#whatever man... at this point... whatever

[valentinedrifter]

Days with Yuri: Packages

male reader x Jo Yuri

~12k words

A/N: A friend said "yuri fic when" so, here you go I guess? Also a lot of yapping involved, so apologies for that.

Enjoy.

You should’ve expected this to happen.

Jjoyul: Sharing Live Location. HELP NOW ASAP PLS

You blink. You squint.

What the fuck?

You read it again.

What the fuck, that’s not her address.

You: whats going on

Jjoyul: I NEED HELP I SWEAR ILL O U 1

You: with what where are you even are you safe

You sit up from your bed, rubbing a hand on your face in annoyance. Out of all the days, it had to be the day you slept in late for her to fuck about and make you find out instead.

Jjoyul: SAFEST PLACE IN D WORLD RN WILL XPLAIN LATR CAN U PLS COME T_T

You were halfway into typing the word “no” and go back to cuddling your comforter and enjoying some more well deserved sleep until your phone buzzed two more times.

Jjoyul: Image attached. PLSSSSSSS

You groan. Half tempted to throw your phone on the nightstand and forget all about the messages. Half tempted to open the image and hope that you can have an idea on what’s actually going on.

You let the angel on your shoulder win this round and open your phone.

Yuri’s face takes up your screen, sitting down on a couch with an all-familiar pout on her lips, finger pressing her chin, wide innocent eyes, and an adorable little head tilt. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen this type of picture so many times that you feel like she’s recycling old pictures.

You wonder how this brat can be this cute yet so annoying at times because you’re falling for her endearingly irritating tactic of cuteness to get you to help her with whatever it is she needs help with. You were about to press the location text she sent to see where she actually is when she sent one last message.

Jjoyul: ILL EVEN COOK U LUNCH AND DINNER NEXT TIME

Now while free food is nice, Yuri’s cooking is something else. Not that you’d ever tell her that because, well, her ego would skyrocket, but she could cook an egg and you’d think a sous chef made it.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and all that. Your sleep-deprived brain isn’t helping much in that regard to stop it. Besides, it’s free food on call.

What’s the worst that could happen?

You: fine, be there in 30

Jjoyul: U DA BESTTTTTTT IM AT 221 BTW TELL THE LADY THAT UR HERE 4 ME TYTYTY <3

And so began your quick shower, a salmon riceball for brunch, and you’re walking out the door heading to her location. Said place is an apartment complex that looks similar to yours—tall, muted colors, minimalistic design—and you start to wonder what she’s doing in a place so far away from where she lives.

She was surprisingly close to your place too—a good ten minute walk to wake the legs up—and you’re stepping into the lobby to be greeted by the receptionist.

You tell her that you’re here for a “Jo Yuri” and all she does is raise an eyebrow.

“No packages?” Her head tilts in confusion.

“...No?” You respond. “Am I supposed to have one?”

“Oh, no, no!” The lady chuckles. “She’s been getting a lot lately, I thought you would be dropping off some more.”

She points you to where you can get to 221, and after thanking her, your mind stops to think:

What the fuck is she doing here?

You take the stairs, faster that way since she’s just a floor up, and you’re standing in front of apartment 221.

You take a deep breath, curl your fingers, prep yourself to call the cops if you need to, and knock.

Tap-tap-tap.

Silence greets you. You wait. Then try again.

Tap-tap-tap.

Still, no answer. You air out a ‘huh’ and decide to just–

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-

“Just a second!” Yuri’s muffled voice comes out of the door, and you hear her padded footsteps rushing.

The lock clicks, the handle turns, and you’re greeted to the sight of a disheveled looking Yuri grinning up to you.

“Hey–” She huffs, grabbing your arm and tugging you inside. Her hand is warm against yours, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “You got here pretty fast.”

“It’s a few blocks away from mine.” You turn around to see her already closing the door before leaning back to it, arms behind her back to face you, giving you a chance to properly look at her.

Hair framing that lovable face, smile that radiates trouble, crescents that screams innocent excitement all wrapped in a baggy shirt hanging off one shoulder and some shorts that hides her figure.

Not that you’d know anything about it, you just…saw it a couple of times. Like when you two attended Minju’s wedding as friends. 

Totally not as each other’s wedding date.

You definitely didn’t give her that wide-eyed stare when you picked her up. Or notice how beautiful she looked in the white dress which showed off a bit too much cleavage that definitely didn’t do things to both your heads. Or stand a little too close when one of the groomsmen complimented her on her looks.

And you really didn’t hold her hips when she dragged you to the dance floor because her favorite slow dance started playing. Didn’t like how your hands felt perfect on her. Didn’t feel your heart skip a beat when she gave you that smile when it ended.

You swear it wasn’t awkward the next few weeks after.

Nope. You’re absolutely sure that you and her were totally okay for that period of time.

You focus back on Yuri, who’s gotten close enough to lean into your personal space, face almost touching your chest, shirt swinging low enough for you to see a hint of her generous chest. You can even smell the jasmine radiating off her.

She’s too close.

You blink. She chuckles. 

You take a step back. She straightens.

Speaking of personal spaces–“Where are we, exactly?”

“This, exactly, is–” She stretches it out, making drum roll gestures, dancing around you. “–drumroll please–”

She stops, expecting eyes and a beaming set of lips looking up to you.

She wags her eyebrows. You sigh.

“Seriously?” You ask. Her smile widens.

You roll your eyes. She grins.

You make drum roll sounds. She makes drum roll hands as she continues to step backward into the middle of the living room before stretching her arms wide and giving a tiny hop.

“Jo Yuri’s brand new, very own home!” She declares, posing like a little kid who won the lottery. “Ta–da!”

The place was semi-furnished, all the heavier things already out and ready to be used like the couch on one end and the flat screen mounted on the wall. But what’s really getting to you are the amount of boxes in the room.

All the colors you can think of, all the different sizes, labeled, unlabeled, packed, unpacked; They were everywhere, from the floor to the kitchen counter. You don’t even want to know what was inside. God forbid she hands you one of them and it just so happens to be her underwear.

She wouldn’t do that anyway. You trust her enough to know what’s inside all the boxes.

It’s still a mess overall though, and as you’re taking it in, you realize:

You’re here to help her unpack all her shit.

“Pretty nice ain’t it?” Everything about her screams pride of what she’s accomplished—she should  be—like the hands on her hips and the way she says it.

“Don’t know about pretty, but it is nice.” You look behind her, eyeing the amount of boxes that were basically mocking you at this point. “How much shit do you even have? And when did you move in here?”

“This is like, eighty percent of it, give or take.” Jesus Christ. “I tried doing it on my own but there’s too many and I didn’t wanna bother the movers because they already helped with all the big appliances and I thought–”

Yuri’s making that thinking pose then a lightbulb gesture like she’s in a sitcom. “–Why do it alone when I can do it with my favorite person in the whole wide world!”

“I thought that was Yena?” You deadpan. 

She opens her mouth to answer, then closes it. Her eyes look to the side. Her lips make a thinking face. She looks too damn adorable. 

She opens her mouth to answer. “My second! Favorite person in the whole wide world!”

“That’s not how that works, Yuri.” Your head shakes. “Not at all.”

“It is to me.” She giggles, picking up one of the smaller boxes. “Besides, this is a lot more fun than getting this done all alone.”

“Don’t I have a say in this?” She pushes said box to your chest. “This is gonna take us all day.”

“You said yes the moment you agreed to my cooking.” She patters back to the couch, sitting on the small empty space it still has. “No take backs.”

Well, she’s got you there. Her cooking’s worth a day of unpacking all her stuff anywho.

“Can I renegotiate to have that lunch and dinner for two days?” You ask, cross legging down on the floor, opening up the box that contained kitchen utensils.

Fitting, considering the conversation.

“If we manage to get this done before–” She pauses, a box in her lap as she picks up a boxcutter. “Before dinner, I’ll make you food for the next week.”

“Say no more.” You let out a chuckle, the prospect of having Yuri cook for you till the next week already makes you salivate as you stand up to head into the kitchen. 

As soon as you see the counter, you freeze.

The kitchen’s chock full of boxes.

Fuck.

—

They seemed never ending, but you two managed to settle into a rhythm. You handled everything that was for the kitchen and the living room, she took care of the bathroom and the bedroom.

She didn’t bother with the labels anymore, just ripped the box open and handed it to you if it was different things for her shelves. You open them with care and precision so as not to make an even bigger mess of the already boxed up fuckery mess that is her apartment.

You can hear her in the bedroom, the rustling of the boxes coming out of the doorway when you came back from putting some of the cartons away and into the front door, so you take the chance to pick out something easy to unpack since you’ve been given all the big ones—definitely didn’t feel like you were setup.

So you pick up one of the smallest boxes you could see, sit down on the couch and lay it down on your lap.

The box itself was small, jet-black and discreet, not unlike all the other bright and colorful ones that preceded it. It was tightly wrapped as well, red tape all over the carton in a criss-crossy pattern. 

Nothing the cutter couldn’t handle.

You open it up, thinking that it was another-some-set of something that you feel like you can convince her to sell off because she seriously has too much stuff for one girl so you part the flaps and—

Dick.

Surprisingly detailed, with all the veins and contours and curls shaping it, the smooth head at the top staring back at you. Although the color ruined any form of realism, somewhere between vermillion or coquelicot or sienna—fucking red—that was practically screaming out what it is.

You blink. Two, three, four times.

You close the flaps. Your eyes follow, nose inhaling deep, mouth exhaling slowly,  mind counting to ten.

And then you open it again.

Dicks.

Multiple, plural, a lot. Some were small, others looked like a lightstick—that’s a vibrator—and there was even something metallic tucked in the bottom, underneath all the bubble wrap. 

You squint, hands frozen on the black carton, not trusting them to touch anything inside and holy shit is that a pair of handcuffs?

You don’t even want to know why she has so many because your mind is already being sidetracked to what she’s doing with them. How often she uses them, which one was her favorite— 

“Hey, how’s it going with the rest?” Yuri calls out, casually walking back into the living room.

You’re stuck, heat creeping up your ears, brain short circuiting, doing its damnedest to hot wire it back into thinking, acting, anything as you’re left frozen in time staring into the deep abyss of the box.

“What’s up with you?” Her chin rests on your shoulder, a grin on her features, chest pushing against your back and the smell of citrus invading your nostrils. 

It wasn’t until she saw what was in the box that made her lose all emotion, utter the Lord’s name in vain and straight up dive bomb into your arms.

“Gimme that!” She screams, her chest flattening against you sending even more thoughts into your head, her hands already snatching the hellish thing from your grasp, one hand closing the flaps and the other wrapping around the carton.

“You weren’t supposed to see that yet.” She mutters, holding it close to her chest, protecting it from you, or vice versa. It didn’t really matter to you. 

What matters was whatever the hell ‘yet’ meant.

“Well, I mean, I can-uh-fuck-” You’re stumbling, sputtering. Because what the fuck do you even say when you find a box full of sextoys that weren’t yours? “I can forget this ever happened?”

“Can you?” She asks, glares really. Raised eyebrow, doubtful eyes, the complete package of disbelief written on her. “Can you really?”

No, you really couldn’t. But you don’t even get the chance to tell her before she stands up.

“Just–don’t bring it up.” She sighs, walking away from you and back into her bedroom.

And it wasn’t. Nobody brought it up for a while, the both of you focusing on unpacking, folding, cleaning. It was all you two did, not even bothering to make conversation. Not without bringing up the box again.

Until she started to do something extremely simple.

Be a mess. 

And she’s dragging you into becoming one when she keeps brushing past you even if she didn’t have to. You could be sitting down on the couch and she’d walk past you to get the box that was right next to you instead of the ones that were stacked up right next to her bedroom door.

It wasn’t like there was a lack of them, if anything there were too many. And she kept doing it anyway.

Yuri didn’t even do anything that you’d consider odd or anything and she’s already distracting you. Every pass, brush of your hands, glances that were a bit too long. 

You were trying to pretend that you didn’t notice anything and gaslit yourself into thinking it wasn’t intentional. To leave her to do whatever she wants because it is her house but this, this was like scratching an itch.

If an itch were to ask her why she had so many dildos, that is.

You were rinsing up a few of her mugs when she plops down the couch, halfway empty of the cartons that were seated a few hours ago.

It was a mistake glancing because–

“Why do I keep so much stuff.” She moans out, the first words uttered after the box. Her arms stretched upward, her shirt riding up just a bit to show that bellybutton of hers. 

You tell yourself you weren’t staring. She’s just casually seducing you with an arm stretch and the temptation to ask her about the damn box grows higher.

“That sounds like a you problem than anything else.” You snap back down, focusing back on the cups. “Why’d you even bother moving out? I thought you shared the old place with Nako.”

“I did, I just…” Yuri goes silent for a moment, before she crosses her legs and gives you these adorable little puppy eyes that make you wanna squish her cheeks. “Promise you won’t tell her? Or anyone else?”

“You don’t need to tell me if it’s too personal, Yuls.” You shake the glass you’re holding. “We can always leave it at that.”

“It’s not really for me, it’s more for her than anything else.” She shakes her head, grabbing a nearby plushie of a bear she left on the couch because she needs one for ‘couch cuddles’. You remember getting that one for her birthday along with a new set of guitar strings.

And she wonders why she keeps so much extra shit like her toys—

“Just please promise me you won’t tell anyone?” She hugs said bear, keeping it close to her chest. “Pretty please?”

“Alright, alright, I promise.” You place the mug down on the dishwasher.

“Swear it.”

“I just said I promised.” You give her a look, as if she’s seriously asking you to double down on an agreement made just seconds ago.

“I need your utmost trust on this.” Yuri glares. It wasn’t scary at all, not with the bear looking at you with a permanent smile on its face. You wonder what that bear’s seen. Or felt.

“Wha-Fine.” You sigh, leaning back onto the counter. “I swear on my need for an eight-hour-sleep that I won’t tell anybody about what you will say.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not enough.”

“You know how much I need my eight hours.” 

“Everyone needs eight hours, idiot.” She shakes her head, an arm gesturing upwards. She wasn’t exactly wrong. You just thought you needed it more than everyone else because you have the tendency to stay up a lot.

“On my rank in League.” You state. “Happy now?”

That seemed to do the trick when Yuri hums for a moment to think, then nods. She knows how much you play that game to a near unhealthy degree back then before you were convinced—forcefully, you may add—to take a step back from it. Looking back, you’re a bit thankful that happened.

Lord knows what you would be doing if you kept that up.

But it doesn’t mean you stopped though. Maybe a long break or two, but you always come back to playing it like a drug. You were simply volun-told how to take the proper dosages.

“Now, what’s the big deal about you moving out?” You move to sit on the couch, facing Yuri who’s now hiding her face behind the bear.

“Uhm,” She stalls. Eyes darting from you to the bear she’s holding, gripping it tighter. “So you know how Nako’s been seeing Hitomi for a while now?”

“Uh-huh.”

“They may or may not be doing things when theythinkI'msleepingnextdoor.” She rushes, cheeks reddening at the words that came out as she hides further into her bear.

Silence precipitates the room, giving you the chance to soak in whatever Yuri just said.

“Hold on.” You start, lips unconsciously curving upwards. “You moved out because you couldn’t stand them fucking?”

“It’s more than that!” She shouts, slapping you with the bear in such a weak manner it makes you laugh.

“They’ve been wanting to move in together so I thought I’d move out instead.” She explains, grabbing a small yellow box on the table. “They wouldn’t have to worry about looking for another place if I did.”

“Pretty selfless of you.” You comment, leaning back and watching her rip the carton apart. “What made you wanna do that?”

She bites her lip, hesitating, hands stopping from unfurling the bubble wrap covering something.

“Too much?” You ask again, knowing that this wasn’t about her roommate anymore.

“No, I’ve just…” She replies, before she turns to look at you. “I’ve been wanting to move out for a while now, you know? Nako’s been my roomie ever since uni, and before that I shared my room with my sister.”

“Ah. You have that dilemma.” You remember the decision to do it yourself. Your parents were fifty-fifty on it till you had to convince them it was better than hour long commutes to and from work. 

“Yeah.” She nods, going back to focus on the wrap. “You must’ve went through that when you moved out.”

“I mean, sure.” Solo living had its perks. Made you appreciate doing chores yourself, you didn’t have to worry about anyone else’s dishes being left in the sink. You could walk around doing whatever with complete privacy, and no one would bat an eye for it.

“It gets lonely at times but you learn to do things for yourself every once in a while.” You add, leaning back to enjoy the soft cushion, watching her open up a box of books.

“And that’s why you got me, dummy.” She teases, picking up one of the books and giving it a once over. You can see a very familiar tie as the book cover and decide to keep that away for safekeeping.

Because a box full of sextoys isn’t enough for her, you guess.

“You do live pretty close by now.” You nod, standing up to pick up another blue container. “We can meet up more if you want.”

“You just like free food.” She bites, stacking up a few books of varying sizes. 

“And you like my company.” You bite back, cutting the tape with the boxcutter, the ripping sound following each stroke. You won’t lie and say that you didn’t like the idea of seeing Yuri more often. Maybe even get a peak of what she’d be doing with one of those toys—

You immediately stop that line of thought and glance back at her after and notice one of the stacks she made was close to toppling. “Might want to put the biggest one on the bottom.”

“Shut up.” She looks down, biting her lip to stop the smiling forming on her face as she starts to fix up her makeshift jenga structure. “Anyway, it took me a while to find this apartment, and the movers were a pain in the ass to talk to.”

“What, they didn’t like that you had so much shit for a single person?” You grin, placing the cutter down. “You can always sell these things online.”

“What am I even gonna sell?” She mutters, arms up in the air as she stops re-arranging her novels on the table. She pauses, stares at the books, then looks up to you staring right back at her.

“Don’t say it.” She warns, shaking her head, eyes widening a tiny bit. “I swear to god, don’t you fucking say it.”

All you do is give her a smirk, extremely tempted to say exactly what you were both thinking. Her hands were already moving to hold onto a small novel, and while it may seem idiotic to tempt physical danger, it also sounds very fun to piss her off.

“The bo–” A thump resonates. A pained shout erupts. A groan follows.

“I told you not to say it.” She repeats, hands on her hips. 

“Worth it though.” You grumble, hand rubbing your chest where the book hit you. “You’ll get money on the side anyway, what’s the big deal?”

“Getting to know what to sell is a big deal, duh.”

“You’re unpacking. This is like, the best time to.” You place her novel book on top of one of her stacks.

She slouches, looking like she’s considering the idea when she starts glancing around her towers of books and the rest of the taped up boxes. “Promise you’ll help?”

“If you tell me why you have a box full of sextoys, sure.” You smile, sitting down next to her. Externally, you looked cool as a cucumber. Internally, you were dying.

Why the fuck did that come out of your mouth, you wonder. You should’ve just agreed and be done with it but now the awkward silence was eating you alive.

“...Oh my god.” She groans, leaning back onto the couch. “I thought we already went past that!”

“Did we?” You shrug, taking another glance at her stack of books, pretending that you were completely okay with what you just blurted out. “I never agreed to that.”

“I hate you.” She smacks you with her plushie. “I seriously do.”

You laugh, flailing your arms to protect yourself from a bear. “No–you–don’t–”

She hits you a couple more times before she eventually stops—from exhaustion or from being lazy, you don’t know—and glares. Eyes narrowing, lips flattening, mind deliberating. All the while the bear is just staring at you.

The bear’s got a pretty cool hat you have to admit—

“Fine.” She states, lips slowly transforming into a grin. “If we still finish before dinner.”

“Yeah, I still get food though right–wait.” You stop, jaw dropping slowly. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.” She answers, crossing her arms around the bear. “I’ll even give you a live demo if you want.”

“I think I’m good with the story, thanks.” You chuckle bashfully, hands raising in surrender. Not that watching her fuck a dildo wasn’t hot as fuck, it’s simply very bad for your mental and physical health to be given a clear view to that show.

“You sure?” She draws the words out, smirking and teasing. She leans in, her hair falling, getting closer and closer till you can feel her breath on your face. “You don’t wanna see me suck on a strap like it’s your di–”

“Yes I’m fucking sure!” You answer—scream, really—as you stand up, away from any more of her teasing because your hands are starting to get that itch instead of your mouth. You scratch that itch by going back to the mundane job of grabbing boxes.

You don’t notice the grin on Yuri’s face become absolutely feral.

The next few hours were spent unpacking everything else that was still trapped in their boxes, and anything that she thought she could sell she’d leave in the living room. A bunch of books, extra cables, some plushies she has.

You’re sitting down on one of her chairs for a short break when you let your eyes wander the room. Aside from the large cartons that you both decided to leave for later, the place was halfway there to becoming a home.

It inevitably lands back towards her—it always does—where she’s pulling her shirt up to wipe the sweat off her brow. It also lets you have another peek at her waist, the same pair that you held with your own two hands on that wedding.

There’s always that lingering thought in your head on what her bare hips would feel like, caressing them, tracing every inch of skin with your fingers and wondering what her moans would sound like.

Your mind strays, imagining her face when you trail them upwards, moving closer and closer towards her chest, watching her features morph into something filthy. Begging for you to do more. Touch her, kiss her, tame her.

It’s a good thing they’re just thoughts and not actions cause you don’t know if you’d be able to stop yourself from doing all of that given the chance.

Her offer to give a live performance is enough to make your cock twitch. Add your thoughts into the mix and you’re becoming a horny teenager again.

You exhale through your nose, quietly, hiding it through a tilt of your cup and a sip of cold liquid.

“You never answered me earlier.” You let out, getting your mind out of the gutter for once. 

It’s been happening too many times today.

“About what?” She peeks over the rim of her glass.

“About when you moved here.” You reiterate, elbows on your knees, placing the cup down on her coffee table. “What’s up with that?”

“Technically I started yesterday.” She scoffs. “But I had this place for a few weeks now when–”

She goes on about how she found out about the apartment through Yena and went with her mother to get an initial view. She got a deal to own it after a few years with a down payment and had the movers prep all her items throughout the weeks and have it all delivered in one go.

“I remember one of the assholes tried peeking down my top when they were moving the couch.” She gripes. “Wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it cause he kept sticking close, the creep.”

“...Do I need to talk to the guy?” 

“Mom already handled it.” She answers, standing up to pick up a few leftover cartons, giving you a grin. “But I’ll keep the offer in mind in case I need to move again.”

“Open up one of the big ones while I put these away?” She says, already walking out to her front hall. You could’ve been seeing things but she might’ve been putting a bit more sway in her hips.

“Sure.” Your feet are already moving towards one of them. “Offers always up when you need it!”

And you’re back to the grind. Open, unpack, store.

Except she’s ramped everything up to eleven. 

Intentionally bending over in front of you to show off her ass in those short shorts—you’re totally overthinking it when you thought you saw a small indent in her shorts—or giving you another look underneath her top; Her bra’s this dark blue that’s almost black—it’s a bra for fuck’s sake.

The small touches become more apparent. Less boxes, more space, no reason to take the long way and keep walking in front of you for a touch of your forearm instead of anywhere else.

And the looks she’s giving. The winks she’d send your way when she catches you glancing. The bite of her lip when she’s trying to force her way inside a box. 

Now this isn’t just mere coincidence anymore.

It’s bothering you a lot; You feel like the air conditioner isn’t cold enough, you’ve been drinking a lot more water in between breaks alongside the snacks that Yuri’s kept feeding you with. 

If this wasn’t paranoia, you don’t know what it is.

Then again, you agreed to this the moment she convinced you to help.

You walk back from her bathroom after placing down some medical supplies in one of the cabinets—You really need to have her sell some of her things—where you find her laying down on the floor, now clear of all the rainbow colored cartons save for one last box. 

“Want some more water?” You ask, already heading to the kitchen, grabbing two glasses from her cupboard.

“Please.” She lazily throws an arm up towards you.

“Sit up.” You hold out her cup. “Or else I dunk you in it.”

You honestly could. Just shower her in water and soak that baggy shirt of hers, giving you an excuse to ogle her tits–

“Alright, alright.” She gets up to lean onto the sofa seats, grabbing the cup from your hands to take a sip. “Thanks.”

“It’s your house, I’m here to enjoy the free drink.” You sit down on a chair across from her.

“Always food with you.” She smiles underneath the cup. “Too bad you’re getting that story.”

“Speaking of which,” She continues, “Can you get the box from my bedroom? It should be by my desk.”

“Is it that box?” You put the cup down. “It’s that box isn’t it?”

“Are you actually scared of a box?” She giggles. “Yes, you dummy, it’s that box. Now go get it already. It’s important for the tea.”

“Do we really need it?” 

“Of course we need it dummy.”

“Just–making sure.” You cough, clearing your throat before doing as she asks, nervous anticipation consuming your thoughts.

You shake your head. You really need to stop with these things. 

She wouldn’t actually use them in front of you anyways.

So you distract yourself, focus on getting what you need, and get back to Yuri. It also gave you a chance to look around the place.

Her apartment started to look lived in, her shelves and cupboards full of items, the boxes all folded up and placed near her front door for recycling.

It looked a lot better than it was when you came in, that’s for sure.

You spot it immediately after coming inside her room. It was very her for the plushies to be used as a guitar stand alongside her many, many novels and right next to her keyboard standing near the desk.

Not even a day into living here and she’s already managed to make it into her own. Gotta give her props for that one.

Well, maybe not for some of her clothes still strewn about in her bed.

You can’t stare at it. You won’t. It’ll make you start thinking about what she’d look like in them. What she’d look like without them.

You booked it straight to the box—still black, still closed—your head staring at it, damn near putting holes in it as you walk out of the bedroom to avoid anything else except for the piece of carton in your hands.

Right into even more trouble.

The very first thing you noticed when you came back into her living room was her shorts on the floor.

The sounds registered after. The squelches, the moans, the gasps. All so low, so lewd, so incredibly fucking fucked hearing it all come from her.

You’re almost tempted to go back to her room and leave her be. Pretend you never saw anything, play the dummy that she always call you by.

But you look up, because what you’ve been imagining for so long is right in front of you and the devil in your shoulder is whispering all the dirty things that you’ve been wanting to do with Yuri. Do unto Yuri.

Everything.

And boy, was it a sight.

Yuri made herself comfortable on the couch, legs spread with a hand between her legs, blue-ish black panties that matched her bra pulled to the side with a small silvery object playing in her fingers rocking back and forth into her tight ass. Her other hand’s busy pinching a nipple, her shirt ridden up to her chest along with her bra.

She’s easing into the plug, teasing herself, the tip all wet and shiny from what you think is lube. You can see her tense up every time she pushes it in, mouth trying to bite a piece of her shirt to stifle her moans.

Didn’t really work, but the view.

Hips rocking with every thrust, the plug slowly disappearing into her, thighs shaking, muscles rippling. The hand on her tits hasn’t stopped pinching and squeezing. Everything about her looks so fuckable in all the ways you’ve thought extremely hard not to.

It almost made you drop the box, with the sound of saving it alerting Yuri to your presence.

“He-Hey.” She moans, pushing the entire thing deep, taking all of it into her ass before fixing up her panties. “You were taking too long.”

“I–” You start. Your mouth stays open for a good while, trying to think of something to say. You can’t.

Because you don’t exactly know what to say when someone’s fucking herself on a butt plug in front of you.

“You want-wanted to know about the toys right?” She says, letting the plug settle, hand pulling away from it to cup her tits. “C’mere and give me one.”

You follow, mouth still stuck in that perpetual curse of being unable to move as you sit down right next to her, box in hand. 

The box moves from one pair to another. Yours to hers, where the flaps open once more to show her very bright collection of dildos, vibrators, and handcuffs.

Yuri’s planning something devious, or ambitious. Could be one, could be both. She hums, eyes looking through her box, tongue slipping out of her mouth to lick at her lips. 

Definitely both.

“Pick a toy.” She asks you, face full of perverse mischief, hand roaming over her wares. “We can take turns choosing.”

You were completely still, stuck from earlier, mind processing; Embedding the image of Yuri playing with her ass into your head like a core memory of hers that you would never delete from your brain.

“Yuri–” You exhale, making her hum—purr, really, but who gives a shit at this point. “Are you seriously asking me to pick a fucking toy?”

“Duh. They’re all clean by the way, so touch all you want.” She answers, rolling her eyes, leaning back into the couch’s arm. Her shirt’s still ridden up, her breasts out in front of you, nipples hard from her earlier teasing. “Or do you want me to go first?”

She’s already reaching out to the black carton, decision made on what she’d be showing you—or using on herself—before you cut her off with yours.

“The dildo.” You say, one of your arms picking it up. It was the same one you first found when you opened it earlier. Red, large, and girthy, something that looked like it would fill her up all the way. “This one.”

You hand it over to her. It looked comically large in her hands, yet she’s all grins and giggles when she brings it closer to her mouth, tongue already lapping at the tip of it.

“Would you believe me when I say that this is the first one I bought?” She’s slobbering all over it, sucking on the first few inches of the toy, tongue flicking and licking to get it all wet and ready for her.

Her eyes are closing, moaning as she takes it deep, likely imagining that she’s throating a real cock. Yours is twitching at the thought of it being yours that she’s fucking her mouth with.

“This became one of my faves too.” She lets out, biting her lip as she lowers it down to her clothed pussy, rubbing it over herself. Her panties are stained from earlier, a wet darker patch of it in the middle. “Other than the vibrator, but I use both anyway–”

She cuts herself off with a strangled moan, her hips raising, arching as she presses the toy into that spot, rubbing it in, wetting it even more with the saliva that stuck to it.

Jesus Christ, is all you can manage to conjure up in your brain as you watch her edge herself with her favorite fucking strap. The thought of pulling her panties aside never seemed to cross her mind because she’s pushing it inside her to no avail.

“God, the things I did with this fucking thing–” She’s babbling, starting and stopping about how she’d always use it whenever, wherever, whoever.

“Fuck, I’d just use this to get off when I needed a good dicking–” It’s probably why she never goes out on dates even when everyone’s telling her to go on them. Who needs a boyfriend to satisfy her if she can do it herself anyway?

“Had to-god-to get the smaller ones cause I couldn’t walk in public with this.” That gets you thinking, pacing, recollecting every moment you’ve been with her if she had one stuffed inside of her pussy.

“Yena even borrowed one of them–” Now the vivid picture of Yuri and Yena sharing the red toy with each other, fucking each other with it, wondering how’d be on top, is painted inside of your mind.  “And she still hasn’t given it back, the bitch–” 

You might never look at Yena the same again with that.

All the while Yuri’s kept on going, hands never quite stopping with her metaphorical blue balling. Her underwear is completely soaked with her juices, even marking the couch with the damp spots underneath her.

“Fuck, Yuls–” Your cock’s been straining against your pants since she’s started, in dire need of relief from the confines of your clothes. One of your hands comes to undo the draws of your sweatpants to relieve the tension but you’d think the air can get you off at this point.

“Fuck me, huh?” Her tongue paints her lips before a question—a very dangerous one, you might add—comes out of her mouth. “Is that what you want?”

“God yes,” You confess, eyes roaming all over her. From her delectable thighs, her perky tits, her adorably sinful face; It’s all so ruinable. “Wanted you ever since–”

“The wedding?” She cuts you off.

“Even before that.” 

“Tell me.” 

So you do.

Tell her that it happened at that university reunion party you all attended. It was pretty memorable, considering that’s when Minju was officially announced ‘out of the market’.

Yuri was blonde then, wore this green dress that hugged her curves and showed her off in all the right places. That was the first time you ever saw her outside of baggy clothing or the tamer casual wear she has on.

It didn’t help that she stuck to you like glue for the majority of it all. You and her were making sure Yena didn’t do something stupid when she had a bit too much to drink.

You tell her how much you wanted to pull her into the bathroom and rail her against one of the stalls; You would hike her dress up and pull her underwear down and go to town on her pussy, not caring if anyone walked in and found out about it. 

Watch her face morph into a state of euphoria as you give her a nice, thick load at the end of it. Steal her panties so she’s forced to go back out there glowing from the aftermath and dripping with your cum.

Her eyes are closed all throughout, hand lazily circling the dildo over her, clinging to every single word, and all the dirty things you wanted to do to her that day. It gets her even more riled up hearing you talk like that, judging from the way she’s pushing the toy harder through the cloth.

Then she grins, pulling at the fabric covering her cunt at the same time she pushes. Whether it’s to tease you or to pleasure herself, you can say both and you’d be rewarded, just like she’s doing to herself when she stops for a moment to hike up her legs and take off her panties.

It’s left dangling on one of her legs when she brings it back down and spreads them once more, wet pussy out in the open. You wet your own lips at the sight of it, wanting to put your cock in between her legs and feel how hot she would feel.

Even the butt plug is mocking you, the shine of it inside of her ass barely visible because of the grip that she has on it. 

“You-you wanna know something funny?” Her eyes are locked into yours while her hands are back to playing with herself, grinding back on her toy. The lack of ruined underwear makes it even better for the both of you. “I had this plug on my ass that day. Fuck, I even had this on ever since we talked about moving in.”

You two were fucking hopeless.

She slides just the tip in, relieving all the built up tension she’s had for the past few whatever long time has passed and the moan she lets out sounded heavenly, the relief of everything crashing down on her.

“It was my first time too,” She continues, slouching down further into the couch to give you a better view of her ass, holes filled up with her toys. “Having it in me in public. I was so fucking horny that day that I probably would’ve let you fuck me in that bathroom–”

The red toy goes deeper inside of her, shutting herself up with her own actions. A whimper rings out, her thighs trembling with each thrust of the dildo into her drenched cunt.

“Wish th-this could be your cock–” She squeals, biting her lip to stop the perverse giggles that were trying to sing out of her. “You’d stretch me out so well–”

You couldn’t take it anymore. All the stories, the teasing, the view of Yuri fucking herself to the thought of you. You’re bursting at the seams, needing to chase your own pleasure this time.

So you stand up, a visible tent in your pants—she’s already eye-fucking it—and grab something different from her collection; A vibrator, all white with teal highlights because of course she has the classic one.

You turn it on, watch it whir for a moment before turning it off. You turn your head back towards her, still fixated on your pants, your cock, before you take a step. Her breath hitches.

Take another, and you stop to take your pants off. Quick, crass, it did the job to relieve your own stress as your length is freed from its confines. Yuri visibly shivers in excitement.

One more, and you’re cock-to-face with Yuri, her gaze finally looking up from one head to another. 

“Holy shit.” It’s only two words, but those alone speak volumes. She reaches out, gripping you at the base, before she starts to lazily pump away at your shaft. “You’d ruin me for all my toys with this.”

“Would I?” You ask, moving to grope one of her tits. She felt so soft against your hand, so perfect. You needed to feel every inch of her, squeezing, pinching, tugging. Move from one breast to another, and you’re addicted. “All those toys, and I’d ruin you?”

“You fucking would.” She arches, hand between her legs moving faster, no rhyme or rhythm to it. Only a need to cum, and she didn’t care how she’d achieve that high. She pulls you closer, your cock resting on her face, the tip of her tongue having a small taste of you. “Because a real cock would feel so much more better.”

She starts kissing your cock, making out with the head, lips glued to you. Her tongue’s twirling and flicking and dousing you in her spit. She moans, the vibrations thrumming over you, making you clench your legs.

“Yuri, what the fuck–” You steady yourself by leaving her tits to grip her head, the other still holding onto her vibrator, waiting, begging to be used on her. 

“This already beats out sucking on Glassy.” She even has a name for the damn thing, and it’s not even made of glass. “I can feel you throbbing.”

And you were, when she presses you back to her face. You are when she giggles, giving you pecks all over your length. And you still will be when she inevitably goes back to sucking your cock.

Her hands pump what she can’t put inside of her, wetting your shaft, surrounded by the hot feeling of her mouth that shakes you to your knees. She has the perfect grip on you, stroking you just fast enough to keep you aching for more.

You don’t know if she’s practiced on a dildo to suck somebody’s—your—dick. Not that it mattered if she did it for anyone else.

Because it’s Jo fucking Yuri that’s loving your cock right now, and that is a dream come true.

Her cheeks hollow, tightening her lips around you, just like yours hands are around her hair. It might’ve hurt her scalp. In reality it turned her on even more, bobbing her head quicker, taking more of you inside her mouth.

Then you remember: You’re holding onto one of her toys too.

A finger is pressed on a button, and it begins humming low, drowned out by her filthy fucking slurps. She’s too entranced with your cock to notice that you’ve brought it down to her chest, letting it massage one of her tits.

She hums, eyes closing, enjoying all the sensations she’s feeling. It’s all a fucking mess; From her sucking you off to fucking herself on Glassy. And she’s enjoying every single minute of it.

She mutters something; Too hard to understand with your cock in her mouth, too obsessed with your cock to let go of it. Girl can’t even bother to let her lips go off your head. So she speaks with her actions instead.

Her hand leaves the base of your shaft in favor of your forearm, resting there while you move the vibrator from one nub to another. Still set low, massaging her breasts slowly, pressing it into her. 

Yuri even incentivizes it. She starts going at you faster, getting messier and messier with spit starting to drool down her chin. She keeps uttering indescribable things while she’s at it, and you can’t understand a single fucking thing.

“You know I can’t understand what you’re saying.” You pull at her hair, popping your cock out of her lips, now pouting at the loss of her new favorite toy.

“I was enjoying that.” She whines, trying to push herself back onto you, pulling your arm, anything to get you back. “You taste so good, I could just suck on you all day.”

“I’m not exactly part of your collection, Yuls.”

“Yeah you are.” She retorts, shaking her head at another attempt to escape your grasp. “I have Glassy, and you are Dummy.”

“Fucking–Seriously?” You’re in disbelief. Known each other for who knows how long and she suddenly treats you like an object. “I’m a toy to you now?”

“Of course not!” She grins, hand finally coming up from her legs with the sex toy. She’s waving it around, drenched in her juices, glistening in it. “I love each and every single one of them.”

The implications are damning, yet your lust-addled brain is too horny to comprehend that fact.

“So who’s this?” You ask, pressing the vibrator into her chest, watching her tits sink in. You so badly want to suck on them, make her cry out when you bite one of her nipples. But you save that for later. 

Right now you have other priorities.

“Oh, Cherry?” She has a name for everything. “A friend got it for me when she went to Japan.”

The only one you knew that went to Japan recently was—

“You wouldn’t believe the stuff she has.” She grins, the hand on your arm pulling you downwards, to the dip of her breasts, to her midriff, and stopping just above her clit. “She’s crazier than me.”

“Having toys isn’t enough?” You push the vibrator, making sure to up the setting and make her thighs quiver. “Nothing��s crazier than that.”

“You-You’d be surprised.” She admits in the middle of her moans. “Cherry’s the real reason why I moved out.”

“Yeah?” You bring it lower, the head of it moving directly on top of her clit, and you repeat the same words she told you minutes prior. 

“Tell me.”

So she does.

Tells you all about that time when she overheard Nako and Hitomi over the walls of her old bedroom. All the moans they were letting out. They were trying to hide it for Yuri too, when she says that they were a lot more muffled than usual.

She just got the toy you’re holding; ”All the way from Japan.” She comments, and was wanting—dying—to try it out. 

“The hearing aid helped out a lot.”

She continues with how she used it in tandem with her other toys. Had it go in the same places you had it while she bounced on top of a dildo while she had another smaller one up her ass.

“I’ve always wanted to have this in my ass but it’s too fucking big–”

Her breathy moans sing out of her lips every few words, drawing her story out even more. Yet the pressure on her clit never really goes away, only being released for a short moment when she gets too lost in the pleasure to keep on talking.

She knows what you’re doing because she’s done the exact same thing to herself. All the words, the actions. It’s gotten to a point where the both of you are getting so close to losing all composure, yet you still want to carry on with this game.

So she carries on, giving you a play-by-play of what she did that night. It’s so detailed it makes your cock harder if that was even possible, made you leak pre-cum right there in front of her. 

She’s eyeing it of course, has been since she’s started talking, still deprived of your cock in her mouth. She brings her hand back to your shaft, gripping you, jerking you slow. Another comes back to her pussy, her toy pushing back inside of her.

Her eyes meet yours, and the face she makes for you is extremely tempting; Tongue pushing into her cheek, eyebrows wagging, eyes full of perverse ideas.

A pull of her hair stops her, and with a whine or a whimper, she keeps on going.

She admits how she got a bit too noisy after a while, louder than the couple at the other side of her room. She didn’t stop even when they did, if anything it got her hornier at the thought that they knew about what she was doing.

All her thoughts about that night was how much she wanted to get in on the action between the two. Yuri’s heard them so many times and the one time they took her into consideration her libido was at an all time high.

“It wasn’t the first time, either.” Yuri giggles, confessing that she’s gotten off to the both of them so many times at this point. The realization that she got caught that night made her cum all over her bedsheets.

The morning after was awkward for the both of them, she says. How Nako had to sit her down and tell her to stop being so loud with what she was doing. But that only spurred Yuri on, knowing that Nako was listening in on her masturbating to said girl.

Her hands haven’t been idle; Stroking you faster, fucking herself deeper. Her clit’s being abused by the vibrator that you’ve constantly held there, and you can tell that she’s close to cumming her brains out.

Her hands haven’t been idle; Stroking you faster, fucking herself deeper. Her clit’s being abused by the vibrator that you’ve constantly held there, and you can tell that she’s close to cumming her brains out.

She’s all twitchy, legs and arms and mouth just begging for you to turn it up to the max.

“You are just…” You pause, trying to find a single word in your limited dictionary of horny thoughts. A lot of words spring up to mind, but only one really fits the description of Jo Yuri in this very instance. “Such a slut.”

“Yeah?” She cackles, depraved, debauched, deafening. Her entire being is screaming it, and you are loving every second of it. “Cute innocent Yuri being such a closet perv, who would’ve known.”

“Be-Bet you didn’t think of that when you wanted to-to dick me down at that party.” She’s abandoned Glassy in favor of bracing herself to your arm, the shaking in her thighs intensifying as you turn the vibrator up a notch. “Like–Fuck, like you wanna do me right here on this couch.”

You want to confirm something. It’s been gnawing at you ever since she’s decided to ‘obtain’ you as part of her collection. And just as she was about to cum, you slow down.

“One more.” You press a button, and the humming dims.

“One-one what?” She can’t focus anymore, so you turn the toy down to low and watch her exhale in annoyance. “What the fu–I was so close!”

“One last toy you gotta tell me about.” You answer her, tugging her hair back and making her fall back down into the sofa. “Swear on my rank I’ll make you cum right after.”

She’s taking deep breaths, her entire body having these micro spasms, angry and disappointed at her orgasm being halted as well as urging her to finish the job herself. But she decides to indulge you.

“Fi-Fine.” She accepts, “Which toy?”

You reach down, yanking the toy out of her pussy, a guttural mewl spilling out of her followed by a  yelp as you throw the vibrator away and pick her up by the waist. You take her place on the couch, ignoring the fact that there’s a giant damp spot where she sat—you’ll help her clean it up after—and manhandle her into your lap.

“This toy.” Your cock is pressed to her lips, dripping with need. You can feel the heat in her legs. “Tell me everything you want to do to me.”

Yuri takes a moment to regain her bearings. It doesn’t take long for those words to register in her head, and when it does, she looks you dead in the eye, and grins.

“Fucking perv.” She comments, grinding onto your lap, shirt up and thrown out of her frame somewhere into her apartment, her bra following soon after. You can feel the heat radiating off her legs and the cold plug in her ass. “Wanna hear me say how much I’ve wanted your dick?”

“I told you mine.” You slide a hand up to one of her tits. “Tell me yours.”

Her grin’s turned into this lewd smirk. Combine that with a bite of her lower lip, and you might as well forget about what you asked at this point.

“Remember that bachelorette party,” She’s edging herself with your cock now, toys all but forgotten. ”When you came to pick me up after we got in trouble with the club. That’s how long I’ve wanted you.”

She’s on a roll, going over all the times she’s gotten wet to the thought of you. The wedding, the after party, every night, to right fucking now. She hasn’t stopped rubbing her folds—like you haven’t been groping her tits—cock in between as she starts to lose herself one more time to the pleasure.

“Watching me fuck myself, having me suck your cock–” Her eyes are fluttering shut, the utter perversion of her words taking over the both of you, pouring gasoline into the already raging inferno of your libidos. “You could dick me down right fucking now and I’d thank you for it.”

Fuck it, you’ve heard, seen, and felt enough.

You grab her by the waist and lift her like she’s another damn box to unpack, and push into her in one smooth thrust. You’re both gasping at the sensation, her arms wrapping around your neck, yours around her hips.

“So much better than my toys.” She sighs out, finally getting what she wants. What you both want. “You’re fucking throbbing.”

“And you’re so fucking tight.” It’s unbelievable how true those words are, gripping you so snug every movement makes her squeeze you oh so harder. She’s had that dildo inside her for so long that it made fucking her all the more easier, and all the more better. You slither a hand down to have a feel of her ass, giving it a little pinch before you start to lift her up and down your length.

Her moans ring out in your ear alongside the kisses down your neck as you bounce her on your cock as if she’s your sex toy now. She’s not idle at all however, hands tugging your hair, her hips rolling in your palms, tits pressing up against your chest. 

“S-Shit, you’re the best.” She gasps, needy pants airing out straight into your eardrums. “Don’t think I’ll ever go back to my toys after having this dick all to myself.”

“What makes you think I’m yours, Yuls–”

“Shut up, you fucking dummy.” She cuts you off, straightening up before bottoming herself down, taking your entire length. “Thought about this for weeks. Got myself off at the thought of riding you.”

“I know you’ve thought about it too.” You can barely understand a word, her pussy almost suffocating you. “Fucking told me all about it, you dummy. And now you’re mine.”

She starts doing the repetitively damning motion of lifting herself up and slamming herself down on your cock. She was slow, enjoying the way you fill her up, taking every single inch of you before she rides back up again.

Her hands are still on your shoulders, staring right into the face that’s enjoying every small bit of Yuri’s doing. Every hip roll, every squeeze, every bounce; It is everything and more that you’ve thought about with her, and you are craving to have more of it.

You snap your hips up just as she comes back down, giving her ass a squeeze. The gasp she lets out when you do add a slap to the same cheek is like getting hooked up on drugs.

“And what does that make you, huh–” You’re grabbing onto both ass cheeks, keeping her steady as you take back control, setting a rough pace that makes her leave scratch marks on your shoulders. You catch glimpses of the cool metal of her butt plug on your fingers, still fitted so snugly inside of her ass. 

“Wh-What do you think?” She retorts amidst the cries of bliss that you’ve caused. 

“Say it.” A hand creeps down to the metal, giving it a tug before placing it back in. The guttural moan that comes echoing into the room makes your cock throb harder inside her, as if it wasn’t already throbbing enough for her.

“N-No–” She’s lost all control of her body, surrendering it to the pleasure she’s feeling yet she’s still putting up a front to you. Pretending that she hasn’t when you both know she already has.

“Say it, you brat.” Another slap to her ass before the both of you pause.

Yuri stares. Gives you that look you’ve seen a million times by now. Her entire body’s sweating, hair matted to her face, even with the cool blow of the AC. The playful glint in her eyes that never seems to leave, and you can’t help but be lost in them for just a moment.

And utters two words. Two words that caused you to come right down to reality, and snap.

“Make me.”

Your grip moves to her waist, hard, enough to leave marks on them as you start to pound into her needy cunt, as if you want her to regret ever saying those words. 

She won’t, and she never will. Doesn’t mean you won’t try.

“Oh my god–” Her hand braces itself onto her couch, absolutely ruined by what you two have done to it. “Give me more, fucking wreck me–”

You don’t stop. Make her perverse moans turn into desperate gasps in the air. Turn her body into mush in your hands as you do in fact, wreck her pussy for anything and anyone else.

Fuck her till she has tears in her eyes from how good she’s taking you. Until her toes go numb from all the curling.  Until she can’t take it anymore. Until she begs.

“Say it.” It’s a mantra you’ve repeated all throughout. Everytime you fuck her so close to cumming before you stop, slow down, whatever it took to keep her from reaching that high.

And she’ll keep denying it. Keep saying all these different ways to tell you no and you’ll keep forcing it out of her. Keep fucking it out of her.

It’s a game. Some fucked up, depraved version of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Neither of you want to lose, but the both of you oh so want to win.

So you start cheating.

Your mouth moves to her chest, taking in one of her nipples, twirling the nub over and under your tongue and giving it a messy suck. You can taste the sweat off of her, that surprised gasp ringing in your ear when you give her a bite.

“Yes, fuck–” She moans, hands wrapping around your neck, mixing through your hair as she leans further into your mouth, keeping you locked in her entire frame. You’re hammering into her harder, the couch protesting in silence at the stress it’s received today. “I’m so close, please, please–”

You murmur those two words, the repetition breaking her down, sending the vibrations straight into her chest with a swipe of your tongue over a bud before clamping back down to suck on her tit.

Your other hand isn’t idle, dipping down low between her legs, your hand getting a coating of her juices before you bring it back to her plug, using it against her. Pushing, pulling, teasing her tight, delectable ass.

You repeat those two words one last time, reveling in the fact that you’re ruining her for everything else, just like she said you would. Feel her legs start to tremble, waist start to shake, face start to get a rosy hue from all the teasing. All the fucking.

“Please, please keep going, I-I’ll say it, just–” She’s pleading, demanding, begging, for you to finish what you’ve started. “Just make me cum!”

“Swear it.” You’re making her work for it, pushing that plug all the way in to her ass, making her take every inch of the plug as you fuck her into her much needed orgasm. 

You only need her to speak the words you’ve been wanting, no, needing to hear into existence, and you’ll give her what she wants. What her body is naturally telling her to do.

Yet she’s lost all manner of speaking, syllables coming out as broken moans because you’re not giving her a chance to rest. The heat of her pants brushes your face when she brings you up from her chest to meet her gaze. Yuri lets out this silly drunk chuckle, before her lips crash into yours.

It’s needy, it’s soft, it’s messy, it’s her. It’s a way of agreement, and you respond with fervor. Tongues meld, grips tighten around each other’s bodies, an urge to take everything this brat of a woman in your lap is giving you rising deep within your chest.

You accept it, all of it, and you return it in earnest by finally giving her what she wants.

You all but rip the buttplug out of her ass at the same time you bottom into her, and she’s reached that high she’s been denied for so long.

Yuri seizes up, abruptly pulling away from your lips as her jaw slackens, back arching as a silent scream is frozen on her features before she starts to shake, jerk, convulse everywhere. Her thighs, her chest, her pussy. She’s gushing, spilling herself all over your cock, the couch, the floor, and you’re left close to your own end.

Yet you pepper her neck with kisses, holding her as she trashes about on your lap. Give your entire focus on her, one of the most beautiful things you’ve seen, and the moans and whimpers that followed were so…fuck.

In that moment all you know is her, completely enraptured by the view of her being undone. Let her break, and watch her be remade. Her teary eyes return back to you, and she regains her bearings with a cup of your cheeks.

“Yeah,” She lets out a weak laugh, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “Definitely the best.”

She leans in, pecking your lips. Then another, and another, until she’s showering you with them.  She’s following it up with these giggles that sounded suspicious.

“Give you my spare key if you give me yours.” She whispers after leaving a kiss on your cheek. It’s a sign of an unspoken promise between you two. One you wholeheartedly agree to.

“If it’s an excuse to spend more time with you,” You reply, thumbs circling her hips. “Then it’s a deal.”

“Like you would say no after this.” Yuri laughs, before a flicker of realization crosses her face, followed by a short roll of her hip that makes your cock jump inside her. “You haven’t cum yet.”

“Close.” You groan, fingers tightening around her hips, head lolling to the sofa back. “Really close.”

“You gonna cum inside me?” You can see the perverted amusement twinkling in her eyes, lips turning into a smirk. “Make me swallow your thick cum? Maybe cum in my ass. You would, wouldn’t you, perv.”

“Christ, Yuri–”

“You’d cum on my face though, right?” She’s given you all these options but the brat’s already decided where you would cum. “Shut me up with that cock, make me choke on it, fuck my face till you burst–”

You’re not going to fall for it. Not gonna pull her off of you and get her down on her knees and cum all over her—the thought makes your cock twitch—when her pussy’s pulsing around your length, trying to milk you of your cum. You feel like you’d cum when you pull out anyway, and she would probably consider that a waste.

So you grab her hips and flip her on her back, pull her legs up to her chest, and give her another sloppy kiss. She moans into it, even as you shove your tongue down her throat just to get her to stop talking. You didn’t even realize that you'd placed your hand on her neck when you pull away.

“Just shut up and get fucked, Yuls.”

You give her throat a squeeze, firm enough to make her gasp, make her eyes blow out and this shit-eating grin forms as you slam into her, fast and rough, with no regard for her at all this time.

“That’s it.” She’s hooked her arms around her legs, keeping them upright for you, giving you all the leverage in the world to fuck her into the sofa. “Use me as your toy, make yourself cum. Fuck it all inside me, I’ll take it, I promise I’ll take all of it for you–”

“I said shut up.” You clamp down harder on her neck, feeling the vibrations of her gullet as she moans into every harsh thrust. Her walls are clenching around you, drowning you in her juices, making it so much easier to drive your hips down harder, urging you to flood her with your cum.

Yuri’s fucking you up with your eyes too. Her eyes are starting to roll back, jaw gaping in struggling sobs, perky tits swaying at every movement, a desire to slap the flesh stirring deep within you.

But you can’t. Not when you’re so close to filling her up with your cum. Your hips get punchier, unfocused. Keep hitting that spot that gets you dizzy from how tight and wet and amazing she feels, taking the hand out of her neck in favor of pressing down on her legs.

She’s almost folded in half, but she’s taking your cock so well, her wails burrowing the slaps of wet flesh against each other as she experiences another orgasm, and the last few thrusts makes your entire body tense up and you finally let go.

Every spurt felt larger than the last; Each rope of cum being unloaded deep inside her. The pleasure was immense, the feeling of filling her up seemed endless, giving her deep thrusts as if you wanted to fuck the cum deeper.

You don’t think you can ever go back to your hands after this.

You’ve collapsed on top of her, completely spent as you move your arms to rest on each side of her face, brushing a stray strand.

“So much…” She mutters, glassy eyes looking up at you, wrapping her arms around your nape. “It feels so good.”

Ditto, is all you can muster up, too tired to move a muscle. You can’t help but stare at her. The matted hair, the drool on her chin, the sweat of her skin, and she’s positively glowing after being wrecked.

She presses a kiss on your forehead, before dropping back down on the couch. “You’re helping me clean this up.”

“Anything for you, Yuls.” You blurt it out without thinking, and the giggle you hear makes you smile.

“Dummy.” She utters, giving you a small peck on the lips before pushing you up. “Come on, get up. I need to make dinner.”

“I thought I wouldn’t be getting free food anymore.” You chuckle, sliding yourself free from her. The both of you let out differing versions of disappointment in your mouths—hums, moans, whines, groans. 

“I’m hungry.” Is all she needs to say. “But we both need a shower first.”

“Is that an invitation?” 

“No.” She denies, pouts, thinks, then smiles. “Maybe after dinner.”

[novaimperia]

★ 3am frustrations with streamer!choso

“‘take…your…shirt off.’ what? no, guys, please stop asking me to remove my clothes. for the last time, they’re staying on.”

on balance, choso would say he enjoys streaming – he essentially gets paid to do the things he does for free such as play video games, eat copious amounts of ramen whilst watching true crime documentaries, and talk about his day. the freedom to choose his own schedule and make decisions for himself is priceless. especially since he’s got to prioritise his classes and see his friends and family. 

it took a while to get to where he is now. at first, when he was set on just displaying whatever game he was playing, he had only one or two viewers. but after an accidental click and a flash of pig-tails, face tattoo, piercings, of a shirtless torso, hard and sharp abs, the viewership skyrocketed. comically so. now, he earns enough to be able to retire. all his friends respect and envy him. one must admit he is living the life.

if he had to pick a flaw in this whole thing, however, he might hesitantly and reluctantly point to his followers. they’re both the greatest part about his side gig, what with their never ending jokes and support, as well as the worst; there’s no telling what they’ll suggest in his comments next. 

“chat, stop asking me to go through my underwear drawer. no, they don’t have holes in them.” he squints at the screen and makes a frustrated sound. “i am not going to twerk while naked. guys, what the hell is wrong with you all? just tell me how i can defeat this boss so i can get the materials to level up my venti…oh, thanks, ‘chosoismypuppyboy69.’ i’ll be sure to change my team then.”

sighing, he keeps tapping on the keys, spamming with no rhyme or reason. for a computing student, he’s not very good at these games, but it sure does entertain the twenty thousand people watching at 3am. seeing him fumbling about, flinching at the most harmless of things, and constantly dying is apparently what they’d rather do than get some good night’s sleep. not that he’s any better. the man hasn’t had a full eight hours sleep in years. or maybe ever.

“‘do you tickle your prostate?’ what even is that? alright, that’s enough for tonight. i can’t deal with you guys; you’re like gremlins – yeah, i know what that is; i’ve watched the movie. yeah, obviously i watched it with my girlfriend; you know i don’t watch scary movies on my own. it is scary! i am not going to debate which movies are scary or not. what the hell? stop asking me to flash my dick piercing, oh my god. i regret ever telling you guys about that. okay okay. night, assholes.”

and with that, he logs off and leans back into his chair, staring up at the sky and wondering if the thousands he earned in just a few hours was worth it. 

then, his hips jerk up and a dog-like whine leaves his lips. 

“aw, cho…are they being annoying again?” 

he looks down. the sight of you kneeling between his spread legs, mouthing at his throbbing cock like the cum leaking from his piss slit is ice cream and you’re soaked with the sweat a hot summer’s day brings. ring-clad, his hand falls on top of your head, petting to both push you off and keep you there. “y-yeah, they’re the worst. they never know when to quit. i can’t believe you -ah fuck don’t suck so hard- you stayed there the whole time.”

you shrug, fingers leaving the shadows cast by the desk, flying up into the air and landing on his awaiting, parted lips which sloppily suckles at the sweet juices dripping down your digits. “mmm, such a good boy…how could i possibly leave you to fend for yourself with those horny vultures? who else was going to listen and send you the answers to your questions, huh, cho?”

big hands grip the armrests. the chair rattle with the shaking of his hips. balls squeeze painfully tight whilst choso licks his bottom lip, searching for any remnants of your taste and moaning loud and breathlessly at the feel of your hot, wet mouth engulfing his entire quivering length. grunting, he asks, “did you h-have to choose that username though? it’s -hmm i’m close baby- it’s embarrassing being called a p-puppy boy.”

“you aren’t my puppy boy?”

“no. i am.”

smirking, you blow a kiss up at him. slowly and with an extra amount of mischievous intent, you drawl, “then prove it, cho-cho.”

in this moment, as he stares with lidded eyes at the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen, the kind that sports power that can bring him to his knees at the snap of a finger, he realises he was wrong – his followers aren’t the worst. you are. because they ask knowing they’ll never get what they want whereas you ask knowing you will. you never hesitate to wield that sword, like lady justice, except instead of scales it’s his balls you hold in your spare hand. 

and who is he to argue?

so, with a blush on his cheeks, he shyly follows orders. 

“bark…b-bark…now -ahem- please make me cum. making me hold it in for hours is mean…bark.”

[hardlyinteresting]

Slut!

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

3 times you call Robby a slut Warnings: no specific warnings, suggestive language, let me know if you want me to add something

One

One of the sluttiest things a man can do is make grilled cheese at midnight.

Sometimes you're a little bit tipsy coming home from the bar and he insists you have something to eat before you crash. Sometimes he's making himself "dinner" after a long day at work. Sometimes it's on his day off when a sandwich is all he can be bothered to make when he manages to extricate himself from you on the sofa.

Whatever the occasion, you can find him standing by the stove, his sleeves rolled up. The sound of butter sizzling in the cast iron pan, challah bread perfectly browned, cheddar melting. He makes grilled cheese with far too much focus. Dedication to a task is a habit he can't shake. Nevertheless he notices you creeping closer, his eyes cast to the side, his smile letting you know he sees you. "Thirty seconds," he tells you, never taking a moment longer before he shuts off the burner and moves the pan off the heat. "Careful," he warns handing over the plate of ooey-gooey cheesy goodness, "it's hot".

You're sitting on the kitchen island, Robby standing between your legs. His hands are warm where they rest on your thighs, his eyes soft as he watches you take the first bite after a cooling blow. The moan you let out is praise enough, but you go the step further, "I'm a slut for a good grilled cheese," you tell him taking another bite. His shock at the sudden statement is masked by his chuckle. He shakes his head silently, joking with himself about the language barriers of a relationship with an age gap. "And you're a slut for cooking like this," you punctuate the statement with a poke to his chest. "Oh, yeah?" His eyebrow raises. "Pray tell, how am I a slut?" He indulges. "Let me finish this sandwich, and I'll show you".

Two

In the morning he pulls himself out of bed before his alarm clock has a chance to wake you. He showers, brushes his teeth, and dresses himself before leaning onto the bed to kiss you goodbye. It's a chaotic flurry of smooches; cheek, shoulder, neck, the side of your mouth. He sighs before finally pulling away and heading down the hall.

More often than not the absence of his warmth beside you stirs you to wake if his kisses didn't. You rise, padding out to the living room to catch him before he heads out the door. He's pulled on his sweater, his bag is slung over on shoulder, and his travel mug is ready to go.

His hoodie, well loved, and well worn is so soft. The way he wears it zipped up only half way, just at his belly button, allows you to slip your arms inside, wrapping him up in a goodbye hug as snug and warm as your bed.

"Be safe," you tell him, your nose nuzzled into his broad chest, "love you". He hugs back, always, even when it takes him longer to accept the affection than he'd like. He doesn't leave you hanging. "I will," he promises as well as he can, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "love you too".

You tilt your head back to look up at him. With a great deal of strength you pull your arms out of his hoodie, immediately zipping it up almost all the way. He watches confused, his hand reaching to hold yours before it lets go of the zip. He flattens your palm to his chest, waiting for you to answer question he hasn't asked. Why?

"You're such a slut wearing your sweater like that when you know I can't do anything about it," you tell him, almost huffing, "makes me want to hug you, and that makes me want to kiss you, and god damn! I could just climb you like a tree, Michael".

He smiles, making sure to kiss you just to prove a point, "You're a poet, you know. A wordsmith," he teases as he turns to head out the door, "I'll see you later tonight, Shakespeare!"

Three

The sound of the shower slows and then stops, the squeak of the tap audible from where you lie on the bed fully dressed and made up, waiting to go out for the night.

It's rare that Robby has enough time off to feel truly well rested or up for a night out on the town. But, on the occasions he does, he insists on making the most of it. He makes dinner reservations at the restaurant you've been dropping hints about, gives you an excuse to get dolled up the way you want to. But, without fail he waits until the last minute to shower and get ready himself insisting he can do it in ten minutes flat. And he's right, but it doesn't make the waiting any easier on you.

Scrolling through social media, and TikTok only amuses you for so long and you're grateful to hear the en suite bathroom door open. Even more grateful for the sight before you. An absolute stunner of a man, tall and broad with nothing on but the towel that he wrapped around his waist. His gold pendant gleams where it lays on his damp chest and you trace a trail down his torso with your eyes, fixating on how low that towel sits on his hips.

"Slut," you mutter collapsing back against the mattress, forcing yourself to advert you gaze for the sake of your reservation.

"What was that?" He asks, too busy getting ready to notice your dramatic collapse the sound of the towel dropping is such a tease. He's slipped into boxers and slacks by the time you garner the strength to look him again, your bottom lipped is trapped between your teeth because honestly the new look isn't much better for your deep seated yearning than the bath towel.

"What's wrong?" He asks, standing at the side of the bed. He looks self satisfied, confirming that the towel stunt was an intentionally indecent display.

"You're going to be the death of me," you whine and cross your arm over your eyes. The sight of him buttoning the cuffs of his shirt is sure to send you over the edge.

You swear he torturing you on purpose when he sits down at the edge of the bed to put his socks and shoes on. His weight shifts the mattress leaving you wishing he was over you instead of beside you. His button up shirt strains at the shoulders as he leans forward to tie his laces. The puckered seams barely containing the breadth of him are the final nail in the coffin of your dinner plans. You roll over, sliding up onto your knees so you can situate yourself behind him. Draping yourself to lean over his shoulder. You can smell the cologne he rarely wears because of the hospitals scent free policy and you make no effort to hide how it gets you going. Everything about him does. Nuzzling his neck you realize he's applied the fragrance right where you always end up nuzzled against his neck. "Slut!" You accuse.

His hands come up to hold around your wrists where they stay draped around him. He gives a gentle and affectionate squeeze, "only for you, baby". He stands, you rising with him still on the bed. He turns to help you step down, his hand offered to you like a gentleman. He pulls you close to him when you're on solid ground appreciating your form, and your outfit. "Gorgeous," he compliments. And you hum in appreciation, smiling a 'thank you' as you head to grab your shoes.

"What's the address for this place again?" He asks grabbing his glasses to see his phone screen better.

"Oh dear god!" You laugh faux fainting, "doctor! She's deceased. Cause of death doctor Robinavitch's slutty little glasses!"

"We're never going to make it to dinner, are we?"

[werothegreat]

that's kind of my one beef with the newest version of the "inclusive intersex Ohio" flag - I'm all for making sure everyone is explicitly referenced, but it also makes it kind of hell to put together physically. you have a flag with 6 + 5 + 2 = 13 distinct colors on it that all have to be readable from a distance

(this is also why i prefer "queer" over "lgbtqi+" or whatever other letters we've added lately - although hearing a public figure say "lgbtq plus" tells me immediately they're not actually part of the community, so there's that)

i understand that the original simple rainbow flag got conflated into being just for cis gay men, but i think we need to loop back around to it just meaning everybody in the community. wasn't that the whole point of the new green/blue gay man flag?

It's pride month so I'll allow myself to express one opinion on the internet :

There are no "exact color" of pride flags.

I see more and more sites and posts talking about the exact hex codes for the lesbian flag, or the right purple for the ace one, and how it should be more or less saturated and I just want to say: pride flags were meant to be sewn in your kitchen. To be spraypainted and to be recognised.

There are no "exact colors" of pride flags because you should do them with what you have ! Nobody should care if you use a crimson red instead of a cherry red or whatever ! Be free ! wave your colors ! The colors you have !

[blasphemyandbackshots]

lingerie preferences —blue lock

yoichi isagi

material: soft mesh or sheer cotton. something gentle, like you. he’s obsessed with how innocent it looks even when your body says otherwise.

colors: sky blue, ivory, blush pink. the softer, the more dangerous. it plays into his favorite contrast.

coverage: just enough. cheeky panties, bralettes, thigh-highs that look sweet but slide down with a single pull.

what he does: stares. breath catches in his throat. he gets quiet, needy and reverent. kisses your inner thigh like it’s sacred, eyes wild with want.

“you don’t even know what you do to me. stay just like that. please.”

meguru bachira

material: anything playful, like heart cutouts, mesh, glitter, fuzzy trim. he’s not picky, he just wants fun.

colors: sunshine yellow, lime green, bubblegum pink. bright and chaotic, just like him.

coverage: random. sheer boyshorts with bows, a bralette with pom-poms, maybe even glow-in-the-dark pasties.

what he does: giggles. then pounces. he pulls your panties aside with his teeth and goes absolutely feral, praising between every breath.

“fuck, you’re so cute. no—hot. stupid hot. god, let me taste you again.”

hyoma chigiri

material: silk, satin, or high-end lace. he has a thing for elegance and wants you dressed like temptation itself.

colors: deep crimson, royal blue, or black. something that looks expensive and deadly.

coverage: garter belts, lace bodysuits, long gloves. a fantasy turned real.

what he does: breathes you in. lingers. worships you like art. he’ll drag it off slowly, letting each strap slide down while watching your eyes flutter.

“you’re perfect like this. don’t rush. i want to enjoy every second.”

seishiro nagi

material: whatever’s easiest to peel off, but he loves silky panties that slide when he tugs your hips closer.

colors: pale lavender, mint green, soft neutrals. he likes pastel against bare skin.

coverage: minimal. bikini panties, soft cups, thin straps.

what he does: mumbles about how annoying it is… while palming your ass and biting your shoulder. then pulls your panties aside lazily and makes you moan his name.

“so soft… so pretty. c’mere. sit on my face a sec.”

rin itoshi

material: black lace. always black. maybe leather if he’s in a mood.

colors: black. that’s it. maybe dark wine red if he’s feeling generous.

coverage: practically none. g-strings, cupless bras, chokers. the less, the better.

what he does: groans like he’s in pain. clenches his jaw. fists the sheets. then ruins you without saying much, just breathy grunts and a whispered “mine”.

“you wore this on purpose. don’t pretend. turn around. now.”

rensuke kunigami

material: cotton or lace. he likes comfort but still wants it to feel sexy.

colors: forest green, deep navy, or burnt orange. earthy tones that bring out your warmth.

coverage: classic matching sets, boyshorts, supportive bras. bonus points if you wear his jersey over it.

what he does: freezes. his jaw ticks. he drags you onto his lap and kisses you like a man starved.

“shit. you’re gonna kill me one day, dressed like that. you know that, right?”

sae itoshi

material: satin and sheer. elegance only.

colors: dusty rose, wine red, champagne gold. muted but rich.

coverage: garter sets, robes that slide off, balconette bras. old hollywood seduction.

what he does: watches first. like he’s drinking it in. smirks. then slowly undresses you, piece by piece, praising your body like poetry.

“you look like a gift. one i don’t deserve, but i’ll still unwrap every inch.”

michael kaiser

material: latex, rhinestones, chains. if it glimmers or clings, he wants it.

colors: sapphire blue, gold, black. he wants you to look like you belong beside royalty.

coverage: more like decoration than clothing. chain bras, jeweled panties, body harnesses.

what he does: flashes that smug smile. takes photos for his eyes only. pulls you close by your throat and whispers praise in german.

“mein gott, look at you. like a dream. mine. all mine.”

reo mikage

material: velvet, mesh, glitter. anything luxurious and soft to touch.

colors: lilac, silver, blush. indulgent colors, romantic as hell.

coverage: coordinated sets with bows and ruffles. maybe pearls. he’s obsessed with details.

what he does: twirls a strand of your hair, traces the strap down your shoulder, says something filthy in the sweetest voice.

“you knew this would drive me crazy, didn’t you? say it. tell me you wore it for me.”

ryusei shidou

material: leather, studs, anything slutty. he lives for lingerie that screams bad decisions.

colors: hot pink, black, blood red. chaotic colors for his chaotic mind.

coverage: barely any. pasties, crotchless panties, harnesses. he wants a free show.

what he does: loses his damn mind. immediately rips it off with his teeth or fingers, dirty talk pouring out of him while he pins you down.

“fuuuuck. you’re sick for wearing this. i love it. now open your legs, baby.”

shoei barou

material: fine mesh, embroidered lace, or silk. nothing cheap. you wear it for him, and he wants it worthy of his queen.

colors: jet black, royal purple, or ruby red. regal, bold, dominant.

coverage: high-cut lace panties, bustier tops, matching gloves. full power fantasy.

what he does: growls. stalks toward you like a beast. picks you up without effort and drops you on the bed, eyes dark.

“you belong to me. every inch of you is mine. and now i’m gonna prove it.”

[edensrose]

꒰ ݁ ꫂ᭪ ꒱ 𓂃 The Scarlet String

˚₊‧꒰ა samurai.ᐟsuguru geto ﾉ empress.ᐟreader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

geto suguru, the imperial palace's head samurai, was a man of honour & no earthly attachment. but when he met you, the new bride of the emperor who didn't deserve you, suddenly attachment tethered in the form of a scarlet string. his soul to yours, but your heart never his. this could earn him the death penalty, but for you he'd suffer a thousand blades.

broadcast ᝰ.ᐟ✧ ancient japan, arranged marriage, mistreatment (from reader's husband), infidelity, historical sexism, mutual pining, forbidden love, star-crossed lovers, angst, mentions of sex 𓂃 wc ⌇ 3.5k

sweetheart host ᝰ.ᐟ✧ samurai suguru save meee. art cred ⌇ ( pls help me find this artist losing my mf mind )

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ was a respected man of his land. having risen through the ranks after much trial and tribulation. when he walked, people bowed their heads, when he spoke, others lowered their gazes. such reputation landed him a spot as the head of samurai at the imperial's division. that's where he met you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who heard the gossip. the new bride, is what they called you. he guarded the palace the morning of your wedding. he'd only heard rumours about the 'delicate flower' that the emperor had plucked. the 'sweetest rain to kiss the earth'. he paid no mind, a man of his stature hardly gave into worldly desires. that was until he saw you through the curtain of the hall he guarded. but a peek, but a moment and yet — in that second, any earthly whim he had long since detached tethered into one chord. a red string. pierced straight through his heart.

The sweetest rain? No, you were the sky after a storm. The caress of the sun through the heavens, painting the bleak clouds in your splendour.

A delicate flower indeed. With your petal hand in the palm of your soon-to-be husband. Smiling brighter than any chrysanthemum he'd laid eyes on.

Suguru held his breath through the officiation. Beauty, he had beheld beauty before. You? Beauty was but a teardrop in your ocean.

Teardrops. Never would Suguru imagine anyone could bear to make an angel cry.

But he was wrong.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who quickly discovered not every hand knows how to hold a flower and care for her petals. as the head samurai he naturally stayed around the imperial palace for extended periods of times. a decision of duty yet he couldn't help but regret every second that led him to this point when he saw you weep. cry over a man who barely deserved to look at you let alone share a bedroom with. suguru watched with passive eyes smouldering coals. a dragon statue. still, but ever as fierce whenever you attempted kindness to your new husband. when you conducted your duties and searched for affection. only to receive harsh words. even a shove — as suguru came to hear. for if it were in front of him, he might have committed great acts of treason that day.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who realised you were far gentler than he initially assumed. you were young, full of life, untouched by the rough flames of this world. he'd noticed it more once rumours of war stirred over the land and the emperor stationed him at his beck and call. terrified of his own hubris and decisions? maybe. suguru could only roll his eyes at the emperor behind his back, but at the very least he got to be closer to you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who started learning your routines. for your safety, of course. he discovered you preferred the gardens in the dead of night rather than the glimmers of the morning. realised you ate once for breakfast then again for dinner. during lunch you strolled and attended to whatever duty you could put your hand in. which included the more trivial matters of your servants who attempted to shoo you. only for you to drop to your knees, beside a riverbed no less! why? to help them with clothes, of course. suguru beheld it all. your mannerisms, your habits, the kind heart he wished to hold in his hands. but what shattered him the most? the interactions with your husband. the pig that didn't deserve you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who rarely spoke even as he escorted you around. your gaze would sometimes drift to him, but you'd either be graced with violet eyes staring right back, or none at all. his expressions forever threw you off. even in his casual attire, there was an air of intimidation and authority. he'd noticed your attempts at conversation, he found it adorable. bless your tender soul — but he is merely a servant. a loyal devotee to his nation and the imperial palace. if you looked at him as a block of stone and steel rather than anything breathing, so be it. as long as he could stay close to you.

"You're very quiet."

Sunlight gleamed through the midnight. Such phenomena was only possible with your eyes, your smile, your voice blossoming into the cool air.

Kneeling again, this time at your flowerbeds. Chrysanthemum, tsubaki, ajisai, but the true floral splendour sat on her knees. With a smile to part the heavens and unweave every ounce of training and discipline Suguru had established.

At the foot of the garden he stood. A mighty zelkova tree rooted in his silence and still in the midnight breeze. Awoken only by your voice. You imagined his eyes raised, but Suguru's stare hadn't left you since your arrival.

"I understand if you are unable to speak." You smiled and turned back to blooms. "I just realised I've never heard your voice. Since I see you more than my husband these days, I thought it appropriate."

Your mouth caressed the word 'husband' softer. As if it were something to be revered. Or feared. Suguru couldn't pick his poison.

Unnecessary respect, that is what you gave Suguru. He is but your servant, and yet you refused to look at him. Beneath you, but you hold consideration.

You could demand he speak. Request he shout. Hell, snapped your finger and expected him to read your every wish quick, respond even quicker. But you smiled, assured, even sympathised.

In the heavy silence snowed over the garden, your nervousness fluttered like a frozen butterfly. Waiting for your wings to shatter. Whether by your own doing or the mouth that swore to protect you.

Instead, it mused.

"I was unaware my lady welcomed conversation."

Glimmers through the night, your gaze snapped to his face. Instead of stone or steel, softness greeted you. Stoic, yes, but who knew the frightful samurai lord could smile? Even if faint and solely curled at the corners.

"Well I —" and then you were stumbling. Pushing through gravity to will yourself up and fumbled over the grass in your excitement. "I assumed you were under some vow. Or something. I'm not too accustomed —"

Steel, however, manifested on your arm. No bite, no pain, steady and shielding. Your garden brimmed with all sorts of colours and varieties, but the shade of violet that stared down upon you was something you felt compelled to paint with.

"Easy." When Suguru spoke his baritone exceeded the night. He leaned over you once your stumbling form and froze you with his presence instead. Not the kind of ice that splintered. The kind that kissed, cradled.

"My only vow is to protect you, my lady." And then it was gone.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ began speaking with you after that incident. if his lady wished for conversation then he would give it to her. his presence felt more than protective nowadays, it was pleasant. so pleasant you often pouted whenever your husband arrived and relieved suguru of his duties for the nights. thanks the heavens you wedded an emperor, yes? always busy, never around, giving you plenty of time with your new friend.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who kept conversation to a minimal. after all, you were still high above him and he knew his place in the soil. but like a persistent gardener you weeded through this stubbornness and pulled his voice like blooming blossoms. he conceded, of course. if it was your wish for a friend then that he could be. you needed one, after all. you deserved more than that. the palace, the lands, the earth and the heavens in suguru's opinion. alas, he is but a samurai and you are the empress. his gift to you will be his devotion. you learnt suguru had two loving parents who stayed snugly in his home village and a close friend of his rank that guarded the neighbouring land. in turn he learnt you adored the fine arts and humoured you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who summoned every ounce of strength and perseverance one sleepless night he ventured to the gardens to find peace and instead stirred strife in his ears. you were a married woman, of course he was well aware of your . . . 'duties'. if it were your voice he heard from your private quarters, he might have found some comfort. alas it was your filthy, borish husband. getting himself off by the sounds of it. your voice? imitation. suguru knew you adored the fine arts but he never assumed such acting skills.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who felt more than envy tugging at his heart. the red string torn through his chest coiled tight. a woman of your stature, beauty and very being should be treated with more than respect. pleasured with such bliss that she'd sleep soundlessly through the night. it seemed the emperor not only failed to handle the land properly, but you as well. it was one thing to bumble like a fool and leave other officials needing to fill in for you — but the evident need for someone else to tend to your wife? if suguru could he'd whisk you away. show you what true bliss tastes like. if the emperor isn't careful he might have to — no.

Not these thoughts.

Not these desires.

You are not some object he can whisk around in the confines of his head.

You were beauty, grace, divinity. And even his mind will serve you as such. You are the deity and he your devotee. Your image won't be tainted by his own thoughts. While he could assure your pleasure, he would never initiate.

For it was by your choice. Your decision. Your rule.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ couldn't help the stares he held across hallways, patrols, ceremonies. whether with or without your husband. your eyes locked in the way the moon misses the sun. you always held on. a second longer, a moment more, then you'd turn. would he? never. he couldn't pry his eyes from you. especially with the faux, physical affection from the emperor. oh how your gaze would drift to his, catch his lowering to the hand on your waist, then back to your eyes. you took it for granted.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who held his hand to help you out of carriages. who lingered his touch just a little longer. who extended his patrol hours to walk alongside you in the gardens. knelt down beside flowerbeds to aid your passion. who accidentally cornered you in a hallway when you stumbled over those clumsy feet only to be swiftly caught and spun against a wall with a quiet — "my lady, are you alright?"

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who looked to your opinion during meetings. while you were not allowed to speak, he often paid close attention to your opinion on certain topics and decisions; before voicing those himself. your husband was useless in ruling the lands in any case, so perhaps this is the heavens bestowing luck. that is if the bastard listened.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ stood at your side first and foremost. while he was sworn to protect the emperor, during official meetings and escorts, he was at your side. the emperor never paid it any mind. you were a woman, you needed more protection, right? little did the bastard know that if danger fell, so would he. suguru's katana would serve you. not the pig that cannot cherish you. treason? perhaps, but he had been clear to you on that night in the garden. whether you realised it or not. his only vow was to protect you.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who learnt more about you as the months went by. grew closer in a way he knew threatened boundaries. but you let him. lingering touches, longing stares — you never expected to break down in his arms one fateful morning when the night was simply too much. he became a comfort you never knew possible. he would never shun you, deny you, any rejection would surely be foolish and go against his heart's code. morals? he knows their names. but you might just make him forget.

"I'm sorry." Quivered, wilted. A drooping chrysanthemum in his arms. Forlorn from the sun's scorches and overrun with your rains of tears. Angels should never weep, yet you sobbed. Lost in his strong embrace.

"I'm sorry, Geto. I shouldn't —" at the foot of your private chambers and yet in the arms of another man. Your attempt to withdraw fell short. Stilled by a large hand cupped behind your head.

Halted in your own carelessness, but brought to life by his touch. He stroked your scalp with tenderness tethered to his fingertips in those same scarlet strings.

"Why do you apologise?" Suguru murmured atop your head. In that moment, he became your sanctuary. No longer were you an empress, or a woman married off.

You were simply, you. A delicate flower he swore to never let wither. Not like this. Never.

Calloused hands cradled your face. To you it never felt softer. Suguru remained at a distance, even with your hearts intertwining. Never would he sully your image with him: a humble servant.

"Fall upon me in your time of need. I told you," his thumb brushed over your cheekbone. Imprinting his promise.

"My only vow is to you, my lady."

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who noticed your abrupt distance. had he crossed a line that morning? if you wished for him to turn you away, you should have said something. for all his strength, he is every definition of weakness when stood before you. suguru would never approach you on it, he couldn't. it was your decision to give attention and take it. even if he missed its soft kiss on his skin. even if he longed for the song of your voice to bless his ears. you barely spoke to him, barely even looked at him.

"Have I angered you, my lady?"

At last he asked. If you wished to strike him down for such treason then so be it. But your warmth was granted to him and then left him stranded, cold. Even in the tender spring.

"Never Geto — Suguru." His name on your mouth. It was a prayer, an apology, everything he wanted yet didn't deserve. Not from you, the only being high above him.

"I simply . . . think it's best to keep my distance. For our sake. Yours."

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who couldn't understand what you meant by that but held true even when it ruined him. especially with the new hovering of your husband. were the divine laughing at him? was every god in the heavens playing some cruel joke on him? if this red string is fate, then let them cut it. but who could suguru lie to? even if the gods themselves snapped the string he'd weave it back, tether every thread with his bare hands and hook himself back to you. you were an earthly desire he couldn't relinquish, and refused to. even when you seemed to wish for such. for once, he couldn't respect your decision. not when he saw how solemn you'd become. when he bore witness to your only amplified mistreatment.

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who proved his vow true. a storm took the palace in steel and fury. an unexpected siege at the hands of the enemy. rumours of war had become a reality and suguru acted in his duty. to the emperor? no. while he commanded his fleet and fought for the palace, tore down the opposition and guarded the imperial. . . you were his priority. word had gotten out that you were taken — and suguru couldn't care less about the palace when its princess was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is she?"

Steel flushed to an opponent's throat. Eyes ablaze. Jaw set sight. The man shook, but grinned.

"My, have you grown soft, Geto?"

Suguru angled his blade. Struck the shoulder. Dug deep and spoke low. Sharper than his katana.

"Answer me and I'll leave enough of you intact for jigoku to recognise. Where. Is. She?"

˖ 𑣲 samurai geto suguru ᝰ.ᐟ✧ who could only be described as feral. he dashed for the maple forest and found the group dragging you along. tossed into a sedan and pushed around like some prize. sullied by their hands. no matter. steel bit through the air followed by shattered screams. twenty three, highly trained and enough to spark fear in probably half of suguru's men — fell to his sword in a matter of second. scarlet painted maple trees more vibrantly. each hit the floor with any hands that dared to touch you dismantled, any eye that thought it worthy of looking upon you struck, shut, stabbed. until only two stood. the samurai with his heaves and his heavy blade, flicked to the side so red scattered the floor too. he wasted no time beholding the carnage before he stood before your cowered form on the ground and hoisted you up instantly. steadying your shaky self and terrified cries. you stilled when familiar violets met you. shock, then realisation — then horror.

"Have you lost your mind!?"

Your cry painted every leaf redder. "The palace is under siege! Go — return at once, protect —"

Hands steeled tight on your shoulders. Soaked in the same scarlet. Nothing in comparison to the string that shone through the bleary night. Shimmered, strung, secure. Between you. Him. Only now visible to your eye.

Rain soaked the land. Poured into the red and washed it from the leaves, the ground, his clothes — but not the string.

"My only vow." Suguru's whisper shook violently in its shout. Refinement bled from his fingertips that held tight. Trembled you in his firm hold. He never meant to rattle you. But the quakes of his heart, his soul, seeped into his hands. Thunder crashed, so did his voice. Never raised, but fierce. Able to still the storm.

"Is to you."

As any sinner would, he allowed his hands to wander. To your face, to cradle, to caress. He flushed you into him. Uncaring of the rain, the blood, the tremor in your body. What did it matter when you melted into him?

"When will you understand that?" Croaked, paired with the thunder. You're shook again. Gentler. The man you knew, unweaved and unravelled before your very eyes. "When will you understand that my devotion is to you — and only—"

His soaked hair kissed your skin as he jerked forward. Violets frazzled, whirled and wild like the storm. His clothes bled into yours. Breaths stilled with yours. Heart beat with yours.

Can't you feel how it shattered for you? How it soared for you? Were his eyes not enough, would you rather his blood as a sign? His soul is already yours. Take the rest of his being. Him, every fibre he'd built through the years.

It didn't matter when it came to you.

"Only you."

Suguru breathed. Lashes soaked in the rain and stroking yours. Body, mind, soul, linked in this endless, agonising scarlet string he couldn't strike, cut, split. Never. He'd never.

Forbidden. His lips inched yours. Every year of training, down the drain. Every stature of his being, torn away by you. Restraint, resolve, refinement, it rinsed away with the rain.

One inch.

One touch.

That's all he needed.

It's all you wouldn't allow.

"Suguru."

You cried when you wished to kiss. You withdrew when all you wanted was to wait. Hold. Lose yourself to his lips, his touch, his love. . . love?

The red string bled. He stiffened.

"I can't." An apology to him or the heavens? He'll never know. Not with the way you still clung to him or the cracks in your eyes. Still held onto his, still fixed. Pleading, wanting, but denying. "I can't. I'm wed. I'm the emperor's wife. I am married. I cannot."

The storm cleared overhead, but not in violets. Rain continued its vast downpour, but now the heat of his body felt cold as he stared. Searching for an answer, for you, the true you hidden in the depths of yourself. The you he saw in the garden. The you he held.

The flower he adored. Now withered. Unsure.

"If you can even call that a marriage." His hand pushed to your cheek, cupped you with a gentleness you never knew. "If you could even call that disgusting pig a husband —" it's the first time his voice raised. And that's when he realised.

He broke code. He shattered tradition. Painted over it with ink of his own desire — no.

His own heart.

And as he stood there. Rooted like that same zelkova before the chrysanthemum he should have never touched, never tainted, only observed from afar. He understood that he was no longer that tree. But a blade of grass. Whispered through the wind. Wilting.

To his own soul.

"As you wish, my lady." He murmured. Even when it was his eyes that plead, wanted. Still, he denied.

His touch slipped from your skin. Arm dangled at his side, together with the string. Weighed heavy between two hearts that knew better. Or did they? Was is that they knew too well?

That fate wasn't a kiss in the rain.

"Forgive this servant for thinking otherwise."

But cruel.

© 𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏��𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 . no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised

[alanisstonedd]

MDNI

bum!ony that sees you walking your route to work when he starts crashing with his hb, always outside on the corner chopping it up when you stroll by minding your damn business. mad cute but wayyy outta his league. you got it all together, and he’s practically the opposite

bum!ony that swallows his pride to holla at your fine ass when you’re waiting to cross the street one day. you giggle at some one-liner he drops & he’s hooked.

bum!ony who forms a lil bond with you on the corner before it gets serious. it’s a lil routine — you giggle at him on the way to work and throw him a clever line on the way back home. he loves y’all’s lil game & is honestly happy with whatever attention you give him.

bum!ony who is so surprised when you ask him to lunch on your way home one day. he jumps at the opportunity not even tryna front like he’s not excited.

bum!ony who charms you on the date. you don’t even seem to care that he spends too much time on the corner to have a consistent job. that smile? the way he looks at you? that rough, slightly unreliable sex appeal he oozes? your guard is embarrassingly low. but what can you sayyy — he makes you feel a way. a way you’re not ready to let go of.

bum!ony who moves — in as a “friend” — when his hb gets booked. you figure, he’s not exactly a stranger & you can’t let him go homeless! he said it’d only be until he could get on his feet so it’s fine! you have the extra space, it’d be a waste basically.

bum!ony who gives you foot rubs in exchange for his laundry done - unspoken ritual of course. his hands do tend to wander tho… sneaking up to your thighs to sink his fingers in.. you just smile & do that cute snicker he likes, courtesy of the two blunts he rolled for you earlier. no clue how he’s getting all this loud since he still don’t got a J O B

bum!ony who leaves his socks in the floor just to see your pussy print when you bend over. matter fact, you catch him looking quite a lot. always “grabbing sum real quick” when you’re in the shower, “accidentally” peeking his head in your room while you’re changing for a quick question. but you appreciate how comfortable he is — taking it as a compliment to your hospitality.

bum!ony who starts rubbing on your booty whenever you bring up his unemployment. mumbling some excuse while he licks his lips at you. taking your accidental moan as the go ahead to start dragging you into him. you can never stay maddddd he’s like crack.

bum!ony who man-spreads on the couch with just his draws on. print fully out. he palms it when you walk by. dragging you into his lap for a “hug” because you look like you had a hard day apparently. he’s the best hugger tho so your happy self don’t mind. you feel a little guilty honestly - feeling like a slut for getting so wet when he was just trying to get comfy.

bum!ony who starts sleeping in your bed when the couch gets to “uncomfortable”. his big ass frame taking up half the bed. his half-chub somehow finding your booty in the middle of the night. he’s just so big, you might as well start cuddling. he’s even worse then… lowkey humping you “in his sleep”. yall end up tangled with his head smack on your tits, mouth open and snoring over your nipple.

bum!ony who gets so horny when you cook for him. which is every night bcs he doesn’t help you with shit. you end up laying on top of him making out, letting him push into you bcs you gave him blue-balls baby. duhh. he takes you back to your bed and fucks all the calories off, drilling you into the mattress like a rag doll.

bum!ony who teases you when you leave your laundry out in the living room — about your panties specifically. talking out his ass about the lil lacy thing to the point you put it on to show him how wrong he is about them. and oh is he wrong… makes you ride his face with them pulled to the side, all over the couch.

bum!ony who humps you while you wash the dishes. that’s it

bum!ony who tricks you into sex with his fine ass face after he misses another job interview. kissing all over you cuz he knows it distracts you. dicking you down sideways with a hand on your tit and more empty promises in your ear. but you don’t even hear none of it over the slapping of his hips and the squelch of your cream all over him.

bum!ony who loves when you have a bad day at work bcs you don’t ask him about a job and you fuck him like a toy. using him for that nut. your hand moves to his neck and you start fucking out the frustration you’ve built up at his bum ass. its animalistic.

bum!ony who randomly comes home with a BAG one day. like serious money. first thing he buys is some lingerie for you to model for him. might take some photos while you doing ya thang for posterity ofc.

[taeeflwrr]

oh my god was this a rollercoaster of emotions #bringbackangst #imafeministdespiteallthethoughtsthatthisficmademeentertain #forgivemesinceitwashyuck

death by a thousand cuts | l.hc

“but if the story’s over, why am i still writing pages?”

💿now playing: death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

❯ summary: If you get more than one love in a lifetime, why does your heart still beat for the boy who wrecked you completely?

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, second chance, cheating trope, smut.

❯ words: 9.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, cheating (booo), exes, toxic relationship, a therapy joke, lots of angst, swearing, heartbreak, a whole lotta hurt, drinking, insecurities, jealousy, arguing, heavy petting, protected sex, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), i can’t lie this is just 9k words of heartache and sex lol.

an: this fic will not be for everyone!! i do not condone cheating in any way, you’re a loser if you cheat. i just felt like writing something heart achey, and this is my favourite taylor swift song that inspires cheating fics whenever i listen to it.

“Give me that!”

Yeji snatches the phone out of your hand with the kind of urgency only a best friend possesses—the kind forged after too many years of watching you do the stupidest things when it comes to boys. Her eyes flare the moment she spots the familiar username. 

@ haechanahceah

“Oh my god. You’re kidding.” Her thumb hovers accusingly over the screen. “Y/N, it’s been a year. A whole year. Why haven’t you blocked Hyuck yet?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just tilt your head back with an exhausted exhale, reaching for the phone. Not because you want it back, but because it feels incriminating in her hands. Like a wound she’s now inspecting. And you don’t need her inspecting it.

“Because we’re okay,” you say, not entirely convincingly. “Mostly.”

It was just a like. On an Instagram post. Of him—with his friends.

(Some of them girls. Most of them girls. All of them tagged. And you definitely weren’t planning on clicking through their profiles in the middle of your best friend coffee date with your screen brightness criminally low. Definitely not.)

“And because we’re friends,” you add breezily. Then you pluck the phone from her hand and tap back into the app, your thumb moving faster than your brain, already leaving a comment beneath his photo.

Something flippant. Something funny. Something that screams: See? I’m a functioning, emotionally stable adult who can totally be friends with the boy who annihilated my heart while he gallivants around Europe on a boat with girls. 

Except probably subtler. 

Yeji stares at you like she’s witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “Oh, absolutely. And when that guy drove me home from the bar last weekend and told me I had pretty eyes, we were just friends too.”

You roll your eyes, swatting the air with your hand. “That’s different. Hyuck’s my childhood best friend. I can’t just cut him off now that we’re not…” you pause, the words catching in your throat like they always do, “you know?”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, arms crossed and chin lifted in that annoyingly perceptive way of hers. “Because you two are in a loop. An exhausting, toxic, ‘I-don’t-know-where-we-stand-with-each-other’ loop. And staying in touch with him is why you can’t move on.”

“We are not toxic.”

You are. 

But you’d already said it out loud like a reflex, before you even had time to make it sound believable. So, you try to fix it. 

“We’re just…”

You trail off, blinking hard like the answer might fall from the ceiling.

 “Co-dependent?” Lia offers helpfully. 

 You sigh. “Yes. That. Thank you, Lia.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Yeji says. 

You lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest like armour. “Ugh. You wouldn’t get it.”

And they wouldn’t. They never have.

Because nobody gets you and Hyuck. Not Yeji, not Lia, not even the therapists you’ve paid a concerning amount of money to explain it all to you. No amount of therapy or psychoanalysis can remove the him-shaped hole inside of you. The way he exists like a second heartbeat.

How many times does a person truly get to fall in love? Not the practical kind. But the kind that rewires you completely. That makes you wonder how you ever existed before this person, and fear who you might become after. 

If love were fair—the answer would be simple. Once. Only ever once.

Because to love someone—truly love someone—is not just to hand over your heart. It’s to fold it delicately, wrap it in every part of your soul, and place it willingly in that person’s pocket. Trusting that they won’t ever give it back frayed or barely beating. 

And if they do (and he definitely did) well, what remains might resemble a heart, but it never beats the same again. You don’t think it ever will.

So yes. One love. One person. One boy—him.

Yeji calls it nostalgia. Says that since he was your first everything, it feels bigger than it was, and that’s why he’s taking up too much space inside your chest. She says you're scared of forgetting. But that’s not it.

You’d give anything to forget. It’s better than remembering everything. Of living in a world where he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where songs feel like him. Where movies feel like him. Where your own body sometimes feels like him because he’s marked it so damn much.

But if you did move on, if you could—you’d still have to ask yourself: where does all that breathless, foolish, all-consuming love go? 

The common consensus is that love turns to hate when it stays too long without being fed. But you can’t imagine a universe cruel enough to make you hate the very boy who made you believe in soulmates.

So you don’t hate him. Even though you should.

“Fine,” Yeji slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that familiar fury she reserves exclusively for you—when you’re being like this. “You’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’re still in cahoots with the same boy who cheated on you and left you a complete mess.”

Lia gasps. “Yeji!”

But the thing is—Yeji has a point. And you know that. But knowing something and truly understanding it is two different things. 

You don’t understand how he put his hands on someone else. How his mouth touched a body that wasn’t yours. How he delivered that line—“I didn’t mean for it to happen”—with the kind of ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d practised it in the mirror before he had the balls to actually tell you. 

You didn’t understand, yet you knew all the same.

You were wearing his shirt when he told you. Still in his house. Still in the space you thought was yours too. And all you could think was: how many nights did he lie next to you like nothing was wrong? How many times did he touch you with hands that had already betrayed you?

He never told you when, or who. Just a sorry. A soft one. A useless one. And a vague promise that he’d do anything to fix it.

But there are some things sorry can’t fix.

You clear your throat, suddenly too aware of how loud your heartbeat feels in a room full of people who love you enough to hate him.

“Because we’re not in cahoots,” you correct. “We’re friends, Yej. Him and I have always been friends.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. 

You have been friends with Hyuck ever since he moved in next door to your family when you were six. And even then—when you climbed trees and shared crayons—you think your heart was already beating for him. So much you don’t know what life is without that pulse anymore. Without a hint of him running beneath your skin.

It’s why you plaster on a smile and say, “In fact, I even invited him to my birthday party next week.”

They look at you, eyes full of pity and sympathy. And that hurts way more than him breaking you ever did. Because now your friends are staring at you like you’re some sad, shattered, pathetic thing he left behind.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lia asks weakly. 

“You’re seriously a lunatic,” Yeji cuts in before you can respond. “You’re just dragging this out for yourself. Death by a thousand cuts and all that.”

“I am not a lunatic,” you say, shrugging her off. “It’s just... he’s still part of my life. It’s not like I’m inviting a stranger.”

“He fucked up your life,” she huffs, the words stinging. “He hurt you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “But I love him anyway, don’t I?”

And you do. Because some loves don’t end—they just rearrange themselves. 

Yeji yanks her chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor.

“He’s gonna hurt you again,” she spits. “How many times are you gonna let him rip you apart before there’s nothing left? Before you’ve sacrificed yourself and everyone else around you and you’ve got nothing left to give?”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck, because she’s right.

Lia reaches out, “Yeji—”

“If he’s there next week, Y/N,” she says, eyes burning over her shoulder looking from you to Lia, “then I won’t be.”

When Hyuck got a DM from the only girl he’s ever loved—two days ago, now—he sobered.

Which, if you asked Mark, was some kind of divine miracle. Because Mark had been watching his best friend drink himself into oblivion for the better part of a year. A slow, intentional kind of fucked up that was clearly a desperate, pathetic attempt to forget you.

But no shot, no spirit, no stranger’s skin pressed to his could ever do the trick. Not really. Because no matter how hard Hyuck tried, the hangover was always the same: he’d wake up, and you still weren’t his girl.

So when he saw your username light up his phone, he paused. 

Because the preview didn’t give anything away. It did that annoying thing that said “2 new messages.” No hint. No breadcrumb. Just a loaded gun of a notification staring up at him.

And, of course he clicked it. He had to. You knew he would. You’d sent two back-to-back messages on purpose—he’s certain of it. Because that’s exactly the kind of person you were. Always two steps ahead. Always orchestrating even your vulnerability. 

You wanted to see when he’d read it. 

And he did.

At 2:36 a.m. Because you’d definitely be asleep by then. And that meant he had enough time to draft the right response—measured, brisk, detached—like the past year hadn’t cracked him open.

He read it in the half-light of Mark’s living room, surrounded by people he didn’t really like and a bottle of something he couldn’t quite remember picking up.

hey. i’m having a thing next friday for my birthday—just a chill party. nothing major. 

you can come, if you want.

Hyuck stares at the two messages.

It’s not because of the party. He couldn’t care less about the cake or the candles. That’s not what has his heart in his throat. It’s the fact that—for the first time in a year—you actually reached out. None of that accidentally bumping into each other nonsense you two pull. No one buys that it’s an accident. 

At least, it’s not an accident on his behalf.

It’s not an accident when he keeps frequenting the same coffee shop you once claimed made the best lattes in the city—always at the same time. It’s not a coincidence when he drives through your favourite places on rainy days, just in case you need a ride and are too proud to just call him. And it’s definitely not a coincidence that makes him take the long way to your house. He does it deliberately. He selfishly takes more of your time than he deserves.

Because saying goodbye wasn’t an option for him. Not until it had to be. He’d take prolonged suffering. Death by a thousand cuts.

And it’s not his fault. Well. It is. All of the ruin, anyway. But in the twelve months since he blew it all up, you’ve still lingered. You always do. You always will. So he just keeps showing up in your life when he knows you need to move on. Because he doesn’t want you to. 

Because everything in his life is still half-yours. And he won’t board up the windows of that love—not even now. Not when some part of you still flickers inside it, and half of his heart is still in your chest.

Hyuck stares at your message again. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else. Deletes that too.

what kind of thing is it?

Too uninterested.

who’s gonna be there?

Too nosy.

sure, if you want me there.

Too honest. 

Everything felt like a trap—too much, too little, not enough to win you back, but equally too honest and would remind you of his actions that hurt you. 

How was he supposed to respond to the girl who once memorised every mole on his face? Who was the muse of every song he’s written? Who still makes his hands shake on the keyboard? Who he cheated on? Who he destroyed completely? 

Eventually he landed on:

might swing by, angel. happy early birthday, btw.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

11:27PM

Thirty-three minutes left of your birthday, but you’re not celebrating.

Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with one leg dangling, the other tucked beneath you, whilst your dress wrinkles and bunches around your thighs because you stopped caring how ruined you looked an hour ago.  

You don’t care that your lipstick is all but gone or that your mascara is smudged under both eyes. You don’t care because he’s not here. 

You were supposed to be smiling by now. 

But he didn’t walk in. 

He still hasn’t.

And you don’t even know why you’re surprised. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your baby. He’s not your Hyuck anymore. He doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing—not a happy birthday, or his time. You gave that privilege up the night you stopped being his. Or maybe the night he stopped being yours. You still haven’t decided which one came first.

Still, you hoped he would come. 

It was the only thing keeping you remotely sane—delusional hope that he might still show up. That maybe he’d walk through the door like he hadn’t betrayed you and still want you. You still wanted him. 

You hated that he broke you and still got to keep the pieces. Hated that even now, on your birthday, all you could think about was him. Hated that you still wanted his birthdays, his weekends, his forever. 

You take another drink. Cheaper vodka this time, and let it burn your throat as it goes down. You want the sting. You deserve the sting. Your eyes drift (again) to the front door.

Still nothing.

“You need to stop doing that,” Lia pads barefoot into the kitchen, coming right behind you to smack both her hands on your shoulders. “Stop watching that door like a hawk. Yeji would kill you if she saw you pining after him on your birthday.”

You press your lips together and glance away like you’ve been caught red-handed. Because, well. You have.

“Yeah, well. Yeji isn’t here,” you mutter, taking another sip—longer this time. 

Lia raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

You drain the last of your drink and look her straight in the eye. “Because I invited him.”

Lia looks at you expectantly. You know she hates being caught between you and Yeji, but it’s clear she thinks you were wrong to invite Hyuck tonight, knowing full well how Yeji would react.

And maybe she’s right.

That’s why you sigh.

“Look, he said he might come,” you say finally. “He didn’t promise anything. Yeji was overreacting.”

“He never promises,” Lia says gently. “And yet, you keep prioritising him like he’s still that sweet boy we both used to love, who used to buy your favourite cookies before class, or pick fights with the boys who made fun of you. But he’s not that boy anymore, Y/N. And he’s not yours anymore either.”

You flinch.

She notices. Regrets it. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, not really. Because this is the first birthday he’s missed since you were kids. Since you were eleven and he showed up with a homemade card. 

It’s not fine because his absence would say something that the cheating weirdly never quite did—that he’s not the boy you fell in love with. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.

Lia leans against the counter beside you. “It’s allowed, you know? Being hurt.”

“I don’t get to be,” you reply, glancing at her. “He doesn’t owe me anything anymore. I was the one who didn’t want to forgive him that night. I said I was done. I don’t expect him to grovel forever.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you deserved something. More than a half-assed apology at least.”

That lands in your chest harshly. You press your tongue to your cheek, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. You’re not drunk enough to cry yet. Give it another hour.

“Come on,” Lia sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side, “I’m not letting you stay in here staring at that door and giving him the power to ruin the rest of your birthday.” 

But even as she says it, your eyes flicker to that door again—still no him.

Lia doesn’t let go of your hand as she leads you out of the kitchen and into the living room, where people are scattered across the sofas and floors. They all feel like strangers at your own party because you’ve spent the whole night looking for one person who never came. 

“Y/N,” Lia says, squeezing your hand, “this is Hyunjae.”

You blink. The boy in front of you is pretty. Dark eyes, strong jaw softened by the curve of a perfect smile, black hair pushed back sexily. He’s holding a drink loosely in his hand as his eyes sweep over you. 

“Happy birthday,” he says. “You look—”

Please don’t say beautiful. Please don’t say gorgeous. Please don’t say anything he would’ve said.

“—pretty,” Hyunjae finishes. “Really fucking pretty.”

You smile. Or try to. “Thanks.”

And look, it’s not that Hyunjae isn’t nice—he is. You can already hear Yeji telling you to give him a chance. He’s the kind of boy who’d text back, who’s safe, who’d never leave you staring at a door wondering if he’ll show up on your birthday or not. Hyunjae is the kind of boy who wouldn’t cheat on you. 

But the truth is, you don’t know if you can be the girl who lets someone call her pretty and fawn anymore. Not without wondering if they’ll still mean it once they see someone better, shinier, hotter than you. 

Just like he did. 

You nod along when Hyunjae talks. You laugh where you’re supposed to. Play nice. Be sweet. But everything he says sounds like static. Everything he is feels like a placeholder. 

And then, you hear it. That deep, honey-smooth, familiar voice saying: “Happy birthday, angel.”

It slices through the room. Through you.

Because there’s only one person who ever called you that. One boy. Lee Donghyuck.

You didn’t even hear the front door open. Typical. But there he is, leaning in the doorway, all tan skin and messy hair. His hands are buried in his pockets, his jaw set tight—too tight, like he’s seconds from grinding his teeth into dust. 

But it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s Hyunjae. Sitting far too close. Arm tossed lazily behind you on the couch, thigh pointing into yours, almost grazing like he owns your space. 

And Hyuck notices. You know he notices.

His eyes narrow. Lips parting slightly as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You know that look. You’ve seen it before. That blend of heat and hurt and possessiveness he has no right to anymore.

It hits your chest all at once—shame, hurt, lust—and you fumble. Your hand twitches with the red plastic cup still clutched tight. The drink tilts before you even realise it’s slipping. Cranberry vodka sloshes, causing sticky, cold liquid to spill down the front of your dress, dripping into the neckline. 

“Fuck—” you hiss, jerking upright as the cup lands onto the coffee table. You paw uselessly at the now soaked fabric, trying to blot it with the hem of your sleeve, but it’s only smearing it worse.

Hyunjae starts to reach for a napkin, concerned. But your eyes have already found Hyuck’s again. And the way he’s looking at you now…

Your throat goes dry. “I—I’m gonna go change.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re moving before anyone can stop you, heart hammering against your ribs because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

You barely make it up the stairs, breath coming fast, fingers trembling as you reach for the door to your room. You close it. But you don’t get the chance to lock it. Because the door creaks again behind you. And then it clicks shut. You spin around. And there he is.

You don’t say anything at first. 

Just stalk over to your wardrobe like it’s perfectly sane to have your ex-boyfriend—your ex-best friend, the boy you used to see every single day, the only boy you’ve ever slept with, the only person who knows all the tells on your body, the boy you still love—in your bedroom for the first time in over a year.

You wrench the closet door open. A pair of heels fall out and land with a little thud. You don’t flinch. You pretend to rifle through hangers, but you’re not looking for anything specific. All of it is just something to do with your hands, because looking at him right now would be a sick kind of torture.

“What are you doing here!?”

Hyuck doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you only hear the soft thud of his shoes on your floor, the creak of your floorboard by the dresser. He’s closer than you want him to be.

“You invited me,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You spin around. “I invited you to my birthday party. Which started five hours ago.”

He lifts his phone, the screen glowing in the dark. “As far as I’m aware,” he says, tapping it once, “you’ve still got thirteen minutes left. So again, happy birthday, angel.”

You stiffen. 

There it is. That.

That fucking word. The one that used to make you feel warm and wanted. Now it feels like an insult wrapped in silk.

“Don’t call me that.”

That stops him. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he lowers the phone. Shoves it back into his pocket.

“I thought you liked it when I called you that.”

“I used to like it,” you spit. “Back when it meant something. You know, before you fucked someone else behind my back.”

His jaw tightens. Good, you think. The truth hurts; you hope it hurts. And maybe that makes you cruel. But then again, he was cruel first.

He rubs his jaw, then exhales. “We’re really doing this now?”

You laugh dryly. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer we pencil it in for next week instead? Talk about it over brunch sometime, yeah?”

You turn back to your wardrobe, suddenly too irritated. Your fingers find the old grey hoodie you always loved. It looks soft. Comfortable. Definitely not party appropriate. But you don’t care because you don’t want to go back out there. Not after this.

You peel your dress off in one motion, leaving you in the black lace set you picked out this morning—because it was your birthday. Not for anyone else. Not for a boy. Certainly not for him.

Him. 

You forget for a moment that he’s still behind you.

It’s like your brain short-circuits in his presence. Like it still confuses this boy for the lifeline he used to be. Like your heart can’t shout loud enough to warn you: this boy broke us, this boy hurt us, this boy is bad for us. All it says is: this boy is Hyuck. This boy is sweet. This boy—we love.

You only remember when you hear him inhale—sharply—and turn around. 

He’s looking at you like that again. Like he did back when he loved you, and you loved him, and he hadn’t ruined everything yet. He looks hungry, and like the only thing that might satisfy him is you. 

That thought makes you clutch the hoodie to your chest. “Turn around!”

He does. Obediently. But then: 

"So, did you wear that for me?"

His voice is so annoyingly smug it makes you roll your eyes as you reply. “No.”

But your cheeks betray you. Hot. Guilty. Flushed. Thank god his back is still to you, because if he turned around now and looked at you, he’d know. Because he knows all your tells. Always has.

And from just a simple flush, he’d know that yes, you wore this set for him. That yes, despite pretending you were over him in his Instagram comments, your traitorous heart had hoped that he might come tonight and rip the set off of you.

And just in case he caught your second tell (the tremor in your voice), you twist the knife a little more.

“I wore this set for Hyunjae, actually.”

A silence. Then the fucker starts laughing.

Not a little laugh. A full-bodied, head thrown back, belly laugh. You hate how much you’ve missed that sound, how it still makes your stomach flip. 

“Five minutes ago, I might’ve believed that, angel,” he says, turning slightly. Just enough for you to catch the outline of his grin. “And it would’ve driven me fucking crazy.”

Your heart stutters when he nods toward your chest.

“But I wasn’t talking about your underwear,” he says, eyes dipping lower. 

You follow his gaze down to the delicate gold chain resting just above the swell of your breasts. The one with the tiny heart pendant. The one with the H engraving. 

“I was talking about that necklace. The one I bought you for your sixteenth birthday,” He cocks his head. Smirking now. “Did you wear it for me?”

Your fingers fly to it instinctively. You hadn’t taken it off. Not even after finding out. You always wore it underneath your clothes, tucked away like a secret, because Yeji would have a field day if she knew you still wore his necklace.

But in the heat of the moment, stripping down to your underwear, your brain hadn’t realised that he’d see it again. 

“I thought I told you to turn around,” you snap, furious with yourself.

He lifts his hands defensively. “I am turned around.”

“I meant your head, not just your body, Hyuck.”

And so he does, again. Obediently.

You pull the hoodie on. It swallows you immediately. The sleeves dangle past your hands, the hem skims your thighs, and it smells like dust and weirdly like…the boy behind you.

“I’m decent,” you mutter.

He turns around, eyes flicking down before he smiles. Not smug, this time. Just soft and… a little sad?

“That’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, tugging at the sleeves. “No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s massive on you. And unless you’ve got a secret stash of men’s hoodies in your closet, that one’s mine.”

You glare. “Oh yeah? And who says I don’t have a collection of men’s hoodies in my closet?”

“I do.”

 So fast. So sure.

You scoff, a single sharp laugh. “God, you think so highly of yourself.”

He crosses his arms—all tensed jaw and too-tight t-shirt—and it’s irritating, how stupidly good he looks whilst being smug.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “I do. Because, despite us being broken up, you still wear my necklace.”  He nods toward your nightstand.  “You still have a photo of us beside your bed.” And then, one step closer. “And you fucking invited me here tonight.”

You lift your chin. “I invited everyone. It was a mass text.”

“Funny,” he says, a fake smile forming, “Mark didn’t get a text.”

“Aww,” you coo, mocking. “You still talk to your friends about me, Hyuck? Christ. Now I’m gonna start thinking highly of myself.”

“You should.”

For some reason, those two simple words hit you like a slap across the face. Because no.

“You don’t get to do that!” you snap at him. “You don’t get to tell me I should think highly of myself when you’re the exact reason I can’t even imagine the top anymore, Hyuck!” You laugh bitterly. “I don’t know my worth because you had me. But you wanted something else.”

And in that moment—maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s accountability—a flash of hurt crosses his face, that makes him wince. 

“Y/N, angel…” His voice cracks a little on your name, as he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck! It was one mistake. You don’t understand—”

But you don’t want to hear it. You’ve already heard it.

You hold up a hand, stopping him from wasting his breath. “I don’t want to understand anything about the night you decided to fuck another girl, thank you very much, Hyuck.”

“Of course, I get that but—”

“But?”  you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Yes, but, Y/N,” he fires back. “Because I don’t know what you want from me. You say you don’t want to forgive me—and I get it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He’s pacing now. “But you string me along. You comment on my posts, you let me drive you home, you still have my fucking hoodies—”

His eyes flick down to the one you’re wearing now, oversized and drooping around the neckline to show that gold chain. 

“—you wear my initials around your neck, and you asked me to come tonight—you. And now you’re mad that I’m here?”

His voice rises and you swallow—hard. Like maybe if you keep swallowing, you’ll stop the tears from climbing all the way up your throat. Because it’s all too raw. All of it. Him. You.This.

He’s unraveling in front of you. And even though you know—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t have the right to be this angry, a part of you gets it. Because this awful, splintered, aching love you have for him is confusing. It’s contradictory. It fucks with your brain so much that it doesn’t matter that you’re hurting because he’s hurting too. 

And that’s all you can focus on.

It’s like you said:  nobody gets you and Hyuck. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, angel,” he says again, quieter this time. He takes a slow step forward. Close enough to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, like he used to.

His hand lingers.

“I don’t know what you want,” he breathes, “but if you tell me—I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath stutters. Your throat tightens.

And then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Because. I. Love. You.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to. You don’t even mean to. But those three words wrap around you tight. 

“Don’t,” your voice cracks. “Don’t say that to me, Hyuck. Not after everything.”

When you open your eyes again, they’re full of tears. Angry ones. Bitter ones. Hopeful ones too—because you’re weak, and stupid, and still a little bit in love with a boy who shattered you.

“I mean it,” he says instantly. His hand twitches at his side—you see it. He wants to touch you. Wants to wipe your tears like he used to because he hates them. But he doesn’t know if he has permission anymore. (He does, but he doesn’t know he does.)

“I’ve always meant it.”

“Then why’d you throw it all away?” You spit the words out like poison. “Why did you ruin us for a quick fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, stepping back. “But I do know I hurt you. And I’ll hate myself for that forever. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You laugh. But it sounds more like a sob. “You have a funny way of showing love.”

“I know.”

“You know everything,” you say, “except why you did it.”

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“You should go,” you whisper. “The party’s over. You’ve said what you needed to say. And I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes fly to his. He’s shaking his head, tongue in his cheek again as he sniffs.

“No,” he says again “I’m not leaving us like this.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Liar.”

“Hyuck—”

“You want me to say it again?” he asks, voice rising just slightly. Not angry. Only desperate. “You want me to beg? Fine. I will. I’ll fucking get on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

And then, to your absolute horror, he does. 

“Hyuck, stop—”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything. For all of it. For her. For the lies. For shattering everything good we ever had. But I love you, Y/N. And I’m not sorry for that. I’ll never be sorry for that.”

You’re trying to stay angry. Trying to hold onto the rage but it’s slipping. Because you want him. You love him.

He’s still on his knees. Still looking up at you. Still pleading. You wish he’d just stand up. You wish he didn’t look so much like the boy you fell in love with instead of the man who broke you.

“Please,” he says again.“I know I don’t get to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I’m asking because I love you. I never stopped. I swear to God, I never—”

“Stop it,” you say, too fast.

It feels like your chest caves in. Because the thing about love is: it’s loud. Louder than hurt. Especially right now. You love him so much you could scream. But instead, you drop down to your knees. Right there in front of him. And before you know it, your hands are reaching for him. Stupid, traitorous things.

“Stop,” you whisper. “Please, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s Hyuck. And Hyuck never knows when to shut up.

“I know I ruined it,” he’s saying. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I wouldn’t forgive me either. I wouldn’t. But I can’t stop loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard. I’ve kissed girls who weren’t you and I’ve gone home wanting to claw off my own skin.”

You suck in a breath.

“You don’t have to forgive me now. Or ever. Just let me prove it. Let me try. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you for fucking ever, I swear—”

You’re kissing him. 

You have no idea why, but it just feels like you have to. Because you physically can’t not. Because the love of your life, him, is bleeding out in front of you and you’re the only one who knows how to stop it.

And when your mouth crahses into his, it tastes like heartbreak and history and every stupid, selfish thing he’s ever done. But you keep kissing him. Because just as much as it hurts—it feels like home. Like you’ve finally been returned to the place you belong. Like his lips have been waiting for yours all this time. 

He’s kissing you back just as fiercely. Like he might die if he doesn’t. And maybe he would. Maybe you would too.

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you, but maybe it’s him. You’re both equally desperate—lunging backward until his back knocks against the foot of your bedframe and you’re straddling his hips. 

His hands find your waist, landing heavy and possessive around you. But you don’t mind, because your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—and God, you missed that sound. Missed him like oxygen.

His mouth moves to your neck, lips skimming every slither of skin he can reach, greedily not wanting to miss a single piece of you since he’s trying to make up for all the parts he used to take for granted. And you tilt your head back, giving him that access, because you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he breathes against your skin, half-choked.

You should tell him no. Should tell him he doesn’t get to ask things like that—not when he gave himself away so easily. Not now when he’ll never solely be yours like you’re solely his. 

But your heart is so tired and so in love it’s ridiculous, so instead you whisper: “I never stopped being yours.”

And then he’s kissing you again—deeper, this time. Until he pulls away and his forehead presses to yours, and he pants against your lips. “Let me love you,” he begs. “Please. Let me love you right this time.”

He feels solid beneath you. It’s making your brain fuzzy. It’s making you whimper.

“Okay,” you pant, tugging harder at those soft brown strands, as your hips shift and grind down against him, making him groan lowly. 

His hands clamp tighter around your waist, dragging you down harder, closer, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. And suddenly your skin feels too tight. You’re too aware of the clothes between you—what little there is.

Because you didn’t put on pants. Just that hoodie of his over your pathetic pair of black panties—thin, useless fabric—and now your pussy is rubbing right up against the thick outline of him through his jeans, and it’s overwhelming. You can feel absolutely everything you’ve missed.

Heat blooms in your stomach and you roll your hips again. It’s so shameless. So needy. But you don’t care. Not when it’s been this long. Not when it’s his fault it’s been this long—because you never would’ve let it be anyone else.

And he meets you in it. Each grind matched with one of his own, more harsh than the last. Until his hips are moving on impulse, chasing you like a man starved. His head drops to your shoulder, and his breath stutters. 

“Fuck, angel, slow down,” he chokes, “You’re killing me.”

You press your lips to his temple, to his jaw, anywhere you can reach, and whisper, breathless, “You deserve it.”

He groans—louder this time—like he agrees.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed wide, dragging up the warm skin of your back like he’s relearning it. 

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he breathes into your neck. “You can’t be real.”

But you are. You’re right here. Straddling him. Shaking for him. Letting him touch you like he never stopped having the right to.

He kisses your collarbone. Then lower—your sternum, the tops of your breasts, the edge of lace peeking from beneath his hoodie. His hoodie. That fact alone seems to snap something inside him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing the fabric up and up and up, until it pools around your ribs and the cold air hits your bare stomach. You shiver. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs. “Please. Want to see you.”

You raise your arms, let him peel it over your head, and suddenly you’re half-naked in his lap—wearing nothing but that black set you wanted him to rip off, then didn’t, then did… and now, he is. Fingers working at the clasp, slipping the straps from your shoulders and tossing the bra aside in your room somewhere.

And then, he takes his time letting his eyes drag over you. Taking a sick pride in seeing his initial rest in the valley of your breast. 

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And something about that word—still—makes your stomach twist.

Your arms fold over your boobs on instinct, shielding yourself from the one person you’ve always felt safest with. Because still means there’s someone else now. Someone he’s looked at. Someone he’s touched. Someone you had to beat—and somehow did.

But you shouldn’t have had to.

He notices the shift immediately—how your arms cross, how your body goes stiff, how the room, warm just a second ago, chills.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, brows furrowing. He cups your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. “Talk to me, angel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

You’re still straddling him, half-naked, kissed raw and dizzy, and yet you feel like you’re a million miles away. You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke you. How do you tell him something he’s never known? How do you make him understand? You’ve never done this to him before—and just knowing how much it hurts—you don’t think you ever could.

“I just—” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He flinches—just enough for you to know it landed. But he doesn’t pull away.

The thing is, he doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even mention her. Never has. But she’s here. Right here. In this room. Your room. In the silence. In his presence.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wipe the thought away. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t think about her. This—” his hands cup your face tighter, gently desperate, “—this is you and me. Always you.”

Your jaw clenches, your eyes sting. “Then why wasn’t it only me?”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before flickering away. He doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t. He never does. And that’s been half the war between you. He doesn’t want to tell you the why.

Instead, his hands drift from your face to your waist, pulling you in like proximity might somehow make up for his silence. Like touch could smother your insecurities. 

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in.“Forget her. Just for now. Right here, right now, it’s only you. Only us.”

You hate that you melt. Hate that the ache in your chest loosens its grip the second his hands coax your arms from where you’d folded them. Hate that even after everything, he still knows how to make you feel safe inside the wreckage he caused.

He’s infuriating.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “That it’s always only been you for me.”

His hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing delicately beneath your tits. His eyes never leave yours—not for a second—as he kneads and explores and feels your body in his palm. And then his mouth follows.

Lips warm, slightly chapped, close around your right nipple. Your breath punches out of you. You can’t help it because his tongue flicks once, then again, then again until your spine arches and pushes the bud further into his mouth.

“Hyuck,” you moan, helpless, feeling the curve of his smirk drag against your skin.

His free hand trails up your other side, rolling the neglected peak between calloused fingers so deliciously because he remembers exactly what used to make you fall apart, and now he’s hell-bent on proving he hasn’t forgotten.

“God, you’re fucking unreal,” he murmurs against your skin, then bites gently, just enough to make you gasp. 

His words make you ache. Everywhere. Especially between your legs, where you’re still pressed tight against the thick, unrelenting shape of him through his jeans. And he hasn’t even touched you there yet, but it’s coming—you know it is. 

His mouth keeps going, warm and wet whilst he stays sucking just hard enough to turn your bones to water. And whenever you whimper he groans. 

“Please, Hyuck,” you plead. “Need more.”

He lifts his head, murmuring, “Yeah? You want me to show you how much I missed you?”

You nod, dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he groans and wastes no time lifting you off the floor like it’s nothing, carrying you to your bed. He lays you down gently, spreads you out beneath him like something precious. And then he peels off his t-shirt.

That tan skin—scattered with moles you’ve memorised, counted, traced with your fingers and your mouth—is on full display, just for you.

“I’ll give you everything,” he says, voice low as he drops to his knees, crawling between your legs. “Absolutely everything. As long as you don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”

Your fingers sink into his hair before you can think. “I won’t,” you whisper. “Couldn’t.”

And then he dips down.

His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed kisses dragging tantalisingly up your skin. He’s not rushing. He never does when he gives head. It’s his favourite thing to savour. You. On his tongue.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, nipping at your skin, making you gasp. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself from texting. From begging you to take me back.”

“Who said anything about taking you back?” You say, hips shifting, dying for friction, but he pins them with strong hands, keeping you right where he wants you. 

“I did,” he says, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Am I wrong, Y/N? Because if I am, we can stop right now?”

“No,” you whine on a trembling breath.

He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

Then, finally, finally—his mouth finds the place you need him most.

He licks a slow stripe up your center, groaning from the taste of you in his mouth. He does it again, and then again, until your legs are trembling and one of your hands fists the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging at it, just how he likes. Just how you like.

He flicks his tongue, circles it, moans when you cry out for more.

“God, you taste the same,” he says hoarsely. “Still fucking perfect.”

You try to respond, to say something, but then he sucks again, so hard, you almost shoot clean off the bed.

“Hyuck—please,” it’s half a sob, a half moan, one hundered percent completley ruined.

He growls, arms locking around your thighs to keep you still, mouth relentless as he licks and sucks and worships like this is his penance.

“Shit, Y/N,” he mutters between licks, “I missed how fucking responsive you are. Always so good for me.”

You whimper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna,” he promises. “Not until you fall apart for me. Right here. Right now.”

He hums, the vibration making your stomach flutter, and you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

“Let me make you come,” he says, voice completely ruined now too. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Please.”

And you do. You let him. Because you want this. Want him. Still. Always.

Your entire body coils, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s shattering, making you cry out, his name falling from your lips repeatedly. 

Hyuck doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally slumps back to the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then does he lift his head, lips wet and shiny. He crawls up your body, kissing your thigh, your stomach, the underside of your boobs, your jaw. Everywhere. Until he’s hovering over you, and you’re staring up at him, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair gently back from your face.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I never really left,” he says. “Even though I know I should have. I’m too damn selfish.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up, tracing his jaw with shaking fingers. “I want you to fuck me, Hyuck.”

He blinks, then his eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

You pull him down until your foreheads press again and then whisper a soft, “Yes.”

Then he kisses you. Slowly. Passionately in a way you know this about to be more than just fucking. It feels like the before. The soft. His hands coming up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Everything so tender and full of love. 

And somewhere between the kiss and the forgetting, his pants are off. His boxers too. He’s about to fuck you completely raw—like he used to—and for a moment, your body almost lets him. Because it remembers. The blind trust. 

But this isn’t then. And that’s why you reach out, fingers curling gently around his forearm. Stopping him.

“Condom,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you glance toward the nightstand.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this. Back then, you were on the pill. You were his. He was yours. There was no one else. But now? Now you’ve had to share him—with her. Maybe with others too. 

He freezes. And for a second, you swear he looks gutted. But then he nods.

Wordlessly, he reaches into your nightstand, gets one open and rolls it on his cock. He doesn’t protest. He never would. Because it’s not the condom that guts him—it’s what it means. It’s that reminder that everything’s different now. And why. A barrier he put there himself because he was reckless, drunk, stupid and ungrateful. A consequence he crafted with his own hands.

But he doesn’t let that thought linger too long. The past is the past—he hates thinking about it. It’s what wrecked him. What wrecked this. What wrecked you.

Now, all he wants is the present. Not even the future. Just this. Just you. Because you’re here. Beneath him. Asking him to fuck you. You’re his—if only for now. And that’s enough.

He slides back over you. And for a second—just one—you both just… look.

You’re looking at him like maybe this could fix it. He’s looking at you like he knows it won’t. Sex doesn’t fix anything. It’s what broke you two in the first place if you really think about it . But he’s still doing it. And so are you.

He pushes inside of you slowly and your breath stutters, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice tight and thick. “You feel like—”

“Home,” you whisper, beating him to it.

Because you do. And he does. And it’s pathetic. And perfect. And completely going to destroy you in the morning.

His forehead drops to yours and he lets out a shaky breath, like the kind that comes right before someone starts to cry. But he doesn’t cry—he moves. Gently. Tenderly. 

You cling to him, every nerve alight, oversensitive in that desperate, raw way that makes you breathless beneath him—letting him kiss you through it, through the pain, through the slow, aching stretch of him inside you. 

And in between those kisses and the thrusts and the way your fingers tangle in his hair again, he whispers:

“Missed you.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I’ll never stop being sorry.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to put you back together with every snap of his hips. And maybe he is.

So you let him.

You let him fuck you until you’re both a mess of moans and apologies and, fractured I love yous. Until you’re panting in time with each other. Until you’re cumming—together.

After, it’s quiet.

Not awkward or bitter or biting, but comfortable. You’re tangled in each other, limbs overlapping, as Hyuck brushes his nose against your temple. Eventually, he slips out of you, careful to not hurt you, but you flinch at the loss. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one to each cheek, and then he’s moving—disposing of the condom, finding his way back to your side. 

“Let’s shower,” he murmurs, thumb storoking your jaw. “Let me take care of you first. And after… we’ll talk, yeah?”

You don’t say anything—because you can’t. Your throat is raw from all the moaning and the whimpering. And also because you’re scared of the talking. Terrified, really. Of the hurting that’ll come with addressing it. 

So instead, you swallow and say softly, “I’ll be a minute. Just... need a sec before I move.”

He pauses, like he’s checking you over again, brows pinching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Not in the way he means.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… been out of the game for a while.”

He pauses but doesn’t argue. Just leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll start the shower.”

He slips out quietly, to the bathroom attached to your room. You hear the soft creak of the cabinets. He still remembers where everything is. 

And then—of course—his phone buzzes.

You glance over. You don’t mean to look. You really, really don’t. You know you shouldn’t if you wanna rebuild trust and whatever. It’s just…It’s on the floor, fallen from his jeans with the screen lighting up. 

It was taunting you. 

And anyway, he’s the one that broke your trust first. He’s the one that made you so paranoid. He’s the one who made you like this. 

Yeji

if i find out you went to that party tonight, hyuck, and didn’t tell her the truth, i will.

Your stomach drops straight through the mattress.

Another buzz.

Yeji

i’m serious. how long are you gonna keep it from her that it was lia you cheated on her with?

you’re ruining our friendship!

And suddenly you’re not warm anymore.

Suddenly you’re freezing. And hollow. And very, very awake and out of the afterglow sex haze. 

You can’t breathe.

You feel sick. 

Are you sick? Are you dying? Are you about to have a fucking panic attack?

Because it feels like something has clawed its way into your chest and is now eating you alive from the inside out.

Lia?

It all makes sense. It all echoes.

“That sweet boy we both used to love.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

The door creaks again. Hyuck walks back in, towel slung low on his hips. Completely clueless. 

“You okay?” he asks, soft and smiling. “Shower’s warm.”

You don’t answer because your heart is hammering against your ribs and because you physically, viscerally, cannot breathe.

His smile falters, just a touch.

And then you say it.

One word. One name.

“Lia?”

You’re not even sure if you want to scream at him, or sob, or laugh—because how dare he. How dare he touch you like that, kiss you like that, look at you like that, when he knew—he fucking knew—he’d fucked your best friend and said nothing.

The same best friend who held you while you cried over him for a year. Who told you it wasn’t your fault. Who had her arms wrapped around you less than an hour ago trying to comfort you about him. 

You hold out his phone, pointing to the screen. “You fucked my best friend, Hyuck?”

He freezes. He lifts an arm reaching out towards you or towards his phone, you can’t tell. Probably the phone to see how much you know so he can spin it. Twist it. Try to manipulate this—manipulate you—again.

“Angel—”

“My name is Y/N.”

The words are a blade. His hand drops.

“Y/N,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “it’s not what it looks like—”

But it is. You both know it. 

“Yeji seems to think it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

And then it hits you. All over again. Yeji knew. Your other best friend. She knew. 

Did everyone know? Everyone you loved? Everyone you trusted? Everyone you thought was safe? 

And suddenly your knees give out. You drop to the floor, spine hitting the edge of the bed on the way down, but you don’t even register the pain. You’re already somewhere else, hands trembling, vision blurry, gasping like there’s no oxygen. 

That fucking necklace around your neck—the one he gave you, the one you swore you'd never take off—isn’t fucking helping. So you rip it off. The chain snapping in your fist and you throw it. It lands at his feet. 

It’s the first time you’ve taken it off since you were sixteen.

“Y/N—”

Hyuck’s voice sounds panicked now. Hurting. He kneels in front of you, eyes wide, reaching for you—

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

You flinch so hard you nearly hit the nightstand. You can’t stand the idea of him touching you now, even though you know there isn’t a part of you he hasn’t touched.

He freezes. Arm stopping in the air. His face furrowed. And you know that face. The face from the night, the one carved from guilt and horror and regret—but it’s too late.

It’s so late.

You’re sobbing now. And it’s ugly—gasping and choking and curling up on the floor. 

“I—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you—”

You laugh. Actually laugh.

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, spit and snot and mascara streaking your face.  “Hyuck, you fucked my best friend. And then you came here, tonight, and touched me like…like I was still yours.”

“You are—”

“No. No, I’m not!” You snap. “I don’t even know who I am right now. But I definitely am not—and never will be—yours again.”

“Please, Y/N,” he whispers. “Let me explain. It wasn’t—”

“You’ve had time to explain.” Your voice trembles, but the words are steel. “I gave you so much of myself. So much trust. So much love.” You swallow hard. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to fuck my best friend. And keep it from me. And somehow rope the other one into it too, so now—”

Your voice cracks.

“So now I can’t trust anyone.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to beg. But then he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you, regret written in every line of his stupid, beautiful face.

He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the last straw. You fold in on yourself. Arms wrapping tight around your knees as you bury your head and whisper: “I need you to leave.”

He doesn’t move.

You look up—eyes glassy, voice so quiet and weak.

“Get out, Hyuck. Now, please”

And this time, he listens. And you’re glad he listens. Because this time it feels different. This was it. The final fracture. Whatever you had with him? It’s dead now. You just wish you hadn’t kept it on life support for so long—wish you hadn’t clung so tightly to something already bleeding. 

That thousandth cut finally bled dry.

[sabanakurou]

★ Leona x Gn!Reader, Reader is Yuu here! Mentions of Grim too but like, BARELY. A little over 1k words!

★ SYNOPSIS: In short, you made realizations about your relationship with Leona that you probably should've had... months ago.

★ A little warning for possible OOC, bad writing, and grammar mistakes, hehe! Regardless, I hope you enjoy :D

Being sure of yourself was something that you took pride in. That was the case back on Earth and especially the case now that you were thrown into Twisted Wonderland— a place so unfamiliar that you might as well have been considered an alien.

Maybe you already were? You were magicless with a strange fire-hazard for a cat-raccoon thing. Even now as you walked towards the botanical garden, you were carrying Grim. It wasn't hard at that point to take into account the way the other students looked at you. With their scrutinizing eyes and avoidance, you figured that your guess isn't so far off from the general opinion of the public.

You didn't care, though! You're CONFIDENT that you've experienced enough to have already met the worst jerks that this “d!$ney-knockoff house of villains-ahh” college had to offer.

Well,

that is…

…until you met Leona Kingscholar.

The most prickly jerk you ever came to know. A man so VILE that you're on your way to meet up with him in the garden for your regularly scheduled naps.

Honest to whatever God your current world had, as much as you wanted to moan about how long the stick in Leona’s mud of a butt is, he's nooooot… the worst guy ever. Actually, deny it as you might, the prince of the Afterglow Savannah was more of a friend than a jerk to you.

Still a jerk though.

One heck of a comfortable one, at that (much to your dismay). In fact, in recent times, he's quite the substitute for a pillow, if you could say so yourself. And you do! You even insisted on meeting today just to nap because you sleep better when Leona is your pillow.

"Huh?"

You suddenly stop walking, hit with the reality and weight of your own thoughts.

You use... Leona as… a pillow?

You… you use Leona as a pillow…???

You… huh…????

????

‘I DO WHAT NOW???’ You suddenly drop Grim onto the floor in the middle of the hallway, hands flying to your head as a slow, slow, quiet crisis takes over you. It was as if you gained sentience the moment you thought too deeply about your relationship with him.

No, but seriously!? Now that you put more of a conscious effort to evaluate your actions, you realized that you've been so affectionate with Leona! Using him as a pillow, resting on his side, napping with him in the garden and in his bed…!?!? In his bed for goodness’ sake!

How come no one has told you that you do these things!? (Ace and Deuce have mentioned it before.)

Why has no one mentioned how weird it is for you to act that way with Leona!? (Many have mentioned it: Namely the Heartslabyul folks, the first years, and even Grim.)

Is this even legal!? (It is but you were not being rational at that moment.)

“OH MY GOD!?”

So much for being sure of yourself!

Thinking back to your entire relationship, you wouldn't be able to say when it all started. When did the frightening lion of a beastman stop being so… frightening?

Was it after the Octavinelle fiasco when the subtle touches— lingering and often leaving an explicable amount of warmth in an otherwise tepid patch of skin— started to come about? You never would've thought that you'd say this but forced-proximity does wonders with communication and you did stay in his room for a good while (but you still don't advocate for it…).

Or was it after VDC when the softness held behind each of your gazes when you come across one another reared its worrying head?

Worrying to the point that the once untouchable prince became within reach of your hands, of your heart, and of your mind to be consumed with him, him, and only him.

When did the two of you stop being hesitant but oh so very careful as to avoid any alarm?

When exactly did the sands of your friendship break down into something so… different yet all the same? Like a sandcastle broken by the heavy tides. The foundation may have been broken and yet the material was still, irrevocably, sand.

Who knew a crisis driven by cuddles could induce metaphors?

And metaphors aside, you like the beach, and the sand, and the waves. Very much. It was always so warm to the touch, just like h— Oh.

When did—

“Oi, Herbivore, eyes on me.”

Leona's voice snaps you out of your overactive mind in an instant, as if your entire being knew that its main focus should be the person right in front of you. The person that had your left cheek cupped in his hand that could easily cover your entire face up if he wanted to do so.

But he won't. Especially when you haven't flinched away when you both knew how keen you were with keeping to yourself.

He would've backed off the moment you showed any reluctance. After all, your comfort is his priority. But you haven't shown him the slightest bit of discomfort and he was willing to take the chance to assume that perhaps he wasn't just seeing things when he thought you looked at him in a way no way else had before.

And by the Sevens were the two of you so compatible as similarly, your brain had decided to grow blank with only one thought to entertain it with.

No beastman should ever look that soft.

And yet, he does.

Because of me.

What the hell were you thinking? You weren't even fully conscious when you dragged your body to find his after your little crisis half an hour ago.

You supposed that that was simply another thing you aren't sure of.

“Herbivore, c'mon. Look at me. You can't possibly ignore me when you were the one who insisted on meeting up.” He almost whispers and you could've sworn that your heart had melted faster than anything under the scorching sun.

You almost felt like defying him just to see how far he'll go.

But you look at him anyways— eyes peering right into his viridescent ones that shined so ethereally under the setting sun.

You met this vile, vile man's gaze, growing worried as the sound of birds chirping could've beaten the quiet volume your voice had taken. Still, you spoke, albeit without any thinking,

“Oh, God, I like you.”

And at this point? That was apparently the one thing you were sure of.

★ END NOTE: hiiii, I REALLY like Leona and SHORT YAP!! I always felt like he'll be the kind of love where you'll suddenly realize that you love him one day. Maybe the realization gets prompted because of how comforting he is, idk 👉👈 anyways!! header by me and stuff :D!

[formulafanfics13]

The Podium Princess - MV1, PG10, LN4, LH44, CL16, OP81 🔥

masterlist

Request

They called her the trophy. Not to her face, no one was that bold, but behind closed doors, in locker rooms and paddocks, in late-night strategy meetings when the real prize had already been won. Not points. Not podiums. Her.

She wasn't a model. Wasn't PR. Wasn't on payroll or affiliated with any team. No last name in the paddock. No title. Just her. Always in the right place at the right time. Always watching. Always waiting.

There were rumours. That Toto had hired her. That Christian had tried to. That she'd once broken Max in two and left Lando shaking. That Lewis kissed her ankle after Japan '21 and whispered something in her ear that made her cry, and still came first the next weekend.

She never spoke publicly. Never posted. Never smiled for the cameras. But after every race, every time the confetti hit the air, she was already waiting. The three podium finishers. Gold, silver, bronze. First, second, third.

They knew what came next.

She was the reward. The ritual. The tradition unspoken but carved into the sport. And every man on the grid wanted to earn her.

She was already waiting in the suite. Monza's podium had ended hours ago. Champagne sprayed, interviews given, suits half-unzipped and post-race high still vibrating in the air. The hotel room, booked before the race even started, was lit with soft amber lighting. Warm. Clean. No cameras.

And she was on her knees. Naked. Waiting. The door opened. Max stepped in first. Always. His footsteps were slow, measured. Calm fury. Gold medal draped around his neck, champagne still lingering on his throat, jaw clenched.

He didn't say hello. He never did. He just walked to her, grabbed her chin, and tilted her head up. "You watched?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Who did you want to win?"

"I I wanted you to-"

"Good."

He dropped his hand. Unzipped. Let his race suit hang at his waist as he stared down at her. Cold eyes. Hot rage. "You'll thank me later for making sure they didn't get first."

She didn't ask who they was. Because Charles and Lando were behind him.

Charles closed the door gently. Shrugged off his jacket. Smiled. Soft and unbothered. Lando was already panting. Hands in his curls, pacing like he couldn't wait another second. Silver medal hanging crooked against his chest.

"You looked so pretty in the paddock," Charles murmured. "You wear that dress for us?"

She nodded. "For the podium."

"Our podium," Max snapped.

"Only ours," Lando added quickly.

She tried to speak again, but Max stepped forward and grabbed her hair. "No talking unless we tell you."

She whimpered.

Charles walked behind her and trailed his fingers down her spine. "You're shaking already, bébé. You want us that bad?"

"She's wet already," Lando said, crouching in front of her. His fingers dipped between her thighs without permission. "Fuck. She's dripping."

"Because she knows what she's here for," Max growled.

"She's a toy," Charles said softly. "Not a girl. A reward."

Lando moaned. "She's our reward."

Max grabbed her by the throat and pushed her down. "Open your mouth."

She did. Fast. Eager.

"God, she's trained," Charles muttered.

Max shoved his cock past her lips without hesitation. "Not gentle," he snapped. "She doesn't deserve gentle. Not after watching them on the podium too."

Tears welled in her eyes as Max fucked her mouth, fast, deep. His hand never left her hair. Her throat burned. Her hands shook. She moaned around him like she liked it.

Behind her, Charles was spreading her knees wider. "She's shaking," he said. "Look at her, Max. She's falling apart already."

Lando sat on the bed, stroking himself slowly, watching them with glazed eyes. "Can I have her mouth next?" he asked, desperate.

"You can have whatever's left of her," Max grunted.

He pulled out, her spit glistening on his cock. Her jaw ached. Her eyes were already ruined.

"Up," Charles said. "Hands on the bed."

She obeyed. Still silent. Still their toy.

Lando moved behind her, guiding himself into her mouth with shaky fingers. "God-fuck-she missed me."

Max stood behind her now, staring down at her ass, the way her body trembled. "She's not ready for both."

"She'll take it," Charles said calmly, dragging a hand through her hair. "She always does."

Max pushed inside. No warning. No gentleness. She screamed around Lando's cock. She was full. Too full. One in her mouth. One in her cunt. Body caught between them, stretched and used.

Charles sat beside her head, petting her hair. "That's it, sweetheart. Let the podium take its prize."

"She's mine," Max growled.

"She's ours," Lando gasped, fucking her mouth harder.

"Don't come yet," Charles said softly. "She hasn't even begged."

Max slapped her ass. "Beg."

She moaned. Tried. Choked.

"Beg."

She sobbed. "Please-use me-need you-want to be-your prize-your toy-please-please-"

"That's a good girl," Charles whispered.

They fucked her harder. Tears ran down her face. Her body shook. They didn't stop. Because she was theirs. And they had earned her.

She didn't know how long she'd been on her knees. Couldn't remember how many times she'd moaned, how many times Lando had kissed her cheek and whispered "good girl" while fucking her throat like he couldn't breathe without it. Her body was shaking. Fucked open from behind, stuffed full in the front. Every nerve fried.

But it wasn't over. Not even close. Because Max, still behind her, still deep inside her, pulled out just long enough to grab his phone from the bedside table. And pressed record. "Keep her still," he snapped at Charles.

Charles leaned forward immediately, one hand in her hair, the other around her waist. "Open your mouth wider," he whispered against her ear. "Max wants a good shot."

She tried. Gagged. Lando groaned. "Fuck, that's it. You're so fucking pretty like this."

Max stepped back, phone tilted slightly down. The screen lit her up. On all fours. Face soaked. Lips wrapped around Lando's cock. Ass red. Pussy dripping. Her whole body shaking like a ruined toy. And that's what Max wanted to remember.

He circled them, slow, camera rolling. "Look at her," he muttered. "Taking it like she was made for this. Like her only purpose is to be fucked by the podium."

"She's better than a trophy," Lando said, fucking her mouth deeper. "Trophies don't cry."

"She lives to cry for us," Charles added, kissing her neck.

She moaned around Lando's cock, a wet, broken sound.

Max reached around, spread her ass with one hand, filmed her pussy stretched open, slick and swollen. "Say it," he growled. "Tell the camera whose you are."

She choked. Could barely breathe.

Charles whispered in her ear again. "Go on, ma belle. Tell him. Say you belong to the winners."

She sobbed. "I-belong-to the podium-only-the podium-please-"

Max groaned. "Fuck, she's perfect."

He tossed the phone on the bed, still recording, still angled perfectly, and slammed back into her. She screamed. The force knocked her forward, throat tightening around Lando's cock. Lando let out a strangled moan, both hands gripping her hair now.

Charles slid in front of her again. "Too much?"

She shook her head, tears spilling.

"Good," he said, kissing her forehead.

Max was relentless. Deep, brutal thrusts. Skin slapping. Filthy sounds echoing in the room. "Gonna come in her," he grunted. "She'll feel it for days."

"Not until I do," Lando panted.

"She'll take both," Charles murmured. "She always does."

Lando came first. Deep. Loud. Hands fisting in her hair. She gagged as he spilled down her throat. He moaned her name. Said "thank you" like she was something holy.

Then Max. He didn't warn her. Just shoved in harder, filled her up, grabbed the phone again to record her shaking body as he came. Pressed the lens to her back, her ass, the mess dripping out of her. "She's mine," he said.

And Charles? Charles pulled her up by the throat, kissed her mouth full of Lando's come, then whispered in French, something filthy, something possessive, and came all over her chest, groaning as she collapsed in his arms.

The three of them stood there. Breathless. Spent. She was twitching on the bed. Mouth open. Eyes half-closed. Body leaking from both ends. The phone was still recording. And Max was still smiling. "Podium earned."

*

Japan was quiet. Until it wasn't. The hotel suite had been prepared hours before the checkered flag. Same champagne chilling in the bucket. Same lighting. Same velvet chair in the corner for watching. Same bed in the middle of the room. And her. Already on her knees.

Hair brushed. Skin lotioned. Collar on. Nothing else. Her body was still sore from Monza. Still marked from Charles' teeth, from Max's fingers. Her throat had healed. Her thighs hadn't.

But she was here. Because they'd won her. Again. Max entered first. As always. He didn't greet her. He never did. Just walked straight to her, gripped her jaw, tilted her face up to inspect her. "You missed me?"

She nodded, lips parted.

"Show me."

She leaned in and kissed the tip of his cock through his race suit. Once. Twice. Reverent.

He smiled. Cold. "Good girl."

Then Lewis walked in. And everything changed. Because Lewis wasn't Max. He didn't need to speak first. He just walked to the window, took off his jewelry slowly, placed it on the dresser one piece at a time. Watched her reflection in the glass. "She looks nervous," he said calmly.

"She should be," Max replied, already undoing his zipper. "She's got a lot to take tonight."

Then Pierre. Bronze. Third. First time on the right side of this room. He stopped at the door like he'd walked into a dream. "Fuck," he whispered.

She turned her head, eyes locking with his. Wide. Wet. Waiting.

"She's beautiful," he breathed. "You weren't exaggerating."

"She's better than beautiful," Max said, walking behind her. "She's obedient."

Pierre stepped closer. Crouched in front of her. Reached out, hesitated. "Can I-?"

"She's yours," Lewis said, finally turning around. "For the night, she belongs to us."

Pierre's hand touched her face. Soft. Awestruck. "She's warm," he whispered.

Lewis moved behind her. "She's always warm for winners."

Max was already stroking himself. "Let's show him how it works."

They guided her to the bed. Pierre sat at the edge. She crawled between his legs like instinct. Mouth open. Max climbed behind her, spreading her thighs wide. Lewis stayed by the dresser. Watching. Unbuttoning his shirt with slow precision.

"Go ahead," Max told Pierre. "She'll take you."

Pierre moaned the moment she wrapped her lips around him. "Jesus Christ."

"She's good," Max said, lining himself up. "But she cries better."

And then he was inside her. Rough. Deep. Immediate. She gagged around Pierre's cock. Her knees buckled.

Lewis walked to the side of the bed and leaned down. "Don't stop." 

Her eyes were already wet. Pierre had his hands in her hair. "She's- fuck- she's tight."

"She's always tight," Max groaned, thrusting harder. "I ruin her and she still grips like it's her first time."

"She's making noise," Lewis said, kneeling beside her. "Open wider."

She tried. Moaned. Shook. "Good girl."

Max grabbed her hips and pulled her back harder. "She'll come just from being used like this. Watch."

Pierre looked like he couldn't breathe. "She's taking both of us..."

"She can take three," Lewis murmured. "Kiss her."

Pierre leaned in, kissed her mouth between thrusts. "You're so fucking good."

Max was panting now. "Touch her clit."

Lewis reached down, found her swollen bud, and rubbed slow circles. She screamed.

Pierre moaned. "She's gonna-fuck-"

"She's allowed," Lewis said. "Let her come for us."

She came hard. Loud. Her whole body trembling as Max didn't stop. As Pierre fucked her throat like it was the only place he wanted to live. As Lewis kept his finger on her clit until her hips jerked from the overstimulation.

And still, none of them stopped. Because the podium never finishes first. She wasn't speaking anymore. Not because she wasn't allowed. But because she couldn't. Her voice had cracked an hour ago.

Her mouth was raw from Lando. Her cunt was swollen from Max. Her whole body was shaking, red, marked, pulsing with every heartbeat. And she was still taking them. Because it was Suzuka. And the podium hadn't finished.

Pierre had just come in her mouth. Soft moans. Apologetic hands. A trembling thank you like he didn't know what else to say.

Max had pulled out mid-fuck just to smear himself across her back, panting curses in Dutch, promising to do it harder next time.

But Lewis? Lewis hadn't even started yet. He stood by the bed like a king waiting for silence. Shirtless. Calm. Gold chain still hanging against his chest. His hand stroked his cock slowly, not because he needed to, but because he liked making her wait.

Pierre sat back in the velvet chair, legs spread, shirt undone. Watching her like art. "She's perfect," he whispered. "You were right."

"She's not perfect," Max muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed, still breathing hard. "She's ours."

Lewis finally spoke. "Lift her."

Max grabbed her under the arms. Pierre moved to help, hands gentle even as she whimpered. They laid her flat across the bed. Back arched. Arms above her head. Legs trembling, spread.

Lewis stepped between them. Looked down. "Been a while, huh?" he murmured, rubbing her clit with two fingers. "Last time was Spa. You remember?"

She nodded. Barely.

He slid two fingers in. She cried out. "So tight," he said. "Still greedy after all that cock."

Then, without warning, he pushed in. All of him. She screamed.

Lewis didn't flinch. Didn't slow. "Deep breath, baby."

He started to fuck her slow. Deep. Deliberate.

Max stroked her cheek, watching her cry. "She loves it."

"She was made for it," Lewis said, thrusting harder. "A hole for winners."

Pierre swallowed hard. "Can I... try her again?"

Max laughed. "Not like that."

Lewis grinned, pulled out. "Flip her."

They moved her like a doll. Onto her stomach. Ass up. Face pressed into the sheets.

"Ever done both at once?" Pierre asked.

Max smiled. "Of course."

Lewis got on the bed behind her. Lined up again. "Hold her mouth open," he said.

Pierre moved in front. Palmed her cheek. "You ready?"

She nodded.

"Good girl."

And then, both.

Lewis pushed into her cunt. Pierre pushed into her mouth. She choked. Moaned. Cried. Her body shuddered.

"Holy fuck," Pierre gasped. "She's, Jesus-"

Lewis grabbed her hips. "Take it."

Max stood behind them, filming again. "Look at this fucking mess," he muttered. "All for us."

Pierre fucked her mouth faster. Lewis hit deeper. Harder. She came again, screaming around Pierre's cock.

"God- she's coming again-"

"Let her," Lewis growled.

She collapsed. Legs shaking. Body twitching. And Lewis didn't stop.

"Gonna come in her," he said. "She needs to feel it."

Pierre moaned. "Me too- fuck- I'm-" He spilled in her mouth. Groaned like he couldn't believe it. "She swallowed-fuck-thank you-thank you-"

Lewis came inside her seconds later. Gripped her hips like he was claiming her. "Stuffed," he whispered. "You're full, baby."

She moaned into the sheets. Boneless. Gone. And the podium? Satisfied. For now.

*

She was already panting when the door closed.

Qatar heat still clung to her skin, sweat slick between her thighs. The podium had finished late, media delayed them, the champagne sticky on their suits, but the minute the suite door shut, everything changed.

Lando threw his medal on the floor. Oscar locked the door. 

Lewis didn't speak. He just walked to her, slow, controlled, and touched her chin. "You look nervous."

"I-I'm okay," she whispered.

He tilted her face up. "You remember what happens when you lie to me?"

She swallowed.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed. "She's shaking."

Lando was already shirtless, pacing like a tiger. "She knows what's coming."

Lewis smirked. "Then let's get started."

She was naked in minutes. Bent over the bed, arms stretched forward, thighs open. Lando already between them, two fingers buried in her soaked pussy, grinning like it was Christmas. "She missed me," he muttered. "She's soaking."

"Because she's ours now," Oscar said, sliding behind her, kissing her spine. "She knows who she belongs to."

Lewis sat in the chair. Watching. Palming himself through his trousers. Calm. Calculating. "She's been good," he said. "Let her come once."

Lando immediately curled his fingers up. Oscar pressed against her from behind, whispering filth in her ear. "Come for the podium, baby."

She did. Hard. Loud. Her knees buckled. Her voice broke. And then, the tone shifted.

Lewis stood. Walked behind her. Touched the small of her back. "You ready for more?" he asked.

She nodded. He kissed her temple. "Good. Because tonight, we're using your ass."

She froze.

Lando moaned under his breath. "Holy shit, are we really?"

"She's ready," Lewis said. "We've trained her. She's taken us all. It's time."

Oscar kissed her shoulder. "You trust us, don't you?"

She whimpered. "Yes."

"Then breathe," Lewis whispered. "And stay still."

They took their time. Not out of kindness, out of intention. Oscar was the first to prepare her. Lube. Two fingers at first. Then three. Slow, slow, slow. She cried into the sheets, thighs shaking.

Lewis whispered by her ear. "Don't hold your breath, baby."

She exhaled.

Oscar twisted his fingers. "She's so tight."

"She's never been taken there," Lando said, climbing on the bed beside her. "Let me have her mouth."

"Take it," Lewis said. "She can multitask."

She opened for Lando automatically, gagging around him as Oscar worked deeper behind her. And Lewis? Lewis knelt beside the bed, fingers stroking her spine. "Good girl. Keep breathing."

She moaned around Lando's cock.

Oscar pulled his fingers out. "She's ready."

And then Oscar pushed in. Her body arched. She screamed around Lando.

Lewis held her down. "Shh," he soothed. "You're okay. Just breathe. That's it. Let it burn."

Oscar didn't stop. Thrust deeper. Slower. "She's fucking incredible," he muttered. "She's squeezing so tight."

Lando fucked her throat harder, watching her tears spill. "She's crying."

"She's allowed," Lewis said. "She's being broken in."

Oscar groaned. "She's taking all of me- fuck-"

Lewis leaned in and kissed her lips, just beside where Lando's cock split them open. "You're perfect," he whispered. "Our little slut."

Oscar's pace picked up. Lando came in her mouth, deep, loud, moaning her name. Then Lewis climbed on the bed behind Oscar. "Move," he ordered.

Oscar pulled out, just long enough for Lewis to shove in, harder. She screamed again. Her whole body writhed, shaking violently.

Lewis grabbed her throat. "Breathe."

She gasped. Choked. Came again, ruined. Lewis didn't stop.

"Now you belong to all of us," he growled.

[beffrmin]

SKZ OT8 Smut Headcannons.

Hey, so I am a new writer.. let's not hate too much? Everything I write is just what I imagine from their personalities.. and how I will get used to writing them, for right now.. so yeah.

For my beginning, first post, or whatever you want to call this.. I want to establish that this is just for fun.. I do not mean harm to any of the idols I write about. This is just from a curious and open mind.

This is set up kind of like one of those "pick your poison," kind of posts, so just go down the list and find your bias if that is all your here for.. if not, then with your interest here as someone looking for stories, this is going to be how their sexual preferences are for these fictions. Before I make a full story, I will upload bits and pieces of small stories to adjust with writing their personalities.

So, without a further a due :

‼️WARNIGS:‼️ This is sexual content and only 18+ should interact with this.‼️MDNI‼️If you are easily disturbed by BDSM and/or anything besides vanilla sex, this content is not for you.‼️

Thank you...

Christopher Chan Bahng. ؛ ଓ

˙ᵕ˙ Basics..

ᝰ.ᐟ "Nah, let's just wrap 'em up." Listen, he has seven grown ass children.. take the damn condom or get no dick.

ᝰ.ᐟ Daddy Dom. It's undeniable at this point. Chan likes being called daddy, he likes taking care of you, after he has wrecked you. He likes being able to discipline you, when you act out.

ᝰ.ᐟ Face-off. This is his favorite position. He likes you in his lap, facing him, while he sat straight up, fucking into you. Yes, usually it would be riding.. but Chan isn't really into that, he wants to control your orgasms and make you cry.

ᝰ.ᐟ Boobs or Ass? Ass.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-ons..

ᝰ.ᐟ Angry Sex. Let's just say, he enjoys this so much, he'll sometimes picks fights with his members, just to come home and fuck all of that anger into the mattress with you.

ᝰ.ᐟ Light Bondage. Bondage gets very iffy with Chan. He doesn't want to hurt you, so his quick fix to it is truly a way you can enjoy it and he doesn't have to worry too much.. he will only tie the wrist and the ankles.

ᝰ.ᐟ Pet names and Praises. Not many things turn Chan on, that are non-sexual.. but when he does something for you and you use just the right pet-name, praising him for it.. he feels the heat picks up and he just wants to fuck you right there..

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-offs..

ᝰ.ᐟ Humiliation. He hates this, not only for you, but for him too. He hates having to humiliate you or your sex life, just to get off. It makes him feel icky and he goes soft. It's intimate and he wants to make you feel that way.

ᝰ.ᐟ Impact Play. If he needs to discipline you, he will in other ways. He doesn't feel right laying a hand on you, even if you consent to it. It's just the type of man he is.

Lee Minho. ؛ ଓ

˙ᵕ˙ Basics..

ᝰ.ᐟ "Fuck the condom, I don't care.." No, because he actually despises condoms.

ᝰ.ᐟ Bratty and, slightly, Sadistic Dom. Minho is a Brat tramer who responds to a Brat, by being bratty. He also can be extremely sadistic. You're bratting him in public? "Don't make me fuck your slutty cunt, right here in front of everybody, baby.."

ᝰ.ᐟ Missionary. This is his favorite position, mostly, because he does have a lot of control in this position. Plus, when he cums inside of you, it feels almost primal to him in that position. The most intimate.

ᝰ.ᐟ Boobs or Ass? Boobs.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-ons..

ᝰ.ᐟ Control. Minho loves watching you crawl and beg for him. He loves to play the games. Anyway he can control you, he will try. Mind games, humiliation, or even dirty talk. He just likes watching you get flushed.

ᝰ.ᐟ Thigh Riding. He will sit there for hours, watching you use his thigh to rut against. He will sit there and rock you back and forth, while he palms at himself and whispers dirty approvals to you.

ᝰ.ᐟ Dumbification. Minho will give the most shit eating grin during sex if he realizes he made you go dumb, which, at that point, leads to his agenda being: make her into a zombie.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-offs..

ᝰ.ᐟ Blood Play. He is a freak, but Minho draws a solid line at the sight of blood. That is just not his cup of tea and he panics the moment he sees it. He wants to be rough with you, not hurt you.

ᝰ.ᐟ Knife Play. Knife Play equals drawing blood, which equals a solid, hard no from Minho.

Seo Changbin. ؛ ଓ

˙ᵕ˙ Basics..

ᝰ.ᐟ "I'll just pull out." There is really no telling with Bin, he might wear one or he might not.

ᝰ.ᐟ Brat Tamer. Changbin loves a challenge. His challenge is often you. Which means, for him to be able to break you into a bed, he has to get you to behave right.. which is mostly physical restraint.

ᝰ.ᐟ Up Against the Wall. Legs wrapped around him, while he thrusts into you, while you against the wall. It's his favorite position, mostly, because it shows you how strong he is.. being able to pick you up and fuck you like that.

ᝰ.ᐟ Boobs or Ass? Both.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-ons..

ᝰ.ᐟ Filming. He loves to film you and the intimate time that goes in between the two of you. He doesn't post it. No, he just saves it for his own later uses, but he loves the films a little more, knowing he had your trust while filming it.

ᝰ.ᐟ Marking. Bin isn't really a jealous person. He knows all to well that you would never cheat on him.. but other men have wandering eyes and he doesn't like that too much. So, hickeys and bite marks. Everywhere. His pants get tighter every time he sees one.

ᝰ.ᐟ Power Play. As much as Bin hates to admit it, he really does have a thing for out-powering you. He likes knowing he could bend you over at any minute to fuck you senseless.. so sometimes you please him with a little free-use here and there.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-offs..

ᝰ.ᐟ Sharing. This is a big no from Changbin. To be honest with you, if you even bring the idea up to him, he might low-key crash the fuck out on you. He isn't too fond of having to share what is his, especially with his dumbass members.

ᝰ.ᐟ Impact Play. Listen.. Bin is strong, he doesn’t want to accidentally hurt you in some shape or form. He would rather just avoid it at all costs. He will physically restrain you all day, but hitting is something he won’t do.

Hwang Hyunjin. ؛ ଓ

˙ᵕ˙ Basics..

ᝰ.ᐟ "If you don't care, I won't use it.." Yeah, Hyunjin is a firm believer that it feels so much better without a condom.

ᝰ.ᐟ Voyeurism Dom. He is the kind of man who wants to watch you touch yourself for hours, torturing you with the fact that he could make you feel so much better than toys and fingers.

ᝰ.ᐟ Cowgirl. This is his favorite position, mostly for the reason he can see all of you. He loves watching you fuck yourself on his cock.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-ons..

ᝰ.ᐟ Threesomes. This is something he suggests.. not to get another girl in for, but to get Felix in for. This man actually loves watching another man take you. It makes him feel even better when he's watching you take him and his best friend at the same time.

ᝰ.ᐟ Oral Fixation. He gives amazing head.. like ungodly, unreal, great head. But he has a fixation with watching you suck him off.. it's like he's more into watching you do it, rather than the actual pleasure that comes from it.

ᝰ.ᐟ Cum Play. He will cum inside you.. fuck it in some.. play it while it is sobbing out of your pussy.. keep fucking it in.. then out of nowhere, rub it onto your tits and lips.. then continue to fuck his cum into you.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-offs..

ᝰ.ᐟ Bondage. Yeah, uhm, he is terrified of hurting you in any way, at all, whatsoever. He said, "I love you, but no. It can cut your circulation and I don't feel comfortable doing that to you." He was at least respectful.

ᝰ.ᐟ Impact Play. Also for the same reasons as bondage. He just doesn't feel comfortable laying a hand on you in a way that could hurt you. It would honestly make him feel like shit.

Han Jisung. ؛ ଓ

˙ᵕ˙ Basics..

ᝰ.ᐟ "Shit.. I forgot the condom again.." He tries to use one, but Jisung gets so pussy-drunk, he just totally blanks putting one on.

ᝰ.ᐟ Pleasure Dom. He wants you shaking. His main focus is you and your pleasure. This can often get mistaken as a service dom, but the difference is a pleasure dom is more pussy-drunk and much more gentle.

ᝰ.ᐟ Face-sitting. He doesn't exactly have a favorite position.. he just wants you to sit on his face. That is the only way he wants you and prefers to have you: humping your clit into his nose, while he tongue devours your core.

ᝰ.ᐟ Boobs or Ass? Pussy.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-ons..

ᝰ.ᐟ Face-fucking. Listen, Jisung isn't rough.. but when you brought up the idea, he was iffy on it. Well, turns out he fucking loves it. He feels bad making you cry and hurting you, but he can't get over how pretty you sound gagging and choking on his cock. He always apologizes right after.

ᝰ.ᐟ Moaning. He goes feral the moment he hears you moan. It like flicks this switch in his head and he starts going deeper.. then deeper.. then next thing you know he is starting to speed up.

ᝰ.ᐟ Marking. His is a bit different from the usual marking kink. Jisung really loves finding scratch marks on him after sex, he later brags about them to Minho.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-offs..

ᝰ.ᐟ Roleplay. Jisung is not the biggest fan of it. Not for the reason he hates it, but he really can't take it seriously enough to stay hard. He would start laughing and try to understand how this was how you wanted to enjoy your night, instead of him giving you a toe curling orgasm.

ᝰ.ᐟ Impact Play. Also, just not the biggest fan of it. He doesn't really like the idea of raising his hands at a woman. The most physical he will get is light tugs to your hair, but hitting is stepping a line for him.

Lee Felix. ؛ ଓ

˙ᵕ˙ Basics..

ᝰ.ᐟ "Com'on, darlin'.. we need to be careful.." The thought of becoming a father scares Felix..

ᝰ.ᐟ Service Dom. His pleasure is completely your pleasure. That is how he gets off to you. He has little things he asks for, but most of the time his focus, is your pleasure.

ᝰ.ᐟ Missionary. This is what feels most natural to him. It's his way of showing you all of his love, plus he loves eye contact.

ᝰ.ᐟ Boobs or Ass? Both.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-ons..

ᝰ.ᐟ Anal. This was a shock to you. When he asked you to roll over, you thought this man was going to be hitting it from the back and all you got was a pop and a cock into the ass. He just has a thing for ruining every hole.

ᝰ.ᐟ Cock-warming. This was something that you two found out accidentally. More like, you found out accidentally, he was just trying to game. Now, every time he games, you have to be there sitting pretty and still for him.

ᝰ.ᐟ Breath Play. He surprised this one on you, but you didn't debunk. It was extremely iffy to be honest. You two looked into it a little better and next thing you know, Felix loved it. He loved the feeling of you panting and trying to catch your breath underneath him.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-offs..

ᝰ.ᐟ Blood Play. Felix just doesn't want to hurt you. This also disqualifies knife play. He does not like the thought of hurting you or making you bleed.

ᝰ.ᐟ Impact Play. Same thing as the blood play. It doesn't sit right with him, raising a hand at a woman for no reason, not even for his own pleasure.

Kim Seungmin. ؛ ଓ

˙ᵕ˙ Basics..

ᝰ.ᐟ "I am not trying to be like Chan." Yeah, don't try to convince him otherwise.

ᝰ.ᐟ Rigger Dom. What can he say? He has a thing for ropes. Most of all, he loves seeing you in ropes. He has every ounce of control when he is on top of you and you're restrained down. That's a type of trust that lights a fire in him.

ᝰ.ᐟ Arched Doggy. Face down, ass up, hands tied behind your back, that's the way he loves to fuck.

ᝰ.ᐟ Boobs or Ass? Boobs.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-ons..

ᝰ.ᐟ Mirror Sex. He made you get a mirror in your bedroom, that way he could watch himself fuck you. Both of you have mirrors in your rooms, facing the bed for this purpose. Seungmin will even go as far as to grab your hair and force your head up to watch.

ᝰ.ᐟ Cum Denial. This is the real Seungmin now.. ties you up, teases you for hours on end, just for his pleasure. He likes seeing you writhe away into the bed, making you cry, as he pulls the vibrator back to deny you again.

ᝰ.ᐟ Dacryphilia. His dick twitches the moment he sees tears during sex. He will do everything to make more of them slip. Seungmin has the firm belief that you look beautiful when you cry.. plus, he has to be doing a good job, if you're crying about it.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-offs..

ᝰ.ᐟ Bodily Fluids or Vile. This means no blood, no piss, no shit. He doesn't do that nasty shit. He would rather have sex with Changbin, before you try to arouse him with your bodily fluids.

ᝰ.ᐟ Feet. This man will not kiss you head to toe. This man will kiss you head to shin, before he starts gagging, because, he is way too close to a foot. He loves you, there is nothing wrong with your feet, he just hates feet.

Yang Jeongin. ؛ ଓ

˙ᵕ˙ Basics..

ᝰ.ᐟ "Okay, baby.. if you insist." Jeongin wanted the condom at first, but it was so easy to talk him out of it.

ᝰ.ᐟ Gentle Dom. He's sweet. Like everything he does is in your mind. Everything he does is out of love for you. That's what makes him so special. Every touch, he appreciates you like some masterpiece.

ᝰ.ᐟ Cunnilingus. Jeongin doesn't have a favorite position. He likes to eat you out. Right between your legs, while you lay back doing whatever you want. Your thighs squish his head, just a bit, every time something feels just a little too good. That is what he wants.

ᝰ.ᐟ Boobs or Ass? Thighs.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-ons..

ᝰ.ᐟ Public Sex. This is the freakiest he has gotten. Every time you guys are out, he wants inside your pants. For some reason, he has the biggest fixation with quickies when the Kids are nearby. He'll hear one of them coming and, "Baby, come sit on my lap.."

ᝰ.ᐟ Praising. He loves praising you. He found out if he praises you at just the right time and with the right words, your walls hug him in ways that make him nearly bust.

ᝰ.ᐟ Breeding. After suggesting no condoms to this boy, he was a bit nervous about it.. then you realized it awoken something in him. That being, he really likes the idea and the risk of filling you, stuffing you, and possibly.. getting you pregnant. It's just a fantasy of his.

˙ᵕ˙ Turn-offs..

ᝰ.ᐟ Pet Play. He isn't kink shaming, he just doesn't get the point in it. He thinks it's something a little strange and it isn't something he really wants to test the waters with.

ᝰ.ᐟ Sharing. Jeongin does not show it, but he is a jealous person. He doesn't like other men looking at you, why would he be okay with them sleeping with you? You are his and his alone. And he's pussy-whipped.

[malereadermaniac]

(;¬_¬) "Maniac" - Bryce Callahan x Male Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Plot: Bryce will proudly say he dated you "for laughs" and call you a "psycho", a "stalker", or a "maniac". But it's the ginger who shows up at your door drunk and spam texts you; not the other way around...

Note: Inspired by Conan Gray's 'Maniac' AND 'Wish You Were Sober' ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ Also sorry if he's ooc - game isn't out yet and I haven't played the demo!

Warnings: m!reader (no genitalia mentioned) / FDNI Some nsfw mentions but no smut!

You and Bryce started out as friends. All in all, he was pretty chill with you being gay, but he still had his homophobic tendencies and would always make comments. You put up with it, though. You could see through the wrestler's act; you knew that deep down he was having some sort of internal conflict and displacing it onto you.

Your friendship got to the point where Bryce would invite you out to parties. It wasn't that you weren't ever invited before; you just never really had a reason or a desire to hang around a bunch of your drunk classmates in a dirty frat house. You were quite content chilling with your small group of friends. But nonetheless, now that Bryce was inviting you, you were given a reason to go. Could be fun... Right?

Slowly but surely, over a couple months' worth of frat parties, you noticed a pattern in Bryce's behaviour. Your theories and guesses of what made the ginger so insecure and homophobic were answered. The night would always start with Bryce picking you up in his car and pulling up to the function. Sure, near the start of each night, the two of you would hang out, but it took very little to separate the two of you; you would mingle with whoever came up to you, and as soon as Bryce had a drink in hand, he would try to get with girls. Of course, you noticed this. And yeah, it irked you a little, but you didn't really have the right to get annoyed or angry with Bryce; it's not like he was your boyfriend. Bryce, on the other hand, usually didn't even wanna get with whatever girl he was flirting with that night. The insecure man would never admit that he never really felt some sort of spark or even attraction, but he felt obligated to flirt and get 'bitches'.

'trade drinks, but you don't even know her'

The next thing that you were certain would happen is Bryce getting absolutely plastered. For him, that is. You could tell from your first look at the massive hunk that he could handle his drink. So, though the amount Bryce drinks at every party would be enough to put someone into a coma, it just gets the wrestler to a comfortable drunk. Words slurring and knees buckling. You can always tell when Bryce is drunk, and you always notice it. He gets nicer, more honest, and he starts to lose that 'alpha-male' act he always puts on.

'knees weak but you talk pretty fly, wow'

Then, without a doubt, once Bryce spots you in his drunken state, he's all over you. He's slurring every couple of words, he's complimenting you a lot, and he always gets way too close for comfort. You always end up in the corner of some busy room, music quietly playing amongst other people's chatter, as Bryce keeps sipping on his beer and talking to you as if he's trying to chat you up. "Bryce... I think you've drunk a bit too much haha..." You always try to laugh it off. The first few times he did this, you gave Bryce the benefit of the doubt. You assumed he was too drunk to even know it was you, or that he was just being a dick n joking around. But the more he did this, the more he slurred your name specifically, the more he drunkenly mumbled about how shitty he feels and how he feels fake, you realised that wasn't the case. Over time, Bryce would get more confident; his attempts at wooing girls would get shorter and shorter, he'd get drunk quicker and quicker, and he'd flirt with you for bigger chunks of the night. His confidence could also be seen in the moments he shared with you; he'd start to try kissing you (successfully most of the time), and you could swear that one time he was stone-cold sober and just acted drunk so that he could remember everything the next morning. You felt bad, though, like you were taking advantage of the ginger, or even that he was taking advantage of your kind-hearted nature and the way you'd bend to his will whenever you pitied him or took care of him.

'Don't take a hit, don't kiss my lips, and please don't drink more beer'

After most people had cleared out, you would have to peel Bryce off of you and take him to his car to sober up a little. As more parties passed, you noticed that Bryce would drink more and more. You didn't know why he was doing this, and Bryce didn't either, at least consciously; subconsciously, he was drinking more to be drunk for longer, so that he could have an excuse to spend time with you and be himself. But this meant that you would have to deal with a very drunk Bryce; it also didn't help that you were also quite drunk by the end of the night. What would start as lying down in the backseat and drinking water to sober up would always, without a doubt, quickly turn into making out in Bryce's car. He was always the one to initiate it; overpowering you and lying you down beneath him in the backseat, though you never really fought against it. And though you enjoyed every second of it, enjoyed what felt like an answer to the unspoken chemistry between you and Bryce, enjoyed what felt like genuine flirtations and romance, you couldn't help but wish that Bryce was sober during all of this. You could feel that Bryce was letting the mask of his douche personality slip whenever he was drunk, but you knew that he would never do this when sober; he'd never fully take the mask off.

'Save me 'til the part is over, kiss me in the seat of your Rover - real sweet, but I wish you were sober...'

Eventually, after at least an hour of making out and even going a little further, you would pull Bryce off of you and emphasise that you two had to get going. Obviously, the man couldn't drive in his state, so it was always up to you to walk Bryce home. And it was no easy feat. You'd trip and stumble down the road, Bryce's massive arm swung 'round your shoulder as you practically lugged the hunk down the street. Once you'd get to his place, like clockwork, Bryce would always kiss you again, pulling you in close and begging you to stay over. You always felt that it was too late in the night for Bryce to still be drunk enough to be saying stuff like that, but you never questioned him about it.

'trip down the road, walking you home, you kiss me at your door. Pulling me close, beg me "stay over"'

Yet by the next morning, Bryce is always back to how he was before. Acting as if he hadn't flirted with you for hours and let little things about himself slip. Acting as if you two hadn't shared your most intimate selves with each other. Acting as if he doesn't live for and crave your touch. It was a constant loop. And you were getting bored of it. Though, bored's not exactly the right word. Maybe you were tired of it? Exhausted even? Sad? It doesn't really matter. You were done.

'But I'm over this rollercoaster. Honestly, you always let me down. And I know we're not just "Hanging out"'

You stopped putting up with Bryce's shit. Originally, you tried talking to him; you went 'round his place and confronted him about his very polarising behaviour. Bryce, of course, got defensive very quick. He started out by trying to play off his advances and the intimate moments between the two of you as friendly gestures. But when you wouldn't have it, he started shouting and accusing you of being weird. He, of course, threw out a couple of homophobic comments. He called you gross. The man even told you to 'fuck off, don't wanna see your face, scared I'll catch fag-atitis or something'. That really did it for you. You could handle Bryce's obvious displacement and refusal to confront his own emotions and sexuality, but outright insulting you? Oh yeah, that ginger can fuck off.

So, you put some distance between you and Bryce. Well, more like a lot of distance. You stopped texting him back. You stopped talking to him and seeing him in person. And you stopped going to parties with him; you didn't stop going altogether, you just made a point of not going with him or talking to him throughout the night. As you'd expect, Bryce didn't like this. Though they were buried deep, deep down, the wrestler most certainly had some strong feelings for you. But instead of working through his own shit, Bryce of course kept displacing his turmoil and anger at himself, towards you.

The pattern you had noticed and become accustomed to with Bryce had slightly changed. He'd still try to get with girls at the start of the night, but as he drank, instead of going over to you and flirting with you, he starts shit-talking you to all of his guys. He calls you 'crazy', 'some gay guy [he] was nice to and then [you] fell for him', calls you a 'stalker' that he always catches staring at him and says he 'wants you dead' for that.

'You were with your friends, partyin', when the alcohol kicked in. Said you wanted me dead.'

But for all the smack that Bryce would talk to his friends about you, calling you 'desperate' and many other things, you weren't the one yearningly and achingly trying to get back with him. You weren't the one spam texting, you weren't the one drunk-calling, you weren't the one showing up with roses at Bryce's front door. He was. He was doin' all that to you.

When sober, Bryce would go through moments of spam-texting you under the guise of being stressed that you'd 'expose' him for being gay; though in reality, he just needed you to talk to him, to stop ignoring him, to stop treating him like he was nothing. If it were late at night, the texts would get a lot less agitated and a lot more pathetic; mainly single-word texts of 'sorry' that would be deleted by the morning, or if he got real desperate, Bryce would literally beg you to respond. Again, when drunk, Bryce would constantly shit on you around his friends. But once the party's over? He's at your front door, holding a single rose. It's too late to slam the door on the wrestler; his foot already in the door. You listen to his drunken words, apologies, excuses; really, he's just digging his own grave deeper and deeper.

'But you show up at my home, all alone, with a shovel and a rose. Do you think I'm a joke?'

Whilst you do listen to him, you never actually care for Bryce's desperation. He was drunk when he would tell you he loved you, and would take it back the next morning. What's stopping him from doing the same now? You were also well aware of the amount of shit he was chatting on your name, and that didn't really help his case. After every drunken apology and profession of love, you would send Bryce on his way. It hurt you just seeing him around. Having to hear all this? It was killing you. So you would always just tell him to fuck off back to his friends and to keep up his 'alpha-male' shit. It was the truth, after all.

'cause people like you always want back what they can't have. But I'm past that, and you know that, so you should turn back to your rat-pack, tell 'em I'm trash.'

So he does go back to his friends. And the cycle continues. Bryce keeps calling you 'crazy', says that you 'drive [him] mad', calls you a 'psychopathic watcher ', and says that he 'fucked with you just for laughs'. The polar opposite of what he was saying to you the night before. And the polar opposite of what he'll be telling you later that very night, and the night after that.

'Tell all of your friends that I'm crazy and drive you mad. That I'm such a stalker, a watcher, a psychopath. And tell them you hate me and dated me just for laughs.'

'So why do you call me and tell me you want me back? You maniac.'

This wretched cycle went on for a while. But it came to a very abrupt stop when you got a call late one night. The sound of your ringer and the light of your phone screen woke you up. You saw the caller ID and sighed, but you answered anyway; you had already woken up, and Bryce never called this late; he at least had some sense.

He'd wrecked his car. Crashed it into a tree. He sounded really panicked, hyperventilating and sounding like he'd been crying. Bryce discombobulatingly explained that he didn't know who to call, and that he's sorry if he woke you up, and that he gets it if you don't wanna help him, etcetera, etcetera... You felt bad for him; you couldn't deny that. So, against your better judgment, you drove over and picked him up.

You took Bryce home and thought that would be it. Oh, how wrong you were. The ginger begged you to come in, arguing that he was still shaken up; and though you knew you shouldn't, his strong grip on your wrist and the way he looked with desperate eyes into your, it convinced you. You wiped the tears off of Bryce's face and calmly rubbed your thumbs across his pudgy cheeks. You brewed the man a tea and stroked his auburn hair. It was domestic. It was sweet. It didn't last very long.

'You just went too far, wrecked your car, called me cryin' in the dark - now you're breakin' my heart. So I show up at your place right away, wipe the tears off your face; while you beg me to stay'

The sweet moment slowly escalated into an argument. One in which Bryce was calling you 'crazy and dramatic', arguing that you're reading too deep into things.

'psychopathic, don't be so dramatic'

But you argued back. Like usual; you weren't one to take Bryce's shit.

"I thought we had something, Bryce. You told me that it was nothing, and I STUCK BY THAT! I left you the fuck alone. Like you asked! You're the one whose gone fucking manic now. You're the one who keeps coming back!"

That struck a cord. Mostly 'cause it was true, and Bryce really didn't... no, he couldn't hear it right now.

"Oh just fuck off, (name). I'm so done with your gay shit." Bryce mumbled.

You couldn't help but laugh at him.

"Fine. I'll do as you ask. Again. You need to deal with all that internalised homophobia, Bryce. No one gives a shit if you're gay. It's not the fucking 80s!" You get another jab in before you slam the door shut and head back to your place.

Damn. Why did you always say exactly what Bryce couldn't bear hearing, like you could see right through him?

'We had magic, but you made it tragic. Now you're manic, honestly, I've had it.' 'Listen to yourself, think you need to get some help'

And that was it for a while. Like before, you kept your distance, but this time, Bryce also kept his distance. You were honestly shocked. You expected him to at least go back to his desperate self when he got drunk, but no dice. Radio Silence. And you hated it.

Did that make you toxic? Maybe. You didn't exactly care. You hated that Bryce wasn't spam-texting you. You hated that he wasn't desperately trying to get your attention again. But at the same time, you had to be glad; at least this way, he wouldn't use you like some sort of experiment and then pretend like nothing happened the next day.

But after another month or so, a knock at your door grabbed your attention as you were getting ready for bed. The thought of it being Bryce flashed through your head as you unlocked the door. Why were you hoping it was that dickhead? You rolled your eyes at yourself as you swung the door open, but then ate your words when your wide eyes locked with Bryce's sad ones.

"............ugh" You broke the silence with a scoff. "Lemme guess: you're drunk, you hate me, oh but wait you wanna kiss me, oh wait you're not gay. Did I get it right? Can we just skip all that?" It was snarky. Sure. But by this point, Bryce's behaviour pattern was ingrained into your brain.

"I'm totally sober... Please. I wanna talk." Bryce's eyes remained sad and tired.

The sincerity in his voice was jarring. He wasn't slurring. He was looking you in the eyes. It felt totally different to the song and dance you were used to. So you let him in. You let Bryce talk. And holy shit were you left speechless. It was like a completely different person had taken Bryce's body over. He'd grown, or more like he'd self-reflect, so much in the time you two hadn't spoken.

Bryce explained himself. He didn't make any excuses; in fact, he told you that he didn't want to make excuses for himself and that he didn't deserve your benefit of the doubt. He told you how he felt a pressure to conform, to be what his parents and friends and everyone in general expected him to be. He apologised a lot, and told you many times that you didn't desrve all the shit he put you through and how much he regrets playing with your feelings. But what shocked you most was that at the end of Bryce's mini-speech, he came out to you. Sure, it was reluctant. And it was the way he said it with an upwards inflexion near the end that made it sound like a question, as if Bryce was still unsure. But it was still a massive step forward.

This little chat lasted most of the night. Bryce talked a lot, and then listened a lot when you said your part. But all in all, it was definitely productive; Bryce had fully put down the mask and just spoke to you without any sort of act; it was refreshing. It was 4am by the time the ginger left your place. You allowed him a hug before he left, one hug which lasted at least two whole minutes and was incredibly tight. Seriously, you felt like you were being suffocated... in a good way. The way Bryce's massive, muscular body wrapped around you, you felt cozy, safe. You told him that you couldn't move past all his shitty behaviour just because of one apology, and he completely understood; told you that no matter how desperate he was to make things right, he didn't wanna rush you at all. And honestly? That made your heart pitter-patter just a little faster.

[riddlemearose]

you're taller. how fucking dare you.

“Tune!” Link hears someone yell and, even though it’s been almost two years since he’s heard that name said by that voice, he still recognises it on the spot.

He turns, peering around the armful of supplies he’s holding. There’s a young man in green with a familiar blue scarf approaching them at high speed, just barely below a sprint.

“Din’s tits.” Tetra says from beside Link, baffled.

“You’re seeing this too?” Link asks, and sees her nod out of the corner of his eye.

The Captain skids to a stop in front of them, out of breath, and grins as bright as the sun. “Ha! We found you!”

“How in Cyclos’ damned name are you here?” Link replies, awed, all but dropping the equipment in his arms. The closed crates clatter to the ground, missing the toes of his boots by inches.

“L-long story.” The Captain pants. “Holy shit, you both got taller.”

“That is how the passage of time works.” Tetra immediately counters, a smirk on her face.

The Captain snorts, loud and undignified, and shakes his head, studying them both “How long has it been for both of you?”

“About two years.” Link answers, looking him over as well.

It’s hard to tell but he thinks the Captain looks a bit older. Not by much but just enough to suggest that time had passed. And, way more importantly, Link definitely got taller over the past two years! He comes up to the Captain’s shoulders now.

Ha, that’s a clear sign that Link absolutely will outgrow him. That’s what the Captain gets for spending the entire war teasing him and Mask with stupid shit like ‘What’s the weather down there like?’

Well, his fun and games are all over now because Link is definitely going to have the last laugh! 

“The sword is new.” The Captain eyes the Phantom Sword on Link’s back, a displeased frown tugging at the side of his mouth. “Second quest?”

“Second quest.” Tetra agrees with a dismissive wave of her hand. She squints back at him and teasingly points out, “You don’t look that old yet.”

“Thanks.” The Captain rolls his eyes. “Your concern for my life is very touching.”

“Well, you’re not dead at least.” Link offers, already ducking under the Captain’s retaliating swat that's aimed for the back of his head.

Despite his reaction, the Captain still looks fond. Link needs to tease him about that too: Captain Link, tactician and war hero extraordinaire, has gone soft.

“I do need to speak with you for a second, Tune, before he gets here.” There’s an almost tense edge to his voice, which doesn’t exactly bode well given Link’s past experiences with that tone.

Link frowns. “Who are you—”

“Warriors!” A new voice calls. They both turn to see a man striding towards them. He’s older than the Captain with shiny plate armour and interesting tattoos on one side of his face that Link can't quite make out from a distance.

Link squints at him. There’s… something about him, something that pings in the back of Link’s mind.

“Oh boy.” The Captain – Warriors, Link guesses, though that’s a pretty shit name if it’s really what he’s going by – mumbles under his breath, then waves at the man. “Over here, Time! I found him!”

Time’s face brightens – who’s picking these names they’re horrible – as he smiles, stopping beside them. He looks at Link and his smile turns smug. “Tune! I told you I was going to be taller than you.”

What? Link’s nose scrunches up. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Warriors smacks a hand to his forehead with a near-silent groan, but says nothing. Link peers up at Time’s face. Shit those tattoos are very vivid. And familiar. Why… does he recognise them?

Wait.

Wait.

He’s seen that pattern before. He knows that pattern, WHAT?!

Link splutters and points an accusing finger at Time, furious. “Mask!? When did you get old?! WHEN DID YOU GET TALL?!”

Mask—Time—whatever-his-name-is throws his head back and laughs, somehow managing to retain that smug grin all the while.

“How do you think I feel?” Warriors grumbles in quiet commiseration, his hand still pressed against his forehead.

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU!” Link yells, waving his hands madly. “HE’S TALLER THAN ME!”

Damn every goddess Link can think of. And he’d just celebrated that he was pretty sure he would be taller than the Captain too WHAT THE FUCK?!

“I’m taller than both of you.” Time agrees cheerfully, still looking way too smug.

Link literally has to glare up at him – fuck, he hates that there’s this much of a height difference, Mask is such a DICK – and crosses his arms. “I hate you. How old are you? You look ancient.”

“Older than you.” Time replies instantly, meeting Link’s gaze head-on and completely ignoring his insult.

Rude. Rude.

Link studies him again, this time from a tactical angle rather than a general glance. He thinks, pondering the scheme forming in his mind over for a moment.

… You know what, yeah. He’s pretty confident that he can easily go for Mask’s knees, just like he used to. Mask looks old enough to have forgotten about that trick.

There will be absolutely no consequences for doing this. Link’s got this in the bag; Mask is gonna feel his wrath.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Hello!!! Could you write Caine, Kinger and Pomni x Reader who's been there longer than anyone else? Instead of absolutely losing it, they have managed to just become incredibly calm and just generally used to it and Caines shenanigans.

Caine Kinger and Pomni x reader who's been around the longest but isnt insane

i kind of really want chai cookies rn. and vanilla cupcakes. and lemon drizzle cake. not sure if its like a cue or what because ive been CARNALLY wanting sweet stuff lately but... i dont usually have a sweet tooth.. grrgrr... i hate being on a deficit and meds. messes with my hormones but alas i need my meds notes: gn reader, short and sweet, written on computer, youre actually pretty chill to be around all things considered cws: none

CAINE

you... intrigue him... its not that he wants you to abstract- honestly im on the side of "caine doesnt really mean any genuine harm," for the time being- hes got a lot of feelings for you. curious to see how much longer you can last- not that he wants to see you fold-, and a sense of odd admiration. youve seen a lot of stuff

he feels an attachment to you too, youve been around for so so so long now that youve just become a normal part of the circus at this point, youre like... a part of the coding now- even though youre a real person... youre like.. his buddy! his pal! his partner in crime- not that hes committing any crimes! because crimes are.. crimes! as hed say at least

sometimes you can use this to your advantage to tone him down a little when he gets a little into making his adventures. make him... calmer... reasonable. hes still chaotic and a bit all over the place but you anchor him down just a bit. its probably going to get real weird when you do abstract though

KINGER

honestly... seeing him spiral into his current state was hard to watch. youve seen first hand how he went from this kind and intelligent man to this paranoid mess. not that he isnt kind anymore. he still is, and he tries his best but god- that knowledge of what he used to be sits heavy on you

he instinctively clings onto you because he knows youre familiar even if his memories are all jumbled up. in his eyes youre a safe person so of course hes going to seek you out when he can during adventures- and when its just leisure time in the circus

youre calmer demeanor helps him relax a bit, even without being in the pillow fort. if youre patient enough you can convince him to take a break and spend some time with the others on his worse days

POMNI

her introduction to kinger- assuming this is pre halloween episode- made her think you were going to be a bit... scrambled... too... but shes a bit taken aback at how calm and put together you are. and shes silently thanking you for that- its nice having someone she can actually talk to.. ragathas nice... but you know a little more than her thanks to your time here

though... the fact youve been here for so long does make her feel sick. i dont think shes fully given up on escaping- its just not her main focus right now, save her own mental health or whatever... but you being here for so long does dampen her spirits a bit. so she really is just stuck here, huh?

theres only so much you can do to comfort her, but youve seen so many people come and go in the circus that youve probably got a few ideas on how to tackle her and keep her emotionally anchored long enough to change the subject

[manyegos]

Originally posted on May 3rd, 2023 This movie made me cry. I posted about it before. It really reflected a deep seated pain I had, a trauma I had as a kid. I love that movies and start help us make sense of things that we all go through but no one dares to speak about it. The movie is heavily inspired by the study by Niobe Way on Boys friendships and crisis of connection, titled "Deep Secrets" . . . I happen to have such book next to me. there is this moment in the life of men, when we all stop having such rich incredibly and intense friendships with one another. . . and even with ourselves. This is not an attack to masculinity or a forced advocation for sensitivity and delicate gentleness of males, but rather a conversation of a deep unspoken pain men carry. The movie does have some "imagery" a little over the top given that these are kids and they are boys, but it is not sexual nor it is intended to be this way. However, in context as a boy growing up with straight friends I can tell and I can remember very well how closed and sensitive we all were and little by little that went dying. At some point because of whatever it was, we wouldn't dare to hug, cuddle or have heart to heart conversations (remind you women do this all the time without being lesbians and gay men do this with their friends without engaging in any sort of sexual activity) We as men, and specially straight men carry this heavy burden of not being able to relieve their pain. It is a crisis. We are emotional animals, we need to touch, we need to feel and cry, and we need to be close to one another. Women have (and even used to have way deeper) friendships, stronger at times than their marriages. It enriches their lives. We men do, but something loose and aloof. We live without really living. There have been times I wish I knew how my buddies felt, I have a friend for example who lose his mom at 20, was a virgin and feeling lonely. I wish He had talked more about his feelings to me, how he felt, that He knew we would be there for him. Men only get "touchy" seek affection, connection, closeness, emotional, they get real when they drink. That's why men drink in my opinion which is dissapointing. While very few have the fortunate luck of having a wife that knows their most sensitive vulnerable side, even there is as if they abnegate everyone that can understand aspects of them than even women can't, but designate their poor wives to assume all these roles (not only their mother, but also an equal male buddy... ) Women unfortunale will never understand what is like to go through life as a man, same as us will never understand what is like to go through life as women (not even if we transition) So why do we live limited lives? why we as men have this strange disconnection with ourselves and lack of deep friendships? anyways, I love this film. _______________________________ Funny Story I used to have a best friend around the age of the characters, we were close like this. At some point because my inner fears of my own sexuality, I treated him so bad so I could push him away. He was my best friend from childhood. I destroyed a possible meaningful friendship and life story. I deeply regret of such. It was one of the worse emotional pains I went through and I caused it because I was afraid our closeness was too gay (he was not gay, and I did not have romantic or sexual feelings for him, I was just deeply scared of his closeness and that He found out there was something broken with me) I wish I could take all of that back.

close (2022) + male intimacy

[slattlicker]

can u do one where maybe schlatt or reader dont see eachother for a while (maybe like a month or so, one is on a bussines trip maybe schlatt recording something in japan again or whatever u get the point) and in the meanwhile reader gets her nips pierced and donesz tell him and when they reunite again they do the woohoo and schlatt goes feral over them

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * return of the rack ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: your long-distance boyfriend finally comes home. he’s jetlagged, lovesick, and touch-starved—and you’ve been hiding something from him. but when he finds out? it’s over for both of you. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the anon who sent me that amazing piercing reveal request—this one’s for you ♡ thank you for such a juicy prompt!! i’m just a little english major with no self-control. hope this hits everything you wanted.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · long-distance reunion · emotional sex · tit worship · oral fixation · titfucking · praise-heavy filth · funny, filthy, tender

✧✧✧

you’ve been trying to take the perfect photo for almost forty-five minutes.

not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

your phone’s propped against your dresser mirror with a half-dead candle and your old student id keeping it steady. the lighting in your room is this golden kind of lazy—just late enough in the day to paint everything amber, just warm enough to highlight the soft swell of your chest and the barely-there glint of silver beneath your shirt.

you tug the tank top down again. carefully. slowly.

it’s one of those old sleep shirts, kind of loose, kind of sheer—the kind you only wear when you’re feeling soft and a little scandalous in private. and right now? it's doing exactly what you need it to: showing just enough, but not everything. you lean forward slightly, testing how the fabric stretches, how visible the piercings are when you breathe out—

yeah. you snap the pic.

and immediately toss your phone onto the bed with a quiet, “jesus christ.”

the nerves are stupid. schlatt’s your boyfriend. he’s literally seen you shirtless. he's had your boobs in his mouth. he’s buried his face between your thighs more times than you can count. but this?

this feels different.

maybe it’s because you did it while he was gone. maybe it’s because it was spontaneous. impulsive. a little selfish in the best way. he’d only been gone a week when the idea hit you like a train—like something small and bold and kind of reckless that you needed to do for yourself.

you remember walking into that piercing studio like you weren’t shaking the whole time. you remember gripping the sides of the chair so hard your knuckles ached. you remember the piercer’s gloves and the clamp and the—

okay. no. you’re not reliving it. you’re healed now. mostly. you can touch them now, at least, and you do—gently—fingertips ghosting over the metal like they’re something precious.

they're still so new.

your first piercings, even. not a single earring to your name, but now you’ve got twin bars sitting proud in your chest like little secrets.

and maybe that’s what makes your stomach twist.

you didn’t tell him. you wanted to. so many times. every phone call, every stupid “i miss you” text with the heart emoji that made you melt. but the words just wouldn’t come out. you wanted to see his face when he found out. you wanted to feel it—the surprise, the want, the slow unraveling of him going feral in real time.

you wanted him to react.

so now you’re taking pictures. for yourself, mostly. just to see what you look like. to test your angles. to pretend, maybe, that you’d have the guts to send one. eventually.

another photo. this time lying on your back, shirt off, hair a little messy, hand ghosting over your ribs. the bars peek out just enough to catch the light.

you look good. you look hot, actually.

and that’s when the facetime rings.

incoming call: schlatt ♡

you let out the loudest full-body gasp known to man, scrambling for the shirt you just peeled off. your phone nearly topples off the bed. you answer, breathless.

his face fills the screen—messy curls under a hoodie, earbuds in, smile lazy.

“hey, baby.”

your heart is racing. “h-hi—hi. hi. what’s up?”

he tilts his head. “why do you look all flushed?”

you whip the blanket over yourself like a sinner in church. “i don’t—what? no. it’s hot in here.”

he grins, suspicious. “mhm. right.”

you glance around, looking for a distraction, anything. and then his voice cuts in again—so casual, like it doesn’t make your chest ache.

“think you can pick me up from the airport in like… two hours?”

you blink. “wait. what? you’re—you’re coming home today?!”

he nods. “figured i’d surprise you.”

he pauses, then leans a little closer to the screen.

“you miss me or what?”

your brain is screaming. your nipples definitely throb. and you’re sitting here, clutching a blanket like a victorian widow, pretending like you weren’t just arching for your own camera three minutes ago.

“…yeah,” you say. “i missed you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

you’re pacing by baggage claim, heart hammering, lips bitten raw, and currently being smothered alive by the most padded, over-engineered bra victoria ever refused to admit was a war crime.

you hadn’t worn this one in months. maybe years. it was a last-minute decision, panicked and breathless, the second you started imagining all the ways schlatt might react. the teasing. the staring.

you chickened out. and now?

you’re wearing a bra that might as well be classified as personal armor.

it’s one of those ridiculous contraptions with thick molded cups that force your boobs into a shape not found in nature. the kind with wire that digs into your ribs if you so much as exhale wrong. the kind that lifts, separates, compresses, confuses the populace. you feel like your chest is being served on a tray.

and yeah. you look obscenely stacked proportionally. like “local woman found toppling over in terminal c” kind of stacked. boobs up to your throat. they bounce when you breathe. your tank top is straining like it’s fighting for its life.

you don’t even look like you. you look like someone trying to distract airport security.

and of course, that’s exactly what schlatt sees first.

he’s walking out of the gate like a damn slow-motion movie—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy, hoodie pushed back, that familiar tired grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“there’s my girl.”

your breath catches. your limbs move before your brain can. you run to him, full-speed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

the hug is immediate and full-bodied, like instinct. he drops his bag with a soft oof and wraps his arms around you with the force of someone who’s been waiting weeks to do this. his hoodie smells like plane air and cologne and cheap ramen and him. you bury your face into his chest, letting your whole body melt into him.

“missed you so fucking much,” he mumbles into your hair. “jesus, you feel good.”

you smile into his hoodie, voice muffled. “missed you more.”

it’s warm. familiar. a little unreal. he sways with you, just slightly, like it’s muscle memory. and for a few long seconds, there’s no airport. no gate. no anxiety gnawing at your ribs. just him. just this.

and then—he pulls back a little.

just enough to look at you.

his hands stay anchored to your waist. his eyes scan your face like he’s checking for damage, soaking you in like a man starved. there’s something so soft in the way he looks at you—lids a little heavy, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to break the moment.

then his eyes drop.

they linger. and linger. and then…

they squint.

“…what the fuck happened to your tits?”

you slap his arm. “schlatt—!”

“no, i’m serious. you been eatin’ whole cows while i was gone? you get a boob job?”

you laugh—sputter, really—shoving him a little while heat climbs up your neck. “it’s the bra, jesus. can you be normal for like five seconds?”

“i am being normal,” he mutters, eyeing your chest again. “it's just that you weren’t packin’ double m cups when i left.”

“it’s just…” you fidget, gripping your bag strap. “i didn’t know how you’d react...we’ll talk about it at home, okay?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“so you did do somethin��. uh huh. yeah. i knew it.”

he grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leans close, voice low and just the slightest bit smug:

“gonna get it outta you one way or another, sweetheart.”

and he does not let it go the entire walk to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧

you’ve been trying to take the perfect photo for almost forty-five minutes.

not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

your phone’s propped against your dresser mirror with a half-dead candle and your old student id keeping it steady. the lighting in your room is this golden kind of lazy—just late enough in the day to paint everything amber, just warm enough to highlight the soft swell of your chest and the barely-there glint of silver beneath your shirt.

you tug the tank top down again. carefully. slowly.

it’s one of those old sleep shirts, kind of loose, kind of sheer—the kind you only wear when you’re feeling soft and a little scandalous in private. and right now? it's doing exactly what you need it to: showing just enough, but not everything. you lean forward slightly, testing how the fabric stretches, how visible the piercings are when you breathe out—

yeah. you snap the pic.

and immediately toss your phone onto the bed with a quiet, “jesus christ.”

the nerves are stupid. schlatt’s your boyfriend. he’s literally seen you shirtless. he's had your boobs in his mouth. he’s buried his face between your thighs more times than you can count. but this?

this feels different.

maybe it’s because you did it while he was gone. maybe it’s because it was spontaneous. impulsive. a little selfish in the best way. he’d only been gone a week when the idea hit you like a train—like something small and bold and kind of reckless that you needed to do for yourself.

you remember walking into that piercing studio like you weren’t shaking the whole time. you remember gripping the sides of the chair so hard your knuckles ached. you remember the piercer’s gloves and the clamp and the—

okay. no. you’re not reliving it. you’re healed now. mostly. you can touch them now, at least, and you do—gently—fingertips ghosting over the metal like they’re something precious.

they're still so new.

your first piercings, even. not a single earring to your name, but now you’ve got twin bars sitting proud in your chest like little secrets.

and maybe that’s what makes your stomach twist.

you didn’t tell him. you wanted to. so many times. every phone call, every stupid “i miss you” text with the heart emoji that made you melt. but the words just wouldn’t come out. you wanted to see his face when he found out. you wanted to feel it—the surprise, the want, the slow unraveling of him going feral in real time.

you wanted him to react.

so now you’re taking pictures. for yourself, mostly. just to see what you look like. to test your angles. to pretend, maybe, that you’d have the guts to send one. eventually.

another photo. this time lying on your back, shirt off, hair a little messy, hand ghosting over your ribs. the bars peek out just enough to catch the light.

you look good. you look hot, actually.

and that’s when the facetime rings.

incoming call: schlatt ♡

you let out the loudest full-body gasp known to man, scrambling for the shirt you just peeled off. your phone nearly topples off the bed. you answer, breathless.

his face fills the screen—messy curls under a hoodie, earbuds in, smile lazy.

“hey, baby.”

your heart is racing. “h-hi—hi. hi. what’s up?”

he tilts his head. “why do you look all flushed?”

you whip the blanket over yourself like a sinner in church. “i don’t—what? no. it’s hot in here.”

he grins, suspicious. “mhm. right.”

you glance around, looking for a distraction, anything. and then his voice cuts in again—so casual, like it doesn’t make your chest ache.

“think you can pick me up from the airport in like… two hours?”

you blink. “wait. what? you’re—you’re coming home today?!”

he nods. “figured i’d surprise you.”

he pauses, then leans a little closer to the screen.

“you miss me or what?”

your brain is screaming. your nipples definitely throb. and you’re sitting here, clutching a blanket like a victorian widow, pretending like you weren’t just arching for your own camera three minutes ago.

“…yeah,” you say. “i missed you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

you’re pacing by baggage claim, heart hammering, lips bitten raw, and currently being smothered alive by the most padded, over-engineered bra victoria ever refused to admit was a war crime.

you hadn’t worn this one in months. maybe years. it was a last-minute decision, panicked and breathless, the second you started imagining all the ways schlatt might react. the teasing. the staring.

you chickened out. and now?

you’re wearing a bra that might as well be classified as personal armor.

it’s one of those ridiculous contraptions with thick molded cups that force your boobs into a shape not found in nature. the kind with wire that digs into your ribs if you so much as exhale wrong. the kind that lifts, separates, compresses, confuses the populace. you feel like your chest is being served on a tray.

and yeah. you look obscenely stacked proportionally. like “local woman found toppling over in terminal c” kind of stacked. boobs up to your throat. they bounce when you breathe. your tank top is straining like it’s fighting for its life.

you don’t even look like you. you look like someone trying to distract airport security.

and of course, that’s exactly what schlatt sees first.

he’s walking out of the gate like a damn slow-motion movie—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy, hoodie pushed back, that familiar tired grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“there’s my girl.”

your breath catches. your limbs move before your brain can. you run to him, full-speed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

the hug is immediate and full-bodied, like instinct. he drops his bag with a soft oof and wraps his arms around you with the force of someone who’s been waiting weeks to do this. his hoodie smells like plane air and cologne and cheap ramen and him. you bury your face into his chest, letting your whole body melt into him.

“missed you so fucking much,” he mumbles into your hair. “jesus, you feel good.”

you smile into his hoodie, voice muffled. “missed you more.”

it’s warm. familiar. a little unreal. he sways with you, just slightly, like it’s muscle memory. and for a few long seconds, there’s no airport. no gate. no anxiety gnawing at your ribs. just him. just this.

and then—he pulls back a little.

just enough to look at you.

his hands stay anchored to your waist. his eyes scan your face like he’s checking for damage, soaking you in like a man starved. there’s something so soft in the way he looks at you—lids a little heavy, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to break the moment.

then his eyes drop.

they linger. and linger. and then…

they squint.

“…what the fuck happened to your tits?”

you slap his arm. “schlatt—!”

“no, i’m serious. you been eatin’ whole cows while i was gone? you get a boob job?”

you laugh—sputter, really—shoving him a little while heat climbs up your neck. “it’s the bra, jesus. can you be normal for like five seconds?”

“i am being normal,” he mutters, eyeing your chest again. “it's just that you weren’t packin’ double m cups when i left.”

“it’s just…” you fidget, gripping your bag strap. “i didn’t know how you’d react…we’ll talk about it at home, okay?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“so you did do somethin’. uh huh. yeah. i knew it.”

he grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leans close, voice low and just the slightest bit smug:

“gonna get it outta you one way or another, sweetheart.”

and he does not let it go the entire walk to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧

the door barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

his mouth is on yours, greedy and hot and so fucking needy it makes your knees buckle. you giggle into it—already breathless—as he walks you backward, one hand still gripping his duffel and the other sliding down your back like he’s checking if you’re still real.

“didn’t think i’d be gone long enough to forget how you taste,” he murmurs between kisses, voice all low heat and gravel.

“you’re ridiculous,” you breathe, clutching at his hoodie. “you’re the one who ran off to japan.”

“and you’re the one who picked me up looking like that. you knew what you were doing.”

you didn’t, not really, but you’re not exactly complaining.

he drops the bag somewhere behind you. kicks the door the rest of the way shut with his heel. you barely have time to register the living room before your back is pressed to the wall, his thigh sliding between yours, his mouth dragging down your jaw.

“whole car ride, babe,” he mutters against your skin, “i was sittin’ there just tryna breathe...relax after my long ass flight, and you’re over there yelling at the guy in front of us like your tits aren't beeping the horn for you. what was i supposed to do?”

your laugh turns into a gasp when his hands find your hips, yanking you closer.

you should stop. you meant to stop. meant to say something. to ease him into it gently. but he’s kissing you again, hard, one hand already sliding under your shirt—and you forget. you completely forget.

because it’s just him. home. warm. wanting. and it feels so good to be wanted.

he breaks the kiss just long enough to tug your shirt off.

“c’mere. let me get this armor off you.”

his fingers fumble at your back—expertly, annoyingly fast—and with one practiced flick, the bra gives way.

he peels it off.

and then he freezes.

you blink up at him, chest rising and falling, lips kiss-swollen and barely able to catch your breath.

“schlatt?”

he’s just staring.

then slowly—like he’s afraid to jinx it—he cups one breast in his hand. runs his thumb over the metal.

“…no. fucking. way.”

oh.

oh fuck.

“i forgot,” you blurt, eyes wide. “i meant to—schlatt, i meant to tell you—”

but he doesn’t even hear you.

his pupils blow wide. his hand tightens on your waist. he’s grinning, borderline maniacal, voice suddenly raspier than it has any right to be.

“you got your nipples pierced,” he says, half-laughing. “you went and did this while i was gone? and didn’t tell me?”

“i was nervous!” you squeak.

“you were nervous?? baby, i’m—i’m losing my fucking mind right now.”

and then he’s on you.

mouth on your chest, fingers everywhere, muttering curses and praise and wild, unhinged things like “how the fuck do you expect me to be normal ever again,” and “you want me to die, don’t you.”

he doesn’t even wait.

his mouth is on your chest like he’s starving—tongue hot and wet, dragging slow between the piercings before closing around one with a groan that vibrates through your whole body.

you gasp—sharp and shaky—because they’re still sensitive. still a little too new. but god, it feels good. it feels like everything in you tightens at once, toes curling against the floor, thighs squeezing around his hips like muscle memory.

you can’t help it. your body knows him. remembers him.

“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look. really look. his thumb brushes over the barbell, slow, reverent, like he’s not sure it’s real. “you are so fucking hot. i can’t—i literally can’t believe you did this. how the fuck did i land you.”

you can’t think of a single coherent word, let alone say one.

your chest feels like it’s glowing under his hand. every nerve from collarbone to navel lights up like electricity, sharp and dizzying and hungry. and then—your back hits the couch.

you barely realize he’s walked you there. you just know you’re sitting now, breath punched out of you, and he’s already dragging your leggings off—voice low and shaky and nothing like the cocky tone he usually has when he teases you.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, like he’s scolding himself. like he’s pacing in his own head. “so fuckin’ perfect. brand new tits for me and you didn’t even tell me? shit, baby—i’m gonna lose my mind.”

his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, rough palms sliding over skin like he needs to memorize every inch before it slips away again. like he doesn’t trust that you’re really here.

you open your mouth to say something. anything. but then his hand cups between your legs and your whole body jumps.

you’re soaked.

you feel embarrassingly exposed—slick and warm and pulsing, thighs trembling with how much you’ve missed this. him. the way he touches you like he can’t help it. like you’re the only thing that exists.

“fuckin’ missed this,” he says, and it’s not a line. it’s not dirty talk. it’s just true.

you nod, because you’re the same. you missed this so much it ached. you slept in his old t-shirts and reread your text threads and counted days until he was back. and now he’s here. and he’s hard. and he’s pushing his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock and you swear your lungs stop working.

you reach for him.

he catches your wrist. not to stop you—but to kiss it.

soft. stupidly soft.

and then he’s pushing into you.

you moan—loud, desperate, your head falling back with a dull thud against the cushions as he sinks in deep, all at once. there’s no teasing. no slow adjustment. it’s just full-body contact, heat against heat, everything you’ve been starving for crashing into place in one sharp, overwhelming moment.

you forgot how good he feels. thick and hot and perfect, pressed flush against your hips with a groan that curls through your ribs and lives there.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. “you—baby, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

“you’ve been gone,” you breathe, voice cracking like you’ve been holding it in for weeks. “i missed you.”

and he loses it.

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours, thrusting hard enough to make the couch creak beneath you both. your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct, trying to hold him closer, tighter, deeper. you can feel yourself squeezing around him with every thrust, and you know he feels it too by the way his jaw locks and his breathing falls apart.

and then—god,—his hand finds your chest again.

thumb brushing over the piercing, palm warm against your skin.

you gasp. again. high and helpless.

“still sensitive, huh?” he whispers, voice just rough enough to send a shiver down your spine. “bet you touched yourself thinkin’ about me sucking on ’em.”

“i didn’t,” you gasp. “i—I wanted it to be you.”

his hips stutter, eyes snapping open to look at you—something sharp and stunned swimming behind the want.

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re gonna make me cum so fast, baby.”

and for a second, you think he might.

but then—he swallows. hard. sets his jaw like he’s fighting with himself.

and you watch it—watch him choose not to let go. not yet.

he’s breathing like he’s been running, chest rising and falling fast against yours, sweat starting to bead at his temples. but his pace slows, just barely—enough to make every thrust feel deeper. heavier. drawn out like he’s trying to memorize the way you fit together.

“i missed you so much,” he says, voice rough and uneven. “you don’t—you don’t fuckin’ know.”

you do. god, you do. it’s all you’ve felt since he walked through the airport gate—like your body had been waiting without you, aching in your bones and your blood and your fingertips.

you open your mouth to say it. to say me too, or i love you, or something that doesn’t make your throat feel like it’s about to close.

but then he rolls his hips—just right—and your voice breaks on a moan instead.

he groans. low, desperate.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “so fucking good.”

your legs tighten around him, body arching into his, fingers gripping at his shoulder like he’s all that’s holding you up. and maybe he is.

he slides his hand between you—presses his palm flat over your chest again, thumb tracing your piercing in slow, lazy circles like he knows exactly what it does to you now.

and it’s too much.

you’re already so full. already so close. and the added friction, the heat, the thrill of being seen like this—laid out and shaking and known in this way—it’s all stacking on top of itself in your stomach, hot and heavy and tight.

“schlatt—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he looks at you. really looks. and his face softens.

“i got you,” he murmurs. “just let go. i’ve got you.”

and you do.

you come with a cry—loud and open and shameless, your whole body tensing, then breaking. it rips through you like a snapped wire—sharp and fast and blinding, curling your toes and flattening your spine against the couch as your hands clutch at him for dear life.

and he feels it.

he lets out the most wrecked groan against your throat, holding you through it—letting you ride it out with slow, shallow thrusts as your body jerks around him in waves.

you’re gasping. whimpering. blinking hard against the blur in your eyes.

“fuck, fuck, baby,” he breathes, voice coming apart. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

your muscles twitch. your thighs are still shaking. your whole body is buzzing with the kind of heat that leaves you boneless and ruined.

he kisses your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.

“that’s my girl,” he whispers, all hoarse and reverent. “you did so good. so fuckin’ good for me.”

and you believe it. even if your brain is barely working.

you’re so gone, you don’t realize he’s pulled out until his cum-slick cock presses against your stomach, twitching in his hand.

you blink at him. still breathless. still warm and open and raw.

he’s staring at your chest again.

then—quietly, still panting—he says:

“lemme cum on ’em.”

your stomach flips.

“wha…?” you manage.

he swallows. nods, like he’s reassuring himself. like he’s asking permission, even as his hand keeps moving around the base of his cock.

“your tits,” he says, eyes locked on the piercings. “lemme fuck ’em, baby. i gotta. i have to. please?”

and you—you don’t think. you just nod.

he kisses you, fast and crooked, missing your mouth a little like he can’t think straight anymore. like he needs to touch every part of you to stay grounded.

“fuck—thank you,” he mutters, voice gone wrecked. “fuckin’—thank you.”

you barely process him moving. you’re too loose-limbed and blinking slow to react. he kneels back, pulling you with him gently until you’re upright, your spine brushing the back of the couch, thighs still parted lazily across the cushions.

your chest rises and falls. your skin’s still flushed from the orgasm. and your tits—

they’re still shining. spit-slick from his mouth, flushed and sensitive, the tiny metal bars glinting in the low light like jewelry.

you glance down and see them like he’s seeing them.

and yeah.

you’d wanna fuck ’em too.

“press ’em together for me,” he says, rough. “please, baby. lemme—lemme see it.”

his voice breaks on that last part, and it does something to you. you bring your hands up, slow, still shaking slightly, and squeeze your breasts together between your palms.

you can feel the cool metal of the bars press into the softness of your skin. can feel the sweat, the heat, the need.

he groans—loud. hand stroking himself at the sight, chest flushed, eyes wide and ravenous.

“jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re—you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

he shuffles forward on his knees until he’s right there, cock in hand, flushed and glistening, already leaking at the tip. his fingers tremble as he slots himself between the valley you’ve made, pressing into the warmth of your skin with a shuddering inhale.

“ohhh my god.”

he thrusts once—just once—and it punches a sound out of both of you.

the slick slide of him between your tits is obscene. hot. messy. you can feel every ridge of him drag over the swell of your chest, the way his tip nudges the curve of your collarbone. the way the piercings barely catch on the motion.

he’s already losing rhythm.

“you’re so hot,” he gasps. “you’re so fucking hot. i’ve been thinkin’ about you like this the whole fuckin’ trip—shit—baby—”

you just nod. can’t speak. can’t look away.

his hand joins yours, squeezing around the outside of your tits, fucking up into the softness like he needs it. like he wants to burn the image of it into his skull.

his eyes flicker—up, down, back to your chest, your face, the piercings again.

“gonna cum,” he pants. “gonna—fuck—lemme cum on ’em, please. fuckin’ lemme—lemme—”

“yeah?” you breathe, voice wrecked and sticky-sweet. “you want these that bad, baby?”

your thumbs flick over the barbells as you squeeze your tits tighter for him, watching the way his eyes snap to the movement.

“then fucking do it.”

and then he does.

with a shout that comes from deep, he cums hard—thick and hot and everywhere. ropes of it across your chest, your throat, your collarbones, dripping down the piercings like they were made to hold it. he keeps thrusting through it, jerking slightly, riding the last of it out until he’s completely spent, cock twitching between your tits as he collapses forward onto his elbows.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. he’s breathing so hard it rocks you both a little.

you sit there, still holding your tits together, heart hammering, cum cooling on your chest, mouth parted in absolute disbelief at what just happened.

and then—

“...okay,” he pants, hoarse. “next time? warn me if you upgrade your body again. i’m not emotionally prepared for this shit.”

you wheeze out a laugh.

“i’ll consider it.”

“consider it strongly. i’m tryin’ to live a long life.”

“you just made a mess on my chest.”

he groans, flops fully onto you, kisses your shoulder like an apology and a thank-you and a “holy shit” all at once.

“worth it.”