#got lazy and rushed finishing this up...

[benetnvsch]

if they won't include kunikida in official art ill do it myself

[ohnoitsz1m]

Furry Bloody again 👍 hes fun to draw

Hes such a freak i adore him

[phant0m-l0rd]

have a quick/rough Kyo sketch I did this evening~

(ballpoint pen, black coloured pencil)

[faithisland]

if they'd just released it as life is strange: double exposure part 1, genuinely it would've had a WAY better reception and wouldn't have all this backlash. saving that info for the end in an open way, so you have to look up information online to find out more, leaves the average player frustrated at all the loose strings and plot holes, rather than theorizing for themselves how it can all be resolved.

literally, one. CHANGE.

[solxamber]

Jealousy, Jealousy with: Housewardens

Riddle Rosehearts

It was honestly impressive how oblivious some people could be.

You weren’t even doing anything particularly inviting—just standing in the courtyard, minding your own business—when someone you barely knew strolled up and started laying it on thick.

“Wow, you must be tired,” they grinned, leaning a little too close for comfort. “From running through my mind all day.”

You stared. Slowly blinked. “...I literally don’t know who you are.”

They laughed, undeterred. “Oh, a little mystery! I like that. We should get to know each other. How about a—”

Before they could finish, a very distinct presence materialized beside you, and suddenly, your hand was clasped in a vice grip.

You turned your head, already stifling a grin. Riddle stood stiffly at your side, his expression carefully neutral—too neutral—but his fingers tightened around yours with unmistakable possessiveness.

And then, in the most Riddle way possible, he opened his mouth and immediately started critiquing their uniform.

“Your tie is loose, your shirt is untucked, and your posture is abysmal,” he declared, gaze sharp. “It’s disgraceful. If you have time to loiter and bother people who are clearly uninterested, then you certainly have time to fix your appearance.”

The person, previously brimming with confidence, visibly withered. “I—wait, you’re—”

“Housewarden Rosehearts,” Riddle confirmed, tone clipped. “And if you ever plan to talk to my partner again, I strongly suggest you do so properly dressed.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—without another word—the person bolted, nearly tripping over themselves in their rush to escape.

The moment they were gone, you turned to Riddle, your amusement barely contained. “Riddle,” you said, voice dripping with mirth. “Were you jealous?”

He scoffed, tugging at his collar. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

You raised a brow, glancing pointedly at the way his grip on your hand hadn’t loosened in the slightest. Then, you took in the very obvious, very intense red dusting his cheeks.

He refused to meet your eyes.

You laughed, delighted, and before he could protest further, you leaned in and kissed him, pressing a quick, affectionate peck to his still burning cheek.

Riddle went still.

���…You are jealous,” you whispered against his skin, just to tease.

“I am not,” he insisted, but his voice cracked ever so slightly, and that was enough to send you into another fit of laughter.

Still smiling, you tugged on his hand, leading him away. “Come on, let’s go do something fun before you start assigning uniform inspections as an act of vengeance.”

Riddle let out a heavy sigh, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he laced his fingers more firmly with yours, the corners of his lips twitching—just barely—before he let you drag him along.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona was going to lose his mind.

Three days.

Three days of watching you run around with those two idiots and that furball, pouring over textbooks, muttering formulas under your breath, completely oblivious to the fact that he existed.

You were studying. Fine. He got it. But you were studying with them.

And not him.

The moment the door to Ramshackle creaked open, you knew.

It was a sixth sense at this point—an awareness of a certain presence, of a lazy kind of arrogance that filled the air like a storm cloud waiting to break.

And break it did.

Because before you could so much as blink, a heavy arm was slung around your shoulders, and your entire world tilted.

You let out a startled yelp as you were bodily dragged from the dorm, Ace and Deuce frozen mid-review session, Grim’s tail puffed up in sheer betrayal.

“Oi—!”

“Not oi,” Leona drawled, utterly unbothered by your flailing. “Mine.”

You spluttered. “Leona, I have to study!”

“You can study later,” he dismissed, hauling you across campus with a grip so firm you had no choice but to stumble along. “You’re overdue for a break."

“I don’t have time for a break—”

“You do” he interrupted smoothly, and that was that.

You huffed, glaring up at him. “This is kidnapping.”

“Tch. If I was kidnapping you, I wouldn’t be this obvious about it.”

That was… not reassuring.

By the time he finally dumped you onto his bed, you were half-expecting him to declare an official study ban, but instead, he settled in beside you, his arms casually looping around your waist, his body half-draped over yours like an oversized, incredibly smug blanket.

“Go on, then,” he murmured against your shoulder, voice low and easy. “Study.”

You gave him an incredulous look. “Here?”

He hummed. “Why not? I got old notes. Bet they’re better than whatever those idiots are using.”

You blinked. “You actually have notes?”

Leona scoffed, reaching over to grab a notebook from his desk. “What, you think I just guessed my way through school?” He flipped it open and, to your absolute shock, the pages were filled with neatly written summaries, key points highlighted with the kind of precision that suggested he did actually pay attention. “See?”

“…I hate that this is actually useful.”

“Told you.”

You sighed, already feeling yourself sink into the warmth of him, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way his fingers tapped lazily against your side, like he knew you were starting to relax and was deliberately making it worse.

Still. If you had to study, this wasn’t… terrible.

You let your head rest against his shoulder, flipping through the notes. “Fine. But if I fall asleep, it’s your fault.”

Leona smirked, his breath warm against your skin. “Then I guess you’ll just have to take a nap right here.”

You rolled your eyes, but the next time you felt him shift, the unmistakable curve of his smile pressing into your neck, you didn’t even bother fighting it.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul Ashengrotto was a patient man.

A calculated man.

A businessman.

Which was the only reason he hadn’t already torn his hair out strand by agonized strand over the fact that you had been frequenting some other café for the past two weeks.

At first, he’d assumed it was a novelty thing. Maybe you had a moment of curiosity. Maybe they had some limited-time drink that you needed to try. Maybe you’d simply gotten lost—it happened more often than you liked to admit.

But no. You had kept going.

Loyal, devoted, regular patronage.

To a café that was not the Mostro Lounge.

Azul could not abide it.

So, instead of despairing in silence, he took action.

The next time you announced you were heading there, Azul smiled, adjusted his glasses, and accompanied you.

Because if there was something about this place that had captured your attention, then he would analyze it, perfect it, and eliminate the competition before they could even think about stealing away his most treasured customer.

(And partner. But semantics.)

At first, it seemed innocent enough. You gushed over some ridiculous limited-menu item with a starry-eyed enthusiasm that made him fond despite himself, but it was just cake. Cake was replaceable. Cake was replicable. Cake was nothing.

And then the owner came out.

Azul didn’t move, but his businessman’s smile settled into place with all the calculated precision of a predator fixing its gaze upon its prey.

The café owner, meanwhile, had their full attention on you.

And they were far too familiar.

Far too comfortable.

Far too eager.

Their eyes crinkled with warmth when they spoke to you, their laughter was just a touch too soft, and their entire demeanor—

Azul’s fingers twitched. He did not clench them into fists, because that would be petty, but—

He was going to destroy them.

With a pleasant, affable smile, of course.

By the time you finished your cake (which Azul had methodically analyzed with every bite), he had already formulated seventeen different ways to not only outdo this café, but to erase its relevance entirely.

He escorted you back to your room, silent for once, but his mind was racing.

And then, after a long pause, he asked, “Do you enjoy their presence?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“The owner.”

You stared at him, visibly baffled. “…I like their cake?”

Azul opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

And then, after a long, suffering pause, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, because of course you hadn’t noticed.

Because of course you had been utterly, entirely oblivious to the way they had been practically fawning over you.

He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry.

So, in the end, he simply pulled you close and kissed you, long and lingering, with a kind of slow, consuming possessiveness that had you melting against him in pleased surprise.

He held you the entire night, unwilling to let go, much to your delighted confusion.

And if, a week later, the Mostro Lounge mysteriously unveiled a bigger, better, and undeniably tastier version of that limited-edition cake, effectively nullifying any reason for you to return to that café—

Well.

Azul had no comment.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim insisted on picking you up after class every day, no matter how many times you told him it wasn’t necessary. He always laughed, dismissing your protests with a wave of his hand, as if the very idea of not meeting you after class was ridiculous. “Why wouldn’t I? I like seeing you first thing after class! It makes my whole day better!” And, honestly, how could you argue with that?

So, as usual, you waited outside, looking for that familiar flash of red and gold. You didn’t mind—Kalim was always quick, always eager, and always a little over-the-top about it, greeting you with his usual sunbeam of a grin and a greeting so enthusiastic it was like he hadn’t just seen you that morning.

But today, before Kalim arrived, someone else approached.

At first, you thought it was just an overly friendly upperclassman looking to chat, but the way they leaned in, the way their eyes swept over you, made your skin crawl. Their words were dripping with false charm, their smile just a little too knowing, and the moment they took your hand, something in you snapped.

You were seconds away from yanking yourself free and letting them know exactly what you thought about their audacity—

And then, before you could react, a firm hand wrenched theirs away from you.

You turned, eyes widening in surprise, and saw Kalim standing beside you.

Only—this wasn’t the Kalim you were used to.

There was no bright, carefree smile, no cheerful energy. His expression was carefully blank, his eyes steady and serious in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. He wasn’t angry—no, you’d seen Kalim angry before, and this was something different. This was controlled, quiet disapproval as he stared the person down, his grip on their wrist unyielding.

“Don’t touch them.” His voice was even, but there was no room for argument.

The person sputtered something, an attempt at an excuse, but Kalim’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene, didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his presence was enough, and after a tense pause, the person hurried off, clearly rattled.

And just like that, Kalim let out a breath and turned back to you, his usual grin slipping easily back into place, warm and reassuring. “Are you okay?”

You blinked.

Your heart was pounding. Not from fear—not even from lingering discomfort—but from something else entirely.

Because, apparently, Kalim without his smile was unfairly, ridiculously attractive.

You managed to nod, clearing your throat, forcing yourself to breathe as he took your hand—gently, reverently, the complete opposite of the unwanted touch from before. He squeezed it lightly, beaming at you as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

Later that night, as the two of you lounged together, he confessed, a little sheepishly, “I hated seeing them touch you.” His grip on your hand tightened slightly, as if just remembering it made his stomach twist.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, leaning in to kiss him. He hummed against your lips, pleased, the jealousy from earlier completely forgotten.

And if, after that, Kalim insisted on being even quicker to meet you after class, practically appearing the second you stepped outside—well, who were you to complain?

Vil Schoenheit

You had been meticulous in your planning. A surprise party to celebrate Vil’s latest movie role—because, really, any excuse to throw a party for him was a good one. You coordinated with Rook (a double-edged sword, given his enthusiasm), found the perfect venue, picked out a cake that was as extravagant as he was, and carefully avoided any suspicion.

Or at least, you thought you had.

Vil, on the other hand, was about five minutes away from losing the last thread of his sanity.

You had been avoiding him. Not in the obvious, dramatic way—but in the subtle, infuriating way that made his stomach twist unpleasantly. Shorter conversations, quick kisses before running off, whispering in dim hallways with Rook, of all people.

Rook, who delighted in keeping secrets and spoke in riddles even when he wasn’t actively trying to be cryptic. Every time Vil so much as entered the room, your conversations stopped, and all he got was your innocent, suspiciously wide-eyed smile.

It was unacceptable.

But Vil was not jealous. Of course not. He was above something so irrational. Why should he feel threatened? The very idea of it was absurd. He was merely… curious. Concerned. Watching you sneak around with Rook had been horrible for his blood pressure, but jealous? Certainly not.

(And if his skincare routine had gotten even more rigorous to account for stress-induced breakouts, that was purely coincidental.)

So when you finally waltzed into his room, all bright-eyed and smiling, telling him to get dressed, his patience—what little remained—snapped.

In one smooth motion, he had you caged in against his vanity.

You blinked up at him, startled. “Uh. Hi?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You have been distracted lately.”

“Uh.” Your bluffing instincts kicked in, but it was useless. Vil’s gaze was sharp, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t look angry, exactly—he looked… hurt.

And, well. That was enough to shatter your resolve immediately.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you!” You blurted, hands flying up in surrender. “We planned a surprise party for your movie premiere, and I didn’t want to ruin it! That’s why I’ve been sneaking around!”

Silence.

And then—

Vil laughed.

Not a quiet chuckle. Not a delicate, amused exhale. No, he laughed so hard that he had to lean on you for support, his entire body shaking with it.

And just like that, the tension was gone. He exhaled, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before straightening. “Next time,” he said, smoothing his hands over your shoulders, “just tell me.”

You sighed, half-exasperated, half-fond. “That ruins the surprise.”

“Surprises are overrated,” he declared. “Now, come. You planned this party, and I refuse to let you attend it looking anything less than perfect.”

Before you could protest, he had already grabbed your wrist, dragging you toward his closet.

And honestly? After all that turmoil, matching outfits was the least he deserved.

Idia Shroud

Idia had been off all evening.

Not in the usual, grumbly, "the outside world is a waking nightmare" kind of way. No, this was different. This was pointed.

He was pouting.

You had first noticed it when he refused to meet your gaze, keeping his head turned at an almost comical angle whenever you tried to look at him. Even when you sat next to him, close enough that your shoulders brushed, he still wouldn’t acknowledge you.

At first, you thought he was just having an introvert moment. But then you noticed his fingers—tapping on his controller in short, stilted bursts, his usual fluid movements replaced with something far more sulky.

Something was wrong. And worse, he was refusing to tell you.

So, naturally, you did what any reasonable person would do.

You grabbed his face.

“??!!??!” Idia made an undignified noise as your hands squished his cheeks, forcing him to finally look at you. His wide eyes darted around frantically, looking for an escape, but you just leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I did.”

For a second, he wavered. You could see it—the way his hands twitched, his lips pressed together in a battle between staying mad and melting like he always did when you held him like this.

But then—betrayal. Pure, unfiltered betrayal flashed in his eyes.

“If you don’t even realize your crimes,” he huffed, “then you don’t deserve to be told.”

…Huh.

You blinked at him, torn between concern and immense amusement. His cheeks were puffed up in an actual pout, his shoulders slightly hunched like an offended cat. His hair even flickered with a dramatic little sizzle, the blue flames crackling indignantly.

So, you did what any responsible partner would do in this situation.

You kissed his cheek.

He made another noise—this one more flustered than betrayed—but at least he wasn’t turning away anymore.

“Idiaaaa,” you coaxed, voice lilting as you gently rubbed soothing circles against his jaw. “Come on. Tell me.”

He hesitated.

Then, in a grievously wounded tone, he finally muttered:

“You did your dailies… without me. Who did you do them with?”

You stared at him.

“…That’s it?”

He gasped, looking even more betrayed. “That’s it?!”

Okay. Maybe not the best response.

“I just—” You tried to stifle your laugh, but failed miserably. “I didn’t know it was that serious—”

“IT IS,” he declared. “We have an unspoken promise! Every night! We do our dailies! We do our pulls! We suffer together in the gacha mines!” He gestured wildly, his voice spiking in distress. “And today—today, you—you—” His voice wobbled. “You betrayed me.”

You clutched your chest in mock horror. “I have committed the greatest of sins.”

“You HAVE.”

You bit your lip, barely holding back another laugh, but then—then you saw his face. The dramatic pout, the still-flickering flames, the way his fingers fidgeted against his sleeve.

And suddenly, it hit you.

This wasn’t just about the dailies. This was his time with you. The one moment of the day where it was just the two of you, side by side, relaxed and rambling about nonsense while farming loot drops.

And you had accidentally robbed him of it.

Your amusement softened into something warmer. You pulled him closer, letting your fingers trail through his hair as you pressed another kiss to his cheek—longer this time.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, resting your chin against his shoulder. “I didn’t realize how much it meant to you. I did them alone, by the way.”

He mumbled something under his breath, still sulking, but at least he wasn’t pulling away.

“I promise I’ll wait for you every day from now on,” you continued, letting your fingers trace comforting patterns into his back. “Okay?”

“…Tch,” he muttered. Then, after a long pause, he finally slumped against you, his entire weight pressing into your chest.

You grinned. Victory.

“…You are watching the Premo concert reruns with me as compensation, though,” he grumbled, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes, amused. “Fine, fine.”

And that was how you ended up in Idia’s room for hours, marathoning concerts.

And if you showed up to class the next day completely wrecked from lack of sleep?

It was fine.

As long as Idia was happy.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus Draconia is above petty emotions.

He is the Prince of Briar Valley, an ancient being of immense power, the strongest fae in existence—he does not succumb to something as trivial as jealousy.

…That is what he tells himself as he watches you, once again, being hopelessly kind to people who clearly do not deserve it.

He watches as you nod along to Crowley’s latest absurd request, despite the fact that everyone knows that the headmaster is little more than a well-dressed menace with a penchant for delegating all responsibility to you.

He watches as some random student—a student who has never once acknowledged your existence before—approaches you with a bright, eager smile, undoubtedly about to ask you for yet another favor.

And he feels a peculiar, simmering sensation coil in his chest.

Malleus is not petty. He does not get jealous.

But he does dislike seeing you taken advantage of.

So, before this interloper can even get a word out, Malleus simply appears by your side, materializing in that eerie, seamless way that only he can. His presence alone is enough to make the student stumble back in terror, but then—just to be certain—he reaches out and takes your hand in his, lacing his fingers through yours with casual ease.

The effect is instantaneous.

The student goes pale. Their entire body stiffens, eyes darting between you and Malleus as if calculating whether their life is worth whatever ridiculous request they were about to make. The answer, apparently, is no, because they immediately spin on their heel and flee.

Malleus watches them go, his expression carefully neutral.

He usually dislikes the way people fear him. But today?

…Today, he finds himself rather pleased.

Satisfied, he turns back to you, fully expecting you to be grateful for his intervention. Perhaps a soft smile, a quiet "thank you," maybe even a fond squeeze of his hand—

Instead, he is met with your grin.

That knowing, teasing grin.

The one that says you know exactly what he just did. The one that says you know he is not as above jealousy as he claims to be. The one that says, without words, oh, so you’re feeling possessive today?

Malleus pointedly ignores it.

“Come,” he says smoothly, giving your hand the lightest tug. “Let us go somewhere… peaceful.”

You let him pull you along, but not without looping your arm around his and leaning into him with unmistakable amusement.

Malleus pretends he does not notice.

Masterlist

[stzrgirl4norris]

Stolen Love - LN4

Lando Norris x Reader (Smut)

summary: You and Lando had been friends for years. Forced to. Because he was in a PR relationship and couldn’t be with the one he loved the most. Until he won Silverstone and couldn’t help but let his feelings spill. So, for the first time, he could explore you like he truly meant it.

warnings: smut, porn with plot, soft dom!lando, choking (lightly), teasing and bantering, praising, aftercare, unprotected sex (don’t), oral sex (m and f receiving), friends to lovers.

word count: 7k

i wasn’t going to write this at all but silverstone got me in my fucking feelings, so enjoy this very rushed soft smut ❤️‍🩹

The sound of your heels clipped clumsy against the hard tiled floor, echoing softly in the quiet of the apartment. Each step was uneven, your balance slightly off from the champagne and adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. Your hair was sweaty, sticking to the sides of your face and neck, and your makeup was a bit smudged, smoky liner slightly smeared beneath your eyes, lipstick faded into a soft stain from the drinks, the dancing, and the heat of the bodies pressed too close all night. That was the first thing Lando noticed when he shut your apartment’s door behind him with a quiet click, suddenly aware of the silence that settled around you both like a heavy, waiting thing.

Both of you were out all night, celebrating his victory—his night, his win. His hair was still wet, sticking to his forehead in damp strands from the champagne they poured in the club, from the way he let himself get drenched without care. Your skin, on the other hand, was still glowing, radiant from the flush of movement, from the spark of happiness that hadn’t left you since he crossed that finish line. The glow of someone who hadn’t felt alive in weeks but was now alight from the inside out. However, the two of you still had the adrenaline of the day pulsing hot and erratic in your bloodstream, fueled by the bass-heavy electronic music that only left your ears a mere twenty minutes ago, leaving a phantom buzz in its place.

Lando thought you were looking gorgeous. Stunning, actually. Even with your skirt wrinkled, twisted slightly at the waist, and your hair filled with messy knots from sweat and movement. Somehow, none of it dulled you. It made you real, undone and he had never seen you so happy. Or so fucking beautiful.

“Oh my God, can’t believe we made it alive,”

You giggled, your voice light, hoarse from shouting over loudspeakers and singing too many songs. You walked towards your sofa with a lazy sort of sway, still buzzing, encouraging Lando to follow you along with nothing but the curve of your smile. His steps were shy, hesitant, almost unsure. It wasn’t his first time in your apartment, he had been here before, sat on this very couch, even used your coffee mugs, but it was his first time being there as your boyfriend. Somehow, that one small shift made the air thicker. It made everything seem heavier.

“Tell me about it.”

You were standing in front of him now, swaying slightly, bare legs peeking out from the hem of your rumpled skirt, and it was driving him insane. Those legs had wrapped around his thoughts for months, and now they were right there in front of him. And for the first time, he could admit, finally, without guilt, without shame, without holding his breath, that he wanted you. All of you. He wanted to touch you, explore every inch of your skin, commit it to memory with his hands and mouth.

“You looked really good up there. All champagne-soaked and smug.”

“Yeah?” Lando’s voice was low, rasping now in the stillness of the room. “You looked pretty good watching me. Thought you were gonna pass out when I kissed you.”

Yeah. You did nearly pass out. You weren’t expecting it. You weren’t prepared for that.

Lando and you were supposed to be just friends—supposed to be. Even though both of you carried waves of unspoken feelings, surging and crashing quietly beneath the surface for years. It never mattered. Not with the PR contract he signed, the fake relationship you had to pretend didn’t bother you. The one that kept you at a distance with a smile frozen in place.

The driver didn’t know what possessed him to make that bold move. Maybe it was the glory. Maybe it was the pounding of his heart as he crossed the finish line. Maybe it was the fact his “girlfriend” wasn’t there when he won—but you were. Crying actual tears, trembling like you were the only one who truly knew what that victory meant to him. So when he walked towards his family and saw you there, barely holding it together, eyes glassy and full, his heart felt so full too, so heavy, there was no other way to relieve the pressure except by kissing you. Right there. In front of everyone. In front of all the cameras. Throwing the carefully crafted illusion of his fake relationship into the wind without hesitation.

“I did.” You smirked. “But only internally. Gotta keep it together for the cameras, right?”

He laughed softly, but right after his face twisted into a frown.

“Don’t say cameras. Not tonight.”

You stepped close. Close enough to smell the remnants of cologne still clinging to his skin under the sweat and champagne, woody and sharp, with something faintly citrusy beneath. The warmth of him hit you like a second skin.

“Okay. Just us, then?”

“Just us,” he murmured.

Then, finally, finally, he touched you. His fingers brushed the side of your face, knuckles grazing your cheek with feather-light reverence before sliding into your hair, gently tugging at the tangles. His other hand settled at your hip, his thumb stroking slow circles on the bare skin just beneath the end of your blouse. It was like every single thing you’d ever held back cracked open all at once. Like the walls were breaking. The feeling was electric, dangerously intense, and you swore you could feel him trembling with nervousness, with want.

You kissed him first.

Not a soft, tentative kiss. It couldn’t be. Not when you’d waited this long. Not when your entire body ached for it. It was desperate and slow, soaked with heat and hunger and every “what if’s” you had swallowed for years. His lips were softer now than they had been when he kissed you in the afternoon. Slower. More intentional. His hands were now free to touch you however he liked, and he took full advantage, pulling you flush against him with a low groan, your bodies aligning like puzzle pieces that had been waiting for this moment to lock in.

“You sure about this?” he whispered against your lips, even as he kissed you again.

“Lando, I’ve been waiting for this night for years now. What do you think?” you managed to pull out, breathless.

His laugh was full-bellied and bright, his head dropping for a second to your shoulder, and then he kissed you again, deeper this time, like he’d finally given himself permission to feel everything.

You ended up in the bedroom by accident, stumbling and giggling between kisses, hips bumping into walls, his hands gripping your waist like he was scared to let go.

Lando’s hands were firm on your back as you guided the way, mouth never straying too far from yours. Never, in a million years, did he think he would finally get the chance to touch you in your own bed, against your sheets, your pillows, the place where you dreamed at night.

“You always gonna look at me like that now?” he asked, hands braced on either side of your hips as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“Like what?”

“Like you are thinking what you’re going to do with me.”

You licked your lips slowly, deliberately, tilting your head like a cat about to pounce.

“That depends. What do you want me to do with you?”

“Whatever you want.”

You dropped to your knees without warning, eyes sharp with intent and a smirk teasing the corner of your lips. Your hands traveled over his jeans slowly, deliberately, fingers curling over the zipper with a kind of reverence.

“May I?”

“Jesus, you don’t even have to ask.”

You pulled his pants down, the soft whoosh of denim hitting the floor filling the room. You tossed them aside without care. Then, you started with little kisses, tender, teasing. One to each ankle. A trail up his calves. A lingering kiss on each knee. Then the inside of his thighs, where his muscles twitched beneath your mouth. Meanwhile, your nails scratched his soft skin ever so lightly, goosebumps rising under your touch, until your fingertips reached the hem of his boxers.

His cock was already hard, thick and flushed at the tip, straining against the fabric. When you removed the Calvin Kleins and wrapped your hand around him, he groaned, head tipping back as a curse slipped from his lips.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” You asked, kissing the tip, letting your tongue flick lazily.

“So many fucking times,” he growled.

You smirked, lips curling around him as you finally took him into your mouth. Slow at first. Long, deliberate licks. Soft sucks. Your eyes never left his face, watching him come undone. His hand settled in your hair, not pushing, just guiding, reverent. The sounds he made were everything, low, guttural, needy. When you swallowed him deeper, gagging slightly as he hit the back of your throat, his hips jerked.

“Baby,” he gasped. “Fuck, you feel so good. Look so pretty like this.”

You licked a stripe up his shaft slowly, from base to tip, letting your tongue flick right under the head where he was most sensitive. He let out a sharp breath, fingers tightening.

“Holy shit, you’re gonna kill me.”

Your mouth was warm, wet, tight. You sucked harder now, letting yourself get messy. Your hand stroked what you couldn’t take, the other braced against his thigh for balance. He couldn’t stop groaning, deep and raw and desperate.

“Fuck, that feels good.”

You bob your head, one hand stroking what you can’t take, the other braced on his thigh. His fingers slid into your hair again, guiding gently as you took him deeper, until your throat protested and your eyes watered. You gagged again and felt him twitch in your mouth, letting out a low, strangled moan.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded, letting him slip from your mouth with a loud pop.

“Love your cock. Can’t wait to have you inside me.”

You sucked him back in, sloppy and wet, spit running down your chin, your lips flushed and swollen. Your hands dug into his thighs, trying to pull him deeper, needing to choke on him, needing to feel all of him. Until he finally gave in—started to move his hips, thrusting into your throat with more rhythm, more power.

“Good girl. Look at that. Taking me like you were made for it.”

When he pulled out, you gasped for air, mascara smeared, throat raw. And then you giggled. Giddy. Drunk on him.

“I could do this all fucking night,”

Lando’s breathing was erratic now, deep, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling fast as he watched you work. His fingers curled tighter in your hair, not forcing, just gripping, needing something to anchor him as the pleasure built faster than he could control. Every time your throat swallowed around him, every wet sound you made, every flick of your tongue sent him closer to the edge.

“Fuck, baby, you’re—” his voice broke off in a strangled moan as your lips sealed tighter around him, bobbing faster now, your hand stroking the base in perfect rhythm with your mouth.

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deep again, eyes wet with tears and locked on his as you gagged slightly and held there, just long enough for his hips to stutter forward in helpless reaction.

His head dropped back with a groan, neck taut, jaw clenched.

“Fuck! Fuck, I’m gonna come—” he warned, the words rushed, desperate, trying to give you a chance to pull away.

But you didn’t. You held eye contact as you sucked him deeper, your hands now wrapped around his thighs, nails digging into the muscle to hold him steady. You wanted it, you needed it, and he could see that, could feel it in every slick stroke of your tongue and every sound vibrating from your throat.

Lando’s hips jerked hard once, twice, his body trembling, and then he let out the most beautiful, broken moan you’d ever heard as he came. Hot and thick down your throat.

“Shit. Oh my god—” he gasped, voice cracked open as he spilled into your mouth, his entire body shuddering like the force of it stole the strength from his knees. His fingers tightened in your hair as his eyes squeezed shut, his head tipping forward again, forehead nearly touching yours, breathless.

You swallowed around him, not wasting a single drop, humming softly just to feel the way it made his thighs twitch.

When it was too much, he eased back with a whimper, slipping from your mouth. You let him go with a soft, wet pop, licking your lips slowly as you looked up at him through fluttering lashes. His cock twitched at the sight.

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me,” he rasped, voice rough and full of awe.

You smirked, licking a drop of him from the corner of your mouth, and then stood up slowly, brushing your palms along his chest.

“Not yet,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I still want you to fuck me.”

“Take your clothes off.”

Lando’s voice came out hoarse, thick with want, with restraint fraying at the edges. His eyes raked down your body, pupils blown, jaw clenched, and you could see his throat bob as he swallowed hard, barely keeping himself composed. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was restraining the urge to rip your clothes off himself.

“Bossy,” you teased, lifting a brow as your fingers toyed with the hem of your top. “I like it.”

You didn’t take your time, not when every second felt like a live wire under your skin. You peeled off your clothes piece by piece like they were suffocating you, shedding them fast and carelessly until you stood bare in front of him, flushed and breathing hard, your chest rising and falling with anticipation. Lando stripped his shirt at the same time, and your eyes followed every movement, how the muscles in his arms flexed, how his abs tightened as he tugged the fabric over his head. You’d seen him shirtless before, countless times, but never like this. Never under the gaze of desire finally set free. You didn’t need to hide the lust in your eyes anymore. He was yours. All yours.

And he looked at you like he was starving.

He moved before you finished undressing properly, grabbing you with a suddenness that made your breath catch. His hands curled around your hips and dropped you onto the bed, your back hitting the familiar give of your mattress, the cool sheets shocking against your overheated skin. He climbed over you slowly, like he wanted to savor the way your body looked beneath him. His knees slid between yours, forcing them apart, and his damp curls tickled your forehead as he leaned down, eyes locked on yours, his smile dark and reverent all at once.

Then, he bent down and kissed the inside of your knee. Soft, slow, worshipful. Then higher. Another kiss just above the curve of your thigh. Then another, closer to where you needed him, until his lips brushed the soft crease at the top of your leg. You squirmed beneath him, skin flushed and hypersensitive, already soaked, already aching. But he didn’t rush, he lingered. His mouth traced the edges of your underwear, deliberately avoiding your core, letting his hot breath tease you through the fabric. His fingers ghosted up your sides, brushing your ribs, feather-light, sending goosebumps down your spine.

“Lando,” you whispered, hips shifting, legs opening wider in silent plea. “You’re being very mean for someone who says he loves me.”

He smirked, slow and cocky, lifting his gaze to meet yours.

“You think this is mean?”

“I think it’s torture,” you panted, tugging gently at his curls.

“Good,” he murmured, voice dropping into something dark and delicious. “I’m not gonna rush this. Not after waiting this long to have you.”

You felt like you might cry from how sweet that sounded. From how much tension lived between the two of you. From the way every second felt like an unraveling.

But then, without warning, he pressed his mouth right over your underwear. His tongue pressed hot and wet through the soaked fabric, swirling over your clit just enough to make your back arch off the bed. Your moan was immediate, loud, and helpless.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered into your skin, lips dragging across your hipbone before he kissed a trail up your stomach, slow and warm.

“I want you to do whatever you want with me, champ.” Your voice was breathy, trembling with need.

He groaned, actually groaned, and buried his face against your inner thigh for a second, collecting himself.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He slid back down between your thighs, moving slow and deliberate, fingers spreading you open as he leaned in, nose brushing your mound. His breath was hot, humid, reverent.

“Lan, fuck, please.”

“Patience, baby,” he said, sounding far too smug for someone currently kissing your thighs like they were sacred. “I’m gonna take my time with you, we have all the time in the world.”

Then he pressed his face closer, nose brushing your panties, and inhaled deeply like he was trying to get drunk on your scent. He exhaled hard, shuddering.

“You smell so fucking good. Bet you taste even better.” His voice was rough now, frayed with hunger.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down achingly slow, kissing your skin as he went, over the hip, down the thigh, grazing the knee. The air hit your soaked core and you whimpered, legs twitching.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, eyes glued to you. “You’re dripping, baby.”

Then his tongue was on you, finally. One long, wet stripe from your entrance up to your clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily and he pinned them down with both hands, thumbs pressing hard into your hips to keep you still.

He licked again, this time slower, flattening his tongue and dragging it with purpose, then sucking your clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue just right. Your hands flew to his curls, fisting tight.

“Lando… fuck…” you moaned, broken and breathless, your voice pitching high.

He hummed against you, the vibration rolling through your entire body. His tongue moved with practiced skill, circling, flicking, stroking just right, making your thighs tremble. And then, as if it wasn’t enough, he pushed two fingers into you, slick and easy, curling them with that maddening precision. The wet sound of it filled the room, obscene and perfect.

“God, you’re so fucking tight…” he groaned, his mouth not leaving your clit for a second. “So warm. Fucking made for me.”

His jaw worked as he devoured you, licking and sucking with a hunger that made your eyes roll back. His nose brushed your mound, his breath hot, teeth grazing you between each flick of his tongue. Every time he sucked on your clit, your whole body jerked.

You tugged hard on his hair, thighs closing around his ears.

“Don’t stop,” you panted. “Don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t. He kept going like a man on a mission, fucking you with his fingers, tongue moving in tandem, not letting up for a second. And when he growled into you it pushed you right to the edge.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

“Yeah? Cum for me, baby.”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave breaking hard against the shore. A long, shattered moan tore out of you as your body arched, thighs trembling around his face, your vision going white at the edges. You were shaking, crying out, your fingers digging into his scalp like you were scared you’d float away.

And still, still, he didn’t stop until you were gasping, pushing his head away, your body overstimulated and trembling.

He finally pulled back, face glistening, eyes dark and feral, mouth wet with you. He crawled up your body, slow and deliberate, pressing kisses to your stomach, your ribs, your sternum, kisses that burned.

It was“Still with me?” he asked, voice hoarse and wrecked, brushing the tip of his nose against yours like he was grounding himself with your skin.

You nodded, dazed, dizzy with the overload of pleasure and emotion, glowing from within. Every nerve in your body felt raw and alive, like lightning kissed you and never let go.

“Barely,” you whispered, but your hands curled into his shoulders, holding him tight.

He exhaled shakily, his mouth ghosting over your cheek in reverence.

“Good,” he breathed, almost reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were still underneath him, undone and open and his. “We’re not done.”

Lando kissed you, deep, messy, starved. You tasted yourself on his tongue, a heady mix of salt and sweetness that made you moan into his mouth, like the confirmation of everything that just happened was too much to bear. He kissed you like he was trying to anchor himself inside you, tongue sliding against yours with devotion and desperation.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulled him impossibly closer, like if you could fuse your skin to his, it still wouldn’t be close enough.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” you whispered against his jaw, meaning every syllable like a vow. And if he was, you’d go willingly.

He slid between your thighs again like he belonged there, like the space between your legs had been made just to cradle him. When the head of his cock nudged your entrance, swollen and slick, your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him in, keeping him there, needing.

“Eyes on me,” he said, quiet but firm, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. His gaze bore into you, equal parts command and care. “Tell me if you need to stop.”

You nodded, but the idea of stopping didn’t even live in your body anymore. There was only him. You. And this moment stretched like forever.

When he pushed in — slow, deliberate, devastating – the stretch was everything. It burned in the best way, and the fullness hit you like a wave, your mouth falling open in a silent moan. Inch by inch, he filled you until he was all the way in, nestled deep, your walls fluttering around him. His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel the way his body trembled above you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and reverent, “you’re so warm. So tight around me.”

Your hips arched up into his without thinking, and your breath hitched when he didn’t move, just stayed like that, buried inside you, holding on. You whimpered, clenching around him.

“Move. Please.”

He obeyed. Pulling out slow, like he wanted to savor the drag of your walls around him, and then thrusting back in just as slowly, deeper this time, hitting something inside you that made you gasp. He found a rhythm that was deliberate and sensual, not rushed, like he had all night to love you. His hips rocked into you with a devastating precision, grinding into your pelvis with every thrust, rolling his hips in lazy, delicious circles that made you cry out.

Your hands roamed his body like you were trying to memorize him too, nails scraping down his back, your fingers gripping at his arms and shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to as he unraveled you. He kissed your neck, your jaw, your collarbones, his hands cupping your breasts, brushing your throat, cradling your face like you were breakable and precious.

You met every thrust with your own, lifting your hips to grind against him, gasping every time he hit that sweet spot inside you. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies colliding echoed through the room, broken only by your breathless moans and the soft praises he whispered into your skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his lips ghosting your ear. “So pretty like this. Taking me so well. So good for me.”

“Lando—” you gasped, barely able to breathe. “Fuck. I love you.”

His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours, dark and full of something feral, but devastatingly soft. You watched the words settle into him, rearrange him from the inside out.

“I love you too,” he said, like it was the most certain thing in the world.

Something shifted in him then, the tenderness didn’t fade, but the urgency bloomed behind it. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, but never rushed. Still full of meaning, still full of worship. Every movement said I love you, every stroke made a promise, and your name kept falling from his lips like a prayer.

You felt your orgasm coiling deep in your belly again, sharp and fast this time, your body tightening around him, your moans turning into whimpers as he fucked you through it. When it hit, you shattered beneath him, body arching, vision going white as you clung to him like you might fly apart. He chased your high with every thrust, groaning your name, until he buried himself deep inside you and came, hot and thick, moaning into your neck, his entire body shuddering against yours.

You held him like that, hearts racing, skin slick and trembling. You kissed his temple, his jaw, whispered his name like a mantra, grounding him the way he’d done for you.It was some unholy hour, well past 3 a.m., when the world outside the room felt distant and unreal. The bedside lamp cast a hazy golden light across the room, soft but warm, flickering across ruined sheets and sweat-glossed skin. The air was thick, with sex, with heat, with the unmistakable electricity of something unfinished. You felt every second of it in your body, still stretched and sore, your pulse echoing between your thighs, skin raw with oversensitivity.

You were trembling as you climbed over him, your thighs shaking with the effort, exhaustion making your limbs heavy. But the look in your eyes was defiant. Hungry. Your hands planted firmly on his chest, fingers dragging through the fine sheen of sweat that clung to his skin. His chest was rising fast, unevenly, and you could feel the thunder of his heart under your palm. Just as wrecked, just as gone.

“Let me,” you murmured, your voice low and husky, but cocky, hips already rolling forward to glide your slick folds over his softening cock. He was still thick and hot against you, coated in the mess of everything he’d given you earlier. “My turn.”

His hands came to your hips, but instead of steadying you, instead of letting you take, they stopped you. Firm, grounding pressure that froze you mid-roll.

You blinked, confused, then narrowed your eyes.

“What?”

Lando tilted his head, eyes dragging slowly up your body. His voice, when it came, was rough silk.

“You think I’m gonna let you take control?” He sounded somewhere between amused and dangerous, like your suggestion was the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all night. “After everything I’ve imagined doing to you?”

Your smirk deepened, slow and daring.

“You’re tired.”

“I’m in agony,” he agreed, his mouth curling, his eyes already darkening again. “But I can keep going if you want.”

Before you could even think, his body surged up, one arm hooking around your back, the other gripping your thigh and in one brutal, fluid movement, he flipped you. The mattress hit your back with a soft thud, air knocked from your lungs as you found yourself pinned again, limbs tangled, skin still burning.

Your wrists were above your head before you could move, held in one of his hands, tight but careful. His palm pressed flat over your pulse, thumb stroking your wrist as if to remind you: he could feel everything. The other hand drifted lazily down your body, fingers brushing over your collarbone, down your sternum, pausing to graze your nipple with maddening gentleness before dragging down to your waist. He settled between your thighs again, and you felt the weight of him there, already hardening, cock resting hot and heavy against your belly.

You whimpered without meaning to.

“Try that again and I’ll tie you to the headboard.” The threat wasn’t empty. It vibrated through you like a promise, and a violent shiver ripped through your spine.

You squirmed beneath him, overwhelmed and aching and desperate for friction.

“You’re being cruel.”

“I know.” He smiled against your neck.

His hips shifted lower, cock catching at your entrance. He didn’t push in. Not yet. Instead, he ran the tip through your folds, letting your slick coat him. Over and over, he teased you, shallow glides that made you twitch and gasp, the head of his cock catching against your swollen clit just enough to make you cry out.

Your back arched. You tried to lift your hips, anything for more, but he pressed your hips to the bed with a single hand, pinning you in place like it was nothing. His strength had you sobbing already.

Then he began to push in. Slowly. So slowly. The stretch hit instantly, it felt perfect. You were sore already, still fluttering from the last time he came inside you, and this felt too much, too deep, too good. Every inch was a delicious drag, the kind that made your throat tighten and your eyes roll back.

You whimpered, needy, as he bottomed out, hips pressing flush against yours. He didn’t move. He just stayed there, full and thick inside you, hand still wrapped around your wrists, his breath fanning hot over your face.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “You’re gripping me, baby.”

“Lan… Come on, please…”

“You’re still soaked,” he groaned, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve already fucked you twice and you’re still this wet for me. Can feel your pussy fluttering around me.”

You gasped, the praise slicing through your haze of overstimulation like lightning.

His cock twitched inside you, but he stayed perfectly still. The teasing was unbearable. Your body was shaking beneath him, desperate to move, to ride, to take. You bucked your hips, tried to grind against him, but he only tightened his hold on your wrists, and his hand on your hip forced you down again.

“Let me ride you,” you begged between kisses, voice wrecked. “Please, baby…”

He chuckled darkly, brushing his nose against yours.

“Another time, love. I promise.” Lando planted a kiss to your temple.

He pulled out, just barely, and slammed back in. You cried out, pleasure detonating inside you. He started moving properly, setting a rhythm that was rough but controlled, his thrusts long and deep, dragging against every hypersensitive spot inside you with maddening precision. Your legs wrapped around his waist, body curving to meet every stroke, completely undone.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he whispered, voice ragged. “So pretty. So good for me.”

“Yeah, Lan, just like that,” You chanted, already feeling the tingles burning up in your lower belly, stronger than before. You felt your legs trembling involuntarily and twitching. But then… He stopped. “Lando! What the fuck?!”

“You were so close, weren’t you?” He pouted, mocking.

You nodded, panting.

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” he said sweetly, brushing a kiss over your cheekbone. Then his fingers slid between your bodies, finding your clit, but barely touching it. Light, feather-soft circles. Teasing. Almost nothing. “Beg.”

You glared at him, eyes wet and full of fury.

“No.”

“Then we’ll stay here all night.”

Your voice broke.

“Fucking do something or I swear—”

“You’ll what?” he growled, pushing in just a little harder. “Leave me?” You couldn’t speak. And he knew it. “Shouldn’t threaten me, baby,”

“I used to imagine,” you started, licking your lips, “what I’d let you do to me if I ever got the chance. And it always started soft. Like this. You being sweet. But then I’d imagine you losing it,” you continued, your voice lower now. “Breaking. Because I begged so pretty. Because I said the wrong thing.”

He’s listening. Still fucking still, buried deep in your overstimulated cunt. But the tension in his arms tightened.

“I’d think about what it would feel like, if you just snapped. If you stopped being gentle. And fucked me like I was nothing.” Lando froze, his breath stuttered and for the first time that night, he didn’t know what to say. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, like you’ve physically knocked the air from his lungs.

You can feel the shift, the darkening in his gaze, the way his cock twitches inside you, the little tremble in his exhale. He tried, really tried, to stay in control. He rolled his hips slowly, resuming his tormenting pace.

“You’re insane,” he growled, pushing in deep. “I swear to god—” he started.

“What?” you asked, eyes glittering. “You’re gonna teach me a lesson?”

He snapped, the thrust that followed punched the air out of your lungs. He slammed into you, dragging your hips up to meet him, pounding into you brutally. All the softness was gone now. No teasing. No restraint. Just frantic, stupid need.

Your back arched off the bed, a strangled cry torn from your throat.

“Is this what you wanted?” Lando snarled, voice wrecked, teeth gritted as he fucked you open with ruthless precision. “You wanted me to lose control?”

You were gasping for air, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Lando was nearly folding you in half, the pace was merciless. You were clenching so tight around him, cunt milking his cock with every stroke, and he was moaning now, deep and unhinged, lost in the slick, messy sounds of you falling apart.

He leaned down, lips against your ear.

“You made me do this.”

“I know,” you sobbed. “God, it’s so fucking good, Lando, don’t stop—”

“You have no idea what you just started.”

His palm wrapped around your throat and squeezed a little. Your hips bucked instinctively under him.

“Holy fuck. You like that?”

You nodded, breathless.

“More.” He squeezed tighter, just for a second, and watched your eyes roll back, your mouth part, your whole body go pliant under him. “Fuck—Lan, please… please give it to me.”

And then he gave you everything. No more teasing. No more mercy. Just pure, brutal rhythm, his hips snapping into yours, hand gripping your wrists a little tighter. His lips pressed to your jaw as he whispered praise into your skin between every thrust.

“So perfect. Taking me so well, baby, fuck… So well.”

You came hard. Shaking, crying, clutching his back like a lifeline. Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, low and guttural, fucking you through it like he couldn’t stop even if he tried. He followed you seconds later, thrusts faltering as he spilled into you again, cock twitching deep inside your body as he buried himself to the hilt and collapsed over you, panting your name like it was the only thing that mattered.

The silence after was thick.

He was heavy on top of you, his weight delicious and grounding. His face was buried in your neck, lips pressed against your pulse like he was trying to memorize it. You could feel his cock still inside you, softening slowly, but not moving. Like he didn’t want to leave you.

He groaned softly, low and hoarse, pulling his face back just enough to look at you. His pupils were still blown wide, sweat dripping from his temple, hair wild, lips red and swollen from your kisses.

“Fuck, you okay?”

You nodded, swallowing hard, then smiled, dazed, completely blissed out, utterly wrecked.

“Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

Lando laughed, a little breathless.

“You started it.”

“Did not.”

“You said ‘my turn.’ With that look in your eyes.”

“You liked it.”

You both laid there for a moment, bodies tangled, his hand slowly drifting down to your hip. He traced circles on your skin, soft now, like the cruelty had been burned out of him. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in.

“God,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleepiness. “You drive me insane.”

“Back at you,” you murmured, lifting your hand to push the hair from his forehead. “I still hate you a little for the teasing.”

He smirked, not even bothering to pretend to be sorry.

“You loved it.”

“I was about to cry.”

“You looked so pretty like that.” Lando moved slowly, gently, kissing your temple as he sat on the bed, tugging the sheets up to cover you. “Don’t move,” he said, slipping out of bed.

You watched him walk naked to the bathroom, muscles flexing, scratches glowing angry red in the lamplight. You admired the view, then winced at the way your thighs trembled just from shifting.

When he came back, he was holding a warm cloth, and he took his time, cleaning you up with care, kissing your knees, your stomach, your thighs like he was apologizing with every touch. Then he climbed back into bed and pulled you into his chest, limbs wrapping around you, anchoring you again. He pressed a kiss behind your ear, hand resting flat over your stomach.

“Still with me?” he asked again, a soft echo of before.

You turned your head to kiss his collarbone.

“Always.”

The silence returned, this time thick with something golden and still, something that settled over the room like a blessing. It wasn’t the awkward quiet of post-orgasm breathlessness, nor the charged aftermath of pleasure. It was softer than that. Sacred. Your heartbeat slowed in time with his, and his breaths fell into a rhythm against your skin. You felt the soreness already creeping into your thighs, the delicious echo of every moment he had taken you apart. His touch still lingered in the places he’d worshipped you. You closed your eyes, tucking yourself into his chest, letting your body sink into him like gravity. You knew you’d feel all of this tomorrow. The bruises, the stretch, the tenderness.

And you wouldn’t regret a single second.

You woke up around noon, blinking against the sunlight pouring in through his half-drawn curtains. Your mouth felt dry, your throat scratchy, your body wrecked, but in that slow, smug, stretched-out way that made your stomach flutter.

Every muscle was tight. Your thighs ached, pulsing between soreness and memory. Your lips felt swollen, over-kissed. Marked.

Next to you, Lando slept like a man who had nothing left to prove. The sheets were a tangled mess at his waist, leaving the curve of his back and the slope of his spine exposed in the golden light. His curls were flattened on one side, a complete disaster on the other. There was a stupid, crooked smile on his face, even in sleep.

You watched him for a while, quiet, breath steady. You felt unreasonably calm. Like the storm inside you had passed, and in its place was something peaceful, clear. Lando, tangled in your sheets. Lando, with that soft smile. Lando, here.

He stirred slowly, stretching like a cat, a low groan slipping from his throat as his eyes blinked open.

“Hi,” he rasped, voice cracked and sweet.

“Hi.” You smiled.

Still heavy with sleep, he reached for you blindly, pulling you into his chest with one arm like it was instinct. Like you were his and had always been. You melted into him, sighing when your cheek hit the warm skin of his shoulder.

Then his hand slid down. Palm finding your bare stomach. Resting there.

“Lando.”

“Just touching,” he murmured, eyes still closed. His voice was barely there. “Promise.”

You kissed the base of his throat lazily.

“I need food. And electrolytes. And possibly a priest.”

His laugh vibrated through your body, warm and wrecked and utterly smitten.

“Okay, okay. I’ll cook.”

You lifted your head.

“You’ll cook?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, already sitting up, phone in hand. “But I make a mean Uber Eats order.”

Fifteen minutes later, the bed was a mess of trays and crumbs and crumpled napkins. You were perched in his lap wearing nothing but his shirt, sleeves too long, hem barely covering your hips. Your legs laid across his, warm skin tangled with his own.

There was a full brunch spread between you: croissants, eggs, crispy bacon, ripe fruit, steaming coffee, orange juice. He was feeding you bites from his plate with that stupid, boyish grin like he’d waited his whole life to do this. Like feeding you brunch in bed was the pinnacle of human experience.

“You’re glowing,” he said, tone thick with pride.

“I feel hungover,” you muttered, stealing a piece of his toast. “Don’t act like this was charity work.”

He grinned and slid his fingers along your bare thigh, giving it a squeeze that made your breath hitch.

“You loved every second.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“The choking was a bit much.”

“Didn’t sound like it last night.”

You flushed, scowling at your croissant.

“Jesus Christ.”

He watched you, quiet for a beat, then softened.

“I’ve never touched anyone the way I touched you.” The words were low. Honest. He didn’t flinch. “I’ve never wanted to. You’re different.”

You paused, your hands still. That was the kind of thing that could undo you, if you let it. So you reached for his hand instead and squeezed gently. Then leaned in to kiss his cheek, his shoulder, the corner of his mouth. You breathed him in, sun-warm and boyish, skin smelling faintly of sleep and sex.

Lando picked up a strawberry by the stem and held it out to you.

“What are you doing?”

“Feeding you,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let me romance you properly.”

You rolled your eyes but opened your mouth, biting into it as he watched you like you were the moon itself. When you chewed, he leaned forward and kissed the corner of your lips, chasing the juice.

“You look adorable like this,” he murmured. But something in you shifted. The smile faded. Your gaze drifted down and away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, trying to butter another croissant like the movement would make the feeling disappear.

“Hey.” His voice gentled. “Look at me.”

You did. Slowly. And he was right there, bare-faced and golden in the sunlight, curls messy, expression so open it nearly made your throat close. There was jam on the corner of his mouth and concern in his eyes.

“I just… it feels weird,” you admitted.

“Weird?”

“Waking up like this. With you. After everything.” You hesitated, fingers tightening around your fork. “I spent so long watching you from a distance. Watching you with her, and—” your voice cracked, small and hesitant. “I know it’s stupid. I got what I wanted, right? You’re here. But now that it’s real, I don’t know what I’m allowed to want.”

He went still. And then, without pause, reached for you. Took your hand in both of his and cradled it like something fragile.

“You’re allowed to want everything,” he said. “Every single thing.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“It was just… a lot.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I was scared. I thought I could wait it out.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Horribly. You ruined me.”

You exhaled, the tension leaving your body in a slow wave.

“You looked so happy without me… I thought maybe you didn’t feel it the same way.”

Lando’s whole face changed, his eyes, his mouth, the way his brows drew together like it hurt to hear.

“No.” He reached for your face this time, cupping your jaw with his hand. His thumb traced your cheekbone. “That was just pretending. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You really want this?” you whispered.

“Absolutely.” He smiled faintly, then reached for the croissant again, tearing a flaky piece and holding it to your mouth. “Now eat, I need you strong enough to ride me later.”

You snorted, cheeks flushing, but obeyed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a dangerous condition.”

And just like that, the heaviness lifted. You leaned into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder, the breakfast forgotten for now.

“You’re disgusting,” you murmured.

“You’re stuck with me.”

“Good.”

And outside, the sun rose higher, spilling light into every quiet corner of the room. Safe. Soft. Real.

[rikiiholic]

ᴇɴʜʏᴘᴇɴ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ - ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: fluff

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: nothing just a bunch of cute moments

Lee Heeseung

You’d seen tons of prank videos on TikTok—couples pulling harmless tricks on each other for laughs—and out of pure curiosity, you decided to try one on your boyfriend too. The prank? Referring to him as your “current boyfriend” on camera just to see how he'd react. You figured he might get a little offended and start sulking, but then again, he was Lee Heeseung—his reactions were anything but predictable.

“Babe!” you called out after setting up your camera. He came downstairs without question, plopping down next to you, already used to being part of your random little videos. He probably thought you wanted him to taste something or join you for a casual vlog.

Without missing a beat, you hit record and began speaking, Heeseung sitting beside you, quietly listening.

“Hi guys! So today, I have some Japanese food I’ve been wanting to try, and I’ll be tasting it with my current boyfriend here—”

The moment the words left your mouth, his head snapped toward you.

“Your what?” he said, a little sassier than usual.

You couldn’t hold it in—you burst out laughing.

“I’m your what now?” he repeated, squinting at you like you’d just committed the ultimate betrayal.

He shakes his head dramatically, grabbing the bag of chips off the counter like it was his last shred of dignity.

“Well, your current boyfriend is gonna go cry in your shared room,” he declares with mock betrayal, already turning on his heel and walking away like a heartbroken K-drama lead.

You can’t stop laughing, nearly doubling over as you call after him between giggles.

“Hee, it was just a prank!”

He doesn’t look back, but his voice echoes down the hallway with perfect comedic timing.

“Tell your next boyfriend I left him some chips!”

Park Jongseong

It had been one of those lazy, uneventful days at home—filled with naps you didn’t need and a lingering sense of boredom. But everything shifted the moment your boyfriend walked through the door, arms full of groceries… and your favorite snacks.

You rushed into the kitchen to greet him, your energy instantly lifted. As he unpacked the bags, an idea sparked in your head.

“I’m gonna record a little taste-testing video for TikTok,” you said, already grabbing your phone. Jay nodded with that soft smile of his, fully supportive—he knew how much joy you got from making videos for your followers.

You sat down beside him, camera propped and recording. What he didn’t know was that you were also about to prank him mid-video.

“Hey guys! So today I’m here with my current boy—”

Before you could finish the sentence, Jay clapped a hand over your mouth, cutting you off with perfect comedic timing. Then he turned to the camera, eyes wide and dramatic.

“Oh hell naw,” he said in an exaggerated accent, like a character straight out of a sitcom.

You burst into silent laughter, shaking as you tried to hold in the sound, while he gave the camera the most betrayed, meme-worthy look.

“I’m NOT your current boyfriend,” he says with full offense, making you finally burst into uncontrollable laughter. The look on his face was priceless, and the way he’d immediately silenced you with his palm? Even funnier.

“It was just a prank!” you manage between laughs, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes.

Jay shoots you a side-eye, his voice dripping with sass. “It better have been, ‘cause you’re not gonna have an ex or a next. I’m your first and your last.”

He casually pops a slice of apple into his mouth like he didn’t just drop the most possessive rom-com line ever, then turns and strolls off toward the bathroom, leaving you sitting there, phone still recording, absolutely wheezing.

Sim Jaeyun

Jake was known for being a little naive—and even more famously, for getting sulky over the smallest things. He took everything to heart, which made this prank feel perfect. You figured there was no harm in teasing him a little. After all, that cute pout of his was practically a reward.

You hit record on your camera, pretending to film a casual video while Jake sat in the background, eyes glued to his phone. You started talking to the camera like it was nothing, trying not to laugh in anticipation.

Hearing your voice, Jake wandered over, phone still in hand, and wrapped his arms around you in a warm hug. “What’re you doing?” he asked sweetly, smiling like a puppy.

You glanced at him, then looked back at the camera.

“Sorry, guys, I forgot to introduce you to my current boyfriend.”

You barely finished the sentence before Jake’s face shifted—his brows knit together, and that signature pout made its debut. He didn’t say anything at first, just gave the camera a slightly betrayed, skeptical look. Then, quietly, he mumbled:

“Hi… I’m the boyfriend,” and sat down beside you, shoulders slumped, refusing to meet your eyes with the most dramatic sulk you'd ever seen.

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing right away—he was already down bad and the prank had only just started.

You carried on with the prank, trying to keep your voice casual. “Anyways, so I’m eating this—”

Before you could finish, Jake leaned in close and whispered into your ear, his voice heavy with genuine hurt, “What do you mean, current boyfriend?”

The sadness in his tone hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, the prank felt a little too real.

You fought back the laugh threatening to burst out and gave him your biggest, most reassuring smile. “It’s a prank,” you said gently.

Instantly, you saw the tension drain from Jake’s eyes, his expression softening as relief settled in.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he murmured, voice small but serious.

You nodded, feeling a mix of affection and sympathy—and maybe deciding this prank had reached its limit.

Park Sunghoon

You had been racking your brain trying to prank Sunghoon, but he was notoriously difficult to catch off guard. Confident to a fault, no joke or prank ever made him flinch. Still, you were determined to find one that finally would—and you thought you’d hit the jackpot.

Setting up your camera in front of you, you invited Sunghoon to sit beside you as you prepared to film.

“Hi everyone! So, me and my current boyfriend went out to get Dubai chocolate strawberries, and we’re gonna try them today,” you said casually, watching his reaction.

At first, Sunghoon didn’t register the slip-up. His eyes were fixed on the decadent strawberries, fully focused on how good they looked.

But when you repeated it—“My current boyfriend actually bought these because he knew they were on my taste list”—his brow quirked up in realization.

“Excuse me?” he said, eyes narrowing playfully as he looked at you, phone still in hand. “Your current boyfriend? Is he… in the room with us?”

You bit back a laugh as Sunghoon shot you a mock-annoyed glare.

“I’ll just wait and see if you can find someone better than me,” he said with a sly smirk. “maybe then you can call me your current boyfriend. Hmph.”

He crossed his arms and turned away, the picture of exaggerated sass and pride.

“It was a prank,” you said, trying to keep a straight face.

Sunghoon just flashed you a confident smirk, like he already knew you well enough to be sure. “You’re lucky I know you,” he teased, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Kim Sunoo

Sunoo’s sass was practically legendary—it was the first thing people noticed about him and the last thing they forgot. Even your family had made a running joke out of it, often teasing you about dating the sassiest man alive. But despite his dramatic flair, everything about him was perfect. He was sweet, attentive, and the kind of boyfriend who—even when you pulled a prank on him—just let it happen like it was part of the script.

He didn’t get mad. He didn’t even flinch. He just leaned into the drama, as always, like he was born for it.

“Okay guys, so I went to the store and bought some new clothes,” you began, smiling at the camera as you hit record on your TikTok. Behind you, Sunoo was sprawled comfortably on the bed, scrolling on his phone but still half-watching you with casual interest.

You held up the first outfit, giving a little spin before stepping off camera to try it on. As you came back into frame, Sunoo glanced up and raised a brow, clearly unimpressed—but in the most Sunoo way possible.

“Mmm… seven out of ten,” he said, lips pursed. “Cute, but is it giving main character energy?”

You laughed and shook your head, grabbing the next piece. “Okay, tough critic.”

He flipped his phone facedown, sitting up slightly just to get a better look at you. “Babe, I am the main character. I have standards.”

You look at the camera and speak again

“My current boyfriend, who’s beside me right now, is ranking which outfit he likes more,” you said casually to the camera, pretending like it was just another part of the video.

Sunoo immediately caught on.

He sat up straight, cleared his throat, and gave you the look—head tilted, eyes wide, and a disgusted expression that could win an Oscar.

“Your what?” he repeated, his voice laced with sass and mock betrayal.

“Girl, you better be joking,” he added in the most dramatic tone, flipping an imaginary strand of hair.

You burst into laughter, nearly dropping your phone from how fast you broke character.

“I hate that you always know!” you whined through your laughter.

Sunoo nodded proudly, arms crossed. “I’m smarter than you think. And prettier too, by the way.”

Yang Jungwon

Jungwon was lying on the couch, eyes glued to his phone, completely unaware of the chaos you were about to bring. You had gone live on TikTok just moments ago, and the comments were already flooding in—everyone begging you to prank him.

You gave in with a mischievous grin, walking into the room with your phone held up and the camera rolling.

Quietly, you sat on the floor near him, pretending to scroll aimlessly while waiting for the right moment. As soon as Jungwon’s hand moved to casually rest around your shoulder, you took your chance.

“Sorry guys, if you hear background noise, that’s just my current boyfriend on his phone right now,” you said smoothly, trying not to crack.

His head snapped down immediately, eyebrows raised in disbelief, the corners of his lips twitching like he was fighting a smirk. He stared at you, then glanced at your phone—and with zero hesitation, grabbed it and flipped the camera to face himself.

“Oh, right, sorry guys,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let me lower my volume so my current girlfriend here can hear everything she needs to.”

He handed your phone back, still smirking, before dramatically falling back on the couch and planting a quick kiss on the top of your head.

“Don’t ever prank me like that,” he muttered with fake sternness. “It’s not funny.”

You looked up at him, trying to act innocent, but the laugh you’d been holding in finally slipped out—and he couldn’t help but laugh too.

Nishimura Riki

Riki never let you get away with a prank. Ever. Even if you managed to sneak one past him, he always had something bigger, crazier, and more chaotic lined up—like it was a competition he refused to lose.

But this time, you were prepared. He’d been locked in his room for three straight hours, yelling at his friends over a losing game. It was the perfect storm: distracted, loud, and emotionally invested. No chance he’d notice what you were up to.

You quietly sat on the bed behind him, turned on your front camera, and went live on TikTok. His voice echoed in the background, filled with frustration over missed shots and bad calls.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU CAN’T JUST—bro…” he groaned.

The live chat blew up immediately.

“What’s that noise in the background?” you read aloud, smirking.

“Sorry, that’s just my current boyfriend playing video games.”

The second the words left your mouth, everything went still.

Riki’s hands froze on the mouse and keyboard. His character on screen probably got eliminated—but he didn’t care. He pulled off his headphones, stood up, and turned toward you slowly.

“What’d you just say?” he asked, voice lower now, more serious.

Before you could even finish repeating it—“My current boy—”

He was already leaning in, placing both hands on either side of you, trapping you between the mattress and his body.

And then he kissed you. Firm, confident, shutting you up entirely.

When he pulled back, he looked you right in the eye.

“Don’t say shit like that,” he said, voice calm but serious. “We’re gonna date until I propose to you."

Then, just as casually, he turned and went back to his chair like nothing happened

You sat frozen on the bed, heart racing, face red, while the live chat exploded.

“HE SAID WHAT??”

“PROPOSE?! RIKI YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THAT—”

“YOU BETTER MARRY HIM AFTER THAT OMG.”

You ended the live with shaky hands and a stunned smile.

And somehow… he still won the next round.

[mazeeelabyrinth]

☆ — sᥡᥣᥙs after teasing him all day

♡ Sylus x afab!reader

tags. smut, oral sex—cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, mild orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, pussy drunk Sylus, petnames—kitten, sweetheart

wc. 1k

a/n. Idk how to format my blogs anymore lol, I'm getting lazy

masterlist ☆ ao3 ☆ navigation

You had been teasing him all day—half on purpose, half just existing in that damn oversized shirt he liked too much. Sylus did not say anything at first. Just watched you, eyes dark, tongue flicking briefly over his bottom lip.

Later, you caught the shift in his mood when he locked the bedroom door behind you that night—no smirk, just simmering intensity.

You had barely finished teasing him—just a bratty little smirk, a shift of your legs in that silk robe when you prepared for bed—and suddenly Sylus was kneeling between your thighs as if prayer was a sport.

“You’ve been a naughty kitten,” he murmured, slowly removing your panties and brushing his nose against your inner thigh. “It’s time I finally pay attention to this pretty cunt, don't you think?”

Then, he kissed your thighs like they were sacred—each kiss slow, open-mouthed, deliberate, like he wanted to taste your pulse before he got to the main event.

His hands stayed firm on your hips, thumbs circling your skin as though he was trying to memorize the feel and shape of you.

When his mouth finally landed between your legs, it was not soft. Sylus licked like he was attempting to slake his thirst—and your cunt was water and he had been crawling through a desert.

Your breath broke into fragmented syllables of his name. Sylus did not rush—of course he did not. Everything he did was calculated, elegant in its cruelty.

Those crimson eyes, intense and sharp, never left yours. Not even as his tongue kept dragging in slow, hypnotic circles over your labia. Each one ended with a flick against your clit that made you gasp—as though he was ringing a bell only he could hear.

Certainly not even when your hips arched off the mattress in response. He only pinned you down harder, one strong arm wrapping beneath your thigh while his other hand splayed over your stomach—holding you in place like a pinned butterfly.

“You always tremble right here,” he murmured, voice sonorous as he pressed a kiss to the soft skin on your mons.

“Sylus, please…”

You reached down to thread your fingers in his hair, but he caught your wrist with maddening ease and pinned it to the mattress beside your hip, fingers firm but never bruising.

“Let me work, sweetheart,” he said, low and amused, breath skimming against your slick cunt. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

He spoke as if you were a decadent feast meant to be devoured by kings, not a writhing, breathless woman beneath his mouth. But then he moaned against you, like your taste was something divine, and your thighs clenched helplessly around his ears.

“Sylus, I’m—” you gasped, already feeling your climax building—sharp and quick and terrifying.

He smiled. That smile should have been illegal.

“You’ll come when I tell you to,” he whispered, lips brushing your folds, the tip of his tongue flicking against your cunt again, this time faster, tighter, ruthlessly precise.

Every flick of his tongue was done to leave you whimpering. Every suck of his lips around your clit came with a wicked gleam in his eye. He was too good at this. It wasn’t fair. He mapped you like a battlefield, found every weak point, and exploited it with finesse.

You didn’t stand a chance.

It didn’t take long before your first orgasm crashed over you, violent and shuddering. Your thighs clamped around his head but he didn’t let up—he growled softly, like your resistance only thrilled him.

Again, one hand gripped your thigh, the other slid up your trembling belly to rest over your sternum, keeping you pinned while he continued to lick and suck like you hadn’t just shattered for him.

“Sylus—fuck—I can’t—” you tried to twist, to move, to escape the overwhelming pleasure spiraling into pain. “Too much—too soon…”

He only hummed in response. The bastard was smiling. You could feel it against your skin.

“Don’t tell me you’re done, sweetheart,” he said, voice ragged, like it physically pained him to lift his mouth from you. His fingers slid in then—two of them, deep and slow, curling just right—and your breath hitched. “Not when you’re still this wet.”

Your body jolted, overstimulation crashing over you in waves—each touch too sharp, each stroke too much. Your second orgasm dragged out of you like a scream in reverse. You clenched around his fingers, thighs clamping against his shoulders. He didn’t flinch.

“Fuck—there it is,” he said against you, the vibration of his voice against your clit making you jolt. “Keep squeezing me like that, and I’ll come without even touching myself.”

No mercy. He did not stop there. You wondered if his jaw even ached.

Sylus was nothing if not indulgent when it comes to your pleasure. His teeth scraped your swollen clitoris, nipping the hooded, overstimulated bud just enough to make your cunt begin squirting around his pumping fingers and hungry mouth.

“Sylus! Oh fuck—please!” You gasped, hips writhing, too much—it was too much—but he lapped through it like he was starving. Like your orgasms had been an appetizer and he was determined to feast.

You tried to pull away but his arms locked tighter, pulling you right back against him.

By the time the third hit—harder, meaner—you were whimpering into your hand, too wrecked to speak, too far gone to beg properly. He licked you through it, slower now, gentler, but no less thorough.

His sharp features contorted into a wolfish pride when he finally pulled back, mouth slick and chin glistening. He leaned over you, bracing himself on one arm, and brushed his knuckles against your cheek.

“You always taste like heaven,” he said, voice low and reverent, like he had just discovered a religion and it wore your body.

You tried to answer. Your lips moved. Nothing came out but a ragged sigh.

Sylus chuckled, kissed the tip of your sweaty nose, and whispered, “And sweetheart, I am feeling religious.”

God help you—you got what you wanted but you were not getting sleep tonight.

[mattsweethrt]

pleaseeee do a fic with slow morning sex with chris

「 morning sex ᵎᵎ 」

smut, p in v, unprotected sex, cursing, pet names

you softly stirred awake at the soft sounds of birds chirping outside, early morning sunshine dancing across you and your boyfriends shared bed. you glanced to your nightstand, your alarm clock reading a little after seven am. sighing heavily, you nuzzled into chris’ embrace, trying to let sleep overtake you once more.

at your movements, chris hummed softly, his arms wrapping around you while he buried his face into your hair. “morning sweetheart,” he whispered softly, planting kisses on your scalp, “you sleep okay?”

you nodded, your face in his chest as you inhaled his scent. “i missed you,” you mumbled quietly.

he laughed, his voice still laced with sleep. he continued to press feather light kisses to your head, trailing down across your forehead and to your cheek. “y’missed me? i was with you all night.”

you giggled as his lips and messy hair tickled your skin. “doesn’t matter, still missed you.”

he pulled away for a moment, admiring your sleepy state. he leaned in, placing a soft kiss to your mouth, his lips slotting between yours. he hummed lowly before pulling back. “i missed you too.”

a grin spread across your lips, leaning back in to press your lips to his again. chris let out a low groan, arms snaking down around your waist as he pulled you closer, repositioning himself to be on top of you.

the kisses began to grow more heated and sloppy, chris’ tongue slipping into your mouth as you let out a sigh.

“i know, baby, i know,” chris murmured, his lips puffy and red. his hands slipped down between your bodies, pulling your panties down, his fingers dipping into your wetness. “i got you, just relax, okay?”

you nodded, chris freeing himself from his plaid pj pants. his cock sprung up, already oozing with precum.

“someone’s excited,” you joked quietly as chris began to stroke himself, lining up with your entrance.

“jus’ missed my girl is all,” he replied with a lopsided grin as he slowly pushed himself in. your walls squeezed around his length, the both of you moaning lowly at the feeling.

he buried his face in the crook of your neck, placing sloppy kisses to your exposed collarbone while he bottomed out. “fuckk baby, you’re so tight f’me.”

your arms were around his neck in an instant, holding him close to you as your fingers threaded through his brown curls.

chris slowly began to move in and out, his hips moving against yours in a rhythmic pattern. with every thrust, your pussy clenched around him as it dripped with your arousal. the feeling was euphoric, chris’ dick deep inside you as his mouth moved against your skin, whispering soft praises into it.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured as his lips found yours, “could spend all day in bed with you.”

he continued his motions and praises, talking you through your orgasm at it crashed down over you. he wasn’t too far behind, giving a few more thrusts before coming deep inside of you, collapsing onto your chest.

he whined softly as he pulled out, a mix of both of your cum dripping out onto the sheets beneath you.

“i’ll make you a deal,” he said softly, “you clean the sheets and i’ll cook breakfast?”

“you’re gonna burn whatever you make,” you giggled, playfully pushing his arm as he hovered above you.

he leaned down, grinning while pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “that’s a yes then?”

bree’s corner ⸝⸝⸝ sorry if the ending was rushed i forgot to finish this when i started it yesterday and wanted to post tonight ! i need lazy sex with him so bad it’s not even funny

[shaiyasstuff]

pit-a-pat | zayne

synopsis : He was never really yours. Not when she existed.

content : ANGST, zayne x non-mc!reader, some cannon some non-cannon, doctor zayne (a dash of sylus x reader)

It started beautifully.

Not with fireworks or declarations, but with something quieter—something softer.

You met Zayne on a Tuesday. The skies were overcast, and the campus café was packed with students trying to squeeze in one last coffee before the end-of-term chaos. You had just picked up your order, arms full of books and notes and a half-finished thought buzzing in your mind, when you turned too quickly and collided with someone.

The impact jolted through you. Your books scattered, your pen rolled under a chair, and your coffee splashed onto your sleeve. You let out a soft curse under your breath, flustered, apologizing before you even looked up.

Then a hand reached down, brushing against yours.

“I’m sorry,” came a low voice.

You looked up.

And that was the first time you saw him.

Zayne.

Tall, composed, sharp around the edges but inexplicably gentle in the way he moved. His eyes—hazel green, clear and steady—met yours like they already knew you. Like they had always known you.

He picked up your pen, handed it to you.

“I owe you a coffee,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

You smiled. Gave him your number.

The rest unfolded the way falling does—slow, weightless, inevitable.

There were no grand gestures. No overly rehearsed first dates. You didn’t even realize you were falling in love with him until you already had. He was simply there, steady and quiet and comforting in a way the world rarely is.

He never raised his voice. Never made you feel like you had to be more or less than exactly who you were. He wasn’t perfect—he kept things to himself, and his silences could stretch into days—but you loved him all the same. You told yourself it was enough. That love was never about loudness, but about staying.

And Zayne stayed.

For eight years.

You stood beside him through every sleepless night of his internship, through every heartbreak he brought home from the hospital. You held his hand when he was promoted, when he won awards, when the weight of lives saved and lost pressed too heavily against his shoulders.

You built a quiet life together. Shared takeout containers and cold pillows. Lazy Sunday mornings and long nights where your laptop glowed across the room as he dozed off beside you in his scrubs.

You became a writer, the kind with notebooks full of fictional heartbreaks, never quite knowing you were walking toward your own.

And you thought—foolishly, recklessly—that he was your ending.

That one day, you would wear white, and he would wait for you at the altar, hands trembling, heart full.

But some love stories are not meant to be lived. Only written.

—•

You stood outside his office now.

Your hand clutched his notebook, the one he left behind this morning in his rush to get to the hospital. His keys jangled faintly against your palm. You had texted, but he hadn’t responded. It wasn’t unusual. He got busy.

You told yourself that.

But the dread sitting in your chest was new.

The door to his office was slightly ajar. You stepped closer without thinking, intending only to knock—just knock, hand the things over, and leave.

But then, you heard his voice.

Low. Familiar. But not like you’d ever heard it before.

“I did this all… for you.”

Your body went still.

Inside, Zayne was standing with a girl you didn’t recognize—not at first. She was smaller than you, delicate. Her eyes were wide and wet. Zayne’s hand hovered just beside her cheek, and his other gripped her forearm like she was something slipping from his grasp.

“I planned this. To be your physician. To work here. Just so I could see you.”

The world tilted.

A cold, sharp pressure settled in your chest, and your fingers loosened. The keys dropped first, hitting the floor with a sound that sliced through the silence. His notebook followed, landing with a dull thud on the waiting chair beside the door.

Both of them turned.

She looked at you with startled recognition.

Zayne’s eyes locked onto yours. And in that instant, everything changed.

You knew.

You remembered her now. He had mentioned her once. His childhood friend. The one with the heart condition. A passing story over dinner, shared like a memory too old to matter.

You hadn’t thought anything of it then.

But you understood now.

She wasn’t a memory.

She was the reason.

The reason he became a doctor. The reason he worked here.

The reason for his choices, his ambition, his silence.

The reason he stayed up at night, staring at the ceiling.

The reason he chose a life of saving people—so he wouldn’t lose her.

You wanted to ask him if it was all a lie. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

And he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t come after you.

He just stood there. Watching.

And that hurt more than anything else.

You turned and walked away.

Not out of pride. Not out of anger.

But because staying would’ve shattered you in ways you weren’t sure you could recover from.

You made it to the elevator before the tears came. Quiet ones, slipping down your cheeks like they had every right to be there. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t try to breathe through the ache.

You let them fall.

Eight years.

Eight years of loving someone who had always belonged to someone else.

You had been writing your love story in ink.

But he had written his in pencil. And now, he had erased you.

You don’t go home right away.

You wander the streets with no destination, the city blurring past you like watercolor in the rain. Cars pass. People pass. The world keeps moving, unaware that yours has come undone.

By the time you return to your apartment, it’s dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You sit on the edge of the bed where he’s slept beside you for years, staring at the familiar shapes in the shadows—his worn coat slung over the chair, the framed photo on the nightstand, the mug with his initials you always forget to put away.

And then the door clicks.

You don’t move.

You hear the soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off. The hesitant steps down the hallway.

Then his voice.

“Hey.”

Quiet. Careful. Like the word might break.

You still don’t move.

A beat. Two. Then he speaks again. “I didn’t expect you to be there.”

You almost laugh. Didn’t expect—

You turn slowly to face him. The expression on your face is not angry. It’s worse.

It’s tired.

Empty.

“What was I supposed to see, Zayne?” you ask. Your voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s raw. “Because all I saw was a man in love with someone else.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t even flinch.

He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze he always has, like he’s weighing truths against silence. Like he’s trying to choose the least painful version of honesty.

“She was sick,” he says quietly. “You knew that.”

“That’s not the part that hurts.” Your words are sharp, but they don’t rise in volume. “The part that hurts is you built your whole life around her—and I didn’t know. I loved you for eight years. And I didn’t know.”

Zayne’s eyes darken, but he says nothing.

You continue, barely able to keep your voice steady. “Every step you took, every choice you made—becoming a doctor, working at Akso Hospital… You said you wanted to help people. You made me believe that was who you were.”

“I am that,” he says quickly.

“But that’s not why you did it.” Your voice cracks on the last word. “You did it for her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You almost laugh again, but it turns into something hollow.

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo, staring at him like you’re trying to memorize the face of someone you no longer recognize. “Zayne, I built my life around you. I was ready to marry you. I was planning forever with someone who—”

You choke. You try to breathe.

“—with someone who’s heart was never really mine.”

His shoulders stiffen. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” you say. “You loved her. You still love her. I was just… convenient.”

“That’s not true,” he says sharply. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice. “You weren’t convenient. You were—”

“What, Zayne? What was I?” you whisper. “A distraction? A substitute? Someone you convinced yourself you could be happy with because she wasn’t here?”

He looks away. That’s all the answer you need.

You don’t cry. Not this time. There’s nothing left in you to fall apart.

Instead, you stand.

“I would’ve understood if you had just told me,” you say quietly. “I would’ve left. I would’ve let you go. But you didn’t. You let me believe I was your person. And now, I don’t even know what was real.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move past him. He doesn’t call your name.

He just stands there, in the center of the hallway, with guilt written all over his face.

And you realize, for all his brilliance, for all the lives he’s saved.

Zayne never had the courage to save yours from this.

—•

You don’t even know why you agreed to be here.

Maybe part of you wanted closure. Maybe the angrier part of you wanted to look her in the eye and find something—anything—to blame.

Or maybe, in the raw aftermath of it all, you just wanted to understand what could possibly be so powerful that it unraveled eight years of your life like thread from a seam.

The hospital courtyard is quiet when you arrive. The air is cold, overcast with a brittle kind of stillness. You sit down on the far end of the stone bench, your hands curled inside your coat sleeves. The silence hums in your ears.

You almost leave.

But then you hear footsteps—soft, hesitant.

She stops in front of you. The girl.

The reason.

She looks like something out of a different life—slight, pale, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and her face is gentle in a way that feels unfair.

You wish she had sharpness to her. Arrogance.

Something you could hate on sight.

But she doesn’t.

She looks… kind.

And somehow, that hurts more.

“Hi,” she says, tentative.

You don’t answer. You just watch her, expression unreadable, trying to see what he must’ve seen.

She glances down, wringing her hands. “Thanks for coming.”

You almost say don’t thank me. Almost. But the words stay behind your teeth.

She sits, carefully keeping distance between you.

A long silence stretches out.

“I know this is strange,” she begins, “and I don’t want to make anything worse. I just thought… maybe you deserved to hear it from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Did you know about me?”

She hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly. That answer burns.

“So you knew,” you murmur, your voice tighter than you want it to be, “and you still let it happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” she says softly. “I didn’t come looking for him. I didn’t expect to see him again. And when I did, I didn’t know how to undo it.”

Undo it. As if this is something she can unspool. As if your heart was a thread to pull clean.

You turn to her then, finally meeting her gaze. “I tried to hate you.”

She flinches, but you continue.

“I wanted to. I really, really did. I told myself you were selfish. That you ruined everything. That he wouldn’t have drifted if you hadn’t been there.”

Your eyes sting. But the tears stay where they are.

“I needed to hate you. Because hating him… it’s harder. And hating myself—well, that’s already happening.”

She looks at you with something close to sorrow. Not pity. Not guilt. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“I never meant to take anything from you,” she says. “But I think… I always had him. Even when I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. That’s the part that kills you.

“It wasn’t fair,” you whisper. “I loved him for eight years. I gave him everything. And he—he was building a life around you the entire time.”

The girl’s lips tremble. “I don’t think he knew how to let go of me. Not fully. I don’t even think he knew he hadn’t.”

You close your eyes. The wind picks up, threading cold fingers through your coat.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice hollow. “I thought we were preparing for a wedding. Turns out, I was standing in the way of a reunion.”

Silence falls again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

She blinks quickly, her throat working around words she can’t say. “I’m sorry.”

You believe her. That’s the worst part.

You wanted her to be cruel, or callous, or indifferent. You wanted her to be easy to hate.

But she’s just a girl with a fragile heart, loved too deeply by someone who was never entirely yours to begin with.

You rise slowly. Your legs feel heavy, as if grief has settled in your joints.

“I hope he saves you,” you murmur. “I hope it’s worth everything he lost.”

You don’t wait for her to respond.

You leave. And this time, you don’t cry.

But something in you quietly, irrevocably, closes.

—•

He shows up three days later.

You don’t know how he finds the nerve.

You’ve ignored his calls. His texts. The pathetic, half-sincere “Can we talk?” messages that began the night after the garden. He should’ve known better. He should’ve stayed gone.

But here he is.

You hear the knock this time. You sit still for a moment, your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket you’ve barely left for days, breath caught between dread and fury.

He knocks again. Harder this time.

You stand. Not because you want to see him—because you need to. To put a face to the damage.

When you open the door, it’s like nothing has changed. He’s still Zayne. Rain-damp, serious, heartbreakingly familiar in that coat you once buried your face into when the world felt too loud.

But he’s not yours anymore.

Not really.

“What do you want?” you ask. No softness. No welcome.

His jaw tenses. “To talk.”

Your laugh is sharp and joyless. “Of course. Now you talk.”

“I know I should’ve—”

“Spare me the guilt,” you snap. “I’m not in the mood to hear you pretend this wasn’t calculated.”

He flinches. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh no?” You take a step forward. “You became a doctor for her, Zayne. You took a job at her hospital. You became her physician. How long were you going to keep lying to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me!” you shout. “That’s the same thing!”

Your voice echoes through the hallway. You don’t care who hears. You want it to hurt.

He looks at you, lips parted like he wants to defend himself—but nothing comes out.

“I asked you once,” you continue, quieter now but no less cutting, “why you wanted to be a doctor. You told me it was to save lives. You looked me in the eye and lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” he says again, harsher now. “That’s still true. Saving her doesn’t make that less real.”

“It makes everything less real,” you spit. “Eight years, Zayne. I gave you everything. I built a future around someone who was still living in his past.”

“She almost died,” he snaps. “Do you understand that? She was twelve. I thought I lost her. I made a promise—”

“To her,” you interrupt. “You made a promise to her, and you made a life with me. You don’t get to have both.”

He falls silent.

His hands are clenched at his sides. His mouth is tight. You can tell he wants to argue, but he won’t. Because he knows you’re right.

“She was never gone,” you whisper. “Not from your heart. Not from your plans. And you… you let me believe I was enough. That I was your beginning and your end. But I was just—” your voice cracks, “I was just a pause in the story you’d always meant to return to.”

He shakes his head, voice strained. “That’s not what you were.”

“Then what was I, Zayne?”

He looks at you like he’s searching for the right words. The truth. But it’s too late for carefully packaged honesty.

You take a breath. It’s cold in your lungs. “You don’t get to grieve this. Not now. Not when you’re the one who ended it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You laugh again. This time, it sounds like it might break you. “But you did.”

You walk back inside and return a minute later with the box—his books, his charger, the old hoodie you used to sleep in. You shove it into his arms.

He doesn’t take it right away. “Please—don’t let this be how it ends.”

You stare at him, empty. Tired. “Zayne, it ended the moment you chose silence.”

He lowers his head. Grips the box like it’s the only thing holding him together.

And when he finally turns to leave, you don’t stop him.

This time, you don’t look back.

And this time—he does cry.

He doesn’t go home.

Not right away.

He drives. Somewhere. Anywhere. The roads blur beneath the city lights, each turn as pointless as the last. He forgets where he’s meant to be.

He doesn’t cry at first.

That doesn’t happen until later—when he pulls over on the side of an empty street, kills the engine, and sits in the silence he spent years wrapping around his truth.

And then it hits him.

Not like a punch. No, it’s slower than that.

It’s the steady, suffocating realization that you’re gone.

Really gone.

Not just upset. Not waiting for him to make it right.

Gone, because you loved him too deeply to stay where you were never really seen.

He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales a broken sound that might be a sob. Might be a prayer. Might just be everything finally coming undone.

How did he get here?

He thinks back to when you met. Your laugh—unexpected, soft. The way you always saw right through his silences, but never pushed too hard. How you held his hand during exams, during sleepless nights, during the moments he thought he might collapse under the weight of what he couldn’t say.

And now?

Now you won’t even look at him.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’d clung so tightly to a ghost of the past, he never noticed he was strangling the only real thing he had left.

The worst part? He meant it. Every word he said to the other girl. The promise. The devotion. He did want to save her. He did want to protect her.

But he never asked himself why.

Maybe he thought saving her would fix something in him. That if he kept his promise, if he held on tightly enough, he’d redeem himself for that helpless, broken boy who once stood in an ER, covered in blood that didn’t belong to him.

But he never meant to love both.

Not like this.

He stares out the windshield, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. It reminds him of you. Of the way you never cried in front of him—not even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

And that night in the hallway—your voice shaking but never pleading. Your eyes full of betrayal, not begging. That was love, too. The kind that breaks itself before it breaks you.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, as if that will erase the weight in his chest.

But it stays.

God, it stays.

And for the first time since med school, since the long nights that almost drowned him, Zayne doesn’t know what to do.

Not with himself.

Not with this regret.

He was always good at silence. At burying what he didn’t want to face.

But this time, silence cost him the only person who ever stayed.

The hospital doesn’t feel the same.

It should.

Same corridors. Same sterile smell. Same rustle of nurses’ shoes against polished floors. He walks these halls every day—he knows the pattern of the tiles, the rhythm of the fluorescent lights above. He’s built a life inside this place.

But now?

It feels hollow. Too bright in some places. Too quiet in others.

He stands outside Operating Room B with a chart in his hand, staring at words he isn’t reading. His mind drifts. Again.

“Doctor Zayne?”

He blinks. A nurse is looking at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“You’re needed in Cardiology.”

Right. Cardiology. Her department.

He nods, mutters something close to thanks, and moves.

He still performs the surgeries. Still signs the charts. Still nods when interns look at him like he holds the world in his hands.

But something is gone.

And it’s not skill. It’s not precision.

Its presence.

He’s no longer in his life. He’s moving through it. Performing. Like muscle memory.

The girl—his childhood friend—she’s recovering. Stable. And she smiles when she sees him, small and grateful and warm.

But it doesn’t make him feel anything.

Not now.

Not since he saw the look on your face—the woman he promised a future to. The one who gave him all of herself without knowing he was never giving you all of him.

He remembers your hands, trembling when you pushed the box into his arms. The edge in your voice when you asked, “Then what was I, Zayne?”

He didn’t have an answer then.

He still doesn’t.

Because how do you explain to someone that they were your peace, your softness, your home—and you lost them because you couldn’t let go of a promise made by a boy who hadn’t learned how to speak his grief out loud?

Zayne finds himself in the stairwell, long after his shift ends. He doesn’t even remember walking here.

He sits on the steps. Folds forward. Buries his face in his hands.

He doesn’t cry. He already did that. He’s past crying now.

What he feels now is worse.

Emptiness.

The kind that seeps into everything.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your name. Stares at the last message you sent.

“Can you grab oat milk on the way home?”

He didn’t even answer it.

He thinks about texting. Something. Anything.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know I was choosing wrong until you were gone.”

But he doesn’t.

Because what could he say now that wouldn’t sound like too little, too late?

And because maybe—deep down—he knows you deserve someone who doesn’t have to lose you to realize you were everything.

—•

You were sitting at your usual corner table in a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist—one of those quiet places where time didn’t feel so heavy. You weren’t writing. Not that day. You just sat there, fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, watching the world through a pane of glass slick with water.

Existing in the small, still spaces between grief and recovery.

You had been doing that a lot lately. Watching.

It was raining. Of course it was.

It had been seven months since Zayne. Since the silence. Since the hallway.

You hadn’t dated anyone. You couldn’t.

Not when your heart still ached in places you hadn’t named.

That’s where you met Sylus.

He walked in, his footsteps confident as he strides up to the counter.

You didn’t look up at first. Just heard the low hum of the door chime, the soft sound of boots on wet tile. Then came the voice.

“I’ll take whatever’s strongest and not completely terrible.”

It made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

White silver hair that stood out against the interior of the coffee shop.

Sharp-featured. Tall. Dressed in black with a half-dried coat slung over one arm and stormy red eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He looked… misfit.

Like someone who had gotten lost on his way to something louder.

He caught you staring.

Smirked.

“Judging me already?” he said as he passed your table.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You looked like you came in here by accident.”

“I did.” He set his cup on the table across from yours without asking. “Lucky me.”

You stared at him. He stared right back. There was no hesitation in him.

No over-eagerness. No rehearsed charm. Just a strange kind of confidence, like he didn’t care whether you invited him in or not.

And yet… somehow, he was easy to talk to.

That first conversation was short. Nothing special. He told you he was in the city for work. Said he hated the rain. You said you didn’t mind it.

He teased you for that. Called you a poet. You didn’t correct him.

Before he left, he asked for your name. Then he gave you his. Sylus.

He didn’t ask for your number. He didn’t flirt. He just said, “Maybe I’ll see you here again.”

And you did.

The next week. And the week after that.

Same table. Same rain.

He never asked about your past, and you never asked about his.

He talked to you like you were new. Like you weren’t made of broken pieces.

And you liked that.

You liked that he didn’t try to fix you. That he didn’t reach for your scars or ask what happened.

He just saw you. All of you.

Eventually, you started writing again.

He’d sit across from you, reading some obscure book or sketching something in a notebook he never let you see.

“You ever gonna tell me what that is?” you asked one afternoon.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “when you’re done hiding behind yours.”

You laughed. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel strange.

He didn’t slip into your life the way Zayne did.

No, Sylus walked in with loud footsteps and called attention to all the parts of you that still needed to be held.

And when he finally kissed you—months later, after too many late nights and half-finished conversations—he didn’t whisper promises.

He only said, “You don’t have to be ready. Just let me stay.”

And you did.

Now, you’re curled up on the couch in one of Sylus’s old sweaters, legs folded beneath you, a half-read book resting in your lap.

You’ve read the same paragraph three times. The words blur and smear.

Not because you’re tired—though you are—but because your thoughts won’t sit still.

He notices.

He always does.

Sylus steps out from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. You hadn’t asked for tea. You never really need to. He knows the nights when you can’t quite find your center.

He sits beside you, close but never crowding, and offers the cup without a word.

You take it, fingers brushing his. His touch is warm. Steady.

You don’t speak right away.

He doesn’t push.

That’s the thing about Sylus. He doesn’t try to draw the pain out of you. He just makes space for it. Holds it. Waits until you’re ready.

After a long moment, you say quietly, “It’s almost been two years.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since him?”

You nod.

Sylus leans back against the couch, stretching an arm along the top. Not possessive. Just there. Like a safety net.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really. I just… thought I’d be past the memory by now.”

He hums softly. “Memories don’t care about time. They’re like bruises under the skin. You forget they’re there until something presses too hard.”

You glance at him, lips tugging into a faint, worn smile. “Is that your poetic way of saying it’s okay to feel like this?”

He smirks. “It’s my poetic way of saying I’m not going anywhere.”

Your smile softens. Fades into something real.

He’s never tried to replace what came before. Never asked you to forget it. He simply stayed.

When you turned away.

When you flinched at first touch.

When you said not yet.

When you said I’m not whole.

Sylus looked you in the eye and said, You don’t have to be.

And you believed him.

Now, you lean your head against his shoulder, tea still warm between your hands. He lets you rest there in silence.

No questions. No expectations.

Just the quiet knowing that this—whatever it is—is something different.

Something earned.

And when his hand finds yours and doesn’t let go, you feel it again.

That peace you thought you’d never know after Zayne.

The kind of love that doesn’t arrive like a storm.

But like a home.

—•

Two years later, you see him again.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t prepared for it.

It’s a charity gala, the kind Sylus rarely agrees to attend, but he’s here tonight for you.

One hand on your back, the other wrapped loosely around a glass of champagne he hasn’t touched. He looks just like he always does, sharp suit, sharp tongue, a man made of storm and steel, and yet—when he looks at you, it softens him.

Always.

You never thought you’d get to feel this way again.

Safe.

Loved.

Chosen.

You’re speaking to someone—maybe a publisher, maybe a donor—you don’t really remember.

And then you feel it.

That cold flicker down your spine.

That familiar stillness before the silence breaks.

You turn.

And there he is.

Zayne.

Two years older. A little more tired. A little less certain.

He’s standing just across the room, alone in a sea of people.

He looks like he doesn’t quite belong here, like he’s watching a world he no longer fits into.

And then his eyes find you.

You don’t look away.

You let him see it—all of it.

The soft smile on your lips. The ring on your finger. The way Sylus leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple without even realizing he’s doing it.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. Not really. But you feel the ripple.

Because this time, you are not the one breaking.

You are not the one watching love walk away.

You’re standing still.

And someone is holding on.

You excuse yourself quietly from the conversation, fingers brushing Sylus’s wrist as you turn to whisper something.

He catches the look in your eyes. He knows. Of course he knows.

But he says nothing. Just stays close. Just keeps his hand resting at the small of your back like he’s reminding you—you’re not alone.

When you approach, Zayne doesn’t speak right away.

He just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the life you’ve built without him. The one he didn’t stay long enough to deserve.

“You look…” he begins, but falters. His voice is rougher now. Thinner.

“Happy?” you offer gently.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You glance back at Sylus, who’s watching from a respectful distance, sharp-eyed and protective as ever. He always gives you space when you need it. But never too far.

“I didn’t know you were back in the city,” Zayne says.

You nod. “We moved here last spring.”

“We?”

“My husband and I.”

He flinches—just barely. But you see it.

You don’t gloat. You don’t need to.

There’s a grace in moving on that silence can never rewrite.

“He’s good to you?” Zayne asks.

You smile. “He sees me.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Sharp. True.

Zayne swallows hard. “I’m glad.”

You nod. And this time, it’s real. “So am I.”

You don’t stay long. Just long enough for him to see that you survived him. That you bloomed after the break. That someone else saw what he couldn’t hold.

You return to Sylus without looking back.

He slides his arm around your waist and leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am now.”

And as the music rises and the crowd begins to move again, you rest your hand over your husband’s and let yourself forget the boy who couldn’t choose you.

Because you’ve already chosen the man who never had to be asked.

masterlist

[vultursvolans]

— ★ 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after waiting for so long, alhaitham finally loses his virginity to you on his birthday

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: VIRGIN!alhaitham x FEM!reader, established relationship, there is some fluff sprinkled onto all this smut i promise, p0rn with plot, virginity loss (m), slightly more experienced reader, pet names ‘baby’ ‘love’, reader wears a skirt & dress, alcohol mention, handjob, masturbation (f), deepthroat, rough fucking, no protection, creampie, cowgirl, might be a little ooc. 5.7k wc (idk what happened) MDNI. 18+ only. | masterlist

𝐚/𝐧: a birthday piece! happy birthday alhaitham! 🎁

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Your boyfriend was a virgin.

And for most people, virginity was often a touchy subject. Still, when you started dating Alhaitham, you weren’t surprised by his indifference towards the topic. He never danced around it or became flustered when the subject of sex came up.  During your first conversation about it, he didn’t fidget or sugarcoat; he simply took a sip of his coffee and stated, “I’ve never had sex before.” Then, after finishing his cup, he added, “Not for lack of opportunity. I just never prioritised it.”

There was no shame or awkwardness, just a fact laid bare between you. And, really, why would there be? 

Sex wasn’t something he’d avoided out of fear or insecurity. To him, it was nothing but a passing thought. 

At the time, you grazed over his humble boast because, of course, Alhaitham had opportunities. He was, by all objective measures, incredibly handsome, and you told him this very often as his girlfriend. 

The scribe might’ve been notorious for being difficult to converse with, but people were still drawn to his appearance, whether he wanted them to be or not. 

That conversation weighed more to you now. Not because of what he said but because of what it implied. Despite the passing interest others had in him and the potential experiences he could have had, he had waited. Not intentionally nor with some frivolous romantic ideal in mind, but simply because no one before you had ever made him want to.

As your relationship progressed, you discovered that contrary to popular belief, Alhaitham was still human (really, it’s a shock to some), and like any other human, he had needs that were managed with usual discretion (his hands). So while he had no qualms about admitting he was a virgin, he also never pretended to be entirely unaffected by the curse of morning wood or the challenge of dating someone who was totally his type and much more vivacious than he. 

But when you turned him on (which wasn’t difficult), no matter how heated things got, they never went past a certain point. It wasn’t hesitation on his part, nor was it uncertainty on yours. 

It might’ve been because he’d never done it before or maybe because it felt too significant to rush into. Either way, whenever things teetered on the edge of no return, one of you would always pull back. Every time it happened, it left you a little more restless than before.

It had started slow, as most things did.

Your first kiss with Alhaitham had been more curious than anything else. He always paid attention to detail, so he was careful in how he studied you. The more he kissed you, the more he adjusted to the newness of it. You could even taste the hesitance on him, but that had been months ago. Now, he’d memorise the way the shape of your lips fit against his, and kissing you felt as natural as breathing.

In the beginning, your make-out sessions had been tame. Nothing more than lazy, unhurried exchanges between reading breaks or in the fleeting moments before you parted from him. Uncaring for any responsibility he had prior, he would hold you close in his burly arms and take you in. 

However, in time, those kisses evolved into something you had to be broken apart from.

His hands had also grown bolder. They would slide up your sides, paw at the curve of your spine, and settle on your hips to pull you closer. He noted the way you reacted to him—the way you tossed your head back when his fingers mapped your sensitive skin, the way your grip made home in his hair when his tongue delved deeper.

And you learned things about him, too.

You learned that even though the Alhaitham you first met had an air of mystery to him, there was something far more desperate lying dormant beneath that imaginary veil… lest his control slip. If you sucked on his lower lip, a groan would softly erupt from his mouth. If you allowed him to bury his face into the crook of your neck, the love bites he’d give you would feel much more erotic.

Then, his touches became scandalous over time. Alhaitham seemed to explore you more. 

He started to kiss—no, lick along your jaw, then down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse just to hear your breath stuttering. His hands, no longer satisfied with resting at your waist, began to push under your shirt time and time again, ghosting over your ribs, tracing the dip of your back, just to gauge a reaction to his touch.

Your body continued to hum with need long after you had settled on opposite sides of the sofa, swollen lips and skin warm. 

Each encounter left you both embarrassingly sticky by the end of it, so you never bothered to admit you’d touched yourself to the thought of him long after he’d gone home. And neither did he.

An invisible string was about to snap, and the most recent time was the hardest to walk away from.

On that particular day, while you were nestled on his lap, Alhaitham had been kissing you with extra urgency—as if the taste of you wasn’t enough and every movement of your lips was drawing him into a slow-burning fire. 

Each kiss was another spark, every touch a flicker of heat that spread and throbbed in the most wicked parts of you.

His hands traveled all over you, fingers that normally stayed at your ribs and waist started drifting lower so you sluggishly rolled your hips to match his rhythm, losing it at how hard he was growing beneath you. 

Maybe it was because you’d worn a skirt that day, but you felt closer to him than ever. Having your legs sprawled across his lap and feeling what you assumed was the head of his cock prod your sweet spot made your body scream even more for him. So it didn’t help your case at all when he suddenly stilled his fingers under your skirt and gingerly kneaded the back of your clothed pussy. The touch was petal soft but enough to make you whine without permission.

“Holy shit,” your words came out in plumes. 

You half-expected it to escalate then, but instead, he pulled away. A familiar pang settled in your chest. He didn’t do it out of regret—you knew that much, but all that racing intention now became idly slow. 

“I’m sorry,” he said a little too quickly. It almost sounded awkward, but you were too busy trying to figure out what he was apologising for. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong. 

“For what, exactly?” You asked.

Alhaitham took a moment to think. 

“For not having more restraint.” his glossy eyes searched you, uncertain of what he wanted. “That felt impulsive.” 

It was unintentional, but you’d never seen him look so innocent. Or vulnerable. 

Tilting your head, you said with a chuckle, “If I’m ever caught complaining about my boyfriend not being able to keep his hands off me, alert the authorities because that’s not me.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” 

None of this was your fault either, of course. Stopping was as much of a crime to him as it was to you, but he quietly returned your laughter and timidly squeezed your hips as if to ground himself. “I just don’t want this to be something that happened because we couldn’t control ourselves.” 

In other words, he wanted something planned. Maybe he had envisioned it unfolding differently. 

Which was reasonable, you thought. It was his first time, not yours. And it wasn’t discouraging at all—that solid bulge pressing between your legs revealed enough about the effect you had on him. No part of him didn’t want to flip you over and fuck you senseless on that sofa but perhaps an impulsive make-out shouldn’t steer the wheel for something he held off for so long.

So, despite how badly you wanted him, you stopped. You waited. You told yourself the anticipation was half the fun. “You’re right. You’re right. Must you always be right?”

“Just a gift bestowed from the Archon.” Sarcasm, even when all the blood that should’ve been in his head had rushed to his cock. He watched you sigh. “It seems you don’t agree?”

“Well, if say I don’t, you could always ravish me until I do.” You smiled from ear to ear, satisfied when a pale shade of pink immediately dusted his cheeks.  

“Stop that.” 

Alhiatham was thankful when you rolled off his lap and collapsed beside him with a buoyant giggle.

Even then, he already missed the weight of you on his groin, and the phantom tingle from when he allowed himself to touch you over your underwear was still fresh on his fingers. He didn’t dare look at you right away, afraid that one glance at your pretty face, kiss-swollen lips, and the tremble in your thighs would set his skin alight all over again.

— — —

Remnants of Alhaitham’s birthday were scattered around your home. Half-finished slices of cake on abandoned plates. Few too many empty glasses litter the coffee table. The lingering scent of candles recently blown out. 

Looking at the mess, you felt a wave of gratitude that the last batch of your friends had already come and gone. 

Honestly, it was a good thing he chose to celebrate at your place. If he’d done it at his, there would’ve been an inevitable crowd, and he and Kaveh would’ve probably found themselves locked in a debate over something trivial like the spelling of a single word. The only thing to break it up would be the arrival of dawn. 

Here, it was just the two of you. While you’d both enjoyed the company earlier, ending the night like this felt right.

As the street lamps outside flickered on to welcome the evening, Alhaitham lounged beside you. This was the most relaxed he’d looked all day, with one arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa and the other resting on his thigh with a new tome balanced loosely between his fingers. The dim light softened the sharp lines of his face, making him appear boyish as his sea-green eyes read the pages.

But he wasn’t really reading.

It was obvious by how his eyes were fixed on the same spot. His pupils were slightly dilated, and maybe he had the wine to blame. Or something else altogether. 

You finally broke the silence, leaning on the armrest to reach for your own glass. “It’s still your birthday, you know?”

Alhaitham returned his attention to you, closing the tome you bought for him without marking his place. “Is there a statute of limitations on celebrating?” 

Huffing a laugh, “Not exactly,” you said, swirling the wine in your glass before taking a sip. “But I’ve been thinking about your birthday gift.”

“Hm?” He replied, slightly confused. He’d thought you’d already given him everything earlier in the day.

“Just wondering if there’s anything else you might want.” You set your glass down and watched the dark liquid ripple. This was the perfect opportunity to bring up what had been on both of your minds.

“Oh?” He blinked at you. “Well, this book you sought was quite a rare find. I’m aware there are only two other copies. For that alone, I needn’t ask for more.” 

“And if I told you that was only the appetiser?” 

Alhaitham adamantly shook his head. “I’m not following.” 

But you both knew that was false. The entire conversation was laced with implications, and this was a Haravatat genius you were speaking to. Nothing needed to be spelled out for him because you saw his throat bob with a subtle swallow. That alone told you he was already waging war with his thoughts. 

Tonight felt different. 

Aside from it being his literal birthday, ever since the morning you’d caught him eyeing your body on numerous counts. 

One instance was when you conveniently sat across from him while your friends mingled, positioned so perfectly that he could see the triangle of underwear between your legs. It left little to the imagination, and when images flashed of him running his sticky tongue over your panties—he bit the inside of his cheeks in shame. 

Another time was not too long ago when you adjusted the strap of your dress—he was sitting where he is now, and you had noticed his fixation on the exposed skin of your shoulder. When the flimsy strap irritatingly fell again, you pretended not to see him shifting his shorts by the crotch. 

Something other than enticement was festering behind his gaze. It wasn’t outright staring, but you had an inkling you were being carefully watched. 

Maybe assessed was the better word. 

There was only so much pretend-reading he could do before it became obvious that your boyfriend was undressing you in his mind and using his tome as a silly cover. All of that told you he was ready. 

He just needed a little nudge. A precious courtesy. 

“Haitham, you’ve been thinking about it. Haven’t you?” 

Alhaitham’s lips parted like he was about to deny it. But he didn’t. He wasn’t even sure he could. Between a sigh and a too-long pause, you were surprised when he admitted, “Of course I have. I’m not immune to… well, you.” 

An intentional smile formed at the drop of that last word, and your cheeks immediately grew hot. “You look beautiful,” he continued, but then his tone dipped into something far more audacious. “I might be convinced you were trying to steal my thunder today.” 

The sincerity behind his delivery made your heart pound like a drumline beneath your ribs. 

When you dared slip your hand to his knee, his muscles reflexively twitched. He didn’t try to stop you as you slowly traced the outline of his leg.  

“That honesty is going to get you in a lot of trouble, birthday boy.”  

“Trouble?” He said with a knowing smirk. “I think I’m already in enough trouble for tonight, don’t you?” You let him take your wrist to his mouth, and he suckled above your pulse, soft and slow. 

Goosebumps danced across your arm before you stood up.

Alhaitham tracked every step you made, and his burning hands instinctively moved to your waist when you stopped between his legs. As you leaned down, he almost shut his eyes, expecting a kiss. “What do you mean? I’m terribly innocent.”

The heat of his touch seared through your dress, and you didn’t falter when he started bunching up the fabric. 

Alhaitham, he was different. 

Unlike the temporary touches of almost-lovers, every place his hands explored left a trail of fire in their wake. He always held you like the space between you was something he could not tolerate. Everything had to be met. Tongue. Hands. Body. Mind. 

Alhaitham loved you. Deeply. Utterly. In ways that contradicted his nature. It was neither measured nor composed, only barbaric and all-encompassing. 

And credit must be due to you for being the most patient person in the world.

“So,” you said quietly, brushing away those unruly greys that tickled his forehead. “Do you feel like this time is rushed?”

His long fingers tightened around you, answering your question before he spoke. Whatever hesitation he felt had apparently already passed. “No, this is perfect.” 

As he looked up at you through those curtain of long lashes, an indulgent question had accidentally slipped out of your mouth: “How often do you picture yourself having your way with me?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. Clearly defeated by your feathery voice, he exhaled through his nose, almost jaded, “Constantly."

For some reason, you were still caught by surprise. Even if it lasted for a sliver of a second, when his admiration for you felt too good to be true, sometimes you thought it all a farce. But you were wrong. 

"In fact, I’m thinking about it right now," he continued.

Without needing any more reassurance than that, you closed the distance. “Do you mind?” You asked over his lips. 

“Not at all,” he said like he was granting you a wish. 

One tender kiss bled into another, then another, until his tongue started rolling over yours, swallowing your gasps in between. Then it turned into something wet and visceral. Your body wilted each time they collided, but when his teeth sunk into your bottom lip, a riot of sensations gathered between your thighs. 

Fuck, you swore internally. 

Alhaitham may be a virgin, but he sure didn’t kiss like one.

Still standing, you snaked your arms around his neck and combed at the ends of his hair. No matter how often you’d done this, the sound of his grunts always drowned out the rest of the world. 

Your lips broke apart for only a moment when you were forced to find air. There were too many annoying layers between the two of you, so the cycle of kissing and never crossing that line was forever broken when you pulled on his shirt, “Take this off.” 

Letting you go, even for a second, was unbearable, so when he lifted his arms to rid himself of the barrier, he greedily chased another kiss. The fabric dragged over his torso, revealing inch by inch of warm, silky skin stretched taut over muscle, and as soon as the shirt was gone, you traced the broad plane of his chest. 

From this view, you wonder if he was thinking about how many times he had imagined this moment. How many nights he had stared at the ceiling, picturing your hands on him just like this? 

“Nervous?” You asked, following your palm over the firm ridges of his abdomen as you connected lips again, pecking them softly this time like a butterfly kissing the edge of a blooming flower.

“Impossible.” Alhaitham relaxed his shoulders and pulled blindly at your waist. You looked so pretty—if anything, he was excited to fuck you. “I’m in good hands.”

Your lips trailed downward, over his jaw, his throat, ghosting his uncharted collarbones before moving even lower. Cushions collapsed to the floor as he began to fray beneath you, his body keening toward your open-mouth kisses no matter how much he tried to hold himself together.

“Baby—” he rasped. Your knees wobbled at his sweet call. The quietest groan escaped his mouth, and you felt it reverberate against your lips where they hovered just above his navel. His scent was richer here—clean but muskier, and engulfing your senses to the point of dizziness. 

Sinking to your knees, your tongue followed the dark path of hair that disappeared beneath his shorts while your hands nimbly pushed at his growing tent, “—Fuck,” he sighed, screwing his eyes shut.  It pulsed involuntarily against the restraint, and already, a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Your heart was racing; the size of it felt even bigger in your hand. 

You toyed at the waistband. “Haitham, tell me if you want to stop, okay?”

He nodded, slumping back into the sofa. Sure, but he doesn’t think he will. His lack of words made you wonder if he’d actually heard you. 

You palmed his bulge one last time before pulling everything down and immediately, his cock sprung against his stomach, giving it a good slapping sound while you ogled at the sheer size. And weight. 

It was so much prettier than you’d imagine—not too veiny, plump and pink at the tip, slightly curved, and already glistening with precum under the hues of evening light. A handful of beauty marks dotted the underside of his shaft, which would only help you out in the future when you had to decide which parts of him you wanted to kiss first. It might’ve been the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. 

Rubbing your thumb over the tip, you peered up at him, and as expected, “Oh…” he rolled his eyes back, lulling himself in the immediate pleasure. At that moment, he knew fucking his fist in the dead of night would never feel the same again. Not when they can be hugged by your soft, velvety hands.

Alhaitham’s body jittered under you with each small stroke along his length. Another fat ball of precum dribbled over your knuckles and made it extra slippery—he was so hard, he could barely look at you through his drowsy eyes. 

“Do you like how this feels, baby?”

His feelings wavered between bucking for more friction or letting you dictate his ruin. “I- ah- love it. Keep going… Please…” Either way, by the time this was over, Alhaitham was going to walk away a new man. 

His cock was so heavy, so wide in your hand that you briefly imagined it training your hole open. You desperately clenched around nothing—suddenly it was your turn to feel needy, and as a result, your strokes became even faster as you thought about him stuffing you with it instead. 

Each languid pump chipped away at his resolve, but it was you who was beginning to lose control. Your free hand couldn’t hold still for any longer, so they snaked to the throbbing heat that had been building between your legs for too long. The first roll of circles over your clit sent a sharp jolt up your spine. “Mmmm,” you were already so wet, your slick drenched your fingers within seconds.

Alhaitham's thighs twitched at the sound of you. That was a moan. A real fucking moan. A multitude of things could turn him on but watching his girlfriend play with herself and moaning above his cock made him spasm in his spot. He was begging for more, even if he couldn’t form the words.

“Ahh, Haitham…” you mewled his name softly as you slid two fingers inside your sopping entrance. Without waiting any longer, you spat on the leaking tip as a courtesy warning before taking the entire length in your mouth all at once.

“God…” Alhaitham groaned, drawn out like the sensation alone could tear him apart. He could’ve jumped out of his seat if not for the vice grip he had on the sofa, his knuckles white from holding onto it like a lifeline. The inside of your mouth was so warm, your tongue so blissfully foreign and you felt him stiffen up even more when you sloppily sucked and popped off with a messy slurp. 

“This definitely... isn't your first time,” His voice was rough with lust. 

Every tantalising lick was written off as proof of your experience.   

The praise, while indirect, made your cunt clamp around your moving fingers. You hummed, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock before pulling back with another lewd pop, “No,” you casually admitted, licking a stray tear of precum from your lips. “But it’s my first time taking something so big.” 

“No need to flatter me,” he murmured softly, lifting your dripping chin with a single finger. “You’re already doing enough.”  

But damn, he thought. If that were true, he’d be the one to stretch you further than anyone else.

After returning your lips around him, he unexpectedly brought his hand to the back of your head. 

This time, he didn’t want to sit back. “Slowly…” he sucked in a breath. “I… want to try something.” 

Alhaitham apparently grew some confidence of his own, which made your fingers work even faster inside yourself. Your lips sank lower and lower. Throat tightening as his thick cock tunneled its way through—

“Mmph—!!” Your sudden yelp was muffled when his mushroom tip nudged the back of your throat. The vibration of it made him buckle his knees beside you. 

Oh, he was weak for you. And he knew it. 

“Ugh— Look at you…” he groaned through gritted teeth. Still, despite the newfound confidence, he was losing the battle fast. He had buckled so hard, he was worried he’d already cum but he was relieved when you gagged and withdrew, leaving only strings of saliva connecting to his fat length. 

That was enough to tell him he couldn’t hold it off anymore. 

Alhaitham could barely think straight. His cock was twitching, aching, still glossy from your mouth, and somehow standing taller than when all of this started. 

“Come here,” he pleaded, and now his heart pounded because it was finally happening. 

His eyes were hazy when he hoisted you up, catching you in his lap to taste himself on your tongue. The kiss was feral and teeth-clashing, and the curl of your name kept being whispered again and again between breaths. 

His hands wasted no time, sliding down your body, comfortably hiking up your dress while he met his cock with your entrance. Even with your underwear in the way, you felt just how girthy he was and squeezed around the head as much as your flimsy panties allowed. 

“Haitham~” you whimpered, continuing to grind on him. 

Between his own rolling of his hips, he eagerly helped you tug your dress over your head. Then you hurriedly removed your underwear and returned to his lap.

For a brief moment, he just stared. 

His jaw went slack. His chest rose and fell slowly. 

It was a showcase of your bare body, your soft tummy, your sweat-stricken tits, and your exposed pussy. 

Suddenly, you felt shy, but he reached out with surprising gentleness, smoothing his palm over your waist, then up to your chest. 

“I know I keep repeating myself, but seriously,” he hushed, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you shiver. “You’re beautiful.” 

He looked at you like you were something divine and overcome, your lips crashed against his.

A guttural sound escaped his throat as he kissed you back with just as much hunger.

 “I love you,” you whispered to him. Another twist of your tongue. I love you. Another hand tangled in his hair. I love you. Another peek at your loving boyfriend, eyes shut and kissing you so tenderly like it was the only thing he knew. I love you. 

His hand slipped between your legs, fingers parting the opening where you were dripping for him. If you hadn’t known him at all, you would’ve never guessed this was his first time. Perhaps preparing for this really paid off in the end. 

Your legs trembled around his hand, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. The need clawed at you.

His hand gripped your putty thighs, forcing them open as he stared at the pretty mess. 

Alhaitham flicked his gaze back to yours. “I love you, too,” his voice was hoarse. “And I need to be inside you.” It was then you understood why puppy eyes worked on people. No argument could ever shield him away when he pleaded for you like that. It would be like kicking a puppy in the most literal sense. 

You gave him a nod of approval. It’s okay. 

He exhaled as he positioned himself. The downright weight of it jerking against your clit made you whimper. You couldn’t help but rock into it, circling his shaft with your juices while he was on the cusp of shattering. 

Finally, he lined the swollen head at your entrance, and a sharp gasp left you as he slowly pushed in, stretching you apart like all those times you fantasised in the privacy of your bedroom, but this was much, much better. 

Inch by inch, your walls latched onto him and—

“Shit—” Alhaitham cursed under his breath. 

Nothing has ever felt so warm or soft. Or all-consuming. His entire vision was a blur. There was no doubt he was already painting a clear, sticky mess on your walls. 

Your nails sank into his meaty arms, his name tumbled from your lips as he gradually slotted himself completely inside you. His groan was so deep and wrecked that it made you tremble around him even more. 

Your legs tightened at his side, urging him deeper. “T-Thoughts?” You asked, barely. It remained a mystery how you stayed teasing even as pleasure threatened to steal your words away. 

“You’re so… tight,” he managed to breathe, thrusting up experimentally. His head dropped to your shoulder as he relished in the wet heat of you wrapped around him. “Better than my hands."  

"Better than I ever imagined, actually." A strained chuckle left him. “And I imagined a lot.” 

Another slow thrust. His fingers embedded themselves around your waist, possessive, obsessive, and he buried his face in your neck, breathing you in.

You smiled even though you knew he couldn’t see. “You don’t have to hold back.” 

Your cute encouragement made him snap.

He lifted you slightly before slamming you down on his hips, plunging as far as he could. Right as he did, you arched your back and struggled to find your bearings. The sound of your jutted cries echoed freely in the living room, only for it to be swallowed by his muttering against your skin—

“You’re perfect.” 

A deep thrust, much harder this time. 

“I can’t believe you’re mine.” 

His teeth scraped against your neck. 

And then he really started fucking you. 

Every bounce punctured all the right spots, and you could only whine while rivers of sweat glued your bodies together. You tried to keep up with him, but he was so fervent with his hips that your mind went cloudy. 

More often than not, you tend to forget how strong your boyfriend is, but you’ll never need a reminder after this. Not with how easily his large hands guided you up and down his throbbing cock. You were helpless against the feverish way he moved you. 

Plap. Plap. Plap. Each wet slap of your fleshy ass against his thighs sent a violent shudder through him, decorating his skin with flushed, red marks where you landed. 

Who knew Alhaitham could be so obscene and filthy?

“I can see why—people—enjoy this,” was all he could muster you as deliciously gripped him. Every word punched out of him from the force of your tight cunt. 

However, as good as it felt, most of his enjoyment came from looking at you. 

“Mhm…!” you babbled, brain foggy and hands abandoning his shoulders to roll your sensitive nipples between your fingers, twisting and tugging and arching your back so your tits were right in his face. “But are you—?” You tried to ask between ragged moans, but he cut you off with a snap of his hips.

He’d never seen you in such a messy state, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He was nearly offended at the implication that he wasn’t. How could he not be? He was buried to the hilt and drinking in every filthy little sound that spilled from your lips.

He wanted to engrave the image of this memory into his mind forever.

The creak of the sofa legs as they scraped back and forth on your floor; the squelch of your soaking pussy; your arousal smearing the base of his shaft, running down his legs with every feverish roll. 

Even like this, even while he was losing every last shred of innocence, his mind was already latching onto something else—

“I’m already looking forward to doing this again…” 

Alhaitham, who fucking loved you, was also going to love fucking you. 

Oh, and the toe-curling sensation of his balls smacking the back of your pussy intensified. 

For each erratic push, your battered clit rubbed even more against his pubic bone. Your eyes were starting to drop, and your voice only came in erotic moans. “Baby, please…” You’ve adjusted to the stretch by now, but you’ll never get used to how you can feel every curve or ridge mind-meltingly dragging inside you. “Don’t stop—”

He wishes he could just record the way you coo at him like that, because your honeyed tone damn near made him bust on the spot. 

“F-Fuckk-Ngh… Love, I’m close,” he groaned, forehead falling against yours as his hips stuttered. His hungry, feral eyes—wild, desperate, blown back with lust searched yours, now certain of what he wanted.

“Inside,” you panted, cradling the back of his head with your arms. “I bought a contraceptive tonic… You can cum inside.” 

Alhaitham froze, for just a second. 

But with your permission, he lost whatever fragile thread of control he had left. Using the last of his strength, he clumsily wrapped himself around your waist and attacked your G-spot over and over. 

“Quickly,” you urged him, “Because I’m gonna—!” A feeling in your stomach coiled before you could finish your sentence. With his hips rolling at an angle, everything you were holding together finally broke apart. Your ears abruptly rang, and your vision went entirely white, as if months’ worth of pent-up energy was gushing out of you. 

You pushed through the untangling in your gut, feeling everything all at once as your orgasm obliterated your senses. The downpour left you mewling, writhing, and spasming around him like a tightening knot. You've cummed to the thought of him but you always felt like something was missing.

Nothing but desperate moaning and the crying of his name met his ears while you blissfully rode him out. 

A harsh thrust later did it for him, too. 

His merciless rhythm shattered as he rutted inside one last time, a guttural groan ripping from his throat like all the air was being punched from his lungs. “Hah—I’m cumming!” His cock pulsed violently as he came, hot ropes of ivory spilling deep inside you, with him losing focus after each shudder of his hips. 

So much of it was already oozing out of you despite how tight you still were, and you saw the ruin it brought on him. He was beautiful with his brows pinched tight and strands of damp silver sticking to his forehead. Every flex of his toned arms and chest showcased the primal strength beneath his elegance.

Alhaitham whimpered—it was barely audible as he slumped against your chest. He clung to you, panting, hot breath fanning your shoulder as he pumped out the last tremors of his release. His balls tightened for the final time as they emptied inside you.

Neither of you moved. Just sticky heat, layers upon layers of sweat, and the aftershocks pulsing through your trembling bodies.

Then, slowly, his hands fell to his sides.

“…That was…” he started, feeling like his mind was still trying to piece itself together. His body practically surrendered against the sofa.

You swiped a thumb over his jaw, smiling. “Yeah.”

A beat passed.

When Alhaitham lifted his head, blinking at you, completely softened by the afterglow, it hit you.

Your boyfriend wasn’t a virgin anymore.

© 2025 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform.

divider: @/adornedwithlight

[biteyoubiteme]

Can I get Felix nsfw fic about breeding kink👀

lost luggage

felix x fem!reader

synopsis: the one where you lost your birth control pills.

warnings: 🔞!!! hand job mention, fingering mention, breeding kink, talk of birth control, creampie, no protection, prob forgot some sorry

wc: 1.6k

an: this is not the best im so sorry but I love this pic of felix so so much and I hope you like it <33 thank you so much for requesting! not proofread sorry :p

[m.list] [1kevent m.list]

You had lost your suitcase. Or the airline had misplaced the luggage and claimed to get it to you in the next forty-eight hours. Apologizing for the inconvenience and sending you on your way. It hadn't been too big a deal, Felix talking you down from the anger bubbling up inside you, not necessarily at the airline but at yourself for thinking this would never happen to you. And then yes at the airline and their stupid bad timing and even worse customer service. 

But Felix was there, hand on your shoulder, heady voice in your ear, whispering about taking you out to grab the essentials, to not worry about this one setback. He didn't even care about showing up late to the party you two had been flown out for in the first place. “We will be here all week, being an hour or two late won’t hurt anyone,” 

He was right, everyone had been sympathetic to your situation, cursing the baggage claim gods just as passionately as you had. But it wasn't until the third day of your trip that you remembered one of the key things left in your toiletries bag. The little foil and plastic case of your birth control pills, hastily added into the bag because it was always right there on the edge of the sink next to your toothbrush, taken in the morning consistently enough that you never really forget about it. Not until it was one of the last things on your mind when trying to remember exactly what you needed to buy to replace the lost items for the time being. 

You would have forgotten entirely if it hadn't been for your reflex to reach out for the pill case the second you have finished washing your face. “Shit,” you scrambled to think up the last time you had sex, save the lazy hand jobs the two of you had exchanged in bed that first night. Felix's fingers buried deep inside you as the two of you made out, his soft moans trapped against your lips with each drag of your hand on him. 

Felix hummed a question from the hotel's bed, still lying back against the headboard scrolling on his phone. “What is it?” 

“My birth control was in the checked bag,” you sighed, over the whole thing, if you thought about the bag too much it would just put you right back to the mindset you had right at that airport help desk. “It's fine, calm, cool, collected thoughts just like you said,” you tried to mimic his sweet soothing voice, letting the syllables relax in your mouth to make them true. “If we have sex we will just be careful and when I get the bag back I will make sure to always listen to my gut and put essentials into the carry on,” 

The conversation had been over and done with, forgotten by you as you got ready to go out but not forgotten by Felix. The first thing that came to his mind was the same thought as you, when was the last time you had sex, did you two happen to slip up? Then his mind tripped down a road of questions he never found himself exploring; would it be so bad if you two had slipped up? What if neither of you cared? What if he did get you pregnant? 

Never had his body reacted so fast to an idea, blood rushing down to his cock until it was aching and dripping precum at a rate he hadn't ever experienced. It wasn't as if he had never thought about having kids with you, no this was different, the risk of it right now. Just thinking about how close the two of you had been without realizing it, how only the night before if he had pushed into you, fucked you until you were dumb on his cock, spilling inside you only to do it all over again, you'd be claimed in a way he never would have thought about until this very second. 

He wanted that; to watch you dripping with his cum, claimed as his in a way no other man had ever had you, ready to do it over and over again until you were stuffed so full you couldn't even think about anything else but him and him alone. He was shifting in his seat, trying and failing to adjust himself in his sweatpants, his bulge slung across his thigh, noticeable enough for when you came out of the bathroom again needing the zipper of your dress done up. You chuckled,“Just hearing me say sex gets you hard now?” 

Your hands were on the front of your dress, holding it up and in place, pushing up your boobs just the right amount to draw his eyes in. If you got pregnant they would get bigger, maybe even double in size, and it's all that he can see as he pulls you down on the bed. 

The breath is knocked out of you, his hips fitting right between yours pressing his clothed cock right against you, grinding as he kisses down your neck, leaving a sloppy trail of them right down to your cleavage. Pulling down your dress just enough to free your tits from the fabric, his moan deep in the back of his throat as he takes in your peaked nipples. “Look at how pretty,” he always lets his voice drag out, running low enough to get your panties soaked. “Are you going to be a good girl for me?” 

He's looking at you from under his lashes, drawing you in with every little word. You would be anything he wanted you to be if it got him to look at you like that, every little freckle on display under his heated lazy gaze. Your chin barely moves to nod yes and he's got his hands under your dress, tearing your panties away. He wanted you in a way he's never felt before, the walls of his reserve packed up tight now crumbling down at the sight of your glistening cunt. 

Felix doesn’t falter in his movements tugging himself free from his sweatpants, jerking his wrist over his veiny shaft, circling his fingers over his tip collecting all his precum. You're spilled out on the sheets, dress pushed into a belt around your center, your knees falling open for him just enough so that when he pulls you to the edge of the bed you can wrap them around him. Your hips jerk at the sensation of him dragging his cock through your folds, getting himself as lubed up on your wetness as he can before he pushes in. 

The sound of his moan rumbled through his body, no time to let you adjust to the size of him before he's plumbing into you. Your hands shoot out for his wrists, his fingers denting into your hips to keep you in place. “Oh fuck- you always take my cock so well baby-” Every drag of his cock against your gummy walls is pure bliss, your mind fogging up with each sweet word he shares. “Sucking me in and begging me to fill you,” 

It's then that you realize you forgot a condom, not that either of you had one handy, not when you relied so heavily on your pills. “You have to- you'll have to-” but as much as you want to say the words they get stuck right on the edge of a whimper, pull out, right on the edge of your tongue. But its all tamped down when he adds, “ill have to fill you up, pump you full of my cum- fuck- push it back in and do it again,” 

Felix had never brought this up before, not even when he was desperately begging you to finish with him, buried deep in you needing to hear you cry for him. This was different, panting as he went on and on, “Everyone will know you're mine, all plump and perfect with my baby,” he lets one of his hands press down into your pelvis, slapping skin sticky in the air, knees weak from the feeling. “I'm going to cum right here, you feel that?” he digs the heel of his palm in, the tip of his cock pressed right where he wants it, tucked against your cervix hitting it until you're a shaking mess below him. “You'regoing to be so full of me, don't you want that? Tell me you want my baby,” 

“Felix,” you're gasping, scratching at the sheets trying and failing to find purchase on something to keep you grounded because, with each snap of his hips against yours, you're losing it, scrambling to find sanity. 

“Tell me, fuck- oh fuck- please, tell me,” he's begging thumb moving down to press on your swollen clit, circling the bud until your back is lifting off the mattress. He has a direct pull on your body, tugging your orgasm out of you. 

“I want it- please I want your baby,” you're almost in tears before the tidal wave crashes over you, your whole body tensing up before collapsing into bliss. Felix's hot cum spurts out in thick streams coating your walls and pushing out with each continuous stroke of his cock inside you. He slows just enough to let you keep squeezing him, his hands sliding up your thighs to keep them in place around him. 

Leaning down to pepper you with kisses he inadvertently pushes into you deeper, your whimper so sweet neck to his ear,“we can stay like this for a while before we go another round,” 

“A-another?” 

He drags his hips, grinding down against your sensitive clit, “I want to make sure I fill you enough to have that baby,” 

taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire @chasingthatjjunie @possum-playground @ch4nn13luv want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join! want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask!

[miange1]

your brian moser content is fire (and the only male reader ones i’ve seen). please make more

BRIAN MOSER

summary: he realizes your a virgin a bit too late

male reader, virgin reader, bottom reader, rough sex, overstimulation, cumming too much, breeding kink(?), kitchen counter sex, needy stuff, leg lifting to get deeper(like that one cabin scene in polar with duncan), belly bulges, this is short im lazy

note: happy new year i was listening to videoclub writing ts

his lips rushed to crash onto yours, his hands gripping your body as he had rushed you into the kitchen and not even bothering to go to the bedroom to finish getting your clothes off.

your shirt was already scattered to the floor, belt falling out of your unbuttoned pants. a whimper came from you as you'd feel his erection press against your hip as he pinned you to the counter top.

"brian.." yes, fuck he loved that. finally having his real name moaned so perfectly like that. his lips came to your neck, latching and sucking dark and deep purple bruises to your skin.

he'd lift your lower half, allowing your pants and boxers to fully slide off. he gave a quick spit to his two fingers, practically shoving them inside of you and curling them quickly.

"fuck, oh my god." your arms flew to his shoulders, fingers crumpling his shirt as they dug through almost painfully. "shh, i've got you," he spoke lowly in your ear, pumping his fingers in and out of your hole, your velvety walls clenching around his fingers which made it a bit difficult for him to fully prep you.

"hurts..slow down.." his eyebrows raise a moment, slowing his movements down momentarily, to then take his fingers fully, and a string of slick saliva connecting then breaking off as quickly as it had come.

he'd spit one last glob on his palm, rubbing down from his tip to full length. his singular hand still holding you changed your position, your ass pressing against him, a small shiver going through your body as you'd felt his half lubed cock against your ass.

"brian please.." you were begging, god how much more perfect could you get? it's as if he had hit some sort of jackpot, was he simply this lucky? "im going, im going." he spoke, slipping himself inside you, his eyes rolling back and he'd groan from the overly tight feeling surrounding him.

"fuck— so damn tight, shit.." and he'd mean it, he wasn't just saying it to be hot because fuck, you were tight. he wasn't even sure if he could move as hard and quick as he wanted to.

but sooner or later he did, few thrusts in and he had been going crazy. wet skin slaps echoed throughout his kitchen, your moans practically being screams being like a melody to his ears. his eyes watched as you'd try and grip the table– grip something to keep yourself holding on.

your jaw slack open, tongue slightly lolling out and your eyes glazed and glossed over with tears and disassociation. you couldn't even form words, just choked up moans and gasps.

his fingernails had dug into your skin, he stopped for a moment to crack his neck, and lift his knee up onto the counter to thrust inside deeper. he wasn't going to fast this time, focusing on how deep and rough his motion was.

you could only muster up strained gasps, any noise you'd make would make your throat hurt and your voice raspy. your body was shaking like a leaf, saliva dripping off of your tongue as you could no longer have the mindset to even swallow. your eyes either stuck in one spot or frantically moving around to chase your vision back because he was making you see stars.

he would put his leg back down, hoisting you up so your back could press flush against his chest. his hand pressured on your stomach, a lump being felt underneath his fingertips. "feel that?" his dick twitched catching sight of your expression. "how hard you've got me?" you'd mindlessly nod, barely taking in his words because all you had understood was the fact he asked you a damn question.

he'd make another groan,your body finally resting and going limp as he had cum inside much more than intended. even as he was deep inside you, cum still managed to drip down your thigh. when he'd pull out he'd see it all, see your hole twitch from the cold air and how much cum had truly leaked out.

glops of white overloading inside of you, your legs wobbling slightly as you could barely hold yourself up. "just a sec," his thumb came to spread you, to peer more at the way your body gushed his cum.

"enjoying the view."

in bed you had been fast asleep, breathing finally steady and your body finally calm. he'd laugh a bit to himself as he thought back to how you acted.

you acted as if it was your first time fucking or something.

his smile then faded, and he'd sit up. it was your first time, of course it was! who else reacts that way while fucking. he'd taken your virginity on a kitchen counter.

[unstablecherries]

Just like That, (NSFW)

Oneshot; Vi x Virgin!reader

content; first time, soft, slow, praise, gentle, fingering

Vi’s lips were gentle but sure, tilting into yours with that quiet sort of confidence she always carried; not arrogance, but like she knew how to handle something fragile. Someone fragile.

You weren’t fragile, not really. But tonight, in this moment, shirt off, skin bare, heart racing.. you felt like glass.

Vi pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“Still good?”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat.

“Just nervous.”

She kissed the tip of your nose. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be anything but here right now.”

And god, you wanted to be. With her. Like this.

When her hand slid down your belly, fingers splaying over your hip, she moved slow enough that every nerve lit up in its own little fire. She didn’t rush. She just looked at you like she was reading your body second by second, waiting for every breath.

Her fingertips dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear.

“Still okay?”

You nodded, unable to speak. She leaned in to kiss you again, and that time, her fingers grazed your center; warm, slick, and already throbbing with need.

Vi let out a low, pleased sound. “Damn, angel. All this for me?”

You whimpered, hips twitching under her touch.

She smiled against your neck and took her time exploring; lazy strokes up and down your folds, parting you gently, mapping every inch like she had all the time in the world. She never even tried to slip inside yet, just circled your clit in feather-light touches that made your thighs shake.

“I want you to remember how good this feels,” she whispered. “So every time you think about your first time, you’ll think about this. About me.”

Her fingers moved a little faster now, firmer pressure, but still teasing, still just enough to keep you gasping and squirming under her hand. You rocked your hips toward her, needy, aching.

“Vi- please-”

“You’re getting close, huh?” she murmured, thumb brushing over your clit in a slow circle that made your back arch. “You don’t even need more yet. Look at how sweet your body is for me.”

You moaned, head falling back. She kissed your throat, your collarbone, your breast, everywhere but where you needed her.

And then she slid one finger inside, slow and steady.

You gasped at the stretch, not pain, just pressure, new and intimate and perfect with the way she angled her hand. She didn’t move at first, Just let you get used to it, her palm warm against you.

“You’re doing so good,” she whispered, brushing your hair off your face. “Look at you. Taking me so well.”

She began to move, slow thrusts that made your walls flutter and your breath hitch. Her thumb circled your clit again, not rushed, not rough, just enough.

You could feel it building again. The heat low in your belly, winding tighter with every stroke.

“I’ve got you,” she said again, firmer this time, almost reverent. “Just let it happen. You’re safe. Let me take care of you.”

And with a cry, you did.

You came hard, clinging to her arm, your body pulsing around her fingers as wave after wave rolled through you. Your vision blurred. Your breath trembled. You heard her voice in your ear the whole time; murmuring how beautiful you looked, how proud she was, how lucky she felt to be your first.

When it passed, she kissed your temple and gently slid her hand away, wrapping her arms around you like she’d never let you go.

You buried your face in her chest, still catching your breath. “That was…”

She smiled, pressing her lips to your hair. “Perfect,” she finished for you. “You were perfect.”

[mahalkitamully]

awkward hellos across the room 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

: nerd ! Ellie Williams x popular ! reader PT. 1

inspired by teenage dirtbag by wheatus !! also i'm sosososo sorry if this is bad!! i'm fighting for creativity rn, i hope this wasn't weird or funky sounding urrrghghhh

Includes !! : a more stereotypical way of school like imagine 2000s movies iykwim, awkward nerd ellie hehe, popular reader, yayayay

PLEASE READ THE DISCLAIMER!

ー

Ellie Williams wasn’t your most popular student — at least, among the other kids. She’d always be drawing or stuck in a book about whatever science thing she was interested in at the moment. You on the other hand were well known around school. Walking down the halls, you’d hear person after person say hi, even kids you didn’t even know. 

To say Ellie liked you is an understatement. She adored you. Not in a creepy way, but in an ‘I need her so badly, but I’m too afraid to say something, so I’ll giggle over her from afar’ way. All 2 of her friends knew your name. Dina and her would talk about you over a smoke while Jesse just chimed in every now and then. 

All of which leading up to this night. Dina and Ellie were smoking as Jesse watched TV. Ellie was in shambles, wondering whether or not to talk to you. The two of you were acquainted, but she wanted more. She wanted to make you laugh, to know the real you. The only problem was that she didn’t know if you’d pity her, laugh at her, or react in another totally exaggerated way.

 “I’m telling you, you just gotta go up and talk to her, man.” Jesse chuckled, running a hand through his hair and leaning back on the couch.

“El, the worst she can say is no-!” Dina laughed at Ellie’s rambling, who was now huffing out smoke and running a hand through her auburn hair.

“Or- Or look at me weirdly. Or never want to be near me. Or publicly embarrass me. Or-” Jesse cut her off, laughing and leaning forward as he rested his arms on his knees. “Look. You’re a cool person, she’s a cool person, you both would be perfect for each other. Me and her talked when we had study hall in the library. She seems like a sweet girl. She wouldn’t publicly embarrass you-!”

. . .

Chemistry was the easiest for Ellie, so she almost always finished. You were walking behind her to put back the goggles when you pointed at one of her doodles. “This is so cute!!” Your voice chimed, gushing over her lazy scribbles on the paper. Ellie looked up at you and mumbled out a thank you, smiling all stupid. She watched as you walked back to your desk, leaving her palms sweating.

At the end of class, you went up to talk to her again. “Ellie- uhm, I was just wondering if you could help me after school with my chemistry work? You’re always done first so uh..” 

Ellie was taken aback, her eyes locked on you. She stood there and fiddled with her bag before actually speaking, her voice a little strained. “Uh- yeah uhm- yeah I can help you after school- Is the- the library ok?” And with your nod, she smiled. “Okay- See you after school then-.”

She rushed to tell Dina, her palms sweaty and her mind racing.

. . .

She sat awkwardly at the table in front of you, doing her own homework as she waited for you to ask another question. It’d been an hour and a half since the two of you got here, and she still hadn’t gathered the courage to say anything.

“Hey Ellie,” Your voice broke the silence, and immediately Ellie’s head perked up to meet your gaze. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“The drawing earlier, who was it?” You tilted your head, fidgeting with your pencil. You didn’t want to make things awkward, but you just wanted to change the mood from strictly educational to friends chilling. If Ellie wanted.

“Oh uhm-” How the hell was she supposed to say it was you? That all over her papers were you, your eyes, your smile, the way your hair curled and complimented your face. “..A- uhm- She’s a character I saw in a comic-.” She stammered out as you nodded with an ‘Oooh.’

The more you two talked, the more she realized y'all had a lot more in common. You were more than the stereotypes usually stuck onto pretty girls in mini skirts and curled hair who were popular among people. You had your own niche tastes, and Ellie felt stupid for not considering the fact that you might've been a little weird like her too.

She also found out that your boyfriend's a dick. And even that's an understatement. Hell he even brought a gun to school. Of course, she was a little disappointed, but knowing you didn't like the way he acted anymore gave her a little hope. That didn't change the fact that she was scared of him. God, he'd kick her ass if he knew the truth.

A few kids walked past and whispered to each other, looking at Ellie before realizing she was with you. A few kids came up and said hi to you, leaving Ellie doodling in her sketchbook awkwardly waiting for them to leave. Other than that, the night was silent.

Once the two of y’all were done, you held your backpack straps tight and smiled at her. “Thank you for helping Ellie, do you think we could try studying together again? You really helped a ton!”

She rubbed the back of her neck as she mumbled out a thank you. “Ah.. It was nothing really-.. And yeah, we could do this again.” Hanging out with you tonight was already stressful enough. She didn’t know what to say, how to act, anything.

As you turned to walk away, her voice called out after you. She speed walked to you awkwardly, fiddling with her backpack straps once more. “Can- Can we uhm- Do you wanna like- Hang out sometime? I uh- know this good burger place that just opened- Me and my friends are gonna go but- but uh, you’re more than welcome to join us- If- if you want, y’know-.” 

Damn, why couldn’t she spit a single sentence out without jumbling her words?

Even after that mess of an invite, she was shocked to hear you say ‘yes.’ And so excitedly.

The two of you walked away feeling a little more accomplished.

ー 

꩜ : tag list !! || @lovewitchss (if you wanna be added, just lmk!)

[nhmkhnh]

Pleaseee write for sevika or caitlyn x virgin reader who finishes stupidly fast and gets all embarrassed about it!!!

this ask was lost in my inbox, sorry for the late reply baby. by the way, the idea is so hot, so i decided to write both haha. (each char for each drabble)

dom!sevika x sub!fem!reader || dom!caitlyn x sub!fem!reader tags: nsfw content ;; virgin reader ;; soft dom!char ;; fingering (r.receiving)

sevika

“relax, sweetheart. i got you.”

her voice is rough velvet as she presses a kiss to your throat, pinning you gently to the bed with her thigh slotted between yours, metal hand gripping the back of your neck. she’s barely even started—just mouthing at your pulse, whispering filth into your ear—and already your hips won’t stop twitching, grinding without rhythm.

you’re so wet it’s embarrassing.

“i’ve barely touched you,” she murmurs, dragging the edge of her teeth up your jaw. “this your first time lettin’ someone take care of you like this?”

you nod.

she chuckles, deep and low. “thought so.”

when her hand dips between your thighs, fingers barely ghosting over your underwear, your whole body jerks. her eyes spark. you grip her bicep like a lifeline.

“s-sorry—” you gasp, already trembling.

“what for?”

you don't get to answer. because that’s when her fingers finally press in just right, rubbing lazy little circles over your clothed clit—

and you’re gone.

your breath shatters. you gasp and cry out, hips bucking forward as your orgasm hits you stupidly fast—barely thirty seconds in, underwear still on. you can’t stop shaking. and when your eyes flutter open, sevika’s watching you like you just handed her a gift.

your face burns. “i—i didn’t mean to—!”

she huffs a laugh and brushes a hand down your chest, so gentle it stings. “shit, baby, that was adorable.”

you hide your face. “don’t make fun of me—”

“i’m not.” her voice drops, low and possessive. “you came just from my voice and a little friction. you know what that does to me?”

she leans in, presses her teeth to your throat.

“round two’s gonna be fun.”

caitlyn kiramman

“darling, you’re shaking.”

caitlyn’s lips ghost over your neck, breath warm and steady, while your body feels like it’s about to explode. you’re spread out on soft silk sheets in her bed, completely bare beneath her. and all she’s done—all she’s done—is kiss you down to your chest, trail her fingers along your thighs, whisper sweet, devastating things about how long she’s wanted this.

“you’ve never been touched here before, have you?” she asks softly, fingertips resting over your mound.

you shake your head.

“that’s alright,” she purrs. “i’ll be gentle. let me make you feel good.”

she leans down. one kiss just below your navel. her hand moves lower, brushing over your slick folds. and when her thumb finds your clit—just the lightest, most teasing pressure—

you whimper. your legs spasm.

“cait—!”

the orgasm hits you like a bolt of lightning. your stomach clenches, body trembling, heat exploding outward from that one spot she barely touched. you let out a sob of surprise, and when your senses return, you’re flushed all the way down to your chest.

“i—i’m sorry,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “that was so fast. i didn’t mean to—”

but she’s smiling. soft, stunned.

“oh, sweetheart.” she cradles your face. “don’t you dare apologize.”

you bury your face in her shoulder. she pulls you close, dotting kisses along your cheek, your temple, your lips.

“that was the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen,” she murmurs, voice husky now. “so eager for me, you couldn’t even wait.”

she kisses your lips again, this time deeper.

“let me show you what happens when we don’t rush.”

and this time, you whimper for a different reason.