#I'll give it a gratuitous | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hexonthepeach · 4 months

Text

perfume - k.dy

pairing: f4!nct doyoung x fem!reader (past johnny x reader mentions)

genre: hana yori dango/boys over flowers/meteor garden/f4 thailand reverse harem au (mild allusions and characterization only)

warnings:

bully-to-friends-to-lovers, established relationship, polyamory, dom!doyoung, glucose father adjacent, scent kink, control over food consumption/bathing (for scent kink purposes only), gratuitous use of the l-word by anti-romantics, angst/feelings, flashbacks and history

🔞 edging, cockwarming, orgasm denial, oral (m/f receiving), passionate sex, rough sex, spanking, creampie, bukkake, consensual negotiated kink (degradation, somnophilia), anal play (f receiving)

wordcount: 20k

author's note: this is a doyoung-centered continuation of my ongoing F4 au. it can stand on it's own but i recommend reading Dive for more context. Doyoung's role in the F4 is Sojirou Nishikado/So Yijung/Ximen/Kavin (playboy control freak) so this fic incorporates elements of his secondary romance within the original/adaptations, now with y/n.

read on AO3

fic headers / dividers credit to @ saradika + please do not repost

Freshman year, Kocher International.

Head down in your books at lunch, trying so hard to escape scrutiny from above, you pretend to be no one.

It shouldn't be hard to be nobody, otherwise ignored and immune to whatever social contract deliberates your life. In a better world you'd be invisible. It's a superpower you'd wish for much more over the usual playground answers of super speed or control of the weather.

Let me be unobserved, you'd thought. Let me open a door and not worry about a bucket full of dirty mop water falling on my head or the inevitable posting of a grainy video of it, posted in a Telegram channel to fulfill some checklist made up by bored, rich monsters.

Your four-generation-behind phone with its cracked screen proved useful in some regards; you never heard about these public pillories until some kind stranger sent you a screenshot of them, usually in the context of whatever plans they'd made to torture you again.

Every notification is already a pain, driving splintered glass into the pads of your fingers. Just now you're reading a text message from your father asking you to pick up more cheap instant noodles from the convenience store on your walk home to round out whatever scraps he's picked up from the local restaurant your mother bussed tables and cleaned dishes at when she needed extra money.

"Why is Saint Kim watching you?" your friend asks across the table. She's been looking up at the room this entire time, unable to give you even a moment of her attention or assistance to finish the English homework you'd been working on. You'd been rushing all day to finish it before afternoon class, after a late morning of delivery driving for your family's drycleaning business.

"Are you sure it's not the Devil?" you ask, parsing through the lines of a book you'd bought secondhand, trying to match verse for verse.

"No," she says, shaking her head when you finally look up. "Don't react. He's coming this way."

"Shit," you say under your breath, eyes flicking to your untouched lunch. "I need you to leave now. Take these trays and dump them and I'll meet you outside of 4th. If I make it."

You don't look up from your book as you mutter, but you follow her path and her hesitancy as she internally debates whether to heed your warning or watch from a safe distance.

Your handwriting becomes a scrawl of nonsense you have to cross out in sharp lines. You begin the verse again, holding your breath as you will your entire body and mind back to a manufactured calm.

If you can't be invisible, you can at least play your role. You're copacetic by the time you see the tips of polished black wingtips beside you, before you hear the Saint clear his throat.

“Y/N.”

He drops a familiar, school-mandated clear cosmetics bag next to your ratty backpack. The already embarrassing stash of tampons and old chapstick has a new bounty including a "used" pregnancy test stick with a second line drawn in with pink gel pen jumbled into its contents.

"You left this . . ." he says, not finishing the sentence to indicate where he'd found it. You immediately hear a titter. Your flock of spectators is growing by the second and the useful idiot at its center seems wholly unconcerned.

"Thanks," you say, not bothering to look up or to even hide the bag. You keep writing, blindly, the English words just rounded shapes flowing from your shaking hand.

Their kind fed off attention, your only defense is to starve them of it.

The Saint clears his throat, again. Apparently he’s not just unconcerned, he’s also unwilling to leave.

"Aren't you grateful Doie found it before someone else did?" You don’t have to look up to know it's Miranda who’s asked, glimpsing her manicure as she picks up your bag, green gems shining on perfectly-tipped nails.

"Oh this must not be hers. I didn't think she could afford this."

You think she might be diving into the stash for one of the Lilies' pointed additions but no–you watch in horror as she plucks out the bottle of perfume you'd been carrying with you since your parents had gifted you a single, tiny box last Christmas.

"Chanel?" she says, laughing. "No wonder you smell like my grandma."

"Probably a knock-off," another of the Lilies says. Ginger, by the sound of her grating voice. Her handwriting on the board in homeroom listing out your abortions is as familiar as the pink gel pen script on the extra large foil condom with xoxo slut written on it staring at you through the plastic.

"Definitely a knock-off. You have a nose, don't you, Doie?"

You look up, finally, at Saint Kim. He's alone for once–the other one, the Devil Kim that shadows him is still up on the second level, leaning on the railing over his shoulder. You watch the Saint’s small mouth turn into a moue of distaste, nose wrinkling at the proffered bottle.

"Authentic," he says, capping it before offering it back to you. Your field of vision is obstructed by that veined, pale hand–fingernails as perfectly groomed as the rich girls who surround him.

You reach up to take your most prized possession back only to find he doesn't let go, holding tight when you try to pluck it from his fingers.

"You should know . . . " he says, sniffing slightly.

You look up at him with alarm blazing in your eyes. Every word Kim Doyoung says to you writes your next damnation. You should ignore him, run, anything–but you can't look away once you've met his assessing gaze, his tall frame limned in the fluorescent cafeteria lights like he's carrying his own personal halo.

Even seeing him at a distance every day can't depreciate how ethereally handsome he is. You know better than to swoon at that elegant face, night-black hair pushed away from his forehead. Beneath his family’s charities and his PR-scripted concern you know he’s just another ungodly creation birthed of nepotism and curated genes.

He leans in, carefully, musical voice a whisper.

"You should know it doesn't suit you."

The laughter that follows is deafening.

No, you think. He's just as soulless as the rest of them.

“What do you mean actually sleep?" you ask, coyly, unbuttoning your romper. "Like after we . . . ?"

"I've managed 6 hours of sleep in 36 hours, y/n–” Doyoung seems to hesitate, dark eyebrows raising, hand pushing his hair back from his pale forehead. He snaps his laptop closed, at last, shoving it to the farthest edge of the bedside table.

No–you think–not hesitation.

Frustration.

You've seen this man before.

All work and no play made Saint Kim into a Prince of Hell. He'd spent the first 8 hours of your date day half-present–the other in the 4 hours of sleep he's gotten since some crisis at his family’s headquarters in London that usurped your vacation.

A whole 2 days in which he hasn't held you at all. His rules, his chance, but you can't help but wonder what has him so clenched that he's barely even touched you since your date began at 6 am Bangkok time.

You'd taken two extra strength melatonin and slept like the dead, anticipating his early-riser schedule. Only you and God had to know you'd fallen asleep next to your day tour fit ready to be fucked in it.

You’d made yourself so pretty only to find him in the kitchen hunched over his phone, laptop softly pinging with notifications. Doyoung had still been dressed in the clothes you'd seen him in the night before, ending his conference call to laser in on you hovering in the kitchen.

"Are you upset?" Doyoung asked.

"No," you'd lied, pushing the piece of paper he'd left the staff on the counter, his English handwriting crisp and formal. "What’s this?"

"We have a few dietary restrictions today," he’d said.

"Are you saying I am what I eat?" You’d asked, taking a bite of a plump strawberry. "Is this some kind of prep?"

"It's for the date," he'd said, resigned. "Just be patient with me."

Then he'd smiled, disarming you with a casualness you hadn’t seen on him in a long time, rubbing his eyes blearily under his thick glasses.

"Can we go back to sleep?"

And so you'd settled into his grasp on your made bed, scrolling Insta and waiting for the inevitable alarm–which turned out just to be Jungwoo delivering two iced Americanos in some gambit of checking your progress.

"Missed the floating market opening?" Jungwoo asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of Doyoung face first in a pillow.

You'd silently mouthed your thanks, leaving the drinks to sweat on the bedside table as you changed into your second outfit of the day, occasionally drifting in to check on your sleeping beauty.

It was a rare delight to have him so vulnerable beside you, blanket rucked up beneath his chin and his white teeth visible past the sweet curves of his mouth. Without consciousness your partner for the day is just Kim Doyoung, the gentler side of the same creature who you knew would often choose a couch to watch serial television with you over a day trip if you wanted it.

But this was different.

Now instead of using his precious time to fulfill what you'd felt promised in his casual brushes against your back when you'd finally traveled out, or the way he'd stroked your leg at brunch under the table (every bite chosen by him, of course), you're being railroaded into lying still while he sleeps.

Again.

You continue undressing, letting him drink in the sight of the lingerie set he’d left in your room. You knew it was custom made by the way it lifted each curve he’d already had access to, tailored for you as if every millimeter of your body was to account for.

Doyoung's cheeks are hollowed, lip chewed. He pulls his glasses down and regards you even more as you continue to undress yourself.

"You do know what the word 'nap' means, don't you?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept," you say. "At least let me get comfortable."

His stare pierces into you as you turn around, stripping for utility rather than give him a show he clearly hasn’t earned. You check yourself in the floor-length mirror beside the bathroom, viewing yourself through his eyes as you pluck the lace over your curves to sit just right.

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You may as well be speaking to the floor when you turn around, finding him buried in the pillows only by the dark fall of his hair.

“You can’t be that tired,” you say.

You're used to taking a late afternoon siesta in peak summer but you're far too excited to even consider sleep right now. For one, it's sweltering–windows open to allow the noises of hawkers and traffic not far off to drift in.

Second, you've never been more turned on in your life.

You can still feel the tingling in your toes from when he’d slipped his hand up under the hem of your shorts, teasing at the velvety smooth skin on your inner thigh as you tried not to choke on your mimosa.

You make your way to the bed languidly, crawling up the thick white duvet with a teasing smile.

"Just stay on your side of the bed, please," Doyoung says.

"Oh," you say, collapsing on top of the covers beside him. "Well you're no fun."

"And you're impatient and uncouth," he retorts in a way that makes you wonder if he really means it.

"Will you at least hold onto me?"

"Too hot." He rolls on his back, flapping his half-buttoned shirt in the breeze from the fans. You sigh dramatically, collapsing into the pillows in the middle of the bed.

"You should get naked, then.” You say. “Don't be modest on my account."

He opens one eye to glare at you, finding you relaxed and inviting beside him. His throat bobs, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"That year of celibacy really took a toll on you, didn't it? Two hours. Indulge me."

"Please, sir," you whisper. "I've been such a good girl."

It had been a stipulation of the F4’s latest deal–24 hours for you to recover from your first night before the gauntlet began. Doyoung had been more than strict about the terms, leaving you your own set of instructions including–not surprisingly–not touching yourself.

Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t think about masturbation constantly, at all hours of the day. He may as well have told you to try not to think about a white bear for how powerful the intrusive thought had taken over since then.

"You'll get your reward. Later," he says. He's an impassable wall, stretched out beside you, so you content yourself with staring at his profile. Even under these oppressive circumstances you appreciate the light dusting of freckles on his cheek brought out by the sun, the dark lashes dusting his cheeks over the slight bluish marks of sleep deprivation.

"Yes, sir."

It only takes a few minutes for him to snap at you again.

"Stop that,"

"Stop what?"

"Getting so handsy."

You hadn’t even realized your hand had drifted over the plane of his belly under his white shirt, too absorbed with watching the muscles in his cheek spasm as you inched nearer.

"Can I help it when you're right there?" you ask. "I thought this was your–"

Doyoung rolls you before you can slither any closer, pressing your back into the sheets with his hands on your wrists, knees digging into your thighs.

If the intention was to get you to stop being uncomfortably turned on it has the opposite effect: you let out a moan of pleasure, legs twisting together for friction. He slams them shut between his own, groin pressed into yours.

He's as hard as you hoped, and you lift up into him to let him know you know it.

"If you don't behave I'll have to cancel this," he warns directly in your ear, sounding as choked as you feel. "I thought you were already trained."

"Trained to fight back," you correct, pressing against him with your own strength.

"That's not trained," he says, lifting up. "I'll blame your lack of experience and experienced partners. Nothing we can't work on. Until then you'll follow my rules or I pull you from the game. Understood?"

You let a few beats pass, accepting there's no way out and you don't have anything to throw back at him.

"Yes, sir," you pout.

"Now that's a good girl," he says.

Just as quickly as you were taken down you're let go, inhaling deeply now that you're not being pressed into the soft bed.

"You really don't want to play with me before you sleep?" you ask, brushing your lips against his chin as he crouches over you. You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you enjoyed the way his nostrils flare a bit, working his pink bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever arbitrary rules he’d set for your time together you can tell he’s at least regretting it right now, stiff length brushing against your bare leg as you lift your knee to test it.

“Are you trying to make me punish you?” he asks, voice husky.

"I thought you liked it when I was a brat," you say, cocking your head.

Doyoung sighs, eyes half-lidded. "I do. But not when you're using it to avoid intimacy."

Your throat clenches, a hard knot forming in it you can't seem to swallow as your face gets even hotter.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“I think you know what I mean,” he continues. “It’s not like we both don’t have a habit of using sex as a distraction from anything emotionally challenging.”

You gape up at him in disbelief.

Of course you’d never been able to hide that aspect of your last relationship with him when he’d often been right outside the door. All of the F4 knew how many times your arguments with he-who-should-not-be-named-especially-not-while-in-bed-with-his-best-friend had ended in you shutting him up by any means necessary. Not that you didn’t enjoy it at the time–but rather you understood it wasn’t the most healthy template for a relationship.

"I thought this wasn't going to be about feelings," you blurt out.

“Proving my point.”

Doyoung tsks, tapping your cheek with his fingers–nowhere near a slap but just as effective, soothing the spot with his thumb. Soon he’s brushing your tears away when they inevitably spring up and you have to turn to hide their seep into the mass of pillows.

"If I wanted therapy I wouldn't be here, Kim Doyoung," you say, trying to bury your face in the piles of soft down.

“Shh, silly girl,” He gently pulls you out from hiding, soothing you with a warm kiss against your forehead when you stop struggling and let him hold you, releasing that surge of emotion and writing it off to hormones and the sting of rejection.

“You know I’m speaking to myself here, too,” he states softly. “Bear with me, I’m learning.”

"Do you even really like me?" you ask, face pressed into his chest.

It’s horrible to admit this specific insecurity but you can’t help it. Being abandoned multiple times in your life when you’d finally, finally let your walls down would damage anyone’s trust. You’d hoped this day with him would be easy and carefree and light, not dimmed by the shadows of your anti-romantic histories.

"I adore you, actually." He settles partially on top of you, leg wrapped over yours as he props himself up on his elbow. "Which is why I want to start this right. You wanted the F4 boyfriend experience. This is mine."

"Last I checked you’ve never seriously dated anyone," you groan, sniffling.

"Last I checked, neither have you."

Well, that connects. You swallow your fears, relaxing into the cage of his embrace, retreating a little from the vulnerability of being exposed.

"What kind of girlfriend experience were you expecting, then?"

A lazy smile gusts across his features. You can't help but find it a bit sinister after being handled so indelicately.

“I don’t always know what’s going on in that empty little head of yours." He accompanies his statement with a brush of his thumb across your flushed cheek, tracing your semi-parted lips in a way that sends sparks down to your core.

"I’d like to stop guessing and actually get you to let me treat you the way you want to be treated. Have you ever asked yourself what you want?"

You panic a little, considering his words. Living with disappointment had made this question a hard one to even consider.

"I just want a good time. Isn't that what you want, too?"

Doyoung seems to ignore your ask, drifting into a relaxed state against the pillows. His hand traces the hairline at your temple. "You know I worry about you. All the time, actually.”

His voice is lower, a little wistful, and it’s doing just as much as the slight brushes of his fingertips to make you throb all over again. A lack of sleep must have made him delusional, you think. This is not the Kim Doyoung you know.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

"Is that why you're always involving yourself in my business?" you ask, matching his tone in how breathless you are. You expect a quip, not the sincerity written on his face when he swoops in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, too fleeting to be anything but sweet and sincere.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? It certainly wasn’t just to get into your pants. I want you. All of you.”

You're taken aback by his honesty. You'd always suspected his constant meddling in your affairs came from a place of interest but you'd never wanted to give him too much of a response–maybe a little afraid his fickle nature and fear of commitment would mean he’d give up on your friendship, too.

Another thing you knew about Saint Kim: he had a tendency to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of emotional neediness in his partners. You'd never given him reason to believe you expected anything from him, but you'd also stopped fighting him on giving you what he desired to give.

It wasn’t just presents or expensive experiences, of course. He’d found out quickly those weren’t welcome without some cajoling. No–his art was in knowing what you needed even before you realized it, nudging it across your path.

You’d figured out his deviousness after the umpteenth time someone was charitable at your little florist shop part time job, offering to fix your scooter in exchange for a nice arrangement for a proposal. As soon as you’d seen the fully restored bike outside and the customer didn’t return your texts you’d called Doyoung, completely unsurprised to find he was at the coffee shop next door, waiting to pick up his flowers.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you’d said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What makes you think I’m giving you charity,” he’d responded, dropping a department store bag and your own custom coffee order on the counter. “You’ll wear this when I come to pick you up tonight at closing, including the jewelry and perfume. I need you to play your part again. The flowers are a consolation for the heart we’re breaking.”

He’d enlisted you as his defacto “new girlfriend” for the more difficult separations, and though you’d gotten your share of a glass of expensive wine thrown in your face more often than he ever experienced it (his type always went after the easier target) it wasn’t like he didn’t have a replacement dress ready and a nice dinner waiting after you’d cleaned off the Chateau Lafitte Rothschild.

You have to face the fact that no matter how many times he’d treated you like his girlfriend, you’d never actually expected him to want you to be one.

“I’ve waited a very long time for this, Y/N. Which is why I want our first time together–alone," he adds quickly. "–To be special."

It's difficult to believe him but you're spellbound all the same, watching pink dust his cheeks and his ears turn a shade darker as he most likely realizes how ridiculous it is considering him fucking you senseless the other night with the help of two other men.

But you can empathize with his anxiety. Yesterday's Thai massage he'd arranged had helped you work out the flight or fight of anticipating being alone with him. It’s back now, but different. The way he's looking at you makes you feel infinitely naked, infinitely unlocked.

"What do you mean special?" you ask, wary, hoping to see some glimmer of uncertainty or falsehood in his gaze. You want to believe it's a lie or just some artful prank, trying to ignore your heart flip-flopping in your chest.

It’s a mistake to let him see you squirm considering it’s Doyoung’s drug of choice–his lips twist into another menacing grin as he plays with the charm on your necklace. Another of his little gifts.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Doyoung asks, dripping self-satisfaction. “Or are you going to chicken out on me?”

You turn over so he can't see your expression, realizing he’s throwing your own words from the night before right back at you.

"I haven’t decided if I want to date you, yet,” you say.

"Maybe not," he says. "But you'll have to pardon me for wanting to show you this good time you supposedly want while also treating you decently. Unless we're no longer friends?"

"We are," you say, biting your lip, "even if you enjoy torturing me."

"Torture?" He laughs, breathy.

"Metaphorically speaking."

"You have no idea, do you?" You can feel the edge of his glasses as he bites the place where your clavicle connects to your shoulder, his hand snaking around your bare middle.

"You could show me," you invite, mid-gasp, as your body responds to his long-awaited touch. His fingers are almost cool in contrast to the heat in the room, tracing circles in your skin that have you squirming.

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

Why not?

"We don't have to have sex," you offer. "Maybe you could just–"

"Shh," he says, fingers skimming lower. "My terms. Are you going to stay quiet for me?"

You nod into the comforter, breath hitching as he touches you through the thin layer of your underwear, veined hand flexing as he molds the damp fabric to your body. It's such a delicate pressure but he's already memorized your shape, index finger sinking into your folds, gently rubbing a ring around your throbbing clit.

You're sticky and swelling with each pass, entranced by how good he is at teasing you, cherishing the way he sucks in his breath when he pushes into the indent of your hole.

“Doie,” you whine, leaning back into him, trying to get him to kiss you as he laughs into your hair.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, kissing your cheek and teasing the seat of your underwear where they're soaked the most. "You want to take these off?"

You shake your head, sensing it would be too easy of you to give in.

"That wasn't a question," he says, tugging down the band, leaving them trapped tight around your thighs. "I don't want you to wear them until I tell you that you can."

You feel your core clench at the way his voice cracks, his fingers sliding back up to slowly and delicately draw a thread of moisture from your bared slit. You whine a little when he stops touching you, bringing his fingertip to your lips.

"Taste it."

You let your mouth fall open, let him run it over your tongue, beginning from the middle and swirling over it.

"Describe it," he murmurs. "If I like your answer, maybe I'll indulge you more."

"Salt," you say, immediately.

He tugs your hair, making you meet his eyes.

"Have I taught you anything? I want specific notes. Flavors."

You're transported back to the time he'd taken you to your first (and last) wine tasting. Spitting into a bucket and being lectured about body and tannins and soil conditions was the last thing you'd wanted to do after an hours-long trip to a vineyard but you'd indulged him, allowed one glass of what he considered the only drinkable wine on the premises.

An unrefined palette, he'd called you.

"Fruity and floral," you make up. "A nice lingering finish. Want a taste?"

He looks down at you behind his glasses, equal parts amused and unimpressed. "Did you use the soap I asked you to?"

Your brain glitches at that. Had you? You'd been in such a rush to go out–

You gasp when he palms your breast, squeezing the meat of it through the breathable fabric of your matching bra.

"I'll take that as a no," he says. "I guess you're not ready."

He rolls off of you, leaving you in a lurch as you realize your legs are locked together by your underwear. You move to remove them, taking off your bra as well to avoid the awkwardness of being partially dressed.

By the time you're done you realize he's on his back, the hand that had been stroking you buried in his loose khakis.

"What are you doing?" you ask, more than a little pissed off at the sight of him masturbating as if you aren't ready and willing to assist beside him.

"Getting ready for our date. You can watch. No touching." He cracks an eye to look at you before closing it again. "Either of us."

"Are you edging me, Kim Doyoung?" Your menacing tone is entirely natural.

He hums a bit, working himself at a more punishing pace, knuckles peeking out from under his boxer briefs with each full pass over his length.

"Can't even look at me? Afraid you'll lose control?" You sidle down on the bed, beside his tensed thigh. You can smell a bit of the ozone on him from a morning in the sun, your knees knocking into his calves when you move over him.

"I don't trust you," he says, voice deeper than you've ever heard it.

"Is it touching if you finish on my face?" you ask when he finally blinks up at your presence, hovering over him with your breasts dangerously close to his clothed thighs.

"Absolutely not."

"Not touching–"

"Just. Watch," he orders.

He pulls himself free from his pants, surprising you with how dark and weeping his tip is as his thumb encircles it. Pools of white precum spatter on his lean, pale belly, your head dipping dangerously close–

"I said watch." He grabs at your hair, denied when you bend up again, showing him your dirty tongue.

He groans, fingers clenching air. "You were put on this earth to test me, weren't you?"

Still, he doesn't break his attention on the way you roll the drops you'd licked from his clean skin in your mouth, swallowing once you've fully enjoyed the taste.

"A little sweet you say," teasing him. "Drinking pineapple juice?"

"Brat," Doyoung says, but he's almost gone–eyes dark with desire, gently gripping your skull as you continue to ease in.

You're a master at following his lead, blowing a breath over the spot you'd licked, and then his length until his movements slow, cherishing the way you hold your mouth over his cock.

"If you can't give me what I want, then at least give me a taste," you say, sticking out your tongue in offering. You love the way he responds to the sight, needy and losing it when you hold eye contact, drilling into him.

"No," he echoes, weakly. He's too smart to push into your open mouth, instead driving his hips up to fuck his fist as you watch his glasses slide down his nose, eyes clenching shut.

"You're no fun," you say. "Just a little swallow can't hurt?"

"No. Don't want to ruin it," he says cryptically, making a choked noise as you brush his fingers with your nose and he has to pull you away.

"I promise you it . . . It will be worth it," he manages. His jaw clenches as his movements relax, finally in control of you both.

"It better be," you say.

You lower your lashes as your eyes flick between his cock and his face, stretching out your tongue to the point that drool begins to drip down your chin, splashing on his whitened knuckles and the tight stretch of his balls peeking out from his underwear. He bites his lip, breath holding as he starts to spiral.

The first thick rope of white rockets up his half-bared chest. Soon he's spurting even more, cum reaching his rucked up shirt, a little getting on his glasses.

He's so out of it he doesn't fight as you wrest out of his limp hold. You clean up the sticky mess on his skin with your tongue, his abdominal muscles twitching under the light flicks and drags.

"Want to give me some notes?" you ask, straddling him without resting any weight down, taking off his glasses. This time when you move to kiss him he rises weakly to meet you, lips parting to accept what you haven't swallowed.

In truth, he tastes wonderful. Coffee, a little menthol from toothpaste and a hint of the watermelon you'd shared earlier mix beneath the coat of his spend.

He licks into your mouth until you moan, your body throbbing with unfulfilled pleasure. You follow him as he sinks back into the pillows, enjoying having him at your disposal, your core leaving wet trails on his thigh when you brush against the fabric.

"I'm going to wait until you're asleep and use you if you don't help me get off," you threaten, pressing soft kisses to his slack face. It’s no use. Doyoung has passed out again, lower teeth visible as he snores softly, forehead sheened with drying sweat.

Fuck it, you think.

You ooze off of him to take your second cold shower of the day, and maybe get acquainted with one of the fancy showerheads in his massive walk-in while you use his special soap.

It's not–technically–touching yourself.

Your mystery destination isn't an unknown–it's in every tourist booklet and blog you'd skimmed before your trip, thinking you'd be on your own to find a good spot to traverse to. But it still takes your breath away the moment the car door opens in the sprawl of motorbikes and delivery trucks and Doyoung takes your hand to pull you into Paradise.

Pak Khlong Talat is a bustle of energy well after dark, the time you know its treasures are delivered fresh and unbloomed, wrapped in newspaper and steeped in crushed ice. For as far as you can see the market sprawls along Chak Phet road, but even more overwhelming than the sights and sounds is the scent.

Jasmine, roses, lavender. Thousands upon thousands of blooms strung up and tended to by night owl vendors, delicate arrangements hand-sewed by artisans streetside into garlands so well-crafted Doyoung has to tug you to keep you moving, onwards to some other unspoken destination.

"I was worried you might hate flowers after working with them for so long. I take it you like it?" he asks, indulging you when you ask if you can take his picture at a particularly lovely hang of garlands, the purple-blue light perfect for the film you'd loaded into your father's old camera. Photography had never been your craft, but after your dad had passed you'd made an effort to capture more of your memories, cherishing what you'd taken for granted before.

“It’s perfect,” you say, admiring him through the viewfinder. "But can you look like you're having fun?"

Your model is stiff, mouth a moue as he checks the street for other observers or a possible collision with a laden handcart.

"Fun?" Doyoung asks, and you snap his picture on the offbeat, enjoying his look of surprise.

“Like you've taken your date to one of the most romantic places on earth, after buttering her up with a night cruise of Chao Praya and finally letting her eat real food."

He sniffs at a fall of marigolds, a smug look on his face that you commit to film, right before he sneezes.

"For the record, we're eating after this. Som tam hardly counts as a meal, I just didn’t want that drink going to your head."

You're shepherded through the vast warehouse of the main market, to an adjacent street, and into a non-descript building painted in a funereal white.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" you ask, once the key code is entered and you enter the strange business.

"I called in a favor," he says, taking your hand, leading you up a metal staircase past a simple storefront of dried blooms and shelves laden with boxes and bottles alike.

An apothecary? An alchemist's shop? The purpose of the space eludes you.

"An atelier," Doyoung explains. "One of the most sought out in the world."

There's the distant hum of the city outside and a central air you're unused to in this climate but the upstairs is quiet–by all accounts either an office or a laboratory, or a mixture of both. The central working area is a chaotic but organized space filled with tables of glassware and dried floral arrangements contrasting potted orchids, small beakers of coffee beans littered amidst rows of labeled brown bottles.

"So this is how they make perfume," you say, inspecting a stoppered bottle labeled "Gerianol 10%".

"Not just any perfume. The best. Here." Doyoung leads you to a much less cluttered workstation, the desk arranged with the lights still on, a note detailing some instruction you can barely read before he slips it into the pocket of his slim-tailored pants. Beneath it is a notebook, scrawled with a perfect cursive English you recognize from the cards he’d included in boxes or bags whenever he’d bothered to claim their contents.

"Sit," he instructs. You think he means the comfortable chair but before you can sit down he presses you to the desk, caging you in.

"Sit," he repeats, hands on your hips through your slinky skirt, lifting you to the bench. You scoot back, carefully, the white blooms of some exotic flower brushing against your cheek until he can move the vase a careful distance.

"Do you understand what we’re doing here?"

You can't possibly know what he means, eye level with the graceful column of his neck and his exposed collarbone beneath his translucent button-down, drowning in the melange of scents but most especially his clean, neutral cologne.

"No," you say, honestly, heart beating fast.

He picks up a corked flask from some kind of metal scale, dipping a thin thread of paper into it to waft it a fair distance from your nose.

"Before we came here--before you even agreed to this trip–I sent instructions to my friend for a specialty blend of their creation. It took quite a bit of back-and-forth–I even visited here last month to take a private class and make sure we prepared the base and middle to your standards."

"For me?"

You feel dizzy, reaching out to take the sample and smell it again, his hand capturing your own before you can bring it too close to your nose. He wafts it for you, expectant as you absorb the details.

Indeed, it smells divine–exactly the kind of warm, bright notes that make your heart feel at ease. There’s something floral and citrus worked in, not too heavy, the finish leaving you with an impression of a lazy summer afternoon.

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Did you make this to match what you knew I liked?”

"Yes.” Doyoung exhales, looking almost sheepish. "I had some references. That cheap shampoo you never stop buying, the Lush exfoliator with the orange blossom, even–" he shudders a bit– "that awful Chanel you doused yourself in, in high-school."

"Coco Mademoiselle," you say. "It's been years since I–"

"It didn't suit you," he says, standing up to sample another bottle from the neat row.

Something dawns on you, a distant memory locking into place.

"It was you," you gasp in realization. "You're the one who got rid of it. I should have known when you tried to give me that bottle of Jo Malone–"

“It had already turned. You need to store your scents away from direct light.”

“It was a keepsake!” There were very few possessions from your youth that you’d been able to hold onto–not only because your parents had been barely able to afford your school uniforms, much less gifts. What little you’d had was lost when your house was destroyed by the men your father owed money to, this small thing neglected in the destruction.

“It didn't suit you because it wasn't made for you," he continues. "You wore it because you thought it would make you fit in, when you should have made what you wore wear you–"

"Please, stop."

You have to bite your lip to the point of pain, remembering how excited you'd been to unwrap that tiny bit of luxury your parents had saved up to buy you, your mother sure the brand name would save you from another day of humiliation. You didn’t have the heart to tell them that the cutout ad from the magazine on your wall was for the model, not the actual perfume, but you felt loved by the gesture all the same.

Hundreds of thousands of won an ounce for it to only turn on your skin, well before afternoons spent on the basketball court under the thankless sun. That memento had aged from pink to a sickly rose unused on your cosmetic shelf, a totem from a time when you imagined yourself belonging. Before it had disappeared, like so many other things.

You can't remember the last time you'd worn anything, had never even gone near that section of a department store after the humiliation of being made fun of for smelling cheap.

“My dad skipped lunches and my mom worked double shifts to get that for Christmas my first year in Kocher,” you say. “Mira was the brand ambassador for that campaign, you know.”

Mira had been your idol even before you won the scholarship she’d established to attend Kocher. Perfect, beautiful, but most of all the first girl in their sphere to show you genuine kindness.

"It must be so easy for you," you say, wiping your face. You rarely cried these days but that memory was particularly painful, a reminder of how often you’d assumed Doyoung found you just as offensive. Not just your scent, you thought, but you.

Something to be tolerated. Below his regard.

"Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you don't like, you can get rid of. I'm sorry, I don't live in your world. I can’t just throw something away when it’s not useful."

"No," he says, quietly, abandoning his explanation. "That was thoughtless of me. I can replace it–"

“Can you?” You glare up at him. “Is this what you really want? To dress me up like your perfect doll and feed me from your hand so I’m more able to suit you?

Doyoung looks like he's going to be ill, every design in his head unraveling before your eyes. You’d feel sorry for him if you didn't know this was a lesson worth imparting.

"Don't ever offer to replace what you don’t know the true value of," you say, voice trembling.

There's a weighted silence as he considers his next words. You still haven't slipped away from him, choosing to hold your ground. How many times had you been forced to be the antagonist in some fruitless class warfare, unresolved? But then you also had a habit of finding battles in peacetime.

You pluck the newest scent strip from his frozen hand and waft it between you, at the designated distance.

“Thank god this smells nothing like it,” you murmur. You offer him a wry smile, anger fading. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You feel Doyoung’s relief as he collapses against you, forehead against your hair as his arms wrap tight around your middle. You relax after a bit, cheek pressed to his collarbone as you breathe in his unique scent–a little like fresh laundry left out in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “All these promises and plans and stupid details and at the end of the day I really . . . Don't know what I'm doing."

"I really don’t know what you’re doing, either," you say. "But I like that you try.”

"You do?" The hope in his voice makes your iciness melt a bit. You let your hands twine around his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with the gesture.

“I know it’s not easy for me to admit but I do appreciate everything you do for me, Doie,” you say.

He doesn’t respond in words but you savor the shift in his demeanor, like a weight has been lifted from him. You think even he didn’t know it was there. You ignore the glassiness in his eyes when he pulls back, choosing to look at his notes instead.

“Are these all the ingredients?” you ask, working out a few of the more familiar words. “What’s op–?”

“First things first,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. "Did you touch yourself?"

"No," you say, surprised by the shift. "I followed your instructions. No products with scents. No underwear."

You spread your thighs to make your point. His hands hike your skirt up, over the breadth of skin to your hips and then to the curl of your belly, his breath hitching as he finds you already glossy.

It had been a bit of a gambit considering your riverside excursion but he'd allowed you a lemongrass-based repellent–the scent of which is still clinging to your bare skin as he kneels down to press a kiss to where his fingers had traced earlier.

You jerk a bit, conscientious of the workspace as he spreads you, just that light touch making your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt and bra.

“Are we allowed to–”

“Shh. Relax and try not to spill anything,” he interrupts, breath cooling your wetness. “I just need some inspiration.”

“What?”

"You’re so good already," he says into your sex, spreading you so he can lightly tongue at your skin. “Perfect little flower just for me.”

After waiting so long, you're torn between begging and shoving his teasing licks away, hand threading through his raven hair as the notebook slips from your hand.

"Kim Doyoung–” you gasp as he spears his tongue through your upper folds, nose nudging the sensitive bud. “–if this is another round of teasing I will murd–”

You yelp as he hunches down to wrap your legs around his shoulders, hands re-occupied by exposing you as you try to stay upright.

“Don’t worry. You can come like this. I want to know if you taste different after.”

You don't know what he means until his mouth closes over your clit, sucking just right. You jolt, pinched on the meat of your thigh until you can relax again, making little mewls as he rolls his thumbs alongside the point of contact.

“I want you inside of me,” you beg, feeling that fluttering sensation that heralds a build-up. “I wanted to come with you inside me.”

“Soon. Just need to be good while I sample you.”

“Sample?” Your hand sinks into his hair in panic, tugging, but Doyoung is too lost alternating between suckling at your sex and palpating you with a circling thumb, his beautiful hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread.

“Drip for me, first.”

“I don't think I can–”

“You giving up already?” Doyoung scoffs, smirking up at you with reddened lips, tongue-tip darting against your clit. Every brush of soft muscle makes you spasm a bit, belly tightening unfulfilled.

You shake your head, panting. “I just . . . Doie I want you inside me.”

“You can relax and take it,” he says, tongue wrapping around your labia, sucking slightly. Your head is buzzing, every stray thought removed by his exploration of you.

“Relax. If you don't I'll just have to try until you're begging for me to stop.”

“No, please, Doie. I'll be good,” you plead. “Just . . . need something inside. Hurts so bad being empty.”

“Hand me a pipette.”

“What?”

“The one that looks like an eyedropper,” he says, hand open to accept like he’s performing surgery. You fight to find the right glassware with his mouth still on you, efforts more focused and intense as your legs tense with each hit. You find the rubber-stoppered glass cylinder, stomach dropping.

“Is this safe?” You ask, gripping his mussed hair tighter when he pulls away for a moment.

“If you hold still, yes,” he taunts. You seize when you first feel the tip slip inside you. The glass is cool but warms to your body heat quickly, too slim to feel anything.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re even pushing this out, you must be so tight.”

“I am. Too tight,” you groan. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”

He ignores you, focusing on his work, pulling the instrument free when he’s satisfied.

“Not bad,” he says, dropping it on the desk beside you before he’s back on his knees with his nose buried in your cunt. “Bet you can do better than that.”

“No, please, I need you–”

“Then drip for me,” he laughs into your leg, tracing the wetness down the crease in your thigh. You tense your hold on the desk’s edge when you feel his tongue prod at your entrance, muscle breaching your hole to lick into you. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat that has you plummeting just as he resumes stroking your clit through the slippery coat of your arousal.

Finally, you think, feeling the advent of tears for how wound tight you are, how desperate you are to feel him give you just one more point of contact with the ache inside.

“Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you repeat, the noises obscene as he drinks you in, other hand on your hip to hold you against his face. It’s not even the stimulation that makes you begin to come but the audible groan he releases as he feels you quake against his mouth, heels snagging on his shirt when the first wave breaks and those little tics inside you turn into powerful contractions around his tongue-tip taking everything you can give him.

He keeps licking you even when you’re begging for him to stop, nose tracing down to catch a stray drop from the back of your knee with a playful dart of his tongue.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, folding over him as he wipes his mouth clean in your drenched skirt. You know it’s just the start but you already feel wrung out and feather-light, wicking away the sweat that’s beaded on your own face despite the cool, dry air of the room.

“Hmm?” he hums a bit, disentangling to stand up and hold your face in his hands. His pupils are blown, sweat beading on his temples, but he looks as satisfied as you hoped he would be, your arousal drying on his slender features.

“All the prep,” you say. “Isn’t that why–do I taste as good as you expected after all that?”

Doyoung looks down on you, amused. Already you feel like you’re heating up again, with how his dark eyes flit to your mouth and back up again.

“You think I prefer you prepped?” he asks, angling his head down besides yours to whisper in your ear. “The next time I eat that perfect little pussy of yours I want it to be filthy.”

He traces the lobe with his teeth for good measure, pulling another moan out of you. “I’ll even make sure to wait until the other two have a go at you, first.”

You feel your heartbeat stutter as he presses his lips to your pulse point, tongue darting past his lips to dab at the sweat there.

“No, precious, I wanted to make sure the perfume we make tonight matches all of you.” Doyoung’s nose brushes your ear as he breathes in your scent. “Every time I wear it I’m going to remember the way you sounded when you first came for me and me only.”

The promise of it has you feeling a different kind of heat, dizzying for how much you want it to last past this night.

“Fuck,” you whisper explosively, eyes clenched shut to stay fixed upright, fisting the thin material of his collar as he pulls you from the countertop and against the hard planes of his body. “I need you. Now. Please.”

“I like hearing you say that,” he chuckles a bit. “But I’m going to make you earn it. You can wait a little longer. You made me wait years, after all.”

You let him guide you into his lap, in the chair, pushed into the desk as he opens the notebook to another page. And another, until you take over and explore it for yourself. In the dim golden light from the street outside you catch glimpses of colors and drawings, notes written of impressions and memories you’d all but forgotten in your haze of grief these past few years.

There’s even photographs taped to some of the pages–ones you know well by the fact that they’d been taken on your camera. Doyoung didn’t have Jaehyun’s artistic training but he did have an eye for capturing candid moments.

November, your first year of college. You’re standing in the first snow of the season, catching flakes on your tongue. You can still feel the burn of them, hear the murmur of the city dulled in a fresh blanket of white and taste the roasted yam you’d eaten, tossing it in your mittened hands until it was cool enough to peel.

Doyoung’s shoulder is off-kilter beside yours, unable to capture himself in the frame for all his long reach. The peek of the striped scarf you’d knitted for him in gray and blue is all that’s visible of him under his peacoat, the mismatched weave of it captured even in this poor exposure.

“Base note: cedarwood,” you read, carefully, eyes hazing a bit with emotion. Evergreen.

“I still have it, you know,” he murmurs against your temple. “I only stopped wearing it because it started unraveling.”

“I’d make you another but I quit knitting after making three scarves,” you say, wryly. “Well two and a half, actually, I ran out of yarn on Jungwoo’s and made him a hat instead.”

“I thought you were just trying to get him to hide that ridiculous military haircut,” Doyoung muses. “Keep going or we’ll be here all night.”

“Now you’re impatient?” you ask, cementing your flirtation by shifting in his lap. You can’t ignore the feeling of his erection folded against the curve of your ass, or the way he grunts when you find a better seat with it nestled between your thighs.

“Sometimes I forget you were put on this planet to vex me,” he says. You’re lifted up by the waist, a hand on your lower back the moment you’ve found the desk for support, face above the book.

“Why don’t you try reading until I’m satisfied you know exactly what you’re getting?”

You don’t fight him, elbows bent as he rucks up your skirt. You feel your face grow warm with blood as you find yourself exposed to him again, locked in by his legs and his groping touch reaching up beneath your shirt.

"Base notes: amber and–" you have to fight to keep your voice steady as he swats your exposed curves, hard enough to sting.

"Ambergris,” he corrects, voice fried with delight.

“Ambergris,” you repeat. “And white musk."

"Good. And?"

"Bisabol–" you begin, corrected with another slap on your ass that hits, hard, glass jingling on the table.

"Did you jump ahead?" He asks, knowing full well your eyes are swimming with tears.

"No sir," you say. “I didn’t think that was a real word.”

"Opoponax." He says, reaching over you to grab a bottle, dropping a thick oil on you and rubbing it into your bruising skin. "Also known as sweet myrrh. Go ahead. Keep reading."

"Source: distilled from resin from ancient groves in Somalia, bought in Mogadishu from a local orchard, all profits to fund schools and clinics for women displaced by civil war."

"Do you believe this to be a charitable effort?" He asks, hand spreading over your buttocks. You think he might be referring more to your arrangement than whatever is written on the page.

"No," you say. Your history and political know-how might be lacking but you've seen the wrong side of kindness. "It sounds like what people write to make themselves feel better about exploitation."

"Clever girl," he answers. You feel his nose brush against your skin, testing the mingling of scent with it. "Keep going."

You turn the page, swallowing back your protests. This spread is rich with text and color, a veritable garden bursting from the page. You fix on the first entry in the upper corner, bracing yourself for another faux pas.

"Heart notes: Turkish rose," you say. "What is this, poetry?"

"Aren’t you familiar with it?"

You shake your head, lips pursed in delight at the scrawl of English. “No.”

You let out a gasp as he bites the flesh nearer your back, the sting of it surely leaving a mark by the way the pain lingers.

"Read it," he says, dipping over you for another bottle. “You’ll remember.”

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows," you dictate, stumbling over every word and yet never punished for it. Instead Doyoung lets a steady drip of the bottle fall down the back of your leg to your knee, his fingers bringing up the rest to mix what he's already poured on you.

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."

You end your recitation in a whisper, leather binding and paper gripped in your fingers as he massages the oil gently into your tingling skin, careful to avoid where your legs are locked together in arousal. You're heady with scent and sensation, awaiting some reminder that this isn't just a strange dream you’ve wandered into.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight," he finishes for you as he paints the rest up your spine beneath your shirt. You let him ministrate on your body as the words settle, as time recedes and you face a version of your youth you’re not sure isn’t just fiction.

That book beside you, the first time he’d spoken to, long forgotten.

“Midsummer’s Night Dream,” you say, turning to face him again, settling between his thighs as he fails to meet your gaze. You lift his face with your fingers, cheeks indented by your gentle hold. “You remembered that, too?”

“It was the first time you ever looked at me,” he says. “And it felt like you saw right through me.”

No, you’re not dreaming. You’re the architect of this moment just as much as he’ll claim to be a cursory observer if confronted on it.

You take in his mismatched eyes–one folding a little more than the other when he smiles at you ruefully. Those freckles you’d never really spent time examining, a happy accident of the time he’d spent with you in the sun. His fingers catching yours for a moment when you weren’t paying attention.

But most of all, the haunted cast where he’d lost sleep managing someone else’s problems. When he’d still been worrying about yours.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I ever really saw you until now.”

“What didn’t you see?” he asks, expectantly.

Six years of his careful distance from you, that coldness and disinterest just another mask for someone who was as raw and vulnerable and real as you if you managed to pry open their shell. His tendency towards control, towards the knife’s slice of cutting you so cleanly from his life no one would know your name unless he spoke it aloud.

There wasn’t another human being in their right mind who’d last that test, your only grace being that he’d thought you were untouchable. His best friend’s girlfriend, of course. But beyond that, one of his best friends.

No, one of his only friends.

“What didn’t you see?”

It wouldn’t require money or taste or a family name to bring Saint Kim down to earth. Just time and small acts of resistance, like the beautiful shell remnants you’d spilled into his hands on that last trip to Maui together, when it had still been the five of you. Each ground down to a small disc with a perfect spiral at its center, a reminder of the beauty remaining in broken things.

You place the notebook in his hands, curling your fingers around his. The pages it’s opened to are sparsely constructed, besides the photographs nestled between. Only you two know what’s there, buried in black sands and blue waters. You can see his handwriting falter where he’s written the notes for this moment in your shared history, sketches of those shells, and flowers.

A single photograph of you watching the others playing in the surf, his shadow cutting across the stretch of your legs.

Top notes: Jasmine for sensuality.

Orange Blossom for innocence.

Plumeria, for admiration. a new beginning . . .

You recognize the creamy yellow-white flower he’d tucked behind your left ear when you’d fallen asleep beside him. A non-native plant to the island, you’d learned, worn to indicate one was taken. A weed, like you, now prized as a treasure.

“What didn’t you see?”

You pull back to look at him, giving him yourself without reservation.

“That I think you love me . . .” you say. “. . . Like I think I love you, too.”

He looks up at you, astounded, the chair beneath him creaking as he collapses.

For once you regret being beside him when you’d heard the same words spoken to him by other people, pulled into their lives without you ever remembering their names. The difference between you, you once believed, was that they didn’t mean it.

Now, you understand, they just never knew the true cost of losing him.

You watch him collect himself, running a hand back through his hair and curling into his seat, memories forgotten in his lap, bedamned. You’re sure the engines of Hell are running hot for the way he can’t even look at you right now.

He needs a way out, you think. You’d rather be drowned in other women’s wine poured over your head than be on the receiving end of his disregard again, the script already constructed in your mind before you’d found you had the nerve to sleep with him.

"You can be honest with me,” you say. “Tell me it's been fun but you're not interested in a relationship.”

“What?” Doyoung is just as confused as when you’d told him you loved him, as honest as you’ve been in both sentiments.

“Your family will never approve of me. I’m just another fling you happened to take a more lasting interest in. It’s better this way. Cut me off, forget about me and move on.”

It's his turn to balk. You expect his pre-programmed response. Saint Kim's gospel for turning down the interested but uninteresting party: deflect, dissuade, detach.

“No,” he says, face draining of color.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I can handle it. Really. We can still be friends.”

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully.

“What do you mean, no?” you ask. “Isn’t that how this always ends?”

“You stupid girl,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands so you can’t escape, making you look into his warm gaze.

"Don’t you get it? This was always about feelings.”

When his lips crush against yours you don't have to speak to respond, catching his head so you’re not suffocated by the raw emotion you can feel in every movement. You return each kiss until the breath is out of your lungs, until you're drowning in his scent as he forces you back onto the desk.

You’re impatient to feel him, everywhere, aware you’re ripping buttons as you open his shirt to gain access to his smooth chest, trailing kisses as far down as you can go, still unable to escape his tongue sliding over yours.

“I wasn’t going to do this here, like this, but fuck it,” he says once he’s free, fumbling with his belt as he holds you to pepper your face and neck in a steady reminder of his affection. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” you echo wholeheartedly, helping free him out of his clothing, pulling his length to where you’re still slick with oils and cum and ready for him. God, you think you’ve never been more ready to break around him, to show him what he’s brought out of you with this game.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore,” you whisper.

You watch his face, breath held and heart stuttering as he sinks into you slowly, both of you gasping at the way your heat resists each measure of his continuous thrust. It feels like he’s barely in you when he stops, making you moan in dismay.

“Doie, please,” you say, trying and failing to wrap your legs around his slender hips to capture him deeper. You’re half out of your mind with that burning weight inside you remaining still.

“Say it,” he says, taking off your shirt to have access to your skin. He pulls down your bra, nipples tugged between his fingers as he assaults your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“It’s special,” you choke out. “Thank you, please–”

“Say it,” he corrects, twitching inside you but not moving an inch more. He curls down to nip at your breast above the lace, sucking a mark into the softest part. “Without the ‘I think’.”

“No,” you resist, realizing what he’s asking too late. Your nails sink into his half-bared shoulder, head rolling against his. “You don’t get to torture me for that.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now.” Doyoung laughs against your cheek, hand splaying around your hip to still your squirming. “I can do this as long as it takes.”

He thrusts, just a little more, making you cry out in desperation as the contents of the desk tinkle behind you.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You think I love you?”

“So, so close.” He pulls out, rocking into you again to feel the seize of your entire body when you anticipate just how far he’ll go before denying you. A little more, at least, and you can feel how much it’s taking for him, see the strain in his body as he holds back.

“You love me,” you tease, this time not a question, no you think. “Saint Kim loves me.”

He sheathes himself in you fully, gripping your nape to kiss you as you clench involuntarily around him, protests in the back of your throat muffled by his tongue sliding across yours. He tugs at your bottom lip when he breaks free, fully smiling now like he isn’t buried completely in your cunt just warming himself instead of chasing his own bliss.

“What did you call me?” he asks, leaning over you to retrieve something.

You take advantage of his distraction to snake a hand between you, slipping beneath your skirt before it’s grabbed, tight, and brought up to his lips.

“Don’t cheat,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the cap of a bottle.

“You never heard anyone call you that?” you murmur, opening it.

You smell spring flowers and delicate citrus before it’s taken away, set aside when you nibble and suck at his sensitive ear to make him twitch, hands drifting across his ticklish belly down to his hipbones. He reads your intent again, stopping whatever silly task he’s doing beside you to lift your wrists to his shoulders.

“The name is a little ironic, isn’t it?” you say, squeezing him experimentally with your thighs as you stroke his nape with your nails. You flex other muscles too–earning the grunt he makes as he feels you squeeze around his girth.

He angles your head, pressing something wet and soft to where your pulse flutters in your neck. You’re immediately permeated with a light, airy, sweetness, the different scents revealed like a melody that ends in that richer, warmer scent from earlier.

“Is that my perfume?” you ask.

“An anointment,” he says, blowing across your skin to dry it and sending a shiver down your spine to where your bodies are locked together, that fullness and muted pleasure of him radiating down to your toes.

“I do seem to have a demon inside of me,” you sigh into his neck as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do they do that in exorcisms?”

“Blessings,” he corrects, adjusting with another grunt. “We’ll find out if it worked in about an hour.”

“An hour?” you grumble. “You think you can keep torturing me that long?”

“I think I gave you the key to your own cage,” he says, checking his watch. “About five minutes ago. Does it feel like longer?”

You mumble something into his rumpled collar, making him laugh beneath you. Even just that tiny movement has you involuntarily gripping him, abdomen clenched.

“What’s that?”

“I’llsayitifyoumakemecome,” you repeat, embarrassed enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck again.

“You think this is a negotiation, Y/N?” Doyoung’s hands are back on your breasts, thumbing the areola in slow circles that are very much a reminder of his touch earlier on your throbbing clit. You whimper, trying to stay still so he doesn’t figure out that if he continues to do that you might have a chance–

“You trying to make me come squeezing me like that?” he asks, breath ragged. “That seems like a quick way to end this.”

“You . . . you could just fuck me,” you wheeze, feeling the way he teases your pebbled, hard nipple with lighter brushes, his mouth quirked where it’s pressed to your forehead.

“What if I want to make love to you, instead?” he asks. He inhales sharply at your body’s response.

“Fuck, you liked me saying that, didn’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, holding onto him in desperation as the combination of his words and soft strokes make you melt into the pleasure of every small motion of him inside you. You realize he’s unconsciously pushing into you, too, unable to keep his hips from pressing into yours.

Overstimulation is making you hyperaware of the scratch of his unzipped jeans against your burning thighs, the random brush of his open belt against your belly. Time seems to disappear as he holds you quietly, letting you soak up the fragrant, radiating warm reality of him.

“I can wait all night for it,” he threatens, even just his lower register making you quiver a little around him. “Count every time you twitch and moan on me until you break.”

You’d felt him flag a little while he worked but now he’s fuller inside you, stretching you wide as he twitches to life. It’s even hotter than all of this build-up, you think, knowing he can act a menace but that the idea of you surrendering to him is what’s really getting him off.

Of course, you think, mentally steeling yourself like you’re preparing for war. In a way this is something like it, up against as formidable a foe as he is.

“Doie,” you whisper, threading your hands in his hair as you nuzzle for his lips, kissing him softly and intimately, like it’s your first time. “When did you know?”

“What?” He goes a little rigid against you, unable to hide his rapid heartbeat with how close you’re pressed to him. You blink up at him, expectantly.

“When did you first know you loved me? Really?”

He smiles, shyly, but you see the hint of anxiety on his features beneath his arousal. There it is, you think, having to hide your own satisfaction.

“Is this a trick question?” he asks, warily, eyelashes half-lowered.

“Not if I know the answer,” you say, smoothing his kiss-swollen lips with a touch. “I don’t think it’s in that book, either.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued, a tentative rock of his hips against you making you dizzy. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, just as playful.

“I’ll tell you later,” you say. “After.”

He sighs explosively, nose wrinkling. “You don’t know.”

“Want to bet?” you ask. It’s always a little thrilling seeing Doyoung presented with an opportunity he can’t resist. He fumbles for the notebook beside you, almost slipping out of you when he has to reach even farther for a pen.

“Write it down,” he says, smug as a cat who’s caught something small and easily toyed with.

“Only if you do, too,” you say.

His answer is a pained sound of agreement, adjusting himself against the desk.

“No peeking,” you say, flipping to a page in the back.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the book before the nib of the nice pen touches the creamy paper. “What are the terms?”

You ponder for a moment, feeling a grin slide onto your lips. “Doesn’t our perfume need a name? Whoever is right, gets to name it.”

You can practically taste his delight as he leans in to kiss you, forcing you to pull your page closer to you. You make him wait, filling the blank space as best you can with detail as he fidgets between your legs, sending small shocks of pleasure through you both.

“Thank you,” he says in earnest once you’ve handed him it open to a new leaf, his hand and the notebook shaking a little as he tries to write mid-air, finally resting it awkwardly atop your head in order to scrawl out his own answer.

“My eyes are closed, Kim Doyoung.”

“You’re a cheat,” he says, shushing you with an added thrust of his hips.

You settle back on your elbows, already enjoying your victory as you feel the tiny pressure of his handwriting, hear the scratches of his sketch. You're more emboldened than ever when the leather binding snaps shut.

“Now tell me,” you say, looking up at him coyly.

“Can’t I just show you–”

You snatch the book from him, turning to your entry. Then, to his horror, you rip your page free and fold it shut, tucking it into the pocket of his open shirt.

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “You had 24 hours, right? I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.”

Doyoung looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell you that you won,” you say, looking down at his page. You trace the fresh ink with care, admiring his tight script and explanation. “February to April? How could I have guessed an entire season?”

“Did you at least guess the year?” he asks, looking a little better for your affirmation of his win.

You nod, finally feeling the discomfort of your position and resting your head against his warm chest. There’s nothing awkward about being wrapped around him like this, the late hour and strange, still space making it easier to forget the world outside.

“Hard to forget,” you say. “I thought for sure I’d never see you again after that winter holiday.”

Another break with Johnny, of course–but this one had been your choice. You’d finally felt the crushing weight of two years of contempt from the people around him, the Suh family matriarch at the center of it all, doing everything in her power to crush not only you but the people you loved.

And then, when you’d needed him the most, Kim Doyoung had walked away from you, too.

“I didn’t think I’d see you, either,” he sighs. “It was the first time in a long time you weren’t with us. With me. And it was my fault for pushing you away when you were just trying to–”

“It’s in the past now,” you cut him short with a finger pressed to his lips.

The memory is painful, still–and you don’t want to sully this moment with it. You appreciate that even in his roundabout admission there’s a clear understanding for all you’d been through. You’d hoped he remembered that time from the past, when you’d first peered between the cracks in his carefully-manufactured facade.

Now you could be sure of what it meant to him. You feel like your own walls are crumbling, the light shining through.

“So you chose the period of time when we didn’t speak to one another, at all?” you muse. “Not just one day?”

“You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “You were on my mind every minute and every hour of those three and a half months.”

He pauses, sigh warm against your brow. “I couldn’t tell you when I knew, for sure. I certainly couldn’t admit it, then, even to myself. But sometime then, I realized I cared more about you than a friend.”

You’d never doubted he was capable of it, never doubted it might be true. But hearing him admit it, now you know why he wants to hear it from you, too.

“Say it,” you say.

He finally looks at you again, tired but alight with amusement.

“You first,” he says.

“Who knew three simple words would be so difficult for Saint Kim?” you tease him.

“Alright. Come here,” he motions, slipping out of you with a shared groan. He pulls you to a couch under the shuttered window, settling down and forcing you to straddle him. In this position he can’t stop you from immediately taking all of him, his eyelids fluttering when you bottom out.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs.

“You’re not going to last,” you laugh, delighted by the way his nose scrunches when you clench around him.

“Says the girl who’s sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He grabs on to your hips to roll them against his own, fingers tightening when you wriggle against him. “You’re gonna say it first even if I have to fuck it out of you.”

“Whoever comes first, then?” you offer.

“I can live with that,” he sighs, head resting back on the couch.

You rock on your knees slowly, satisfaction warming you throughout as you force him all the way inside you. You let him hear how he makes you feel, pleading sounds and whispers every time he hits that place in your upper walls, curved inside of you perfectly. It doesn’t matter if you're in control you can’t help but hunt down that lovely rush of pleasure in your belly, twining your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Good girl,” Doyoung praises, watching you in awe through half-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I always wanted to know what it would look like when you lost yourself with me.”

His words make you shiver, brushing his lips until he holds you against his mouth to show you how he likes it, less exploratory and more confident. It’s maddening how good he is at this, making you feel every single sweep of his tongue across yours, hand on your neck keeping you from escaping.

“Don’t you want to–” you protest as he helps you to lay flat on your back across the length of the wide loveseat, settling between your thighs.

“Oh god, Doie,” you whimper when he takes over, finally, finally, beginning to fuck you. It’s just as slow but at least he penetrates you fully before pulling out almost all the way, shoulders quaking as he holds himself up.

“Promise me you'll let me dote on you for the rest of your life,” he says, not waiting for your response before driving into you again. His movements are barely controlled, grunts escaping the back of his throat when his hips snap into yours again.

“I promise,” you hold onto him, back arching off the cushion to meet him, blissed out in the relief of each, careful stroke against your fluttering walls. That crescendo is happening whether you want it to or not, every overworked knot of muscle threatening to snap loose.

“Promise me that no matter who you fuck you’ll always let me treat you right,” he says, voice breaking. “You’ll let me show you how I feel even when I can’t say it.”

“Yes, Doie. Yes.” You pull down on his shoulders, trying to move for you both, kissing his jaw and throat.

“Stop fighting me and take it,” he says, moving more easily with the thick coat of your cum, establishing a gentle rhythm.

His voice has always made it hard for you to pay attention to anything else but he abuses that power now, murmuring guidance into your neck that has you tightening around him as he fucks you deep and slow.

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “You’re taking me so well. Take all of me.”

You feel shivers up and down your body, nipples hardening tight as they brush against his chest, his hair tickling your forehead as he blindly kisses and licks at your mouth and chin.

You’d thought he’d be concentrating on something else in his head to keep from losing himself but instead it’s you who's floating, breath captured in your lungs when he adjusts on top of you to pin your hips down, pressing your leg wide to bury himself to the hilt.

“You feel so perfect. I could really do this all night, you know,” he smirks down at you from where he’s supported on his elbow. “Is that what you want?”

“No, fuck, please,” you whine. There’s no thoughts in your head besides just how much you want that ache inside of your cunt to melt into real pleasure.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, feeling how you begin to pulse around him as he swirls his hips up into that most sensitive part of you, his flat belly grinding into your clit. You gasp, leg locking around his, helping him work you apart.

“No no no,” you beg, face hot. “Just . . . just kiss me through it, please.”

Doyoung’s smile grows wider. “Say what you already told me.”

You twist your head against the cushion, earning his hand on your jaw as he makes you look at him while you break, kissing you between panting breaths. His confidence is written in the cocksure grin remaining on his mouth, more cruel when he bites at your bottom lip, hard, before licking the pain away.

“Say it,” he breathes, slowing down on purpose.

“I . . . ah,” you cry out, “I love . . . please don’t stop.”

“What’s that?” he asks, pace punishingly slow. Your legs lose feeling, vibrations starting in the back of your thighs and tremoring down to your feet.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you repeat, nearly tipping off the edge, “I’m coming, I’m finally–”

He slows down right as you hit that crest, making you cry out in frustration.

“Doie, I’ll kill you–”

“Say it,” he says into your lips, pulling out–too far–

“Iloveyou,” you exhale, seizing around him in time to your wildly beating heart.

“Louder.” He slams into you again, merciless.

“I love you, you stupid bastard,” you say, hanging on to his shoulders. “I love you!”

“Good enough,” he says, drilling into you until he can feel you break, orgasm sustained through the painful pressure of him losing himself in your throbbing heat, finding your mouth again, finally, to silence the repeated mantra on your tongue.

You kiss him fiercely, unloading everything words aren’t enough for, legs tied around his waist to keep him locked inside you until he’s fighting back, fucking you so hard the sound of it fills the quiet room.

“I love you,” you repeat a final time for him, just to watch the way it makes him break, jaw slackening when he loses control, finally.

He stutters into his own orgasm, teeth scraping against your locked lips, forehead pressed into yours as he empties inside you for what feels like forever, finally collapsing on top of you with a whimper when his arms give out and he’s as limp as his cock inside you.

You scrape your nails across his scalp, soothing him. You don’t mind his weight, or the way you’re still pressed together with sweat and your combined spend.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he rasps, eyes dazed as he looks up at you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head tightly. “Not for me, at least.”

“You’re not mad?”

You know he means his inability to say the magic words but you crack a smile, just as pleased with yourself.

“About the bet?” you ask. “No.”

Oh, it’s delicious seeing realization dawn on his face, little glimmers of surprise and horror bubbling up from his afterglow.

“Fuck,” he says. You’re grateful he doesn’t deny it, rolling to the side in defeat.

“Who told you? ‘Woo?”

You laugh softly, rolling over to pin him down with your leg, trapping him against the back of the couch.

“You did, right now,” you say, relishing having him where you want him. “I had a hunch. And I know you, you’d never beg for someone to say something during sex–”

“I didn’t beg,” he corrects, grimacing.

“What was it? The first one to get me to say it? Bonus points if it’s on your cock?”

“Ah, well,” he says, perking up despite the fist pressed to his forehead in embarrassment. “Then you don’t know.”

“I’ll find out soon enough, Jaehyun wouldn’t–”

“You’re really not mad?” he asks, painfully reticent as you pull his hand away from his face and twine your fingers together.

“Not if it means I can use it as leverage,” you say, kissing his knuckles.

That doesn’t seem to surprise him, at all.

“Good girl,” he says. “What do you want?”

A few years ago, give or take

You’re a little too happy, an awful fact considering how much he'd missed seeing you this way.

Lately you’ve been sleepwalking through your life, all those tiny fractures and bruises finally having the time to mend–but healing is a painful process in itself. Doyoung had returned from his family’s formal Chuseok gathering in Singapore, eager to check in on you after receiving sparing responses from you via text.

You didn’t have a friend he could check in with instead any longer–not after that one girl had fled the country, the other ghosting you after their father was mysteriously laid off from a company he well knew did business with Suh International.

He’s worried about you long before that, terrified that one last straw would break you even if by all indications you were strong enough to take it. After you’d had Johnny arrested and solicited a no-contact order you’d cut your ex off completely, moving to a tiny apartment far from where you’d grown up, changing your number.

Only Jungwoo knew about it, and it was he who’d reluctantly offered your whereabouts to him after a few glasses of whiskey in their usual club.

“She asked me to keep her info on lockdown. Got that hacker kid, what’s his name–Haechan? Wiped her socials off the map, so he can’t find her. He did good but you know Suh.”

Doyoung nods. They hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, probably because the idiot was combing through every civic office and apartment building in the city. Hell, he’d probably driven around until he found her by sight alone, knowing that animal wouldn’t rest until he knew her whereabouts, as stubborn about chasing her down as he was about refusing the F4’s help.

“His mother called me to ask if the place he bought in cash was for her,” Doyoung says, knocking back his drink as he receives a text, heart sinking that it's not you. “Did you help him buy it for her?”

Jungwoo sighs. “No. I just got her rent halved with some coercion, you know? But then he goes and buys a unit in the same building with whatever stash he thought the Old Tiger didn’t know about.”

The Devil Kim leans back, long legs akimbo as he gestures towards the server for a refill. “He’s waiting for her to go back to Chicago before he moves in. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I did not,” Doyoung affirms, turning away from the group of women at the bar sending looks towards their private table. “Let’s plan for when Madam Suh leaves. I can have her pull him into the London offices, considering he’s failing his courses.”

“Stone cold,” Jungwoo says, smirking. “Glad I’m not on your shit list.”

“Just don’t fuck with her,” Doyoung says. “Or fuck her.”

Jungwoo laughs into his glass. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

He’d thought he wasn’t, either.

Not until you’d called a few days later, your speech a little slurred. He couldn’t have told you if what he was doing was important even if he was in a meeting, showing up to find you picking at a bowl of bar snacks in what he thought might be one of the nicer bars in your shitty part of town. Not as shitty as your old neighborhood, but it wasn’t a competition.

“Saint Kim,” you’d heralded him, raising an empty glass still smelling of watermelon and hibiscus.

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, here,” he’d said.

You were dressed in one of your few nice outfits, a little on the revealing side for his tastes, but those had been Johnny’s you’d conformed to–animal print and thin straps, tastefully tasteless.

“I wasn’t,” you say, hiccuping. “Alone.”

For the first time in a long time fear spikes his blood pressure into overgear. Were you drugged? Was he going to have to fend off another predator who'd found you vulnerable?

You deserved the chance to move on but there was a real threat in what would happen to anyone who approached you without their permission. Johnny’s, yes, always, but the F4 had also agreed to look out for you well before your last incident at a club.

“Who?”

“She left,” you say. He feels instant relief, reaching out to adjust the thin coverup slipping off your bare shoulder.

“You make a new friend?”

You shake your head. “She’s nice. Met her in one of the ikebana classes work is paying for. Thought we were hitting it off but I must have said something dumb because she ran out of here, fast.”

You look up at him cautiously, too inebriated to realize he can recognize a set-up before it begins.

“You didn’t just talk about your ex, did you?” he asks, settling beside you at the bar. He orders something less ridiculous than whatever you'd been drinking, while you scroll through an Instagram feed, finger trembling over the screen.

You look up at him, color-stained lips curving in an easy smile. “You want to see what we’re working on?”

Doyoung finds himself looking through a grid that is immediately obvious is not yours. His mouth goes dry, seeing rows of beautifully-staged floral centerpieces, the backgrounds as familiar as the back of his hand. You don’t seem to notice, going to the user’s story and tapping in vain to find the picture she’d posted.

“She deleted it already. Huh. Well, she texted me the picture–”

“Stop.” Doyoung places his hand over yours, his palm damp from the immediate flood of adrenaline.

“So you do know Mona,” you say. You look up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy with the brand of hopefulness and naked curiosity he’s seen you charm everyone else around you with before.

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Doyoung pulls cash from his pocket, not caring how much he puts down except that he’s sure it’s enough to cover the amount he’d like to drown himself in right now. Enough to go blind and burn out the phantom of that face he’d put behind him years ago.

“Put your coat on,” he says. “I’m driving you home.”

“But I’m not–”

“Now,” Doyoung says, grabbing your wrist. He’s barely ever touched you in the years that you’ve been friends, and it sickens him when he feels you freeze in fear and confusion, that trauma response buried so deeply it's in your bones.

He wants to be kind, he wants to be patient with you. He just doesn’t have it in him to be anything to you right now.

“What’s wrong, Do–?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, dragging you out into the bitter cold evening, the streets slick with sleet, your heels catching on the pavement as you stumble in his wake.

“Stop,” you yell at his back, trying to yank your arm free from where he’s bruising your skin with whitened knuckles. “You’re hurting me–”

“You’ll live,” he says, pulling you to where he’s parked his car, the engine roaring to life the moment you manage to close your door. He can barely look at you, realizing too late that your crestfallen expression is making him more upset than the lightning strike of seeing her name again.

“You didn’t ask my address,” you say, quietly, met with his silence as he drives much more dangerously than the weather permits. He's forced to speak with you once he's slammed the brakes at an intersection, red light shading you through the windshield.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you try to set us up by having me come there?”

You’re petulantly silent now, an answer in itself.

“Answer me,” he orders, hands gripping the wheel.

“I thought you’d want to–”

“Do you think we have the kind of relationship where you can just do whatever you want and get away with it?” Doyoung’s voice is calm but he sees you flinch at his words and tone, your shoulders moving under your jacket as you begin to quietly cry.

It drives him deeper into anger, hitting the gas with a roar of the engine the instant the light turns green.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself for this one, Y/N,” he says, already regretting every word tumbling out of his mouth. “You fucked up.”

“I just thought you could both have some closure after that–”

The car jerks as he brakes in the side lane of the service road, cars roaring past them honking their horns. Your sobs are barely audible over the idling engine and the blink of the hazards he turns on while he tries to find calm, your face turned away from him.

“You thought that interfering in other people’s personal lives would make you feel better,” he says. “No wonder you don’t have any real friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see your full body shakes still, can feel as that armor encasement you’d put together piece-by-piece over years of dealing with loveless reality falls back into place. And, years later–no, even hours later–he’ll remember how at the time he was stupid enough to think it was the right thing to say.

You needed a reality check, he’d thought. A reminder that all the wishes and hopes in the world wouldn’t change the bleak architecture of it, uncaring by design and much easier to navigate without them. That moving on was the only path to this idiot’s dream of closure, something you knew nothing about for how often you’d let them pull you back into their world, blinded by sunk-cost and loneliness.

All the things he wished he believed for himself, but without the benefit of your optimism.

“Fuck you, Kim Doyoung,” you say, opening the car door and slamming it shut without so much as a glance behind you. He’d waited to make sure you reached the nearest bus stop before driving off, calling Jungwoo to let him know you were here–crying in the cold.

He'd seen you in passing.

His best friend knew a lie when he’d heard it, most especially from him.

He wouldn't hear from you again until spring.

Kim Doyoung can’t sleep.

He’s not allowed to.

He can’t move either, arm going numb beneath your curled body, your breathing finally easing for the dozenth time since his trial began. You have horrible sleep habits–kicking off the covers, stealing the pillows–but tonight you’ve passed out with that same bone-deep tiredness he’d felt earlier, face beatific in the slivers of light piercing through the slatted shades.

It’s close to dawn, he thinks, the cacophony of insects and birds outside transitioning from a quiet chorus to a full orchestral suite. Soon it will be too loud to sleep deeply.

“Y/N?” he whispers, tentatively, not daring to move.

You don’t respond, relief rushing through him. It’s not that he’s desperate to join you in slumber but that he’s waited for you to finally surrender to REM. He needed you down.

And you needed it, too.

He’d negotiated with Jaehyun when you’d been in the shower, earlier, sacrificing precious moments of shared time exploring your skin and the new taste of you under the water to supplicate himself to his best friend and worst enemy in this moment.

“It’s a charter,” Jaehyun said, blinking sleep from his eyes but awake enough to be angry. “You’re not finding another one short term.”

“I emailed you the tickets. Cattle car but first class, at least,” he says. “Jungwoo agreed to give you his day, he doesn’t want to take her out until after dark, anyway. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Jaehyun had slammed the door shut in his face, but he hadn’t missed the budding smile on his friend’s face. At least one person was rooting for him.

That’s how he’d earned another morning with you. As always, making up for lost time.

You’re half out of the covers, one leg sprawled over the duvet as you sleep. You’d put on one of his softer button-downs, inhaling the smell of it after he tried to steal it back.

“Please let me wear you,” you said. “I want to dream about you.”

Being around you like this is more comfortable than he imagined, as if you’re being slotted into a position he didn’t even know there was an existing space for. He’s woken up to women in his bed but you’re the first who’s ever asked him for this, particular experience.

“I used to have this fantasy, you know, whenever we crashed at your apartment.” He’d watched you go sheepish recalling, dates omitted for a reason. “Sometimes I’d lie there and touch myself thinking about you crawling into that guest bed–maybe a little drunk or you’d forget which room. Or maybe, you just wanted me to think that. I’d be awake but I’d pretend to be asleep while you . . . used me.”

He experiments by tracing his fingertips up your bare leg, the peek of your lace underwear beneath the hem of his shirt maddening for how it curves into the crest of your ass, presented for him. A treat dangled before him, the command to partake only that you wanted him to make it slow–you wanted to wake to it.

He sucks a breath in, erection in his sweatpants hard against the band already from just watching his sleeping beauty. He finds every mark on your leg, every fine hair, thanking Heaven above you aren’t overly sensitive or ticklish like he is when his hand slips beneath his shirt to your belly.

He slots himself against you, carefully, as if adjusting in his sleep. He has to wait for your breathing to even out again, slipping his free hand up to your breasts.

“Used you? Did you not get off in this scenario?”

“I mean, yes. But it’s mostly about you. You wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just fuck me full of your cum and then you’d leave me leaking it on your sheets and go back to your room. Or sometimes I’d crawl in your bed, if you were alone, and you’d cover my mouth so the others couldn’t hear it. And the next day it would be like nothing happened, you wouldn’t even bother to ask how I’d slept.”

He loved how much of a slut you were, when you felt comfortable enough to share that side with someone. Johnny had certainly never appreciated the subtleties of your nature–too blinded by adoration to even consider degrading you on purpose.

No, Doyoung had known for awhile you pushed the boundaries with him to see if he’d break.

Your nipples harden even though he’s barely handling them, discovering what shape your breasts make in repose as he tries desperately not to rut into the swell of your ass. Warming himself in you earlier had been one of the hardest challenges he’d faced but it had been worth it to learn you inside and out, to know how to make you grip his cock with that delicious little cunt of yours with just a kiss or a word that pleased you.

You don’t wake but he knows he’s gotten through to that little lizard brain of yours when your legs rub together unconsciously, pushing back into him so his cock is settled between your buttocks. The friction from the lace is like the proverbial pea under a mattress–rubbing against his cock through the layers, catching on the veins and scraping the underside of his cockhead.

It’s already a nice ache, one he ignores as he adjusts to better continue plucking and teasing at your body beneath your shirt, until you’re used to his touch enough to truly fall back under, once more.

You're so vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he brings his hand down to test the patch of moisture growing in the fabric, that lace sticky with your dreams of him.

Use you, he thinks. You have no idea what he wants.

Doyoung can play with the fantasy of you crawling into your boyfriend’s best friend’s bed while he’s passed out in the other room, determined to be punished for waking a sleeping monster . . . but it’s not what he's fantasizing about now.

He takes time in stroking you, a single finger digging in between your lips through the fabric, listening intently for your breathing to change. You sigh, one of those full exhales one does in their deep sleep, but you arc back a little, into his touch, leg falling forward crooked so you’re a little more spread.

Doyoung wishes he could move down there and use his nose to push you apart instead of his hand but that’s not your fantasy–not this time. You didn’t want him to spoil you anymore, completely underestimating his love for it. True, he didn’t often eat other girls out, too personal or just too much of a chore to figure out what they liked, but you weren’t ever going to be with him and not come from that first.

Just the thought of tying you up so he can spend hours fucking you on his tongue is making his cock pulse, too hard to be ignored. He quietly pulls down the drawstring of his sleepwear, freeing himself so he can replace his finger with the much wider tip of his cock, biting back a groan as he rubs into that damp, soft lace he’d known would suit you the moment he’d touched it in the display box brought to his private buying room.

You'd never know he’d already fucked himself with it before ever giving it to you, that errant fantasy of touching you finally realized as you whimper a little in your sleep at the soft push of him between your legs. He finds where your clit is getting just as swollen as the rest of you, bouncing against warmth and the promise of unspooling that need with his help, again.

Just his precious little cocksleeve, spoiled and worshiped, showing your gratitude by begging for it even when you’re unconscious. He tests the waters of the scenario by slowly pulling the seat of your underwear to the side, easing in between the fabric and your folds.

You twitch against him, sheets rustling. He holds still, cock jumping and balls tightening with a little anxiety.

He only has this one chance.

Outside in the dark and quiet of the house sleeps the man everyone knows you’re really with, the one who doesn’t have to fight for an I love you to pass your lips. You’d never understood what it felt like watching you climb into Jaehyun’s lap whenever the whim took you, pretending you didn’t know what it did to him or the other two of them watching you.

Your breathing is shallow and your hand flexes a bit, against the pillow, but that’s it. Within a minute he’s grown more confident that you’re still asleep.

He reaches over you, pressing the pads of two fingers against the front of your underwear while he slips a little deeper between your legs, eyes almost rolling back in his head at the contrast between the satiny slide of you and the rougher cling of your panties. It’s a relief as he loses himself to it, rutting from the back while he applies constant pressure to your bud.

“Mmm.” You make a soft noise, but he doesn’t pull free, choosing instead to keep a hypnotizingly steady pace fucking against you. Your hips twitch against him, seeking out more contact, but he doesn’t rush–pressing his head against the back of yours and melding with you in the softness of the pillows and sheets.

You’re so wet you’re soaking his pants, everything he collects tickling down to his balls pressed into your ass. He’s going to stuff your mouth with his fingers, when you finally open it, make you gag on them while he fills you full from behind.

You moan now, voice syrupy with sleep. He doesn’t care if you’re still down, not with you gently pushing back, trying to get release.

Not yet, you little harlot, he thinks, hips going still again. He’s burning at the wait, your cunt continuing to glide against him as you act out whatever is going on in your dreams, the movement making him insane for how closely it adheres to his desire to have taken you back when you were innocent, his little virgin weed learning what her body wanted, seeking it out in his bed.

“Treat me like one of the girls you don’t really like. Use me.”

Such an unending fantasy of yours that he never wanted you, almost sweet for how dumb you are–or just willfully ignorant. He’s always liked the second one better–your little game played out that you were one of them. Dressed in that school uniform, kicking your skinned knees, sucking on a piece of candy while four college-age idiots hid their bathing-suited boners under their robes, fighting or fucking around in front of you so you could keep up that precious little illusion of immunity.

“Johnny,” you murmur in your sleep.

It should make his blood run cold but as with all twisted-up and tangled desires it only makes him feel ignited, pulse pounding in his head. You’re still asleep and thinking of someone else, someone not even in this house, the guilt of it passing over him faster than a cloud on a breezy day.

He rocks back into you, this time pulling out enough that he can find your soft hole, already tight again–the only part of your body not relaxed as he forces his way past the flutter of your opening, cockhead sensitive enough to sense the more textured g-spot where he knows you’ll come fast and easy if he fucks into it.

“Shh,” he says, finally trailing his mouth against your jaw, pushing into you softly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmhmm,” you reply, nuzzling into the pillow, curling into him. He pushes a knee between your legs, folding you into the bed beneath him as he begins to fuck you, finally taking you for himself and himself alone.

You’re so warm inside, body adjusting to take him easily for how boneless you are, kitten-like mewls muffled by the pillow. It turns him on hearing the edge of pain there, the way you struggle when he pulls your underwear up so tight it sticks between your folds, clit rubbing against it the way he’d stroked himself to completion with it tied tight around his cock.

“Stay quiet or I’ll stuff your mouth full instead,” he whispers against your shoulder, feeling as always a little stupid but losing that internal cringe when you choke on a moan.

“Is that what my little slut was dreaming about? Gagging to tears on another man’s cock?”

He feels you tense at a bit at the suggestion, letting him use you in spite of the rougher handling.

“That’s right. You said another man’s name in your sleep. Do you think that's acceptable?”

You shake your head, whimpering.

“Such a whore you can't keep track of who's dick is inside of you. Tell me, who's fucking you right now?”

“Doie,” you say, music to his ears. He'd always hated the nickname until you started using it. You were the only one–you were always the only one who made his chest burn with unsated desire when you said his name.

“Who owns this tight little pussy?”

“You do,” you gasp out.

“Are you going to forget me? Maybe I need to fuck you so hard you only think of me when you spread your legs for another man.”

Doyoung feels electric at how easily you begin to crumble with just a few words, squeezing his dick so tight when he says something you like, even more when he makes it hurt.

“Sleepy baby going to let me stuff every one of your holes until I’ve had enough? Use you like my own little doll?”

You nod, no longer capable of speaking except in a plaintive moan when he leaves you to shuck off his pants and pull down your ruined panties, pillow pulled beneath your belly to force your ass up. In this position he can drill into you deeper, burying you into the mattress with each thrust.

“That’s what you get for crawling in here,” he says, fingers digging bruises into your hips to hold you down. “Keep your mouth shut and take it.”

The pleading, almost scared noises you're making have him hard and pulsing, two steps away from coming himself but in no hurry to. He pulls your hair to bring your head back, shoving his fingers in your mouth.

“You like that?” Your cunt can't hide it, sucking him in. “Get them wet for me.”

You drool over his knuckles, gagging as he fucks your mouth with them in an awkward rhythm to his merciless rutting. He spits into his hand when he's satisfied, fingers swirling around the tight rim of your ass so quickly it makes you buck.

“Don't scream,” he murmurs, giving you two fingers at once. You make a noise through the pillow you're biting, gripping him tight. He's gentler with this, slowing, letting you adjust to take him.

“This is my favorite, right here,” he groans. “Feeling my cock inside you with my fingers. I'd fuck this tight little ass again but I want to feel you come like this.”

He begins to stroke you harder, deeper, wet and sticky when his balls slap against your abused cunt. He keeps his fingers buried in you, scissoring you open as you take it.

“Come for me, Y/N, grip me good so I can fill that pretty mouth of yours.”

It's a beautiful feeling when you begin to throb, contractions in your ring of muscle letting him know when you hit your peak. He fights the tingling in his balls, the urge to come with you painful for how long he's been holding it back.

He talks you through it, instead.

“Such a good little hole,” he says. “You're coming so hard, baby, can feel it so well.”

You moan, loud, as you break, loosening almost immediately, flooding him with sweet, hot warmth. He makes sure the last of those tics is gone before pulling out.

“Roll over,” he says, straddling you with a hand on the headboard, delighted by the sight of your flushed face and starry eyes. You already know what to do, tongue lolling and uvula exposed as he guides himself into your mouth, soft tongue swirling around his tip.

God help him he's been thinking about this since yesterday, pushing deep enough to gag but not choke, fucking your mouth and the hot tightness of your throat when he hits it. It’s the sight more than anything that drives him to spill hot white ropes of cum into your mouth, pulling out to milk the last few splashes on your parted lips and delighting at the sight of you licking them with your spend-covered tongue.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, dropping down and kissing you, finally, tongues stroking each other until you finally pull free to breathe, blinking up sleepily at him.

“You do taste different,” you tease.

“I taste like you,” he says, pressing soft kisses all over your face. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Did you like that?” you murmur.

“I loved–” he pauses, watching the smile spread on your wet lips.

“I love you, you know,” he finishes. You reach around his neck, comforting him out of instinct, but he doesn’t need it.

“I love you,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue now that they've flown out so easily, the tightness in his chest easing as you rise up to kiss him.

“It's beautiful to hear you say it,” you say. “But you're right, I know.”

“I think I even know the exact time and date,” you say, reaching between you into the pocket of your shirt to pull out that torn and folded art paper scrawled with your words and an amateurish sketch.

Tomorrow morning . . .

[Unknown number] [Tomorrow morning April 13th dawn is at 6:17] [I have something to show you. Meet me on the roof of the East Wind Hotel]

Doyoung looks at the text message again, hand hanging over the railing of a dance floor, conversation with the woman by his side forgotten. With the blur of a late night and a trip to a different hotel room, with a different woman, he'd almost missed it.

Probably one of the innumerable flings he's had, Jungwoo recruiting him to get every last lick of enjoyment out of Seoul before he enlisted. His friend snatches the phone from his hand.

“No business,” Jungwoo slurs, eyes bloodshot as he focuses on the text. “I thought you weren't working hospitality anymore.”

“It's not . . .” There's something nagging at him, like a bird pecking at his skull in time to the drone of the EM, the buzz of conversation. A sense of deja vu so strong he's forced to cycle on it.

“Pfft. I know you don't bring girls back to your kingdom,” Jungwoo says. “Stop working and party.”

Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to see the cryptic message through, doesn't know why he races across town at 5 am, reeking of whiskey and another woman’s perfume, doing his best to sober up as the designated driver talks about the change in weather, the cherry blossoms in full bloom outside the window.

The morning commute is already surging and the destination central to the city so by the time he makes it he's out of breath from running two blocks away from a jam, head pounding.

“ . . . restricted for non-guests,” someone is saying, voice recognizable as an intern he knows from his leadership program, still stuck on night front desk duty.

“I just need a few minutes, please. I need to take a picture–” He'd recognize that voice in a hundred years if he hadn't heard it, not just a hundred days.

“What's going on here?”

You freeze, shoulders stiffening as you turn to face him. Not much has changed–a new haircut, same ratty old sneakers–but you look different. No longer a ghost, but just as untouchable for the skittish way you hold when he approaches, only the barest relief on your beautiful features.

You don't smile, don't even say hello.

You're scared of him, again, just that thought making him spiral.

“You came,” you say, exhaling. “We need to hurry. We need to get to the roof.”

Doyoung turns to the staff. “Is the roof access still shut down?”

“Stair access only, sir.”

Your eyes go wide at the interchange, something like embarrassment passing over your features as you begin to laugh.

“Of course this is your hotel,” you state, smacking yourself on the forehead. “Of course, why didn't I think to check that. God, I'm an idiot.”

“We didn’t change the name when we acquired the chain so it would be unlikely for you to have guessed that,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“There's no time and it's easier just to show you. We need to get to the roof, now,” you say, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it towards the stairs.

“Y/N,” he says, holding you fixed and pointing at the elevator. “We can take it up as far as we need to.”

You're still laughing maniacally twenty floors up. “I was going to cry if I had to go up another flight of stairs.”

“Are you really taking pictures?” He asks, gesturing at your camera.

“No, but I started carrying it the first time someone called the police on me thinking I was going to jump,” you giggle, wiping away tears. He feels delirious from lack of sleep, so maybe you are, too, but it doesn't seem to be the case as you spring out the doors, forcing him to guide you when you're lost in the executive suite hallways.

“I managed to sneak in last time, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm glad you came just in time, I think they were going to kick me out.”

He's surprised at how easily things have snapped back into place between you, no mention of anything that's happened as you race up the stairwell to the roof access.

“Will you tell me–”

“Oh thank god,” you say once your through the heavy doors and collapsed on the green helipad, growing impatient when he props the door open out of habit. He's been up here many times, nothing remarkable about the space besides the legacy sign on top, view crowded by other buildings at varying levels.

“Stand here,” you say, pushing him into place, turning him by the arms. “Do you see it?”

“I don't even know what I'm looking for,” he says, beginning to grow annoyed.

“Look over there, at the People's Bank. Relax your eyes, it will only take a minute.”

He feels increasingly foolish but he does what you ask, cool morning breeze clearing his muddled head. The sky is washed in a pink and blue haze, the sun cresting the more mountainous region of the city behind you to bathe the city in solid gold.

“There,” you breathe, letting out a little sigh.

“What?” All he can see is a few birds passing over the vista of crowded advertisements and neon.

“Do you see the light?” you ask.

“There's tons of lights–” he begins, cut short by the blinding catch of the sun's reflection on one of the characters, then another. He spells it out slowly, guided by your hand holding his to each one.

The bank: Sa.

The next building over, also burning brighter with the touch of the sun: Rang.

Then an advertisement that has been up long enough most of the original message is lost. Hae.

“How did you find this?” he asks, knowing it would be impossible for him to have ever seen this without knowing the trick of the light.

“I didn't find it. Well I did–I had to search some buildings for it.”

Later he'll find out you climbed close to fifty flights of stairs in the last two months, had spent every waking moment not working or in school breaking into buildings before sunrise to find that exact spot, forever amused at the thought you hadn’t checked his family's flagship hotel first.

“You don't remember getting the same message from someone else?” you ask. “I was worried you wouldn't come, again.”

Again. Something tugs the memory up from the oubliette he'd locked it into, Mona teasing him about sleeping in and missing their appointment.

Mona.

His stomach falls, checking back behind him at the door as if that particular ghost will return to haunt him.

“She's not here. I wasn't trying to set you up,” you say, recognizing the dismay he can't hide. “Honestly. And I know whatever closure you find is yours and yours alone. You were right about that, too, I'm sorry.”

You twist your hands in front of you, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. “I did this for me. Because I wanted to know what she tried to tell you, even if she couldn't say it aloud.”

You don't look at him, can't in order to continue. Doyoung feels like a live wire, exposed, two months of painful loneliness and a lifetime's worth of avoidance of this fact all surging through him in this moment.

As much as he would prefer to leave he's not going to run like he did back then, when he'd ignored the hard parts to pretend like a friendship wasn't something more. Not with the stakes of losing this one.

“You once told me you were just friends, even if you couldn't be one anymore for her after you realized you loved her. How it broke you to be with someone you couldn't be with, who wanted something different.”

“Now you know. She didn't want to stay one, either,” you say. You look up at him nervously, regaining your confidence.

“I just wanted you to know that you were loved, Kim Doyoung. You still are.”

You turn away towards the door, pretending not to have seen the tears dripping down his face under his glasses. He ignores them, too, not knowing what to say or do to make sure you never leave him again.

The spot never mattered to him, the word and it's confession forgotten in time. What changed that day was having you in front of him after so long, the way you were a reflection of him so many years ago, fighting to be by the side of someone who didn't know how to love you back, the right way.

He'd promised himself than that even if he couldn't say it, he'd show you.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for interfering with your life, but that’s what friends do.”

You'd almost made it to the stairs when he'd wrapped around you from behind, the first ever time he'd held you in an embrace, unsurprised to find you shaking like a leaf as he rested a wet cheek against your hair.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Thank you.”

You relax a little, squeezing his hand. In that small gesture everything is reset, everything is okay again. They won't talk about this for the next few years, even when Jungwoo asks how you'd come back into their lives so suddenly and without any indication that things had changed.

But they had. Deeply.

“You can make it up to me by buying me breakfast,” you say, smiling up at him, wiping his cheek with your sleeve. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Did I win?” you ask.

Doyoung can only laugh, giddy, as you burrow into his side to smother him in kisses and teasing. You were put on this earth to challenge him, after all–always right there to match him in stubbornness and competition.

He presses his nose to your neck, inhaling the remnants of the scent you'd made together, one bottle for each, though you didn't have to know his formula was just a bit different.

“‘Tomorrow Morning’ has a nice ring to it, I suppose. It lingers well.”

“It was my answer, actually. I needed to see if I could break Saint Kim's vow of romantic abstinence before I made up my mind,” you say, smug as you move to get up. “Glad you were able to find out before your time was–”

You shriek as he pulls you down again, pinning you to the bed.

“I still have a few hours,” he says, voice dangerous. “I'd like to hear you say it again.”

#kim doyoung x reader #kim doyoung fic #kim doyoung smut #nct smut #doyoung x reader #doyoung smut #doyoung fic #nct x reader #nct fic #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct djj fic #nct dojaejung fic #nct djj smut #nct dojaejung smut #nct f4 au

147 notes · View notes

httpskuzuu · 9 months

Text

Softer

hola :D fyodor is alive - fyodor esta vivo I was thinking about making a masterlist or something like that, I don't know if when I upload this I will have it published or how I will do it

anyway, I really liked this and enjoyed writing it, it's longer than I usually post but Idk, by the way, I hated translating this, it was a pain in the ass, but that's what I get for joining a mostly English community ññññññññññññ-- well, this is mostly inspired by Sinner by TheBloodySadist, you can find it in Ao3 if you want to read it, I had an obsession with it a few months xd

jaja this has gone on too long, well, adiós adiós :p

Yandere!Fyodor x Reader

English is not my mother tongue, sorry for the mistakes

sumary: You tried to escape and now you have to take the consequences, but you make something change in Fyodor... (juju, mistery >:p) Pt.2

tw: yandere behavior, kidnapping, failed escape attempt, explicit punishment, explicit violence, blood, broken bones, humiliation¿, manipulation, brainwashing, stockholm syndrome, reader needs therapy, stabbing, nudity, sedative, Fyodor is a fucking tw

You tremble under the weight of the boot on your ribs, you swear that at some point you hear them cracking along with an agonizing pain throughout your body.

The pressure on your body makes it impossible for you to breathe properly, which is a serious problem considering you are hyperventilating. Every breath burns your exhausted lungs and aggravates the pain.

You'd ask Fyodor to kill you already if it weren't for the fact that your throat is in a terrible condition from so much screaming and pleading.

"Well, I see I can't trust you, can I?" Despite the situation, Fyodor's tone provokes you inner anger, sounding so sarcastic. Something deep inside you tells you it's not sarcasm, it's concern, but you can't believe it, especially not coming from Fyodor.

You imagine that, if you had the strength at this moment, you would kill him with your own hands. You know well you wouldn't be able to, but it's pleasant to think about it.

"I do everything for you, and still you try to escape." He puts more pressure against your ribs and you've never felt as much pain as you do now. "You spoiled brat." He growls and his Russian accent becomes much thicker.

He removes his foot from your body and you can breathe. Relief courses through your veins and, out of pure instinct, you thank him for that act of kindness. He could have stretched it out longer, put more pressure on you and broken your ribs more, but he was merciful and gave you a break…. A break, you know that your punishment is not yet over.

You don't know yourself and your thoughts. One thing you have to hand it to Fyodor is that his training is really effective, but you're tougher than that, or at least you like to think so. Realistically, right now, you just want to curl up against him.

A kick in the side snaps you out of your thoughts, you moan and cry from the pain, your throat burning with fire. You never want to utter a sound again in your life after this.

"Aw, you poor thing… Does it hurt? Now you know how I feel every time you leave me." He's lying, you know that, but that doesn't take away the guilt that settles in your head free-form.

You shouldn't have run away, Fyodor isn't even that bad if you behaved: no gratuitous physical harm and he takes better care of you than you could ask of a kidnapper. You were an idiot, you deserved all this for not appreciating your life with Fyodor properly. God… Why did you try to escape in the first place? The Russian would always would catch you, you were just causing trouble.

Ignoring your destroyed throat, you decide to speak. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't try to escape again. Please give me another chance, I'll be good…"

Fyodor kneels down next to your agonized body. He puts his hand against your tear-stained cheek, at first you flinch, thinking he was going to hurt you more, but then you lean almost automatically against his cold hand.

You cry harder as you feel Fyodor's gentle touch, you don't quite understand what's wrong with you, you just know that you want to melt against his hand. You close your eyes and tremble. You want a hug from him, you know you shouldn't want that, that it's disgusting, he kidnapped you and hurt you, but at a time like this, when you've been disobedient, he's still showing you affection….

"Shh, it's okay, милый." He catches the falling tears with his thumb. "I know you're sorry, but your punishment isn't over yet." You automatically tense up and slowly open your eyes to look at the man in front of you, there is a smirk of superiority painted on his face, observing your pathetic appearance.

You don't dare open your mouth to complain because deep down you know very well that you deserve it, you deserve the pain for being so bratty and causing inconvenience to Fyodor. You accept what lies ahead of you and let Fyodor pull his hand away from you.

With his grip firmly on your hip, he guides you to turn around. You keep the cheek that was previously receiving the loving touch against the ground a thousand times colder than Fyodor.

You concentrate exclusively on the Russian's hands, it's just an idiotic attempt to ignore the pain all over your body. He pulls up your shirt, leaving your back bare against the cold, why is everything so cold all of a sudden? Fyodor is too, in a way he brings you peace of mind, it's like he's everywhere, even in the air…. What the hell are you thinking? You firmly believe you're delusional at this point, these are not your real thoughts, it's clear to you, he put all these idiotic ideas in your head and now you can't get them out. It's agonizing in a certain way.

The only thing you hear is your irregular breathing, if it wasn't for Fyodor's hand clamped on your hip, you would think you were alone right now, and you don't know if you would like that more or less.

Something sharpening presses against your upper back. Everything breaks down in a moment as Fyodor makes a straight cut across your entire back. It hurts horrendously, especially as the blood starts to spurt out. You start to feel dizzy and for a few moments you convince yourself you're going to pass out, but no, your body is still holding on, focused solely on Fyodor's hand.

"Breathe, моя любовь. It's just a cut." You repeat Fyodor's last sentence in your head like a mantra: it's just a cut, it's just a cut. He could have done it much worse to you, you were fine, just a cut.

You take comfort in closing your eyes hard and imagining that you are once again a child at the doctor's office, that you are simply having blood drawn for a blood test because you have not been feeling very well lately. You make a fist with your hand and clench it, digging your fingernails deep into your palm, it's as if you are clutching the hand of one of your parents for comfort. There is no more pain, it's okay, it's all right-

Another cut, this time horizontal, creates a cross on your back. You don't care, you're at the hospital, and you're safe, nothing will happen to you. It's just a cut.

Fyodor stabs the weapon into your side. You open your eyes wide as a torn scream comes out of your mouth.

Fuck it all, do you really deserve this? Have you been so horrible? You assume that Fyodor simply hates you, that he wants to torture you.

Fyodor pulls the weapon out of your body, you look out of the corner of your eye and the wound doesn't seem to be that bad, you thought it was deeper because of the pain, but no, it was something apparently superficial. You didn't want to know how much it would hurt if he had really stabbed you deeper.

Fyodor's voice right next to your ear startles you. "Sorry, was that too much? Did I hurt my little one too much?" That mocking tone again, but you hear a hint of love and concern, or so you assume. No, it's impossible for Fyodor to hate you, if he hated you there wasn't that hint of love, was there? If he hated you, he wouldn't say to you like that: my little one, his little one.

"I can't take it anymore! Please, Fyodor!" He leaves a chaste kiss on the back of your neck, and you cry disconsolately, you don't know why, but you do know it's not because of the pain, the pain doesn't matter anymore.

"You can." Fyodor's voice is the ultimate authority right now, and if he says you can take it, it's because you can. "You don't want to disappoint me, do you?"

After those words you instantly panic, you desperately shake your head, of course you don't want to disappoint him! You have to accept your punishment, it was your fault in the first place.

"Brace yourself, dear." Fyodor leaves a trail of kisses from the nape of your neck all the way down your back, above the vertical cut. You assume he's filled his lips with blood and hate yourself at the thought of how attractive he'd look like that.

A new cut interrupts your hatred. You scream, but nothing more, you can take it, for Fyodor….

It's just one cut.

You don't know how many cuts there are next, you are not able to count them. You don't feel your throat anymore, but miraculously it still works, your screams are still coming out of it, you are relieved because you still want to keep your voice to talk to Fyodor, to ask him to hold you.

Fyodor removes your shirt completely and lays it aside on the floor. He holds you firmly and helps you sit up, any movement is hell for your ribs, but you endure it by concentrating on your kidnapper, on his loving but steadfast touch.

You look at him dizzy, teary-eyed and shattered. He is smiling, you have not disappointed him. Your head hurts as you cry disconsolately against his chest again.

"What's wrong? Why are you crying now? Your punishment is over, I won't hurt you anymore."

"You…" You're unable to speak, it's too much at once, the pain and your thoughts coming together in a ball of discomfort. You shake your head and hug him tightly.

"Are you afraid?" You weakly shake your head. It's true that Fyodor scares you, especially on these occasions when he punishes you, but you're not crying about it now.

Funny, you don't know why you're crying, but you do know what you're not crying about.

Fyodor is silent, thinking about why you're crying. "Is it about the pain?" You deny again.

Fyodor hums thoughtfully. "If you don't tell me what it is, I can't help you." You ponder on that: does he want to help you? Is he serious?

You make the feeble attempt to gather your thoughts and speak. "It's just- I don't know" Your voice comes out shakier than you wish it would. "When you touch me… It feels so good, I don't deserve it, I don't-"

"Oh, I see… Aren't you crying because of something bad? Is it because it feels good?" You nod quickly, yes, that's as close as you feel. You're happy when it touches you, when it's good to you. Were you crying out of happiness? Well, you guess so, although it feels more depressing.

"It's okay, relax." He leaves a kiss in front, and it breaks you inside. "You've taken the punishment very well, come on, you deserve to be taken care of."

The process of getting up from the floor is horrible, not only because of the pain all over your body and your numb legs, but because your mind doesn't stop spinning around Fyodor's last sentence. It feels horrible and so good at the same time that your mind is only around one specific person.

He helps you up and you let him lean your useless body against his. He guides you through the house, being patient with your slow pace. He's mostly silent, except when he tells you how well you're doing or that not long to go. Since when did Fyodor know how to talk so pleasantly?

You reach the bathroom, he sits you on the toilet and turns on the bathtub faucet. While it is filling, Fyodor takes some pills out of a drawer that you have always found locked. You don't know what the pills are or what they're for, but he hands you one and you take it without question.

You let your head fall against Fyodor's stomach, even though he is standing upright he doesn't move an inch and lets you be comfortable, he strokes your hair and you sigh lovingly. You don't deserve it, but you need more of this Fyodor, the soft Fyodor who takes care of you and makes you feel good, what did you have to do in the future to keep it in this shape? If you need to be damaged for that, well, you are willing to do it.

"The tub is full." He warns and moves a little away from you, causing you to raise your head. You miss a little that he's touching you, even though he's only been separated of you for three seconds. He holds you under your armpits and helps you up. "I need you to stand up on your own, can you, дорогой?"

You try not to focus so much on Fyodor asking you if you could do it instead of just sending you the order, and focus on standing on your own.

The Russian undresses you completely, his hands are soft, and you feel them all over your body. They are so cold, and you are so cold too now that you are naked. You are vulnerable, now more than ever, and Fyodor's fixed gaze on you disturbs you. You are simply an easy prey to hunt, his prey.

He doesn't look like a hunter now, as much as his gaze is like knives stabbing through every spot he focuses on, you think he's not doing it on purpose. Fyodor doesn't know how to be nice, he never has. He knows how to be neutral: he can keep you alive and give you necessities, but he can't kiss you and keep you warm.

But there's something wrong with all this, he's being warm because since when are his hands so soft against your battered body? You need him, you need him so much it hurts, is this his way of being nice? Okay, fine, you accept it without complaint.

When he puts you in the tub you want to die, the cuts on your back burn at the contact of the water. You don't dare say a word at that or ask Fyodor to pull you out, you're afraid you'll upset him, that he'll get tired of you being so weak and whiny and stop being gentle. Fyodor could have left you lying on the cold floor, bleeding, but he didn't. You can't be an unbearable child to him.

The Russian starts washing your body, putting special emphasis on your cuts and the wound on your side. You look at his serious face with need, why were you only now realizing how handsome he was? Mmmh, you must have been blind before. He notices obviously your shy look on his lips and he smiles, that smile indicating that he was superior to you and despite that, he was still keeping you alive and forgiving of everything you did.

He approaches you and gives you the only thing you needed to be satisfied for today: a kiss. It reminds you of all the good things, strangely enough in those memories Fyodor also appears and disturbs you minimally.

You question yourself that, maybe, Fyodor does know how to be gentle.

This is the proof you need to know that now this was a new version, right? He kissed you. You feel a warmth spreading throughout your body, now it is warm, and his hands are warm too. There is a big change in temperature and it feels like heaven.

After that, Fyodor continued to wash you with special care, ignoring how your face might explode from how red it was.

The only thing that could crush the heat was tiredness, you almost fell asleep a couple of times, but you didn't want to fall asleep because it would be like wasting time with this soft Fyodor, what if tomorrow he returned to his serious and impassive face? You can't waste this time or you would regret it.

"Go to sleep, take it easy. I'll take you to bed when I'm finished." You looked at him as the most merciful being in the world. He cared about you…

You hold back your sobs for these acts of kindness, you don't want to cry anymore, not only to avoid possible discomfort in Fyodor, but for yourself, the headache is unbearable.

You let yourself fall asleep, with your head supported on your knees and Fyodor's soothing touch.

You had a nightmare which you don't remember, or don't want to remember. You wake up with your body held in Fyodor's arms, warm and gentle.

Since when did everything become so homey? Homey? Would that be the right word? Describing any situation involving Fyodor with that word doesn't feel natural to you.

You find it hard to feel your body, and your thoughts don't flow as quickly and aggressively as they used to. It's like being enveloped in a cloud, full of comfort and calmness.

You just feel something on your side, at the site of the shallow stab wound. You think maybe it's some bandage, but your limbs are asleep and too comfortable against Fyodor to move them to check. Otherwise, you feel nothing, only someone else's hand on your lower belly, it's extremely intimate in your perspective.

You turn your sleepy head and glance sideways at Fyodor. He seems calm, looking at you, his face is emotionless again and it scares you. You come to convince yourself that he is still the soft Fyodor, if he wasn't his hand wouldn't be on you, he still hasn't changed, you repeat that to yourself until you believe it.

"… Fyodor, do you know what?" Your voice comes out weak and hoarse, you wonder how soon your throat will heal. You're thankful you can't feel it well, so there's no pain anymore.

"Mmmh?"

"I think I love you."

"Do you?" There is a change, minuscule, but a change.

You nod and look away from his face, you can't stand it, no. There has been a change, you don't know in what. There's been a change, a change! Is it good or bad? You want to think it's a nice thing.

"You're different."

"I am? In what way?"

"You're softer, something nice."

"You're drugged, you don't talk sense."

"But you're different! Seriously, you never take care of me."

Silence rules the room and it hurts. Why did you talk? What idiocy, it's your fault everything that happens now, all your fault.

"You cried with happiness when I helped you sit up." Your gaze returns to the other.

"I know, so what? You want me to cry again?" There are no bad intentions behind your comment, there really aren't. You feel your brain empty, and you can't quite interpret the situation, what is Fyodor trying to tell you? Is he angry? Is he going to punish you again? It's exhausting to use your brain in this state, so you just give up and go with the flow.

"No, I don't want that." The silence stretches a little longer and, for just a few seconds, Fyodor looks away. He looks away. "I just… I thought maybe you'd be happier if I treated you good."

"Ah…" He wanted you to be happy? Really?

"I know I hurt you, but you know I only do it when you deserve it, don't you?" You nod and the cuts on your back burn for a few seconds. "Good. I really want you to be happy, with me."

You feel like at any moment the old Fyodor will appear through the door and say something like it was all a test, and then punish you for failing it. It's a horrible feeling, but you come to believe that it will seriously pass.

"So… Are you still going to be soft?"

"Yes, only if you are obedient in return."

Yes, yes, yes. He's going to keep being gentle. For some reason your chest hurts, and you sob, Fyodor has a few drops of surprise in his expression. You hide from his gaze and just focus on the yes, it's like releasing a horrible burden out of your body. You weren't afraid he was lying, something told you he wasn't, his expression maybe, or his voice, or….

"Are you crying with happiness now too?"

"I like the soft Fyodor…"

"Mmmh, that's good, isn't it?" He pulls you a little closer to his face and leaves a soft kiss on your forehead. You'd like to kiss him in return, but you can't move. "I'll keep being soft then."

I swear all I could think about while writing this was to to send it all to hell and make these two fuck

maybe I will make a second part

#bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd fyodor #fyodor #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #fyodor x reader #fyodor x y/n #fyodor x you #yandere fyodor #yandere bsd #yandere bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd

291 notes · View notes

burgers-in-anime · 11 months

Text

The lack of burgers in Witch from Mercury is giving credence to my theory that burgers are not so much a calling card for Gundam as they are a calling card for Yoshiyuki Tomino. Stay with me here.

Burgers most prominently feature in the original Mobile Suit Gundam, in Zeta Gundam and in Gundam ZZ. Each of them have multiple episodes with burgers, and in many cases, those burgers are explicitly addressed — not incidental details. Zeta Gundam, famously, has Bright chowing down on a burger while Emma drops some psychoanalysis of Kamille on him, but it also has Bright being told off for eating a burger on the bridge. Burgers are all over ZZ, including a scene where Judau hands them out to the crew from a basket. And MSG has a burger as Sleggar Law's death flag, but also an entire episode dedicated to Bright trying to procure salt to make the ship's burgers taste better — both of which were iconic enough to become meals in the Gundam cafe.

And one thing these three shows have in common is that they were all written and directed by Yoshiyuki Tomino.

Four examples of burgers in early Gundam works. The top two are from MSG; the bottom two are (L-R) Zeta and ZZ

Tomino doesn't feature them as prominently in other works, but they do still appear. For example, Victory Gundam still includes a scene of characters eating burgers, and Gundam F91 has a burger on a sign in the background. That second example doesn't seem like much until you remember that F91 was originally planned as a full TV series before being compressed into a movie, and has little opportunity for characters to have downtime — so that one appears at all feels very intentional.

You can also see burgers on display in another Tomino work from the period, Space Runaway Ideon.

L-R: Victory Gundam, Gundam F91, Space Runaway Ideon

Meanwhile, when Tomino was kicked off the franchise, the burgers went with him. In G Gundam, Domon is offered a pizza, and there is no sign of burgers. In Unicorn, Banagher takes Mineva to get some fast food, but they visit a hot dog stand. In Gundam Hathaway, Hathaway and friends get fried chicken. And in Witch from Mercury, the only food on display — aside from the tomatoes — is cafeteria grub and, uh, slabs of ham.

Really, the only instances I know of burgers appearing in a non-Tomino Gundam are in Wing, and all that has is a burger on a billboard and a Wacdonald's sign — both blink-and-you'll-miss-it background details. While on the surface, this may seem comparable to F91, it really isn't: when you have forty-nine episodes and a movie to work with, you can do a lot more than a sign.

Gundam characters pointedly eating something other than a burger

And what happened when Tomino returned to the franchise with Reconguista in G?

The burgers came back too!

Reconguista in G

There is a single exception here: War in the Pocket, not directed by Tomino, does prominently feature burgers (and I don't mean the meme). But that, itself, may be telling. War in the Pocket was the first Gundam series to be made without Tomino's involvement; were the creative leads perhaps inspired to add a gratuitous burger scene to evoke the spirit of Tomino?

All that said, the reason this is still only a theory, and not a master's thesis, is that I don't have all the data yet. I haven't seen every post-Tomino Gundam series (though, frankly, I have no real drive to see what I've missed), and the only one of Tomino's non-Gundam works I've seen is the aforementioned Ideon. If burgers show up in Xabungle, L-Gaim or King Gainer… then I'll really know I've cracked the code.

#burger history #gundam #mobile suit gundam #mobile suit zeta gundam #mobile suit gundam zz #mobile suit victory gundam #gundam reconguista in g #gundam witch from mercury #yoshiyuki tomino #anime #burger

561 notes · View notes

toxicanonymity · 1 year

Text

masterlist

TAG: Toxicanonymity ☠️. She/her. FAQ

ASKS: I don't really do traditional requests these days because I'm busy with WIPs, but feel free to come in my ask box with thots, questions, etc.

WARNINGS: Everything is NSFW 18+ w/ F!Reader unless otherwise noted. May have violence, dubious consent (dubcon), non-consensual (noncon), unsafe sex, and more. See additional warnings in individual fics.

!! Some of the older Halloween HCs have broken links, and idk why. If it's bold, it means I checked and fixed it. I'll make my way through all of them eventually.

Pedro Pascal characters masterlist

Boyd Holbrook characters masterlist

Scream

Masked ghostface unless otherwise specified.

⭐ Every inch | Every inch 2 | Every inch 3

fight flight or fuck blurb

Rat in a cage oneshot drabble

⭐ Prescott House Bed & Breakfast (Billy Loomis)

Waking up cold blurb

Road house - scream AU (Dalton x reader)

Texas Chainsaw

⭐ The Spread (3.5k) Tommy Hewitt x reader. "Heavy" on size kink 🤭

House of Wax

✨The Wax Job (1.3k) - Bo Sinclair x reader

Halloween

Corey Cunningham Stories (CC)

A lift and two screws (4.5k words) - 2️⃣ 🥩

Laid back (2.5k) - 👤 💐reach-around HJ.

Laid back: V-Day Vibes (3.2k) 👤💐 🥩 🧎‍♂️ toy

Corey from the yard (3.8k) - 2️⃣💐🥩

Corey from the Yard pt. 2 (5k) - 2️⃣ 🥩⚰️

It's Halloween (babysitting w/ CC) (3.5k) ⭐ 🎃

Yet another rattle - FFM (2.7k) - ft. Allyson

Corey C. from the call center (4.5k) - 💐

Dominating Corey in a declining mall (2.5k) - 🧎‍♂️

Tighty-whitey workout, interrupted (2k) 🥩

You wear MM's mask in bed (1.3k)

Giving head while CC streams (900)👤

⭐Good behavior (7.5k) work detail 4️⃣

⭐Birthday Wish (2k) dominant bf

⭐Give In (4.5k) 2️⃣

Hot Topic

Scrapyard (CNC) 500

Rock Bottom (22k) 🥩 ⚰️ . Corey, Michael, Y/N. (Other stories don't use Y/N).

Michael Myers Stories

Corey leaves you with Michael (300)

⭐Michael makes them watch (1.3k)

Michael in Ambrose (2k) non con

The summoning (1.2k) ⚰️

⭐Skin Alley (1.5k) MM POV

Michael's Castle (3k)2️⃣ vampire!michael

Gravel Lot (1.1k) - Anniversary 💐

Gas station (550)

Knows you're horny (650 cnc)

Breeder Michael blurb

Reader w/ oral fixation blurb

Bathroom (M!reader)

Michael makes Corey watch

Obsessive Reader GN

Halloween Headcanons

Free Use (1.2k) 👤 🧎‍♂️

The Shape's Collar (900) 👤

Coming💦 (1.1k) 👤 MM, CC

When you're a screamer (650) 👤 MM, CC

Why it's hot when Michael drives 👤

overstimulating a squirter MM, CC

more Corey squirting HCs

Corey coming in his pants

Corey porn habits

Corey catches your self-pleasure

Corey period oral

Halloween drabbles, blurbs, misc.

Who's that calling you under the dinner table (Misc) txts CC

Frisky at the movie theater w/ CC (300)

COREGASM (600?) 👤

CC sounding like Leon in DBD👤

Corey's newest ring

Corey x You x Michael

reader nipple piercings & 2 CC

Corey nipple piercings

Michael x Obsessive! Reader 👤

MM dream / CC 📞sex & CNC

Corey x you x Michael u walk in

Michael & thighs

Michael Makes Corey Watch

Halloween non-Smut

Michael & Corey MBTI types (non-explicit)

1st date, Corey wants to leave with you 💐

Amusement park date 💐

Corey's new ring (100 word drabble)

Corey teaches you to drive (300 words)

Michael/Corey poll results

_____________________

Other Fandoms

The Bear

The ghost - Mike x reader x Carmy

Triple Frontier

The Worst - Tom "Redfly" Davis x DARK!reader

Road House

Scream AU - Elwood Dalton x reader

________________________

New: ✨

Multiple smut scenes: 2️⃣,3️⃣ etc

Fluffy: 💐

Submissive: 🧎‍♂️

Gender Neutral or Male Reader: 👤

Gratuitous beef: 🥩

Kill(s): ⚰️

#masterlist #master list #corey cunningham x reader #michael myers x reader #ghostface x reader #thomas hewitt x reader #bo sinclair x reader #slashers #billy loomis x reader

1K notes · View notes

scintillyyy · 2 months

Text

okay. so the thing with fridging--the thing with fridging! is that i feel like it's become shorthand for any woman's death or perhaps any character's death that was used to further another character's story and that's. a bit off what the *idea* was when gail simone first made her her women in refrigerators website/list. which, is still available and free to peruse at your own leisure here.

so when gail simone created the women in refrigerators website/idea, it was not actually meant to condemn any of the deaths or disabilities or awful things that had *happened* to those women. it's purpose, first and foremost, was a question:

(from the front page of gail simone's website, linked above)

i'll put the rest under a cut for length

all women in refrigerators was, at its heart, was gail noticing that female characters she loved often met rather awful ends at a rather high frequency. & the point of women in refrigerators was not that these awful things shouldn't have happened to these characters, even gail was aware that it a medium like comic book people were going to have terrible things happen to them for the drama of the story, see:

--it was a question on whether 1) other people thoght she was looking too much into it & seeing something that wasn't there (she originally posted the list on a comic book sites and the response she got was, i guess rather...vitriolic at the very idea she would raise questions about whether women were treated worse than in comic books) and 2) whether other people agreed there was even a problem to begin with. it was a conversation, not a shaming, not a callout. gail's letter she sent to the creators are there. their responses discussing the issue & whether they thought there was one was all there! women in refrigerators was not meant to be condemning of those stories that had a women die for the sake of a man, it was a basic starting question much like a bechdel test is just a basic starting question--not meant to be some gotcha, just the starting point of a much greater conversation.

and not every creator agreed with her premise! there were absolutely arguments about how bad things also happen to male characters. characters like jason todd and uncle ben *in particular* were used to defend the fact that women in refrigerators wasn't some big conspiracy against women in comics, that the bad things that happened to them were just conceits of the genre. others agreed with gail that there was a problem there (ie/women tended to be more affected by these things than me) that they should probably try to do better about in the future. other creators agreed, but then went to go on to justify why their female character in particular needed to go in the fridge. mark millar, who would later go on to write kick-ass said, and i quote: "granted, the female stuff has more of a sexual violence theme and this is something people should probably watch out for, but rape is a rare thing in comics and is seldom done in an exploitative way." ron marz himself responds to alex's death!

because fridging isn't about one death. it's about a trend of awful things happening to women, often far more awful and gratuitous than happens to men, at a far more frequent rate. but fridging also doesn't mean that every individual death or disability is a problem or than individual deaths and disability shouldn't happen. the problem is the sum of the parts, not that this one character was used one time specifically to give pain to another character.

which is why the fridging conversation generally doesn't and can't cover a lot of protagonist male characters--because of the ways their deaths are usually handled with grace, autonomy, guarantee of long term grieving, and a dignity that women characters aren't afforded. it's why, though, you can use the fridging problem as a baseline model for how characters of color and infants often are treated in comparison & why those of far more apt comparisons--because they're often used in similar, concerningly frequent ways to affect protagonist characters with no consideration to the thought there may be a larger problem at hand there. (consider war games: an event designed specifically to cut down what was considered excessive bloat of the batfamily designed to kill off steph & gavin king. why, when the decision to kill them off was made was steph even given consideration of a heroic swan song arc where she was given the reward of robin as a consolation prize for her upcoming death & an entire heroic redemption arc from making a mistake -> fighting to rectify that mistake and learning the true meaning of her heroism while gavin king is not given any consideration in his own death--he was a pawn in a plan he was unaware of, there only to get his throat slit & his identity used for evil)

#anyways actually reading the women in refrigerators site should be a prelude #to talking about fridging i feel

96 notes · View notes

waitmyturtles · 6 months

Text

SOME GOOD SHOWS THAT I LIKED IN 2023! (AND SOME THAT I DIDN'T)

I watched A LOT of stuff that did not originally air in 2023 by dint of my Old GMMTV Challenge. This list is inclusive of this recognition!

THE BEST SHOW I WATCHED THIS YEAR: HE'S COMING TO ME

I have no other words: this is my favorite Thai BL of all time. Perfect length, perfect plot, perfect celebration of Thai culture, perfect acting, the greatest coming out scene of all time, the BEST of the best BL moms. Perfection.

THE OTHER BEST SHOW I WATCHED THIS YEAR: BAD BUDDY

I don't even want to think about how many words I've written on Bad Buddy this year, but they're well deserved for this REMARKABLE show. I've got a thing for shows by Aof Noppharnach that feature Ohm Pawat, what can I say!

THE MOST INFLUENTIAL SHOW(S) I WATCHED THIS YEAR: LOVE SICK AND SOTUS

The influence of Love Sick and SOTUS can be seen in SO MANY Thai BLs, even through today. Without having watched these two shows to start my OGMMTVC project, I wouldn't have the context for what later shows like Bad Buddy and Theory of Love were commenting on by way of their content and structures. Love Sick in particular was a HELL of a lift -- but I am damn glad I watched it, and I certainly feel nostalgia for it today.

Honorable mentions of influential pieces that had impacts on Thai BLs: Love of Siam and Dew the Movie

MY OTHER FAVORITE OLD SHOWS I WATCHED: UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN AND THEORY OF LOVE

BANGERS!!!

If New Siwaj ever tops Until We Meet Again, I'll fly to Bangkok and give him a gold medal. That long-ass show, 17 EPISODES, I WANTED MORE! OhmFluke's chemistry was great, the story delved SO deeply into historical homophobia and how culture and acceptance changes over time -- scrumptious. Theory of Love, man, the way this show ate up implicit compassion bias and gave it right back to us. I loved it. KHAI FOREVER!

THE BEST SHOW I WATCHED THAT ACTUALLY AIRED IN 2023: MOONLIGHT CHICKEN

Not only was Moonlight Chicken my first real live fandom experience on Tumblr, it was a hell of an amazing show, incorporating so much of what I love particularly about Thai BLs, and how many Thai BLs do not shy away from celebrating Asian cultural touchpoints. From exploring Jim's internalized homophobia by way of his rural upbringing, to juxtaposing Pattaya's spiritual symbols with growing development that upends older strains of local culture, Moonlight Chicken offered a lovely commentary on what it means to be queer in an ever-changing Thailand.

THE OTHER BEST SHOW I WATCHED THAT ACTUALLY AIRED IN 2023: WHAT DID YOU EAT YESTERDAY?/KINOU NANI TABETA? SEASON 2

BRILLIANTLY ACTED by literally the best actors in the Asian BL game: we are blessed that Nishijima Hidetoshi and Uchino Seiyou have given so much to this franchise. It's hard to write about this show because it's so perfect -- it needs no extraneous words. Plot, pacing, acting, character development, gratuitous food shots. It has it all.

THE OTHER OTHER BEST SHOW I WATCHED THAT ACTUALLY AIRED IN 2023: I CANNOT REACH YOU

Just like Bad Buddy looked at Thai BL tropes in the eye and said, "over my Nong Nao," I Cannot Reach You asked Japanese BLs about the efficacy of almost every trope we've gotten used to, and questioned them with efficiency. The biggest shocker for me? REAL COMMUNICATION, encouraged by the CIPHER, Hosaka, that allowed the two lead protagonists to confirm their love and understand each other. It was straightforward and FUCKING GOOD.

A SHOW THAT AIRED IN 2023 THAT I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ABOUT YET, THAT I NEED TO REWATCH IN CHRONOLOGY, THAT ALSO DID SOME TROPE/GENRE ASS-KICKING THAT I'M STILL THINKING ABOUT: LA PLUIE

La Pluie was FEARLESS. The show had a LOT to say about romance and soulmates not being as much of a realistic thing as content-makers... and, frankly, majority society would like us to think. La Pluie made its characters WORK for love and understanding, and had us viewers face our implicit biases about how romantic content should and could work. I watched this show out of order of the OGMMTVC watchlist to see it it was one of the best of the year, and it certainly is. I'm planning a deep rewatch for early 2024 to pen my words on it.

A SHOW THAT ALMOST TOPPED MY 2023 LIST BUT GOT DOCKED BECAUSE I ENDED UP LIKING THE NOVEL A LOT BETTER: I FEEL YOU LINGER IN THE AIR

@neuroticbookworm and @lurkingshan know that I flipped THA FUCK out over this show -- FABULOUSLY acted by Nonkul Chanon and Bright Rapheephong, FABULOUS cinematography, great story up until the end of the series. My fangirling led me to read the original novel by Violet Rain, and -- I found out that Jom was a lot more damn sassy than we got in the show! Tee Bundit's penchant for sadness won. This is not to dock the show, but the novel had more than enough material to carry the series through without repeating themes in the end. So it fell on my 2023 list, womp womp. BUT I STILL LOVE LOVE LOVE THIS SHOW, DON'T GET ME WRONG.

TWO SHOWS THAT I'M SUPER GLAD I CAUGHT UP WITH WHILE THEY WERE AIRING: THE EIGHTH SENSE AND BE MY FAVORITE

Be My Favorite looked at Krist Perawat's checkered past as a BL idol and said: we are going to examine this and make an honest BL out of inspiration from it. It wasn't a perfect show, the time travel shit didn't end up adding up in the end, BUT -- excellent acting from two GMMTV VETS made up for those tangles, and I loved the contextual philosophical references throughout the series. The Eighth Sense looked at the tug-of-war that Korean BLs have with K-dramas and their tropes and said, actually? We will have these dudes full-frontal kiss, and placed that energy against commentaries on mental health, both topics that Korea hasn't quite embraced as quickly as other countries.

HONORABLE MENTIONS OF OTHER AWESOME SHOWS THAT MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE AIRED IN 2023

Make It Right, Our Dating Sim, Dark Blue Kiss, Gay OK Bangkok, Dirty Laundry, 10 Years Ticket, I Told Sunset About You, I Promised You the Moon, 3 Will Be Free, Lovely Writer (underrated?!), Our Skyy 2 x Bad Buddy x A Tale of Thousand Stars (UNDERRATED!), and Manner of Death.

And the shows that are airing that I know will stay with me well into 2024: Last Twilight and Cherry Magic Thailand.

I had fun!

WHAT ELSE, WHAT ELSE: THE "NO" SHOWS: THE PROMISE AND STEP BY STEP

I'm not even hyperlinking my thoughts on these shows, nor gifting them with gifs. Insert Bugs Bunny NOOOOOO gif here! We got Man Trisanu, though.

THE SHOW I WAS THE MOST OBVIOUSLY DISAPPOINTED BY: ONLY FRIENDS

Despite my passionate disappointment for this show and how it ended: in the context of the OGMMTVC, Only Friends is still an incredibly important inclusion to the list. Some amazing Tumblr bloggers offered commentary that the bias against sex that OF contained within the show was actually importantly and culturally contextual to the still-conservative state of acceptance that Thailand is currently in (here and here for more reading).

Only Friends reminded us that despite any kind of marketing that we here on Tumblr, as a majority non-Thai audience, may receive about a Thai show -- that we are still not fully plugged into the non-verbal expectations of what a show like OF could promise to do, and to be okay when it doesn't reach those heights. In light of the seemingly pro-sex marketing blasts that previewed the series before its airing, OF ultimately seemed to want to take casual sex, chew it up, and spit it out. There might be reasons why that happened that we just don't know about as outsiders to Thailand. But as an Asian-American viewer that was hoping for neutral -- and maybe even supportive -- commentary on single folks having casual sex without judgement, OF did not deliver for me.

I'm ending the year reading Dr. Thomas Baudinette's book, Boys Love Media in Thailand, the first book-length ethnographic study on the impact of BL on queerness, media, and more in Thailand and across Asia. Baudinette comes from the world of Japanese queer media studies -- as someone who came to Thai BLs this year from Japanese BLs, I appreciate his trajectory. It's clearly a necessity for me to read this book in the context of the OGMMTVC, to understand how Thai BLs have changed over time, and to understand the incredibly larger impact of heterosexual/heteronormative media and themes on Thai media as a whole, as larger and larger swaths of Thai, Asian, and international societies welcome and watch BLs with open arms.

All of this feeds into my ever-growing body of knowledge about the impact of Thai BLs, both in Thailand and across Asia, as Baudinette writes about, and how these shows have and are developed/developing over time. It's been an AMAZING YEAR of watching old and new dramas for me, and I'm looking forward to seeing how the genre grows even more in 2024.

I also made AMAZING FRIENDS on Tumblr -- y'all know who you are! What a year of growth and discovery for me: this has been a fabulous experience, and I'm looking forward to even more growth in the new year!

125 notes · View notes

ratguy-nico · 1 month

Text

Okey so I saws the last episode of Dunmeshi and I need to talk about the shapeshifters.

I think is pretty obvious which belong to wich, meaning who on the team remembered each one that specific way... if you watched you got me

Im not gonna explain every single one but the last shapeshifters the closest to the real ones.

STARTO

MARCILLE!!!

This one belong 100% to Laios and is awesome, Laios can not remeber the little details about his friens, like Chilichuck scarf or Senshi's helmet so he doesn't remeber Marcille's hair multiple hairstyle so he just get her hair free BUT surprinsingly he does remeber the detail in her spellbook CAUSE HE'S BEEN STUDYING IT that is such a detail and I love it.

But I love more the implication that Laios think highley of the love Marcille feels for Falin, believing at heart that Marcille would do anything to save his sister. This man doesnt know what lesbians are but he certainly not what love is

CHILCHUCK!!!

Okey I'll be honest i have my doubts with this one, but for the sake of the ship let's say this was Senshi XD I'm kidding, this man belong to Senshi.

What is my doubt? Since Senshi and Marcille are from long-lived races they both infantilize Chilchuck and Laios, BUT this copy is not the baby face one, meaning is not the most infantileze one, But most important the tools of this copy were mostly right.

Marcille doesn't give a shit about Chichuck's tools, she doesn't need to or want to but in guess who in fricking EPISODE 2 (so soon in the anime and already a ship) have a whole arc where he observes Chilchuck works up close, developing a deep respect for what Chilchuck does getting familiar with said tools

Implications: Senshi watch this man up close, giving him more attention than any other member of the party, he is the one he rely on the most, but he's predjuice are strong and he cannot help thinking of him as a cute little child SICK and not in a good way thats you future husband >:0

y por ultimo pero no menos importante

SENSHI!!!!

GAY GAY HOMOSEXUAL GAY ejem this is from Chilchuck and I live for it

What can I say that you dont already know?

not-Senshi being the handsome one

Chilchuck inmediatly noticing the lack of the helmet detail in the Laios copy

the fact that when confronted with the fact that not-Senshi is more handsome than the real one (which rude, Marcille we can not all be lesbians like you >:0) he's just like "No, Senshi has always been handsome" re ofendido XD

y OJITO Laios said cool, Chilchuck just said Senshi has always been like that LIKE WHAT? HANDSOME? YEAH WE KNOW!

(though this was also a very gay moment for Laios)

LOOK HOW IS THE REAL CHILCHUCK WHO'S MORE RILED UP BY HANDSOME SENSHI

and the gratuitous beef to my man wtf what do you mean dumb looking one? XD no puedo es demasiado XD

This episode was too much fun the whole characters interaction just got me.

The memes the gifs LAIOS BARKING DOG LAIOS IS REAL

and ... the way I developed an instant crush on Itsuzumi here:

NOTE I don't actually have a crush on Izutsumi, I know her from the manga and she is pretty much a cat, which cute, but ... not my type lets just say that.

But in this shot they are just my tipe of guy, haven't been touch for a single ray of sun on their, have never eat a proper meal, doesn't even register the concept and doesn't know what you mean by wash hair? what is that some kinda of joke?

#I didn't check the grammatics sorry #sino me da la flojera #I will check it later #this is just me talking to much about Dungeon Meshi #just so you know #XD #I just enjoyed this episode so much #and they feed me #this episode was made for me #for my little shipper heart #chilchuck #senshi #chilchuck x senshi #they have a ship name?#i need to know #dungeon meshi #tragones y mazmorras

59 notes · View notes

blacknedsoul-blog · 9 months

Text

My bets on Nevermore's development

In the middle of the arc and with the White Raven divorce beginning, I think I feel comfortable betting on how all the story lines the comic has laid out so far will play out. A mixture of analysis and theories.

Duke and Montressor

I don't think Duke will die. For several reasons (one of which I'll explain below), but the main one is that Duke is a character who still has a lot to give: they've gone to the trouble of giving him a name, a past, a personality, and yet none of these things have been properly explored. The comic wouldn't really benefit from Duke dying because he still has a lot of interesting things to bring to the story.

Coupled with the fact that we're still learning how Spectres work, and with Duke unable to manifest, it's the perfect time to flesh out that part of the lore and give us a cool moment to show us his Spectre.

That said, I have a hard time seeing a way for Montressor to stay in the game once this issue is over: he's proven himself to be a menace that won't stop and an unmitigated sadist. The guy is just evil, and frankly, he didn't seem to have much more backstory or anything new to bring to the table.

My bet on him is that he'll die, maybe Lenore will go with the group in psycho-killer mode, Duke will confront him with his spectre, Morella will go against him to save Ada, Annabel will try to make merit so Lenore won't be asked for a divorce, or the Deans themselves will see him as a problem they need to take care of. If the comic thinks murder is irredeemable for its characters, maybe he'll have a Frollo-style death where it's his own ego that kills him (what if he becomes one of the creatures roaming the school?).

I think this because, besides how satisfying it would be to see him die, I think it would be a good time for the comic to show you the consequences of death within Nevermore. We know that going to the Land of the Dead is a terrible thing, but we don't know exactly what it entails. And seeing it would make any future threat seem more terrifying.

Post-Divorce

The White Raven will reconcile. This is obvious: the comic is about their relationship, the publicity for the comic has them together, and much of the appeal of the work comes from their romance. It's not a question of whether it will happen or not, but how it will happen and what the consequences will be.

Maybe some extraordinary event will happen to bring them back together, or we will have the equivalent of the Greenhouse 2.0 scene where they have a whole conversation about why, even if Lenore understands Annabel reasons, this is a situation that can never happen again.

One thing I want to point out here: I don't think Annabel did this out of jealousy. Maybe she feels it, but this story has made a consistent effort to show you that while Annabel is hypocritical, manipulative, and Machiavellian, she still has a moral compass: her reaction after when Montressor makes Ada bark and when Prospero is about to have a breakdown indicate that her limit is to hurt others gratuitously. She won't defend them if it puts her in a problematic situation, but this clearly pisses her; by that logic, it would even be out of character for her to try to hurt Duke because she's jealous, and more importantly, it would do irreparable damage to her relationship with Lenore (which is why I don't think our favorite Frenchman dies).

Understanding that, there's one thing these two haven't really talked about: for Lenore, getting her friends out of here is not something optional, she's completely determined to do it, and given this moment, it's very likely that the next step will be for Annabel to join the "save everyone" team: she thinks Lenore is capable of anything, and so she's going to put all her faith in her being able to pull this off.

Coupled with the fact that the plan to keep Lenore as a harmless figure went to hell after the incident in the tower, she's going to have to adjust things. And my theory on this is that Annabel is going to expand her rivalry plan to the group level.

I believe this because the logical conclusion after the banquet is that the Deans, for some reason, want the students to fight, to foster an atmosphere of competition among them. So far, giving them what they want has worked perfectly for them, so they would suggest that it would be helpful to pretend that things are going exactly as they think they are while they try to figure out how to get out of this place, at least until they can think of something better.

Yes, I assume Annabel will join the Misfits. She'll probably be like Zuko from Avatar, begging for forgiveness and winning them over one by one in individual arcs.

Another important development that will come out of this is that when Lenore is fed up enough with her bullshit, she will remind Annabel of her promise about how they both get their memories back: they are already right in the middle and it will be time to start putting the puzzle together.

However, I have reason to believe that Annabel will manage not to talk about the exact way they both died for a very simple reason: whether Lenore was Annabel's executioner or not, they died together. Lenore was there, and she will most likely blame herself because "if I hadn't gone looking for her, Annabel would still be alive" and for "not protecting her".

But by the time they have this conversation (or she finds out otherwise), the comic may be starting to address one of Lenore's major conflicts as a character: because of her fear of abandonment and her feeling that she is undeserving of love, she has no qualms about putting herself in danger to protect others. This is a terribly damaging perspective in the context that the Deans have created: not only is it naive to think that she can always protect her friends or Annabel from getting hurt, but Lenore unwittingly carries the feelings of the people who love her by endangering herself.

My head canon

Everything I've said so far is based on things the comic has shown and storylines that may not be explored in this specific way, but are more or less on the comic. But there's a lot of nonsense out there that I'd really like to see, even if there's little or nothing in the artwork to indicate to me that any of those things will come to fruition.

Annabel vs. Montressor

I would love to see Annabel vs. Montressor precisely because Annabel has no chance against Montressor: she has no experience in a fight, even if her spectre is a powerful one, Montressor would wipe the floor with her. But I think it would be a nice way to put a point: Annabel and Montressor are not the same.

He enjoys torturing others, she will be a villain to protect what she loves.

I can also think of two interesting things that could come out of this encounter: Lenore having her moment where she thinks Annabel is dead, parallel to the maze scene (for Lenore, Annabel is an unbeatable queen, so she could use a little reality check), and a conversation along those lines:

-L: Did you think that by putting yourself in danger like this I was going to forgive what you did?!

A: I didn't do this because I thought you would forgive me. Deep down, I know you already did, even though that doesn't mean I shouldn't face consequences for my actions.

-L: ...Then why?

-A: Because I promised you I would. I said I would distract our enemies, that I would protect you from my allies, and that's exactly what I did. I knew I couldn't handle him, but I was distracted and wounded enough to get the job done.

This would finally establish one thing that has been up in the air about Annabel: yes, she really behaves and acts like a villain. But after something like this, there would never be any doubt (for the readers or for Lenore) that she always keeps her promises.

Imagine the delicious drama that could come from establishing that so forcefully.

Eulalie is a Lennabel shipper

Come to think of it, the two of them haven't done a very good job of hiding it: we go from Lenore running all over school to take care of Annabel to watching them fight for no apparent reason.

I like to think that Eulalie seriously suspects something is going on between them, and when the Misfits inevitably find out about Annabel and Lenore's relationship, she'll be like, "Oh, you guys hadn't noticed?" while saying things like, "Oh, so you're the one who took us to the haunted mansion!"

Annabel and Berenice as unlikely friends

I love the image of Berenice physically threatening Annabel with the knife and saying something like "You're a posh bitch, but you've got style" after she doesn't react in fear. I also think Bernice would be the first to admit that while she won't easily forgive Annabel for putting Duke in danger, she wouldn't have hesitated to throw Annabel, Prospero, Ada, or Will under the bus to protect any of her group of friends if necessary.

Also, the idea of Annabel saying, "She's a violent slur. I want her around" is oddly hilarious to me.

Prospero as the ultimate "tired friend"

If Annabel takes Prospero with her, I can imagine the guy banging his head against the wall all the time because he sees all these idiots who are strangely competent when you get right down to it, but choose to spend their energy doing stupid things when no one is dying.

A terrible deal between Duke and Annabel

Remember that wonderful scene in Avatar where Katara threatens to kill Zuko if she thinks he's going to hurt Aang? I like to think that Duke and Annabel will have a scene like that:

-D: They didn't see the look on your face when they put up the wall, but I did. And I can assure you that I won't hesitate to act if I think you're going to hurt my friend or any of them, cherie.

-A: Promise?

-D: ...

-A: That you will be there to protect her no matter what, even from me. I wouldn't mind you holding the sword of Damocles over my head if it proves to me that you can protect her from any threat.

-D: You have my word.

In conclusion

So that's my bingo on how things will go in the comic from here on out. There are some things (like Morella's development, what's going to happen with Ada, or when the hell we're going to get some backstory on Will) that I don't think I have enough information on to theorize. But here it is.

#annabel lee nevermore #annabel lee whitlock #lenore nevermore #lenore vandernacht #nevermore webtoon #white raven

198 notes · View notes

mindshelter · 2 years

Text

speaking as someone who wasn't part of the DC fanbase in the 2000s by virtue of being a small child, can you. fucking imagine. what it was like to be a fan of tim and kon back then. nothing huge, they'd be cute together now that they've grown out of their past antagonism and are now the best! of friends! who support each other -- tim assures kon of his own humanity, refers to kon as family. kon, in turn, helps tim shoulder the grief of losing jack and is notably territorial over tim's status as robin. aw, that's sweet--

and then kon fucking dies, as one does. crosses the wrong rainbow bridge. body's going cold by the time tim reaches him. they were his colours.

and then, for the next few years, you're periodically hit with the most deranged content possible. what happens next far, far exceeds whatever inhinged nonsense DC's own timkon fans could have come up with. tim is pretending to be coping well, and a full year later, he is in fact coping so well that he's trying clone or ressurrect kon through any means possible. this brings him (and the titans) in direct opposition against the brotherhood of evil, whose leadership consists of, wait for it, a gay gorilla and his gay lover, a gay brain in a jar. their gay evil goal is to give the brain in a jar a new body so they can live happily ever after. tim is quietly devastated when their attempt at cloning Brain said new body fails. their final appearance in that issue has the Brain quote nietzsche: "there is always some madness in love. but there is also always some reason in madness."

seven (7) pages later, tim's ninety-fifth attempt at remaking kon fails. he starts destroying his lab equipment in a fit of rage. cassie exclaims that even if tim did succeed, it wouldn't really be conner, to which tim says, he'd be close enough. we could make him close enough.

hey tim what the fuck is wrong with you (don't answer that)

absolutely nobody at all, zero people:

DC: this disembodied brain and his boyfriend, a french gorilla named monsieur mallah, mirrors tim's struggle to live without his beloved friend and show tim the futility of trying to bring him back to life

it. it just keeps. just keeps going. no time to catch your breath. my best friend died. i couldn't accept it, tim says melodramatically, a single manly tear rolling down his cheek. i couldn't lose you too. i know it wouldn't have been you, conner, but it would have been something.

and it keeps going. bleeding out. will i see conner? hope so, tim thinks, because his priorities are in order. the rooftop hug. why so happy? let me guess. sale on leather?

if you need me, just yell. i'll hear you. i know you will, conner. and thanks. for what? for believing in me.

elsewhere, a sentient plant makes kon hallucinate his greatest fears and they are, get this,

1. tim not liking him (agh!)

2. tim hating him (agh!)

3. tim dying (agh!)

we haven't even reached you'll always be my robin. you'll always be my clone boy. that's the gratuitous, almost vestigial cherry in top at this point.

... like. imagine being a DC fan pre-infinite crisis and thinking robin and superboy were pretty cute, and had great chemistry, not expecting anything too crazy. and then spending the next five to six years getting repeatedly kicked in the face. i just know those livejournal forums were popping back when adventure comics #3 (2009) dropped

#I dont think enough people know that timkon was compared in canon to a villanous gay couple #that's a real thing that happened how did they come up with this shit #got slightly overshadowed by the lab tantrum in the same issue lmao #dc #timkon #for all the weirdo behaviour both of them lapse into around each other they are delightfully healthy when things are going well lol #this isnt even all of it. Not even Close #comic blogging

2K notes · View notes

brightlight-dazzlingeyes · 4 months

Text

i found you | rúben dias

💘 synopsis: it's rúben's and isabella's first valentine's day together. warnings: fluff and gratuitous valentine-cute-themed smut becasue why not. (can be read as x reader cause i forgot to mention the oc name in the story) (this is a sequel to between the lines, but can be read as a standalone; since there's no actual smut in the original story, i figured i should give my oc a nice epilogue) (W.C. 1.5K)

Once upon a time, I was convinced that romantic love was nothing more than an annoying distraction. It was like a stubborn pebble in my shoe, constantly irritating me and diverting my focus from what truly mattered.

With great ambitions driving me forward, I embraced the life of a workaholic sports journalist. I'd dreamed of this career for as long as I could remember, and I was determined to make it to the top. Nothing and no one could derail the carefully plotted course I had set for myself. Or so I thought.

But then, love snuck up on me when I least expected it, turning my world upside down. I found myself falling for someone who challenged my carefully constructed plans and made me question everything I thought I knew about myself. And as much as I tried to resist, I couldn't deny the magnetic pull drawing me closer to him.

As Valentine's Day approached, I reflected on how much had changed since that time when I thought love was nothing but a nuisance. Now, it is the very thing that brings color to my life.

And as I prepared for a romantic dinner with the person who had stolen my heart, I felt nothing but gratefulness for the delightful chaos he had brought into my life.

We stepped into a cozy restaurant, the aroma of delicious food enveloped us, and I felt a flutter of excitement in my stomach. Valentine's Day dinner with Rúben – it is still surreal, like something out of a cheesy rom-com.

We plopped down at our table, and Rúben dove into the menu like it was a puzzle. Couldn't help but poke fun at him.

"Can't make up your mind, huh? Let me guess, torn between the steak and the seafood pasta." I teased, a smirk playing on my lips.

He glanced up, "Actually, I was thinking of going all in and ordering the entire dessert menu. You know, for research." He joked, his laughter contagious.

After dinner and a couple drinks, we decided to head back to Rúben's place. As we walked out of the restaurant, the crisp evening air hit us. We strolled side by side, our steps matching in rhythm, exchanging playful banter along the way.

Eventually, we reached Rúben's apartment building, and he held the door open for me with a charming smile. I followed him inside. As we stepped into the elevator, the atmosphere shifted, a sense of excitement mingled with nerves. Our eyes met, and in that silent exchange, we both knew what was coming next.

The elevator ride felt like it lasted an eternity, the anticipation building with each passing floor. And when we finally reached Rúben's floor, the door to his apartment swung open, and we stepped inside.

We stood there for a moment, taking in the scene before us, the air thick with anticipation. And as Rúben turned to face me, his eyes sparkling with desire, I knew that this was where I was meant to be.

"I'm so happy." He whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

"Yeah?" I replied, a smile spreading across my face. "Well, there are plenty of ways you can show me just how happy."

"I'll do my best." He answered, his eyes twinkling with excitement as he leaned in and planted a tender kiss on my forehead.

His touch sent a shiver down my spine, igniting a fire of desire within me. I nodded, unable to find the words to express the storm of emotions raging inside me.

The atmosphere was charged with electricity, every glance and touch sending jolts of excitement through my veins. Rúben's eyes sparkled with desire as he guided me further into the room, his hand warm against mine. Our lips met in a passionate kiss, igniting a fire between us. We lost ourselves in each other's embrace. This was where I belonged – in Rúben's arms, surrounded by love and desire.

We surrendered to the intensity of our connection. Rúben's hands moved with purpose, exploring every inch of my body as if committing it to memory, each touch igniting a new wave of desire within me.

With practiced ease, he lifted me off my feet, his strong arms holding me close as he carried me towards the bedroom. I wrapped my arms around his neck, lost in the sensation of being so close to him, my heart racing with anticipation.

As he gently lowered me onto the bed, our eyes locked in a silent promise of passion and devotion.

His kisses became more intense, I could hear the rhythm of his breathing growing more rapid. His fingers curled around my hips, pulling me closer, pushing me further onto him. I whimpered as pleasure surged through me.

His hands continued their journey southward, tracing the curves of my body with skillful precision. The look in his eyes told me he was feeling the same wild need I was.

I arched my back, grinding my hips against him, letting him feel my desire. And the sensations only intensified as he teased my clit with his tongue, coaxing it into bloom. With every touch, with my body under his mercy, the room around me began to spin.

He parted my legs with his knee and buried his face between them, moaning as he kissed my inner thighs. In that moment I realized I could reach orgasm with just his lips caressing my most intimate flesh. I lost control. I cried out as ecstasy overwhelmed me.

Without warning, his mouth descended on mine again, seeking out the sweetness of my lips, inserting one finger inside of me. Then another one. I cried out in delight, pushing myself deeper onto his digits. His fingers worked relentlessly at their task. I let go of my inhibitions and gave myself over to his expert ministrations, gasping as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through me.

Finally, after several moments of total bliss, I collapsed under him, breathless and spent.

He pulled away and smiled, cupping my cheek tenderly, gazing deeply into my eyes.

My eyes were heavy as I stared into his; dark pools that bore an intensity I'd never seen before. There was a strange expression on his face, a combination of curiosity and wonder. It didn't take me long to realize that he was looking at me with complete adoration.

Cuddling with him, I could feel just how hard he was, laying on top of me. I smiled, still feeling a bit shaky after such a harsh orgasm, and placed my hand on his member. He looked at me with wonder.

"Are you sure you're ready to go on?" He asked, concern evident in his voice.

"Mmm, not really." I admitted, rubbing the bulge tentatively.

"Maybe I should give you a rest first." He leaned forward and licked my earlobe playfully.

"Oh, but I've been dreaming about this all day." I breathed into his ear.

He whispered back, "Well, who am I to deny you your dreams?"

His words sent a shiver down my spine, turning my knees weak. I reached up to pull him closer, craving the feel of his skin against mine. Then, before I knew what was happening, he grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head.

It was like he possessed me. With just one swift motion, he pushed me backwards, then pressed himself firmly against me. He let out a low moan as he lifted my leg higher, curling me around his waist, penetrating me with one forceful thrust. The sensation was incredible. He reached behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me tight.

As he slowly moved in and out of me, I heard the same soft sound of pleasure escape from both of us. I found myself getting lost in his deep brown eyes, forgetting where I was and everything else around me. My head fell back against his shoulder as he moved ever so slightly faster. It wasn't long before I came again.

But instead of slowing down or stopping, he picked up speed even more.

My heart raced as I surrendered to the whirlwind of sensations coursing through me. With each powerful thrust, I felt myself edging closer to the brink of losing my mind, my body trembling with ecstasy.

He whispered my name like a prayer, his breath hot against my ear as he drove me to the edge and beyond. I clung to him desperately, my nails digging into his skin as I rode the waves of pleasure crashing over me.

And then, in a crescendo of bliss, we reached the pinnacle together, our cries of release mingling in the air.

We lay entwined in each other's arms, spent and breathless. In that moment, there was no past, no future, only the intense connection between us, binding us together. With him by my side, I was ready to face whatever challenges life threw our way, knowing that our love would always be our guiding light.

#rúben dias #football fanfic #football fic #ruben dias #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias fic

57 notes · View notes

hedwig221b · 8 months

Note

oh my god! 🤩 trick or treat!! 👻🖤

I recall you were ok with mpreg (?). If not, send me another ask I'll give you non-abo 👀 🖤

Light chilly wind tickled the pages of the book that the omega held on his knees, and whined pitifully after failed attempts to capture his attention. Bundled up in black leather, scratchy wool and furs, Stiles watched a couple of birds stealing bits of frozen fat from the feeder, yet his mind was far away. A tender smile kept tugging the corner of his mouth up.

They were going to have a baby.

Stiles closed his eyes and huffed at the silly grin that took over his lips. He’d been like that for days now, feeling like he could float above the ground and dance with the snowflakes from how happy and light he felt.

He always thought that pregnancy would be a dark time for him. Looming death aside, he worried that he wouldn’t want a child from someone he despised, would break at the thought of another being living inside him. Yet, with Derek…

Stiles’ heart fluttered, as he traced the black droplets of words on the page.

Derek.

His precious face after he learned about the babe was still fresh in Stiles’ mind. His eyes were wide in fear, his closed mouth tight in awe and disbelief. When Derek told him what beautiful sound had just reached his ears, Stiles grinned and laughed, and swept his alpha in a victorious embrace. He didn’t say a word about the glistening of Derek’s eyes, how tight the alpha held him, or how he kept choking on words of love and gratuitousness.

Their little heaven, that’s what it was.

Oh, they would be so joyous, the three of them! They would—

Stiles frowned. He blinked the world back into his mind and inclined his head.

Someone was breathing heavily.

The omega turned his head this way and that yet saw no one. He was hiding from curious people in the gardens, just a touch inside of the crusted walls of the pine labyrinth. Stiles only dared to go far when Derek was beside him.

Someone stifled a moan.

With his heart slamming on his ribs, Stiles stood up, and looked closely into the needly teal blue bushes, but—

Stiles went still.

A man, broad and red in the face, stood hidden behind the bald spot in the wall. He was noble, from the looks of his clothes. His intense, half-lidded gaze was set on Stiles, as he took quick inhales. One of his hands was down near his groin, and he was—

Stiles shut his half-opened mouth, fighting the stomach bile that rose in his throat, swiveled around and ran.

It felt like, all of a sudden, he was covered in slimy dirt, gobbled up by the deepest moor with no way out.

The thin cover of snow crunched under his feet, and his breathing trailed after him like a cloud. The pikes of the castle towers sliced the grey sky above him. He needed to get inside. Away from… from…

His appeal would haunt him forever, Stiles realized, and even marriage wasn’t able to guarantee him peace. They smiled at him, while their gazes trailed across his body; they said nice things, yet who knew what was on their minds?

No wonder no one dared to speak to him in Derek’s presence. The wolf would’ve sniffed the lies out.

He would never go outside alone again. Fuck this. He would whine and tease, but he would drag Derek out of his boring meetings to have a stroll without men watching him and—

Stiles let out a sharp shout as someone caught his wrist.

“Don’t tell him,” a deep but pleading voice uttered.

Stiles inhaled sharply at the sight of the same man, then quickly broke out of his hold and stepped back.

“Don’t you touch me,” his voice trembled from anger and disgust.

The man’s face was red from the cold. His small brown eyes hooked onto Stiles’ face, with an animal fear trashing in them.

“He’ll kill me,” he exclaimed, following after Stiles. “Please, I— I haven’t even done anything—”

“You did enough,” Stiles bared his teeth, walking backward.

The man’s face went white. He lifted his hands, ready to fold them in prayer. “You cannot blame me for your beauty. You’re a curse to us all. You don’t even know how many of us you—” he stuttered, noticing something behind Stiles, then let out a scream and took off running.

Stiles didn’t even have time to turn, as a dozen warrior wolves swept past him in pursuit. Cold air burned his throat, as he stared at the inevitable. They would catch him. That man wasn’t—

He let out a scream, as someone grabbed his shoulders, and dropped his book. His heart stuttered as he saw who it was.

“What did he do?” Derek snarled, looking over Stiles’ face.

The wolf caught him, as Stiles sagged against him. Pushing his face into Derek’s chest, Stiles gulped greedily, grounding himself in the safety of his scent. His hands clutched at the lapels of the wolf’s big coat.

Derek pulled him close with his arms sliding across his back. “Tell me.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the sour burning in his throat. “Nothing, he… He watched me and…”

“And?”

“Pleasured himself.”

Derek’s silence covered Stiles’ skin in goosebumps.

He didn’t want to look, but as the screaming got louder, as the excited yips and growls grew closer, Stiles turned his head and nearly flinched.

The wolves dropped the blood-covered pale man at their feet and stepped back. He didn’t try to run again, instead shaking uncontrollably and pleading for something.

Derek took Stiles’ chin and turned his head to look into his eyes.

His irises were burning fire.

“I want you to watch.”

It was an order, the one that Stiles found himself immediately nodding over. Derek wanted to show him something. So he would.

A strange calmness settled over him, as Derek’s hands left him. Stiles watched in detachment as Derek walked over slowly to the cowering man and inclined his head.

“Did you like what you saw?” he asked in what seemed like a normal voice. Yet, his eyes still burned.

The man sniffled. “N-no.”

Derek smirked. “Liar.”

He began circling the man with measured steps, his hands locked behind his back.

“You think I don’t know the feeling?” he asked. “I know how my mate looks. How he smells. Can you smell him?”

“No, no, please…” the man slobbered over himself, shaking his head.

“Right, you can’t. You’re human.” Suddenly, he turned his head towards the wolves. “But you can.”

Stiles had never seen the warrior wolves this still. Some whined, some stood frozen with their ears flattened and backs hunched, pressed down by the force of submission.

The winds picked up.

“I know how it feels to look at him,” Derek continued, pinning a dozen wolves with one stare. “I am no different to you in that desire. He’s divine, isn’t he?” Derek met Stiles’ wide gaze and smiled coldly, before turning back. “All of you want him in your bed — or, anywhere, really. I hear what you whisper amongst yourselves, I see where your gaze falls.”

The nobleman made a pathetic sight. He seemed to stop listening to his leader, and just pleaded, shaking his head and rocking back and forth. The wolves stood frozen.

Derek put his foot under the man’s chin and lifted it from the ground, before catching his face in his hands. Long claws pierced through his cheeks, forcing a wail out of the damned soul.

Stiles shivered but continued watching.

“My mate is irresistible, yet my wolves learned to resist,” Derek murmured, studying the man’s snot-covered face. “I don’t think you would.”

“No! Have mercy! I will resist, I would never look at him anymore—”

Derek smiled. “Of that I am sure.”

He cupped the man’s cheeks, put the tips of his claws against the man’s eyes and pushed.

This, Stiles couldn’t bear. He closed his eyes and turned away, but the blood-curdling scream still reached his ears.

And it didn’t stop.

Stiles could barely hear Derek’s “Make his death slow, else you’ll suffer the same fate.” to his wolves over the wailing. This time, when the alpha took him by the shoulders, he didn’t flinch.

“Let’s go have a bath,” Derek muttered to him, his voice gentle as always. “You must be cold…”

Stiles laid his hand over Derek’s and held it, seeking reassurance in the slick hot bloodied skin.

“Join me?” he asked quietly, barely heard over the sound of tearing flesh and sharp cries.

“If I ever refuse, consider me dead.”

#sterek #sterek fic #my fics #stiles x derek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #eternal sterek #hedwig221b replies #ask game #mpreg

93 notes · View notes

fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

Text

IV ║ Strawberry Roan

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 3: Dapple Grey | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 5: Appaloosa }

Rating: E

Summary: Jack pulls out all the stops for your birthday. All of them.

Warnings: Flirting, yearning, insecurities, sexual tension, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, use of dating app, sexual innuendoes, fingering, protected sex, dirty talk, language, mention of food, drinking, mention of breakup, mention of hair, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.4k

Notes: It's here. See you on the other side 😉 Palomino will be taking a little break, if you want to see what I'll be up these few weeks, check it out here. See you in November!

I forgot to link to it when I posted this - a deleted scene from this part is published as a drabble - Béarnaise.

Strawberry Roan: A horse with a reddish coat that is liberally flecked with white hairs.

Day 3

The next time you wake up, the sun is high in the sky and Jack is nowhere to be seen. You tap your phone for the time and sit up groggily - by this hour, you’re usually already saddled up and ready to go. Grabbing your toiletries and riding clothes from your bag, and a bottle of water, you trudge barefoot towards the nearest treeline to get ready.

Jack has his back to you, cooking breakfast, when you make your way towards the camp in jodhpurs with mint on your breath. You stop by the horses grazing in the shade, giving all three scratches behind the ears and a pat on the neck good morning, mindful not to get your toes trodden on by accident.

‘Morning,’ you call out as you approach the reignited fire.

Jack twists around to smile at you. ‘Mornin’, darlin’.’

Bending over, you roll up your sleeping bag. ‘Why didn’t you wake me? It’s late.’

‘It’s your birthday, you deserve a lie-in,’ he answers over his shoulder. ‘We’re not far from the Halfway House anyway - we can take it easy today.’

Sitting cross-legged next to him, your eyes light up at what’s sizzling in the pan. ‘A lie-in and pancakes for breakfast? You spoil me, cowboy.’

A bowl of mixed berries sits next to the pancake batter and maple syrup. You pop a raspberry into your mouth, the burst of tart sweetness sharpening your still fuzzy senses. With a tea towel, you grab the kettle carefully from where it’s sitting warm on the fire, pouring yourself a coffee and topping up Jack’s half-empty mug.

Jack flips the pancake over theatrically in the pan, flashing you a smile with teeth. ‘Only the best for my birthday girl.’

You really shouldn’t - and you suppose you can blame it on the fact that you’re not quite awake yet - but your heart lurches at him calling you as his in any way. The kettle lands clumsily on the metal grill with a clatter as your arm gives out.

You’re still floundering when he asks casually, ‘How are you feelin’?’

With four little words, he unwittingly throws you into bedlam, and you go stock-still. Oh fuck. Is he asking you about the kiss? The chaste yet spine-tingling kiss which, in the bright light of day, you can't even quite believe actually happened -

His calm drawl cuts through your panicked thoughts, oblivious to the turmoil inside you. ‘I’m a bit hungover myself, not gonna lie.’

Oh. Okay. Hangover chat. You can do that.

You clear your throat and force a smile. ‘I’ve been worse - just a tiny bit of a headache. Thought you could handle your liquor, cowboy.’

Satisfied that the pancake is done, Jack slides it onto a clean plate and passes it to you. He pours more batter into the pan, and the sweet smell of butter clings to the morning air. ‘Well, luckily, today’s ride is easily managed even while hungover. We chose a good night to drink.’

Except… you didn’t just drink. Revelations, too intimate to even fathom in the waking hours, confided in the dead of night - none of which you had the chance to discuss before throwing in the kiss at sunrise into the ring. And you’re not brave enough to bring up any of it.

Jack flips the pan again, sending the half-cooked pancake somersaulting through mid-air, and shoots you a triumphant grin.

You can’t help but grin back.

Later. You’ll worry about everything else later.

One thing you’ve come to realise about Jack is that he’s a meticulous planner. It’s easy with just the two of you, but the logistics of moving twelve horses and twelve riders across the mountains can’t be an easy feat. The way he equal parts encouraged and pushed you yesterday so that you can have a laid-back birthday today offers a glimpse into his firm grasp on the planning of the trip.

The unassuming way that he both literally and metaphorically takes the reins has you staring at his hands more than once today.

It’s just past half three when the Halfway House appears on the horizon. It has a red roof like the main lodge back on the ranch, and it is bigger than you expected - a sprawling single-storey house with a handsome veranda out front. There’s definitely plenty of space even for a fully-booked pack trip.

A fenced paddock stands next to the house, and adjacent to it is a half-enclosed stables with a free-standing roof. There’s a small outbuilding on the far side which you assume is the tack room. Even from a distance, you can see that three stalls have been done up with clean wood shavings, and there is hay in the nets for the horses’ supper this evening.

It’s a well-rehearsed routine now when you go about untacking Scotch. After putting the tack away in the store room and leaving the damp saddle pad to air-dry on the fence, you give him a thorough hosing down, careful to brush out any sweat that has built up. Then with a rubber scraper, you skim it over his coat to wring out the excess water. By the time you finish, Scotch is impatiently tossing his head, and you let him into the paddock with an affectionate pat on his rump.

Jack’s just about done with Whiskey. Glancing up at you, he nods towards the house. ‘Go ahead, darlin’, your bag will be in there. There’s a bathtub if you feel like it, so take your time. I’ll come in when the horses are settled.’

‘Alright, I’ll see you in there,’ you reply, plucking your pack from where it’s lying on the grass, and a couple of others as well, and walk up to the house.

The stairs to the porch creak under your boots and the door grinds on its hinges when you swing it inwards. It’s stuffy, so you open a window to let the breeze in, and it sweeps through the space as you glance around appreciatively. The house is cozy with low-maintenance stone floors and plush rugs in front of a huge sofa and a wood-burning fireplace. A stack of logs sits neatly next to it.

The kitchen is open-plan and modern, surprisingly high-spec for a house in the middle of nowhere. There are multiple cooking hobs, a big double sink, and high stools are neatly arranged around the kitchen island. The more formal dining table can easily seat a dozen.

Despite the high ceilings held up by wooden beams, you can’t help but feel somewhat closed in with a roof above you.

As you move about the space, your ears pick up on the low hum of electricity, and your phone vibrates in your pocket from new messages coming in - it’s strange to be back in civilisation after just three days away. You idly wonder how Jack jumps between these two worlds.

The bag you packed for the second part of the trip, with a fresh supply of clean clothes, is sitting in the living room. Hitching it onto your shoulder, you venture down the corridor on the far side of the house, ready to clean up for the day.

Pushing open the first door of many, you peer into the comfortable space. It’s roomy and welcoming despite the simple furnishings - but if you’re being honest with yourself, you only need the king-sized bed in the middle of the room.

The bedroom has a clear view of the paddock through the window, and you set your bag down on the desk next to it. You linger for a little while, half digging into your bag for a change of clothes and half watching Jack brush down Bourbon.

His sleeves are pushed up past the crease of his elbow today - the beginnings of the bulge of his biceps peeking from underneath the fabric. Then he bends over by the waist to lift up Bourbon’s hind leg, checking if there are any small stones or caked dirt in the hooves that need to be removed - granting you an unobstructed view of his pert backside and the strong columns of his thighs from behind.

You turn around before you get too wound up. The last thing you need is him catching you masturbating in the shower too.

Taking one of the fluffy towels on the bed, you go in search of the bathroom, which is a couple of more doors down. Jack wasn’t lying - a stately clawfoot bathtub takes prime position in the space, but what you really need after three days in the wild is a deep clean in the shower. The bath will have to wait.

You take your time, relishing the strong shower stream and hot water as it will be another few days before you get the chance to take another one. You condition your hair and run your razor over your legs and underarms. You tidy up down there as well - maybe a bit too hopefully.

There must be a second bathroom in the house. When you finally step out of the shower, you hear another one shut off. Towelling dry, you pull on the cutest outfit you brought on the trip - your favourite jeans with a flattering cut and a long-sleeved blouse that shows just a hint of cleavage.

There’s a hairdryer which you make full use of, and you dig into your sponge bag for the minimal makeup that you brought. You hear Jack puttering around while you dab concealer under your eyes and colour on your cheeks. When you’re done, you pace nervously in front of the mirror, picking off invisible lint from your clothes and studying your reflection critically.

You can’t put off leaving the safety of the bathroom forever. Taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders, you open the door and walk into the living space.

It’s strange seeing Jack in a domestic setting. You haven’t even been indoors with him yet, if you don’t count the stables. He’s in clean jeans and a light shirt, wearing socks but no shoes. His hair is wet and sits a bit closer to the scalp than it does than when it’s dry.

Prepping bowls and crockery are spread over the kitchen island, but you’re sure there’s a method to his madness. He’s easily commanding the space, wiping a kitchen knife with a tea towel and setting it on the chopping board. He’s humming to himself with his broad back to you, unaware as you pad quietly into his space.

‘What’s that song?’ you ask as you sidle up to him.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat, even when you catch him by surprise. He hums a bit louder before answering, ‘It’s called Strawberry Roan.’

You grin at the name of the song. ‘I love it - cowboy music. I’ll play it on Spotify?’

‘Spotify what?’

You shake your head as you connect your phone to the bluetooth speakers, and brisk guitar chords fill the space. ‘I know you’re old-fashioned, but at least try to keep up?’

I was hangin' 'round town, just spendin' my time

Out of a job, not earnin' a dime

A feller steps up and he said, "I suppose

You're a bronc fighter from looks of your clothes"

"You figures me right, I'm a good one" I claim

"Do you happen to have any bad ones to tame?"

Jack dips in and out of the song as you watch him organise his mise en place, his throaty crooning has you leaning on the table as your knees wobble. A few choruses in, you remark, ‘It’s strange seeing you cook in an actual kitchen. All you’re missing is an apron.’

He narrows his gaze as you pat yourself on the back for your bright idea. You rummage through random cabinet drawers until you find one, in a gingham print with a loud, frilly border, brandishing it triumphantly like a prize.

‘C’mon, it goes with your plaid,’ you tease.

‘No ma’am,’ he says sternly. ‘I’m not wearing that.’

Ignoring his protests, you walk straight up to him and stand on your toes to loop the apron around his neck. You could’ve - probably should’ve - circled around to do up the apron from behind. But instead, grabbing the ends of the strings, you pull them back and tie them around his waist with your nose to his very warm chest, catching the whiff of soap on his skin and fabric softener on his shirt.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you miss the musk of his sweat and the scent of leather that he seems to wear like a second skin - but you might be crossing the boundary of reason if you begrudge a man for practising personal hygiene.

Drawing your hands back to rest on your hips, you tip your face up at him impishly. ‘The apron suits you, cowboy.’

He shakes his head, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he taps the tip of your nose with a spatula. ‘Don’t get used to this, darlin’.’

What does he mean by this, exactly? Him cooking for you? Him letting you do whatever you want, as long as you flirt your way out of trouble?

Well, it’s too bloody late either way.

Reluctantly, you step back, rounding the counter to sit on a stool. His eyes follow you, and he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

It’s not fair how even the most mundane of compliments from him sends your pulse racing.

‘Thanks, you too,’ you answer, a sudden shyness creeping in, and you twine your fingers together so they don’t fidget. Changing the subject, you ask, ‘So, what’s for dinner?’

‘Poppy really went all out.’ Jack spins around to open the fridge and heaves a fully-laden tray to the kitchen island, reciting the menu to you. ‘You have three options - a beautiful ribeye from our neighbouring cattle ranch, wild-caught salmon from California or a vegetarian lasagne with produce from our own farm. Or all three,’ he adds with a wink.

‘Steak sounds good,’ you reply excitedly. All the meals on the trip so far have been mostly vegetarian, which is understandable due to the lack of refrigeration, but you can do with some variety.

‘I was hoping you’d pick that,’ smiles Jack, transplanting the two thick steaks onto a chopping board, then pops the rest back into the fridge. ‘And of course, there will be Poppy’s famous chocolate cake for dessert.’

Your tummy rumbles - breakfast was a while ago. ‘Perfect.’

‘You want a drink while I cook? I’m not letting the birthday girl lift a finger today.’

‘Maybe a Coke if there’s one?’

Jack pulls a can out of the fridge and pops it open, then pours it into a glass with ice, setting it in front of you on the counter. ‘I thought you weren’t hungover?’

You take a sip, the carbonation bubbling on your tongue. ‘I’m not, just taking it easy. I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner.’

Elbows on the countertop, you watch Jack bustle about the kitchen, just as at home as he is in the saddle. Steady fingers turn the knobs on the oven at precise angles before five measured steps bring him back to the fridge. One large hand easily holds a bunch of asparagus, shallots and mushrooms from the vegetable drawer, the other grabbing a casserole dish of ready-made potato dauphinoise. There’s no hesitation as he plucks oils and condiments from the shelf, lining everything up on the kitchen island.

‘So, was cooking part of the job description when Champ recruited you?’ you ask conversationally.

Satisfied the oven is preheated, he slides the potato dish in to bake and sets the timer. ‘It wasn’t even a consideration when I first joined. It was sandwiches and cereal bars for a long time, but when Poppy came on board she really turned things around.’

‘When was that?’

Jack tilts his head to the side as if counting the years. ‘About seven years ago. It was like boot camp, we were cooped up in the kitchen all winter, all day long, to get up to speed before pack trip season started. Tequila still needs a bit more help, so Poppy preps more things for him when he’s on duty. But I enjoy doing it.’

The ice in your glass clinks as you swirl it around. ‘So you didn’t cook before that?’

He seasons the steaks with salt and black pepper. ‘Not much, my wife did most of it. But I had to learn to fend for myself pretty quickly. What about you?’

Your heart swells warmly at the spontaneous mention of his wife. It doesn’t escape your notice that it wasn’t accompanied by any wary glance or hesitation. Like he trusts you enough to bring her up in casual conversation with you.

Realising you’re slow to respond, you reply, ‘My ex and I used to take turns cooking, me more than him. It’s a bit more effort to cook for just one nowadays, so I’ve been getting a lot of takeaway.’

He looks up from the shallots he’s peeling expertly. ‘He called you last night, didn’t he? Your ex?’

You pinch your lips. ‘How did you know?’

‘Your face fell pretty spectacularly when your phone rang.’

Yeah, because he was just about to kiss you.

You shrug. ‘I told him not to contact me this week. It was probably about the house we’re trying to sell.’

Jack arches an eyebrow and cuts off the ends of the shallots. ‘You sure he’s not trying to get you back?’

You snort. ‘That ship has long sailed, cowboy. Boarded by pirates. Set on fire. Sunk to the bottom of Davy Jones Locker. Eaten by the Kraken.’

That draws a chuckle from him. ‘So - that’s a no?’

‘A hard no,’ you confirm.

Warm brown eyes hold yours as one corner of his lips ticks up in a smile. ‘Good.’

You chew the inside of your mouth. ‘Yeah?’

He nods in the affirmative. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Tension hums between you again, but before it gets too heavy, you sneakily slide a hand over to the asparagus. Jack raps you on the back of your fingers playfully. ‘No. You’re not helping tonight.’

You pout. ‘Please?’

He sighs and gives in with a lopsided smile. ‘Anythin’ you want, darlin’.’

The steak is delicious cooked, if Jack may say so himself. It was the right call to make the Béarnaise from scratch, even though it’s a pain in the ass - or rather, in the arm. Watching you happily smear the last of your steak through the creamy sauce makes all the whisking worthwhile.

The two of you are perched at the kitchen island, bookending an intimate corner, a vase of wildflowers sitting between your plates. Earlier that morning, he caught the way your gaze lingered on the meadow as you mounted Scotch, obviously finding it hard to leave. He cut a bunch of blooms with the Swiss knife he keeps in his shirt pocket while you weren’t looking, putting it away in one of the saddle bags.

Your eyes softened when they alighted on the slightly crushed flowers as he laid the table, which in turn, softened his.

Red wine - one sensible serving each - sits low in the glasses when Jack clears the counter surface, setting the empty plates in the sink.

Drying his hands with a tea towel, he asks, ‘Can you give me a few minutes, darlin’?’

Polishing off your drink, you give him a quizzical look. ‘What for?’

He pulls an imaginary zip across his mouth with a shrug.

With a roll of your eyes, you slide off your seat and give him a little shove on the shoulder in warning as you pass by. ‘You better not be planning anything funny, cowboy.’

It’s getting chilly despite the windows being just cracked open. As soon as he hears your door shut with a soft thud, Jack starts with getting a fire going in the antique fireplace which Champ bought from an auction a few years back. He collects the cake from the spare room where it’s been left to thaw from the fridge chill for the past hour - under strict instruction from Poppy - and sets it down gently on the kitchen island.

Hands on hips, he glances about for the birthday candles. An inconspicuous paper bag sits untouched on the counter by the fridge. That must be it. He grabs it and peeks inside -

- only to find a spanking new pack of twenty extra-large condoms.

Thinking he hears movement, Jack hastily closes up the bag and shoves it into the space on top of the fridge in a panic, spinning around with his heart thumping in his ears as he fully expects you to catch him red-handed and sweaty-palmed.

He sighs in relief when an empty living room stares back at him.

Fuck’s sake. He bets that it’s Tequila’s idea of a joke. He scoffs to himself as he shakes his head at his co-worker’s antics. He got the extra-large part right - he'll give him that. But a twenty pack? Really?

He eventually does find the candles in a drawer near the dishwasher, and he plants one delicately in the middle of the cake. Spotting the other party decorations in storage, an idea comes to him.

You’re reapplying a lightly tinted lip balm when you hear Jack call your name.

All the lights in the living room and kitchen are off when you emerge from the corridor, the only source of illumination being the roaring fire in the hearth. It’s strangely comforting to see Jack in the familiar firelight. You cross your arms. ‘What’s all this, cowboy?’

He tips his head towards the door. ‘Someone wants to say happy birthday.’

Only then do you realise that the porch light is on, and a laugh tumbles from your lips when your head finally makes sense of what you’re seeing.

All three horses are hovering at the door, birthday hats hanging from one ear, sparkly tinsel around their necks. They seem confused but not unhappy to hang about the doorway - with the air of teenagers being cajoled into doing something vaguely embarrassing by their dad.

You give each of them a well-deserved cuddle, promising them extra treats tomorrow for being such good sports. At Jack’s smooth baritone singing happy birthday, you turn around and watch him approach with a wicked-looking chocolate cake. Your cheeks ache at how wide you’re beaming when he stops in front of you.

‘Make a wish, darlin’,’ he prompts, eyes flecked with gold as the candle flickers in the breeze coming through the front door.

You do - eyes closed and hands clasped together - and blow out the flame.

‘Ginger did promise I’d have the best birthday ever.’

‘And did we deliver?’

‘You know you did. Thank you, Jack.’

The plush cushions laid out on the rugs are kind on your sore muscles as you lean back lazily against the sofa, the fire warming your bare feet. Your plate of half-eaten chocolate cake lies abandoned on the floor. It’s sinfully rich and delicious, but you’re so stuffed that you can’t bring yourself to have another bite.

A buzz from your phone draws your gaze.

‘You can reply to your friends if you want,’ Jack says.

You wave him off. ‘No, I’ll do it later. I want to send a picture to my parents though - take a selfie with me?’

‘Sure.’

He shuffles closer, draping an arm on the seat of the sofa, brushing the ridge of your shoulders. You fit into his side comfortably, the turn of his strong shoulder pressing into your nape. Boldly, you lean your head against his so his moustache tickles your temple, and snap the photo.

‘It’s a cute picture,’ he comments when you show him, chin brushing your shoulder.

Neither of you move away when you open up Whatsapp to send it to your mum. As you do, you accidentally brush the Tinder notification that appears on top of the screen, which takes you to the app.

You laugh and tilt the screen towards Jack. ‘Look who showed up on my Tinder?’

He snorts, amused. ‘Tequila. I'd be disappointed if he wasn't.’

You scroll through the photos while Jack watches, sniggering, ‘Why am I not surprised that he’s topless in four out of five photos?’

He rolls his eyes, but there’s an undeniable fondness in his tone. ‘That’s Teak for you - always the exhibitionist. We once had a bachelorette party book a private tour and Champ put him on it - he never did tell us exactly what happened on that trip.’

‘So… should I swipe right, or…?’ you trail off.

‘What’s swiping right again?’

‘If you like the look of someone, you swipe right. Like, they’re right for you.’

He stares at you closely. ‘So? What’s it gonna be?’

You swipe left unceremoniously and Tequila’s profile falls off the screen. ‘Not my type.’

You feel a rumble of a laugh in his chest pressed against your side. ‘What is your type then, darlin’?’

Is he being deliberately obtuse?

You nudge him in the ribs with your elbow for his insolence, and he grunts, pretending to double over in pain and catching your wrists to immobilise you.

Heat runs up and down your spine at his touch, and you put your nose in the air. ‘Don’t think I’ll just spill my secrets like that, cowboy. Your turn.’

Any disappointment of him letting go of you is tempered by the way his weight pushes into your side as he struggles to get his phone out from his very tight jeans.

‘Alright, here goes nothin’,’ he grumbles and taps on the fire icon.

A woman shows up on his screen, exuding confidence and sex appeal. You make a noise of appreciation at her curls and red lipstick as he flips through the photos.

With a nonchalant shrug, Jack makes to swipe left when you stop him. ‘Whoa, hold your horses cowboy, what’s wrong with her?’

‘Nothin’, she’s just not my type.’

Your eyebrows reach for your hairline. ‘Not your type? She’s gorgeous.’

He swipes to a photo where the woman is holding a cocktail, wearing a plunging black dress. ‘Look at her nails. I can’t go out with someone like that.’

You scoff, ‘I’m not saying marry her. I’m saying, if you met her in a bar, wouldn't you pick her up?’

Jack gives you a long-suffering stare. ‘Darlin’, I’m not interested. Do I have your permission to swipe left? Please?’

‘Fine,’ you grouse, shrinking into yourself.

If a woman like that can’t sway Jack Daniels’ interest, you don’t know who can.

Certainly not you.

As he swipes the woman out of view, your profile pops up.

His fingers find your shoulder and he gives you a squeeze, along with a teasing grin. ‘Well, well, look who I found.’

You squirm at your own face smiling back at you on the screen. Coming after that beautiful woman, you feel like an absolute sucker. Like the kid who's unfortunate enough to go after the prom queen’s dance and musical number in the high school talent show.

‘What were you doing here?’ he asks, pausing at one of the pictures where you have a champagne glass in hand.

‘It was my best friend’s wedding.’

‘It’s a great photo of you,’ he smiles at you.

‘Thanks.’

After clicking through the rest of the photos, you panic when you see where his finger is poised to go. ‘Wait - what are you doing?’

Jack turns to you, confused. ‘I’m swiping right.’

You shake your head. ‘No, you swipe right if you’re interested.’

He looks amused at how you drag out the word as if it’s four separate ones. He nods slowly, ‘I know, darlin’.’

You blink. ‘But… you weren’t interested in the last one.’

‘Yes, and?’

You squint at him. ‘She’s gorgeous. And I…’

‘What?’ he prompts you.

‘I - I look nothing like her.’

He throws his hands up in frustration. ‘I don’t know how many other ways I can put this, darlin’. I’m not interested in her.’

‘Why not?’ you ask, almost accusingly.

‘Why should I be?’

You sigh, agitated. ‘Because you’re so handsome and she’s beautiful -’

‘You’re beautiful,’ he interrupts you.

That shuts you up. Your heart is set to claw its way out of your chest any moment, especially when he’s looking at you like that.

‘You really mean to swipe right?’ you ask in the smallest voice.

A smile twists his lips. ‘I kissed you, didn’t I?’

‘I thought it was like - a happy birthday kiss,’ you admit with air quotes.

He laughs, the rich sound warming you. ‘You think I just kiss anyone who has their birthday on a pack trip? Like how you get a free dessert at Applebee’s?’

You flush. ‘I don’t know!’

He chuckles, reaching out to brush your cheek with the back of his fingers. ‘Darlin’, I can assure you, I don’t just go ‘round kissin’ guests.’

With that, he swipes right emphatically, and your phone buzzes with the notification that there are new potential matches nearby.

From the corner of your eye, you see his profile, which you set up for him just yesterday, come up.

You turn to meet his stare. Without even glancing at the screen, you swipe right - there’s a matching ping from both of your phones.

Jack’s voice drops an octave, raspy in the tense silence. ‘So - what happens now?’

If you were with another man, your mind would’ve wandered - thinking about how you haven’t been with anyone but your ex for the last three years. Worrying about how you haven’t felt a man’s touch in months, if you’d be any good.

But it’s not any other man. It’s Jack. And he’s kissing you, lips latched to yours wet and restless, every stuttering exhale sending your head spinning. One big hand curls around your waist, the other sliding down your denim-covered thigh to twist your body towards him. Your head is full of him - his earthy scent with a touch leather, hoarse grunts as he swipes his tongue into your desperate mouth. You taste chocolate on his tongue - and dark rum, must be Poppy's secret ingredient - as it moulds around yours.

You can only cling to him, one arm hooked around the back of his neck, fingers sneaking into his still damp hair as you angle your mouth to kiss him deeper. Your other hand finds the seat of the couch as you clamber atop of him, your knees on either side of his slim hips.

You haven’t made out with a man, fully-clothed, in years. Jack seems happy to keep kissing you - deeply and skilfully - like he has all the time in the world. You jump when he cups your bottom through your jeans, nails scratching a path down the back of your thighs, making you whimper.

‘Jack,’ you pant when you pull back for air, eyes struggling to focus on his intense gaze on you.

His next words are unexpected.

‘I have to tell you somethin’.’

Your stomach drops and your body, pliable under him just now, goes board-stiff as dread runs icy in your veins. You jump to the worst conclusion - was he just joking that he wanted you? Is this some kind of elaborate prank? You should’ve known it’s too good to be true -

Jack senses your anxiety and holds your face between his palms, calloused palms grounding you and resting his forehead on yours. ‘Darlin’, listen, it’s nothin’ serious. I just want it to be out in the open between us before anythin’ else happens.’

‘Okay,’ you exhale shakily.

He takes a breath, and says, ‘Champ - I think he meant to set us up.’

You blink. ‘How do you mean?’

He adjusts his grip on you, hands falling to your waist to pull you close. ‘The Kingsman have been comin’ to the ranch every year in the same week for the past ten years. There’s no way they just rescheduled - I know for a fact Champ changed their dates just so he can get us alone.’

A chuckle bubbles in your throat and you let out a low whistle. ‘That’s a bold move.’

He grins. ‘That’s Champ for you. Can’t say I’m too mad at him right now though.’

‘Me neither. In fact - I think I owe him a fruit basket.’

He’s still chortling when you kiss him again. And this time, he pushes your hips into his unequivocally, and you gasp at the hard bulge in his jeans that nudges at you insistently. You rub against him, the heat and tension quickly escalating between you.

Jack skims his teeth along your exposed collarbone and his palms find their way under your blouse. ‘It’s a very pretty top, darlin’ - can I take it off?’

‘Please.’

The hitch in his breath when your bra comes into view goes straight to your head. You bait him teasingly, ‘You’ve seen me in a bra before, cowboy.’

He tries to smile at you, but it comes out as a pained grimace. ‘I remember darlin’ - you made me just as hard that time.’

Your lips part in a question. ‘What?’

He drags a kiss over your neck as he confesses, ‘When you jumped on me in the lake, you got me so hard. I had to rub one out in the shower. Came all over my fist thinkin’ about your beautiful tits pressed up against me.’

You can’t believe what you’re hearing, but it’s alright because Jack kisses his way down the swell of your breasts before sucking a nipple into his mouth through the thin fabric, making you squirm. ‘Can I take this off, darlin’?’

In your delirium, your fingers skid uselessly off the buckle, so he reaches back to help you, working the clasp open with a practised flick. He peels the bra from you, and with reverential hands, he pushes your breasts together and his tongue laves a wet trail from tip to aching tip.

‘Jack,’ you whine. There’s too much denim between you, it’s not enough. You feel the slick dripping from between your legs, probably staining your jeans, even though he’s gone nowhere near it. ‘Want you. Now.’

‘Want you too, darlin’,’ he growls into your skin.

A thought strikes you suddenly, like thunder on a clear day, and you push him back with clumsy hands. ‘Wait - wait. Do you have any protection on you?’

Jack freezes, and your heart drops. It’s not like there’s a corner shop you can nip out to for a quick purchase -

He clears his throat and peers at you sheepishly from under thick eyelashes. ‘Ok this is embarrassin’ - but they sent a box of condoms with the cake.’

Relief floods you as you burst out laughing. ‘You wouldn’t believe the five-star rave review I’m going to leave on Tripadvisor.’

You bounce off the surface of the bed where Jack drops you, bare back hitting the soft duvet. Just that sensation alone is enough to make you moan.

Your top and bra are abandoned where he took them off you on the floor in front of the fireplace. His shirt is discarded somewhere between the living room and your bedroom.

Blood pounds in your ears as you watch Jack take off his jeans, pushing them down and kicking them off impatiently, together with his socks. He crawls over you, cock straining in the confines of his boxers. There’s just something about being underneath this man that has your heartbeat rioting in your chest. Blinking up at him through your lashes, so broad and all-encompassing that you can barely see anything other than his silhouette, you pull him down by the nape of his neck for another kiss. Your lips are swollen but you don’t care, wanting more.

You reach down to unbutton your own jeans and undo the zipper, the metallic purr loud in the stillness. His big hands join yours, shucking the denim from your skin, leaving you writhing in your soaked panties. A low groan echoes in his rib cage as he hovers over you, close enough that you feel his body heat, but not close enough to touch. You arch off the bed for contact, and he deliberately holds back with a cocky smile that has you letting out an almost bratty wail, which makes him grin even wider. Dragging his eyes over your almost naked form, he patiently kisses down your throat and sucks an earlobe into his wet mouth.

Jack drawls into your ear, his voice deep as sin. ‘I want you to show me how you touched yourself that night, darlin’. When you were thinkin’ about me.’

Your eyes widen, biting down hard on your bottom lip. Hooking your fingers into the sides of your panties, you slowly push them down your hips, bringing your knees up to untangle them from your ankles. Jack’s nostrils flare when you part your legs and his dark stare lands on your pussy.

‘You’re so pretty, darlin’,’ he praises you, one hand palming the back of your thigh before pushing it right up against your body, splaying you open to his hungry gaze.

You’ve never done this, never let anyone watch you touch yourself - the debauchery makes your pussy clench. But there’s no taint of embarrassment with the way he’s staring down at you, jaw slack and his hands gripping hard on your inner thighs as if he needs to keep them open - not that he has to, you want him to see.

Dipping into the wetness that’s pooled in your pussy, you trace a glossy trail up to your clit, just like you did that night in the dark. With two fingers, you circle and rub and tease, and you hope he can hear how wet you are over your panting breath.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he whispers fiercely, his moustache tickling your ear. ‘Tell me - does it feel good?’

Somehow, you muster the sass to talk back, ‘I bet your fingers will feel better.’

That unleashes a feral growl from Jack, and he surges forward to kiss you, before ripping away from your face to grab your wrist, sucking your fingers into his mouth. Pressing into the cradle of your thighs, his clothed erection grinds into your wetness, making you wriggle beneath him. ‘You taste amazin’. What about my tongue? Please - can I eat this gorgeous pussy?’

Self-doubt pins you to the mattress, unmoving. You avoid his keen eyes that have no doubt picked up on your sudden change in demeanour.

What kind of woman would turn down such an offer? That girl he swiped left on Tinder certainly wouldn’t have. What would he think of you?

A gentle kiss pressed to your lips dislodges your thoughts. ‘You can say no, darlin’. I can make you come with my fingers, and my cock,’ he groans when a shiver runs through you. ‘Or maybe even my words would be enough?’

You mewl, and he hums into your throat. ‘As much as I love these sounds you’re making, tell me what you want, darlin’.’

‘Can we take a raincheck on your mouth?’ you ask timidly.

A gentle thumb brushes your cheek. ‘Of course. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the suggestion.’

Recovering your composure - or lack thereof - you give him a crooked smile and reach up to grip his broad shoulders, letting his weight anchor you to the present. ‘I’m far from uncomfortable, cowboy.’

He chuckles and retorts, ‘But I don’t want you to be comfortable, darlin’. I want to make you come so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.’

You choke on an inhale at his words, but somehow, you manage a brash comeback. ‘Good thing we’re travelling by horseback, huh?’

A laugh rumbles in his chest as he takes your lips again, and you sag under his ministrations. Easing your thighs apart, two fingers glide over your sensitive clit, mapping invisible patterns as he mouths at your neck, your hips thrusting into the contact. You feel him rut against your hip, a shudder running through your bodies in tandem as he pushes one finger into your heat.

‘Fuck,’ he husks as he sinks all the way in down to the knuckle. ‘Such a tight pussy, darlin’.’

‘More,’ you say bossily, and you breathe a yes - both in relief and also not enough - when he reenters you with two fingers.

He shifts, bracing himself on one side so he can watch him emerge from you, shiny with your slick, before pushing them back in. Your pussy is loud, squelching around his thick digits as he pumps deeply into you. You cry out when he brings his other hand to your clit, rubbing insistently, and he grunts at the gush of wetness he feels around him.

‘That’s it,’ he growls. ‘Getting so wet on my fingers, darlin’. Can’t wait to feel you on my cock - fuck, I’m so hard for you.’

‘Harder, Jack,’ you urge him, hips lifting from the bed to get more friction. ‘I’m gonna cum.’

No sooner do the words leave your mouth when you feel it - your stomach starts to tighten and the air gets knocked clean out of your lungs in anticipation of the fall. Jack eases up and over your body again, whispering encouragingly in your ear as you break, telling you in his delicious Southern timbre how tight your cunt is squeezin’ him, how you’re drippin’ on him, how he can’t wait to push his cock into you.

You seek out his mouth, teeth and tongue connecting as your high gives way to a drunken sluggishness. Your limbs are heavy as you pull him down onto you, caging your smaller body in his grasp, still inside you, relishing the snug fit even as your pussy stills.

He kicks off his boxers, and you jump when he brushes the velvety underside of his cock through your wet folds. He slurs against the shell of your ear, ‘Want you now, darlin’.’

‘Yes’ you beg, head thrown back into the soft bed. ‘Need you inside me.’

He fumbles with a condom packet, tearing it open with trembling hands before rolling the rubber over himself. You watch him, running your palms languidly up and down his firm back, which has him preening under your touch. ‘You definitely didn’t photoshop that nude pic, cowboy.’

‘As if I’d know how to do that,’ he chuckles, settling on top of you again. You hook your knees onto his hips, gasping when he runs a finger along your leaking seam. ‘Ready for me?’

With a nod, you reach down to line up his tip with your entrance, your noses bumping together, and you stop breathing as you both listen to the wet give of your cunt as he nudges just the head in. The air is pushed out of your lungs as he inches in, his grip bruising on your inner thighs as he grits his teeth. ‘So tight, darlin’. You feel fuckin’ incredible.’

Too full to make a sound, you can only stare when his face twist into pained pleasure when he finally fills you to the hilt. Your words come out garbled. ‘Jack - you’re so big.’

Something like possessiveness colours his tone, and he pinches your chin so that you have nowhere to look but at him. ‘Yeah, darlin’? Am I bigger than your ex?’

‘So much bigger,’ you whine.

He shudders like it’s exactly what he wants to hear, shifting just the tiniest bit inside you, which is enough to make you moan. ‘Good. You ready for me to fuck you with my big cock, darlin’?’

Remembering the way he reacted yesterday, you scrape together the last of your brain cells to say with all the cheek you can muster. ‘Yes, sir.’

Oh, the way his eyes turn completely black as your words sink in has you squirming and fisting the sheets. He swallows thickly, and you see his arms flex as he holds his body over you to watch your face. He draws back slowly, savouring the slow slide out of the tight clench of your pussy - mercy, even that feels incredible - before plunging back into you with a reckless snap of his hips, eliciting a loud cry from you that he swallows in a hard kiss.

Maybe you’re naive, but you didn’t know missionary can be like this. The way he’s groaning into your throat, into your tits as he sucks on them, makes your insides twist and your nails dig into the meat of his ass. When he’s had his fill, he plasters his firm front to you, pressing your foreheads and your humid, panting breaths together. It’s so intimate your eyes slide shut of their own accord, and you snag onto his dark hair to press him deeper into your skin as he scrapes his teeth from your clavicle to your shoulder, the sensation making you keen. The lewd, rhythmic slap of skin on skin makes you even wetter, the blunt drag of his cock in your pussy makes you keen for more.

‘Harder,’ you whimper. ‘I can take it, Jack.’

Pulling back suddenly, he sits up on his knees, and you have a split second to trace your heavy eyes over him - skin flushed in the moonlight, the firm lines of his arms swelling and contracting as he manhandles you clean off the bed, still buried deep inside you, rearranging your legs around his waist. Leaning over you, one hand by your head and the other holding your curve of your ass, he fucks into you, harder and deeper at this angle. He feels bigger like this, barely squeezing into you without a fight.

‘Like this, darlin’?’ he asks you, but by the way he’s smiling down at you - warmly but with just a healthy touch of confidence - it’s clearly a rhetorical question.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ you call out anyway even though he doesn’t need the endorsement. You grab onto the pillows behind you as he jostles your entire body, making the bed shake on its frame. His lips catch one nipple after the other as they jiggle lasciviously under his movements.

‘Such a good girl, askin’ for what she wants,’ he grunts, regarding you with dark eyes. ‘Need to feel you cum on my cock. Will you give me one more, darlin’?’

You nod frantically as two of his fingers breach your swollen lips, and you suck crudely on them. You savour the look of utter abandon on his face as he watches your little show, tasting yourself on his skin. Now spit-slick, they retreat - almost reluctantly - from your mouth to find your clit again, sensitive as you shudder from even the gentlest touch. It won’t take much, his cock begins to hit somewhere deep inside that makes you quiver.

This one starts deep inside you. The beginning of a devastating high that swells and builds inside your pussy as he continues to pound into you, granting you no quarter - until you’re clenching desperately around him, tugging on his hair and screaming his name. His rhythm starts to stutter and broken words fall from his lips. ‘That’s it, darlin’ - you feel amazin’ - oh fuck yes, ride it out with me, ride it - I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna -’

Is it wrong that he wishes he’s fucking you with nothing in between? That he’s cumming into your bare, pulsing cunt, instead of the condom? That he wants to see you dripping with him, just so that he can swipe at the dribble and have you lick his fingers clean?

With one last push of his hips, his arms give and he crumples onto you, barely managing to hold his weight so he doesn’t crush you. He hums at the way your body rises and falls against him as you catch your breath. You squeak, voice hoarse from how vocal you’ve been, when he rubs his nose into your throat’s sensitive hollow. Your body instinctively seeks him out as you stretch languidly, movements slow as syrup as the adrenaline seeps from your system, only to leave a deeply sated exhaustion.

The sweat that’s pooled in the dip of his back is rapidly cooling, and he feels goosebumps break across your bare skin as the chill sets in. Shifting off of you, he presses his front to your back and yanks the duvet from beneath him to drape it over you both, pressing a wet kiss on the nape of your neck as his softened cock falls out of you, making you shiver.

The condom is so slippery with your cum that he can barely get any purchase on it. Carefully removing it and tying it up, he throws it at the trash can by the bedside table when you twist around to smile at him. He returns it, leaning over to kiss you.

‘Did you - was it - good for you?’ he asks with a touch of insecurity that you find infinitely endearing.

‘I would count any day with two orgasms as a pretty good one,’ you joke with a lazy grin, your eyelids drooping as you slide your hand over his bigger one, tracing your fingertips over the ridges and veins. ‘But seriously - I think you’ve ruined all future birthdays for me. So thanks for that, cowboy.’

And if you’re being honest with yourself - he’s probably ruined all other men for you as well.

But that’s a whole other can of worms you can’t open right now.

‘Good. That was exactly what I was goin’ for,’ he flashes you a playfully smug smile.

He gathers you into his arms so that your head is tucked underneath his chin, his body bracketing yours with an arm around your waist. Wanting to feel every part of you, he wedges a leg between yours so that he’s entirely tangled up in you.

He knows, without looking, the exact moment you fall asleep - your soft body going pliant in his grasp and your breath evening out all at once.

More often than not, he can’t sleep after sex. In that midnight purgatory, his fingers almost always itch for a cigarette that he has long given up and guilt usually finds a way to settle deep into his bones when the pleasure dissipates, leaving him staring blankly at the ceiling until it’s light enough for him to sneak out and drive away.

But tonight, he lets go of all of that.

Neither of you move until the morning light spills in through the window at sunrise.

Jack's Tinder profile:

Horsey notes (optional reading): Temperament varies widely by breed and by personality of each horse. The school I used to ride at retrains racehorses for schooling, and I don't think any of the thoroughbreds would let you anywhere near them with tinsel 😂 One thing that you could do with a horse is desensitisation training. It's a wonderful thing to do and you have a much safer horse if they don't spook at every little thing or sound.

#jack daniels fanfic #jack daniels x f!reader #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels #jack whiskey daniels #kingsman golden circle #kingsman fanfiction #agent whiskey x f!reader #agent whiskey x female reader #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels au #agent whiskey au

747 notes · View notes

kitten4sannie · 2 years

Text

𝐂𝐡. 𝟐: 𝐑 𝐔 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞?

ch 1

Ex Boyfriend! Wooyoung x Fem! Reader

Genre: gratuitous smut, angst

Summary: After having a pleasant night out with your friend, seeing Wooyoung's name pop up on your phone almost made you scream. You knew that even if you had ignored his call, he would just keep calling you back, so you gave in — just like every other time.

W.C: 6.5k (could be longer cuz I didn't check when I edited it lol)

Warnings: exes with benefits, switch! Wooyoung (yes you read that right 🥵), switch! reader, weed use, Wooyoung's still a dick, toxicity, lots of swearing, there are feelings involved (that's as descriptive as i'll get ;;), name calling, degradation, use of the word "baby", ownership kink, filthy dialogue, spit play, messy blowjob, deep throating, brief cum play, face riding, manhandling, rough/passionate (unprotected) sex, choking, multiple positions, kissing, squirting, multiple orgasms, creampie

A/N: writing this one out just really hit different fsr and now i'm kinda sad that this is the...end?? maybe? who knows i might have some more ideas up my sleeve :] but i hope you all enjoy 🖤💔

p.s: take a tiny sip of water every time Wooyoung or y/n say “fuck/fucking” and you’ll be incredibly hydrated 💕

Fic Playlist

Masterlist

➽───────────────❥

"Byeee, get home safe!" you called out to your friend, watching as she opened her car door and craned her neck back to look at you, giving you a small smile and a peace sign. You repeated her actions, waiting for her to get into her car, before you followed suit.

Once you got situated inside your own car, you unlocked your phone to set up a queue of songs for your drive home, almost throwing it onto the dash when you saw Wooyoung's name pop up on your screen. "Awesome," you mumbled to yourself, bringing your thumb and index finger up to squeeze the bridge of your nose, sighing in dismay.

You saw there with your phone buzzing against your hand for a few seconds, ears zoning in on the sound of your heart racing inside your chest. "Fuck, okay." You leaned your head back against the headrest and reluctantly answered his call, snapping, "Let me guess. You want me to come over, right?" And you're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

"Mm, you're already wound up all nice and tight for me, huh?" your ex returned in a low voice, unable to see the way you were gripping your thigh with your free hand. "I like that."

You let out an ‘augh’ sound, as if you were disgusted, making an attempt to bring him down a peg or two. “Of course you would. Your life must be really sad if you get turned on just by the thought of arguing with me.”

"Yours must be even worse since you're always willing to become an obedient little cumdump for me," he replied swiftly, chuckling when he didn't get a response, except for a small gasp on your end. "I'll see you soon, y/n."

Hearing Wooyoung simply hang up the call after what he had said should've made you mad, but it almost had the exact opposite effect on you — once again proving that the both of you were one and the same. Quietly ignoring the butterflies that were trying to escape your stomach, you pressed on a random song in your playlist and put your car in reverse, not even noticing when your lips curled into a small smile.

* * *

"Sup." You waved at Wooyoung from the doorway, kicking off your shoes and setting your bag down, then joining him on the couch.

"Hey," Wooyoung mumbled, not noticing how delayed his response was. "Took you long enough." He already looked high as hell, with red and glossy eyes, along with his voice coming out like he had just taken a tablespoon of sand.

"Uh-huh." Getting comfortable, you brought your foot underneath your opposite leg and leaned back into the cushion, smoothing out your skirt a bit and leisurely fixing the length of one of your kneesocks.

Wooyoung's gaze slowly traveled up and down your body, causing his Adam's apple to bob inside his throat. He unconsciously grabbed at the crotch of his joggers, his tongue just barely poking out of his mouth to swipe over his bottom lip. "Wow, you actually got dressed up this time. You look...good."

Despite being used to Wooyoung's 'compliments', his words still sought to get under your skin. However, you swallowed your annoyance down, for now, as you were far more interested in the way your ex was blatantly eye-fucking you. "Well, yeah, I had plans before this, but that's not even the point. You usually call me late at night, so do you really expect me to come over with a full face of makeup and a whole coordinated outfit, or what?"

While you had been talking, Wooyoung made the best use of his time, bringing his bong up to his lips and lighting it, idly glancing down at your thighs. He sucked inward for a while, then pulled the mouthpiece out, still inhaling, all while internally pondering how he should answer you. Once the vapor drifted out of his mouth, he shook his head, replying, "Nah, just like...put on some mascara or something."

You took the bong from him when he passed it to you, silently taking a hit and mulling over his words, unable to keep yourself from smirking once you had exhaled. "Why? So you can watch it run down my face when you're fucking my brains out?"

When you had motioned for him to take the bong back, his slender fingers settled on yours for a moment, not making an attempt to pull away. "Ideally, yeah," he nodded lazily, his brown eyes lingering on your glossy lips. "I want to cum all over that slutty face of yours, too...and make you all messy."

Feeling your body respond to what Wooyoung had done and said, you leaned closer to him, your shoulders touching. "You never get tired of doing that, do you?" you asked, setting the bong down on the floor, so that you could rest your hand on Wooyoung's thigh, your fingertips just barely reaching the inseam of his pants.

Chuckling softly, Wooyoung shook his head, casually grabbing your hand and moving it farther up his leg, until he went stiff upon hearing his phone vibrating against the armrest of the couch. He immediately reached for it and pressed on one of the multiple text notifications he had received. “Hold up.”

You looked down at his phone, your once inquisitive expression melting into one that could only be described as pure disgust. “Are you actually serious right now?” you scoffed in disbelief, watching as Wooyoung scrolled through some highly explicit nudes that some rando had sent to him.

“What? Don’t act like you’re not fucking around with other people. Jesus, y/n, get off your high horse.”

“High horse? Really? It’s not even about that! You just–…ugh…never mind.” You shook your head slightly, not having the energy to get into it with Wooyoung for the thousandth time.

Wooyoung let out an exasperated sigh, typing something back to the stranger and repositioning himself on the couch. “Give me a minute, okay? Just fill up another bowl and I’ll be done before you know it.”

“Fine, whatever,” you huffed, grabbing the grinder that was sitting on the cluttered coffee table and opening it, grumbling something rude under your breath.

“What was that?” Wooyoung eyed you through his peripheral, one of his eyebrows raising slightly.

You carefully filled up the glass mouthpiece, shaking your head a bit. “Nothing, just hurry up.”

“Uh-huh.”

You initially thought you had gotten over the way Wooyoung was still just sitting there in silence and ignoring your presence so that he could sext someone — since you were occupied with the abundant offering of weed he provided you. However, when you had reached a comfortable high, you finally began to feel pissed.

“Why did you even fucking call me over here, if you’re just going to do that, huh?” you questioned bitterly, just in time for you to witness your ex shamelessly pulling his dick out and wrapping his fingers around it, while using the other hand to hold his phone up. “Woo, are you s–”

“Shut the fuck up.” Wooyoung glanced in your direction, giving you a dirty look, before he began to stroke himself, exhaling when he started to get hard, pressing the record button.

Growling out of frustration, you moved toward Wooyoung, reaching your hand out. “Give me that shit,” you remarked, snatching his phone out of his hand and tossing it onto the carpet. Before he had a chance to retaliate, you dropped down to your knees in front of him, pushing his thighs apart from one another so that you could fit in between them.

“What are you…aaaah-oh, god…” he reacted, gripping his upper thigh when he felt your soft lips and tongue encase the tip of his cock, watching as you slid them down along his length and back up a few times, letting out a small noise of approval when you did it agonizingly slow the last time around.

You swirled your tongue around the tip languidly, prior to flicking it across the small slit, earning a groan from Wooyoung. “That’s what I fucking thought,” you taunted, using your thumb to rub against his frenulum in small, gentle circles, knowing that it was sensitive.

“Oh, shit…that feels good…” he exhaled, ignoring your attempt at slighting him, too caught up with the lust that was flooding his senses. “Spit on it, baby.”

You froze for a second when you heard what he had called you, which was unusual, since you had been used to him calling you that, but suddenly it seemed to yank at your heartstrings. Ignoring this revelation, you eventually obliged his request, drawing saliva into your mouth and letting it drip down onto his cock, one long string at a time, all while your dilated eyes gazed up into Wooyoung’s glazed-over ones. “Like that, Woo?”

“Uh-huh. Now, get to work,” he smirked, his cock growing harder inside your hand.

“Sounds good~” you purred, almost forgetting that you were supposed to hate him, your fingers tightening around his length and pumping it quickly, your lips attaching to his cockhead.

He drank in the sight of you, incredibly pleased with the way you were looking at him, his fingers slipping into your hair. “Messier, baby.”

You slurped on his twitching tip, bringing some of your spit into your mouth, then spitting it back out, moaning softly when it dripped down the sides of his cock. You moved your saliva around with your tongue, making sure to run it across his slit a few times, teasing him once again.

“That’s it…” Wooyoung slid down against the couch slightly, spreading his legs open a bit more, only snapping out of his hazy state when he heard his phone buzzing on the carpet, most likely receiving a FaceTime call from the ignored individual. “Hey, can you grab my phone and hand it to me?”

As your brows drew close and your nose scrunched up in anger, you tightened your grip around Wooyoung’s member, resisting the urge to squeeze it until you heard a disconcerting sound. “You gotta be fucking kidding me!”

Wooyoung let out an abrupt chuckle, not meaning what he said in the slightest, but just simply saying it for your reaction. “Mmm, you must really want to suck my cock, if you’re getting this upset over some nudes.” Without any warning, he grabbed your chin and tilted it upwards, forcing you to look at him. “You’re jealous, huh? Answer me, slut.”

“Yeah, and what about it?” you retorted, glaring daggers up at Wooyoung, your lips forming a small scowl. “I took time out of my night to see you, so I expect to have your full attention and not have to compete with some stupid cunt I don’t even know!”

Another pleased laugh escaped from Wooyoung’s throat, a rare grin gracing his irritatingly handsome features. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get this jealous. I’m kind of shocked, actually.” He leaned in and pulled your face closer in his direction as well, so that he could clearly see your next reaction. “Did you fall in love with me again, y/n? I wouldn’t blame you. I know you can’t help it.”

For a second there, the fear on your face was visible, but was quickly replaced with your usual display of annoyance. “Just shut up and let me suck your dick, before it goes all limp on me!” you protested, wrapping your fingers loosely around the base of his cock and pumping it again, encouraging Wooyoung to release his grip on you and allow you to go back to what you were doing earlier, but with more enthusiasm.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby…” Wooyoung’s long fingers remained entangled in your locks, but he didn’t pull at it, instead stroking it in an oddly affectionate manner. “Are you gonna deep-throat my cock? Huh? Are you gonna show me how much a slut like you loves sucking dick?”

Wooyoung’s baiting words only served to fuel your desire to see him cum for you. You didn’t even let yourself tease him anymore, and instead, allowed him into your throat, relieved that your gag-reflex wasn’t as active this time around. “Mmmmfff…” was all you could manage to get out, wanting to look up at Wooyoung, but unable to do so, with the way your irises were disappearing behind your shutting eyelids.

“Jesus Christ, I wish you could see the face you’re making…” he exhaled, somewhat shakily, gathering up your hair and holding it so none of it could hide his view of your face. “You’re such a fucking whore for me. I bet that cunt of yours is dripping already, just from having my cock down your throat.”

Feeling your pussy clench around nothing but air, you bobbed your head diligently, shoving most of his length down your throat in a way that drove him absolutely crazy — unable to hold yourself back. The thickening drool that consistently pooled inside your mouth slowly dripped down your chin and chest in abundance, letting you hear Wooyoung groan in approval.

“F-ffffuuuck, I…Oh, god…I think I’m…” his voice trailed off, unable to finish his sentence, knowing he was about to cum at any given second.

“Mm-hmm? Mm-hmm?” you moaned onto him, giving it your all, as if your rent was due tomorrow. You gripped his lower thighs, reluctantly pulling yourself off of him when you heard him mutter the word ‘open’, wanting to giggle after he could barely form the two syllables.

Cum shot out of Wooyoung’s cock, mostly landing near your mouth and on your chest, causing a small gasp to leave your lips. “Mm…” As if he was waiting for this exact moment, his fingertips were already rubbing the warm, sticky liquid all over your lips and chin, making sure to smear some across your cheek, appreciating how it began to mess up your makeup. “Look at you…You’re my messy little slut, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” you answered softly, your jaw going lax, unable to hide how insanely turned on you were. Wooyoung took advantage of this and pushed his coated fingers onto your tongue, prompting you to close your mouth and suck on them, until they were clean.

“Good girl.”

You and Wooyoung sat there for a while, just looking into each other’s lustful eyes, neither of you knowing what to make of the unspoken jumble of emotions you both continuously decided to shove away.

Squeezing one of Wooyoung’s thighs, you smirked a bit, inquiring in a smug tone, “That must’ve felt really good, huh?”

“You were able to make me cum pretty fast this time, I’ll give you that. Though, my friend is still able to suck dick better than you, unfortunately…but, you know, practice makes perfect.” Wooyoung shrugged his shoulders, giving into his usual toxic routine and trying to bring you down, all the while his cheeks and ears were still flushed beyond measure.

“Oh my god, will you shut up already?” you rasped, as you shot up from the floor, angrily pulling your top up and over your head, then sliding yourself out of your skirt, revealing you had nothing on underneath — much to your ex’s delight. “I’m sick and tired of hearing the stupid shit you say! So fucking tired of it…”

“Oh, yeah?” he gauged, his voice almost coming out like a moan, clearly getting off on how much he was upsetting you.

“Yeah!” You suddenly grabbed Wooyoung by the shoulders and yanked him down onto the couch cushion below, instantly straddling him, so that you were positioned directly over his face.

Surprised by your sudden actions, Wooyoung simply stayed put, his eyes trailing from the band of your knee socks up to your dripping cunt.

You let out a huff, using two fingers to spread your pussy for him so that he could get a good look at it. “Why don’t you put that big fucking mouth of yours to good use? Hm? Does that sound like a good idea?”

“Excuse me? You think I’m just going to do what you say?” he scoffed, using one hand to smack your ass, grabbing it roughly afterwards, eliciting a gasp from you. “I’ll eat your slutty little cunt if I feel like it — not when you tell me to. Now, get off of me, before I kick your ass!”

He was about to continue his tirade when you gripped the sides of his head and pressed yourself onto his mouth, rubbing your wet folds on his plush lips. “Shut the fuck up and stick your tongue out.”

Pleasantly surprised by your aggressiveness, Wooyoung hesitated, but eventually obeyed, holding his tongue out, so that you could rub yourself on it, causing him to let out a small whimper, not able to hold it in.

“Mm, that’s it,” you mumbled to yourself, moving your hips at an increasingly desperate pace, wanting to cum as soon as possible. “Look at you. Just a second ago, you were so tough and scary, Woo. What happened?”

Wooyoung groaned out against you, using his tongue to lap at your slit whenever he could, your wetness leaking out into his mouth, causing his eyes to roll back into his skull. Of course, he loved having control over you, but he couldn’t ignore how painfully hard he was, so he decided to just go with the flow.

“Mmmm, that’s a good boy. You want to fuck me with your tongue next?” you questioned, in between pants, running your fingers through his hair, before gripping it roughly, earning an uncharacteristically whiny moan from him. “Answer me, you whore!”

He opened his eyes and looked up at you, his eyebrows knitting together in an upward motion, the tip of his cock now dripping pre-cum, as he emitted a muffled “Mm-hmmm!”

Normally, he would’ve gone ballistic from hearing you talk to him like that, but he was so turned on, he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. In fact, he desperately hoped you kept going.

“Good…” you exhaled, letting go of his head for a second to rake your fingers through your somewhat-tangled hair, moving it out of your line of vision and behind your ear. “You better make me cum.”

Wooyoung slid his hands past your ass and up near your hips, then angled himself so that he could push his tongue inside your pulsing hole. He dug his fingers into your skin, shoving his tongue in and out of you as deep as he possibly could.

You breathed heavily, fucking yourself on his tongue as well, feeling like you were already going to cum, not only from the pleasure, but from the shift in power. “You always…act so big and bad…but you really…you really just want to get treated-nnngh-like a little fuck toy, don’t you?“

Wooyoung whined against you, almost pleading with his glossy, watery eyes, giving you the answer you wanted when he moaned, “Uh-huhhhh…”

“You’re so pathetic,” you mused arrogantly, giving Wooyoung a satisfied smile, flashing your canines at him. You had sort of expected to see anger boil up to the surface of your ex’s features, but you were instead met with a face that only could be described as pure bliss. “Now, suck on my clit.”

Wooyoung obeyed, pulling his arousal-coated tongue out of your pulsing hole and wrapping his plush lips around your clit, sucking on it with varying levels of intensity, knowing exactly how to drive you to your breaking point.

“God, that’s…Oh, shit…” you reacted shakily, your vision starting to blur around the edges, unintentionally bucking your hips up. “I’m so close…Just a little…more…”

With his arms locking around you so that you couldn’t escape, Wooyoung alternated between licking and sucking, groaning when you squeezed your thighs around his head.

“Fuck…!” you cried out, squirting so incredibly hard that you faded out of existence for longer than you had anticipated.

Wooyoung panted softly against your pussy, quietly slurping up your essence, in between shallow breaths, a deep blush imprinted on his cheeks. His eyes were closed and his mind was clouded over, as he came down from his own high, despite not even being physically stimulated.

Once you came to, you let out a satisfied sigh, climbing off of Wooyoung and standing up, in order to reach out your limbs and stretch them. “Ahh, who knew you could be so tolerable? You gotta be a whiny little sub for me more often.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, trying to wipe your cum off of his face, but unable to do anything about the arousal that had already wet his hair.

“Damn, relax.”

Feeling something on your lower back, you swiped at it and looked down at your hand, unable to hide your amusement when you saw the milky white substance dripping through your fingers. “Holy shit, did you cum just from that?” you blurted out, looking up and pointing at Wooyoung’s cum-covered abdomen. “Oh my god, you did!”

Wooyoung gritted his teeth tightly, unable to handle the amount of humiliation that washed over him, suddenly pissed that you were treating him like he normally treated you.

You were practically tingling from the newfound power you had felt, almost ready to cast aside your role as an obedient sub. Almost. “I guess you really like when I’m in control, huh? Should I use a strap on you n-”

Before you could finish, Wooyoung had already grabbed you by your upper arm and forced you face-down onto the couch cushion where he had just been laying, allowing you to feel the body heat that still remained there.

Pulling his t-shirt off with his free hand and tossing it to the ground, Wooyoung lowered himself to your ear, stating, “Don’t forget your place, y/n. I may have let you get away with that, but you’re still my little toy at the end of the day. You belong to me, don’t you?”

Biting your bottom lip, you wondered if you should give your ex the satisfaction of answering his question truthfully, afraid that it would cause his ego to double in size. “Just because you-”

“Don’t you, y/n? Isn’t that why you always let me treat you like this?” he interrupted in a low voice, positioning himself at your entrance, with his hand pressed onto the back of your head, pushing it into the couch.

“Mm-hmm…” you mumbled out, internally berating yourself for being so incredibly weak when it came to Wooyoung.

“Say it, y/n.”

Feeling the head of his dick just barely pushing inside your cunt and stretching you out, you began to nod your head against the palm of his hand, knowing there was no point in arguing with him. “I…I belong to you…”

Without giving you any sort of warning, Wooyoung grunted, plunging his cock into you, bottoming out in less than a second. “That’s fucking right.” Your obedience gave Wooyoung the incentive to destroy you, pushing him to begin slamming himself in and out of you, knowing he wouldn’t stop anytime soon.

A few mindless obscenities fell from your lips, as you felt your body completely relax into the cushion, taking Wooyoung’s rough treatment without any complaints.

Wooyoung took incredible delight in the way you always seemed to submit to him, letting out a few airy chuckles, his hips snapping into yours unapologetically. “That’s my…good girl…”

Unable to emit anything competent, you simply moaned and groaned periodically, your voice slowly rising in pitch and volume, your fingers digging into the edge of the couch, after hearing his puzzling choice of words.

He pounded into you relentlessly, making you cum somewhere along the way, but not stopping, until he felt the tight spring inside him threaten to uncoil. “Oh, shit…Get ready, baby…”

You felt your eyes becoming watery, actively refusing to confront yourself and face the fact that you were clearly upset over hearing Wooyoung routinely call you baby throughout the night. Of course, it turned you on immensely, but it hurt you more. “Just cum already, please…”

Wooyoung suddenly flipped you over, and shoved himself back inside you, leaning down so that he could drink in your expression, just as his cum started to pour into you.

“A-hhhh….”

“Can you feel it, y/n? All of my cum inside you? You love it, don’t you? Say you fucking love it!” he exclaimed, unable to keep his desperation hidden within his harsh tone.

You nodded weakly, gazing up at him, your thighs trembling against his. “I love it, Woo…”

Letting out a groan, he wrapped his fingers around your neck and slowly squeezed it in the right places, so that you felt like you were floating, the tips of your fingers tingling. “Say it again.”

“I…love…it…” you replied breathlessly, your voice barely above a whisper, unable to stop a tear from falling down your cheek, which dragged a black streak of mascara down with it. You let out a small whine when Wooyoung leaned down towards you, so close that you could feel his lips moving near your jaw, his fingers releasing your neck.

“I know you do, baby…I know…” Wooyoung murmured softly against your skin, pumping his cum into your pulsing hole, only stopping when he thought he had sufficiently fucked it into you. “You look so pretty like this…” He pressed a thumb onto your cheek and wiped a bit of the mascara away, giving you a gentle smile, which only set off more alarm bells inside your clouded brain.

You couldn’t even think at this point, let alone make sense of the odd switch in character your ex had been displaying throughout the night. All you could do was lay there and try to catch your breath, your body warm and tingly, Wooyoung’s cum sliding out of you and down onto the cushion.

“Woo…I- um…” you started, without giving it much thought, only to close your mouth when he wrapped his arms around your waist, locking you in place.

“I'm not done with you.” Without even giving you a chance to react, he sat back against the couch, simultaneously lifting you up and down onto his lap, shoving his already-hard cock back inside your cunt, proceeding to buck his hips up into yours.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, gripping the top of the couch for stability, feeling a pleasant shiver go up your spine when Wooyoung slipped his fingers into the sides of your knee-socks and tugged on them a bit as he thrusted into you.

“Fuck, baby…How are you still so tight? Even after I just got done wrecking you?” Wooyoung studied your surprised face, just as he leaned into your body and sucked one of your tits into his mouth. “Hmm?” he mumbled on your chest, using the flat of his tongue to lap at your nipple.

You shook your head slightly, emitting a sharp gasp, not really knowing how to respond from being too caught up in the moment, as well as being focused on what you wanted from him. “Bite it, Woo…please…”

One corner of Wooyoung’s lips lifted up, as he rolled your nipple around between his teeth, before biting down on it with enough pressure to satisfy your needs, earning a delighted moan from you.

“Now, spit on it…”

Wooyoung pulled back ever so slightly, with his lips pursed, spitting on your breast and turning his head, so that he could spit on the other one. “Mm…Like that, y/n?” He used his thumb to rub his saliva around, making your skin glossy.

“Yeah, just like that…” Without realizing, you started to grind your own hips down into his, just as desperately as he was trying to shove himself up into you.

“I thought so…” he murmured, pushing your tits together in order to drag his tongue back and forth between them, groaning all the while.

“Babyyyy…” you let slip out, bringing him to let go of your breasts so that he could caress your cheek with his warm fingers, neither of you breaking eye contact for what seemed like an eternity. “It feels so fucking good…”

“Yeah?” Seeing you nod right away, Wooyoung leaned his forehead against yours, his lips just barely brushing over your parted ones. “Are you going to cum on my cock again for me, y/n? Huh? Are you going to squirt all over it?”

“Uh-huhhh…”

“Then fucking do it.”

You cried out in ecstasy, careening over the edge from the way he was acting with you, whimpering when Wooyoung’s hands returned to your waist and squeezed it so tightly that you thought he might leave handprints on your skin. “Oh, god, I’m cumming…!” you whined shakily, tossing your head back and closing your eyes.

“Uh-uh.” When he saw that your head was leaning back, he gripped the back of it and forced you to continue looking at him, slowing his movements down, so that he could fuck you in a more calculated, almost passionate way. “Hey, look at me. I want you to cum again, okay? And, this time, you’re not going to look away.”

Instead of resisting Wooyoung’s hold on you, you found yourself wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your sweat-covered body against his, your lower-halves working in tandem with one another to reach your highs. “As long as you promise to fill me up,” you invited sweetly, your heart pounding inside your rib cage.

“Don’t I always? Now, come here.” Wooyoung gave you another oddly charming smile, one of his hands moving up to your jaw and coaxing it open, so that he could bring you into an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue slipping inside and moving against yours.

“Mmm…!” you reacted, your eyes still open, due to being genuinely surprised that Wooyoung kissed you. You couldn’t even remember the last time he did; it was probably somewhere around your third or fourth breakup.

Wooyoung opened his eyes slightly, studying your wide ones, his tongue lapping lazily at your own, some of his spit already dripping down his chin.

Too caught up in the heat of the moment, your eyelids fluttered shut and your hands instinctively slid up the back of his neck, your fingers slipping into his damp hair. Your heads periodically tilted in opposite directions, so that you could both engage in a sloppy, fervent kiss.

Feeling your pussy tighten significantly around his throbbing length, Wooyoung reluctantly broke the kiss, using his free hand to gather up some of your combined saliva that was dripping in abundance from your mouths and rubbing it all over your lips, then pushing his fingers onto your tongue, groaning when your mouth closed around them. “Fuuuuck, look at you…You don’t act like this for anyone else, do you? It’s all for me, isn't it, baby?” he asked, burning the image of your fucked-out expression into his memory.

“Mm-hmm…”

“Thought so.” Wooyoung grabbed your chin with his glistening fingers and mumbled, “I can feel how tight your cunt is around me, so go ahead and cum. Come on, make a mess on my dick, baby.”

You kept your glossy eyes locked on his, almost screaming when your warm wetness squirted forcefully out of you and all over his cock for the third time.

“Gooood girl…Now, let me fill you up, baby. Just how you like…” Wooyoung groaned deeply, his hands returning to your hips and cementing you in place, as his seed spilled deep inside your spasming cunt, a string of obscenities falling from his lips.

“Oh my god…” You dug your nails into Wooyoung’s skin, your thighs shaking uncontrollably, almost unable to handle how good it felt to be filled up to the brim with your ex’s load.

Once Wooyoung could breathe properly, he struggled to find the right words, not able to explain how he felt. “Oh, god…that was…”

As your body relaxed completely against Wooyoung’s, you kept your arms wrapped around him, suddenly not wanting to let go, but not really thinking about it, since your brain was still buzzing from the overload of endorphins. “I know…I know what you mean…” you replied cryptically, nuzzling his neck a bit.

Wooyoung didn’t say anything else for a while, simply running his hand up and down your lower back, his fingers ghosting along the indent of your spine. He closed his eyes, feeling his head almost spin, due to the influx of conflicting ideas that had infiltrated his mind.

You were in a similar place, the truth of reality hitting you like a ton of bricks, forcing you to pull yourself away from him, wanting to get away from the distressing headspace you were falling into as soon as humanly possible.

When Wooyoung felt your warmth leave him, as you got up from the couch, he reached out and grabbed your wrist, holding it rather tight. “Don’t go. Just stay here with me tonight,” he announced, not even thinking before he said it.

Suddenly made uncomfortable by the way he was squeezing your wrist, you forcefully yanked your arm away from him. Wincing, you rubbed your sensitive skin, making up a viable excuse, “No, I need to get home. I have work tomorrow. Why are you being like this?”

Wooyoung tsked and sat up, quickly snaking his arms around you and bringing your body against his, so that you were awkwardly pinned to both him and the lower half of the couch. He rested the side of his head on your upper abdomen for a moment, then pulled away to look up at your shocked face, giving you a straight answer, “Cuz I want you to stay. I don’t give a fuck if you have work. You’re going to stay put.”

You wriggled around in his grasp, shaking your head and complaining, “Oh my god, you’re being so fucking weird. Just get off of me!” When he didn’t let go of you, you pushed on his face, causing him to grunt, but still hold on, eventually letting go when you shoved his shoulders instead.

The force of your push caused him to slam into the back cushion and slump down against it, prompting him to just stay there instead of getting up. He remained silent, giving you an expression that you couldn’t read.

“Jesus,” you remarked, hastily picking up your discarded clothes from the ground, while trying to disregard the unresolved feelings that had been eating away at you since you had stepped into his apartment. “You better not do that again, or else I’m not coming around anymore.” You glanced up from the floor to give him a dirty look, wanting him to know that you were being completely serious.

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, running his fingers through his damp brown hair, actively ignoring the sharp twinge of pain inside his chest. “Whatever. You know you can’t live without this dick.” He snapped his fingers at you when you wouldn’t give him the response that he wanted, desperately trying to get your attention when you started to put your clothes on, ignoring him. “Hello? Are you fucking deaf?”

You remained tight-lipped, zipping up your skirt and adjusting it, eventually letting out a small sigh. Truthfully, you weren’t sure if you had it in you to continue this relationship with Wooyoung. At first, it was a good way for you to release all the negative emotions you had usually shoved deep down and locked away, but now…now it was just leaving an incredibly bitter taste in your mouth.

Wooyoung grimaced, clearing his throat and asking in an irritable tone, “Why are you just staring at me like that? You know it’s the truth. You can’t live without me, y/n. If you could, you would’ve blocked me after the first time we broke up.”

Ignoring his words, you walked over to the door and grabbed your bag, letting it dangle near the ground, instead of putting it on your shoulder, your distant gaze lowering until your vision grew blurry from the threat of incoming tears. “You know…now that I think about it, we should really stop doing this, Woo. It’s not good for us.”

He suddenly jolted up, his fingers gripping at the edge of the cushion below him, unable to hide the panic forming on his face. “Wh-what are you talking about? Jeez, I…I must’ve fucked you so hard, your brain stopped functioning,” he responded, letting out a nervous chuckle.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, appearing like you were in a significant amount of pain. You should’ve done this a long time ago, but there was always a small part of you that wanted to hold on, hoping that somehow all of your problems would magically disappear and you could go back to how everything was before. However, deep down inside, you knew that it was never tangible — even from the start. The two of you were just flawed, broken people who could never seem to build each other up, instead opting to tear down one another again and again. And it had finally gotten to be too exhausting for you.

Wooyoung felt like he was going to start hyperventilating when you looked up at him with a blank face, initially unable to see the tears fall from how fast you were wiping them away. “y/n…?” he called out shakily, dread forming within him, making him feel like he had a ten ton weight sitting inside the pit of his stomach.

With teary eyes and trembling lips, you opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out at first, causing you to clear your dry throat. You closed your fists tightly for a moment, before they slowly relaxed against the sides of your thighs. “Woo…it’s over. I just…can’t do this anymore.”

Before you realized what was happening, Wooyoung was already clinging onto you, tears dripping down his own cheeks and shaky, abrupt breaths being forced out of his throat, showing a side of himself that you had only witnessed once years ago. “D-don’t be fucking stupid!” he choked out, his fingers gripping the back of your sweater so firmly, you thought that he might rip the thin material. “You’re not leaving me!”

Your eyebrows lowered and pulled together, your lips still quivering, as you wondered internally why he had to make this so incredibly hard for you. It was difficult enough already; you didn’t want to let go of him, but you knew you had to for the sake of your sanity, as well as his. “Woo…please…We can’t do this anymore. We’re destroying each other. Can’t you see that...?” you murmured in a fragile voice, making a weak attempt to pull away from him, blinking away a few tears in the process.

Wooyoung shook his head violently, dropping his weight down on you and burying his face into your chest, his fingers clawing into your back desperately, shouting, “I don’t care!” He let out a few small whimpers, wiping his tears away by using the front of your sweater. “I’ll happily drown with you, y/n…” He pulled back slightly and looked up at you with empty eyes, an incredibly pained smile on his flushed face.

“No! That’s exactly what I’m talking about, you idiot! That’s so fucking toxic!” you protested, unable to keep your voice from cracking, while actively doing your best to stand steadily and peel Wooyoung off of you. “Get. Off!” You let out a sudden yell of frustration when you couldn’t get away from him, not knowing what to do at this point. “Please…”

Wooyoung tightened his grip around your body, until you could feel significant pain in your ribs, leaving you almost lightheaded. “No!” he shouted, with every ounce of his being, threatening to damage his vocal cords.

Feeling completely and utterly drained, both mentally and physically, you slowly slumped down onto the carpet, giving up and allowing your bawling ex to curl up around you like a frightened child.

Wooyoung had lost all control of his emotions, too traumatized by the thought of you leaving him to hold back in any sort of capacity. “Fuck…you…You’re staying…right here…!” he gasped out, in between sobs, his voice airy and weak. “You’re never…leaving me!” He lightly hit his closed fist against your back, stopping when he simply wanted to hold onto you again. “Never…ever…!”

You closed your tired eyes, leaning your head into the crook of Wooyoung’s neck and resting it there. “Okay.” Caving in, you gently stroked his hair and placed your other hand on his lower back, giving it light pats.

Wooyoung stiffened up for a second, still gasping for air, unable to quell his crying-induced hiccups. “You…mean…that?”

“Yeah…I mean it.” You relaxed into his body, holding him so close that you could feel his heart pounding against your chest. You nuzzled your cheek into his warm skin, noticing how he would jolt periodically from drawing in quick, fragile breaths. “I’m right here, okay? Now, just breathe…and relax…”

He followed your advice, concentrating on his erratic breathing, until he eventually calmed down, his rapid heart rate slowly returning to a normal one. “y/n…” he mumbled, gingerly moving up near your face and gazing at you for a second, before pressing his cold lips onto yours.

You didn’t resist him, not even noticing when your fingers automatically interlocked with his, until you felt him squeezing your hand. Once you shared a few gentle, heartfelt kisses, you pulled back slightly, looking into his sad blood-shot eyes. “Where do we go from here?” you asked, your voice barely coming out.

Wooyoung leaned his forehead against yours, his hand gripping yours so tightly, he threatened to cut off the circulation. “I…I don’t know, exactly…” he answered truthfully, letting out a pained sigh, his eyes still focused solely on your watery ones. “But I do know that I want you by my side.”

After listening to his words, you leaned back into Wooyoung, the tension in your body subsiding. “Okay…I’ll stay with you, Woo. I won’t leave...until you want me to.”

Letting go of your hand, he opted to wrap himself around you once again, resting the side of his face on your shoulder, his breath hitting your skin. Closing his eyes and feeling some sort of peace, Wooyoung smiled to himself. “Don’t be stupid, y/n. That’s never going to happen.”

➽───────────────❥

Apply for the taglist here ⇢ ♡

#ateez #ateez smut #wooyoung #ateez wooyoung #jung wooyoung #wooyoung smut #wooyoung x reader #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x y/n #kpop smut

669 notes · View notes