#Please please please let me get what i want

[enhaflixer]

CUMMING OF AGE

bsfs brother!Heeseung x f!reader - when you ask him to teach you how to masturbate. (pure porn with plot. MDNI 18+, explicit, masturbation, cunnilingus, phone sex, ANGST, fluff too so its fine.) “If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.” “And if she won’t listen…” “I’ll make her.”

You’ve always had a hate-hate relationship with masturbation.

Not the “haha I don’t know what I’m doing” kind. Not the shy, innocent kind. The kind where you tried, over and over again, and every time it ended in that same aching, pathetic way—panties soaked, fingers numb, pussy throbbing, and absolutely nothing to show for it.

No finish. No orgasm. Not even a fucking twitch of satisfaction.

You rubbed and rubbed, like everyone said to. You found your clit. You circled it. Pressed it. Flicked it. Tried soft and slow, then fast and desperate. Tried with spit, with lotion, with fucking coconut oil once. But nothing ever felt right. Just this frustrating hum of almost. Like your body was teetering on the edge of something big and just… refused to jump.

You’d end up sore. Agitated. Your legs would shake, but not the good kind. Your pussy would swell, throbbing like she was mocking you for trying.

It made you feel broken. Or worse—boring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like you’d missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.

Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. You’d hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing stars—and you’d smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.

You’d never even come close.

You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.

You’d touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your head—please, just this once, just let me finish, please—and still end up breathless, sticky, empty.

You’d cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.

You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.

But the worst part—the actual worst part—was how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldn’t leave it alone.

You were eighteen, for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.

Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.

It made you feel fucking insane.

So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed to—when it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasn’t about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.

You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.

You didn’t dare.

-

Evie—Heejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her off—was your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your school’s carefully manicured social circles.

Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.

You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.

It wasn’t unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didn’t mind. They liked knowing where you both were—liked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.

And then there was Heeseung.

Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.

When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes he’d give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes he’d walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasn’t—off to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as he’d drifted through it.

You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fast—suffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.

By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or… something.

You didn’t think about him much. He was just Evie’s brother. Part of the background. White noise.

Your focus was always Evie.

She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, “You better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,” like it was the most normal sentence in the world.

She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.

You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.

You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.

-

The house settled around you like it always did—quiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shifting—background noise you’d grown so used to, it almost felt like home.

Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, too—like her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didn’t mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.

Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.

You’d been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. You’d scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.

Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomnia—just that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.

The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.

You’d thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. You’d done it before—quiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.

Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.

It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.

You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.

For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evie’s breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.

A man’s voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.

Heeseung’s door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadn’t even realized he was home tonight.

Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watched—except this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.

There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldn’t place the sound, and you didn’t care.

Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.

“It’s not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."

“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”

The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.

Not whispered. Not dirty. Just… stated. Like a law. Like fact.

Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.

Every hair on your arm lifted. He didn’t stop there.

“And if she won’t listen…I’ll make her.”

No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.

You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You weren’t just turned on—you were caught. Cornered by something you weren’t supposed to hear and couldn’t let go of.

Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just… a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didn’t realize you were trapped in.

You didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment.

But for the first time in your life, you wondered—really wondered—what your body would feel like under instructions that weren’t your own.

-

You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldn’t spiral.

You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentary—and you almost convinced yourself you were over it.

But when the house quieted again that night—when Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of you—you gave in.

You waited a while. Just in case she wasn’t fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.

And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.

You didn’t turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.

The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evie’s shampoo still clung to the room—vanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.

No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.

The video you always came back to. The closest thing you’d ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audio—nothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.

It wasn’t him, but it didn’t have to be. Not yet.

Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.

The wetness should’ve been a good sign.

But you already knew how this would go.

You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.

Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.

There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.

You tried harder.

Tried picturing something—someone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you weren’t just Evie’s friend, like he saw something else.

That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find something—anything—that would tip you over.

But it never came.

Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.

Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your hand—and still nothing. You hadn’t cum. Not even close.

Not even fucking close.

Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.

This wasn’t working.

You couldn’t do this by yourself. Not anymore.

The shame didn’t even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseung’s room.

You didn’t remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like you’d been running—not down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.

The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didn’t even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough anything left.

You knocked.

Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.

Nothing.

The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You should’ve gone back to Evie’s room. Should’ve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Should’ve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.

Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.

Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldn’t speak. You weren’t expecting him to look like that—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like he’d just come out of the shower… or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just confused.

His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingers—still wet, still trembling—curled tighter at your side.

He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.

“You good?”

The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.

Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.

“…What?”

“I just need to know,” you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Before I say anything. It matters.”

He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or suspicious.

“No. I don’t.”

You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.

“Fuck.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“If you said yes,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, “I would’ve had an excuse not to ask you.”

That made him pause.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, “Ask me what?”

Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didn’t have the energy to dance around it.

“You said something last night,” you started, forcing yourself to look at him. “About girls who can’t finish. About how they’re not listening to their bodies.”

He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.

“I heard it,” you added. “By accident. But it’s been stuck in my head. And I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you were right.”

Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.

You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. “I tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s always the same. Nothing works. I can’t finish. I touch myself, and it just—goes nowhere.”

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time you’d had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.

But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Your next breath shook as it left you.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” you said, quieter now. “I just want to ask… if you’d tell me what to do.”

That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes dropped—lower this time—to your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.

He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. “Your hand’s still wet.”

You froze.

His voice was low, unreadable. “You tried that hard, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He stepped back.

Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.

He held your gaze.

 “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evie’s room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained world—it all drops away. There’s only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.

You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.

Heeseung’s already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forward—lazily, unbothered—until it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, he’d have a front-row seat.

Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. “Sit.”

You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know he’s seen. You’re still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.

His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.

You fidget.

Heeseung doesn’t move. “Don’t get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.”

Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.

He lifts his chin. “Tell me what you usually do.”

The question lands harder than it should. Not because it’s dirty, but because it’s so simple.

You blink. “Like… where I touch?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate. “I usually just go straight to my clit.”

“Figures.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And then what? Rub the fuck out of it ‘til it gets sore and wonder why it doesn’t work?”

Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “Don’t take it personal. That’s what most girls do. It’s not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.”

You don’t respond, but your silence is answer enough.

He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. There’s no hunger in it—not yet. Just observation. Like he’s assessing you.

“If your pussy had a voice,” he says smoothly, “she’d be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.”

You’re quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is… he’s not wrong.

He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.

“Take your time,” he says, gentler now. “You rush her, she locks up. Doesn’t matter how wet you are.”

“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.

Heeseung shrugs again, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. She.” His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.”

Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he says with a smirk, eyes dark. “Go on. Show me how you start.”

Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.

You don’t move right away.

He raises a brow. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you. That’s cool. But I need to see what you’re doing wrong.”

Your breath hitches.

Your hand moves on instinct—slow, shaky—and dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. You’re already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. It’s too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.

You rub. Once. Twice. It’s not bad. It’s what you always do.

But still—nothing clicks.

Heeseung tilts his head. “You’re too stiff.”

“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.

“Don’t be.” His voice drops half an octave. “You look hot.”

The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like he’s telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something he’s been picturing all night.

“You’re thinking too much,” he adds. “Trying to force it instead of feel it.”

Your hand stills.

He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “Try this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just… feel her.”

You hesitate, then obey.

The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.

“Feel that?”

You nod. Barely.

“That’s what she likes,” he murmurs. “You’ve been poking at her like she’s a fucking keyboard. No wonder she’s not putting out.”

You let out a breathy laugh—half scandalized, half aroused. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re soaking through your panties,” he says, deadpan.

Your breath catches. Heeseung doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.

He sits there like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s enjoying this. You’re not even sure he’s hard yet—but he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.

He lets the moment hang.

Then: “Now—slow circles. Don’t speed up unless she tells you to.”

“She doesn’t talk,” you whisper, teasing without confidence.

His gaze is heavy. Steady.

“She does,” he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. “You just haven’t been listening.”

The room feels hotter now.

Not just the air—your skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet they’re practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. It’s not graceful. It’s not some porn fantasy. It’s messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like it’s the only thing worth watching.

You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. You’re spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back again—but you’re too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you can’t look away from him.

He hasn’t blinked once.

Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like you’re just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and he’s your substitute teacher for the night.

The only thing that’s changed is his posture.

His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you don’t miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.

You’re doing this to him.

But not enough.

Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.

You’re trying. God, you’re trying.

Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. You’re listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like it’s scared to fall off the cliff it’s been building for years. Your hand’s cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like you’re close—and then it dips, again and again.

It’s good. So good.

But it’s not enough.

You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. “Still rushing her.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You are. I can see it.”

You shake your head, breath stuttering. “I’m not trying to—I swear, I’m—” You gasp. “It’s just—it’s not—”

You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussy’s pulsing, and it still feels like you’re just rubbing up against a wall.

“It’s not enough,” you breathe out, broken. “I—I can’t—fuck—she’s not listening.”

Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.

“Oh, she’s listening,” he says. “You’re just not talking to her the right way.”

You whimper. “Then tell me what to say.”

That makes his mouth twitch—just barely. Like he’s been waiting for that.

“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. “She’s tight. Warm. I feel her—pulsing. Like she wants something but—she’s not opening.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. “She wants to be filled.”

You nod.

“No,” he says. “Say it.”

Your chest heaves. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. “She wants to be filled.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“She wants to be fucking filled,” you whine. “She’s throbbing—she’s soaking—fuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.”

Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now she’s talking.”

Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everything’s soaked. You’re dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.

“She needs more,” you pant. “She’s clenching—she’s starving—”

Heeseung’s hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. “So feed her.”

You moan—high and breathy—and press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, eyes burning into you. “Look at your fucking fingers.”

You do. It’s obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.

“She’s begging,” he says softly. “And you’re finally listening.”

You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.

“She’s so fucking greedy,” you gasp. “She won’t stop pulling—I can’t—I can’t keep up—”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “She knows what she’s doing. Let her take it.”

You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until you hear yourself moan again—shameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.

Your legs spread wider. You’re not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.

You’re right there.

You’re going to break.

He’s just watching. Like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

You’re right on the edge, and this time it’s not teasing.

It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.

Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soaked—slipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your body’s trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and there’s no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussy’s leaking, twitching, clenching around nothing—and Heeseung watches like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize you’re moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.

The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.

Heeseung doesn’t say a word for a second too long.

You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.

His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like he’s reading it better than your face.

He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he can’t ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himself—and your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.

He’s so hard.

His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like it’s the only thing anchoring him in the room.

“Look at that messy little cunt.”

Your body jerks at the word. You’ve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.

Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.

“She’s drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet she’s never been this loud for you before.”

“She hasn’t,” you breathe. “She never—she never—”

“You’ve been starving her,” he says, still jerking himself lazily. “Touching her like she’s a problem instead of a fucking meal.”

Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. You’re humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.

Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “Yes. Please—I wanna cum—I need it—”

“Need what?” he pushes.

“I need her to fucking break,” you sob. “She’s clenching—she’s begging—she needs to cum, she needs it—”

“Then let her,” he growls. “Don’t fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.”

You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.

And that’s when he says it—low and hot and foul.

“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”

You snap.

Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.

It doesn’t hit you right away.

At first, there’s just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t even sound like you.

It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—harder than you thought was even possible—and your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.

Heeseung is still there.

You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not like this.

And then it fades.

That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.

What’s left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.

Reality slams back into you hard.

You’re laid out across his bed—sweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussy’s still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.

Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.

You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. “Shit—fuck.”

Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though they’re absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.

Heeseung hasn’t moved.

Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didn’t just cum your entire soul out in front of him.

You can’t meet his eyes.

He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.

“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I came. Pretty sure that’s the goal, right?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just surprised you’re acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.”

“Jesus—” you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.

Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.

“You do realize how loud you were, right?” he adds. “I thought the bed was gonna snap in half.”

“Please stop talking,” you groan, voice muffled.

“You were crying,” he says like it’s a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. “That shit was beautiful.”

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.

He doesn’t even seem fazed.

That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t realize I—um. That I could… do that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”

You shoot him a look.

Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. “You’ve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.”

You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothed—and now he’s just lounging there like you didn’t just show him the most private part of yourself.

You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.

Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. “So,” he says, tone casual. “Lesson two tomorrow?”

You blink.

“…There’s a second lesson?”

He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. “You think she’s done learning?”

Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.

-

Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.

Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didn’t think it would matter—but the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows she’s been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.

You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.

 It starts that fast—barely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someone’s new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping. 

Already you’re restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasn’t gone away. The ache stayed with you. 

That trembling throb between your legs that didn’t fade after one orgasm—or two—or three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didn’t just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone else’s bed with someone else’s voice in your ear.

You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but that’s cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a message—just to see his name.

 You scroll through the notifications like maybe he’ll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it. 

Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your body’s too hot and your thoughts won’t stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying “Good girl. She’s listening now.”

You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and it’s not casual. It’s deep. It’s mean. 

Like your pussy’s crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.

You don’t try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the message—“Can I call you?”—and hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like you’ve already crossed a line and he hasn’t even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.

No. I’ll call you.

Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.

You don’t even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. You’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt—no bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.

His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.

Low. Thick. Wrecked.

“You waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didn’t you?”

The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You can’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasn’t even seen you.

“You’re pathetic,” he breathes, and it’s not cruel—it’s reverent. Like he’s turned on by the depth of your desperation. “You left for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already starving.”

Your breath comes out shaky. “She hasn’t shut up.”

“I bet. That little pussy’s been crying for attention, hasn’t she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?”

Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. “I tried last night.”

“And?”

Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.

“…Didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because she’s not trained to your fingers. She’s trained to my voice.”

You nearly choke.

“Take the blanket off.”

You do.

“T-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.”

You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping already—your folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.

“Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You don’t answer.

“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”

You whimper. “I’m wet.”

“Where?”

Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”

“Let me hear it.”

You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.

Squish. Slick. Wet.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “She’s fucking leaking for me.”

“She won’t stop,” you pant. “She’s been clenching—she’s needy. I can’t—I can’t even think straight.”

“She doesn’t need you to think. She needs you to listen.”

You nod like he can see you.

“You touching your clit yet?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”

You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“Fuck. That’s it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.”

You do.

And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I might be,” you choke out. “I’m—I’ve been on edge all day. She’s screaming—”

“Then shut her up.”

Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere now—coating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear it—slap, slap, slap—and you know he can too.

“God, listen to her,” he says. “She’s fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.”

Your thighs start to shake.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”

“She wants to cum. So let her.”

You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothing—just your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.

“Again,” he growls. “Don’t you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.”

You keep going. Because you can’t stop. Because this is his now.

-

You don’t get a break.

Heeseung doesn’t let you.

After that first call—the one where you came so hard you swore you saw stars—you thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe you’d get to breathe. But you don’t. Because the second you wake up the next morning, there’s already a text waiting for you.

Morning. She hungry?

Your pussy clenches on reflex.

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.

Yes.

His reply is instant.

Good. edge yourself until you’re shaking. No cumming. No cheating. You’ll send me a pic of your fingers when you’re done.

That’s it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of course—you obey.

You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.

You send the photo.

Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.

He doesn’t reply until hours later.

Beautiful. Don’t clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.

That’s how it starts.

Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just a photo prompt. Sometimes it’s voice notes—low, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.

Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Don’t wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.

When you can’t call—family dinners, company in the house, a wedding event—he doesn’t complain. He just adapts.

He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.

“Are you wearing panties right now?”

“She’s wet just from this, isn’t she?”

“Put your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.”

You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.

Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.

On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. That’s all.

You cum like a trained animal.

By the end of the fourth day, you’re overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You can’t think straight without hearing his voice. You can’t fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.

He doesn’t let you get comfortable.

I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?

-

You’re at the dinner table when the text comes in.

There’s a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncle’s talking about traffic. Your mom’s pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lap—one tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.

Heeseung.

Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like that’s gonna help anything.

You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, it’s just a single message.

Don’t open this here. I’m serious.

You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.

It’s not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.

And it destroys you.

I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like she’s just been edged for an hour and she’s still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though she’s never had it. That’s how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though I’ve never fucked her. I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy she’s gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and she’s frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching. I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what I’ve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesn’t get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you can’t clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, they’d smell her. No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesn’t need permission anymore. You’re gonna leak down your leg just reading this, aren’t you? She’s already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.

You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.

You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your panties—soaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.

You spread your legs wider. There’s no stopping it. You have to.

You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.

You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.

You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like she’s starved.

You’re fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.

You don’t stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until you’re crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.

When it’s over, you’re wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like she’s still looking for him.

You snap a photo.

Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.

You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.

That’s how she’s supposed to look. Every day until you get home.

-

You don’t even knock.

You could, but what’s the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:

You better show up dripping.

And you are.

The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time you’re standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.

He opens it like he already knew you were there.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.

He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way you’re fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

Just opens the door wider and lets you in.

You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building already—your pussy knows. She’s aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.

He closes the door behind you. And waits.

You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. “I did everything.”

He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”

Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like he’s looking for confirmation.

“You leaking?”

Your breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. But you don’t hesitate.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and he’d see everything.

He doesn’t touch you.

“Show me,” he says, voice low.

Your breath hitches again—but you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.

You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your folds—dripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like it’s nothing new. Like she’s been practicing all week.

You keep your eyes on him the whole time.

And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.

Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks—deep, slow, tongue curling around them like it’s a reward.

Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.

“She tastes trained.”

You nod.

“She beg yet?”

You exhale. “She never shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”

Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.

“You want her filled?”

You nod again. “Please.”

“Not yet,” he says. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m ready—she’s so ready, I’ve been—”

“I don’t care what you think. You’re not here to make decisions. You’re here to do what I say.” He lets go of your face. “You wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.”

You scramble onto the bed.

Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.

You’re already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat that’s been building all week. You don’t try to hide it. You can’t. Your pussy’s wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. She’s been teased. Trained. Denied. You’ve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now he’s standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s finally ready to eat.

But he doesn’t touch you first.

He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside out—and finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.

And sniffs.

Deep.

He inhales like it’s a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks out—tastes it.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s been marinating in this.”

Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.

“She’s loud, too.” His voice drops lower. “I haven’t even touched her and she’s already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.”

“Heeseung—” You whimper.

“Shut up.”

He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.

You’re soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.

He just stares.

“You fucking trained her like this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.”

“She’s starving,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“I can see that.”

His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.

He doesn’t lick you.

Not yet.

He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in again—this time slower. Longer. Right at the source.

“God,” he mutters. “She fucking smells like obedience.”

You sob.

And then he spits.

Right on your pussy.

Hot. Heavy. Messy.

It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.

Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls. “She’s getting attention. She better stay still.”

And finally—finally—his tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.

But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesn’t stop.

He eats you like a man starved. Like you’ve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhere—tongue licking up everything you’ve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.

“That’s it,” he groans against your clit. “Let me taste five fucking days of begging.”

You cry out, thighs clenching.

But he slaps your pussy with his hand—sharp, wet, punishing.

“Open.”

You go limp. You can’t fight it. You don’t want to.

He eats you like it’s personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clit’s too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesn’t care. He mumbles into you—filth you can barely understand because he’s too focused on devouring.

“She’s so fucking loud. She won’t shut up. You hear that?”

You do.

Your pussy makes noise with every lick—squelching, wet, obscene.

“I didn’t even fuck her yet,” he growls. “And she’s already creaming.”

You try to cum. You try.

But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.

“Nope. She’s not getting fed all the way until I’ve felt her on my cock.”

You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.

Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“She’s ready,” he says. “She’s starving.”

He’s already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.

Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.

He shoves his fingers past your lips—soaked in your own slick, the same fingers he’s been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongue—salty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.

“Swallow it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face. “That’s what obedience tastes like.”

You do. Of course you do.

Because you’d do anything he says.

And he knows it.

He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forward—kneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like he’s been waiting years for this moment.

You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. You’re already open, already dripping, already fucked dumb—but none of it’s going to prepare you for this.

“Look at her,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. “She’s fucking begging.”

“She wants it,” you pant, voice shaking. “Please—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish.

He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.

The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans. “She’s trained alright.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.

She’s full.

Finally fucking full.

Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like she’s been starving for it—and she has. Every inch of him hits something you didn’t know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. You’re soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she is.”

“She’s yours,” you gasp. “She’s a hole—your hole—she’s been waiting for this—”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You scream.

“You’re goddamn right she’s mine,” he snarls. “You trained her just to take my cock.”

You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.

He starts to fuck you in earnest—hard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.

Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.

So you lift your head—try to kiss him.

You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.

He pulls back.

His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.

“No,” he says coldly. “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

Your breath shatters.

“Kisses are for good girls,” he spits. “You’re just a trained little hole.”

Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.

“That’s all you are now, isn’t it?” he sneers. “A stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.”

Tears spill over your cheeks.

And you cum. Just like that.

From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.

Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like he’s trying to reprogram you from the inside out.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.”

You’re sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.

“Fucking knew it,” he groans. “You were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.”

He leans down, mouth right by your ear.

“But don’t ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you don’t get kissed.”

You’re already limp when he flips you.

Your body gives out so easily—shoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. You’re crying, still, but there’s no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothing—because he pulled out.

You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.

“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.

You nod into the pillow.

“Say it.”

“She’s empty,” you whimper. “She’s twitching—she wants you back in—she’s not done—she’s never done—”

You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.

He doesn’t give you the rest.

You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.

“You trained her to take it,” he says. “Now you’re gonna train her to keep it.”

He presses forward.

His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. You’re still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesn’t care.

He starts fucking you again like he owns you.

The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like she’s just a hole to conquer. You don’t even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being my little fucktoy?”

“Yeah, you do. You’re trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when she’s told. Cries when she’s full. Cums from being humiliated.”

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m yours—I’m your toy—just your fucktoy—use me—use her—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her she’s nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.”

He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.

“She’s so loud,” he snarls. “So fucking wet. She’s gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you cum again.

It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.

You scream—clawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to.

He fucks you through it—harder.

“Let her break,” he growls. “Let her fucking split.”

And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesn’t even slow down.

He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more time—and stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.

You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.

He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.

Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.

You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth’s open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.

“You’re not starved anymore,” he whispers. “She’s fed now. Finally.”

You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.

“She’s still twitching,” he murmurs. “She wants to sleep like this.”

-

You wake up to the burn in your thighs.

The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skin’s flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel it—him.

Still there. Still inside you.

You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your body—but the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.

A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.

His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. He’s asleep—soft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.

But something else creeps in too.

You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.

“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”

It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.

His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.

You almost regret asking.

Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, “I’m still fucking inside you, you brat. You think I’m gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?”

You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulder—and his mouth is already there.

No hesitation. He kisses you hard.

Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like she’s reacting to the kiss like it’s touch.

His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means it—like you’ve earned it—like he’s been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.

You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.

Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasn’t pulled out. He’s still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didn’t get to be last night.

His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he’s re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cunt’s trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesn’t even know how to be empty anymore.

And then you hear it.

“Heeseung?”

It’s distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.

“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”

Evie. She’s awake. The breath dies in your throat.

Your eyes fly open. Heeseung’s hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.

“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.

Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like he’s trying to figure out his next move in real time.

“Y/N?” she calls again. “Where’d you go?”

You scramble out of the bed like you’ve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. You’re still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.

Heeseung’s already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.

You’re panicking. “Do I go back to her room? What do I do—what if she’s in the hallway—?”

Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead once—quick, mocking, cocky—like this is funny to him.

“Bathroom. Now.”

You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.

His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.

“Yo.”

“You seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasn’t in bed. Her stuff’s still there though.”

Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.

“Nah, haven’t seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t text me.”

“She probably didn’t want to wake you.”

You’re crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.

“Whatever. Tell her I’m making pancakes.”

“Will do.”

Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.

“You owe me.”

You punch his chest.

He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low. “You’ll pay me back tonight."

-

It’s early.

Evie’s downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when she’s in a good mood.

You’re in Heeseung’s lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His back’s against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and you’re grinding slowly—hips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.

You’re not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.

Just slow, controlled rolls—like you’re milking him without giving yourself away.

“You sound like you want her to know,” he whispers against your throat.

You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.

“Then be quiet, baby. Or I’ll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you won’t cum at all.”

You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.

“If she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.”

You do. Barely.

You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for it—and Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.

Downstairs?

Evie sings along to the chorus.

-

It’s disgusting.

There’s no other word for it.

You’re on all fours, face buried in Heeseung’s mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you open—and the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.

You’re whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.

“Fuck, she’s drooling for it,�� he mutters into your pussy. “She wants both. She’s ready. One in her ass, two in her cunt—you wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?”

Your face is soaked. Your body’s trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she wants.”

“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want you to open my ass—wanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoy—please—please—”

And then—

“Y/N?”

You hear your name like it’s being spoken through a tunnel.

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.

And then you both look up.

In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

Evie.

Her face doesn’t go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.

She stares at your body—at your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseung’s hand buried between your cheeks, your best friend’s brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.

And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.

Her whole body jolts forward like she’s about to puke right there in the hallway.

“Oh my—fucking—god—” she chokes. “What the—what the FUCK—”

She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.

“No—no—no—no, no, no—”

She’s panicking.

Can’t breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.

“Evie—” you start, voice already wet. “Evie, please—please just listen—”

“DON’T.”

The scream hits like a slap.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t—don’t even say my fucking name—”

You’re sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.

Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.

“Heejoo—”

“DON’T. CALL ME THAT.” Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. “You’re my fucking brother.”

She looks at you. Like she doesn’t even know you.

And then her expression cracks completely.

Her face contorts—pain, betrayal, disgust, hatred—all in one devastating collapse.

“You were inside her,” she whispers, and her voice breaks. “You had your—your—you were licking her while you were fingering her ass—”

“You’re both fucking insane.”

You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.

“Evie—please—please just let me explain—”

She flinches.

Flinches.

Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.

She looks empty.

“Don’t come near me.”

Her voice is flat now. Robotic.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even fucking breathe in my direction.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. She steps back.

Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.

“You’re both dead to me.”

-

​​You don’t remember the walk home.

You don’t remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You don’t remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floor—hoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocket—and trying to breathe without choking on it.

Because it doesn’t stop. The image. Her face.

Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.

She meant it. Every word.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking breathe in my direction.”

She meant it.

You try to text her that night. You don’t even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says “I’m sorry.” One that says nothing at all.

They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.

He doesn’t text either. You don’t even know if he can.

The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.

It never comes.

But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.

Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like it’s expecting to be filled.

Some nights you wake up sweating—panting, pussy twitching—because you dreamed of his voice again.

You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.

Even after Evie’s face broke in half at the sight of you—wet, spread open, her brother’s finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.

You still miss him. And that’s the part that makes you sick.

-

It’s been nearly two weeks since you watched Evie recoil in that doorway, hand clamped over her mouth like she was actually going to vomit.

You can’t erase the memory of her face—how disgust bled into betrayal, how her gaze slid right past you like you didn’t exist, then landed on Heeseung as if he were some twisted stranger in her own home. You tried to bury the image, tried to make it small and unimportant, but it lives in your chest now, swelling every time you breathe.

You haven’t talked to either of them since. Not one word to her, not a single text to him.

It’s as if the world paused on that moment: her voice ripping through the room, your body half-naked, his spit drying on your thighs, your stomach churning with guilt.

Now the doorbell rings, and somehow you already know who’s on the other side.

You open it slowly, hesitation weighing on every movement of your hand.

Heeseung stands there in a wrinkled hoodie, dark circles stamped beneath his eyes. He looks thinner—like the shape of him has caved in from the inside out. His hair is unstyled, his shoulders hunched, and the way he stares at you feels desperate.

Neither of you speak for a few seconds, the silence pressing into your lungs.

Then you break it, because you can’t handle him looking at you like that. “Why are you here?” Your voice comes out flat, echoing the numbness you’ve been living in.

Heeseung swallows, gaze skittering between your face and the ground.

“I had to see you.”

The words feel like they’re meant to fix something, but all they do is twist the knife. You give a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“You already saw enough.”

He exhales shakily, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his neck.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I know that’s not—there’s nothing I can—” He trails off, struggling, guilt carved into every line of his face. When he finally speaks again, his voice strains.

“You think we haven’t replayed it a hundred fucking times?” he asks. “The door. The blanket. You moaning. Me—God—we were still fucking with each other right there, even when she—”

“Stop.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it.”

“We saw her face,” his voice keeps going, low and fast and pained. “We saw it, and we still didn’t stop, like fucking animals. I see it every time I close my eyes. I hear her say my name like I was never hers, like you were never her friend.”

You speak,

“I can’t look at you without hearing her gag.”

The confession slashes the air, and his lips part like you’ve slapped him.

“I can’t hear your name without remembering what it felt like to be in her house, in her family, doing… that, while she thought I was asleep down the hall.”

For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then he forces himself to speak, voice cracking.

“I know. I fucking know, and I hate that we didn’t let go even when we heard her. I hate that she looked at us like we were monsters. I hate that part of me still wanted to stay inside you, and part of you still wanted me there, when we should’ve both stopped.”

You close your eyes, replaying Evie’s strangled gasp in your head, recalling the numb disbelief that followed when she told you not to speak, not to look, not to fucking breathe in her direction.

“I can’t talk to you,” you whisper, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I can’t even hear your name without feeling sick.”

He swallows and nods, like he’s been waiting for those exact words. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s about to shatter. “I won’t—if you never want to see me again, I understand.” He drags in a breath that rattles in his chest. “I just needed to know you were… alive.”

For a moment, you want to ask him if he’s okay too, if he’s been eating or sleeping, if he wakes up sweating like you do. But you lock it down, because you can’t afford to care right now.

“Well,” you say, and your voice is colder than you intend, “now you’ve seen me. Congratulations.”

A faint tremor passes through him, and he nods once. There’s nothing else. No lecture, no pleading. He just steps back, shoulders slumped, and turns away.

-

It happens in the grocery store, of all places. You’re pushing a half-empty cart down the cereal aisle, trying not to think about how much quieter life has been since you lost your best friend and the boy you broke her heart with. You’re scanning the shelves for something to distract you when you catch sight of a familiar figure at the other end of the row. 

Your heart lurches, your fingers tightening on the cart handle as your stomach flips. 

Because there, frowning at the boxes of cereal, is Evie—or Heejoo, or however she wants to be called now. You don’t have time to decide whether you should turn and run or force a hollow smile. She glances up, and your eyes meet. Neither of you moves.

 The aisle feels too narrow. Her cart sits between you, an invisible barrier.

She looks different—her hair is shorter or maybe just pulled back in a careless ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes, shoulders tense. She seems hollowed out in the same way you feel. 

Some part of you wants to say hey or I miss you or please talk to me, but the words dissolve in your throat. She’s the one who steps forward first, letting her cart roll behind her. Her heels click on the tile, echoing your every heartbeat.

“Having fun?” she asks, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as a thinly-veiled jab.

You grip the handle of your cart, mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“Evie—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, eyes flicking away like the name itself stings. “You don’t get to pretend we’re okay. You don’t get to act like we’re still friends.”

Her arms fold across her chest, nostrils flaring with each breath, and you feel your own pulse jump in your neck. “I—I’m sorry,” you manage, voice trembling. It’s not enough, you know that.

She scoffs, a breathy, humorless sound. “That’s it? You’re sorry? You think that magically fixes everything?” She gestures sharply, and you notice how tightly she’s clenching her fists. “You screwed around with my brother like it was nothing, and I walked in on—” Her voice breaks, face twisting as she fights off the memory. “I was just the idiot friend who never saw it coming, right?”

Shame flares in your cheeks. You hold your ground, though it hurts to meet her eyes. “I know I betrayed you,” you say. “We—God, I don’t even have the words for how messed up it was. We both knew better. We both let it happen.”

Her hand lifts to cut you off, shaking with the effort. “You think it’s just that you hurt me?” Her voice wobbles between anger and heartbreak. “You hurt him too, you realize that? He was my brother, you were my best friend, and you both blew yourselves up in front of me. Like you had no idea what it would cost.”

Your stomach knots in a way you haven’t felt before. She’s right. It wasn’t just her—it wasn’t just you. It was all three of you, tangling and twisting until it snapped. “I know,” you say more quietly. “And we’re all paying for it. He’s… he’s not okay. I’m not okay. And you’re definitely not okay. There’s no part of this that isn’t broken.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you think that helps? Hearing you say it’s broken doesn’t change the fact that I can’t even look at either of you without wanting to scream.”

You bow your head, voice almost inaudible. “I wish I could take it back.”

She swallows, and for a fraction of a second, the hostility in her eyes flickers with pain. “Well, you can’t.” Her grip tightens on the cart handle until her knuckles whiten, and she exhales shakily. 

“I want my brother back, you know. I want my friend back. But I don’t get either of those things, because you two decided to… to destroy what we had.”

Your throat closes up, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She stares for another few seconds, jaw clenched as she holds herself together. Then she moves around you, snatching her cart by the handle, the wheels squeaking in protest. 

“Enjoy the produce,” she mutters under her breath, voice dripping with bitterness as she passes.

-

It doesn’t happen overnight.

 There’s no single conversation that wipes the slate clean, no perfect gesture that makes Evie’s betrayal vanish, no magic wand that repairs the gaping wound in your chest. 

But over time—slow, grudging, step by hesitant step—you all begin to realize that staying in this darkness is killing you. Staying strangers, orbiting the same guilt without looking one another in the eye, is worse than facing the truth. And that truth is messy, fragile, and riddled with scars.

It begins with Evie texting you, late at night, a week after the grocery store encounter. 

Just three words: We need to talk.

You stare at the screen for a solid minute, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of your chest. 

Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay. 

That’s all. No apology, no second-guessing, just acceptance. You wait for her to say when or where, but she doesn’t text back until the next afternoon, telling you to meet her at the park near her house. 

And then she clarifies: Just you.

You show up after sunset, nerves jangling in every limb, expecting hostility, or silence, or both. 

Instead, you find Evie sitting on a faded wooden bench under a flickering streetlight. She looks smaller than you remember, knees drawn up under her chin, arms hugging herself for warmth. As you approach, you open your mouth to say something—anything—but she holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she says, voice tight. “Not yet.”

You stand there, awkward and guilty, waiting for her permission to speak.

She lowers her hand and sighs, staring at a patch of dead grass near her feet. “I asked you here because… this is killing me,” she mutters. “Being this angry all the time. Hating you. Hating him. I can’t keep up with it. It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.”

Her words break something inside your chest, and your throat goes thick. You sit down on the far edge of the bench, leaving a wide space between you, unsure if you’re allowed to be any closer. “I… I know,” you manage, voice unsteady. “I feel it too. It’s like I’m rotting on the inside.”

She nods once, gaze flicking to you before sliding away again. “I’m not saying I forgive you,” she warns, and you nod, heart pounding. “I’m just saying I don’t want this to be my life anymore. This—rage. It’s not me.”

She exhales, shoulders curling inward. “And I loved you. You were my best friend. And he… he’s my brother, and I loved him too. So how did we all end up here?”

Silence lingers. You fight back tears that threaten to spill. 

“We messed up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “We both did. Me and him. We used your house, your trust, your everything for our own messed-up… needs, and it was stupid and selfish and we ended up shattering everything.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I know none of that fixes it. But I swear to you, we never wanted to hurt you.”

Evie laughs bitterly, a hollow sound. “Well, you did. And I can’t pretend you didn’t.” 

Her gaze shifts to the distance, to the halo of light under the streetlamp. “But I don’t know if I can keep hating you. Or him.” 

She hesitates, words coming out slow. “I saw him last week. He looked—God, I hardly recognized him. Like a ghost of himself.”

You nod, biting back the urge to defend him or to ask a dozen questions. “He’s… not doing great,” you say simply, remembering his hollow cheeks, the way his voice cracked when he said he couldn’t sleep.

She wraps her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly. “Neither are we,” she points out. “None of us are okay. And I guess that’s what I’m realizing. That we’re all stuck in the same crater, staring at the same wreckage. Maybe we shouldn’t be trying to fix it on our own.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “What do you want to do?” you ask, feeling the weight of her words press into your chest.

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she looks directly at you, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. “I want us to talk,” she says. “All three of us. In one place. I want us to put it all on the table, no hiding, no running out. Because if there’s any chance of moving forward—together or apart—we have to face it."

“I’ll text him,” she says, voice ragged. “Don’t expect miracles. But I can’t do this alone.”

A teardrop escapes your lashes and slips down your cheek. “Neither can I,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t respond, just stands up and motions for you to follow. 

-

Evie’s living room is dimly lit, and the air feels thicker than it should—as if everything you’ve said to each other in the last hour is still hovering in the space between. Outside, it’s already dark, the muffled hum of passing cars bleeding in through the windows. You’re all drained—physically, emotionally—yet no one moves to leave. Not yet. It’s not finished.

Evie is perched on the armchair, knees drawn close to her chest. You’re on one end of the couch, Heeseung on the other, and there’s still a gulf of guilt and confusion separating you. But you can feel the conversation building toward something bigger than apologies or confessions of regret.

Evie tugs at the sleeves of her sweater. She glances between you and her brother, mouth pinched tight, but her voice is gentler than before.

“I’m not pretending this is easy,” she begins, clearing her throat. “We’ve all hurt each other. I just want to know what you… what you both actually feel.” Her gaze settles on you, question clear in her eyes. “Do you two even care about each other beyond… beyond whatever it was you were doing?”

You swallow, your mouth dry. This is the moment you’ve been pushing down for weeks, refusing to think about. The reason you woke up gasping sometimes, alone in your bed, missing a warmth you never should have craved in the first place. You take a shaky breath, feeling your pulse hammer in your temples.

“I—” you begin, then stop. Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to speak. “I’m in love with him.”

It comes out bare, unpolished, stripped of excuses. You feel the words echo in your chest, leaving you vulnerable. Across the room, Evie’s eyes widen for half a second, and you can see her guard tighten, just a bit.

Heeseung exhales sharply, his head snapping up. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus on the floor, heart pounding.

“I know,” you continue, voice trembling, “that he might not feel the same way. I know we started this all wrong, that I messed up your trust, that I hurt you”—you glance at Evie—“and maybe I don’t deserve a happy ending. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t love him just because I’m ashamed of how we got here.”

Evie inhales like she’s bracing for another blow, her arms tightening around her knees.

“You’re saying you love him, even if he doesn’t love you back?” she asks, carefully, like she’s afraid of the answer.

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been caged in your ribs for months.

“Yes. It’s not… it’s not his responsibility. If it’s one-sided, that’s on me.” You glance fleetingly at Heeseung, face flushing. “I don’t expect anything from him, or from you. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I needed to say it out loud.”

Silence envelops the room, charged with tension. Heeseung is staring at you, eyes wide and glossy, like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. Evie shifts, chewing on the inside of her lip.

Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.

“You… love me?”

You manage a small, trembling nod. “I do,” you say, meeting his gaze at last. “And if you don’t love me back, that’s okay. I know how messed up this is. I’m ready to… to accept that.”

He looks startled, as if no part of him expected you to be okay with that possibility. His hands flex on his knees, knuckles blanching. Then he breathes out, shoulders sagging.

“God,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievably stupid.”

You flinch, heart jolting—though there’s no real malice in his tone, only a shaky awe and raw disbelief that seems to be tying him in knots. He forces himself to meet Evie’s eyes for a flicker of a second, as if silently asking for permission to go on.

“Don’t call her that,” Evie snaps, voice quivering at the edges. She fixes him with a sharp glare, arms folded tight across her chest. “I don’t care how you meant it—she’s not stupid, and you don’t get to insult her in front of me.”

“Shut the fuck up Evie, one second,” He turns to you, “Because you think I’m not in love with you? That I’d leave you hanging with all this guilt?”

Your heart stutters, the floor tilting under you. “Heeseung…”

“I’m in love with you too,” he says, and the words hang in the air with tangible weight. “I can’t believe you’d be ready to walk away, believing it was one-sided. That you’d… accept it. God, do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you in so much pain, thinking I don’t feel the same?”

A soft sound escapes your throat—some blend of relief and shock—and tears gather at the edges of your vision. Across the room, Evie exhales shakily, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You can see the swirl of emotions crossing her features: anger, hurt, jealousy, and underneath it all, a lingering care for you both.

Heeseung scrubs a hand over his face, then looks to Evie, voice trembling.

“I love her. I know I messed up. We messed up. We never should’ve lied. But I can’t take back how I feel.”

Evie drags in a deep breath. She pushes herself up from the armchair, pacing a short line across the living room. Her head is down, hands in her hair. When she finally looks at you both, there’s pain in her eyes, but not the same raw fury as before.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “You two…” She chews the inside of her cheek. “I hate what you did. I hate how you did it. But if you love each other—really love each other—I can’t tell you not to.”

 Her shoulders slump. “I want to be angry forever, but… seeing you like this, I—” She presses her lips together, tears brimming, then sets her jaw. “I guess I just want us to find a way to exist without destroying each other.”

A thick silence fills the space. Your chest feels ready to burst from conflicting emotions—gratitude, guilt, longing, terror. You look at Evie and see the ghost of the best friend you once knew, who might be willing to stand beside you again one day, even if it won’t ever be the same.

You open your mouth.

“I know it won’t be easy,” you say softly. “I don’t expect you to forgive everything in one night. But maybe… maybe we can start moving forward?”

Evie dashes a tear off her cheek and gives a tiny nod.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

Heeseung watches her, watches you, then rises from the couch. He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. You stand up, heart pounding, and drift closer. Neither of you quite meets in the middle, leaving a careful gap where all your remorse hangs. But it’s less than before.

Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.

“I can’t stay down here with you two being… whatever you are. I need time, okay?”

You nod quickly.

“Of course.”

Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.

“Anything you need.”

She steps back, wiping her eyes, and there’s a hint of a weary smile ghosting across her face, like she’s relieved but not sure how to show it.

“You two can talk, or… or go, or do whatever. I just…” Her breath catches. “I’m gonna go upstairs. That’s all I can handle right now.”

You don’t stop her.

Then you turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, a tremulous hope fluttering in your chest. He lifts a hand—tentative, like he’s scared to break you—and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin.

He exhales shakily.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words raw with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything.”

You nod, voice catching in your throat as you rest your hand over his.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “But I love you, and maybe… that’s something we can start with.”

His eyes close in something like relief, and he presses a soft, uncertain kiss to your temple. It isn’t a triumphant moment, not the kind of romantic victory you might’ve once imagined. It’s tender, laced with guilt and fear. But it’s also real—genuine and fragile, the only piece of warmth you’ve had in a long time.

-

Things shift slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. You and Heeseung start keeping your distance whenever Evie’s around—no subtle hand-holding, no lingering touches, certainly no sneaking off to lock yourselves behind the nearest door. 

It’s not that you’re ashamed of each other; it’s that you can’t stand the thought of rubbing your relationship in her face. You both know you’re lucky she’s even letting you in the same room without storming out.

So you dial it back. You let your bodies stop running the show. 

It’s harder than you expect—he still sets your nerves on fire by simply looking at you—but you remind yourself that Evie’s feelings matter, that you owe her more than just half-hearted consideration. You give her space, which means giving yourselves space too. 

No sex. No heavy make-out sessions. No pressed-up-against-a-wall confessions. Just… time and gentle contact.

Heeseung seems as restless as you. 

Sometimes, when it’s late and you’re on a phone call—whispering so Evie won’t hear through the walls—he sounds downright desperate. 

You can hear his breath catch when you say you miss him, can practically feel the tension radiating through the receiver. 

Yet both of you agree: this is how it has to be for now. If you want Evie to believe that what you have is more than just an addiction to each other’s bodies, you need to show her you can exist outside a bed.

So you go on dates. Real dates. Movie theaters, yes, but also bookstore trips, late-night drives to nowhere, strolling through a local fair when it rolls into town. 

You hold hands only if you’re well away from Evie’s neighborhood—fearful that any small sign of affection might break the thin thread of tolerance she’s extended. 

The first time you walk along the riverside in the evening, sipping cheap coffee from a convenience store, it hits you that you’ve never really done this part before: the tentative, day-to-day romance of building a real relationship. It’s both comforting and nerve-wracking. 

You can feel the charge sparking under your skin every time he smiles at you, like you’re seconds away from losing your careful resolve. 

But you don’t. Neither of you wants to risk undoing the fragile progress with Evie.

And that progress is slow, but present. 

She doesn’t cringe as much when you and Heeseung enter a room together. 

She no longer flinches if you happen to stand on the same side of the kitchen.

 Maybe sometimes she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t snap. You see the tension in her shoulders when you’re all in the same space, though—like she’s bracing for some new betrayal. 

You can’t blame her. You still offer to leave the moment you sense her discomfort rising. Surprisingly, she’s started telling you to stay.

But the real sign that things might be healing comes one weekend night when Evie texts you, out of the blue:

Girls’ night?

She doesn’t dress it up with a cute emoji or an explanation; it’s bare bones, almost clinical. And you stare at your phone with your heart hammering, wondering if this is a test, or maybe a begrudging olive branch. 

You answer with a shaky yes, and spend the next few hours trying not to read too much into it. You tell Heeseung you’ll be hanging out with Evie, and he just smiles—wide and genuine, telling you to have fun, to text him if you need anything.

Evie’s room hasn’t changed much since the night you snuck out of it to see Heeseung. The layout is the same, the posters the same, the bedspread the same. It all feels loaded with history. 

She sits cross-legged on her bed, handing you a soda—no alcohol tonight, no false bravado. You sense she wants you both stone-cold sober for whatever might be said. 

There’s an awkward pause, and then she gestures for you to sit, too.

For a while, conversation comes in bursts: updates about random classmates, stories from her day at work, small talk about the show you both used to binge-watch together. It’s stiff, but not hostile. 

She picks at her blanket, and you notice how she won’t hold your gaze for too long. Yet each minute that passes without snapping or bitterness feels like a victory.

Eventually, she slides a bag of nail polish across the bed toward you. “You, um… you still like doing this, right? It’s been a while,” she mumbles, glancing at your nails. 

It’s such a small gesture, but it makes your throat tighten. You nod, and she exhales something that might be relief. 

For a solid hour, the two of you paint and chatter, as if practicing how to be friends again. Her shoulders are less rigid. You’re careful not to misstep. Neither of you mentions Heeseung.

At least not directly. But you feel his presence in the air, the unspoken pivot point around which your every interaction revolves. It’s only when Evie finally fixes you with a long, assessing look, half-concern and half-uncertainty, that the moment arrives.

“Are you two, like… okay?” she asks. Her voice is laced with discomfort, but there’s no hatred in it. “You said no more sneaking around. But are you—happy?”

You swallow hard, carefully blowing on your newly painted nails. “We’re… doing our best,” you say. “Trying to be good for each other. Not just physically.”

She nods, lips twisting like she’s turning over your words in her mind. “I guess… that’s what I wanted to know,” she admits softly. “It still weirds me out sometimes, but I’d rather it matter to you than be some… fling.”

A wave of gratitude surges in your chest, making it hard to speak. You nod. “It matters,” you whisper. “I swear.”

She blinks a few times, then sets her nail polish aside. The tension in her shoulders relaxes just enough that her spine curves against the headboard, more comfortable than you’ve seen her in weeks. “Good,” she murmurs, tone stilted but earnest. “Don’t… don’t make me regret trying to rebuild this, okay?”

Your own shoulders slump in relief. “I won’t,” you promise. Your voice shakes with the weight of it. “And if I ever do, you can—and should—kick my ass.”

That draws a small, genuine laugh from her—a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like ages. She nods, letting the humor fill the space that was once suffocating with tension. “Deal,” she says.

You stay up later than expected—talking about nonsense, painting your nails in mismatched colors, occasionally lapsing into awkward silences. 

But each time, one of you breaks it before the air can go stale. By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve settled into a strange new normal: not quite what you were before the betrayal, but not strangers anymore. Something between you is mending, fragile but real.

When you leave, she walks you to the front door. It’s still weird, stepping out into the hallway where so much damage happened. 

But Evie’s behind you, not in front, and you can’t help feeling that the dynamic has changed in a way that actually might last. You glance back at her, and though she still looks tired, she doesn’t look hostile or betrayed. Maybe just… cautious. It’s enough.

“Night,” she says, one hand resting on the doorknob.

“Night,” you reply, voice quiet. “Thanks, again.”

She nods and closes the door gently behind you—no slamming, no huffing. Just a simple, private goodbye.

 As you slip into the night, you realize you’re smiling, mind already whirring with what you’ll tell Heeseung when you see him next. You catch yourself wondering if you’ll meet up for another date soon. Or if you’ll just call him on the way home, excitedly spilling the details of your slow but tangible progress with Evie.

-

The new place is barely furnished. A couch that’s still covered in plastic. A mattress on the floor. Takeout containers littering the kitchen counter. The floorboards creak with every step. The windows are wide open, and there are no curtains yet. It’s not home—not really—but it’s his. 

And most importantly, it’s finally, blessedly, fucking private.

When he opens the door and lets you in, he doesn’t kiss you right away. He just watches you step inside like you’re something he’s trying to memorize. His hands stay in the pocket of his hoodie. His jaw’s tight. His eyes flicker to the bag in your hand, then to your shoes, then up your legs so slowly it makes you feel exposed even though you’re still fully dressed.

You don’t say anything at first. You set the wine down on the counter. You take in the space—empty and echoing—but your skin’s already buzzing. You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, and something shifts.

He clears his throat.

“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, voice low. “Not really.”

You turn to look at him. “No.”

There’s a beat.

“Can I?”

You nod.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

His hands are on your face before you can blink, warm and rough and needing. The kiss starts soft, but only for a breath. Then it turns—hungry, desperate, filthy. Your back hits the counter with a thud, his tongue already in your mouth, his body pressing into yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your lips.

You moan into him, and he groans, deep in his throat, like the sound broke whatever shred of self-control he was hanging onto.

“You have no idea,” he pants, mouth hot against your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you in peace.”

Your shirt’s pulled up before you can answer, his mouth already sucking marks down your neck. His hands are everywhere—gripping your tits through your bra, unbuttoning your jeans, fingers slipping into your waistband like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

You gasp as his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through your underwear, his breath catching when he feels the heat there.

“Already wet?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Fucking knew it.”

He yanks your jeans down to your ankles, then sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile without another word. His hands push your legs apart, pulling one up to rest over his shoulder. And when his mouth presses to the soaked fabric of your panties, you cry out—sharp, helpless, needy.

“You wore these knowing I’d take them off with my teeth, didn’t you?” he growls, dragging the fabric aside with his nose, his tongue already lapping through your folds like he’s been waiting for this for months.

You can barely breathe. One hand flies to the counter for balance, the other fists in his hair. He licks you with obscene, wet sounds, groaning into your pussy like the taste is sending him over the edge. You grind against his face shamelessly, whining when he flattens his tongue and drags it up through your slit, over and over again.

“Fuck, Heeseung—please—”

He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your clit. “What do you need, baby?” he pants, thumb spreading it around with tight, deliberate pressure. “You want me to make you cum with my mouth like a good little whore? Is that it?”

You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.

“I missed this pussy,” he mutters, diving back in. “Missed how fucking loud she is.”

And she is. Your pussy’s wet, sloppy, noisy, every flick of his tongue echoing off the bare walls. You cum hard, legs shaking around his shoulders, crying out his name as your vision blurs.

But he’s not done.

He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabs you by the waist and turns you around, bending you over the counter.

“No more pretending,” he growls in your ear. “No more quiet. You’re gonna scream for me this time.”

He pulls your panties down and spreads you open, groaning like a man unhinged.

“God, you’re dripping. You fucking missed this too, didn’t you?”

You try to answer, but he’s already stroking his cock against your folds, rubbing the head through the mess between your legs, smearing it everywhere.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes—yes, I missed it—fuck, Heeseung, I missed your cock—”

He sinks into you in one sharp, brutal thrust, and you wail.

No condom. No pause. Just the stretch of him filling you up in one smooth, devastating stroke.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re fucking swallowing me.”

You’re moaning, writhing, drooling onto the counter. He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t give you time. He fucks you—relentless, pounding, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment you first touched him.

Your ass slaps against his thighs with every thrust. Your pussy is loud, the kind of wet, messy squelch that would embarrass you if you could think.

He slaps your ass hard, making you jolt forward. “Listen to her,” he growls. “She’s been crying for me.”

You don’t stop him. You beg for more.

He grabs your arms and pulls you back onto him, using your own body to fuck you harder.

“Keep taking it,” he snarls. “Be my good little cumrag, just like you used to be.”

You scream. You scream for him.

You cum again, sobbing into the crook of your arm, your entire body trembling.

He pulls out and flips you around, lifts you up onto the counter again, and kisses you like he’s devouring you from the inside out. Your legs are trembling so hard you can barely hold them up, but he spreads them open and spits straight onto your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers, moaning when you jolt at the sensitivity.

“Wanna fuck you on the floor next,” he mutters against your lips. “Wanna fuck you on the mattress, on the couch, against every wall. Wanna ruin this apartment with the sound of your pussy screaming for me.”

You grab his face, breath ragged. “Then do it.”

He throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the mattress on the floor, where he fucks you in every position he’s ever imagined. He keeps you cockdrunk and leaking. When your voice gives out, he fucks you in silence. When your legs stop working, he props them up and keeps going. And when he finally cums—inside you, deep, claiming—he doesn’t pull out.

He just collapses on top of you, both of you drenched in sweat and slick and the aftermath of something feral.

You can’t move.

You don’t want to.

You just lie there, shaking, full, used, satisfied in a way that makes you dizzy.

Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.

“I’m never being patient again.”

-

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @beariegyu @zzhengyu @annybah @seonhoon @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3

[moonwoodhollow]

Spice Market №2—a San Myshuno Shell by Moonwoodhollow. Spice Market №1 was definitely in need of a neighbouring lot, which would fit just as well as the first lot into the Spice Market and I hope I did it justice! While I wanted both lots to go well together, each one of them needed to have distinctive characteristics so for this lot you'll also get two 'classic' brownstones + a former harbor factory. Oh and 6 empty shops/businesses that you can fill with whatever you like!

More screenshots, info + download link under the cut!

So what do you get?

Spice Market №2 is a 30x30 lot best placed in San Myshuno in the Spice Market neighbourhood. The lot is currently set as a residential lot, but you could set it as a residential rental, or with the new pack combine a residential lot with a business. The lot consists of 1 apartment, that comprises 2 floors. The factory could potentially be used as a residential space as well, it has 2 rooftop terraces and consists of 2 floors. The 2 brownstones have 3 floors and a rooftop terrace each.

-> a tip: The brownstone townhouses aren't very big, because the size of the lot wouldn't permit it, but if you'd like to play with them and have more than 2 sims, I'd advise you to combine the 2 brownstones into one home. That way it should be more spacious.

There are also 6 businesses/shops/cafés/restaurants/etc. shells. 1 of these is in the basement, while the others are all on the 1st floor and potentially have more floors.

I also added a Chinese food stall next to the factory, that does work, but you'll need to click on it and pay for someone to arrive and work there (100 Simoleons, I believe).

Uses items from the following packs: looks best with almost all packs. But a tip: take a look at the build in the gallery and click on the packs to see the items I used from that pack, it might also look good with fewer packs.

Download: google drive (455mb) | and up on the gallery: aeromantica (but you’ll need the cc from the drive folder)

Is the cc included? yes.

TOU: Please don’t claim as your own or put behind paywalls etc. If you find any issues please let me know + tag me if you’ll use the building, I’d love to see it in your games.

If you like what I do and want to show your appreciation, I have a ko-fi!

[neosvcr]

letting him fuck you without a condom for the first time.

it was a very welcome surprise to him, honestly. "raw? that's a hell of a lot of trust, huh, baby?" he murmured, his large hands pushing your thighs further apart. he wraps a hand around his cock, trailing the tip up and down your soaked slit. initially, he did it for the sole purpose of riling you up before he gave you what you want, but the feeling of your essence coating his sensitive tip ended up in his own undoing too.

as soon as he began to slowly push himself into you, he visibly lost all composure. his lips parted, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes glued to where you both met. "fuck, baby." he groaned deeply, adjusting to the sensation of being bare inside you for the first time. your warmth and wetness completely enveloped him, coating his cock with a glistening layer of arousal as he began to rock his hips.

"you gonna freak if i knock you up?" he asked, the words naturally falling from his lips. clearly, both of you were too far gone to think straight. his words took a while to register due to how good of a job he was doing, but once they did he could feel the effect that question had on you. he pushed deeper inside of you with each slow thrust. "you're just so fuckin' pretty like this, i might end up putting a baby in you." he continued on, his voice dropping an octave. he lowered himself to ghost a light kiss to your lips. his smirk grew as a new wave of arousal coated him.

"pretty baby's making a mess on my sheets," he chuckled, his own restraint being tested by this position. "you like that idea? want me to fill you up, honey?" he muttered as he fluttered soft kisses around your face. he noticed how your body responded to the way he was talking. he always did. he smirked at the realisation that he'd stumbled across something new to drive you up the wall. he lowered himself to his elbows, his arms on either side of your head as he held you. he grinned as you nodded, his face now only inches from yours. "look at me, baby." he whispered, noticing how out of it you were. you were getting so whiny. he gently tapped your cheek. as soon as your eyes met his, he began thrusting deeper and a little harder. you were making a mess all over the both of you at this point. you were both getting louder, breathier, more desperate. his hand gripped your thigh possessively as his other one rested near your head. "i love you," i murmured, his eyes locked on yours. "i love you so much," he continued, the intensity of the connection and situation being almost overwhelming.

his thrusts became more deliberate, repeatedly hitting that spot inside of you. he watched the way you reacted to everything he was doing and saying, breathy groans spilling from his lips. "i'm gonna cum inside you, baby." he spoke, "gonna knock you up. wanna make me a daddy?" he began rambling as he watched you gaze down at the sight of him disappearing inside of you.

"cum with me?" he asked breathlessly. "please, cum for me baby," he continued, almost begging. "you can do it," he encouraged, his fingers finding that bud between your thighs. it wasn't long until you both came, riding out the intense waves of pleasure. he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, praising you for doing so well. that definitely would not be the last time you did this.

sungchan, eunseok, anton, hanbin, jiwoong, gyuvin, gunwook, jaehyun, johnny, yuta, jeno, jaemin, mark, jisung, haechan, kun, yangyang, soobin, taehyun, jake, sunghoon, jay, heeseung, mingyu, wonwoo, scoups, vernon, juyeon, sangyeon, sunwoo, hyunjae, eric and anyone else you wish to add in

[apatheticsunday]

Fatherless Behavior

AKA "Danny Fenton is actually Batman and Catwoman's son. He likes his bio mother a lot more than his billionaire furry bio father, and Bruce is just trying to be a good dad to another surprise kid" prompt idea!

I like the idea of Madeline and Jack Fenton being good parents who love their kids so much. Maybe Danny still got zapped by the ecto-portal and died, but he immediately went to his parents and they helped him adjust to being Half-Dead. So, obviously, if he's old enough to die, he's old enough to be told the truth. Maddy and Jack adopted Danny from a woman named Selina Kyle, who's contact information state she's in Gotham City and willing to re-connect with Danny when/if he's comfortable.

Maybe Danny says he's okay, doesn't need to know who his biological parents are, because Maddy and Jack are enough for him. But it's also okay to be curious, right? He's like... seventeen or eighteen at this point. So, he says he's going to tour Gotham-U and maybe, possibly hunt down his birth mother if he has some extra time.

Fast forward to him standing in front of a very posh apartment complex, the doorman refusing to let him in, and he's incredibly embarrassed. There's an older couple coming out the doors. The older man looks like he's going to walk over, possibly intervene, so Danny just begs asks the doorman, "Can you please just call Selina Kyle? I'm her son."

And Bruce, who's having date-night with Selina, nearly passes out. Because under the bright lights of Selina's apartment lobby, this kid looks exactly like the perfect mix of Bruce and Selina. He's got his father's unruly black hair, Selina's catlike blue eyes, and has several dark freckles on his neck like Damian. So... this is a Not Great situation because Selina had a kid behind his back?? Selina's gripping his wrist like a panther with an antelope's jugular and says, "Not in front of the child, Bruce." And if there's one thing Batman is good at, it's keeping his cool (or pretending to).

They all end up in Batburger with Selina and Bruce looking comically overdressed while Danny's in ripped jeans and a NASA hoodie.

Selina is kind. She got pregnant and then Bruce was presumed dead (Batman's Time Stream incident lasted how long?? I feel like 9 months is reasonable, right?), and she wasn't prepared to be a single mother. She also hadn't wanted Danny to have a criminal for a mother ("Wait, what??"), but didn't feel comfortable aborting.

"Our relationship can be whatever you want it to be, Danny. I'm not trying to replace your mom. I'm just here to help if you want." She doesn't try to touch him, doesn't treat him like a kid, just speaks calmly and respectfully to him.

Bruce, unfortunately, isn't as tactful. He begins with: "And I have an extra room in the Wayne Manor. I can pay for your tuition at Gotham-U, get you a job at Wayne Enterprise, and introduce you to my kids. Tim would like you, you're about the same age-" before Selina shoves an elbow into his side. The damage is already done, though. Danny practically shoves from the table (after slipping two Batburgers into his hoodie pocket since clearly Mr. Money-Bags can afford it, the presumptuous asshole).

"I came here to talk with my mother, Mr. Wayne. I don't want your money or to be a nepo baby at your company." Danny snarls a sarcastic little thanks before hauling ass to his hotel, muttering about rude-ass rich folk.

(Selina, still at the diner with Bruce: Look at what you've done! You've scared our son off!

Bruce: Maybe if you told me I had a son, I could've been more prepared for a surprise visit!

Selina: Maybe if you stayed dead like everybody thought you were, you wouldn't be surprised that I had a son. You weren't there!

A squeaky noise can be heard. It's a waitress trying to quietly write on a whiteboard that says "Days Without a Wayne Argument". The tally is changed from 4 to 0.)

Anyway, I want Selina to be more like a Cool Aunt instead of a mom. She gets that Danny already has a maternal figure in his life, doesn't really want someone Mother Henning him, so she becomes a safe space for him to let go. Watches the Neil deGrasse Tyson docuseries, offers him wine during girl's nights, lets him rant about how unsure he is of the future without giving unsolicited advice.

Danny pretty much sees Bruce and is like, it's on sight, old man. Bruce sends an expensive telescope to his house. It gets sent back with a book that says "How to Know When to Give Up: For Dummies". Bruce tries to catch Danny while going to Selina's apartment and Danny screams stranger danger so loudly that Bruce is momentarily worried he accidentally accosted the wrong teenager. Danny makes a comment about "another billionaire frootloop wanting to keep me in his basement" and Bruce is even more concerned now. He responds with, "Daniel, I would not keep you in my basement." Yeah... that definitely didn't help.

Oddly enough, Danny is now also being harassed by Batman and his Bat Cult.

[just4jinx]

# cw ! fem!reader. sub!jinx. dom!reader. established relationship. phone sex/masturbation. dirty talk. jinx just really loves ur voice lol. rushed with absolutely no substance i just wanted to get smthing out <3

her name flashes across your screen, the sharp trill of your ringtone breaking the stillness of the night. it’s 1 am, too late for casual calls. you’re seeing her later, planning to take her out for a few drinks at her favorite bar, so what couldn’t wait?

still, you don’t hesitate. you never do. with a quiet sigh, you accept the call, pressing the phone to your ear.

“jinx?”

no answer. just a breath—slow, heavy. then the faint scrape of her clearing her throat, the static of hesitation crackling between you. you shift, the sheets rustling beneath you as you settle in. “you okay?” your voice is soft and careful. jinx is a lot of things—loud, often reckless and impossible to pin down— but quiet isn’t usually one of them.

another breath, deep and shaky, rushes down the line. “yeah.” she says, but it’s a little too quick, too rehearsed. you dont push, instead you let the silence stretch, giving her space to fill it and perhaps give you a better idea.

“just missed ya.” she mutters, “wanted to hear your voice.” a slight innocent grin tugs at the corners of your lips, your free hand trailing up to sleepily rub your eyes. you imagine she woke up from a nightmare and was implicitly asking for comfort, or just hasn’t managed to sleep at all. regardless, you have all the time in the world for your girlfriend.

“so, how’d your day go, baby?” for a second, you swear you hear a faint sigh but you let it pass, throwing your head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling as you wait. “good.” that’s all she gives you. she doesn’t sound upset, so why she’s being blunt is beyond you. before you can linger on it, jinx speaks again. “please tell me about yours.”

there’s a weight to it, a quiet plea tangled within her words. she’s hiding something, you can feel it. it’s clearly not what she says that makes your chest tighten—it’s the way she says it. low and drawn out, as though she’s clinging on to the sound of your voice and every syllable that spills from your lips. she’s desperate for you to fill the silence with anything. anything at all.

“well, you know, work and all that. it went fine but… i really missed you.” the words barely leave your lips before a sound filters through the receiver. a whimper, raw and unguarded, before everything on the other end of the line goes silent. it’s the kind of silence that hums in your ears. and then it clicks. suddenly it all makes sense.

“it’s okay,” you say, voice low and soothing, “let me hear you.” you can hear jinx’s mattress creak beneath her weight, her sheets rustling as she adjusts herself. your mind starts to wander, picturing her laying back all pretty with her fingers stuffed inside her aching cunt. or maybe she’s just giving her clit the right attention. you wonder what she’s wearing—if anything at all.

"mm, i'm sorry." jinx manages to say, a whine holding in her voice. she's always been a needy thing, always begging to be filled up, constantly desperate to get off—even if that means rocking her hips against anything she can get her hands on. your personal fave is when she's sliding her slick folds across your thigh with her face buried in the crook of your neck, mindlessly babbling about how good she feels and how much she loves you.

"tell me what you're doing." you demand, your voice unwavering.

"just... touchin' myself." you don’t say a word. you don’t have to. the silence alone is enough. jinx shifts, restless. she knows that wasn’t good enough. her breath catches in her throat, a couple soft moans escaping her. "just using my fingers. rubbing- ha, fuck.." you find it adorable how she's struggling, just wishing you were there to see her in person, to touch her, to make her cry from pleasure.

"so desperate. you couldn't wait until later?" jinx's wetness was not only coating her fingers but her inner thighs too, strings of whimpers and needy moans sending heat directly to your core. "i bet you're already thinking about it—having me all to yourself, cumming over my fingers or even in my mouth. god, you taste so sweet, you know that?"

another whine. higher this time, like she’s forcing it past her lips just to give you something. as though words are too much, too heavy, tangled somewhere in her throat. you could hear her pick up the pace and the obscene sounds that came from both her lips and her soaked pussy, a deep but shaky sigh escaping you before you could get the chance to stop it.

"nggff— want you so bad, please!" jinx cries out before a guttural moan echoes through the line. she's clenching over nothing now, practically squirming on her bed, desperately chasing her inevitable climax. "gonna, hah— baby, i’m—“

you dont even get the chance to encourage her to let go, a loud, strained whine rushing down the line and filling your ear. your name leaves her lips countless times, almost chanting it, choking out sweet moans that cause your heart to thump inside your chest. of course you tell her how well she’s doing, how much of a good girl she is, and how beautiful she sounds just for you.

you notice the sound of sheets rustling as jinx adjusts, slow and lethargic, as though she can barely lift herself. a whisper spills from her lips, but not because she’s trying to stay quiet, more like she doesnt have the strength for anything louder. “i love you so much.” its sudden but nothing unexpected, her voice shakily slipping through the receiver like she has her pretty lips pressed right against it.

there it is again, the creek of the mattress, jinx curling into herself with a deep exhale. a soft laugh follows, breathy, almost dazed, lightheaded from it all. you’re certain you can picture it—her flushed cheeks, unfocused pink eyes, the way she bites her lip like she's still lost in the moment. you tell her you love her back, a pleased hum reaching you from the other end of the line.

the silence that follows isn't empty; it's comfortable. both of you sink deeper into your pillows, letting the quiet settle, letting it hold you in a gentle embrace. but jinx isn't done listening. she's still tuned into you—your slow, steady breaths, the quiet rhythm of your existence. and without giving it a thought, she falls in sync, matching each inhale then exhale, like it's the only way to keep herself grounded. she doesn't say another word, doesn't need to. she just breathes with you, lets you guide her until the pull of sleep finally wins for you both.

[bunny-jpeg]

the devil in red and his bride

charles leclerc prompt: “you’re stuck with me, my love”

tags: smut/pwp, possessive behavior, mob au, mob boss!charles, forced marriage, dub-con, virgin!reader, slow & passionate sex, wolff!reader, au typical violence, dark themes/dark fic, references to the devil

a/n: a lot happening with this. read with caution, and if you liked it. let me know!

charles knew what he wanted, and went for it. he wasn't the type of to ask for permission or play within the established rules of the organization. it felt like every day someone was trying to put a knife in his back. so when toto wolff's boys brought charles' right hand man back beaten and bruised.

it was only fair that charles retaliated - it was such a shame someone as beautiful as you got caught in the crossfire.

this was supposed to be your wedding day. except you were meant to be married to george, your father's confidant over the years. but instead, in a near empty church you were walked down the aisle by a man with a broken nose and a cast on his arm.

he seemed fine given that his other hand carried a gun pressed into your back, "you owe the family at least this." the blond said, his eyes never looked to you, but you knew his gaze was cold and calculated, "your brother's little boys did enough damage already." and you swallowed, held the bouquet in your hands a little tighter like a security blanket.

you ended up at the alter, across from you was the charming man himself. the devil taken a human form. with piercing green eyes and a smile that was meant to make you feel comfortable, but rather you were scared. this was the man you were to marry. you looked over to your future husband's right hand and you swallowed.

he was not coming to your rescue, neither was kimi or george, or even your father.

the devil had a name, charles leclerc, and he looked to his long-time friend. he smiled at him, "thank you for finding her, max. and thank you for not getting your revenge in other ways."

max briefly looked to you then back to charles, "i'd rather not have that british snob break my nose again. i'd rather see his future wife married off." then turned away and headed to the pew. this was your wedding.

and it took everything in your power not to crumble right there. it went by in a blur, you were certain that parts were missed especially in a catholic wedding, like your vows. instead charles said his, and took you by the back of the neck. he smiled, feeling accomplished as he kissed you on the lips. you wanted to hit him, but you were certain that max still had that gun on hand and from rumors said. he was a damn good shot.

-

you weren't in that dress for long. in a private room with the door locked, charles' broad hands grazed across your back, his lips on the nape of your neck. you whimpered.

"shh, it's alright. i know, i know. it's a big change for you. russell was promised to you, a sign from your father for good behavior. but... your family has crossed such a line for me." his voice made your stomach twist in knots. he placed a hand over your stomach, "a ring on your finger and my son in your womb, send you back to your father."

you swallowed, "charles, please." your knees quivered and you winced when the dress was taken off of you. you covered your breasts with your hands but he stopped you.

"don't make me tie you up on our wedding night." he kissed the side of your neck once more, "i bet they're looking for you right now. sweeping through all of monaco to find the wolff's daughter. not even close." he chuckled lightly, "even if they knew we were in italy, it would take far too long to find you."

you felt scared. your father never trained you to be a fighter, he said it wasn't in you to be that kind of person. you were meant to be a wife, and you guessed that what was what you became.

he guided you to bed and you laid out in the underwear you arrived to him in. mis-matched and old. but charles didn't care. he took off his red tie and thought for a moment to bind you with the silk. but you two had an entire honeymoon for that. for now, he wanted to feel his wife. the woman he had the pleasure to marry.

from a wolff to a leclerc. quite the change, but you'd adapt.

once he was nude, you eyed his figure. toned and tanned, he looked beautiful without the heaviness of the expensive clothes he wore. he however looked dangerous, especially when you caught sight of the stallion tattoo on his arm.

your gaze met his as he pressed you further into the bed. you were about to lose your virginity to your swore enemy. the man who kidnapped you and forced you to marry him. he got between your legs and you felt tense as he rubbed his cock up against your entrance.

"if your father saw you now. under me. what did he say, a wolf was better dead than submissive? i remember he said that before he pulled a gun on me." he sighed as he continued to rub up against you, "i've been caused enough trouble. if anything, your father owed me this marriage. it was an olive branch, but your old man is quite stubborn. so he'd never do that, so i simply had to take it for myself."

he leaned in closer and his blunt cockhead nudged against your entrance, "just as you will take me." before he sank into your virgin pussy. your noises were music to his ears.

you covered your mouth, but he pinned your wrists to the bed. he loomed over you, his cock inside of you. but you wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking. this was a sign of submission, and it riled him up.

he moved against you. his pace was particularly rough or fast. it was like he wanted to drink all of you in. he wanted to feel every inch of your pussy as he took you raw. the feeling of your cunt wrapped around him only spurred him on further. but he showed restraint and kept his pace even.

"see, you look better like this." he cooed, "so much better." he wiped the sweat from his forehead, "your father was trying to marry you off to someone in exchange for power. but i picked you, it was an easy choice, but the moment i saw those photos. i knew i had to have you, your father just made it easy." he held onto your wrists a little tighter, "harming one of mine. it would have been easier to cut off my right hand himself." he leaned in to kiss you, but before he did, he said, "but your father is a coward." then pulled you in for a hot searing kiss. your thighs clenched around him as he rocked into you.

the kiss was heated and you felt the pleasure curl in you. an unfamiliar feeling as he thrusted up into you. he hit all the right places and made your entire body tense up at the feeling. this was unlike anything, not even the secret toys in your room.

your eyed fluttered shut and the consent around this entire act for muddled. it felt wrong, it was wrong. but there was a small canary song in the back of your mind that said this felt good and that maybe this was not the worst outcome.

but you were so full of emotions that it was hard to tell. charles continued to thrust up into you. he continued to move against your body with heavy, slow movements. mapping out every inch of your pussy with his cock, your noises got louder and you couldn't fight it any further.

charles made you feel good, in ways that you didn't think another person could. you moaned a little louder and charles only smiled. knowing full well that he was making you feel that good.

"see." he said. he spoke like the devil, tempting you to hell. the hot reds of the family only added to the burn that he fueled. the hatred sowed deep in you was nowhere to be found as he thrusted into you. he kept his gaze on you as he fucked you.

you couldn't find your voice, but the pleasure flowed deep. his words felt distant, and it made your core throb for him. this was unlike anything else, you shared another heated kiss and you moaned into it. this was a total betrayal of you and your family, but yet you succumbed to the pleasure. the promise that you were charles' wife, the bride of the devil.

no one of your family would find you until charles wanted them too. and by then you'll be secured in the marriage to him. not even family war could snap the bond. with a few more strokes of charles' hips you finished around his cock.

he cooed to you softly as you came. the pleasure made you near limp under him. he moved a bit quicker to meet his own climax, and then pulled you in for another heated kiss as he spilled himself inside of you.

he was going to smother any ounce of wolff in you with his own seed. rewrite you just like he rewrote your last name. you were his, now and forever. not even death could keep him away from you.

"mine." he said lowly.

you mumbled, "please, charles."

he chuckled lightly, "you'll learn it in time." he pulled out, his cock shiny with your wetness. he curled himself up around you like vines around a tree. he held you close, your warm cheek against his chest. he rubbed your hair, the most gentle he had been all night.

"your father made you weak." he said, "makes sense. he wouldn't want his own daughter to surpass him." he looked down at you and when you looked to him, he rubbed your face. he asked, "how do you feel about learning how to use a gun?"

"won't i just use it on you?"

charles chuckled lightly, "that is what i like to hear. but, i have a feeling that after our little honeymoon. you'll be more inclined to see things my way. because after all, you’re stuck with me, my love. and i don't believe in divorce."

he held you close once more, your thoughts were swimming. you felt fear, anger, but a small piece of your mind was tempted to see how deep the devil went. and if you'd ever be found <3

[dollbrbie]

♡ ⸝⸝ NEVER GETTING RID OF HIM

cw. ex!kaiser & bratz!reader , mentions of alcohol use , make up sex , rough sex , possessiveness

kaiser (do not reply) :

who’s that guy ur talking to??

1:02 am

kaiser (do not reply) :

don’t play w me yk i’ll come over and kick his ass

1:03 am

you roll your eyes at the texts that light up your phone screen. how unbelievably childish. kaiser has always been the type of guy that seems to believe you’re still his when you’re most definitely not. besides, you had been broken up for two months now, it was about time for the both of you to start moving on.

that’s why you found yourself talking to some guy at the club, drunk out of your mind, the one kaiser was conveniently also at. you wouldn’t even put it past him if he came only because he found out you were. he was a little crazy like that.

“yeah, but anyways as i was saying..”, you say, putting your phone on silent and back in your bag, smiling back up at the stranger.

you suddenly feel an arm snake around your waist, the hold way too familiar, “hey, baby.”, your ex boyfriend smiles, a hint of irritation in his eyes.

you scoff with an eye roll, “what do you want?”

“just wondering why this guy is talking to my girl is all.”, he shrugs nonchalantly, like he was really still your man.

“i’m not your fucking girl, kaiser.”

“uhh.. yeah i think i’ll head off.”, the guy you had previously been talking to says awkwardly, pulling a straight smile before wandering off into the crowd.

“what the fuck do you think you’re doing? i was talking to him! you can’t just show up whenever you feel like.”, you yell against the loud music echoing through your ears.

“y’still my girl whether you like it or not. you think i’m gonna let these loser guys think they have a chance with you?”

“i’m not your girl for fuck sake!”, you yell in frustration, “we broke up, don’t you get it? we’re done.”

you sigh in pure frustration before attempting to storm off, kaiser’s hand quick to grab your wrist to prevent that, “alright, hold on, please. just hear me out.”

you turn around, looking at his defeated face, causing your heart to thump, “why should i, though? it’s not like you deserve it.”

“i know, baby. i know.”, he admits, pulling you closer, “but can’t we just talk?”, he adds, “cmon?”

“fine. where?”

“oh- fuck.”, you whimper out as you feel kaiser bottom out inside you, “baby, please.”

“yeah? what is it, beautiful? use your words.”

you knew this would happen. it always does whenever you and kaiser go to ‘talk things out’. you always end up underneath him, fucking you like he’s never fucked you before. i guess that was one good thing about this.

“too much-”

“nah.. you can take it baby, cmon.”, he coaxes, seeing the way your body squirmed, knowing you were close to reaching your peak.

kaiser knew you and your body too well. the way your legs would squirm and your back would arch when that knot of pleasure would build up in your stomach. the way your nails would claw his back and your legs refused to stay still when it was getting too much.

he knew you like the back of his hand and he knew exactly how to tip you over the edge.

and just like his predictions, you arch your back as you mewl out, “m’gonna cum..”

“already, baby?”, he asks through a breathy laugh to which you nod frantically, your legs wrapping around kaiser’s waist, your pleasure so close to tipping over.

“go on then, cum for me, pretty.”, he coaxes once more, your orgasm spilling over the edge and shooting down your body, your head thrown back against the pillow as your eyes screw shut and your legs tighten around your ex’s waist.

kaiser continues fucking you through your orgasm, your beautiful whines sending him over the edge as he overstimulates your pretty pussy, “what? y’think i’m done? i’ve not even come yet.”, he adds, “and we have a lot of making up to do, don’t we?”

he kisses away your tears of pleasure, smiling to himself as he has you exactly where he wants you. he let you have your time believing you were standing on business. but you had always been his and he certainly won’t be letting you escape from his grasp again.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[luveline]

angsty request coming!!! hotch taking care of an overworked reader who hasn’t been sleeping!! maybe the team notices r has been a bit scattered or feverish and hotch steps in!!!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k Hotch knows, technically, that what he’s doing tonight is out of bounds. He just doesn’t care —can’t find it in himself to regret his actions as he shepherds you from the office and into his car. Doesn’t give your wide-eyed surprise any notice, doesn’t offer explanation as he takes you into the department store between the office and his apartment and tells you to choose. 

“I don’t understand.” 

He nods toward the lines of pointelle camisoles and shorts, gestures to the longer silken trousers, “Choose something to wear.” 

You blink hotly. He’s flustered you, but that’s easy lately. “Do they have anything warmer?” you ask. 

He takes your arm gently into his hand and turns you an inch, where the jersey material pajamas hang from the wall. There’s a nice brown coordinating set right in front of you. He guesses your size (he knows it from practice), pulling a hanger from up high to offer you. “Yes?” he asks. 

“Why?” 

“You’ll need them.” 

You rub your face. “Okay, yeah. I like those ones.” 

He folds them over his arm. He can feel you gaze on the side of his face as he takes you to the register and pays without giving the total any mind. Hotch doesn’t care how much anything costs, he only wants it to be soft. If it weren’t crossing a line, he would’ve found you new underwear, too. 

He accepts the bag from the cashier and guides you out again. “Is there anything else you need?” he asks you. 

“For what?” 

“You aren’t going home.” 

“I’m not?” 

He shakes his head gently. He isn’t being intimidating, only straight forward. Hotch obviously isn’t in the business of kidnapping women, especially coworkers, friends, he just knows now that this won’t be solved without some tough love. “You’re staying with me, if you don’t mind.” 

“Why would I mind?” 

Lethargic, you follow him to the car and get back in the front seat. He turns the heated seats on and watches you sink into the leather, clearly pleased, tired eyes slipping closed every now and then in the ensuing silence. 

Regretfully, you startle as he parks, roused from whatever hooks that had finally managed to hold you. Heat, he thinks, is key here. 

“I’m making oatmeal and cocoa,” he says as he opens the door, waiting for you to follow suit before he continues, “and you can go and get changed. You know where my room is?”

“Sure.” 

“Alright, good. You can make yourself comfortable there.” 

“In your room?” 

He sends you a loving and agitated look over the door. Really? it says. You and Hotch have been trapped in an excitable will-they won’t-they situation for months, and he’d think by now the obvious answer to it all is we most certainly will. “Honey, yes. Unless you’d be more comfortable in Jack’s?” 

“Does he still have the race car bed?” 

“Afraid so.” 

You hum, and lead the way to the house. Hotch hands you his keys, something in his chest tightly squeezed to see you turn the house key in the lock, to let yourself in, and to hold out your hand expectantly for the department bag. You head to his room like you do it everyday. Hotch resists the urge to call you back and kiss you with your jaw held in his hand —it’s not the point. 

He gets a strange pang a few minutes later, stirring the pot of easy-sachet oatmeal, a rare pang of regret. Perhaps he’s being too headstrong, letting his worry guide him like this, pushing you to come home with him and to sleep in his bed. You might be at the same level as he is, but it still feels a little like pulling Spencer home with him and demanding he dress and eat as Hotch likes. 

I’ll apologise, he thinks, setting your oatmeal and cocoa on a tray, conscious of the sun setting outside, night swiftly falling. If he really is going to say sorry and have you go home, you’ll be disrupted again. There’s a possibility Hotch has made this ten times worse. 

He climbs the stairs and finds you laying on his side of the bed with your nose turned into his pillow, a damp sheen to your skin. You’ve washed your face, and changed into the new pajamas, just a little too big for you where you’ve curled around your hands. 

“Honey?” he asks softly. 

“Sorry,” you say, twice as quietly as he had, “just, it smells so nice in here.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“I’ll move.”

“Just sit up,” he says, thinking of you in the office with your jittering and your glass-eyed stare. “I’ve brought you something.” 

You nod heavily and do as he’s asked, again. He sets the tray on your lap and you look up at him. It’s the look that does it, really. The half circles under your eyes are nothing to him beyond proof that you aren’t sleeping, the bloodshot in your sclera, it’s all inconsequential. What floors him is the unquestioning trust to be found when you look at him. He doesn't kid himself when he thinks that this could lend itself to love. 

“You know why I’ve asked you to come home with me?” he asks carefully. 

“I worried you.”

He puts the tray in your waiting lap, gracing your chin with a quick stroke underneath, feather-light. “I haven’t abused my power?” 

“Buying me new clothes and making me dinner?” you ask softly, evident delight on your face as you notice the squares of chocolate that have begun to melt into your oatmeal. 

“Forcing you home with me and sequestering you in my bedroom.” 

“It’s not how I thought it would happen,” you confess, gathering a heaping mountain of oatmeal onto your spoon, “not the first time, at least. I guess I should worry you more often.” 

“No,” he says, holding your chin between his fingers until you meet his serious gaze. “You shouldn’t.” 

Your eyebrows do something he can’t name, but there’s a word for what it inspires in his chest. “I won’t,” you promise. 

[mazen-fmaily]

Save my father please ‼️🚨

My friend, don't make me say goodbye to my father. 😭 The only thing left of my family. A month and a half ago, I lost my mother, who was taking her last breaths. 😭💔 I don't want my father to let his last breaths be in front of my eyes, just like I lost my mother. 😭😭 When I lost my mother, I had no choice, and now I have no choice but to lose my father. 😭😭 I don't want my father to die. The matter seems very difficult for him. Do you imagine what I mean, my friend?

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Share my campaign 🙏

Verified : @90-ghost

[madamechrissy]

♔ Silent Serenades ♔

♔ An arranged Marriage with Duke Gojo ♔

♔ Pairings: Duke Satoru Gojo x Duchess Reader

♔ Content/Warnings: Explicit sexual content, THE END OMG- lactation kink lowkey lol, highkey a breed kink, reader is a mom, oral (f receiving) spitting (they're still freaks) time skip, spitting, Gojo talking shit, fluffy and cute, HAPPY EVER AFTER- sweet and emotional- a lot of closure I hope you enjoy the end!

♔ Word count: this chap: 6k

♔ Summary: you are the diamond of the season, he is the charming Duke, it’s the marriage of the decade. Prominent families joining, and it so happens that Duke Gojo is gorgeous. But, he doesn't want you at all, leaving you a crying mess on your wedding night, alone. Now you're trapped in a loveless arranged marriage that destroys you from within. Royal AU, Cruel Duke Gojo x reader. OOC Set in 1800s England.

A/N- dual povs <3 Comments and Reblogs verry appreciated if you enjoy

♔ Part Fifteen ♔ Masterlist ♔ Playlist

Final Chapter- Fire on Fire

Six Years Later

“God, just look at them.” Satoru is murmuring, as you all are hiding in the foyer next to the ballroom just roaring with laughter and music, and he’s got your pretty breasts yanked out of your corset, squishing them and exhaling as they’re dripping milk making you squeak.

“Toru! Here!?” You all are literally in the middle of a masquerade, his mother has two of your children entertained, while your Nan has your youngest baby in the nursery, just a few months old.

Satoru’s silver mask is brushing against your breasts as his tongue laps at the milky liquid, moaning as he drags you close against him. “So sweet my god, you know how much I love this.”

“W-wait till… later… mnh!” Your eyes roll back in your own little glittery silver mask, as he suckles a sore nipple in his mouth, humming as the sweetness rolls into his mouth, and you feel desire shoot through you. In the background you hear the laughter, the music, but it’s drowned by your heart racing.

“Just a little drink, Princess. You’d be so cruel to your husband and deny him his favorite drink?” He pouts at you with his pretty pink lips, you sigh, arching your back and garnering his grin.

“This is how I keep getting with child, will you not give me a break- f-fuck…” He chuckles as he nips at you, shaking his head and sucking your other nipple now, you’re biting at your lower lip, so wet you can’t stand it, how ready you are for him.

“Not my fault you’re so sexy round with me, and your tits are even fucking nicer, god.” He’s sucking at your other breast now, lips latching your nipple, your thigh on his hip as he drags you against his hard body. He’s sucking down more milk, which makes you go insane, hands trembling as you cling to broad shoulders.

“You’re making me too wet, s-stop…” He’s chuckling, slipping up layers and layers of your skirts, fingers finding your clit in little circles, you’re soaking his gloved finger, breaths mingling together.

“Slutty mommy hmm?”

“Oh stop! Mommy!? You’re r-ridiculous.” Satoru’s chuckling now, kissing down your collarbone, biting it, right under the cool metal of your jeweled necklace, you yank at his hair, earning his glare, blue eyes bright and piercing.

“You’re interrupting my meal, Duchess.”

“Duke, you’re being a whore.”

“You love this whore.” He slips two fingers in your slick walls, feeling you clench them now, soaking the long, slender digits and moaning. “Feel her, god she’s so perfect still.”

“Your fingers… so thick I…” You’re whining out, gasping and covering your mouth while he smirks, so pleased. “We can’t do this right here!”

“Why not, let me fuck you in your pretty masquerade mask, while these nipples drip milk, mmm..” You glare right back up at him, when you hear footsteps, he’s just chuckling, pulling you quickly and turning you both, adjusting your top and sucking you right off his fingers. Lewd and obscene.

“You really have to do this to me?” You whisper, he knows what that damn action does to an already addled brain, he bends down and kisses your lips, as passersby see you both, awwing at the loving couple you two make, not the insanity he was pursuing a moment ago.

“Poor duchess, are they leaking now?” His taunt just makes you wetter, damn him.

“You know they are!” You hiss at him, only for him to chuckle, leading you both back out to the floor as you try to compose yourself.

“What’s the point of being a Duke if I can’t fuck my wife everywhere I want to, in my own Castle at that.” He mutters quietly, earning a smack on the shoulder, while you both glide back in and smile at everyone.

“You can do so, later, also the kids-”

“They need another sibling.”

“They do not.” Satoru pouts again, as two of your kids run to you now, a boy and a girl, the boy has Satoru’s shocking white hair but your eyes, and your oldest daughter has his blue eyes and your hair. The youngest baby is just the spitting image of you, which Satoru adores, he loves seeing all the features of you in the children you all have, children he adores.

The wife he adores, brattiness already spreading down the Gojo family line, surely from you he thinks, as he watches your eyes light up even behind your mask, your pretty grin. Your son runs to you, as your daughter runs to Satoru, hugging each of you, you bend down and pick him up, as Satoru picks her up, planting little kisses on their cheeks. Satoru’s mom smiles at you both, how adorable you are.

“Mama, Mama can we please stay up!” You giggle, shaking your head at him.

“I’m sorry, but bedtime is bedtime, handsome boy.”

“Papa!” Your daughter cooes at Satoru, he pouts now, looking at you and pulling her close.

“Bedtime, little princess.” You order, Satoru sighs.

“Mama is cruel I’m afraid.”

“Excuse me! I am not cruel. You need your rest, hmm my sweet girl?” She sighs, pouting so cutely.

“Can we watch Mama and Papa dance?” Your daughter asks, and you smile as you nuzzle her cheek.

“If Mama wants to.” Satoru says, ever so gallant as he makes a show of bowing to you after he puts your son down, and your kids eyes light up as they watch the two of you, their own masks on their cute little faces.

“I’d love to, Duke Gojo.” You tease with a wink, placing your hand in his as he leads you out to the waltz, hand on your hip as he turns in effortless circles, no one is even dancing they’re all just watching the two of you.

It is your masquerade, after all.

From the corner of your eyes you see Suguru and Shoko, watching you both with knowing smiles, and several of your other friends, lords and ladies all around you, but everything fades but him. Even from your first dance, back when you were strangers and enemies, the way his hand slips up your waist, you remember it all, vividly, like it was a lifetime ago.

But even then you knew, you knew there was something there, when he’d whispered angrily how beautiful you were, and you couldn’t believe him, you hurt him, and he hurt you. It feels so foreign and wrong to imagine hurting each other, not now that you two have built so much, every moment you breathe is just full of love for him, for your children.

He smiles down at you, so charming, not that glare of the past, and is met with your fluttering lashes and a sweet curve of your lips, not that adorable little fucking scowl you give him sometimes still. Typically when he’s trying to put more babies on you, and you’d probably like a break.

But it’s not Satoru’s fault you’re so pretty pregnant.

That’s so clearly your fault.

Your hand goes to his shoulder, over the silk brocade of his cravat, brushing slowly down as you twirl for the view of every one of the ton. Hardly anyone knows your story, what you’ve been through, and those who know bits of it even would never truly believe what you were like.

How could two black holes converge and not destroy each other?

Somehow you both had made it through.

“You’re the prettiest woman in this ballroom.” You’re flushing now, he can see it under the glimmer of the chandeliers, while he’s got you pressed firmly against him, a hand holding yours while you dance a dance you’ve both done so many times. Flawless steps, even when he has your tummy clenching in desire.

“You’re the prettiest man in London. And the sluttiest.” He smirks, as he dips you over his arm now.

“Oh, you’re the sluttiest brat in all of England.”

“Me!?” You demand, seeing mirth in his gaze behind that mask.

“You.” You’re both laughing, as no one can hear just how audacious and scandalous your conversation is.

“I think you have the title of sluttiest man in history!” You tease in a hushed whisper in his ear, and he moans softly, pulling you closer.

“More than Henry the eighth!?”

“More than him, you just don’t chop off heads.”

“You brat!” You’re so flushed from the dance, from your mirth, looking every bit the glittering diamond he met so long ago. “I’ll punish you for that.”

“Let’s see what you come up with, Duke.” Satoru sighs, aching to smack your pretty backside when he slowly ends the dance, your hands joined as everyone around you claps.

“Now it’s time for me to bed my Princess.” He whispers, feeling your skin heat up as his breath ghosts the shell of your ear, his cheek pressing yours.

“The children first.”

“Psh, why do we have all these nannies if-”

“Ah-ah, don’t be so spoiled, Duke.” He huffs, when soon the two of you are bidding your farewells for just a bit, though the two of you never end up coming back down to your own events, and you suppose everyone knows better by now.

It was not ‘normal’ for a Duke and Duchess to put their own children to bed, but you and Satoru were far from ‘normal’ or typical. People all smile as the four of you pass by, as the two of you hold your children in your arms, walking them up the stairs, your daughter already is falling fast asleep against Satoru’s chest, and your son is fighting it, all fussy.

“Don’t want to sleep, hmm? Too much excitement?” You ask softly, Satoru loves how soft your voice gets with your children.

He loves hearing you sing to them at night.

He loves being a parent next to you, so devoted, you just enjoy them so much, he supposes that’s one of the reasons he just can’t stop getting you with child. You are laying your son down, brushing his silky locks and smiling as he reaches for you with his little hands, as Satoru kisses his daughter on her forehead, tucking them both snug in their pretty room.

Intricate, huge and elaborate, it also had little touches of the Duke and Duchess strewn throughout it. A pair of your gloves on the dresser next to the stuffed animal you loved as a child sitting on the dresser, Satoru’s glasses next to that along with his favorite book that he’d read to them. It’s full of love despite just how huge it is, compared to their delicate little beds with their white canopies.

“But mama, tell me a story!” Your daughter says now, you laugh softly, coming over to sit next to her, the bed gently dipping just a bit, your gowns flowing in flounces so glittery, the moonlight capturing it so beautifully, as Satoru studies you, the soft slope of your shoulder bare in the night.

He remembers just when your first baby came, his lips twitching with amusement just a bit.

‘Suguru, it sounds like she’s dying!?’ Satoru was pacing back and forth, in long strides, hands yanking at his messy white hair, Suguru himself grimaces, taking a shot of whiskey as your screams echo through the hall.

‘Shoko is with her, and your mother… she’ll be…’

‘This big head is your fault, Satoru Gojo! I swear to god!’

Suguru snorts in laughter, as Satoru downs a shot himself, and King Sukuna walks past them, shaking his head. ‘I’ll never have a fucking heir if this is what happens to the girl, shit.’

Satoru scowls at him. ‘I still hate you.’

Sukuna grins at him widely. ‘Oh I bet you do, but I think she probably hates you more now.’

‘Knock me out with something, dear god!’ Satoru himself chuckles just a bit, shaking his head.

‘That’s my Duchess for you’

“Once a Prince lived in a very beautiful castle, and he was quite brooding,” Satoru hears your soft words now, brushing his son's hair back as he sits next to him, and the two of them watch you. “And a Princess was set to wed him from another land, well she was pretty… fiery.”

You smile at him, and his heart catches in his chest, god how much he adores you, how much you’ve both grown these past six years. The love grows so much for each other and your children. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe, when your eyes meet across your children’s room in the night, and the two of your memories are in sync, that day in the village.

The day he fell fully in love with you, the day you let yourself feel something finally, the day that changed the trajectory forever.

“They argued quite a bit at first, they were both so very stubborn, they surely thought they didn’t love each other. Foolish young royals, you know.” Satoru smiles, as you recall it all, him holding you so close, dancing in front of children, the little girl wearing your tiara.

You get misty eyed as Satoru speaks. “They were very foolish.”

“You know the story Papa?” Your daughter asks, Satoru gives her a nod then, blue eyes glinting in the dark room, as the sounds of the ball below barely penetrate the cozy room, just an echo of music and footsteps.

“I know it well, the Prince went to the village with the Princess one day, to see their subjects, and he found her putting her own crown on a little girl.”

“Aww, she seems so sweet!” Your daughter giggles out, and you feel your cheeks heat as Satoru grins.

“She was fiery indeed, but sweet deep inside. Quite like a truffle.”

“A truffle!?” He’s winking at you as you roll your eyes with a smile. “I suppose he was like a truffle as well.”

“Surely he was not!” Satoru’s lips set in a terse line, only spurring on your amusement.

“He was. The prince was so conceited, he thought the whole world was in love with him.” Satoru rolls his eyes now, earning your sassy little grin that lights up his fucking heart.

How could two that went through so much find such happiness?

Every day seems more and more like a dream, every day he stands by your side and holds you in his arms.

You’re a dream.

He’s your dream.

“I suppose many were in love with him, but he was quite annoying about it. But then, the Princess saw something different about him, when he asked her to dance, in the middle of the village! With so many looking on.”

“How romantic!” Satoru grins at his daughter’s wistful words, even at six she’s quite the little dreamer. You also feel yourself melt as you watch her lashes lower, and your son is already snoring lightly.

“He didn’t make it through the story.” Satoru teases, now the two of you sit next to your oldest, as she reaches her hands out, and you each hold them.

“Finish the story, mama!”

“Of course, baby.” You hold Satoru’s hand in your other grip, one with her teeny hand, one his huge warm one, feeling so complete then. “The Princess saw his heart that he hid away so well, and she fell in love with him, as they danced for all the little children to cheer.”

“Did he love her too?” She asks, her hand squeezing the two of yours, and you both look at each other.

“He loved her too, very much. He saw her beauty was not just on the outside, but the inside too.” Satoru’s words make you melt, when you both look at your pretty daughter smiling softly.

“Inner beauty is the most important thing. Though it doesn’t hurt, you are the most beautiful girl there is, you and your sister.” You say then, kissing her cheek, and she giggles.

“So are you mama!” She declares, and Satoru nods.

“So is Mama.”

“Oh, you two.” You kiss her one more time, tucking her in firmly now. “That’s enough for tonight, hmm?”

“Did they live happily ever after!?” She asks, eyes wide again, and you feel Satoru’s hand on the small of your back as the two of you stand.

“They did, very happy, and so was all of the land.”

“Yay!”

You both grin at her. “Good night sweet girl.” You kiss your son’s forehead as well, shutting the door softly behind you both. “A truffle huh?”

“A truffle. With hazelnuts that cut your mouth up.”

“You!” You shove at him and he laughs softly, cupping your face now, every time Satoru touches you feels like the first time, your body never stops responding with a madness.

“Shh, let me guess, checking on the baby? Before you let me put another inside you?” His husky declaration damn near ends your resolve, his hand on your tummy, still not quite flat after your third baby, but Satoru seems to enjoy your body more and more with each one.

“You let me focus, Sir.” You peck a kiss on his chin, heading down the halls with him next to you, until you’re in the nursery, peeking to see your sleeping baby.

“Good, saw them, let’s make more.”

“A moment, Satoru, shh!” Your glare is met with his hungry gaze.

“God you’re sexy when you’re angry.”

“Oh you do go on.” You step quietly into the room, holding up your skirts, seeing the beautiful mix of the two of you swaddled and sleeping peacefully. Your face lights up as you look down at her, and remember the look on Satoru’s face with your first baby.

‘Oh my god…’ Satoru’s walking in now, as you’re a sweaty mess, you’ve screamed so much you’re sure you traumatized everyone there, but it’s all worth it when you see Satoru holding her.

Your daughter.

‘A little girl, look at her. She’s beautiful.’ You whisper, exhausted when he sits next to you, and everyone leaves the chamber, to give you some privacy.

‘Like her mother.’ You’re crying when he kisses you, and tears fill his eyes, as he holds the sweet little baby against his chest. ‘I love you, sweet girl.’

‘I didn’t know my heart could be so full.’ You say softly, as Satoru hands your baby back to you, and you hold her tightly, as she opens her eyes, and you smile when Satoru sees it.

‘My eyes.’

‘Your eyes.’

‘You scared the entire castle, you know.’ You laugh, wincing then at the pain, and Satoru’s eyes grow concerned.

‘I’m just sore. Look, she’s hungry.’

‘I’ll get the wet nurse-’

‘Absolutely not.’ You sit up with his help now, and he’s watching enamored as you place the baby to your breast, and she latches after a few tries, sucking happily, making his body warm with how sweet of a sight it is.

‘A pro like her Papa.’

‘Oh god, Satoru!’

You’re now in Duke Gojo’s arms, when he holds you close, and you both study your youngest daughter in her sleep. “You get prettier with each one.”

“You’re sweet to say so.”

He scoffs. “When am I sweet?”

“Often, little truffle.”

“Psh.” He picks you up in his arms, bridal style, the way he wished he had that first night with you, but he does it almost every night now, while you all close the door, and the nannies smile at the two of you when you pass by.

You bury your face against his chest as he carries you, inhaling the familiar scent of the man you love. “You spoil me.”

“I do indeed, bratty Duchess.” You’re smiling as you kiss up his neck, and he holds you tighter, sweet little moan from his throat. “Tease.”

“Mmmhmm.” Soon he’s got you to your chambers, shutting the door behind you and letting you down, shocking you as he spins you, kissing down the nape of your neck, his masquerade mask brushing against your skin, when he unties yours by the ribbon, letting it fall to the ground.

“Fuck I need you, Princess.” You’re trembling when the corset is untied, when his fingers brush against the indentations on your precious skin. “I hate when you wear them.”

“It’s only for this gown, silly man.” You look behind your shoulder, when your silvery glittery gown falls and flounces around your ankles, and you’re left bare aside from those stockings he loves on you.

“No one could look this good in these.” You’re blushing as he picks you up right out of the dress in pieces on your floor, turning you and picking you up in his arms.

“I want to see you, Satoru, please.” He’s eagerly helping you shrug off his jacket as he lays you on the bed, you’re so eager his buttons pop, earning him smacking at your hand. “Excuse me!”

“This is an expensive shirt you brat. My favorite, so cock thirsty?”

“You’re such a-” He shuts you up with an eager kiss, and you can’t stop the whine that leaves your throat, as he grinds his cock against your heat, feeling you over his breeches.

“Slutty cunt is so ready to be filled by me.” His filthy words just excite you more.

If there’s one thing you and Duke Gojo know how to do, It’s fuck.

He’s biting your lips, squishing a sore breast, as you’re tugging desperately to bare his chest to you, exhaling when you feel his muscles with your finger tips, his abdomen tensing as his cock presses even harder. “Need you.” Your words nearly end him then and there.

“I need you.” You’ve got him almost naked, when he’s easing your stockings and slippers off your legs, kissing down your thighs fervently as he does, eyeing your body as hungrily as he did the first time. “God you’re so sexy for me.”

“Satoru… please…”

“Begging?” He raises a brow and grins, and you just nod, jerking as his breath brushes your clit, when his two fingers have your cunt spread wide. “I love when you beg f’me, god look at this little clit, she wants me to kiss her hmm?”

“Yes, yes - f-fuck!” He’s got his mouth on you now, you feel his teeth, his tongue, the plush of his lips, when he teases your poor little clit, twitching for his attention as he pulls back.

“Look at her, pretty little cunt so wet.” He’s watching arousal just pool out of your soppy little hole while he’s sucking it all up, drinking you loud and lewd, echoing in your room.

“Mnh!” You’re screaming out, thanking the world you have an entire castle to do just that, though you’re sure the maids and butlers perhaps get a kick out of the two of you, you’re sure it couldn’t reach the halls too far.

Satoru loves how you scream, how you’re yanking his white hair at the fucking roots, grinding your cunt so desperately on his face. He’s gripping your hips, wider and sexier from your babies, just making him ache to put more inside your tummy, pressing his cock against the mattress, dying to be inside you. But moreso aching to drink all the cum from your cunt.

“That’s it, let go, I feel it.” He’s pressing down on your stomach, slipping two fingers inside, watching you unravel, tits jiggling just so, full of milk he can’t wait to drink more of, when he’s done sipping you. “Cunt is soaking these sheets, huh? You’re a messy little slut f’me, aren’t you?”

“Slutty f-for you…” Is all you can answer back, as he crooks long fingers too deep in your entrance, and your walls are spasming around his fingers. “Satoru!”

“That’s it, feel me don’t you?” He’s pressing harder as he crooks fingers up on that spot, and you’re shattering, orgasm washing over you, which he laps up off his fingers, tongue then shoving inside you hungrily, desperate to drink every bit of his Duchess up.

“Please, fuck me god Toru, your cock in me please!” He’d smirk usually, but he’s got you pulling at his hair, and the plush of your thighs on either side of his head.

“Not done yet.” He’s flicking his tongue again on your engorged clit, so tiny and swollen, he grins psychotically as you’re jerking, twitching, shaking.

“Too much ngh!”

“You know you can take it, shh brat.” He flicks his tongue once more, overstimulating the little clit as he loves to, knocking you into another orgasm that blinds you completely, you’re sputtering for air when he finally relents, slipping up your body, hot thick cock finally against your inner thigh. “Can’t think? Can’t function?”

“Mnh…” You can’t argue with his sarcastic, cocky self when you cannot, in fact, function or think.

“You're gonna take this cock so good, aren’t you Princess…” You’re gulping when he shoves his cock in your entrance, moaning as you wrap his tip, pushing past that tight ring of muscles. “Still so tight, how?”

“Ngh…” He’s grinning at your lack of words, watching your eyes roll back as he sinks even deeper in your snug, soaking wet little hole.

“My duchess only shuts up when my cock stuffs her full.” He taunts, shoving in so deep he’s stuffing you indeed, your pussy tries to accommodate, to stretch, as your nails press into his skin, and you’re whimpering, walls gripping his cock so good he almost cums then and there. “Fuck…”

“You talk too much, Satoru- shit!”

“You cuss too much, mnh…” His turn to whimper, as he pauses, looking down at your face, glowing softly by the candles flickering next to the bed, inhaling your scent when he bends over you. “Let me drink more.”

“You’re insane.” You’re yanking his head down, however, when he’s sipping the sweet white liquid just pouring out of your pretty nipples, and moaning as it fills his mouth. “You’re greedy t-tonight…”

“You love it too.” He’s eyeing you, and it’s true, it feels so fucking good, his cock stretching your soaking walls while they flutter, and he’s sucking your nipples so hard in his hot mouth.

“Ah!” You’re cumming as he drinks milk spurting out, his big hands taking you over while he pulls you further down on his length. “Satoru!”

“Mmm… that’s it, Princess. Milking me while I’m milking you.”

“You’re… fucking crazy I swear…” He’s grinning as he turns to your other breast, sucking the sore peak into his mouth, while you’re trying not to pass out from how much pleasure he’s ripping from your body. “I l-love you.”

He pauses then, teeth grazing your peak before he leans back up, cupping your face gently for a moment. “I love you.”

You two kiss, desperate, while he fucks slow and leisurely for a few, letting you feel every single inch of him, so many you never get used to it, even after years of fucking this man every day. The only time he leaves her alone is the month after the children are born, but he’s not even good at waiting long. 

Not like you want him to wait.

You’re cumming all over his cock again, when you see it, the shift of madness your husband does, when he goes feral inside of you, hands gripping harder, cock drilling your cunt harder, kisses deepening. He pulls back, as your hands are clinging to his strong biceps, thumbs brushing against the muscles that tense, before he pulls back, eyes glowing blue.

“Going to put ten fucking babies inside you.” He’s lost it now, truly he has, his eyes flashing, the man who never wanted babies wants some army!?

“No not t-ten you… psycho m-man…”

“Aw, can’t talk, so pathetic, Princess.” You’d scowl but he’s got you folded in half, in ways you didn’t know he could still after all your babies, but he manages to do just that. “You know you want it, huh pretty?”

“F-fuck off I don’t I… ah, there, fuck!” He’s smirking like the little shit he is while he fucks all sense out of you, as he always manages to.

“You love it.” He whispers, taunting you as his cock is hitting your cervix, his precum drooling as it drags that spot in your walls. “Say it.”

“I love it- mmm!” He’s grinning that psychotic grin again, eyes flashing as he folds you completely under him, his heavy weight on you making the bed creak, the heavy wood headboard somehow slamming those burgundy and gold walls, only Satoru Gojo can make heavy old wood slam.

“That’s it, look at you, ready for it, aren’t you? All my seed inside you?” You nod, helpless, but he’s not close to done, not when he murmurs - ‘open’ - and he’s spitting right in your mouth, a hand gripping your throat. “That’s it, still so slutty, my pretty whore, aren’t you?”

“Yours, yours…” You’re lost as he squeezes your throat, as you swallow his spit, and he drowns you with his everything, cock, hands, tongue slipping in your mouth and possessing it.

“Lemme feel it, c’mon Princess.” He’s lost himself now, crying out as he moves, pumping in and out of your loud, slutty cunt, as you struggle to take him. “Beg for it, for another baby in you.”

“God… you’ve gone m-mad…” He’s just kissing you again, slamming his cock so deep, swallowing up your scream.

“Beg.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah-ah.” He’s choking harder, the game you both play, the push and pull of the two of you, while you swallow each other whole, like the black holes you’ve always been, just craving each other’s light with every kiss, every breath, every stroke of his cock inside you. “Beg.”

“M-make me.” He’s chuckling, but his cock is twitching, you feel too fucking good, when don’t you? He’s never been able to get enough, and he never will. 

“Make you? You can still speak, Duchess?” He pulls back, slamming his cock too deep and too hard, groaning as he feels himself pulse, ready to fill you to the brim, his hands bruising on the backs of your thighs. “Beg me now, to make you a mommy again.”

“Mnh… one more.” He’s lost now, pulling back and cumming so deep inside you, so much it’s pouring all around his length, as he cries out against your lips, and you drink each other’s whines, clinging to each other in the night, your bed a huge rumpled mess beneath you.

“One more, hmm?” He asks, breathless, and you’re giggling now, the sound shattering his heart, as it always has, he brushes your now messy hair back, as he eases out, exhaling when he sees that mess he’s made, taking his cock and jerking it more, letting cum pour on your tummy. “Messy girl.”

“You’re messy!” He’s just exhaling at how pretty his cum looks, kissing you once more, fingers brushing between your folds, making you jerk. “Sore, it’s been a while since we…”

“Since I folded you in half?” He asks with a brow, enjoying your flushed cheeks, glittery eyes.

“That.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it until we fill you up again.” He’s kissing your tummy, lapping along a mark left from one of your babies, you can’t keep track, swiping up his own cum along with the sweat from your skin.

“Could you not give me a few months this time?” You’re asking later on, when he’s got you in the hot copper tub, you both can hear the masquerade going on, but you’re having quite the party with just the two of you.

“It’s not my fault you’re delectable pregnant. That’s all you.”

“You’re too much, Duke.” You stick out your tongue, gasping as he pinches sore nipples, hungry eyes feasting on the milk that releases. “No more!”

“You’re a cruel, evil Duchess.”

“Me!? Says you.”

“C’mere, bratty Princess.” He’s got you turned now, water sloshing around your bodies as your breaths mingle, and he’s brushing your hair back gently, as your arms wrap around his neck, and you study him, carefully. “What is on that mind of yours, I see those brows knitting together.” He touches them thoughtfully.

“Just thinking. Satoru, do you ever wish… we weren’t so stupid?” He frowns a bit at that.

“You mean do I wish I wasn’t terrible?” You sigh, shaking your head.

“No, not that, we both were. Do you wish we… met at a different time, a different life perhaps, one where we didn’t… royally fuck it up so badly at first?” Satoru’s hand drips with rivulets of water when he cups your face, blue eyes swirling with emotions, droplets falling off his wet lashes.

“No, because I’ll meet you in every life, and always find you.” You choke up in tears then, falling and leaving little drops against the bath, your thighs are on either side of his, your hands cupping his face.

“I will always find you, in any life. I love you, my Duke.” He’s tearing up himself, with his pretty Princess in his arms, it feels like some dream.

“I love you, my Duchess.” Your lips pressed together, and the two of you fall again, with every kiss, with every moment, the past long, long gone.

You would find each other in any life, in any timeline, you know in your heart and soul, this is where you belong, when he looks up at you with those eyes, the ones that have always seen you, even when you didn’t see yourself. And he knows, when he tastes your tears against the sweetness of your lips, and feels you so eager for him again.

You all will always love each other.

It’s burning, it’s insanity, it doesn’t dull over the years, it only gets better, when he’s inside you again, and kissing those full breasts, lapping up more of you, and you’re screaming out his name, echoing in the chamber. “Ten babies.”

You laugh softly, but it turns into a cry when he slams your cervix, smirking up at you. “No!”

“Nine.”

“No- ah! Fuck it… Four.”

“Four it is.” You’re laughing as you kiss, before he cums so deep inside of you, murmuring in your ear - ‘Ten’.

The End

A/N LONG ONE- I've never been more invested in one of my stories, and this is BY FAR the longest, at over 150k words. I can't believe what a journey I had. The Duchess is as close to a self insert as I'll get, so this one means a lot to me. It may not have all the likes of some of my new works (difficult subject and angsty lol) but I am truly proud of how I wrote it. I know cheating is a rough subject, but remember that THEY did not choose to be together, they were forced. It doesn't make their actions right, and it's okay if you hated Duke Gojo, or the Duchess, or even Nanami, it's okay if you felt mad or upset at them, because that's being HUMAN. They're not perfect, but the Duke and Duchess are perfect for each other. The angst was heavy, and the emotions were as well, but I truly hope you enjoyed their journey and the deep love they do share despite it all. Sorry for this long, long rambling note, but this story meant a lot to me. I love all of you who followed it from the beginning or just are finding it, and understand what I meant to do here.

Another A/N- if you want to know, their reincarnations are Fratboi Gojo and Sorority reader in Took you Like a Shot aha. That's their much happier versions still lowkey/highkey hating each other, but much less toxicc!

taglist #1- @kalopsia-flaneur @bunheadusa @7thsthings @disilluzions @antisocialinlw @Sukunassfinger @lelsforlino @heeknow @muvasuperior @prince-wyiilder @lavender-hvze @ssetsuka  @labelt-san  @sadmonke @philiatothephobia @ambiguouslady42 @stromynight @dreamygirli3 @jjknanamin @jazlenekasi @wuvnada @nanasukii28 @sw3etnena @dark-agate @tamaki-simp @yuuuumii @givluv2tyy @peppertoastuniverse @sw3etnena @webshooterrr9 @thikcems @erensblackwife @murayamayoshiki-lovergurl @blue-musingss @huuuhwhaat @makingtimemine @saccharinesatoru @sunnyviewsblog @nanananananaiknow @ekaterinatepes @szna @ayumilk @trishiepo0 @just-pure-trash @nanamiskentos @ifiwereabug @devastyle @aldebrana @alygator77

Buy me a glass of wine (KoFI) - General Masterlist

[zorosangell]

HII! I have zero clue if your requests are open if they're not ignore this ask. but let's pretend it's totally summer time and it's vacation to a 5 star resort time ok? ok!!!!! i just had this random thought of the strawhats going to an extremely luxurious resort w/ a shit ton of pools and the reader ending up losing their top of their bikini while hanging out in a shallow pool with her girl bffs n having to call for bf zoro to be her savior.. sorry. i miss zoro he needs to be disturbed with every miss inconvenience ever

⛥ﾟ・。 hibiscus

synopsis: after a wardrobe malfunction at the pool, you're left soaked and topless... luckily, you have a hot boyfriend to come to your rescue.

cw: fluffy fluff, comfort, zoro is a bit emotionally constipated, reader's better than me, girl talk, the bikini top isn't specified so imagine whatever you want.

a/n: look at my man's abs <3 oml

"No way!" you gasped, eyes wide as they flicked over each boy, completely taken aback by the similar look of them.

The little girl—who you learned to be Pasha—nodded, letting out another sigh as she grabbed another wildflower from her stockpile, tucking it into your hair.

"You have so many brothers! How big is your family?"

"Really big," her twin sister, Iza, answered, tying off another small braid she'd made. "There's twelve of us all together."

"Twelve?!"

Just the thought made you lightheaded, your mind somehow unable to comprehend one woman doing all that.

'Big Mom oughta watch out...'

"Wait 'til you learn most of us are twins..." Mila—another sister—chuckled, tossing some grapes into her mouth.

"Twins?!" you asked, brows furrowed in concern.

"Don't scare her off, Mila! It's not that bad," Pasha assured, carefully placing another peony in another section.

After getting cornered by the Navy, and nearly capsizing while trying to escape, Nami decided the crew was well overdue for some rest and relaxation.

Luckily, the executives at nearby Elysia Resort were more than eager to welcome you into their facilities—on the consensus that nothing would be stolen and no fights would be started.

So, while the others fooled around on the beach, or did some daytime reading, or made their fifteenth pass at the buffet, you hung out at the resort's impossibly large, impossibly luxurious pool.

Where you seemed to have attracted the local population of tween girls.

"Wait, but I thought pirates with braids were cliché?" you asked, confused, as you skimmed through the magazines some of the new girls brought over.

"Cli-what?" Maya cocked her head to the side, scrunching her nose as she adjusted her floaties.

"Old news," Leona clarified before turning to you, pulling a few of the braids Iza had finished toward your cheekbones. "And they're making a comeback. Like feather earrings."

"Please," Pasha scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Feather earrings are not making a comeback."

"Tell that to Kaizoku Style," Iza grinned, holding up a magazine that read LOOTING CHIC in bold letters right above a head-shot of a woman wearing feather earrings.

"They don't look too bad," you nodded, gliding your feet through the crystal blue water of the shallow end.

"See," Leona smirked, crossing her arms in triumph. "If they're not the new thing, then what is?"

"Bangles," Pasha answered, matter-of-factly.

"They've been in fashion!"

"You were the one that stole them out of momma's jewelry box, weren't you?" Mila teased.

"I did not!"

"There," Iza smiled, tying off the very last braid before giving your shoulder a soft pat. "All done."

Carefully, you leaned forward, taking a peek at your reflection through the clear water and smiling brightly at what you saw.

Your hair was adorned with all different flavors of bloom, the vibrant colors only enhancing your natural beauty.

And the braids added depth to your curls, giving it a majestic and earth-woven look.

"Oh, girls, I—"

"DOG PILE!" a random boy exclaimed, an army of them seeming to follow as they all let out a unanimous battle cry, quite literally canon-balling right on top of you.

A chorus of screaming young girls echoed throughout the pool as boys of varying ages rained from the sky—one in particular jumping on top of your head and shoving you underwater.

"NO, WAIT MY—!"

Shhrip!

Your eye twitched, and underwater you let out a sigh of frustration as your hands snapped up to cover your chest.

'You've gotta be kidding me...'

Once the assault was over, you stood from the pool floor, glancing at the ripped bikini top floating on the chlorinated surface as you turned to the girls—most of which too busy chasing down their brothers for ruining their hair.

"You all okay?" you asked, suddenly incredibly tired.

"We're fine," Pasha sighed, shaking the water out her ear. "They always do stuff like this."

"All right, then. I'm gonna go find something to cover... this..."

Turning around, you stepped out the pool and started the trek back to the cabana, moving at a brisk pace as you kept your hands firmly pressed against your bare chest.

Even though you loved children, you had to admit that you were less than pleased to see a bunch of teens had broken your top.

And even less so that they had failed to apologize.

But, if the boyish cries of "Uncle! Uncle!" from the far end of the pool were anything to go off of, then you were sure the girls had fought to avenge and defend your honor.

Sensing someone's presence, you pulled yourself out of your thoughts, only to see your swordsman standing right before you.

His eye dragged over your body, almost analytically, gauging your situation and gathering his response.

"The kids broke your top, didn't they?" Zoro asked, his hand sliding down into his pocket.

"How'd you guess?" you sighed, slightly hanging your head, now thoroughly regretting you didn't wear a one piece.

"Was doin' some strength workouts on the beach when I heard a bunch of kids screamin'. Remembered you were hangin' out over here and decided to check it out to make sure you were all right."

"Well—"

But before you could even say anything, he tugged his haramaki over your head, carefully securing it over your chest before scooping you up in his arms.

"Zoro!" you flushed, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, managing to brush past his strong deltoids in the process.

"M'tired. You're comin' to nap with me," he stated, completely serious and leaving no room for argument as he started the trek back up to your room.

In the moment, he didn't mean to be so curt.

It wasn't you he was upset at, but rather all the creepy, on-leave marines he'd snapped at on his way, who were laughing and leering at your body like what happened to you was funny.

Pinnacles of Justice?

Pinnacles of Justice, his ass.

You'd think the defenders of the people would show a little common decency and look away when a woman's trying to cover herself.

"You have fun?" he asked, gruffly, wanting to switch the subject before he got mad all over again.

"The girls did my hair," you reported, resting your head on his chest. "Braided it and decorated it with flowers while they asked me questions about being a pirate... and fashion."

A sheepish smile crept onto your lips, excitement and worry spreading through your chest as you fiddled with a curl.

"How's it look?"

The adorable expression stretched across your face sent a sharp pang of warmth straight through the swordsman's heart.

Of course it looked good.

It was on you.

With the dewy droplets of water in your hair, along with the array of flora, you looked like some sort of sea nymph.

Discreetly, his eyes flicked down to your chest, his dick stirring slightly in his trunks at the sharp contrast of green against your tanned skin.

His haramaki was stuck to your wet body like a second skin, your pebbling nipples making it abundantly clear that it was the only thing keeping him from you.

The real you.

The bare you.

'Fuck.'

Giving your thigh a soft squeeze, he nodded with approval, a small smile settling on his lips.

"You look beautiful... you always do," he stated, as if it was a fact. "Don't need flowers to see that."

Freeing one of his hands, he fixed a particularly large hibiscus, tucking it behind your ear along with a flyaway.

"I—"

He was interrupted by the sounds of your soft snores, looking down to see you were already out like a light, cheek smushed against his pec and hand resting softly over his heart.

Like boyfriend, like girlfriend.

His chest roared with admiration at the sight, along with the sudden, violent urge to protect.

The swordsman wasn't one for beating up children, but if he ever ran into the little hoodlums that snapped your top...

Let's just say he'd have a few choice words.

[glikozi]

please please please let me get what i want april

please please please let me get what i want september

[swtheartz]

i loved your little drabble of the “breaking up with mark doesn’t work” post and i’d really like to hear your thoughts on how that would go down with some of his variants if you have the time pretty please🫶✨

ohh of course dear !! been thinking abt it and this req inspired me even more info : obsessive behavior, mentions and acts of murder, stalking, he’s crazy in every universe. gn!reader a / n : this is a gift to you guys for 348 followers. i’m soo grateful n happy <33

SINISTER MARK

he thinks it’s a joke at first. you’ve no real reason to actually want to leave him, right? he’s utterly convinced that there was nothing wrong with the relationship. and to be fair, there wasn’t. other than the fact he was possessive as shit and always had tabs on you. would scare off your friends and constantly linger around you whenever he wasn’t terrorizing the masses. the second he realizes that you’re serious? he doesn’t take it very well. you won’t ever find someone better than him. he won’t let you. just what human could ever be better than him?

“You’re not very good at jokes,” Mark says—voice and expression both hauntingly blank. It sends chills down your spine for the simple fact he’s never had such an empty tone. The way he looks at you is something that you can’t exactly put into words. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s annoyed, or expectant, or some other emotion that you cannot be bothered to decipher. Not when there’s blood staining your clothes and his, the floor, your cheeks and his hands. Whatever ‘friend’ you were hanging out with was dead before they’d hit the ground. It’s been twelve days since you had gathered the courage to tell Mark you wanted a break, and it took him this long to take you seriously. Thought, it hadn’t taken much effort for him to take a life. “I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea. . .” He hummed, tilting his head as he crouched down in front of you, watching you tremble like a deer in front of an incomprehensible creature. ”But let’s not do this again, hm?”

OMNI MARK

calm. at least, he seems calm. but he also doesn’t take you very seriously. acts as he usually does, even asks you when the next date night is. as if he’ll even be able to make it with his schedule and how often he cancels on you. looks at you as though you’ve said something ludicrous when you answer that there isn’t a date night—you’re not together anymore. surely, you don’t know what you’re talking about. if you wanted him to plan the next date, you could have just told him. he’s usually the one that does all the thinking, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. honestly, what made you think you could walk away from him? the one human he cares for, and you’ve the nerve to try and separate from him? funny.

“We’re not dating, Mark.” The way the two of you stare at each other for a few tense moments is a little awkward, though he doesn’t seem to care. He holds eye contact with you before sighing—like you’re a child who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Like you’ve garnered the nerve to tell some dry joke. “If you have a problem,” Mark starts, arms crossed against his chest as he ignores your exasperated expression, “we talk it out. Like a couple is supposed to do.” “But we’re not a couple anymore. That is what I’m telling you.” You’re attempting to be reasonable, you really are, but you swear up and down he’s making you feel like the crazy one. This has got to be the third time you’ve had this conversation with him, and it hasn’t even been a week. There isn’t any way you can get through to him and you just don’t understand why. Mark scoffs, again, ignoring you. “I’ll make sure I’m not busy. Crime’s been going down, so it should be fine. They’ll manage without me.” “Just kill me already.” You mutter to yourself, unable to decide whether or not you’ll be able to ever get your point across. . . . You’ll just try again tomorrow.

FULL MASK MARK

more pathetic than mainstream mark. this man is like a wet cat in the rain. tries to maintain distance, but ends up following you everyday, texts you without thinking about it while he attempts to reason that it’s okay. you just need some distance and time, and maybe you’ll both get better. ends up outside your window after a particularly bad fight with a villain he had. he didn’t do it on purpose, he just sort of ended up here. call it muscle memory if you will. all he knows is that he’s a mess without you—needs you like oxygen, can barely think or focus on anything without you. probably the only one that tries to be the best he can be for you outside of the main universe. and probably the only one you didn’t really want to break up with.

“ ‘m sorry.”

“Markus.”

“ ‘m sorry,” Mark sniffles, face tucked into your neck as he clings to you. You’d think of it as pathetic if it were anyone but him, honestly. He’d shown up with your favorite candy and drink, bloody and looking like a stray abandoned on the side of the street. You practically had to drag him through the window when he tried to turn back around. It took a bit of insisting and a med-kit to get him cleaned and patched up, despite him reminding you that he technically didn’t need it. You snapped at him to shut up before inevitably pulling him to your room again—letting him stay the night was an easy decision, almost too easy. As of right now, he was simply listening to the sound of your heartbeat, your soft breathing, enjoying the way your gentle fingers tangled in his hair. It was sweet. Familiar. Something Mark had missed so much it made his heart ache and hurt, to the point felt as though it was being ripped apart. Though, if it were done by your hands, he wouldn’t mind.

a / n : i liked writing this, i might make a part two to this and i’m gonna make the healer reader thing a series if you guys are up to reading that. mwah mwahhhh

taglist : @lxkoluvsu // @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha // @tokoyamisstuff

[pomegranate-theater]

Hello 👋 hope you are well!

I just wanted to know if, by any chance, you will be making another part of " what yandere them do (to you) after catching you in the act of masturbating." For other hsr men? ( Especially for Aventurine? I'm a big sucker for him >.< )

➤𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒖𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 — what yandere them do (to you) after catching you in the act of masturbating. [part one with other characters]

aventurine, mydei, anaxa, argenti.

contents: afab reader, dub-con/non-con, yandere, forced relationship, masturbation, coercion, rough sex, aphrodisiacs, condescending talk, one thigh slap, fingering, squirting, oral—reader receiving. not suitable for minors.

note: i hope you are well too!

AVENTURINE

That spacious penthouse of Aventurine’s, somehow, did nothing to muffle the sounds of the vibrations of your fancy electric toothbrush that you have sneaked into your room — purchased by no one else by Aventurine, along flossers, making sure your dental hygiene stays on top even in the enclosed environment. Or maybe, you were so paranoid your hearing was overly sensitized.

You’ll have to replace the head of the toothbrush once you’re done with torturing your clit — doing the latter through the panties as the friction of the toothbrush’s hair scared you — but your only concern at the moment was not getting caught by the gambler. Should you have chosen to touch yourself while he’s at work, you’d have not so much worry; however, you were so pent up from stress today you couldn’t do anything else than keep the toothbrush under the blanket.

A device so expensive, how come was it so loud? It was getting hot too, you were scared it’d explode, as the motor being pressed too hard couldn’t rotate with its furious speed freely. Once it grew scorching in its temperature, you suddenly threw it away on the wooden floor, your heart beating like crazy from the fact you could have gotten seriously burned. Unfortunately, not only was the impact loud, the toothbrush was now able to release volume as it pleased; soon to expose your naughty behavior.

You were right, as a few moments later, the door was opened by no other than Aventurine himself. He picked up the toothbrush and turned it off before you could get up and hide it. “Friend, if I have known you were so desperate, I would have bought you a real vibrator… not force to you use an impromptu version,” he teased, despite the surprise (and his own arousal) at having witnessed the proof of you masturbating.

You, speechless, had your own brain fried by the sudden confrontation. You were well aware how easily Aventurine was capable of turning gained knowledge into his power against you, so your panic wasn’t even about your oppressor knowing you were doing what every other human does.

“Doesn’t it hurt and all?” he teased again.

“Give it back, Aventurine!” you demanded, both embarrassed and petrified.

“Nah, you need to relax, friend. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about… and that toothbrush needs to be replaced, anyway,” he shrugged off and threw the cleaning tool into your desk bin. “So overpriced if so loud for how much money I’ve spent on it… you’ve allowed me to find out.”

“Now,” he approached, not letting you to mourn your toothbrush’s loss for too long, “It seems you need a bit of help, don’t you?”

You crawled back on bed, nervous about his attention. “I… don’t, leave me alone, Aventurine.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be so shy.”

Suddenly, you were being pinned down under him, your wrists above your head — he has had enough to learn you’d fight him too much, a stubborn thing you were.

“I can give you something much better, you know,” he said, drawing his voice to be a perfect, smooth tone — one that got you going involuntarily to you. The juxtaposition of what your mind said and body wanted left you frozen in spot.

“I mean, as long as you ask, of course,” he added, his tone innocent, but you knew better. Even if his offer is not something you wanted, asking him would be proving against that; therefore painting you as a person who wanted this so you could never accuse him of anything. He was a sly and intelligent bastard, who knew how to play his cards against you… and your lately desperate body.

“N-no… I don’t want anything from you, so get off of me!” you protested, and fell quiet when he ground his crotch against yours. His bulge was hard already, and it stimulated your still puffed clit perfectly. You whimpered, and he with one hand still holding yours, slipped his other one under your underwear to circle on your clit. “S-stop…” you cried out.

“Come on, it’s so easy to say ‘please’, isn’t it?” he said seductively. His finger, while it pleased your bundle of nerves, it pleasured this way too slowly to be satisfying — on purpose. And you couldn’t last being denied anymore.

“Please,” you choked out quietly; regardless of the volume, enough for a man like him to accuse you as guilty. “See?” his voice darkened, as he sped up the ministrations. “All you need to do is ask.” As if it was ever that easy with him.

MYDEI

Mydeimos was considered one of most good looking people in Amphoreus for a reason. That stupid, meaty, strong body; with a handsome face and beautiful hair. Out of all he could have, ironically, it was the most unwilling person that he wanted — you. And you believed yourself to be most immune to him, fueled by rage and hate towards him for keeping you with him against your will for “protection purposes”.

Or so you have used to. Because recently, his body was the only thing on your mind; the obsession made to be worse when he held you against him, whether it was at day or night as he was bare-chested anyway. Not that you’d let him know — if he didn’t notice already, that is.

You were a victim of your own desires, desires towards him, whether they were out of genuine attraction or forced attachment — as now, you were driving his hairbrush’s handle into yourself. It wasn’t even comfortable to use, the rough edges almost hurt, but you couldn’t find anything better. It’s not as if you could casually ask Mydei to buy a sex toy.

The position of your self-sex was awkward too — you were on your fours, arching your arm behind your pussy to thrust the brush inside; in resemblance of a sex position as a feigned sex. Your arm hurt, the pleasure wasn’t even that good, so you could only grow in your frustration.

“What a ridiculous thing did you come up with?” a rough voice scared you, and you froze from dread. Mydei has caught you not only masturbating, but also doing this with his hairbrush. There was not a single way you could explain yourself.

Staying like this was humiliating and yet, pulling it out the hairbrush in front of him would be humiliating too; so you remained an ice sculpture. It had to be Mydei to take the next step, himself very flustered by the shocking discovery, and take out the handle from your pussy; now wet with your juices. The brush was thrown somewhere on the floor; however, as you tried to get up, his hand kept you pinned in the position.

“M-Mydei?” you asked in anxiety, worried by the prolonged exposure he chose to keep you in. Your stomach dropped when you heard the shuffling sound of his pants being pulled down.

Mydei didn’t acknowledge yours words — instead, he said something worrying, “If I had known how bad is your pull towards me, I would have spared you of this misery a long time ago.” He assumed you must have needed him if it was his item you used on yourself.

You weren’t given much time to comprehend the implication; only could scream as he suddenly filled you up with something much bigger, warmer and better — his cock. Your upper body fell downward, and your knees you stayed on trembled as he started to roughly fuck you from behind — finally relieving both you, and himself who’s been waiting for you for months.

“Mydei!” you gasped as he deepened his thrusts. Everything has happened so fast, too fast, you now could only focus on the quickly arising pleasure.

“Please forgive me for the delay,” he grunted, his hands holding onto your hips with a bruising force. “I should have known I don’t even need to ask you, only act and fuck you.”

“But don’t worry,” he leaned over your body, the heavy weight holding you down, and licked your neck, “We will catch up with what we have missed.” The promise was made, and you wouldn’t have much mercy for the rest of the night.

ANAXA

Something has been wrong with your body for days counted. Hot, irritated, throbbing feeling between your legs followed you every moment. You believed you had a fever, at first, especially with how dizzy you were; but you found out you were feeling much better when giving yourself a sexual relief. Albeit, the comfort was only momentarily, before it’d grow to pesky levels in just few hours, keeping the cycle on the loop.

Today was no different — pumping fingers into your relaxed and incredibly wet pussy, not given any respite from arousal, with occasional intrusion of thoughts about Anaxa to help you reach ecstasy faster. It was only when you were out of this mad state that you’d care about the consequences of letting this man rule your body and mind — when in heat like this, you could only imagine his gentle hands, taunting tone, and him scolding you for being so naughty.

“Anaxagoras, don’t tease me…” you mewled out for yourself and the fantasy you’ve created, barely capable of pronouncing a longer name. “I can’t… it’s too much…!”

“I can see that,” he replied, and you fingered yourself much harder. “Then…” you pleaded, and then you were silent, and then you realized it wasn’t your delirious brain. However, you could only look up at him with a limp motion, not as startled by his presence as you should be — the result of your feverish state.

“You… shouldn’t,” you couldn’t even finish your sentence, too dumb.

“I shouldn’t enter your room when you are so busy, you meant to say? But dear, the door was never closed in the first place, so it’s as if you were suggesting I should come inside and witness this debauchery for myself…” he informed, the untroubled voice making you somehow more aroused.

You shook your head, still using your fingers, no matter if with more hesitation — you were too deep into your crisis to even consider stopping. “I didn’t… I forgot… please, I can’t…”

“Such an impotent thing you’ve become. Can’t do anything, not without my help…” he sighed, as if dealing with a lost cause of a scholar only he could smarten up.

Your stomach and pussy fluttered when he approached, and you shamelessly spread your legs for him to find a spot between. “Truly indecorous,” he scolded, and you moaned.

“Is that what can feed this wanton creature?” he inquired, almost coldly, as he shoved out your fingers and re-filled your pussy with his own — two, not thrusting but rubbing a spot with fingertips.

“Ah!” you yelled, as he hit a point unknown to you, one you thought of as unreachable, and something big was approaching— much, much more terrible than a typical orgasm.

“No, stop, something’s wrong!” you cried out, trying to shut your legs; but he slapped your thigh. “Let it go. Only then we’ll think of better ways of treating your ailments,” he ordered.

As your orgasm hit you, it arrived with a splash of liquids, staining you, him, and the bed. The screams didn’t cover the sloshing sound, and you fell into spasms as you were coming down.

“Seems I was right. The aphrodisiac works wonderfully. You’ve given me enough material for a research in how I can punish that disobedient thing you’ve been becoming lately.”

“The downside is you can’t rest easily until I fuck the product out of you, but that could be interpreted as a benefit itself, hm?”

You could have only shudder as he started to unclothe himself.

ARGENTI

Humping your own hand while the other held Argenti’s blanket smelling like roses for sure didn’t make you feel any good about your own conscience. You could never let this man know that you were using an everyday item of his to pleasure yourself, especially after your latest fits of anger at him that would expose your fraudulent perception of him.

You felt patronized, overly coddled and like a child when living with him — how can a man who has forced you to be with him could be so gentle, contradictory to the cruelty behind the capture? And yet, same gentleness oftentimes spoke to you against your will, making you feel loved and appreciated, which translated into physical desire.

“My beautiful rose, I am back!” the handsome voice announced, opening the door to your small house you were currently staying at. Unfortunately, the arrangement of the cottage didn’t really have separate spaces, so he’d see you on the floor from the inside immediately. You both became stunned: you — at his return much earlier than promised, him — at your current predicament.

“Is that… my blanket?” he inquired with a nervous tone.

Your mouth opened and it closed, with you having nothing to defend yourself with. As tears of humiliation build up in your precious eyes, Argenti was quick to step forward with an apologetic smile. “No, no, it’s alright. I’m not mad at you.” He wiped your tears and kissed your cheek. As he did, you noticed how aroused he himself was when his elated breath hit your skin.

“Except, you should allow me to relieve you of your torment I can see in you.” Your eyes bulged in surprise, and before you could oppose his words, Argenti was helping you up, and he settled himself down between your legs. Being on his knees for you and not Idrila herself caused a hesitation within him accusing him of treason; until he excused himself by telling himself he saw you two differently.

“Argenti, what are you—“ “Ssh. As I’ve said, it’s alright,” he reassured, and was lapping at your still wet pussy. Your hand found purchase in his red hair, tugging, as you tried to fight the sudden sensation.

“Wait—“ But your protest were left l only for the air to hear, as he pleasured you diligently.

“I cannot help but be thankful for this opportunity,” he murmured against your thigh his hand gently stroked. Unstripped of his armor suit for the time when he’s been venturing outside, he looked more beautiful than ever. “Furthermore, I see myself as ashamed of being so… immodest in my behavior, craving you like this…” he said, self-deprecating himself, “I hope you can forgive me and see my actions as a worship instead.”

“Just… shut up, Argenti,” you scolded, and humped his face. He moaned, drinking from you eagerly, and his gentle hands fondled soft flesh of your behind.

“Anything you ask for, beloved,” he promised, an oath he’d never break, before his tongue slipped into your hole, ultimately silencing him.

[geooo0o]

I wanna know what people assume about me because of my tumblr.

[jeonginsleftcheek]

Used (drabble)

pairing: felix x afab!reader, implied ot8 x reader

genre: filthy smut

wc: 723

warnings: cockwarming, unprotected sex, partner sharing, degradation, praise, LOTS of dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink, reader is called slut

a/n: i'm in a lil writing slump so this is an attempt at getting out of it, enjoy (i guess😭)💕

You were currently lying under your best friend Felix, your legs wrapped around him and his cock buried deep inside your heat. It wasn't the first time he needed the closeness and the comfort and you were happy to be of service, letting him seek your warmth.

You were scrolling on your phone as he almost fell asleep on top of you but then you shifted just a little, making him groan into your neck.

"Y/n." he whined before lifting up and looking at you. You tossed your phone aside and gave him a smirk.

"Spread your legs." his voice was dark and a shiver ran up your spine, doing as you were told.

Felix started to move slowly, fucking your stretched wet pussy, his eyes rolling back at the feeling as he grunted.

You gasped, letting out a string of moans as you clutched onto him.

"Did you cockwarm the other guys like this, hm?" he asked, dragging his cock through your walls.

"Mm, yeah." you whimpered when his tip hit your spot.

"Tell me how you did it." Felix wrapped one hand around your neck, his other squeezing on your breast.

"I- I cockwarmed Hyunjin while he was painting." you started.

"Yeah? Did you let him fuck you?" Felix pinched your nipple, making you whine as he still fucked into you with languid movement.

"Yes. He bended me over his table and fucked me hard." you bit on your lip, your pussy clenching around Felix's length.

"Who else?" he smirked, pulling his cock almost completely out before rocking back into you harder, making you moan.

"C-Chan." you whimpered. "In the studio."

"Mhm." he squeezed your neck a little and you gasped, lifting your middle up to meet his thrusts.

"Did he fuck you good after that?"

"He fucked me so good." you whimpered as Felix gripped your thighs, pushing your knees up to your shoulders.

"And Changbin?"

"I cockwarmed him with my mouth." you confessed and Felix twitched inside you, the image of you kneeling with your mouth stuffed full of Changbin's cock made him weak.

"I bet you liked your little mouth stretched around him, hm?" Felix gripped the flesh on the back of your thighs as he fucked you a little harder, your pussy so warm and wet around him.

"I loved it." you whined, nails digging into the mattress under you.

"What about last night? I heard you and Seungmin." Felix smirked, increasing his speed and making you even more wet, the squelching sounds of your pussy filling up the room.

"He fucked me from behind. I even let him put it in my ass." you whimpered at the memory.

"Damn, you really are just a little slut, aren't you?" Felix groaned, rocking his hips into yours and making you moan as you clenched hard around him.

"I am." you confirmed, biting on your lip.

"Tell me more." Felix demanded, fucking you harder and making your head spin.

"I fucked Jeongin this morning."

"Yeah? Did you ride him like a good girl?"

"I did." you whimpered, so close to release.

"You wanna cum, slut?" Felix grinned, his fingertips grazing your sensitive clit.

"Y-yes, please!" you moaned.

"Cum around me." he ordered, flicking your clit as he kept fucking into you hard.

"Ah, Felix!" you fell apart, exploding around him as he kept fucking you through your high and chasing his own.

"You want my cum, slut?" he panted and you gasped, gripping onto his arms.

"P-please!"

"Fuck, I know you love to be stuffed by all eight of us. Want us to breed this greedy little pussy?" Felix grunted, fucking you so hard that you came around him once again.

"Yes I do!" you cried out and he exploded, ropes od warm cum filling you up.

"Minho told me to stretch you good for him today." Felix breathed hard before pulling out.

"Mm." you whimpered at the emptiness but that was soon replaced by four of his fingers pushing inside your fucked out pussy.

"So, I'm not done with you yet. You're gonna take it like a good slut until Minho comes to fuck you." he smirked at your teary eyes as he continued fucking you hard with his fingers.

You whined, spreading your legs more, happy to be used by all eight of your best friends.

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