#Soft-close Drawer Slides | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vanesycho · 2 months ago

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chan + fem!reader • warning! slow burn sensual smut. use of aphrodisiac. soft dom!chan. oral(f receiving). dry humping. light kink (breeding kink implied). • 4,6k • m.list

Teaser ⟩ a candle lit during a power outage filled the room with a soft vanilla scent—completely unaware of the aphrodisiac hidden within. as the night grew warmer, so did chan’s need, his hands wandering with a desperate hunger he couldn’t deny.

the sound of rain tapping against the window pulled your attention away from your phone. It was pouring, like the sky was dumping buckets, and yet chan was still locked away in his studio. you didn’t want to go to bed without him, so you decided to wait—but his work was taking longer than expected.

a flash of lightning suddenly lit up the entire room, followed by a loud clap of thunder that echoed through the walls. you decided to check on him one last time, but as soon as your feet slid off the edge of the bed, darkness swallowed the room whole.

the power had gone out.

the house, already quiet, grew even more still, but the silence didn’t last long. footsteps made their way to your door, slow and steady, and moments later, chan stepped into the room—with the flashlight on his phone lighting his path.

despite how tired he looked, his lips curled into a soft smile the second he saw you. “I almost thought you cut the power just to stop me from working,” he teased lightly, stepping closer. he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead—and somehow, the simple warmth of his lips against your skin made the heaviness in your chest loosen for a moment.

“I guess it’s finally time to use those candles we bought,” chan said, his voice suddenly excited. you let out a quiet laugh—he always had a thing for scented candles, always talked about how those sweet, hazy scents helped him relax during stressful work nights.

you followed after him as he left the room, his flashlight guiding you to the kitchen. he rummaged through one of the drawers for a while—until he finally pulled out a few candles, smiling softly as he found the ones he’d been looking for.

lifting one up, he brought it closer to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent before handing it to you.

he watched you closely as you leaned in toward it. “like it?”

a soft vanilla aroma spread around you, not too strong, but enough to gently tickle your nose, and make your head feel just a little hazy. “mhm...yeah,” you nodded, meeting his eyes, “It’s already warming me up somehow.”

after lighting the second candle, chan joined you on the bed, the soft glow and warm scent wrapping around you like a blanket. you felt a deep sense of calm settle in, the room quiet except for the rain tapping gently against the windows.

a comfortable silence lingered for a while—

until you felt his hand resting over yours.

“you’re cold,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his chest. he guided your hand over his heart, fingers intertwining as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

In that moment, you both quietly thanked the power outage. as if the universe had turned everything off just to make room for this.

“your skin... it’s so soft.” his voice came out barely above a whisper. his thumb continued to caress the back of your hand in slow, almost reverent circles. but something shifted—like the gentle touch wasn't enough anymore.

his fingers traveled upward, brushing past your wrist with featherlight strokes, gliding along your arm with deliberate slowness. when he reached your shoulder, he paused for a moment—then changed direction, sliding down along your side until his hand slipped beneath your shirt.

the sudden contrast of his warm palm on your bare waist made you inhale sharply, your breath hitching in your throat. the scent of vanilla that once felt comforting now wrapped around your senses more densely, almost dizzying.

you blinked, realizing the drowsiness from earlier had completely dissolved.

and It wasn’t just you.

beneath your hand, you felt his chest rise and fall—uneven, shaky, like he was trying to suppress something. your eyes met his, and in an instant, his gaze dropped to your lips. “something...” he muttered, voice hoarse, thick with tension. “It’s burning inside me.”

a tremor rippled through him as he exhaled—

not from fear, but restraint. like he was fighting the instinct to pull you closer, to drown in whatever was growing between you.

you weren’t any different from him. the heat pooling between your legs was almost dizzying, making it hard to keep your body still. your senses felt heightened—like every breath, every touch, was amplified and humming under your skin.

chan noticed the way your body tensed beneath him, and without a word, he gently laid you back against the mattress, sliding on top of you with careful precision. his hands braced on either side of your head, framing your face in the flickering glow of candlelight. the shadows danced across his features, but it was his eyes that truly pulled you in.

“do you feel it too?” his voice was low, gravelly, as if each word scraped against the edge of restraint. his gaze was locked on yours, but there was a tremble in his eyes—not his hands, not his breath—just his eyes. he looked torn. like he was fighting something inside him—a need, an ache, that had started small but was now unbearable.

something was crawling under his skin, not just lust, but something deeper, something possessive… addictive. the scent, the warmth of you, the way you looked at him—it was undoing him slowly.

his fingertips hovered near your cheek but didn’t quite touch. the space between you buzzed with tension, thick and electric. It felt like…if you reached for him, just once—he’d give in entirely. but for now, he was holding on by a thread.

waiting.

needing your permission to fall apart.

you didn’t answer. there was a burning lump in your throat, like your body was reacting faster than your words ever could. so you simply nodded—just the slightest movement. but it was enough for him.

chan’s breath hitched, his chest rising in one deep inhale as he closed his eyes. something shifted. he moved slowly, his hand sliding down to your wrist. even that soft touch made your whole body flinch, from the sheer sensitivity that had taken over you. everything felt amplified. It was like every nerve was tuned to him.

he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, not harshly, but firm—like he needed to keep you grounded, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he let go.

then, he leaned in. you felt his breath ghost across your neck, hot and slow—and your own breath stuttered in your chest.

“my heart’s racing,"

he whispered, voice nearly cracking under the weight of it. his eyes were shut, his lips barely grazing your skin as he breathed you in. “I feel like I’m touching you for the first time…”

the brush of his nose against your neck made your thighs press together, a quiet plea your body whispered before your voice could.

“chan…” his name slipped out, soft and broken—barely a breath. but even that was enough to draw a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat. you heard the muttered curse under his breath, thick with restraint.

he lifted his head. his eyes met yours—blazing, dark, desperate.

and there it was.

a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple, catching the flicker of candlelight as it fell. but you knew. that heat wasn’t from the room. It was from him. from whatever it was coursing through his veins, setting him on fire.

he leaned in closer, one hand planted firmly beside your head, the other still wrapped around your wrist like a lifeline.

“I can’t—” his voice cracked, low and wrecked. “I can’t hold back much longer.”

just after those last words left his lips, chan leaned in and captured your mouth with his. the kiss was messy—rushed, almost desperate. he moved like he was chasing something he couldn’t quite reach, each press of his lips followed by a shallow breath, only to dive back in like it still wasn’t enough. his hands didn’t move much, but his mouth said everything; hungry, breathless, wanting.

when the kiss finally broke with a soft, wet sound, his lips didn’t stop. they traveled down to your chin, then dipped lower to your neck. you felt him there—teeth grazing the skin, a delicate bite that sent a wave through your body. his breath was scalding hot against your throat, so vivid it made your pulse thrum louder. you closed your eyes, letting yourself melt into him completely, silently offering your body up to be explored. and he did—like he’d waited too long for this, like he wasn’t just touching your skin, but claiming every inch of it with reverence and quiet hunger.

his hands were restless, moving with a clear intention. before you knew it, they slipped under your shirt. the moment his fingers brushed over your already stiffened nipples, a low, satisfied sound escaped his lips.

he pulled back for a second, just enough to create distance, though the pressure below was already starting to ache. his hand found yours, guiding it slowly down—right to where he was hardest.

"can you feel that?" he whispered, voice barely audible yet full of desire. the second your palm cupped the heat of his arousal, he shut his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath that trembled between control and need. you nodded silently in response. "good," he murmured, lips curling just slightly. "now come here."

within seconds, you were straddling his lap, the heat of your body settling right over his aching length. the thin layers of clothing between you did nothing to dull the friction—if anything, it made everything worse. chan’s hands gripped your hips firmly, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. he pulled you against him, grinding you down with a desperation he could barely contain. a guttural sound rumbled from his throat, low and raw. "f-fuck—" he choked out, his voice ragged.

the pleasure shot through him like lightning, overwhelming and fast and almost too much. the way your weight pressed down on him, how your heat aligned perfectly with his swollen arousal—it was driving him insane. for a second, he thought he might actually come undone right there, just from the pressure, from the way you fit against him like that.

every breath he took was heavy, laced with need. his head dropped against your shoulder as he muttered, “fuck, why does this feel so... intense?" for a moment, he seemed lost—like he couldn’t quite place what was happening to him—but the hunger in his eyes said it all. he didn’t want to stop. not now. not ever.

he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to stop. every time your clit brushed against his hardness, a sharp pulse throbbed deep inside you, demanding more. you couldn’t hold back, your hips began to move slowly, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence.

chan clenched his jaw, fingers digging harder into your hips as if trying to anchor you down. your name slipped from his lips, not as a plea but almost like a reprimand—like you were doing something you shouldn’t, and he was supposed to warn you.

"If you keep going—" he warned, voice low and strained, "I’m gonna... come right here, in my pants."

gross, chan thought, a flash of embarrassment prickling through him at the idea of coming just from the friction—without a single finger inside his pants. but his body didn’t care.

It was too warm. too damn hot.

every piece of fabric on him suddenly felt heavier, like a suffocating weight pressing down, making it impossible to think clearly.

chan’s pre-cum seeped slowly through the fabric, warm and slick, pooling in places that made it impossible to think straight. his breath was shallow, unsteady as a bead of sweat traced a slow path from the curve of his neck down to his collarbone. he inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but his mind was already consumed.

his hands slid from your hips up to your shirt without hesitation, gripping and pulling it up. you raised your arms to help, your bare skin coming into view, heart pounding against his gaze.

a shaky breath escaped him as his eyes locked onto your chest. unable to resist, he took you beneath him again, his gaze never leaving your breasts. fingers toyed with the edge of your shorts, exploring with deliberate intent while his lips descended to your skin.

he licked your nipples slowly, tasting, teasing, then bit gently—soft enough to make you shiver but sharp enough to mark the moment. every sound you made, every subtle reaction of your body, was etched into his memory, fueling his hunger all the more.

his lips traveled downward, tracing a slow path to your stomach. he glanced up at you, eyes dark and intense, before murmuring a gentle command, “lift your hips, baby.”

you obeyed without hesitation, helping him pull your shorts and underwear down together. his hands reached your inner thighs, urging you to part them just for him.

a deep sigh escaped him as his eyes took in the glistening wetness, illuminated softly by the flickering candlelight. you caught the subtle swallow he tried to hide, the raw hunger barely contained beneath his calm exterior.

then he leaned down, fingers sliding out slowly from your slit to feel just how wet you were. his two thumbs gently parted your lips. he didn't care how messy or soaked you were. he wanted more. a slow drip of spit slid down, warm and deliberate, and at the touch of his breath, your hips jerked involuntarily.

chan bent to the spot where his saliva had landed, dragging his tongue over you in a slow, hungry lick from bottom to top. a satisfied sound rumbled deep in his throat as a subtle vibration pulsed through your pussy, sending shivers that echoed deep inside you.

his tongue lingered around your entrance, circling it with slow, deliberate motions, tasting you like something forbidden and sacred. then, as if the need consumed him whole, he buried his face deeper between your thighs, like he wanted to disappear inside you.

your moans came out louder, less controlled. your chest rose and fell rapidly, the heat overwhelming, his mouth relentless. there was a rhythm to his tongue, steady and calculated, but maddening—perfectly torturous.

when he finally pulled back for just a moment, you saw it—the glistening shine on his lips, your wetness coating him like proof of his obsession. he looked wrecked. chest heaving, pupils blown wide. and then, in a rough growl that came from deep in his throat, he muttered, completely undone "you're dripping… fuck, you're soaking my face."

and still, his fingers dug into your thighs like he never wanted to let go, like your taste was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"come on my face, yeah?" he asked in a single, ragged breath, his voice cracked open with desperation. his eyes —those eyes— never left yours, dark and heavy with hunger, dragging every last bit of restraint out of you. something stirred deep inside you at the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever crave. everything already felt too much, too warm, too intense...and his gaze made it impossible to hold on.

and despite asking, he didn’t wait for an answer.

he dove back in. tongue relentless, lips messy, completely lost in the taste of you. your hands found his hair, fingers curling, hips moving without thought. the pressure in your core tightened, unbearable, unbearable, until—

your breath shattered.

It hit all at once, like a wave crashing through you, body seizing as you cried out, a broken moan torn from your throat. he didn’t move an inch, didn’t ease up, not even as you came. Instead, he groaned into you, deeper than before, letting your release coat his face. you could feel how soaked he was, how wet everything had become —his mouth, his chin, the noises he made— obscene, low, needy.

when he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, lips swollen and glistening, jaw tight like he was barely holding it together. he looked up at you like he’d just been baptized, completely wrecked. “you’re so beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

he whispered—his voice low, reverent. the corners of your lips lifted ever so slightly at the praise, a breath of calm wrapping around you both, if only for a heartbeat.

but then you felt it—his bulge, twitching and throbbing beneath the strained fabric of his pants, pressed firm against your thigh. that quiet moment shattered in the heat pooling between you.

a soft grunt left his lips, and he pressed his forehead to yours, breath hot and uneven. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t keep these on,” he muttered, almost to himself. desperation dripped from his voice.

he pulled back just enough to shove his pants down with shaky hands, underwear following fast, revealing just how painfully hard he was. his cock sprang free, flushed, veined, the tip glistening from how worked up he’d been just from pleasuring you.

“I need to be inside you,” he growled, voice tight and raw. “I’ve waited long enough…”

he lined himself up, the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance—hot, leaking, throbbing with the kind of need that made his breath catch. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, fighting the urge to just sink in all at once.

but he didn’t. he couldn’t. not when you were looking up at him like that. not when every shaky breath of yours curled around his ribs like a soft plea.

“I’m gonna go slow, okay?” he whispered, voice thin and trembling. “wanna feel every inch of you…”

one hand gripped your thigh, anchoring himself, while the other gently caressed your cheek—his thumb brushing over your lips like he was grounding himself through touch.

and then, so slowly it made your breath hitch, he pushed in. just the tip.

a low moan spilled from his mouth, half-choked, needy and raw. “fuck—so warm… you’re gonna ruin me already” he murmured, barely above a whisper, like the words weren’t even meant to be heard.

he paused, panting softly as he tried not to lose himself right then and there. his fingers dug into your skin as he pressed in a little deeper, inch by inch, reverent, almost shaking. he whispered again, like it still hadn’t fully hit him. “feels too good…”

his hips trembled, not from movement, but from restraint. every time he sank deeper, it was followed by a quiet, desperate sound—something between a sigh and a moan—like your body was unraveling him second by second.

chan stayed still inside you for a moment, not daring to move. his fingers gently caressed the softness of your hips, forehead resting against yours, breaths tangled in the warm space between. chest to chest, skin slick with sweat, the silence around you was only filled by your shared, shaky exhales.

the candle’s flickering light danced lazily across the walls, casting golden shadows that curled and slid along chan’s back. every time the flame wavered, the glow would shift, revealing the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles strained from holding back.

you had just come undone from his mouth—your body still trembling, overly sensitive. so when he slid into you, slow and deliberate, the stretch was overwhelming. your eyes fluttered shut, lips parted with a breathless gasp. the fullness was too much. too intimate. too good.

he noticed.

"too much?" he whispered, his voice strained, as if he was barely holding himself together. “fuck. you’re so tight, I can feel everything…”

his own sensitivity showed all over his face. his brows were furrowed, lower lip caught between his teeth. he’d been waiting—aching—for this, and now that he was finally inside, every second was electric. but he still didn’t move. his hands just roamed over you softly, and he leaned into your neck, breathing you in.

“just… let me stay here for a second,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “I can’t move yet, I’ll fucking lose it.”

your chest was rising and falling quickly, body still buzzing with leftover waves. the pressure between you both was intense—almost unbearable in the best way. his breath grazed your skin as he clung to the moment, buried in you, not even fully inside yet, but already trembling from the closeness.

and then—the candle flickered again, the flame making a soft crackling sound just as chan began to move. carefully. gently. but with something trembling beneath the surface, something desperate.

he pulled out slowly, barely halfway, just to ease back in again, deeper this time. the stretch burned just right, your walls fluttering around him, still soaked and pulsing from before. you gasped, hands gripping his arms, fingertips sinking into the muscle like you needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself again.

“c-chan,” you whimpered, voice shaking. “too deep…”

he froze instantly, chest heaving against yours, clearly affected by the sound of your voice—by the way you said his name. his hand found your jaw, tilting your face to look at him.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, breath warm against your lips. “I’ll stop—fuck, I’ll stop if you need.”

but you didn’t want him to stop. not even close. you shook your head, a soft breathless, “don’t,” escaping your lips.

that was all he needed.

he rolled his hips again, still slow, but firmer now. every thrust was calculated, intentional. he wasn’t slamming into you. no. he was feeling everything. memorizing everything. letting himself get drunk off the tight heat around him, the way you clenched every time he pushed a little deeper. the candlelight flickered again, briefly illuminating his flushed face, the raw emotion in his eyes.

“oh my god..” you breathed out, arching your back, your body moving to meet his rhythm without even thinking. he groaned softly, lips ghosting over your collarbone. “you feel so fucking good… fuck, baby, you're perfect—just like that, yeah?”

his thrusts grew slightly faster, a little deeper with every push. you felt everything. the wetness. the fullness. the way he pulled out almost completely before sliding back in with a soft, desperate sound caught in his throat.

“please,” you whispered, voice cracking. he looked up, eyes wild and glassy, breath caught. “what do you need, sweetheart?” he asked, barely able to speak through how much he was holding back.

“you. just—don’t stop.” and he didn’t. his rhythm built slowly, pressure curling deep inside you with every thrust. he reached places that made your toes curl, your eyes roll back. each movement was rougher, needier. controlled at first—but clearly unraveling.

“you’re taking me so well,” he murmured into your skin. “so fuckin' tight around me… it’s driving me insane.” you moaned his name again, and it nearly broke him.

your body trembled beneath him, every thrust pushing you closer to that dizzying edge. your nails dragged down his back, leaving faint red trails he wouldn’t mind seeing the next morning. “chan— fuck— I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he gasped, voice cracking as he tried to keep his pace steady—but it was slipping. “I feel you. you're so close… I can feel it.” his hips snapped forward harder now, rhythm reckless, losing any restraint he had left. the slap of skin meeting skin echoed louder, messier, more desperate. his breath stuttered against your neck as he muttered broken praises—"so good," "so tight," "my pretty baby taking it all"—like a prayer on repeat.

“you’re squeezing me—fuck, just like that—don’t stop, please don’t stop—” his voice cracked on the last word, and his hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. “let go for me, sweetheart. wanna feel you come on me again. need it.”

your legs wrapped tighter around his waist instinctively, pulling him impossibly close as your climax finally crashed over you—sharp, electric, overwhelming. you cried out his name like it was the only word you knew, body spasming beneath him, and he nearly collapsed from the way you pulsed around him.

“shit—fuck—” he groaned, losing rhythm entirely as you clenched down, milking every last bit of control out of him. he buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged, hips stuttering.

“where do you want it, baby?” he rasped, voice barely holding together, needy and frantic. “tell me. please."

his rhythm turned frantic, deeper, rougher, chasing the edge with all the restraint of a man starved. your body was still trembling from your orgasm, oversensitive, twitching with every thrust—and he could feel it. feel how you clenched around him, how your walls fluttered, inviting him in deeper, tighter.

“shit—baby—” he hissed, voice cracking into a moan. “you’re gonna make me—fuck—”

he barely managed to lift his head, his gaze locking with yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted and trembling. “wanna come inside,” he breathed. “let me… wanna fill you up. need to—fuck, I need to.”

you nodded, barely coherent, breath catching. “yes, please… inside, chan.”

that was it. he let out a raw, guttural sound—somewhere between a sob and a growl—as he sank deep and stilled, buried to the hilt. his body tensed above you, head dropping to your shoulder as his hips twitched through the release. warmth flooded into you as he came, wave after wave, chanting your name like a lifeline.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, breath shaky. “fuck.. I’m so deep in you… you take it so well. you’re meant for me.”

you could feel every throb, every pulse of him inside, and it only made you cling tighter. the air was thick with the sound of your breaths, your heartbeats syncing, bodies tangled, still trembling from the intensity.

after a moment, he raised his head, kissed your temple with a soft hum. “you okay, baby?” he whispered, voice hoarse and full of warmth.

and god, despite the sweat, the mess, the ruined sheets—everything felt perfect.

the air felt heavier now—not from lust, but from the silence that came with release. the rhythm had slowed, and so had time. your skin buzzed with the aftermath, oversensitive, warm, kissed all over with sweat and love. chan collapsed beside you with a soft groan, still catching his breath, hand reaching for yours instantly, fingers locking like it was instinct.

neither of you spoke for a few seconds. just… breath. the kind that came from letting go too much and feeling too much.

he nuzzled into your shoulder, hair damp, his voice barely a whisper. "you okay? was that… too much?" you shook your head softly, too blissed out to form words. so instead, you turned, tucked your nose under his chin, and let out a hum—content, safe, full.

“I can’t believe we actually—” he started, then cut himself off with a sheepish laugh. you felt it rumble in his chest before he said, “I think I literally begged you to come on my face. that—uh. that happened.”

you burst into a breathy laugh, your body jolting slightly from the sudden movement. “yeah, you were kind of…” you paused, pretending to think, “feral.”

chan groaned and covered his face. “nooo, don’t remind me. that damn candle or whatever was in that incense—pure evil.” you looked over. the candle on the desk flickered innocently, as if it hadn't just witnessed the filthiest hour of your lives.

“It’s still going,” you teased, “should we be scared?”

“we should file a restraining order.” he deadpanned.

but then, he got quiet again. and his hand came up to trace slow circles on your side, his voice barely a breath. “but seriously… you’re so beautiful when you fall apart for me.” the words hit different now. no lust behind them. just warmth.

and for the first time since it all started, your eyes met in the dim candlelight—no tension, no rush. just two people wrapped up in each other, sweaty, tired, and impossibly soft.

If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and see a reblog! thank you so much for your support!

taglist: @velvetmoonlght @laylasbunbunny @inishij @m-325 @itvenorica124

#skz smut #stray kids smut #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz x reader smut #bangchan smut #bangchan fanfic #bangchan x reader #bang chan imagines #bang chan smut #bang chan x reader

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cherrysinner · 2 months ago

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── LITTLE SURPRISE 🍓

...or mother's day with your husband.

🍓 pairing: farmer!rafe x farmer’s wife!reader

🍓 summary: how farmer!rafe and reader’s first child came to be.

🍓 warnings / tags: fluff, smut, unprotected piv, MDNI! WC: 1k

🍓 author's note: how farmer!rafe and his wife ended up having their first child!! thanks to mother’s day.

FARMER'S WIFE MASTERLIST RAFE MASTERLIST

you woke up to the feeling of rafe's lips pressing kisses on the back of your neck, causing the hairs there to rise as you let out a quiet gasp, still half-asleep. your husband hummed out a deep chuckle as his lips attached themselves onto the smooth skin on your shoulder, biting and sucking on it.

"mmm, rafe, we're not teenagers 'nymore, hickies are tacky..." you mumbled, your voice still laced with sleep as you turned around in his arms to face him, looking at him with half-lidded eyes, "what're you starin' at, cowboy?"

"i got you something." rafe grinned, sitting up in bed, and you were sure rafe stretched his muscular abs on purpose while he was reaching for something from the nightstand, pulling the top drawer open and swiftly closing it, before he sat back up and handed you an envelope, "what's this?" you asked in amusement, "open it and see."

you rolled your eyes, ripping the top part of the envelope open. inside, there was a... card of some kind. you pulled it out, your brows furrowing when you read the text on it.

happy mother's day!

"rafe, do you have something to tell me?" you asked with a humored chuckle, "because last time i checked, we don't have kids, and i'm not pregnant."

before you were able to react, rafe grabbed the card and the envelope, throwing them onto the ground before picking you up by your waist with such ease it made you squeal, and forcing you to straddle his lap, "not yet." he said in a gruff voice, his hand sliding up your thigh as he looked up into your eyes, "but i think i can change that."

the oversized shirt that you wore to sleep was pushed up to reveal your tits, one of the hardened buds sucked into rafe's mouth as his hips rocked into you, a gasp falling from your lips with every thrust as you threw your head back in a bliss.

your hands were tangled in his hair, tugging on the strands as if trying to get him to speed up, to be less gentle with you, while your husband simply chuckled against your sensitive nipple, causing shivers to run down your spine. "use your words, sweetie..." rafe mumbled, detaching his mouth from your nipple, pressing a kiss on the sensitive bud, "poor girl... so sensitive..." he tsked in a slightly mocking way, looking up at you with a dazed look in his eyes, thrusting into you. "what'd'ya need, dove?"

"need..." you moaned, "need'ya, rafe..." you tugged him closer, making him chuckle again, giving another harsh thrust of his hips, making you gasp, "all you have to do is ask, love..."

rafe pressed his lips on your neck, one of his hands sliding down to your clit, and you could feel his thumb starting to draw circles on your clit, the pace and occurence of his thrusts speeding up, "you're gonna look so good with my baby growing in you, dove..."

"god, rafe..." you moan, arching your back off the bed, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, too blissed out to even know what's going on "i've wanted this for so long..."

every ridge and vein on his cock felt like pure heaven as the tip of his cock kept kissing your cervix, your gummy walls starting to clench around him as you felt yourself getting closer and closer, the room filled with the lewd squelch of your pussy whenever he thrusted into you.

"god, i love you so much..." rafe mumbled into your neck, his teeth nipping at your soft skin, the headboard of your bed starting to bang against the wall. the hand that was on your clit stopped its movements, making you let out a disappointed whine that only seemed to egg him on. rafe moved your leg to rest on his shoulder, stretching you out before his thumb went back to your clit to continue what he'd been doing before.

the new position let him get so much deeper, your shared bedroom filled with your moans and your husband's ragged, groaning breaths. "rafe, 'm close, 'm close..." you whined, your grip on his hair tightening. "come for me, dove, come for me..." rafe moaned, "need to feel you come around my cock, sweetie... need it..."

you felt yourself come undone, the knot in your stomach coming undone, your gummy walls clenching around rafe's cock leaving him weak and groaning as he tried to drag himself out of your tight walls, only to plunge back into you, making you let out a loud whine.

"gonna cum..." rafe mumbled as he drew back slightly, before thrusting back into you until the head of his cock met the spongy spot inside of you, "gonna give you my baby..." he drew back, and thrust back in, "gonna make you a mama..."

once again, he drew back, but this time, the words he was trying to let out were muffled by the intensity of his orgasm, causing rafe to groan as he spilled warm spurts of cum into you, his cock throbbing inside of you, every vein throbbing at its own accord, your husbands breaths heavy and intense.

when rafe finally started getting down from his orgasm, he grinned, his softening cock still inside of you as he looked down at you, a sheen of sweat covering your skin, "you're so gorgoeous..." he pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, "can't wait until you're all round and full of my babies."

"you do know that once we have babies, it'll be harder to have time for this, right?" you grinned.

"i'll find a way." rafe grinned down at you, bringing the thumb that had been on your clit to your lips, making you taste yourself, "i always find a way, dove."

TAGLIST: @nemesyaaa @inbred-eater @raahosh @rcsbabydoll @dollyfiles @drewsephrry @cameronsbabydoll

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youthguk · 3 months ago

Text

Entropy | jjk (m) | one-shot

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N

“The universe tends toward chaos.” You thought that only applied to black holes and entropy equations — not boys with lip rings and midnight eyes. You were wrong.

genre: smut, one-shot, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language, alcohol consumption, casual hookup, reader is sexually inexperienced but very willing, Jungkook is fully feral and obsessed

Wc: 10k

author's note: your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

The second law of thermodynamics states that the universe naturally tends toward disorder. That every system, left to its own devices, will eventually fall apart.

You never thought it would apply to people, but by the third week of finals season, everything begins to decay.

Not in any spectacular, cinematic way—no dramatic breakdowns in the hallway or rain-soaked monologues—but in smaller, quieter disintegrations. You begin to lose the will to care whether your iced coffee is more milk than caffeine. Your drawers become a graveyard of crumpled hoodies and socks that don’t match. Your planner, once color-coded with obsessive devotion, now lies somewhere under your bed, abandoned and blank.

Entropy, you think. The tendency of systems to slide into disorder. You remember the diagram from second-year thermodynamics: the universe’s cruel, inevitable drift toward chaos. You’d once found peace in it. A kind of comfort, knowing it wasn’t your fault when things fell apart. It was just nature.

These days, you’re not so sure. You stand in front of the mirror in your dorm’s bathroom, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth, hair piled into a loose, too-honest bun that makes your ears look uneven. You’ve been wearing the same oversized MIT hoodie for three days straight. Not because it means anything to you—you didn’t even apply there—but because it smells like clean laundry and covers the fact that your bra is somewhere inside a laundry basket you no longer have the energy to dig through.

You look exhausted. Not dramatically so, but in the way that makes people hesitate before asking you for anything. You’ve started getting that look in the lab, in lectures, even from your professors: the quiet, pitying glance that says, You’re doing too much, and it’s starting to show. And still, you keep doing it.

Physics doesn’t reward soft emotions. It rewards answers. You know how to calculate momentum, how to model projectile motion, how to explain wave-particle duality to a room full of distracted undergrads—but you don’t know how to mourn something that was never truly yours. You don’t know how to feel cleanly. You only know how to function.

You open the bathroom cabinet, close it again, stare blankly at your own reflection. Your eyes are ringed in fatigue. Your lips are chapped. Your last kiss was over a month ago and didn’t even taste like goodbye.

You don’t miss him. Not really. He was nice. Predictable. Gentle. He always held your hand like he was asking permission. But the moment he ended it—voice calm, like he was discussing his meal plan—you didn’t feel heartbreak. You felt relief.

And maybe that’s worse. Your phone buzzes on the sink. You glance down and see Hyeri’s name.

Hyeri: *I swear to god if you ghost me I’m breaking into your room.*Hyeri: *Put on a dress. He’s throwing a party.*You: *Who.*Hyeri: *Jeon fucking Jungkook.*You: No thanks.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

There it is—that name again. A name that lives in the background of your life like ambient noise. Jeon Jungkook: a boy you’ve never actually spoken to, but whose existence seems to follow you in ways you can’t explain. Shared classes. Group projects. Dorm parties where he arrived shirtless and left with a girl on his arm. Mutual friends who describe him with exasperated fondness. A smirk that belongs on someone far less academically average.

You’ve never had a reason to care about him. Not really. Except for that one night at the start of second year, when you sat across from him at a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday and watched him lick whipped cream off his thumb while explaining something about SEO strategy. You’d gone home that night and googled what the hell SEO actually was.

You’d forgotten about him after that. Or tried to.

Until your best friend started playing matchmaker in group chats you weren’t in. Until the campus gossip pages kept posting blurry photos of his arms. Until his name started appearing in conversations he wasn’t even part of, and every girl said the same thing:

Jeon Jungkook fucks like it’s a contact sport.

For a brief moment, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to be tackled by him, but quickly buried that thought beneath a mountain of coursework, equations, and meticulously organized lab notes - all those neat, contained systems that made sense.

Hyeri: Come. Please. One drink. One dance. You’re not allowed to rot in that hoodie forever.

Chewing your lip, you glance from the worn hoodie to your reflection, then finally to the door. Maybe this isn't about Jungkook, or even your ex - maybe it's simply time to feel something real before summer consumes what's left of you. With a quiet sigh, you make your decision.

You: Fine. But if it’s weird, I’m faking a panic attack and leaving.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You don’t know when the universe started to unravel.Maybe it was the breakup. Maybe it was that lab partner who kept messing up your simulations. Maybe it was all the times you sat through lectures with tears threatening at the corners of your eyes and no one noticing, not even once. But tonight, it feels like something bigger. Like the universe itself has decided to press its thumb against your spine and push.

Entropy unfolds around you like a slow dance. The universe's natural descent into disorder feels inevitable tonight as you stand before the mirror, half-heartedly curling your lashes. Mascara won't fix the exhaustion in your eyes, won't erase the weeks you've spent hiding from your reflection. You barely recognize the person staring back at you anymore.

Hyeri’s outside your door, already half-drunk, yelling through the crack like she owns the world. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m breaking in and dressing you myself!”

You shout back a profanity, then drop your towel and step into the dress she brought you. It wasn’t made for physics students. That much is clear. It’s navy satin, too short to be safe and too tight to be responsible. The neckline dips like a threat, the fabric clings like it knows something you don’t. You smooth it down your sides, catching your reflection by accident — and then not looking away.

Your hair’s still wet from the world’s fastest shower. You didn’t bother with foundation. Just a bit of liner, a swipe of something sheer on your lips. You look like someone you don’t quite know. Someone who might dance. Someone who might say yes to something reckless. The zipper sticks halfway up your back, and when you reach to fix it, a strand of hair slips free and falls across your face. You look messy. Unpolished. A little chaotic.

A laugh escapes your lips as you realize that in your disheveled state, you've finally aligned with the universe's natural tendency toward chaos.

There’s a knock at the door. “I swear to god, Y/N—”

You open it before she can finish, and Hyeri shuts up mid-rant.

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

You grab your bag. “Don’t say anything.”

“Okay,” she says, eyes wide, “but if Jungkook doesn’t try to kiss you tonight, I’m checking him for a concussion.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters with a newfound awareness - the whisper of satin against skin, the cool night air dancing across your thighs.

Following Hyeri through the dimly lit stairwell and into the waiting Uber, you can't help but notice how different the city feels tonight. Summer lingers in the air, heavy with possibility, as if the universe itself is contemplating what kind of chaos to unleash. For once, you're ready to embrace whatever comes.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You smell the party before you hear it. It’s not unpleasant — not the kind of sour, suffocating stink of undergrad dorm parties you’ve long since grown out of. No, this one smells like summer. Like too-sweet alcohol and chlorine and night air that clings to bare shoulders. There’s music, loud enough to rattle the pavement beneath your heels, bass bleeding through windows too big to hide the chaos inside.

Jungkook’s house is exactly what you’d expect from a rich boy with too many friends and too little restraint. Modern, massive, perched on a hill just far enough from campus to feel forbidden. The front door’s already wide open. People flow in and out like blood through a vein. Someone’s laughing on the porch. Someone else is making out against the railing. You pause before going in.

Hyeri’s already halfway up the steps, turning back when she notices you hesitate. “Don’t look like you’re here to study. Shoulders back. Chin up. You look hot as hell.”

You follow her inside. The temperature rises immediately. The music hits your chest in waves, something fast and rhythmic that people pretend they know the words to. There’s a sheen of sweat on everyone’s skin, cups half-empty and already sticky with fingerprints. Lights pulse in warm golds and deep reds, designed to make everyone look better than they are.

You keep your eyes low at first, weaving through bodies, careful not to bump into anyone. You’re not used to being seen. Not like this. Not in something this tight, this short. You feel the way the fabric pulls across your hips, how it shifts with each step. You’re suddenly aware of the line of your thighs, the exposed stretch of your back.

The weight of someone's stare draws your attention upward, and there he stands: Jeon Jungkook, watching you with deliberate intensity.

Slouched on the arm of an expensive couch, drink in one hand, tattooed fingers curled around plastic like they’ve never had to hold anything heavier. He’s wearing a black button-up — open halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows — and a pair of dark jeans that might as well be a crime. His lip ring catches the light when he smirks at something one of his friends says, and his head tilts just slightly — because he’s looking at you.

You almost miss it, the way the smirk dies and reforms into something slower. Sharper. His gaze lingers, dips — not in a crude, hungry way, but in a way that makes you feel scanned. Like he’s logging every inch of skin, every tilt of your body, every second you hold eye contact.

His expression remains neutral as his gaze lingers, drinking in every detail of your presence. The intensity of his stare follows you across the room as Hyeri pulls you toward the kitchen, chattering about shots and mixers while reminding you to "hydrate between drinks, you nerd." Even through the press of bodies and pulsing music, you can feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.

The kitchen is a chaotic display of solo cups and liquor bottles, with fruit swimming in something that promises tomorrow's regret. You grab a drink more for something to occupy your hands than anything else, the cold plastic a flimsy shield as cherry and vodka touch your lips.

When Hyeri tugs at your hand with an excited "Come dance!", you pause. The familiar heat of his gaze draws your attention back across the room. He's standing now, drink still in hand, and when your eyes meet, his lips curve into a smile that's neither cocky nor practiced. It's something more dangerous - slow, curious, possessive - as if he's already seen how this night ends. As if the universe itself has chosen its preferred form of chaos.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.✧.

You lose Hyeri somewhere between the kitchen and the music.

She disappears into the haze of bodies with the kind of confidence you’ve never been able to fake—throwing her arms around someone you don’t recognize, laughing too loudly, swaying like she’s part of the beat itself. The living room’s been cleared just enough to form a makeshift dance floor, though calling it that feels generous. It’s a swarm. Sweaty, uncoordinated, pulsing with bass and alcohol.

You hover at the edge for a moment, half-expecting yourself to turn back. But your feet don’t move. You feel warm. Lightheaded. A little less real with every second. And you know, before you even look again, that he’s still there.

He doesn’t approach like he’s chasing something. He approaches like he’s already caught it.

You feel him before you see him—something magnetic pulling at the corner of your awareness. Then you turn your head, and he’s suddenly beside you, crowding your space without brushing you once. His shirt clings to the lines of his chest. His breath smells faintly of whiskey and mint.

“Didn’t know physics majors danced,” he murmurs, not loud but close enough that the words slide against your neck.

You don’t flinch. “Didn’t know business majors could form full sentences.”

That earns a laugh. Low. A little sharp. He doesn’t look away. The song shifts, something slower, bass-heavy, almost liquid in the way it pours over the crowd. His hand doesn’t touch you—not yet—but you feel his presence pressing in, daring you to move first.

“You wanna?” he asks, a single word softened by the tilt of his mouth. It’s not polite. Not romantic. But his tone says he already knows the answer.

You shouldn't dance with him, but nothing about tonight has followed any semblance of reason. When you nod, he steps behind you, eliminating all space between your bodies. His hands find your hips with casual precision, thumbs brushing the exposed skin between your dress and thighs - not quite inappropriate, but enough to make your breath catch and spine straighten.

You let the music guide your movements, following pure instinct rather than practiced steps. The weight of his hands sets your rhythm, his grip subtle yet firm as heat radiates from his chest against your back. He stays silent, letting his touch speak volumes - possessive, intentional, marking.

When his lips graze your ear, he murmurs, "You're not what I expected."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Your voice emerges unfamiliar - soft, low, wrapped in heat.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You just… move like you’ve been pretending not to want this.”

You lean back—not into him, not quite. Just enough to let your head fall against his shoulder, enough for your cheek to brush the edge of his jaw.

“Maybe I have,” you whisper.

That makes him exhale through his nose, a near-silent sound of disbelief.One of his hands slides lower, fingers dragging down the side of your thigh through your dress, subtle under the colored lights. You don’t stop him. Don’t even flinch. You’re past that now—past logic, past caution. You gave up control the second you walked through the door. Your hips roll against his, slow, testing. He curses under his breath.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You smile, dizzy with the rush of power you didn’t know you had. “Good.”

The beat slows again. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You're suspended there, in the strobe-flecked dark, wrapped in the tension of something neither of you is ready to name. You can feel the way his body hardens against yours. The restraint in the way he keeps his hands from wandering farther. The storm gathering behind his eyes.

And then someone spills a drink, somewhere close, and the moment fractures just enough for you to step away.

You walk toward the back door without a word. Toward the warm night air, toward the sound of water, toward the next inevitable collapse in this universe gone fully to chaos.

Behind you, Jungkook follows.

The patio is cooler, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

You step out into the night air with your plastic cup still clutched in your hand, the condensation sliding between your fingers. The hem of your dress clings to the backs of your thighs, slick with sweat and static, and your pulse hasn’t slowed since the dance floor. You try to blame it on the alcohol. On the heat. On the music still throbbing behind you.

Not on him. You don’t dare glance behind you. You don’t have to. You already know he’s there. The pool glows in blue and gold, lights flickering beneath the surface like someone bottled the stars and poured them into water. A few people are floating lazily, limbs draped over inflatable chairs, laughter drifting up like smoke. The jacuzzi hums beside it, steam rising from its surface, soft and almost cinematic. Someone’s speaker plays a slower song now—trance-like, sensual, too low to sing along to.

And there he is again. He emerges from the shadows like the night belongs to him. Still shirtless, only now his skin shines with a sheen of sweat. His boxers ride low on his hips, exposing just enough to make your mouth dry. His chest is cut, stomach taut, tattoos black against golden skin. A towel slung over one shoulder. That stupid, crooked grin.

“You look hot,” he says. His tone is casual, but his eyes aren’t. They’re scanning every inch of you, unhurried. “You should cool off.”

You take a slow sip from your drink. “What, in there?”

He nods toward the jacuzzi. “It’s basically mandatory.”

You raise a brow. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

Neither does he, clearly. He steps closer anyway. “Neither do I.”

Before you can respond, Hyeri appears beside you with a shriek, nearly stumbling as she tugs off her dress in one motion. Her red bra and matching lace panties flash under the porch lights like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Come onnnn,” she whines, laughing, already halfway into the water. “It’s just underwear! No one cares!”

“I care,” you mutter, gripping the hem of your dress like it’s the last thing tethering you to reality.

“Then stop being so uptight,” she says—and with no warning, she shoves you forward.

You stumble with a yelp. The cup flies from your hand. Your knees buckle as hot water surrounds you, silk dragging against your skin, heavy and clinging. You surface gasping, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to your forehead.

“Hyeri!” you snap, voice shrill, but she’s laughing too hard to answer.

Someone whistles. Someone else claps. Jungkook’s smirking as he lowers himself in across from you, water sloshing up over his chest. He leans back, spreads his arms wide across the edge, like this is his throne and you’ve just been delivered to it.

And your dress—god, your dress. The satin is ruined. It sticks to your stomach, your thighs, your chest. The neckline’s slipped almost indecently low, and you know without looking that the fabric is nearly see-through now, the curve of your bra showing underneath. You tug at it beneath the surface, cheeks flaming.

“It’s not that kind of party,” you mutter, voice tight.

But he’s already watching you like it is. “You’re overdressed.”

You shoot him a look. “Not anymore.”

He smiles, slow and lazy, and leans closer. “Then lose it.”

You hesitate. But the water is warm, the music hazy, the alcohol swimming in your bloodstream like a tide. And your dress is clinging like second skin, dragging with every breath. You sigh. Slide the straps off your shoulders. Shimmy out of the fabric under the surface until it floats around you like a drowning petal. You drape it over the side without ceremony.

Now it’s just you in your bra and underwear. Bare legs. Wet skin. Nothing left to hide behind. And he’s watching you like he wants to ruin you with just his eyes.

Conversation rises around you—someone retells a wild hookup story, someone else splashes a drink over the jets—but none of it registers. You can feel Jungkook's thigh brushing yours beneath the water. His hand finds your knee. Slides just above it.

You breathe in. Let it happen. The moment holds like that. Suspended. Like a physics problem with no solution—just two bodies and friction and heat, variables with too much potential energy, waiting to snap.

Then someone splashes. Water flies up into your face, and you blink hard, flinching.

“Shit,” you mumble, rubbing your eye. Your contact is out of place—stinging, burning, blurring your vision.

"Everything okay?" Jungkook's voice softens with concern as he moves closer.

"Just got something in my eye," you manage, blinking rapidly.

He pulls himself out of the water in one fluid motion, muscles glistening as he reaches for a towel. "Bathroom's inside - I've got eyedrops upstairs. Plus something dry you can change into."

The offer hangs between you. Water drips from his hair down his neck, his soaked boxers clinging to his frame as he extends his hand. You pause, just for a moment, before accepting both his help and what it implies.

The hallway is quiet—eerily so after the chaos of the party below. The music becomes nothing but a muffled hum, thudding through the floorboards as if the house is holding its breath with you. Water drips from your hair to your bare shoulders, your bra clinging uncomfortably to your skin beneath the oversized towel Jungkook threw over you. The soaked fabric of your underwear sticks between your thighs as you walk, your steps squelching against the hardwood.

He walks just ahead, shirtless and dripping, his boxers clinging to every muscle of his thighs. His back is broad, his tattooed arm flexing as he opens a door on the left, pushing it open with casual ease.

“Bathroom,” he says, flicking on the light. “Eyedrops are in the cabinet.”

You step inside. The air is cool, the tile colder beneath your feet. A dim light above the mirror flickers before settling into a soft glow. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror—you already know you look like something undone. Makeup smudged. Hair clumped into wet strands. Skin flushed from heat and embarrassment and him.

You open the cabinet, find the eyedrops instantly. Your fingers tremble as you tip your chin back, blinking the liquid in. The sting fades slowly.

When you lower your gaze, he’s leaning in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Like he’s cataloging every movement, every breath, every second you give him.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Didn’t want your eye falling out on my watch.”

You laugh, quiet. “So thoughtful.”

“I am,” he says, straightening. He steps toward you, slow. Measured. “You should let me show you.”

Your pulse skips. “Show me what?”

His eyes dip. “How thoughtful I can be.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weak. Your body’s already reacting, legs stiffening slightly, breath catching when he stops in front of you, close enough that the heat of his skin warms yours. The water still dripping from his hair catches the light.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs, glancing down.

“Sharp observation.”

He hums. “Not just from the jacuzzi, I think.”

Your eyes snap up. His are burning now—darker, lower, slow-burning coal beneath thick lashes. His voice dips.

“You gonna let me dry you off?”

You don’t answer.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Or should I make you wetter first?”

Your knees threaten to give out.

He steps back before you can respond, smirking like he already knows he’s winning. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You know what this is. But you take his hand anyway.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner and the moonlight spilling through half-closed blinds. The air is warmer here. Softer. And everything smells like him—spice, skin, shampoo. The bed is rumpled. There’s a hoodie thrown over a chair, a single black ring on the nightstand, and a half-empty glass of water.

You stand awkwardly at the edge of the room, arms crossed tightly over the towel. He crosses to a dresser, pulls out a black T-shirt and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants, both oversized. He tosses them to the bed and turns to face you.

“You can change here,” he says. “I’ll be good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even believe that.”

He grins. “No. But I like hearing you say it.”

You glance at the clothes, then at him—and slowly, deliberately, your fingers move. The towel slips from your grasp, pooling at your feet. The air changes, caught between breath and silence—suspended, reverent.

His eyes drag down your body in a slow, devastating sweep. Your wet bra clings to your chest, nipples clearly visible beneath the sheer fabric. Your underwear is nearly transparent, stretched taut across your hips, the waistband twisted from the way you shifted under the water. Your skin is flushed, dotted with goosebumps. You don’t cover yourself.

He doesn’t move. For a moment, he just stares—mouth parted, throat working as he swallows hard. His cock twitches in his boxers, and the fabric can no longer hide it.

You speak first.“Thought you were gonna be good.”

His gaze lifts—slow, hungry. His voice is hoarse when he answers. “I lied.”

He sits on the bed, legs spread wide, his cock hard and obvious beneath the wet fabric. He leans back on his hands and looks at you like he already owns you. “Come here.”

You move towards him with slow, measured steps, each movement drawing his gaze along the curves of your body. Your soaked bra clings to your skin as you approach, and when you finally stop before him, his exhale is strained with barely contained desire.

He tilts his head. “Can I touch you now?”

You nod. It’s barely a breath.

He reaches forward, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, then over your hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up. “You don’t even know.”

“I think I do,” you whisper.

And he grins, wild and crooked and starved. “Good girl.”

His eyes are on your mouth when you breathe.

“Come here,” he says again, voice husky, deeper than it was downstairs. There’s no playfulness in it anymore. Just want.

You step forward, letting your knees brush the outside of his. He doesn’t move. Then, slowly, deliberately, you lift one leg over his thigh, then the other, and lower yourself into his lap.

The second your hips meet his, you feel it — the hard line of his cock pressing against the thin cotton of your panties. You both freeze. His breath stutters, jaw flexing as his fingers curl into the sheets beside him. He looks up at you like you’ve just ruined him.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what you do to me.”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t look away.

He reaches for your waist, fingers spreading wide as he guides you gently — forward, then back. The friction is slow. Torturous. His cock slides along the soaked crotch of your panties with every pass, dragging over your clit in a way that makes your thighs twitch.

“You’re soaked,” he whispers, like it’s a confession. “You’ve been wet since the dance, haven’t you?”

You open your mouth to argue, but it comes out a moan instead.

His hands roam. Over your waist, your ribs, thumbs grazing the undercurve of your breasts. He doesn’t touch your nipples — not yet. He’s savoring. Mapping you like something rare and sacred. Your fingers dig into his shoulders for balance, and he lets his head fall forward, lips grazing the slope of your neck.

“You smell like heat,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your pulse. “Like you’re meant to be fucked.”

The air leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale. He sucks at your throat once — soft, then harder — enough to leave a mark. Your hips grind down harder by accident, and he groans into your skin.

“God, baby,” he breathes, voice crumbling, “I want you to ride me just like this. Slow. Fuck—just like that.”

You drag your hips again, letting your soaked panties rub over his cock, and his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.

“You like that?” you whisper, breath shaking.

He looks up at you, hair falling into his eyes, and smiles like the devil.

“You have no idea.”

He rolls his hips up into yours once, sharply. You gasp.

“Wanna feel you come on me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw. “Make a mess all over my lap. Let me ruin these pretty little panties you wore just for me.”

You whimper. His cock pulses beneath you, hot and thick and aching against your soaked center.

“Say you want it,” he whispers. “Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I want it,” you gasp, breathless. “Jungkook—please…”

And he groans, deep and raw.

“I’m gonna take my fucking time with you.”

You don’t realize how hard you’re breathing until he stills you.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, gripping them firmly, and with a strength that shouldn’t feel as gentle as it does, he lifts you. You gasp as he lays you back across the bed, your legs draped over the edge, your hair fanning against the pillows like you were made to be framed like this—bare and gasping beneath his stare.

He follows you down slowly. Drops to his knees like it's instinct. Not cocky. Not rushed. Like he’s been waiting to kneel here since the second he saw you. Your thighs tremble as he presses them open, fingers leaving faint imprints against your skin. He slides his palms under your knees, pushing them farther apart, and for a second, he just looks at you. At the damp curve of your panties, the way the fabric clings, the way you shift slightly under his stare like the heat between your legs has turned unbearable.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathes.

His hands grip the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips without thinking. He peels them down slowly, watching them drag over your skin like he wants to memorize every inch. When they reach your ankles, he tosses them somewhere behind him—but his eyes never leave you. Then he leans in.

The first touch of his tongue is almost too soft to process. Just the tip, a teasing flick across your clit that makes your entire body jolt. You clutch at the sheets, your back arching when he does it again—firmer this time. He groans the second he tastes you.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue from your entrance all the way up. “How the fuck do you taste like this?”

Your thighs twitch. He presses his palms against them to keep you open, steady, and lowers his mouth again.

This time, it’s not soft. His tongue laps at you with purpose, flattening against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that make your legs tense and your fingers curl. He moans against you like he’s the one being pleasured, and the vibrations send shocks through your entire body.

You cry out. It’s instinctual—your hips trying to buck, your hand flying to his hair. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you run. He wraps an arm around your thigh, holds you down, and slips two fingers inside you without warning. Your moan is wrecked.

The stretch, the heat, the way his tongue moves faster now—circling, pressing, teasing just to the edge of pain. It’s too much. Not enough. Everything. Your head falls back against the mattress.

“Jungkook—” It’s a whimper, broken. “Oh my god…”

He groans again, tongue working faster, fingers curling inside you like he knows exactly where to find you, exactly how to press until you’re gasping like you’re drowning.

“That’s it,” he rasps against you. “Fuck, baby… let me feel you come on my mouth. Right here. Come for me.”

The pressure builds with each movement of his tongue, your body trembling on the edge as pleasure coils tight and hot within you. When release finally comes, it hits you like a wave — back arching, thighs shaking, lips parting in a cry you can’t control. You feel yourself pulse around his fingers, your orgasm ripping through you in hot, wet pulses that make you sob his name.

He groans low against you and keeps going, tongue flicking as your body shudders, milking every second out of it, chasing every last twitch of pleasure until your hips collapse and your legs fall open. He finally pulls back, face glistening, lips swollen, pupils blown. You’re panting and he stares at you like he’s just won a war. And then—without giving you a second to recover—he grips your thighs and says, voice rough, “Get up.”

You blink, dizzy. “Wha—”

“Mirror,” he says. “Now.”

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your wrist. Not harshly. Not with force. Just enough pressure to tell you you’re not going anywhere. Your skin is hot, oversensitive, your thighs still twitching, and he’s already pulling you upright like he hasn’t just made you come with nothing but his mouth and two fingers. You follow, unsteady on your feet, your knees weak. Your bra is twisted around your chest, half-askew. Your hair’s stuck to your neck. You feel undone.

And he’s still hard. You catch a glimpse of it as he steps in behind you — the thick outline of his cock straining against the wet cotton of his boxers. You must’ve soaked through his lap earlier, because the front of them is completely dark, clinging to every inch of him. Your throat goes dry.

“Come here,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, already steering you toward the mirror in the corner of his room. Full-length. Gold-rimmed. Slightly fogged at the edges from the humidity of your bodies.

“I can’t—” you start, still dazed, and his hand cups your jaw from behind.

“You can,” he says, soft but firm. “You’re not done. Not yet.”

He stops you just a step in front of the mirror.

“Look,” he tells you. His voice is low, breathless now. “Look at yourself.”

You do and the girl in the reflection is… not you. Her lips are swollen. Her bra half-off. Her thighs gleaming. Her chest rising and falling like she’s been running for hours. You can see Jungkook’s frame behind you—tall, shirtless, flushed—his arm reaching around your waist, the other pressing flat against your lower back.

Then his hand slides down. Over your stomach. Your panties are gone. You’re bare for him, wet and pulsing and still aching from before. His fingers dip between your legs again.

You gasp. Your head drops forward—but his voice sharpens, right against your ear.

“No. Eyes up. Watch.”

You do. You watch the way your mouth falls open when two fingers slip back inside you, slow and deep. Watch the way your body rocks forward slightly, forced to brace against the glass as he curls them perfectly, his palm dragging over your clit just enough to make your knees buckle.

He wraps his other arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Good girl,” he whispers, lips brushing your neck.

Your hips twitch. The angle is too perfect. Too much. Every thrust of his fingers sends you crashing forward against your reflection, breath fogging the glass, lips parting with every ragged moan.

“Look how pretty you are when you fall apart,” he murmurs. “You see that?”

You nod, barely. He pumps his fingers harder. Deeper. You feel them hit that spot again, and your entire body shudders. His hips are pressed to your ass now, his cock grinding against your skin with every movement, leaking through his boxers as he fingers you mercilessly.

“You like being watched?” he growls, voice breaking. “Like seeing yourself like this?”

You whimper. “Yes…”

“You wanna come again, don’t you?” His fingers slam into you harder now, knuckles wet, your slick echoing obscenely in the quiet. “You wanna do it while you’re looking me in the eye?”

You lift your head and meet his gaze in the mirror.

And that’s what breaks you. You cry out, loud and raw, body shaking against his, pressed full-length to the glass as your orgasm rips through you again — messier this time, faster, overwhelming. Your legs quake. His fingers never stop. He holds you through it, one arm locking you in place as you fall apart a second time in front of yourself, because of him.

Your breath fogs the mirror in quick, shallow pants. He finally pulls back, wet fingers sliding free with a low, satisfied groan. He looks at you in the mirror—flushed, panting, nearly gone—and leans in to press a slow kiss to your shoulder.

“I could watch you come all night.”

And somehow, you believe him. He pulls back just enough to let you breathe. The mirror’s cooled now, the glass smeared with your fingerprints and fog, the reflection a blur of tangled hair and sweat and wrecked pleasure. Your thighs are shaking. Your skin is damp. You feel like you’ve melted and there’s no putting yourself back together.

Jungkook turns you gently, hand on your waist, guiding you like he’s still not done claiming you.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you let him push you down until you’re flat on your back. Your arms fall limp beside you, and for a moment all you can do is stare up at him. His chest is heaving. His skin is flushed. His cock — thick, red, twitching — strains beneath the cling of his boxers, soaked and sticking to every outline.

Then he hooks his thumbs in the waistband. You can’t look away. The cotton peels down slowly, catching on the head of his cock. He frees it with one hand, and it slaps up against his stomach, flushed and dripping. Your breath catches.

You’ve seen porn. You’ve read things. You’ve imagined. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him — him— standing between your knees, eyes dark, cock hard, and so clearly turned on by you. Your thighs press together instinctively. He sees it and smirks then climbs onto the bed. He doesn’t ask. He just leans over you, one hand sliding beneath your back, the other tugging the straps of your bra off your shoulders. You lift your arms without thinking, too far gone to hesitate, and he slides it down and off, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Your breasts spill free, heavy and flushed and still damp from sweat.

He freezes. Just for a second. “Jesus fuck,” he breathes.

His hand comes up, fingers splayed, and he cups one breast gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. His thumb grazes your nipple. You shudder.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “So fucking soft… I’ve been staring at these all night.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You haven’t even seen them until now.”

He leans down, presses a kiss between them. “Didn’t have to. I just knew.”

And then he’s straddling your hips, cock in his hand, eyes dark as sin.

You watch, completely still, as he spits into his palm, slicks it over his length, and nestles the head of his cock between your breasts.

Your stomach tightens. He reaches down, gently lifts your hands, guiding them to your own body. “Hold them together for me.”

You obey. Press your breasts around him, the weight of them closing snug around his cock. His breath stutters.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “Fuck—just like that.”

And then he starts to move. It’s slow at first. The head of his cock slides up, nudging under your chin, wet with pre-come. You gasp as it drags back down, gliding slick between your breasts, your skin burning with friction and arousal and humiliation, but god, it turns you on more than you thought possible. You’ve never done this before. Never even thought about it.

But the way he moans? The way his eyes fall half-lidded, hips starting to stutter as he watches his cock disappear between your breasts? It wrecks you. Your thighs press together again. You can feel the wetness leaking out of you — fresh, sticky, proof that even after everything, your body’s still begging.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, one hand gripping the headboard for balance, the other fisting your hair. “You have no idea what this does to me.”You whimper.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Tits so fucking perfect. Taking all of me. You’re so good—so fucking good—”

The head of his cock taps your chin again, your lips, your throat. You open your mouth on instinct, and he moans loudly.

“You wanna taste it?” he growls. “Wanna suck the tip while I fuck your tits?”

You nod, breathless, and tilt your head just enough to catch him on your tongue the next time he thrusts up. The sound he makes is filthy. His hips falter. His jaw clenches. The hand in your hair tightens.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m not gonna last like this,” he chokes out. “You feel too good. You’re so fucking hot like this. I could come all over these perfect tits and still not be done.”

You whine while he pulls back.

Not because he’s finished — but because he’s holding on. Barely. And because he hasn’t even been inside you yet. He’s panting above you, knees sunk into the mattress on either side of your waist, sweat beading down his chest as his cock pulses between your breasts. The tip is slick, flushed red, twitching with restraint. His eyes are locked on the mess he’s made of your body — your breasts shining, lips parted, your entire body still trembling beneath him.

But you’re not done. You should be. You’ve come twice, your legs are jelly, your skin is hypersensitive — but none of that matters. Because the longer you stare at him, the more you realize that this isn’t enough. Not yet. Not until you’ve had all of him. Not until you’ve tasted the way he’s falling apart.

Your voice is gone. Your mind’s gone too. All you can feel is heat — liquid and pulsing, low in your belly and behind your knees. You want to be good for him. You want to be filthy for him. You want to know what he tastes like. You want to feel his cock on your tongue.

So you shift beneath him. Lift your hands to his thighs, fingers sliding up slowly, dragging over the thick muscle until you reach his hips. He watches you with hooded eyes, breathless, lips wet and parted. You look up at him. And then — without a single word — you stick out your tongue. The way his expression breaks…

“Holy fuck,” he whispers.

His hand comes down, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he stares like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You want to suck me off that bad?” he asks, voice rough. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

You nod. Keep your tongue out. Your eyes never leave his. He growls.

“Say it,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your chin. “Be a good girl. Tell me what you want.”

Your voice is hoarse. Desperate. “I want your cock in my mouth, Jungkook… I want to suck you until you lose it. I want to feel you on my tongue, in my throat. I want to taste all of you. Please…”

His jaw clenches. His hips jerk forward instinctively, the tip of his cock brushing your bottom lip.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. “Open your mouth.”

You do and he guides himself in slowly, head pressing past your lips, the taste of salt and musk blooming over your tongue. You groan softly, and he shudders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair, wrapping it around his fingers like reins. “Fuck, baby. Look so pretty like this.”

You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper. Inch by inch, tongue curled beneath the shaft, your lips stretched wide. His cock slides in heavy, hot, and you let it, eyes fluttering closed as he presses against the back of your throat.

He hisses through his teeth. “God—fuck, your mouth…”

You moan around him. The vibration makes him groan, hips rolling forward just slightly — enough to make you gag softly around him. Your eyes water. You don’t stop.

Your fingers curl around his thighs. You suck him hard, wet and steady, letting spit drip down your chin, letting it get messy, wanting it to get messy. You want him undone. You want him to lose control.

“Fuck, just like that,” he pants, voice cracking. “You’re so good. You’re fucking perfect.”

He begins to move. Not roughly. Just slow thrusts of his hips, sliding his cock deeper with every pass, using your mouth like he’s been dreaming about it for months. His hand holds your hair tight. His stomach flexes. You can feel him trembling. You flatten your tongue. Let him fuck into your mouth. He starts muttering now — barely coherent.

“Shit… you’re gonna make me come—your fucking mouth—baby, I’m gonna—”

But then he pulls out. You gasp, mouth open, spit trailing from your lips to the head of his cock. He’s shaking.

“I can’t,” he breathes. “Not yet. I need to be inside you.”

You’re still panting when he leans down to kiss you. It’s not gentle. He licks into your mouth, like he can’t bear the space between you anymore. Then he reaches for the drawer.

Pulls out a condom and looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the universe.

“Lie back,” he says. “Let me fuck you right.”

You’re already open for him when he returns. Laid bare, legs parted, lips swollen, chin still shining from spit. Your body aches in the best way — used, touched, ruined — but it’s nothing compared to what you feel when you watch him roll the condom on. His chest is heaving. His thighs are flexed. And his cock, flushed and twitching in his grip, looks almost angry with need.

He climbs between your legs slowly. Like he’s in control. But you can see it now — the tension behind his smirk. The tremble in his breath. He’s been on the edge since you got on your knees, and he’s barely holding on.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “All spread out for me. Wet as fuck. And you still want more?”

You nod, breathless and he grins. Then lowers himself, his cock brushing against your folds — not pushing in yet, just slapping it lightly across your entrance.

Once. Twice. A third time, with a wet sound that makes you twitch.

You gasp, hips jerking. “Jungkook…”

He groans. “You hear that? That’s how wet you are for me. All this for my cock, baby?”

You whimper. “Yes. All for you.”

He drags the head of his cock through your folds, slow and filthy, coating himself in your slick. Then he holds himself there — right at your entrance — and still doesn’t move.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathe.

He growls. “Nah. Say it right.”

You whimper again, voice breaking. “Please, Jungkook… I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. I want to feel you inside.”

He exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs. “Good girl.”

And then he pushes in.

It’s slow. Torturous. You feel every inch — the stretch, the pressure, the way your walls cling to him. You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, thighs trembling as he slides deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice guttural. “You’re so tight. So warm… shit—like you were made for me.”

Your mouth falls open. “You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking big…”

He growls at that — hips pressing all the way in until he’s bottomed out.

“Yeah? You like this?”

“Yes,” you pant. “You fill me so good, I—I can’t think—”

“You don’t need to think,” he breathes. “Just feel.”

Then he starts to move. Slow thrusts at first — deep and deliberate. His hips rock into yours with precision, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. His body presses into yours with heat and weight and intent, chest nearly touching yours, forearms braced on either side of your head.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Tight little pussy taking all of me like that.”

You moan — helpless, wrecked, desperate.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” you breathe, voice trembling. “It’s all yours, Jungkook…”

“Say no one else fucks you like this.”

“No one. Just you—only you—”

He groans loud at that, pace faltering for a beat before he starts pounding harder. He fucks you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every thrust hits deeper, sharper, hips slapping against your ass. His hand slides up to your chest, gripping one breast, squeezing until you gasp. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back.

“You wanna come for me, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please…”

“You gonna let me watch you fall apart again?”

“Yes—fuck, please, Jungkook—”

He shifts, changes the angle, and suddenly every thrust is grinding against your clit just right. You cry out, back arching, thighs trembling. You’re so close. So fucking close.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Come all over my cock, baby. I wanna feel you tighten around me—come like you fucking mean it.”

And you do.

Your orgasm hits like a supernova — legs locking around his waist, mouth falling open in a scream. Your body pulses around him, walls clenching so hard he nearly loses it with you. He fucks you through it, whispering filth in your ear the whole time, praising you, owning you. When you finally come down, panting and wrecked, he kisses you like he’s starving but he’s not done yet.

You’re still pulsing around him when he pulls out. You gasp, empty in an instant, your body twitching from aftershocks. He kneels back for a breath, staring down at you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory — your legs splayed, your skin flushed, your mouth swollen and wet with the ghost of his name.

And then he flips you fast. You land on your stomach with a surprised moan, face sinking into the pillow, arms collapsing beneath you. Before you can breathe, he’s behind you again, spreading your thighs with greedy hands, pressing his cock between your folds.

“Fuck,” he growls, dragging himself through your slick. “You look so good like this.”

He grabs your hips, lifts you slightly, and pushes back in with one rough thrust. You cry out. Your fingers clutch the sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just fucks into you—deep, fast, like he’s finally letting go. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, wet and sharp, paired with his ragged moans and your helpless gasps.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, spine arching. “Fuck—Jungkook—yes—”

“You like this?” he snarls. “You like getting fucked like this? Bent over like a toy?”

“Yes,” you pant, no shame left. “I love it—I love your cock—don’t stop—”

He laughs, breathless, feral. His hand slides up your back, tangles in your hair, and pulls. Your back arches instinctively. The burn in your scalp shoots straight to your cunt. You moan like it’s oxygen.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He thrusts harder, faster. Every stroke knocks a sound out of your throat. Your body jolts forward with the force of it, and he only pulls you back harder. And then suddenly his palm lands on your ass, hard and hot. You jerk. Whine. Grind back against him.

“Oh, you like that?” he grits out. “You want me to spank you while I fuck you?”

“Yes—yes, please, Jungkook—”

Smack. Again. Your ass stings, skin heating under each slap, but it just makes everything worse — your walls clamp around him, another orgasm building before you can even prepare for it.

“You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?” His voice is sharp now, breathless. “Fucking dripping. So messy. You love being used like this.”

“I love it,” you sob. “I love it—I love being fucked by you—please—please, Jungkook—”

He grabs both your wrists and pulls them behind your back, holding you open while he slams into you, deep and fast, until your vision goes white.

“Come again,” he orders. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And when you do, it hits harder than before — your body convulsing, vision tunneling, mouth dropping open in a silent scream as your pussy clenches tight around him.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He groans loud, one final thrust punching deep into you and then he’s coming. Hard. You feel it — the way his whole body tightens behind you, the heat spilling into the condom as he presses as deep as he can go, panting against your spine, voice raw. He holds there for a long moment. Breathing. Trembling. Then slowly, gently, he loosens his grip on your wrists. Brushes a soft kiss over your shoulder. Collapses beside you.

The room is silent now. Just two bodies, sweat-drenched and sore, trembling from everything they weren’t supposed to feel. Your body’s gone heavy. Limbs lax. Muscles aching in the best way. You’re still on your stomach, hair matted to the back of your neck, thighs sticky, lungs slow to catch up. The sheets are wrinkled beneath you. The whole room smells like sweat and sex and the kind of satisfaction that seeps into the bones.

And then he touches you again. A hand slides along your hip — warm, calloused — trailing over the curve of your ass and down your thigh. Then it shifts. Moves up. His thumb grazes the underside of your breast, and his mouth follows a heartbeat later.

“Jungkook,” you murmur, voice soft, half-dazed.

He doesn’t answer. He just mouths at your nipple, lazy and slow, tongue swirling in wet circles while his hand cups the other breast and gives it a greedy squeeze. You gasp. Your back arches instinctively. He hums low in his throat like you're dessert.

“Thought you were done,” you whisper, eyes fluttering.

He pulls off your nipple with a wet pop. “I’m never done with you.”

You whimper. Laugh. Try to turn your face away — but he follows. Crawls up your body, kisses you deep and messy, his hand still palming your breast while his tongue slides into your mouth like he owns it. His lips are sticky, hot. You taste yourself on them.

And you melt all over again. His fingers dig into your ass next. Squeezing. Spreading. Possessive.

“You know,” he rasps, breath fanning over your ear, “I could fuck you like this every day.”

You laugh again — breathless, flushed. “Yeah?”

“Every fucking day.” He groans. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, turning your head slightly, kissing his jaw. “You fuck so good…”

He moans. “You make it easy. Being inside you is like… holy fuck, it’s unreal.”

You roll onto your back, too lazy to fully fight him off. He’s still kissing your chest, dragging his mouth from one nipple to the other, circling slow. His tongue’s warm. Wet. Wicked. Every touch makes you twitch. And your voice—when it comes—is low and teasing.

“You gonna get off on my tits again, or let me put some clothes on?”

“Don’t you dare,” he mutters, pulling back only slightly, eyes dropping to the mess of your ruined panties on the floor. He picks them up with two fingers, holds them hostage. “I’m keeping these.”

You blink at him in shock. “Jungkook.”

He grins. “For science.”

You snort, still breathless. “That was…” You exhale hard, letting your head fall back. “So fucking needed.”

He grins. “Anytime. I’m very committed to supporting women in STEM.”

You laugh — fully this time. He tosses you his hoodie, then shimmies into his boxers like he isn’t still half-hard just watching you move. You stretch slowly, aching all over, before sitting up and tugging on your dress without underwear. His eyes darken. And then, before you leave, you do it — that final little flick of power he never sees coming. You hook your finger in your mouth. Suck it slowly. Loudly. Let it pop free. Then glance back at him over your shoulder with a sweet, filthy smile.

His jaw drops. He groans. “Oh my fucking god.”

You smirk. “See you around, Jeon.”

And just before you slip out the door, he mutters under his breath, half-wrecked:

“…I’m so fucking in trouble.”

part 2

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goofygubegubler · 4 months ago

Text

‘𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝑰'𝒎 𝒂 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓.

Spencer eating you for your dear life, ‘cause baby, he’s a giver.

wc: 2.4k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, vibrator use, overstimulation, sleepy sex?, mild power dynamics, teasing, implied age gap

A/N: Spencer is absolutely a giver in my mind, and I hope you all enjoy this! This is my first one-shot and my first time writing smut, so please feel free to share any feedback—I’d really appreciate it! My asks are always open.

Spencer is a giver—there's no doubt about it. He has studied you with a scholar's precision, but his devotion is deeper, almost reverent. He knows where to touch, how to kiss—his mouth slow and consuming, savoring every second, unraveling you with the deliberate slide of his tongue against yours. His teeth scrape over your bottom lip, a teasing sting that he soothes with a lingering press, a soft contrast to the hunger simmering beneath his touch.

And his hands—God, his hands. They move over you like he’s composing something exquisite, mapping each curve, each tremor, each stuttered breath with an intimacy that feels instinctual. He knows how to dismantle you, how to wind you so tightly in pleasure that you shatter in his grasp. His words pour into your ear, dark and teasing, igniting a heat that pools low and aching, leaving you breathless beneath him.

Sleep clings to you in slow waves, pulling you under, weaving you into something intoxicating, something inevitable. His hands find you first—fingertips gliding over your skin like a whisper of possession, tracing your curves, teasing, promising. The heat of his breath spills against your neck, the hushed murmur of your name curling like smoke in the thick air.

Then, his mouth—God, his mouth—claims yours, slow and insistent. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before his teeth catch, a bite of sharp, deliberate hunger.

You’re not in bed anymore. You’re pressed against the bookshelf, trembling under his touch, the rough wood biting into your spine, grounding you in the feverish haze. A book slips from your hands, forgotten the moment his lips trail lower, marking their path with slow, open-mouthed kisses.

He hums against your skin, his voice dark, indulgent. "Keep reading for me."

The command slithers down your spine, igniting something helplessly wanton inside you. You try—God, you try—to obey, lips parting, voice trembling, but the second his fingers sink deep, curling just right, the words unravel, lost in a gasp as he drags you under.

A sharp inhale rips you from the dream, the ghost of his touch still imprinted on your skin, heat curling deep and insatiable. Your thighs clench in a feeble attempt at relief, but it isn’t enough. It’s never enough—not when you wake up to find him lying beside you, lips parted, his breathing slow and steady, a cruel reminder that the hands you crave are just beyond reach.

Biting your lip, you slip a hand toward the nightstand, fingers grazing the smooth edge before you pull the drawer open just enough to reach inside. Your fingers find the well-worn spine of your favorite spicy book first—the one Spencer pretends to roll his eyes at but listens to whenever you read aloud in bed.

Beneath it, tucked away like a secret, is the small vibrator you keep for nights just like this—when Spencer is working late, when the ache refuses to fade, when his absence leaves you restless and wanting. You know better. You should just use your fingers—quieter, safer—but this? This is too good to resist. The way it hums against you, the way it sends pleasure curling through your veins in thick, decadent waves.

It’s never been a replacement for Spencer, not really, but God, it’s close enough to take the edge off when you need it most. Your pulse quickens as you wrap your fingers around it, the cool plastic a stark contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly. You hesitate, casting a glance at him—his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, lips parted slightly in sleep—before exhaling softly, determination settling in your bones.

You start slow, pressing the toy against your clit through your panties, barely turning it on, letting the low hum tease you like the ghost of his touch. A quiet gasp escapes, your hips tilting into the sensation, but even this—God, even this—isn’t him.

Frustration coils tighter in your belly, the need for more gnawing at you, demanding. With a shaky exhale, you lift your hips, sliding your panties down, the cool air a stark contrast against the heat between your thighs. The vibrator follows, gliding against slick, sensitive skin, sending pleasure rolling through you in slow, deliberate waves.

Your breath stutters, fingers tightening around the toy as you sink into the feeling, chasing the edge, knowing it won’t ever feel as good as Spencer but unable to stop yourself from trying. The quiet hum of the vibrator is nearly drowned out by your own heavy breaths, the way your body trembles beneath the weight of your own need. Maybe if you just keep quiet, if you move slow—

But then—a shift. The bed dips. A sharp inhale from beside you.

Before panic can settle, warmth floods your senses—a heavy hand pressing against your stomach, grounding you in the moment. His touch is slow, deliberate, fingers splayed, sliding lower until they brush against yours, still gripping the toy. He hums low in his throat, voice thick with sleep yet unmistakably amused.

"Couldn't wait for me, could you?"

Spencer’s fingers curl over yours, his grip firm as he slowly pries the vibrator from your grasp. The moment it’s in his control, the pressure changes—subtly, precise, his touch calculated in a way that makes your breath catch. The sudden shift sends a sharp jolt of pleasure spiraling through you, tearing a gasp from your lips.

"Spencer—" It’s barely a whimper, swallowed by the way his body shifts closer, his breath hot against your neck.

"Shh," he soothes, his lips brushing your temple before trailing down to your jaw, soft and teasing. "Let me help."

His focus is singular. Unwavering.

"Besides," he murmured, pressing another kiss higher, teeth grazing sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver, "it’s only 5:17 a.m." Another pause, another deliberate press of his mouth. "I don’t have to get ready until six." His breath is warm, teasing, wicked. "Plenty of time to enjoy myself."

You let out a breathless laugh, fingers weakly carding through his hair. "You are such a giver, Spence."

His lips curve against your skin, and without missing a beat, he hums, "I do pride myself on my generosity."

Before you can reply, the aftershocks of your last orgasm still making your thighs tremble, he licks a slow, teasing stripe up your center. A full-body shudder ripples through you, your nerves still alight with oversensitivity. His hands tighten around your thighs, thumbs pressing into your skin, keeping you spread open, fully at his mercy. His mouth is warm and relentless, his tongue flicking, circling, pressing just right—like he’s savoring every tiny whimper and every shuddered breath.

He hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spike of pleasure through your overstimulated body. "Still shaking," he muses, voice muffled against your slick skin. "So sensitive, but I think you can take just a little more, don’t you?"

He shifts, sealing his lips around your clit, sucking with slow, deliberate pressure, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you from squirming away. Your breath stutters, hips twitching involuntarily as pleasure coils hot and sharp in your stomach, overwhelming, dizzying. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough.

"Fuck—Spencer—"

He groans against you, the vibration sending another sharp jolt of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. "Mmm. Say my name like that again."

His tongue presses deeper, his pace unrelenting, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you from squirming away. He’s thorough and determined, making sure every flick and swirl sends you hurtling toward that inevitable edge. And just when you think you might catch a break, his fingers join in—sliding inside you, curling just right, stroking in rhythm with his mouth.

You gasp, arching into him, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. "Spencer, oh my—"

"That’s it," he coaxed between teasing licks. "Give me another one, sweetheart. I know you can."

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, keeping you in place. His mouth never wavers, his fingers never falter, dragging another sharp cry from your throat as another orgasm crashes over you, leaving you breathless and shivering. You’re still gasping for air when he pulls back just enough to murmur, "Still with me?"

You manage a weak, trembling nod, half-lost in the afterglow, and for a second, you think he might give you a reprieve.

But then he moves again—this time, slower, more deliberate. His fingers stroke along your inner thigh, coaxing, teasing. His breath is warm as he presses a kiss just above your knee, then another, trailing higher, the anticipation making your skin prickle.

"Spence—" you whimper, voice barely above a breath. "Sensitive."

He hums, and you can feel his smirk against your skin. "I know. That’s what makes it fun."

Then, without warning, his mouth is on you again, softer this time, but no less devastating. His tongue moves with careful precision, his fingers pressing deeper, curving just right. You writhe beneath him, overwhelmed, and when your hand weakly pushes at his head, he merely chuckles against you.

"That’s not our safeword, sweetheart."

You whimper, unable to do anything but surrender as he drags you to the edge again, slow and thorough, relentless in his devotion. The pressure builds again, unbearable, and when you finally shatter beneath him for the third time, he groans, swallowing every broken sound that spills from your lips.

You barely have time to recover before you feel him again—his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, "One more. Just one more."

You shake your head weakly, though your body betrays you, already arching into his touch. Your mind is hazy, barely clinging to the waking world, but Spencer? He’s focused, singular in his intent.

His mouth is on you again, lazy and indulgent, his tongue dragging slow, torturous circles that make your stomach tighten. His fingers press inside, stretching, teasing, working you open with practiced ease. You whimper, toes curling, every nerve alight.

"Almost there," he murmurs, voice frayed, breathless. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me."

Your release crashes over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under with no hope of resurfacing. Your body trembles, shuddering apart beneath him, and this time—even Spencer groans, his breath hitching as if he’s feeling it just as intensely as you are. His hands flex against your hips, tightening like he’s holding himself back, resisting the urge to take even more.

He presses one last, lingering kiss to your thigh before letting his head drop against you, exhaling a shaking breath.

Your vision wavers, the edges smudging into deep, inky black as the pleasure crests and breaks. The last thing you register is the warmth of Spencer’s mouth, the reverberation of his voice against your skin—low, coaxing, reverent.

Then, everything fades.

You resurface gradually—like wading through molasses, every inch of you weighted, sore in the most indulgent, well-earned way. The sheets are a tangled wreck around you, clinging to your overheated skin, undeniable evidence of everything Spencer just did to you. Your limbs are useless, your thoughts thick and sluggish, your body still humming with the aftershocks of him.

And yet.

Spencer is already awake.

“It’s 6:37 AM,” he announces smugly, from somewhere near the foot of the bed. “In case you were wondering.”

You groan, throwing an arm over your face. “Oh my God.”

“No, just Spencer,” he corrects, voice warm and teasing. “But I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

When you manage to blink your eyes open, the sight that greets you almost makes you laugh—if you had the energy. Spencer stands there, utterly unbothered, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers covered in tiny owls. His curls are a disaster, sticking up wildly, and his lips are still pink from pressing them against every inch of your body.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Are you—” You swallow, voice hoarse. “Are you gloating?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “I’d say it’s more of a… reasonable acknowledgment of my achievements.”

You make a weak sound of protest. He grins.

The mattress shifts as he crawls back toward you, his hands finding your waist with practiced ease. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your shoulder—sweet, affectionate, in direct contrast to the way he ruined you not even thirty minutes ago.

Then, with an absolutely insufferable level of satisfaction, he murmurs, “Four times.”

You let out a wheezy breath, still not recovered enough to fight him on this. “I know, Spencer.”

He hums, trailing his lips up the side of your neck. “Just making sure it’s fully processed.”

You blindly shove at his shoulder, but it’s weak. He barely moves.

Instead, he settles beside you, tucking you against his chest, fingers idly stroking along your spine. He’s quiet for a moment—until he glances at the clock. And then, you see it. The exact moment he realizes his mistake.

His smirk flickers.

A pause. Then, lightly:

“I may have miscalculated.”

You snort. “You think?”

Spencer lets out a thoughtful hum, completely unrepentant as he presses a soft, lazy kiss to your forehead. “In my defense, I failed to account for… the lingering effects.” He shifts, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Or my own overwhelming enthusiasm.”

You lift your arm just enough to glare at him. “You have work in an hour.”

He nods solemnly. “I’m aware.”

“I have work in two.”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“You owe me.”

Something flickers in his expression—thoughtful, determined. Then, without a word, he slips out of bed.

You frown. “Spencer?”

“Fixing it,” he calls, already halfway to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he returns with a steaming cup of your favorite coffee and a plate with a perfectly toasted bagel. He sets them on the nightstand with the precision of a man delivering an official peace offering before climbing back into bed and wrapping himself around you again.

You eye him suspiciously. “This is your plan?”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your hair. “It’s called positive reinforcement.”

You sigh, taking a sip. It’s perfect. Of course, it is.

“You’re still in trouble,” you mumble, though the warmth of his body and the way he’s lazily stroking your back suggest otherwise.

Spencer just grins against your skin, utterly unbothered. “That’s fair.” A beat of silence. Then, far too pleased with himself, he murmurs, “But just so you’re aware… I already have a plan for making it up to you.”

You groan. Spencer just tucks you closer, and you don’t even have the energy to argue.

Then, after a moment of quiet, his voice comes soft and smug against your ear:

“You know, I am a giver.”

You huff a laugh, exhausted and hopelessly fond. “Shut up, Spencer.”

But all he does is press another kiss to your temple, grinning against your skin.

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newtonlara · 2 years ago

Photo

Closet Shaker Inspiration for a large craftsman gender-neutral light wood floor walk-in closet remodel with shaker cabinets and white cabinets

#built-in storage #solid maple dovetail drawers #soft close slide #built in walk in closet #closet #fogged glass #glass doors

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rrysbabydoll · 1 month ago

Text

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader.

CW: BDSM (consensual dom/sub), impact play (belt), hair pulling, emotional overwhelm, subdrop, crying, flinching/fear response, gentle aftercare, teary Harry, emotional vulnerability.

Synopsis: During a punishment gone too far, Harry uses the belt on Y/N, not realizing how gone and floaty she already is. When she breaks down in tears and doesn’t respond to his check-in, he instantly stops and shifts into soft, guilt-ridden aftercare.

You barely catch your breath before you’re facedown on the sheets, the familiar scent of his cologne clinging to the pillows. His other hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you there, still and small under the weight of his mood. He's mad. That much is clear. Not loud. Not yelling. But it’s there.

Your knees hit the edge of the mattress before your body follows, forced forward with a rough tug of your hair. Harry’s grip is tight, unforgiving, his long fingers curled possessively in the strands at the back of your head.

You want to ask what you did.

But you already know.

Or maybe you don’t.

And that’s worse.

“Stay.” His voice is low, composed but dangerous. You nod quickly, not daring to move. You hear the drawer slide open and close behind you. Your breath catches.

No. Not that. Not that one.

He stands behind you, silent. Calculating.

Then you hear the distinct jingle of the belt.

Your stomach turns.

“Up on your knees,” he orders calmly, like it’s any other night. Like he isn’t holding the one thing he knows you hate. You obey, trembling, legs tucked beneath you as your palms brace the sheets. Your eyes flick back and confirm what you already feared.

“Color?” he asks, clipped.

“G-green.” It's a whisper. You want to take it. You always take it. You always want to be good for him.

The belt comes down on your ass with a loud crack.

You jolt forward, hips bucking into the mattress with a little whimper. You breathe through your nose hard and tight, trying to center yourself. Again. Again. Not as hard as it could be, but not soft either. It stings, more in your heart than on your skin.

You blink through it, blinking faster now because something’s off. Your head is spinning. You feel floaty, but not in the good way. Your jaw trembles as your body jerks with each hit.

You’re crying too much.

Too early.

By the fifth strike, you can’t stop sobbing into the sheets. It’s not the belt. Not really. It’s the tone. The silence. The tension. You’re usually so brave for him, so eager to prove yourself.

But right now you just feel small. Not the cute kind. Not the way that makes him coo and call you baby. You feel wrong.

“Stop fidgeting,” he scolds and adjusts his stance behind you.

You nod, but your hands curl in the sheets and your body shivers, and when the next hit comes, not even that hard, you break. Something snaps open in your chest.

“Harry,” you sob. It spills out of you before you can stop it.

The belt stills in the air.

He hears it.

Not your words, the way you say it.

He drops the belt. You don’t see it fall, but you hear the soft thud. Then his hand is on your lower back. Gentle now. Lighter. Testing.

“Hey. Color?”

You hiccup.

“Color, baby.”

You try to say it. Really, you do. You open your mouth, but all that comes is a little choked noise. Your chest aches. Tears are on your lashes, your cheeks, your neck. You’re still kneeling, unsure what you’re even trying to hold yourself up for anymore.

And you don’t say anything.

That’s when he knows.

“Oh, baby…” His voice goes soft. Instantly. He kneels onto the bed behind you and cups your waist. “Okay. That’s okay. We’re done. All done, bunny. I’ve got you now.”

You cry harder at that.

He reaches to slide your panties back up, the gentlest touch, then wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his lap. Your body trembles against his chest.

His voice is steady, careful. “Can you breathe for me? Just like this, yeah?” He models it, slow and patient.

You try, but your fingers are fisted in the hem of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll leave. Like you still think you did something wrong. Like you still have to earn his forgiveness.

Harry notices. Of course he does.

He guides your face into his neck, his hand warm and protective over the back of your head. “You’re alright now, bun. You’re safe.”

You finally manage a real breath. Shaky, but in. Then out. Then again.

“That’s it,” he whispers, rocking you. “That’s my good girl.”

Your tears begin to slow as the floatiness eases back. Not completely, but enough for you to cling to him in a new way, seeking comfort now, not permission. His chest is firm and warm and steady. He smells like mint and vanilla. He always smells like home.

“Didn’t see it…” he mumbles quietly, mostly to himself. “Should’ve seen it. Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry…”

You tilt your head slowly, resting your cheek against his collarbone. His hand never stops stroking your back, fingers drifting up and down the curve of your spine in the same rhythm he uses when he puts you to bed.

He shifts you a little and reaches toward the nightstand drawer again.

You flinch.

Your body stiffens in his arms. You press your face into his chest, whispering fast, broken: “No, no — please. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good—”

“Hey,” he cuts in, panic in his tone. He drops the drawer. “No, no, no. Sweetheart, shhh.”

Your whole body trembles. You're trying so hard to behave now. So hard to fix it. You don’t even know what “it” is.

His hands cup your face gently, thumbs brushing your damp cheeks. “Baby, look at me. Look at me.”

You peek up, lip quivering.

“It’s just me. Just Harry. Not gonna hurt you, I promise.” He rests his forehead to yours. “Was just grabbing your lotion and your blanket. That’s all, I swear.”

You sniffle. The tension in your arms slowly loosens. Your thighs are still sore from kneeling, but your body sags into his as your head tips to the side.

“Not mad?” you whisper.

“God, no. Not anymore.” He kisses your temple. “Not when my sweet girl’s cryin’ like this. Don’t like that. Not one bit.”

You blink up at him and notice something. His eyes.

His green eyes. Glassy.

“Why are you sad?” you ask, voice tiny. You pout up at him, gently tracing his jaw with your thumb. “Why are you cryin’? That’s not allowed.”

He gives you a soft, pained smile. “Because I didn’t see it. Should’ve known. You’re always such a good girl for me, so brave and quiet, even when you’re scared. I should’ve known sooner. Shouldn’t’ve needed you cryin’ that hard to stop.”

You pout harder, bottom lip wobbling. “But you did stop…”

“I still used the belt when I knew it was your least favorite.” He shakes his head like he’s ashamed of himself. “That’s not what we do.”

Your hands reach up to hold his cheeks. Your voice is still small but sure. “You were just mad.”

“Doesn’t matter. Not an excuse.” His voice breaks on the last word.

You shift forward, lips brushing his. “I don’t like when you’re sad…”

“I don’t like when you flinch,” he replies softly, pulling you closer, his hands spread across your back like he’s trying to hold every part of you.

You kiss him, slow and sweet, lips sticky with tears. “I forgive you.”

He sniffles, nods once, and presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Thank you, baby.”

He wipes your face gently with the sleeve of his shirt before tucking you back against his chest. Then he reaches for the drawer again, slower this time, letting you see. He pulls out your pink fuzzy blanket, and your vanilla lotion that you only use after scenes.

You let him rub it on your thighs, your bum, all the places that feel sore. He murmurs soft things while he does, sweet nothings and little praises.

Then he wraps you in the blanket and carries you to the armchair by the window. You curl in his lap like a kitten.

He rocks you while humming a soft tune under his breath.

Your eyes flutter. You’re still floaty, but now it feels warm. Safe.

“You were such a good girl for letting me know when it was too much,” he whispers into your hair. “So proud of you, baby. You did perfect.”

You snuggle in tighter. Your eyes are barely open now, lashes fluttering against his chest.

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in fuzzy pink and vanilla and safety, in the arms of the man who loves you more than anything in the world.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles #dom harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry #harry styles smut #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff

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asiatic-apple · 1 month ago

Note

Also (I requested #10 with Caleb) I 4g9t to say fem reader plsss

Thanks for the request, anon! I really hope you like subby caleb because this got away from me and I went fully into “good boy” territory SORRY (I am 100% okay with redoing this if you don’t vibe with it, just lmk)

Also, this one is a bit longer than a drabble. Consider it a bday special lol

Reminder: requests are closed!

Command me

Caleb x female reader

Prompt: finding their partner’s sex toy/toys and making them play with it in front of them

Content: submissive caleb & dominant reader, a few uses of “good boy”, lots of teasing, JOI with a fleshlight, edging, a very small moment of objectification (aimed at caleb)

“This...this isn’t fair,” Caleb hiccups through needy whines and endless moans spilling past parted lips. “You weren’t supposed to find it.” He says that as if it’ll make you stop this sweet torture. You have no intention of stopping, though.

His cheeks are a bright shade of pink, his chest flushed and beading with sweat where his shirt is pulled up above his pecs. Sprawled across the bed, his twitching thighs are spread just enough to frame the toy you’re holding.

“No?” Your voice sounds saccharine-sweet, but your eyes are full of mischief. “Then you shouldn’t have hidden it somewhere so obvious. Top drawer, Caleb? Really?”

He huffs, breath shaky from how you’ve been teasing him nonstop since you found the toy. You let your fingers drag along the clear silicone fleshlight, slow and deliberate as you stroke it up and down his throbbing cock.

“I was curious,” you purr. “I had no idea you got off with this when I’m not around.”

Caleb squirms. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again when he finally has the strength to speak. “It’s not like that, pips. I only—fuck—used it before we–”

“Show me,” you cut him off with a soft command.

He blinks up at you, dazed and shuddering when you abruptly pull your hand away from the toy. “Wh–what?” he sputters.

“Show me how you fuck it.” You settle back against the headboard of the bed, giving his cock a pointed look to let him know you’re serious. “Come on, baby. I wanna see exactly what you do when I’m not here.”

Caleb swallows hard, his fingers already instinctively curling around the base. “You’re bein’ so mean today,” he murmurs, but there’s no real protest in his voice. You can tell he’s enjoying this. That telltale pitch of his voice means he’s slipping, already giving into his desire.

“Yeah? Well you must like it because you're hard as a rock,” you reply with a smirk. “Go on, Caleb. Start stroking it. Slowly.”

He whines at your instructions but obediently pulls the toy off his length before sinking its slick opening back down the flushed head of his cock. His breath punches out in a gasp as he slides in all the way, the suction already so wet and obscene.

You lean back, watching him greedily. “Hm, that’s a good boy,” you coo with a too-large grin. And, oh, he really likes the sound of that. A loud, uncontrollable moan escapes him, and it makes your pussy clench around nothing.

“Fuck into it,” you say, voice getting lower with desire at the sight of your own personal porn star. “I want to see your hips move.”

Caleb shudders, rolling his hips upward with a groan, the toy squelching around him. His eyes flutter closed, brows drawn tight as he fucks it faster like he’s desperately chasing his release far too soon.

“Nuh-uh.” You reach forward and tap his cheek. “Eyes on me.”

He whimpers but obeys, blinking up at you, glassy-eyed and panting.

“That’s better.” You chuckle, not yet ready to go easy on him. “Now slow down again. I want you right on the edge.”

He tries, biting his lip hard enough to leave a slightly bloody dent, muscles quivering as he slows his thrusts.

You can tell how hard it is for him. His whole body aches for friction—for your hand, your mouth, your pussy if he would be lucky enough. But you don’t give him any of it. Just your voice and strict commands.

“You like this, don’t you?” you whisper. “You like when I tell you exactly how to jerk off?”

He nods frantically, chest heaving. “Fuck, y–yes, I do. But please, touch me, just a little. Need your warmth. You’re so soft,” his garbled string of pleas is incoherent, but you hear the next part clearly: “This…this isn’t the same.”

“Nope,” you reply, a denial that’s sickeningly sweet and makes him deflate a little. “You don’t get my warmth right now. You’ve got your toy, remember? Isn’t that enough?”

He lets out the most pathetic sound, hips stuttering as he fucks the fleshlight harder again in an attempt to end your teasing sooner.

“I–I’m gonna come,” he warns with a strangled cry. Even though he’s so far gone in the throes of his pleasure, your sweet Caleb still has enough awareness to ask permission before spilling his load inside the toy. “Please, please let me–”

You lean in close, lips at his ear and fingers tickling his taut chest. “No,” you scold, “hold it right there. Don’t you dare come until I say you can.”

He chokes on a moan, shaking beneath you and sucking in deep breaths as he tries to delay his orgasm. You watch with near-sadistic glee as the muscles in his thighs tense and then relax with the effort it takes him to hold back.

“That’s it,” you murmur. “You look so good like this—fucking yourself while I watch. Bet you wish it was my pussy, though. Don’t you?”

He nods helplessly, cock twitching inside the clear toy with each labored breath he takes. You drag your nails down his stomach, and the dull scratch makes him leak even more precum inside the silicone casing.

He’s still right at the edge, hanging on by a thread, but you’re not yet done playing with your favorite fuck toy.

“Go slow again,” you demand with a smile. “Just the tip now.”

He whimpers, sliding out until just the swollen head remains inside. And then he starts shallowly fucking the entrance with trembling restraint.

“God, you’re such a mess,” you murmur, eyes locked on the beautifully flushed red tip of his cock. “Do you even know how to make yourself feel good without me telling you what to do?”

He shakes his head quickly, voice wrecked. “No. I—please, I need to come. I can’t—I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You still need to earn it.” You lean back again, crossing your arms as you watch him. “Show me how badly you want it. Stroke all the way down. Stop. Now just the head.” He follows all your instructions to a tee, body shuddering as he struggles to hold his orgasm at bay. “Good, now again.”

You talk him through it the whole time, forcing him to keep speeding up then slowing down over and over again. Caleb obeys every command with a sob—fucking the toy deep, then pausing, shuddering, and repeating it again with tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

Eventually, you can see how close he really is: one more stroke and he’ll be gone. You know his body just as well as he does, so it’s clear he won’t be able to hold on much longer.

You wait one more beat, watching him tremble and beg through gritted teeth. And finally, you nod with a giddy chuckle. “Alright, alright. You can come for me now, sweetheart. Go on…that’s it.”

He lets out a strangled cry, hips snapping up hard as he plunges into the toy and spills inside it. You watch him unravel, utterly ruined, mouth open and cheeks flushed all the way to his ears.

He looks so damn cute. So needy and all yours. And his broken whine makes your thighs press together in search of some friction of your own.

When he finally collapses, panting and spent, you lean down to press a kiss to his cheek.

“You were such a good boy for me,” you praise with a gentle smile.

He seems to melt under your long-awaited touch, and you make a mental note to grab some water for him after he’s caught his breath—and then clean him up and smother him with cuddles.

His lips chase yours, searching for a reassuring kiss that you can’t deny him any longer. You giggle when he keeps trying to steal another peck from you, his warm breath tickling your face.

“Hm,” you murmur against his lips, “since you followed instructions so well…” Your voice drops to a whisper. “I’ll let you come inside me next time.”

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jiwooismine · 1 month ago

Text

Professor Pet

IVE Leeseo x Male Reader

Anal, Creampie, Breeding, Degrading

I first saw Leeseo in my Korean musical class during my last semester at Hanlim School. She was a fresh-faced 18-year-old, member of IVE, with long, glossy black hair, big doe eyes, and a body that made every guy in the room sit up and take notice. She was petite, with high, firm breasts and a curvy ass that was accentuated by her tight jeans. I was 46, a little older than the average grad student, and I was immediately drawn to her.

Our first real encounter happened after class one day. I was packing up my books when she approached me, her eyes downcast but her voice steady. "Professor Park, I was wondering if you could help me with my paper on 'The History of Korean Idol'?"

I smiled, the corners of my mouth twitching up at the thought of spending more time with her. "Of course, Leeseo. I'd be happy to help. Let's meet in the library tomorrow afternoon."

The next day, we met in the quiet corner of the library. I watched as she spread her books out on the table, her hair falling over her shoulders. I leaned in, our eyes meeting. "So, what seems to be the problem?"

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. "I just don't know where to start. It's all so overwhelming."

I reached out, my hand grazing hers. "Let's start at the beginning. Tell me what you like about Korean poetry."

Our fingers touched, and I felt a spark. She looked at me, her eyes wide and trusting. "I love the rhythm, the way the words flow. It's like... like a dance."

I leaned in, my voice low. "You know, Leeseo, sometimes the best way to understand something is to... experience it."

She blushed, her eyes flicking to my lips. "What do you mean?"

I smiled, my hand moving to her cheek. "Come to my office tonight. I'll show you."

And so, she did. That night, I opened my office door to find her standing there, her hair tied up in a high ponytail, her eyes shining. "Leeseo," I said, my voice gruff. "Come here."

She stepped inside, her eyes locked on mine. I closed the door behind her, my heart pounding. I reached out, my hand cupping her cheek. "You're so beautiful," I murmured, my thumb brushing her lip.

She leaned into my touch, her breath hitching. "Thank you."

I leaned down, my lips brushing hers. She gasped, her hands reaching up to grip my shirt. I deepened the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers. She moaned, her body pressing against mine.

I broke away, my eyes locked on hers. "You're so innocent, Leeseo. So pure."

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with trust. "I want you to... show me."

I smiled, my hand moving to the zipper of her skirt. I pulled it down, the material pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it, her hands going to the hem of her shirt. I stopped her, my voice firm. "Let me."

I pulled her shirt off, my eyes roaming over her body. She was perfection, her skin soft and smooth, her nipples hardening under my gaze. I reached out, my fingers tracing the curve of her breast. She gasped, her head falling back.

I leaned down, my tongue replacing my fingers. She moaned, her hands gripping my hair. I sucked, my teeth grazing her nipple. She cried out, her hips bucking against me.

I straightened up, my eyes locked on hers. "You like that?"

She nodded, her cheeks flushed. "Yes ahhh don’t stop professor."

I smiled, my hand moving to her pussy. I rubbed her through her panties, her hips moving against my hand. She was so wet, her panties soaked. I slipped a finger inside, her inner walls clamping down on me. She moaned, her eyes rolling back.

"You're so tight, Leeseo. So wet."

I pulled my finger out, my eyes locked on hers as I sucked her juices off my finger. She watched, her breath coming in short gasps. I reached into my desk drawer, pulling out a small bottle of lube. I squeezed some onto my fingers, my eyes never leaving hers.

I reached down, my fingers sliding between her ass cheeks. She tensed, her eyes widening. "Relax, Leeseo. I'm not going to hurt you."

I rubbed her ass, my finger circling her tight hole. She moaned, her body relaxing. I pressed against her, my finger sliding in. She gasped, her eyes locked on mine.

"How does that feel?"

She bit her lip, her hips moving against my hand. "Good ummhh."

I smiled, my finger moving in and out of her ass. I leaned down, my mouth capturing hers. She moaned into my mouth, her body writhing against mine.

I broke away, my eyes locked on hers. "I want to fuck you, Leeseo. I want to breed you my 16 years old slut."

She nodded, her eyes filled with desire. I unbuttoned my pants, my cock springing free. She looked at it, her eyes wide. I grabbed her hand, wrapping it around my cock. She stroked me, her eyes locked on mine.

I groaned, my body shaking. "Get on your knees, Leeseo. Suck my cock."

She did as she was told, her head bobbing up and down on my cock. I groaned, my hands gripping her hair. She sucked me deep, her throat convulsing around me. I pulled out, my cock glistening with her saliva.

I pushed her onto the desk, her ass sticking up in the air. I grabbed a condom from my desk, rolling it on. I pressed against her pussy, her wetness coating my cock. I pressed in, her tight walls stretching to accommodate me. She moaned, her hips moving against mine.

I started to move, my cock sliding in and out of her. She moaned, her head dropping back. I reached around, my fingers finding her clit. I rubbed it, her moans getting louder.

I leaned over her, my voice gruff. "You're mine, Leeseo. You're my little slut, fuck."

She moaned, her hips moving against mine. I fucked her hard, my cock slamming into her. She cried out, her body convulsing around me. I groaned, my cock pulsing as I came.

I pulled out, my cock glistening with her juices. I grabbed her, pulling her to the floor. I positioned her on her hands and knees, her ass in the air. I grabbed the anal beads from my desk, lubing them up. I pressed the first bead against her ass, her body tensing.

"Relax, Leeseo. You can take it."

She nodded, her body relaxing as I pushed the bead in. I repeated the process, her ass stretching to accommodate the beads. I left them in, her body adjusting to the feeling.

I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back. "Suck my cock, Leeseo. Show me what a good little slut you are."

She did as she was told, her mouth wrapping around my cock. I groaned, my body shaking as she sucked me. I pulled out, my cock hard and ready. I positioned myself behind her, my cock pressing against her ass.

I pushed in, her tight ass stretching to accommodate me. She moaned, her body tensing. I started to move, my cock sliding in and out of her. She moaned, her body adjusting to the new sensation.

I reached around, my fingers finding her clit. I rubbed it, her moans getting louder. I fucked her hard, my cock slamming into her. She cried out, her body convulsing around me.

I pulled out, my cock glistening with her ass juices. I pulled the anal beads out, her body tensing as they slipped out of her. I grabbed her, flipping her onto her back. I positioned myself between her legs, my cock pressing against her pussy.

I pushed in, her wetness coating my cock. I started to move, my cock sliding in and out of her. She moaned, her hips moving against mine. I leaned over her, my voice gruff. "You're my little cum slut, Leeseo. You're going to take my cum, aren't you?"

She nodded, her eyes filled with desire. I fucked her hard, my cock slamming into her. She cried out, her body convulsing around me. I groaned, my cock pulsing as I came. I pulled out, my cock glistening with her juices.

I grabbed her, pulling her to her feet. I led her to the couch, pushing her down onto it. I knelt in front of her, my cock in her face. She looked at me, her eyes wide.

"Suck my cock, Leeseo. Show me what a good little cum slut you are."

She did as she was told, her mouth wrapping around my cock. I groaned, my body shaking as she sucked me. I pulled out, my cock hard and ready. I positioned myself in front of her, my cock in her face.

I came, my cum showering her face. She moaned, her tongue licking up the cum. I groaned, my body shaking as she swallowed every last drop.

I pulled her up, my hands gripping her hips. I positioned her on the edge of the couch, her legs spread wide. I grabbed the anal beads, lubing them up. I pushed them into her ass, her body tensing as they slipped in. I left them in, her body adjusting to the feeling.

I grabbed my cock, positioning it at her pussy. I pushed in, her wetness coating my cock. I started to move, my cock sliding in and out of her. She moaned, her hips moving against mine. I leaned over her, my voice gruff. "You're my little breeding slut, Leeseo. You're going to take my cum in your pussy, aren't you?"

I pulled the anal beads out, her body tensing as they slipped out of her. I grabbed her, pulling her into my arms. I kissed her, my tongue sliding against hers. She moaned, her body pressing against mine.

I broke away, my eyes locked on hers. "You're my little slut, Leeseo. My little cum slut. My little breeding slut."

She smiled, her eyes filled with love and desire. "Yes, Professor Park. I'm yours."

#kpop smut #ive smut #leeseo smut #kpop gg

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not-rigel · 10 months ago

Text

Can't do it better

warnings: top sevika, teasing, strapping, riding, multiple orgasms, mean sevika, aftercare, soft sevika, porn what plot

wc: 1.5k

a/n: first sevika fic aaa.

Sevika's fingers trailed down your spine, sending a shiver through your body. She was still in that teasing stage of sex, where half her strap was inside you. She was just waiting for the right moment to push the rest of herself inside. You tremble because you know that she knows you love the teasing.

She thrusts with half the length, deciding to drag out the teasing even more. You groan against the pillow your face is pressed into. She echoes your groan, but there is a mocking tone to it. She grabs your hips, pulling your ass higher which pulls you a little further on her strap.

The extra inch of her dick brushing inside you makes you lose control for just a moment but that's all that it takes. You push your hips back to take more of her. Her hands stop your hips after you get another inch inside of you.

She lets out a disappointed sigh, "Oh no, baby.. Do you think you can fuck yourself better than I can?"

You gasp, having been caught and in deep shit.

"I'm sorry. Sevika-"

You're cut off when she hooks her left arm under your torso and pulls you up so you're on your knees with her still inside of you. She repositions herself, remaining kneeled but her thighs are on either side of yours. She pulls your hips down then her arms move back to support her weight from behind.

"Go on, baby," She coos.

"What?"

"Fuck youself on my dick."

You push your hips back, a moan coming from you almost immediately. You just cannot dig yourself out of the hole you created.

"You gotta keep going, baby." Sevika is being evil, speaking that tone. The one that is equally demeaning and sweet.

You grind your hips, trying to find momentum but each time you shift yourself down on her dick you shudder and pause. She always feels so good inside of you. But you know there is something missing.

"Sevika," you whine, "Please. I can't fuck myself like you fuck me."

She flat out ignores the plea and the confession. "Faster."

Pathetic little noises leave you as you obey her order and begin to thrust your hips properly back onto her strap. You moan again and try to push yourself all the way down her length but you end up short.

"If you wanted me that deep, you should’ve let me fuck you," she growls. If her tone is any indication, she is losing her own control.

"Please please, Sevika. It's not enough. I need you."

But again, she ignores your begging. She must not understand. Having her inside you was getting you so close but all you really needed was to be hers. You needed to be taken.

"I can't cum without you claiming me," you admit. You think your confession is pathetic. Sevika thinks it's the hottest, sweetest thing in the world. You swear you can feel her shudder through the strap.

Without warning, she pulls out. She turns you over, pushing you into the mattress on your back. She takes her usual place between your thighs. She grabs her strap and slides it through your folds, teasing but not entering. She is watching the display while you are watching her. She is in complete awe. She pauses her teasing, biting her cheek to hold in a groan then leans over to grab something from the bedside drawer. The one with several toys and accessories you keep closeby.

You hear shuffling and one item is set on the dresser. She returns to her position before you can question it. She ducks down for a kiss, giving you a little bit of sweet affection before claiming you. The both of you moan into each other's mouths, enjoying the passion preceding your pleasure.

Sevika is the one to pull away. She has to see your face when she enters you. You're so wet it only takes some repositioning of her hips for her to slide inside. Half the length slips right in before Sevika can resist the suction of your pussy.

"Oh," both of you moan. Sevika is set on completing her earlier mission, making you wait to take her full length. And there is no way you'll ruin it now. You clenched around her as she forced you to be patient. Sevika pushed herself to the hilt in after a short wait, not able to resist all the ways she wants to make you lose your mind.

"Sevika!" your shout echoes off the walls and your arm reaches up to grab onto her. Your fingers end up digging into her shoulder. You wait for her to begin moving but she doesn't so you whine at her. Pouting is not the most effective tactic on Sevika but you're so horny you can't think to do anything else.

"I just have to take a moment," her voice is as teasing as it gets. You look up at her to pout more but what you see is her using one hand to tighten the straps on her harness, pulling it tighter on her hips. Before you can even react, she begins thrusting.

She fucks with a power that is so special to her. She isn't going full force, starting at a comfortable pace but there is desire and carnality behind her thrusts. Each push and pull of her hips is so deliberate and precise. Thrusts meant to make you contort for her. Her pace doesn't slow or quicken, but she does reposition your legs whenever you get close to cramping.

The steady stimulation works you up, the notes of an orgasm beginning in your abdomen. "Sev.." you don't finish moaning her name when her lips find yours. There's only one word for it, possessive. Her teeth nip your lips between harsh kisses.

"That's right," she huffs between kisses. The snapping of her hips increases in speed. She reattaches your lips. The new stimulation adds harmony to the impending orgasm. With a couple more thrusts, you're cumming for her. Your orgasm drowns over any other noise, playing its own tune through your body. Sevika hears you reacting beneath her but she doesn't relent.

"Sev! I'm cumming!" You groaned into her mouth.

"Your legs aren't shaking. So I don't care." Her hips continue their pace through your orgasm and don't stop after you're done. She pauses for a moment and you think you've been spared then she pushes up and hooks your ankles over her shoulder.

She resumes her thrusting but now it's messy, uncoordinated, quick thrusts. She needs this. And evidently so do you because less than a minute later you're cumming again, tears leaking from your eyes, legs shaking.

It's a sight for Sevika, really. Your pussy convulses and cream coats her strap. Your skin is hot, your eyes are rolled back, eyelids fluttering. Your breasts bouncing as she fucks you. She is sure if she looked behind her, your toes would be curled. Pressing a kiss to your calf, she orgasms with you, her's lasting noticeably shorter.

"There you go. Now you're really cumming." She says as she watches you come down from your high. With a warning she pulls out then presses another kiss to your calf before exiting the position. She moves to stand on the side of the bed, loosening her harness and slipping it off. Next, she is bending down to grab your face in both hands and kiss you. There are three words you would use to describe this kiss; caring, passionate, possessive. She is the one to pull away. She has a task she needs to complete.

"Want a massage, baby?" She purrs.

"Hmm?"

She picks up the item she retrieved from the dresser earlier, which you completely forgot about. It was a massage oil, purchased a couple months back. The massage oil was really only ever used for aftercare. Not only that, but it was only ever used if Sevika really needed the aftercare. So of course, you accept the offer.

Sevika had explained it to you before. That she needs to take care of you after sex because she has to reassure herself that you know she cares. It's a bit hard for her to believe you trust she cares about you more than anything especially when you get into intense scenes.

"I knew I was going to be rough, hence me getting out the bottle beforehand, but…,” she pauses and shakes her head, “I said 'I don't care' to you during that. It's getting to my head a bit," she admits.

She moves to your left thigh and drops some of the oil onto your skin, then rubs it in with her flesh hand. Her way of avoiding eye contact. She hates having to be vulnerable and having someone look her in the eye at the same time. So you compromise.

"Sev, you know me so well. You know exactly what to do to make me cum as hard as possible. And you know exactly what to say. You did everything you knew to do to give me that best orgasm. And you did. I'd say that's really caring." Your words do reassure her, as they always do.

"Thanks. You're... perfect." She sighs. She feels much better but still wants to take care of her girl, "Whatever you want, baby, let me know. I really want to take care of you tonight."

"You already are, Sev."

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika smut #sevika fic #arcane sevika x reader #i love sevika

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lilirae00 · 25 days ago

Text

Hard Launch - Part 2

Paige x Azzi

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: explicit sexual content, you've been warned. Minors DNI. Also more fluff and fun interactions with the team afterward.

a/n: After part one, I really had more little scenes I thought worked well with this idea of the aftermath of the hard launch so I made a part two. Just some sexy times after the charity gala and fun conversations about the future. Enjoy!

Hard Launch Part One HERE

—-

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Paige exhaled slowly, pressing her back against the door, her chest rising and falling like she’d just finished a game. She looked across the room at Azzi—barefoot now, her heels dangling in one hand, the soft silk of her champagne-colored dress glinting in the low apartment light.

“You know,” Paige said, voice husky, “I’ve been trying to keep it together all night.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Yeah? You looked pretty composed to me.”

“That’s because I had to be.” Paige pushed off the door, walking toward her with purpose. “But now that we’re home… I don’t have to pretend.”

Azzi tilted her head, teasing. “Pretend what?”

Paige stopped in front of her, eyes roaming her face, her neck, her body. “Pretend I wasn’t picturing this the entire night.”

Azzi’s breath caught just as Paige leaned in to kiss her—soft at first, just the brush of lips, but then deeper. Hungrier. Azzi dropped her heels to the floor and reached up, undoing Paige’s tie with practiced ease.

“You’re gonna ruin this suit,” she murmured between kisses.

Paige smirked against her mouth. “It was always for you to take off.”

They made it to the bedroom in slow, stumbling steps—Paige’s jacket hitting the floor, Azzi’s dress unzipped and slipping down her back. When Paige pulled back to take in the sight of her, nearly bare and glowing in the soft bedroom light, she froze.

“You’re unreal,” she whispered. “Like… I don’t even know how you’re real.”

Azzi stepped close and hooked her finger into the waistband of Paige’s briefs and started pulling them down. “Then maybe you should stop thinking and start showing me.”

They kissed again—deeper now. Azzi moaned when Paige’s hands slid down to grip her thighs, lifting her up with ease and lowering her gently onto the bed. Paige kissed down her body, murmuring between each kiss: “This… is… mine.”

Azzi arched under her touch. “Yours,” she echoed, breathless.

Paige took her time, exploring every inch of skin with mouth and hands—pressing kisses to Azzi’s collarbone, the curve of her breast, the dip of her stomach. Her touch was both reverent and hungry, like she was worshipping and claiming her all at once.

Azzi shivered under Paige’s mouth, fingers threading through her long blonde hair with a breathy sigh. Paige moved slowly, pressing kisses to the soft skin just above her hip before her hand drifted lower, sliding between Azzi’s thighs.

She paused there, letting her fingers brush gently, feeling how wet Azzi already was. Azzi gasped and lifted her hips into the touch instinctively.

Paige’s lips curved into a slow, approving smile against her skin. “You’re so ready for me,” she murmured, voice low and thick with want.

Azzi’s breathing stuttered, her eyes heavy-lidded as she met Paige’s gaze, cheeks flushed and lips parted.

Paige let her fingers linger, stroking softly, feeling Azzi grow even wetter under her touch before finally pulling back just enough to look at her, desire burning in her eyes.

When Paige reached toward the nightstand drawer, she paused, fingers hovering over the harness. Her voice dropped into something quiet, hesitant.

“Can I use it?” she asked. “I really want—need you to ride me.”

Azzi’s eyes darkened instantly. She nodded. “Yes. Please.”

Paige kissed her, then got up slowly, strapping in with practiced hands, her jaw tight with anticipation. Azzi watched her, lips parted, chest rising, already curling her fingers into the sheets.

“You sure?” Paige asked again, crawling to lie back on the bed.

Azzi pushed herself up and swung a leg over Paige’s waist, hovering just above her stomach. Paige could feel the slick heat dripping onto her skin, making her breath hitch. “I’ve never been more sure.”

Paige kissed Azzi’s jaw softly, voice steady and low. “Hold still for me.”

She let her fingers slip between Azzi’s thighs, moving gently, gathering the warmth and slick there with patient care. Azzi shivered under her touch, breath catching.

Paige met her gaze, eyes dark but full of tenderness, as she smoothed the wetness carefully over the strap. “Just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” she murmured, pressing their foreheads together, sharing the quiet heat between them.

Azzi closed her eyes, exhaling shakily, leaning in so their noses brushed. “I’m ready, P. I want you.”

Their mouths met again, slower this time—hot and full of intent. Paige’s hands gripped her hips as Azzi shifted up, angling herself and slowly sinking down.

Azzi let out a long, broken moan as she took in the full length, her voice high and desperate, filling the space between them. She couldn’t hold it back, the sound raw and needy, making Paige’s breath catch in her chest.

Paige watched as Azzi sank down, groaning beneath her. “Fuck, Azzi… that’s hot.”

Azzi leaned forward, planting her palms on Paige’s abs, grounding herself as she began to move up and down—slow and rolling, grinding down hard enough to make them both gasp.

With every thrust, the base of the strap dragged perfectly against Paige’s clit, tricking her body into believing she was the one sinking into Azzi’s heat, feeling her pulse and clench around her.

“Look at me,” Paige said, her voice thick and rough as she reached up and squeezed both of Azzi’s breasts into her hands.

Azzi obeyed, eyes locked on hers as she rocked. “I love how you look at me when I’m like this.”

“You ride me like you were made for it,” Paige muttered, hands moving down to Azzi’s hips, then to her ass, guiding her movements, helping her grind harder, deeper.

Azzi moaned and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Because I was. I am. I love making you lose control.”

Paige’s breath stuttered in response. She shifted, sitting up straighter so their chests pressed flush together. Her arms wrapped tight around Azzi’s back, locking her in.

She pressed hot, messy kisses to Azzi’s collarbone, lips parting around her skin as her teeth grazed just enough to draw a gasp. Then she softened it with her tongue, murmuring against her skin.

“Fuck,” Paige rasped. “It feels so good.”

Azzi whimpered, rolling her hips in slow, grinding circles that made them both moan. Her fingers tangled in Paige’s hair, tugging lightly to tilt her face up, kissing her with messy, open-mouthed hunger.

Paige kissed her like she needed oxygen, hands gripping Azzi’s back, guiding her movement as she pressed her hips up into her. They stayed locked like that for a few heated seconds, breath mingling, tongues meeting, before Paige finally broke away for air, panting.

She loosened her hold and let herself fall back onto the pillows. Paige’s eyes were dark, wanting, but steady. She let her hands settle on Azzi’s hips, fingers digging in with intent.

“You’re doing so good, mama,” Paige said, voice low but clear. “Let me see you take it.”

Azzi’s breath hitched at the command. She straightened her spine, bracing her hands on Paige’s stomach as she began to move—lifting herself slowly and then sinking back down with a moan, letting Paige see everything. Paige’s eyes tracked every movement, jaw tight, breath coming faster.

Azzi built her rhythm, finding the right angle that made them both gasp. Paige’s hands slid down to grip her ass again, helping her move faster, deeper. The wet sound of them meeting filled the room. Paige’s head fell back, eyes fluttering shut with a raw groan.

Azzi let out a ragged moan, breath hot and uneven. “Shit—my legs are burning for you,” she panted, voice thick with heat and pride. She didn’t slow down, rolling her hips even harder, wanting Paige to feel every bit of how hard she was working to make them both come.

Paige’s eyes snapped open, locking on her with wild need. Her voice cracked with urgency.

“Don’t stop,” Paige growled, breath shaking. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Azzi whimpered at the praise and the command, obeying immediately—riding her harder now, hips slamming down in quick, desperate rhythm. Their skin clashed, the air thick with ragged breaths, low moans, and whispered words.

Paige’s breath stuttered, her hand moving between them, fingers brushing Azzi’s clit just enough to make her hips jolt in response. “You’re perfect,” Paige whispered. “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” Azzi gasped, leaning down to bury her face in Paige’s neck. “Only yours.”

“Then don’t hold back.”

Azzi rolled her hips faster now, matching the rhythm of Paige’s thrusts. The slap of skin meeting skin echoed softly, the air thick with ragged breaths, low moans, and whispered words.

Paige’s breath caught as she watched Azzi move over her, strong and gorgeous and completely hers. All the tension she’d carried from the press conference—the fear, the nerves about going public—melted away with every roll of Azzi’s hips.

This was Azzi proving she was hers, and Paige felt like she’d break from how much she needed it.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long,” Paige said, her lips brushing Azzi’s shoulder. “God I needed this… to see you like this. After tonight, after everything…”

“I know,” Azzi replied, her voice trembling. “You have me. All of me.”

Paige kissed her again—deeper now—as her hand moved between them, adding more pressure just as Azzi’s body began to shake.

“You close?” she whispered.

Azzi nodded against her lips. “Yes right there… baby, please—”

Azzi’s hips ground into Paige with quick, desperate rhythm, and Paige could feel her own release approaching fast.

“Fuck, I’m close too. I wanna hear you, baby,” Paige panted, voice rough with need. “Let me hear how good it is. Don’t hold back for me.”

Hearing that was all the permission Azzi needed to let go. Her body tensed, breath shivering before she cried out, voice ragged.

“Fuck—Paige—you feel so good—I’m coming—don’t stop—”

Paige watched in awe as Azzi threw her head back in pleasure and cried out. She lifted her hips to meet Azzi’s erratic rhythm, helping her ride out every last wave of it—until Paige’s own release overtook her.

“That’s it, baby, just like that,” Paige moaned, gripping Azzi’s thighs tight, her fingernails digging in deep as her whole body shook with pleasure.

When Azzi finally collapsed onto her—skin damp, body spent—Paige gently brushed her curls away from her face.

“You okay?” she whispered, kissing her gently.

Azzi mumbled, still breathless. “Just needa minute.”

Paige smiled and held her closer, heart full and chest heaving. “You’re everything to me. You know that, right?”

Azzi nodded against Paige’s chest.

For a long moment, neither of them moved—just the quiet rhythm of their breathing syncing as the world outside their bed disappeared.

Paige pressed a kiss to the top of Azzi’s head, lingering there as she whispered, “Take a breath, baby. I’m gonna pull out.”

Azzi inhaled, slow and steady, and Paige gently eased out from under her. Azzi let out a sleepy sound of protest, but Paige just smiled and smoothed a hand down her thigh before slipping off the bed.

In the dim glow of the lamp, Paige unbuckled the harness and set it aside, then padded barefoot into the bathroom. She ran warm water over a soft washcloth, testing the temperature on her wrist before wringing it out. She took a deep breath, still catching little sparks of her own release buzzing through her limbs.

When she returned, Azzi had rolled onto her side, eyes barely open, but waiting for her. Paige climbed back onto the bed and wordlessly settled between her legs, her touch slow, reverent.

The first press of the cloth made Azzi flinch slightly.

“Too much?” Paige asked softly, brushing her knuckles over her knee.

Azzi shook her head. “No. Just… really sensitive.”

Paige’s expression softened. “Okay. I’ll be gentle.”

She moved with care, dabbing the cloth along the inside of Azzi’s thighs, catching the wetness between her folds with slow, deliberate motions. She wasn’t in a hurry—this was just as intimate, just as important.

Azzi’s fingers found Paige’s forearm, grounding herself in the contact. “You always take care of me like this.”

Paige looked up, her voice warm and low. “Of course I do. You gave me everything tonight. I just wanna make you feel safe. Loved.”

“You do,” Azzi whispered. “Always.”

Once she was done, Paige tossed the cloth to the floor, climbed up beside her, and tucked Azzi in against her chest. Their skin was still warm and slightly damp, but neither of them cared. Paige wrapped a blanket over both of them, her chin resting on Azzi’s hair.

Azzi’s voice came out drowsy. “You think we’ll always be like this?”

Paige didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

“Even if we’re on opposite sides of the court?”

“I’ll still be yours,” Paige murmured. “Same team, different team, together or 1000 miles apart...”

Azzi let out a long exhale before finishing Paige’s sentence, “We gon ride till the wheels fall off.”

Paige smiled and pulled Azzi closer, “that’s right.”

The room fell quiet, the only sound a gentle hum of the air conditioning and the soft brush of skin on skin as they slowly drifted into sleep—held, known, and wholly loved.

—-

As morning came, the sun leaked slowly into the room, slanting golden across tangled sheets and bare bodies. Paige stirred first, still half on her stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow. She blinked slowly, eyes adjusting.

Beside her, Azzi was curled inward, one leg tangled with Paige’s, arm draped over her waist, hair spread out across the pillow like a halo.

For a few long minutes, Paige didn’t move. She just watched her sleep, felt the weight of Azzi’s body against hers, and let the silence wrap around them like a blanket.

Azzi shifted slightly, brow furrowing like she could feel the eyes on her. Her voice was low, barely a whisper.

“You’re staring.”

Paige smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re pretty.”

Azzi cracked one eye open, smirking. “That’s the only reason?”

Paige leaned in, kissed the tip of her nose. “That and… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this calm.”

Azzi stretched out a little, limbs brushing against warm sheets, body still sore in the best way. She let out a low, sleepy groan, burying her face in the pillow for a moment before turning to look at Paige.

Paige watched her with soft, half-lidded eyes, one arm tucked behind her head, hair messy from sleep. She reached over and traced lazy circles on Azzi’s hip with her thumb.

“You okay?” Paige asked gently.

Azzi nodded, voice still rough with sleep. “Yeah. Just… a little sore.”

Paige’s hand drifted down to Azzi’s thigh, fingertips skimming over the skin there. She paused when she felt the faint crescent-shaped marks she’d left behind last night, the little indents from where her nails had dug in. Her chest tightened.

“Too much?” Paige asked quietly, her thumb brushing carefully over one of the marks.

Azzi’s lips curved into a slow, tired smile. She reached down to cover Paige’s hand with hers, squeezing it. “Not too much. Just… enough to remember how good it was.”

Paige let out a small breath, relief clear on her face. She pressed a soft kiss to Azzi’s temple. “You’d tell me if it was too much though, right?”

Azzi nodded immediately. “Of course. You’re always careful with me. Even when you lose it a little.”

Paige gave a sheepish little laugh. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Azzi glanced down at where Paige’s fingers still rested over the marks, then back up at her with a spark of heat in her sleepy eyes. “I like having proof,” she teased softly.

Paige’s mouth quirked in a warm, crooked smile, eyes softening. “I just want you to feel safe.”

Azzi leaned in and kissed her gently, lingering. When they pulled back, their foreheads rested together.

“I do,” Azzi whispered. “Always with you.

They laid like that for a while, quietly tracing skin, exchanging sleepy kisses, wordlessly soaking in the peace of being known. There was nothing to explain. Nothing to run from. Just the soft, golden hum of morning and the solid weight of each other.

Eventually, Azzi lifted her head and smiled. “Want to go get breakfast?”

She glanced at the clock. “Or more like brunch.”

Paige yawned and buried her face into Azzi’s neck. “Only if you promise to let me order something ridiculous.”

“Like a tower of pancakes and a mimosa the size of your face?”

“Exactly.”

Azzi laughed. “Deal.”

—-

They didn’t try to hide.

Paige wore joggers, a Wings t-shirt, and a messy bun that Azzi had playfully tugged into shape before they left. Azzi threw on a cropped tee, biker shorts, and sunglasses, letting her curls live wild and untamed. They didn’t match, didn’t coordinate, and didn’t care.

The place was a little hole-in-the-wall brunch spot Paige had found during training camp. It had outdoor seating, terrible parking, and some of the best French toast in Texas.

They sat outside, elbows brushing, legs tangled under the table. Paige poured syrup over her pancakes with alarming precision while Azzi scrolled through her phone, snorting at DMs.

“Oh my god,” Azzi said, holding up a screenshot. “Someone made an edit of us from the red carpet with the caption, ‘the WNBA power couple we didn’t deserve.’”

Paige peeked over and smirked. “Accurate.”

Azzi scrolled further, snorting. “People are seriously shipping us so hard. Look at this—‘Queens. Soulmates. I’m crying.’”

Paige raised an eyebrow, cutting into her pancakes. “As long as they don’t know what we did last night, they can write whatever they want.”

Azzi’s jaw dropped, eyes wide. “Paige!”

Paige just shrugged, lips twitching. “What? I’m just saying. You were… pretty loud.”

Azzi kicked her lightly under the table, cheeks pink. “Stop. Oh my god.”

Paige leaned in closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Azzi couldn’t help it—she laughed so hard she snorted, burying her face in her hands. “You’re the worst.”

Paige grinned, eyes warm and shameless. “You love it.”

They were halfway through breakfast when a teenage girl hovered at the edge of their table, fidgeting with the strap of her backpack.

“Um… sorry to bother you,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “Are you Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd?”

Azzi smiled gently. “We are.”

The girl beamed. “You guys are… like, my favorite players. I just wanted to say that what you posted last night? It was really cool. You’re both so cool.”

Paige’s smile softened, a hand instinctively resting on Azzi’s knee under the table. “Thanks for saying that.”

The girl glanced around. “Would it be okay to get a picture?”

Azzi stood first. “Of course.”

They posed together—Paige towering slightly behind, Azzi at the girl’s side, all smiles. When the girl left, practically floating, Azzi sat down and looked over at Paige with raised brows.

“You okay?”

Paige hesitated. “I wasn’t sure what it’d be like… people seeing us after getting that confirmation.”

Azzi reached across the table, lacing their fingers together. “But?”

Paige looked at her like the sun had just risen again. “But I think I’m gonna like this.”

Just then, someone from a table nearby called out, “Hey! Go Wings! And congrats, y’all look amazing together!”

Paige flushed a little but didn’t let go of Azzi’s hand.

“I think I’m really gonna like this,” she said again, smiling wide.

—-

The next night was one of Paige’s rare nights off from the game of basketball—no games, no practice. Just a quiet night out with friends.

The four of them sat at a corner table on the rooftop patio of one of Dallas’ trendiest restaurants—string lights twinkling above, live music floating from the bar inside, and the scent of grilled steak and warm bread drifting in the air.

Paige had on a purple button-down with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, one arm draped casually behind Azzi’s chair. Azzi wore a sleeveless cream top tucked into high-waisted jeans and looked impossibly good, not that Paige was keeping score.

Across the table, Dijonai and NaLyssa were already mid-banter, cracking jokes over their drinks like they’d been waiting for an audience.

“Oh I know,” Lyss said, swirling her margarita, “this girl convinced her college team she was straight for two whole seasons.”

“I didn’t say I was straight,” Nai defended with a smirk. “I just… didn’t correct anyone.”

Azzi laughed. “Sounds familiar.”

Paige groaned. “Why is it always us getting called out?”

Lyss grinned. “Because now you two are all over everyone’s for you pages with your soft launches and slow burns and ‘who’s the top’ Twitter threads.”

Azzi leaned into Paige’s shoulder, smiling proudly. “That’s what makes it fun.”

“You know we were rooting for you the whole time, right?” Nai said, resting her chin in her palm. “Like, even before you ever said anything. Lyss literally said when we watched the draft, ‘They’re either dating or practicing for a rom-com.’”

“I did say that,” Lyss confirmed with a satisfied nod.

Paige chuckled, cheeks warm. “Well, you were right. Sorry we didn’t give you the hard launch sooner.”

“We’ve been there,” Nai said, voice softer now. “We know it’s not easy.”

The table settled for a moment into that comfortable space only people with shared experience can reach. Paige reached for Azzi’s hand under the table, squeezing it once.

“So, Az,” Nai asked after a few bites of food, “you declaring next year?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s always been the plan. I’ve been trying not to overthink it.”

“You’ll kill it,” Nai said with full confidence. “You’re already league-ready. And if you end up here with us? That’s just bonus.”

Lyss smiled across the table. “Seriously. It’d be dope to have another couple in the locker room. You two would take all the heat off us.”

Azzi laughed. “You say that like y’all aren’t fan favorites.”

“Yeah, but we don’t get edits with angel wings and background music,” Lyss teased.

Paige leaned back, playing it cool. “What can I say? We’re marketable.”

Azzi elbowed her lightly. “And humble.”

Lyss raised her brows, then tilted her head slightly. “So, real talk—have y’all talked about what next year might look like? I mean… with the draft, long-distance again, different cities maybe?”

The question wasn’t pointed—it was kind. Genuine. But it still made Paige pause.

Azzi answered first. “We’ve talked about it. It’s still early, and obviously I don’t know where I’ll end up. But we’ve done the distance thing before.”

“And survived it,” Paige added. “Barely.”

That made Azzi laugh, but she squeezed Paige’s hand again.

“We’ll figure it out,” Azzi said, her tone soft but solid. “We always do.”

Nai nodded. “That’s what it’s about. Doesn’t matter where you play, just that you stay on the same page. It’s the league, yeah—but it’s your life too.”

“You don’t have to do it how anyone else did,” Lyss added. “You can build it your way.”

Azzi smiled at them. “Thanks. Seriously. It means a lot coming from you two.”

The rest of dinner flowed easy—swapping rookie stories, trading gossip, laughing over Nai’s ongoing beef with her DoorDash driver. At one point, Azzi reached for a fry from Paige’s plate and Paige caught her hand mid-air, mock scandalized.

“Boundaries,” Paige said, holding her plate protectively.

“I shared my dessert with you!”

“That was voluntary.”

“You’re in love with me!”

“Barely.”

Azzi shoved her anyway and Paige kissed her cheek mid-protest, drawing a chorus of teasing whoops from across the table.

By the end of the meal, the check arrived with a note from their server:

“Go Wings! Good luck later this week!”

They all smiled.

—-

The next day at practice, the ball thudded against the hardwood as Paige hit another pull-up jumper from the elbow, the sound sharp and clean in the mostly empty gym. A few players lingered for extra reps, but most had already hit the locker room.

Paige stayed behind, rhythmically grabbing her rebounds, one after the other.

“You tryna make the rest of us look bad or something?”

Paige glanced over her shoulder to see Lyss walking toward her with a towel slung over her neck and a knowing smile on her face.

“Just keeping my hands busy,” Paige replied, catching her own rebound and tucking it under one arm.

Lyss raised an eyebrow. “Your hands or your head?”

Paige sighed, then offered a small grin. “Both.”

They walked to the bench and sat, sweat still drying on their skin.

“I’m assuming this is about Azzi,” Lyss said, gently.

Paige didn’t answer right away. She stared down at the basketball between her hands. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation we all had at dinner last night.”

She paused before adding, “I know me and Azzi are good…we’re solid. But sometimes it just… hits me, y’know? This league is a grind. Long seasons. Different cities. The pressure. The travel. The media. I just—sometimes I wonder if love like this fits into something like that.”

Lyss nodded slowly, giving her space. “You’re asking the right questions.”

Just then, Nai came around the corner from the weight room, spotted them, and walked over mid-sip of her protein shake. “What’d I miss?”

“Paige’s existential love crisis,” Lyss said casually.

“Ah,” Nai said, sitting on Paige’s other side. “Classic.”

Paige smiled despite herself.

“Listen,” Nai continued, nudging Paige’s shoulder with her own. “When Lyss and I were on separate teams, it sucked. We were lucky if we saw each other twice a month during the season. You know how we made it work?”

“Tell me.”

“We wanted to,” Lyss said simply. “That’s it. That’s the whole secret. We both decided to try, even when it wasn’t convenient. Even when it was hard.”

Nai leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You love her, right?”

“More than anything,” Paige said instantly.

Lyss smiled. “Then you’re already doing the hardest part.”

Paige blinked.

“Letting yourself love someone that deeply and not holding back?” Lyss added. “That’s scarier than any travel schedule or media headline. And you already did that.”

Paige looked between them, the weight in her chest loosening just a little. “Thanks. Really.”

“That’s what teammates are for,” Nai said, patting her back.

“Now go home to your girl before she calls me asking if you died in the gym,” Lyss teased.

Paige stood, tucking the ball under her arm again. “Y’all are soft for being so good at advice.”

“And you’re lucky we like you,” Nai called after her.

—-

Paige let herself into the apartment with a slow exhale. Her body ached from drills, but her head was clearer. She dropped her gym bag by the door, pulled off her shoes, and wandered in—

And paused.

The apartment smelled like lemon and fresh linen. The floor was clean. The dishes were gone from the sink. The laundry was folded and stacked neatly on the couch.

And Azzi stood in the middle of it all, barefoot in soft shorts and one of Paige’s oversized sweatshirts, hair tied up, AirPods in as she folded the last towel and hummed along to her music.

Paige didn’t say a word. She just watched, heart thudding in her chest at the sight of her girlfriend doing something so simple—so deeply thoughtful—without ever needing recognition.

Azzi finally noticed her and pulled out one earbud. “Hey babe.”

Paige walked toward her slowly, set her water bottle on the counter, and wrapped her arms around Azzi’s waist, burying her face in her shoulder.

“You okay?” Azzi asked, arms wrapping back around her instinctively.

“I love you,” Paige mumbled. “So much it hurts sometimes.”

Azzi pulled back just enough to see her face. “You good?”

Paige nodded, eyes soft. “I was overthinking earlier. About the future. About how we make this work once you’re in the league.”

“And now?”

“Now I realize I’m an idiot for doubting us,” she said with a small, emotional laugh. “You cleaned our whole damn apartment while I was out spiraling.”

Azzi shrugged. “I know how your brain gets. Figured a little peace and quiet might help.”

Paige’s throat tightened. “Well… it worked.”

Paige leaned in and kissed her, long and slow.

They ended up on the couch with tea and leftover cookies, knees tangled, Azzi tucked under Paige’s arm.

“So… what do you want next year to look like?” Paige asked quietly, running her fingers through Azzi’s curls.

“I want to get drafted. I want to play hard. I want to prove I belong in the league.”

“You will.”

“And I want us to stay us. No matter what. Even if I end up in Minnesota and you’re here. Even if we don’t always have nights like this.”

Paige nodded. “We will.”

“We’ll just have to work at it. Like Lyss and Nai did.”

Paige smiled. “I had a long talk with them today.”

Azzi glanced up. “Yeah?”

“They made me realize something. All the external stuff doesn’t matter. Not if the person you’re with makes you feel like home.”

Azzi kissed her collarbone and rested her head back against her. “Then I’m always gonna make you feel like home.”

Paige exhaled slowly and contently, brushing hair off Azzi’s face.

Azzi grinned sleepily, voice muffled against her. “Think we should post a thirst trap next?”

Paige let out a low laugh, pulling her closer. “God, I love you.”

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s neck, giggling. “Just saying. The people are hungry.”

#pazzi #paige x azzi #azzi fudd #paige and azzi #paige bueckers

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sodaneko · 2 months ago

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・❥・yearning iwaizumi, gn!reader, established relationship, brief mention of non-sexual nudity, wc: 611

“hold still,” iwaizumi murmurs, his voice a low grumble.

his brow is furrowed in concentration, his breath hot against the nape of your neck while he fumbles with the clasp of your necklace. he curses a little under his breath when he doesn’t quite get it right the first few tries. it’s not like he’s nervous, standing this close behind you–he’s had you in a thousand different ways before that–it’s just that your familiar scent is making him lose focus on the task at hand. the smell of your shampoo, a spritz of your favorite perfume (it’s his favorite, too) and something so uniquely you, it’s engraved into his memory.

the mirror is still a little fogged up from his shower but you’re still watching him through it, an amused gleam in your gaze. he knows exactly what you’re thinking and he lets out a low huff, his lips curling into a small grin.

“you simply love to see me suffer,” he scoffs but there’s no malice in his voice, only pure devotion.

“only a little.”

iwaizumi leans forward, pressing soft kisses against the side of your neck and your shoulder, not missing the way your breath hitches. water drips on your bare skin from his still damp hair but you don’t protest, only tilting your head to the side to grant him better access. the clasp of the necklace closes with a small click and iwaizumi’s arm wraps around you. his hand, big and a bit calloused, now rests against your throat, your pulse point a steady throbbing underneath his fingertips. thick fingers draw slow, gentle patterns against your skin.

his other hand finds your hip, pulling you a little closer. your form melts so effortlessly against him, sweet like molasses, as if he carved out part of his being to make room for you, room for your heart beating his name in morse code.

his sharp canines drag over your skin, leaving a faint red trail behind, charming out one of these sweet sounds you make for no one but him. it’s a silent declaration of adoration, not possession–he doesn’t own you, but he can’t deny that a part of him wants to leave a mark on you, something for his and your eyes only. maybe a quiet plea to let him give in to this all-consuming feeling rattling in his chest. it runs deeper than love; it devours him, forcing him to his knees.

if he had to, he’d spend his whole life spelling out his feelings for you. with his lips against the nape of your neck, and his fingers tracing down your spine, and his gaze so fiery it makes you feel like drowning.

if he had to–but you already know, arching into his touch, and iwaizumi lets out a soft sigh, coaxing you to tilt your head back. his lips find your jaw, leaving a trail of kisses from there to the soft spot behind your ear while his fingertips brush against the necklace resting against your collarbone. he can feel you smile and lets out a quiet, hoarse laugh when your hand slides over his, tapping his ring finger in a silent but playful question.

“impatient, aren’t we?” he mutters as he leaves a few open-mouthed kisses against your neck, his hand now wrapping around yours, thumb rubbing over your knuckles in a soothing manner. there’s a small velvet box sitting in the drawer of his nightstand, but for now he’s not quite done with kissing you just yet, not until he pushes you up against the bathroom counter with your hands tangled in his hair, vows sweet like honey dripping from your lips.

#one thing about me is that i love a man yearning. a yearning man. little guy consumed by the yearn #puts your man into a situation. now be a good boy and be a little lovesick #i was craving some domesticity tonight. loving someone in the mundane except it's not mundane because it's THEM #the one who rewrote the definition of love and all. circling back to yearning #yap yap yap ok good night #-`♡´- .txt #haikyuu x reader #iwaizumi x reader

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musingsofheaven · 2 months ago

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DREAMSTATE TRAP.

summary: You don’t know what’s wrong with you and don’t even remember how it started. You just know you sleep better when he’s near. That your body wants him close, that you need him there, pressed up against you. You said you’d leave him. More than once. But you didn’t, not when he made sure you will always come back to his arms.

pairings: divorced dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

warnings: 2k words. mature themes. somnophilia. nonconsensual undertones. obsession. manipulation. covert drug use (nicotine patches / chemical dependency). emotional dependency. breeding kink. free use referenced. sleep sex. dubcon-adjacent tone. power imbalance. dumbification (sleep-drunk, emotionally conditioned, mentally pliant state). read & consume responsibly.

notes: actually scared to post this. :( but hi! this is post-divorce art donaldson and yeah… he’s rich. lonely. washed. pushing 40. still hot. still got those sad little eyes. i just know he’d lose his mind if a pretty lil thing started sleeping in his bed. so soft. so warm. he didn’t want to be left ever again. he’d do anything to keep you close. even if it’s twisted. even if it’s wrong. this is manipulative dilf art dick. he’s emotionally unavailable and physically unavoidable. yes it’s wrong. yes he’s crazy. ANYWAYYYYYYY enjoy and if u want more fics or have requests or want to throw something unhinged at me pls do. i’m taking requests. thanks love u 💗

You sleep like you trust him.

You do. That’s the case. You sleep like you will be comfortable in your dreams because he’s just beside you to hug you. Like your body’s never been hurt. He doesn’t hurt you. Never. He will kill himself first before he lands a hand on you. (Unless it’s for sex and you asked it, or not, maybe) Like no one’s ever lied to you or walked away. You know he’s not lying to you. At least in front of your face, no. Like you don’t know what he is. You don’t, honestly.

He likes staying up late than you. You never knew why. He just said he’s not tired. Or he can’t sleep. Insomnia, sometimes, is what he’s saying to you. But in reality? He likes watching you. Like tonight is the same as the others, he watches you wide-eyed in the dark.

The sheets are already wrapped around you from the movements. You are not a mover, but don’t stay in the same place. Your cotton sleep shirt riding high over your ass, too big for you, too comfy, the collar pulled half off your shoulder like it always ends up that way. You didn’t even wear panties tonight. You never do when you fall asleep in his bed. It’s comfortable, you say. More air or your cunt can breathe, or whatever bullshit you say. Art doesn’t mind. It’s a raging go signal for him. Well, that’s what he thinks. He could lift your shirt, nightgown, or whatever loose or comfortable you are wearing, and he’ll cup you over it, sometimes rub his fingers if he’s aiming for tame, or slide in if he’s so horny. You don’t complain. Said that it helps him sleep by touching you or fucking you. And you like to help him.

That used to scare him. That sweetness. That trust. Especially when you’re just letting him take it. He even joked about you being his free use doll when he was inside of you. You whine and giggle. It scared and excited him. The idea that maybe you didn’t think he was capable of anything ugly.

Well, at first, he’s like that. But now? It doesn’t scare him anymore.

His fingers gently run into the back of your hair, and he watches you shift. He makes those little expressions when you sleep. You look soft. You look like you are at peace. Your skin’s so warm there. Your pulse flutters when he presses. It’s slow, steady, alive.

Sometimes, he’s praying to God because you’re so alive. So young than him. He prayed that others wouldn’t take you away from him. The thing is, he won’t even let them do that. You’ve got no idea what kind of things a man like him can do, do you?

He slips the drawer open quietly while his other hand is still touching you like he’s scared to slip his hand away from you.

Finds the little box. Peels one patch from the back.

Your thigh shifts when he touches it. He gently caresses the flesh. Feels hot beneath his palm, your skin soft and bare. He sticks the nicotine patch just under the curve of your ass, just below your cheek, where the hem of your shirt won’t hide it, but you won’t notice it.

You don’t even move.

Art smooths a hand down your leg. Feeling its smoothness under his palm. Just once. Then, back up again, where his thumb grazes the patch, which warms under your skin. His heart thuds in his chest like he’s done something filthy. Maybe he has.

Because fuck it. Every time he puts one on you, especially when it’s your thighs, or your ass, or the soft dip of your hip... he gets hard from it like clockwork. Like some part of his brain associates the feel of your unconscious body under his hands.

He shouldn’t want it this much. He shouldn’t. This is fucked up, even for him.

But he does. He’s willing to bend his morals just for you. You’re his girl, after all.

Your breath is soft and slow. Your chest rises and falls like you’re dreaming something sweet. Maybe you are. Perhaps it’s about him. Maybe you’re dreaming something filthy. Maybe your cunt is as warm as your mouth gets when you’re half-asleep and draped over him, murmuring his name like it’s instinct.

His cock throbs.

He palms himself through his boxers.

God, he thinks. He could slide right in like this. (It’s not like he didn’t try it already)

You wouldn’t wake up. Maybe you’d shift a little and let out one of those broken sighs, legs parting out of habit. And he’d be so gentle with you. He’s not even going to be full-on fucking you. He’ll just thrust slowly and deep. Just a little. Just enough. Feel you clench around him in your sleep like your body knows who you belong to.

He’d never forgive himself.

But he might still do it.

He strokes himself slowly, silently, teeth sinking into his lip.

It’s not just the patch. It’s the trust. It’s the faith you are giving him. You are devoted. The way your body gives without knowing. The way you turn into him when he touches you is like instinct. Like your body knows it’s bim. Like your whole system has rewired around him.

You always crawl to him. Literally. Or figuratively. Always coming back into his arms when you try to leave. Do you even dare to do that?

It makes him dizzy.

You’ve tried. Three times now. Bags packed, the door slammed, voice shaking. When he tries to text you, you’ll say that he should delete your number. He never really replied after that. He’s so comfortable with the idea of you coming back. Because you always do, every time, within days, you’re back. Pale and trembling. Clingy. Teary. Like you need him.

Like something inside you can’t bear the idea of being without him.

You don’t know why. But Art does.

You will bury and nuzzle your face into his chest. You will sob, your cries shake. Your shoulders are shaking, your fingers are holding tight to his clothes like you are apologizing for thinking about leaving, and you have it hard like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. His palm slides up and down your spine, slow and calming, while you try to speak through the hiccuping wreck of your voice.

“I don’t know why...” your breath hitches and breaks. “But I- I can’t-” you inhale sharply, nearly gagging. Stuttering as always. “I can’t sleep without you. It’s like my skin itches. I feel vomiting every time. My skin feels scrawling. I feel sick. My head hurts all the time. I-” You clutch into him tighter. “I need you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You sound so scared when you say it. You’re ashamed. It’s as if she’s the only one who wants to return, and he will continue to accept you as he does in a charity case.

But he’s not. He’s not ashamed.

Art hushes you, presses a kiss to your hair, and murmurs something like “Shh, I’ve got you, baby,” while his thumb circles just under the swell of your ass, right over where the patch had been the night before the day you left. He continuously removes them before you realize it’s there.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

But Art does.

He watches your breathing slow again. Thumb trailing down the back of your thigh, the spot just beneath the patch. His other hand is palming your ass, just gently, not groping it. You murmur something in your sleep, lashes fluttering, body arching slightly toward the touch.

His heart squeezes.

God, he wants to ruin you.

Wants to keep you this soft forever. He wants to be able to watch you sleep for hours. Keep you warm and drugged and fucked out and barely thinking, brain all mushy and just needing him, wrapped up in him like a koala that doesn’t know better. He wants to get you pregnant by accident. Watch you cry about it. Then he’ll comfort you into accepting it. Watch you stay.

You shift again, thighs pressing together. He watches the ripple of muscle, the heat in your skin, the spot where the shirt rides high enough to show the curve of your hip.

You’re not even awake, but he knows you’d let him.

If he touched you now, eased a hand between your legs, thumb soft against your clit, you’d whine for him. Quietly. Just enough to let out a sound. Maybe spread without waking. Let him finger you through your dream and wake up sore, aching, and full. God. He knows how easily you get wet.

Jesus.

He strokes his cock harder now. But not sloppy. Not the one who will make a sound. It’s just slow, desperate pulls, his other hand pressed to your hip like he’s steadying himself.

He comes quietly. Barely breathing. Fingers tight. Come sticky on his stomach, hips twitching. Your body shifts, barely, like it knows. His name almost falls from your mouth in your sleep. He quickly cleans it up, always having tissue beside the bed.

He watches you for a while longer.

You don’t wake.

You never do.

And he’s already up by the time the sun rises, turning the curtains lighter. Already cleaned up. But you’re still curled on your side. One leg is hooked over the blankets, patch warm, and pulsing on the soft meat of your thigh.

He peels it off gently.

Always before you wake. Always with a breath caught low in his throat.

God, you never notice how deep you sleep. That’s what he likes about you. The way you sleep early but even wake up later than him. Like you are enjoying your sleep, he loves how much warmer your body has run lately, how you turn into his touch before you’re even conscious of it. He knows your body better than you do now, how it reacts, clings and practically melts into the mattress when he moves behind you in the mornings.

He likes the morning the most. Sometimes, you’re still half-asleep when he fucks you. Sometimes, you sleep right through the first few strokes and mewling softly, legs parting, clit twitching under his fingers without thought. He’s not even rubbing it aggressively. Just slow flicks to make you more wet. To make you more slippery around him.

And sometimes you wake up in the middle of it. You are hazy and dazed and clingy as hell. Fuck he loves it. Already have you whimpering “Don’t stop,” like you’re the one who begged for it. Like it’s your idea. Like he’s not fucking you while you’re sleeping before you’re a whimpering mess. Like your cunt isn’t already dripping around him, greedy and fluttering and open for more.

It makes him crazy. The way you arch into him instinctively. You whine when he tries to slow down, like you’ll break apart if he leaves you empty. The way you cry into his neck with your face buried and say things like...

“Mmph… dunno why…” you breathes into his chest, lips barely moving, voice sticky with sleep. “Sleep so good when you’re here…”

A soft “ah-” slips out when he shifts, cock still half-hard, still pressed against the mess between your thighs. “Feels good… don’t go yet… don’t-” you mumbles, clinging tighter, legs tangled with his while he’s thrusting his cock slowly, just how you like.

A choked little “mmph, fuck-” when he moves again, just enough to press deeper. To find your spot.

“Hurts when you’re not- when you’re not touching me…” you sniffles hiccups. “You make it go away… I don’t know how… I just need-”

You trail off in a breathy whine like your words are too much. Like you’re overwhelmed just being near him. Your face always buries in his neck, damp and hot, tears cooling your cheeks. Your hips shift without meaning to. It made you whine.

You don’t even know what you’re saying. Doesn’t realize how deep it’s sunk. How wrecked you already are. How utterly, unconsciously, you’re his.

You don’t know what’s keeping you here.

But Art does.

And every morning, he gives her body another reason to stay.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

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