#Tailor Hitches

[denbo66]

Happy 60th Birthday to BBC 2 or BBC TWO. Whichever.

[joelsrose]

Father of the Groom

warnings - smut (as always lmao) virgin reader, cheating, spanking, unprotected sex, family dynamics, creampie ..(??!)

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

You reached for another glass of champagne, your fingers trembling just enough to make the bubbles shimmer against the rim. The suite was quiet now, too quiet, after the flurry of brushes and curling irons, after the hum of music and the soft laughter of your stylist and makeup artist who had only just packed up and left. The air still held the faint scent of hair spray and roses, mixed with the deeper perfume clinging to your skin — warm, floral, soft like summer.

Your hair had been curled into delicate waves, the top pinned back with a cluster of tiny pearls that glimmered every time you moved. Your makeup was bridal perfection — a gentle glow across your cheeks, soft pink lips, lashes long and curled like whispers. You looked like a dream. You felt… like a trembling one. Nerves tangled tightly in your belly, fluttering like ribbons caught in wind. You were getting married today. Today.

The weight of it settled behind your ribs. Excitement, yes — that warm, hopeful kind — but threaded through with something sharper, more restless. The kind of nerves that made your hands fidget, that made you question if you’d eaten too much, if you should’ve worn a different shade of blush, if the weight in your chest was love or fear or… something else entirely.

You were just about to raise the flute to your lips when a knock echoed at the door — soft, deliberate.

Your heart gave a little stutter.

“Luke, I swear,” you muttered under your breath with a nervous smile, setting the glass down, “you know you’re not supposed to see me until the ceremony…”

You padded toward the door in nothing but your white silk robe — the one you’d saved for today, smooth as water and tied loosely at your waist. You pulled it tighter on instinct, fingers curling around the fabric as you turned the handle and opened the door—

—and there he was.

Joel.

Mr. Miller.

Your fiancé’s father.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

Joel Miller stood in the doorway like he’d stepped out of another world and into this one just to see you — tall and broad in his dark suit, the tailored jacket pulling across his shoulders in a way that made your breath hitch for reasons you didn’t want to examine.

His tie was a muted navy, slightly loosened at the collar like he hadn’t bothered to finish getting ready yet, and in the neat fold of his jacket pocket sat a single white rose — likely chosen to match your bouquet, the detail not missed by you. His hair had been swept back, soft curls glinting silver under the room’s warm light. He looked handsome — devastatingly so — in that older, quiet kind of way that made you want to look at him just a second too long.

“Joel,” you smiled gently, surprised, your fingers tightening slightly on the robe’s sash as you leaned your shoulder to the doorframe, “I thought you were Luke.”

His brow ticked up, but the smile he gave you was warm, touched with something that felt just a little too fond. “Well… look at you, sweetheart.” He stepped closer, eyes scanning you with a reverence that made your skin burn beneath the silk. He leaned in and kissed both of your cheeks — the roughness of his stubble grazing your skin, the warmth of his hands settling lightly on your arms. “You look like a damn dream.”

A quiet breath left you as you backed up slightly to let him in, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks, Joel,” you murmured, turning toward the side table where the champagne and spirits were arranged, the glasses catching soft golden light. “Would you like a drink? There’s whiskey.”

He chuckled — low, gravelly, like it lived deep in his chest. “You know me well.”

You didn’t see the way his eyes dropped to your legs, how they lingered on the smooth line of your thigh revealed by the shift of your robe as you reached forward, silk sliding up just enough to test the limits of modesty. You didn’t catch the subtle way his jaw shifted or how his thumb dragged once over his palm before reaching for the glass you passed him.

“How’s your morning been?” he asked, voice smooth, conversational, but his gaze wandered — over the room, yes, but always returning to you.

You motioned for him to sit, and when he did, he chose the armchair closest to you — close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours. You sat down again, smoothing the robe over your legs as you sipped the last of your champagne, trying to ignore the sudden flutter of nerves in your chest that had nothing to do with wedding-day jitters.

“It’s been busy,” you admitted softly, your voice lighter now. “Hair and makeup only just left. Luke and I are getting photos done soon… in—” you glanced at your phone, “less than an hour, actually.”

Joel nodded slowly, the motion almost absentminded, though his eyes hadn’t left you once — eyes that held something too heavy to be casual, too soft to be paternal. There was reverence in them, yes, but also a flicker of something else, something deep and unspoken, as if he was trying to memorize every angle of you in that moment — the slope of your cheekbone catching the morning light, the gentle way your bottom lip stayed tucked beneath your teeth when you were nervous, the way you kept fidgeting with the edge of your silk robe like you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands now that he was sitting so close.

“You nervous?” he asked at last, his voice quieter than before — lower, almost thoughtful, like it wasn’t just a question but something weightier, an offering.

You smiled softly, almost bashful, eyes dropping to your lap where your fingers twisted the belt of your robe into a little knot. “A little.”

When you looked up again, his gaze was still locked on yours — unwavering, steady, and laced with something warm enough to make your skin prickle.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be nervous about, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice slow and syrupy, rich with something comforting and southern and familiar. “If anything, my damn son oughta be nervous. He’ll get a whoopin’ if he ain’t takin’ care of you proper.”

That made you laugh — the kind of laugh Joel always pulled out of you with so little effort, the kind that spilled out like a secret, the kind that reminded you of every dinner at their family home, of the way he always made sure your wine glass was full, how he always offered you the best slice of roast first, the way he always called you “sweetheart” like it meant something more. Holidays, birthdays, Sunday brunches — Joel was the kind of man who made you feel seen, held, steady in a world that sometimes spun too fast.

And now, as your laughter died down to a gentle smile, he was watching you again — like you were something fragile and golden and borrowed just for a moment. His hand moved slowly, resting gently on your knee, warm and solid where your skin peeked from beneath the silk. His palm was broad, roughened from years of work, but the way he touched you was soft, reverent, fingers still against your skin like he didn’t dare move.

You kept your eyes trained on his, breath catching faintly, though it wasn’t fear that fluttered in your chest. He smelled good — a mix of something woodsy and clean, a little cologne maybe, but mostly Joel — that distinct, masculine scent that always lingered when he hugged you goodbye.

He smiled a little, eyes soft, almost nostalgic. “You remind me of Tess on our wedding day,” he said quietly, and you felt that compliment bloom somewhere deep in your belly, warm and sharp. “She had this look in her eyes — somethin’ soft. Somethin’ like you got now. Though I don’t think she ever wore a robe like that 'round me before the vows.”

The last part slipped out lower, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and you blushed instantly, lowering your eyes with a shy smile, your fingers tightening just slightly around the edge of your robe.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice almost too quiet to hear.

Joel smiled again, tilting his head just a little, and then leaned forward, the hand on your knee giving the gentlest squeeze. “Now come on,” he said, voice teasing but kind, “stand up and give me a twirl. I wanna see my future daughter-in-law in all her glory.”

You let out a little giggle — partly from the champagne dancing in your bloodstream, partly from the way his voice held that proud affection, but mostly from the way he was looking at you. Like you were beautiful. Like he knew you were.

You gave a playful little twirl, champagne dancing in your veins and nerves making your limbs feel feather-light. The hem of your silk robe fluttered around your thighs, and you struck a mock pose at the end, one hand on your hip, the other lifting just enough of the fabric to wink at the lace garter snug around your upper thigh — delicate ivory and barely-there sheer, the one your maid of honor had slipped to you that morning with a wink and a giggle.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, the sound rough and warm and unmistakably male, like it was caught in the back of his throat. He leaned forward slightly in the armchair, elbow resting on one knee, fingers loosely wrapped around his glass of whiskey. But it wasn’t the drink he was looking at.

Your movements had swayed just enough for him to catch a flash of lace — and his eyes tracked it like they had a mind of their own.

“Hold up,” Joel said suddenly, his voice casual but the glint in his eyes not quite matching the lazy ease in his tone. He leaned forward in the chair just slightly, resting his glass on the side table as his gaze settled somewhere lower — somewhere that made heat crawl beneath your skin. “C’mere for a sec, sweetheart.”

You blinked, your breath catching as you stepped toward him with a small, hesitant smile, eyes soft with concern. “What’s wrong?” you asked, your brows furrowed as your mind spun — Did I drop something? Do I have something on my face? Did my lipstick smudge already?

But Joel didn’t answer you right away. Instead, he reached out with one hand, slow and deliberate, his fingers warm as they brushed against the outside of your thigh — the place where the hem of your robe had shifted just enough during your little twirl to reveal a sliver of ivory lace. His touch was gentle, almost absentminded, but his movements were precise. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“This,” he murmured, dragging his finger beneath the silk as he shifted the fabric slightly to the side, revealing more of the garter cinched high on your thigh — delicate and bridal and not meant to be seen by him. “Thought I saw somethin’. Damn near missed it.”

He was smiling — that sweet, fatherly smile he always gave you — but there was something else there too, something in the way his eyes lingered, in the way his thumb brushed the edge of the lace like he was admiring it for more than just tradition’s sake.

You froze, a flush blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening beneath the satin as you struggled to find words. How were you supposed to explain to your future father-in-law that you were wearing a garter? That it was supposed to be seen by someone else — his son, no less. That it was part of some ancient wedding tradition meant to feel cheeky, fun, maybe even a little flirtatious, but now felt scandalous, intimate, exposed in front of the man who should’ve looked away the second he noticed.

Your voice caught in your throat, lodged somewhere between your chest and your lips, and all you could manage was a breathy, flustered, “It’s…” You swallowed hard, cheeks burning as you reached absently for the belt of your robe, needing something to do with your hands, anything to ground you beneath the weight of his gaze. “Tradition, apparently,” you mumbled. “My maid of honour gave it to me this morning.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away. His fingers — the same ones that had just ghosted over the soft skin of your thigh — trailed off with an infuriating slowness, leaving behind a trail of heat like a brand. He let go of the silk as if he hadn’t just touched something sacred, as if his hand hadn’t rested somewhere it most certainly should not have been — like the act itself hadn’t tilted the axis of the room just a fraction. Like it wasn’t so unbearably wrong you felt dizzy with it.

He leaned back in the armchair, the movement languid and unhurried, like he was stretching into the moment instead of trying to escape it. One arm draped along the back of the seat, the other resting on his thigh, fingers idly brushing his whiskey glass. His gaze moved slowly — dragging unapologetically from your legs, up the length of your body, pausing at the dip of your waist where the robe clung, the soft curve of your chest, the flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat — before finally, finally settling on your face again.

“Well,” he said, his voice warm and low, that Southern drawl folding over you like velvet, smooth but weighted, “it’s a real pretty little thing.”

He paused, his smile curling at the edge with something far too knowing, too intimate.

“Just like you.”

Your breath hitched. You blinked, eyes wide, the blush rising higher on your cheeks as you stood frozen in place, unsure what to say, unsure what could be said. You felt suddenly very young, very exposed — like a girl playing dress-up in a woman’s world, standing in a silk robe that felt too thin, with lace too intimate, in front of a man who should have looked away by now. A man who should have been like a father. A man who wasn’t.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly, your gaze darting away in a poor attempt to gather composure. But you could still feel his eyes on you — the weight of them. Gentle. Heavy. Wanting.

You sat down again, your legs folding delicately beneath you, hyperaware now of the space between you — or rather, the lack of it. His knee brushed yours when you shifted slightly, and the silk of your robe clung a little too close to your skin, made you feel a little too seen. Your skin still tingled where his hand had rested moments before.

“What are the boys doing?” you asked, your voice soft, trying to ease the thrum in your chest by returning to something normal — something safe — but even as you said it, your voice betrayed you, just a little too airy, a little too unsure.

Joel chuckled, low and warm, that rich gravel sound that lived somewhere deep in his chest. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass with idle ease. “Luke and the boys?” he said, eyes still fixed on you like you were more interesting than anything happening elsewhere. “They’re just gettin’ ready in the suite down the hall. Arguin’ over whose tie’s crooked, takin’ shots behind your mama’s back.”

You smiled, shoulders relaxing a touch, but then — then Joel shifted his wrist as he brought the glass to his lips, and just as his arm brushed yours, he fumbled.

It was subtle. Believable. Performed so naturally you would’ve sworn it was real.

The glass tilted — just enough — and a slow, honeyed trickle of whiskey spilled over the rim, slipping down the side of the tumbler and landing squarely on your thigh.

Your gasp was soft, surprised, as the warm liquid soaked into the silk, darkening it in a bloom that made the fabric cling scandalously to your skin. It rolled down your leg in a slow, sinful line.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, deep and throaty, setting the glass aside instantly. His hand followed the spill without hesitation, brushing the fabric with the back of his knuckles, trying — pretending — to help. “Damn, m’sorry, sweetheart. Wasn’t lookin’. Didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice thin, fluttering from your lips like it had to push through the tightness in your chest. Your breath hitched as Joel’s fingers lingered, just for a second too long, his knuckles grazing the edge of your thigh as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “It’s just—just the robe.”

He pulled back, but not far, reaching behind him for the box of tissues on the table with a low chuckle, his voice roughened by something that felt deeper than amusement. “Sorry, darlin’,” he muttered as he shook his head, pulling a few tissues loose. “Old man like me can’t do nothin’ right with these damn hands anymore. Slippery glass, nerves shot, eyesight probably goin’.”

You laughed softly, unsure whether it was the champagne or the way your heart felt like it had climbed into your throat. “You’re not old,” you murmured, looking down at your lap to avoid his gaze.

Joel didn’t respond to that — not directly. Instead, he leaned forward again, pressing the tissue to your thigh with a gentleness that made the breath stall in your lungs. His hand was warm, firm but careful, like he was scared he might hurt you, or maybe scared of something entirely different.

He dabbed at the silk uselessly, the fabric already soaked through, transparent now and clinging like a second skin.

“Damn,” he muttered again, more to himself this time as his eyes followed the trail of amber staining the pale ivory. “I’m makin’ it worse, ain’t I?”

You didn’t answer, your mouth dry, because he wasn’t really asking.

Joel looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity, and then back down at the fabric. “This ain’t gonna come clean like this,” he said after a moment, holding the tissue up like proof. “You’ll catch a chill sittin’ in it all wet like that.”

You hesitated, blinking. “It’s fine, really—”

“Nah,” he said gently, his voice taking on that soft but insistent tone, the one that always made people listen. “You’re gonna wrinkle that beautiful dress if this soaks through. Here—” his fingers moved to the sash at your waist before you even realized, pausing just long enough for your eyes to go wide.

“May I?” he asked, and the way he said it — quiet, kind, not pushy but so utterly deliberate — made your stomach twist with something sharp and hot, something that curled behind your ribs and settled low, where your thoughts shouldn’t be wandering.

“I—” you exhaled a shaky breath, a breathy, nervous laugh tumbling out of you. “I’m not sure—”

Joel’s smile was warm, sweet even, but his hands were already ready — positioned at your waist like he was just waiting for permission he already knew you’d give. “We gotta get you cleaned up, baby,” he said gently, glancing at the watch on his wrist like this was all just time-sensitive logistics and not a private, forbidden unraveling. “You got what… twenty minutes till the photographer shows up? Tess, Lord, she dropped every damn thing on her dress back on our day. Nerves’ll do that to ya. But this?” His hand brushed the stained silk. “This’s before the ceremony. Can’t have your wedding robe lookin’ like this in the photos, sugar. People’ll talk.”

He chuckled, soft and low, like he’d just said something harmless, like this wasn’t the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. And your voice — so small and unsure and trembling in a way you couldn’t seem to stop — came out as little more than a breath: “Okay.”

Before you even realized what was happening, his fingers worked the sash loose, slow and careful like he was handling something breakable. The robe slid off your shoulders with the softest whisper of silk and warmth, pooling at your waist before slipping down your hips entirely. Joel caught it in one hand like it was something sacred, something fragile that deserved care — but his eyes…

His eyes didn’t stay on the robe.

He pretended to examine the stained fabric, muttering something under his breath about the fibers and how whiskey sets, holding it like he was doing you a favor — but his gaze lifted a second later, and when it did, it hit you like heat.

Because now you were standing in front of him in nothing but your wedding-day lingerie.

Lace and satin hugged your body, delicate and white and unforgiving, sheer in places where it shouldn’t have been, the garter still snug on your thigh, the tops of your stockings barely visible beneath the hem of the lace. You felt bare. Exposed. Like you’d been unwrapped and laid open just for him.

And Joel — your fiancé’s father, the man who’d kissed your cheek over birthday cake, who’d fixed the broken lock on your apartment door, who’d always called you sweetheart like it was your name — looked up at you then.

His eyes trailed up the length of your legs, slowly, reverently, over your hips, your stomach, the soft line of your chest rising and falling far too quickly.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

And in that still, humming silence — where the only sound was the soft rustle of lace against skin and the distant echo of footsteps in some far-off hallway that no longer felt real — you realized with a throb in your chest that Joel had never looked at you like this before.

But he wasn’t stopping.

Not this time.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, reverently, so intensely it made your skin feel too tight, like you were glowing from the inside out, flushed and trembling in nothing but that thin veil of bridal lace that barely counted as clothing. His mouth parted, just slightly, like the words were trying to catch up with the way his thoughts had already unraveled.

“Well,” he drawled at last, voice low and breathless with disbelief, a wry edge of admiration curling around every syllable, “hell, darlin’... I didn’t even know they made underwear like that.”

You gasped — soft, startled — and instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, trying to shield yourself with trembling hands, but there was barely anything to cover. The silk and lace clung to you like a whisper, translucent in places it shouldn’t be, tight across curves he was now seeing for the very first time, and the heat in his eyes made your knees threaten to give out.

Joel dropped the robe without looking, the silk puddling soundlessly at his feet, forgotten, like it was meaningless compared to the vision standing before him. His voice dipped deeper, reverent but laced with something unholy, something so filthy it made your pulse stutter.

“Shit, honey…” he whispered, gaze flicking down again, breath catching as he took you in from head to toe, “…this lace don’t even cover your pussy, does it?”

You froze, stunned, lips parted in a silent gasp, your body prickling with heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how the words hit you — low and wicked, like something molten pooling behind your ribs.

He shook his head slowly, as though trying to make sense of what he was seeing, as though the sight of you — flushed and trembling and wrapped in lace that did nothing to hide the soft, sacred shape of your body — was more than his tired, aging heart could bear. His voice, when it came, was hushed and aching, like it had to claw its way up from somewhere deep in his chest. “You look like heaven on earth,” he murmured, almost broken by it, like saying the words out loud wounded him in some unspeakable way. “Like somethin’ God himself made just to fuck with me.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

Your arms were still crossed tightly over your chest, but your hands had slackened, your fingers curled uselessly against your skin as if even they had surrendered to the weight of his gaze. Your lips were parted in shock, your mouth dry, and your heart was pounding so hard you swore he could see it in the way your collarbone trembled beneath the thin thread of satin. You didn’t know if you should run — throw on the robe, end this before it went any further — or reach for him, admit what your body had already betrayed.

Joel stood then, slowly, without a word, and took the few steps toward you with the calm, deliberate steadiness of a man who had made up his mind.

You didn’t move when he reached you.

Didn’t protest when his rough, warm hands slid gently over your wrists, guiding your arms down and away from your chest, until they hung limply at your sides and you were bare before him in a way you had never been before.

His gaze dropped immediately, and there was nothing coy about it now, nothing shy or hesitant in the way his eyes devoured the sight of you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw your chest, and his voice, when it came, was low and ragged and thick with hunger.

“Jesus, baby…” he muttered, his voice strained and reverent like he was confessing a sin, “I can see your fuckin’ nipples through that lace.”

The way he said it — not vulgar, not joking, but stunned, ruined, like it was a miracle he didn’t deserve to witness — sent a ripple of heat straight through your spine. You felt like you were on fire, like your skin was glowing beneath his gaze, like you were something holy being blasphemed.

“Joel,” you warned, or tried to, though your voice cracked under the weight of your own trembling.

Your brows furrowed, your breath shallow, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Because his eyes were still fixed on your breasts, on the way the sheer lace hugged the swell of them, your nipples peaked and visible through the delicate floral embroidery, the faint rise and fall of your chest growing sharper with each second his gaze remained. And Joel — your future father-in-law, the man who’d always carried himself with the kind of unshakable dignity only age could bring — just looked.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say sorry.

He just kept looking at you like he’d never seen anything so goddamn beautiful in his life — like the sight of you, soft and trembling in white lace that barely clung to your skin, had cracked something open in him so deep and buried he no longer remembered how to pretend it wasn’t there.

And then, in a voice so calm and so casual it could’ve been mistaken for small talk, he murmured, “Now you can’t blame an old man for admirin’, can you?”

The way he said it — low, warm, with the faintest flicker of amusement curling in his chest — made your stomach flip. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like you were the one being silly for acting like he hadn’t just devoured you with his eyes.

His hand rose, slow and unhurried, and settled against your hip — broad and warm, his thumb brushing bare skin where the lace ended. The contact was electric, your breath catching in your throat as you gasped softly, your eyes snapping up to his.

“You wear this for him?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, gaze trailing from your mouth to your breasts again like he couldn’t help himself. “This pretty little set?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even think. Not with his hand on you, not with his voice all low and close like that, like a secret being whispered in a confessional.

“Bet he can’t even fuck ya right,” Joel muttered, more to himself than to you, like the words had slipped out from somewhere dark and unchecked.

“Joel,” you said, eyes wide, voice trembling, every part of your body pulsing with heat and something dangerously close to arousal.

But he didn’t back away. Didn’t apologize. Just looked at you harder, darker, like he wanted to pull every secret from your lips one by one.

“Am I right?” he asked, his thumb pressing slightly into your hip, his voice rough now, frayed around the edges. “Answer me.”

“He’s—” you stuttered, struggling to find breath, to find balance. “We—”

Joel leaned closer, close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek, close enough that your body instinctively tilted toward his like gravity itself wanted to betray you.

“What?” he asked again, quieter this time, more intimate. “Tell me, baby.”

You swallowed hard, lashes fluttering, unable to meet his gaze. “We’re waiting,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “I… I’m waiting for marriage.”

Joel stilled completely, his hand still on your hip, the silence stretching like a rubber band between you, pulled taut with something unspeakable.

“Is that right?” he said, his voice rasping out of him now — not mocking, not surprised, but so deep and low it made your thighs press together without thought.

And then, with a smirk so slow and sinful it felt like a hand dragging down your spine, he murmured—

“Wearin’ nothin’ but that little lace set… nipples hard and pussy barely covered… waitin’ for marriage?” He laughed under his breath, eyes glinting with heat as his thumb stroked over your hipbone again. “Sugar, you don’t look like you’re waitin’ for anything at all.”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat before you could push them out, your body so tense it ached. “It’s true,” you whispered finally, barely able to look at him, your eyes darting toward the door, the hallway, the window — anywhere but the furnace of his gaze — “Joel… you should go. You have to leave.”

The reality of it struck you all at once — how easily someone could walk in, a bridesmaid, your mother, Luke, God forbid — how they’d see you like this, half-naked in white lace with your robe discarded, flushed and trembling in front of a man who wasn’t your groom but your fiancé’s father — and yet your feet didn’t move, your body didn’t pull away, your hands still resting lightly against his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt like he was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“Ain’t no one been in here?” Joel asked as the pad of his finger tapped once against the thin lace stretched over your cunt — then again, firmer this time — and your knees nearly gave out, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your entire body shuddered, the contact so sharp, so intimate, so forbidden you couldn’t breathe.

Your arms flew up, instinctive, desperate for balance, and gripped his shoulders for support, fingers digging into the fabric as your forehead dropped forward against his chest, your body swaying against his like it was trying to find safety in the very place it should’ve run from.

“No,” you said shakily, head turning slightly against him, your voice catching somewhere between shame and pleading. “I’m—Joel, I’m—no one’s.”

He stilled.

Everything in him seemed to go quiet, like your words had struck something sacred.

“Christ,” he breathed, low and reverent, his hand still cupping you through the lace, fingers twitching against the heat of you, “you mean to tell me…”

You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, could hear the raw edge of restraint unraveling in his voice.

“And you’re gonna let Luke be the first?”

You flinched, eyes fluttering shut as guilt and desire tangled painfully in your chest. “He’s my fiancé,” you said softly, almost defensively, even though you couldn’t lift your head from Joel’s chest, even though your body was pressing closer to his with each heartbeat. “We’re… we’re getting married.”

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, his fingers dragging gently over the soaked lace between your legs, not quite touching, just tracing, feeling, memorizing.

His voice came softer now, but no less devastating.

“And still… he ain’t the one you’re tremblin’ for, is he?”

“I—” you tried to speak, to form a protest, a thought, anything — but your words were swallowed before they ever had the chance to live, devoured by the press of Joel’s mouth crashing down onto yours.

Warm, demanding, his lips slanted over yours with the kind of hunger that had clearly been simmering just beneath the surface, patient and quiet until now. His tongue swept into your mouth before you could process the heat of it, before you could decide whether to stop him, and his hands — large, calloused, far too steady — came to cradle either side of your face as though this were something sacred, something earned.

You gasped into him, the kiss knocking the breath from your lungs, your palms pressed flat against his chest at first as though you might push him away, but the moment was already slipping too far beyond your control. You were drowning in the taste of him, in the scent of whiskey and cologne and Joel, in the feel of his body against yours — broad, solid, unwavering — and before you could stop yourself, your lips parted further beneath his, soft and needy, a quiet sound escaping your throat as your hands curled into the front of his shirt and you kissed him back.

Joel groaned into your mouth, a deep, wrecked sound that came from somewhere low in his gut, and when he pulled back just an inch, just long enough to drag in a breath, his eyes were black with something feral.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice rough with triumph, like he’d just uncovered a truth he’d been aching to confirm. “Little virgin with a mouth like sin… wearin’ lace for your weddin’, but kissin’ me like you’re starvin’ for it.”

His hands dropped then, feverish and impatient, fumbling with the buckle of his belt as you stood frozen, breathless, dazed beneath him, your lips still tingling, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to escape your body.

“A virgin,” he rasped, eyes dragging down the length of you like a man unwrapping a forbidden gift, “but still a fuckin’ whore for me.”

You whimpered — barely audible — but you didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Because every inch of your body was betraying you, soaked and trembling and swaying toward him like gravity itself had changed direction.

Joel moved fast, years of control finally unraveling as he gripped your waist and guided you backwards, turning you effortlessly, and before you could register what was happening, you felt the soft brush of velvet behind your knees.

You bent instinctively, breath catching in your throat, and he pressed you down onto the couch — the same pale satin loveseat where your robe had been draped just minutes before — your spine arching as your knees folded beneath you, your chest bracing against the cushions.

Everything moved too quickly and yet not quick enough, your thoughts spinning, your skin burning, the cool air kissing your bare thighs as your position shifted, hips raised, your lace-covered ass now exposed, tilted up toward him like an offering.

You heard the clink of his belt dropping open.

And Joel — standing behind you now, belt unfastened — stared down at you with an expression so dark, so wrecked with lust and disbelief, you could feel the weight of it without even turning around. His breath came heavier now, the air between you thick and humid with something that felt like sin and smelled like cologne and sex, and when he finally spoke, it was little more than a gravel-coated whisper, ruined and reverent.

“Look at that fuckin’ view…”

The words made your spine arch involuntarily, heat crawling up your neck and pooling between your thighs, the lace of your panties so damp it clung to you like a second skin. You turned your head, looking back over your shoulder, your voice small and trembling, barely able to make its way past the knot forming in your throat.

“Joel… what are you doing?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just stepped forward, one hand settling heavy and possessive on the curve of your ass, his voice low and casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gonna fuck you, sweetie.”

Your mouth fell open, a breath escaping so sharp it felt like a wound.

“Joel,” you gasped, your voice cracking from the inside out, but you didn’t move — didn’t pull away, didn’t protest, didn’t stop him — and that alone told him everything he needed to know.

His palm came down fast.

The crack echoed softly against the suite walls, sharp and sudden, your body jolting from the contact as you yelped in surprise, eyes fluttering shut from the sting that bloomed across your skin.

Joel’s hand returned immediately, smoothing over the flesh he’d just struck, warm and steady, grounding you through the burn.

“Gotta be quiet, angel,” he murmured, his voice rich and amused, thick with the kind of heat that made your toes curl. “Don’t wanna spook the wedding planner. She’ll come knockin’ if she hears you squealin’ like that.”

And then, with a patience so unholy it made your head spin, he lifted his hand again — and brought it down once more.

The second smack was firmer, more confident, and this time, he watched with a hunger so intense it bordered on reverence as a soft red bloom appeared across the curve of your ass, glowing beneath the sheer lace.

He exhaled like a man in prayer.

“Fuck…” he whispered, dragging his thumb along the edge of the mark, watching the skin warm and swell beneath his touch. “Look how pretty you blush for me.”

You whimpered, your cheek pressed against the cushion, fingers curling into the fabric as your body burned with shame and need, trembling under his hands, soaked through and aching for more.

“Should be sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself now, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do, like it hurt him in all the wrong, delicious ways. “It’s your first time, ain’t it? Should be slow. Should be gentle…”

He paused above you, the solid weight of his chest hovering just shy of your back, his breath warm and steady against your ear as he whispered like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t happening in the bridal suite moments before your wedding. “…But you bent over so easy for me, angel,” he murmured, the heat of his words seeping into your skin like smoke, “didn’t even need to be asked — now I’m thinkin’ maybe you don’t want it sweet.”

You whimpered his name, the sound spilling from your lips before you could stop it, trembling with the need clawing its way through your chest. “Please, Joel,” you whispered, voice raw and soaked in shame and longing.

His lips brushed your ear, low and indulgent. “Please what, baby?”

You hesitated only for a breath, the humiliation of the words curling in your throat, but it was overtaken by need, by the aching, throbbing emptiness that only he could fill. “I want you to fuck me,” you said finally, your voice cracking under the weight of it, tears slipping down your cheeks now, mascara probably smeared, dignity long gone, “please, I—I need it so bad.”

Your hand moved before your thoughts could catch up, fingers reaching between your thighs to drag the drenched lace of your panties to the side, desperate to give him access, to offer yourself up in the most obscene, pleading way.

But Joel moved faster.

He stepped in, growling something low in his throat, and pushed your hand away like you were doing it all wrong. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of the soaked panties and yanked them down with deliberate slowness, dragging the sticky fabric over your thighs, your knees, until it slipped free completely and left your bare pussy exposed, glistening and trembling beneath his gaze.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice gravel-edged with hunger and reverence, “not to the side, baby — I wanna see all of it. Want nothin’ in the way of this sweet little pussy. S’too fuckin’ pretty to be hidden.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he folded the panties once, then again, and without ceremony — like it was the most casual act in the world — he shoved them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“Fuck,” he breathed, stepping back to take in the sight of you, bent over for him, lace bra hugging your chest, your ass bare and soft, and your pussy so slick it shone in the low light of the room. “She’s leakin’, baby. Soakin’ the fuckin’ air.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, your cheeks burning, your lip trembling, and when your eyes met his, you saw something wild and dark, something feral that had been buried under years of restraint and was finally, violently free.

Joel’s eyes dropped again to your cunt — pink, swollen, dripping — and he let out a low whistle, shaking his head like he was seeing something too good for this world. “Look at that,” he whispered, his thumb brushing along the curve of your ass, just shy of where you needed him most. “She’s just beggin’ to be filled, ain’t she? Never been touched, never been fucked, and already actin’ like she knows who she belongs to.”

His hand moved then, slow and reverent, fingers grazing your folds with barely-there pressure, teasing the slick mess between your legs. “You hear that?” he murmured, almost in awe as your body answered him with a wet, needy sound. “She’s talkin’ to me, baby. Cryin’ for it. She wants me bad — this pussy knows who she wants first.”

His fingers pressed deeper between your thighs now, soaked and shameless, and the way he touched you wasn’t rushed or careless, but slow and possessive — like he’d already decided that this part of you belonged to him, no matter who was waiting outside with a ring. He leaned in again, his mouth grazing the side of your jaw as he murmured low against your skin, every syllable thick with heat and power, “Tell me, sweetheart… did he ever taste you?”

Your lips parted, breath trembling, and it took you a moment to respond, because even now, as you knelt there in nothing but lace and sin, your body already given over, the shame still clung to your voice like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Yes,” you whispered finally, eyes fluttering closed, “he has.”

Joel’s hum was deep and thoughtful, his hand never stopping its slow rhythm as he circled your entrance with one thick finger, teasing you without mercy. He didn’t sound jealous, but rather contemplative — like he was trying to figure out how to rewrite every memory your body had ever known. And then, after another breathless pause, his voice dropped even lower, almost gentle now, as he asked, “And you ever suck him off, baby? Ever get that pretty little mouth of yours wrapped around his cock?”

Your cheeks burned, throat tightening, and you nodded once, eyes already glassy, tears hot beneath your lashes. “Yes,” you squeaked out, barely audible.

Joel exhaled slowly, like the sound of your voice had settled deep in his chest. And when he spoke again, it was with a reverence that made your stomach flip. “Then I reckon this tight little cunt’s still untouched,” he said, fingers spreading you open now, deliberately exposing the soft, slick heat he hadn’t even begun to take. “You’re gonna be tight, angel. Might hurt a little when I stretch you open.”

You shook your head hard, hips pushing back against his hand without even meaning to, your voice breaking apart on a moan. “I don’t care,” you gasped, the words dissolving into desperation, “please, Joel… I need it, I need you.”

The moment you said it — the moment that last piece of resistance crumbled — he moved like something primal had been set loose in him. His belt hit the floor with a low clink, and then you heard it — the sound of fabric shifting, his breath catching, the soft curse under his breath — and you turned your head, just barely, to see it.

Joel’s cock — thick, flushed, the tip already leaking — was heavy in his hand, larger than anything you'd ever taken, long and wide and veined in a way that made your knees shake. He looked down at you, still kneeling, still trembling, and the expression on his face was unlike anything you'd ever seen on him before — not protective, not amused, not even hungry — but possessive, like the sight of you below him, spread and waiting, had finally answered something inside him that had been restless for years.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out — honest and stunned and burning hot. “You’re… you’re so much bigger than him.”

Joel’s brows lifted, his expression faltering for a moment like your soft little confession had caught him off-guard, and then his mouth curved into something dark and triumphant, a grin that held no humor, only heat. “Yeah?” he asked, voice soft but curling with something almost cruel. “That right, angel? My shy little girl just saw my cock and realized she’s been settlin’ for less all this time?”

Your face flushed deeper, but you nodded, thighs pressing together with need, your body already aching for the stretch.

Joel’s hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, dragging the thick head through your folds, collecting your wetness and coating himself in it like it was something sacred. He let out a low groan, deep and reverent, as he whispered against your spine, “You’re about to learn what it means to be filled proper, baby — gonna ruin you so good, you won’t remember how he ever made you feel, and you’re gonna thank me for it.”

With one hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, guiding himself with a precision that bordered on reverence, and the other braced firmly on your hip, his fingers digging into the soft swell of your flesh, Joel positioned himself behind you like a man about to sin so deeply he didn’t expect to walk away clean. He dragged the thick, leaking head through your folds one last time, gathering the wetness that clung to your skin like honey, before lining himself up at your entrance, pressing forward with a slow, relentless roll of his hips that knocked the breath straight from your lungs.

The moment his cock breached you — that first, unbearable stretch of thick muscle forcing you open for the first time — your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound tore free of your throat, a strangled cry that buried itself in the pillow beneath your face as your fingers clawed at the cushions like you were trying to anchor yourself to something, anything.

Joel groaned above you, loud and ragged, like your cunt had knocked the air straight out of his chest, his breath hitching as he sank deeper into you, inch by devastating inch, until the full weight of his cock was buried inside your trembling body. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice ruined and low, “that’s my good girl, takin’ it like she was fuckin’ made for it — Jesus Christ, this tight little pussy’s grippin’ me like she don’t wanna let go.”

Your thighs trembled, your toes curling, your eyes filling again with tears as you sobbed into the pillow, the fullness so sharp it hurt, a stretch so wide and foreign it felt like your body couldn’t possibly take it — and yet, the heat, the pressure, the weight of him made your entire body burn with something dangerously close to bliss.

He gave you barely a second, just enough to gasp for breath, before his hips drew back and slammed forward again, not with violence, but with intent — each thrust deep and punishing, like he’d waited long enough and now he needed all of you, needed to fuck you through the pain and into something filthy and perfect and his.

You screamed again, voice shaking, body arching up to meet him as he fucked into you, deep and fast and so much.

“Fuck,” you cried, the sound punched out of you, every word breaking on a moan as your body fought to keep up with the brutal stretch.

Joel leaned over you then, one arm bracing beside your head, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your ear as he growled, “That good, angel? You cryin’ on my cock ‘cause it feels that fuckin’ good?”

You could barely speak, could barely breathe, but you nodded helplessly, tears streaking your cheeks, your makeup a ruined mess, your pussy stretched around the thickest cock you’d ever felt in your life — and Joel, old enough to know better, too far gone to care, only fucked you harder.

Joel was relentless now, driving into you with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, each thrust impossibly deep, thick, and brutal, the sound of his hips slapping against your soaked flesh echoing through the bridal suite like a hymn made of sin. You were sobbing by then, not from pain but from the overwhelming stretch, the brutal pleasure that had overtaken your body like wildfire, every nerve lit up, every breath punched out of you, your throat raw from crying his name like it was the only thing you knew.

And then, without warning, he pulled you back — hard — one strong arm wrapping around your waist to wrench you upright until your back collided with his chest, your spine arched against the heat of him, your ass pressed flush to his groin, his cock still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering cunt.

He was still fully dressed — the open front of his suit brushing your bare skin, the crisp fabric harsh against your softness — and the contrast only made it filthier, more obscene, like you were some trembling little bride mounted by a man who hadn’t even bothered to take off his jacket before ruining you.

His hand slid up, slow and steady, until it wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding — possessive and firm, a collar of ownership as he leaned down to growl in your ear, his voice thick with the sound of his own unraveling.

“Gonna cream all over this virgin fuckin’ pussy, baby,” he groaned, his cock throbbing inside you, twitching against your walls with every brutal thrust. “Gonna fill you up so deep, you’ll be walkin’ down that aisle with my cum drippin’ outta you.”

The new angle was dizzying — every stroke hitting something deeper, rougher, worse, dragging cries from your throat that didn’t even sound like words anymore. Your legs trembled violently, muscles going slack as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, white-hot and blinding.

“I—I think I’m gonna—Joel—” you gasped, voice choked, your head falling back against his shoulder as your thighs began to shake uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fucking into you harder now, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your toes curl. “Come on, baby, give it to me — wanna feel this sweet little cunt clench when she lets go — fuckin’ knew you’d come all over my cock.”

And you did — with a scream so loud it barely sounded human, your pussy clamping down around him in waves, your entire body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you, soaking him in heat and slick and something filthy and pure all at once.

Joel cursed behind you, a deep, raw sound of something breaking loose inside him, and his rhythm faltered as his hands gripped you tight, dragging you down hard on his cock one final time.

“Fuck—Jesus, I’m gonna—shit—” he growled, voice splintering as he shoved himself impossibly deeper, grinding his hips against you as his cock pulsed violently inside your pussy.

And then he came — hot and thick and overwhelming — spilling deep inside you in heavy, pulsing waves, each thrust slower now but just as deep, his breath hot and ragged against the side of your neck as he held you still, as if your trembling body could take any more. His hand remained wrapped around your throat, not squeezing now but resting there like a vow, like he couldn’t bear to let go of the place he’d claimed. Your insides fluttered around him, spasming weakly as his cock throbbed within you, every thick drop of his cum flooding your aching cunt, the sensation so warm, so full, so all-consuming, it felt like your body wasn’t your own anymore — like it belonged to him now, marked and filled and known.

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

The heat curled through your chest like smoke, leaving you dizzy and dazed, your limbs too heavy to move as the wet, messy slickness dripped slowly from between your thighs.

Joel panted behind you, his mouth still close to your ear, his free hand still groping greedily at your breasts like he wasn’t finished, like he needed every last inch of you under his palms even after emptying himself inside you. And then, without warning, his mouth descended to your neck, kissing along your pulse point, soft and slow, then dragging lower — your shoulder, the curve of your back, the lace strap clinging to your flushed skin — every kiss a brand, every press of his lips a silent admission.

“Fucking perfect for me,” he rasped, the words spoken so quietly it felt like a confession, not meant for anyone but your skin.

Your legs gave out the moment he loosened his hold, and you collapsed onto the couch in a daze, your breathing shallow, mascara smudged, hair clinging to the sweat on your face, the inside of your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks. Joel stood, finally withdrawing from your soaked body with a low groan, his cock wet with your slick and his cum, and for a long, quiet second, he just looked down at you — completely undone, flushed and leaking, back arched against the velvet couch cushions like a vision he’d spend the rest of his life remembering.

He tucked himself back into his slacks with slow, practiced movements, the suit wrinkled now, his shirt untucked and his belt hanging loosely from the loops, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about his appearance. He was thinking about you — about what he’d just done — about the way your body still shook for him.

Then he bent down, breath still uneven, and slid one arm beneath your back, the other beneath your knees, pulling you gently until your hips were right at the edge of the couch and your legs were dangling over the side, parted just slightly from how loose and ruined you were. His large hands cradled your thighs as he looked between them, his expression dark and reverent, and he used both thumbs to part your folds, exposing your swollen, slick cunt — raw, red, flushed from the stretch — and the thick, creamy mess of his cum already beginning to spill from you.

“Shit,” he whispered, his voice cracking with awe and filth in equal measure, “look at that... she’s still full of me, baby. Still fuckin’ leakin’.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile.

He just stared.

Joel leaned in again, no longer rough or wild, but slow, calm, tender, and pressed his mouth to yours with a softness so at odds with the filth he’d just whispered into your ear that it made your stomach turn with something dizzying. You whimpered into the kiss before you could stop yourself, lips parting beneath his without hesitation, and your fingers reached up to find the soft waves of his curls, threading through them like you needed him closer — like you needed him inside you again.

But just as his tongue swept into your mouth and your thighs shifted instinctively to pull him back between them, there was a knock on the door.

Sharp. Semi-urgent. A voice just outside that made your entire body lock up.

You gasped, eyes going wide, body tensing under his hands, panic flashing across your face as you turned to him in alarm, your mouth already open with a breathless, what do we do?

But Joel — calm, unbothered, still warm from the high of fucking you — only smiled, kissed your cheek once more, and moved like a man who had nothing to hide. He reached down, smoothing your sweat-slicked hair away from your face with one broad palm, and then reached for the discarded robe on the arm of the couch, holding it out with practiced ease.

“Put this on, baby,” he murmured, his voice so quiet and so casual that you almost forgot to be afraid. “C’mon now, just like that.”

Your hands trembled as you slipped the robe over your shoulders, the silk clinging to your still-damp skin, the warmth of his cum still sticky between your thighs, seeping down slowly as you stood there dazed and wide-eyed, heart hammering as Joel calmly walked to the door.

He opened it with a quiet click.

You couldn’t see much — just his body blocking most of the entrance — but you could hear the voice that followed, light and affectionate.

“Hey, honey,” Joel said, his tone so casual it made your head spin, “I was just checkin’ on her.”

And then Tess walked in.

Your future mother-in-law.

She entered the room smiling, holding a small clutch and wearing heels that clicked softly against the tile. But her smile faltered the moment she saw your face — the smudged makeup, the dampness still clinging to your flushed cheeks, the robe wrapped haphazardly over your trembling frame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, brows knitting together as she crossed the room, her voice full of concern, “your makeup’s a mess… what happened?”

You froze. You couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t speak. Could only look at Joel.

He let out a soft sigh, the kind that sounded burdened and weary, and stepped beside you like he’d been coaching you through a meltdown. His voice was soft, warm, careful — the voice of a father figure handling a delicate girl on the verge of collapse.

“Poor thing started cryin’ while we were talkin’,” he said gently, his hand brushing your shoulder like he’d been comforting you this whole time. “Think the day’s just gotten to her a bit. I was tryin’ to calm her down, but it’s all hittin’ her at once.”

Tess was already moving toward you, one hand reaching to grab a tissue, the other pulling her compact from her clutch.

“Oh, Joel,” she said with a little laugh, smacking his arm as she passed, “you always get her so emotional. You really gotta stop with all your big speeches before the ceremony, honestly.”

She was smiling, teasing, already wiping gently under your eyes, fussing with your hair, smoothing the fabric of the robe over your bare shoulders — and she didn’t suspect a thing.

But you could still feel Joel’s hand ghosting against your back.

Still feel the ache deep inside you.

Still feel the slow, hot trickle of his cum leaking from your pussy and onto the inside of your thigh.

And when he caught your gaze from across the room — his expression unreadable, calm, smug, and maybe even a little proud — you realized something awful.

You were still his.

And he wasn’t done.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

maybe i am deranged and disgusting but i am free xx hope yall enjoyed

[loafysainz]

🎥 HANDING MY BOYFRIEND MY PANTIES AT DINNER AND GET HIS REACTION

carlos sainz, lewis hamilton, lando norris, max verstappen, charles leclerc, oscar piastri, george russell × reader! warn: 18+, smut, minor dni insp by this trend

Carlos Sainz

Carlos Sainz was a patient man.

But not when it came to you.

He had spent the entire evening watching you, his dark brown eyes tracking your every move. The way your lips wrapped around the rim of your wine glass, the way you crossed and uncrossed your legs under the table, the way you leaned forward just enough to tease him with the barest hint of cleavage.

Carlos had been holding himself back. Barely.

And you? You were about to push him past his limit.

The restaurant was elegant—low lights, soft music, the hum of quiet conversations surrounding you. Carlos sat across from you, dressed in a perfectly tailored black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, veins prominent as he lazily toyed with his glass. He looked so effortlessly sexy, so unfairly attractive, and you couldn’t help but wonder how far you could push him.

You shifted in your seat, heart pounding, as you subtly reached under the table. You hooked your fingers into your panties, slowly, discreetly, slipping them down your legs, the cool air against your bare skin making you shiver.

Carlos was oblivious, swirling his wine, licking his lips as he studied the menu.

And then—casually, with a small smirk—you reached across the table and placed your panties in his hand.

Carlos froze.

His fingers curled around the fabric instinctively before he even realized what he was holding. He blinked, looking down at his palm.

A beat of silence.

Then another.

And then—oh, fuck.

His entire body tensed. His jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His nostrils flared as he exhaled a sharp breath, his grip tightening around the delicate lace like he was resisting the urge to crush it in his fist.

Slowly—so slowly—Carlos lifted his eyes to meet yours.

Dark. Heavy. Predatory.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

And then—his voice, deep, low, almost a growl—

“Dime que no hiciste lo que creo que hiciste.” (Tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did.)

You tilted your head, pretending to be innocent. “What do you think I did, cariño?”

Carlos inhaled sharply, his fingers flexing around the lace before he shoved it into the pocket of his trousers. His knee bounced under the table, his entire body buzzing with tension. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head with a dark chuckle.

“You’re testing me,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You sipped your drink, biting back a smirk. “Maybe.”

Carlos exhaled a slow, measured breath. His fingers tapped against the table, his eyes flickering down to your lap, realization sinking in.

“No panties,” he murmured. His voice was rough, thick with something dangerously close to desperation. He swallowed hard, shifting in his seat like he was physically struggling to stay put.

You crossed your legs slowly, watching the way his jaw ticked. “Mmm.”

Carlos let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Eres un problema, ¿lo sabes?” (You’re a fucking problem, you know that?)

He adjusted in his seat, exhaling harshly. “Now I have to sit here. In this restaurant. Acting normal. While I know you’re sitting there…” His voice dropped, dark, his accent thickening. “All wet. All needy.” He licked his lips, eyes burning with heat. “For me.”

Your breath hitched.

Carlos saw. And smirked.

His knee suddenly pressed against your thigh under the table, firm and possessive, making your pulse skyrocket.

“I should drag you to the bathroom right now,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration. “Make you sit on my lap. Make you ride me slow. Until you can’t stay quiet anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your entire body burned.

Carlos chuckled darkly at your reaction. “Oh, you like that idea?” He tilted his head, his fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to reach for you. “Would you like it, hmm? Biting your lip, trying not to moan? Knowing that if you make one sound, everyone in this restaurant will know what I’m doing to you?”

You clenched your thighs together instinctively, and Carlos noticed.

His smirk widened, his knee pressing even firmer against you.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

“You started this game, amor.” His voice was a low, dangerous whisper. “Now you have to deal with the consequences.”

Your stomach flipped.

Carlos sat back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair, looking like the picture of relaxation—except for the way

his hands curled into fists, like he was using every ounce of self-control to stop himself from grabbing you.

“You better eat fast,” he muttered, his leg still pressed against yours, his eyes still devouring you.

“Because the second we leave this restaurant?” His voice was gravelly, dripping with hunger.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

—

Lewis Hamilton

Dinner with Lewis was always an experience. He had impeccable taste—whether it was in fashion, cars, or five-star restaurants with private dining rooms that catered to the elite. Tonight was no different. The restaurant was dimly lit, with an intimate atmosphere and a view of the Monaco harbor glistening under the night sky.

Lewis sat across from you, wearing a tailored suit with no tie, the top few buttons of his crisp shirt undone to reveal just a hint of his tattoos. He looked like a damn dream—effortlessly cool, his jewelry catching the soft candlelight, his full lips curving into a smirk as he listened to you talk.

And you? You were about to make things very, very interesting.

The idea had been teasing you all night. The way Lewis had kept his hand on your thigh during the car ride here, the way his deep, smooth voice sent shivers down your spine, the way he knew he was irresistible and used it against you. It was time to turn the tables.

You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your dress while slipping your panties down your thighs, letting the lace pool at your ankles before discreetly stepping out of them. You balled them in your hand, heart racing with anticipation.

Lewis was mid-sentence, swirling his wine glass lazily, when you reached across the table and placed the delicate fabric in his palm.

His fingers closed around it instinctively before realization set in.

He blinked, lifting his hand slightly under the table, his expression unreadable at first. And then—oh, then—that signature smirk spread across his lips, slow and devastatingly sexy. His tongue flicked out to wet them, eyes dragging from the panties to your face, amusement flickering behind the heat in his gaze.

“You’re bold tonight, love.” His voice was low, almost a purr.

You took a sip of your champagne, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Lewis exhaled a slow breath, shaking his head. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean.”

His fingers tightened around the lace before slipping them discreetly into the pocket of his blazer.

He leaned forward, his gaze dark and smoldering. “So, what’s the plan, then? You expect me to just sit here, act normal, knowing you’re sitting across from me with nothing underneath that little dress?”

Your lips curled. “That was the idea.”

Lewis chuckled, the deep sound sending a shiver down your spine. He adjusted in his seat, exhaling sharply. “You’re playin’ dangerous, babe.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” You batted your lashes at him, knowing full well you were poking the bear.

Lewis’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to your lips before flicking back up. He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip of wine, his demeanor calm—too calm. That was the most dangerous sign of all.

The waiter arrived, placing your entrées in front of you, completely unaware of the silent war happening at this table.

Lewis picked up his fork, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off whatever thoughts were running through his mind.

But then—oh, fuck.

You felt the softest brush against your thigh.

Your breath hitched.

Lewis smirked, casually cutting into his steak like he wasn’t dragging his fingers up the inside of your leg beneath the table, like he wasn’t making his way higher and higher with every passing second.

You shot him a glare, shifting in your seat, but that only made him chuckle. “Something wrong?” he asked, voice innocent.

Bastard.

His fingers brushed the apex of your thighs, barely teasing the sensitive skin, and you had to fight the urge to clamp your legs shut.

You inhaled sharply, gripping your fork a little tighter. “You’re really gonna do this here?”

Lewis tilted his head, lips curving. “You started it.”

His touch disappeared just as quickly as it came, leaving you throbbing, your skin hot, your body desperate for more.

And that’s when you knew you were in trouble.

Lewis sat back, stretching out his legs, the picture of relaxed confidence. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned in slightly.

“When we get back to the hotel…” His voice was a dark promise, smooth as silk. “You better be ready for me, baby.”

Your stomach flipped, heat coiling low in your belly.

Oh, you were so screwed.

Dinner suddenly felt like a countdown to something far more delicious. And by the way Lewis kept stealing glances at you—like he was barely holding himself back—you had a feeling he wouldn’t be ordering dessert.

At least, not at the restaurant.

—

Lando Norris

Dinner with Lando was never boring.

He had a way of making everything fun—whether it was cracking jokes, teasing you, or finding little ways to touch you every chance he got. Tonight was no different. You were at a high-end restaurant in Monaco, overlooking the water, Lando sipping on his cocktail as he playfully nudged your foot under the table.

He looked good—hair slightly tousled, wearing a fitted black suit with no tie, the crisp white of his shirt accentuating his tan skin. The top two buttons were undone, just enough to tease you with a glimpse of his collarbone.

And right now? He had no idea what was coming.

So, you decided it was time to turn the tables.

The restaurant was buzzing with quiet conversations, the candlelight casting a soft glow over the table, and Lando? He was completely oblivious, sipping his drink, scrolling through the menu, looking criminally good in his tailored black suit.

You took a slow breath, pretending to shift in your seat, your hands disappearing beneath the table. Your pulse thrummed as you hooked your fingers into your panties, dragging them down your legs, over your heels, and slipping them into your palm.

And then—casually, innocently—you reached across the table and pressed them into his hand.

Lando took them instinctively, still half-distracted, his thumb brushing over the fabric—soft, lacy, unmistakably not something that belonged in a restaurant.

He froze.

His blue eyes flicked down at his hand, then up at you.

His breath hitched. “No.” His voice was a strangled whisper. He blinked, like his brain couldn’t quite process what just happened. He looked back down at the lace, gripping it between his fingers, and then back at you—eyes wide, pupils blown.

“No fucking way.”

You just took a sip of your drink, acting

completely unfazed. “Something wrong?”

Lando let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his curls. “Are you—” He exhaled sharply. “You didn’t just—” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Tell me you’re fucking with me right now.”

You bit your lip, shaking your head.

Lando’s jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. His grip on the panties tightened before he hastily shoved them into the pocket of his blazer, his fingers twitching like he was fighting every single urge running through his body.

His leg bounced under the table. He dragged his hands down his face. “You—” He let out a low, breathy laugh, but it was strained, like he was hanging on by a thread.

“You little—” His voice cut off, his head tilting back slightly as he inhaled through his nose.

You could see it. The shift. The way his entire demeanor darkened. The way his hands clenched into fists like he didn’t trust himself to keep them to himself.

And then, he leaned forward, eyes locked onto you, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re gonna fucking regret that.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

The waiter arrived at that exact moment, asking if you needed more wine, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown Lando was having in real-time.

Lando barely glanced at him, his jaw clenched so tight his words were almost clipped. “No. We’re good.”

The moment the waiter left, Lando shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. “I hope you realize,” he muttered, “that I now have to sit through this entire dinner with a fucking hard-on.”

You smirked. “Poor baby.”

His eye twitched.

His knee suddenly pressed against the inside of your thigh under the table, firm, possessive, making you inhale sharply.

Lando smirked at your reaction, his fingers twitching as if debating whether or not to reach for you. “No panties. Just sitting there. All pretty. Knowing what you just did to me.” His voice was dark. Husky. “You’re playing a dangerous fucking game.”

You swallowed, shifting slightly, pressing your thighs together, and Lando noticed. His smirk widened.

“Ohhh,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You think you’re in control here?”

He leaned in, voice dropping even lower, lips barely an inch from your ear.

“Just wait till we get back to the hotel, baby,” he whispered. “I’m gonna make sure you feel what you just did to me.”

Heat coiled in your stomach.

Lando sat back, stretching his legs out, exhaling slowly. His fingers drummed against the table, his eyes flickering over your body, taking his time, like he was memorizing you.

“Eat your dinner, baby.” he muttered, shifting in his seat again, adjusting himself. “After we done this. You’re mine.”

Your entire body burned.

And suddenly, dinner felt like the longest fucking event of your life.

—

Charles Leclerc

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Charles Leclerc was the perfect mix of sweet and sinful—soft when he loved you, but intense when he wanted you. He could melt you with just a smile, but when he needed you? When you pushed him too far? That was when he became dangerous.

Tonight, you were playing with fire.

The restaurant was romantic—low lights, soft music, a flickering candle between you. Charles looked breathtaking across the table, his white button-down slightly unbuttoned, his hair tousled in that effortless way that made your fingers itch to run through it. His green eyes sparkled in the dim light, his lips curling in a small, amused smile as he sipped his wine.

You wanted to see how far you could push him.

So, while Charles was distracted, you reached under the table. Your fingers brushed the hem of your dress, heart racing as you slowly—so slowly—slid your panties down your legs. The soft lace glided over your thighs, your knees, pooling at your ankles before you kicked them off.

Charles was still flipping through the menu, completely oblivious.

You swallowed a smirk, reached across the table, and—without a word—placed the fabric in his open palm.

Charles didn’t react at first.

Then—

His fingers froze.

His eyes flickered down, scanning the lace in his palm, his lips parting slightly.

Then—very slowly—he lifted his gaze to yours.

His breath hitched.

His jaw tensed.

His entire body went rigid.

“Mon amour…” His voice was a whisper, but there was something different about it. Something deep, something dark.

You tilted your head innocently. “Yes, baby?”

Charles exhaled sharply, his hand disappearing under the table as he shoved the panties into his pocket. His fingers twitched against the fabric, his entire body suddenly filled with nervous energy.

“No.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No, you—” His voice broke slightly, and he cleared his throat, leaning forward.

“You are telling me…” His accent was thicker now, deeper, as he swallowed hard. “That you are sitting here. With nothing under your dress.”

You nodded, biting back a smirk.

Charles groaned. His head fell back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as he muttered something very fast in French under his breath.

Then he looked back at you—his pupils blown, his breath uneven.

“Baby,” he whispered. His voice was soft, but there was a raw edge to it. His hand found your knee under the table, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. The touch was gentle, but his grip was firm.

Possessive.

His fingers inched higher.

You gasped softly.

Charles inhaled sharply, his hand freezing before it could go any higher. His jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white.

“No,” he muttered. “No, I can’t—” He cut himself off, exhaling harshly.

His eyes were burning.

“You’re making this very difficult for me, mon amour.”

You smirked. “That’s the idea.”

Charles let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Incroyable.” (Unbelievable.)

Then—so suddenly—he grabbed his napkin and dropped it on the floor.

“Oh,” he muttered, completely unconvincing. “How clumsy of me.”

Your eyes widened. “Charles, don’t—”

Too late.

He dipped under the table.

Your heart stopped.

“Charles—” Your breath hitched as you felt the ghost of his lips brush against the inside of your knee.

Then higher.

And higher.

Your entire body tensed.

His hands rested on your thighs, warm and steady, his breath hot against your bare skin.

Your pulse skyrocketed.

“Charles,” you whispered, barely breathing.

His voice came from under the table, low and teasing. “What is it, chérie?”

Your hands gripped the tablecloth, panic and desire swirling together in your chest. “You need to come up.”

He hummed. “Do I?”

His lips skimmed the inside of your thigh.

Your breathing stuttered. “Charles—”

Then—

A loud noise from the kitchen made him jolt.

His head smacked against the underside of the table.

“Merde!” (Fuck!)

He shot up so fast he nearly knocked over his wine glass, his cheeks flushed, his hair messy, his lips red.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

Charles groaned, rubbing the back of his head. “I hate you.”

You giggled. “You love me.”

His eyes darkened.

“Oh, mon amour,” he murmured, leaning forward, his voice dripping with promise.

“You will regret this when we get home.”

Your stomach flipped.

Charles smirked.

Then he picked up his menu, casually flipping through it like he hadn’t just been under the table.

Like he wasn’t still rock hard.

Like he wasn’t about to absolutely destroy you the second you were alone.

You swallowed hard.

You were so screwed.

—

Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen was competitive in everything.

On the track, he was ruthless. In life, he always wanted to win. But in the bedroom?

He didn’t just compete—he owned.

And tonight, you were playing with fire.

The restaurant was high-end, filled with soft chatter and the occasional clink of wine glasses. Max sat across from you, looking effortlessly sexy in a black dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, his strong forearms resting on the table. His blue eyes flickered up from his menu, locking onto yours with that signature intensity.

“Why are you smirking?” he asked, voice laced with suspicion.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached under the table, heart pounding as you hooked your fingers into the sides of your panties. Slowly—so slowly—you slid them down, feeling the lace brush against your bare skin.

Max had no idea what was coming.

Once the fabric was off, you balled it up in your hand and reached across the table. “Here,” you said casually, dropping the delicate lace into his palm.

Max’s brows furrowed. His fingers curled around the fabric, and then—

His entire body went still.

His grip tightened.

His jaw locked.

You saw the exact moment realization hit. His ocean-blue eyes darkened, flickering between the panties in his hand and you, sitting there, completely bare under your dress.

Max inhaled sharply. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice was low—dangerously low.

You leaned forward, eyes playful. “Something wrong, baby?”

Max’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers disappearing under the table. He shoved the panties into his pocket so fast you almost laughed. His

other hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

“Tell me,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Are you sitting here, at this table, with nothing under that dress?”

You nodded.

His nostrils flared.

“Jesus Christ.”

You smirked. “Cat got your tongue, Max?”

His gaze snapped to yours, and suddenly, the air between you changed.

The playful energy shifted into something heavier.

Something dangerous.

Max leaned forward, his voice low and sharp. “You think this is funny?”

You shrugged, enjoying the way his grip tightened on the table, his breath growing uneven. “A little.”

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching so tight it looked painful.

Then—so suddenly—he sat back, a slow, wicked smirk curling his lips.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Game on, liefje.” (Sweetheart.)

Your stomach flipped.

Max shifted in his seat, stretching his legs

out under the table—until his knee pressed firmly between your thighs. Your breath hitched, your body going rigid as he applied the lightest pressure.

Your eyes widened. “Max—”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “What? Something wrong?”

His knee pressed harder.

You swallowed hard, your breath stuttering as heat flooded your body. “You’re evil.”

He grinned, completely unbothered. “And you’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you get away with this.”

His fingers drummed casually against the table as he continued, voice slow and taunting. “You know, I was going to take my time with you tonight.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “But now?”

His voice dropped even lower.

“Now, I have no choice but to ruin you.”

Your entire body shivered.

Max smirked. He knew exactly what he was doing.

His knee pressed higher, his strong thigh now between your legs, keeping you right where he wanted you. “Look at you,” he mused, his accent thick, teasing. “So quiet all of a sudden. Where’s that bratty attitude now, huh?”

You glared at him, but the effect was lost

when your breath hitched at the way he was touching you.

Max chuckled darkly. “Oh, baby,” he murmured. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

Your mouth went dry.

Max picked up his menu, pretending to study it, but his knee stayed right where it was.

The worst part?

He acted like nothing was happening.

Like he wasn’t pressing you against the chair.

Like he wasn’t completely hard under the table.

Like he wasn’t planning a thousand ways to make you pay for this

the second you were alone.

You shifted in your seat, desperate for some relief.

Max caught it immediately. His grip on the table tightened, his breathing sharp.

Then—so quietly only you could hear—he whispered, “Do that again, and I swear to God, I’ll drag you into the bathroom right now.”

You froze.

Max’s smirk was lazy, but his eyes?

His eyes were pure fire.

—

Oscar Piastri

Oscar Piastri was a problem.

No, Oscar was a problem because he was impossible to read.

When he was mad, he didn’t explode—he got quiet. When he was turned on, he didn’t stumble over his words or blush—he became dangerous.

And tonight?

You had just challenged him.

The restaurant was sleek and modern, the

kind of place that matched Oscar’s cool, composed energy. He sat across from you, dressed simply in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the veins on his forearms. His fingers tapped against the table absentmindedly as he scrolled through the wine menu, completely unaware of what was coming.

You shifted in your seat, heart pounding as you reached beneath the table. With slow, deliberate movements, you slid your panties down, feeling the soft lace brush over your thighs, your knees—until they were off completely.

Then, with a calm smile, you reached across the table.

“Here,” you murmured, dropping the delicate fabric into his open palm.

Oscar didn’t react immediately.

His fingers curled around the lace, his grip firm but unreadable. His eyes flickered down, scanning the fabric like it was nothing more than a business card someone had handed him.

Then, finally, he looked at you.

And fuck.

His brown eyes were steady, calculating—sharp.

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t smirk, didn’t blush, didn’t flinch.

He just… stared.

Long enough that you shifted in your seat, suddenly less sure about what you’d just done.

Then—slowly—he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table.

His voice was quiet. Calm.

“You’re not wearing anything under that dress.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “No.”

He hummed, nodding slightly as he tucked the panties into his pocket like they were nothing. Then he picked up his menu, flipping through it as if this was just another casual dinner.

Your stomach flipped.

That was it? No teasing? No reaction?

Oscar glanced up, catching your slight frown. His lips curled into the smallest smirk.

“You expected me to crack, didn’t you?”

You hesitated. “Maybe.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

You blinked. “I—”

Oscar shut his menu, setting it aside. Then—so suddenly—he reached across the

table, gripping your wrist. Not rough. Not forceful.

But firm.

His thumb brushed against your pulse.

You knew he could feel how fast it was racing.

His voice dropped, calm and cold.

“You think you can just hand me your panties and expect me to lose control?”

You swallowed.

His grip tightened.

“No, baby.” His voice was deadly soft. “That’s not how this works.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Oscar exhaled through his nose, sitting back like he wasn’t currently ruining your entire life with just his voice.

Then—just to be cruel—he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice so only you could hear.

“I’m going to finish my drink.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Then we’re going to leave.”

Your thighs clenched together.

Oscar smirked. He noticed.

“And when we get home,” he murmured, “you’re going to get on your knees and apologize.”

Your breath hitched.

Oscar leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered, picking up his glass and taking a slow sip.

Then, just for fun, he tilted his head and smirked.

“Still think this was a good idea?”

You were so screwed.

—

George Russell

George Russell was a gentleman.

Polite. Well-mannered. The kind of man who held doors open, pulled out your chair, and kissed the back of your hand just to see you blush.

But there was a danger in that charm.

Because underneath all that posh, British elegance?

George was ruthless.

And tonight?

You were about to learn just how much.

The restaurant was candlelit, expensive, and filled with the quiet hum of conversation. George sat across from you, impossibly handsome in a tailored navy

suit, the top two buttons of his shirt undone just enough to tease. His Rolex gleamed under the soft light as he picked up his wine glass, fingers wrapping around the stem with effortless grace.

You watched him, heart pounding, as you slowly—deliberately—slid your hands under the table.

George didn’t notice at first. He was reading the menu, his brows slightly furrowed, completely unaware that you were currently slipping off your panties in the middle of a five-star restaurant.

Your breath hitched as you finally pulled them free, the delicate lace pooling in your hand.

“George.”

Then, with a coy smile, you reached across the table.

He looked up, eyes warm. “Yes, darling?”

You placed your panties in his open palm.

George blinked.

His fingers curled around the lace, and for a moment, he just stared at you, completely unreadable.

Then—so slowly—his lips parted, his tongue briefly darting out to wet them.

His jaw ticked.

You smirked. “Something wrong?”

You saw the exact second realization hit—the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, his grip tightening just slightly around the fabric.

George exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You are unbelievable.”

You leaned in, tilting your head. “Why? Is Mr. Russell flustered?”

His eyes darkened.

“No,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m just debating whether I should take you home right now or make you suffer first.”

Your stomach dropped.

You watched him, heart pounding.

George sighed dramatically, slipping the lace into his suit pocket like it was just another accessory. Then, as if nothing happened, he picked up his wine glass and took a slow, deliberate sip.

The way his jaw clenched as he swallowed. The way his fingers tapped against the table—controlled, measured. The way he refused to break eye contact.

Then—so suddenly you almost gasped—he leaned forward, his voice silky smooth.

“Tell me something, darling,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Are you currently sitting there, at this table, with nothing under that pretty little dress?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

George grinned.

Not his usual, charming smile.

This was something else.

Something dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched.

George hummed, pleased with your reaction. He reached for his drink again, bringing it to his lips before pausing—his smirk deepening.

Then—so casually it ruined you—he whispered, “Spread your legs.”

Your eyes widened. “George—”

“Shh.” He took a slow sip of wine, eyes twinkling with pure amusement. “You wanted to play, love. Now be a good girl and listen.”

Heat flooded your body.

You hesitated for half a second too long.

George raised a brow. “I’m waiting.”

Your breath came in short, uneven bursts as you obeyed, shifting slightly in your seat, thighs parting under the table.

George’s smirk turned positively wicked.

“Such a good girl.”

Your entire body shuddered.

He leaned back, completely unbothered, pretending to scan the menu.

Meanwhile, you were a mess. Your skin burned. Your pulse raced. Your thighs trembled because holy shit—he wasn’t even touching you, and yet, you were completely at his mercy.

Then—just to ruin you—George tilted his head, voice smooth as silk.

“You know,” he mused, “I was planning on taking my time with you tonight.”

You clenched your fists in your lap.

He grinned. “But now?”

He placed his menu down.

“Now, I think I’ll take you home and remind you exactly who’s in charge.”

Your breath hitched.

George chuckled, reaching for his drink once more.

Then, with a wink, he murmured,

“Finish your wine, darling. You’re going to need it.”

END

hshshshsh idk why but my drafts keep posting themselves?? Like, I’m literally just editing them then it suddenly posted?!? And if not that, sometimes my drafts just disappear :( like wtf?? hshshshs its soooo annoying.

[aneertawrites]

jealous!Sylus x fem!Reader

a/n : saw this edit on tiktok and got the urge to write... ++ the green eyes are a metaphor for jealousy! sorry for the confusion <3

tags : light choking, thigh smacking, jealous sylus, porn w no plot, oral sex (reader receiving), raw sex, rough sex, yeah....

The room was stifling — not from heat, but from tension. Laughter rang out, glasses clinked, and a hundred dignitaries buzzed with small talk beneath golden chandeliers. You stood near the bar, dress hugging your frame just right, heels biting into the polished floor. You’d worn this to be taken seriously.

But the man beside you had other ideas.

A diplomat. Polished smile. Lazy eyes that kept dropping to your chest like it was a conversational cue. He was leaning closer now, voice a little lower, fingers brushing your arm as if it were casual.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t recoil. That would draw attention. Instead, you gave a tight smile and angled your body just enough to distance yourself — not enough to cause a scene, but enough that he would notice.

And he did.

Across the room, you could feel Sylus’s gaze like a hot wire threading through your spine.

He stood near the edge of the crowd, drink untouched in his hand, suit tailored so sharply it cut. His expression was unreadable — not angry, not even annoyed. Just… focused. Like a predator watching someone else circle his territory.

You turned back to the diplomat and forced a laugh at some forgettable joke. But your attention was split — half on this conversation, the other locked onto the man across the room whose patience was starting to burn.

When the diplomat finally excused himself, you exhaled. And then Sylus was there.

Not a second later. Not two.

“I thought you were working,” he murmured, voice low and calm, but loaded.

“I was.” You tilted your head, studying him. “Didn’t realize conversation counted as betrayal now.”

“He was flirting.”

“Barely.”

“He wanted to fuck you.”

Your breath hitched — not at the words, but at the cold certainty behind them. Sylus’s voice didn’t rise. He didn’t look flustered or possessive in the way other men might. No, he was composed. Still. Like someone who already knew he owned the battlefield.

And the way he was looking at you now?

Like he owned you, too.

“You’re imagining things,” you said — a challenge, not a denial.

His lips curled. Not a smile. A warning.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t ask where.

Didn’t need to.

He led you down one of the quieter halls — away from the glittering noise, past locked doors and diplomatic signage. The second he found a private room — lights low, a lounge clearly reserved for someone far above your paygrade — he keyed it open and pulled you inside.

The door hissed shut behind you.

Silence.

You turned to face him, but he was already on you.

One hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up, and the other flattened over your lower back, pulling you flush against him.

“You want to let men like that flirt with you?” he murmured, voice quiet but sharp as broken glass. “Then look at me when they do it.”

You gasped as his mouth crashed into yours — hard, punishing, furious. The kiss tasted like jealousy and unspoken obsession. Like everything he’d been holding back since the moment the diplomat touched you.

His hand slid from your jaw to your throat — not choking, not quite — but firm enough to own. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily.

“You think I’ll just stand there while someone else imagines how you sound when you come?” he rasped, voice like smoke. “Not a fucking chance.”

You didn’t get a chance to answer.

He spun you, pressing your back to the wall, grinding his hips into yours so you felt just how hard he was. Every line of his body screamed restraint — but it was unraveling fast.

“Sylus—”

“You’re mine,” he growled, mouth against your ear, one hand trailing down your side, over the swell of your ass. “Say it.”

You swallowed, breathing fast. “I’m yours.”

His teeth grazed your shoulder, not gently.

And then he was everywhere, hands pushing up your dress, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck as he shoved your panties aside. His fingers brushed through your folds, and he hissed.

“Dripping for me,” he muttered, smirking against your throat. “You like it when I get like this.”

You gasped as he slid two fingers inside you — thick, deep, curling just right. You bucked into his hand, shameless already, grinding against him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Be greedy for it. I want to feel how bad you need me.”

You moaned, breath stuttering as his thumb found your clit and started tight, perfect circles. The pressure built fast, too fast, your thighs shaking, your voice caught in your throat.

But then he stopped.

You whined, frustrated — hips jerking forward, chasing friction.

He chuckled darkly, lips brushing your ear. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until you mean it.”

“Mean what?” you panted, eyes wild.

“That you’re mine.” He reached around and unzipped his pants, dragging his cock against your slick heat teasingly. “All the way. Not just when it feels good.”

You looked back at him — flushed, half-dazed, aching. “I’m yours, Sylus.”

His eyes blazed.

And then he was inside you.

One hard thrust — deep, brutal — and your mouth fell open in a silent scream. He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just pulled out and slammed in again, setting a pace that was fast, relentless, perfect.

You braced against the wall, moaning, gasping, crying out his name as he pounded into you — thick and heavy and everywhere.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice low and vicious. “Let them hear you. Let them all fucking hear how good I fuck what’s mine.”

You shattered.

No warning, no buildup — just white heat and pleasure so sharp it tore a scream from your throat. You clenched around him, whole body convulsing, and Sylus groaned, slamming in harder, deeper, his rhythm breaking.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. “Gonna mark you from the inside out.”

You moaned his name, and he followed — hips grinding deep as he came, hot and thick inside you, holding you so tight you thought he might bruise your hips.

You were still gasping when he pulled out of you, slow, deliberate — and the heat of him spilled down your thigh, warm and obscene.

You tried to catch your breath, head falling back against the wall, but Sylus didn’t move away. Didn’t even give you space to think.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, breath ragged. His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “I should stop.”

You blinked, dazed. “Then why haven’t you?”

He smirked.

Because you both knew the answer.

He gripped your jaw, angling your face toward his. “You let him touch your arm,” he murmured, like he was still tasting that fact on his tongue. “Let him lean in. You smiled for him.”

Your chest rose and fell — fast, desperate. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Then you won’t mind if I fuck you until it does.”

That growl in his voice made your pussy clench all over again.

Without warning, he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands dragging your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He looked up once, green eyes stormy with hunger.

Then he devoured you.

Not gentle. Not teasing. His mouth was wet heat and filthy precision, tongue flicking and circling your clit with sharp, relentless purpose. You cried out, hips jerking, trying to squirm away from the overstimulation, but his grip on your thighs tightened, holding you in place like a man possessed.

“You don’t get to run,” he muttered between licks, voice vibrating straight through your cunt. “Not from this. Not from me.”

You were already so raw, every nerve electric, and now he was dragging you back up the edge — fast, merciless. You were moaning like a damn prayer, head thrown back, hands in his hair, thighs shaking around his head.

He sucked your clit hard, once, twice — and you came again with a sob, pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. Your knees nearly buckled, but he caught you, hands firm under your thighs as he kept eating you through it.

“Fuck—Sylus—sensitive, I can’t—”

“Yes,” he growled, standing again, towering over you now, voice harsh and hungry. “You can. You will.”

He shoved his pants lower again, cock already hard, again, and this time, he didn’t even bother positioning you.

He manhandled you onto the nearest velvet lounge, pulled your legs open wide, and slid back inside with one brutal thrust that made you scream.

No warm-up. No restraint.

Just raw, unforgiving heat.

He fucked you like he needed to ruin you, like nothing short of breaking you open would be enough to satisfy the jealousy still burning under his skin. His grip bruised your hips, his pace punishing, deep, his pelvis grinding against your overstimulated clit with every stroke.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, eyes locked on yours, sweat slick on his brow. “Say it again. Scream it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, head falling back.

“Louder.”

You cried out, voice cracking. “I’m yours, Sylus—fuck, I’m yours!”

He slapped your thigh — not hard, just enough to make you jolt. “Don’t you forget it.”

You were close again, ridiculously fast — his cock hitting every perfect spot, his hand reaching down to rub your clit again despite the tears pricking at your eyes from the intensity.

“Come on my cock,” he demanded, voice a low snarl. “One more. I want to feel you break.”

You shattered.

Your whole body bowed off the lounge, legs locking around him as your orgasm slammed through you — harder than the last, deep and full and wrecking. Your vision blurred. You sobbed his name.

He groaned like a man unhinged and slammed into you once, twice, deep — then came with a guttural sound, hips grinding into you, his seed spilling inside you for the second time. Hot. Heavy. Claiming.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out.

Just stayed inside you, panting hard against your neck, arms around you like he needed to anchor himself.

You were both trembling, breathless.

“I need you to know something,” he whispered against your skin, voice quieter now, but still sharp. “That I will not share. Not even your attention. Not your smile. Not a fucking glance.”

You turned your face toward his, blinking through the heat and fog. “Then keep reminding me like this.”

His lips brushed yours.

“I will.”

masterlist

taglist : @etsuniiru @kyokoyya @i-messed-up-big-time @firefly1103 @gracekerzzz @mcdepressed290 @sylusgirlie7 @plzdonutpercieveme @m00nchildwrites

[tsunaso]

hiii, I love ur writing, could u do a fic where Jason Todd is a mafia boss, and the male reader is his most loyal 'guard dog'? Jason literally treats him like one—giving him orders, rewarding him, keeping him close. Maybe there’s a moment where he calls male reader his 'dog,' and male reader just smirk and say, ‘Yeah? And who put the collar on me?’

thank u sm!

“BARK LIKE YOU WANT IT”

pairing. Sub!Mafia Boss!Jason Todd x Top!male reader

synopsis. In Gotham's underworld, Jason Todd holds the city by its throat. But every king has a dog at his heel—and M/n is loyal, brutal, and always watching. Jason calls him a mutt. But he forgets one thing—who put the collar on who? — 2.3k

warnings. Guard Dog AU, mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dubcon, possessive behavior, praise kink, degradation kink, minor physical restraint, mutual obsession, mafia politics, overstimulation, powerplay, collar kink, facefucking, blowjob, spitting, choking, humiliation, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral fixation, crying, subspace, manhandling, aftercare

Jason Todd ruled Gotham’s underground like it owed him blood. And in many ways—it did.

The Red Hood Syndicate didn’t move without his order. Rivals were ghosts before they made it to sunrise. Contracts vanished. Witnesses disappeared. And yet, for all the stories about Jason Todd’s brutality, his trigger temper, his high body count—

There was one man even the worst of the underworld feared more.

His shadow.

His guard dog.

You.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

"You’re late."

Jason’s voice was sharp, not raised, but biting all the same as you stepped into his office, the double doors clicking shut behind you. You didn’t answer him. You never did when he was in one of his moods—irritable, pacing, hands stuffed into his pockets, a fresh line of blood drying down the corner of his jaw like he forgot to clean it off.

Or didn’t care.

He looked you up and down once. His mouth twisted slightly.

"You smell like smoke."

You stared, unbothered. "I burned a man alive in his own Porsche tonight. You wanted it done quiet."

He laughed. Dry. A little sharp around the edges.

“Messy job for quiet work.”

“Your note said ‘make it hurt.’ So I did.”

Jason stopped pacing. The city light from the penthouse windows caught across his eyes—green-blue, sharp as broken glass. He licked his lips once, slow. Then, “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate.

Your boots echoed on the polished floor, each step solid. Intentional. Controlled. You moved like a weapon kept in a velvet box—danger tucked into civility, teeth beneath tailored suits.

Jason sat on the edge of his desk as you approached. Still calm. Still composed.

But his fingers twitched once where they gripped the edge of the wood. You saw it. You always did.

“You want to be praised?” he asked, tilting his head, voice half-daring.

"No." Your tone was even, flat, as you stopped in front of him. “I want you to stop testing me.”

Jason’s smile twitched. “But you’re so good when I do.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

It was like this. Always.

The tension. The push-pull.

He gave the orders. You obeyed. He treated you like property—his muscle, his executioner, his dog. And you let him.

But Jason, arrogant as he was, had always mistaken obedience for submission.

And that was going to cost him.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

His hand lifted to your collar, two fingers brushing the sharp seam of your dress shirt. His knuckles grazed your throat, casual. Thoughtless.

But that’s where his control ended.

Your hand closed around his wrist.

His eyes jumped to yours, sharp with surprise—but not fear. Never fear.

“You like to call me your dog,” you said, low and measured. Your grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him still. "Throw me scraps. Snap your fingers. Expect me to sit."

Jason’s breath hitched. Just a little.

Your voice dipped, threading a heat beneath the threat. "You like pretending I belong to you."

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His mouth was parted, his pupils wide, and every inch of him was screaming yes.

"So let me ask you something, Todd." You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dark with knowing.

"Who put the collar on me?"

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

Jason shivered.

It was subtle—but it was there.

The slow exhale. The twitch of his thigh muscles. The flush creeping into his neck that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with being caught.

Owned.

He swallowed thickly. His hands clenched into fists against the desk.

And you—still gripping his wrist—lowered your mouth to his throat and let your teeth drag just beneath his jaw. Not biting. Not yet.

Just reminding.

Of what?

Of everything.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He jolted slightly under your touch. A sharp inhale. A curse under his breath. Then his voice—thin, almost petulant:

“You’re supposed to take orders.”

Your smirk was razor-edged.

“I do. Because I want to.”

Your grip dropped. But you didn’t move back.

Instead, you leaned in closer.

Jason didn’t flinch. He never did. But his breathing was heavier now, pulse hammering against his throat—visible. Vulnerable.

"You bark all day, but when I get too close," you whispered, dragging your hand down his thigh with deliberate slowness, "you start to sound like a mutt that wants to be bred, not obeyed."

Jason made a sound in his throat. Half-growl, half-gasp.

"Fuck you."

You grinned.

“You’d beg.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He hated how much it was true.

He could sit on his throne all day—snapping orders, collecting blood money, running the city from his penthouse and dark alleys—but when you stepped into the room?

He was something smaller. Simmering. Waiting.

He wanted you to tear it out of him. To push him back onto the desk, force his legs open, make him say please.

You didn’t even need to touch him to get him there. He was already half hard just from your voice in his ear.

And you knew it.

You always fucking knew it.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

“You don’t really want a guard dog,” you said, low against his throat. “You want a muzzle. You want a leash you can wrap around your own throat when no one’s looking.”

Jason’s fingers twitched again—this time reaching.

But not for a weapon.

For you.

And you let him. Just this once.

You let him grab your shirt, let him yank you in like he was desperate for something he couldn’t name. Your hand slid up the back of his neck, tangled in his hair, pulled his head back until he was looking up at you—eyes hooded, breathing uneven.

You watched his mouth part.

You watched the fight bleed out of his body.

And then, just loud enough to ruin him—

"Good boy."

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

The leash comes first.

Black leather, clean and heavy, pulled from your coat pocket like you were always planning to use it.

Because you were.

You knew Jason would mouth off. You knew he’d call you his dog again.

So now you’re going to make sure he was your bitch instead.

You’re sitting on his desk, legs spread, Jason on his knees between them—cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. Still pretending to be angry. Still acting like he’s got pride left.

"Take your shirt off."

He hesitates. Barely. Then obeys. Peels it off like it’s armor, like maybe the fabric will hold him together.

It won’t.

You pull the collar tight around his throat and let the buckle snap into place. His breath catches.

"Doesn’t it suit you?" you murmur, thumb brushing the pulse at his neck. "No tie. No suit. Just a collar. That’s how I like you."

Jason mutters something low under his breath.

You grab his jaw. “What was that?”

His mouth twists, defiant. So pretty like this. “Fuck you.”

You smirk. “You’ll get there.”

You shove two fingers into his mouth before he can talk back. He chokes slightly, but glares up at you through his lashes. You drag them deeper, until his throat works around the intrusion and his spit starts to run down his chin.

"You wanted to talk back?" you murmur. "Then earn the right to use your mouth."

Jason moans around your fingers, eyes fluttering.

His knees shift. He’s already grinding down against the floor, trying to rub the ache building in his pants. You grab a fistful of his hair and yank—his eyes fly open.

"Are you hard just from choking on my fingers?" you whisper. "Are you going to cum from being used like a toy, Jay?"

He shakes his head. He wants to say no. But you curl your fingers around the collar, tug—not hard. Just enough.

He whimpers.

"That’s what I thought."

You unzip. Jason’s eyes drop, hungry. You slap your cock against his cheek, watching the weight of it sink in before gripping his hair again.

"Open."

He does. Mouth wide, eager.

You sink in slow—and he moans. Not a groan. Not a grunt. A real, ruined moan, like he’s been waiting for this all week.

"You love this, don’t you?" you growl, hips pushing forward until he gags. "Love being on your knees like some two dollar whore. Mouth wide open. Ready to be used."

Jason’s face is dripping. Spit down his chin, lips stretched wide, pupils blown. He nods. He nods.

You grab the leash.

Just the feel of it in your hand makes him shudder.

You wrap it around your fist and pull. Not hard. Just enough.

"Good boy," you murmur.

Then you start fucking his throat.

He chokes.

Of course he does.

You don’t stop.

You let him gag, let his shoulders shake, let his tears spill over—he loves it. He’s rutting against the floor now, desperate, whining around your dick like you’re the only thing he needs to breathe.

"You gonna cum just from getting facefcked like a bitch?" you hiss.

Jason nods—fast, frantic.

You laugh. Spit in his mouth. Slap his cheek. Pull the leash again and hold him there while your hips snap forward with brutal rhythm.

When you pull out, he’s wrecked. His jaw is hanging open, tongue out, spit dripping down his neck. And he looks gorgeous like this.

You grab his face. Make him look at you.

“Say it.”

He pants. "Wh-what?"

"Say who owns you."

Jason hesitates—just a second.

Then: "You."

"Say it louder."

"You fucking own me," he moans. "I’m yours. I’m your fucking dog."

You grin.

"Now beg to get fucked."

He doesn't even pause.

“Please,” he gasps. “Please use me. Please, I—I need it—I’ll be good, I swear, just—please.”

And just like that, Jason Todd—the Red Hood, the most feared boss in Gotham—is on all fours, begging for the dick you’re about to be giving him.

Face red. Lips swollen. Hair stuck to his forehead. He’s panting now, thighs trembling as he tries to hold himself together, cock hard and leaking with no relief. The collar glints under the light, tight around his throat, leash trailing from your fist like a reminder.

Jason Todd doesn’t look like a mafia boss anymore.

He looks like a dog.

And he’s about to get treated like one.

“Get up,” you say.

He moves. Clumsy. Obedient. You shove him over the desk, chest flat, ass up, back arching perfect for you. The position makes him groan.

His pants are already gone. You never gave them back.

His thighs part without being told.

Ready.

“You were begging so sweet a second ago,” you murmur, palming his ass. “What happened to all that pride, Boss?”

Jason bites his lip. Doesn’t answer.

So you slap his ass. Loud. Sharp.

He jolts. “F-fuck—!”

“You forget how to talk?” you growl, leaning in close, letting your weight press into him from behind. “You forget who owns this?”

Your fingers drag down to his entrance. Wet. Twitching.

Jason gasps. “N-No—no, I know—I know—”

“Then say it.”

You shove two fingers inside him without warning. He screams. His back arches off the desk, legs shaking instantly.

“Fucking say it.”

“You—y-you own me,” he moans. “Please, please—I'm your fucking toy—”

You laugh against his ear.

“Yeah, you are.”

You press your cock to his slicked-up hole, teasing, dragging the head against him until he’s shivering and whining, back arched beautifully. The moment you press in—

He sobs.

"F-fuck—you're big—slow, slow—"

You don't go slow.

You grip the leash and pull as you sink in, one sharp thrust that fills him to the hilt. Jason’s scream gets buried in the desk wood, his fists clutching the edges like he’s trying to ground himself.

"You’re taking it," you growl. "Every inch. Just like you begged for."

Jason moans—high, desperate.

You start fucking into him, pace unrelenting, cock pistoning in and out as his hole squeezes around you so tight it hurts. He’s already leaking onto the desk, leaving a wet spot beneath him.

“Gonna cum like this?” you hiss. “No hands, no touch—just getting bred like the good bitch you are?”

He nods frantically, words lost in sobs and moans.

You feel the tremble before you hear the whimper.

Jason’s voice cracks. His whole body shudders. And then—his cock twitches untouched, shooting over the desk as his body clamps down around you.

He’s crying now. Quiet, desperate.

“C-Came—fuck, I came—”

You don’t stop.

“You think we’re done?” you growl, voice filthy. “You begged for it. Now fucking take it.”

You grab the leash, twist it around your fist, and pull his head back as you thrust harder, pounding into his overstimulated, raw hole until he’s a sobbing wreck on the wood, dripping and broken. You feel it building. Heat low in your spine. Jason’s still twitching, every thrust making his legs shake, tongue hanging out as he begs for more, whimpers turning breathless.

“You want it?” you growl. “Want me to fill you up?”

Jason nods frantically, barely coherent.

“Fucking say it.”

“Please—please cum in me—want it—need your cum—breed me—!”

You snarl, bury yourself to the hilt, and let go.

Hot, thick, endless—you spill into him like you’re trying to mark him from the inside out. Jason gasps, back arching beautifully as he milks you, his hole clenching greedily with every spurt of release.

The air reeks of sweat, sex, and ownership.

And he loves it. 　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He collapses the second you pull out, limp and twitching, cum leaking down his thighs in thick streaks. His face is flushed. His eyes are barely open.

You wipe him clean with your handkerchief. Gently.

You kiss his shoulder once. Then his temple.

He breathes slow. Even. Peaceful.

And the collar? You don’t take it off.

You brush your fingers over it softly, smirking.

“You looked better on your knees than you ever did behind a desk.”

Jason—wrecked, dazed, marked from the inside out—manages a breathy laugh.

“Then put my name on the fucking tag next time.”

[grymghoul]

ARTHUR MORGAN has an impressive cock. You'd always figured a man who carries himself so surely would have one like that. Thick and heavy, crowned with hair a bit darker than what was on his head. The way it would always be half hard anytime he was around you was flattering. The way he'd take up all the space in that hotel room, striding around, parading naked, he'd steal the air from your lungs. The way it'd pat against his thighs as he took heavy steps through the room. You'd stare and he'd look away, flush in the face. There was an inherent sense of boyish charm about him, how he could be so rough and callous, but the second he was alone with you he was nearly shy. Intimacy with Arthur was earned, a privilege, not a thing to trifle with. He'd given it to you and you hadn't even realized how hard it was to earn this from him.

He blushed bright red when you'd seen it the first time, that breathy "Oh, Arthur.." had sent a chill down his spine. Arthur was extra careful with you, fearing he'd split you right in half on his cock. There was no hiding it. The way his ranch pants would be fuller around you, the obvious bulge of denim stretching around it. He loved that you could try to swallow it all you wanted and you could still grip fingers worth of it as his tip touched the back of your throat. He loved being able to have you seated on top of him and see his dick fucking you from the outside. A firm hand pressed against you, making you tighter and he could feel the way he so lovingly damaged your sweet pussy.

He would torment your guts almost effortlessly. He'd have you gripping the sheets, choking back moans and sobs and all manners of pretty noises in a hitched tone without even trying. He wasn't an egotistical man, but he knew it couldn't be like this for every man or no job would ever get done in the world. It'd come to a stand still as everyone would be lined up to fuck the next man. No, no he had to have something special with you. He was easily enamored with you and how you'd feel wrapped all warm and tight around him. How snug you were.

Each time felt like the first with Arthur. The way he filled you and would have you swollen and sore the next day. Even after the bath you'd end up in together, he'd keep you there, wet and sudsy against him and his thick member until you had pruny fingers. He loved that you were a whiny mess just from being near his cock.

You were made for him by God, he wasn't religious but he was sure of it. You fit better than any glove or shirt or saddle he could have tailor made. You were just as addicted to him. The way his flared head could take up residency inside you made you know that there was some higher power and they were merciful in such a way for you to have a taste of heaven on earth with your Arthur.

[neocrias]

Making out with svt

warnings: descriptions; headcanons; gn (mostly) reader self insert; you might find it a little kinky at some point;

pairings: svt x gn reader

gender/aus: fluff; slightly suggestive;

Scoups

The whole night, Seungcheol tried to focus on dinner, the conversation, and the sophisticated atmosphere of the restaurant. But it was impossible. From the moment you appeared in front of him, wearing that outfit that hugged your body in a way that seemed tailor-made to tease him, nothing else mattered. His dark gaze kept falling on you every second, his jaw clenching every time you moved in a way that made it impossible to ignore the effect you had on him.

On the way home, the tension between you was palpable. The city passed unnoticed through the car windows while the only thing that truly mattered to Seungcheol was the sensation of your skin under his palm. His large hand rested firmly on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles, occasionally pressing as if testing your patience as if making it clear what was coming next.

When he finally parked in front of your house, he got out of the car first. The click of the door opening echoed in the stillness of the night as he moved around, his calm, calculated movements with that dominant presence that made your breath hitch before he even touched you.

Seungcheol extended his hand, helping you out of the car, his eyes never leaving yours. As soon as you were standing, he shut the door behind you—and before you could even process the movement, his body was already pressed against yours on the car.

The impact was gentle but definitive. One of his hands found your waist, pulling you against him, while the other cupped the side of your face. And then, without hesitation, he took your lips.

The kiss was fierce, filled with everything he’d been holding back the whole night. Seungcheol wasn’t one for half-measures, and there, against the car, under the dim streetlight, he made that clear. His lips were demanding against yours, his tongue exploring your mouth without rushing, as if savoring every second, as if he’d been waiting for this for far too long.

When he felt you melt under his touch, the need for more took over. Without effort, one of his hands slid down the side of your body until it found your thigh, and in one swift move, he lifted it, pressing it against his waist. The contrast between the cold metal of the car and the heat of his body made a shiver run up your spine.

Dressed entirely in black, Seungcheol looked even more imposing. The dark shirt clung to his body, accentuating every defined muscle, and the strength with which he held you against him made it impossible to ignore how badly he wanted this.

The kiss didn’t slow down. Seungcheol deepened every movement, exploring, dominating, as if his intention was to etch the feeling into every cell of your body. The firm hand holding your leg against him, his chest rising and falling against yours, the muffled sound of heavy breathing between kisses – all contributing to the electricity that hung in the air.

When he finally broke the kiss, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and gleaming with desire, he smiled crookedly.

— I should’ve brought you home earlier... — He murmured, his voice rough.

But the way he pressed his body against yours afterward made it clear that the night was far from over.

Jeonghan

The smell of your parents' house was familiar, a mix of fresh coffee and old wood that brought back childhood memories. Lunch had been peaceful, and Jeonghan, with his charming ways, had effortlessly won over your parents. He laughed at the stories they told about you as a child, his eyes gleaming with that mischievous interest only he could have.

After eating, you decided to give him a tour of the house. You walked through the rooms, stopping at every detail that was part of your history—the mark on the living room wall where you used to measure your height as a kid, the bookshelf filled with old books, the garden where you used to play. But it was in your bedroom that the tour truly ended.

The space felt smaller now, but it still carried your essence. Jeonghan was immediately distracted by the old photos scattered around, picking one up with an amused smile.

— Look at you here, such a cutie! — He laughed, holding a picture of you as a little kid. — Who would’ve thought that this innocent little face would grow up to be so bossy?

You rolled your eyes, throwing yourself onto the old bed with a sigh. The mattress creaked slightly under your weight, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting nostalgia wash over you. But before you could fully relax, you felt an added weight on top of you.

You opened your eyes only to find Jeonghan sitting on your lap, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as his fingers pinned your wrists against the mattress.

— Jeonghan… — You murmured, your heart racing.

— Yes? — He tilted his head, feigning innocence, but the playful glint in his eyes betrayed his true intentions.

— My parents are in the next room.

He smiled even more, leaning down until his lips barely brushed against yours, teasing.

— And? — His voice came out low, almost a whisper. — I don’t plan on making any noise.

And then, he kissed you.

The first kiss was slow, teasing, as if he wanted to test the limits of the situation. Jeonghan’s lips were warm and soft against yours, and the way he moved—always in control, always knowing exactly what to do – made your entire body react instantly.

But he didn’t stop there.

Jeonghan was a game of cat and mouse, and he loved playing with you. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he captured your lips again, stealing quick kisses, smiling against your mouth, his fingers lazily tracing your face, then trailing down to your waist, where he held you with deceptive gentleness.

The bed creaked softly beneath the subtle movements, and every time you tried to protest, he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his lips molding to yours with more intensity.

Your fingers clenched around his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. The way he dominated the moment, the way he whispered something between kisses just to tease you, made every cell in your body vibrate with anticipation.

And when he finally pulled away, just enough to look into your eyes, the satisfied smile on his lips made it clear that he knew exactly what he was doing.

— See? — He whispered, his thumb slowly brushing over your lower lip. — Not a single sound.

But his eyes said something else. He was just getting started.

Joshua

The elevator doors close smoothly, and you lean against the wall, holding Joshua's hand, watching him with a suspicious look. You two had just returned from a date, and throughout the entire night, Joshua had behaved better than expected—no pranks, no teasing comments.

He's been too quiet, which is never a good sign.

Then, before the elevator even ascends a single floor, he presses a hidden button on the panel. The lights flicker, the elevator gives a slight jolt, and… stops.

— Oh, no… — Joshua murmurs, covering his mouth with an exaggerated expression of surprise. — Looks like we’re stuck.

Your eyes widen. — What?!

— Yeah, it happened again… These elevators are a bit unstable, you know?

Suspicion hits immediately. 

— Joshua. What did you do?

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with pure amusement.

— Me? Nothing. — But the mischievous smile gives everything away.

You let out an exasperated sigh and reach for the emergency button, but he moves fast. Before you can even touch the panel, Joshua steps closer and cups your face with both hands, his palms covering your cheeks, his long, warm fingers pressing into your skin.

— Hey, hey, what’s the rush? — He murmurs, his voice low and lazy, his playful gaze shifting into something more intense. — Maybe it’s a sign from fate.

Your heart jumps when he leans in slowly, his warm breath grazing your lips before he finally captures them with his own.

The kiss starts as a tease – just like him. Joshua’s lips move against yours deliberately, savoring, testing, as if he’s relishing your reaction. But as you respond, he deepens it, making it slower, more consuming, his tongue sliding against yours in a heated, intoxicating touch.

He smiles against your lips the moment he feels you melt in his arms, giving in to the kiss, your fingers dragging over the nape of his neck with growing need. One of his hands glides to your waist, circling it and pulling you closer, while the other discreetly moves behind you. His fingers find the right button, and without you even noticing, he presses it.

Suddenly, the elevator starts moving again.

You pull back with a start, blinking in surprise. — Wait…

Joshua lets out a low, satisfied chuckle.

— Oops. Guess it’s working again. — He shrugs as if he hadn’t just tricked you once more.

— You…!

He grins like he’s having way too much fun, his thumb brushing lightly over your swollen lips. — Don’t look at me like that. You liked it.

The worst part? He’s right.

Jun

The muffled sound of the audience echoed through the backstage hallways, and you could hardly believe you were there, accompanying Jun to yet another one of the group’s shows. He seemed calm, but there was something in his eyes—a mischievous glint you couldn’t quite decipher.

— Let’s go grab some water — he said suddenly, his voice casual.

You didn’t find it strange. Jun was the kind of person everyone adored—sweet and attentive to those around him—and he hated being away from you when you had a day to be together, so nothing seemed out of the ordinary. None of the members even glanced in your direction, too busy with their own preparations. So, without questioning, you followed him down the hallways.

It happened too fast. Before you even realized it, Jun pushed open the door of an empty dressing room and, in one swift motion, pulled you inside. The soft click of the door closing sounded louder than it should have.

— Jun-? 

Your voice was cut off as he leaned against the wall and pulled you against him, your bodies colliding in the narrow space. He smirked, a malicious glint in his eyes. — I didn’t scare you, did I?

His expression softened into feigned innocence, but his tone betrayed his true intentions.

Your heart skipped a beat. He looked nothing like the adorable Jun everyone knew—here, alone with you, there was something else, something undeniably provocative.

The question lingered in the air, but before you could respond, Jun slid one of his hands down your waist, giving a light squeeze. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and that cocky smile still hadn’t left his lips.

And then, he leaned in closer, so close that you could feel his warm breath against your skin.

— We’ve got a few minutes… — he murmured, the tip of his nose grazing your jawline.

— Yeah? — you asked, wrapping your arm around his shoulders and tilting up to capture his lips in a slow, restrained kiss. One that Jun wasted no time deepening as he held you by the waist with one arm, while his other hand tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck.

He used his grip on your hair to position you exactly how he wanted, making the kiss more comfortable for him—and better for you. He pulled you closer by the hips, leaving one leg between yours, your bodies pressed together enough to feel the rise and fall of each breath.

Outside, the show was about to begin. But at that moment, nothing else seemed to matter except the way Jun looked at you—and what he wanted to do with those stolen minutes.

Wonwoo

Wonwoo was off today and decided to spend his free day playing the game he had been waiting for over the past two months. He was sitting comfortably in his gaming chair, the room lit faintly by a soft yellow LED light.

The sound of the keyboard clicks filled the air, and the soft light of the late afternoon illuminated the space. Since the beginning of the afternoon, Wonwoo had been immersed in the game, as if nothing else in the world mattered. You watched him for a moment, respecting the fact that he needed this time for himself after working so much. However, it was already night, and the longing for his touch, for his presence, started to weigh on you.

You quietly approached, leaning against his back. Your hands, soft and delicate, began massaging his shoulders, feeling the tension accumulated there. Wonwoo let out a slight sigh of pleasure but kept his focus on the game, as if trying not to get distracted. But it was impossible not to notice the touch of your presence and the warmth of your proximity.

After a few seconds, he tilted his head back, his eyes meeting yours. His smile was gentle but full of something you recognized well: desire, affection, and a slight complicity.

Without hesitation, you moved closer and, with a quick motion, kissed him in the Spider-Man and Mary Jane style, your lips meeting gently as he was still leaning back. The kiss was soft, gentle, and even a bit playful, but full of undeniable chemistry.

Fortunately, that wasn’t enough for Wonwoo – and even less so for you. He took control, spinning the chair to face you without missing a beat, and with one firm hand, placed it behind your thigh, slowly pulling you onto his lap.

The movement was smooth, but full of intention. You settled there, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, and the world around you seemed to fade away. He was closer now, and the distance between the two of you seemed to vanish completely.

The kiss quickly escalated, going from something gentle and playful to pure need and desire. Wonwoo held your waist, pressing you down against him as you wrapped your arms around his neck, instinctively arching your back.

— Your game... — You murmured between kisses and caresses.

Wonwoo simply hummed, not paying attention to your words – he had better things to focus on: marking the length of your neck and shoulders. The sound of battle filled the space between the two of you's panting breaths. The game long forgotten.

The night was just beginning, but you knew that, beside him, time would just be a word.

Hoshi

The office was finally silent. After hours immersed in the group's new project, you and Hoshi were the last to leave. He stretched, intertwining his fingers above his head before casting a casual glance in your direction.

— Ready to go? — He asked, already walking ahead.

— Always. —  you replied, grabbing your bag and following him down the hallway.

Hoshi pressed the elevator button, but when the doors opened, he suddenly made a face as if he had just remembered something important.

— Oh, wait... I think we'd better take the stairs. I heard the elevator has been acting up lately. —  He scratched the back of his neck, his expression a mix of concern and amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, not buying his excuse but also not protesting as he started heading toward the stairwell. Hoshi smiled innocently and began descending, still leading the way. You kept following him until, two floors down, he suddenly stopped and turned to you, biting back a mischievous smile.

— Already? — You crossed your arms, tilting your head to the side. — Couldn't keep up the lie for too long, huh?

He didn’t answer. Instead, in one swift motion, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down a step, making you stumble slightly. Before you could regain your balance, his hands were firm on your waist, pressing your body against his. Hoshi leaned back against the railing, a playful glint in his eyes.

Before you could say anything, Hoshi leaned up, capturing your lips in a deep, yearning kiss. Stealthily, his palms slid along the sides of your waist until his fingers pressed firmly against your skin, keeping you close.

For a moment, the world around you disappeared, leaving only the heat of his body against yours, the intoxicating taste of his kiss. His touch became gentle again, filled with hidden intentions, but the way his fingertips moved was so light that you barely felt them creeping upward.

Not until he reached your chest, teasingly squeezing them.

You pulled away, breathless, your face flushed. Your heart pounded wildly as you opened your eyes again, only to find that satisfied smile on his lips. His scent, mixed with the faint, enclosed air of the stairwell, made your head spin slightly.

— You should know by now that I could never resist an opportunity like this. — He murmured, his voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. You could feel his breath far too close to your skin – warm and enticing. The empty stairwell, the silence around you, the way he held your waist as if he had no intention of letting go… everything seemed to conspire against any chance of escape.

But did you really want to escape?

Woozi

You and Woozi had decided to have another one of those afternoons where you both worked on your own projects while enjoying each other's quiet company. His new comeback was approaching, and he still had many songs to work on, while you had to deal with the planning of this new project your boss had made you responsible for.

The room was immersed in a tranquil, almost dreamlike atmosphere. The soft strumming of Woozi’s guitar filled the space with an enchanting melody, blending with the sweet aroma of the warm cookies on the table.

At first, everything felt perfect. Your cup of your favorite drink was still warm between your fingers, and the ambiance seemed to conspire in your favor, helping you focus on the project assigned to you. But as the hours passed, the open pages on your laptop remained nearly untouched, the blinking cursor a cruel reminder that you weren’t even halfway through your planning.

A tired sigh escaped your lips, and Woozi, ever attentive, noticed. He stopped strumming, placing his guitar aside before standing up. His quiet steps didn’t immediately alert you, but soon you felt his firm yet gentle touch as he pulled your chair to turn you towards him.

Before you could question him, Woozi slid his hands around your waist, effortlessly lifting you, making a small laugh slip from your surprised lips. He didn’t say a word, simply carrying you in his arms toward the bed and laying you down gently on the mattress. His eyes met yours for a moment, a silent invitation reflected in the dark shimmer of his gaze.

He lay down beside you, pulling your leg over his hip, bringing your bodies closer. One of his hands traced slow, deliberate paths down your back, making your breath hitch. The kiss that followed was deep and sensual, filled with tenderness and intent. His tongue moved slowly against yours as his fingertips ghosted over your skin, coaxing you into relaxation in his arms.

You let your nails trail lazily down his abdomen, sending shivers across his skin, making him smile against your lips. Every touch was a silent promise that here, in his embrace, you could finally rest. The warmth of his body surrounded yours, and without even realizing it, your eyes began to close.

And just like that, clinging to him, you finally surrendered to sleep.

Dokeyom

You and your boyfriend were having yet another secret rendezvous at your place – just a night to binge-watch some random Netflix series while eating too much pizza and ice cream.

The house was filled with laughter, and footsteps hurried against the floor, as if, instead of a grown-up couple, two mischievous children had taken over the place. Every time you and Dokyeom were together, time seemed to rewind, and each date turned into a collection of questionable decisions and pure fun. The latest one? Play-fighting.

It all started harmlessly – a fierce battle for the TV remote. You grabbed it first, clutching it to your chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Dokyeom, with his usual mischievous grin, tried to snatch it from you, the two of you wrestling as if the fate of humanity depended on who would pick the next show.

What you didn’t realize, however, was that behind your boyfriend’s gentle and smiley nature, there was actual strength. And it was only when, in the blink of an eye, he grabbed your ankle with firm hands and pulled you down onto the couch that you understood how dangerous it had been to challenge him.

— Hey! — you exclaimed, trying to regain your balance, but it was too late.

Dokyeom laughed out loud, triumphant, and before you could turn around or come up with a counterattack, he was already on top of you. He pinned your wrists above your head with humiliating ease, his absurd strength contrasting with the bright, innocent smile he always carried.

— Did you really think you could win against me? — he teased, leaning in a little closer, his eyes sparkling with amusement. — You really shouldn’t underestimate me like that, sweetheart.

Your heart pounded – partly from the fight, partly because the sudden closeness between you made everything feel even more electrifying. Dokyeom held your wrists firmly but not tightly enough to hurt, and the way he hovered over you, his hair falling slightly over his eyes, made the world seem to slow down.

Dokyeom brushed his lips against yours, giving your lower lip a playful bite. You gasped against his mouth, and he finally took your lips in a gentle kiss, his tongue making its way into your mouth.

This kiss would be just like the others you’ve shared, but there was something different about this one – something more intense, something that sent shivers down your spine, that twisted into a familiar knot in the pit of your stomach, and all because of the way he’s manhandling you and pressing you into the couch effortlessly.

— I haven’t given up yet — you breathlessly challenged when he broke the kiss, squirming in an attempt to free yourself, but Dokyeom only laughed, tightening his fingers just a little around your wrists.

— Oh, really? Then convince me.

The challenge was set. And whatever the next bad decision of the night would be, one thing was certain – you two wouldn’t come out of this fight without consequences.

Mingyu

The kitchen was warm, filled with the aroma of spices and the soft sound of the knife slicing ingredients on the cutting board. Mingyu stood beside you, big and imposing, absentmindedly stirring the spoon inside the pan. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the food, he kept watching you – a gaze heavy with something intense, something that made your whole body tingle under his attention.

You tried to ignore it, continuing to chop the vegetables, but his presence was impossible to overlook. The way he moved, how his broad shoulders seemed to take up all the space around you, how the difference in size between you both became even more obvious every time he leaned in slightly to grab something from the counter.

And then, suddenly, you realized. His gaze wasn’t just a gaze. It was a warning.

Before you could react, Mingyu slid closer, his warm body brushing lightly against yours. He didn’t say anything – he simply pushed the scattered utensils and ingredients aside, clearing the counter. Your heart skipped a beat as you slowly turned to face him.

He was already there, too close, too tall, too broad, with those dark eyes locked onto yours.

Your stomach flipped when his hand found your waist, long fingers pressing firmly into the curve. But what truly caught you off guard was when he slipped his other hand under your leg, gliding up to the back of your knee before lifting you effortlessly.

A small gasp escaped your lips as your body was lifted as if it weighed nothing, and within seconds, you were seated on the counter, with Mingyu standing between your legs.

His warmth seemed to consume everything around you. Your breath was uneven, and you barely had time to say anything before he leaned in, his hands gripping your waist tighter as his lips met yours.

The kiss started slow, intense, as if he wanted to savor every second, as if he had waited too long for this. His lips were warm, firm against yours, and as the tension between you both grew, the kiss deepened, turning hungrier, more demanding.

Mingyu slid his fingers across your skin, holding you against him as if he didn’t want to let you go. His left hand trailed up to the base of your throat, his long fingers wrapping around it, applying just enough pressure for you to feel him there, but not enough to choke. Your body fit against his almost naturally, and the sensation of contrast – your height against his, his strength against your fragility – made your heart race even faster.

When he finally pulled back, your faces remained close, breaths mingling. Mingyu’s eyes were darker, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

— Forget the food. — He murmured, his voice husky. — I have a better idea...

And before you could respond, he kissed you again, stealing any words that might have left your mouth.

Minghao

The deserted beach looked like a scene straight out of a dream – the sky painted in warm hues of orange and pink, the salty breeze caressing your skin, the sound of waves crashing softly against the sand. Minghao had chosen this place carefully, a secret hideaway where the world seemed to exist just for the two of you.

He stood in front of you, his gaze fixed on you with that intensity that always made your heart race. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his light pants, his posture relaxed, but his eyes said something else – he was having fun, and you knew that meant he was in a teasing mood.

— I have your present. — He announced, his velvety voice blending with the night breeze.

Your eyes sparkled with excitement, and you practically bounced in place, clasping your hands together like a child waiting for candy.

— Give it to me! Let me see! — You insisted, a wide smile spreading across your face.

Minghao let out a short, muffled chuckle, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, the corner of his lips curving into an arrogant smirk. His gaze darkened slightly, glinting with veiled mischief as he replied:

— Beg me. — He answered. — Beg me, and maybe I’ll show you.

Your smile faltered for a second, weighing your options. Minghao loved this kind of game, and you knew the only way to win was to play along. So, slowly, you wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him a little closer.

Your eyes traveled up to his, softer than usual, and you blinked a few times, leaning slightly into him.

— Hao... — Your voice came out lower, almost a whisper.

He laughed, a low, amused sound, and squeezed your waist with one hand before shaking his head.

— I know what you’re doing, but it wont work. — His fingertips brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up slightly. His smirk deepened, a spark of anticipation dancing in his gaze. — I want you to beg for real.

The way he said it, with his voice slow and dripping with provocation, sent a delicious shiver down your spine. Minghao wanted you to truly beg, and judging by the way he looked at you – with that lazy smirk and the mischievous glint in his eyes – you knew he wouldn’t give in easily.

So, taking a deep breath, you leaned even closer, your arms still wrapped around his waist, your fingers tracing subtle patterns along the hem of his lightweight shirt. Your gaze lingered on his lips before slowly meeting his eyes again, filled with something deeper, something more genuine.

— Please, Hao… — Your voice was soft, almost a whisper, and your fingers pressed gently against his waist as if urging him closer. — Give it to me…

For a moment, time seemed to slow down. You saw his smirk falter slightly, his eyes darkening as he took in your words and the way you said them. Then, Minghao tilted his head to the side, his lips curling back into that satisfied smile.

He hummed, looking at you with a predatory glint in his eyes, and finally, he leaned in toward you.

The kiss started off slow, a delicious contrast to his earlier teasing. His lips met yours with patience, as if savoring every second, drinking in the taste of your surrender. But it didn’t take long for the softness to shift into something more intense—the rhythm picking up as he gripped your waist tighter, deepening the kiss.

His fingers traveled up your back, the light touches sending shivers through your skin as he pulled you even closer, as if trying to erase any space between you. You felt his breath mix with yours, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin fabric separating you.

When he finally pulled back, that same smirk lingered, but his eyes now held a different shine – less playful, more intense. He kept his hand tangled in your hair at the nape of your neck, keeping you tilted toward him, and rested his forehead against yours, his fingers still gripping your waist firmly.

— Now that’s more like it. — He murmured against your lips, his voice low and satisfied.

You smiled, breathless, your eyes shining with expectation.

— And my present?

Minghao let out a soft chuckle, sliding his hands down to your arms before pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

— I’m already giving it to you.

Seungkwan

The court was empty at that hour, illuminated only by the tall lampposts scattered around the space. The scent of dry earth and freshly cut grass mixed with the night breeze, and the only sound besides the rustling of the trees was Seungkwan’s slightly quickened breath – and your quiet, satisfied laughter.

— Stop laughing. — He grumbled, crossing his arms, but the glint in his eyes betrayed that he wasn’t actually mad.

— I’m not laughing. — You lied shamelessly, holding back another chuckle as you watched him huff.

You had made a bet. Seungkwan, always competitive, had sworn he could make ten consecutive shots without missing a single one. Knowing his exaggerated confidence all too well, you had doubted him. What he hadn’t expected was to miss the very last attempt, and now he was standing there, staring at you with feigned indignation while you basked in your victory.

— Come on, admit it. I won. — You teased, tilting your head to the side. — I told you you couldn’t do it.

Seungkwan rolled his eyes, tossing the basketball away before stepping closer with slow, deliberate steps.

— So what? I missed a single shot, that means nothing. — He grumbled, his voice lower now, laced with that same playful provocation he always used to throw you off.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you held his gaze.

— On the contrary, it means you have to do whatever I want for a full minute.

Seungkwan raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms again as if weighing the idea. The problem was, despite his stubborn front, he already knew he was doomed. The way you looked at him, a mix of mischief and that touch of sweetness that always disarmed him, made his pride waver just a little.

— And what do you want? — He asked, wetting his lips before looking at you more challengingly.

You took a step forward, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth of his body despite the cool night breeze. Your fingers trailed slowly up the fabric of his shirt, stopping at the collar.

— You know. — Your voice came out soft, almost a whisper.

Seungkwan let out a short breath through his nose, as if frustrated with himself for giving in so easily, but the way his shoulders relaxed betrayed the truth.

— You’re impossible. — He murmured, and then, before you could respond, he pulled you in by the collar of his own shirt, his lips meeting yours with the perfect mix of urgency and teasing.

The kiss started firm, dominated by his competitive nature, as if he was proving a point. But then, as the seconds passed, the initial tension melted away, giving way to something more genuine. The rhythm slowed, his lips moving against yours more languidly, the heat of his touch consuming every part of you.

Seungkwan cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he deepened the kiss with a satisfied sigh. He had wanted to tease you, but in the end, he was always the one who got lost first.

When he pulled away, his eyes still closed, he took a moment before finally speaking, his voice a little husky:

— I bet you cheated.

— You missed all on your own, babe. I had nothing to do with it. — You laughed, resting your forehead against his.

He opened his eyes, narrowing them slightly before smirking. — Best out of three.

— If I win again, will you kiss me again?

Seungkwan let out a dramatic sigh, but the smile still lingered, hidden at the corner of his lips. — You’re not gonna win.

But judging by the way he was already pulling you toward the ball, you knew he wouldn’t mind losing again.

Vernon

It was only the first month of your relationship with Vernon, and you were already sure he was everything you could ever want: fun, funny, kind, and even a little shy. But there was a problem.

The kiss… or rather, the lack of one.

Vernon always came up with excuses whenever you had the chance to be alone, and it was starting to seem like he preferred anything over kissing you. So when he invited you over for a movie night at his place… you were surprised, to say the least. Was it finally going to happen? Did he want to make it special?

Everything was perfectly set up, the dim lighting in the living room making the atmosphere even cozier – and more romantic. You and Vernon were sitting on the couch, a forgotten bucket of popcorn beside you, while the movie played on the screen. You were the one who picked the film, excited by its premise – TikTok edits – but before you even pressed play, Vernon had already commented:

 — I'm pretty sure I saw some bad reviews about this one…

You ignored him, more focused on other things than the movie. But as the minutes passed and nothing you expected happened the slow-paced plot and forced dialogues started to weigh down. Boredom filled the air. You sighed, resting your head against the back of the couch, and without realizing it, you started playing with the soft strands at the nape of his neck, gently twisting them between your fingers.

Vernon, on the other hand, was distracted, his eyes on the screen, but when you started bouncing your leg non-stop, he smirked, recognizing your restlessness. He didn’t say anything, simply enjoying your impatience in silence.

— This movie is so boring — you huffed impatiently after a few more minutes.

Vernon let out a low chuckle and turned to you, murmuring teasingly: — I told you so.

You huffed again, sinking into the soft couch, but Vernon was more cunning than he seemed, and you barely noticed his warm breath approaching your neck in the dimly lit living room. A shiver ran down your spine as he leaned in closer, lightly rubbing his nose along your neck before leaving a soft kiss on your skin. A mischievous smile immediately formed on your lips.

Slowly, you tilted your head to the side, and your eyes locked on his. For a second, everything faded into the background – the forgotten movie, the justified bad reviews, the untouched popcorn. Vernon still had that playful smile on his lips when you leaned in, and he welcomed you eagerly.

It started slow and comfortable, filled with repressed longing. Vernon gripped the back of your neck firmly, deepening the kiss. You gripped the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer to you. Sensing that, Vernon swiftly slid his free hand down to your ass, pulling you onto his lap with a strong, quick motion.

The movie kept playing on the TV, but your attention was on something far more interesting.

Dino

Your boyfriend had to cancel the dinner you were supposed to have because of the rehearsal for his solo launch, but he felt bad about rescheduling with you, knowing how much those moments meant to you – he also didn’t want to be away from you that night. That’s why he invited you to watch the rehearsal.

The muffled sound of the music still reverberated in the air as Dino monitored each step of the choreography in the mirror like a hawk. During the rehearsal, he barely took his eyes off you. Every movement of yours, every reaction, every subtle and hurried touch during the breaks between the clean-up of the choreography seemed to carry something more, an intensity and veiled yearning between the two of you.

And you felt every furtive glance he cast your way, sensing something growing between you, something irresistible.

Now, at the end of the session, the mood was different. The empty room and the sudden silence seemed to make the atmosphere more tense. Dino approached you unexpectedly, his steps firm, almost challenging. He stopped right in front of you, and in a swift movement, he pushed you against the door, trapping you between his body and the cold wood. His gaze was full of intensity, as if he was measuring the moment with precision.

His lips were close to yours, the heat of his body radiating onto you. The pressure of his presence was almost physical, and you could feel your heart racing in your chest, but you also felt a delicious shiver, as if the air around you had changed in temperature.

Time seemed to slow down as he looked into your eyes, trying to gauge if you were ready for the next step, for what had yet to be said. His usual confident smile was now tinged with something more mysterious, something deeper, something between provocation and anticipation.

Dino tilted his head, his eyes locked on yours, and you felt as though the air around you was condensed into a single point of tension. He lowered his voice, almost whispering, and his words were laden with something you could barely understand:

— You know what I want, don’t you?

The question lingered in the air, like a provocation and a promise. He moved closer, his body pressed against yours, and you felt the intensity of his presence like never before. Dino held your chin, tilting your head to the side, and let a couple of kisses and light bites along your neck.

You deeply gasped, feeling the heat of his body against yours. He hid his smile in the crook of your neck, lifted his head up, locking his eyes on yours again, then bit your lower lip, making you whimper softly.

— The others… — you started, but Dino cut your words off before you could continue.

— There’s no one here anymore, beauty — he murmured on your lips, and in the next second, he took your lips in a hungry kiss.

His hands traveled down along your side, lifting you with no effort and pressing your back against the door, his body pressed on yours. After that, he slid his hand right to your butt, squeezing your soft flesh and pulling you against him, pressing your bodies together with fervor and desire.

[ahqkas]

♯ WOMANIZER ( you misunderstand the batboys’ intentions about you ! )

— fem!reader, bruce & dick & jason ( separated ), cursing, i believe in the imperfection of dick grayson, based on this req.!!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

. . . BRUCE WAYNE !

THE PARTY AT WAYNE MANOR WAS ALREADY WELL UNDERWAY, with the gotham’s most privileged citizens mingling in perfect suits and ethereal gowns that sparkled like they held all the stars in the universe. you didn’t really belong here. or at least, that’s what you told yourself as you stood near the edge of the balcony, nursing a glass of champagne and pretending you weren’t keeping an eye on the man who seemed to command attention wherever he went.

bruce wayne. gotham’s billionaire playboy. philanthropist. occasional heartbreaker. you’d known him for a while, though you wouldn’t exactly call yourself friends. he had a knack for being charming in a way that left people breathless, and you? you’d seen through it. or at least, you thought you had.

when he’d started showing interest in you—lingering glances, invitations to these kinds of events that were hosted by him, casual but warm conversation—you’d dismissed it with a wave of your hand and a gentle no, thank you. bruce wayne didn’t date women like you. he charmed them, maybe took them to dinner once or twice and to warm the cold side of his bed, and then moved on to the next glittering distraction. that’s what you’d always assumed about him, and it didn’t help that you were acquainted with one of his exes, a woman who had once rolled her eyes and described him as a man who “likes the chase more than the catch.”

so when bruce’s eyes found yours from across the room tonight, you bristled. it was hard not to notice the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the way his smile seemed smaller, less performative and more genuine, when it was directed your way. but you couldn’t help but wonder if it was all part of his game. was this just bruce wayne being bruce wayne, setting his sights on some pretty bird for the thrill of it? or was there more to it?

as the night went on, the man found his moment. you were standing near the balcony doors, half-hidden from the crowd, when his smooth voice broke through your thoughts.

“enjoying the party?”

you turned to find him standing a little closer than you’d expected, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his perfectly tailored suit, the rich fabric complementing his broad shoulders and easy confidence. he looked effortlessly polished, as always, every detail of his appearance considered, from the subtle sheen of his shoes to the faintest trace of cologne that lingered in the space between you. but tonight, there was something different about him, something in his expression that caught you off guard. his stormy blue eyes, always so guarded, seemed uncharacteristically open, revealing an earnestness that made your breath hitch. and there, just beneath the surface, was a vulnerability he didn’t often let slip, like he was holding his heart out to you, unsure if you’d take it or walk away.

“it’s fine,” you replied, the words carrying a certain amount politeness as you swirled the champagne flute in your hand. the golden bubbles rose to the surface, catching the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. you took a measured sip and the crispness of the drink did little to soothe the edge in your tone. “not really my scene, though.”

he chuckled softly. “i had a feeling you might say that.”

“then why invite me?” The question came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t back down. you’d spent too much time wondering what exactly a man like bruce wayne wanted from you, and tonight you were in no mood to dance around it.

bruce blinked, clearly caught off guard. “i thought—” he hesitated, the usual composure faltering ever so slightly. “i wanted you here.”

“for what?” you pressed, your voice dipping lower, but it carried the sharpness of a blade meant to cut through his carefully built walls. “to add to the collection? to say you’ve charmed another woman into falling for you?”

the words hung between you, heavy and biting, and you could see the faint flicker of hurt that flashed in his eyes before he masked it. still, you didn’t back down. you’d seen this thing before—the effortless charm, the disarming smiles, the way he made women feel special, if only for a moment. you weren’t going to be another one of those fleeting moments, another name whispered in hushed gossip about gotham’s most privileged golden boy. the weight of your words wasn’t just meant to confront him; it was a shield for yourself, a barrier you put up to keep your heart out of reach of someone who could crush it without even meaning to.

but bruce wayne didn’t flinch. instead, he looked at you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

“that’s not what this is,” he said quietly with his voice steady but threaded with softness. there was no defensiveness in his tone, no quick quip to deflect or charm his way out of the accusation. he didn’t puff up his chest or offer a rehearsed explanation to save his pride. there was no trace of the man who usually walked through conversations with the ease of someone who always knew the right thing to say.

instead, it was just bruce.

you crossed your arms at your chest, your guard still firmly in place. “forgive me if i find that hard to believe. i know your reputation, and i know you don’t exactly have a track record of . . . consistency.”

the man let out a long sigh, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair and glancing away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts before he let them out for you to hear. when he looked back at you, his expression was different—softer, more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him.

“i know what people think of me. but that’s not who i am with you. you . . . you’re not just some passing interest to me. i don’t know how else to say it, but i care about you. more than i’ve cared about anyone in a long time.”

his words caught you completely off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless. you searched his face for any sign of deceit, any trace of the playboy side of him you’d come to associate with him. but all you saw was sincerity. it terrified you as much as it made your heart ache.

“you don’t have to believe me,” he added, his voice quieter now. “but i’ll prove it to you, if you let me.”

the vulnerability in his eyes was so raw, so uncharacteristic of the man you thought you knew, that you couldn’t help but feel a crack form in the wall you’d built around yourself. maybe he really meant it. maybe this wasn’t just a game to him. you didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything at all. instead, you let your gaze linger on him for a moment longer, trying to piece together the man in front of you with the one you thought you’d figured out. and for the first time, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—you’d been wrong about bruce wayne.

. . . DICK GRAYSON !

DICK GRAYSON WASN’T USED TO BEING MISJUDGED. sure, people sometimes underestimated him—wrote him off as just another pretty face, a charmer with a disarming smile and nothing deeper behind it—but he always found a way to prove them wrong. except when it came to you.

you, with your sharp wit and guarded heart. you’d known him long enough to see past his dazzling exterior, but you also had your assumptions about him, shaped by things you’d heard and what you thought you’d observed. you’d seen him with kory, with barbara, with women who seemed to flock to him effortlessly. to you, he seemed like someone who loved the chase more than the catch, someone who couldn’t sit still long enough to really, truly care. and that’s where the problem began.

it started with a rumor. one of your friends—a casual acquaintance of dick’s—had mentioned his “reputation” in passing, how he’d always been the heartbreaker of gotham’s streets. you’d smiled politely and brushed it off, but on the inside, your walls had risen. and then there were the times you’d seen him turn on the charm with women at galas or events, the way they seemed to melt under his intense gaze. it didn’t help that you were certain he could have anyone he wanted.

when dick started paying more attention to you, your first instinct was suspicion. he’d never been anything but kind, but now, his kindness seemed . . . targeted. personal. he asked about your day, remembered small details you’d mentioned weeks ago, found ways to cross your path more often than felt coincidental. he’d even shown up at your workplace once with a bag of takeout, claiming he was “just in the neighborhood,” though you were sure that wasn’t true. it was flattering and sweet, sure, but it also made you wary. he’d been like this with others before, hadn’t he?

“let me guess,” you said one day, crossing your arms as he caught up with you after a late-night outing with mutual friends. “you’re just doing this for fun, right? another notch on the great dick grayson belt?”

the words stung more than you expected. they slipped out before you could stop them, a mixture of your own insecurities and the walls you’d carefully constructed around your bleeding heart to protect yourself. dick froze mid-step, his easygoing smile faltering for the first time.

“what?”

“you don’t have to play dumb,” you continued, keeping your tone casual, though the tightness in your chest betrayed you. “i’m not one of those girls who’s going to fall for the charming guy.” you gestured vaguely towards him, your hands betraying your nerves as much as your words. “i mean, i’ve seen it all before. the sweet smile, the compliments that sound so personal but somehow aren’t. you’ve got a whole thing, dick. it’s practically a brand.” shifting your weight, your eyes darted away from his for a second before locking back in. “i’ve seen it with kory. with barbara. probably with whoever else came before or after. you walk in, sweep them off their feet with your ‘i’m just a nice guy with perfect hair and a killer backflip’ act, and then . . . i don’t know. you move on. it’s just what you do, isn’t it?”

the words spilled out faster than you could stop them, a mix of defensive sarcasm and the tiniest sliver of insecurity you hated admitting was there. the way his expression shifted, the way his easygoing demeanor cracked, told you you’d struck deeper than you intended—but you couldn’t back down now. not when your heart was hammering against the bones of your ribs, reminding you of all the reasons you’d kept him at arm’s length.

dick blinked, as if you’d just slapped him. for a moment, he didn’t respond, his mouth opening and closing like he couldn’t quite figure out what to say. the hurt in his eyes was almost enough to make you regret your words, but you stood firm, heart pounding.

“i . . . wow,” he finally said, running a hand through his dark locks. the tone of his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it, stripped of the usual warmth and charm that seemed to come so effortlessly to him. his hand lingered at the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the tension there, like he was trying to ground himself. “that’s what you think of me?” he repeated. his blue eyes, normally so lively and teasing, searched yours for some kind of explanation, some hint that you didn’t mean it the way it sounded. but there was no teasing now, no easy smile to smooth over the rough edges of your words.

for once, dick grayson—always so confident, so sure of himself—seemed completely thrown, like you’d hit a nerve he didn’t even know existed.

in truth, the man was head over heels for you. he didn’t know when it had started exactly—maybe it was the first time he heard your real laugh, or when you’d gone out of your way to help a stranger on the street, or the way you always managed to keep up with his fast-paced banter. all he knew was that you were constantly on his mind, and he was trying everything he could think of to show you how much he cared. but clearly, he’d been going about it the wrong way.

“look, i know what people say about me. i know i’ve made mistakes, and yeah, i’ve had relationships that didn’t work out. but that doesn’t mean i’m—that i’m what you think i am.”

“then what are you, dick?” you challenged, your voice sharp even as doubt began to creep in. “because all i see is a guy who’s used to getting what he wants.”

he let out a breath, shaking his head. “i’m a guy who’s trying to show you that you’re important to me. that i care about you more than i’ve cared about anyone in a long time. but apparently, i’ve done a terrible job of that.”

the raw honesty in his voice caught you off guard. for the first time, you saw past the charm and the confidence to the vulnerability beneath. he wasn’t trying to manipulate you or play games—he was laying himself bare, and it terrified you almost as much as it touched you.

“you could have anyone,” you said quietly, your tone softening despite yourself. “why me?”

dick stepped closer, his hands in his pockets, as if he was trying to give you space while still closing the distance between you. “you challenge me. you make me want to be better. and yeah, maybe i’ve had a past, but none of that matters to me anymore.“

in the silence that followed, you felt your walls begin to crack. maybe he wasn’t perfect. maybe he’d made mistakes. but the sincerity in his eyes was impossible to ignore. he wasn’t just saying what he thought you wanted to hear—he was saying what he needed you to know. you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that he was telling the truth.

. . . JASON TODD !

JASON TODD WASN’T A MAN KNOWN FOR BEING SUBTLE, especially when it came to matters of the heart. his past had been a mess, filled with pain, betrayal, and a long string of failed attempts at normalcy. but despite all the scars, despite the weight of the past, there was something about you that made him want to try, that made him want to be someone better, someone worth your time. yet, every time he tried to get closer to you, it felt like you were slipping farther away, as if you saw him as nothing more than just another guy who wanted a quick fling—someone like the men who had come before him, someone who was only interested in getting into your pants.

it frustrated him to no end.

jason knew he wasn’t perfect. hell, he knew he had a lot of baggage, a lot of things that would make most people run in the opposite direction. but you? you didn’t just run. you were cautious, almost skeptical, like you were holding him at arm’s length, convinced he was just another fool who thought he could charm you with a few clever lines and some smooth moves. the way you looked at him sometimes—it wasn’t with the disgust or anger he used to see when people looked at him, but something close. disappointment, maybe. like he was nothing more than a shadow of someone who could be worthy of your time.

the thing that gnawed at him the most was that you didn’t believe him. you didn’t believe that he was different, that he saw something in you beyond the physical. there were days when you’d look at him, laughing at something he said, a playful smile tugging at your lips, and jason would get this flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—you could see him the way he saw you. but then there were the other days. days when you’d pull away, your eyes distant, your words clipped, and it would hit him like a ton of bricks. you were still unconvinced.

it didn’t help that you knew his exes, some of the women from his past who had used him or only wanted him for the same thing you feared he wanted from you. and that only made you more guarded, more unwilling to take the chance on him. to you, it was as if he were just another man who came with a history of bad decisions. and to some extent, maybe you were right, but he wasn’t about to let that be the end of the story.

one night, after patrol, jason found himself sitting at your kitchen table. you were cooking ( his favorite ) , focused on your task, and he leaned back in his chair, watching you with a quiet intensity. he couldn’t help but study you—how you moved, how your eyes flickered over the ingredients, how you chewed on your bottom lip when you concentrated. he adored it all. and it pissed him off that he couldn’t just tell you how he felt without the weight of his past overshadowing it all.

“hey,” he finally spoke up, breaking the silence that had been hanging between you. you didn’t look at him right away, too absorbed in what you were doing, but when you did, it was with a look that said you knew exactly what was coming.

“jason,” you sighed, setting the knife down carefully and wiping your hands on the towel. “we’ve been through this.”

his brows furrowed, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “been through what?” he asked, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice but failing. “what’s the deal with you?”

you paused, your face softening with an almost sad smile. “what do you mean, what’s the deal with me?” you asked with your voice a mix of amusement and something else—something more guarded. you leaned against the counter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“you act like i’m just another guy you’re trying to keep at arm’s length,” jason said, vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to. “i get it, alright? i do. i’ve messed up a lot. but i’m not trying to be just some guy who’s after your body. i’m not. i don’t know what else i have to say to make you believe that.”

your eyes softened upon hearing his rant, but there was still hesitation there, that skepticism that had become so familiar in his interactions with you. “jay, you’re a good guy, but . . .” you trailed off, searching for the words. “i’ve seen how things end with people like you. how they use others, and then leave them behind. and i’m not stupid. i can see how you look at me sometimes. it’s the same way you look at everyone else, isn’t it? like they’re just a means to an end.”

jason pushed himself up from his seat, crossing the small space between you in a few long strides. “that’s not how i look at you,” he stood firmly. “i don’t look at you like that at all. yeah, i’ve made mistakes. but i’m not the same guy who was a dickhead in the past, and i’m not the same guy who thought he could just charm his way into getting what he wanted. i care about you.”

you let out a breath, dropping your gaze for a moment, and his heart skipped a beat. there it was—the doubt, the hesitation that had been there for weeks, lingering just beneath the surface. he wasn’t going to let you slip away without trying, not when he knew what he felt. not when it was so clear to him that you were the one person who had somehow gotten through the walls he’d built.

“i’m not asking for anything from you,” he continued, his tone softening as he reached out, gently cupping your cheek with one hand, lifting your face so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “i’m just asking for the chance to show you. i know you don’t trust me yet. i get that. but please, give me a shot. i’m not just gonna walk away. not this time.”

there was a beat of silence between you two, the air thick with everything unsaid. and for a moment, you just stood there, your eyes locked on his, reading him in a way that made his breath catch in his throat. he was giving you everything in that moment, his heart, his truth, all laid bare in front of you. and for the first time, he wasn’t sure if you would walk away.

but then, something in your eyes shifted. a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and you sighed, reaching up to gently take his hand from your cheek.

“okay,” you said softly, voice almost a whisper. “okay, jason. i’ll give you a chance.”

jason’s heart fluttered in his chest, and a grin tugged at his lips as he leaned forward to kiss you. he was a man who had always been wary of letting anyone get close, but when it came to you, he would do anything to prove he wasn’t the same man he once was.

and with that, for the first time in a long while, jason allowed himself to hope.

[bueckets]

Love Me Tender (Then Crank Up the Dial)

Pairing: dom!Paige x sub!reader

Genre: uh vibrator, a bathroom, and your little shit girlfriend, this is just literal porn

Description: It’s supposed to be dinner. A quiet, romantic, Valentine’s Day reservation. But nothing about is quiet—especially not when she’s got a remote in her hand, a smug look on her face, and complete control over the vibrator tucked between your thighs.

Spoiler alert: you won’t leave the restaurant dry—or alone.

WC: 4.3k

Notes: i’m unwell.

The smooth silk of your dress clings to you, hugging the shape of your thighs where you sit stiffly in the restaurant booth, hands folded in your lap like you’re prim and proper. Like you’re not unraveling. Like you’re not shaking, just barely, under the heat of Paige’s gaze.

She’s across from you, fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of her wine glass, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She’s in a suit—tailored to perfection, navy-blue, the crisp lines sculpting along her broad shoulders, the deep V of her collar teasing a glimpse of collarbone. Paige has always known how to command attention without trying, without forcing it—she owns it, the same way she owns the court, the same way she owns you.

Under the table, pressed between your legs, is a slick, buzzing little secret. Her secret. The vibrator nestled against your clit hums at the lowest setting, teasing, thrumming against your pulse. Paired with the stretch of the plug buried inside your ass—God, you’re already at the edge of insanity.

The worst part? She hasn’t even touched the remote yet. Not properly, at least. Just enough to remind you it’s there, enough to make every shift of your hips a risk, every movement a battle between relief and torture.

Your breath hitches as she tilts her head, watching you closely, fingers tapping lightly against the remote resting beside her plate. Her nails are short, painted clear, effortlessly clean—the same hands that have spent hours palming a basketball, wrapping around your throat, spreading you open like she has all the time in the world.

“You’re quiet,” she murmurs, taking a slow sip of wine. “Something wrong, baby?”

Your jaw clenches. You want to glare at her. You want to fight, but you can’t—because Paige loves this part too much. Loves the way you squirm, loves the way you bite your lip bloody just to keep from moaning in a public setting.

Her foot slides forward under the table, nudging against your ankle, teasing its way up your calf, slow, lazy.

“Tell me,” she says. “Or do I have to turn it up to get you to talk?”

Your nails dig into your palms. The thought of her cranking the setting higher—no, no, not here.

You clear your throat, forcing your voice even. “I’m fine.”

Paige hums, unconvinced, swirling the wine in her glass before setting it down. “Mmm. Liar.”

Your heart stops—or maybe it kicks up, your pulse hammering in your throat as she casually picks up the remote, thumb hovering over the dial. Your muscles go rigid, every nerve locked in anticipation.

She doesn’t press it. Not yet. Instead, she leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.

“Let me guess,” she murmurs, eyes flicking down toward your lap. “It’s starting to get a little unbearable, isn’t it?”

Your thighs clench, heat flashing through your body. Fuck. You shouldn’t—shouldn’t react so much to just her words, but she knows you too well. Knows how to slip under your skin, how to make you burn with just a look.

Paige smirks, and then she finally presses the button.

A sharp, sudden jolt slams through you. The vibration spikes—no longer a subtle tease, but a deep, rolling pulse against your clit, strong enough that you jerk in your seat.

Your fork clatters onto your plate. Heat immediately rushes to your face.

“That’s better,” she muses, tilting her head. “So sensitive tonight, baby. Maybe I should’ve gone with something stronger.”

Your breath comes out in short, uneven gasps. The plug stretches tight inside you, every pulse of the vibrator amplifying the heat coiling low in your stomach. It’s too much. Too much and not enough, because you need to move, need to grind down, but you can’t—not here, not in a fucking restaurant.

“Paige,” you hiss under your breath, barely managing to keep the desperation from your voice.

She quirks a brow. “What?”

“Turn it down.”

She laughs—low, deep, like she enjoys your suffering. “Turn it down?” Her gaze flicks to your lap, her smirk sharpening. “But you’re already soaking through your dress, baby.”

Your stomach plummets.

Your hands fly to your lap—fuck, fuck, she’s right. The silk fabric, already thin, has betrayed you, the dark spot between your thighs a damning proof of your arousal.

Paige hums in satisfaction, setting the remote back down, not bothering to lower the setting. Your whole body trembles.

She leans back, taking her time, pretending to glance over the menu like she hasn’t just reduced you to a mess in the middle of a five-star restaurant.

“You’re such a good girl for me,” she murmurs, not looking up. “Sitting there, taking it.”

A shudder runs through you. Your mind is a blur, the pleasure cresting just enough to drive you insane but never enough to push you over.

Paige knows exactly how to keep you suffering. You sit there, legs squeezed so tight your thighs ache, hands clenched into useless little fists in your lap, every muscle locked as you fight to hold yourself together. To keep from breaking.

Paige is relaxed. She sits back against the plush leather of the private booth, legs spread, hand resting lazily over the remote, thumb idly circling the dial but not pressing it. Yet. Just teasing. Just reminding you that she’s in control.

Your breath is ragged, shoulders trembling as you try to not fucking whimper in a public setting.

A waitress approaches—blonde, pretty, her uniform perfectly pressed—and for a second, just a second, you think Paige might have some mercy. Might turn the toy off while she places her order.

You should know better.

"Have you decided, ma’am?" the waitress asks, her voice smooth and polite.

Paige hums, tapping her finger against the remote like she’s thinking. Like she’s deliberating. And then—oh, fuck—she turns the dial up another level.

A sharp, intense pulse slams through your clit, the vibrator kicking up into a deep, rolling rhythm that has you jerking against the seat, nails digging hard into your palms as you bite back a strangled moan.

Paige doesn’t even look at you. She’s calm, unreadable, as if she’s not watching you come apart right in front of her.

"I’ll have the filet mignon," she says smoothly, voice completely even, like she’s not currently wrecking you under the table. "Medium-rare. And she’ll have—" Paige pauses, finally looking at you, eyes dark, lips quirked.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, breath shaky, helpless, as the relentless vibration works you open, thrumming deep through your clit, pulsing against the plug inside you. It’s too much, too good, but not enough—never enough—because Paige is keeping you right there, dangling on the edge, teasing, tormenting, watching you drown in it.

"She’ll have the salmon," Paige finally says, answering for you.

Her eyes are locked on you, watching you struggle. Watching you break.

The waitress scribbles it down. "Any drinks?"

"Mmm," Paige hums, pretending to think—and then, just to be a bitch, she cranks the setting higher.

A sharp, punishing jolt tears through you.

Your body locks, your breath catches, a tiny, choked whimper slipping out before you can stop it. The waitress doesn’t notice, but Paige does. She loves this, lives for it.

"Just water for her," she says smoothly, shutting the menu. "She’s already a little… flushed."

Your whole face burns, thighs trembling as you desperately try to keep your breathing under control.

The waitress nods, stepping away, leaving you alone in the private booth with her.

Silence stretches. Paige leans forward, eyes glinting, her fingers slowly tracing the outline of the remote like she’s considering ending you right here, right now. Her voice is low, sultry, dragging over you like silk and sin.

"Did you just whimper for me, baby?"

Your breath stutters, muscles coiled so tight you might shatter, the relentless, pulsing vibration burrowing through you like a second heartbeat—no, stronger, crueler, because your heart doesn’t make your knees weak, doesn’t flood your core with helpless, dripping heat. Paige watches you like a wolf watching prey, that smirk just bordering on smug as she twirls the remote between her fingers.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Such a mess, and I haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

You swallow hard. Your thighs clench—useless. The silk of your dress is ruined, clinging to you like sin, like evidence. The heat of the restaurant, the murmur of distant conversation, the candlelight flickering between you—it all feels unreal, like you’ve been removed from normalcy and placed in a purgatory of her design, one where every breath, every twitch, is hers to control.

The waitress is gone, the order placed, and yet Paige still hasn’t granted you relief. If anything, she’s enjoying the game too much, savoring your trembling hands, the way your body betrays you with every involuntary shudder. You feel it in the way she leans back, lazy, her legs spread beneath the table, confidence dripping from her like fine wine.

“What’s the matter, baby?” she taunts, her fingers flexing over the remote. “You look like you’ve got something to say.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes. Not when she shifts slightly, boot nudging between your ankles, forcing your legs apart just enough to remind you who’s in control. Not when she presses the remote’s dial forward another click—just one. Just enough to send a fresh wave of torturous pleasure rolling through your oversensitive core.

Your breath shatters into something between a gasp and a choked moan. Your fingers fly to the edge of the table, gripping hard, knuckles white.

Paige’s eyes glint.

“Careful,” she warns, tilting her head. “People might hear you.”

It’s too much. You can feel yourself unraveling, every nerve raw, every second a stretch of unbearable tension. And she knows. Oh, she fucking knows. The bastard. The sadist. The woman who holds you together and tears you apart in equal measure.

Paige leans in, slow, deliberate, resting her chin on her palm like she has all the time in the world. Like she’s not currently dismantling you one pulse at a time. The flickering candlelight between you casts shadows across her sharp jaw, highlights the smug amusement in her eyes as she watches you tremble on the edge of something devastating.

“You’re shaking, baby,” she murmurs, voice syrup-thick, low enough that it curls around your spine like a touch. “That bad, huh?”

Your nails bite into the tablecloth, your breath a wrecked thing in your chest. The vibrator’s merciless now, the setting just high enough to keep you right on the brink, never letting you tip over, never letting you breathe. It’s a calculated cruelty—Paige knows exactly how to play you, how to keep you strung out, how to turn you into a mess of heat and need with nothing but a dial and a smirk.

Her boot slides further between your legs, pressing, just barely, but it’s enough to send a fresh bolt of pleasure lancing through you. Your thighs clench around nothing, your body an open wound of want, so fucking desperate it’s humiliating.

“Paige,” you whisper, half a plea, half a warning.

She hums, tilting her head, pretending to consider. “What is it, sweetheart? You want me to stop?”

Paige sees the truth before you can even think to lie. Her smirk sharpens, and then—she has the audacity to stretch, to feign casual boredom as she flicks the remote again. Just a little. Just enough to send another sharp pulse through your clit, enough to make your body jerk, enough to make your mouth fall open on a silent gasp.

She watches you drown in it. Watches your shoulders shudder, watches the way your legs twitch under the table, helpless against the cruel, endless tease. And then—she sighs, setting the remote down with an air of finality, like she’s lost interest. Like she’s done playing.

Your stomach drops, panic cutting through the haze of arousal, because no—no, she can’t just leave you like this, can’t just push you to the edge and then fucking abandon you in the middle of a restaurant.

“I think you need a moment,” she says, smooth, detached, like she’s commenting on the wine selection instead of completely wrecking you.

She leans back, stretching her arms over the booth, legs spread in that infuriatingly casual way, radiating dominance, confidence, control. You can feel it from across the table, the weight of her ownership, the unspoken demand curling thick between you.

Your pulse hammers. Your thighs tremble. The ache between your legs is unbearable.

Paige cocks a brow.

“Well?”

It’s not a question. Your breath catches. A second passes. Then another.

And then—your legs move before your brain catches up. You force yourself out of the booth, every step shaky, every nerve raw. The vibrator is still on, still buzzing insistently inside you, and it takes everything in you not to stumble, not to let your knees give out under the weight of your own need.

The air of the restaurant is thick, suffocating, heat curling in your chest, your head. You barely register the dim lighting, the hushed conversation around you, the clinking of silverware against porcelain. All you can feel is the slick, throbbing ache between your legs, the torturous pulse of pleasure rolling through your core.

You don’t have to look to know Paige is watching you.

The moment you step into the hallway leading to the bathrooms, the noise of the restaurant fades, leaving you in a quiet, empty stretch of dimly lit space. Your breath is shallow, ragged, your body vibrating with tension.

The second you slip into the bathroom, you brace yourself against the sink, gripping the cool porcelain like it can ground you. Your reflection stares back at you—flushed, disheveled, pupils blown wide with need. You barely recognize yourself.

The door creaks open behind you. Paige steps in. Then locks it. Her boots strike the tile slow. Measured. She stalks toward you like a huntress with the kill already bleeding in her claws. You don’t move. Can’t. Your fingers clutch the sink, trembling, white-knuckled, and that treacherous little hum still buzzes in your core, low and deep and maddening. Your thighs are soaked. Your knees feel like they’re not yours. And Paige—Paige is silent as she comes up behind you, a shadow in navy and control.

You meet your own eyes in the mirror—wide, desperate, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any color left. Behind you, Paige moves closer. The heat of her body rolls off her in waves, a living furnace pressed just shy of your spine.

“You’re a mess,” she murmurs, her voice just a breath, her lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Look at you.”

You do. God, you do, even though shame burns hot under your skin. She places her hand over yours on the sink—solid, sure, hers—and leans in just enough that her front brushes your back. It’s not a question. It’s an assessment. A challenge. A reminder.

“You walked through a five-star restaurant dripping into your fucking heels,” she says, dark amusement threading through every word. “And no one knew. No one but me.”

Your breath catches, a soft whimper escaping without permission, and she grins—teeth sharp, cruel delight dancing at the edge of her lips. The hand not bracing you pins your hip, pulling you back into her. And then her thumb dips between your thighs, presses firm against the soaked silk clinging to your cunt.

“Still buzzing for me?” she teases, rubbing in a slow, maddening circle, the pressure enough to make your legs wobble. “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked. That little toy’s been working overtime, huh?”

You nod, desperate, a choked sound breaking in your throat. You want to beg. Want to scream. Want to come and die and live again all in one breath. Paige just chuckles.

“Oh no,” she purrs, her lips brushing your neck. “You don’t get to come just because you need it.”

The hand at your hip tightens. She lifts the hem of your dress slowly, dragging the silk up your thighs, exposing more and more ruined skin until the cool air kisses your slick folds and the faint metallic glint of the plug winks in the mirror. Her eyes meet yours in the reflection, hunger coiling deep in the burnished gold of her stare.

“You get to come,” she whispers, “when I say you come.”

She drops to her knees. Your hips jerk as her hands spread you open, rough palms skating up the insides of your thighs. Her mouth—God, her mouth—is hot and brutal when it lands on your clit, tongue pressing firm against the vibrator’s head, the added pressure making your knees buckle. She moans into you, devours like she’s starved, licking and sucking with calculated cruelty, the vibrations driving deeper under the intensity of her touch.

You’re gasping, broken little whines spilling from your lips as her tongue works you open, the plug inside you shifting with every tremor, every pulse. Her grip bruises your hips, nails digging crescent moons into your skin as she pulls you back onto her face like she owns it. Like you’re not allowed to escape.

You don’t want to. You want to come. Want to shatter.

She stops.

The silence hits like a slap. Your body trembles, needy, on the very edge of ruin—and Paige just stands. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes glittering with something feral. You watch her in the mirror, desperate, wrecked.

“On your knees,” she commands.

You drop. The floor is cold tile against your knees. Your thighs are twitching, trembling, drool slicking the corner of your lips just from the aftertaste of her tongue on your cunt. And Paige stands tall above you—tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease her inked collarbone, her strap already bulging thick beneath her slacks, ready.

She unzips. You whimper.

“Open wide, baby.”

Your mouth drops before she finishes the sentence. Tongue out, lips parted, already drooling down your chin, desperate for it. Paige fisting your hair is the only warning you get—then she feeds it to you in one slow, deliberate thrust. Her cock hits the back of your throat before your reflex even wakes up.

You choke.

“That’s it,” she growls, holding you there, her hips flush with your lips, her grip tightening until your scalp aches. “Fucking take it. You’ve been gagging on my attention all night, haven’t you? Look at you now—on your knees, plugged and soaked, and I haven’t even made you come yet.”

Your throat spasms around her, spit spilling free, dripping messily down your neck, your chest. She starts moving—slow thrusts that build, in and out, in and out, then faster, harder, until your head’s bobbing like a toy on a string, her grip controlling every inch. Your mascara smears, tears spilling as she fucks your face without mercy.

“Sloppy little cockdrunk whore,” she snarls, slapping your cheek with the flat of her hand when you gag too hard. “You like being used like this? Don’t answer. I know you do.”

Your eyes roll. Your throat stretches. The tip of her strap punches into your resistance with every brutal thrust, and still you moan. You moan around it like you love being used, like you need it deeper. Paige’s eyes flash with something dark, primal.

She spits. Right in your mouth. Doesn’t stop fucking your face even when the mess dribbles out again.

“Swallow. Good cumslut always swallows.”

Then she yanks you off. Just enough for a ragged breath, your tongue lolling, chin and chest shiny-wet, and before you can suck in oxygen—

SLAP.

Her palm cracks across your cheek. You whimper once again, drained.

“God, you’re pathetic. Can’t go five fucking minutes without drooling like a bitch in heat. Get up.”

Your legs barely obey. The plug’s still inside you, throbbing in time with your clit, the toy still buzzing—a wicked low pulse that’s kept you riding the knife’s edge of orgasm for so fucking long. She shoves you hard against the stall door, yanks your wrists behind your back and holds them with one hand, the other dragging your dress up again.

And then her mouth is on your ass. Her teeth bite your cheek, her tongue licks the base of the plug.

“Oh my god—Paige—!”

Her chuckle is low and mean. She spits again, this time between your cheeks, letting the wet drip down the base of the toy. Then she licks it—slow, nasty, devouring. Her tongue circles the plug, and then presses against your hole, licking around it, fucking into it until you’re moaning like a fucking animal.

“Filthy little anal slut,” she breathes, slapping your ass so hard you jump. “You want me to fuck you here instead? Make you come with nothing in your pussy at all?”

You shake your head. She slaps you again.

“Wrong answer.”

Then her fingers slip between your folds. One slap to your clit, and your knees buckle.

“Look at this fucking mess,” she murmurs, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds. “You’re gushing and you haven’t even come. Ruined your panties, ruined your dress, ruined yourself. Just a broken, desperate little thing waiting to be bred.”

You whine. Your voice is gone. But your body screams—hips jerking back, needy for anything, everything.

“Beg for it,” she growls, pulling your head back by your hair. “Beg for your orgasm. Beg like a fucking bitch.”

“Please, Paige—please—fuck, I need to come—I’ll do anything—”

“Anything?”

She steps behind you again, lines the slick cock up with your soaked pussy. The stretch hits instantly, wide and mean and so deep your eyes cross. She doesn’t give you time to adjust. She just slams in. Hips crashing into yours. Your voice breaks on a scream.

Then—she twists the vibrator inside you higher. The plug pulses. The cock rams deep. You explode.

You don’t just come—you implode. Screaming, sobbing, squirting all over the floor, her thighs, your own. She holds you down by the hair as your legs collapse, fucking into your orgasm with vicious, unrelenting force. You scream her name, voice ragged, throat raw, body twitching.

She doesn’t stop.

“Oh no, baby. We’re not done.”

One hand grabs your throat, choking you just enough to feel your pulse stutter. The other slaps your clit. Over. And over. And over.

You squirt again.

“That’s it,” she growls, voice right in your ear. “Give me everything. You’re not leaving this bathroom until you’re empty.”

Your knees are still shaking. Your slick coats your inner thighs, streaked down to your calves, puddled on the floor under you in obscene splashes. The plug’s still in. The vibrator’s still buzzing, just low now, like a sick little reminder of everything she just did. You can barely lift your face from the cold, come-smeared tile. Mascara tears painted down your cheeks, lips swollen, your cunt raw and twitching from being fucked through three—four?—mind-shattering orgasms.

Paige is fixing her collar like nothing happened. Cool. Composed. Buttoning up her shirt with smooth fingers, wrist flicking her tie back into place, slipping her belt through the loops like she didn’t just break you over her strap and leave you leaking like a used toy. The scent of sex clings to the air thick as heat. But she doesn’t even look mussed.

You finally find your voice—barely.

“P-Paige—”

“Shhh.” Her tone slices through the haze. Calm. Cold. Final. “You’ll clean up when you’re back at the table.”

She slides the remote into her pocket with a quiet click that still makes your thighs twitch, and crouches down just long enough to tug your ruined dress down your hips again. Not fixing your hair. Not bothering with your makeup. She wants them to see. Wants you walking back out into that restaurant wrecked, ruined, dripping like a whore who just got used in a public restroom and liked it.

She leans in, breath brushing your temple.

“Get up, baby.”

You do. Fuck, you do, legs wobbling, cum still leaking with every step. The plug shifts. The vibrator hums. You shudder. Your cunt pulses around emptiness.

“You’re not done yet,” she says, brushing invisible lint off her slacks. “I’ve still got dessert coming. And so do you.”

She reaches over, grabs your chin, makes you look up at her. Her thumb brushes your spit-slick bottom lip—then presses in. Makes you suck. You moan, automatic.

“Good girl.”

Then she turns. Unlocks the bathroom stall. Walks out. Just like that. No looking back. No waiting. Not even a final command—just the click of her boots as she strides back toward the table, calm as ever, as if she hadn’t just turned you into a dripping, shaking, breathless thing.

And now it’s on you. To fix your hair. To wipe your mouth. To walk out there soaked, flushed, plug inside you, vibrator still on, heels clicking through your shame.

To follow. Like a good girl.

[carnalcrows]

the last supper

genre: smut

pairing: gi hun x male!reader (implied frontman x reader x gi-hun)

CW: rimming, gi-hun eats reader out like a starved man, the term [y/n] is not used, semi-public sex, voyeurism

word count: 1.5k

The dining table stood empty now, the remnants of your final meal scattered across the pristine white cloth. The ominous quiet of the room was heavy, pressing down like a weight as you and Gi-hun exchanged lingering glances.

You were the only two left—the finalists.

The elegant black suit they’d given you felt stiff against your skin, a stark contrast to the ragged tracksuits you’d worn throughout the games. Gi-hun, sitting across from you, was similarly transformed, his dark hair slicked back, his usually weary expression replaced by something sharper, more intense.

He hadn’t said much during dinner, his focus flickering between his plate and you. Now, as the silence stretched, his gaze settled fully on you, warm and probing, as if he were trying to read your thoughts.

“You clean up nice,” he said at last, his voice low and rough, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Flattery won’t get you far,” you replied, leaning back in your chair, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed your nonchalance.

He chuckled softly, the sound unexpectedly intimate in the vast, empty room. “I’m just being honest. You’ve got that... effect.”

“Effect?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He stood then, rounding the table with slow, deliberate steps. His movements were unhurried, his eyes locked on you like a predator sizing up its prey. When he reached your side, he leaned down, his face inches from yours.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “The kind that makes it hard to think straight.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as his hand rested lightly on the back of your chair, his body so close that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “What are you doing, Gi-hun?” you asked, your voice quieter now, tinged with uncertainty—and something else.

“Something I’ve been wanting to do for a while,” he said, his tone low and thick with meaning.

Before you could respond, his hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His thumb brushed against your cheek, the touch featherlight but searing. The room seemed to shrink around you as he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice a challenge, a dare.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was as electrifying as it was unexpected. He responded instantly, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, pulling you deeper into him.

The kiss was hungry, desperate, as if all the tension of the games—the fear, the pain, the longing—had culminated in this one moment. His other hand found your waist, tugging you to your feet and closer to him.

Your suit jackets rustled together as his fingers gripped the fabric, his touch firm and unyielding. The kiss deepened, his lips and tongue leaving no room for hesitation. You clung to him, your own hands exploring the planes of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged. His hands still held you, grounding you in the moment.

“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice hoarse but sincere, his eyes searching yours.

Your answer was clear in the way you pulled him back in, your lips finding his once more.

The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that left no room for second-guessing. His hands, rough from the games, cradled your face like you were the only thing grounding him in this moment. You clung to him just as fiercely, your fingers gripping the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him impossibly closer.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched when your hands trailed down to his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath the finely tailored fabric. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss further, his lips parting yours with a tenderness that gave way to raw need. His hands moved down, one settling at the small of your back, the other tracing the curve of your jaw with his thumb.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and unsteady.

“Maybe I do,” you whispered back, your words a challenge as your hands slid up to his shoulders, tugging him closer still.

Gi-hun chuckled, the sound dark and rough, before his lips found yours again, more insistent this time. The way he kissed you was consuming, like he was trying to etch the memory of you into his very soul. Each touch, each brush of his lips and hands, seemed to speak of everything he couldn’t say out loud—the pain, the longing, the fragile hope he clung to in your presence.

You stumbled back slightly as he guided you toward the nearest wall, his hand steady at your waist to keep you from losing your balance. The cold surface pressed against your back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between the two of you. Gi-hun’s fingers skimmed along your sides, his touch firm yet reverent, as if he were memorizing every inch of you.

The room felt smaller now, the air thick with the electricity of what was happening. His lips left yours briefly, trailing a line of kisses along your jaw and down to the hollow of your throat. His breath was hot against your skin, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the taste of you.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, a quiet gasp escaping you when his teeth grazed the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. Gi-hun pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and heavy with desire.

He chuckled again, the sound vibrating through you as he pressed another lingering kiss to your lips. This one was softer, slower, but no less intense. His hands remained at your waist, anchoring you to him as if he was afraid to let go.

He slowly lifted you up, pushing your pants and boxers down at the same time. Your erection sprung out, waiting to be touched.

Instead of focusing on your length, he simply turned you around, with your back facing him, and your cheek pressing up against the cold wall.

“They didn’t give us desert, it’s up to me to indulge”, Gi-hun whispers, before spreading the flesh of your ass and feasting on you like a man starved.

The sudden intrusion of his tongue in your ring of muscles sends jolts up you. You don’t bother to stop your moans however, there was no point in the guards killing you now.

His grip on you tightens, and you feel yourself reaching your climax, hands struggling to grip anything on the empty wall.

Soon, you release, covering the wall with a pearly white coat. As your breathing slows down, Gi-hun slowly turns you around and stands up, hooking your legs onto his waist.

“You taste like vanilla”, is the only thing he says before his mouth finds yours again.

What neither of you noticed, lost in the haze of lust and desire, was the subtle red light blinking in the far corner of the room—a silent witness to everything that was unfolding.

In the dimly lit surveillance room, the Front Man leaned back in his chair, one of his gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin, while the other was slowly working on his hardened cock. His masked face betrayed no emotion, but the way his head tilted slightly as he watched the screen hinted at a level of interest far beyond casual observation.

The feed showed the two of you, pressed against the wall, your bodies impossibly close as Gi-hun’s hands roamed your sides with an intensity that spoke of need and desperation. Your head tilted back slightly as his lips trailed down your jaw, a quiet gasp escaping your lips that was audible even through the grainy audio.

The Front Man’s fingers tapped the armrest of his chair, his posture unnervingly relaxed as he studied the scene. He could almost feel the tension radiating off the screen, the raw chemistry between you and Gi-hun so palpable it was almost suffocating.

“Well, well,” he murmured to himself, his voice a low rasp beneath the mask. “Looks like the players are getting... creative.”

For a moment, he simply watched, the room silent except for the faint hum of the monitors. His gloved hand reached for the console, his finger hovering over the button that controlled the speaker system. The temptation to interrupt, to see the way you both might react, was almost too great to resist.

But he didn’t press it.

Instead, he leaned forward, his elbow resting on the console as his head tilted slightly. There was something about the way you moved together, the way you clung to each other like lifelines, that held him captive. His mask hid the faint smirk tugging at his lips, a reaction he wasn’t sure he’d ever admit to.

“Maybe I’ll have to... step in,” he groaned quietly, his voice low and laden with suggestion. The idea hung in the air, tantalizing and dangerous.

For now, he let the scene play out, his gaze never leaving the screen and his hand never leaving his length, moving slowly but consistently. But the thought lingered, unspoken yet potent—an invitation he hadn’t decided whether to extend.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and I take genuine effort to do them.

[yapithoughts]

One thing about you and your childhood friend—Satoru Gojo—is that people always mistook you for a couple. Not because there were secret feelings—at least—but because the way you moved together made it easy to assume.

He’s gay. You couldn’t stand men. That dynamic alone should’ve killed any romantic assumptions. You hated when guys stood too close or asked you for directions like they had a right to your time. But Satoru? He was the rare exception. Maybe because he was safely off-limits. Maybe because he never looked at you like someone he had to impress.

He flirted with guys, had flings that never lasted, kissed strangers at clubs like it meant nothing. You avoided emotional closeness like a virus. And yet, the two of you fit. No questions, no confusion. The comfort was absolute. Maybe that’s why the two of you were inseparable—there was never a threat, never any pressure to be anything more than exactly what you were to each other.

Late-night walks. Shopping trips. Sleepovers. No boundaries, no awkwardness. Waking up with his arm wrapped around your waist felt as natural as breathing. Picked outfits for each other, changed clothes in front of each other, never flinched. He wore sleek polos and tailored slacks like he was born for the runway. You wore baggy shirts and jorts.

And then… something shifted.

That early evening, you were getting ready for a party. Satoru had asked you to come along—partly because your mom had been nagging him to drag you out, and partly because he missed you. College made time feel like a luxury. These days, you were lucky to see each other twice a month.

Your mom had barged into your room holding a burgundy dress, elegant and clearly expensive. She begged you to wear it—guilt-tripping you with sore feet and credit card damage. You sighed, gave a half-promise.

Surprisingly, you did more than that. You wore it.

At 7 p.m., Satoru was at your door, dressed in a loose white polo tucked into tailored black slacks, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly expensive. When you opened the door, his breath hitched—just for a second. The dress clung to you in a way that made his brain lag. It was simple, but it made you look like a stranger he couldn’t look away from.

He blinked, masked the pause with a teasing smirk, and said something snarky like always. But something in him had already tilted.

Together, you looked like a magazine spread. At the party, heads turned. People whispered. Some said you two made a perfect couple. Others outright assumed you already were.

You got drunk. And Satoru stayed beside you, even though he hated the smell of alcohol. He never let you out of his sight, holding your wrist when you swayed too much, catching you when you leaned into him for support. It wasn’t unusual—he always played the bodyguard when you drank.

By midnight, he made the call to take you home. But not your home—his. He didn’t want to risk waking your mom, though she’d probably greet him with open arms and feed him midnight snacks.

You could barely walk straight in the building hallway. He sighed, muttered something under his breath, then scooped you up in a bridal carry like it was the easiest thing in the world. You wrapped your arms around his neck, head against his shoulder. He stiffened. Just for a moment. Then continued walking, pretending the heat on his neck wasn’t from you.

His apartment screamed money without even trying. Sleek, modern, cold—but somehow still cozy. He placed you gently on the bed, wiped your makeup off, made you drink water, slipped off your shoes with a quiet patience. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

After washing up, he lay beside you like always.

And yet, it didn’t feel like always.

Everything was familiar—the bed, the silence, your breathing—but something was off inside him. A weight in his stomach he couldn’t name. He didn’t understand why you looked different tonight. Why he kept replaying the image of you in that dress, laughing, glowing.

Sleep came late and uneasy.

By the time sunlight crept through the curtains, he was already in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. when it was nearly noon, he peeked into the room and saw you still asleep. Makeup gone, hair messy, blanket pulled up to your shoulder.

He turned to grab a shirt and shorts for you. You stirred when he placed them on the bed. Groggy, slow-moving but as soon as you took the clothes, you started peeling the dress off like it meant nothing. He caught a glimpse of bare skin and turned on his heel so fast it was almost comedic.

He’d seen you in your underwear more times than he could count. So why did his chest suddenly feel tight? Why did he feel like he wasn’t supposed to look?

You eventually shuffled out to the kitchen, dressed in his clothes, hair damp from washing your face. You sat on the barstool, still blinking the sleep out of your eyes.

“I look like I came from a one-night stand,” you muttered, laughing to yourself.

He didn’t laugh. His face was turned, jaw a little too tense. His cheeks were warm again. Unreasonably warm.

You offered to do the dishes. Insisted, actually. Said it was the least you could do since he cooked.

When you were done, you returned to the couch and threw yourself next to him like a cat settling into a familiar spot. Your legs landed over his lap. Your arms curled around him. Your head rested on his chest.

Comfortable. So comfortable.

Your voice was soft, sleepy.

“Toru… are you sick?”

You cupped his cheeks, inspecting him with innocent concern. He was unusually quiet today—and even now, with you so close, you could feel the warmth radiating off him like a slow burning ember.

But he couldn’t speak.

Because he didn’t know what was wrong with him.

All he knew was… since last night, something had changed.

And god—you looked too pretty

Too soft.

Too close.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel immune to feelings he thought he’d never have.

Or if the distance between you was ever real to begin with.

[starkeyslibrary]

The Bachelor - Episode 1 | Limo Arrivals

the bachelor masterlist

pairings: rafe cameron x female!reader

words: 5.0k

The villa glowed like a dream under the night sky, golden light spilling down the grand staircase, flickering against the perfectly manicured hedges. It looked like something out of a fairytale or a reality show. Which, you reminded yourself, it very much was.

Inside the limo, the energy had shifted. The jokes were quieter now, nerves humming in the space between the women seated shoulder to shoulder, careful not to wrinkle dresses or smear lipstick. You sat with your hands folded in your lap, pretending to be calm, eyes fixed on the window as the mansion grew larger with each turn of the tires.

“I can’t believe he’s actually waiting out there.” One girl whispered, breathless. “What if I blank out and forget my name?” “What if he’s not even cute in person?”

A few of them laughed too loud. One girl was already reapplying gloss for the third time. You just breathed in slowly and tried to quiet your heartbeat.

This wasn’t supposed to be real.

You hadn’t imaged it going further than a funny story between you and your best friend. But then came the callback…. and the second one… and the whirlwind that brought you here. And now, you were about to step out of a limo and meet a man the rest of America would be watching you fall in love or fail with.

Your name was called.

The door opened.

The air hit your skin first, cool, slightly floral from the rose arrangements lining the path. The mansion towered in the distance. But all you saw was him.

Rafe Cameron.

He stood at the end of the driveaway in a tailored black suite, his posture relaxed but solid. Not trying too hard. Not posturing for the camera. And somehow, that made it worse.

Your breath hitched.

And when your heels hit the driveaway, his head turned toward you instantly.

Your pulse kicked up, but you smiled as you approached, keeping your stride steady. Shoulders back. Voice ready.

“Hey there,” you said, letting your eyes meet his and hold.

“Hey,” he replied, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m Rafe.”

“I know,” you teased, with a quick grin. “Kind of hard to miss the guy everyone’s here for.”

That earned a smile from him real and fast in the best way.

“And you are…?”

“Y/N. From Staten Island.”

“Staten Island,” he repeated, a flicker of surprise in his expression. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

“That’s the fun part,” you said, stepping a little closer. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Good,” he said, a little slower now. “I like surprises.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward, just charged.

You pulled back just a hair, still smiling. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it. Thirty-one more names to remember.”

Rafe grinned. “Something tells me yours won’t be hard to remember.”

You paused at that, feeling the weight of the moment shift. You weren’t expecting that, not so soon. But there it was.

You glanced over your shoulder as you turned toward the mansion. “We’ll see if you still remember it later.”

“I will,” he said quiet, certain, just loud enough for you to hear.

And you believed him.

Because as you walked away, you could feel it. The unmistakable heat of someone still watching.

Inside the villa, the energy was electric, almost humming. Twinkling lights wrapped around beams, champagne flutes lined the trays of perfectly dressed servers, and soft lounge music played underneath the buzz of whispered nerves.

You stood just off to the side of the grand foyer, heels planted, fingers curled loosely around a glass of something bubbly. A producer had gently nudged you into your mark, then disappeared, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts... and a wide-open view of the driveway.

The limo door opened again.

“That’s Samantha Jamerson,” someone whispered behind you. “She’s the model. From Dallas.”

Samantha stepped out like she was walking onto a runway — head high, hair glossy under the lights, dress clinging in all the right places. She wore confidence like perfume.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself. “Not intimidating at all.”

Another girl followed just moments later — Evalin Rossio, the makeup artist from Burbank. Her entrance was bolder, more theatrical. She strutted up to Rafe in sparkling heels, handed him a lipstick tube, and said something you couldn’t hear… but whatever it was, it made him laugh.

You exhaled through your nose. Lightly. Casually.

Then came Daisy Cameron.

She stepped out of the limo with the kind of grace that made the air feel quieter for a second — all smooth lines and timeless beauty in a butter-yellow satin gown. She didn’t rush. Every step felt intentional, like she’d been here before in some other life.

In her hands, she held a single white gardenia.

When she reached Rafe, she didn’t say anything right away. Just offered him the flower, eyes locked on his in a way that was soft, but piercing.

“A gardenia,” she said finally, voice low. “It means ‘secret love’... or ‘a new beginning,’ depending on who you ask.”

Rafe smiled slowly, clearly taken off guard. “Which one are you offering me?”

She leaned in just close enough for the cameras, not close enough to make it desperate.

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

And just like that, she turned and walked toward the mansion without another word.

There was a beat of silence. Even from a distance, you could see the way Rafe looked after her, a little surprised, a little intrigued.

“Okay, wow,” someone muttered behind you.

You didn’t respond, just took a slow sip of champagne and glanced at the doors as they opened for the next woman. Because it was clear now:

Every girl here had their version of “memorable.” The real question was, would it last?

The living room of the villa was warm with light and filled with too many beautiful women to count. Glittering dresses caught the glow of chandeliers, laughter buzzed softly in every corner, and champagne flowed like nerves — constantly and without warning.

You stood near the edge of a sitting area, fingers curled around the stem of your glass, quietly taking it all in. A few cameras hovered, not too close, but always there. You were still trying to ignore them.

“This place is insane,” a voice said beside you — low, friendly, with a quiet kind of warmth.

You turned and found a woman already smiling at you. She wore a soft mauve dress, her hair pulled into a loose braid. There was something open and real about her — the kind of presence that calmed you, not challenged you.

“Daniella,” she offered. “ICU nurse. From Minnesota. And currently trying to keep my blood pressure under control.”

You gave her a smile back. “Same. I mean, not the nurse part. Just.. all of this.”

“I feel like I’ve been holding my breath since I got out of the limo,” she added, laughing lightly. “Is it weird to admit I keep forgetting there are cameras?”

“Not weird. It’s either that or pretend they’re part of the furniture.”

Daniella laughed again and just like that, you felt your shoulders relax a little.

A third woman joined you moments later. Tall, sleek, confident but not in a way that made you feel small. She had a designer look and a warm smile to match.

“You two look like you’re actually enjoying yourselves,”

“We’re faking it well,” you replied.

“Good. That’s basically the job tonight.” She extended a hand. “Kayla. Interior design. L.A. You?”

“Y/N,” you answered. “New York.”

“Daniella, from Minnesota.”

The three of you stood there a moment longer, sipping drinks, trying to act like the cameras weren’t tucked behind potted palms and over shoulders. Laughter echoed from somewhere near the fireplace as a cluster of women posed for photos and took turns casually peeking at the front door.

“Do you think he’ll come in and grab someone right away?” Daniella asked softly.

“Maybe,” Kayla replied. “If he’s smart, he’ll start with someone unforgettable.”

They didn’t say it, but the unspoken words hung between you; and we’re all hoping that’s us.

You stayed quiet, letting their voices drift around you, eyes flicking once toward the front entrance.

The final woman had made her entrance. You couldn’t even remember her name, just that her gown shimmered like glitter under a spotlight and her laughter carried through the driveaway like she was already winning.

Inside the mansion, the air had shifted.

Everyone knew what was coming.

A hush fell over the room when Jesse Palmer stepped into the center of it all, dressed in a dark suit, face calm but with that unmistakable glint of drama in his eyes.

“Ladies,” he said with a warm smile, “welcome to night one.”

A few soft cheers and nervous laughs through the crowd.

“Tonight, you’ll each have a chance to spend one-on-one with Rafe. Make the most of it. He’s here to find something real. And at the end of the night…”

He paused for full effect.

“.. Rafe will be handing out the first roses of the season.”

Your stomach twisted slightly. You knew it was coming, but hearing it out loud made it hit different. It wasn’t just nerves anymore, it was pressure.

Jesse gave a small nod along with a soft smile, then stepped aside.

And then, Rafe walked in.

He looked sharp, dark jacket, shirt unbuttoned just enough to keep it relaxed. But it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the way he moved through the room. Calm. Confident. Collected. His eyes scanned the space, landing briefly on each woman, but when they passed over you, they paused.

Just a beat longer than everyone else.

It wasn’t dramatic, and you were sure half of the room didn’t notice.

But you did.

He picked up a glass from a nearby tray, and the rest of you followed. Flutes clinked together softly.

“Thank you all for being here,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “I know how much courage it takes to put yourself out there like this and I don’t take that for granted. I came here because I’ve spent most of my life building something. A company. A future. But I want more than that now. I crave more.”

His gaze moved through the crowd.

“I want to build something real. With someone. I don’t know how this will unfold. But I’m here with an open heart.. and I hope you are too.”

The group murmured softly. Glasses lifted.

“To something real,” Rafe said.

“To something real,” the women echoed.

You sipped your drink, heart tight in your chest.

And just like that, the cocktail party really began.

Time passed like it was both racing and crawling. Rafe was pulled almost immediately. First by Zoe, a fiery brunette from Miami who wasted no time claiming her spot. Everyone pretended not to notice. No one succeeded.

You hovered near Daniella and Kayla, watching as one by one women made their move. Some subtle. Some not at all. There was laughing. Playful touches. A few over-rehearsed lines that landed like a scripted TV.

Then Zoe returned.

Her lipstick was smudged just lightly. Her smile? Smug.

“You guys,” she announced, fanning herself with her hand. “Let’s just say… first night magic is real.”

Gasps and squeals rippled through the group. You watched the reactions more than you watched her.

“You kissed him?” Someone on the couch asked, eyebrows raised.

Zoe shrugged, like it was no big deal. “It just happened.”

You turned your face away slightly, hiding the sudden knot of anxiety bloomed in your chest. You didn’t expect to feel… this. Not yet. But you did. And it was real.

So when the timing felt right after another girl returned, giddy and breathless – you stepped away from the group.

You spotted him near the edge of the patio, half in shadow, glass in hand, eyes scanning the lights twinkling in the distance like he was trying to slow the night down.

Maybe it was bold, maybe it was overdue. But your heels clicked against the stone like a quiet declaration as you stepped toward him.

He turned to face you, and there it was again. That small shift in his expression when he saw you. Like the air had changed.

“I was hoping you would,” he said.

He placed his drink on the railing behind him, then stepped closer his hand grazing lightly across your bare back as he guided you forward. The gesture was effortless, almost instinctive, but it send a hum down your spine.

He led you to a quieter corner of the terrace, where fairy lights dangled over low-hanging vines and the music from inside was just a whisper. It felt like your own little pocked of the night.

You sat beside him, just far enough not to touch, but close enough to feel the tension humming in the space between.

“So, Staten Island,” he said, smiling as he leaned back. “I’ve been thinking about that all night.”

“You say that like I’m a rare species.”

“Maybe you are,” he shot back, grinning. “Okay, let’s trade,” he said, turning slightly to face you. “One thing you actually like about where you’re from?”

You paused for a second, then nodded. “The honesty. People don’t pretend much. What you see is what you get.”

“That explains a lot about you, actually.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Definitely.”

You smiled at that, ducking your head a little. “Alright, your turn. Tell me something about you that no one probably expects.”

He leaned in a touch, not enough to close the gap, but enough to feel intentional.

“I go off-grid once a year. No phone, no emails. Just me and the woods. Camping, hiking, chopping firewood, the whole thing.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Wait, like actual camping? In a tent?”

“Tent, hammock, sometimes just a sleeping bag if I’m cocky.”

You laughed. “I pictures you more… five-star hotel with a view.”

“I do like a view,” he said, eyes locking on yours for a second too long. “Just depends on the company.”

Your breath caught slightly. You leaned back, your gaze steady on his. “Alright, Mr. Off-Grid. My turn again.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Hit me.”

“What’s your biggest red flag?”

He grinned. “What, you mean besides agreeing to date thirty-two women on TV?”

You raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “I said red flag, not suicide mission.”

He laughed low, “Fair, I guess.. I like control. More than I should, probably.”

“Ah,” you said, swirling your drink. “So you’re a bit of a menace too.”

“Maybe,” he said eyes narrowing slightly in mock suspicion. “But not in broad daylight.”

You smirked. “Coward.”

He mirrored your expression. “Okay then. Same question. What’s your red flag?”

You shrugged, unapologetic. “I know what I want. And I say it. Some men find that… unsettling.”

Rafe’s eyes glinted. “Sounds like clarity to me.”

“Dangerous word,” you said. “People say they want honesty, but they really want reassurance.”

He studied you for a beat, “And what do you want?”

You tilted your head, keeping him in your sights. “Someone who can keep up.”

He chuckled under his breath. “That sounds like a dare.”

“It might be,” you said, your tone light, but your gaze unflinching.

A beat of silence passed between you. Not awkward, not expectant, just charged.

He leaned in slightly, enough to blur the line between playful and something more pointed. His knuckles brushed the bench between you.

You held his gaze, not flinching. “You always stare like that.”

“Only when someone’s making it interesting.”

You smiled slowly. “And how am I doing?”

He opened his mouth like he was going to answer, but then;

“Hi,” came a voice from a few feet away. Soft, but clearly practiced. One of the other women, stepping forward with a polite-but-not-really smile. “Sorry to interrupt.. would it be okay if I grabbed you for a minute?”

Rafe turned to her immediately, respectful, gracious even. “Yeah, of course?” Then back to you. “I owe you a rematch.”

You gave him a lazy smile, playful but grounded. “Good. I wasn’t finished winning.”

He laughed under his breath, and with a parting glance.

You leaned back, lips still curved, the buzz of the conversation lingering on your skin like static.

Confessional – Rafe

He sits on the velvet chair, jacket unbuttoned.

“She’s… sharp,” he says, almost to himself first. Then he looks up at the camera. “Y/N’s not trying to impress me. It’s like she showed up and decided to see if I was worth her time.”

He laughs, shaking his head.

“And that kind of honesty? It’s rare and bold. And yeah I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already thinking about the next time I get her alone.”

Back at the Cocktail party

You made your way back toward the main crowd, heels clicking with a little more ease than when you’d walked out. As you approached the couches near the fire pit, Kayla spotted you first and raised an eyebrow.

“Well?”

You dropped into the cushion between her and Daniella, crossing your legs slowly. “We talked.”

Daniella leaned in. “That’s all we’re getting? You were gone for, like, twenty minutes.”

“I mean… it was a good talk,” you said, playing it cool but the edge of your mouth betrayed you. A hint of smile. Just enough

“Oh my god, you like him,” Kayla gasped, pointing at you.

You held up a hand. “Relax. I don’t even know him.”

“Mm-hm,” Daniella said, sipping her drink. “But you’re thinking about it.”

You let out a breath and looked toward the patio, where Rafe was now laughing with someone else.

“He’s… sharp,” you finally said. “Smarter than I expected.”

“And hot,” Kayla added helpfully.

Daniella nudged her. “Let her pretend she’s deep.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s more than just charming. That’s rare for me.”

There was a pause, then Kayla said, “So.. do you think you’ve got a shot?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you swirled the ice in your drink and glanced at the cluster of women still waiting their turn.

“If I want it?” you said. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Daniella raised her brows. “Damn.”

Kayla grinned. “Guess we’ll all just try not to take it personally.”

You gave her a look. “Oh, come on. You think I’m scared of a little healthy competition?”

Daniella raised her brows. “You’ve gotten way too calm. Like suspiciously calm.”

You shrugged, the ghost of a smile playing on your lips. “I’m here to make a connection, and if he sees it too, great. If not? His loss.”

Kayla let out a low whistle. “Okay, cool girl. Coaching session, please.”

You glanced out toward the patio, where Rafe was still talking to a blonde girl, laughing at something she’d said, charming. As always, too charming.

“Honestly?” you said, shifting to face Daniella. “You should go next.”

Daniella blinked. “What? No, I’m not even sure what I’d say. I was gonna wait till it felt more natural.”

“Natural is a myth on this show,” you said, gently but firmly. “You think anyone’s first rose comes from waiting around to be noticed? If you want time, go take it babe.”

“She’s right,” Kayla added.

“I just don’t want to be that girl,” Daniella said.

You leaned forward, voice softer now. “That girl gets to figure out if she actually likes him, not just the idea of him. You deserve that chance.”

Daniella looked between you and Kayla, then out at the patio.

“You’re sure it won’t come off… pushy?”

“You’re not interrupting a marriage proposal,” you said. “It’s five minutes of conversation. Go claim your five.”

Kayla reached over and gave Daniella’s shoulder a squeeze. “Honestly, the way he looked at you when you walked in earlier? I’d bet on you.”

That earned a small, nervous smile from Daniella. But it grew into something steadier.

“Okay,” she said, standing and brushing invisible lint off her dress. “Okay. You’re right. I’m gonna go.”

You raised your glass to her like a salute. “Make him forget his own name.”

Kayla laughed, and Daniella tosses you both a grateful glance before walking toward the patio with quiet determination.

Once she was out of earshot, Kayla leaned in and whispered, “You’re dangerous when you go into hype mode.”

You just smirked and sipped your drink. “I like knowing the right women are getting in the room.”

Kayla gave you a sideways look. “So what happens if it comes down to all three of us?”

You didn’t blink. “Then may the best woman win.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with understanding — not rivalry, but respect.

Then, clinking glasses again, Kayla said, “To playing smart.”

You grinned. “To playing well.”

Not far off, pockets of women had formed. Clusters of sequins and bare shoulders catching the firelight. Laughter rose and fell in waves, paired with the occasional anxious glance toward the patio.

Near the charcuterie table, two women stood shoulder to shoulder, nibbling nervously on crackers more out of habit than hunger.

“I swear I blacked out the second he looked at me,” one said with a laugh, covering her face. “Did I even speak? I can’t tell.”

“You smiled. A lot.” The women next to her assured her, nudging her gently. “And you didn’t trip. That’s already a win.”

Across the way, three women lounged on a circular couch, shoes kicked off and tucked beneath them.

“I keep telling myself I’m not going to spiral,” one was saying, twirling the straw in her drink. “but then I see another girl walk off with him and it’s like okay, I’m spiralling.”

The girl beside her hummed in agreement. “Same. But also, like.. how do you even stand out without being that girl?”

The third gave a half-shrug. “You just be you. The right energy finds its match, right?”

They nodded, and for a moment, the conversation settled into a quiet kind of calm nerves shared out loud always seemed a little smaller.

At the edge of the group, someone pulled out a tube of lip gloss and offered it around. Another handed over blotting paper, small but familiar rituals. The kind women learn to perform for each other in rooms like this.

“I think Daniella’s out there with him now,” someone murmured.

A few heads turned. One girl smiled. “Good. I liked her vibe. She deserves her moment.”

“Totally. She’s sweet. I hope she kills it. But like... also, I hope I get my moment too.”

Someone raised a glass. “To our own damn fairy tales.”

They clinked glasses gently, not as a toast to rivalry, but to resilience.

And just like that, the night moved on. Full of eyes watching doors, hands smoothing dresses and hearts trying not to hope too loudly.

You were curled into one of the velvet sofas with Kayla and Daniella when the room shifted.

The conversations dimmed. The posture of every woman sharpened.

Jesse Palmer stepped through the open archway, carrying it.

The First Impression Rose. It sat atop a sleek white marble platter.

You sat up straighter. Everyone did.

“Ladies,” Jesse said, glancing around the room. “Rafe has made a decision.”

A pause just long enough for tension to ripple across the group.

“He is ready to give out the First Impression Rose.”

He placed the platter down on the marble coffee table, the rose bright against the glass surface.

And then, without another word, Jesse walked out, leaving the rose in the center of the room like a lit fuse.

The quiet buzz that followed was unmistakable. Nervous laughter. Crossed legs uncrossed, then crossed again. Someone sat up, smoothing her dress without realizing it.

“Is he coming in here to give it out?” one girl whispered.

But before anyone could answer, Rafe stepped into the room.

Tall. Composed. Smile relaxed, but unreadable.

“Evening, ladies,” he said smoothly.

A few voices returned his greeting. Most just watched.

He walked toward the rose with even steps, paused, and looked down at it. Then, without saying a word, he picked it up.

And turned around.

He left the room.

For a second, no one moved.

Then –

“Wait, he’s not giving it to someone in here?” “Awch.” “Oh my God. Who is he going to?”

Chairs shifted. A few girls leaned toward the windows.

You turned your head just in time to catch a glimpse of him outside, walking across the patio, rose in hand.

And there, near the string-lit reflecting pool, stood Sierra.

She turned as he approached. And you didn’t need to hear the words to know exactly what was happening.

He held the rose out. She nodded. He smiled.

It was clean. Quiet.

A flicker sparkled low in your chest. Not jealousy, not really. Just that quiet, steady drumbeat of not this time. You sipped your drink. This was only the beginning.

Confessional - Rafe (after handing out the First Impression Rose)

Rafe is seated comfortably, bowtie slightly loosened, hand still resting loosely on his knee like he hasn’t fully come down from the night.

“Giving that first rose... it’s a weird pressure. You want to trust your gut, but you’re also very aware that thirty-one other people are watching.”

He smiles slightly, thoughtful.

“Sierra felt grounded. There’s something warm and steady about her energy. That stood out.”

A pause. He glances off-camera, then back.

“But there were other moments tonight… ones I’m still thinking about. There’s a lot I haven’t figured out yet.”

The clinking of glasses quieted the moment Jesse Palmer stepped into the villa, dressed in a sharp black suit and wearing the kind of practiced calm that only came with hosting this exact moment many times before.

“Ladies,” he said, voice even but charged with gravity. “I hope tonight brought you clarity, connection… and hopefully a little fun.”

A few soft laughs floated through the room some sincere, some strained. Eyes darted from one face to another. Makeup was still fresh, but nerves had started to show.

Jesse’s gaze swept the room before continuing. “As you know, Rafe has already given out the First Impression Rose.”

You didn’t need to look, you already knew where Sierra was standing, her rose pressed to the front of her dress. She smiled gently as a few girls glanced her way. You couldn’t blame them.

Production had gathered all thirty-two of you together now. A single room, no more movement, no more distractions. This was it. The waiting was done.

Jesse turned slightly, angling toward the open doors behind him.

“And with that,” he said, “it’s time for the next step.”

Outside, Rafe stood just past the threshold, tall, steady, hands clasped loosely in front of him. There was a subtle shift in the air the second his eyes scanned the room, like the weight of the evening had finally settled on everyone’s shoulders.

“This journey starts fast,” Jesse said, voice steady, “and it starts now.”

He turned to Rafe with a small nod.

“Rafe, I’ll turn it over to you for your second decision of the night — the First Rose Ceremony.”

A few girls straightened their spines. One adjusted the hem of her dress. No one breathed too loudly.

“Rafe,” Jesse said, “whenever you’re ready.”

“Hi, everyone,” he said, voice smooth but a little tentative.

A chorus of voices replied all at once: “Hiiiii.”

It came from all corners of the room soft, sweet, slightly sing-song. The kind of collective response that only thirty-two women standing in full glam under a chandelier could produce.

Rafe let out a short laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I’m still not used to that,” he said. “Not sure I ever will be.”

A few girls giggled. The room relaxed. Just a notch.

Then he took a small step forward, glancing around the room letting the quiet settle for a moment.

“I know this was a long night,” he said, his voice a little more grounded now. “And I just want to say thank you. I don’t take any of this lightly. The time you’ve all put in, the nerves, the conversations, everything.”

His eyes scanned the faces across from him.

“You’re all incredible in your own ways. And I’m really sorry if tonight doesn’t go the way you hoped. Just know that I see you. And I appreciate you.”

A beat passed. Then he turned toward the pedestal and reached for the first rose.

The first name called:  “Talia.”

A brunette in a crimson dress stepped forward, visibly relieved.

“Talia,” Rafe said gently, “will you accept this rose?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling only slightly.

“Selene.”  “Will you accept this rose?”  “Yes.”

A few names later:

“Y/N.”

Your name settled into the room like a bell struck once: clear, resonant, and undeniably real.

You stepped forward, pulse steady despite the anticipation crawling over your skin.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low but sure. “Will you accept this rose?”

You didn’t blink. “I will.”

The rose was light in your hand. The meaning behind it, not so much.

You returned to your place in the line, careful to keep your expression composed, but your fingers curled just slightly tighter around the stem than necessary.

Confessional – Y/N

The camera cuts to Y/N, sitting in the velvet chair. Her heels are off, tucked beside her. She’s calm, but her eyes are sharp.

“I’d be lying if I said the First Impression Rose didn’t sting a little. It’s not jealousy… it’s just this weird feeling of ‘okay, so this is how it’s going to go.’”

She breathes out a laugh, small but real.

“But I got a rose. And I got time with him. Real time. So I’m not worried. If anything, I’m just more... curious. Because I think he sees it too. He just doesn’t know what to do with it yet.”

Present

“Kayla.”

She let out a soft breath and walked up with a confident, steady step.  “Will you accept this rose?”  “Absolutely.”

Confessional – Kayla

Kayla sits comfortably, legs crossed, one hand fidgeting with a ring on her finger.

“Tonight was… intense. It’s easy to forget how fast it all moves until you’re standing there waiting to hear your name.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, glancing up like she’s replaying something.

Present

“Daniella.”

Her smile bloomed genuinely hopeful.  “Will you accept this rose?”  “Yes. Thank you.”

Confessional – Daniella

Daniella sits forward in the chair, her rose still in her hand like she hasn’t let herself fully relax yet. Her hair is slightly looser, but her smile is calm, earned.

“I almost didn’t do it. I kept waiting for the right time  like it would just open up perfectly for me. But this place doesn’t work like that. You either step in… or you watch someone else take the shot you wanted.”

She glances down at the rose, then back up with a quiet kind of pride.

“He saw me. Not just physically like, actually saw me. And that five-minute conversation? It changed the whole night.”

Back to the Ceremony

One by one, the roses were handed out. Gratitude, nerves, hope, each layered thick in the air as the room slowly thinned.

The final rose sat alone on the pedestal when Jesse stepped forward again.

“Ladies,” he said, “this is the final rose tonight.”

Everyone stilled.

It was offered.  Accepted.  And just like that, it was done.

The women who hadn’t been called; Samantha, Jess, Rachel, Erika, Olivia, Evalin, Christen, Whitney, Holland, and Allie were gently escorted aside. Hugs exchanged.

You glanced sideways, finding Kayla and Daniella among the crowd.  They each held their roses like little promises.  And somewhere behind your ribs, something softened, then sharpened again.

This was only the beginning.  And you were still standing.

authors note: i'd love to hear what you all think of this first episode. your feedback means so much and is always appreciated! I hope you enjoyed it. please feel free to send me your thoughts on what you'd like to see in this series—specific date ideas, slow-burn romances, potential drama, anything you’re craving!

fun fact: I’ve only seen one season of The Bachelor years ago, so this is just as much of a wild ride for me as it is for you. thanks so much for all the love!

important note: if you’d like to be added, please send me a message or comment under this post! please also make sure you follow, comment and interact so you can get tagged and stay tagged. 💖

the bachelor taglist: @xoxo4chrisss @serendippindots @akobx @wandabillywrites @drewsephrry @justdamnpeachy @thewackywriter @drewsphswife @astridwisp @carisd @itsamusical4lifee @ts1mp0ne @fairyjinn @chaotickittenanchor @sophiesmovingcastle5 @saviorcomplexrry @smutwzrd @destinymoena @alinavalentine @lumbiiii @xeneasworld @earth2azi @watashiwastarr

[mommykye]

Mine

summary: a spark of jealousy in Natasha pushes Natasha to take you to her office.

a/n: a lil sneak peak into the future guys😉

Last one for this weekend guys🫶🏻 can you tell I do nothing but sit at home and write?

needs a little editing but i’ll do that another day

warnings: oh, smut😁. men/minors DNI

word count: 5.7k

a one-shot to the Big Bad Wolf

Request are open

masterlist

The Manhattan skyline, a jagged crown of steel and glass, bled into the bruised twilight. A furious, molten sun surrendered to the horizon, sinking below the steely embrace of the Hudson River, casting elongated, theatrical shadows that clawed across the avenues, desperate to cling to the last vestiges of light. Far below, the city throbbed with its relentless pulse, a chaotic symphony of blaring horns, the hurried cadence of countless footsteps, and the mournful cry of distant sirens. From the dizzying height of the 200th floor of the Romanoff Industries tower, the world transformed into a miniature diorama, a vibrant, teeming tapestry of human existence unfurling beneath a vast, darkening canvas.

Within the opulent confines of the CEO's office, a sanctuary of polished obsidian and hushed reverence, a drama of a far more intimate and intense nature was unfolding, a stark counterpoint to the frenetic energy of the city below. The expansive, panoramic windows, usually a source of strategic inspiration for the formidable Natasha Romanoff, now served as a reflective stage for a scene of raw, untamed desire. The air, thick with the expensive, grounding aroma of sandalwood incense and the subtly sharp, metallic tang of burgeoning arousal, vibrated with a palpable, almost electric tension.

You, her omega, were pinned against the sharp, unforgiving edge of her colossal glass desk. The cool, immaculately clean surface offered a stark, almost shocking contrast to the feverish heat radiating from your flushed skin. Your breath hitched in your throat, a soft, involuntary gasp swallowed by the ragged rhythm of your own panting breaths and the insistent, driving cadence of Natasha's movements. Her hands, strong and possessive, were clamped firmly on your hips, her grip a language of ownership, guiding the deep, relentless thrusts that sent shattering waves of pleasure crashing through your very core. Each powerful slide of her engorged cock against your slick, swollen pussy was a jolt of pure sensation, making your vision swim and your muscles clench involuntarily.

Natasha, the indomitable CEO, whose normally piercing, calculating sapphire eyes held the cold sharpness of glacial ice, now burned with a primal, untamed hunger. A film of pure, unadulterated desire glazed her pupils, her focus narrowed solely on you. Her lips were pressed fiercely against the sensitive nape of your neck, nipping and sucking with a possessive intensity, leaving a trail of fiery, undeniable imprints upon your skin. The impeccably tailored fabric of her charcoal grey suit, usually a symbol of her unyielding control, was now rumpled and creased, a blatant testament to the urgent, almost violent nature of their encounter. A low, guttural growl rumbled deep within her chest, a primal sound of pure, unadulterated desire that echoed the ancient claim of an alpha for their omega. Her potent alpha pheromones, usually carefully leashed, now flooded the small space, a heady, intoxicating musk that spoke of dominance and undeniable possession, wrapping around you like an invisible chain, claiming you utterly. The insistent pressure of her hard length grinding against your wet folds was driving you to the brink.

Earlier, at the sterile formality of the corporate reception, a seemingly innocuous exchange had ignited this inferno. Your brief, casual conversation with Dimitri, one of Natasha’s usually stoic receptionists – the long-forgotten animosity between Romanoff Industries and the remnants of the Sons of Ruva mafia fading into insignificance in this moment – a harmless exchange of pleasantries, a shared laugh over some spilled champagne, had sparked a dangerous flicker of something akin to jealousy in Natasha’s usually impenetrable demeanor. She had watched, her expression unreadable, her posture betraying nothing of the storm brewing beneath the surface, as you had smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners, a warmth radiating from you that was meant only for her. A shadow, dark and possessive, had momentarily crossed her sharp features, a tightening around her jaw that only you, her bonded omega, could truly decipher. The seemingly innocent interaction had been nothing more than a spark, but it had landed squarely in a powder keg of unspoken longing and fiercely guarded possessiveness. And now, here in the absolute privacy of her obsidian office, high above the glittering city, she was staking her claim, branding you as irrevocably hers, erasing any lingering trace of another’s fleeting attention with the insistent friction of her cock against your slick opening.

"Moya," she murmured against your heated skin, the Russian word for 'mine' a low, resonant declaration that vibrated against your eardrum. Her fingers dug deeper into the curve of your hips, the insistent pressure sending a jolt of pure electricity shooting down your spine, igniting a fresh wave of intense pleasure. The soft, whimpering moans that escaped your lips filled the otherwise silent office, a starkly intimate counterpoint to the distant, impersonal hum of the sprawling metropolis below. Your own omega pheromones, sweet and submissive, mingled with her dominant alpha scent, creating a heady, intoxicating vortex that filled the room, a silent testament to the unbreakable bond between you. Your legs trembled uncontrollably as her relentless thrusts continued, each one burying her thick shaft deeper inside you, stretching you, claiming you.

The cool expanse of the glass desk pressed against your stomach, an unyielding chill against your heated skin as Natasha’s relentless assault continued. Each powerful thrust sent shivers through your frame, your soft belly jiggling with a desperate rhythm against the unforgiving surface. It was a stark contrast to the taut, sculpted muscles of her back, a testament to her strength as she drove into you with unwavering force. The rhythmic slapping of your slick flesh against her straining groin echoed in the vast office, a primal symphony punctuated by your ragged gasps and her guttural growls of pleasure.

"Natasha… ahh… fuck," you managed to whimper, your fingers digging into the polished obsidian of the desk for purchase, the cool, smooth surface a futile anchor against the storm raging within you. The tremor in your legs intensified, threatening to buckle beneath you, the slickness between your thighs offering no respite.

Her hands, strong and sure, tightened on your hips, lifting you slightly with each forceful thrust, deepening the penetration until you felt the solid, insistent thud of her pelvis meeting your backside. A delicate crystal paperweight, shaped like a miniature globe, teetered precariously close to the edge of the desk with each violent movement, a fragile world on the brink of collapse. A stack of important-looking files, once neatly aligned, slid further askew, their carefully maintained order succumbing to the raw, untamed energy of the moment.

"Yes, moya lyubov," she grunted, her breath hot and damp against the sensitive skin of your neck. "Tell me what you want, omega."

"Please… more… please, Natasha," you choked out, the words torn from your throat in a ragged plea. Your plump cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and beads of sweat dotted your forehead, tracing hot paths down your temples. The scent of sandalwood, her intoxicating signature, mingled with the sharp, musky aroma of arousal, thickening the air, cloying and irresistible in the confined space.

Her teeth scraped lightly against the sensitive skin of your nape, a familiar yet always electrifying sensation that sent a shiver of pure sensation down your spine. You arched your back instinctively, pressing your swollen, slick heat harder against her thick length, seeking a deeper connection, a more profound surrender.

"You feel so good, solnyshko," she murmured, her voice thick with burgeoning pleasure, a raw appreciation that resonated deep within your being. "So tight… so wet…"

Another forceful thrust sent the crystal globe tumbling from its precarious perch, landing on the plush carpet with a muffled thud, its perfect sphere now rolling silently away. A heavy leather-bound book, its pages filled with her powerful dealings, followed suit, landing with a more substantial thwack, a small rebellion against the chaos unfolding. The carefully curated order of her powerful domain was being dismantled piece by piece, a visual representation of the absolute control she held over you in this moment, a control you willingly, desperately craved.

"Say my name, omega," she urged, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her chest heaving against your back. Her sapphire eyes, blazing with primal desire, flickered down to your trembling form, demanding acknowledgment.

"Natasha…" you gasped, the word a breathless offering, a sound filled with both pleasure and a touch of desperation. "Please…"

Her response was a deep, guttural growl that vibrated against your skin, a sound of pure satisfaction and primal triumph. She shifted her grip on your hips, her thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, spreading you wider, offering herself even more completely. The next thrust was deeper, longer, and you cried out, a sharp intake of breath as you felt the unmistakable pressure building inside you, the familiar stretching sensation that heralded her knot.

"Almost… почти," she hissed, the Russian word laced with anticipation, her body mirroring your mounting pleasure. Her movements became more frantic, each stroke a desperate plea for release, a mirroring of the frantic pulsing that had begun deep within you.

You whimpered, your body clenching around her thick shaft, the slick heat of your inner walls milking her relentlessly. The contractions started subtly, then built in intensity, waves of pure sensation washing over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, your head lolling to the side as the first shattering climax ripped through you. Shudders wracked your body, your grip on the desk tightening until your knuckles turned white. You cried out, a long, keening moan of pure release, your inner muscles spasming around her.

Natasha paused, her breath hot against your ear, allowing you to fully experience the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Are you alright, moya krasavitsa?" she murmured, her voice softer now, laced with concern.

"Mmm, yes," you managed, your voice still shaky. "So good…"

Then, with a low growl, she began to move again, her thrusts now imbued with a renewed urgency. The pressure inside you intensified, the unmistakable swelling of her knot beginning to bloom, a familiar yet always breathtaking sensation. It filled you completely, stretching you in a way that was both intensely pleasurable and deeply possessive.

You cried out again, a shorter, sharper cry as the second wave of pleasure washed over you, even more intense than the first. Your body bucked against hers, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically around her knot, drawing her deeper, holding her captive.

"Natasha… I’m close… so close," you panted, your voice thick with the lingering echoes of your release, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

With a final, earth-shattering thrust, you felt the unmistakable sensation of her knot fully blooming inside you, filling you completely, stretching you to your absolute limit. You cried out, a long, keening moan that echoed in the silent office, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure and complete surrender.

Natasha buried her face in the curve of your neck, her teeth sinking lightly into the sensitive flesh of your scent gland, a possessive act that had been repeated countless times, each marking a deep and undeniable claim. You gasped, a sharp intake of breath that mingled with her triumphant growl. The possessive bite sent a fresh wave of sensation through you, a primal connection that went beyond the physical. Her alpha pheromones surged, washing over you in a dizzying wave, binding you to her in an unbreakable, biological imperative.

She held you pinned against the desk, her knotted cock throbbing deep within you, a constant reminder of her dominance, her teeth still gently clamped on your neck, a tangible symbol of her ownership. The frantic energy of their coupling slowly began to subside, replaced by a heavy, sated stillness. The only sounds were your ragged breaths, her deep, contented sighs.

The world outside the panoramic window remained a distant, glittering hum, a stark contrast to the intimate stillness that had settled within the CEO's office. Natasha's knot, a potent symbol of their bond, remained swollen and firm within you, anchoring her to you in a deeply primal way. You lay sprawled across the cool expanse of the glass desk, your soft, chubby form imprinted against its unforgiving surface. Your breath still came in shallow, shaky gasps, your body humming with the lingering echoes of your shared climax.

Natasha, her powerful body pressed intimately against your backside, had loosened her grip, the earlier fierce possessiveness now tempered with a tender protectiveness. Her strong arms, which had moments ago held you captive, now cradled you gently, her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths against your back. Her teeth had released your nape, the possessive mark still warm and tingling against your skin.

Carefully, deliberately, her fingers found yours, her larger, calloused hand enveloping your softer, plumper one. Her touch, though still firm, was now imbued with a soothing quality, a silent reassurance. Your fingers, still slightly shaky, intertwined with hers, the simple act a profound connection in the aftermath of such intense intimacy.

A sudden, involuntary twitch ran through your body, a residual tremor from the powerful orgasms that had wracked you. Both of you flinched, a shared awareness of the still-firm knot binding you. A soft whimper escaped your lips, a reminder of the slight discomfort that lingered.

"Shhh, moya krasavitsa," Natasha murmured against your hair, her breath warm and soothing. "Soon. It will soften soon." Her voice, usually sharp and commanding, was now low and husky, laced with a tenderness that only you ever witnessed.

Her thumb gently stroked the back of your hand, a slow, rhythmic motion that radiated warmth and comfort. The sandalwood incense, still faintly burning in the corner, mingled with the potent blend of your mingled pheromones, the air thick with the undeniable scent of your bonded pair. Natasha's alpha musk clung to you, a fragrant declaration of ownership that permeated your very being.

The cool glass of the desk pressed against your flushed skin, a stark reminder of the intensity of your encounter. You shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The weight of Natasha against your back was comforting, grounding, yet the unyielding pressure of the knot was a persistent, albeit not entirely unpleasant, sensation.

"Are you alright, lubimaya?" Natasha asked, her voice laced with genuine concern. Her grip on your hand tightened slightly, a silent question.

"Just… a little sore," you managed, your voice still breathy. The memory of her relentless thrusts, the stretching sensation of her knot filling you completely, sent a fresh wave of heat through your cheeks.

"I know, solnyshko," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder blade. "I got carried away." There was a hint of self-reproach in her tone, a rare admission from the usually unflappable CEO.

You chuckled softly, a weak, breathy sound. "A little?"

A low rumble vibrated in her chest, a sound that was both a chuckle and a possessive murmur. "You affect me, omega. Deeply."

You turned your head slightly, your plump cheek resting against the cool glass, allowing you to see her profile. Her sharp features were softened in the dim light filtering through the partially closed blinds, her sapphire eyes filled with a possessive tenderness as she gazed down at you. A stray lock of her dark hair had fallen across her forehead, and the usually severe lines around her mouth were relaxed.

"He was just being polite, Nat," you whispered, your thumb tracing the lines on her strong hand. "He was asking if you enjoyed the catering."

A shadow flickered across her eyes, a brief resurgence of the possessiveness that had driven her moments ago. "He looked at you for too long."

"He didn't mean anything by it," you reassured her gently. "He's just… friendly."

Natasha sighed, her breath warm against your neck. "Perhaps. But you are mine, moya ptichka. And the thought of anyone else… it stirs something unpleasant within me."

The silence that followed was comfortable, filled only with the sound of your mingled breathing and the distant city noises. Natasha continued to stroke your hand, her touch a soothing balm. You could feel the slow, gradual softening of her knot within you, the intense pressure beginning to ease.

Another small twitch ran through your body as the knot shifted slightly. This time, the discomfort was less pronounced. You let out a soft sigh of relief.

"Better?" Natasha murmured, her lips brushing against your hair.

"Mm-hmm," you replied, a soft hum of contentment. "Thank you, Nat."

The palpable tension in the room, thick enough to taste just moments before, began its slow retreat, much like a receding tide. Natasha's brow, which had been furrowed in fierce concentration, softened almost imperceptibly at first, the intricate knot of muscle between her sapphire eyes gradually smoothing out. The intense pressure that had radiated from her being, a tangible force in the small office, began to ebb, releasing its hold on the charged atmosphere. A collective sigh, though unspoken, seemed to hang in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of the seismic aftershocks that still vibrated through your bodies.

The intimate stillness that followed was profound, a stark contrast to the recent tempest. It was a silence pregnant with unspoken sensations, punctuated only by the gentle rhythm of your mingled breathing, shallow and rapid, slowly returning to a more natural cadence. The distant hum of the city, a low, persistent drone that usually formed the background of your days, now seemed a world away, an irrelevant noise compared to the raw intimacy that still clung to the air, the lingering scent of arousal and shared climax.

With a slow, deliberate movement, each inch measured and sensual, Natasha began to withdraw from your slick, swollen pussy. The sensation was bittersweet, a complex tapestry of fading pleasure and a sudden, almost painful coolness. Each millimeter of her thick shaft sliding out was a poignant reminder of the intense connection you had just shared, the lingering warmth of her presence giving way to the increasing exposure to the cool air. A soft, wet sucking sound accompanied her exit, the intimate noise echoing in the otherwise silent office, a visceral testament to the depth of your union.

As her engorged length fully cleared your opening, a thick stream of your slick, creamy come pulsed out, a visible manifestation of your release. It cascaded down your inner thighs, a warm, viscous river tracing a path towards the polished obsidian floor beneath the desk. The glistening puddle expanded slowly, a spreading halo of your arousal, a visible testament to the intensity of your shared climax, a silent story written in the fluid of your pleasure.

Natasha, now standing behind you, her own breath still coming in ragged gasps, watched the slow, sensual descent of your fluids. Her sapphire eyes, still glazed with the lingering sheen of desire, followed each glistening drop with an almost predatory focus. The possessive heat in her gaze intensified, a primal hunger reawakening within her, a silent claim on the essence of your pleasure. She released your hand, the sudden absence of her firm grip sending a shiver through your still-sensitized skin, a subtle pang of loss in the wake of such intense connection.

You felt a familiar stirring within you, a primal instinct that recognized the shift in the atmosphere, the subtle change in Natasha’s breathing and the intensity of her gaze. A warmth bloomed low in your belly, a nascent anticipation of the intimacy that often followed their most passionate encounters. You instinctively understood her unspoken desire, the possessive need that still lingered within her. A soft flush crept up your neck, and a renewed wave of heat pooled between your thighs.

With a slow, deliberate movement, a silent invitation, you shifted your weight slightly on the cool glass of the desk. You consciously relaxed the muscles in your legs, allowing them to fall open wider, a subtle presentation of your still-slick and vulnerable core. The action was both submissive and deeply intimate, a nonverbal offering of yourself, a clear indication that you were receptive to her unspoken desires. The increased exposure heightened the sensitivity of your swollen flesh to the cool air, sending a shiver of anticipation through you.

Giving in to an undeniable urge, a deep, visceral pull that seemed to emanate from the very core of her being, Natasha sank to her knees behind you. The cool, hard surface of the floor pressed against her impeccably dressed legs, a stark and unexpected contrast to the feverish heat that still radiated from your flushed skin. Her gaze remained fixed on the glistening trail of your arousal that coated your delicate folds, a roadmap of your shared ecstasy. With a low, guttural moan that rumbled deep in her chest, a sound both possessive and reverent, she extended her tongue, her intent clear in the deliberate pace of her movement. You anticipated the first hot, wet stroke, a familiar thrill coursing through you as her tongue traced a slow, deliberate path up the length of your swollen slit. Her hot, wet tongue lapped at the slickness, cleaning away the evidence of your shared pleasure with a possessive fervor, each stroke a silent act of claiming.

You gasped, a sharp intake of breath that hitched in your throat as her tongue made contact with your most sensitive flesh. A fresh wave of heat flooded your core, an unexpected and intense surge of sensation that belied the recent climax. The unexpected intimacy of her ministrations sent shivers down your spine, each vertebra tingling with renewed awareness. The rough texture of her tongue against your engorged clit sent a jolt of renewed sensation through you, a spark reigniting the embers of your desire. Your hips lifted involuntarily off the cool glass of the desk, a silent offering, a primal response to the exquisite torment. You spread your legs even further, granting her unimpeded access, presenting yourself fully to her ministrations, your plump inner thighs trembling with anticipation.

Natasha’s moans intensified, echoing in the sudden stillness as she tasted the sweet, musky flavor of your omega come. It was a taste she savored, a tangible link to your pleasure. She pressed her lips firmly against your swollen lips, sucking gently, her mouth a warm, insistent pressure, savoring the taste of you, the lingering essence of your climax. Her hands, now freed from their earlier restraint, splayed across the curve of your plump ass, her long fingers molding to your flesh, her thumbs pressing into the soft, yielding tissue, tilting your hips further, offering her even greater access to your vulnerable core. You could feel the warmth of her breath against your slick folds, the anticipation building with each passing moment.

With a deep, possessive growl that vibrated against your skin, she parted your slick folds wider, her fingers gently coaxing them open, and plunged her tongue deep inside your still-pulsing pussy. You cried out, a long, keening moan of pure sensation that seemed to tear from the depths of your being, as she lapped and sucked with a relentless intensity. Her skilled tongue danced against your inner walls, a practiced and knowing exploration, finding every sensitive nerve ending, igniting a fresh wave of involuntary contractions deep within you. The sensation was exquisite, bordering on overwhelming, and you instinctively pressed down against her seeking mouth, wanting to deepen the connection, to immerse yourself fully in the pleasure she was so expertly delivering.

Your body began to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure building with an almost unbearable intensity, each stroke of her tongue a deliberate escalation. You arched your back, pressing your slick heat against her eager mouth, your fingers clenching the cool glass of the desk, your knuckles white against the smooth surface. The rhythmic lapping and sucking continued, a relentless assault on your senses, driving you closer and closer to the precipice, the edge of another overwhelming release. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhale a desperate plea for the inevitable climax that was rapidly approaching. You could feel the frantic pulsing deep within you, the unmistakable signs that your body was once again teetering on the brink.

And then, it happened. A powerful wave of pleasure washed over you, even more intense, more all-consuming than your earlier climax. It was a tidal wave of sensation that threatened to shatter you. Your inner muscles clenched violently, squeezing Natasha’s tongue with a desperate intensity, a primal embrace. A high-pitched whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated sensation, as your slick come began to pulse out again, this time in a torrent, a veritable flood of your release, spraying across Natasha’s face, her dark hair now slick with your essence, glistening in the dim light of the office. The force of your orgasm made your body buck against the cool glass of the desk, your hips rising and falling with the uncontrollable spasms.

Natasha didn’t flinch. Instead, she moaned louder, a deep, guttural sound of triumph and satisfaction, her tongue continuing its relentless assault even as your orgasm wracked your body. She savored the taste of you, the feel of your contractions against her mouth a potent affirmation of your bond, a physical manifestation of your shared ecstasy. Your legs trembled uncontrollably, shaking with the force of your release, your body completely surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure that consumed you. You felt utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, yet safe and cherished in the intensity of her ministrations.

Finally, the intense waves of your climax began to subside, leaving you weak and panting, your body limp and sated. Natasha slowly withdrew her tongue, her face glistening with your come, a sheen of your pleasure adorning her skin. She looked up at you, her sapphire eyes dark with lingering desire and a deep satisfaction.

Natasha’s gaze, the intensity of her possessiveness now softened by a profound tenderness uniquely reserved for you, lingered on your flushed face. Her strong fingers, moments ago tracing the contours of your passion, now gently wiped the glistening trails of your release from your cheeks. A reverent pause, and then her hand, still damp with your essence, was brought to her lips. She savored the last vestiges of your scent and taste, a low, contented sigh escaping her lips, a sound that spoke volumes of deep satisfaction and fulfilled desire.

With a deliberate care that belied her formidable strength, she reached beneath your limp form. One arm, powerful yet gentle, slid under your shoulders, cradling your head and upper back. The other, equally sure, supported the curve of your thighs. In a seamless motion, she lifted you from the cool expanse of the glass desk, the papers and scattered files beneath forgotten remnants of your shared intensity. Your soft, pliant body molded against hers, the stark contrast of her taut muscles against your softer curves a familiar and deeply comforting sensation. You nestled instinctively against her, your head finding the familiar hollow of her neck, your breath still coming in shallow, shaky gasps, each one a testament to the powerful climax that had just wracked your body.

The sudden movement, though gentle, sent a lingering throb of pleasure through your still-sensitized core, a faint echo of the exquisite sensations that had just consumed you. A soft whimper escaped your lips, a small, involuntary sound that betrayed the lingering waves of aftershocks.

"Shhh, moya lyubov," Natasha murmured, her voice a low rumble against your ear, a possessive caress in itself. "I have you."

She stood, your weight seemingly no burden at all, and turned away from the disheveled state of her powerful office, the scattered files and fallen paperweight silent witnesses to your shared passion. She carried you towards a discreet, unmarked door set into the far wall, a hidden portal that led to a private stairwell connecting her executive sanctuary to the upper reaches of the Romanoff Industries tower.

The ascent was slow and deliberate, each step a testament to her unwavering care. The air in the stairwell was hushed, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the city pulsing far below. The only sounds were the soft thud of her polished shoes on the plush carpeted stairs and your quiet, uneven breathing, punctuated by the occasional soft sigh. You clung to her, burying your face deeper into the familiar scent of sandalwood and her potent alpha musk, a comforting anchor in the aftermath of such intense sensation, a scent that spoke of power and unwavering protection.

As you reached the top of the stairs, the door opened silently, revealing a completely different world. Gone was the stark, powerful aesthetic of the CEO's office, replaced by the sleek, minimalist elegance of a modern penthouse suite. The color palette was a sophisticated dance of blacks, whites, and cool grays, accented by subtle textures and strategically placed lighting that cast long, dramatic shadows, creating an atmosphere of serene luxury. Expansive windows offered an even more breathtaking panorama of the glittering cityscape, now fully embraced by the inky blackness of night, a silent testament to her dominion.

Natasha carried you through a spacious living area, the silence broken only by the soft padding of her footsteps on the polished concrete floors. The furniture was low-slung and modern, arranged with an understated luxury that spoke of refined taste. A state-of-the-art entertainment system was seamlessly integrated into the wall, a silent promise of future shared moments, and abstract art pieces adorned the stark white surfaces, adding a touch of enigmatic beauty.

She continued through to the bathroom, a sanctuary dominated by a large, walk-in shower enclosed in frameless glass, a transparent invitation to cleanse and soothe. The fixtures were a study in brushed metal, cool and elegant, and the air was filled with the clean, refreshing scent of eucalyptus, promising a sensory awakening. Without a word, her gaze never leaving your face, she gently lowered you to your feet beside the shower. Her strong hands, now tender and deliberate, began to unfasten the delicate buttons of your dress, her touch lingering on the sensitive skin beneath. The fabric whispered as it slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, a discarded reminder of the intensity of your encounter. Her eyes followed the curve of your neck, the delicate swell of your breasts, the gentle slope of your stomach, each movement a silent caress.

Then, with a fluid grace, she turned her attention to her own attire. The crisp lines of her power suit gave way with swift, practiced movements. The jacket was discarded onto a nearby sleek chair, followed by her tailored blouse. Her strong, sculpted arms were revealed, the muscles flexing subtly as she unclasped her belt and let her trousers fall silently to the polished floor. Soon, she stood before you, as unburdened as you were, her gaze unwavering, filled with a deep, possessive love.

Carefully, deliberately, she stepped into the spacious enclosure, still holding your gaze, and then gently drew you in with her. The warm spray of the rain shower enveloped you both, a soothing cascade washing away the lingering traces of your shared passion. The water streamed down your flushed skin, carrying away the slick remnants of your intimacy, mingling with the droplets that clung to Natasha’s powerful frame. She held you close, her strong arms a comforting embrace, the warmth of the water a balm to your still-sensitized body. Her hands moved through your hair, gently massaging your scalp, her touch soothing and tender, a silent promise of continued care. You leaned into her embrace, the warmth of the water and her nearness a profound comfort, a sense of being utterly safe and cherished.

After a long, silent shower, the rhythmic drumming of the water a lullaby, she reached for the soft, luxurious towels hanging on a heated rack. With deliberate care, she toweled you both dry, her touch lingering on your skin, a silent caress that spoke volumes of unspoken affection. Then, still holding you close, the dampness of your bodies seeping into the plush fabric, she moved into the bedroom.

The room was a study in understated elegance, a sanctuary designed for tranquility. A massive king-sized bed dominated the space, dressed in luxurious black linens that whispered of sensual nights. The lighting was soft and diffused, emanating from strategically placed lamps, casting a warm, tranquil glow that enveloped the room. And nestled in a cozy corner, bathed in the gentle light, was your nest.

It was a haven of the softest materials, a carefully constructed sanctuary of comfort and security. Plush, oversized throw blankets in shades of cream and pale gray were artfully arranged, creating a deep, enveloping space. An abundance of soft, down-filled pillows, molded by your form and imbued with your comforting scent, beckoned. But more than anything, the nest held the lingering aroma of Natasha. Her favorite cashmere scarf, the one she often wore on cool evenings, lay nestled amongst the blankets, its familiar sandalwood and alpha musk scent a constant reassurance. A well-worn, incredibly soft leather journal she sometimes wrote in, its pages filled with her elegant script, rested against a pile of silken pillows. And a small, smooth piece of sea glass, a cool, tactile reminder of a rare shared moment of peace by the ocean, lay nestled within the folds of a particularly soft blanket, imbued with her subtle scent from where she had often held it. The air around the nest was thick with the comforting blend of your omega pheromones and the dominant, reassuring scent of your alpha, a fragrant tapestry of your bond.

Natasha carried you directly to your nest, her movements gentle and reverent, as if placing a precious treasure in its rightful place. She carefully laid you down amongst the soft blankets and pillows, ensuring you were comfortable and fully supported. You sighed contentedly, the familiar textures and scents enveloping you in a profound sense of security and belonging. You instinctively burrowed deeper, the softness a soothing balm to your senses.

She knelt beside the nest, her sapphire eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness and an immeasurable tenderness as she gazed down at you. She gently brushed a stray strand of damp hair from your forehead, her touch feather-light, a silent promise of unwavering devotion. Then, with a soft sigh, she carefully settled into the nest beside you, her large frame fitting surprisingly well within its comforting confines. She gathered you close, pulling you against her warm body, her arms a secure and loving embrace.

"Sleep now, moya ptichka," she murmured, her voice thick with affection, a low rumble that vibrated through your very being.

[wroetolando]

𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where Lando’s biggest win isn’t on the track—it’s marrying you

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: love of my life - harry styles

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The morning of the wedding was a blur of nervous excitement, stolen glances in the mirror, and the soft hum of music filling the bridal suite. Outside, the world was buzzing—the chatter of guests arriving, the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs of the coastal venue, the rustle of flower arrangements being set in place. It was everything you had ever dreamed of, and yet, in this moment, your heart pounded with an overwhelming mixture of love, nerves, and anticipation.

Lando was waiting at the altar.

Your fingers toyed with the lace along the edge of your veil as your bridesmaids made their final adjustments. Your dress—timeless, elegant—hugged you in all the right places, its intricate beading shimmering under the soft glow of the setting sun. The air smelled of roses and salt, a perfect blend of nature’s embrace and the carefully curated details you had spent months planning.

A knock at the door.

Your father stepped in, eyes glassy with emotion as he took you in. “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, blinking rapidly. “I feel like I might pass out.”

He chuckled, offering his arm. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep you upright until you make it to him.”

Him.

Lando.

The man who had turned your world upside down with his laughter, his unrelenting kindness, his ability to make you feel like the most important person in any room. The one who had held your hand through every fear, every challenge, every late-night worry.

And now, he was about to be your husband.

The music shifted, the gentle strum of strings signaling your entrance. A hush fell over the guests as the doors opened, revealing the path lined with delicate white petals, the golden glow of the evening sun casting an ethereal light over everything.

And there, at the end of the aisle, stood Lando.

His breath visibly hitched the moment he saw you. He looked devastatingly handsome in his tailored black tuxedo, a single white rose pinned to his lapel. But it was his expression that made your heart stutter—his usual mischievous grin replaced with something softer, deeper. His eyes, filled with so much love and reverence, shimmered with unshed tears.

As you walked toward him, each step lighter than the last, it was as if the entire world faded away.

Lando wiped at his eyes the moment you reached him, letting out a breathy laugh. “You’re unreal,” he whispered, squeezing your hands the moment your father placed them in his.

You smiled, blinking back your own tears. “So are you.”

The officiant began speaking, but you barely heard the words. All you could focus on was Lando—his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand, the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, how his eyes never once left yours.

Then, the vows.

Lando exhaled shakily, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I wrote these down because I knew if I tried to say them from memory, I’d probably forget everything the moment I looked at you,” he admitted, chuckling as a few guests laughed softly.

Then, he looked up, his gaze locking onto yours.

“You are my greatest adventure,” he began, voice thick with emotion. “From the moment you walked into my life, you have been the calm to my chaos, the steady presence I never knew I needed. You have loved me through every win, every loss, every self-doubt. And somehow, through it all, you still look at me like I’m someone worth loving.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Lando swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “I vow to love you in the quiet moments, not just the big ones. I vow to remind you every single day how incredible you are, how lucky I am to stand beside you. I vow to hold your hand through every storm, to be your home no matter where we are in the world.”

His voice broke slightly on the last sentence, and you instinctively squeezed his hands, grounding him.

“You are my checkered flag,” he whispered. “No matter what, I will always come home to you.”

Sniffles echoed through the crowd, and even the groomsmen were subtly dabbing at their eyes.

You took a shaky breath, unfolding your own vows. “I spent so long trying to find the perfect words for this moment,” you admitted. “But the truth is, nothing I say could ever fully capture how much I love you.”

Lando’s lips pressed together, his grip on your hands tightening.

“You have given me a love so big, so undeniable, that it fills every corner of my heart. You make me laugh when I want to cry, you see me when I feel invisible, and you remind me every day that love isn’t just about the good moments—it’s about showing up, even when things aren’t perfect.”

You blinked back tears, voice steady. “I vow to always stand beside you, to be your safe place, your biggest fan. I vow to love you through every lap, every finish line, every road that life takes us down.”

A single tear rolled down Lando’s cheek, and you instinctively reached up, brushing it away.

“You are my favorite story,” you whispered. “And I can’t wait to spend forever writing it with you.”

The moment the officiant announced you as husband and wife, Lando didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, cupping your face as he captured your lips in a kiss so deep, so filled with love, that the entire world seemed to stand still. The crowd erupted into cheers, but all you could hear was the rapid beat of his heart against yours.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The Reception

The venue was breathtaking—a canopy of fairy lights twinkling overhead, the tables adorned with white roses and flickering candles. Lando kept you close, his arm constantly around your waist, his lips pressing against your temple every few minutes as if he still couldn’t believe you were real.

The laughter and hum of conversation filled the beautifully lit reception hall, the warm glow of fairy lights casting a golden hue over the elegantly decorated tables. As the night settled into a comfortable rhythm, the clinking of silverware against glass signaled the next part of the evening—the speeches.

Lando squeezed your hand under the table, his thumb tracing soft circles against your skin. He leaned over, whispering, “Ready for some mild embarrassment?”

You giggled, nudging him. “I’m more worried about you.”

The first to stand was Max, Lando’s best man, who smirked as he picked up the microphone.

Max took a deep breath, giving Lando a teasing look before turning to the crowd.

“Well, I never thought I’d be standing here, giving a wedding speech for this guy,” he started, chuckling as Lando groaned. “Not because I didn’t think he’d find love, but because, let’s be honest, Lando has always been married to racing first.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Lando playfully threw his napkin at Max.

“But then she came along,” Max continued, turning toward you with a warm smile. “And suddenly, the Lando we knew—the one who spent more time sim racing than sleeping—started talking about something other than cars. Or should I say, someone.”

You felt your cheeks warm as Lando squeezed your hand tighter.

“You are patient, you put up with his terrible jokes, and you somehow manage to keep him in check—which, honestly, deserves a trophy of its own.”

The guests laughed, and Max took a quick sip of champagne before his expression turned sincere.

“Lando, mate, I’ve seen you at your highest and your lowest, but nothing compares to how you look at her. I’ve seen you win races, achieve milestones, but finding someone who loves you for you, beyond all of this…” He gestured to the lavish venue, the world of racing that had shaped them both. “That’s the real victory.”

Max lifted his glass. “To Lando and his amazing wife—may your love always be on pole position.”

A round of applause erupted as everyone raised their glasses, Lando laughing as he clinked his with Max’s before leaning over to kiss your temple.

Next, Lando’s mother, Cisca, stood, wiping at the corner of her eye as she picked up the microphone.

“First, I want to thank everyone for being here to celebrate such a beautiful day,” she began, smiling warmly at the crowd before turning toward the two of you. “As a mother, you always dream of seeing your child grow into someone kind, strong, and loving. Lando, from the moment you were born, you brought an energy into this world that was impossible to ignore.”

Lando grinned, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’ve always been fearless—on the track, in life—but what I admire most is the way you love. You love with all your heart, without hesitation, without holding back. And when she came into your life, I knew immediately that she was someone special.”

Cisca turned to you, her eyes filled with nothing but warmth. “You bring out the best in my son. You’ve given him a sense of peace I’ve never seen before, and for that, I will always be grateful.”

Lando swallowed hard, clearly trying to keep it together.

“With that,” Cisca smiled, raising her glass, “I wish you both a lifetime of laughter, adventure, and love that only grows stronger with time.”

The applause was deafening, and Lando wasted no time standing up to pull his mother into a hug.

Lando’s father, Adam, was next, standing with the calm confidence that clearly ran in the family.

“Now, I promise I won’t make this too long because, let’s be honest, my son’s attention span isn’t the greatest.”

Lando laughed, shaking his head as the room erupted with amusement.

“But in all seriousness, seeing your child find their person—it’s a feeling I can’t quite put into words,” Adam continued. “Lando, you’ve always been determined, always pushing for greatness, and I have no doubt that same determination will make you an incredible husband.”

His gaze softened as he looked between the two of you.

“Marriage isn’t about perfection; it’s about showing up every day, choosing each other, even when it’s not easy. And if there’s one thing I know about both of you, it’s that you don’t back down from a challenge.”

He raised his glass. “To my son and my new daughter—may your love be the greatest victory of all.”

Lando’s brother, Oliver, and his sister, Cisca, stood together, sharing a knowing look before Oliver took the mic.

“So, growing up with Lando…” Oliver trailed off, shaking his head as the crowd chuckled. “Let’s just say, we’ve seen him in his prime. And by prime, I mean running around the house in his underwear, causing absolute chaos.”

Lando groaned, covering his face as everyone laughed.

“But through all of it, one thing has always been true—Lando has the biggest heart. He might be stubborn, he might be competitive, but when he loves, he loves.”

Cisca took over, smiling warmly at you. “And we see that love every time he looks at you.”

Oliver nodded. “We’ve never seen him happier, and that’s saying something because this guy literally lives for adrenaline. But you? You’re the real thrill.”

They raised their glasses together. “To Lando and his incredible wife—welcome to the family.”

Carlos stood, shaking his head with a smirk. “I feel like I should start this by saying—finally.”

Laughter filled the room, Lando groaning as Carlos winked at you.

“I’ve had the privilege of knowing Lando for years, and trust me, it’s been an experience.”

More laughter.

“But in all seriousness,” Carlos continued, his voice softening, “watching Lando grow, both on and off the track, has been incredible. And seeing him with you? It’s like he’s found his missing piece.”

Lando’s grip on your hand tightened.

“I wish you both a life filled with happiness, adventures, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of patience for Lando’s bad habits.”

The room laughed as Carlos raised his glass. “To a lifetime of love and laughter.”

Oscar took the mic last, pausing for dramatic effect.

“I was going to prepare a long speech, but then I remembered that Lando can barely sit still for five minutes, so I’ll keep it short.”

Lando snorted, nodding. “Fair enough.”

Oscar smiled, glancing at you. “You make him better. Not just as a driver, not just as a person, but in ways that are impossible to put into words.”

A beat of silence.

“That’s how you know it’s real.”

The room let out a collective aww, and Lando shook his head, clearly caught off guard by the sincerity.

“To the happy couple,” Oscar said, raising his glass. “And to making sure Lando never forgets how lucky he is.”

Lando laughed, clinking his glass with Oscar’s before turning to you. “I definitely won’t.”

As the applause and cheers filled the air, Lando leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Still think marrying me was a good idea?”

You turned, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “The best decision of my life.”

And with that, the night continued—filled with laughter, dancing, and love that would last a lifetime.

Later in the night, after the cake had been cut and the dance floor was filled with swaying couples, Lando pulled you away from the crowd.

“Come with me,” he whispered, lacing his fingers through yours.

He led you down a small path lined with lanterns, away from the noise, until you reached a quiet balcony overlooking the ocean. The waves crashed softly below, the scent of salt and jasmine filling the air.

Lando turned to you, eyes shining. “You know how they say life moves fast?”

You nodded, heart still racing.

“Well,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours, “for once, I don’t want to rush. I just want to stay in this moment, with you, forever.”

You smiled, brushing your lips against his. “Then let’s make forever ours.”

And with the stars as your witnesses, you did.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[lxndonorris]

stuck - Charles Leclerc

Y/N x Charles Leclerc Theme: Smut~ish Charles has a little suit malfunction and needs your help x' word count: 2250+ taglist: @cloud-55 @game-set-canet thanks to @pitstopreality-f1 for the idea <3 open for requests :)

As you scroll through your phone, the faint sound of Charles zipping up his racing suit fills the quiet of the motorhome. The atmosphere is calm, the scent of fresh coffee lingering from earlier, but there's a tension in the air—subtle, yet undeniable.

You hear a low mutter from behind, something too soft to make out, but his tone is slightly higher than usual, carrying a note of frustration.

Curious, you turn your head, and there he stands. His red racing suit clings to him like a second skin, tailored around the waist, tight, the upper half slightly unzipped, pulled down enough for you to catch a glimpse of the red Nomex shirt underneath.

Breathtaking.

His brows knitted together, lips slightly parted, and there's an unmistakable flicker of discomfort in his beautiful eyes. But what really catches your attention is his hand-tugging just below the waist, right where the fabric stretches tight over his hips.

You blink, feigning innocence. "Something wrong?" You ask, tilting your head as if you have no idea what's going on.

Charles exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tensing. He doesn't answer with words; he only shifts his weight slightly and flicks his gaze downward before meeting yours again.

It's a silent plea, subtle but clear.

There is a not-so-subtle strain underneath his hand, and Charles is trying to fix it.

You bite your lip, suppressing a smirk. Oh, you know exactly what happened.

Charles likes his suit snug—he says it makes him feel more secure, more in control. But sometimes, well... sometimes it backfires.

You hum thoughtfully, standing up and taking a slow step toward him. "Is it too loose?" You tease, watching as his expression shifts—annoyance flashing briefly before he rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

"You know, it's not," he grumbles, attempting to adjust himself again, but the material refuses to give.

You let the silence stretch between you for a moment, letting the amusement simmer before finally deciding to help him out. After all, the first practice session is in an hour, and you don't want your dear Charles distracted on track, do you?

Still, there is so much fun in teasing him a little more.

You take your time, letting your amusement settle into something softer, something playful. Charles watches you carefully, his frustration flickering between impatience and something else entirely.

His hand is still gripping the fabric just below his waist, but you pretend not to notice. Instead, you step in closer, lifting a hand to his stomach, running your fingertips lightly over the firm muscles beneath the layers of his racing suit.

His breath hitches—just barely—but you catch it.

"Are you sure something's wrong?" You ask, tilting your head, voice dripping with mock innocence as your fingers trail higher, brushing over his ribs before sliding up his arm.

His muscles tense beneath your touch.

"Babé..." His voice is low, a warning, but there is no real bite to it.

You smile, letting your fingers drift along the curve of his bicep before traveling to his shoulder, tracing lazy patterns over the fabric of his suit.

He shifts his weight, his frustration mounting, but you're not done yet.

You lift your other hand, trailing it up to his neck, letting your fingertips brush over the sensitive skin just beneath his jaw.

You know exactly what you're doing.

Charles exhales sharply through his nose again, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly as he swallows. His eyes flicker with something between impatience and surrender as your fingers move higher, tracing the line of his jaw through the short stubble of his goatee.

"You're acting like you need my help." You murmur, pretending to study his face as if you're still unaware of his predicament. "But you haven't told me what's wrong."

Charles huffs, eyes narrowing slightly. His fingers twitch where they're still gripping his suit, but he refuses to spell it out.

You grin, enjoying this far too much.

"Come on, babé," you tease, leaning in just enough for your breath to brush against his skin. "Use your words."

His jaw tightens, his patience wearing thin, and you know you've got him right where you want him.

His voice is quieter this time, almost reluctant. "It's... stuck."

You blink at him innocently. "Hm?"

He exhales deeply, shifting his stance, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "It's stuck," he repeats, his voice slightly strained now.

"Oh," you say, drawing out the word as if you've only just realized. "That's what's up."

Charles doesn't respond—just stares at you with that same mix of frustration and expectation. His fingers are still gripping the fabric tightly, but you pretend not to notice.

Instead, you let your fingertips ghost just next to his, barely brushing against the edge of the material.

His breath hitches.

You drag your fingers lightly over the taut fabric, tracing along the seam but not actually fixing the problem just yet. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him.

"You know," you murmur, your voice teasing, "this only happens because you order your suits so tight."

Charles lets out a sharp breath, shifting again as his hands twitch. "I like them that way," he mutters, but his voice is thinner now, a little more impatient.

You hum, your fingers brushing featherlight over the area again. "Mhm," you say, feigning deep thought. "But sometimes I think you forget just how tight they actually are."

His jaw clenches. "Chérie..."

You bite back a grin.

Charles exhales through his nose, his frustration nearly tipping over as he shifts his stance once more, a subtle squirm that doesn't go unnoticed.

Oh, he's trying to be patient, but you can see the way his fingers flex, his whole body just barely holding back from snapping at you to stop teasing.

"You're making it worse," he grumbles, voice lower now, edged with something between exasperation and restraint.

You feign surprise, letting your fingertips ghost over the fabric again, featherlight. "Am I?" You murmur.

Charles lets out a slow, controlled breath as you finally stop teasing and actually help him. His racing suit is snug—too snug—and it's obvious now why he's so uncomfortable. The tight fabric trapped his length awkwardly, pressing it against his hip in a way that's impossible to ignore.

His eyes drop, flickering down to your hand—watching the way your fingers trace along the seam, teasing the stuck, sensitive skin without actually fixing it. When his gaze lifts back to yours, it's a look.

A warning.

A plea.

You move deliberately, your fingers brushing over the smooth fabric as you adjust it, making sure it's positioned more comfortably. Charles shifts slightly, his muscles tensing beneath your touch, but he stays still, letting you work.

His breath hitches when you press a little too firmly, and you glance up at him, suppressing a smirk. His jaw is clenched, his gaze fixed somewhere past you, as if he's trying to focus on anything but what's happening.

With a final tug, he's free, and the fabric shifts just barely, giving him more room, more comfort.

He rolls his shoulders as he adjusts his stance, finally freed from the uncomfortable tightness. His gaze flickers downward for the briefest moment, feeling the difference—his length now resting naturally between his thighs instead of being awkwardly trapped beneath the fabric.

A slow breath escapes him, the tension in his posture easing as relief settles in. His fingers flex at his sides before he runs a hand over his lower stomach, as if confirming that everything is in place.

You watch him, the way his brows unknit, his jaw loosens, and that familiar look of quiet satisfaction takes over. He's enjoying the freedom now, appreciating the small but very necessary adjustment.

"Better?" You tease, knowing full well the answer.

He doesn't look at you immediately, just tilts his head slightly as he tests a small shift of his legs, ensuring the fabric moves with him instead of against him. Then, finally, his gaze meets yours, and there's something softer there—amusement, maybe even something a little smug.

Charles exhales through his nose, his Adam's apple bobbing again as he swallows. "Mhm." His voice is rough, strained. "Much better." He admits, looking down at himself again.

You pat his hip lightly, smoothing out the last of the fabric. "See? That wasn't too hard."

His eyes snap to yours, a flicker of something unreadable in them, and you just grin. "Well," you amend, "not anymore."

Charles lets out a sharp sigh, running a hand down his face before zipping up his suit fully.

"You enjoy this way too much," he mutters.

You shrug, completely unapologetic. "Maybe."

He exhales, rolling his shoulders once again as he adjusts to the way his suit fits now—snug, secure, exactly how he likes it. But there's something else in his expression now, a shift from frustration to something more playful. His lips twitch, and then, to your surprise, he giggles—quiet at first, then a little more freely, his amusement bubbling up as he rocks on his heels.

You raise an eyebrow. "What?"

He grins, shifting his weight slightly, his eyes flickering down for just a second before meeting yours again. "It's just..." He exhales through his nose, still smiling. "Feels good now."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Oh?"

Charles tilts his head, mischief dancing in his beautiful eyes. "Mhm," he hums, puffing out his chest as if testing the way his suit molds to him. "Very tight this year."

You smirk, crossing your arms. "I told you."

But before you can tease him further, he takes a step toward you. Close. His posture relaxed, his confidence back in full force.

You tilt your chin up slightly, refusing to back away, but he notices—of course he does—and his smirk deepens.

"You know," he murmurs, lifting an eyebrow, "I think you enjoy it just as much as I do."

You scoff, but you can't stop the way your lips twitch. "I was just helping."

Charles hums, unconvinced, his eyes flickering over your face like he's reading every little reaction you try to hide. "Mhm," he muses. "And yet... you took your time."

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, he leans in just a fraction, his voice lower now. "Don't worry, chérie, he murmurs, his smirk turning almost smug. "I don't mind."

You roll your eyes, pushing lightly at his chest, but all it does is make him laugh—light and easy, that boyish, carefree sound that always manages to get to you.

Charles steps back, turning slightly to face the mirror mounted on the wall. His gaze flickers over his own reflection, assessing, but you're the one who gets caught staring.

And how can you not?

The red racing suit clings to him perfectly, molded to every sharp line of his body. The snug fit accentuates everything—his broad chest, the way the fabric stretches over his strong thighs, the curve of his arms, and even the undeniable definition of his ass and crotch. It's a sight you'll never get tired of.

His hair is tousled from getting dressed, just messy enough to look effortlessly good, and the trimmed beard only adds to the look.

There is something about him like this—polished yet still raw, every part of him exuding confidence. And then there's the faintest trace of his cologne hanging in the air, subtle yet completely overwhelming, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

He smooths his hands down the front of his suit, adjusting the fabric across his chest, then over his arms before his palms skim lower—over his thighs, pressing out any creases before he squeezes himself gently, just making sure it sits perfectly.

Your breath catches slightly, but you move before he notices, grabbing his cap from the sideboard.

Without a word, you step up to him and place it on his head, adjusting it so it sits just right.

"There," you say, tilting your head to admire your work.

Charles watches you through the mirror, lips twitching slightly. He reaches up, fingers brushing over the edge of the cap as if testing it before his smirk deepens.

"Perfect?" he asks, teasing.

You hum, letting your gaze sweep over him once more before meeting his eyes in the reflection. "Almost."

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly, but you catch the flicker of something else in his expression—something smug, knowing.

He saw you staring.

He knows.

Charles watches you for a moment longer in the mirror, his smirk softening just slightly. Then, without a word, he turns to you, tilting his head down just enough to press a warm, lingering kiss to your cheek.

His touch is light at first—just the brush of his lips against your skin—but then his hand follows, fingers grazing down your arm, over your waist, slow and deliberate. There's something restrained about it, the way his fingers hesitate, how his thumb just barely traces over your hip before he pulls back.

You exhale, heartbeat quickening, because you know that hesitation isn't hesitation at all—it's control.

You need to leave.

Charles knows it. You know it. And yet, for a second too long, you don't move.

His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them, before he exhales and straightens up, adjusting his cap like he's resetting himself.

"Come on," he murmurs, voice lower than before. "We'll be late."

You nod, swallowing down the warmth spreading through your chest.

But as he turns to the door, you don't miss the way his fingers flex at his side—like he's already regretting letting go.

[baigepueckers]

Paige Bueckers X Reader

Practice Girlfriend

Bright, white hot, and relentless like they’re trying to peel her skin back, layer by layer, until all that’s left is something for them to dissect. Paige smiles through it. She’s good at that now.

“Paige! Paige! Over here!”

“Looking gorgeous tonight, who styled you?”

“Paige, are you seeing anyone?”

That last one sticks.

Her expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t even flinch. She’s been trained for this. Smile, nod, say something witty if it’s not invasive and deflect if it is. She’s wearing a tailored navy suit and sneakers, the sleeves pushed up just enough to flash her wrists and the internet will eat it up.

“Nope” she says easily. “Just me, the gym, and my jump shot.”

A few reporters laugh. Cameras flash. The next question comes. But you catch it, the way her shoulders hitch, just slightly, as she walks away.

You’re close behind her on the red carpet, press pass swinging from your lanyard. Your job isn’t glamorous, you’re technically part of her “personal digital content team,” which basically means following her around with a camera and trying to keep her from melting down under pressure.

You’re also her best friend. Or something like it.

It’s gotten blurry lately.

Inside the car after the event, it’s quiet. Paige sits back in the black SUV, scrolling through her phone. You watch the way her brows pinch together, the faint crease between them that never used to be there.

She exhales a long, tired sigh and turns the screen toward you.

#PaigeBaeWatch trending on X. Again.

Some fan account had zoomed in on a photo of her standing too close to a teammate at warmups and captioned it: “idk guys this feels a little too friendly 👀👀👀”

“God” she mutters. “I can’t breathe without someone thinking I’m dating someone.”

You offer her the second Diet Coke from the mini fridge, cracking the tab open and placing it gently in her hand. “To be fair,” you murmur, “you are very photogenic.”

She lets out a half laugh, but it dies quickly. “It’s just… distracting. I don’t even care what people think. It’s that I can’t do anything without it being a story.”

You watch her for a second. Her face is tired. Pretty, still. But tired.

Then she mumbles it under her breath, more to herself than to you.

“Maybe I should just fake a relationship or something. Give them what they want so they shut up.”

It’s supposed to be a throwaway line. Something sarcastic. But something about the way she says it quiet, resigned…makes your heart clench.

You look at her from across the car.

And before you can stop yourself.

“Want me to be your practice girlfriend?”

Her head turns so fast you’re sure she didn’t expect that. Her eyes flick to yours, wide but unreadable, like she’s trying to gauge if you’re serious. You’re not even sure if you are. It came out too naturally. Like it’s been living in the back of your throat for months.

You try to save it with a smile, make it seem light. “I mean, I already know your angles. I’m basically your emotional support assistant. We could absolutely pull it off.”

She’s still staring.

“You serious?”

You shrug. “I’m just saying. It’d be easy. Post a couple photos, let people freak out, and boom mystery solved. Everyone gets off your back.”

Paige leans her head back against the seat, exhaling like she’s actually considering it. You didn’t expect that. You expected her to laugh, roll her eyes, make some joke about how you’re the worst fake girlfriend on the planet because you’d forget to text back.

Instead, she says, “I trust you.”

Your throat goes tight.

She glances at you again, more tentative this time. “You wouldn’t think it was weird?”

You force yourself to shake your head. “Nah. I mean unless you make it weird.”

She smiles at that. Not the big, media ready grin. A small one. The kind she only gives you when it’s just the two of you.

Then she says, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

And for a second, your heart stops.

“…Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice calm, but her fingers fidgeting slightly with the Coke can. “Let’s fake date.”

You try to swallow the rush of adrenaline, the stupid hope buzzing in your chest. It’s fake. This is fake. You offered this. You don’t get to panic.

“I’ll need a contract,” you say, aiming for lighthearted. “Weekly coffee payments. One forehead kiss per game day. Access to your closet for oversized hoodie privileges.”

She snorts. “Done. But I get plus one rights at every event and I’m picking the first Instagram post.”

“God, you’re already drunk with power.”

Her laugh lingers in the small space between you. Then quiet again.

You sit back, let the city lights flash across her cheekbone as she stares out the window. You don’t know what she’s thinking. But you do know this:

This won’t be easy. You’ve liked her for a long time. Maybe too long.

And now you’ll have to pretend to be the one thing you’ve always wanted to be for the whole world to see.

Just pretend, you remind yourself.

You can handle pretend.

Then Paige turns toward you again, eyes soft and unsure.

“You know this might… get messy, right?”

You nod. Your voice is steady, even if your pulse isn’t.

“Only if one of us falls in love.”

And then she says it…quiet, teasing, but her gaze lingers too long.

“No promises.”