#real-time mining monitoring

[mobiloittetechblogs]

Mobiloitte: Smart IT Solutions for Efficient Mining Operations

Mobiloitte: Smart IT Solutions for Efficient Mining Operations

[enhaflixer]

dad!enhypen x mom f!reader - enha dilf smut

cw: smut, breeding kink, degradation, 69ing some real filthy some real sweet im ngl 2 u ENHA HARD HOURS MDNI 18+

-

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Yuri’s finally asleep upstairs, her stuffed bear clutched in one tiny hand. The monitor hums on the kitchen counter. Snow’s falling outside the windows, crackling gently against the fire-warmed glass.

And Heeseung?

He’s looking at you like you’re dessert.

The second you bend down to put your mug in the sink—sweatpants sliding just an inch too low, the back of your tank top riding up—he’s behind you.

His palm presses flat to your lower back. His hips grind into your ass, and you feel him already hard.

“Baby,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You wanna be a mom again that bad?”

You laugh breathlessly. “She just fell asleep.”

He leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“Then you better keep your mouth shut.”

Your heart stutters. Your thighs clench.

Heeseung grabs your hips, bends you gently over the kitchen counter, and pulls your sweats down just far enough to expose your soaked panties.

“Oh, you’re ready already?” he says, one brow raised. “Just from me watching you do dishes like a good little wife?”

He strokes one finger up the seam of your pussy, still covered.

You squirm. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Heeseung—”

“No,” he whispers, kissing your spine. “Say it.”

“Please fuck me.”

He slides your panties aside and pushes in slowly—deep—like he’s savoring it.

You gasp, hands braced on the cold counter, the stretch already making your legs shake.

And he starts moving.

Not gentle.

Not rough.

Just… focused.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming you all over again.

“Look at you,” he groans. “Tight like it’s the first time. Wet like you were made for me. This pussy’s been mine since day one, huh?”

You whimper, trying not to moan too loud.

The baby monitor glows quietly in the corner.

Heeseung sees you glance at it and smirks.

“You scared she’s gonna hear?” he taunts. “Worried our little girl’s gonna wake up and hear mommy getting bred like she asked for it?”

You moan into your arm. Heeseung growls.

“God, you’re so fucking hot when you’re trying to be quiet.”

He grabs your jaw, pulls you up just enough to hiss into your ear:

“You know what gets me off? Seeing you with her. Watching you tuck her in, feed her, kiss her little cheeks like the perfect mother.”

He thrusts harder.

“And knowing that this is what you need when she’s down for a nap. Knowing I fuck you so good, you leak for an hour after.”

You’re shaking. Crying out now.

There’s slick dripping down your thighs, onto the floor. Heeseung grabs your chin, makes you look at your reflection in the microwave.

“Look at yourself,” he growls. “So messy. So fucked out. You want another one? I’ll fill you up right now. Knock you up again while our daughter’s sleeping upstairs.”

You cum so hard your knees give out.

Heeseung holds you up.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Now hold still.”

He fucks you through it. Doesn’t pull out.

And when you feel it—that rush of heat, his cum spilling inside you—you moan like it’s your own orgasm.

Heeseung pants against your neck, then presses the softest kiss to your temple.

“That’s how you start a family vacation.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠

The baby’s asleep. The monitor’s on. You’re freshly showered, wearing nothing but a robe, leaning against the headboard with your legs tucked up beneath you.

Jay walks in slowly, towel around his neck, hair damp from his own shower. You smile at him, lazy and soft. He looks at you like he’s been starving.

“You shouldn’t sit like that,” he murmurs, climbing onto the bed.

“Like what?”

He crawls toward you, eyes locked on the part of your robe that’s come slightly undone.

“Like your pussy isn’t the only thing I’ve thought about all day.”

You laugh, but your breath catches when he kisses your thigh. Just above the knee. Then higher. Then higher.

“I’m serious,” he whispers, lips dragging against your skin. “Ever since you got pregnant… ever since you gave birth…”

His hands slide under the robe. Push your thighs apart gently.

“You taste different. Sweeter. Thicker. Like wine.”

You stare down at him, stunned. Flushed. “Jay—”

But he’s already kissing your pussy like it’s communion.

Slow, reverent. Like he’s praying.

He moans into you, loud, unashamed. His fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you closer. You feel his lips part—his tongue flatten—and then he’s drinking you like he’s been deprived.

“Fuck,” he groans, breaking away for a second. “You taste like something aged in heaven and bottled for sinners.”

You whimper. Try to close your legs.

He growls. “No. You gave me a child. You really think I’m ever gonna stop tasting you?”

He eats you with slow, devastating focus. Not teasing. Not rushed. Just deep, soft, relentless devotion.

You cum once—twice—he doesn’t stop.

Even when your thighs tremble, even when your hips jerk up, even when your hand grips his hair like a lifeline.

Jay doesn’t stop until you’re crying.

And when he finally comes up, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes dark?

He kisses your stomach.

The stretch marks.

The curve of your softened belly.

The skin he watched stretch around his baby.

“You taste better now,” he murmurs. “Because you’re mine in every way. And I’m never gonna let you forget it.”

𝐒𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

He’s been hard all goddamn day.

You’ve been walking around the house in that little tank top, no bra, nipples brushing the fabric every time you breathe. You keep bending over to pick up your son’s toys, bouncing him on your hip like some sweet little housewife. Jake hasn’t had your pussy in a week, and it shows.

Every time you talk to him, his brain short-circuits.

Every time you smile at him, his cock twitches.

Your son Jacob?

Beautiful. Perfect. The light of his life.

Also ruining his sex life.

It’s not your fault. Jake knows that. But he’s still spiraling.

It’s 9:46pm.

The baby’s finally asleep.

You’re barely in the bedroom before he’s on you.

He locks the door. Turns around. And says it—

“Get your ass on the bed before I fuck you against the wall like a rabid dog.”

You blink. “Jake—”

“No. I’ve been jerking off to the memory of your pussy for six fucking days. I came in the goddamn laundry room this morning like a pervert. The second that kid shuts his eyes, I’m in you.”

You’re already backing up. Jake follows, jaw tight, cock fully hard in his sweats.

“You’ve been teasing me all fucking day. Walking around with your tits out like you don’t know what you’re doing. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He drags your shorts down. Sees your panties. Laughs, mean and low.

“Oh, these are getting ruined. Hope you weren’t attached.”

He kisses you. Rough. Possessive.

Then drops to his knees and spits on your pussy through the fabric.

“Been dreaming about this cunt. Swear to god, baby. You’ve got the kind of pussy that ruins people.”

You’re gasping. Squirming. Already dripping through the cotton.

Jake groans. “Fuck, you’re soaked. You miss this mouth too, huh? Miss being licked until you cry? Look at you—messy and shaking, and I haven’t even pulled the panties off yet.”

He pulls them aside, tongue already out, devouring you like he’s starving.

He’s loud. Sloppy. Mouth wet and wide and relentless.

“Fuck, I forgot how good this tastes. Like candy. Like fucking syrup. Wanna drown in it. Wanna tonguefuck you until you start babbling, baby. Give me that shit.”

You cum in his mouth in under two minutes.

He doesn’t stop.

“You think I’m done? Nah. Not even close. I’m not pulling my mouth off this pussy till your legs stop working.”

“Mamaaaa?”

Both of you freeze.

“Mama, snack please?”

Jake lifts his face from between your thighs, chin soaked. He blinks once.

Then stands up.

Calm. Still. Murderous.

“I’m gonna drop him off at my mom’s.”

You’re panting. “Jake—”

“I swear to fucking god, I love him, but if he interrupts me one more time, I’m going to lose it. I’m on the edge, baby. Your pussy’s dripping, my balls hurt, and my mouth tastes like heaven.”

He pulls his hoodie on. Wipes his face with the sleeve. Grabs his keys.

“Get ready. Because when I get back, I’m going to come in you until you’re stuffed so full you forget your own name.”

He leans down, kisses your pussy one more time.

Smirks.

“Try not to cum without me.”

And walks out the door.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

It’s late.

And Sunghoon’s at his limit.

The boys fought all day—chased each other with brooms, cried over identical socks, tried to body slam each other off the fucking couch. He broke up four WWE reenactments, confiscated two folding chairs, and heard the phrase “Spear him!!”more than a Monday Night Raw announcer.

He didn’t even finish his dinner.

Now you’re on your knees, robe slipped off your shoulders, tits swaying as you crawl between his legs with that look in your eye.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease.

He just pulls his cock out—already hard—and groans:

“Open your fucking mouth, baby. Daddy needs to forget he’s a parent for ten fucking minutes.”

You moan like you were born for it, lips parting, tongue flat as he feeds it to you inch by inch.

“Goddamn,” he hisses. “That mouth. You’ve been thinking about this all day too, haven’t you? Walking around like my dumb little housewife—cooking for our kids while this tight little throat’s just sitting here. Untouched.”

You gag. Loud. He grins. Dark. Mean.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking slobber on it. I want your spit dripping down to your tits.”

And then—

SLAM. SLAM. SLAM.

“DAAAAAADDDD!!!!!!!”

Sunghoon freezes mid-thrust.

You look up at him—dazed, cock still in your mouth, tears brimming.

He blinks.

Clenches his jaw.

Looks at the door.

“DAD!! JAEWON WON’T TAP OUT—HE’S NOT EVEN SELLING!!”

“HE HIT ME WITH THE PILLOW TOO SOFT!! THAT’S NOT A REAL FINISHER!!”

Sunghoon exhales like he’s in prison.

Stares at you. Then back at the door.

And then he laughs. Quiet. Deranged.

“Let them fight.”

He grabs your head in both hands, forces your face down until you’re choking on his cock again.

“They wanna pretend they’re in the ring?” he growls. “Fine. They can wrestle to the sound of their mother being face-fucked.”

You whimper, throat bulging.

“Yeah. Gag on it, slut. Show me how much you missed this. Bet your pussy’s soaked already.”

You’re dripping. Pathetically.

You can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move—but Sunghoon doesn’t care.

He keeps fucking into your throat like it owes him something, hips snapping rough, deep, relentless.

“Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping. They wanna scream through the door? Let them.”

You moan around him—loud. Shaky.

One of your tits bounces against your stomach with each thrust, and he watches it like he’s hypnotized.

“DAAAAAAD!!! CAN YOU COUNT TO THREE?! JAEHYUN’S PINNING ME AND WON’T GET OFF!!”

Sunghoon barks a laugh, head thrown back.

“Yeah, hold on—let me just finish throatfucking my wife so I can come count to three like a fucking WWE ref.”

You gag so hard tears stream down your cheeks.

“That’s it, baby. God, you look so pretty with my cock shoved down your throat. Bet they’ll shut the fuck up if they hear you choking on daddy’s dick.”

You cum untouched.

Right there on your knees, body shaking, soaked down your thighs—just from the way he talks to you. The way you knowhe’s been waiting all fucking day to use you like this.

Sunghoon feels it.

He pulls you off, cock soaked, saliva clinging in strings to your lips. You’re panting, teary-eyed, flushed.

“You done?” he murmurs. “Or you want me to make them wait while I use your pussy next?”

“DAD. I’M GONNA DO A LADDER MATCH OFF THE STAIRS IF YOU DON’T COME OUT.”

Sunghoon sighs.

Looks down at you.

Smiles.

“Five more minutes. Think you can handle it, mommy?”

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐨

It’s past ten. The house is quiet—finally.

And Sunoo is face down in the mattress, one sock still on, his shirt halfway pulled up his back like he got undressed mid-collapse and gave up.

You close the bedroom door softly. Climb in next to him.

“Long day?”

He groans into the pillow.

“She cried because I gave her the green cup instead of the pink one. Then she screamed when I tried to switch it. She said the bubbles in the bath were ‘too round.’”

You smile, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“And then,” he continues, voice muffled, “she fell asleep on me at six-thirty, woke up ten minutes later, and punched me in the nose. I think she might be feral.”

You laugh softly, kissing his cheek.

He rolls over—barely. One eye open. Face flushed from stress and exhaustion and not getting to touch you for four days straight.

“I need you to ride me,” he whispers.

You blink. “Right now?”

“I literally can’t move.” He stretches his arms out uselessly. “My soul left my body around lunchtime. I need you to do everything. Just use me. Treat me like a toy. I’ll whimper, I swear.”

You bite your lip.

He looks so pretty like this.

Messy. Tired. Desperate.

So you peel off your clothes—slowly, deliberately. He watches through heavy lashes, licking his lips when you tug your panties down.

“Please,” he breathes. “Come sit on it. I’m not even kidding. I think I’ll cry if you don’t.”

You crawl into his lap, straddle him gently, and feel how hard he is already—twitching under the waistband of his boxers. You free him with a soft gasp, stroke him once, twice, then sink down slowly onto his cock.

Sunoo whines.

Like, really whines. Head thrown back, hands twitching against the sheets.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “You’re so wet. Baby, you’re so fucking wet. And warm. You’re gonna kill me.”

You rock your hips slowly, grinding down, pussy clenching around him with each roll. He’s not moving at all—just laying there, fully at your mercy, biting his lip and moaning so sweetly it makes your toes curl.

“You’re such a good boy,” you murmur, leaning forward to kiss his neck. “Letting me use you like this.”

He whimpers. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

You ride him slow and deep, your tits brushing his chest, his cock hitting just right with every movement. He’s flushed, wrecked, totally silent except for the filthy little sounds leaving his throat.

And when you clench around him hard, he gasps and cries out:

“I’m gonna cum—oh my god—don’t stop, please, baby, I need it so bad—”

You fuck him through it. Harder. Deeper.

He cums with his mouth open, eyes wide, hips twitching under you like he’s about to pass out.

He goes still. Completely still.

Eyes closed. Breathing shallow.

You brush his hair back.

“Sunoo?”

He hums, dazed. “You broke me.”

You laugh, kiss his forehead.

“Do you want water?”

He shakes his head, voice barely audible.

“I want Mirae to sleep till she’s eighteen. Then she can move out.”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧

You’ve never hated your own child more than you did tonight.

You love Noa—of course you do—but after ninety minutes of pure hell (a tantrum about socks, three fake pees, one real one, and exactly zero full minutes of sleep), you’re about ready to throw yourself out the window.

Jungwon—freshly showered, soft-eyed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, licking the frosting spoon you didn’t get to finish?

You’re gonna ride his fucking face until he can’t speak.

He walks into the bedroom, hair messy, voice raspy. “She’s finally down. I think.”

You’re already pulling your shirt over your head.

He blinks. “You okay?”

“No,” you snap, kicking your shorts off. “I’ve been thinking about 69ing you for three goddamn days and if I don’t sit on your fucking face right now I will cry.”

His jaw drops. “Wait—like, now?”

You crawl onto the bed. “Yes. Backward. Full weight. No mercy.”

He’s stunned for half a second—then his cock jumps in his sweats.

“Oh my god.”

“Lie down,” you growl.

He obeys. Flat on his back, head against the pillows, already hard and leaking by the time you swing a leg over his head. You lower your soaking pussy onto his mouth, facing his cock, and his hands clamp onto your ass like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Use my face,” he pants. “Fucking sit on it. I can take it.”

And you do.

You drop onto his tongue, grind down hard, moaning when he licks a fat stripe up your pussy and starts sucking like it’s his first meal in weeks.

You wrap a hand around his cock. He gasps into you.

“This nasty little wife,” you mutter, already jerking him off, “riding your face like she’s trying to drown you. Think you’ll pass out, baby?”

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered.

His tongue is everywhere—in your pussy, on your clit, dragging through your folds while you bounce gently on his mouth like it’s your fucking throne.

You spit on his cock. Loud. Filthy.

It lands on the head, stringy and warm, and you spread it down the shaft while you twist your wrist and sink your mouth down on him in one smooth, practiced stroke.

Jungwon chokes.

He jerks once under you—then groans into your pussy, hips stuttering like he’s going to cum already.

“You close?” you giggle, pulling off with a messy pop. “Already? Poor thing. You just want to fill my throat while I cum all over your face, huh?”

He moans. Loud.

You lick a stripe up the underside of his cock and say:

“What if I squirt all over you, baby? Would you drown for me?”

He nods into your cunt. You feel it.

So you bounce harder. Fuck his face faster. Slurp his cock between your lips like it’s your favorite flavor and moan around him when his tongue flicks just right—

You cum first.

Hard.

Your thighs squeeze his head like a death grip as you cry out, leaking into his mouth while he keeps licking, tongue working you through it while his hands pull your ass down, grinding you onto him.

You don’t even give him time to recover.

You suck his cock deep—down your throat, swallowing him whole until he cries out into your pussy and cums down your throat so hard you choke.

You swallow.

Keep sucking.

He whimpers.

When you finally lift off his face, he’s wrecked.

Mouth glazed in your slick, lips swollen, chest heaving.

You wipe your chin, swing around, and lean down to kiss his cheek.

“Next time, you better ask for it. I’m not gonna be the only one begging.”

He blinks. Tries to speak.

Fails.

You smirk.

“Sweet dreams, husband.”

He falls asleep with your taste still on his tongue.

𝐍𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐤𝐢

The house is quiet. Monitor glowing faint on the nightstand. Just the sound of your breathing and the rustle of sheets as you look up.

He’s already shirtless. Grey sweats sitting low, waistband dipping under sharp hips. Hair messy from running his fingers through it, still flushed from cleaning up the kitchen, checking the monitor twice, pretending he wasn’t aching the whole time.

You blink sleepily.

“Come to bed, Riki.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just walks to the edge of the bed, climbs in behind you, and presses himself against your back—body warm, hard in all the places that count. His hand slides under your shirt and cups your belly. Not your tits. Not between your legs.

Just your belly.

“I miss this,” he murmurs. Quiet. Low. Dangerous.

You pause.

“You miss what?”

He kisses the back of your neck.

“When you were pregnant.”

Your breath catches.

“Riki—”

“You were glowing. Round. Always out of breath. So soft and full and mine.”

You shiver when his hand slides down—slow, reverent—and presses between your legs.

“Your body knew what I wanted before you did,” he whispers. “Now it’s empty. And I want it full again.”

You turn around to face him.

He’s already hard, pressing up against your thigh. His eyes are wild now, lips parted, flushed all the way to his ears.

“You want another baby?” you ask, barely able to breathe.

He nods once.

“I want you pregnant again, baby. I want you leaking, glowing, begging me to slow down because I won’t stop fucking you.”

You moan.

He flips you onto your back without warning, dragging your panties down, pressing his cock against your soaked entrance.

“You’d look so pretty round again. Tired all the time. Needy. Can’t even ride me properly without whining about your hips.”

You gasp as he slides in, slow and deep and possessive.

“Fuck—Riki—”

“Don’t worry,” he grits out. “I’ll fuck it into you slow. Make sure it takes.”

His thrusts are smooth, devastating. One hand gripping your waist, the other sliding under your shirt to palm your tits.

“These got so big when you were carrying,” he whispers, biting his lip. “So heavy. You hated it. I loved it.”

You whine—louder now. He smiles.

“God, you like it too, huh? Getting knocked up? Being so full you can’t think straight?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

“You’re so ready for it,” he moans. “Already dripping. Your pussy’s so greedy, baby. She knows what I want.”

He fucks you harder then. Deeper. His pace messy and obsessive.

When he cums—hot and deep and shaking—he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried inside you, breathing ragged, holding your hips like he can will it into happening.

“Keep it,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “Don’t let it go. I wanna see you big again.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him down into another kiss.

He groans.

“I’ll give you as many as you want. Just keep letting me ruin you like this.”

-

TL: @addictedtohobi @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ddolleri @elairah @zzhengyu @annybah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @hihway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @enhaverse713586 @cristy-101 @bloomiize @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ YES, I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND, AND YES, SHE'S REAL! ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: what happens when your gamer boyfriend brings you on-screen for the first time?

contents: fem!reader. use of she/her pronouns + reader is referred to as gojo's girlfriend. toji slander bcs he deserves it.

author's note: everyone welcome streamer!gojo to the world! he'll be here for a while...

"oh, please," satoru laughs, leaning back and grinning at the screen in front of him. he tosses his hair, but it falls back into his eyes just seconds later. "no way you guys all thought i would lose that one. c'mon, have some faith in me!"

you watch satoru reply to the hundreds of comments lighting up the side of his monitor, smiling endearingly at the way he laughs at some and practically chortles at others.

it was only after the two of you started dating that satoru disclosed his streaming hobby, and to your surprise, he was pretty popular. thousands of people tuned in to watch him play some game or another every night, and well, it paid better than you'd expect.

satoru whistles, hands resting comfortably behind his head as a particular question catches his attention. "ah, do i have a girlfriend?" he muses, grinning as he shoots a quick side-glance at you. "yeah," he continues, snorting when what looks like a flurry of no fucking way's flood the chat.

he clicks his tongue disappointedly, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "what, did all eight thousand of you think i couldn't pull? thanks a lot," satoru deadpans, waving his hand and sighing dramatically. "i don't know what any of you mean. i'm a catch!"

you snicker at that, and your laughter only increases when satoru turns and gapes at you. he juts his bottom lip out, face sinking into an adorable pout at he crosses his arms. "even my own girlfriend's laughing at me," he mumbles petulantly. "hmph!"

satoru sticks his tongue out at you childishly, and you blow a kiss back. he pretends to faint before turning back to his monitor, quickly skimming the comments before he gasps. "what do you mean, she probably doesn't exist?!" he sputters, clutching his heart exaggeratedly.

the look on his face is priceless — imagine getting told by thousands of people that one, they think you can't pull, and two, that they don't even believe your significant other exists. naturally, satoru reacts as dramatically as ever. he pretends to ignore everyone in the comments before calling them out individually.

"oh, i see you, toji... fishy-guru," satoru gripes, wagging his finger at his screen. "my girlfriend exists and she's mine! don't even think about it." he pauses, squinting at the chat before correcting himself with an eyeroll. "fushiguro. whatever. either way, she's real and she's all mine."

satoru swivels his chair to face you, making an incredulous face as he gestures to the screen. "can you believe this?" he grumbles, ocean-blue eyes focused on you. "these guys don't think you're real."

you shrug, toying with the corner of his sheets as you smile back at satoru. he's so childish, but that's just one of the many things you adore about him. sure, he's an annoying brat, but at least he's a total sweetheart too.

your boyfriend extends his hand, beckoning you to come over to him. "c'mon, darling," he cooes, scrunching up his nose at you. "wanna help me prove these losers wrong?" satoru mouths please, and the puppy eyes he gives you are cute enough to convince you.

so you hop off his bed, running a hand through your hair as you stroll over to where he sits in front of his monitor. beaming like a kid on his birthday, satoru takes your hand and twines his fingers with yours.

smiling smugly, satoru pulls you on screen and into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. you watch the chat erupt with she's real's and how did he pull a girl like her's and smile, flicking satoru's forehead affectionately.

he ignores the thousands of dumbstruck users in his comments and holds you close to his chest, adjusting his grip on your waist to make his lap as comfortable as possible for you. satoru's adoring eyes are fixed on you, only you, even as his chat explodes.

suguru-geto: haha i already knew

toji-fushiguro: how the fuck did a loser like him pull her?

yuuji-itadori: gojo has a girlfriend??? what did i miss??

[flowersforbucky]

my love, mine all mine

bucky loves you a lot every day - but maybe just a little extra today. your first mother's day.

word count: 1.9k

tags/warnings: smut, 18+ only, oral, bucky's pov, wife reader and girl dad bucky, heavy fluff and wife worship, reader is afab, no use of y/n, thunderbolts era but no spoilers (i know the picture in the header is tfatws but it's hard to find pics of him smiling ok)

follow @flowersforbuckyfics for updates ♡ dividers by @/strangergraphics ♡ header collage made by me

Bucky opens his eyes as the first light of dawn begins to filter through the cracks of embroidered lace curtains.

His body and mind are still acclimated to the earliest days of parenthood – when the nights feel long yet morning comes all too soon. Though the newborn trenches had come to a bittersweet end, Bucky's sixth sense for miraculously waking up shortly before his daughter every morning still lingers.

Judging by the slow rise and fall of your chest, you’re still dreaming from where you lay beside him. Your hand rests against your pillow, the ring that he’d slid onto your finger when he’d got down on one knee sparkling in the early morning light.

This is a view that he’ll never tire of waking up to.

He sometimes still can’t believe it – that you, this family you’ve created together, this life is really his. Every now and then, he’ll randomly wake during the night in a panic that he’s somehow dreamed it all. But then he feels you begin to stir beside him, and it quickly brings him back to reality. Just one glance at the sleeping infant on the video monitor’s screen and he can close his eyes knowing that this isn’t just something his subconscious conjured up as a twisted joke.

It might feel too good to be true at times, but it’s not. It’s real, and that’s all thanks to you.

He skims the tips of his fingers up the expanse of your bare arm. Peach fuzz and goosebumps rise and you make a noise akin to a sigh at the feather light touch. Your eyes flutter open, a sleep-dazed grin appearing on your face when you register that he’s already looking at you.

“Really? Waking me up early? On Mother’s Day?

“Sorry, doll,” he purrs, his Brooklyn drawl making an appearance in his voice, still raspy with sleep. “Didn’t mean to. I just can’t help myself.”

You half yawn, half laugh as he brings his face to yours. His lips capture yours in a messy kiss that starts innocently enough. Then you part your lips as you pull him closer to you by the back of his head. He slips his tongue past your lips, lazily exploring the inside of your mouth as if it’s brand new territory for him.

He twitches inside his boxers – he’d blame it on the morning wood that had yet to fully dissipate, but he knows damn well that this is all you. Your scent, your touch, your taste. He continues to move his lips against yours as he pulls the comforter back enough to maneuver himself over you. You’re wearing a thin cotton tank top and a pair of panties that he’s particularly fond of – but right now, he’d prefer both articles of clothing to be on the floor.

Reaching between your bodies, his flesh hand finds the hem of your top. He pulls the fabric upwards, above your breasts. Your nipples are already pebbled as he breaks the kiss and lowers his face to your chest. His lips lock around the peak and you arch your back into his touch, a melodic whine escaping your lips.

Only after paying careful attention to each breast does he begin to leave a trail of wet kisses down your sternum, over your belly button, and to the hem of your panties. He dips his fingers into the waistline of the fabric, ready to tug them down your thighs when your hand grabs his. He pauses, looking up at you with raised brows.

“Winnie will be awake any minute now,” you breathe. He chuckles, shaking his hand free of your loose grip to resume pulling your panties off of your hips.

“Guess I’ll just have to be quick, then,” he smirks up at you from his position between your thighs. “Come on, honey. It’s Mother’s Day, yeah?”

Any further objection from you dies on your tongue before your underwear can hit the bedroom floor.

Normally, he’d take his time with you – make you squirm and plead just a little. But you do have a point. Winnie usually wakes up earlier than the sun, so it's only a matter of time before you’re interrupted by the sound of cries coming from the nursery at the end of the hallway.

But that’s okay. He doesn’t need long. He’s spent enough time studying your body to know exactly how to get you where you need to be.

Settling himself between your legs, he licks a thick strip up your center. One of your hands dashes to the top of his head, where you thread your fingers through his hair to help guide his ministrations. Your other hand instinctively covers your mouth, in an effort to muffle your moans.

He circles your clit with his tongue while he teases your hole with the tip of a long, vibranium finger. You whimper as he nudges the icy digit past your entrance, eagerly sinking yourself onto the length of it. Your walls constrict around the metal, and while he selfishly wishes it was a different part of him buried in your tight heat, he knows that this – this whole day – is all about you. Loving you, worshiping you, making you feel as loved and appreciated as you make him feel every day.

You writhe against the mattress, grinding yourself against his mouth. His lips lock around your swollen clit, sucking until you’re on the verge of climax. He adds a second metal finger, sending you crashing over the edge.

Sitting up on his knees, he uses his t-shirt to wipe his mouth before looking down at you with a satisfactory grin. Your chest is still heaving and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on your skin.

He thinks you’re glowing.

“See? Told you I’d be quick,” he teases as he looms over you, leaning down to give you another quick peck on the lips. “And baby girl is still fast asleep.”

As if on cue, a soft cry begins to sound from the room next door. You laugh, looking at him as if to say what is it you were saying?

“Don't get up. I'll get her,” Bucky stops you when you start to swing your legs over the side of the mattress. He quickly puts on the pair of sweatpants that he had discarded before falling asleep last night. “Tea or coffee this morning?”

“Hmm,” you contemplate as you lay back down against your pillow and readjust your tank top. “Coffee. Thank you, baby.”

After making a quick pit stop in the bathroom to wash his hands, Bucky hurries to get a crying Winnie from her crib. She’d recently started standing up on her own, so Bucky isn’t surprised that she’s already standing up and holding onto the railing of her crib when he opens the door. As soon as she sees him, the crying stops and she breaks into a huge grin that showcases her brand new bottom teeth.

“Good morning, Winnie girl,” Bucky coos as he lifts her into his arms. “It’s Mother’s Day. Are you ready to go give Mama her presents?”

Winnie’s response, of course, is a bunch of incoherent babbling, but Bucky likes to think that she understands.

He makes quick work of changing her, making you a cup of coffee just the way you like it, and grabbing the gift bag that he’d hid behind a bunch of extra cleaning supplies in a storage closet a few days prior. In one arm, he juggles a wiggly baby and your present, and in the other, a hot cup of coffee.

Back in your and Bucky’s bedroom, you’ve changed into a casual lounge wear set. Your face instantly lights up as soon as Bucky enters the room with Winnie in his arms. She reaches for you right away, almost throwing herself out of Bucky’s arms.

He can’t help but take a moment to admire the scene in front of him. You attack Winnie with kisses and she bursts into a fit of giggles. He places your mug on your bedside table and then sits down on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself as he watches his two favorite girls.

Everyone tells Bucky that Winnie looks just like him, but he thinks that she’s the spitting image of you. Especially the smile – he adores that she has your smile.

“What is this?” you croon at Winnie when you notice the bag in Bucky’s lap. You place her bedside you on the bed as he hands you the present. “Did you get something for me?”

“She can’t take all the credit,” Bucky teases. “But she certainly helped.”

You pull the tissue paper out of the bag, handing it to Winnie so that she can entertain herself by crumpling it up in her fists. First, you pull out the gift that Bucky is most proud of.

It’s a glass frame containing various polaroid pictures of the three of you, as well as small flowers that Bucky had dried from a bouquet that he’d given you just a few months ago. On top of the glass are two small, pink footprints. Bucky had bought acrylic paint just so he could paint Winnie’s feet and print them on the glass.

You stare at the gift, taking it in as you chew on your bottom lip. Your silence makes him a little nervous. He’s not normally one for handmade gifts, but he wanted your first Mother’s Day gift to be sentimental.

“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper after a moment. Your fingers trail over the glass, settling on a picture of you, him, and Winnie sitting in front of your Christmas tree several months prior. “It’s so beautiful. How did you come up with something like this?”

“Yelena told me that I should check Pinterest for ideas,” he admits, suddenly feeling bashful. “And she may or may not have helped me and Winnie do the footprints without making a complete mess.”

You throw your head back in a genuine cackle. You place the frame on your bedside table, exactly where he expected you to put it. “Oh, so that’s why you wanted to take Winnie to the team meeting last week.”

“To be fair, I didn’t lie. Everyone did really want to see her.”

You reach back into the bag, pulling out your next present. He didn’t bother wrapping it, knowing that you would have the wrapping paper in shreds within seconds. It’s a simple, pale yellow box. You open it up, a look of awe immediately coming over your face.

“Do you like it?” Bucky asks softly, though your teary-eyed expression answers his question without you having to say a word. You nod rapidly, removing a delicate gold chain from the box. In its center, is a W shaped charm. On either side of the letter are stones – Winnie’s birthstones.

“Help me put it on?” You request, turning around so that he can latch the necklace for you.

It looks as perfect on you as he imagined it would.

“Thank you, baby,” you murmur, pulling him to you by the collar of his t-shirt to bring his lips to yours. “So much. They’re both just beautiful.”

He cups your face in the palm of his hand, massaging your cheek with his thumb. He’s silent for a moment, reveling in how thankful he is for you and the fact that he now gets to celebrate you on this day.

“Happy Mother’s Day, honey.”

thank you so much for reading 💖 reblogs and comments are always very appreciated!!

[calypso-rt]

I don’t share what's mine

꩜ corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

꩜ jealousy, jealousy

It starts harmless enough.

You’re in the corridor outside the conference rooms, phone to your ear, scanning an email on your tablet, when you hear his laugh.

That low, careless, sun-warmed sound that somehow crawls under your skin every time.

You stop in your tracks.

Rafe’s leaning against the reception desk again, the picture of relaxed confidence. His arms are crossed, biceps flexed under the sleeves of his T-shirt. And perched on the edge of the counter beside him is Chloe, the new bubbly blonde intern.

She’s giggling. Like, actually giggling. Twirling a strand of hair around one finger.

“…and then I said, ‘Well, I might not know how to change my oil, but I’m real good with my hands,’” Rafe’s saying, eyes sparkling. Chloe dissolves into fresh giggles, practically shoving his arm. “Oh my God, stop. You’re terrible.”

You freeze, invisible ice sliding down your spine.

Rafe, your Rafe, with the rag stuffed in his back pocket and the grin he only usually gives you, leans closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Anyway, point is…you ever need help checkin’ your fluids, you know where to find me.”

Chloe squeals. Squeals.

You don’t even realize you’ve hung up your phone call mid-sentence. You just turn on your heel and march back toward your office, ever the avoidant.

He comes knocking an hour later.

Your door’s half-closed, but he doesn’t bother knocking, of course. Just pokes his head in.

“Hey, corporate—”

You don’t look up from your screen. “I’m busy.”

There’s a beat. You can practically feel him staring at you.

“…O-kay,” he says slowly. “I just—”

“Busy.”

Another pause. Then you hear the door close again.

The next day, you find a sticky note on your monitor:

“Lunch? Or you still mad?” — Mr. Corporate

You crumple it and toss it into your trash can.

By Thursday, he’s had enough. He corners you at the elevator bank, stepping in front of the doors just as they’re opening.

“Okay, what the hell,” he says.

“Move, Rafe.”

“Not ‘til you tell me why you’re actin’ like I keyed your car.”

You lift your chin. “I’m not acting like anything.”

He folds his arms, towering over you. “Bullshit.”

You refuse to look at him. The elevator doors slide shut again behind him.

He lowers his voice. “Is this about Chloe?”

“Why would it be?” you snap. “You can flirt with whoever you want.”

His brows shoot up. “So that’s what this is.”

You glare at him. “I don’t care what you do. It’s none of my business.”

“Oh, see, that’s funny.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “’Cause you sure look like you care.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He studies you for a long moment. The playful glint is gone. When he speaks again, it’s softer, but still intense enough to pin you in place.

“I was messin’ around. I don’t give a shit about Chloe.”

“Seemed like you were having fun.”

“She’s nineteen, corporate. I was tryin’ not to be an asshole. That’s it.”

You fold your arms tighter. “I’m sure she’d love to hear that.”

Rafe sighs. “Jesus. You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” you snap.

He hesitates. Just a second. Like he’s deciding something. Then his jaw firms.

“That I don’t come all the way across town in the middle of my workday to see anybody else.”

Your heart stutters. You try not to let it show.

“That I don’t bring sandwiches to girls I don’t give a shit about.” He tilts his head, eyes blazing. “That I’m not interested in anyone else but you.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

He exhales. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

You swallow hard. “Then why…why flirt with her?”

“’Cause I was tryin’ to prove I can hang in your world. And I screwed it up. Happy?”

You blink. “Why would you have to prove anything?”

“Because you’re…” He gestures vaguely at your suit, your heels, your entire immaculate presence. “This. And I’m…not.”

You hesitate. A long beat of silence stretches between you. Then you say, softer than intended: “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He searches your eyes. “Then why’d you freeze me out?”

You glance away. “I didn’t like it.”

Rafe grins, slow and a little wicked. “Didn’t like me flirtin’ with someone else, huh?”

You scowl. “Shut up.”

He takes another step closer, invading your personal space completely. “So what you’re tellin’ me…is you’re jealous.”

“I am not—”

But he cuts you off, mouth brushing your ear. “God, you’re cute when you’re mad.”

Your entire body locks up.

“Tell you what,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you let me make it up to you tonight?”

You shove his chest lightly. “Rafe—”

But he’s already smirking. “I’ll pick you up at eight, corporate.”

And then he’s gone, sauntering away like he hasn’t just shattered your defenses completely, leaving you breathless in your power suit and wishing you’d pulled him back instead of pushing him away.

...

You’re back at the garage on a Friday afternoon, wearing a silk blouse and dark jeans instead of your usual suit, casual for you, though you still look wildly out of place among the oil stains and rattling pneumatic tools.

Rafe’s truck is nowhere in sight.

Which is unfortunate, because your car is definitely making a noise this time.

A real one.

Like a metallic screech that sends a jolt straight through your bones every time you brake. So you pull in, pop the hood, and hover beside your car, arms folded, trying not to look helpless.

That’s when you hear a voice behind you:

“Whoa. Fancy car for a fancy lady.”

You turn.

He’s tall, maybe a couple years younger than Rafe. Dark hair, mechanic’s shirt half unbuttoned, grease on his fingers. He’s wiping his hands on a clean rag, grin firmly in place.

“Hi,” you say cautiously. “Is Rafe around?”

“Nah, he ran to the parts store. I’m Eli. New around here.” He flashes a brilliant smile. “But lucky for you, I know my way around a BMW.”

“Oh…that’s okay. I’ll just wait for—”

But he’s already stepping closer, peering into your engine bay. “Pop the hood the rest of the way for me, sweetheart?”

You bristle faintly at sweetheart, but comply. “I just came in for a noise—”

“Brake noise, right? I heard it when you pulled in.” Eli shoots you a wink. “Bet you didn’t know a pretty car like this could scream so loud.”

You open your mouth, then shut it again.

He leans closer into the hood, arms flexing under the fluorescent lights. “You from around here?”

“Uh…kinda.” You shift awkwardly. “I work downtown.”

He grins. “I knew you were a corporate girl. You’ve got that boss energy.”

Your cheeks warm despite yourself. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Oh, it means you probably scare the hell outta half the guys you meet. But that’s okay.” He glances over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Some of us like a woman who knows what she wants.”

You stare at him, thoroughly off-balance.

And that’s precisely when Rafe comes back.

You hear his boots before you see him. The slam of his truck door. The crunch of gravel.

Then his voice, sharp as a blade: “What the fuck’s this?”

You blink up, startled. “Rafe—”

He’s striding across the lot, eyes zeroed in on Eli like a predator who’s spotted something on his territory.

Eli straightens, rag still dangling from one hand. “Hey, man. Just helpin’ her out—”

“Didn’t ask what you were doin’,” Rafe snaps. He plants himself between you and Eli so abruptly you nearly stumble backward. “Back the fuck off her car.”

Eli raises his hands. “Jesus. Chill.”

“Don’t tell me to chill.” Rafe’s jaw is clenched so hard you can practically hear his teeth grinding. “You don’t touch her car. You don’t talk to her like that.”

“Rafe, it’s fine,” you try to cut in, but he ignores you completely.

“You think ‘sweetheart’ is how we talk to customers around here?” Rafe demands, voice low and dangerous.

Eli blinks. “I…I was just being friendly—”

“Yeah? Go be friendly somewhere else.”

Eli glances between you two, looking faintly rattled. Then he mutters, “Whatever, man,” and walks off, tossing the rag onto the nearest tool cart.

The moment he’s gone, Rafe rounds on you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell, corporate?”

Your mouth drops open. “Me? I didn’t do anything!”

“You let him touch your car!”

“I didn’t let—he just started helping!”

Rafe rakes a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of grease at his hairline. “You should’ve waited for me.”

“I was waiting for you!”

He’s breathing hard. His chest is rising and falling like he’s been running.

Then he grabs your wrist, not hard, but firmly, and yanks you away from the car a few steps, out of earshot of the others.

“Do you even realize…?” His voice is hoarse now, lower, ragged. “The way you stand there, all wide-eyed…lettin’ guys lean all over your car, talkin’ to you like you’re somethin’ to win…like you’re—”

“Like I’m what?” you demand, getting ticked off at his tone.

He glares at you, but there’s a wild, almost panicked glint behind it. “Like you’re available.”

You blink, stunned.

“Rafe…” your voice softens. “I didn’t even notice he was flirting.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well. Every guy within ten feet notices you.”

You scoff, a slow smirk spreading on your lips. “What, are you…jealous?”

He stiffens. “No.”

“Rafe—”

He grips your chin gently, tilting your face up. “You’re mine.”

Your breath catches, and you shouldn't find it attractive but you do.

He blinks, seeming to realize what he’s said. His thumb drifts across your jaw. “Shit. I didn’t—”

But before you can answer, he’s ducking his head and kissing you. It’s not soft, not gentle. It’s rough and urgent and tastes faintly of salt and grease and something purely Rafe.

When he finally pulls back, your pulse is thrumming in your ears.

You whisper, “I was just getting my brakes checked.”

Rafe grins, still breathless. “Not by him, you weren’t.”

And then he tugs you back toward your car, muttering under his breath, “C’mon. Lemme fix it proper.”

A/N: i may be spamming this duo but i just love them

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @bonjourjiminie

[dakusan]

Backstage Access

Jeongin x Reader | mirror-fucking madness, breath-stealing filth, and two fingers to keep his cum inside

synopsis: After two hours of watching your boyfriend perform like a god onstage, you knew you wouldn’t make it to the end of the night untouched. But you didn’t expect to be pinned over the vanity backstage, his fingers buried deep, whispering filth into your ear while making you watch yourself fall apart in the mirror. He says you’ve got twenty minutes. He fucks you like you’ll never breathe again.

💌a/n: a lovely, deranged, wonderful anon whispered “backstage Jeongin” into my inbox and i blacked out. Woke up sticky with sin and a mirror sex scene in my hands. HAPPY FILTHY FRIDAY, BABES. i am blessing your timeline with this breath-stealing, back-arching, bite-mark-leaving FILTH. because it's finally the fucking weekend. fucking. finally. jheeez. we made it. barely. but we made it. and now Jeongin is here to ruin your spiritual equilibrium and rearrange your internal organs. p.s. if this fic made your thighs clench, reblog it. p.p.s. the bite mark is canon. it bruises. it stings. you love it p.p.p.s. there’s cum on your panties and love in your heart. balance p.p.p.p.s. finally gonna sit down and properly release my 2024 albums so i can focus on my 2025 and beyond eras like the menace i was born to be 😌 also… i might have used the middle pic before but honestly?? who cares. it still hits. we recycle art and ass shots in this house 💋

⚠️warnings: NSFW | 18+ ONLY — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | Public setting / risky sex (backstage dressing room) | Unprotected sex (Wrap it up sluts. Stay safe) | Mirror sex / reflection play | Dom!Jeongin energy | Fingerfucking | Dirty talk (mocking, possessive, praise) | Biting / marking (leaves a bruise) | Overstimulation denial | Choking on moans / loss of speech from pleasure | Spitting (on hand) | Soft aftercare, possessive kisses, chaotic Changbin cameo | Threat of round two (he meant it.)

📌 Go hydrate. Eat something. Apply lip balm. Sit down gently.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » HALLUCINATION — I.N « 0:58 ─〇───── 2:43 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The venue is already humming by the time you slip through the back hallway.

Stagehands rush past with clipped radios and tense voices, cords coiled over shoulders, lights strobing in rehearsal. You’re not supposed to be here—not technically—but the laminated pass around your neck says otherwise. Yang Jeongin’s name is scribbled in marker on the back of it. “Mine,” he wrote. Just in case.

You hear him before you see him—his laugh bouncing off the cement, low and bright. Then the click of boots, the echo of a playful curse from a stylist. And then—

“Hey.”

He’s there. Hoodie half-zipped. In-ear monitors dangling from one hand. Hair still damp from rehearsal, curling slightly at the edges. His skin glows under the harsh dressing room lights—foundation-free, real, flushed.

And that smile? It should be illegal.

But the way it fades when his eyes land on you? That’s your favourite part.

“Shit,” he mutters, taking a step closer. “You can’t just walk in here looking like that.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to get in trouble before the show starts.”

He cages you against the wall with one hand above your head, the other ghosting along the curve of your waist. Close, but not touching. Not really. Just heat.

You blink up at him, pretending innocence. “This dress? You picked it.”

“Yeah. For dinner after, not for standing three inches away from Changbin-hyung backstage.” He leans in. “Do that again and I’ll bend you over the console before soundcheck.”

You laugh, but it shivers out of you.

He brushes your jaw with his thumb. “You nervous?”

“No. You?”

He leans in closer. “Not about the show.”

The moment is broken by the sudden buzz of a headset and someone yelling something about final checks. He pulls away with a sigh, fingers trailing down your arm before letting go. “You’ve got your seat, right? Ninth row?”

You nod, heart pounding. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

He walks backward, never breaking eye contact. “Watch me.”

The lights go down and your heart stops.

The ocean of screaming voices lights up around you, hundreds of phones held high. But none of it touches you, not really—not when the music starts, not when the boys appear, not when Jeongin steps forward like he was born under this spotlight.

Black hair, sharp jaw, eyes blazing.

He’s not your boyfriend right now. He’s not sweet or playful or flirty. He’s untouchable. Fierce. Commanding. A different version of himself entirely.

And he knows you’re watching.

He doesn’t look right at you, but he doesn’t have to. You feel it. The way his hand drags down his chest during the bridge. The way his tongue peeks out at the corner of his smirk when the crowd screams his name. The way he moves like he’s dancing just for you.

It’s maddening.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs. Bite your lip.

Then—

He finally glances your way during a lull between songs. Just for a second.

He mouths something you can barely catch.

“After.”

The final bass drop fades into screams and confetti.

You’re already moving. Past the sea of fans, past the velvet ropes, flashing your backstage pass with a trembling hand. Security barely glances at you—you’re a regular now, the “girlfriend” who never makes trouble.

But tonight? You’re nothing but trouble.

The hallway beyond the stage is chaos. Staff yelling into headsets. Stylists scrambling to grab towels, bottles, back-up batteries. The boys are pouring in from both wings, flushed and laughing and soaked in sweat. Somewhere, someone’s yelling for Chan.

And then—

Jeongin.

He spots you through the fray, towel slung around his neck, shirt sticking to his chest, eyes blown wide from adrenaline. He’s vibrating. Buzzing. His smile is all teeth, sharp and hungry.

You barely manage, “You were amazing—” before he’s on you.

He drops the towel and wraps you up in one breathless, crushing hug—arms tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, pulling you off balance until your back hits the wall and he just… stays there. Hot skin, damp shirt, frantic heartbeat pounding against your chest.

“Innie,” you laugh breathlessly, hugging him back, fingers curling in the fabric at his spine. “You’re soaked—”

“Don’t care.”

He clings. Like he hasn’t seen you in weeks. Like the sound of your voice is the only thing tethering him to earth after being a god on stage for two hours.

“I needed this,” he mumbles, voice wrecked and low, lips brushing your collarbone.

You melt.

“I missed you,” he says. “Every second. Every song.”

“You were looking right at me the whole time,” you tease gently, smiling against his cheek. “You think no one noticed?”

“I wanted you to notice.” He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes soft now, warm and full of something that makes your knees weak. “Did you like it?”

You nod, almost shy. “You were… insane. So good. So—” You glance around, then lean in. “Hot.”

His grin goes lopsided. That boyish, cocky smile that always means danger is coming. “You think so?”

“Mhm.”

“That why your legs were crossed the whole time?” he murmurs, stepping in closer again, hands sliding back down to your waist. “Thought I didn’t see?”

You choke on a laugh, half-gasp, half-accusation. “Yang Jeongin—”

“Shh.” He leans in, nuzzles your nose with his. “I’m your boyfriend right now. Just your boyfriend. Not idol.”

Soft kiss. Then another. Then a slow one—long and warm, lips plush and lingering like he wants to drag the moment out until time folds in on itself.

“You wanna come with me to change?” he whispers.

Your heart skips. “Is that code for something?”

He laughs into your mouth. “No, I actually need new pants. But now it might be.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so—”

“—in love with you,” he finishes, eyes glittering. “Shut up and come with me.” He laces his fingers through yours and starts walking—quick, casual, practiced.

He ducks into the dressing room with you in tow, locking the door behind him in one smooth motion.

“We've got twenty minutes,” he mutters, not to you—to himself. “Twenty minutes before they drag me for pictures and I forget how to breathe again.”

“You’ll be fine,” you murmur, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

He hums, distracted. “You’re here,” he says. “I’ll survive.”

You barely have time to smile before he pulls you into him again—this time slower, rougher, hungrier. Mouth on yours, hands on your waist, then your hips, then lower.

It starts gentle. Just a kiss. Then it deepens. Then it takes. Like he can’t stop. Like he’s been holding back all night.

Your back hits the edge of the vanity counter. He crowds you, presses in close, kisses you until your head tips back and your knees feel useless. The taste of sweat and lip balm and something inherently him coats your tongue.

You gasp when his hands slide down again—one gripping the back of your thigh and tugging you flush against him, the other under your dress now, slow. Fingertips brushing your skin, trailing up higher, higher—

“Innie…”

“Shh. Just touching.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. Like he’s trying to make you feel every second he’s been on stage without you. Like this is how he resets his nervous system.

“I wanted you so bad the whole time,” he says, voice low and raspy. “Couldn’t think straight. Every time I turned around, I knew you were watching.”

“You were teasing me,” you whisper. “On purpose.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

His fingers slide further up your thigh, knuckles grazing the edge of your underwear. He pauses. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. “And I will.”

You look at him—his flushed face, his blown pupils, the hint of sweat at his temple. And you whisper: “Don’t you dare.”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours again, hungrier this time, tongue licking into you like he’s starving. His fingers move—just the lightest touch���trailing over the damp fabric between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth.

“God, you’re already wet?” he groans, pulling back just enough to see your face. “Fuck.”

You nod, dazed, gripping the edge of the vanity.

“You were singing,” you manage to say, breath hitching as he brushes two fingers right over your clit, just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble. “Looking at me like that. What did you expect?”

He grins, evil and sweet all at once as he dips his fingers lower. “Let me finish what I started on stage.” He kisses your jaw, your neck, the hollow beneath your ear—fingers still teasing, not quite giving in, not quite letting up.

“Still just touching,” he says.

You whimper, eyes fluttering. “Liar,” you breathe.

He bites your earlobe gently. “Then make me stop.”

You don’t. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that—pupils swallowed whole, lips kiss-bitten, jaw flexing as he drags his fingers slowly over the slick heat between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he breathes again, like it physically hurts him to feel how wet you are. “You’re dripping.”

He pulls back just enough to look down—watching his fingers ghost over your panties, the fabric clinging to you like it’s barely holding back a flood.

“Baby…”

You shudder when he speaks—soft, reverent, but low now. Different. That voice he only uses when he’s about to ruin you.

Then—a slow, deliberate tug. He hooks one finger in the edge of your panties and pushes them aside. Not down. Not off. Just aside. Like he doesn’t need to undress you to have you.

The moment he pulls that fabric aside, his eyes fixed on your wet cunt and his breath hitches. Thumb parting you, and he moans—like the sight alone is enough to undo him.

“God, look at you.” His voice is husky, reverent. “All this for me?”

You nod—pathetically. You’d agree to anything right now. You’re too far gone. Too far under.

You then feel his fingers slide through your folds.

Long, veiny fingers. Slow. Dragging upward from your entrance to your clit, soaking in the slick, teasing every sensitive nerve with infuriating ease. He does it again—deliberate, lazy, like he has all the time in the world to play with you.

The squelch is obscene. You can hear it. So can he.

He curses under his breath. “Shit. You’re so fucking wet it’s dripping down your thighs.”

You whine, back arching, hips rolling into his touch. “Innie—please—”

“You need it that bad?” His voice dips low, breath hot against your cheek. “Need me to put my fingers in you, baby? Stretch you open?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please.”

He chuckles, soft and mean. “Okay then.” He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tease anymore. Two fingers. One slow, steady push. All the way in. Your mouth falls open. No sound. Just a sharp inhale, your whole body tensing as he fills you with those fucking perfect fingers, thick and long.

“You always take me so well,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “So fucking tight.”

He starts to move them.

In. Out. Curl.

The pads of his fingers drag against your front wall, pressing just right. You whimper, your thighs starting to shake, your palms scrambling for grip against the counter’s edge. He keeps his fingers inside you as he leans in to check the wall clock above the vanity, humming thoughtfully like he’s timing a rehearsal run.

“Twenty minutes ‘til I’m needed,” he says, voice smooth and casual, like he’s not currently knuckle-deep inside you. Then he shifts just slightly—presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw as his fingers curl just right again.

“Mmm… make that eighteen. You think I can make you beg by fifteen?”

You whine, head dropping forward, forehead nearly hitting the mirror.

“Innie—please, let me—”

“No, no, no, baby,” he coos, pulling his fingers out just a little before easing them right back in. “You don’t cum until I say so.”

He fucks into you slow and deep, cruelly steady. Fingers coated in slick, dragging along every sensitive spot inside you without giving an inch of mercy. You try to roll your hips, chase the friction, but his free hand grips your waist hard.

“Don’t move.”

You freeze.

“Good girl,” he breathes, nuzzling into your temple. “Just let me have my fun.”

He speeds up—not enough. Not enough to let you fall, just enough to push you right to the edge and leave you dangling there, breathless and soaked.

“You should see your face,” he whispers. “Mouth all open, eyes fluttering. So pretty like this.”

The squelch of your arousal fills the room, wet and obscene.

He hums in satisfaction. “You’re making such a mess for me. You know that?”

You clench around him hard at that, and he moans—genuine and low, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second like he needs to catch his breath.

Then—he pulls his fingers out.

You let out a broken sob of protest, legs shaking.

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, licking a stripe up your neck like he knows you’ll break if he doesn’t ground you. “I’ll give it back. Just… not yet.”

He looks at the clock again. “Sixteen minutes.” His voice drops into a teasing murmur. “You wanna spend the rest of it with my cock inside you, or should I keep fingerfucking you ‘til you cry?”

You swallow, gasping.

He brings his fingers to your lips—wet, glistening—and slides them in. “Taste yourself. Then answer.”

Your tongue curls around his digits without hesitation. Jeongin groans—fucking audibly—watching you suck them in to the knuckle, moaning softly around the taste of yourself. His eyes drop to your mouth, then flick up again to meet your gaze.

“God, you’re filthy.” But it’s adoring, not cruel. Like he’s proud of you for it.

He lets you drag your tongue along his fingers, slow and greedy, and pulls them free with a wet pop that leaves a glisten on your lower lip.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

And then he finally takes a small step back and turns you around so that you are now facing the vanity mirror. Your panties still shoved aside, your thighs trembling, lips kiss-swollen and parted. And behind you, Jeongin is unfastening, unzipping his pants hastily.

The fabric slips down his hips in one smooth motion, and his cock springs free. Heavy. Hard. Flushed at the tip.

You suck in a sharp breath at the sight of it in the mirror—thick and perfect, already leaking, twitching slightly at the way your breath stutters.

He catches your reaction. Smirks. Then—he spits. Let it drip from his tongue, slow and dirty, into his palm. Rubs it over the head. Strokes himself once. Twice. Still watching you. Always watching you.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, hand slick and slow over his length. “I wanna see the moment you fall apart.”

You nod, dazed. Lips parted. Eyes glassy.

He steps closer, the heat of him radiating against your back. His cock nudges against your folds—not inside yet, just… testing. Dragging up through the slick mess between your legs.

You let out a shaky moan, hips tilting back, desperate for friction.

He tsks. “Impatient.”

You whimper. “Innie, please—”

He grabs your chin, tilts your face up to the mirror. “Watch,” he whispers, voice like velvet and sin. “Watch me fuck you.” And as he says that, he finally sinks in. Slow., Agonizingly slow.

Your eyes flutter, your mouth drops open, and your hands claw at the counter as he stretches you open inch by inch.

Jeongin’s jaw clenches hard behind you. “Shit, you’re so tight.”

He bottoms out—fully, deeply—hips flush against your ass, chest pressed to your back, both of you panting.

“Good girl,” he breathes into your neck. “Now don’t you dare look away.”

He stays still for a moment. Just buried deep inside you, pulsing thick and hot and perfect, his cock snug and stretching you just right. You both breathe heavy. Shaky. Dizzy. He’s gripping your hips like they’re all that’s keeping him from snapping in half.

Until he rolls his hips. Slow. Deep. Mean. The drag of his cock inside you makes your spine arch, your legs tremble. You gasp, hands slipping on the vanity’s surface as your forehead presses to the mirror.

“Fuck,” Jeongin groans, voice low and dangerous in your ear. “You feel so good, baby. So fucking warm—shit, I missed this.”

Another thrust. Smooth, sinful. Just the right angle.

“You were sitting there looking so innocent. Crossed legs. That little pout on your face.” His voice drops to a growl. “I almost came in my pants.”

You whimper, eyes fluttering shut—

But his hand curls around your jaw, tight. “No.” He forces your gaze back to the mirror. “Watch me fuck you.”

You blink, barely holding on.

“You see that?” he pants, thrusting in again, harder now. “That’s mine. All mine.”

The rhythm builds.

Each stroke deeper, filthier, your slick dripping down your thighs, his cock dragging perfectly over every nerve inside you. You choke on a moan—raw, broken, your voice already unraveling. “You make the prettiest fucking sounds,” he growls, one hand sliding up your belly, under your dress, palming your breast. “And the faces you make, baby… god—look at you.”

You do. You try. Your reflection is a mess—lipstick ruined, jaw slack, eyes unfocused.

He leans in, tongue flicking over your earlobe. “I should film this,” he whispers. “Show you how you melt around me.”

Then he picks up the pace. Harder. Rougher. The slap of his hips against your ass echoing in the small dressing room, wet and obscene.

You sob out his name, barely audible—

“In—Innie—”

But it’s no use. You can’t even speak. His thrusts are stealing every breath, every word. “You can’t even say it, huh?” he pants, thrust-thrust-thrust, cock slamming into you now, relentless. “Fucked you that dumb already?”

You nod helplessly, mouth open, no sound. He grins behind you, voice dripping heat.

“Good.”

He slams into you again, and you scream—choked and broken, hand flying to cover your mouth as your body shakes.

“You gonna cum like this?” he breathes, rutting into you like he’s starving, hand slipping between your legs to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Gonna cum all over my cock while you cry my name and can’t even say it right?”

You sob out something that sounds like “please,” and he’s right there—groaning into your neck, thrusts losing rhythm.

“Cum for me,” he pants. “Right fucking now.”

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. White-hot. Shattering. Your whole body locks, back arching, mouth open in a scream you can’t even form. Your legs give out, your arms barely hold you up against the vanity, and everything blurs except the thick stretch of him deep inside you—

still fucking. still fucking. still fucking.

“Fuck—yes,” Jeongin growls, voice ragged and frantic, chasing his own high now with reckless, punishing thrusts. “That’s it, baby. That’s my girl. Cum on my cock, fuck—fuck—”

You’re clenching hard around him, slick coating both of you, and he’s losing it—hips stuttering, hands gripping your waist so tight they’ll leave bruises, his forehead pressed to your shoulder as he ruts into you with pure desperation.

“Shit—shit—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He sinks his cock all the way in. Buried to the hilt. Still. And bites. Hard. Right where your neck meets your shoulder—teeth sinking in, lips sealing over your skin, a moan vibrating into your flesh as he cums so fucking deep inside you you feel it flood your core.

Hot. Endless. So much.

You cry out again, overstimulated and trembling, as his cock pulses inside you and his arms wrap around your torso, holding you up, holding you still, holding you his.

The bite blooms into pain—but you love it. You arch into it. Let him claim you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s panting against your skin, teeth marks glowing red, a dark hickey already blooming over it.

He stares at the mirror. At you. Wrecked. Makeup smeared. Dress bunched around your waist. Panties still shoved to the side. Your legs wobbling. His cum already starting to drip out around his cock.

He smirks. Breathless. Filthy. “You should see yourself.”

He brushes your hair back gently, presses a soft kiss to the mark on your shoulder. “I hope it bruises.”

You're shaking. Hands gripping the edge of the vanity like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, knees soft, thighs soaked, brain completely fucking gone. All you can do is stare at the mirror, lips parted, eyes hazy—

—and feel Jeongin’s cock slowly slide out of you.

You whimper—soft, broken—and he huffs a low laugh behind you, hand stroking over your hip gently, soothing.

“Shh, baby. You did so good,” he murmurs, voice rough but laced with warmth. “So fucking good for me.”

You can feel him looking. Between your thighs. At the way his cum is already starting to leak out of you, dripping messily down your inner thigh.

He clicks his tongue. “Tch. Still leaking?”

You’re about to respond—or try to, at least—but then you feel it: Two fingers. Sliding right back in.

You gasp, hips jolting forward.

“Can’t have that,” he whispers, smirking against the shell of your ear. “Gotta make sure it stays where it belongs.”

He curls his fingers once—slow, deliberate—then pulls them out again, slick and messy.

You think he’s going to suck them clean.

But instead? He adjusts your panties. Gently. Carefully. Slides the fabric back over your soaked, used pussy like he’s tucking you into bed. Then he lowers your dress, smoothing it down over your thighs, brushing out the wrinkles with both palms and soft little touches that feel way too domestic for what just happened.

You’re still speechless.

He tucks himself back into his pants, breathing a little steadier now, and then turns you around—both hands at your waist—and pulls you to him.

And then? He kisses you. Soft. Long. Like he’s tasting something precious. His thumb strokes under your jaw. His other hand cups the back of your head. And when he finally pulls back, he just stares at you like he’s falling in love all over again.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice sweet and gentle and real.

You nod, too dazed to speak.

He smiles. That smile. Boyish. Bright. Dangerous.

Then he tilts his head.

“Think they’ll notice the bite?”

You blink. “Wha—?”

He runs his thumb lightly over your shoulder. Right over the mark. The bruise. The teeth.

“Oh my god, Jeongin—”

He grins, shameless. “You’re welcome.” He says as he keeps you pressed to him when suddenly, the bang bang bang rattles through the door like the fucking FBI.

“JEONGIN-AH!!”

slam slam slam

“WE GOTTA TAKE PICTURES, BRO, YOU’RE GONNA BE LATE—FUCK, ARE YOU DEAD IN THERE??”

You jump, startled.

Jeongin doesn’t even flinch. He just… sighs. Deeply. Drops his forehead to your shoulder. Mutters, “I don't wanna,” into your skin.

“Should I… go?” you ask, giggling, still breathless.

He looks up, eyes wide like you just suggested murder. “No. You stay right here.” He kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then a little lower—just once more over the bite he left on your shoulder.

“Lock the door again after I leave.”

“Innie—”

“I’ll be right back.”

You raise an eyebrow. “For what?”

His grin spreads slowly. Wicked. Dangerous. So, so in love. “To take you home.” A pause. Then, casually: “And fuck you on every surface.” Before you can even react, he’s already grabbing a water bottle and pulling a hoodie on.

At the door, he glances back one last time—gorgeous, sweaty, smug as hell. “You better be exactly where I left you.” Then he flings the door open, nearly slamming into a wide-eyed Changbin, who throws his arms up in panic.

“BRO, WHAT THE HELL, WE GOTTA GO—why are you sweaty again, we just got off stage—wait, why do you smell like—”

Jeongin cuts him off with a bright, angelic smile. “Let’s go, hyung!”

And as they disappear down the hall, you hear Changbin muttering under his breath: “Why do I feel like I just walked in on a crime scene…?”

You sit on the vanity stool, legs still shaking, throat sore from moaning his name, bite mark pulsing on your shoulder.

And all you can think about? Round two.

[abbotjack]

Wearing War

summary : Jack Abbot’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed—but instead, you go to his favorite dive bar. You wear the skirt. You wear his tags. You push, and Jack—tired, restrained, and entirely yours—snaps.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! explicit smut, dominant boyfriend Jack Abbot, semi-public sex (in a parked truck), use of dog tags in kink context, possessiveness, fingering, vaginal sex, marking/bruising, overstimulation, reader is bratty and teasing, not much plot, mostly smut

word count : 4,323

Jack’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed.

You’d imagined it—his weight pressing into the mattress, one arm tossed over your waist, the rest of the world pushed away by the rhythm of his breathing. You’d imagined curling into the heat of him, tracing the faint scar beneath his ribcage with your thumb, pressing your face into his chest and not moving for hours.

But instead, you were standing in the doorway of your kitchen, watching him rinse his hands in the sink like he couldn’t quite turn off the part of his brain still stuck at work. His scrub top was balled up on the counter beside him, and his undershirt clung to his back in soft lines.

“Let’s go out,” you said, voice careful but certain. “Just us.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just let the water keep running over his hands like he hadn’t registered the question—or maybe like he was pretending not to.

“Out?” he echoed, like the word didn’t sit right in his mouth after ten nights of nothing but fluorescent lights and hallway coffee. “You mean… out out?”

You stepped into the kitchen, folding your arms. “Yeah. Not fancy. Not fussy. Just somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or have a monitor beeping in the background.”

That made him glance over. Barely. But enough.

His brow creased like he was doing the mental math—how long since his last shower, how much energy he had left in the tank, whether he could fake his way through being social when he barely felt human.

“You sure?” he asked. “You don’t want… like, a real night out? Something normal. Reservations. Wine list?”

You shook your head. “No. I want you. I want O’Malley’s.”

That got his full attention.

He turned, leaning back against the sink. His dog tags swung slightly when he moved. “O’Malley’s?” he asked, like you’d just suggested robbing a bank.

You took a few steps closer. “Yeah.”

He blinked once. “You want to go to a bar where the jukebox hasn’t worked since ’08, the floor sticks to your shoes, and that guy with the mullet always thinks you're hitting on him just for saying hi?”

You smiled, letting your hands slip up under his shirt, resting lightly against the warm skin of his stomach. “I want you. Where you feel good. Where you’re not someone’s doctor or someone’s emergency. Just… mine. I’ve been coming home to your things, not you. And I want to be somewhere that feels like you again.”

He went quiet at that. Quiet in the way Jack gets when something actually lands. The way he used to go quiet back when you first met him—when you’d say something kind and he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

O’Malley’s wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even clean. But it was his.

Brick walls stained with decades of smoke and sweat and spilled drinks. The barstools wobbled. The bathroom door didn’t lock unless you jammed it shut with your heel. But it was familiar. Steady. Like Jack.

It was the first place he ever kissed you in public.

The first time you saw him relax—really relax—with his hand on your thigh and his smile easy and unguarded. No pager. No badge. Just him and a beer and the kind of quiet contentment he didn’t let anyone else see.

You wanted that Jack tonight.

Not the version who came home bone-tired and silent, who sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the dark. The one who carried too many stories in his hands and didn’t know where to put them.

“Alright. We’ll go. But I’m not shaving.”

You smiled. “I like you scruffy.”

He kissed you, slow and low, then murmured, “Twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” you said, already slipping out of his arms and heading for the bedroom. “You’ve got first round.”

And as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you made a beeline for that skirt.

The black one.

The one that hadn’t seen daylight since your fourth date—back when he’d taken you to a bar kind of like O'Malley's. A little louder, a little messier, but the same kind of dim lighting and cracked leather booths. You’d leaned against the doorframe of your apartment when the night was over, keys in your hand, heartbeat wild under your skin, and asked, “Do you want to come up?” like you weren’t already hoping he’d press you into the wall and never leave.

He kissed you before he even got his boots off.

Not soft. Not slow. Like something in him had snapped loose. You barely made it to the couch—his hands on your hips, mouth trailing heat down your stomach, skirt bunched at your waist. He was on his knees before you could say another word, eyes dark, breath rough against your skin.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured, voice all gravel and restraint.

You didn’t.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. Just held your thighs open like he needed to, like he hadn’t had a real taste of anything in months. He made you come twice before he even touched himself. All control. All focus. Like the only thing that mattered was what your body was doing under his.

You still think about how he looked that night.

The way he moved—deliberate and slow, like he was memorizing every inch of you. The low curse he let slip when he finally slid inside. How he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight, barely breathing, like you were the only solid thing left in his world. No dirty talk. No theatrics. Just him, wrecking you with nothing but steady hands and a look you’ve never been able to shake.

That night, Jack Abbot stopped pretending. He stopped playing it safe. He stopped pretending he didn’t want you like a man starved.

You hold the skirt up in the warm light of your bedroom, thumb brushing the fabric like a secret, and smile. It’s tighter than you remember. Shorter, too—but maybe that’s just the way you’re looking at it now. With the memory of his hands. His mouth. His voice when he said your name like it was something sacred.

You slide it up your legs slowly. Deliberately.

Because you don’t want soft tonight. You don’t want tired.

You want him. The version of Jack who doesn’t know how to hold back. The version who comes home and remembers exactly who the hell he belongs to.

And by the time he sees you in this?

You want him wrecked.

Not by the shift.

Not by the world.

By you.

When you came downstairs, he was in the kitchen with his phone in one hand, wallet in the other, the porch light casting long shadows across the hardwood.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t look up until he had to.

And when he did—he stopped mid-motion. The screen of his phone still lit, thumb frozen over it, breath caught in his chest like it had nowhere to go.

His eyes dragged down your body and then back up, slow. Controlled. Like he was trying not to react. Like he had to try.

His mouth opened, then shut again. His jaw ticked once.

He wiped a hand down his face, slow and rough, like the sight of you was something he needed to get a grip on before it undid him. “You really—” he started, voice low and ragged, gesturing vaguely toward your legs. “That skirt?”

You leaned against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that was anything but. “Figured I’d dress for the occasion.”

Jack didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“That skirt’s been in the back of your closet since…” He stopped, biting off the rest like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

You smiled gently. “Yeah. I remember.”

Silence stretched long and heavy between you. His eyes never left yours.

Then, quietly—honestly: “I’m not gonna ask you to change.” He paused. “But don’t ask me to keep my hands to myself.”

You pushed off the frame with a soft shrug. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

When you reached for your bag, he still hadn’t moved.

You had to walk past him to grab your keys, and even then, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just watched. Like he was counting his breaths. Like if he said one thing too soon, this night would tip into something neither of you were dressed for.

You walked out together into the thick hum of summer, the heat sitting low and wet across the driveway. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the trees. The air smelled like warm concrete and fading sunlight.

As you made your way toward the truck, you let one heel wobble—just a little. Just enough.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, stopping, bending at the knee like you needed to fix the strap.

You didn’t.

But you knew exactly what you were doing.

And you could feel his gaze on you. Hot. Still. Quiet.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t come closer. Just waited, jaw tight, fists curled around the truck keys.

You stood, slow. Turned, met his eyes.

He blinked once. Swallowed. Then turned and opened the passenger side door for you like he wasn’t two seconds from backing you up against it.

The drive was quiet at first. The windows down, the music soft—something bluesy and old, not quite loud enough to distract from the weight between you.

You reached over, let your fingers brush his thigh gently. The shift in him was instant. A subtle inhale. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. His hand gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“You sure you don’t want something nicer than this bar?” he asked finally, voice low and quiet like he already knew the answer but had to give you the out anyway.

You turned toward him, soft smile still in place. “No, honey. This is about you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead and nodded once. The streetlights passed in slow intervals, the engine humming beneath your feet.

And Jack?

He just drove. Knuckles white against the wheel. Thigh tense under your hand. Mouth pressed into a line like he was already counting down the minutes until you got home—and he could stop pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

When you walked in, his hand found the small of your back.

“Usual booth,” he said. “I’ll grab drinks.”

You turned, looked up at him with a soft smile. “No, babe. Let me. You always do it.”

He squinted slightly. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Go sit. Relax.”

He hesitated. Then pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it, and handed you his card. You turned and walked to the bar, slow and confident, letting your heels click against the hardwood. The bar was a straight shot from your booth, just far enough that he could still see you. And you made sure to give him a show.

You leaned forward, pretending to read the drink list. Let your hips tilt. Let the skirt shift. Just enough for the lace of your thong to show.

The whistle was immediate.

A low sound from a table of men a few feet away.

And then Jack was there.

Behind you in a blink.

His hand clamped to your lower back.

And the other—

yanked your skirt down.

Hard. Final. Like the motion itself was a correction.

The fabric snapped against your thighs, the sudden pressure sending a jolt through you. You straightened instinctively, blinking.

“Jesus,” you said under your breath.

Jack leaned in. “You really wanna do this here?”

“I was just reading the menu,” you murmured.

“Bullshit. You order the same thing every time. Diet Rum and Coke. No lime. Half ice.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move again. Just pressed his hand firmer to your lower back and let the moment hang.

The bartender handed over your drinks. You took them. Didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the booth with Jack two steps behind.

You slid into the booth—on his side.

He gave you a look.

“What?” you asked, sipping your drink.

“You’re pushing it.”

You shrugged. “I missed you.”

“You’re doing this because I haven’t fucked you in ten days.”

You flushed—heat hitting your cheeks hard.

But you didn’t deny it.

Instead, you leaned in. He thought you were going to kiss him. And then your hand dipped beneath his collar. You pulled the chain free.

Unclipped it.

And slid his dog tags over your head. They settled against your chest, heavy. His name resting between your breasts.

Jack blinked.

Then laughed once. Dark. Rough.

“You wear them,” he said, voice low, “you ride. That’s the deal.”

You smiled. “I know the rules.”

He stared at you another beat.

Then stood.

“We’re leaving.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“You want people to see your cunt?” he cut in. “You want attention? Then let me remind them who you belong to.”

You didn’t argue.

Just followed him out, heart pounding.

You thought you were headed home.

But when he opened the truck door, he looked at you.

“You’re not gonna ride me in bed.”

You blinked.

He nodded to the truck. “You’re gonna ride me right here. Since you wanted to act like bait.”

You got in.

Because that’s exactly what you wanted.

And he knows it.

The truck door shuts behind you with a heavy, final thunk. One of those sounds that doesn’t echo—it lands.

Jack circles around the hood without a word. His boots hit the gravel with a quiet crunch, one slower than the other, rhythm faintly uneven from the prosthetic he’s never once complained about. Shoulders set. Gait loose, but loaded.

He’s not in a rush.

Not because he doesn’t want to touch you.

Because he’s trying not to break.

You sit in the passenger seat, legs drawn up just slightly, thighs tight, heart climbing higher into your throat with every second he doesn’t speak. The skirt’s still riding too high despite his earlier intervention—and the lace between your thighs is still damp. Still warm.

When Jack slides in behind the wheel, he doesn’t touch you.

Just plants both hands on the steering wheel and exhales. Once. Deep. Grounded.

Then he turns his head.

“I knew you wore that skirt on purpose,” he says, voice low. Strained around the edges. Not tired from work, but from holding back. Like keeping his hands to himself has taken more out of him than the last ten nights combined.

He says it like a confession. Like a warning.

And you don’t bother playing coy.

You tilt your head, smile just enough to be dangerous. “Figured you deserved something to look forward to.”

He shifts beside you, slow and quiet. One arm drapes over the back of your seat, casual on the surface—but his fingers find your shoulder. Trail down, soft as breath, to the edge of your collarbone. He lingers there. Just enough to feel your pulse.

“I’ve been looking forward to you for ten nights,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Still, he doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, his palm drags slowly down your chest, not lingering, not teasing—reading.

Then he moves lower.

Hand slipping down your stomach, over the edge of your skirt, until he finds the lace. The wet. The heat.

He hisses through his teeth.

"You’re soaked."

You don’t answer.

“You’ve been walking around like that since the house?” he asks, more statement than question.

Your breath catches.

His fingers press in slightly—not a thrust, just pressure. Just enough to feel.

“I know this body,” he says, low, barely a whisper. “I’ve had this pussy every way you let me. In the shower. Against the wall. Bent over the fucking sink. You think I can’t tell when you’re asking for it?”

Your hips twitch into his hand.

He doesn't give you more.

“You thought this was gonna be cute?” he growls, thumb brushing just beside your clit. “Bend over at the bar. Show everyone the lace I’ve ripped off you a dozen times?”

You bite your lip. Nod.

That makes him laugh. A rough, breathless sound.

“I should take you back in there,” he says. “Let them see what it looks like when you beg.”

You shift toward him, no hesitation now—like your body’s been waiting for this as long as he has. You climb into his lap with practiced ease, knees against the worn leather of the truck seat, thighs bracketing his hips, breath warm against his jaw.

He exhales like the contact knocks something loose in him.

His hands find their way under you, palms settling at the curve of your ass—rough and sure, reverent in the way only a man who’s gone without you can be. Like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. Real. His.

“You missed me,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb dragging a slow arc along the edge of your hip.

“I missed you,” you breathe, your lips brushing his. “You weren’t home. Not really. I kept pretending it was enough just to hear your keys in the door, but it wasn’t. I was alone. I needed—”

Jack kisses you.

Hard.

Not like a question. Like a claim.

It isn’t soft. Isn’t slow. It’s hungry—the kind of kiss that splits you open, that tastes like every second he had to swallow the urge to call you in the middle of the night just to hear you. His mouth is hot and demanding, his grip tightening like he wants you closer, like closer still isn’t enough.

You gasp against him, fingers tangling in the fabric at his shoulders, and that’s when he groans—deep and wrecked—like you just pulled the last thread keeping him together.

Because this isn’t just a kiss.

It’s ten nights of wanting.

And now?

Now he’s got you in his lap, and your skirt’s hitched up, and you’re not stopping him.

You’re meeting him there.

He bites your lip, slow and deliberate. Tugs it between his teeth, groans when you gasp. The sound spills into your mouth and coils low in your stomach, sharp and warm. His hands shift, drag you harder against him, and you feel it—how hard he is under his jeans. How close he’s riding the edge.

You rut against him before you can stop yourself, hips grinding down like instinct, like need. His hands grip tighter, grounding you, guiding you, pulling a sound from your throat you’ve never made for anyone else.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like you’ve undone something deep in him. His mouth finds your jaw, your neck, the corner of your shoulder—fast, focused, starving. Each kiss lands like an answer to every silent plea you made in the nights he was gone.

“Jack,” you whimper, breath stuttering. “Please—”

He growls. Low. Close. A sound like something tearing loose inside him, sharp and intimate and only for you.

His thumb presses into your waist, anchoring you. His eyes are on you now, heavy and dark, like he’s drinking you in—committing this to memory in case the world asks him to go without you again.

“You want it that bad?” he rasps, voice tight. “You want to fuck me right here, like this truck’s the only place that’s ever existed?”

You nod—frantic, breathless.

Your moan says the rest.

And the way he looks at you then—like restraint was never about control. It was about respect. And now, finally, he doesn’t have to wear it.

He grabs your face, hands big and steady, his thumbs resting under your jaw, holding you like he needs you still to speak clearly.

“You wear those tags,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You ride. Like you promised. You gonna be good for me?”

You nod again, quicker this time.

“Words,” he breathes, brow low. “Tell me.”

“Yes. I’ll be good.”

He exhales like that undoes something else in him. But he doesn’t thank you for it. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches you, jaw clenched, thumb brushing your chin like you’re both already undone and just getting started.

“You made me watch,” he murmurs. “Watch every man in that bar eye what’s mine.”

You meet his stare, voice barely a whisper. “I wanted to remind you.”

“You did.”

He unzips his jeans without breaking eye contact. Slow. Controlled. Not hurried, not desperate. Just decided. Like he’s already known for days exactly how this was going to end.

The tags shift when you lean forward. They clink once against his chest before settling back against warm skin—your skin.

“Do it,” he says, voice scraped raw. “Do what you promised. Ride me.”

His hands guide you—slow, steady, reverent. Like he knows what this is. What it means. What it’ll undo.

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

A pause. One breath. Then another.

“Remind yourself who the fuck you belong to.”

Your hand slips between your bodies. Sure. Smooth. No hesitation now. You find him—hot, hard, already pulsing in your palm—and line him up.

You sink down.

You don’t even make it all the way down before Jack’s hands are on you—possessive, certain, like your body belongs to him and he’s just reclaiming it.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. His head falls forward, lips brushing your sternum as you sink fully onto him. You feel the tremor run through him. Hear the sharp breath he drags in like he’s been choking without you. “You’re still so fucking tight.”

His fingers splay wide across your hips, holding you there. Not letting you move. Not yet.

“Stay right there,” he growls. “Let me feel it. All of it.”

You whimper, thighs already shaking, because he’s thick, hot, deep—so deep it makes your chest ache. You try to move, to set a rhythm, but his grip tightens instantly.

“No,” he says, tone dropping lower. “This isn’t yours to lead.”

You gasp. “Jack—”

He shuts you up with a thrust so sudden, so deep, you see stars. The sound you make is guttural—raw and involuntary.

His hands grip your waist, drag you down harder against him with the next roll of his hips, his cock hitting that spot that makes your spine arch, your jaw fall slack.

“I’ve been hard for you for ten fucking nights,” he rasps against your collarbone. “You think I’m letting you play games? You think I’m letting you tease me, ride me slow like you’re in charge?”

He pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You’re not in charge tonight, sweetheart. I am.”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease you into it.

He fucks up into you like it’s punishment for making him wait—hands bruising your hips, his mouth hot against your throat, his body straining under yours like he’s holding back from breaking the whole damn truck apart.

Your skirt rides up higher. Your knees scramble for leverage. The windows fog, the air thick with the slap of skin, the creak of leather, your name torn from his throat like he’s never tasted anything better.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers threading through the chain around your neck. His dog tags. His.

And then he yanks.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough.

Enough to snap your head back. Enough to leave you gasping. Enough to remind you—he’s home now.

He thrusts up, harder now, sharper. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders, your body unraveling under every precise, unrelenting movement.

“You wanted me to lose it. Wanted to feel me snap.”

“Jack—please—”

His fingers twist the chain tighter, the metal cool against your throat. “You wanted this? You take it.”

Another thrust. And another.

He’s all teeth and tongue now—biting at your jaw, kissing you deep, swearing against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You feel your orgasm building hard and fast, coiled tight in your belly.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice almost gentle in contrast to how he’s fucking you. “You gonna come on me, baby? Hm? Let go for me?”

You nod, eyes wide, breath ragged. “Jack—God—Jack—”

“That’s it,” he says, and he fucks you through it. “Come for me. Come now.”

And when it hits, it slams into you—your whole body tensing, toes curling, nails digging into his chest, a moan torn from your throat that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before.

He fucks you through it—relentless, controlled—until your walls flutter around him and your body starts to fold.

That’s when he lets go.

He growls your name, hips bucking once, twice—and then he’s buried deep, his jaw clenched, eyes shut. Like he’s finally home.

He stays there. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just holds you.

One arm around your waist. The other still curled in the chain around your neck.

Breathing hard. Pressing kisses to your chest like prayers.

You let a beat pass. Then two.

You shift slightly, still filled. Still aching.

Then you lean back and smirk.

He notices immediately.

“What,” he says flatly, eyes opening just enough to pin you in place, “is that look.”

You blink, all wide-eyed and faux-sweet. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

He raises a brow. “Surprised.”

You nod. Slow. A little too pleased with yourself. “Mmhmm. I thought you were gonna ruin me.”

Jack exhales through his nose. Once. Controlled. His jaw shifts.

“Careful.”

You shrug, grinding down just a little—not enough to be obvious. Just enough for him to feel it.

“I mean… it was good,” you say lightly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

His hand flexes on your hip. Hard.

“But I was expecting…” you trail off, eyes dancing, “more.”

Jack’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Then: “You done?”

You grin. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re done.”

He shifts under you, cock hardening again. Already thick. Already ready.

Your smirk starts to fade.

But it’s too late.

You’re about to get it.

[luverine]

Creep~

18+ MDNI // noncon? // no proof read

He’s such a creep.

There are cameras hidden all over your apartment. He absolutely loves grabbing your used clothes, the smell of you is delicious.

He’s so tired of humping your pillow when you’re gone. He needs the real thing.

You.

All of you, he needs your mind, body, and soul.

Fuck his cock drools at everything you do. Washing the dishes? He comes. Sleeping? He’s creaming everywhere. Finishing up paperwork? Your hands god he needs them on his rock hard dick.

But here he is watching you through his monitor jerking himself off like some sad pervert. Come soaked tissues scattered around as well as pictures of you covering his wall.

When’s the last time he slept? Showered? Ate?

Who gives a damn he wants to be inside of you, be with you, have you forever. Your body never leaves his mind.

He strokes your face on the monitor. “You are fucking mine!”

꩜ LEON, Dabi, SHIGARAKI, Shoto, MEGUMI, Eren, ARMIN, JEAN, KÖNIG, Ghost ꩜

Likes, comments, reblogs appreciated ꩜

Divider credit cafekitsune

[cognitivejustice]

Firstly, the researchers removed the phones’ batteries and replaced them with external power sources to reduce the risk of chemical leakage into the environment, a ScienceDaily report explains. 

Then, four phones were connected together, fitted with 3D-printed casings and holders, and turned into a working prototype ready to be reused.

“Innovation often begins not with something new, but with a new way of thinking about the old, re-imagining its role in shaping the future,” says Huber Flores, Associate Professor of Pervasive Computing at the University of Tartu in Estonia.  

The prototype created by researchers was put to use underwater, where it participated in the monitoring of marine life by helping to count different sea species. 

Normally, these kinds of tasks require a scuba diver to record video and bring it to the surface for analysis. The prototype meant the whole process could be done automatically underwater.

And there are many other ways that a phone’s capacity to efficiently process and store data can be put to good use after its WhatsApping days are done.

These mini data centres could also be used at bus stops, for example, to collect real-time data on the number of passengers. This could help to optimise public transportation networks.

Such smartphone repurposing is just a drop in the ocean of issues that natural resource mining, energy-intensive production and e-waste present. Ultimately, we need to challenge this throwaway culture and move to a more circular model. 

[dontrllycaretbh]

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Title: Mine to Know (pt.7)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Warnings: explicit sapphic content (18+), dom!Azzi, sub!Paige, stalking, obsession, dubious consent, psychological manipulation, possessive behavior, mutual degradation / humiliation kink, invasive monitoring, voyeurism, emotional coercion, explicit sexual language, sexual tension with power imbalance, mild violence/threats, boundary violations, toxic dynamics, masturbation, dark romance themes

Summary: Azzi tries to ignore Paige in the library, but Paige sends her a video—explicit, desperate, filmed in a bathroom, just to provoke her. Azzi watches, furious and turned on, and snaps. If Paige wanted attention, she was about to get it—on Azzi’s terms.

Notes: talk to me in the comments, i love talking to u guys

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Azzi knew Paige was crazy.

Not in the way people throw the word around to mean wild or bold or impulsive. No — Paige was genuinely unwell. Obsessive. Possessive. Just down-right disgusting in every single way.

And Azzi had seen it. She’d known it. From the first time Paige lingered just a little too long in the locker room, all smiles and sugar-laced venom. From the way she laughed too loud when Emily touched her, eyes flicking to Azzi like it was a challenge. From the late-night texts that bled into voice notes, that bled into nothing but breath — and Azzi would listen anyway.

She’d known what Paige was from the beginning.

But what scared her wasn’t that Paige was like that.

It was that she’d made Azzi like that too.

It had happened slowly. A slow, sticky rot curling around her spine. First it was the jealousy. Then the anger. Then the confusion when Paige started to flirt with someone else, even after everything. Then the sickness — the deep, gnawing ache — when Azzi realized she couldn’t stop looking.

She’d tell herself she didn’t care. That it didn’t mean anything. That she’d never actually wanted Paige, just the power. Just the attention.

But that was a lie.

Because now she couldn’t even walk into class without seeing a text from her — something depraved, something desperate, something that would make Azzi’s throat close and her thighs press together under the desk. Paige didn’t care about timing or place. If Azzi hadn’t answered a message in the last hour, she’d be punished.

📱 Messages

Miss me yet? I’m still wearing your shirt.

I thought about you in the shower. Want to guess where I touched myself?

You’re not going to ignore me today, are you? I’ll come to class. I don’t care.

It was suffocating. It was relentless.

And the worst part was that Azzi wanted it. Hated herself for it — but still leaned into the sick thrill that came with knowing she had Paige twisted around her fingers just as tightly. This wasn’t a normal relationship. It wasn’t even a real one. It was a war. A game of who could ruin the other faster.

And lately, Azzi wasn’t sure who was winning.

She used to pride herself on control — the silence, the stillness, the way she could unnerve someone with just a look. But Paige? Paige laughed in the face of silence. She filled every space, every second, every breath. Azzi couldn’t even sleep without her phone buzzing on the pillow beside her. Couldn’t walk across campus without wondering if Paige was following her again — or worse, watching her, waiting to see who Azzi talked to, who she smiled at.

The other day, she’d gotten a photo of herself — taken from behind. Just her walking out of the gym. No caption. No context.

She hadn’t even seen Paige that day.

Azzi stared at the screen for ten minutes before deleting the photo. But the feeling didn’t go away.

And the next time she saw Paige, Paige didn’t say a word. She just smiled, slid her fingers under the hem of Azzi’s jacket like she belonged there, and whispered, “Did you like the picture?”

Azzi had wanted to slap her.

Instead, she’d dragged her into the nearest stairwell and kissed her so hard they both almost fell.

That was the problem. Paige infected everything. Rage turned to lust turned to obsession turned to shame — and still Azzi kept going back. Still she let Paige worm her way in deeper.

She remembered one night — maybe the worst one — when she’d tried to turn her phone off for an hour. Just sixty minutes of peace. A bath, a book, anything to remember who she was before this.

When she finally turned it back on, there were seventeen messages. Six missed calls. One voicemail where Paige was crying, breathless and mean all at once.

“You think you can ignore me now? You think I’m gonna let you disappear? You’re mine, Azzi. Don’t make me remind you what happens when you forget that.”

Azzi had laughed. She’d genuinely laughed, cold and bitter.

And then she’d called Paige back. Told her to come over.

They didn’t speak that night. Paige climbed in through the window, pressed herself against Azzi like she was trying to crawl under her skin. They didn’t sleep. Azzi didn’t want to. She wanted Paige to leave bruises. She wanted to be marked.

She was losing it.

She was fucking losing it.

And the worst part — the part Azzi couldn’t say out loud — was that she didn’t want to get better.

There was something thrilling about being broken like this. Something holy about it. The way Paige needed her, demanded her, ruined her — it made Azzi feel like something mattered. Like someone would burn the whole world down just to get her attention.

She liked it.

She hated it.

She couldn’t stop.

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Lately, even the air felt different. When she walked past girls Paige had smiled at, her skin prickled. When Paige posted something vague on her story — lyrics, a flash of skin, a blurry mirror selfie — Azzi’s heart would drop. She couldn’t breathe until she knew it wasn’t for someone else.

She used to be strong. Untouchable. Now she was checking Paige’s location at 2 a.m. Now she was the one calling twice. Now she was the one sneaking into Paige’s place just to smell her shampoo.

She was the one who wanted to make sure no one else ever touched her.

Paige had infected her.

Azzi knew she’d never be clean again.

And maybe, somewhere deep in the wreckage of her soul, she was okay with that.

Azzi sat hunched at the back corner of the library, tucked behind a dusty stack of textbooks that hadn’t been touched in years. Her hoodie was pulled up like armor, the sleeves half-swallowed her hands, and her earbuds were in but silent—no music, just a decoy.

Her eyes tracked the same line of text for the fourth time.

She wasn’t reading.

She was waiting.

She knew Paige was going to break. She always did. Azzi didn’t know if it would take ten minutes or an hour, but Paige never lasted long without attention—especially not from her.

And like clockwork, her phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

Twice.

She didn’t move right away. Let it sit there, face down, like she didn’t care. But her pulse had already spiked. Her stomach had already coiled tight.

Another message pops in: a video.

She hesitates. Looks around the library.

A teacher at the front. A couple kids half-asleep at another table.

She adjusts her hoodie to hide the phone better.

She hits play.

The lens stabilized enough to show Paige, propped back against the stall wall. Her black jeans were unbuttoned and shoved halfway down her thighs, one leg cocked up onto the toilet seat lid for balance. Her white top was still on, but bunched around her ribs, her bra visible underneath.

She’s got something new in her other hand.

A thick marker.

Paige is flushed, sweating, hair wild around her face.

“Hi, Azzi,” she pants, voice low and trembling. “Look what I brought today.”

Azzi’s lip curls in fury.

Paige teases herself with the marker’s end, circling her slick folds.

“Bet you’re gonna tell me to stop. Bet you’re gonna tell me I’m disgusting.”

She bites her lip. Moans.

“I’m fucking soaked thinking about you watching me in class again.”

She pushes the marker in slowly, whining.

Azzi’s fingers dig so hard into the phone she hears it creak.

Paige’s thighs shake on video. She gasps, rocking on it.

“Fuck, Azzi. It’s so big.”

She moans louder.

“Want you to see how messy you make me. Want you to see me fucking myself like a whore for you.”

The video angle wobbles as Paige moves harder, her breathing ragged.

Slick, wet sounds are loud even through the library’s hush.

Azzi’s jaw is tight, pupils blown, blood roaring in her ears.

Paige’s voice breaks.

“I’m gonna squirt again,” she whimpers. “Gonna do it all over the floor. Wanna see it, Azzi?”

She shoves the marker in deep, the obscene sound making Azzi’s face go hot.

Paige’s eyes flutter shut.

“Say I’m yours. Say I’m your fucking mess.”

Azzi can’t even type. She’s too busy watching.

Paige lets out a high, broken scream on the video.

Her thighs convulse.

Fluid gushes out, splattering on the dirty tile.

She whimpers Azzi’s name over and over, eyes rolling back.

Azzi is breathing so hard she’s practically shaking.

The video ends with Paige panting, half-crying, the marker still buried in her, her soaked panties kicked off to the side.

A new text arrives.

“For you. Only you. Tell me you saw.”

Azzi finally types, thumbs hitting the screen so hard she almost cracks it.

“You’re fucking dead when I find you.”

Paige’s reply:

“Promise?”

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Paige is on her knees on the cold tile.

Exactly where Azzi told her to wait.

Panties wadded in her pocket. The marker in one hand, resting on her thigh.

She’s flushed, breathing shallow, listening for footsteps.

When the door slams open, she jumps.

Azzi’s there, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, eyes murderous.

She locks the door behind her without a word.

Paige can’t help it—she whimpers.

“Azzi—”

Azzi strides forward, grabbing her chin hard enough to bruise.

“Couldn’t fucking help yourself, could you?”

Paige shudders, mouth falling open.

“I wanted you to see. Wanted you to want me.”

Azzi’s lip curls.

“I already own you.”

Paige moans at that, thighs pressing together.

Azzi shoves her back against the stall door, boot nudging her thighs apart.

Paige’s voice breaks.

“Please.”

Azzi’s voice is a razor.

“Show me the marker.”

Paige fumbles, holding it up. Still wet.

Azzi’s eyes flick down with disgusted heat.

“You fucked yourself with this?”

Paige nods frantically, breath catching.

Azzi snatches it from her.

“Open your mouth.”

Paige’s eyes go wide.

“Azzi—”

Azzi’s fingers tighten in her hair.

“Now.”

Paige moans and opens her mouth obediently.

Azzi shoves the marker between her lips, pushing it in so far she gags.

“Look at you. Choking on what you fucked yourself with. God, you’re pathetic.”

Paige’s eyes tear up, drool sliding from the corner of her mouth.

Azzi watches, breathing hard. She yanks it out, wet and glistening with spit.

Then she grabs Paige’s hair again, forcing her to look up.

“You want to come? You want to make another mess on the floor?”

Paige gasps.

“Please. I’m so close already.”

Azzi’s fingers slam between Paige’s legs without warning, three of them forcing in deep.

Paige screams—choked and desperate—and clamps a hand over her own mouth to muffle it.

Azzi doesn’t slow.

She pumps viciously, thumb grinding Paige’s clit.

Wet, obscene sounds fill the stall.

Paige sobs into her palm, shaking violently.

Azzi leans in close, snarling into her ear.

“You’re going to squirt on this filthy floor again like a bitch in heat..”

Paige’s entire body goes rigid.

“Azzi—Azzi—fuck—I’m gonna—I can’t—”

Azzi growls, twisting her fingers cruelly.

“Do it.”

Paige convulses, the orgasm tearing out of her in wet, gushing pulses.

Fluid splatters the floor, her thighs shaking uncontrollably.

She sobs her way through it, voice cracking, gasping Azzi’s name like a prayer.

Azzi doesn’t stop until the last tremor leaves Paige twitching and limp against the door.

Finally Azzi pulls her fingers out, soaked.

She wipes them on Paige’s pants

“Clean it up,” she orders coldly.

Paige is crying, smiling, ruined.

She nods.

“Okay.”

She drops forward, licking at the puddle on the tile obediently, tears falling.

Azzi watches, chest heaving.

She doesn’t say good girl.

She doesn’t say stop.

She just owns it.

Paige wipes her mouth on her wrist, breathing hard. Her hair is a mess. Her pants completely drenched, and she’s not even trying to fix it yet.

Azzi is standing over her, eyes dark, chest rising and falling.

She reaches down, fisting Paige’s hair and yanking her head up.

Paige grins. Her eyes are blown out, but there’s that same nasty spark in them.

“Well?” she pants, voice husky. “Happy now?”

Azzi sneers.

“Not even fucking close.”

Paige’s smile widens. She arches her back a little, showing herself off even though she’s on her knees in the middle of a filthy school bathroom.

“God, you’re greedy. Can’t even let me catch my breath before you start ordering me around again.”

Azzi’s grip tightens in her hair.

“You think I give a fuck if you can breathe?”

Paige moans low in her throat, deliberately letting it turn mocking.

“Oh no. Azzi. Don’t be mean.”

Azzi snarls.

“You’re a fucking problem.”

Paige licks her lips slow and dirty.

“Your problem. Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

Azzi shakes her, hair twisting in her fist.

“I should make you crawl out of here naked.”

Paige actually laughs, breathy and wet.

“God, do it. Fucking dare you.”

Azzi glares.

“I should make you wait for me at 3 a.m. in your bra and panties. Outside my window like the little slut you are.”

Paige’s eyes light up, but she refuses to look humbled. Instead she grins, biting her lip.

“You going to let me in? Or just make me stand there dripping for you?”

Azzi leans in until their foreheads touch, voice a vicious whisper.

“You show up, I’m not letting you leave until you can’t fucking walk.”

Paige whimpers at that but smiles, breath catching.

“Oh no,” she mocks breathlessly. “What a threat.”

Azzi growls.

“3 a.m. Don’t be late.”

Paige tilts her head defiantly in Azzi’s grip.

“Make me.”

Azzi yanks her hair back hard. Paige moans.

“Wear something I don’t have to rip off. Or do. I don’t give a shit.”

Paige grins, feral and filthy.

“Guess I’ll pick something real easy to tear.”

Azzi shoves her away, letting her crumple to the floor with a laugh.

She heads for the door, eyes black.

Paige calls after her, voice teasing and sing-song even as it cracks from overuse:

“Don’t forget to set your alarm, Azzi! Wouldn’t want to miss me!”

Azzi doesn’t look back. She slams the door open, leaving Paige ruined and smiling on the bathroom floor.

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[ssruis]

In my head rui is super dramatic sobbing crying as tsk dies in his arms & the second the light leaves tsukasa’s eyes he stops crying is completely normal and just immediately revives tsk. There’s no fanfare or cool intense spells or dramatic action it’s just like waking him up. Tsukasa is both thankful but also a little mad because he had a super cool protagonist type death thing going on where surely he’d be remembered for ages. it’s like a beautiful ending of a play got fucked over by the author being too cowardly to kill off a character. It’s just bad writing Rui.

You can decide whether or not tsk knew rui could revive him and forgot or if he didn’t know but I implore you to choose whatever is funniest to you.

Alternatively (funnier idea) rui would never hurt tsukasa let alone cause his death even if he had a get out of death free card so if it was up to him this wouldn’t be happening. however chevalier tsukasa would absolutely charge into battles like a small dumb animal with no self preservation instincts (it is the “prone to biting off way more than he can chew” gene) so this is like the 30th time this has happened and every single time rks act super dramatic about it because they are annoying theatre kids & find role playing dying in your lover’s arms/your lover dying in your arms a very fun and entertaining experience.

Untapped comedy potential with sorcevalier where tsukasa dies and it’s super tragic and emotional he’s like “if my time has finally come then I can die peacefully knowing my loved ones are safe…” & then rui just revives him. All those dramatics for nothing. It’s like that one “wake up tails you fucked up big time” panel.

[rafedarling]

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩

pairing: drew starkey x f!reader

summary: after welcoming baby lola into your growing family, you and drew sneak away for your first proper date night since her birth, just like you did after rustyn. it’s tradition now.

warning(s): english is not my native language. soft references to postpartum life and parenting, romantic dialogue and emotional vulnerability, some light teasing/flirting, overwhelming sweetness (you’ve been warned).

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @issabellec7 @alexxavicry @rafestoothbrush @moonlightluna23

The restaurant that you and Drew go to was tucked into a quiet street corner, the kind of place that remembered your order and your wine. You hadn’t been here since Lola was born, and before that, not since Rustyn’s first wobbly steps.

“This feels illegal,”

You whispered with a grin as Drew pulled out your chair.

“Leaving the house without a diaper bag?”

Drew chuckled, shrugging off his jacket.

“It is a little dangerous. We might accidentally talk about something other than naps and spit-up.”

You laughed, slipping your fingers through his across the table.

“God, I missed this.”

“I missed you,” He said, no hesitation.

“All of you. Just like this.”

The waiter brought wine, and for a moment, the two of you just… breathed.

No baby monitors.

No background cartoons.

Just clinking glasses and candlelight.

“Remember the last time we came here?” you asked.

“After Rustyn?”

Drew smirked.

“Yeah. You cried because they brought out the wrong pasta and you were hormonal. Then we made out in the car like teenagers.”

“Hey,” you pointed a fork at him, “it was the wrong pasta. And you said you liked hormonal me.”

“I loved hormonal you. Still do,”

He teased, sipping his wine. “You were feisty. You still are.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, heart already melting.

“So,” you said after a few bites, “how does it feel being a dad of two now?”

Drew leaned back in his seat.

“Honestly? Kinda like walking around with your heart outside your body… but now it’s two tiny hearts and they’re both really loud.”

You giggled.

“You’re doing great, though.”

“You’re doing better,” he said, reaching for your hand. “You’re supermom.”

You blushed, then paused, chewing slowly as a familiar curiosity stirred in you.

“Hey babe,” you said softly.

“Can I ask you something kind of random?”

Drew looked up, curious. “Of course.”

You tilted your head, tracing the rim of your wine glass.

“Why… why did you decide to have kids with me so soon? I mean we weren’t even dating that long. And then you said you were ready. You wanted a baby.”

He blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I know you loved me. I know I loved you. But still, there had to be a real reason.”

He smiled a little, eyes crinkling.

“Baby. Of course it’s because I love you. Love you like… a lot a lot.”

You laughed, “I know. But I want the real real answer.”

He leaned in, resting his forearms on the table.

“You really wanna hear it?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Drew let out a breath, thoughtful. “Okay.”

He looked at you, not just at your face, but at everything behind it. Your journey. Your shared life. The girl he fell for and the woman who gave him a family.

“I decided to have kids with you,” he said slowly,

“because I couldn’t stand the idea of someone else’s children having your eyes. The eyes of the girl I love. I wanted that to be mine. All mine.”

Your heart dropped right into your stomach in the best way.

“Mine only,” he added, voice softer now.

“That was it. That was the moment I knew.”

You stared, stunned into silence. The kind of silence where you know you’ll remember this for the rest of your life.

“…Well,” you finally said, voice catching,

“Drew… you know both Rustyn and Lola have your eyes, right?”

He grinned, a little smug. “Of course I know. Rustyn’s got my exact shade, and Lola’s got that brighter blue but your shape.”

You smiled.

“I’ve always loved their eyes. When you’re away filming, I look at them and I see you. It’s like your love is right there in their faces.”

Drew reached across the table, brushing your hand with his thumb.

“I love their eyes too. Because they’re ours. They’re proof. You know?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He leaned in again, whispering just loud enough for you to hear,

“Also… if we’re being honest… I was trying to trap you.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

He grinned mischievously.

“Trick you into staying forever. Knock you up and never let you leave.”

You laughed so hard the table shook. “Drew!”

“I mean, it worked, didn’t it?” he said, eyes sparkling.

You threw your napkin at him and he caught it mid-air, laughing.

“But seriously,” he added after a beat, softer now, “you’re it for me. You’ve always been it.”

The waiter walked by just then and refilled your glasses like nothing in the world had just happened but you were still holding onto those words.

You’ve always been it.

Date nights were rare.

Alone time even rarer.

But nights like this where Drew looked at you like you were still his favorite thing in the room, even after babies, spit-up, and endless laundry made every moment count.

You didn’t say anything else for a while, just curled your fingers into his, and smiled like you were still that girl who first said yes to a forever with him.

Because you were. And he knew it.

[yieldtotemptation]

MINE ft. Yeji

yeji x male reader smut

9k words

it's a follow up to... NURSE

“You’re unbelievable!”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“You’re going to make me go insane!”

“That good, am I?”

“I swear one of these days—”

“I know, I know, I feel the same—”

“—I am seriously going to kill you!”

“Uh, shit, I’m out of jokes with that one.”

“Good, because I am Not. Fucking. Joking.”

Yeji’s well and truly pissed—rightfully so, mind you (you really fucked up this time), and for the first time ever there may really be no clever quip or line that can get you out of this one.

But of course, that won’t stop you from trying.

“Look around! This isn’t a fucking joke!”

She’s glaring at you, the kind of furious that could melt steel with her gaze alone, eyes narrowed into sharp slits that slice through your bullshit like a hot knife.

And so, you blink first, balking under Yeji’s glare, and decide to take her advice and look away, look around at your surroundings—at the many, many reasons Yeji is justifiably upset.

For one, there’s your current location—a hospital room, not a good look. Then, there’s the cast around your arm and bandages on your head—not the worse of injuries, but again, when you couple it with the IV snaking its way up your arm, and the morbid beeping of a heart rate monitor filling the silence, it really does not make you out to be the most intact of individuals.

Finally, there’s Yeji, her eyes verging on tears and her hands balled into fists, clutching the fabric of your hospital gown and looking like she’s ready to tear the room apart.

Add them all together: a hospital room, a handsome but seriously injured boyfriend, with his devastated girlfriend wracked with worry besides him… it doesn’t paint the best of pictures.

But yet, before you can stop yourself, another attempt at lightening the mood: “You should see the other guy.”

There it is! A crack in Yeji’s armour, a flicker of something other than righteous fury on her face—eyes widen slightly, lips part just a smidge—a ghost of a smile, perhaps?

But it’s gone before you can confirm its existence—Yeji’s façade is maintained and all you get is a minuscule quirk of her eyebrow.

“The other guy was a car,” she says through gritted teeth.

“And now that car is being turned into scrap and I get to be in the presence of the most beautiful girl in all of Korea.”

“I hate you,” she replies, lovingly (you hope).

“Most beautiful girl in all of Asia?” You’re almost there, you can see it on her face.

“Still hate you.” An ease in tension—a slight drop of her shoulders, a relaxing of her grip.

“The world?”

A sigh, a frown slowly turning upwards, success! — “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot,” you add, and that gets you a smile—a real, genuine, heart-stopping smile that lights up the room more than any fluorescent bulb could ever dream of.

“What am I going to do with you?” She’s shaking her head, letting you have your little victory.

“What would I do without you?” You ask, and she's rolling her eyes—nothing she hasn't heard you say before. “Certainly wouldn’t get to stay in a room this nice.”

Yeji blushes, her cheeks taking on the same shade of the excessive number of roses decorating your bedside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously, Yeji?” You say, and echo back to her, “look around.”

It’s Yeji’s turn to act coy—as if it’s perfectly normal for a hospital room to come with a flat-screen TV, designer furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the city.

The room is closer to a luxury suite than a recovery ward—bigger than your apartment, even—and there’s a voice in the back of your head telling you to maybe risk another injury so you can maybe extend your stay even longer, especially if it means getting to have Yeji fuss over you like this.

“I might have called in a favour or two,” Yeji admits. “But they said this was the only room available!”

“Yeji, this is too much,” you say, but she’s already ignoring you, waving her hand dismissively.

“It’s nothing,” she says, rising off the bed and leaving you to your own devices, satisfied that you’ve been properly scolded.

But, you know better. While Yeji is like this with everyone she cares about—always giving, always putting others first—with you she gets especially intense with her caring, and as much as she’d probably deny it otherwise, you know that she’s more than a little smug at the sight of you laid up in this fancy hospital room, with nothing to do but let her pamper you.

“Sure, sure,” you say, but you can easily imagine her on the phone with every hospital in a fifty-kilometre radius, pulling strings left and right, leaning on the right people to get what she wants.

It’s just who Yeji is—no half measures, above and beyond in every aspect.

“I should unpack,” Yeji decides, retrieving a ridiculously oversized bag from the corner of your suite.

“Unpack?” You ask, but your question falls on deaf ears.

“I was halfway across the world when I heard what happened.” Yeji's clicking her tongue with annoyance as she struggles with the zipper for the bag. “Two days before I could get a flight out!”

“You didn’t have to rush—” you start to say, but Yeji whips her head around, a clear warning not to finish the very stupid sentence you’re about to complete.

“I didn’t have time to pack everything, just grabbed what I could from our place—” (your place, technically) “—and came straight here.”

Yeji instantly sets about your room, making sure that there isn’t a corner that hasn't been touched by her: your favourite tea brewing, the last book you were reading, a Bluetooth speaker playing her ‘songs to remind you of me’ playlist; every single thing you could possibly need to feel better.  

It’s not even what she’s doing as she completes her takeover of your hospital room, it’s how she’s doing it.

She’s in her normal everyday uniform: one of your flannel shirts over a tank top that just so happens to ride up just right, showing off her toned midriff as she reaches to hang a change of clothes for you in the wardrobe. Then there’s the snug, tight yoga pants moulded to her curves that stretch over her unbearably firm ass every time she needs to bend over and take something else out from her bag.

It’s all too perfect to be accidental, and you start to get conspiratorial, like perhaps this innocent act of care is just a torturous reminder of your what you can’t have while you’re all laid up and injured.

She is dressed normally. But normal, everyday clothes for anyone else on someone like Yeji, with her body—all sleek muscles and tight lines—is absolutely devastating.

Yeji works fast, a tornado of love and care clad in a dangerous pair of leggings, and in minutes she’s done, adding a finishing touch by spraying her perfume around the room, overpowering the sterile hospital scent with the sweet, floral notes that are uniquely hers—this is her space now, anyway.

Finally, she stops at the foot of your hospital bed, picking up your medical chart, reading it like she understands it all (actually, knowing Yeji, she probably got her medical degree on the way to the hospital just in case she deemed the doctors and nurses weren't doing a good enough job and she decided to take over).

“Hm,” is Yeji’s summary of your current condition. It’s cute, seeing her stare at the clipboard with a focus she usually reserves for the stage. “Eating well, no signs of deterioration in fine motor skills, very responsive, and very… friendly?”

 You raise an eyebrow.  “They wrote that down?”

“Attending physician: Dr. Park Yoona, Nurses: Roh Ji Yun, Jeon Jeong ah, Bae Hye Jin,” Yeji starts to read out the list of names—female names—and you start to hear the nails being hammered into your coffin, “Nurse Kim Ji Won—seriously, like the actress? All women. Hm.”

“Really, I hadn’t noticed!” Maybe feigning ignorance would increase your chances of survival. “You’d think in this day and age there’d be more male nurses now though, right?”

“Hm,” it’s that noise again. “I’m glad to hear that while I was worried sick about you, desperately trying to get over here, you’ve been well taken care of. Must be nice surrounded by all these cute women in their little nurse outfits.”

“Oh, please,” you test a deflection, “they’re just doing their jobs.”

Yeji’s eyes bore into you. “One of these nurses dots her ‘I’s with love hearts.”

You can only sigh at your impending doom. It’s been a good life.

“Who do these women think they are?”

You switch up your strategy, trying another angle: “They’re medical professionals, Yeji, not strippers.”

“Right, medical professionals,” Yeji echoes, her tone thick with sarcasm, before she suddenly switches up, putting on her sweetest, and most uncomfortable, baby voice. “Oh no, such a big, strong man that needs help. Tell me where it hurts so I can rub it better for you!”

“Stop, stop,” you protest, as much as you would like her to rub it better, you still have your pride. “I barely even talk to them—they just do their check-ups and leave. I can’t even remember what they look like, they’re probably all just plain, old ladies.”

You regret the words as soon as you say them (you really should’ve seen this coming), because before you can get any further into your pitiful defence, the door to your room swings open, and in struts a young, cheery, bouncy woman.

“Is my favourite patient ready for another check-up?” You're already cringing at the nurse’s question—her voice a squeak that’s far too high-pitched and far too cute for a hospital. If anything, she looks like an actress playing the role of a nurse, in some bad movie where they clearly casted for looks over believability.

Yeji’s eyes widen at the sight of the new, endowed occupant of the room, and she reads the name on the nurse’s tag, pinned firmly over a set of scrubs that’s a few sizes too small, and you’re immediately reminded of her earlier threat to kill you with surprising clarity.

“Kim Ji Won,” Yeji reads out loud, before suddenly remembering herself, lowering a baseball cap over her eyes and slipping on a surgical mask, hiding her face from view. She turns away, pretending to fuss with the flowers on your bedside table.

“Oh!” The nurse exclaims, and you’re starting to feel the walls of what was once a luxurious hospital room start to close in. “I didn’t realise you had a guest,” she says, as light and cheerful as ever, “is she perhaps your… sister?”

Oh God, Yeji might really kill you after this. “No, no, no, she’s my—”

But Nurse JI Won ploughs onwards, having the gall (or lack of a sense of self-preservation) to turn to Yeji, and chat away. “Your brother has been the perfect patient! Me and all the other nurses just can’t get enough of him! He’s such a charmer!”

Yep. Definitely dying. It’s been a good life.

“Oh, oops!” Ji Won giggles, as she somehow drops the clipboard she was holding, sending papers scattering across the floor. “I’m so silly, give me a second to get it together!”

“No, no, it’s okay you don’t need to—” you try, but by now you should know better, “—bend over and pick it up.”

She’s already turned away from you, pointing her ass up and straight into the air, performatively picking up the pages one by one, taking her time so you can commit to memory the exact colour of the lacy thong peeking out of her pants.

It’s so blatant that you’re almost impressed, but compared to the practiced ease of your girlfriend, it’s a pale imitation. Still, your mind can’t resist making the comparison, even though there’s no ass in the world that can hold a candle to Yeji’s cheeks wrapped in sheer nylon.

Look at you, all loyal and shit—even in the face of all temptation, you’re still a committed boyfriend, through and through.

If only Yeji, who is now evaluating you with a glare as hot as a thousand suns, could know that your mind is filled with thoughts of just her… even as you're staring at Nurse Ji Won’s ass.

You’re dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

“Aha, got it!” Ji Won is back on her feet, jumping with a cheer that suggests that maybe she could use a little more support, whilst completely immune to the sudden drop in temperature in the room. Yeji might as well be a ghost to her, the nurse looks only at you, scanning your body, searching for any new injuries that may have popped up since your last check-up.

If only she knew to just come back in an hour.

“It says here it’s about time to take out your IV!” Ji Won sunnily declares.

Consent isn’t a word that seems to exist in this nurse’s vocabulary, and she takes the opportunity to lean real close over you, pressing her ample chest against your side, making sure you get the full feel of her curves as she reaches across to the stand.

Of course, you don’t look—that would be insane. Instead your eyes are on Yeji, who’s definitely not looking at the nurse. No, she’s still boring a hole right through your skull, her hands holding a shredded flower, her knuckles turning white.

“Okay, that’s all done!” Ji Won chirps, and mercifully removes her breasts from your shoulder. “Hey, why are you acting all shy? You’re usually so much friendlier!”

“Oh?” Yeji makes a noise for the first time, and it terrifies you.

But again, the nurse pretends like she doesn’t even exist. “Let me check your heartbeat… And—”

“I’m sure it’s all fine and you can leave now, right—” You try a last-ditch effort to save this poor nurse’s life, but she’s clearly not taking the hint.

“Perfect as always, Mr. Metronome!” She says, writing down on her clipboard, clearly not noticing the seconds of her remaining lifespan ticking away. “We always talk about how you must work out so much to have a heart rate so low and consistent, I mean, obviously you do—look at you!”

You file her comments away as yet another reason your life is about to end, and try to push on, “so—I’m all good, right?”

“Of course you are,” Ji Won replies, turning the volume right up on the flirtiness, and her eyes flicker over to Yeji before she winks at you. “But I’ll just double-check everything before I go.”

“No, I think that’s enough!” Yeji breaks the conversation with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, and the poor nurse jumps from the sternness of her voice. “You said he’s fine, he said he’s tired, and so that means you can leave now!”

“Oh, he’s tired? Does he need extra pillows, or is there anything I can do to make him more comfortable?”

But Yeji already has her out the door, practically dragging the girl out of the room by her collar of her scrubs. “He’s fine!”

The door slams behind the nurse, but not before you hear her giggle, “Hey, you look familiar!”

An icy silence fills the room once the nurse is gone, thick and tense. Yeji doesn’t move for several beats, it’s eerie the way she just stands there, staring at the closed door of your hospital room.

Something clicks in her head, though, and she locks the door, turning back to you, seemingly having made a final decision on your fate.

“So…” you throw out a feeler, trying your best to move straight past, well, everything. “How’s the tour going?”

“Is she perhaps your sister?” Yeji’s voice jumps an octave, a perfect imitation of the high-pitched squeak that had just left the room. She turns to you, throwing the cap off her head and tearing the mask off her face. “Vomit.”

“I have no idea what that nurse was talking about,” you say, immediately making a case to plead your innocence.

“So gross!” Her words are dripping with pure disgust, but at least it isn’t directed at you (for now, anyway). “That’s it! We’re moving hospitals!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down.”

“What is it with girls like that? Oh, you must work out a lot, I mean obviously you do!” Yeji continues her eerily uncanny impersonation. “Seriously, you’re an adult and you’re doing baby talk? ‘Perfect as always Mr. Metronome!”

“She’s just being nice, probably didn’t mean anything at all,” it’s a very weak argument you’re making, the only way the nurse could make her intentions more obvious were if she was wearing a bright neon sign that flashed ‘please fuck me!’.

“Bitch. Shameless! Hitting on my boyfriend in front of me. Acting so cute, so helpless—oops! I dropped my clipboard!” Yeji’s pouting now, fluttering her lashes, mimicking every blatant flirtation Nurse Ji Won had thrown your way.

“Really, we’re doing caricatures now?”

“Carica-what?” Yeji tilts her head to the side, and starts to sway her way over to you, her hips swinging from side to side with an exaggerated bounce. She’s playing it up to a T, making sure to sway, shake, to jiggle with each step she takes. “What does that word even mean? It’s such a big word. You must be really smart.”

Yeji settles into the role of the pretty, ditzy nurse far too easily, and her eyes tell you that she’s enjoying it far too much. For now though, you play along, clearing your throat and putting on your manliest voice—“I have been told I have a rather expansive vocabulary.”

“Wow, another big word,” Yeji’s at your bedside again, taking your hand into hers, looking up at you with wide-eyed awe. “Oh, you’re just so clever!” She giggles, as her other hand just so happens to come down on your thigh, leaving her free to squeeze and massage your muscles. “And so strong too! Do you work out?”

You grit your teeth as Yeji starts to trace her thumb in gentle circles over your skin, all the while staring up at you so innocently—she’s laying it on thick. “Sometimes…”

“I can tell…” Yeji continues, her voice trailing off as she runs her hand further up your thigh, light as a feather, but when she’s looking at you with those eyes and that smile, it’s if she’s dragging a live wire across your skin. You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure as she leans in closer, lets her top hang a little loose, lets you get a peek at the soft swell of her breasts, parts those full, pouty lips of hers, her fingers tracing the contour of your leg as she moves higher and higher and higher, until her fingertips are on your—“Unbelievable! I cannot believe that actually works on you!”

“That’s unfair!” You shout in surprise, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “You can’t expect me not to react when you’re doing that!”

“Uh huh, I bet!” Yeji says, clearly not buying it. “You’re not at all attracted to the helpless, innocent, bouncy little slut that leans close so you can get a good view of her fat tits?”

“I’ll have you know I’m a singular pair of tits kind of guy.”

“This bitch,” Yeji curses under her breath, throwing her hands up in frustration. She unfortunately removes her hand from your leg, and plops herself down on your bed (it’s easily big enough for two), stewing in her emotions. You watch each cross her face: concern, jealousy, disbelief, a slight hint of amusement.

“Yeji,” you say, getting her attention, snapping her out of her thoughts. “You’re my girlfriend. I’m yours. That’s that.”

She stares back at you, her eyes light up at the declaration, and she punches your arm—your healthy one, of course. “You better be.”

It’s strange, seeing Yeji like this—so raw, so visibly affected by someone else’s attention on you. You’ve always thought of her as so strong, so confident, but there’s something in her possessiveness over you that is making you think about things that should definitely not happen in a hospital.

Fuck it, injuries be damned, without another word, you stretch forward and grab her by the waist, your good hand wrapping around her firmly, pulling her closer to you. She gasps, but doesn’t resist, no, she leans into your touch, her body melting into yours as if it’s been starved for affection. 

You hold her tight, letting her settle into your embrace, and can only laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation you’re in. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be taking care of me, you’re really not helping my blood pressure right now.”

“I’m still mad at you,” Yeji murmurs into your chest, but there’s no venom in her voice. Instead, it’s filled with something else entirely—something softer, more vulnerable. Her body relaxes against you, and you feel the tension in the room start to dissipate.

“Let’s not pretend that you weren’t enjoying acting like a helpless, little slut, Yeji,” you accuse, and Yeji’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. “I know you.”

“It’s your fault,” Yeji says, still hiding her face in your chest. “You and your ridiculous sexy nurse fantasy.”

“It’s a classic,” you shrug, before making an executive decision. “And this time, we actually have the right setting for it.”

Yeji looks around the room, shyly biting her lip. Again, all an act, she’s far too perceptive to not have the same thought on the forefront of her mind. “Here?”

“I saw you lock the door.” You catch the smirk that flashes across Yeji’s face. “Your mind is as filthy as mine, Yeji, I’m just better at vocalising it.”

“You think you can read my mind?”

“You know I can.” You lean in, your mouth finding hers in a soft kiss to prove your point—you didn’t need to ask to know that this is what she’s been after the whole time. Your lips find her forehead, “I can read your mind”—a kiss on her cheek—“your body”—and a whisper in her ear— “your pussy.”

You know you’re right by the hitch in Yeji’s breathing, how she leans into your touch, and when she straddles you without a second thought. Her thighs squeeze down against yours, the fabric of her yoga pants sliding against your hospital gown. She’s all soft curves and heat as she settles herself over you, her hands pressing down on your chest to keep herself steady.

“That nurse really riled you up, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yeji steals another kiss from you, a moan muffled against your mouth. But yet, there’s the slight grind of hips—slow, deliberate friction, unbearable by design. “I’m just here to take care of my helpless boyfriend.”

“Yoga pants, Yeji. Again,” you say. “I saw it all. How you just so happened to need to stretch, or bend over, or lean just right,” you tease, even though it’s getting harder and harder to get your words out by the second. “You’re just as bad as her, only you’re way better at it.”

You kiss her again, this time with more urgency, the type of kiss you’ve been dying to give her since she first walked into the room, your tongue slipping into her mouth and tasting minty sweetness on her breath.

“And you look way fucking hotter than her when you do it, too.”

A smug smile plays on Yeji's lips as she's kissing you again. “I am the most beautiful woman in Korea.”

“The world,” you correct her.

“Goes without saying,” she finished. “’Extremely hot girlfriend’, if I remember correctly?”

“On fucking fire,” you summarise, and reach out to touch her, needing to feel her, but Yeji stops you placing your hand back on the bed.

She gives you a stern look, and shakes her head. “No, no, no. You’re the patient here, remember? You’re not allowed to do anything,” she says, her voice a mix of playfulness and authority. Yeji leans in closer, her breath hot against your ear. “You have to let the slutty nurse take care of you.”

You see it again—that switch—and Yeji gets more adventurous, cutting off your breath as she drags her hand down, sliding it under your thin hospital gown, walking her fingers back up your thigh. She stops just shy of your hardened cock, her eyes never leaving yours, revelling in your neediness for her, your want, before finally she takes a hold of you, her grip firm and tight and sure.

There’s heat in her palm, and she pulls a moan out of you and into her mouth as she starts to slowly stroke. It’s the softness of her hand against the growing stiffness of your shaft, her fingertips grazing your skin—you know you should be more careful, more considerate of where you are, but with Yeji’s touch, all rational thought is lost.

“I bet none of those bitch nurses could make you feel like this.” Yeji’s touch is a masterpiece of precision and passion, each movement calculated, practiced, she’s right—she’s the only one who knows how to touch you in just the perfect way to make you ache. Her fingers dance along your shaft, her grip tightening and loosening in a rhythm that only she can hear.

“I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” You groan, playing dumb, your mind filled with nothing but Yeji’s body on top of you, her fingers wrapped around you. “What other women?”

Yeji’s eyes narrow, but she can’t hold back her smile. “Good answer,” she whispers, rewarding you by moving faster now, each stroke deeper, more deliberate, reading your every reaction to the way she pumps you, timing her fingers with your stuttering breaths.

She likes—loves—taking care of you, making you feel good, there’s a thrill in it for her, knowing that she’s the one who can make you this vulnerable, this desperate. Her hand moves with confidence, her strokes become more insistent, her gaze hungrier, and she leans forward, pressing herself into your chest, letting you feel the softness of her breasts, the stiffness of her nipples through the flimsy fabric of her top.

“Does this feel good, honey?” She asks, like she doesn’t already know the answer, like she can’t feel your hips bucking up to meet her touch. "Do you like it when I take care of you?"

You nod, unable to form words, unable to do anything but keep your eyes on Yeji and marvel at just how fucking hot she is on top of you as she strokes you. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, tickling your neck and cheeks, and her eyes—those piercing, all-knowing eyes—affixed to yours, holding you hostage.

“God, I love this cock,” Yeji murmurs between kisses against your cheek, your jaw, your neck, “so big, so hard… All mine…” She’s so satisfied, so happy with herself—with your cock—her constant praise as much for her as it is for you. “Fuck, look how big you’re getting for me, barely fits in my hand.”

“God, Yeji,” you gasp, struggling to keep together, to keep from losing yourself in the palm of her hand, as each of her strokes, each of her words, keep coming, stroking your cock, your ego, fucking with you completely. “I’m getting close—”

“Not yet.” Yeji lets you go, leaving you panting, your tortured cock standing tall and missing her attention. 

Before you can even mount a protest, she’s sliding up your body, stretching above your head to grab the hospital bed remote, smothering you with the soft mounds of her breasts as she does so. You groan into her, forced to feel the weight of her pressing down on you, the warmth of her skin against yours, teasing you in a way that’s both infuriating and heavenly.

With a click, the bed whirs into action, reclining back until you're flat on your back, staring directly up at her. She kneels over your head, and there’s the outline of her pussy through the fabric of her leggings, all swollen and damp and begging for your tongue.

She doesn’t have to look to know she has your undivided attention—she's pulling her shirt and her top over her head, setting her breasts, ripe and full, bouncing free from their confinement. No bra today (of course she didn’t, what would be the fucking point?) and you get a full view of those perfect tits, her dark, pebbled nipples already stiff for you.

“It’s your turn to take care of me.”

Yeji lowers herself onto your waiting mouth, lets out a noise that’s so needy, so fucking greedy, as your lips meet her heat for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

“Fuuuuuuck…”

You kiss, lick, nibble at her, tease her, groan into her thighs, as she urges herself against you, making you breathe in the scent of her sex, so immediately wet for you.

It’s not nearly enough for either of you—you need to feel her against your lips, your tongue. You move your hand up her thigh and towards her hip, digging your fingers into her waistband. But Yeji stops you again, and says the four most pleasant words in any language. “Just fucking rip them.”

There’s no hesitation—she lifts her hips off your face, you snake your hand between her legs, take one end of the fabric between your fingers, and another in your teeth: one quick, sharp yank, and you tear. The nylon gives way with a satisfying rip, and Yeji shivers above you as the cool air hits her full, puffy, exposed cunt.

“Mmmph, yesssss,” Yeji hisses as you pull her back down onto your lips, shuddering as you kiss that lovely crease where her thigh meets her pelvis, her pleasure vibrating through your own skull. She quivers, shifts, needy for your lips on her naked pussy, and she pleads, “stop teasing… I need it…”

You smile against her skin, your breath ghosting over her pussy, making her squirm. "What's the magic word?"

"Now," Yeji says, her voice firm, her thighs so magnificently tense. "The magic word is now."

With that, you give her a long lick, starting from the very bottom of her pussy and moving upward, tasting every millimetre of her juicy cunt, tracing the entire length of her slit, ending with an indulgent flick of her clit.

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” Yeji cries out, shivering, falling apart as your tongue finds that sweet spot, her thighs tightening around your neck. Her hands come down to either side of your head, her fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place as she starts to rock back and forth, setting her own rhythm, matching her hips with the pace of your tongue. “God, you’re so fucking good at that, always so fucking good at that.”

She’s whining, so, so desperate, so pleading, and you’re eager as you taste her, explore her, will her to come apart in your mouth. You’re taking generous licks, tongue dancing around her clit, teasing it, testing her full vocal range as she cries out your name

“Oh, please, please baby, fucking please.” She’s getting wetter and wetter, coating your tongue, your lips, your chin. “I missed this,” she gasps, grinding herself against your tongue, all desperation and utter awe. “Missed you making me feel so fucking good.”

You look up, up at her as she rides your face, she’s so fucking breathtaking. Her body tensing around you and on top of you—so tight, so firm—chiselled abs honed by decades of dancing, that gorgeous curve of her waist leading up to her perky, petite tits, so lovely, bouncing with every gasp she takes.

"I'm so wet for you, honey, so fucking wet," Yeji whimpers, “you always make me so fucking wet—I can’t—ah!”

A sharp inhale, you suck her clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue against the sensitive nub. She’s moaning so fucking loud, so unrestrained, echoing through the hospital room and down the hallways, loud enough to let every nurse on the floor know exactly how fucking good it feels to be on top of you. Her hips jerk, she can’t control her own body now, and you know she’s getting closer and closer, determined to ride your tongue right to the end.

Just looking at her is all it takes for you—seeing her so damn horny, so satisfied sets you on edge, needing something, anything to take your cock and match her euphoria.

“Do you want me to help you out, baby?” Yeji’s reading your mind. You groan and affirmative into the folds of her cunt, and in an instant, you go from being smothered by her juices to being faced with the full, perfect tautness of her ass.

She makes it look so easy, so graceful, lifting herself off your face and spinning around to this new position—face down, ass up.

A second later and your wishes are granted—your cock, so heavy with need, standing neglected and alone is met by Yeji’s soft, warm lips, kissing the very tip of you, tasting the drops of pre-cum that’s already leaking out of you.

“Let me make you feel better,” is all Yeji says—just one light kiss, a whisper into your cock, and she dives onto you, swallowing your cock whole. It’s far too much, far too quickly, you’re out of breath and ready to tap out as her warm, wet mouth envelopes your whole rod in one, smooth suck.

Her tongue swirls around you, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, she takes you deeper and deeper, until you’re buried down her throat. You throb inside her, her throat muscles contracting back around you, and you can’t help but thrust up into her mouth, seeking more, needing more.

“Yeji!” You cry out her name on reflex as she takes you in, her hands digging into your thighs as she works her mouth up and down, bobbing, taking you deep and noisily, smacking her lips, sloshing her tongue. Whatever pain you had lingering from your arm, your head, or your ribs, it’s all forgotten—there’s only Yeji, and her exquisite lips, doing everything she can to wring every drop of pleasure out from your body.

It's too much, too intense, and you’ve been on the edge since she first grabbed a hold on you. This can’t end now, not when she’s sucking you so hard, practically worshipping your cock. You need a distraction—pull her hips back, gently, firmly, push that beautiful ass back into your face and indulge in her again.

“Mmmph—!” Yeji moans into you as your tongue meets her cunt, the sound reverberating down your shaft and right into your brain.

And now it’s a competition—you push through her pussy with her tongue, feel her walls tightening around you. She’s pushing back into you, grinding down on you, making sure you get the full flavour of her cunt, her ass, every inch of her on your taste buds.

She’s more frantic now, moving faster, sloppier on your cock as you push her closer and closer to climax. Her tongue slides against you, her cheeks hollow out around you, she drools and dribbles down your shaft—it’s messy and wet and absolutely fucking amazing.

But you can’t let her win, not this time. You double down on your efforts, suctioning your lips over her clit and start rapidly flicking your tongue, setting a relentless pace that you know will make her crumble. She tries her best to keep up, to keep going, but she’s a mess of sucking and moaning and quivering all over your face and on your cock.

Yeji works her tongue, her lips, her mouth—she makes sure you know it’s all yours. But then, after taking you all the way to the back of her throat, your cock pops out of her mouth with a wet smack, and she lets out a cry of pure, unbridled ecstasy. “Fuck, I can’t, I can’t, I’m gonna—FUCK!”

She collapses, bent over and prone, only her ass rocking and grinding against your face as she utterly, completely falls apart, ruined by just your tongue, ruined by the orgasm you’re giving her.

“So good—God—fuck—keep going, keep going, keep going!” Yeji’s voice is a chant, a prayer that you’re more than happy to answer. She’s shaking, her pussy pulsing against your face as you lick and suck at her clit, clouding your mind with the heady mix of sweetness and desire that has you hooked. She’s lost, given up and given over to you now, her moans becoming screams—“your tongue, your fucking tongue—gah!”

Her body geos rigid, locking up as she hits that wonderful peak—but you’re not ready to stop. You keep licking, keep pushing through wave after wave of pleasure that crash over her, not giving a second of rest. Her juices flood your mouth and you swallow greedily, drinking her in like it’s the only medicine you need.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—fucking making me feel so good—God!”

Nothing fucking matters, all you know is Yeij’s cunt is on your tongue and her ass is in your face, and your only job is to keep licking her to her core, until she finally goes slack, crumbling on top of you.

She stays like that, her legs shaking like she’s just run a marathon, her nipples squashed against your chest, her gasps hot and ragged against your thigh. You can feel the staccato of her heart, and you hold her close, massaging her lower back as she does her best to catch her breath.

And yet, there you are, still throbbing, still so fucking hard and delirious with your need for her touch.

There’s no point in hiding it, she’s so close you can feel her breath on your cock, your close enough to poke her eye out with how hard you are.

“Someone’s feeling left out,” she says, as if she’s not entirely to blame. “Is that for me?”

“You know it is,” you respond, far weaker, more pleading than you intended.

A gentle, torturous kiss against your thigh, and you’re just about ready to explode in her face. “Then I guess as your dutiful, loving, girlfriend, I better do something about it.”

It’s so easy for her—one moment she’s exhausted, out of breath on top of you, the next she’s fully recovered, back on top and mounting you, facing you as she smears the tip of your cock with her wetness.

You try to sit up, eager to get straight to it, straight to fucking her like you need to, but her hands are on your shoulders and she’s pushing you back down.

“Lie down, baby,” she hushes you, pressing you down onto the mattress. “Just enjoy this.”

Her eyes narrow as she drinks in the sight of you, bursting with anticipation as she lowers her pussy onto your cock. It’s a special kind of torment, one that makes your hips buck involuntarily, so impatient to feel her warmth again.

But she takes her sweet time, and it’s only when she’s close enough, she bends down, mouth hovering over yours. Your eyes drift shut, and you wait for that soft contact of her lips, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, she whispers, "I've got you," and you feel the warm, velvety embrace of her cunt as she takes you in, inch by agonising inch.

Fully seated, her walls close around you, and that’s when she kisses you hard, her tongue pushing past your lips and into your mouth with the same aching hunger of her cunt around your cock.

She tastes so damn good, feels incredible—it’s been too long, and you want nothing but to grab her, hold her and slam her hips down onto yours and drive deeper into her, but your body won’t cooperate.

You can only lay there as she starts to move, her hips rocking back and forth, slowly, intentionally, having you seeing stars. And then, just when you think you can’t take it anymore, she lifts herself up off your cock, and in one swift motion, sinks herself straight back down, whispering “holy fuck yesss” against your lips.

She needs time to get used to you, used to your cock filling her whole again. “This fucking cock,” she bites your lip as she rides you, “always so big, always so perfect.”

Yeji has to take it slow, has to let her pussy stretch around you, adjust to you, before she can start to ride you, to fuck you like she really wants to. And she does want to—wants to claim you, erase any doubt about who is the one person that can fuck you like you deserve to be—so, so much.

Each movement down the length of your cock is faster than the one before, each moan into your mouth hotter, each clench of her cunt around yours so much tighter, until she’s fucking you in earnest—harder, faster.

“So thick, so, so, riiiiight,” Yeji groans.“I’ve missed this, needed this.”

She’s riding you like she’s been waiting for this forever, like this might be the last time, bouncing her ass up and down, her eyes hooded with lust, her hair a wild mess around her flushed face, her nipples swinging every time your hips meet.

“When you get better, honey, I need you to fuck me real hard,” Yeji whispers in your ear, her breath hot and tickling, thick with lust, her tight cunt milking you, keeping you on the edge of insanity. “But I’ll take care of you for now, I’ll take care of this cock—fuck I love it—I love you—I love that you’re mine.”

“You’re mine too, Yeji,” you groan back to her.

“That’s right—I belong to you and you belong to me,” Yeji punctuates her point with a hard slam of her cunt down onto your cock. "You're My. Fucking. Boyfriend."

She’s getting faster and faster now, picking up her pace, like she needs to prove something, to herself, to you, to the entire fucking hospital.

“Those other bitches can’t ride you like I do—can’t fuck you like I do,” Yeji’s panting, each word fucked out of her, coming out like a proud battle cry. She’s right, you’re sure of it—no one else can make you feel this way, no one else can take you, claim you like she can. She’s lost in it now, lost in the heat and the friction, her whole body consumed by a burning desire to show you just how good she is at this.

Yeji leans back, sitting upright, giving herself better leverage to bounce on your cock, giving you a better view of her body—all perfectly sculpted edges and soft curves—and those fucking perky tits. They’re stunning, just like the rest of her, and you reach for them on instinct, cupping the soft mounds, feeling the weight of them in your palm. Her nipples are so hard, erect, begging for your touch, and you don’t want to disappoint—could never—so you pinch and twist them, watching her face contort with pleasure, feeling her pussy tighten around you as she cries out.

“No one can take this big fucking cock like I can—down my throat, in my cunt.” It’s a declaration—loud and proud, for every single person in the hospital to know.

“Jealous?” You grunt out the word, hoarse, rough. “Thinking about me fucking other woman like I fuck you? Making them scream—making them cum as hard as I’m about to make you?”

You can see the twist in Yeji’s face, how her pupils dilate as your words sink in. There’s a war playing out on her face, jealousy and desire, the mere thought of you fucking other woman making her pussy spasm around you. “Oh, fuck you! You would ruin them, honey, they wouldn’t be able to take you. Or is that what you want to hear? Some cute bitch screaming: ‘oh baby, oh please, oh daddy, I can’t take it—I can’t take this big fucking cock!’”

There’s truth in the mockery, and there’s a dark thrill in Yeji’s jealousy. But now’s not the time for anything (or anyone) else but her—you’re too close, too far gone, your cock throbbing with the need to spill into her.

“Only I can take it, it’s mine, mine, mine.” She’s soaking you, so needy, so deep, so fucking filthy as she whines over your cock. “You better keep fucking me—only me—or I will make your life hell.”

“Show me then,” you challenge her, and you can see something flash across her eyes—something primal, something rough.

“I’m yours,” she declares again, riding you in a way that can only be described as pure art, her whole body moving in perfect harmony with a singular goal—to be absolutely wrecked by your cock. “All yours, nobody else’s. And you’re mine.”

It takes one hard pump into her tight, sweaty body and she’s falling into you, her body pressed on top of you, her forehead pressed against yours. It’s electric, the connection between your bodies, a jolt of pleasure surging through your cock and her cunt until all that matters is the feel of her fucking you like her life depends on it.

It’s love at every thrust, every gasp and moan. Nothing but Yeji on top of you, her soft skin pressed against you, her heartbeat racing against yours, her wetness coating your cock like a silk glove. Not just pleasure, you’re claiming each other—she’s whispering it in your ear, whispering your name like a promise, a declaration of war against anyone who would dare to come between you.

“Fuuuck.” Yeji bites down on your shoulder, digs her nails in your skin, squeezes her pussy around you like a vice. “I’m gonna do it again,” she mewls, “this cock—your beautiful cock—is gonna make me cum all over again.”

She’s chasing that precious feeling, desperate for it, her hips moving in erratic circles, determined to bring you with her. You can feel it too, the beginnings rising from the base of your cock, the tension in your balls. You want to hold on, to make this last, but at this point it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave.

“Give—fuck—give me more!” Yeji’s eyes are squeezed shut; her mouth open in a silent scream as she grinds down on you, her body trembling with the effort to keep her balance. You can see the tension in every line of her body, how her abs clench, her toes curl. It's like watching a live wire, and you're the one holding the current. "Nobody can fuck me like you do—fuck—nobody can take you like I can!"

You wrap your arm around her shoulder, holding her tight, wrenching control from her, making her prove her words with every forceful thrust. You’re going to be in pain later, but fuck all that—Yeji’s so wet, so tight, so fucking hot—she’s a force of nature, and you’re just the lucky fuck that gets to be in the eye of the storm.

“You’re going to cum in me, now, okay? I’m going to cum so fucking hard and then you’re going to cum right inside me.” Yeji’s completely given herself over to you, letting you fuck her, use her, she’s all yours anyway. “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!”

And then she’s there, her cunt gripping you like a fist, her walls pulsing and quivering around you. Yeji’s eyes fly open, her gaze locks onto yours, and she’s cumming hard.

Her orgasm rips through her body, she’s choking your cock with pussy, muscles tightening and release in a painful rhythm, and all she can do is shake and cry out every filthy word she knows, every sweet noise she can make as she spills and creams and comes apart on top of you.

“It’s too much,” Yeji’s barely holding on, panting incessantly, “too-fucking-much—too-fucking-much!”

The way she looks, the way she fucks, the way she cums—it’s a thing of beauty, an absolute fucking honour to witness—every twitch, every shiver, every gasp that falls from her swollen lips. Her nails pierce your skin, her teeth threaten to draw blood, her eyes wide and wild as her climax crashes over her.

“Please-please-fucking-please!”

But she doesn’t stop. If anything, she’s becoming more insistent, more urgent, fucking back against you again, her hips moving in a blur, taking you like a woman possessed. She’s pleading for you, pleading for you to give in, to let go, to follow her into bliss. Yeji’s a woman on a mission—to make you feel her, to make you fill her and you realise that maybe this isn’t just about jealousy anymore—it’s about making you know in every fibre of your being that your cum belongs in her cunt and her cunt only.

"Give it to me," Yeji demands, “I need you to—please—fuck—cum in me!”

Every word’s a trigger, sending you spiralling over the edge. It’s been building for an eternity now, an unbearable pressure needing to find a home in Yeji’s scorching, sopping wet pussy.

“Kiss me—I need you to—need to taste—fuck—please—kiss me now!”

There’s nothing left to do but obey, bringing your hand to the back of her neck and pulling her down into a fierce, bruising kiss. Your mouths crash together, your tongues dance and entangle, your teeth clash, and all the while Yeji’s clenching around you, cunt contracting in an effort to keep you still, keep you together.

“Fill me.”

A final, triumphant spear into her and your gone—releasing, spurting your cum deep inside her—so hard, so hot, so intense, emptying everything, all of you, every last drop into her greedy pussy.

“Yesssssss—this—this is what I needed.” Yeji hums a satisfied note into your collarbone, so full, so complete, so content. She’s still slowly rocking her hips back and forth, still pulsing around you, milking you dry. “I feel so…full.”

She dissolves into a puddle in your arms, nuzzling her head into the crook of your neck. Your hand finds its way to her back, tracing gentle circles, rubbing away the tension that’s been built up, the strain she’s put her body through.

She’s warm, she's so alive, and you can feel her heart beating against your chest, a stilted, hurried rhythm that's gradually slowing down. You kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her neck, anywhere you can reach without having to strain yourself. It’s a gentle reassurance, making sure that for all the fucking and the filthiness, she knows that no matter what happens, you’re there to make sure she’s okay.

Yeji whispers an “I love you,” her words like a balm to your soul. “I really, really, fucking love you, you know?”

“I know, Yeji,” you say, low enough for only her to hear. “I really, really, fucking love you too.”

There’s still the embers of your shared climax resonating through your bodies, the come down from an epic high that’s left the two of you a tangled mess of limbs and hospital sheets. You both lay there, Yeji’s pussy still spasming around your cock, your cum and her juices dribbling down and pooling between your bodies. 

“I was really worried about you.” Yeji whispers, vulnerable. The admission hangs in the air above you, a stark reminder of the fear and insecurity that’s been simmering just beneath the surface. “When they called me, I thought—I—I fucking hated that feeling.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s all there is left to say.

“And I am really pissed about these nurses,” Yeji adds with a deadly seriousness, that only makes you smile. “I’m moving you to another hospital as soon as I can.”

“We just might have to after this,” you murmur, stroking her hair as you catch your breath. “No way they didn’t hear any of that.”

“Good.” Yeji declares, a little too intensely, too smugly.

You look down at her and can’t help but chuckle. “Well aren’t you all happy and copacetic now?”

Yeji looks back at you, pauses, and then grins. “Copa-what-tic?”

You can only roll your eyes. “Copacetic.”

“Wow,” Yeji starts, her voice back up an octave, laced with sickly sweetness. “Such a big, complicated word. You’re so smart.”

“Uh huh.”

“And these muscles too! Look at you all pumped and sweaty. Have you been working out?” Yeji teases, her cheeks still flushed a bright pink shade. She reaches down to give your bicep a gentle squeeze, mouthing an exaggerated ‘wow’ in amazement of its size.

“I did just finish a pretty intense workout. Might’ve even got another concussion from having my brains fucked out.”

“In that case, as your nurse it’s my responsibility to get you good and clean.” Yeji’s kissing you again, soft and slow.  “Come on now, let me give you a good, nice scrub.”

“Is this going to be a reciprocal thing, you wash my back, I wash yours?”

“Why don’t you come with me and find out?” Yeji slides off your cock, peeling herself off your sticky body, and lifts herself up and off the bed.

You watch as she stretches, her body a glorious mess of grace and sweat and cum, and for a moment you’re just in awe of her. She’s glowing, and she’s not even trying.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” Yeji winks, already sauntering away from you and towards the bathroom, her hips swaying, her ass calling for you with each perfect bounce. “It’s time for some serious physical therapy. Nurse’s orders.” 

[xxxnekomii]

title: highlight compilation of toji’s shy girl’s first time on stream!

description: toji invites his partner to join him on stream :3

category: amateur / homemade

——————

since this doesn’t have a lot of context, i’m thinking of streamer toji who doesn’t necessarily do full nsfw streams regularly, mostly he does gaming streams with a sort of nsfw twist :3

——————

toji’s fans have clipped a highlight compilation of your first time on stream into a 25 minute video. it’s more wholesome than some might expect. toji’s in his recording room, which fills the camera frame with soft ambient lighting and the gentle whirr of an electric fan. the title of the stream “introducing my girl on stream” is enough to send chatters into a frenzy as they flood into the chatroom.

timestamps: 00:50 she comes into frame!

when you do finally enter the camera frame in your soft pyjamas toji chuckles as the chat explodes in messages which moves too fast to read. money donations ping in but toji isn’t interested in reading them today. instead, he helps you settle in his lap with one arm wrapped around the front of your waist.

you introduce yourself shyly, a little overwhelmed by the various windows opened on toji’s monitors.

timestamps: 01:30 toji shows her the streaming set up

“see, i told you she was real,” says toji as you give a small wave to the camera. toji spends a short while showing you his set up, teaching you how to read the chat and when donation pings came in. his left hand finds itself under your shirt, rubbing your tummy as his right hand guides yours using the mouse. to the viewers, it’s strangely intimate and brings in a throe of donations saying “you two are so cute together”, or “i wish i had this”.

timestamps: 4:46 THEY’RE KISSINGNEJJG

at some point throughout the stream toji’s unable to keep his hands off of you for any longer after subtly feeling you up from under the desk. instead you’re now straddling his lap with your chest pressed up against his solid torso as he eagerly makes out with you. he’s turned his chair to the side, so while the viewers can’t see how he kisses you, they can see how his hands help rock your hips against his thigh.

timestamps: 6:37 THINGS ARE GETTING STEAMY

at this point there’s no stopping either of you. donations are pinging in are ignored as toji rolls your hips on his thigh, one hand lazily supporting your waist. soft moans begin to slip out as you grip the armrests for support.

“oh baby are you getting needy?” he says when you mewl his name in desperation. “come on gimme another kiss,” he says as he pulls you in. you whine as he gives you a slap on the ass over your pyjama shorts.

“let’s get you sorted then hm?”

timestamps: 12:55 HOLY SHIT THIS IS SO HOT i could barely focus while editing.

toji helps you out of your pyjama shorts and panties, tossing them to the ground and to your delight he finally pulls out his throbbing cock for you to sit on. it doesn’t take long for toji to be bouncing you up and down in his lap like a dollie as you squeal with pleasure.

“god baby you’re making a mess,” says toji as you hold onto his broad shoulders. “i guess it’s my fault for working you up under the table,” he says as you babble out something about him not being able to keep his hands to himself.

“you know i can’t help it baby,” he replies as he thrusts up once into you. “i just want everyone to know you’re mine.”

“you’re doing so good for your first time on stream baby,” he continues as your voice starts to waver - a telltale sign for him that you were getting close. he could feel you getting close too, your drooly pussy quivering.

toji’s barely keeping an eye on the stream, but he can still hear donations rolling in.

“hear that? they think you’re doing a good job too.”

he catches you in a brief kiss. your brain fizzes with pleasure.

“show them how good you can be, yeah? i know you’re close.”

timestamps: 19:04 shes so cute when she cums + toji fucks her through it

when you finish over toji, your back arches and your hips try to buck away from toji as you squeal his name. your hands push at his biceps.

“fuck baby, don’t run,” he huffs out, tightening his hold on your hips as he continues to bounce you up and down. his favourite part is fucking you through it, and your overstimulated reactions make him cum every time without fail.

“t-toojiii!” you whine as he lifts you up and down on his length like one of the toys he sometimes uses on stream. god toji loves hearing your voice when he does this. he wonders if you know that he holds himself at the edge just to see you twitch and mewl.

your nails have marked his biceps in short pink streaks by the time he finally finishes deep in your throbbing pussy. he lets out a husky groan as you squeeze around him and strokes your hair when you lean forward into his chest.

timestamps: 23:01 stream ending

toji tilts your head up into a gentle kiss again as he squeezes your ass in one hand. “that feel good baby? you made such a mess,” he murmurs. you nod lazily, rolling your hips once to surprise him.

“brat,” he mutters, pinching your ass.

“thanks for watching guys, sorry i couldn’t read out that many donations today,” says toji as he runs a hand along your back.

“i hope you guys enjoyed, we’re gonna go clean up now,” continued toji. “wave goodbye to chat baby.”

you try to sit up and give a weak wave and catch the chat messages in the corner of your eye.

nekomii: no round 2???

honoured_1: fuck that was so hot

jell-o_cat: you should stream with her more often !!!

“alright see you tomorrow night, bye.”

———————

woo i hope you guys enjoyed this!! it was super fun to write because i love streamer/cam tropes

halfway through i wondered if i should make reader the streamer instead but i told myself to commit haha

at the same time i kept thinking about how there would probably be some crazy parasocial responses in chat if this was irl, but luckily it’s only fiction teehee

[sweet-halsey]

off limits

Chapter 1 – Just a Stream

two

lando norris x reader

summary: lando wants her, badly. she has a boyfriend, but that’s not going to stop him. he won’t quit until she’s his.

I wasn’t even paying attention.

I was in the other room, editing a brand brief that was already overdue, half-listening to Morgan scream into his mic about loot drops and getting third-partied in Fortnite. Just another Tuesday. Same chair, same energy drink, same half-muttered complaints echoing from the bedroom.

“Bro, why are you there? I said rotate right—God, Lando, I swear.”

That name made me pause.

Lando Norris.

Not Morgan’s best friend. Not someone we saw often. Just… a casual stream partner. They’d played together maybe four times this year, and even then, it was always messy, chaotic, kind of funny to listen to in the background. Lando usually had some ridiculous skin on, Morgan raged, and they lost gloriously.

I kept typing.

And then I heard Lando’s voice crystal clear, Monaco Wi-Fi doing its job.

“Oi Ginge, is your girlfriend real, or is she like a streamer tax write-off?”

I blinked.

“Shut up,” Morgan laughed.

“No, no. Be honest. Did she lose a bet? You keeping her hostage or something?”

“Lando—”

“Because every time you say ‘my girlfriend this, my girlfriend that,’ I imagine, like… a sock puppet. Not someone with actual ass.”

My eyes narrowed.

I reached for my phone and opened Twitch. Clicked into the stream. There they were, split screen. Morgan in our bedroom, Lando in some glowing Monaco setup, mood lighting, hoodie, messy curls and a smug grin that said he absolutely knew what he was doing.

Morgan was red in the face, but grinning. “She’s real, you prick.”

“Define real.”

Morgan groaned. “She’s working right now.”

“Right. In the next room, working while you’re playing games with me instead of giving her attention.”

“She’s fine. She doesn’t care.”

I raised an eyebrow. Oh?

“I would’ve paused stream,” Lando said innocently, looting a chest. “Just saying.”

Morgan rolled his eyes and cracked a Coke open.

“Mate,” Lando went on, “do you even know what you’ve got? Small. Hot. Latina. Funny in a scary way. Those girls bite, bro. You should be worshipping her.”

Morgan grinned. “I do.”

“Do you, though? Because if she was mine—”

“She’s not.”

“—I wouldn’t be online right now.”

There was a beat of silence. Just for a second. Morgan was focused on the screen. Lando was smirking, not even pretending to hide it.

I stared at my phone.

Interesting.

It wasn’t the first time Lando had joked like that.

Once or twice, when they were live and I brought Morgan a drink or a snack, I’d catch Lando’s voice saying something dumb like, “God, imagine living with her,” or “You don’t deserve that queen, bro.” Just noise. Twitch bait. Content.

But he was getting bolder.

More direct.

And apparently, today I was the topic of conversation.

I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t text Morgan. I didn’t march into the room and roll my eyes. I just sat back in my desk chair, muted my own laptop, and watched the stream quietly.

Because, in a weird way…

…it was kind of funny.

Lando was relentless. Every time Morgan died in-game, he’d blame it on distraction “Bet she walked past in a towel” or shame Morgan for not being more obsessed with me. “Honestly, you stream too much to have a girlfriend like that.”

Morgan was chill about it. Laughing, deflecting, half-focused. But I could tell he wasn’t taking it seriously. That he really thought it was all harmless.

Lando, though?

Lando had this smile.

This knowing, twitchy half-smirk he got when Morgan brushed it off. He liked pushing him. You could see it the way he leaned into the mic, almost performative, almost like he wanted someone to call him out.

And maybe he did.

Maybe he wanted me to hear it.

I didn’t even realize I was smiling until I caught my reflection in the dark screen of my second monitor. My legs were curled up under me, hoodie draped over my thighs, fingers still hovering near the keyboard like I might keep working.

But I didn’t.

I watched.

Not just the stream, but him.

Lando was fast. In-game and in conversation. He cracked jokes mid-fight, laughed when Morgan lost, commentated on his own gameplay like a Twitch veteran. And every few minutes, he’d slide in a comment about me: never gross, never too far, just close enough to make Morgan squirm.

“Honestly, I don’t think she likes you that much.”

“What?”

“She never talks during stream. Never laughs when you scream. I bet she’s watching me.”

That was when I laughed.

Not loud. Just enough that my chest twitched.

And I hated that he might be right.

The round ended. They placed third. Morgan threw his headset down in frustration.

Lando, still calm, still smug, leaned back in his chair and said:

“Bet she could’ve clutched it.”

Morgan groaned. “She doesn’t play Fortnite.”

“Exactly. But I bet she’s better than you anyway.”

“Okay,” Morgan laughed. “You’re obsessed.”

“Maybe.”

That one hit differently.

It was soft. Offhand. Like he didn’t even mean to say it. Like the word slipped.

And Morgan didn’t notice.

But I did.

Later that night, Morgan came into the kitchen, asking if I wanted to watch something.

I said sure. Smiled. Curled into his side on the couch. He kissed my cheek, scrolled through Netflix, started a movie.

But the whole time, I was thinking about Lando’s voice in the other room.

About how it started as a joke. And how, somehow… it didn’t feel like one anymore.

•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•

Chapter two 🤍

English is not my first language and I don't want it to be. Any mistakes are made out of pure hatred and disrespect for this language. The English have taken enough from this world, I will not let them have my tongue as well.

Thank you.

[etherealrin]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 hello?

you would never, ever, admit to being an e-dater. those were the scum of the earth; good for nothings–and you refused to be associated with them.

bzzt.

@ 2seii: can u ft? srry if it seems random, i'm rlly curious to see what u look like

@ 2seii: if ur uncomf w it i totally understand :x

okay so, perhaps, you were talking to somebody online. but you swear it was only as friends. you'd met this "2seii" guy in a valorant match, and he completely carried the entire team, including you. you just had to add him, no way were you letting free wins slip out of your grasp! it definitely wasn't because when he had turned his microphone on, you might've blushed a bit—he had a nice voice, alright? it was just perfect: low but not forcibly so, a tinge sleepy, whilst soft and scratchy in all the right places.

@ uruser: sure ig

and all of a sudden, seishiro; he had told you that was his real name, was ringing you.

this was it, he was just one click away, and your nose would be longer than pinocchio's if you said you didn't want to see what he looked like. (you were convinced he was hot due to the voice.) you suck in a deep breath and force yourself to hit the green accept button, causing a bright light floods your monitor.

"hello?" his familiar voice fills your earbuds.

"hello? sei?" you echo in return, waiting on edge as his video finally connects.

you bite back a gasp, blinking hard when you lock eyes with him. he was majestic; exactly like how you'd imagined. was it possible that he'd actually exceeded your towering fantasies? perfectly soft white locks, huge brown eyes, an adorable confused expression plastered to his face.

hold on, he looks a little too familiar.

seishiro's face flickers with recognition as well.

"you're really pretty," he murmurs. oh god, hopefully your lighting wasn't good enough for him to catch the blush bleeding across your cheeks. "but why do i feel like i know you?"

"i get that feeling too," you reply. "give me a second..." you gasp suddenly, realization slamming into you.

"are you okay?" no, you wouldn't be fine if seishiro kept looking at you like that.

"do you know a mikage reo by any chance?" you ask him, fumbling around for your phone to confirm something.

"reo? you know reo?" sei stares at you, or at his screen—whatever.

"he's a family friend of mine."

"we go to hakuho together!"

"h-hakuho? you mean you live here?" you might have a stroke right now. seishiro was this close the entire time?

"i mean, i don't know where you live? but i'm close to the school!" he seems more animated than before, pleased with the prospect of living in the same area as you. you finally find what you're looking for, on reo's instagram account. there he was, posted up in one of reo's highlights of the many sports he did. @ 2seii was tagged, how could you have missed such an obvious connection? his user was quite literally the same!

"you play on the school football team with reo, right? i've been to a few of those games!"

"seriously?" a pause on sei's end. he looks deep in thought. "would it be a hassle to come to our next game, tomorrow? i'd get you in for free, of course." he's eyeing you hopefully now, irises pleading. you’re not really left with much of a choice.

"sure, i'll come!" you promise him, fingers shaking. you can't quite believe that you'd be meeting your little online crush—no, friend—so soon. something clatters on seishiro's end, and he shoots up in his chair.

"crap, gotta go. that's reo asking me to practice." you tell him that you understand, and he's gone, telling you to "have a good night."

reo's quite shocked to see you in the stands the next day; he hadn't asked you to come, and you couldn't possibly be that supportive of him to show up. his questions are, however, answered rather obviously for him seconds later when seishiro, someone who was normally late to pre-game warm ups, jumps up to wave at you.

seishiro scores a shocking number of points that afternoon, a season-high for him. what's got the slacker prodigy so motivated? your presence.

"did you see me?" he practically runs to you in the stands after the last whistle is blown.

"yup! you were amazing, sei!" you give him a cheeky thumbs up, grinning. "are you good at everything? that's so unfair—just pick one! you have to be either a loser and cracked at video games, or a hottie who's good at sports!"

"you think i'm hot?"

oops.

so yeah, to all of your friends and reo who had asked, you didn't e-date seishiro. no way! your relationship hadn't even been online, technically you'd "met" him on multiple occasions!

a/n: forget tinder just download valorant and act confused in voice chat… also i’m convinced nagi would have some type of username like killua#0000 or gojo#balls 😹 + NO HATE TO ANY EDATERS THIS IS PURELY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES!

ılılılılılılı now playing: hello? by clairo, your eyes only by enhypen, 20 min by lil uzi vert

masterlist!