#hiccuping clock

[fieriframes]

[Purple socks argue with the spaghetti moon. The sky whispers algebra into a bowl of soup. Bananas wear hats and sing to forgotten trains. A toaster floats by, dreaming of electric clouds. Elephants knit sweaters out of melted clocks. The sidewalk hums like a jellybean in space. Chairs do the tango with invisible birds. A watermelon tells secrets to a laughing shoe. Time hiccups and spills mustard on the stars. The universe sneezes, and the trees turn blue.]

[eraserbread]

that first trimester was terrible... but, your husband, nanami, swears the second one is personal

"kento?" you whisper, shaking his wide frame in your arms. he worked all day, so he has every right to his sleep, but you couldn't calm the throbbing between your legs. it's come back with a vengeance after your time in the shower this morning with him, and now you couldn't settle. kento doesn't budge.

"please." you try again, whining in his ear and squeezing the flesh of his chest. "I love you so much... p-please." beads of cold sweat have began to form on your skin, reacting to the throbbing deep inside of you.

where you can't see, kento opens his eyes at once. remaining stoic in your arms. you're humping against his leg, whining sweetly into his back. he lets you, too tired to move.

"can we do it? please?" kissing over his rippling back, the skin blooms red in the darkness of the night bedroom.

if he were a bit more awake, kento would understand and be a bit sweeter, but he was exhausted. "this can't wait until the morning?" he grumbles, still so thoughtful and quiet in his daze.

you won't lie and say his tone didn't strike you, so instead of kissing him again, you press your forehead into his shoulder and pull away.

swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you take a second to catch your breath, whining softly in your throat as the change of position makes your core tremble and cry out for help. you're crushing your thighs together, head hanging between your shoulders as kento drifts back off.

overcome, horny and emotional, you start crying. sniffling and hiccuping in your fist. It felt like every vein in your body was screaming for release, and it's painful.

of course, kento can't truly fall back asleep when you're crying next to him, pitiful and whiny because you refuse to bother him further. he'd have to bother himself, he comes to terms when he sits up, peeling his eyes open again.

"don't cry, now i feel bad." he's muttering, closing his palm over his face to rub some sense back to his features.

"g-go back to sleep." you whimper, wiping at your tears just for more to fall. "I'm sorry, I hate bothering you."

"come here, it's fine. i know what you need." kento refuses to look at a clock -- he refuses to see how much sleep he's losing. it's a problem he'd face five hours from now, not when you're a sniffling mess at his bedside.

"really?" there's a tinge of hope there, excitement buried under your pitiful tone as you turn over your shoulder. he's shirtless, staring back at you through the dim moonlight. hair ruffled, eyes low, lips pressed together. grumpy and sleepy. but, as your eyes trail down his body, you can see the hardened lump in his underwear, peeking from the blankets.

you crawl to him.

straddling his lap is so familiar, kissing down his neck - letting your sweet skin drag across his shaved stubble feels right. he's genuinely letting you do all the work right now, yawning every few seconds as you attack another area of his skin in kisses.

you're starving -- grinding on his thick erection with a drunken fervor. he thinks your eagerness is cute, endearing in the right situations. not when he's so tired.

and you see that just enough to take advantage of it.

sure, he was dozing off, but the second he feels your teeth latch around his nipple, he's shooting them open.

"now, this is just pointless," he grunts, closing his hands over your hunched shoulders as you're sucking and biting at his reddening nipple. you're moving like you're trying to spout milk from him -- left hand massaging his left pec.

"nooo. i wanna."

kento's pulls a hand back to his face, bunching it in a fist as he lets you have your way. if you weren't five months pregnant, he'd throw you back down on the bed and press you so stupid with his cock that you had no choice but to cum, then fall right back asleep.

so, yes -- this was a sticky situation. he wouldn't manhandle his pregnant wife. not without a dangerously guilty conscience to deal with in the morning.

but once you had your fill, pulsating lips switching from nipple to swollen nipple, laced with a handful of his thick, delicious muscle, you pull away and kiss lower. that little dip in attention has kento wrapping his arms around your waist, digging his fingers into the skin as he grabs and pushes you off of him.

you squeak, not expecting such a drastic change. laying out on your side, arms splayed to catch some footing, he's kneeling over you. a hand shoves into the front of his briefs, swallowing a groan as his suffocated cock springs free.

"would you just behave?" that patience is dwindling now as he crawls in behind you. he's shivering slightly, teasing the bead of pre back against the flushed tip of his cock. you're flicking between the lewdness and the look on his face, heart pummeling when you see him bite over his bottom lip.

"y-yes... please put it in." your voice is wrecked, lips tingly and red. he mounts you, long legs splayed behind as he blindly makes that familiar descent between your thighs, trailing against your ass and dipping into your sopping, messy cunt.

he sighs, neck twitching as you slurp him up like you've never been fed before. pregnancy sex is just so different -- so lewd with you and your crying body. there's so much fluid, a mess of slick coating yours and his thighs.

so, it takes nothing -- i mean, nothing, for him to coax that first messy orgasm out of you, and you're squirting everywhere. screaming his name like you're on the verge of death, and he's the culprit.

his big hand clenches onto one of your thighs, fucking you into the wet sheets like a dog as he eases all that cum out of you.

when you're done and dumb with pliancy, you're rolling back over kento when he settles in his spot. your side of the bed is soaked, so you spend all night sleeping right on top of him, belly smushed into his and legs twisted together.

you would definitely hear about this uncomfortable situation tomorrow before he shrugs off to work. you'll also definitely jump his grumpy, tired bones as soon as he steps foot through the front door that evening. you're smiling at nothing anymore, finally satiated and sleepy enough to drift off to dreams about kento and your baby.

[feverdreamsandlucidnightmares]

Hey what does it mean when only straight men ever think you’re straight

[landologged]

GG, Norris

Pairing: lando × gf!reader

Genre: graphic smut, oral sex (m → f) under a desk ;), semi‑public/twitch risk, brat‑taming, dom!lando & mouthy reader, humiliation kink, breeding talk, dirty talk, possessive behaviour, consensual power play, established relationship

Description: Lando’s been a gremlin all day—yanking your hoodie strings, tossing socks, and chirping over you every chance he gets. When he goes live, you crawl beneath the rig and silence him with your mouth while thousands watch none the wiser. He tries to keep composure; you dismantle it. Stream ends, revenge flips to punishment, and somewhere between the threats and the afterglow he whispers the kind of promise that could ruin you in the best way.

notes: im not sorry, word count is 5k

Lando’s been insufferable all day—mouthing off with that cocky little smirk like he doesn’t deserve to be dropkicked down a flight of stairs. He kept poking at you—tugging your hoodie drawstring when you were mid-sip of coffee, talking over you just to mimic your voice, tossing socks at you from across the room like some feral child. And now, the little shit’s live on Twitch, backlit in RGB glow like some overgrown gamer gremlin, laughing with Max like they’re both not moments away from divine punishment.

You slink past his racing rig and stupid ergonomic chair, a silent predator in sweats and a tank top that’s just a bit too tight. The headset muffles the rest of the world for him—he doesn’t notice the shift in weight behind his desk, doesn’t register the flicker of your eyes or the deliberate arch of your brow as you crawl under the desk like you own the fucking thing. 

Max is saying something idiotic through the tinny headset—Lando’s wheezing, practically giggling, “Nahhh mate, I’d still smoke you even if you had DRS in bed.”

Instead of answering, you let your hand drift down, slow and mean, gliding from your own knee across the dark stretch of space beneath the desk until your fingertips graze his leg. He doesn't flinch—yet—too caught up in his smug little monologue to clock the shift. But then your palm flattens against the inside of his thigh, deliberate, claiming. Warmth bleeds through the cotton like ink in water, slow and spreading, and you dig in just enough to let him know you’re not here to be cute.  The laughter catches in his throat mid-sentence. His voice jumps a full octave, cracking like a teenager's as he fumbles, tries to swallow the noise back before Max notices– which he fails.

Max pauses. “What was that?”

Lando’s legs stiffen beneath your hand. You feel the tension coil all the way up to his hip, a ripple of sheer panic trying to mask the unmistakable pulse already starting to throb under your fingers. His joggers do little to hide the way he’s swelling, thickening, betraying every ounce of self-control he thought he had.

“Uh—a hiccup.” Lando's laugh is sudden and high-pitched, edged with panic. His hand instinctively drops to his lap but stops short, unsure what to do with it. “I think I’m choking—on water. Gimme a sec.”

You hum, low and deliberate, a sound more vibration than voice, letting it roll up from your chest and sink straight into the fabric between his legs. Your mouth opens against the outline of him, plush lips parting just enough to press—not a kiss, not quite. Just heat. You drag your mouth along the length of him through his joggers, every inch a slow, possessive claim, like you’re mapping him out for future destruction. Tongue sliding flat, letting the fabric soak it up, just damp enough to cling to the shape of him.

His cock twitches, eager and betrayed, shifting under the thin material like it’s trying to reach you, to meet you halfway. You don’t speed up. Oh no, you slow down, mouthing him like he’s a lollipop you’re too mean to unwrap. Teeth graze, barely, just enough for nerves to spark awake and skin to goosebump beneath the cotton. The heat of your breath sinks in like a bruise, and when you do it again—open-mouthed, tongue curling under the head through the joggers like you’re licking sugar off the skin of an apple—he breaks. His breath punches out in a strangled hitch, hips jolting forward like the instinct’s not even his own. His legs tense around you, thighs stiffening against your shoulders, not to push you away, never that—but to brace, to survive whatever the fuck this is turning into.

You can feel the way he’s trying to keep still, failing spectacularly. The way his knees tremble just slightly, muscles locking like a man standing on the edge of something deep and slick and inevitable. And you haven’t even gotten his pants down yet.

“...You good?” Max again.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, just—hydrate or die-drate, innit?” His accent falters on the last syllable as you tug his waistband down, just enough. Just enough for your nails to dig in a little, for your lips to ghost over skin that’s already twitching with anticipation.

You look up, watching his face from the shadows beneath the desk, the glow from the monitor painting him in sinful outlines—blue along his jaw, red flickering in his eyes like he’s caught fire from the inside. His lips are parted, plush and trembling, his tongue darting out to wet them like that’ll help him speak normally through the chaos boiling in his bloodstream. His eyes are glassy, lashes fluttering fast, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tension twitch at the hinge, like he's physically holding himself together with spit and prayer.

He’s trying to look normal—like this is still just a stream, just banter, like he isn’t seconds from sliding out of his own skin. But he’s fucking awful at it. That smug little posture is gone, replaced with a boy unraveling in real time, held together by a desk and a prayer and your mouth hovering dangerously close to the one thing he absolutely cannot control.

He mutes himself with a frantic click of the hotkey.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he hisses, voice low, shredded, already fraying at the edges. His breath fans hot over his mic. 

You smirk against him. “Keep playing, Norris.”

Then you sink your mouth around him, slow and possessive, and he keens—silent, jaw clenched hard as his head drops back against the chair.

Yeah. He’s not making it out of this stream alive.

You hollow your cheeks, tongue dragging slow and deliberate—like you’ve got all the time in the world and none of it belongs to him. Lando’s hips twitch, one foot knocking into the desk leg with a soft thud that rattles his fancy mic arm. Panic flashes across his face, barely contained, the kind that screams this is the best and worst idea we’ve ever had and I’m gonna cum in thirty seconds and Max is gonna hear it live.

“You alright, bro?” Max’s voice filters through the headset again, casual, cruelly unaware.

“Yup. Peachy.” Lando’s voice is an octave too high. “Just, stretching.”

“Sounded like your desk kicked back, mate.”

You almost laugh, the sound curling at the back of your throat, smothered by the weight of him on your tongue. He’s heavy, twitching, a pulse stuttering beneath the sensitive skin you're dragging your mouth along with surgical precision. But there's no room for giggles—not when he’s splintering in your hands like this, breaking down second by second.

His grip on the armrests is brutal, white-knuckled like the chair might fly off into orbit if he doesn’t anchor himself. Fingers twitching, veins standing out on the backs of his hands like cords about to snap. He looks like he’s bracing for a fucking crash landing, every muscle drawn tight, thighs trembling against your shoulders, breath locked high in his chest like he's afraid if he exhales, he’ll cum right there.

And his neck—oh, his fucking neck. It's flushed, blooming red like spilled wine, the color crawling up from beneath the loose collar of his hoodie and painting its way up the column of his throat to his jawline, delicate and obscene. Like someone hit him with shame and turned the heat to maximum. It’s arousal in high-def, the kind that leaves no mystery—just raw, visual confession. Every time your mouth moves, the flush deepens, his head tips back a little more, and you can see the exact moment he forgets what his own name is.

He unmutes for a second—rookie mistake. “So yeah, like, turn three’s actually—” inhale, hiss, muted again.

Your teeth graze just enough to make his whole body jolt. You can feel the curse bubbling in his throat but he swallows it back with the desperation of a man on the brink. He’s trying to look normal, trying to hold a conversation while his girlfriend is under the desk sucking the literal soul out of him. You feel the curse rise up in his throat, bubbling hot and mean behind clenched teeth. But he swallows it—forces it down with the kind of restraint that hurts to watch. He’s holding onto that last shred of composure like it’s a lifeline, trying to sit still, trying to keep talking, keep nodding, keep pretending this is just another stream.

You see it all—feel it all. The twitch of his stomach, the locked tension in his knees, the way his chest is rising faster than before like he’s run a lap with his mic still on. He’s dying. Glorious, twitching, overstimmed death-by-girlfriend, right there on Twitch dot TV.

Max is talking about tire strategies now. You could not care less.

Lando’s trembling like a leaf in a wind tunnel, one hand inching under the desk like maybe, maybe he can tap out, call a time-out, beg for mercy. But you swat his hand away, sink deeper onto him, and he fucking chokes.

You let up, just a little, lips slick, your voice hushed and syrupy sweet. “Something wrong, babe?”

“Y—You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin up at him. “Good. Maybe Max’ll do your eulogy.”

And then you go back down, faster this time, twisting your wrist just enough to make him arch off the chair like he’s been tasered. His breathing’s fucked—shallow, staccato, gasping like he’s drowning in it. Every exhale sounds like it costs him something, punched out in ragged little hiccups, broken up by the frantic clench of his abs as he tries—fails—to keep still. His thighs are shaking now, twitching against your shoulders, his hips stuttering forward helplessly every time your throat flexes around him.

You feel him throb against your tongue, thick and twitching, precum slicking the back of your throat as he tips further into sensory collapse. He’s close. Too close. He knows it. You know it. His body’s already betraying him, every nerve lighting up like someone tripped the emergency alarm.

He mutes again—fingers slapping the hotkey with blind desperation—and croaks out a whisper through clenched teeth, like he’s physically fighting his own orgasm just to speak. “You’re actually evil. You’re—fuck—this is—oh my god.”

Your nails dig into the skin above his knees. You want him to feel every inch of it. Humiliated. Helpless. Falling apart on stream with that good-boy face, talking strategy with Max while your mouth is swallowing his soul inch by inch. He wanted to be smug. Wanted to sass. So, he got what he deserved, streaming in front of thousands with that innocent little “I’m just gaming, guys” voice while his cock’s buried in your throat and his world’s turning to static.

Max keeps talking.

Lando continues spiraling. You, however, keep going, until his legs are trembling like Bambi’s on ice, until he clamps a fist over his own mouth and stifles a moan that might have gotten him permanently banned off Twitch.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don't stop. Of course you don't. His thighs are tensing around you like a vice, breath coming in ragged, clipped gasps, and all you do is suck harder—deeper. You flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, twist your wrist at the base just enough to grind against that sweet spot, right where your lips meet your hand, and that's it. 

His whole body seizes. One sharp inhale—then silence. His jaw drops open, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown to hell, and the only sound he manages is this strangled, high-pitched gasp like his entire soul is getting yanked out through his dick.

He comes hard. Violently. No buildup left, no warning, no cool-off—just one catastrophic surge that hits so fast it nearly knocks his headset clean off. The mic light’s still blinking red, but it's not picking up anything coherent—just the wet, broken gasps of a man short-circuiting live on stream. His hips buck once, twice, a desperate, instinctive jerk that punches him further down your throat. His hand scrabbles at the edge of the desk like he's trying to grip onto reality. He doesn’t make a sound—and that silence is deafening.

You feel it—every pulse, every twitch, the thick, hot spurt flooding your mouth like his body’s trying to drain itself in one brutal release. You swallow around it, greedy and unrelenting, and he whimpers. Honest to god, a full-body shiver rips through him, like you just unplugged something vital and he’ll never reboot the same again.

When it's over, he slumps. Muted. Boneless. Useless.

“…You okay, Lando?” Max asks.

Lando clears his throat. “Just finished.”

There’s a pause.

“…The race?” Max says, confused.

Lando closes his eyes. “Yeah. That.”

You lick your lips and crawl back out from under the desk, smug as hell, like you didn’t just commit several crimes beneath the camera frame. You lean in, peck his cheek, and whisper, “Next time, don’t throw your sock at me.”

He exhales like he’s seen god. Or you. Same thing, really.

He shuts down the stream like he’s defusing a bomb—mouse click too loud, movements too stiff, the awkward silence after Max’s “alright, catch you later, bruv” hanging in the room like smoke. The second OBS fades out and the little red dot of "Live" disappears from the corner of his screen, Lando leans back in the chair with the slowness of someone trying very, very hard not to look like he just got soul-snatched under his own desk on the main stage of the internet.

His head rolls toward you.

That look of ungodly levels of boyish spite. The kind that comes from being publicly humbled in the most private way possible.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” he says, voice rough, lazy, dragging over gravel and sin. His eyes track you like you’re prey. “Think you’re clever, crawling under my desk like that, nearly got me banned.”

You smile. Innocent. Shrug like, what, me?

And that’s apparently the wrong answer. Lando stands up so fast his chair screeches against the floor, and you don’t even have time to register the chaos before his fingers are digging into your hips and he’s spinning you around, walking you back, back, back until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and—

You drop like a rock.

He follows, covering you in one smooth motion like a storm front rolling in, all hot breath and twitchy hands and revenge written across his grin.

“You wanna be a brat?” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, already undoing the hoodie you stole from his closet like he’s got a personal vendetta against it. “Then you’re going to get treated like one.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you tease, breath hitching as he peels the hoodie off and tosses it somewhere across the room like it insulted his whole bloodline.

“I’m a victim, actually.” He pins your wrists down, pushes his knee between your thighs and forces them apart, slow and deliberate. “Live on camera. Absolutely violated. Twitch chat saw me ascend.”

“They only saw your face.”

“And you saw god. So now it’s your turn.”

You try to sass something back—I already did the work or you’re welcome or something equally stupid—but he cuts you off with a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, no finesse, just need—raw and immediate. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp, then chases that sound into your mouth like he’s trying to steal it. It’s messy, greedy, spit-slicked and heady, full of consequences you feel before you even fully register them. His tongue slides against yours, fast, dirty, dominant, like he’s fucking your mouth just to shut you up.

Your thoughts scatter like coins dropped down a storm drain. You barely register the way his hands move until they’re already on you—fingers sliding down your arms in a slow drag that makes your skin light up, trailing heat to your wrists, your sides, your hips. Then he grips. Not gentle. Claiming. Thumbs digging in just above the curve of your ass, yanking you into place with an ease that makes your breath stutter.

He adjusts your body like you’re just a piece of the equation he’s solving. Angles your legs wider. Tilts your pelvis. Lines your hips with his like a weapon locking into its holster. Every motion says mine. Every shift says you’re not getting away.

“No escaping this one,” he mutters against your mouth, already rutting into you like the world’s ending and it’s somehow your fault. “Gonna make you fucking feel it.”

And then he’s rutting into you, grinding hard, slow, mean, the thick line of his cock dragging against you through too much fabric, not nearly enough friction. His hips roll like he’s trying to fuck the regret out of you before he’s even inside, like it’s your fault the world’s on fire and he’s the only one allowed to burn you down.

His hand slides down between you like he’s tuning a high-stakes radio, all intent and zero patience, fingers greedy as sin and twice as confident. He doesn’t hesitate, just slides them under the waistband like he owns the access, the privilege—and fuck, he finds it instantly. Wet. Soaked. You feel the shift in him the moment he registers it—his whole expression flickering into something darker, meaner, more satisfied.

“Ohhh,” he purrs, dragging the word out like he’s tasting it, that fucking grin spreading across his face like oil in water. A menace. A brat. A smug little demon who just found gold under your panties. “Look who’s not so innocent now, huh?”

You scowl up at him, even though it takes everything in you not to arch into the touch. Your breath catches the moment his fingers glide between your folds, slow and maddening, like he’s just checking inventory. Like he’s confirming, with smug fingers and a smirk, that you’re soaked through and so goddamn ready it’s embarrassing.

“I was innocent,” you snap, biting the inside of your cheek to hold composure, “until you started acting like a fucking gremlin all day.”

He doesn't even blink—just grins wider, proud and wicked. “I am a gremlin,” he says, dipping just the tip of one finger in, a slow, cruel tease that makes your thighs twitch. His eyes are locked on yours, watching every flicker of reaction with sick delight, like this is his favorite game and he’s already ten moves ahead. “But you—you crawled under the desk, babe. You woke the demon up. You knew what you were doing.”

“I was avenging myself. It was emotional warfare.”

He laughs—really laughs, head tossed back for a second before he looks down again, still grinning but now it's dark, calculated. “Yeah? We’ll see about that, darling.”

And then he pushes in—two fingers, deep and sudden, no warning, no teasing, just a hard, unapologetic thrust that knocks the air right out of your lungs. The stretch is immediate, obscene, that thick press opening you up so fast your body has no time to think, only react. You gasp, sharp and strangled, hips jerking up into his hand like you’ve been electrocuted. Your nails sink into his arm on instinct, clutching like he’s the only solid thing keeping you from short-circuiting completely. Muscles flutter around his fingers, slick and clenching, already threatening to pull him deeper, to take more, even as your brain tries to catch the fuck up.

“Oh—fuck—Lando—”

“That's the one.” He curls his fingers just so, smirking down at you like a man who just found nuclear launch codes in his back pocket. “You sound so much cuter when you’re not trying to be a little shit.”

You shoot him a glare, trying to form something savage and witty to bite back with, but all that comes out is a broken whimper as he starts pumping his fingers in and out, fast, obscene, squelching sounds already filling the room like he’s making a fucking smoothie with you. You slap a hand over your mouth, scandalized.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and pinning it beside your head. “You made me suffer silently on stream. Now you’re gonna sing for me.”

“Y-You’re insane,” you pant, legs spreading wider without meaning to, traitorous body arching off the bed into his hand like a slutty heat-seeking missile.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, thumb flicking your clit now in tight, fast circles, the way he knows makes you go from sassy to needing an exorcism in under thirty seconds. “You made me come so hard I hit a Windows error sound. You don’t get to talk shit.”

You try. You really try to keep up the banter, to sass something, anything—but he thrusts his fingers in deeper, and your voice cracks into a moan that embarrasses you on a spiritual level. Like the neighbors are gonna know kind of level.

“Thaaaat’s better,” he murmurs, face hovering just over yours, warm breath brushing your cheek. “That’s my good girl. What happened to all that backtalk, huh?”

You hiss through your teeth, grinding against his hand now like a bitch in heat, shameless. “Y-You’re cheating—using your—skills—”

He chuckles, so cocky it hurts. “Uh-huh.”

He pulls his fingers out just as your legs start shaking, cruel bastard that he is, and you let out a noise that could get you arrested in three countries. He sucks those fingers into his mouth, exaggerated, obscene, humming like you’re fine wine and he’s a connoisseur.

Then he’s sliding his boxers down, slow and casual like he’s got all the time in the world—like his cock isn’t flushed dark and aching, already rock fucking hard, already glistening at the tip with precome that beads thick and lazy along the curve of him. It bobs up against his stomach as the fabric clears it, twitching with every heartbeat, a full display of just how wrecked he still is and just how far from finished.

You can’t stop staring. Can’t help it. The way he’s thick and veiny, that curve you know too well, the flushed red of his tip already wet enough to make your mouth water—it’s mean, the way your body reacts without permission, clenching tight like it’s starving for him. Your thighs shift, instinctual and desperate, a slow rub for friction he hasn't even allowed yet.

“What?” he says, tone light, mock-innocent, voice still gravel from groaning your name minutes ago. His hand wraps around the base of his cock and gives it a lazy stroke, slow enough to show off, smearing his own slick over the shaft while his eyes dare you to break. “You gonna apologize yet?”

He punctuates it with a little flick of his wrist—just enough to make a drop of precome slide down the underside, thick and slow.

“Never,” you spit. “Die mad about it.”

Your voice is sharp, but your cunt is soaked, needy, betraying every ounce of sass with a slick heat that clings to him as he shifts closer. He just laughs—low, smug, dangerous—like he’s already decided you’ll be swallowing those words in moans.

Then he lines himself up. His hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it down between your thighs with excruciating slowness. The head drags along your folds, thick and pulsing, smearing you open with the kind of pressure that makes your back arch off the bed on reflex. It’s not even in yet—not really—but your whole body shudders, already anticipating the stretch, the slide, the ruin.

“Oh,” he grins, cockhead nudging your soaked entrance, hips rolling forward just enough to catch—not push, not yet, just press. That dangerous little tease of what's coming. “I plan to.”

And he grinds it there, circling slow, obscene, just enough to coat himself in you. Just enough to make your breath stutter and your legs fall open wider, helplessly, hungrily, like your body’s given up on pride entirely. Your clit’s aching from the friction, nerves lighting up with every teasing pass of his swollen tip.

He watches you squirm beneath him, his grin sharpening like a blade. “Hope you’re ready to scream that apology when I’m buried in your guts.”

And then—he pushes.

Slow.

So fucking slow. Not even a thrust—just pressure, the barest push of the head breaching you, thick and deliberate, like he’s forcing your body to recognize him all over again. Like he’s marking every nerve ending with the stretch. Your mouth drops open but nothing comes out—just breath. Just need.

He’s watching your face the whole time, drinking in every flicker of it—your brows twitching, lips parting, that helpless little tremble that crawls up your spine when your body realizes what’s happening. That he’s really doing this. Slow-fucking you like a punishment. Not to be kind. To hurt you in the best fucking way.

The head of his cock pops past the tight ring of resistance, and your whole body jolts like a live wire’s been jammed up your spine. He hisses through his teeth at the way you clench, how fucking wet you are, how you grip him like you don’t want him to leave.

“Ohhh, f-fuck—look at that,” he groans, barely able to speak through the pressure. “She’s pulling me in already. What a fucking slut.”

Then he sinks in another inch—slow, torturous, dragging the thick weight of him against walls already fluttering in anticipation. You gasp, toes curling, nails digging into the sheets like you can anchor yourself to something, anything, before he breaks you. Every ridge, every vein along his shaft feels like it’s scraping against your sanity in slow-motion.

“God, you're tight,” he growls, voice frayed at the edges, forehead resting against yours now, sweat already gathering at his hairline. “You feel that? Every inch, baby. You asked for this.”

And still—he doesn’t thrust.

He feeds it to you, inch by aching inch, until you're stretched wide, stuffed full, practically shaking beneath him. Your cunt spasms around him, greedy and desperate, and the noise you make—high, cracked, needy—goes straight to his fucking ego.

“Fuck, you’re gonna break,” he whispers, voice all grit and glory. “Should I make it worse?”

And then—he slams forward.

One brutal thrust, all the way in, balls flush against you, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and filthy as it echoes through the room. Your scream is instant. He grins like the devil who just cashed a bet.

“Good,” he growls, pulling back just enough before hammering in again, harder. “Let’s see how long you last.”

Your scream barely fades before he’s thrusting again, harder this time, fucking you with that brutal rhythm that says he’s not pacing himself—he’s taking you. His cock slams into you again and again, thick and slick and relentless, dragging a fresh cry out of your throat every time his hips smack against yours.

And he’s talking now—low, filthy, breathless filth right into your ear, every word rough and ragged and soaked in something feral.

“Fuck—you feel that?” he grits out, his hips stuttering just enough to grind that thick cockhead right up against your cervix. “You’re milking me. Gonna make me come in you like it’s fucking biological.”

You claw at his back, eyes rolling, mind fogged with nothing but sensation—his cock splitting you open, heavy balls smacking your ass, every thrust punching your thoughts out through your mouth in gasped curses and broken moans.

He grabs your jaw, forces your gaze back to him. Eyes locked.

“Nah—look at me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his temple, lips wet, voice shaking. “Gonna make you mine for real.”

Then his grip tightens, hand splayed wide over your lower belly like he’s feeling himself from the outside, like he wants to watch his cock bulge under your skin.

“Gonna breed you,” he snarls. “Fuck a baby into you. You hear me?”

You whimper, thighs locked around his hips, cunt spasming around him like your body’s already begging for it—please, fill me, mark me, ruin me.

“I’ll fucking marry you,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt, holding there, twitching deep inside you. “Swear to god. Put a ring on your finger and a kid in your belly.”

Then he pulls back and pounds in again—once, twice, three savage thrusts—wet, deep, loud—and you feel it, that telltale twitch, that low growl in his chest, the way his abs seize against your stomach.

He’s close.

“Gonna fucking fill you up,” he growls, voice raw, ragged, forehead pressed to yours. “You’ll feel it for days—my cum dripping down your thighs, stuck so deep inside you, it’s not going anywhere.”

And then—he breaks.

One final thrust, deep, forced so far into you your legs snap around him and your body locks down, clenching tight—

He roars your name, hips jerking, cock buried deep as he comes—thick, hot, endless. Spurting in waves, flooding your pussy with so much cum you feel it seeping out around him, warm and filthy and perfect.

“Fuckfuckfuck—take it, take all of it,” he groans, shivering against you, cock still twitching, still pumping as he rides it out, thrusting slow and shallow, like he’s grinding his claim into your womb.

His body trembles above yours, slick skin clinging, muscle taut then gone soft as he slumps forward, breath crashing into the crook of your neck. Not all the way gone, not yet—he gives one last lazy grind, a roll of his hips that makes you twitch and sigh against him, the pressure just enough to drag a whimper from your throat.

The comedown hits you both like a sucker punch made of glitter and gravity—one second he’s practically growling into your throat, the next he’s collapsed on top of you like a glorified space heater, sweaty, heavy, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “fuckin’ deserved that, didn’t I…”

You wheeze under his weight. “You’re crushing me, Norris.”

“I’m post-orgasmic and vulnerable. Be gentle.”

“You just tried to breed me like a feral raccoon.”

“Yeah but emotionally?” he slurs, nuzzling his cheek into your collarbone like he’s recharging. “I’m a soft boy inside.”

You groan and reach up to push his sweat-damp curls out of his face. “Yeah, yeah, you are.”

[jupiterpilgrim]

After All

Kwon Eunbi x male reader

word count: 20k

commissioned fic

The clock’s ticking past midnight, and Eunbi’s apartment is a battlefield of empty soju bottles, crumpled napkins, and half-eaten trays of tteokbokki scattered across her sleek kitchen island. It’s her 30th birthday, and you're resting on her couch, nursing a lukewarm beer you’ve been sipping for the last hour, more out of habit than any real desire to get trashed. The private party’s been a chaotic little mess—just a handful of her closest friends, some industry folks she trusts not to leak shit, and you, her self-appointed babysitter for the night. The music’s still humming low from her Bluetooth speaker, but the vibe’s shifted from rowdy laughter to a quieter, sloppier haze now that everyone’s stumbled out the door. You’re watching her sway around the living room in a pair of mismatched socks—one pink with little stars, the other a plain gray that’s probably yours from some sleepover months back—her hair a wild tangle from all the times she’s run her hands through it while belting out karaoke off-key. She’s drunk as hell, giggling at nothing, and you can’t help but grin despite the ache in your legs from chasing her around all night.

She’s been clinging to you since the third shot of peach soju hit her system, her arm looped through yours like you’re her personal anchor, dragging you into every conversation with slurred enthusiasm. “You should’ve seen his face when I told him I’m 30 now—30!—like, bitch, I’m still hotter than your girlfriend,” she’d crowed earlier, leaning into you so hard you nearly toppled into the snack table. For everyone else, she’s Kwon Eunbi, the idol with the killer voice and curves that make headlines, but for you, she’s just Eunbi—Eunbi who used to steal your crayons in third grade, who’d cry when you beat her at Mario Kart, who’d text you at 3 a.m. during her trainee days just to say she missed your dumb jokes. Now, she’s flopped onto the floor in front of the coffee table, legs splayed out, her oversized hoodie riding up to show a sliver of her stomach as she tries to stack beer cans into a wobbly tower. “Look, I’m an architect,” she declares, tongue poking out in concentration, and you snort, knowing damn well it’s gonna collapse in three seconds flat.

The party’s over, and you’re the last one standing—well, sitting, technically—because there’s no way you’re leaving her like this. She’s a disaster when she’s sober, let alone after a night of drinking her age in shots. You’ve already started picking up the wreckage, tossing plastic cups into a trash bag while she watches you with hazy eyes, chin propped on her hand like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “You’re so good to me,” she mumbles. “Yeah, yeah, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t pass out in a pile of kimchi fries,” you shoot back, grabbing a sponge to tackle the sticky mess on the counter where someone—probably her—spilled a whole bottle of soda. She laughs, loud and unfiltered, then hiccups, and it’s so ridiculously Eunbi that you can’t help but chuckle too.

She’s still chattering away, even as you move around her apartment, picking up streamers and wiping down surfaces. “Did you see Chae’s face when I did that twerk? She was, like, scandalized—I’ve got moves, right? Tell me I’ve got moves.” She’s trying to wiggle her hips from her spot on the floor, but it’s more of a sad little shimmy, and you bite back a laugh. “Oh, you’ve got something, alright. I think the word’s embarrassing, though,” you tease, dodging the balled-up napkin she chucks at you. It misses by a mile, landing somewhere near the TV, and she pouts, all dramatic and exaggerated, like she’s auditioning for a rom-com. “You’re so mean to me. Always so mean... And yet, here you are, cleaning my shit up like a good little boyfriend.” The word slips out casual as hell, but it lands like a grenade, and you freeze for half a second, sponge dripping in your hand, before brushing it off with a grunt. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive, dumbass. And I’m not your boyfriend—yet.”

That “yet” hangs in the air, and her eyes lock onto yours, wide and suddenly sharper despite the drunken flush on her cheeks. You both know about the pact—some stupid, half-serious promise you made back when you were hormonal teens sneaking cheap beer behind her parents’ garage, laughing about how if you both hit 30 and still hadn’t found “the one,” you’d just marry each other. It was a joke, or at least it started that way, but now here you are, 30 and single, and she’s 30 and single, and she’s staring at you like she’s daring you to bring it up first. You don’t. Instead, you turn back to the counter, scrubbing harder than necessary, while she drags herself up off the floor, stumbling over to you with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. “You’re staying, right?” she asks, leaning against the counter so close her elbow bumps yours, her voice dropping into that bossy tone she gets when she wants something. “Gotta tuck me in, make sure I don’t die in my sleep or whatever.”

You smirk, glancing at her out of the corner of your eye—she’s a mess, mascara smudged under her eyes, lipstick faded into a pink stain, but still unfairly gorgeous. “Yeah, ‘cause I’d hate to explain to your fans why their precious Eunbi choked on her own drool. I’ll stay, but you’re sleeping on the couch if you puke on me.” She grins, triumphant, and slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a sloppy half-hug that smells like soju and her floral perfume. “My hero,” she coos, sarcastic as hell, but there’s a flicker of something real in it. You shake it off, steering her toward the bedroom with a hand on her back, her weight leaning into you more with every step. She’s still rambling—about the party, about how you’re the only one who gets her, about how she’s gonna make you cook her hangover soup tomorrow—and you’re only half-listening, too focused on getting her to bed without tripping over the rug.

By the time you hit the hallway, she’s practically dead weight, her head lolling against your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. You nudge her bedroom door open with your foot, the soft glow of her fairy lights spilling out, and ease her onto the mattress, where she flops down with a groan. “You’re the best,” she slurs, grabbing your wrist before you can pull away, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks ready to pass out. “Don’t go far, ‘kay? Need you here.” It’s the alcohol talking, you tell yourself, but the way her fingers linger on your skin feels too deliberate, too loaded. You mutter something about getting her water, slipping out of her hold, and as you head back to the kitchen.

You’re back in her bedroom, a glass of water in one hand and a damp washcloth in the other, figuring she’ll thank you later for not letting her wake up looking like a raccoon with last night’s makeup smeared everywhere. The fairy lights are still doing their thing, casting a warm, golden glow over the room, and Eunbi’s sprawled out on her bed, one arm flung over her face like she’s trying to block out the world—or maybe just the spins. Her hoodie’s ridden up again, showing off that stupidly toned stomach she’s always flexing on Instagram, and her socks are half-off, one dangling from her toes like it’s staging a breakout. She looks like a hot mess, but it’s Eunbi, so she’s still pulling it off somehow. You set the glass on her nightstand and nudge her leg with your knee. “Hey, drunkass, sit up for a sec. You need water or you’re gonna hate me tomorrow.”

She groans, dramatic as fuck, but peels her arm off her face and squints at you, eyes glassy and unfocused. “You’re so bossy,” she mumbles, but there’s a grin tugging at her lips, sloppy and real, and she fumbles to prop herself up on her elbows. Her hair’s a disaster, falling into her face, and you reach over without thinking, brushing it back with your fingers. She leans into it, just a little, and for a second, it’s quiet—just the hum of the speaker still looping that lo-fi track and her breathing, slow and heavy. You hand her the water, and she takes it with both hands like a kid, gulping it down so fast some of it dribbles down her chin. “Classy,” you tease, wiping it off with the washcloth before she can bitch about it, and she snickers, batting your hand away halfheartedly. “Shut up, you love me,” she slurs.

You’re about to fire back—something dumb like “yeah, when you’re not a walking tornado”—but she cuts you off, setting the glass down with a clumsy clink and grabbing your wrist again, pulling you closer. “You remember that pact we made?” Her voice is softer now, less playful, and there’s this edge to it that makes your stomach twist. You know exactly what she’s talking about, but you play dumb anyway, raising an eyebrow. “What, the one where we said we’d rob a bank if we ever got broke? ‘Cause I’m still down, but you’re the one with the idol cash now.” She doesn’t laugh, though, just shakes her head, and her grip tightens, nails digging into your skin a little. “No, dumbass. The marriage one. When we were, like, sixteen? Said if we hit 30 and no one else locked us down, we’d just marry each other. You swore on it—pinky promise and everything.”

You try to laugh it off, because that’s your go-to when shit gets real—deflect, joke, anything to keep it light. “Yeah, I also swore I’d get a tattoo of your face on my ass, but you don’t see me running to the parlor,” you say, but it sounds weak even to you. She’s not buying it, and her eyes are searching your face now, all hazy and drunk but piercing, like she’s peeling back every layer you’ve ever put up. “Don’t bullshit me,” she says, and there’s that commanding tone she gets sometimes, the one that makes people sit up straight and listen, even when she’s three sheets to the wind. “We’re both 30 now. I’m 30 today. And you’re here, and I’m here, and—fuck, dude, why not? Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

Your heart’s doing some wild shit in your chest, pounding like you just ran a marathon, and you tell yourself it’s the alcohol talking. She’s plastered, emotional, probably doesn’t even mean it—she’ll wake up tomorrow and laugh her ass off at the thought, right? But she’s looking at you like she’s dead serious, lips parted, cheeks flushed, and there’s this raw, messy love in her voice that’s fucking with your head. “Eunbi, you’re drunk as hell,” you manage, voice rougher than you mean it to be. “You don’t just decide to marry someone ‘cause you had too much soju and feel mushy. Sleep it off, yeah? We’ll laugh about this in the morning.” You try to pull your wrist free, but she’s not letting go, and now she’s sitting up fully, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed so she’s right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the peach liquor on her breath, her free hand landing on your chest, fingers curling into your shirt.

“I’m not joking,” she says, quieter but fiercer, and her hand slides up, brushing your neck, her thumb grazing your jaw. “I’ve been thinking about it—today, this year, maybe longer. You’re my best friend, you dick. You’ve stuck with me through every breakup, every stage, every meltdown. I’ve got you too—always have. So why not? We’d kill it together.” Her voice wavers, and her eyes are shiny now, not just from the liquor, and it’s shredding you because she’s never this open, this raw.

“Eunbi, chill,” you say, softer, because snapping at her feels wrong when she’s spilling her soul like this. “You’re not thinking clear. You’re an idol—your life’s a circus, your fans would riot, and I’m just… me. The dude who can’t keep a cactus alive. You don’t mean this. Not really.” But your words are faltering, because she’s leaning in, her hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you down ‘til her forehead’s almost touching yours. “I don’t care about that,” she whispers, breath hot against your lips, and fuck, she’s so close you can taste the peach soju, feel the heat of her. “I don’t care about any of it if I’ve got you. I love you, you moron. Always have.”

It’s a fucking knockout blow, and your brain’s short-circuiting, every nerve screaming to just give in. Her lips brush yours—just a ghost of a touch, soft and trembling—and you almost lose it, almost let her pull you under. Your hands are on her shoulders, and for a split second, you’re kissing her back, tasting the liquor and the years of unspoken shit between you. But then your brain kicks in, screaming she’s drunk, this isn’t right, not like this. You pull back, heart pounding, hands shaking as you hold her at arm’s length. “Eunbi, no,” you say, firm but cracking. “Not like this. You’re wasted—you need to rest, not… this.” She whines, reaching for you again, but you dodge, standing up fast, chest heaving. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? Just… get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She flops back on the bed, pouting hard, but her eyes are already drooping, the fight draining out of her. You grab the blanket, tucking it over her as she mumbles something incoherent, and you’re left standing there, reeling, wondering if you just dodged a bullet or broke something delicate.

—

A week’s rolled by since Eunbi’s wild 30th birthday bash, and it’s been radio silence from her end—zero texts, no drunk voicemails, not even a meme tossed your way, which is weird as hell because she’s usually blowing up your phone with random shit. You’ve been keeping busy, trying not to overthink it, but she’s been creeping into your head more than usual—those sloppy, half-serious words she slung at you about loving you, about wanting to marry you, the way she clung to you like you were her lifeline… The next day, though, she seemed fine. Hungover, but fine. Almost as if she had forgotten about the whole accidental confession that alcohol had caused. But you can't be completely sure. So when your phone buzzes on a lazy Thursday afternoon and it’s her name lighting up the screen with a casual, “Hey, dinner at my place tonight? 7ish?” you don’t even hesitate. “Yeah, I’m in,” you shoot back, already mentally mapping out your evening. You figure it’s a good excuse to check in on her, make sure she’s not still recovering from that hangover or, worse, avoiding you for some reason you can’t pin down. On your way over, you swing by the market down the street from her place. You grab a six-pack of Heineken because you know she likes it cold, and a bottle of that fancy grapefruit soda she’s obsessed with—non-alcoholic, just in case she’s still swearing off the hard stuff after last week. Walking out, you catch her face plastered on a billboard across the street, all glossy lips and sultry eyes, selling some new makeup line. It’s surreal, seeing your goofy childhood buddy up there like some untouchable goddess, but then you smirk because you know she’d probably laugh her ass off at the idea of anyone calling her that.

You get to her apartment a little early, buzzing up from the lobby, and when she opens the door, it’s like she’s flipped a switch from the drunk disaster you left last week. She’s all sweet smiles and soft edges, pulling you into a hug that lingers a beat too long, her hair smelling like lavender and something expensive. “Hey, you,” she says, voice warm, and you’re already shrugging off your jacket, holding up the drinks like a peace offering. “Brought supplies,” you say, and she laughs, grabbing the soda bottle with a little “Ooh, you remembered!” that makes you feel oddly proud. Her place looks better than it did post-party—clean, cozy, with a few candles flickering on the counter, the kind that smell like vanilla and money. Dinner’s already set up, a spread of takeout containers from that Korean BBQ joint you both love, the one with the spicy pork that makes your nose run. She’s got the table laid out casual but cute—mismatched plates, a couple of chipped mugs for water, and a playlist humming through her speaker, some chill lo-fi beats that don’t drown out the vibe. You settle in across from her, cracking open a beer while she digs into a pile of kimchi, and it’s easy at first—catching up, joking about how she’s pretty sure she scared off half her friends with her karaoke rendition of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” last week. You’re laughing, she’s laughing, and it’s like old times, except she’s quieter than usual, her eyes lingering on you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You’re halfway through your second beer, picking at some bulgogi with your chopsticks, when you catch her staring again—chin propped on her hand, a little smile tugging at her lips, but her gaze is steady, almost heavy. It’s not the usual Eunbi chaos you’re used to, the teasing or the loud cackling; it’s something else, something that you’re not ready to name. She’s been weird all night, not bad weird, just… off, like she’s holding something back. You set your chopsticks down, wiping your hands on a napkin, and finally just go for it. “Okay, what’s up with you? You’re being all quiet and stare-y, it’s freaking me out.” She blinks, caught, then laughs—a soft, nervous sound that’s not her usual full-on snort. She leans back in her chair, twirling her mug between her fingers, and you can tell she’s gearing up to say something big. “I’ve been thinking about you all week,” she says, and it lands like a sucker punch, totally out of left field. You freeze, beer bottle halfway to your mouth, because what the hell do you even say to that? She’s not done, though—she sets the mug down, leans forward, and it’s like the floodgates open. “Not just you, like, in general. The pact. Us. Everything. I’ve been replaying it all in my head—how we’ve been through every dumb phase together, how you’re always there, how you stayed last week when I was a total mess. You’re… you’re special to me, you know that, right?”

It’s a lot, and you’re just sitting there, letting it wash over you. Her words hit hard because, fuck, you’ve been thinking about her too—more than you’d admit out loud. That night on her couch, her drunk rambling about marrying you, it stuck with you, wormed its way into your brain and wouldn’t leave. You’ve been seeing her everywhere, not just on billboards but in random shit—like the way the light hits your coffee in the morning and reminds you of her smile, or how you caught yourself humming one of her songs in the shower yesterday. You clear your throat, trying to play it cool even though your heart’s doing some dumb acrobatics in your chest. “Yeah, well, you’re kinda special to me too,” you mumble, and it’s not smooth, but it’s honest, and her face lights up like you just handed her the moon. She stands up, motioning to the couch with a little “C’mon, let’s chill,” and you follow, grabbing your beer and the soda bottle because you’re not ready to let go of something to fidget with.

The couch is comfier than the kitchen chairs, and you sink into it, kicking your shoes off while she curls up next to you, closer than she needs to be but not close enough to make it weird. The TV’s off, but the candles are still going, casting this warm glow that makes the whole room feel smaller, softer. She’s got her legs tucked under her, sipping that grapefruit soda, and she’s still watching you, but now it’s less intense, more curious. “So, the pact,” she starts, and you groan, half-laughing, because of course she’s circling back to that. “You seriously wanna talk about that now?” you ask, but she’s already nodding, all earnest. “Yeah, I do. I mean, we’re thirty, dude. No one’s swooped in to lock us down. And I keep thinking… maybe that’s not a bad thing? Like, maybe it’s been you this whole time and I was just too dumb to see it.” She’s laying it all out, and it’s messing with you, because you’ve been wondering the same damn thing. You take a long pull from your beer, stalling, then set it on the coffee table with a clink. “I’ve been thinking about it too,” you admit, and her eyes widen, like she wasn’t expecting you to meet her halfway. “Not just the pact, but… you. How you’re always the one I wanna call when shit’s good or bad. How you get me in a way no one else does.”

She shifts closer, her knee brushing yours, and it’s electric, that tiny contact sparking something you’ve both been dancing around. “So what are we doing about it?” she asks, voice low, and there’s this challenge in her eyes, like she’s daring you to make a move. You’re not sure who leans in first—maybe it’s her, maybe it’s you—but suddenly you’re kissing, slow and tentative at first, then deeper, her hands sliding up your chest while yours find her waist. It’s not fireworks or some movie bullshit; it’s better, realer, like coming home after being gone too long. When you pull back, she’s grinning, breathless, and you’re both laughing because it’s ridiculous and perfect all at once. “Guess we’re doing this, then,” she says, and you nod, still dazed. “Guess we are.”

It’s like someone flipped a switch—everything’s electric, buzzing, and you can’t get enough. The kissing started soft, almost careful, but now it’s deeper, hungrier, her hands gripping your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go. You’re only just now clocking how goddamn gorgeous she is, and yeah, she’s always been a knockout, but this is different. She’s not the Eunbi you’re used to, the one who’d roll up to your place in sweats and a messy bun, no makeup, eating takeout straight from the box. Tonight, she’s all done up—hair falling in loose waves, a slinky black top that hugs her curves just right, and a skirt that’s short enough to make your brain short-circuit. She’s got this subtle shimmer on her skin, probably some fancy highlighter shit from one of those brands she’s always posing for, and her lips are glossy, tasting faintly of cherry when you kiss her again. You pull back for a second, breathless, and the words just tumble out: “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” It’s cheesy as hell, but you mean it, and her face lights up—big, goofy smile and all—before she swings a leg over you and climbs into your lap. Her petite frame settles against you, but there’s nothing delicate about the way she presses herself close, her chest—those full, perfect tits—squishing against you.

She tilts her head back as you lean in, kissing along her neck, all soft skin and that lavender scent mixed with something warmer, sexier, like her body’s radiating heat just for you. Your lips brush that spot under her jaw, and she lets out this little sigh—half moan, half giggle—that sends a jolt straight through you. Her hands slide up to your shoulders, fingers digging in, and you’re hyper-aware of every inch of her, the way her thighs grip your hips, the slight shift of her weight when she adjusts herself. You nip at her collarbone, and she squirms, laughing softly before her voice drops, low and needy: “Take me to the bedroom.” It’s not a question—it’s Eunbi, all commanding and sure, and fuck if that doesn’t make you want her even more. You don’t hesitate, sliding your hands under her ass—firm, perfect—and hoisting her up. She wraps her legs around your waist, locking her ankles behind you, and you can feel her grinning against your shoulder as you carry her down the hall. Her skirt rides up, and you’re palming bare skin, her body warm and solid against yours, and it’s a miracle you don’t trip over the random pair of sneakers she left by the door.

You nudge the bedroom door open with your elbow, the space dimly lit by a lamp on her nightstand, casting everything in this soft, golden glow. Her bed’s a mess—sheets tangled, a couple of pillows shoved to one side—but it’s hers, and that’s enough. You ease her down onto the mattress, and she lands with a little bounce, propping herself up on her elbows, skirt hiked up around her hips, black lace peeking out from underneath. She’s watching you, eyes dark and playful, and you’re just standing there for a second, taking her in—hair splayed out, lips parted, that top clinging to her like a second skin. “Drawer,” she says, nodding toward the dresser across the room, her voice cutting through the haze in your head. “Top one.” You quirk an eyebrow, stepping over to it, and when you slide it open, there’s a strip of condoms sitting right there next to a tube of lip balm and some tangled jewelry. You pick one up, turning it over in your hand, and glance back at her. “You planning this or what?” you ask, half-teasing, half-serious, because it’s Eunbi—she’s always got something up her sleeve. She chuckles, kicking off her heels so they clatter to the floor, and shrugs. “Just in case, you know. Figured if we’re doing this whole pact thing, might as well be ready.”

You smirk, tossing the foil packet onto the bed beside her, and she scoots back, making room as you climb over her. She’s pulling you down by the front of your shirt, kissing you again—harder this time, all tongue and teeth, like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have. Then you start kissing her body, starting at that delicate stretch of her neck, soft and warm under your lips, and she sighs, this tiny, breathy sound that’s got your heart thudding loud enough you’re sure she can hear it. You trail lower, brushing your mouth over her collarbone, then down to her chest, where her black top’s still clinging to her like it’s got a personal grudge against you. Your hands roam, sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her tits, and she arches into you, a quiet “Mmm” vibrating against your lips. You tug at her top, and she lifts her arms, letting you peel it off—black bra underneath, lacy and sheer, doing a piss-poor job of hiding how hard her nipples are. Her skin’s flushed, a little sweaty from the heat building between you, and your hands slide up, cupping her tits through the fabric—full, heavy, driving you absolutely insane. You’ve always known she’s stacked, it’s not news, but feeling them like this, in this moment, is frying your brain. “Can I take this off?” you murmur, tugging at her bra strap. She giggles, this light, playful sound that cuts through the tension, and nods, arching her back a little to give you room. “Go for it, perv,” she teases, but her eyes are locked on yours, dark and wanting, and you’re fumbling with the clasp like it’s your first time because holy shit, this is Eunbi—your Eunbi—and it’s actually happening.

The bra comes off, and you toss it somewhere—floor, chair, who gives a fuck—and just stare for a second, because her breasts are unreal. Big, yeah, but it’s more than that—they’re perfect, soft curves sloping into these gorgeous, rosy areolas, nipples already perked up like they’re begging for you. You’ve seen her in bikinis, tight shirts, all that, but this? This is next-level, and you’re still wrapping your head around the fact that you’re here, with her, like this. “You can touch,” she says, voice softer now, a little shy, and your hands move before your brain catches up, fingers brushing over her skin, careful at first, like you’re afraid she’ll vanish if you go too fast. She’s warm, silky, and the way she sighs—quiet, needy—sends a shiver down your spine. You squeeze gently, testing the weight of her in your palms, and she tips her head back, lips parting. “You like this?” you ask, because you need to hear it, need to know you’re not screwing this up. “Yeah,” she breathes, “so much. I can’t believe we’re doing this.” You laugh, a little shaky, and say, “Me neither. You don’t think it’s weird?” She shakes her head fast, reaching for your wrist to keep your hand on her. “No way. It’s you. Feels right. And, uh, it’s making me really fucking horny.”

That hits you like a truck, her saying it so plain, so Eunbi, and before you can overthink it, you lean in and wrap your lips around one of her nipples, sucking slow and deliberate. She moans, loud and surprised, her back arching into you, and it’s the hottest sound you’ve ever heard. “Oh—fuck,” she gasps, and you feel her hand slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make you groan against her skin. “Keep going,” she begs, voice cracking, and you don’t need to be told twice. You swirl your tongue, flicking over the hard peak, then switch to the other one because you’re greedy and she’s letting you, her fingers tightening in your hair like she’s anchoring herself. You’re lost in it—her taste, the little whimpers she’s making, the way her body shifts under you, restless and wanting. When you finally pull back, catching your breath, her face is pure lust—eyes half-lidded, cheeks pink, lips wet from biting them. She stares at you like you’ve just rocked her world, and then she says, “You need to fuck me. Like, right now,” all commanding and desperate, and it’s not even a question—you’re nodding, already on board, because there’s no way you’re saying no to her.

You’re both scrambling then, a frantic, clumsy rush to get naked. You yank your shirt over your head, nearly choking yourself in the process, and she’s laughing—god, that laugh—even as she wiggles out of her skirt, kicking it off her ankles. You’re down to your boxers, and she’s peeling off her panties, black lace that matches the bra you yeeted earlier, and you’re trying not to stare too hard because you’ll lose it before you even start. She’s sprawled out on the bed now, legs parted just enough to make your mouth dry, and you shove your jeans off, kicking them into the chaos of her room. Your boxers follow, and when you straighten up, condom packet in hand from where it’s been chilling on the bed, she’s looking at you—really looking—and her eyes widen. “Damn,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows, “you’ve been holding out on me. Should’ve jumped you years ago.” You laugh, but it’s strained because she’s naked and staring at your dick like it’s a revelation, and your ego’s taking a victory lap while your nerves are screaming.

You rip the foil open with your teeth (smooth, you hope) and roll the condom on, hands shaking a little because she’s watching you, all impatient and gorgeous, and you’re still processing that this is your best friend, the girl who once cried on your shoulder after a shitty audition, now spread out and waiting for you to fuck her. “You good?” you ask, climbing back onto the bed, settling between her thighs, and she nods, reaching for you, pulling you closer. “So good,” she murmurs, her voice husky, and you feel her hand on your hip, guiding you like she’s done this with you a million times. You line up, heart pounding, and she’s warm, wet, ready—fuck, it’s Eunbi, and it’s perfect. You stop there, hovering, because once you start, there’s no going back, and you’re both teetering on the edge of something huge—best friends to lovers, a pact turning real, all of it crashing together in this sweaty, messy, incredible moment.

She shifts under you, impatient, and you catch her smirk, that little challenge in her eyes. “You gonna make me wait forever, or what?” she says, and it’s so her—bossy, bratty, the Eunbi you’ve known forever but with this new, wild edge. You grin, leaning down to kiss her quick and hard, and mutter, “Hold on, princess, I’ve got you.” Her laugh’s cut off by a gasp as you ease in, and yeah, this is happening, and it’s better than you ever dreamed. Her nails dig into your shoulders, and she’s whispering your name like it’s a secret she’s been keeping too long, and you’re gone—lost in her, in this, in the insane, beautiful reality of you and Eunbi finally crossing that line.

You sink into Eunbi, and it’s like the world tilts—everything narrows down to the heat of her, the way her pussy grips you, tight and wet and so fucking perfect it’s almost too much. You’re on top of her, your chest pressed against hers, her tits squashed between you, soft and warm, and you can feel her heartbeat hammering against your ribs, matching the wild thud of your own. The condom’s doing its job, but it barely dulls the sensation; she’s addictive, like some drug you didn’t know you needed until now. You start moving, slow at first, just to feel her out, but she’s already rocking her hips up to meet you, and that’s it—you’re gone. You thrust harder, pinning her to the mattress with your weight, the bed creaking under you, and she melts into it, legs wrapping around your waist, pulling you deeper. Her breath’s hot against your neck, little gasps and moans spilling out every time you drive into her, and it’s driving you insane.

You kiss her, messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth clashing, because you need more of her—need to taste her, feel her everywhere. She kisses back just as hard, her hands sliding up your back, nails scratching trails you’ll probably feel tomorrow but don’t give a shit about now. “Fuck, you’re so good,” she mutters against your lips, voice all shaky and wrecked, and it’s unreal hearing her like this. You pull back just enough to look at her—face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted—and it’s a punch to the gut how gorgeous she is, how much you’ve always wanted this without even knowing it. “You’re killing me,” you say, and she cracks a grin, all smug even while she’s getting railed. “Good,” she shoots back, “you deserve it for making me wait this long.”

Her legs tighten around you, heels digging into your ass, and you pick up the pace, slamming into her harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside her gasps and your grunts. The bed’s a mess—sheets twisted, pillows shoved aside—and her room smells like sex and that lavender shit she loves, mixing into something heady and overwhelming. You bury your face in her neck, kissing and sucking at the skin there, leaving marks because fuck it, she’s yours now, right? She tilts her head to give you more room, moaning your name—your actual name, not some dumb nickname—and it’s like a jolt straight to your dick, making you thrust even deeper. “Shit, say that again,” you rasp, and she does, over and over, each time a little louder, a little needier, until it’s a chant that’s got you drunk on her.

You shift, propping yourself up on your forearms so you can watch her—watch the way her tits bounce with every thrust, the way her stomach tenses, the way her hands claw at your shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself. “You’re so fucking hot,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t keep it in, and she laughs, breathless, her voice hitching when you hit just the right spot. “Took you long enough to notice, dumbass,” she manages, but then you angle your hips and she’s gasping instead, all “Oh—fuck, there, right there,” and you know you’ve got her. You keep at it, relentless, because she’s squeezing you so tight it’s like she’s trying to pull you in and never let go, and you’re happy to oblige—hell, you’d live here if she asked.

Her hair’s fanned out on the pillow, dark strands sticking to her sweaty forehead, and you brush it aside, kissing her again because you can’t not—she’s too much, too perfect, too everything. “Always knew you’d be trouble,” you murmur against her mouth, and she nips at your lip, grinning. “You love it, though,” she says, and yeah, you do—love the way she’s unraveling under you, love the way she’s still somehow calling the shots even when she’s pinned beneath you, love that this is Eunbi, your best friend, the one person who’s been there through every stupid fight and late-night rant, now moaning like she can’t get enough. You slide a hand down her side, gripping her hip to pull her closer, and she arches, meeting every thrust like she’s daring you to go harder. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, bossy and hot, and you groan, shaking your head. “Not a chance.”

The rhythm’s steady now, hard and fast, and she’s matching you, rolling her hips up in time, her thighs trembling against your sides. You can feel the sweat slick between you, her skin sliding against yours, and it’s filthy and raw and so fucking good. “You feel so amazing,” you say, because you need her to know, and she nods, eyes fluttering open to lock on yours. “You too,” she breathes, and there’s this moment—brief, electric—where it’s not just sex, it’s you and her, years of friendship crashing into something bigger, something real. Then she’s grabbing your face, pulling you down for another kiss, and it’s sloppy, uncoordinated, but you don’t care because she’s grinding up against you, chasing whatever’s building between you, and you’re right there with her, lost in the heat and the want.

You shift again, hooking one of her legs over your shoulder, and she gasps, loud and sharp, her hands fisting the sheets. “Fuck, that’s—yeah, keep going,” she says, and you do, driving into her at this new angle that’s got her shaking, got you seeing stars. Her other leg’s still wrapped around you, pulling you in, and you’re pressed so close it’s like you’re trying to fuse into her. “You’re insane,” you mutter, half-laughing. She smirks, even now, and says, “You’re welcome,” like she’s doing you a favor, and maybe she is—maybe this is the best damn favor anyone’s ever done you. You kiss her again, swallowing her moans, and keep going, hard and steady, because she’s still melting under you, still begging for more with every thrust, and you’re not about to disappoint her—not now.

You’re deep in it with Eunbi, pounding into her like there’s no tomorrow, the bedframe rattling with every thrust, and it’s this wild, relentless rhythm that’s got sweat dripping down your back and her moaning into your mouth. Her pussy’s tight and slick around you, pulling you in with every move, and you’re pressed so close her tits are mashed against your chest, her nipples hard against your skin. She’s clawing at your shoulders, legs locked around your hips, and you’re both lost in it—grunting, gasping, chasing that high together. It’s been nonstop, a blur of heat and need, and you’re so wrapped up in how fucking incredible she feels that you barely register the way her breath hitches, sharper now, like she’s shifting gears. Then she’s pushing against your chest, not hard, just enough to get your attention, and her voice cuts through the haze, all raspy and commanding: “Wait—let me ride you.” You freeze for a split second, brain catching up, but she’s already moving, nudging you back with that bossy little smirk she’s always had, and fuck if it doesn’t make you want her even more. You let her take the lead—because it’s Eunbi, and she’s been running this show since you started—and flop back onto the bed, pillows bunching under your head as she straddles you, confidence and hunger in her eyes.

She doesn’t waste a second, swinging a leg over you and settling on your lap, her hands flat on your chest as she lines herself up. You’re still hard as hell, cock twitching when she grips you, giving you a quick stroke that has you biting your lip to keep from groaning too loud. Then she sinks down, slow at first, taking you in inch by inch, and—shit—it’s a whole new kind of torture, watching her take control like this. Her pussy’s so wet you can hear it, this filthy little sound mixing with her moans as she bottoms out, hips flush against yours. “Oh fuck, that’s good,” she breathes, head tipping back, and you can’t tear your eyes off her—her hair’s a sweaty mess, sticking to her neck, and her body’s glistening in the dim light of her room. She starts moving, rolling her hips in this smooth, deliberate way that’s got you gripping the sheets, and her tits—those big, perfect tits—swing with every bounce, heavy and hypnotic. It’s sexy as hell, seeing her dominate you like this, owning every second, every thrust, and knowing she’s getting off on your cock just as much as you’re losing it over her.

She’s not quiet about it either—Eunbi’s never been shy, but this is next-level. “Goddamn, your cock’s so fucking good,” she says, and she’s looking down at you now, eyes dark and wild. “I can’t believe how perfect you feel—shit, I’m gonna be addicted to this.” Her hands slide up her own body, cupping her breasts, squeezing them hard enough that her fingers sink into the soft flesh, and she groans, loud and unfiltered, like she’s putting on a show just for you. You grin, chest heaving, and shoot back, “That’s no problem, babe. Once we’re married, you’ll get this dick every damn day.” It’s half a joke, half a promise, but the way her eyes light up, you know it lands. She laughs, this bright, giddy sound that’s so her—your best friend, your partner-in-crime—and leans down, still riding you, her hips never missing a beat. Her lips crash into yours, and it’s messy, her moaning into your mouth while she grinds down harder, chasing whatever’s building in her.

You’ve got your hands on her hips now, fingers digging into the curve of her ass, helping her move because you can’t just lie there and take it—you need to feel her, need to meet her halfway. She’s bouncing faster, tits swaying right in your face, and you’re mesmerized by the way they jiggle, the way her nipples brush your chest every time she leans forward. “You like this, huh?” she pants, smirking down at you, and you nod, too caught up to play it cool. “Fuck yeah, you’re killing me,” you say, voice rough, and she giggles again, squeezing her own tits harder, thumbs flicking over her nipples. “Good. Been wanting to ride you forever—should’ve known you’d be this fun to fuck.” It’s classic Eunbi, that mix of teasing and raw honesty, and it hits you square in the chest—years of friendship flipping into this, into her on top of you, talking dirty like it’s nothing, like it’s always been leading here.

Her pace picks up, hips snapping down with this wet, rhythmic slap that’s got your head spinning, and she’s loud now—moans, curses, your name tumbling out like she can’t help it. “Fuck, you’re so deep,” she gasps, one hand braced on your chest, the other still kneading her breast, and you can feel her tightening around you, hot and slick and relentless. You slide a hand up her thigh, gripping hard, and she shudders, leaning into you more, her hair falling over her face like a curtain. You brush it back, wanting to see her—see the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut when you thrust up to meet her, matching her rhythm. “You’re so fucking sexy like this,” you tell her, because it’s true, and she grins, breathless, leaning down again to kiss you, her tongue sliding against yours in this sloppy, perfect mess. “Takes one to know one,” she murmurs against your lips, and you laugh, the sound catching in your throat when she clenches around you, riding you harder.

She’s in total control now, hips rolling and grinding, and you’re just along for the ride—literally—watching her take what she wants, loving every second of it. Her thighs flex against your sides, strong and soft all at once, and you can’t stop staring—at her face, her body, the way she’s so into it, so into you. “God, why didn’t we do this sooner?” she says, and you groan, hands roaming her back, her ass, anywhere you can reach. “Beats me,” you mutter, “but we’re here now, so fucking enjoy it.” She nods, kissing you again, and it’s all heat and want, her tongue tangling with yours as she keeps moving, keeps fucking you like she’s got something to prove. Her breasts bounce against you, and you’re tempted to grab them, but she’s already got that covered, squeezing them herself, moaning louder every time she shifts just right.

“You’re stuck with me now,” she says, grinning through a moan, and you fire back, “Like I’d ever wanna get rid of you.” It’s cheesy, yeah, but it’s real, and she leans into it, kissing you deep, her hips never slowing, her body pressed so tight against yours it’s like you’re one person. You’re drowning in her—in the feel of her, the sound of her, the fact that this is Eunbi, your best friend, riding you like she’s claiming you for good. And honestly? You’re totally fucking fine with that.

The rhythm’s relentless, her pussy squeezing you so tight it’s like she’s got you in a vice, all wet and hot and addictive. She’s panting hard, sweat beading on her forehead, her hair sticking to her neck in damp strands, and you can feel her starting to unravel, her movements getting sloppier, more desperate. Then she grabs your shoulders, nails digging in, and her voice comes out all shaky and raw: “Fuck, I’m close—I’m gonna cum on your dick.” It’s like a switch flips in you—her saying that, so filthy and sure, lights something wild up in your chest. You wrap your arms around her back, locking her against you, her skin slick against yours, and take over. You thrust up into her, hard and nonstop, slamming into that tight, pink heat with everything you’ve got, and she screams—this loud, wild sound that bounces off the walls, pure pleasure ripping out of her.

“Shit, babe, cum for me,” you say, the pet name slipping out natural as hell, and her eyes widen, like it’s flipped some switch in her too. She’s a mess now—moaning your name, clawing at your back, her tits pressed so tight against you they’re practically suffocating, and you love it. “Oh my god—yes, fuck, keep going,” she gasps, her head tipping back, exposing her throat, and you lean in, kissing the sweat-salted skin there, tasting her as you pound into her. Her pussy’s making these wet, sloppy noises, loud and obscene, and it’s driving you insane, every thrust sinking you deeper into her, her walls fluttering like she’s about to lose it. “I’m gonna cum—fuck, I’m cumming,” she cries, and then it hits—her whole body locks up, trembling hard against you, her thighs shaking around your hips as she comes apart. It’s intense, like she’s shattering, her moans turning into these broken little gasps, and you hold her tight, arms wrapped around her like you’re keeping her from flying off the bed. You slow down, just enough to let her ride it out, and kiss her—deep, slow, her lips trembling against yours as she tries to catch her breath.

When you pull back, her eyes are wide, glassy, staring at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. She’s still shaking, her chest heaving, and then she says it, voice soft but so fucking clear: “I love you.” It’s not a whisper, not a throwaway—it’s real, raw, like the orgasm cracked something open inside her. “Oh my god, I love you,” she repeats, almost laughing, like she can’t believe she’s saying it but can’t stop either. Your heart does this stupid flip, because—fuck—you’ve always felt it too, buried somewhere under years of dumb jokes and late-night hangouts. “I love you too,” you say, grinning, and it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever said. “Always have.” Her face lights up, this mix of shock and joy, and she grabs you, kissing you hard, all teeth and tongue and desperation, like she’s trying to pour everything she’s feeling into it. You kiss her back just as fierce, hands sliding up her back, fingers digging into her skin, and she’s still clenching around you, still riding the aftershocks, but now she’s got this fire in her eyes. “I’m gonna make you cum, babe,” she says, and the way she calls you babe—affectionate and possessive—makes your dick twitch inside her.

She pulls off you then, slow and deliberate, and you almost groan at the loss of her heat, but she’s already moving, sliding off your lap with this sexy little smirk. “Sit on the edge,” she says, nodding toward the bed, and you don’t argue—why would you? You scoot over, planting your feet on the floor, legs spread, and she’s on her knees in front of you in a flash, smooth skin and wild hair, looking up at you like she’s about to ruin you in the best way. Your cock’s still hard, slick with her, and she reaches for the condom, peeling it off with this slow, teasing tug that has you gritting your teeth. “Don’t need this anymore,” she mutters, tossing it aside, and before you can process that, she’s stroking you—light, loose, her fingers barely grazing you but enough to make you hiss. Then she leans in, purses her lips, and spits on your dick—straight-up, no hesitation, this wet little glob sliding down the shaft, and it’s filthy and hot and so fucking Eunbi. You groan, head tipping back, and she grins, all smug, before scooting closer, her hands cupping her tits and pushing them together.

She wraps those big, perfect breasts around your cock, and—holy shit—it’s unreal. Soft, warm, squeezing you tight as she slides them up and down, the spit and her sweat making it slick and smooth. “You like that, babe?” she asks, voice low and playful, and you nod, too choked up to talk properly. “Fuck yes,” you manage, and she laughs, this bright, happy sound that’s so at odds with how dirty this is—but that’s her, always been her, mixing sweet and wild like it’s nothing. Her nipples are hard, brushing your thighs as she moves, and you can’t stop staring—her tits swallowing your dick, the way her hands press them tighter, the little moans she lets out like she’s getting off on this as much as you are. “Always wanted to do this,” she says, looking up at you through her lashes, and you believe her—there’s this hunger in her eyes, like she’s been holding back for years, same as you. “Should’ve known you’d be perfect for it,” you say, and she winks, sliding her tits down slow, then back up, dragging it out just to fuck with you.

Her pace picks up, hands working her breasts around you, and she’s talking now, all breathy and hot: “God, your cock feels so good like this—gonna need this all the time now.” You groan, hands fisting the sheets because she’s relentless, the wet slide of her skin against you driving you up the wall. “You’ve got me whenever you want,” you tell her, and it’s a promise—pact or not, she’s got you hooked. She leans forward, kissing the tip of your dick where it peeks out between her tits, and it’s so soft, so unexpected, you nearly lose it right there. “Good,” she murmurs, lips brushing you as she speaks, “because I’m not letting you go, babe.” That word again—babe—and it’s doing shit to you, making this feel bigger than just sex, like it’s always been more with her. She keeps going, tits bouncing around you, her eyes locked on yours, and it’s intense—passionate, dirty, and so fucking personal, like she’s rewriting every rule you ever had about what you are to each other. You’re hers, she’s yours, and this—her on her knees, fucking you with her tits—is just the start.

You’re so fucking close you can feel it building, this tight, hot pressure in your gut. She knows it too—can tell by the way your breath’s hitching, the way your hands are gripping the sheets like they’re your lifeline. Her eyes lock on yours, dark and wicked, and she smirks, slowing down just enough to drag it out, to make you squirm. Then she gets naughtier, leaning in close, her voice dropping to this sweet, needy little whine that hits you hard. “Cum for me, babe,” she begs, lips pouting like she’s pleading for her life. “Please—give it to me, I need it.” It’s so hot, so filthy coming from her—Eunbi, your best friend turned lover, begging like she’s starving for you—and it’s shredding what’s left of your self-control.

She doesn’t stop there, oh no—she’s on a mission now, pushing you right to the edge. “Mark me,” she says, voice trembling with want, “make me yours forever—cover me in you.” Her tits slide up and down faster, squeezing tighter, and she’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in her world. “That’s what you want, right? To make me yours?” There’s this challenge in her tone, daring you to deny it, but fuck, you can’t—because it is what you want, more than anything. “Yeah,” you rasp, “that’s exactly what I want—been wanting it forever.” Her smile turns feral, triumphant, and she leans in closer, her breath hot against your cock as it peeks out between her breasts. “Then do it,” she whispers, “cum on my tits—make me yours, babe.” It’s the babe that does it, that little pet name she’s claimed for you, dripping with affection and ownership, and you’re done for. She picks up the pace, relentless now, her hands pressing her breasts together so tight it’s almost painful, and you can feel it—the heat, the pressure, the way she’s moaning like she’s getting off on this as much as you are.

“I’m gonna cum,” you groan, head tipping back, and she lights up, this eager, hungry glint in her eyes. “Yes—fuck, do it,” she moans, and it’s like she’s egging you on, her voice wrapping around you, pulling you over the line. You explode—thick, hot jets shooting out, painting her tits in messy streaks, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. You moan loud, this guttural sound ripping out of you, and she’s right there with you, gasping, “More, babe—give me more!” like she’s addicted already. And you do—cum keeps coming, splashing across her chest, dripping down between her breasts, and she’s loving it, tilting her head back so it catches the light, all glossy and hypnotic. Her skin’s glistening, covered in you, and you’re shaking, legs weak, watching it spread, marking her like she asked. She’s grinning, this wild, delighted smile, and her hands slide over her tits, smearing it around, rubbing it in like it’s some kind of trophy. “Look at you,” she says, voice husky and proud, “fucking wrecked me—made me yours.”

You’re panting, chest heaving, and when you finally look at her—really look—she’s a vision: hair a sweaty mess, cheeks flushed, cum streaked across her chest like some dirty masterpiece. There’s this beat of silence, just the two of you breathing hard, staring at each other, and then you say it again, because it’s bursting out of you: “I love you.” It’s raw, unguarded, and her face softens, that smug edge melting into something adorable, something real. Her lips curve into this shy, perfect smile, and she crawls up the bed, straddling your lap again, her messy, cum-slick tits pressing against your chest as she leans in close. “I love you too,” she whispers, and it’s not just words—it’s everything, years of friendship crashing into this moment, turning it into something permanent. You grab her face, pulling her into a kiss, tasting of sweat and sex and promises neither of you can take back.

She pulls away, just enough to look at you, her forehead resting against yours, and you’re still reeling from it all—the titjob, the way she begged, the way you lost it all over her. “You need to be mine,” you say, “what just happened—it’s different, Eunbi. I’ve never felt anything like this.” Your hands slide down her back, gripping her ass, holding her there like you’re afraid she’ll slip away. She nods, eyes shining, and says, “I want that—I wanna be yours, only yours.” It’s quiet, serious, and you feel it settle in your bones—this isn’t just a hookup, not some pact gone wild. It’s you and her, rewriting the rules, crossing every line you ever drew, and there’s no going back. She kisses you again, hard and possessive, her tongue claiming you like she’s sealing the deal, and you’re all in—heart pounding, hands roaming, totally fucking smitten by the girl who’s been your everything since day one.

She breaks the kiss, sliding off you, and you’re still dazed, watching her move. She grabs a towel from the floor—some random thing she must’ve tossed earlier—and wipes herself down, casual as hell, like she didn’t just change your entire world. “Guess we’re official now, huh?” she says, smirking, and you laugh, this shaky, relieved sound, because yeah, you are—official, exclusive, whatever the fuck you wanna call it. “Damn right,” you say, pulling her back to you, her body warm and sticky against yours. “You’re stuck with me, babe.” She grins, all teeth and mischief, and says, “Good, ‘cause I’m not letting you off easy.” And that’s it—friendship torched, replaced with this messy, beautiful thing that’s all yours, all hers, forever marked by the night she begged for you and you gave her everything.

—

A few months fly by since that wild night with Eunbi, and it’s been this whirlwind of figuring shit out together—dates squeezed between her insane idol schedule, late-night takeout sessions at her place, and sneaky hookups whenever you can steal a moment. You’re not just best friends anymore; you’re together, like, for real, and it’s messy and amazing all at once. She’s still the same Eunbi—teasing you over dumb stuff like how you always burn the toast, or laughing her ass off when you trip over her heels she leaves lying around—but now there’s this extra layer, this warmth when she looks at you, and you catch yourself staring at her like a total sap sometimes. Then, out of nowhere, it happens: the wedding. You’d talked about the pact turning real, half-joking at first, but one day she just looks at you over coffee and says, “Let’s do it—let’s get married,” and you’re like, “Fuck yeah, let’s do it.” So you plan it quick—nothing huge, just enough to make it official—and the news drops like a bomb on her fans. Twitter’s a mess, all “EUNBI’S MARRIED???” and “WHO’S THE GUY?”, but she’s not fazed. She’s not quitting the idol life—hell no, she’s too good at it—but she’s all in with you, and that’s what matters. Her inner circle, though? They’re not shocked at all. Her manager just smirks and says, “About damn time,” and your mutual friends—ones who’ve watched you two dance around each other since high school—act like they’ve been holding their breath for this forever. “Finally,” one of them texts you, with a string of eye-roll emojis, and you can’t help but laugh because maybe they’re right—maybe everyone’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

The wedding day hits, and it’s this perfect mix of chaos and chill, set in this sleek little venue just outside the city—modern vibes with big windows, fairy lights strung up everywhere, and a view of the skyline that’s straight out of a movie. You’re in a sharp black suit, nothing too flashy, but Eunbi picked it out and said you looked “hot as hell,” so you’re feeling yourself. She walks in, and—fuck—she’s unreal. Her dress is this slinky, off-white number that hugs her curves perfectly, simple but sexy, with a slit up the leg that’s got you sweating already. Her hair’s down, loose waves framing her face, and she’s got this glow, like she’s lit up from the inside. The ceremony’s small—her parents, yours, a tight crew of friends, and her group members who’ve basically adopted you as their brother-in-law already. You stand at the front, palms sweaty, heart doing flips, and when she walks toward you, grinning like an idiot, you’re nervous as shit but so damn excited you can barely stand it. The officiant’s some cool, laid-back guy you found online, keeping it short and sweet—no cheesy vows, just the basics, because you and Eunbi agreed you’d rather wing it than read some scripted crap. You slip the ring on her finger—a thin gold band with a tiny diamond she insisted on because “I’m not flashy, babe”—and she slides yours on, her hands steady even though her eyes are glistening.

You say “I do,” she says it back, and then you’re kissing her—harder than you probably should in front of everyone, but the cheers and whistles from your friends drown out any awkwardness. She’s laughing against your lips, and you pull her close, her body pressed against yours, and it’s like the world clicks into place. The reception’s a blur of good vibes—there’s a playlist blasting all her favorite songs, a mix of Iz*One, her solo hits and some random 2000s throwbacks you both love, and you’re dancing like idiots, her spinning you around until you’re dizzy. She’s giggling, tipsy on champagne, and you’re right there with her, sneaking kisses between bites of cake—chocolate with raspberry filling, her pick because she’s obsessed with anything sweet and tart. Her mom hugs you tight, whispering, “Take care of her, okay?” and your dad claps you on the back, grinning like he’s proud as hell. Eunbi’s dad just nods, all stoic, but you catch him smiling later when he thinks no one’s looking. Your mom’s crying, of course, and Eunbi teases her about it, which makes everyone laugh.

At one point, you snag a quiet moment—just you and her on the venue’s balcony, city lights sprawling out below, the air cool against your flushed skin. She’s leaning against the railing, dress fluttering in the breeze, and you wrap your arms around her from behind, chin on her shoulder. “This is real, huh?” you ask, because it still feels surreal—married to your best friend, the girl who once dared you to jump into a freezing lake just to see if you’d do it. She turns in your arms, looking up at you with those big, dark eyes, and nods. “Yeah, babe, it’s real—and I’m freaking out a little, but in a good way.” You laugh, kissing her forehead, then her nose, then her lips, soft and slow this time. “Me too. Nervous as shit, but excited. We’re in this together, right?” She smiles, that wide, goofy one that’s always gotten you, and says, “Always. We’ll figure it out—new life, new rules, whatever. Just don’t burn the house down trying to cook, okay?” You snort, because yeah, fair point, and pull her closer, her head tucking under your chin like it’s made to fit there.

The party winds down, friends stumbling out with hugs and sloppy goodbyes, and you’re left standing there with Eunbi, her hand in yours, rings glinting under the lights. You’re both a little buzzed, a little teary from the emotional rollercoaster, but so fucking happy it’s ridiculous. She drags you back inside to grab one last dance—some slow, sappy song she loves—and you sway together, her cheek against your chest, your arms tight around her. “You’re my husband now,” she murmurs, testing the word, and you grin, this dumb, lovesick thing that won’t leave your face. “And you’re my wife. Still can’t believe it.” She tilts her head up, kissing you deep, and it’s not just a kiss—it’s a promise, a kickstart to whatever this new chapter’s gonna be. The night ends with you driving back to her place—your place now, technically—her hand on your thigh, the city blurring past, and you’re both quiet, soaking it in. It’s the start of something huge, scary, thrilling, and you’re diving in headfirst, together, like you always have.

—

The first few weeks of married life with Eunbi are this weird, hilarious mix of disbelief and dumbassery, like neither of you can wrap your heads around the whole “husband and wife” thing. You’re stumbling over the words, especially when you’re drunk—slouched on the couch with a beer in hand, her giggling over a glass of wine, and you’ll slur out, “Hey, wife, pass me the remote,” and she’ll cackle, tossing a cushion at your face instead, yelling, “Shut up, husband, get it yourself!” It’s all a joke, this exaggerated play-acting that cracks you both up, but then there’s the sex—holy shit, the sex—and it’s like a whole other level of unreal. You’re fucking like newlyweds, which, duh, you are, but it’s not just hot—it’s mind-blowing, the kind of sex that leaves you both sweaty and panting, tangled in sheets, staring at the ceiling like what the fuck just happened? Afterward, though, it’s not just hormones—it’s this quiet, gooey moment where you’re lying there, her head on your chest, your fingers in her hair, and you’re hit with it: you’re in love, stupidly, totally in love. She’ll mumble something sleepy like, “You’re stuck with me now, babe,” and you’ll kiss her forehead, muttering back, “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” and it’s cheesy as hell but true.

Work’s a trip too—word got around fast that you’re hitched to Kwon Eunbi, the idol, and it’s this running gag now. Your coworkers rib you constantly, like, “How’s it feel being Mr. Superstar?” or “Dude, you’re living a K-drama,” you just laugh, grinning, because yeah, it’s wild, but you’re lowkey proud of it. Meanwhile, Eunbi’s in beast mode—working on her new solo album, late-night studio sessions and vocal takes, while filming some reality show where she’s probably charming the pants off everyone. She’s busy as fuck, always on the go, but when she comes home—your home now, her sleek apartment with the killer view—she’s all smiles, kicking off her sneakers and collapsing onto the couch with a dramatic groan. “Missed you, loser,” she’ll say, and you’re already there, tossing her a water bottle, rubbing her shoulders because she’s wrecked from dance practice. She takes care of you too—cooking ramen at 2 a.m. when you’re both starving, or dragging you to bed when you’ve been up too late scrolling Tiktok. You’re texting nonstop when she’s away—dumb memes, her sending selfies with captions like “Your wife’s hot, deal with it,” and you firing back, “Yeah, my husband’s a snack too, what’s new?” It’s this constant thread, keeping you tethered even when her schedule’s a nightmare.

Weeks bleed into months, and you settle into this rhythm that’s equal parts new and familiar. Waking up next to Eunbi is the best damn part of your day—her sleepy face is adorable, all puffy cheeks and half-open eyes, hair a tangled mess across the pillow. She’ll grumble something incoherent, swatting at you if you try to wake her too early, but then she’ll roll over, snuggling into your chest like she’s claiming you, and you’re just lying there, grinning like an idiot because this is your life now. Mornings are a vibe—she’ll shuffle around the apartment in a tank top and panties, legs bare, that perfect ass on display, and you can’t help yourself. You’ll catch her mid-pancake flip or while she’s brewing coffee, sliding up behind her, hands on her hips, kissing her neck until she squeals and shoves you off—except half the time she doesn’t, and it turns into more. “Babe, I’m gonna burn the eggs!” she’ll laugh, but then you’re spinning her around, pinning her against the counter, and breakfast’s forgotten. One thing leads to another—her legs wrapped around you, tank top shoved up, panties on the floor—and you’re fucking right there in the kitchen, her moaning into your mouth, messy and desperate like it’s still the honeymoon phase. The friendship’s still there, rock-solid, just layered with this new heat—she’ll still roast you for leaving socks everywhere, but now it’s followed by a kiss that lingers too long to be platonic.

The apartment’s your little bubble—her minimalist decor mixed with your random junk, like the beat-up guitar you insist you’ll learn to play someday, or the stack of takeout menus you’ve hoarded “just in case.” She’s got her awards lined up on a shelf, shiny reminders of her idol life, but she’s just as happy sprawled on the couch with you, bingeing some trashy Netflix show, her feet in your lap while you argue over who’d survive a zombie apocalypse. When she’s wiped from a long day—voice hoarse from recording, body aching from choreography—you’re there, running her a bath, making her laugh with dumb impressions until she’s relaxed again. She does the same for you—when work’s kicking your ass, she’ll show up with coffee and a playlist, pulling you out of your funk with that smile that’s always worked on you. Months in, it’s routine but never boring—waking up to her, trading texts, coming home to each other. The sex is still fire, the love’s deep, and the friendship? Stronger than ever, like marriage didn’t just add a ring but superglued what you already had.

—

After months of Eunbi being swallowed whole by her insane schedule—tour dates stacked back-to-back, promo shoots, and those late-night studio sessions that left her voice raspy and her texts to you half-asleep—you finally catch a break. Her new solo album’s a hit, the tour’s wrapped, and she’s got some rare free time stretching out ahead of her like a gift. You’re quick to cash in on it, begging your boss for that long-delayed vacation you’ve been sitting on forever, and when it’s approved, you don’t even hesitate—Paris. It’s been on Eunbi’s bucket list since you were just best friends, back when she’d sprawl across your couch with a bowl of popcorn, scrolling through Instagram, sighing over pics of the Eiffel Tower and croissants, saying, “One day, dude, I’m dragging you there with me.” Now, here you are, married to her, making it happen. You book the flights, snag a cute little Airbnb near Montmartre with a balcony that’s begging for lazy mornings, and when you land in the city of love, it’s like the universe hands you both a gold star—perfect weather, crisp and cool, with that golden Paris light making everything look like a postcard.

The first big stop is the Eiffel Tower, because, well, you can’t not. It’s this crisp afternoon, the kind where the wind’s just chilly enough to justify the scarf Eunbi insisted you pack, and she’s bouncing around like a kid, her puffy jacket zipped up tight, a beanie squashing her hair flat. She’s got her phone out, snapping pics like a tourist—selfies with the tower looming behind you, her dragging you into frame even though you’re grumbling about how you hate photos. “Babe, come on, we need this for the memories!” she says, grinning, and you can’t say no to that smile, so you let her pose you—arm around her waist, her leaning into you, the iron lattice of the tower stretching up into the sky as if it were the Eighth Wonder of the World. You take some too, catching her off-guard when she’s laughing at some dumb joke you made about the French berets, her eyes crinkling, cheeks pink from the cold. There’s this one shot—her dazzled by the view, smiling, hair flying in the wind, the tower sharp in the background—that you know’s going straight to your lockscreen when you’re back home. You climb up to the second level, her dragging you by the hand, and when you’re looking out over the city—Seine glittering below, all those rooftops sprawling out—she squeezes your fingers, whispering, “This is fucking unreal,” and you’re nodding, too choked up to say much because yeah, it is, and it’s her you’re here with.

Nights are for romantic dinners, and Paris delivers hard. You find this little bistro near the Seine, tucked away with ivy crawling up the walls, candles flickering on every table, and a menu that’s all in French but smells like heaven. Eunbi’s in this slinky black dress she packed “just in case,” and you’re in the one nice jacket you own, feeling like a king when she keeps stealing glances at you over her wine glass. The waiter’s rattling off specials in this thick accent, and you’re both pretending to understand, nodding like idiots until you just point at something with “canard” in it—duck, you figure—and hope for the best. It’s delicious, rich and tender, paired with this red wine she picked that’s got her giggling after two sips. “You’re my husband,” she says out of nowhere, twirling her fork, “and we’re in Paris—how did we get here?” You laugh, reaching across the table to grab her hand, thumb brushing her ring. “Beats me, but I’m not complaining.” The food keeps coming—crusty bread, some creamy soup she moans over, and a dessert that’s all chocolate and raspberries, which she feeds you a bite of, smirking when you get some on your chin. It’s intimate, easy, and you’re falling harder for her under the soft glow of the restaurant, the hum of French chatter around you making it feel like you’re in some dreamy movie.

You wander the city too—not just the big stuff, but the little streets, the ones with cobblestones and pastel storefronts selling macarons and flowers. She’s obsessed with the patisseries, dragging you into every one she spots, and you’re stuffed on croissants and éclairs by day three, but you don’t care because she’s licking powdered sugar off her fingers and laughing at you when you try to speak French to the cashier and butcher it. “Stick to English, babe,” she teases, but she’s proud anyway, you can tell. One evening, you’re strolling along the Champs-Élysées, lights twinkling, her arm looped through yours, and she stops to watch some street musician playing accordion. She’s swaying a little, humming along, and you pull her into this goofy slow dance right there on the sidewalk, people dodging around you, some smiling, some rolling their eyes. “You’re such a dork,” she mutters, but she’s grinning, her cheek pressed to your chest, and you feel like the luckiest guy alive.

Back at the Airbnb, it’s all cozy vibes—big windows letting in the night, a bottle of cheap wine you grabbed from a corner store, and her curled up against you on the tiny couch. You’re both buzzed, talking about everything—how she wants to come back for your anniversary, how you’re gonna frame that Eiffel Tower pic for the apartment. She’s in one of your hoodies, legs thrown over your lap, and you’re playing with her hair, twirling it around your fingers, when she looks up at you, all soft and serious. “I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did,” she says, voice quiet, “but this—us, here—it’s like… more.” You swallow hard, because fuck, you feel it too, this deep, steady thing that’s bigger than Paris, bigger than the wedding. “Same,” you say, leaning in to kiss her, slow and lazy, tasting wine and her, and it’s like every cheesy love song rolled into one perfect moment.

The days blur together—museums where she drags you to see Monet paintings and you pretend to get it, boat rides on the Seine where she’s snapping pics of you instead of the scenery, late mornings tangled in bed because neither of you wants to get up. You’re falling harder in the city of love, not just because it’s Paris, but because it’s her—Eunbi, your wife, the girl who’s always been it for you. By the time you’re packing to leave, suitcases stuffed with souvenirs and her whining about how she didn’t get enough macarons, you’re already planning the next trip. “We’re coming back,” she declares, zipping her bag, and you grin, pulling her into a hug. “Hell yeah, we are.”

—

You and Eunbi stumble through the door of your apartment, jet-lagged as hell from the Paris trip, dragging suitcases that feel like they’ve gained ten pounds from all the souvenirs and random shit you couldn’t resist buying. The flight back was a nightmare—turbulence, a crying baby two rows up, and Eunbi accidentally spilling her in-flight coffee on your lap—but you’re home now, and that’s all that matters. You’re both wrecked, clothes rumpled, eyes heavy, but there’s this quiet, happy buzz between you, like you’ve just pulled off something epic. Paris was a dream—croissants flaky enough to make you cry, the Eiffel Tower sparkling at night, Eunbi dragging you into every cute café she could find—and you’re still riding that high. After kicking off your shoes and leaving a trail of bags by the door, you both agree a bath’s non-negotiable. The tub’s big enough for two, thank God, and you sink into the hot water together, her back against your chest, steam curling up around you. She’s got her hair piled into a messy bun, and you’re just soaking there, letting the ache melt out of your bones, laughing about how she almost got pickpocketed by some slick dude near Notre-Dame but scared him off with her death glare. “I’m a badass, babe,” she says, smirking, and you kiss the top of her head, muttering, “Yeah, my badass wife.”

Clean and lazy, you flop onto the bed in nothing but towels, still damp, too tired to bother with clothes. The mattress feels like heaven after long hours of flying, and you grab your phone, scrolling through the Paris pics—Eunbi cheesing in front of the Louvre, you pretending to hold up the Arc de Triomphe, a blurry selfie of you two kissing on a Seine river cruise. She scoots closer, resting her chin on your shoulder, and you can feel her smiling against your skin. “Paris was my dream, you know,” she says, voice soft, “and doing it with you? Fucking perfect.” You turn your head, catching her eyes, and there’s this warm, mushy thing in your chest because yeah, it was perfect—wandering Montmartre, getting lost in those winding streets, her laughing so hard at your shitty French accent that wine came out her nose. But then she goes quiet, scrolling through more pics, and her vibe shifts—nostalgic, almost wistful. “Remember when we were just friends?” she starts, and you know she’s about to dive deep. “Like, all those late nights at my old place, me bitching about auditions, you bringing me ramen because I was too broke to eat out. I told you stuff I never told anyone—how scared I was I’d flop, how I thought I’d never make it. You just got me, always did, and I was so fucking blind to how obvious it was.”

You laugh, setting the phone down, rolling onto your side to face her. “Obvious, huh? Guess I was clueless too—thought you were just my annoying best friend who stole my fries and cried during horror movies.” She smacks your arm, grinning, but there’s this tenderness in her eyes. “We were idiots,” she says, “all those years, and it was right there. Like that time you stayed over after my first big show, sleeping on that shitty couch because you didn’t wanna leave me alone—I should’ve known then.” You nod, remembering—her buzzing with adrenaline, you half-dead from cheering so loud, crashing out with her head on your shoulder. “Yeah, or that time you dragged me to the beach at 3 a.m. just to scream at the ocean after that dickhead dumped you,” you add, and she snorts, burying her face in the pillow. “God, I was a mess. But you were there—always were.” It’s heavy, this trip down memory lane, but it’s sweet too, stitching together all those moments that led to now—married, in love, still the same dumbasses but better.

The next day, you’re up and at it, hitting the grocery store like some normal-ass couple, which still feels wild to you. Eunbi’s in a hoodie and sweats, hair tucked under a cap to dodge any fans, and you’re pushing the cart, bickering over whether to get the spicy ramen or the mild one. “You’re such a wimp,” she teases, tossing the spicy pack in, and you fire back, “Says the girl who cried eating hot wings last week.” She hip-checks you, laughing, and it’s easy, domestic, but then you’re in the cereal aisle, and she gets quiet again, picking up a box of Frosted Flakes like it’s a time machine. “Did you ever, like, feel something back then?” she asks, not looking at you, and you lean against the cart, thinking. “Yeah, sometimes,” you admit, “like when you’d hug me a little too long after a bad day, or that time you fell asleep on me during movie night—I’d catch myself staring, wondering, but I’d shove it down ‘cause I didn’t wanna fuck us up.” She nods, chewing her lip, then says, “Me too. That summer at the lake house, you in those stupid board shorts—I’d catch myself staring, thinking, ‘Shit, he’s hot,’ but I’d panic and pretend it was nothing.”

You laugh, loud enough that some old lady glares at you from the next aisle, and Eunbi shushes you, giggling. “We’re so dumb,” she says, but it’s fond, and you grab her hand, lacing your fingers through hers. “Guess we figured it out eventually,” you say, and she squeezes back, smiling. Then it shifts—future talk sneaking in over canned goods. “You think we’ll have kids someday?” she asks, casual but not, and you shrug, grabbing some soup. “Yeah, maybe—little terrors running around, half you, half me. They’d be cute as hell, though.” She grins, tossing in some pasta. “They’d get your dumb laugh and my killer vocals—unstoppable.” You’re both laughing now, plotting this hypothetical life—where you’ll live, how you’ll juggle her career, maybe a dog first because “practice parenting,” she says. It’s light but real, this shared dream unfolding between shelves of snacks and detergent.

—

You and Eunbi are knee-deep in moving boxes, the new apartment a chaotic sprawl of cardboard, bubble wrap, and random shit you didn’t even know you owned. It's an improved version of her old place, providing more space to build a future. The hardwood floors gleam under the afternoon sun, but right now, they’re a minefield of half-unpacked crap—your old gaming console tangled in cords, her collection of stage outfits spilling out of a suitcase, a lamp you’re pretty sure you broke two moves ago but keep hauling around anyway. She’s in cutoff shorts and one of your old tees, hair tied up in a sloppy ponytail, and you’re in sweats. Music’s blasting from her portable speaker, some upbeat pop track she’s humming along to, and you’re both trying to make this fun, even if you’re sweaty and half-dead from the effort.

“Pass me the scissors, babe,” she says, wrestling with a box labeled Kitchen Stuff in her stylized handwriting. You rummage through the mess on the counter, find them under a pile of takeout menus, and toss them her way—except your aim’s trash, and they clatter onto the floor, sliding under the fridge. She shoots you a look, one eyebrow cocked, and you grin, shrugging. “Oops, my bad—guess you’re diving for those.” She groans, dramatic as hell, and drops to her knees, fishing them out with a string of fake curses—“You’re useless, I swear”—but she’s laughing, and you’re laughing, and it’s this dumb, perfect chaos that’s so you two. You grab a box of books next, slicing it open with a pocketknife, and start stacking them on the shelf—your beat-up sci-fi novels next to her glossy idol photobooks, a weirdly cute mashup of your worlds. Then she yelps behind you, and you spin around to see her tangled in a string of fairy lights she was trying to hang. “Help me, you asshole!” she cries, flailing, and you rush over, untangling her while she’s giggling so hard she’s useless.

It’s a mess—boxes tipping over, you tripping on a stray sneaker and nearly face-planting into the couch, her dropping a mug that—thank fuck—doesn’t break but rolls under the coffee table instead. “We’re a disaster,” you say, crawling to grab it, and she’s sprawled on the floor, catching her breath, nodding. “Yeah, but we’re our disaster.” You finally get the mug, plop down next to her, and you’re both just sitting there, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, the apartment looking like a tornado hit it. But it’s starting to feel like home—her vinyl records leaning against the wall, your dumb bobblehead collection on the windowsill, a framed pic of you two from Paris already up on the mantle. She hops up eventually, brushing off her shorts, and declares, “Break time—I’m not touching another box ‘til I’ve got something cold in my hand.” You follow her to the kitchen, where she digs out a bottle of lemonade she bought on the way here—tart and sweet, just how she likes it—and pours two glasses.

You crash on the couch, the one piece of furniture you’ve managed to set up right, and she flops next to you, legs slung over your lap. The lemonade’s perfect, cutting through the sticky heat of the day, and you both just sit there, sipping, staring out at the new place. “Not bad, huh?” you say, nodding at the view—tall buildings glinting in the sun, a sliver of green from some park nearby. She leans her head on your shoulder, glass sweaty in her hand, and hums. “Yeah, we did good, babe. This feels… right.” There’s this quiet pride in her voice, and you get it—new apartment, new chapter, all that sappy shit you’d never say out loud but totally feel. The boxes are still a nightmare, but the bones of the place are solid—open living room, a bedroom big enough for her to hog the bed like she always does, a little nook she’s already eyeing for her music gear. You’re pleased as hell, and she is too, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm like she’s content just being here with you.

Then she shifts, sitting up a little, and you can tell she’s got that look—the one where she’s about to drop some random thought that’s been bouncing around her head. “You know what’d make this place even better?” she says, smirking, and you raise an eyebrow, waiting. “A dog. Or maybe a cat. Something fuzzy to trip over all this crap we’re unpacking.” You laugh, because of course she’d go there—she’s been dropping pet hints since you got married, pointing at every dog on the street like a kid at a candy store. “A dog, huh? You gonna walk it when you’re filming at 3 a.m.?” you tease, and she shoves you, spilling a little lemonade on your shirt—oops, clumsy strikes again. “Okay, fine, a cat then—low maintenance, just sits there looking cute, like me,” she says, batting her lashes, and you snort, wiping at the wet spot. “You’re not low maintenance, babe, but I see your point. A cat could work—curl up on all these boxes we’re too lazy to finish.”

She grins, sipping her drink, and you’re both picturing it now—some fluffy little gremlin padding around, knocking over her awards or shedding on your couch. “We could name it something dumb,” you say, “like… Croissant, after Paris.” She cackles, nearly choking on her lemonade. “Croissant? Oh my god, yes—or Baguette, keep it French.” You’re cracking up, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt, and it’s so easy, so you two. The apartment’s still a wreck, boxes everywhere, but it’s yours—hers and yours—and that’s enough. You lean over, kissing her quick, tasting lemonade on her lips, and she smiles against you, murmuring, “Love you, you dork.” “Love you too, klutz,” you shoot back, and you’re both just sitting there, happy as hell, plotting a future with a pet called Croissant (or Baguette).

—

Time slips by in this sneaky, quiet way, and before you even clock it, the new apartment’s not just a place with your stuff—it’s home. The boxes are long gone, replaced with little touches that scream you and Eunbi: her vinyls stacked by the record player, your dumb gaming chair shoved in the corner, a shelf of Polaroids from Paris and random nights out. The fairy lights she got tangled in that first day are strung up over the couch now, glowing soft at night when you’re bingeing shows or screwing around—sometimes literally. Croissant, the fluffy tabby cat you adopted a few months back, rules the place like a tiny dictator, knocking over coasters and napping on Eunbi’s laundry. You’ve settled into this rhythm—her coming home from shoots or studio sessions, you cooking something half-decent or ordering takeout when you’re both too wiped, the two of you texting dumb shit all day like “don’t forget cat food” or “miss u, loser.” It’s normal, cozy, and yours. Then, bam, it’s your first wedding anniversary, and you’re both looking at each other like, “Holy shit, we made it a year—how’d that happen?”

You’re at this swanky little restaurant for the occasion, tucked into a corner booth with dim lighting and candles flickering on the table, the kind of spot that’s romantic without being try-hard. Eunbi’s across from you, and—fuck—she’s stunning. She’s in this sleek black dress, sleeveless with a deep neckline that shows off her collarbones and just enough cleavage to make your brain stutter, the fabric hugging her curves like it’s custom-made. Her hair’s down, waves falling over her shoulders, and she’s got this subtle red lip thing going that’s driving you quietly insane. You’re in a dark button-up, sleeves rolled to your elbows because she said it makes you look “stupidly hot,” and you’re trying not to stare too hard, but it’s a losing battle. The waiter drops off a bottle of wine—some fancy-ass Pinot she picked—and you pour, clinking glasses with this goofy grin because you still can’t believe you’re married to her. “To us, babe,” you say, and she smirks, tapping her glass against yours. “To us—and to not killing each other over who gets the remote.” You laugh, sipping, and the wine’s smooth, warming you up as the night kicks off.

She’s glowing tonight, not just from the dress or the candlelight, but from this quiet happiness that’s been building since you tied the knot. You’d caught her interview earlier this week—some glossy magazine sit-down where she talked about married life, and she’d gone off about you in the best way. “He’s my rock,” she’d said, “keeps me sane when everything’s crazy—plus, he’s not bad to look at.” The host had laughed, and she’d added, “No, seriously, I lucked out—he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You’d read it on your lunch break, grinning like an idiot at your desk, and when you texted her, “Saw the interview, you’re too nice,” she’d shot back, “Just facts, babe—deal with it.” Now, sitting here, you bring it up, leaning in a little. “That interview you did? You made me sound like some perfect dude—my ego’s never recovering.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, twirling her wine glass. “Oh, please, you love it. And it’s true—you’re my favorite person, even when you’re hogging the blankets or leaving the wet towel on the bed.” You chuckle, reaching for her hand across the table, and she laces her fingers with yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles like it’s second nature.

The food comes—some fancy pasta for her, steak for you—and you’re digging in, trading bites like you always do, her stealing half your fries because “they taste better off your plate.” It’s easy, flirty, the kind of night where every look feels loaded. “You look fucking incredible tonight,” you say, and she smirks, leaning forward so the dress dips just enough to tease. “Thanks, husband—you clean up pretty nice yourself. Been thinking about jumping you since we left the house.” You nearly choke on your wine, laughing, and she’s got this wicked grin, loving how she still catches you off guard. “Keep talking like that, and we’re not making it to dessert,” you warn, and she shrugs, all innocent. “Who needs dessert when I’ve got you?” It’s cheesy, but it lands—your chest does that warm, tight thing it always does when she’s being cute and hot at the same time.

Between bites, you start tossing around plans for your next trip—anniversary’s got you both in this dreamy, let’s-do-something-big mood. “So, where we headed next, babe?” you ask, popping a fry into your mouth, and she lights up like you just handed her the keys to the world, setting her fork down with a little clink. “Okay, hear me out—I’ve been obsessed with the idea of Italy lately. Like, picture it: Rome, all that ancient ruin shit, pizza straight from Naples, maybe a boat ride in Venice.” You nod, already picturing it, your grin spreading wide. “Hell yeah—pasta every day, you in one of those flowy sundresses? I’m sold.” She laughs, sipping her wine, the sound bright and teasing. “You just wanna see my ass in something skimpy, don’t you, perv?” “Caught me,” you shoot back, winking, and she kicks you under the table—light, playful, but her foot lingers against your shin. “Guilty as charged,” you add, and she rolls her eyes, smirking.

“But real talk,” she says, leaning in a little, her voice dropping softer, “I love that we do this—jet off somewhere, make memories. Paris was unreal, but I’m itching to keep it going with you.” You squeeze her hand across the table, her fingers warm against yours, and you’re feeling all mushy inside. “Same, babe—anywhere, as long as I’ve got you with me.” She smiles, that soft, heart-melting one, but then she tilts her head, tapping her glass with a nail. “Okay, but what about Greece? Santorini’s been all over my feed—those white houses, blue roofs, insane sunsets. We could just chill on a beach, drink ouzo ‘til we’re stupid.” You lean back, chewing it over. “Fuck, that sounds dope—lounging on some cliff, staring at the ocean, you in a bikini? Yeah, I could get behind that.” She snorts, shaking her head. “You’re so predictable—always about the outfits.” “Can you blame me? You’d kill it,” you say, grinning, and she flicks a breadcrumb at you, laughing when it bounces off your chest.

“True, true—I’d rock a bikini or a toga, whatever vibe we’re going for,” she says, then takes another sip, her eyes glinting with ideas. “But what about Iceland? Kinda random, but hear me out—hot springs, northern lights, all that rugged, wild shit. We could rent one of those cozy cabins, fuck around in a geothermal pool.” You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Okay, damn, that’s a curveball—I’m picturing you naked in a hot spring, steam everywhere, me freezing my balls off ‘til I jump in with you. I’d be down.” She cackles, nearly choking on her wine. “You’d look so dumb shivering—‘save me, babe, I’m too pretty to die!’” she mimics, and you kick her back under the table, both of you cracking up. “Hey, I’d make it sexy—you’d be all over me,” you say, and she shrugs, smirking. “Maybe. But Italy’s still my top pick—gelato on the Spanish Steps, you trying to pronounce ‘carbonara’ and butchering it. I need that in my life.”

You laugh, picturing it—her in sunglasses, licking a cone, you stumbling over Italian like an idiot. “Alright, Italy’s got my vote too—Rome’s got that Colosseum vibe, and I’d kill for some real-deal pizza. But Greece is tempting—could do both, you know, hop from pasta to tzatziki.” She tilts her head, considering it, then nods. “Ooh, a double whammy—greedy, but I like it. We could start in Rome, eat our weight in carbs, then bounce to Santorini for the beach-and-booze combo. You’d look hot with a tan, babe.” “And you’d look hotter soaking it up—deal,” you say, squeezing her hand again, and she leans forward, her foot sliding up your calf now, teasing. “You’re just imagining me half-naked everywhere, huh?” “Pretty much,” you admit, grinning, and she kicks you again, harder this time, but her laugh says she’s right there with you.

“Seriously, though,” she says, her voice softening, eyes locking on yours over the candlelight, “I love this—us planning shit, going places. Paris was fucking magic, but wherever we end up next, I just want it to be you and me, making it ours.” You feel that sappy warmth bloom in your chest again, her words hitting deep, and you rub your thumb over her knuckles. “Same, babe—doesn’t matter if it’s Italy, Greece, Iceland, wherever. You’re my vibe, my home—gonna keep chasing that with you.” She smiles, big and real.

And that's how the night goes on, slow and sweet—more wine, her laughing at your dumb jokes, you sneaking glances at how the candlelight catches her eyes. She’s talking about her solo album, how the reality show’s a pain but worth it, and you’re just listening, smitten, because she’s so her—driven, funny, gorgeous. “You’re proud of me, right?” she asks out of nowhere, and it’s so sudden you almost fumble your glass. “Are you kidding? Fuck yeah, I’m proud—watching you kill it out there, then come home to me? You’re unreal.” Her smile goes soft, a little shy, and she leans over the table, kissing you quick but deep, the taste of wine on her lips. “Love you,” she whispers, and you murmur it back, “Love you too,” feeling like the luckiest bastard alive.

—

You stumble into the apartment with Eunbi, the door barely clicking shut before the vibe shifts—there’s this thick, electric tension crackling between you, built up from the whole ride home. It started at the restaurant, those flirty little jabs over dinner, her foot brushing your leg under the table, but the car ride? That’s where it kicked into overdrive. She’d leaned over at a red light, smirking, whispering, “You keep looking at me like that, babe, and we’re not making it to the bed,” and you’d fired back, “Try me—I’ve got plans for that dress.” Now, the air’s buzzing as you kick off your shoes by the door, her tossing her purse onto the counter with a clatter, Croissant darting out of the way like he knows shit’s about to go down. You’re both giggling, a little tipsy from the wine, but it’s more than that—it’s the heat, the want, the way she’s glancing over her shoulder at you like she’s daring you to make the first move. You head for the bedroom, already peeling off your blazer, letting it flop onto the chair in the corner, and she’s right behind you, kicking off her heels one by one, the soft thud of them hitting the hardwood echoing in the quiet.

You’re loosening your tie, watching her in the mirror as she fumbles with her second shoe, and you can’t help yourself—you step closer, hands sliding around her waist, lips brushing her neck. “You’re taking too long,” you murmur, voice low, and she laughs, swatting at you half-heartedly. “Chill, babe, I’m—oh, fuck it,” she says, turning in your arms, and before you know it, she’s shrugging out of that black dress like it’s nothing. It pools at her feet, and—holy shit—she’s standing there in lingerie, this lacy red set that’s all straps and sheer fabric, hugging her curves in a way you weren't prepared for. You’re frozen for a hot second, and then she’s on you, hands grabbing your face, kissing you hard. Her lips crash into yours, red lipstick smearing across your mouth, and she’s climbing you like a tree—legs wrapping around your waist, pushing you back toward the bed. “I’ve been horny all fucking night,” she breathes against your lips. You stumble, hitting the mattress with her on top, and she’s straddling you, hair falling wild around her face, lipstick marks blooming on your cheek, your jaw, everywhere.

“Jesus, Eunbi,” you manage, laughing a little, hands gripping her hips as she grinds down just enough to make you groan. “You’re a menace—you know that dress was killing me, right?” She smirks, and starts unbuttoning your shirt with quick, eager fingers. “Good, that was the point—now get this off, I need you naked, like, yesterday.” You help her out, shrugging the shirt off your shoulders, tossing it somewhere—fuck if you care where—and then you’re pulling her down, kissing her back, hungry and messy. Your lips find her jaw, her throat, that soft spot under her ear that makes her shiver, and you’re murmuring against her skin, “You’re so fucking beautiful—hot as hell, babe.” She moans softly, and you keep going, kissing down her neck, her collarbone, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint floral of her perfume. Your hands roam—over her back, her ass, squeezing through the lace, loving every inch of her like she’s a goddamn miracle, which, yeah, she is.

She pushes you back, flattening you against the bed with this look in her eyes—half-lidded, wild, all in charge. “Stay,” she says, like you’re her personal plaything, and you’re not arguing—why would you? Her hands are on your belt now, fumbling with the buckle, and you lift your hips to help her out, grinning as she curses under her breath. “Why are these so complicated—there, got it,” she mutters, yanking the belt free, and then she’s tugging your pants down, taking your boxers with them in one impatient pull. They hit the floor, and you’re bare under her, cock hard and twitching as she sits back, straddling your thighs. She wraps her hand around your cock, stroking slow and deliberate, her thumb brushing the tip just to fuck with you, and she’s staring—straight into your eyes, unblinking, like she’s memorizing every hitch in your breath. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” she says, and then she leans down, lips hovering over you. You hold your breath, and she gives the tip this gentle, teasing kiss—barely there, but enough to make your hips jerk, a low groan spilling out before you can stop it.

She pulls back, smirking at the mess she’s already making of you, red lipstick smudged from all the kissing, her lingerie a stark contrast against the pale sheets. “Been thinking about this all night,” she admits, stroking you again, her grip tightening just enough to drive you nuts, and you’re gripping the bedspread, trying to keep it together. “Yeah?” you rasp, voice rough, “Same—couldn’t stop watching you, thinking about getting you home.” She laughs, this low, sultry sound, and shifts closer, her thighs brushing yours, the lace of her bra scratching faintly against your chest when she leans in. “Well, we’re here now, babe—so what’re we gonna do about it?” she asks, then she leans in, breath hot against the tip, and you feel the first brush of her lips—soft, barely there, a tease that’s got your hips shifting impatiently. “Relax, babe,” she murmurs, “I’ve got you all night.”

She starts slow, like she’s testing the waters, her tongue flicking out to swirl around the head, wet and warm. You groan, low and rough, hands fisting the sheets. She takes her time, lips wrapping around the tip, sucking gently, just enough to make your head spin but nowhere near enough to satisfy. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and playful under those long lashes, and she smirks around you, knowing exactly what she’s doing—drawing it out, making you squirm. “You’re so fucking cute when you’re desperate,” she says, pulling off for a second, her hand pumping you in this lazy rhythm while spit glistens on her lips. You open your mouth to fire back, but then she dives in again, and whatever smartass reply you had dies in your throat.

She slides her mouth down further now, taking you in deeper, her tongue flat against the underside, pressing hard enough to make your toes curl. It’s wet, messy, the sound of it—soft little sucks, the slick slide of her lips—mixing with your ragged breathing, filling the room. Her hair’s falling forward, brushing your thighs, and you reach down, threading your fingers through it, not pushing, just holding on because you need something to ground you. She hums, this pleased little noise that vibrates through you, and shifts her weight, one hand bracing on your hip while the other grips the base of your cock, guiding it exactly where she wants it. She’s teasing still, not going all in, bobbing her head slow and shallow, lips stretching around you, leaving red streaks from that lipstick she knows drives you wild. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” you rasp, voice scraping out, and she pulls off just enough to flash you a grin, spit-slick and smug. “Yeah? You’re welcome, babe—been dying to taste you all night.”

Then she dives back in, and this time she’s not playing around—she takes you deeper, throat relaxing as she swallows you down, inch by inch, until her nose is brushing your skin and you’re seeing stars. It’s tight, hot, her tongue working in these lazy, filthy swirls that make your hips buck involuntarily. She gags a little, just once, but doesn’t stop—pulls back slightly, then goes again, deeper still, like she’s determined to take all of you. You’re a wreck, groaning her name, “Eunbi—shit,” and she’s loving it, you can tell—her eyes water a bit, but she’s locked on you, watching every twitch, every gasp, feeding off how gone you are. Her hand’s moving too, stroking what her mouth can’t reach, twisting just right.

You tug her hair a little, not hard, just enough to get her to look up again, and when she does—fuck, that sight. Her lips stretched around you, cheeks hollowed, eyes glassy with lust and effort—it’s pornographic, but it’s more than that, it’s her, giving you everything like it’s her goddamn mission. She pulls off for a breath, panting, her hand still working you, slick and fast, and she’s grinning, all proud and messy. “You taste so fucking good,” she says, voice wrecked, and then she’s licking you, long, slow stripes from base to tip, like she’s worshipping every inch. You’re shaking, thighs flexing under her, and she just keeps going—sucks the head again, harder this time, then slides down, swallowing deep, her throat fluttering around you. It’s overwhelming, and she’s relentless, switching between teasing little licks and full-on deep-throating like she’s trying to unravel you piece by piece.

Now she shifts lower, her lips brushing down past your shaft like she’s exploring every damn inch of you. She gets to your balls, and—fuck—she doesn’t hesitate, taking one into her mouth with this slow, deliberate pull that’s got your back arching off the sheets. Her tongue’s swirling, wet and warm, and she’s sucking just hard enough to make your head spin, a low groan ripping out of you before you can stop it. She pops off, grinning up at you, spit shining on her lips. “God, babe, I fucking love your cock—like, I’m obsessed with it, with you.” She dives back in, licking them sloppy and slow, her hands stroking your thighs, and you can feel the drool dripping down, leaving everything slick and messy in the best way. “You’re so perfect,” she mumbles against you, sucking the other one now, her tongue flicking in this filthy little dance that’s got you shaking. “I could do this all night—fuck, I’d live down here if you let me.”

She’s relentless, leaving your balls soaked and heavy, and you’re barely coherent, hands tangled in her hair, tugging just to feel her moan against you. Then she pulls back, sitting up on her knees, and you’re still catching your breath when she hooks her fingers into the sides of her red lace panties. She tugs them aside, not even bothering to take them off, the fabric stretching tight against her hip as she exposes herself—glistening, wet, ready. She climbs up your body, straddling you again, her thighs flexing as she positions herself right over your cock, and you can feel the heat radiating off her before she even touches you. “Wait—babe, no condom,” you say, voice rough, half-lost in the haze but still aware enough to clock it. She freezes for a second, looking down at you with those dark, hungry eyes, and shakes her head. “Don’t need it,” she says, firm, desperate, “I want you raw—need it, babe, I’m so fucking horny I can’t think straight.” You blink, brain scrambling to catch up, and choke out, “You sure? Like, really sure?” because this is big—first time without that barrier, and you’re not about to fuck this up.

She leans down, hands braced on your chest, her face so close her breath’s hot against your lips. “Yes, I’m sure—you’re the man of my life, my husband, nothing’s more important than this, than you.” Her voice is all heat, full of conviction, and it hits you square in the chest—lust, yeah, but something deeper too, that trust you’ve built over years crashing into this moment. She’s practically vibrating with want, her nails digging into your skin, and you nod, hands sliding to her hips. “Okay, fuck—let’s do it,” you say, and her grin’s pure fire, wild and needy. She doesn’t waste a second—lines you up, the tip of your cock brushing her entrance, and then she sinks down, slow at first, taking you in inch by inch. Holy shit—it’s different, raw, the heat of her pussy bare around you, no latex in the way, and it’s like your whole nervous system lights up. She’s tight, wetter than ever, and the feeling’s so intense you gasp, fingers gripping her ass.

“Oh my god,” she moans, loud and unfiltered, head tipping back as she bottoms out, her thighs trembling against your sides. “Fuck, babe, you feel—so—fucking—good,” she stutters, rocking her hips a little, adjusting, and you can feel every pulse, every flutter of her around you—it’s unreal, addictive. “You’re huge—shit, I can’t get enough,” she pants, and she’s already moving, lifting up just to slam back down, her hands splayed on your chest for balance. You groan, deep and guttural, because this—this is next-level, the slick, hot slide of her taking you raw, her walls gripping you like she’s claiming you all over again. “Eunbi—fuck, you’re killing me,” you manage, and she laughs, this breathy, horny sound that’s a synthesis of lust and power. “Good,” she says, “I want you wrecked—been thinking about this all night, feeling you bare inside me.”

You’re mesmerized, watching her—lipstick-smeared mouth parted, eyes half-shut, her body moving like sin itself. “You’re so fucking hot,” you say, hands roaming up her back. She leans down, kissing you sloppy and deep, tongue tangling with yours as she grinds down. “Love you—love this,” she murmurs against your lips, and then she’s off again, sitting up, riding you harder, like she’s trying to break you, her hips slamming down with this relentless, hungry rhythm, and the raw heat of her pussy—bare, tight, and so fucking wet—has you teetering on the edge of sanity. You’re lost in it, hands gripping her ass, feeling her clench around you with every thrust, when you slide your fingers up her back, fumbling with the clasp of that red lace bra. It’s been taunting you all night, barely holding her in, and now you’re done waiting. The hooks pop free, and she shrugs it off quick, letting it fall on the bed like it’s nothing. Her big tits spill out, heavy and perfect, bouncing with every move she makes, and—fuck—you can’t take your eyes off them. They’re gorgeous, full and round, nipples already hard and begging for attention, and you can’t help yourself. “Goddamn, babe, I fucking love your tits,” you say, voice rough with want, staring up at her like she’s a goddess—which, let’s be real, she is. She smirks down at you, smug and horny, and leans closer, her voice dripping with heat. “They’re all yours, babe—always have been.”

You reach up, hands greedy, cupping them as she keeps riding you, her skin soft and warm under your palms. They fill your hands perfectly, heavy and plush, and you squeeze, thumbs brushing over her nipples because you know how sensitive they are, how they drive her wild. She gasps, this sharp little sound that shoots straight to your dick, and her pace falters for a second, hips stuttering as you tease her. “Fuck—yes, play with them,” she moans, arching her back to push them closer, and you’re in heaven, kneading them, rolling her nipples between your fingers until they’re tight little peaks. She’s panting now, her nails digging into your chest, leaving half-moon marks, and you can feel her getting wetter, slicker, her thighs trembling against you. “You love that, huh?” you say, grinning, voice all gravel and lust. “Love how I can’t get enough of these perfect fucking tits.” She nods, breathless, and bites her lip, that red lipstick smudged and sexy as hell. “Yeah—fuck, I love it—keep going, babe, don’t stop.”

Then she shifts, slowing her hips just enough to lean forward, dangling those heavy breasts right in your face like an offering. “Suck them,” she says, more like a command than a request, and you don’t need to be told twice. You lift your head, wrapping your lips around one nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking over the sensitive tip, and she moans—loud, shameless, this sound that’s pure sex. Her tits are so full, so soft against your mouth, and you’re obsessed—sucking one, then the other, tasting her skin, feeling her shiver as you tease with your teeth, just a graze because you know it makes her crazy. “Fuck, yes—harder,” she gasps, her hands in your hair, pulling you closer, and you oblige, sucking deeper, your tongue swirling, lips tugging until she’s squirming, her breath hitching like she’s about to lose it. “You’re so fucking good at that,” she pants, her hips grinding down on you again, slower now but deeper, like she’s savoring every inch of you inside her.

You switch, taking the other nipple into your mouth, one hand squeezing the free one, rolling the wet peak between your fingers, and she’s a mess—head tipped back, hair spilling wild, moaning your name like a prayer. “God, babe, your mouth—fuck, I could ride you all night just for this,” she says, and you groan against her, the vibration making her gasp again. You pull back for a second, just to look—her tits glistening with your spit, flushed from the attention, nipples swollen and red—and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. “You’re so fucking sexy,” you tell her, kissing the valley between them, then licking a slow stripe up to her collarbone. “These tits—they’re mine, yeah? All fucking mine.” She nods, desperate, leaning down to kiss you, sloppy and deep, her tongue tangling with yours as she grinds harder. “All yours—always,” she whispers against your lips, then pulls back, offering them again, pressing them into your face. “Suck them more—please, babe, need it.”

You dive back in, hungry, sucking one nipple while pinching the other, and she’s riding you again, her pussy so wet you can feel it dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. She’s loud—moaning, cursing, this stream of dirty talk spilling out like she can’t help it. “Fuck, you feel so good inside me—love your cock, love your mouth—gonna fuck you ‘til I can’t walk,” she says, and you’re matching her energy, thrusting up to meet her, hands full of her tits, squeezing as you suck, tongue flicking fast. Her breathing’s ragged, her body trembling, and you can tell she’s losing herself in it—libido dialed up to a hundred, chasing that high with you. You bite down, just a little, and she cries out, this raw, needy sound that’s got you feral, sucking harder, loving her with every flick, every thrust, every filthy word bouncing between you. She’s all yours, and she’s making damn sure you know it—riding you raw, tits in your face, owning this night like it’s hers to take.

“Fuck, babe, your cock’s so good,” she groans, her hands braced on your chest for leverage as she grinds down harder. Then she looks down at you, eyes dark and glassy, and smirks, panting, “I’m already close—wanna make your wife cum, huh?” It’s half a taunt, half a plea, and it lights you up like a match to gasoline. “Fuck yes,” you say, voice rough, hands sliding up her thighs, “wanna feel you lose it all over me.”

She grins, this wicked, horny flash of teeth, but before she can ride herself over the edge, you take charge—grabbing her hips, flipping her onto her side in one smooth move. It’s a position you know she loves—spooning her from behind, one arm hooked under her leg to lift it just enough, giving you all the access you need. She twists her head back to look at you, all flushed and needy, and you dive in, kissing her neck, lips dragging slow and wet over that sensitive spot that always makes her shiver. “Goddamn, you’re perfect,” you murmur against her skin, hands roaming up to her tits, squeezing them hard as you thrust into her, deep and steady. They fill your palms, soft and heavy, nipples still swollen from earlier, and you can’t get over how much you love them—love her. “I fucking love you, Eunbi—so much,” you say, and she moans, this soft, broken sound that hits you right in the chest. “Love you too—fuck, don’t stop,” she breathes, turning her head more, catching your lips in a kiss.

You’re pounding into her now, her pussy so wet it’s obscene—slick sounds mixing with her gasps, her walls fluttering around you like she’s right on the edge. Your hand’s still on her tit, kneading it, thumb flicking the nipple just to hear her whimper, while your other arm’s wrapped around her, holding her tight against you. She’s kissing you back, messy and fierce, her tongue sliding against yours, her teeth grazing your lip as she moans into your mouth. “So good—fuck, you’re so deep,” she pants between kisses, her voice shaking, and you can tell she’s close—her breathing’s all ragged, her body tensing, thighs trembling against you. You slide a hand down her stomach, fingers finding her clit, and she jolts, a sharp “Oh—shit!” spilling out as you start rubbing, slow circles at first, teasing her. “Yeah, babe, right there—fuck, you know me so well,” she groans, her head tipping back against your shoulder, giving you more of her neck to kiss, to bite, as you pick up the pace.

Your fingers are relentless now, rubbing her clit faster, slick and swollen under your touch, and she’s losing it—moaning loud, no filter, just pure, horny need. “Gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—” she stutters, words cutting off as you thrust harder, angling just right to hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. Your lips are on her neck, sucking a mark into her skin, and you growl against her, “Come on, babe—cum for me, let me feel my wife fall apart.” She’s kissing you again, frantic, her hand grabbing yours on her clit to press it harder, guiding you. “Yes—yes—fuck, right there!” she cries, and then she’s done for—her whole body locks up, shuddering hard against you, her pussy clenching tight around your cock as she cums, wave after wave ripping through her.

She’s trembling, gasping, her walls pulsing around you so hard it’s like she’s trying to pull you in deeper, and you don’t let up—fucking her through it, slower now but still deep, your fingers still teasing her clit until she’s squirming, oversensitive and wrecked. “Oh my god—babe, fuck,” she pants, turning her head to kiss you again, softer this time, but still sloppy, her tongue weak from how hard she just came. You pull your hand off her clit, wrapping it around her waist instead, holding her close as you kiss her back, tasting the sweat on her lips, the raw need still lingering there. “You’re so fucking hot when you cum,” you murmur, nipping at her jaw, and she laughs, this shaky, blissed-out sound, her chest heaving against you. “Only for you, babe—shit, you’re too good at this,” she says, voice hoarse and satisfiedll.

You slide your cock out of her, slow and deliberate, and she lets out this soft, needy whimper, her body twitching like she’s already missing you inside her. You climb up, hovering over her, and kiss her deep—lips crashing together. Her hands grab at your shoulders, pulling you closer, and she’s kissing you back like she’s starved for it, her breath hot against your mouth. “Fuck, babe,” she pants when you pull back, “I’m never using a condom with you again—shit, that was too good. Why the hell didn’t we do this sooner?” Her words hit hard, your cock throbbing hard, already aching to get back inside her, and you groan, nodding. “Yeah, fuck condoms—your pussy’s too hot, too tight bare. Can’t believe we waited this long.”

She smirks up at you, all lazy and satisfied but still burning with that wild edge, her eyes flicking down to where your cock’s hovering just above her. You shift, brushing the tip against her entrance—slow, teasing, dragging it through her slick folds—and she whimpers again, hips twitching up like she’s desperate for it. “Still horny,” she murmurs, voice soft but loaded with want, her fingers digging into your arms. You grin, leaning down to nip at her ear, your breath hot against her skin. “Then beg for it, babe—beg for my cock like a good girl.” She shudders under you, and—fuck—when she starts talking, it’s like gasoline on the fire in your gut. “Please, babe—please fuck me,” she says, eyes locked on yours, wide and pleading. “Need your cock so bad—want you raw, want you deep, please.” It’s filthy and hot, and your dick pulses in your hand, rock-hard and ready, just from hearing her like that—your wife, begging for you like she’s losing her mind.

But she doesn’t stop there—she’s too far gone, too horny, too slutty. “Fuck me hard,” she demands, her tone shifting, sharper now, commanding, her legs spreading wider like she’s daring you to hold back. “Want your cum inside me—need it, babe, fill my fucking womb with your thick cum.” That’s it—that breed kink she’s throwing at you, raw and unfiltered, and it’s got your cock throbbing so hard you can feel your pulse in it, your whole body lit up with horny, primal need. “Keep going,” you growl, teasing her entrance more, sliding the tip in just an inch then pulling back, making her squirm. “Tell me how bad you want it.” She moans, frustrated and desperate, her hands clawing at your back, leaving red streaks. “Goddamn it, I want it so bad—fuck me ‘til I can’t walk, babe, pump me full—please, I need your cock, need you to fuck me raw and hard, want your cum dripping out of me.” You can’t resist her anymore—she’s got you hooked, and you’re ready to give her everything.

You line up, gripping her hips, and slam into her—no warning, no easing in, just a hard, deep thrust that makes her scream, this raw, guttural sound that bounces off the walls. Her pussy’s tight, hot, and so fucking wet, swallowing you whole, and you don’t hold back—pounding into her with a rhythm that’s fast and brutal, the bed shaking under you. “Fuck, yes—like that!” she yells, her voice breaking, hands flying to the headboard to brace herself as you rail her, her tits bouncing wildly with every slap of your hips against hers. You lean down, kissing her neck, biting just hard enough to leave marks, and she’s moaning, arching into you, her walls clenching tight like she’s already chasing that next high. “You’re so fucking perfect,” you growl against her skin, one hand sliding up to squeeze her tit again, thumb flicking her nipple as you fuck her senseless. “Gonna give you what you want—gonna fuck you raw ‘til you’re full of me.”

She’s kissing you back now, sloppy and frantic, her tongue tangling with yours as she moans into your mouth, her legs hooking around your waist to pull you deeper. “Harder—fuck, harder,” she gasps, breaking the kiss, her nails raking down your back, and you oblige—slamming into her so hard the headboard bangs against the wall, a steady thud-thud-thud that matches her cries. Her pussy’s loud—wet, squelching sounds every time you bury yourself in her, and she’s dripping, soaking your thighs, the sheets, everything. “Love this—love you—fuck, don’t stop,” she pants, her voice all over the place, needy and fierce, and you can feel her getting close again, her body tensing, her breath hitching. You slide a hand down, rubbing her clit fast and rough, and she bucks against you, whimpering, “Yes—fuck, right there—gonna lose it again.” You’re relentless, pounding her into the mattress, loving the way she’s unraveling—your wife, your horny, insatiable wife, begging for your cock, your cum, like it’s all she’s ever wanted.

Sweat’s dripping down your back, her legs locked around your hips, pulling you in deeper with every brutal thrust, and you can feel it building, that tight coil in your gut winding up fast. “Fuck, babe, I’m close,” you groan, voice ragged, and her eyes light up, wild and hungry, like that’s the magic word she’s been waiting for. She’s already a mess—hair plastered to her forehead, red lipstick smeared across her lips and your neck, tits bouncing hard from how rough you’re going—but hearing you’re close flips a switch in her. She moans, loud and desperate, and suddenly she’s moving, pushing against your chest with this frantic energy. “Get on your back—now,” she demands, and before you can process it, she’s shifting her weight, shoving you down flat on the bed. You hit the mattress with a grunt, and she’s on top of you in a flash, straddling you, her thighs clamping tight around your hips like she’s claiming you all over again.

She doesn’t waste a second—grabs your cock, slick with her juices, and lines it up, sinking down hard, taking you to the hilt in one smooth, greedy drop. “Fuck—yes,” she gasps, head thrown back, and then she’s riding you, bouncing with this fierce, relentless rhythm that’s got the whole room shaking. Her tits swing wild above you, heavy and perfect, and you grab her hips, digging your fingers into her flesh, thrusting up to meet her every time she slams down. “Cum for me, babe—cum with me,” she pants, her voice breaking, eyes locked on yours, dark and pleading. “I want it—want you to fill me up.” Your cock throbs hard at that, and you groan, gripping her tighter. “Gonna give you so much cum, babe—promise you’ll get it all,” you say, and she nods, frantic, her nails raking your chest. “That’s all I want—fuck, just you, all of you,” she moans, and then she’s leaning forward, one hand planting on your neck, fingers curling just enough to squeeze, this light pressure that makes your head spin and your dick pulse even harder inside her.

She’s riding you like a woman possessed now, hips slamming down with wet, filthy slaps, her pussy so soaked you can feel it dripping down your thighs, pooling on the sheets. “Breed me,” she says, voice low and dirty, and that hits you in a way you weren't expecting, your whole body lighting up with raw, primal want. “Fuck, I need it—want you to breed me, babe, pump me full,” she begs, bouncing harder, her hand tightening on your neck, and you’re gone. “Yeah? Want me to knock you up?” you growl, thrusting up harder, your hands sliding to her ass, spanking her once just to hear her yelp. “Gonna fill this tight little pussy—breed my slutty wife like she deserves.” She moans louder, this wild, unhinged sound, and squeezes your neck a little more, her eyes rolling back. “Yes—fuck, yes—do it, breed me, make me yours forever,” she chants, her voice shaking with how bad she wants it, and it’s pushing you right to the edge.

“Keep talking,” you rasp, voice thick with lust, and she does—oh, she fucking does. “Cum in me—fucking breed me, babe, want your cum so deep I can feel it for days,” she demands, her hips grinding down, circling just to tease you, her pussy clenching tight like she’s trying to squeeze the life out of you. “Make me drip with it—fuck, I need it, need you to fill me up, give me everything.” Her hand’s steady on your neck, not choking, just holding you there, pinning you under her as she rides you harder, her tits bouncing in your face, her thighs trembling from the effort. You’re thrusting up to match her, slamming into her so hard the headboard’s banging again, and you’re growling, “Gonna breed you so good—fill that pussy ‘til it’s overflowing, babe, you’re mine.” She’s losing it, whimpering and gasping, her walls fluttering like she’s about to break again, and you can feel yourself tipping over, the heat pooling fast, your cock throbbing inside her with every filthy word.

“I’m gonna cum—fuck, do it, breed me now!” she moans, loud and desperate, her hand slipping from your neck to brace on your chest as she bounces even harder, her pussy so wet it’s obscene, squelching loud with every thrust. You grab her hips, yanking her down one last time, burying yourself as deep as you can go, and—fuck—it happens. You explode inside her, hot and thick, pulsing hard, flooding her pussy with everything you’ve got. It’s intense, raw, this primal rush of unloading bare into your wife for the first time, and she feels it—gasps sharp, her eyes going wide, then squeezing shut as she screams, “Yes—fuck, yes!” Her body shakes, convulsing as she cums too, her pussy clamping down tight, milking you for every last drop like she’s determined to drain you dry. You’re still pumping into her, thick spurts spilling out, and it’s a lot—more than you expected—coating her insides, seeping out around your cock where you’re still buried deep.

She’s trembling hard, collapsing forward onto your chest, her breath hot and ragged against your skin, and you wrap your arms around her, holding her tight as she shudders through the aftershocks. “Fuck—babe, I feel it—feel you,” she pants, voice breaking with this mix of awe and satisfaction, her hips twitching like she’s still chasing it, still squeezing you inside her. Your cock’s softening but still nestled in her, and you can feel the mess—your cum dripping out, slick and warm, pooling where you’re joined. “Love you—fuck, I love you so much,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your collarbone, and you pull her closer, kissing the top of her head, your voice rough but soft. “Love you too, babe—always.” She shifts, just enough to look up at you, her eyes hazy but glowing, a tired, blissed-out smile tugging at her lips, and you’re both just lying there, tangled up, sweaty and spent, your cum still leaking out of her pussy onto the sheets.

“That was—fuck, insane,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from all the moaning, and you nod, running your fingers through her hair, still damp with sweat. “Yeah—best anniversary ever,” you say. She nuzzles into you, murmuring, “Gonna want that again—raw, full of you."

Your cock’s still inside her, softening now, and you can feel the sticky mess of your cum and her wetness seeping out, pooling on the sheets beneath you. It’s quiet, just the sound of your breathing syncing up, the faint hum of the city outside the window, and Croissant probably prowling around somewhere in the apartment. You’re both spent, limbs heavy, but there’s this glow between you—raw, real, like you’ve just peeled back another layer of each other. You run your fingers through her tangled hair, brushing it back from her face, and she hums, nuzzling closer, her lips brushing your collarbone in this lazy, affectionate way. “Fuck, babe, I could stay like this forever,” she mumbles, voice all hoarse and sleepy, and you chuckle, kissing the top of her head. “Yeah, me too—but we’re a mess, and these sheets are screaming for mercy.”

She groans, dramatic as hell, shifting just enough to look up at you with those hazy, post-sex eyes, her cheeks still flushed. “Ugh, don’t make me move—I’m dead, you killed me with that dick.” You laugh, and nudge her side. “Come on, you’ll thank me later. Hot bath, you and me, clean slate—sounds good, right?” She squints at you, pretending to think it over, then flops back down with a huff. “Too lazy—carry me or I’m not going.” You sigh but you’re grinning, because this is Eunbi—stubborn, bratty, and all yours. “Fine, princess,” you say, and with a grunt, you scoop her up, her legs dangling over your arm as you haul her off the bed. She yelps, clinging to your neck, and you can feel the wet mess of her pussy against your skin as you carry her, your cum still dripping out of her, leaving a trail you’ll deal with later.

You make it to the bathroom, kicking the door open with your foot, and set her down on the edge of the tub. She’s still pouting, arms crossed like she’s mad you made her move, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. You turn on the faucet, hot water rushing out, steam curling up into the air, and grab that fancy lavender bath bomb she loves—the one she says makes her feel “expensive.” “You’re spoiling me now,” she teases, watching you drop it in, the water fizzing purple and bubbling up fast. “Only the best for my wife,” you shoot back, winking, and she finally cracks, that big, goofy grin breaking through. You help her out of the last scraps of her lingerie—those stretched-out panties still clinging to one side of her hips—and she slides into the tub with a sigh, sinking in up to her shoulders, the water lapping at her skin. “Get in here, babe,” she says, patting the space behind her, and you don’t need convincing, you climb in, settling behind her, pulling her back against your chest.

The water’s hot, soothing the ache in your muscles, and her body fits against yours like it was made to—her head resting on your shoulder, your arms wrapping around her waist under the surface. Bubbles pop softly around you, the lavender scent filling the room, and it’s quiet, peaceful, a stark shift from the feral fucking you were lost in not twenty minutes ago. You trail your fingers over her stomach, lazy circles, and she hums, this content little sound that makes your heart squeeze. “This is nice,” she murmurs, tilting her head to look up at you, her eyes soft, no trace of that wild hunger now—just love, pure and simple. “Yeah, it is,” you say, kissing her temple, and she nestles closer, her wet hair sticking to your skin. “Better than the bed?” you ask, smirking, and she laughs, soft and tired. “Okay, maybe not better—but close. You’re too good at this husband thing.”

You chuckle, grabbing a sponge from the side and dipping it into the water, running it over her shoulders, down her arms, washing away the sweat and stickiness of the night. “Gotta keep my wife happy—can’t have you complaining about me on your next interview,” you tease, and she twists around, splashing you lightly, water dripping down your face. “Oh, please—I’d just brag about how you fuck me stupid and then run me a bath after,” she says, grinning, and you laugh, wiping the water off your eyes. “Fair—guess I’m stuck being perfect then.” She leans back again, letting you wash her, and it’s intimate—not the loud, messy intimacy of sex, but this quiet, tender thing where you’re just together, taking care of each other. “You know,” she says after a beat, voice quieter now, “I didn’t think it’d feel like this—marriage, us. Thought it’d be the same old shit with a ring, but… it’s more. You’re more.”

Her words hit you, soft but heavy, and you pause, sponge hovering over her collarbone, water trickling down her skin. “Yeah,” you say, throat tight, “you’re more too—like, I didn’t know I could love someone this much ‘til you.” She turns her head, catching your lips in a kiss—not hungry this time, but slow, deep, the kind that says everything you’re both too tired to put into words. Her hand finds yours under the water, squeezing, and you kiss her back, tasting lavender and her, your heart thudding steady against her back. “We’re gross, huh?” she whispers when she pulls away, smiling, and you laugh, resting your forehead against hers. “The grossest—stupid in love, the whole deal.”

The water’s cooling now, but you don’t care—you stay there, wrapped up in each other, her body slotted against yours like a puzzle piece. You wash her hair, fingers massaging her scalp, and she sighs, eyes closed, totally relaxed. “You’re too good to me,” she mumbles, and you shake your head, even though she can’t see it. “Nah, just right—you deserve it, babe.” She doesn’t argue, just lets you rinse her off, the suds swirling away in the purple water. When you’re done, you don’t rush to get out—there’s no hurry, no next thing. It’s just you and her, the steam fading, the night settling soft around you. “Love you,” she says, and you pull her closer, her wet skin sticking to yours, your voice low and sure. “Love you too—forever, yeah?” She nods, sleepy and safe in your arms, and you hold her tight, the bathtub your little world, the end of a wild night melting into something warm, steady, romantic as hell—the kind of love you’ll carry into every night after this one.

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 8 - Cockwarming

Ghost x Soap x F!Reader - 1.6k

summary: Ghost keeps you on his lap while he watches a soccer game. (You POV)

cw: dom!ghost, subby soap & reader, cock warming, cunnilingus, overstimulation

“Simon,” you whine, sweat-slick back arching against his front as you strain for any sensation at all. “Please.”

“Hush,” he scolds, tweaking a stiff nipple and taking a swig of his beer. “‘M tryin’ to watch the game.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to take a deep breath, only to hiccup through the exhale when the cock impaling you shifts as Ghost spreads his thighs. 

You’ve been here for what feels like hours, but you know it’s only been about forty minutes, the steadily ticking clock at the top of the TV screen tells you just how slowly time passes when Simon holds you on his lap like this. 

Only five more minutes, you tell yourself, hopeful that he’ll fuck you at the halftime break, or at the very least let you have an orgasm. 

You feel more than hear him grunt behind you when you clench your inner walls around his length, your own eyes rolling back in your head at the overwhelming fullness. 

There’s a low whine from only a few feet away, and your eyes are unconsciously drawn over to where Johnny is kneeling beside the coffee table, naked and damp with sweat despite the fact that he’s been holding himself still just as long as you have, only without the cock inside of him.

Simon huffs, hooking his chin over your shoulder and leaning forward enough to see Johnny and – you assume, from the way Johnny shrinks a bit – glare him into further submission. “Quiet,” he stresses, irritated. “You’re distractin’ me.”

“But sir,” Johnny pushes, leaning closer with his hands clenched tight on his knees, knuckles white from pressure. “She looks so pretty, I need her so bad, please–”

Ghost doesn’t bother using his words, only grunts a harsh sound that has Johnny settling back onto his heels, looking properly chastised even as his flushed cock kicks against his stomach. You can’t help but moan as Ghost settles back again, every shift of him inside of you agonizing. 

One large hand rests against your stomach for the next few minutes, the callouses on Simon’s fingertips rough against your hypersensitive skin. He kneads your tummy mindlessly, pushing and pulling as he sips from his beer and grunts disapprovingly at the way his team plays. The repetitive motion calms you just enough that you can get a deep breath in, but nothing can distract you from the throbbing in your clit. 

It feels like another eternity has passed when the players all file off the field, the camera cutting away to commercial as the halftime break starts. You try to temper your enthusiasm as much as you can, but your heart races when you hear the sound of Simon setting his bottle on the coaster. 

“Alright,” he finally says, and it’s all you can do to keep from wriggling on his lap as he shifts to hold you more firmly in place. “Here, pup.”

Johnny practically throws himself forward, knees thudding loudly on the hardwood floor as he shoves himself between Ghost’s thighs, hands resting on your knees where they’re spread by Simon’s. 

Simon is quick to wrap his fingers in Johnny’s mohawk, holding him back from shoving himself face-first into the slick dripping steadily from you, and ignoring the heartbroken whine that ensues. 

“You gonna settle if I let you have a taste of the girl?” He grunts, shaking Johnny just a bit by the hair. You’re mesmerized by the way Johnny’s eyes cross, lashes damp and cheeks flushed as he pants beneath you. “Gonna start behavin’?”

“Yes, yes,” Johnny insists, nodding as much as he can. “Promise, sir, I can be good.”

Ghost snorts and scratches across Soap’s scalp, clearly disbelieving. “You better hope you can, otherwise you’re not gettin’ that pathetic thing between your legs anywhere near the girl until you prove you can behave yourself.”

You can’t tell if Johnny’s moan is heartbroken or horny when you nearly drown him out with your own cry at the cruel words. 

“I’ll be good,” Johnny insists, grip so tight on your knees that you’d worry he’d yank you out of your position if you were being held by anyone but Ghost. “Please, Lt, let me be good?”

“Hmm.” Ghost strokes over your belly and Soap’s hair at the same pace, careful to keep a firm enough grip that Johnny can’t move much more than he’s allowed. “Alright. You have ‘til the game’s back on.”

Before he can even finish his sentence, Johnny’s mouth is pressed against your cunt.

You cry out at the sharp burst of pleasure, at the relief of finally having something touching where you’re most sensitive, only to quickly melt into nothing but mewls and moans as you become overwhelmed. 

Johnny sucks your clit so hard that it’s almost painful, driving you to dig your nails into his scalp as you hold on for dear life. Simon wraps his arm fully around your waist, left hand holding your right hip tightly and his right hand keeping you open for Johnny no matter how much you struggle.

Your gasps are ripped from your chest as Johnny messily licks your cunt, Ghost’s chest rumbling against your back as he’s stroked by Soap’s tongue too. The sheer amount of sensation after so long with nothing almost blinds you, your entire world shrunk down to what can fit inside of you and what can rub against your clit in just the right way.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you gasp at a particularly rough suck of your clit. If you weren’t so mindless with pleasure you’d worry about just how hard your nails are scratching along his scalp, but the way he moans into your body wipes any hope of worry from your mind. “Johnny!”

“He treatin’ you well?” Ghost rumbles, pressing against your stomach. Any words you’d want to give him are stolen by the way he makes himself feel just that much larger inside of you, your hole so wet that you’re sure there’ll be a stain when you’re finally allowed to stand. 

“Mhm, mhm,” you hum, the only answer you can manage when Soap has taken to seemingly trying to suck the base of Ghost’s cock, only managing to lick around your hole instead. “So good,” you slur. 

“Sounds like it,” Ghost says, his patronizing amusement flying over your head as Johnny gives up on Simon’s cock and returns his full attention to your clit.

Your moans are driven higher and higher as you’re pushed closer to your long-awaited orgasm, your voice cracking as your feet kick helplessly against the couch, held firmly by Ghost. You couldn’t open your eyes if you tried, fingers digging deep gouges into Johnny’s hair and Simon’s forearm as you’re shoved towards your peak at a ruthless pace. 

You practically scream when Johnny just barely presses his teeth to your bundle of nerves, tongue lashing against you and throwing you off the cliff of release you’d been waiting on for so long. 

Ghost moans in sync with you as you milk his cock, squeezing him so tightly that it almost hurts you, hole stinging around his girth despite the juices coating all three of you. He doesn’t come, but the feeling of his cock twitching inside of you as your body does its best to coax cum from his nearly sends you spinning into a second orgasm. 

Johnny’s mouth doesn’t let up, even as your hold on him relaxes and your body goes limp against Simon. He only continues to lick at your clit, then around your pussy and trying to suck your lips into his mouth, licking you with a fervor that feels almost manic. 

“Johnny!” You gasp when he gives you just a momentary break, only to bite your thigh sharply enough that you jerk a few inches off of Ghost’s cock. 

“Down,” Simon snaps, shoving Johnny away from you with enough force to nearly send him sprawling. Johnny catches himself on the couch though, looking up at both of you with tears in his eyes and a cock that looks like it could cut diamond.

You coo a little, hand shaky as you reach out to cup the cheek Simon shoved. Ghost only scoffs over your shoulder, yanking you firmly back down so he’s buried to the hilt inside of you and nearly purring at your yelp. 

“Watch the teeth, mutt,” Ghost scolds as Johnny settles back between your thighs, pressing kisses to your soft skin as an apology. “Unless you want me to muzzle you again.”

“No!” Johnny yelps, wrapping an arm around your thigh and pressing himself as close as possible. “‘M sorry, sir, I didnae mean it, promise. I willnae do it again, swear.”

Ghost makes a low sound in his chest that sounds suspicious, but doesn’t push Johnny away or tell him off again. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he finally says, pushing a strand of hair back into place on Soap’s forehead. “Game’s not back for another ten minutes, you want to keep having fun with the girl or go back to your corner?”

“Wait–” you try to protest, but your voice is cut off when Johnny latches himself to your clit once again, sucking the oversensitive bundle like you aren’t still shaking from your last orgasm. You squeal at the pleasure-pain, body tense like a bowstring. “Please!”

“There you go,” Ghost purrs, resting his chin on your shoulder and squeezing your hip as your cunt spasms around him. “Attaboy, Johnny.”

Your brain practically melts out of your ears before you can string together enough words to beg for even a five minute break, but you can’t find it in yourself to be upset as Johnny practically catapults you towards another orgasm. 

[bi-writes]

can we have like a pov of like what MOB would do if something did happen to simon..? luv you!

mail-order bride

your tea is cold when you pick it up to drink it. it burns you, how cold it is, and you cough a little as you set it down, grimacing as you wipe your lips.

maybe it's just one of those days. the rain is hitting a little too hard against the window. the cats have been restless. the dark one shredded your yoga mat by clawing at it under a doorway, and the orange tabby managed to knock over all of simon's plants from the windowsill (which you frantically put back inside their little pots--would plant murder be his last straw?). you left a red shirt in when you washed the whites (you apologized to all of simon's white tees), and when you noticed holes in your favorite sweats in a pattern that matched a cat's claws, you called it a day and decided to make tea (another fail).

you rub your pounding head, taking a deep breath, but you aren't given long to count down from five when your phone begins to ring.

you pick it up, not recognizing the number, but you put it to your ear as you get up to boil more water.

"hello?"

a throat clears on the other end. "do i have mrs. riley 'ere?"

you frown, leaning your hip against the kitchen counter as you turn a burner on and put the kettle over it.

"uhm...yeah. this is she," you say finally. you look at the clock; it's late, much too late. "who is this?"

"this is john. ah...captain john price, ma'am."

you clench your jaw, closing your eyes. "um...i'm sorry, i...what can i do for you? simon's not--"

"we had to call for medevac," john says lowly. "ahh...should be headin' into surgery soon. i--"

"wait--what?" you cough a little, shutting the stove off, and you're scrambling as you make your way to the bedroom. he's talking again, you realize, but you can't hear what he's saying. your eyes are moving around the room, and you frantically start to pull drawers open, grabbing a sweater, jeans, actual clothes to put on. you shed your pajamas, hopping as you slide your jeans on, and he's still talking, but you still hear nothing.

you run into the dresser, the furniture rattling, and you let the phone go, realizing you can't see because there's tears blurring your vision. you wipe them away, looking around for your purse, and when you realize what this is, an emergency--right?--you head for the bookcase in simon's study.

you toss a few books down onto the floor, your hands shaking as your fingers curl around the spine of a leather bible. you set the book down on simon's desk, flipping through the pages before you find your prized paper nestled between the pages of the book of john.

you head back to the bedroom, picking up the phone again, and you shakily dial the number that's on the back of the card. you take a seat on the bed (because where would you go anyways?), and you close your eyes as you wait for someone to pick up.

it rings for too long. you gasp a little, clutching the phone tight, and you beg for someone to pick up, please, please, please--

"'ello?"

"johnny--" you hiccup, standing up. "johnny, he...he told me--"

"wha--who--" on the other end, johnny shouts at someone to get a move on, "--bleedin' christ, who is this?"

"it's me," you whisper. "i'm...simon's--"

"ach...fuckin' hell..." there's a long, deep sigh on the other end. "oi, lass, listen, he's alright--"

"he's...b-but someone said surgery."

"right, i..." he sighs again, and you hear a door shut on the other end. "ye sit tight, luv. i'll come get ye, okay?"

you sniffle, wiping your face, "just tell me he's gonna be okay. tell me i'm worrying for nothing."

johnny chuckles a bit, and the sound soothes you just enough. "gonna be alright. lad's fuckin' dramatic, i'll tell ye tha', big brick fuckin' stepped in front of--"

"okay, johnny, please don't tell me how simon almost killed himself and get your ass over here, okay?" you snap, and johnny halts his laughing.

"right, yeah, forgive me." you hear the rattle of keys. "'m coming."

"mrs. riley?"

your head lifts up. you blink the sleep out of your eyes, rubbing them gently, and there's a petite woman in scrubs smiling at you with her mask hanging around her neck. you have two sergeants at either side of you, captain price settled leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. you have a blanket around your shoulders, and when you slip it off, johnny takes it from you gently.

"you can see him now."

you get to your feet, and when you pass simon's captain, he tips his hat at you respectfully. you hurry and follow the doctor down the hall, and when you see simon's name scribbled on a makeshift sigh on the wall, you eagerly pick up the pace until the door is opened for you.

he looks peaceful laying there. the monitors beep quietly around him, little wires and tubes falling around him, and you let out a breath when you see him blink those dark eyes awake blearily.

"tha' an angel?"

you start to cry. "you're such an asshole."

you come close to the side of the bed, taking his outstretched hand, and you clutch his big hand to your chest. you curl his hand into a fist, pressing your face against the back of his hand, kissing his knuckles there gently. he uncurls his fingers and wipes at your tears gently, shaking his head.

"gave ya a right scare, didn't i?"

"yes, you dickhead," you sniffle, and simon chuckles lowly, wincing a little as he clutches his lower stomach. you use your foot to bring the chair behind you closer, taking a seat in it as you look up at him. he turns his head to face you, giving you a pained smile, and you let out the breath you've been holding since johnny came to get you. "what's the matter with you, simon?"

"shit happens."

you try not to roll your eyes, but the anger is not lost on simon. he squeezes your hand gently, his eyes flicking up to the clock, and he grimaces when he realizes it's nearly six in the morning. you must have been here all night, waiting for him.

"is this how it's gonna be?" you ask in a whisper. when he meets your eyes again, it's more difficult this time. what you're asking isn't predictable. it isn't a straight answer. and if he gives you anything that isn't the truth, it feels like a lie, and he can't do that to you. "w-waking up in the middle of the night? hoping that the call isn't...that...hoping that--"

"not that simple," simon interrupts gently.

"well, make it simple, simon," you say firmly. even through your tears, your voice doesn't shake this time. "make it very simple for me, then."

simon purses his lips, and for the first time since you've met your husband, he hesitates. he doesn't have an answer, at least a good one.

"don't wanna lie to ya, swee'eart," simon murmurs, and you stare right back at him.

"then don't."

he sucks on his teeth, looking away, and you tug on his hand, pulling his eyes back to you.

"look at me, simon," you say, and he looks sad. he's going to tell you something that you won't want to hear. he's going to tell you something that's been the truth since he enlisted, a reality that never bothered him until he realized he had a responsibility to keep a roof over your head. there's someone waiting inside of his house. there's a place that's waiting for him on one side of the bed he shares with you. there's someone else's shoes always next to his, and someone else's name that will always be beside his own.

family.

he has a family.

"i'll try and keep ya outta here," is all simon murmurs. you smile at that. it's a promise, but he won't lie to you. always honest, your husband. he tells you things as they are. he doesn't pretend. everything with simon is the truth as he presents it, and it's eerily comforting, even if the truth isn't one that you like.

"i love you, simon," you whisper, and when you touch his face finally, the sting of the gold of your wedding is a welcome distraction.

he vows to make this the last time you see him this way. nothing is worth seeing that face of yours like this--tired, disheveled, the angry crease in your brow. you're not meant for these things. for the waiting, the crying, the worry, it's not a life he meant to give you.

for a moment, he wonders if you'd ever ask him.

will you hang it up for me? will you leave for me?

the most terrifying part, he realizes, is that he isn't sure of what his answer would be. and he isn't sure of what you would do if he told you no.

[absinthehyuk]

love galore

pairing. ex boyfriend seungcheol + afab reader

summary. when you meet your ex at a charity event, you like to imagine that the universe just wants to kill you. luckily, the mysterious forces of nature have other plans.

w.c 0.9k

warnings. porn with very little plot, car sex, backseat shenanigans, riding, minor tit play, BIG DICK CHEOL!!!! steamy sex, skin slapping, petnames: hers baby, slut his cheol, cheollie — 18+ MINORS DNI!

a/n. exam szn testing my fucking patience. maybe i’m back. maybe i’m not. based off of the song love galore by sza but not rlly 🫶 also wtf we are at 800 followers?? thank you???!!!! also, i surived nnn ;)

this was supposed to be a relaxed evening for you, visiting the charity event in Gwangju just to look at some cute animals and donating for a good cause.

it was supposed to be a few hours that you didn’t spend moping about in your apartment after breaking up with someone who you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with.

well, the word ‘suppose’ doesn’t even cross your mind at the moment.

how could it, when his hands grab at your hips, his lips parted in a groan? when his mouth says your name so beautifully?

you’d not noticed seungcheol at first. not until you were on your knees stroking a moody ginger cat when suddenly someone’s fingers brushed against your own.

at first glance, you wanted to cuss him out. scream, yell, clock him in the jaw, commit arson– every crime under the sun.

but all you could do was helplessly moan like a desperate whore.

seungcheol hastily led you to his car, mouth melding with yours, opening the back door and practically throwing you inside. he tasted like mint and a hint of coffee. just the taste you liked.

nothing about the moment is soft. all that can be heard is his groans, your soft breaths and the lewd dance of your tongues.

“take your pants off,” seungcheol heaves, sitting upright in the backseat as he tugs you into his lap. one of his hands pushes his hair back, eyes dark as he scrutinizes you.

you follow his orders without batting an eye, unbuttoning your jeans with much difficulty in the cramped space and sliding them off.

seungcheol yanks your tank top down, spitting on your nipple as he spares it a lick. “missed you,” he mumbled, teething on your peak as if you hadn’t lost all train of thought the second his lips had met yours.

“missed you, missed these gorgeous tits, and of course, this needy pussy,” his fingers slide between your legs, prodding at your folds. “she’s still mine, right? or did you find someone else?”

you shake your head with a whine when his fingers enter you, feeling your tight walls contract around him. with the pad of his thumb on your engorged clit, seungcheol thrusts his fingers in, a pace that has your mind fogging.

“c-cheollie,” you hiccup, but he shushes you with a bite on your left nipple. “shush baby, just enjoy it,” his words are hoarse, as his tongue lavs over and over your perky mounds.

you can feel the impending telltale of your orgasm the second his fingers curl and they hit that spot inside of you. seungcheol feels a gush of arousal from you, not letting you cum, but just about there to silently remove his fingers and suck them into his mouth.

his cock replaces his fingers, and you just about lose the air from your lungs. no matter how many times you’ve had sex with him, it always feels like the first.

the fat tip pushes past your folds, slowly sinking you down on him. he hisses at the contact. “still so tight f’me... you’ve been a good girl, haven’t you? didn’t let anyone touch what’s mine, hm?”

he knows he’s blabbering, but when he notices the tears spring up to your eyes, seungcheol’s fingers, slightly wet from his saliva wipe them away.

“it’s okay, baby. i love you. i still do.”

you lean into his touch, relishing in the soft moment inside the steamy car when the bastard ruins it.

seungcheol bottoms out inside you, eliciting a moan that sounds so pornographic, you wonder why you’ve not switched careers yet.

the one thrust is enough for you to grab onto his shoulders, lips crashing against his with the power of a sea storm as you begin to ride him.

your tongue swirls with his, squelching noises coming from down below as he meets your thrusts halfway, hands planted on your hips. he sets the pace, your ass bouncing on his thighs, a noise that he has thoroughly yearned for.

“such a good little slut for me,” he whispers against your lips as you lean back, tits bouncing in his face as your thighs start to ache.

but you couldn’t care. not now anyway.

“so big inside me cheol... filling me up all the way,” you moan, eyes rolling as your lower stomach tightens slightly.

the stretch of his cock is too much, splitting your pussy into two in the best way possible. you feel every ridge and vein of his cock, twitching inside you as you praise his size. god, the man’s ego was almost as huge as his dick.

“gonna make me cum like that, baby,” seungcheol whispers, one of his hands leaving your hips to come up and squeeze your mounds. “want me to pull out?” he asks, flicking your nipple with a finger.

“fuck– hah! yes, pull out, pull out!”

with one last thrust and impeccable timing, you feel yourself cum, as he pulls out and releases all over your stomach. the white paints your skin and manages to land a few specks on your tank top.

seungcheol’s breathing is unsteady, as is yours. the sex induced fog seems to fade slightly, as you come down from the incredible high you’ve just experienced.

“stop looking like you regret this, y/n. i know you wanna come back to my place,” seungcheol pushes a strand of damp hair behind your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the sweaty skin of your jaw.

the moment is soft, a rare gem among the monstrous haze that the demon of lust had bestowed upon the two of you.

“what do you think, baby? wanna fuck on the couch like usual?”

oh, how you could you refuse that offer?

© absinthehyuk, 2024

[rqnarok]

dbf!logan ‘just the tip’ howlett.

cws/tags: smut, mdni! dbf!logan. daddy kink. unspecified age gap. unprotected p in v.

The clock almost strikes eight in the morning when the both of you are still lazily lying around on Logan’s bed, smelling like sex and secrets.

Forbidden—but you and him are too drowned in the intoxicated water to reach back into the surface.

Neither of you cares about anything else anymore.

“I can’t,” You whine at him, jutting your lips to a pout, your eyes trailing your eyes into his hard length in front of you, “‘M gonna - have to go home.” 

“C’mon, sweets,” He pleads as he palms your naked breasts in his large palms, rolling the peaking nipples in between his fingers, “How ‘bout just the tip, baby? Jus’ give Daddy a little taste, yeah?” 

You should’ve known that Logan’s older than that myth—that card to corrupt your innocence—but his guilt is buried deep by his desire, his primal need to have you that leaves him with little to no restraints.

Your doe-eyes is the only sign that he needs. 

A mark for your submission sent him spiraling that he had to bite his left cheek to hide his smugness.

Logan’s too old for this shit.

”O-okay,” You reply in a nod, meek and quiet, “But jus’ the tip, promise?” 

Logan doesn’t care if he’s too old. 

“‘Promise, baby.” Logan murmurs as he locks his pinky with yours. 

Logan is the biggest fuckin’ liar. 

“H-ah! More!” He’s got you on all fours, your saliva drips onto his pillows as you lost your energy to keep yourself up while Logan fucks you from the back. 

He grips your sides and uses his strength to manhandle your body back and front to his hard cock.

“So good f’r Daddy, sweetheart.” He groans so deep he barely recognizes his own voice, “So fuckin’ good, baby.” 

You are getting impatient with how he’s torturing you by drawing his length so deliberately slow so he can watch your velvet walls gripping him—before thumping it back in. Logan’s never satisfied until his hips are pressed flush to the fast of your ass.

Then, he repeats the process—snapping his hips forward, leaving you moaning out a high-pitched noise as your hands uselessly clutch at the sheets. 

Logan watches with pride as he knows that he’s the one who’s able to make you feel like this. The only one. 

He bends forward, his broad figure covering your trembling back, “Tha’ my girl. So fuckin’ sweet for your old man.” The head of his cock ruts along that gummy spot inside of you, “Now, wha’ dya say to Daddy?” 

Logan hears a weak muffled answer from when your head is buried.

“Hmm? Wha’s that, baby?” 

Gently, he cups your chin to tip your head just enough so he could hear your reply.

He hears a hiccuped sob—then—“Than’ you, Daddy.”

A throaty chuckle comes out of him as he presses a kiss on your messy hair, “Wha’ a good doll y’are.

Something in the way he manhandles you—the way this feels so taboo—makes your body spasm in his hold—toes curling as you reach your peak.

Logan tightens his grip around you when he feels how your warm walls are squeezing him. 

You both feel like living in an utterly different world in this euphoria that washes over the room. 

Suddenly this is the only home you’ve ever known.

[fieriframes]

[A dragonfly types novels on a pancake made of air. The sun eats spaghetti while juggling upside-down tigers. Whales play hopscotch with invisible planets in the fridge. A trumpet becomes a sandwich, and the sandwich starts to bark. Cows do backflips over an ocean made of toothpaste. A clock melts into a jellybean, then explodes into rabbits. The wind turns into a sock and argues with the moon’s eyebrow. Lemons become presidents of the invisible horse parade. A volcano hiccups marshmallows, and time turns into a spoon. The stars laugh in lowercase while riding bicycles made of soup.]

[idolshineitai]

you can call me Ce (or just C. i GUESS)

[ghoulphile]

run rabbit run | c.h/the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 869 ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; rough, mildly dubious consent (kinda?), dom!coop, bareback, cum play, degradation kink, biting, pet names (bunny), man-handling, doggystyle, drabble, coop's gotta fuck you full so the ferals can't smell you ➥ summary | "the drabble thing HNNNGH think about coop calling you bunny from the start bc he clocked that you were always a down for it and you not getting it until he after you fuck for the first time" ➥ notes | do not look @ me rn 🫣 i feel like i've exposed myself too much lol masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

He found the rabbit among endless dunes of rock and rubble; a frightened, jumpy little beast that required a firm hand to tame, and an even steadier one to control.

And while it would’ve been easier to dump ‘em at Super Duper Mart -- get his caps worth, pounds of flesh for vials of chem -- he took a shine. Now, what exactly it is about you that captured his attention so thoroughly, he can’t be sure (though he could hazard a few guesses).

What he does know is this: if it wasn’t for him, you’d have been killed a million times over by raiders, fiends, and ferals alike. Always finding your way into trouble as soon as his back is turned.

Like now.

So if he’s a little rough with you, it’s only because he had to haul ass half-way across the flooded district when he heard you scream.

Nevermind the hard lurch of his heart, the sensation of his stomach droppin’ to his feet. You were supposed to be safe, holed up in the building he cleared yesterday.

Surprise, surprise; you decided to go poking where you shouldn’t, and now he’s gotta rescue your dumb ass. Skidded around a bombed out building only to find you fighting off a small pack of ferals, their rotted hands scratching at your arms and their teeth gnashing at your face.

Goddamn it.

Same shit, different day.

“What did I fuckin’ say?” he snarls, chapped lips pressed tight against your ear as sharp hip bones rut into the softness of your ass. “You’re dumber than shit sometimes.”

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t - hhahh, slow down - didn’t mean to cause trouble.” Your hands scramble for purchase, nail beds aching from how hard you’re digging at the dirt.

Shoved onto the ground, pants sagging around your thighs as a stray rock digs into your cheek, scraping up the tender skin. “Won’t do it again, I promise.”

The Ghoul snorts, delivers a stinging nip to the tip of your ear. Your reedy whine soothes some of the agitation but he’s still bristling, aggression threaded through with tendrils of panic he refuses to acknowledge.

“I highly doubt that.”

You hiccup, knees spreading wide as your back dips - trying to get away, to get closer.

The fat head of his cock keeps hitting your cervix with every stroke, little fissions of pain kissed pleasure racketing up your spine as he stretches you past your limits and fucks you open.

Your gummy walls swollen and raw from the constant friction of his shaft, the rad burns scraping your insides up. Clit aching and so wet you’re dripping, a damp patch of earth beneath you.

“No, promise I’ll be good!” You pant, the scent of sunbaked soil and stagnant water heavy in your nose. “Please, please, please.”

Everything aches, limbs sore from your tussle and pride bruised as sweat dapples your brow, sticks the fine baby hairs to the back of your neck.

A hand clamps down on your hip so hard bones grind, yanking you back into every punishing thrust. Heavy balls smack against your clit on the in-stroke, stoking the embers of your desire. Your toes curl in your boots.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, bunny.” The Ghoul grabs your elbow with his free hand, tugging you up into his chest so his chin hooks over your shoulder, breath puffing along the side of your cheek. “You just don’ know when ta learn. So I’m gonna have’ta teach you. An’ I’ll do it as many times as it takes, you hear?”

You sniffle, nuzzling the back of your head against his face. “I mean it,” you say. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know there’d be any ferals around. Was just trying to find some more food.”

Groaning, his hips kick forward in a softer grind, still so deep you feel him in your stomach - pussy filled to the brim with cock - but not as harsh as before. As close as you’ll get to an apology until he’s done.

“This is your fault - you got ‘em all riled. Now, we gotta make you smell like me so take your punishment like a good bunny 'fore I decide ta eat you instead.”

And you do, letting him rut into you until he’s satisfied, aching and so swollen by the end of it that he has to bully his way in with every thrust, your pussy clamping down and milking him for all he’s worth.

When he finally does pump you full, you’re dumb and dripping. Limp limbed and sagging into the ground - only held up by the cage of his arms. Thighs shaking and clit pulsing in time with your heartbeat as he wrings every last bit of pleasure out of you.

“Sometimes,” he says, sitting back on his heels to watch as his cum oozes out of you in a sticky rush, dripping down your folds, “I think dumb bunnies like you are only good fer one thing.”

You whine when his thumb whispers over your clit, caressing your folds as he gathers up his spend. Gently fucks it back into you with shallow thrusts of his fingers. 

“But that’s all right, I like ‘em a lil dumb.”

[lostintransist]

The Price is Wife | Part 2

Part one here *Part one includes ace!wife!reader coming home to find John has brought home a boyfriend and packs a bag to spend the night at a hotel because why would John need a wife if he has a boyfriend???

Tear stains on your cheeks led to a cool washcloth on your face before packing all of your clothes back into your luggage. You didn't know if you would be able to book this same room for another few nights.

Digging your nails into the palm of the other hand you focus on breathing. The bright color on your nails makes you think of John. Fuck. He had paid for this set. Dammit all and beyond, you didn't want your marriage to end. You love John, he had to be one of your best friends. With a little wine in your glass you would even call him your soul mate. He would laugh and lay a kiss at your cheek, thanking you for the honor.

You loved that man so much you couldn't, wouldn't, stand in his way of being truly happy. John longed for more physical affection than either of you was comfortable with. You knew that John would thrive under the kisses of his boyfriend. Guess you would request a transfer at work and file uncontested.

Halting those thoughts before you started sobbing again you flap your hands at your face to keep your eyes from leaking. Your makeup was done lightly today, knowing you would be crying most of it off in John's office after work despite the setting spray.

Three meetings. That is all you had to get through today. You could buy yourself comfort food on the way to the hotel. Might even splurge and rent an overpriced movie. Yeah. That sounded like a plan.

First meeting drags, sending the following two into overtime and you to missing lunch and clocking out an hour later than you originally planned. The idea of putting food in your face makes you nauseus. Any food will taste like sawdust right now.

The first person to notice something is wrong is the gate officer. Office Madida had been letting you on and off base for a few years now. The man's bright smile fit so neatly on his dark skin that to see him without one would almost signal the end of the world.

"Ah! Mrs. Price, here to see your husband?"

Offering a wan smile you nod, "I'm a bit late. Would you call his office to let him know I'm here?"

"Of course! Give me a moment," Madida grabs the phone from its cradle and punches in a series of numbers. He looks you over smile slipping as he takes in the whole of you. "You doing alright Mrs. Price?"

The title slices at you. It won't be yours for to much longer. Your wan smile is now watery.

"Not really, but I appreciate you noticing."

He holds up a finger as he speaks into the phone. "Yeah, I've got Mrs. Price at the gate. She's asking that Captain Price can meet at his office?" He lifts a brow at you to confirm. At your nod he continues, "I'll send her in now. No, she won't need an escort she's been visiting her husband for nearly a decade."

Fuck a duck, your next anniversry would be ten wouldn't it? A hiccuping sob bursts past your lips. The hand you slap to your mouth doesn't prevent Officer Madida's sharp look as he hangs up the phone.

"Go and park Mrs. Price. Give me five minutes to get a replacement out here and I will walk with you."

You do as commanded, tears streaking down your face as you settle the car into park. Madida opens the door and reaches in to turn off the engine when he arrives. Thankfully you have nearly sobbed yourself out when he arrives. He walks close to you, deference and defense in his body language.

Officer Madida leaves you after John's voice rings out at your knock. Stepping into his office feels like the first time you did two weeks after you had gotten married. He introduced you around the base, proud to show off his new wife. The same drab brown covered the walls, a blanket you had crocheted him for your first wedding anniversery lay across the couch he kept for naps. The only real change in the room had to be the drawn look across John's face.

For a man who should have been happy to lose a wife and gain a husband he looked dreadful. Deep eye bags and his unkempt beard tell of a hard night. Maybe as hard as yours.

John rose slowly as you shut the door behind you. His eyes searched yours.

"Are you ready to talk now?" The gravel in his voice stings as if you were flung across it.

The lip quiver starts first. "What is there to talk about John? Why would you me when you have a boyfriend now? We are friends who sometimes kiss and share tax benefits and a flat. That's not much compared to someone who can love you the way you deserve and fills your needs and your bed."

Tightening your nails into your palms and your arms around your ribs you watch your husband round his desk. John's broad hands settle on you, one at your face and the other on your elbow. Your eyelids drift closed at the familiar, safe touch.

"Why would I want to trade one love for another?" John whispers, voice breaking.

Lifting a hand to lay across the one on your face you open your eyes and match his tear filled gaze.

"I can't see your boyfriend being okay with you keeping a wife. I can't be the reason you don't get to be happy."

John's hand slide around to the back of you, pulling you into a hug.

"The first thing I did," John spoke into your ear, "When Nik kissed me out of the blue was tell him about my wife. The woman who holds me as I cry and pokes fun at me until we both laugh. My best friend, my soul mate. I told him about our arrangement, and how anything with him could not hurt what I have with you. You're allowed to be selfish."

You are sobbing now, wrinkling John's shirt with your tears and your grip. Selfish isn't something you have ever been allowed to be. Asking for your parents to show up to important dates in school, graduation, etc were always met with cries of being selfish. Your sibling had an event that day already, or they had a work event. John had been the first to put your first.

Being put aside so often by those that claimed to love you it only made sense to step aside before John could do the same.

"No, I'm not. Selfish is always the word people use to say I am asking for to much." Sobbing harder the past pains work their way out through your grip on your husband. "Why didn't you tell me John? I would have understood. I want you to be able to be loved the way you deserve."

"Honestly?" He chuckled a bit, "I was so excited for the two of you two meet that I didn't think it through."

Pulling back from John you give him a look he is expressly familiar with. Sometimes your brilliant, SAS-trained, Air Force Captian was dumber than a box of rocks. At this point, you chalked it up to a function of testosterone.

"You forgot to tell your wife that you were bringing your boyfriend home?" The deadpan delivery has John's ears pinking up.

"Nik also called me an idiot after I explained that you were heading to a hotel for the night. He was looking forward to meeting you. If you're okay with it he is probably outside the office waiting to talk to you," John gives you the softest of smiles.

There is a light knock at the door.

"I want you both, and if there is anything you need from me to keep both of you I will do anything to make that happen." John speaks with the seriousness that made you believe he would fight god and win.

Pressing a light kiss to your lips John opens the door to his lover. Nik observes you with a cool indifference. The deepening wrinkles around his eyes tell you he might also be nervous.

"Would you like to see my helicopter?" His accent is thicker today than when he introduced himself last night.

You nod, and John offers your hand to his boyfriend. Nik takes your hand, tucking it into the corner of his elbow as the two of you wander further onto base. Passing no one on your way neither of you is ready to break the silence.

Leaving the building behind both you and Nik take a deep breath. Glancing at him you find Nik looking at your already. Both of you laugh out your big breath of air.

"I hate being in the base buildings for too long. Makes my skin itch," you offer.

"I dislike all the brown," Nik replies in return.

"What did John tell you?" You broach the subject first.

"He told me of his wife. Of her kindness, her self sacrificing ways, of the kisses you share, and the happiness that fills him up so much that I fell in love with coming from you."

No change in his tone or side glance at you. The feet attached to your body would have been rooted to the ground if Nik did not keep careful pressure on your hand, pulling you forward to the helicopter now within sight.

The ache in your chest that had started last night when John called Nik his boyfriend flared to life again, an improperly cared for fire.

"First thing you will need to learn," you cover your mouth with a hand, "Is that you can't say nice things like that to me. I cry if you are too nice to me and you are in love with John so you don't want to comfort his wife."

Nik blinks at you slowly, observing. He gives no inclination as to what he saw but lets your hand fall as you reach his helo. He opens the side door and invites you to sit down with a pat of his hand. Sitting next to you Nik does not say anything for a long time. Swinging your feet you prod at your emotions until you can parse them out enough for words. Your palms wear patterns up and down the thighs of your pants.

"I don't want to lose him, Nik. But he deserves to be happy and I know he will be happy with you. He's talked about you before, for years now, I just never realized he liked you more than as a friend. A word from you and I will file the paperwork today. It's an odd agreement between us. I knew it would end for him one day when he found someone to love and love him in return." Your voice breaks as you fight back the sobs. As if the cliffs could fight back a storm.

He pulls your hand from your lap, threading his wide fingers between yours. Hair dots his knuckes. He does not offer platitudes, or unfounded words, simply holds your hand as you weep.

"You love John. I also love John. Part of the love John carries is for you alone, and it would shatter him to lose you," Nik pauses until your sobbing has slowed enough to hear him again. "Give us a chance to learn to love each other, as friends and as those who love the idiot that is John Price."

Someone else calling John an idiot sparked a bark of laughter.

"I would love to learn to love you Nik," squeezing his fingers tight in yours you stand.

Nik joins you. Releasing his hand from yours he settles both against your face. Placing a kiss to one cheek and then the other, he finally places a kiss on your lips. The two of you share a smile and a nod of understanding. This would be a time of transition and of growth, but you both loved John enough to make room for the other.

The kiss Nik pressed to your lips did not go unobserved. Kyle, with a twisted and complicated relationship of his own he kept under wraps, saw Nik kiss John's wife. Turning and sprinting across the base he found his lovers, Simon and Johnny, reviewing paperwork from their last mission.

"Nikoli is a fucking homewrecker and is trying to get with Mrs. Price!"

That brought all work to a hard standstill.

Part 1 | Part 3 | Bonus

Masterlist

[sheerfreesia007]

Hiccups & Giggles

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Word count: 1,718

Content warnings: Fluff, alcohol

Summary: One night as you’re at home Minho brings a drunk Han home to you telling you that he was whining about missing you on his evening out with the boys. When you help Han get ready for a sleepover at your place will his drunken confession change things in your friendship?

Gwiyomi: Cutie, Jagi: Sweetheart

Your eyes dart over to the clock on your stove just as you finish washing the last dish you had used for your dinner silently thinking that you should start heading to bed when there’s a loud knock on your apartment door. Sighing softly you wonder which neighbor of yours has come to talk your ear off over whatever was bothering them now. You walk over to the door and check the peephole and frown softly as you see Minho standing there holding up a slouching Han. Quickly opening the door you’re met with a disgruntled Minho as Han lifts his head morosely before his whole face lights up when he spots you.

“Jagi!” he cries out happily before he’s lurching out of Minho’s grip and stumbling with his steps and practically tackles you in your doorway. You grimace when you smell the stench of alcohol radiating off Han and look up at Minho as you try to steady both yourself and the obviously drunk Han. Han’s mumbling softly in a whining tone that slightly distracts you as Minho huffs disgruntledly at the two of you.

“He was whining the whole time at dinner how much he wanted you there and that he needed to see you. I’m only transporting him where he wants to be.” Minho informs you irritated and you smile softly at the man. His eyes dart up from watching Han latch himself onto you to gaze into your eyes and huffs softly once more. “He’s a real pain to deal with when he gets like this for you.” he gripes and you chuckle softly at him.

“Feel like we’re in a co-parenting custody battle.” you tease him and he barks out an amused laugh at you before shaking his head.

“Oh no, I’m just the side chick to his main squeeze.” Minho says teasingly and you roll your eyes at him while he smirks at you. His eyes dart down to Han who has now nuzzled his face into your neck with soft little whines escaping his open mouth and he raises an eyebrow before looking back up at you. A blush heats your face and you try to calm your racing heart as Minho’s knowing look as Han clings to you drunkenly. “He’s your problem now. He doesn’t have a schedule until late afternoon. Chan will call and text you tomorrow morning.” Minho tells you still smirking before he turns on his heel and begins to walk away. “Take care of him Jagi. He really did miss you tonight.” he says over his shoulder as you stand there in your doorway holding onto Han watching Minho walk away.

You stand there silently trying to gather your warring thought as Han shifts against you, his arms wrapped low around your hips as he nuzzles his face further into your neck. The two of you have been best friends since before he joined Stray Kids and luckily your friendship was stronger than ever and had withstood all the changes that he had gone through while being a Kpop idol. The boys had eagerly and happily accepted you into their found family and would often tease you about being Han’s number one person and his end game much to Minho’s jealousy. But you had always brushed it off with a dismissive air, you were just best friends right? For him he was your favorite person in the whole world, the bond you shared was something that you knew didn’t come around often so when you had figured out that your feelings for him had morphed from friendship to something more you had locked those feelings away not wanting to disrupt the bond you had. You had never thought that he would ever think about you in a romantic way even when the boys would tease and joke that you were Han’s end game. But as you guided Han back into your apartment and closed the door behind the two of you your mind began to wonder if maybe what the boys had teased about was true. 

“C’mon Gwiyomi, let’s get you ready for bed.” you tell him softly and Han hums in response before leaning further into you causing you to wrap your arm securely around his back before guiding him towards your bathroom.

In the bathroom Han gets a burst of energy and eagerly hops up onto the counter before staring at you with wide glazed eyes. You chuckle at him as you shake your head when suddenly a loud hiccup escapes him and your eyes widen at him before you begin to laugh at how cute it was.

“Living up to the Gwiyomi name tonight huh?” you tease him gently and he grins proudly at you. You turn from him and open one of the drawers next to the sink while Han’s legs begin to kick slowly as he sits on the counter waiting patiently. You find his light pink hair band and the face cleaning wipes before turning back to him, he’s watching you with unfocused dreamy eyes and smiles softly as he leans his face forward for you. Slipping the hair band over his head and positioning it so that his hair is pushed back from his forehead you take one of the wipes and begin to clean his face. 

This doesn’t feel any different from any other night that he would demand to come sleepover with you and you chuckle softly when his hiccups become more noticeable as he relaxes under your attention. Oftentimes when he’s exhausted from work he’ll come over and plead with you to take care of him which you never deny him. But as you stand in between his spread thighs now you feel an unfamiliar heat that curls in the pit of your stomach as his arms lazily slip around your body and cling low on your waist keeping you close. 

He hiccups loudly and you giggle as his whole body moves with the hiccup while his soft smile widens on his face. You grin softly at him before leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to his nose.

“Gwiyomi.” you say softly and he hums at you before leaning forward and rubbing his nose gently against yours while he giggles brightly at the affection between the two of you.

“You’re cuter Jagi.” he hums out to you softly and you smile at him before shaking your head in response.

“That’s impossible.” you tell him softly as you grab your face moisturizer and begin to rub it into his face. He grabs your hands before shaking his head at you while widening his eyes.

“You’re beautiful Jagi, I could never compare.” he tells you softly and you hear the soft adamant tone that he takes on which makes you focus in on him knowing that this is serious for him. Your heart races in your chest as his words settle over the two of you and you keep your eyes trained on him. “You make me feel so loved and I’m so happy you’re my person.” he confesses softly before he smiles whimsically as his eyes dart to the floor and you know he has more to say. “Sometimes I feel like your love for me is too much for me and I don’t deserve it. I don’t think I could ever give you enough love like you deserve. But I have so much love for you inside me. So much.” He confesses softly and you stare at him with wide eyes as your heart pounds heavily in your chest. You then gently headbutt him and rest your forehead against his catching his attention as his eyes dart up from the floor to stare into yours.

”Don’t worry Gwiyomi I will always feel your love for me and it will always be enough for me. You deserve everything in the world and I’m more than happy to give it to you. You deserve to be loved and feel loved.” You reassure him softly and watch as his eyes settle on yours and stare deeply into your gaze getting lost in it. He suddenly then reaches up and cups your face pressing his hands in together giggling softly when your lips pout out in a kiss before a hiccups racks his body which makes you chuckle and roll your eyes at him.

”I don’t know how you always manage to make me feel at peace with everything. But I promise I will do everything in my power to show you how much I love you and am in love with you.” He says softly before a sweet smile slips onto his face. You stare at him shocked by his confession but you melt against him and kiss his forehead which makes him hum and then hiccup once more causing the two of you to giggle softly together.

”C’mon let’s get you in bed and tomorrow you can start showing me how much you’re in love with me.” You tease him gently and he grins at you happily before sliding off the counter of the sink and wraps his arms low around your waist before resting his head on your shoulder.

”I’m gonna show you in every way that I can.” He promises quietly and you kiss his temple in response before guiding him out of the bathroom towards your bedroom. You smile to yourself when your mind races back to Minho’s words earlier and you realize that maybe he was telling the truth about Han’s feelings for you. 

As you helped Han into bed you tucked him in and he giggled softly before opening his arms wide as he gazed up at you with an adoring look on his face. You looked at him for a moment wondering if he’d be upset if you slept in the same bed as him after he drunkenly confessed to you. “Please Jagi, let me start showing you home much I’m in love with you.” He pleaded softly with soft sparkling eyes. You smiled softly at him before crawling into his arms under the covers and he sighed softly in relief as he wrapped himself around you. The two of you quickly melding together as slumber took over, the both of you eager for what tomorrow would bring for your relationship.

SKZ Taglist: @kayleefriedchicken, @babigriin, @inlovewithstraykids, @channiesrightasscheek, @kaiyaba

[botanicsoul]

Heart of marigolds

Katsuki Bakugou x gn!Reader!

⚠️warning - mentions of death!!!

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧. 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

There he was. Lifeless. Limp. Heart shattered and unmoving.

“KATSUKI!!” you screamed, but no sound came out. You tried to run to him, but it felt like you were stuck in place, feet sinking into the ground like quicksand. The harder you pushed forward, the farther away he seemed.

You cried so hard it ripped you from sleep. Your body jolted upright, heart racing, breath frantic. Hot tears burned down your cheeks, your throat tight from the silent sobs. You ran a shaky hand through your hair, trying to ground yourself.

Your eyes darted to the clock on your nightstand. 2:47 AM.

“It was just a dream. It wasn’t real.” You whispered it over and over like a mantra. But it was real.

Before you could think twice, you threw off your blanket and slipped out of your dorm, moving quickly and quietly through the halls. You barely registered the cold floor beneath your feet as you made your way to Bakugou’s room.

You knocked softly, knowing he was a light sleeper. He had to hear it, right? A minute passed. Nothing.

You knocked again—still soft but a little firmer this time. Silence.

Frustration and desperation clawed at your chest, so you knocked harder. The door swung open immediately, revealing a very pissed-off, very sleepy Katsuki Bakugou. His messy blonde spikes were even wilder than usual, and his eyes burned with irritation.

“Y/n, what the fuck are you—”

Before he could finish, you practically threw yourself at him, arms wrapping around him like he’d disappear if you let go. His body tensed for half a second before relaxing under your touch.

You pulled back just enough to press a shaky hand against his chest. His heartbeat—strong, steady, real—thumped beneath your palm.

“It’s still beating. i’m still here.” he said tiredly knowing exactly what you were doing.

Relief crashed into you so hard that fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. You clung to him again, burying your face in his shoulder as quiet sobs wracked your body.

“It’s on loop,” you hiccuped, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to make them stop.”

Katsuki let out a heavy sigh before grabbing your wrist and tugging you inside, shutting the door behind you. He pulled you toward his bed, climbed in, and looked at you expectantly.

“Katsuki, I can’t sleep here. We’ll get in trouble,” you murmured, hesitating.

He stared at you with tired but determined eyes. “I don’t give a damn. I’m tired of you having these dreams almost every night since…that day.” His voice softened. “Just get in, dumbass.”

You didn’t argue. You slipped under the covers, curling into his warmth as his arm wrapped securely around you.

A small kiss landed on your forehead.

“I’d never leave you in this godforsaken world alone,” he muttered.

His breathing evened out, and not long after, you felt your own eyelids grow heavy. This time, when sleep pulled you under, your dreams were different.

You and him.

Happy.

Alive.

[sirenpearldust]

Found You 3

Baby Daddy Azriel!

Series masterlist ⋆ Part two ⋆ Part four

Pair: Azriel x Spring Court! Reader

Word count: 4.369

Warning: violence, domestic abuse

Summary: Chaos enters Spring

The clock was ticking and your eyes were on it. He was late - again.

You and Amias had been waiting for Azriel, he should have arrived hours ago. It was already ten past twelve.

“Mama, is Daddy coming?”

“Yes, darling. He is probably just busy for a bit longer.”

Azriel’s visits had been irregular over the past few weeks. Sometimes, he sent letters explaining that work was keeping him away. 

Nine days had passed since Amias had last seen him.

You could see the sadness in his eyes. He tried to hide it, but you saw the unshed tear.

His toys laid forgotten around him, his small wings were drooping on the floor and his shadows curled around him, just like Azriel’s always did.

He could barely sleep the night before, too excited about training with his father and spending time with him. At dawn, he had woken you up just to gush about how cool his father was- how tall, how strong.

You had smiled, glad that Azriel had been a good father since getting to know Amias. But still, you remained cautious. The irregular visits were starting to wear on you.

Where is he?

He could have at least sent a letter?!

A knock echoed at the door.

“Come in,” you said, hoping, for your son’s sake, that it was news of his father.

Instead, a servant stepped inside, bowing slightly. 

“My lady, the Autumn Court heir has arrived and requests an audience. He says it is of utmost importance.”

You exhaled sharply. 

What now?

Nodding, you rose to your feet, silently praying this had nothing to do with Azriel’s disappearance.

“Nara, take care of Amias,” you instructed.

But before you could take a step, Amias stood up, his small frame trembling. Tears spilled down his red cheeks as he ran to you, clinging tightly to your leg.

“Mommy,” he whimpered.

“Baby, it’s okay. I promise I’m coming back,” you whispered, running a gentle hand through his dark curls.

But he only sobbed harder, his little hands gripping your blue dress with all the strength he had.

“D-Dont… please. Daddy is already gone… please don’t leave too,” he hiccuped, his voice breaking, as he sobbed louder.

Your heart burned. Kneeling down, you cupped his tear-streaked face.

“Amias, listen to me. Mommy is just going to talk to Uncle Eris and see if he knows something about Daddy, okay? I won’t gone long.”

He kept crying, though and guilt sank deep into your chest. This was your fault. You should have been more attentive, should have reassured him more, should have…

You swallowed hard. Now he thinks you’ll disappear too and that also because you were busy with work.

Something tugged at you, an uneasy feeling.

“Nara, please take care of him,” you said, forcing yourself to step back.

She gently tried prying him from your arms, but he would not let go. 

“No, mommy p-please d-don’t”

His hand stretched out to you as he tried getting out of her arms.

You were sick seeing your son like this. Anger burned beneath your skin, you were angry at your self, at Azriel, at life and your duties.

You turned on your heel with a heavy heart, storming toward the room where Eris was waiting, your patience long gone.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

Stepping into the room, you froze, stunned by what you saw.

What in the abomination is this?

Your jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as you glared at Eris.

“I left my son alone for this?” you bit out, tilting your head toward the older Archeron sister standing beside him. Her head was ducked down and you could only see the mop of light brown hair she shared with her younger sister. It fell in a messy low bun. The resemblance between them was striking.

“Let me explain,” Eris said quickly, positioning himself between the both of you.

“You have five minutes. Do you understand?” Your voice was sharp, edged with barely restrained fury.

Turning you glared at Nesta Archeron, adding, “And you’d better not cause trouble in my court, like your sister”

Without waiting for a response, you turned. Eris followed you to your office, a space where no one could overhear or interrupt.

The moment the door shut behind you, you crossed your arms.

 “Talk.”

“She needs to stay here, she can’t stay anywhere else,” Eris said, his tone clipped.

You arched a brow, then let out a sharp laugh, slow-clapping your hands. 

“Are you serious, Eris?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. 

“Having an Archeron in Spring started this whole mess in the first place.”

“It’s different this time,” he said, but you only laughed bitterly.

Walking toward him, you raised your voice, pointing your finger sharply at his chest, pushing him back. His jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching, he hated when you did that.

“She’s mated to the Night Court’s general, for gods’ sake. Have you lost your mind. Hiding her here, kidnapping her, will bring war to both our doorsteps. I have Amias to think about for Gods sake.”

“I know but I swear, it’s not the same,” Eris insisted.

“It is.” Your voice sharpened. 

“Have you forgotten what happened the last time? When the night court whore, her sister might I add, was here?”

Eris hesitated. “That’s… different.”

“How the fuck is this different?” Your brow furrowed.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled red hair.

“Because Rhysand wants her dead.”

Your confusion deepened. “What? What do you mean he wants her dead? She’s his mates sister?”

“I know. It’s just things have been happening,” Eris muttered, his frustration evident. He licked his lips before sinking into a chair. For the first time, you truly looked at him, his usually pristine clothes were wrinkled, his hair an unkempt mess.

“What the hell is going on?” you demanded.

He sighed. “We’ve been exchanging letters for a while. And that brute she’s mated to-let’s just say he hasn’t been kind to her.”

Your stomach twisted. “Be specific, Eris. I’m going to live with her, I need to know how I’m gonna take care of her.”

You meant your words, your mother had been through abuse in her first marriage, before she met your father.

His amber eyes met yours, filled with something between anger and sadness. 

“They’ve kept her locked in that house, forced her to work with him, train against her will, to endure his verbal abuse.”

You exhaled sharply. “Eris, if your feelings are involved he could challenge you to a blood duel, and what if she changes her mind and wants to go back?”

“She doesn’t want to go back, he’s been cruel, they’ve been cruel. He wants children, he tried impregnating her, guilting her into not drinking the potion. She was miserable there.

She left them a goodbye letter saying she fled to the Continent and found a man while working. No one knows she’s here. No one knows I’m involved. She covered her tracks. Lucien is taking care of the rest.”

You leaned against your desk, rubbing your temples. 

“She won’t be safe in Spring if they find out.”

“Then hide her in your manor, just until I figure something out.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You mean until you figure out how to deal with your father which, might I add, Night is supposed to be helping you with.”

Your voice dropped into a harsh whisper.

“Eris, you need them as your ally. I’ve been talking to Helion, but he hasn’t been responding well to this plan of ours. He’s worried about your mother’s life and now with Nesta in the game,” you said, your voice firm, as you crossed your arms.

“He is not supposed to be involved, he’s at fault for her misery in the first place. I have everything under control,” Eris snapped, frustration evident in his tone.

You laughed bitterly.

“You just showed me how much control you have. Helion needs to be involved because your mother is his mate, just like Nesta is Cassian’s mate. Do you see how many problems this might cause?”

His glare was sharp, his jaw clenched in anger. “And what about your mate?” he seethed.

Your powers flared to life, vines curling slowly behind your back, twisting with an almost dangerous grace. 

“That’s a new low, Eris,” you said coldly. “Mind your tongue.”

The room pulsed with the intensity of your anger, your gaze locked with his as the vines continued to unravel.

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have.”

Eris clenched his jaw and he didn’t argue further.

You exhaled. “ She can stay, under the condition that she follows my rules.”

“She will,” Eris said.

 “She won’t be harmed. She’ll be treated with dignity and respect. I promise”

Eris stood up, stepping closer. His expression softened as he placed his hands gently around you.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he hugged you. It was hesitant at first, as if he was afraid you might still push him away. But when you didn’t, he tightened his grip, pulling you tighter.

 He needed the reassurance and to be honest you needed it too. You were touch starved. 

The last time this had happened, you were both sixteen, young, reckless and untouched by the burdens that now were weighing on you. 

That night, in the quiet of the woods, you had made a bargain to always protect eachother and be loyal to one another.

Now, years later, everything was different. And yet, for the briefest moment, as you stood in his arms, it felt like nothing had changed at all, like it was before the duties and the wars that had hardened you both.

But for just a second, you let yourself rest in the warmth of his embrace.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“You know I still owe you Amias’ life and mine,” you murmured.

Eris nodded, understanding in his gaze.

“Tell him I love him,” he added softly, “and that I’m sorry I brought no presents this time.”

“I will.”

You exhaled, stepping back. “Now go, before I kick you out.”

Eris smirked. “Fine. I’ll come back later tonight.”

With that, you turned and walked out, making your way back to Amias.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

As you entered the room, your heart clenched. He had fallen asleep on the floor beside his toys, his small frame curled up, his wings enveloping his body as if he was hiding. His eyes fluttered open as he sensed your presence, his shadows slithered toward you, wrapping around your wrists as they tugged you closer to him.

“Has his father arrived?” you asked Nara quietly.

She shook her head. “Not even a letter, my lady.”

You swallowed the frustration rising in your throat.

Kneeling beside Amias, you gently brushed a curl from his damp cheek.

 “Amias,” you whispered.

He stirred, slowly sitting up, his puffy, red-rimmed eyes locking onto yours. He must have cried himself to sleep.

Guilt twisted in your chest. You cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Mommy had to talk with Uncle Eris.”

He blinked up at you. “Uncle Eris?”

You smiled faintly. “He’s sorry he couldn’t stay and he loves you very much.”

Amias nodded, rubbing at his tired eyes. Then, hesitantly, he asked, “Where is Daddy?”

You winced.

“Your father is coming later tonight,” you assured him.

“But he’ll make it up to you. He loves you very much, angel.”

Another small nod. But this time, there was hesitation in his expression, doubt creeping in.

“Will he come back?”

“Of course,” you said gently. “It’s just work.”

He nodded again, but sadness lingered in his gaze.

You pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I love you, my sweet boy.”

He curled into your arms and as you held him. The thought of leaving him again, even just to deal with your new guest made your chest tighten.

But there was no choice.

You had a mess to clean up.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

Before you even reached the room, you could hear the shouting.

Multiple voices clashed over one another, servants hurriedly rushing away and power crackled in the air like a brewing storm.

Azriel was back.

Eris didn’t know about your bargain. You scolded yourself for the oversight, for not anticipating this. 

Heart pounding, you pushed forward, stepping into the chaos.

The scene before you was nothing short of a battlefield. The eldest Archeron sister stood behind Eris, half-hidden. Meanwhile, Lucien and Azriel were locked in a furious shouting match, their magic glowing.

Without hesitation, you slammed the heavy door shut.

Silence.

All heads snapped toward you, the tension thick enough to suffocate. The only sound left in the room was the sharp clack of your heels against the marble floor as you strode forward.

Azriel was a mess. His leathers were torn, his face bruised and bloodied, his normally pristine hair disheveled. He looked like he’d been in a fight, a bad one. But none of the others bore a single scratch. Whatever had happened, it had been before he came here.

You came to a stop in front of him, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His massive wings were flared wide, casting a dark shadow over you. His golden-hazel eyes, now looking like liquid gold were locked onto Eris, his shadows writhing around him like vipers, ready to strike.

“Azriel,” you whispered.

He didn’t move. Didn’t look at you. His gaze stayed fixed on Eris, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Turning away from him, you addressed the others. 

“How the fuck can he enter?” Lucien demanded, his voice sharp.

“I will explain it later,” you promised, exhaling through your nose. 

“That was an oversight on my part.”

Eris stood firm, Nesta’s hand clasped tightly in his. She pressed herself further behind him, looking fragile, she was too thin, to small. Your gaze flicked back to Eris, searching his face for the anger you knew was brewing beneath his carefully controlled expression.

“I will take care of it,” you said, voice steady.

 “I promise you, nothing is as it seems right now. She is safe and welcome here.”

The bargain between you pulsed, a reminder to Eris of the vow you had made. 

Eris’s jaw tensed, his features hardening for a moment before something in him relented. He believed you. Even if his body remained coiled tight with tension, his grip on Nesta’s hand loosened just slightly.

“Lex will see that you are accommodated, undisturbed and left in peace,” you said evenly. Your voice left no room for argument. “No one will harm you in my home.”

The three walked out and Azriel moved to follow, but you grabbed his wrist gently.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice firm yet soft.

His jaw clenched in frustration. He didn’t pull away, but his posture stiffened, as if he were ready to break.

When the door clicked shut behind them, Azriel’s eyes focused solely on you. His wings were still spread wide, his golden eyes locked onto yours, intense and piercing.

You felt small in front of him, towering over you like a giant, but you felt no fear. His presence was overwhelming, yet strangely comforting. His shadows reached out, enveloping your body in a cool, almost soothing embrace. They were like a second skin.

“Sit,” you said, motioning toward the chair opposite you.

He hesitated for a moment before lowering himself into the seat, his body still tense as if every muscle was on alert.

Your gaze scanned his body as you took in the damage. His knuckles were swollen, the deep bruises darkening his skin. His body was covered in cuts and bruises.

Kneeling infront of him you softly took his hand, gently healing it with your magic. You moved slowly, deliberately, feeling the power flow through you, soothing the pain in his injured hand.

“Where were you?” you asked quietly, focusing on his hand, avoiding looking into his eyes for a moment.

His voice was rough as he answered, his gaze never leaving you. 

“Searching.”

“For the eldest, I presume?” you asked, your fingers intertwined with his.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours as you worked, your touch soft but deliberate.

You bent his hand gently to assess the damage.

Azriel liked the quiet, how quiet his head was with you right now. His heart began to pound, a realisation dawning on him. He liked the way you touched him, how soft and careful you were, just like you used to be.

Bending his hand back, you asked, “Does it hurt?”

He shook his head, though the faint wince in his expression suggested otherwise.

Your face softened, but your words were anything but gentle. 

“The next time you come like this into my house, I will skin you and string you up for everyone to see.”

Azriel’s breath caught at the sharpness of your tone, his chest tightening. Before he could respond, you interrupted him, your voice cutting through the moment.

“Let me heal your face,” you said quietly, your voice softer again.

You reached up to touch his face, your magic cold against his burning wounds. As your fingers grazed his skin, he closed his eyes, the sensation both soothing and unsettling. He shouldn’t feel good about this, about the way your touch calmed him, about the way it made something stir deep inside him. He had thought of you as someone who had wronged him, someone he should stay away from. But now, something about your presence made him feel a pull that he couldn’t explain, like he had to tell you everything.

“Cassian,” he said, his voice rough, barely a whisper as his mind swirled with confusion.

“What?” you asked softly, focusing on his face as your magic worked.

“It was Cassian,” he said again, this time his voice strained. 

“He’s the one who did this to me.”

“Why would he…?” you asked, still working on his face, your fingers lingering near his lips.

Blood was dripping down his chin, he must have bit it open again.

Azriel’s breath was shallow as he struggled to make sense of his emotions.

“He’s going mad,” he murmured, his voice tight.

“Because of Nesta?” you asked.

“Yes,” Azriel confirmed, his tone bitter, almost defeated.

Your fingers lingered a moment longer, pressing gently to his lips, trying to heal the blood that still trickled from the cut. His heartbeat quickened, every nerve responding to your touch. His eyes met yours and for a split second, the world seemed to fall away. Desire stirred deep inside him he just hoped you wouldn’t notice. He wanted to kiss you, feel your lips against his once again, to stop pretending everything had been fine. But that would complicate everything. You would kill him if he tried.

He had been dreaming of you since the moment he saw you again, after four long years. And now, as your touch lingered on his skin, it felt like he had been pulled back in time

Before everything went wrong.

His thoughts were interrupted by your words, cutting through his thought. 

“That your High Lord said he would execute her?” you asked, your voice bringing him back to the present.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely audible, breathless.

“Azriel,” your voice was soft, a gentle whisper that seemed to draw him in, your words wrapping around him like a siren’s call. He shut his eyes, groaning quietly, hoping you wouldn’t notice how his body reacted to your closeness.

“It was Rhys, not Cassian,” he responded, his voice hoarse.

“I don’t think a mate would leave another if they felt safe, right?” you pressed, your gaze steady, a challenge in your voice.

Azriel’s eyes met yours again, his breath hitching. He noticed the way your fingers glided over his skin, tenderly healing the cuts Cassian had left. His face was swollen, bruised, luckily, his jaw wasn’t broken and it seemed most of the wounds would heal fairly easily.

“He’s been kind of an asshole to her,” Azriel muttered, his voice rough as he tried to explain. “He’s been working and stressed a—”

“Would you have treated your mate like this?” you interrupted, the question almost too soft, too easy for him to answer.

You cradled his face gently, the light from your magic casting a soft blue glow around the room, healing his injuries as you continued to hold him. His eyes stayed locked with yours as you worked, his breath steadying despite the chaos inside. He felt lightheaded with how close you were to him.

“Never,” Azriel whispered, his voice tight. He licked his dry lips, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Then why would it be okay for him to?”

Azriel swallowed hard, his thoughts racing. You weren’t wrong. Everything inside him wanted to defend Cassian, to defend the bond between mates, but the truth was hard to deny. He had failed to protect Nesta.

“I know your brother is in pain, but so is she,” you said softly, you almost had him.

Azriel’s jaw tightened beneath your touch, his breath quickening. His scarred hands moved to gently hold your wrists, as if to remove them from his face, but he winced at the pain.

Gently, you moved your hand over his chest, your fingers tracing his worn leathers. With delicate care, you unbuttoned his jacket, exposing the bruised skin underneath. His broken ribs made it difficult to breathe, you could see his discomfort. You began to heal him, the cool light of your magic glowing softly against his injured skin.

As the adrenaline slowly left his body, the pain seemed to hit him all at once. His eyes closed briefly, but when they opened again, they locked onto yours. 

“You won’t tell them where she is,” you whispered, your voice unwavering.

His breath caught as your hands continued to work, moving to the buttons of his clothes, carefully unfastening his belt and unbuttoning his pants.

“Our son needs to be safe in his home,” you said meeting his lidded eyes.

“And you’ll make sure that nesta location wont be revealed either, just like you promised, right?”

Azriel let out a soft whimper.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as your hands continued their work.

Your hands moved carefully across his skin, over his chest to his throat. You stood up, now almost taller than him, tracing the handprint left on his throat.

“You’ll keep Nesta and us safe, right?” 

Azriel nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a promise in them.

“It’s a bargain then,” you said softly.

“Yes” He said without hesitation, you felt a small burn behind your ear, you would check it out later.

You continued to heal him, your fingers gently brushing across the scarred surface of his hand. Something inside you stirred, something small, but it was there. You would deal with it later.

“Good,” you said, your voice returning to its usual firmness.

Standing straight, you broke the moment, your voice sharp and composed once more. 

“Button up your pants. I’ll send another healer to take over.”

“I have to talk to the others,” you added, your words cold once again, as if nothing had changed.

Azriel looked up at you in confusion he wa so confuse about . “What?”

Azriel felt like the air had been knocked from his lungs.

His fingers twitched where they rested on his thighs, his mind still catching up to what had just happened. The warmth of your hands still lingered on his skin, but it had been a lie. You had just guided him exactly where you wanted, let him believe he was safe with you, that he could be vulnerable, just for a moment.

But you had never meant for it to be anything more than a transaction.

A bargain.

His stomach twisted, he felt sick. He should have known better. He should have seen it coming. 

His jaw tightened as he watched you pull away, as if nothing had happened. The warmth in your voice was gone, replaced by that same cold, detached authority you always wielded so well.

He had been played.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t just anger that was coiling in his chest. It was something else, something darker, more dangerous.

Because for the first time in years, he had felt something real with you again. And he had no idea if he hated you for it… or if he wanted more.

“Amias has been waiting and crying all day,” you said, your eyes narrowing slightly. 

“He’s been missing you. We’ll also need to have a conversation about that.”

Azriel’s face softened, guilt flashing in his eyes.

“Rest,” you said firmly. “You need it.”

He hesitated for a moment before standing up. His face, though no longer bruised visibly, still held the exhaustion and pain of the day. 

“Let me see him first,” he requested quietly.

“You’re still hurt,” you said, pointing at him. “He’ll notice.”

His jaw clenched. 

“Let me see him. Do I always have to beg you?” His voice was a mixture of frustration and hurt.

You didn’t flinch, your eyes locking onto his with a coldness that was never this vicious.

 “Careful,” you said, your voice icy. It was a warning, a sharp reminder of the boundaries you’d set.

Azriel gulped, his posture stiffening before he slowly sank back into the chair, visibly deflated.

“You’ll see him when the healer allows it,” you added, your words leaving no room for argument.

With one final glance, you turned on your heel and walked out, the door closing behind you with a soft click, leaving Azriel to wrestle with his frustration and the worst day he might have had in a long century.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

Walking past the open window, you reached out and grabbed the white cat by the scruff of its neck. It let out a terrible, loud meow, its green eyes glaring at you with all the rage it could muster.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to, you little shit,” you muttered, holding it up to eye level.

The cat hissed, its tail lashing in irritation, but you didn’t let go. You simply kept walking, its tiny body dangling from your grip as it continued to yowl at you.

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Also Anon I’ve thought about Eris and Nesta and this is for you✨ I hope you like it 😘

Still working on their story