seat and flinch at the wetness. There’s no hiding it now.

Your fingers clench around the edge of the table.

“I—uh—excuse me for a second,” you mutter, your voice shaky but controlled enough not to draw suspicion.

San glances up from his bowl. “You okay?”

“Yeah—yeah, just… bathroom.”

You don’t wait for a response. You stand up quickly, trying to keep your legs steady as you do, but the moment you straighten, a sticky warmth trickles between your thighs. You’re soaked. You pray to every god that it hasn’t leaked down your legs, that there’s no visible stain on your dress as you turn and walk briskly toward the restroom.

You don’t dare look back at the table, but you feel his gaze on you. Heavy. Burning into the back of your neck like he’s holding himself back from dragging you into the bathroom instead.

As soon as the restroom door clicks shut behind you, your hands shoot down to lift your dress, heart pounding. You let out a breathy curse at the sight of your panties—utterly ruined, dark with wetness. A soft hum still vibrates from inside you, faint but relentless. You grip the sink, trying to breathe through it, thighs trembling.

He made you come in the middle of dinner. At a table full of his friends.

And now you’re standing here, trying to gather yourself while the toy hasn’t even been turned off.

Your phone buzzes in your purse.

A message from him.

Wooyoung:

| Don’t take too long, princess.

| You’ve got something of mine inside you, and I’m not done playing yet.

Your knees almost buckle.

You stumble into the nearest stall, the lock clicking shut behind you as your back hits the door.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The toy is still vibrating—gentle but persistent—and your thighs instinctively squeeze together around it, desperate for friction. You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. Wooyoung didn’t tell you to come again. He didn’t even give you permission to touch. But you can feel it, curling in your stomach again, dragging you right back toward the edge.

And the ache is unbearable.

One hand presses over your mouth to muffle the whimper that escapes as your other sneaks beneath your dress, fingers trembling as you rub quick circles over your soaked panties—trying to stay quiet, trying to be fast. You’re so close. You can’t stop now. You can feel it building, all heat and pressure and want, thighs trembling as your back arches slightly from the door.

Your body doesn’t care that you’re in a public bathroom. It doesn’t care that you didn’t ask.

All it knows is that you need it again.

“F-fuck—” you whisper into your palm, nearly there, your fingers moving faster—

And then the vibrations stop.

Gone.

Just like that.

Your body jerks in shock at the sudden loss of stimulation, and your eyes fly open in panic. You fumble to check your phone, heart thundering in your chest, hands still shaking.

Wooyoung:

| Did you really just try to come again without asking me?

| You think I wouldn’t know?

A second message follows before you can even respond:

Wooyoung

| Keep those legs closed until I get there.

| Or I swear I’ll bend you over that sink in front of everyone.

Your pulse explodes.

Suddenly, the room feels hotter. Smaller. You swallow hard, frozen in place, not even daring to touch yourself again. You’ve never felt more caught, more owned.

And you know now—you’re not done paying for it.

Your whole body freezes when the door creaks open.

You barely have time to pull your hand away, still shaking, panties soaked and heart racing. Footsteps echo across the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, and your stomach drops when you hear the stall door next to you creak open… and then close again.

You don’t dare move. Not until you hear his voice.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait?”

The door to your stall rattles gently, then opens—

Wooyoung steps inside and shuts it behind him, eyes locked on you like he’s ready to devour you whole. You don’t even try to defend yourself. Not with the way his jaw is clenched and his phone is still glowing in his palm.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” he murmurs, crowding you back against the stall wall. “You were about to come all over your fingers without permission. Didn’t even ask me, baby.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, throat dry, legs trembling under his stare.

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it.” His voice is low and dark, dripping with that dangerous edge you’ve come to crave.

Then he’s dropping to his knees.

Just like that.

Hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress up, tugging your panties down slow enough to make your breath hitch. He doesn’t say another word. He just looks up at you—like he owns you—lips already brushing your dripping folds.

And then he devours you.

Right there, in a bathroom stall, tongue licking into you like he’s starving, like this is his favorite meal and he’s been denied it all day. Your hand shoots to your mouth to muffle the broken whine that rips out of your throat. His grip on your thighs tightens, anchoring you in place as he feasts, nose brushing your clit every time he moves, tongue relentless and precise.

Your knees nearly buckle.

Your orgasm builds again—harder this time—your whole body shaking as you try to keep quiet, try to hold it back. But Wooyoung knows. He can feel you clenching, your thighs twitching, body tensing like a live wire.

And he pulls back.

You whimper, on the edge, desperate and ruined.

He stands, lips shiny, eyes blazing. “If you wanna come so bad,” he whispers, pressing his body against yours, “you’ll ask. On your knees.”

You don’t even think. You just move. The guilt, the ache, the unrelenting need all crash into each other inside you, and your knees hit the cold tile with a quiet thud. You look up at him from the floor, flushed and needy, your breathing uneven.

Wooyoung stares down at you with something unreadable in his eyes—half amusement, half disappointment—but all dominance. “Oh?” he murmurs, his voice a low hum. “Is this your idea of an apology?”

You nod slowly, fingers reaching for his belt with trembling urgency. “I-I just… I’m sorry,” you whisper, too embarrassed to meet his eyes but too desperate to stop. “Please.”

His gaze sharpens as you undo the buckle, and he lets you work in silence, letting the tension thicken like smoke. You pull his pants down enough to free him, and your lips part slightly as you take in the sight of him—hard already, the tip flushed, precum beading just enough to taunt you.

Wooyoung chuckles, slow and wicked. “You’re drooling already, baby,” he says, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “So fucking needy, even with the toy off.”

You lean forward, tongue flicking out for a tentative taste. He’s warm against your lips, slightly salty, and you moan softly as you swirl your tongue around the tip. He hisses at the contact, a hand threading through your hair, gripping lightly but firmly. “That’s it. Show me how sorry you are.”

You take more of him in slowly, inch by inch, letting your tongue press along the underside, your mouth wrapping around him with sinful devotion. His head tips back with a low groan. “Fuck, your mouth always feels so good…”

But it’s not just about pleasure for you. You’re trying to earn it—to get back in his good graces, to beg for the high he took away. Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily, the toy inside you still dead silent and unmoving, leaving you aching, twitching for more.

Your hands slide to his hips, fingers curling in his waistband as you take him deeper. He twitches in your mouth, and you moan around him, tears starting to prick at the corners of your eyes from the stretch.

Wooyoung glances down, breathing harder now. “Such a good girl when you’re on your knees… Look at you. All messy and needy, and I haven’t even touched the remote.”

You pull back just slightly, your lips glossy and slick as you suck gently on the head. “Please,” you whisper again, voice shaky, your cheeks burning. “Please, Wooyoung. Let me come. I’ll be good, I promise…”

He smirks, clearly enjoying the sight of you begging, so desperate and teary-eyed in the middle of a public bathroom, licking and sucking like your life depends on it.

“Keep going,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Let’s see how much that pretty mouth can convince me.”

You don’t stop.

Your tongue keeps working him with slow, worshipful licks, your lips wrapped tightly around him, head bobbing in a rhythm that grows needier the longer you go. His grip in your hair tightens, hips twitching slightly, but he holds himself back, just watching you—his desperate little mess on her knees, trembling from the restraint he’s forced you to hold.

Your thighs are clenched so tight it hurts. The toy inside you still isn’t moving. It’s maddening—being full but empty, stretched but unsatisfied. You moan around his length, letting the sound vibrate through him, and Wooyoung’s jaw clenches with a sharp inhale.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans. “You’re gonna make me cum like this?”

You pull back just long enough to whisper breathlessly, “I want to. Please let me—please let us.”

He stares down at you for a second, and then you see it—his hand slipping into his pocket. Your stomach flips. He pulls out his phone, eyes still locked on you.

You’re still sucking him off, tongue swirling faster now, desperate for any sign he’ll give in. And then—click.

A soft buzz ignites deep inside you.

Your entire body jerks. You moan loudly around him, eyes rolling back as the toy finally comes to life again, vibrating low and deep right against your sweetest spot. He smirks when he sees your thighs quiver, your hands gripping his hips like you might fall apart.

“You didn’t think I’d let you finish without me, did you?” he pants, voice darker now. “You’re gonna cum with me, baby. Right here. Right now.”

You nod frantically, mouth still wrapped around him, lips slick, face flushed. The pressure builds in your core so fast it’s dizzying, the buzz hitting you perfectly, the stretch from earlier leaving you already right on the edge. Every swirl of your tongue now is shaky and desperate.

Wooyoung groans, hips bucking slightly as he hits the back of your throat. “Fuck—just like that. Don’t stop. We’ll cum together. You ready, baby?”

You whimper a muffled yes, eyes fluttering shut as the orgasm rushes toward you, hot and fast and impossible to hold back. And when you feel him twitch on your tongue, groaning your name—

“Now, baby. Let go.”

You explode.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably, a silent cry escaping your lips as you keep sucking through it. The toy pulses right into your peak, milking every second of it, and Wooyoung cums deep in your throat with a strangled moan, fingers tangled in your hair as you both ride it out.

You’re still trembling when he gently pulls away, chest heaving, your lips swollen, slick on your chin, mascara threatening to smudge.

And he looks down at you with a proud, dangerous grin.

“Now that’s my good girl.”

Your breathing is still erratic, knees weak, head resting against his thigh as the high slowly fades. Wooyoung's hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair now, stroking you down gently like he’s grounding you back to earth.

A soft click sounds from above — the toy finally powering off.

You let out a small whimper of relief, thighs still trembling from how hard you came. But Wooyoung is already crouching in front of you, guiding you up with warm hands and a soft, “C’mere, angel.”

He helps you stand, even if your legs are jelly. His hands stay steady around your hips, holding you close as his eyes dip down. “You did so well,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your temple. “Now let me take care of you.”

His hand disappears beneath your panties again — not teasing, not playful this time, just careful and precise. You brace against his shoulder as he slips two fingers in, curling them around the now-slick toy and sliding it out of you slowly.

You let out a soft gasp at the stretch, at the feeling of being emptied again. But what catches you off guard is the sound he makes next — a low groan, absolutely filthy — as he lifts the toy to his lips.

You watch, wide-eyed, as he slowly licks it clean.

Deliberate. Intense. He never breaks eye contact with you.

Then, with a wicked smirk, he tucks the glistening toy into his pocket like it’s nothing and reaches for some toilet paper from the dispenser. He’s gentle, carefully wiping between your thighs, brushing over the sensitive parts with soft dabs and tender strokes.

You’re flushed all over again. Not from embarrassment — but from how soft he is with you. How, after ruining you completely, he still treats you like something delicate. His thumb brushes your cheek as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Still with me, baby?”

You nod.

“Good. Fix your lipstick—” he smirks, handing you your lip gloss from your bag, “—and let’s go say hi to the boys, yeah?”

You try your best to clean up. The ache between your legs lingers, your body still too sensitive, but you manage to pull yourself together enough to walk out with him.

As you both return to the table, you feel it instantly — three pairs of knowing eyes.

Seonghwa raises a brow, swirling his drink slowly.

San bites back a grin, his gaze flicking between you two with unmistakable amusement.

And Yunho? He just shakes his head, laughing softly into his glass. “Took your time,” he says, not even pretending to play dumb.

Wooyoung pulls your chair out for you with a smug smile. “Sorry, had to take care of something important.”

You sit down, cheeks still warm, heart still pounding — and when you glance at the three men across from you, you know they know exactly what that ‘something’ was.

But no one says anything else.

They just smirk, sip their drinks, and continue the conversation like nothing happened.

Except now, under the table, Wooyoung’s hand slides over your thigh again.

taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget

(I'M STILL ADDING PEOPLE TO TAG! comment on any post, send an ask or a message if you want added!)

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xitsensunmoon · 1 year ago

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HOW TO GLAZE YOUR WORK WITHOUT A GOOD PC(or on mobile)/TIPS TO MAKE IT LESS VISIBLE

Glaze your work online on:

Cara app. It requires you to sign up but it is actually a good place for your portfolio. Glazing takes 3 minutes per image and doesn't require anything but an internet connection compared to 20-30 minutes if your pc doesn't have a good graphic card. There IS a daily limit of 9 pictures tho. Glazed art will be sent to you after it's done, by email. It took me 30 minutes to glaze 9 images on a default setting. Cara app is also a space SPECIFICALLY for human artists and the team does everything in their power to ensure it stays that way.

WebGlaze. This one is a little bit more complicated, as you will need to get approval from the Glaze team themselves, to ensure you're not another AI tech bro(which, go fuck yourself if you are). You can do it through their twitter, through the same Cara app(the easiest way) or send them an email(takes the longest). For more details read on their website.

Unfortunately there are no ways that I know of to use Nightshade YET, as it's quite new. Cara.app definitely works on implementing it into their posting system tho!

Now for the tips to make it less visible(the examples contain only nightshade's rendering, sorry for that!):

Heavy textures. My biggest tip by far. Noise, textured brushes or just an overlay layer, everything works well. Preferably, choose the ones that are "crispy" and aren't blurred. It won't really help to hide rough edges of glaze/nightshade if you blur it. You can use more traditional textures too, like watercolor, canvas, paper etc. Play with it.

Colour variety. Some brushes and settings allow you to change the colour you use just slightly with every stroke you make(colour jitter I believe?). If you dislike the process of it while drawing, you can clip a new layer to your colour art and just add it on top. Saves from the "rainbow-y" texture that glaze/nightshade overlays.

Gradients(in combination with textures work very well). Glaze/nightshade is more visible on low contrast/very light/very dark artworks. Try implementing a simple routine of adding more contrast to your art, even to the doodles. Just adding a neutral-coloured bg with a darker textured gradient already is going to look better than just plain, sterile digital colour.

And finally, if you dislike how glaze did the job, just try to glaze/shade it again. Sometimes it's more visible, sometimes it's more subtle, it's just luck. Try again, compare, and choose the one you like the most. REMEMBER TO GLAZE/SHADE AFTER YOU MADE ALL THE CHANGES, NOT BEFORE!!

If you have any more info feel free to add to this post!!

#xit shh #anti ai #fuck ai art #fuck ai #ai art is not art #ai art is theft

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gamblersdoll · 5 months ago

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divorced husband! katsuki who’s still in love with you— always breaking a potential relationship up. and it takes one simple thing: a text.

finally pressing through the woods of dating pools, apps and events, you thought you could get a break. a fucking deserved break! no more heroes, just civilians. theyd make more time and effort for the relationship! thats all you thought about, effort and time. it takes you a couple of times to finally emerge into the dating pools, but it was working.

was working, until that fuck decided to text you.

“hows your date going, baby? you know daddy misses you.”

your heart drops, how the actual fuck did he know that you were on a date?? you wanted to grind your teeth, your date sweaty now.

“so.. you used to date— dynamight?” he asks, hoping and praying that you didnt, because he knew hed be fucked up if you did. he had so many questions, for how long? when ? did you guys have kids?—

“we were married, but i divorced him.” you say, sighing when he quickly gathers his things to dine and dash out the semi fancy restaurant. another spoiled date, you thought. or maybe the date you chose was simply a bitch, obviously you wouldnt want that.

but he was the seventh spoiled date, for some reason— conveniently, katsuki was always aware.

“why do you make me do this, baby?” he whispered in your ear, hands in your panties copping a feel of your plump ass. he sucks in a breath, almost like he was resisting the temptation to get on his knees.. again. “what with all these dates ‘nd shit..? you really wanna move on from me?”

“we’re— fuck.. divorced, you perverted asshole.” you grit, trying your best to push him away. “get off and out.”

“jeez, you’re pickin’ up on my language.” he snickers, reminiscing on his art that littered your neck. “you vowed to me, ya know? that yer’ always mine.”

a irritation grew over you. “when you married me, and you werent always away from me.” you remind, putting salt in the wound. “maybe if you were around , we’d be married and you would have every right to do this.”

now he was irritated, flipping you onto your stomach on what used to be your dining table. he chuckled, pulling your head back by your hair and wagging his finger in your face. you somewhat missed when he did this, dominating you in the bedroom. “ah ah, i still have every right.” he coos, his fingers flicking at your entrance and slipping pass. “you havent gotten away from me, not at all.”

“katsuki—“

“uh uh, quiet.” he commands, pressing your face against the table as he hikes your leg up to crouch. “has this pretty little thing missed me?”

“no, i havent missed you.” that was a lie, a terrible one..

he leaves a slap on your ass, spitting on your clit. “meant this pretty pussy, girl.” he snarks, pulling you back by your hips to have a face full of your cunt. your breath hitches, him laughing vibrating against your skin. “still so fucking sweet.. bet you havent came in months, have you little slut?”

you nod, toes curling in embarrassment, pleasure, and sensitivity.

“you remember who yer daddy is, do ya?” he asks, tongue swirling around your clit. his hands press against the under cup of your ass, squeezing and jiggling. “i am, im yer daddy.” he reminds, licking up from your clit to your back to kiss. “how bad do you want me, baby? use your words.”

you couldnt , using your eyes. “please.”

“cmon’, dont tell me only months being separated you forget yer manners.” he raises an eyebrow, suddenly his tip was smearing pre up and down your slit. “do i need to remind you basics, baby?”

you shook your head frantic, he bitting his lip to bite back the urge to bite you.

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foxtrology · 3 months ago

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sweet sweet baby (since you've been gone)

harry castillo x reader

series

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader.

The last time he had gone up to a woman was at a wedding reception and it ended terribly for him.

Lucy was her name.

He had thought she was the one. All the time they had spent together, all the nights he held her, it was all for nothing. In the end he was the one left behind while she and that broke fucking waiter—oh how much he hated that broke waiter with a fucking passion—ran off into the sunset all happily.

John.

John was his name. Living in a rundown studio apartment with a struggling college student as a roommate. Yeah, what a fucking life she decided to choose.

He still follows her on Instagram.

An Instagram she begged for him to have. He valued his privacy. Being a successful CEO had its perks but it also had his downsides. Privacy was a major downside. He's lucky if a week has gone by without The New York Times calling his office.

Something he should've done a long time ago was delete Instagram and move on from Lucy, but of course he loves to make things more difficult for himself.

19lucy89 has posted a photo!

He should've at least turn off the notifications notifying him of her posting but he couldn't do it. He still wasn't over her. Scrolling on the social media app had him scoffing.

She had posted a photo of her and that broke waiter kissing.

"Whiskey neat."

Harry slips his phone back into his pocket, thanking the bartender. Sliding off the barstool, he glances at all the couples around him. He rolls his eyes.

Since when is everyone fucking dating? Everywhere he goes it's always a couple canoodling. It pisses him off.

Getting back to his table, Danny slaps Harry on his back as he sits down. He cringes as the hand hits his back. He's always had back problems but never acknowledged them.

Not until Lucy. She made him start seeing a chiropractor.

But since she's out of his life, he has been ignoring his pains and ignoring his chiropractor’s calls. She didn't care anymore so why should he.

"Dude Vanessa and everybody are going to an afterparty—"

"Is this not an afterparty?" Harry furrows his brows, interrupting his partygoer friend.

Danny shakes his head playfully, scoffing. "Any excuse to continue drinking, am I right?"

He really didn't want to spend another hour at a party. He's 54 for god's sake, he done.

He's old. He's an old man.

He gets cranky if he doesn't go to sleep at a certain time, he gets aggravated when he pushes paperwork aside leaving it to the last minute, he hated pleasing his friends who have been trying to get him out more ever since the whole Lucy thing happened.

He's leaving, he wants to go home.

"I think I'll be heading—" Then his phone vibrating in his coat pocket stops him.

Maybe Lucy texted him?

Fuck he's so delusional.

"Actually I'm gonna head out. I have a lot of paperwork." Harry stands up, pulling out his phone.

Danny furrows his brows at his friend.

"But you didn't even touch your drink?"

Harry tells him he has liquor at his place, he can finish his drink at home, not here. He doesn't bother to say any goodbyes to any of his friends. They won't remember it anyways.

He hurriedly swipes open his phone as the cold air hits his face.

19lucy89 has added onto their stories!

Clicking onto her profile made him sick.

He should have deleted Instagram.

He should have blocked her.

But he wasn't strong enough.

She posted a video.

Though it wasn't just any other video. The video showed John on his left knee holding up a ring.

He was fucking proposing.

It was like his whole world came tumbling down.

He had never felt this sick in his life.

Harry used to hate the way rich people would talk about money. They used to say money isn't everything, how it doesn't solve anything and it isn't happiness.

He begged to differ.

He didn't grow up with much. His mother struggled especially.

She was sick and wasn't financially stable for treatment so she died.

He used to think that if they had money she would still be here.

He never told anyone about it. Never spoke about the situation, he always tried to ignore it. Until Lucy came around.

She was the only person he confided in. He cried in her arms.

He didn't understand how she could just leave so easily. He remembers the night she told him, they were in the kitchen when she spoke the truth about how she was still in love with John.

She had said that he was the one that got away and that they needed each other.

She packed up her clothes and left his penthouse.

And that was it.

And now he’s standing outside The Met at 54 years old, pathetically hung up on a woman who left him for some broke waiter in a studio apartment that probably has one fucking bathroom.

A couple bumping into him made him come back to earth. He mutters an apology for blocking the entrance.

Another fucking couple.

He shoves his phone into his pocket with too much force, rolling his shoulders as he takes the steps two at a time, the cold air biting against his skin.

Only Vanessa Garnier would throw a goddamn dinner party at The Met.

He needs to go home.

Needs to drink.

Needs to pretend he didn’t just witness the woman he once loved agreeing to marry a broke fucking waiter.

Harry is already pissed off as he stomps down the Met steps. He’s just trying to leave this godforsaken party, get home, and drown himself in whiskey while pretending he doesn’t care about Lucy’s engagement.

Then—he sees her.

She’s sitting on the steps wrapped up in her own world, scrolling her phone.

She’s alone. Not giggling into her phone like the socialites inside, not throwing herself at men with trust funds bigger than their personalities.

Just…sitting.

And for some reason, it annoys him.

"You’re in my spot."

It wasn't his spot but he was annoyed.

Maybe he was annoyed of seeing people who aren't miserable like him.

She barely looks up.

Just a quick flick of her eyes from her phone to the man standing in front of her, assessing him in a single glance before exhaling softly through her nose—unimpressed and unbothered.

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Since he was already irritated, already on edge, already a step away from either throwing his phone into the street or smashing it against the nearest wall—he stood there, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come.

Nothing.

No wide eyes.

No forced politeness.

No recognition.

Just a woman sitting on the steps of The Met, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, scrolling through her phone like he wasn’t even there.

His jaw ticked.

"Did you hear me?"

She sighed—actually sighed—as if he was the one disturbing her.

Well he kind of was.

Finally, she lifted her head, phone still in her hand, her gaze settling on him with all the enthusiasm of someone being asked to do a survey on the street.

"Yeah. I heard you."

His brow furrowed. He waited.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t give him an inch of what he was used to—deference, nervous laughter, people scrambling to please him just because of who he was.

Instead, she blinked once slow and deliberate before tilting her head slightly to the side.

"Pretty sure the city owns these steps."

Harry clenched his teeth.

Of course.

Of course, he’d have to deal with this tonight.

This was not his night.

This was not his fucking night.

He didn’t even know why he was still standing there, why he hadn’t just turned and left. He should be in his car by now, should be halfway home with a drink already in his hand.

But for some reason he wasn’t.

For some reason he sat down instead.

A slow, deliberate movement. A shift of his coat as he lowered himself onto the step beside her, his knee brushing against the fabric of her own red coat as he exhaled sharply.

Her brow lifted slightly, her grip on her phone tightening for a moment as if she was considering whether to acknowledge his presence or simply ignore him altogether.

She settled on the latter.

Good.

Fine.

He didn’t want to talk anyway.

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring out at the street with the same burning resentment that had been sitting in his chest since he walked out of that party.

Another fucking couple passed by.

Laughing. Whispering. Holding hands like they were the only two people in the world.

His grip tightened around his knee. His mouth pressed into a firm thin line.

He should be at home.

He should be anywhere but here.

Instead, he was sitting on the cold steps of The Met beside a stranger who didn’t care that he was Harry fucking Castillo.

He scoffed.

The sound must have been louder than he intended, because this time—she looked at him.

Actually looked at him.

Not just a glance. Not just a flicker of vague recognition before returning to her phone.

No—she studied him, just for a second.

And then…the corner of her mouth twitched.

Not a smile. Not exactly. But close enough.

Close enough for something inside of him to tighten, for his stomach to knot in that irritating way he didn’t like.

She turned back to her phone.

"Rough night?"

He huffed out a sharp breath, shaking his head adjusting his tie even though it wasn’t loose.

"Something like that."

She hummed. Hummed. Like she wasn’t even surprised.

Like she already knew that about him.

Like she had already figured him out.

His teeth clenched.

She didn’t know him.

She didn’t know anything about him.

"What?" His voice was sharper than intended.

She barely reacted. Just tapped her thumb against her screen, scrolling absentmindedly before murmuring

"Nothing."

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was something.

It was definitely fucking something.

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his exhaustion settle deeper into his bones.

This night was never going to end, was it?

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

The sounds of the city hummed around them. Car horns. Distant conversations. The occasional roar of an engine as someone sped down Fifth Avenue.

And then—

"You gonna sit here all night?"

Harry turned his head slightly, catching the amused glint in her eyes as she finally looked at him again.

"Depends," he muttered. "You gonna move?"

She smirked. "Nope."

He exhaled.

Rolled his shoulders.

Ignored the way something unsettled was shifting in his chest.

"Guess I’m staying, then."

And for the first time in a long time—he didn’t mind.

That realization alone should have pissed him off. Should have made him get up, adjust his coat, and leave like he had originally planned.

But he stayed.

The cold air pressed against his skin, sneaking beneath his collar, curling around his fingers where they rested against his knee. The whiskey from earlier still burned slightly in the back of his throat, though it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, to settle the restless storm churning inside his chest.

The silence stretched.

Not an uncomfortable one, surprisingly. But an unfamiliar one.

People didn’t let silence sit with him. They filled it, rushed to fix it, scrambled to find something clever or charming or useful to say because people who sat next to him were always trying to get something from him.

The woman sitting next to him, scrolling through her phone like he wasn’t even there. Like he was just another insignificant part of the city.

That part should have pissed him off.

But it didn’t.

It intrigued him.

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch the faint reflection of her screen. Not because he cared what she was looking at—he didn’t—but because he needed a distraction. Any distraction.

A taxi app.

She was waiting for a ride.

She was leaving.

Good.

Great.

That meant he wouldn’t have to sit here much longer, wouldn’t have to keep pretending like this wasn’t some strange, unexplainable moment in his otherwise predictable night.

He could go home, pour himself a drink, scroll through Lucy’s Instagram like a fucking idiot, and pretend he wasn’t still furious.

But—

He didn’t want her to leave.

Not yet.

Not before he figured out why the hell he was still sitting here.

Not before he figured out why she wasn’t miserable like him.

His gaze flicked to her hands, the way she tapped at her screen absentmindedly like she wasn’t in a hurry, wasn’t anxious about the time, wasn’t dreading the ride home.

He wanted to ask where she was going.

He didn’t.

Instead, he spoke before he thought.

"Where do you live?"

She didn’t react at first.

Just kept scrolling.

Then without looking up.

"That’s a weird thing to ask a stranger."

Harry exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

"You’re waiting for a cab."

Finally, she turned to him, brow raised. "And?"

He rolled his shoulders, voice even. "I’ll take you home."

A beat of silence.

Then—

She laughed.

Not a giggle. Not a polite chuckle. A real, unfiltered laugh.

Like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

Harry’s expression did not change.

"I wasn’t joking."

That just made her laugh harder.

She shook her head, lips twitching as she locked her phone and slid it into her pocket, finally—finally—giving him her full attention.

"You, a man who I met ten minutes ago, are offering to take me home."

Harry blinked, unfazed.

"Yes."

"In your car?"

"Yes."

She exhaled, shaking her head again.

"This is the part where I ask if you're a serial killer."

He smirked, dry and humorless. "Would a serial killer offer?"

"Maybe a dumb one."

He scoffed. "Do I look dumb to you?"

She considered him for a moment. Then—

"A little bit."

Harry almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead, he sighed adjusting the sleeve of his coat as he stared out at the street again.

"Look, I don’t care where you live. I don’t care what you do. And I don’t care if you take the cab or not. But it’s late and I have a driver waiting." He paused. "Take the ride. Or don’t."

She studied him for a moment.

Not like the people at the party, not like the women who assessed him as a prize, a trophy, a walking investment.

No, she was studying him like she was still trying to figure out if he was serious.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why offer?"

Harry clenched his jaw.

Good question.

Why had he?

Because he was restless.

Because he didn’t want to be alone.

Because he wasn’t ready for the night to end.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead he said, "Because I can."

She hummed at that, something unreadable passing over her face.

Then to his absolute fucking surprise

She stood.

Pulled her coat tighter around herself.

Looked down at him with a grin.

"Lead the way, then."

The Maybach was parked at the curb, sleek and expensive and definitely out of place for a random stranger sitting on museum steps.

His driver, James barely batted an eye when Harry pulled open the door and gestured for her to get in first.

She hesitated.

Just for a moment.

And then—

She slid into the seat like she did this every day.

Harry followed, closing the door behind them.

James glanced at him through the rearview mirror, silent, waiting.

Harry exhaled, glancing at her.

"Where to?"

She gave him a look.

"Aren't you supposed to be a gentleman and ask for my name first?"

He huffed. "You never asked for mine."

"Because I don’t care."

His lips twitched. "Then why get in the car?"

She leaned back against the leather seat, legs crossed, gaze flicking out the window.

"Because I wanted to see if you'd actually do it."

Harry shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he gave James the silent cue to start driving.

This was insane.

He should have just gone home.

Should have just let her take the damn cab.

But now—he was in a car with a woman who didn’t care who he was, nor his money, didn’t even seem remotely fazed by the fact that she was sitting in a million dollar car with a man who could buy out half the city.

And for the first time all night...

Lucy’s engagement didn’t feel like the worst thing that had happened to him.

The car pulled away from the curb, merging smoothly into the flow of late night Manhattan traffic. The soft hum of the engine filled the space between them, a quiet luxury that most people would have fawned over.

But not her.

She wasn’t running her fingers over the leather seats, wasn’t sneaking glances at him, wasn’t pretending to be indifferent while stealing curious looks.

She just stared out the window, completely at ease.

Harry tilted his head slightly, studying her side profile.

"You still haven’t told me where you live."

She blinked, turning back to him, almost as if she’d forgotten he was even there.

"Oh. Right." She exhaled, stretching her arms slightly before dropping them into her lap. "I’ll just have your driver drop me off at the corner of—"

"Not James." His voice was firm, sharp in a way he didn’t expect.

She raised a brow.

"What?"

"Tell me."

A slow smirk curled at her lips, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Are you always this controlling?"

"Are you always this difficult?"

Her smirk widened slightly, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to the front of the car.

"Excuse me, take me to—"

"Don’t talk to my driver."

She whipped her head back to him, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"He’s not your driver."

She let out a small, sharp laugh, shaking her head.

"You’re serious?"

"Very."

She rolled her eyes, but there was something else there, something interested.

She sighed, crossing her arms, "Fine. Since you clearly need to be the one in control, Lower East Side."

He barely nodded before shifting his gaze back toward the front.

James, wordlessly, made a turn.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Harry leaned back against his seat, stretching out his legs, exhaling slowly as the tension from earlier in the night settled into something quieter.

The city moved past them in streaks of light, taxis cutting through traffic, pedestrians still wandering the streets like the night would never end.

She stayed turned toward the window, her fingers mindlessly tapping against her knee.

The silence should have been comfortable.

But it wasn’t.

Not for him.

Because he was still thinking.

Thinking about Lucy. Thinking about how stupid he felt for still checking her Instagram. Thinking about how much he hated the feeling of losing.

But also—thinking about her.

This woman.

This stranger who got into his car without a second thought, who didn’t care about his money, who didn’t care about him.

That part was what unsettled him the most.

Because he was used to being recognized. Used to being admired, envied, feared.

But she?

She was just here.

Like he was just another man.

Like he wasn’t anything at all.

And for some reason—he wasn’t sure he hated that.

She broke the silence first. "So, what’s your deal?"

Harry exhaled, rolling his head to the side slightly.

"My deal?"

"Yeah." She waved a hand vaguely. "You seem miserable."

"You say that like it’s an observation."

"It is."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Maybe I just don’t like parties."

"Nope."

He arched a brow.

"No?"

"Not just parties. Life."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "Bold assumption."

"Accurate assumption."

His gaze flicked toward her, sharp, assessing.

She met it without hesitation.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she shrugged.

"Look, I don’t know what rich guy problems you have but you were sitting on those steps like someone had either ruined your life or just rejected your marriage proposal."

Harry stilled.

His fingers twitched slightly against his knee, his pulse slow, heavy.

She didn’t know how close she was.

How dangerously fucking close.

She didn’t know about Lucy. About the proposal he never got to make. About much time he spent believing he was enough only to realize that he wasn’t.

She didn’t know anything.

But she still saw right through him.

And that?

That pissed him off.

"Maybe I just wanted some fresh air." His voice was clipped, sharp.

"Sure." She smirked, looking out the window again. "And maybe I’m a billionaire, too."

Harry inhaled, slow and deep, rolling his head back against the seat, eyes flickering up toward the roof of the car.

"You’re insufferable."

"So I’ve been told."

For a moment, it was quiet again.

Then—

"Was it a girl?"

His brow furrowed.

"What?"

"The reason you were brooding." She tilted her head slightly. "Was it a girl?"

His fingers clenched.

She smirked.

"It was, wasn’t it?"

He clenched his jaw.

"Not everything is about a woman."

"I never said it was." She lifted a shoulder. "You just confirmed it, though."

Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face.

This was insane.

She was insane.

Why was he even still talking to her?

Why hadn’t he just dropped her off and left?

"I don’t do small talk." His voice was firm.

"Good. Me neither."

Then—silence.

Not uncomfortable.

Not forced.

Just…there.

The car slowed as they reached her street.

She shifted slightly, sitting up, unfastening her seatbelt as James pulled over.

For a second, Harry felt something strange.

Something he didn’t want to name.

She reached for the door handle, but before she could push it open—

"Wait."

She paused.

Glanced back at him. Brows lifted, waiting.

Harry swallowed.

"Let me take you to dinner."

Silence.

Her head tilted, lips curving up at the corners. "Are you asking or telling?"

"Does it matter?"

She smirked.

"I guess not."

She pushed the door open, stepping out into the cold.

Harry watched her go, watched as she turned, hands stuffed into her pockets, eyes unreadable as she met his gaze one last time.

Then—

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

And just like that—

She was gone.

Harry sat there for a long moment.

Watched the empty space where she had been.

Felt the quiet weight of something new settle over him.

And for the first time in years, he found himself hoping—

That he’d see her again.

And knowing, somehow—

That he would.

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