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takashimakato · 1 hour ago

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀your idols and you. ♡

SUMMARY: just a bunch of saja boys NSFW prompts && drabbles. <3

PAIRINGS: SAJA BOYS/you, JINU/you, ABBY/you, ROMANCE/you, BABY/you, MYSTERY/you.

A/N: I KNOW I HAVE OTHER PROMPTS TO WRITE BUT AAAA I JUST LOVE THEM SO MUCH. <3

the meanest. ♡

the one who’ll make you plead, make you cry from being edged for too long. slap your cunt when you cum against his wishes, but mocks you for cumming too quickly. will break you. degradation galore.

BABY, MYSTERY.

the nastiest. ♡

spit, public play; maybe make his members watch while he fucks you in full nelson. has a collection of you at your most depraved: a picture from above while you suck him off, his cock coated in your mess, the bulge of your throat when he has your head hanging from the edge of the bed.

MYSTERY, BABY.

the most obsessive—err, possessive. ♡

has you covered in his bites. loves to make you scream his name, remind you who you belong to. adores how you smell jus’ like him when you leave his room. will literally scare off other men that dared to look at your direction.

oh, and jerks off to your panties.

all of them tbh. | JINU, ABBY, MYSTERY.

the sweetest. ♡

puts you first. will have you cumming five times before he can even take his clothes off. takes his sweet, sweet time in ruining you. will talk you through it while he’s riding out your sixth orgasm with skilled, circular rolls of his hips.

ROMANCE. duh. who else.

the biggest . . 👀 ( with visual, please be advised! )

ABBY — do i even need to explain? 9 - 11 inches. he's big. thick and fucking veiny. #CE7788. manscapes. has heavy, fat balls that's 'nuff to smother you, probably. will bulge from your tummy. has a sensitive tip, too. certified cervix breaker.

JINU — 8 - 9 inches. so fuckin' girthy you can barely make your fingertips touch together. has a prominent vein that runs down his shaft whenever he's hard, especially when he's pent up. bruiser. #F1A5AA. trimmed, always has a happy trail. a little curved.

MYSTERY — 8 inches. pretty smooth with a bulbous tip. leaks a lot of pre. a lot. a little on the hairy side. he adores seeing your nose buried in those darker tufts. has sensitive balls. #E9A6B2.

ROMANCE — 8 inches. the prettiest dick eveeeeer. he prefers manscaping but if you ever asked him to, yk, be a little hairier, he'll definitely grow it out for you. maybe leaning towards the left. #B56182. plump balls. lighter at the shaft, pinker at the head. has some purplish veins running down along it when he's pent up.

BABY — 7 - 8 inches. trimmed. has a fat fucking tip. #CD9F8F. smooth, but will occasionally have some veins peeking through. not as girthy, but the length compensates. don't be fooled—BABY 100% knows how to use it. he has sensitive balls, too.

most likely to break the bed. ♡

ABBY. i don’t need to explain.

most likely to ruin you for anyone else.

will have you crawling back to him. metaphorically, literally—it doesn’t really matter. you’ll come back for more.

MYSTERY, JINU, ROMANCE, BABY, ABBY.

most likely to fuck you stupid. ♡

they'll have you sobbing, shaking while every drag of his cock's making you writhe. cradles your head while he's deep, deep in you in a mean mating press. jus' can't stop fuckin' you because your cunt's too good, your expressions just make his cock throb every time.

MYSTERY, BABY, ABBY, JINU, ROMANCE.

most blessedcursed with stamina. ♡

ABBY, JINU.

praise enthusiasts. ♡

JINU, ROMANCE, ABBY.

degradation enthusiasts. ♡

MYSTERY, BABY, JINU, ABBY.

loves seeing you beneath him - ♡ missionary, mating press, etc.

ROMANCE, JINU, ABBY, MYSTERY, BABY.

loves having you on top of him - ♡ cowgirl/reverse cowgirl, lotus, straddling his lap, etc.

ROMANCE, ABBY, JINU, BABY, MYSTERY.

orally fixated. ♡

ROMANCE, JINU.

will manhandle you. ♡

ABBY, JINU.

who cums the most?

ABBY, ROMANCE, JINU, MYSTERY, BABY.

teases the most.

all of them. | JINU, ABBY, ROMANCE, BABY, MYSTERY.

"mine,"

JINU's teeth sink into your skin. he can smell your arousal, smell that cunt. he's practically salivating, tongue nursing the harsh bites he'd bestow on your soft skin. patterned dexterity aids in wrapping your legs around his waist as he sheathes into you for the nth time tonight.

"only i can see you like this. you're so pretty. my pretty human,"

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ──

a thick bicep locks around your neck, squishing your cheeks in the process. your whimpers are more ragged, breathy, while ABBY's rutting into you from behind; hips slamming into you harshly again and again and again. "i love your fucking cunt. look at you, slutty girl. all you've done is—," his words are punctuated by a savage, punishing slam, and ABBY keeps himself sheathed, still.

"—cream all over my dick. are you sure you won't pass out— ♡ ?"

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ──

moans are too audible in your room, alongside loud, obscene squelching that were none other than MYSTERY's fingers pumping in and out of soaked pussy. trembles visibly run through your frail, human body as he curves his fingers up, against that spot. you were so close. so, so close, but he slides his fingers too quickly, and your hips are chasing the air.

"ah-ah-ah. not yet, my pretty slut."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ──

fingers card through his soft locks, legs closing in on his head as his tongue flicks against your clit. the sting doesn't seem to bother ROMANCE, though, only digging into his favourite meal as he runs a long stripe of his tongue from your creamy slit up to your pillowy mons. "you taste so good, my love," he whispered, placing kisses on it.

"i don't wanna stop . . i love you, love tasting you . . "

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ──

"n, no, do—!"

the bed creaks under your weight as you squirmed, legs kicking 'n back arching as BABY pinched your sensitive clit. "i told you not to cum. who let you cum, sweetheart? you're so cute, it's pathetic." smack! oh, fuck, the way your cunt twitches against the smack of his palm. fuck . . "s, sorry, 'm sorry . . " you hiccuped, looking at him with red, teary eyes. there was an attempt to close your legs, but a firm hand ensnares your knee; a warning guised in a thumb rubbing your puffy clit.

"i don't think so."

end,

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takashimakato · 1 month ago

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“City of Ghosts”

The Story Lucille and Lenny Part 1

They met the way every New York love story begins—on a rainy day, right in the middle of a bustling sidewalk.

Lucille was just heading back from brunch with a few of her closest friends—girls who worked the corners and the clubs, laughing over mimosas and whispering about how they’d keep business booming despite the city’s new curfew laws.

Lenny was coming from his shared apartment with Michael, his chronically underdressed, eternally tortured-artist roommate. He was on a grocery run—storm or no storm, they needed food. And luckily, his last gig paid just enough to stock their tiny fridge for the month.

Their worlds collided—literally—when they both missed the same bus.

That was the moment everything changed.

“I’m guessing you missed the bus too?” Lenny asked, his voice laced with casual curiosity as he glanced at the woman beside him.

Lucille gave a small nod, pulling a crumpled schedule from the deep pocket of her cheetah-print coat, trying to see when the next one would come.

He noticed the coat first—bold, wild, unapologetically loud. Then he noticed her. Really noticed her.

“You’re… beautiful,” he said, his voice dropping into something soft, reverent, as the rain whispered around them, soaking into their shoes and hair and hesitation.

“Thank you,” she replied smoothly, her voice low—almost startlingly so. Deep, smoky. A voice that didn’t match the curves of her hips or the cherry gloss on her lips.

It caught him off guard.

“Whoa, you sound like a dude,” he blurted, blinking in genuine surprise. But before he could stumble through an apology, she cut in, cool and practiced.

“Yes, I’m a woman. My voice is deep because I started smoking when I was four. And yes, I was born female, one hundred percent,” she said, her gaze unflinching, daring him to flinch first.

He didn’t.

He just nodded, slowly, as something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. Then, with a hint of awkward charm, he extended his hand.

“I’m Lenny,” he offered, clearing his throat.

She looked at his hand for a moment before slipping hers into his. Firm grip. Warm fingers. Then she let go and tucked her hand back into her coat.

“Lucille,” she said simply.

“So… where you headed?” he inquired, his eyes locking onto hers with a curiosity that felt more intimate than casual.

Lucille looked at him, really looked—past the soaked hoodie, past the crooked smile, and straight into his four eyes.

Okay, maybe just two. But the intensity made it feel like four.

“My apartment,” she replied coolly, her voice like velvet dragged over gravel.

A pause. Just long enough for the rain to remind them it was still there, falling between heartbeats.

“What about you?” she asked, raising a brow, her tone toeing the line between bored and intrigued.

“Grocery store,” he said with a shrug, brushing wet curls from his forehead. “Me and my roommate are starving artists… Emphasis on starving.”

Lucille gave a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling low in her chest. “Tragic.”

He grinned. “Tell me about it.”

The rain had thinned to a soft drizzle by the time they started walking—side by side under a borrowed umbrella, Lucille’s leopard-print coat brushing against Lenny’s elbow every few steps.

The city around them buzzed in muted sepia, everything soaked in that golden-grey light that only came in the late afternoon after a heavy storm. It felt like the year was 1973 and time had paused just for them—car horns distant, streets nearly empty, like the city had given them a stage.

“You ever notice how rain makes the city smell different?” Lucille asked suddenly, her voice low and thoughtful.

“Like cigarettes and wet newspapers,” Lenny replied with a smile. “But in a weirdly… nostalgic way.”

She gave a soft laugh and nodded. “Exactly.”

The grocery store wasn’t far—just a corner shop with flickering neon letters and a guy named Sal behind the counter who never smiled unless you bought something expensive. Inside, it was warm and smelled like produce, old linoleum, and soul records playing from a dusty little radio behind the register.

Lenny walked ahead slightly, grabbing a cart that squeaked with every turn of the wheels. Lucille leaned against it, guiding them down aisles like a Sunday ritual.

“Do you cook?” he asked, tossing a can of beans into the cart.

“Does reheating count?” she smirked.

“I mean, do you burn cereal?”

She grinned. “No, I burn toast. I’m classy like that.”

They moved slowly through the store, the conversation light but with something soft beneath it—something building. They argued over pasta types, shared opinions on the best brand of orange juice (“Anything with pulp is a crime,” she declared), and swapped stories about childhood breakfasts and weird roommates.

By the time they reached checkout, the cart held more than just groceries—it held the weight of something that felt almost like routine. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind of moment that didn’t feel like a first anything, but like the hundredth.

Back out on the street, they split the bags between them and walked to her apartment in companionable silence. The rain had stopped completely. The world felt rinsed clean.

Her building was old—the kind with creaky steps, chipped paint, and a lobby that still had a rotary phone nailed to the wall. They climbed the stairs slowly, their bags rustling with every step. At her door, she paused, fishing out a brass key from the depths of her coat pocket.

“This is me,” she said, unlocking it with a practiced hand.

He lingered on the threshold. “You sure it’s okay?”

She looked at him—really looked—and gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Yeah. I am.”

Her apartment was a time capsule.

Thick velvet curtains. Fringed lampshades. A record player turning lazily in the corner. Everything bathed in the warm amber glow of low light bulbs and the kind of quiet that made you forget the outside world existed.

“Make yourself at home,” she said, slipping off her coat and tossing it onto a velvet armchair.

He stood awkwardly for a second, then followed suit. She went to the kitchen and started unpacking groceries while he wandered to the record shelf, flipping through titles.

“You’ve got Marvin Gaye?” he called out.

“Of course I do,” she said. “That’s standard.”

He smiled, placing the record gently on the turntable. The soft crackle filled the room before the velvet of Let’s Get It On slid into the air. Lucille raised a brow from the kitchen.

“Subtle,” she teased.

“It was either this or Donna Summer.”

“I respect the boldness.”

They ate leftovers again—spaghetti, warmed in a pan while the wine breathed on the coffee table. They sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch, plates in laps.

The conversation deepened.

They talked about how lonely the city could be. About the weird ache that comes from being surrounded by people but feeling like a ghost. She told him about her mother’s favorite lipstick and how she never left the house without it. He talked about the first time he saw the ocean and how it made him feel small in a way that didn’t scare him.

No one tried to fill the silences. They let them stretch out, natural and unhurried. Like jazz.

After dinner, she lit a cigarette from the little tin on the windowsill and leaned out into the fire escape, the smoke curling around her like a halo.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she said softly, not looking at him.

Lenny walked over, hands in his pockets, and leaned beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her.

“I know,” he replied, matching her quiet.

She turned, their faces inches apart. “But if you did stay…”

He waited.

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Neither of them needed her to.

They didn’t kiss—not yet.

They just stood there, the city breathing around them, her cigarette burning low, the music playing in the background like the score to a film neither of them realized they were starring in.

It wasn’t love. Not quite. But it was something real.

And in 1973, on a rainy New York night, that was more than enough.

She stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of the windowsill, the ember dying with a final hiss. The city’s lights blinked below them like fireflies in a bottle, and for a moment, neither of them moved. They just stayed close—close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s arms, but not yet brave enough to close the gap entirely.

“You ever just… feel like you’re standing at the edge of something?” Lenny asked, his voice barely above the hum of the record still spinning.

Lucille turned her head, eyes searching his face. “Every damn day.”

He nodded slowly, gaze drifting back out over the city. “Me too.”

She leaned her shoulder into his, just slightly. “I think most people feel it, they just pretend not to. You can only ignore the edge for so long, though. Eventually, you either step back… or you fall in.”

“Which are you?” he asked quietly.

Lucille smiled, a soft, crooked thing, like it hurt a little to mean it. “I think I was born falling.”

They came back inside, wordless. The record had finished, the needle spinning in the empty groove. Lenny went to lift it, but Lucille stopped him.

“No,” she said gently. “Let it spin. I like the sound.”

He understood. There was something comforting in that soft, static lullaby. Like the room was exhaling.

She poured the last of the wine into two mismatched glasses—hers tall and elegant, his an old diner mug with a faded logo. They sat again, but this time closer, knees brushing, her thigh resting against his. They sipped in silence.

“You know,” she murmured, not looking at him, “I usually don’t let people up here.”

Lenny glanced at her. “Why not?”

She took a beat. “Too many ghosts.”

He didn’t press. Just let it sit.

“Are you scared of ghosts?” she asked after a while, tipping her head.

“I’m more scared of not being haunted,” he said. “At least ghosts mean something mattered once.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then reached over and took his hand. Not in a romantic way. Not yet. Just held it, like maybe she needed to remember someone was real. That she was real.

His thumb brushed over hers. That was all.

Eventually, the record stopped spinning completely.

They ended up lying on the floor, backs against the cool hardwood, staring up at the cracked ceiling like it held answers. The lamp on the side table flickered gently, casting lazy shadows.

“Tell me something,” Lucille said softly, her voice now a slow drawl of midnight.

“Okay.”

“Something true.”

He thought for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I belonged to anything,” he admitted. “Not a family, not a job… not even my own skin, sometimes.”

Lucille nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

She turned her head, her cheek pressed to the floor, and looked at him. “Your eyes are sad, you know.”

He gave a half-smile. “So are yours.”

They didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

But she reached for him again, this time sliding her fingers into his. Not pulling—just holding. He shifted slightly, close enough to hear her breathing.

And then, in that in-between space—between rain and sleep, strangers and something more—they stayed.

Two people who had been on the outside of everything for too long, letting the quiet draw them in. Letting something wordless bloom.

Outside, the streetlights buzzed. The rain had stopped. The city had quieted.

And somewhere between the ending of one record and the beginning of another, something had begun.

CLOSE NOTES

Lenny is Made by @witchy13unny

Lucille is made by @takashimakato