naivegh0ul

[naivegh0ul]

Colonel König / Cruel Intentions

Part 6 | Talk to me in French/Talk to me in Spanish

Sorry this took so long. Also sorry not sorry for the ending. Hehehe.

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God he hates parties.

König presses the pad of a thick thumb against the pulse point on his inner wrist, feeling the flesh there, reassuringly warm with the flicking of his heartbeat tapping beneath the skin.

Tap. Tap tap. His finger drums there a minute, pacing alongside the invisible metronome in his head. People are laughing, music is pulsing. It’s loud, König’s ears buzz with it. No one is looking at him currently, a pause in the conversation during which he’s not required to speak or listen.

Momentary relief floods his stomach. But it won’t last long, he only has a couple of sips left of his beer and someone is sure to buy him one in order to carry favour. That means thanking them in a way that doesn’t make both parties uncomfortable. A minefield.

Actually he’s navigated minefields before and would prefer that to this raucous and fun filled situation. He digs his digit in deeper, tendons and ligaments burning with the pressure, until discomfort starts to spring static like in the centre of his palm.

At least with mines you know they have been set to kill you. People are different, difficult. You have to read into their smiles and hope that in doing so, you don’t discover a knife held behind their back with your name carved on the blade.

Just as quickly the pain vanishes as he rubs across the abused nerves, the pressure of his thumb relieved, replaced by soothing strokes. The newest recruit who’d been gunning in his direction has been distracted by Krueger, who’s calling for volunteers to do body shots off the birthday boy.

König breathes a heavy sigh in thanks, gripping his nearly drunk lager by the neck of its glass bottle, swilling a little more of it down to calm the agitation he feels. The only person who looks more irritable than he does is Nikto, tucked away in a corner with a short glass of clear liquid next to him. Every few minutes Nikto checks his phone, then scowls when it obviously doesn’t show him what he wants.

Eventually he rises from his chair, discreetly throwing his drink down his throat and slouching out of the mess hall with a partially forced nod at König.

The temptation to follow Nikto makes König’s legs twitch, but he suppresses them. He wonders whether anyone saw the odd jerk of his knee and whether it’s obvious he’s itching to leave. At least the faint worry about those things, drowns out the noise and revelry taking place around him for a few minutes.

König spent a large portion of his teenage years sneaking into parties he wasn’t invited to. He tried talking with girls, but nearly always ended up in fights with his peers purely because he was never welcome among them. When he became strong and broad as well as tall, his fists did a lot of the talking for him. It didn’t tend to impress though. His father told him proper men should always land the last punch, but flirting with a split lip and swollen eye never did him any favours.

He always drank too much, becoming more belligerent than charming. There was never anyone that wanted to talk about life outside their small town, or compare pocket knives. It made him restless, not fitting in anywhere led to him endlessly searching for a place to be himself.

Eventually he stopped caring what others thought, that was a mercy, a joy to be abysmal and wallow in the misunderstanding of his nature.

It’s why he likes you so very much, spends hours absorbing your company as a spring bloom does the early sunshine, the first rays of light making each petal wake from a deep slumber. You laugh instead of cringing at his jokes. Tell him your own in turn that make him genuinely rapturous.

König finds it so very easy to be himself with you, it’s intoxicating. He’s never met anyone that gravitated towards him, as opposed to veering rightfully away like a burning spitfire after a dogfight, the prospect of a tangible connection plummeting downwards in a hailstorm of ash and smoke.

That’s why he’s here, shuffling on the balls of his large feet. Because you’re worth it. Worth the discomfort of standing in this crowded room, full of other people he has minimal interest in, with heavy bass making his brain grumble.

König’s usual nightly routine is simple, more than a little regimented in it’s structure when he’s on base or even less frequently at home. He’s spent so much of his life serving, without the comfort of stark barrack walls he feels lost. Admittedly he’s moved up in the world since shared quarters, he despised those days. Endlessly brawling for space, that is what he relishes entirely, freedom and wide open vistas that leave him feeling uncharacteristically small.

Usually he returns to his room only once exhausted enough for past traumas not to follow him into bed. Cooking is enjoyed, though he always makes too much and there is no one to share it with.

Far too often these days he’s climbed onto his mattress with thoughts of you. Wondering whether you too like to read before you sleep, if you turn the pages over on your novels once your eyes become too weary to see to mark your place.

You are a tale he would consume entirely, learning each facet of your routine as one does a fascinating curiosity. He could feed you, leave you full and plump. He’d revel in it actually, curling up side by side under the sheets after dinner, tucking you in beside him, his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

König cringes slightly. He’s getting entirely ahead of himself. You probably see him as a little crush, nothing worth jeopardising your job over. That’s the ultimate irritation with the entire situation, he had to meet you in the cliched role of junior and senior.

Not that he could ever regret the way your lives became interwoven. Seeing your form busy around his office gives him a thrill akin to leaping into the bluest summer sky.

Lost in his thoughts, König doesn’t immediately feel the light tap on his forearm.

“Colonel, can I get you another beer?”

“Ja. Sure.” König clears his throat awkwardly, warily eyeing the new recruit at his elbow.

For the fourth time in a row you adjust the depth of cleavage shown by your new top. It’s a good one, tighter than something you usually wear, just the right amount of interest to dress up your jeans.

If you were being honest, you ordered it with König in mind, hoping you’d have an opportunity to show him you’re more than just scruffy gym clothes or smart work outfits. More than once you’ve considered buying some fancy new kit to match his effortless sportswear during your fitness dates. But that seemed so try hard you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

They aren’t fitness dates you remind your stupid fluffy crush, at best he’s a good colleague, at worst he just thinks you need help with your squats. You so enjoy those quiet moments together in the late evening, quite apart from the kick you receive from his massive form benching weights.

Applying another coat of mascara, you decide it’s finally time to leave. You’re fashionably late at this point, any longer and you might miss him.

Christ it’s pathetic, the way your lungs buzz with excitement in the cold air outside, how your feet skip every few paces so the sound of your footsteps makes a tattoo on the concrete. You can hear the party before you see it, music thrumming, a few people smoking outside the doors to the mess hall, empty bottles placed in conspicuous places.

The pungent smell of cigarettes brushes over you as you slip into the room, the floor already a little sticky from spilled spirits, rough men with thickset bodies slouched around tables playing cards. A fair few partygoers are mingling still, tossing beer down their throats, relaxed laughs and boisterous faces flashing by as you search for him.

After five minutes you decide a drink would help calm the nerves you feel, anxious he’s left already or perhaps changed his mind about coming at all. Slowly you grab a beer and start looking for a bottle opener, turning over empty cups and rifling through several boxes filled with assorted mixers.

“Hallo Liebling!”

Krueger smiles happily down at you, his signature shit eating grin firmly in place. Swiftly he takes the cap off your beer with a neat trick, using the blade of a short, stubby knife, no less lethal looking for it’s diminutive size.

“Happy birthday!” You kiss him on both cheeks. Krueger beams even wider, one eyebrow quirking .

“So European, have you been practicing this just for me?!”

“Of course!” Laughing, you let him wrap a friendly arm around your waist and tug you towards him. “I have to impress the man of the hour.”

“You know in Austria we always kiss on the lips…”

“It’s a good job we’re not partying there tonight then.”

Krueger is unfazed by the rebuff, squeezing you lightly then moving back to allow another operator to step towards the alcohol.

“I do miss my home you know.” He tells you thoughtfully. “It is a beautiful place, you would like it I think.”

“You don’t plan to go back there ever?”

“Not if I want to keep my freedom.” Krueger winks at you. “Who knows, maybe one day I will grow tired of being such an asshole and decide to repent.”

You swig your beer, imagining on the spot that you’d rather not know what Krueger talks of repenting for.

“Once an asshole always an asshole Seb.”

He chuckles, tugging a tin out of the pocket of his trousers and starting to roll what looks suspiciously like a joint between two deft fingers.

In the same way a fawn scents the rustling of a wolf moving close at hand through thick and star studded darkness, you sense the weight of his gaze. Krueger glances upwards briefly, tucking the packed blunt against his lower lip.

“I am not sharing my weed with you colonel, no matter how many times you thrash me during poker.”

“I do not need your shit weed.” Comes a deeply unimpressed voice from high above your head. “You only want me to smoke so that you will not lose so badly.”

Turning, you see him, all six foot whatever of glorious bulk and sinew, dressed today in a nicely fitting dark blue shirt, complimented by dark, smart trousers. His sleeves are rolled upward casually, trapping the thickness of his arms, more than a few burn marks and slashes healed pale on his tanned skin. There are freckles there too here and there, ones you’d like to map out under your fingertips, brushing each one like you’re painting an astrology chart.

It strikes you that you’ve never seen him outside of his combat uniform or his active wear. Of course you haven’t. He looks good, much too good for someone who spent twenty minutes doing their hair for tonight.

There’s a real feral glamour about him, something half rugged and moulded into existence by necessity, the other parts effortless. The buzzed hair emphasises his cheekbones, makes those sleepy baby blues even more half lidded. Even the prominent lowering of his brows fits the picture, a wide mouth now curving in a smile.

“Hi!” Your palms are sweating. “You look nice.”

“Thank you, as do you.”

He speaks slightly formally, because his tongue feels fat in his mouth. You look delectable, such a feast for the eyes. The expanse of your neck unveiled, he wonders how many kisses he could plant there until he reached the soft edge of your jawline.

“Gott.” Krueger rolls his eyes. “The charisma is almost suffocating.”

But König doesn’t hear him, you’re smiling, pretty lips parted and lush.

“Do you want another drink?” Bashfully you clink your bottle against König’s.

“Why not eh. I am pleased to see you drinking beer. You like it?”

“It’s okay! I thought I’d start with something fizzy at least.”

Krueger sparks up his joint, burning herbs catching in your throat. König neatly steers you closer to him, away from the fumes, tucking you into his side and grabbing two more lagers from the stash nearby.

“I was thinking we could have this drink together, maybe sit somewhere…?”

“I’d love that.” Giddy, you let him take the lead, inhaling his fresh, clean aura completely at odds with the tang of pot now engulfing Krueger.

Gently König herds you through the crowd, a light hand on your lower back until you both reach a quiet corner. It’s a little darker here, the music less intense. He pulls out a chair for you, not sitting down himself until you’re comfortable on it in a gesture straight out of an old Hollywood movie.

König then spoils that very romantic notion, by cracking his beer open with his teeth.

“Don’t! You’ll break a tooth!”

He rumbles a low file of laughter, putting the bottle to his lips.

“That’s okay. I can buy more.”

“What does that mean?!”

“Schatzi…I have been in this game for most of my life, you do not think I have ever had to replace a tooth?” He’s gazing at you over the top of his drink, oceanic orbs crinkled at the corners so they look like shimmering waves bouncing within a peaceful harbour.

“I don’t like to think too hard about you being injured honestly sir.”

“No sir tonight bitte.” He groans, rubbing a shovel like paw across his heavy brows. “Call me König.”

“Okay König, your wish is my command.”

“How many am I getting?! Of these wishes?”

He’s flirting. Definitely. A rye half smile that makes your heart beat fast in your chest. Two can play at that game. The boundaries that usually sit between you both are lowered, his stare drinking you in, flitting along your collarbone and down to your waist.

The predatory expression he’s mastering just barely is filthy. A large and hungry wolf squaring his shoulders ready for a tasty morsel to snap his jaws at. You’d love him to maul you, the taste of hops and bubbles on his tongue as you lick a stripe across it with your own.

“That depends…”

“On?” He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on his thick thighs, close enough that you can see his tongue dart out to wet his lips. So savage with those darkening eyes weighing you up, the beer is going to your head already.

“I’ll give you three more, on the condition I get to ask you anything I like by way of payment!”

“Deal.” He answers so quickly it makes you giggle. König’s smile matches yours, his own battered heart pumping with heady fever.

“You have to answer honestly!”

“I will, if this gets me my wish granted.”

You study him carefully, pondering your first question.

“Right.” Setting your face in what you hope is a sufficiently serious look, you let your knee brush his as you turn. “Game on!”

Naturally though, you end up both revealing little tippets of your lives without much encouragement. You tell him about your upbringing, watch him nearly snort his beer when you give him the story behind your fear of blood during a training exercise years ago.

He listens raptly, eager for any and all of your attentions. But he's reserved about his upbringing, he grew up in a small town on the fringes of the alps. König explains he signed up at seventeen to get out of trouble, that he was a hideous teenager, one who made his mother cry more than once. He likes Korea, has been several times, travelling all over the world for work.

But he far prefers to listen to you, sultry lids soft while you talk. König opens your third beer on his belt this time after you chide him when it’s initially bought to his mouth. The buzz of it is starting to hit you, fuzziness making him look utterly irresistible in his button up.

His hand finds a home on your thigh while he’s giving you an animated anecdote about the time he got to commandeer a plane during an op. It’s warm and comforting even through your jeans, his long and battered fingers spread across the denim, several scars carved deeply over his knuckles in seashell patterns.

König notices you watching it, coming back to earth with a loud thump. But when he goes to remove it, you trap his palm with yours. That really shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, your bossiness, the glitter in your gaze as you smile.

“I have my first question.”

“Go ahead.”

“The nickname you wouldn’t tell me about after the gym a few weeks ago…what was it?”

He pauses, gaze going so unbearably tender it sucks you in vortex style. It’s just you and him, his azure irises navy in the half light, black pupils lost in the churning tides rising behind them. The booze is definitely flooding your bloodstream, making you woozy and lightheaded.

“Kö.”

It’s repeated by you, sounding so satisfying on your tongue. You’re more than just boss and employee now in the wake of that disclosure, you’re sure he feels the tension, his thumb starting to stroke the inside of your leg until a thrum begins to rise in your pussy.

“Do I get my wish now? I wish for you to call me Kö when we are alone together.”

“I can do that.” You whisper, letting your own fingers drift along his forearm, making little patterns and letters on his skin.

“You are so fucking perfect, do you know this? What you do to me?”

“Tell me what I do to you Kö…”

His chest constricts with need, a slow inhale pulled between his lips and flooding his lungs. You’re beyond his wildest fantasies, sitting so radiant next to him. You press your leg into his hand, wanting and needy, while he recognises lust dripping through the flutter of your lashes.

“Is that your second question Liebe?” He breathes, barely believing his luck.

Before you can reply, there’s a rousing chorus of happy birthday. Over excited people are tugging you to your feet, including one he recognises.

Evans is hammered - his grip hard on your arm.

“Don’t mind if we steal her do you colonel! We’re doing shots!”

König veritably snarls at him, but it’s lost in the racket. Before he can stand to his full height and grab the man by the throat, you’re being tugged away, eyes wide and staring at him helplessly.

It takes him a full ten minutes to locate you again the room is so full. Angry enough that there are sparks flying off him, those nearby scatter. It’s hot in here, his fury making him lost in it like he becomes on the battlefield, potent energy focusing his head and driving any other thought from it.

Finally he sees you, more than a little glassy eyed, a second shot being filled as you try and gesture no. Anxiously you attempt to pass it to someone else, blinking in the rabble and looking entirely queasy.

König takes the liquid from you, tipping it into the nearest container for a lack of anything else to do.

“You are okay Schatzi?”

“I think I need some fresh air.” You glance up at him doe eyed and he has to suppress an urge to scoop you up bridal style. He could be your Viking raider, carry you away and into his bed with ease.

Except he won’t, even though the need to do so strains at it’s leash. Instead he carefully escorts you into the deep night outside, cold wind hitting you both in a dose of vicious clarity.

Your head spins, the shot you took churning in your gullet, burning there in it’s acidity. Leaning against the wall, you take several steadying breaths. It all starts to blur and you realise, you’re far drunker than before.

“I am thinking it may be a good idea to walk you home my Liebe, if you do not mind?”

You nod and he takes your hand, while the evening blends with intoxication.

The short journey back to your room takes double the time it should. You recover considerably when he hoists you onto his back, complaining vehemently that you’re much too heavy, even though König reassures you several times. Your legs wriggle against his waist, if he wasn’t so caught up in keeping you safe, it could certainly go to his head.

You struggle a little getting your key in the lock, so he does it for you. Adorably you pad straight over to your little bed, flopping onto it with a small sigh.

You’re laughing, eyes crossing a little in the middle, the smell of alcohol around your neck like a perfume. König gets to his knees with a quiet groan and starts undoing your boot laces, holding one ankle firmly in his hands while the other one swings excitedly.

“Be still heh. You cannot go to bed with these on. They will dirty the sheets, then you will be cross with me come morning time.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that! I can get them off!” You lurch forwards and he catches your shoulders, over-bright, your gaze meets his and you smile, face to face.

“Sorry!”

It comes out in a little hiccup as you struggle not to snort with giddiness again. You’re so warm and pliable under his fingertips, your chest more exposed than it usually is during office hours in your special top. The scent of your body fills his nose, layered beneath the spirits you’ve consumed. His head is swimming with it, while you sway from side to side.

“You’re really handsome.”

“I think this is the liquor talking.”

“No it’s not!” Stoutly you reply, frowning at him and pouting your lips. Those eyes of yours are pools he wants to dive headfirst into, the valleys of your flesh he could get lost inside forever, tracing every curve with his tongue and fingers. Moulding around your body like supple willow.

“You may be the only person to believe that Liebe.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I wouldn’t say anything at all!”

In a shimmering moment of chuckles, you cup his jaw softly and plant a light kiss on his lips.

It’s so delicate, it may as well be butterfly wings brushing his skin, candid and dainty. Before he can think about it, his mouth moves very slightly against your own, wanting badly to invite you further, to return such a tender motion in earnest and make you breathless.

But you’ve had far too much to drink. He doubts you’ll remember this when the sun rises, and it makes his stomach sink to imagine you looking back on kissing him as a drunken mistake. You are unbearably important, the thought of anything changing makes König miserable. The idea you might shrink from him, stop sitting for coffee, leave König wilted without your company, turns him cold.

The absolute last thing he wants is for you to feel uncomfortable, when you’ve relied on him to help you home. When you rely on him for your living, the relationship between you both teetering between professional and something secret.

Kindly he draws backwards, moving out of reach and continuing to pull your laces free of their eyelets.

“Did I get it wrong?” You slur your words a little and he knows he’s made the right call. Still your voice sounds small, faint with embarrassment that wasn’t there before. “I thought…you might like that��”

König doesn’t look up at you, fixating so hard on your boots his eyes burn. Big hands making light work of removing them. He cups your arch gently and sets it down on the floor, moving to the other shoe.

“You did not get anything wrong.” He replies finally, working your left ankle free and placing your boots neatly to one side. “But I think you may feel differently about this in the morning.”

Carefully he untucks the sheets of your narrow cot, helps you into them still fully clothed by the arm. You clutch at it when he goes to stand up, looking up at him unsteadily with your hair messy against the pillow.

“Please stay!”

König stifles a moan at that, your pleading voice is like the most intoxicating siren song, dragging him to want to be close to you, feel your body plush in his arms.

With a momentous effort dragged up from deep inside his logical mind, he unwinds your fingertips and steps towards your bathroom. A glass of water and some headache tablets are placed on your nightstand, your phone plugged in to charge next to them.

“Goodnight.”

He allows himself one glance over at you in the darkness. Already you’re fast asleep. Closing the door he lets his hand touch the place your mouth met his.

He doesn’t shower until the next day, your lipstick imprint still layered on his bottom lip.

[naivegh0ul]

In honor of all of us being alive and existing let’s appreciate how fucking hot Ghost is in this scene

no one should look that hot and capable going up stairs

[naivegh0ul]

♡ not only is rafe cameron your mortal enemy, but he’s also, unknowingly, your nsfw tumblr mutual??

warnings: mean!rafe, enemies to ???, sexting, dirty talk, sending and receiving of nudes, mentions of death, very light angst, mentions of social status, insults used as flirting loll, small time skip

a/n: this is sorta canon, only in the sense that ward is dead and rose is off somewhere with wheezie. i might just make this a mini series, let me know what you think <3 part two is out now!!

links: next | mini series masterlist

wc: 1.8k

rafe hated you.

maybe not all of you, because in his eyes, along with everyone else’s.. you were hot as shit. there was no denying that. your bitchy attitude not only amused rafe more than half the time, but it turned him on too. he’d watch you from a distance as you cleared the couch for you and your friends to sit on with a single glance, everyone making way for you like you were some kind of princess. which you clearly were, he just couldn’t understand why.

why did you turn him on so much? his best bet was because while everyone bent to his will, he knew that you’d never even spare him the time of day, and if you did it was because he had to work for every single ounce of your attention. no one else on this island would ever make him do that, no one on this island wouldn’t dare challenge him, but you? he’d take your bossiness and catty remarks any day.

the real question is; why did he hate you at the same time?

for starters; you had your family. your picture perfect mommy and daddy were plastered on every single newspaper in both the island and the mainland, the two of them getting praised for their line of successful businesses and work ambition. you were the only child, which was something rafe fantasized about being when his dad was still here. it irritated him that you had all of the attention and recognition that he never had. he felt even worse about it because unlike him, you didn’t even have to do anything in order to get praise and appreciation from your parents. you just got it for simply existing.

rafe on the other hand was nothing but a disappointment to ward when he went above and beyond just to get nothing, not even a single ‘i’m proud of you, son.’ before his dad up and died. rafe was already fueled by rage, but now? now that he had an entire island looking at down on him everywhere he went with false pity? he was out for blood. getting in meaningless fights, purposely doing stupid things that he knew he’d get hurt doing just to feel something.

he grew reckless and raised hell in every establishment and party he attended, figuring there was no use in keeping the family name squeaky clean with a good reputation when he technically didn’t have any family anymore. rose took wheezie and dipped as soon as rafe got tanneyhill and his hefty inheritance, and sarah decided to leave the island altogether and live her own life in god knows where.

everyone left him.

rafe was simply just a bystander now, an observer, and you had it all. the popularity, the socialite status, the family, the friends, the list could go on. it wasn’t long before he had to find some kind of outlet; something where he could express things and share thoughts to an audience that didn’t know him.. little did he know, you had also seeked out the same thing.

your distaste for rafe came about once you heard he was going around the island calling you a ‘spoiled little brat’ and a ‘prissy bitch’ whenever your name came up in conversations. obviously, what he said was true, but who was he to speak about you? he didn’t even know you. “call me a bitch to my face next time, ‘cameron. i hate pussies.” you had went up to him in the midst of him having a conversation with topper, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the way your hips swayed when you walked away, your mini dress paired with those heels of yours had him tonguing the inside of his cheek.

“did she just bitch you out, bro?” topper looked genuinely shocked as rafe laughed. “nah, she’s flirting.” from then on, you two would shamelessly stare at each other from across the room, keeping your eyes locked on one another even while you had people at your side who were more than interested in taking you home. rafe would pass by, muttering an insult just loud enough for you to hear and you’d laugh, dismissing him as if he was nothing but a fly on the wall.

you’d be lying if you said the so called ‘princess’ treatment didn’t get old after a while. rafe was the only person who seemingly didn’t care about your feelings. and you liked it. naturally, you craved something different, something that no one out here in the real world had the guts to do— degrade you and make you feel small. like you were nothing. turning to the only thing you could in order to keep your anonymity, you made a tumblr blog, easily racking up followers by posting your deepest and darkest desires and fantasies.

not even your best friends knew this side of you. you could be as depraved as you wanted to be on the app, and even if the whole point in you making your blog was to be anonymous, you still posted your own photos on there. of course your face wouldn’t be showing in any of them, but reading the comments as they flooded in filled the void you didn’t realize was there to begin with. a particular user, however, always left comments on your posts that had your thighs rubbing together.

it wasn’t long before you decided to check out his account, deciding to follow him back once you read through some of his posts. truthfully, you were the only girl he followed on the platform, he couldn’t help but feel like a lot of other accounts were ran by robots. you actually interacted with people on your blog, you had a personality. when he got the notification that you followed him back, he wasted no time in sending you a message.

[10:01 PM] countryclub: wsp

[10:15 PM] brattydiaries: ew.

[10:16 PM] countryclub: ???

[10:16 PM] countryclub: i just want to talk to you.

[10:25 PM] brattydiaries: yeah i can see that lol

[10:26 PM] brattydiaries: ‘wsp’ is so icky though. it kinda gives me high schooler vibes

‘high schooler vibes’ rafe snorted when he read your reply, internally cringing as he read back his previous message. you had a point.

[10:28 PM] countryclub: can i start over?

[10:30 PM] brattydiaries: can you?

[10:31 PM] countryclub: may i?

you smiled when he corrected himself.

[10:33 PM] brattydiaries: ugh i guess..

[10:38 PM] countryclub: 1 attachment

[10:38 PM] countryclub: hey i cum to your pictures all the time. here’s a picture of my cock and the mess you made me make.

usually you’d immediately block when an unsolicited dick pic found its way to your dm’s, but this one was unlike any others you’ve received.

your jaw was on the floor.

this wasn’t the ordinary ‘no-effort’ kind of picture. he wasn’t obnoxiously holding his length as if he was presenting it to you, instead he had his fist wrapped around the base, his aching tip standing on its own as his cum adorned his abs. his skin was also glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your chest blooming with pride as you realized just how much your blog riled him up. he was very well groomed, the underside of his cock slick with the aftermath of your most recent photos.

this was just different. you felt your bitchy resolve crumbling down with every second you stared at the details, the sight of the veins in his arms and hands had you pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, your brain going blank as you tried to come up with a response.

[10:50 PM] countryclub: you done being a bitch and acting like i’m not good enough to talk to you? or do i have to send you more pictures of what you do to me?

yeah. you were totally fucked.

from that point forward, you two sexted day and night, your phone basically living in your hands as you went about your everyday life. soon, all of your posts became about him, both you and rafe seemingly dancing circles around each other. while you two lived for pissing each other off and did everything to be a nuisance to one another in real life, you were actually, literally getting each other off behind the screen.

you were surprising him with photos throughout the day, his dirty talk making you fall asleep with a sticky mess between your thighs. it was only a matter of time before he started wanting to hear your voice, even going as far as asking for your number so you could call and actually talk to one another. of course, you were hesitant, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish to hear those filthy things he says in your messages in your ears instead.

so you agreed. you gave him your number and waited for him to call.. and nothing. for the first time in your life, you waited for a phone call from a man, and he never delivered. your ego was in shambles. even after you came up with excuses as to why he didn’t call, none of them made sense. the next day you woke up to no new messages, your heart clenching in your chest when you went to his profile and saw that he deleted all of his posts.

what the fuck?

deciding to stay off of the app for the time being, you hated how a few months of sexting made you think about him every chance you got.

you didn’t even know his name for crying out loud!

if your friends noticed something off about your attitude, they didn’t point it out. even rafe was more irritable, both of you getting in full on arguments if you two spent too much time together in a social setting. your comebacks would have him on the verge of dragging you out of the room by your hair, wishing so bad that he could just put you in your place. it wasn’t until you got home from another one of topper’s parties that your phone lit up with a message.

from him.

[1:00 AM] countryclub: hey

you scoffed. ‘hey’ that was all that he could say? after all of the time that passed, he could only spare you one fucking word? you were about to block him before you got another notification.

[1:07 AM] countryclub: i’m really sorry for ghosting you, alright? i just freaked out.

[1:09 AM] brattydiaries: you sent me a picture of your dick when we first messaged each other and you’re barely freaking out now? don’t you think we’re far past that point already?

[1:12 AM] countryclub: we definitely are, it’s just when you sent me your number, my heart dropped to my ass.

[1:12 AM] brattydiaries: you asked for it and i gave it to you. i’m confused rn.

[1:14 AM] countryclub: no it isn’t that

[1:15 AM] brattydiaries: then what the fuck is it?

[1:19 AM] countryclub: we have the same area code.

[naivegh0ul]

you'd never really put this much effort in at other houses. while you're scrubbing the countertops to remove every last bit of evidence that someone—anyone—had made a mess there, you think about the other houses you used to babysit for.

used to, since there was no need to babysit anymore. mister cameron, who will always remain mister cameron—no matter how much he reminds you to call him rafe—actually pays you double what your other families did. he's a busy guy. you know this for a fact—single dad and some big business guy that people in town used to talk about all the time when you used to listen—so he'd have last minute emergencies and random business calls all the time.

his exact words had been something along the lines of "don't wanna share you with anyone else," but even thinking about that encounter makes your face burn with so much intensity that you think you're going to collapse. that's not what he meant, obviously, he was trying to tell you in nicer words that it was annoying when you replied to his texts explaining how another family had booked you already for that night. so when he upped your rate and said that he'd even pay to say no to others, just in case, you would have been really stupid to say no.

you don't hear much about him anymore, when you're out and about. you spend so much time at the cameron house that your own little apartment seems like nothing more than a bed and a place to get ready before leaving. you practically eat three meals a day with the baby, so even your grocery shopping is in that part of town—all organic, expensive places where you talk to the baby and try to get her opinion on which vegetable puree she'd like to try this week.

it's kind of like playing pretend. no, it's really like playing pretend. you used to dress in the normal, comfortable clothes that were sufficient for babysitting every other family—overalls and sneakers—but now you don't fit in unless you're in a pretty dress and nice sandals. you stay in one outfit from when you show up before mister cameron leaves to when you drive home at the end of the night.

that's the other thing—your car. you've made it work with the same one since you could first drive. it's a little rusty, a little dinged up, but safe as can be. it's nothing fancy but it got you around. but now you do other things for rafe that you never did for other families—grocery shopping and errands and the occasional doctor's appointment if rafe really, really can't make it. you don't mind at all—it's fun to play pretend and you love her like she's your own, but mister cameron tries to make it to every appointment himself, because he really cares about his daughter. it's admirable because you don't see it in every single household.

you hadn't thought there was anything wrong with your car until one day you couldn't get the air conditioning to work, and the back window got jammed and the baby looked so uncomfortable that you had to skip out on whatever you were supposed to do that day. when mister cameron came home that night you apologized so much that you started crying—because really, you never thought there was something wrong with your car and you didn't want to make the baby drive in the heat, just in case. you think he'll be mad, there's no groceries and his suit is still at the cleaner's, and the lotion that you use every night after bathtime has ran out and there'll be none for tomorrow—but he's not.

he's not mad at all. he seems... tired. he seems worried. the first thing he asks that night is if you and the baby are okay. when you nod, afraid that this is the calm before the storm, he sighs.

"good. that's all i care about," and the way he says it—you believe him right away. maybe that's the night your little crush on mister cameron started forming. it'd always been there in the background, you'd be an idiot of massive proportions to deny it. but it felt different somehow, watching him roll up his sleeves and pulling out whatever ingredients there were left over to make dinner with, something that you normally tried to have done every night for him, while telling you to take a seat.

that night he asks about your car—how old is it, when'd you get it, how many miles. do you like the model? would you want bigger, smaller, a different color? it's just conversation—he probably likes cars with the way there's a really nice in the garage under a sheet and a nice but safer one that he takes to work everyday.

(while he's cooking pasta and cutting vegetables, you try to get up and help, but he meets your eyes and shakes his head. wordlessly, you obey and sit back down.)

that's the first night things felt different. you drove home a little giddy, later than normal, stomach full and heart a little too happy that you found it in yourself to finally have a real, nice conversation with mister cameron. you're as shy as they come but your interactions with him are limited—before work, a phone call at lunch (though recently, his first question hasn't been about the baby... it's been how are my girls?), and after work before you leave.

it feels good to know that you're doing something right, that you're good at this even on your bad days. you make a point to leave your place extra early that week, stopping at the pharmacy and picking up the lotion so it's one less thing to worry about. your window still won't roll down and you'll have to figure out how to get the groceries delivered, crossing your fingers that it doesn't cost that much more.

you show up a couple minutes early and go inside to sort out the stuff for the baby before she wakes, when you find mister cameron in the nursery.

"good morning," you say quietly, though it comes out a little above a whisper. she's still sleeping, even though you haven't glanced in the crib, you know her schedule like the back of your hand.

"hey, kid," he says, and your heart starts to thud a little faster. mister cameron's nicknames for you don't make an appearance everyday but for some reason, it has today. he hovers over the crib, watching the baby's chest rise and fall with each breath. you go over to join him, placing the lotion on the dresser. he notices the bottle and turns back to you. "you didn't have to do that."

"she needs it," you reply quietly. "it's the only one she likes. and i was up early anyways."

"thank you." it comes out with such sincerity that you're a little taken aback.

"of course, mister cameron. it's nothing," you smile up at him. he glances back at you, smiling and then turning to his daughter again. "i'm gonna go start on her breakfast."

you make your way to the door when he says your name.

"there's keys on the kitchen counter, and the car's in the garage. i'd like it if you started using that car instead."

and really—how are you supposed to respond to that? you stammer out an 'of course, mister cameron' and go downstairs, crossing your fingers that he made a mistake, or that he wants you to drive his car until you fix yours and he'll take the nice one tucked away in the garage.

but when you make it to the counter, and then head to the garage, your eyes nearly fall out of your head. a brand new pair of car keys, to match the brand new car in the garage. your arguments fall on deaf ears—this is way too much for anyone. yes, you're pretty much throwing money away by still paying rent and the cost of getting your car fixed could probably be enough to start paying for a better one, but this is too much. way too much. it's not normal. right?

but you have no one to ask. the baby's not old enough for playdates, and the girls who replaced you at your old houses are pretty much all high school seniors. on mister cameron's side of town, there's only nannies and au pairs, and they'd probably think you're crazy for turning down such a nice gesture.

and it is a nice gesture. mister cameron listens to every word you say, even when you're not paying attention to your own sentence. the car is exactly how you described—the color you wanted, the size you said would be nice one day incase there's ever a playdate or another baby or whatever the case may be. it's shiny and brand-new and completely undeserving of you. but he doesn't listen.

somewhere along the next month, you realize you could get really used to this. mister cameron does have a point—you're taking care of his daughter every day, so it only makes sense to make sure she's as safe as can be. you make a mental note that if you ever—for whatever idiotic reason—choose to leave this perfect job, you'll make sure he gets the car back.

there comes a point where the relationship... makes its way to the next level. at the end of every week, you have to settle the bills. co-pays at appointments, grocery receipts, the invoice from the gardener that didn't go through so you had given him your own cash so mister cameron wouldn't have to deal with it from work. it adds up, so once the baby is asleep on saturday night, the two of you eat dinner and go through everything.

but this time, he hands you a card instead. a shiny black credit card that spells out his name on the back.

"makes it a bit easier, right? just use this instead. we won't have to settle every week anymore."

"right," you agree, your smile fading quickly. you try to put on a front, a false expression so he doesn't notice your disappointment. saturday nights with mister cameron—him with his beer and you with a glass of wine—once the baby is asleep, sorting out bills and making conversation that almost felt like you belonged here, had unknowingly become your favorite part of the week. sometimes it would go until midnight, talking about things that were neither here nor there.

it's how you learned why he's a single dad, what he does for work, how he feels about his job and how much time it takes away from his daughter. it's why you started sending him photo and video updates everyday so he wouldn't feel like he's missing out on as much, it's why you make sure to craft the baby's bedtime routine around him coming home, so they have their time together.

"somethin' wrong?" he asks, after taking another sip of beer. you're snapped out of your thoughts, focusing instead of how rafe looks today. tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, fingers curled around the beer bottle.

you don't know how any woman on earth could have walked away from this.

"n-nothing. no. thank you, mister cameron, this is great. i'll make sure-"

"it's rafe from now on—remember, kid?"

"yes. sorry, i-"

you couldn't get out of there fast enough that night. it's almost a subtle reminder from the universe—you're not part of that family. you're the nanny who got too attached, who pretended that she fit in too much to a family that's not hers.

you still wear your nicer clothes, you still drive around his nice car. but you try to remind yourself every now and then that this isn't your real life.

the next day, it's like the universe has decided that it's mad at you for coming to this conclusion.

pouring rain the second you get into the car. your raincoat and umbrella and a sensible pair of shoes remain inside your apartment, and if you sit in idle any longer, you're going to be late to mister cameron's. he'll want to leave early since it's raining, so he's probably expecting you any minute.

the roads are a mess—it's monsooning for no reason and people forget how to drive. you honk no less than three times at idiots on the road before getting scared that someone will road-rage you. when you pull into the garage—because yes, mister cameron insists that you park inside and that he can park outside— you're frazzled and sweating and your day hasn't even started yet.

rafe's almost ready to leave, which is another damper on an already bad morning—if he has time, the two of you eat breakfast together. you tell him to drive safe and apologize for being late when he rushes past you, leaning in to kiss your cheek and telling you that he might he home late today, and to have a good day. you don't realize what's happened until he's gone, the door closing behind him.

you stand in the foyer with your mouth open until you hear the baby monitor. from that point on—it's one thing after another. the baby is fussy today, which is the most unusual part of the day. she's never like this, and you conclude that she must be getting sick or something. it's just as well, because there's no reason to go out or to take her out in this weather. she cries, and you try to help, even cave and put on some episodes of little bear to see if something would distract her. but the poor thing just doesn't feel good, and has no way to tell you how.

the hours fly by, and your head even hurts a little from the crying and the overthinking about the kiss from this morning. in all the rush, you eat about two bites of lunch before the baby needs something else.

and then at the end of the day, right around when rafe should be coming home, he doesn't.

you feed the baby and rock her to sleep. she fusses ten minutes later, and spits up all over you and your hair, and then knocks out. you even spend twenty minutes hovering over the monitor, making sure she's okay while drying your hair. rafe's still not home, so you get dinner ready and warmed for him, eating yours alone in the silence. and as if you could handle another thing, you spill sauce all over your dress while trying to put away the leftovers.

you were going to wait until you were back home, safe in your tiny apartment to cry and shower and scrub your skin raw from the day you've had, but it can't wait any longer. you take the monitor into the bathroom with you at full volume, and decide to shower in the bathroom closest to the baby's room just to be safe.

it's not until you're naked, wrapped in a soft towel and waiting for the water to get scalding hot, racking your brain for the location of the extra clothes you had once brought here that you realize the shower closest to the baby's room is the shower in rafe's bedroom.

you haven't been in here before—looking around at the expensive cologne on the counter and the dark blue towels and the hamper full of yesterday's dress shirt. it's not a good idea to be in here, but you need to shower and you can't wait another minute. for all you know, mister cameron could come home in another two hours. your dress is spinning in the washer—and your plan is set. throw it in the dryer, find something to wear for the next fifty minutes, and leave as soon as he's home even though you can hear the raindrops on the roof and the thunder outside.

the shower is what you have been needing all day. you wish you had your body wash and shampoo, but his aren't too bad. you inhale deeply, realizing you're submerging yourself in his scent. you could stay in there forever, but you don't—he's gonna be home any minute or the baby could start crying, and you need to go home.

but he smells so good. you've noticed it before, it just feels amplified now. the towel you wrap yourself in is his, meaning he's dried himself with it before. all the clothes smell like his cologne, and the house is a little cold and your clothes are still washing, and though it's probably the worst idea you've ever had, when you get out of the shower, you head to his dresser and pull out the first clean t-shirt you can find.

it's big on you, you knew it would be. it's soft and warm and smells undeniably like mister cameron. you're completely clueless, exhausted because the baby barely napped and you barely got any sleep yourself, and it's way past your own bedtime right now. he might not even come home, you think, with how the storm sounds. you check your phone but there's no messages, just a flood warning.

yesterday's socks and underwear are still spinning in the machine—how long does this thing take? what setting had you put it on?—and you begrudgingly leave rafe's warm bedroom with the baby monitor in one hand, and his navy blue towel in the other, drying your hair. you turn on the television, watching whatever's on while you pat your strands dry, bending over to wrap your hair into the towel so you can sit for a couple minutes, when you hear the door open.

you snap back up, looking at rafe's face stare back at you—he's drenched, hair wet and suit dripping, wiping his forehead with his hand when he looks you up and down. oh god, you don't even know what he just saw, you were bent over and-

"is that my shirt?"

[naivegh0ul]

okay what if it’s just been a long day of hanging out with the pogues and both bunny and puppy are lent up and need it, and puppy is usually on top but she’s super tired and bunny takes the lead this time :)

-👑

(⑅◞ ִ ◟⑅) · ˚ 𓈒 🐇 ྀི 🐾 ♡

each time bunny glides her puffy cunt up against pups, the two girls let out a harmony of groans— their clothes discarded across the bed, a kaleidoscope of pastel pinks and blues.

it had been a long day. first of all john b came to get them way too early, sending jj to climb up to the window when they wouldn’t answer the door because they were too busy sleeping. he was shoving clothes over their heads and throwing them out the door by 8AM to hop on the boat to the other side of the island. after that, it was shenanigan after shenanigan — and didn’t stop until they were safely back in bunny’s glamorous bedroom.

“need t’shower, you smell like sunscreen.” bunny giggles against puppy’s neck between moans, leaning forward as puppy hungrily opens her mouth, tiredly trying to catch her girlfriends tit in her mouth.

“mm, too sleepy!” pup throws her head back, wanting to complain but enjoying the feeling of being grinded on too much.

“cant get in my bed if you’re stinky.” bunny sighs, sitting back up and rolling her hips, looking down at the way their pudgy clits kiss eachother. “s’okay, you can cum first. wanna make you cum.” she groans, speeding up the roll of her hips making puppy pant like a real dog.

“m’gonna!” she whines, and her girlfriend puts on a real show — grabbing at her own tits, knowing the other girl usually enjoys to watch. concentrating, pup keeps her eyes screwed shut, breathing hard and fast as she tries to reach orgasm. bunny leans forward, pressing her chest to her lovers, blowing gently on her face, the scent of her lipgloss lingering as puppy’s eyes flutter open.

“wanna look at you. missed you pup.” bunny pouts and pup furrows her brows, nodding as she sits up on her elbows, rutting up against bun.

“‘kay. love you.”

“love you too. now let’s cum, wanna make a big mess!”

(⑅◞ ִ ◟⑅) · ˚ 𓈒 🐇 ྀི 🐾 ♡

[naivegh0ul]

puppy!reader and bunny!reader had been with the pogues all day long, so now they were back in bunny’s room — it was time to spend some well earned quality time together.

it’s not like they would shy away from keeping their hands off one another over at the chateau. whether it was bunny wrapping a manicured hand around puppy’s fingers and running off to find john b, wanting to tell him the funny anecdote they’d collectively remembered — or pup taking a quick nap when she’d suddenly energy-crash using bunny’s sparkly tits as a pillow on the comfy couch, they were always joined at the hip. it was often times the two would laugh with their best friend jj when he’d make some kind of ‘let me get in between that’ comment each time the two would snuggle up against eachother. he meant well, they couldn’t deny they were an attractive couple.

pup didn’t mind doing all the work, she had the most energy anyway. with bunny’s lacy thong still hanging off her ankle, puppy ruts their glossy pussies together on the bed, the only sounds to be heard consisting of the bed creaking repeatedly from the jerky rolls of the more energetic girls hips, whiny whimpers, wet smacking sounds and kissing.

puppy!r pulls away from her girlfriend, the pink clad girls glittery lipgloss smeared half way up her counterparts face as they pant in unison.

“m’gonna cum like this— can’t hold it!” puppy cries, trembling hands stressfully squeezing at the girl beneath her’s tits. bunny arches her back off the bed a little at the feeling, shuddering with a melodic mewl falling from her swollen lips.

“please wait f’me— s’not fair!”

puppy would never wanna be greedy or upset her spoiled lover, so instead leans forward and smacks their lips together, probably ingesting whatever lipgloss was left between them.

“only wanna cum with you, bun.” she sighs, slowing her movements.

bunny wouldn’t have it any other way.

[naivegh0ul]

omg what if during a little mission, john b and jj can’t find puppy and bunny until they get back to the van and hear the girls making out but whining about sitting on the other girls lap just wanting to be babied and cared for! i love these two subby girls <3 it’s messy but the get through it together

this drabble is making me giggle cos are they all just really comfy with eachother? are they all one big polyamorous mess? idk

⊹ ₊ ˚ 🎀 𓂃 ⸝⸝ ♡

john b stopped in his tracks and stared for a second. he couldn’t help it, it was quite the sight.

“dude they pro’lly just headed back to the chateau okay— they said they didn’t wanna be a part of all this so—oh.” jj isn’t long behind him, walking into the back of john b stood before the twinkie. inside on the floor, the two girls roll about together — puppy winding up on top of bunny, wriggling in her denim shorts as bunny’s skirt gathered around her waist. there’s a smacking sound as they pull off eachothers mouth.

“y’got to be on top last time!” bunny complains in a mewl and puppy groans, devastated.

“but i need it—”

the conversation becomes a mess of irritated whines through kisses before jj clears his throat.

“hey, uh — girlies? hate to interrupt.” the blonde leans against the door as the two girls carelessly turn around. pup shuffles over to the door, looking up happily at john b. she always favoured him, following him around like a — well, lost puppy. he smiles in greeting, scratching behind her ear.

bunny sits up on her elbows, not even bothering to pull her skirt down which was gathered around her belly, white panties with the pink bow on full display.

“wha’ssup?” she pouts, remnants of glittery gloss that wasn’t smeared on puppy’s face still catching the light.

“nothin’. we’re headed back. was lookin’ for you everywhere, dudettes.” jj shakes his head, climbing into the van and john b walks around the vehicle, swinging his keys around his finger and opens the driver seat door.

“yeah, about that — you guys can’t just run off without saying anything okay? preeetty sure it’s my head in your parents guillotines if either of you get hurt. okay?”

⊹ ₊ ˚ 🎀 𓂃 ⸝⸝ ♡

[naivegh0ul]

⊹ ᜊ(ᜊ ´ ˘)੭ ♡ … TASTE ♡

track one of the short n’sweet series. pairing: bunny!reader x puppy!reader — based loosely off the song taste by sabrina carpenter. disclaimer: this story is based in a separate universe to the usual pogue!puppy / bunny!reader universe! enjoy ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა

sometimes, relationships just don’t work out.

it wasn’t totally surprising — and looking back on it, to pup — it seemed as though it were doomed from the start. they were from totally different worlds, rafe being a kook and pup being a pogue and at first, truly she found it kind of romantic. the whole montagues versus capulet type of vibe that made her only wanna pin herself harder to rafe cameron’s side.

what made her love him was ultimately their downfall. he was downright mean most days, from the way he’d tug her about to the way he’d shake her head anytime she did anything he deemed too pogue-ish. rafe cameron is one of those few men that are so gorgeous that they could get away with murder, quite literally — so it wasn’t to anyone’s surprise that she put up with him for so long. that cruelty that she allowed was a reflection of how she truly felt about herself on the inside. undeserving of respect. each time he’d fuck her into the mattress with her face planted into a pillow, creaming uncontrollably around his base — she’d be revelling in the physical affection no matter how rough and violating it came across— even more so when he’d hold her at the end of it. always short lived, always fleeting, always made her feel better.

she’d escaped that relationship to learn how to love herself. with experience now under her belt gained from the kook himself, she was free to navigate the world and search for someone that just might touch her with a gentle hand. gone were the days she craved a strike to the cheek or blunt fingernails gripping into her ass. softness was what she needed, and by god she’d find it.

she didn’t actually think she’d care to think about him much more down the line a few months later— he was merely a thing of the past and honestly puppy was doing a lot better because of it. but unsurprisingly, old feelings were surely drug up when the kook boy who she forgot to unfollow all but jumpscared her on her instagram feed. not his usual self worshipping post of him on a yacht, no— it was her old rafe, with a girl on his arm. clinging to him just like pup did.

the girl was tagged, and puppy didn’t hesitate to press. it was just curiosity, she told herself as she scrolled down the sea of pink feed this mystery girl had created— a couple of pictures with rafe already posted. she was jaw dropping, a kook no doubt from the looks of her bedroom in the background of her mirror selfies. a prom queen, as titled in one of her posts with a tiara from a good few years ago at the bottom of her feed and an ex beauty pageant baby judging by the throwback thursday pinned in her highlights. there was this gentle yet pampered and spoiled energy around her like the world fell at her feet. a fluffed up, well fed bunny rabbit in a hutch of gold.

pup started to see bunny around more and more since finding her instagram. the pogue girl would find herself ever so slightly ducking out of vision upon spotting the two of them loading up onto rafes boat as she sailed past. her skin seemed to glow in the sunlight and pup wondered if rafe was the one to massage the sunscreen oil into her skin, taking extra time to massage it into the plush skin of her ass, even smirking when she squealed and told him to watch his hands in public. as they stand at the pier, rafe has a gentle hand on her lower back, fingers tucked ever so slightly into the waistband of her bikini. he looks… soft, and non threatening. touching her like she was made of glass, touching her gentler than he ever touched puppy.

puppy’s heart all but stopped in her chest when she served bunny at the checkout of the store she worked in. she supposed rafe couldn’t have been far, sending bunny in alone as to not have an awkward run in with her knowing she worked there. a part of pup wanted bun to be rude. she was a kook after all — and aren’t exes supposed to hate the new girl? of course, she was nothing of the type. sweet and patient, with good eye contact and a perfect smile. it should have made pup’s blood run cold. should have.

instead, pup buried herself in the weird guilt that sat on her chest when she’d find herself typing bunny’s instagram handle into the search bar and sliding a hand down her shorts a few nights later, in need of quick relief. she told herself it was purely physical, a strange bodily reaction to jealousy and comparison — and the fact that bun had her tits hanging out her top in every picture, and pup could distinctly remember the way her ass cheeks jiggled as they hung beneath her short hemline when she exit the store she works at. nothing more than a quick, weird orgasm.

bunny had heard whisperings of the girl rafe was with before she arrived in kildare. a pogue, not that it mattered but she was simply surprised. by the way rafe spoke so ill of those from the other side of the island, bun couldn’t help but wonder what that relationship looked like, why it ended, how. she tried to be subtle in asking around of course, purely out of curiosity — but words to quell a non existent insecurity were thrown vaguely her way instead, quick to put down the other woman. “you’re so much better with rafe. it just makes sense, you know? that girl before you… sheesh, i don’t know. pretty girl, but a real scruffball. i don’t know what rafe was thinking.”

the same thing carried through when she even tried to ask rafe, who simply scoffed and shrugged her off with a “why? who— who cares about that bitch.” before continuing on with his heavy petting, moving in to kiss her jaw. bunny turned her head away in thought.

bun’s heart rate picked up a bunch when they started to kiss. she must’ve been a sick perv for feeling curious, because each time rafes tongue passed over hers she could only imagine how many times the same wet muscle would glide through the pretty pogues folds to land up near her clit. she wondered if he ever treat her that well. she wondered if you deserved it.

when puppy heard that rafe had been speaking ill of her at the country club once more, she didn’t think — just immediately marched to tanny hill to confront him. perhaps it was unwise of her to think rafe cameron could be mature enough to handle a breakup without talking down on her — but regardless, she had done too much healing and growing to let things slide.

with blood pumping in her ears and anger thrumming in her gut she marched right into the open doors of tanny hill, figuring he’d be home. but after calling his name a good few times, demanding his presence in the foyer — she decided to go looking for him herself, mary-jane converse plodding up the stairs in the direction of his bedroom. a chill settles over her skin at not only the eerie silence, but the fact it had been a long time since she’d taken this oddly familiar journey.

swinging open the doors, pup is met with a gut wrenching sight. it wasn’t him stood before her, but bunny— and she’s clad in a stupid little pink silk robe.

“oh i’m not — i was coming to find rafe because— he’s — he is being an asshole.”

bunny looks nothing close to surprised. infact, she moves slow— blinking her dolly eyelashes as she takes it all in. pup was the last person she’d expected to see, and yet it was not unwelcomed. she wondered why she wasn’t shocked regarding an acquaintance barging angrily into the house. why she’d felt her presence from a block away.

“i know.” she breathes, and it’s all she says.

twenty seven minutes later, and pup finds herself on her back in rafe cameron’s bed once more— months after she told herself it was the last time. though it wasn’t rafe that had her throwing her head back and digging her pastel-painted nails into the sheets, it was the glittering cloud of woman between her thighs, lapping up each drop of juice that seeps from the peak.

bunny is hungry— she’d never eaten a girl out before but god does she know what she likes, twirling her tongue like a tiny ballet dancer in circles around pups poor swollen clit. the pogue is beside herself, feet pressed flat to the bed so she could raise her hips and hump against the girls mouth. she’s sure she’d had a dream like this once that she tried to erase from her mind.

knocked back by the force of puppy’s humps, bun pulls back to look at the girl all bleary eyed and fucked out, lips glossy despite her makeup being wiped off a while ago from their frantic, confused and desperate kisses.

“s’it your first time? rafe never…” she whispers, like saying his name made it more likely they’d get caught.

pup shakes her head, broken out of her trance with a wobbling bottom lip. “n—no. never. he said— said i wasn’t — he just wouldn’t—”

“oh gosh.” bunny sighs in disappointment. “literally can’t imagine why not.” her manicured fingers spread pups puffy folds, and she whimpers in arousal as she watches the pogues pretty clit twitching in desperation to be sucked on again. “i jus’ dont know what it is…” her hot breath kisses pups clit anyways. “but ever since i knew who you were… jus’ wanted to know what it was like…” she smears her lips around the area pup needed her the most, if there was any lipgloss left over it would have transferred to her skin. “to taste you.”

pup had to say, the feeling was mutual.

[naivegh0ul]

stepbro!jj 😩😩😩😩 i’d be playing footsies with him at the breakfast table in the morning, acting all coy like he didn’t bend me over his bed last night

i rlly love the idea of reader being the horny sick n twisted one whilst jj is trying desperately to cling onto his morality <333:

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•

jj was not nonchalant by any stretch of the word, but now sat at the breakfast table — your cunt still aching from the way he’d fucked you through the night, he was seeming to play it incredibly cool and collected. no trace of a knowing smile or secretive glances, just his regular behaviour, sat reclined in his seat wearing his usual get up and a backwards hat. the dismissal would have maybe hurt if it wasn’t turning you on a little.

“i’m headin’ downtown for that AA meetin’. load of horse shit but ‘least i’m tryin’.” luke maybank chats as he messily spreads butter on his toast at the counter, taking a moment to lick some off his thumb. your mother is also rushing around the kitchen ready to head out on her own shift at work— you’re avoiding eye contact with her the most, more shameful of the acts you’d commit under the shared roof only a few hours prior.

“well, we are all proud anyways.” she praises, looking around at you and jj for contribution. you nod, and jj clears his throat, shuffling closer to the table opposite you on his chair.

“yeah, real proud pops.” you can tell it’s difficult for him to say from the way he looks down at his food as he says it.

“don’t get sappy on me, squirt.” luke’s words come muffled through a cheekful of toast, and soon your mother begins to fire overbearing questions at him about the recovery course he’s taking. as they talk, you zone out — eyes flickering to jj who is spooning up soggy cereal onto a spoon.

things felt very familial during moments like this. the whole family going about their regular morning routines, jj and yourself sat opposite at the table like a regular old brother and sister duo. you knew you were sick in the head from wanting your step brother in the first place, and now you were secretly fucking him — the idea that he was able to sit opposite you without a soul knowing he was balls deep earlier on was turning you on once more.

you glance over at luke and your mother, seeing them wrapped up in their own conversations — and you toe at the entrance of jj’s jeans, running your foot along the inner side of his calf. when he looks up at you through a heavy brow, cheek still full with cereal you can tell he’s warning you to stop — but knowing he couldn’t verbally express this, and that any vision of your feet was obstructed by the long gingham table cloth — you felt obliged to continue. no one even notices when jj winces and you giggle, too stuck in their own conversation.

you manage to stretch your leg to get your foot in his lap, briefly rubbing at his cock before he grips your ankle and throws it off him, angrily licking his lips and tensing his jaw, doing a double take at the parents when they turn their heads, the attention attracted by your whiny and dramatic ‘ow!’

luke scoffs out a laugh, walking towards the kitchen exit, shaking his head and spitting into a tin waste bin by the door. you truly wondered what your mother saw in him. “kids, huh. who’d have ‘em.” he comments before exiting, making jj cringe at the general insinuation that the two of you were in any way related, or kids.

your mother is quick to follow, barely sparing the two of you a glance. “i can drop you off some lunch if you’re going to be all day, i finish early and —” her voice trails off before the two of you hear her yell out a goodbye to you and the door closes. jj barely waits for them to be gone to push heavily out of his chair, letting it scrape on the floor and wander over to your side, gripping your jaw from where he stands beside your seat, forcing you to look up at him.

“do you think this is funny? like — i’m almost certain you got some weird fetish for wanting to be caught but i don’t, alright — quit bein’ so obvious.” he scolds before letting you go, quickly lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair as he wanders to the counter to cool off and pour himself a coffee. he was already dressed, set to meet the pogues a little later whilst you wandered around in tiny pyjama shorts and a thin tank top that made him wanna slap you.

you giggle despite his sternness and push out your chair to follow him, poking him in the back as you speak. “oh c’mon jayj, s’just a little fun. no one noticed anyway. you’re acting like i got under the table n’made out with your dick. not a bad idea for next time actually.” you muse jokingly and he all but slams his coffee mug back down to whip around to face you.

“y’know i can just like, confiscate everything i’ve been doin’ for you. s’not hard to find pussy, and if you wanna keep actin’ like an actual annoying little sister i’m gunna start treating you like one.” he ticks his head, squinting in irritation and your eyes widen in faux offence and fear.

“aw, don’t do that to me jj. i thought you liked playing with me.” you pout, and oddly — despite knowing you were playing games with him, it makes him soften the tiniest bit, shoulders falling a centimetre or so.

“well, look— i do…” he rolls his eyes and you smile. taking your hands, you push your tits together, looking up at him with mocking babydoll eyes.

“yeah, just like playing with your lil sis too much, huh?” you coo and he yanks your hands off yourself, tongue in his cheek — clearly losing his patience a little.

“nah, keep it up. you’re not getting shit from me anymore i’m dead serious.” he raises his voice a little, that southern twang jumping out a little extra and you giggle elatedly at the threat. you spin around, pressing your ass to his crotch and looking over your shoulder.

“nuh-uh, you like this view too much.” you tease before your jaw drops, mocking quiet ‘uh-uh-uh-uh’ moans as you repeatedly thump your ass against him, the blonde watching with a deadpan, unimpressed expression and arms folded over his chest. he goes to say something, but the sudden banging of the front door closing wipes the amused expression off your face quicker than he can and you jump up straight, looking like a deer caught in headlights when your mother walks back through the door.

“forgot my keys.” she shakes her head before her eyes land on the two of you standing near eachother, jj looking smug and you looking guilty. “everything… okay?” she raises an eyebrow at the weird atmosphere.

“yes! yeah everything’s fine.” you squeak, sounding oh so innocent and afraid. jj snorts, turning back around to the counter and continuing to pour his coffee.

“well alright, see you guys later.” she smiles before disappearing once more, leaving you looking bashful.

once she’s gone, jj glances over his shoulder at you and pouts, barely concealing his grin.

“aw, that scare ‘ya, lil sis?”

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•

[naivegh0ul]

Step bro John b got me thinking, what if John b didn’t take up the offer to bone his step sis because he is too much of a problem solver to create more problems so jj gives her what she wants, fucking her realll good he would so be like “John b is mean huh? Doesn’t wanna take care of his lil sis” while balls deep inside you. His so pervy

ต( ິᵒ̴̶̷̤ ﻌ ᵒ̴̶̷̤ )ິ王女୨˚̣̣̣͙୧

“somethin’ bout this bein’ a secret really turns you on, huh?” jj winces, voice low and husky in your ear as he grinds his dick through your walls, all but dropping his weight on you in your bedroom. john b was off chasing some lead across the water, stupidly leaving jj to ‘keep an eye on you’ as if you were the troublemaker out of the two.

jj had wanted to be a good friend, but the opportunity presented itself — being you walking around a bikini top and the tiniest skirt to mankind, and unlike john b jj wasn’t one to waste perfectly good pussy being dangled right below his nose.

which is how you ended up with him inside you, unable to resist his charms. “just wanted to feel good, jayj.” you mewl, voice trembling with each fast and sudden thrust of his hips, drilling into you. by instinct, you throw a hand back to push against his tummy and he lightly smacks it out the way.

“move that hand, mama. you wanted this.” he drawls, that charming southern twang making your walls flutter around the shaft that you had glossed with your arousal.

“are—are you g’nna tell john b?” you whine, and to be honest — you’re not sure what you want the answer to be. you keep this little rendezvous to yourself and stay turned on by the idea of being a sexy little secret — or you face the consequences of a jealous and jaded step brother, who could potentially take that frustration out on you. you always did find possessiveness sexy.

“hey i’m not a snitch.” he adjusts his hands, one arm sliding beneath your stomach to hoist your ass up a little higher, the other hand coming to affectionately wrap around your throat. he presses a kiss to your jaw and his lips linger there as he stills inside you. “unless, like… you want me to tell him. in which case you’re naughtier than i gave you credit for.”

you groan, wriggling until he got the message and helped flip you on to your back. he didn’t let you off easy though, pinning your knees up onto your chest leaving you spread and exposed. instead of getting shy, you giggle, almost evil and doll-like which only approves his suspicions about you being quite the little nympho. “but we’re doing such a bad thing, jj.” you bat your eyelashes, faux innocent and he smirks at the audacity, licking the cut at the corner of his mouth.

“look, all i know is john b sent me over here to look after his little step-sister,” he explains as he lines himself back up with your needy hole and pushes back in, making your face twist in pleasure. “and that’s exactly,” he punctuates with a hard thrust that bounces you off the bed. “what— i’m— doing.”

ต( ິᵒ̴̶̷̤ ﻌ ᵒ̴̶̷̤ )ິ王女୨˚̣̣̣͙୧

[naivegh0ul]

Bitches love reblogging this post every Tuesday the 18th

[naivegh0ul]

sittin’ up on simon’s face and smothering him 👅👅👅

tears crest the corners of his eyes, throat gasping in a shuddering breath against you. n simon’s reeling, away and latching onto you in a mess of ecstasy. his cocky demeanor melts down his face in hot, salty tears, nose pulling into a soft scrunch as he tries his absolute best to keep up.

your hips roll, moaning and giggling when his nose nudges at your clit. your fingers curl into his hair, sliding through the short blonde before you grip tight and ground your hips down onto his open mouth. and he lets you, lets you use him as you please, his only defiance being the garbled whines.

“not so mouthy are ya’ now, huh, baby?” you smile down at him, pushing his head further into the feathery pillow supporting him, your sweet pussy fuckin smothering him.

n his big eyes glisten up at you, nails cutting into the plush of your thick thighs. he can’t tell if he’s in heaven with your warm, soft thighs wrapped tight round his head, with the way you shove your pussy onto his mouth. or hell with the way black pricks at the corners of his eyes.

his fingers tap, digging into the meat at the side of your thigh, whining. your hips slip upwards slightly when his back arches, when he writhes against the bed, desperate to get your attention to his leaking cock that lays pretty against his stomach.

“so damn needy,” you roll your eyes, pressing your hand into his forehead to get his head at just the right angle. “always thinkin’ with your fuckin cock.”

[naivegh0ul]

no gardens safe around them

(ty to all my friends who provided their fave flowers- you're all wonderful)

[naivegh0ul]

DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

[naivegh0ul]

[naivegh0ul]

Mauro C. Martinez (American, 1986) - Trust (2022)

[naivegh0ul]

You’ll be alright 🧼💖