#hums and casually drops this right before bed

[ssorenz]

༯ warnings. mature content, fem!reader + toji fushiguro, unprotected sēx, piv, pwp. minors do not interact, please and thank u.

wc. 1.7k (not proofread 🥸)

toji fushiguro is a nice guy.

not in the annoying “i’m a nice guy why won’t women date me�� way, but in the “i’ll fix your sink, walk your dog, and probably kill a man for you if you say please” kinda way.

the ex-assassin (and your next door neighbor) is always doing something for someone— mowing the lawn for mrs. takada across the street, teaching the neighborhood kids how to patch a flat tire like he’s not patched gunshot wounds with duct tape before. probably hand-knits blankets for stray cats behind closed doors too.

so when he sees you wrestling with a massive ikea box on your porch that you honestly never stood a chance against in the first place, he doesn’t even hesitate.

“fuck is in here, a whole corpse or somethin’?” he jokes, like he didn’t just pluck the box from your arms, like it was filled with feathers and not the broken promises of swedish furniture.

you give him an airy laugh, wiping sweat from your brow as you tell him it’s your new bed from ikea.

“ikea?” he repeats, like you just told him it really was a corpse in that god forsaken box. “yeah, nah. you’re not building that.”

you blink. “i’m not?”

“uh, did i not just say no? i’ll handle it. don’t want a pretty lil’ thing like you losing a finger over some overpriced planks and an allen wrench.”

and listen. you could’ve argued. you could’ve said you’re an independent woman, with your crappy youtube tutorials and a rusty ol’ hammer.

but instead you just say,

“. . .do you want water or beer?”

god, you swear your bedroom has never felt this small.

toji’s presence takes up space like he was built for it—one knee down, the other bent, thighs straining against those well-worn jeans like they’re one bad movement from tearing right at the seams. his tank is drenched, clinging like it’s got a personal vendetta, outlining every broad inch of him like a glove.

he’s hunched over the partially assembled bed, brows furrowed, scarred lips parted in quiet concentration like he’s studying scripture, not step six of some swedish-coded nightmare.

and it’s filthy, the way your brain strayed, drinking in the way he moved—tight, efficient, obscene without even trying.

every low grunt, every flex of his arms, every time he shifts and that heavy chain around his neck clinks against sweat-slick skin—it’s like you're watching the start of a bad porno.

your gaze drops, uninvited, right to the swell of his chest—broad and heaving—and lower, past the way his shirt clings to his dreadfully slutty waist, all the way to the waistband of his jeans.

the way they sit, low and loose, slung across those hips like temptation incarnate—

“you good over there, sweetheart?” his voice breaks through the haze, all casual and smug. “been eyein’ me reeaall hard over there.”

you choke.

“oh, uh—i was…” you mutter, blinking like an idiot, “just… making sure you’re not screwing m- it up.”

he hums, not even looking at you, allenkey twisting slow in his grip.

“mm. real thorough inspection you’re doing.”

your a/c is blasting, full arctic tundra, and yet here you are—skin flushed, thighs clenched, your mind absolutely nosediving into the filthiest trenches imaginable.

you open your mouth about to retort back, but he cuts you off with a simple, expectant:

“wrench.”

just that. hand out. palm grasping. not even looking at you.

you pass him the tool, and your fingers brush his. his hand is warm, rough - those thick, ragged fingers that have probably shot bullets into yakuza leaders skulls, probably broken bones, lingering just a beat too long.

and suddenly you’re not thinking about this stupid swedish furniture anymore.

you’re thinking about those same fingers digging into your hips.

gripping the back of your neck.

pressing into your thigh as he—

“you gonna let go, or you just like holdin’ my hand?”

you snap out of your. . trance, retracting your hand like the wrench had transformed into molten lava and burned it. “just um, didn’t wanna drop it. s-safety first, right?”

“riight, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

even though it’s your bed, he hasn’t let you touch a single piece of it. 

not one panel. not one sad screw.

and it’s not like you didn’t offer to help—you did, multiple times!

yet every single time, he just waved you off like you were a gnat.

“jus’ sit n’ look pretty. this ain’t a group project,” he utters, dead serious. you open your mouth once more to argue, and all he sends you is a glare— playful, yet still warning.

and after three long, sweaty hours,

you—

no.

he is finally done.

toji leans back on his heels, wiping beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand “there,” he grunts, satisfied. “all done miss.”

you glance at the bed. it does look good. solid. intimidatingly so. 

“looks sturdy,” you murmur, and toji hums in agreement. thick fingers drag slow over his stubbled chin as he leans back, marveling at his piece of work.“mm. might wanna test it out first, though.”

you blink. “…test it?”

he nods, rolling his shoulders, towering and terrible, that glint in his eye nothing short of criminal.

“how ‘bout i help ya out, yeah? call it uhh, ‘mandatory safety inspection’ .”

ᥫ᭡.

“ngh, to-tojiii,” you mewl, nails grasping helplessly at the cushioned mattress beneath you, your glossed dolly eyes fluttering back with each filthy fuckin’ thrust. his strokes are relentless, sharp, each one leaving a raucous snap from his toned v-line on your poor sore thighs.

for such a ‘sweet’ and ‘beloved’ guy, his dick game sure was mean as hell.

“atta girl, look at that,” he grunts, “takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

your swollen bottom lip is caught between your teeth, an embarrassingly desperate attempt at concealing these lewd noises toji is managing to string out of your chest.

but with the way he’s fucking into you like this, those calloused, worn palms spreading the fat of your ass to give him a front-row view of how his cock is sinking in and out of you, before raising his hand to give it a nice hefty spank—

it’d be damn near impossible to not stay quiet.

your body feels so hot, practically melting as your spine arches further with each roll of his firm hips. the pads of his fingers are digging into the plush of your waist, burning against your skin like he’s trying to brand you with his hands alone.

toji sloows his pace, not enough to give you a break, but enough to make sure you feel all ten inches of him, that evilly thick stretch making your walls stutter. his chest dips down your spine, peppered stubble scratching at the nape of your neck as his full weight sinks over you.

“uh uh, shhh,” toji croons hotly, his breath warm as he leaves a wet kiss along the shell of your ear, “you hear that?”

“h-huh?” you hiccup, and he’s got you soo dumb off his dick that your surprised your still coherent.

“girl. listen.”

and you do. or try to, atleast.

your breathing slows just enough to catch it, between the wet slaps of skin and your pulse bursting in your ears—

creak… creak… creak….

“looks like she’s startin’ to talk,” he murmurs. “guess i forgot to tighten all the screws. oops.”

haha. you'd roll your eyes if they weren’t already damn near in your skull.

toji’s body shifts, swole chest hefted on your back as his beefy arms cage you in. he’s got one hand curled around your wrist, pinning it to the matress, while the other bruisingly grips your waist.

your plushed thighs quiver, ass rippling back with each fluid snap of his hips. he’s so deep, his entire length bottoming out in your sobbing cunt. landing countless blow after blow on that poor spongy spot of yours.

“f-fuuck,” it slips out breathy, caught between a gasp and a whine, your voice cracking with each draaag of his cock. “s’too much— i can’t—”

“yea you can,” toji huffs. “already are.”

creaking turns into clattering, death rattles now, and he’s still not stopping nor slowing. every hit leaves the mattress screaming, legs of the frame wobbling as it lurches underneath the weight of you both.

and your bed isn’t the only thing ready to give out eithet.

“ ‘m gonna, hnnghh— m’ gonna cumm, toj’ ” you sob, shuddering as your core tightens.

“shiit, thaaat’s it,” he pants as your pussy swallows him oh so snugly, and you can feel him start to throb inside of you. “ let ‘toj’ feel you cum ‘round his cock, baby.”

toji’s strokes sloppen, grinding now, likes he’s trying to engrave each and every inch of his cock into your unforgivingly tight cunt. your hips begin to spasm as your pretty glossed lips sputter out mindless, repetitive catches of his name.

he sends one more thrust, mean and s—

crack!

that poor lil’ ikea bed of yours sinks beneath you with a jarring snap, the headboard dipping rudely as one stubby leg snaps completely off— making you and toji slip forward with it.

you yelp, yet it slips into a broken moan as splotches of white fill your blurred vision, body jerking as your saccharine juices spill out onto him.

you let out a pouty whine, lashes fluttering as toji groans, gutturally, his posture stiffening, jaw hanging slack before you feel him begin to spill into you—sticky hazed shades of white rudely painting your insides like his own personal canvas.

the scent of sweat and sex hangs heavily in the air, the only sounds being you and toji left panting. he stills momentarily, assuring his sticky load is plunged deep enough inside of you before easing out with a sharp hiss.

“guess she, uh, failed the inspection,” clicking his tongue as he breaks the silence, acting all disappointed despite the way he’s grinning like a fucking fool— as if he didn’t just knock all you and your beds screws loose.

“you’re buying me a new bed.” you mutter, voice hoarse as your shooting him a mascara stained glare over your shoulder.

“ ya’ gonna let me break her in too?”

and it’s not like you decline— it’d be rude if you did. .

because toji fushiguro is a nice guy, after all.

@ssorenz™ do not, copy, repost or translate anywhere without my knowledge.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which tattoos aren't the only thing that leaves a mark

warning : sexual content included - minors dni

Your dorm smells faintly of antiseptic and coconut oil, dimly lit by a salt lamp you found at a garage sale and a few strands of fairy lights taped haphazardly across the ceiling. Your tattoo machine is humming gently on your desk, neatly cleaned and resting beside a lined-up set of sanitized needles, ink caps, and gloves. You’ve got a system — one that’s been perfected over the last year and a half — ever since your roommate dropped out and you turned her bed into your makeshift tattoo studio.

Under the name Inkling, you’ve built a quiet reputation on campus. No one knows your real name unless they’ve been in the chair. Athletes, musicians, a couple grad students — they’ve all come through that dorm door, usually through hushed referrals and cryptic Instagram DMs. You’ve never posted your face. Just close-ups of fresh ink, your gloved hands, or that one photo of your forearm covered in delicate, razor-sharp line work. That one got shared a lot.

You’re careful. Every DM gets deleted after a location drop. Every appointment spaced out. You’ve seen enough busted dreams to know UConn wouldn’t hesitate to bench someone — or worse, expel you — if they found out.

It’s a rainy Thursday when your phone buzzes with a new DM.

Hey. Someone told me you might be the person to talk to about a tattoo?

The username catches your attention: @/paigebueckers.

You lean back in your chair, eyebrows lifting. The Paige Bueckers. You’ve seen her on campus, walking with her hood up and headphones on. People talk about her like she’s royalty — or a ghost. Never really both.

You heard right. What are you looking for?

The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. Then comes back.

Something small. My first one. Maybe ribs.

I got you. Location’s in your inbox. Delete this after reading.

You wait.

And then — just like you asked — the message disappears.

You hear the knock on your door five minutes early.

Cracking it open just a sliver, you scan the hallway. Empty.

Then you see her. Hoodie up, eyes down, clearly trying to go unnoticed. You gesture her inside, and she slips in quickly.

She pauses in the doorway, scanning the room. Your tall frame leans casually against your desk, arms inked and folded across your chest. You’re wearing a fitted black tank and sweats, fresh from a lift earlier. Her eyes drift, lingering a little too long before she catches herself.

"You're Inkling?" she asks, raising an eyebrow, tone skeptical — but not unfriendly.

You smirk. “In the flesh.”

She blinks. You can see the recalibration in her eyes, like she wasn’t expecting you — tall, masculine, and somehow both rough around the edges and easy to talk to.

“I’m Paige,” she offers, finally meeting your eyes.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping aside to let her walk further in. “I know who you are.”

You gesture to the chair in the corner — clean, covered in disposable wrap, next to your station.

“So,” you say, pulling on a pair of black gloves. “What are we doing today?”

She tugs her hoodie down, suddenly self-conscious. “I was thinking something simple. Maybe… a small cross? Just here—” She lifts the hem of her shirt slightly, revealing a sliver of toned side. “Right under the ribs.”

You nod, already moving to draw the stencil. “Any style in mind? Fine line? Bold? Shaded?”

She hesitates. “Fine line. Clean. Simple. Kind of like… a reminder, y’know?”

You nod again. “I got you.”

Within a few minutes, you’re walking back over with the stencil, eyes flicking up to hers. “You’re gonna have to take your shirt off.”

You say it casually, but her cheeks tint pink.

She hesitates, then pulls her hoodie and tank over her head, folding them neatly and setting them on the chair. She’s in a sports bra, but even so, her posture stiffens a little under your gaze.

You kneel next to her, applying the stencil with gentle precision, fingers cool against her warm skin. “This okay?”

She looks down and nods, voice quiet. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

You pick up the machine, the buzz filling the room.

“First tattoo, huh?”

She nods. “Is it gonna hurt?”

“Little bit. But I’ll talk you through it.”

The needle meets her skin. She tenses at first — a sharp breath — but you keep your voice low, steady, as you work.

“You’re not gonna die. Promise.”

She laughs softly, tension easing just a little.

You fall into a rhythm — machine buzzing, your voice threading in between.

“So how’d you start tattooing?” she asks after a minute.

“Boredom,” you admit. “High school. I used to sketch on my friends with Sharpies. Someone dared me to buy a machine. I practiced on fake skin for months before I ever touched a person.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

“Terrified. But I loved it more than I feared it.”

She goes quiet. You glance up.

“What about you?” you ask. “Why basketball?”

“It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense,” she says softly. “It’s like… the court’s the only place where everything goes quiet.”

You hum in understanding, eyes flicking back to your work. “Same way I feel when I’m doing this.”

There’s a long pause. A comfortable one.

You finish the last line, clean it up, and wrap the fresh ink in clear bandage. You explain the aftercare — gentle washing, no picking, keep it moisturized.

She puts her shirt back on and hands you a wad of cash.

And then, just as she reaches for the door — she pauses.

“Hey,” she says, turning back, biting her lip. “Do you ever give your number out?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Why do you need it?”

Her eyes flick over your face, a little emboldened now.

“I wanna get to know you,” she says. “Not just the artist. You.”

There’s a moment of quiet — just the hum of your machine behind you, the buzz of electricity in the air.

You step toward her, pulling a pen from your pocket and gently taking her hand.

You write your number on her palm, slow and deliberate.

“Then start with a text,” you murmur, eyes locked with hers. “And we’ll see.”

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Paige sat in your chair — stiff and unsure, her rib stinging under your needle while your voice calmed her nerves better than she’d ever admit.

She hasn't stopped thinking about you since.

Not just the way you looked — tall, confident, with inked knuckles and a crooked grin — but the way you spoke to her. Like she wasn’t just Paige Bueckers, UConn’s superstar. Like she was just... a girl in your dorm getting her first tattoo.

After she left that night, she stared at your number in her palm for a good half hour before finally texting.

hey. it’s paige. got one on the ribs.

You replied two minutes later.

hey ribs. glad you didn’t pass out lol.

Since then, it’s been constant.

Late-night texts. Memes. Song links. Half-flirty, half-real conversations about childhood dreams, favorite snacks, worst injuries, and best memories. She's gotten used to your name lighting up her screen — even looks forward to it. Maybe too much.

Right now, she’s lying on her stomach in the locker room, phone half-hidden under her forearm as she types out a reply.

P: would you ever tattoo your own face on someone as a joke?

You: only if they deserved it.

She grins, lip caught between her teeth, thumbs already flying over her screen for a comeback— when suddenly—

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” KK’s voice breaks through the quiet.

Paige fumbles, yelping a little and nearly dropping her phone. She quickly flips it over, shoving it under her towel.

“N-nothing,” she blurts.

KK lifts an eyebrow, towel slung over her shoulder, all mischief. “Nothing looks a lot like someone.”

“I was just—” Paige clears her throat, rolling over. “Twitter.”

“Ohhh,” KK says knowingly. “Yeah, same. I always giggle at tweets like they’re cute girls texting me too.”

Before Paige can defend herself, Azzi walks in mid-laugh and immediately picks up the vibe. “Wait. What did I miss?”

“Paige is hiding a crush,” KK sing-songs.

Azzi whips her head around. “You’re texting someone? Wait, is it that tattoo artist?!”

Paige goes red instantly. “What? No— I mean— not like that— we’re just—”

“Oh my God,” Azzi says, grinning like she just won the lottery. “You are! You went once and got hooked. I knew it!”

“She called her ‘ribs,’” KK adds dramatically. “I heard it. They have nicknames already.”

“Ribs!” Azzi cackles. “That’s gonna be her contact name in my phone for you now.”

“Shut up,” Paige mumbles, grabbing her towel and pressing it over her face to hide.

Then Aubrey walks in, adjusting her hair, immediately clocking the chaos. “Why is Paige buried like a corpse?”

“She’s in love,” Azzi says sweetly.

“With her tattoo artist,” KK adds.

Aubrey pauses. “Wait. Inkling?”

Paige lifts her head. “You know?”

Aubrey shrugs like it’s obvious. “Yeah. I got my latest one from her last semester. She’s fire.”

“She’s also hot,” Azzi adds. “Like, if I liked girls? I’d have gotten a sleeve just to keep going back.”

KK snorts. “I’d get her initials on my neck.”

“Okay, enough!” Paige yells, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Y’all are so annoying.”

But she’s smiling — wide, and a little dazed — because maybe, just maybe, she kind of loves that they can see what she’s trying to figure out herself.

Meanwhile, across campus, you’re sprawled across your bed, scrolling through Paige’s latest message with a smile playing on your lips.

She sends you a blurry selfie of her holding an energy drink with a caption:

P: this is either gonna power me through or kill me in the middle of practice

You laugh.

You: if you die i’m tattooing “dumb decisions” on your forehead. with wings.

A pause.

P: can’t wait 

Your heart stutters. Not just because she’s flirting. But because she’s still here. Still texting. Still choosing you — even if it’s just messages for now.

And that tiny seed of maybe?

It’s starting to bloom.

It’s just past 9PM when your phone buzzes again. You’re half-asleep on your couch, a late re-run of Ink Master humming in the background, one hand tucked behind your head, the other lazily scrolling through your camera roll.

P: hey! ribs needs a touch-up.

You grin, already sitting up straighter. You type back fast.

You: oh no. your tragic little cross fading already?

P: tragic? wow. ok.

You: come cry about it. you free now?

P: omw.

You glance up, blinking.

She’s coming here. Now.

You toss your hoodie on, adjust your sweats, and quickly wipe down your station — not because it needs it, but because you suddenly feel like everything has to be perfect.

You don’t even know if she needs a touch-up. You think the tattoo healed clean. You remember exactly how it looked when she left — skin flushed, ink crisp and sharp, your gloves ghosting her side as you wrapped her ribs with practiced care.

But if Paige wants an excuse to come back?

You’ll let her use all of them.

Fifteen minutes later, you hear a soft knock.

Three quick taps. Hesitant.

You open the door, and there she is.

Hair tied back in a bun. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Eyes flicking up to meet yours with that soft, unsure kind of confidence that’s been growing since day one.

“Hey,” she says, almost breathless.

You step back to let her in. “Hey, Ribs.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

“I brought snacks,” she says, holding up a gas station bag. “Touch-up tax.”

You grin. “Bribery noted.”

She perches on the edge of your couch while you prep the machine again, glancing around like she’s trying to memorize every poster, every flickering light string, every shadow you cast across the room.

“So,” you say, sliding gloves on. “Let’s see the damage.”

She lifts the hem of her hoodie, then the tank under it, revealing her side again. She doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn’t hesitate. Just watches you carefully as you lean in to inspect the ink.

You blink.

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “You definitely didn’t need a touch-up.”

“Damn,” she says, tone innocent. “Guess I’ll go then.”

You catch her wrist before she moves.

“Nah. You’re already here.”

The tension builds like a tightrope between you — stretched thin but thrilling.

You lean in, dragging a gloved fingertip lightly over the healed tattoo, eyes never leaving hers.

“You been using the aftercare stuff I gave you?”

“Every night,” she murmurs. “Like a good girl.”

You pause.

You’re not sure who leans in first, but suddenly your faces are too close. Her knee brushes yours. Your fingers are still on her skin. Your heart’s somewhere between say something and kiss her now.

She breaks the silence first.

“You ever get nervous?” she asks softly.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Stuff like this,” she says. “Being in someone’s space. Not knowing what happens next.”

You let your hand drop from her ribs, slowly peeling your gloves off.

“I used to,” you admit. “But then I started noticing the signs.”

“What signs?”

You lean back slightly, just enough to make her lean forward — chase the space you left behind.

“Someone shows up without needing a touch-up,” you say. “Brings snacks. Doesn’t take her eyes off you.”

Paige swallows, pulse fluttering in her neck.

“And what do you do when you notice?” she whispers.

You smile — slow, crooked.

“I wait until she makes the next move.”

There’s silence.

Then Paige sets the snack bag aside and shifts closer — until your knees touch again, until the air between your mouths gets impossibly thin.

She rests her hand lightly on your forearm. Testing. Waiting.

“I came back for more than a touch-up,” she says, barely audible.

“I know.”

And then?

You both move at once — like gravity finally gave in.

She almost kissed you.

You know she almost did.

That moment — the way she leaned in, her breath catching, your eyes locked — it was charged. One inch closer and she would’ve been in your lap, her lips pressed to yours, hoodie half-off.

But she pulled back.

Murmured something about practice tomorrow. Smiled that crooked little smile and slipped out like it didn’t shake you to your core.

And now you’re haunted by it.

By her.

The ghost of her fingers on your arm. The scent of her hoodie. The way her voice dipped when she said, “I came back for more than a touch-up.”

You haven’t stopped texting, of course. If anything, it's gotten worse.

P: i keep thinking about that stencil gel. why is it always freezing

You: so u remember the cold gel and not the way i touched ur body huh

P: i hate you

You: no u don’t

She doesn't deny it.

And neither do you.

Three days later, you're bent over your client, your machine buzzing as you work on a chest piece — intricate line work, shaded stars that bloom over his pec like smoke. You're focused, gloved hands steady, music humming low in the background. Your lamp casts a warm glow over your little setup. Three quick knocks. Just like last time.

You look up, brows furrowing. You're not expecting anyone.

You lower the needle and call out, “Door’s open.”

It swings open a moment later — and there she is.

Paige. In joggers and an oversized tee. Slightly flushed like she ran here, hair pulled into a high ponytail, holding a bottle of blue Gatorade like she needed a reason.

“Hey,” she says, eyes flicking around your room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Her gaze lands on your chair — on the guy sitting shirtless, one arm behind his head, wincing through the sting of the needle.

“Oh,” she says quickly. “I can come back.”

You shake your head, pulling your gloves tight again. “Nah. Stay.”

Paige hesitates… then closes the door behind her and sinks onto your couch, pulling one knee up, tucking her foot beneath her. She stays quiet at first, just watching.

But you can feel it. Her eyes on you. The weight of them.

Your shirt rides up slightly as you lean over the client. Your chain glints in the light. Your forearms flex. There’s a streak of black ink on your jaw from where you scratched an itch and forgot you’d touched the cap first.

You glance up.

She’s staring.

Her lip is caught between her teeth. Gatorade forgotten in her lap.

You smirk slightly.

“You good over there?” you murmur without looking away from your work.

She snaps out of it. “Yeah. Just… observing.”

You don’t push. You keep tattooing. But your voice drops just enough to tease:

“Didn’t know I was part of the show.”

She doesn’t reply.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch her shifting — crossing her legs tighter, cheeks a little flushed.

When your client finally hops off the chair and checks out the finished work in your mirror, you clean up and walk him to the door, chatting easily. You say goodbye, click the lock, and turn back around.

Paige is still on your couch. Still holding her Gatorade. Still not looking directly at you.

“You sure you’re not here for another touch-up?” you ask, voice low now that you’re alone again.

She looks up finally.

“I don’t think the tattoo’s the part that needs touching.”

Your heart stutters.

The silence swells again, thick and buzzing.

You take one slow step forward. Then another.

She stands up too, meeting you halfway.

Close. Too close.

You can smell her shampoo. See the freckles scattered on her collarbone. Feel her breath on your chin.

But she doesn’t close the distance.

Instead, her hand brushes your wrist as she walks past you — casual, smooth, intentional — and she murmurs over her shoulder, “Text me later.”

The door shuts behind her.

And you’re left standing in your own dorm, slightly ink-stained, jaw slack, stomach twisted up in tension so sharp it almost hurts.

She pulled back again.

And you're starting to think she's doing it on purpose.

It starts with a text.

P: u up?

You: what are you, a guy on tinder?

P: shut up. i’m serious. come to the gym.

You: it’s midnight.

P: exactly. no one will be there. come shoot with me.

You: ...u tryna seduce me with hardwood floors and fluorescent lighting?

P: depends. is it working?

You don’t even respond.

You just throw on your sneakers and a hoodie, grab your keys, and head out the door.

The UConn practice gym is dim when you walk in — only a few of the overheads are on, leaving the court glowing like a movie scene. Quiet. Still. And there she is.

Paige.

Ball in hand, ponytail high, shooting solo from the top of the key. She doesn’t see you at first — just lets the ball roll back from the rebound machine, catches it in one smooth motion, and fires again.

Swish.

You whistle low.

She turns, a smirk already tugging at her mouth.

“About time,” she says, wiping her forehead with the bottom of her shirt — giving you a full view of her toned stomach before it drops again.

You blink. “Sorry, I had to emotionally prepare for whatever pickup line you were gonna hit me with.”

“Oh please,” she tosses you the ball. “You think I need lines?”

You catch it with a grin. “You’re kinda full of yourself, Bueckers.”

“And you are kinda stalling. Let’s see if you can actually shoot or if you just look cool.”

You raise an eyebrow, then dribble once, twice, pull up at the elbow — clean jumper.

Swish.

Her mouth parts slightly.

You shrug. “Told you I was more than just tattoos and biceps.”

She circles you, grabbing the rebound, bouncing it back your way.

“You are full of surprises,” she murmurs. “I didn’t expect you to have form. Or a jumper.”

You shoot again. Another swish.

“You know,” she adds, jogging over, “if I make this next shot, you have to give me a free tattoo.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And if you miss?”

She spins the ball on her finger, grinning. “Then you still give me one, but I pick where.”

You snort. “That’s not how bets work.”

“Shh.” She backs up behind the three-point line, sets her feet, shoots—

Clank. Off the rim.

You break into laughter, hands on your knees. “Yo—so confident. So dramatic. So short.”

“Okay wow, personal attack,” she says, chasing the ball. “We get it, you’re tall.”

“And humble,” you add with a wink.

She tosses it back. You shoot again. Net.

“You're seriously hot when you do that,” she blurts, then instantly freezes.

You pause mid-dribble, smirking. “When I shoot?”

“When you swish,” she mutters. “And like… do that half-smile thing after. You know what you’re doing.”

You walk closer, bounce passing her the ball again.

“Oh yeah?” you say, voice dropping just a little. “What else do I do that’s hot?”

She squints at you, stepping in too. “You wanna play this game?”

“I thought we were playing,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. Just breath and bouncing orange rubber.

Then Paige grins. “Okay,” she says. “Truth or dare, but gym edition.”

You laugh. “Why do I feel like this is about to go off the rails?”

“Pick one.”

You spin the ball on your palm. “Truth.”

She tilts her head. “Have you thought about kissing me?”

You hesitate — not in fear, but because damn, she really jumped right to it.

You take a slow breath.

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “Too many times.”

She swallows. Looks at your mouth for a second too long.

You step back. “Your turn.”

“I pick dare.”

You toss her the ball again. “Hit a three. If you miss, you owe me a date.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not a dare.”

“Sure it is. Do it.”

She backs up, sets her feet, deep breath — and shoots.

It arcs high. Hangs in the air. And—

Rim.

Bounces off.

She stares at it like it betrayed her.

You bite your lip, trying not to grin. “Damn. That’s crazy.”

She groans. “That was so close.”

You step up to her, gently take the ball from her hands, your fingers brushing hers.

“A deal’s a deal, Bueckers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “You better take me somewhere good.”

“Oh, I will,” you say, dribbling lazily between your legs. “Just not to another empty gym at midnight.”

She grabs your wrist before you can turn — eyes locked on yours, soft and slow.

“But you’d come,” she says quietly, “anytime I asked, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even pretend to lie.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I would.”

She lingers. Closer again. Inches. Seconds.

And then, like always — she pulls back.

Grabs her Gatorade. Spins the ball once. Looks over her shoulder with that damn smirk.

“Text me later.”

And she’s gone.

It had been four days since you and Paige shot around at the gym.

Four days since that charged truth or dare, since she missed the shot on purpose (you’re sure of it), since she got all up in your space only to walk away like she didn’t just set your heart on fire and leave it smoldering behind her.

You’d been texting still — the usual flirty banter and late-night teasing. But she hadn’t come by. Not since that night.

So when you hear a knock at your door around 7 p.m., your heart stutters.

Her?

You glance over your shoulder — already gloved up, your tattoo machine buzzing as you finish the shading on a delicate black rose. The girl in your chair is leaning back, her cropped tank pulled to the side to expose her ribs. She’s pretty — short brown curls, lip ring, soft eyes. You've tattooed her once before.

You lower the needle for a moment and call out, “Come in.”

The door creaks open.

Paige walks in.

And she freezes.

You swear you hear her swallow.

She takes in the scene — the girl, shirt hiked up, bra strap slipping down, your hand gliding carefully along the edge of her ribs. The soft music. The warm lighting. Your focused expression.

Her jaw clenches — subtle, but you catch it.

“Oh,” she says, stuffing her hands in her hoodie pocket. “Didn’t know you had company.”

You glance up and smile casually. “Just finishing up. Come in. You can chill.”

Paige hesitates, then steps inside and sinks into your couch, eyes lingering on the girl’s exposed skin.

You don’t miss the way she watches you — the way her knee bounces, the way she tugs her hoodie sleeves over her hands like she suddenly doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“Almost done,” you murmur to your client, finishing the last bit of shading. “You’re sitting like a champ.”

“Wouldn’t be my first time,” the girl says with a playful smirk. “You make it easy.”

Paige’s head snaps toward her.

You don’t look up, but you feel it.

She’s seething.

“Glad to hear it,” you say, smirking to yourself as you wrap the tattoo.

The girl sits up, pulling her shirt back down, glancing toward Paige. “Friend of yours?”

“She’s… someone,” Paige mutters, not looking away.

The girl raises an eyebrow, smiles slowly, and heads toward the door.

“Thanks again,” she says to you, hand brushing your arm on the way out. “You’ve got magic hands.”

As the door closes, Paige lets out a sharp, dry laugh.

“Magic hands, huh?” she echoes, voice tight.

You finally look at her — really look.

She’s not just irritated. She’s jealous.

And trying really, really hard to pretend she’s not.

You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash, and sit on the edge of your desk.

“Something on your mind, Bueckers?”

She shrugs, eyes fixed on the spot where the girl had been. “Didn’t know you did flirty commentary with your clients.”

“She was being nice.”

“She was being obvious.”

You tilt your head. “So?”

Paige looks at you — and the mask slips just a little. Her lips part, then close again. She shifts on the couch, restless.

“So do you flirt back with all your clients?”

“Only the hot ones.”

She raises her eyebrows.

You smirk. “You didn’t seem to mind when you were shirtless on my chair.”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

She’s quiet.

You stand and walk over slowly, stopping just in front of her, hands sliding into your own hoodie pocket.

“Why, Paige?”

She looks up at you, eyes a little too bright, lips just a little too pouty.

“Because I actually care if you’re into someone else,” she finally says, voice low.

The room stills.

You exhale through your nose, taking a beat before you answer.

“You jealous, Bueckers?”

She lifts her chin. “You’re damn right I am.”

You don’t move — you just look at her. Let her feel it.

“You could’ve texted,” you say quietly. “Could’ve said something. Asked me to hang.”

“I didn’t wanna seem…” She trails off.

“What?”

“Attached.”

You take one slow step forward, between her knees. You don’t touch her — not yet — but you’re close enough for her to feel your presence everywhere.

“And what if I like that you’re attached?”

She blinks.

“What if I’ve been thinking about you just as much? What if that gym night messed me up? What if every time you leave, I want you back in the room five minutes later?”

She stares up at you, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow.

And then you lean down, close enough to feel her breath, close enough to kiss her — but you don’t.

You stop right there, noses brushing.

“Still jealous?” you whisper.

Her hand slides up your side, resting lightly on your hoodie — but still, you both hold back.

Barely.

“Only when I’m not the one in your chair,” she murmurs.

You grin. “You saying you want another tattoo?”

She looks at your lips. “No,” she breathes. “I want you.”

But still — no kiss.

Just that unbearable, perfect tension.

It starts with a simple text from Paige.

P: You busy tonight?

You: Not if you’re finally letting me beat you at Uno

P: Tempting. Come by my dorm? Girls are hanging out.

You: You sure? I don’t wanna crash the estrogen party

P: They’ll like you. I promise. Just don’t flirt with anyone but me.

You: Oh? Am I allowed to flirt with you now?

P: Only if you want everyone to know you’re obsessed with me

You laugh at your phone, toss on your hoodie, and head out.

By the time you get to Paige’s floor, you can already hear music and laughter bleeding through the cracked door. You knock once before stepping in.

It’s warm, loud, and full of energy. Sarah’s lounging on the couch with her socks mismatched. Azzi’s sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting cards. KK’s got her phone propped up against a candle jar, already live on TikTok.

“Heyyyy,” Paige grins, hopping up from where she’s been half-sitting on the armrest. She comes toward you, a glimmer in her eye. “You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur.

The second you step into the room, every pair of eyes snaps to you.

“Ohhh, so this is the mystery guest?” KK calls, adjusting the angle of her phone. “Wait, wait—come closer, let the live see this. Who is this??”

“She’s a friend,” Paige says quickly, shooting KK a look.

Your eyebrow quirks at friend but you play it cool.

KK waves you over like you’re already part of the crew. “Come sit! Don’t be shy. We were literally just talking about Paige’s secret text buddy—”

“KK!” Paige cuts in, her tone a warning.

“What? I didn’t say their name,” KK teases. “Could be anyone.”

You smirk, sliding into the empty space beside Paige on the couch. Your knees brush. She doesn’t move away.

Azzi greets you with a small, knowing smile. “You play cards?”

“Better than Paige, apparently,” you quip, and she chokes on her drink.

KK cackles from the floor. “Oooh, you got jokes! I like them.”

You glance over and notice Paige is still looking at you — not saying anything, just watching you like you’re the only person in the room. The heat in her stare is something else.

“Okay, okay,” KK says, turning her phone slightly. “Live wants to know who you are. You look suspiciously comfortable over there.”

You flash a polite smile. “Just a friend.”

Paige snorts, and you bump her leg gently with your knee. She doesn't take her eyes off you.

Live chat starts popping off on KK’s phone.

“Who is that???👀” “Is Paige finally boo’d up???” “She’s kinda fine ngl” “They’re sitting HELLA close 😭” “They matching?? Are they matching??”

You glance down at the hoodie you’re wearing — black. Paige’s is black, too.

You lift your eyes to her, biting your lip.

“Matching hoodies, huh?” you whisper under your breath.

“Just coincidence,” she says softly. “Unless you wanna make it a thing.”

Your heart skips, but before you can answer, KK calls out, “HEY. Come on live with us real quick.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re already famous in the chat. Might as well say hi.”

Paige gives you this amused little shrug, and Azzi’s smiling into her cup like she knows exactly what’s happening here.

You sigh playfully, scoot over to KK’s phone and lean in. Paige scoots right with you — now shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed, close.

KK angles the camera toward you both.

“Okay live,” she announces dramatically, “say hello to our very mysterious, very smooth, very not nervous at all guest.”

You nod at the camera with a mock serious face. “Pleasure.”

The comments explode again.

“THE WAY THEY’RE SITTING” “PAIGE IS SMILING SO HARD OMG” “Who is this suave mf I’m in love” “Are y’all dating or what???” “They keep looking at each other omg STOP”

You glance at Paige.

She’s got that look again — amused, glowing, and just a little smug.

You lean closer to the mic. “No comment.”

The room erupts in screams.

You stay on the live for a few more minutes, answering random (safe) questions — what’s your favorite cereal, do you hoop, how did you and Paige meet (you lie effortlessly — “through mutual friends”).

Eventually, KK ends the stream, still giggling.

“That was the most fun we’ve had on live in weeks,” she grins. “You gotta come back.”

“I’ll think about it,” you wink.

Paige gives you a long look as you both settle back into your original spot, her voice low when she says, “You handled that like a pro.”

“Not my first rodeo,” you reply, nudging her leg.

The moment settles in again — comfortable, warm, buzzing beneath the surface. Her pinky brushes yours on the couch cushion.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

And still—no kiss. Just charged silence, quick glances, and the weight of everything almost happening.

Almost.

It’s late.

That kind of quiet hour where most of campus has gone still, windows dark, the night holding its breath.

Your phone buzzes on your desk.

P: that live earlier… you were kinda smooth ngl.

You smirk, staring at the screen for a moment before typing back.

You: kinda? thought i had you blushing.

P: you wish.

You: come over. prove me wrong.

You hesitate only a second before hitting send. You’ve been dancing around this thing long enough—teasing glances, flirty texts, late-night thoughts.

Tonight?

You want to know.

The reply comes quick.

P: omw.

Ten minutes later, there’s a soft knock on your door. You open it to find her standing there in gray sweats and a white crop hoodie that shows a sliver of skin. Her hair’s loose, no makeup, eyes soft.

“Hey,” she says, voice low, like she’s already matching the quiet.

“Hey,” you echo, stepping aside to let her in.

The lights are dim, a candle flickering on your shelf, casting golden shadows across your dorm. The same chair you tattoo in sits empty now. You gesture to the bed.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She sits, legs crossing at the ankle, eyes tracking you as you close the door and lock it gently behind you.

“Still think I was only kinda smooth?” you ask, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it her way.

She catches it, smirks. “I think you’re full of yourself.”

You chuckle, settling into your desk chair. “Nah. I just know how to read a room. And your face during that live?”

“I was not blushing.”

“You so were.”

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, teeth tugging at her bottom lip in that way that’s dangerous.

“So what,” she says slowly, “this is your move? Invite a girl to your room, make her talk about her feelings under low light and candles?”

“Only the special ones.”

That gets her. She exhales a soft laugh, cheeks warming in the glow. “You flirt like you tattoo. Confident. Smooth hands.”

Your eyebrow raises. “You thinking about my hands?”

A pause.

She doesn’t look away. “A lot more than I should.”

The tension punches the air out of the room. There’s no music, no noise. Just the sound of your shared breath and the rush in your ears.

You get up and move to sit next to her on the bed.

Close. But not touching.

“What are we doing?” you ask quietly.

She looks at you. Really looks.

“You tell me,” she murmurs.

“I think,” you start, fingers brushing hers slowly, “we’ve been circling this for weeks.”

You turn your body toward her, eyes scanning her expression. “And I think you’ve wanted to kiss me since the night I tattooed you.”

“I almost did,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “That night… when you leaned in.”

You nod. “I know. I felt it.”

You inch forward, just a breath between your lips now. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s inviting it—

And then, just as your lips graze hers, she pulls back.

A whisper of space.

Your pulse stutters. “Paige?”

Her smile is teasing, but her eyes are molten. “Not yet.”

You exhale, not sure if you’re frustrated or even more into her now.

“Cruel,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” she grins, “but now you’re thinking about it more.”

You lean back with a soft groan. “You’re evil.”

She shrugs, smug. “You love it.”

She stays for another hour, curled up in your bed, both of you side by side talking about nothing and everything—what music she listens to pregame, your favorite artists to ink, how she once tried to pierce her own cartilage and absolutely passed out.

You almost forget the burn.

Almost.

Because every so often, she shifts, and her shoulder touches yours. Her leg brushes your thigh. She looks at your mouth and then looks away, and it drives you insane.

When she finally stands to leave, it's after 2 a.m.

You walk her to the door. She hesitates there, hand on the knob.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” she says softly.

You lean against the doorframe. “Anytime.”

Her eyes flicker down to your lips again.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

Then she leans in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth—a whisper of a kiss, not quite what you wanted, but more than you expected.

A promise.

“Goodnight,” she murmurs.

And then she’s gone.

You’re not sure when exactly she got so deep under your skin, but now you feel it in your fingertips, in the buzz behind your teeth every time her name lights up your screen.

It’s been a few days since that near-kiss.

Too many.

You’ve been playing it cool, trying not to push—waiting for her to make the move.

But tonight?

Tonight you don’t want to wait anymore.

P: gym in 15?

You: be there in 10.

The UConn practice gym is dark, except for one row of overhead lights glowing above the court. Paige is already there, ball in hand, hair in a messy ponytail, wearing a black tank and loose shorts. She looks unfairly good under the gym lights.

She looks like trouble.

“You’re early,” she says, tossing you the ball.

“Didn’t wanna keep you waiting.”

She smirks. “You sure about that? You’ve been making me wait for weeks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

She starts walking backward toward the top of the key, still grinning. “You’re the one who talks all this game and then freezes every time I get close.”

You follow, dribbling casually. “Please. You’re the queen of pulling back last second.”

“Maybe I just like the anticipation.”

You stop at the arc and shoot. Swish.

She raises a brow. “Okay Steph, I see you.”

You shrug. “I told you I could shoot.”

She gets the rebound and tosses it back. “Let’s make it interesting.”

“What, horse?”

“No,” she says, stepping close, just barely toe to toe. “If I make my shot, you have to answer a question. Truth only.”

You grin. “And if I make it?”

“Same deal.”

“Bet.”

She pulls up from midrange. Net.

You groan. “Alright. Hit me.”

Her eyes glitter. “Have you thought about kissing me since that night?”

You blink. “Is that even a question?”

“Answer it.”

You step a little closer. “Every night.”

She swallows, the moment thick now. Her turn to shoot again.

She misses.

Your ball.

You catch it, holding it between you. “My question.”

She lifts her chin. “Hit me.”

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

She bites her lip. “Because I wanted to see if you’d break first.”

You chuckle, stepping forward again. “Well, congratulations.”

She tilts her head. “Why’s that?”

You don’t say anything.

You just step into her space, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else—

And you kiss her.

No warning. No teasing. Just your lips on hers, firm and hungry, claiming the moment you’ve both been aching for. She gasps softly into it, hands finding your waist like muscle memory, and you deepen the kiss without hesitation, your fingers tangling in her ponytail.

It’s messy and hot and so full of built-up tension it practically cracks.

She pulls you closer, your body pressing hers gently against the padded wall behind the baseline, breath catching as your teeth graze her lower lip.

“God,” she whispers, head falling back just slightly, “finally.”

You grin against her skin. “I was gonna say the same thing.”

She kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth.

When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are flushed and her voice is rough. “You’re in trouble now.”

“Oh yeah?”

She nods, smirking. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

There’s no more pretending now.

No more slow-burn games.

She’s officially yours—and you?

You’re already all in.

She’s still catching her breath when you pull her by the hand—out of the gym, down the empty hallway, back toward your dorm like there’s no time left to waste. Because there isn’t. Not anymore.

Not after weeks of stolen glances, soft hands brushing thighs during shoot arounds. Not after that kiss that tasted like everything she’d been holding back.

You open your door, and she’s on you the second it clicks shut.

Your back hits the wall, her mouth claiming yours like she’s starving. Her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, tugging you closer, your hands already sliding up the back of her hoodie and under the hem.

You break the kiss just long enough to pull it off, revealing that toned stomach you’ve been sneaking looks at during practice. She's wearing just a simple black sports bra, but it might as well be lace with how fast your pulse jumps.

“Bed,” you mutter against her neck, kissing the warm skin just below her jaw. “Now.”

She obeys, backing toward it, climbing up without breaking eye contact. You follow, slipping your hoodie over your head, your shirt next, until you’re standing above her, toned arms flexing slightly as you kneel on the mattress between her legs.

She looks up at you like you’re something dangerous. And she wants to get burned.

“Still cocky?” she asks, breathless.

You smirk. “We’ll see who’s cocky in five minutes.”

Her laugh is soft, shaky, the nerves behind her bravado showing for the first time.

You dip your head and kiss her again—slow this time, tongue tracing her bottom lip, hands smoothing up her sides until your thumbs brush just under her bra. Her breath hitches.

“Off,” you murmur, and she arches up for you, letting you slip it over her head.

She’s so soft beneath you—golden skin, flushed chest, and already looking at you like she’s seconds from falling apart.

Your hand ghosts over her stomach, fingers tracing the top of her shorts. “This too?”

She nods.

You slide them down, along with her underwear, slow enough to make her squirm. Now she’s laid out under you, nothing between you but heat and air and the sound of her breathing.

“Fuck,” you whisper, dragging your eyes down her body like a prayer. “You’re so pretty like this.”

Her fingers curl into the blanket. “Then do something about it.”

You settle between her thighs, kissing slowly down her stomach, leaving a trail of heat in your wake. Her thighs tense as you press a kiss just above where she wants you most, but you pull back.

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks,” you murmur, mouth hovering over her, breath warm against her. “You really thought I wasn’t gonna return the favor?”

She whines, hand flying to your hair.

And then you give in.

Your mouth meets her with slow, devastating pressure, tongue moving with practiced ease, teasing her open until she’s gasping your name, hips rising from the bed. Your hands press firmly on her thighs, keeping her in place.

She’s so sensitive, so responsive, each moan rolling out of her throat like it’s been waiting in her chest for days.

When you add your fingers—slow at first, curling just right—she loses it, head thrown back, mouth parted, trying and failing to keep it together.

“Right there,” she gasps. “Fuck—please, don’t stop.”

You don’t.

You keep going until she’s trembling, legs shaking, eyes squeezed shut as she falls apart around you, fingers tangled in your hair like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

You only stop when she’s tugging at your shoulders, breathless and wrecked.

You crawl back up her body, kissing her slowly now, her taste on your tongue, your hand resting on her stomach as it rises and falls.

“I told you,” you murmur against her lips. “I don’t miss my shots.”

She laughs, dazed and completely gone. “I’m never letting you near a basketball again.”

You grin. “Then I’ll just have to find other ways to wear you out.”

She’s curled against you now, legs tangled with yours under the warm sheets, skin still buzzing and kissed with sweat. Your arm’s draped over her waist, your fingers drawing slow circles along her back while her cheek rests on your chest.

The silence is thick with something warmer than lust.

You feel her chest rise and fall against you, slower now. Calmer. But every so often she lets out a breath like she’s still recovering—like you short-circuited something in her.

You brush your lips over her temple. “You okay?”

She nods, then looks up at you with the kind of smile that knocks the air out of your lungs. Messy hair, kiss-swollen lips, eyes too big and too honest.

“I’m… really okay,” she says softly. “Like… insanely okay.”

You chuckle and squeeze her waist, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. “Just okay? I’m offended.”

She laughs and hides her face in your chest. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

There’s a long pause after that. A quieter one. One that has her fingers slowly brushing your side, like she needs to touch you to believe this happened.

“So,” she says after a minute, her voice lower now, careful. “Was that… like… a one-time thing?”

You blink down at her.

“What?” you ask, half-laughing. “Paige. I just took you apart on my bed. You think I’d do that and just ghost you?”

She shrugs, eyes still down. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to assume.”

You tilt her chin up with your fingers. “Then let me be clear.”

You kiss her—soft and slow, the kind of kiss that says everything you haven’t dared to say out loud yet.

“I want to keep seeing you,” you murmur against her lips. “Outside of tattoo sessions. Outside of gym rebounds. I want you.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it in for days.

“I want you too,” she says, her voice a whisper. “I have. For weeks.”

You smile. “Same.”

There’s another beat of quiet before she starts trailing her fingers up your chest again. “You’re really dangerous, you know that?”

You raise a brow. “How so?”

“You’re tall. Hot. Mysterious. You make art. And you’re insanely good in bed. It’s not fair.”

You grin and brush her hair back behind her ear. “And you’re a literal basketball god with killer eyes and an attitude. I’m the one in trouble here.”

She grins lazily and leans in again, kissing you like she’s falling into something she doesn’t want to stop.

Eventually, she sighs and buries her face in the crook of your neck.

“Can I sleep here?” she mumbles, her voice half gone.

You answer by pulling the blanket tighter around her and kissing the top of her head.

“Yeah, Paige,” you whisper. “Stay as long as you want.”

[konigsm]

simon 'ghost' riley x f! reader

You said you'd never date a soldier-meant to deflect, not to lie. But Ghost heard it. And Ghost doesn't let things slide. Not when you're fucking him behind closed doors.

first scene based on that one tiktok from @/rxvengxrl been on my mind since foreverrrrr. rewrote this 3 times, I should be studying for finals 😣🙏. Enjoy this 1.7k mess.

It had started small—just another rare moment of downtime in the common room. Price nursed his tea in the corner, Ghost and Gaz were half-watching the footie, Gaz more focused on his phone. You and Soap were sprawled on the couch, swinging from one easy conversation to another.

He told you about his sisters, growing up in Glasgow, some nonsense about uniform regulations—and then later sometime he asked, “What d’you think about dating military men?”

You laughed. Easy. Dismissive. “Oh, no. I’d never.”

Not because it was true. But because it was safer that way. Safer than saying yes. Safer than inviting Soap’s curiosity. Ghost had been clear—keep it quiet, don’t give anyone a reason to start looking too closely.

But then you heard the shift. A faint rustle from the other side of the room.

You glanced—just for a moment—and caught his eyes. Ghost. Watching.

Only briefly. Then he turned away, smooth as ever, like it didn’t mean anything.

But your stomach dropped.

Were you… not supposed to say that?

°.•°`..°•`~.

Later that night, after dinner, there’s a knock at your door.

You already know who it is.Your stomach tightens—heavy, uncertain—and your fingers are still damp from the shower when you open it.

There he is. No gear, no mask. Just the black standard-issue tee stretched across broad shoulders, dark pants hanging loose at the hips. Short hair a little tousled. Face unreadable.

“Can I come in?” he asks, voice low.

You step aside without a word, letting him in.

He walks in like he always does—calm, quiet. You close the door behind him.

“Eat well?” he asks, tone almost casual.

It throws you off. Makes you hesitate. Because he never asks things like that. Not like that.

But he’s here. He’s calm. He looks fine. Maybe what you thought earlier was just you spiraling. Maybe the look in the common room wasn’t anything at all.

You nod. Try to maqtch his ease. “Yeah. I did.”

He just hums, like that’s all he needed to know. Settles into your bed.

You’re still standing by the door, hair a little damp against your skin. Ghost is on your bed, legs spread slightly, hands braced behind him, shoulders relaxed like he owns the space.

Then, without looking at you—like it’s just habit—he says, “Lock the door.”

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. The click of the lock sounds louder than it should.

A pause.

Then “Come here.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then step forward.

“Faster, love.”

It’s not sharp—more amused. But it punches right through your chest anyway. You move a little quicker, though the few feet between you feel like a stretch of no-man’s land.

You stand in front of him, heart thudding. He looks up at you with that unreadable expression, one brow arched just slightly.

Then, a low and deliberate “Sit down.”

You move to sit beside him on the bed, unsure, already lowering yourself when—

“Tsk.” A sharp littlpe sound of disapproval. He shifts, tilting his head just a bit. “On the ground, darling.”

Your breath catches. Just a beat. Then—p

You obey.

Knees brushing the floor. Looking up at him now.

And he looks down at you. Doesn’t say anything at first.

Just lifts a hand, rough fingers brushing along your cheek. The calluses catch on your skin, slow and deliberate. His touch is gentle in a way that makes it worse—like you don’t deserve the softness.

His thumb grazes one of the faint, healed scars near your jaw—leftovers from past missions. He sees them as something earned. Little victories.

You’re still looking up at him when his thumb shifts, presses against your bottom lip—just enough to part it. You stay still, breathing uneven.

Then he slips it in.

Slow. Purposwful. Thumb brushing against your tongue, tracing your gumline.

“Open,”

Your mouth parts a little more, and he presses down, pad of his thumb resting heavy on your tongue. A breath. A hum from him, low and knowing.

“Baby’s getting brave, yeah?”

You blink. Make a muffled little noise—questioning. Confused.

“Hm?” he says, thumb still in your mouth. “The common room, love. What was all that about?”

Your eyes go wide.

So it was about the common room.

Fuck.

His thumb rubs slow against your tongue, teasing more than anything. You don’t mean to react—but you do. Reflexive. Natural.

You suck, just a little.

His eyes darken. Not with surprise—he knew you’d do that. A flicker of a smirk. Barely there. “You’d never date a soldier, huh? That what you said, love?”

Your heart stutters. You shake your head, just slightly—like maybe that’ll undo it somehow.

But he doesn’t pull away.

He just watches you.

Waiting.

“You were gonna say more,” he says, voice soft but edged with steel. “They’re so what?”

His thumb slips out, slow and wet, dragging across your lip, wiping against your cheek, as he pulls back.

He tilts his head. Still calm. Still watching.

“Fucked up?” he murmurs. “Disposable? Not your type, eh?”

Then he moves. Subtle but sure. One booted foot lifts—presses between your thighs. Not hard. Just there. Crowding into your space.

“Say it again.”

“Simon—” you start, breath catching.

“No.”

“Say it again. Tell me you wouldn’t. Look me in the eyes this time.”

You try.

Your mouth opens, but the words don’t come. They’ve dissolved—ash on your tongue. Because you can’t say it.

His hand comes up, fingers curling around your throat—not squeezing, not hurting. Just enough pressure to ground you. To make sure you feel it.

His thumb settles over your pulse, dragging a slow circle. You know he can feel how fast your heart is beating

“Thought so,” he mutters.

Then he moves.

Bends low—not fast, not rushed—and his grip on your throat tightens just a touch, enough to pull you upward as he meets you halfway.

The kiss is firm. Heavy. A little messy. The angle’s off and it hurts—just slightly—pulling at your neck, your spine.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to look at you.

He grabs your arm, pulls you up off your knees with ease, and turns you—pressing your back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath you, your breath catching as he leans over, eyes dark, mouth still slick from your kiss.

“C’mon then,” he murmurs, fingers sliding under your shirt, slow and deliberate, “show me how you really feel about soldiers.”

You moan—quiet and breathy—without meaning to. And his eyes flash at that.

Shirt’s up and over before you can even think. He tosses it somewhere behind him.

His follows, and the moment it hits the floor, his dog tags swing down—glinting in the low light, dangling above your face.

You don’t even hesitate.

You lean up and bite it. Teeth against the cool metal, tugging gently.

He huffs a laugh—half smirk, half growl. “Ah, yeah?” he mutters, voice rough with want.

And then his hands are at your waistband, tugging down your pants like it’s his right. Like you’re his. Which, maybe, is half true.

His fingers find your cunt easily, slick and wanting, and he hums like he already knew what he’d find.

“Don’t date soldiers, huh?” he murmurs, fingers slipping between your folds, slow and deliberate. “But you let me do this to you?”

You gasp—sharp, desperate—as he slides two fingers in without warning. The stretch burns in the best way, and your hips buck before you can stop yourself.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Mouth says no. Body’s fuckin’ beggin’, love.”

Your reply’s a choked moan, head falling back against the bed, hands fisting in the sheets

But then he’s over you, lined up and steady, and when he finally pushes in—thick and deep—your back arches with a sob.

“Let me hear it again,” he growls, hips pressing flush to yours. “Go on. Say it.”

You try—but it’s all noise, no words, your mouth open and panting, brain slipping somewhere hazy and hot.

“Say it when I’m inside you.”

He shifts just slightly, angling his hips—and it hits dead-on.

“Fuck—!” you scream, the sound torn raw from your throat as he pounds into that spot over and over, unrelenting.

It’s too much. It’s everything.

Your body’s trembling, your vision blurring, and all you can do is hold on as he fucks you.

He's got one hand braced on the bed beside your head, holding himself steady as he drives into you, each thrust making the frame creak under the weight of him. His other hand moves up-gentle, almost reverent-pushing sweaty strands of hair out of your face so he can see you.

Really see you.

"That's it, love," he murmurs, voice thick with heat. "Scream for me."

Another thrust. Harder. Deeper.

"Let everyone fuckin' hear ya."

You sob, high-pitched and wrecked.

"Let them know whose cock you're takin'.

You'd like that, wouldn't ya?”

You nod-whimper-and he gives you another sharp thrust for it, making your whole body jerk.

Your climax crashes over you like a wave, sharp and devastating, your cry echoing off the walls. You clench around him, tight and shaking, and he groans—loud, deep in his chest—before burying himself to the hilt.

His hips stutter. One. Two. And then he’s gone with a growl, spilling inside you, pressing so deep it’s like he’s trying to leave part of himself behind.

For a long second, it’s just panting. Heat. Sweat. The smell of sex thick in the air.

Then he collapses forward with a grunt, his full weight settling on you like a goddamn boulder.

You squirm under him, breathless, still trembling. “Agh—fuck,” you groan, voice hoarse. “You’re heavy, y’know that?”

He huffs a laugh against your shoulder, not moving an inch. “You’re warm.”

“Simon.”

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing your skin lazily, like he didn’t just ruin you completely. “Just a minute."

And even though you're still trying to catch your breath, you let him.

Because it’s Simon.

A minute he asks, you'll give him 5. (yes a 5, not a forever because you'll suffocate and die after 5 minutes)

Could u guys tell I get my bad humour from my Wattpad days (i can't seem to evolve)

[nglgfics]

Freaky Friday

(18+)

Masterlist

The idea had started the way most things with you and Noel did:

Sprawled on the sofa, a half-drunk bottle of wine between you, and you laughing at how predictable he’d become.

“Lazy kisses. A half-hearted grope. Bed by eleven,” you’d said, mock-sighing. “I’m dating a Sunday night.”

He’d lifted a brow at you, all mock offense. “You sayin’ I’m a disappointment?”

You grinned. “Not yet. But give it time.”

He hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t even shifted.

Just that usual low hum in his voice — dangerous in how casual it was.

“If I planned the night,” he’d said, “you wouldn’t be walking tomorrow.”

You’d frozen—half from the tone, half from the promise tucked inside it. Then you’d snorted, reckless and half-drunk and brave.

“Put your money where your mouth is.”

He’d smiled. Not wide. Not kind.

“All right.”

And then it became a thing.

One week yours. The next week his.

No pressure. No explanations. Just something new every Friday.

Tonight it was his turn.

You walked into the bedroom still towel-wrapped, hair damp, skin warm from the shower — and instantly felt it. That shift in the air. One bedside lamp on. Duvet freshly smoothed. And placed squarely in the centre of the bed: a pair of leather cuffs and a folded black blindfold.

You stopped in the doorway and stared. “Well. This isn’t ominous at all.”

Across the room, Noel sat in the armchair, slouched like he’d been there for ages. One shoe off, one sock halfway down his ankle, mug of tea in hand. He didn’t look at you right away. Just sipped and said, “It’s Friday.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You said ‘I’ll plan something,’ not ‘I’ll stage a hostage situation.’”

He finally glanced at you, then at the bed. “You think that’s excessive? Should’ve seen the other set.”

You snorted. “I’m not sure whether to be aroused or concerned.”

“I mean, ideally both,” he said, deadpan.

You stepped into the room, still holding the towel tight to your chest. “So that’s it? Cuffs and a blindfold and you’re calling it a night?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t say it’d be complicated.”

“And you came up with this… when, exactly?”

“Yesterday.” Another sip. “Train was delayed. Had time to think.”

The corner of your mouth pulled up, despite yourself. “You’re such a menace.”

“You haven’t seen the half of it.”

You looked back at the bed — at the neatness of it all. The cuffs laid out just so, the blindfold folded too neatly to be accidental. He hadn’t said much, but clearly, he’d thought about it.

You glanced back at him. “And what, you just expect me to lie down and let you tie me up?”

Noel stood slowly, abandoning the mug on the nightstand as he rolled up his sleeves. “I expect you to remember this was your idea.”

You raised a brow but didn’t move. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Then we do what we always do,” he said, stepping closer. “You take the piss out of me until you fall asleep halfway through a film you chose and I didn’t want to watch.”

You stared at him a long moment.

He didn’t push. Didn’t perform. Just stood there like it was fine either way — but something simmered under the surface. Low. Hot. Waiting.

You let the towel drop to the floor.

His eyes dragged down, slow and deliberate, but he didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head toward the bed.

“Go on, darling,” he said, voice low. “Before I start overthinking it.”

Your pulse skittered as you climbed onto the mattress. Skin flushed, nerves sharp. You lay back against the pillows, arms loose at your sides, waiting.

He moved around the bed, calm and unhurried, and picked up the cuffs. His hands were steady as he crouched beside you and fastened the first one around your wrist, then the second, guiding your arms up to meet the headboard. He clipped you in with quiet efficiency — no rustling, no ceremony. Just the soft sound of leather tightening, metal clicking, your breathing shifting.

He stood to look at you.

“You alright?”

You nodded, then remembered. “Yes.”

His mouth twitched. “Good girl.”

The cuffs were snug but not uncomfortable — your wrists pinned just above your head where the headboard met the wall. He hadn’t rushed. Hadn’t searched for your reaction. Just fastened them with that easy, deliberate calm, like he did this kind of thing often — which you were fairly sure he didn’t. But he had the hands for it. Steady. Intent.

His fingers brushed the soft inside of your wrist as he clipped the second one in, and you had to fight the instinct to flinch — not because you didn’t want it.

Because you did.

Badly.

You tugged lightly at the cuffs, testing the give. The creak of leather and metal followed — quiet, tight, firm. You could pull. But you weren’t getting out unless he let you.

Noel straightened beside the bed and looked you over. “You alright?”

You nodded again, wincing at yourself. “Yes.”

He raised one brow. “Words. Good. We’ll get there.”

You gave him a look — or at least tried to — but there wasn’t much you could do about it now. You were naked. Spread out. Tied to the headboard. And he was still fully dressed, still maddeningly calm.

He inspected the blindfold like it might wrinkle if he looked away — smoothed it between his hands. The lamp cast a soft amber glow on your skin, and you could feel it warming your thighs, your chest, the points of your breasts. Your skin buzzed with anticipation, and still, he didn’t touch you.

He moved close again — knelt on the bed beside you. His voice dipped, quieter now.

“Once this goes on, it stays on. If you want anything changed, you tell me. Clear?”

You nodded.

He sighed. “Darling.”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “Clear.”

“Good,” he murmured.

His thumb brushed across the curve of your cheekbone — gentle, brief — and then he slipped the blindfold over your eyes. It slid down smooth and snug, cutting the light off instantly. Your world narrowed to nothing but breath, pulse, and the soft creak of the bed beneath him.

You shifted slightly, arms flexing out of instinct, and felt the cuffs hold fast. Not painfully. Just enough to remind you — you weren’t in charge anymore.

Silence followed. A pause so quiet it pressed in at the edges.

No talking. No movement.

Just the low hum of your own breathing and the soft whisper of air on your skin.

Somewhere near the bottom corner of the bed, you heard the rustle of fabric. Then the sound of something being set down — soft but deliberate. You tried to track it — the shift of his weight, the direction of his steps — but the blindfold made it impossible. He could be inches from your knees or standing across the room, and you wouldn’t know.

You turned your head slightly, still listening. “You’re doing that thing.”

A beat. “Which thing.”

“Creeping around like a Bond villain.”

You felt the mattress dip near your hip, then his voice at your ear — close, warm, amused.

“I’m making decisions.”

“Oh, good. That’s never ended badly.”

You heard the smile in his voice when he spoke next. “You’re in a mood tonight.”

“I’m tied to your bed. It’s not exactly a neutral setting.”

“Could’ve gone with scented candles and soft jazz. You’re welcome.”

You bit down on a laugh. “Please don’t.”

Another pause. You could feel him watching you.

Worse — you could feel his hands hovering, not touching, just there — like the air between your skin and his fingertips had suddenly thickened. Your pulse picked up, even though nothing had changed yet.

The anticipation was unbearable.

Not loud. Not chaotic. Just… constant.

There was a slow, thrumming ache building beneath your skin, as if every inch of your body had been wound tight and left in silence, waiting for the first thing that might make you break.

You were restrained but not tense — arms stretched above your head, cuffed at the wrists, legs relaxed open across the bed. The blindfold kept the world quiet and dark. With your vision gone, your body did all the listening. Every brush of air. Every creak of the mattress. Every subtle shift as Noel moved around the room. It all pulled taut against your nerves.

When he finally touched you, it was a whisper.

Two fingers, just under your collarbone. A simple drag down the centre of your sternum. Barely there.

You gasped like you’d been slapped.

Your skin, already flushed and prickling, lit up instantly. Your breasts tightened, nipples stiffening further at the promise of contact. But the fingers disappeared before they reached them. Gone as quickly as they came.

And then the feather landed.

It was soft. So soft it didn’t feel like touch at all — more like sensation in the wake of something. It passed over your collarbone again, ghosting along the line of your neck, then across your shoulder. You jerked involuntarily, wrists tugging gently at the cuffs.

He took his time.

The feather dipped to your breastbone, traced a slow, wide loop around your right breast, and spiraled inward — narrowing the gap with each pass until it barely skimmed the edge of your nipple.

You let out a quiet, strangled sound.

He didn’t stop. Just shifted to the other side and did it again.

Your nipples throbbed by the time he moved on. Already flushed, aching, untouched. Your hips lifted once, instinctively, trying to grind against the air, the mattress — anything — but found nothing.

The feather drifted down your stomach — so slow, you could feel the individual barbs dragging across your skin, brushing every curve. He circled your navel. Then lower. Teasing the trail beneath it. Still nowhere near where you needed.

Then, maddeningly, he changed direction.

The feather moved up again — across your ribs, brushing the tender curve beneath your arms. Light as air. So light you twitched with every pass, helpless to stay still.

It drifted to your sides next. First the left, then the right. Swirling over the line of your waist, the soft skin just beneath it, then lower — toward your hip, along the outside of your thigh, curling around it like he was mapping you.

He ran it down your thigh. To your knee. Around it. Behind it.

You moaned — soft and shaking.

It was all too much and not nearly enough.

The feather tickled the inside of your thigh next. Closer. Slower. Then gone — just before it reached the heat between your legs.

You bit your lip, already shaking.

And then — impossibly — it found your feet.

Your breath caught as the feather traced across your ankle, up your arch, curling under your toes. Your hands clenched in the cuffs. It tickled, yes, but not in a silly way. It taunted. It set you on edge. And then it did the same to the other foot. Even grazed it over your calves, the backs of your knees, thighs again, up to your hips.

Every inch. Explored. Revisited. Left wanting.

You were panting now — chest rising and falling in short, desperate bursts, nipples aching for friction, thighs slick and twitching, clit throbbing untouched.

The feather stopped.

But you didn’t relax.

Because the next thing that touched you was cold.

Not cool. Cold.

The ice landed directly on your left nipple.

You cried out — hips jerking, chest rising off the bed — the shock of it so intense, it felt like pain and pleasure at once.

He held it there. Just for a moment. Let it melt into your skin. Then dragged it across your chest, over to the other side, where he repeated the motion. Your whole body shook.

The cube slid across the top of your breasts. Down between them. Over your sternum. Then lower.

Your stomach clenched as it moved — leaving behind a wet, icy trail that shimmered and stung.

It dipped into your navel. Looped around it. Then down again.

Your hips bucked when it reached your pelvis.

You were soaked now.

Not just from the ice.

From the way he hadn’t touched your clit. From how long he’d waited. From the way your body had been left to burn in silence.

The ice traveled across your hip. Down your side. Over the sharp curve of your ribs.

He didn’t miss a spot. He mapped you with it — slowly. Methodically. Over your belly. Your thighs. Your knees. Your calves.

Even your feet.

By the time he slid the cube back up the inside of your thigh — this time letting it pass closer to your folds — you were a mess.

Trembling. Slick. Clenching on nothing.

He dragged it just across the outer lips of your pussy — not enough to satisfy, just enough to make your body scream.

You sobbed.

Your clit was so swollen, so sensitive, the idea of it being touched again felt unbearable.

But he didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

The cube vanished. Gone.

And then — heat again.

He kissed your stomach.

Soft. Warm. Real.

Then your hip.

Then your thigh.

And still — he hadn’t said a word.

You were still reeling when he moved over you.

You were wrecked.

Flat on your back, blindfolded, cuffed, thighs spread wide and shaking — every part of your body trembled with need. Your skin was flushed all over, damp with sweat and meltwater. Your chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. Your nipples ached, painfully stiff, tight peaks begging to be touched. But it was the throbbing between your legs that ruled everything now.

You were soaked. You could feel the slickness clinging to your folds, running down the crease of your thigh, the sheets beneath you damp from it. Your cunt ached — hot, swollen, pulsing with every beat of your heart. Your clit throbbed too, untouched and desperate, every brush of air across it maddening.

When Noel settled between your legs again and exhaled against you, it felt like a jolt straight through your core.

Then his mouth landed.

Soft. Warm. Firm.

His tongue dragged up the length of your slit — slow and heavy, from opening to clit — and you gasped, your body arching instantly, hips jolting upward.

You didn’t have time to brace. He sealed his mouth over your clit, tongue circling in tight, perfect rhythm. No teasing this time — just contact.

And it broke you.

You cried out, loud and sharp, chest lifting off the bed, legs starting to close around him — but his arms were already there. Hands under your thighs, forearms locking you open. Holding you down.

Then his fingers followed.

Two of them slipped into you like he’d been waiting all night — your body sucked them in, clenched around them instantly, like you’d been aching for it. They curled deep and precise, finding your sweet spot with terrifying ease, and stayed there.

You couldn’t breathe.

The stimulation was perfect. His tongue was steady on your clit, licking and pressing. His fingers fucked into you slowly, curling just right, hitting that spot that made everything tighten and blur. No flair. No rush. Just pressure — relentless, exact — like he was building something inside you that only he could finish.

And you were shaking.

Your arms twitched against the cuffs.

Your hands clenched into fists.

Your breath came in short, desperate bursts, your moans spilling free now, barely contained. Your core tightened, hard. Pleasure knotted deep in your belly, fast and sharp, already spiraling toward something you could feel threatening to split you apart.

You were so close.

“Noel—” you whimpered. “I—fuck—please, I’m—”

He pulled back.

Mouth gone. Fingers still inside you — but motionless.

You sobbed.

It came out ragged, broken, pulled from somewhere deep in your chest. A sound you couldn’t stop.

“No—no, don’t—”

“Not yet,” he said, quiet and low, voice maddeningly steady. “You’re not ready.”

Your thighs shook uncontrollably. Your whole body was a mess of tension, wrung tight and unfinished. Your pussy clenched around his fingers, desperate for movement, for release. But he held you still. His free hand rubbed slow circles over your hip — grounding, gentle, like he was anchoring you for what came next.

You could barely speak.

“I was there,” you gasped. “I was right there—”

“I know,” he murmured, lips brushing your thigh. “You’ll get there again. You’ll stay there this time.”

And then he started again.

His tongue returned to your clit, same rhythm, same maddening precision.

His fingers moved again inside you — deeper this time, stronger.

You were so close already, too close, and it didn’t take long.

Your hips started rolling without permission, grinding helplessly against his face. Your moans came quicker, messier. Your body was chasing it now, trembling toward the edge on its own.

You wanted to come so badly it almost hurt.

And then — again — he stopped.

His mouth lifted. His fingers withdrew, slow and wet.

You made a sound you hadn’t made before — a desperate, choked sob, a broken, wordless plea.

“No—please—Noel, please, please—”

Your whole body jerked. Your pussy pulsed, aching and empty. Your thighs wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Shhh,” he murmured. His hand ran down your belly, then back up. “You can take more than that.”

“I can’t,” you breathed. “I need to come. Please—”

“You will,” he whispered. “When I say so.”

You whimpered again. Your voice was wrecked, nearly gone, lost to the heat in your blood and the brutal ache between your legs. Your head rolled on the pillow, trying to catch breath. Your clit throbbed so hard it felt bruised.

And then he came back.

Mouth. Fingers. Heat.

This time, he didn’t pause.

His tongue circled your clit again, slow and slick and devastating.

His fingers pushed in deeper, pressing hard against that spot that made you jolt.

He built you up again, stroke by stroke, steady and sure.

And this time, you knew — you wouldn’t survive another denial.

You sobbed his name.

“Noel. I’m begging. Please. Let me—let me—”

“Are you ready to give it to me?”

“Yes,” you choked. “Please, yes.”

“Then come for me.”

He sealed his mouth around your clit and sucked, fingers never letting up.

You came so violently your thighs clamped around his head.

Your pussy clutched at his fingers, pulsing hard in wave after wave as you cried out — loud, long, wrecked — everything in your body letting go at once.

It didn’t stop.

And he didn’t stop.

He kept going as you came, softening his touch just enough to ride it out, keep you in it — until your back arched off the bed and then dropped, limp, panting, a wreck.

You couldn’t speak.

You couldn’t move.

He kissed the inside of your thigh. Your hip. Your stomach.

Then he laid his hand gently on your trembling belly and whispered, so low it barely reached your ears:

“Good girl.”

He stayed there for a beat.

Just breathing.

Just letting you feel him — the weight of his hand, the warmth of his mouth still lingering on your skin.

But your body hadn’t settled.

Your thighs still twitched uncontrollably.

Your breath came in short, shallow bursts.

Your skin felt too tight for your bones.

Your cunt, soaked and swollen, still pulsed with aftershocks, every small shift of your hips sparking new waves of overstimulation.

Noel didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. You felt him before you heard him — the heat of his body hovering over yours again, the warm breath on your stomach, the dip of the bed as he settled between your thighs.

Then came the sound — his belt sliding free, the low metal clink, the zipper. The rustle of fabric as he stripped down.

You couldn’t see him. The blindfold was still tight against your face, the world dark and still. But you could feel it — the shift in the air, the heat of him drawing closer. You could feel the way your body reacted to the silence. To the waiting.

Your arms pulled faintly against the cuffs — not panicked, not struggling. Just need. Your hands ached to touch him. To hold something. Anything. To anchor yourself for whatever he was about to do.

Because you knew — with your whole body — he wasn’t done with you yet.

Not even close.

He knelt between your legs. You felt the warmth of his hands settle on your thighs, wide and steady, holding you open. Then the weight of his cock — hard, thick, dragging slowly through your slick folds. He gathered all of it — everything you’d given him already — and used it to coat himself.

When he lined up, the head of his cock pressing just against your entrance, your whole body tensed.

You were so sensitive, so sore, you could barely handle the pressure.

And he hadn’t even pushed in yet.

“Noel—” you breathed, voice wrecked. “I don’t know if I—”

“You do,” he said softly. Calm. Certain. Like he wasn’t just guessing — like he knew.

“You’re gonna feel every inch of me.”

And then he pushed forward.

The stretch knocked the breath from your lungs.

He filled you slowly. Deeply. No rush. No question. Just inch by inch, until you felt every impossible part of him sliding into you — until your body clenched and gasped and opened around him.

Your back arched off the bed, and you cried out.

By the time he was buried inside you — fully seated, no space left between you — you were already whimpering. Not from pain. Not fear. But from the sheer magnitude of him.

How full you were.

How deep he reached.

How much you wanted it, even as your body trembled under the weight of it.

He stilled.

Your chest rose and fell in fast, shallow bursts. Your wrists tugged in the cuffs. You were soaked. Stretched. Full.

Wrecked.

And then he began to move.

The first few strokes were slow — so slow they felt cruel. Heavy, deliberate thrusts. He dragged out nearly to the tip, then pushed back in, deep and grinding, his hips pressing all the way to your skin when he seated himself inside you again.

You felt everything. Every ridge. Every twitch.

Your cunt clung to him, still too tight, still fluttering around him like it didn’t know how to let go.

You cried out — high and sharp, a sound you didn’t recognize. You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hold back. It was too much.

He caught the sound in the space between you and answered with a groan of his own — low, strained, like he’d been holding it in too long.

“Still so fucking tight,” he muttered, his hips rocking steadily now. “Still clenching.”

Your legs twitched. You couldn’t control them. They moved instinctively, trying to close around his waist, trying to hold him there. But he kept you open — his hands firm on your thighs, keeping the angle, keeping the depth.

And then he leaned in just slightly, letting his hips grind down deeper, and you felt your walls spasm again — your body pulsing in response.

You were close again.

Already.

And he knew it.

But he didn’t let you.

He grabbed your thighs and pulled them wider, firm and grounding.

“You stay open for me, darling,” he said, voice low and close. “Let me feel all of it.”

And you did.

Because you couldn’t do anything else.

He found his rhythm — slow, brutal, perfect — his cock driving into you at just the right angle to hit that deep spot inside you, the one he knew now by instinct. The drag of him inside you was almost unbearable, the stretch, the friction — so slick and tight that every stroke sent another moan spilling from your lips.

You sobbed for him. Whispered his name like you were praying. Like he was the only thing holding you together.

And the orgasm began to rise again — before you were ready, before you even thought you could come again.

It curled low in your belly, slow and molten. Not sharp like the first. Heavier. Hungrier. Inevitable. Your clit throbbed where your bodies met. Your walls started to flutter again, already pulsing around him.

You were close. So close.

“Noel—” you gasped, your legs shaking violently. “Fuck—I can’t—please—”

He slowed.

Your whole body jolted.

“No—” you sobbed, full-bodied now, trembling in the cuffs. “No, don’t—please—”

“Breathe,” he said, voice still maddeningly steady, though his chest was heaving above you. “You’re not done yet.”

And then he started again.

Harder. Rougher. More deliberate.

Every thrust ground into you. Every snap of his hips forced you higher. Your wrists pulled hard against the cuffs. Your back arched so far your shoulders left the bed. You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t hold onto him. You could only feel.

The sound of your bodies was obscene — slick, relentless, raw. His cock drove into you over and over, wet from your release, coated in everything he’d pulled from you.

You moaned his name in pieces, in gasps, in broken sounds that didn’t sound like yours anymore.

He was panting too now — breath hot and ragged — but still in control. Still holding the rhythm. But you could feel how close he was. How deep he was in it. How much it was costing him to stay steady.

“You gonna come for me again?” he growled, voice thick with it, hips crashing into yours.

“I—yes—please—please—”

“You want to come all over my cock?”

“*Yes—fuck, yes, please—let me—”

“You take it.”

And you did.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a storm.

You came with a scream this time — no words, just sound — sharp and raw, your body locking up tight, your cunt clamping down around him, harder than before. Your thighs seized, your whole body arching, legs shaking uncontrollably. You pulsed around him in long, wrung-out waves, soaking the bed, your skin, his hips — everything.

And that’s when he followed.

He thrust hard — once, twice, a third time — then buried himself deep and groaned, loud and guttural, as he came inside you. You felt every pulse, every twitch, his cock spilling into you with the same urgency he’d kept buried all night.

He stayed like that — cock still buried, chest pressed to yours, his arms finally shaking now — as the last waves hit both of you.

You were wrecked.

Wide open.

Completely his.

And he held you like that — still inside you — until you stopped shaking.

The room was heavy now.

Still thick with heat, with sweat, with the sharp, salty scent of sex — raw and unfiltered, clinging to the sheets, to the air.

Noel stayed inside you for a long moment. Both of you breathing hard, tangled together, the tremors still rolling through your body in slow, unstoppable waves. He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His weight blanketed you — not crushing, not demanding — just solid. Anchoring you where you floated loose and undone.

Your arms had gone limp above your head.

Your wrists ached softly from the cuffs, but you couldn’t even feel the marks yet.

Your thighs twitched, still spread open, still slick with everything you’d given and taken.

You were full.

Of him. Of it all.

And completely unravelled.

Eventually, slowly, he shifted — pulling out of you with a long, careful drag that made you gasp, every nerve ending awake and aching. You whimpered at the loss, low and helpless.

He murmured something under his breath — too soft to catch — and then his hands were back on your thighs. Steadying you. Stroking slow, grounding circles into your flushed skin.

Soothing.

Claiming.

Still there.

A moment passed.

And then he moved again — unbuckling the cuffs with quiet efficiency. His fingers were gentle against the raw skin of your wrists, undoing the leather one side at a time. He lowered your arms slowly, easing them down to your sides like he knew you didn’t have the strength to move them yourself.

He rubbed your hands softly — slow pressure into your palms, your fingers — until the trembling began to fade.

The blindfold came next.

He slipped it off in one smooth motion, and the dim light of the room hit your eyes. You blinked, dazed, lashes damp. Your whole face felt tender. Flushed. You didn’t even realise you’d been crying until he brushed one of the tears away with his thumb.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You’re alright. Still with me, yeah?”

You nodded — barely — and let him pull you close.

He tucked you against his chest without hesitation, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other smoothing slow, warm lines down your spine. His fingers brushed gently along your back, again and again, like he was still working something out of you — or maybe out of himself.

Then the blanket — pulled up and over you both. He tucked it around your shoulders, his chin resting against your hair. The heat between your bodies sealed it in — the warmth of skin, the rhythm of breath, the aftermath of everything he’d just given you.

He kissed your forehead.

Then the line of your hair.

And you breathed him in. The salt of sweat. The scent of him. The quiet, steady presence that still hadn’t left.

Noel held you like that for a long time.

Not speaking.

Not asking.

Just there.

His hand traced slowly across your ribs, his touch light but constant — like he was mapping you all over again. Like he didn’t want to stop.

Your breath evened out slowly.

Your legs still twitched now and then, those tiny aftershocks you couldn’t control. But you were coming back. You could feel it. The edges of yourself reforming.

He kissed the top of your head again.

“Still shaking,” he murmured — more to himself than to you. “You really gave me everything.”

You made a soft sound — half a laugh, half a breath — and nuzzled closer, pressing your face into the curve of his throat.

And then, wrecked and hoarse, you whispered against his skin:

“Next time…”

A pause, just long enough to breathe.

“You’re the one tied up.”

He huffed a low, rough laugh — real and warm — and his arms tightened around you instinctively.

“Yeah,” he said, voice spent but smiling. “We’ll see about that.”

But he was already pulling you closer.

Already tucking the blanket tighter.

Already burying his face in your hair like he wasn’t going anywhere for a long, long time.

Still holding you like you were precious.

Still holding you like you were his.

And you were.

[ssspideysense]

✧˖° pretty boy

summary: peter’s a little bit of a people pleaser— mostly when you’re the person in question.

pairing: mcu!peter parker x reader

tags: fluff, undefined relationship, no pronouns used for reader

wc: 1.4k

“Stay still.”

And he tried.

Peter tried to hold himself still like a statue as an unbelievably soft hand cupped the side of his cheek. Your fingers were warm and your skin was smooth and your face— it was right up in his face, twisted with a look of concentration.

He contemplated holding his breath, too, but he could smell your shampoo, and he wasn’t quite ready to give that up yet.

You carefully swept the black pencil along Peter’s bottom lash line. The foreign sensation startled him, forcing him to blink, but he tried to resist the urge to pull away.

Makeup. He was letting you put makeup on him.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. You’d shaped his eyebrows with the tiniest little brush he’d ever seen, drawn on him with a couple of different types of pencils, and patted some pink onto his cheeks. Peter didn’t really know what was going on, but it didn’t really matter once your face lit up and you scooted so close to him your knees smacked against each other.

The relative quiet in his room only did so much for his frayed nerves. What if May skirted in without knocking? What if Ned decided to come over unannounced again? Admittedly, Peter couldn’t work out which possibility was worse.

But he could count your eyelashes right now. He could see all the little flecks of color in your irises, even in the shitty lighting from his desk lamp. There wasn’t anywhere more appropriate for him to look as you painted on your canvas, and he thanked the universe that he had enough time to brush his teeth before running out the door that morning.

“Peter, hold still,” you warned again, shooting him a less than amused look.

He smiled and chuckled a bit, though it was more automatic than anything. “You’re literally in my eye.”

“I’m not in it— don’t be a baby.”

You shifted the hand on his cheek and instead laced it into his hair, holding him still while you added a few finishing touches to the smudged eyeliner.

His heart had never beaten faster. Your firm, secure tangle into his wild locks kicked up a mass of butterflies in his stomach. You guided his head back, enough so he was looking up at you— his head tilted, his breath caught in his throat.

He wouldn’t exactly call it a relationship, the… thing you two were tangled up in. He would, if he could, because he really wanted to— but you hadn’t exactly discussed that sort of thing yet. Feelings were up in the air like party balloons, just waiting to burst from the building tension.

You were closer now than when you started, legs saddled on either side of his own, and you were unbothered, even when his hands accidentally brushed the sides of your thighs as he fidgeted. The light pressure of you perched on top of him while he sat stretched out over his Star Wars bed sheets was the grounding he needed to keep himself from floating away.

“Aaaaand… done,” you used your finger to smudge out some of the dark lines you’d carefully laid down on Peter’s face. You leaned back a tad, examining your handiwork with your fingers still intertwined into his curls. “See? It makes your eyes pop.”

Peter couldn’t care less what he actually looked like at the moment. He’d forgotten exactly what you’d said to get this to happen in the first place, but it didn’t matter. He just knew that he’d do it again, probably without question next time. The electric buzz of wild wings fluttering in his stomach was enough of a reason— your smile as you gently tugged on his hair was yet another.

A smile crept onto Peter’s face as he looked up at you. “And it only took you, like, forty minutes.”

You scoffed, releasing his hair. The bed creaked with the swing of your leg as you shifted to walk across the room to his desk. Casual as ever, like you hadn’t just stopped and restarted his heart about five times, you tossed the eyeliner pencil into your open backpack. “Well, it would’ve been faster if you didn’t fight me in the beginning,” you mused.

He’d opened his mouth to protest, but promptly closed it when his aunt’s voice filtered through his bedroom door. “It’s about that time, kiddos,” May called, rapping against the wood a few times for good measure.

Neither of you were kiddos anymore, but May never listened to Peter’s soft protests about the topic anyway. She’d just recently lifted the “keep the door cracked” rule after Peter’s birthday a few months ago. It wasn’t time to push it.

And you groaned, grumbling about the loss of time during your very focused mission. You began gathering your things — beauty supplies, a half-eaten bag of beef jerky, your notebooks that went completely unopened this entire “homework session” — and shoved them into your backpack.

Peter stood to his feet. “Wait, how do I wash this stuff off?”

In a show of faux offense, you clutched your imaginary pearls and gasped. “So eager to erase all of my hard work? You haven’t even seen how pretty you are yet,” your light laughter made the corners of his lips twitch up.

While you pulled on your jacket, Peter chanced a glance at himself in the mirror atop his dresser. To his surprise, there wasn’t some sort of clown staring back at him. He peered at his eyelashes and his cheekbones and his newly defined eyebrows— it was a little startling, pulling a chuckle from his chest, but he didn’t look quite as insane as he pictured in his head.

Your visage appeared behind him in the mirror, lips curled up with a wicked tinge of sweet amusement. “Do you feel bonita?”

“I feel bonita.”

“Wonderful, because you look bonita.” Your hand ruffled his hair, soft and playful, and the ghosts of your fingers gripping into his locks just minutes ago danced around his thoughts.

Peter chuckled and shook his head. “Am I stuck like this forever now?”

Behind him, you slung your backpack over your shoulder. “Do guys not wash their faces before bed? Just take a shower, stinky.”

He mocked your words under his breath which earned a firm punch to the shoulder and a stifled chuckle. He wanted to say more, more of something maybe smart or witty or funny, because you were always smart and witty and funny, but his brain was a useless piece of meat at the moment.

“I shower every day, thank you very much,” he managed.

“Oh, and now you’re lying to me? My heart can’t take this.”

Peter’s own heart thumped with your sarcasm.

“Never. You know I’m a bad liar,” he continued, because, despite himself, he couldn’t help but bounce off of the banter that felt so natural between you.

A small hum left your lips. You eased a bit closer, examining your artwork again on his heated face. “Yeah, you always get all blushy and stuttery when you’re nervous,” one of your hands graced his jaw, tilting his head from side to side as you spoke oh so casually, “plus, you talk a lot louder. It’s kinda cute.”

“That’s not true, I don’t do that,” Peter complained, proving at least two of your points immediately, and his adam’s apple bobbed with a thick swallow.

That hand that laid under his ear gently patted his flushed cheek a few times for emphasis.

“You sure about that?” you smiled, the light gloss on your lips glinting in the low light of his bedroom.

“Y—Yeah,” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat immediately after, “yeah, yes. I’m sure. Totally sure.”

And you couldn’t tuck away your smile, even when you swept in to press a quick kiss to his lips.

Peter leaned in eagerly, humming a little in surprise. His eyes fluttered shut, his fingers jumped to your waist— this wasn’t exactly how he pictured your first kiss, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna fight it just because he was in eyeliner.

But you pulled away all too soon, which could’ve been any amount of time, as far as Peter was concerned. He looked down at you with his doe eyes, that boyish grin crooked and giddy on his flushed face.

Your voice was honey, smooth and sweet just like the way you looked at him.

“Whatever you say, pretty boy.”

[i2rizz]

Pet names the bllk boys would call you

Isagi, bachira, rin, nagi, reo, sae, shidou, kaiser, ness, barou

|masterlist

Isagi Yoichi - "Babe"

You always thought Isagi was the classic type. The kind of boyfriend who, despite being an absolute menace on the field, was sweet and soft behind closed doors. And you were right.

"Hey, babe, can you pass me the water?"

You blinked.

It wasn't the first time he called you something affectionate, but it was the first time he said it so casually. You grabbed the water bottle from the counter, tossing it to him. "Since when do you call me that?"

He caught the bottle, smiling sheepishly. "Dunno. Just felt natural. You like it?"

A smirk tugged at your lips. "Say it again."

"Babe," he repeated, softer this time.

Yeah. You definitely liked it.

Bachira Meguru - "Lovebug"

With Bachira, you were never safe from nicknames. From "sugar plum" to "honey bunch," he'd called you everything under the sun. But today, he'd decided on something new.

"My lovebug, come here!" Bachira sang, arms wide open.

You stared at him, unamused. "Lovebug? Really?"

"Yeah! You’re cute and tiny, and you always stick to me like one. So, lovebug!"

Before you could argue, he tackled you onto the couch, nuzzling into your neck with an exaggerated hum. "You like it, don’t you?"

You sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if you start calling me 'buggy,' I'm leaving."

"No promises!"

Itoshi Rin - "Angel"

Rin wasn’t the type to throw around sweet names. You were lucky if he even said "good morning" without a grunt. But lately, he’d been slipping up.

"Angel, where’s my hoodie?" he muttered from the bedroom.

You nearly dropped your phone. "Huh?"

Rin peeked out from the doorway, frowning. "What?"

"What did you just call me?"

He went stiff. The realization dawned on his face, his ears turning red. "I— Shut up. Just give me my hoodie."

You grinned, walking over and tugging on the hem of his shirt. "Say it again."

"Not happening."

You leaned in, whispering, "Angel."

His hand shot up, covering your mouth. "Drop it." But the blush on his face told you everything you needed to know.

Nagi Seishiro - "Bunny"

"Bunny, c'mere."

You stopped mid-step, staring at Nagi. "Did you just call me ‘bunny’?"

He blinked lazily, patting the empty space beside him on the bed. "Yeah. You’re soft and sleepy like one. Now, cuddle."

You huffed but crawled into his arms anyway. "You’re just using cute names to distract me, aren't you?"

He yawned, draping an arm over you. "Maybe. But also ‘cause I like you."

Your heart did a little flip. "I hate you."

"Mm. Love you too, bunny."

Mikage Reo - "Princess"

Reo had been calling you "princess" since the moment you got together. At first, you thought it was just a playful joke. But no, he was dead serious.

"Princess, let me carry that for you."

"Princess, you shouldn't walk in those heels so much."

"Princess, did you eat today?"

Finally, you snapped. "Reo, do you even know my actual name anymore?"

He laughed, pulling you close by the waist. "Of course, I do. But you’re my princess first."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop the smile forming on your lips. "Ridiculous."

"Adorable," he corrected, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Itoshi Sae - "Doll"

Sae never wasted words. He wasn’t one for grand gestures or unnecessary sweetness. But when he did something, he meant it.

"Doll, are you listening?"

You blinked out of your daze, focusing back on him. "Did you just call me 'doll'?"

Sae sighed, setting his fork down. "Yeah. You got a problem with that?"

"No, but it’s very… unexpected."

He smirked. "Thought it suited you. You’re pretty. Fragile."

"I am not fragile."

"Mm." He reached over, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re still my doll."

Your face burned. Damn him and his effortless charm.

Shidou Ryusei - "Kitten"

"Kitten, you’re killing me."

You groaned as Shidou draped himself over your shoulders, arms locking around you like a vice. "Get off me, you idiot."

"Not until you admit you love it when I call you that."

You squirmed, trying to shake him off, but his grip only tightened. "Shidou—"

"Say it. You love it."

You exhaled sharply. "Fine. Whatever. Just get off."

Shidou grinned, finally letting go. "Knew it. You’re so cute, kitten."

You threw a pillow at his face. "Shut up."

Michael Kaiser - "Schatz"

Kaiser loved teasing you in German. It made you flustered, and he lived for it.

"Schatz," he purred, leaning over your shoulder.

You frowned. "That better not mean something dumb."

He laughed. "Relax. It means ‘treasure.’"

You eyed him suspiciously. "For real?"

"For real. You’re my most precious thing, after all."

Your heart clenched. You punched his arm lightly. "Stop being cute."

"Never, schatz."

Alexis Ness - "Darling"

Ness was a hopeless romantic. It was no surprise when he started calling you "darling" in that soft, affectionate tone.

"Darling, don’t forget your scarf."

You paused, blinking up at him. "Since when do you call me that?"

Ness smiled, adjusting the scarf around your neck. "Since I realized I want to call you mine in every way possible."

Your breath hitched. He was unfair.

Barou Shoei - "Queen"

Barou wasn’t one for unnecessary nicknames. But when he did call you something, it held weight.

"You’re my queen. Act like it."

You smirked. "Oh? And what does that make you?"

He crossed his arms, staring down at you. "The king, obviously."

You chuckled. "So dramatic."

"You love it."

You did.

[satorella]

“𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰”

“Y’know you have to go back to Germany eventually, right?” You said while lying on 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫’𝐬 chest, listening to his heartbeat.

He sighs, dragging a finger up and down your spine. “I know, Liebchen [darling/sweetheart].” He pauses before continuing, “…I hate leaving you...” You had no response. You couldn’t tell him to just up and drop his career for you. Not that you would ever make him, or let him, do that in the first place. Soccer was all he knew, before you. And you were understanding of that. “Come with me.” He breaks the silence. You lifted your head up off his chest and gave him a confused look. “Micha, you know I can’t.” “Why not? You’re not even happy here in your own country.” He made a good point.

“So, what? Just drop everything, sell my house, my car, leave my friends and family, my life behind?” You were pacing around your room now, while he was still relaxed on your bed, his private area only being covered by the thin blanket. He was casually just flipping through the novel you were currently into. “Ja.” [Yes.] You stopped and glared at him. “Babe, this is serious. Do you realize what you’re asking of me?” “Mhm.” Your eye twitched at his nonchalance. He snaps your book shut and finally looks up at you. “I’ll take care of you. What was that thing you would always say? That you’re ‘meant to be a passenger princess’ or whatever? Well, now you can be.” He shrugs. “For the record, I only said that once or twice!” You look away sheepishly. He couldn’t help but smirk at your expression. “Riiiight.” He replied sarcastically, sitting up on the edge of your bed. He pulled the blanket off, exposing himself and patted his thigh, beckoning you to come. You practically melted at the gorgeous, naked sight of him and walked over. He grabbed your waist and pulled you in between his legs, “Come on, Engel [Angel].” His voice was soft. “And what about when you leave for games? I’ll be alone again, but in a foreign country.” You slightly pouted, playing with the blue ends of his hair. He shrugged again, “You will come with me to my games too. So einfach ist das.” [It’s that simple.] It wasn’t a bad idea.

You did love watching him play. You even got too into it at times.

He remembered one time when he’d been shoved and landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him. As he laid there on the field, trying to get his breath back, he looked up into the stands and saw you screaming at the top of your lungs at the ref, almost about to climb over the railing to give the other player a piece of your mind. Thankfully, Ness was benched during that half of the game and was able to calm you down before security came. It turned him on… how feral you got for him…

He dicked you down so good that night.

He pulled you even closer so that you were straddling him now, his hands making their way under your robe and slowly up your sides. “S-So… you realize… you’re basically asking me to move in with you, right?” You clarified. His hands slowly moved up higher, thumbs lightly tracing circles on your bare skin. “That’s the general idea, ja.” He kept talking as if all this was no big deal. But now that you think about it, it would have happened eventually… so. He hummed as he gently cupped your breasts, taking your now hardening nubs between his index and middle finger. You slightly threw your head back, enjoying his touch. He grabbed ahold of your hips as you started to rock against him, his grip becoming a bit rougher as he started to guide your movements. He leaned in, pressing his lips against you; starting from your shoulder and making his way up to your neck. “M-Micha… we… we still need to discuss this…” You bit your bottom lip, trying to stay focused. “No more talking. Just fucking.” His voice was low and demanding; once bright blue eyes, now dark. “Sag einfach ja.” [Just say yes.] He whispers. You let out a content sigh. He really knew how to make you loosen up, didn’t he?

Tsk.

He undid the knot on your robe and let it slip off of you. A shiver ran through you as the cool air hit your skin, along with his touch. You moaned out a “yes” just as you sunk down onto his hard cock. You guys may actively fuck like rabbits, but you don’t think you’ll ever get used to his larger size. He gave you a second to adjust, before he wrapped your legs around his waist and stood up to place you on the edge of your vanity. “Ah! B-Babe! My makeup!” You whimpered as his hard thrusts caused all your things to topple over. He grabs your chin and captures your lips in a sloppy kiss to stop you from talking.

“I’ll buy you more in Germany.” He grunts.

© 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒-𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

Join my tag list!📋

(𝑷𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑳𝒐𝒄𝒌 discord server👯‍♀️)

[boowritess]

very mild 18+ simon riley x reader

lmaoo i can't breathe Simon Riley is just a man.

atleast to you.

when he's home, all he is to you is dry humor, a couple beers every night, sat in front of the tv on his spot on the couch, the game is playing - some soccor or rugby match. he doesn't wear his mask, his clothes are a simple t-shirt and some pair of shorts he just threw on.

he uses your shampoo and conditioner, as much as it pisses you off because it's expensive and for some reason he uses half the fucking bottle everytime he's home, but when he does the groceries he still comes home with '2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner' he would’ve got the '3 in 1' but the last time he did that he got no head for 3 weeks.

he'll go to the pub, take you out, pushes the trolley, holds your bag, let's you dress how you want it, belly gets a little soft because he eats food like he's never ate before, buy you anything you want even after the 'do you really need it though?' talk.

he's bit lazy on workouts only goes on the occasional run, but will fuck you whenever you want; always vanilla and only gets rough when you ask.

he will say he'll fix whatever appliance needs tending too but won't do it right away, starts the occasional handyman job at odd times.

it's just - he's so mundane and normal that you'd never know just how dangerous he is ???? like he so carefully hides that side from you. seriously. when he's home, he throws his gear in the bottom of his closet in a box, locking Ghost away and just existing as Simon.

even when the rest of the task force come around on the occasion. they're so normal and are just... men. yelling at the tv during a sport match. teasing each other. stealing snacks and helping with cleaning. they never speak about work and when you ask them, it's always a smile and shrug, "just another day really." "little boring and slow." "oh not too bad." their answers are so half-assed, that you don't even ask anymore; which is what they want.

but you really aren't missing anything. not when you don't even know what you're missing out on.

it's crazy, because he even keeps Ghost hidden when you're being harassed by men. whether that be when you're shopping or just going for a walk.

he'll loop an arm around your waist or over your shoulder, look at the guy with a grin - that's more of a sneer, "can i help you, mate?" he'll drawl. his stature and stare is enough to make the man who had been harassing you back off.

"what a freak..." you mutter with a roll of your eyes, letting Simon guide you away as he presses a kiss to your temple, a deep chuckle leaving him.

around midnight you wake up to Simon in the laundry room washing his hands. he doesn't blink or hesitate when you wonder in and wrap your arms around his waist. "what're you doing?" you mumble, sleepy eyss dropping to the sink.

Simon's hands are red, and you would be alarmed, should be alarmed. but how could you when Simon hums softly, a sound that rumbles deep from his throat, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. he's so warm and casual that you don't even do a touble take seeing the blood.

"caught a rat. right pest they are. the trap i set snapped it clean in half." Simon's mutters, he raises a bloodied hand to you, sniggering when you crinkle your nose up in disgust and step away from him.

"ew, i'm going back to bed." you huff, yawning and leaving him to what he was doing.

Simon laughs softly as you head off. "just be a sec, love." he says as you go. all he receives is a yawn and a tired 'mhm'.

he cleans his hands and then his phone chimes. he pulls it out and it's a private message.

'getting rid of your pest now, LT.'

image attached

Simon opens the picture and sure enough there's the man from earlier in the boot of a car. all bloodied like Ghost left him.

Simon heads back upstairs to your shared room, you quietly snoozing away. you don't steer or wake as the closet door opens and Simon's putting his mask back in with his gear. No. Ghost is too quiet to let you wake from such a warm and sweet sleep.

he turns from the closet after putting everything away and changing clothes. he crawls into his side of the bed and wraps his arms around you. letting your body nestle back into his side. limbs tangling together.

just you and your simon.

a/n: inspired by a tik tok video on how he is just a man lmaooo

[kvroomi]

it's 9 o'clock in the evening when atsumu barges into your bathroom while you're taking off your makeup

“hey, babe, yer phone’s charged, right?”

his voice breaks through the quiet hum of your evening, pulling your attention away from the bottle of moisturiser you'd been trying to open for the past 5 minutes. you glance up to find him leaning in the doorway. his black dress pants and light blue button-up are long gone, now replaced with a large white t-shirt and his obnoxious 'world's best setter' boxers that he must've left in the dresser you bought for him when he started staying over more often.

“yeah, why?” you ask, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

he holds up his phone with an exaggerated sigh, the screen dark. “mine’s dead." he sighs and you look at him confused.

"i was gonna call ‘samu—messaged me somethin’ about the shop. think he forgot to order noodles or… or whatever. can i borrow yours for a sec?”

you furrow your eyebrows, skepticism creeping in. atsumu wasn’t exactly known for prioritizing osamu’s last-minute “emergencies” unless they directly concerned him. ���can’t you just use the landline?”

“the landline?” he places a hand on his chest in mock offense.

“what am i, a fossil?" you turn your gaze back to the mirror with a roll of your eyes.

"c’mon, babe, it’ll only take a minute. please?”

you stare at him and he stares back, the two of you locking eyes in a silent standoff. atsumu, for all his dramatics, was never great at hiding when he was up to something.

alas, as much as you wanted to pry, you also didn’t have the energy to argue over something so trivial when it was so late into the day.

“okay,” you breathe out, followed by a long sigh as you hand your phone over.

“just don’t mess with anything.” your eyes narrow threateningly.

“mess with things? me?” he shakes his head around, feigning shock. “never. yer phone’s in the safest hands imaginable.”

that already should’ve been your second red flag—though before you can even question him, he's got his back turned halfway out the door yelling “thanks, babe! yer the best!” over his shoulder.

a brief fifteen minutes have passed, which you only vaguely realise in the haze of beginning your book. you're comfortably tucked into the corner of the couch when he strolls into the living room. plopping your phone onto the cushions beside you and pressing a quick, warm kiss to the top of your head—he pokes your cheek.

“yer a lifesaver,” he says with a grin, flopping down beside you. “what would i do without ya?”

you offer him a glance, “what did osamu need?”

“huh?” you notice his grin falter. it's a split millisecond, but he's quick to cover it with a casual wave of his hand. “oh, somethin’ about… rice.”

you squint at him, trying to read his face. “i thought you said noodles earlier?”

“rice, noodles—same difference,” he says, getting up and walking over to the fridge to pull it open. “food stuff... y’know how he is.”

you let out a hum, satisfied with his answer. and just like that, the moment passes. your attention is drawn back to your book while atsumu rifles through leftovers.

it isn't until later that night when you're climbing into bed and reaching for your phone to set your alarm that you notice. the screen lights up, and instead of your usual photo of cherry blossoms, you're greeted by him—a photo of atsumu.

and it's not just any photo of atsumu, though. this one was pure chaos.

his entire face filled the frame, nose slightly scrunched, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, and his golden-brown eyes wide with faux innocence. his lips were puckered in an over-the-top kissy face. across the bottom of the image in bright, white text were the words: “miss me yet, babe? ;)”

your jaw drops.

“what the—?” you're immediately sitting up and unlocking your phone, going straight into your photo gallery. what you find only makes your disbelief grow, (and maybe your heart too, out of fondness).

the first photo was relatively tame: a selfie of atsumu sprawled out on the couch with his head sitting in his hand with a cheeky and flirty smile. of course, you think.

the second was him in the doorway of the living room with his finger pressed to his lips in a "shh" gesture while you sat on the couch, engrossed in your book.

and then things get progressively more ridiculous, (assuming that's even possible).

there's a close-up of atsumu holding up your favorite snack with an inflated, brash grin, almost as if he was offering it to you. the caption reads: “this one's for you, babe."

another captured him perched on your desk chair, holding your pencil like it was a quill. his nose is scrunched again, an attempt to portray his concentration as he pretends to scribble something brilliant.

it's the final photo that stops you in your tracks.

it's atsumu stood on the balcony, wrapped in your favorite blanket like a superhero while his arm stretched dramatically toward the sky. the caption read: “protector of this household and defender of snacks ;)”

you stare at the screen in silence, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. quite frankly, you couldn't tell whether you wanted to laugh or cry.

atsumu was many things: he was ridiculous, he was almost always over the top, and he was also occasionally the most infuriating person you’d ever met. but, there was one thing for certain—he was undeniably, wholeheartedly yours.

many people don't understand him the way you do. atsumu hadn’t just messed with your phone for the sake of it—he’d left you a trail of love notes that were neatly tucked behind each photo’s absurdity. it was his way of saying "i’m here, even when i’m not," without actually saying the words verbally.

and it worked.

you didn’t text him right away. instead, you curled under the blankets, scrolling through the photos again and again. your heart swelled with every outlandish caption, every childish expression, every trace of him.

eventually, you couldn’t help yourself.

you: you’re a menace.

his reply was almost instant: atsumu: a menace with a pretty face, though. miss ya, babe x

you beamed, your thumb hovering over the lock screen settings, conflicted between whether or not you should switch back the photo. though how could you? not when you already knew tomorrow would bring another excuse for him to check your phone again, just to see if you’d kept it.

so you decide to leave it—his face on your lock screen as a proud display of the world’s most unconventional love letter.

KVROOMI © 2024, DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[rafes-slut]

Raw, Next Question

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x You (Best Friends to ???)

Warnings: Smut, Sexual Tension, Friends-to-Lovers Vibes, Light Teasing, Mutual Attraction, Slight Possessiveness

Summary: It started as a joke. Rafe sent you a shirtless gym pic, and you responded with a flirty TikTok reference. But when he calls you out on it, things quickly spiral into something neither of you can ignore.

Rafe was always sending you pictures of himself. It was just a thing he did—whether he was bored, feeling himself, or just wanted attention. And you were used to it. You’d gotten everything from drunken selfies to pictures of him lounging shirtless by the pool, flexing in the mirror just to show off. But today’s was… different.

You were in the middle of scrolling through your phone when the notification popped up.

Rafe: [Image]

You tapped the message, expecting something ridiculous, only to be met with the sight of Rafe at the gym. Shirtless. Sweaty. Flexing.

His muscles were on full display, every inch of his toned chest and arms glistening under the fluorescent lights. His shorts hung dangerously low on his hips, and the way he was holding his phone—angled slightly down—made the entire thing feel intentionally suggestive.

You barely thought twice before typing out a reply.

You: Raw, next question.

It was a joke. A stupid TikTok trend. You didn’t even expect him to respond right away. But not even a minute later, your phone started ringing.

You hesitated, staring at his name lighting up your screen, before finally swiping to answer.

“What?” you answered casually, trying not to sound like you were overthinking your reply now.

��Raw?” His voice came through the speaker, low and amused.

You rolled your eyes. “It was a joke, Rafe.”

He let out a slow, knowing hum. “Nah, see, I don’t think it was.”

“Oh my god.”

“I think you saw that picture and actually thought about it.”

“Please,” you scoffed, heat creeping up your neck. “You send me shit like that all the time.”

“Yeah, but you don’t usually say you want me raw.”

You groaned, flopping back on your bed. “That’s not what I—”

“I think it is,” he cut you off. “I think you saw me flexing, thought about how good I look, and said exactly what was on your mind.”

His voice had dropped lower, turning smug and teasing.

“You’re literally delusional,” you muttered.

“Am I?” There was a slight shuffle on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”

“In my room. Why?”

“Open your window.”

Your stomach flipped. “Rafe—”

“Open it.”

You sighed but got up anyway, crossing the room to push open your window. And sure enough, there he was, standing outside in the dim glow of the porch light, still wearing his gym shorts, still shirtless, phone still pressed to his ear.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re fucking insane.”

“You gonna let me in or what?”

You hesitated for half a second before stepping back and letting him climb through. He moved smoothly, like he’d done it a million times before—which, to be fair, he had. But this time, there was a different energy between you.

You could feel it as he stood there, looking at you, eyes darker than before.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was right in front of you, the heat of his bare skin radiating between you.

“So,” he said, tilting his head, “raw, huh?”

You crossed your arms, trying to maintain some sort of control over the situation. “It was a joke.”

He reached out, fingers barely grazing your hip. “What if it wasn’t?”

Your breath caught.

Rafe took another step, backing you up against your bed. His hands found your waist, warm and steady, his touch featherlight but deliberate.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice dripping with challenge.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering. But you didn’t say a word.

His lips curled into a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was hungry, possessive—the kind of kiss that left no room for second-guessing. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you against him, and you barely had time to process the way his bare chest felt against you before he was guiding you back onto the bed.

“You talk a big game,” he murmured against your lips, “but I think you like this more than you let on.”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hey babes. Could I please request some dad!Max, where he is super protective an he finds out his daughter is at a party and there are a lot of weird guys and he gets pissed. Daughter is like 16 or 17. Thank you

Always his little girl

Max stepped into the house, letting out a deep sigh as he dropped his bag by the door. It had been a long, exhausting race weekend, and all he wanted now was to be home with his family. The comforting warmth of the house instantly eased some of his tension, and when Kelly appeared in the hallway, her smile making his heart flutter like it always did, he felt a bit more at peace.

"Welcome home, love," Kelly murmured before standing on her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips.

Max hummed in satisfaction, his hands finding her waist and pulling her close for a moment before he reluctantly pulled away. "Missed you," he admitted, brushing his nose against hers.

She chuckled. "We missed you too. P's already asleep—she was out like a light after dinner."

Max smiled, feeling his heart swell at the thought of his little girl sleeping peacefully in her bed. But then he frowned slightly, realizing someone was missing. "Where's Yn?"

Kelly hesitated for a second, but then casually said, "She's at a party with some of her friends."

Max's brows instantly furrowed. "A party? At this hour?"

Kelly sighed, already sensing where this was going. "It's a small get-together. Just some of her girlfriends hanging out."

Max narrowed his eyes. "Just girls?"

Kelly pursed her lips. "Well… some of the boys from her class are there too."

Max groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Kelly, you know I don't like the boys from her class. They're all weird."

Kelly crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "They’re teenagers, Max. Yn is a teenager. And she deserves to go out and have fun."

Max shook his head, already feeling an itch under his skin. "I don't like it. We should've said no. She’s sixteen, Kelly. Sixteen! And those boys—"

"Are just boys," Kelly finished for him. "Not criminals. And it's not like she's alone with them. Her friends are there. She knows how to handle herself."

Max still looked unconvinced. "I should go pick her up."

Kelly immediately placed a hand on his chest, stopping him before he could even think about grabbing his keys. "No, Max. One of her friend's moms is driving them all home. She’ll be fine."

Max let out a heavy sigh, clearly frustrated, but he knew arguing with Kelly was pointless. She was always the more reasonable one, the one who knew when to let go a little, while he was… well, Max. Overprotective, easily worried, and completely wrapped around both of his daughters' fingers.

"I don't like it," he muttered.

Kelly smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I know. But you have to let her grow up."

Max grumbled under his breath but didn't push it further. Still, he couldn't fully relax, his body on edge as he sat on the couch, his eyes flicking to the clock every few minutes. Kelly eventually sighed and suggested, "Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll wait for her."

Max shot her an incredulous look. "Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna sleep when my daughter is out with those… those… weird wankers."

Kelly chuckled but wisely chose not to argue. She simply curled up next to him, scrolling through her phone while Max sat stiffly, arms crossed, eyes locked on the time.

It felt like forever, but finally, when the clock struck 1 AM, the sound of the front door unlocking sent Max shooting to his feet.

Yn stepped in, her cheeks slightly flushed from the chilly night air, her long hair slightly messy from dancing. She blinked in surprise at her father standing there, his expression unreadable.

"Uh… hi?" she said hesitantly.

Max was already stepping forward, pulling her into a tight hug before she could react. "You're late," he muttered into her hair.

Yn huffed. "Dad, it's literally one minute past."

"Still late," Max countered, finally pulling back to inspect her. "You're okay? No one bothered you? No weird boys?"

Yn rolled her eyes. "No, Dad. The only weird boy bothering me is you."

Max sighed in relief but still reached for the blanket on the couch and wrapped it around her. "You must be cold. Here, sit down. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Did you drink anything weird?"

Kelly, watching from the couch, covered her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Yn flopped onto the couch, grinning at her dad’s fussing. "No, Dad. But I did hear some gossip. You wanna hear?"

Max, despite himself, sat beside her, his protective instincts warring with his curiosity. "Fine. Tell me."

Yn smirked, knowing she had him hooked. "Okay, so Emma and Jake totally had a thing going on, but then Jake started flirting with Ava, and Emma was NOT having it. So she threw a drink at him."

Max’s eyes widened. "She threw a drink at him?"

"Yeah! Right in his face! And then Ava was like, ‘Oh my god, Emma, what is your problem?’ and Emma was like, ‘My problem is that he’s a two-timing jerk!’"

Max gasped. "She did not!"

Yn nodded eagerly. "She so did! It was crazy!"

Kelly shook her head, still laughing softly as she got up. "I’ll leave you two gossip queens alone. I’m going to bed."

Max barely acknowledged her, too engrossed in Yn’s dramatic storytelling. "And then what happened?"

Yn continued, animatedly recounting every detail, while Max listened intently, occasionally shaking his head in disapproval or muttering about how all teenage boys were ridiculous. Eventually, though, Yn yawned, and Max instantly stood up. "Okay, time for bed."

Yn groaned. "I can put myself to bed, Dad. I’m sixteen."

Max ignored her, gently pulling her up and guiding her to her room. "Uh-huh, sure you can."

Yn sighed but didn’t protest further as she climbed into bed. Max sat beside her, grabbing her brush and starting to braid her hair, his fingers moving carefully.

"You don’t have to do this," she murmured sleepily.

"I know," Max said softly, securing the braid. "But I want to."

Yn smiled, snuggling under the blanket as Max tucked her in. "Night, Dad."

Max kissed her forehead. "Goodnight, liefje."

As he switched off the light and left the room, he found Kelly leaning against the hallway wall, smiling at him. "You’re such a softie."

Max huffed. "She’s still my little girl."

Kelly chuckled, wrapping an arm around his waist as they walked to their own bedroom. "I know. And she always will be."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: I hope you enjoyed this piece. My requests are open and I'm more than happy to write a new story.

-💙🦋

[hallowxiu]

How the Brothers Would Deal with MC's Mortality

Mammon:

You casually brought it up as a joke

Probably something like “i’m here for a good time, not a long time” or “why should i care what happens in 100 years? It’s not like i’ll be around to care”

Would probably confuse Mammon at first as to why you wouldn’t be around, but he would put the pieces together in the middle of the night when trying to sleep.

A whole, eyes snapping wide opening and flinging out of his bed kind of moment.

Mammon would worry himself sick

Yes, he knows humans can die, hell, he used to mock you for being so frail when you first came to the Devildom, but now? 

Well, now things are different. How he feels about you is different

He's spending all his money on ways to keep you kicking longer. 

Anything he can think of that’ll help, he’s buying it. Vegetables, fruits, protein powder, comfortable clothes, a nice pillow, vitamins, shampoos- anything. He has no idea where to start, so he just starts grabbing everything. 

I mean, something will have to help, right? 

If you notice he looks panicked, don’t point it out, it’ll only make it worse. Unless you want to be smothered to death from his affection and worry, then by all means. ;)

Leviathan:

Look, he can barely handle his favorite anime characters dying, so you? Yeah, no, that’s way too much. 

Nothing actually popped up to remind Leviathan of your mortality, it was because of Satan throwing his books all around the house that did it. 

Suddenly, it was all he could think about. How did he not think of this before? 

Leviathan is no Satan though, and he’s certainly not Lucifer. Researching medical documents and trying to think of things to keep you alive longer are a little over his head. That being said, there were some things he could do.

Leviathan dove into his own research that would be within his realm of understanding, studying that humans who have more positive mindsets and who are less exposed to depressing forms of media, may live longer than the average person. This- this was something he could work with. 

Suddenly, you were constantly being invited to his room, Leviathan having a variety of slice-of-life anime for you to watch with him, all of which had happy endings to boot. If an anime was even remotely depressing, he made sure to keep that out of reach. 

Video games? He’s keeping it safe; he’s not risking anything here. If it’s not similar to Stardew Valley, Animal Crossing, Dreamlight Valley, or The Sims (which must be on a good day), you’re just not playing it. Kingdom Hearts if you’re lucky. 

Satan:

Would do an insane amount of research 

Likely overheard the topic on a news segment about the tragically short lifespans of humans before it all clicked together.

Satan, unlike the other brothers, has never experienced death before, so while it sounds silly, he never had reason to think of you dying.

Looks up humans who had long lifespans to see how he can implement those things into your lifestyle.

Books will be littered everywhere (although that’s not really unusual, but what is would be the topic of said books- The Long Lives of Humans, Human Lifestyle for Dummies 101, The Road to Human Immortality, etc. etc.)

This is when Satan learns just how easy it is for a human to kick the bucket.

Heart attacks, brain aneurysms, strokes, seizures, cancer, the list goes on and on and it’s starting to scare him. He didn’t know humans could just drop dead. 

He’s going to start researching curses to increase your lifespan, or at the very least he’s going to make sure you’re careful as hell. 

You won’t even get as much as a cut without him being aware of it; he’s going to hover around and mother hen the absolute shit out of you. 

Try not to get too annoyed with him though, it all stems from good intentions. 

Asmodeus:

He’ll be damned if his shopping partner for life is going to die on him.

Asmo isn’t stupid; if anything he’s pretty emotionally aware. He's known for a long time just how short the lifespan of humans is.

But still, it came in the form of a nightmare. One where he couldn’t save you, despite giving his best efforts. The way you died was tragic, long before your life should have ended. 

This sent Asmo somewhat into a frenzied state trying to find things to keep you alive once he woke up. 

Vitamins, vitamins, vitamins

Humans benefit from vitamins, right? Surely you’d benefit from Devildom vitamins then. If it’ll increase the lifespan of a demon, he sees no reason why it wouldn’t increase your lifespan. 

Of course, it really only gives you nicer nails and shinier hair. 

He’s 10x more intense with your morning and night routines. 

He will be unloading all his facial creams on you, and telling you the benefits of each one and how it might add a few years to your lifespan. 

You want to stay up late at night to finish homework? Maybe watch a movie? Yeah, no, not on Asmo’s watch. 

Your ass is going to bed every night at 10pm, right along with him. You do realize you’ll be getting exactly 8 hours of sleep each night, too, right? 

Beelzebub:

Regarding his trauma with Lilith, it came as no surprise when he started to fret over your well-being. 

Poor Beel saw an article that discussed how tragically easy it is for a human to die. The cherry on top? How they could die from simply overeating. 

Overeating isn’t a concept Beel is overly familiar with (because to him, it’s never overeating), and while he knew most people couldn’t keep up with his eating habits, he didn’t think it could actually cause harm to a human, let alone kill them. 

Grocery trips are now a more anxiety-inducing event. 

He’s suddenly paranoid that any of the Devildom food could and will kill you. Are you allergic to anything? How would you even know? 

What if one day he serves you his favorite boiled dragonhead and you just drop dead at the dinner table?? No, that will never do. 

There’s a list of Devildom foods that he knows for sure you can have without dying, but then comes the issue of portion control. How much is too much for a human? 

Beelzebub swore he would never lose another loved one again, and it’s a promise he intends to keep. From now on, you will only eat what he deems safe. 

You want to try a new food in the Devildom that you’ve never had before? You better get some seriously good convincing skills if you want him to cave in. For someone who only ever thinks with his stomach, he’s surprisingly stubborn. 

Belphegor:

He’s still plagued with nightmares about Lilith, especially since he still thinks it’s his fault. Tack that on to the way he blamed you and the rest of the human race for it? The man is walking trauma. 

 Like Asmodeus, this was brought on by nightmares about you dying. Different from Asmo’s, however, you usually died by his hand. Naturally, considering your tumultuous history. 

Belphegor, unlike his brothers, takes a different approach. He just doesn’t approach you at all. 

What better way to keep your lifespan long than by staying away from you altogether? 

Is it something that he wants? Of course not! But how can he trust himself to never hurt you again? To never kill you again. 

He can’t. 

So, he locks himself away in his room, sleeping most of the day or just avoiding the areas you normally like to lounge. 

On a normal day, almost everyone in the household, including yourself, would notice this behavior change. However, since you’re now being cornered by all the brothers and their concerns about your lifespan, it’s easy for Belphegor’s absence to slip your mind. 

This hurts Belphegor, but at the end of the day, he believes this is for the best.

Lucifer: 

Lucifer didn’t need a reminder of your short lifespan; if anything, it’s something he’s thought plenty about. 

Lucifer has trauma, we all know that much. After Lilith, he’s absolutely terrified of losing another loved one to something outside of his control.

And your lifespan is not something that’s out of his control. At least not how he sees it, anyway. 

If you thought he was overbearing or overprotective before, brace yourself. He’s going to step it up several notches. 

No excess of junk food, no more pulling all-nighters, no more sitting around the house gaming all day, and definitely no more overexerting your use of magic. He’s no fool, he knows the toll your magic could eventually take on your body. 

Honestly? He wasn’t this bad until his brothers started to panic about your mortality, and though Lucifer told himself he was above such nonsense, he quickly found himself taking all the precautions they were taking (and then some). 

Fortunately, if you find yourself becoming overwhelmed, they’ll be more than willing to listen to you (granted you take some of their concerns into account).

[chrissssssmut]

Seven minutes in heaven with your tomboy best friend/cousin sparks an incestous romantic relationship

Unspoken Tension

Tomboy Winter x Male Reader (SMUT)

AN: SURPRISE! I've been working on this request for quite some time now! Sorry it took this long! I literally had to to multitask and write multiple stories all at once XD. Hope y'all like this esp to the one who requested!

It started with a game—something stupid, something harmless. That’s what you told yourself.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

You should’ve known it wouldn’t be that simple.

Winter had always been different from the other girls in your family—louder, brasher, less concerned with being ‘ladylike.’ While the rest of your cousins fussed over makeup and gossip, she was the one climbing fences and challenging you to arm-wrestling matches. Maybe that’s why you never really thought about her that way.

Until that night.

You sat in a loose circle with your cousins and a few friends, the air thick with the scent of cheap beer, soju and perfume. The empty bottle spun, wobbling on the hardwood floor before landing on Winter. And then on you.

A chorus of laughter and teasing erupted. Someone clapped you on the back. Winter only smirked, cocking her head.

“Well?” she drawled, already pushing herself up. “You scared?”

Your throat went dry. This is fine. It’s a stupid game.

The closet was cramped, barely enough space for the two of you. The second the door shut, the air changed. The laughter outside muffled into a dull hum, leaving only the sound of Winter’s slow, deliberate breathing.

She leaned against the wall, watching you in the dim light. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not.”

She laughed under her breath. “Liar.”

Seconds stretched. The air grew heavy, charged. Winter shifted, her knee bumping against yours. A touch so small, yet it sent a jolt through your spine.

You exhaled, trying to focus on anything else—the smell of old fabric, the soft scratch of her hoodie against the wall. But then she moved again, this time closer. Close enough that you could feel her warmth.

“You’re acting weird.”

“You’re the one cornering me.”

Winter tilted her head, considering you. Then, in a move so casual it felt dangerous, she reached out, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “You always this fidgety around girls?”

Your pulse hammered. “Not really.”

“Hmm.” A hum, low and knowing. “Just me, then.”

She didn’t kiss you. But she didn’t need to. The way she lingered, the way her fingers grazed your wrist before pulling back—it left something behind. Something unresolved.

When the door finally swung open, the others burst into laughter, throwing questions your way. You barely heard them. Winter just smirked, giving you a look that said, We’re not done.

And she was right.

You went about your days like nothing happened. Like she didn’t corner you in that closet, like she didn’t look at you like she was daring you to do something about it. But the worst part? You kind of wished she would do it again.

And then, because the universe is an absolute menace, something completely unexpected happened.

Winter’s parents were going away for a whole year. They needed someone to take care of her, and without hesitation, your parents had volunteered. You didn’t even get a say in it.

“Are you serious?” you asked as they casually dropped the news over dinner. “She’s staying here? For a year?”

“What, you don’t want me around?” Winter smirked, leaning back in her chair. Her short, dark hair framed her face perfectly, and the way she stretched her arms behind her head made you notice how toned her arms had gotten.

You cleared your throat. “That’s not what I meant.”

“She’ll be fine here,” your mom said, waving a hand dismissively. “And she’ll be sharing your room, by the way.”

Winter arched a brow. “Oh?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Wait, what?”

“Your bed’s big enough for two,” your dad added nonchalantly.

Winter glanced at you, amused. “Guess we’ll be roommates.”

You wanted to argue, but what could you even say? So, that was that. Winter was moving in, and you were going to have to deal with it.

The first night was awkward.

You lay on one side of the bed, stiff as a board, while Winter scrolled through her phone on the other. The glow from the screen illuminated her face, casting soft shadows over her sharp features. She looked effortlessly cool, like always.

“Relax,” she muttered, not even looking at you. “I’m not gonna bite.”

You let out a breath. “I’m relaxed.”

She side-eyed you. “You look like you’re about to explode.”

You scoffed. “It’s just weird, okay? Sharing a bed with you.”

Winter shrugged. “It’s just a bed. Unless you’re scared you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”

Your face heated. “That’s not—”

“I’m kidding,” she laughed, rolling onto her side. “You’re too easy to mess with.”

You turned your back to her, grumbling under your breath. But even as you tried to sleep, you were painfully aware of her warmth beside you. The scent of her shampoo. The rise and fall of her breathing.

This was going to be a long year.

Days passed, and Winter settled into your home with ease. She got along with your parents, made herself comfortable, and turned your room into her second domain.

The tension between you hadn’t lessened—it had only evolved into something more dangerous. There were moments when you’d catch her staring at you, but she’d look away before you could say anything. Times when she’d stretch and her shirt would ride up, revealing just a hint of skin, making you swallow hard. Accidental brushes of fingers, lingering eye contact, shared laughter that felt just a little too intimate.

Then, one morning, your parents dropped another bomb.

“We’ll be out the whole day,” your mom said, grabbing her purse. “Make sure Winter eats something. And don’t just stay cooped up in your room all day!”

Winter smirked at you after they left. “Looks like it’s just us.”

You ran a hand through your hair. “Guess so.”

“What do you wanna do?”

She leaned against the couch, thinking. “Show me more of that collection of yours.”

You hesitated. “You really wanna see it?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “You always talk about it, but you never actually show me.”

So, you led her to your room, opening the cabinet where you kept your prized collection—vintage video game consoles, classic action figures, and a shelf full of rare comic books. Winter whistled, reaching out to pick up a limited-edition figurine.

“You really are a nerd, huh?” she teased.

You rolled your eyes. “You asked to see it.”

She grinned. “I like it. It’s kinda cute how passionate you get about this stuff.”

You scratched the back of your neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, it’s important to me.”

She hummed, placing the figurine back. But instead of commenting, she just stared at you.

You felt it instantly—the shift in the air, the weight of her gaze. It was different this time. Heavier. Intense.

“…What?” you asked, your voice quieter than before.

Winter stepped closer. Your heart picked up speed.

Then, without warning, she reached up and pressed a finger against your lips.

“You talk too much,” she murmured.

And then she kissed you.

Your breath hitched. For a second, your mind went blank—Winter was kissing you. Her lips were warm, soft, lingering just long enough for you to feel everything before she pulled back slightly.

Panic flared in your chest, and you instinctively took a step back. “Winter—”

But she wasn’t letting you go.

Her hands gripped your collar, pulling you in. Her gaze, dark and filled with something unspoken, bore into yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered. “I already know.”

She backed you into the corner, her presence overwhelming, her scent intoxicating.

And then she kissed you again.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she continued. “All those times we locked eyes? The way you’d get flustered when I got too close?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not that simple, Winter.”

She scoffed. “Yeah? Then tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because you couldn’t. Because she was right.

Winter smirked, stepping even closer, her lips barely an inch from yours. “That’s what I thought.”

And then she kissed you again, deeper this time. And this time, you didn’t pull away.

Your breath hitched, body tensing as Winter’s fingers dipped beneath your waistband, cool against the feverish heat beneath. She didn’t hesitate this time. Her palm pressed firmly against you, fingers tracing your shape through the fabric, feeling every twitch, every pulse.

"So hard already," she murmured, lips brushing against his ear. "Are you that desperate?"

A shaky exhale escaped you, your body betraying as your hips instinctively pushed forward, seeking more. She smirked, tightening her grip, squeezing just enough to make your knees buckle. Your hands shot out, gripping her waist for support, fingers digging into her like she was the only thing keeping you upright.

"Oh, I love that," she cooed, dragging her fingers along his length in slow, deliberate strokes. "I wonder how much longer you can stand."

Her pace quickened, her touch firmer, her breath hot against your neck. Your head tipped forward, forehead resting against her shoulder as a strained groan left your lips. She laughed softly, pressing a teasing kiss to your jaw.

"Don’t hold back on me now," she whispered, giving you another squeeze. "Let me feel everything."

Her fingers hooked onto your waistband, nails grazing your skin as she dragged the fabric down, slow and deliberate. A smirk curled on her lips—she had been teasing you all night, enjoying the way your breath hitched whenever she got too close.

But the moment your pants hit the floor, her entire body locked up.

She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard it almost hurt. Her pupils dilated, heat crawling up her neck as her gaze dragged over you, taking in every inch—every impossible, achingly unfair inch.

Oh. Oh.

Her mouth went dry. She swallowed thickly, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered uselessly at her sides.

What the fuck.

A shaky exhale slipped from her lips, her thighs pressing together instinctively. She tried—tried—to say something, anything, but all that came out was a soft, broken breath. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her voice barely above a whisper, she muttered:

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me."

And then, without thinking, she reached for you.

She gripped you—tight, desperate—her fingers wrapping around his heat like she owned it. Her first stroke was slow, agonizingly slow, dragging up his length before gliding back down with a firm, deliberate squeeze. Your entire body jerked at the sensation, a ragged breath escaping him as his hands clenched uselessly at his sides.

"Oh?" Her voice dripped with amusement, but there was something darker beneath it—something possessive. She stroked you again, this time faster, her grip unrelenting, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to his core. "Already shaking?"

She tightened her hold, twisting her wrist just enough to make his breath hitch, his legs threatening to buckle. Her lips brushed against his ear, her voice a husky whisper.

"Poor thing. I haven’t even started."

"We… we can’t—" Your voice broke before you could even finish the sentence. Your entire body was trembling, your hands twitching at your sides like you wanted to push her away, to resist—to fight this.

But then she squeezed you.

Your breath hitched, hips jerking forward against your will. A strangled, wrecked sound ripped from your throat, your head falling back against the wall with a dull thud. Your fingers dug into her wrists, tight, your whole body tense like you were about to snap.

"Shit—" You gritted your teeth, shaking your head as if trying to clear it, but it was useless. Every slow, torturous stroke of her hand sent another wave of heat crashing through you, dissolving what little self-control he had left.

"I… I can’t—fuck, I can’t do this—" Your voice was raw, like you were begging yourself to stop, but your body was already betraying yourself, your own resolve crumbling with every slick movement of her fingers.

Her grip tightened, her pace quickening just enough to make your knees buckle. Your breath turned ragged, fingers flexing uselessly before grabbing onto her hips, desperate for something—anything—to hold onto.

"You’re shaking," she murmured against your ear, her voice dripping with amusement, with control. "Still going to pretend you don’t want this?"

You shuddered, chest heaving, your last shred of resistance snapping as a broken groan tore from his lips.

"Fuck it." Your voice was wrecked, desperate. Your fingers tightened on her hips, dragging her closer. "Just—just don’t fucking stop."

Your entire body jerked when you felt it—warm, wet—her spit dripping onto his aching cock, sliding down your skin as she stroked you even faster. Your breath hitched, a strangled groan ripping from your throat, fingers twitching against her wrists like you were going to stop her.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"Fuck," you gasped, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut as she worked you with a pace that had your legs threatening to give out. Your grip tightened on her shoulders, desperate, trying to ground yourself, but she wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

Then you felt it—her mouth.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

Your entire body locked up as she took you in, her lips wrapping around your tip, her tongue gliding over sensitive skin, sending a violent shudder down your spine. Your thighs tensed, your breath coming out in ragged gasps, your fingers instinctively threading into her hair.

"Shit, shit," you choked out, voice wrecked, shaking with a mix of pleasure and sheer disbelief, like you couldn’t even process what was happening. Like it was too much, too good, too fucking much.

Her mouth sank lower, taking you deeper, her tongue teasing, stroking, tasting. The wet sounds, the heat, the pressure—it was all driving him insane. Your fingers curled tighter in her hair, hips barely restraining themselves from bucking forward.

"F-fuck," you groaned, breath broken, your entire body trembling beneath her touch, your last shred of self-control disintegrating with every second she had her mouth on you.

You were completely, utterly ruined.

She pulled back with a wet pop, her lips slick, her breath coming fast as she stared up at you. A thin strand of spit still connected her mouth to your cock before breaking, sliding down her chin. Her eyes were dark, burning with need, with hunger that made your stomach tighten.

She stroked you once—slow, deliberate—watching the way your body shuddered beneath her touch. Then she leaned in, pressing her lips against your ear, her voice breathless, dripping with impatience.

"I can’t wait anymore," she whispered. "I need it inside me. Now."

Winter’s grip on you tightened, her body pressing closer, heat radiating off her skin. She dragged her lips down your neck, voice trembling with anticipation. "Don’t make me beg for it."

She let the last piece of fabric slip from her body, pooling at her feet, leaving nothing between them. Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers twitched at your sides, fists clenching, like you were forcing yourself to hold back.

She stepped closer, slow, deliberate, her body impossibly warm as she pressed against you. Taking your hands, she guided them over her bare skin, making you feel her, making sure you had no room to run.

"I want you," she whispered, voice thick with need, her lips brushing against your jaw. "Right now."

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. Your grip on her hips tightened—too tight, like you were fighting yourself. "We shouldn’t," you ground out, voice wrecked, self-control hanging by a thread.

She didn’t give you time to think. Instead, she reached for you again, dragging you closer, aligning their bodies in a way that made your pulse hammer in your skull.

"Then stop me," she murmured. A challenge. A plea.

You should have pulled away.

But instead, your hands moved on their own, fingers digging into her skin, claiming her, dragging her down with you as you gave in.

There was no stopping now.

At first, you moved slowly—too slowly. Your own breath was uneven, your grip on her hips tight, like you were still fighting something deep inside yourself.

But she couldn’t take it. Not like this.

"Faster," she gasped, her voice breaking as she pushed back against you, desperate for more, for everything. "Please—don’t hold back."

Your fingers dug into her skin, body tense, struggling. But then she turned her head, eyes glazed, lips parted, utterly wrecked with need.

That look snapped something inside of you.

Your pace quickened. Your hesitation shattered. The sound of your skins meeting filled the room, her breathy moans turning into shameless cries as she clutched on to you, trembling beneath you.

"More," she begged, voice shaky, wrecked, needy. "Don’t stop—please—"

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Your grip tightened, your movements rougher, hungrier, as you lost yourself in the way she needed you, the way she clung to you, like she’d fall apart if you even dared to stop.

And God help you, but you wanted this just as much as she did.

Winter was gone—completely lost in the heat, the pleasure, the way you moved against her, inside her. Every touch sent her spiraling deeper, every thrust breaking down whatever restraint she had left. Her fingers gripped on to you, her body shaking, overwhelmed, desperate for more.

"I don’t care," she gasped, voice raw, breathless, her head tilting back in ecstasy. "I don’t care if we’re related—I love this, I love you—"

Her voice cracked as another wave of pleasure crashed over her, her back arching, her nails clawing at his skin. "I’ve always wanted this," she confessed between ragged moans, eyes wild, dark with something dangerous and real. "I don’t care if it’s wrong—just don’t stop!"

Her words hit you like a shockwave, tearing apart whatever was left of your resistance. Your grip on her tightened,your pace turning desperate, reckless, drowning in the way she needed you, the way she clung to you like she never wanted to let go.

Your breathing was ragged, his body trembling as you felt yourself teetering on the edge. Every movement sent a firestorm of pleasure surging through you, every desperate moan from her lips pushing you closer—too close.

Your grip on her hips tightened. You had to stop. You had to pull away.

But then Winter looked back at you.

Her face was flushed, eyes glazed, lips parted as she gasped for air. She was shaking, gripping your arms like she’d fall apart if you let go. And then—

"Inside," she pleaded, her voice breaking, thick with desperation. "Please—I'm on the pill."

Your mind short-circuited. You were already too far gone, but hearing her say that? Seeing the way she needed you?

"Winter," you rasped, your restraint barely holding on.

She didn't let you think. Didn't let you hesitate.

"Please," she whimpered, pushing back against him, her nails digging into his skin, her entire body begging for you. "I need all of you—please—"

Something inside of you snapped.

Your hands gripped her harder, movements turning reckless, desperate, completely lost in her, in the way she wanted this, wanted you.

And in that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.

Your body tensed, every muscle locking up as you finally gave in. A deep, shuddering groan ripped from your throat, your grip on her waist tightening as you poured yourself into her.

Winter gasped, her body jolting as she felt it—felt him. Her legs nearly buckled, her fingers clawing desperately at his arms, at anything to hold herself up. A broken moan escaped her lips, her head tilting back against your shoulder, completely overwhelmed.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your heavy, uneven breaths filled the air, bodies still locked together, both of you trembling in the aftermath.

Then, finally, the strength in your legs gave out.

Still tangled in each other’s arms, you both stumbled toward the bed, collapsing onto the mattress in a dazed, breathless heap. Bodies sank into the sheets, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened.

What you both had just done.

Winter was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper, still breathless. "...Holy shit."

You swallowed hard, your pulse still pounding, your mind spiraling. "Yeah."

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke another word.

Because there was no taking it back.

Your bodies were still tangled, limbs heavy, breath shaky as they lay there, staring up at the ceiling. The air was thick, buzzing with something undeniable, something neither of you could ignore.

Winter was the first to break the silence.

"...Did you like it?" Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, but there was something underneath it—something deeper, something needy.

Your throat felt dry. You swallowed, still trying to steady yourself, but there was no point in lying.

"Yeah," yoy admitted, exhaling slowly. "I did."

Winter turned her head towards yoy, her eyes searching your face, her expression unreadable. A beat of silence passed before she bit her lip and murmured, "...Me too."

Your breath hitched.

Then she shifted, pushing herself up just slightly, her fingers trailing over your skin, hesitant yet deliberate. "Do you still want to?"

Your pulse pounded. She was asking—not just testing you, not teasing, but really asking.

And you should have hesitated. You should have thought about what this meant, what this was.

But instead, you looked at her—at the way she watched you, at the way her body still pressed so close, warm, inviting, familiar.

And yoy whispered the only answer you could.

"...Yeah."

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

"Good," she breathed.

And just like that, the tension snapped again.

She kissed you again. Rougher this time. Like she already knew the answer.

And maybe that was the moment he realized—this wasn’t going to stop.

Because it didn’t stop.

Not after that night.

Not after the stolen glances across the room, the accidental touches that weren’t so accidental.

Not after she found excuses to be alone with you—at family gatherings, at your house, in the quiet corners where no one would see.

And he did.

Again.

And again.

And again.

AN: This will be the last for this week! Will be busy again!🫶🏻

[semiloml]

thinking about…“phone sex“

featuring atsumu miya

★ content: smut, nsfw, afab reader, timeskip haikyuu, phone sex, masturbation on call (both female and male), p in v, sex without protection, just nasty boombayah🙂‍↕️

★author‘s note: Reblogs, likes and comments are really appreciated 🩷🩷 thank you all for your support!! Also I promise it gets better at the end

ೃ࿔*:･

It was around 1 am when your phone buzzed against the nightstand, its insistent vibration cutting through the silence of your darkened bedroom.

Half-asleep, you squinted at the screen.

Incoming call from Atsumu Miya…

“What the hell does he want at this hour?”

you yawned out, ignoring it. But curiosity—or something deeper—won out, and you swiped to answer.

“Hello?” you said, voice thick with sleep.

“You picked up.” His voice was low, rough around the edges, and entirely too intimate for a call at 1 am.

“Clearly. What do you want?”

There was a pause, the sound of rustling sheets on the other end. When Atsumu spoke again, his voice had a slow, deliberate cadence.

“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d call you. Keep me company.”

you rolled your eyes, but your pulse betrayed you—quickening just a little.

“That’s not my job. Go bother someone else“

“You always talk back like this, or just when you’re in bed?” he murmured and you could hear the smirk on his face

“You think I’m in bed?” you exclaimed trying to sound annoyed.

“Aren’t you?” he challenged.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the sheets pooling around your waist, the thin tank top clinging to your skin. You tried to sound unaffected. “And if I was?”

He exhaled, a slow, knowing sound. “Then I’d say you should turn over and put me on speaker.”

Your breath caught. The casual arrogance in his voice made your stomach flip, but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction.

“You’re awfully bold for someone begging me to keep him company.”

“I’m not begging. Just picturing things.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

Damn Miya.

“Like what?” you asked, voice softer now, curiosity laced with something darker.

A deep chuckle rumbled through the speaker. “Like what you’re wearing. How you’d sound if I…” He trailed off, waiting.

you shifted, your body betraying you before your mind caught up.

“If you what?” you whispered.

He hummed, pleased. “Now we’re talking.”

Atsumu’s voice sounded like liquid heat sliding over your skin.

“That depends,” you countered, fingers tightening around your phone. “Are we?”

He chuckled, low and slow. “Oh, princess, I think we are.”

A rustling sound filtered through the speaker. Sheets shifting, a sharp breathy exhale. Your skin prickled.

„What are you doing?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Thinking about you.”

Your heart pounded.

This was too intimate.

Too much.

But you didn’t plan on hanging up.

“And?”

A pause. Then, a deep inhale. “And wondering if you’re touching yourself yet.”

Your breath hitched.

“What—”

“Don’t play coy,” he interrupted, voice laced with amusement. “Not after the way your voice changed. I can hear it, you know. The way you’re breathing.”

You swallowed. hard. He wasn’t wrong. Your skin felt hypersensitive, every inch of you buzzing with awareness.

“I—”

“Tell me,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “Are you?”

your fingers flexed against the sheets. Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Atsumu was a few miles away, nothing but a voice in your ear—but God, did it feel like he was right there.

“Maybe,” you admitted.

His groan was low, guttural. “Fuck.”

Your breathing hitched yet again.

“Put me on speaker.”

You hesitated.

“Princess,“ he coaxed, a little rough. “I want to hear you.”

Heat shot straight through you, pulse hammering as you did as he asked.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured.

You barely had a second to process what he said before he added, “Now, tell me exactly what you’re doing.”

“I…” you swallowed, heat pooling between her thighs.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmured, voice coaxing but firm. “Are your legs spread?”

you closed your eyes, trying to get used to the feeling inside you.

“sweetheart?“

you bit your lip. “Yes.”

A sharp inhale from the other end of the line.

“Good girl.”

The praise sent a shiver straight down your spine. Your other hand drifted lower, teasing the edge of your panties, breath quickening.

“Are you wet?”

God, he was relentless.

your thighs clenched. “Yeah.”

“Let me hear it.”

you exhaled shakily, shifting your fingers lower, parting yourself with a soft, unsteady sigh. The sound was unmistakable.

His groan was deep, almost pained. “Fuck, I knew it.”

Your pulse hammered in your ears. “What about you?”

A dark chuckle. “You want to know how hard I am for you right now?”

you whimpered.

“Tell me what you’d do if I was there,” Atsumu demanded, voice rough.

Your breath hitched. “I’d let you touch me.”

“Where?”

You slid a finger lower, teasing yourself, gasping softly at the sensation.

“There.”

„I want more than that, sweetheart,” he growled. “Tell me.”

You let your head tip back, drowning in the sound of his breathing, in the slow, needy way he exhaled whenever you made a sound.

“I’d let you spread my legs,” you whispered, now more confident, slipping a finger inside. Your body clenched at the thought of him—his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing you down.

“Yeah?” he rasped.

“And I’d let you—”

A moan slipped past your lips as you worked yourself open, the pleasure spiking hard.

Another groan from him.

“You’re killing me, baby,” he muttered. “I wanna be inside you so bad.”

Your breath came in quick, shallow pants.

“Then come over,” you whispered, opening your eyes to look at the phone.

A long silence stretched between the two of you. Your body was still humming, fingers wet from touching yourself to nothing but his voice. You could hear his breathing through the phone—rough, ragged.

Then—

“Stay up.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“Stay up,” he repeated, voice dark, commanding. “I’m coming over.”

You sat up so fast you nearly dropped the damn phone.

“You’re serious?”

“You’re the one who told me to.” A low chuckle. “Now be a good girl and keep those pretty legs spread for me until I get there.”

The call ended.

Your stomach flipped. Holy shit.

You barely had time to collect yourself before there was a knock at the door—sharp, urgent.

You opened it, and there he was.

Hair tousled, chest rising and falling like he’d rushed over, eyes dark with something primal.

The second you stepped back, he was inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You’ve got no idea what you’ve done to me,” he muttered, gripping your jaw and tilting your face up.

„Then do something about it.”

And he did.

His mouth crashed onto yours, a desperate, bruising kiss, hands roaming, pulling, grabbing.

Atsumu lifted you up effortlessly, pressing you against the nearest wall, grinding against you—and God, he was so hard.

“I need to be inside you,” he groaned against your lips, fingers already shoving your panties down, his own pants barely undone before he was lining up his—thick, hot, throbbing cock against your entrance.

You gasped, nails digging into his big shoulders. “Then don’t tease.”

His jaw clenched.

“Hold on to me.”

you barely had time to obey before he thrust inside in one deep, punishing stroke.

Your body arched, a cry breaking from your lips.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours.

“So fucking tight.”

He didn’t wait. Didn’t give you time to adjust.

He fucked you against the wall, each thrust of his hips deep and ruthless, dragging moans from you that you didn’t even recognize as your own.

„This what you wanted?” he growled, biting at your jaw and your throat, his grip bruising on your thighs.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you moaned, nails raking down his back.

He lifted you higher, angling deeper—hitting that spot that made you see stars.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

And when he reached down between the two of you, pressing his thumb against your clit—you shattered.

And he didn’t stop.

AUTHOR‘S NOTE: I need him so bad😔

[possessedmen]

The Spell of Desire

In the dim light of the evening, Ezra, a reserved art history major, returned to his university dorm room, his mind preoccupied with his unrequited feelings for his roommate, Brandon. Brandon was the epitome of a college jock—muscular, charismatic, and, to Ezra's knowledge, straight. Their shared living space was a constant reminder of what Ezra couldn't have.

As Ezra entered, he froze at the sight before him. There, sprawled on his bed, was Brandon, or so he thought, in all his naked glory. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioner, and Brandon's usual confident demeanor seemed replaced by a strange vulnerability.

"Brandon, what the hell?" Ezra managed, his voice a mix of shock and intrigue.

The man on the bed shifted, sitting up with a look of flustered confusion. "Hey, Ezra, uh, I was just... I thought I'd surprise you. You know, with a, um, prank. Yeah, a prank," he said, his voice not quite matching Brandon's usual deep timbre. It was higher, more nervous.

Ezra raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "A prank? Since when do you prank me by getting naked on my bed?"

"Well, you know, I've been feeling a bit adventurous lately. Wanted to spice things up around here. Plus, it's hot, and I thought, why not cool off a bit?" The faux-Brandon chuckled awkwardly, trying to mimic the easy laugh of the jock.

Ezra couldn't help but let his gaze linger over the body that was supposed to be Brandon's. There was something off, something not quite right in the way he moved, the way he spoke. "You're acting weird, Brandon. What's really going on?"

"Okay, okay, you got me. I'm not Brandon. I'm Theo. Theo from your literature class. I... I used this old spell book I found in the library. I swapped bodies with Brandon because I've been crushing on you for ages. I wanted to be close to you, to... to see if you felt the same."

Ezra's eyes widened, the pieces falling into place. "You swapped bodies with Brandon? With black magic?"

"Yes, I know it sounds crazy. I'm sorry, I'll reverse it, I just—"

"No, wait," Ezra said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "If you're going to be Brandon, let's make this believable. What would Brandon say now?"

Theo, still in shock, tried to think on his feet. "Uh, he'd probably say something like, 'Hey, roomie, you caught me. Now, what are you gonna do about it?'"

Ezra chuckled, "That's more like it." He began to unbutton his shirt, revealing his toned physique slowly, deliberately. "And what would Brandon do next?"

Theo swallowed hard, his borrowed body looking out of place with the expression of a shy nerd. "He'd probably... um, flex a bit, show off, right?" He awkwardly flexed one of Brandon's muscular arms.

"Close, but let's make it more... intimate," Ezra suggested, letting his shirt fall to the floor. He climbed onto the bed, his body close to Theo's, the heat between them palpable. "So, 'Brandon', what do you think of this?"

Theo's eyes followed Ezra's movements, his breathing quickening. "I... I think you look good, Ezra. Really good."

"Shh, just keep being Brandon," Ezra instructed, a playful smirk on his lips as he leaned in, capturing Theo's lips in a kiss that was both exploratory and demanding. After a moment, he pulled back slightly, "What would Brandon say if I kissed him like that?"

Theo, encouraged by Ezra's seduction, began to settle into Brandon's identity. "He'd probably say, 'Damn, Ezra, you're full of surprises. But I like 'em.'" His voice was gaining confidence, mimicking Brandon's casual arrogance.

Ezra laughed softly, his breath warm against Theo's skin. "And what would he do?"

Theo, now more playful, pulled Ezra closer, his hands finding his waist with a newfound boldness. "He'd pull you in like this, and say, 'You wanna play, roomie? Let's play.'"

Ezra let out a low moan, "Good. Now, what would Brandon want next?"

Theo, channeling Brandon's confident, friendly arrogance, whispered, "He'd want you to join him, to make this moment even more real." His voice was steady now, playful and teasing.

Ezra's eyes sparkled with desire. "Is that so? Well, let's not disappoint 'Brandon' then." With a fluid motion, Ezra undid his belt, letting his pants slide off, joining Theo on the bed fully. "What's next, 'Brandon'?"

Theo, feeling the heat of Ezra's body against his own, grinned, "He'd probably say, 'You're making this too easy, Ezra. But I like it.' And then maybe he'd..." Theo hesitated for a moment before continuing with a smirk, "He'd start kissing your neck, right?"

Ezra tilted his head back slightly, giving Theo access, his voice low and seductive, "Go on then, show me how 'Brandon' does it."

With a newfound confidence, Theo leaned in, his lips brushing against Ezra's neck, planting kisses that were firm and teasing, just as Brandon might do. He felt the thrill of embodying the jock's persona, the playful arrogance coming naturally now. "You like that, huh, Ezra?" Theo asked, his voice now a perfect mimic of Brandon's casual, cocky tone.

Ezra chuckled, his voice a soft moan, "Yeah, I do. What’s next Brandon?"

Theo's hands roamed over Ezra's back, pulling him closer with a confident grip. "I'd probably want to feel more of you, to make sure you're as into this as I am." His fingers traced the line of Ezra's spine with a deliberate slowness, savoring the reaction he elicited.

Ezra, feeling the shift in Theo's demeanor, whispered, "And what would you say if we went further?"

Theo, fully immersed in Brandon's identity, smirked, "Finally, took you long enough, man. Let's see what you've got." His tone was playful, almost challenging, as he watched Ezra's hands move to the blanket covering him.

Ezra smiled, his hands moving to pull the blanket away, revealing Theo fully. "Then let's not keep 'Brandon' waiting." As the blanket fell, Ezra took a moment to appreciate the view, his eyes dark with desire. "You look good, 'Brandon'. Really good."

"You know, Ezra, you've always been too fucking quiet for your own good," Theo said, his voice a low, teasing growl that was unmistakably Brandon's. "Let's see if we can make you scream tonight."

Ezra, his heart racing with anticipation, looked up at Theo with a mix of excitement and surrender. "Show me then, 'Brandon'."

Theo smirked, the cocky grin that was so characteristic of Brandon spreading across his face. He leaned down, his lips capturing Ezra's in a kiss that was commanding, leaving no room for doubt about who was in charge. His hands roamed over Ezra's body with purpose, guiding him to lie back on the bed.

With a fluid motion, Theo positioned himself above Ezra, his movements confident and assured. "You ready for this, roomie? 'Cause I'm gonna fuck you like you've never been fucked before," he said, his voice dripping with playful arrogance and a vulgar edge.

Ezra nodded, his breath hitching as he felt Theo's presence so close, so dominant. "Yeah, I'm ready."

Theo, now fully embracing the role of Brandon, didn't hesitate. He took Ezra's hands, pinning them gently above his head, his gaze intense. "Good, because I'm not holding back, you little slut," he whispered, his tone a mix of promise and challenge.

The room was filled with the soft sounds of their breathing, the rustle of sheets, and the low, appreciative moans from Ezra as Theo explored his body with a deliberate slowness, savoring each reaction. Theo's touch was firm, his movements those of someone who knew exactly what he wanted, and right now, what he wanted was Ezra.

As Theo prepared to take the lead, he maintained eye contact, ensuring Ezra was with him every step of the way. "You're gonna love this, Ezra," Theo said, his voice confident, as he positioned himself.

Ezra, caught in the throes of desire, could only nod, his body responding eagerly to Theo's dominance. The moment was charged with an electric intensity as Theo, embodying Brandon's assertiveness and vulgar charm, began to move with a rhythm that was both commanding and raw.

Their connection deepened with each thrust, each movement a testament to Theo's complete immersion into Brandon's identity. Ezra's moans grew louder, his hands gripping the sheets as Theo took him to heights of pleasure he hadn't known before.

"You like that, huh, you dirty boy?" Theo teased, his voice a husky whisper in Ezra's ear, maintaining the playful arrogance that had become his second nature. "Tell me how much you fucking love it."

"I... I love it," Ezra managed between gasps, his body arching into Theo's with every motion. "You act like him so well, Theo. You've made him so fucking edgy, and I love it."

As they reached the peak of their passion, Theo's confidence never wavered, his control over the situation absolute. The culmination of their encounter was explosive, leaving them both breathless and satisfied, as Theo came inside Ezra with a groan that was all Brandon's vulgar satisfaction.

In the quiet that followed, Ezra turned to Theo, his eyes soft with affection. "You know, if you could really stay as Brandon, I wouldn't mind at all. You could stay like this forever."

Theo chuckled, still in character, playing up the confusion with an ironic twist. "Stay as Brandon? What are you talking about, man? I am Brandon, you idiot. Always have been," he replied with a smirk, his tone playful yet convincing in its irony.

Then, as he lay there, still inside Ezra, Theo added with a mix of sincerity and vulgarity, "But you know what, Ezra? Your hole makes me crazy like no girl ever did. Fucking you, it's... it's something else, man."

Ezra laughed, the warmth of the moment enveloping them. "Right, 'Brandon', right. But seriously, you're incredible like this."

Theo, or 'Brandon', pulled Ezra closer, their bodies still intertwined. "Well, then, let's keep this going, roomie. Because I'm not going anywhere." And with that, they drifted into a contented sleep, the boundaries of their reality blurred by the magic of the night, the playful deception of identity, and the unique intimacy they had discovered.

[urno1luv]

perverted older sister giselle

cw: stepcest,

-makes the most vulgar jokes in public settings with no shame

- always too handsy, rubbing shoulders, patting backs, or getting too close under the pretense of being friendly. "you look cold, baby. come to unnie, let me make you nice and warm."

- DEFINITELY exterts control using her authority as you big sister, guilt-trips or humiliation to get what she wants, calling you "uptight" if you reject her "friendliness"

- will tell the nastiest, most graphic, gory stories in a casual conversation just to watch you squirm.

You’ve always known Giselle... liked you. In a different way than how siblings should like each other. Ever since your parents remarried, she made it her mission to watch over you. At first, it was sweet—walking you to school, making sure you ate enough, warning you about boys who "only wanted one thing." But as you got older, something about her love started to feel... off.

Tonight is no different. You’ve just finished showering, wearing an oversized T-shirt as you towel-dry your hair. The bathroom is warm with steam when you step out, only to find Giselle sitting on your bed, legs crossed, waiting.

"You were in there for a while," she muses, tilting her head. Her dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. "Were you doing something naughty?"

Your face heats up as you prepare to defend yourself. "What? ...Giselle. I was just showering."

She snickers, patting the spot beside her. "Come here. Let me dry your hair."

You hesitate. You know better than to argue—she always finds a way to get what she wants. With a sigh, you sit down. Giselle hums softly as she runs the towel over your damp strands, her freezing fingers grazing your neck, sending shivers down your back.

"You smell so fucking nice," she murmurs. "I bet everyone is looking at you, huh?"

You tense. "Not really."

She chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. "Good. They don’t deserve you." Her fingers trail down to your shoulder, squeezing just a little too tight. "I worry about you, you know. You’re too soft. Too... delicate. What if someone takes advantage of you? Unnie cant let that happen, no, not at all."

"I can take care of myself," you mumble.

Giselle leans in, her breath warm against your ear. "No, you fucking can’t." There’s something possessive in her voice, something that makes your stomach twist. "That’s why I’m here. To protect you. No one does that better than I do."

You swallow hard. The words should be comforting, but they aren’t. Not when she says them like that. Not when her hands linger, dropping to your wasit, not when her eyes darken, not when her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You force a laugh, trying to shake the moment off. "You’re so weird, Giselle."

She grins, pressing a long kiss to your cheek, right besdie the corner of your upper lip, before finally pulling away. "Only for you, baby."

And as she finally leaves your room, you exhale, only now realizing you’d been holding your breath.

part two explicit version coming soon xx