#they just needed to lean in a little harder

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER

PLOT: So here you are, the sweet little assistant to HUNTR/X. Not anything like Bobby, no. You’re the only human they let in on their secret of being hunters, and your job is to help them out the best you can. Fetching the weapons, patching up wounds, memorizing demon looking ppl, preferably without fighting because you’re ass at that. You’re smart, sweet, know what will the girls do next.

Which is exactly why the Saja Boys decided to kidnap your ass.

Oh, they still look like a wet dream, don’t get that twisted. But they deadass snatched you up because you know too much. You know how the girls work. You know where they’re going, what they’re planning, how to hurt them.

Except, you won’t talk. Not even when they tried. And oh, they tried. Little threats. Little games. Little moments that left bruises.

Now? You’re a guest in their fancy-fancy high-rise apartment in the human world that they have so they don’t have to go back and forth between worlds. More like their prisoner, but the fridge is stocked and you’re not chained anymore.

cw: implied female reader, kidnapping situation, a shit ton of cursing, Romance being a flirt, a boner, mentions of sex, Mystery being curious about your body, boys being boys and fucking with you

You stand at the sleek marble counter, a knife in your hand, slicing through a peach.

Behind you, Romance’s laugh fills the room, deep, as Mystery literally tackles him over the back of the couch. They hit the floor with a heavy thud, limbs tangled, and Mystery growls.

Romance? He’s grinning. Loving every second.

“Damn, if you wanted to get me on my back you could’ve just asked.” he purrs, voice smooth.

Mystery’s response is to sink his teeth—actually sink his teeth—into Romance’s shoulder.

“Fuck—ah, yes, harder!” Romance groans dramatically, shoving at Mystery’s face but clearly not trying to get him off.

You just keep cutting your peach, the juice sticky on your fingers.

Abby’s sprawled in an armchair, bouncing a stress ball off the wall hard enough you’re certain he’ll crack the plaster. He’s wearing a tank top that shows off his arms and his attention span is shot to shit. He’s been drumming his fingers, cracking his neck, muttering to himself about needing to do something.

Baby’s on the floor, cross-legged, looking at his phone what he grew to love so so so much since they figured it out. He actually looks like he has no idea what’s going on but doesn’t care anyway.

Jinu is in the kitchen, not far from you, sipping tea like none of this is happening. His hair’s still a little damp from a shower, and he looks… normal. Calm. Like he could be your neighbor, the guy who helps carry your groceries.

He notices you’re out of reach of the fruit bowl and slides it closer without a word.

“Thanks.” you mutter, not looking up.

Not forgetting that you fucking HATE his guts!!

“You’re welcome.”

And that’s the thing with Jinu. He’s nice. Too nice.

You slice another piece of peach. Try to pretend you don’t hear Romance moaning as Mystery bites him again.

Baby snorts quietly, still scrolling.

You just keep slicing fruit, silent, petty, waiting for the moment they let their guard down. Not happening.

Romance walks over eventually, leaning against the counter next to you. His scent hits you—fuck you in the ass it’s good. Why does it have to be good?

“Need help with that, angel?” he murmurs, voice like velvet, fingers brushing a piece of peach off your plate and popping it into his mouth.

You don’t look at him. “Fuck off.”

“Alrighty.”

He doesn’t move though.

Mystery, now perched on the arm of the couch, watches the two of you , you’d guess. You can’t see those fuckass eyes.

You remember the first meet.

God. The girls just finished, you gave them all the luxury they could ever need then went back to your apartment. Exhausted. Filthy. You got home, peeled off your clothes, stepped into that shower, and thought—finally. Finally, you could breathe.

Then, a bold whistle from behind you.

You turned your head, soap stinging your eyes, and there was….

Drumroll…

🥁🥁🥁

Romance.

Yes indeed, the fucker whistled.

You froze. Completely naked, completely vulnerable. He moved fast—too fast—hand over your mouth, body pressed up to the shower glass.

“Don’t scream. We’re just gonna have a little chat.”

You wanted to kick him. You really did. But he had you pinned, all casual, like this was just another Tuesday for him.

“Options.” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek like he was trying to soothe you. “You tell me what I wanna know. Or—and I like this one better—I take you with me.”

You glared at him. You hated him.

(Since your girls did too and know he’s a demon but anyway)

But what could you do? Naked, trapped, outmatched. So you nodded. Let him hand you a towel. Let him grin when you dressed in whatever you could grab. Let him walk you out of your own damn apartment like he was your date for the night.

You snap back to now, slicing that peach a little too hard. The knife hits the cutting board with a sharp thunk.

Romance notices. Of course he notices. He always notices.

“Careful, baby. Gonna hurt yourself.” he teases, snagging another piece of fruit from your plate like he has every right.

You don’t answer. Just cut another slice, the peach juice sticky on your fingers.

Then there was the time you tried to run.

You’d waited until late. Until they were sprawled out, arguing over anything, distracted by their own bullshit. You’d crept to the door, so quiet. Almost made it.

Baby caught you. Not with strength. With a simple:

“Hm?”

And then Jinu was there. Calm. Closing the door gently. Taking your arm, leading you back.

“Don’t do that, okay?” he’d said, as if you’d just made a small mistake. Like it wasn’t a big fucking deal.

Romance had clapped you on the back when you were forced to sit back down. “A+ for effort, though.”

Slice. Slice. Another piece of peach.

Mystery’s watching you now. Not saying anything, just watching. His head tilted, into your direction.

You finish slicing the peach. Set the knife down.

Romance steals another piece, grinning at you over it.

Mystery growls under his breath at the whole thing.

Abby’s already forgotten about you, too busy flicking Baby’s ear to annoy him.

Jinu’s watching you quietly, you’d guess. Don’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

You remember that time you bit Romance.

God, the nerve of him. You were done—so done—with him always getting too close.

D-O-N-E.

That time, when he cornered you to get things out of you. “C’mon, angel, just tell me a little secret. Just one. I’ll owe you.” He’d said. “You’re so tense. I can help with that…”

And you just snapped. Lunged in and bit his arm as hard as you could.

And the fucker?

The fuck?

He winked at you.

Didn’t pull away. Didn’t cuss you out. Just grinned like you’d given him a gift. “Easy, girl.” he said, voice low, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him. “Didn’t know you liked it rough.”

You wanted to scream. Instead, you glared and tried to yank free, and he let you—only because he felt like it. Not because you could have escaped him.

You organize the little peaches on your plate. They looked quite cute.

You tried to stand your ground once.

Told Abby to back off, to leave you alone. And what did he do?

He laughed. That easy, bright, warm laugh like you’d just told him a joke. Then he slung his arm around your shoulders and practically dragged you down the hall like you were his best bud.

“You’re funny as hell.” he said, ruffling your hair like you weren’t glaring daggers at him. “C’mon.”

Asshole.

“Where you think you’re going, superstar?” he’d teased last time, when you made it to the elevator and thought, for one sweet second, you were free.

You’d fought. Kicked. Swore.

And he’d just laughed, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing. Carried you back down the hall like you were some drunk friend at a party, not a prisoner.

“C’mon now. You know you’re not going anywhere. Let’s not make it weird.”

Baby shifts where he’s sitting, lazy as ever, glancing up from his phone just long enough to take a sassy look at you.

Then there was time they played good cop/bad cop on you.

Mystery had you cornered in the kitchen. Not even saying anything—just standing there, too close. You’d tried to sidestep him. He’d mirrored the move, blocking you without touching.

And then Romance walked in. All relaxed, all casual. Slid in between you and Mystery, arm around your waist like it was his right.

“Ease up.” he said to Mystery, but his hand tightened on your side. “She’s not gonna run. Are you, angel?”

You bite into a piece of peach now.

Or there’s the night you tried to lock yourself in a room.

Abby broke the door down. Just… busted it open like it was made of cardboard.

“Don’t do that, babe.” he said, happy af, picking you up like you weighed nothing and carrying you back to the main room. “You’re gonna make us feel bad, hiding like that.”

You’d pounded at his chest. Tried to fight.

And he’d just laughed again, so warm, so easy, like you were play-wrestling.

You put the cutting board back, close the cabinet a little too hard.

There are also mind games. Oh, the fucking mind games.

Like how Jinu always helps. Always so polite, so considerate. Slips a glass of water into your hand when you’re too angry to ask. Pulls out a chair for you. Puts a blanket over you when you fall asleep

(and yeah, you pretended to be asleep that time. sue you, you were cold).

And it gets in your head. Makes you second-guess your hate. Makes you wonder if maybe he’d let you go if you just asked nicely enough. Makes you forget, for a second, that he’s the one who seals the doors behind you.

Or how Baby never speaks to you unless it’s to cut you down.

That time you begged, just once, just quietly, just to Baby because the others were too busy fucking around, you asked him to help you slip out.

And he’d looked at you. Just looked. And smiled that tiny, mean smile of his.

“Cute that you think anyone here gives a fuck what you want.”

Yeah, when he doesn’t currently not give a fuck about what’s happening around him, this is what you’ll get of him. Allat pretty face is a waste, fr.

You wipe down the counter, scrubbing too hard, like you can erase their fingerprints from your space.

And Mystery.

Mystery, who’s so feral you almost thought you could use that. That maybe he was the weak link. That maybe his violence meant he didn’t care about the plan, that he’d let you go just to spite the others.

But no.

Like the time you tried to sneak a phone off the coffee table, thinking no one was looking.

Mystery had crossed the room in a blink, snatched it out of your hand, and grabbed your jaw so fast your ears rang.

His nails had pricked your skin. His breath had been hot, his growl low.

“Don’t.”

One word. That’s all. And then he let go like you were nothing. Like you didn’t even matter enough to punish.

You open the fridge, shove the plate in, close it again like the slam of the door can drown out the noise in your head.

You turn, walk closer to them in the living room so you look more genuine, sweet like sugar because you can’t help it. That’s just how you sound.

“Can I use the sauna?” you ask.

No one says anything for half a beat.

Jinu the asshole the FUCKING asshole hums. “In exchange for some information, you know. Tell us a thing or two.”

You groan. Actually groan. And before you can stop yourself, you do the tiniest, most frustrated little kick at the air. Just a flick of your foot, like you’re trying to shake off the annoyance. Just a little kick. Adorable, really. A stupid, tiny burst of frustration because this is so fucking unfair and they know it.

And that’s when Abby, quick, grabs your leg mid-kick.

“Gotcha.” he says, voice bright. And the worst part? He doesn’t even look at you. He’s already turned back to whatever dumb shit they’re talking about, your ankle resting in his grip.

And now you’re there, balancing on one foot, arms out a little to steady yourself.

“Abby—let go—!”

But he’s not paying you any mind. His fingers loose but firm around your ankle, like he could crush it if he felt like it, but he’s just holding it.

As if you’re some toy he forgot he was playing with. Fucking asshole.

Romance sees the opportunity immediately. He slides closer, slow, a finger tapping at your knee, then your thigh, all innocent and infuriating. “Look at you. One foot. So talented.”

You swat at him, trying to push him away, but that just makes him laugh.

Mystery, meanwhile, is staring at your leg. Head tilted, curious. Like he can’t decide if he wants to pounce on it or just… study it. It’s been a while since he’s seen a human girl this close. That’s obvious in the way his gaze lingers too long on the shape of your calf, the flex of your foot as you wobble.

Baby is absolutely checking out your ass.

Not even trying to hide it.

One glance over his phone, those eyes sliding down, a little smirk ghosting at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at his screen like he’s the innocent one here.

You hop a little, trying to tug your leg free, still balancing awkwardly. “Abby—seriously!”

But Abby just laughs, chatting with Jinu, your leg still in his grip.

Romance pokes at you again. This time at your side, grinning when you squirm. “Careful, sweetheart. You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

You try to stomp your other foot, frustrated beyond words, but you’re already jumping on one leg, and that just makes all of them snicker.

“Abby!”

“Hmm?” His voice is unbothered, eyes still not on you. “Oh. Right. Forgot I was holding you.”

Liar.

“Nah, c’mon—tell us a secret.” Abby says.

You tug.

He doesn’t budge.

“Abby.” you hiss.

But it’s useless.

Romance pokes you in the side, fascinated by the way your curves move.

“Stop it—” you try to swat at him, but you’re too busy trying not to fall flat on your ass.

Romance laughs, brushing your hand aside easily. His fingers brush your free ankle lightly, just to mess with you, and you nearly lose your balance again.

“Seriously, let go.” you snap, hopping on your one foot, trying to twist free.

But Abby’s grip is firm, not tight enough to hurt, just impossible to break.

He still isn’t looking at you. Instead, he’s grinning at Romance. “Hey, look at this—” he lifts your foot slightly, turning it in his hand like he’s inspecting it “—her foot’s like half the size of yours.”

Romance, of course, is lining his foot up next to yours while you’re still caught there, balancing. His grin is all teeth. “Tiny.” he says, delighted.

You’re burning up with embarrassment now, face hot, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. You’re jumping a little, trying to shake your foot loose, but all it does is make Romance poke at you more, fingers brushing your calf, your ankle, your side.

“Stop it!” you snap, swatting at him, but you can’t even aim right on one foot.

Baby doesn’t even hide it anymore. He leans back, arms crossed, eyes flicking between your legs, your ass, your face, enjoying every second of this humiliation.

“Alright, c’mon now.” Abby says, finally glancing at you. “Give us a little intel, and you can go steam yourself all you want.”

You’re about to lose your balance for real—arms flailing slightly, heel of your standing foot sliding on the polished floor—when finally, finally, Jinu’s voice cuts through the mess.

“You can use the sauna.” he says simply, with a small nod, like it should’ve been obvious all along.

“There you go, superstar.” Abby lets go, laughing under his breath as if this was all in good fun. You stumble, catch yourself on the couch, heart pounding, face flushed.

Romance grins, hands up like he’s innocent. “See? All you had to do was ask.”

Baby smirks, looking back down at his phone as if he wasn’t just ogling you.

Mystery sinks back onto the couch arm, still watching, but at least he isn’t about to lunge anymore.

You straighten, brushing your hands down your sides, trying to regain a scrap of dignity.

“Thanks.” you mutter, shooting a glare at the rest of them before turning on your heel and heading toward the sauna.

Romance leans back, hands up like he’s innocent. “Enjoy yourself, angel.”

Baby gives you one last look, and Mystery’s head follows you until you’re out of reach.

You huff, fixing your clothes, dignity in shambles as you stomp toward the sauna.

God, you hate them.

God, they’re fucking hilarious.

God, you hate that you almost laughed too.

Alright, so there you are. Finally. Finally in the sauna.

You thought maybe—maybe—you could steal this one small victory. After all the shit they put you through, the teasing, the games, the constant pushing and pulling, you’d gotten away.

The heat envelops you, thick, fogging up the glass as you sit there, knees tucked up, towel clutched tight to your chest.

Your heartbeat’s just starting to slow. Your breathing evens out. The sweat begins to bead at your temples, trickle down your neck, and for a blissful minute, you think:

peace.

And then.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You freeze. Eyes snap to the glass door.

Abby and Romance.

Side by side, standing just outside the sauna with the most shit-eating grins you’ve ever seen.

And god help you,

they’re in nothing but towels.

Romance has his slung low on his hips, arms crossed behind his head. Like he knew what this would do to you. His eyes meet yours through the steam, and his grin somehow widens.

Abby’s hitched up carelessly at his waist, and he’s leaning against the glass with both hands, forehead pressed against it, breathing patterns making little clouds on the surface.

And because he’s Abby and he’s got no shame, he leans in further until his abs are smushed up against the glass too, leaving perfect imprints of his ridiculous physique.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Romance’s knuckle on the door this time, slow and rhythmic, like they’ve got all the time in the world.

These bastards have nothing but time. And you? You’re the best entertainment they’ve had in centuries. Three hundred years of whatever suffering Gwi-ma put them through, until you.

And you can tell. You can see it in their faces, the way they’re lit up like kids on Christmas morning. The way they’re making a game out of this. The way they’re not just keeping you prisoner, they’re enjoying every second of it, like you’re their favorite new toy.

“Baby girl.” Romance calls, voice muffled through the glass, drawing the words out like a slow melody. He knocks again, forehead resting against the glass, leaning down a little so his eyes are level with yours. “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

(Guys I don’t mean baby girl in a weird way I promiseeeee)

Abby starts whining. Full-on whining, dragging out the vowels like he’s the one being tortured here.

“Pleeeaaaseee. Let us in. Don’t hog all the steam. You know it’s rude.”

Your grip on your towel tightens. You shake your head, glaring, but that just seems to make them more determined.

Romance is flattening his palms against the glass, leaning his weight forward, so casual.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” he purrs. “It’s not safe to sauna alone. What if you pass out? What if you get too hot?” His voice drops lower, dripping with mock concern. “We’d hate for something bad to happen to you.”

You point at them through the foggy glass. “Stay out.”

They’re having the time of their lives.

Abby’s face is smushed against the door now, nose flattened, grinning so hard you can see the crinkle of his eyes even through the fog. He slides down slightly so his chest presses up too, leaving an actual print on the glass that you’re sure you’ll see in your nightmares.

“Come oooonnnn.” he drags out, hands sliding down the glass with exaggerated despair. “It’s lonely out here. It’s cold.”

“Yeah.” Romance chimes in, knocking his knuckles lightly again, rhythm playful. “So cold. We’re shivering.”

Neither of them looks the least bit cold. They look like gods, golden and gleaming in the low light, all muscle.

Abby presses his forehead right next to Romance’s, their faces squished together, two idiots united in their mission to annoy the living shit out of you. His abs are still plastered to the glass, leaving sweaty smudges in their shape.

Romance starts dragging out words like he’s dying of heartbreak. “Weeeee just waaaant to reeeelaaax.”

And then, before you can stop it, the door creaks open.

Romance’s hand is already on the handle. Abby’s pushing through behind him, grinning.

“You—” you start, clutching your towel tighter, scooting back like that’s going to help.

Romance plops down way too close, towel barely clinging on, stretching his long legs out. He leans back, hands braced behind him, turning his head to look at you with that maddening, lazy smile.

Abby flops down on your other side, sighing like he’s just found heaven, spreading out. He stretches his arms up, rolls his shoulders, all muscle.

“This is much better.” Abby says cheerfully.

“Yeah.” Romance agrees, eyes glinting with as he studies you, watching the way you clutch your towel like it’s the only thing saving your dignity. “See? Cozy.”

You glare at them both, heart hammering so loud you’re sure they can hear it over the hiss of the steam.

“You could’ve waited.” you mutter, trying to inch away without actually standing and risking… well, anything.

Romance leans in slightly, close enough that you can see the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, the curve of his smirk.

Then, these assholes giggle.

Giggle.

Big, strong, terrifying demons who could rip a man apart in seconds, sitting on either side of you, legs sprawled, water dripping down their ridiculously perfect bodies—and giggling like schoolgirls who just found a crush’s diary.

Romance leans forward, glancing at Abby, his grin wide and boyish and so fucking irritating. His hair’s still damp, little droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw, catching in the hollow of his throat before disappearing below that towel hanging far too low on his hips.

Abby snorts, eyes crinkling, that same big, bright grin that makes it impossible to stay mad at him for long—no matter how much you want to. He’s got one arm thrown over the back of the bench.

“I feel relaxed already.” Abby teases, voice low and warm.

And the giggling starts again. Little bursts of it, like they can’t believe their luck.

You press your back against the wall, eyes narrowed, clutching your towel so hard you might leave permanent wrinkles in the fabric. You feel the heat rising higher in your cheeks now, but it’s not from the sauna.

Because they’re close. So close you can feel the heat coming off them, not just the sauna’s heat but theirs. Like being caught between two furnaces.

Fuck them.

And they’re not just sitting there politely, minding their business. Oh no. Their gazes slide over you, undressing you with their eyes without a single ounce of shame.

Romance lets his gaze drop, lazily, from your flushed face to the slope of your shoulders, down the curve of your towel-clad body, he’s imagining exactly what’s under there. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

His mouth quirks up at the corner like he’s thoroughly enjoying the view.

Abby’s no better. His eyes trace you all the same. Like he’s taking mental snapshots, adding to whatever collection of moments he’s tucking away for the next time he’s bored at 3 a.m.

And it’s not subtle.

They’d hit that. No question. In a heartbeat.

Hell, Romance would have you against the sauna wall the second you blinked yes—if you blinked yes. The man has no shame. His lust, so open, so easy, it’s like breathing to him.

But that’s the thing about Romance—he knows the difference. Knows the difference between wanting to get you under him and wanting something real.

And somehow, that second thing? That’s creeping in now, too.

It’s not just the game anymore. Not just the fun of teasing you, seeing how red they can make you go, seeing how long they can keep you flustered before you snap.

It’s that you feel different.

You’re not like the other fleeting amusements they’ve found across centuries of boredom and bloodshed. You’re not just a pretty face they can toy with until it breaks.

You’re the most fun they’ve had in so long they’ve almost forgotten what fun is.

It’s growing. Quietly, steadily, in between all the teasing.

Romance, for all his shameless flirting, knows it too. His desire’s loud, sure, but this other feeling? This is different. It’s not about the chase, or the win, or the thrill of the moment. It’s about the way his heart kicks up when you roll your eyes at him, when you snap back, when you don’t fold.

And Abby? He’s the same. He laughs and plays and pokes, but somewhere in the cracks, something real’s settling in.

Something that isn’t just about keeping entertained.

You’re fun. You’re alive.

And in their endless stretch of centuries, that’s fun.

Because now, it’s not just about keeping you around for what you know.

Now, it’s about keeping you around because they want you around.

All those feelings for them, while just now, you had enough. Enough.

So you stand.

You push yourself up off the bench, clutching your towel, heart pounding, cheeks blazing, ready to make your exit.

But the second you straighten, the second you think you’ve reclaimed a scrap of dignity, Abby decides otherwise.

Big, warm hands catch your wrist and waist at once, and before you can so much as yelp, he drags you right back down into his lap.

“Ah-ah. Where you goin’, babe?” he says, voice all smooth, like you’re a kitten trying to escape bath time. His grin’s wide, eyes sparkling with that boyish light that makes you want to slap him and maybe kiss him just to wipe it off his face.

And there you are—your much smaller frame hauled back against him, towel still clutched to your chest, your legs draped awkwardly over his, skin burning where it meets his.

You squirm.

You kick and wiggle and slap at his arms, trying to peel yourself free, but it’s like fighting a brick wall that laughs at you.

“Let me go!” you snap, voice high with frustration, but you might as well be shouting at the wind.

Because Abby’s laughing now. Genuinely laughing, head tipped back a little, like this is the funniest shit he’s seen in decades.

Romance is no better. He’s doubled over, palm slapping the bench, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. That rich, boyish sound fills the sauna, echoing off the wood, making your cheeks burn hotter.

You kick again, trying to shove at Abby’s chest, trying to slide off his lap, but he’s holding you tight, like it’s nothing.

Abby leans in a little, his grin crooked now, voice low and warm, the kind of tone that makes you want to hide.

“You’re makin’ this real hard for me, sweetheart.” he says, and there’s no mistaking the double meaning.

Your heart lurches.

And, oh—you feel it. You definitely feel it.

Right there, under you.

A huge fucking boner.

And instead of stopping—instead of being sensible—you kick more. You squirm harder. Your face is on fire, but you’re determined to break free, determined to make him pay for putting you in this position, even if it’s making everything so much worse.

Abby groans low in his throat, but it’s laced with laughter, like he knows exactly what you’re doing and loves it. Loves that you’re trying. Loves that you’re flustered and mad and completely powerless.

Romance is laughing so hard he can’t sit upright, folding over himself, practically wheezing, tears streaming down his cheeks, pointing at you both like he can’t believe how lucky he is to witness this.

You give one more valiant wiggle, slap at Abby’s arm, and finally—finally—he lets go. Though maybe because he’s too worked up to keep playing

“Alright, alright.” he says, laughing, lifting his hands in surrender. “You win, babe. Go on.”

You shoot up like your life depends on it, clutching your towel so tight your fingers ache, hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, chest heaving. You glare down at both of them, cheeks blazing, trying to regain a shred of dignity.

Abby is the picture of innocence now. One leg up to hide his hard on, arms draped across the back of the bench, looking for all the world like he’s just a guy enjoying a sauna and not someone who just very nearly got dry-humped into oblivion by a squirming, furious human girl.

But of course, the second you’re upright, Romance leans forward, grinning wickedly, fingers grabbing for the edge of your towel.

“Just one little peek.” he says, and his hand shoots out, fingers hooking the edge of your towel.

You shriek, twisting away just in time, slapping his hands, stumbling toward the door. The towel stays on—thank god—but barely.

Romance collapses back onto the bench, grinning, breathless from laughing.

“Worth a shot.” he teases, voice low and sinful. “Next time, angel.”

You don’t look back. You can’t. You’re too busy marching toward the door, heart hammering, body burning, swearing to yourself you’ll never trust a sauna again.

And behind you, the sound of their laughter chases you all the way out.

You storm out of that sauna, towel clutched so tight it’s a wonder you haven’t shredded it by sheer force of will. Your heart’s hammering in your chest, skin blazing from more than just the steam, and you’re done. Done with Abby’s lap. Done with Romance’s bullshit. Done with them probably high fiving each other as you’re walking. Done with all of it.

You stomp barefoot across the marble floors, steam still rising from your skin, water droplets trailing behind you.

And then you hit the living room.

Jinu’s perched on the edge of the couch, looking every bit the composed, gentlemanly demon he always pretends to be—except for the fact that his eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight of you. His lips twitch at the corners, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You went in there with clothes on.” he says, voice mild. “I’m pretty sure of it.”

You don’t even slow down. You wave a hand at him, dismissive, furious, embarrassed beyond belief but way too stubborn to show it.

“Not now, Jinu.”

“Just pointing it out.” he says, and you can hear that gentle, teasing lilt in his voice now that somehow makes it worse. Like he’s the only one in this house capable of being nice to you, but he still can’t help poking at you when you’re like this.

You glance down just in time to see Mystery crouched slightly, head tilted, attention fixed on the hem of your towel.

His hand twitches, like he’s fighting the urge to just lift it and satisfy his curiosity.

“Mystery—”

You swat at him, fast, instinctive. Like shooing off a cat who’s about to knock over a glass.

He tries again.

“Mystery or whatever your fucking name is!”

Your voice pitches higher. You swat at him again, and this time he dodges.

Baby’s watching the whole thing from the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly.

You and Mystery keep up this ridiculous dance—him darting, trying to sneak a look, you batting him off.

Every time you think you’ve shaken him, he circles back around, silent, predatory.

“Mystery, stop it!” you hiss, stomping your foot, cheeks burning so hot you’re sure they must be glowing.

He actually listens. Pulls back just a bit, but not before giving you this tilt of his head—this weird, almost innocent curiosity, like he really, genuinely wants to know what’s up there. Not because he’s trying to be a creep. Just because he’s Mystery.

He leans back, hands up, like he was just wondering, like you can’t blame a guy for being curious.

You tug your towel tighter, shooting him a glare that promises violence if he tries it again.

Baby just tips his head back and laughs, soft and delighted.

You storm the rest of the way across the living room, muttering curses under your breath, knowing full well this won’t be the last time they pull this shit.

Because why would it be?

You’re the best fun they’ve had in centuries.

You slam the door to your room shut with more force than necessary, your heart still thundering in your chest.

The room’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet.

You take a deep breath, forcing your legs to move, crossing to the dresser where they’d dumped your things they got from there and there. You let the towel drop, pulling on fresh clothes.

But as you tug your shirt down and run a hand through your damp hair, the questions start creeping in.

Will you ever get out of here?

…Maybe.

You want to believe it. That there’s a crack in their plan, a way to slip past their too-quick hands. That somehow, the girls will come for you. That you’ll find your moment and take it. But looking at how they watch you, how they enjoy keeping you close? It’s hard to be sure.

Do the girls miss you?

Yes.

They have to. You’re not just some assistant with a clipboard and a coffee order. You’re the one who kept them safe, who watched their backs when they were too busy saving the world to watch their own. They have to notice you’re gone. Right?

Do the boys actually like you as a person?

Yes.

And that’s the most confusing part. Because it’s not just the teasing, the poking, they see you. Under all the sweet voice, the petty little kicks, the glares and the stubbornness, they see you. And somehow, they like what they see.

Is Romance always trying to get in your pants?

Yes.

But he also respects the game. And maybe, just maybe, he likes more than just what’s under your clothes.

Does Abby really think you’re cute when you fight him off?

Yes.

You see it in his smile, in the way his eyes soften when you kick and squirm and glare up at him.

Is Baby secretly rooting for you?

Absolutely so fucking yes.

He won’t say it. Won’t even crack more than that smirk. But you catch it, sometimes—in the tilt of his head, in the glint of his eye. He enjoys you. Enjoys watching you give them hell.

Is Mystery curious about you in ways he doesn’t understand?

Indeed.

It’s in every glance, every tilt of his head, every quiet lean-in. You’re new, he likes it.

Does Jinu really care?

Yeah.

The only one who treats you normally. The one who talks to you like you’re a person. The one who always seems to step in right before the others push you too far.

Are you actually safe here?

No.

Not really. Not from their games, their teasing, their endless curiosity about what makes you break. Not from the way they make your heart race, in anger or fear or something more dangerous you don’t want to name.

Are you in danger of falling for them, even a little?

…Maybe.

You flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, clothes rumpled and hair still damp, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive this. Wondering how you’re going to keep yourself from softening toward them when they look at you like that, when they laugh like that, when they treat you like this.

Will you ever stop hoping for a chance to escape?

No.

Not ever. Not even if they keep making you laugh when you shouldn’t. Not even if they’re the most fun you’ve ever had.

You’re getting out.

Somedays

But god—if they don’t make it hard to want to leave.

You lay there on that stupid, too-nice bed, staring up at the ceiling, the city lights leaking in through the blinds, casting stripes across your skin. And you think—fuck.

Because damn your empathy.

You should hate them. Every single one of them. For snatching you away from your life. For laughing at you when you fight back. For treating you like a kid. You should be plotting their downfall, hating the sound of their voices, the way they look at you, the way they keep you here.

But you don’t. Not really. Not deep down where it matters.

Because it hits you, lying there with your heart still racing and your body still warm from the sauna

They probably don’t know any better anymore.

It’s probably been hundreds of years since they had anything like this. Since they saw their mothers. Since they were boys, real boys, not demons, playing at being human on a stage with bright lights and screaming fans.

When was the last time they got tucked in at night, you wonder. When was the last time somebody made them soup when they were sick?

When was the last time they did human shit?

Jumped on a trampoline, if they ever had done that.

Had a snowball fight.

Built a fort and camped out in it.

Splashed each other in a pool until they were breathless with laughter, not because they were trying to drown each other but just because it was fun.

Ran barefoot through wet grass on a summer night, chasing bugs.

Sat on a rooftop with their best friend, eating about the future like it was some big, beautiful thing waiting for them.

The last time someone baked them a birthday cake and sang to them, even off-key?

God, when was the last time they had that?

You think about Romance, all charm and heat, with that constant flirt in his voice—when was the last time someone kissed him because they loved him, not because they were enchanted by his face?

You think about Abby, always teasing, strong enough to crush you but never does—when was the last time someone hugged him just because?

Baby, with not giving a fuck at anything—when was the last time someone gave him something with no strings attached?

Mystery. Ferocious, curious—when was the last time he felt safe enough to just exist?

Jinu. The only one who looks at you like you’re still a person, like maybe he remembers what it felt like to be one, too—when was the last time someone sat with him in silence, not because they wanted something but just because they liked him?

And you feel that damn softness bloom in your chest, that aching empathy that’s going to get you killed or worse.

Because you don’t blame them. Not really.

They’re lonely.

Lonely in a way you can’t even imagine, in a way that sinks into your bones and makes you hungry for anything real.

You’re not just a hostage, not really—not to them. You’re a spark of humanity in their endless dark, and they don’t want to let go.

And yeah, it’s selfish. It’s cruel, in its way. But can you really hate them for it?

Can you hate them for wanting to keep you close when the world left them behind centuries ago?

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face, trying to shove the thoughts away, trying to remind yourself—they kidnapped you. They’re using you. They’re playing with you because it entertains them.

But still.

You see the way they look at you when they think you’re not paying attention.

You see the way they light up when you kick back, when you glare, when you curse them out, when you fight—because maybe you’re the first thing in forever that’s real to them.

And goddamn it, you understand.

You don’t forgive. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you understand.

Boys who laugh too hard when you fight them off because they don’t know how else to show they like you.

So yeah.

Fuck your empathy.

Because you see them. And you can’t unsee it.

[lazysoulwriter]

stay close - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: explicit smut, established relationship, sleepy summer sex, lace lingerie, soft dom!pedro, needy and affectionate, praise, gentle asking, cockwarming turning into slow love-making, intense emotional connection

The fan hums softly, spinning uselessly above your bed.

It’s summer in LA. The kind of heat that lingers in your bones. You’re half-asleep on the cool sheets, barely covered, chest rising slow and soft. Pedro’s behind you, wide awake and suffering.

Not because of the heat. Because of you.

You’re wearing that new set you tried on earlier — black lace, barely-there, the kind that wasn’t really made for sleeping but you insisted anyway. “It’s too hot for anything else,” you mumbled, already climbing into bed.

Now here you are. Back pressed against him, your ass snug against his thighs. One strap slipped off your shoulder. Your hips shifting every so often in your sleep, dragging that sweet curve over the very obvious problem in his boxers.

Pedro groans quietly into the pillow.

He wants you.

No—he needs you. Just to feel close. Just to have you wrapped around him, even if it’s slow. Even if it’s quiet. Even if all he gets is a little of you, half-asleep and pressed up against his chest, breathing softly while he stays buried inside you.

He leans in and kisses your shoulder. Soft. Careful.

You stir just a little, humming.

“Baby,” he whispers, voice like gravel. “You awake?”

“Mmm… kinda.”

His hand drags slowly over your waist. He presses a kiss behind your ear, lips warm and needy.

“Can I… stay inside you?” he asks, barely above a breath. “Not fuck. Not yet. Just—be close.”

You blink, still half-lost in sleep, but the way he says it makes your body ache. He sounds so tender. So full of want.

“Yeah,” you whisper, reaching back to touch his hip. “Yeah, baby. Come here.”

He pushes his boxers down, carefully tugs your panties to the side. Takes his time. Just the tip of him sliding between your folds has him exhaling like it’s relief.

And then he’s inside. Slowly. Deeply. Filling you with a low moan that makes your whole body shiver.

You gasp softly. “Pedro…”

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing the nape of your neck. “Just like this. You feel so fucking good. So warm. Let me stay.”

His hands grip your hips, not to thrust — just to hold. To anchor himself in the sweetness of you.

But the longer he stays buried in your heat, the harder it gets to hold back. You’re clenching gently, body responding even in your daze, and he can’t help the way his hips start to roll. Slow. Deep. Intimate.

You moan.

“Wanna make love to you,” he whispers, breath shaky. “Let me. Please.”

And you nod, already melting for him.

What follows isn’t fast or rough. It’s needy. Soft kisses. Slow strokes. His hand slipping under your lace bra to thumb over your nipple. His mouth on your shoulder, your jaw, your cheek.

“So beautiful,” he pants. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You come with a whimper, pressed into the mattress, body trembling around him as he follows seconds later — groaning your name like it’s the only thing that ever mattered.

After, he holds you even tighter. Still buried inside. Still connected. Still needing to be as close as possible.

You whisper, half asleep, “I love you.”

And he kisses your shoulder again, whispering, “I’ll never get enough of you.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[myluckyluv]

His Cunt, His Rules

CW: Rough sex,Free use dynamic (consensual),Daddy kink,Degradation kink,Praise kink & Spanking kink

If any of these themes are uncomfortable or triggering for you, please scroll past. 18+ only / MDNI.

The door shuts harder than usual. His keys clatter. His tie is halfway undone. Nanami Kento is done with the world.

All day, he thought of you—how warm you’d feel under his hands, how soft you’d be in his lap, how good you’d sound moaning his name.

But what he hears instead? Moaning. Already.

He rounds the corner and stops dead.

There you are. On the couch. Hand between your thighs, tank top rolled up, playing with your pussy like you didn’t belong to someone.

His eye twitches. His cock twitches harder.

“You touching yourself without me, sweetheart?” The tone is calm, but deadly.

You gasp and jolt up. “Kento—! I didn’t think you’d be home yet—”

“Clearly.” He drops his bag, loosens his tie the rest of the way, and strides over with that focused fury that makes your legs tremble.

“You forget the rules?” he asks, kneeling between your thighs. “Or were you just hoping to get caught like a filthy little slut?”

He grabs your wrist and pulls your fingers out of yourself. Soaked. “Disgusting,” he mutters, but the way his pupils dilate says he loves it.

He sucks your fingers clean—eyes locked on you—then slaps your inner thigh.

“Turn over,” he says, voice like gravel. “Elbows on the couch.”

You obey, heart pounding, and before you can fully settle, his palm crashes down against your ass—loud and stinging.

“This ass bounces when you touch yourself too, huh?” he sneers, smacking it again. “You like being a disobedient little whore?”

“N-no, Daddy—I was just—”

“Just being a dumb little brat who needs to be reminded who owns this cunt.” Smack. Smack. The strikes fall in rhythm, leaving you breathless, teary, and aching.

“Count,” he growls.

“One—t-two—three—” you gasp through gritted teeth, voice breaking by the eighth slap.

He soothes the sting with a rough hand, gripping your reddened cheeks. “You dripping for me now, sweetheart?”

He slides his fingers between your thighs. “So fucking wet. Didn’t even need me, huh? Just a needy little toy with no self-control.”

Then he’s between your legs—licking, sucking, devouring like it’s his personal mission to break you open.

You moan so loud it echoes off the walls, body quivering with every flick of his tongue. And just when your orgasm builds—

He pulls away.

“No.” He spits on your cunt and slaps it. “You come when I let you.”

You sob into the couch cushion, desperate, ruined.

Nanami rises to his feet, unzipping slowly, deliberately. “You want Daddy’s cock that bad? Ask for it like the pathetic little cumdump you are.”

“Please, Daddy—want you to fuck me, use me—make me yours—”

“Already am yours,” he mutters darkly, slamming into you in one brutal thrust. “This sloppy little hole was made for me.”

The rhythm is merciless. His grip bruises your hips. Your thighs slap back against him with every stroke. His belt still hangs from his pants—swinging as he ruins you.

“You think anyone else could fuck you like this?” Smack. Another slap to your ass. “No one gets this pussy but me.”

“Only you, Daddy—please, please—” you cry, overwhelmed, overstimulated, ruined.

“That’s it. Take it. Let Daddy fill this cunt the way you need. Fuckin’ bred like my dumb little housewife.”

Your orgasm hits so hard you scream, legs trembling, body convulsing. And he doesn’t stop. “One more,” he grits. “You’re not done. You’ll come for me again.”

He fucks you through the overstimulation, your body twitching, your mind melting, until the second orgasm breaks you down completely.

He groans as he finally spills inside you, burying himself deep, thick cum filling you to the brim. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s fuckin’ mine.”

And as you pant, sweat-soaked and ruined, he leans over, whispers into your ear:

“Next time, you even think about touching yourself without me—I’m tying you up and spanking you until you cry.”

[smutmind]

how MiSaMo give head to their boyfriends

Mina knelt in front of you without a word, eyes calm but locked on yours. She tucked her hair behind her ear with slow grace, the pads of her fingers brushing her cheek.

“You’re so hard already,” she murmured, eyes flicking down as she undid your zipper. “Did I do that to you?”

Her fingers hesitated for a beat, then wrapped around your cock, drawing it out like she was revealing something sacred. Her breath caught. “You’re… beautiful.”

She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip, then another, soft and slow like a pianist testing ivory keys. Her mouth parted and she took you in—hot, wet, unhurried. Her lips sealed around you as her tongue curled beneath, and she began to suck with quiet devotion.

“Let me take care of you,” she whispered between strokes, her voice velvet against your skin.

When she went deeper, her eyes fluttered closed, cheeks hollowing, throat relaxing. She gagged once softly, then adjusted, never breaking her rhythm. Your cock disappeared between her lips again and again, her eyes eventually rising to meet yours.

And when you warned her, she didn’t stop. She simply sucked harder, deeper, until you pulsed against her tongue. Her lips never left you as she swallowed everything—graceful, controlled.

“Shh,” she breathed, wiping her mouth. “I wanted to.”

“You’re already this hard?” Sana grinned, kneeling between your legs as she slowly pulled your cock free. “I haven’t even touched you yet, baby~”

She wrapped her fingers around it, tilting her head. “It’s bigger than I thought… I’m excited.”

She licked a stripe up the underside, watching you twitch. “Mm, sensitive too~”

Then her mouth closed around the tip, and she moaned dramatically—half performance, half pleasure. Her tongue circled your head in wide, slow swirls before she sucked harder, sinking down with surprising skill.

Her hands gripped your thighs, nails gently digging in. “You like my mouth, don’t you?” she asked between sucks, strings of spit connecting her lips to your cock.

Every time she came up, she looked at you with wide, gleaming eyes. “Tell me when you’re close. I want to feel it.”

You did. And when you came, she stayed locked around you, swallowing with little moans and fluttering lashes. She pulled off with a wet pop, licking the corner of her lip.

“Yummy,” she whispered. “All mine.”

Momo dropped to her knees like her body moved faster than her mind. “I need this,” she said, hands already at your waistband. “Been thinking about your cock all day.”

When she saw it, her breath hitched. “Fuck, you’re thick…”

She gripped you firmly, thumb rubbing the underside as her lips hovered just over your tip. “Can I taste it?”

Then she went down hard—no hesitation. Her mouth was instantly wet, hot, sloppy. Her tongue swirled frantically, lips stretching wide as she pushed deeper. She gagged but didn’t stop, pulling back only to spit and suck again with louder, needier sounds.

“You feel so fucking good,” she moaned, bobbing faster. Her pace was rough, her rhythm hungry. She held your hips tight, pushing you into her throat over and over like a dancer keeping perfect time.

When your hands found her hair, she groaned and shoved her face deeper onto your cock. “Give it to me,” she begged, mouth full. “Right in my throat.”

You did.

She swallowed every drop with wild satisfaction, breathing hard when she pulled back, face slick.

“Holy shit,” she grinned, licking her lips. “You’re addictive.”

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — better off . . . chris sturn

in which . . . chris wants more, you can’t give it, and somehow you both keep ending up here anyway.

warnings . . . smut , making out , unprotected p in v , public sex (party bathroom) , creampie , angst , emotionallyunavailable!reader , kinda mean!reader , unrequited love , alcohol consumption

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #11

the music is too loud. the air smells like cheap vodka and weed. the lights are too dim, and chris shouldn’t even be here—should’ve stayed home, should’ve ignored your text.

but he didn’t.

he never does.

you’re across the room, laughing at something someone said, half-empty drink in your hand, that same unreadable smile on your face. you look like you’re having fun. like none of this means anything to you. like you haven’t spent the last three months calling him at midnight and crawling into his bed just to leave before the sun comes up.

he hates that he’s watching you.

he hates that he’s waiting for you to notice him.

and worst of all—he hates that the second your eyes finally flick over to him, his stomach flips like he’s sixteen again and seeing you for the first time.

your gaze lingers just a little too long.

then you smile. lazy, slow. like you know exactly what you’re doing.

he watches you slip through the crowd, drink still in hand, swaying a little more than you need to as you make your way toward him.

“didn’t think you’d come,” you say, voice light, casual. like it doesn’t matter.

chris shrugs, leans against the wall like he’s not dying inside. “yeah, well. didn’t have better plans.”

you smirk. “lucky me.”

it’s always like this. flirty but empty. close but never close enough.

you take another sip, eyes dragging over him slowly. the alcohol’s making you bolder tonight. chris swears there’s a lazy warmth in your stare, something softer underneath. but just for a second.

“you look good,” you say finally, like it’s an afterthought.

he swallows hard. “you always do.”

you don’t respond to that. you just step closer, close enough for him to smell your perfume. close enough that your hip brushes his when you lean past him to set your cup on the table.

it’s subtle. intentional. cruel.

he grits his teeth. “you drunk?”

you shrug. “mmm…tipsy.”

he narrows his eyes. “you always get handsy when you’re tipsy.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you murmur, but there’s a teasing smile on your lips now. dangerous and sweet.

before he can answer, your hand curls around his wrist light and fleeting, but enough to get your point across.

“come with me.” you say.

and like always, he follows.

you drag him down the hall like it’s nothing. like this isn’t some twisted routine you both keep falling into. like this doesn’t mean anything.

he barely has time to process before you’re pushing open the bathroom door, shoving him inside, and locking it behind you.

“seriously?” he says, but it’s already breathless.

you just smile—lazy and slow—and then you’re on him.

hands on his chest, mouth pressed to his like you’ve been starving for him. it’s not sweet. it’s hungry. messy. like you’re trying to shut him up before he can ask what this is or why you’re doing this again.

his hands find your waist on instinct, pulling you closer.

you taste like liquor and lip gloss and every single bad decision he’s ever made. because almost all of them involved you.

you moan into his mouth when he backs you against the wall, and it shoots straight to his head—makes him groan low in his throat, makes him bite at your bottom lip harder than he should.

but you don’t stop.

you kiss him deeper. let your nails drag down his neck. let your thigh slip between his legs like you’re trying to rile him up on purpose.

“you’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters against your mouth, half-laughing but not really joking.

you smile like you don’t care. “you already let me.”

your hands slide under his shirt, cold against his skin, and he hisses when your fingertips dip low enough to make him tense.

he’s trying to pace himself.

trying to remind himself that you’ll leave again.

that you’ll pull away and smooth your dress back down and act like none of this happened.

but when you twist your fingers in the front of his shirt and tug him toward the counter, it’s like every ounce of self-control snaps.

he spins you fast—bending you over the sink without thinking, one hand gripping your hip, the other fisting in your hair to tilt your head back just enough for him to kiss your neck, hard.

your breath catches.

your hands scramble for balance on the edge of the counter.

and when he drags his mouth down your shoulder, growling low and desperate—he knows there’s no going back.

not tonight.

not with you like this.

and as his hands slip lower, making you arch back against him with a soft gasp, he knows exactly where this is going.

he knows he should stop.

but he won’t.

not when you’re standing here—half drunk, half laughing, flushed and gasping for him—bent over the counter like you’re daring him to take you apart.

like you want this just as bad.

like you’re giving him one more chance to forget how this always ends.

and when his fingers slip beneath your dress, dragging slow and possessive up your thigh…he stops thinking altogether.

he grabs the hem of your dangerously short dress, lifting it up to bunch it around your hips. he’s met with the sight of your ass, barely covered by your panties. the dark cadet blue adorned with prints of white carnations, the hem decorated with delicate white lace.

he knew they were your favorite. of course, you didn’t know he knew that. but he cared that much. he always had.

he smooths his hand over your fabric-covered skin, admiring you. when you push your hips back against him, he snaps out of his trance. “chris, c’mon…”

chris hooks his fingers under the lacy waistband, pulling them down until they drop to your feet, pooling around your ankles. he softly groans at the sight before him. your rounded, bare ass bent over the counter for him. one thing he knows is for him.

he squeezes your plump flesh softly, earning a hushed moan from you. he fumbles with his belt, the sound of the buckle filling the bathroom. you hear the weight of his belt and jeans falling to the floor. he immediately pulls down his calvin klein boxers, his hardened dick tapping his lower abdomen as it springs out of the constricting fabric.

chris’s hand dips between your parted thighs, feeling the wetness between your folds. “god, you’re soaked…” he mumbles.

he runs his fingers through it, coating them before bringing his hand to his stiff cock and stroking it a few times. once he thinks he’s lubed enough, his hands grip your hips, steadying you. you look up at him through the mirror, noticing how he’s staring down at you like you’re the most beautiful thing this world has ever known.

chris drags the head of his cock through your dripping folds, lingering at your clit before trailing himself back to your entrance to line himself up. you feel the pressure, and your gaze locks with his in the mirror. your head drops, forehead hovering above the counter.

“you ready?”

you nod, bracing yourself for him. chris is big. you both know that, which is he’s pushing himself very slowly. the heat of your cunt wraps around him, your walls squeezing him as he eases himself inside of you. your legs wobble, matching the poor stability of your breathing.

you let out a soft whine as he bottoms out, feeling him in the deepest places you didn’t even know possible. “tell me when, baby.” the word slips out of him soft and easy—like it means everything. and maybe it does. but to you? it’s just a word. another thing he gives too much weight to. another thing you’ll forget by morning.

you feel full. brutally full. he starts slowly easing himself in and out of you, grip tightening on your hips. you’d have bruises for sure. you feel each of his veins drag against your velvety walls, your cunt greedily sucking him in with each thrust.

chris lets out a shaky breath, followed by a groan as he starts to pick up his pace. he sets a steady yet fast rhythm, just the way you both liked.

chris always remembers what you like. down to the smallest, stupidest things. he knows how you take your coffee. he knows what songs make you roll your eyes and what ones make you sing along.

he even knows what flowers you like—like he’d ever be in any position to get you flowers. like that would ever be something you’d let him do.

and still, here he is. fucking into you like he’s got something to prove. like memorizing you wasn’t already enough. like this will be the thing that makes you stay.

he’s so deep in it, too—silent for once, teeth clenched, hands tight on your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. lost in his own head. too caught up thinking about you—about how even now, even like this, he can’t stop wanting more.

he doesn’t snap out of it until you moan soft and wrecked, followed by: “chris…”

the sound hits him like a punch to the chest.

his hips stutter, breath catching, and before he can stop himself, he grips your flesh harder and fucks you deeper, chasing the sound again.

“fucking—shit—“ chris grunts, hips stuttering slightly before gaining back the steady pace. he drills into you, pouring all his feelings into his thrusts. the head of his cock kisses that sweet spot inside you with a sickeningly delicious pressure, tightening the knot in your gut.

your legs tremble beneath you, your body completely relying on chris’s hands on your hips and the counter you’re bent over.

one of his large, veiny hands snakes around your waist, splaying itself on your lower tummy and applying a sweet, momentary pressure. the feeling goes just as quick as it came as his hand trails down to your cunt, his fingers finding your swollen clit to lavish it with attention, the pace of his hips never stuttering once.

you borderline shriek, grip tightening on the edge of the counter. “fuck fuck fuck!” you repeat, warm walls clamping down on chris’s length. he’s so beyond fucked.

chris feels his balls draw tight, his hips slapping harder against the reddened flesh of your ass. “m’gonna cum, chris, i—“

“go on.” he assures you. and as soon as the words leave his lips, you fall over the edge. your vision flashes white, a hot, fiery feeling violently trembling through your body.

when chris feels you constrict around him, your creamy release coating his length, he can’t take it anymore. his hips stutter, his own high crashing into him like a tidal wave, his seed painting your walls warmly white, mingling with your own release.

after a few moments, he pulls out with a quiet curse, breath heavy, hands still lingering on your hips like he’s reluctant to let go.

you don’t look at him.

just adjust your dress like this was always the plan. like you weren’t just coming apart on his dick less than two minutes ago. you smooth the fabric down over your thighs, tugging it back into place. no blush on your cheeks. no softness in your eyes. just that same casual, detached nonchalance you always put on after.

chris breathes out slow, dragging his boxers and jeans back up. the metal of his belt clinks softly as he fastens it, and it feels…final somehow. like the end of another round in this game you keep playing.

you grab some toilet paper, sliding it between your legs, cleaning yourself up with the same tired efficiency like you’ve done this before. because you have. no ceremony. no care.

chris wipes himself off with a wad of paper towel from the counter, tossing it in the trash with a low sigh as he watches you pull your panties up beneath your dress. for a second, he just leans against the counter, watching you silently like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your shoulder, the way you fix your hair in the mirror like nothing happened.

he watches you swipe at your neck and chest with a paper towel, like you’re scrubbing him off you.

you catch him looking.

“what?” you ask, flat, like you’re annoyed he’s still staring.

he shakes his head. “nothing.”

you huff out a little laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “don’t look at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like this means something, chris.”

it guts him a little, the way you say it so easily. like he’s the idiot here. like he’s the one making it complicated.

you grab your purse from the sink, slipping the strap over your shoulder like this was just another hookup with some guy whose heart you aren’t busy breaking.

before you leave, you pause at the door, glancing over your shoulder just once. “don’t wait up.”

he swallows hard, nodding like it’s fine. like he’s fine. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

the door shuts behind you. he stares at it for a long time.

and god, he knows he’s better off without you.

but knowing that never stopped his heart from aching like this.

never stopped him from loving you.

even when you’ll never love him back.

author’s note . . . sorry chris…😞

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

© cayleeuhithinknott

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 5 - backcourt violation]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Azzi keeping things professional is proving harder than expected. She keeps pulling back, but Paige’s persistence is relentless—showing up with takeout, stealing glances, and testing every boundary.

It’s a quiet tug-of-war, and Azzi’s defense is starting to crack. Word count: 4,430

A luxurious rooftop bar, Manhattan. April 2025. 

“You own the team?!” 

Azzi looked at her, lips parted slightly like she might say something. But she didn’t. She just gave a single nod, smooth and unbothered.    Paige scrubbed a hand down her face, eyes narrowed like she was betrayed. 

“You my boss lady?” 

Azzi didn’t flinch. She adjusted her glass on the ledge, back to the city lights. 

Paige dropped her voice, mock-serious. “Do you, like… sign checks? Make cuts? Have secret rich-people meetings?” 

Azzi gave the faintest smile. “Yes.” 

Paige stepped closer, her disbelief loud. “You let me say all that stuff back at the suite. You let me flirt with you. While being my future boss.” 

“You didn’t seem like someone who needed permission.” 

“Oh I didn’t,” Paige said, hand on her chest like she was scandalized. “But damn, I was out here throwing my best lines. I asked if you wanted nuggets and affection. You just sat there looking like money.” 

Azzi shifted her gaze to her, unreadable. “Is that your usual pitch?” 

“It’s undefeated,” Paige said. “Except apparently when the girl is secretly the owner of a WNBA team and I find out during the afterparty like some clueless walk-on.” 

"Your intentions were loud, even without words." Azzi said, tone even. 

“I had no idea I was seducing upper management,” Paige said. “You looked like you stepped out of a Forbes cover story just to ruin someone’s life.” 

“And you looked like you wanted yours ruined.” 

Heat spiked up Paige’s neck. She coughed once, failed at hiding her grin. 

“So what now?” she asked. “Is this where you say I’m being inappropriate and escort me back to the buffet table?” 

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She lifted her gaze back to the skyline, face unreadable. 

“This is where I remind you,” she said, “that the draft is over. You're under contract. And I expect professionalism.” 

Paige leaned against the railing beside her, shoulder brushing close. 

“Professionalism. Got it,” she said. “But if I ever happen to flirt again—hypothetically—it’s because I respect my boss deeply.”    "You’re insufferable.”    “No, I’m just realizing I shot my shot at the one person who can cut my career short before it even starts.” 

“I’d never do that,” Azzi said, voice low and measured. “I’d let you suffer slowly.” 

“Comforting.” 

Azzi turned back to the skyline. “Are you going to keep spiraling, or are you going to enjoy your party?” 

Paige stepped closer. “That depends. You gonna keep looking like that?” 

- 

Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. April 2025.   

The soundstage echoed with flashes and instructions. Rookies moved in and out of frame, holding poses with branded balls, showing off their new gear. Purple backdrops. Gold lighting.  

A camera operator gestured for a little more chin tilt. Someone from PR handed over a sweat towel between takes. 

Azzi stood off to the side, poised near the monitors. She’d been invited by the media director to observe. Just a short check-in. No remarks. Her role, technically, didn’t require her presence. But her name carried enough weight that everyone straightened when they noticed her watching. 

She kept her expression still. 

Across the set, Paige Bueckers stepped in front of the lens. 

She wore the fresh Valkyries kit like it belonged on her. Jersey tucked. The lighting flattered her angles in ways that weren’t exactly accidental. 

Paige caught her watching. That grin showed up instantly. 

Azzi’s jaw flexed once. 

The photographer signaled for Paige to turn. She did—with a wink aimed directly across the room. 

Azzi exhaled through her nose, subtle and sharp. She didn’t react. Her arms folded tighter. Her heels shifted half a step, just enough to re-center her stance. 

The assistant next to her leaned in. “She’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Paige. 

Azzi didn’t answer. 

Because she already knew that. 

-    Azzi’s office in the Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. April 2025. 

The only light in the room came from her screen. 

Azzi sat in her high-backed chair, one hand resting lightly on her mouse, eyes fixed on a folder full of media day selects. Hundreds of images lined the display—rookies posing with basketballs, arms crossed under bright lighting, gear freshly unboxed and pressed for show. 

She clicked through them with practiced indifference. A few she flagged for approval, others she passed without a second glance. 

Then she paused. 

One frame held her attention longer than she meant to let it. 

Paige, mid-laugh, half-turned toward the camera. Jersey sharp, hair pulled back, the kind of confidence that couldn’t be coached. Something about her grin felt uncontained, a little unruly. 

Azzi didn’t notice she’d clicked back until it happened twice. She closed the folder abruptly. 

Her head throbbed faintly. Too much screen time. Too many decisions. 

The knock on the door came before she could stand. 

She turned, expecting Ines or maybe someone from security. 

Instead, the door opened to Paige Bueckers holding a brown paper bag and two bottles of water. 

“Hope you’re not the type to pull a fire alarm over Chinese takeout,” Paige said, stepping in. 

Azzi didn’t speak, but the surprise look on her face was subtle. 

“I figured you haven’t eaten. You’ve got that CEO glow. You know, the kind that screams underfed and overscheduled.” 

Paige crossed the room without waiting for permission, dropping the bag on Azzi’s coffee table. She didn’t touch anything else. 

Azzi kept her expression still. “This isn’t a locker room.” 

“Yeah, and you don’t look like someone who’s ever been in one. Still, I figured saving your life with spring rolls might earn me ten minutes of your time.” 

Azzi stood, slowly, smoothing the front of her blazer. Her heels made a sharp sound against the floor. 

Paige smiled. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“You’re assuming I accept.” 

“You didn’t kick me out yet.” Paige pulled out a takeout container, already unwrapping it. “I’ll take that as a win.” 

The smell curled through the air—ginger, garlic, roasted heat. Azzi’s stomach twisted, caught between protest and surrender. 

Azzi looked down at the takeout, lips pressed in a thin line. She wasn’t sure when she’d last eaten. Maybe a salad between meetings, maybe not even that.  

The scent rising from the bag was warm and grounding, annoyingly tempting. 

Her gaze flicked to Paige, still standing there like she belonged in her office, too casual, too confident. 

Azzi exhaled. 

“Sit,” she said, gesturing toward the couch. “You brought it. You might as well eat.” 

Paige didn’t hesitate. “You sure? I don’t want HR on my ass eating with my boss.” 

Azzi gave her a look. “You’re not charming enough to cause a scandal.” 

“I’m working on it,” Paige grinned, dropping onto the couch and unboxing the food like it was a date. “But I’ll warn you, if you fall in love over chow mein, I take zero responsibility.” 

Azzi sat beside her, a careful distance away. “I don’t fall in love.” 

Paige didn’t miss a beat. She smirked, dragging her eyes down and up again with unbothered confidence. “Then I guess I’ve got work to do.” 

The joke landed with ease, but Azzi didn’t laugh. 

It was supposed to be harmless. A flirt. But it slipped past the armor. She could feel the tension curling behind her ribs, thick and uninvited.  

Paige made everything look easy. Like Azzi wasn’t the one with something to lose. 

She reached for her chopsticks, needing something to do with her hands. 

“Eat your food, Rookie.” 

- 

Fudd Children’s Hospital, San Francisco. May 2025. 

The children’s hospital lobby gleamed under soft lighting, rebranded banners hung beside old family crests. The Fudd name was stitched into the walls, into the hospital wings named after her late grandparents, into the polished marble floor that stretched beneath Azzi’s heels.  

She stood near the welcome desk, navy suit tailored so precisely it looked like it had been sewn onto her frame that morning.  

Cameras clicked in slow rhythm around her, the press orbiting politely but closely, waiting for her to smile. She hadn’t yet. 

A rustle of laughter echoed from the end of the hall. 

Paige stood near the arts table, crouched beside a boy holding up a finger-painted Valkyries logo. The hem of her untucked white button-up brushed the waistband of her pants. The sleeves were rolled like she'd helped clean up glue moments ago, and she had paint on her wrist. 

She looked up, grinning. 

“Hello there Ms. Fudd,” Paige greeted, her voice warm and low. 

Azzi’s eyes flicked to the cameras, then back to her. “You’re early.” 

“I’m punctual for anything that involves finger paints and royalty,” Paige said, straightening. 

Azzi lifted one brow. “Try not to stain the walls.” 

Paige took a few steps forward, eyes skimming the curve of Azzi’s collar. “Can’t promise anything. I get distracted when boss ladies wear navy like it’s a weapon.” 

The photographer waved them together for a photo. Paige didn’t wait for approval. She stepped beside her, shoulder brushing lightly, too casual for strangers. 

“Smile like you like me,” Paige whispered. 

Azzi’s gaze stayed ahead, lips curving just enough for the cameras. “I’m tolerating you. There’s a difference.” 

Click. 

Paige leaned a little closer, whispering under her breath. “You’re so hot when you lie.” 

Azzi inhaled once, sharp and shallow, then stepped away just as the camera lowered. Her expression didn’t change, but Paige caught the way her fingers flexed. 

A nurse gestured toward the playroom.  

They were meant to make an appearance, wave at families, let the city see the Valkyries care. 

Paige followed her in. She didn’t have to. No one was giving orders. She simply kept step like she had always belonged at her side. 

Azzi spared her a glance. “Your shirt is uneven.” 

Paige tugged it lower. “Didn’t think you’d be checking.” 

“You are in public,” Azzi said. 

Paige smirked. “You keep telling yourself that’s the only reason.” 

Azzi turned toward the doorway, jaw set.    This was madness disguised as Paige Bueckers. 

-    Paige’s apartment, Oakland. April 2025.  

By morning, the photo had already made the rounds. 

It wasn’t just in the press release from Fudd Children’s Hospital or the feature write-ups from local outlets. It had flooded social media—reshared by fans, picked up by sports accounts, and quietly passed around in group chats.  

A cropped version had even gone viral: Paige Bueckers mid-laugh, a kid’s drawing in one hand, Azzi Fudd beside her in navy silk, profile half-turned, expression unreadable. They weren’t even looking at each other. But somehow, the space between them did all the work. 

The top comment under one repost: 

“Whatever they’re cooking, I’m ordering seconds.” 

Another: 

“This energy is insane. WHO is writing this script?” 

Screenshots scattered across platforms.  

Someone dubbed them PR soulmates. 

Another edited hearts in the background.  

A few fan edits turned up on TikTok, complete with slow zooms and love songs that felt entirely too on the nose. 

Paige watched the storm unfold from her hotel bed, barefoot and still in yesterday’s sweats.  

One photo in particular had her attention.  

It was taken just as she leaned in to whisper something to Azzi during a painting demo. Her smile was cocky. Azzi’s jaw was sharp. Their elbows brushed. 

Paige cropped it and opened Instagram. 

She hovered for a moment, then dropped it in Azzi’s DMs. 

Tell me this doesn’t look like a power couple soft-launch. 

She hit send. 

Then, just below it: 

We might need a joint statement... or dinner. 

Seen. 

- 

Embassy Suites, South Bend. May 2025. 

The hotel room lights were dimmed low, just the soft glow of the city pushing through the window. Paige sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, sneakers already laced. Her jersey hung over the back of the chair. She hadn’t touched it yet. 

On the nightstand, her phone buzzed. 

She answered without looking. “Yo.” 

KK’s voice came through, smooth and familiar. “You ready?” 

Paige leaned back against the headboard, exhaling. “I think so.” 

“You sound like you’re about to walk into a deposition.” 

“I’m excited,” Paige said, then paused. “But I’m also nervous. Like, weirdly nervous.” 

“Weirdly? Girl, it’s preseason. You’ve played in front of ten thousand before.” 

“Yeah, but this is different.” Paige rolled her head toward the window. “First pro game. Whole new league. I don’t want to mess it up.” 

“You won’t,” KK said. “You’ve been ready. You’re overthinking again.” 

“Of course I’m overthinking. My name’s on the damn posters.” 

“You’re nervous because you care,” KK added. “That’s good. But you’re not out there to prove anything. You’re there to do what you always do.” 

Paige closed her eyes for a moment, letting the words settle. Her fingers stilled.  

“Okay, but if I airball the first shot, I’m blaming you personally.” 

KK smirked. “Fair. But only if you give me credit when you drop 30.” 

Paige laughed, the nerves loosening just enough.  

She tilted the phone slightly and looked at herself in the reflection. Her hair still needed fixing.  

Then KK’s voice dropped a little, playful. “How’s Dallas treating you off court?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Y'know exactly what it means. New city. New fans. New girls.” 

Paige smirked. “You think I’ve got time to be out here running game?” 

“I think you can’t help yourself.” 

Paige sighed into the speaker, one arm flung over her face. Her thoughts weren’t exactly empty on that subject.  

They kept circling back to someone. Someone with a navy pantsuit, a careful smile, and a way of standing still like the room moved around her. 

“Been busy,” Paige said finally. 

KK narrowed her eyes. “Busy, huh. Like, weight room busy or someone’s-bed busy?” 

“I’ve been behaving.” 

KK blinked. “Okay. Who is she?” 

“What?” 

“You’re dodging. You never dodge unless someone’s got you in your feelings. Spill.” 

Paige sat up, ran both hands through her hair, and stared out at the window. 

“I don’t know yet,” she muttered. 

KK’s voice softened. “So it’s real?” 

The corner of Paige’s mouth curved like she wasn’t ready to talk about it. Like she wanted to hold it a little longer before letting the world in.    -    Joyce Center, Notre Dame. May 2025.    The media room pulsed with camera clicks and artificial light. Paige sat at the table in front of the Valkyries backdrop, arms folded loose, hair slicked back, warmup jacket unzipped just enough to make her look like she belonged here without trying.   

Her first preseason game was hours away, but the press was already circling, eager.  

A reporter leaned in. “New city, new start. What’s keeping you balanced outside basketball?”  

Paige let out a breath through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Early morning lifts. Film. The usual chaos. Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I flirt with the idea of sleep.”  

Laughter rumbled across the room.  

Another voice cut in. “Anyone special helping you adjust to San Francisco?”  

The grin hit her face before she could stop it.  

“Define special,” she said, chin tilted.  

Flashes popped.   

Lisa Leslie shifted behind the cameras, her posture like a warning shot.  

Paige leaned closer to the mic. “There’s been generous hospitality,” she added, dragging the word just long enough to draw raised brows.  

“You mean the management?” someone clarified.  

She held their gaze, eyes flashing like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Let’s just say I’ve had a very warm welcome.”  

Beside her, Kiki nudged her under the table.  

“Next question,” the moderator called, barely hiding the urgency.  

Paige sat back, smile lingering. In the back of her mind, something electric buzzed. 

- 

Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. May 2025.       The Valkyries’ scrimmage ran long. The echo of sneakers and the thud of the ball filled the private gym like heartbeat and breath, fast and relentless.  

Coaches shouted from the sidelines, staff scribbled on tablets, but none of it reached the upper level where Azzi stood—hidden behind the tinted glass of the executive viewing box. She hadn’t announced her arrival. She rarely did. 

She watched. 

The team moved with precision and chaos in equal parts. Paige was in the middle of it all, white jersey clinging to her shoulder blades, hair damp with sweat, jaw set like she was hunting something just out of reach.  

Azzi’s gaze lingered there longer than she intended. The staff beside her said nothing. They knew better than to ask why she came. 

When practice ended, Paige disappeared into the lockers with the rest of the team. Azzi turned and left without a word. 

Downstairs, the hallway outside the locker room was cooler, washed in soft overhead lights.  

Paige stepped out still in her compression shirt and shorts, towel slung around her neck. Her face lifted when she saw Azzi leaning against the far wall, a bottle of water already waiting in one hand like she had been standing there for hours. 

“Well, damn,” Paige said with a grin. “Did I just hallucinate the boss lady in the wild?” 

Azzi offered the bottle without comment. Paige took it, brushing her fingers lightly against Azzi’s. 

“I knew I felt judged mid-practice,” Paige added, twisting the cap. “You were up there watching, weren’t you?” 

Azzi ignored her question. 

“When was the last time you actually slept?” 

The question knocked the air out of Paige’s rhythm. She paused mid-sip, water hanging between her lips and a half-formed thought. Her eyes flicked toward Azzi, searching her face for any sign of humor. 

She didn’t find any. 

“I mean… I sleep,” Paige said finally, voice caught somewhere between honesty and deflection. “Just maybe not the doctor-recommended kind.” 

Azzi said nothing. Her gaze didn’t waver.  

Paige scratched at the back of her neck. 

“That your way of asking if I’m okay?” she added, trying for a smirk. “Coz that’s kinda hot.” 

“What happened to being professional?”    Paige scoffed, crumpling the empty water bottle in her hand. “Oh, come on! You’re the one who showed up like a ghost and waited outside with hydration. That’s at least a little unprofessional.” 

Azzi’s brow lifted. Paige leaned in slightly, grin blooming. 

“You ambushed me with emotional support,” she said. “Feels kinda against team policy.” 

“This is just payback,” she explained, eyes on Paige. “You brought me takeout. I brought you water. We’re even.” 

Paige leaned against the wall, smirk already forming. “If we’re evening the score, I’d prefer my payback come in the form of dinner.” 

Something flickered behind Azzi's expression, too quick to read.     “That’s definitely not the meaning of staying professional.” 

She didn’t wait for Paige’s comeback. The look she gave was unreadable, somewhere between restraint and calculation, before she turned and walked away without another word. 

Paige stayed where she was, lips parted, the smirk tugging slower this time. 

- 

Pan Pacific, London. May 2025.    The rain traced slow patterns down the tall windows of her hotel suite, London cast in a dim silver light beneath her.   

Azzi stood with a hand braced on the glass, her reflection barely visible against the skyline. She had been reviewing acquisition notes for Fudd Holdings all afternoon for a British client, her inbox stacked with flagged threads and negotiations waiting on her word.  

The television droned in the background, still on from when she'd asked for local news.  

A sports segment rolled in unexpectedly, the Valkyries logo blinking to life across the screen. 

Azzi didn’t turn around right away.  

It was Paige’s voice that made her look.  

Interview lighting flattered her poorly. Paige sat on the press bench in her team gear, eyes rimmed in fatigue, answering questions about the upcoming pre-season matchup against the Atlanta Dream.   

She made a joke about guarding Brittney Griner that earned a few laughs, but it came too late to hide the way her shoulders drooped. Her voice cracked halfway through a sentence. 

Azzi narrowed her eyes.  

There was something dull beneath her usual brightness. The spark remained, but it flickered. That kind of wear didn’t happen in one night.  

She turned from the window and walked to the armchair, remote slipping from her hand to the cushion beside her.  

She opened her phone and navigated to Instagram on muscle memory.  

The screen loaded her DMs.  

They were all still there.  

Paige had sent a handful over the last week. One had just been a picture of her new team shoes, captioned with a “look who’s finally sponsored.”   

Another was a short clip of Azzi at the hospital event, caught in the background of a reel Paige reposted with a fire emoji.  

Azzi had left every message unread.  

Until now.  

She tapped into the last one, then switched to the interview clip. A beat passed.  

Then she typed.  

Your interview hijacked my news feed. You look like you’ve been fighting sleep for a week. Do yourself a favor and sleep.  

She stared at it, thumb hovering. Then hit send.  

It delivered instantly.  

Three seconds later, a red heart appeared.  

Then a reply.  

Yes ma’am. 🫡 Can I get a Good Night tho?   

Azzi though about it. 

Why not? She thought Paige deserved it. If it makes her sleep better. 

Good night, Rookie. 

- 

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. May 2025.    Paige lay sprawled on her couch, limbs heavy from the beating her body took the night before. Her muscles throbbed in slow pulses, each one a reminder that preseason didn’t mean easy.  

The Dallas Wings had played like they wanted her out by the first quarter. Double teams from tip-off, arms in her face before she could call a screen.  

The bruises were already blooming along her ribs, but the worst of it was the exhaustion crawling under her skin. 

Still, a win was a win. 

The best part? No flights.  

They’d played at Chase. Home court. All she had to do was limp to her car and drive fifteen minutes to her apartment and collapse. 

She hadn’t bothered changing. Her hoodie still smelled like Gatorade and sweat, and the ice pack on her ankle had long since turned lukewarm.  

She kept flipping the same channel, brain too fried to care what was on. Restless. Bored. 

Her phone buzzed once on the coffee table. 

Then again. 

She grabbed it, thumb sliding over the screen without much thought. 

Arike. 

Buckets! We hitting the club tonight. Last night in the bay. Come on, rook. 

Sorry bout the block btw. Welcome to the W, I guess. 

Paige blinked down at the message. The attached photo was a screen grab of her getting stuffed at the rim, face twisted midair.  

She groaned and let her head fall back against the cushion. 

Her body wanted bed. 

But her ego? 

Might’ve needed tequila. 

Ur buying the first round. U owe me emotional damages. 

Sent. 

-  The Grand Night Club, San Francisco. May 2025.

The bass throbbed through Paige’s chest as she sank further into the velvet booth, the air humid with sweat, perfume, and late-night tension.  

Her body still ached from the game. Muscles sore beneath her oversized white button-down. She hadn’t meant to stay long, but now she wasn’t sure she’d leave at all. 

That was before she saw her. 

She stood across the room, framed in low red lighting like a challenge waiting to be accepted. Her hair was pulled back, sleek and deliberate. Her skin glowed where the shadows kissed it, like something sculpted and soft.  

She didn’t need to dance. Her stillness did more damage than movement ever could. A drink swirled in her hand, untouched. Her expression said she could resurrect someone to life for the sport of it. 

Paige was already moving. 

She leaned on the bar beside her, just close enough that their arms brushed. 

“You keep looking like that and someone’s gonna get ideas.” 

She turned toward Paige with a slow drag of her gaze, the kind of look that felt like fingers pressed beneath fabric. Her lipstick clung to the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable, but her body didn’t shift away.  

She stayed exactly where she was—poised, languid, dangerous. 

“Is that your opener?” 

Paige’s grin sharpened. “Just me being polite. I could’ve started with what I’m actually thinking.” 

Their proximity hummed. A throb under the music. The air between them buzzed with something more than curiosity. 

“Mm,” the girl said, tone velvet and teeth. She sipped again, throat bare in the dim club light. “I’m guessing it’s less polite.” 

“Downright indecent,” Paige said, her voice dropping as she leaned in. Her fingers brushed the girl’s glass. “But only if you ask nicely.” 

The girl’s eyes just traced Paige’s mouth, slow and careful, as if she’d already imagined it somewhere else. 

“I don’t beg,” she said. 

Paige bit back a groan and smiled like a dare. “Good. I’m more into mutual destruction anyway.” 

A pause. A shift. The girl’s lip caught between her teeth, then released. 

Turning just enough to let her shoulder graze Paige’s chest. “Do you think you'll survive the night?” 

Paige’s hand circled the girl’s wrist, her grip easy but certain, pulling her through the pulse of the bar. The crowd parted just enough to let them disappear into the darker corner near the back. Music thudded low around them, bass heavy, the kind of rhythm meant to blur lines and judgment. 

She backed the girl against the wall with a slow step in. Their bodies barely touched, breath caught in the narrowing space. Paige’s mouth hovered by her ear, warm and deliberate. 

“Relax,” she murmured. “It’s only a warm-up.” 

The girl let out a quiet sound—half laugh, half dare—and then moved.  

She pushed Paige back with a steady hand, flipping the script with practiced ease. Her palm settled against Paige’s chest, pinning her. Confident, unhurried. She leaned in, pressing a kiss below Paige’s jaw, then another along the line of her neck. 

Paige groaned softly, one hand gripping the girl’s waist, the other curling around her wrist. 

The kiss deepened—messy, greedy. She let her body surrender to the rhythm of it, to the alcohol, to the thrill of teeth scraping lips and breath shared through parted mouths. 

Then the girl dipped lower, lips finding the angle beneath her jaw. Heat bloomed there as her tongue traced along the vein. Paige exhaled, head tipping back against the wall, eyelids fluttering half shut. 

And when they opened— 

Everything stalled. 

Straight through the chaos, through the crowd and the girl, cold eyes locked with hers. 

It felt like being snapped into focus. Paige’s chest tightened. The hands on her waist suddenly felt wrong. The lips at her neck too distant. 

Across the room, untouched by the haze and heat, Azzi stood.  

Watching.

[blasphemyandbackshots]

the room reeked of sweat and sex. curtains drawn, clothes abandoned, and shigaraki deep inside you, pounding away like his life depended on it.

your cheek was pressed to the mattress, ass up, legs trembling as he drilled into you from behind with a reckless, panting rhythm. each slap of his hips echoed sharp through the room, his fingers locked tight on your hips. red marks already blooming beneath his grip.

“f-fuck,” he gasped, cracking, “so—so tight—fuck, you’re perfect—”

his pace stuttered for a second. then got worse. rougher and sloppier.

“can’t—can’t stop,” he whimpered, fucking you harder, dragging his nails down your back like a starving man. “can’t get enough of you—i can’t—shit—you’re gonna break me—”

you cried out when he slammed in deep, grinding his cock against your cervix while leaning over your back, teeth scraping your shoulder.

“i need this,” he whispered, desperate. “need you like this. bent over for me—fuckin’—mine. you hear me?”

you moaned something that might’ve been “yes,” but shigaraki didn’t wait for answers. he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled, making you arch tighter, open wider for him.

“you take it so good,” he growled, licking sweat off your neck. “greedy fuckin’ hole—fuck—i’m losing my mind—”

and oh, he was. his rhythm went erratic. his hips jerking, thighs trembling, voice breaking into little high, wrecked whimpers.

“gonna cum—can i—fuck—can i cum inside? please—please—let me fill you—need to feel you drip—”

and you just moaned, backing into him like you needed it too. that’s all it took as he snapped. with a snarl and a cracked moan of your name, shigaraki buried himself to the hilt and came, cock twitching, spilling deep inside you as his whole body shuddered.

but he didn’t stop. he kept moving inside you deep and slow. still panting, still whimpering, still hungry.

“i can go again,” he whispered, cock still hard inside you. “gonna ruin this pussy. gonna stay right here. stuff you full all night.”

and you? you let him.

[rafesteddy]

𝓣𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓦𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓓𝓻𝓲𝓿𝓮…

694 words

𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓯𝓯 | rafe teaches his daughter to drive.

This doesn't need to be read with the rest of the AU. Max, who is mentioned, is her older brother.

for @zyafics and her #zyafixs-mrgacampaign 🌈

c/w: none

You brace yourself as the car bucks forward again—jolting like a carnival ride gone wrong—then immediately cuts out.

The engine sputters into silence. And the silence that follows is all too loud.

Winnie lets out a groan, her grip on the wheel gets harder, fingers digging in. She doesn’t look over, doesn’t say a word. Just sits there, stiff under the seatbelt, like if she moves even a little she might lose it.

From where you’re sitting, it’s plain as day—she’s not just pissed. She’s on the edge. You can see it in her jaw, the way her eyes flick but don’t settle, like she’s trying real hard not to cry in front of you. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

Her eyes flash up to the rearview mirror and land on you. Her voice is sharp. “Are you done?”

It stings, but not as much as the hurt you hear tucked behind the bite. You raise your hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean—I just. Baby, you’re doing great.”

Rafe’s voice cuts in, warm and steady. “Hey.” He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t even raise his voice. Rafe reaches one hand over to steady the steering wheel, the other coming to rest gently on Winnie’s shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”

She does; chest rising fast, eyes glossy.

“You’re not breathing,” he murmurs. “Take a breath, sweetheart.”

He inhales, deep and even, and waits until she does too, reluctantly, but she does. You see her jaw unclench a little.

“You’re not supposed to get it right today,” he tells her, voice like gravel softened with concern. “You’ve never done this before, nobody expects you to be perfect.”

“I do,” she mutters, but it comes out smaller than before. “This is so stupid. Tali didn’t have to learn stick. Why do I?”

Rafe leans back enough to look at her more fully, but keeps his hand where it is.

“Max learned… You’ll learn. I want you to know how to drive everything. Not just the easy shit. I want you to be able to get out of anywhere, any car, any situation.”

Winnie scoffs, but it’s half-hearted. “What kind of ‘situation’ am I gonna be in where I’m randomly stuck with a manual?”

“The kind where someone’s givin’ you a ride you shouldn’t take,” he says, calm but firm. “The kind where the only way out has three pedals and a stick shift.”

She goes quiet, letting that sink in.

“I’m not teaching you this because I think you’re reckless,” he says after a beat. “Or weak. Or not smart enough to be safe on your own.”

His thumb traces a slow, grounding line across her shoulder.

“I’m teachin’ you because I know how strong you are. Because you’re ours; the most important thing we’ve got. And because I’ve seen what the world can do to girls who don’t know how to leave fast when it matters.”

You glance at her from the backseat, and she’s chewing on her cheek now, blinking hard. “I just wanted to be good at it,” she mumbles.

“You will be,” Rafe says, with zero hesitation. “You already are. You just don’t see it yet.”

“Mhmm…” She hums.

“Though you did stall out like four times already, so maybe we save NASCAR tryouts for next summer.”

Winnie rolls her eyes. “Hilarious.”

“You laughed,” he points out, smug.

“I smirked. That’s not the same.”

“You got this, alright. We’ve got nothin’ but time, Win,” he says, quieter now.

You watch the tension start to fade from her shoulders as she turns the key again.

The car hums to life. She shifts into first, slower this time; carefully. And this time, it doesn’t jerk. She eases forward—just a little—but it’s progress. And you feel it. You all do.

Rafe’s lips twitch into a smile. He’s proud, and not hiding it. Winnie doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t say anything. Just keeps driving; one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift, grit in her teeth, and pride in her eyes too.

You don’t know if she’s looking at the road or at Rafe through the corner of her eye, maybe both. But she drives.

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rcameronlova1 | @zyafics

[littlelamy]

finger sucking w Rafe… any version or whatever, I need it plzzz

after spending the entire day together, you still couldn't get enough of him. you were laying on top of him with your plush thighs slung over his solid hips. you even had on one of his old polo shirts, stretched tight across your chest, with a loose neckline that threatened to let something slip out. yet, rafe didn’t say a word—didn’t have to. his hand kept creeping closer to you anyway.

you were tracing nothing in particular across his restful shoulder blade when he suddenly caught your wrist, mid-air, almost like it was muscle memory. he brought your hand to his mouth, eyes half-closed.

your eyes didn't leave the tv when you ask, “what’re you doing?”

he hummed, lips already wrapped around your index finger, tongue flicking along the pad of it. his eyes opened a little more, but he didn’t pull away.

“dunno,” he mumbled, mouth still full of your finger. “feels good.”

your breath caught a little, “that’s not how fingers usually get kissed, baby.”

he sucked slowly, letting your finger slide past his lips, then back out again with a soft, wet pop. “you complaining?”

you felt your face flush, “noo…”

he grinned around your hand, then took your middle finger between his lips next, sucking it in to the knuckle. his tongue moved in slow little circles, like he was tasting you.

“you’re gonna make me squirm,” you whispered.

“good,” he murmured, releasing that one and pulling your ring finger into his mouth. “i love seeing it—you squirm so pretty.”

you wiggled on top of him instantly, your thigh pressing harder into his lap. you could feel the way he was already half-hard from just your fingers in his mouth.

“this is kinda dirty,” you say letting out a breathy moan.

he nodded, sucking softly on your pinky now. “yeah.”

“but not, like…too too dirty.”

“nah,” he agreed, pulling your hand away just enough to kiss your palm. “just hot.”

"God, rafe," you laughed, a little flustered. “you’re such a freak. getting hard from sucking my fingers.”

“hmm,” he shrugs, brushing your hair off your face. “you make that face every time i do something a little nasty.”

“it’s not nasty. just..new.”

with your legs still intertwined with his, he rolled you onto your back and held your hand up between your bodies. after rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, his mouth returned, sucking your pointer deeper this time while maintaining eye contact with you.

you gasped, hips shifting. “rafe…”

“yeah, pretty girl?”

“you’re really good at that.”

he popped your finger out of his mouth with a grin. “i know i am.”

“cocky.”

“confident,” he corrected, kissing the inside of your wrist.

you touched his jaw with your free hand, nails brushing the edge of his scruff. “do you think about stuff like this when i’m not around?”

his eyes flicked up. “like what?”

“sucking my fingers.”

he smirked, “i think about sucking on your mouth, tits, that heaven sent body. now that i think about it, i think about the way you taste after a shower, or after i cum in you, even when your thighs shake when i do that thing with my tongue.”

you made a high, flustered sound and smacked his shoulder with your unsucked hand. “rafe!”

he laughed and kissed your fingers again. “and yes..i think about this too.”

you bit your lip, rolling onto your side to face him fully. “can i try yours?”

he raised a brow, “my fingers?”

"mmh," you nodded. “yeah.”

he offered his hand, fingers spread, and you decided to pick the middle one, pulling it into your mouth gently. you mirrored what he did to you—tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, sucking him the same way you take his cock.

he swore under his breath, “oh, baby.”

“see?” you said, releasing him. “kiiiinda hot.”

he was silent for a moment, simply staring at you. then, as if he wanted to feel his own skin on your tongue once more, he leaned in and kissed you passionately. “everything you do is hot,” he said against your mouth. “but this, baby…”

you kissed him back, slower this time, curling your now spit-shiny fingers into his hair. “i like this,” you said.

“me too, baby,” he nodded, “me too.”

[luvelola]

simon riley x reader (written with black!reader in mind but has no mention of race or “y/n”.)

masterlist !

this was supposed to only be about dry humping but i got a little carried away…

cw: MINORS DNI!!, porn no plot, dry humping, oral (f and m receiving), breast play, mirror fingering, squirting, overstimulation, simon being vocal, and me trying to write in his accent and failing. this is the filthiest thing i’ve written

it starts with you in his lap.

soft light creeping through the window, your thighs on either side of his waist, his back leaned into the couch. your skin’s warm from sleep, shirt thin and riding up as you move against him. your shorts barely cover anything. his sweats are thick but not thick enough.

he’s already hard beneath you.

“hell,” he mutters, his voice low, groggy, still gritty with sleep. “sat on me for what, two minutes? already got me bricked up…”

you grin, shifting your hips deliberately. he groans. it’s deep—a guttural sound from somewhere in his chest—and his hands fly to your waist, squeezing like he’s trying not to lose it.

“you’re such a tease, sweetheart.”

“am i?” you whisper, rolling your hips again, slower now, dragging your soaked panties over the shape of him through both your clothes.

he grunts, then ducks down to your chest—mouth catching the hem of your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts. they spill out naturally, warm and heavy, nipples already tight. the second they’re exposed, his mouth is on you—licking over one, then sucking deep, lips sealing around your nipple while his tongue circles.

you moan softly, arching your back, grinding harder as he sucks harder—wet sounds echoing in the quiet room.

“god, simon…”

“yeah?” he pants, switching sides, mouth slick against your skin. “you like that? these fuckin’ tits… you know how crazy they drive me, don’t you?”

you can’t answer. not with the way he starts bucking up beneath you, cock dragging deliciously over your clit through all that fabric.

you’re both panting now.

he licks your nipple again—then bites gently, just enough to make your thighs tremble. his hands slide behind you, under the cotton of your shorts, grabbing your ass and pulling you forward.

you let out a soft cry as your clit presses perfectly against the ridge of his cock.

“fuckin’ hell,” he growls. “grind on it. go on, love—get yourself off.”

you obey. roll your hips hard. again. again.

and that’s when it gets filthy.

wetness spreads fast between your thighs. the fabric of your panties is ruined. your shorts are drenched. you can feel the shape of his cock, stiff and twitching, the head dragging exactly where you need it.

he’s not helping. just watching. panting. fingers bruising into your hips.

“jesus christ,” he hisses, voice shaking. “you’re so wet it’s soakin’ through… i can feel it, sweetheart…”

your moans turn breathy. frantic. legs shaking as you bounce, faster now, grinding your clit into the shape of him over and over and over until—

you fall apart.

you shake as you come, crying out against his mouth, your thighs clamped tight around his waist. your whole body jerks as you rut against him, humping like you’re possessed, still chasing every last ounce of it.

“oh—fuck—fuck, simon—!”

he grabs your tits again, both hands now, kneading them hard while he ruts up into you—

and then he’s gone.

he chokes, hips jerking beneath you. “shit, love—i’m comin’—fuckin’ comin’ in my fuckin’ pants—”

his head tips back. a raw moan tears from his throat as he ruts up once, twice, cock twitching, cum spilling in thick, hot pulses into his boxers.

you both sag.

soaked. clothes ruined. sweat clinging to your skin.

and then, after a beat—he leans forward, mouth back on your tits.

still licking. still sucking. like he never wants to stop.

“not done with you,” he mutters, breathless. “need to taste it.” and he carries you upstairs.

literally. carries—one arm under your thighs, the other behind your back.

when he sets you down, on the bed, directly in front of the mirror.

he sits behind you on the edge of the bed, legs spread. you’re between them, back against his chest, thighs parted. his arms curl around your waist. one hand moves under your shirt, squeezing gently. the other dips lower.

you lock eyes with your own reflection.

“look at yourself,” he says, voice rough in your ear as he moves lower to kiss behind your ear. “look how needy you are…”

you squirm when his hand moves higher up your shirt.

“so sensitive,” he murmurs, licking just below your ear. “clit’s probably still twitchin’. s’not enough, is it? want more?”

you nod. breathless. already aching.

his hand slips beneath your ruined shorts.

two fingers slide between your folds. hot. slick. soaking. you cry out when he rubs over your clit—slow at first, then with tight circles, steady pressure, drawing it all back up.

his other hand doesn’t leave your chest. not once.

he cups you. rolls your nipple between his fingers. pinches until you arch. his mouth finds your neck again, then your shoulder, and you can feel the heat in your belly building.

then—

he sinks two fingers inside and you clench, hard.

“oh god—oh god, simon—”

“yeah. fuckin’ perfect,” he groans, fingers thrusting deep, curling just right. “so fuckin’ tight. y’already came and you’re still pullin’ me in…”

he watches in the mirror. watches your face, your mouth, bouncing every time his hand moves. watches your legs start to tremble when he adds his thumb to your clit, circling fast now, faster, wetter.

your thighs start to twitch.

“you gonna make a mess for me, sweetheart?” he whispers, fingers pumping harder. “gonna soak my fuckin’ hand? come on. let go. let me have it…”

you break.

your back arches. mouth drops open. your whole body tenses, then jerks—

and then there’s wet heat gushing over his fingers.

your thighs clamp shut. slick drips down to the sheets. you’re still coming, still pulsing, and he just keeps going, fingering you through it, praising you the whole way.

and he whispers, voice reverent. “look at you. such a messy girl. did so good for me…”

you collapse against him.

shaking. gasping. soaked from breast to thigh. he wraps his arms around you, mouth still against your shoulder, fingers stroking gently between your legs as you try to catch your breath.

your legs are still trembling when you turn over your shoulder to lay simon down on the bed.

“…your turn.”

he shakes his head, breathless. “don’t need it, love.”

you smile slow.

“i know. but i want to.”

he hesitates—giving you the chance to straddle his thighs, fingers curling into the sheets.

“fuck’s sake…”

you reach for the waistband of his boxers, which are still wet from earlier. you peel them down slowly, watching as his cock springs free—thick, flushed, still half-hard but twitching at the sight of you.

“already came once in these,” you murmur, dragging your fingers along the base. “gonna come in my mouth now, baby?”

he lets out a choked laugh. “bloody hell, woman…”

you take your time.

you always do with him.

you stroke him first, slow and slick, your palm dragging over the wet head, smearing his precum down the shaft. he’s warm in your hand—hot, even—and growing harder with each pass.

“that’s it,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss his hip. “let me take care of you.”

“sweetheart…”

you kiss his tip.

then flatten your tongue and drag it up the length of him—slow, steady, from base to crown.

his whole body jerks.

“ah—shit—”

you wrap your lips around the head and suck softly, flicking your tongue against the underside, right where you know it makes him twitch. your hand pumps slow at the base, matching the rhythm of your mouth. you look up, meeting his eyes.

he’s already gone.

eyes half-lidded. lips parted. hands fisting in the sheets.

he groans. “mouth’s gonna kill me…”

you hum around him—just enough vibration to make his hips jump.

then you go deeper.

slowly. inch by inch, letting him feel the heat, the wetness, of your mouth swallowing him whole.

he groans. loud. raw.

you hollow your cheeks. bob gently, eyes locked to his, tongue swirling every time you pull back, then taking him down again—wet and hungry.

your hand moves faster.

your other hand lifts to his chest, then drags down to his hip, nails scraping gently along his skin. his thighs twitch. he lifts one hand to your head, not pushing, just gripping your curls while he pants through clenched teeth.

“you’re gonna make me come, love,” he mutters. “you want that? want me spillin’ down your fuckin’ throat?”

you moan again around him.

his grip tightens.

you pull off for just a moment, letting your lips rest against the tip, still stroking him, watching his face twist up with need.

“you taste so good, simon,” you murmur, kissing the tip, “so thick in my mouth…”

his head falls back with a groan.

“jesus christ.”

you go back down.

this time faster, wetter, spit dripping down your chin as you look up at him through your lashes.

“shit—look at you,” he groans. “takin’ me so good, love…”

you can tell he’s close.

his legs are tensing. his breath is stuttering. he starts to buck—slow, shallow thrusts of his hips into your mouth like he can’t help it.

you hold him steady with one hand, working the base, and suck harder.

“fuck—fuck—gonna come—“

his voice cracks.

and then it happens.

he grabs the back of your head with both hands, hips jerking up, cock twitching hard in your mouth as he spills down your throat in thick, pulsing ropes of come. you moan as you swallow, taking every drop, letting your lips stay wrapped tight around the head until he finally gasps:

“baby… enough, shit—i’ll lose my mind—”

you pull back, slow, licking your lips.

his chest is heaving. eyes glassy. one hand over his face, the other blindly reaching for you.

you climb back up to straddle his waist, kissing his chest, your slick thighs pressed to his hips.

he lowers his hand. looks at you.

smiles.

you lean down and kiss him. open-mouthed. slow, until you feel him so limp against your lips. by the time you look at him his eyes are closed and his already snoring.

a/n: mind you, i was listening to laufey while writing this, im not sane.

©luvelola. do not plagiarize or repost any of my work as your own.

[verricherri]

Diet Pepsi (NSFW///MDNI)

A/N: as promised for 150 followers — MAMA I’M DRAGGING Y’ALL TO HELL 🔥 SKRT SKRT WE GOIN STRAIGHT TO HELL TOGETHER no brakes. no regrets. Warnings: STRAIGHT. SIN - bonus points if you catch the references Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The movie was over, but neither of you moved.

Old western credits rolled on the screen in black and white, flickering like ghosts. Static buzzed low from the truck radio, half-tuned to a country station. The night air was thick with July heat and leftover popcorn grease. You sat cross-legged in the truck bed, your back resting against the cab, eyes on the stars. Rhett sat beside you, arms resting on his knees, hat pulled low, profile carved by moonlight.

You tossed a popcorn kernel at his boot. Missed.

“Don’t go broody on me now,” you murmured. “That movie wasn’t that sad.”

Rhett didn’t answer at first. Just exhaled slow through his nose, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the horizon like something out there owed him an apology.

“You always get like this after a long week,” you said softer. He didn’t look at you. Just grunted. “And how’s that?” “Quiet. Feral. Like a wolf tryna behave.”

That earned the tiniest smirk. He didn’t argue. Which meant you were right.

You shifted a little closer, knees brushing. “What happened?” He was silent for a second. Then: “Bull bucked harder than expected. Tractor fan belt snapped. Amy’s teacher called. And Royal’s been ridin’ my ass ‘cause Perry won’t show up on time.” You blinked. “Damn. Want me to fight someone for you?” Another smirk. “No need. I can handle it.” “Sure you can.” You leaned in, bumped your shoulder into his. “But still. That’s a hell of a week.” “Hell of a life.”

That made you pause.

The cicadas buzzed louder for a moment. The distant sounds of other cars pulling away from the lot faded into the background, like the whole world was slowing down around just the two of you.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked quietly. His hat tipped back a little, just enough for moonlight to catch the edge of his jaw. “Every damn day.” And then, after a breath: “But I never do.”

That settled heavy in your chest. Like you’d both admitted something neither of you had the guts to say out loud until now.

You dropped your head to his shoulder for a second. Just a beat.

He didn’t flinch. Just let you rest there, warm and still, the silence between you saying more than anything else.

Eventually, when the screen went black and the static started to sputter, you yawned and stretched. “Come on, cowboy. Let’s get outta here.”

He followed wordlessly, helping you down from the truck bed like you might break. His hand lingered at your waist a little longer than it needed to.

When you finally climbed back into the cab, the bench seat groaned beneath you. You grabbed your half-melted Pepsi from the cupholder, straw bent from chewing. Rhett stayed outside a moment longer, tossing the empty snack tray into a rusted barrel. Then the driver’s door creaked open and he slid in beside you, the cab immediately shrinking with his presence.

He looked tired. More than tired. Like the whole week had sat on his shoulders and wouldn’t get off.

“Long day?” you asked, sipping the soda. He grunted. “Long year.”

The soda hissed as you sucked at the bottom. Loud. Obnoxious. You didn’t mean it to be.

But then Rhett looked at you — and there it was.

That flash of something behind his eyes. Hunger. Regret. Need. Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

“You keep suckin’ on that straw like that…”

His voice was low, scratchy, like gravel and smoke.

“…I’m not gonna make it to touchin’ you proper.”

You blinked. Feigned innocence. Sipped again, lips wrapping slow around the plastic.

“It’s just soda, cowboy.”

His jaw flexed. His knuckles turned white on the wheel.

You kept sipping.

And he kept watching.

That silence stretched — not awkward, not stiff, just charged. Like a wire pulled too tight. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, eyes dropping to where your fingers toyed with the straw.

“You know what you’re doin’?” he asked. “What am I doin’, Rhett?” “Pushin’ your luck.”

You leaned back against the door, the leather hot against your skin. One leg tucked under you, the other pressed close to the gearshift, brushing his knee every now and then. A slow smile curled your lips as you popped the lid off the cup and tipped it toward your mouth, catching a few melting cubes with your tongue.

Rhett’s breath caught.

“Jesus,” he muttered, low. “Don’t do that unless you’re ready to follow through.”

You tilted your head. Set the cup back in the holder, real slow.

“Maybe I’m not the one who needs convincing.”

That was it. The crack in his control.

He turned to face you fully — knees wide, hand braced on the back of your seat, jaw tight.

“Darlin’, I’ve had a week from hell. Every time I close my eyes, it’s your voice in my head. You walk around that ranch like you don’t know what you do to me.”

Your breath caught.

“So tell me,” you whispered. “What do I do to you?”

—

He stared. Long and hard. Then reached between you, took the Pepsi cup — and dropped it to the floorboard with a sharp thud.

“Make me forget how to be decent,” he said.

Then he kissed you.

Not soft. Not hesitant. It was teeth and tongue and a week’s worth of frustration poured into your mouth. You gasped, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer as he gripped your hip like it anchored him to earth.

“Been thinkin’ about you like this all week,” he rasped against your lips. “Your voice. Your hands. That pretty mouth wrapped around a straw and me wonderin’ what else it’d feel good on.”

Your hips rolled without thinking. His belt buckle scraped your thigh. His hand slid under your shirt.

“You wanna help me?” he asked, already breathless. “With what?” “Relievin’ the kind of tension only you ever seem to cause.”

His hands were everywhere — not rushing, but searching, like he’d been dreaming about this moment and wanted to map every inch to memory.

Your shirt rode up. His palm found bare skin. Rough fingertips skated your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You’re real,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re really here.” “I’m here, Rhett,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

He groaned — low and deep in his throat, like it physically pained him to want you this bad.

His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, thumb sweeping dangerously low, but he didn’t dive in. No — he paused, dragging his mouth across your neck instead, slow and heavy and frustrating as hell.

“You know what I thought about all week?” “Mmm?” “You. On this seat. Lookin’ at me like that. Legs open. Beggin’.”

You tugged at his belt. Impatient. Breathing shallow.

“So do something about it.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“You got me strung up, girl,” he said, voice hoarse. “Like a horse with no reins. You show up in my head when I’m fixin’ fences. When I’m shovelin’ shit. I swear to God I even got hard in the tractor last Thursday just thinkin’ about your laugh.”

You bit your lip. A shaky laugh tumbled out.

“Didn’t know I had that effect on you.” “You don’t even try,” he hissed. “That’s the worst part.”

Your hand finally got his buckle open, jeans shoved low enough to expose what he’d been aching to give you. He hissed when your palm wrapped around him — hot, thick, needy. His head thudded back against the headrest.

“Fuck, that’s good—don’t stop.”

You didn’t. But your eyes flicked to the floor.

To the Pepsi cup.

You grinned, wicked and slow.

“Still want that release, cowboy?”

He opened his eyes — wild and wrecked — and followed your gaze.

“You wouldn’t.” “Oh, I would.”

Rhett stared at you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss you harder or crawl out the window and repent.

“You gonna finish what you started,” you said, eyes glinting, “or you want me to get creative?”

He looked like he wanted to say something smart — something about how “you’re trouble,” how “this ain’t how good girls act,” — but all that came out was a rough gasp when you tightened your grip around him again.

The cab was steaming. His shirt was half-off, clinging to his back, skin flushed red all the way down to his collarbones.

And you?

You reached down to the floorboard, plucked the forgotten Pepsi cup, and turned to face him again — bold. Unbothered.

Dead serious.

“Think you can fill it?” you asked, just above a whisper. “Darlin’,” he breathed, “you keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll do it in ten seconds.”

He twitched in your palm, already close, already falling apart.

You kissed his neck. Then slid down between the seats, nestled in the tight space — eyes locked with his the whole damn time. The cup in your hand. His thighs tense on either side of you.

“Just relax,” you said sweetly. “Let me take care of it.”

And then you did.

Your hand moved in tight strokes, wrist flicking with every rise. He was already panting, head back, whispering your name like a prayer he didn’t know he believed in.

“That’s it, baby,” you coaxed. “Give it to me.”

His jaw clenched. He looked down at you, eyes glazed and desperate.

“God—fuck, you’re evil,” he choked out.

You brought the cup up just as his body seized, hips bucking forward, teeth gritted, and he came hard — into the goddamn Pepsi cup.

You held it steady. Like it was sacred.

The silence afterward was broken only by his ragged breathing and the faint slosh of melted ice.

You pulled back, glanced at the cup.

“Guess it’s not diet anymore,” you said, smirking.

He groaned. Covered his face with both hands.

“You are going to hell.” “So are you,” you said, crawling back into his lap. “Might as well ride there together.” “Jesus Christ.” “He’s not in this truck tonight, sweetheart.”

—

You were still straddling him in the driver’s seat, your thighs resting over his jeans, your cheek pressed to his damp collarbone. The air inside the truck had gone still — quiet but charged. Your breath synced up with his, shallow at first, then slow.

The Pepsi cup sat abandoned in the holder again, this time full of sins no amount of holy water could rinse away.

Rhett’s hands were on your lower back. Barely moving. Just holding. As if now that he had you close, he wasn’t entirely sure how to let go.

You brushed sweaty strands of hair off his forehead, your touch featherlight. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a breath — not sharp, not amused, just tired. Bone-deep.

“I’m gonna need a minute,” he rasped, voice gravel-thick. “That was…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t need to.

His arms tightened around your waist instead, pulling you impossibly closer, like he could hide you in his chest if he just held you hard enough.

You rested your temple against his and let the silence stretch. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t shift.

“Rhett…” you began gently. “Let me talk, darlin’,” he cut in. Not harsh. Just… raw. “Let me just say it.”

You nodded.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming.

“I don’t want this to be just a thing that happened once. Not just ‘cause I had a bad week. Not just some dirty secret we laugh about later.”

You blinked. Sat up slightly. Watched him.

His eyes were red around the edges. Not from tears — from being exhausted and too tightly wound for too damn long.

“I know I’m not the easiest man to be around,” he said. “I keep shit bottled up. I act like I don’t care. But I do. About you. More than I should’ve let happen.”

You reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the soft stubble along his cheek.

“I care too,” you said. Quiet. No pressure, just truth. “I wasn’t kiddin’. I was already plannin’ on doin’ this again next Friday.”

That cracked something loose in him.

A laugh. Small. Disbelieving. He leaned back slightly, enough to see your face properly, then shook his head with a lopsided smile.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” “Yeah. You love it.” “I really fuckin’ do.”

You kissed him again — slow this time, like you weren’t trying to devour him, just savour him. His lips were warm. Gentle. Less like a wildfire, more like a hearth.

“I meant it,” you murmured against his mouth. “I don’t wanna pretend this didn’t happen.” “Neither do I.”

You shifted in his lap, stretching your legs a little, but didn’t move away. His arms didn’t loosen either. His thumb moved in slow circles against your hip, grounding himself.

He exhaled again, then said, almost too softly:

“Sometimes I think… maybe I wasn’t meant for all this ranch bullshit. Maybe I’m not like Perry, or Royal. I break too easy. I feel too much.”

You stilled.

Because you knew how hard that was for him to admit.

“I like that you feel too much,” you whispered. He glanced at you, brows pinched. “You do?” “Yeah,” you nodded. “It means you care. It means you love hard. It means when you say shit like this…” — your hand ghosted over his chest — “…I believe it.”

Rhett’s throat worked around something thick. You could see it. Feel it.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You always talk like that? Or just when I’ve got no blood left in my brain?”

You smiled. Soft and full.

“Only when it’s the truth.”

He leaned back, head resting against the seat, looking at you like you were the only damn thing keeping him tethered.

The radio buzzed softly. A half-song played — something slow and crooning, too low to name, but warm all the same.

“You want me to drop you home?” he asked eventually, voice a little steadier now. “It’s late.” You smirked, teasing again. “Why? You got church in the morning?” “After what we did with a Pepsi cup?”

He snorted. Full-out, shoulders-shaking laughter this time.

You pressed your lips to his jaw. “You’re not drivin’ anywhere yet, cowboy. You need a minute. And maybe a damn shower.” “Oh, I’m aware,” he groaned. “I feel like I just ran twenty laps.”

You chuckled and curled back into him, letting the summer heat cling to your skin like honey.

Outside, the drive-in screen had gone black. The other cars had cleared out. But inside the truck — it still felt full.

Of tension. Of release. Of something new blooming soft between you.

Not just lust.

Something warmer. Messier.

Real.

—

Eventually, you slid back into the passenger seat.

Rhett took his time — redoing his jeans, wiping sweat from his brow, straightening the mess of his hair as best he could. He muttered something under his breath about “never lookin’ at Pepsi the same way again,” and you snorted loud enough to fog the window.

The drive home was quiet.

Not awkward. Not heavy.

Just… settled.

Like the storm had passed and left the air sweeter somehow.

The windows were down. The heat hadn’t lifted much, but the breeze was kind. You reached over once, thumb brushing the back of Rhett’s hand where it rested on the gearshift. He turned his palm over without a word, let your fingers slip between his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When he pulled up in front of your place, he didn’t kill the engine right away.

The porch light buzzed faintly. Moths hovered near the screen door. Crickets chirped loud in the stillness.

You unbuckled, but neither of you moved to say goodbye.

Not yet.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

The flush had faded from his chest, but his hair still curled damp at the ends. His mouth was a little red. His shirt was wrinkled beyond saving.

But his eyes?

His eyes were calm.

That wild, bottled-up tension was gone. Replaced with something steadier. Something… soft.

“I meant what I said,” you told him. “This ain’t just a one-time thing.” He nodded once. “I know.”

You hesitated.

Then asked, real quiet: “You gonna kiss me goodnight, or you just gonna sit there lookin’ like a man who’s seen God?”

That got a crooked grin out of him.

“I don’t think I saw Him,” he murmured. “But I sure as hell felt forgiven.”

You leaned over the console and kissed him — slow, sure, nothing hurried. Just lips and breath and the silent promise that whatever this was? It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he whispered, “but I wanna find out.” “You will.”

You squeezed his hand once more, then reached for the handle.

As your door creaked open, he caught your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned.

He nodded toward the cupholder.

“Please throw that out before you go,” he said, deadpan.

You burst out laughing — full belly, head-thrown-back laughing — and grabbed the cup with dramatic flair.

“Pepsi regrets this collaboration,” you said, bowing. “I regret not wearin’ my goddamn seatbelt,” Rhett muttered. “You nearly killed me.”

You stepped out into the night, walked to the porch with the cup in hand, and flung it into the trash bin by the side gate — sins and all.

When you turned around, Rhett was still watching.

His hand rested on the wheel.

But his smile?

That thing could've lit up the whole county.

You lifted two fingers in a lazy salute.

“Next Friday,” you said.

He nodded.

“You bring the soda,” he replied.

[moondustbaby]

blue collar!rafe and toys?

T – Toys

blue collar!Rafe x wife!Reader

mdni 18+

“Thought this thing was supposed to help you relax, baby.”

Rafe’s voice is low and teasing, the rumble of it vibrating right through your chest. You’re flat on your back in bed, thighs shaking, tank top bunched under your tits—and your favorite vibrator pressed right where you need it most.

He’s watching, sprawled beside you in a pair of boxers, arm behind his head like this is the best show he’s ever seen.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded, voice coated in something darker. “Already came twice and still beggin’, huh?”

“I—Rafe, I can’t,” you breathe, hips twitching as the toy pulses against your swollen clit. “It’s too much—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss your temple. “One more for me, baby. Just one more.”

Your thighs tremble harder. You’re already a mess—slick dripping onto the sheets, nipples hard, mind foggy with pleasure. But the second he brushes his knuckles down your stomach and whispers, “Good girl. So fuckin’ good for me,”—

—you shatter.

Your back arches, legs locking around his arm as the vibrator pushes you straight into another orgasm, crying out his name while he watches, transfixed.

“Shit,” he breathes. “That’s it. That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

You’re barely coherent, chest heaving, trying to push the toy away—but Rafe catches your wrist.

“Nuh-uh.” He shuts it off and tosses it aside, climbing over you until his cock is pressed hot and heavy against your folds. “Think I’ve let that thing have enough fun for one night.”

“Rafe—”

“Gonna fuck you now,” he growls, gripping your thigh as he thrusts inside you in one smooth stroke. “My turn, sweetheart.”

And when he starts fucking you—hard, possessive, like he’s reclaiming every inch of you—you swear the toy never stood a chance.

a/n: just a little nsfw a-z blurb to hold you guys off while i work on longer fics! thank you for the request lovie!! 🫶🏻

♥️ lani

nsfw a-z

[scannainscanrula]

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed. 

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together. 

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.  

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual. 

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it. 

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl. 

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back. 

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think. 

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them. 

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly. 

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England. 

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker. 

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning. 

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush. 

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit. 

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now. 

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about. 

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you. 

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong. 

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke. 

He laughs at that and you grin. 

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page. 

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair. 

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar. 

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified. 

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever. 

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent. 

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back. 

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television. 

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration. 

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket. 

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing. 

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him. 

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.” 

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants. 

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing. 

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy. 

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach. 

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

[sylus-shivanika]

All that Remains of you.

Genre: Sylus as a Single Dad AU | Sylus Pov | Angst.

The morning sun filtered through half-drawn curtains, bathing the small room in a gentle light. Sylus sat on the edge of the bed, tenderly braiding his daughter’s long dark hair. Her hair looked exactly like yours. Each strand he wove brought with it a thousand memories of you sitting between his legs, laughing softly while he braided your hair on lazy Sunday mornings. You would tease him then with a smile.

“You’re getting better at this. You’ll need it when we have a daughter.”

He never thought he would be doing it alone.

As he tied the final ribbon, his daughter turned to him with bright eyes. Her smile had the same warmth that once brought him to his knees. It was your smile.

“Daddy,” she said sweetly, “let’s get the best bouquet for Mommy today.”

He froze for a second. Her words were innocent, but they shattered something deep inside him. He leaned in and kissed the crown of her head. His voice came out soft and quiet.

“Yes, my princess. The best one. Just like she deserves.”

Later that day, they walked together through the cemetery. Her small fingers clung tightly to his. She carried the bouquet herself, a cascade of blush pink roses. Your favorite.

When they reached your grave, Sylus knelt and gently placed the flowers down. His hands lingered against the stone, as if hoping it would still hold your warmth.

His voice broke as he said,

“See, kitten. Our little princess chose these for you. She is growing up so beautifully. Just like you told me to. I am trying. I am really trying to be the father she deserves.”

His little princess knelt beside him and softly caressed your name carved in stone.

“The best bouquet for the best Mumma in the world,” she whispered with all the love her six-year-old heart could hold.

Sylus smiled through the sting in his eyes. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close, trying to blink away the memories that rushed in without mercy. Every time he came here, he never wanted to leave.

Then came the memory he could never escape.

He remembered that day. The hospital. The pain in your eyes. The unbearable hours.

You were in labor. It had started early, and it hit harder than either of you expected. He stayed beside you, gripping your hand as you cried out in agony. Your body trembled with every contraction. You were in so much pain, and he kept whispering over and over,

“You are going to be okay. I am right here. Just breathe. I’m not leaving.”

You were so strong, but your body was failing you. The doctors moved faster. Their voices became louder. The delivery had turned complicated. Dangerous. There was too much blood. Your heartbeat slowed. The monitors began to scream.

Still, you turned your head and whispered through clenched teeth,

“If anything happens to me, don’t punish yourself. Live for her. Give her everything.”

He hated when you said things like that. He always told you not to talk that way. He believed everything would be fine. He had to believe it.

He took you to the best hospital. Found the most trusted doctors. He tried everything.

But fate had already made its decision.

You brought your daughter into this world, and that same moment stole you from him.

For days after you were gone, he could not speak. Could not eat. Could not sleep. His body lived, but his soul stayed in that delivery room. The world lost its color. He sat for hours in silence, staring at nothing, waiting for a voice that would never come back.

Then came her cries.

Your daughter’s tiny wails at night became his reason to move. He would hold her through sleepless nights, humming lullabies through a trembling voice, refusing to let her feel alone. She was the last piece of you, and that made her sacred.

When she took her first steps, he pulled out the photo he always kept in his wallet, kissed it, and whispered,

“She is walking now, kitten. Can you see her?”

When she spoke her first word, he made sure it was "Mumma." And when she finally said it, he smiled through tears and looked at your photo.

“You win. We always joked about this. I said she would say Dada first, but deep down I wanted her to say Mumma. And she did.”

On every birthday, he brought her two gifts. One from him. One from your behalf. He wrapped them both with care, and when she opened the one labeled “From Mumma,” her eyes sparkled as if you had sent it yourself.

One afternoon, while searching for a shirt, he found your scarf tucked away at the back of the closet. His breath caught. He reached out and picked it up carefully, bringing it to his face. It still smelled like you.

He stood there for a moment, then slowly sank to the floor. He held the scarf against his chest and began to sob.

“I can feel your scent. But I cannot feel your touch. I cannot see your smile. I cannot hear your heartbeat, the one that used to beat for me. I miss everything about you. I wish you never left. I wish I could bring you back.”

He kissed the scarf, and his tears soaked into the fabric. His body shook, overwhelmed with grief, until he felt small arms wrap around him. His daughter stood there, silent. She had seen him cry like this before. She said nothing. She just held him.

In that painful moment, her hug was the only thing that made it bearable.

Still trembling, Sylus looked at the scarf. Then, with trembling hands, he wrapped it gently around his daughter’s shoulders. He kissed the top of her head.

“Only you,” he whispered, “only you can ease me after your mother’s departure.”

At bedtime, he would read her your favorite poem. He played her your saved voice messages so she could sleep to the sound of you. He wanted her to grow up knowing you, feeling you, loving you, even without meeting you.

Now, as she caressed your grave again with small, loving fingers, Sylus stood beside her with quiet reverence. He spoke in a voice just above a whisper.

“Tomorrow is her first day at her new school. I bought her a pink bag. Your favorite color. And she loves it. Just like you would have.”

He picked her up into his arms. As they walked away, Sylus turned to look back one last time. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“I love you.”

And in his heart, he whispered words he would never say aloud.

"Living without you is like a prison. Every day is a sentence I cannot escape. But our daughter gives me light in this endless darkness. I bring your presence into everything I do. For her. And for myself. I wish I could have saved you. I wish fate had chosen differently. But I promise, I will keep bringing her here. I will bring you the best bouquets. Every day. Because my heart rests beside your grave, and my soul will always belong to your memory."

[skyracha]

500 Follower Part 1

Sex Education

[Bangchan/Maknae Line x Reader]

MDNI!!!!

Word Count: 6,554 😳

Not proofread

SYNOPSIS: Your boyfriend Bangchan decided his Maknae need a little lesson on intimacy… you say yes to helping him.

WARNINGS: Sex, unprotected P in V, F!Recieving and M!Reciving Oral, Rough Fingering, Nipple Play, Degradation AND Praising, Choking mentioned like one, Voyuerism and HEAVY Exhibitionism, Begging, Munch!Han, Male masturbation, Use of Pet names, i’m sure i forgot stuff im sorry

NO TAGS DUE TO CONTENT

My Library HERE :)

_________________________

"Hyung?”

Chan groaned, rolling his eyes as the youngest members of his group came running up to him, Seungmin, Felix, Han and Jeongin murmuring to each other with flushed faces.

"Can I help you?"

The older sighed, closing his phone as the four stopped in front of him. He was sat alone on the couch, everyone else doing their own thing and preparing for bed after a long day of practice and work. He wanted nothing more than to go up to his room, take a nice, warm shower and sleep the night away with you.

But his boys seemed to have other plans.

"We just wanted to know..." Jeongin started, looking over at Seungmin and fidgeting with his hands. "...How do you get a girl to sleep with you?"

"What."

"I mean," Seungmin piped up. "How do you get a girl to be willing to have sex with you? We're trying to figure out how to do it."

Chan blinked, unsure what to make of his bandmates words. Did they think he had some sort of secret knowledge that would give them the ability to bed any girl they wanted? That he was some sort of Casanova?

"What makes you think I have any idea?" He asked, leaning forward to place his phone on the table before them.

"Because you have a girlfriend." Jeongin huffed, clearly frustrated that the older man wasn't understanding what they wanted.

"And? You think all I do is have sex with her?"

"Well, yeah!" Han spoke up, gesturing to the door. "I walked in on you guys just last week fucking away on the couch like animals.”

Chan flushed red, recalling the time they had been caught and how quickly he had pushed you off his lap and pulled his pants back up, hiding the both of you from their curious gazes.

"You guys... You're young, okay? You don't have to worry about anything like that. Don't worry about things like sex until you're ready."

"We’re in our 20’s old man." Seungmin said, voice firm and resolute as he crossed his arms over his chest. The other maknae nodded in agreement, shifting their weight from foot to foot as they avoided the older's gaze. “We just want to know how. You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

Chan groaned, looking at his phone with a frown before looking back up at the group before him.

He couldn’t tell them everything he knew. They were still young and inexperienced, and the last thing he needed was them trying to put their hands all over you.

But he couldn't let them keep thinking that the only way to a girl's heart was through her vagina.

"I'm not gonna give you a full list, but I can give you some tips."

A few days later, Chan approached you with the idea. “Hi Channie, how was your day babe?” Your voiced cooed as he walked into the kitchen of the dorms.

You had a towel in your hands and were busy cleaning the mess the boys had left behind after a meal, humming to yourself as you moved around.

He didn’t respond at first, instead approaching you and wrapping his arms around your waist.

"My day was fine, just thought of something interesting. Wanna help me teach the kids a lesson?"

"A lesson?" You asked, turning your head slightly to look up at him. He hummed, kissing your cheek before speaking again.

"Remember a few days ago, when the kids asked me how to get girls to have sex with them?"

"Yeah, they said you didn't give them any real answers, though."

"That's because I didn't want them trying to seduce my beautiful girlfriend." He purred, hands sliding up your shirt to feel your bare skin. You giggled, reaching back and placing your hands over his.

"I think that's a great idea." You hummed, feeling him squeeze your breasts. "I think we should have a bit of fun with it. I have this weird desire to take this entirely too far.”

"That can be arranged."

You had taken the rest of the night and the next morning to prepare yourself. You had told Chan that you were going to make the most of the situation and have a bit of fun. You all gathered in you and Chan’s bedroom that night and went over some ground rules and boundaries.

But it had taken Chan no time at all to have you pinned beneath him, both of you naked. His deep voice was purring in your ear as he hands began roaming your body. You could sense the four pairs of eyes watching you two, but the sensation of Chan’s hands was entirely pulling your focus.

He had begun slowly, fingers gently ghosting over the curve of your neck, then the top of your breasts. His hands cupped your chest, squeezing the flesh as he pressed his lips against the spot where your neck met your shoulder.

Your hands lifted and grabbed his, and he watched you as you guided him to touch the soft buds on your chest. He didn't need much direction after that, his thumbs and forefingers coming up to pinch your nipples as he spoke to the four Maknae. “The key to having sex with a woman is finding what makes her tick. She has to feel good, she is your priority.”

You let out a soft moan, squirming beneath him as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. You could hear the four men to your left breathing hard, and you wondered what kind of faces they were making. Were their cocks already tenting their pants, or were they trying their hardest to maintain composure?

Chan didn’t stop, his lips traveling across your shoulder and to the other side of your neck, pressing light kisses across your skin as his fingers continued toying with your nipples.

"When she feels good, she's more likely to want you to fuck her. It's better for the both of you if she's wet and excited. You know how to find her clit, right boys?"

They didn't respond, and Chan stopped moving. One of the little perks you and him thought up. If the Maknae didn’t behave, then he’d punish you. You both knew the guys would get off on the imagery of you coming undone over and over, so why not use it to make them behave?

"Answer me, kids."

"Yes hyung."

“Good. I’ll make you guys show me later.” All four boys audibly gulped at the realization.

Chan removed his hands from your breasts, sliding his fingers down to press against your already soaked core. Your breath hitched, and you bucked against him.

"If you wanna please a girl, make sure to find her clit. It'll make her come a lot faster and harder than if you just start putting your dick in."

His fingers pressed against you, rubbing at the bundle of nerves, sending chills up your spine. You whined, legs spreading further on instinct as your eyes fluttered shut.

"Don't forget about the rest of her body, though. Girls like to have their breasts and nipples played with."

You whimpered as he began grinding against you, his hard cock pressing against where you craved it most. You reached down between your bodies, hand gripping his hip tightly.

"And, when she's getting close, make sure to give her something to hold onto. Let her dig her nails into you, or have her grab the sheets. If you really wanna have fun, let her nails paint your back in scratches.”

He pulled away, leaving your body cold as his hands slipped under your thighs. He yanked you forward to turn you towards the four other men, causing you to fall back and brace yourself with your hands. You watched with wide eyes as he got comfortable on his knees, his hands gripping the back of your thighs tightly.

You felt a surge of embarrassment wash over you.

You were spread for the four of them, dripping wet and wanting, your boyfriend between your legs.

"Now, I want you to watch this." Chan instructed, leaning forward and latching his mouth onto your clit. You moaned loudly, throwing your head back as he swirled his tongue around the bundle of nerves.

He was always so good at this.

Chan's hands slid from the backs of your thighs, and up your sides. He didn't hesitate to grab handfuls of your ass, and squeezed hard enough for you to let out a whine.

"Fuck, babe go easy!" He did just the opposite. Something primal awoke in him, as it always does. He was gonna ruin you, and when he was done, the four men watching would do the same.

His grip tightened, and you were sure his hands would leave bruises. He sucked at your clit, swirling his tongue around the little nub. Your hands came down to grip his hair, and you couldn't help but grind your hips against his face.

The sounds of his tongue working your pussy were absolutely filthy, and the way he was groaning into you was making the coil in your stomach wind tighter.

You didn't care about the audience, or how lewd the situation was. Your sole focus was the man between your legs, and the pleasure he was giving you.

"C-Chan! I'm gonna cum!"

"Then cum, baby." He hummed against you, and the vibrations sent you over the edge. You moaned loudly, throwing your head back and curling in on yourself.

You were panting, chest heaving as you tried to regain control of your senses.

"Now, did any of you see what I did?"

"You licked her pussy." Han blurted out, his face flushed and his hands shaking.

"Yeah, no shit. Did you notice anything else? Like, how I moved my hands, or where I put them?"

There was silence, and Chan let out an irritated huff.

He turned his head and looked over at the four Maknae, noticing their flushed faces and fidgeting hands. He was sure the four of them had hard-ons, and that they were aching to touch themselves.

But the thought of any of them being between your legs and eating you out?

Chan almost wanted to call off the whole thing.

Almost.

“Han get up.”

He stood, turning around and facing the four Maknae. He took a seat on the bed beside you, grabbing your arm and pulling you close. He kissed your temple, and whispered into your ear. “You’re gonna take a turn.”

Han slowly stood, trying to shift his weight to adjust the achingly hard cock pushing against his pants. The poor guy looked like he was gonna be sick, but there was a sparkle in his eye that made you excited.

Chan was a bit nervous. You had agreed to this, but was he willing to actually share you? Was it worth seeing the four maknae come undone?

Chan decided it was.

"You're gonna do exactly what I did, okay?"

"What if I fuck up?"

"I'll show you what to do, idiot." Bad cop.

“You’re gonna do great honey, I’ll help you.” Good cop.

Just another little perk you and Chan had decided on adding. Who doesn’t like getting degraded or praised?

Han kneeled between your legs, his eyes looking down at the mess between your thighs. You could tell he was nervous, and his shaking hands did little to reassure you that he could handle himself.

"Hands." Chan barked, and Han quickly placed his hands on the backs of your thighs. Chan reached over and gripped his wrists, moving his hands closer and forcing him to squeeze the supple flesh.

"Make sure you can reach everything."

Han gulped, nodding his head.

"What if I do a bad job?"

"If it doesn't feel good, she'll tell you."

He nodded, his grip tightening and making you shiver. He leaned forward, his warm breath fanning across your exposed pussy.

"Start with little licks, work up to the big stuff.”

“Wait!” It came out breathy, but all five guys looked at you. “You four feel so covered…please, don’t make me and Chan look so exposed.”

Seungmin, Jeongin, Felix and Han all shared a panicked look. It was true, you and Chan were completely void of clothes and the four of them were still fully dressed.

“Don’t want you to get messy now do we?” You cooed as you ran a hand through Han’s hair, him still kneeling between your legs, almost frozen.

One by one, they all got undressed.

Their hard cocks all bobbed and swayed with their movements, and the sight of their naked bodies sent a pulse straight to your pussy.

This was the best decision ever.

Han took a deep breath before he leaned forward, his tongue pressing lightly against your core.

You moaned softly, encouraging him.

Han seemed to get a bit more confident, his grip on the backs of your thighs tightening as he continued to lap at your pussy.

He wasn't very good.

His licks were a little too soft, his tongue moving in slow, wide motions. You let out a fustrated groan and Chan knew exactly what that meant. He fisted the hair at the back of Han’s head and guided his head deeper into you. Han’s nose pressed against your clit and you let out a loud moan at the sensation. “Get in there, don’t be gentle.”

You could tell Han was panicking. The younger was squirming against the harsh grip Chan had on his hair. His hands slid further up your thighs and grabbed a hold of your ass, squeezing roughly.

It was almost cute.

Chan didn't loosen his grip, though. If anything, he just held Han tighter.

"Make sure you pay attention, boys. When she's squirming, you know you're doing a good job."

You whimpered and rolled your hips, feeling his nose bump against your clit again. His grip on your ass was getting tighter, and the way his tongue was moving was making you see stars.

"Han, baby, you're doing so good."

Chan growled, his free hand moving up to grip your hip.

You could sense the tension coming from the older man.

Was he getting possessive?

You couldn't deny the thrill that sent up your spine.

"She's getting close." Chan growled, his grip tightening on the both of you. "If she tells you to stop, listen. She'll need a minute."

Han's pace sped up, and Chan released his hold on the younger, his hands going back to gripping the sheets.

You whimpered, squirming under his touch. You could feel the coil in your belly winding tighter, ready to snap.

"Han! I'm so close!"

Your orgasm hit you hard, and Han was quick to pull away. His chin was glistening, and he had a smug look on his face.

Chan’s breathing was tight as Han spoke. “I wanna do that again.”

Chan didn’t waste a moment. He reached out and grabbed the younger by the neck, pulling him close. He leaned forward, growling in his ear.

"You wanna taste her again? You think you can handle it?"

Han nodded his head, swallowing thickly. Chan hummed, letting go of his neck and moving to lay on his side.

"Good. Felix, come here."

The younger was quick to stand, walking around the bed and settling between your legs.

"You're gonna learn how to do this right, okay?"

Chan leaned up and placed his hand on the back of the youngest's head. He leaned forward, forcing the maknae's head down between your legs.

Felix's lips and tongue were a bit rough, and his technique wasn't the best, but he was eager to please. He would lick and suck at your clit, only stopping every once and awhile to take a breath.

"She likes her clit played with, not sucked on." Chan hissed, moving his hands to your hips. Felix pulled back and you whined, rolling your hips.

"Sorry, hyung."

"That's okay, sweetheart. You're learning. Here, let's try something." You sat up a bit and signaled to Chan.

Chan gently pushed him back and slid between your legs.

"Watch."

He didn't waste a moment, latching his mouth onto the sensitive bundle of nerves. You let out a high pitched squeal, squirming and grabbing his hair.

"You're a fucking tease, Channie." You breathed, grinding your hips against his face.

He didn't say anything, instead sliding his tongue down and pushing it inside of you.

"Fuck!"

Your back arched, and Chan pulled his mouth away from you. He looked at Felix and the maknae nodded.

"Don't suck, play with it with your tongue. Make sure to get her dripping wet, then push your tongue inside. And move your head with her, or you'll hurt her."

Felix nodded, his hands grabbing your thighs. He was eager to start again, and leaned forward. His tongue pressed against your clit, and he started moving his head like Chan told him to.

"Felix... baby, that's so good."

His tongue was a lot gentler than Chan's. His licks were shorter, quicker, but it was making you feel good as hell.

He wasn't hesitant about it, and the fact that he was doing what Chan said was a major turn on. You had always loved a man who followed orders.

You could feel his nails digging into your skin as he continued lapping at your clit. The pressure was building in your core, and you knew that you were going to come hard.

"I'm gonna come, baby."

"Good." Felix's voice was low and muffled against you.

You let out a loud moan, your body arching off the bed. Felix's tongue kept moving, even when your body went slack.

You were panting, and you could hear the others talking.

"That was really good."

"You think?"

"Yeah! It was really hot."

You rolled over, pressing your face into Chan's chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck, nuzzling against him.

"Chan... I need a break."

"Okay. We're taking a break."

The two of you got comfortable, laying down next to each other. Your head was resting on his chest, his arm around your waist and his thumb rubbing small circles into your side.

"What about us?" Seungmin spoke up, looking at the two of you with a pout.

“C’mere.” You sat up and gestured Seungmin to stand in front of you as you laid on your stomach, his cock in your face.

Your boyfriend had a firm grip on your hips, thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. Seungmin was hesitant, his hands shaky as he placed them on your head.

You opened your mouth, looking up at the boy.

Seungmin was the biggest of the four Maknae, but his size wasn’t gonna scare you off.

"I'm gonna suck you off, okay?"

Seungmin's breath hitched, his grip on your hair tightening.

"O-Okay."

"Tell me when to stop."

You took him into your mouth, your hands grabbing the backs of his thighs.

Seungmin whimpered, his grip tightening on your head. He was careful not to push you, though, and the fact that he was letting you lead the pace was a huge turn on.

You could feel Chan's hands slide up your back, his fingers brushing against your spine.

"Keep going." He whispered, and you moaned, closing your eyes and sucking Seungmin's cock.

The taller let out a loud moan, his hand grabbing your head. His hips began bucking forward, and his cock slid deeper down your throat.

"F-fuck, you feel so good."

Chan's hands squeezed your hips, pulling you back a bit. "Slow down."

"But she feels so good."

Chan hummed, leaning forward and kissing your neck. His hands moved up and cupped your breasts, giving them a gentle squeeze.

You moaned, and Seungmin let out a loud groan.

"I-I'm close."

"Good." Chan purred, his hands sliding back down to your hips. He leaned forward and pressed his chest against your back, his cock rubbing against you.

You whimpered, rolling your hips. You could feel his cock slipping between your legs, his shaft rubbing against your pussy.

Seungmin's grip on your hair tightened, his cock pulsing in your mouth. You sucked hard, swirling your tongue around the tip.

"Gonna cum."

"Do it, baby." You purred, looking up at him through your lashes.

Seungmin's cock twitched and he let out a loud moan. His hot cum spilled into your mouth and you swallowed, moaning at the taste. "Fuck, that's so hot,” he mumbled.

You pulled back, wiping the back of your mouth with the back of your hand. "How was that?"

"That was amazing."

You smiled, sitting up and kissing his cheek.

"You guys wanna get back to it?"

They nodded eagerly, and you giggled, leaning forward and kissing Chan deeply. He hummed, his hand reaching up and cupping your cheek.

"I love you." You said against his lips.

"I love you, too." He smiled back.

You were the first to get into position, laying down on the bed and spreading your legs. Chan spoke up, “The next thing I’m gonna show you is how to fuck her with your fingers. You gotta be careful, you do it wrong and she gets hurt.”

Seungmin was the first to step forward, his face flushed as he got between your legs.

He was shaking slightly, his fingers twitching as he brought them closer to you.

Chan moved behind him, placing his hands on top of Seungmin's.

"Start with one finger. If she says it's too much, add a little bit of spit and try again. You're gonna wanna curve them upwards, and move them in and out."

Seungmin nodded, his finger pressing against your entrance. You let out a soft whine, biting your lip as his finger pushed inside.

"Now move it in and out, slowly. Like I said, if she says stop, stop."

"O-okay."

Seungmin moved his finger in and out slowly, his gaze focused on your pussy.

You whimpered, rocking your hips.

"Seungmin, that feels really good."

"Does it?"

"Yes, baby."

"That's good. You're doing a good job, Minnie." Chan hummed, moving his hand to his shoulder. "Now add another finger."

Seungmin nodded, pulling his finger out and adding another. He pushed them both inside slowly, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

"Good. Now move them."

Seungmin's fingers began moving, the feeling of him fucking you with his fingers was making you dizzy.

"She likes it when you curl your fingers a bit. That spot is a girl's best friend."

"Curl?"

"Yeah, like this."

Chan's fingers curled up , demonstrating the motion and the younger's eyes went wide. He mimicked the motion, curling his fingers and brushing against your g-spot.

"F-Fuck! There!"

"There?"

"Yes, fuck, keep doing that."

You reached down and began rubbing your clit, moaning loudly as the pleasure was starting to overwhelm you.

Seungmin continued fucking you with his fingers, his pace speeding up. Your moans were getting louder, and your grip on the sheets was tight. You could sense the more Seungmin got comfortable, the more he got into it.

"Minnie, I'm gonna cum!"

"Go ahead. Cum."

Your orgasm hit hard, and you cried out. Your entire body was shaking, and you were gripping the sheets tightly.

"That was so good." You breathed, looking up at him.

Seungmin beamed, pulling his fingers out and then tapped your chin with his other hand. “Open up.” You obeyed and he shoved his fingers in your mouth as you sucked them clean of any trace of you.

"Fuck." Jeongin mumbled, his cock twitching.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Han asked as Seungmin began to go back to sitting down.

“I saw it in a porno once.” He shrugged.

"Don't worry, Innie. You're next."

"Wait." Jeongin spoke up, his cheeks flushed and his eyes darting away from the scene before him. "I don't know if I can do this."

Chan and you shared a look, before Chan responded.

"Why not? Do you not want to?"

"I just, I'm scared. What if I hurt her?"

"Then she'll tell you. If she doesn't feel good, she won't be shy about letting you know."

"But what if I do something wrong?"

"I'll guide you. Come here."

Jeongin hesitated for a moment before walking towards the two of you. Chan guided him, pulling him closer and placing his hand between your legs.

"She's still a bit wet. That's a good thing."

"Really?"

"Yes. It means she's turned on. It's a good thing." Chan gently pushed two of Jeongin's fingers inside, and the younger let out a soft gasp.

"She's warm."

"It feels really good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah."

Chan began guiding his fingers, pushing them in and out slowly.

"This is how you fuck a girl. Slow, deep thrusts."

"Okay."

"And don't forget, make sure to hit her g-spot."

"G-spot?"

"Yeah. It's a super sensitive area. Curve your fingers, like this."

Chan guided his fingers, showing the youngest how to curl them. He brushed against your g-spot, and you let out a loud moan.

"Found it!” He looked to Chan, shocked and semi-proud of himself. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself.

Jeongin's pace picked up, his thrusts becoming faster.

"She likes it when you're rough. She's not made of glass, Innie. Go as hard as you want, but make sure to give her a second to breathe."

"Yes, hyung."

His pace sped up, his thrusts getting rougher.

"I'm close, Innie." You gasped, grinding your hips against his fingers.

"Come for me." He said in a breath, his thrusts becoming harder.

Your orgasm hit you hard, and you threw your head back. Jeongin's pace didn't slow, his thrusts growing more aggressive.

"Innie, fuck." He pulled his fingers out and moaned as he licked them clean.

"You're doing so well, baby." Chan hummed, kissing the your cheek.

"Now, I wanna watch you finger her." Jeongin spoke up, shy despite what he just did.

Chan and Jeongin switched places, Chan’s fingers pressed against your entrance, pushing inside and curling immediately.

You whimpered, grinding against his fingers. Chan’s pace was fast and rough, and it was making your head spin.

"She likes it rough. She loves it when you fuck her hard."

Jeongin nodded, his hand wrapped around his cock. His hand moved up and down his length, and his breathing was ragged.

"Channie." You whined, rolling your hips against his fingers.

"Come on, baby. Come for me."

You let out a loud moan, grinding your hips against his hand as you came.

"Fuck." Chan purred, pulling his fingers out.

"You wanna taste her?" He signaled to Felix.

"Y-Yeah."

Chan brought his fingers to the younger's lips, and Felix eagerly licked them clean.

"God, she tastes so good."

"You can have more later.” Chan hummed, standing up and moving over to the youngest.

“What’s next?” Han said, his hand lazily stroking his cock, the head red and angry.

“You’re gonna fuck her.”

The two of you shared a look and you smirked, laying back down and spreading your legs.

Chan helped the boy line himself up, the head pressing against your entrance.

"Take it slow, okay?"

Han nodded, pushing his cock inside slowly. You moaned, throwing your head back as he slid inside.

"F-Fuck." He groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"Good?"

"So good."

"Don't be afraid to fuck her. She can take it."

Han didn't hesitate. His pace was quick, and he was hitting all the right spots.

"God, you're so fucking tight."

"Han...you're doing such a good job."

Chan was still beside the two of you, his eyes dark and his expression hungry. “Baby-“ You reached your hand out to him and grabbed ahold of his cock. Your hand made work of your boyfriend while Han fucked into you at a delicious pace.

"She feels so good."

Chan chuckled, his cock throbbing in your hand. "I know she does."

"Fuck, I'm close."

"Come on, baby. Cum for me."

Han's thrusts became harder, his nails digging into your hips. His cock pulsed and twitched, and his breathing was erratic.

"C-Can I come inside?"

"Yeah, baby. Come for me."

Han's cock pulsed, his hot seed shooting deep inside you.

"God, that was good." He panted, pulling his cock out.

"You think?"

"Yeah." He laughed, ”I really wanna eat her out again.”

Chan's gaze darkened and he growled, "It’s my turn to show you how it’s done first.”

Chan's hands grabbed your hips and pulled you down the bed. He stood between your legs, his cock rubbing against your entrance.

"You ready for me, baby?"

"Always, Channie."

Chan hummed, and pushed himself inside. You gasped, your hands flying to his arms.

"Fuck, Channie."

Chan began pounding into you, his pace rough and brutal.

"Look at you. Taking me so well. You're such a good girl." His chest was pressed against yours, his words of praise tickling your ear.

His hand reached up and wrapped around your throat, squeezing gently.

"You're mine."

"All yours."

"That's right. Mine."

Chan's hand squeezed tighter and his thrusts got harder. You were quickly becoming a whining mess.

"You're not gonna last long, are you?"

"N-no."

"That's okay. You can come whenever you want."

"W-What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. Just come."

You let out a loud cry, your orgasm hitting you hard. You clenched hard around his dick, and he visibly jolted at the feeling of you gripping him.

"Such a good girl. I'm almost there."

"Come for me, Channie."

"I'm so close."

"Please, baby."

Chan's cock pulsed and he let out a low groan, his hips stuttering as he came.

He stayed inside you for a few moments, his forehead resting against yours.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm great. Are you?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

You hummed, turning your head to look at the boys. They were all staring at you with wide eyes and open mouths.

"Did you guys enjoy that?"

"It was awesome." Felix looked like he was about to combust.

"You looked amazing." Seungmin cooed as he began approaching the bed.

"I didn't know you could be so dirty, hyung." Jeongin ran a hand through his hair as he ran his eyes over your body.

You chuckled, turning back to face your boyfriend. He kissed your cheek and pulled out, laying beside you.

"I'm not sure I could get hard again for a while, baby. Give the boys some attention.”

"Okay." You sat up and grabbed Jeongin's wrist. "I want you."

Jeongin didn't hesitate, climbing onto the bed and pushing himself inside.

"Oh, fuck. You feel so good, baby."

"So do you."

Jeongin's hips were sharp and quick, his pace fast.

"I'm not gonna last long."

"It's okay sweetheart, just keep going-Fuck!”

Chan's voice filled the room.

"Wait a second." Jeongin slowed his motions as Chan grabbed his wrist and placed his hand on your clit. “If you know you aren’t gonna last long enough for her to finish, help her get there faster. Play with her clit.”

Jeongin nodded and his thumb started rubbing circles into the bundle of nerves. Your eyes fluttered shut and your back arched off the bed, the feeling of both sensations beautifully overwhelming.

"I'm close. So close."

"Me too."

You felt another hand join the one between your legs. You opened your eyes and looked up, seeing Seungmin kneeling beside you. His cock was in his hand, his strokes quick and erratic.

"C-cum with me, sweetheart." You placed your hand on Jeongin’s arm. "I'm close, just keep going."

"Fuck, me too." You could feel his thrusts becoming harder, his breathing ragged. His pace was brutal, and his grip on your thigh was painful.

"Seungmin."

"Yeah, baby."

"Kiss me."

"As you wish."

Seungmin leaned forward and his lips crashed against yours. The kiss was hungry and messy, and his tongue invaded your mouth. You moaned into his mouth, your orgasm quickly getting ready to snap.

"Gonna cum." Your orgasm hit hard, and your whole body shook. Jeongin's cock pulsed, and his hot seed spilled inside you.

"Shit." He pulled out, and collapsed beside you.

Seungmin didn't stop kissing you, his grip tightening on your waist as you sat up. “I wanna ride you. Sit against the headboard.”

Seungmin nodded, sitting up and positioning himself. He gripped his cock, rubbing the head between your folds and you both groaned.

"She feels so good hyung." Seungmin looked to Chan.

"Fuck me, Seungmin." Seungmin's hands rested on your hips and he slowly pushed himself inside. Seungmin began rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out.

"God, I've wanted to do this for so long."

"What?”

"You were with him." He gestured towards Chan.

“You were having fantasies about my girlfriend?”

Seungmin nodded, biting his lip.

"I was jealous. I wanted you."

"And now you have her, but one night only. She’s mine, don’t forget that.”

"Yes, yes I do."

His pace picked up, his hips slapping against yours. You could feel his cock hitting deep inside you, his tip brushing against your cervix.

"You're so tight. Fuck."

"You're so big."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"I'm gonna come."

"Do it."

"Fuck." Seungmin's thrusts got faster, and his grip tightened. His cock pulsed and twitched, and his eyes fluttered shut. He cried out, his orgasm hitting hard.

"Oh my god." You cried out, collapsing against Seungmin as he rode out his own orgasm.

“Okay, she needs a break.” Chan helped you off Seungmin’s lap, but you interrupted him.

“Han, come here, please. Want you- to eat me out again.” Your words came out in pants, but Han looked more than eager to oblige.

You laid back on the bed, and Han crawled between your legs, his tongue running over your sensitive flesh.

You whimpered, the sensation bordering on overstimulation. Chan noticed your discomfort and he reached his hand down to rub slow circles on your hip, the feeling helping ground you. “Are you sure baby? You can stop at any time.”

“I’m fine, I promise.” You let out a moan and then signaled to Felix. As he came over, you turned your head to take him into your mouth.

While you were focused on Felix, Chan spoke up.

"Han, you gotta be gentle. If she says stop, you need to listen. Do not push her."

Han nodded, his tongue continuing to explore your pussy. He was gentle, his tongue gliding over your clit.

"Oh, fuck." You moaned around Felix's cock, your hand wrapping around the base. You bobbed your head, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard.

"She's amazing." Felix groaned.

"I know. And she's all mine."

You whimpered, feeling another orgasm building up. Your hips rocked against Han's mouth, and he seemed to notice, his movements speeding up. "Gonna cum." You moaned, grinding against his mouth.

"Come for me."

"Yes!" You cried out, your orgasm hitting hard. Your hips bucked wildly, and your back arched. Han lapped at your cunt, cleaning you up before pulling away and licking his lips.

"That was the best meal I've ever had. I could do that all day.” Han stepped away as you continued to suck Felix’s cock.

“Stop- wanna fuck you.” He groaned.

Felix pulled out and then quickly lined his cock up with your entrance, slamming into you.

"Fuck." You gasped, your hands gripping the sheets.

"Fuck, you feel so good."

Felix's thrusts were hard and fast, and his grip on your thighs was almost painful.

"Fuck, I'm not gonna last." His hand shot down to your clit to help you along as Chan said earlier. Always following instructions.

"Come for me, Felix."

Felix's cock twitched, and he cried out, his cock pulsing and his hot seed spilling inside.

You let out a soft groan, and he pulled out, falling to the side and catching his breath. Each of the Maknae looked entirely spent, dicks limp and eyes closed.

"I wanna see her get fucked by Changbin." Felix looked at Chan, and the eldest nodded.

"Changbin? Why?” Chan questioned as he moved towards you.

"He's the biggest. I wanna see her stretched around his cock." Felix was dazed on the bed next to you.

Chan's gaze shifted to you, a wicked grin forming on his face. "Oh? Is he now?”

"Mhm." Felix nodded, biting his lip.

"Is that what you want, baby? You wanna be stretched around his cock?"

"I wanna be stretched around yours baby.” You could tell Chan’s possessive side was coming out.

"Good answer.”

Chan made his way over and settled between your legs, his cock rubbing against your entrance.

Chan slowly slid inside, and you moaned, your back arching off the bed.

"You feel so fucking good, baby. I love you.” Chan’s thumbs were rubbing circles against your hips.

“You fit so good, I love you too. Fuck!”

His pace was quick and rough, his cock hitting deep.

"I love you so much." Chan leaned down and looped his arms under your back, holding you flush against him as he buried his face in your neck.

"I love you, too." Tears were lining your eyes as sheer pleasure flooded your system, the overstimulation starting to hit you.

You moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck." He growled, his cock throbbing.

"Fuck, I'm close."

"Come for me, baby."

"Chan..." Your eyes were squeezed shut, and you were barely able to breathe.

"That's it. Come for me."

You let out a strangled moan, and you came, your walls clenching tightly around his cock.

"Good girl. Such a good girl."

"Come for me, Chan. Come inside, please." Chan's grip tightened, and he groaned, his hips stuttering.

"Fuck." You both stilled, your breathing ragged.

Chan slowly pulled out, his forehead resting against yours.

"How do you feel, baby?"

"Sore, but I'm good. I'm happy."

"Me too. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Chan helped you stand, and he held you tightly.

"Alright boys, we need to get cleaned up. We have practice tomorrow and a few of you have vocal lessons and a photoshoot."

You chuckled and kissed his cheek.

"Alright. Go shower, we'll clean up the room." Han offered with a lazy smile.

"We?" Felix whined, sitting up.

"Yes, we. Come on." Seungmin said, slapping Felix on the shoulder.

"Thanks, guys." Chan grabbed your clothes and carried them into the bathroom, turning on the shower.

You smiled and joined him, letting the hot water wash away the sticky evidence of your activities.

The boys did an excellent job at cleaning the bedroom. It was spotless, and it smelled clean.

You and Chan were in his room, him snuggled against you as you ran your fingers through his hair.

"I think we need to have them all over for dinner. Or a movie. Something." You said softly.

"I'll ask if they want to. Why?" Chan was running his hands through your hair gently.

“I feel like I owe them a thank you." You couldn’t help but chuckle.

"Yeah, they would probably like that. I'll talk to the manager tomorrow and see when they have open schedules."

"Thank you, baby."

"No problem, love." Chan kissed your cheek and snuggled closer.

"Hey, Chan."

"Yeah?"

"What was all that about earlier? About not touching me because I'm yours?"

"I was just playing, baby. You know I'm not really like that, right?"

"Of course. It was really hot, though."

[angel06babysworld]

reader visiting her husband at the hospital so he can do her check-up but she just can't stop giggling all the timeee and he's like "what the hell is that funny, huh?" 😭

doctor!rafe x gf!reader

Slow Pulse

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

The paper on the exam table crinkles beneath her as she swings her legs, hands folded neatly in her lap, cheeks pink with a barely-there grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Rafe glances up from the tablet in his hand, one brow raised.

“You’ve been giggling for the last five minutes,” he says, flat. “What the hell is so funny?”

She tries to bite it back, but it slips out anyway—a little breathy laugh that makes his eyes narrow.

“Nothing,” she chirps.

“Bullshit.”

Her eyes widen, mock-offended. “You’re swearing in front of a patient?”

He shuts the tablet with a sigh and sets it down on the counter. “You are not just a patient, and you are definitely up to something.”

“I just think it’s funny,” she says innocently, poking at the edge of the paper gown wrapped loosely around her shoulders, “that you have to be all serious and doctor-y while I’m sitting here half-naked.”

He gives her a long look. “That’s the job.”

“But you’re my boyfriend.”

“And you have a blood pressure reading I still need to take.”

She giggles again, leaning back slightly like she’s enjoying the power of making him twitch. “Do I make you nervous, Dr. Cameron?”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening as he picks up the cuff. “No. You make me regret letting you book through the front desk like a normal patient.”

“But I am a normal patient. Who also happens to know what you look like naked.”

He presses the cuff around her arm with a little more tension than necessary, which only makes her grin harder.

“Behave,” he warns.

“Or what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just clicks the monitor on and watches the numbers rise, muttering, “Swear to God, if you’re giggling during your pelvic exam, I’m writing you up.”

She throws her head back and laughs, and even Rafe can’t fight the smile pulling at his lips.

God help him, he’s so in love with her.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @sc04 @matthewswifeyy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @icversvoid @honeyinthesummer @dolli333 @lolabunnyworldss @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @rafessbaby