#But somethings ringing in Sun's head

[notdysfunk]

ik this is out of the blue, but how different would your regular Sun and Moon be if Sun was affected by the virus instead of Moon?

Hi!! Thankies for asking!

I do have an oolddd doodle of something like this! Where Sun would try to keep someone up CONSTANLY, rather than Moon trying to put someone to sleep while virus'd!!

It was honestly made as a joke when I made it, but if anything this would be the closest to a "virus'd Sun" I've ever really thought about. Moon would still be sweet, and soft spoken, probably taking the role of the more anxious one rather than Sun. Given the events of my fic To Understand You, it would be VASTLY different in the way sun/moon interact with you- Although I think similar plot points would still play out normally, just role-reversed. :O

[noomimoomi]

Normal wednesday night with an obsessed god who always visits your dreams

Hey guys! This is an AU where Nika takes a “liking” to Koby! Made this with my friend @paper-lilypie !! Go check her out!!

[lily-bisque]

running into him years after you’d lost your virginity’s to one another

flimsy hands, awkward stares, and teeth bumping into each other in the backseat of his dad’s old beat up van. you were young, fresh faced, and so was he.

an asshole of a center for the highschool hockey team that made your heart bloom on first glance despite his aloof demeanor. and lucky for you, the indifferent salmon haired boy had his eyes set on you from the start as well.

and what was a blossoming, delinquent love affair turned stolen kisses and quiet confessions after class continued to ring deep in the recesses of your heart for years to come, something adolescent and pure to adorn it.

he'd come prepared that fateful day, and you could feel in the air that today was going to be different. he wasn’t a gentle-mouthed boy, always quick to insult and speak. but with you, he opened up a different part of himself. words and gestures reserved for just you. and even if he was your first love, you always knew there was something real there.

that was, until the… deflowering.

you don’t like to think back on it too much as it was your last encounter, fearing it shaped the course of your romance together. he was obviously just as inexperienced as you, but you’d still expected a hell of a lot more.

it was quiet, muttered apologies and winces, curses of frustration under his breath when his belt snagged, limbs bumping into leather and fabric rustling against each other.

he’d only lasted around 15 seconds before it was over.

and now, six years later at a highschool reunion, you’d prayed you wouldn’t run into that familiar brute of a man to avoid any blunders.

but he was there alright.

standing nearly seven feet over the crowd of your old classmates, drink in hand as he shoved the other in his jean pocket.

you couldn't help the stammer of your heart, seeing how grown he looked after all this time. he had tattoos decorating both arms in thick lines, and a few even lining on his face.

he looked infuriatingly good; like a piece of cake your mother made, telling you that you can't eat it but when it looks so good sitting there, you're tempted for just a taste.

it was a hot summer night, sun low and a feverous and stifling temperature to match the low pace of music. decorations were just a few speckled foldable tables at a park outside your old highschool with party favors, coolers, and a couple of grills going along with a bar.

nostalgia flittered in the air with smoke, quiet chatter as everyone caught up, picking up just where they’d left off in this small town.

you kept your head down, focused on the conversation of your old friend group as they giggled about how their jobs were going or something else you weren’t really listening to.

howbeit, it was almost inevitable, that red string of fate that tied the two of you together.

because, within moments of him spotting you in the crowd thanks to his birds eye view, you felt a couple of meaty fingers tap against your shoulder.

grimacing like you were bracing for impact, you turned around as your friends conversation stalled for a moment, watching as you greeted him.

“hey,” he gruffed out, the smallest hint of relief and melancholy swirling in his crimson irises.

“hi ‘kuna,” you whispered back, feeling like you were back in high school with that nickname he only let you call him, the smallest hint of alcohol coursing through your veins and making every hair stand on end.

noticing the awkwardness, he placed a hand on the small of your back and led you towards the bar and away from the watchful eyes and ears from your friends, not without earning a few glances from familiar faces.

“how’ve you been?” he quiered, his tone a hell of a lot deeper, huskier than you’d remembered. he’d definitely grown into himself.

“good,” you nodded, pursing your lips and stopping at the bar counter, setting your drink down, ignoring how your heart was in your throat and your eyes felt wide. “what about you?”

he cocked his head, mulling it over, before nodding again. “good.”

it’s a hick-old town, and most of the gossip you’ve already heard.

but sukuna was different in that sense. you knew he was still at his families old ranch, yet you’d never once run into him or heard a lick of gossip.

maybe that was due to you working in the city after graduation, or his reserved nature.

“how’s the city life?” he asked, as if reading your mind.

you let out a gentle chuckle, soft and airy, something he had forgotten the sound of after all this time. “it’s a lot,” you stated honestly, toying with the stem of your glass. “but i like it.”

he hummed, leaning an arm against the bar and giving you a once-over. “you look real nice.”

the smile that made its way to your heated cheeks was nothing short of genuine. “could say the same for you.”

and after nearly an hour of catching up with inappropriate nudges and yearning gazes, you found yourself straddling him in that same beat up van you had just years before, only now it seemed he done some real repairs on it.

it was sleek red with brand new leather seats, black rims and a new dashboard. it was nothing like the old car you were so used to seeing outside your bedroom window whenever he'd pick you up before school.

his mouth was latched to your throat, trailing love bite after love bite, thighs rubbing against the fabric of his blue jeans, your hands clutching at his lumberjack-style flannel for some semblance of grounding.

but his large hands were everywhere, feeling you up and committing everything to memory as if he failed miserably the first time. cupping the mounds on your chest, gripping the plush underside of your thighs, caressing your nape with each passionate kiss.

“missed this," he huffed, squeezing your hip and you let out a whine, tossing your head back and placing your hand against the window. after all those years of chopping wood or wrangling cattle, his muscles were what he had to show for it. he was insanely ripped.

you hummed, then moved your fingers to skim through his hair, gyrating your pelvis against his hip.

that earned an impatient growl from him, bunching your sundress in his hands and sliding your now-damp panties to the side. his finger pad teased your entrance, collecting the pooling slick, before pushing it's way in.

you shuddered in his grasp, feeling how he slipped so easily inside of you, evidence of how easily he turned you on, and began working you open. he then pushed another digit in to create scissoring motions that had you spinning.

in your sukuna-induced trance, you missed the smug grin he had on his face as he watched you work your way towards unraveling yourself on his hand.

grinding your hips onto his palm, he pulled your waist down to match his thrusts of his curling fingers up and into you, rubbing that tender spot over and over that you began to whine out heady moans of his name.

"s'kuna," you whimpered, biting your lip and not even caring about the way you made his car rock in your old high school parking lot.

"missed you, too," he sighed out finding that sweet spot on your collarbone and biting down as the tips of his long fingers prodded your cervix.

before you had the chance to reach your peak, he pulled out, leaving you empty and throbbing. he slipped his fingers into his mouth and made a lewd scene of cleaning it up, not letting a drop go to waste.

you could only watch, maw slack as something coiled in your gut, forming a taut knot only he could undo.

leaning back, he brushed a strand of tresses behind your ear and admired your flushed state. "just as beautiful as i remember," he hummed, eyeing you carefully.

you placed a hand against the tent in his pants, palming him with a pressure that had him biting his lip. "and what do you remember?" you teased, fingers working at his belt buckle.

he grinned, watching you work to free his shaft, which was a hell of a lot larger than you remember. the girth had your mind spinning. "remember how much of a brat i was to fuck things up with you."

that had you glancing up and tilting your head, an adorable look he catalogued in his mind years ago. "you're not talking about..." you questioned, trailing off and wondering if he remembered your first time the same but his unfaltering expression was evidence enough. "we were just kids. we didn't know what the hell we were doing," you reassured, leaning forward to cup a cheek. you never blamed him for it.

he still has no idea how he let you get away.

but he'd be damned if he let it happen again.

"let me take care of you," he grunted, eyebrows crinkling with an impatience, as if he'd waited years to correct an error.

your gaze softened, before leaning forward to press a kiss against the seam of his lips. "well. if you can, this'll make up for the first."

[sab0dssey]

I LOOOVVVEEE BIG BABY GHOST. ۫ ꣑ৎ . Simon Ghost Riley x f!reader

Husband!Simon who is a totally a big baby with you. He’ll come after from mission or work, the thing he done first is throwing you to bed and cuddling you. His head on your chest, his arms wrapped around your legs. If you stop caressing his back and hair while he was tryna sleep, he’ll groan and bit your arm.—Don’t worry biting is his love language— When he fell asleep he hear nothing. Is TV volume on full? He won’t hear it.—Because of his snores—

Husband!Simon who never take off his ring. —Except dangerous missions.— His ring is a symbol of his love for his wifey.

Husband!Simon never touch, never talk or never even makes an eye contact with any women. He has his own woman so he don’t need any other woman. He is very devoted and devoted to his wife. He has eyes for no one but her. It is as if a spell has been cast on him, and no one except his own girl interests him. What a man…

Husband!Simon who enjoys walking around the house shirtless. He knows you enjoyed his muscular body. Especially his back and biceps…He teases you with doing that. Enjoys your hands roaming around his muscular top.

Husband!Simon loves to tattoo small things about you. The tattoos of things reminding him you. He’s not always at home, so he wants to remind himself about you you. He already has your photo on his wallet, but he thinks it’s not enough. This man is so in love.

Husband!Simon if you stole his wallet and went shopping without telling him. Damn, he never complains. He LOVES you spending his money. Because after all he loves to spoil you. —If you won’t spend his money, don’t worry, he’ll buy expensive things for you— He actually turns on when you came with shopping bags, and that bratty attitude of yours…

Husband!Simon knows his teammates. And he knows how asshole are them. So he always hides you from them. They know Simon is married—They learned that he’s married, after 2 years later of his wedding, don’t mention that..— But his teammates never saw her face, or never knows her name. Because Simon mentions you, if that’s necessary, saying My wife.

Husband!Simon his ego is high. He always wants to win arguments. It just…his nature, y’know. He feels good when he wins an argument. It's like being right, satisfies his ego. Even when he's in a situation where he can't be right about something, he finds a way to be right. It's always been like this.

“Don’t I said don’t go somewhere without telling me?! Do you have ANY idea how I felt when I couldn’t saw you at home, when you already said you’ll be waiting me at home?!” He yelled. His ears turned red from anger—mostly from panic— His hands turned to fists. The veins in his forehead, arms and hands would’ve be seen from meters away.

He rubbed his forehead, trying to calm himself down. His head snapped towards your when he heard a soft, quiet, “‘M sorry…” from you. Head bowed down, fidgeting her fingers.

That’s it. That’s all he needed. That’s allll his anger needed to hear, to ease. He melted like a butter on sun. He exhaled all breath from his body. And then pulled her to his chest, wrapped his arms around her fragile body. Holding her head on his chest tightly. He regretted everything in that moment. He regretted for yelling her. He regretted for being angry to her.

“‘s alright, darling…” he breathed into her vanilla scented hair. He was short tempered man. But not to her. He would yell anybody who pissed him off. He would yell until his throat aches. But when he saw his girl’s tearfilled, puppy eyes he would melt immediately. He would have forget even his own name, let alone his anger…

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[snail-day]

You can do this, Satoru. It’s just your wedding. Just the day you’ve been dreaming about since the moment she first smiled at you. Just the person you’re terrifyingly in love with. Who’s about to walk down the aisle and change his life forever. A day he's been dreaming since he first met you

He’s standing at the altar, trying to act normal. Cool as a cucumber. Like his knees aren’t locked and his palms aren’t sweating through his white gloves. Fidgeting with the cuffs of his dark tux every two seconds. Trying not to cry. Trying really hard not to cry.

His baby blues are not looking at the double doors. Nope. Not even glancing. He’ll cry if he does. He knows he’ll cry.

And then the music starts.

You appear.

And he’s a goner.

His breath punches out of him like someone knocked the wind from his lungs for the first time. You’re there. Radiant. Soft. Shining in a way he doesn’t even think the sun could compete with. And you’re crying. Oh god, you’re already crying.

He panics. Internally. Loudly.

Don’t cry, baby, please don’t cry, he begs in his mind, like he can will the tears away just by loving you hard enough. Your bottom lip is wobbling. Your hands are clutching the arm of your dad a little too tightly that his poor father-in-law is wincing. You freeze halfway down the aisle. Staring at him, practically on the verge of sobbing.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate.

He moves before anyone can stop him, taking long strides right to where you’re standing, wide-eyed and trembling. The officiant laughs under their breath and says something like, “Looks like the groom’s meeting the bride halfway,” but Satoru barely hears it. His entire world has narrowed down to you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, cupping your face with both hands, his thumbs rapidly brushing your tears away. You sniffle. Nod. Barely.

So, obviously, he does the only thing he knows how to do: he teases.

“Didn’t know I was marrying a crybaby today,” he whispers, smiling crookedly, voice cracking just enough to betray how close he is to sobbing.

You swat his chest, laugh-wheezing through your tears, and he swears his heart nearly gives out. He wants to kiss you so badly, but it’s not time yet. Not technically. So instead, he holds your hands and walks you the rest of the way down the aisle, like maybe if he stays close enough, your nervousness won’t win.

He doesn’t remember the vows.

He doesn't remember the rings, or if his voice shook when he said “I do.”

But he remembers you. Every second of you. The way your fingers squeezed his like you were scared and excited all at once. The small little hi you spoke during the speech about you two coming together. The way your smile finally broke through the nerves when he mouthed mine during the ceremony.

He’s pretty sure he blacked out for the kiss. All he knows is that when it happens, the world goes quiet. All that’s left is you and him and the overwhelming realization that he gets to love you for the rest of his life.

And later, when he’s holding your heels in one hand and you in the other, dancing barefoot on the reception floor under fairy lights, he’s still chanting the same thing in his head he did the moment you walked down the aisle:

Be good. Be good. Don’t cry. Be normal. You’re married now. This is real. Don’t freak her out.

But also?

Holy shit. She’s mine.

[pucksandpower]

Little Star

Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader

Summary: you’ve grown used to being overshadowed by your older brother, merely a distant star that seems dull in comparison to the sun of Maranello … and then Max happens

Based on this request

The sun dips low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the paddock of the Autodromo Nazionale Monza. The air still buzzes with excitement from the day’s race, but behind the Ferrari hospitality unit, a different energy permeates the air.

You lean against the cool metal wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the concrete, knees pulled to your chest. Tears stream silently down your face as you struggle to catch your breath between sobs. The sounds of celebration echo in the distance, a stark contrast to your solitude.

Footsteps approach, and you hastily wipe at your eyes, hoping to erase any evidence of your breakdown. A familiar figure rounds the corner, stopping short when he spots you.

“Hey,” Max Verstappen says, his brow furrowing with concern. “Are you alright?”

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine,” you insist, your voice wavering slightly. “Just ... needed some air.”

Max doesn’t buy it for a second. He crouches down beside you, his blue eyes searching your face. “You don’t look fine,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

You bite your lip, debating whether to confide in him. After a moment, you sigh. “It’s stupid,” you mumble.

“If it’s making you cry, it’s not stupid,” Max counters. He settles down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Come on, talk to me.”

You take a shaky breath. “It’s my birthday,” you admit quietly.

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Today? Why aren’t you celebrating?”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “Because everyone forgot,” you explain, fresh tears welling up. “Charles won the race, and ... I’m happy for him, I really am. But it’s like I don’t even exist when he’s around, you know?”

Max nods slowly, understanding dawning on his face. “That must be really tough,” he says softly.

You nod, sniffling. “I’ve always felt like I was in his shadow, but today ... it just hit me harder, I guess. Even my mom forgot.”

“That’s not okay,” Max says firmly. “Your birthday should be special, no matter what else is happening.”

You shrug, picking at a loose thread on your jeans. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“No, it’s not fine,” Max insists. He stands up suddenly, determination etched on his face. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Before you can protest, he’s gone, jogging away towards the paddock. You’re left alone again, wondering what he’s up to.

True to his word, Max returns a few minutes later, slightly out of breath and holding something behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he instructs with a grin.

Curious, you comply. There’s a rustling sound, and then Max’s voice rings out, clear and slightly off-key: “Happy birthday to you ...”

Your eyes fly open in surprise. Max stands before you, holding a small cupcake with a single candle stuck in the frosting. His face is illuminated by the flickering flame as he continues to sing.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Y/N, happy birthday to you!”

Emotion wells up in your chest, a lump forming in your throat. “Max,” you whisper, overwhelmed. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He crouches down, carefully balancing the cupcake. “Of course I did,” he says softly. “Everyone deserves to feel special on their birthday. Now make a wish and blow out your candle.”

You close your eyes, thinking for a moment before leaning forward to extinguish the tiny flame. When you open them again, Max is beaming at you.

“What did you wish for?” He asks, settling back down beside you and offering you the cupcake.

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Can’t tell you, or it won’t come true.”

Max laughs, nudging your shoulder playfully. “Fair enough. So, twenty-two, huh? How does it feel to be so old?”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help chuckling. “Says the guy who’s practically ancient at twenty-six.”

“Hey!” Max protests, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m in my prime.”

The banter feels natural, and you find yourself relaxing for the first time all day. You take a bite of the cupcake, savoring the sweetness. “This is really good,” you mumble around a mouthful of frosting. “Where did you even find it?”

Max grins mischievously. “I have my sources. Can’t reveal all my secrets, can I?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you, Max. Really. This ... it means a lot.”

His expression softens. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry the rest of your family forgot. That’s not fair to you.”

You sigh, your momentary happiness fading slightly. “It’s not their fault. Charles had a big win today, and-”

“Stop,” Max interrupts gently. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. Your feelings are valid.”

You blink, surprised by his directness. “I ... I guess I’m just used to it,” you admit. “It’s always been about Charles. Even before he got into F1, he was the golden child. I love him, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes ...”

“Sometimes you want to be seen too,” Max finishes for you. You nod, grateful that he understands.

“Exactly. And it’s not just Charles. Arthur’s always been following in his footsteps, and Lorenzo ... well, he’s the oldest. I’m just ... there.”

Max frowns. “That’s not true. You’re your own person, with your own talents and dreams. Have you talked to them about how you feel?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to make them feel bad. Especially Charles. He works so hard, and he deserves his success.”

“His success doesn’t diminish your worth,” Max says firmly. “You deserve to be celebrated too.”

Tears prick at your eyes again, but for a different reason this time. “Thank you,” you whisper. “I don’t think anyone’s ever put it quite like that before.”

Max smiles softly. “Well, it’s true. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty amazing.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks. “You barely know me,” you point out.

“I know enough,” Max counters. “I know you’re kind enough to put your family’s happiness before your own. I know you’re strong enough to handle being overlooked without becoming bitter. And I know you’ve got a great taste in cupcakes.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest. “Well, when you put it like that ...”

Max grins, clearly pleased to have made you smile. “So, birthday girl, what do you want to do now? The night is young, and I happen to know where they keep the good champagne around here.”

You hesitate, glancing towards the paddock where you can still hear the sounds of celebration. “I don’t know ... I should probably go find my family.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “On your birthday? Come on, live a little. They can wait.”

A spark of rebellion ignites in your chest. “You know what? You’re right. Let’s do it.”

Max jumps to his feet, offering you his hand. “That’s the spirit! First stop, champagne. Then, who knows? Maybe we’ll steal a golf cart and go joyriding around the track.”

You take his hand, allowing him to pull you up. “Is that even allowed?”

Max’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Probably not. But it’s your birthday, so I think we can bend the rules a little.”

As you follow Max towards the paddock, a warmth spreads through your chest that has nothing to do with the lingering summer heat. For the first time in years, you feel seen. Appreciated. Special.

“Hey, Max?” You say, causing him to pause and look back at you.

“Yeah?”

You smile, genuine and bright. “Thank you. For everything.”

Max’s expression softens. “Anytime,” he says softly. “Now come on, birthday girl. Let’s make this a night to remember.”

As you walk side by side into the fading light, you can’t help but feel that this birthday might just be the start of something new. Something exciting. Something uniquely yours.

And for once, you’re not thinking about Charles, or Arthur, or anyone else. You’re just thinking about you, and the possibilities that stretch out before you like an open road.

Happy birthday indeed.

***

The Ferrari hospitality suite thrums with energy, laughter and music spilling out into the warm Italian night. Charles Leclerc stands at the center of it all, a wide grin plastered across his face as he basks in the glow of his hard-fought victory. Champagne flows freely, and the air is thick with the scent of celebration.

“To Charles!” Someone shouts, raising a glass. The room erupts in cheers, and Charles feels a swell of pride in his chest.

“Speech! Speech!” The crowd chants, and Charles laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, clearing his throat. “I just want to say thank you to everyone here. This win ... it’s not just mine. It’s ours. The team, the mechanics, the engineers, the strategists ... we did this together.”

More cheers erupt, and Charles feels a hand clap him on the back. He turns to see his teammate grinning broadly.

“Well said, amigo,” Carlos says, slinging an arm around Charles’ shoulders. “You drove like a champion today.”

Charles beams, the praise from his teammate adding to the euphoria of the moment. “Thanks, Carlos. Couldn’t have done it without you pushing me.”

Carlos laughs, taking a swig of his drink. “Always happy to provide motivation. Oh, hey, before I forget — can you pass on my birthday wishes to Y/N? I meant to find her earlier, but things got a bit crazy.”

The words hit Charles like a bucket of ice water. His smile freezes, his eyes widening in horror. “W-what?” He stammers, hoping he’s misheard.

Carlos frowns, noticing the sudden change in Charles’ demeanor. “Your sister? It’s her birthday today, right? Her 22nd?”

Charles feels the room spin around him. How could he have forgotten? His little sister’s birthday, on the same day as his big win. The realization crashes over him in waves of guilt and shame.

“Charles?” Carlos prompts, concern evident in his voice. “You okay, mate?”

Charles shakes his head, trying to clear the fog of shock. “I ... I forgot,” he whispers, more to himself than to Carlos. “How could I forget?”

Carlos’ eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. “You didn’t remember?”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, panic rising in his chest. “I was so focused on the race, and then the win ... God, I’m such an idiot.”

He scans the room frantically, hoping against hope that he’ll spot you among the partygoers. But of course, you’re not there. Why would you be, when your own family forgot your birthday?

“I need to find her,” Charles says, already moving towards the exit. “I need to apologize.”

Carlos nods, squeezing Charles’ shoulder supportively. “Go. I’ll cover for you here if anyone asks.”

Charles barely hears him, his mind racing as he pushes through the crowd. He bursts out of the hospitality suite, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stuffy interior.

“Y/N!” He calls out, his voice echoing in the near-empty paddock. But there’s no response.

Panic rising, Charles pulls out his phone, fumbling with the screen as he opens his contacts. He hits your name, holding the phone to his ear as it rings.

Once. Twice. Three times. Then, your voicemail.

“Hey, this is Y/N. Leave a message!”

Charles swears under his breath, ending the call. He tries again, and again, but each time it goes straight to voicemail.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters, pacing back and forth. Where could you be? Who would you have gone to when your family let you down?

A thought strikes him, and he quickly dials another number.

“Hello?” Arthur’s sleepy voice answers.

“Arthur!” Charles practically shouts. “Is Y/N with you?”

There’s a pause, then confusion in Arthur’s tone. “No? Why would she be? Aren’t you guys celebrating?”

Charles feels his heart sink even further. “Arthur, it’s her birthday. We forgot.”

“Shit,” Arthur breathes. “How did we ... God, we’re terrible brothers.”

“I know, I know,” Charles says, the guilt eating away at him. “I’m trying to find her now. Can you call Maman and Lorenzo, see if they’ve heard from her?”

“Yeah, of course,” Arthur agrees quickly. “I’ll call you back if I hear anything.”

Charles ends the call, his mind whirling. Where else could you be? He tries to think back to earlier in the day, wondering if he’d seen you at all after the race. But everything is a blur of champagne and celebration, and he realizes with a sickening jolt that he can’t remember the last time he actually spoke to you.

He’s about to start knocking on motorhome doors when another idea strikes him. Quickly, he opens the Life360 app on his phone. The family had started using it a few years back, mainly to keep track of each other during race weekends.

Charles waits impatiently for the app to load, praying that it will show your location. But when the map finally appears, his heart sinks. Your icon is greyed out, with a message underneath: “Location permissions turned off.”

“No, no, no,” Charles mutters, refreshing the app desperately. But the result is the same. You’ve deliberately turned off your location tracking.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. You didn’t just disappear — you chose to be unfindable. And it’s all his fault.

Charles slumps against the nearest wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the ground. He puts his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the magnitude of his mistake.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he whispers into the night. “I’m so, so sorry.”

As he sits there, memories flood his mind. Your proud smile when he won his first karting race. The way you’d curl up next to him during thunderstorms, seeking comfort. Your unwavering support through every step of his career, even when it meant less attention for you.

And how had he repaid that loyalty? By forgetting the one day that was supposed to be about you.

Charles’ phone buzzes, and he snatches it up eagerly. But it’s just a text from his mother:

Haven’t heard from Y/N. Is everything okay?

He stares at the message, unsure how to respond. How can he explain that he’s lost his little sister on her birthday?

Another text comes through, this time from Lorenzo:

No luck here either. What’s going on?

Charles takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He has to tell them the truth, no matter how much it hurts.

He creates a group chat with his mom, Lorenzo, and Arthur, his fingers shaking slightly as he types:

We forgot Y/N’s birthday. All of us. She’s not answering her phone and her location is turned off. I can’t find her anywhere.

The responses come in rapid succession:

Maman: Oh no. How could we forget?

Lorenzo: Shit. Have you checked with her friends?

Arthur: I’m on my way to the track now. We’ll find her.

Charles feels a mix of relief and shame. At least now everyone knows, and they can all work together to make things right. But the fact remains that they let you down in the first place.

He’s about to reply when he spots a familiar figure walking across the paddock. Max Verstappen, looking slightly disheveled and ... was that a touch of glitter on his cheek?

Without thinking, Charles jumps to his feet and runs over to his rival.

“Max!” He calls out, slightly out of breath. “Have you seen Y/N?”

Max turns, surprise evident on his face. Then, something else flickers in his eyes. Anger? Disappointment? It’s gone too quickly for Charles to be sure.

“Why?” Max asks, his tone cooler than usual. “Suddenly remembered she exists?”

The words sting, but Charles knows he deserves them. “Please, Max. I know I messed up. We all did. But I need to find her, to apologize.”

Max studies him for a long moment, as if weighing his options. Finally, he sighs. “She’s safe. That’s all you need to know right now.”

Relief washes over Charles, quickly followed by confusion. “You’ve seen her? Where is she?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Max says firmly. “She needed space, and after what happened, I don’t blame her.”

Charles feels a flare of frustration. “She’s my sister. I have a right to know where she is.”

“No,” Max counters, his blue eyes flashing. “You had a responsibility to remember her birthday. You didn’t. So now, you don’t get to demand anything.”

The words hit Charles like a slap. He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. Max is right, as much as it pains him to admit it.

“Is she ... is she okay?” Charles asks quietly, all fight leaving him.

Max’s expression softens slightly. “She will be. Eventually. But Charles, you really hurt her. All of you did.”

Charles nods, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “I know. God, I know. I just want to make it right.”

“Then give her time,” Max advises. “And when she’s ready to talk, really listen to her. Don’t make excuses. Don’t try to justify it. Just listen.”

Charles nods again, feeling utterly defeated. “Will you ... will you tell her I’m sorry? That we’re all sorry?”

Max hesitates, then nods. “I will. But Charles? You need to do better. She deserves better.”

With that, Max turns and walks away, leaving Charles alone with his thoughts and regrets.

Charles pulls out his phone again, looking at the group chat with his family. He types out a message, his heart heavy:

Y/N is safe. A friend is looking out for her. We need to give her space, but when she’s ready to talk, we all need to be there. Really be there. We’ve got a lot to make up for.

As he hits send, Charles makes a silent promise to himself and to you. He’ll do better. He’ll be the brother you deserve. And somehow, someway, he’ll make this right.

But for now, all he can do is wait, and hope that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive them all.

***

The city lights twinkle below as Max leads you into his penthouse suite, the door clicking shut behind you. The space is modern and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Milan’s skyline.

“Make yourself at home,” Max says, gesturing around the room. “Are you hungry? I can order some room service if you want.”

You shake your head, still feeling slightly overwhelmed by the events of the day. “No, thanks. I’m okay.”

Max nods, studying your face with concern. “You sure? It’s been a long day.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah, you could say that again.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Max clears his throat. “So, um, you can take the bed. I’ll crash on the couch.”

“Oh, no,” you protest immediately. “I can’t kick you out of your own bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “Absolutely not. It’s your birthday. You get the bed.”

You bite your lip, an idea forming. “We could ... share? I mean, if that’s okay with you. The bed looks plenty big enough.”

Max’s eyes widen slightly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure,” you say, surprising yourself with your boldness. “Unless it makes you uncomfortable?”

“No, no,” Max says quickly. “I’m fine with it if you are.”

You nod, and another silence falls. Max runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly unsure of himself.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” he suggests. “Or we could just talk, if you prefer.”

“Talking sounds nice,” you admit. “I’m not really in the mood for a movie.”

Max nods, gesturing towards the bed. “Shall we?”

You both settle onto the massive king-size bed, sitting cross-legged and facing each other. It’s oddly intimate, and you feel a flutter of nerves in your stomach.

“So,” Max begins, his blue eyes fixed on you. “Tell me something about yourself that isn’t related to racing or your family.”

You pause, caught off guard by the question. It’s been so long since someone asked about you, just you.

“Well,” you start hesitantly, “I’m actually studying to become an astrophysicist.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s incredible! Why astrophysics?”

The enthusiasm in his voice makes you smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by space, you know? The idea that there’s so much out there we don’t understand ... it’s exciting.”

“That’s amazing,” Max says, genuinely impressed. “What kind of stuff are you studying right now?”

You laugh softly. “Are you sure you want to know? I might bore you with all the technical details.”

Max leans forward, his expression earnest. “Try me. I want to hear all about it.”

Encouraged by his interest, you begin to explain your current research project. As you talk, your hands move animatedly, your eyes lighting up with passion. Max listens intently, asking questions and showing genuine curiosity.

“... and that’s why understanding dark matter is so crucial,” you finish, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, I kind of went off on a tangent there.”

Max shakes his head, smiling warmly. “Don’t apologize. It’s fascinating. I had no idea you were into all this. Why haven’t I heard about it before?”

Your smile falters slightly. “Oh, well ... it doesn’t really come up much. Everyone’s usually more interested in talking about racing.”

Max frowns. “But this is incredible. You’re studying to unravel the mysteries of the universe. That’s way cooler than driving in circles.”

You laugh, but there’s a hint of sadness in it. “Try telling that to my family. I think they see it as more of a hobby than a career path.”

“What?” Max looks genuinely shocked. “How can they not be incredibly proud? This is huge!”

You shrug, picking at a loose thread on the comforter. “I guess it’s just not as exciting as F1? It’s okay, though. I’m used to it.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “No, it’s not okay. Y/N, you’re brilliant. Your family should be shouting it from the rooftops.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink them back hastily. “Thanks, Max. That ... that means a lot.”

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before placing his hand over yours. “I mean it. And for what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing is incredible.”

You look up, meeting his gaze. There’s a warmth there, an understanding that makes your heart skip a beat. Without really thinking about it, you shift closer to him.

Max seems to take this as an invitation, because he moves closer too. Soon, you’re sitting side by side, your shoulders touching.

“So,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “What about you? Any secret passions outside of racing?”

Max chuckles. “Nothing as impressive as astrophysics, I’m afraid. But I do enjoy sim racing in my spare time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t that just more racing?”

“Hey, it’s completely different,” Max protests with a grin. “In sim racing, I can drive any car on any track. Even ones that don’t exist in real life.”

“Okay, okay,” you concede, laughing. “Tell me more about it.”

As Max launches into an explanation of his favorite sim racing setups, you find yourself relaxing more and more. The conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and playful debates.

Without really noticing, you both shift positions throughout the night. Max leans back against the headboard, and you mirror him. Your shoulders are pressed together, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“... and that’s why I think pineapple absolutely belongs on pizza,” Max finishes, looking at you expectantly.

You shake your head, grinning. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from a world champion. Your taste buds clearly can’t be trusted.”

“Oh, come on,” Max laughs, nudging your shoulder with his. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I have tried it,” you insist. “It’s an abomination.”

Max clutches his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Y/N. And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

The word ‘friends’ sends an odd pang through your chest. Is that what this is? It feels like more, somehow.

As if reading your thoughts, Max’s expression softens. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so gentle, so intimate, that it takes your breath away.

“Y/N,” he says softly. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

You swallow hard, your heart racing. “Me too,” you whisper.

There’s a moment of charged silence, and then Max is leaning in. You meet him halfway, your lips meeting in a soft, tentative kiss.

It’s brief, just a fleeting press of lips, but it sends sparks shooting through your entire body. When you pull back, Max is looking at you with a mixture of wonder and uncertainty.

“Was that okay?” He asks, his voice husky.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead, you lean in again, capturing his lips in another kiss. This one is deeper, more assured. Max’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you melt into his touch.

When you finally break apart, you’re both slightly breathless. Max rests his forehead against yours, a smile playing at his lips.

“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he admits.

You laugh softly. “Even when I was insulting your pizza preferences?”

“Especially then,” Max grins. “You’re cute when you’re indignant.”

You swat at his arm playfully, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. For the first time all day, you feel truly happy.

As the night wears on, you and Max continue to talk, trading stories and stealing kisses. Gradually, your positions shift again. Max lies down, and you curl up against his side, your head resting on his chest. His arm wraps around you, holding you close.

“Y/N?” Max says softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.

“Hmm?” you mumble, feeling drowsy and content.

“Happy birthday,” he says. “I know it didn’t start out great, but I hope it got better.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, a warm smile spreading across your face. “It did,” you assure him. “Thanks to you.”

Max kisses your forehead gently. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “We can figure everything else out in the morning.”

As you drift off to sleep, wrapped in Max’s arms, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this birthday wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, it might just be the start of something wonderful.

***

The early morning sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You stir slowly, awareness creeping in as you feel a strong arm wrapped around your waist. For a moment, confusion sets in before the events of the previous night come rushing back.

You’re in Max Verstappen’s bed. And Max Verstappen is currently spooning you.

A smile tugs at your lips as you nestle back into his warmth, not quite ready to face the day. But fate, it seems, has other plans.

A sharp knock at the door jolts both of you awake. Max groans, burying his face in your hair.

“Room service?” You mumble, still half-asleep.

Max shakes his head, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Didn’t order any.”

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. With a sigh, Max untangles himself from you and slides out of bed.

“I’ll get it,” he says, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You stay here.”

You nod, pulling the covers up to your chin and watching as Max pads to the door in his t-shirt and sweatpants. He opens it a crack, peering out.

“Can I help you?” He asks, confusion evident in his tone.

There’s a muffled response, and then Max is stepping back, opening the door wider. A hotel staff member enters, carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses.

“Delivery for Y/N Leclerc,” the staff member announces, looking around the room.

You sit up in bed, eyes wide. “That’s ... that’s me.”

The staff member nods, moving to set the bouquet on a nearby table. “Sign here, please,” he says, holding out a clipboard.

Still bewildered, you climb out of bed and make your way over, scrawling your signature on the form. The staff member thanks you and exits, leaving you and Max staring at the ostentatious display of flowers.

“Well,” Max says after a moment, “I guess your brother remembered after all.”

You let out a rueful laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, I guess he did.”

Max frowns, noting the lack of enthusiasm in your voice. “Aren’t you happy about it?”

You sigh, reaching out to touch one of the velvety petals. “It’s just ... I’ve told Charles a hundred times that I don’t like roses. They’re not my favorite flower. But every time he needs to apologize or wants to do something nice, it’s always roses.”

“Oh,” Max says softly, understanding dawning on his face. “So it’s less about you and more about what he thinks you should like.”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. “Exactly. It’s like he doesn’t really listen, you know? He just does what he thinks is right without considering what I actually want.”

Max moves closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his side. “That must be frustrating,” he says gently.

You lean into him, grateful for the support. “It is. And I know I should be grateful. It’s a beautiful bouquet, and he’s trying. But ...”

“But it’s not what you want,” Max finishes for you. “And that matters.”

You look up at him, surprised by how well he understands. “Yeah, exactly.”

Max turns to face you fully, his blue eyes serious. “Y/N, listen to me. It’s okay to be upset about this. It’s okay to want your family to actually listen to you and consider your feelings.”

You bite your lip, tears threatening to spill over. “But they’re trying now. Shouldn’t I just forgive them and move on?”

Max shakes his head firmly. “No. You don’t have to forgive them right away just because they made a grand gesture. It’s okay to make them work for your forgiveness.”

“Really?” You ask, your voice small.

“Really,” Max assures you. “They hurt you, Y/N. They forgot your birthday and made you feel invisible. One bouquet of flowers — flowers you don’t even like — doesn’t erase that.”

You nod slowly, processing his words. “So what do I do?”

Max runs a hand through his hair, thinking. “Well, what do you want to do? How do you feel?”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Honestly? I’m not ready to see them yet. I know I’ll have to face them eventually, but right now ... I just can’t.”

“Then don’t,” Max says simply. “Take the time you need. They can wait.”

A weight lifts off your shoulders at his words. “You don’t think that’s selfish?”

Max cups your face in his hands, his gaze intense. “It’s not selfish to prioritize your own feelings and well-being. You matter, Y/N. Your feelings matter.”

Tears spill over then, and Max pulls you into a tight embrace. You bury your face in his chest, letting out all the hurt and frustration you’ve been holding in.

“Shh,” Max soothes, rubbing your back. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

After a few minutes, your sobs subside. You pull back slightly, wiping at your eyes. “Sorry,” you mumble. “I got your shirt all wet.”

Max chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I think I’ll survive. Feel better?”

You nod, offering him a watery smile. “Yeah, actually. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Max says softly. Then, a mischievous glint enters his eye. “So, what should we do with the roses? I vote we throw them off the balcony and watch them scatter in the wind.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest. “As tempting as that is, I don’t think hotel management would appreciate it.”

Max shrugs, grinning. “Their loss. We could always donate them to a hospital or something. Brighten someone else’s day.”

“That’s ... actually a really good idea,” you say, impressed. “We could do that.”

Max beams, clearly pleased with himself. “See? I’m not just a pretty face and fast driver.”

You roll your eyes fondly, but can’t suppress your smile. “Careful, Verstappen. Your ego’s showing.”

“You love it,” he teases, pulling you close again.

As you stand there in his arms, surrounded by the cloying scent of roses you don’t even like, you’re struck by how safe you feel. How understood.

“Max?” You say softly.

“Hmm?”

You pull back slightly to meet his gaze. “Thank you. For everything. For making my birthday special, for listening to me, for ... just being here.”

Max’s expression softens, a tender smile playing at his lips. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I ... I care about you, Y/N. A lot.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words. “I care about you too,” you admit.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the air charged with unspoken emotions. Then, slowly, Max leans in. His lips meet yours in a soft, sweet kiss that makes your toes curl.

When you break apart, you’re both slightly breathless. Max rests his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing circles on your cheek.

“So,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “What happens now?”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Honestly? I’m not sure. This is all happening so fast, and with everything going on with my family ...”

Max nods, understanding in his eyes. “We can take it slow,” he assures you. “There’s no rush.”

Relief washes over you. “Thank you,” you say softly. “I do want this — us. I just need some time to figure everything out.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Max says, pressing a gentle kiss to your nose. “For now, how about we get some breakfast? I’m starving.”

You laugh, grateful for the shift in mood. “Breakfast sounds perfect. But maybe we should change first? I’m not sure I want to face the paparazzi in yesterday’s clothes.”

Max grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I don’t know, I think you look pretty good in my t-shirt.”

You glance down, realizing for the first time that you’re indeed wearing one of Max’s shirts. A blush creeps up your cheeks. “When did that happen?”

“You got cold in the middle of the night,” Max explains, looking far too pleased with himself. “I offered you my shirt. You were very insistent that it was the most comfortable thing you’d ever worn.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Oh god. Please tell me I didn’t say anything else embarrassing.”

Max laughs, gently prying your hands away from your face. “Nothing too bad. Though you did mention something about my waist being ‘unfairly perfect’. Your words, not mine.”

“Kill me now,” you mutter, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

Max pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never. I’m rather fond of you, embarrassing sleep talk and all.”

As you stand there in Max’s arms, the morning sun warming your skin and the scent of roses filling the air, you can’t help but feel a sense of hope. Yes, there’s still a lot to figure out — with your family, with Max, with your future. But for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And that, you think, is the best birthday gift of all.

***

The private terminal of Milan Malpensa Airport buzzes with activity as the Leclerc family waits to board their chartered jet. Charles paces back and forth, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, eyes darting to the entrance every few seconds.

“Charles, honey, please sit down,” his mother, Pascale, says gently. “You’re making me nervous.”

Charles shakes his head, running a hand through his hair for what must be the hundredth time. “I can’t, Maman. Where is she? She should be here by now.”

Lorenzo exchanges a worried glance with Arthur. “Maybe she got held up in traffic?” He suggests, though his tone lacks conviction.

“For three hours?” Charles snaps, immediately regretting his harsh tone. “Sorry, I just ... I’m worried.”

Arthur stands up, placing a comforting hand on Charles’ shoulder. “We all are. But Y/N’s an adult. She can take care of herself.”

Charles lets out a frustrated sigh. “I know that. But after yesterday ... we really messed up.”

“We did,” Pascale agrees softly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “But we’ll make it right. We just need to talk to her.”

“If she ever shows up,” Charles mutters, resuming his pacing.

The minutes tick by agonizingly slow. Charles alternates between checking his phone and staring out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of you arriving. But the parking lot remains stubbornly devoid of your presence.

Finally, a staff member approaches the family. “Mr. Leclerc? The jet is ready for boarding. We need to depart soon to maintain our flight slot.”

Charles feels panic rising in his chest. “No, we can’t leave yet. My sister isn’t here.”

The staff member looks uncomfortable. “I understand, sir, but we have a schedule to keep. Perhaps your sister could take a commercial flight?”

“Absolutely not,” Charles says firmly. “We’re not leaving without her.”

Lorenzo steps in, ever the diplomat. “Is there any way we could delay for just a bit longer? It’s really important that we wait for our sister.”

The staff member hesitates, then nods. “I’ll see what I can do. But please understand, we can’t hold the slot indefinitely.”

As the employee walks away, Charles resumes his pacing with renewed vigor.

“This isn’t like her,” he mutters. “She wouldn’t just disappear without telling us.”

Arthur bites his lip, looking guilty. “Maybe ... maybe she’s still upset about yesterday?”

Charles stops in his tracks, turning to face his younger brother. “What do you mean?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. “Well, we did forget her birthday. And then when we remembered, we didn’t exactly handle it well. Those roses you sent? Y/N hates roses.”

Charles feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “She ... what? No, she loves roses. I always get her roses.”

“Because you always get her roses,” Lorenzo chimes in, realization dawning on his face. “Not because she actually likes them.”

Charles slumps into a nearby chair, head in his hands. “How did I not know that? What kind of brother am I?”

Pascale moves to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “We’ve all made mistakes. But we can fix this. We just need to talk to her.”

“If she’ll even talk to us,” Charles mumbles.

Just then, his phone buzzes. Charles nearly drops it in his haste to check the notification, hope flaring in his chest. But it’s not from you.

“It’s Max,” he says, frowning in confusion.

“Verstappen?” Arthur asks, leaning over to peek at the screen. “What does he want?”

Charles opens the message, his eyes widening as he reads it aloud:

“Y/N is with me. She’s safe and we’re flying back to Monaco together. She needs some space right now. Give her time.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Charles reads and rereads the message, trying to process what it means.

“She’s with Max?” Lorenzo finally says, breaking the silence. “Since when are they even friends?”

Charles shakes his head, still staring at his phone. “I don’t know. I ... I saw him last night. He knew where she was, but I thought it was just a spontaneous thing.”

“Well, at least we know she’s safe,” Pascale says, always trying to find the silver lining. “That’s the most important thing.”

But Charles can’t shake the feeling of unease settling in his stomach. “Why didn’t she come to us? Why Max, of all people?”

Arthur places a hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Maybe because he was there when we weren’t,” he says softly.

The words hit Charles like a physical blow. He knows Arthur is right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

“So what do we do now?” Lorenzo asks, looking around at his family.

Charles takes a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. “We do what Max said. We give her time.”

“But for how long?” Pascale asks, worry evident in her voice. “She’s our little girl. We can’t just leave her alone.”

“She’s not alone, Maman,” Charles says, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. “She’s with Max. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I think ... I think she might be better off with him right now.”

The family falls silent again, each lost in their own thoughts. The weight of their collective mistake hangs heavy in the air.

Finally, Charles stands up, squaring his shoulders. “We should board the jet. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

As they gather their belongings and make their way to the plane, Charles can’t help but replay Max’s message in his head. You’re with Max. You’re safe. You need space.

He tries to imagine you and Max together, and finds that he can’t. What could have happened in the span of one day to bring you two together? And more importantly, what had driven you away from your own family?

As he settles into his seat on the jet, Charles makes a silent promise to himself and to you. He’ll give you the space you need, but he won’t give up. He’ll find a way to make things right, to be the brother you deserve.

The jet takes off, carrying the Leclerc family back to Monaco. But for Charles, it feels like they’re leaving a piece of themselves behind in Milan. A piece that, he fears, might be harder to reclaim than he ever imagined.

Meanwhile, across the airport, you and Max are boarding his private jet. The contrast between the two scenes couldn’t be more stark.

“You okay?” Max asks softly as you settle into your seat.

You nod, offering him a small smile. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks for ... well, everything.”

Max reaches over, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “Anytime. You know that.”

As the jet prepares for takeoff, you can’t help but think about your family. Are they worried? Angry? Do they even care?

“Max?” You say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hmm?”

You turn to look at him, vulnerability shining in your eyes. “Did I do the right thing? Leaving without talking to them?”

Max considers your question carefully before answering. “I think you did what you needed to do for yourself. And that’s never wrong.”

His words settle over you like a warm blanket, easing some of the tension in your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For understanding. For not pushing me to do what everyone else thinks I should do.”

Max smiles, a soft, genuine expression that makes your heart flutter. “That’s what ... friends are for, right?”

There’s a hesitation in his voice, a question in his eyes that makes you wonder if ‘friends’ is really the right word for what’s developing between you.

As the jet takes off, carrying you away from Milan and the chaos of the past day, you find yourself feeling something you haven’t felt in a long time: hope. Hope for a future where you’re seen, heard, and valued for who you are.

And as you glance at Max, his profile illuminated by the setting sun streaming through the window, you can’t help but wonder if he might be a bigger part of that future than you ever imagined.

The jet climbs higher, leaving the ground and all its complications behind. For now, at least, you’re free. Free to breathe, to think, to feel without the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

You close your eyes, letting out a long breath. Whatever comes next, you know one thing for certain: things will never be the same again. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you need.

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, shining warmly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max’s penthouse apartment. You’re curled up on the plush sofa, a book in your lap, trying to lose yourself in the pages. But your mind keeps wandering, replaying the events of the past couple of days.

Max emerges from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in hand. “Thought you might need this,” he says, offering you one.

You smile gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma of hot chocolate. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, settling down beside you. “I wanted to. How’re you holding up?”

You’re about to answer when the doorbell rings. Max frowns, glancing at his watch. “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”

You shake your head, a knot of anxiety forming in your stomach. Could it be your family? Are they here to confront you?

Max squeezes your hand reassuringly before getting up to answer the door. You hear muffled voices, then the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

“Um, Y/N?” Max calls. “I think you might want to see this.”

Curiosity overcoming your apprehension, you make your way to the foyer. Your jaw drops at the sight that greets you.

The entire space is filled with bags. Not just any bags, but the kind that comes from the most exclusive boutiques in Monaco. Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton, Chanel — the logos stare back at you from every direction.

“What ... what is all this?” You stammer, looking to Max for explanation.

He hands you a small envelope. “This came with it. It’s addressed to you.”

With trembling fingers, you open the envelope and unfold the note inside. You’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.

Y/N,

I know I messed up. We all did. I’m so sorry for forgetting your birthday and for not being the brother you deserve. I hope these gifts can begin to make up for it. Please come home. We miss you.

Love,

Charles

You read the note twice, then a third time, disbelief turning to anger with each pass.

“He’s got to be kidding,” you mutter, crumpling the paper in your fist.

Max steps closer, concern etched on his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “This,” you say, gesturing at the sea of designer bags, “is my brother’s idea of an apology. He thinks he can just ... buy me back with expensive gifts.”

Understanding dawns on Max’s face. “Ah. And I’m guessing that’s not going to work?”

“Not even close,” you say, shaking your head. “God, it’s like he doesn’t know me at all. I’m not one of his girlfriends who can be placated with a shopping spree.”

Max winces. “Ouch. Has he done this before?”

You nod, sinking down onto the nearest clear spot on the floor. “Every time he messes up with a girl, it’s the same routine. Flowers, jewelry, designer clothes. And it usually works, because the girls he dates ... well, they tend to be into that kind of thing.”

Max sits down beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “But you’re not.”

“No,” you confirm. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate nice things. But that’s not what this is about. It’s about him actually listening to me, actually seeing me as a person and not just ... his kid sister who can be bought off.”

Max is quiet for a moment, then says softly, “You know, it’s okay to be angry about this. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His words break something open inside you. Tears well up in your eyes, spilling over before you can stop them. “I just ... I thought he knew me better than this. I thought they all did.”

Max wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You lean into him, letting the tears fall freely now.

“It’s like they don’t even see me,” you choke out between sobs. “They see this idea of who they think I should be, but not ... not who I actually am.”

Max rubs soothing circles on your back, letting you cry it out. When your sobs finally subside, he hands you a tissue.

“Feel better?” He asks gently.

You nod, wiping your eyes. “A little. Sorry for breaking down on you like that.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “Don’t apologize. That’s what I’m here for.”

You offer him a watery smile, then turn back to survey the mountain of bags. “So ... what do I do with all this?”

Max considers for a moment. “Well, what do you want to do?”

You bite your lip, thinking. “Honestly? I want to send it all back. Show him that he can’t just throw money at the problem and expect it to go away.”

Max nods approvingly. “I think that’s a great idea. It sends a clear message.”

“You don’t think it’s too harsh?” You ask, a hint of uncertainty creeping into your voice.

“Not at all,” Max assures you. “You’re standing up for yourself, setting boundaries. That’s important.”

Emboldened by his support, you start rifling through the bags, curiosity getting the better of you. “I wonder what he even bought ... oh.”

You pull out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a delicate tennis bracelet. The diamonds catch the light, sparkling brilliantly.

“Wow,” Max breathes, leaning in for a closer look. “That’s ... that’s something.”

You nod, mesmerized by the way the bracelet shimmers. “It’s beautiful,” you admit softly.

Max watches you carefully. “You like it,” he observes.

You sigh, closing the box with a snap. “It doesn’t matter. It’s going back with everything else.”

“Why?” Max asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. “If you like it, why not keep it?”

You look at him, surprised. “But ... I thought you said sending it all back was a good idea?”

Max shrugs. “It is. But that doesn’t mean you can’t keep one thing if it genuinely makes you happy. You’re allowed to like nice things, Y/N. That doesn’t invalidate your feelings about the situation.”

You turn the box over in your hands, considering. “I don’t know ... wouldn’t keeping anything send the wrong message?”

“I think,” Max says slowly, “that the message you send depends more on what you say than what you keep or don’t keep. If you like the bracelet, keep it. But make sure Charles understands that a pretty piece of jewelry doesn’t fix the underlying issues.”

You nod, his words resonating with you. “You’re right. I’ll keep the bracelet ... but everything else goes back.”

As you start sorting through the bags, separating out what will be returned, you can’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Max asks, a smile tugging at his lips.

You hold up the bracelet box. “I was just thinking ... it would be a shame to let something this pretty go to waste, right?”

Max chuckles, shaking his head. “Absolutely. It’s practically your duty to keep it. For the sake of the bracelet, of course.”

“Of course,” you agree, giggling. “I’m being completely selfless here.”

As you continue to sort through the gifts, occasionally showing Max particularly outrageous items (“A fur coat? In Monaco?”), you feel a weight lifting from your shoulders. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, you feel like you’re taking control of the situation.

“You know,” you say, folding a designer dress back into its bag, “I think I need to have a real conversation with Charles. With all of them, really.”

Max nods encouragingly. “I think that’s a great idea. What do you want to say?”

You take a deep breath, organizing your thoughts. “I want them to understand that I’m my own person, with my own dreams and desires. That I need them to see me, really see me, not just as Charles Leclerc’s little sister or as an extension of the family name.”

“That sounds perfect,” Max says softly. “You deserve to be seen for who you are.”

You smile at him, a rush of warmth flooding your chest. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without you.”

Max reaches out, taking your hand in his. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. But I’m glad I could help.”

As you sit there, surrounded by discarded luxury goods, your hand in Max’s, you feel a sense of peace settling over you. You know the road ahead won’t be easy — confronting your family, establishing new boundaries, figuring out exactly where you stand with Max — but for the first time in a long time, you feel ready to face it all.

You slip on the tennis bracelet, admiring the way it catches the light. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also a reminder. A reminder that you’re worth more than grand gestures and expensive gifts. You’re worth being truly seen, truly heard, truly understood.

And as you look at Max, his blue eyes warm with understanding and something that might be more, you think that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found someone who sees you for exactly who you are.

***

The afternoon sun beats down on the streets of Monaco as Charles leans against his Ferrari, fidgeting nervously. He’s parked across from the International University of Monaco, his eyes fixed on the entrance. Students stream in and out, but none of them are the one he’s looking for.

He checks his watch for what must be the hundredth time. Your last class should be ending any minute now. Charles takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He’s rehearsed what he wants to say a thousand times, but now that the moment is approaching, all his carefully prepared words seem to evaporate.

A group of students emerges from the building, laughing and chatting. Charles straightens up, his eyes scanning the crowd. And then he sees you.

You’re walking with a couple of friends, your bag slung over your shoulder, a smile on your face. For a moment, Charles is struck by how ... normal you look. How at ease. It’s a stark contrast to the tense family dinners and stilted conversations of recent months.

Before he can second-guess himself, Charles pushes off from his car and starts walking towards you. He sees the exact moment you spot him — your smile falters, your steps slow.

“Y/N!” He calls out, waving awkwardly.

Your friends notice him too, their eyes widening in recognition. You say something to them that Charles can’t hear, and they nod, casting curious glances between you and your brother as they walk away.

Charles reaches you, stopping a few feet away, suddenly unsure of himself. “Hey,” he says softly.

“Charles,” you reply, your voice carefully neutral. “What are you doing here?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he’s never been able to shake. “I ... I wanted to talk to you. In person. You haven’t been answering my calls or texts, and I just ... I needed to see you.”

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag. “I’ve been busy with classes. And I needed some space.”

“I know,” Charles says quickly. “I know, and I’m sorry for ambushing you like this. I just ... can we talk? Please?”

You glance around, noticing the curious stares from passing students. “Not here,” you say finally. “There’s a café around the corner. We can talk there.”

Charles nods eagerly, relief washing over him. “Yes, of course. Whatever you want.”

You lead the way to the café, a small, cozy place tucked away from the main streets. As you settle into a booth in the back, Charles can’t help but wonder how often you come here, how many parts of your life he knows nothing about.

A waitress approaches, and you order your usual — an iced latte with an extra shot. Charles fumbles with the menu before ordering a simple espresso.

An awkward silence falls over the table as you wait for your drinks. Charles fidgets with a napkin, trying to find the right words to begin.

“So,” you say finally, your tone clipped. “You wanted to talk. Talk.”

Charles takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’m so, so sorry, Y/N. For forgetting your birthday, for not being there for you, for ... for everything.”

You raise an eyebrow, your expression unreadable. “Is that it?”

Charles blinks, thrown off balance. “I ... what do you mean?”

“I mean,” you say, leaning forward slightly, “is that all you have to say? You’re sorry?”

Charles feels a flash of frustration. “What else do you want me to say? I messed up, I know that. I’m trying to make it right.”

The waitress returns with your drinks, and you take a long sip of your latte before responding. “Charles, this isn’t just about my birthday. This is about years of feeling invisible, of being overshadowed, of not being seen for who I am.”

Charles feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “What? Y/N, I ... I had no idea you felt that way.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s kind of the point, Charles. You didn’t know because you never asked. None of you did.”

Charles sits back, his mind reeling. “I ... I don’t understand. We’ve always been close. At least, I thought we were.”

“We were,” you agree softly. “When we were kids. But as you got more and more successful, it was like ... like I faded into the background. Everything became about you, about your career.”

Charles feels tears pricking at his eyes. “Y/N, I never meant for that to happen. I love you. You’re my little sister.”

“I know you love me,” you say, your voice gentler now. “But loving someone and seeing them are two different things.”

Charles nods slowly, realization dawning. “The gifts,” he says. “That’s why you sent them back. Because I was trying to fix things without actually understanding what was wrong.”

“Exactly,” you confirm. “Charles, I don’t need expensive clothes or jewelry. I need my brother. The one who used to listen to me ramble about constellations for hours, who’d sneak me extra dessert when Maman wasn’t looking.”

Charles reaches across the table, hesitating for a moment before taking your hand. To his relief, you don’t pull away. “I want to be that brother again,” he says earnestly. “Tell me how. Please.”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Well, for starters, you could ask me about my life. My studies, my friends, my dreams. And actually listen to the answers.”

Charles nods eagerly. “Yes, of course. Tell me everything. What are you studying? How are your classes going?”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I’m majoring in Astrophysics, remember? This semester I’m taking a course on Stellar Evolution that’s absolutely fascinating. We’re learning about the life cycles of stars, from their formation to their eventual death.”

As you continue talking, passion lighting up your eyes, Charles feels a mix of pride and shame wash over him. Pride in your intelligence and enthusiasm, shame that he’s missed out on so much of your life.

“That sounds incredible,” he says when you pause for breath. “I had no idea you were studying something so complex. You must be really good at it.”

You shrug, a hint of your old shyness creeping in. “I do okay. It’s challenging, but I love it.”

“I’m sure you do more than okay,” Charles insists. “You’ve always been the smartest one in the family.”

You laugh softly. “I don’t know about that. But ... thanks, Charles. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

Charles squeezes your hand. “I mean it. And I want to hear more. About your classes, your friends, everything. I’ve missed so much, and I want to make up for it.”

You nod, a cautious hope in your eyes. “I’d like that. But Charles, it can’t just be today. This has to be a continuous thing. I need to know that you’re genuinely interested in my life, not just when you’re trying to make amends.”

“Absolutely,” Charles agrees immediately. “What if we set up a regular call? Once a week, we can catch up properly. No distractions, no racing talk unless you want to. Just us.”

A genuine smile spreads across your face. “I’d really like that.”

Charles feels a weight lifting from his shoulders. It’s not fixed, not completely, but it’s a start. “There’s something else,” he says, suddenly remembering. “Max ... are you and Max ...”

You blush slightly, looking down at your latte. “We’re ... figuring things out. He’s been really supportive through all of this.”

Charles nods, pushing down the instinctive surge of protectiveness. “He’s a good guy. If he makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.”

You look up, surprise evident in your eyes. “Really? You’re not going to go all overprotective big brother on me?”

Charles chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll have my moments. But Y/N, you’re an adult. You can make your own choices. I trust you.”

Tears well up in your eyes. “Thank you. That ... that means more than you know.”

As you both finish your drinks, the conversation flows more easily. Charles asks about your friends, your hobbies outside of studying. You tell him about the astronomy club you’ve joined, the research project you’re hoping to get involved with next semester.

When it’s time to leave, Charles stands up, hesitating for a moment before opening his arms. “Can I ...”

You nod, stepping into his embrace. Charles holds you tight, realizing how long it’s been since he’s really hugged you like this.

“I love you, little sister,” he murmurs into your hair. “And I promise, I’m going to do better.”

You squeeze him back. “I love you too, big brother. And ... I’m willing to give you the chance to prove it.”

As you part ways outside the café, Charles heading back to his car and you towards your apartment, there’s a lightness in the air that wasn’t there before. It’s not perfect, not yet. There are still conversations to be had, bridges to be rebuilt. But for the first time in a long time, there’s hope.

Charles watches you walk away, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Pride in the amazing person you’ve become, regret for the time he’s missed, determination to be the brother you deserve.

He pulls out his phone, creating a new reminder: Call Y/N — every Sunday, 7 PM.

It’s a small step, but it’s a start. And as he drives home, Charles finds himself looking forward to getting to know his little sister all over again.

***

The auditorium of the International University of Monaco buzzes with excitement as proud families and friends gather to celebrate the graduating class. In the front row, an unusually high-profile group draws curious glances and whispered conversations.

Charles fidgets in his seat, craning his neck to scan the sea of graduates. “Do you see her?” He asks, nudging his older brother.

Lorenzo chuckles, placing a calming hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Relax. She’ll be here. Alphabetical order, remember?”

On Charles’ other side, Arthur rolls his eyes fondly. “You’d think he was the one graduating, the way he’s acting.”

“Can you blame him?” Max chimes in from the end of the row, a warm smile on his face. “It’s a big day.”

Pascale, seated between Lorenzo and Arthur, dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “My baby girl, graduating university. I can hardly believe it.”

Max reaches across to pat her hand. “She’s amazing, Pascale. You should be very proud.”

Charles turns to Max, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Look at you, all calm and collected. I remember when you were a nervous wreck asking her out for the first time.”

Max blushes slightly, but grins. “Hey, your sister is intimidating. All that brainpower.”

“Shh!” Arthur hisses suddenly. “I think it’s starting!”

The auditorium falls silent as the ceremony begins. The family watches with rapt attention as the graduates file in, searching for that familiar face among the sea of caps and gowns.

And then, there you are. Your eyes scan the crowd until they land on your family, a bright smile spreading across your face as you wave discreetly.

“There she is!” Charles whisper-shouts, practically bouncing in his seat.

Lorenzo chuckles. “We see her. Try to contain yourself, yeah?”

The ceremony progresses, with speeches from the valedictorian and various dignitaries. Charles fidgets impatiently, earning amused glances from his family and Max.

Finally, the moment arrives. “Y/N Leclerc,” the announcer calls.

Charles jumps to his feet, letting out a whoop that echoes through the auditorium. “That’s my sister!” He shouts, drawing startled looks from nearby attendees.

Lorenzo and Arthur quickly join in, their cheers mixing with Charles’. Max and Pascale stand too, clapping enthusiastically.

You walk across the stage, accepting your diploma with a graceful nod. As you turn to face the audience, your eyes lock with your family’s, and your composed expression breaks into a radiant smile.

Charles, caught up in the moment, continues cheering even after you’ve left the stage. “That’s right! Astrophysicist in the house! Watch out, universe!”

Max, noticing the irritated glances from other families, reaches over and claps a hand over Charles’ mouth. “Okay, Charlie, I think she heard you,” he says, laughter in his voice.

Max feels something wet against his palm and jerks his hand away.

“Ugh, gross!” Max yelps, wiping it on his pants. “What are you, five?”

Charles grins unrepentantly. “You started it.”

Pascale sighs, shaking her head. “Boys, please. This is Y/N’s big day. Try to act like adults.”

“Sorry, Maman,” Charles mumbles, properly chastised.

As the ceremony concludes, the family makes their way outside, eagerly scanning the crowd for you.

“There!” Arthur calls out, pointing.

You’re making your way towards them, diploma in hand, your face glowing with happiness. Max reaches you first, sweeping you into a tight hug.

“Congratulations, liefje,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m so proud of you.”

You beam up at him, about to respond when Charles practically tackles you both.

“My sister, the genius!” He crows, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. “I always knew you’d take over the world someday.”

You laugh, hugging him back just as fiercely. “Put me down, you goof! You’re making a scene.”

“Let him have his moment,” Lorenzo says, stepping in for his own hug once Charles releases you. “It’s not every day your little sister graduates top of her class in Astrophysics.”

Arthur’s turn comes next, his hug gentler but no less heartfelt. “Congrats. You’ve officially made the rest of us look like underachievers.”

Finally, you turn to your mother, who’s openly crying now. “Oh, my darling,” she says, cupping your face in her hands. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

You feel tears welling up in your own eyes as you embrace her. “Thanks, Maman. For everything.”

As you pull back, wiping at your eyes, Charles slings an arm around your shoulders. “So, what’s next? Going to discover a new planet? Name a star after your favorite man?”

You roll your eyes fondly. “First of all, I still have to get through graduate school. And second, bold of you to assume you’re my favorite.”

“Ouch,” Charles clutches his chest in mock pain. “After all we’ve been through?”

Max chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Face it, Leclerc. I’ve got you beat in the favorite department.”

Charles narrows his eyes playfully. “Is that a challenge, Verstappen?”

“Boys, boys,” you interject, laughing. “There’s plenty of me to go around. Now, how about we get out of here? I’m starving, and I believe someone promised me a celebration dinner.”

“Ah, yes!” Pascale says, clapping her hands together. “I’ve made reservations at La Maree. Your favorite, chérie.”

As the family starts to move towards the parking lot, Max hangs back, tugging gently on your hand. “Hold on a sec,” he says softly. “I want to give you something.”

Curious, you turn to face him. Max reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box.

Your eyes widen. “Max ...”

He opens the box, revealing a delicate necklace. A small white gold star pendant hangs from the chain, a tiny diamond twinkling at its center.

“I know it’s not much compared to your usual study subjects,” Max says, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “But I thought ... well, you’re my star, Y/N. My brilliant, beautiful star.”

Tears well up in your eyes again as Max fastens the necklace around your neck. “It’s perfect,” you whisper. “I love it. I love you.”

Max’s face breaks into a radiant smile. “I love you too,” he says, before leaning in to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

You melt into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands settle on your waist. For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you.

The spell is broken by an exaggerated gagging sound. You break apart to see Charles pretending to retch, while Lorenzo and Arthur laugh.

You break apart, laughing. “Real mature, Charles,” you call back.

Charles grins, unrepentant. “Hey, someone’s got to keep an eye on you crazy kids.”

Max rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Your brother, the chaperone,” he mutters.

You giggle, taking Max’s hand as you rejoin your family. “Don’t worry,” you whisper conspiratorially. “We’ll ditch him at the restaurant.”

As you all pile into the waiting cars, the air buzzing with excitement and plans for the evening, you can’t help but feel overwhelmed with happiness. A year ago, you never would have imagined this scene — your family truly seeing and celebrating you, a wonderful man by your side who loves and supports you, and a bright future ahead in a field you’re passionate about.

The cars pull away from the university, carrying you towards your celebration dinner. As you watch the familiar streets of Monaco roll by, you find yourself filled with an incredible sense of anticipation. This isn’t just the end of your university journey — it’s the beginning of something new and exciting.

You glance around the car — at Charles and Arthur bickering good-naturedly in the back seat, at your mother chatting happily with Lorenzo who’s driving, and finally at Max beside you, his hand warm in yours. Your family, in all its chaotic, loving glory.

“Hey,” Max says softly, noticing your pensive expression. “You okay?”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “More than okay. I’m perfect.”

And as the car winds its way through the streets of Monaco, towards a future bright with possibility, you know that it’s true. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, surrounded by love, with the stars stretching out endlessly before you.

[cherie-doll]

I said "do you think you'll kill for me one day?"

(Yes, of course I will, my darling)

― yandere!cod men x reader ― ε price, ghost, soap, gaz, roach, makarov, alejandro, rudy, phillip graves, keegan, könig, horangi, nikto з suggestive?

꒰ ͜ ‿ ͜ ♡ ͜ ‿ ͜ ꒱

ଘ You're no plaything for Price. He doesn't just like you, he adores you. Cups your pretty face in his hands; delicately. His rugged and rough hands become gentle as soon as he comes into contact with your skin, treating it as if it were finely-grained porcelain. He treats you the exact opposite of how he treats anyone else. Whilst he leaves everyone else covered from head to toe in blood for coming near you, you're covered from head to toe in the most expensive items you wish for. But, he doesn't want you to forget that his money doesn't represent his love for you, it does not begin to cover not even half of what it should. He'll be sure to remind you not to be spoiled rotten. He's fond of you and while he's interested in you, you should listen and obey to what he advices you. He is more experienced after all.

ଘ Compare what Simon's scars and bruises are to your unscathed body. Let his hands roam over your body, taking in all he works for. Let them wander and familiarize with what he's toying with. His breath on your skin as it quickens, losing his train of thoughts as he fondles you. He's convinced you're meant only for him. No one else should touch you this way, no one could do it like he does. And please return it! Cradle his head in your lap, so the sizzling subsides and he feels alive. Let him know he's the best, the one. Let him lean in and capture those soft, plump lips in a passionate kiss. Don't pull away, don't deny him his heaven. And don't you dare let anyone else trail your body with their eyes like he does. Why, he'll feel as if they're already doing what their mind desires. He's screwed up in his mind but he'll move heaven and earth for those thighs to wrap around his waist at night spilling the warmth between them. Make him feel warm and welcome, give him the world he burns everyone else for. He sacrifices others at the feet of your altar.

ଘ Johnny's smug smile can fade rather quickly with one sensual move from you, watch him get lost as his breath is winded and his body is overtaken with an all-consuming fire of passion. Oh, he can't even fathom the idea of anyone before or after him experiencing such things. He'll be paralyzed the moment you sit on his lap and putting your hand to his chest, let it trail over his heart which at the moment beats wildly. It's a sensation he experiences when plunging a knife deep within someone else's chest, he reckons the feeling is almost the same. He thinks his victims rather lucky they die this way. How many other people can experience that fleeting, overwhelming feeling?

ଘ Kyle's hand kisses are done with such reverent trembling and respect that he'll have your skin tingling with warm sensations as if the late evening sun was seeping into your skin. Let his and your body blend together like the watercolors on an artist's canvas does. Bask in his affection like you'll sunbathe on the beach. Take in all the good he brings you, accept every touch of his that starts with a secure embrace and ends with the colliding of your bodies. The cold with which he lashes out for others has no place with the gentleness he entreats you with. Keep your eyes on his, locked in his steady gaze immerses himself in fantasies. He feels dizzy as if his world was spinning, losing himself in the sensations. And after the elation, let him shower you in praises, caresses and gifts. Let him buy you two rings for each finger, how many could you want to show off having a caring partner when you slide his card at the register? Make your hands look pretty whilst his are leaving a trail of crimson blood after him.

ଘ Roach couldn't ever hurt anyone else, he didn't know what he was capable of until the importance of you came all too clear. You're something that shouldn't belong to anyone else in the world. It's a quick descent down the spiral of violent devotion. His soft gaze usually filled with admiration and sentiment for you hardens, his pupils dilating as fear takes over. He's only acting on behalf of all his anguish, you haven't the heart to condemn him. He's shown you what your heart is worth, couldn't you give him some sort of heaven? He will do very well at whatever it is you ask of him, just wait while he shows you. There isn't anyone else like him he says over and over as if a prayer or spell he could make come true.

ଘ Makarov does not care whether he deserves you or not. Unlike the others who will commit unspeakable acts out of guilt and use their "pure" intentions to purify their actions, Makarov is selfish and relentless in what he wants. He does not flinch at your attempts of control, it's lost the moment he takes you in. He's determined to taste everything you have to offer, whether it's willingly or not. But he does like things to be served on a platter for him, he also has no problem taking it himself. Let the hand on the back of your neck guide you in the direction you are to walk, be docile and you'll surely receive tenderness. He can never deny that he loves the way your lashes flutter as you look through them up at him as he pats your head for being so good. Overtime you might notice small details showing his exterior cracking and revealing the soft, white underbelly of affection. He feels as if his chest caves in from your actions, the subtle red at the tip of his ears. Keep pulling at his neck collar, he'll like that fake sense of control you have.

ଘ You wouldn't ever catch a glimpse of Alejandro's manipulative strategies until he finds someone threatening. Is it wrong you're not seeing enough of other people? His biggest fear is you falling for someone else, the danger of you getting too close to someone is palpable for him. The intimacy you two share is from the harvest he's worked so hard for. He's been slaving away for so long to just let someone else lay a hand on you. He kneads you into what he desires, anything to feel the beating heart in your chest which pumps only for him. He'll keep polishing you until he gets down to the bare essence of you, which he can only dream to capture. The rhythm he wants to feel rushing through his veins, circling throughout his body.

ଘ Rudy's tenderness blinds you as he takes you to what you can only describe to be paradise. With the shining of luxury, all new and just for you he says. He'll press a million sweet kisses on your face before dropping that a most bothersome person will no longer be graced by your presence ever again. To him it's like a quiet act of love, to you, it's unimaginable. Don't worry your head will all the details, isn't it better to have no worries? He's all smooth indulgence telling you to keep looking at the adorned future he has ahead for you, telling you not to pay attention to the blood that stains the walls of the hallways you walk. He would lay out a new, fancy red carpet over the corpses for you to step over and continue in this fabricated dream.

ଘ Phillip knows exactly how to get the best out of you. Can you blame a man for knowing how to get what he wants from you? Let him tease and tug for he knows what every maneuver of his does. The hands that massage your skin don't get dirty, he'll always have others ready and willing to carry out whatever order he gives. It's what he's accustomed to and how he intends to keep it. But the droplets of blood that splatter do not miss his skin. The stain is still there, still under the skin of the thumb he pushes inside of you, feeling around for that bliss. Let his protectiveness clothe your body, he's already blurring the lines between obsessiveness and possessiveness.

ଘ Keegan's eyes will have you coming to a stumbling halt. Asking for something only you know how to give so good. Those erratic eyes that are unpredictable as they are deep, representing the deep dive you have to be holding your breath for. Are you ready to indulge? Because the impact will have you gasping for air, and when you try to take one you'll only swallow a mouthful of carnal desire. He ignites such a heat it's scalding to the touch, you don't know what's happening it's like you lose control. It happens so fast that when it's all over you'll let his lips, from which hot breaths slip through, kiss all over your sweat glistened body. His eyes might be softer and hold it for a while until he's back to the merciless, cold gaze which freezes everyone's else blood, feeling it lump within their veins.

ଘ Let König go on his fast rampages. They're over quick anyways. And afterwards, when he comes back, cradle his head between your thighs his tongue tangling as he stutters out promises to buy you what you wish if only you let him lap at your sweetness until his thoughts are left to reckless abandonment. Let him get what he can't get anywhere else. Call him handsome as your bury your fingers into his hair, your fingertips trailing his jaw and down his neck to where his adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. Place kisses on his cheek until he turns his head in one swift motion and captures your lips in a desperate kiss. He wants it all, wants all of you all at once it makes him messy, shaky and weak. But he just wants someone to hold him, rubbing his ears and whispering words of affirmation in his ear.

ଘ Horangi could care less what other's want from him. You're in his viewpoint and he's determined to apply as much pressure as possible to make you bend. The reason he justifies himself with is the lullaby he's lulled to sleep with. Everyone else wants something from him, why shouldn't you? Everyone else is just in the way, he says over and over again, trying to make you focus on his lips instead of the bodies on the floor. With what he's done, he expects a standing ovation from you, nothing but complete adoration and servitude. He's a man who chases after impulses, who knows how long until this candle runs out. For now, ignore the brusque hand and acknowledge the underlying intents. He'll keep this lecherous momentum going until you're feeling faint from the mere touch of his hand.

ଘ Resignation is a trait Nikto works hard to work out of you. Surely, you ought to trust him after all he's done for you. In his mind, he's dedicated such gentle caring to you, you should be grateful. Don't be afraid to take directly out of his hand, he prefers you lose that skepticism. And when you do start to gentle, oh he can never get enough of it. His fingers grazing and gliding over your body at any and every chance he can get. Let him delve deeper into you, it's only natural for him to want to know you better. Every quiver of yours, he feels through the epidermis of his skin. He just knows you that well. His jerking movements shouldn't startle you by now. Maybe if you were more open, you would be telling him what you want. Give him some sort of sign before that spark ignites an unyielding fire. Because to him, that trembling is a sign of a smoldering fierceness waiting to break through.

:¨ ·.· ¨: `· . ꔫ

[jupiterpilgrim]

Sovereign Desires

Wonyoung x Karina x Yuna x Sullyoon x male reader

word count: 15K

commissioned fic

Boredom doesn't seem to go away in the office. You think that one day you will get used to it, that day never comes. Slumped in your ergonomic chair, pretending to analyze quarterly reports while actually doomscrolling through an endless feed, you would give anything to shake things up in your life right now. Another Tuesday, another slow march towards the sweet release of 5 PM. Then your phone, lying screen-down on the desk amidst coffee rings and scattered pens, buzzes.

You barely register it. Probably just another Slack notification from accounting about the missing TPS reports, or a group chat exploding with irrelevant memes. You sigh, ready to silence it without looking.

But when you flip it over, it's not from accounting.

It's a DM.

There's a name.

And holy shit, not just any name. It's Karina. Yeah, the Karina. From Aespa. Except the contact isn't her stage name. It's the one you punched in years ago, still stubbornly saved under her actual name: Jimin. That old, familiar ache, that weird nostalgic flutter, tightens in your chest. Suddenly, you're not staring at sales projections; you're seventeen again, a sweaty, nervous wreck on some sun-baked summer sidewalk, every fiber of your being screaming just kiss her, you idiot, just do it, while you probably mumble something about the weather.

You blink, hard, because this makes zero sense. You haven't spoken to her for years. And the way it ended… a full-on, no-explanation ghosting after that spectacularly cursed attempt at a hookup. What a fucked day.

It wasn't even like you actually did anything. You didn't even get that far. You’d just managed to get her clothes off, lips still slick from making out, hands trembling as you lifted her onto your lap on that beat-up couch. The second your dick came out, she just… panicked. Froze up like she’d just seen a goddamn monster crawl out of your jeans. She let out this shaky, nervous laugh, mumbled something about a curfew she’d totally forgotten. But you know. Oh, you know exactly what it is. The sheer, improbable size of it. That sick, familiar twist in your gut as you realize it has happened again. You weren't even fully hard yet. Doesn’t matter.

She ran. Bolts like the place is on fire.

You can’t even really blame her (okay, maybe a little). You're always the weird, skinny dude, the one people probably figure is packing an innie until proven otherwise. And Karina (Jimin, back then), she has this effortless cool-girl vibe that just makes your brain short-circuit whenever she so much as glances your way for too longl. You try, so fucking hard, not to fall for her. Fail. Spectacularly. And then that one chance, your one shot to escape the friendzone, gets instantly demoted to a horror story she probably now dishes to her bandmates between grueling dance practices and sold-out stadium shows.

Except… she's actually messaging you. Right now.

hey

it’s been a while huh?

You jolt upright in your chair so fast your colleague in the next cubicle peers over the divider with a raised eyebrow. Her profile pic is pure idol perfection: full glam, hair in those impossibly soft, expensive-looking waves, eyes that are somehow both icy and flirty. This isn't Jimin anymore. This is Karina of Aespa, a literal K-pop goddess. The kind of woman entire nations fantasize about from behind their phone screens, and she’s DMing you, a random office drone, like you’d just casually bumped into her at a 7/11.

i was thinking about you the other day

kinda random but i’d like to catch up

you free this weekend?

No emojis. No awkward apologies or explanations. Just straight to it, like those six years of absolute silence haven't even happened.

Your chest feels tight, but not in a bad way. More like a champagne bottle about to pop. A million questions scream in your head, why now? what the hell is this about? but your thumbs are already a blur across the screen:

yeah

just tell me when and where

The typing bubble appears, blinks, disappears, then reappears. Teasing you. You wonder if she remembers. That night. That… thing about you. She has to. No way she’s forgotten something like that. Maybe she thinks you’ve… grown into it? Learned to manage it better? Maybe she's curious to see.

Then:

okay :)

I’ll send the details soon

looking forward to it

You stare at your phone screen long after her name vanishes, the glow of the monitor reflecting in your wide eyes. The phantom sensation of her weight, her presence, still echoes in your lap like a deeply ingrained muscle memory. The way she has of making any room, any space, subtly bend around her. The way you used to bend around her, orbiting like a damn fool, just waiting for her to look your way and actually mean it.

And now, impossibly, she's looking again.

—

The address pops up just after noon, no preamble. Just a pin-drop in Gangnam with a bar name you don’t recognize (some sleek little English mashup that screams exclusivity), the kind of place influencers pretend to discover and rich people keep quiet about. You Google it anyway. The front’s barely labeled, no neon sign, just this faint etched logo over heavy black glass doors, like you’re supposed to already know where it is. One of those underground cocktail lounges, dim and expensive and deliberately vague.

Of course she’d pick somewhere like this.

You get there ten minutes early, which feels both desperate and practical. The room’s all moody lighting and brass. Like stepping into a perfume ad: everything smells expensive. Candles flicker in tiny glass jars at each low table, and there’s jazz playing, soft but rhythmic. You start scanning the booths, heart ticking like a countdown, nervous in a way that feels kind of humiliating. You're not in high school anymore.

But then you see her.

She's in a corner booth, half-shadowed by one of those gold-bar dividers. Hair down, silky black and parted to the side, soft curls kissing her collarbones. She's dressed like she knew exactly how this would go: long-legged, crossed at the knee, thighs poured into a leather mini-skirt that barely creases when she moves. A sheer black blouse with little sparkly threadwork running through it like constellations, the fabric so thin it flirts with the curves of her bra underneath. Not scandalous. Not vulgar. Just perfectly engineered to hold your gaze. One hand’s around her drink, some golden thing in a faceted crystal glass, and the other’s thumbing her phone like she’s half-focused, tapping fast. She looks up just once—sees you.

Smiles.

“Wow,” she says as you approach, rising halfway, fingers brushing your wrist as she gestures for you to sit across from her. “You really came.”

“Of course I did,” you say, but your voice is almost inaudible. You clear your throat and try again. “Jimin.”

Her eyes widen just slightly. The smile twitches. Not fake, just surprised. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

“Still your name, right?”

“It is,” she says, sitting back down, crossing her legs the other way, and you catch the flash of glossy black boots under the table, knee-high, sharp-heeled, definitely not made for walking. “Only a few people still get to use it though.”

You slide into the seat across from her, still trying not to stare, but fuck it’s hard. She’s… glowy. Confident in a way that makes you feel like you’re dressed wrong even though you picked this outfit twice and stood in the mirror trying poses before heading out. She doesn’t need to try, doesn’t need to check the mirror; she knows what she’s doing. Every part of her outfit, her body language, the tone of her laughter, it’s all loaded like performance, but smoother. Natural. She's grown into it. Into this idol thing.

You’re still staring when she lifts her glass toward you.

“Drink?” she offers. “First one’s on me.”

“You paying?” you ask, raising a brow.

“For sure,” she says, grinning. “This idol thing pays well.”

A waiter materializes like magic. She orders another of whatever she’s having, something citrusy with gin, you catch the word yuzu, and you mutter your preference like it matters. It’s one of those bars where they probably judge you for ordering a beer.

“Damn,” you say after a beat, glancing at her with a crooked smile. “So this is your idea of casual now?”

She shrugs, sips. “This is how I dress when I want someone to look at me.”

You swallow hard. “It’s working.”

There’s a beat. A silence that stretches long enough for your drink to arrive. Her eyes never leave yours.

“You’re still such a flirt,” she says, amused. “But you’ve mellowed out. You used to be way more nervous.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely panicking inside,” you admit, taking a sip that burns and soothes at the same time. “I just got better at hiding it.”

She laughs, and the sound is all warm honey. It hits some buried part of you, it fucks with you.

“So how’ve you been?” she asks, smoothing a hand over her thigh. “Besides taller, obviously.”

You snort. “You’re still taller than me.”

“By this much,” she says, holding two fingers apart. “And the boots.”

“Even without the boots.”

“Some things don’t change.”

You both sip. And then the reminiscing begins. You start talking about school, about mutual friends, about the time you both got high and watched bad dramas all night, quoting lines and making each other laugh so hard she snorted kimchi soup out of her nose. She acts scandalized when you bring that up.

“I told you never to mention that again,” she groans, burying her face in her hand.

“And yet here we are.”

“Blackmail. That’s what this is.”

The drinks keep coming. You’re halfway through your third when you notice she keeps checking her phone. Quick glances. A tap here and there. She’s not scrolling for fun, no, it’s deliberate. Controlled. You figure it must be work. Maybe her manager checking in. Maybe something about her schedule. It doesn’t seem suspicious at first. You’re too busy watching the way her lips wrap around her straw, how her hand drapes over the rim of her glass, fingers tapping idly. You wonder how many guys have sat across from her like this, thinking maybe this time I get to take her home.

You’re not even sure what this is. Is it a catch-up? A date? Just nostalgia? But she invited you. She dressed like this. She's been holding eye contact like it’s a game. You’re buzzed now, not sloppy, just loose enough to lean in, resting your chin on your hand.

“You remember,” you say softly, “That time you were at my house and we kissed?”

Jimin looks up. Caught off guard. But not embarrassed. Her smile is smaller this time. Realer.

“Of course I do,” she murmurs. “You tasted like lemon soda.”

“You ran. You ran before we could... You know.”

“I had a panic attack,” she says, surprisingly blunt. “Didn’t even realize it until I was halfway down the street. I thought it was… I don’t know. Too much.”

“Was it because of me?”

She’s quiet. Her eyes dip to her drink. Then her phone buzzes again. She glances at it. This time her face changes (just a flicker). A subtle switch behind her eyes. Something has clicked.

“No,” she says finally, meeting your gaze again. “It wasn’t you. Not really. And I really, really want to redeem myself with you.”

But she doesn’t explain. Just downs the rest of her drink in one go and flags the waiter for another.

You mean to press more. To ask what that meant. But before you can, her phone buzzes one more time. She doesn’t check it. Just flips it over, screen-down. And leans forward with a little smile, as if she’s about to say something intimate, something she’s been holding in for a while. Her fingers trail along the rim of your glass, close but not quite touching yours.

Then she says: “Hey. You trust me, right?”

You say it without hesitation. Maybe it's the alcohol humming in your bloodstream or the way she's looking at you; clear, serious, a softness in her expression that strips away the glamor and shows just a little of the girl you remember. “Yeah,” you murmur, letting the word settle in your throat, simple and solid. “I trust you.”

That’s all she needs. Her eyes flicker like she’s confirming something to herself, then her fingers swipe across her phone, firing off a text with no explanation. You catch the little smirk at the corner of her lips, not playful, not cruel… something more satisfied. Purposeful. She slides her phone back into her clutch and stands, straightening the hem of her skirt. Her legs look even longer when she moves. The heel of her boot clicks once on the floor.

“Come on,” she says, brushing a hand lightly over your shoulder as she walks past you. “There’s a car waiting.”

You follow, blinking through the slow haze of three drinks and a thousand unspoken thoughts. Outside, it’s colder than you expect, the air sharp against your cheeks, but the car is there, sleek and black, window-tinted with the kind of purr you associate with rich people and K-drama antagonists. The driver doesn’t ask your name. Just opens the door.

You slide in after her, trying not to let your thigh brush hers too hard even though she’s made no effort to keep distance. Inside the car, the seats smell like leather and faint perfume. Karina settles in beside you, adjusting the strap of her bag, checking her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen. She catches you looking.

“What?” she asks, amusement in her tone, head tilting.

“Where are we going?”

She leans back, one knee brushing yours, fingers sliding into her hair like she’s trying to undo the tension at her scalp. “To an apartment. Somewhere we can actually talk without everyone staring. Somewhere more comfortable.”

“Is it yours?”

She shrugs, teasing. “Partially.”

“Must be nice.”

“You’ve got no idea,” she grins, and then something flickers behind her eyes again, calmer now, more vulnerable. “I meant what I said back there. About redeeming myself.”

You glance at her. Her knees are still crossed, hands folded loosely in her lap. She’s not fidgeting. She looks totally in control. But her voice is quieter now, measured.

“I really fucked up back then,” she says. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I know I did. You probably felt… rejected.”

You hesitate. Then nod. “Yeah. I did.”

She turns slightly toward you, just enough to face you head-on. “And I get it now. It wasn’t just me walking out—it was me making you feel like something was wrong with you. Like you were some freak.”

You don’t say anything. The car’s too quiet. The engine hums beneath you, smooth, and the city lights flicker through tinted windows. You focus on her words, the precision of them, the way she’s not sugarcoating any of it.

“I used to think everything had to be this perfect fantasy,” she continues. “And I wasn’t ready for something real. I wasn’t ready for… you.”

You exhale slowly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Okay,” she says, "but I still want to make it right.”

The rest of the ride passes in that charged silence, the kind that isn't awkward but thick with implication, like something's about to tip. You’re not entirely sure what you expected when she messaged you, but this? This is surreal. You're tipsy and hot under your collar, knees bouncing slightly, wondering if you should be nervous, or excited, or both.

You settle on both.

The car slows in front of a tall, anonymous building with glass that reflects too cleanly to be anything short of expensive. A valet greets her with a nod. You follow her inside, past a lobby that smells like orchids and designer soap. The elevator is silent, smooth, rising so fast it barely registers.

When the doors open, she leads you into an apartment that looks more like a photoshoot set than somewhere someone actually lives. Polished hardwood floors, ambient recessed lighting, modern furniture in sharp angles and plush velvet textures. There’s a huge floor-to-ceiling window spilling moonlight across the living room, and a minibar tucked beside a long black couch. She moves through it like she’s done this a hundred times before.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she says, stepping behind the bar and reaching for bottles you can’t even pronounce. “Shoes off, if you want. The floor’s heated.”

You toe your sneakers off and sink into the couch, running your hand over the fabric absently. Your head's spinning a little now, and it’s not just the alcohol. It’s her. It’s the fact that she brought you here, into this private space, dressed like a fantasy and saying everything anyone would like to hear. The lines are blurred and blurring further.

She turns back with one glass, something crystalline and amber glowing under the lights. She hands one to you with a smile.

“What is it?” you ask, sniffing it. It smells like honey and something herbal.

“Something special,” she says, settling beside you on the couch. “It’s got a little kick. But it’ll help you… relax. Feel good. Get in the mood.”

You blink. “Get in the mood?”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “For tonight. For me. Just drink.”

You hesitate, but only for a second. You're already floating. Her thigh is pressed to yours now, warm through the thin fabric of your pants. You take a sip. It's smoother than expected, sweet at first, then biting, like cinnamon chased with a punch of something foreign. Your body responds immediately, heat blooming in your chest, your arms, your thighs.

“Strong,” you say, wincing as you go for a second sip.

“Mmhm,” she hums. “But you’ll feel amazing.”

Your skin starts to prickle, not uncomfortably. Just... heightened. Like everything is vibrating a little faster than it should. Your fingers twitch. You glance at her. Her pupils are wide, lips parted just slightly as she watches you drink.

You set the glass down, heart beating a little too fast now. “What’s in it?”

“Something that’s gonna make tonight unforgettable,” she murmurs, leaning in to brush her lips just below your jaw. Not a kiss, just a graze. “And I’ve got a surprise.”

Your pulse thumps. “Another one?”

She stands again, smooth and sudden, stepping across the room and pulling her phone from her clutch. She types something. A long message. Sends it.

Then she turns to face you again, hair tumbling over her shoulder, eyes dark and gleaming.

“They’re almost here,” she says.

You blink. “They?”

Karina approaches you again and sits on your lap, settling her weight fully onto your thighs. It's instant fire. Her warmth seeps through your pants, directly against the hardness already straining there, a painful, thrilling pressure. Her hands find your shoulders, fingers digging in just slightly, claiming the space.

"So," she starts, leaning closer, her breath ghosting over your ear. "About... that night. My little freakout."

You swallow, eyes locked on the curve of her neck, the faint pulse beating there.

"You're not the only one who knows about... well. Your impressive little toy downstairs."

A blush creeps up your neck. Toy? Little? It feels anything but little right now, jammed against her ass.

"W-what? Who else—"

"Shhh," she cuts you off, a finger tapping your lips. "No need to be ashamed. Not anymore. In fact..." Her lips curve into that slow, knowing smile you saw downstairs, the one that felt like she held all the cards. "It kinda got... rushed straight into my friend group."

Heat flares through you, hotter than the alcohol buzz. The drink, whatever it is, makes everything feel ten times more intense. Your cock gives a hard throb against her, impossible to hide.

"I... I don't think I get it, Jimin," you stammer out, feeling small under her gaze, even though she's the one practically draped over you.

"You will," she murmurs. "Soon. Very soon."

Right on cue, a crisp ding-dong echoes through the apartment. The doorbell.

Karina lifts herself off your lap with infuriating grace, smoothing down her skirt. The sudden absence of her weight makes your erection ache. She glances towards the door, then back at you, a quick, almost apologetic flicker in her eyes before it's replaced by resolve.

"Showtime," she mouths, then turns and strides towards the entrance.

The lock clicks. The heavy door swings inward. And suddenly, the spacious living room feels crowded. Three figures step inside, bringing a wave of expensive perfume and overwhelming presence. Towering over Karina, towering over you.

Wonyoung is first, draped in a long, dramatic beige trench coat that swamps her frame but somehow still looks regal. Her expression is pure, unfiltered impatience, lips pursed into a perfect pout. Beside her, Yuna practically spills out of a tiny black leather tube top and matching micro-skirt, fishnets snaking up her long legs, a predatory grin already fixed on you. And then there's Sullyoon, looking almost angelic in a white lace corset top and ridiculously short pleated skirt, but her wide, curious eyes dart nervously between you, Karina, and Wonyoung, clutching a small designer handbag. They’re all impossibly beautiful. And impossibly tall.

You just swallow, hard, sinking back into the plush velvet of the couch. Your brain short-circuits. Four K-pop goddesses. In the same room. Looking at you.

"Finally," Wonyoung mutters, tapping an expensively manicured finger against her arm, not even bothering to hide her irritation. "Took long enough."

Karina closes the door, turning back to the group, her hostess smile firmly in place, though you see the slight tension in her shoulders. "Girls, this is the guy I was talking about. You... probably already know who they are, right?" she directs the last part at you, a weak attempt at normalcy.

You nod dumbly, unable to form words.

Wonyoung's sharp eyes rake over you, from your hair down to your feet. A dismissive little sniff escapes her.

"Huh. You're even smaller in person," she remarks, sounding unimpressed. She glances sharply at Karina. "Are you sure about this, Jimin?"

Karina nods quickly. "Yes. Positive."

Wonyoung just hums, unconvinced. Then, with fluid nonchalance, she reaches up and undoes the belt of her trench coat. The fabric falls open. Underneath, she's wearing nothing but a scandalous black lace lingerie set; push-up bra showcasing perfect cleavage, matching high-waisted panties emphasizing her tiny waist and long legs, held up by intricate garter straps. She absolutely came prepared. Your mouth goes dry.

Karina turns back to you, offering a hand. "Come on, stand up."

Your legs feel shaky. The bulge in your pants is painfully obvious now, throbbing in time with the frantic beat in your chest. You take her hand, letting her pull you to your feet. You feel like a child standing among them.

Wonyoung's gaze flicks down to your crotch, then back up, a flicker of something – interest? Disdain? – in her eyes. "Did he already drink?” she asks Karina, nodding towards the empty glass on the coffee table.

"Yep. All of it," Karina confirms.

Your head snaps towards Karina, sudden alarm cutting through the horny haze. "Drink what? What are you talking about?"

Karina laughs nervously, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, it's nothing serious! Just a little something... to help you keep up. You know." She gestures vaguely at the three other women staring at you. "Four girls is no joke, right? Need stamina!"

"You... you literally drugged me?"

“Drugging is a very strong word!” she retorts, laughing nervously. “Look at you, conscious and healthy! What you drank was just an aphrodisiac, totally harmless.. and natural too.”

Yuna lets out a delighted giggle, covering her mouth with perfectly painted nails. "Aw, look at him. He's finally catching on!"

"Is... is what I think is going to happen... actually going to happen?" you ask Karina.

Wonyoung steps forward, silencing Karina before she can answer. She stops right in front of you, close enough you can smell the sweet, powdery scent of her skin beneath the perfume.

"If what you're thinking," Wonyoung states, her tone flat and bored, "is that you're about to get used like a personal dildo by four incredibly hot girls who are way out of your league... then yes. You are absolutely right."

Your breath hitches. Before you can process, Wonyoung gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Immediately, Yuna and Sullyoon are flanking you. Strong hands grip your arms, surprisingly firm. Yuna's touch is confident, almost playful; Sullyoon's is hesitant but locks on tight. You flinch, trying instinctively to pull away, a pathetic little struggle.

"Hey, relax," Karina says quickly, stepping closer, her expression pleading. "Just... go with it. It'll be fun."

Fun? Your head is spinning, your body is on fire, and four idols are manhandling you after drugging you. But fuck, the dominant way Wonyoung is looking at you, the hungry glint in Yuna's eyes, even Sullyoon's wide-eyed curiosity... it's terrifyingly hot.

Wonyoung reaches out, her long fingers landing on the button of your jeans. Her touch is cool, deliberate.

"Alright," she announces, her gaze fixed on your crotch. "Let's see if Jimin was telling the truth, or if she just has a really weird memory of high school dick."

Her fingers work quickly, expertly. The button pops. The zipper slides down. Before you can even react, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and boxers together and yanks them down past your hips, down your thighs, letting them pool around your ankles.

Your cock springs free, fully, violently hard. It bounces heavily against your lower belly, thick and veiny and flushed a deep, angry red from the drug and the sheer, overwhelming arousal. Ten and a half inches of raw, improbable meat jutting out from your otherwise skinny frame.

Yuna gasps, her eyes widening comically. Sullyoon makes a tiny choking sound, her grip tightening on your arm as her gaze locks onto it, mesmerized. Even Karina lets out a soft, breathy sound, her eyes glued to your erection.

"Wow," Karina whispers, sounding genuinely awed. "Okay... maybe it is even bigger than I remembered."

Only Wonyoung remains utterly impassive. Her face is a mask of cool appraisal, like she's judging a piece of art. Or livestock. She studies it for a long moment, then, without warning, her hand closes around the base. Her grip is strong, cool. She gives it a few slow, deliberate strokes, thumb pressing firmly against the thick vein running down the shaft.

A strangled moan escapes your lips before you can stop it. Your hips buck involuntarily.

"Is this it?" Wonyoung asks coolly, still stroking, her eyes meeting yours. "Is this fully hard? Or does it get bigger?"

"Y-yes," you gasp out, eyes squeezed shut. "That's... that's it."

Wonyoung stops stroking. She clicks her tongue. "Hm. Well then." She looks directly at Karina, her expression hardening. "We have a problem."

She bends slightly, reaching into an inner pocket of her fallen trench coat. You tense, wondering what the hell she's doing now. She straightens up holding... a sleek, metallic ruler.

"Wait, Wonyoung, are you seriously—" Karina starts, aghast.

"Of course I am," Wonyoung snaps, cutting her off. She kneels slightly, holding the ruler flat against the top side of your shaft, pressing the end firmly against your pubic bone. Her fingers are cold against your heated skin. You flinch, utterly humiliated, but Yuna and Sullyoon hold you fast. Wonyoung squints at the measurement.

"Ten... point five," she announces. She stands up straight, glaring daggers at Karina. "Ten and a half inches. You liar."

Karina shrinks back slightly. "What?"

"You told me," Wonyoung accuses, poking a finger towards Karina, "that it was bigger than my bodyguard's. You specifically said bigger than the bodyguard. He's twelve inches, Jimin! Twelve! This isn't even close!"

"I... I haven't seen it in years!" Karina defends herself frantically, blushing furiously. "It was dark, and it happened so fast! I was scared! It looked bigger back then, I swear! I thought it was enormous!"

Wonyoung rolls her eyes dramatically. "Disappointing. Utterly disappointing."

"Oh my god, Wonyoung, stop being so dramatic!" Yuna cuts in, finally letting go of your arm to reach down and cup your heavy balls possessively. Sullyoon mirrors her, her hesitant hand closing around the thick shaft just below Wonyoung's earlier grip. Their combined touch sends sparks through your system. "Who cares if it's not twelve inches? Look at this thing!" Yuna gives your balls a gentle squeeze. "It's still incredibly big. And so thick! We can have plenty of fun with this." Her eyes meet yours, hot and challenging. "Right? I'm already getting wet just holding him."

Sullyoon nods eagerly, running a tentative finger over the smooth head, her eyes wide with fascination. "Yeah, Wonyoung. It's... it's really amazing."

Wonyoung sighs, a long-suffering sound, but her eyes linger on the sheer girth of your cock, now being eagerly handled by the other two. "Fine," she concedes grudgingly. "It is impressively thick, I'll give you that. It might be good for something after all." She pauses, then pins Karina with a sharp look. "But you still lied. And liars need to be punished."

Karina swallows hard, nervousness flashing across her features again. "Punished? How?"

"You'll see," Wonyoung says cryptically. She turns her attention back to you, dismissing Karina entirely. "You. Finish taking off your clothes. Now. And get in the bedroom." She gestures vaguely towards a door down the hall. "I don't have all night."

Without waiting for a response, Wonyoung turns on her heel, her lingerie-clad form disappearing towards the indicated room, the trench coat abandoned on the floor.

Yuna leans in close, her hot breath fanning your ear. "You heard the princess. Hurry up," she whispers, then plants a quick, wet kiss on your cheek before releasing your balls and following Wonyoung.

Sullyoon gives your aching cock one last, surprisingly firm squeeze, her eyes flicking up to meet yours with a mixture of shyness and burgeoning excitement. Then she too lets go and scurries after the others, leaving you standing there alone in the middle of the luxurious living room.

Your pants are around your ankles, your shirt is still on, your monster erection is throbbing painfully in the open air, slick with pre-cum and the lingering touch of three different idols. Your head spins from the drug, the humiliation, the sheer terror, and the undeniable, overwhelming wave of horniness flooding your system. What the fuck just happened? And what the fuck happens next? You stand frozen, caught somewhere between wanting to run and wanting to crawl into that bedroom immediately. Obviously, driven by a total lack of shame and an unbearable horniness, combined with no sense of self-preservation, you choose the second option.

Fuck it. You kick off your fallen pants and boxers fully, leaving them in a pathetic heap on the expensive floor, and start walking towards the bedroom door Wonyoung vanished through. Your bare feet pad silently on the cool hardwood.

Karina falls into step beside you, her bare shoulder brushing your arm. You glance sideways at her, the mix of betrayal and horniness churning in your gut.

"You lied to me," you state. "The whole time. Downstairs. In the car."

She flinches slightly but keeps walking, her gaze fixed on the bedroom door ahead. "Okay, technically... maybe a little bit by omission?"

"A little bit?" you scoff, feeling a hysterical laugh bubble up. "You drugged me, Jimin! You set me up to be... to be some kind of human dildo for your idol friends!"

"Hey!" she protests, stopping for a second. "I did want to see you again. Honestly. That part wasn't a lie." She searches your face, her expression earnest, though it's hard to trust anything she says right now. "Things just got... complicated. And Wonyoung kinda insisted after I... might have mentioned you."

"Mentioned me? Or mentioned this?" you gesture vaguely downwards at your still stubbornly rigid cock.

"Both?" she offers weakly.

You shake your head, feeling dizzy again. "It's kinda hard to believe anything you say right now."

You reach the bedroom doorway and hesitate, peering inside. The room is huge, dominated by a massive bed with a dark grey headboard and way too many pillows. Soft light glows from hidden fixtures. Yuna and Sullyoon are near the foot of the bed, casually shedding their clothes. Yuna unhooks her leather top with a flourish, letting it drop to reveal a simple, strappy black bra that barely contains her curves. Sullyoon is more methodical, carefully folding her pleated skirt before unzipping the back of her lace corset, revealing matching white lace panties and a push-up bra that gives her an impressive silhouette. They’re both practically glowing with confidence, completely unbothered by your presence.

Karina gently pushes you forward, over the threshold. She reaches up and pulls her sheer blouse over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto a nearby armchair. Her bra is pale pink lace, elegant but functional, doing its best to support her surprisingly full, pale breasts. They swell invitingly over the delicate fabric, nipples visibly hard beneath the lace. You can't help but stare for a beat, remembering the feel of them pressed against your chest years ago.

She catches you looking and gives a small, self-conscious smile before starting to unzip her skirt. It slides down her legs, pooling around her knee-high boots before she finally takes them off. Underneath, she wears matching pink lace panties. "Your turn," she prompts, nodding towards your shirt. "Unless you want Wonyoung to rip it off you."

The thought is strangely appealing, but you comply, pulling your t-shirt over your head and tossing it vaguely towards hers. Now you're standing there in just your socks, utterly exposed.

"So..." you begin, looking between the four women, feeling incredibly out of place and ridiculously turned on. "What... uh... what happens now?"

"Now?" Wonyoung's drawl comes from the bed. You see her lounging against the pillows, still in her black lingerie, legs crossed, watching you with predatory amusement. "Now the fun begins, tiny."

Wonyoung slides off the bed with feline grace. Yuna and Sullyoon turn from their discarded clothes, their eyes immediately locking onto your cock again. Together, the three of them approach, moving with unnerving synchronicity. They stop a few feet away, then slowly, deliberately, sink to their knees in front of you. Three pairs of stunning eyes staring intently at your dick. It’s like some weird, terrifyingly hot religious ceremony.

Karina takes a step forward, starting to kneel beside them, but Wonyoung shoots her a look sharp enough to cut glass.

"Ah-ah," Wonyoung chides, clicking her tongue. "Not you. Not yet."

Karina freezes, her cheeks flushing slightly. She straightens up quickly, looking uncertain. After a moment's hesitation, she steps beside you instead, looping an arm comfortingly around your shoulders, pulling you slightly against her side. Her skin is warm. She leans in and presses a soft, quick kiss to your temple.

"Just breathe," she whispers, her lips brushing your ear. "Try to enjoy it?"

Enjoy it? Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest, but as Wonyoung reaches out, followed immediately by Yuna and Sullyoon, their hands hovering just inches from your shaft, a low groan rumbles in your chest.

Wonyoung's fingers, cool and clinical, land first. She wraps them around the base again, testing the weight, her thumb tracing the thick vein. Yuna goes straight for the head, her touch surprisingly bold as she wets a fingertip with her tongue and circles the sensitive tip, making you gasp. Sullyoon hesitates for only a second before tentatively cupping your heavy balls, her touch feather-light at first, then growing firmer as she seems to gain confidence.

"Holy shit," Yuna breathes out, her eyes wide as she keeps teasing the head of your cock. "It's like... holding a fucking baseball bat. But, like, a really nice, warm baseball bat."

Sullyoon giggles nervously, her fingers exploring the taut skin of your scrotum. "It doesn't even look real up close. How does this even fit on someone?"

Wonyoung ignores them, focusing her attention on the shaft, running her other hand slowly up and down its length, mapping the texture, the heat. "Forget the length," she murmurs, almost to herself. "The girth on this thing... Now this is interesting." She squeezes slightly, eliciting another strangled sound from you. "Definitely something to work with."

Karina's arm tightens around your shoulders, a silent signal of... support? Apology? Shared anticipation? You can barely think straight, trapped between her comforting presence and the overwhelming sensation of three gorgeous idols worshipping your freakishly large dick like it's the eighth wonder of the world. Your knees feel weak, the room spins gently, and all you can focus on is the heat building low in your belly, spiraling outwards from their exploring hands.

Wonyoung maintains her grip on the base, anchoring you, while her tongue makes slow, deliberate laps around the thickest part of the shaft, pressing hard. It's methodical, almost analytical, but feels incredible. Yuna, giggling, dives lower, taking one of your heavy balls fully into her mouth, sucking strongly while her other hand playfully squeezes its twin. You cry out, hips jerking, hands clenching into fists at your sides. Sullyoon, seeming to take her cue from Yuna, mimics the action on your other ball, her technique less practiced but no less enthusiastic, her cheeks hollowing with the effort.

"Mmmph," Yuna hums around your ball, her eyes sparkling up at you. "So salty. You taste good."

Sullyoon nods vigorously, her mouth still full.

Karina's arm tightens around your shoulders. You can feel the slight tremor running through her. "God," she breathes out, her gaze fixed on the scene below. "Look at them..."

Wonyoung lifts her head slightly, her lips glistening. "Alright, girls, new plan." Her tone is all business, but there's a dark spark in her eyes. "I need him really wet. Like, dripping. Slobber him up properly. I have plans for all that lube later."

Yuna pulls off your ball with a wet pop. "Ooh, bossy Wonyoung! My favorite!" She winks, then immediately latches onto the mid-shaft, sucking hard and deep, making deliberately sloppy noises. "You want drool? You got drool, princess!"

Sullyoon, blushing furiously but clearly eager to please, releases your other ball and joins Yuna on the shaft, her mouth smaller but working just as diligently, their tongues occasionally bumping. It's a hot, messy tangle of lips and saliva coating your straining cock.

Wonyoung watches them for a second, a critical glint in her eyes, before lowering her head again, her tongue darting out to flick teasingly at the sensitive underside, right where the shaft meets your balls. You groan, head tipping back against Karina's shoulder.

"Oh my god," Karina whispers, her own breathing quickening. She leans her cheek against your hair. "Are you... are you okay? Are you enjoying this?"

Is she serious? Your brain is soup, your body is humming like a live wire, and three of the most beautiful women on the planet are tag-teaming your dick like it owes them money.

"F-fuck," you manage to gasp out, legs trembling. "Y-yes? Maybe? God, Jimin, it's..." You can't finish. Another wave of pleasure crashes over you as Yuna somehow manages to take even more of you into her throat, her hand pumping the base in time with her sucking. Pre-cum beads thickly at the tip, immediately licked away by Sullyoon's inquisitive tongue.

"He likes it!" Sullyoon announces proudly through a mouthful of spit and dick.

"Course he likes it, dummy," Yuna retorts, pulling back just enough to talk. "Look at him! Leaking like a faucet already. We're doing a great job making him nice and slippery for Wonyoung's mysterious plans." She gives Wonyoung a suggestive look.

Wonyoung just smirks, her tongue still tracing lazy circles near your balls. "Focus, Yuna. More spit. Less talk."

"Yes, ma'am!" Yuna salutes mockingly, then dives back in, somehow managing to sound even wetter this time. Sullyoon follows suit, their combined efforts painting your cock in thick, glistening ropes of saliva. The wet sucking sounds fill the room, punctuated by your helpless moans and the occasional giggle from Yuna or encouragement from Karina.

"Damn," Karina murmurs again, her fingers tightening on your shoulder. "You really are... something else." She sounds genuinely impressed, and maybe a little turned on herself. You feel a bead of sweat trickle down your temple, the heat in the room, or maybe just in your own body, becoming almost unbearable. This is insane. It's degrading. It's terrifying.

And fuck, you hope they don't stop anytime soon.

"More," Wonyoung demands, her own mouth leaving your balls for a moment to issue the order. "I want him practically drowning in it. Yuna, Sullyoon, don't be shy with the spit."

Yuna grins wickedly around your shaft. "You hear that, Sullyoonie? Permission to be absolutely disgusting!" She pulls back slightly, gathers saliva in her mouth (you can literally hear it) and then leans in, letting a thick, clear stream drizzle directly onto the head of your cock. It mixes with the pre-cum already leaking there, creating a pearly mess. "How's that, boss?"

"Better," Wonyoung approves, nodding slightly. She then looks pointedly at Sullyoon. "Your turn."

Sullyoon hesitates for only a split second, blushing scarlet, before copying Yuna. Her spit is maybe a little less voluminous, but she makes up for it with enthusiasm, adding another layer of wetness. You groan loudly, bucking against their mouths as the warm liquid coats you. It feels unbelievably degrading and yet insanely hot.

"Oh my god, they're actually spitting on it," Karina whispers beside you, sounding both horrified and utterly captivated. "Is that... does that feel okay?"

"F-Feels..." you gasp, trying to catch your breath. "Feels fucking weird! Good weird! Fuck!"

"Language," Wonyoung chides absently, though she doesn't sound genuinely annoyed. She seems focused on the task at hand. She uses her fingers to smear the combined spit and pre-cum all over the shaft, ensuring every inch is glistening under the soft bedroom lights. "See? Nice and slick. Almost ready."

"Ready for what?" Yuna asks playfully, her tongue now lapping up the excess spit near the base, her cheeks puffed out. "You gonna use him as a slip-n-slide?"

Wonyoung ignores her. "Tip duty. Both of you," she commands Yuna and Sullyoon.

They obey instantly. Sullyoon’s smaller tongue darts out, carefully tracing the ridge of the corona, while Yuna goes straight for the slit, flicking her tongue rapidly over the hypersensitive opening, drawing out even more pre-cum. Their tongues brush, slide over each other, working in tandem to worship the very head of your cock. It’s an agonizingly precise torture.

"Mmm, look how much pre-cum he's making," Sullyoon murmurs, her eyes wide with fascination. "It tastes good."

"Told ya," Yuna slurps, managing to get her lips around the entire glans for a moment, sucking hard before releasing it with another wet pop. "He's like a leaky faucet of man-juice. Keep licking, Sullyoon, let's make it nice and shiny."

They continue their ministrations, tongues swirling, lapping, occasionally flicking out to catch stray drips running down the shaft. Wonyoung watches critically, occasionally adding a guiding touch with her finger or a low hum of approval. Karina is practically vibrating beside you now, her hand gripping your shoulder tightly, her knuckles white. You can feel her shallow, rapid breaths against your neck.

The combined stimulation is relentless. Your toes curl, your back arches off the floor slightly, supported only by Karina's arm. A high-pitched whine escapes your throat. You feel dangerously close, the pressure building low and deep, coiling tight in your balls.

Just as you think you might actually lose it, Wonyoung gives a sharp nod. "Okay. Enough."

Yuna and Sullyoon pull back simultaneously, leaving your cock absolutely drenched, glistening obscenely, thick ropes of saliva and pre-cum dripping onto the floor. It stands there, twitching slightly, impossibly hard and looking utterly debauched.

Wonyoung leans back on her heels, surveying their handiwork with a critical eye. A small, satisfied smirk touches her lips. "Acceptable," she declares finally. Then, her gaze shifts, sharp and imperious, landing squarely on Karina, who is still holding you up, looking flushed and breathless from watching.

"Karina," Wonyoung commands, her tone leaving no room for argument. "On your knees. Now.”

Karina practically beams, relief washing over her face as she drops eagerly to her knees before you, eyes fixed on your glistening, spit-slicked cock. She clearly thinks it’s finally her turn, leaning forward slightly, lips parting in anticipation. Oh, how wrong she is.

Wonyoung watches her kneel with a predatory stillness, letting the hope bloom on Karina’s face for a torturous second before shattering it.

"What do you think you're doing?" Wonyoung asks, her tone deceptively soft.

Karina blinks, confused. "I'm... you told me to kneel?" Her gaze flickers towards your cock, then back to Wonyoung, clearly expecting the order to suck.

"Yes. Kneel for your punishment," Wonyoung corrects coolly. "For lying to me about the merchandise." She gestures towards your erection with a flick of her wrist. "You don't get to taste it yet. First, you pay the price for exaggerating."

Karina's hopeful expression evaporates, replaced by wide-eyed confusion, then dawning fear. "Punishment? Wait, what—"

Beside her, Yuna claps a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Sullyoon tries to stifle a giggle behind her hand, her eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. They clearly knew this was coming.

"H-how... how are you going to punish me?" Karina stammers, looking genuinely scared now.

Wonyoung's lips curl into a cruel, slow smile. "With this," she declares, and before Karina can react, Wonyoung reaches out, her hand closing firmly around the base of your thick, dripping cock. She lifts it slightly, like she’s hefting a weapon. Then, with a swift, deliberate motion, she swings it sideways, slapping the wet, heavy shaft right across Karina’s cheek.

The sound is shockingly loud, wet and fleshy. Karina cries out, head snapping to the side from the impact, a bright red mark instantly blooming on her pale skin, smeared with your spit and pre-cum.

Yuna and Sullyoon absolutely lose it, bursting into loud laughter, clutching each other for support.

"Oh my god! She actually did it!" Yuna howls between giggles.

Wonyoung ignores them, her focus entirely on Karina’s stunned, reddening face. "Rule number one, Jimin: Don't bullshit me about dick size," she states calmly. "Since you were off by almost two inches, but we'll round down... let's make it ten hits. One for every lovely, thick inch he actually has." She adjusts her grip on your shaft, preparing for the next swing.

The sensation is… bizarre. Jarring at first, then this strange, intense vibration travels up the shaft with each impact, making your cock throb pleasurably. You stand there, rooted to the spot, watching Wonyoung use your own dick to punish Karina.

SMACK! "One," Wonyoung counts, hitting the other cheek this time. Karina whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut but holding her position.

SMACK! "Two." Another wet impact, leaving another glistening smear.

SMACK! "Three." Karina lets out a low moan this time, a sound that’s halfway between pain and something else. Her hands clench into fists on her thighs.

SMACK! "Four." Your cock feels incredibly sensitive, the repeated slapping friction oddly satisfying against the wetness. It feels… good. Way better than it should.

"Look at her face!" Sullyoon squeals, pointing. "It's all red and shiny!"

SMACK! "Five." Wonyoung delivers this one harder, snapping Karina’s head back slightly. A tear escapes the corner of Karina's eye, but the soft sigh that follows it sounds suspiciously like pleasure.

Fuck, is she actually getting off on this?

"Damn, Wonyoung, you're really going for it," Yuna comments, still chuckling. "Can we have a turn? Please? It looks fun! Like that baseball bat I mentioned!"

Wonyoung pauses after the fifth hit, considering Yuna's request while keeping a firm grip on your throbbing shaft. Karina uses the moment to take a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes still closed, face flushed and marked.

"Fine," Wonyoung concedes with a shrug. "But don't mess up the count. Five more hits."

Yuna squeals with delight and practically lunges forward, grabbing your cock just below Wonyoung's hand. Sullyoon eagerly joins in, her smaller hands closing around the shaft as well. They wield it together, a combined grip that feels incredibly tight and encompassing.

"Our turn, Jimin!" Yuna chirps happily. "Ready for the big leagues?"

Karina nods mutely, bracing herself.

SMACK! Yuna and Sullyoon swing together, their combined force making the impact even heavier. "Six!" Yuna yells gleefully.

SMACK! "Seven!" Sullyoon shouts, getting into the spirit. The wet slap echoes in the room. Karina moans louder this time, a definite note of arousal in the sound now, her hips shifting slightly on the floor.

SMACK! "Eight!" They're literally using your dick like a club, and the friction, the impact, the sheer humiliation of the scene it's pushing you closer to the edge again. Your cock feels impossibly hard, straining against their tight grips between hits.

SMACK! "Nine!" Karina's breathing is harsh now, her lips parted, another tear tracking through the smear of spit on her cheek, but her eyes, when they flutter open for a second, look hazy and aroused.

"Last one!" Yuna announces. They swing back for momentum—

SMACK! "Ten!" The final hit lands solidly, leaving Karina panting, her face a mess of red marks and glistening wetness, looking utterly wrecked and undeniably horny.

Yuna and Sullyoon release you abruptly, stepping back and admiring their handiwork, giggling like schoolgirls. Your cock springs free, still dripping, throbbing from the repeated impacts, feeling incredibly sensitive and somehow even harder than before.

Karina stays kneeling on the expensive rug, her face still flushed, marked with the fading red impressions from your own dick. Her eyes, though, they aren't filled with pain or anger anymore. They're locked onto your cock, still dripping thick ropes of spit and pre-cum onto the floor, throbbing from the abuse it just dished out.

"Wony... please," Karina asks, her eyes flickering up to the dominant girl who stands observing like a bored queen. "Can I... Can I clean him up? Please? Just let me taste it."

Wonyoung taps a long, perfectly manicured finger against her chin, pretending to mull it over. The silence stretches, Yuna and Sullyoon watch with barely concealed amusement, clearly enjoying Karina's predicament.

"Hmmmm," Wonyoung hums, drawing out the moment. "Let me think..." She pauses dramatically. "No."

The single word hits Karina like another slap. Her face falls, hope instantly extinguished, replaced by stinging disappointment. She looks down, biting her lip hard.

"Maybe later," Wonyoung adds dismissively, like tossing a scrap to a dog. "If you're a good girl. But first, I need to see if this... thing... is actually any good. Can't have substandard equipment tarnishing my reputation, can we?" She turns that cool, appraising gaze back to you, dismissing Karina entirely. "If I don't like it, Jimin," she says, deliberately using Karina's real name, "then you are royally screwed. Understand?"

Karina just nods mutely, looking utterly dejected.

"You," Wonyoung commands, pointing a sharp finger at you. "Bed. Now."

Your body feels disconnected from your brain. Part of you wants to bolt, to run screaming from this luxurious nightmare penthouse. But the aphrodisiac humming in your veins, combined with the overwhelming presence of these four women and the undeniable, terrifying arousal Wonyoung sparks in you, roots you to the spot. You hesitate, muscles locking up.

Before you can make a conscious decision, Yuna and Sullyoon are grabbing your arms again. Their initial playful exploration is gone, replaced by a firm, almost rough grip. They practically drag you across the room, your bare feet stumbling slightly on the plush carpet. They don't exactly throw you, but they guide you firmly onto the enormous bed, pushing you down until you're lying flat on your back amidst the sea of expensive pillows and crisp grey duvet. The mattress sinks slightly under your weight.

You lie there, utterly exposed, your erection jutting towards the ceiling like some obscene monument. The humiliation burns, but fuck, so does the heat pooling in your gut. The three of them (Wonyoung, Yuna, Sullyoon) climb onto the bed with predatory grace, surrounding you. Karina lingers near the foot of the bed, looking lost and unsure, still just in her pink lace bra and panties, hugging herself slightly.

Wonyoung positions herself directly between your legs, kneeling over you. She reaches down, grabbing your ankles and pulling your legs further apart, forcing you into an even more vulnerable position. Her eyes rake over your cock with that same critical appraisal, as if deciding where to start.

"Alright, let's see," she murmurs, almost to herself. Wonyoung puts her panties aside, then she reaches out, her fingers wrapping around the base, cool and clinical. Then, slowly, deliberately, she guides the thick, slick head towards her own entrance. You watch, breathless, as she tries to position herself, biting her lip slightly in concentration. Her pussy looks impossibly tight, incredibly intimidating compared to the sheer girth she's trying to take.

She lowers herself slowly, carefully. There's a sharp intake of breath, her eyes squeezing shut for a second as the head breaches her entrance. A low hiss escapes her lips.

"Fuck," Wonyoung grits out. "Okay. Wow. The thickness is really something else."

She stops, only the head and maybe an inch or two inside her. She breathes deeply, trying to relax, her hands braced on your chest. You can feel the muscles inside her clenching tightly around you, resisting the invasion.

"Just... give me a second," she mutters, more to herself than to you. She takes another slow breath and pushes down again, harder this time. A strangled gasp tears from her throat, her back arching slightly. She manages another inch, maybe two. The friction is intense, almost unbearable for both of you. You can feel every ridge, every vein of your cock scraping against her impossibly tight walls.

"See?" she pants, forcing a strained smile as she looks up at you. "Told you... I could handle it."

She starts to move then, tentative at first. Tiny, almost imperceptible shifts of her hips, trying to ease herself further down onto your length. Each small movement sends jolts of raw pleasure through you, but it's mixed with the undeniable sight of her pain. Her face is screwed up in concentration, sweat beading on her forehead.

"God, it... it kinda hurts," she admits through clenched teeth, pausing her movements. "But..." A different kind of noise escapes her then, a low moan that's equal parts pain and dawning pleasure. "...But it also feels... fuck, it feels kinda good, too. Stretching me out like this."

She starts moving again, a little bolder now, lifting herself slightly before sinking back down, taking a fraction more of you each time. The initial pain seems to be giving way, replaced by the friction, the sheer fullness. You can see the shift in her expression, the tight lines of discomfort slowly melting into something hotter, needier. She's managed to take maybe five, six inches now; just over half your length, but already filling her completely.

"Okay," Wonyoung breathes out, her rhythm becoming more confident, a slow, steady grind. "Okay, I see the appeal." Her eyes flick towards Yuna and Sullyoon, who are watching the scene with rapt attention. "This girth... it hits different."

Then, her gaze drops back to you, and the cruelty returns, sharp and sudden. "Look at you," she sneers as she continues her slow, torturous ride. "Just lying there. Taking it. Like a good little freak."

"Letting me just... use you," she continues, picking up the pace slightly, her moans starting to mingle with her insults. "Because that's all you're good for, isn't it? With a dick like that on a body like yours? You're just a fucking toy. A novelty. Something to be passed around and used up when we're bored." She leans down, her face close to yours, her eyes cold. "You have no dignity, do you? Just a pathetic little fucktoy waiting for orders."

You flinch, turning your head away, shame warring with the undeniable arousal her words, her movements, are stirring in you. A low sound escapes your throat, a mix between a whimper and a groan.

Wonyoung laughs, a harsh, satisfied sound. "Oh, you like that? Being put in your place?"

Beside the bed, Yuna and Sullyoon are practically vibrating with excitement. The sight of Wonyoung dominating you, humiliating you, is clearly turning them on immensely. Yuna reaches out, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of Sullyoon's white lace bra. Sullyoon gasps softly but doesn't stop her, instead leaning in to press a kiss to Yuna's shoulder as the bra falls away, revealing her surprisingly full, pale breasts, nipples already hard. Yuna moans, her hands immediately cupping Sullyoon's chest, thumbs circling the stiff peaks. Sullyoon arches her back, pushing into Yuna's touch, her eyes fluttering shut as Yuna leans down to suckle one nipple greedily. They start touching each other, slow, sensual caresses, lost in their own world but clearly fueled by the scene playing out on the bed.

You can't help it, your hands start to move, wanting to grip Wonyoung's hips, wanting some semblance of control, some way to push back against the humiliation, to match the intensity of her ride. But the second your fingers brush her skin, her hand flashes out, slapping you hard across the face.

It hurts. A lot.

The force of it snaps your head to the side, your cheek stinging instantly. Stars explode behind your eyes.

"Don't touch me unless I tell you to!" Wonyoung orders sharply. "Just lie there and do what you're told, toy. Be useful."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, from the slap, the humiliation, the sheer overwhelming nature of it all. You nod mutely, letting your hands fall limply to your sides. You obey. Because what else can you do?

Karina, who has been watching all this unfold from the foot of the bed, her face a mixture of arousal, pity, and fear, finally speaks up. Her voice is small, hesitant. "Wony... maybe... maybe take it easy on him? He's..."

Wonyoung cuts her off with a venomous glare, pausing her rhythmic grinding on your cock just long enough to snap, "Shut the fuck up, Jimin." Her voice is ice. "Did I say you could talk? No. You're lucky you're even in this room after lying to me." She gestures dismissively towards Karina's chest. "Now take off that fucking bra, whore. I want those big pale tits of yours out. Now."

Karina flinches as if struck, but the order, the sudden harsh attention, also seems to ignite something in her. A flicker of desperation, a need to please, to get back in Wonyoung's good graces (or maybe just to feel something other than sidelined). Without another word, her hands move to her back, fumbling slightly with the clasp. The pink lace falls away, revealing her own full, pale breasts, nipples tight and dark against her skin. She keeps her eyes down, looking utterly miserable yet strangely defiant.

Wonyoung gives a grunt of approval, then immediately resumes riding you, harder now, her moans mixing with yours. Your own moan escapes, louder this time, raw with the conflicting mess of pain, humiliation, and overwhelming pleasure. You can't help it; despite everything, despite the slap still stinging your cheek, the sight of Wonyoung grinding down on you, her perfect body moving above yours, is undeniably beautiful.

"Damn, you’re so fucking hot," you groan out, the words ripped from you involuntarily.

Wonyoung pauses for a beat, tilting her head slightly as if she just registered your words through the haze of her own pleasure. A slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across her face.

"I know," she says simply.

Across the room, Yuna lifts her head from Sullyoon's breast, her lips wet. Sullyoon moans softly as Yuna's hand slides between her legs. Yuna's eyes flick between you and Wonyoung, a knowing smirk blooming on her face.

"Oh?" Yuna says, her voice sly. "Looks like our little toy likes being used after all. Likes being treated rough."

Sullyoon giggles breathlessly, nodding in agreement, her eyes also fixed on your reaction. "He really does…”

Wonyoung is definitely having fun now. The initial tightness and discomfort have melted away, replaced by pure, unadulterated pleasure radiating from her face. Her movements are stronger, more demanding, her hips rocking against yours with a practiced rhythm that steals your breath. She throws her head back, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, a genuine, guttural moan ripping from her throat as she grinds down hard, milking another wave of intense friction from your thick shaft.

"Oh, fuck," Wonyoung gasps out, her eyes half-lidded, glazed with pleasure. "Okay, okay... this is... goddamn... the thickness is insane. It feels... holy shit." She grips your hips tighter, digging her perfectly manicured nails into your skin, leveraging herself for deeper strokes. "Forget the length, this girth..." she groans again, riding you with renewed vigor. "It fills me up completely. Hits everything."

Karina, still standing nearby with her bra discarded, sees her opening. Her eyes light up with a desperate need for validation, latching onto Wonyoung's praise like a lifeline.

"See?" Karina blurts out, stepping closer to the bed, her voice hopeful. "See, Wony? I told you! I told you it was amazing! I knew you'd like it!"

Wonyoung's eyes snap open. She glares daggers at Karina, her rhythm faltering slightly.

"Shut up, Jimin," Wonyoung snaps. "Don't interrupt me when I'm busy. And don't think a lucky guess about the thickness makes up for you lying about the size. You said twelve inches. You lied."

Karina shrinks back, wilting under the glare. "I didn't lie!" she protests weakly, twisting her hands together. "I just... I remembered it wrong! It was years ago! I made a mistake!"

"A convenient mistake," Wonyoung scoffs, but her attention is already shifting. A wicked glint enters her eyes as she looks Karina up and down, lingering on her bare chest. "Fine. You want to be useful? Bring those big tits over here. Right now."

Karina hesitates for only a fraction of a second, glancing nervously at you, then back at Wonyoung. The desperation to please, to be included, wins out. She quickly climbs onto the bed, kneeling beside Wonyoung, carefully avoiding touching you. She leans forward tentatively, offering her chest.

Wonyoung doesn't waste a second. She leans over, still impaling you, and captures one of Karina's large, pale nipples between her teeth, sucking hard. Karina cries out, a sharp gasp that's equal parts surprise and pleasure, her back arching instinctively. Wonyoung uses her free hand to mercilessly squeeze Karina's other breast, kneading the soft flesh, pinching the already hard nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

"Mmmph," Wonyoung hums around Karina's nipple, her eyes fluttering shut again as she focuses on the dual sensations: your thick cock stretching her tight cunt, Karina's soft breast filling her mouth. "Okay... gotta admit, Jimin... these are pretty fucking amazing too." She releases the nipple with a wet pop, leaving it glistening and dark red, before latching onto the other one. "So full... so soft..." she murmurs, squeezing the first breast possessively.

Karina is panting now, her face flushed, eyes hazy. She looks utterly wrecked, caught between the intense stimulation and the relief of finally having Wonyoung's attention, even like this.

Yuna, who has paused her ministrations on Sullyoon to watch, lets out a theatrical sigh. Sullyoon is leaning against her, completely bare now, her small breasts flushed, nipples pebbled hard as she watches Wonyoung and Karina with wide, fascinated eyes.

"Ugh, not fair," Yuna whines playfully, cupping her own smaller chest for comparison. "I wish mine were big and squishy like Karina's. Lucky bitch."

Sullyoon nods in agreement, her gaze still fixed on Karina's chest being manhandled by Wonyoung.

Now, the sight is fucking unreal: Wonyoung riding you, her tight pussy gripping your thick cock with every downward thrust, while simultaneously devouring Karina's breast like it's the finest dessert. The combined visual is overwhelmingly hot, your breath hitches, catches, turns into ragged pants that fill the otherwise quiet room (save for Wonyoung's increasingly loud moans and Karina's breathy gasps). You can't help the sounds escaping you, raw groans torn from your throat with every powerful stroke Wonyoung delivers.

"Ah... Fuck... W-Wonyoung... Oh god..."

Wonyoung seems to reach a new peak, her movements becoming frantic, her grip on Karina's breast tightening almost painfully. Karina cries out again, but Wonyoung doesn't seem to notice, lost in her own pleasure. Then, abruptly, the intensity breaks. Wonyoung slows her pace, breathing heavily, sweat glistening on her skin. The sudden change makes your own ragged breathing sound even louder in the relative quiet.

Wonyoung glares down at you, annoyance flashing across her sweat-slicked face. "Ugh, can you stop making so much noise?" she complains, sounding like the spoiled princess she is. "It's distracting. Seriously, shut up." She glances over at the other two girls, who are now just watching, hands idle. "One of you, deal with this. Shut him up. Sit on his face or something. I don't care, just make him quiet."

Yuna and Sullyoon exchange excited glances. Sullyoon looks slightly hesitant, but Yuna grins wickedly.

"Ooh, face-sitting duty? Dibs!" Yuna declares immediately.

"Hey! No fair! I wanna do it too!" Sullyoon protests, pouting slightly.

Yuna rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine, drama queen. Rock paper scissors for it? Winner gets to smother him."

Sullyoon nods eagerly. They both hold out their fists.

"Rock! Paper! Scissors! SHOOT!"

Yuna throws paper. Sullyoon throws rock.

"Ha! Yes!" Yuna cheers triumphantly, pumping her fist. "Paper covers rock! Face is mine!"

Sullyoon groans dramatically but doesn't argue further, instead settling back to watch with keen interest. Yuna crawls purposefully towards your head, her movements fluid and confident. She's completely naked now, her lithe body gleaming slightly under the soft lights, her earlier play with Sullyoon having clearly left her thoroughly aroused. She positions herself directly over your face, straddling your neck, her bare pussy hovering just inches above your mouth. You can smell her arousal; musky, salty, intoxicating. She's definitely wet.

Yuna leans down slightly, her dark hair falling around her face, brushing against your cheeks.

"Alright, noise machine," Yuna purrs, lowering herself just enough that her wet folds brush against your lips. "Princess Wonyoung wants you quiet. So you're gonna focus on me now." She shifts her hips, grinding her clit lightly against your mouth. "Open up and eat. And don't stop until I tell you to."

She settles her weight down fully then, pressing her wetness firmly against your mouth and nose. The sensation is overwhelming; the soft pressure, the intimate scent, the taste of her arousal instantly flooding your senses. Wonyoung is still moving on your cock below, a steady, demanding rhythm, her moans starting up again, quieter now. Karina is still kneeling beside her, breasts bare, watching Yuna with wide eyes. Sullyoon is watching everything, touching herself lightly. And Yuna... Yuna is grinding onto your face, demanding your tongue, muffling any sound you might make besides muffled gasps into her flesh.

"That's it," Yuna murmurs. "Lick me, freak. Use that tongue. Make me feel good while Wonyoung breaks you." She moans as your tongue finally finds her clit, flicking against the sensitive nub. "Oh fuck... yeah, right there... Don't stop!”

Across the bed, Sullyoon is completely naked now, lying on her side, propped up on one elbow. Her eyes are wide, dark, fixed on the tangled mess of limbs. Her free hand is working furiously between her own long legs, fingers slick and glistening as she rubs herself, her breath coming in short, sharp pants.

"Oh my god," Sullyoon gasps out, watching Wonyoung slam down onto your cock. "Look how deep she's taking him... Fuck, Karina, she's murdering your tits too..." Her fingers move faster, her knuckles white. "Girls, this is... this is so hot..."

Wonyoung lets out another high, keening moan, throwing her head back again. Her grip on Karina's breast tightens, eliciting a sharp cry from her. Wonyoung doesn't seem to notice, her focus entirely internal now, chasing her own climax.

"Nnngh... Fuck... Almost... almost there..." Wonyoung pants, her words broken. Her hips slam down onto you with punishing force, again and again, driving you deeper into the mattress. The sheer thickness of your cock seems to be exactly what she needs, stretching her, filling her, pushing her closer to the edge. "Fuck... yes..." Wonyoung pants. "God, this girth... it's perfect. Hits me just... ah... right."

Meanwhile, Yuna is making your life a living hell in the best/worst possible way. Her slick cunt grinds relentlessly against your mouth, demanding attention. Your tongue is working frantically, trying to keep up, licking and sucking at her clit as she rides your face like she was born for it. The musky taste of her fills your senses, making your head spin even more than the aphrodisiac already is. Her hands grip the sides of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you firmly in place.

"Lick faster, toy," Yuna commands. "Don't you dare slack off. Make me feel good."

You try to comply, your tongue moving in frantic circles, lapping at the wetness she’s providing. Suddenly, she shifts her weight awkwardly, wobbling slightly. Your hands instinctively shoot up, grabbing her hips to steady her before she can completely fall off balance.

"Nnngh-!" Yuna gasps, surprised by your quick reaction, but she settles back down immediately, grinding even harder against your mouth now that she has your hands supporting her. "Yes! Hold me right there, fucker! That's it! Hold me steady while I ride your face off! Fuck, use that tongue, bitch!"

Watching this chaotic scene, Sullyoon is practically vibrating on the spot. Her hand is a blur between her legs, fingers working her clit with frantic speed. Her face is flushed crimson, eyes wide and glazed, fixed on the tangle of bodies. A thin sheen of sweat covers her skin, and it is possible to see the creamy wetness starting to seep from between her own folds, slicking her fingers.

"Oh my god... oh fuck..." Sullyoon moans. "Wony... Yuna... you guys are so... fuck..."

Even Karina can't resist. Her free hand, the one not being crushed by Wonyoung, creeps down hesitantly at first, fingers brushing against her own damp panties. Seeing Yuna and Sullyoon so lost in pleasure, feeling Wonyoung's mouth still working her nipple, watching you get absolutely used... it's too much. Her fingers slip underneath the lace, finding her own clit, and she starts rubbing herself with small, desperate movements, her breath hitching.

Wonyoung throws her head back again, a loud, piercing moan tearing from her throat as she slams down onto your cock particularly hard, her tight walls milking you intensely.

"Fuck! Yes! Right there! Oh god, I'm... I'm getting close!" she screams. "Fuck, this dick is... magic!"

Yuna hears her and lets out an ecstatic shriek muffled against your lips. "Yes! Wony, yes! Me too! Let's cum together! Fuck!" She picks up her pace, grinding her clit against your tongue so hard it's almost painful, her whole body trembling.

"No! Wait!" Sullyoon cries out from the side, her fingers flying even faster. Her knuckles are white, her breathing ragged. "Wait for me! I'm almost there too! Fuck, please wait!"

Wonyoung laughs, a wild, breathless sound. "Hurry up then, Sullyoonie! Can't hold back much longer!" She leans further onto Karina, her weight pressing down as she continues her relentless ride, her pussy squeezing your cock with punishing intensity. She continues to squeeze Karina’s breast like it’s putty in her hand, twisting the nipple until Karina gasps sharply. "Feel that, Jimin?" Wonyoung taunts breathlessly between moans. "Feel how good he is? Feel what you missed out on because you were too scared?"

Karina just whimpers, her own fingers moving faster between her legs now, chasing her own release despite the humiliation.

"Almost... almost..." Wonyoung pants.

"Fuck... me too... gonna... cum!" Yuna gasps against your mouth.

Then, something shifts. Wonyoung reaches out, her hand finding Yuna's. Their fingers lace together tightly, a strange moment of connection amidst the chaos. They look at each other, eyes locked, faces flushed and identical masks of impending ecstasy.

"Now?" Yuna mouths silently.

Wonyoung nods curtly, then her eyes flick down to you, still filled with that cruel amusement even as she's about to lose control. "Look at you," she spits out between pants. "Just a fucking pole for us to ride. A mouth for us to use. Pathetic little freak, letting us do whatever we want to you." Her hips slam down one last time. "Good boy!"

"WAIT!" Sullyoon screams.

But it's too late.

Wonyoung throws her head back, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashes over her. Her inner walls clamp down on your cock hard, pulsing violently, milking you intensely. Simultaneously, Yuna lets out a high-pitched wail against your mouth, her hips spasming uncontrollably as she comes hard, her juices flooding your tongue, your throat, spilling down your chin. Sullyoon shrieks in frustration and pleasure as she finally tips over the edge milliseconds later, her body convulsing, fingers still buried inside herself.

Only Karina is silent, her hand stilled between her legs, watching the other three completely fall apart with wide, almost fearful eyes.

It takes a long moment for the intensity to subside. Wonyoung slowly, shakily, lifts herself off your still-throbbing cock. Her legs are trembling, her breath coming in harsh gasps. She looks utterly wrecked, but supremely satisfied. Yuna collapses forward onto your chest, panting, leaving your face completely soaked in her slick, sticky arousal, her scent clinging to you. Sullyoon curls into a ball on the bed, whimpering softly, spent.

Wonyoung recovers first, of course. She pushes her sweat-soaked hair back from her face and glares down at you, her usual imperious expression returning, though her flushed cheeks and slightly trembling hands betray the intensity of her orgasm.

"Well," she says, voice still a little shaky but regaining its commanding tone. She kicks your thigh lightly, not hard, just a dismissive nudge. "You were... adequate. As a piece of equipment." She looks you up and down. "You should thank us, you know. For even bothering to use you. Giving a little freak like you this kind of attention."

Your head is spinning. Your face is covered in Yuna’s juices. Your cock aches. Humiliation and arousal are waging a war inside you. But faced with Wonyoung’s unwavering command, the ingrained response kicks in.

"T-thank you," you stammer out. "Thank you... for using me."

Wonyoung gives a curt nod of satisfaction. Sullyoon, seemingly recovered, stirs beside you. She sits up slowly, her eyes landing on your face, still glistening wet. A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across her lips.

"Hey, you're all messy," Sullyoon says softly. She crawls closer, leaning down towards your face. "Don't worry. I'll clean you up."

Before you can react, her tongue flicks out, tentatively licking at the sticky wetness on your cheek; Yuna's juices. She hums softly, seeming to enjoy the taste.

Yuna sees what Sullyoon is doing, and bursts into delighted giggles. "Yah! Sullyoon-ah!" she exclaims, reaching over and giving Sullyoon's bare ass a sharp, playful slap. "You little slut! Cleaning up after me already? So eager."

Sullyoon jumps at the slap, blushing furiously but giggling too as she continues to lick your face clean, her tongue surprisingly thorough.

Wonyoung’s chest rises and falls slow but heavy as she catches her breath, cheeks still flushed. She waves a hand lazily and snaps:

“Yuna. Water.”

Yuna’s already halfway up like she was waiting for the command, a little dazed but obedient, disappearing toward the suite’s kitchenette. You’re still on your back, cock slick and half-hard, twitching like it knows more’s coming.

Behind you, Karina’s voice pipes up, almost sheepish.

“Is it my turn now?”

Wonyoung tilts her head, pouting, turning with faux sweetness dripping from every syllable.

“Aww… Is our little Karina super horny right now?” She steps toward her slowly, arms crossed under her chest, tilting her head.

Karina nods, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“You must be fucking insane,” Wonyoung purrs, biting her bottom lip, “to wanna feel that thing inside your pretty little pussy.” Her hand gestures lazily at your cock, still shiny with Wonyoung's Juices. “That thing you ran away from, remember? Screaming, even.”

Karina swallows hard and nods again. “I know… I was dumb…”

Wonyoung chuckles, low and wicked. “C’mere.”

Karina obeys instantly, stepping forward like she’s being summoned by a queen (which, yeah, she is). Wonyoung grabs her by the waist and pulls her in, lips crashing into hers. There’s hunger in it. Desperation. Karina clings to her, arms wrapping around her back as their tongues tangle and slide together.

Wonyoung’s hands move with zero shame, cupping Karina’s tits, squeezing hard, like she can’t help herself. The moan Karina lets out is real, shaky, needy.

“Mmm,” Wonyoung hums against her mouth. “Your mouth’s a lot more useful when it’s busy kissing than when it’s lying to me.”

Karina pulls back, blinking. “It wasn’t a—”

But Wonyoung shuts her up with a single finger pressed to her lips, eyes narrow.

“Shhh.”

Then kisses her again, harder this time. Rough. Like she’s marking her.

Yuna comes back into the room holding the glass of water like a dutiful maid, handing it over. Wonyoung grabs it, downs it in a few gulps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Okay. I’m good now.”

She turns back to Karina, tossing the empty glass somewhere on the carpet without looking. Her smile sharpens.

“Take off your panties.”

Karina's hands are already on the hem of her panties before Wonyoung even finishes the sentence. She kicks them off, a little clumsy, cheeks red but thighs pressed together, as if she’s trying to hide how wet she already is.

Wonyoung doesn’t even look at her for long. She turns her gaze to you and Sullyoon, still tangled together.

“Well, looks like you two are having fun.”

Sullyoon giggles, brushing hair behind her ear, resting her hand on your chest.

“He’s cute.”

Wonyoung’s face shifts immediately, stern.

“Don’t fucking treat it like a person,” she says, voice cold. “It’s a toy. Just a fucktoy. You don’t call your vibrator cute, do you?”

Sullyoon straightens up a little, nodding quickly.

“No. Right.”

Wonyoung smirks and walks over to the edge of the bed.

“Since you two already warmed it up, now it’s your turn to ride it, babe.”

Sullyoon doesn’t hesitate. She stretches out on her back right beside you, her eyes locked on yours. You look down at her and, fuck, she’s a masterpiece.

Long, flawless legs, skin pale and creamy, like she’s carved from glass and silk. Her legs are spread for you already, thick thighs leading up to plush hips that move slightly like she’s getting comfortable, preparing herself. There’s a little sheen between them, already wet, already throbbing.

Her torso is slim, but her curves are unreal, that perfect hourglass drawn to scale, with soft perky tits rising and falling with her breath, nipples stiff from arousal. Her eyes look up at you like she knows exactly what you are: just something to make her cum; and it makes your cock pulse hard all over again.

You’re climbing over her, lining up, and—

“Wait!” Karina whines from the side, still bottomless, fists clenched at her sides. “I thought it was my turn…”

Wonyoung doesn’t even look at her at first. Then she steps up, grabs Karina by the cheeks and squishes her face like a child being scolded.

“Aww, poor baby,” she mocks. “Thinking she gets what she wants.”

Karina huffs, pouting against Wonyoung’s grip. “I—”

“You don’t get to talk right now,” Wonyoung cuts in sharply, still holding her by the face. Then her expression softens slightly, eyes flicking toward Yuna, who’s just watching silently, smiling.

“Go open the drawer.”

Yuna nods and turns immediately, heading toward the bedside cabinet with a knowing look.

Wonyoung lets go of Karina’s face and turns back to the bed.

“Go on. Fuck her.”

Your hands plant on the bed on either side of Sullyoon’s head. She’s already got her knees up, heels digging into the mattress, guiding your hips toward her with her legs. You feel her hand grip your cock and guide it down between her legs, slick heat greeting the tip. She rubs you along her folds once, then twice, then lines you up. You push.

She lets out a low moan, head tilting back.

“God, you’re fucking big…”

You keep pressing in. Her pussy stretches around you, velvet heat swallowing you inch by inch, and she takes it all without even flinching, like she’s built for this. Her back arches slightly, tits rising toward your chest, and her mouth opens, breath catching.

“Fuck yes…”

From the corner of your eye, Wonyoung is still standing over Karina, whispering something into her ear while her fingers toy with one of her nipples. But you don’t get to look for long because Sullyoon pulls you down by the neck, her thighs trembling a little around your waist, and whispers against your lips:

“Go easy, okay?”

You nod, leaning down, brushing your lips over her cheek. “I promise.”

That makes her smile, and she reaches for your hands, guiding them down to her hips. You shift your weight, angle your hips, the head of your cock dragging along her wet folds. She’s soaked, pussy creamy from being teased and fingered, and when you start to push in slow—god—she tightens around you immediately.

“Oh my god… you’re thick… this cock is a fucking weapon.”

Her fingers dig into your arms, breathing fast now. “It’s the biggest I’ve ever… fuuuck, go slow, please, go slow…”

You don’t even need the reminder. She’s gripping you like a fist, squeezing you inch by inch as you sink deeper, her walls fluttering like she’s already close from just the stretch alone. You pause halfway in, hips twitching with restraint, watching her face melt into something caught between pain and pure fucking pleasure.

“I got you,” you murmur, stroking her side, kissing her collarbone. "If you want me to stop, just say so.”

Meanwhile, behind you, Yuna walks back in, holding a thick black anal plug in one hand and a shiny silver tube of lube in the other. Her smile is too wide, too excited. Karina sees her and visibly tenses, backing half a step toward the couch.

“Wait… what’s that for?” Karina’s voice is shaky, eyes locked on the plug like it’s going to jump at her.

Wonyoung grins like a devil in a model's body. “If you wanna feel cock today, you’re gonna need to offer up that cute little ass.”

Karina stammers, blinking. “I’ve… I’ve never done that…”

“I know,” Wonyoung says calmly, stepping forward. “Now get on all fours.”

Karina’s mouth opens like she’s about to argue, but she hesitates too long.

“Right now,” Wonyoung snaps. “Or get the fuck out.”

Silence. Then Karina slowly turns, face red, and lowers herself to her knees. She looks humiliated, turned on, afraid (everything Wonyoung seems to love). Her thick thighs ripple as she gets into position, ass high, cheeks clenched, legs trembling slightly.

Yuna kneels behind her and pats her ass once, affectionate. “You’re gonna love it,” she says softly. “It’s like… my favorite.”

Wonyoung flicks her wrist. “Prep her.”

Yuna grins. “Can I lick it first?”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes. “Yes. Obviously.”

Yuna wastes zero time. She spreads Karina’s cheeks, leans in, and starts to lick, slow broad strokes at first, then narrowing in, teasing her little hole with the tip of her tongue. Karina whimpers, cheeks burning red as she hides her face in her arms.

Meanwhile, Wonyoung strolls back to you and Sullyoon, casually watching as you slowly roll your hips forward again, burying a little more of yourself inside her. Sullyoon’s thighs shake, her hands fisting in the sheets now, every breath a moan.

Wonyoung stands beside the bed, arms crossed, smirking.

“Is she enjoying it?” she asks.

Sullyoon moans louder. “Yes… oh fuck yes, Wony… it’s fantastic…”

Wonyoung tsks. “Too slow.”

Before you can react, she slaps your ass, sharp and loud, fingers leaving a sting that burns hot through your skin.

“Faster,” she commands.

You grunt, your body reacting without hesitation. You grip Sullyoon tighter and start thrusting harder, deeper, the slow roll of your hips turning into something more brutal, more rhythmic. She cries out, legs locking tighter around you.

“Aaah—fuck-fuck, I can't, it's too big!”

Wonyoung laughs like she’s at a party, delighted, stepping back to watch your hips hammer into Sullyoon, her body bouncing under you, moans pouring out of her with every thrust. She grabs one of Sullyoon’s tits, squeezing it roughly, pinching the nipple until Sullyoon arches off the bed.

“Much better,” Wonyoung says, grinning. “Now that’s how you use a toy.”

Behind you, Karina’s moaning too. Muffled and high-pitched. Yuna’s fingers are buried between her cheeks, tongue still teasing. The plug rests beside them on the bed, gleaming, waiting for its turn. Karina’s legs are trembling harder now, her ass slick, her breathing short and fast. But Wonyoung’s eyes are on you. On your cock driving into Sullyoon like you’re trying to fuck the shape of her pussy into your hips, her moans turning ragged and desperate, tears starting to gather in the corners of her eyes as the pleasure crashes through her.

Karina’s face is buried in her forearms, but her back is arched high, thighs pressed together as tightly as they can be with Yuna nestled between them. She keeps letting out these soft, confused little gasps, tiny moans like she doesn’t know what her body is doing or why it’s starting to like it. Her ass cheeks twitch every time Yuna’s tongue flattens out and drags upward, slow and wet, lingering at her tight rim before she flicks the tip of her tongue over it again. Yuna hums like she’s savoring something sweet, both hands spreading Karina’s cheeks apart like she’s exposing a gift, holding her wide while she works her mouth.

“Mmh, you taste so good…” Yuna breathes, kissing the spot softly before swirling her tongue around again. “God, your little asshole’s clenching like it’s trying to kiss me.”

Karina’s breath hitches. “It—it feels weird…”

Yuna giggles into her skin. “Weird’s just code for new. Sensitive, huh?”

Karina nods fast, her voice muffled. “Yeah—yes, I—it’s really sensitive, I d-don’t know if I—”

“Shhh,” Yuna whispers against her. “Let it happen. You’ll like it. I promise.”

She presses her tongue flat again, dragging it in a circle this time, slow and teasing. Karina jolts, her hips shaking, one of her hands clutching at the sheets.

“I-it tickles—oh my god…”

From the bed, your eyes flicker toward them, and the image hits like a shot of lust straight to your chest: Yuna's pretty face buried between Karina’s shaking thighs, her mouth wet, eyes half-lidded with focus while she laps at her like she’s starving. Karina’s whole body shudders again, her back arching deeper. Her hole’s glistening now, twitching and helpless while Yuna traces it with delicate, skilled strokes.

And still, you’re balls-deep in Sullyoon.

She’s so tight you swear you’re being milked. Every thrust in makes her body tremble under yours, her fingers tangled in the sheets, jaw slack from the pleasure stretching her open. You go back to fucking her slowly, just like she asked, deep, controlled strokes, feeling her clench every time you bottom out, It's the only way for you not to cum because her pussy is impossible good, but the moans that keep spilling from her lips are fucking addictive, and you have to resist the urge to sink your entire cock into her pussy. Her moana are soft at first, then louder, sharper, her voice cracking as she starts pushing her hips up to meet yours, wanting more. Your hands tighten on her waist, and you pull back before thrusting in again, the sound of it wet and obscene, skin on skin. Her eyes are rolling back, and you’re getting lost in it. The heat, the pressure, the way her pussy grips you like it’s desperate to keep you inside.

From beside the bed, Wonyoung watches everything.

She’s seated now, legs crossed elegantly, but her eyes are burning with attention. Her lips curl into a smirk when she sees how hard you’re holding back, how tight your jaw is as you fight the urge to rail Sullyoon into the mattress.

“You’re being too gentle again,” she says, voice calm, but there’s that edge again, that dominance that makes your cock twitch even deeper inside Sullyoon.

You look at her, sweat starting to bead at your forehead. “She asked me to—”

“I didn’t ask what she said,” Wonyoung cuts you off. She leans forward, her gaze sharp. “Put your hand on her throat.”

Your heart skips. Sullyoon hears it too, she shivers under you, her pussy tightening, her voice going breathless.

“D-Do it,” she whispers.

You reach out, slow, sliding your hand up from her chest to her neck. She tilts her head back, offering herself up, your fingers curl around her throat, gentle but firm, and the way her whole body reacts, hips lifting to press you deeper, a high moan escaping her lips, is fucking unreal. Wonyoung smiles like a queen watching a jester perform on command.

“Better.”

You start moving again, your thrusts picking up pace, dragging your cock deep into Sullyoon while your hand tightens slightly around her throat. She whines, her fingers scrabbling at your arms, her eyes fluttering half-shut as her breathing turns into high, broken gasps. Her back arches, tits brushing against your chest, nipples stiff and flushed from the friction.

“I—ah—fuck, I can feel it in my stomach…”

“You love it,” Wonyoung says, watching her with hungry eyes. “Say it.”

“I l-love it—fuck, I love it—it’s s-so fucking thick, it’s splitting me—”

You groan, head dipping to kiss her neck, tongue tracing her pulse, your hips slamming into hers with more weight now, every thrust deep enough to make the bed creak.

Behind you, Yuna’s still at it. She’s licking deeper now, more focused, her thumbs spreading Karina’s cheeks wider so her tongue can press closer, firmer. Karina’s hips keep jerking away on instinct, but Yuna doesn’t let her go anywhere.

“Stop running,” Yuna murmurs. “Just let me make you feel good…”

Karina whimpers. “Y-Yuna—fuck—it’s—it’s so much, I—I don’t know if—”

“Just wait till I lube you up, baby,” Yuna says sweetly, biting down gently on the soft flesh of her ass. “Then we’ll really see how much you can take.”

She picks up the bottle finally, uncapping it with a pop, and squeezes some of the cold gel onto her fingers. But she doesn’t rush it. She dips one finger between Karina’s cheeks, rubbing slow, spreading the lube around the tight entrance while Karina trembles and gasps with every little push and tease.

Wonyoung turns to glance over her shoulder, watching Karina squirm.

“She better be ready soon,” she says lazily. “Or I’m plugging her dry.”

Karina moans out loud at that, almost in panic. “N-no, wait, I—I’ll try, I’m trying—”

“Then fucking stay still, slut!” Wonyoung snaps.

Yuna grins and adds a second finger, the lube making slick noises as she circles the rim, pushing gently but insistently.

“She’s gonna be ready,” Yuna promises. “This hole’s too cute to go to waste.”

Wonyoung turns back to you, eyes raking down your body, then landing on where your cock disappears into Sullyoon again and again.

“Keep that pace. Don’t let her cum yet. She doesn’t get to finish until I say so.”

You nod, not trusting your voice, focused on Sullyoon’s flushed face, the way she looks up at you like she’s drowning in every inch you give her. She bites her lip hard, her thighs twitching around your waist.

“Don’t stop,” she breathes. “Please don’t fucking stop…”

Yuna’s fingers glisten with lube as she finally stops teasing and starts pushing one inside Karina. Karina jolts forward with a gasp, her ass still high, thighs shaking. She wasn’t ready for how it’d feel (wet and slick, yes, but so deliberate). Yuna’s finger presses slow but firm, the lube squelching audibly as it disappears past the tight rim. Karina clenches around it, hips trying to buck away, but Yuna just holds her there, one hand gripping her waist.

“Holy shit,” Karina breathes. “It’s… f-fuck, it’s going in…”

Yuna smiles against her back. “Of course it is, babe. That hole’s got potential.”

Karina groans through her teeth, forehead pressed to her forearms again. “It’s so fucking weird, I—ah—shit, it’s burning a little—”

“That’s just the stretch. You’ll love it once it’s open,” Yuna coos, sliding her finger deeper until she’s knuckle-deep. “Tight as hell, though… God. Your ass is starving.”

Karina lets out a choked noise, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and her legs twitch like she’s trying to stay still, even as her body reacts instinctively to the invasion.

“Stop clenching so much,” Yuna murmurs, moving her finger in shallow thrusts. “Let me in, Karina.”

Wonyoung, lounging beside the bed with her legs crossed and a slight sheen of sweat on her collarbones, doesn’t even look back at them.

“She’ll stop fighting it once the second finger goes in,” she mutters, eyes locked on you.

She points at Sullyoon’s trembling body beneath you, voice smooth but sharp:

“Bury it. All the way in. Now.”

You lock eyes with Sullyoon, her face flushed, eyes glassy, breath trembling, and she nods once, barely able to speak.

“Do it,” she whispers.

You shift your weight, grab her hips tighter, and push forward until your pelvis slams flush against her ass. Every thick, veiny inch of you is buried inside, and Sullyoon’s mouth drops open in a silent scream. Her eyes roll back immediately.

“OH MY FUHH—FUCK!!” she moans, her nails digging into your arms hard enough to draw blood. “It’s… all of it—fuck, I can feel it in my stomach, oh my god!”

Wonyoung lets out a quiet little laugh.

“She’s better like this,” she says, tilting her head. “More obedient. Tighter too, probably. Grip her neck again—tighter this time. Make my cute little slut cum.

You don’t hesitate. Your hand slides right back up, closing around Sullyoon’s throat, fingers pressing firmer now. Not choking her, but enough that she gasps and looks up at you with that fucked-out, submissive stare that sends blood rushing to your cock again.

Her voice comes out hoarse. “Harder, babe… please…”

You hold her there and start fucking her deep, slow, brutal strokes that make her tits bounce and her pussy gush around you. Every thrust hits her cervix like a drumbeat, and the little choking moans spilling out of her just egg you on. And behind you, Karina’s breathing has gone rapid and high-pitched. Yuna has two fingers in her now, both slick with lube, working them in and out in slow, deliberate pumps that have Karina rocking back against her without even realizing it.

“F-fuck, Yuna—stop, I-I’m gonna—gonna cum if you keep—fuck!” Karina moans, biting her own hand.

Yuna leans in, lips brushing Karina’s ear, breath hot. “Cum from a finger in your ass? That’s so fucking cute.” Karina’s whole body clenches, her ass twitching as Yuna scissors her fingers, stretching her open more with each motion. “You’re doing good, baby,” Yuna hums. “Almost ready…”

Wonyoung glances back now, amused. “Is the brat loosened up yet?”

Yuna smirks. “See for yourself.”

She pulls her fingers out slowly, the sound wet and filthy, then holds them up for Wonyoung to see: slick with lube and cream, glistening in the light. Karina’s still trembling on all fours, face buried, ass wet and twitching, her hole flexing involuntarily, stretched and needy. Wonyoung stands up, stretches, walks over like she owns the whole damn room (and she kind of does). She picks up the plug from the bed, weighing it in her hand, then crouches behind Karina.

Karina looks back, wide-eyed.

“Wait—wait, it’s big—fuck, I don’t know if I—”

Wonyoung slaps her ass hard enough to make her jolt. “You’re ready,” she says coldly. “Now stay still while I make you better.”

Yuna licks her fingers clean with a soft moan, then crouches back behind Karina like she’s settling into her favorite seat at a show. She plants her palms on Karina’s ass, spreading her cheeks wide, holding them apart so her tight, glistening little hole is fully exposed, twitching, raw and shining with lube and slick from her own juices. Karina’s breath stutters as she feels the air hit her, and her thighs shake like she might collapse, but Yuna keeps her wide, grinning like she’s already proud of the work they’ve done.

“Hold still, baby,” Yuna murmurs, her nails dimpling into Karina’s pale skin. “Let her give you your present.”

Wonyoung crouches low, plug in one hand, the lube-slicked tip already glistening under the soft lighting. She presses it right up against Karina’s hole, testing it. Karina gasps loud, her head lifting suddenly as her eyes fly open.

“Wait, wait, wait—f-fuck, Wonyoung, it’s big, I-I’m not ready, I—!”

Wonyoung doesn’t respond with words. She just applies pressure. The rounded head pushes inward, and Karina screams.

Her voice cracks like a sob, body lurching forward instinctively, but Yuna holds her in place with a grunt, gripping her hips like handlebars. Karina babbles through the pain, a slurry of panicked syllables and ragged breaths.

“Ah—ah—shit, oh my god, it’s too big, it’s too big—it burns—it fuckin’ burns!!”

“Then you shouldn’t have lied to me,” Wonyoung mutters, cool and detached, her hand steady as the thick plug stretches Karina wider with every slow, brutal inch. “You want cock, you get the punishment that comes first.”

Karina’s whole body trembles, ass clenched tight around the intruding plug, every inch sending more shockwaves of pain and humiliation through her. Her face is soaked with sweat already, lips parted in disbelief at how deep it’s going. Behind her, Yuna’s breath is hot, tongue flicking the edge of Karina’s ear as she leans over her back. “You sound so fucking hot like this,” she whispers. “You’re gonna be perfect once it’s all the way in. Such a good little plug slut.”

The scream Karina lets out next is sharp and raw, almost broken. You hear it, feel the vibration of it behind you like the air’s alive, and you’re still buried to the hilt in Sullyoon. Her legs are shaking around your hips, your hand’s still on her throat, and her pussy is pulsing, squeezing your cock like it’s trying to memorize it. The way Karina’s moaning next to her, screaming as she gets her ass opened, is fuel for Sullyoon. Her eyes roll back and her mouth drops open, chest rising and falling like she’s being devoured by the pleasure.

“I—I can’t—I can’t hold it!” she pants. “I’m gonna fucking cum—I swear—I can’t—oh my god kiss me, please, please kiss me, I wanna cum while you’re kissing me, I wanna feel your mouth when it hits—pleaseee!"

You don’t even hesitate. You lean down fast, your hand tightening on her throat just a little more as your mouth crashes into hers. Her lips are soft, wet, desperate. Her tongue meets yours immediately, greedy and wild, kissing you like she needs it more than air. The second your lips connect, she snaps. Her entire body tenses, heels digging into the bed, thighs clamping tight around your waist, and her pussy clamps down hard; a perfect vice, spasming and pulsing around your cock like she’s trying to pull you in even deeper. She lets out a high, shaking moan straight into your mouth, hands flying up to grab your face, kissing you harder, sloppier, while she cums in waves all over you. Your cock’s completely drenched now, soaked in her release, her body rocking beneath yours as the orgasm shakes through her like a storm, long and loud and so fucking hot you’re fighting every instinct not to unload inside her right there.

Wonyoung glances back, smirking, still pushing the plug deeper into Karina’s stretched hole with cruel precision. It’s almost fully in now, the thickest part parting Karina’s trembling rim, her voice hoarse from moaning and crying through the stretch.

“Look at that,” Wonyoung says, eyes on Karina but voice raised just enough to carry. “While you’re getting your tight little asshole split by a plug, Sullyoon’s over here creaming herself on cock like it’s the best day of her life.”

Karina sobs out a moan, too far gone to respond, just breathing raggedly while the final inch of the plug sinks in, slow and merciless.

“You jealous yet?” Wonyoung whispers near her ear. “You wanted this. You chose this. And now you get to be plugged up like a good little toy while someone else gets her guts rearranged.”

Yuna’s still holding Karina open, watching the plug disappear inside her with awe and glee.

“Almost there,” she says, licking her lips. “You’re taking it so well…”

Karina’s still panting into the mattress, arms trembling, her ass raised with the thick plug now buried deep inside, barely visible except for the slick base nestled between her swollen cheeks. Her eyes are glassy, cheeks streaked with a flush of sweat and tears, and her thighs are twitching from the slow, rhythmic throbbing inside her. She lifts her head slightly, voice weak but hopeful.

“S-So… what happens now?” Her words come out breathy, unsure. “Is it… is it my turn?”

Wonyoung doesn’t answer right away. She stands upright with a smug little stretch, licking the edge of her finger clean from guiding the plug in, her expression sharp with amusement. Then she lets out a dry, condescending chuckle.

“Not yet.” Karina blinks at her, blinking fast like she misheard. Wonyoung tilts her head, smiling cruelly. “Yuna hasn’t had a turn with that cock yet.”

Karina’s shoulders sag, and her face collapses into a tired, frustrated sigh. She lets her head fall back down onto her arms with a faint groan, too wrecked to protest more than that.

Yuna laughs, light, teasing, and smacks Karina’s ass again, right on the plug, making her yelp and jerk forward with a strangled moan.

“Be patient, princess,” Yuna grins. “You’ve already got a little friend stuffed in there to keep you busy. Don’t be greedy.”

Wonyoung shoots her a quick glance, neither amused nor annoyed, just sharp. Always sharp.

“Yuna,” she says flatly, “he’s ready.”

Yuna turns her head to you and waves a finger, grinning wide like a cat with cream on its tongue. “Come here, toy. Sit down. Edge of the bed.”

You obey immediately, there’s no part of your brain even pretending to fight it anymore. You climb off Sullyoon, who’s still panting and glowing from her orgasm, and move to the edge of the bed. Your thighs ache. Your cock is glistening with her slick, flushed dark, veiny, painfully hard. You sit down, muscles twitching from exertion, and look up as Yuna struts toward you. She turns around and backs herself up, settling her toned legs against yours, ass grazing your thigh, there’s a golden sheen of sweat clinging to her lower back and the curve of her ass cheeks glistening as she lowers herself onto you.

“You can touch me,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a wink. “I’m not Wonyoung.”

Your hands rise instinctively, gripping her slim waist. She’s warm under your fingers, tight and toned. Yuna’s body is fucking unreal; lean but thick where it counts. Her waist is slim, but her hips flare out wide, ass plump and round with the kind of bounce that makes it impossible not to stare. Her thighs are powerful, soft over muscle, her skin is smooth, flawless, with that slight golden glow under the lights.

You squeeze her hips a little, breath catching in your throat.

“Fuck, you’re… perfect,” you mutter. “You’re fucking hot.”

Yuna giggles, rolling her hips back just enough to brush your cock against her folds.

“You know how to sweet talk a girl,” she purrs.

But Wonyoung’s voice slices in before you can say anything more.

“Stop talking to him like he matters.”

Yuna turns slightly, side-eyeing her with a sigh.

“Wonyoung…”

Wonyoung crosses her arms, eyes narrowing.

“He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your friend. He’s a cock. A cumdump. A toy we’re borrowing for a good time, then tossing out.”

Yuna rolls her eyes, positioning your thick head right at her entrance, her slick folds gliding over it as she angles her hips.

“You’re so fucking cruel sometimes,” she mutters under her breath. “Let a bitch have one moment.”

And then she sinks down.

Your breath punches out of you like you’ve been hit. Her pussy is molten hot, wet, gripping the crown of your cock so tight you’re not even sure you’re going to get more than an inch in. She moans, sharp and rough, her hands bracing on your thighs.

“Jesus fucking fuck, it’s… it’s so big, holy shit—”

She pauses, knees shaking, muscles tense as she eases herself lower. Behind you, the mattress dips again as Sullyoon crawls back up, her skin flushed pink, hair a little messy, that dreamy post-orgasm look still painted across her face. But her eyes are focused on Karina now.

Karina hasn’t moved, still on all fours, ass stuffed, hair sticking to her cheeks, panting. Sullyoon leans in, wraps her arms around her waist gently from behind, pressing their bodies close.

“Hey,” Sullyoon whispers, brushing Karina’s sweaty hair off her cheek. “You okay?”

Karina nods slowly, leaning back into her friend’s touch.

“It hurts,” she says quietly, breath shivering. “But… not in a bad way.”

Sullyoon presses a soft kiss to her shoulder, then another to her neck.

“I’ll take care of you,” she promises, pulling Karina closer. Her arms wrap tighter, soothing. “You were so brave.”

Karina’s lips part to answer, but Sullyoon’s already leaning in again, this time pressing her mouth to Karina’s. Their kiss is gentle, slow, nothing like the desperation you’ve been drowning in all night. Their tongues meet, slow and lazy, tasting each other with softness that's somehow kind of hot. But Sullyoon’s hand starts to slide down Karina’s belly, grazing over her trembling thighs, fingertips dancing toward her pussy.

“Let me help you feel good,” she murmurs, her fingers slide between Karina’s legs, just brushing her slick folds—

“Stop right there.”

Wonyoung’s voice is sharp, cold steel. Both girls freeze. She strides over, her eyes locked on Sullyoon like a schoolteacher catching someone cheating. “She doesn’t get help,” Wonyoung says, grabbing Sullyoon’s wrist and pulling her hand away. “She didn’t earn it. Let her sit with the plug for a while.”

Sullyoon swallows, pulling her hands back respectfully, returning to holding Karina with just arms and lips now, keeping her warm but not touching further. Karina sighs into her mouth, kissing her again slowly, eyes fluttering closed. Meanwhile, Yuna’s moaning as she forces another inch of you inside her. Her pussy is soaking, clenching like crazy, her breath stuttering as she lowers herself little by little, adjusting with every thick ridge you press past her walls.

“Goddamn,” she gasps, laughing breathlessly. “It’s like—I don’t even—fuck, how do you carry this around without passing out?”

You grip her waist tighter, watching her ass ripple as she eases further down. Her thighs flex with every movement, sweat rolling down her spine as she moans louder.

“You’re so tight,” you groan, digging your fingers into her hips.

“Yeah?” she pants, twisting her hips to get the angle right. “Well, this pussy doesn’t play, baby.” Then she gasps sharp, eyes wide. “Shit! There we go—fuck—there it is—!”

She finally bottoms out, her ass slapping against your lap, every inch of your cock buried in her slick, clenching heat. She leans forward, chest heaving, moaning low in her throat like she’s drunk on it.

“Oh my god,” she laughs, trembling. “It’s inside. It’s fucking in.”

And from across the room, Wonyoung watches with a satisfied little smile, voice cutting clean through the soft gasps and stifled kisses. “Good. Now ride him.” Then, to Karina, still squirming in Sullyoon’s arms: “Take notes. You’re next.”

Yuna starts to move with that kind of self-aware sensuality that makes your brain turn to soup. Her hips roll in slow, hypnotic circles as she grinds her soaked pussy down on your cock, using her entire body like she’s showing it off just for you, every shift, every drag of her slick walls over your length is deliberate. She knows how tight she is, how good she feels, and she’s savoring every reaction you can’t hide. You’re still seated at the edge of the bed, thighs flexed, hands gripping her waist like your life depends on it, and she just rides, slow and deep, her ass clapping lightly against your lap with each bounce, like a steady rhythm meant to tease.

She leans back against you, pressing her spine to your chest, arms raised, looping her hands around your neck while her breath rolls out in these soft little gasps. “Mmm… you like that?” she purrs, grinding down hard and slow again, making your cock throb inside her. “So deep… so fucking thick…”

Your fingers twitch on her hips. You’re trying so hard not to snap, not to grab her and slam her down on you until she screams, not to break that rhythm, even though your cock is pulsing with the need to unload.

Sullyoon watches from the bed, her head tilted as she strokes Karina’s hair gently, the other girl now slumped in her lap, the plug still buried deep in her ass, legs slightly parted. Karina’s out of breath, still flushed and shivering, lips swollen from their kissing. Sullyoon’s gaze flicks from Yuna’s bouncing hips back to you, a grin tugging at her mouth.

“You know,” she says, softly but loud enough for all to hear, “he deserves some fucking credit for not blowing already.”

Wonyoung raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. She doesn’t interrupt, just watches. Yuna chuckles breathlessly as she grinds her hips again, this time harder, clenching on your cock as she lifts and sinks, her thighs flexing with every controlled motion. “Mmm, right? He’s being such a good boy,” she coos, rolling her hips, her voice dipping to a low murmur. “Holding back like that, keeping it in. Such good control…”

She pauses, sitting all the way down on you again, then leans forward with a grin, twisting to look at your face. Her hand slides down, past your stomach, and cups your balls through the base of her pussy. The squeeze is careful but firm, her fingers exploring the weight of them as her grin widens.

“Shit,” she says under her breath. “These are so full. They feel heavy as fuck.” She lifts her hips a little, stroking your length from the inside with her muscles, then settles back down with a wet slap, her ass jiggling from the impact. “There’s probably a lot in there by now,” she teases. “You’ve been holding it in through Sullyoon riding you, Karina moaning with a plug stuffed in her ass, me grinding your cock like it’s my job… damn, when you finally blow, it’s gonna be fucking insane, isn’t it?”

You grunt, tightening your grip on her waist, your abs flexing from the effort it takes not to cum right then and there. Every time she lifts off you, your cock throbs in the air, aching for release. When she slides back down, slow and snug, your balls tighten under her hand. She keeps touching them, rolling them in her palm as she rocks her hips in slow figure-eights, her walls clenching rhythmically around your shaft. You can barely breathe. Every second she draws it out is another second closer to your breaking point.

Behind her, Karina moans faintly, still flushed, her voice muffled against Sullyoon’s shoulder. Sullyoon’s fingers stroke her back now, soothing, her eyes watching Yuna like she’s impressed. She laughs lightly.

“I think he’s gonna pass out if you keep doing that,” she says.

Yuna grins and kisses your neck, her lips soft and teasing. “Not yet,” she whispers. “He hasn’t earned it yet.”

Yuna’s movements shift from teasing to needy, the playfulness in her hips giving way to urgency. She's been riding you for minutes that feel like hours, slow and deep, drawing out every drop of pleasure like it’s foreplay for herself. But it’s not. Her rhythm’s breaking. Her thighs start trembling every time she lifts herself off your cock, her breath catching in her throat with these sharp little gasps, lips parted and swollen, chest heaving against her bra. You feel her pussy start to pulse around you; tightening and fluttering with every downward drop, every slap of her ass against your thighs… her body chasing something she’s trying to hold off, but it’s not working anymore.

She lets out a louder moan, sharp and cracking.

“F-fuck… I’m close… fuck, I’m so close…”

She doesn’t stop riding you, if anything, she moves faster, grinding her clit against your pelvis with every bounce, her hands grabbing onto your shoulders now, nails biting into your skin for leverage. Her voice trembles when she speaks again, a whisper at first, then louder, breathless and wild.

“Don’t hold back, don’t fucking hold back—fuck me—fuck me hard—make me cum!”

Fuck, that's all you wanted to hear.

Your fingers clamp down on her waist, and you slam her down onto your cock, hard, your hips jerking upward at the same time, bottoming out deep inside her with a wet, brutal smack. She screams (a real one) choked and high, head snapping back as her pussy clamps down on you like a vice. You don’t give her time to breathe. You start fucking her like your brain’s gone, your hands guiding her body up and down on your cock, her thighs clapping against your hips, the bed frame groaning from the weight of your thrusts. It’s all messy now, no rhythm, just raw need, your cock punching into her soaked, fluttering cunt again and again, harder each time. Yuna’s moans are desperate now. Loud, cracked, real. She slams her palm between her legs, fingers going straight to her clit, rubbing fast and sloppy, hips bucking into her own hand, mouth falling open with every spasm of pleasure that racks her body.

“Oh god—oh my fucking god—yes—right there—right there—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop!!!”

She’s babbling, voice broken, almost sobbing from how deep you’re buried inside her. Her whole body is tight, coiled like a spring, legs twitching, her stomach tensing with every thrust, her clit swollen and soaked from how hard she’s been rubbing. Wonyoung steps forward slowly, eyes locked on the scene, and her voice is like a whip crack.

“Make her cum. Now.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You slam her down again, burying every thick inch into her, your grip bruising tight as your cock throbs inside her fluttering heat. Yuna’s hand is a blur between her legs, her voice pitching into a scream.

“I’m cumming—I’m fucking cumming—fuck, it’s too much—”

Her entire body goes stiff in your lap. Then it hits.

She explodes with a scream, shaking violently as the orgasm overtakes her, every muscle locking up. Her pussy grips you like it’s trying to crush you, pulsing and spasming around your cock as waves of heat roll through her core. Her legs kick out, her back arches, and she clings to your shoulders like she’s drowning. Her thighs spasm against your hips, her fingers digging into your chest now, nails scraping down your skin.

You hold her there, not moving anymore, just feeling her ride the wave, her cunt milking you in hard, rhythmic squeezes. She keeps twitching, little cries spilling from her lips as she rides every aftershock, her pussy making these messy, obscene noises with every throb, her clit still pulsing from the overload.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuck—” she gasps, collapsing forward against you, face buried in your neck, breath ragged, sweat pouring down her back. You wrap your arms around her, holding her close while she trembles and whimpers against your skin. It takes a full minute for her to calm down, her thighs still twitching, her chest rising and falling like she just ran a marathon.

Then Wonyoung clears her throat.

“That’s enough,” she says flatly.

Yuna groans in protest but slowly lifts herself off your cock, her legs shaking under her weight, your cock sliding free with a wet, messy squelch, still rock-hard and soaked in her cum. She stumbles over to the bed, collapsing onto it face-down with a heavy exhale, ass still wobbling from the force of the ride.

Sullyoon leans over with a little grin, raises her hand, and smacks her ass hard, right over the reddened skin. Revenge. The sound echoes, and Yuna yelps, jolting slightly.

“Damn, Yuna,” Sullyoon giggles. “You rode him like a fucking demon.”

Yuna mumbles something into the mattress, breathless and ruined, one hand reaching back to rub her sore cheek.

“Shut up and gimme five minutes…”

Wonyoung just smirks and turns to Karina.

“Now. Your turn. Get back on all fours.”

Karina obeys without speaking. Her knees sink into the mattress, palms bracing in front of her as she positions herself, ass high, head down, breathing slow and shaky. She doesn’t look back. Wonyoung steps forward without a word, crouching behind her, and places her hand on the base of the plug. Karina whines at the touch alone, thighs twitching inward.

“Be still.”

Karina nods and braces.

Wonyoung slides the plug out in one smooth, slow pull. Karina gasps, her back arches, a broken moan ripping from her throat as her rim stretches wide then closes again, twitching, raw and gaping. Slick lube coats the plug’s shaft, creamy and glistening, and Wonyoung sets it down with a little smirk, running her fingers lightly along Karina’s ass just to watch her shiver.

“You were obedient,” Wonyoung says, almost fond. “You stayed plugged like a good girl. You followed every fucking order.”

Karina’s breath catches, hope flickering in her voice. “So I can… finally…?”

Wonyoung smiles. “Yes.” She turns her head toward you and snaps her fingers. “Come here, freak. She’s earned her reward.”

You’re already moving before she finishes the sentence. You’re still hard, aching, throbbing, and you can barely think through it, but the tension in the room makes you slow your steps.

“But,” Wonyoung says, raising her voice just enough to stop you in your tracks, “it’s going in her ass.”

Karina’s entire body stiffens. Her head whips around, wide-eyed, lips parting in stunned disbelief. “W-what…?”

Wonyoung steps to the side, folding her arms again. “If you want to cum tonight, it’s going to be on his cock—in your ass.”

Karina’s voice cracks. “But—it’ll hurt—fuck, I’ve never—Wonyoung, please, that’s—”

“I didn’t ask,” Wonyoung cuts her off coldly. “You can take it. You want your orgasm? Then shut the fuck up and take what you’re given.”

Yuna lets out a delighted little gasp, grinning like Christmas came early. “Oh my god, this is gonna be so good…”

Sullyoon, already on the bed beside her, frowns faintly, brushing a hand over Karina’s shoulder. “You don’t have to if—”

“She’s doing it,” Wonyoung says, turning her glare on Sullyoon, who backs off immediately, hands up in surrender. Karina swallows hard, her face still red, eyes darting between the three of you, and then, finally, she nods. Hesitant. Reluctant. But nodding.

“I’ll do it…” she says quietly, glancing at you. “But please—go slow…”

You step closer, gently resting your hand on her back, fingers brushing up her spine.

“I will,” you whisper. “I promise.”

Wonyoung clicks her tongue.

“He doesn’t make the rules,” she mutters. “But yes—slow, obviously. Now do your fucking job.”

You nod once and slide your hand down Karina’s lower back, palm splayed over the dip just above her ass. Her body tenses, breath hitching at your touch, but she doesn’t pull away. She’s trembling, terrified and aroused all at once, and your stomach knots in that strange way again, torn between lust and something dangerously close to care.

Yuna’s suddenly right beside you, grinning, holding the bottle of lube in one hand.

“Here,” she says cheerfully, popping the cap and squeezing a generous line along your cock. It’s cold, shocking against your skin, but you grunt as she smears it in with her hand, slow and thorough. “We’ll make sure she’s nice and slick.”

Then she moves behind Karina, spreading her cheeks again with one hand, and pours more lube directly onto her twitching hole.

Karina whimpers.

“Gotta help her too,” Yuna says, rubbing it in with two fingers, slow circles that make Karina gasp and moan. “Poor baby’s so tight…”

Once everything’s coated, Yuna pats your cock and steps back, clapping her hands. “Alright, stud. She’s ready.”

You grip your shaft, position yourself, and slide forward, just the tip pressing against her entrance. The resistance is immediate. Hot and tight and trembling. Karina sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. You pause, lean down, whisper against her ear.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

She nods without looking up. “Just… slow. Please…”

You push forward a little. Even just the head feels like a violation. Her body shudders, a loud moan breaking from her lips, half pain, half disbelief.

“Oh—oh fuck! it’s huge!”

You stop again, one hand on her hip, the other stroking her back. You wait for her to breathe, to settle. Then you start again. Millimeter by millimeter, your cock stretches her open, and Karina whines through her teeth, fists clenching the sheets, toes curling. Her thighs are soaked, slick drips down the insides of her legs, proof that pain and arousal have long since blurred. Every few seconds, you stop, just long enough for her to catch her breath, before you push a little deeper.

“God,” Sullyoon whispers from behind, hugging a pillow to her chest, eyes wide. “He’s really doing it…”

Yuna sits beside her, fascinated. “Look at her hole,” she says gleefully. “It’s fucking swallowing him.”

Karina cries out again as another inch slips in.

“F-fuck, it’s—too big—please—”

“You’re doing amazing,” you murmur, and you mean it. “Just a little more…”

Her body clamps down, squeezing you like it’s trying to push you out and pull you in at the same time. You slow down again, your cock slick and throbbing, the pressure unbelievable, her body wrapping around you tighter than anything you’ve ever felt.

Wonyoung watches it all from the corner of the bed, arms crossed, lips curled into a quiet, satisfied smile.

“That’s it,” she purrs. “Stretch her out. She’ll never forget it.”

Karina’s moans rise in pitch, her body soaked with sweat now, ass flushed and stretched, you're still halfway in, cock glistening with lube and Karina’s juices, your hands gripping her hips like she’ll drift away if you let go. Her body is trembling under you: legs shaking, back arched, her forehead pressed to the sheets. Her moans come in shaky bursts, broken syllables spilling from her lips between gasps. You’re going slow (agonizingly slow) but even that feels like too much for her. The pressure is overwhelming. The stretch makes her wince with every inch, but she hasn’t told you to stop yet, and her soaked thighs betray the truth: she’s aching for it, terrified of it, and turned on beyond words.

You keep your pace steady, pushing in another inch. She cries out, voice cracking, one hand flying back to grip your wrist.

“S-stop—please—I can’t—it’s too much—!”

You freeze immediately, body tense, chest heaving as you struggle to not blow from the way she squeezes around you, like a velvet vice locked in desperation. Sweat drips from your forehead onto her lower back as you hold yourself there, just breathing, feeling her twitch and clench around the thick girth pulsing inside her. Your cock’s only a little more than halfway in, but the look on her face says she’s already overwhelmed.

Her face is buried in the sheets, bright red and dripping with sweat. Her eyes are shut tight, lips parted in a silent moan. And between her legs, her pussy is dripping, messy and obscene, leaving trails down her thighs. She’s shaking from the stretch, but she’s dripping from the want. It’s chaos, and her body is split right down the middle. Wonyoung shifts on the bed beside her, standing now, arms folded across her chest. Her gaze drops to where you’re still inside Karina’s ass, her head tilting slightly. Cool and calculated.

“How much?” she asks you. Her voice is flat, but curious.

You glance down your shaft. “Little more than half.”

She kneels beside Karina, brushing strands of hair from her face, then leans in close. Karina’s still gasping, unable to speak. Wonyoung looks back up at you.

“That’s enough.”

You pause, nodding, your cock twitching from the pressure building between restraint and raw, near-painful pleasure.

“Start moving,” Wonyoung commands. “Let her feel what she earned.”

You shift your grip on Karina’s hips, sliding your hands up her waist as your thighs tense. She lets out a shaky, helpless sound when you pull back just a couple inches, her body clenching again, like she doesn’t want to let you go, and then you push forward again, slow and deep, not adding more depth but grinding within what she can take.

Karina groans—long and broken.

“Fffuuckk…” she moans into the mattress, hips quaking. “It’s so big, so thick, I can’t believe you’re in my ass… fuck—it’s too much—it’s so full…”

You move again, withdrawing slightly and thrusting slowly back in. Her body jerks with each motion, every slow grind making her rim flutter, her ass stretched and twitching. The sensation has your spine tingling, a tight, searing heat wrapping around your cock like wet silk squeezed over bone. Yuna leans over the edge of the bed, eyes wide with awe, a dirty grin painted across her face.

“She’s taking it like a champ,” she says, grinning. “Look at her—look at that grip. Holy shit.”

Sullyoon’s perched at the headboard, arms hugging her knees, watching with this mix of sympathy and raw curiosity. Her cheeks are pink, eyes wide, lips parted.

“She’s doing so good…” she whispers. “I don’t think I could…”

Wonyoung leans in and cups Karina’s cheek gently, tilting her face so she can see her expression. Karina’s eyes flutter open; glassy, unfocused, filled with overwhelmed heat.

“You’re not gonna forget this,” Wonyoung murmurs, a little smile touching her lips. “No one ever forgets their first real stretch.”

Karina whines, biting her lip, trying to stay still as your hips begin to find a rhythm. You rock into her gently, each thrust short and slow, giving her body time to adjust while her moans grow louder, more broken. Her thighs glisten with arousal, and her hands fist the sheets so tight her knuckles go white.

“I-it’s too good,” she sobs out. “I didn’t know it would feel like this—why does it feel so fucking good?”

You thrust a little deeper, not by much, just enough to push the limits she’s already enduring. Her moan cuts off into a gasp, her body twitching under yours, and you swear you feel her pussy throb at the same time; her cunt untouched, but soaking like it’s getting fucked just from how your cock is stretching her ass.

Your hand slides to her lower back, stroking it gently, whispering low.

“You’re doing perfect, Karina. So fucking good…”

Her answer’s a raw moan, her ass arching slightly, offering you better access without even thinking. You start grinding deeper into her with more confidence, your cock gliding through her slickened hole in a slow, punishing rhythm that has her gasping every time your hips press against her. Yuna slides closer, one hand slipping between Karina’s thighs, hovering just above her glistening folds but not touching.

“You’re dripping all over the bed,” she says. “You love this, huh? Getting your ass fucked by the cock you ran from?”

Karina sobs into the sheets, too fucked out to answer.

Wonyoung circles behind you like a queen inspecting her soldiers, her gaze drops to the slick, stretched spot where your cock disappears into Karina’s ass, the loud, wet rhythm of your thrusts filling the room in obscene contrast to Karina’s trembling moans. Your grip is still tight on her hips, your pace steady, giving her the depth she can handle, but not much more than that.

Wonyoung exhales sharply, almost bored. “Pick up the fucking pace.” Her voice snaps through the air like a whip. “Make her scream, freak."

Before you even register the shift, her hand cuts down hard against Karina’s ass, a brutal, open-palmed slap that sends a jolt through her entire body. Karina cries out, her head lifting from the mattress, her back arching, eyes wide as her moan turns into something raw and sharp. You grit your teeth and follow the order. Your hips slam forward, the new rhythm vicious and unrelenting. Every stroke now punches into Karina’s stretched ass with a thick, wet slap, your cock sliding deeper with each thrust, balls slapping against her soaked thighs. The change is instant. She screams, loud, guttural, her hands scrabbling at the sheets, her voice cutting through the air with no filter, no shame.

“Ah—ahhh fuck—it’s too much—too much!”

You don’t slow down. You can’t. Not when Wonyoung’s standing behind you with that look in her eyes. Not when Karina’s body keeps pushing back against you like it wants every inch. Her tits bounce violently with every impact, full and heavy, swinging under her with each slam of your hips, her nipples dragging against the sheets.

Wonyoung steps forward and grabs a fistful of Karina’s hair, yanking her head up so her moaning face is fully exposed.

“This what you wanted, Karina?” she snarls, leaning down near her ear. “You begged for this cock. You begged to cum tonight. You begged for your fucking ass to be split open, and now you’re fucking screaming. Is this what you wanted?”

Karina sobs and nods through it, eyes wild, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth as she cries out, “Yes! Oh my god yes, yes, yes—please—fuck, don’t stop!”

“Pathetic,” Wonyoung mutters, releasing her hair with a shove that makes Karina collapse forward again, her ass thrust up perfectly for more abuse. Then she looks at you, her expression hard. “And you,” she snaps. “Look at you. Huffing and panting like a fucking dog. You two deserve each other. Ruin this lying slut!”

You grab Karina’s hips tighter, your pace going savage now, hammering her with everything you’ve got. Her voice breaks into a string of high-pitched moans and screams, every thrust punching into her ass with punishing force, her body bouncing forward from the impact. The clap of flesh on flesh echoes through the room, her sweat-slick thighs shaking as she takes it, her pussy dripping onto the sheets like a faucet, untouched and soaked. Wonyoung watches the chaos she’s orchestrated, arms crossed again, a twisted smile forming at the corners of her lips.

“Fuck her until she forgets her name.”

Your hands stay locked on Karina’s hips, holding her firm, thumbs digging into the curves just above her ass as your cock pistons in and out of her stretched, twitching hole. She’s beyond trying to speak in full thoughts now; just babbling, moaning, her mouth open and drooling against the sheets, words falling from her like she’s half-delirious. Her spine arches deeper with each thrust, every part of her trembling as you slam into her again and again, the obscene slap of your hips meeting her ass echoing through the room, wet and brutal.

Her voice jumps pitches without warning, cracking with raw pleasure. There’s no control left in her body. Her thighs are shaking, her arms weak, her pussy glistening untouched beneath her as it drips onto the bed from the pressure alone. You watch the muscles in her ass flex and quiver with every movement of your cock, your shaft stretching her open wider than she’s ever taken, buried inside her like you’re trying to reach her fucking soul.

Yuna leans in from the edge of the bed, laughing in this low, teasing purr that’s half arousal and half mocking delight.

“Holy shit. Look at her. She’s gonna cum just from taking it in the ass like a fucking whore.”

Karina whimpers something into the sheets, something like no or yes or both at once, but her eyes are rolled back, jaw slack, her moans breaking apart like she doesn’t even understand her own body anymore. You keep going. Your thrusts stay relentless. The heat of her body, the grip of her ass around your cock, the way her hips bounce and jerk under you with every impact: it’s pure addiction. You feel her starting to tighten even more, impossibly tight, her whole body locking up like she’s about to snap in half, and her moans spiral into a high, broken whine.

“F-fuck—oh my god, it’s too—ahhh—it’s too much, I’m gonna—I can’t!”

She’s drooling onto the sheets, arms weak, knuckles white from gripping the bedding like it’s all that’s keeping her grounded. Her back arches deeper, like her body’s trying to get away and get more at the same time. Her ass swallows your cock with this obscene wet sound, slick with lube and her own mess, but so fucking tight you can feel every spasm as her rim flutters around your shaft. You glance at Karina’s face; she’s a fucking wreck. Eyes rolled back, mouth open, sweat dripping down her neck. She’s not looking at anyone, just moaning, gasping, shaking. Her pussy’s untouched, but it looks already mid-orgasm, creamy and glistening between her thighs. You slam your cock into her again, and she jolts, sobbing out a half-word, half-wail.

“I’m close,” she gasps out suddenly, louder this time. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna cum!”

Wonyoung steps forward slowly, arms folded, eyes locked on Karina like she’s waiting to pull the trigger. “Then cum.” Karina’s whole body jerks at the sound of her voice. “Cum now,” Wonyoung growls. “I want to watch you lose it.”

You slam into her again, deeper, faster—and that’s it. That’s all it takes.

Karina screams.

She screams like her body’s being ripped open and baptized at the same time, her voice breaking as her ass clamps down around your cock like a vice, spasming, pulsing, gripping you like she’s trying to suck every drop of cum out of you without you even releasing yet. Her thighs twitch violently, knees buckling beneath her, and she collapses onto the bed fully, her face buried in the mattress, her whole body convulsing as she cums hard from her ass alone.

“Fuuuuck—oh fuck I’M CUMMING! Oh my god—fuck-fuck-fuck!!”

Her pussy gushes under her, untouched and throbbing, slick running down her thighs like her whole body’s melting. Her back arches once, twice, then drops, but she keeps shaking, every nerve lit up like she’s been plugged into a live wire. Her fists are tight in the sheets, her mouth open, drool and moans pouring out without rhythm.

She’s sobbing now, babbling through the aftershocks.

“I—oh god, I didn’t know—I can’t stop, I’m still cumming, I can’t stop, It's so good, it's so fucking good…”

You’re still inside her, cock twitching with every clench of her hole, but you don’t move, just hold her there, one hand still locked on her waist, the other stroking her back like you’re trying to keep her from slipping through the mattress.

Yuna’s staring in disbelief, biting her lip, cheeks flushed.

“She just fucking came… from her ass,” she breathes. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.”

Sullyoon crawls closer, eyes wide and sparkling with awe, her hand hovering near Karina’s trembling shoulder. “Is she okay?” she whispers.

“She’s perfect,” Wonyoung says flatly, stepping beside her and crouching. She brushes Karina’s hair off her face. “She came like a filthy little anal slut. And she needed that.” There’s a moment of silence, then Wonyoung looks at you. “Your turn,” she says flatly. “You’ve been edging like a good little bitch all night. Now you give us your cum.”

You’re still buried in Karina’s ass, but the moment she hears Wonyoung’s voice shift like that, she groans softly and starts to lift herself. Her whole body shivers as she slowly slides off your cock, her asshole fluttering open before clenching tight, empty, twitching from the stretch. Your entire length is gleaming with slick, twitching hard as it’s exposed to the air again. You reach up, help steady Karina. She’s weak, legs barely holding her. Her skin’s flushed deep pink, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, sweat dripping down her chest. She stumbles a bit, and you help ease her down. She kneels, then braces herself upright, arms shaking, tits rising and falling with each breath. Her mouth is still parted, cheeks red, eyes dazed, but she’s looking up at you, obedient, waiting.

Wonyoung watches with one eyebrow raised.

“You made it this far,” she mutters. “Color me shocked. Most guys would’ve been pumping their load into a tissue in the first ten minutes.”

Yuna giggles, kneeling in front of you, her eyes still sparkling with a manic energy. “That’s because you scare the cum out of most guys just by walking into the room, Wony. They probably blow their load just thinking about disappointing you.”

“It’s a talent,” Wonyoung shrugs, a picture of regal indifference, though her eyes are fixed on your straining cock with an unnerving focus. She runs the tip of her tongue over her plump lower lip. “But you,” she says, “you don’t have to hold back anymore. You’ve been a good little freak, edging for us all night. Now it’s time for your reward… or perhaps, our reward from you.”

Sullyoon moves next, a quiet, graceful wraith in the dimly lit room. She slides up beside Karina and brushes a stray strand of hair behind Karina’s ear, then leans in to press a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. Karina leans into the touch, a soft whimper escaping her lips, her body trembling almost imperceptibly. Sullyoon rests a comforting hand on Karina’s thigh, her thumb stroking gently, before turning her full attention to you. Her eyes, usually wide with an innocent curiosity, are now dark, dilated, and utterly captivated by the sight of your huge cock.

You’re standing now, swaying slightly, your body a live wire of overstimulated nerves. Your cock is a flushed, angry purple, pulsing with a life of its own, veins snaking across its thick shaft like swollen rivers. It’s utterly drenched, glistening from base to tip with a disgusting, beautiful cocktail of the slick lube Yuna had applied earlier, and the clear, sticky juices that seeped from Karina’s ass as you stretched her. It’s still leaking pre-cum—one fat, pearly droplet hanging precariously from the swollen head, threatening to fall. The ache in your balls is a relentless, throbbing agony, a heavy, full sensation that promises an explosive release. Every inch of your skin is buzzing, screaming with a desperate, almost painful need.

Yuna, never one for patience, has already wrapped her surprisingly strong fingers around the base of your shaft, her touch possessive and demanding.

“Fuck, you’re so hard,” she whispers, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and greedy anticipation. She gives you a preliminary squeeze, making you grunt. “He’s still this fucking hard? After being inside four of us? You didn’t cum once?” Her voice is incredulous, a hint of challenge in it.

“Not yet,” Sullyoon breathes. She licks her lips slowly, her gaze unwavering from your cock. “But he’s close. I can feel it. He’s about to burst.”

“Let’s fix that,” Wonyoung declares. She glides forward and kneels before you, a queen preparing to receive tribute. The way she settles at your feet, eyes already devouring your erection, doesn't feel like submission; it feels like she’s about to break you open and claim what’s hers.

Then, it truly begins.

Wonyoung’s grip on your shaft is like iron, cool and clinical, yet sending shivers of heat through you. Her other hand instantly dives down, fingers deftly finding and cupping your aching, heavy balls. They feel like overripe fruit, swollen and tender. "Fuck, these are absolutely full," she grunts. She gives them a calculated squeeze, just enough to make you let out a strangled moan, your hips twitching. Meanwhile, Karina, seemingly over her initial trepidation, has crawled forward, her eyes glazed with a new kind of desperate hunger. She takes the very tip of your cock into her warm, wet mouth, her tongue flicking nervously against the sensitive slit. "You've been saving it all up for us, haven't you, my little freak?" Wonyoung continues. "Such a good little cum-toy, filled to the brim, just waiting for your goddesses to drain you."

"He's gonna paint us! He’s going to fucking drench us!" Yuna shrieks with manic delight, her own hand a blur at the base of your cock, stroking furiously. The friction is intense, slick with spit and your own copious pre-cum. Her tongue becomes a relentless tease around the thick crown, darting, licking, swirling. "Give it to me, toy! I want every last drop!"

Sullyoon is pressing kisses up your thigh, her breath hot against your skin, her hands gripping your other leg for balance. Her voice, usually so gentle, is surprisingly demanding, raw with need. "Please... oh god, please just let it go... I need to see it… I need to taste you… Don’t make us wait anymore, you bad boy!"

Karina, trembling visibly, lifts her head, her eyes wide and unfocused, a thick string of saliva connecting her lips to the glistening tip of your cock. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing ragged. "You can do it... cum for us... please, after everything... just let us have it," she begs. "Fill me up too..."

Wonyoung meets your eyes, that cruel, beautiful smirk is back. "That's right, toy. You heard them. They’re begging for your filth. Sullyoon wants to taste it. Karina wants you to fill her pathetic mouth. Yuna wants you to drown her. They’re all desperate for it. But I demand it." Her voice drops to a menacing growl. "You’re going to fucking erupt. You’re going to cover every last inch of us in that disgusting, potent seed you’ve been brewing inside that freakish cock of yours. Do you understand? This isn't about your pleasure. This is about ours. This is your sole purpose." Her fingers tighten on your balls, her thumb pressing hard and deep into the sensitive perineum, making you cry out. "Now. Explode for your queen, you worthless piece of meat!"

Her hand on your shaft speeds up to match Yuna's frenetic pace. Both of them are now a dizzying blur of motion, tugging, stroking, squeezing, their combined efforts an exquisite torture. Karina latches her mouth onto the entire head of your cock, sucking with a primal, vacuum-like force that steals your breath, her tongue a rough, insistent pressure coiling around the shaft. Yuna’s ecstatic giggles turn into sharp, needy moans as she feels the tell-tale, unstoppable convulsions starting deep within your groin, traveling up the base of your cock. Sullyoon and Karina press closer, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands, their touch now almost frantic, greedy, fingers grabbing at your thighs, your stomach, your hips, anywhere they can make contact, as if trying to absorb your impending orgasm through sheer proximity.

"He's doing it! He's really gonna blow! Oh my god, look at him shake!" Yuna screams.

"Fucking finally!" Wonyoung growls stroking your cock. "Give it to your queen, you pathetic mutt! Give me every last fucking drop!"

And then it happens. Your vision whites out completely. A guttural, inhuman roar tears from your throat, a sound you don’t even recognize as your own, echoing off the walls of the luxurious apartment. Your hips buck uncontrollably, a violent, spastic jerk that nearly throws the girls off you.

The first jet of your cum shoots out with impossible, almost painful force, thick as cream and blindingly white. It splatters directly onto Wonyoung’s perfectly sculpted face. She barely flinches, just lets out a choked gasp, her eyes widening for a split second in surprise at the sheer power before they narrow again in dark triumph. Your hot seed is already dripping from her chin, smeared across her cheek, mixed with her saliva, a victorious smirk plastered on her semen-streaked face. "Yes! That's it, you filthy animal! Fucking drown me!"

Another jet follows, then another, and another, each one seemingly hotter, thicker, more voluminous than the last. You're a fucking firehose, completely and utterly out of control, your body just a vessel for this unstoppable eruption.

"My turn! My turn! Hit me with that fucking load!!" Sullyoon screams, scrambling forward with surprising agility, her usually angelic face now contorted into a mask of fierce, desperate need. She positions herself right in the line of fire, her small hands cupping her equally small breasts, her mouth wide open like a baby bird. A thick rope of your cum arcs through the air and lands squarely on her chest, another jet splattering across her cheek and directly into her parted lips. She gasps, a delighted, messy sound, already licking it up with greedy swipes of her tongue. "Oh my god... it's so much... so warm... and it tastes… amazing!"

"Don't you dare forget me!" Karina cries out. She’s pushing past Sullyoon, her eyes fixed on your still-spewing cock like it’s the only thing in the world. "Please! I need it! I earned this!" A fresh torrent of your seed catches her full in the face, soaking her hair, plastering it to her forehead, coating her eyelashes, and dripping in thick streams into her open, gasping mouth. She moans, a long, shuddering, broken sound, tears welling in her eyes (whether from the impact or sheer overwhelming emotion, you can’t tell) as she swallows convulsively, then licks her lips with a dazed, almost worshipful expression on her cum-painted face.

Yuna is practically vibrating beside you, her hands still gripping your shaft, trying to aim the spray, though it’s bucking too wildly for any real control. "Fuck yes! Me next! Fucking drown me in it, you goddamn animal!" she yells, practically shoving Karina aside to get closer. You oblige without conscious thought, another powerful surge coating her face, her neck, her small, perky tits that are now glistening under a thick layer of your seed. She throws her head back and laughs, a wild, uninhibited, joyous sound, as your cum drips down her body like a perverse baptism. "It’s like a fucking geyser! I've never seen anything like this! He's a cum machine!"

Jet after jet after jet, it just keeps coming, an unending, impossible flood. You’re emptying yourself completely, your balls cinching tight, contracting painfully with each pulse, a hollow, almost unbearable ache spreading through your loins and up into your stomach. The girls are an absolute mess, drenched, glistening, their perfect idol skin smeared and utterly coated with your thick, white seed. They’re not even trying to be neat or dignified anymore; they’re reveling in it, laughing, moaning, smearing it on each other.

"Holy shit," Wonyoung says, breathless for once, a genuine note of awe in it. She looks down at her own cum-splattered chest and hands. "He really was full. Fucking packed to the rafters." A small, almost proud smile touches her lips. "Good boy." She slowly wipes a thick smear of cum from her perfect lips with a thumb and licks it clean with deliberate, sensual slowness.

Finally, with one last, shuddering, weaker pulse, you’re empty. Utterly spent. Your cock twitches pathetically, still painfully hard but no longer gushing, merely slick and dripping with their combined spit and your own rapidly cooling load. You sag forward, gasping for breath, your entire body trembling from the sheer intensity of the release, black spots dancing in front of your eyes. The room slowly comes back into focus, filled with the sounds of their ragged panting, their wet, satisfied laughter, and the overwhelmingly pungent, salty-sweet smell of your spilled seed..

"Fuck," Yuna breathes, looking down at your dick, which is still defiantly, impressively erect despite the massive load you just shot. "Is it... is it still hard? After all that?" She reaches out a tentative, cum-slicked finger and pokes the head. Your cock gives a noticeable throb in response. Yuna’s eyes widen. "Oh my god. It is still hard." She looks up, her eyes meeting Wonyoung’s, then Sullyoon’s, then Karina’s. "Girls... I think our toy isn't done playing yet."

Sullyoon crawls closer. "No way... really? Can he go again?"

Karina, looking utterly debauched and surprisingly radiant under her coating of your cum, nods enthusiastically. "He has to! That was... that was incredible. I want more."

They all start to speak at once, their voices a chorus of greedy demands.

"More, toy!"

"Don't tell me you're finished!"

"You’ve got more in there for us, don't you?"

"Come on, freak, give us another load!"

Wonyoung silences them with a raised hand. She leans close to you again, that imperious glint back in her eyes, her gaze dropping to your still-throbbing erection. Her hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around your slick shaft. "You heard them," she says. "They're not satisfied. And frankly," she gives your cock a slow, deliberate stroke, "neither am I."

Her other hand comes up, and with a speed that surprises you, she delivers a sharp, stinging slap right across the head of your dick. A choked gasp tears from your lips, your hips instinctively jerking. The pain is shocking, but it’s instantly followed by a wave of intense, almost unbearable pleasure. Your cock pulses violently in her grip.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" Wonyoung sneers. "Like being roughed up a little? Like being reminded you’re just our fuck-meat?" Another slap, harder this time, landing on the already hypersensitive tip. You cry out, a raw, helpless sound.

"Answer me, slut!" she barks.

"Y-yes," you gasp out, shame and arousal warring within you. "Yes, I like it..."

"Pathetic," she spits, but her lips are curved into a satisfied smile. She continues to stroke you with one hand, her rhythm firm and steady, while the other delivers a relentless series of slaps. Each impact sends jolts of pure, agonizing pleasure through your system. Your balls are tightening again, an impossible ache building deep inside. The girls are watching, breathless, their faces a mixture of shock and intense arousal. Yuna is openly touching herself, her fingers disappearing between her cum-smeared thighs. Sullyoon is biting her lip so hard it’s a wonder it’s not bleeding. Karina is just staring, her mouth slightly agape.

"Beg for it," Wonyoung commands, her strokes becoming faster, her slaps more precise, each one aimed at the most sensitive parts of your cock. "Beg me to let you cum again, you disgusting freak."

"Please," you groan, "Please, Wonyoung... let me cum... I need to..."

SMACK! This one is directly on the slit, a brutal, stinging impact.

Your vision explodes in white light. You can’t hold it back any longer.

With a strangled scream, you erupt again. It’s not the voluminous flood from before, but it’s thick, ropy, and impossibly potent, shooting out in desperate, pulsing spurts.

Wonyoung doesn’t flinch, doesn't stop stroking, doesn’t stop slapping. She just watches, a terrifyingly beautiful goddess of pleasure and pain, as your second load sprays across her hand, her arm, adding to the sticky mess already coating her.

The other girls cry out in unison, scrambling closer, mouths open, hands outstretched, desperate to catch any stray drops. Yuna manages to get her mouth under the stream for a moment, swallowing greedily, while Sullyoon and Karina try to catch the ropes of semen on their tongues, their faces eager and flushed.

It goes on and on, your body wracked with spasms, your mind completely gone, lost in a whirlwind of humiliation and ecstasy. More slaps, more strokes, more cum, until you’re utterly, completely drained, gasping for air, your vision blurry.

They’re all around you, closer now, their bodies slick and gleaming, their faces alight with a primal satisfaction. Wonyoung finally lets go of your now semi-flaccid, thoroughly abused cock, a triumphant smirk on her lips.

"Good boy," she purrs, wiping a fresh glob of your cum from her cheek and licking it from her fingers. "You finally learned how to be useful."

Instead of rushing to clean up properly, they start playing. Yuna, giggling like a maniac, licks a thick glob of your cum from Sullyoon’s small, firm breast. "Mmm, salty," she declares, then dives in to suckle the nipple, her tongue swirling. Sullyoon moans, arching into it, her hands coming up to smear more of your sticky seed from her stomach onto Yuna’s cheek.

"You’re such a nasty whore, Yuna." Sullyoon laughs.

Karina, looking dazed but with a soft smile playing on her lips, tentatively licks a streak of cum from her own arm. Wonyoung watches them for a moment, a rare, almost fond smirk on her face, before she grabs Karina’s wrist. "Don't waste it, idiot," she says, then pulls Karina’s hand to her own mouth, licking the cum from Karina's skin with slow, deliberate strokes of her tongue, her eyes daring Karina to react. Karina just shivers, her cheeks flushing a deeper red.

It’s an insane, beautiful, disgusting sight. Four of the most lusted-after women on the planet, acting like depraved sluts, covered head-to-toe in your fucking seed.

Your legs finally give out. You collapse onto the massive bed, your body a dead weight, every muscle screaming in protest. Exhaustion hits hard a deep, boneless fatigue that makes even breathing feel like an effort.

One by one, the girls, still sticky and laughing, crawl onto the bed around you, their combined weight making the mattress sag. They’re not careful, their cum-smeared bodies pressing against you, against the pristine grey duvet, leaving wet, pearly patches everywhere. Yuna flops down beside you, throwing a sticky arm over your chest. Sullyoon curls up on your other side, resting her head on your shoulder, her hair damp with sweat and semen. Karina hesitates, then slowly settles at the foot of the bed, leaning against your legs. Wonyoung, of course, perches at the head, looking down at all of you like a queen surveying her messy, sated kingdom.

"I... I can't believe this actually happened," you manage to croak out.

Karina looks at you, her eyes soft, a genuine concern in them. "Are you... are you good? You look wrecked."

"Yeah," you sigh, your head lolling to the side. "Just... exhausted. Completely fucking drained."

"Aren't we all," Yuna groans, nuzzling her face into your chest. "But holy shit, that was... incredible. Best night of my life, no joke."

Sullyoon nods against your shoulder. "Definitely the most... memorable."

"I think... I think it was worth it after all, having been deceived by Karina just to be used by you, girls," you admit, a tired smile touching your lips as you look at Karina.

Karina’s expression flickers. "You’re... you’re not mad? That I tricked you? Lied to you?"

Before you can answer, Wonyoung cuts in. "Mad? He should be on his fucking knees thanking us. Grateful that he had the privilege of spending a night with us, serving a purpose. Most losers only dream of this, and he got to live it. He got to empty his pathetic balls into K-pop royalty."

Yuna and Sullyoon murmur their agreement. "She's right, you know," Yuna says, patting your cheek with a sticky hand. "You hit the jackpot, toy."

"So, how's that pretty little ass of yours feeling, Jimin?" Wonyoung asks, her gaze shifting to Karina, a cruel amusement dancing in her eyes.

Karina shifts uncomfortably, wincing. "It’s... burning. A lot. Like, really a lot."

"Good," Wonyoung says, utterly unsympathetic. "It'll hurt even more tomorrow. And the day after that. Maybe then you'll learn your lesson about exaggerating dick sizes to me. Or lying in general."

Karina sighs, a weary sound that’s tinged with exasperation. "You’re a fucking maniac, Wonyoung. You know that, right?"

Wonyoung’s smile is pure, unadulterated wickedness. "Yes, I do," she purrs. "A total, unrepentant maniac. But," she spreads her arms, gesturing to the cum-soaked bed, the exhausted bodies, the lingering scent of raw sex, "I also organize the best group sex you’ll ever have. And all you bitches fucking love it."

Yuna pushes herself up on her elbows. "Fuck yes, we do, Queen Wony!" she practically screams. "Holy shit, this was… this was next level. I thought I knew what good dick was, but this," she gestures vaguely towards your groin with a cum-stained hand, "this little freak that Karina brought us? And everything you made us do to him? And what you made him do to us?" She shivers, a full-body tremor. "My cunt is still twitching just thinking about it. My face is a glazed fucking donut of his spunk, and I've never felt hotter. You're a goddamn visionary, Wonyoung. A cruel, twisted, dick-obsessed visionary, and I fucking worship you for it!" She collapses back onto you with a happy sigh, nuzzling her sticky face into your neck.

Sullyoon, curled beside you, nods slowly. "She's right, Wony.” Her fingers, still tracing absentminded patterns on your cum-smeared arm, tighten slightly. "I… I’ve never experienced anything like tonight. Ever." A shy, almost guilty smile touches her lips. "When you… when you made him put his hand on my throat while he was… inside me… and then when Karina was screaming while you plugged her…" She shudders, a different kind of tremor, one of pure, overwhelmed ecstasy. "It was terrifying. And so, so fucking hot. I came so hard I thought I was going to pass out. And watching him… watching him just explode all over us…" Her eyes flick down to your crotch, then back to Wonyoung, wide and adoring. "You… you really do know how to throw a party, Wony. The best, nastiest, most unforgettable party."

"She's… she’s not wrong," Karina admits. "I thought… when you first told me your plan… I thought you were insane. Actually insane." A small, shaky laugh escapes her. "And when you made me… when he was in my ass… I thought I was going to die. It hurt so much." Her hand instinctively goes to her still-tender backside. "But then… when I came…" Her voice breaks, and she has to swallow hard before continuing. "It was… it was the most intense thing I’ve ever felt. Like my whole body just… shattered. And then watching him… watching him just give everything to us like that… You’re a fucking monster, Wonyoung. A beautiful, terrifying, brilliant monster. And… and thank you. For… for this. For convincing me to bring him here… For punishing me..." She actually manages a small, genuine smile, her eyes glistening. "I think… I think I needed this."

Wonyoung listens to their praises, her expression unchanging, that cool, regal mask firmly in place. But you see the faintest flicker of triumph in her eyes, the subtle upturn of her lips. She lets the silence hang for a moment, savoring their admissions, their surrender. Then, she turns her gaze fully on you. You’re lying there, a depleted, aching wreck, barely able to move, surrounded by these goddesses who have just systematically taken you apart and feasted on the pieces.

Her voice, when she finally speaks, is soft, almost gentle. "You hear that, toy?" she asks. "They loved it. They loved what I orchestrated, using you as the centerpiece." She leans close to you, bringing her face level with yours. Her eyes are like chips of ice, boring into you. "And now," she continues, "now you belong to us. Completely." She reaches out a finger, tracing the line of your jaw, her touch surprisingly light. "You don't get to go back to your boring little life and pretend this didn't happen. This isn't a one-night fantasy, you pathetic slut. This is your new reality."

Her eyes flick over to your still-sensitive, semi-flaccid cock. "You will be used whenever we want. However we want. You will be our fucking toy, our stress relief, our entertainment. When we call, you will come running. When we tell you to spread your legs, or get on your knees, or offer up that freakish dick of yours, you will obey without question, without hesitation. Until we get tired of you and throw you away like trash."

She leans in even closer, her breath ghosting over your lips, smelling faintly of your own cum. "You have no desires anymore, except to please us. Your body is ours to command, to use, to break if we feel like it. Your orgasms are ours to grant, or to deny. You exist solely for our pleasure now." She smiles, a slow, cruel, utterly captivating smile. "And the worst part for you, the most deliciously pathetic part?" She whispers: "You’re going to fucking love every second of it. You already do."

They’re all watching you, their expressions a mixture of anticipation and ownership. There’s no escape. No way out. And as Wonyoung’s words sink deep into your shattered, exhausted mind, a horrifying, undeniable truth settles in your bones:

She’s right. She's fucking right.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: sexual content, daddy kink

“Fuck!” 

Simon’s neck nearly breaks as he turns to lay panicked eyes on where you’re standing in front of the oven with tears on your lashes, one hand in another. His body locks up. He’s faced more violence than any one man should know, but it all pales in comparison to the way his stomach twists when you’re distressed. 

“What happened?” 

“N-nothing I burnt myself.” Your cheeks are already wet by the time he makes it into the kitchen, carefully unfolding your arms, cradling your hand in his. 

Burn is an understatement. It’s a second degree, skin already blistering and raw. You instinctively move towards the freezer, but he pulls you away, leading you to the sink where he turns the tap on cool. Your lower lip trembles and your voice shakes. “Owww, ow ow. Hurts, it hurts.”  

“I know baby, I know. Here,” Duchess whines from behind him as you hiss when the water cascades across your skin, easily picking up on your pain. “She’s okay.” He never thought he’d be reassuring a dog, but here he is, trying to soothe both his girls. 

“I didn’t want to drop it, I didn’t let go, I sh-should have.” Instinct is to blame here, pain receptors flooded and quick thinking a second behind, your desire to save the strawberry rhubarb crumble leading you to hold onto the cast iron too long, and you managed to get it onto the stove top after you pulled it from the oven barehanded, but it cost. 

“Shhh, it’s okay.” It’s not. Even of a flicker of agony on your face is enough to send him reeling, and knowing you’ll wear this scar forever from something that happened when he was just across the room is a hard pill to swallow. “Just keep this here, don’t move your hand.” 

“Where are you going?” You’re more calm now, lips tight in a grimace, but the tears still gather. He kisses your forehead. 

“We need a washcloth. Stay right here.” 

He keeps you against his chest, cool washcloth folded over the palm of your hand as you snuffle into his sweatshirt, curled up with him on the couch, tears dried, burn throbbing. Poor baby. 

He knows why you didn’t want to let it go. You hand picked these strawberries from a local farm, painstakingly selecting each one as he followed behind you, a hulking shadow nearly blotting out the sun. It’s such a contrast. A brilliant, bright little berry girl and her reaper, a harbinger of death, her daddy.

He’ll be whoever he has to be now, to keep you happy and safe. Nothing else matters. 

And that’s how he found himself on his neighbor’s porch, ringing their doorbell to explain how you saw their rhubarb plant in their backyard and pleaded with him to let you go over and ask if you can cut some. They’ve only ever seen him in passing, and quite frankly, they looked a bit horrified at the sight of him. 

That didn't matter either. As long as they said yes. 

“Never had rhubarb before.” He’s holding your hips, his chest to your back as you lean over the sink, scrubbing the pink red stalks clean. 

“Never?” 

“Nope,” he hums it into the top of your head, and you fidget against him, pressing back against his cock. 

“O-oh. Is… are you…” His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, stroking over your panties. 

“What does it taste like?” 

“Um, it’s… sour.” You gasp when he slips inside the already slick cotton, skimming your swollen clit. “But when it’s ca-ca-caramelized it’s- ah-” Slow circles send shivers up your spine and you grind against him, looking for more, for rhythm. 

“It’s what baby? Tell daddy.” His heat against yours, body on yours, all of it goes to his head, gives him tunnel vision. It’s all about you, everything, always, forever. Til death do you part, even if you don’t understand yet. 

“It’s like a swe-sweet tart. It’s good with- with uh… um,” he slips inside you, one finger then two, nipping your neck as your head tips back. It doesn’t take much to bring you close, your inexperience leaves him plenty of room to learn what’s best, read your movements and translate your sounds. 

“With?” You shake your head in denial, and a devilish smirk twists his lips. 

“Daddy please.” You’re shifting your weight, restlessly chasing, forcing him to hold you still, his mouth on your ear. 

“What do you want sweet girl? What is it?” 

“Come, make me c-come please.” 

“Hmm.” He steps away, uses his foot to spread yours apart, and you try to step away, confused. “Be still.” Your sweatpants and underwear are down to your ankles next, and he’s folding you at the waist, your cheek flush with the kitchen counter. 

Pretty. So pretty. Pussy soaked, on display, little clit throbbing. 

He sinks to his knees and spreads you wide, exposing everything while you gasp. “Look at you, little girl. So desperate to come.” 

“Yes,” you breathe, clinging to the edge of the counter, elbows upward. The trembling precipice of anticipation makes your muscles quiver, and he lets you sit in it for a moment, linger in the uncertainty- 

Before finally burying his face in you. 

“Daddy?” Your voice is small, sleepy. He’s given you some naproxen, trying to dull the pain, and the ordeal has tired you out. 

“Hmm?” 

“Am I gonna have a scar?” You’re blinking at the offending injury, mouth turned down, and he sighs, tucking you in closer. 

“I think so. It’s a second degree, sweetheart. But it will heal, and that’s most important. You won’t have nerve damage.” That was his biggest concern, especially considering where it is, but after inspecting it, the skin, the blister, the depth, he’s confident you won’t lose any feeling there. 

“I won’t?” 

“I don’t think so.” He knows well enough, how much it takes to damage the nerves. To make them obsolete. He’s got the marks all over to prove it. You relax, snuggling back into his chest. 

“At least I saved it.” 

“And earned yourself a spanking.” He warns immediately, and your eyes fly open. 

“I didn’t do anything!” 

“You hurt yourself to save a pie.” 

“A crumble daddy, it’s a crumble.” He raises an eyebrow, and you look away sheepishly. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay baby, but you did earn a punishment. Didn’t you?” You nod. He knows you’re well aware of the broken rule, but he’s not going to dive into it right now, your agreement, the recognition is enough. 

“Yes daddy.” 

[i-love-ptv]

Stacy’s Mom Has Got It Goin’ On ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣

Pairing: Husband!Rafe Cameron x Soccer-mom!Wife!Reader

It’s not easy being a soccer-mom, especially when dads hit on you at every game as if you’re not married to Rafe.

Wc: 1,596

Fluff, Protective Rafe making an appearance, kinda pushy guy (idk what to say)

An: I’ve really wanted to write a fic based on this song, and this idea randomly popped into my head so! Am I using the names I wanna name my kids? Yes, yes I am.

Not proofread tbh

Feedback always appreciated lovelies!! xx

“I’ll be back, ‘mkay doll?”

You hum in acknowledgement, eyes peering back at the field after looking up.

Your husband, Rafe, leant down and places a firm kiss on your forehead.

“Yeahhh, Daddy’s gonna be back, baby.” Rafe coos at your two year old, who was sitting on your lap, babbling freely while peering at him with her big doe eyes.

Rafe walks off the bleachers in search of the concession stand to buy food for the three of you.

You brush your hand over your young daughter’s head, making sure her somewhat oversized hat is still covering her head entirely. Her hand wraps around your index finger.

It was oddly humid today, if you continued moving, you’d break a slight sweat. You can't even imagine what your daughter—Stacy must be feeling, running around on the large grassy field under the beaming bright sun.

You were proud of your baby girl though, nonetheless. And so was Rafe, of course.

You shout loudly when you notice the game is about to start, bellowing out a “Go Stacy!”

Stacy’s eyes easily found yours, for you and Rafe would always sit in the same spot on the bleachers.

Her eyes were slightly wide due to your shout, despite you and Rafe always cheering for her during her games.

She’s motioning for you to ‘shh’, putting her fingers to her lips before getting into her position.

“Which one’s yours?” You hear to the left of you, the unknown voice makes you tear your eyes away from the field.

You smile shortly at the unfamiliar man next to you, “Number 22.”

You can’t help but notice how he’s rather scruffy looking, an odd contrast to your upkept husband with his neatly buzzed hair.

“Mine’s number 13.” He says, flashing his teeth at you.

You gasp and shoot up a little, making you look down at your daughter on your lap. “Valerie’s yours? Oh she’s just the sweetest!”

The man chuckles, looking deeply in your eyes. This makes your eyebrows raise, slightly in confusion, but mostly in discomfort.

He hadn’t done anything out of the norm, you’d randomly talk to the other moms around too, but something about him made you uncomfortable.

“My name's Brandon, and yours?”

You introduce yourself briefly, before turning back towards the game.

His eyes dart to your left hand, looking for a ring, for any indication that you belong to someone else. He smiles sharply when he finds your fingers bare. This goes unnoticed by you.

Little does he know, you do have your ring on, just around your neck.

Your biggest fear was your youngest accidentally pulling off your ring, resulting in you losing it. Or, even worse: it pokes her eye or something of that nature.

You suppose you could be considered a ‘Helicopter-mom’ at times, simply going to the extremes to make sure your kids are happy and healthy at every point in time.

Rafe is the exact same way, maybe even a little worse. But you knew he was just protective, he loves this life that he has with you, since he had no idea the two of you would’ve been together for so long.

You had started dating Rafe when you were 18 and he was 19. It was good for the first few months, disregarding the few arguments that you had. But then, you had caught Rafe doing cocaine.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to shake the look on his face from your memory.

You weren’t supposed to be at the party, you said you were busy filling out college applications.

So when he was mid-line, and he saw you standing there all dolled up, watching him with glossy eyes, he felt his heart shatter into pieces.

You weren’t supposed to find out, he wanted to keep this away from you, to keep you close to him.

He promised that he would try and stay sober for you, but eventually he’d give in every time the opportunity was in front of him. This resulted in several arguments, and surprisingly, a break up.

But things are different now. You both are in your 30’s, you got married, and of course, had two beautiful babies together.

Rafe knew he’d be crazy to fuck things up now, when he has the perfect life right in front of him.

Speaking of which; you’re really starting to wonder what the hell is taking him so long just to get some goddamn hotdogs and drinks.

You’re bouncing your knee anxiously, which makes your daughter giggle. You wish she wasn’t finding this amusing, but you know she can’t help it.

“Well who’s this cute girl, huh?” The man coos, tickling your daughter’s side.

“Her name is Noelle.” You huff, your mood quickly shifting due to this stranger touching your daughter.

He lets out another chuckle, you wish you never had to hear it again. “Sounds like you’re quoting Teenage Dirtbag to me.”

You give him a pointed look, you’re really getting sick of his pestering. “That’s where I got it from.”

Abruptly, the crowd starts cheering madly. You look around and see Stacy's team celebrating briefly; they had just scored a goal.

You cheer and clap, grabbing Noelle’s chubby hands and making her raise her arms wildly while giggling with her.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we could-” Before Brandon could finish his sentence, none other than Rafe Cameron comes stomping up the bleachers, huffing and puffing angrily.

He sits down and sighs, “God, I’m sorry babe. The line was so long! I swear I’m going grey right now.”

“And I missed the goddamn play!” Rafe exclaims. He looks over at you and immediately goes quiet once he sees those wide baby eyes that look at him curiously.

“Da?” Noelle mutters, reaching her tiny hands towards Rafe’s larger ones.

“Yeah. Da’s here babygirl, do you want your food? Huh sweet girl?”

Rafe hands you your food, setting his food aside so he can put Noelle in his lap. He begins to split half his hotdog in pieces for her.

You glance to the left, you notice Brandon looking like a fish out of water.

Rafe is the CEO of one of, if not the biggest business company around. And Brandon had just borderline harassed his wife, who was holding his child.

Brandon sneers at the two of you in silence while the game continues, nearly boiling at the fact that he couldn’t have you.

Your head is laying on Rafe’s shoulders, you’re rubbing circles on Noelle’s shoulder as she settles down.

“Everything alright babe?” Rafe asks, trying to peer down at your face.

You untuck your necklace with your wedding ring from your shirt, fiddling with it. “Yeah, now that you’re here Ray.”

There’s silence between the two of you for a few seconds.

“…What does that mean?”

You hesitate to answer, but you do regardless, “Nothing! It’s just uh..That guy next to me, was kinda like hassling me I guess.”

This makes Rafe straighten his back.

“He do somethin’ to you doll?” Rafe questions in a whisper. You know you have about 30 seconds to try and calm him down before he’s banned from every soccer game left in the season.

“No, okay? I’m fine, it’s cool. I need you to calm down Ray.”

Rafe’s nose is flaring, “What about Ellie? Did he touch her?”

You feel your throat closing up, your heart is damn near pounding out of your chest.

You don’t say anything to Rafe, but that look in your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.

You grab his bicep, trying to keep him grounded. Even though he’s changed, some parts of him haven’t.

Rafe speaks lowly in your ear, but not too much to frighten you in any way. “I’ll take care of it, okay? Don’t worry y’pretty little head about it.”

Rafe presses a firm kiss against your cheek, then presses a softer one to your lips.

After 30 more minutes, and 2 more goals, Stacy’s team wins.

You and Rafe cheer loudly, letting out “That’s our baby girl!”

You meet Stacy at the bottom of the bleachers, holding Noelle in your hand as the littlest claps her hands between Stacy’s face.

You’re too busy congratulating your daughter to notice Rafe pulling Brandon aside while his daughter, Valerie is off talking to her friends.

Rafe puts a firm hand on his shoulder, “Hey man.”

Brandon lets out a nervous laugh, “Hey there, Rafe Cameron, right?”

“Yeah, let’s keep this short. I better not see or hear you talking to my wife again, do you hear me? I don’t give a shit what happened.”

Rafe continues shortly, “And keep your fucking hands to yourself, if I find out you touched my either of my daughters again, I swear to God himself I’ll put you under.”

The two men are holding eye contact, one looks with confidence and borderline rage, while the other looks with fear.

Rafe walks down the bleachers, meeting you and your girls.

“You were amazing out there sweetheart!” Rafe smiles while pulling Stacy into a bear hug.

“Jesus dad, you’re crushing me!” Stacy laughs with a slight wheeze.

Rafe ruffles her hair and puts his arm around your neck.

“All good to go?”

You nod your head, and with that, the four of you begin to walk to Rafe’s parked car.

Rafe realizes that this isn’t the first time you’ve been hit on at a soccer game, or anywhere in fact. And this definitely won’t be the last.

Cause everybody’s in love with Stacy’s mom.

[rafesangelita]

♡ when dilf!rafe and bunny!reader first met

warnings: suggestive language

a/n: inspired by this gif — it’s soooo dilf!rafe and bunny coded, i just had to include it in so y’all could get my visual.. and also feel free to read more about dilf!rafe x housebunny!reader here ! leave req’s or discussion posts about them in my ask box, these two are one of my fav au’s to write for!!

sipping on an ice water, you hummed sweetly as the breeze from your little handheld fan blew gently through your hair, the chilly air providing you with some form of relief against the blazing outer banks sun. you had been out here on the golf course for about three hours now, the fanny pack hugging your hips already filled with crispy blue hundreds from the wealthy patrons of the country club. having met your money goal for the day, you decided a break was deemed necessary, considering you still had a few hours left until you were able to clock out.

it wasn’t until you spotted a group of men swinging their golf clubs far off in the distance, that you decided to make your way over there, plastering on your pretty smile that never failed to make the men empty their wallets to you. one of the men had turned around at the sound of the soft hum of the golf cart engine, the other two following suit as you stepped off, the zipper of your baby pink lululemon jacket zipped down just far enough to expose your cleavage and the dainty little tiffany and co. heart pendant on your necklace. “hi, there!” you chirped, “my goodness, everyone here looks like they can use a drink..”

at your flirtatious tone, the guys exchanged suggestive looks with each other before a certain one with cerulean eyes caught your attention. he gave you a once over, his jaw clenching as you bent over to grab the flavored liqueurs you had in stock. he was so tall, his broad shoulders alone made your imagination run wild as you pictured your nails digging into his flesh, his sharp facial features causing an influx of butterflies to flutter in your tummy. “you’re a lifesaver, bunny.” topper, the man you recognized from yesterday, was quick to give you his drink order, both of you making small talk as rafe watched you intently.

he waited until kelce and topper disappeared back to their original spots before finally towering over you, a surprised gasp leaving your lips when you turned around and found yourself face to face with the man you shamelessly imagined yourself getting fucked by. “i’ve never seen you around here before.” his voice was low as he spoke, almost as if he knew what you were thinking and he was teasing you for it. “this is my second day on the course..” you trailed off, your cheeks heating as the space between you two lessened. rafe loved seeing how nervous you grew under his stare, a smug grin gracing his lips as you lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“how’s it going?” he adjusted the cap on his head, the gold ring on his index finger glinting underneath the sunlight. despite making really good money at the country club, you knew this job wasn’t something you could see yourself doing long term. “it’s alright.. it wasn’t my first choice but it’s funding my shopping sprees so far, sooo.. good enough!” at the mention of shopping sprees, rafe cleared his throat. “what was your first choice?” he asked, taking a sip from the alcohol in his cup as you started twirling the ends of your hair. “well, i was nannying on the mainland, so i was hoping to do the same thing when i decided to move here, but i just haven’t had much luck..”

it was like a lightbulb went off in rafe’s head, his eyes flickering down to your glossy lips. “no, shit? you know your way around a house?” you nodded, your lashes fluttering up at him as he decided right then and there that you were going to go home with him. “my son is actually out of the house right now for school, but i would love to have someone there to maintain things for me.. maybe even meal prep or just have dinner ready for me when i get home from work?” you smiled sweetly, looking past him to see topper and kelce already packing up their equipment. “i would love to do that for you.” that statement was like music to rafe’s ears.

“yeah? can you start right now?” you gasped when rafe took your wrist, spinning you around so his frontside was completely flushed against your ass. making sure the guys were gone, and there was no one else around to see you two in this compromising position, rafe rested his chin in the curve of your neck before whispering in your ear. “you’re the prettiest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever seen.” his hand snaked around your waist, a shiver running down your spine as he slipped his fingers underneath your skirt and cupped you just in time for you to reach back and palm him through his pants.

“let’s get out of here, i’ll give you a house tour once i’m done breaking you in.”

[marvelstoriesepic]

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends? — Part Five

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: A chance encounter offers a break from your tangled thoughts about Azriel. Meanwhile, Az reaches a pivotal realization.

Warnings: training, sparring and weapon use, severe overthinking, longing, brief use of recreational drugs (lovely 'mirthroot')

Word Count: 7.1k

Part Four | Series Masterlist | Part Six

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Even in the early hours, the heat was suffocating. 

You’d been half-tempted to cancel on Mor, to crawl back under the covers and enjoy the blissful cool of your room. But you knew better. Mor would’ve winnowed straight into your bedroom, dragged you out of bed, and reminded you that you’d made a promise. 

So now, here you were, on the training grounds, sweat already collecting at your brow, watching Azriel and Cassian spar on the far side.

Both of the males were dressed in their usual head-to-toe leathers, though Cassian seemed just as bothered by the weather as you. You’d noticed he’d trained shirtless more often lately, something you attributed to the presence of his mate, but today he was fully covered. It probably had something to do with the steady, focused gaze Az held. Something to be cautious of. Wary. 

Unlike his brother, Azriel’s expression was detached, as if the sun didn’t touch him at all— like he was completely unbothered by the sweltering heat. His wings shifted slightly against the back of his leathers, but that was the extent of his discomfort, if any. 

You’d never visited Illyria in the summer months, never experienced the full brutality of its heat. Perhaps it was there, under that oppressive sun, that Azriel had learned to manage heat in such attire. But, then again, Az was entirely too skilled at masking what he actually felt.

Something about him, now before you, made you want to continue staring—his wings, the way his body moved with the smoothness of a predator, the effortless strength in the curve of his form. Lately, everything about Azriel had been doing that— distracting you. Overwhelming you. Calling to you like a siren song. His voice, his smile, the way he moved.

A laugh from Mor pulled you from your thoughts.

"It’s a shame the healing balm worked so well," Her voice teased from behind you. You turned at the sound, watching as she tossed a sword from one hand to the other with an ease that was almost poetic. "Seeing you turned me into a softie, you know.  All those bruises and that pouty face— I had to go easy because I felt bad for you.”

You snorted, catching the blade she tossed your way. "Oh, so that’s the only reason I beat you last week? Because you were going easy on me?"

Her grin widened. “Yeah. But Runa got too many hits on you. You’re rusty. So maybe I’m not doing you any favors by going easy." She raised an eyebrow. "Maybe Cassian’s been going too easy on you, too."

“Or maybe,” you shot back, stepping into the ring, “I was just going easy on a citizen.”

Mor’s laugh was loud and unapologetic as she followed you. "You’re saying that like you didn’t know exactly who she was when you threw the first punch."

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you squared up to her. “Okay, can we maybe stop reminiscing over my recent regrettable actions? Please?”

“Never.” She slid into a stance with ease. “But if you beat me, I’ll stop laughing about it for a week.”

“Only a week?”

“That’s all you’ll get, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, lips still curved in a grin. “Fine. Deal.”

And then, without hesitation, Mor lunged. Your blades collided with a sharp ring, the sound vibrating up your arms. You let the adrenaline of the fight pull you out of your thoughts, focusing on the female in front of you.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that before anything else, Morrigan was a warrior. Graceful, clever, and impossibly skilled. The kind of fighter who didn’t rely on brute strength but on speed, precision, and an uncanny ability to read her opponent. Skills she’d learnt to outmaneuver and beat males that may have been twice her size, twice her age. And if you looked hard enough, past her glittering makeup and the plethora of gold jewelry she adorned, you’d notice the scars scattered across her body, small slices from knives and swords that didn’t have enough time to heal during the first war. 

Mor didn’t hold back, her strikes coming faster, sharper, until your muscles burned from the effort of keeping up.

From across the ring, Cassian’s booming laugh carried over, followed by what sounded like a gruff remark from Azriel. You glanced over almost instinctively, your eyes following the movement of Az’s shadows. They twisted around him, stretching into the shaded spaces between Cassian’s body and the ground, curling around the general’s feet in an attempt to constrict his movements.

Mor’s grin widened as she caught your sword mid-swing. “You’re distracted,” she said.

You twisted to break free, stubbornly meeting her gaze. “Am not.”

You tried to return to the rhythm of the fight, but Mor was right. You were distracted. Every glance in Azriel’s direction made your heart race, your mind spiral. Even from across the yard, you could feel the heat of his presence. It threw you off balance. And before you knew it, Mor disarmed you, sending you crashing to the ground with a grunt.

“Like I said,” she hummed, smirking as she extended a hand to help you up. “Distracted.”

“Maybe a bit.” You winced, rolling your shoulders as you stood straight. “I have too much on my mind. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Mor tilted her head. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head, wiping at the sweat on your brow. “That’s the last thing I want to do, actually.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing you before she nodded. “Well, we just got some new weapons last week—I’ve been dying to test them out.”

You raised a brow. “What kind of weapons?”

Mor shrugged. “Not sure. Rhys says they’re lighter. I think you’ll like them.” She grabbed your discarded sword, tossing both it and hers onto the rack with ease. “You’re too cautious for a regular sword anyway. You don’t like getting hit.”

“No one likes getting hit.”

“True,” she said, laughing slightly as she bumped your shoulder. “But you’re smart about it. Always letting them exhaust themselves first.”

“Go get them,” you nodded to her. “I want to try them out.”

Mor grinned. “Good. Then I can start kicking your ass with them, too.”

She turned to leave, and you watched her go, ready to grab some water. But then, just as you were about to turn, you felt it—a presence behind you. You knew it in your bones, from the soft breeze you swore his shadows danced in, that it was Azriel. Still, when you turned and saw him standing there, you felt unprepared, like something in your chest tightened, hot and sharp, like heartburn. You shoved it down, burying it deeper, just like you had been doing all week.

He raised an eyebrow at you.  “You’re really gonna let her beat you like that?”

You ran a hand over your face, trying to settle your racing pulse. “What can I say, it’s been an off couple of weeks.”

It was hard not to notice how close he stood, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, pushing the air around you in a way that made it harder to breathe.

“Yeah,” Azriel glanced at you, and his expression softened just a fraction. “Are you okay? I mean, now?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just hot. Overwhelmed.”

He studied you, his brow slightly furrowed, but there was something else behind it. Something he wasn’t saying.

“You can’t possibly be comfortable,” you said, gesturing at his leathers. “Aren’t you boiling alive?”

Azriel tilted his head as if considering your question, then replied evenly, “I’m alright.”

“You’re lying,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him. “You have to be.”

That earned you a faint smile, a quick twitch of his lips that you might have missed if you weren’t already watching him too closely.

“You’re welcome to try them on,” he said smoothly. “See how they feel.”

You blinked, a small flutter echoing in your chest at the teasing edge in his voice. You frowned and said to him, “I’m wearing the exact same thing as you.”

“Mine are different.” His smile tugged again. “They’re cooling leathers.”

“Really? That's a thing?”

The look he gave you— a mix of amusement and something else— told you everything you needed to know. You scowled at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re messing with me.”

When your eyes met his again, they were practically glowing in amusement. He shrugged, and his shadows seemed to dance with the motion— still clinging close to him, hiding from the sun, but seemingly content despite it. He gave you a quick, warm smile— as if he were afraid for the rest of the public to see.

“I am,” he replied, leaning closer. “My leathers are, sadly, just as basic as yours.”

The sunlight caught in his hair when he stood like this, painting it with faint golden streaks. Along with your growing frustration at the heat, your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sight of him. You fanned your face with one hand, trying to ignore the ache building in your chest. You blamed the sun for making it tight. 

You suddenly became aware of your presentation—of the disheveled way you must have looked. Your hair had fallen loose during the sparring with Mor, strands clinging to the sweat at your neck, a messy halo around your face. You reached back, gathering it in both hands, attempting to tighten the hold of your hair tie. As you twisted it around, the elastic snapped, the sharp sting of it flicking against your skin.

“Shit.”

A quiet sigh left you as the broken tie dangled uselessly from your fingers. Of course. As if you didn’t already feel like disaster enough. You pushed your hair back again, fingers combing through the tangled strands, debating whether to leave it down or try to secure it with something else.

You realized, quickly, that perhaps this small inconvenience was a blessing in disguise— a reason to walk away from the conversation, to regain control of your scattered thoughts. You opened your mouth to excuse yourself, to say you needed to go put your hair up, but before you could, Azriel spoke.

“Wait.”

You paused, turning back toward him as he reached into one of the hidden pockets of his leathers. When he pulled out a hair tie, your eyebrows shot up.

“What—”

Azriel’s expression was uncharacteristically sheepish as he handed it over. “You always wear the same one. I noticed the band was wearing out. It was only a matter of time before it broke.”

“You… noticed that?”

His shadows shifted around him, curling between you two, and he subtly gestured toward them with his chin. “They did.”

Your fingers closed around the band as you stared at him. “So you’ve been carrying this around just in case?”

He nodded and you blinked at him, unsure if you should laugh or melt into the floor. “That… is very considerate of you.”

Az glanced at you, quiet for a moment, before he replied. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to snap and pick a fight with someone because you're overstimulated with your hair clinging to your skin. I’m just trying to protect the public.”

You rolled your eyes at that, though the thought of your family endlessly reminding you of your actions over the past few weeks made the corners of your mouth twitch. The infamous calm you’d prided yourself on—gone. You’d be hearing about your fight with a citizen for at least the next century.

“Shut up,” you said, but your heart still stuttered painfully. “But, also, thank you,” you added, focusing on twisting your hair into a knot to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Better?”

Your throat felt tight as you looked up once more, meeting his molten gaze. “Yeah,” you said. “Better.”

Azriel nodded, stepping back to give you space again. But you caught the faint curve of his lips, the small, quiet smile that made your chest ache.

You felt some relief as the wind ruffled your now-updo, but your thoughts circled.

Azriel had proven to be a male of his word. He’d spent the past two weeks showing you, in every way he could, that he was sorry. It wasn’t loud or showy—Azriel never was—but his apology seeped into the small, thoughtful things he did. Helping with reports, lighting your room’s fireplace when it got too cold. Nothing demanding, but everything that proved he was trying.

It almost felt normal again, like you and Azriel had fallen back into your usual rhythm. Your routine. 

Almost.

“Good luck,” Azriel said, nodding toward where Mor was returning with the new weapons. He leaned in slowly, his shadows drifting between your shoulders, curling in the pocket of shadow created by your closeness. “And, if you want… we can go flying afterward. To celebrate you beating Mor.”

The idea of being so close to him, of having him hold you to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against yours as he carried you, made your stomach churn, made you feel nauseous. Nervous. But you nodded anyway, smiled like it was just another plan, like old times. It felt tight. Diplomatic. 

“Okay,” you managed to say.

Azriel smiled, and you heard Mor’s voice asking what you were conspiratorially talking about. You didn’t answer, didn’t bother to pay attention if Azriel answered, either. The new, sleek steel weapons she’d returned with felt different in your hands. Lighter, faster. Mor had been right—these suited you better. But it didn’t matter. You were too lost in your head, too tangled in your thoughts.

Even if Mor had kept her eyes closed, she still would’ve won the next fight. You weren’t focused enough to stand a chance. There was a brief, confused look in her eyes when she realized how easily she’d taken you down once again.  But she didn’t press, not even as you yielded for the day and ran home, slipping into a cool bath with the hope that it would clear your mind of everything that tainted it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You stacked the last of the reports on the living room table, smoothing your palm over the top page before grabbing a scrap of parchment.

Rhys—went through the latest proposals and highlighted the ones most viable. Let me know if you need anything else.

You stuck the note on the pile and stepped back, scanning the work you’d spent the past few weeks compiling.

Rhysand would be by later to go over them with Azriel—discussions about Hewn City’s reformation efforts, the best way to bridge the centuries-old divide between the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams. You’d done your best to outline a path forward, to present the grievances of its citizens in a way Rhysand could use to negotiate.

Your fingers drummed idly against the edge of the table before you caught sight of your wrist. The small hair tie sat there, snug against your skin. And although it was nothing, just a simple band, it felt as if it were burning. You weren’t sure why you were still wearing it—why it wasn’t in a pocket or left in your room, ready to be summoned when needed. You ran your fingers over it, jaw clenching as frustration rose in you, sudden and sharp.

At what, exactly? You didn’t know.

You did know, however, that it was likely related to Azriel.

You’d been avoiding him since the other day at training. Since he’d given you the small elastic now circling your wrist.

It wasn’t intentional, not really, but you’d been thinking too much. Feeling too much. Uncomfortable in your own skin, hyperaware of yourself and Azriel in ways that made your stomach twist. Like pressing against a tender bruise.

The anger you’d been holding onto—the indignation that had burned hot and bright in the aftermath of your fight—faded much faster than you’d expected. You still wanted to be angry, to hold onto the grudge that felt like armor, but Azriel made it impossible. His kindness had chafed against you, rubbing away at the edges of your resentment till all that was left was an overly aware sense of him. Of his presence, his care. His devotion to something as simple as your forgiveness. 

You’d forgiven him within a week, had taken all of his baked goods with open arms, had expressed appreciation for the times his shadows brought you snacks during your late nights with Rhys and Feyre, going over negotiation plans for the reformation efforts. 

But Azriel was being too nice now. Too thoughtful. Too much. And it was starting to wear you down.

You were noticing him in ways that felt deeper, heavier, and far more dangerous. It was overwhelming, this shift in perspective—like seeing him in a new light that illuminated details you’d never thought to look at before. The slope of his shoulders, the way he always seemed to be aware of you, even when he wasn’t looking at you. You felt blinded, too rushed to adjust to this new, backlit version of Azriel.

It stressed you out— made you want to sit down and create a list, sort through the pros and cons like some sort of strategy meeting. Analyze the feelings bubbling in your chest until you could pin them down and find the most equitable, profitable, and logical path forward. The right direction to take.

Realistically, you should wait it out. Let the feelings settle and fade before they could complicate the beautiful, solid friendship you’d built over centuries. You weren’t even sure what you were feeling. You couldn’t risk something so vital over emotions you didn’t fully understand.

The front door clicked open.

You turned at the sound of footsteps, eyes falling on Azriel’s figure as he stepped inside. His hair was a little mussed, dark strands sticking to his forehead like he’d flown through the midday heat. A faint flush tinted his cheeks, and for a moment, you wondered if the sun was still blazing in the midsky—if the warmth on his face was from exertion or simply the sun pressing down on him.

He took two large strides before his hazel eyes landed on you. His expression shifted, then, brightened, as if he hadn’t expected to find you here. The soft tug at the corners of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite, was enough to send your pulse into a sharp, erratic rhythm.

“Hey,” he said, lightly. “You’re home.”

“That I am.” You smiled and met his eyes. “Hi.”

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped farther into the room, something small and wrapped in plain paper in his hand.

“I’m glad I caught you. I have something for you,” he said, holding it out to you.

You blinked, glancing between him and the package. “What is it?”

“Some tea,” he said, his gaze flickering to yours before darting away. “For sleep.”

“For sleep?” you repeated, taking the package carefully, his shadows greeting you with a gentle circle around your wrists.

Azriel nodded, his hand falling to his side. “I noticed the other day. When you were sparring with Mor. You were leaning more on your left. You do that when you’re tired.”

Your chest tightened, your fingers curling instinctively around the package. “It was that noticeable?”

“Yeah,” he said. “ To me at least. I thought this might help.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, the simple thoughtfulness of it wrapping around you like a weight you weren’t ready to carry. You opened the package carefully, revealing a small tin filled with pouches of tea. You swallowed, staring down at the item in your hands.

“Thank you. This is…” You trailed off, your voice failing you. “This is really sweet, Az.”

“Let me know if it helps,” he said, shifting his weight slightly, his wings twitching behind him. “If you like it, I’ll get more.” He gave a small, almost tentative, smile. “Or maybe I’ll try it myself.”

You nodded, clutching the package tighter. “Okay. Yeah. I will.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you. You turned, intending to step away, to put some distance between you and the sudden awkwardness settling in your chest. But as you moved past him, Azriel stepped closer, just enough that the space between you disappeared. For a moment, you were not quite touching, just close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of night-chilled air and cedar.

And then his hand caught yours. When you glanced back at him, his expression had softened, a sense of concern flickering in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, intimate. Like he was sharing a secret despite you both being the only ones in the room. 

Your breath caught. You could see the faint crease in his brow, the way his gaze searched your face like he was trying to find his answer there, in your features. “Yeah,” you said quietly, even though your heart was pounding.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. His thumb brushed over your skin absentmindedly, as it usually did when he soothed you on bad days. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt now, how aware it made you of his touch. “Are we okay?”

You blinked, frowning at his words. “Yeah, of course. Why would you ask that?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I just…I feel like I’ve barely seen you lately.”

“I’ve been busy,” you replied quickly, but the excuse felt hollow even as you said it. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, but something in his tone made you think he didn’t believe you. After a moment, he added, “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” you said after a pause, and it was the truth. You weren’t angry at Azriel, not anymore. It had completely faded, morphed into something else entirely.

You felt guilty about how you'd been acting, how you'd resorted to avoiding him in an effort to make yourself feel better. Because, despite you telling him otherwise, you knew Azriel was interpreting your distance as proof that you were still mad. 

Azriel nodded, but his expression didn’t quite relax. His hand tightened slightly around yours. “But you’d tell me, right? If something was wrong?”

“Of course.”

His gaze softened further, his eyes almost pleading. “Because I always want to know,” he said quietly. “If something’s wrong. I want to know.”

You couldn’t breathe. His hand was still on yours, his thumb brushing soft, slow circles over your skin like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You were going to vomit. You were going to be sick. You had to leave. You had to get out of here before you did something reckless, before you said something you couldn’t take back.

“I know, Az. But, I should… I need to go,” you said, stepping back and gently pulling your hand from his. “I have a lot of errands to run.”

Azriel blinked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Oh. Okay.”

You clutched the package tighter to your chest, avoiding his gaze as you backed toward the door. “Thanks again for this. Really.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then stopped, nodding instead. “Let me know if it helps.”

You nodded quickly, forcing a tight, polite smile before slipping out of the room.

When you made it upstairs, you grabbed a coat, barely paying attention to which one, and were out of the townhouse before you had the chance to run into Azriel again. You didn’t know where you were going—only that it needed to be away from him.

For a strange, fleeting moment, you found yourself wishing you were angry at him again. Wishing he was being stubborn and unfair instead of sweet and thoughtful. It had been easier then, even when it hurt, because at least you’d known how to deal with it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Velaris buzzed with midday energy, alive with movement and the sounds of life. The streets teemed with couples strolling hand in hand, children darting between legs, their laughter woven into the hum of conversation. You wove through it all in a haze, your mind spinning like a top. For a brief moment, you scowled at the love surrounding you—wondering if it had always been this prevalent, this visible, this... everywhere.

You hadn’t come up with a plan since leaving the townhouse, still unsure of where you were going—or if you even wanted to go anywhere at all. All you knew was that you needed to keep moving. Moving meant you were occupied. And being occupied meant you could at least try to ignore the noise—both the loud thoughts and the feelings twisting inside you. But no matter how fast you walked, how hard you tried to lose yourself in the busy streets, the fluttering in your chest wouldn't let you forget.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it meant, even as you fought with everything you had to deny it. But maybe... maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe Selene had gotten into your head and now you were overthinking everything—reading too much into Azriel’s kindness, his care. You’d seen it before, convincing yourself of something that wasn’t true, spiraling until you couldn’t trust your own judgment.

You didn’t see the person you bumped into until it was too late. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking yourself from your thoughts, but when you looked up—

“Oh,” you said, startled. You blinked at the male before you. “Hello.”

The golden light caught his hair—a rich, burnished brown that framed sharp, handsome features. Made them seem almost celestial.

Adrin smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, two small dimples forming at his cheeks. “Y/n. Hello.”

“Adrin,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No harm done,” he said easily. His tone was light, but there was a flicker of concern as he studied your face. “Are you…doing all right? I heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. “It's a long story. But everything is okay.”

Adrin tilted his head, and although the smile was still there— that warm welcoming smile— his brows drew together slightly. “You seem…bothered. Long day?”

You huffed a small laugh, rubbing absentmindedly at your chest. “Something like that.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I know the feeling. It’s been one of those days for me, too. I was about to try and make it better—clear my head a little.” He hesitated, then added, “You could join me, if you’d like.”

You blinked at him. “Oh, no, I don’t want to interrupt your plans—”

“You wouldn’t be.” He was quick to shake his head. “Really. I’d like the company.”

You hesitated. Thought through the idea. You liked Adrin. And while you wanted to run—hide away, retreat into the quiet of your own mind—you knew it would only make your thoughts spiral faster. But being around your family, or anyone who might see through you immediately, made you itch with unease.

Maybe this was exactly what you needed. The chance to be with someone who wouldn’t pry, someone who seemed genuine in his invitation.

“Sure, yeah. What are you thinking?”

Adrin’s lips twitched into a small grin. “I might have just the thing we both need.”

An hour later, you found yourself at his apartment, stretched out on his balcony overlooking the city. The air was cooler here, quieter, the noise of the streets below softened into a distant hum. The smell of mirthroot curled in the space between you, something so distinctly warm and earthy.

You breathed it in, already feeling lighter, like you were melting into your chair—but in a good way, not like earlier, when the heat had pressed against you relentlessly.

You took a slow pull from the rolled mirthroot stick Adrin had handed you. For the first time that day, your shoulders eased.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

You exhaled slowly, watching the plume of smoke dissipate into the air. A soft laugh escaped you.  

“Oh yeah. I kind of forgot how much I like mirthroot. This is dangerous.”

Adrin chuckled, and you glanced over at him, watching as his lips curved into a lopsided smile—only one dimple visible now. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You tilted your head, studying him further. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be into this,” you said, gesturing to the rolled stick in your hand.

His brows furrowed. “Why's that?”

You shrugged, still smiling, your face warm—not from embarrassment, but from the pleasant haze settling over you. “I don’t know. You’re from the Dawn Court. You’re a healer. You just seem disciplined. Like, above this.”

Adrin let out a full, rich laugh, the sound making your grin widen. “Please. Let’s go through that again. I come from Dawn. I’m a male healer. A pacifist, even.”

You paused, letting his words replay in your mind before it finally clicked.

“So it makes total sense,” you said, correcting yourself.

Adrin nodded sagely, and another small round of laughter followed, easy and unhurried. You realized how much you liked that about him. That his presence wasn’t demanding. That he let things be light. Maybe that was why it was always easy to converse with him whenever you’d stopped by Madjas. 

You inhaled again, letting yourself sink further into the feeling, into the rare quiet of your thoughts. Even now, though, even floating, something tugged at you. Some part of you that refused to be fully untethered. The rational side of your mind begged for a break from the relentless circling of your thoughts, but you shoved the worst of them away, opting instead to focus on the ones that didn’t hurt.

“Hey,” you said suddenly. “Can I ask you a really weird question?”

“Sure.” Adrin straightened slightly, tossing you a quick glance as he brought his mirthroot to his lips.

You hesitated, but the mirth haze had worked through your nerves, made you bolder, more loose lipped. “Do you have a crush on me?”

He choked on his next inhale, coughing before looking at you, eyes wide. “Sorry?”

“Nevermind. That was weird. Sorry,” you said quickly, looking away, waving it off. “Forget I said anything.”

But he shook his head, smiling faintly as he leaned in slightly. “No, it’s okay. I’ve always appreciated how forward you are. Honest. It’s refreshing.”

You blinked at him. “Really?”

He nodded. Then he paused for a moment, contemplating.  “If you’re asking if I find you attractive, the answer is yes. I think you’re beautiful.”

Something in your chest tightened.

“But,” he continued, “I wouldn’t say I have a crush on you. That feels… shallow. I don’t know you enough to call it that. It would be liking the idea of you. I don’t like doing that.”

His honesty was just as refreshing as he claimed yours to be. It loosened something in your chest—some small guilt that had settled when Mor first suggested you go out with him. Guilt at the idea that someone you’d grown to enjoy might want something from you that you couldn’t give.

If only everyone was this articulate. If only Az—

You shoved the thought away and exhaled slowly. “That’s… a really nice answer.”

Adrin smiled again, but this time, it was smaller, softer. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head. “It doesn’t.”

“Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I have no expectations here. I enjoy the friendship we’ve built—if you’d call it that.”

“Of course I would,” you said softly. A small chuckle escaped your lips as you raised your rolled mirthroot and nodded toward the one between his fingers. “And if I didn’t consider you a friend before, you’re definitely one now.”

Adrin’s laugh rang out, warm and melodic, filling the space between you. It was soothing, like the sound itself carried the calm of his healing touch.

You settled into a comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of conversation lingering between you as you both watched the city below. But then, without warning, your mind wandered once more.

This time, it drifted toward the upcoming event Rhys was hosting—a formal gathering to show appreciation for allies and those who’d supported him. At his own home, too. A gesture of humility. You could already picture the glittering decorations in the River House, the couples dressed to the nines, gliding together in effortless, practiced harmony.

Usually, those scenes didn’t bother you.

You’d never minded attending events alone, enjoying the freedom to slip in and out of conversations as you pleased. But now, the thought of walking into that hall, of watching so many people in love around you… It grated. And you knew exactly why. Azriel’s words, his reasoning for changing while dating Selene—how everyone was falling in love, moving on—echoed in your mind, and you hated how tightly they clung to you.

They’d made you feel like something was wrong with you for not actively seeking out love. For being content with being single. Alone.

You glanced at Adrin.

“Adrin,” you said, clearing your throat. “Are you busy this weekend?”

“I don’t believe so. Why?”

“There’s an event—Rhysand is hosting. It’s an appreciation for those who help him. I was wondering if you’d want to come with me. Considering everything you’ve done to help Madja… and us.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering in his expression before he smiled. “Really?”

You nodded, waiting and watching him as he thought through his answer.

“The company of a friend is always nice for events,” he said finally.

Your heart stilled at his use of the word "friend.” It felt reassuring. Safe. A reminder that he truly didn’t hold any expectations, just as he’d said only a few minutes prior.

“Yes,” you replied softly, a small smile curling your lips. “It always is.”

“I’d be honored to go. Thank you for the invite, Y/n. I’ve never been to big events like that.”

You laughed lightly. “If you keep letting me smoke your mirthroot, you can come to every event with me forever.”

He grinned, shaking his head, his hair falling across his forehead in an effortlessly charming way. “Is that what I’ve become now? A drug dealer and a friend in one?”

“Yes,” you teased. “A breath of fresh air, really.”

You both fell into another comfortable pause, settling into the easy rhythm of each other’s presence. You wondered what was going on inside Adrin’s mind. His eyes had grown distant, like he was retreating into his thoughts. He had mentioned having a long day too. You hoped he was feeling better now, just as you were, that perhaps your company had offered him what his had offered you—a reprieve.

Adrin reminded you of someone else in your life. Someone with teal eyes and the same easy, friendly humor. You smiled at the fleeting thought that crossed your mind, something quick and bright, like a shooting star.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel’s meeting with Rhysand had taken longer than expected, forcing both males to venture to the Hewn City itself. By the time he returned home, the city of Velaris was already asleep.

Azriel felt conflicted as he passed by your door, his shadows lingering just long enough to confirm that you were safe and asleep in bed. He was relieved, glad that you were finally getting the rest you needed, but a deep, quiet disappointment gnawed at him.

He was planning to catch you one last time today—to talk, even for a moment. To tell you about the meeting with Rhys and how brilliant your plans were, how he was praising them despite you not being there to bask in the compliments. He knew you loved the feedback, knew you loved hearing how your hard work paid off. It always did.

But Azriel knew, even then, the conversation would feel off.

Things had felt off since the night he apologized—and even his shadows had confirmed it wasn’t just in his mind. That he wasn’t simply overthinking.

You’d said you weren’t mad anymore, that you two were okay. But Azriel still felt, still knew, that something was wrong. 

Things weren’t normal. They weren’t hostile, and Azriel was beyond thankful for that, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. You seemed to be hesitating around him. It gutted him to think that he had made you wary, made you overthink how you acted around him. He’d stripped himself of his own comfort.

Azriel stepped into his room slowly, feeling the weight of the day begin to catch up with him the moment he crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, leaning against the frame as he let the quiet settle around him.

The familiar emptiness of the room greeted him. His dresser was bare, the surface wiped clean once again. Mor had, strangely excitedly, offered to clear it out for him when she first learned about Selene’s betrayal. Despite the anger simmering inside him, Azriel had made her promise not to take any drastic measures—he didn’t want her to engage with Selene at all. Mor had reluctantly agreed.

Azriel took a few more steps into the room, and with each movement, the exhaustion that had been nagging him all day seemed to settle more heavily on his shoulders—his body was sore, his mind buzzing with a thousand half-thoughts.

His shoulders slumped as he sank onto the edge of the bed, his hands moving to rub his face, fingers dragging through the mess of his hair.

Azriel hadn’t placed all the items Selene moved, the minimal decorations he owned, back where they belonged yet. But he opened his bedside table and grabbed the one thing he was thinking about—the strange clay creation of him you’d made.

His mind wandered to the night he cleaned your wounds and apologized.

He’d traced the change back to that moment.

Azriel didn’t know why he felt disappointed, why he had expected something different from that interaction. He’d apologized, finally, as he’d intended to—though too late, he told himself, because you’d gotten hurt. But you had accepted it, had looked at him with that same softness he’d come to admire, and accepted it. You’d cracked a joke. You both laughed. It had felt simple again, natural, like Azriel had finally found his way back to himself. But something in him sank when he’d said that one line—when he said he didn’t know why he’d entertained the idea that you’d ever have feelings for him.

He wasn’t sure why, but it tasted so wrong—sour, like something rotten.

He let himself sink further into his thoughts.

Azriel had never seen himself as lovable. At least, not in the way everyone else was. 

From the moment he was thrown into that dungeon as a boy, he’d believed he deserved every punishment, every scar, every moment of suffering. The people who should have loved him—the people who were supposed to care—had only taught him he was a burden, something broken and unwanted.

When he left that darkness behind, it followed him, reshaping him into something sharp and unrelenting. A weapon. He became what was needed, what a High Lord required, committing acts that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He wore those deeds like armor, each one another layer of the male he thought he had to be.

Love, he assumed, had to be just as hard. How could it not be? He was unworthy of the softness others found so easily. While Rhysand, Cassian, Amren, and Mor managed to find it, to hold onto it despite their own sins, Azriel had only ever known heartbreak.

So he told himself that love—for him—would never be simple. It would require blood, pain, sacrifice, and suffering. He thought love needed to ache in his chest, leaving him hollow and desperate, clawing for scraps of something he couldn’t quite hold. That it had to be fought for with every ounce of strength he had. And maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.

Something had changed, though, regarding how he thought about love. 

His fingers brushed the rough edges of the clay figure in his palm. It was uneven and messy, painted in smudges that bled into each other. The proportions were laughably off—the wings crooked, the body too long—but it fit perfectly in his hand nonetheless.

He held it carefully, turning it over as his chest tightened. You’d made this for him, drunk off your ass and laughing with the others, your hands coated in clay. You’d sculpted a miniature version of him without a second thought.

And though it wasn’t a gift, though you hadn’t even mentioned it after that night, Azriel kept it. Kept it somewhere safe, somewhere he could easily grab it and remind himself that if someone as kind as you could love him, care for him the way you did, then he must not be as awful as his mind often tried to convince him he was.

You’d seen the worst of him—all the jagged edges and dark, unspoken parts. He was the softest with you, a side of himself he never showed anyone else, but somehow also the worst. You’d heard the things he’d done, seen him caked in blood that wasn’t his, and still, you had sculpted him. Still, you thought of him when you were having fun.

Azriel had begun to realize that, in reality, love seemed to be… patient. Gentle.

The love his family had found was hard at times, yes, and needed to be fought for, like everything important. But it was kind. Natural.

And so Azriel thought long and hard, the clay figure resting warm in his hand, his shadows curling and twisting softly around him. They whispered your name, over and over, like a quiet, delicate prayer.

And that was when everything clicked into place.

That deep longing he felt to see you, that comfort he found in your presence, the ability to be open, bare, seen, and unafraid—

That feeling was love.

He was in love with you.

And he suddenly couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: hey yall.... how we feeling?????

so like im invested. and also i kinda love Adrin like yesss gimme a stoner healer man who respects a persons boundaries and doesnt crush on the idea of them before knowing them!!!

and yesss for azriel being in love!!! hes gonna be struggling with this new realization, fighting the Voices in the corner of his room and being jealous over things he doesn’t need to be jealous over. mmmmmm delicious

i do believe….there may only be one (1) part left 🫢

as always— thank you for reading 🫶🏻

and don’t forget your daily clicks for palestine !

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @motheroffae @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia  @yesiamthatwierd @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli 

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[jazziejax]

𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧’

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Modern AU | Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC & Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore | Modern AU

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In which two twin gangsters return home after years in Chicago, to 2003 Jackson, Mississippi. Only to find that the chubby, brace-faced tomboy from across the street has grown into a woman they can’t ignore.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - drug use, swearing

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - something short because I literally have five other Smoke and Stack fics cooking in my drafts

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 2,178+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬��𝐧, 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢

It always started with noise. Summer in Mississippi wasn’t just heat and humidity—it was loud. Between the swatting screen doors, the bugs flying, kids playing double dutch with mismatched ropes, and the rickety hum of box fans, it was hard to hear yourself think. But for young Juicy, the noise was a comfort… until it wasn’t.

Back in ‘95, Juicy was about eleven, braces still fresh, glasses sliding down her nose every five minutes, and dressed in a floral pattered dress that matches her sisters, though hers fit her more boxier than it did on the older girl. But she didn’t care much about appearances, and it didn’t help that her mama always compared her to her older sister, Sinclair, thin and pretty like the girls in those Jet beauty ads or the ones on the perm boxes. “If only you laid off them pork chops,” was her mama’s idea of encouragement. Her daddy didn’t say much at all.

Juicy found her peace elsewhere—mainly across the street.

The Moore twins, Elias and Elijah—known as Smoke and Stack to others—were about six years older, fast-mouthed, sharp-eyed boys sly grins and problems they never spoke too loudly about. Their father was known around the neighborhood for being the kind of man who left bruises instead of blessings, and their mother was long gone. But the Hall’s took to them like family. Martin, Juicy’s older brother, clicked with them right away over cassette tapes and corner store hustles. Sinclair even crushed on Stack for a while, though he never acted on it.

But it was Juicy—a little awkward, big-bodied, and always scribbling in her notebook—who lingered in the background. She wasn’t really friends with the boys, not like her siblings were. But some days, when things were too loud at her house and Mary, her only friend, couldn’t come out, Smoke would let her sit on the porch with them, passing her a freeze cup and tossing her lazy jokes that made her laugh until her gums showed. Or when Stack would let her old onto him as she rode on back of his bike as he made stops around the neighborhood.

Those little moments were enough. They made her feel seen.

And then, they were gone. Moved up to Chicago when she was fifteen, chasing something bigger—money, maybe, or just a way out. Life moved on. And the city was still as loud as ever.

But in 2003, the block got loud again in their return.

They came back in a long black Lincoln, rolling slow like they owned the pavement. Elias drove, toothpick between his teeth, silver chains glinting in the sun as she rubbed down his waves. Elijah was in the passenger seat, shades low on his nose, hair in tight cornrows. They’d filled out—solid, broad-shouldered men now, still dressed in dark clothes with just enough shine to show they had money. Word spread fast.

Smoke and Stack were home.

First stop was the gas station—for fuel and the liquor store next to it, then the old park where half the benches were gone and the other half were tagged up in Sharpie and knife scratches, looking for their homeboy in his usual spot. A few heads turned, so they dapped up old friends, nodded at familiar faces.

But the real reunion happened on Vernon Street.

Martin Hall was leaned up against his Impala, blunt behind his ear, gold ring glinting. He caught sight of the car before it even parked at the house across the street, and when he caught sight of the men in the car, he instantly grinned.

“Nahhh, I know this ain’t who I think it is.” He shouted, arms already wide open.

Stack stepped out first, grinning, and then Smoke followed. The three embraced like no time had passed at all, Martin falling the men up. Loud laughs, back slaps, the kind of reunion that made neighbors peek through blinds.

“Man, what the hell are yall doing back? And ain’t told a nigga?” Marin asked as he leaned backed against his hood, taking the blunt his girlfriend passed him from her place in his serving seat.

“It was quick to us too, man.” Smoke said, shaking his head a bit. “Them Chiraq niggas different, too much shit going on up there.” He said, placing his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, his baggy white tee hanging from underneath a bit.

“Money was good, though.” Stack smirked, moving his gaze away from the woman in the car that was eyeing him with a lustful glint in her, to look at the against the hood.

“I bet.” Martin smirked. “I could only imagine what you niggas got up to up there. Especially to come back as fly as that.” He said, nodding over to the cars in front of the boys old home as he blew away the smoke from the blunt.

“Shit, us?” Stack questioned. “Look at you. The jewelry, new whip. Seems money down here moving smooth.”

“Mmm…it’s aight.” Martin shrugged, causing the twins to chuckle with a shake of their heads.

“You know we gotta celebrate.”Martin said, standing from the car a bit as he handed the blunt to his shorty in the car. “Whole block been a bit dry without y’all. Let me throw something together for tonight.” He suggested. “Plus, I gotta clean some paper anyway.” He shrugged, trying to ease the blow of an unexpected gathering upon the men.

Smoke and Stack exchanged a glance before both men looked back at their old friend and shrugged Martin clapped his hands with a smirk. “Aight.” He nodded. “Tracy, go call yo homegirls and shit, tell ‘em to come through while I get shit situated.” He said to the girl in his drivers seat. Tracy didn’t even say anything, she simply got out the car and made her at into the house, bit before making a bit of a show of pulling down her booty shorts. Stack and Smoke exchanged another look at that, but nothing was said further.

Plans were made fast. A block party. Speakers, coolers, grills were pulled out faster than the men could think. Now they just had to get everything jumpin’.

The men sat around Martin’s car catching up, reminiscing on old scams, and laughing at things they never got caught for. Smoke lit a cigarette while Stack leaned back, tapping his fingers on the dashboard.

That’s when they saw her.

Juicy.

She came walking up the sidewalk with Mary next to her, both of them laughing at something too far to hear. Juicy was still thick, but this time, she wore it like armor. Curves hugged up in a baby pink Juicy Couture set, midriff peeking under the hoodie. Her wedged flip flops clicked against the concrete with purpose. Her acrylics—French tips—glinted when she lifted her lollipop to her lips. Lips lined and glossy, brown skin smooth and glowing, gold hoops in her ears catching sun. Her sunglasses were perched on her head, the blonde highlighted tresses in a bun, looking like it just came out of a fresh roller set. It was only when she got closer that they could see that she still had the tiniest gap when she smiled, but now it looked like part of the charm.

Mary had her own vibe—low-rise jeans, rhinestone tank and a high pony—but no one was looking at her. Not the twins at least.

It was Juicy who had the street paused.

Smoke sat up a little straighter. Stack cocked his head. “Lil’ Juicy?” He mumbled.

And just like that, the heat of Mississippi summer wasn’t the loudest thing on the block anymore.

The heat clung to the air, and the bass from someone’s backyard radio pulsed low in the distance. Juicy walked like she owned the sidewalk, hips swaying in perfect rhythm with the click of her heels. She was curvy in all the right places—thicker than the girls on TV, but built with softness and strength that couldn’t be ignored.

Smoke and Stack hadn’t said a word yet. They’d gone still the second they saw her. Not obviously—nothing as sloppy as ogling—but they noticed everything. The gloss, the tips, the squinting, whenever from the sun or her needing her prescription. They both could remember how they used to slide down her nose every few seconds.

She no longer looked like the quiet girl who used to sit on the porch with a notebook. She looked like a woman now. A whole one.

Martin lifted a hand. “Juice! Come say what’s up.” He called out, waving the girl over.

Juicy raised a brow as she stopped at the curb, Mary lingering just behind her. “You actin’ like I don’t live here.”he caused, causing Martin to smack his lips. “You know what I mean.”

Juicy clocked the twins as soon as she approached. But her eyes didn’t widen, she didn’t blink. She just popped that lollipop out her mouth slow, head tilted, and said—

“Well, well. Look who finally came home.” All soft like.

Smoke stepped forward, arms crossed, head tilted just slightly. “Ain’t seen you in years, Juicy.” He said, voice a little lower than usual.

Stack nodded. “You done grown all up now.” He said, his eyes subconsciously giving the girl before him a quick once over, one that had him wanting to trace his eyes over her body again.

Juicy didn’t blush—she never did. She just looked between them, slow and deliberate, then popped the lollipop from her mouth and smiled, tiny gap and all. “Y’all look the same.” She said, though they really didn’t. “Maybe taller. Maybe.” She shrugged, not hiding the way she analyzed the men from head to toe, taking in their otherwise plain street wear, which she knew had to still be a decent penny for.

Martin chuckled. “They back for good. Figured I’d throw a little somethin’ tonight. Let the block know.”

Juicy nodded, barely glancing back at the twins. “That’s cute. I’ll see what’s up.” Then to Mary, “Come on.”

She turned without another word, strutting toward the house, and the two men made it their mission to not look at the rhinestones bedazzled on her booty, reading ‘Juicy’ across the span of the area. Mary, however, lingered just a second longer. Her eyes locked on Stack like she was sizing him up for dessert. No shame at all. She flashed a grin that was all teeth and trouble before jogging up the steps behind Juicy.

When they were gone, Martin lit his blunt, shaking his head. “Y’all look like you saw a ghost.” He said as he blew the smoke out. “Was it Mary? Yeah, I know, still freaks me out a bit to see her down here.” He added, not even waiting for an explanation from them.

Smoke leaned against the hood, eyes still on the porch. “Nah.” He muttered, voice tight. “Yeah, you right. Just didn’t expect that.” He said, though he was simply agreeing to save face.

A few minutes later, it seemed as though this party was about to take off as people began to show up, their drinks of chose and blunts in their clutches. This made Martin head inside to grab more beers while the twins stayed posted at the car, quiet now that the noise of the street settled down.

It was silent between them for a bit before Stack spoke up, not even looking at his brother. “Juicy is far from the girl we left them heard back.” Stack said, rubbing the back of his neck, internally questioning himself over the quick flashes of ‘not so pure’ thoughts he had about the girl he grew up with.

“Yeah.” Smoke replied. “She is.”

They didn’t say anything else for a moment, both thinking the same thing—how time had a funny way of flipping the script. How the girl who used to scribble doodles on everything and watch them from the corner of the porch now walked like she didn’t owe anybody her attention.

Smoke remembered the way she used to listen when he talked—really listen—without judgment or noise. How he used to feel stupid for sharing some of his serpent moments with someone so young. How at first he just needed her for an ear, and she levered that, and when he needed some answers, she was quick to help as well. And she had those same eyes. Soft but knowing. That hadn’t changed.

Stack was still thinking about her walk. The way she didn’t give them a second glance, like she’d seen men like them a thousand times. It didn’t bruise his ego—it just made him curious.

“And I peep she’s got a smart mouth on her now.” He finally said, half a smile on his lips.

Smoke nodded, but his gaze didn’t leave the front door. “Yeah.” He muttered, and that’s all he seemed to be able to say, as if she had rendered him speechless.

Stack’s smirked widen, longing his lips as a thought crossed his mind.

“Wonder who she’s lettin’ have it.”

If you would like to be added to the taglist, comment here.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 & 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 🗑️ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬★ ★ ★ ★ ★

[differenteagletragedy]

Simon has been in some truly miserable conditions. He's been under fire while the hot desert sun beat down on him, he's been pushed, bloody and broken, through boot camp. But, in this moment, he can't think of anything more soul-crushing than the mall on a Sunday afternoon.

But he needs new jeans. So here he is.

It's just a quick mission, he tells himself as he slips through the doors of a department store. In and out. He could always order them online, but then he'd have to put his name and address on some little internet form, and he doesn't trust it. This, torturous though it is, feels safer.

It's too bright, too crowded, too loud. But he knows where he's going, so he keeps his head down and pushes through.

"Excuse me, sir!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, there you are, stepping away from your spot near the cosmetics section and directly into his path.

He stares down at you, studying you quickly. He sees your eyes, wide and bright, and a nametag pinned to your blouse. You look a little sheepish at approaching him so directly, but you don't back down.

"I was wondering if I could interest you in purchasing a new fragrance?"

To Simon, it's a bizarre question -- he doesn't wear "a fragrance," he wears deodorant and aftershave at best. He's already not having a good time, so he scoffs a little and says, "Don't need one."

"Are you sure? I could show you some of the trendiest colognes for men, or if you have a wife or a girlfriend, perhaps a nice new perfume for her?"

He glances around the area, seeing a number of counters, some with makeup, others with skincare, then yours with all the fancy glass bottles of perfume. When he looks back at you, you're still gazing up at him, wearing a smile that doesn't fully reach your eyes.

"They forcing you to sell this shit?" he asks.

"What? No? This is my job," you tell him, a bit of your smile fading.

"Yeah, well, you look like you're doing it at gunpoint."

You hesitate, do a quick glance around, then lower your voice to say, "I've got to meet my quota is all."

He smirks, and asks, "That so?"

"Yeah. I haven't been meeting my sales goals, and I need the commission, you know? I'm not trying to be pushy, I just ... I've got the quota."

He's not sure exactly what possesses him to continue the conversation. All he wanted to do was buy a few pairs of jeans and go back home, but now here you are, looking all hopeful, and something in him tells him that he shouldn't just walk away.

"What do you wear then?" he asks.

He doesn't know where the question comes from, but you're already smiling again, more genuinely this time, and you move to the counter. You pull out a sample bottle, plain glass with a simple white label, and slide it over to him.

"For your wife?"

He doesn't answer, instead watching as you spray the perfume on a strip of paper and hand it out to him. When he takes it and lifts it to his nose, it's almost overwhelming -- he'd noticed the scent on you when you stepped in front of him, something warm and sweet, but smelling it like this ... it's like you, concentrated.

"I'll take it."

You let out a sigh of relief, getting a new box of the perfume out and packaging it up for him before ringing him up. When you give him back his change, he lets his fingers ghost over your palm as he picks it up -- not enough for you to notice, but enough that he certainly does.

Back home, he takes the perfume out of its box and sets it on his dresser. He doesn't know what to do with it, and he doesn't have anyone to give it to. And when he sprays just a little bit on his pillow, he tells himself that it's only because he doesn't want it to go to waste.

[joelsrose]

Feels Right

warninnggssss omg stepdad!joel smut - this is not everyones cup of tea so pls pls be warned also as always 18+ for smut, otherwise to the of age freaks pls enjoyy hehhehe

TW: stepdad!Joel | peepaw-coded filth | age gap (legal but still unwell) | power imbalance | gaslighting (loving) |manipulation (oop) | masturbation | daddy kink | praise kink

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You sat at the end of the table, hands resting quietly in your lap as the hum of conversation floated between the clatter of cutlery and the occasional laugh from your two college friends, visiting for the week under the impression that this was just a harmless little getaway—some sun, some sleep, a few homemade meals in the country.

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasted meat, the air thick with steam and late evening light spilling in golden across the counter tiles. Your mother sat beside you, bright-eyed and flushed from wine, humming softly to herself as she passed the gravy boat across the table, her hand brushing against Joel’s wrist like it was second nature.

Joel.

Your stepfather.

Your very recent stepfather.

The same man who first walked into your life with a busted toolbelt, a sharp drawl, and a set of rough, dust-smeared hands that knew how to fix things. Walls. Leaks. Cabinets. Hearts, maybe. He was supposed to just reconstruct the kitchen—then, somehow, the bathroom, the laundry pipes, the broken fence in the backyard. And then, before you even realized it was happening, he was reconstructing his whole damn life around your mother.

Married four months ago. Living in your house. Sitting now at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, carving meat with quiet precision, those thick, veiny hands guiding the knife like it was sacred ritual.

He didn’t speak much during dinner. He never did—just nodded now and then, a low rumble in his throat when someone addressed him directly.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

He had that heavy, slow way about him—shoulders broad, voice gravelly, expression unreadable unless he was looking at you. Then it shifted. Just a little. Just enough. Like his eyes softened, or his mouth twitched into something barely shy of a smile. But only for a second. Only for you.

He wasn’t your father. As many times as your mother tried to make it so—“Can you ask your daddy what time he’ll be home?” or “Your daddy said he’d pick up more of that good brisket from town”—you never said the word. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Not when your thoughts about him weren’t the kind daughters were supposed to have.

Not when you couldn’t stop noticing the way his shirt clung to his back when he mowed the lawn. Or how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, gravel and heat, rasping low as he stood in the doorway with a steaming mug of coffee and tired eyes.

Not when you still dreamed about the way his hand lingered on your lower back a little too long the night of the wedding, guiding you through the crowd with a touch that didn’t feel familial.

Not when the man who’d been in your life less than a year looked at you sometimes like he’d undo every rule in the world just to have one moment of honesty with you.

And now here he was, sitting across the table, carving roast beef with those strong, calloused hands, the flicker of candlelight catching in his beard and glinting off the silver band on his ring finger that your mother slipped on with shaky hands one courthouse morning.

You swallowed hard, tearing your eyes away, trying to focus on your friends, on the mashed potatoes, on anything but the way Joel kept looking at you when your mother wasn’t watching.

Anything but the fact that he knew you weren’t calling him daddy for a reason.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The living room was dimly lit, the last sliver of pink sunset bleeding through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor and the frayed edges of the old throw rug your mother refused to replace. You sat curled up in the corner of the couch, remote in hand, aimlessly scrolling through Netflix with half-lidded eyes, the sound of your friends' soft laughter filling the space around you like warm static.

Your mom had disappeared upstairs just after dessert, fingers laced in Joel’s, her voice pitched high and giddy as she declared, “We’ll leave you girls to your wine and gossip—don’t wait up!” And just like that, they were gone, the creak of the stairs and the hush of a door closing upstairs the only trace of them.

You tried not to think about it. About him. About the way Joel had glanced at you as he stood, one hand braced on the back of her chair, the other resting at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment too long.

“God, what even is there to watch anymore,” you muttered absently, scrolling past title after title, your voice heavy with the kind of lazy boredom that comes after a full meal and a long day. Beside you, Ava stretched out with a little groan, her feet nudging under the blanket as she reached for her glass of wine, while Camila leaned in closer, eyes dancing with a mischievous glint that made your stomach twist even before she opened her mouth.

And then, softly—too softly—like a secret whispered between childhood friends and forbidden crushes, Camila nudged your arm and murmured, “Okay, seriously though… your stepdad is hot.”

The words hit you like a slap. Immediate. Merciless. Your whole body tensed, your spine straightening as if on instinct, fingers clenching tighter around the remote as you turned toward her, eyes wide, heartbeat stuttering.

“What the hell?” you snapped, louder than you meant to, the heat rising to your cheeks so fast it felt like fire, like shame, like panic. “Camila—what the actual—”

But she was already laughing, head thrown back, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass as she looked at Ava, who only grinned and shrugged, clearly amused by your reaction. “Relax,” Camila said through her giggles, waving a hand like she could brush it all away. “I’m just saying. The flannel? The beard? He’s got that, like, hot handyman-slash-mountain-man energy. You know I have a type.”

You blinked at her, words stuck in your throat, your brain short-circuiting beneath the weight of something you didn’t want to name—something clawing up your ribs like guilt. You wanted to tell her she was out of line. That it was gross. That Joel was married to your mother, for God’s sake. But instead, all you could manage was a choked-out, “He’s—he’s not—he’s—just—stop.”

And it was Ava’s turn to raise a brow, her smile a little too knowing. “You’re blushing,” she teased, her voice sing-song and cruel in the way only best friends could be. “Oh my God, she’s totally blushing.”

“I am not,” you snapped again, but your voice was unsteady, your face burning, your entire body suddenly too hot for the blanket draped over your lap. You shoved it off, stood up too fast, nearly tripping over the coffee table as you made your way toward the kitchen, trying to pretend like you weren’t unravelling, like your skin wasn’t tingling in places it shouldn’t be.

Because they didn’t know.

They didn’t know the way Joel looked at you sometimes when your mother wasn’t watching. They didn’t know how his voice dropped when he said your name. They didn’t know how his hand had brushed your waist this morning when he reached past you for the sugar and you felt it for hours.

They didn’t know. And you were terrified they might find out.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Camila and Ava had long since fallen asleep in the downstairs guest room, their quiet breaths threading through the stillness of the house, the kind of deep, wine-soft sleep that only came with familiarity and full stomachs and the comfort of being a guest rather than the daughter. Upstairs, you lay in your childhood bedroom, the sheets cool against your skin, your fingers twisting absently in the hem of your tank top as you stared at the ceiling—unmoving, unblinking, like maybe if you kept your gaze steady enough, long enough, it might finally offer you answers to questions you didn’t know how to ask out loud.

It wasn’t that late yet—just brushing past midnight, the witching hour when everything felt thinner, when walls couldn’t hold in secrets and silence started to echo. You wondered if your mother and Joel were asleep already, or if they were still awake in the room down the hall, the one that used to be hers alone before he arrived with his heavy boots and toolbox and made himself at home. A small, traitorous part of you imagined them lying in bed together, her curled against his chest, his arm draped protectively around her waist as he whispered something low and fond into her hair.

You cringed at the image. Not because it was gross. Not because you didn’t want your mother to be happy. But because the weight that coiled inside your stomach at the thought of her in his arms wasn’t disgust—it was jealousy. Quiet, bitter, shame-soaked jealousy that tasted like guilt and felt like sin.

You turned onto your side, fingers pressing into the mattress like you could ground yourself with touch, like maybe if you pressed hard enough you’d stop the thoughts from blooming. But they kept coming, gentle and relentless, winding themselves around you like ivy. You wondered if either of them had noticed the way you always looked away when they kissed in front of you, or the way you flinched ever so slightly when their hands found each other in passing, fingers laced like it meant nothing, like it was normal.

Maybe they thought you were still adjusting. Maybe your mother thought it was some kind of unresolved grief for your father, that you couldn’t accept the idea of her moving on so quickly, tying herself to someone new. Maybe Joel thought it was awkwardness, or disapproval, or some adolescent refusal to see him as a part of the family.

But the truth was far more dangerous. Far more complicated.

Because you weren’t mourning the past. You weren’t angry about her happiness. You were mourning something else entirely—something unspoken and selfish and terrifying.

You were mourning every moment he touched her and not you. Every laugh he gave her and not you. Every soft glance, every private kiss, every piece of him that she got to keep while you sat in the corner pretending you didn’t notice, pretending you didn’t care.

Your thoughts—feverish and tangled and too loud in your head—were suddenly interrupted by a soft knock against the wooden door, three gentle taps that pulled you back to earth so abruptly you nearly sat upright. You thought, for a second, maybe one of the girls had left something behind—toothpaste on the bathroom counter or a charger cord tucked beneath the sheets—so you called out without thinking, your voice barely carrying across the room.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open with a slow, careful push, and instead of Camila or Ava’s familiar silhouette, it was him—Joel. His broad frame filled the doorway, shadowed in the dim hallway light, shoulders hunched ever so slightly like he hadn’t meant to startle you, one hand braced against the doorframe like he was still deciding whether to step fully inside.

You reached instinctively for your side lamp, fingers fumbling with the switch until warm yellow light bathed the room, casting everything in a soft, golden hush. You blinked up at him, eyes adjusting, breath catching at the sight of him standing there like some kind of fever dream.

“Joel?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended, breathless not from surprise but from the sheer weight of his presence, the way he looked in that moment—undone, unguarded, real in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, that low, southern drawl curling around the words like smoke, as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a gentle click that sounded far too loud in the silence of the house.

He looked—God, he looked like trouble.

Hair mussed from sleep, silver at the temples and curling slightly where it met the nape of his neck, beard soft and full, still flecked with that salt-and-pepper scruff that made him look older than he was but somehow stronger for it. He wore a plain, threadbare t-shirt, stretched across his chest in a way that made your stomach tighten, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms, the kind that only ever came from years of labor, of building things with his hands. His grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn soft with age, and barefoot—he looked every bit the rugged, rough-edged man who fixed your mom’s house and accidentally broke something inside of you.

It wasn’t technically unusual for Joel to be in your room—sometimes he’d swing by to drop off something you left in the kitchen, or fix the ceiling fan that rattled in summer, or bring you tea when you were sick and shivering in bed, too weak to do anything but mumble thanks. He’d stand by the door usually, or maybe lean against the wall, say something gruff but kind before disappearing again.

But not like this.

Not late at night. Not when the rest of the house was asleep. Not when you were lying in bed in nothing but a thin camisole and panties, heart stuttering like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

You shifted again, this time a little more nervously, the sheet clutched tighter around your lap even though it did nothing to hide the way your body responded to his presence—your skin flushed and warm, your breath shallow, nipples still visibly peaked beneath the whisper-thin fabric of your top. You saw it then, the way Joel’s gaze flickered, just for a second, dragging across your chest before meeting your eyes again, and something about the way he didn’t look away fast enough made your stomach twist into knots. He wasn’t trying to pretend. He wasn’t playing dumb.

He came to sit on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, the motion tilting you slightly toward him. He braced one hand beside him, the other resting loosely on his knee. “Were you asleep?” he asked, voice low, his drawl even rougher at this hour, as if it had crawled up from his chest and hadn’t quite settled in his throat yet.

You shook your head slowly, trying not to look too guilty, too obvious. “No,” you said quietly. “I… couldn’t sleep.”

Joel nodded, like he already knew, like maybe that’s why he was really here, not because he happened to be passing by. “Your friends were nice,” he said after a pause, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that could’ve been amusement—or warning. “That Camila though… she’s trouble.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, the sound a little shaky as you tried to exhale the nerves tightening inside your chest. “Yeah,” you said, nodding. “She is.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment, the silence stretching thin, and then asked, voice low and even, “You have fun?”

You answered too quickly. “Yeah.”

He didn’t miss it. His brow furrowed, not deeply, just enough to signal that he’d caught something he didn’t like, that he could hear the wrongness in your tone the way he could spot a crooked nail from across a room. “What’s wrong?” he asked, that same hand still braced on the bed beside you, his fingers so close to your thigh you could feel the heat of him even through the sheet.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, eyes darting away before you could stop them. “It’s nothing, Joel.”

He tilted his head, slow, deliberate, voice soft but firm like he was coaxing the truth out of you the same way he might coax a wild animal from the woods. “C’mon, sweetheart. You know you’re not a great liar.”

Your throat went tight. You pressed your lips together, tried to hold it in, tried to act normal, tried to act like your skin wasn’t tingling in every place he was near.

“It’s stupid,” you murmured. “Just… one of them said something. Kinda weird.”

Joel straightened a little, his eyes narrowing with something darker, a flicker of protectiveness tightening his jaw. “Weird?” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “They say somethin’ mean to you?”

“No—no, nothin’ like that,” you rushed to say, shaking your head, heart beating hard enough that you were sure he could hear it in the quiet room. “It wasn’t mean. Just…”

He waited. He didn’t speak right away, just tilted his head slightly, the soft creak of the mattress the only sound between you as he waited for you to gather the courage to speak.

“They said something,” you murmured finally, voice barely above a whisper, your eyes trained on your fingers where they twisted nervously in your lap, knuckles white from the tension you refused to let rise to the surface. “About you.”

Joel was quiet for a beat, then let out a low, careful hum. “Oh,” he said, not shocked, not offended, just… waiting. Another pause. “Okay.”

You looked up at him then, meeting his gaze for the first time since the words had started tumbling from your mouth, and it felt like standing too close to the sun—too warm, too intense, too dangerous. His eyes were calm, steady, and yet you felt like they were peeling layers off you without even trying.

“You can tell me,” he coaxed, his voice the softest kind of gruff, the kind that scratched gently at your throat and made you ache in places you didn’t have names for. “Ain’t gonna get upset, sweetheart. Promise.”

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding louder now, the heat creeping up your throat in a slow, mortifying wave as you looked down again. “They just…” you huffed, frustrated with your own inability to say something so simple, so ridiculous, even though it had been clawing at your thoughts all night.

“They said you were…” you trailed off, then forced yourself to look up, cheeks burning as you finally let the words escape. “They said you were ‘hot,’” you mumbled, using your fingers to make sarcastic little quotation marks in the air, the motion clumsy and half-hearted, your voice wrapped in embarrassment and something else—something you couldn’t disguise.

Joel blinked slowly, like he was processing it carefully.

He just sat there, eyes fixed on you, expression unreadable but far from indifferent, and in the quiet that followed, something in the air shifted. It was subtle—barely a breath—but it was there. Heavy. Humming. Like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

And then, finally, in that low, quiet drawl that had already undone you more times than you cared to admit, Joel tilted his head and said, “That right?”

You gave the smallest nod, unable to find your voice, your cheeks hot under the weight of his gaze.

He chuckled, and it was somehow worse than silence—warm and familiar and achingly beautiful, the kind of laugh that wrapped around you like smoke, like comfort, like danger disguised as something gentle. “That’s what’s got you all twisted up, honey?” he asked, his voice teasing now, smooth as whiskey and just as sharp. “That why you’re up past midnight, lookin’ like you got somethin’ sittin’ heavy on your chest?”

“I’m not upset,” you said quickly, the words spilling out too fast, too defensive. “It’s just—” you shrugged, eyes falling to your lap again, “weird.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, the mattress shifting slightly beneath his weight as he leaned in just enough to make you feel it—his presence, his size, the scent of him that smelled like cedar and something warmer, deeper, something male. “Ain’t that weird,” he said, like it was fact. Like you were the one being unreasonable.

You blinked at him, heart stumbling over itself. “What?”

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What—you think I’m hideous or somethin’, darlin’?” he asked, voice laced with mock offense, but there was something beneath it, something hot and coiled and barely leashed.

“No,” you said quickly, instinctively, your body tensing. “No, but—”

Joel cut you off with a slow, quiet laugh, the kind that sent goosebumps across your arms. “D’you agree with your friend?” he asked, his voice quieter now, lower, thicker, like molasses sliding slow over bare skin. “Simple question, angel.”

You swallowed hard, every part of your body suddenly too aware of itself—your hands, your legs beneath the sheet, the way your breath caught in your throat. “I—” you stammered. “You’re my—my stepdad. It’s weird.”

Joel’s expression didn’t shift. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you, calm and steady, as if your panic was a ripple in a pond he’d already seen coming.

“Ain’t weird,” he said again, this time definitively, like he was putting the matter to rest, the final nail in a coffin you didn’t even realize you’d built together. “You’re my stepdaughter, sure,” he said, voice slow, smooth, dragging each word like he wanted you to feel them deep in your chest, “but that don’t change the fact that you’re a goddamn stunnin’ girl.”

Your breath hitched.

His eyes flicked down for a heartbeat—your lips, your collarbone, the outline of your thighs beneath the sheet—before meeting yours again. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with seein’ beauty, even if it’s standin’ right in front of me in my own house. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with noticin’.”

His hand flexed again against the mattress beside you, the muscles in his forearm shifting subtly, a quiet tension that mirrored the storm building between your ribs.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’, either,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t casual or dismissive—it was low, like a confession, like he meant every word, like he wasn’t just talking about himself.

Your breath hitched, your chest rising too fast, falling too slow, and before you could control it, your thighs—hot and aching beneath the thin layer of sheets—pressed tighter together in a desperate attempt to calm the pulsing ache that had bloomed low in your stomach. But it was no use. Your body betrayed you before your mouth could even try to lie.

And Joel saw it.

Of course he saw it. He always did.

He let his gaze drop, just for a moment—just long enough to trace the path of your clenched jaw, your flushed chest, the twitch of the blanket where your legs shifted beneath it—before dragging his eyes back up to yours with a slowness that made your skin feel like it might catch fire under the weight of it.

“It’s wrong,” you said, barely more than a breath, and even you could hear how unconvincing it sounded. Your voice faltered halfway through the sentence, like your mouth was trying to say something your heart didn’t believe.

Joel’s lips parted in a soft, nearly pitying sound, almost like a laugh—but gentler, rougher, like he was mourning the guilt you were dragging behind you like a chain. “That why you’re squirming, sweetheart?” he asked, voice like gravel and honey, rich and wrecked and too kind for the words it carried. “Sittin’ there all flustered, lookin’ at me like I done somethin’ to you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The air felt thick enough to drown in.

Joel leaned in just a little, his voice dipping lower, like the walls had ears and he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me takin’ care of you,” he murmured, slow and steady like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Makin’ you feel good. Keepin’ you safe. It's my job, ain’t it?”

You swallowed hard, and he saw that too.

He kept going, not touching you, not even leaning closer—just letting his voice wrap around you like his hands would, if you asked.

“These boys your age… they don’t know how to treat you,” he said, his mouth curving into something soft, something almost sad. “Don’t know how to be patient. Don’t know how to listen.”

His hand shifted slightly on the mattress, just enough to make the sheets pull tight where his thigh pressed close to yours.

“They’ll rush you,” he said, voice barely a whisper now. “Use you up. Leave you empty.”

He let the words hang, heavy and devastating.

“I’d never do that to you, baby.”

You let out a soft sound—breathless, choked, almost involuntary—the kind of desperate little noise you might’ve tried to bury into a pillow if you were alone, but now it just slipped out, raw and real and open, hanging there in the charged air between you.

Joel’s eyes darkened instantly, and his voice followed like a velvet trap. “Aw, angel,” he cooed, low and dripping with something syrup-thick and sinful, “you’re aching, ain’t ya?”

You nodded, barely, shame crawling up your spine, your thighs clenching again under the sheets like you could hide the truth from a man who already saw it, already knew. And yet… you nodded. You nodded because it was true. Because every cell in your body felt hot and heavy and needy in a way you couldn’t soothe on your own anymore.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be embarrassed about, sweetpea,” he murmured, shaking his head slow like you’d just said something silly, something naive. “It’s normal,” he added gently, like this was a lesson. Like he was here to teach. “You’re a girl with needs, and I’m a man who understands ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ dirty about that.”

His hand came up, calloused fingers brushing your cheek with a kind of reverence that made you dizzy, his thumb stroking softly under your eye like he could smooth the guilt out of you if he just touched you gently enough. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so low it made your chest ache, “always so good for me.”

You felt warm all over, like something inside you had melted and was slowly seeping into every inch of your body, like honey left in the sun.

Joel leaned back just slightly, humming low in his throat, eyes never leaving yours, like he was thinking—weighing something. And then, in a tone so casual, so infuriatingly calm it made your stomach twist, he said, “How ‘bout I help you out, huh?”

You blinked, confused, dazed, the words hitting you like warm water to the face. “Help me?” you asked, voice small and hesitant, caught between fear and want, your hands twisting in the sheets like they might anchor you to the moment.

He nodded slowly, his hand sliding from your cheek to rest on your knee—over the sheet, but the heat of it still bled through like a brand. “I want you to show me, baby,” he said, his voice still soft, still that same gentle, soothing register, like he wasn’t asking you to cross a line you could never come back from. “Show me how you do it when you’re all alone.”

Your breath caught. Your face burned. The blush that bloomed across your cheeks felt like it went all the way down to your chest, to your core, to every private place you’d ever touched in the dark.

“I—Joel,” you stammered, but your voice crumbled before it could form a protest.

He tilted his head, squeezing your knee through the sheet, patient and unbothered. “Ain’t nothin’ to be shy about, angel,” he said, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “You think I don’t know you been lyin’ here at night touchin’ that sweet little pussy all quiet-like, tryin’ not to make a sound?” He let out a low chuckle, but there was no cruelty in it—just warmth, affection, like you’d done something precious.

“Bet you rub that clit nice and slow, tryin’ to make it last, huh?” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching every tiny reaction like he was reading scripture. “Bet you squeeze your thighs together after, all messy ‘n wet, pretendin’ you’re not thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

You buried your face in your hands, humiliated and flushed, but Joel’s voice pulled you right back out, soft but firm. “C’mon now. Be a good girl and show me.”

You hid your face in your hands, hot with shame, your entire body throbbing with heat, soaked in places you didn’t dare acknowledge, and still trembling with that same awful, beautiful ache—the one that told you this was wrong, and yet made it impossible to pull away.

You were mortified, confused, soaked to your thighs and full of a desperate longing that made your skin feel too tight, your thoughts tangled and wet and unbearable.

Joel chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, curling in your stomach like smoke. “You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, gentle and coaxing and so sure of the answer he didn’t need to hear it.

But you nodded anyway, fingers twitching as you lowered your hands just enough to meet his gaze, tears brimming in your eyes though you didn’t even know what you were crying for.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and that phrase—good girl—broke something loose inside of you, made your breath catch and your throat tighten like it meant something more than just praise. Like it meant ownership. Like it meant love.

Then, in a voice that was suddenly lower, rougher, more dangerous and yet still laced with the same softness that made your stomach flip, he said, “Now go on, baby. Show your daddy how you take care of that pretty little pussy when you’re all alone, thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

You whimpered, the sound barely making it past your lips, and shook your head a little, helpless. “I—I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, your voice cracking like it was made of glass.

Joel gave a quiet, affectionate sigh, like you’d just said the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. “That’s alright, sugar,” he said, sliding a heavy hand beneath the sheet and letting it rest there for just a moment before slowly, deliberately, peeling it back.

You froze as the cool air met your bare skin, the way his eyes didn’t look away, didn’t hesitate, just drank you in like this was the most natural thing in the world, like he wasn’t your stepfather and this wasn’t your childhood bed, like this was inevitable.

“Let’s take this off then,” he said, more to himself than to you, as he folded the sheet down past your hips, your thighs, your trembling legs, until you lay there exposed, vulnerable, soaked through your panties with shame and arousal.

Joel’s eyes swept over your bare thighs, lingering on the soaked fabric clinging to the soft curve of your cunt, the way it shimmered faintly in the low lamp light like it was glowing—wet, messy, desperate. You hadn’t even touched yourself yet, hadn’t done more than breathe, and still, your body had betrayed you, eager and hungry and utterly undone just from the sound of his voice, the scrape of his knuckles, the weight of his gaze.

And Joel saw it.

Of course he did.

He let out a soft, almost pitying coo as he shook his head, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek like he was trying to hold back a sigh. “Honey,” he murmured, slow and low, that molasses drawl laced with disappointment more than anything else. “You’re drippin’, baby.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they still cut through you like a knife, made your skin prickle and your breath catch, not because he was mocking you—but because it was the truth. Because it was said like a reproach, like he was gently scolding you for keeping this from him. Like he was hurt.

“Jesus,” he whispered, shaking his head again, the softest furrow in his brow. “You waitin’ this long to ask for help, baby? Layin’ up here, soaked and achin’, all by yourself?” His voice dropped even lower, eyes still fixed on the wet patch that was growing darker by the second. “That ain’t good for you, sweetpea. All that tension. Sittin’ in your belly like poison. You know better than that.”

You whimpered, small and mortified, your eyes stinging with some ugly cocktail of shame and want and that unbearable tenderness only Joel could wring out of you.

“You shoulda come to me,” he said, as soft as a prayer, his hand drifting up to rest against your thigh, close but not touching—not yet. “Coulda knocked on my door, baby. Just a tap. I’d’ve taken care of you real easy. Real sweet.” He let out a quiet sigh, like this hurt him more than it hurt you. “But instead you’re up here, rubbin’ those pretty little thighs together like that’s gonna do the job.”

You whimpered again—quiet and pathetic, a sound barely born before it trembled out of your lips—and Joel made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sigh, his whole body shifting like it hurt him to hear you like that, like your suffering was something sacred. “My sweet girl,” he rasped, rough with reverence, and as if the words alone weren’t enough to mark you, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and tender and terrifying in its intimacy.

You froze.

It was almost absurd—after everything, after the confessions, after the filthy words spoken in soft murmurs, after sitting in your soaked underwear before him like an offering—but that kiss, that small, chaste brush of lips to skin, shattered you in a different way. You and Joel had never shared physical affection beyond fleeting, innocent moments—a hand to your back when you were sick, a brush of shoulders in the kitchen, the occasional hand-off of a cup of tea or a charger cord. But this? This was different. This was personal. This was loving.

More intimate than anything else he could have done.

And then, his voice dropped again, low and drawling, thick with heat and authority. “Alright,” he said, his tone like velvet soaked in whiskey. “Take those panties off real slow for me, sugar. I wanna see that sweet pussy beg.”

Your breath caught hard in your throat, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and for a second you didn’t move—couldn’t move—because the words had landed so heavy, like a weight dropped into your chest. But then, with trembling hands and a heart that felt too big for your ribs, you obeyed.

You reached down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear, soaked through and clinging to your skin, and began to ease them down, slow and hesitant, your eyes flickering up to meet his just once, just long enough to see the way his gaze had darkened—hungry, wild, but still soft. Still Joel.

The damp fabric peeled away from you, shame dripping off you in waves as you slid the panties down your thighs, over your knees, until they slipped past your ankles and landed in a silent heap on the floor beside the bed.

You were breathless now—your chest rising and falling in shallow little gasps, your skin flushed from head to toe, your legs trembling beneath you—and you didn’t even know if it was from fear or want or that horrible, beautiful mixture of both.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just looked.

Eyes fixed between your legs, steady and unhurried, drinking in the sight of you like it was something holy, something he didn’t quite deserve to see but was going to relish anyway. His gaze was slow, heavy, and unbearably calm—as if he hadn’t just coaxed you into peeling off your soaked panties and baring yourself in the soft hush of your childhood bedroom with the door shut and your mother asleep down the hall.

And then, in that voice—low, rough, coated in syrup and sin—he spoke.

“Spread them legs for me, baby,” he murmured, each word drawn out like he wanted them to linger in the air with you. “Let daddy see all that slick.”

Your cheeks flushed so hot it made your head spin, and for a second, your instinct was to turn away, to close your legs, to hide. But instead—God help you—you smiled, small and shy and aching with embarrassment and need, your body humming with the unbearable thrill of being seen.

Joel smiled too—lazy, pleased, touched with something warmer than it had any right to be. “That’s my good girl,” he said, the praise so soft and familiar it made your chest ache. “Gettin’ comfortable for your daddy, ain’t ya?”

You nodded, almost bashful, your thighs parting just a little wider beneath his gaze, the air cool against your soaked skin as the wet heat between your legs pulsed steady and demanding.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, his voice sinking even lower, that dangerous softness thickening into something you could feel in your bones. “Go ahead. Show me how you rub that sweet clit.”

You hesitated only for a moment, heart pounding so loud it was all you could hear, and then—because you couldn’t not obey him, because the way he was looking at you made you feel small and precious and filthy all at once—you did as he said.

Your fingers slid between your thighs, tentative and trembling, and when they brushed over your swollen folds, a broken little gasp left your mouth—because you were soaked, slick, messy in a way that made your face burn with shame, and Joel saw all of it. Your fingertips found your clit, swollen and begging, and you gave it the lightest, slowest circle, your legs twitching as your breath stuttered.

Joel let out a low groan, like the sight pained him, like he was holding himself back from something feral. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, his eyes fixed to your fingers like he was hypnotized. “Touch her real gentle. Let her know daddy’s watchin’.”

“That feel good?” he asked, voice low and slow, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it—wanted it offered up like a gift on your trembling tongue.

You nodded, breath shaky, fingers still working soft circles against your clit the way he told you to, hips twitching just a little with every pass. “Y-Yeah,” you whispered, too dazed to even pretend you had shame left in you.

Joel tilted his head slightly, that familiar crease forming between his brows, not angry—just expectant, like a teacher waiting for the right answer from a student who already knew better. “Yeah what, baby?”

You swallowed, chest fluttering with nerves and something hotter, deeper, heavier. Your voice was barely a whisper when it left you, breath catching halfway through.

“Yes, Daddy.”

The sound he made in response was filthy—a low, deep groan rumbling straight from his chest, so raw it made your thighs twitch and your core clench. You could see it in his face, the way his jaw went tight, how his hand flexed again where it lay on the bed, like he was holding himself back from something that required restraint.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and those two words—so soft, so reverent—landed heavier than anything else, sinking into your skin like praise and ownership all at once. And then, with a tenderness so at odds with the filth between you, he placed one big, warm hand on your thigh—his thumb brushing soothing little arcs into your skin—and leaned in to press a quick, burning kiss to your shoulder, beard scraping against your skin, his breath hot and damp where his lips had just been.

“You’re doin’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, barely pulling back. “Such a sweet girl—touchin’ herself just like Daddy asked.”

You whimpered, spine curving as your fingers moved faster now, helpless under the weight of his words, his touch, his eyes. You did as he said—not because you had to, not because he forced you, but because the sound of his voice, the heat in his gaze, the approval dripping from every word made you want to be good. Made you want to be his.

“Keep goin’, sugar,” Joel said, his hand tightening just slightly on your thigh. “Let Daddy see you fall apart. Let me see what that sweet little pussy looks like when she comes.”

Your fingers moved faster now, slick and shaky, the soft pressure turning greedy, desperate, your hips rising off the bed in tiny, involuntary pulses as the heat in your belly began to coil tighter, higher. The room was filled with the wet sound of your arousal—loud, obscene, almost embarrassing in how eager you were—and still Joel said nothing for a moment, just watched, eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t name, something between awe and hunger and ownership.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, like he was trying to commit the sound, the scent, the sight of you to memory, and his voice dropped an octave, ragged around the edges.

“Look so fuckin’ sweet spread out like this for me, baby,” he said, almost like it hurt to say, like the words tasted too good in his mouth to come out clean. “My precious girl… puttin’ on the prettiest damn show a man could ask for.”

Your breath hitched at his praise, your thighs twitching, fingers circling your clit faster now, harder, your other hand clutching the sheets like you’d fall through the bed without it.

“You gettin’ close, sweetheart?” Joel asked then, and his voice—low, rough, tender—wrapped around your body like a second skin, like heat itself. “That little pussy about to come just from your fingers, huh? Just from daddy watchin’ real nice?”

You nodded, too frantic to form words, mouth falling open in a soft gasp as your body trembled beneath his gaze, every nerve ending alive and raw.

He leaned in just a little, resting his forearm on his knee like this was casual, like this was just a late-night conversation and not your stepfather watching you masturbate in your childhood bed.

“That’s it,” Joel murmured, voice thick with hunger but still achingly gentle, like he was speaking to something sacred, something tender and breakable. “Good girl—look at that messy lil’ cunt cryin’ for me, fuckin’ weepin’ like she’s been starved her whole goddamn life.”

And that was it.

The coil snapped.

You came undone with a shattered, strangled whimper, hips jerking beneath your own hand as the orgasm ripped through you like heat lightning—fast and sharp and blinding. Your whole body shook, your thighs clenching tight around your wrist as slick spilled out of you in wet pulses, and the only thing tethering you to earth was the sound of Joel groaning, low and ruined, like the sight of you breaking for him had knocked the breath clean out of his lungs.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby…” he rasped, watching your body twitch and flutter through the aftershocks. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Before you could even come down from the high—before you could catch your breath or close your legs—Joel shifted forward, leaned in, and pressed the softest kiss to your still-pulsing, overstimulated clit.

You shuddered, your legs trembling violently, your whole body jerking like you’d been shocked, because it was too much—too much—and still, he kissed you there, soft and wet, like it was a mouth made to be worshiped, and he had every right to worship it.

“Can't wait to eat this sweet pussy all fuckin’ day,” he muttered against your folds, so filthy it made your toes curl. “Could live off what she gives me.”

You let out a noise—half a sob, half a gasp—your legs twitching in overstimulation, your chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy with something too big to name.

Then Joel was moving—pulling back, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something divine, and reaching for your face with hands that were still so gentle it made you ache. He cradled your cheek like you were porcelain, and leaned in close, eyes locked to yours.

And then, for the first time, he kissed you.

It was dizzying—soft and sensual, lips slow and reverent, his breath fanning across your cheek as his mouth moved over yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it right. No filth. No commands. Just Joel. Just him.

When he pulled back, his forehead just barely grazing yours, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the whole damn world worth saving—like he’d burn the house down if it meant you’d never feel lonely again. His thumb brushed tenderly across your lower lip, tracing the shape of your mouth like it belonged to him, and his voice dropped into a soft, hushed whisper.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” he murmured, reverent, wrecked, like you’d just done something brave instead of obscene.

“You… are?” you asked, barely able to get the words out around the haze still curling in your chest, that dazed warmth thick and dizzying in your veins.

“‘Course I am,” he said instantly, the words falling out with such quiet certainty it made your chest tighten, his voice steady and heartbreakingly sincere, like there wasn’t even the possibility of doubt in his mind. His thumb brushed your cheek again, slow and warm, and he looked at you with something so proud and tender it nearly broke you. “You were real brave for me, sugar. So sweet. So good.”

His voice dipped lower, softer now, almost like he was sharing a secret meant for your skin alone.

“Touched yourself like an angel, baby. Like you were made to be watched.” He let out a shaky breath, still a little wrecked himself, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “The way you spread those thighs, all flushed and achin’... shit, sweet girl, you made yourself come so pretty for me. Like you’d been waitin’ your whole life to let someone see.”

And God help you, but you smiled at that, soft and small and shy, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest as you leaned back up to kiss him again—slow, sweet, a little unsure but filled with something quiet and blooming.

He moaned against your lips, low and approving, one hand cradling your jaw as he deepened the kiss for just a moment, like he couldn’t help himself, like the taste of your mouth was something he’d never stop craving.

“Gonna keep makin’ you feel good like you deserve, sweetpea,” he whispered when he finally pulled back, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Just gotta get you ready for me first, yeah? Can’t rush somethin’ this special.”

“Okay,” you breathed, and the sound of your own voice surprised you—how soft it was, how trusting.

Joel smiled like he already had forever planned out.

“Good girl,” he said, and your heart stuttered. Then, with a gentleness that made your throat ache, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his hand brushing back your hair like you were something cherished.

“Now get some sleep,” he whispered. “Daddy’s right here.”

And he stayed—just like that—sitting on the edge of your bed, hand still resting lightly on your thigh, as your eyes fluttered closed, your body sore and soaked and safe in the dark.