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guliexe · 3 days ago

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━━━DATE NIGHT WITH ENHYPEN ot7

.ᐟwarnings/tags: smut, unrpotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, backshots, cowgirl, missionary, blowjob, drug use

Heeseung ⭑.ᐟ Game Night

It starts innocent. Just you and Heeseung on the couch, knees touching, controllers in hand, trash talk flying.

He’s laser-focused on the screen, lip tucked between his teeth, thumb jabbing the joystick with precision. “You’re such a tryhard,” you huff.

He laughs. “And you’re such a sore loser.”

“Shut up. Rematch.”

By the third round, you’re both getting cocky. You bump shoulders, try to distract him with your foot nudging his thigh. He retaliates by tickling your side, and you shriek, tossing the controller. Next thing you know, he’s on you. Literally.

He lunges, tackling you flat onto the couch, your wrists pinned above your head by one hand. His body hovers over yours, hips pressing between your legs. The game is long forgotten. “I win,” he smirks, eyes gleaming.

You squirm, trying to break free, but all it does is make him grin harder, and grind down, slow and deliberate. You gasp.

“Thought you were stronger than me, huh?” he taunts, voice low, teasing. “So cute.”

You roll your hips without thinking, and that’s all it takes. Heeseung’s playful smirk darkens. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby.” he warns, breath ghosting your lips.

He kisses you, hot and deep, tongue slipping into your mouth while his hips keep rocking, dick hard against you through his sweats. Clothes get messy, tugged and discarded halfway, your panties pushed to the side as he lines himself up, one hand still holding your wrists down.

When he sinks into you, it’s slow, thick, dizzying. “Fuuuck,” he groans against your neck. “Taking it so well, baby.”

You moan, back arching. Heeseung pulls out halfway, then slams back in, his pace picking up, cock hitting deep every time.

He’s panting now, sweat clinging to his temples, his other hand sliding down to grab your thigh and press it up higher. “Gonna stretch you out so good, baby”

Jay ⭑.ᐟ Fancy Dinner

He looks dangerous tonight. Black-on-black, no tie, top buttons open just enough to tease the sharp line of his collarbone. He holds your hand as you walk into the restaurant, but his eyes? They’re glued to you.

To the way your tight satin dress hugs your curves, the subtle sway of your hips, how your cleavage glistens under the low lights. He’s quiet all dinner, too quiet. Polite to the staff, answering your questions, but his fingers rest high on your thigh under the white tablecloth, lazily stroking your bare skin.

“You look insane,” he murmurs at one point, leaning in close enough for only you to hear. “Everyone keeps staring at you.” You whisper back, teasing, “Jealous?”

Jay just smirks. “No. I’m gonna be the one fucking you later.”

Back in the hotel room, the door barely shuts before his hands are all over you.

He crowds you against the wall, mouth crashing into yours. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping hard, pulling you flush to his chest like he needs to feel every inch of you.

He bends you over on the bed without a word, your cheek against the cool sheets, the skirt of your dress shoved up over your ass. “Goddamn,” he mutters, running his hands over your exposed skin. “You’re so fucking hot.”

One hand grabs your ass, spreading it. The other comes down in a sharp smack that makes you whimper. “Fucking love this ass,” he groans, gripping it, kneading it, slapping it again until you’re squirming.

He pulls your panties to the side and slides in with one rough thrust, groaning low and deep. “Shit, baby,” he pants. “So tight for me. Fuck.”

He sets a brutal pace, hips slapping against yours, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your waist to keep you in place. You’re a mess beneath him—moaning, gasping, nails digging into the sheets.

“You like that?” he growls. “Like getting fucked like this? You were begging for it all night in that dress.”

Jake ⭑.ᐟ Movie Night

It’s a cozy night in—popcorn half-eaten, movie playing in the background, but Jake can’t focus.

Not when you’re curled up beside him on the couch in nothing but shirt, and pink panties that keep peeking out whenever you shift your legs.

You’re tucked into his side, legs over his lap, pretending to be absorbed in the romcom. But you feel the way his hand keeps drifting—first to your waist, then under the hem of the shirt. He finally breaks, whispering, “baby I'm so hard.”

And then he kisses you. sSlow but messy. His hands slide up beneath the fabric, cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasp against his mouth. You melt under his touch, needy, straddling him without a second thought.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes trailing over you as you grind down on his lap, your panties damp and your shirt riding up. “So pretty for me.”

Your arms wrap around his neck, hips rolling into him again and again until you feel his cock hardening more beneath his sweats.

He grabs your ass with both hands, helping you move—soft groans slipping from his lips every time you grind just right. You’re so worked up you don’t even bother taking your panties off. You just push them to the side, lift your hips, and slowly sink down onto him.

Jake’s head falls back against the couch with a guttural moan. “Fuuuuck…” he breathes. “You feel so good, baby.”

You both sit there for a second—his cock buried deep inside you, your body clinging to his—and then you start to move. Slow at first. Just shallow little rolls of your hips while his hands roam your back under the shirt, gripping and stroking and worshipping every inch of you.

“You gonna make a mess on my cock?” he murmurs, dazed. “Hm? Already soaking me, pretty girl…”

Sunghoon ⭑.ᐟ Gym Date

It starts normal enough. You’re both working out in this sleek private gym—mirrored walls, perfect lighting, no one else around. Just the two of you.

You’re wearing tight leggings and a cropped tank, a little damp with sweat. And Sunghoon can’t stop staring.

You bend to pick up a dumbbell and he groans under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You flash him a smug little smile, thinking he’s just teasing. But the way his jaw tightens? That look in his eyes? Yeah, no. He’s not teasing.

He’s on you a minute later, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward the locker room. You barely have time to gasp before he shoves you into the bathroom and locks the door behind you.

“Sunghoon—” You don’t even finish. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and messy, tongue sliding deep as he backs you against the wall.

You moan into the kiss, breath stolen, body arching into him. He pulls back, panting. “Looking so fucking good, baby. I can’t help myself.”

He turns you around and bends you over the wall, cheek pressed to the cool tile, ass out, back arched. You whimper as he yanks your leggings and panties down in one swift motion. One of his hands grabs your wrists, pinning them behind your back. The other? Gripping your hip, tight. And then he’s inside you—deep, hard, no hesitation.

You cry out as he slams into you again and again, his hips snapping forward with brutal rhythm, the wet slap of skin echoing in the tiled room.

“Yeah,” he growls behind you, voice dark and breathless. “Fuck yourself on my cock, baby. Just like that.”

Sunoo ⭑.ᐟ Study Date

You’re supposed to be studying, but Sunoo looks too good sitting on his bed, glasses low on his nose, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, veins showing on his forearms as he flips through notes like a perfect little menace.

And he smells good. And he keeps licking his lips when he concentrates. And he’s being too damn sweet, brushing your knee and murmuring, “You’re doing great, baby,” every time you get an answer right.

You can’t take it anymore. “Sunoo…” He looks up, soft and clueless. “Yeah?”

You lean in and kiss him—slow and needy, pressing your body into his. He makes a surprised little noise before melting into it, dropping his notebook as your fingers tangle in his hair.

You kiss down his neck, sucking gently until a red mark blooms on his pale skin. He shivers, letting you take your time. And when you tug his hair and kiss even lower, he groans, voice barely above a whisper, “You’re so needy tonight, huh?”

You drop to your knees on the floor between his legs, looking up at him as your hands smooth over his thighs. He blinks down at you, wide-eyed and breathless.

“My cute girl,” he coos, brushing your hair back. “You want my cock, hm?”

You nod, lips parted, pupils blown out with want.

He leans back, legs spreading, and watches intently as you tug down his sweats. His cock springs free, already hard from just your kisses and the way you look at him.

You take him in your hand, licking a stripe up his shaft before sinking your mouth around the tip. Sunoo moans, hand flying into your hair.

“Just like that, princess…” he whispers, hips twitching as you bob your head. “So good for me…”

You work him slowly at first, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowed—taking your time. His hand rests on the back of your head, guiding but gentle, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Such a needy girl for me, yeah?” he pants. “God, look at you… fuck.”

Jungwon ⭑.ᐟ Rainy Night In

You don’t even hear him knock at first—the sound of rain is too loud. But then your phone buzzes, “open up bby i’m freezing”

You swing open the door and there he is, hoodie soaked through, dark hair dripping into his eyes. He looks unfairly good like this—rain clinging to his lashes, lips pink from the cold.

“Forgot my umbrella,” he mumbles, stepping inside with a shy grin. He kicks off his sneakers, water pooling under them. You wrap him in a towel and guide him to the couch, pulling a fuzzy blanket around the both of you. He tucks you in closer, his hand slipping under your hoodie to warm his fingers on your skin.

You try to watch something. You really do. But Jungwon keeps kissing you—your temple, your jaw, the corner of your lips. His touches get slower, more purposeful.

Then suddenly, you’re on your back, the blanket kicked off, the TV playing to an empty room. He hovers over you, wet strands of hair falling over his forehead, his hand already under your shorts.

“God,” he whispers, voice low and raspy, “you’re so cute like this.”

Two fingers glide between your folds, teasing. You whimper, and he smiles, proud of how worked up you are already. “You want it, baby?” You nod. Your voice is shaky. “Please—touch me…”

He doesn’t hesitate. His fingers slip inside, slow and deep, thumb pressing soft circles on your clit. You arch into him, moaning as the heat builds fast.

“That’s it,” he coos, kissing your cheek. “Gonna cum on my fingers, baby? Yeah? Gonna make a mess just for me?”

Niki ⭑.ᐟ View Date

It’s just the two of you, tucked away on this little hill that overlooks the whole city. The sky’s turning gold with the sunset, a little breeze in the air, the perfect amount of warm.

You sit in his car, passing the joint back and forth, limbs all tangled together. You’re both giggling, red-eyed, flushed from laughing and the weed, pressed shoulder to shoulder.

Riki’s quiet, but he keeps looking at you. Heavy-lidded, dazed, but hungry.

You’re sitting in his oversized hoodie and a tiny skirt, no bra. He finally reaches over, cups your jaw, and kisses you slow—messy and deep, the kind of kiss that steals all your breath and leaves your thighs trembling.

His hand slides under the hoodie, fingertips brushing your nipple, and you whimper, shifting in his lap. “Need you, Rikiii…” you whisper, voice thick and desperate.

He groans—low and wrecked—his hands already grabbing your waist to pull you over his thighs, straddling him. “Holy fuck, baby…” he pants, kissing your neck, trailing his mouth lower until he’s leaving warm hickies on your chest. “You’re killin’ me…”

You’re so high, so warm, so needy. You slip your panties down and toss them aside, leaving only your skirt bunched around your hips. He watches, wide-eyed, hands holding your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You grab him through his sweats, lazily freeing his cock and guiding him to your entrance. The stretch makes both of you moan—your body sinking down slow, every inch filling you to the brim.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, head falling back. “Doing so good for me…”

You start bouncing gently, slow and messy, your thighs burning, your fingers laced through his hair. He’s panting into your chest, mouthing at your skin, sucking little bruises into your collarbone like he can’t get enough.

“My sweet girl,” he whispers, fucking up into you between bounces. “You love getting filled up by me, hm?”

a/n: was a lil bored and wanted to post smth small ^^

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carriesthewind · 2 days ago

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WOW.

Okay, after a night's sleep, I have decided that yeah, there is value in responding to this absolutely steaming pile of ignorant, self-centered, self-important, anti-intellectual, b.s.

It looks like a number of people in the notes were swayed, at least to some degree, by this garbage, so I think it is worth trying to show why it is nonsense.

(Also it's possible I'm still spoiling for a fight after being denied an evidentiary hearing on Friday.)

I'm not reblogging the post because folks don't need a self-aggrandizing tantrum on their dash, but I do think it is worth taking a look for yourself, in order to practice your analytical skills. Some questions to consider as you read:

(1) What is OP saying in her original post? What claims is she making?

(2) How, if at all, does the poster respond to claims OP made? What claims is the poster saying that OP made? Do these match what OP actually said? If not, (a) what techniques does the poster use to transform what OP said into the claims the poster is claiming OP made? (b) What rhetorical purpose does it serve for the poster to warp OP's claims?

(3) What affirmative claims is the poster making? What evidence or arguments do they provide to support their claims? Do they explore any of the specifics or real world implications of their claims? If not, what real world implications of their claims can you think of?

(3) What other rhetorical techniques does the poster use to bolster their argument? Do these techniques actually enhance and support the substance of their argument?

(4) Relatedly, how does the poster play into the biases of their assumed audience (tumblr users with generally progressive policies). What claims do they make to play into those biases? What evidence or argument, if any, do they make to support those claims? Are these claims by the poster reasonably related to the claims made by OP?

Now, let's explore their response in detail!

(Also obviously don't harass the poster, and I would recommend not directly engaging with them at all. Harassment is vile and makes you far worse than them. And earnest engagement is unlikely to be productive - the OP tried to engage with them politely (and even offered to help) in the notes of poster's original post. In response, the poster (1) implied that OP is an obsessive rude busybody. (2) Told OP to "Shhhhh. Chill." (in response to (paraphrased), 'hey, the advice someone else gave you is probably a waste of time and effort'). (3) And finally, after condescendingly telling OP, "Breathe. Practice radical acceptance. Know that I am here on the other side of the internet, flagrantly wasting my effort and thinking of you every second of that time," proceeded to prove that they were, in fact, "thinking of [OP] every second of that time" by searching OP's blog to find this post by OP and dumping this Arrested-Development-level demand to be taken seriously in the reblogs.)

(All of which is to say: hi, poster who was "being vagueposted about." I assume you are reading this, because you demonstrably don't have the good sense to block and move on. I'm not going to block you in advance, because I think you have the right to make your own terrible decisions, and I suspect any response you make is going to be *very* funny. See you in the notes!)

So, let's go through the poster's response, paragraph by paragraph.

They begin by doubling down on the stance that, "any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor." This, they say, is their defense of that stance. Let's see how it goes - but first, I think it's worth remembering, OP's original post is literally a single sentence long.

OP's claim, paraphrased, that the claim that "any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor" is incorrect and anti-intellectual. If we read the OP's tags, she clarifies that enthusiasm is valuable, but different from expertise.

The poster starts their defense with a long...explanation that the structure of their claim was a reference to the Arthur C Clarke's third "law" (read: sci-fi fiction adage).

*deep breath*

Ok. I'm a big a fan of wordplay as the next person. And I know from personal experience that it can be really frustrating to do some fun wordplay to make a point, and then get misinterpreted here on tumblr.com.

But. The wordplay has to make a point for it to be relevant to your defense. OP's claim wasn't "this poster did a bad job with the linguistic structure of this sentence and is not familiar with classic sci-fi." How does the "rhetorical structure" of the poster's claim support the substance of their claim???

It doesn't, is the answer. The poster explicitly asks this question later down, but then they never actually answer it. Instead, the rhetorical effect of this whole digression is just to throw out surface level references to things (Arthur C Clarke! "AI"!) that might make the poster sound more thoughtful and knowledgeable. It also creates distance from OP's actual point - as the post continues, the poster has to remind us what they're talking about. This gives the poster more control over the narrative, over what claims are under discussion.

Which leads to the poster's next paragraph: the unanswered question of why the poster structured their claim to resemble a sci-fi author's famous quote, and a baseless attack on OP.

And I think it is worth really lingering on this attack on OP. The poster claims, OP perhaps is "misreading or misinterpreting" the poster's point. But what on earth is the poster talking about? OP literally just quoted the poster's exact words and then said that they think this is anti-intellectual. What "misreading or misinterpreting" is being done?

No. Instead, this attack rhetorically sets up the poster's next couple paragraphs: not actually defending their claim as OP originally quoted, but reinterpreting their own words, providing their own special unique meaning that they will then proceed to use for the rest of the post. They are redrawing the rhetorical bounds of the conversation. Rather than defending their stance, they are redefining their stance so that it matches the defense they now want to make.

(Which is still bad. It's a bad defense and it makes me very angry.)

The poster proceeds to define "academic rigor" in a way that just means, "enthusiasm." Notice how no part of their definition includes things like critical thinking skills, building up a knowledge base, testing ideas, receiving criticism (wow I wonder why), or any expertise or action to build up and test that expertise. It's just what a person "cares very much about," how much "curiosity" they have; some inherent quality someone who "NEEDS to know." (Also hit the bell for another surface level reference - this time to Herodotus - to make the poster sound more knowledgeable.) If you actually read the poster's definition, it is entirely "idk vibes i guess."

Now, having defined "academic rigor" as enthusiasm, they successfully declare that enthusiasm is a necessary precondition of enthusiasm.

And then, we get the best paragraph of this entire tantrum of a post: "Any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor. It's like a fractal -- the closer you look, the more complicated it gets." No only is this another attempted surface level reference, this time to fractals, but just. What is this supposed to mean. At a glance, it seems like it kind of follows from the last paragraph - maybe, the more an enthusiast looks at something, the more there is to know? But the closer you look at this sentence, the more nonsensical it gets. What does things getting more complicated the more you look at them have to do with academic rigor (either a real definition or the poster's enthusiasm-based definition)? More importantly, what does it have to do with proving the point - that enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor? (You might as well say, "the further you fall down the rabbit hole, the deeper you realize it goes," except then more people would realize you are expressing straight conspiracist reasoning oops.)

Now, several paragraphs in and having firmly taken control of the rhetorical boundaries of the argument, the poster finally decides to provide some context to the original statement (and needlessly insult OP for trying to be helpful again).

The poster correctly quotes relevant parts of the discussion (although mischaracterizes their own responses as "polite" instead of "incredibly condescending and rude"). However, the poster then immediately characterizes OP's response as "muddied." Because words have objective meanings, however, we do not need to accept this characterization. OP expressed her argument very clearly. Rather, it is the the poster who claimed that OP was making an argument that she was not, which we can paraphrase as, 'passion and capacity for learning are limited to formal education at academic institutions.' It would be convenient for the poster if OP was making this argument, because it could be easy to argue against. But since OP clearly stated that she does not believe this clearly incorrect thing that the poster made up in her head, the poster claims that her response was "muddied."

The poster emphasizes this false claim in the next few paragraphs. They say, "to me she seems to be arguing that one MUST (?) receive formal training at an academic institution ("academic training" "trained expertise") in order to achieve that level of rigor." But OP simply doesn't say that. You can look at the reply the poster quoted, it doesn't say what the poster says it does.

Now, this is speculation on my part, but I think the poster really believes that OP is saying 'passion and capacity for learning are limited to formal education at academic institutions.' I think they believe this because its how they feel when they hear the (correct) statement that enthusiasm does not equal expertise. The poster repeatedly says that they think that enthusiasm for learning is the same as expertise. They throw a tantrum after receiving the slightest, politest, disagreement. They think someone giving them advice that hey, maybe its a good idea to get a basic foundation of knowledge before cold-emailing experts is a busybody who is obsessed with lecturing them. The poster simply, demonstrably, doesn't believe expertise is real, and refuses to admit that someone else might know more or better than them. If they "care very much about getting it right," how dare you say they aren't as good as anyone with "academic training," fuck you very much you elitist jerk.

This sense is emphasized by their next paragraph. First, they shift the rhetoric framework of the conversation again. The actual claim the poster says they are defending is that "any sufficiently Deep Enthusiasm is indistinguishable from Academic Rigor" (emphasis added). Now, they are claiming that OP means that no one outside of an academic context "has the capacity to learn what rigor means in their field." These are very different claims, but the poster shits between them seamlessly.

Second, they just completely misunderstand what academic rigor is. I'm sorry, you can read every book and article and (*sigh* dear god) TED talk in the world, that doesn't make you an expert, and that's not academic rigor. A large part of academic rigor is in how you critically engage with what you read. Otherwise you just end up, at best, with a bunch of shallow facts that you can "whip out at dinner parties to impress [your] acquaintances" or sprinkle as references in arguments on tumblr to make you sound smarter.

But no, the poster confirms in the next paragraph, you don't need critical thinking or training or people who will tell you that you are wrong. All you need is the information. And if you disagree, you are arguing in favor of "the ivory tower." (Take a drink.)

In the next two paragraphs, the poster pays lip service to the idea that sure, it's easier to learn in academia. But even then, they imply that somehow that's the easy route, that good learning environments create weak men, that people who are self-taught are the ones who are actually building up the critical thinking skills because someone doesn't just "tell them the answer."

Then, before the readers have a chance to absorb, wait, did you really just say that academia is really just having someone either tell you the answer or where to look for the answer and therefore unsuitable for "sincerely love to learn," (because you are, in fact, anti-intellectual), the poster then throws in a bunch of shallow buzz phrases about how higher education isn't available to a lot of people.

And I say these are just shallow buzz phrases for two reasons. First, the poster never actually engages with this lack of access. It's just sprinkled in, like the references to Arthur C Clarke and Herodotus. (For example, no, actually, "any sufficiently MOTIVATED person" can't actually access all this information that is online. You need a stable internet connection, devices to allow you to make use of that connection, to speak or read the language those materials are published in, enough time and sleep and food and goddam shelter.)

Second, this doesn't actually have anything to do with the actual claim that the poster is supposedly defending. Remember that? Remember the position the poster is arguing for? "Any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor." How does, "some people can't go to college" support that claim, specifically?

It doesn't, which is why the poster's next paragraph instead claims that OP is arguing that "those people do not have the ability to hold themselves to a rigorous standard of learning."

Which just.

Fuck you?

Because yeah, that would be a shitty opinion to hold! And you are the only person raising it! You are explicitly making the claim - fuck, perpetrating the anti-intellectual worldview - that anyone who suggests "caring about something does not inherently equal subject matter expertise" is an elitist who thinks that everyone else, ordinary people, real Americans, are stupid.

I'm gong to be honest, this is the part of the poster's claims that made me mad enough to respond.The notes include people agreeing that academics and "experts" are actually pretty elitist, aren't they, and they deserve to be "taken down a few pegs," that suggesting that you need a baseline level of knowledge or vocabulary before you can engage deeply with a subject is "gatekeeping."

The U.S.'s institutions are crumbling as they are dismantled by people that are making these exact same arguments. There is no meaningful difference in the reasoning of the poster's argument here, and the argument that "alternative medicine" hacks who never completed their medical training have sufficient credentials to run goverment agencies, and that if you bring up their lack of credentials, well, that just proves what an elitist you are.

The "worldview" the poster does not accept - is telling you not to accept - is the idea that expertise exists at all.

And because that is an incorrect and harmful worldview, the poster has to use a bunch of rhetorical tricks to hide what they are doing. And then to sell it, they throw in a bunch of words to stir up the audience's preconceptions and biases. OP's claim (again, that enthusiasm and academic rigor are not equivalent) is "racist and imperialist." Why? Don't worry about it. Something something college is expensive and inaccessible to a lot of people. All you need to remember is that these ivory-tower academics are The Bad Thing.

*deep breath*

Anyway, knowing we need a laugh to bring the mood back up, the poster then says someone on reddit criticizing your argument is an "informal version[] of the peer-review process." Besides betraying a deep ignorance of the nature of peer-review (I guess even knowing how academic processes work is also elitist?), I think this means that the poster has to be cool with my post here, right? Because I'm just doing peer review? (Because also, just to be clear: "the academic structure of the peer review is a formalized process of the very human impulse to gleefully tell other humans when they’ve stuck their foot in their mouth." No. This is just. No.)

Next, more misstating OP's original claim. The poster says, "An institution of formal learning is not a prerequisite to pursue and absorb information," which OP already agreed with in the comments of the poster's original post.

In support of this claim that no one is arguing with, the poster than makes up a "guy at the model airplane shop who seems to know absolutely everything that has ever been known about WWII planes," and asks, "why don’t we acknowledge him as a legitimate expert?" The poster implies that this is because this guy is autistic and OP is a bigot.

But the real answer is simpler:

Unless you are referring to something you chose not to link for some reason, he's made up. He's a made up guy in your brain. And OP never said anything about him, so it's really weird for you to criticize OP for not sufficiently praising him as an expert. Fanfic isn't reality.

To the extent we are talking about real phenomenons - who do you mean by "we" and what do you mean by "acknowledge him as a legitimate expert"? There are lots of people with legitimate expertise, and in my experience, they often are recognized as such. And I don't know where you live, but outside of revenge-fantasies of conservative pundits and the people who are mislead by them, most academic experts aren't exactly exhausted and prestige and praise.

'Knowing a lot about a subject' is not the same as academic rigor. This isn't a criticism or insult to people who know a lot of things, despite your weird, self-centered hang-ups. Let me be clear here, actually: I am not an academic. I am a lawyer. I know a lot about the law in the areas I practice in. I do not practice the law "with academic rigor" because that's not really meaningful. I also like to constantly learn more about the law, including in many areas I don't practice in. I am not an expert in those areas. Just as an academic who studies the law and legal practice would not necessarily be good at actually practicing the law, my enthusiasm does not mean I have academic expertise (and my academic training is rather rusty, this many years out). This is normal? My ego is not threatened by acknowledging different kinds of expertise and knowledge exist?

And perhaps most to the point - "seems to know absolutely everything that has ever been known about WWII planes." "Seems to." An important part of academia - part of what makes it rigorous, if you will - is that you actually have to prove your expertise to other experts. They are then "recognized" as experts because there is a process the public can usually trust that they don't just "seem to" know what they are talking about. If you are talking to an amateur enthusiast - how do you know you they actually have the expertise they claim to have? Because I know of some guys who are really enthusiastic about the, claim to be experts, and have a lot of strong opinions about how they have reclaimed their Sovereign Identity by not capitalizing the letters in their name.

I agree with the poster's final paragraph. I love learning. But I can't see this as anything other than a manipulative postscript, a rhetorical trick of ending on a point of agreement and mutual enthusiasm. By a person - and I can't emphasize this enough - who refused assistance in learning and threw an enormous tantrum because someone suggested hey, maybe its a good idea to get a basic foundation of knowledge before cold-emailing experts.

#let's jump into a fight on the internet.#I've got energy to burn

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coriihanniee · 9 hours ago

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TELL ME, WILL WE SURVIVE? ⋆˚࿔

۶ৎ SYNOPSIS : you're the 4th member of Huntrix, tasked to eliminate the Saja Boys, five powerful demons disguised as idols. However, encountering them face to face brings an achingly familiar pain to your chest.

۶ৎ PAIRING : reincarnated 4th member huntrix!reader x saja boys ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : romance, reincarnation, angst ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of death, use of weapons, slight emotional manipulation, sexy hot fictional men

۶ৎ A/N : asked if I should write this fic with a poll and 434 votes is crazy... so here it is! This will probably be my only kpdh fic 🥹 I hope this satisfies you~ It was tough to come up what to write apart from Jinu's considering the fact we don't have more information about the others T^T

The tension in the Huntrix dorm was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"I still can't believe it," Zoey muttered, pacing back and forth across the living room while clutching her notebook. "A new boy group that just debuted... and they're actual demons."

Mira sat cross-legged on the floor. Her usually perfect hair was tied back in a messy bun. "The way everyone was completely fascinated by them..." She shuddered. "Like they couldn't look away or think of anything else."

"Five guys who came out of nowhere and had everyone mesmerized on their very first performance," Rumi said grimly, her voice still hoarse from the throat issues that had sent them to the doctor in the first place. "That's not normal idol talent, that's demonic influence."

You looked up from lacing your combat boots, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and dread. While your three groupmates had discovered the Saja Boys' true nature during their trip to the clinic, you'd been stuck in back-to-back variety show recordings. Part of you felt guilty for missing such a crucial moment, but another part was almost grateful. Something about facing demons, especially these particular demons, made your chest tight with an emotion you couldn't name.

"So what's the plan?" you asked, trying to push away the odd nervousness in your stomach.

Rumi stood up, her leader instincts taking over despite her vocal strain. "Intelligence suggests they're operating out of several locations around the city. We need to track them down and neutralize the threat before their next public appearance."

"Five of them, four of us," Mira noted. "Not impossible odds, but we'll need to be smart about this."

Zoey stopped pacing and looked at you with concerned eyes. "Are you sure you're ready for this? I mean, this is our first time facing demons this powerful. The Saja Boys aren't like the lower-level creatures we usually hunt."

You nodded, though your heart was racing for reasons you couldn't explain. "I've trained for this. We all have."

"We don't know much about their individual abilities yet," Rumi warned, her voice dropping to a serious tone. "But we know they're organized and powerful enough to steal our fans and mess with the Honmoon. They've been systematically targeting our fans, hypnotising them with some kind of influence we don't understand yet.”

"We split up," Rumi continued. "Cover more ground that way. But nobody engages alone unless absolutely necessary. These aren't ordinary demons, they're organized, intelligent, and extremely dangerous."

As your groupmates continued planning, you found yourself staring out the window at the Seoul skyline, a dozen city lights twinkling like stars. Somewhere out there, five demons who had quickly become the nation's beloved idol group in less than a day were hiding, planning, hunting.

So why did the thought of facing them feel less like preparing for battle and more like... coming home?

"Ready?" Rumi's voice snapped you back to reality.

You grabbed your weapon and stood up, pushing down the strange emotions swirling in your chest. You were a member of Huntrix. You had a job to do.

Even if something deep inside you whispered that this mission would change everything.

JINU ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Three hours after the briefing, you crouched behind a concrete pillar in an abandoned office building, your heart hammering against your ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with the mission. You had tracked Jinu here alone, separated from his group members, conducting what appeared to be private business on the fifteenth floor.

The elevator had been deliberately disabled, forcing you to climb the emergency stairwell. Each step upwards felt heavier than the last, as if your body fought against an invisible current. When you finally reached the target floor, the silence was deafening.

You pressed your ear to the stairwell door, listening for voices, footsteps, any sign of demonic activity. Your weapon felt foreign in your grip, a silver-blessed blade that had never failed you in past hunts, yet now trembled with your uncertainty.

The hallway beyond stretched like a mouth waiting to swallow you whole. Fluorescent lights flickered sporadically, casting dancing shadows that made your vision blur. You moved silently, checking each empty office as you passed, until you reached the corner suite at the end of the corridor.

The door stood ajar.

Through the gap, you could see him.

Jinu sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his profile illuminated by the pale glow of Seoul's skyline through the windows. Even in the dim light, his features were sharp and aristocratic, high cheekbones, a strong jawline, dark hair that fell perfectly across his forehead.

"The contract is simple," his voice carried through the crack in the door, smooth as silk yet cold as steel. "Your daughter's medical bills disappear. Her surgery is guaranteed successful. All I ask in return is a small favour down the line."

"What kind of favour?" The other voice was desperate, broken, a father's voice.

"Nothing that will harm your family directly. You have my word."

You should have burst through that door immediately and struck while Jinu was distracted, before he could complete whatever twisted bargain he was weaving. But the moment your eyes found his face, your entire world tilted off its axis.

Inexplicable pain lanced through your chest. Your vision blurred from the tears suddenly sliding down your cheeks. Images surged and vanished too quickly to grasp : a child's laugh, the strum of a bipa, a soft voice humming, arms wrapping around you beneath a threadbare blanket.

"I'll take care of everything. You'll never have to worry again."

You gasped, stumbling backwards and nearly dropping your weapon. The sound echoed in the empty hallway like a gunshot.

The conversation inside the office stopped abruptly.

"I believe our business here is concluded," Jinu's voice had changed, taking on an edge that made your spine stiffen. "You know how to contact me when you've made your decision."

The desperate father's voice slowly faded as he was presumably escorted out through another exit.

You pressed yourself against the wall, mind racing. You had lost the element of surprise, but the mission remained the same. Jinu was alone now. This was your chance to strike before he could reunite with the other Saja Boys.

You kicked the door open and rushed inside, blade raised and ready.

Jinu stood by the window with his back to you, hands clasped behind him as if he had been expecting your arrival. The moonlight turned his silhouette into an ethereal and angelic vision, a cruel irony given what you knew him to be.

"You're faster than I anticipated," he said without turning around. "Though not as quiet as you think."

"Turn around." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

He complied slowly. However, when his eyes met yours, your soul cracked down the middle.

You could see a brief flicker of recognition cross his face, perhaps even mourning, or maybe grief worn thin over centuries.

You raised your blade higher, just enough to hide how much your hands were shaking.

"You've grown beautiful," he said softly.

Your breath caught in your throat, forcing down a wave of emotions that threatened to break free. You gritted your teeth. "Don't."

He stepped forward.

"I said don't."

He moved closer.

You slashed by reflex. Jinu blocked it with his arm. He didn't exactly attack back. But he parried, blocked, dodged with the ease of someone who'd trained lifetimes for this.

It happened before you could think. Your body moved, like it already knew what to do. Your chest rose and fell too fast, ears buzzing with the rush of your heartbeat. Jinu barely fought back, annoyingly and effortlessly dodging your attacks. However, you refused to stop until the hurt had somewhere to land.

Until he disarmed you, your blade clattering across the floor.

Jinu didn't press the advantage or move to strike.

Instead, he stepped back.

You froze for half a second. Why isn't he fighting back? Was this pity? Mercy? Did he think you couldn’t handle it?

"You don't remember." It wasn't a question.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Four hundred years ago," he said quietly, "I had a mother and a sister. We were starving. I played the bipa on street corners, until I found you, you were the only light we had left. You kept us together, even when everything fell apart."

Images tore at your mind again : your hands mending a child's robe. Jinu's fingers brushing yours. The bipa's music cutting through the dark.

"You were there," you whispered, not understanding why you knew it was true.

"I was." His voice cracked. "And I failed all of you."

"But… you're a demon now. You manipulate people. Steal their souls."

"I offer what they ask for. I offered it then, too. I was desperate and hungry. My family and you were dying in front of my eyes. Gwi-Ma found me and promised me a life of comfort and power. I thought if I accepted it, I could bring you all with me."

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

"But the gates closed behind me," he said, barely audible. "I turned around and they wouldn't let you through. I left you in the cold while I slept on silk."

You shook your head, but the memories were surfacing now,

"I searched for you after. But you died, didn't you? Alone. Like the rest of them. While I lived in luxury with blood on my hands."

The truth settled like ice in your lungs. Your memories were fractured, broken by time and pain, but you remembered enough. Remembered waiting put in the cold and the hunger that ate you alive while he feasted in hell.

"I waited for you," you whispered.

Jinu closed his eyes as if the words were a blade through his chest. "I know."

The admission ignited a fury so pure it burned through your veins like poison. He knew. While you were wasted away in that freezing hovel, praying for his return until your throat was raw. While you'd begged strangers for scraps, sold every precious thing you owned just to buy another day of life, he was feasting in warmth and safety. He knew, and he'd done nothing.

"You knew," you snarled, and the rage in your voice made him flinch. "You knew we were dying and you left us there to rot."

Your hands clenched into fists. Every cell in your body screamed for violence, for justice, for him to feel even a fraction of the agony he'd caused.

You lunged for your weapon again. He didn't stop you.

"I'm going to kill you," you said, raising it with trembling hands.

"Then do it."

However, you hesitated, the blade wavering above his heart. Tears blurred your vision as you stared down at him, this man who had once been your entire world. Your arm shook with the effort of holding the weapon steady, but your body refused to obey. Every instinct screamed at you to drive the silver through his chest, to end his suffering and yours, but your heart betrayed you.

Even after everything, you couldn't bring yourself to destroy him. The realization broke you more than his abandonment ever had.

"Why aren't you fighting back?"

"Because I loved you more than my own soul. And letting you end it is the only way I can repent for what I've done."

Your eyes widened at his words, the blade slipping from your nerveless fingers. It hit the floor with a sharp clang that echoed through the empty office.

Jinu's breath caught in his throat. He stared at the fallen weapon, in disbelief at what had just happened. His composure finally cracked, and tears spilled down his cheeks, the first real emotion you'd seen from him since you'd entered this room.

Why?" he whispered. "After everything I've done to you... why can't you do it?”

"I-I don't know…’ you said, voice cracking. “But… this doesn't mean I forgive you…”

"I wouldn't dare ask."

"And I'm not letting you walk away."

He nodded, tears tracking down his cheeks.

You stepped closer, your heart shattering with every breath.

"This time, we need to talk, about the four hundred years you stole from us."

ABBY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The underground fight club pulsed with sweat, blood, and money changing hands. You pressed your earpiece, static crackling back at you as you tried to reach Rumi.

"Rumi, do you copy? I lost visual on the target."

Nothing but interference.

Intel had tracked two Saja Boys to this district, Abby and Mystery had split from the main group. Following a thorough discussion, you and the other girls decided to split into duos to ensure greater safety. You and Rumi were supposed to stay together, but the crowds and maze-like underground tunnels had separated you. Now you were alone in the bowels of Seoul's illegal fighting scene.

The roar of the crowd guided you deeper into the complex. Through a doorway marked with graffiti, you found the main arena, a concrete pit surrounded by screaming spectators waving fistfuls of cash.

In the center of the ring stood Abby.

He moved like violence incarnate, all muscle and controlled fury as he circled his opponent. Abby was shirtless, his body a map of scars and fresh bruises, sweat making his skin gleam under the harsh lights.

The expression that you caught on his face made your breath catch. Pure, undiluted joy. He was having the time of his life.

His opponent lunged. Abby sidestepped with fluid grace, then drove his fist into the man's ribs with a wet crack that echoed over the crowd's cheers as the man fell to the ground hard.

"Next!" Abby called out, not even breathing heavily. His grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Who else wants to dance?"

Three men climbed into the ring together as the crowd grew wild.

You should have taken the shot then, but watching him move was hypnotic. Every punch and dodge was precise and calculated.

Two opponents were quickly taken down, and the third hesitated to swing.

"Come on," Abby taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Don't tell me you're scared now."

The man reluctantly charged. Abby caught him mid-lunge and slammed him into the concrete so hard the ground cracked.

The crowd erupted as money flew. Abby raised his arms in victory, basking in the adoration.

You waited until the chaos died down, until the crowd dispersed and the arena emptied. Abby was collecting his winnings from the promoter when you finally made your move.

"Good fights tonight," you said, stepping out of the shadows.

He went completely still for a second, so brief you almost missed it. Then he turned around with that cocky grin already sliding into place.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" He looked you up and down, but it wasn't the casual appreciation of a stranger. It was recognition wrapped in careful performance. "You don't look like the usual groupies. Too pretty. Too dangerous."

"I'm not a groupie."

"No kidding." He stuffed the money in his back pocket and grabbed his shirt from where he'd thrown it, but didn't put it on. Still showing off, but his movements were more deliberate now, as if he was buying time to think.

"So what are you? Reporter? Cop? Or just someone who likes watching sweaty men beat the hell out of each other?"

"I'm here for you."

His grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, that's direct. Though I gotta say, most people who want me specifically don't usually start with small talk."

The arena was empty now except for the two of you and the lingering smell of violence.

Perfect.

"You're coming with me," you said, hand moving to your weapon.

"Am I?" He stepped closer, and the playful mask slipped just slightly. "And here I was thinking you might be here for something else entirely."

"This isn't a game."

"Everything's a game, sweetheart. The trick is figuring out if we're playing by the same rules." He was circling you now, but it felt less predatory and more like he was trying to get a different angle, trying to see something in your face. "Though I gotta ask, do you even know who I am?"

You drew your blade. His expression shifted, resignation mixed with anticipation.

"There it is," he said quietly, flexing his fingers. "Was wondering when we'd get to this part."

He moved faster than you'd expected, still testing you. Every move of his was calculated, like he was trying to figure out how much you remembered about fighting.

About fighting him specifically.

"Come on," he said, dodging your blade with familiar ease. "I know you're better than this. You always were."

The words slipped out before he could catch them. You saw the moment he realized his mistake, saw him try to cover it with that cocky grin.

"Always were what?" you demanded, pressing your attack.

"Always were too careful," he said, but his voice was strained now. "Stop holding back."

"I'm trying not to kill you."

"How thoughtful." His voice was softer now, almost fond. "Always looking out for everyone else."

Before you could ask what he meant by that, he caught your wrist and pulled you against his chest. For a moment, you were close enough to see the conflict in his eyes.

"Got you," he said, but it sounded more like a prayer than a taunt.

You drove your elbow back into his ribs and spun free. He let you go reluctantly.

"There we go," he said, rubbing his side. "That's more like it."

You came at him again, blade swinging through the air. This time when he grabbed your wrist and twisted until you had to drop the weapon, his grip was careful, like he'd done this exact move with you before.

"How do you know how I fight?" you asked.

The question made him freeze. His grip loosened just enough for you to break free, but instead of reaching for another weapon, you just stared at him.

"Have we met before?" you asked.

All the pretense drained out of his expression at your question, replaced by rawness and desperation.

"Every day for a hundred and twenty three years," he whispered.

"What are you talking about?"

His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones like he was memorizing them all over again.

"You really don't remember," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "God, I hoped... I thought maybe..."

His touch was so gentle, and his voice was softer now.

"How do you know my name?" you whispered.

"Because I've been saying it every day for over a century." He laughed bitterly "Because it was the last thing you heard before you died."

Images flashed through your mind : rain-soaked streets, a thin boy with kind eyes, the sound of your own scream echoing off alley walls.

You stumbled backward, hand pressed to your temple. "What's happening to me?"

"Hey." He reached for you, movements careful now, gentle. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

"I'm not okay. I'm seeing things that aren't real."

"What kind of things?"

"A boy. Someone I loved." The words came out before you could stop them. "Someone who died because of me."

Abby went very still. "How did he die?"

"I don't know. I can't—the memories aren't mine." You looked up at him desperately. "This is crazy. I don't even know you."

"Yes you do." His voice was barely above a whisper. "You do know me. You just can't remember because dying screws with your head."

"I didn't die."

"Yeah, you did." He was close enough to touch now, hands hovering just shy of your skin. "Hundred and twenty three years ago. In an alley. They put a knife in your back while I watched, too weak to do anything about it."

The memories hit like a tsunami : cobblestones slick with rain, rough hands dragging you away from a thin boy who was calling your name, the burn of steel between your ribs.

"Oh god," you whispered.

"I made you a promise," Abby continued, his voice thick with a century's worth of grief. "On your grave. That if I ever got the chance to see you again, I'd be strong enough to protect you."

You looked at him, and saw past the muscle and scars to the boy underneath. The boy who'd loved you. The boy who'd become a monster for the chance to keep you safe.

"You became a demon for me?"

"I became whatever I had to become." His hands finally made contact, cupping your face gently, as if any more pressure might shatter you into a million pieces. "I don't care what that makes me. I care about keeping you alive."

Footsteps echoed from the tunnel behind you. Rumi's voice called out your name, worried.

"Shit," you whispered. "My partner's coming."

Abby's expression hardened instantly, all the vulnerability vanishing behind that familiar cocky mask. "Right. Back to reality."

"Abby, wait—"

"No, it's fine." He stepped back, putting distance between you, but his eyes never left your face. "You've got a job to do. I get it."

"I can't just—"

"What? Kill me? We both know you're not going to do that." He grinned. "So what's the play here, sweetheart? You gonna tell your partner you found me and just... let me walk away?”

The footsteps were getting closer. You had maybe thirty seconds before Rumi found you.

"I don't know," you admitted.

"Well, you better figure it out fast." Despite his words, he wasn't moving towards the exits. He was just standing there, waiting for you to decide his fate again.

"There's another exit through the back," you said quickly. "Behind the equipment room."

His eyebrows shot up. "You're letting me go?"

"I'm giving you a head start."

"Why?"

Because somewhere in your fractured memories, you remembered loving him. Because he'd spent over a century becoming strong enough to protect you, and maybe you could be strong enough to protect him too.

"Because I remember enough," you said simply.

His mask cracked just for a moment. "This isn't over."

"I know."

"I'll find you again."

"I know."

He started towards the back exit, then paused. "Hey, sweetheart?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to die before I see you again. I'm getting really tired of that particular tragedy."

In a blink of an eye, he was gone, vanishing into the shadows just as Rumi's voice echoed closer.

ROMANCE ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The rooftop overlooked the glittering chaos of Seoul's entertainment district, where neon signs blazed advertisements for idol groups and concert venues stretched towards the horizon. You crouched behind the air conditioning unit, silver blade steady in your grip as you surveyed the empty space.

Wind carried the distant sound of traffic and late-night revelers, but here, twenty stories above the city's pulse, silence reigned.

"Beautiful view, isn't it?"

You tensed, weapon raised when you heard his voice, achingly familiar despite being impossible to place. It wrapped around your ribs like phantom fingers, squeezing until your chest felt tight with inexplicable longing.

Romance emerged from behind the rooftop access door with fluid grace, hands tucked casually into his pockets. Under the city's electric glow, his features appeared sharp and ethereal, pink hair catching the wind as he regarded you with calm amusement.

"Though I suspect you're not here for sightseeing," he continued, taking measured steps forward. "Hello, hunter."

Your blade remained steady despite the tremor in your voice. "You know what I am."

"Of course I know exactly what you are." His smile held no malice, only a strange sadness that made your throat constrict. "The question is, do you know what I am?"

Without warning, you lunged.

Romance flowed backwards like water, your strike cutting through empty air as he spun away from your advance. He moved with practiced precision, dodging rather than retaliating, speaking in that same measured tone even as you pressed your attack.

"You fight beautifully," he observed, sidestepping another slash. "Trained well. Committed."

You snarled in frustration, spinning to catch him with a backhand strike that he avoided by millimeters. "Shut up and fight back."

"Why would I want to hurt you?"

The question threw off your rhythm, long enough for Romance to close the distance between you. His hand found your wrist with gentle firmness, and your weapon clattered across the concrete.

You struck out with your free hand, but he caught that too, holding both your wrists as you struggled against his grip. His touch burned with unnatural warmth, sending sparks up your arms that had nothing to do with his demonic nature.

"Let me go," you hissed.

"In a moment." Romance's eyes searched your face with desperate intensity. "I need you to see—"

He shifted, a small and bright object tumbled from his pocket, a ring that caught the neon light as it fell. Simple silver band, modest stone, nothing extraordinary except for the way it made your heart stop.

Pain lanced through your chest. Your knees buckled as emotion crashed over you in waves, grief so profound it stole your breath, love so pure it felt like drowning, loss that cut deeper than any blade. You didn't understand where these feelings originated, only that they threatened to tear you apart from the inside.

Romance released you immediately, crouching to retrieve the ring with reverent care. "You feel it too," he whispered.

"I don't—" You stumbled backward, pressing a hand to your chest where the ache pulsed with each heartbeat. "What did you do to me?"

"Nothing. This is yours." He held up the ring, and the sight of it made tears spring to your eyes without explanation. "It was meant for you."

"What—that's impossible."

"You taught me what love felt like, centuries ago." Romance said quietly, his mask of casual amusement finally cracking. "Before you, I was nothing. A shadow in my own house, invisible to parents who saw only disappointment when they looked at me. You were the first person to show me kindness, love me without expecting anything in return."

He cradled the ring like it held his entire world. "I saved for months to buy this. Worked every odd job I could find, skipped meals. I practiced the proposal speech until I could recite it in my sleep."

His confession struck a place you didn’t know could still hurt. Your eyes flickered back to the ring again, breath hitching.

"You fell ill a few weeks before I planned to propose." His voice cracked, centuries of grief pouring through the fractures. "I held your hand for seventy two hours straight. I didn't eat or sleep, just sat there begging you to stay with me."

"Y-You're lying." But your voice had no strength behind it.

"Your last coherent words were asking me to promise I'd love someone else after you were gone. You were so worried about me being alone." Tears tracked down his perfect cheeks, and seeing them made your own eyes burn. "I lied and said yes because I thought it would help you let go peacefully."

The pain in your chest intensified, spreading through your ribs like poison. "That's not—"

"I tried to keep that promise as a human. I spent years searching for someone who could make me feel what you had.” Romance's voice dropped to a whisper. “But no one came close to you.”

"You became a demon because you couldn't move on..."

"I made a pact with Gwi-Ma after years of failing to love anyone else. I became something that could create love, manufacture and distribute it to anyone desperate enough to want it." His smile was self-loathing incarnate. "If I couldn't feel real love, at least I could give others a taste of what you gave me."

"You're feeding on people and hurting them."

"I'm keeping my promise to you." His eyes blazed with centuries of accumulated pain and twisted devotion. "Every heart I touch and every moment of artificial bliss I create is all for you. You asked me to love someone else, and this is the only way I know how."

The logic was twisted, but the raw anguish in his voice made your chest tighten with sympathy you couldn't afford. "You're manipulating innocent people."

"I give them what they desperately need. The feeling of being cherished, desired, worthy of devotion. When the illusion breaks, yes, they're disappointed. But at least they got to experience something transcendent." Romance stood slowly, the ring disappearing back into his coat. "Tell me that's not better than the emptiness they had before."

"It's a love built on lies."

"All love is lies in the end." His smile returned, but it held no warmth. "The difference is I'm honest about the illusion I create."

You backed towards the rooftop edge, every instinct screaming at you to flee. The mission was clear, eliminate the demon. However, your hands shook as you reached for a backup blade, and the pain in your chest made it difficult to breathe. Each word he'd spoken felt like a knife twisting deeper.

"This isn't over," you managed, but the words came out weak.

"I know." Romance made no move to stop you as you retreated. "But I won't fight you anymore. I've caused enough damage to someone I—"

He cut himself off, the unfinished words hung in the air between you.

"Someone you what?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

"Someone I loved more than my own existence." His voice was barely audible above the wind. "Someone I'm still failing, even now."

The words crashed over you like a tidal wave. Ring. Proposal. Seventy two hours. Promise. Death. Demon. Love. The pieces swirled in your mind, too many fragments to assemble together, each one cutting deeper than the last. Your training screamed at you to stay, but your heart couldn't bear another second of his confessions.

You turned and ran.

The fire escape blurred past as you descended, taking stairs three at a time until your legs gave out two floors from the bottom. You collapsed on the landing, gasping for air that wouldn't come, pressing your palms against your eyes as if you could physically force back the tears threatening to spill.

His voice echoed in your mind : I practiced the proposal speech until I could recite it in my sleep.

Why did that hurt? You were a hunter trained to kill demons, not sympathize with their tragic backstories.

You forced yourself to continue down the fire escape, your movements mechanical and disconnected.

Seventy two hours straight. I didn't eat or sleep, just sat there begging you to stay.

Your back hit the alley wall and you slid down until you were sitting on the cold concrete, arms wrapped around your knees. Hot tears streamed down your face as you grieved for reasons you couldn't name.

This couldn't have happened before. You would remember dying. You would remember being loved with that kind of desperate devotion. You would remember someone saving money for months to buy you a ring.

...

Wouldn't you?

MYSTERY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You lean against the Huntrix dorm balcony railing, watching Seoul pulse beneath you like a neon heartbeat. The city sprawls endless and electric, towers of glass catching streetlight, traffic threading through concrete arteries. Behind you, voices clash over mission prep.

"We should split up and handle each demon individually," Rumi insisted. "Pick them off one by one."

"That's suicide," Mira counters. "We stick together, overwhelm them with combined firepower. Safety in numbers."

"Okay, okay!" Zoey jumps between them with enthusiastic gestures. "What if we compromise? Split into pairs? Best of both worlds, right? Right?"

There are weak spots in the Honmoon barrier scattered across Seoul like broken bones. You've memorized their coordinates, trained for this until your muscles know the patterns by heart. So why won't your pulse settle tonight?

The argument behind you fades to background noise as you stare at the skyline.

Suddenly, a soft and delicate melody drifts across the night air.

It felt like a tune you hum when your hands are full of flowers, when you're dizzy with new love. It shouldn't reach you from this height. Seoul's chaos should swallow such fragile notes whole, but the song finds you anyway.

Your breathing stops. You've heard this melody before in dreams that leave you gasping at dawn.

Across the urban maze, movement flickers near a crumbling rooftop. A shadow that doesn't belong.

You don't hesitate one second.

The balcony railing becomes your launching point. Rooftop to rooftop, your feet find purchase on surfaces that shouldn't hold human weight. The melody grows stronger with each leap, pulling you forward like a current.

Seoul blurs beneath you, kaleidoscope light and shadow, lives stacked in vertical towers. You follow the song through this maze, breath controlled, heart pounding against your ribs.

The tune leads you to an abandoned building that time forgot. Dark windows, cracked facade, studio spaces that once housed art but now hold only dust. You slip through a broken skylight, landing silent on debris-covered floors.

The music comes to a stop.

Mystery stands beside a shattered mirror, fingers turning over what looks like an old locket. He doesn't startle when you drop in. Instead, his mouth curves into a smile that holds too many secrets.

"You've always been good at finding me."

Your weapon clears its holster, barrel trained on his chest, and his smile deepens.

Ice floods your veins. Your grip tightens on the weapon. "Who are you?"

He laughs softly, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "I would tell you now, but where's the fun in that?"

"This isn't a game." Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

“Are you sure?” He tilts his head, studying you with eyes that hold starlight and shadows. "You followed my song across half the city. Left your friends mid-mission. That sounds like playing to me."

Heat rises in your cheeks. He's right, and you hate that he's right. "Answer me. Why do you know me?"

He steps closer curiously, like he's watching a flower bloom in real time. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

"All those summer nights when you'd sneak out just to hear me play." His voice drops to a whisper. "The way you'd fall asleep in my arms while I hummed that exact melody."

Your heart stutters. The exact melody that's been haunting your dreams for months. "That's impossible. I would remember—"

"You would remember me, wouldn’t you?" He reaches out, fingers barely grazing your cheek.

You should pull away, you know you should put distance between you and this stranger who claims to know your past. But his touch feels familiar, like coming home after a long journey.

"You haven't changed. Well, except for the blade." His gaze drops to the weapon still trained on him. "You never needed those before."

"Before what? Before when?" Desperation creeps into your voice.

He smiles again, stepping back. "Don't remember me yet. It's more fun this way."

"Fun?" The word explodes from you. "You think this is fun? I'm losing my mind trying to figure out who you are, and you think it's entertaining?"

"I think," he says, moving towards the broken window, "that some things are worth waiting for. Some mysteries are sweeter when they unfold slowly."

Moonlight catches in his dark hair as he pauses at the window's edge. "Besides, you always did love puzzles. You used to spend hours on them when you couldn't sleep."

Another piece of impossible knowledge. Another fragment that feels true but shouldn't exist. "How do you know that?"

"I know lots of things about you." His grin turns wicked. "You bite your lip when you're thinking too hard. You always eat the corners of sandwiches first. You used to trace constellations on my back with your fingertips."

Your weapon wavers. "Stop."

"Why? Does it hurt to remember what you've forgotten?"

"I haven't forgotten anything. I don't even know who you are." But even as you say it, phantom sensations ghost across your fingertips.

"Liar." He says it fondly. "You remember pieces. Little fragments that visit you in dreams. That's why you followed the melody tonight."

He's right again. You hate that he's right again.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, preparing to slip through the window.

"Wait—" The word tears from your throat. "At least tell me your name."

He pauses, half-silhouetted against the night sky. "You'll remember it when you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready? What if I never remember?"

For a moment, his smile falters. Vulnerability flickers across his features. "You will. You have to."

He turns to leave, but moonlight catches his profile at just the right angle. Your breath hitches. Along his temple, barely visible unless you know what to look for, the faint outline of demonic markings. Intricate patterns that shimmer like oil on water, there one second and gone the next.

Your training kicks in before your heart can catch up. The weapon in your hands shifts, finger finding the trigger. He's a demon. You're a hunter. The math is simple.

His hair shifts slightly, and for just a moment, you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the strands.

"You see it now," he says quietly. "The monster I am.”

Your finger hovers over the trigger. This is what you've trained for. What you've dedicated your life to. But something deep inside you hesitates.

Your hand trembles. The weapon feels impossibly heavy.

"Tomorrow," he says again, stepping towards the window. "When you remember who we were, you'll understand why I can't fight you. Why I'll never fight you."

In the blink of an eye, he's gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his voice, that phantom melody, and the terrible knowledge that you just let a demon walk away.

You land back on the balcony, chest heaving. The sliding door opens before you can compose yourself. Rumi, Mira, and Zoey spill out, eyes wide with panic.

"Where were you?! We've been searching everywhere—"

"Can we go tomorrow instead?" Your voice sounds foreign. "I don't feel great."

They exchange loaded glances. Eventually Rumi nods. "Of course. Rest is part of prep too."

You turn away before they can see the cracks spreading across your composure and witness how your hands shake.

That night, your bed feels like a battleground. The melody plays on repeat behind your closed eyes. Each note carries weight you can't name and memories you can't quite grasp.

The mystery of it all pressed against your mind. What past did you share? Why couldn't you remember?

Mystery himself seemed to revel in the unknowing, content to watch you struggle with fragments of what you'd once been to each other.

BABY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Something was wrong with your hands.

They'd been trembling since you left the dorm, and no amount of clenching your fists or pressing them against your thighs could make it stop. Rumi's words echoed in your head like a mantra you couldn't shake, "Don't let his face fool you. They're still dangerous demons working for Gwi-Ma nevertheless."

Pictures of the Saja Boys were already circulating online in less than a day. Five demons who'd seemingly appeared overnight, stealing the hearts and souls of your fans.

"Ugh, I’m going to beat their stupid pretty little faces," Zoey had said, tapping the images with her pen. "Seriously, look at them! Acting all mysterious and brooding like they're in some kind of boy band. I mean—they are… but look! The internet's already making fan edits—fan edits! Of demons!" She'd gestured wildly at her tablet, where countless social media posts were flooding in by the minute. "Half the comments are people asking where they can meet them. It's insane!”

You'd barely heard her. Your eyes had been drawn to one face among the five, sharp features that still held traces of boyish softness.

His face had made your chest tighten with recognition, like looking at a stranger who wore the face of someone from a half-remembered dream.

Why did he feel familiar?

The neighbourhood around you was a study in urban decay, half the buildings scheduled for demolition, the other half already hollow shells. You decided to turn a corner and came across an abandoned playground.

You knew this place.

You stopped mid-step at the chain-link gate. The monkey bars where someone had scraped their knee. The slide with the chip in the yellow paint. The bike rack, now empty and listing to one side like a broken rib.

This was from your dreams. Or maybe...

"Didn't expect you to come."

The voice drifted from somewhere behind the playground equipment with an edge that made your hand move instinctively to your weapon. You'd heard that voice before, in fragments that scattered whenever you tried to grasp them.

"Show yourself," you called, stepping through the gate. The metal squealed in protest, the sound echoing off empty buildings like a warning.

He laughed mockingly. "Still giving orders, I see."

He emerged from behind the slide, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill of the night. He looked barely out of his teens, with features that still held traces of boyish softness despite the hard set of his jaw.

"You always had a thing for chasing monsters," he said, tilting his head as he studied you with uncomfortable intensity. Those dark eyes flickered, darting away from your face as if looking directly at you caused him physical pain.

"How do you know me?"

Baby shrugged with affected indifference. "Lucky guess."

The way he held himself like he was trying very hard not to care, made anger flare in your chest. "That's not an answer."

He kicked at a piece of broken glass, sending it skittering across the asphalt. "Maybe you're just forgettable."

The casual cruelty in his voice should have stung. You drew your blade, silver gleaming in the late afternoon light.

"Are you going to come quietly, or do we have to do this the hard way?"

Baby looked at the weapon, then back at your face. For a moment, vulnerability flickered across his features before he crushed it down.

"Do what the hard way?" He stepped closer, invading your personal space with reckless confidence. "Fight me? Kill me?" His voice dropped, a hint of intimacy laced inside, bitter amusement threading through each word. "You wouldn't be the first to try."

You raised the blade between you, but instead of stopping, he knocked it aside with casual violence, the metal ringing as it struck the nearby swing set. Before you could recover, he was on you, crowding you back against the chain-link fence with predatory grace.

"I waited for you, you know," he said, one hand braced against the fence beside your head, effectively trapping you. "Stupid thing to do when you're a kid."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. "What?"

His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. The touch was rough, but not enough to hurt.

"You really don't remember," he said, his laugh sharp enough to cut. "How convenient."

"Remember what?" The desperation in your voice made you flinch, but you couldn't take it back.

"Us." The single word fell between you, sending ripples through memories you couldn't quite grasp. "This place. The promises you made."

You tried to push him away, but he caught your wrists, pinning them against the fence. His grip was careful despite his aggression, strong enough to hold you, gentle enough not to bruise.

"You died," he said, voice flat and matter-of-fact. "And I had to grow up. Happy now?"

The world tilted sideways. Images flashed through your mind like broken film, a boy with tears streaming down his face, small hands clutching yours, a voice promising forever, all turned into ashes now.

"I'll never leave you."

The words rose from deep in your throat. Baby's eyes snapped to yours, wide with… hope, if hope weren't such a dangerous thing for creatures like him to carry.

"You broke your promise first," he whispered, and the accusation send a chill down your spine.

You stumbled when he finally released you, pressing a hand to your chest where the ache was spreading like cracks in ice. Baby stepped back, flexing his fingers, trying to forget the feel of your skin.

"I don't—" You shook your head, struggling to make sense of the fragments flashing through your mind. "I don't understand."

"No," Baby said, his mask completely slipping. "You never did understand. You were always too good for this world."

He kicked your fallen blade across the asphalt, the metal scraping against concrete. "That's why you had to die, isn't it? Pure things don't last in places like this."

The words were bitter, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. He turned away quickly, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Next time we meet, I won't be nice," he said without looking back.

"Please, wait—"

He froze at the sound of your plea, shoulders going rigid. You thought he might turn around. Instead, he let out a short and humourless laugh.

"Begging now? Huh, pathetic."

H walked away, each step deliberate and final. Just as he reached the edge of the playground, he stopped.

"The songs," he said quietly, not turning around. "Those stupid lullabies you used to sing when I had nightmares. I still—"

He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head.

"Forget it. Forget everything."

He simply walked away down the empty street like any other person with anywhere else to be. You watched until he turned the corner and vanished from sight, leaving you alone with your forgotten blade and the sound of wind through rusted swings.

You picked up your weapon with trembling hands, but the silver felt cold and foreign now, it now felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

taglist : @lvlyhiyyih @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @jungwonbropls @prodkwh @reibelhearts @kjwluvr @arieslucy @permanenceimp @arienic

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yan-randomfandom · 17 hours ago

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I've been reading the fanart. You have a natural talent for creating a more distinctive personality for the Saja Boys from the bits and pieces they gave us in the movie!

Ever since that fanart where the Saja sneaked into the reader's room, I couldn't stop imagining what they would be like sleeping alone with her, as if every day of the week except the weekends they will take turns sleeping with the reader or something like that.

And again, I love your writing. I hope you like the idea. Have a nice day!!!

Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; anon thank you so much heheh!!! this one isn't too accurate to your idea, but i love it and i hope it's still okay!

summary; physical touch with the boys and why they wanna go to your bedroom :))) (touch starved. written separately but they all live in the same housing)

warnings; stalking (watching you sleep), body curious, touching w no permission, nothing sexual tho!

— 🍃 [Monday]

Here's the thing, guys. The boys don't actually need sleep. They're demons. Sleep isn't something their bodies need—instead it's something they want. They are still aware and can feel through touch, which is exactly why they'd prefer to sleep with you.

You're warm, so alive, and they don't know it yet.

Surprisingly enough, Jinu is the first one to knock on your door.

"Jinu?" you drawl, voice laced with sleep. He stands awkwardly by the doorway, patiently waiting for you to process what's happening. Glancing idly at your sleepwear and dimlit room.

You yawn, widening the door. "What's up? Need something?" You pause, raising a lazy accusing finger. "Wait. You're not here to suck my blood, are you—?!"

"What? No!" Jinu gasps, almost offended. You sigh out of relief anyway.

"...We're not interested in physical bodies. Anyway, uh, sorry for waking you up. I just need to see how our socials are going," he explains as he steps into your room. "You can power your computer and go back to sleep."

As soon as you heard the word 'social', you were already turning it on. "'kay, buddy. You sure you don't need help, though? I know I taught you a bit but I understand it can get confusing—"

"No, no," Jinu huffs, denial flooding his form. "I can do it."

"You remember how to turn it off?"

"Yes. Don't worry."

Then you fall asleep next to him, your body slightly pressing against his. His eyes slowly drift away from the glow of the computer screen to your sleeping form. He stares for a moment.

Soft, warm. It reminds him of the past on how he couldn't sleep with his own fam—

Jinu pulls the computer plug off and teleports away.

—💐 [Tuesday]

Baby made you piggyback him. A lot. It was sort of your fault.

You saw the Saja Boys taking turns carrying him—it was a pretty funny ordeal. Then you jokingly offered to piggyback him to see what the hype was about.

He accepted it all too eagerly. As soon as his full weight falls on you, you're genuinely surprised at how light he is. It's probably equivalent to a box full of volleyballs.

"You're lighter than I thought," you say, adjusting your arms behind his legs.

Baby suddenly lets his head rest on yours. "Why are you so..." Warm. He buries himself into your shoulder, his arms tightening around you.

"Why am I so what?" you ask, turning your head, only achieving to tickle him more.

He doesn't let you go for the rest of the day.

And by extension, night.

You tried to complain at first. "Didn't we agree to—"

"Just this once, please?"

You folded.

He snuggles all comfortable within your arms, acting as the little spoon, greedily content in your warmth and breathing.

But then you wake up with his mouth on your skin. He wasn't biting, sucking, or anything. It was just.... there.

Still, though, you assumed the worst.

"I thought you said demons don't suck blood, Jinu!?!"

"We don't!!?!"

—🪷 [Wednesday]

Abby wanted you to touch his abs for some mysterious reason. Yapping about how "no one else will have this chance," or "you might not live long enough to feel it!" and "I actually haven't let anyone touch my artificial abs yet" — it was really weird, but you shrugged it off and agreed anyway.

Like hell yeah. Sure, why not?

So he unbuttons his shirt, all giddy, and watches as you reach for his skin.

You make contact with his abs. Caressing it gently, it feels normal in texture — but you suppose it's a little too cold. The fact didn't totally sound weird at the time.

Looking up, you flinch at Abby's expression. You thought he'd be smiling, like he was the whole time, but he looks so serious that it's actually concerning. He's not looking at you; his eyes were down and fixated on your hand.

You notice, pulling your hand away from him, and snapping your fingers. "You okay?"

He blinks. "Uh."

Later that night, Abby welcomes himself into your room.

He stares at you from the corner. From the center. From the edge of your bedframe. On your bed.

Sometimes, he'd gently let his hands roam over your exposed skin. Mostly your warm hands. And your warm face.

You wake up to find his face in front of you.

Screaming, you unintentionally kick him in the abs.

"Ow, my perfectly crafted abs!"

— 🪻 [Thursday]

Mystery almost lost it when you pat his head.

You did it voluntarily. It's a nice, comforting feeling as you pat his shoulder, his arm, and his cheek. He utterly melts under your casual touches without a single word.

He loves it. You leave him demanding for more. So, Mystery decides to linger around you like a guard dog. Who hopes to be spoiled, who wishes to be held.

But, then, night comes.

"You're not exactly allowed in my room," you say, only to pause when he straight up whimpers.

... You folded. With a sigh, you step away from the door and give him space to walk in.

He happily skips into your room, flopping face-first on your bed. You stare at him for a moment, thinking about how despite them not being human — they really love to rest.

You lie down, feeling Mystery move around under your blanket, closing your eyes when he finds himself comfortable against your chest.

Your chest rising and falling with every breath—Mystery simply can't help but feel envious.

— 🌺 [Friday]

Romance is confused.

There's a buzz between his band members — apparently, they visited your bedroom? Didn't they agree to avoid that specific place in this house?

He doesn't realize he's been staring blankly at nowhere. Reality hits him hard when something gentle touches his hair.

"Might wanna style your hair again, Rome," you chuckle, brushing his hair with your fingers. He shivers when your skin grazes his forehead. "You got the bed head. Though I guess you just snap your fingers and it'd be all okay."

You leave right after that, but Romance keeps staring at the last place he saw your figure, his fingers fidgeting with the hair you just touched.

Okay. He gets it now.

Next day, you woke up with him hovering over your head.

You suddenly grab his shoulders, push him back against your bed, breathing heavy from the shock. The bed sinks under both your weight.

Romance stares immensely up at you.

"You guys," you breath, "will be the death of me."

He smirks. "I can only imagine."

— krazy

#kpdh x reader #x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #saja boys x reader #jinu x reader #baby saja x reader #abby saja x reader #romance saja x reader #mystery saja x reader #jinu saja x reader

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excusemyobsessions · 3 days ago

Note

This has been roaming in my head for way too long.

So we all know The LaDs men are hella big, right?

What if it cant fit in (some) reader/s mouth s they end up choking a bit or needing to only go through it halfway bcs their gag reflexes arent reflexing so now we feel bad 😔 💔

Well, my dearest, you got my mind racing with this one 🙈

Here are my thoughts about this:

(Explicit sexual content below)

Zayne

Zayne doesn't like you straining yourself. Yes, he's okay stretching out your sweet little hole but when you want to take him whole in your mouth, he's very careful.

He'll tuck your hair behind your ear, push it away from your pretty face.

And his hand is a heavy, guiding weight on the nape of your neck. When you start going too far and start choking around his length, he'll pull you back by the back of your neck.

"Honey, slow down. You're going to bruise your throat."

But you just want to make him feel good :(

"You already do. And your hands are enough," he assures you.

When you're being very very stubborn, he'll pull you off his cock and kiss the air out of your lungs.

"Slowly," he'll tell you, in a deep, firm voice.

Rafayel

Okay but hear me out.

Rafayel but in heat. Merman form. And he's got two. Yes, of course, two.

And obviously you want both in your mouth.

But they're big and they're two and you can barely fit one, of course your can't fit two.

So, you're so whiny because you want both in your mouth :(

And he's so beautiful, so flustered, ears bright red, breathing labored. He does these delicious hip rolls when you stroke him. Gorgeous tail hanging off the side of the bathtub.

"Please, princess, it's okay, don't pout like that."

"Please, just your hand is okay... please, baby..."

And of course you wrap your hands around both his cocks, and take turns sucking on both heads like a lollipop. Until he's moaning out your name, with his head thrown back, covering your hands and face with his cum.

Sylus

Sylus...

This man would train you to take him.

Very slow and patiently, full of sweet, loving praises.

"Shhh, kitten, it's okay. You're doing great."

He just loves you so much he'll indulge you anytime. Guide you through it.

"Hollow your cheeks a little."

"Hmmm... that's it, sweet thing, you're taking me so well."

If you have long hair, he'll wrap it around his hand, occasionally tug on it if you're being impatient. Short hair gets tugged on too.

And he'll click his tongue.

"Tsk tsk, kitten, you're going too fast."

He'll cup your cheeks with his long fingers.

"I want you to take it nice... and... slow..."

Xavier

A lover who chokes around his length would drive Xavier insane.

Oh, he's not gonna be gentle about it because he loves, loves seeing the tears cling to your lashes, your lips stretched out around his cock.

He loves seeing your efforts.

His hand is always on the top of your head, sometimes gripping your hair. And he holds you down on his cock every now and then. (With consent, of course. If you don't like that, he definitely won't.)

"That's it, princess. Look at how pretty you look, with your mouth around my cock."

He has to hold back so he won't thrust into your throat when you gag. He doesn't want to hurt you, of course. He wants you to feel good too.

He cums in your mouth and you struggle to swallow it all, just like you struggled with his length.

"You're so messy, my starlight. So pretty."

Caleb

Caleb wants your mouth around his cock so bad but he doesn't want you to hurt yourself :(

"Take it slow, pips, you don't have to take it whole."

He'll try so bad to keep his hips still for you.

And he's so full of praises. He pets your hair through it.

"You look so pretty."

"You're taking me so well."

"Your mouth feels so so good."

"I've thought about this before. Yeah, you, with my cock in your mouth. You look even prettier than I imagined."

He catches the tears that fall from your eyes. Thrusts into your mouth only when he's sure he won't hurt you. He's very eager to let you use him, let you suck on his cock like a popsicle but the way you want it.

You swallow him down once and he's done for, cumming down your throat while letting out the prettiest moans.

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imaginespazzi · 2 days ago

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nivi alr here me out, if you want to, plssss a pazzi one shot of paige jelly over azzi in georgias jersey…plus 😈

Y'all know the drill. This was written in very little time and is definitely not edited and is extremely silly but y'all said Nivi rescue us from this fic drought, and I figured I'd give you a little droplet tee hee :)

Everything wrong with the color red and the number 8

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Paige Bueckers deserves a pat on the back.

Actually, she deserves a goddamn trophy.

Because Azzi Fudd (pretty, sexy, beautiful, gorgeous, literally a goddess and also most importantly, her girlfriend as is proudly displayed on her phonecase) is sitting courtside.

Right where Paige can see her.

And Paige hasn't gotten distracted once (okay well that's not entirely true because she may or may not have frozen the second she'd come out for warmups and seen said ethereal girlfriend on the sidelines and she may or may not have stopped breathing even though she'd already known Azzi was going to be here, and Nalyssa may or may not have ran straight into her from behind because Paige quite literally could not move and Dijonai may or may not have called her a simp for that because oh my god Paige you literally had brunch with her this morning but all of that is just semantics!)

But in the grand scheme of things Paige is pretty proud of herself and her self-control (and no the little glances she's been sneaking throughout warmups do not count as a strike against any of that because if she didn't take the liberty of occasionally checking out her girlfriend who she hasn't seen in years weeks, that would just be blasphemy and Paige Bueckers is a devout Christian who does not engage in blasphemy)

That is until Georgia Amoore enters the scene.

Paige doesn't know Georgia particularly well beyond when she'd met the girl during draft weekend (which if she's honest, she'd mainly spent most of that weekend tucked into a corner with Shyanne, the two of them going back and forth about how much they missed and adored their girlfriends) but she knows that her and Azzi had bonded over DAWG camp and anyone that gets the Azzi Fudd seal of approval, pretty automatically gets the Paige seal of approval too.

There's a ruby red Mystics jersey slung casually across Georgia's shoulder that Paige doesn't really pay much attention. She grins at the shorter girl when she makes her rounds past the Dallas team, dapping up all of her teammates before reaching Paige. There's a twinkle in Georgia's eyes as she smirks at the blonde, something a little cocky about it that almost reminds her of herself. Neither of them say anything beyond their casual smiles and Paige pencils that interaction into her memory to be thrown out in a couple of seconds.

Or so she thinks.

She continues going about her drills, a slight pep in her step that's been present since Friday night when she'd come home, (not to Connecticut, but to Azzi) as she goes through her routine. Out of the corner of her eyes, she spots Georgia walking over to her girlfriend, her grin widening (which like fair, she thinks everyone should in fact smile their biggest smile when in the presence of literal best person ever Azzi Fudd, but does she really need to show all thirty-two teeth like that?) as she reaches the brunette.

Naturally, Azzi hugs the Australian (and Paige isn't upset about that of course because Azzi is allowed to hug people and because she knows without a doubt that the way Azzi hugs other people is nothing compared to the way she hugs Paige, with her arms wrapped tightly around the blonde's body and her head tucked right into the crevice of her neck like it's where she feels the safest) who beams a little too bright for Paige's liking but she lets it slide, especially because Arike's just come over to join her to go through passing drills and Paige is not about to give her teammates more ammunition to tease their "baby gay" (which by the way Paige thinks is ridiculous because she's been gay for a hot minute now -and she definitely been gay longer than Nai- so really in her opinion she's a "grown gay") about how atrociously down bad she is for Azzi (which she is, proudly so, just in case anyone was wondering!).

Paige can't quite make out the conversation they're having as they break apart, but she hears Georgia giggle (a little too loud if you ask her) and then Azzi laughs (a beautiful sound that echoes warmly against Paige's ears but not nearly as perfect as the one she makes when it's Paige who elicits that lovely bout of laughter from her lips).

It happens in the flash of a second, between the ball leaving Paige's hands and finding it's way to Arike's (the universal sign for incoming disaster as Paige is quickly learning but will never say out loud). There's a blur of red in her peripheral and Paige swears she's not being dramatic, but it feels like the arena goes a little cold when her gaze drifts back to the courtside seats.

Georgia Amoore has disappeared.

But her presences still lingers, short and chaotic.

Because Azzi, her Azzi, who had previously been wearing a cute little white UConn top that defined her oh-so-lovely biceps and had been cropped just enough for that bellybutton piercing (the bane of fifteen year old Paige's existence and the object of all of post-sixteen year old Paige's desires) to peek out right underneath it, is now wearing a Mystics jersey.

Not just any Mystics jersey.

Georgia fucking Amoore's #8 Mystics jersey.

And Paige quite literally and figuratively sees red.

She blinks a couple of times, waiting for her own vision to be proven wrong. But nothing changes. Azzi's still right there.

Still in red.

Still in a Mystics Jersey.

Still in fucking #8.

Paige doesn't hate a lot of things (except for anyone who has the audacity to even blink in Azzi's direction with the wrong intentions that is) but in that moment she hates the color red (god who had let her wear red in her pregame outfit? that must have been some cursed foreshadowing) and she really hates the #8 (no seriously, she's going to have to text Jana and threaten to disown her from her will if the Egyptian doesn't immediately change her jersey number)

Azzi for her part, is the picture of innocence as she settles back into her seat, as if she hasn't done anything, as if she hasn't just thrown the cosmic balance of Paige's life off-kilter by wearing that offending item.

God, Paige is going to ruin her (when, she's not really sure, considering they're going straight back to Dallas after the game and Azzi has to fly in the opposite direction of that -a thought Paige is suppressing as far to the back of her mind as it will go- but it's going to happen; besides Paige is known for her efficiency for a reason, she doesn't need particularly long, just the two of them alone in the semi-secrecy of a locked bathroom somewhere in this wretched building)

And if the smirk dancing but never quite settling on Azzi's lips is anything to go by, the brunette knows it too (welcomes it even, as if both of them aren't currently running on about two hours of sleep and unspeakable amounts of caffeine to keep them functioning right now after getting reacquainted with each other's souls last night).

Arike can barely hold in a laugh when she spots Azzi and her jersey (Paige briefly wonders if there's a fine for burning opposing player's jersey and then consoles herself with the fact that if there is, it's nothing she can't pay out of pocket considering the length of the zeroes in her bank account is definitely larger than Georgia Amoore's fucking vertical) as she's walking over to greet another familiar face, before dapping up the brunette and then promptly returning back to Paige with a shit-eating grin.

"You gonna let that slide?" the vet asks coyly, the laughter palpable in her tone.

Paige doesn't respond, her focus solely on her girlfriend (and it's a sin that said girlfriend still look to entirely perfect even dressed in enemy attire that Paige wants to rip off her body for partially non-sexual reasons) who continues to smile cavalierly in her direction.

"Are you seriously wearing that?" Paige mouths, pointing at the jersey adorning her girlfrien'd perfect body (what she really wants to scream, is take it the fuck off)

Azzi raises her eyebrows as she shrugs, blinking almost naively (as if there isn't a hidden challenge of make me spelled out in the dark brown of her irises)

Paige purses her lips, narrowing her eyes, not quite a glare (because she's jealous and posessive but not stupid and she would never glare at the princess) but enough that it makes Azzi bite her lip, (which should be illegal because now Paige really wants march over and kiss her until that perfect lip routine of hers becomes a distant memory) not in fear, never that, but something else.

Something far more carnal that makes Azzi fidget in her seat and clench her thighs together.

It's subtle, something nobody else would notice but Paige. Because it's only for Paige, has only been for her since they were teenagers and just beginning to understand what that feeling was.

And Paige doesn't smirk, doesn't let anything show as she gets back into the rhythm of the passing drill with Arike, but something flares inside of her. (and no it isn't just pure horniness jesus fuck she has a game to play okay?)

Satisfaction.

And that innate feeling of knowing what is hers, will always be hers.

Because Georgia Amoore could win these harmless battles, but Paige doesn't even have to step into the battlefield to win the war.

Azzi could wear any jersey, any number, any color.

But fate itself had carved Bueckers into her heart, and even an Australian can't fight destiny.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #genuinely so unserious #never say i never gave y'all anything (it's only true sometimes)#pazzi fics

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celestiaras · 3 days ago

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‧₊˚✧ ❛[ huntrix idol spotted having a romantic lunch date?! ]❜

━━━ .°˖✧ requested by ✨ anon ˚₊ ⊹

ft. rumi, zoey, mira (separate) x f! reader — kpop demon hunters

╰₊✧ you’re just trying to go on a peaceful date with your girlfriend, but nosy reporters have the tendency to get in the way┊1.3k words

contains: secret established relationship, paparazzi, reader isn't an idol

➤ author's note: my writing is really rambly and i kinda went off prompt, i’m sorry feel free to send in something else T-T

trying to juggle the busy life of a worldwide sensation kpop idol while also secretly dating someone outside of that atmosphere isn’t for the weak, but your girlfriend promises that all the struggles that come with it are worth the reward of being with you and having an ounce of privacy. most of your dates are restricted to the privacy of her dorm, usually consisting of much-needed cuddling on the couch time with snacks and an action movie after a long day of practice or a make-shift candle-lit dinner where you’re probably eating delicious take out (none of these girls can cook for the life of them, except for rumi, but she can’t make anything more complex than spaghetti). while always content with your simple romance life, when the special day of your anniversary arrives, your girlfriend is insistent on doing something different, even if it requires planning a stealth mission to reach your destination unseen.

since she has one of the most recognizable face and hair in the nation as well as having huntrix posters plastered everywhere, dressing up in a baggy jacket, medical mask, and sunglasses are a must to cover up as much as possible (it looks suspicious as first, but once she actually leaves the house, it’s surprising how no one cares enough to spare a second glance). once you arrive at the restaurant she made the reservation at, she reluctantly takes off the oversized clothing to reveal a more appropriate outfit to be granted entry and is escorted inside, but it’s difficult to ignore the shocked looks the other guests are giving her with you following closely behind.

as you settle in and enjoy your meals, the sudden sound and sight of a camera flash interrupts your peace. it appears one of the other customers has tipped off some of the major celebrity news outlets as reporters and their cameras press against the glass windows trying to get a shot of what’s going on, knowing that the rose in the center and loving looks exchanged meant more than a lunch between friends…

━━━ .°˖✧ rumi!! ˚₊ ⊹

╰₊✧ the best out of the three at not drawing any attention to herself on the way there. she minds her own business, knowing the best way to go unbothered is to remain hidden and to blend in with people around her. she plans out the route to get to the restaurant, point “a” to point “b,” holding your hand the entire time. 10/10, you successfully managed to go completely undetected!

╰₊✧ when she notices the reporters, the first thing she does is sigh and think of the best way to get rid of them. although she doesn’t acknowledge their presence, the strained look on her face tells all that there needs to be said. rumi would likely make a deal with them, they could come inside and take a few good photos (with your permission, obviously) then they need to beat it.

“i feel awful,” she muttered, playing with her food using her chopsticks while deep in thought. “this was my idea to come out here, but now we've been found out and everyone knows when we’ve been working so hard to keep it a secret…”

“hey! don’t worry about it, it’s not that big of a deal,” you assured, reaching out to hold her hand in yours, “they’re gone now, so let’s just enjoy the rest of the night, okay?”

╰₊✧ even though the cat is out of the bag, rumi still can’t help but be a little skittish about it. her privacy is something she values a lot, and having one of her secrets exposed to the public makes her nervous about her other secret being revealed as well. not much in the relationship will change, except she might be even more tense than usual about going out together, so give it some time before she relaxes and is willing to loosen up about it.

━━━ .°˖✧ zoey!! ˚₊ ⊹

╰₊✧ the worst out of the three at not drawing any attention to herself on the way there. it’s not a normal outing, it’s a date with her girlfriend! the stress gets to her, and she might not be as subtle as she thinks she’s being, her behavior being comparable to a ninja student on their first day of class. 5/10, attracted a lot of attention, but at least no one recognized her and you got a big laugh out of it!

╰₊✧ when the cameras start flashing and reporters start asking questions, she struggles to ignore them because she’s nothing if not a people pleaser and doesn’t want to hurt any of their feelings by ignoring them. of course, you come first, and if you’re uncomfortable with it, she will dismiss them immediately (to the best of her ability, she feels so guilty), but if you give her the go-ahead, then she’ll probably host an impromptu interview right then and there.

“we met during one of our shows! she was my make-up artist, and i swear, it was love at first sight when she did my eyeshadow— like, wow, fireworks! she’s so gorgeous, i have to ask for her number, right now!”

you couldn’t help but smile at her words, heat rushing to your face as you laughed, “the fireworks are probably an overexaggeration—”

“nuh uh! it was like the fourth of july back in the us!

her passionate rambling about how much she adored you won the hearts of the people as they gushed about how adorable your relationship was. idols typically keep their dating lives private for good reason, but zoey’s openness was refreshing, and her pride to call you her girlfriend was evident to everyone.

╰₊✧ once the news articles go viral and everyone knows, it’s like she broke free from her shackles. she loves you so much that she’s always wanted to shout it from the rooftops, and now she finally can! if you’re alright with it, she’ll post photos of the two of you together on her social media, run to kiss you after performances, and dedicate some of her songs to you, effectively winning the title of the cutest couple alive.

━━━ .°˖✧ mira!! ˚₊ ⊹

╰₊✧ not too bad at not drawing any attention to herself on the way there, but her downfall is her overprotectiveness. if anyone’s gaze lingers on you for even a moment too long, her head snaps around and glares at them until they scurry off. 7/10, she might have scared a couple of people, but no one knew it was her!

╰₊✧ her intense stare also helps scare off the paparazzi. you would think they would know by now not to mess with her, but apparently, the big scoop of her being in a relationship was too tempting to pass up. was it really that big of a deal? it pisses her off to the point that she has to put her foot down before the night is ruined any further.

“hey! do you guys mind? i’m trying to have a date with my girlfriend over here!” she yells out, smacking the table and scowling out of frustration. she doesn’t like being mean or raising her voice, but she thinks it’s warranted when she’s only asking to be left alone and to be mira the girlfriend rather than mira the idol.

you held your breath, worried that she might have just ruined her reputation with a simple statement, but the reporters seemed to love her attitude. that’s the bad girl of the group alright! she’s so brave for speaking out and setting a new standard for idols by standing up for herself! they took one last picture and left the premises, finally giving the two of you some peace and quiet.

“so, anyway, where were we?”

╰₊✧ truthfully, mira doesn’t mind people knowing about her relationship with you, she just worries that they will bother you over it. she takes the happy medium of being confidential about it yet not worrying about hiding it. whatever your preferences are, she’ll adjust to it since she has no strong feelings about it, and will make certain that your wishes are respected.

request:

Could I get a request with Rumi (plus anyone else from Huntr/x if you want but specifically Rumi) with a female reader and them trying to go on dates without being recognized please? (reader can be just a regular person or another idol, whatever is good to get the writing juices flowing!) Thank you if you can!

#📜. her works #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #rumi kpop demon hunters #rumi kpop demon hunters x reader #mira kpop demon hunters #mira kpop demon hunters x reader #zoey kpop demon hunters #zoey kpop demon hunters x reader #huntrix #huntrix x reader

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onedollopofsourcream · 2 days ago

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EMERGENCY INSULIN HELP 6/24/25

hey we need $15 for food and $41 for Derek insulin that he MUST take to stay out of an er? URGENT he needs his insulin he's been out of it ONE DAY and due to his dosage of insulin being upped. all my SSI goes to 'rent' me, and my siblings, sis gf, my mom, and 2 kids under 15, one that is also autistic, have to live with her. we have nobody irl tha cares about us. i know times are very hard and ppl aren't rich. But please help us out this pride I'm moms caretaker im autistic lesbian who's trying to keep us all going. If you cant help dont worry but if you're able to donate all is appreciated, but if you send hate? blocked

p3ypal c3sh app v3nmo k0fi

(DM for Amazon wishlist and mealtrain link if you prefer helping that way)

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kissbabie · 1 day ago

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your bodyguard has to punish you !

being sat in bodyguard!sae's lap while he looked at you blankly, yet with the slightest hint of annoyance and irritation in his eyes was not on your list for tonight. actually, your plan was to sneak out your window after your father denied you of going to a party, but sae had unfortunately caught you. you mentally cursed the man for being so smart, and knowing exactly what you were planning to do after you so innocently asked him to leave your room so you could change.

"your father already said no, and you do this?" sae said, raising one eyebrow at you. he was lightly caressing your waist with one hand, then slowly tracing over your thigh as you pouted, then using his other hand to give you a light smack on your ass. "you really don't get it, do you?"

"'m sorry, sae, won't happen again." you blinked at him, wiggling yourself in his lap as you whined like a spoiled brat. he exhaled hard through his nose and titled his head back, like he was deciding what he should do with you. he leans in, lips brushing your ear as he uses one hand to hold the back of your neck and pull you into him, whispering into your ear, "be a good girl and ride me, okay? and i won't tell your father what you tried to do."

at the mere mention of that, you were scrambling to take off your skirt, fumbling with the zipper of his pants. pushing your own panties aside, it was almost embarrassing to see how wet you had already gotten, your pussy leaking and your panties glistening, but you managed to push yourself down his cock. the stretch was incredible — your mouth parted as you let out a whine, feeling your walls clamp down on him. straddling him, you wrap your arms around his neck, giving a few light bounces on it.

but after a while, despite how hard you were trying, you were getting tired, your thighs became sore, and sae wasn't even helping. he looked almost bored, letting out a few groans here and there, but you desperately needed for him to just grab your waist and slam you up and down on his cock.

“go faster,” sae mutters, voice flat, almost bored. “i c-can’t,” you whimpered, hips stuttering. “sae, ‘m tired, my legs—“

a little slap landed on your ass. not too hard, just enough to make your breath hitch. his fingers spread warm against your skin afterward, palm rubbing the area there. “c’mon, i know you can do it.” he says, eyes narrowing as he stares at you.

so, with what little dignity you had left, you let out a whine and started moving yourself again. it was terrible, you were riding him so messily, your thighs shaking as you let out frustrated whimpers, trying to chase your release. but, sae, of course, still had a small punishment up his sleeve for you.

"don't cum." he warned, but his voice was a bit shaky as he closed his eyes, his hands finally resting on your waist as it sounded like he, himself, was close to cumming. you sobbed, pathetically trying to ask him for permission to cum, but all he gave you was a single look and you knew you should just save your breath. you collapsed onto his chest, mewling into his shoulder as he exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up your back to keep you steady. what you didn't expect, however, was him to thrust up into you — one that made you cum, right then and there.

the feeling was incredible, feeling your pleasure finally crash over you after what you had to endure. but, after coming down from your high, it was way too quiet, and you just realized what you had done. you squirmed in his lap, before sae sighed and pulled you off. he easily grabbed you and placed you carefully on your back onto your bed, crawling over you. he fondly caressed your cheek, swiping his thumb under your eye slowly.

"didn't i tell you not to cum, hm?" he says. he leaned down to you, his breath dangerously close to yours. "guess i'll have to teach you some manners then, you brat."

for this req

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angrythingstarlight · 2 days ago

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https://www.instagram.com/reel/DLOmnEaOvVt/?igsh=cmtsZWFrODlqZ2Q2 this is mafia!bucky and his son 😆😆

IF Bucky and Mal has a baby boy, half of their conversations would go like this.

Bucky reaches for his son, gently encouraging him to stand up. "Cmon. We have to go, the girls are waiting for us."

Baby Barnes ignores him and keeps on playing with his new toy, a colorful action figure given to him by Bee.

Bucky sighs. Drops his shoulders. Stares at the ceiling. And wonders where his son got his stubbornness from. Couldn't have been from him.

He would continue this standoff but you're downstairs, waiting to start movie night. "Malyshka said let's go."

That's all the baby needed to hear.

"My Misha!" his son beams, immediately pushing to his feet, legs wobbling.

Bucky's gaze sharpens as he takes his little hand. "Our Malyshka."

He swears his son returns his glare. "My Misha."

The argument continues during the walk to the living room and gets more intense when Bucky tries to kiss you, only to have your son shove his hands between your faces.

Bucky has to admit defeat when his son breaks out the bottom lip. Even Bucky doesn't have a defense against that and the baby knows it.

Fine. At least he has his sweet Bee.

Bucky grins down at her, arms opening. "You can sit next to me, Bumblebee."

She starts to skip over when a little voice rings out. "My BeeBee"

And just like that she changes course with a "sorry Papa, be rights back" and runs to her brother.

You carefully hid your grin when Bucky takes the seat on your other side and slumps down with his head on your shoulder. Bucky glances up at you, baleful blue eyes on your face. "You're all traitors."

"You love us."

Bucky flashes a grin, the same one plastered on the two mini mes beside you. "Damn right I do."

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x black!reader #bumblebee series #mafia!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes

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sunsetcupid · 18 hours ago

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EYES OFF! ; F1 GRID.

synopsis: When you are catcalled on the street, it is only natural that your boyfriend reacts a certain way, be it possessive or enraged.

trigger warnings: Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Descriptions of cat-calling; Mentions of physical altercations

a message from the author: Once again, I added Daniel Ricciardo to this fic. I think I’ll be doing that for the rest of the stories in this series. If any of you would like to add a driver or request a certain scenario, don’t hesitate to message me in my inbox!

ISACK HADJAR

He can’t believe his ears – he can’t begin to fathom why someone would make such a vile comment, especially to his girlfriend, the sweetest, most loving person he knows. It physically repulses him, and for a moment, you think he might vomit all over the sidewalk.

Likewise, as soon as he hears the leering statement, he freezes in place. Head cocked to one side, fists clenching until the knuckles turn white. You have to practically drag him away, telling him that “It’s not worth it” because the boxer in him is just itching for a fight.

“No one should be saying those things. Not to you, not to anyone. They need to learn a lesson, and I’ll fucking teach them.” He repeats it as if it were his personal mantra, over and over.

For the rest of the day, he’s sulking. An invisible rain cloud is hovering over his head, but it doesn’t stop him from being extremely clingy. If you dare move out of his eyesight for a second (to get a snack or to put your phone on charge), he immediately panics and can’t stop kissing you afterward.

OSCAR PIASTRI

Oscar is not a confrontational guy at all. His version of arguments are stony silences, unanswered texts, and the cold shoulder. Nevertheless, he rather enjoys keeping a level head and remaining calm. But when a guy walking down the street wolf-whistles at you and cracks some lewd joke about wanting to explore the curves of your body, Oscar wants to tear him apart.

He takes a few deep breaths, attempting to regulate his rapidly pounding heart rate before it explodes out of his chest. He might consider walking away, but when he sees your panic-stricken expression, it’s game over.

Oscar stalks over to them, his voice low and gravelly as he makes the catcaller regret his existence with a few well-chosen words. He’s more forceful, more direct than you’ve ever heard or seen him be, and it turns you on.

LANCE STROLL

His head whips to look at the culprit, his eyes widening in astonishment. For a moment, he thinks he’s imagined it, but the leering smirk on the offender’s face dashes his hopes. “What did you just say to my girlfriend?” Lance’s voice is eerily calm, not a hint of his inner rage visible on the surface.

The only way you can identify how he truly feels is the vein pulsing on his neck, and the fact that he’s gone rigid, like a tree trunk. You have to place a hand on his arm to get his body to relax.

As a result of the incident, Lance becomes more vigilant, walking in front of you at all times and blocking your body with his – a very attractive shield. He even offers to get you a personal bodyguard, but you adamantly refuse.

LANDO NORRIS

His face flushes with anger, eyes turning into flinty shards. He’s so pissed off that someone would dare to tease you, especially in such a creepy manner.

You have to whisper-hiss at him to not get into an altercation with the person who catcalled you. He’s like an overgrown puppy, growling at the person and trying to tug himself free of your grip in order to go fight the other person. “I don’t give a fuck about race penalties. He’s a fucking bastard!”

Once he’s regained some composure, he posts a lengthy paragraph on social media, denouncing misogynistic behaviors and urging everyone to make donations to women’s empowerment groups. “We love to believe that the world today is modern and equal, but it can never truly become inclusive if these events are still commonplace.”

CHARLES LECLERC

He curses in French, letting loose a dictionary’s worth of swear words you didn’t even know existed. That’s his clash with the perpetrator. On track? He’s ready to fight. But in person? He’s less eager to do so.

In lieu of this, he wraps you up in his sweater, taking your hand in his and comforting you with his closeness. “I’m here for you, mon ange. And I’ll always protect you.”

He’s big on physical touch after – kissing your cheeks and cuddling, enveloping you with his body like he can shield you from every harsh remark people make. Perhaps he can. He’s just that magical.

DANIEL RICCIARDO

He’s absolutely incensed. The happy-go-lucky facade disappears in a snap, replaced by cold fury. He slings one arm around your shoulder, laughing menacingly. “Hey, mate! Eyes off my girl, and fuck off.”

Daniel would 100% get into a brawl with someone who insults his girlfriend, not because he is a violent guy, but because he wants to properly defend the love of his life.

He could be bleeding and bruised for weeks after, yet he will forever be proud of his capability to defend his girlfriend.

Later, he tries to make light of the situation by making jokes. Ultimately, however, all he wants is to take you in his arms and never let you go. You’re everything he could ever want, and he hates that other people have the power to hurt you.

Credits: Dividers — @strangergraphics

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miange1 · 2 days ago

Note

I NEED MORE OF UR OLDER MEN.

please do a boyfriends dad where reader(male ofc) accidentally made a sexual relationship with his boyfriends dad because his bf couldn't satisfy him sexually?

COME ON YOU KNOW YOU LIKE..— drabble

pairing: boyfriends dad x male reader

tw: cheating, older man x younger male, "lana" mindset, feminization, reader is described as feminine, crushing, teasing, hinting, obliviousness, being bored during sex, breeding kink, frotting/grinding, hairy kink(if that makes sense), jerking off to pics, HEAVYYY daddy kink(i cringed too don't kill me brah)

note: i love these types. i never proofread

boyfriends dad, who when you first met him already had eyes for you. the way your soft hand wrapped around his, shaking it and trying to be polite. but he saw it, saw the way you stood still and the way you avoided eye contact with him no matter how hard he tried to look at you. "its..it's nice to meet you sir." it was sure as hell nice to meet you too

boyfriends dad, who adores it when you come over. always suggests that you stay over instead of his son staying over at yours. his eyes were always on you. he'd always ask you to reach high places just to see that sliver of skin, purposely dropping things so you could bend over in front of him. your eyes would have that look, like you knew what he was doing but you feigned innocence.

boyfriends dad, who found your Instagram quickly enough. scrolling along the photos that you would post, whether it be your face, outfits, food. he was always looking at them when he had some time alone. he couldn't help himself, sooner or later cum would be all over his screen and he'd have to wipe it off. no shame to his actions.

boyfriends dad, who was a little nosey. just a little bit. he had overheard a phone call a while back, you were talking to your friend and seemed distressed and even disappointed. "i dunno, he just can't..pleasure me like i thought he would." oh? really?

boyfriends dad, who would take advantage of times you two would have alone. sometimes he would give subtle touches, those subtle touches would turn into not so subtle accidents. unlike his son, he could make you squirm and writhe with a few touches. unlike his son, he could have you moaning for real on his dick. unlike his son, he could have you cumming with just his hand.

boyfriends dad, who fucked you like an everyday schedule that just couldn't wait any longer. he'd have you bent over every surface he could get you on. kitchen counter, bathroom sink, couch, your boyfriends bed. shit, if he could compare this to the first hole he fucked this would be much better.

boyfriends dad, who could never stop talking and grunting while he fucked you. he wanted you to know you were his, even if on the outside you weren't, you surely were on the inside. "don't act all wimpy, take this dick like a man— 'less you a lil' girl, hm?" "daddy's got you addicted, don't he? mhm, ain't even gotta tell me with your words i can already see." "shh, shh, ain't none of that cryin'. big boys don't cry." "goood boy, suckin' me in so good."

boyfriends dad, absolutely loved to watch you come crawling back to him after you said you wouldn't. you'd try so hard to be a good boyfriend, try to force yourself to like the way your boyfriend fucked you, but you just couldn't do it. it was so difficult, you had to jerk yourself off beforehand. you just missed it so badly. missed his big hands gripping at the soft skin of your waist, missed the way his chest hair tickled your back when he leant down to go deeper, you missed it all.

boyfriends dad, who would rub it in your face each time you'd come back to him. saying things like you couldn't resist him, and he was right. fucking right. you'd have to give him head as an apology, listen to him degrade you like some side bitch. "fuck..look at ya, chokin' on this dick like you ain't beg me for it." he would thrust his hips the moment you'd get used to it for a second, seeing the way you could only gargle and whimper as a response.

boyfriends dad, who was just as obsessed with your body as you were of his. he paid attention to every little detail, every little twitch and wiggle so he would memorize it and get it right(unlike someone he knew). watch your tummy fill up and bloat with his cum each and every time he plunged in deep so he could feel the relief of cumming inside like he was getting you filled of his damn kids.

boyfriends dad, who would wish you goodbye and watch you kiss his son on the cheek like you didn't just taste his cum in your mouth. like you didn't want him more than anything in this world.

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vivwritesfics · 3 days ago

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Wallaby

Chapter One: Conception

You were just best friends, a friendship born from improper business practices. But Oscar's Japan win leads to celebrating. Celebrating leads to his bed. His bed leads to a baby. Oscar Piastri x Verstappen!Reader Warnings: hints of abusive parenting, 18+ themes, smut, foreplay (fingering, fem!receiving), p in v, drunk sex, unprotected sex (let me know if i missed anything) 5.6K

Red Bull cap pulled low on your head, you sat in the McLaren garage. The first few times you had done it, you looked so out of place. Pictures of you were plastered across social media; the mysterious Red Bull girl in the McLaren garage.

It wasn't your fault the McLaren garage had better coffee.

With your iPad in your lap, you doodled. No, it wasn't a doodle. Once upon a time your dad called them doodles, but you'd turned those doodles into your career.

“Wanna show?”

You held your iPad against your chest, hiding your work from the prying eyes of the McLaren driver.

“Nice try,” you mumbled and pressed the off button. Tucking your pen into its little case, you looked at him across the table.

Him, with his coffee and his salmon with avocado on toast. Too healthy of a breakfast for your taste, but you knew he enjoyed it.

Oscar held up his hands in defence before digging into his breakfast. “All right,” he said, using his knife and fork to cut through the salmon, avocado and toasted bread (not how you would have eaten it, but you didn't comment).

“I don't even have anything interesting so far,’ you mumbled as you turned your iPad back on. “Just the outline of Rocky.”

“Rocky?” His eyebrows went up.

You rolled your eyes. “Of, come on, Osc! You know who Rocky is.”

He looked around, as if looking for some sort of clue (the clue was on your head). “Pato O'Wards dog?”

“No!” But then you stopped. “Well, maybe. But that's not the Rocky I'm talking about.” Pulling the iPad pen from its little case, you tapped the brim of your hat.

“Stop being cryptic,” Oscar said, grinning as he shook his head.

God, you hated it when he did that. The way he looked down as he laughed slightly. That laugh alone was enough to have you growing… Shy wasn't the right word for it. But you did grow quiet, did take a moment to gather yourself.

You shouldn't have needed that around your best friend. But you did. And part of you hated it. You just wanted to be normal around him.

He was your best friend, after all.

“When are you gonna get that hat fixed?” He asked as he finished off the salad on his plate.

Pulling the hat from your head, you looked at it. “What's wrong with it?” You asked as you turned it over in your hands, trying to look for any issue with it. Nothing. Thank God, because you never would have heard the end of it from Max.

Oscar shrugged his shoulders. “Not an OP81 hat,” he mumbled and picked up his coffee.

You waited for him to put his coffee mug down before you threw your hat at him. Oscar caught it like it was nothing, went to put it on his head, thought better of it, and placed it on the table.

“I only wear hats with a number one on it,” you said, your voice smug.

There was a second before Oscar replied. A second where he stared at you, where you still couldn't look at him. (You just hoped he didn't notice).

“Gonna be me by the end of the season.”

A scoff left your lips, but you fully believed him. He would be world champion. If not this season, then some season soon.

Finally, you met his eye. “Can you leave me to draw in peace, please?” You asked and picked up your coffee.

Stacking his cup on his plate, Oscar stood up. He grabbed your hat and placed it on your head before he walked past you, leaving you to your work.

***

You had always loved racing. The high adrenaline, the way your heart beat quicker as the cars went past. The sounds of the engine, the smell of the fuel, the shouts of the crowd.

Racing had always called to you, like it was in your blood. Maybe because it was in your blood. Your mother had raced and your father had raced. It hadn't interested your sister, but it had consumed your brother, in the same way it had consumed you.

Your brother was a natural talent when it came to racing. Actually, it was incredible. When he started out in Formula One, he struck fear into the hearts of his fellow drivers, those that had been into the sport for years by that point. Those with multiple championships under their belts feared him, though he'd never admit it.

Just like your brother, you were obsessed with racing. Unlike your brother, you didn't drive. You had no desire to climb into a kart and zip around the track. You weren't destined for the highs and lows, the wins and crashes, of the track.

You may have been a Verstappen, but you were never meant to drive.

Still, you loved it. You loved the world of racing. You loved the world of Formula One.

When your parents divorced, you and your brother went with your father. It wasn't the easiest time in either of your lives, but you had Max's karting races to took forward to. Watching the races, socialising with other kids, when you felt up to it.

You were a quiet child. It was behaviour you taught yourself to stay off your father's radar. If he forgot about you, you were safe.

Your father didn't pay much attention to you. Why should he, when you had nothing to offer him? You weren't a racing prodigy, you didn't have world championships in your future. You were just you.

You were an easy child. All you wanted was to watch your brother race. You were enthralled by it. In a way, doing one of the things that made you happy made up for the neglect.

Racing seemed like the obvious career path. Not in the same way it was for Max, but it was still something you wanted to do. You just didn't understand what. What in racing called to you?

At first, nothing. As a kid finishing school, trying to make a decision on university, you didn't know. But you couldn't think of any job role beside driver, engineer or team principle.

It made you regret not listening more when you were a kid. Maybe then this decision wouldn't be so hard.

But Max got you in talks with the Red Bull Racing team. Someone from each department walked you through what they did.

You didn't find interest in any of the engineering departments. Nothing in management or support roles.

It was the creative sectors that got you. Art had always been a passion, an outlet for when it got particularly rough at home.

That was how you ended up doing graphic design at university. It was fun, but it was still hard work. Your presence at race weekends got less and less as your workload became larger and larger.

But nothing beat sitting trackside as you did your work.

During your third and final year at university you began attending more races once again. For mental health reasons, you know? You could complete your work in a quiet corner in the hours before the race. Somewhere you could be alone, somewhere Max couldn't disturb you.

Your final year at university just so happened to coincide with Oscar’s first year as a Formula One driver. His first year in McLaren. You were aware of him, just as you were aware of other rookies, like Logan Sargeant. But you didn’t know him, had no interest in knowing him.

You had university to graduate.

But Oscar noticed you. Not right away, he didn’t see you and then birds started singing. He didn’t see you and the clouds parted to shine a light on you. No, he just saw you with your iPad, sitting alone.

You had no team hat on, no affiliation to anybody. You almost looked like you didn’t care (in reality, you were too busy to care). You had to be there with someone. A driver, a team member, an engineer.

The first couple of times Oscar saw you, he didn’t approach. You were busy, clearly, and he didn’t want to distract you. But he was so curious about you.

Fuck it, he was gonna do it. He was gonna approach you, just to find out what your deal was. Why attend the pinnacle of motorsports just to sit on your iPad like a bored toddler?

On this day, you wore a team hat. Not just a team hat, a Redbull Racing hat with a number one on it. Fuck, a Max Verstappen hat. But you couldn’t be a casual Max fan, not with the amount of access you had.

So, he approached you. He kept his hands in his pockets as he walked up to you. He had no idea what he was going to say to you, he just had to sate his curiosity.

Standing in front of you, he blocked the sun. At the shadow cast over you in the shape of a twenty-two year old man, you looked up.

Oscar Piastri stood in front of you, looking incredibly awkward. Putting your iPad pen down, you took pity on him. “Can I help you?” You asked him, iPad against your chest as you rested your chin in your hand.

Yeah, who are you?

But Oscar didn’t ask you that. He rocked on the balls of his feet and asked, “What’re you working on?”

A simple question, one that made you sit back. You unlocked your iPad and showed him what you had been working on. “Uni work,” you said quickly as Oscar looked at your screen.

He really looked at it. The longer he looked, the more uncomfortable you became. Not properly uncomfortable, but you hated showing people your work. People who would judge you in person, not just people hidden behind a screen.

“That’s really cool,” he said as you took the iPad back. “You’re in uni for art?”

When you began replying, Oscar pulled out a seat to sit down. But you found you didn’t mind it. A bit of company, a bit of a distraction was welcome. “Graphic design,” you answered. “All my coursework is racing related.”

Oscar raised his eyebrow at you. “That’s really cool,” he said, his fingers drumming against the table. “I’d love to see more.”

Being brave, you turned on your iPad once again. You went to your drawing app and showed him all that you had done over the past three years. All the work that had been graded highly, all the work you were proud of.

When Oscar got to the last of your work, he passed the iPad back to you. He wore a grin, one that had you looking away from him. “That’s all really good,” he said again. “Should be proud of yourself.”

You were.

“If I asked you to design a special helmet for me, would you?” He asked.

Your eyes went wide. You’d never done something this public before, not even for Max. “Uhm, I suppose,” you said and opened a new document.

He checked his watch. “Consider yourself commissioned,” he said and stood from his seat.

Oscar walked away. You watched him go, your mouth wide open. “What?” You called after him, your voice rising in pitch and volume, like a teenaged boy.

Thus, through improper business practices, a beautiful friendship was born.

***

You watched the race from the back of the Redbull garage. Oscar might have been your best friend, but you were still a Verstappen, still supported your brother over everything. You watched him, and you watched Oscar.

Max wasn’t in for a win, and he knew it. He had told you before the race that he knew he wasn’t going to win, but that he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind not winning anymore. Jesus, he’d grown up so much since the year before. After two seasons of being the majority winner, after getting his girlfriend pregnant, he had calmed down a lot.

It was weird to see your brother like this, but it was nice.

Max had never reminded you of your father. He wasn’t unnecessarily cruel or volatile. But he could get angry, he could easily become enraged. That side of Max had always scared you, was always something you’d stayed away from.

The Max from two years ago would have become so angry if he’d lost in the way he was this season. Yes, some of his radios were still angry, but you could understand it. He didn’t hold that same anger when he climbed out of the car and wrapped his arms around you.

An Oscar win. You loved an Oscar win. You loved getting to muss up his sweaty hair, making it messier than it already was. You loved watching him on the podiums, loved his calmer form of celebrations.

It was a far cry from Max’s celebrations, if he celebrated at all. Max would drag you to the club and get wasted with his wins. The most celebrating you got out of Oscar was his arms around you for a total of five seconds.

This race was an Oscar win. You were a Redbull cap in a sea of McLaren, cheering for him.

Oscar looked down. You didn’t have the illusion that he could see you, even if he later told you that he could. It didn’t deter your cheering for him.

You would have cheered the same if Max was on the podium, you told yourself.

His first win of the season. You had to celebrate, properly celebrate. As much as you enjoyed his quiet celebrations, you wanted something more for him. To go out, to explore the Japanese nightlife while you were here. Themed bars, karaoke, night clubs. You were going to drag him so far outside of his comfort zone and he was going to love it.

“Congrats, champ,” you said as you wrapped your arms around him. He stank of sweat and champagne. It didn’t have you pulling away, didn’t have you withdrawing. If anything, the sweat and champagne pulled you closer.

When the two of you let go of each other, Oscar started towards his driver's room. You followed him as he went. “I think you should get to celebrate this first one, properly,” you said.

Oscar stopped in his driver’s room doorway. There was nothing stopping you from going in there with him, but you never did. It felt like a boundary you didn’t want to cross, like stepping into the bathroom with him while he was in the shower.

“Bad luck to celebrate the first win,” he said and pushed his fingers through his hair. Sweat dropped to the floor. “Won’t get another if we celebrate this one.” His voice was so serious, but his grin suggested his teasing.

You pushed his shoulder. “What if I promise you’ll have fun?” You asked him, stepping closer.

“You promise?” He echoed, eyebrows going up. When you held your hands up, as if in prayer, he grabbed them both. “Okay, we can celebrate,” he answered and you let out a little cheer. “But only because this is the first one of the season.”

You nodded in agreement, but you couldn’t stop grinning.

You didn’t have an outfit for this. Nothing cute and classy you could wear to a nightclub. So, while Oscar did what he needed to do post race, you went shopping.

Sent you an allowance

You rolled your eyes at the text from your brother. It wasn’t an allowance, it was just money Max sent you to allow you to live. Like how he let you live in his Monaco apartment. Just until you started making proper money. Just until your work wasn’t just from Redbull Racing

Asshole, you sent him. ILY.

You didn’t spend much, just what you needed to to get a cute outfit. A maroon top, a little black skirt and a pair of boots. The rest of the money you pocketed, saved to buy Oscar a drink.

Showered and dressed, you waited in the hotel lobby for Oscar. Makeup and jewellery kept simple, to not take away from the beauty of your outfit. Because it really was beautiful.

“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” Lando Norris said as he walked past you.

You stopped picking at your nails to glare at him. If you’d had the time and resources, you would have painted your nails to match your outfit. “Shut up,” you mumbled, staring up at him. “I’ve got somewhere to go.”

Lando frowned. “Thought Max was going back to Monaco,” he said, leaning against the handle of his suitcase.

“He is.” You crossed one leg over the other, chin raised as you looked down at your boots. “But I’m not going with him.”

There was a moment where Lando’s frown deepened. But then his eyes went wide. “How the fuck did you convince Oscar to go out with you?” He asked, leaning closer.

You shrugged your shoulders. “Dunno,” you answered and leaned back on your palms. Almost as if you knew how good you looked and you were throwing it in his face that you didn’t want him.

Lando swallowed. He looked you over one last time and left the lobby.

Alone, you sat there. You went back to playing with your nails as you waited for Oscar. Going out wasn’t really his thing, you knew, but he would pull through, right? He wouldn't just leave you here, sitting alone, right?

A relieved breath left you when the lift dinged and he stepped out. Dressed simply, a white shirt and black trousers, as if he didn't have an outfit, either. But he still looked good.

“Jesus,” he breathed as he stepped towards you.

Placing your bag on your shoulder, you stood. “Went shopping,” you mumbled and pulled down the black of your skirt.

“Really?” He asked, voice full of sarcasm. “Looks good on you.”

You looked down at yourself. “Really? Hadn't noticed,” you said and grinned, tongue between your teeth.

Rolling his eyes, Oscar began walking. He held his hand out behind him, clenched it shut and then opening it again. Offering it to you, you realised.

You did an almost jog to catch up to hum. Securing your little black bag on your shoulder, you placed your hand in his. Your mouth opened, but you couldn't bring to ask him. You just enjoyed it, the feeling of your hand in his.

Oscar kept hold of your hand as you went from venue to venue. The two of you did almost everything, at your insistence. The only thing you couldn't convince him to do was karaoke. But Oscar was happy to indulge you on everything else.

Several drinks in, after three themed bars and two nightclubs, Oscar dragged you back to the hotel. You didn't remember what the theme of the bars were, and you kept muttering the same thing over and over again.

You were thoroughly drunk, and Oscar was giggling like a fool. You were both too drunk to be making good decisions.

“Gonna be world champion,” you muttered for the fourth time in five minutes.

“Yeah I am.” He stood so close to you, head ducked to look at you properly. “You'll wear my hat?”

“I'd look so good in your hat.” You were on your tiptoes, your arms coming to wrap around his neck.

His hands found your hips. The lift doors opened but neither of you realised. Too wrapped up in each other. Crossing a boundary that never should have been crossed.

“Oscar,” you whispered as his fingers danced up your sides. You shivered and stepped close to him.

“I think I want to kiss you,” he whispered. His stare was so intense but you couldn't look away.

You blinked. Lashes thickened by mascara, but it made your eyes look so pretty. “Don't be a pussy,” you whispered and started giggling so hard you snorted.

The lift doors slid shut as Oscar kissed you. He gripped your hips and pulled you flush against him as the lift travelled back down.

He grunted as you stepped back. Following you, Oscar pressed you against the wall of the lift. His hands travelled lower, fingertips toying with the bottom of your skirt.

Grabbing your hand, Oscar pulled you out of the lift. “Wait,” he mumbled as he looked around at the lobby. And then he pulled you back into the lift and pressed His lips were back on yours. But it was only for a moment before he pressed his forehead to yours. “Distracting me,” he whispered. You toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Always distracting me. My good luck charm, too.”

“Your good luck charm?” You echoed, blinking at him.

When he nodded, his nose bumped against his own. You couldn't explain it, but you wanted to bite it. Only gently, your teeth sinking in just until he pulled a face. Not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt.

“Yeah,” he said as the lift doors opened. This time, the two of you stepped out onto the right floor. “Make me feel lucky, at least.”

You kissed him again. Up against the wall of the corridor, you kissed him. Softly, gently, tugging at his hair until he groaned. You couldn't get enough of him.

“Need to get you inside,” he mumbled as he pulled his key card from his pocket. “Knew that from the minute I saw you.”

“Shut up,” you scoffed as he let you into his room.

Holding his hand, you pulled him over to the bed. But then you laid back and pulled Oscar on top of you. The two of you began giggling again, seemingly uncontrollably. As if you couldn't hold yourselves back. You couldn't as you wrapped your legs around him.

But that was enough to get Oscar to stop laughing. He dipped down and kissed you, stealing the very air from your lungs. As he kissed you, he moved his hips. Grinding them against your own. There was so little separating the two of you, his trousers and your underwear.

You could feel him, every inch of him. Throwing your head back, you moaned as Oscar kissed down your neck. Even in his drunken state, Oscar only kissed. He didn't nibble, didn't bite, didn't suck. No marks, nothing that could get either of you into trouble.

Even in his drunken state, Oscar was smart enough to be scared of Max.

“Can I?” He asked, fingers fiddling with the material of your shirt.

You sat up and let Oscar pull down the zip at the back. You pulled the rest of the top over your head and discarded it further into the room.

With nothing on beneath, you were laid half naked before him. Oscar sucked in a breath, sitting back to look at you.

Under any other circumstances, you would've covered up, held your hands over your breasts until your partner busied himself with taking off his own clothes. But the way Oscar was looking at you, you left your hands tucked under your back.

He touched you, fingers ghosting over your nipples. Almost like he was unsure. But, when you pulled your lip between your teeth, Oscar touched you properly.

Hands firm but gentle all at the same time. His lips were against your collarbone, hips still rocking against your own.

“Oscar,” you whispered. He pulled away to look at you. Still wearing a grin on your lips, he kissed you. Gently still, hands coming up to cradle your face.

He pulled away to unbutton his shirt. Every popped button revealed more and more of him. All you had seen before, when he opened his driver's room for you when he knocked, when he was covered in champagne, shirt clinging to his muscled torso. You'd seen it before, but never like this.

You didn't know what came over you. But you sat up, hands on his hips as you held him close. But then you licked his torso. Tongue running across his muscles in a such an obscene way, it had him groaning, holding your cheeks as you looked up at him.

His thoughts strayed, cock throbbing at the thought of you on your knees, gagging around him.

But that wasn't for tonight.

Oscar didn’t know if he'd get another opportunity like this. But he couldn't push it, couldn’t push you.

He didn't realise how badly you wanted him. It was maddening, how willing you were to sink to your knees before him and take him into your mouth. But, just like Oscar, you couldn't push it. You couldn't push him.

As you laid back, you shimmied your skirt down your legs. Oscar pulled your boots from your feet and discarded them, throwing them over his shoulder. They thunder against the floor as they landed.

Just in your underwear before him, you looked divine. His belt clinked as he fiddled with it, trying to undo it with tearing his eyes away from you. Hazel eyes staring into your own, until you threw your head back, exposing your throat to him.

He hadn't touched you, yet he had you reacting like this. He let his trousers drop to the floor and stepped out of them, leaving himself just as exposed as you were.

“We're doing this,” he said, like he was unsure. Fingers on the waistband of your underwear, just waiting for your signal. Your confirmation. That was all he needed.

You.

You wanted to beg him to touch you, moan and whine in such a pathetic way until he took pity on you and plunged his fingers into your underwear.

But you didn't need to beg Oscar. Not when he pulled your underwear down your legs and took you in.

Despite it all, his fingers seemed so steady as he touched you. No hesitation as he felt you, gathered you on his fingers. Already so wet, and what had he done?

He plunged his fingers inside of you. Just one at first, moving slowly and carefully. Not too deep, not yet. But, with each curl and stroke of his finger, he seemed to get deeper. “Please,” you whined desperately, attempted to reach for his wrist.

“Please?” He echoed, his other hand on your thigh. “Please what?”

“More.”

One word, one single word. Oscar tightened his grip on your thigh, his touch bruising. But you didn't wince, not when you were loving it so much.

He added another finger and watched your face twist. Eyes squeezed shut, but you let yourself smile, as if content. Not just content, you'd gotten exactly what you wanted.

Oscar picked up the pace. Gentle pumps of his fingers became quicker, more intense. Your name left his lips, a breathy sound he could have listened to on replay.

“More?”

It wasn't mocking, the way he said it. But you were almost sure it was meant to be. Still, you nodded your head. Another finger, faster, deeper. Another moan of his name.

When you came, you looked as though you didn't realise it. But the way you squeezed him, walls clamped around his fingers, your own fingers squeezing his wrist. He felt your body shudder in a way you didn't seem to.

“Easy,” he whispered, pulling his fingers out of you. Gentle, his touch and his voice. Gentle and grounding. “You okay?”

You released his wrist. Stretching your fingers, you nodded. “I'm okay,” you mumbled and looked at him. Sweat clung to your skin as you blinked at him, as if coming back to yourself. You were okay. He pushed your hair back and kissed your head.

But Oscar's tenderness was overshadowed. You didn't mean to distract from the sweet moment by reaching for his boxers, but you couldn't help yourself. The second your hand made contact with him, he bucked his hips towards you.

“Easy, buster,” you said and giggled to yourself.

Jesus fuck, he was hard. So damn hard beneath your fingers, and all because of you. He had seen you, all of you spread bare for him. It was only fair it was his turn.

Hastily, Oscar pushed his boxers from his hips.

Tall and proud. That was the only way you could describe it as you stared. And I mean stared. Unable to tear your eyes away from his tip, which already seemed to be weeping.

It wasn't supposed to be pretty. In the few experiences you'd had, from the little bit of porn you'd stumbled across, you knew it wasn’t supposed to be pretty. But it was. If you were any other woman, your mouth would've watered.

But you remained composed. Somehow. Maybe it was the knowledge that you couldn't push it that far with Oscar. Something in the back of your mind was telling you it was a bad idea. That taking the man who'd just had three of his fingers buried inside of you into your mouth was a bad idea.

You listened to that small, annoying voice. But you still wrapped your hand around him, swiped your thumb over his tip. You gathered what was there and brought it up to your mouth, licking it off.

His hips subconsciously rocked. “That was…”

“Hot?” You asked.

He nodded.

Wrapping your fingers around him once again, you pumped him. Not enough to be considered foreplay, almost like you were getting him warmed up as you laid back and parted your legs.

Oscar got the hint. He climbed in between them and his breath caught. For a moment, he laid there. Your arm was trapped between your bodies at an almost awkward angle as you held him, ready to guide him in. “Hey,” you said and he looked at you.

You'd always found his eyes pretty. Even that day you'd met and he had been an unwanted distraction. Every part of him was pretty, you knew. Every. Single. Part.

He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead he kissed you. You let go of him, brought your arm up from between you and wrapped them around his neck. “Gonna get on and fuck me or what?” You mumbled against his lips.

He dragged your bottom lip between his teeth. Hips rutting against yours, the feeling of him nestled between your lips. Blunt head nudging you in all the right places, you just needed him to take that leap.

And he did. Oscar sheathed himself inside of you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, mouth falling open in a mix between a gasp and a moan.

At first, he was still. Mouth still against yours, but he seemed to be watching you carefully. Gauging your reaction to his every little movement.

“Move, Osc,” you had to whisper.

He nodded his head rapidly, sweaty hair falling in front of his face. His eyes were closed, mouth open when he began to move, when he pushed himself further inside of you. There was a slight stretch, but you were loving it. The way he seemed to be just too big for you, even with the preparation he had put in.

He hissed through his teeth as he moved his hips. You couldn’t help but moan as you attempted to kiss him, to kiss any bit of skin you could get your lips on. When you kissed his neck, Oscar tipped his head to the side, gave you more room to work with. Clearly, neither of you cared as much about painting his neck in purple bruises.

“Want,” he began, eyes still shut. “Want you on top.”

Oscar flipped you over. You went willingly and settled on top of him, your hands against his chest. He gave you all the time you needed to adjust to the feeling that came with the new position, like he was rearranging your guts. “Don’t know how the girls in the fantasy books do it,” you managed to say,

Oscar laughed. Hands settling on your hips, he laughed. A beautiful, melodic sound that was cut off when you began moving. You lifted yourself up as best you could and sank back down onto his dick. It took more effort than you were expecting, giving up after doing it a few times.

But Oscar had you. He kept hold of you as he drew his knees up, feet on the bed to thrust into you. Again and again as you kept yourself braced on his chest. The noises you made spurred him on, along with the way you clenched around him.

When you came around him, your eyes squeezed so tightly shut you looked as though you would never open them again, Oscar swore he saw stars. Just a few more thrust, just a few more until he came inside of you.

Breathing heavily, Oscar slipped out of you. “Holy,” he breathed, chest rising and falling.

Your limbs shook as you laid down beside him. It wasn’t graceful, your body seeming to just fall beside him. “Can’t believe we did that,” he mumbled as you snuggled closer to him.

Two sweaty bodies pressed together, you fell asleep. Neither of you were aware enough to regret it. Minds too tired, bodies too exhausted, and the alcohol still moving through your veins.

Wallaby Taglist: @nurse-floyd

@mimisweetz

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ilium-ilia · 2 days ago

Text

tongue on loving wound

simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader | omegaverse!au | alternate universe to In Limbo | alpha!ghost x omega!fem!reader | masterlist

Chapter Three: leave me panting on the kitchen floor like a dog begging for scraps

tw: smut, scenting, scent intox, intense first time heat, fingering, creampie, breeding kink, scent gland playing

By some miracle, Simon manages to get you to sleep through the first night of your heat.

It doesn’t come easy. You wake often in fits, whimpering and writhing as you try to pry yourself from the nest for no discernable reason other than the fact that you’re uncomfortable. Itching from the inside out. Stuck within your own wretched skin. Sweat glues the two of you together as he holds you back, not that it takes much effort. You’re weak. You give in easily at the mere weight of his forearm across your torso and quiet shushing against the shell of your ear.

The only thing that truly quells this discomfort blossoming in you seems to be his scent. Thick hormones—a near paralytic. For hours he lies next to you with his palm cradling the back of your head as he keeps your face pressed against his neck where the secretions of his scent is most potent. You nap like a baby when he’s got you like this. Quiet, and drooling as if you’re starving for a taste of him.

A few hours in, you almost rouse. Somehow during his own sleep, you’ve managed to turn away from him. Back against his chest, face in the sheets—he wakes at the sound of your groan. Thick and caught in your throat like phlegm, he snaps awake as if it’s an alarm. Panicking, he grabs the first article of his clothing he can find within the nest and shoves it against your nose as if to gag you. It knocks you out cold as if it’s chloroform and not the mere scent of him.

When Simon notices that it’s a pair of his boxers, he thinks he ought to switch it out for something less degrading, but the way you mindlessly nuzzle into it with a sigh warns him he shouldn’t.

Dawn breaks over the house in pale silver. A storm is brewing. Downright angry with thunder humming in the distance and light rain already spitting against the window panes. When he notes that you’re still fast asleep, Simon does his best to slip out of the nest unnoticed. Careful, strong limbs guide him over your body until he’s steady on the floor.

It’s hard to fight his own instincts as he looks down at your curled form, and he can’t pretend as if your scent isn’t intoxicating. All things soft that follows brutality—blood after a laceration, gauze on wound, a shuddering breath from a punctured lung. Your hand begins to stretch in your sleep, fingers unfurling before curling into the mess of blankets and clothes. The sight makes him dizzy; forces all the blood in his body to flow where it knows he needs most.

Swallowing, he strips his shirt off of his torso before placing it on top of his boxers, gifting you his fresh scent before he leaves the room.

If he had known your body was about to spring such a brutal heat upon you, Simon would have prepared better, and a part of him is a bit frustrated that he wasn’t able to pick up on the scent. He stares at the sparse contents of his fridge with pursed lips. For half the night you’ve been sweating, overheating, and damn near combusting. Body thrown into overdrive, forcing your mind to undergo something you’ve never had to experience before. You’re using up too many nutrients. You need food. Water. And, of course, the obvious.

Simon snatches up a half finished packet of bacon before turning the stove on and shoving bread in the toaster. He rummages through his pantry in search for more protein. Nutella, or peanut butter—something with calories, something that’ll fuel the two of you with enough energy for what’s about to take place.

The bacon is halfway done when an inconsiderate clap of thunder shakes the house. Every wall rattles around him, and he wrenches his eyes shut as he holds his breath, hackles raised. It isn’t long before he picks up the faint sound of your feet trudging down the hallway.

“Simon?” He can tell from your voice alone that you’re already dehydrated. Each syllable cracks in your throat as you walk up to him with mist in your eyes. “Come back to bed, please.”

And he wants to. Oh, how he’d sweep you into his arms and lay you back in your nest and shove his cock into your pussy as many times as you need—and he will, in due time. But right now the drive to take care of you is stronger than something as debauched as that.

“Not yet, baby,” Simon murmurs. He stifles your pout with a gentle caress of his thumb against your cheek. “Gotta get some food in ya, first. Grab a seat, I’ll be done soon.”

You don’t wander far despite his prompting. Wobbly, unstable knees give out beneath you and he finds you sitting on the kitchen floor next to him as he continues to cook. Bacon grease pops and sears the bare skin of his chest, but it’s easy to ignore the pain when you’re clinging to his leg. Hands wrapping around his thigh, forehead rolling back and forth over his hip.

It isn’t long before you begin to wander. Nose prodding against his crotch, Simon feels himself harden within an instant. He does his best to push it out of his mind as he sets a plate for you, but the audible sounds of your inhaling leaves his mind spinning. It only worsens when your lips fall apart to press against the band of his joggers in an open mouthed kiss, wanting tongue already darting out to wet the cotton.

“Sweetheart,” Simon sighs. He places his hand on the crown of your head, prompting your neck to crane back to look at him. Everything about you is wet—your cunt, your eyes, glistening tears on your cheeks, sweat coating your throat, all failing to douse the fire churning within you. “You gotta eat.”

“I don’t wanna eat.” You’re getting bratty now. Whining with your brain telling you to devour one thing, and it certainly isn’t food. Trembling fingers curl into his joggers before you yank, sending the band pulling past his hip bone. “I feel worse. I just—everything is so foggy. You said you were gonna—Simon you said—you were gonna take care of me.”

He steadies both your body and attitude with a soft grip on your jaw. The movement silences you immediately, and all you can do is stare up at him as he clicks the stove off and retrieves your breakfast with his free hand.

“Poor little ‘mega thinks she’s got this all figured out, yeah?” He tilts his head to the side as he leans forward; nothing but a curious dog. “But you don’t, do you sweet girl? That’s why you need me. Need your alpha to take care of you, don’tcha?”

Simon slinks low enough until he’s on the ground next to you, plate of food on the floor to his left while his legs sprawl out. When his thighs part, the straining bulge in his pants is glaring. Growing ever rounder, more firm, damn near throbbing through the fabric—it’s hard to tear your eyes away from the sight when he pats his lap.

“C’mere sweet girl. We’re gonna eat.”

He situates you until you’re between his legs, back pressed against his chest and head rolling against his shoulder. Simon feeds you by hand. Slowly. Salted pork, buttered toast—it all presses past your lips until every crumb is in your mouth. Though your whimpering hasn’t stopped, your kvetching has. Jaw too busy chewing, biting through flesh, retaining the energy he knows you’re going to need.

While one hand feeds your mouth, the other feeds your cunt. Shoved past the band of your panties, Simon’s fingers swirl around your clit effortlessly with the wetness that’s accumulated over the countless hours. You’re impossibly firm, tender skin perking up nice and pretty just for him. Every now and then he slips a finger into your hole just to feel the way your hips jump and writhe.

“S-Simon,” you gasp.

“Less talkin’ and more eatin’ baby.” He brings the last half of toast up to your mouth where you gingerly take a bite, incisors hardly stealing more than a nibble.

“B-But I’m—you’re—everything feels weird like… like tight and… fuzzy…”

He knows exactly where this is going. It’s been growing for the last few minutes in the twitching of your legs, nerves misfiring, muscles contracting, a flood of spasms waiting to erupt. Before he lets that happen, he presses the last mouthful of toast into your mouth and waits for you to swallow before his fingers begin to pick up their pace.

“Yeah? What else, baby? S’it feel good?” Simon prods—playing with his food.

All you can do is mumble something hardly coherent as you nod. Back beginning to arch, hips levitating off the floor, heels digging into the hardwood—you shatter with a squeaking groan. Taut thumbs curl into his thighs where you hold purchase to keep yourself steady before you’re panting and gasping as if you’ve already sucked all the air from the world and you’re still hungry for more.

“Atta girl, there she is. Wasn’t so bad, was it? Eatin’ all your food like a good pet.” Once your breathing has calmed down a considerable amount, he raises his hand to your mouth where his fingers are still stained with bacon grease and crumbs. “Be a doll and lick me clean.”

You follow his order with a gusto he didn’t expect you to muster after he dismantled you like this. Taking his fingers into your mouth, you suck each and every one of them clean, all the way down to his thumb. When he raises his other hand away from your sex, your jaw falls slack, waiting for him to ask you to do the same, but he only chuckles.

“Nuh uh, this treat’s for me, sweetheart.”

Tight muscles begin to melt beneath his touch as Simon’s hands wander over your body. Heat still emanates out of you as if you’re a furnace, but he notes how the perspiration isn’t as thick anymore—which could either be a good or bad thing. He hums something about needing to clean up before he slips out from behind you. With all the strength sapped from your body, you do not wander off, but instead lie on the floor with your cheek pressed to the cold ground.

Rain slaps violently against the window as he begins to wash up. The food he had made for himself has gone cold, but he shovels it into his mouth before disposing of the grease and soaping the plates and pan. Thunder purrs overhead and Simon thinks about how perfect everything is. You, here where it’s safe as this storm rages on, hidden deep in his den where not even the elements can lay a hand on you.

Simon’s drying his hands off by the time he turns back around to check on you, and that string that tugs at his navel nearly forces him to pounce on you. Knees digging into the hardwood, rump raised high into the air while your face stays flat on the floor—your hands are between your thighs and he can see everything. How you desperately try to move the soaked gusset of your panties to the side, the way your fingers pitifully press into your hole, palms pressing at your cheeks, spreading yourself wide for him.

“Too empty,” you cry. “Simon, i-it feels wrong; please fix it, fix me, I can’t…”

He’s on his knees behind you in an instant. Hands ghosting over your lower back, kneading into the tense muscle before his fingers slip beneath the band of your underwear. You’re swaying with his movements, unsteady even as you’re nearly laying. Jasmine wafts in the air and his eyes nearly roll into the back of his skull.

“Need your alpha’s cock, is that it sweet girl?” he asks. Simon tugs at the fabric and yanks them past your hips until there’s nothing covering your sex. He can see her in all her quivering glory—glistening and clenching. Waiting. “C’mon, what do you need, baby?”

“You!” Your response leaves in a near shriek, only to die off to a susurrus. Then, your swaying tenses. “My… my alpha?”

“Yeah, your alpha, baby,” he nods.

“My alpha. I want it.”

You’ve waited so long, and been such a good girl about it. Laying pretty for him in a nest strewn in his bed, waiting by his feet as he cooks, came so sweetly on his fingers—he cannot deny you this. Simon shoves the waistband of his joggers down and grunts at the way he springs free, cock bobbing as he tenses before he takes it into his hand. Warm metal greets his palm as he lazily strokes himself, squeezing precum free from his tip so he can wipe it off on your cunt and chuckle at the way you jolt.

A sob escapes your throat when he pushes in. You stretch so well around him, pulling him in and forcing him to stop once you’ve swallowed the head of his cock. You’re panting, fingers curling into your palms, nails digging into the flesh, knuckles tapping against the floor as your feet begin to kick.

“Easy baby,” Simon says through a hiss, grabbing your hips for his own stability.

“More, more please, I can’t- too empty, Si, too empty,” you babble.

He’s impressed at how easy it is to shove the rest of himself in. Not even his frequent lays before this could ever take him as well as you do now, and he has to bite back the murmur that bubbles in his chest. This is proof. Your scent—sweet and tender in the way death always is—how you’ve so easily wrapped him around your finger, consumed every thought—his mate. His omega.

That tender spot on the side of your neck looks tastier by the minute.

Simon’s pace is quick—you won’t accept anything less. Whimpering every time he attempts to give you a break, begging for more, refusing to let him treat you as if you’re delicate; he relents. Fingers curling into your hips, broad thighs slapping against your own, sending sharp claps echoing throughout the empty kitchen; it’s raw. Pure and unadulterated.

It’s frustrating how fast his orgasm approaches, but he can tell by the kicking of your feet that it’s exactly what you’re wanting from him. To be full not only of him, but everything he has to offer. You’re begging now. Incoherent rambling hits the floor as your head lowers as if in prayer. All Simon can do is hold on to the fat of your ass as he watches the way his cock plunges into you, wetness glistening along the back of your thighs as you soak him to the very bone. His jaw clenches, teeth creaking, diaphragm spasming—

A strangled sob leaves your throat when he comes. He’s twitching inside of you, half sheathed but still filling you up properly with all the spend he has to offer. With narrowed eyes, Simon witnesses the way his knot swells just outside the entrance of your pussy and he growls. It hurts. Too much pressure and not enough counterweight to squeeze him tight—the tender skin bulges and reddens. Cursing, his palm slams against the cabinet as he grinds into you, but it’s useless to offer any reprieve for his aching knot.

Once you’ve caught your breath, he finds you finally looking back over your shoulder. Neck craned, hips rolling—it isn’t long before you’re pouting. Dazed, Simon doesn’t realize the way you’re pulling away from him until it’s too late. You rock back into him, body colliding with his knot in a way that makes him growl. Instinctively, he reaches a hand for the nape of your neck before he presses hard, forcing your chest to the floor, leaving you squirming.

“None of that,” Simon warns.

“You didn’t give me your knot,” you whine.

“You’re not ready for that yet, baby.” His weight forces you to collapse until you’re flat on your stomach, legs straightened with his thighs forcing them apart. The fear of being crushed ought to scare you, but all you do instead is moan. “Too much at once for a sweet ‘mega like you.”

Hips still wiggling, you attempt to shake your head as best as you can. “I can take it! I need it, need you so bad Simon, you’re so- you’re so mean.”

“Mean?” He can’t help but chuckle at that. “No baby, I’m takin’ care of ya. Just like I said I would, yeah?” His grip loosens on the back of your neck, but his thumb begins to wander to that quivering gland. You tense, body ready and eager; your head tilts to the side. “I’ll give you this knot nice and proper later, yeah baby?”

You wiggle in defiance. “I can’t wait, Si. I don’t wanna wait.”

“You can do it, sweetheart. I know you can.”

Without warning, his thumb digs into the side of your neck where the skin of your shoulder meets your throat. Your mouth falls open but a sound doesn’t escape you for a long moment until a moan eventually bleeds out between your lips. Soft gland pinched by his nail, every inch of you begins to tremble. Cock still shoved inside of you, he feels the way you come just from that mere touch—that feigned bite that he knows your brain craves primally, but is unsure if it’s what you truly want.

Simon’s eyes close as you squeeze him in rhythm with your orgasm and he doesn’t loosen his grip until you’ve gone truly limp beneath him. Perspiration coats your face but that doesn’t stop him from leaning down to kiss your cheek.

“You’re drinkin’ some water, then you’re gonna nap, yeah?” It’s not a question, but rather a preordained series of events he knows you need.

The fight has been drained out of you—for now—and you nod with a sigh. “Yeah, okay.”

It takes several minutes to get you back into the nest you so meticulously put together on his bed. Pulling out of you, Simon sits on the floor next to you as he rubs your back until the strength returns to your body, but even then your knees are nothing but jelly, and he has to guide you to the room with an arm wrapped around your waist.

You settle into the plush sheets and mess of his clothes so nicely, having already carved out a space for yourself. He lets you rest for only a moment before he’s cupping your chin and pressing a water glass to your lips. Half of it spills out of your mouth. Soft streams dribbling down your chin, wetting your chest—you hum at the way it cools your feverish skin.

Simon hardly has time to settle into the nest next to you before you’re winding up again. Hands pawing at his chest, nose nuzzling against his flank, mouth wandering too far down for his comfort—he has to cradle your face into the side of his neck to even temporarily sedate you, but even then your wiggling persists. He attempts to satiate you by jamming his thigh between your legs to allow you to grind against him, but if anything the stimulation only works you up even more.

“Is it time for more?” Your question is so saccharine his teeth ache at the thought of biting into something so sugary.

“Not yet, baby, you need to rest first,” he gently reminds.

“No, it’s okay, I’m ready.”

He chuckles. “No you’re not.”

You attempt to look up at him but he refuses to let you rip your face free from his neck, so instead your hips begin to rock more violently. Naked clit sliding along the fabric of his joggers, he can smell the wetness. Brine and cum, flowers and blood—his growl emanates low in his chest.

“But I want you. I want- I want everything, Si,” you whine.

“Everything?”

“You, and—oh everything. Your babies, I wanna- I just- it’s too much, I just need it, I know I do.”

Electricity shoots through his brain at that. Your babies. Everything short circuits as your hips continue to rock and grind, stomach dangerously close to the growing desire separated only by the cotton of his trousers. His knot is still angry—frustrated at being ignored—but your talking has him riled up again.

“You don’t want that, baby, that’s just the hormones talkin,” he murmurs.

“Yes I do,” you huff with a challenge. “I can… smell it. It’s so strong. You. Your scent. Fuck, it’s so good. My alpha. My alpha, and I’m your omega, you said it! You said it! You can smell it too.”

He can’t tell what’s worse—your rambling or the fact it’s making so much sense. Puzzle pieces falling together, intersecting lines pulling taut, dragging him towards this fantasy. Images of you, plump and round with his kids haunts his mind and he finds his heart freezing at the thought because fuck why does that sound so good? So delicious?

“My alpha… my mate… want you to fill me up, wanna have your babies, wanna—oh—be all yours a-and… f-fuck…”

Legs tightening around his thigh, fingers digging into his arms—your orgasm catches him off guard as your hips stutter to a stop. Though your words are now lost, Simon feels them echoing around in his skull, bouncing off the bone and burrowing straight through the grey matter of his brain. It’s a dangerous seed. Quick to germinate and root until all rational thought is snuffed out.

His only saving grace is that you’re riding out your high and melting in his arms, temporarily satiating you. Holding you closer, he takes a deep breath with his nose pressed against the top of your head while he attempts to ignore the sticky parchedness of his canines.

“Try to get some sleep, baby,” he urges before you can regain your energy again.

You grumble against his throat. “I’m not tired.”

“If you get some rest, I’ll knot you properly when you wake up.”

At that, you perk. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #tolw #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader

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jj-one · 2 days ago

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i’m having thoughts that desperately need sharing

who in skz would most likely love an inexperienced partner because they would loveeee the idea of teaching them everything and guiding them through their first time?

i have had these thoughts for so long now and i need somebody to share my delulu with 😛

you’ve come to the right place bestie, let’s be delusional together 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i feel like chan, minho, & seungmin would absolutely love the idea of having an inexperienced partner the most but i’m not opposed to the idea of all the members being into it. here’s my little list that i compiled hehe <3

chan:

he’s too fucking gentle with you at first, like he treats you as if you’re some delicate flower and is hesitant on corrupting your innocence— especially when it comes to fucking you bc he suffers from big dick syndrome and doesn’t wanna hurt you </3 but once he knows you wanna be taught, it’s game over. he’s the world’s biggest tease so ofc he loves pressing the head of his cock against your untouched folds, not entering, just showing you what’s coming. makes you say “please” until you’re crying. he gets off on having all the control, dragging you down his filthy little rabbit hole with soft praises and unbearable pressure. he wants to be the only one who’s touched you. every gasped whimper, every flutter of your pussy around him as he pushes in for the first time, he memorizes it all. his strokes are always agonizingly slow, deep, claiming, but the more you both get into it the more rough he’d get, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you like it’s nothing to him.

“you already came twice baby, i know you’ve got one more left in you.”

minho:

pretends that he doesn’t care (spoiler: he 100% does), he jerks off to the idea of being your first more than he’d admit. especially when you’re looking up at him with those big, doey eyes, lip trembling, legs spread but uncertain— he makes you say it, “i don’t know what i’m doing.” you’ve told him that you’ve never watched porn before and have rarely ever touched yourself, you were a novice, but that’s what he’s here for, to teach you the ropes ! he corrupts you deliberately, one filthy lesson at a time. first lesson? how to suck him off. second? riding until your thighs give out. third? letting him film you crying around his cock. he’s now become fully obsessed with stripping you of your purity, shaping you into the perfect little slut just for him. can’t help but smirk as you beg for more, knowing he’s the reason for turning you into this.

“look at you— used to be so innocent. now you’re drooling on my cock like it’s all you’ve ever known. and it is, isn’t it? ‘cause i made you this way.”

seungmin:

is completely deadpan. quiet, yet dangerous. he acts unimpressed until you’re crying from just taking his fingers. then he’s leans close, voice low, and says, “you really don’t know a thing, do you?” he thrives off being the one to show you. the only one. has you arching off the sheets just from his mouth with the most smug look on his face at how easily you come apart. he doesn’t just teach, he literally reprograms you. makes sure no one else will ever satisfy you again. just watches with dark eyes as you stammer through every new sensation, feeling so overwhelmed and desperate, too shy to even say his name without whimpering ;( makes you go crazy from the way he touches you slowly, taking his sweet sweet time with you like he’s got all day bc if he’s gonna ruin you, he’s gonna relish in it. calls it “training” when he makes you practice sucking him off until your throat burns, when he fingers you for hours just to watch your mind melt from how overstimulated you are. records you babbling nonsense while your legs shake as proof that you belong to him now; have you crying, clinging to him, begging to cum again.

“good girl. you’ll take whatever i give you, yeah? ‘cause i’m the only one who knows what you need.”

changbin:

he’s your coach, absolutely loves teaching !! makes it interactive. pushes two fingers into your sopping cunt and says, “now clench. hold it. yeah, like that.” he takes utmost pride in watching you learn, fucking you in different positions until you find the one that makes you scream. makes you cum over and over again just so you understand your body better. he’s so proud of the mess he makes out of you <3 talks you through it like he’s guiding a workout— except you’re trembling, soaked, tears streaming down your cheeks bc it’s soso much but he’s still not done. makes you mirror everything he does when he eats you out, wants to hear you use your big girl words and tell him what it feels like. spreads your thighs wider with every session, the pad of his thumb circling your clit nice n slow just to watch you squirm from the simplest touches. he gets off on your innocence, gets harder every time you ask, “is this okay..?” bc it means there’s still more to ruin. makes you sit in his lap and bounce until your legs give out from shaking and your voice breaks from how many times you’ve begged. he won’t stop until your body responds to only him, trained and wrecked to perfection, even when you’re dazed, drooling, and completely fucked out.

“told you i’d make a good girl outta you, we’re just getting started.”

hyunjin:

sensual, slow, & obsessed. he calls you “innocent” like it’s your name. thinks it’s the cutest shit ever how shy you get when he’s got your legs sprawled and whispers where everything is. fingers you while describing in grave detail how he’ll fuck you and makes you repeat it back to him. “say it, baby. tell me what i taught you.” he corrupts you with elegance, artful degradation, slow-melting kisses between instruction. every night becoming another slowburn chapter in your ruin. he memorizes every little reaction, every gasp, every twitch, every time your breath catches when his lips brush your ear. he keeps you perched prettily on his cock, producing slow, diluted strokes at first, watching your brows pinch and your thighs quiver, whispering all the dirty shit he wants to do to you in a reverent tone like he’s reading poetry. paints bruises down your throat like he’s leaving his signature. tells you what a masterpiece you’ve become under his hands. won’t let you cover your face when you start to cry, he wants to witness it all. wants to see beg with those soft, needy whines that he loves as he holds your hips still and fucks you through another orgasm, praising how well you’re taking it, how much you’ve changed, won’t stop ‘til you’re boneless and spent, tear-streaked and writhing in his arms.

“you used to blush when i kissed you, but now look at you, ruined and addicted. all mine.”

jisung:

he lives for the fact that he’s your first. the way your whole body shudders just from him breathing on your cunt. how every moan you let out sounds like pure heaven to him— raw, unsure, and desperate. he’s obsessed with how new you are to everything, fingers soaked from just teaching you how to grind properly. “good girl, just like that- fuck, you’re learning so fast.” he craves to taint your innocence than anything else, saying all types of nasty shit as he makes you beg to cum for the first time. he corrupts you sweetly, patiently; until you’re reduced to nothing but a cockdrunk and clingy mess. he likes it best when you’re shy about wanting more, when you squirm under his gaze and whisper that something feels weird, and he has to gently coax you through it, telling you it’s completely normal. lets you ride his cock for the first time with your hands on his chest, telling you exactly how to move. gets so hard watching you unravel from the smallest things, his thumb on your clit, a filthy word in your ear, the soft drag of his tongue over your nipples. adores how overwhelmed you get, how easy it is to ruin you with nothing but gentle pressure and a few well-placed moans. your innocence is like a drug to him, and he’ll spend all night undoing it, slowly and thoroughly, until the only thing left of you is the pretty little mess he’s created.

“you’ll never come this hard for anyone else, baby. they didn’t break you in— i did.”

felix:

surprisingly filthy. like he’s the sweetest, most wholesome boyfriend ever in public but when it’s just you two? yeah, that’s a whole different story. that first hit of dopamine fucks him up when he finally gets a taste of you, the way your body twitches from the first brush of his tongue, he already knows he’s gonna be addicted to your pussy. he worships every shaky moan, every uncertain grind of your hips, loving how easy it is to mold you. showers you with praises while he breaks you, tells you how perfect you look when you’re so lost in pleasure you’ve never felt before. treats your virginity like a gift, but one he fully intends to unwrap, piece by piece. kisses you slow and deep while his fingers slip lower and lower, letting you get used to every inch of him before he gives you more. he coos over every nervous whimper, smiles when you get too overwhelmed to form proper words bc it means he’s doing his job right. his cock swells in size the more you cling to him, eyes glossy, lips jutting out as you beg for something you don’t even have the words for. takes his time stretching you open, his husky, commanding baritones in your ear telling you how good you’re being, how proud he is that you’re letting him ruin you. and when you’re spread out beneath him, flushed and trembling, you’re so far gone that all your shyness sheds away.

“you’re so sensitive, angel. no one’s ever touched you here like this, huh?”

jeongin:

a total freak in denial. like he’s shy and gets all blushy when you call him your first, but the moment he realizes you’re letting him guide you? a switch flips in his horny brain. he’ll make you touch yourself in front of him first, watching you intently, fingers gripping the base of his thick cock as he corrects your movements with breathy commands. is all red-faced and whimpery when he finally fucks you, drunk off the way your pussy swallows him whole every time he thrusts in a little deeper. gets a little timid when he tries to talk you through it all, voice shaky but firm— tells you where to place your hands, how to tilt your hips, what to say when you want more. just can’t help but get so worked up by you, overwhelmed and messy, looking up at him like he’s the only one who’s ever made you feel this way. feels kinda bad for how much he loves it when you cry a little from how good it feels, when you babble that you don’t know what’s happening and he gets to say, “it’s okay, baby… i’ve got you. just let me teach you.” drinking in the scenery of you falling apart under him, frenzied and blissed out for the first time.

“no one else gets to have you like this, yeah? i’m the one who ruined you.”

#skz smut #skz x reader #stray kids smut #bang chan smut #lee know smut #changbin smut #hyunjin smut #han jisung smut #han smut #lee felix smut #felix smut #seungmin smut #jeongin smut #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz hard hours #skz hard thoughts

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